22510	----	http://www.archive.org/details/documentaryhisto01bandiala Archaeological Institute of America Papers of the School of American Archaeology Number Thirteen DOCUMENTARY HISTORY OF THE RIO GRANDE PUEBLOS OF NEW MEXICO I. BIBLIOGRAPHIC INTRODUCTION by ADOLPH F. BANDELIER 1910 DOCUMENTARY HISTORY OF THE RIO GRANDE PUEBLOS OF NEW MEXICO BY ADOLPH F. BANDELIER I.--BIBLIOGRAPHIC INTRODUCTION Seventeen years have elapsed since I was in the territory in which the events in the early history of the Rio Grande Pueblos transpired, and twenty-nine years since I first entered the field of research among those Pueblos under the auspices of the Archæological Institute of America. I am now called upon by the Institute to do for the Indians of the Rio Grande villages what I did nearly two decades ago for the Zuñi tribe, namely, to record their documentary history. I shall follow the method employed by me in the case of the documentary history of Zuñi, by giving the events with strict adherence to documentary sources, so far as may be possible, and shall employ the correlated information of other branches only when absolutely indispensable to the elucidation of the documentary material. The geographical features of the region to be treated are too well known to require mention. Neither can folklore and tradition, notwithstanding their decisive importance in a great many cases, be touched upon except when alluded to in the sources themselves. I am fully aware, as I stated in presenting the history of the Zuñi tribe, that a history based exclusively on documents, whether printed or written, must necessarily be imperfect because it is not impartial, since it summarizes the views of those who saw and understood but one side of the question, and judged it only from their own standpoint. This defect cannot be remedied, as it underlies the very nature of the task, and the greater therefore is the necessity of carefully studying the folklore of the Indians in order to check and complete as well as to correct the picture presented by people acquainted with the art of writing. In this Introduction I forego the employment of quotations, reserving such for the main work. Quotations and footnotes are not, as it has been imagined, a mere display of erudition--they are a duty towards the source from which they are taken, and a duty to its author; moreover, they are a duty towards the reader, who as far as possible should be placed in a position himself to judge the value and nature of the information presented, and, finally, they are a necessary indication of the extent of the author's responsibility. If the sources are given clearly and circumstantially, yet happen to be wrong, the author is exonerated from blame for resting upon their authority, provided, as it not infrequently happens, he has no way of correcting them by means of other information. In entering the field of documentary research the first task is to become thoroughly acquainted with the languages in which the documents are recorded. To be able to read cursorily a language in its present form is not sufficient. Spanish, for example, has changed comparatively less than German since the sixteenth century, yet there are locutions as well as words found in early documents pertaining to America that have fallen into disuse and hence are not commonly understood. Provincialisms abound, hence the history of the author and the environment in which he was reared should be taken into account, for sometimes there are phrases that are unintelligible without a knowledge of the writer's early surroundings. Translations as a rule should be consulted only with allowance, for to the best of them the Italian saying "Traduttore, tradittore" is applicable. With the greatest sincerity and honesty on the part of the translator, he is liable to an imperfect interpretation of an original text. There are of course instances when the original has disappeared and translations alone are available. Such is the case, for instance, with the Life of Columbus, written by his son Fernando and published in Italian in 1571; and the highly important report on the voyage of Cabral to Brazil in 1500, written by his pilot Vas da Cominho and others. These are known only through translations. Words from Indian languages are subject to very faulty rendering in the older documents. In the first place, sound alone guided the writers, and Indian pronunciation is frequently indistinct in the vowels and variable according to the individual--hence the frequent interchange in the Spanish sources of _a_ and _o_, _ó_ and _u_, _e_ and _i_. For many sounds even the alphabets of civilized speech have not adequate phonetic signs. I may refer, as an example, to the Indian name in the Tigua language for the pueblo of Sandia. The Spanish attempt to render it by the word "Napeya" is utterly inadequate, and even by means of the complicated alphabets for writing Indian tongues I would not attempt to record the native term. In endeavoring to identify localities from names given to them in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries by European authors, this difficulty should always be taken into account. No blame can be attached to the writers for such defects; it should always be remembered that they did not know, still less understand, the idioms they heard. Still less should we be surprised if the same site is sometimes mentioned under various names. Every Pueblo language has its own geographical vocabulary, and when, as sometimes happened, several tribes met in council with the whites, the latter heard and unwittingly recorded several names for one and the same locality, thus apparently increasing the number of villages. Moreover, interpreters were not always at hand, and when they could be had both their competency and their sincerity were open to question. It is not unusual to read in modern works that such and such a source is the reliable one _par excellence_, and the principal basis upon which to establish conclusions. No source, however seemingly insignificant, should be neglected. A brief mention is sometimes very important, as it may be a clue to new data, or may confirm or refute accepted information and thus lead to further investigation. Some documents, of course, are much more explicit than others, but this is no reason why the latter should be neglected. The value of a source may be subject to investigation from a number of points of view, but it is not always possible to obtain the requisite information. Thus the biographies of authors are an important requisite, but how seldom are they obtainable with the necessary detail! The sources of the history of the Rio Grande Pueblos, both printed and in manuscript, are numerous. The manuscript documents are as yet but imperfectly known. Only that which remained at Santa Fé after the first period of Anglo-American occupancy--a number of church books and documents formerly scattered through the parishes of New Mexico, and a very few documents held in private hands--have been accessible within the United States. In Mexico the parish and other official documents at El Paso del Norte (Juarez) up to the beginning of the eighteenth century have been examined by me to a certain extent, and at the City of Mexico the Archivo Nacional has yielded a number of important papers, though the research has been far from exhaustive, owing to the lack of time and support. Hence much still remains to be done in that field. Some destruction of papers of an official character appears to have taken place at Mexico also, yet with the present condition of the archives there is hope that much that appears to be lost will eventually be brought to light; in any event we still have recourse to the Spanish archives, principally at Sevilla. It was the rule during Spanish colonial domination to have every document of any importance executed in triplicate, one copy to remain at the seat of local government, another to be sent to the viceregal archives, and the third to the mother country. Hence there is always a hope that, if the first two were destroyed, the third might be preserved. So, for instance, the collection of royal decrees (_cedulas_) is imperfect at the City of Mexico. There are lacunæ of several decades, and it is perhaps significant that the same gaps are repeated in the publication of the "Cedulas" by Aguiar and Montemayor. In regard to ecclesiastical documents the difficulty is greater still. The archives of the Franciscan Order, to which the missions on the Rio Grande were assigned almost until the middle of the nineteenth century, have become scattered; the destruction of the archives at the great Franciscan convent in the City of Mexico in 1857, though not complete, resulted in the dispersion of those which were not burned or torn, and the whereabouts of these remnants are but imperfectly known. The documentary history of the Rio Grande Pueblos, therefore, can be only tentative at present, but it is given in the hope that it will incite further activity with the view of increasing and correcting the data thus far obtained. * * * * * The report of Cabeza de Vaca, commonly designated as his "Naufragios," is as yet the earliest printed source known with reference to the Rio Grande Pueblos, concerning whom it imparts some vague information. The briefness and vagueness of that information calls for no adverse criticism, for Cabeza de Vaca plainly states that he writes of these people from hearsay and that his information was obtained near the mouth of the Rio Pecos in western Texas. What he afterward learned in Sonora with respect to sedentary Indians in the north is hardly connected with the Rio Grande region. The same may be the case with the information obtained by Nuño de Guzman in 1530 and alluded to by Castañeda. That Nuño de Guzman had gained some information concerning the Pueblos seems certain, but everything points to the Zuñi region as the one mentioned by his informant. The same is true of the reports of Fray Marcos de Nizza and Melchor Diaz, which clearly apply to the Zuñi Pueblos, the most easterly settlement of sedentary Indians alluded to being the Queres pueblo of Acoma. It is to the chroniclers of the expedition of Coronado, therefore, that we must look for the earliest definite information concerning the Rio Grande valley and its inhabitants. It must be borne in mind that the expedition of Coronado was not a mere exploration. What was expected of its leader, and indeed peremptorily demanded, was a permanent settlement of the country. Coronado and his men were not to return to Mexico except in individual cases. The Viceroy Mendoza wanted to get rid of them. Whether Coronado was a party to the secret of this plan is doubtful; the indications are that he was not, whereas Fray Marcos of Nizza certainly was, and perhaps was its original promoter. The printed sources on Coronado's march may be divided into two chronologically distinct classes, the first of which comprises documents written in New Mexico in the years from 1540 to 1543; these reflect all the advantages and disadvantages of the writings of eye-witnesses. The mere fact that one had been a participant in the events which he describes is not a guaranty of absolute reliability: his sincerity and truthfulness may be above reproach, but his field of vision is necessarily limited, and the personal element controls his impressions, even against his will, hence his statements. These earliest sources regarding Coronado consist of the letters of Coronado himself (with the related letter of Viceroy Mendoza), and several briefer documents written in New Mexico but without indication of their authors. The last two letters written by Coronado alone touch upon the Rio Grande Pueblos--those of August 3, 1540, and October 20, 1541. As stated above, the expedition of Coronado was not designed as a mere exploration, but rather for the purpose of establishing a permanent settlement. Coronado's second letter, the first in which he touches upon the Rio Grande Pueblos, appears to have been lost. His letter of October 20, 1541, although written near the site of the present Bernalillo, New Mexico, contains very little in regard to the Rio Grande Pueblos. The briefer documents pertaining to Coronado's expedition, and written while the Spaniards were still in New Mexico, with the exception of one (the report of the reconnoissance made by Hernando de Alvarado, accompanied by Fray Juan de Padilla to the east) concern Zuñi almost exclusively. The document respecting Alvarado's journey is contained in the _Coleccion de Documentos_ from the archives of the Indies, but is erroneously attributed to Hernando de Soto. The celebrated historiographer of Spain, Juan Bautista Muñoz, unacquainted with New Mexico, its geography and ethnography, criticized it rather harshly; nevertheless, the document is very reliable in its description of country and people: it alludes to features which are nowhere else noticed, and which were rediscovered by the late Frank Hamilton Cushing and myself about twenty-eight years ago. The number of villages and people in the Rio Grande region, of which the document gives a brief description, are, as usual, exaggerated; and it could hardly have been otherwise in view of a first and hasty visit, but it remains the earliest document in which Acoma and a part of the Rio Grande valley are treated from actual observation. The reconnoissance was made from August to October, 1540. It may be that one of the villages briefly described is Pecos, which lies of course some distance east of the Rio Grande, and the document is possibly the first one in which the nomadic Indians of eastern New Mexico are mentioned from actual observation. To these sources, which have both the merits and the defects of all documents written under the impressions of first direct acquaintance with the subject, must be added the "Relacion postrera de Sivola" contained in a manuscript by father Toribio de Paredes, surnamed Motolinia, and known as the _Libro de Oro_, etc., which is an augmented and slightly modified version of that celebrated missionary's history of the Mexicans. It is a condensed report that had reached Mexico after Coronado had left for Quivira and before his return had become known. Its allusion to the Rio Grande Pueblos and to Pecos is not without value, although it adds little to what is contained in the sources previously mentioned. On the Indians of the Plains it is, comparatively speaking, more explicit. The general tone of the document is one of sobriety. The "Relacion del Suceso," published in the _Documentos Inéditos de Indias_ under the erroneous date of 1531, is similar to the foregoing, but is more detailed in some respects and covers a longer period of time. It manifestly was written in New Mexico by a member of the expedition, but there is no clue as yet to the name of the author. It is a useful corollary to the other contemporary sources. Although written more than two centuries after Coronado's march, the references to it and to New Mexico contained in the _Historia de la Nueva Galicia_, by the licentiate Matias de la Mota Padilla, find a place here, since the author asserts that he derived much of his information from papers left by Pedro de Tovar, one of Coronado's chief lieutenants. Mota Padilla generally confirms the data furnished by the earlier documents, and adds some additional information. It is however quite impossible to determine what he gathered directly from the writings of Tovar and what he may have obtained through other and probably posterior sources. At all events the _Historia de la Nueva Galicia_ should never be neglected by students of the Pueblo Indians. We now come to the two chief chroniclers of Coronado's time--both participants in his undertakings and therefore eye-witnesses: Pedro de Castañeda de Naxera and Juan Jaramillo. The fact that they were eye-witnesses establishes their high rank as authorities, but there is a difference between the two in that Castañeda was a common soldier, whereas Jaramillo (a former companion and, to a certain extent, a friend of Cortés) was an officer. This fact alone establishes a difference in the opportunities for knowing and in the standpoint of judging what was seen, aside from the difference arising out of the character, facilities, and tendencies of the two individuals. Castañeda is much more detailed in his narration than Jaramillo. Discontent with the management and the final outcome of the enterprise is apparent in the tone of his writings, and while this may not have influenced very materially his description of the country and its people, they render more or less suspicious his statements in regard to the dealings with the aborigines. Both Castañeda and Jaramillo wrote a long time after the events had occurred, and probably from memory, hence the comparative accuracy of their descriptions is indeed remarkable. But that accuracy, however commendable, is relative rather than absolute, as both were liable to err, owing to the lapse of time and consequent failure to remember facts and events, and, especially with Castañeda, the influence of personal prejudice growing stronger with age. Jaramillo had less occasion to fall into error resulting from such weakness, but he is much less detailed than Castañeda. We might compare the two narrations by stating that that of Jaramillo embodies the reminiscences of one who stood officially on a higher plane and viewed his subject from a more general standpoint, whereas Castañeda saw more of the inferior details but was more susceptible of confounding, hence to misstate, the mass of data which his memory retained. Both reports will always remain the chief sources on the subject of which they treat, subject of course to close comparison and checking with correlated sources, archaeological, ethnological, and geographical investigation, and Indian tradition. Before proceeding further in the discussion of the documents it must be stated that all references to distances in leagues must be taken with many allowances. According to Las Casas there were in use among the Spaniards in the sixteenth century, two kinds of leagues: the maritime league (_legua maritima_) and the terrestrial league (_legua terrestre_). The former, established by Alfonso XI in the twelfth century, consisted of four miles (_millas_) of four thousand paces, each pace being equal to three Castilian feet. The length of the Castilian foot at that time cannot be established with absolute minuteness. The terrestrial league consisted of three thousand paces each, so that while it contained nine thousand Castilian feet, the maritime league was composed of twelve thousand. The latter was used for distances at sea and occasionally also for distances on land, therefore where an indication of the league employed is not positively given, a computation of distances with even approximate accuracy is of course impossible. The result of Coronado's failure was so discouraging, and the reports on the country had been so unfavorable that for nearly forty years no further attempt was made to reach the North from New Spain. In fact Coronado and his achievements had become practically forgotten, and only when the southern part of the present state of Chihuahua in Mexico became the object of Spanish enterprise for mining purposes was attention again drawn to New Mexico, when the Church opened the way thither from the direction of the Atlantic slope. This naturally led the explorers first to the Rio Grande Pueblos. The brief report of the eight companions of Francisco Sanchez Chamuscado who in 1580 accompanied the Franciscan missionaries as far as Bernalillo, the site of which was then occupied by Tigua villages, and who went thence as far as Zuñi, is important, although it presents merely the sketch of a rather hasty reconnoissance. Following, as the Spaniards did, the course of the Rio Grande from the south, they fixed, at least approximately, the limit of the Pueblo region in that direction. Some of the names of Pueblos preserved in the document are valuable in so far as they inform us of the designations of villages in a language that was not the idiom of their inhabitants. Chamuscado having died on the return journey, the document is not signed by him, but by his men. The document had been lost sight of until I called attention to it nearly thirty years ago, the subsequent exploration by Antonio de Espejo having monopolized the attention of those interested in the early exploration of New Mexico. The report of Antonio de Espejo on his long and thorough reconnoissance in 1582-1583 attracted so much attention that for a time and in some circles his expedition was looked upon as resulting in the original discovery of New Mexico. This name was also given by Espejo to the country, and it thereafter remained. While the documents relating to Coronado slumbered unnoticed and almost forgotten, the report of Espejo was published within less than three years after it had been written. It must be stated here that there are two manuscripts of the report of Espejo, one dated 1583 and bearing his autograph signature and official (notarial) certificates, the other in 1584 which is a distorted copy of the original and with so many errors in names and descriptions that, as the late Woodbury Lowery very justly observed, it is little else than spurious. I had already called attention to the unreliability of the latter version, and yet it is the one that alone was consulted for more than three centuries because it had become accessible through publication in the Voiages of Hakluyt, together with an English translation even more faulty, if possible, than its Spanish original. The authentic document, with several others relating to Espejo's brief career, was not published in full until 1871, and even then attracted little attention because it was not translated and because the _Coleccion de Documentos del Archivo de Indias_ is not accessible to every one. But the publication of 1871 was by no means the first printed version of Espejo's relations. Even prior to 1586 a somewhat condensed narration of his exploration had been published, being embodied in the _History of China_ by Father Gonzalez Mendoza. This account is based on the authentic report in some of the various editions, on the spurious document in others. The book of Father Mendoza was soon translated into French. It is not surprising that Espejo's narrative should appear first in print in a work on the Chinese Empire by a Franciscan missionary. That ecclesiastic was impressed by some of Espejo's observations on Pueblo customs which he thought resembled those of the Chinese. The discoveries of Espejo were then the most recent ones that had been made by Spaniards, and as New Mexico was fancied to lie nearer the Pacific than it really does, and facing the eastern coast of China, a lurking desire to find a possible connection between the inhabitants of both continents on that side is readily explicable. But Father Mendoza had still another motive. The three monks which Chamuscado had left in New Mexico had sacrificed their lives in an attempt to convert the natives. They were martyrs of their faith, hence glories of their order, and the Franciscan author could not refrain from commemorating their deeds and their faith. The spurious text was not taken from Mendoza, but manifestly was copied from the transcript by a bungling scribe imperfectly acquainted with the Spanish tongue. The value of Espejo's narration is undoubtedly great. The author was a close practical observer and a sincere reporter. The more is it surprising that his statements in regard to the population of the Pueblos are so manifestly exaggerated; yet, as I have elsewhere stated, this may be explained. A tendency to enhance somewhat the importance of discoveries is inherent in almost every discoverer, but in the case of Espejo he was exposed to another danger. As he proceeded from village to village the natives gathered at every point from other places out of curiosity, fear, or perhaps with hostile intent, so that the number of the people which the explorer met was each time much larger than the actual number of inhabitants. On the question of population Espejo could have no knowledge, since he had no means of communicating with the people by speech. Furthermore, it is well known that a crowd always appears more numerous than it would prove to be after an actual count; besides, even if he could have counted the Indians present, he would have fallen into the error of recording the same individual several times. During the comparatively short time which Espejo had to explore the country as far as the Hopi or Moqui, he collected interesting ethnological data. Customs that appeared new as late as the second half of the last century were noted by him; and while his nomenclature of the Pueblos agrees in many points with that of the Coronado expedition, terms were added that have since been definitely adopted. Espejo's return to Mexico was to be followed by a definite occupancy of the Rio Grande country, but his untimely death prevented it, and the subsequent plan of colonization, framed and proposed by Juan Bautista de Lomas Colmenares, led to no practical results, as likewise did the ill-fated expedition of Humaña, Bonilla, and Leyva, the disastrous end of which in the plains became known only through a few vestiges of information and by hearsay. Seven years after Espejo's journey, Gaspar Castaño de Sosa penetrated to the Rio Grande near the present village of Santo Domingo. The report thereon is explicit and sober, and in it we find the first mention of the Spanish names by which some of the Pueblos have since become known. From this report it is easy to follow the route taken by Castaño and his followers, but the account is incomplete, terminating abruptly at Santo Domingo, whither Castaño had been followed by Captain Juan de Morlete, who was sent after him by the governor of what is now Coahuila, without whose permission Castaño had undertaken the journey. I have no knowledge as yet of any document giving an account of the return of the expedition. Seven years more elapsed ere the permanent occupancy of New Mexico was effected under the leadership of Juan de Oñate. Thenceforward events in that province became the subject of uninterrupted documentary record. The very wise and detailed ordinances regulating the discovery and annexation to Spain of new territory, promulgated by Philip II, declared that every exploration or conquest (the term "conquest" was subsequently eliminated from Spanish official terminology and that of "pacification" substituted) should be recorded as a journal or diary. Royal decrees operated very slowly in distant colonies. Neither Chamuscado nor Espejo kept journals, but Castaño de Sosa, and especially Oñate, did. His _diario_ (which is accessible through its publication in the _Documentos del Archivo de Indias_, although there are traces of an earlier publication) was copied for printing by someone manifestly unacquainted with New Mexico or with its Indian nomenclature, hence its numerous names for sites and tribes are often very difficult to identify. But the document itself is a sober, matter-of-fact record of occurrences and geographical details, interspersed with observations of more or less ethnological value. As Oñate followed the course of the Rio Grande upward from below El Paso del Norte, and afterward branched off to almost every sedentary settlement in New Mexico and Arizona, the comparison of his diary with previous reports (those of the Coronado expedition included) is highly valuable, indeed indispensable. The _diario_ forms the beginning of accurate knowledge of the region under consideration. Perhaps more important still are the Acts of Obedience and Homage (_Obediencia y Vasallaje_) executed at various villages during the course of the years 1598 and 1599. At first sight, and to one unacquainted with Pueblo idioms, they present an unintelligible list of partly recognizable names. But the confusion becomes somewhat reduced through closer scrutiny and by taking into consideration the circumstances under which each official document was framed. Oñate already enjoyed the advantage of interpreters in at least one New Mexican Indian tongue, but the meetings or councils during which the "acts of obedience" were written were not always at places where his interpreters understood the language of the people they were among. These scribes faithfully recorded the names of pueblos as they heard them, and sometimes several names, each in a different language for the same village, hence the number of pueblos recorded is considerably larger than it actually was. Again the inevitable misunderstanding of Indian pronunciation by the Spaniards caused them to write the same word in different forms according as the sounds were uttered and caught by the ear. An accurate copy of these documents of Oñate's time made by one versed in Pueblo nomenclature and somewhat acquainted with Pueblo languages would be highly desirable. Oñate is not given to fulness in ethnological details. His journal is a dry record of what happened during his march and occupancy of the country. Customs are only incidentally and briefly alluded to. One of Oñate's officers, however, Captain Gaspar Perez de Villagra, or Villagran, published in 1610 a _Historia de la Nueva Mexico_ in verse. As an eye-witness of the events he describes, Villagran has the merits and defects of all such authors, and the fact that he wrote in rhyme called poetry does not enhance the historical merit of his book. Nevertheless we find in it many data regarding the Pueblos not elsewhere recorded, and study of the book is very necessary. We must allow for the temptation to indulge in so-called poetical license, although Villagran employs less of it than most Spanish chroniclers of the period that wrote in verse. The use of such form and style of writing was regarded in Spain as an accomplishment at the time, and not many attempted it, which is just as well. Some of the details and descriptions of actions and events by Villagran have been impeached as improbable; but even if such were the case, they would not detract from the merits of his book as an attempt at an honest and sincere narration and a reasonably faithful description. The minor documents connected with Oñate's enterprise and subsequent administration of the New Mexican colony, so far as known, are of comparatively small importance to the history of the Rio Grande Pueblos. During the first years of the seventeenth century the attention of Oñate was directed chiefly toward explorations in western Arizona and the Gulf of California. While he was absent on his memorable journey, quarrels arose in New Mexico between the temporal and ecclesiastical authorities, which disturbed the colony for many years and form the main theme of the documentary material still accessible. Even the manuscripts relating to these troubles contain, here and there, references to the ethnological condition of the Pueblos. Charges and counter-charges of abuses committed by church and state could not fail to involve, incidentally, the points touching upon the Indians, and the documentary material of that period, still in manuscript but accessible through the copies made by me and now in the Peabody Museum of Harvard University, should not be neglected by serious investigators. To enter into details regarding the tenor of these documents would be beyond the scope of this Introduction, but I would call attention in a general way to the value and importance of church records, which consist chiefly of registers of baptisms, marriages, and deaths. These for the greater part were kept with considerable scrupulosity, although there are periods during which the same degree of care was not exercised. They are valuable ethnologically by reason of the data which they afford with respect to intermarriages between members of distant tribes, through the numerous Indian personal names that they contain, and on account of the many records of events which the priests deemed it desirable to preserve. Examples will be given in the text of the Documentary History to follow. The _Libros de Fabrica_, in which are recorded items bearing on the economic side of church administration, are usually less important; still they contain data that should not be neglected, for very often minor points deserve as much attention as salient ones. Unfortunately the church records of the period prior to 1680 have well-nigh disappeared from New Mexico, but some still exist at El Paso del Norte (Juarez), Chihuahua, that date back to the middle of the seventeenth century. The absence of these records may be somewhat overcome by another class of ecclesiastical documents, much more numerous and more laborious to consult. In fact I am the only one who thus far has attempted to penetrate the mass of material which they contain, although my researches have been far from exhaustive, owing to lack of support in my work. These documents, commonly called "Diligencias Matrimoniales," are the results of official investigations into the status of persons desiring to marry. From their nature these investigations always cover a considerable period, sometimes more than a generation, and frequently disclose historical facts that otherwise might remain unknown. These church papers also, though not frequently, include fragments of correspondence and copies of edicts and decrees that deserve attention. The destruction of the archives and of writings of all kinds in New Mexico during the Indian revolt of 1680 and in succeeding years has left the documentary history of the province during the seventeenth century almost a blank. Publications are very few in number. There is no doubt that the archives of Spain and even those of Mexico will yet reveal a number of sources as yet unknown; but in the meantime, until these treasures are brought to light, we must remain more or less in the dark as to the conditions and the details of events prior to 1692. A number of letters emanating from Franciscan sources have been published lately in Mexico by Luis Garcia y Pimentel, and these throw sidelights on New Mexico as it was in the seventeenth century that are not without value. In the manuscripts from the archives at Santa Fé that survived the Pueblo revolt, now chiefly in the Library of Congress at Washington, occasional references to events anterior to the uprising may be found; and the church books of El Paso del Norte (Juarez) contain some few data that should not be neglected. In 1602 there was published at Rome, under the title of _Relación del Descubrimiento del Nuevo Mexico_, a small booklet by the Dean of Santiago, Father Montoya, which purports to give a letter from Oñate on his occupancy of New Mexico and journey to the Colorado river of the West, thus covering the period between 1597 and 1605. It is preceded by a notice of Espejo's exploration, but it is entirely too brief to afford much information. The little book is exceedingly rare; but three copies of it exist in the United States, so far as I am aware. Of greater importance are the notices, of about the same period, preserved by Fray Juan de Torquemada in the first volume of his _Monarchia Indiana_ (1615). In this work we find the first mention of some Pueblo fetishes, with their names, as understood at the time. The letter of Fray Francisco de San Miguel, first priest of Pecos, given in print by Torquemada, is of considerable interest. Torquemada himself was never in New Mexico, but he stood high in the Franciscan Order and had full access to the correspondence and to all other papers submitted from outside missions during his time. It is much to be regretted that the three manuscript pamphlets by Fray Roque Figueredo, bearing the titles _Relacion del Viage al Nuevo México_, _Libro de las Fundaciones del Nuevo Mexico_, and _Vidas de los Varones Ilustres_, etc., appear to be lost. Their author was first in New Mexico while Oñate governed that province, and his writings were at the great convent of Mexico. Whether they disappeared during the ruthless dispersion of its archives in 1857 or were lost at an earlier date is not known. After the recall of Oñate from New Mexico, not only the colony but also the missions in that distant land began to decline, owing to the bitter contentions between the political and the ecclesiastical authorities. The Franciscan Order, desirous of inspiring an interest in New Mexican missions, fostered the literary efforts of its missionaries in order to promote a propaganda for conversions. It also sent a special visitor to New Mexico in the person of Fray Estevan de Perea, who gave expression to what he saw and ascertained, in two brief printed but excessively rare documents, a facsimile copy of which is owned by my friend Mr F. W. Hodge, of the Bureau of American Ethnology. A third letter which I have not been able to see is mentioned by Ternaux-Compans, also a "Relacion de la Conversion de los Jumanos" by the same and dated 1640. Much more extended than the brief pamphlets by Fray Perea is the _Relaciones de todas las cosas acaecidas en el Nuevo Mexico hasta el Año de 1626_ (I abbreviate the very long title), by Fray Geronimo de Zárate Salmerón, which was published in the third series of the first _Colección de Documentos para la Historia de Mexico_, and also by Mr Charles F. Lummis in _The Land of Sunshine_, with an English translation. This work, while embodying chiefly a narrative most valuable to the ethnography of western Arizona and eastern California, of the journey of Oñate to the Colorado river of the West, followed by an extended report on De Soto's expedition to the Mississippi river, contains data on the Rio Grande Pueblos and on those of Jemez that are of permanent value. The author gives the numbers of Pueblo Indians officially converted during his time. We come now to a book which, though small in compass, has had perhaps greater circulation in languages other than Spanish, with the exception of the _Destruycion de las Indias_ by the notorious Las Casas, than any other. This is the work of Fray Alonso de Benavides, on New Mexico, first published in 1630 under the misleading title of _Memorial que Fray Juan de Santander de la Orden de San Francisco, Comisario General de Indias, presenta a la Magestad Catolica del Rey don Felipe cuarto nuestro Señor_, etc., Madrid, 1630. Benavides was custodian of the Franciscan province of New Mexico for some time, and therefore had good opportunity of knowing both the country and its natives. He gives a very precise and clear enumeration of the groups of Pueblo Indians, locating them where they had been found by Coronado ninety years before and adding those which the latter had not visited, as well as giving the number of villages of each group and the approximate number of people therein contained. No writer on New Mexico up to this time had given such a clear idea of its ethnography, so far as the location and the distribution of the stocks are concerned. While somewhat brief on manners and customs, Benavides is fuller and more explicit than any of his predecessors, and informs us of features of importance which no other author in earlier times mentioned. In short, his book is more valuable for New Mexican ethnography than any other thus far known, and it is not a matter of surprise, therefore, that it was translated into several European languages. That the Rio Grande Pueblos receive an abundant share of attention from Benavides is natural. We also obtain from him some data, not elsewhere found, concerning the establishment and fate of the missions, and the true relations of the Spaniards and the natives are particularly well portrayed. Both the Apaches and the Navajos also receive some attention, Benavides giving, among others, the true reason for the hostility which the Apaches displayed since that time against the Spanish settlements. It is a book without which the study of the Pueblo Indians could not be satisfactory. Where there is strong light there must of necessity be some shadow. In the case of Benavides the shadow is found in the exaggerated number of inhabitants attributed to the New Mexican Pueblos, exaggerations as gross and as glaring as those of Espejo. The number of villages of some of the Pueblo groups is also somewhat suspicious. It is not difficult to explain these probably intentional deviations from the truth in an otherwise sincere and highly valuable work. As already indicated, the publications emanating from the Franciscan Order, which exclusively controlled the New Mexican missions, had a special purpose distinct from that of mere information: they were designed to promote a propaganda not simply for the conversion of the Indians in general, but especially for the conversions made or to be made by the Order. New Mexico was in a state of neglect, spiritually and politically; the political authorities had been denouncing the Franciscans in every possible way, and there was danger, if this critical condition continued, that the Order might lose its hold upon the northern territories and its mission be turned over to the Jesuits, who were then successfully at work in the Mexican northwest and approaching New Mexico from that direction. To prevent such a loss it was deemed necessary to present to the faithful as alluring a picture of the field as possible, exploiting the large number of neophytes as a result already accomplished and hinting at many more as subjects for conversion. Hence the exaggerated number of Indians in general attributed by Benavides to what then comprised the religious province of New Mexico. In this respect, and in this alone, the _Memorial_ of Benavides may be regarded as a "campaign document," but this does not impair its general value and degree of reliability. For the period between 1630 and the uprising of 1680 there is a lack of printed documents concerning New Mexico that is poorly compensated by the known manuscripts which I have already mentioned as existing in New Mexico and Mexico. Still there appeared in 1654 a little book by Juan Diez de la Calle, entitled _Memorial y Resúmen breve de Noticias de las Indias Occidentales_, in which the disturbances that culminated in the assassination of Governor Luis de Rosas in 1642 are alluded to. The national archives at the City of Mexico contain a still fuller report of that event, in a royal decree of 1643 and other papers concerning the deed, all of which are yet unpublished. The archives of Spain have as yet been only meagerly investigated. The publication of the report of Father Nicolas de Freytas, Portuguese, on the expedition attributed to Diego de Peñalosa Brizeño into what is now Kansas or Nebraska, is of no importance in the study of the Rio Grande Pueblos. The authenticity of the document has been strongly doubted, though probably without just cause. Equally unimportant to the subject of the Documentary History to follow is the letter of Captain Juan Dominguez de Mendoza, published in the appendix to the criticism of Cesareo Fernandez Duro on the report of Father Freytas. The otherwise very interesting letter on New Mexico, written by Fray Alonso de Posadas, also printed in the work of Duro, is meager in its allusions to the Rio Grande. Sixty-eight years after Benavides' time the _Teatro Mexicano_ of the Franciscan Fray Agustin de Vetancurt was published. The third and fourth parts of this important work, namely, the _Cronica de la Provincia del Santo Evangelio de Mexico_ and the _Menologio Franciscano_, are of the highest value to the history of the Rio Grande Pueblos and of New Mexico generally. Although printed eighteen years after the New Mexican missions had been destroyed by the Pueblo Indians, the _Cronica_ contains a terse description of the missions and Indian villages as they had been previous to 1680, and gives data in regard to the population that are commendable in their sobriety and probability. The work of Vetancurt is in this respect a great improvement upon Benavides, and it is interesting to note how his approximate census approaches the figures given by Zárate Salmerón seventy years before. Vetancurt had at his disposal much more precise data than Benavides. During the seven decades separating the three authors much information had been accumulated, and with greater chances of accuracy than before. Vetancurt made good use of this accumulation of material, and his books are in fact the most reliable sources from which to ascertain the status of the Pueblos at the time the insurrection commenced. The historical data given by Vetancurt in regard to New Mexico during earlier times are not of great value, but the _Menologio_, as well as the _Cronica_, contains a number of details on the missions and on the lives and achievements of the missionaries that become important to an understanding of the Indian himself. That such references are overburdened with details of a purely religious character does not at all impair their ethnologic value: they are pictures of the times according to the nature of which circumstances and events can alone be judged properly. We have now arrived at a period marking a great temporary change in the condition of all the Pueblo Indians, and of those of the Rio Grande especially. This is the insurrection, successful for a time, of the Pueblos in 1680, against the Spanish domination. The material on this eventful epoch is still largely in manuscript, the nearest approach to a documentary presentation in full being the incomplete paraphrase furnished by W. W. H. Davis in his _Spanish Conquest of New Mexico_, published in 1869. No blame should be attached to the author for the insufficiency of his data. He made the best possible use of his materials with the help of my late friends David Miller and Samuel Ellison of Santa Fé, but the archives of Santa Fé had already been depleted through neglect and criminal waste, and what was and is left (as I know from having handled it frequently and thoroughly) is a mass of fragments, sometimes long, sometimes short, often disconnected and therefore unsatisfactory. I shall refer to this material later. Of the manuscript materials preceding and foreshadowing the insurrection, an important letter by the Franciscan Fray Francisco de Ayeta, a copy of which is in the national archives of Mexico, deserves to be specially mentioned. To this indefatigable monk, whose timely warnings were too lightly regarded by the Spanish authorities, are also due the data concerning the lives and the awful fate of the Franciscan priests at the hands of the Pueblo Indians on August 10, 1680. The original of this tragic list is in manuscript in the national archives of Mexico, where Vetancurt made use of it in his _Teatro_. The memorial sermon preached and published in Mexico in 1681 (a copy of which exceedingly rare print was procured by my friend the Honorable L. Bradford Prince of Santa Fé) rests for its information upon the obituaries preserved by Father Ayeta. That these obituaries are of direct value to the history of the Rio Grande Pueblos is apparent. The sermon alluded to is the earliest print, so far as known, concerning the great Indian uprising of 1680. Next in date comes a publication touching the various attempts made by the Spaniards to reconquer New Mexico prior to 1693. In that year Carlos de Sigüenza y Gongora published in the City of Mexico a kind of irregular newspaper bearing the title _El Mercurio Volante_, in which appears a concise and tolerably reliable sketch of the insurrection and the various attempts to reconquer the territory, including the successful one in 1692 by Diego de Vargas. Sigüenza is brief, but reasonably accurate. Part of the documents concerning the Indian uprising were published in the nineteenth century in the Third Series of the _Colección de Documentos para la Historia de Mexico_, but no complete print of the voluminous papers concerning those events has yet appeared, and indeed the most important documents still remain in manuscript. In 1701 Villagutierre y Sotomayor published his voluminous _Historia de la Conquistay Reducciones de los Itzaes y Lacandones en la America Septentrional_, in which appears a brief description of the Indian uprising in New Mexico. His data are of course gathered at second hand, although from contemporary sources. I know of no other publications concerning the Indian uprising, so often mentioned, between the close of the seventeenth century and the beginning of the eighteenth. The manuscript material, which has been much scattered, may be divided locally into three groups. The one, originally at Santa Fé, New Mexico, is now in the Library of Congress at Washington; it had been much neglected, hence for the greater part seriously reduced, in former times, but it still contains most valuable information on the condition of the Rio Grande Pueblos immediately after the uprising and during the time the Pueblos were left to themselves, attempting to return to their primitive condition. This information, embodied in interrogatories of Indians subsequent to 1680, I made the subject of a closing chapter to my _Documentary History of the Zuñi Tribe_, but it was withheld from publication for some cause unknown to me. The military reports on the expeditions of Diego de Vargas and the final reconquest of New Mexico are reduced to disconnected but still bulky fragments. Almost unique of their kind are the so-called "Pueblo grants" emanating from Governor Domingo Gironza Petros de Cruzate in 1688. The term "grant" is a misnomer, since it refers in fact to a limitation to the innate tendency of the Indians to arbitrarily expand their tribal range. These documents have become the legal basis of landholding by the Pueblos and the first step toward eventual single tenure. The second group of manuscripts, in the national archives in the City of Mexico, is more complete than the first. It contains information on the beginnings of the rebellion and on later events that are of great importance. The third group, and by far the most complete, is in Spain, but in regard to it I am unable to give any precise information, since every opportunity of completing my investigations concerning the Southwest by studying the Spanish archives, notwithstanding repeated promises, has been withheld. For the eighteenth century documentary materials pertaining to New Mexico remain, it may be said, almost exclusively in manuscript. A connecting link between the printed sources of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries are the _Apuntamientos que sobre el Terreno hizo el Padre José Amando Niel_, in the early part of the eighteenth century, published in the Third Series of the _Documentos para la Historia de Mexico_. Father Niel was a Jesuit who visited New Mexico shortly after the reconquest. His observations are of comparatively mediocre value, yet his writings should not be overlooked. The journal of the Brigadier Pedro de Rivera, in 1736, of his military march to Santa Fé, is a dry, matter-of-fact account, but is nevertheless valuable owing to his concise and utterly unembellished description of the Rio Grande valley and of what he saw therein. The book is very rare, and therefore correspondingly unnoticed. A brief but important contribution to the history of New Mexico is the letter of Fray Silvestre Velez de Escalante, published in the Third Series of the _Documentos para la Historia de Mexico_. About the same time, in the second half of the eighteenth century, the Brigadier José Cortés wrote an extended report on the territory, but it concerns more the relations with the constantly hostile roaming tribes than the condition of the Pueblos. It also is printed in the _Documentos_. The otherwise very important diary of the journey of Fray Francisco Garcés to northern Arizona, published first in the above-mentioned _Colección de Documentos_, and more recently (with highly valuable notes) by the late Dr Elliott Coues, touches only incidentally on the Rio Grande region. In 1746 Joseph Antonio de Villa-Señor y Sanchez embodied in his _Theatro Americano_ a description of New Mexico, condensed chiefly from the journal of the Brigadier Rivera, mentioned above. The _Diccionario Geografico_ by Murillo is also a source that should not be neglected. A great amount of documentary manuscript material, mostly of a local character, is contained in the church books of the eighteenth century formerly at the pueblo of Santa Clara and now preserved at Santa Fé through the efforts of the late Archbishop J. B. Salpointe. There are also the "Informaciones Matrimoniales," which contain data of great importance. Through them we are informed of the tragic fate of the last expedition of the Spaniards to the northwest, with its horrifying incidents. The story of woe and disaster that pictures the life of the Indian Pueblos and Spanish settlers during the eighteenth century is contained in fragments in the plain, matter-of-fact church registers, and it requires painstaking investigation to collect it. The greatest part of this information concerns the Rio Grande Pueblos. A careful investigation of the matrimonial and baptismal registers will yield data concerning the clans and indications of the primitive rules of marriage, while the "Libros de Fabrica" contain interesting data on the churches of the Rio Grande valley. Great labor and the utmost scrutiny are required in sifting these time-worn papers for desirable data, and especially is a considerable knowledge of conditions and events necessary; but the result of thorough investigation, especially through literal copying by the student, will amply repay the time and labor bestowed. What I have stated in regard to the church archives applies, in a still greater degree, to the state and private papers that may be accessible. Of the former the archives of Santa Fé contain a great number, though many of them are only fragmentary. Valuable documents exist also in the archives of the Surveyor General at Santa Fé; these are valuable chiefly for historical data covering the first half of the eighteenth century. The national archives in the City of Mexico are much more complete than those of New Mexico, while in Spain we may expect to find an almost complete set of government documents, preserved with much greater care and with more system than in any early Spanish possessions in America. The city of Sevilla would be the first place in which research in this direction should be conducted. Before closing this bibliographic sketch with a glance at the earliest literature of the nineteenth century, I must mention two ponderous books of the eighteenth century which, while based on second-hand information and not very valuable in detail, refer occasionally to facts and data not elsewhere found. These are the two volumes of the _Crónica Apostólica y Seráfica de la Propaganda Fide de Querétaro_. The first volume, written by Fray Isidro Felis Espinosa and published in 1746, is interesting especially on account of its reference to the fate of the first Frenchmen brought into New Mexico, and one of whom, Juan de Archibèque, played an important rôle in the first two decades of the eighteenth century. The second volume, the author of which was Fray Domingo de Arricivita, was published in 1792, and is the chief source concerning the still problematical expedition to the north attributed to two Franciscan friars in 1538. Both of these works are of relatively minor importance, and I mention them here only for the sake of completeness and in order to warn against attaching undue importance to them so far as the Pueblos are concerned. It is of course understood that I omit from the above account a number of publications containing more or less brief and casual references to New Mexico. Most of them are geographical, and but few allude to historical facts. In the notes to the Documentary History proper I may refer to some of them. Perhaps the last book published on New Mexico in the Spanish language is the little book of Pino, which, however, has little more than a bibliographic value except in so far as it touches the condition of New Mexico at the beginning of the nineteenth century. The documents in the New Mexican and Mexican archives up to the date of the American occupancy present features similar to those that characterize the Spanish documents of the eighteenth century. It would be too tedious to refer to them in detail, and I therefore dismiss them for the present with this brief mention. If I do not mention here the literature on New Mexico in the English language it is not due to carelessness or to ignorance of it, but because of its much greater wealth in number and contents, its more ready accessibility, and because in matters respecting the history of early times the authors of these works have all been obliged to glean their information from at least some of the sources that I have above enumerated and discussed. It may surprise students of New Mexican history that I have thus far omitted the very earliest sources in print in which New Mexico is mentioned, namely, the work of Gonzalo Fernandez de Oviedo y Valdés, and that of Gomara. The former was published in part in the first half of the sixteenth century, the entire work appearing at Madrid not earlier than 1850 and 1851. Its title, as is well known, is _Historia General y Natural de las Indias_. The work of Francisco Lopez de Gomara bears the title _Historia de las Indias_, and is in two parts. Gomara is more explicit than Oviedo, who gives only a brief and preliminary mention; but even Gomara, while more detailed, and basing his work evidently on the earliest data then accessible in regard to the expedition of Coronado, cannot be compared with the later reports of those attached to the expedition. The value of these books is comparatively slight, so far as New Mexico is concerned. Much more important is the _Historia General_, etc., by Antonio de Herrera (1601-1615). What authorities Herrera had at his command cannot be readily determined. He may have had access to the report of Jaramillo, and he was certainly acquainted with the letters of Coronado. Perhaps the letter of Coronado which I have as yet been unable to find was consulted by him. In any event Herrera's information is all second-hand, and while by no means devoid of merit, his work cannot rank with sources written by men who saw the country and took part in the events of the earliest explorations. The map accompanying the first volume of Herrera, while scarcely more than an outline, is still in advance of the charts published during the sixteenth century. Here I may be permitted to refer to the older cartography of New Mexico in general. Until the beginning of the seventeenth century these maps are very defective and incomplete. It is almost as if the Ptolemy of 1548 had served as a basis for them. Even the large and beautiful globe constructed at St. Gall in Switzerland in 1595, and now in the Swiss National Museum at Zürich, places Tiguex near the Pacific coast. It is through the work of Benavides that more correct ideas of New Mexican geography were gained and a somewhat more accurate and detailed nomenclature was introduced, since the _Geografie Blaviane_ of 1667 by the Dutch cartographer Jean Blaeuw contains a map of the region far superior to any hitherto published. The number of early maps of New Mexico is larger than is generally supposed, and there are to-day unpublished maps (for instance in the National Archives of Mexico for the eighteenth century) that indicate, as existing, Indian pueblos and missions that were abandoned nearly a century before the maps were made. I must state that in this Introduction I have abbreviated as much as practicable the titles of books and manuscripts. These are often very long, and it is unnecessary to burden the present text with them, as I shall have to give the full titles in the notes to the Documentary History proper. It may not be out of place to add to the above a brief review of the distribution and location of the various Pueblo groups at the beginning of the sixteenth century, but strictly according to documentary information alone. The location of different villages must be reserved for later treatment, hence as the ranges of the various linguistic groups had no definite boundaries, only the relative position and approximate extent can be given here. Following the course of the Rio Grande to the north from northern Chihuahua, the Mansos were first met, in the vicinity of the present Juarez, Mexico. This was in 1598. Nearly one hundred and forty years later Brigadier Don Pedro de Rivera met them farther north, not far from Las Cruces and Doña Ana, New Mexico. To-day they are again at El Paso del Norte. About San Marcial on the Rio Grande began the villages of the Piros, at present reduced to one small village on the right bank of the Rio Grande below El Paso. The Piros extended in the sixteenth century as far north in the Rio Grande valley as Alamillo at least, and a branch of them had established themselves on the borders of the great eastern plains of New Mexico, southeast of the Manzano. That branch, which has left well-known ruins at Abó, Gran Quivira (Tabirá), and other sites in the vicinity, abandoned its home in the seventeenth century, forming the Piro settlement below El Paso, already mentioned. North of the Piros, between a line drawn south of Isleta and the Mesa del Canjelon, the Tiguas occupied a number of villages, mostly on the western bank of the river, and a few Tigua settlements existed also on the margin of the eastern plains beyond the Sierra del Manzano. These outlying Tigua settlements also were abandoned in the seventeenth century, their inhabitants fleeing from the Apaches and retiring to form the Pueblo of Isleta del Sur on the left bank of the Rio Grande in Texas. North of the Tiguas the Queres had their homes on both sides of the river as far as the great cañon south of San Ildefonso, and an outlying pueblo of the Queres, isolated and quite remote to the west, was Acoma. The most northerly villages on the Rio Grande were those of the Tehuas. Still beyond, but some distance east of the Rio Grande, lay the Pueblos of Taos and Picuris, the inhabitants of which spoke a dialectic variation of the Tigua language of the south. The Tehuas also approached the Rio Grande quite near, at what is called La Bajada; and in about the same latitude, including the former village at Santa Fé, began that branch of the Tehuas known as Tanos, whose settlements ranged from north of Santa Fé as far as the eastern plains and southward to Tajique, where their territory bordered that of the eastern Tiguas. The Rio Grande Queres extended also as far west as the Jemez river; and north of them, on the same stream, another linguistic group, the Jemez, had established themselves and built several villages of considerable size. East of the Rio Grande and southwest-ward from Santa Fé another branch of the Jemez occupied the northern valley of the Rio Pecos. The main interest in this distribution of the Rio Grande Pueblos lies in the fact that it establishes a disruption and division of some of these groups prior to the sixteenth century, but of the cause and the manner thereof there is as yet no documentary information. Thus the Tigua Indians of Taos and Picuris are separated from their southern relatives on the Rio Grande by two distinct linguistic groups, the Tehuas and the Queres; the Jemez and the Pecos were divided from each other by the Queres and the Tanos. That the Piros and the Tiguas should have separated from the main stock might be accounted for by the attraction of the great salt deposits about the Manzano and greater accessibility to the buffalo plains, but that in the Rio Grande valley itself foreign linguistic groups should have interposed themselves between the northern and southern Tiguas and the Jemez and Pecos constitutes a problem which only diligent research in traditions, legends, and the native languages may satisfactorily solve. NEW YORK CITY, March, 1910. * * * * * * Transcriber's Note. Several words purposely occur in accented and non-accented forms. The differing occurrences are retained. Page 20: Misspelling of Sante Fé corrected to Santa Fé. Page 23: The title "Coleccion de Documentos" modified to "Colección de Documentos". 
18703	----	[Transcriber's Note: Punctuation in catalog entries has been silently regularized. Other errors are noted at the end of the text.] * * * * * SMITHSONIAN INSTITUTION--BUREAU OF ETHNOLOGY. ILLUSTRATED CATALOGUE OF THE COLLECTIONS OBTAINED FROM THE INDIANS OF NEW MEXICO IN 1880. BY JAMES STEVENSON. * * * * * CONTENTS. INTRODUCTION 429 Collections from Cuyamunque 435 Articles of stone 435 Rubbing stones 435 Articles of clay 436 Collections from Nambé 436 Articles of stone 436 Articles of clay 437 Collections from Pojuaque 438 Articles of stone 438 Articles of clay 439 Articles of bone and horn 440 Collections from Old Pojuaque 441 Articles of stone 441 Articles of clay 441 Collections from Santa Clara 441 Articles of stone 441 Articles of clay 443 Polished black ware 443 Black or brown ware 447 Whitened ware with colored decorations 449 Vegetal substances 449 Collections from Tesuque 450 Articles of stone 450 Articles of clay 450 Collections from Turquoise Mine 450 Collections from Santo Domingo 450 Articles of stone 450 Articles of clay 451 Collections from Jémez 452 Articles of stone 452 Articles of clay 452 Miscellaneous articles 454 Collections from Silla 454 Articles of stone 454 Articles of clay 454 Miscellaneous 455 Collections from San Juan 456 Articles of stone 456 Articles of clay 456 Polished black ware 456 Brown and black ware 457 White ware with decorations 457 Miscellaneous articles 458 Collection from Santa Ana 458 Articles of stone 458 Articles of clay 458 Collection from Sandia, N. Mex. 458 Collection from Cochití 459 Articles of stone 459 Articles of clay 459 Miscellaneous articles 460 Collections from San Ildefonso 460 Articles of stone 460 Articles of clay 461 Red ware with decorations in black 462 Red and brown ware without decorations 463 Black polished ware 463 Black ware not polished 463 Miscellaneous articles 464 Collections from Taos 464 Articles of stone 464 Articles of clay 464 White and red ware with decorations 465 ILLUSTRATIONS. Fig. 698.--Pojuaque pitcher 440 699.--Santa Clara polished black ware 443 700.--Santa Clara polished black ware 444 701.--Santa Clara bowl 445 702.--Santa Clara image 445 703.--Santa Clara meal basket 446 704.--Santa Clara pipe 446 705.--Santa Clara canteen 447 706.--Santa Clara canteen 449 707.--Santo Domingo tinaja 451 708.--Jémez water vase 453 709.--Silla water vessel 455 710.--The blanket weaver 454 711.--San Juan water vessel 457 712.--San Ildefonso water vessel 461 713.--Taos polishing stone 464 714.--Taos vessel 465 [Illustration: MAP OF THE PROVINCE OF TUSAYAN, ARIZONA Surveyed by A. L. WEBSTER 1881] * * * * * ILLUSTRATED CATALOGUE OF THE COLLECTIONS OBTAINED FROM THE INDIANS OF NEW MEXICO IN 1880. By James Stevenson. * * * * * INTRODUCTION. It is thought best that I should give, in connection with the catalogue of collections made by the party under my charge in 1880-'81, a brief statement in relation to the collections described in the catalogues, and the information obtained in regard to the Pueblo tribes. Our explorations during the field season of 1880 and 1881 were restricted to the Pueblo tribes located along the Rio Grande and its tributaries in New Mexico. The chief object in view was to secure as soon as possible all the ethnological and archaeological data obtainable before it should be lost to science by the influx of civilized population which is being rapidly thrown into this region by the extension of railroads into and through it. Not only are the architectural remains being rapidly destroyed and archaeological specimens collected and carried away by travelers, excursionists, and curiosity hunters, but the ancient habits and customs of these tribes are rapidly giving way and falling into disuse before the influence of eastern civilization. Our party, consisting, besides myself, of Mr. Galbraith, archaeologist, Mr. Morancy, assistant, and Mr. J. K. Hillers, photographer, proceeded to Santa Fé, N. Mex., where an outfit was secured for the season's work. From here we proceeded to Taos, one of the most extensive pueblos in the Rio Grande region. This village is situated on the Rio Taos a few miles from the Rio Grande, and just under the shadow of the Taos Mountains. It comprises two large sections, one on each side of the Rio Taos. These are compactly built and each six stories high. The industrial pursuits of these Indians are principally pastoral and agricultural, they having a good market for their products in the Mexican village of Fernandez de Taos, containing a population of about 4,000 Mexicans and eastern people. The party spent several days here making investigations and collections. The collection made was small but quite varied and novel, though few of the articles obtained were of their own manufacture. Quite a number of stone implements were secured, among which were some stone knives, pipes, a number of rude stone axes and hammers, arrow smoothers, &c. The pottery obtained here is chiefly of the common type and resembles that from San Juan, from whence in all probability it was received by exchange and barter. Earthenware, so far as I can learn, is not now made in Taos, except by a few families where a Taos Indian has married a woman from San Juan or some other tribe where the manufacture of pottery is carried on. If this industry was ever, practiced by the Taos Indians it must have been at a remote period; in fact there seems to be no tradition of it now among them. From here we went next to the pueblo of San Juan, situated on the left bank of the Rio Grande, about 50 miles south of Taos. At this pueblo a collection was made of stone implements, articles of clay, &c. These specimens are not quite so representative as those from some of the more southern pueblos, the village being situated on one of the military wagon roads, over which many Europeans pass, and hence frequently visited; many of the most valuable specimens of implements and pottery have been bartered away; however, those we obtained display quite fully all the industries of the people of this pueblo. This collection consists of a number of fine stone mortars, pestles, arrow and spear heads, also several polishing stones. Quite a number of small animal forms carved out of stone were also secured. At this pueblo many specimens of the black polished ware peculiar to a few of the tribes in the Rio Grande Valley were collected. From San Juan we proceeded to Santa Clara, situated a few miles below on the right bank of the Rio Grande. This pueblo proved to be so interesting in its surroundings that some time was spent here in making investigations. We found the people extensively engaged in the manufacture of that black polished pottery of which so little has been known heretofore, especially in regard to the process of baking and coloring it, which is fully described in the text accompanying the catalogue of last year in this volume. The larger portion of the specimens of earthenware obtained here was of this kind, though several specimens of the red and some few of the ornamented class were also secured. Most of the pottery manufactured at this village is the black polished ware. That of the decorated class is ornamented with the juice of _Cleome integrifolia_, which is fixed in the ware in the process of burning. Mineral substances, so far as I could learn, are not used by the Indians of Santa Clara in decorating their pottery. Among the specimens are a number of interesting stone implements, nearly all of an older kind than any made by this people at the present day. During our stay at this pueblo some interesting archaeological discoveries were made of which a brief mention in this connection may not be out of place, and which will certainly prove of great interest to future investigators. Between the Rio Grande and Valle Mountains, commencing about 12 miles below, or south, of Santa Clara, and extending south, to within ten miles of Cochití, a distance of about 65 miles, is an extensive area, the intermediate elevated portion of which is composed of a yellowish volcanic tufa, of coarse texture and sufficiently soft and yielding to be readily worked or carved with rude stone implements. Over this entire area there are irregular elevations, somewhat circular in outline, from 50 to 200 feet in height, the faces of which have been worn away by the elements, and are in nearly all instances perpendicular. These consecutive elevations extend back from the Rio Grande from five to fifteen miles. Over this whole expanse of country, in the faces of these cliffs, we found an immense number of cavate dwellings, cut out by the hand of man. We made no attempt to count the number of these curious dwellings, dug like hermit cells out of the rock, but they may be estimated with safety among the thousands. I made many inquiries of the neighboring tribes in regard to the history of these dwellings, but could elicit no information from any of them. The response was invariably, "they are very old and the people who occupied them are gone." An inspection of a portion of this area revealed a condition of things which I have no doubt prevails throughout. The dwellings were found in the faces of the cliffs, about 20 feet apart in many instances, but the distances are irregular. A careful examination satisfied me that they were excavated with rude stone implements resembling adzes, numbers of which were found here, and which were probably used by fastening one end to a handle. The doorways, which are square, were first cut into the face of the wall to a depth of about one foot, and then the work of enlarging the room began. The interiors of the rooms are oval in shape, about 12 feet in diameter, and only of sufficient height to enable one to stand upright. The process, from the evidences shown inside, of carving out the interior of the dwelling was by scraping grooves several inches deep and apart, and breaking out the intermediate portion; in this way the work progressed until the room reached the desired size. Inside of these rooms were found many little niches and excavated recesses used for storing household ornaments, the larger ones probably supplying the place of cupboards. Near the roofs of many of the caves are mortises, projecting from which, in many instances, were found the decayed ends of wooden beams or sleepers, which were probably used, as they are now in the modern Pueblo dwellings, as poles over which to hang blankets and clothing, or to dry meat. These dwellings were without fireplaces; but the evidences of fire were plainly visible at the side of each cave, and in none of those visited did we find any orifice for the egress of the smoke but the small doorway. On the outside or in front of these singular habitations are rows of holes mortised into the face of the cliffs about the doors. It is quite evident that these were for the insertion of beams of wood (for forming booths or shelters in the front), as ends of beams were found sticking there, which, in their sheltered position and in this dry climate, may have been preserved for centuries. Upon the top of the mesa of which these cliffs are the exposed sides we found the ruins of large circular buildings made of square stones 8 by 12 inches in size. The walls of some of these structures remain standing to the height of ten or twelve feet, and show that from four to five hundred people can find room within each inclosure. One of these buildings was rectangular and two were round structures. The latter were about 100 and 150 feet in diameter, the rectangular one about 300 feet square. Many small square rooms were constructed in the interior from large cut bricks of the tufa of which the bluffs are composed. These rooms all opened toward the center of the large inclosure, which has but one general doorway. From these ruins we secured great quantities of pottery, arrow and spear heads, knives, grinding-stones, arrow-smoothers, and many of the small flint adzes, which were undoubtedly used for making the blocks for the structures on the mesa and for excavating the cave dwellings. Among the débris in the dwellings are found corncobs and other evidences of the food used by the inhabitants. This certainly indicates that the people who occupied these singular dwellings were agricultural. The faces of some of the more prominent cliffs contained as many as three rows of chambers one above the other; the débris at the foot, sometimes 200 feet deep, covered up at least two rows of these chambers. Along the edges of the cliffs and over the rocky surface of the mesa are winding footpaths from 3 to 10 inches deep, worn by the feet of the inhabitants. Some of these paths showed perceptible foot-prints where it was inconvenient for those following the path to do otherwise than tread in the footsteps of their predecessors. In our limited investigations we were unable to discover any evidence of burial customs. No graves could be found, and nothing of human remains. The southern portion of this area seems to have been most densely populated. Some of the protected walls in the neighborhood retain hieroglyphics in abundance. These resemble the picture writing of the present Indians of that region. Many interesting specimens of the art of this ancient people can be seen in the images of wild animals scattered over various spots. Many of them are cut in full relief out of the tufa and are always in some natural attitude, and can always be identified where the weather has not destroyed the original form. The most prominent are two mountain lions, side by side and life size. Further examinations will reveal much more of value and interest in connection with this very inviting locality. Mr. Galbraith, who accompanied my party, spent some time examining this region and made collections here. The next pueblo visited was San Ildefonso, about five miles below Santa Clara, on the opposite bank of the Rio Grande. But few specimens were obtained here. The people of this pueblo devote their time chiefly to agricultural and pastoral pursuits, and have almost abandoned the manufacture of pottery, that in use by them at the present time being mostly obtained from neighboring tribes. From San Ildefonso we proceeded to Nambé, a pueblo which has become almost extinct. The remnant of this people is situated about 25 miles above Ildefonso, on Nambé Creek, and not far from the base of the mountains. The people of Nambé have several times in years past moved their pueblo higher up the stream, the valley of which furnishes them fine agricultural and grazing grounds. They make very little pottery, but we found stored in many of the houses of the village great quantities of stone implements, principally large metates and grinding-stones. We also found many specimens of interest among the ruins of old Nambé and Pojuaque, as well as the remains of pottery in such quantities as to show that in the past the manufacture of pottery had been carried on quite extensively. In this vicinity I made arrangements with one of the employés of the party, who had resided many years at Santa Fé, to make excavations and collections from the old sites of Nambé, Pojuaque, and Cuyamunque, in which he was quite successful. From the pueblos north of Santa Fé we traveled direct to Cochití, 27 miles southwest of Santa Fé. This village is situated on the right bank of the Rio Grande and about three miles from Peña Blanca, a small Mexican town opposite. Here a very interesting collection was secured consisting mostly of pottery, many of the vessels simulating animal forms, variously ornamented with representations of some varieties of the flora of the locality. A few stone implements were also obtained here. We next visited Jémez, situated on the Rio Jémez. From thence we went to Silla and Santa Ana. At each of these villages representative collections were made, all of which are referred to in detail in the catalogue. The next villages visited were Santo Domingo and Sandia, on the Rio Grande. Some characteristic specimens were obtained at each of these pueblos. The method of their manufacture and the manner of using them are generally the same as in most of the other pueblos. A small collection of rude stone hammers was obtained from the turquois mine in the Cerrillo Mountains, about 25 miles from Santa Fé. The products of this celebrated mine, which were objects of traffic all over New Mexico, as well as contiguous countries, probably formed one inducement which led to the Spanish conquest of this region. The turquoises from this mine have always been valued as ornaments by the Indians of New Mexico, and carried far and wide for sale by them. The mine was worked in a most primitive manner with these rude stone hammers, a number of which were secured. The collections are all now in the National Museum for study and inspection. The following sketch is introduced here to show the method of using the batten stick represented in Fig. 546. There is not a family among the Pueblos or Navajos that does not possess the necessary implements for weaving blankets, belts and garters. Figs. 500-502 will convey an idea of the variety in design and coloring which prevails in this class of Indian fabrics, while Fig. 710 represents a blanket weaver at work. The picture is taken from a photograph made on the spot by Mr. Hillers, and is colored in accordance with the actual colors of the yarns and threads used in its manufacture. The particular class of blankets represented in this illustration is woven in the estufas, and is used almost exclusively in sacred dances and ceremonies of the tribe, all other garments being made in the houses or in the open air. The Navajos are celebrated for their skill as blanket weavers, and the Mokis are equally skilled in the manufacture of a finer class of the same article, which is much sought after by the surrounding tribes for ornamental purposes in sacred and other dances. The vertical threads, as shown in the figure, are the warp threads; the coarser thread which is inserted transversely between these is the yarn or weft. The three rods in the center of the blanket are lease rods, which are introduced among the threads of the warp to separate them and thus facilitate the insertion of the weft thread. These rods are each passed in front of one warp thread and behind another, alternately, across the whole warp, and between each rod the threads are brought from the back of one to the front of the next, and _vice versa_. The bar held in hands of the weaver serves as a batten for driving or beating the weft thread into the angle formed by the crossed warp threads. This loom resembles in principle the ancient Egyptian, Grecian, and French looms which are described on pages 55 to 62 of "The History and Principles of Weaving by Hand and Power," by A. Barlow, London, 1878, and on pages 41 to 45 of the "Treatise on Weaving and Designing of Textile Fabrics," by Thomas E. Ashenhurst, Bradford, England, 1881. See also pp. 200 to 208, Vol. II, of the "Cotton Manufacture of Great Britain," by A. Ure, London, 1861. COLLECTIONS FROM CUYAMUNQUE. ARTICLES OF STONE. _RUBBING STONES._ (Used as rubbers in grinding corn on metates.) 1-3. 1, (46506); 2, (46507); 3, (46517). Basalt. 4, (46510). Sandstone. 5, (46512). Conglomerate. 6-9. 6, (46513); 7, (46514); 8, (46515); 9, (46516). Mica schist. 10-11. 10, (46518); 11, (46529). Of hornblende schist; these are elongate and intended to be used with both hands. 12-13. 12, (46508); 13, (46567). Quartzite metates. 14-15. 14, (46509); 15, (46511). Sandstone metates, the latter but little used and almost flat. 16, (46551). Rubbing stone of andesite. 17-24. 17, (46555); 18, (46556); 19, (46557); 20, (46558); 21, (46561); 22, (46563); 23, (46569); 24, (46559). Small smoothing stone mostly of quartzite, one or two only of basalt. These are bowlders weighing from one to three pounds, rounded by natural agencies, and selected by the natives to be used for smoothing and polishing purposes. When much used they are worn down flat on one side, the side used being worn off, just as the rubbing stone in the old process of preparing paint. 25-26. 25, (46519); 26, (46520). Unfinished celts of basalt. 27, (46521). Crude hoe or adze of mica schist. 28, (46522). Schist stone with groove for smoothing arrow shaft, and hole for rounding point. 29-31. 29, (46523); 30, (46524); 31, (46525). Crude stone implements, supposed to be used for digging. 32-34. 32, (46526); 33, (46527); 34, (46528). Very crude stone implements, probably used for pounding. 35, (46530). Double-handled baking stone; basalt. The use of stones of this kind will be more particularly noticed hereafter. 36, (46531). Broken rounded mortar; basalt. 37, (47532). A small, oblong, mortar-shaped vessel of lava. The width three inches, length when unbroken was probably four and a half inches; width of inside two inches, length probably three and one-fourth inches, depth of cavity three-fourths of an inch. On the portion remaining there are four feet; originally there were doubtless six. On one side is a projection or handle similar in form and size to the feet. 38-54. 38, (46533); 39, (46534); 40, (46535); 41, (46536); 42, (46537); 43, (46538); 44, (46539); 45, (46550); 46, (46552); 47, (46553); 48, (46554); 49, (46560); 50, (46562); 51, (46565); 52, (46566); 53, (46568); 54, (47571). Pounding or hammer stones, some of them simple cobble stones, others with marks of slight preparation for use by chipping off or rubbing down prominences. 55, (46540). Sandstone with smoothed surface and groove for smoothing arrow shafts. 56-64. 56, (46541); 57, (46542); 58, (46543); 59, (46544); 60, (46545); 61, (46546); 62, (46547); 63, (46548); 64, (46564). Small stones, chiefly quartz, basalt, and agate, used for smoothing and polishing pottery. 65-68. 65, (46570); 66, (46572); 67, (46573); 68, (46574). Broken rubbers for metates. 69, (46988). Spear head. Basalt. 70, (46989). Arrow head. Obsidian. ARTICLES OF CLAY. (Only one perfect specimen obtained.) 71, (46575). A bowl. 72, (46718). Fragments of ancient pottery. COLLECTIONS FROM NAMBÉ. ARTICLES OF STONE. 73-78. 73, (46577); 74, (46578); 75, (46579); 76, (46580); 77, (46581); 78, (46583). Quartzite rubbing stones of an elongate form. 79, (46582). Similar to the last group, but appears to have been used as a pestle as well as a rubber. 80-85. 80, (46584); 81, (46585); 82, (49586); 83, (46587); 84, (46588); 85, (46589). Pounding stones, chiefly of quartzite. These are quite regularly formed, cylindrical or spindle-shaped, with blunt or squarely docked ends, from four to seven inches long and two to three inches in diameter, used chiefly in pounding mesquite beans. 86-89. 86, (46590); 87, (46591); 88, (46592); 89, (46593). Round, flattened, or disk-shaped quartzite pounders, medium and small sizes. 90-91. 90, (46596); and 91, (46597). Pounders similar to the preceding group, but smaller. 92, (46594). A flat or disk-shaped polishing stone of quartzite. 93, (46595). An oblong rectangular quartzite pounding stone. 94-105. 94, (46598); 95, (46599); 96, (46600); 97, (46601); 98, (46602); 99, (46603); 100, (46604); 101, (46605); 102, (46606); 103, (46607); 104, (46608); 105, (46609). Small irregular stones of jasper and basalt used in shaping and polishing pottery. 106, (46610). Elongate, well-worn, sandstone meal rubber or rubber for metate. 107, (46611). A stone bowl or basin made from an oblong, somewhat oval-shaped quartzite slab, and used for pounding and grinding mesquite beans. The length is 19 inches, greatest width 10 inches, depth of depression 2 inches. 108, (46612). Rather large disk-shaped smoothing stone of basalt. 109-114. 109, (46719); 110, (46720); 111, (46721); 112, (46722); 113, (46723); and 114, (46724). Rubbers for metates of the usual form, mostly of basalt, well worn, and most of them broken. 115-131. 115, (46725); 116, (46726); 117, (46728); 118, (46729); 119, (46732); 120, (46733); 121, (46734); 122, (46735); 123, (46739); 124, (46740); 125, (46741); 126, (46742); 127, (46743); 128, (46744); 129, (46749); 130, (46750); 131, (46761). Crude pounding stones, mostly simple cobble stones, more or less worn by use. 132-150. 132, (46727); 133, (46730); 134, (46731); 135, (46736); 136, (46737); 137, (46738); 138, (46745); 139, (46746); 140, (46747); 141, (46748); 142, (46751); 143, (46752); 144, (46753); 145, (46754); 146, (46755); 147, (46756); 148, (46757); 149, (46758); 150, (46759). Small and mostly polished smoothing stones, used chiefly in polishing pottery; all well worn; of jasper, quartzite; or basalt. 151, (46760). A broken grooved ax of basalt. 152, (47051). A very large metate, twenty-four inches long and fifteen inches wide, much worn, the middle of the curve being three and one-half inches below the surface. 153, (47048). Ax with groove on one edge. 154, (47049). Hammer with broad annular groove. 155, (47050). Hammer with lateral notches. 156, (47051). Ax, broken. 157, (48052). Grooved hammer. 158, (47056). Half of a large mortar, much worn. 159, (47058). Metate. 160, (47059). A small mortar, probably used for grinding and pounding chili (pepper). ARTICLES OF CLAY. Articles of clay from this pueblo, which are but few in number, are either of polished black ware or unpolished of the natural _tierra amarilla_ or yellow earth, color, but more or less blackened by use. This ware is of precisely the same character and quality as the black pottery from Santa Clara. The pitchers, cups, and basins are evidently modeled after introduced patterns from civilized nations. All are without ornamentation. 161, (47033). Tinaja or olla, with narrow neck; _tierra amarilla_, blackened. 162, (47032). Tinaja or olla, rather small, polished black ware. 163-164. 163, (47034); 164, (47035). Pitchers of the ordinary form with handle and spout, about half-gallon size, polished black ware. 165, (47036). Small olla, yellow ware. 166, (47037). Small olla-shaped bowl; yellow ware. 167, (47038). A cup without handle. 168-171. 168, (47039); 169, (47040); 170, (47041); 171, (47042). Cups with handle similar in form and size to the ordinary white stone-china coffee cups; yellow-ware. 172, (47043). Cup similar in form and size to the preceding, but of polished black ware. 173, (47044). Small cup without handle; polished black ware. 174, (47045). Small cooking pot with handle; polished black ware. 175, (47046). A pear-shaped water vessel with two loop handles placed opposite each other near the mouth. 176, (47047). A large, polished black ware basin of the usual washbasin form, but with undulate border. 177, (47060). Small bowl, black polished ware. COLLECTIONS FROM POJUAQUE. ARTICLES OF STONE. 178-189. 178, (46613); 179, (46614); 180, (46615); 181, (46616); 182, (46617); 183, (46618); 184, (46619); 185, (46620); 186, (46621); 187, (46622); 188, (46657); 189, (46658). Hammers with groove around the middle. In 46618 the groove is double. They are of quartzite, lava, greenstone, metamorphic rock and basalt. 190-202. 190, (46623); 191, (46624); 192, (46625); 193, (46627); 194, (46639); 195, (46640); 196, (46641); 197, (46642); 198, (46644); 199, (45645); 200, (46646); 201, (46647); 202, (46648). Small smoothing-stones. 203, (46626). A triangular pounding stone. 204-212. 204, (46628); 205, (46629); 206, (46630); 207, (46631); 208, (46632); 209, (46633); 210, (46634); 211, (46650); 212, (46632). Oval pounding-stones made out of rolled pebbles or bowlders. 213, (46635). Elongate slender implements of basalt, probably used in molding pottery, especially the larger flaring bowls. 214, (46636). A smaller implement of similar form used as a polisher for particular vessels. 215-216. 215, (46637); 216, (46638). Flat stones with straight groove for smoothing arrow-shafts. 217, (46643). An unfinished ax of basalt. 218, (46651). A mortar for pounding and grinding mesquite beans. 219, (46653). Rude, partially grooved ax. 220, (46654). Small quartzite pestle. 221, (46659). A very regular, much-worn basaltic metate. 222, (47926). A large, well-worn metate. 223-226. 223, (46660); 224, (47927); 225, (47928); 226, (47929). Rubbing stones for metate. 227-228. 227, (47930); 228, (47931). Broken hatchets with annular groove near the hammer end. 229-232. 229, (47932); 230, (47933); 231, (47934); 232, (47935). Rude hatchets or digging implements notched on the side. 233-234. 233, (47936); 234, (47937). Hammers or pounding-stones with groove around the middle. 235-248. 235, (47938); 236, (47939); 237, (47944); 238, (47951); 239, (47952); 240, (47953); 241, (47954); 242, (47955); 243, (47956); 244, (47958); 245, (47959); 246, (47963); 247, (47964); 248, (47965). Pounding-stones. 249-255. 249, (47940); 250, (47941); 251, (47942); 252, (47943); 253, (47960); 254, (47961); 255, (47962). Small smoothing-stones. 256, (47945). Quartz pestle. 257, (47946). Stone for crushing and grinding mesquite beans. 258-261. 258, (47947); 259, (47948); 260, (47949); 261, (47950). Small disk-shaped hammer-stones with finger pits or depressions usually on both sides. 262-265. 262, (47966); 263, (47967); 264, (47968); 265, (47969). Stones with flat surface and a single straight groove for polishing or straightening arrow-shafts. 266-267. 266, (47971); 267, (47972). Similar stones, with two and three grooves, used for same purpose. 268, (47970). Piece of soap-stone used for moulding bullets. 269, (47974). Rude mortar for grinding paint. 270, (47973). Muller for grinding paint in the paint mortar. ARTICLES OF CLAY. These are few and simple and chiefly of the yellow micaceous ware, some of it blackened by use so that the original color cannot now be observed. Some of the pieces are of red ware with ornamentations. 273-274. 273, (47431); 274, (47432). Pottery moulds for bottoms of vessels. 275, (47434). A pitcher-shaped teapot of red micaceous ware, with handle; a row of projecting points around the middle, one-half of these (those on one side) having the tips notched. There is a triangular spout in front, the opening to it being through numerous small round holes forming a strainer. Capacity about three pints. (Fig. 698.) [Illustration: Fig. 698. 47434] 276, (47435). Small pitcher-shaped cooking pot with handle and crenulate margin. 277-278. 277, (47436); 278, (47437). Small plain bowls used in cooking. 279, (47438). A small boat-shaped bowl resembling a pickle dish. 280, (47439). A small, polished black olla. 281, (47440). A small flat flaring bowl of red ware, with simple, narrow, inner marginal black band and an inner sub-marginal line of triangular points with dots between them. 282, (47441). Small image of a quadruped, very rude; impossible to determine the animal intended; white ware with undulate black lines. 283, (47442). Image of a small bird with wings spread; white ware with black lines. 284, (47443). Small bowl of white ware, ornamented with red triangles and squares bordered by black lines. 285, (47444). Specimen of the paint used by the Indians to ornament themselves in their dances. ARTICLES OF BONE AND HORN. 271, (46656). Corn-husker; handle of antelope-horn and point of iron. 272, (48047). Implement of horn, perforated for straightening arrow-shafts. COLLECTIONS FROM OLD POJUAQUE. ARTICLES OF STONE. 286-288. 286, (46661); 287, (46662); 288, (46714). Fragments of metates. 289, (46663). Large, very regularly shaped and much worn metate. 290-296. 290, (46664); 291, (46665); 292, (46666); 293, (46667); 294, (46668); 295, (46669); 296, (46670). Rubbing stones for metates, mostly broken. 297-319. 297, (46671); 298, (46672); 299, (46673); 300, (46674); 301, (46675); 302, (46676); 303, (46677); 304, (46678); 305, (46679); 306, (46683); 307, (46684); 308, (46695); 309, (46690); 310, (46680); 311, (46701); 312, (46702); 313, (46705); 314, (46709); 315, (46710); 316, (46711); 317, (46712); 318, (46713); 319, (46715). Smoothing stones. 320-335. 320, (46681); 321, (46682); 322, (46685); 323, (46686); 324, (46687); 325, (46688); 326, (46689); 327, (46690); 328, (46691); 329, (46692); 330, (46693); 331, (46694); 332, (46699); 333, (46704); 334, (46706); 335, (46707). Hammers or pounding stones, mostly rude and simple, showing but little preparation. 336-338. 336, (46697); 337, (46698); 338, (46700). Rude unpolished celts. 339, (46703). A sharpening stone. Slate. 340, (46708). Grooved stones for polishing arrow-shafts. ARTICLES OF CLAY. These consist of only a few fragments of ancient ornamented pottery. 341-342. 341, (46716); 342, (46717). Fragments of pottery from the ruins of the old pueblo. COLLECTIONS FROM SANTA CLARA. ARTICLES OF STONE. 343-349. 343, (46762); 344, (46763); 345, (46764); 346, (47535); 347, (47552); 348, (47563); 349, (47564). Metates or grinding stones. 350, (46765). Blocks of stone from the walls of a ruined pueblo, (Liparito or Mesa.) 351-352. 351, (46767); 352, (46780). Rude hatchets or digging stones, notched at the sides and one end, more or less chipped. 353, (46781). Stone hammer, regular in form, grooved, and more than usually slender and pointed. 354-355. 354, (46782); 355, (46787). Pounding stones, chipped and notched at the sides. 356-357. 356, (46792); 357, (46793). Rounded pounding stones with finger pits. 358-359. 358, (46794); 359, (46799). Spherical stones used for casse-têtes, or in common parlance, slung-shot. 300-378. 360, (46800); 361, (46801); 362, (46802); 363, (46815); 364, (46828); 365, (46830); 366, (46832); 367, (46834); 368, (46841); 369, (46873); 370, (46881); 371, (46896); 372, (46965); 373, (47565); 374, (47679); 375, (47689); 376, (47693); 377, (47701); 378, (47707). Rude hammer-stones, some with notches at the sides, others without; none grooved. 379-381. 379, (46803); 380, (46812); 381, (46814). Rubbing stones for metate; mostly broken. 382, (46813). A rude, broken axe. 383-384. 383, (46824); 384, (46825). Smoothing stones used in making and polishing pottery. 385, (46826). Grooved stone for polishing arrow-shafts. 386, (46827). Fragments of pestles. 387-392. 387, (46831); 388, (46833); 389, (46842); 390, (46843); 391, (46963); 392, (46982). Smoothing stones. 393-396. 393, (46844); 394, (46864); 395, (47694); 396, (47700). Rubbing or smoothing stones. 397-398. 397, (46865); 398, (46868). Stone balls used as slung-shot. 399-400. 399, (46869); 400, (46871). Small, round hammer stones. 401, (47714). A rudely carved stone, probably intended to represent some animal. 402-404. 402, (46872); 403, (46882); 404, (46895). Grooved hammers. 405, (46983). Large pounding stone. 406-407. 406, (46985); 407, (46986). Bottles containing chips and flakes of obsidian and agate, from ancient pueblo on mesa. 408, (47987). Collection of 10 stones used in smoothing pottery. 409, (47536). Collection of 67 stones used in smoothing pottery. 410, (47537). Twenty-one stone chips and flakes. 411, (47538). Eight hammer stones and chips. 412-413. 412, (47539); 413, (47549). Grinding or rubbing stones for metate. 414, (47551). Stone mortar. 415-416. 415, (47553); 416, (47559). Rubbing stones for metate. 417-418. 417, (47560); 418, (47562). Pounding stones. 419, (47680). Large metate. 420-421. 420, (47681); 421, (47688). Rubbing stones for metate. 422, (46990). Grooved hammer. 423, (47709). Round pounding stone. 424, (47710). Chips and flakes of agate and jasper (one box). 425, (47711). Smoothing stones for pottery. 426, (47713). Chips and flakes of obsidian (one box). 427, (47715). Flakes and arrow heads of obsidian. ARTICLES OF CLAY. These consist of vessels of pottery, a few clay images, and two or three clay pipes. The pottery (with the exception of one or two pieces obtained from other pueblos) is all black ware, some of which is quite well polished. Some of the ollas are quite large, the form shown in fig. 699 (46993), predominating; others with rather high neck which is marked with sharp, oblique ridges, as shown in fig. 700 (47023). [Illustration: Fig. 699. 46993] _POLISHED BLACK WARE._ 428, (46993). Olla shown in fig. 699. The somewhat peculiar form of the body, the sharp curve at the shoulder and straight line in the lower half, is the point to which attention is more particularly called, as this appears to be the principal type form of these vessels, with this pueblo. 429, (46994). A jar-shaped olla. 430-433. 430, (46995); 431, (47023); Fig. 700. 432, (47024); 433, (47147). These are well shown in fig. 700. The oblique lines on the neck indicate sharp external ridges. The lip is also usually undulate or crenate. The size is from medium to large, varying in capacity from one to three or four gallons. 434, (46996). A large pitcher, lower part of the body much inflated, neck rather narrow and encircled by a sharp undulate ridge, handle and spout of the usual form; capacity about two gallons. Coarse brown micaceous ware blackened by fire. 435-437. 435, (46997); 436, (46999); 437, (47008). Small flat olla-shaped bowls. 438, 439. 438, (47002); 439, (47014). Small tinajas with angular shoulders. [Illustration: Fig. 700. 47023] 440, (47019). A rather small flaring bowl with flat bottom, ornamented with oval depressions on the inner surface; the margin is distinctly and somewhat regularly heptagonal. 441-448. 441, (47029); 442, (47123); 443, (47137); 444, (47141); 445, (47142); 446, (47143); 447, (47143a); 448, (47150). Large tinajas most of which are similar in form to that shown in figure 699 (46993); Nos. (47133) and (46137) being the only exception; they are more jar-shaped. 449, (47030). A broken tinaja. 450, (47085). A flaring, flat-bottomed, bowl or dish, similar to number (47019) except that the inner ornamental depressions are spirally arranged. 451, (47109.) A jar or tinaja similar in form to (46993) fig. 699, except that the neck is longer and the lip flaring and undulate. [Illustration: Fig. 701. 47120] 452-454. 452, (47112); 453, (47127); 454, (47494). Small pitcher, probably a toy, with handle and a long lip projecting backwards as well as in front. 455-457. 455, (47517); 456, (47115); 457, (47132). Flat-bottomed flaring bowls or dishes similar in form to 450, (47019), but without the inner indentation. [Illustration: Fig. 702. 47123] 458, (47120). A flat-bottomed flaring bowl ornamented internally with spiral ridges and undulated margin shown in fig. 701. 459, (47123). An image of a person in a worshiping attitude, probably intended to represent a Catholic priest chanting. See fig. 702. 460-461. 460, (47134); 461, (47504). Flat-bottomed fan-shaped dishes. 462, (47088). Tea-pot with ordinary handle and spout, copied after the ordinary tea-pot of civilized life. 463, (47116). Basin-like dish, with numerous slightly elevated lines internally. 464, (47136). A duck, small and rude. 465, (47481). An urn-shaped vase with long neck, and without handles. Quite small, scarcely above toy size. 466, (47482). A pottery meal basket used in religious ceremonies and dances; shown in fig. 703. Although differing materially from the Zuñi sacred meal baskets, yet, as is shown in the figure, the pyramidal elevations on the margin are retained. [Illustration: Fig. 703. 47482] [Illustration: Fig. 704. 47492] 467-468. 467, (47483); 468, (47487). Tinajas, usually with the lip margin undulate. 469, (47492). Pipe, ornamented on the side with an indented line terminating in an arrow-point, probably denoting lightning; fig. 704. 470, (47493). Pipe, small, cylindrical, slightly hexagonal. 471, (47496). A singular canteen or water vessel shown in fig. 705. 472-477. 472, (47497); 473, (47500); 474, (47506); 475, (47507); 476, (47519); 477, (47516). Pottery moccasins, small toy size. 478, (47498). A squat-shaped olla used as a bowl. 479-480. 479, (47501); 480, (47138). A water vessel precisely of the form and ornamentation shown in fig. 700, but with a handle on each side. 481, (47503). Pitcher without spout. 482, (47502). Earth used for whitening in the manufacture of pottery. 483, (47510). Plain bowl. 484, (47512). Plain bowl. 485, (47527). Well formed bowl with foot or pedestal. [Illustration: Fig. 705. 47496] 486-489. 486, (47001); 487, (47716); 488, (47028); 489, (47717). Flaring bowls with undulate margins. 490, (47718). Bowl similar in form to the preceding one, but much larger. _BLACK OR BROWN WARE._ (Blackened by use on the fire; not polished.) This ware, when first made and before use, varies in shade from dark earth color to reddish-brown, but the soot, smoke, and fire, when in use, soon darken it; hence it is usually described as black ware. The articles are used for cooking purposes, such as pots--which are usually pot-shaped--some without handles and some with a handle on one side, bowls, &c. The pots vary in capacity from a pint to a little over a gallon. 491-517. 491, (46998); 492, (47000); 493, (47003); 494, (47004); 495, (47010); 496, (47011); 497, (47015); 498, (47021); 499, (47026); 500, (47089); 501, (47100); 502, (47104); 503, (47108); 504, (47119); 505, (47126); 506, (47128); 507, (47488); 508, (47489); 509, (47499); 510, (47505); 511, (47508); 512, (47511); 513, (47521); 514, (47523); 515, (47528); 516, (47529); 517, (47531). Cooking vessels shaped much like the ordinary pot, without handles and without legs. 518-533. 518, (47007); 519, (47012); 520, (47017); 521, (47018); 522, (47020); 523, (47022); 524, (47025); 525, (47092); 526, (47096); 527, (47101); 528, (47111); 529, (47117); 530, (47121); 531, (47124); 532, (47515); 533, (47522). Cooking vessels with handle on one side resembling pitchers. 534-540. 534, (47005); 535, (47009); 536, (47016); 537, (47107); 538, (47129); 539, (47148); 540, (47006). Toy bowls. 541, (47013). A double-mouthed canteen. 542, (47027). A bowl with handle on one side used for cooking purposes. 543-544. 543, (47086); 544, (47090). Globular paint cups, small. 545-546. 545, (47087); 546, (47091). Pipes of the ordinary form, _Tierra amarilla_. 547-549. 547, (47093); 548, (47097); 549, (47098). Images similar to that shown in fig. 702. 550, (47094). Double paint-cup. 551, (47095). Imitation in pottery of a Derby, or some round-crowned, straight-rimmed hat. 552-555. 552, (47099); 553, (47102); 554, (47118); 555, (47122). Small, somewhat boat-shaped dishes; that is, dishes slightly oval with the margin flared at the ends: used as soap dishes. 556, (47103). Small image of a person bearing something on each arm. 557, (47105). A gourd-shaped pipe. 558-559. 558, (47106); 559, (47490). Bowls with legs; margin undulate. 560, (47110). Pottery basket with handle, with smooth margin and without ornamentation. 561, (47113). Globular cooking-pot. 562, (47114). Skillet with handle and feet. 563, (47130). Toy cooking vessels. 564-565. 564, (47131); 565, (47139). Sitting images wearing something like a crown on the head. 566. Sitting image with representations of feathers on the head. 567-568. 567, (47145); 568, (47146). Images. 569-570. 569, (47151); 570, (47300). Fragments of pottery from the mesa. 571-572. 571, (47479); 572, (47532). Doubled-bellied bottles used as water vessels. 573, (47491). Small cup with handle. 574, (47495). Image with horns. 575, (47507). Bowl with straight side and flat bottom. 576-577. 576, (47509); 577, (47533). Toy bowls. 578, (47514). Plain bowl with foot or pedestal. 579, (47513). Small pitcher with handle and spout; ordinary form in civilized life. 580, (47520). Tinaja. 581-583. 581, (47525); 582, (47526); 583, (47530). Potter's clay of the kind used in making the preceding vessels. _WHITENED WARE WITH COLORED DECORATIONS._ There are but few specimens of this ware, which are chiefly important from the fact that the material is of that firm, close, and superior quality that characterizes the ancient pottery of that region. The decorations and general appearance also ally it to the ancient ware. 584, (47476). A turnip-shaped canteen; the only opening being a small hole in the top of the handle, which arises from the top in the form of a semicircular loop. Decorations consist of three bands around the upper half, the first alternate white and black squares, the second a plain red band, and the third or lower like the first. Capacity about three quarts. (Fig. 706.) [Illustration: Fig. 706. 47476] 585, (47477). A bowl decorated internally with a submarginal band consisting of a vine and leaf; externally with a band of small pear-shaped figures; all in black. 586, (47478). Canteen of the usual form. 587, (47480). Turnip-shaped canteens; small, circular mouth at the center on top; on each side a knob. VEGETAL SUBSTANCES. 587½, (46829). Spinning top copied from the ordinary top of civilized life. COLLECTIONS FROM TESUQUE. ARTICLES OF STONE. 588, (47061). Large regular metate, not much worn. 589, (47063). Metate with legs, regularly oblong, not much worn. 590, (47062). Stone axe and chisel combined. ARTICLES OF CLAY. 691, (47064). Medium-sized tinaja of the usual form, quite regular and symmetrical, white ware with decorations; zigzag band around the neck; body divided into compartments with a large three-leaved figure in each. 592, (47065). Tinaja similar in form and size to the preceding; black polished ware. COLLECTIONS FROM TURQUOISE MINE. This collection, which is a small one, consists, with the exception of some bows, arrows and quivers, of stone hammers only, which were used for mining purposes. 593-594. 593, (47066); 594, (47082). Mining stone-hammers; are large and roughly hewn, usually with an imperfect groove around the middle. 595, (47083). Bows, arrows and beaded quiver. 596, (47084). Bows, arrows and plain quiver. 597, (48048). Bird snares. COLLECTIONS FROM SANTO DOMINGO. The collection from this pueblo consists chiefly of pottery belonging to the white decorated variety with ornamentation in black. But few articles of stone were obtained. ARTICLES OF STONE. 598-599. 598, (47182); 599, (47185). Stone hatchets with broad annular groove near the blunt end. ARTICLES OF CLAY. 600, (47154). Medium-sized tinaja, much, ornamented with vines and birds; body with a broad belt of Greek frets with leaf ornaments above and below. 601, (47155). Similar in every respect to the preceding except that the neck has on it only figures of the cactus leaf. 602, (47157). Tinaja, medium size; zigzag band around the neck, body ornamented with triangles and curved twigs with pinnate leaves. 603, (47156). Large tinaja with scalloped band around the neck; a broad belt of straight lines and crescents on the body. 604, (47158). Large tinaja shown in Fig. 707. [Illustration: Fig. 707. 47158] 605, (47159). Water vessel somewhat in the form of a teapot, with short, straight, cylindrical spout, open on the top, and a transverse loop handle. Ornamented with bands of small triangles. 606, (47223). Similar to preceding, except that the handle is not transverse and the figures are chiefly large stars. 607, (47160). A cup-shaped ladle with handle like ordinary teapot; birds and triangles internally, zigzag lines externally. 608, (47161). Bowl; a double-scalloped, ornamental, broad marginal band and a cross ornament internally. No external ornamentation. 609, (47162). Bowl; crenate marginal band and square central figure internally; external surface plain. 610-617 610, (47163); 611, (47164); 612, (47165); 613, (47166); 614, (47167); 615, (47168); 616, (47169); 617, (47170). Small saucer-shaped bowls ornamented on the inside only, chiefly with crenate marginal bands and leaf figures. In one 615, (47168), there is the figure of a deer and of a long-billed bird. 618, (47171). Pitcher with handle and lip usual form, undulate margin, ornamentation as on the neck of (47158), Fig. 707. 619, (47222). Similar in every respect to 618, (47171), except that the handle is twisted. 620, (47172). Basket-shaped water vessel with handle, three-leaved figures. 621, (47173). Small jar with handle on the side, leaf figures. 622-623. 622, (47174); 623, (47175). Small barrel-shaped jars with diamond figures. 624-626. 624, (47176); 625, (47178); 626, (47179). Double-bellied water bottles, the first with birds and triangles, the second with triangles and diamonds, and the third with flower and leaf ornaments. 627, (47177). Pottery moccasins with leaf and flower ornamentation. 628-629. 628, (47180); 629, (47181). Small bowl-shaped cups with handle; ornamentation chiefly triangles. COLLECTIONS FROM JÉMEZ. ARTICLES OF STONE. 630-635. 630, (47209); 631, (47211); 632, (47212); 633, (47279); 634, (47280); 635, (47281). Stone hatchets with imperfect grooves. 636, (42282). Square block of stone with grooves lengthwise and crosswise on one face, used to polish arrow shafts. 637-638. 637, (47051); 638, (47053). Broken rubbers for metates. 639, (48034). Rude stone pounders. 640, (48038). Pestle. 641, (48059). A celt of jasper. 642-643. 642, (48060); 643, (48061). Smoothing stones. ARTICLES OF CLAY. These are mostly white ware with ornamentation in black and red; there are a few black specimens. 644-646. 644, (47186); 645, (47187); 646, (47188). Specimens of clay used in making pottery. 647-648. 647, (47216); 648, (47220). Bricks from an old Spanish wall. 649-655. 649, (47189); 650, (47190); 651, (47191); 652, (47193); 653, (47194); 654, (47195); 655, (47198). Small jar-shaped tinajas. The ornamentation consists of heavy waved lines on the body and interrupted straight lines, triangles and narrow simple or scalloped bands on the neck. 656, (47192). A medium-sized tinaja, swollen at the shoulder and of the form shown in Fig. 372. The upper part is ornamented with a broad belt of animal figures, deer and birds, separated from each other by a triangle between each, two, with the elongate point directed upwards. Middle surrounded by a belt of oblique broken lines. 657, (47196). Olla of the usual form; ornamentation, a vine, leaves and birds. 658, (47197). Medium-sized, jar-shaped olla, with undulate margin and ornamentation as shown in Fig. 708. [Illustration: Fig. 708. 47197] 659, (47199). Olla with zigzag band around the neck and four dentate bands around the body. 660-665. 660, (47200); 661, (47201); 662, (47202); 663, (47203); 664, (47204); 665, (47215). Canteens of the usual form with two loop handles; upper half ornamented. Chief figures, triangles, stars, and birds. 666, (47205). Tinaja with handle on the side, ornamentation delicate and decidedly neat; zigzag and dotted lines, long pinnate leaf, flowers, &c. 667, (48062). Fragments of pottery from ruins (7 pieces.) 668, (47206). Water vessel resembling in form a tinaja, but with small orifice; ornamented with slender vines and leaves. 669, (47207). Biscuit-shaped bowl; triangular figures on external surface similar to those so common on Zuñi bowls. 670, (47208). Small regularly-shaped bowl; triangular figures. 671, (47213). Tinaja with handle; resembling in form and ornamentation, the pitchers found at Cañon de Chelley. 672, (47214). Olla with crenate margin; external decorations elks and birds. 673, (47278). Small tinaja with a kind of scroll figure around the body. 674-675. 674, (47276); 675, (47277). Small unburned and unadorned tinajas. MISCELLANEOUS ARTICLES. 676, (48050). Wooden image decorated with feathers (presented by Mrs. T. Stevenson). 677, (47221). Specimen of the matting used in building. COLLECTIONS FROM SILLA. ARTICLES OF STONE. 678, (47224). Small square mortar of lava. 679-680. 679, (47242); 680, (47255). Stone hatchets rather well formed with blunt poll, distinct annular groove, and tapering blade; chiefly of basalt, three of metamorphic rock. 681-682. 681, (47256); 682, (47258). Smoothing stones. 683-684. 683, (47259); 684, (47260). Stone hammers with groove. 685-686. 685, (47261); 686, (47263). Pounding stones. 687, (47262). Small oval mortar (lava.) ARTICLES OF CLAY. (White ware with red and black decorations.) 688, (47225). Small toy tinaja, a narrow scalloped band at the margin and near the bottom, crescents between. 689, (47227). Tinaja with small orifice, duck figure in red. 690, Water vessel in form of a duck; orifice on the back, wings formed into loop handles. Red and black decorations. 691, (47228). Water vessel in form of a duck; orifice over the neck, loop handle on the back. 692-693. 692, (47237); 693, (47239). Water vessels in form of a duck, without handles. [Illustration: Fig. 710. THE BLANKET WEAVER.] 694-696. 694, (47229); 695, (47230); 696, (47232). Animal images; first probably a Rocky Mountain sheep; the other two probably dogs. Very rude ornamentation without design. 697, (47236). Water vessel of the form and ornamentation shown in Fig. 709. [Illustration: Fig. 709. 47236] 698, (47238). Medium-sized tinaja with leaf ornaments. 699, (47294). Tinaja with figures like those common on the Zuñi ollas. 700, (47818). Water vessel in the form of a horse, white ware ornamented. 701, (47820). Dog's head, plain. MISCELLANEOUS. 702, (47264). Specimens of mineral paint. (Ochre or clay-stone.) 703-705. 703, (47265); 704, (47267); 705, (47268). Turquoise drills. 706, (47266). Block of wood to be used in connection with the turquoise drill. Has a simple pit in the center in which the apex of the drill turns. 707, (47269). Wooden war-club of hard oak with serpentine line and arrow point (as on pipe, Fig. 704), cut on one side. 708, (47270). Bow, arrows, and quiver. 709, (47819). Leather bag adorned with feathers, with pebbles inside, used as a rattle in dances. 710, (47234). Tortoise shell with pendent rattles, used us a dance ornament. 711, (47235). A gourd with pebbles inside, used as a rattle. COLLECTIONS FROM SAN JUAN. ARTICLES OF STONE. 712, (47760). Flat rubbing or smoothing stone of slate. 713-714. 713, (47762); 714, (47763). Stone hatchets notched at the sides. 715, (47764). Small hammer notched at the sides. 716-717. 716, (47765); 717, (47766). Stone candlesticks, the former with circular base, body hemispherical, with hole in the top. The other (from the altar of the Catholic Church) with square base, the stand short, circular, with moldings. 718, (47767). Square, flat mortar. 719-724. 719, (47768); 720, (47769); 721, (47770); 722, (47799); 723, (47783); 724, (47776.) Pounding stones. 725-733. 725, (47771); 726, (47774); 727, (47777); 728, (47778); 729, (47782); 730, (47785); 731, (47787); 732, (47790); 733, (47792). Stones with grooves or notches. 734-742. 734, (47772); 735, (47775); 736, (47779); 737, (47781); 738, (47784); 739, (47786); 740, (47789); 741, (47793); 742, (47796). Stone hammers, some grooved, others not. 743-747. 743, (47773); 744, (47788); 745, (47797); 746, (47798); 747, (47808). Smoothing or polishing stones. 748, (47800). A collection of fifty smoothing stones used in polishing pottery. 749-750. 749, (47803); 750, (47804). Small paint mortars. 751, (47805). Scraper and polisher. 752, (47806). Rude animal image, (quadruped). 753, (47807). Hammer. 754, (47809). Hornstone triangular knife. 755, (47810). Collection Of nine stone implements. ARTICLES OF CLAY. The collection of pottery made at this pueblo presents quite a variety of articles, such as the ordinary clay vessels, bowls, tinajas, water vessels, &c., of black, polished black, brown, mostly without ornamentation, and white ornamented ware, images, pipes, moccasins, &c. _POLISHED BLACK WARE._ 756, (47720). A bowl with indented lines and areas internally. 757-758. 757, (47732); 758, (47742). Globular water vessels with loop handles. 759-761. 759, (47733); 760, (47745); 761, (47750). Small tinajas. 762-764. 762, (47735); 763, (47748); 764, (47749). Flat dish-shaped bowls. 765, (47737). A canteen made upon the same plan as that shown in fig. 706, (47476); that is, with opening only at the top of the loop-handle. The body is crock-shaped with top flat. 766, (47752). Small image. 767-768. 767, (47753); 768, (47759). Straight cylindrical pipes. 769-770. 769, (47754); 770, (47755). Moccasins. 771, (47757). Small dish. 772, (47758). Pipe precisely the same in ornamentation as that shown in fig. 704. _BROWN AND BLACK WARE._ The black are only cooking vessels, not polished, but colored chiefly by use in cooking; the rest are brown. 773, (47726). A very regularly formed teapot with handle and spout, similar to, and evidently modeled after, those used in civilized life. 774, (47728). Sugar bowl with lid, ordinary form. 775-777. 775, (47772); 776, (47739); 777, (47741). Bowls with feet. 778, (47731). Water vessel in the form of a ring, orifice on the outer surface. 779-781. 779, (47734); 780, (47736); 781, (47744). Cooking pots without handles. 782, (47738). Cooking pot with handle, regular pitcher form. 783, (47740). Canteen without handles. 784-785. 784, (47746); 785, (47747.) Small (toy) bowls. 786-787. 786, (47751); 787, (47756). Small (toy) tinajas. _WHITE WARE WITH DECORATIONS._ But few specimens; ornamentation simple and in black. 788, (47721). Bowl; internally an undulate marginal band, externally a middle band of diamonds and ovals. [Illustration: Fig. 711. 47723] 789, (47730). Bowl; broad inner marginal band of outline blocks alternating with snake-like figures, external marginal band of outline leaves. 790, (47722). Canteen of the usual form with knobs at the sides. 791, (47723). Small tinaja shown in Fig. 711. 792, (47725). Small tinaja with cross on the neck and a double scalloped middle band. 793, (47724). Water vessel in the form of a duck, loop-handle on the back; plain. 794, (47719). Small tinaja. 795, (47727). Canteen of usual form, knob handles, with circle and square. MISCELLANEOUS ARTICLES. 796, (47811). Head mats of corn-husks, ring-shaped and painted. 797, (47812). Arrow-points, chips, flakes, &c. 798, (47813). Young otter skin. 799, (47814). A scarf to be worn over the shoulder while dancing; with long beaded streamers and tassels. 800, (47815). Medicine bag. 801, (47801). Pottery spindle whirl, simple small disk with hole in the middle. COLLECTION FROM SANTA ANA. ARTICLES OF STONE. 802-804. 802, (47284); 803, (47285); 804, (47286). Stone hatchets with groove. ARTICLES OF CLAY. These consist of white ornamented ware. 805, (47287). Animal image, probably a fawn, handle on the back. 806-809. 806, (47290); 807, (47291); 808, (47292); 809, (47293). Small tinajas with decorations in black. The figures are the same as those found on Zuñi pottery--scrolls, triangles, scalloped lines and birds, but no antelopes or deer. COLLECTION FROM SANDIA, N. MEX. 810-811. 810, (47240); 811, (47241). Biscuit-shaped unburnt bowls. COLLECTION FROM COCHITI. ARTICLES OF STONE. 812-815. 812, (47901); 813, (47905); 814, (47474); 815, (47475). Hat-shaped lava stones used in cooking bread; they are heated and placed on top of the cake. This is an old custom almost entirely abandoned, and now practiced only by a few families of this pueblo. 816-818. 816, (47906); 817, (47907); 818, (47909). Regularly formed pestles. 819-820. 819, (47908); 820, (47910). Pounding stones with groove. 821-822. 821, (47911); 822, (47919). Grooved hatchets or axes. 823-824. 823, (47920); 824, (47923). Smoothing stones. 825, (47924). A collection of 20 smoothing stones. 826, (47925). Seven oval segments or disks of gourd, regularly cut and edged for scraping and smoothing pottery. 827-828. 827, (47470); 828, (47471). Hatchets or pounders (for it is doubtful to which class they belong), with handle yet attached. The second was probably used as a hatchet, the first more likely as a pounder. 829, (47472). Well-shaped hatchets. 830, (47473). Lava mortar. ARTICLES OF CLAY. These, with only one or two exceptions, consist of white decorated ware; the bottoms are polished red as usual, but the decorations are in black. 831-832. 831, (47273); 832, (47274). Canteens with loop handles on the side, the first with a star or rosette ornament in the top and scalloped line around the middle, second with triangular figures. 833, (47275). Plain unburnt tinaja. 834, (47288). Image, duck's body with cow's head. 835, (47289). Duck image. This and also the preceding with loop handle on the back and trident figures on the sides. 836, (47295). Pitcher-shaped cup, with handle, ornamentation, oblique dashes. 837, (47296). Deep, olla-shaped bowl; anvil-shaped figures on the outside. 838, (47297). Small canteen, loop-handles at the sides, central star ornament. 839-840. 839, (47445); 840, (47446). Bowls adorned with sprigs and flowers internally and stars externally; quite neat. 841-844. 841, (47447); 842, (47448); 843, (47449); 844, (47460). Bowls; most of them with a narrow dotted marginal band externally and internally. 841, (47447) has a central star inside and a band of triangles on the outside. 842, (47448) with no other ornamentation. 843, (47449) and 844, (47460) with animal figures on the inner face. 845, (47461). A biscuit-shaped bowl, with vertical ridges on the external surface. 845½, (47462). Water vessels, the body shaped as the ordinary tinaja, surmounted with outstretched arms and human head, the orifice through the mouth. Scroll ornaments. 846, (47463). Canteen of the usual form with loop handles and leaf ornaments. 847-848. 847, (47464); 848, (47466). Duck images used as water vessels. 849, (47465). Water vessel; animal image somewhat resembling a fish, but was probably intended for a duck; loop handle on the back and at each side. 850, (47468). Gourd-shaped water vessel with animal head at the apex, as in Fig. 709. 851, (47467). Toy cooking vessel of unadorned brown ware. 852, (47816). Large tinaja of white painted ware, with lid much like Fig. 651, (39533), plate 81. MISCELLANEOUS ARTICLES. 853, (47301). Specimen of dried melon; is twisted like a rope. 854, (47392). Fox skin. 855, (47303). Brick from a wall. 856, (47304). Copper cannon ball scarcely one inch in diameter. 857, (47305). Copper kettle with handle. 858, (48049). A musical instrument. COLLECTIONS FROM SAN ILDEFONSO. The collections from this pueblo were the largest made during the year 1880, consisting of pottery of different kinds, black and brown painted ware, stone implements and wooden utensils. ARTICLES OF STONE. 858½-861. 858½, (47976); 859, (47977); 860, (48031); 861, (48044). Lava mortars. 862, (48032). Mortar with three cavities. 863, (47978). Pestle and rubber combined. 864-867. 864, (47979); 865, (47985); 866, (47017); 867, (48025). Rubbers for metates, of regular form. 868-877. 868, (47986); 869, (47999); 870, (48000); 871, (48010); 872, (48013); 873, (48015); 874, (48016); 875, (48026); 876, (48033); 877, (48039). Pounding stones. 878, (47987). Paint muller. 879-880. 879, (47988); 880, (48045). Pestles. 881-883. 881, (47989); 882, (48028); 883, (48029). Grooved hammers. 884-887. 884, (47990); 885, (47996); 886, (47998); 887, (48030). Hatchets with grooves or notches. 888-892. 888, (47997); 889, (48001); 890, (48009); 891, (48040); 892, (48043). Smoothing stones. 893, (48014). Round stone used as slung shot. 894, (48027). Chisel. ARTICLES OF CLAY. These consist of painted white ware with decorations in black; polished black ware and black and brown ware. The white pottery resembles very closely, in the forms, color, and ornamentation, that from Taos and Cochiti, the white in all these being of a creamy color. [Illustration: Fig. 712. 47326] 895-897. 895, (47319); 896, (47321); 897, (47325). Medium-sized hemispherical bowls, ornamented, on the inside only, with star figures or rosettes and triangles. 898-899. 898, (47320); 899, (47324). Similar bowls with similar ornamentation both internally and externally. 900, (47323). Bowl of similar form and size; only decoration a broad external marginal band with oval spaces in it. 901, (47322). Small bowl with decorations on the inner surface only. 902-903. 902, (47326); 903, (47327). Medium-sized olla-shaped bowls not adorned internally; marginal line of dots externally. Latter with zigzag belt; former with serpents, crosses, and figure of bottle on a stand; Fig. 712. 904, (47329). Large tinaja with cover. Vines and leaves on the neck, and around the body a broad belt of figures resembling fringed medicine bags. 905-906. 905, (47334); 906, (47336). Canteens of the usual form, with loop handles at the sides; the first ornamented with the common central star and triangles, the second has no central figure. Posterior Half with interlaced figure. 907, (47335). Globular canteens; side handles; cactus leaves and simple broad bands. 905, (47337). Flower-pot precisely of the usual form, with hole in the bottom, grooved outline, dentate bands. 909-916. 909, (47351); 910, (47354); 911, (47359); 912, (47360); 913, (47361); 914, (47362); 915, (47363); 916, (47364.) Small bowls with decorations on the inner face. 917, (47373). Small pitcher; handle broken off. 918, (47387). A bowl of peculiar and significant ornamentation. 919-920. 919, (47389); 920, (47390). Bowls ornamented on the inner face only. 921-922. 921, (47391); 922, (47392). Straight-sided or crock-shaped, deep bowls, with foot. First with a zigzag submarginal band on the inner side and a zigzag line and dots around the body on the outside. The latter with a dotted inner marginal band, a vine and leaves around the outside. 923-925. 923, (47399); 924, (47400); 925, (47401). Pear-shaped or conical water-vessels, with animal heads at the apex; decorations simple. 926-927. 926, (47414); 927, (47415). Olla-shaped bowls, of medium size, ornamented internally and externally. 928, (47416). Basin-shaped bowl, with foot, ornamented internally and externally. 929, (47426). Bird image. _RED WARE WITH DECORATIONS IN BLACK._ 930, (47328). Medium-sized tinaja, bead figures or necklace around the neck, zigzag band on the shoulders, sprig, double looped and serrate triangular figures on the body. 931, (47331). Small tinaja; undulate marginal band, tear-drops on the neck, large band divided into triangles pointing alternately up and down, fitting into the spaces, each with two oval, red spaces. 932, (47333). Small tinaja, with alternating triangles base to base on both neck and body, those on the body with circular spaces. 933, (47338). Flower-pot of the ordinary form, with undulate margin, zigzag submarginal band, belt of flower ornaments on the body. 934, (47340). Bowl with a belt of anvil-shaped figures on the outside. 935, (47352). Bowl decorated on the inside, outside plain. 936, (47355). Bowl with vine externally and internally. _RED AND BROWN WARE WITHOUT DECORATIONS._ 937-939. 937, (47339); 938, (47358); 939, (47379). Plain bowls. 940, (47353). Olla-shaped bowl with undulate margin. 941-942. 941, (47370); 942, (47375). Small tinajas. 943, (47372). Bottle with square groove around the middle. 944, (47376). Oval dish. 945-946. 945, (47377); 946, (47378). Flat circular dishes. 947, (47397). A rather large, regular-shaped fruit jar with margin expanded horizontally. 948-953. 948, (47404); 949, (47405); 950, (47406); 951, (47409); 952, (47410); 953, (47411). Bird images. 954-956. 954, (47407); 955, (57408); 956, (47413). Images of the human form, first with hat on, second apparently praying, third with arms extended and sash crossing in front from each shoulder. 957, (47424). Images of the human form. 958, (47403). Basket-shaped, toy water-vessel with loop handle. _BLACK POLISHED WARE._ 959-961. 959, (47341); 960, (47350); 961, (47417). Bowls. 962-963. 962, (47356); 963, (47357). Dishes with undulate edge. 964-965. 964, (47365); 965, (47366). Toy bowls. 966-967. 966, (47380); 967, (47386). Small basket-shaped vessels with handles across the top. 968, (47388). Oblong dish. 969, (47393). Basin with foot and undulate margin. 970, (47394). Toy jar. 971-972. 971, (47395); 972, (47396). Toy pottery kegs, the latter with a handle. 973, (47402). Duck-shaped water-vessel. 974, (47412). Two-headed bird image. 975, (47418). Small paint cup. 976-977. 976, (47419); 977, (47420). Bowls with arched handle. 978-979. 978, (47427); 979, (47430). Toy dishes. _BLACK WARE NOT POLISHED._ 980-982. 980, (47367); 981, (47369); 982, (47371). Cooking pots. MISCELLANEOUS ARTICLES. 983, (47318). Ox cart, "_carreta_." 984, (47425). Arrow straightener of bone; (a piece of bone with round holes in it). COLLECTIONS FROM TAOS. The collections made from this pueblo were quite extensive and varied. ARTICLES OF STONE. 985-997. 985, (47846); 986, (47848); 987, (47852); 988, (47854); 989, (47856); 990, (47858); 991, (47863); 992, (47873); 993, (47875); 994, (47879); 995, (47880); 996, (47883); 997, (47887). Stone hatchets grooved. 998-1004. 998, (47847); 999, (47853); 1000, (47861); 1001, (47864); 1002, (47876); 1003, (47878); 1004, (47882). Rounding stones. 1005-1014 1005, (47855); 1006, (47860); 1007, (47866); 1008, (47869); 1009, (47880); 1010, (47871); 1011, (47872); 1012, (47877); 1013, (47881); 1014, (47884). Stone hammers very rude, sometimes with a groove, but generally with simply a notch at each side. 1015, (47859). Rude stone knife. 1016-1021. 1016, (47862); 1017, (47865); 1018, (47867); 1019, (47868); 1020, (47885); 1021, (47886). Rubbing and polishing stones. 1022, (47874). Grooved stone for polishing arrow-shafts (Fig. 713). [Illustration: Fig. 713.] ARTICLES OF CLAY. These are chiefly vessels of brown and black ware, some two or three pieces only being ornamented ware. 1023-1027. 1023, (47821); 1024, (47822); 1025, (47828); 1026, (47829); 1027, (47833). Brown ware, pitcher shaped vessels with handle, used as cooking vessels. 1028-1032. 1028, (47823); 1029, (47824); 1030, (47825); 1031, (47826); 1032, (47827). Cooking pots, brown ware, smoke stained. 1033, (47830). Olla of unburned ware. 1034, (47831). Bowl with handle, black ware. 1035, (47832). Teapot of the ordinary form, polished black ware. 1036, (47834). Small globular olla with undulate margin, of polished black ware. 1037, (47835). Water bottle with four loop handles, brown ware. 1038-1041. 1038, (47836); 1039, (47839); 1040, (47839); 1041, (47845). Small spherical ollas of brown ware. 1042, (47840). Small bowl of black polished ware. 1043, (47841). A globular water vessel with a ridge around the middle; polished black ware. 1044, (47842). Dish of polished black ware. _WHITE AND RED WARE WITH DECORATIONS._ 1045, (47844). A singular-shaped bowl shown in Fig. 714. The outside is red but the inside is painted white; ornamentation in black. [Illustration: Fig. 714. 47844] 1046, (47843). A bottle-shaped canteen with animal head, flower and serrated ornamentation. Red ware. 1047, (47838). Large tinaja, white ware with black ornamentation, sprigs and triangles. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Errata noted by transcriber: [List of Illustrations] 710.--The blanket weaver 454 _text reads "434"_ turquois _normal spelling for this publication_ short, circular, with moldings. _text reads ".?"_ 
277	----	TRINITY SITE by the U.S. Department of Energy National Atomic Museum, Albuquerque, New Mexico Contents: The First Atomic Test. Jumbo. Schmidt-McDonald Ranch House. Notes. Bibliography. The National Atomic Museum. THE FIRST ATOMIC TEST On Monday morning July 16, 1945, the world was changed forever when the first atomic bomb was tested in an isolated area of the New Mexico desert. Conducted in the final month of World War II by the top-secret Manhattan Engineer District, this test was code named Trinity. The Trinity test took place on the Alamogordo Bombing and Gunnery Range, about 230 miles south of the Manhattan Project's headquarters at Los Alamos, New Mexico. Today this 3,200 square mile range, partly located in the desolate Jornada del Muerto Valley, is named the White Sands Missile Range and is actively used for non-nuclear weapons testing. Before the war the range was mostly public and private grazing land that had always been sparsely populated. During the war it was even more lonely and deserted because the ranchers had agreed to vacate their homes in January 1942. They left because the War Department wanted the land to use as an artillery and bombing practice area. In September 1944, a remote 18 by 24 square mile portion of the north-east corner of the Bombing Range was set aside for the Manhattan Project and the Trinity test by the military. The selection of this remote location in the Jornada del Muerto Valley for the Trinity test was from an initial list of eight possible test sites. Besides the Jornada, three of the other seven sites were also located in New Mexico: the Tularosa Basin near Alamogordo, the lava beds (now the El Malpais National Monument) south of Grants, and an area southwest of Cuba and north of Thoreau. Other possible sites not located in New Mexico were: an Army training area north of Blythe, California, in the Mojave Desert; San Nicolas Island (one of the Channel Islands) off the coast of Southern California; and on Padre Island south of Corpus Christi, Texas, in the Gulf of Mexico. The last choice for the test was in the beautiful San Luis Valley of south-central Colorado, near today's Great Sand Dunes National Monument. Based on a number of criteria that included availability, distance from Los Alamos, good weather, few or no settlements, and that no Indian land would be used, the choices for the test site were narrowed down to two in the summer of 1944. First choice was the military training area in southern California. The second choice, was the Jornada del Muerto Valley in New Mexico. The final site selection was made in late August 1944 by Major General Leslie R. Groves, the military head of the Manhattan Project. When General Groves discovered that in order to use the California location he would need the permission of its commander, General George Patton, Groves quickly decided on the second choice, the Jornada del Muerto. This was because General Groves did not want anything to do with the flamboyant Patton, who Groves had once described as "the most disagreeable man I had ever met."[1] Despite being second choice the remote Jornada was a good location for the test, because it provided isolation for secrecy and safety, was only 230 miles south of Los Alamos, and was already under military control. Plus, the Jornada enjoyed relatively good weather. The history of the Jornada is in itself quite fascinating, since it was given its name by the Spanish conquerors of New Mexico. The Jornada was a short cut on the Camino Real, the King's Highway that linked old Mexico to Santa Fe, the capital of New Mexico. The Camino Real went north from Mexico City till it joined the Rio Grande near present day El Paso, Texas. Then the trail followed the river valley further north to a point where the river curved to the west, and its valley narrowed and became impassable for the supply wagons. To avoid this obstacle, the wagons took the dubious detour north across the Jornada del Muerto. Sixty miles of desert, very little water, and numerous hostile Apaches. Hence the name Jornada del Muerto, which is often translated as the journey of death or as the route of the dead man. It is also interesting to note that in the late 16th century, the Spanish considered their province of New Mexico to include most of North America west of the Mississippi! The origin of the code name Trinity for the test site is also interesting, but the true source is unknown. One popular account attributes the name to J. Robert Oppenheimer, the scientific head of the Manhattan Project. According to this version, the well read Oppenheimer based the name Trinity on the fourteenth Holy Sonnet by John Donne, a 16th century English poet and sermon writer. The sonnet started, "Batter my heart, three-personed God."[2] Another version of the name's origin comes from University of New Mexico historian Ferenc M. Szasz. In his 1984 book, The Day the Sun Rose Twice, Szasz quotes Robert W. Henderson head of the Engineering Group in the Explosives Division of the Manhattan Project. Henderson told Szasz that the name Trinity came from Major W. A. (Lex) Stevens. According to Henderson, he and Stevens were at the test site discussing the best way to haul Jumbo (see below) the thirty miles from the closest railway siding to the test site. "A devout Roman Catholic, Stevens observed that the railroad siding was called 'Pope's Siding.' He [then] remarked that the Pope had special access to the Trinity, and that the scientists would need all the help they could get to move the 214 ton Jumbo to its proper spot."[3] The Trinity test was originally set for July 4, 1945. However, final preparations for the test, which included the assembly of the bomb's plutonium core, did not begin in earnest until Thursday, July 12. The abandoned George McDonald ranch house located two miles south of the test site served as the assembly point for the device's core. After assembly, the plutonium core was transported to Trinity Site to be inserted into the thing or gadget as the atomic device was called. But, on the first attempt to insert the core it stuck! After letting the temperatures of the core and the gadget equalize, the core fit perfectly to the great relief of all present. The completed device was raised to the top of a 100-foot steel tower on Saturday, July 14. During this process workers piled up mattresses beneath the gadget to cushion a possible fall. When the bomb reached the top of the tower without mishap, installation of the explosive detonators began. The 100-foot tower (a surplus Forest Service fire-watch tower) was designated Point Zero. Ground Zero was at the base of the tower. As a result of all the anxiety surrounding the possibility of a failure of the test, a verse by an unknown author circulated around Los Alamos. It read: From this crude lab that spawned a dud. Their necks to Truman's ax uncurled Lo, the embattled savants stood, and fired the flop heard round the world.[4] A betting pool was also started by scientists at Los Alamos on the possible yield of the Trinity test. Yields from 45,000 tons of TNT to zero were selected by the various bettors. The Nobel Prize-winning (1938) physicist Enrico Fermi was willing to bet anyone that the test would wipe out all life on Earth, with special odds on the mere destruction of the entire State of New Mexico! Meanwhile back at the test site, technicians installed seismographic and photographic equipment at varying distances from the tower. Other instruments were set up for recording radioactivity, temperature, air pressure, and similar data needed by the project scientists. According to Lansing Lamont in his 1965 book Day of Trinity, life at Trinity could at times be very exciting. One afternoon while scientists were busily setting up test instruments in the desert, the tail gunner of a low flying B-29 bomber spotted some grazing antelopes and opened up with his twin.50-caliber machine guns. "A dozen scientists,... under the plane and out of the gunner's line of vision, dropped their instruments and hugged the ground in terror as the bullets thudded about them."[5] Later a number of these scientists threatened to quit the project. Workers built three observation points 5.68 miles (10,000 yards), north, south, and west of Ground Zero. Code named Able, Baker, and Pittsburgh, these heavily-built wooden bunkers were reinforced with concrete, and covered with earth. The bunker designated Baker or South 10,000 served as the control center for the test. This is where head scientist J. Robert Oppenheimer would be for the test. A fourth observation point was the test's Base Camp, (the abandoned Dave McDonald ranch) located about ten miles southwest of Ground Zero. The primary observation point was on Compania Hill, located about 20 miles to the northwest of Trinity near today's Stallion Range Gate, off NM 380. The test was originally scheduled for 4 a.m., Monday July 16, but was postponed to 5:30 due to a severe thunderstorm that would have increased the amount of radioactive fallout, and have interfered with the test results. The rain finally stopped and at 5:29:45 a.m. Mountain War Time, the device exploded successfully and the Atomic Age was born. The nuclear blast created a flash of light brighter than a dozen suns. The light was seen over the entire state of New Mexico and in parts of Arizona, Texas, and Mexico. The resultant mushroom cloud rose to over 38,000 feet within minutes, and the heat of the explosion was 10,000 times hotter than the surface of the sun! At ten miles away, this heat was described as like standing directly in front of a roaring fireplace. Every living thing within a mile of the tower was obliterated. The power of the bomb was estimated to be equal to 20,000 tons of TNT, or equivalent to the bomb load of 2,000 B-29, Superfortresses! After witnessing the awesome blast, Oppenheimer quoted a line from a sacred Hindu text, the Bhagavad-Gita: He said: "I am become death, the shatterer of worlds."[6] In Los Alamos 230 miles to the north, a group of scientists' wives who had stayed up all night for the not so secret test, saw the light and heard the distant sound. One wife, Jane Wilson, described it this way, "Then it came. The blinding light [no] one had ever seen. The trees, illuminated, leaping out. The mountains flashing into life. Later, the long slow rumble. Something had happened, all right, for good or ill."[7] General Groves' deputy commander, Brigadier General T. F. Farrell, described the explosion in great detail: "The effects could well be called unprecedented, magnificent, beautiful, stupendous, and terrifying. No man-made phenomenon of such tremendous power had ever occurred before. The lighting effects beggared description. The whole country was lighted by a searing light with the intensity many times that of the midday sun. It was golden, purple, violet, gray, and blue. It lighted every peak, crevasse and ridge of the nearby mountain range with a clarity and beauty that cannot be described but must be seen to be imagined..."[8] Immediately after the test a Sherman M-4 tank, equipped with its own air supply, and lined with two inches of lead went out to explore the site. The lead lining added 12 tons to the tank's weight, but was necessary to protect its occupants from the radiation levels at ground zero. The tank's passengers found that the 100-foot steel tower had virtually disappeared, with only the metal and concrete stumps of its four legs remaining. Surrounding ground zero was a crater almost 2,400 feet across and about ten feet deep in places. Desert sand around the tower had been fused by the intense heat of the blast into a jade colored glass. This atomic glass was given the name Atomsite, but the name was later changed to Trinitite. Due to the intense secrecy surrounding the test, no accurate information of what happened was released to the public until after the second atomic bomb had been dropped on Japan. However, many people in New Mexico were well aware that something extraordinary had happened the morning of July 16, 1945. The blinding flash of light, followed by the shock wave had made a vivid impression on people who lived within a radius of 160 miles of ground zero. Windows were shattered 120 miles away in Silver City, and residents of Albuquerque saw the bright light of the explosion on the southern horizon and felt the tremor of the shock waves moments later. The true story of the Trinity test first became known to the public on August 6, 1945. This is when the world's second nuclear bomb, nicknamed Little Boy, exploded 1,850 feet over Hiroshima, Japan, destroying a large portion of the city and killing an estimated 70,000 to 130,000 of its inhabitants. Three days later on August 9, a third atomic bomb devastated the city of Nagasaki and killed approximately 45,000 more Japanese. The Nagasaki weapon was a plutonium bomb, similar to the Trinity device, and it was nicknamed Fat Man. On Tuesday August 14, at 7 p.m. Eastern War Time, President Truman made a brief formal announcement that Japan had finally surrendered and World War II was over after almost six years and 60 million deaths! On Sunday, September 9, 1945, Trinity Site was opened to the press for the first time. This was mainly to dispel rumors of lingering high radiation levels there, as well as in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Led by General Groves and Oppenheimer, this widely publicized visit made Trinity front page news all over the country. Trinity Site was later encircled with more than a mile of chain link fencing and posted with signs warning of radioactivity. In the early 1950s most of the remaining Trinitite in the crater was bulldozed into a underground concrete bunker near Trinity. Also at this time the crater was back filled with new soil. In 1963 the Trinitite was removed from the bunker, packed into 55-gallon drums, and loaded into trucks belonging to the Atomic Energy Commission (the successor of the Manhattan Project). Trinity site remained off-limits to military and civilian personnel of the range and closed to the public for many years, despite attempts immediately after the war to turn Trinity into a national monument. In 1953 about 700 people attended the first Trinity Site open house sponsored by the Alamogordo Chamber of Commerce and the Missile Range. Two years later, a small group from Tularosa, NM visited the site on the 10th anniversary of the explosion to conduct a religious service and pray for peace. Regular visits have been made annually in recent years on the first Saturday in October instead of the anniversary date of July 16, to avoid the desert heat. Later Trinity Site was opened one additional day on the first Saturday in April. The Site remains closed to the public except for these two days, because it lies within the impact areas for missiles fired into the northern part of the Range. In 1965, Range officials erected a modest monument at Ground Zero. Built of black lava rock, this monument serves as a permanent marker for the site and as a reminder of the momentous event that occurred there. On the monument is a plain metal plaque with this simple inscription: "Trinity Site Where the World's First Nuclear Device Was Exploded on July 16, 1945." During the annual tour in 1975, a second plaque was added below the first by The National Park Service, designating Trinity Site a National Historic Landmark. This plaque reads, "This site possesses national significance in commemorating the history of the U.S.A." JUMBO Lying next to the entrance of the chain link fence that still surrounds Trinity Site are the rusty remains of Jumbo. Jumbo was the code name for the 214-ton Thermos shaped steel and concrete container designed to hold the precious plutonium core of the Trinity device in case of a nuclear mis-fire. Built by the Babcock and Wilcox Company of Barberton, Ohio, Jumbo was 28 feet long, 12 feet, 8 inches in diameter, and with steel walls up to 16 inches thick. The idea of using some kind of container for the Trinity device was based on the fact that plutonium was extremely expensive and very difficult to produce. So, much thought went into a way of containing the 15 lb. plutonium core of the bomb, in case the 5,300 lbs. of conventional high explosives surrounding the core exploded without setting off a nuclear blast, and in the process scattering the costly plutonium (about 250 million dollars worth) across the dessert. After extensive research and testing of other potential containment ideas, the concept of Jumbo was decided on in the late summer of 1944. However, by the spring of 1945, after Jumbo had already been built and transported (with great difficulty) to the Trinity Site by the Eichleay Corporation of Pittsburgh, it was decided not to explode the Trinity device inside of Jumbo after all. There were several reasons for this new decision: first, plutonium had become more readily (relatively) available; second, the Project scientists decided that the Trinity device would probably work as planned; and last, the scientists realized that if Jumbo were used it would adversely affect the test results, and add 214 tons of highly radioactive material to the atmosphere. Not knowing what else to do with the massive 12 million dollar Jumbo, it was decided to suspend it from a steel tower 800 yards from Ground Zero to see how it would withstand the Trinity test. Jumbo survived the approximately 20 kiloton Trinity blast undamaged, but its supporting 70-foot tall steel tower was flattened. Two years later, in an attempt to destroy the unused Jumbo before it and its 12 million dollar cost came to the attention of a congressional investigating committee, Manhattan Project Director General Groves ordered two junior officers from the Special Weapons Division at Sandia Army Base in Albuquerque to test Jumbo. The Army officers placed eight 500-pound conventional bombs in the bottom of Jumbo. Since the bombs were on the bottom of Jumbo, and not the center (the correct position), the resultant explosion blew both ends off Jumbo. Unable to totally destroy Jumbo, the Army then buried it in the desert near Trinity Site. It was not until the early 1970s that the impressive remains of Jumbo, still weighing over 180 tons, were moved to their present location. SCHMIDT-McDONALD RANCH HOUSE The Schmidt-McDonald ranch house is located two miles south of Ground Zero. The property encompasses about three acres and consists of the main house and assorted outbuildings. The house, surrounded by a low stone wall, was built in 1913 by Franz Schmidt, a German immigrant and homesteader. In the 1920s Schmidt sold the ranch to George McDonald and moved to Florida. The ranch house is a one-story, 1,750 square-foot adobe (mud bricks) building. An ice house is located on the west side along with an 9'-4" deep underground cistern. A 14 by 18.5 foot stone addition, which included a modern bathroom, was added onto the north side in the 1930s. East of the house there is a large, divided concrete water storage tank and a windmill. South of the windmill are the remains of a bunkhouse, and a barn which also served as a garage. Further to the east are corrals and holding pens for livestock. The McDonalds vacated their ranch house and their thousands of acres of marginal range land in early 1942 when it became part of the Alamogordo Bombing and Gunnery Range. The old house remained empty until Manhattan Project personnel arrived in 1945. Then a spacious room in the northeast corner of the house was selected by the Project personnel for the assembly of the plutonium core of the Trinity device. Workmen installed work benches, tables, and other equipment in this large room. To keep the desert dust and sand out, the room's windows and cracks were covered with plastic and sealed with tape. The core of the bomb consisted of two hemispheres of plutonium, (Pu-239), and an initiator. According to reports, while scientists assembled the initiator and the Pu-239 hemispheres, jeeps were positioned outside with their engines running for a quick getaway if needed. Detection devices were used to monitor radiation levels in the room, and when fully assembled the core was warm to the touch. The completed core was later transported the two miles to Ground Zero, inserted into the bomb assembly, and raised to the top of the tower. The Trinity explosion on Monday morning, July 16, did not significantly damage the McDonald house. Even though most of the windows were blown out, and the chimney was blown over, the main structure survived intact. Years of rain water dripping through holes in the metal roof did much more damage to the mud brick walls than the bomb did. The nearby barn did not fare as well. The Trinity test blew part of its roof off, and the roof has since totally collapsed. The ranch house stood empty and deteriorating for 37 years until 1982 when the US Army stabilized it to prevent any further damage. The next year, the Department of Energy and the Army provided funds for the National Park Service to completely restore the house to the way it appeared in July, 1945. When the work was completed, the house with many photo displays on Trinity was opened to the public for the first time in October 1984 during the semi-annual tour. The Schmidt-McDonald ranch house is part of the Trinity National Historic Landmark. FOOTNOTES [Footnote 1: Szasz, Ferenc. The Day the Sun Rose Twice. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1984. p. 28.] [Footnote 2: Hayward, John, ed. John Donne: Complete Poetry and Selected Prose. New York: Random House, Inc., 1949. p. 285.] [Footnote 3: Szasz, The Day the Sun Rose Twice, p. 40.] [Footnote 4: Wyden, Peter. Day One: Before Hiroshima and After. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1984. p. 204.] [Footnote 5: Lamont, Lansing. Day of Trinity. New York: Atheneum, 1965. p. 123-124.] [Footnote 6: Kunetka, James W. City of Fire: Los Alamos and the Atomic Age, 1943-1945. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1978. p. 170.] [Footnote 7: Wilson, Jane S. and Charlotte Serber, eds. Standing By and Making Do: Women in Wartime Los Alamos. Los Alamos: Los Alamos Historical Society, 1988. p. x, xi.] [Footnote 8: Brown, Anthony Cave, and Charles B. MacDonald. The Secret History of the Atomic Bomb. New York: Dell, 1977. p. 516.] BIBLIOGRAPHY Bainbridge, Kenneth T. Trinity. Los Alamos: Los Alamos Scientific Laboratory, (La-6300-H), 1946. Brown, Anthony Cave, and Charles B. MacDonald. The Secret History of the Atomic Bomb. New York: Dell, 1977. Compton, Arthur Holly. Atomic Quest: A Personal Quest. New York: Oxford University Press, 1956. Fanton, Jonathan F., Stoff, Michael B. and Williams, R. Hal editors. The Manhattan Project: A Documentary Introduction to the Atomic Age. Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1991. Feis, Herbert. Japan Subdued: The Atomic Bomb and the End of the War in the Pacific. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1961. Groves, Leslie R. Now it Can be Told: The Story of the Manhattan Project. New York: Da Capo Press, 1975. Hersey, John. Hiroshima. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1946. Jette, Eleanor. Inside Box 1663. Los Alamos: Los Alamos Historical Society, 1977. Kunetka, James W. City of Fire: Los Alamos and the Atomic Age, 1943-1945. Albuquerque; University of New Mexico Press, 1978. Lamont, Lansing. Day of Trinity. New York: Athenaeum, 1965. Rhodes, Richard. The Making of the Atomic Bomb. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1986. Skates, John Ray. The Invasion of Japan: Alternative to the Bomb. Columbia; University of South Carolina Press, 1994. Smyth, Henry DeWolf. Atomic Energy for Military Purposes. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1948. Szasz, Ferenc. The Day the Sun Rose Twice. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1984. Tibbets, Paul W. Flight of the Enola Gay. Reynoldsburg, Ohio: Buckeye Aviation Book Company, 1989. Williams, Robert C. Klaus Fuchs, Atom Spy. Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press, 1987. Wilson, Jane S. and Serber, Charlotte, eds. Standing By and Making Do: Women in Wartime Los Alamos. Los Alamos: Los Alamos Historical Society, 1988. Wyden, Peter. Day One: Before Hiroshima and After. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1984. THE NATIONAL ATOMIC MUSEUM, Kirtland Air Force Base, Albuquerque, New Mexico Since its opening in 1969, the objective of the National Atomic museum has been to provide a readily accessible repository of educational materials, and information on the Atomic Age. In addition, the museum's goal is to preserve, interpret, and exhibit to the public memorabilia of this Age. In late 1991 the museum was chartered by Congress as the United States' only official Atomic museum. Prominently featured in the museum's high bay is the story of the Manhattan Engineer District, the unprecedented 2.2 billion dollar scientific-engineering project that was centered in New Mexico during World War II. The Manhattan Project as it was more commonly called, developed, built, and tested the world's first Atomic bomb in New Mexico. This display also includes casings similar to the only Atomic bombs ever used in warfare. Dropped on the Japanese cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, these two bombs helped bring World War II to an end in mid-August 1945. The story of the Manhattan Project's three secret cities, Hanford, Washington, Los Alamos, New Mexico, and Oak Ridge, Tennessee, is also presented in this area. A portion of the museum, the low bay, is devoted to exhibits on the research, development, and use of various forms of nuclear energy. Historical and other traveling exhibits are also displayed in this area. Also found in the low bay is the museum's store, which is operated by the museum's foundation. Adjacent to the low bay is the theater. The featured film is David Wolpers classic 1963 production, Ten Seconds That Shook The World. This excellent film is a 53-minute documentary on the Manhattan Project. Other films relating to the history of the Atomic Age are available for viewing and checkout from the library. Next to the theater is the library/Department of Energy public reading room, containing government documents that are available to the public for in-library research. The library also has many nuclear related books available for reference and checkout. Located around the outside of the museum are a number of large exhibits. These include the Boeing B-52B jet bomber that dropped the United States' last air burst H-bomb in 1962, and a 280-mm (11 inches) Atomic cannon, once America's most powerful field artillery. Also found in this area is a Navy TA-7C (a modified A-7B) Corsair II fighter-bomber, a veteran of the Vietnam War. Many other nuclear weapons systems, rockets, and missiles are found in this area. In front of the museum are a pair of Navy Terrier missiles. The Terrier was the Navy's first operational surface to air missile. To the south of the museum, next to the visitors parking lot, is a Republic F-105D Thunderchief fighter-bomber. Further south is a World War II Boeing B-29 Superfortress. This plane is similar to the B-29's, Enola Gay and Bockscar that dropped the Atomic bombs on Japan. The National Atomic Museum, is open 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. daily, except for New Years Day, Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. The museum is located at 20358 Wyoming Blvd. SE, on Kirtland Air Force Base, Albuquerque, New Mexico. Guided tours for groups are available by calling (505)845-4636 in advance. Admission and tours are free, and cameras are always welcome! 
278	----	Trinity Site: 1945-1995. A National Historic Landmark White Sands Missile Range, New Mexico Contents: Radiation at Trinity Site. How to Get to Trinity Site. Trinity Site National Historic Landmark. The Manhattan Project. The Theory. Building a test site. Jumbo. Bomb Assembly. The test. After the explosion. It's the Schmidt house. Afterwards. White Sands Missile Range. Reading List. "The effects could well be called unprecedented, magnificent, beautiful, stupendous, and terrifying. No man-made phenomenon of such tremendous power had ever occurred before. The lighting effects beggared description. The whole country was lighted by a searing light with the intensity many times that of the midday sun." Brig. Gen. Thomas Farrell Radiation at Trinity Site In deciding whether to visit ground zero at Trinity Site, the following information may prove helpful to you. Radiation levels in the fenced, ground zero area are low. On an average the levels are only 10 times greater than the region's natural background radiation. A one-hour visit to the inner fenced area will result in a whole body exposure of one-half to one milliroentgen. To put this in perspective, a U.S. adult receives an average exposure of 90 milliroentgens every year from natural and medical sources. For instance, the Department of Energy says we receive between 35 and 50 milliroentgens every year from the sun and from 20 to 35 milliroentgens every year from our food. Living in a brick house adds 50 milliroentgens of exposure every year compared to living in a frame house. Finally, flying coast to coast in a jet airliner gives an exposure of between three and five milliroentgens on each trip. Although radiation levels are low, some feel any extra exposure should be avoided. The decision is yours. It should be noted that small children and pregnant women are potentially more at risk than the rest of the population and are generally considered groups who should only receive exposure in conjunction with medical diagnosis and treatment. Again, the choice is yours. At ground zero, Trinitite, the green, glassy substance found in the area, is still radioactive and must not be picked up. Typical radiation exposures for Americans Per The National Council on Radiation Protection On hour at ground zero = 1/2 mrem Cosmic rays from space = 40 mrem at sea level per year Radioactive minerals in rocks and soil = 55 mrems per year Radioactivity from air, water, and food = anywhere from 20 to 400 mrem per year About 22 mrem per chest X-ray and 900 mrem for whole-mouth dental X- rays Smoking one pack of cigarettes a day for one year = 40 mrem Miscellaneous such as watch dials and smoke detectors = 2 mrem per year How to Get to Trinity Site Trinity Site, where the world's first atomic bomb was exploded in 1945, is normally open to the public twice a year--on the first Saturday in April and October. Trinity is located on the northern end of the 3,200-square-mile White Sands Missile Range, N.M., between the towns of Carrizozo and Socorro, N.M. There are two ways of entering the restricted missile range on tour days. Visitors can enter through the range's Stallion Range Center which is five miles south of Highway 380. The turnoff is 12 miles east of San Antonio, N.M., and 53 miles west of Carrizozo, N.M. The Stallion gate will be open 8 a.m. to 2 p.m. Visitors arriving at the gate between those hours will receive handouts and will be allowed to drive unescorted the 17 miles to Trinity Site. The road is paved and marked. The other way of entering the missile range is by travelling with a caravan sponsored by the Alamogordo (N.M.) Chamber of Commerce. The caravan forms at the Otero County Fairgrounds in Alamogordo and leaves at 8 a.m. Visitors entering this way will travel as an escorted group with military police to and from Trinity Site. The drive is 170 miles round trip. There are no service station facilities on the missile range. The caravan is scheduled to leave Trinity Site at 12:30 p.m. for the return to Alamogordo. The caravan may leave later if there is a large number of vehicles in the returning caravan. In 1995, an additional open house will be conducted on July 16, the 50th anniversary of the Trinity test. Visitors may enter the missile range through the Stallion Range Center gate from 5 to 11 a.m. There will be no caravan leaving from Alamogordo, N.M., for this event. The early hours will allow visitors to be on-site at 5:29:45 a.m., the time the Trinity Site detonation occurred, and should help visitors avoid the 100-plus degree afternoon temperatures common here in July. Included on the Trinity Site tour is Ground Zero where the atomic bomb was placed on a 100-foot steel tower and exploded on July 16, 1945. A small monument now marks the spot. Visitors also see the McDonald ranch house where the world's first plutonium core for a bomb was assembled. The missile range provides historical photographs and a Fat Man bomb casing for display. There are no ceremonies or speakers. Portable toilet facilities are available on site. Hot dogs and sodas are sold at the parking lot. Cameras are allowed at Trinity Site, but their use is strictly prohibited anywhere else on White Sands Missile Range. For more information, contact the White Sands Missile Range Public Affairs Office at (505) 678-1134/1700. Trinity Site National Historic Landmark Trinity Site is where the first atomic bomb was tested at 5:29:45 a.m. Mountain War Time on July 16, 1945. The 19 kiloton explosion not only led to a quick end to the war in the Pacific but also ushered the world into the atomic age. All life on Earth has been touched by the event which took place here. The 51,500-acre area was declared a national historic landmark in 1975. The landmark includes base camp, where the scientists and support group lived; ground zero, where the bomb was placed for the explosion; and the McDonald ranch house, where the plutonium core to the bomb was assembled. On your visit to Trinity Site you will be able to see ground zero and the McDonald ranch house. In addition, on your drive into the Trinity Site area you will pass one of the old instrumentation bunkers which is beside the road just west of ground zero. The Manhattan Project The story of Trinity Site begins with the formation of the Manhattan Project in June 1942. The project was given overall responsibility of designing and building an atomic bomb. At the time it was a race to beat the Germans who, according to intelligence reports, were building their own atomic bomb. Under the Manhattan Project three large facilities were constructed. At Oak Ridge, Tenn., huge gas diffusion and electromagnetic process plants were built to separate uranium 235 from its more common form, uranium 238. Hanford, Wash. became the home for nuclear reactors which produced a new element called plutonium. Both uranium 235 and plutonium are fissionable and can be used to produce an atomic explosion. Los Alamos was established in northern New Mexico to design and build the bomb. At Los Alamos many of the greatest scientific minds of the day labored over the theory and actual construction of the device. The group was led by Dr. J. Robert Oppenheimer who is credited with being the driving force behind building a workable bomb by the end of the war. The Theory Los Alamos scientists devised two designs for an atomic bomb--one using the uranium and another using the plutonium. The uranium bomb was a simple design and scientists were confident it would work without testing. The plutonium bomb worked by compressing the plutonium into a critical mass which sustains a chain reaction. The compression of the plutonium ball was to be accomplished by surrounding it with lens-shaped charges of conventional explosives. They were designed to all explode at the same instant. The force is directed inward, thus smashing the plutonium from all sides. In an atomic explosion, a chain reaction picks up speed as atoms split, releasing neutrons plus great amounts of energy. The escaping neutrons strike and split more atoms, thus releasing still more neutrons and energy. In a nuclear explosion this all occurs in a millionth of a second with billions of atoms being split. Project leaders decided a test of the plutonium bomb was essential before it could be used as a weapon of war. From a list of eight sites in California, Texas, New Mexico and Colorado, Trinity Site was chosen as the test site. The area already was controlled by the government because it was part of the Alamogordo Bombing and Gunnery Range which was established in 1942. The secluded Jornado del Muerto was perfect as it provided isolation for secrecy and safety, but was still close to Los Alamos. Building a test site In the fall of 1944 soldiers started arriving at Trinity Site to prepare for the test. Marvin Davis and his military police unit arrived from Los Alamos at the site on Dec. 30, 1944. The unit set up security checkpoints around the area and had plans to use horses to ride patrol. According to Davis the distances were too great and they resorted to jeeps and trucks for transportation. The horses were sometimes used for polo, however. Davis said that Capt. Bush, base camp commander, somehow got the soldiers real polo equipment to play with but they preferred brooms and a soccer ball. Other recreation at the site included volleyball and hunting. Davis said Capt. Bush allowed the soldiers with experience to use the Army rifles to hunt deer and pronghorn. The meat was then cooked up in the mess hall. Leftovers went into soups which Davis said were excellent. Of course, some of the soldiers were from cities and unfamiliar with being outdoors a lot. Davis said he went to relieve a guard at the Mockingbird Gap post and the soldier told Davis he was surprised by the number of "crawdads" in the area considering it was so dry. Davis gave the young man a quick lesson on scorpions and warned him not to touch. Throughout 1945 other personnel arrived at Trinity Site to help prepare for the test. Carl Rudder was inducted into the Army on Jan. 26, 1945. He said he passed through four camps, took basic for two days and arrived at Trinity Site on Feb. 17. On arriving he was put in charge of what he called the "East Jesus and Socorro Light and Water Company." It was a one-man operation--himself. He was responsible for maintaining generators, wells, pumps and doing the power line work. A friend of Rudder's, Loren Bourg, had a similar experience. He was a fireman in civil life and ended up trained as a fireman for the Army. He worked as the station sergeant at Los Alamos before being sent to Trinity Site in April 1945. In a letter Bourg said, "I was sent down here to take over the fire prevention and fire department. Upon arrival I found I was the fire department, period." As the soldiers at Trinity Site settled in they became familiar with Socorro. They tried to use the water out of the ranch wells but found it so alkaline they couldn't drink it. In fact, they used Navy salt-water soap for bathing. They hauled drinking water from the fire house in Socorro. Gasoline and diesel was purchased from the Standard bulk plant in Socorro. According to Davis, they established a post office box, number 632, in Socorro so getting their mail was more convenient. The trips into town also offered them the chance to get their hair cut in a real barbershop. If they didn't use the shop, Sgt. Greyshock used horse clippers to trim their hair. Jumbo The bomb design to be used at Trinity Site actually involved two explosions. First there would be a conventional explosion involving the TNT and then, a fraction of a second later, the nuclear explosion, if a chain reaction was maintained. The scientists were sure the TNT would explode, but were initially unsure of the plutonium. If the chain reaction failed to occur, the TNT would blow the very rare and dangerous plutonium all over the countryside. Because of this possibility, Jumbo was designed and built. Originally it was 25 feet long, 10 feet in diameter and weighed 214 tons. Scientists were planning to put the bomb in this huge steel jug because it could contain the TNT explosion if the chain reaction failed to materialize. This would prevent the plutonium from being lost. If the explosion occurred as planned, Jumbo would be vaporized. Jumbo was brought to Pope, N.M., by rail and unloaded. A specially built trailer with 64 wheels was used to move Jumbo the 25 miles to Trinity Site. As confidence in the plutonium bomb design grew it was decided not to use Jumbo. Instead, it was placed in a steel tower about 800 yards from ground zero. The blast destroyed the tower, but Jumbo survived intact. Today Jumbo rests at the entrance to ground zero so all can see it. The ends are missing because, in 1946, the Army detonated eight 500-pound bombs inside it. Because Jumbo was standing on end, the bombs were stacked in the bottom and the asymmetry of the explosion blew the ends off. To calibrate the instruments which would be measuring the atomic explosion and to practice a countdown, the Manhattan scientists ran a simulated blast on May 7. They stacked 100 tons of TNT onto a 20-foot wooden platform just southeast of ground zero. Louis Hemplemann inserted a small amount of radioactive material from Hanford into tubes running through the stack of crates. The scientists hoped to get a feel for how the radiation might spread in the real test by analyzing this test. The explosion destroyed the platform, leaving a small crater with trace amounts of radiation in it. Bomb Assembly On July 12 the two hemispheres of plutonium were carried to the George McDonald ranch house just two miles from ground zero. At the house, Brig. Gen. Thomas Farrell, deputy to Maj. Gen. Leslie Groves, was asked to sign a receipt for the plutonium. Farrell later said, "I recall that I asked them if I was going to sign for it shouldn't I take it and handle it. So I took this heavy ball in my hand and I felt it growing warm, I got a certain sense of its hidden power. It wasn't a cold piece of metal, but it was really a piece of metal that seemed to be working inside. Then maybe for the first time I began to believe some of the fantastic tales the scientists had told about this nuclear power." At the McDonald ranch house the master bedroom had been turned into a clean room for the assembly of the bomb core. According to Robert Bacher, a member of the assembly team, they tried to use only tools and materials from a special kit. Several of these kits existed and some were already on their way to Tinian, the island in the Pacific which was the base for the bombers. The idea was to test the procedures and tools at Trinity as well as the bomb itself. At one minute past midnight on Friday, July 13, the explosive assembly left Los Alamos for Trinity Site. Later in the morning, assembly of the plutonium core began. According to Raemer Schreiber, Robert Bacher was the advisor and Marshall Holloway and Philip Morrison had overall responsibility. Louis Slotin, Boyce McDaniel and Cyril Smith were responsible for the mechanical assembly in the ranch house. Later Holloway was responsible for the mechanical assembly at the tower. In the afternoon of the 13th the core was taken to ground zero for insertion into the bomb mechanism. The bomb was assembled under the tower on July 13. The plutonium core was inserted into the device with some difficulty. On the first try it stuck. After letting the temperatures of the plutonium and casing equalize the core slid smoothly into place. Once the assembly was complete many of the men took a welcome relief and went swimming in the water tank east of the McDonald ranch house. The next morning the entire bomb was raised to the top of the 100 foot steel tower and placed in a small shelter. A crew then attached all the detonators and by 5 p.m. it was complete. The test Three observation points were established at 10,000 yards from ground zero. These were wooden shelters protected by concrete and earth. The south bunker served as the control center for the test. The automatic firing device was triggered from there as key men such as Dr. Robert Oppenheimer, head of Los Alamos, watched. None of the manned bunkers are left. Many scientists and support personnel, including Gen. Leslie Groves, head of the Manhattan Project, watched the explosion from base camp which was ten miles southwest of ground zero. All the buildings at base camp were removed after the test. Most visiting VIPs watched from Compania Hill, 20 miles northwest of ground zero. The test was scheduled for 4 a.m. July 16, but rain and lightning early that morning caused it to be postponed. The device could not be exploded under rainy conditions because rain and winds would increase the danger from radioactive fallout and interfere with observation of the test. At 4:45 a.m. the crucial weather report came through announcing calm to light winds with broken clouds for the following two hours. At 5:10 the countdown started and at 5:29:45 the device exploded successfully. To most observers the brilliance of the light from the explosion--watched through dark glasses--overshadowed the shock wave and sound that arrived later. Hans Bethe, one of the contributing scientists, wrote "it looked like a giant magnesium flare which kept on for what seemed a whole minute but was actually one or two seconds. The white ball grew and after a few seconds became clouded with dust whipped up by the explosion from the ground and rose and left behind a black trail of dust particles." Joe McKibben, another scientist, said, "We had a lot of flood lights on for taking movies of the control panel. When the bomb went off, the lights were drowned out by the big light coming in through the open door in the back." Others were impressed by the heat they immediately felt. Military policeman Davis said, "The heat was like opening up an oven door, even at 10 miles." Dr. Phillip Morrison said, "Suddenly, not only was there a bright light but where we were, 10 miles away, there was the heat of the sun on our faces....Then, only minutes later, the real sun rose and again you felt the same heat to the face from the sunrise. So we saw two sunrises." After the explosion Although no information on the test was released until after the atomic bomb was used as a weapon against Japan, people in New Mexico knew something had happened. The shock broke windows 120 miles away and was felt by many at least 160 miles away. Army officials simply stated that a munitions storage area had accidentally exploded at the Alamogordo Bombing Range. The explosion did not make much of a crater. Most eyewitnesses describe the area as more of a small depression instead of a crater. The heat of the blast did melt the desert sand and turn it into a green glassy substance. It was called Trinitite and can still be seen in the area. At one time Trinitite completely covered the depression made by the explosion. Afterwards the depression was filled and much of the Trinitite was taken away by the Nuclear Energy Commission. To the west of the monument is a low structure which is protecting an original portion of the crater area. Trinitite is visible through openings in the roof. It's the Schmidt house The George McDonald ranch house sits within an 85'x85' low stone wall. The house was built in 1913 by Franz Schmidt, a German immigrant, and an addition was constructed on the north side in the 1930's by the McDonalds. There is a display about the Schmidt family in the house during each open house. The ranch house is a one-story, 1,750 square-foot building. It is built of adobe which was plastered and painted. An ice house is located on the west side along with an underground cistern which stored rain water running off the roof. At one time the north addition contained a toilet and bathtub which drained into a septic tank northwest of the house. There is a large, divided water storage tank and a Chicago Aeromotor windmill east of the house. The scientists and support people used the north tank as a swimming pool during the long hot summer of 1945. South of the windmill are the remains of a bunkhouse and a barn which was part garage. Further to the east are corrals and holding pens. The buildings and fixtures east of the house have been stabilized to prevent further deterioration. The ranch was abandoned in 1942 when the Alamogordo Bombing and Gunnery Range took over the land to use in training World War II bombing crews. The house stood empty until the Manhattan Project support personnel arrived in early 1945. Inside the house the northeast room (the master bedroom) was designated the assembly room. Work benches and tables were installed. To keep dust and sand out of instruments and tools, the windows were covered with plastic. Tape was used to fasten the edges of the plastic and to seal doors and cracks in the walls. The explosion, only two miles away, did not significantly damage the house. Most of the windows were blown out, but the main structure was intact. Years of rain water dripping through holes in the roof did much more damage. The barn did not do as well. During the Trinity test the roof was bowed inward and some of the roofing was blown away. The roof has since collapsed. The house stood empty and deteriorating until 1982 when the U.S. Army stabilized the house to prevent any further damage. Shortly after, the Department of Energy and U.S. Army provided the funds for the National Park Service to completely restore the house. The work was done in 1984. All efforts were directed at making the house appear as it did on July 12, 1945. Afterwards The story of what happened at Trinity Site did not come to light until after the second atomic bomb was exploded over Hiroshima, Japan, on August 6. President Truman made the announcement that day. Three days later, August 9, the third atomic bomb devastated the city of Nagasaki, and on August 14 the Japanese surrendered. Trinity Site became part of what was then White Sands Proving Ground. The proving ground was established on July 9, 1945, as a test facility to investigate the new rocket technology emerging from World War II. The land, including Trinity Site and the old Alamogordo Bombing Range, came under the control of the new rocket and missile testing facility. Interest in Trinity Site was immediate. In September 1945 press tours to the site started. One of the famous photos of ground zero shows Robert Oppenheimer and General Leslie Groves surrounded by a small group of reporters as they examine one of the footings to the 100 foot tower on which the bomb was placed. That picture was taken Sept. 11. The exposed footing is still visible at ground zero. On Sept. 15-17, George Cremeens, a young radio reporter from KRNT in Des Moines, visited the site with soundman Frank Lagouri. They flew over the crater and interviewed Dr. Kenneth Bainbridge, Trinity test director, and Capt. Howard Bush, base camp commander. Back in Iowa, Cremeens created four 15-minute reports on his visit which aired Sept. 24, 26, 27 and 29. A 15-minute composite was made and aired on the ABC Radio Network. For his work Cremeens received a local Peabody Award for "Outstanding Reporting and Interpretation of the News." At first Trinity Site was encircled with a fence and radiation warning signs were posted. The site remained off-limits to military and civilian personnel of the proving ground and closed to the public. In 1952 the Atomic Energy Commission let a contract to clean up the site. Much of the Trinitite was scraped up and buried. In September 1953 about 650 people attended the first Trinity Site open house. A few years later a small group from Tularosa visited the site on an anniversary of the explosion to conduct a religious service and prayers for peace. Similar visits have been made annually in recent years on the first Saturday in October. In 1967 the inner oblong fence was added. In 1972 the corridor barbed wire fence which connects the outer fence to the inner one was completed. Jumbo was moved to the parking lot in 1979. Visits to the site are now made in April and October because it is generally so hot in July on the Jornada del Muerto. White Sands Missile Range White Sands Missile Range has developed from a simple desert testing site for the V-2 into one of the most sophisticated test facilities in the world. The mission of White Sands Missile Range begins with a customer--a service developer, or another federal agency, which is ready to find out if engineers and scientists have built something which will perform according to job specifications. It ends when an exhaustive series of tests has been completed and a data report has been delivered to the customer. Between the beginning and the end of the test program, be it the Army Tactical Missile System or newly designed automobiles, range employees are involved in every operation connected with the customer and his product. The range can and does provide everything from rat traps to telephones, from equipment hoists and flight safety to microsecond timing. We shake, rattle and roll the product, roast it, freeze it, subject it to nuclear radiation, dip it in salt water and roll it in the mud. We test its paint, bend its frame and find out what effect its propulsion material has on flora and fauna. In the end, if it's a missile, we fire it, record its performance and bring back the pieces for post mortem examination. All test data is reduced and the customer receives a full report. For more information on Trinity Site or White Sands Missile Range contact: Public Affairs Office (STEWS-PA) White Sands Missile Range White Sands Missile Range, N.M. 88002-5047 Reading List The Day the Sun Rose Twice, by Ferenc Szasz, University of New Mexico Press, 1984. Manhattan: The Army and the Atomic Bomb, by Vincent Jones, Center of Military History, U. S. Army. Trinity, by Kenneth Bainbridge, Los Alamos publication (LA-6300-H). The Making of the Atomic Bomb, by Richard Rhodes, Simon and Schuster, 1986. Now It Can Be Told, by General Leslie Groves, Da Capo Press, 1975. Day One, By Peter Wyden, Simon and Schuster, 1984. City of Fire: Los Alamos and the Atomic Age, 1943-1945, by James Kunetka, University of New Mexico Press, 1978. Los Alamos 1943-1945: The Beginning of an Era, Los Alamos Publication (LASL-79-78). Day of Trinity, by Lansing Lamont, Atheneum. Radiological Survey and Evaluation of the Fallout Area from the Trinity Test: Chupadera Mesa and White Sands Missile Range, N. M., Los Alamos publication (LA-10256-MS). Life Magazine, August 20 and September 24, 1945. Time Magazine, August 13 and 20, 1945. 
15542	----	Proofreading Team at www.pgdp.net. [Illustration: Little hands caught hold of him and fought with the current. Frontispiece. Page 30] A DAUGHTER OF THE DONS _A Story of New Mexico Today_ BY WILLIAM MACLEOD RAINE AUTHOR OF WYOMING, BUCKY O'CONNOR, MAVERICKS, A TEXAS RANGER, BRAND BLOTTERS, RIDGWAY OF MONTANA, ETC. ILLUSTRATED BY D.C. HUTCHISON [Illustration: Colophon.] NEW YORK GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY G.W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY _A Daughter of the Dons._ CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. DON MANUEL INTRODUCES HIMSELF 5 II. THE TWO GRANTS 15 III. FISHERMAN'S LUCK 27 IV. AT THE YUSTE HACIENDA 42 V. "AN OPTIMISTIC GUY" 61 VI. JUANITA 76 VII. TWO MESSAGES 88 VIII. TAMING AN OUTLAW 101 IX. OF DON MANUEL AND MOONLIGHT 111 X. MR. AINSA DELIVERS A MESSAGE 123 XI. THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY AND THE TWENTIETH 137 XII. "I BELIEVE YOU'RE IN LOVE WITH HER TOO" 149 XIII. AMBUSHED 159 XIV. MANUEL TO THE RESCUE 173 XV. ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS REWARD 193 XVI. VALENCIA MAKES A PROMISE 201 XVII. AN OBSTINATE MAN 213 XVIII. MANUEL INTERFERES 230 XIX. VALENCIA ACCEPTS A RING 240 XX. DICK LIGHTS A CIGARETTE 246 XXI. WHEN THE WIRES WERE CUT 259 XXII. THE ATTACK 269 XXIII. THE TIN BOX 287 XXIV. DICK GORDON APOLOGIZES 298 XXV. THE PRINCE CONSORT 307 A DAUGHTER OF THE DONS CHAPTER I DON MANUEL INTRODUCES HIMSELF For hours Manuel Pesquiera had been rolling up the roof of the continent in an observation-car of the "Short Line." His train had wound in and out through a maze of bewildering scenery, and was at last dipping down into the basin of the famous gold camp. The alert black eyes of the young New Mexican wandered discontentedly over the raw ugliness of the camp. Towns straggled here and there untidily at haphazard, mushroom growths of a day born of a lucky "strike." Into the valleys and up and down the hillsides ran a network of rails for trolley and steam cars. Everywhere were the open tunnel mouths or the frame shaft-houses perched above the gray Titan dump beards. The magic that had wonderfully brought all these manifold activities into being had its talisman in the word "Gold"; but, since Pesquiera had come neither as a prospector nor investor, he heard with only half-concealed impatience the easy gossip of his fellow travelers about the famous ore producers of the district. It was not until his inattentive ears caught the name of Dick Gordon that he found interest in the conversation. "Pardon, sir! Are you acquaint' with Mr. Richard Gordon?" he asked, a touch of the gentle Spanish accent in his voice. The man to whom he had spoken, a grizzled, weather-beaten little fellow in a corduroy suit and white, broad-brimmed felt hat, turned his steady blue eyes on his questioner a moment before he answered: "I ought to know him, seeing as I'm his partner." "Then you can tell me where I may find him?" "Yes, sir, I can do that. See that streak of red there on the hill--the one above the big dump. That's the shafthouse of the Last Dollar. Drop down it about nine hundred feet and strike an airline west by north for about a quarter of a mile, and you'd be right close to him. He's down there, tackling a mighty uncertain proposition. The shaft and the workings of the Last Dollar are full of water. He's running a crosscut from an upraise in the Radley drift, so as to tap the west tunnel of the Last Dollar." "It is dangerous, you inform me?" "Dangerous ain't the word. It's suicide, the way I look at it. See here, my friend. His drill goes through and lets loose about 'steen million gallons of water. How is he going to get in out of the rain about that time?" The New Mexican showed a double row of pearly teeth in a bland smile. "Pardon, sir. If you would explain a leetle more fully I would then comprehend." "Sure. Here's the way it is. Dick and his three men are plugging away at the breast of the drift with air-drills. Every day he gits closeter to that lake dammed up there. Right now there can't be more'n a few feet of granite 'twixt him and it. He don't know how many any more'n a rabbit, because he's going by old maps that ain't any too reliable. The question is whether the wall will hold till he dynamites it through, or whether the weight of water will crumple up that granite and come pouring out in a flood." "Your friend, then, is in peril, is it not so?" "You've said it. He's shooting dice with death. That's the way I size it up. If the wall holds till it's blown up, Dick has got to get back along the crosscut, lower himself down the upraise, and travel nearly a mile through tunnelings before he reaches a shaft to git out. That don't leave them any too much time at the best. But if the water breaks through on them, it's Heaven help Dick, and good-by to this world." "Then Mr. Gordon is what you call brave?" "He's the gamest man that ever walked into this camp. There ain't an inch of him that ain't clear grit through and through. Get into a tight place, and he's your one best bet to tie to." "Mr. Gordon is fortunate in his friend," bowed the New Mexican politely. The little miner looked at him with shining eyes. "Nothing like that. Me, I figure the luck's all on my side. Onct you meet Dick you'll see why we boost for him. Hello, here's where we get off at. If you're looking for Dick, stranger, you better follow me. I'm going right up to the mine. Dick had ought to be coming up from below any minute now." Pesquiera checked his suitcase at the depot newsstand and walked up a steep hill trail with his guide. The miner asked no questions of the New Mexican as to his business with Gordon, nor did the latter volunteer any information. They discussed instead the output of the camp for the preceding year, comparing it with that of the other famous gold districts of the world. Just as they entered the shafthouse the cage shot to the surface. From it stepped two men. Several miners crowded toward them with eager greetings, but they moved aside at sight of Pesquiera's companion, who made straight for those from below. "What's new, Tregarth?" he asked of one of them, a huge Cornishman. "The drill have brook into the Last Dollar tunnel. The watter of un do be leaking through, Measter Davis. The boss sent us oop while Tom and him stayed to put the charges in the drill holes to blow oot the wall. He wouldna coom and let me stay." Davis thought a moment. "I'll go down the shaft and wait at the foot of it. There'll be something doing soon. Keep your eye peeled for signals, Smith, and when you git the bell to raise, shoot her up sudden. If the water's coming, we'll be in a hurry, and don't you forget it. Want to come down with me, Tregarth?" "I do that, sir." The man stepped into the cage and grinned. "We'll bring the byes back all right. Bet un we do, lads." The cage shot down, and the New Mexican sat on a bench to wait its return. Beside him was a young doctor, who had come prepared for a possible disaster. Such conversation as the men carried on was in low tones, for all felt the strain of the long minutes. The engineer's eye was glued to his machinery, his hand constantly on the lever. It must have been an hour before the bell rang sharply in the silence and the lever swept back instantly. A dozen men started to their feet and waited tensely. Next moment there was a wild, exultant cheer. For Tregarth had stepped from the cage with a limp figure in his arms, and after him Davis, his arm around the shoulder of a drenched, staggering youth, who had a bleeding cut across his cheek. Through all the grime that covered the wounded miner the pallor of exhaustion showed itself. But beaten and buffeted as the man had plainly been in his fight for life, the clean, supple strength and the invincible courage of him still shone in his eye and trod in his bearing. It was even now the salient thing about him, though he had but come, alive and no more, from a wrestle with death itself. He sank to a bench, and looked around on his friends with shining eyes. "'Twas nip and tuck, boys. The water caught us in the tunnel, and I thought we were gone. It swept us right to the cage," he panted. "She didn't sweep Tom there, boss; ye went back after un," corrected the Cornishman. "Anyhow, we made it in the nick o' time. Tom all right, Doctor?" The doctor looked up from his examination. "No bones broken. He seems sound. If there are no internal injuries it will be a matter of only a day or two in bed." "Good. That's the way to talk. You got to make him good as new, Doctor. You ought to have seen the way he stayed by that drill when the water was pouring through the cracks in the granite. Have him taken to the hospital, and send the bill to me." Tregarth boomed out in a heavy bass: "What's the matter with the boss? Both of un? They be all right. Bean't they, lads?" It was just after the answering chorus that Pesquiera came forward and bowed magnificently to the young mine operator. The New Mexican's eyes were blazing with admiration, for he was of Castilian blood and cherished courage as the chief of virtues. "I have the honor to salute a hero, _señor_" he cried enthusiastically. "Your deed is of a most fine bravery. I, Manuel Pesquiera, say it. Have I the right in thinking him of the name of Mr. Richard Gordon?" Something that was almost disgust filmed the gray eyes of the young miner. He had the Anglo-Saxon horror of heroics. What he had done was all in the day's work, and he was the last man in the world to enjoy having a fuss made over it. "My name is Gordon," he said quietly. The Spaniard bowed again. "I have the honor to be your servant to command, Don Manuel Pesquiera. I believe myself to be, sir, a messenger of fortune to you--a Mercury from the favoring gods, with news of good import. I, therefore, ask the honor of an audience at your convenience." Dick flung the wet hat from his curly head and took a look at the card which the Spaniard had presented him. From it his humorous gaze went back to the posturing owner of the pasteboard. Suppressing a grin, he answered with perfect gravity. "If you will happen round to the palace about noon to-morrow, _Señor_ Pesquiera, you will be admitted to the presence by the court flunkies. When you're inquiring for the whereabouts of the palace, better call it room 14, Gold Nugget Rooming-House." He excused himself and stepped lightly across to his companion in the adventure, who had by this time recovered consciousness. "How goes it, Tom? Feel as if you'd been run through a sausage-grinder?" he asked cheerily. The man smiled faintly. "I'm all right, boss. The boys tell me you went back and saved me." "Sho! I just grabbed you and slung you in the cage. No trick at all, Tom. Now, don't you worry, boy. Just lie there in the hospital and rest easy. We're settling the bill, and there's a hundred plunks waiting you when you get well." Tom's hand pressed his feebly. "I always knew you were white, boss." The doctor laughed as he came forward with a basin of water and bandages. "I'm afraid he'll be whiter than he need be if I don't stop that bleeding. I think we're ready for it now, Mr. Gordon." "All right. It's only a scratch," answered Gordon indifferently. Pesquiera, feeling that he was out of the picture, departed in search of a hotel for the night. He was conscious of a strong admiration for this fair brown-faced Anglo-Saxon who faced death so lightly for one of his men. Whatever else he might prove to be, Richard Gordon was a man. The New Mexican had an uneasy prescience that his mission was foredoomed to failure and that it might start currents destined to affect potently the lives of many in the Rio Chama Valley. CHAPTER II THE TWO GRANTS The clock in the depot tower registered just twelve, and the noon whistles were blowing when Pesquiera knocked at apartment 14, of the Gold Nugget Rooming-House. In answer to an invitation to "Come in," he entered an apartment which seemed to be a combination office and living-room. A door opened into what the New Mexican assumed to be a sleeping chamber, adjoining which was evidently a bath, judging from the sound of splashing water. "With you in a minute," a voice from within assured the guest. The splashing ceased. There was the sound of a towel in vigorous motion. This was followed by the rustling of garments as the bather dressed. In an astonishingly short time the owner of the rooms appeared in the doorway. He was a well-set-up youth, broad of shoulder and compact of muscle. The ruddy bloom that beat through the tanned cheeks and the elasticity of his tread hinted at an age not great, but there was no suggestion of immaturity in the cool steadiness of the gaze or in the quiet poise of the attitude. He indicated a chair, after relieving his visitor of hat and cane. Pesquiera glanced at the bandage round the head. "I trust, _señor_, your experience of yesterday has not given you a wakeful night?" "Slept like a top. Fact is, I'm just getting up. You heard this morning yet how Tom is?" "The morning newspaper says he is doing very well indeed." "That's good hearing. He's a first-rate boy, and I'd hate to hear worse of him. But I mustn't take your time over our affairs. I think you mentioned business, sir?" The Castilian leaned forward and fixed his black, piercing eyes on the other. Straight into his business he plunged. "Señor Gordon, have you ever heard of the Valdés grant?" "Not to remember it. What kind of a grant is it?" "It is a land grant, made by Governor Facundo Megares, of New Mexico, which territory was then a province of Spain, to Don Fernando Valdés, in consideration of services rendered the Spanish crown against the Indians." Dick shook his head. "You've got me, sir. If I ever heard of it the thing has plumb slipped my mind. Ought I to know about it?" "Have you ever heard of the Moreño grant?" Somewhere in the back of the young man's mind a faint memory stirred. He seemed to see an old man seated at a table in a big room with a carved fireplace. The table was littered with papers, and the old gentleman was explaining them to a woman. She was his daughter, Dick's mother. A slip of a youngster was playing about the room with two puppies. That little five-year-old was the young mine operator. "I have," he answered calmly. "You know, then, that a later governor of the territory, Manuel Armijo, illegally carved half a million acres out of the former grant and gave it to José Moreño, from whom your grandfather bought it." The miner's face froze to impassivity. He was learning news. The very existence of such a grant was a surprise to him. His grandfather and his mother had been dead fifteen years. Somewhere in an old trunk back in Kentucky there was a tin box full of papers that might tell a story. But for the present he preferred to assume that he knew what information they contained. "I object to the word illegal, Don Manuel," he answered curtly, not at all sure his objection had any foundation of law. Pesquiera shrugged. "Very well, _señor_. The courts, I feel sure, will sustain my words." "Perhaps, and perhaps not." "The law is an expensive arbiter, Señor Gordon. Your claim is slight. The title has never been perfected by you. In fifteen years you have paid no taxes. Still your claim, though worthless in itself, operates as a cloud upon the title of my client, the Valdés heir." Dick looked at him steadily and nodded. He began to see the purpose of this visit. He waited silently, his mind very alert. "_Señor_, I am here to ask of you a relinquishment. You are brave; no doubt, chivalrous----" "I'm a business man, Don Manuel," interrupted Gordon. "I don't see what chivalry has got to do with it." "Señorita Valdés is a woman, young and beautiful. This little estate is her sole possession. To fight for it in court is a hardship that Señor Gordon will not force upon her." "So she's young and beautiful, is she?" "The fairest daughter of Spain in all New Mexico," soared Don Manuel. "You don't say. A regular case of beauty and the beast, ain't it?" "As one of her friends, I ask of you not to oppose her lawful possession of this little vineyard." "In the grape business, is she?" "I speak, _señor_, in metaphor. The land is barren, of no value except for sheep grazing." "Are you asking me to sell my title or give it?" "It is a bagatelle--a mere nothing. The title is but waste paper, I do assure. Yet we would purchase--for a nominal figure--merely to save court expenses." "I see," Dick laughed softly. "Just to save court expenses--because you'd rather I'd have the money than the lawyers. That's right good of you." Pesquiera talked with his hands and shoulders, sparkling into animation. "Mr. Gordon distrusts me. So? Am I not right? He perhaps mistakes me for what you call a--a pettifogger, is it not? I do assure to the contrary. The blood of the Pesquieras is of the bluest Castilian." "Fine! I'll take your word for it, Don Manuel. And I don't distrust you at all. But here's the point. I'm a plain American business man. I don't buy and I don't sell without first investigating a proposition submitted to me. I'm from Missouri." "Oh, indeed! From St. Louis perhaps. I went to school there when I was a boy." Gordon laughed. "I was speaking in metaphor, Don Manuel. What I mean is that I'll have to be shown. No pig-in-a-poke business for me." "Exactly. Most precisely. Have I not traveled from New Mexico up this steep roof of the continent merely to explain how matters stand? Valencia Valdés is the true and rightful heiress of the valley. She is everywhere so recognize' and accept' by the peons." The miner's indolent eye rested casually upon his guest. "Married?" "I have not that felicitation," replied the Spaniard. "It was the lady I meant." "Pardon. No man has yet been so fortunate to win the _señorita_" "I reckon it's not for want of trying, since the heiress is so beautiful. There's always plenty of willing lads to take over the job of prince regent under such circumstances." The spine of the New Mexican stiffened ever so slightly. "Señorita Valdés is princess of the Rio Chama valley. Her dependents understan' she is of a differen' caste, a descendant of the great and renowned Don Alvaro of Castile." "Don't think I know the gentleman. Who was he?" asked Gordon genially, offering his guest a cigar. Pesquiera threw up his neat little hands in despair. "But of a certainty Mr. Gordon has read of Don Alvaro de Valdés y Castillo, lord of demesnes without number, conqueror of the Moors and of the fierce island English who then infested Spain in swarms. His retinue was as that of a king. At his many manors fed daily thirty thousand men at arms. In all Europe no knight so brave, so chivalrous, so skillful with lance and sword. To the nobles his word was law. Young men worshiped him, the old admired, the poor blessed. The queen, it is said, love' him madly. She was of exceeding beauty, but Don Alvaro remember his vows of knighthood and turn his back upon madness. Then the king, jealous for that his great noble was better, braver and more popular than he, send for de Valdés to come to court." "I reckon Don Alvaro ought to have been sick a-bed that day and unable to make the journey," suggested Dick. "So say his wife and his men, but Don Alvaro scorn to believe his king a traitor. He kiss his wife and babies good-bye, ride into the trap prepare' for him, and die like a soldier. God rest his valiant soul." "Some man. I'd like to have met him," Gordon commented. "Señorita Valencia is of the same blood, of the same fine courage. She, too, is the idol of her people. Will Mr. Gordon, who is himself of the brave heart, make trouble for an unprotected child without father or mother?" "Unprotected isn't quite the word so long as Don Manuel Pesquiera is her friend," the Coloradoan answered with a smile. The dark young man flushed, but his eyes met those of Dick steadily. "You are right, sir. I stand between her and trouble if I can." "Good. Glad you do." "So I make you an offer. I ask you to relinquish your shadowy claim to the illegal Moreño grant." "Well, I can't tell you offhand just what I'll do, Don Manuel. Make your proposition to me in writing, and one month from to-day I'll let you know whether it's yes or no." "But the _señorita_ wants to make improvements--to build, to fence. Delay is a hardship. Let us say a thousand dollars and make an end." "Not if the court knows itself. You say she's young. A month's wait won't hurt her any. I want to look into it. Maybe you're offering me too much. A fifth of a cent an acre is a mighty high price for land. I don't want any fairest daughter of Spain to rob herself for me, you know," he grinned. "I exceed my instructions. I offer two thousand, Mr. Gordon." "If you said two hundred thousand, I'd still say no till I had looked it up. I'm not doing business to-day at any price, thank you." "You are perhaps of an impression that this land is valuable. On the contrary, I offer an assurance. And our need of your shadowy claim----" "I ain't burdened with impressions, except one, that I don't care to dispose of my ghost-title. We'll talk business a month from to-day, if you like. No sooner. Have a smoke, Don Manuel?" Pesquiera declined the proffered cigar with an impatient gesture. He rose, reclaimed his hat and cane, and clicked his heels together in a stiff bow. He was a slight, dark, graceful man, with small, neat hands and feet, trimly gloved and shod. He had a small black mustache pointing upward in parallels to his smooth, olive cheeks. The effect was almost foppish, but the fire in the snapping eyes contradicted any suggestion of effeminacy. His gaze yielded nothing even to the searching one of Gordon. "It is, then, war between us, Señor Gordon?" he asked haughtily. Dick laughed. "Sho! It's just business. Maybe I'll take your offer. Maybe I won't. I might want to run down and look at the no-'count land," he said with a laugh. "I think it fair to inform you, sir, that the feeling of the country down there is in favor of the Valdés grant. The peons are hot-tempered, and are likely to resent any attempt to change the existing conditions. Your presence, _señor_, would be a danger." "Much obliged, Don Manuel. Tell 'em from me that I got a bad habit of wearing a six-gun, and that if they get to resenting too arduous it's likely to ventilate their enthusiasm." Once more the New Mexican bowed stiffly before he retired. Pesquiera had overplayed his hand. He had stirred in the miner an interest born of curiosity and a sense of romantic possibilities. Dick wanted to see this daughter of Castile who was still to the simple-hearted shepherds of the valley a princess of the blood royal. Don Manuel was very evidently her lover. Perhaps it was his imagination that had mixed the magic potion that lent an atmosphere of old-world pastoral charm to the story of the Valdés grant. Likely enough the girl would prove commonplace in a proud half-educated fashion that would be intolerable for a stranger. But even without the help of the New Mexican the situation was one which called for a thorough personal investigation. Gordon was a hard-headed American business man, though he held within him the generous and hare-brained potentialities of a soldier of fortune. He meant to find out just what the Moreño grant was worth. After he had investigated his legal standing he would look over the valley of the Chama himself. He took no stock in Don Manuel's assurance that the land was worthless, any more than he gave weight to his warning that a personal visit to the scene would be dangerous if the settlers believed he came to interfere with their rights. For many turbulent years Dick Gordon had held his own in a frontier community where untamed enemies had passed him daily with hate in their hearts. He was not going to let the sulky resentment of a few shepherds interfere with his course now. A message flashed back to a little town in Kentucky that afternoon. It was of the regulation ten-words length, and this was the body of it: Send immediately, by express, little brown leather trunk in garret. The signature at the bottom of it was "Richard Gordon." CHAPTER III FISHERMAN'S LUCK A fisherman was whipping the stream of the Rio Chama. In his creel were a dozen trout, for the speckled beauties had been rising to the fly that skipped across the top of the riffles as naturally as life. He wore waders, gray flannel shirt, and khaki coat. As he worked up the stream he was oftener in its swirling waters than on the shore. But just now the fish were no longer striking. "Time to grub, anyhow. I'll give them a rest for a while. They'll likely be on the job again soon," he told himself as he waded ashore. A draw here ran down to the river, and its sunny hillside tempted him to eat his lunch farther up. Into the little basin in which he found himself the sun had poured shafts of glory to make a very paradise of color. Down by the riverside the willows were hesitating between green and bronze. Russet and brown and red peppered the slopes, but shades of yellow predominated in the gulch itself. The angler ate his sandwiches leisurely, and stretched his lithe body luxuriantly on the ground for a _siesta_. When he resumed his occupation the sun had considerably declined from the meridian. The fish were again biting, and he landed two in as many minutes. The bed of the river had been growing steeper, and at the upper entrance of the little park he came to the first waterfall he had seen. Above this, on the opposite side, was a hole that looked inviting. He decided that a dead tree lying across the river would, at a pinch, serve for a bridge, and he ventured upon it. Beneath his feet the rotting bark gave way. He found himself falling, tried desperately to balance himself, and plunged head first into the river. Coming to the surface, he caught at a rock which jutted from the channel. At this point the water was deep and the current swift. Were he to let loose of the boulder he must be swept over the fall before he could reach the shore. Nor could he long maintain his position against the rush of the ice-cold waters fresh from the mountain snow fields. He had almost made up his mind to take his chances with the fall, when a clear cry came ringing to him: "_No suelte!_" A figure was flying down the slope toward him--the slim, graceful form of a woman. As she ran she caught up a stick from the ground. This she held out to him from the bank. He shook his head. "I would only drag you in." She put her fingers to her mouth and gave a clear whistle. Far up on the slope a pony lifted its head and nickered. Again her whistle shrilled, and the bronco trotted down toward her. "Can you hold on?" she asked in English. He was chilled to the marrow, but he answered quietly: "I reckon." She was gone, swift-footed as a deer, to meet the descending animal. He saw her swing to the saddle and lean over it as the pace quickened to a gallop. He did not know her fingers were busy preparing the rawhide lariat that depended from the side of the saddle. On the very bank she brought up with a jerk that dragged her mount together, and at the same moment slipped to the ground. Running open the noose of the lariat, she dropped it surely over his shoulders. The other end of the rope was fastened to the saddle-horn, and the cow-pony, used to roping and throwing steers, braced itself with wide-planted front feet for the shock. "Can you get your arm through the loop?" cried the girl. His arms were like lead, and almost powerless. With one hand he knew he could not hang on. Nor did he try longer than for that one desperate instant when he shot his fist through the loop. The wall of water swept him away, but the taut rope swung him shoreward. Little hands caught hold of him and fought with the strong current for the body of the almost unconscious man; fought steadily and strongly, for there was strength in the small wrists and compact muscle in the shapely arms. She was waist deep in the water before she won, for from above she could find no purchase for the lift. The fisherman's opening eyes looked into dark anxious ones that gazed at him from beneath the longest lashes he had ever seen. He had an odd sense of being tangled up in them and being unable to escape, of being both abashed and happy in his imprisonment. What he thought was: "They don't have eyes like those out of heaven." What he said was entirely different. "Near thing. Hadn't been for you I wouldn't have made it." At his words she rose from her knees to her full height, and he saw that she was slenderly tall and fashioned of gracious curves. The darkness of her clear skin was emphasized by the mass of blue-black hair from which little ears peeped with exquisite daintiness. The mouth was sweet and candid, red-lipped, with perfect teeth just showing in the full arch. The straight nose, with its sensitive nostrils, proclaimed her pure patrician. "You are wet," he cried. "You went in after me." She looked down at her dripping skirts, and laughter rippled over her face like the wind in golden grain. It brought out two adorable dimples near the tucked-in corners of her mouth. "I am damp," she conceded. "Why did you do it? The water might have swept you away," he chided, coming to a sitting posture. "And if I hadn't it might have swept you away," she answered, with a flash of her ivory teeth. He rose and stood before her. "You risked your life to save mine." "Is it not worth it, sir?" "That ain't for me to say. The point is, you took the chance." Her laughter bubbled again. "You mean, I took the bath." "I expect you'll have to listen to what I've got to say, ma'am." "Are you going to scold me? Was I precipitate? Perhaps you were attempting suicide. Forgive, I pray." He ignored her raillery, and told her what he thought of a courage so fine and ready. He permitted a smile to temper his praise, as he added: "You mustn't go jumping in the river after strangers if you don't want them to say, 'Thank you kindly.' You find four out of five of them want to, don't you?" "It is not yet a habit of mine. You're the first" "I hope I'll be the last." She began to wring out the bottom of her skirt, and he was on his knees at once to do it for her. "That will do very nicely," she presently said, the color billowing her cheeks. He gathered wood and lit a fire, being fortunate enough to find his match-case had been waterproof. He piled on dry branches till the fire roared and licked out for the moisture in their clothes. "I've been wondering how you happened to see me in the water," he said. "You were riding past, I expect?" "No, I was sketching. I saw you when you came up to eat your lunch, and I watched you go back to the river." "Do you live near here, then?" he asked. "About three miles away." "And you were watching me all the time?" He put his statement as a question. "No, I wasn't," the young woman answered indignantly. "You happened to be in the landscape." "A blot in it," he suggested. "A hop-toad splashing in the puddle." The every-ready dimples flashed out at this. "You did make quite a splash when you went in. The fish must have thought it was a whale." "And when I told you the water was fine, and you came in, too, they probably took you for a naiad." She thanked him with an informal little nod. "I thought you Anglo-Saxons did not give compliments." "I don't," he immediately answered. "Oh! If that isn't another one, I'm mistaken, sir." She turned indifferently away, apparently of the opinion that she had been quite friendly enough to this self-possessed young stranger. Rewinding the lariat, she fastened it to the saddle, then swung to the seat before he could step forward to aid her. "I hope you will suffer no bad effects from your bath," he said. "I shall not; but I'm afraid you will. You were in long enough to get thoroughly chilled. _Adios, señor_." He called to her before the pony had taken a dozen steps: "Your handkerchief, _señorita_!" She turned in the saddle and waited for him to bring it. He did so, and she noticed that he limped badly. "You have hurt yourself," she said quickly. "I must have jammed my knee against a rock," he explained. "Nothing serious." "But it pains?" "Just enough to let me know it's there." Frowning, she watched him. "Is it a bruise or a sprain?" "A wrench, I think. It will be all right if I favor it" "Favor it? Except the ranch, there is no place nearer than seven miles. You are staying at Corbett's, I presume?" "Yes." "You can't walk back there to-night. That is certain." She slipped from the saddle. "You'll have to go back to the ranch with me, sir. I can walk very well." He felt a wave of color sweep his face. "I couldn't take the horse and let you walk." "That is nonsense, sir. You can, and you shall." "If I am to take your horse I need not saddle myself upon your hospitality. I can ride back to Corbett's, and send the horse home to-morrow." "It is seven miles to Miguel's, and Corbett's is three beyond that. No doctor would advise that long ride before your knee receives attention, I think, sir, you will have to put up with the ranch till to-morrow." "You ain't taking my intention right. All I meant was that I didn't like to unload myself on your folks; but if you say I'm to do it I'll be very happy to be your guest." He said it with a touch of boyish embarrassment she found becoming. "We'll stop at the top of the hill and take on my drawing things," she told him. He need have had no fears for her as a walker, for she was of the elect few born to grace of motion. Slight she was, yet strong; the delicacy that breathed from her was of the spirit, and consisted with perfect health. No Grecian nymph could have trod with lighter or surer step nor have unconsciously offered to the eye more supple and beautiful lines of limb and body. Never had the young man seen before anybody whose charm went so poignantly to the root of his emotions. Every turn of the head, the set of the chin, the droop of the long, thick lashes on the soft cheek, the fling of a gesture, the cadence of her voice; they all delighted and fascinated him. She was a living embodiment of joy-in-life, of love personified. She packed her sketches and her paraphernalia with businesslike directness, careless of whether he did or did not see her water-colors. A movement of his hand stayed her as she took from, the easel the one upon which she had been engaged. It represented the sun-drenched slope below them, with the little gulch dressed riotously in its gala best of yellows. "You've got that fine," he told her enthusiastically. She shook her head, unmoved by praise which did not approve itself to her judgment as merited. "No, I didn't get it at all. A great artist might get the wonder of it; but I can't." "It looks good to me," he said. "Then I'm afraid you're not a judge," she smiled. From where they stood a trail wound along the ridge and down into a valley beyond. At the farther edge of this, nestling close to the hills that took root there, lay the houses of a ranch. "That is where I live," she told him. He thought it a lovely spot, almost worthy of her, but obviously he could not tell her so. Instead, he voiced an alien thought that happened to intrude: "Do you know Señorita Valdés? But of course you must." She flung a quick glance at him, questioning. "Yes, I know her." "She lives somewhere round here, too, does she not?" Her arm swept round in a comprehensive gesture. "Over that way, too." "Do you know her well?" An odd smile dimpled her face. "Sometimes I think I do, and then again I wonder." "I have been told she is beautiful." "Beauty is in the beholder's eyes, _señor_. Valencia Valdés is as Heaven made her." "I have no doubt; but Heaven took more pains with some of us than others--it appears." Again the dark eyes under the long lashes swept him from the curly head to the lean, muscular hands, and approved silently the truth of his observation. The clean lithe build of the man, muscles packed so that they rippled smoothly like those of a panther, appealed to her trained eyes. So, too, did the quiet, steady eyes in the bronzed face, holding as they did the look of competent alertness that had come from years of frontier life. "You are interested in Miss Valdés?" she asked politely. "In a way of speaking, I am. She is one of the reasons why I came here." "Indeed! She would no doubt be charmed to know of your interest," still with polite detachment. "My interest ain't exactly personal; then again it is," he contributed. "A sort of an impersonal personal interest?" "Yes; though I don't quite know what that means." "Then I can't be expected to," she laughed. His laughter joined hers; but presently he recurred to his question: "You haven't told me yet about Miss Valdés. Is she as lovely as they say she is?" "I don't know just how lovely they say she is. Sometimes I have thought her very passable; then again--" She broke off with a defiant little laugh. "Don't you know, sir, that you mustn't ask one lady to praise the beauty of another?" "I suppose I may ask questions?" he said, much amused. "It depends a little on the questions." "Is she tall?" "Rather. About as tall as I am." "And dark, of course, since she is a Spanish _señorita_" "Yes, she is dark." "Slim and graceful, I expect?" "She is slender." "I reckon she banks a heap on that blue blood of hers?" "Yes; she is prouder of it than there is really any need of, though I think probably her pride is unconscious and a matter of habit." "I haven't been able to make out yet whether you like her," he laughed. "I don't see what my liking has to do with it." "I expect to meet her, and I want to use your judgment to base mine on." "Oh, you expect to meet her?" She said it lightly, yet with a certain emphasis that he noted. "Don't you think she will let me? Do I have to show blue blood before I can be presented? One of my ancestors came over on the _Mayflower_. Will that do?" Her raillery met his. "That ought to do, I should think. I suppose you have brought genealogical proofs with you?" "I clean forgot. Won't you please get on and ride now? I feel like a false alarm, playing the invalid on you, ma'am." "No; I'll walk. We're almost at the ranch. It's just under this hill. But there's one thing I want to ask of you as a favor." "It's yours," he replied briefly. She seemed to struggle with some emotion before she spoke: "Please don't mention Valencia Valdés while you are at the ranch. I--I have reasons, sir." "Certainly; I'll do as you prefer." To himself he thought that there was probably a feud of some kind between the two families that might make a mention of the name unpleasant. "And that reminds me that I don't know what your name is. Mine is Muir--Richard Muir." "And mine is Maria Yuste." He offered her his brown hand. "I'm right happy to meet you, Señorita Maria." "Welcome to the Yuste _hacienda, señor_. What is ours is yours, so long as you are our guest. I pray you make yourself at home," she said as they rode into the courtyard. Two Mexican lads came running forward; and one whom she called Pedro took the horse, while the other went into the house to attend to a quick command she gave in Spanish. The man who had named himself Richard Muir followed his hostess through a hall, across an open court, and into a living-room carpeted with Navajo rugs, at the end of which was a great open fireplace bearing a Spanish motto across it. Large windows, set three feet deep in the thick adobe walls, were filled with flowers or padded with sofa pillows for seats. One of these his hostess indicated to the limping man. "If you will be seated here for the present, sir, your room will be ready very soon." A few minutes later the fisherman found himself in a large bedroom. He was seated in an easy-chair before a crackling fire of _piñon_ knots. A messenger had been dispatched for a doctor, Señorita Yuste had told him, and in the meantime he was to make himself quite at home. CHAPTER IV AT THE YUSTE HACIENDA The wrench to the fisherman's knee proved more serious than he had anticipated. The doctor pronounced it out of the question that he should be moved for some days at least. The victim was more than content, because he was very much interested in the young woman who had been his rescuer, and because it gave him a chance to observe at first hand the remains of the semifeudal system that had once obtained in New Mexico and California. It was easy for him to see that Señorita Maria Yuste was still considered by her dependents as a superior being, one far removed from them by the divinity of caste that hedged her in. They gave her service; and she, on her part, looked out for their needs, and was the patron saint to whom they brought all their troubles. It was an indolent, happy life the peons on the estate led, patriarchal in its nature, and far removed from the throb of the money-mad world. They had enough to eat and to wear. There was a roof over their heads. There were girls to be loved, dances to be danced, and guitars to be strummed. Wherefore, then, should the young men feel the spur of an ambition to take the world by the throat and wring success from it? It had been more years than he could remember since this young American had taken a real holiday except for an occasional fishing trip on the Gunnison or into Wyoming. He had lived a life of activity. Now for the first time he learned how to be lazy. To dawdle indolently on one of the broad porches, while Miss Yuste sat beside him and busied herself over some needlework, was a sensuous delight that filled him with content. He felt that he would like to bask there in the warm sunshine forever. After all, why should he pursue wealth and success when love and laughter waited for him in this peaceful valley chosen of the gods? The fourth morning of his arrival he hobbled out to the south porch after breakfast, to find his hostess in corduroy skirt, high laced boots, and pinched-in sombrero. She was drawing on a pair of driving gauntlets. One of the stable boys was standing beside a rig he had just driven to the house. The young woman flung a flashing smile at her guest. "Good day, Señor Muir. I hope you had a good night's rest, and that your knee did not greatly pain you?" "I feel like a colt in the pasture--fit for anything. But the doctor won't have it that way. He says I'm an invalid," returned the young man whimsically. "The doctor ought to know," she laughed. "I expect it won't do me any harm to lie still for a day or two. We Americans all have the git-up-and-dust habit. We got to keep going, though Heaven knows what we're going for sometimes." Though he did not know it, her interest in him was considerable, though certainly critical. He was a type outside of her experience, and, by the law of opposites, attracted her. Every line of him showed tremendous driving power, force, energy. He was not without some touch of Western swagger; but it went well with the air of youth to which his boyish laugh and wavy, sun-reddened hair contributed. The men of her station that she knew were of one pattern, indolent, well-bred aristocrats, despisers of trade and of those who indulged in it more than was necessary to live. But her mother had been an American girl, and there was in her blood a strong impulse toward the great nation of which her father's people were not yet in spirit entirely a part. "I have to drive to Antelope Springs this morning. It is not a rough trip at all. If you would care to see the country----" She paused, a question in her face. Her guest jumped at the chance. "There is nothing I should like better. If you are sure it will be no inconvenience." "I am sure I should not have asked you if I had not wanted you," she said; and he took it as a reproof. She drove a pair of grays that took the road with the spirit of racers. The young woman sat erect and handled the reins masterfully, the while Muir leaned back and admired the steadiness of the slim, strong wrists, the businesslike directness with which she gave herself to her work, the glow of life whipped into her eyes and cheeks by the exhilaration of the pace. "I suppose you know all about these old land-grants that were made when New Mexico was a Spanish colony and later when it was a part of Mexico," he suggested. Her dark eyes rested gravely on him an instant before she answered: "Most of us that were brought up on them know something of the facts." "You are familiar with the Valdés grant?" "Yes." "And with the Moreño grant, made by Governor Armijo?" "Yes." "The claims conflict, do they not?" "The Moreño grant is taken right from the heart of the Valdés grant. It includes all the springs, the valleys, the irrigable land; takes in everything but the hilly pasture land in the mountains, which, in itself, is valueless." "The land included in this grant is of great value?" "It pastures at the present time fifty thousand sheep and about twelve thousand head of cattle." "Owned by Miss Valdés?" "Owned by her and her tenants." "She's what you call a cattle queen, then. Literally, the cattle on a thousand hills are hers." "As they were her father's and her grandfather's before her, to be held in trust for the benefit of about eight hundred tenants," she answered quietly. "Tell me more about it. The original grantee was Don Bartolomé de Valdés, was he not?" "Yes. He was the great-great-grandson of Don Alvaro de Valdés y Castillo, who lost his head because he was a braver and a better man than the king. Don Bartolomé, too, was a great soldier and ruler. He was generous and public-spirited to a fault; and when the people of this province suffered from Indian raids he distributed thousands of sheep to relieve their distress." "Bully for the old boy. He was a real philanthropist." "Not at all. He _had_ to do it. His position required it of him." "That was it, eh?" Her dusky eyes questioned him. "You couldn't understand, I suppose, since you are an American, how he was the father and friend of all the people in these parts; how his troopers and _vaqueros_ were a defense to the whole province?" "I think I can understand that." "So it was, even to his death, that he looked out for the poor peons dependent upon him. His herds grew mighty; and he asked of Facundo Megares, governor of the royal province, a grant of land upon which to pasture them. These herds were for his people; but they were in his name and belonged to him. Why should he not have been given land for them, since his was the sword that had won the land against the Apaches?" "You ain't heard me say he shouldn't have had it" "So the _alcalde_ executed the act of possession for a tract, to be bounded on the south by Crow Spring, following its cordillera to the Ojo del Chico, east to the Pedornal range, north to the Ojo del Cibolo --Buffalo Springs--and west to the great divide. It was a princely estate, greater than the State of Delaware; and Don Bartolomé held it for the King of Spain, and ruled over it with powers of life and death, but always wisely and generously, like the great-hearted gentleman he was." "Bully for him." "And at his death his son ruled in his stead; and _his_ only son died in the Spanish-American War, as a lieutenant of volunteers in the United States Army. He was shot before Santiago." The voice died away in her tremulous throat; and he wondered if it could be possible that this girl had been betrothed to the young soldier. But presently she spoke again, cheerfully and lightly: "Wherefore, it happens that there remains only a daughter of the house of Valdés to carry the burden that should have been her brother's, to look out for his people, and to protect them both against themselves and others. She may fail; but, if I know her, the failure will not be because she has not tried." "Good for her. I'd like to shake her aristocratic little paw and tell her to buck in and win." "She would no doubt be grateful for your sympathy," the young woman answered, flinging a queer little look of irony at him. "But what's the hitch about the Valdés grant? Why is there a doubt of its legality?" She smiled gaily at him. "No person who desires to remain healthy has any doubts in this neighborhood. We are all partizans of Valencia Valdés; and many of her tenants are such warm followers that they would not think twice about shedding blood in defense of her title. You must remember that they hold through her right. If she were dispossessed so would they be." "Is that a threat? I mean, would it be if I were a claimant?" he asked, meeting her smile pleasantly. "Oh, no. Miss Valdés would regret any trouble, and so should I." A shadow crossed her face as she spoke. "But she could not prevent her friends from violence, I am afraid. You see, she is only a girl, after all. They would move without her knowledge. I know they would." "How would they move? Would it be a knife in the dark?" His gray eyes, which had been warm as summer sunshine on a hill, were now fixed on her with chill inscrutability. "I don't know. It might be that. Very likely." He saw the pulse in her throat beating fast as she hesitated before she plunged on. "A warning is not a threat. If you know this Señor Gordon, tell him to sell whatever claim he has. Tell him, at least, to fight from a distance; not to come to this valley himself. Else his life would be at hazard." "If he is a man that will not keep him away. He will fight for what is his all the more because there is danger. What's more, he'll do his fighting on the ground--unless he's a quitter." She sighed. "I was afraid so." "But you have not told me yet the alleged defect in the Valdés claim. There must be some point of law upon which the thing hangs." "It is claimed that Don Bartolomé did not take up his actual residence on the grant, as the law required. Then, too, he himself was later governor of the province, and while he was president of the Ayuntamiento at Tome he officially indorsed some small grants of land made from this estate. He did this because he wanted the country developed, and was willing to give part of what he had to his neighbors; but I suppose the contestant will claim this showed he had abandoned his grant." "I see. Title not perfected," he summed up briefly. "We deny it, of course--I mean, Miss Valdés does. She shows that in his will the old _don_ mentions it, and that her father lived there without interruption, even though Manuel Armijo later granted the best of it to José Moreño." "It would be pretty tough for her to be fired out now. I reckon she's attached to the place, her and her folks having lived there so long," the young man mused aloud. "Her whole life is wrapped up in it. It is the home of her people. She belongs to it, and it to her," the girl answered. "Mebbe this Gordon is a white man. I reckon he wouldn't drive her out. Like as not he'd fix up a compromise. There's enough for both." She shook her head decisively. "No. It would have to be a money settlement. Miss Valdés's people are settled all over the estate. Some of them have bought small ranches. You see, she couldn't--throw them down--as you Americans say." "That's right," he agreed. "Well, I shouldn't wonder but it can be fixed up some way." They had been driving across a flat cactus country, and for some time had been approaching the grove of willows into which she now turned. Some wooden barns, a corral, an adobe house, and outhouses marked the place as one of the more ambitious ranches of the valley. An old Mexican came forward with a face wreathed in smiles. _"Buenos,_ Doña Maria," he cried, in greeting. "_Buenos,_ Antonio. This gentleman is Mr. Richard Muir." "_Buenos, señor_. A friend of Doña Maria is a friend of Antonio." "The older people call me '_doña,_'" the girl explained. "I suppose they think it strange a girl should have to do with affairs, and so they think of me as '_doña,_' instead of '_señorita,_' to satisfy themselves." A vague suspicion, that had been born in the young man's mind immediately after his rescue from the river now recurred. His first thought then had been that this young woman must be Valencia Valdés; but he had dismissed it when he had seen the initial M on her kerchief, and when she had subsequently left him to infer that such was not the case. He remembered now in what respect she was held in the home _hacienda_; how everybody they had met had greeted her with almost reverence. It was not likely that two young heiresses, both of them beautiful orphans, should be living within a few miles of each other. Besides, he remembered that this very Antelope Springs was mentioned in the deed of conveyance which he had lately examined before leaving the mining camp. She was giving orders about irrigating ditches as if she were owner. It followed then that she must be Valencia Valdés. There could be no doubt of it. He watched her as she talked to old Antonio and gave the necessary directions. How radiant and happy she was in this life which had fallen to her; by inheritance! He vowed she should not be disinherited through any action of his. He owed her his life. At least, he could spare her this blow. They drove home more silently than they had come. He was thinking over the best way to do what he was going to do. The evening before they had sat together in front of the fire in the living-room, while her old duenna had nodded in a big arm-chair. So they would sit to-night and to-morrow night. He would send at once for the papers upon which his claim depended, and he would burn them before her eyes. After that they would be friends--and, in the end, much more than friends. He was still dreaming his air-castle, when they drove through the gate that led to her home. In front of the porch a saddled bronco trailed its rein, and near by stood a young man in riding-breeches and spurs. He turned at the sound of wheels; and the man in the buggy saw that it was Manuel Pesquiera. The Spaniard started when he recognized the other, and his eyes grew bright. He moved forward to assist the young woman in alighting; but, in spite of his bad knee, the Coloradoan was out of the rig and before him. "_Buenos, amigo_" she nodded to Don Manuel, lightly releasing the hand of Muir. "_Buenos, señorita_" returned that young man. "I behold you are already acquaint' with Mr. Richard Gordon, whose arrival is to me very unexpect'." She seemed to grow tall before her guest's eyes; to stand in a kind of proud splendor that had eclipsed her girlish slimness. The dark eyes under the thick lashes looked long and searchingly at him. "Mr. Richard Gordon? I understand this gentleman's name to be Muir," she made voice gently. Dick laughed with a touch of shame. Now once in his life he wished he could prove an alibi. For, under the calm judgment of that steady gaze, the thing he had done seemed scarce defensible. "Don Manuel has it right, _señorita_. Gordon is my name; Muir, too, for that matter. Richard Muir Gordon is what I was christened." The underlying red of her cheeks had fled and left them clear olive. One might have thought the scornful eyes had absorbed all the fire of her face. "So you have lied to me, sir?" "Let me lay the facts before you, first. That's a hard word, _señorita_." "You gave your name to me as Muir, You imposed yourself on my hospitality under false pretenses. You are only a spy, come to my house to mole for evidence against me." "No--no!" he cried sharply. "You will remember that I did not want to come. I foresaw that it might be awkward, but I did not foresee this." "That you would be found out before you had won your end? I believe you, sir," she retorted contemptuously. "I see I'm condemned before I'm heard." "Will any explanation alter the facts? Are you not a liar and a cheat? You gave me a false name to spy out the land." "Am I the only one that gave a wrong name?" he asked. "That is different," she flamed. "You had made a mistake and, half in sport, I encouraged you in it. But you seem to have found out my real name since. Yet you still accepted what I had to offer, under a false name, under false pretenses. You questioned me about the grants. You have lived a lie from first to last." "It ain't as bad as you say, ma'am. Don Manuel had told me it wasn't safe to come here in my own name. I didn't care about the safety, but I wanted to see the situation exactly as it was. I didn't know who you were when I came here. I took you to be Miss Maria Yuste. I----" "My name is Maria Yuste Valencia Valdés," the young woman explained proudly. "When, may I ask, did you discover who I was?" "I guessed it at Antelope Springs." "Then why did you not tell me then who you are? Surely that was the time to tell me. My deception did you no harm; yours was one no man of honor could have endured after he knew who I was." "I didn't aim to keep it up very long. I meant, in a day or two----" "A day or two," she cried, in a blaze of scorn. "After you had found out all I had to tell; after you had got evidence to back your robber-claim; after you had made me breathe the same air so long with a spy?" Her face was very white; but she faced him in her erect slimness, with her dark eyes fixed steadily on him. "You ain't quite fair to me; but let that pass for the present. When I asked you about the grants didn't you guess who I was? Play square with me. Didn't you have a notion?" A flood of spreading color swept back into her face. "No, I didn't. I thought perhaps you were an agent of the claimant; but I didn't know you were passing under a false name, that you were aware in whose house you were staying. I thought you an honest man, on the wrong side--nothing so contemptible as a spy." "That idea's fixed in your mind, is it?" he asked quietly. "Beyond any power of yours to remove it," she flashed back. "The facts, Señor Gordon, speak loud," put in Pesquiera derisively. Dick Gordon paid not the least attention to him. His gaze was fastened on the girl whose contempt was lashing him. "Very well, Miss Valdés. Well let it go at that just now. All I've got to say is that some day you'll hate yourself for what you have just said." Neither of them had raised their voices from first to last. Hers had been low and intense, pulsing with the passion that would out. His had held its even way. "I hate myself now, that I have had you here so long, that I have been the dupe of a common cheat." "All right. 'Nough said, ma'am. More would certainly be surplusage. I'll not trouble you any longer now. But I want you to remember that there's a day coming when you'll travel a long way to take back all of what you've just been saying. I want to thank you for all your kindness to me. I'm always at your service for what you did for me. Good-bye, Miss Valdés, for the present." "I am of impression, sir, that you go not too soon," said Pesquiera suavely. Miss Valdés turned on her heel and swept up the steps of the porch; but she stopped an instant before she entered the house to say over her shoulder: "A buggy will be at your disposal to take you to Corbett's. If it is convenient, I should like to have you go to-night." He smiled ironically. "I'll not trouble you for the buggy, _señorita_. If I'm all you say I am, likely I'm a horse thief, too. Anyhow, we won't risk it. Walking's good enough for me." "Just as you please," she choked, and forthwith disappeared into the house. Gordon turned from gazing after her to find the little Spaniard bowing before him. "Consider me at your service, Mr. Gordon----" "Can't use you," cut in Dick curtly. "I was remarking that, as her kinsman, I, Don Manuel Pesquiera, stand prepared to make good her words. What the Señorita Valdés says, I say, too." "Then don't say it aloud, you little monkey, or I'll throw you over the house," Dick promised immediately. Don Manuel clicked his heels together and twirled his black mustache. "I offer you, sir, the remedy of a gentleman. You, sir, shall choose the weapons." The Anglo-Saxon laughed in his face. "Good. Let it be toasting-forks, at twenty paces." The challenger drew himself up to his full five feet six. "You choose to be what you call droll. Sir, I give you the word, poltroon--_lâche_--coward." "Oh, go chase yourself." One of Pesquiera's little gloved hands struck the other's face with a resounding slap. Next instant he was lifted from his feet and tucked under Dick's arm. There he remained, kicking and struggling, in a manner most undignified for a blue blood of Castile, while the Coloradoan stepped leisurely forward to the irrigating ditch which supplied water for the garden and the field of grain behind. This was now about two feet deep, and running strong. In it was deposited, at full length, the clapper little person of Don Manuel Pesquiera, after which Dick Gordon turned and went limping down the road. From the shutters of her room a girl had looked down and seen it all. She saw Don Manuel rescue himself from the ditch, all dripping with water. She saw him gesticulating wildly, as he cursed the retreating foe, before betaking himself hurriedly from view to the rear of the house, probably to dry himself and nurse his rage the while. She saw Gordon go on his limping way without a single backward glance. Then she flung herself on her bed and burst into tears. CHAPTER V "AN OPTIMISTIC GUY" Dick Gordon hobbled up the road, quite unaware for some time that he had a ricked knee. His thoughts were busy with the finale that had just been enacted. He could not keep from laughing ruefully at the difference between it and the one of his day-dreams. He was too much of a Westerner not to see the humor of the comedy in which he had been forced to take a leading part, but he had insight enough to divine that it was much more likely to prove melodrama than farce. Don Manuel was not the man to sit down under such an insult as he had endured, even though he had brought it upon himself. It would too surely be noised round that the _Americano_ was the claimant to the estate, in which event he was very likely to play the part of a sheath for restless stilettos. This did not trouble him as much as it would have done some men. The real sting of the episode lay in Valencia Valdés' attitude toward him. He had been kicked out for his unworthiness. He had been cast aside as a spy and a sneak. The worst of it was that he felt his clumsiness deserved no less an issue to the adventure. Confound that little Don Manuel for bobbing up at such an inconvenient time! It was fierce luck. He stopped his tramp up the hill, and looked back over the valley. Legally it was all his. So his Denver lawyers had told him, after looking the case over carefully. The courts would decide for him in all probability; morally he had not the shadow of a claim. The valley in justice belonged to those who had settled in it and were using it for their needs. His claim was merely a paper one. It had not a scintilla of natural justice back of it. He resumed his journey. By this time his knee was sending telegrams of pain to headquarters. He cut an aspen by the roadside and trimmed it to a walking-stick and, as he went forward, leaned more and more heavily upon it. "I'm going to have a game leg for fair if I don't look out," he told himself ruefully. "This right pin surely ain't good for a twelve-mile tramp." It was during one of his frequent stops to rest that a buggy appeared round the turn from the same direction he had come. It drew to a halt in front of him, and the lad who was driving got out. "Señorita Maria sends a carriage for Señor Gordon to take him to Corbett's," he said. Dick was on hand with a sardonic smile. "Tell the _señorita_ that Mr. Gordon regrets having put her to so much trouble, but that he needs the exercise and prefers to walk." "The _señorita_ said I was to insist, _señor_." "Tell your mistress that I'm very much obliged to her, but have made other arrangements. Explain to her I appreciate the offer just the same." The lad hesitated, and Dick pushed him into decision. "That's all right, Juan--José--Pedro--Francisco--whatever your name is. You've done your levelest. Now, hike back to the ranch. _Vamos! Sabe._" "_Si, señor._" Dick heard the wheels disappear in the distance, and laughed aloud. "That young woman's conscience is hurting her. I reckon this tramp to Corbett's is going to worry her tender heart about as much as it does me, and I've got to sweat blood before I get through with it. Here goes again, Dicky." Every step sent a pain shooting through him, but he was the last man to give up on that account what he had undertaken. "She let me go without any lunch," he chuckled. "I'll bet that troubles her some, too, when she remembers. She's got me out of the house, but I'll bet the last strike in the Nancy K. against a dollar Mex that she ain't got me out of her mind by a heap." A buggy appeared in sight driven by a stout, red-faced old man. Evidently he was on his way to the ranch. "Who, hello, Doctor! I'm plumb glad to see you; couldn't wait till you came, and had just to start out to meet you," cried Dick. He stood laughing at the amazement in the face of the doctor, who was in two minds whether to get angry or not. "Doggone your hide, what are you doing here? Didn't I tell you not to walk more than a few steps?" that gentleman protested. "But you didn't leave me a motor-car and, my visit being at an end, I ce'tainly had to get back to Corbett's." As he spoke he climbed slowly into the rig. "That leg of mine is acting like sixty, Doctor. When you happened along I was wondering how in time I was ever going to make it." "You may have lamed yourself for life. It's the most idiotic thing I ever heard of. I don't see why Miss Valdés let you come. Dad blame it, have I got to watch my patients like a hen does its chicks? Ain't any of you got a lick of sense? Why didn't she send a rig if you had to come?" the doctor demanded. "Seems to me she did mention a rig, but I thought I'd rather walk," explained Gordon casually, much amused at Dr. Watson's chagrined wonder. "Walk!" snorted the physician. "You'll not walk, but be carried into an operating-room if you're not precious lucky. You deserve to lose that leg, and I don't say you won't." "I'm an optimistic guy, Doctor. I'll say it for you. I ain't got any legs to spare." "Huh! Some people haven't got the sense of a chicken with its head cut off." "Now you're shouting. Go for me, Doc. Then, mebbe, I'll do better next time." The doctor gave up this incorrigible patient and relapsed into silence, from which he came occasionally with an explosive "Huh!" Once he broke out with: "Didn't she feed you well enough, or was it just that you didn't _know_ when you were well off?" For he was aware that his patient's fever was rising and, like a good practitioner, he fumed at such useless relapse. The knee had been doing fine. Now there would be the devil to pay with it. The utter senselessness of the proceeding irritated Watson. What in Mexico had got into the young idiot to make him do such a fool thing? The doctor guessed at a quarrel between him and Miss Valdés. But the close-mouthed American gave him no grounds upon which to base his suspicion. The first thing that Dick did after reaching Corbett's was to send two telegrams. One was addressed to Messrs. Hughes & Willets, 411-417 Equitable Building, Denver, Colorado; the other went to Stephen Davis, Cripple Creek, of the same state. Doctor Watson hustled his patient to bed and did his best to relieve the increasing pain in the swollen knee. He swore gently and sputtered and fumed as he worked, restraining himself only when Mrs. Corbett came into the room with hot water, towels, compresses, and other supplies. "What about a nurse?" Watson wanted to know of Mrs. Corbett, a large motherly woman whose kind heart always found room in it for the weak and helpless. "I got no room for one. Juanita and I will take care of him. The work's slack now. We'll have time." "He's going to take a heap of nursing," the doctor answered, rubbing his unshaven chin dubiously with the palm of his hand. "See how the fever's climbed up even in the last half hour. That boy's going to be a mighty sick _hombre_." "I'm used to nursing, and Juanita is the best help I ever had, if she _is_ a Mexican. You may trust him to us." "Hmp! I wasn't thinking of him, but of you. Couldn't be in better hands, but it's an imposition for him to go racing all over these hills with a game leg and expect you to pull him through." Before midnight Dick was in a raging fever. In delirium he tossed from side to side, sometimes silent for long stretches, then babbling fragments of forgotten scenes rescued by his memory automatically from the wild and picturesque past of the man. Now he fancied himself again a schoolboy, now a ranger in Arizona, now mushing on the snow trails of Alaska. At times he would imagine that he was defending his mine against attacking strikers, or that he was combing the Rincons for horse thieves. Out of his turbid past flared for an instant dramatic moments of comedy or tragedy. These passed like the scenes of a motion-picture story, giving place to something else. In the end he came back always to the adventure he was still living. "You're a spy.... You're a liar and a cheat.... You imposed yourself upon my hospitality under false pretenses.... I hate myself for breathing the same air as you." He would break off to laugh foolishly, in a high-pitched note of derision at himself. "Stand up, Dick Gordon, and hear the lady tell you what a coyote you are. Stan' up and face the music, you quitter. Liar ... spy ... cheat! That's you, Dick Gordon, un'erstand?" Or the sick mind of the man would forget for the moment that they had quarreled. His tongue would run over conversations that they had had, cherishing and repeating over and over again her gay little quips and sallies or her light phrases. "Valencia Valdés is as God made her. Now you're throwing sixes, ma'am. Sure she's like that. The devil helped a heap to make most of us what we are, but I reckon God made that little lady early in the mo'ning when He was feeling fine.... Say, I wish you'd look at me like that again and light up with another of them dimply smiles. I got a surprise for you, Princess of the Rio Chama. Honest, I have. Sure as you're a foot high.... Never you mind what it is. Just you wait a while and I'll spring it when the time's good and ready. I got to wait till the papers come. See? ... Oh, shucks, you're sore at me again! Liar ... cheat ... spy! Say, I know when I've had a-plenty. She don't like me. I'm goin' to pull my freight for the Kotzebue country up in Alaska. '_On the road to Kotzebue, optimistic through and through, We'll hit the trail together, boy, once more, jest me an' you_.' Funny how women act, ain't it? Stand up and take your medicine--liar ... cheat ... spy! She said it, didn't she? Well, then, it must be so. What you kickin' about?" So he would run on until the fever had for the hour exhausted itself and he lay still among the pillows. Sometimes he talked the strong language of the man in battle with other men, but even in his oaths there was nothing of vulgarity. Mrs. Corbett took the bulk of the nursing on her own broad fat shoulders, but during the day she was often relieved by her maid while she got a few hours of sleep. Juanita was a slim, straight girl not yet nineteen. Even before his sickness Dick, with the instinct for deference to all women of self-respect that obtains among frontiersmen, had won the gratitude of the shy creature. There was something wild and sylvan about her sweet grace. The deep, soft eyes in the brown oval face were as appealing as those of a doe wounded by the hunter. She developed into a famous nurse. Low-voiced and soft-footed, she would coax the delirious man to lie down when he grew excited or to take his medicine according to the orders of the doctor. It was on the third day after Gordon's return to Corbett's that Juanita heard a whistle while she was washing dishes after supper in the kitchen. Presently she slipped out of the back door and took the trail to the corral. A man moved forward out of the gloom to meet her. "Is it you, Pablo?" A slender youth, lean-flanked and broad-shouldered, her visitor turned out to be. His outstretched hands went forward swiftly to meet hers. "Juanita, light of my life?" he cried softly. "_Corazon mia!_" She submitted with a little reluctant protest to his caress. "I have but a minute, Pablo. The _señora_ wants to walk over to Dolan's place. I am to stay with the sick American." He exploded with low, fierce energy. "A thousand curses take the gringo! Why should you nurse him? Is he not an enemy to the _señorita_--to all in the valley who have bought from her or her father or her grandfather? Is he not here to throw us out--a thief, a spy, a snake in the grass?" "No, he is not. _Señor_ Gordon is good ... and kind." "Bah! You are but a girl. He gives you soft words--and so----" The jealousy in him flared suddenly out. He caught his sweetheart tightly by the arm. "Has he made love to you, this gringo? Has he whispered soft, false lies in your ear, Juanita? If he has----" She tried to twist free from him. "You are hurting my arm, Pablo," the girl cried. "It is my heart you hurt, _niña_. Is it true that this thief has stolen the love of my Juanita?" "You are a fool, Pablo. He has never said a hundred words to me. All through his sickness he has talked and talked--but it is of _Señorita_ Valdés that he has raved." "So. He will rob her of all she has and yet can talk of loving her. Do you not see he is a villain, that he has the forked tongue, as old Bear Paw, the Navajo, says of all gringoes? But let Señor Gordon beware. His time is short. He will not live to drive us from the valley. So say I. So say all the men in the valley." "No--no! I will not have it, Pablo. You do not know. This _Señor_ Gordon is good. He would not drive us away." Her arms slid around the neck of her lover and she pleaded with him impetuously. "You must not let them hurt him, for it is a kind heart he has." "Why should I interfere? He is only a gringo. Let him die. I tell you he means harm to all of us." "I do not know my Pablo when he talks like this. My Pablo was always kind and good and of a soft heart. I do not love him when he is cruel." "It is then that you love the American," he cried. "Did I not know it? Did I not say so?" "You say much that is foolish, _muchacho_. The American is a stranger to me ... and you are Pablo. But how can I love you when your heart is full of cruelty and jealousy and revenge? Go to the Blessed Virgin and confess before the good priest your sins, _amigo_." "_Amigo!_ Since when have I been friend to you and not lover, Juanita? I know well for how long--since this gringo with the white face crossed your trail." Suddenly she flung away from him. "_Muy bien!_ You shall think as you please. Adios, my friend with the head of a donkey! _Adios, icabron!_" She was gone, light as the wind, flying with swift feet down the trail to the house. Sulkily he waited for her to come out again, but the girl did not appear. He gave her a full half hour before he swung to the saddle and turned the head of his pony toward the Valdés' hacienda. A new and poignant bitterness surged in his heart. Had this stranger, who was bringing trouble to the whole valley, come between him and little Juanita, whom he had loved since they had been children? Had he stolen her heart with his devilish wiles? The hard glitter in the black eyes of the Mexican told that he would punish him if this were true. His younger brother Pedro took the horse from him as he rode into the ranch plaza an hour later. "You are to go to the _señorita_ at once and tell her how the gringo is, Pablo." After a moment he added sullenly: "_Maldito_, how is the son of a thief?" "Sick, Pedro, sick unto death. The devil, as you say, may take him yet without any aid from us," answered Pablo Menendez brusquely. "Why does the _señorita_ send you every day to find out how he is? Can she not telephone? And why should she care what becomes of the traitor?" demanded Pedro angrily. His brother shrugged. "How should I know?" He had troubles enough with the fancies of another woman without bothering about those of the _señorita_. Valencia Valdés was on the porch waiting for her messenger. "How is he, Pablo? Did you see the doctor and talk with him? What does he say?" "_Si, señorita_. I saw Doctor Watson and he send you this letter. They say the American is a sick man--oh, very, very sick!" The young woman dismissed him with a nod and hurried to her room. She read the letter from the doctor and looked out of one of the deep adobe windows into the starry night. It happened to be the same window from which she had last seen him go hobbling down the road. She rose and put out the light so that she could weep the more freely. It was hard for her to say why her heart was so heavy. To herself she denied that she cared for this jaunty debonair scoundrel. He was no doubt all she had told him on that day when she had driven him away. Yes, but she had sent him to pain and illness ... perhaps to death. The tears fell fast upon the white cheeks. Surely it was not her fault that he had been so obstinate. Yet--down in the depth of her heart she knew she loved the courage that had carried him with such sardonic derision out upon the road for the long tramp that had so injured him. And there was an inner citadel within her that refused to believe him the sneaking pup she had accused him of being. No man with such honest eyes, who stood so erect and graceful in the image of God, could be so contemptible a cur. There was something fine about the spirit of the man. She had sensed the kinship of it without being able to put a finger exactly upon the quality she meant. He might be a sinner, but it was hard to believe him a small and mean one. The dynamic spark of self-respect burned too brightly in his soul for that. CHAPTER VI JUANITA The fifth day marked the crisis of Gordon's illness. After that he began slowly to mend. One morning he awoke to a realization that he had been very ill. His body was still weak, but his mind was coherent again. A slender young woman moved about the room setting things in order. "Aren't you Juanita?" he asked. Her heart gave a leap. This was the first time he had recognized her. Sometimes in his delirium he had caught at her hand ind tried to kiss it, but always under the impression that she was Miss Valdés. "_Si, señor_," she answered quietly. "I thought so." He added after a moment, with the childlike innocence a sick person has upon first coming back to sanity: "There couldn't be two girls as pretty as you in this end of the valley, could there?" Under her soft brown skin the color flooded Juanita's face. "I--I don't know." She spoke in a flame of embarrassment, so abrupt had been his compliment and so sincere. "I've been very sick, haven't I?" She nodded. "Oh, _señor_, we have been--what you call--worried." "Good of you, Juanita. Who has been taking care of me?" "Mrs. Corbett." "And Juanita?" "Sometimes." "Ah! That's good of you, too, _amiga_." She recalled a phrase she had often heard an American rancher's daughter say. "I loved to do it, _señor_." "But why? I'm your enemy, you know. You ought to hate me. Do you?" Once again the swift color poured into the dark cheeks, even to the round birdlike throat. "No, _señor_." He considered this an instant before he accused her whimsically. "Then you're not a good girl. You should hate the devil, and I'm his agent. Any of your friends will tell you that." "_Señor_ Gordon is a joke." He laughed weakly. "Am I? I'll bet I am, the fool way I acted." "I mean a--what you call--a joker," she corrected. "But ain't I your enemy, my little good Samaritan? Isn't that what all your people are saying?" "I not care what they say." "If I'm not your enemy, what am I?" She made a great pretense of filling the ewer with water and gathering up the soiled towels. "How about that, _niña_?" he persisted, turning toward her on the pillow with his unshaven face in his hand, a gentle quizzical smile in his eyes. "I'm your ... servant, _señor_," she flamed, after the embarrassment of silence had grown too great. "No, no! Nothing like that. What do you say? Will you take me for a friend, even though I'm an enemy to the whole valley?" Her soft, dark eyes flashed to meet his, timidly and yet with an effect of fine spirit. "_Si, señor_." "Good. Shake hands on it, little partner." She came forward reluctantly, as if she were pushed toward him by some inner compulsion. Her shy embarrassment, together with the sweetness of the glad emotion that trembled in her filmy eyes, lent her a rare charm. For just an instant her brown fingers touched his, then she turned and fled from the room. Mrs. Corbett presently bustled in, fat, fifty, and friendly. "I can't hardly look you in the face," he apologized, with his most winning smile. "I reckon I've been a nuisance a-plenty, getting sick on your hands like a kid." Mrs. Corbett answered his smile as she arranged the coverlets. "You'll just have to be good for a spell to make up for it. No more ten-mile walks, Mr. Muir, till the knee is all right." "I reckon you better call me Gordon, ma'am." His mind passed to what she had said about his walk. "Ce'tainly that was a fool _pasear_ for a man to take. Comes of being pig-headed, Mrs. Corbett. And Doc Watson had told me not to use that game leg much. But, of course, I knew best," he sighed ruefully. "Well, you've had your lesson. And you've worried all of us. Miss Valdés has called up two or three times a day on the phone and sent a messenger over every evening to find out how you were." Dick felt the blood flush his face. "She has?" Then, after a little: "That's very kind of Miss Valdés." "Yes. Everybody has been kind. Mr. Pesquiera has called up every day to inquire about you. He has been very anxious for you to recover." A faint sardonic smile touched the white lips. "A fellow never knows how many friends he has till he needs them. So Don Manuel is in a hurry to have me get on my feet. That's surely right kind of him." He thought he could guess why that proud and passionate son of Spain fretted to see him ill. The humiliation to which he had been subjected was rankling in his heart and would oppress him till he could wipe it out in action. "You've got other friends, too, that have worried a lot," said Mrs. Corbett, as she took up some knitting. "More friends yet? Say, ain't I rich? I didn't know how blamed popular I was till now," returned the invalid, with derisive irony. "Who is it this time I've got to be grateful for?" "Mr. Davis." "Steve Davis--from Cripple Creek, Colorado, God's Country?" "Yes." "Been writing about me, has he?" Mrs. Corbett smiled. She had something up her sleeve. "First writing, then wiring." "He's a kind of second dad to me. Expect the old rooster got anxious." "Looks that way. Anyhow, he reached here last night." Gordon got up on an elbow in his excitement. "Here? Here now? Old Steve?" She nodded her head and looked over her shoulder toward the dining-room. "In there eating his breakfast. He'll be through pretty soon. You see, he doesn't know you're awake." Presently Davis came into the room. He walked to the bed and took both of his friend's hands in his. Tears were shining in his eyes. "You darned old son-of-a-gun, what do you mean by scaring us like this? I've lost two years' growth on account of your foolishness, boy." "Did Mrs. Corbett send for you?" "No, I sent for myself soon as I found out how sick you was. Now hustle up and get well." "I'm going to do just that" Dick kept his word. Within a few days he was promoted to a rocking-chair on the porch. Here Juanita served his meals and waited on his demands with the shy devotion that characterized a change in her attitude to him. She laughed less than she did. His jokes, his claim upon her as his "little partner," his friendly gratitude, all served to embarrass her, and at the same time to fill her with a new and wonderful delight. A week ago, when he had been lying before her asleep one day, she had run her little finger through one of his tawny curls and admired its crisp thickness. To her maiden fancy something of his strong virility had escaped even to this wayward little lock of hair. She had wondered then how the _Señorita_ Valdés could keep from loving this splendid fellow if he cared for her. All the more she wondered now, for her truant heart was going out to him with the swift ardent passion of her race. It was as a sort of god she looked upon him, as a hero of romance far above her humble hopes. She found herself longing for chances to wait upon him, to do little services that would draw the approving smile to his eyes. Gordon was still in the porch-dwelling stage of convalescence when a Mexican rider swung from his saddle one afternoon with a letter from Manuel Pesquiera. The note was a formal one, written in the third person, and it wasted no words. After reading it Dick tossed the sheet of engraved stationery across to his companion. "Nothing like having good, anxious friends in a hurry to have you well, Steve," he said, with a smile. The old miner read the communication. "Well, what's the matter with his hoping you'll be all right soon?" "No reason why he shouldn't. It only shows what a Christian, forgiving disposition he's got. You see, that day I most walked my leg off I soused Mr. Pesquiera in a ditch." "You--what?" "Just what I say. I picked him up and dropped the gentleman in the nearest ditch. That's why he's so anxious to get me well." "But--why for, boy?" Dick laughed. "Can't you see, you old moss-back? He wants me well enough to call out for a duel." "A duel." Davis stared at him dubiously. He did not know whether or not his friend was making game of him. "Yes, sir. Pistols and coffee for two, waiter. That sort of thing." "But folks don't fight duels nowadays," remonstrated the puzzled miner. "Anyhow, what's he want to fight about? I reckon you didn't duck him for nothing, did you? What was it all about?" Dick told his tale of adventures, omitting only certain emotions that were his private property. He concluded with an account of the irrigating-ditch episode. "It ain't the custom in this part of the country to duck the blue bloods. Shouldn't wonder but what he's some hot under the collar. Writes like he sees red, don't you think, but aims to be polite and keep his shirt on." Davis refused to treat the matter as a joke. "I told you to let your lawyers 'tend to this, Dick, and for you not to poke your nose into this neck of the woods. But you had to come, and right hot off the reel you hand one to this Pesky fellow, or whatever you call him. Didn't I tell you that you can't bat these greasers over the head the way you can the Poles in the mines?" "Sure you told me. You're always loaded with good advice, Steve. But what do you expect me to do when a fellow slaps my face?" "They won't stand fooling with, these greasers. This Pesky fellow is playing squarer than most would if he gives you warning to be ready with your six-gun. You take my advice, and you'll burn the wind out of this country. If you git this fellow, the whole pack of them will be on top of you, and don't you forget it, son." "So you advise me to cut and run, do you?" said Dick. "You bet." "That's what you'd do, is it?" "Sure thing. You can't clean out the whole of New Mexico." "Quit your lying, Steve, you old war-horse. You'd see it out, just like I'm going to." Davis scratched his grizzled poll and grinned, but continued to dispense good advice. "You ain't aiming to mix with this whole blamed country, are you?" The man in the chair sat up, his lean jaw set and his eyes gleaming. "I've been called the scum o' the earth. I've been kicked out of her house as a fellow not decent enough to mix with honest folks. Only yesterday I got a letter from some of her people warning me to leave the country while I was still alive. This Pesquiera is camping on my trail." "Maybe he ain't. You've only guessed that." "Guess nothing. It's a cinch." "What you going to do about it?" "Nothing." "But if he lays for you." "Good enough. Let him go to it. I'm going through with this thing. I'm going to show them who's the best man. And when I've beat them to a standstill I've got a revenge ready that will make Miss Valdés eat humble pie proper. Yes, sir. I'm tied to this country till this thing's settled." "Then there ain't any use saying any more about it. You always was a willful son-of-a-gun," testified his partner, with a grin. "And I reckon I'll have to stay with you to pack you home after the greasers have shot you up." "Don't you ever think it, Steve," came back the cheerful retort. "I've got a hunch this is my lucky game. I'm sitting in to win, old hoss." "What's your first play, Dick?" "I made it last week, within twenty minutes of the time I got back here. Wired my lawyers to bring suit at once, and to push it for all it was worth." "You can't settle it by the courts inside of a year, or mebbe two." "I ain't aiming to settle it by the courts. All I want is they should know I've got them beat to a fare-ye-well in the courts. Their lawyers will let them know that mighty early, just as soon as they look the facts up. There ain't any manner of doubt about my legal claim. I guess Miss Valdés knows that already, but I want her to know it good and sure. Then I'll paddle my own canoe. The law's only a bluff to make my hand better. I'm calling for that extra card for the looks of it, but my hand is full up without it" "What's in your hand, anyhow, outside of your legal right? Looks to me they hold them all from ace down." Dick laughed. "You wait and see," he said. CHAPTER VII TWO MESSAGES Because Dick had always lived a clean, outdoor life he rallied magnificently from the relapse into which his indiscretion had thrown him. For a few days Dr. Watson was worried by reason of the danger of blood-poisoning, but the splendid vitality of his patient quickly swept him out of danger. Soon he was hobbling round with a cane, and shortly after was able to take long rides over the country with his friend. On one of these occasions, while they were climbing a hill trail, Davis broke a long silence to say aloud to himself: "There's just one way to account for it." "Then it can't be a woman you're thinking of," Dick laughed; "for as far as I can make out there's always several ways to account for them, and the one you guess usually ain't right." "You've said it, son. It's a woman. I been doing some inquiring about this Miss Valdés, and from all telling she's the prettiest ever." "I could have told you that. It ain't a secret." "I notice you didn't tell me." "You didn't ask, you old geezer." "Sho! You ain't such a clam when it comes to pretty girls. You didn't talk about her, because your haid's been full of her. It don't take a mind-reader to know that." "You're ce'tainly a wizard, Steve," came back his partner dryly. "I know you and your little ways by this time." "So I'm in love, am I?" "You're there, or traveling there mighty fast. Course I don't know about the lady." "What don't you know about her?" asked Dick, who was by way of being both amused and pleased that the subject had been broached. "How she feels about the proposition. She had you kicked out of the house. That looks kinder as if your show was slim. She did send over right often to see how you was getting along, but I reckon she didn't want to feel responsible for your turning up your toes. Women are that way, even when they hate a man real thorough." "You're quite an expert. I wonder you know so much about them, and you never married." To this sarcastic reminder Steve made philosophic reply. "Mebbe it was because I knew so much about them I never married." "You're surely a wise old rooster. You think she hates me, then?" Davis covered a grin. He knew from his friend's tone that the barb had pierced the skin. "Well, looking at it like a reasonable man, there ain't any question about it. Soon as you begin to mend she quits taking any interest in you; don't know you're on the earth any more. A reasonable man----" "A reasonable goat!" Dick reined up till the other horse was abreast of his, then dived into his pocket and handed Steve a letter. "She's quit taking any interest in me, has she? Don't know I'm on the earth, you old owl? Looks like it, and her sending me a letter this very day." Steve turned the square envelope around and weighed it in his hand. "Am I to read this here _billy doo_?" he wanted to know. "Yes, sir." Gravely the old miner opened and read the following: "Miss Valdés begs to inform Mr. Gordon that she has reason to fear Mr. Gordon's life is not safe in the present feeling of the country. Out of regard for her people, whom she would greatly regret to see in trouble, Miss Valdés would recommend Mr. Gordon to cut short his pleasure trip to New Mexico. Otherwise Miss Valdés declines any responsibility for the result." "Can't be called very affectionate, can it?" was Mr. Davis's comment. "Ain't it jest a leetle mite--well, like she was writing with a poker down her back?" "I didn't say it was affectionate," snorted the young man. "Oh, I allowed you thought she was in love with you." "I didn't say or think anything of the kind," protested Dick indignantly. "I said she hadn't forgotten me." "Well, she ain't, if that's any comfort." With which, Mr. Davis handed back the letter. "What did you answer to the _billy doo_?" "I said that Mr. Gordon presented his compliments and begged to reply that he had large business interests in this part of the country that necessitated a visit of some length, and probably in the end a permanent residence here; and that he would very fully absolve Miss Valdés of any responsibility for his remaining." "Both of you used up a heap of dictionary words; but that wasn't so bad, either," grinned Steve. "You got back at her, all right, for the 'pleasure trip' part of her letter, but I expect you and she would disagree as to what that 'permanent residence' means. I hope it won't be more permanent than you think." From the rocks above came the sound of an exploding rifle. Dick's hat was lifted from his head as by a gust of wind. Immediately after they caught sight of a slim, boyish figure dodging among the rocks. "There he goes," cried Dick; and he slid from his saddle and took up the chase. "Come back. There may be several of them up there," called the old miner. Gordon paid no attention; and Steve had nothing left to do but follow him up the rocky hillside. "He'll spoil that game leg of his again, first thing he knows," the old-timer growled as he followed in the rear. Presently a second shot rang out. Davis hastened forward as fast as he could. At the top of the ridge he came on his companion sitting behind a rock. "Lost him in these rocks, did you?" he asked. A sardonic smile lit up the face of his friend. "No, Steve, I found him; but he persuaded me I oughtn't to travel so fast on this leg. You see, he had a rifle, and my six-gun was outclassed. I couldn't get into range, and decided to hunt cover, after he took another crack at me." "I should think you'd know better than to go hunting bear with a twenty-two." "It ain't a twenty-two; but, for a fact, it don't carry a mile. I got what I want, though. I know who the gentleman is." "Sure it wasn't a lady, Dick?" "Don't you, Steve," warned Gordon. "She's a lady and a Christian. You wouldn't say that if you knew her. Besides, she saved my life." "Who was it? That Pesky fellow?" "No. He's hot-blooded; but he wouldn't strike below the belt. He's a gentleman. This was one of the lads on her home-place, an eighteen-year-old boy named Pedro. He's in love with her. I saw it soon as I set eyes on him the day I went there. He worships her as if she were a saint. Of course, he loves her without any hope; but that doesn't keep him from being jealous of me. He's heard about the row, and he thinks he'll do her a service by putting me out of the game." "Sort of fix you up with that permanent residence you were talking about," suggested Steve. "He didn't make good this time, anyhow. I'll bet a hat he'd catch it if Miss Valdés knew what he had been doing." "She may be a Christian and all you say, Dick, but she don't run a Sunday school on her ranch and train these young greasers proper. I don't like this ambushing. They might git the wrong man." "I'm not partial to it, myself. That lead pill hummed awful close to me." They had by this time returned to the road, and Dick picked up his hat from the dust. There were two little round holes in the crown, and one in the brim. "If he had shot an inch lower I would have qualified for that permanent residence, Steve," Dick laughed. "Hmp! Let's get out of here _pronto_, Dick. I'm darned if I like to be the target at a shooting gallery. And next time I go riding there's going to be a good old Winchester lying over my saddle-horn." Now, as very chance would have it, Miss Valdés, too, rode the hill trail that afternoon; and every step of the broncos lessened the distance between them. They met at a turn of the steep path. Davis was in the lead, and the girl passed him just in time to meet Dick's bow. It was a very respectful bow; but there was a humorous irony in the gray eyes that met hers, which hinted at a different story. She made as if to pass him, but, on an impulse, reined in. His ventilated hat came off again, as he waited for her to speak. For an instant she let her gaze rest in his, the subdued crimson of her cheeks triumphant over the olive. But the color was not of embarrassment, and in her eyes shone the spirit of a descendant of old Don Alvaro de Valdés y Castillo. She sat her mount superbly; as jimp and erect as a willow sapling. "You received a message from me this morning, sir," she said haughtily. "Yes, Miss Valdés; I received a message from you this morning and answered it. This afternoon I received one from one of your friends; but I haven't answered that yet." As he spoke he let his eyes fall upon the hat in his hand. Hers followed his, and she started in spite of herself. "Did--did--were you shot at?" she asked, with dilating eyes. "Oh, well! He didn't hit me. It's not worth mentioning." "Not worth mentioning? Who did it, sir? I demand to know who did it?" He hesitated as he picked his words. "You see--well--he was behind a rock, and not very close, at that." "But you knew him. I demand his name. He shall be punished. I myself will see to that." "I'll do what punishing needs to be done, Miss Valdés. Much obliged to you, just the same." Her eyes flashed. "You forget, sir, that they are my people. I gave orders--the very strictest orders. I told them that, no matter what you did or how far you went, you were not to be molested." "How far I went? You've been served with a legal notice, then? I thought you must have by this time." "Yes, sir, I have. But neither on that nor any other subject do I desire any conversation with you." "Of course not, me being a spy and all those other things you mentioned," he said quietly. "I stopped to tell you only one thing. You must leave this country. Prosecute your suit from a distance. My people are wrought up. You see for yourself now." Her gauntlet indicated the hat. "They do seem to be enthusiastic about hating me," he agreed pleasantly. "I suppose I'm not what you would call popular here." She gave a gesture of annoyance. "Can't you understand that this is no time for flippancy? Can't you make him see it, sir?" she called to Davis. That gentleman shook his head. "He'll go his own way, I expect. He always was that bull-headed." "Firm--I call it," smiled Gordon. "I ask you to remember that he has had his warning," the girl called to Steve. "I've had several," acknowledged Dick, his eyes again on the hat. "There won't be anybody to blame but myself." "You know who shot at you. I saw it in your face. Tell me, and I will see that he is punished," she urged. Dick shook his head imperturbably. "No; I reckon that wouldn't do. I'm playing a lone hand. You're on the other side. How can I come and ask you to fight my battles for me? That wouldn't be playing the game. I'll attend to the young man that mistook me for a rabbit." "Very well. As you like. But you are quite mistaken if you think I asked on your account. He had disobeyed my orders, and he deserved to pay for it. I have no further interest in the matter." "Certainly. I understand that. What interest could Miss Valdés have in a spy and a cheat?" he drawled negligently. The young woman flushed, made as if to speak, then turned away abruptly. She touched her pony with the spur, and as it took the outside of the slanting, narrow trail, its hoof slipped on loose gravel and went over the edge. Dick's arm went out like a streak of lightning and caught the rein. For an instant the issue hung in doubt whether he could hold the bronco and save her a nasty fall. The taut muscles of his lean arm and body grew rigid with the strain before the animal found its feet and the path. "Thank you," the young woman said quietly, and at once disengaged the rein from his fingers by a turn of the pony's head. Yet a moment, and she had disappeared round a bend in the trail. Gordon had observed with satisfaction that there had been no sign of fear in her eyes at the danger she faced, no screaming or wild clutching at his arm for help. Her word of thanks to him had been as cool and low as the rest of her talk. "She's that game. Ain't she a thoroughbred, Steve?" demanded Dick, with deep delight in his fair foe. "You bet she is. It's a shame for you to be annoying her this way. Why don't you come to an agreement with her?" "She ain't ready for that yet. When the time comes I'll dictate the terms of the treaty. Don't you think it's about time for us to be heading back home?" "Then we'll meet your lady of the ranch quicker, won't we?" chuckled Davis. "Funny you didn't think about going back till after she had passed." But if Dick had hoped to see her again he was disappointed for that day, at least. They reached Corbett's with never another glimpse of her; nor was there any sign of her horse in front of the post office and general store. "Must have taken that lower trail that leads back to the ranch," hazarded Gordon. "I reckon," agreed his friend. "Seems funny, too; her knowing you was on the upper one." "Guy me all you like. I can stand it," returned Dick cheerfully. For he had scored once in spite of her. He had saved her from a fall, at a place where, to say the least, it would have been dangerous. She had announced herself indifferent to his existence; but the very fact that she had felt called upon to say so gave denial to the statement. She might hate him, and she probably did; at least, she had him on her mind a good deal. The young man was sure of that. He was shrewdly of opinion that his chances were better if she hated him than if she never thought of him at all. CHAPTER VIII TAMING AN OUTLAW "Something doing back of the corral, Mr. Gordon." Yeager, the horse-wrangler at Corbett's, stopped in front of the porch, and jerked his head, with a twisted grin, in the direction indicated. Everything about the little stableman was crooked. From the slope of his legs to the set of his bullet head on the narrow shoulders, he was awry. But he had an instinct about horses that was worth more than the beauty of any slim, tanned _vaquero_ of the lot. Only one horse had he failed to subdue. That was Teddy, a rakish sorrel that had never yet been ridden. Many had tried it, but none had stuck to the saddle to the finish; and some had been carried from the corral to the hospital. Dick got up and strolled back, with his hands in his pockets. A dozen _vaqueros_ and loungers sat and stood around the mouth of the corral, from which a slim young Mexican was leading the sorrel. "So, it's you, Master Pedro," thought the young American. "I didn't expect to see you here." The lad met his eyes quietly as he passed, giving him a sullen nod of greeting; evidently he hoped he had not been recognized as the previous day's ambusher. "Is Pedro going to ride the outcast?" Dick asked of Yeager, in surprise. Yeager grinned. "He's going to try. The boy's slap-up rider, but he ain't got it in him to break Teddy--no, nor any man in New Mexico ain't." Dick looked the horse over carefully, as it stood there while the boy tightened the girths--feet wide apart, small head low, and red eyes gleaming wickedly. Deep-chested, with mighty shoulders, barrel-bodied like an Indian pony, Teddy showed power in every line of him. It was easy to guess him for the unbroken outlaw he was. There was a swift scatter backward of the onlookers as Pedro swung to the saddle. Before his right foot was in the stirrup, the bronco bucked. The young Mexican, light and graceful, settled to the saddle with a delighted laugh, and drove the spurs home. The animal humped like a camel, head and tail down, went into the air and back to earth, with four feet set like pile-drivers. It was a shock to drive a man's spine together like a concertina; but Pedro took it limply, giving to the jar of the impact as the pony came down again and again. Teddy tasted the quirt along his quarters, and the pain made him frantic. He went screaming straight into the air, hung there a long instant, and fell over backward. The lad was out of the saddle in time and no more, and back in his seat before the outlaw had scrambled to his feet. The spur starred him to renewed life. Like a flash of lightning, the brute's head swung round and snapped at the boy's leg. Pedro wrenched the head back in time to save himself; and Teddy went to sun-fishing, and presently to fence-rowing. The dust flew in clouds. It wrapped them in so that the boy saw nothing but the wicked ears in front of him. His throat became a lime-kiln, his eyes stared like those of a man weary from long wakefulness. The hot sun baked his bare neck and head, the while Teddy rocketed into the sky and pounded into the earth. Neither rider nor mount had mercy. The quirt went back and forth like a piston-rod, and the outlaw, in screaming fury, leaped and tossed like a small boat in a tremendous sea of cross-currents. "It's sure hell-for-leather. That hawss can tie himself in more knots than any that was ever foaled," commented a tobacco-chewing puncher in a scarlet kerchief. "Pedro is a straight-up rider, but he ain't got it in him to master Teddy--no; nor no man ain't," contributed Yeager again proudly. "Hawsses is like men. Some of 'em can't be broke; you can only kill them. Teddy's one of them kind." Dick differed, but did not say so. "Look at him now. There he goes weaving. That hawss is a devil, I tell you. He's got every hawss-trick there is, and all of 'em worked up to a combination of his own. Look out there, Ped." The warning came too late. Teddy had jammed into the corral fence, and ground his rider's knee till the torture of the pain had distracted his attention. Once more then swept round the ugly stub nose, and the yellow teeth fastened in the leather chaps with a vicious snap that did not entirely miss the flesh of the leg. The boy, with a cry of pain and terror, slipped to the ground, his nerve completely shaken. The sorrel lashed out with his hind feet, and missed his head by a hairbreadth. Pedro turned to run, stumbled, and went down. The outlaw was upon him like a streak, striking with sharp chiseled forefeet at the prostrate man. Along the line of spectators ran a groan, a kind of sobbing murmur of despair. A young Mexican who had just ridden up flung himself from his horse and ran forward, though he knew he was too late. "Pedro's done for," cried one. And so he would have been but for the watchfulness and alertness of one man. Dick had been ready the instant the outlaw had flung against the fence. He had been prepared to see the boy weaken, and had anticipated it in his forward leap. The furious animal had risen to drive home his hoofs, when an arm shot out, caught the bridle, and dragged him sideways. This unexpected intervention dazed the animal; and while he still stood uncertain, Gordon swung to the saddle and dug his heels into the bleeding sides. As to a signal the bronco rose, and the battle was on again. But this time the victory was not in doubt to the onlookers after the first half-dozen jumps. For this man rode like a master. He held a close but easy seat, and a firm rein, along which ran the message of an iron will to the sensitive foaming mouth which held the bit tight-clamped. This brown, lithe man was all bone and sinew and muscle. He rode like a Centaur, as if he were a part of the horse, as easily and gracefully as a chip does the waves. The outlaw was furious with hate, blind with a madness that surged through it; but all its weaving and fence-rowing could not shake the perfect poise of the rider, nor tinge with fear the glad fighting edge that throbbed like a trumpet-call in the blood. Slowly the certainty of this sifted to the animal. The pitches grew less volcanic, died presently into fitful mechanical rises and falls that foretold the finish. Its spirit broken, with that terrible incubus of a human clothes-pin still clamped to the saddle, Teddy gave up, and for the first time hung his head in token of defeat. Dick tossed the bridle to Yeager and swung off. "There aren't any of them so bad, if a fellow will stay with them," he said. "Where did you learn your riding, partner?" asked the puncher with the scarlet kerchief knotted around his neck. "I used to ride for an outfit up in Wyoming," returned Dick. "Well, I'd like to ride for that outfit, if all the boys stick to the saddle like you," returned the kerchiefed one. Gordon did not explain that he had been returned winner in more than one bucking-bronco contest in the days when he rode the range. He was already sauntering toward the house. From a side porch Pedro, awaiting the arrival of a rig to take him back to the ranch, sat with his bruised leg on a chair and watched the approach of the stalwart figure that came as lightly as though it trod on eggs. He had hobbled here and watched the other do easily what had been beyond him. His heart was bitter with the sense of defeat, none the less because this man whom he had lately tried to kill had just saved his life. "_Como_?" asked Dick, stopping in front of him to brush dust from his trousers with a pocket-handkerchief. Pedro mumbled something. Under his olive skin the color burned. Tears of mortification were in his eyes. "You saved my life, _señor_. Take it. It is yours," the boy cried. "What shall _I_ do with it?" "I care not. Make an end of it, as on Tuesday I tried to make an end of yours," cried the lad wildly. Gordon took off his hat and looked at the bullet holes casually. "You did not miss it very far, Pedro." "You knew then, _señor_, that I was the man?" the Mexican asked in surprise. "Oh, yes; I knew that." "And you did nothing?" "Yes; I ducked behind a rock," laughed Gordon. "But you make no move to arrest me?" "No." "But, if I should shoot again?" "I expect to carry a rifle next time I go riding, Pedro." The Mexican considered this. "You are a brave man, _señor_." The Anglo-Saxon snorted scornfully. "Because I ain't bluffed out by a kid that needs a horse-whip laid on good and hard? Don't you make any mistake, boy. I'm going to give you the licking of your young life. You were due for it to-day, but it will have to be postponed, I reckon, till you're on your feet again." Pedro's eyes glittered dangerously. "Señor Gordon has saved my life. It is his. But no living man lays hands on Pedro Menendez," the boy said, drawing himself haughtily to his full slender height. "You'll learn better, Pedro, before the week's out. You've got to stand the gaff, just the same as a white boy would. You're in for a good whaling, and there ain't any use getting heroic about it." "I think not, Señor Gordon." There was a suggestion of repressed emotion in the voice. Dick turned sharply at the words. A lean, clean-built young fellow stood beside the porch. He stepped up lightly, so that he was behind the chair in which Pedro had been sitting. Seen side by side thus, there could be no mistaking the kinship between the two Mexicans. Both were good looking, both lean and muscular, both had a sort of banked volcanic passion in their black eyes. Dangerous men, these slim swarthy youths, judged Gordon with a sure instinct. "You think not, Pedro Number 2," retorted the American lightly. "My name is Pablo, Señor--Pablo Menendez," corrected the young man with dignity. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Menendez. I was just telling your brother--if Pedro is your brother--that I intend to wear out a buggy whip on him as soon as his leg is well," explained Dick pleasantly. "No. You have saved his life. It is yours. Take it." The black eyes of the Mexican met steadily the blue-gray ones of the American. "Much obliged, but I can't use it. As soon as I've tanned his hide I'm through with Master Pedro," returned the miner carelessly. He was turning away when Pablo stopped him. The musical voice was low and clear. "Señor Gordon understands then. Pedro will pay. He will endure shot for shot if the Señor wishes it. But no man living shall lay a whip upon him." Gordon shrugged his shoulders. "We shall see, my friend. The first time I meet him after his leg is all right Master Pedro gets the licking he needs." "You are warned, _señor_." Dick nodded and walked away, humming a song lightly. The black eyes of the Mexicans followed him as long as he was in sight. A passionate hatred burned in those of the elder brother. Those of Pedro were full of a wistful misery. With all his heart he admired this man whom he had yesterday tried to kill, who had to-day saved his life, and in the next breath promised him a thrashing. He gave him a grudging hero-worship, even while he hated him; for the man trod the world with the splendor of a young god, and yet was an enemy of the young mistress to whom he owed his full devotion. Pedro's mind was made up. If this Gordon laid a whip on him, he would drive a knife into his heart. CHAPTER IX OF DON MANUEL AND MOONLIGHT Don Manuel sat curled up in one of the deep window-seats of the living room at the Valdés home, and lifted his clear tenor softly in an old Spanish love-song to the accompaniment of the strumming of a guitar. It is possible that the young Spaniard sang the serenade impersonally, as much to the elderly duenna who slumbered placidly on the other side of the fireplace as to his lovely young hostess. But his eyes told another story. They strayed continuously toward that slim, gracious figure sitting in the fireglow with a piece of embroidery in the long fingers. He could look at her the more ardently because she was not looking at him. The fringes of her lids were downcast to the dusky cheeks, the better to examine the work upon which she was engaged. Don Manuel felt the hour propitious. It was impossible for him not to feel that in the past weeks somehow he had lost touch with her. Something had come between them; some new interest that threatened his influence. But to-night he had again woven the spell of romance around her. As she sat there, a sweet shadowy form touched to indistinctness by the soft dusk, he knew her gallant heart had gone with him in the Castilian battle song he had sung, had remained with him in the transition to the more tender note of love. He rose, thumbed a chord or two, then set his guitar down softly. For a time he looked out into the valley swimming in a silvery light, and under its spell the longing in him came to words. "It is a night of nights, my cousin. Is it not that a house is a prison in such an hour? Let us forth." So forth they fared to the porch, and from the porch to the sentinel rock which rose like a needle from the summit of a neighboring hill. Across the sea of silver they looked to the violet mountains, soft and featureless in the lowered lights of evening, and both of them felt it earth's hour of supreme beauty. "It is good to live--and to know this," she said at last softly. "It is good to live and, best of all, to know you," he made answer slowly. She did not turn from the hills, made no slightest sign that she had heard; but to herself she was saving: "It has come." While he pleaded his cause passionately, with all the ardor of hot-blooded Spain, the girl heard only with her ears. She was searching her heart for the answer to the question she asked of it: "_Is this the man?_" A month ago she might have found her answer easier; but she felt that in some subtle, intangible way she was not the same girl as the Valencia Valdés she had known then. Something new had come into her life; something that at times exalted her and seemed to make life's currents sweep with more abandon. She was at a loss to know what it meant; but, though she would not confess it even to herself, she was aware that the American was the stimulating cause. He was her enemy, and she detested him; and, in the same breath with which she would tell herself this, would come that warm beat of exultant blood she had never known till lately. With all his ardor, Don Manuel never quickened her pulses. She liked him, understood him, appreciated his value. He was certainly very handsome, and, without doubt, a brave, courteous gentleman of her own set with whom she ought to be happy if she loved him. Ah! If she knew what love were. So, when the torrent of Pesquiera's speech was for the moment dammed, she could only say: "I don't know, Manuel." Confidently he explained away her uncertainty: "A maiden's love is retiring, shy, like the first flowers of the spring. She doubts it, fears it, hides it, my beloved, like----" He was just swimming into his vocal stride when she cut him short decisively: "It isn't that way with me, Manuel. I should tell you if I knew. Tell me what love is, my cousin, and I may find an answer." He was off again in another lover's rhapsody. This time there was a smile almost of amusement in her eyes as she listened. "If it is like that, I don't think I love you, Manuel. I don't think poetry about you, and I don't dream about you. Life isn't a desert when you are away, though I like having you here. I don't believe I care for you that way, not if love is what the poets and my cousin Manuel say it is." Her eyes had been fixed absently now and again on an approaching wagon. It passed on the road below them, and she saw, as she looked down, that her _vaquero_ Pedro lay in the bottom of it upon some hay. "What is the matter? Are you hurt?" she called down. The lad who was driving looked up, and flashed a row of white teeth in a smile of reassurance to his mistress. "It is Pedro, _doña_. He tried to ride that horse Teddy, and it threw him. Before it could kill him, the _Americano_ jumped in and saved his life." "What American?" she asked quickly: but already she knew by the swift beating of her heart. "Señor Muir; the devil fly away with him," replied the boy loyally. Already his mistress was descending toward him with her sure stride, Don Manuel and his suit forgotten in the interest of this new development of the feud. She made the boy go over the tale minutely, asking questions sometimes when she wanted fuller details. Meanwhile, Manuel Pesquiera waited, fuming. Most certainly this fellow Gordon was very much in the way. Jealousy began to add its sting to the other reasons good for hastening his revenge. When Valencia turned again to her cousin her eyes were starry. "He is brave--this man. Is he not?" she cried. It happened that Don Manuel, too, was a rider in a thousand. He thought that Fate had been unkind to refuse him this chance his enemy had found. But Pesquiera was a gentleman, and his answer came ungrudgingly: "My cousin, he is a hero--as I told you before." "But you think him base," she cried quickly. "I let the facts speak for me," he shrugged. "Do they condemn him--absolutely? I think not." She was a creature of impulse, too fine of spirit to be controlled by the caution of speech that convention demands. She would do justice to her foe, no matter how Manuel interpreted it. What the young man did think was that she was the most adorable and desirable of earth's dwellers, the woman he must win at all hazards. "He came here a spy, under a false name. Surely you do not forget that, Valencia," he said. "I do not forget, either, that we flung his explanations in his face; refused him the common justice of a hearing. Had we given him a chance, all might have been well." "My cousin is generous," Manuel smiled bitterly. "I would be just." "Be both, my beloved, to poor Manuel Pesquiera, an unhappy wreck on the ocean of love, seeking in vain for the harbor." "There are many harbors, Manuel, for the brave sailor. If one is closed, another is open. He hoists sail, and beats across the main to another port." "For some. But there are others who will to one port or none. I am of those." When she left him it was with the feeling that Don Manuel would be hard hit, if she found herself unable to respond to his love. He was not like this American, competent, energetic, full of the turbulent life of a new nation which turns easily from defeat to fresh victory. Her heart was full of sympathy, and even pity, for him. But these are only akin to love. It was not long before Valencia began to suspect that she had not been told the whole truth about the affair of the outlaw horse. There was some air of mystery, of expectation, among her _vaqueros_. At her approach, conversation became suspended, and perceptibly shifted to other topics. Moreover, Pedro was troubled in his mind, out of all proportion to the extent of his wound. She knew it would be no use to question him; but she made occasion soon to send for Juan Gardiez, the lad who had driven him home. From the doorway of the living-room, Juan presently ducked a bow at her. "The _señorita_ sent for me?" "Yes. Come in, Juan. Take that chair." Now, though Juan had often sat down in the kitchen, he had never before been invited to seat himself in this room. Wherefore, the warm smile that now met him, and went with the invitation, filled him with a more than mild surprise. Gingerly he perched himself on the edge of a chair, twirling his dusty sombrero round and round as a relief to his embarrassment. "I am sorry, Juan, that you don't like me or trust me any longer," his mistress began. "But, _doña_, I do," exclaimed the boy, nearly falling from his chair in amazement. She shook her head. "No; I can see you don't. None of you do. You keep secrets from me. You whisper and hide things." "But, no, _señorita_----" "Yes. I can see it plainly. My people do not love me. I must go away from them, since----" Juan, having in his tender boyish heart a great love for his _doña_, could not stand this. "No, no, no, _señorita_! It is not so. I do assure you it is a mistake. There is nothing about the cattle, nothing about the sheep you do not know. It is all told--all." "_Muy bien_. Yet you conceal what happened yesterday to Pedro." "He was thrown----" She stopped him with a gesture. "I don't want to know that again. Tell me what is in the air; what is planned for Señor Gordon; what Pedro has to do with it? Tell me, or leave me to know my people no longer love me." The boy shook his head and let his eyes fall before her clear gaze. "I can tell nothing." "Look at me, Juan," she commanded, and waited till he obeyed. "Pedro it was that shot at this man Gordon. Is it not so?" His eyes grew wide. "Some one has told?" he said questioningly. "No matter. It was he. Yesterday the American saved his life. Surely Pedro does not still----" She did not finish in words, but her eyes chiseled into his stolid will to keep silent. "The stranger invites evil. He would rob the _señorita_ and us all. He has said he would horsewhip Pedro. He rides up and down the valley, taunting us with his laugh. Is he a god, and are we slaves?" "He said he would horsewhip Pedro, did he?" "_Si señorita_; when Pedro told him to take his life, since it was his." "And this was after Pedro had been thrown?" "Directly after. The American is a devil, _doña_. He rode that man-killer like Satan. Did he not already know that it was Pedro who shot at him? Is not Pedro a sure shot, and did he not miss twice? Twice, _señorita_; which makes it certain that this _Señor_ Gordon is a devil." "Don't talk nonsense, Juan. I want to know how he came to tell Pedro that he would whip him." "He came up to the piazza when he had broken the heart of that other devil, the man-killer, and Pedro was sitting there. Then Pedro told him that he was the one who had shot at him, but he only laughed. He always laughs, this fiend. He knew it already, just as he knows everything. Then it was he said he had saved the boy to whip him." "And that is all?" "_Por Dios_--all" shrugged the lad. "Are there others beside you that believe this nonsense about the American being in league with evil?" "It is not nonsense, _señorita_, begging your pardon," protested Juan earnestly. "And Ferdinand and Pablo and Sebastian, they all believe it." Valencia knew this complicated the situation. These simple peons would do, under the impulsion of blind bigotry, what they would hesitate to do otherwise. Let them think him a devil, and they would stick at nothing to remove him. Her first thought was that she must keep informed of the movements of her people. Otherwise she would not be able to frustrate them. "Juan, if this man is really what you think, he will work magic to destroy those who oppose him. It will not be safe for any of my people to set themselves against him. I know a better way to attack him. I want to talk with Pablo and Sebastian. You must work with me. If they try to do anything, let me know at once; otherwise they will be in great danger. Do you understand?" "_Si, señorita_." "And will you let me know, quietly, without telling them?" "_Si, señorita_." "That is good. Now, I know my Juan trusts and loves his mistress. You have done well. Go, now." From the point of view of her people the girl knew it was all settled. If the stranger whipped Pedro, the boy would kill him unless he used magic to prevent it. If he did use it, they must contrive to nullify his magic. There was, too, Don Manuel, who would surely strike soon, and however the encounter might terminate, it was a thing to dread miserably. But, though her misery was acute, she was of a temperament too hopeful and impulsive to give up to despair so long as action was possible. While she did not yet know what she could do, she was not one to sit idle while events hurried to a crisis. Meantime she had her majordomo order a horse saddled for her to ride over to Corbett's for the mail. CHAPTER X MR. AINSA DELIVERS A MESSAGE Back to Davis, who had stopped to tighten his saddle-girth, came Dick Gordon's rather uncertain tenor in rollicking song: "Bloomin' idol made o' mud-- Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd-- Plucky lot she cared for idols when I Kissed 'er where she stud!" "There he goes, advertising himself for a target to every greaser in the county. Pity he can't ride along decent, if he's got to ride at all in these hills, where every gulch may be a trap," grumbled the old miner. He jerked the leather strap down with a final tug, pulled himself to the saddle, and cantered after his friend. "Elephints a pilin' teak In the sludgy, squdgy creek, Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you Was 'arf afraid to speak!" "No danger of the silence hanging heavy here while you're around trying to be a whole opery troupe all by your lonesome," suggested Davis. "Seems to me if you got to trapse round this here country hunting for that permanent residence, it ain't necessary to disturb the Sabbath calm so on-feelin'. I don't seem to remember hearing any great demand for an encore after the rendering of the first verse." "You do ce'tainly remind me of a lien with one chick, Steve," laughed Dick. "I ain't worrying about you none. It's my own scalp kinder hangs loose every time you make one of your fool-plays," explained the other. "Go pipe that up to your granny. Think I ain't learned my ABC's about my dry-nurse yet?" "I'm going back to the gold camp to-morrow." "You been saying that ever since you came here. Why don't you go, old Calamity Prophet?" "Well, I am. Going to-morrow." "You've hollered wolf too often, Steve. I'll believe it when I see it." "Well, why don't you behave? What's the use of making a holy Caruso of yourself? Nobody ain't ever pined to hear you tune up, anyhow." "All right. Mum's the word, old hoss. I'll be as solemn as if I was going to my own funeral." "I ain't persuaded yet you're not." "I'm right fully persuaded. Hallo! Stranger visiting at Corbett's. Guess I'll unlimber the artillery." They dismounted, and, before turning over his horse to Yeager, Dick unstrapped from the saddle his rifle. Nowadays he never for a moment was separated from some weapon of defense. For he knew that an attack upon his life was almost a certainty in the near future. Though his manner was debonair, he saw to it that nobody got a chance to tamper with his guns. "Make you acquainted with Mr. Ramon Ainsa, gentlemen. Mr. Gordon--Mr. Davis," said Corbett, standing in the doorway in his shirt-sleeves. Mr. Ainsa, a very young man with the hint of a black mustache over his boyish mouth, clicked his heels together and bowed deeply. He expressed himself as delighted, but did not offer to shake hands. He was so stiff that Dick wanted to ask him whether the poker he had swallowed was indigestible. "I am the bearer of a message to Mr. Richard Muir Gordon," he said with another bow. "My name," acknowledged its owner. "You ain't missed a letter of it. Must have been at the christening, I expect." "A message from Don Manuel Pesquiera." "Good enough. That's right friendly of him. How's the _don_?" And Dick, the sparkle of malicious humor gleaming in his eye, shook Mr. Ainsa warmly by the hand, in spite of that gentleman's effort to escape. The messenger sidestepped as soon as he could, and began again, very red: "Don Manuel considers himself deeply insulted, and desires through me, his friend, to present this note." Dick looked at the envelope, and back at the youth who had handed it to him, after which he crowded in and pump-handled the other's arm again. "That's awfully good of him, Mr. 'Tain't-so." "My name is Ainsa, at your service," corrected the New Mexican. "Beg pardon--Ainsa. I expect I hadn't ought to have irrigated the _don_ so thorough, but it's real good of him to overlook it and write me a friendly note. It's uncommon handsome of him after I disarranged his laundry so abrupt." "If the _señor_ will read the letter--" interrupted the envoy desperately. "Certainly. But let me offer you something to drink first, Mr. Ain't-so." "Ainsa." "Ainsa, I should say. A plain American has to go some to round up and get the right brand on some of these blue-blooded names of yours. What'll it be?" "Thank you. I am not thirsty. I prefer not." With which Mr. Ainsa executed another bow. "Just as you say, colonel. But you'll let me know if you change your mind." Dick indicated a chair to his visitor, and took another himself; then leisurely opened the epistle and read it. After he had done so he handed it to Davis. "This is for you, too, Steve. The _don_ is awfully anxious to have you meet Mr. Ainsa and have a talk with him," chuckled Gordon. "'To arrange a meeting with your friend,' Why, it's a duel he means, Dick." "That's what I gathered. We're getting right up in society. A duel's more etiquettish than bridge-whist, Steve. Ain't you honored, being invited to one. You're to be my second, you see." "I'm hanged if I do," exploded the old miner promptly. "Sho! It ain't hard, when you learn the steps." "I ain't going to have nothing to do with it. Tommyrot! That's what I call it." "Don't say it so loud, Steve, or you'll hurt Mr. Ainsa's feelings," chided his partner. "Think I'm going to make a monkey of myself at my age?" Dick turned mournfully to the messenger of war. "I'm afraid it's off, Mr. Ainsa. My second says he won't play." "We shall be very glad to furnish you a second, sir." "All right, and while you're at it furnish a principal, too. I'm an American. I write my address Cripple Creek, Colorado, U.S.A. We don't fight duels in my country any more. They've gone out with buckled shoes and knee-pants, Mr. Ainsa." "Do I understand that Mr. Gordon declines to meet my friend on the field of honor?" "That's the size of it." "I am then instruct' to warn you to go armed, as my friend will punish your insolence at sight informally." It was just at this moment that Mrs. Corbett, flushed with the vain chase of her fleeing brood of chickens, came perspiring round the house. Her large, round person, not designed by nature for such arduous exercise, showed signs of fatigue. "I declare, if them chickens ain't got out, and me wanting two for supper," she panted, arms on her ample hips. "That's too bad. Let me chase them," volunteered Dick. He grasped his rifle, took a quick, careless aim, and fired. A long-legged, flying cockerel keeled over and began to kick. "Gracious me!" ejaculated the woman. "Two, did you say?" asked the man behind the gun. "I said two." Again the rifle cracked. A second chicken flopped down, this one with its head shot off at the neck. The eyes of the minister of war were large with amazement. The distance had been seventy yards, if it had been a step. When little Jimmie Corbett came running forward with the two dead cockerels a slight examination showed that the first had also been shot through the neck. Dick smiled. "Shall I shoot another and send it for a present to Don Manuel, Jimmie?" he pleasantly inquired. Mr. Ainsa met his persiflage promptly. "I do assure you, _señor_, it will not be at all necesair. Don Manuel can shoot chickens for himself--and larger game." "I'm sure he'll find good hunting," the other gave him back, looking up genially. "He is a good hunter, _señor_." "Don't doubt it a bit," granted the cordial Anglo-Saxon. "Trouble is that even the best hunters can't tell whether they are going to bring back the bear, or Mr. Bear is going to get them. That's what makes it exciting, I reckon." "Is Don Manuel going bear-hunting?" asked Jimmie, with a newly aroused boy interest. "Yes, Jimmie. One's been bothering him right considerable, and he's going gunning for it," explained Dick. "Gee! I hope he gets it." "And I hope he don't," laughed Gordon. "Must you really be going, colonel? Can't I do a thing for you in the refreshment line first? Well, so long. Good hunting for your friend. See him later." Thus cheerfully did the irrepressible Gordon speed Mr. Ainsa on his way. That young man had somehow the sense of having been too youthful to cope with the gay Gordon. * * * * * Valencia Valdés had not ridden far when she met Ramon Ainsa returning from his mission. He was a sunny young fellow, whom she had known since they had been children together. It occurred to her that he bore himself in a manner that suggested something important on hand. His boyish mouth was set severely, and he greeted her with a punctilio quite unusual. At once she jumped shrewdly to a conclusion. "Did you bring our mail back with you from Corbett's?" she innocently inquired. "Yes, _señorita_." "Since when have I been '_señorita_' to you, Ramon?" "Valencia, I should say." He blushed. "Indeed, I should think so. It hasn't been so long since you called me Val." "Ah! Those happy days!" he sighed. "Fiddlesticks!" she promptly retorted. "Don't be a goose. You're not in the sere and yellow yet. Don't forget you'll not be twenty-one till next month." "One counts time not by years, but by its fullness," he said, in the manner of one who could tell volumes if he would. "I see. And what has been happening of such tremendous importance?" Mr. Ainsa attempted to twirl his mustache, and was as silent as honor demanded. "Pooh! It's no secret. Did you find Mr. Gordon at home?" "At home?" he gasped. "Well, at Corbett's, then?" "I didn't know---- Who told you--er----" "I'm not blind and deaf and dumb, you know." "But you certainly have a great deal of imagination," he said, recovering himself. "Not a bit of it. You carried a challenge to this American from Don Manuel. Now, I want to know the answer." "Really, my dear girl----" "You needn't try to evade me. I'm going to know, if I stay here all night." "It's a hold-up, as the Americans say," he joked. "I don't care what you call it. You have got to tell me, you know." "But I can't tell you, _niña_. It isn't mine to tell." "Anyhow, you can't keep me from guessing," she said, with an inspiration. "No, I don't see how I can very well," he admitted. "The American accepted the challenge immediately." "But he didn't," broke out the young man. "Then he refused?" "That's a little obvious now," replied Ramon, with a touch of chagrin. "He was very angry about it, and threatened to call the law to his aid." Her friend surrendered at discretion, and broke into a laugh of delight. "I never saw such a fellow, Val. He seemed to think it was all a joke. He must have known why I was there, but before I could get in a word he got hold of my hand and shook it till I wanted to shriek with the pain. He's got a grip like a bear. And he persisted in assuming we were the best of friends. Wouldn't read the letter at all." "But after he did?" "Said duels were not fashionable among his people any more." "He is very sensible, but I'm afraid Manuel won't rest satisfied with that," the girl sighed. "I hinted as much, and told him to go armed. What do you think the madman did then?" "I can never guess." Ramon retailed the chicken-shooting episode. "You were to mention that to Manuel, I suppose?'" the girl said thoughtfully. "So I understood. He was giving fair warning." "But Manuel won't be warned." "When he hears of it he'll be more anxious than ever to fight." Valencia nodded. "A spur to a willing horse." "If he knew he would be killed it would make no difference to him. He is quite fearless." "Quite." "But he is a very good shot, too. You do not need to be alarmed for him." "Oh, no! Not at all," the girl answered scornfully. "He is only my distant cousin, anyhow--and my lover." "It is hard, Val. Perhaps I might pick a quarrel with this American and----" She caught him up sharply, but he forgave it when he saw her white misery. "Don't you dare think of it, Ramon Ainsa. One would think nobody in the valley had any business except fighting with this man. What has he done to you? Or to these others? You are very brave, all of you, when you know you are a hundred to one. I suppose _you_, too, will want to shoot him from ambush?" This bit of feminine injustice hurt the young man, but he only said quietly: "No; I don't think I would do that." Impulsively she put out her hand. "Forgive me, Ramon. I don't mean that, of course, but I'm nearly beside myself. Why must all this bad will and bloodshed come into our happy little valley? If we must have trouble why can't we let the law settle it? I thought you were my friends--you and Manuel and my people--but between you I am going to be made unhappy for life." She broke down suddenly and began to sob. The lad slipped to the ground and went quickly to her, putting an arm around her waist across the saddle. "Don't cry, Val. We all love you--of course we do. How can we help it? It will all come right yet. Don't cry, _niña_" "How can it come right, with all of you working to make things wrong?" she sobbed. "Perhaps the stranger will go away." "He won't. He is a man, and he won't let you drive him out." "We'll find some way, Val, to save Manuel for you." "But it isn't only Manuel. I don't want any of you hurt--you or anybody--not even this Mr. Gordon. Oh, Ramon, help me to stop this wicked business." "If you can tell me how." She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, as a sign that her weakness was past. "We must find a way. Do you know, my own people are in a dangerous mood? They think this man's some kind of a demon. I shall talk to them to-night. And you must send Manuel to me. Perhaps he may listen to me." Ainsa agreed, though he felt sure that even she could not induce his friend to withdraw from a position which he felt his honor called him to take. Nor did the mistress of the valley find it easy to lead her tenants to her way of thinking. They were respectful, outwardly acquiescent, but the girl saw, with a sinking heart, that they remained of their own opinion. Whether he were man or devil, they were determined to make an end of Gordon's intrusion. CHAPTER XI THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY AND THE TWENTIETH It was the second day after Pesquiera's challenge that his rival was called to Santa Fé, the capital of the State, to hold a conference with his lawyers about the progress of the suit of ouster against those living on the Moreño grant. Gordon knew how acute was the feeling of the residents of the valley against him. The Corbetts, whose homestead was not included in either the original Valdés or Moreño grant, reported daily to him whatever came to their ears. He could see that the impression was strong among the Mexicans that their champion, Doña Maria as they called her, would be worsted in the courts if the issue ever came to final trial. To live under the constant menace of an attack from ambush is a strain upon the best of nerves. Dick and his friend Davis rode out of the valley to meet the Santa Fé stage with a very sensible relief. For a few days, anyhow, they would be back where they could see the old Stars and Stripes flutter, where feudal retainers and sprouts of Spanish aristocracy were not lying in wait with fiery zeal to destroy the American interloper. They reached the little city late, but soon after sunup Gordon rose, took a bath, dressed, and strolled out into the quaint old town which lays claim to being the earliest permanent European settlement in the country. It was his first visit to the place, and as he poked his nose into out of the way corners Dick found every step of his walk interesting. Through narrow, twisted streets he sauntered, along unpaved roads bounded by century-old adobe houses. His walk took him past the San Miguel Church, said to be the oldest in America. A chubby-faced little priest was watering some geraniums outside, and he showed Dick through the mission, opening the door of the church with one of a bunch of large keys which hung suspended from his girdle. The little man went through the usual patter of the guide with the facility of long practice. The church was built, he said, in 1540, though Bandelier inaccurately sets the date much later. The roof was destroyed by the Pueblo Indians in 1680 during an attack upon the settlement, at which time the inhabitants took refuge within the mission walls. These are from three to five feet thick. The arrows of the natives poured through the windows. The señor could still see the holes in the pictures, could he not? Penuelo restored the church in 1710, as could be read by the inscription carved upon the gallery beam. It would no doubt interest the señor to know that one of the paintings was by Cimabue, done in 1287, and that the seven hundred pound bell was cast in Spain during the year 1356 and had been dragged a thousand miles across the deserts of the new world by the devoted pioneer priests who carried the Cross to the simple natives of that region. Gordon went blinking out of the San Miguel mission into a world that basked indolently in a pleasant glow of sunshine. It seemed to him that here time had stood still. This impression remained with him during his tramp back to the hotel. He passed trains of faggot-laden burros, driven by Mexicans from Tesuque and by Indians from adjoining villages, the little animals so packed around their bellies with firewood that they reminded him of caricatures of beruffed Elizabethan dames of the olden days. Surely this old town, which seemed to be lying in a peaceful siesta for centuries unbroken, was an unusual survival from the buried yesterdays of history. It was hard to believe, for instance, that the Governor's Palace, a long one-story adobe structure stretching across one entire side of the plaza, had been the active seat of so much turbulent and tragic history, that for more than three hundred years it had been occupied continuously by Spanish, Mexican, Indian, and American governors. Its walls had echoed the noise of many a bloody siege and hidden many an execution and assassination. From this building the old Spanish cavaliers Onate and Vicente de Salivar and Penalosa set out on their explorations. From it issued the order to execute forty-eight Pueblo prisoners upon the plaza in front. Governor Armijo had here penned his defiance to General Kearney, who shortly afterward nailed upon the flagpole the Stars and Stripes. The famous novel "Ben Hur" was written in one of these historic rooms. But the twentieth century had leaned across the bridge of time to shake hands with the sixteenth. A new statehouse had been built after the fashion of new Western commonwealths, and the old Palace was now given over to curio stores and offices. Everywhere the new era compromised with the old. He passed the office of the lawyer he had come to consult, and upon one side of the sign ran the legend: +---------------------------------+ | Despacho | | de | | Thomas M. Fitt, Licendiado. | +---------------------------------+ Upon the other he read an English translation: +---------------------------------+ | Law Office | | of | | Thomas M. Fitt, Attorney. | +---------------------------------+ Plainly the old civilization was beginning to disappear before an alert, aggressive Americanism. At the hotel the modern spirit became so pronounced during breakfast, owing to the conversation of a shoe and a dress-goods drummer at an adjoining table, that Gordon's imagination escaped from the tramp of Spanish mailclad cavalry and from thoughts of the plots and counterplots that had been devised in the days before American occupancy. In the course of the morning Dick, together with Davis, called at the office of his attorney. Thomas M. Fitt, a bustling little man with a rather pompous manner, welcomed his client effusively. He had been appointed local attorney in charge by Gordon's Denver lawyers, and he was very eager to make the most of such advertising as his connection with so prominent a case would bring. He washed the backs of his hands with the palms as he bowed his visitors to chairs. "I may say that the case is progressing favorably--very favorably indeed, Mr. Gordon. The papers have been drawn and filed. We await an answer from the defendants. I anticipate that there will be only the usual court delays in pressing the action." "We'll beat them, I suppose," Dick replied, with a manner almost of indifference. "One can never be positive in advance, but I'd like to own your claim to the estate, Mr. Gordon," laughed the lawyer wheezily. "Think we'll be able to wolf the real owners out of their property all right, do you?" Fitt's smile went out like the flame of a burnt match. The wrinkles of laughter were ironed out of his fat cheeks. He stared at his client in surprise. It took him a moment to voice the dignified protest he felt necessary. "Our title is good in law, Mr. Gordon. I have been over the evidence very carefully. The court decisions all lean our way. Don Bartolomé Valdés, the original grantee, failed to perfect his right of ownership in many ways. It is very doubtful whether he himself had not before his death abandoned his claim. His official acts appear to point to that conclusion. Our case is a very substantial one--very substantial, indeed." "The Valdés' tenants have settled on the land, grazed their flocks over it, bought farms here and there from the heirs, haven't they?" "Exactly. But if the sellers cannot show a good title--and my word as a lawyer for it they can't. Prove that in court and all we'll need is a writ of ejectment against the present holders as squatters. Then----" Fitt snapped his finger and thumb in an airy gesture that swept the Valdés' faction into the middle of the Pacific. "It'll be the story of Evangeline all over again, won't it?" asked Gordon satirically. "Ah! You have a kind heart, Mr. Gordon. Your sympathy does you credit. Still--business is business, of course." "Of course," Dick picked up a pen and began to jab holes aimlessly into a perfectly good blotter tacked to the table. "Well, let's hear the story--just a sketch of it. Why do the rightful heirs lose out and the villain gain possession?" Mr. Fitt smiled blandly. He had satisfied himself that his client was good pay and he did not intend to take offense. "It pleases you to be facetious, Mr. Gordon. But we all know that what this country needs--what such a valley as the Rio Chama ought to have--is up to date American development. People and conditions are in a primitive state. When men like you get possession of the Moreño and similar tracts New Mexico will move forward with giant strides to its great destiny. Time does not stand still. The day of the indolent semi-feudal Spanish system of occupancy has passed away. New Mexico will no longer remain _mañana_ land. You--and men like you--of broad ideas, progressive, energetic----" "Quite a philanthropist, ain't I?" interrupted Gordon, smiling lazily. "Well, let's hear the yarn, Mr. Fitt." The attorney gave up his oration regretfully. He subsided into a chair and resumed the conversational tone. "You've got to understand how things were here in the old Spanish days, gentlemen. Don Bartolomé for instance was not merely a cattleman. He was a grandee, a feudal lord, a military chief to all his tenants and employees. His word was law. The power of life and death lay in him." Dick nodded. "Get you." "The old Don was pasturing his sheep in the Rio Chama valley and he had started a little village there--called the place Torreon, I think, from a high tower house he had built to overlook the valley so that Indians could be seen if they attempted an attack. Well, he takes a notion that he'd better get legal title to the land he was using, though in those days he might have had half of New Mexico for his cattle and sheep as a range. So he asks Facundo Megares, governor of the royal province, for a grant of land. The governor, anxious to please him, orders the constitutional alcalde, a person named José Garcia de la Mora, to execute the act of possession to Valdés of a tract described as follows, to wit----" "I've heard the description," cut in the young man. "Well, did the Don take possession?" "We claim that he never did. He visited there, and his shepherds undoubtedly ran sheep on the range covered by the grant. But Valdés and his family never actually resided on the estate. Other points that militate against the claim of his descendants may be noted. First, that minor grants of land, taken from within the original Valdés grant, were made by the governor without any protest on the part of the Don. Second, that Don Bartolomé himself, subsequently Governor and Captain-General of the province of New Mexico, did, in his official capacity as President of the Council, endorse at least two other small grants of land cut out from the heart of the Valdés estate. This goes to show that he did not himself consider that he owned the land, or perhaps he felt that he had forfeited his claim." "Or maybe it just showed that the old gentleman was no hog," suggested Gordon. "I guess the law will construe it as a waiver of his claim. It doesn't make any allowances for altruism." "I've noticed that," Gordon admitted dryly. "A new crowd of politicians got in after Mexico became independent of Spain. The plums had to be handed out to the friends of the party in power. So Manuel Armijo, the last Mexican Governor of the province, being a favorite of the President of that country because he had defeated some Texas Rangers in a battle, and on that account endowed with extraordinary powers, carved a fat half million acres out of the Valdés grant and made a present of it to José Moreño for 'services to the government of Mexico.' That's where you come in as heir to your grandfather, who purchased for a song the claim of Moreño's son." "My right has been lying dormant twenty-five years. Won't that affect its legality?" "No. If we knock out the Valdés' grant, all we have to do is to prove the legality of the Moreño one. It happens we have evidence to show that he satisfied all legal requirements by living on the land more than four years. This gave him patent in perpetuity subject to taxes. By the payment of these we can claim title." Fitt rubbed his hands and walked backward and forward briskly. "We've got them sewed up tight, Mr. Gordon. The Supreme Court has sustained our contention in the almost parallel Baca case." "Fine," said Dick moodily. He knew it was unreasonable for him to be annoyed at his counsel because the latter happened to be an alert and competent lawyer. But somehow all his sympathies were with Valencia Valdés and her dependents. "If you'd like to look at the original documents in the case, Mr. Gordon----" "I would." "I'll take you up to the State House this afternoon. You can look over them at your leisure." Davis laughed at his friend as they walked back to the hotel. "I don't believe you know yourself what you want. You act as if you'd rather lose than win the suit." "Sometimes I'm a white man, Steve. I don't want to grab other people's property just because some one can dig up a piece of paper that says it's mine. We sit back and roast the trusts to a fare-you-well for hogging all there is in sight. That's what Fitt and his tribe expect me to do. I'm damned if I will." CHAPTER XII "I BELIEVE YOU'RE IN LOVE WITH HER, TOO" It was characteristic of Dick Gordon that he established at once a little relation of friendliness between him and the young woman at the State House who waited upon him with the documents in the Valdés grant case. She was a tall, slight girl with amazingly vivid eyes set in a face scarcely pretty. In her manner to the world at large there was an indifference amounting almost to insolence. She had a way of looking at people as if they were bits of the stage setting instead of individuals. A flare of interest had sparkled in her eyes when Gordon's fussy little attorney had mentioned the name of his client, but it had been Dick's genial manner of boyish comradeship that had really warmed Miss Underwood to him. She did not like many people, but when she gave her heart to a friend it was without stipulations. Dick was a man's man. Essentially he was masculine, virile, dominant. But the force of him was usually masked either by his gay impudence or his sunny friendliness. Women were drawn to his flashing smile because they sensed the strength behind it. Kate Underwood could have given a dozen reasons why she liked him. There were for instance the superficial ones. She liked the way he tossed back the tawny sun-kissed hair from his eyes, the easy pantherish stride with which he covered ground so lightly, the set of his fine shoulders, the peculiar tint of his lean, bronzed cheeks. His laugh was joyous as the song of a bird in early spring. It made one want to shout with him. Then, too, she tremendously admired his efficiency. To look at the hard, clear eye, at the clean, well-packed build of the man, told the story. The movements of his strong, brown hands were sure and economical. They dissipated no energy. Every detail of his personality expressed a mind that did its own thinking swiftly and incisively. "It's curious about these documents of the old Valdés and Moreño claims. They have lain here in the vaults--that is, here and at the old Governor's Palace--for twenty years and more untouched. Then all at once twenty people get interested in them. Scarce a day passes that lawyers are not up to look over some of the copies. You have certainly stirred things up with your suit, Mr. Gordon." Dick looked out of the window at the white adobe-lined streets resting in a placid coma of sun-beat. "Don't you reckon Santa Fé can stand a little stirring up, Miss Underwood?" "Goodness, yes. We all get to be three hundred years old if we live in this atmosphere long enough." The man's gaze shifted. "You'd have to live here a right long time, I reckon." A quick slant of her gay eyes reproached him. "You don't have to be so gallant, Mr. Gordon. The State pays me fifteen hundred dollars a year to wait on you, anyhow." "You don't say. As much as that? My, we're liable to go bankrupt in New Mexico, ain't we? And, if you want to know, I don't say nice things to you because I have to, but because I want to." She laughed with a pretense at incredulity. "In another day or two I'll find out just what special favor I'm able to do Mr. Gordon. The regular thing is to bring flowers or candy, you know. Generally they say, too, that there never has been a clerk holding this job as fit for it as I am." "You're some clerk, all right. Say, where can I find the original of this _Agua Caliente_ grant, Miss Kate?" She smiled to herself as she went to get him a certified copy. "Only two days, and he's using my first name. Inside of a week he'll be calling me 'Dearie,'" she thought. But she knew very well there was no danger. This young fellow was the kind of man that could be informal without the slightest idea of flirting or making love. Kate Underwood's interest in the fight between the claimants for the Valdés and Moreño grants was not based entirely upon her liking for Dick. He learned this the fourth day of his stay in Santa Fé. "Do you know that you were followed to the hotel last night, Mr. Gordon?" she asked him, as soon as he arrived at the State House. His eyes met hers instantly. "Was I? How do you know?" "I left the building just after you did. Two Mexicans followed you. I don't know when I first suspected it, but I trailed along to make sure. There can be no doubt about it." "Not a bit of doubt. Found it out the first day when I left the hotel," he told her cheerfully. "You knew it all the time," she cried, amazed. "That doesn't prevent me from being properly grateful to you for your kindness," he hastened to say. "What are they following you for?" she wanted to know. Dick told her something of his experiences in the Rio Chama Valley without mentioning that part of them which had to do with Miss Valdés. At the sound of Manuel Pesquiera's name the eyes of the girl flashed. Dick had already noticed that his name was always to her a signal for repression of some emotion. The eyes contracted and hardened the least in the world. Some men would not have noticed this, but more than once Gordon's life had hung upon the right reading of such signs. "You think that Mr. Pesquiera has hired them to watch you?" she suggested. "Maybe he has and maybe he hasn't. Some of those willing lads of Miss Valdés don't need any hiring. They want to see what I'm up to. They're not overlooking any bets." "But they may shoot you." He looked at her drolly. "They may, but I'll be there at the time. I'm not sleeping on the job, Miss Kate." "You didn't turn around once yesterday." "Hmp! I saw them out of the edge of my eyes. And when I turned a corner I always saw them mighty plain. They couldn't have come very close without my knowing it." "Don Manuel is very anxious to have Miss Valdés win, isn't he?" Dick observed that just below the eyes two spots were burning in the usually pale cheeks. "Yes," he answered simply. "Why?" "He's her friend and a relative." It seemed to Gordon that there was a touch of defiance in the eyes that held to his so steadily. She was going to find out the truth, no matter what he thought. "Is that all--nothing more than a friend or a relative?" The miner's boyish laugh rippled out. "You'd ought to have been a lawyer, Miss Kate. No, that ain't all Don Manuel doesn't make any secret of it. I don't know why I should. He wants to be prince consort of the Valdés kingdom." "Because of ... the estate?" "Lord, no! He's one man from the ground up, M. Pesquiera is. In spite of the estates." "You mean that he ... loves Valencia Valdés?" "Sure he does. Manuel doesn't care much who gets the kingdom if he gets the princess." "Is she so ... pretty?" Dick stopped to consider this. "Why, yes, I reckon she is pretty, though I hadn't thought of it before. You see, pretty ain't just the word. She's a queen. That is, she looks like a queen ought to but don't. Take her walk for instance: she steps out like as if in another moment she might fly." "That doesn't mean anything. It's almost silly," replied the downright Miss Underwood, not without a tinge of spite. "It means something to me. I'm trying to give you a picture of her. But you'd have to see her to understand. When she's around mean and little things crawl out of your mind. She's on the level and square and fine--a thoroughbred if there ever was one." "I believe you're in love with her, too." The young man found himself blushing. "Now don't get to imagining foolishness. Miss Valdés hates the ground I walk on. She thinks I'm the limit, and she hasn't forgotten to tell me so." "Which, of course, makes you fonder of her," scoffed Miss Underwood. "Does she hate the ground that Don Manuel walks on?" "Now you've got me. I go to the foot of the class, because I don't know." "But you wish you did," she flung at him, with a swift side glance. "Guessing again, Miss Kate. I'll sure report you if you waste the State's time on such foolishness," he threatened gaily. "Since you're in love with her, why don't you marry Miss Valdés and consolidate the two claims?" demanded the girl. Her chin was tilted impudently toward him, but Gordon guessed that there was an undercurrent of meaning in her audacity. "What commission do you charge for running your matrimonial bureau?" he asked innocently. "The service comes free to infants," she retorted sweetly. She was called away to attend to other business. An hour later she passed the desk where he was working. "So you think I'm an infant at that game, do you?" "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings," was her saucy answer. "You haven't--not a mite. What about Don Manuel? Is he an infant at it, too?" A sudden flame of color swept her face. The words she flung at Gordon seemed irrelevant, but he did not think them so. "I hate him." And with that she was gone. Dick's eyes twinkled. He had discovered another reason for her interest in his fortunes. Later in the day, when the pressure of work had relaxed, the clerk drifted his way again while searching for some papers. "Your lawyers are paid to look up all this, aren't they? Why do you do it, then?" she asked. "The case interests me. I want to know all about it." "Would you like to see the old Valdés house here in Santa Fé? My father bought it when Alvaro Valdés built his new town house. One day I found in the garret a bundle of old Spanish letters. They were written by old Bartolomé to his son. I saved them. Would you care to see them?" "Very much. The old chap was a great character. I suppose he was really the last of the great feudal barons. The French Revolution put an end to them in Europe--that and the industrial revolution. It's rather amazing that out here in the desert of this new land dedicated to democracy the idea was transplanted and survived so long." "I'll bring the letters to-morrow and you can look them over. Any time you like I'll show you over the house. It's really rather interesting--much more so than their new one, which is so modern that it looks like a thousand others. Valencia was born in the old house. What will you give me to let you into the room?" He brushed aside her impudence with a laugh. "Your boss is looking this way. I think he's getting ready to fire you." "He's more likely to be fired himself. I'm under civil service and he isn't. Will you take your shoes off when you go into the holy of holies?" "What happens to little girls when they ask too many questions? Go 'way. I'm busy." CHAPTER XIII AMBUSHED On her return from luncheon that same afternoon Miss Underwood brought Dick a bundle of letters tied with a ribbon. She tossed them down upon the desk in front of him. "I haven't read them myself. Of course they're in Spanish. I did try to get through one of them, but it was too much like work and I gave it up. But since they're written by _her_ grandfather they'll interest you more than they did me," Miss Kate told him, with the saucy tilt to her chin that usually accompanied her impudence. He had lived in Chihuahua three years as a mining engineer, so that he spoke and read Spanish readily. The old Don wrote a stiff angular hand, but as soon as he became accustomed to it Dick found little difficulty. Some of the letters were written from the ranch, but most of them carried the Santa Fé date line at the time the old gentleman was governor of the royal province. They were addressed to his son Alvaro, at that time a schoolboy in Mexico City. Clearly Don Bartolomé intended his son to be informed as to the affairs of the province, for the letters were a mine of information in regard to political and social conditions. They discussed at length, too, the business interests of the family and the welfare of the peons dependent upon it. All afternoon Gordon pored over these fascinating pages torn from a dead and buried past. They were more interesting than any novel he had ever read, for they gave him a photograph, as it were projected by his imagination upon a moving picture canvas, of the old regime that had been swept into the ash heap by modern civilization. The letters revealed the old Don frankly. He was proud, imperious, heady, and intrepid. To his inferiors he was curt but kind. They flocked to him with their troubles and their quarrels. The judgment of their overlord was final with his tenants. Clearly he had a strong sense of his responsibilities to them and to the state. A quaint flavor of old-world courtesy ran through the letters like a thread of gold. It was a paragraph from one of the last letters that riveted Dick's attention. Translated into English, it ran as follows: "You ask, my dear son, whether I have relinquished the great grant made us by Facundo Megares. In effect I have. During the past two years I have twice, acting as governor, conveyed to settlers small tracts from this grant. The conditions under which such a grant must be held are too onerous. Moreover, neither I nor you, nor your son, nor his son will live to see the day when there is not range enough for all the cattle that can be brought into the province. Just now time presses, but in a later letter I shall set forth my reasons in detail." A second and a third time Dick read the paragraph to make sure that he had not misunderstood it. The meaning was plain. There could be no doubt about it. In black and white he had a statement from old Don Bartolomé himself that he considered the grant no longer valid, that he had given it up because he did not think it worth holding. He had but to prove the handwriting in court--a thing easy enough to do, since the Don's bold, stiff writing could be found on a hundred documents--and the Valdés claimants would be thrown out of possession. Gordon looked in vain for the "later letter" to which Bartolomé referred. Either it had never been written or it had been destroyed. But without it he had enough to go on. Before he left the State House he made a proposal to Miss Underwood to buy the letters from her. "What do you want with a bunch of old letters?" she asked. "One of them helps my case. The Don refers to the grant and says he has relinquished his claim." She nodded at him with brisk approval. "It's fair of you to tell me that." The girl stood for a moment considering, a pencil pressed against her lips. "I suppose the letters are not mine to give. They belong to father. Better see him." "Where?" "At the office of the _New Mexican_. Or you can come to the house to-night." "Believe I'll see him right away." Within half an hour Dick had bought the bundle of letters for five hundred dollars. He returned to the State House with an order to Kate Underwood to deliver them to him upon demand. "Dad make a good bargain?" asked Miss Underwood, with a laugh. Gordon told her the price he had paid. "If I had telephoned to him what you wanted them for they would have cost you three times as much," she told him, nodding sagely. "Then I'm glad you didn't. Point of fact you haven't the slightest idea what I want with them." "To help your suit. Isn't that what you're going to use them for?" Mildly he answered "Yes," but he did not tell her which suit they were to help. As he was leaving she spoke to him without looking up from her writing. "Mother and I will be at home this evening, if you'd like to look the house over." "Thanks. I'd be delighted to come. I'm really awfully interested." "I see you are," she answered dryly. Followed by his brown shadows at a respectful distance, Dick walked back to the hotel whistling gaily. "Some one die and leave you a million dollars, son?" inquired the old miner, with amiable sarcasm. "Me, I'm just happy because I'm not a Chink," explained his friend, and passed to the hotel writing-room. He sat down, equipped himself with stationery, and selected a new point for a pen. Half a dozen times he made a start and as often threw a crumpled sheet into the waste-paper basket. It took him nearly an hour to compose an epistle that suited him. What he had finally to content himself with was as follows: "DEAR MADAM:--Please find inclosed a bundle of letters that apparently belong to you. They have just come into my possession. I therefore send them to you without delay. Your attention is particularly called to the one marked 'Exhibit A.' "Very truly yours, RICHARD MUIR GORDON." He wrapped up the letters, including his own, sealed the package carefully, and walked downtown to the post office. Here he wrote upon the cover the name and address of Miss Valencia Valdés, then registered the little parcel with a request for a signed receipt after delivery at its destination. Davis noticed that at dinner his friend was more gay than usual. "You ce'tainly must have come into that million I mentioned, judging by your actions," he insisted, with a smile. "Wrong guess, Steve. I've just been giving away a million. That's why I'm hilarious." "You'll have to give me an easier one, son. Didn't know you had a million." "Oh, well! A million, or a half, or a quarter, whatever the Moreño claim is worth. I'm not counting nickels. An hour ago I had it in my fist. I've just mailed it, very respectfully yours, to my friend the enemy." "Suppose you talk simple American that your Uncle Steve can understand, boy. What have you been up to?" Dick told him exultantly. "But, good Lord, why for did you make such a play? You had 'em where the wool was short. Now you've let loose and you'll have to wait 'steen years while the courts eat up all the profits. Of all the mule-headed chumps----" "Hold your horses, Steve. I know what I'm doing. Said I was a spy and a thief and a liar, didn't she? Threw the hot shot into me proper for a cheap skate swindler, eh?" The young man laid down his knife, leaned across the table, and wagged a forefinger at Davis. "What do you reckon that young woman is going to think of herself when she opens that registered package and finds the letter that would have put the rollers under her claim _muy pronto?_" "Think! She'll think you the biggest burro that ever brayed on the San Jacinto range. She'll have a commission appointed to examine you for lunacy. What in Mexico is ailin' you, anyhow? You're sick. That's what's wrong. Love-sick, by Moses!" exploded his friend. Dick smiled blandly. "You've got another guess coming, Steve. She's going to eat dirt because she misjudged me so. She's going to lie awake nights and figure what play she can make to get even again. Getting hold of those blamed letters is the luckiest shot I've made yet. I was in bad--darned bad. Explanations didn't go. I was just a plain ornery skunk. Then I put over this grand-stand play and change the whole situation. She's the one that's in bad now. Didn't she tell me right off the bat what kind of a hairpin I was? Didn't she drive me off the ranch with that game leg of mine all to the bad? Good enough. Now she finds out I'm a white man she's going to be plumb sore at herself." "What good does that do you? You're making a fight for the Rio Chama Valley, ain't you? Or are you just having a kid quarrel with a girl?" "I wouldn't take the Rio Chama Valley as a gift if I had to steal it from Miss Valdés and her people. Ain't I making enough money up at Cripple Creek for my needs? No, Steve! I'm playing for bigger game than that. Size up my hand beside Don Manuel's, and it looks pretty bum. But I'm going to play it strong. Maybe at the draw I'll fill." "Mebbe you won't." "I can bet it like I had an ace full, can't I? Anybody can play poker when he's got a mitt full of big ones. Show me the man that can make two pair back an all-blue hand off the map." "Go to it, you old sport. My money's on you," grinned the miner admiringly. "I'll go order a wedding present." Through the pleasant coolness of the evening Dick sauntered along the streets to the Underwood home, nor was his contentment lessened because he knew that at a safe distance the brown shadows still dogged his steps. In a scabbard fitted neatly beneath his left arm rested a good friend that more than once had saved its owner's life. To the fraction of a second Gordon knew just how long it would take him to get this into action in case of need. Kate Underwood met him at the door and took her guest into the living-room. Beside a student lamp a plump little old lady sat knitting. Somehow even before her soft voice welcomed him the visitor knew that her gentle presence diffused an atmosphere of home. "Thee is welcome, Mr. Gordon. Kate has been telling us of thee." The young man gave no evidence of surprise, but Kate explained as a matter of course. "We are Friends, and at home we still use the old way of address." "I have very pleasant memories of the Friends. A good old lady who took the place of my own mother was one. It is nice to hear the speech again," answered Gordon. Presently the conversation drifted to the Valdés family. It appeared that as children Kate and Valencia had known each other. The heiress of the Valdés estates had been sent to Washington to school, and later had attended college in the East. Since her return she had spent most of her time in the valley. So that it happened the two young women had not met for a good many years. It occurred to Dick that there was a certain aloofness in Miss Underwood's attitude toward Valencia, a reticence that was not quite unfriendliness but retained the right of criticism. She held her judgment as it were in abeyance. While Miss Underwood was preparing some simple refreshments Gordon learned from her mother that Manuel Pesquiera had been formerly a frequent caller. "He has been so busy since he moved down to his place on the Rio Chama that we see nothing of him," she explained placidly. "He is a fine type of the best of the old Spanish families. Thee would find him a good friend." "Or a good foe," the young man added. She conceded the point with a sigh. "Yes. He is testy. He has the old patrician pride." After they had eaten cake and ice cream, Kate showed Gordon over the house. It was built of adobe, and the window seats in the thick walls were made comfortable with cushions or filled with potted plants. Navajo rugs and Indian baskets lent the rooms the homey appearance such furnishings always give in the old Southwest. The house was built around a court in the center, fronting on which were long, shaded balconies both on the first and second floor. A profusion of flowering trailers rioted up the pillars and along the upper railing. "The old families knew how to make themselves comfortable, anyhow," commented the guest. "Yes, that's the word--comfort. It's not modern or stylish or up to date, but I never saw a house really more comfortable to live in than this," Miss Underwood agreed. She led the way through a French window from the veranda to a large room with a southern exposure. "How do you like this room?" "Must catch the morning sunshine fine. I like even the old stone fireplace in the corner. Why don't builders nowadays make such rooms?" "You've saved yourself, Mr. Gordon. This is _the sacred room_. Here the Princess of the Rio Chama was born. This was her room when she was a girl until she went away to school. She slept in that very bed. Down on your knees, sir, and worship at the shrine." He met with a laugh the cool, light scorn of her banter. Yet something in him warmed to his environment. He had the feeling of having come into more intimate touch with her past than he had yet done. The sight of that plain little bed went to the source of his emotions. How many times had his love knelt beside it in her night-gown and offered up her pure prayers to the God she worshiped! He made his good-byes soon after their return to Mrs. Underwood. Dick was a long way from a sentimentalist, but he wanted to be alone and adjust his mind to the new conception of his sweetheart brought by her childhood home. It was a night of little moonlight. As he walked toward the hotel he could see nothing of the escort that had been his during the past few days. He wondered if perhaps they had got tired of shadowing his movements. The road along which he was passing had on both sides of it a row of big cottonwoods, whose branches met in an arch above. Dick, with that instinct for safety which every man-hunter has learned, walked down the middle of the street, eyes and ears alert for the least sign of an ambush. Two men approached on the plank sidewalk. They were quarreling. Suddenly a knife flashed, and one of the men went with an oath to the ground. Dick reached for his gun and plunged straight for the assailant, who had stooped as if to strike again the prostrate man. The rescuer stumbled over a taut rope and at the same moment a swarm of men fell upon him. Even as he rose and shook off the clutching hands Gordon knew that he was the victim of a ruse. He had lost his revolver in the fall. With clenched fists he struck hard and sure. They swarmed upon him, so many that they got in each other's way. Now he was down, now up again. They swayed to and fro in a huddle, as does a black bear surrounded by a pack of dogs. Still the man at the heart of the mêlée struck--and struck--and struck again. Men went down and were trodden under foot, but he reeled on, stumbling as he went, turning, twisting, hitting hard and sure with all the strength that many good clean years in the open had stored within him. Blows fell upon his curly head as it rose now and again out of the storm--blows of guns, of knives, of bony knuckles. Yet he staggered forward, bleeding, exhausted, feeling nothing of the blows, seeing only the distorted faces that snarled on every side of him. He knew that when he went down it would be to stay. Even as he flung them aside and hammered at the brown faces he felt sure he was lost. The coat was torn from his back. The blood from his bruised and cut face and scalp blinded him. Heavy weights dragged at his arms as they struck wildly and feebly. Iron balls seemed to chain his feet. He plowed doggedly forward, dragging the pack with him. Furiously they beat him, striking themselves as often as they did him. His shoulders began to sway forward. Men leaped upon him from behind. Two he dragged down with him as he went. The sky was blotted out. He was tired--deadly tired. In a great weariness he felt himself sinking together. The consciousness drained out of him as an ebbing wave does from the sands of the shore. CHAPTER XIV MANUEL TO THE RESCUE Valencia Valdés did not conform closely to the ideal her preceptress at the Washington finishing school had held as to what constitutes a perfect lady. Occasionally her activities shocked Manuel, who held to the ancient view that maidens should come to matrimony with the innocence born of conventual ignorance. He would have preferred his wife to be a clinging vine, but in the case of Valencia this would be impossible. No woman in New Mexico could ride better than the heiress of the Rio Chama. She could throw a rope as well as some of her _vaqueros_. At least one bearskin lay on the floor of her study as a witness to her prowess as a Diana. Many a time she had fished the river in waders and brought back with her to the ranch a creel full of trout. Years in the untempered sun and wind of the southwest had given her a sturdiness of body unusual in a girl so slenderly fashioned. The responsibility of large affairs had added to this an independence of judgment that would have annoyed Don Manuel if he had been less in love. Against the advice of both Pesquiera and her foreman she had about a year before this time largely increased her holdings in cattle, at the same time investing heavily in improved breeding stock. Her justification had been that the cost of beef, based on the law of supply and demand, was bound to continue on the rise. "But how do you know, _Doña_?" her perplexed major domo had asked. "Twenty--fifteen years ago everybody had cattle and lost money. Prices are high to-day, but _mañana_----" "To-morrow they will be higher. It's just a matter of arithmetic, Fernando. There are seventeen million less cattle in the country than there were eight years ago. The government reports say so. Our population is steadily increasing. The people must eat. Since there are fewer cattle they must pay more for their meat. We shall have meat to sell. Is that not simple?" "_Si, Doña_, but----" "But in the main we have always been sheep-herders, so we ought always to be? We'll run cattle and sheep, too, Fernando. We'll make this ranch pay as it never has before." "But the feed--the winter feed, _Señorita_?" "We'll have to raise our feed. I'm going to send for engineers and find what it will cost to impound, water in the _cordilleras_ and run ditches into the valley. We ought to be watering thousands of acres for alfalfa and grain that now are dry." "It never has been done--not in the time of Don Alvaro or even in that of Don Bartolomé." "And so you think it never can?" she asked, with a smile. "The Rio Chama Valley is grazing land. It is not for agriculture. Everybody knows that," he insisted doggedly. "Everybody knows we were given two legs with which to walk, but it is an economy to ride. So we use horses." Fernando shrugged his shoulders. Of what use to argue with the _doña_ when her teeth were set? She was a Valdés, and so would have her way. That had been a year ago. Now the ditches were built. Fields had been planted to alfalfa and grain. Soon the water would be running through the laterals to irrigate the growing crops. Quietly the young woman at the head of things was revolutionizing the life of the valley by transforming it from a pastoral to a farming community. This morning, having arranged with the major domo the work of the day, Valencia appeared on the porch dressed for riding. She was going to see the water turned on to the new ditches from the north lateral. The young mistress of the ranch swung astride the horse that had just been brought from the stables, for she rode man-fashion after the sensible custom of the West. Before riding out of the plaza she stopped to give Pedro some directions about a bunch of yearlings in the corral. The mailman in charge of the R.F.D. route drove into the yard and handed Valencia a bunch of letters and papers. One of the pieces given her was a rather fat package for which she had to sign a registry receipt. She handed the mail to Juan and told him to put it on the desk in her office library; then she changed her mind, moved by an impulse of feminine curiosity. "Give me back that big letter, Juan. I'll just see what it is before I go." Five minutes later she descended to the porch. "I'm not going riding just now. Keep the horse saddled, Pedro." She had read Dick Gordon's note and the letter marked Exhibit A. Even careless Juan noticed that his mistress was much agitated. Pedro wondered savagely whether that splendid devil _Americano_ had done something fresh to annoy the dear saint he worshiped. Gordon had not overemphasized the effect upon her of his action. Her pride had clung to a belief in his unworthiness as the justification for what she had said and done. Now, with a careless and mocking laugh, he had swept aside all the arguments she had nursed. He had sent to her, so that she might destroy it, the letter that would have put her case out of court. If he had wanted a revenge for her bitter words the American had it now. He had repaid her scorn and contempt with magnanimity. He had heaped coals of fire upon her head, had humiliated her by proving that he was more generous of spirit than she. Valencia paced the floor of her library in a stress of emotion. It was not her pride alone that had been touched, but the fine instincts of justice and fair play and good will. She had outraged hospitality and sent him packing. She had let him take the long tramp in spite of his bad knee. Her dependents had attempted to murder him. Her best friend had tried to fasten a duel upon him. All over the valley his name had been bandied about as that of one in league with the devil. As an answer to all this outrage that had been heaped upon him he refused to take advantage of this chance-found letter of Bartolomé merely because it was her letter and not his. Her heart was bowed down with shame and yet was lifted in a warm glow of appreciation of his quality. Something in her blood sang with gladness. She had known all along that the hateful things she had said to him could not be true. He was her enemy, but--the brave spirit of her went out in a rush to thank God for this proof of his decency. The girl was all hot for action. She wanted to humble herself in apology. She wanted to show him that she could respond to his generosity. But how? Only one way was open just now. She sat down and wrote a swift, impulsive letter of contrition. For the wrong she had done him Valencia asked forgiveness. As for the letter he had so generously sent, she must beg him to keep it and use it at the forthcoming trial. It would be impossible for her to accept such a sacrifice of his rights. In the meantime she could assure him that she would always be sorry for the way in which she had misjudged him. The young woman called for her horse again and rode to Corbett's, which was the nearest post-office. In the envelope with her letter was also the one of her grandfather marked "Exhibit A." She, too, carefully registered the contents before mailing. As she stood on the porch drawing up her gauntlets a young man cantered into sight. He wore puttees, riding breeches, and a neat corduroy coat. One glance told her it was Manuel. No other rider in the valley had quite the same easy seat in the saddle as the young Spaniard. He drew up sharply in front of Valencia and landed lightly on his feet beside her. "_Buenos, Señorita_." "_Buenos,_ cousin." Her shining eyes went eagerly to his. "Manuel, what do you think Mr. Gordon has done?" He shrugged his shoulders. "How can I guess? That mad American might do anything but show the white feather." In four sentences she told him. Manuel clapped his hands in approval. "Bravo! Done like a man. He is at least neither a spy nor a thief." Valencia smiled with pleasure. Manuel, too, had come out of the test with flying colors. He and Gordon were foes, but he accepted at face value what the latter had done, without any sneers or any sign of jealousy. "And what shall I do with the letter?" his cousin asked. "Do with it? Put it in the first fire you see. Shall I lend you a match?" She shook her head, still with the gleam of a smile on her vivid face. "Too late, Manuel. I have disposed of the dangerous evidence." "So? Good. You took my advice before I gave it, then." "Not quite. I couldn't be less generous than our enemy. So I have sent the letter back to him and told him to use it." The young man gave her his best bow. "Magnificent, but not war. I might have trusted the daughter of Don Alvaro to do a thing so royal. My cousin, I am proud of you." "What else could I have done and held my self-respect? I had insulted him gratuitously and my people had tried to kill him. The least I could do now was to meet him in a spirit like his own." "Honors are easy. Let us see what Mr. Gordon will now do." The sound of a light footfall came to them. A timid voice broke into their conversation. "May I see _Doña_ Valencia--alone--for just a minute?" Miss Valdés turned. A girl was standing shyly in the doorway. Her soft brown eyes begged pardon for the intrusion. "You are Juanita, are you not?" the young woman asked. "_Si, Doña_." Pesquiera eliminated himself by going in to get his mail. "What is it that I can do for you?" asked Valencia. The Mexican girl broke into an emotional storm. She caught one of her hands in the brown palm of the other with a little gesture of despair. "They have gone to kill him. Doña. I know it. Something tells me. He will never come back alive." The feeling she had repressed was finding vent in long, irregular sobs. Valencia felt as if she were being drowned in icy water. The color washed from her cheeks. She had no need to ask who it was that would never come back alive, but she did. "Who, child? Whom is it that they have gone to kill?" "The American--_Señor_ Gordon." "Who has gone? And when did they go? Tell me quick." "Sebastian and Pablo--maybe others--I do not know." Miss Valdés thought quickly. It might be true. Both the men mentioned had asked for a holiday to go to Santa Fé. What business had they there at this time of the year? Could it be Pablo who had shot at Gordon from ambush? If so, why was he so bitter against the common enemy? "Juanita, tell me everything. What is it that you know?" The sobs of the girl increased. She leaned against the door jamb and buried her face in the crook of her arm. The older girl put an arm around the quivering shoulders and spoke gently. "But listen, child. Tell me all. It may be we can save him yet." A name came from the muffled lips. It was "Pablo." Valencia's brain was lit by a flash of understanding. "Pablo is your lover. Is it not so, _niña_?" The dark crown of soft hair moved up and down in assent. "Oh, _Doña_, he was, but--" "You have quarreled with him?" Miss Valdés burned with impatience, but some instinct told her she could not hurry the girl. "_Si, Señorita_. He quarreled. He said--" "Yes?" "----that ... that _Señor_ Gordon ..." Again, groping for the truth, Valencia found it swiftly. "You mean that Pablo was jealous?" "Because I had nursed _Señor_ Gordon, because he was kind to me, because----" Juanita had lifted her face to answer. As she spoke the color poured into her cheeks even to her throat, convicting evidence of the cruel embarrassment she felt. Valencia's hand dropped to her side. When she spoke again the warmth had been banished from her voice. "I see. You nursed Mr. Gordon, did you?" Juanita's eyes fell before the cold accusation in those of Miss Valdés. "_Si, Señorita._" "And he was kind to you? In what way kind?" The slim Mexican girl, always of the shyest, was bathed in blushes. "He called me ... _niña_. He ..." "----made love to you." A sensation as if the clothes were being torn from her afflicted Juanita. Why did the _Doña_ drag her heart out to look at it? Nor did the girl herself know how much or how little Richard Gordon's gay _camaraderie_ meant. She was of that type of women who love all that are kind to them. No man had ever been so considerate as this handsome curly-headed American. So dumbly her heart went out to him and made the most of his friendliness. Had he not once put his arm around her shoulder and told her to "buck up" when he came upon her crying because of Pedro? Had he not told her she was the prettiest girl in the neighborhood? And had he not said, too, that she was a little angel for nursing him so patiently? "_Doña_, I--do--not--know." The words came out as if they were being dragged from her. Poor Juanita would have liked the ground to open up and swallow her. "Don't you know, you little stupid, that he is playing with you, that he will not marry you?" "If _Doña_ Valencia says so," murmured the Mexican submissively. "Men are that way, heartless ... selfish ... vain. But I suppose you led him on," concluded Valencia cruelly. With a little flare of spirit Juanita looked up. Her courage was for her friend, not for herself. "_Señor_ Gordon is good. He is kind." "A lot you know about it, child. Have nothing to do with him. His love can only hurt a girl like you. Go back to your Pablo and forget the American. I will see he does not trouble you again." Juanita began to cry again. She did not want _Señorita_ Valdés or anybody else interfering between her and the friend she had nursed. But she knew she could not stop this imperative young woman from doing as she pleased. "Now tell me how you know that Pablo has gone to injure the American. Did he tell you so?" "No-o." "Well, what did he say? What is it that you know?" Valencia's shoe tapped the floor impatiently. "Tell me--tell me!" "He--Pablo--met me at the corral the day he left. I was in the kitchen and he whistled to me." Juanita gave the information sullenly. Why should _Señorita_ Valdés treat her so harshly? She had done no wrong. "Yes. Go on!" If she had had the force of character Juanita would have turned on her heel and walked away. But all her life it had been impressed upon her that the will of a Valdés was law to her and her class. "I do not know ... Pablo told me nothing ... but he laughed at me, oh, so cruelly! He asked if I ... had any messages for my Gringo lover." "Is that all?" "All ... except that he would show me what happened to foreign devils who stole my love from him. Oh, _Señorita_, do you think he will kill the American?" Valencia, her white lips pressed tightly together, gave no answer. She was thinking. "I hate Pablo. He is wicked. I will never speak to him again," moaned Juanita helplessly. Manuel, coming out of the post-office with his mail, looked at the weeping girl incuriously. It was, he happened to know, a habit of the sex to cry over trifles. Juanita found in a little nod from Miss Valdés permission to leave. She turned and walked hurriedly away to the adobe cabin where she slept. Before she reached it the walk had become a run. "Has the young woman lost a ribbon or a lover?" commented Pesquiera, with a smile. "Manuel, I am worried," answered Valencia irrelevantly. "What about, my cousin?" "It's this man Gordon again. Juanita says that Pablo and Sebastian have gone to kill him." "Gone where?" "To Santa Fé. They asked for a leave of absence. You know how sullen and suspicious Sebastian is. It is fixed firmly in his head that Mr. Gordon is going to take away his farm." Manuel's black eyes snapped. He did not propose to let any peons steal from him the punishment he owed this insolent Gordon. "But Pablo is not a fool. Surely he knows he cannot do such a mad thing." "Pablo is jealous--and hot-headed." The angry color mounted to the cheeks of the young woman. "He is in love with Juanita and he found out this stranger has been philandering with her. It is abominable. This Gordon has made the silly little fool fall in love with him." "Oh, if Pablo is jealous----" Pesquiera gave a little shrug of his shoulders. He understood pretty well the temperament of the ignorant Mexican. The young lover was likely to shoot first and think afterward. Valencia was still thinking of the American. Beneath the olive of her cheeks two angry spots still burned. "I detest that sort of thing. I thought he was a gentleman--and he is only a male flirt ... or worse." "Perhaps--and perhaps not, my cousin. Did Juanita tell you----?" "She told me enough. All I need to know." Again the young man's shoulders lifted in a little gesture of humorous resignation. He knew the uncompromising directness of Miss Valdés and the futility of arguing with her. After all, the character of Gordon was none of his business. The man might have made love to Juanita, though he did not look like that kind of a person. In any case the important thing was to save his life. After a moment's thought he announced a decision. "I shall take the stage for Santa Fé this afternoon. When I have warned the American I'll round up your man-hunters and bring them back to you." His lady's face thanked him, though her words did not. "You may tell them I said they were to come back at once." At her cousin's urgent request Miss Valdés stayed to eat luncheon with him at Corbett's, which was a half-way station for the stage and maintained a public eating-house. Even Valencia hesitated a little at this, though she was at heart an emancipated American girl and not a much-chaperoned Spanish maid. But she wanted to repay him for the service he was undertaking so cheerfully, and therefore sacrificed her scruples. As they were being served by Juanita the stage rolled up and disgorged its passengers. They poured into the dining-room--a mine-owner and his superintendent, a storekeeper from the village at the other end of the valley, a young woman school-teacher from the Indian reservation, a cattleman, and two Mexican sheepmen. While the fresh horses were being hitched to the stage Pesquiera and his guest stood back a little apart from the others. Corbett brought out a sack containing mail and handed it to the driver. The passengers found again their places. Pesquiera shook hands with Valencia. His gaze rested for a moment in her dark eyes. "_Adios, linda_," he said, in a low voice. The color deepened in her cheeks. She understood that he was telling her how very much he was her lover now and always. "Good-bye, _amigo_," she answered lightly. Pesquiera took his place on the back seat. The whip of the driver cracked. In a cloud of white dust the stage disappeared around a bend in the road. Valencia ordered her horse brought, and left for the ranch. Having dispatched Manuel to the scene of action, it might be supposed that she would have awaited the issue without farther activity. But on the way home she began to reflect that her cousin would not reach Santa Fé until next morning, and there was always a chance that this would be too late. As soon as she reached the ranch she called up the station where the stage connected with the train. To the operator she dictated a message to be wired to Richard Gordon. The body of it ran thus: "Have heard that attack may be made upon your life. Please do not go out alone or at night at all. Answer." She gave urgent instructions that if necessary to reach Gordon her telegram be sent to every hotel in the city and to his lawyer, Thomas M. Fitt. Now that she had done all she could the young woman tried to put the matter out of her mind by busying herself with the affairs of the ranch. She had a talk with a cattle buyer, after which she rode out to see the engineer who had charge of the building of the irrigation system she had installed. An answer would, she was sure, be awaiting her upon her return home. Her anticipation was well founded. One of the housemaids told her that the operator at San Jacinto had twice tried to get her on the telephone. The mistress of the ranch stepped at once to the receiver. "Give me San Jacinto," she said to the operator. As soon as she was on the wire with the operator he delivered the message he had for her. It was from Santa Fé and carried the signature of Stephen Davis: "Gordon has been missing since last night. I fear the worst. For God's sake, tell me what you know." Valencia leaned against the telephone receiver and steadied herself. She felt strangely faint. The wall opposite danced up and down and the floor swayed like the deck of a vessel in a heavy sea. She set her teeth hard to get a grip on herself. Presently the wave of light-headedness passed. She moved across the room and sank down into a chair in front of her desk. They had then murdered him after all. She and her people were responsible for his death. There was nothing to be done now--nothing at all. Then, out of the silence, a voice seemed to call to her--the voice of Richard Gordon, faint and low, but clear. She started to her feet and listened, shaken to the soul by this strange summons from that world which lay beyond the reach of her physical senses. What could it mean? She had the body of a healthy young animal. Her nerves never played her any tricks. But surely there had come to her a call for help not born of her own excited fancy. In an instant she had made up her mind. Her finger pressed an electric button beside the desk, and almost simultaneously a second one. The maid who appeared in the doorway in answer to the first ring found her mistress busily writing. Valencia looked up. "Rosario, pack a suitcase for me with clothes for a week. Put in my light brown dress and a couple of shirt-waists. I'll be up presently." Her gaze passed to the major domo who now stood beside the maid. "I'm going to Santa Fé to-night, Fernando. Order the grays to be hitched to the buggy." "To-night! But, _Señorita_, the train has gone." "Juan will go with me. We'll drive right through. My business is important." "But it is seventy miles to Santa Fé, and part of the way over mountain roads," he protested. "Yes. We should reach there by morning. I mean to travel all night. Make the arrangements, please, and tell Juan. Then return here. I want to talk over with you the ranch affairs. You will have charge of the ditches, too, during my absence. Don't argue, Fernando, but do as I say." The old man had opened his mouth to object, but he closed it without voicing his views. A little smile, born of his pride in her wilfulness, touched his lips and wrinkled the parchment skin. Was she not a Valdés? He had served her father and her grandfather. To him, therefore, she could do no wrong. CHAPTER XV ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS REWARD The night of his disappearance Dick had sauntered forth from the hotel with the jaunty assurance to Davis that he was going to call on a young lady. He offered no further details, and his friend asked for none, though he wondered a little what young woman in Santa Fé had induced Gordon to change his habits. The old miner had known him from boyhood. His partner had never found much time for the society of eligible maidens. He had been too busy living to find tea-cup discussions about life interesting. The call of adventure had absorbed his youth, and he had given his few mature years ardently to the great American game of money-making. It was not that he loved gold. What Richard Gordon cared for was the battle, the struggle against both honorable and unscrupulous foe-men for success. He fought in the business world only because it was the test of strength. Money meant power. So he had made money. It was not until Dick failed to appear for breakfast next morning that Davis began to get uneasy. He sent a bellboy to awaken Gordon, and presently the lad came back with word that he could get no answer to his knocks. Instantly Steve pushed back his chair and walked out of the room to the desk in the lobby. "Got a skeleton key to Mr. Gordon's room--317, I think it is?" he demanded. "Yes. We keep duplicate keys. You see, Mr. Davis, guests go away and carry the keys----" "Then I want it. Afraid something's wrong with my friend. He's always up early and on hand for breakfast. He hasn't showed up this mo'ning. The bell hop can't waken him. I tell you something's wrong." "Oh, I reckon he'll turn up all right." The clerk turned to the key rack. "Here's the key to Room 317. Mr. Gordon must have left it here. Likely he's gone for a walk." Davis shook his head obstinately. "Don't believe it. I'm going up to see, anyhow." Within five minutes he discovered that the bed in Room 317 had not been slept in the previous night. He was thoroughly alarmed. Gordon had no friends in the town likely to put him up for the night. Nor was he the sort of rounder to dissipate his energies in all-night debauchery. Dick had come to Santa Fé for a definite purpose. The old miner knew from long experience that he would not be diverted from it for the sake of the futile foolish diversions known by some as pleasure. Therefore the mind of Davis jumped at once to the conclusion of foul play. And if foul play, then the Valdés claimants to the Rio Chamo Valley were the guilty parties. He blamed himself bitterly for having let Dick venture out alone, for having taken no precautions whatever to guard him against the Mexicans who had already once attempted his life. "I'm a fine friend. Didn't even find out who he was going out to call on. Fact is, I didn't figure he was in any danger so long as he was in town here," he explained to the sheriff. He learned nothing either at the police headquarters or at the newspaper offices that threw light on the disappearance of Gordon. No murder had been reported during the night. No unusual disturbance of any kind had occurred, so far as could be learned. Before noon he had the town plastered with posters in English and in Spanish offering a reward of five hundred dollars for news leading to the recovery of Richard Gordon or for evidence leading to the conviction of his murderers in case he was dead. This brought two callers to the hotel almost at once. One was the attorney Fitt, the other a young woman who gave her name as Kate Underwood. Fitt used an hour of the old miner's time to no purpose, but the young woman brought with her one piece of news. "I want to know when Mr. Gordon was last seen," she explained, "because he was calling on my mother and me last night and left about ten o'clock." The little man got to his feet in great excitement. "My dear young woman, you're the very person I've been wanting to see. He told me he was going calling, but I'm such a darned chump I didn't think to ask where. Is Dick a friend of your family?" "No, hardly that. I met him when he came to our office in the State House to look up the land grant papers. We became friendly and I asked him to call because we own the old Valdés house, and I thought he would like to see it." She added, rather dryly: "You haven't answered my question." "I'll say that so far as I know you are the last person who ever saw Dick alive except his murderers," Davis replied, a gleam of tears in his eyes. "Oh, it can't be as bad as that," she cried. "They wouldn't go that far." "Wouldn't they? He was shot at from ambush while we were out riding one day in the Chama Valley." "By whom?" "By a young Mexican--one of Miss Valdés servants." "You don't mean that Valencia----?" She stopped, unwilling to put her horrified thought into words. He answered her meaning. "No, I reckon not. She wanted Dick to tell her who it was, so she could punish the man. But that doesn't alter the facts any. He was shot at. That time the murderer missed, but maybe this time----" Miss Underwood broke in sharply. "Do you know that he has been followed ever since he came to town, that men have dogged his steps everywhere?" Davis leaned across the table where he was sitting. "How do you know?" he questioned eagerly. "I saw them and warned him. He laughed about it and said he knew already. He didn't seem at all worried." "Worried! He's just kid enough to be tickled to death about it," snapped the miner, masking his anxiety with irritation. "He hadn't sense enough to tell me for fear it would disturb me--and I hadn't the sense to find out in several days what you did in five minutes." Davis and Miss Underwood went together over every foot of the road between her home and the hotel. One ray of hope they got from their examination of the ground he must have traversed to reach the El Tovar, as the hotel was named. At one spot--where a double row of cottonwoods lined the road--a fence had been knocked down and many feet had trampled the sandy pasture within. Steve picked up a torn piece of cloth about six inches by twelve in dimension. It had evidently been a part of a coat sleeve. He recognized the pattern as that of the suit his friend had been wearing. "A part of his coat all right," he said. "They must have bushwhacked him here. By the foot-prints there were a good many of them." "I'm glad there were." "Why?" "For two reasons," the girl explained. "In the first place, if they had wanted to kill him, one or two would have been enough. They wouldn't take any more than was necessary into their confidence." "That's right. Your head's level there." "And, in the second place, two men can keep a secret, but six or eight can't. Some one of them is bound to talk to his sweetheart or wife or friend." "True enough. That five hundred dollars might get one of 'em, too." "Somehow I believe he is alive. His enemies have taken him away somewhere--probably up into the hills." "But why?" "You ought to know that better than I do. What could they gain by it?" He scratched his gray head. "Search me. They couldn't aim to hold him till after the trial. That would be a kid's play." "Couldn't they get him to sign some paper--something saying that he would give up his claim--or that he would sell out cheap?" "No, they couldn't," the old man answered grimly. "But they might think they could. I expect that's the play. Dick never in the world would come through, though. He's game, that boy is. The point is, what will they do when they find he stands the acid?" Miss Underwood looked quickly at him, then looked quickly away. She knew what they would do. So did Davis. "No, that's not the point. We must find him--just as soon as we can. Stir this whole town up and rake it with a fine-tooth comb. See if any of Miss Valdés' peons are in town. If they are have them shadowed." They separated presently, she to go to the State House, he to return to the El Tovar. There he found the telegram from Miss Valdés awaiting him. Immediately he dictated an answer. Before nightfall a second supply of posters decorated walls and billboards. The reward was raised to one thousand dollars for information that would lead to the finding of Richard Gordon alive and the same sum for evidence sufficient to convict his murderers in case he was dead. It seemed impossible that in so small a place, with everybody discussing the mysterious disappearance, the affair could long remain a secret. Davis did not doubt that Miss Underwood was correct in her assumption that the assailants of Gordon had carried him with them into some hidden pocket of the hills, in which case it might take longer to run them to earth. The great danger that he feared was panic on the part of the abductors. To cover their tracks they might kill him and leave this part of the country. The closer pursuit pressed on them the more likely this was to happen. It behooved him to move with the greatest care. CHAPTER XVI VALENCIA MAKES A PROMISE When Manuel descended from the El Tovar hack which had brought him from the station to that hotel the first person he saw standing upon the porch was Valencia Valdés. He could hardly believe his eyes, for of course she could not be here. He had left her at Corbett's, had taken the stage and the train, and now found her waiting for him. The thing was manifestly impossible. Yet here she was. Swiftly she came down the steps to meet him. "Manuel, we are too late. Mr. Gordon has gone." "Gone where?" he asked, his mind dazed as it moved from one puzzle to another. "We don't know. He was attacked night before last and carried away, whether dead or alive we have no proof." "One thing at a time, Valencia. How did you get here?" "I drove across the mountains--started when I got the news from Mr. Davis that his friend had disappeared." "Do you mean that you drove all night--along mountain roads?" he asked, amazed. "Of course. I had to get here." She dismissed this as a trifle with a little gesture of her hand. "Manuel, we must find him. I believe he is alive. This is some of Pablo's work. Down in old-town some one must know where he is. Bring him to me and I'll make him tell what he has done with Mr. Gordon." Pesquiera was healthily hungry. He would have liked to sit down to a good breakfast, but he saw that his cousin was laboring under a heavy nervous tension. Cheerfully he gave up his breakfast for the present. But when, three hours later, he returned from the old adobe Mexican quarter Manuel had nothing to report but failure. Pablo had been seen by several people, but not within the past twenty-four hours. Nor had anything been seen of Sebastian. The two men had disappeared from sight as completely as had Gordon. Valencia, in the privacy of one of the hotel parlors, broke down and wept for the first time. Manuel tried to comfort her by taking the girl in his arms and petting her. She submitted to his embrace, burying her face in his shoulder. "Oh, Manuel, I'm a--a murderess," she sobbed. "You're a goose," he corrected. "Haven't you from the first tried to save this man from his own rashness? You're not to blame in any way, Val." "Yes ... Yes," she sobbed. "Pablo and Sebastian would never have dared touch him if they hadn't known that I'd quarreled with him. It all comes back to that." "That's pure nonsense. For that matter, I don't believe he's dead at all. We'll find him, as gay and insolent as ever, I promise you." Hope was buoyant in the young man's heart. For the first time he held his sweetheart in his arms. She clung to him, as a woman ought to her lover, palpitant, warm, and helpless. Of course they would find this pestiferous American who had caused her so much worry. And then he--Manuel--would claim his reward. "Do you think so ... really? You're not just saying so because ...?" Her olive cheek turned the least in the world toward him. Manuel trod on air. He felt that he could have flown across the range on the wings of his joy. "I feel sure of it, _niña_." Daring much, his hand caressed gently the waves of heavy black hair that brushed his cheek. Almost in a murmur she answered him. "Manuel, find him and save him. Afterward ..." "Afterward, _alma mia?_" She nodded. "I'll ... do what you ask." "You will marry me?" he cried, afraid to believe that his happiness had come at last. "Yes." "Valencia, you love me?" She trod down any doubts she might feel. Was he not the one suitable mate for her of all the men she knew? "How can I help it. You are good. You are generous. You serve me truly." Gently she disengaged herself and wiped her eyes with a lace kerchief. "But we must first find the American." "I'll find him. Dead or alive I'll bring him to you. Dear heart, you've given me the strength that moves mountains." A little smile fought for life upon her sad face. "You'll not have strength unless you eat. Poor Manuel, I think you lost your breakfast. I ordered luncheon to be ready for us early. We'll eat now." A remark of Manuel during luncheon gave his vis-à-vis an idea. "Mr. Davis is most certainly thorough. I never saw a town so plastered with bills before," he remarked. Valencia laid down her knife and fork as she looked at him. "Let's offer a reward for Pablo and Sebastian--say, a hundred dollars. That would bring us news of them." "You're right," he agreed. "I'll get bills out this afternoon. Perhaps I'd better say no incriminating questions will be asked of those giving us information." Stirred to activity by the promise of such large rewards, not only the sheriff's office and the police, but also private parties scoured the neighboring country for traces of the missing man or his captors. Every available horse in town was called into service for the man-hunt. Others became sleuths on foot and searched cellars and empty houses for the body of the man supposed to have been murdered. Never in its history had so much suspicion among neighbors developed in the old-town. Many who could not possibly be connected with the crime were watched jealously lest they snap up one of the rewards by stumbling upon evidence that had been overlooked. False clews in abundance were brought to Davis and Pesquiera. Good citizens came in with theories that lacked entirely the backing of any evidence. One of these was that a flying machine had descended in the darkness and that Gordon had been carried away by a friend to avoid the payment of debts he was alleged to owe. The author of this explanation was a stout old lady of militant appearance who carried a cotton umbrella large enough to cover a family. She was extraordinarily persistent and left in great indignation to see a lawyer because Davis would not pay her the reward. That day and the next passed with the mystery still unsolved. Valencia continued to stay at the hotel instead of opening the family town house, probably because she had brought no servants with her from the valley and did not know how long she would remain in the city. She and Manuel called upon the Underwoods to hear Kate's story, but from it they gathered nothing new. Mrs. Underwood welcomed them with the gentle kindness that characterized her, but Kate was formal and distant. "She doesn't like me," Valencia told her cousin as soon as they had left. "I wonder why. We were good enough friends as children." Manuel said nothing. He stroked his little black mustache with the foreign manner he had inherited. If he had cared to do so perhaps he could have explained Kate Underwood's stiffness. Partly it was embarrassment and partly shyness. He knew that there had been a time--before Valencia's return from college--when Kate lacked very little of being in love with him. He had but to say the word to have become engaged--and he had not said it. For, while on a visit to the East, he had called upon his beautiful cousin and she had won his love at once. This had nipped in the bud any embryonic romance that might otherwise have been possible with Kate. A little old Mexican woman with a face like wrinkled leather was waiting to see them in front of the hotel. "_Señor_ Pesquiera?" she asked, with a little bob of the body meant to be a bow. "Yes." "And _Señorita_ Valdés?" "That is my name," answered Valencia. "Will the _señor_ and the _señorita_ take a walk? The night is fine." "Where?" demanded Manuel curtly. "Into old-town, _señor_." "You have something to tell us." "To show you, _señor_--for a hundred dollars." "Sebastian--or is it Pablo?" cried Valencia, in a low voice. "I say nothing, _señorita_" whined the old woman. "I show you; then you pay. Is it not so?" "Get the money, Manuel," his cousin ordered quietly. Manuel got it from the hotel safe. He took time also to get from his room a revolver. Gordon had fallen victim to an ambush and he did not intend to do so if he could help it. In his own mind he had no doubt that some of their countrymen were selling either Pablo or Sebastian for the reward, but it was better to be safe than to be sorry. The old crone led them by side streets into the narrow adobe-lined roads of old-town. They passed through winding alleys and between buildings crumbling with age. Always Manuel watched, his right hand in his coat pocket. At the entrance to a little court a man emerged from the shadow of a wall. He whispered with the old dame for a minute. "Come. Make an end of this and show us what you have to show, _muy pronto_," interrupted Manuel impatiently. "In good time, _señor_," the man apologized. "Just a word first, my friend. I have a revolver in my hand. If there is trickery in your mind, better give it up. I'm a dead shot, and I'll put the first bullet through your heart. Now lead on." The Mexican threw up his hands in protest to all the saints that his purpose was good. He would assuredly keep faith, _señor_. "See you do," replied the Spaniard curtly. Their guide rapped three times on a door of a tumble-down shack. Cautiously it was opened a few inches. There was another whispered conversation. "The _señor_ and the _señorita_ can come in," said the first man, standing aside. Manuel restrained the young woman by stretching his left arm in front of her. "Just a moment. Light a lamp, my friends. We do not go forward in the dark." At this there was a further demur, but finally a match flickered and a lamp was lit. Manuel moved slowly forward into the room, followed by Valencia. In a corner of the room a man lay bound upon the floor, his back toward them. One of the men rolled him over as if he had been a sack of potatoes. The face into which they looked had been mauled and battered, but Valencia had no trouble in recognizing it. "Sebastian!" she cried. He said nothing. A sullen, dogged look rested on his face. Manuel had seen it before on the countenance of many men. He knew that the sheep grazer could not be driven to talk. Miss Valdés might have known it, too, but she was too impatient for finesse. "What have you done with Mr. Gordon? Tell me--now--at once," she commanded. The man's eyes did not lift to meet hers. Nor did he answer a single word. "First, our hundred dollars, _Señorita_," one of the men reminded her. "It will be paid when you deliver Sebastian to us in the street with his hands tied behind him," Manuel promised. They protested, grumbling that they had risked enough already when they had captured him an hour earlier. But in the end they came to Pesquiera's condition. The prisoner's hands were tied behind him and his feet released so that he could walk. Manuel slid one arm under the right one of Sebastian. The fingers of his left hand rested on the handle of a revolver in his coat pocket. Valencia, all impatience, could hardly restrain herself until they were alone with their prisoner. She walked on the other side of her cousin, but as soon as they reached the Plaza she stopped. "Where is he, Sebastian? What have you done with him? I warn you it is better to tell all you know," she cried sternly. He looked up at her doggedly, moistened his lips, and looked down again without a word. "Speak!" she urged imperiously. "Where is Mr. Gordon? Tell me he is alive. And what of Pablo?" Manuel spoke in a low voice. "My cousin, you are driving him to silence. Leave him to me. He must be led, not driven." Valencia was beyond reason. She felt that every minute lost was of tremendous importance. If Gordon was alive they must get help to him at once. All her life she had known Sebastian. When she had been a little tot he had taught her how to ride and how to fish. Since her return from college she had renewed acquaintance with him. Had she not been good to his children when they had small-pox? Had she not sold him his place cheaper than any other man could have bought it? Why, then, should he assume she was his enemy? Why should he distrust her? Why, above all, had he done this foolish and criminal thing? Her anger blazed as she recalled all this and more. She would show Sebastian that because she had been indulgent he could not trade defiantly upon her kindness. "No," she told Manuel. "No. I shall deal with him myself. He will speak or I shall turn him over to the sheriff." "Let us at least go to the hotel, Valencia. We do not want to gather a crowd on the street." "As you please." They reached the hotel parlor and Valencia gave Sebastian one more chance. The man shuffled uneasily on his feet, but did not answer. "Very well," continued Miss Valdés stiffly, "it is not my fault that you will have to go to the penitentiary and leave your children without support." Manuel tried to stop her, but Valencia brushed past and left the room. She went straight to a telephone and was connected with the office of the sheriff. After asking that an officer be sent at once to arrest a man whom she was holding as prisoner, she hung up the receiver and returned to the parlor. In all she could not have been absent more than five minutes, but when she reached the parlor it was empty. Both Manuel and his prisoner had gone. CHAPTER XVII AN OBSTINATE MAN When Richard Gordon came back from unconsciousness to a world of haziness and headaches he was quite at a loss to account for his situation. He knew vaguely that he was lying flat on his back and that he was being jolted uncomfortably to and fro. His dazed brain registered sensations of pain both dull and sharp from a score of bruised nerve centers. For some reason he could neither move his hands nor lift his head. His body had been so badly jarred by the hail of blows through which he had plowed that at first his mind was too blank to give him explanations. Gradually he recalled that he had been in a fight. He remembered a sea of faces, the thud of fists, the flash of knives. This must be the reason why every bone ached, why the flesh on his face was caked and warm moisture dripped from cuts in his scalp. It dawned upon him that he could not move his arms because they were tied and that the interference with his breathing was caused by a gag. When he opened his eyes he saw nothing, but whenever his face or hands stirred from the jolting something light and rough brushed his flesh; An odor of alfalfa filled his nostrils. He guessed that he was in a wagon and covered with hay. Where were they taking him? Why had they not killed him at once? Who was at the bottom of the attack upon him? Already his mind was busy with the problem. Presently the jolting ceased. He could hear guarded voices. The alfalfa was thrown aside and he was dragged from his place and carried down some steps. The men went stumbling through the dark, turning first to the right, and then to the left. They groped their way into a room and dropped him upon a bed. Even now they struck no light, but through a small window near the ceiling moonbeams entered and relieved somewhat the inky blackness. "Is he dead?" someone asked in Spanish. "No. His eyes were open as we brought him in," answered a second voice guardedly. They stood beside the bed and looked down at their prisoner. His eyes were getting accustomed to the darkness. He saw that one of the men was Pablo Menendez. The other, an older Mexican with short whiskers, was unknown to him. "He fought like a devil from hell. Roderigo's arm is broken. Not one of us but is marked," said the older man admiringly. "My head is ringing yet, Sebastian," agreed Pablo. "_Dios_, how he slammed poor José down. The blood poured from his nose and mouth. Never yet have I seen a man fight so fierce and so hard as this _Americano_. He may be the devil himself, but his claws are clipped now. And here he lies till he does as we want, or----" The young Mexican did not finish his sentence, but the gleam in his eyes was significant. Pablo stooped till his eyes were close to those of the bound man. "_Señor,_ shall I take the gag from your mouth? Will you swear not to cry out and not to make any noise?" Gordon nodded. "So, but if you do the road to Paradise will be short and swift," continued Menendez. "Before your shout has died away you will be dead. _Sabe, Señor_?" He unknotted the towel at the back of his prisoner's head and drew it from Dick's mouth. Gordon expanded his lungs in a deep breath before he spoke coolly to his gaoler. "Thank you, Menendez. You needn't keep your fist on that gat. I've no intention of committing suicide until after I see you hanged." "Which will be never, _Señor_ Gordon," replied Pablo rapidly in Spanish. "You will never leave here alive except on terms laid down by us." "Interesting if true--but not true, I think," commented Dick pleasantly. "You have made a mistake, my friends, and you will have to pay for it." "If we have made a mistake it can yet be remedied, _Señor_" retorted Pablo quietly. "We have but to make an end of you and behold! all is well again." "Afraid not, my enthusiastic young friend. Too many in the secret. Someone will squeal, and the rest of you--particularly you two ringleaders--will be hanged by the neck. It takes only ordinary intelligence to know that. Therefore I am quite safe, even though I have a confounded headache and a rising fever." Gordon added with cheerful solicitude: "I do hope I'm not going to get sick on your hands. It's rather a habit of mine, you know. But, really, you can't blame me this time." A danger signal flared in the eyes of the young Mexican. "Better not, _Señor_. You will here have no young and charming nurse to wait upon you." "Meaning Mrs. Corbett?" asked the prisoner, smiling up impudently. "Whose heart your soft words can steal away from him to whom it belongs," continued Pablo furiously. "Sho, I reckon Corbett----" "_Mil diablos!_" A devil of jealousy was burning out of the black eyes that blazed into those of the American. It was no longer possible for Dick to miss the menace and its meaning. The Mexican was speaking of Juanita. He believed that his prisoner had been making love to the girl and his heart was black with hate because of it. Gordon looked at him steadily, then summed up with three derisive words. "You damn fool!" Something in the way he said them shook Pablo's conviction. Was it possible after all that his jealousy had been useless? Juanita had told him that all through his delirium this man had raved of Miss Valdés. Perhaps---- But, no, had he not with his own eyes seen the man bantering Juanita while the color came and went in her wild rose cheeks? Had he not seen him lean on her shoulder as he hobbled out to the porch, just as a lover might on that of his sweetheart? With an oath Pablo turned sullenly away. He knew he was no match for this man at any point. Yet he was a leader among his own people because of the force in him. Gordon slept little during the night. He had been so badly beaten that outraged nature took her revenge in a feverish restlessness that precluded any real rest. With the coming of day the temperature subsided. Pablo brought a basin of water and a sponge, with which he washed the bloody face and head of the bound man. Dick observed that his nurse had a few marks of his own as souvenirs of the battle. The cheek bone had been laid open by a blow that must have been made with his knuckles. One eye was half shut, and beneath it was a deep purple swelling. "Had quite a little jamboree, didn't we?" remarked Gordon, with a grin. "I'll bet you lads mussed my hair up some." Pablo said nothing, but after he had made his unwilling guest as presentable and comfortable as possible he proceeded to business. "You want to know why we have made you prisoner, _Señor_ Gordon?" he suggested. "It has perhaps occur to you that it would have been much easier to shoot you and be done?" "Yes, that has struck me, Menendez. I reckon your nerve didn't quite run to murder maybe." "Not so. I spare you because you save my brother's life after he shoot at you. But I exact conditions. So?" The eyes of the miner had grown hard and steelly. The lids had closed on them so that only slits were open. "Let's hear them." "First, that you give what is called word of honor not to push any charges against those taking you prisoner." "Pass that for the present," ordered Dick curtly. "Number two please." "That you sign a paper drawn up by a lawyer giving all your rights in the Rio Chama Valley to Señorita Valdés and promise never to go near the valley again." "Nothing doing," answered the prisoner promptly, his jaws snapping tight. "But yes--most assuredly yes. I risk much to save your life. But you must go to meet me, _Señor_. Is a man's life not worth all to him? So? Sign, and you live." The eyes of the men had fastened--the fierce, black, eager ones of the Mexican and the steelly gray ones of the Anglo-Saxon. There was the rigor of battle in that gaze, the grinding of rapier on rapier. Gordon was a prisoner in the hands of his enemy. He lay exhausted from a terrible beating. That issues of life and death hung in the balance a child might have guessed. But victory lay with the white man. The lids of Menendez fell over sullen, angry eyes. "You are a fool, _Señor_. We go to prison for no man who is our enemy. Pouf! When the hour comes I snuff out your life like that." And Pablo snapped his fingers airily. "Maybe--and maybe not. I figure on living to be an old man. Tell you what I'll do, Menendez. Turn me loose and I'll forget about our little rumpus last night. I'd ought to send you to the pen, but I'll consent to forego that pleasure." Sulkily Pablo turned away. What could one do with a madman who insisted on throwing his life away? The young Mexican was not a savage, though the barbaric strain in his wild lawless blood was still strong. He did not relish the business of killing in cold blood even the man he hated. "If you kill me you'll hang," went on Gordon composedly. "You'll never get away with it. Your own friends will swear your neck into a noose. Your partner Sebastian--you'll excuse me if I appear familiar, but I don't know the gentleman's other name--will turn State's evidence to try to save his own neck. But I reckon he'll have to climb the ladder, too." Sebastian pushed aside his companion angrily and took the American by the throat. "_Por Dios_, I show you. If I hang I hang--but you----" His muscular fingers tightened till the face of his enemy grew black. But the eyes--the steady, cool, contemptuous eyes--still looked into his defiantly. Pablo dragged his accomplice from the bedside. The time might come for this, but it was not yet. It had been a close thing for Gordon. If those lean, strong fingers had been given a few seconds more at his throat they would have snapped the cord of life. But gradually the distorted face resumed its natural hue as the coughing, strangling man began to breathe again. "Your--friend--is--impetuous," Dick suggested to Pablo as soon as he could get the words out one at a time. "He will shake the life out of you as a terrier does that of a rat," Pablo promised vindictively. "There's no fun--in being strangled, as you'll both--find out later," the prisoner retorted whimsically but with undaunted spirit. Sebastian had left the room. At the expiration of half an hour he returned with a tray, upon which were two plates with food and two cups of steaming coffee. The Mexicans ate their ham and their _frijoles_ and drank their coffee. The prisoner they ignored. "Don't I draw even a Libby Prison allowance?" the American wanted to know. "You eat and you drink after you have signed the paper," Pablo told him. "I always did think we ate too much and too often. Much obliged for a chance to work out my theories." Gordon turned his back upon them, his face to the wall. Presently, in spite of the cramped position necessitated by his bound arms, he yielded to weariness and fell asleep. Sebastian lay down in a corner of the room and also slept. He and Pablo would have to relieve each other as watchmen so long as they held their prisoner. For that reason they must get what rest they could during the day. Menendez found himself the victim of conflicting emotions. It had been easy while they were plotting the abduction to persuade himself that the man would grant anything to save his life. Now he doubted this. Looking clown at the battered face of the miner, so lean and strong and virile, he could not withhold a secret reluctant admiration. How was it possible for him to sleep so easily and lightly while he lay within the shadow of violent death? There was even a little smile about the corners of his mouth, as if he were enjoying pleasant dreams. Never had Pablo known another man like this one. Had he not broken the spirit of that outlaw devil Teddy in ten minutes? Who else could shoot the heads off chickens at a distance as he had done? Was there another in New Mexico that could, though taken at advantage, put up so fierce a fight against big odds? The young Mexican hated him because of Juanita and his opposition to Miss Valdés. But the untamed and gallant spirit of the young man went out in spite of himself in homage to the splendid courage and efficiency of his victim. Not till the middle of the afternoon did Gordon awaken. He was surprised to find that his hands were free. Of Menendez he asked an explanation. Pablo gave him none. How could he say that he was ashamed to keep him tied while two armed men were in the room to watch him? "Move from that bed and I'll blow your brains out," the Mexican growled in Spanish. Presently Pablo brought him a tin dipper filled with water. "Drink, _Señor_" he ordered ungraciously. Dick drank the last drop and smiled at his guard gratefully. "You're white in spots, Mr. Miscreant, though you hate to think it of yourself," he said lightly. Odd as it may seem, Gordon found a curious pleasure in exploring the mind of the young man. He detected the struggle going on in it, and he made remarks so uncannily wise that the Mexican was startled at his divination. The miner held no grudge. These men were his enemies because they thought him a selfish villain who ought to be frustrated in his designs. Long ago, in that school of experience which had made him the hard, competent man he was, Dick had learned the truth of the saying that to know all is to forgive all. He himself had done bold and lawless things often enough, but it was seldom that he did a mean one. Warily alert though he was for a chance to escape, his feelings were quite impersonal toward these Mexicans. Confronted with the need, he would kill if he must to save himself; but it would not be because he was vindictive. Dick's mind was alert to every chance of escape. He studied his situation as well as he could without moving from the bed. From the glimpse of the house he had had as the two men carried him in he knew that it was a large, modern one set in grounds of considerable size. He had been brought down a flight of steps and was now in the basement. Was the house an unoccupied one? Or was it in the possession of some one friendly to the scheme upon which the Mexicans had engaged? A suspicion had startled him just after the men finished eating, but he had dismissed it as a fantasy of his excited imagination. Sebastian, carrying out the dishes, had dropped a spoon and left it lying beside the bed. Dick contrived, after he had wakened, to roll close to the edge and look down. The spoon was still there. Two letters were engraved upon the handle. They were A.V. If these stood for Alvaro Valdés, then this must be the town house of Valencia, and she was probably a party to his abduction. He could not without distress of heart accept such a conclusion. She was his enemy, but she had seemed to him so frank and generous a one that complicity in a plot of this nature had no part in the picture of her his mind had drawn. He wrestled with the thought of this until he could stand it no longer. "Did Miss Valdés come to town herself, or is she letting you run this abduction, Menendez?" he asked suddenly. Pablo repeated stupidly, "Miss Valdés--the _señorita_?" The keen, hard eyes of Gordon did not lift for an instant from those of the other man. "That's what I said." It occurred to the Mexican that this was a chance to do a stroke of business for his mistress. He would show the confident _Americano_ what place he held in her regard. His shoulders lifted in a shrug. "You are clevair, _Señor_. How do you know the _señorita_ knows?" "This is her house. She told you to bring me here." Pablo was surprised. "So? You know it is her house?" "Surest thing you know." "The _señorita_ trusts me. She is at the ranch." "But you are acting under her orders?" "If the _señor_ pleases." Dick turned his back to the wall again. His heart was bitter within him. He had thought her a sportsman, every inch a thoroughbred. But she had set her peons to spy on him and to attack him--ten to one in their favor--so that she might force him to sign away his rights to her. Very well. He would show her whether she could drive him to surrender, whether she could starve him into doing what he did not want to do. The younger Mexican wakened Sebastian late in the afternoon and left him to guard the prisoner while he went into the town to hear what rumors were flying about the affair. About an hour later he returned, bringing with him some provisions, a newspaper, and a handbill. The latter he tossed to Gordon. "Señor, I never saw five hundred dollars dangling within reach before. Shall I go to your friend and give him information?" asked Pablo. Dick read the poster through with interest. "Good old Steve. He's getting busy. Inside of twenty-four hours he'll ferret out this spot." "It may be too late," Pablo flung back significantly. "If they press us hard we'll finish the job and make a run for it." They were talking in Spanish, as they did most of the time. The prisoner read aloud the offer on the handbill. "Please notice that I'm worth no more alive than you are if I'm dead. I reckon this town is full of friends of yours anxious to earn five hundred plunks by giving a little information. Let me ask a question of you. Suppose you do finish the job and hit the trail. Where would you go?" "The hills are full of pockets. We could hide and watch a chance to get out of the country." "We wouldn't have to hide. Jesu Cristo, who would know we did it?" chipped in Sebastian roughly. "Everybody will know it soon. You made a bad mistake when you didn't bump me off at the start. All your friends that helped bushwhack me will itch to get that five hundred, Sebastian. As to hiding--well, I was a ranger once. Offer a reward, and everybody is on the jump to earn it. The way these hills are being combed this week by anxious man-hunters you'd never reach your cache." "Maybe we would and maybe we wouldn't. We'll have to take a chance on that," replied the bearded Mexican sullenly. To their prisoner it was plain that the men were I growing more anxious every hour. They regretted the course they had followed and yet could see no way of safety opening to them. Suspicious by nature, Sebastian judged the American by himself. If their positions were reversed, he knew he would break any pledge he might make and go straight to the sheriff with his story. Therefore they could not with safety release the man. To kill him would be dangerous. To keep him prisoner was possible only for a limited time. Whatever course they followed seemed precarious and uncertain. Temperamentally he was inclined to put an end to the man and try a bolt for the hills, but he found in Pablo an unexpected difficulty. The young man would not hear of this. He had made up his mind riot to let Gordon be killed if he could prevent it, though he did not tell the American so. Menendez made another trip after supplies next day, but he came back hurriedly without them. Pesquiera's poster offering a reward of one hundred dollars for the capture of him or Sebastian had brought him up short and sent him scurrying back to his hole. Gordon used the poster for a text. His heart was jubilant within him, for he knew now that Valencia was not back of this attack upon him. "All up with you now," he assured them in a genial, offhand fashion. "Miss Valdés must be backing Pesquiera. They know you two are the guilty villains. Inside of twelve hours they'll have you both hogtied." Clearly the conspirators were of that opinion themselves. They talked together a good deal in whispers. Dick was of the opinion that a proposition would be made him before morning, though it was just possible that the scale might tip the other way and his death be voted. He spent a very anxious hour. After dark Sebastian, who was less well known in the town than Pablo, departed on an errand unknown to Gordon. The miner guessed that he was going to make arrangements for horses upon which to escape. Dick was not told their decision. Menendez had fallen sulky again and refused to talk. CHAPTER XVIII MANUEL INTERFERES Valencia had scarcely left the parlor to telephone for the sheriff before Manuel flashed a knife and cut the rope that tied his prisoner's hands. Sebastian had shrunk back at sight of the knife, but when he found that he was free he stared at Pesquiera in startled amazement. "Come! Let's get out of here. We can talk when you are free of danger," said Manuel with sharp authority in his voice. He led the way into the corridor, walked quickly down one passage and along another, and so by a back stairway into the alley in the rear. Within a few minutes they were a quarter of a mile from the El Tovar. Sebastian, still suspicious, yet aware that for some reason Don Manuel was unexpectedly on his side, awaited explanations. "_Doña_ Valdés is quite right, Sebastian. She means well, but she is, after all, a woman. This is a man's business, and you and I can settle it better alone." Manuel smiled with an air of frank confidence at his former prisoner. "You are in a serious fix--no doubt at all about that. The question is to find the best way out." _"Si, Señor"_. Pesquiera's bright black eyes fastened on him as he flung a question at the man. "I suppose this Gordon is still alive." Sebastian nodded gloomily. "He is like a cat with its nine lives. We have beaten and starved him, but he laughs--this Gringo devil--and tells us he will live to see us wearing stripes in prison." _"Muy bien."_ Manuel talked on briskly, so as to give the slower-witted Mexican no time to get set in obstinacy. "I should be able to arrange matters then. We must free the man after I have his word to tell nothing." "But he will run straight to the sheriff," protested Sebastian. "Not if he gives his word. I'll see to that. Where have you him hidden?" The young Spaniard asked the question carelessly, almost indifferently, as if it were merely a matter of course. Sebastian opened his mouth to tell--and then closed it. He had had no intention of telling anything. Now he found he had told everything except their hiding-place. The suspicion which lay coiled in his heart lifted its head like a snake. Was he being led into a trap? Would Don Manuel betray him to the law? The gleaming eyes of the man narrowed and grew hard. Manuel, intuitively sensing this, hurried on. "It can be a matter of only hours now until they stumble upon your hiding-place. If this happens before we have come to terms with Gordon you are lost. I have come to town to save you and Pablo. But I can't do this unless you trust me. Take me to Gordon and let me talk with him. Blindfold me if you like. But lose no time." As Sebastian saw it, this was a chance. He knew Manuel was an honest man. His reputation was of the best. Reluctantly he gave way. "The _Americano_ is at the Valdés house," he admitted sulkily. "At the Valdés house? Why, in Heaven's name, did you take him there?" "How could we tell that the _Señorita_ would come to town? The house was empty. Pablo worked there in the stables as a boy. So we moved in." A quarter of an hour later Pablo opened the outer basement door in answer to the signal agreed upon by them. He had left the prisoner upon the bed with his hands tied. Sebastian entered. Pablo noticed that another man was standing outside. Instantly his rifle covered him. For, though others of their countrymen had been employed to help capture Gordon, none of these knew where he was hidden. "It is Don Manuel Pesquiera," explained Sebastian. "I brought him here to help us out of this trouble we are in. Let him in and I will tell you all." For an instant Pablo suspected that his accomplice had sold him, but he dismissed the thought almost at once. He had known Sebastian all his life. He stepped aside and let Pesquiera come into the hall. The three men talked for a few minutes and then passed into the bedroom where the prisoner was confined. Evidently this had formerly been the apartment of the cook, who had slept in the basement in order no doubt to be nearer her work. Pesquiera looked around and at last made out a figure in the darkness lying upon the bed. He stepped forward, observing that the man on the bed had his hands bound. Bending down, he recognized the face of Gordon. Beaten and bruised and gaunt from hunger it was, but the eyes still gleamed with the same devil-may-care smile. "Happy to meet you, Don Manuel." The Spaniard's heart glowed with admiration. He did not like the man. It was his intention to fight him as soon as possible for the insult that had been put upon him some weeks earlier. But his spirit always answered to the call of courage, and Gordon's pluck was so debonair he could not refuse a reluctant appreciation. "I regret to see you thus, Mr. Gordon," he said. "Might have been worse. Sebastian has had se-vere-al notions about putting me out of business. I'm lucky to be still kicking." "I have come from Miss Valdés. She came to Santa Fé when she heard from your friend Mr. Davis that you had disappeared. To-night we saw Sebastian for the first time. He brought me here." "Good of him," commented Dick ironically. "You will be freed of course--at once." Manuel drew out his knife and cut the cords that bound the prisoner. "But I must ask your forbearance in behalf of Sebastian and Pablo and the others that have injured you. May I give them your pledge not to appear as a witness against them for what they have done?" "Fine! I'm to be mauled and starved and kidnaped, but I'm to say 'Thank you kindly' for these small favors, hoping for a continuance of the same. You have another guess coming, Mr. Pesquiera. I offered those terms two days ago. They weren't accepted. My ideas have changed. I'm going to put your friends behind the bars--unless you decide to let them murder me instead. I've been the goat long enough." "Your complaint is just, Mr. Gordon. It iss your right to enforce the law. Most certainly it iss your right. But consider my position. Sebastian brought me here only upon my pledge to secure from you a promise not to press your rights. What shall I do? I must see that you are released. That goes without saying. But shall I break faith with him and let him be delivered to justice? I have given my word, remember." Gordon looked up at him with his lean jaw set. "You couldn't give _my_ word, could you? Very well. Go away. Forget that you've seen me. I'll be a clam so far as you are concerned. But if I get free I'm going to make things hot for these lads that think they can play Ned with me. They're going to the pen, every last one of them. I'm going to see this thing out to a finish and find out if there's any law in New Mexico." Manuel stiffened. "You put me in an awkward position, Mr. Gordon. I have no choice but to see you are set at liberty. But my honor is involved. These men shall not go to prison. They have made a serious mistake, but they are not what you call criminals. You know well----" "I know that they and their friends have shot at me, ambushed me, beaten me, and starved me. They've been wanting to kill me ever since they got me here--at least one of them has--but they just didn't have the guts to do it. What is your definition of a criminal anyhow? Your friends here fill the specifications close enough to suit me. I ain't worried about their being too good for the company they'll join at the pen." "You are then resolve', _Señor_?" "That's what I am. I'm going to see they get the limit. I've not got a thing against you, Mr. Pesquiera, and I'd like to oblige you if I could. But I'm playing this hand myself." The Spaniard spoke to him in a low voice. "These men are the people of Miss Valdés. She drove all night across the mountains to get here sooner when she found you were gone. She offered and paid a reward of one hundred dollars to help find you. Do you not owe something to her?" "I owe one hundred dollars and my thanks, sir. I'll pay them both. But Miss Valdés cannot ask me to give up prosecuting these men because she would not stand back and see murder done." "Will you then leave it to her to punish these men?" "No. I pay my own debts." Manuel was troubled. He had expected to find the prisoner so eager for release that he would consent at once to his proposal. Instead, he found a man hard and cold as steel. Yet he had to admit that Gordon claimed only his rights. No man could be expected to stand without an appeal to the law such outrageous treatment as he had been given. "Will you consent then to settle the matter with me, man to man? These men are but peons. They are like cattle and do not think. But I--I am a more worthy foeman. Let me take the burden of their misdeeds on my shoulders." Dick wagged a forefinger at him warningly. "Now you've got that swashbuckler notion of a duel again. I'm no cavalier of Spain, but a plain American business man, Don Quixote. As for these jail-birds"--his hand swept the room to include the Mexicans--"since I'm an unregenerate human I mean to make 'em pay for what they've done. That's all there is to it." Don Manuel bowed. "Very good, Mr. Gordon. We shall see. I promise you that I shall stand between them and prison. I offer you a chance to win the friendship of the Mexicans in the valley. You decline. So be it. I wash my hands, sir." He turned away and gave directions to Pablo, who left the room at once. The Spaniard called for candles and lit two. He pointedly ignored Gordon, but sat with his hands in his pockets whistling softly a popular air. About a quarter of an hour later Pablo returned with a hot meal on a tray. Gordon, having done without food for two days, ate his ham and eggs and drank his coffee with an appetite given to few men. Meanwhile Pesquiera withdrew to the passage and laid down an ultimatum to the Mexicans. They must take horse at once and get back to the hills above the Rio Chama Valley. He would bring saddle horses from a stable so that they could start within the hour and travel all night. The Mexicans listened sullenly. But they knew that the matter was now out of their hands. Since the arrival of Pesquiera it had become manifestly impossible to hold their prisoner longer. They agreed to the plan of the Spaniard reluctantly. After Pablo and Sebastian had taken horse Pesquiera returned to the prisoner. "We will, if it pleases you, move upstairs, Mr. Gordon," he announced. "To-night I must ask you to remain in the house with me to give those poor fools a little start on their ride for freedom. We shall find better beds upstairs no doubt." "They're hitting the trail, are they?" Dick asked negligently as he followed his guide. "Yes. If you'll give me your parole till morning, Mr. Gordon, I shall be able to return to Miss Valdés and let her know that all is well. Otherwise I shall be obliged to sit up and see that you do not get active in interfering with the ride of Pablo and his friend." "I'll stay here till seven o'clock to-morrow morning. Is that late enough? Then I'll see the sheriff and start things moving." Pesquiera bowed in his grand, formal manner. "The terms satisfy. I wish Mr. Gordon a very good night's sleep. This room formerly belonged to the brother of Miss Valdés. It is curious, but she was here airing this room only to-day. She did not know you were in the house at the time. _Adios, Señor._" "Good night, Mr. Pesquiera. I reckon I'm in your debt quite a bit. Sorry we couldn't agree about this little matter of what to do with the boys." Manuel bowed again and withdrew from the room. Inside of ten minutes Gordon was fast asleep. CHAPTER XIX VALENCIA ACCEPTS A RING Manuel found Valencia pacing up and down the porch of the hotel in a fever of impatience. Instantly at sight of him she ran forward quickly. "Where have you been? What have you done with Sebastian? Why did you leave without telling me about it?" she demanded. "One question at a time, my cousin," he answered, smiling at her. "But let us walk while I tell you." She fell into step beside him, moving with the strong, lissom tread that came from controlled and deliberate power. "What is it you have to tell? If you were called away, why did you not leave a message for me?" she asked, a little imperiously. "I wasn't called away, Valencia. You were excited and angry. My opinion was that Sebastian would speak if the matter was put to him right. So I cut the rope that tied him and we ran away through the back door of the hotel." Her dark eyes, proud and passionate, began to smoulder. But the voice with which she answered him was silken smooth. "I see. You pretended to be working with me--and then you betrayed me. Is that it?" "If you like," he said with a little shrug. "I backed my judgment against your impatience. And it turns out that I was right." "How? What has happened? Where is Sebastian?" "He is galloping toward the hills as fast as he can--at least I hope he is. What happened is that he told me where Gordon is hidden." "Where?" "At your house. When you were there to-day you must have passed within twenty feet of him." "But--do you mean that Pablo and Sebastian took him there?" "Exactly. They did not foresee that you would come to town, Valencia." He added, after a moment: "I have seen Mr. Gordon, talked with him, and released him. At this moment he is in your brother's room, probably asleep." All the sharpness had died out of the young woman's voice when she turned to her cousin and spoke with a humility rare to her. "Forgive me, Manuel. I always know best about everything. I drive ahead and must have my own way, even when it is not the wise one. You did just right to ignore me." She laid her hand on his coat sleeve pleadingly, and he lifted it to his lips. "_Niña_ ... the Queen can do no wrong. But I saw you were driving Sebastian to stubbornness. I tried to let him see we meant to be his friends if he would let us." "Yes, you were right. Tell me everything, please." She paused just a moment before she said quietly: "But first, what about Mr. Gordon? He is ... uninjured?" "Beaten and mauled and starved, but still of the gayest courage," answered the Spaniard with enthusiasm. "Did I not say that he was a hero? My cousin, I say it again. The fear of death is not in his heart." He did not see the gleam in her dark eyes, the flush that beat into her dusky face. "Starved as well as beaten, Manuel?" "They were trying to force him to give up his claim to the valley. But he--as I live the American is hard as Gibraltar." "They dared to starve him--to torture him. I shall see that they are punished," she cried with the touch of feminine ferocity that is the heritage of the south. "No need, Valencia," returned Pesquiera with a dry little laugh. "Mr. Gordon has promised himself to attend to that." He told her the story from first to last. Intently she listened, scarce breathing until he had finished. Manuel had told the tale with scrupulous fairness, but already her sympathies were turning. "And he wouldn't agree not to prosecute?" she asked. "No. It is his right to do so if he likes, Valencia." She brushed this aside with an impatient wave of her hand. "Oh, his right! Doesn't he owe something to us--to me--and especially to you?" "No, he owes me nothing. What I did was done for you, and not for him," the Spaniard replied instantly. "Then to me at least he is in debt. I shall ask him to drop the prosecution." "He is what his people call straight. But he is hard--hard as jade." They were walking along a dark lane unlighted save by the stars. Valencia turned to him impetuously. "Manuel, you are good. You do not like this man, but you save him because--because my heart is torn when my people do wrong. For me you take much trouble--you risk much. How can I thank you?" "_Niña mia_, I am thanked if you are pleased. It is your love I seek, Heart of mine." He spoke tremulously, taking her hands in his. For the beat of a heart she hesitated. "You have it. Have I not given my word that--after the American was saved----?" He kissed her. Hers was a virginal soul, but full-blooded. An unsuspected passion beat in her veins. Not for nothing did she have the deep, languorous eyes, the perfect scarlet lips, the sumptuous grace of an artist's ideal. Fires lay banked within her in spite of the fine purity of her nature. Nature had poured into her symmetrical mold a rich abundance of what we call sex. The kisses of Manuel stirred within her new and strange emotions, though she accepted rather than returned them. A faint vague unease chilled her heart. Was it because she had been immodest in letting him so far have his way? When they returned to the hotel Manuel's ring was on her finger. She was definitely engaged to him. It was long before she slept. She thought of Manuel, the man chosen it seemed by Fate to be her mate. But she thought, too, of the lithe, broad-shouldered young American whose eyes could be so tender and again so hard. Why was it he persisted in filling her mind so much of the time? Why did she both admire him and resent his conduct, trust him to the limit one hour and distrust the next? Why was it that he--an unassuming American without any heroics--rather than her affianced lover seemed to radiate romance as he moved? She liked Manuel very much, she respected him greatly, trusted him wholly, but--it was this curly-headed youth of her mother's race that set her heart beating fast a dozen times a day. She resolved resolutely to put him out of her mind. Had he not proved himself unworthy by turning the head of Juanita, whom he could not possibly expect to marry? Was not Manuel in every way worthy of her love? Her finger touched the diamond ring upon her hand. She would keep faith in thought as well as in word and deed. At last she fell asleep--and dreamed of a blond, gray-eyed youth fighting for his life against a swarm of attacking Mexicans. CHAPTER XX DICK LIGHTS A CIGARETTE Gordon met Miss Valdés in the El Tovar dining-room next morning. He was trying at the same time to tell Davis the story of his kidnaping and to eat a large rare steak with French-fried potatoes. The young man had chosen a seat that faced the door. The instant his eyes fell upon her he gave up both the story and the steak. Putting aside his napkin, he rose to meet her. She had fallen asleep thinking of him, her dreams had been full of his vivid personality, and she had wakened to an eager longing for the sight of his gay, mocking eyes. But she had herself under such good control that nobody could have guessed how fast her heart was beating as her fingers touched his. "We are glad your adventure is ended, Mr. Gordon, and that it has turned out no worse. Probably Mr. Davis has told you that he and I got our heads together a great many times a day," she said, a little formally. "You were mighty good to take so much interest in such a scalawag," he answered warmly. The color deepened ever so little in her face. "I couldn't let my men commit murder under the impression they were doing me a service," she explained lightly. "There are several things I want to talk over with you. Can you call on me this morning, Mr. Gordon?" "Can I?" He put the question so forcefully that she smiled and dashed a bucket of cold water over his enthusiasm. "If you'll be so good then. And bring Mr. Davis along with you, please. He'll keep us from quarreling too much." "I'll throw him out of the window if he don't behave right," Davis promised joyfully. He was happy to-day, and he did not care who knew it. Valencia passed on to her table, and Dick resumed his seat. He had a strong interest in this young woman, but even the prospect of a talk with her could not make him indifferent to the rare steak and French-fried potatoes before him. He was a healthy normal American in his late twenties, and after several days of starvation well-cooked food looked very good to him. "There's some mail waiting for you upstairs--one of the letters is a registered one, mailed at Corbett's," his friend told him as they rose to leave. He was like a hen with one chick in his eagerness to supply Dick's wants and in his reluctance to let Gordon out of his sight. The registered letter was the one Valencia had sent him, inclosing the one written by her grandfather to her father. Her contrite little note went straight to his emotions. If not in words, at least in spirit, it pleaded for pardon. Even the telegram she had wired implied an undeniable interest in him. Dick went with a light heart to the interview she had appointed him. He slipped an arm through that of Davis. "Come on, you old bald-headed chaperone. Didn't you hear the lady give you a bid to her party this mo'ning? Get a move on you." "Ain't you going to let her invite get cold before you butt in?" retorted Steve amiably. Valencia took away from the dining-room a heart at war with itself. The sight of his gaunt face, carrying the scars of many wounds and the lines marked by hunger, stirred insurgent impulses. The throb of passion and of the sweet protective love that is at the bottom of every woman's tenderness suffused her cheeks with warm life and made her eyes wonderful. Out of the grave he had come back to her, this indomitable foe who played the game with such gay courage. It was useless to tell herself that she was plighted to a better man, a worthier one. Scamp he might be, but Dick Gordon held her heart in the hollow of his strong brown hand. Some impulse of shyness, perhaps of reluctance, had restrained her from wearing Manuel's ring at breakfast. But when she returned to her room she went straight to the desk where she had locked it and put the solitaire on her finger. The fear of disloyalty drove her back to her betrothed from the enticement of forbidden thoughts. She must put Richard Gordon out of her mind. It was worse than madness to be dreaming of him now that she was plighted to another. Gordon, coming eagerly to meet her, found a young woman more reserved, more distant. He was conscious of this even before his eyes stopped at the engagement ring sparkling on her finger, the visible evidence that his rival had won. "You have been treated cruelly, Mr. Gordon. Tell me that you are again all right," she said, the color flooding her face at the searching question of his eyes. "Right as a rivet, thanks. It is to you I owe my freedom, I suppose." "To Manuel," she corrected. "His judgment was better than mine." "I can believe that. He didn't ride all night across dangerous mountain roads to save me." "Oh, that!" She tossed off his thanks with a little shrug. "They are so impulsive, my boys ... like children, you know.... I was a little afraid they might----" "I was a little afraid myself they might," he agreed dryly. "But when you say children--well, don't you think wolves is a more accurate term for them?" "Oh, no--no!" Her protest was quick, eager, imperative. "You don't know how loyal they can be--how faithful. They are really just like children, so impulsive--so unreasoning." "Afraid I can't enthuse with you on that subject for a day or two yet," he answered with a laugh. "Truth is I found their childlike impulses both painful and annoying. Next time you see them you might mention that I'm liable to have an impulse of my own they won't enjoy." "That's one of the things I want to talk with you about. Manuel says you mean to prosecute. I hope you won't. They're friends of mine. They thought they were helping me. Of course I have no claim on you, but----" "You have a claim, Miss Valdés. We'll take that up presently. Just now we're talking about a couple of criminals due for a term in the penitentiary. I offered them terms. They wouldn't accept. Good enough. They'll have to stand the gaff, I reckon." She realized at once there was no use arguing with him. The steel in his eyes told her he had made up his mind and was not to be moved. But she could not desert her foolish dependents. "I know. What you say is quite true, but--I'll have to come to some agreement with you. I can't let them be punished for their loyalty to me." Her direct, unflinching look, its fearlessness, won his admiration. In her slim suppleness, vibrant, feminine to the finger tips, alluring with the unconscious appeal of sex, there was a fine courage to face frankly essential facts. But he was a hard man to move once he had made up his mind. For all his frivolous impudence and his boyish good nature, he knew his own mind, and held to it with the stiffness characteristic of outdoor Westerners. "You're not in this, Miss Valdés. I'll settle my own accounts with your friends Sebastian and Pablo." "But even for your own sake----" She stopped, intuitively aware that this was not the ground upon which to treat with him. He would never drop the charges against the Mexicans merely because there was danger in pressing them. "I reckon I'll have to try to look out for myself. Maybe next time I won't be so easy a mark," he answered with an almost insolent laugh. Valencia was a little puzzled. Things were not going right, and she did not quite know the reason. There was just a touch of bitterness in his voice, of aloofness in his manner. She did not know that the sight of the solitaire sparkling on her left hand stirred in him the impulse to hurt her, to refuse rather than concede her requests. "You're not going to push the cases against Pablo and Sebastian and still try to live in the valley, are you?" she asked, beginning to feel a little irritation at him. "That's just what I'm going to do." "You mustn't. I won't have it. Don't you see what my people will think, that because Pablo and Sebastian were loyal to me----" His acrid smile cut her sentence in two. "That's about the third time you've mentioned their loyalty. Me, I don't see it. Sebastian owns land under the Valdés grant. He didn't want me to take it from him. Mr. Pablo Menendez--well, he had private reasons of his own, too." The resentment flamed in her heart. If he was shameless enough to refer to the affair with Juanita she would let him know that she knew. "What were his reasons, Mr. Gordon--that is, if they are not a private affair between you and him?" "Not at all." The steel-blue eyes met hers, steadily. Dick was yielding to a desire to hurt himself as well as her, to defy her judgment if she had no better sense than to condemn him. "The idiot is jealous." "Jealous--why?" The angry color beat its way to the surface above her cheek bones. Her disdain was regal. "About Juanita." "What about Juanita?" "The usual thing, Miss Valdés. He was afraid she had the bad taste to prefer another man to himself." Davis broke in. "Now, don't you be a goat, Dick. Miss Valdés, he----" "If you please, Mr. Davis. I'm quite sure Mr. Gordon is able to defend himself," she replied scornfully. "Didn't know I _was_ defending myself. What's the charge against me?" asked the young miner with a touch of quiet insolence. "There isn't any--if you don't see what it is. And you're quite right, Mr. Gordon. Your difficulties with Pablo are none of my business. You'll have to settle them yourselves--with Juanita's help. May I ask whether you received the registered letter I sent you, Mr. Gordon?" Dick was angry. Her cool contempt told him that he had been condemned. He knew that he was acting like an irresponsible schoolboy, but he would not justify himself. She might think what she liked. "Found it waiting for me this morning, Miss Valdés." "It was very fair and generous of you to send me the letter, I recognize that fully. But of course I can't accept such a sacrifice," she told him stiffly. "Not necessary you should. Object if I smoke here?" Valencia was a little surprised. He had never before offered to smoke in the house except at her suggestion. "As you please, Mr. Gordon. Why should I object?" From his coat pocket Dick took the letter Don Bartolomé had written to his son, and from his vest pocket a match. He twisted the envelope into a spill, lit one end, and found a cigarette. Very deliberately he puffed the cigarette to a glow, holding the letter in his fingers until it had burned to a black flake. This he dropped in the fireplace, and along with it the unsmoked cigarette. [Illustration: Holding the letter in his fingers until it had burned to a black flake] "Easiest way to settle that little matter," he said negligently. "I judge you're a little impulsive, too, sometimes, Mr. Gordon," Valencia replied coldly. "I never rode all night over the mountains to save a man who was trying to rob me of my land," he retorted. This brought a sparkle to her eyes. "I had to think of my foolish men who were getting into trouble." "Was that why you offered a hundred dollars' reward for the arrest of these same men?" came his indolent, satiric reply. "Don Manuel offered the reward," she told him haughtily. An impish smile was in his eyes. "At your suggestion, he tells me. And I understand you insisted on paying the bill, Miss Valdés." "Why should he pay it? The men worked for me. They were brought up on my father's place. They are my responsibility, not his," she claimed with visible irritation. "And now they're my responsibility, too--until I land them in the penitentiary," he added cheerfully. From his pocket he took a billbook and selected two fifty-dollar bills. These he offered to Valencia. She stood very straight. "You owe me nothing, sir." "I owe you the hundred dollars you paid to get hold of Sebastian. And I'm going to pay it." "I don't acknowledge the debt. I wanted Sebastian for his sake, not yours. Certainly I shall not accept the money." "Just as you say. It isn't mine. Care if I smoke again?" he asked genially. She caught his meaning in a flash. "Not at all. Burn them if you like." "Now, see here," interrupted Davis amiably. "You're both acting like a pair of kids. I'm not going to stand for any hundred-dollar smokes, Dick. Gimme those bills." He snatched them from his friend and put them in his pocket. "When you two get reasonable again we'll decide whose money it is. Till then I expect I'll draw the interest on it." "And now, since our business is ended, I think I'll not detain you any longer, Mr. Gordon, except to warn you that it will be foolhardy to return to the Rio Chama Valley with intentions such as you have." "Good of you to warn me, Miss Valdés. It's not the first time, either, is it? But I'm _that_ bull-headed. Steve will give me a recommend as the most sot chump in New Mexico. Won't you Steve?" "I sure will--before a notary if you like. You've got a government mule backed off the map." "I've done my duty, anyhow." Miss Valdés turned to the older man, and somehow the way she did it seemed to wipe Gordon out of the picture. "There is something I want to talk over with you, Mr. Davis. Can you wait a few moments?" "Sure I can--all day if you like." Dick retired with his best bow. "Steve, you always was popular with the ladies." Valencia, uncompromising, waited until he had gone. Then, swiftly, with a little leap of impulse as it were, she appealed to Davis. "Don't let him go back to the valley. Don't let him push the cases against Sebastian and Pablo." The old miner shook his head "Sorry, Miss Valencia. Wish I could stop him, but I can't. He'll go his own way--always would." "But don't you see they'll kill him. It's madness to go back there while he's pushing the criminal case. Before it was bad enough, but now----" She threw up her hands with a gesture of despair. "I reckon you're right. But I can't help it." "Then look out for him. Don't let him ride around in the hills. Don't let him leave the house at night. Never let him go alone. Remember that he is in danger every hour while he remains in the valley." "I'll remember, Miss Valencia," Davis promised. He wondered as he walked away why the talk between Dick and Miss Valdés had gone so badly. He knew his friend had come jubilantly, prepared to do anything she asked of him. The fear and anxiety that had leaped to her face the instant Gordon had gone showed him that the girl had a deep interest in the young man. She, too, had meant to meet him half way in wiping out the gulf between them. Instead, they had only increased it. CHAPTER XXI WHEN THE WIRES WERE CUT Don Manuel rode into the moonlit plaza of the Valdés ranch, dismounted, and flung the reins to the boy that came running. Pesquiera nodded a careless greeting and passed into the house. He did not ask of anyone where Valencia was, nor did he send in a card of announcement. A lover's instinct told him that he would find her in the room that served both as an office and a library for her, seated perhaps before the leaping fireglow she loved or playing softly on the piano in the darkness. The door was open, and he stood a moment on the threshold to get accustomed to the dim light. A rich, low-pitched voice came across the room to him. "It is you, Manuel?" He stepped swiftly forward to the lounge upon which she was lying and knelt on one knee beside her, lifting her hand to his lips. "It is I, _corazon mia_, even Manuel the lucky." She both smiled and sighed at that. A chord in her responded to the extravagance of his speech, even though vaguely it did not quite satisfy. A woman of the warm-blooded south and no plaster saint, she answered presently with shy, reluctant lips the kisses of her lover. Why should she not? Had he not won her by meeting the test she had given him? Was he not a gallant gentleman, of her own race and caste, bound to her by ties of many sorts, in every way worthy to be the father of her children? If she had to stifle some faint, indefinable regret, was it not right that she should? Her bridges were burned behind her. He was the man of her choice. She listened, eyes a little wistful, while he poured out ardently the tale of his devotion. "You do love me, don't you, Manuel?" she demanded, a little fiercely. It was as if she wanted to drown any doubts she might have of her own feeling in the certainty of his. "More than life itself, I do believe," he cried in a low voice. Her lithe body turned, so that her shining eyes were close to his. "Dear Manuel, I am glad. You don't know how worried I've been ... still am. Perhaps if I were a man it would be different, but I don't want my people to take the life of this stranger. But they mean him harm--especially since he has come back and intends to punish Pablo and Sebastian. I want them to let the law take its course. Something tells me that we shall win in the end. I've talked to them--and talked--but they say nothing except 'Si, doña.' But with you to help me----" "They'd better not touch him again," broke in her lover swiftly. "It's a great comfort to me, Manuel, that you have blotted out your own quarrel with him. It was magnanimous, what I should expect of you." He said nothing, but the hand that lay on hers seemed suddenly to stiffen. A kind of fear ran shivering through her. Quickly she rose from the couch. "Manuel, tell me that I am right, that you don't mean to ... hurt him?" Her dark eyes searched his unflinchingly. "You don't mean ... you can't mean ... that----?" "Let us forget the American and remember only that we love, my beloved," he pleaded. "No ... No!" The voice of the girl was sharp and imperative. "I want the truth. Is it that you are still thinking of murdering him, Manuel?" The sting of her words brought a flush to his cheeks. "I fight fair, Valencia. I set against his life my own, with all the happiness that has come flooding it. Nor is it that I seek the man's life. For me he might live a thousand years--and welcome. But my honor----" "No, Manuel. No--no--no! I will not have it. If you are betrothed to me your life is mine. You shall not risk it in a barbarous duel." "Let us change the subject, dear heart." "Not till I hear you say that you have given up this wicked intention of yours." He gave up the attempt to evade her and met her fairly as one man does another. "I can't say that, Valencia, not even for you. This quarrel lies between him and me. I have suffered humiliation and disgrace. Until those are wiped out there must be war between me and the American." "Since the day I first wore your ring, Manuel, I have asked nothing of you. I ask now that you will forget the slight this man has put upon you ... because I ask it of you with all my heart." A slight tremor ran through his blood. He felt himself slipping from his place with her. "I can't, Valencia. You don't know what you ask, how impossible it is for me--a Pesquiera, son of my honored fathers--to grant such a request." He stretched his hands toward her imploringly. "Yet you say you love me?" "Heaven knows whether it is not true, my cousin." "You want me to believe that, even though you refuse the first real request I ever made of you?" "Anything else in the world that is in my power." "It is easy to say that, Manuel, when it isn't something else I want. Give me this American's life. I shall know, then, that you love me." "You know now," he answered quietly. "Is love all sighs and vows?" she cried impatiently. "Will it not sacrifice pride and vanity for the object of its devotion?" "Everything but honor," answered the man steadfastly. She made a gesture of despair. "What is this honor you talk so much about? It is neither Christian nor lawful nor right." "It is a part of me, Valencia." "Then your ideas are archaic. The duel was for a time when every man had to seek his personal redress. There is law in this twentieth century." "Not as between man and man in the case of a personal indignity--at least, not for Manuel Pesquiera." "But it is so needless. We know you are brave; he knows it, too. Surely your vanity----" He smiled a little sadly. "I think it is not vanity, but something deeper. None of my ancestors could have tolerated this stigma, nor can their son. My will has nothing to do with it, and my desire still less. It is kismet." "Then you must know the truth--that if you kill this man I can never----" "Never what?" "Never marry you." "Why?" "His blood would stand between us." "Do you mean that you--love him?" Her dark eyes met his steadily. "I don't think I mean that, Manuel. How could I mean that, since I love you and am betrothed to you? Sometimes I hate him. He is so insolent in his daring. Then, too, he is my enemy, and he has come here to set this happy valley to hate and evil. Yet, if I should hurt him, it would stand between us forever." "I am sorry." "Only sorry, Manuel?" He clamped his teeth on the torrent of protest that rose within him when she handed him back his ring. It would do no good to speak more. The immutable fact stood between them. "I did not know life could be so hard--and cruel," she cried out in a burst of passion. She went to the open window and looked out upon the placid, peaceful valley. She had a swift, supple way of moving, as if her muscles responded with effortless ease to her volition; but the young man noticed that to-night there was a drag to her motions. His heart yearned toward her. He longed mightily to take her in his arms and tell her that he would do as she wished. But, as he had said, something in him more potent than vanity, than pride, than his will, held him to the course he had set for himself. His views of honor might be archaic and ridiculous, but he lived by his code as tenaciously as had his fathers. Gordon had insulted and humiliated him publicly. He must apologize or give him satisfaction. Until he had done one or the other Manuel could not live at peace with himself. He had put a powerful curb upon his desire to wait as long as he had. Circumstances had for a time taken the matter out of his hands, but the time had come when he meant to press his claims. The American might refuse the duel; he could not refrain from defending himself when Pesquiera attacked. A step sounded in the doorway, and almost simultaneously a voice. "_Doña,_ are you here?" The room was lighted only by the flickering fire; but Valencia, her eyes accustomed to the darkness, recognized the boy as Juan Gardiez. "Yes, I am here, Juan. What have you to tell me?" she said quickly. "I do not know, _señorita_. But the men--Pablo, Sebastian; all of them--are gone." "Gone where?" she breathed. "I do not know. To-day I drove a cow and calf to Willow Springs. I am but returned. The houses are empty. Señor Barela's wife says she saw men riding up the hill toward Corbett's--eight, nine, ten of them." "To Corbett's?" She stared whitely at him without moving. "How long ago?" "An hour ago--or more." "Saddle Billy at once and bring him round," the girl ordered crisply. She turned as she spoke and went lightly to the telephone. With the need of action, of decision, her hopelessness was gone. There was a hard, bright light in her eyes that told of a resolution inflexible as tempered steel when once aroused. "Give me Corbett's--at once, please. Hallo, Central--Corbett's----" No answer came, though she called again and again. "There must be something wrong with the telephone," suggested Don Manuel. She dropped the receiver and turned quietly to him. "The wires have been cut." "But, why? What is it all about?" "Merely that my men are anticipating you. They have gone to murder the American. Deputy sheriffs from Santa Fé to-day came here to arrest Pablo and Sebastian. The men suspected and were hidden. Now they have gone to punish Mr. Gordon for sending the officers." She could not have touched him more nearly. He came to her with burning eyes. "How do you know? What makes you think so?" She told him, briefly and simply, giving more detailed reasons. Without a word, he turned and left her. She could hear him rushing through the hall, traced his progress by the slamming of the door, and presently caught sight of him running toward the corral. He did not hear, or heed, her call for him to wait. The girl hurried out of the house after him, in time to see him slap a saddle on his bronco, swing to his seat lightly, and gallop in a cloud of dust to the road. Valencia waited for no more. Quickly running to her room, she slipped on a khaki riding-skirt. Her deft, tapering fingers moved swiftly, so that she was ready, crop in hand, booted and spurred, by the time Juan brought round her horse. It took but an instant to lift herself to the saddle and send Billy galloping forward. Already her cousin had disappeared in great clouds of dust over the brow of the hill. CHAPTER XXII THE ATTACK Dick Gordon and Davis were sitting on the porch of their cabin, which was about an eighth of a mile from the main buildings of the Corbett place. They had returned the day before from Santa Fé, along with two deputy sheriffs who had come to arrest Pablo and Sebastian. The officers had scoured the valley for two days, and as yet had not caught a glimpse of the men they had come to get. Their inquiries were all met by a dogged ignorance on the part of the Mexicans, who had of a sudden turned surprisingly stupid. No, they had seen nothing of Pablo or of Sebastian. They knew nobody of that name--unless it was old Pablo Gardiez the _señors_ wished to see. Many strangers desired to see him, for he was more than a hundred years old and still remembered clearly the old days. Gordon laughed at the discomfiture of his sleuths. "I dare say they may have been talking to the very men they wanted. But everybody hangs together in this valley. I'm going out with them myself to-morrow after the gentlemen the law requires." "No, I wouldn't do that, Dick. With every greaser in the valley simmering against you, it won't do for you to go trapsing right down among them," Davis explained. "That's where I'm going, anyhow--to-morrow morning. The deputies are staying up at Morrow's. I'm going to phone 'em to-night that I'll ride with them to-morrow. Bet you a new hat we flush our birds." "What's the sense of you going into the police business, Dick? I'll tell you what's ailing you. You're just honing to see Miss Valdés again. You want to go grand-standing around making her mad at you some more." "You're a wiz, Steve," admitted his friend dryly. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I do want to see her again. Why shouldn't I?" "What good does it do you when you quarrel all the time you're together? She's declared herself already on this proposition--told the deputies flat-footed that she wouldn't tell them anything and would help her boys to escape in any way she could. You're just like a kid showing off his muscle before a little girl in the first grade." "All right, Steve. You don't hear me denying it." "Denying it," snapped the old miner. "Hmp! Lot of good that would do. You're fair itching to get a chance to go down to the ranch and swagger around in plain sight of her lads. You'd be tickled to death if you could cut out the two you want and land them here in spite of her and Don Manuel and the whole pack of them. Don't I know you? Nothing but vanity--that's all there's to it." "He's off," murmured Dick with a grin to the scenery. "You make me tired. Why don't you try a little horse sense for a change? Honest, if you was a few years younger I'd put you acrost my knee and spank you." Gordon lit a cigarette, but did not otherwise contribute to the conversation. "Ain't she wearing another man's ring?" continued Davis severely. "What's bitin' you, anyhow? How many happy families you want to break up? First off, there's Pablo and Juanita. You fill up her little noodle with the notion that----" Dick interrupted amiably. "Go to grass, you old granny. I've been putting in my spare time since I came back letting Juanita understand the facts. If she had any wrong notions she ain't got them any longer. She's all ready to kiss and make up with Pablo first chance she gets." "Then there's Miss Valdés and this Pesky fellow, who's the whitest brown man I ever did see. Didn't he run his fool laigs off getting you free so you could go back and make love to his girl?" "He's the salt of the earth. I'm for Don Manuel strong. But I don't reckon Miss Valdés would work well in harness with him," explained Dick. Steve Davis snorted. "No, you reckon Dick Gordon would, though. Don't you see she's of his people--same customs, same ways, same----" "She's no more of his people than she is of mine. Her mother was an American girl. She was educated in Washington. New Mexico is in America, not in Spain. Don't forget that, you old croaker." "Well, she's engaged, ain't she? And to a good man. It ain't your put in." "A good one, but the wrong one. It's a woman's privilege to change her mind. I'm here to help her change it," announced the young man calmly. "Say, look at Jimmie Corbett hitting the high spots this way." Jimmie, not yet recovered from a severe fright, stopped to explain the adventure that had befallen him while he had been night fishing. "I seen spooks, Mr. Gordon--hundreds of 'em--coming down the river bank on horseback--honest to goodness, I did." "Jimmie, if I had your imagination----" But Davis cut into Dick's smiling incredulity: "Did you say on horseback, Jimmie?" "Yes, sir, on horseback. Hope to die if they weren't--'bout fifty of them." "You better run along home before they catch you, Jimmie," advised the old miner gravely. The boy went like a streak of light. Davis turned quietly to his partner. "I reckon it's come, Dick." "You believe the boy did see some men on horseback? It might have been only shadows." "No, sir. His imagination wouldn't have put spooks _on horseback_. We got no time to argue. You going to hold the fort here or take to the hills?" "You think they mean to attack us in the open?" "They're hoping to surprise us, I reckon. That's why they're coming along the creek instead of the road. Hadn't 'a' been for Jimmie, they would have picked us off from the porch before we could say 'Jack Robinson.'" Both men had at once stepped within the log cabin, and, as they talked, were strapping on ammunition belts and looking to their rifles and revolvers. "There are too many doors and windows to this cabin. We can't hold it against them. We'll take the trail from the back door that leads up to the old spring. From up there we'll keep an eye on them," said Dick. "I see 'em coming," cried the older man softly from the front window. "They ain't on the trail, but slipping up through the rocks. One--two--three--four--Lord, there's no end to the beggars! They're on foot now. Left their hawsses, I expect, down by the river." Quietly the two men stepped from the back door of the cabin and swiftly ascended the little trail that rose at a sharp acclivity to the spring. At some height above the cabin, they crouched behind boulders and watched the cautious approach of the enemy. "Not taking any chances, are they?" murmured Gordon. Steve laughed softly. "Heard about that chicken-killing affair, mebbe, and none of them anxious to add a goose to the exhibit." "It would be right easy to give that surprise party a first-class surprise," chuckled Dick. "Shall I drop a pill or two down among them, just to let them know we're on the premises?" "Now, don't you, Dick. We'll have to put half of 'em out of biz, and get shot up by the rest, if you do." "All right. I'll be good, Steve. I was only joking, anyhow. But it ce'tainly is right funny to sit up here and watch them snake up to the empty cabin. See that fellow with the Mexican hat? I believe it's my jealous friend Pablo. He's ce'tainly anxious to get one Gringo's scalp. I could drop a stone down on him so he'd jump about 'steen feet." "There's one reached the window. He's looking in mighty careful, you bet. Now he's beckoning the other fellows. I got a notion he's made a discovery." "Got on to the fact that the nest's empty. They're pouring in like bees. Can you make out how many there are? I count nine," said Dick. "They're having a powwow now. All talking with their hands, the way greasers do. Go to it, boys. A regular debating society, ain't you?" "Hello! What's that mean?" broke in Gordon. One of the Mexicans had left the rest, and was running toward the Corbett house. "Gone to find whether we're on the porch with the family, up there," continued the young man, answering his own question. "What's the matter with beating it while we've got a chanct?" "I'm going to stay right here. You can go if you like, Steve?" "Oh, well. I just suggested it." Davis helped himself to a chew of tobacco placidly. "Fellow coming back from the house already," he presently added. "Got the wrong address again. They'll be happening on the right one pretty soon." "Soon as they're amply satisfied we ain't under the beds, or hid between the covers of some of them magazines. Blamed if they ain't lit a lamp." Gordon gave a sudden exclamation of dismay. A Mexican had appeared at the back door of the cottage with a tin box in his hand. "I'm the blamedest idiot out of an asylum," he cried bitterly. "All the proofs of my claim are in that box. You know I brought it back from Santa Fé with me." "Ain't that too bad?" Gordon rose, the lines of his mouth set fast and hard. "I'm going down after it. If I lose those papers, the whole game's spoilt for me. I've got to have them, and I'm going to." "Don't be a goat. How can you take it from a whole company of them?" "I'll watch my chance. It may be the fellow will hide it somewhere till he wants it again." "I'm going, too, then." "See here, Steve. Be sensible. If we both go down, it's a sure thing they will stumble on us." "Too late, anyhow. They're coming up after us." "So much the better. We'll cut across to the left, slip down, and take them in the rear. Likely as not we'll find it there." "All right. Whatever you say, Dick." They slipped away into the semi-darkness, taking advantage of every bit of cover they could find. Not until they were a long stone's throw from the trail did the young miner begin the descent. Occasionally they could hear voices over to the right as they silently slipped down. It was no easy thing to negotiate that stiff mountainside in the darkness, where a slip would have sent one of them rolling down into the sharp rock-slide beneath. Presently they came to a rockrim, a sheer descent of twenty-five feet down the perpendicular face of a cliff. They followed the ledge to the left, hoping to find a trough through which they might discover a way down. But in this they were disappointed. "We'll have to go back. There's a place we passed where perhaps it may be done. We've got to try it, anyhow," said Gordon, in desperation. Retracing their steps, they came to the point Dick had meant. It looked bad enough, in all conscience, but from the rocks there jutted halfway down a dwarf oak that had found rooting in a narrow cleft. The young man worked his body over the edge, secured a foothold in some tiny scarp that broke the smoothness of the face, and groped, with one hand and then the other, for some hold that would do to brace his weight. He found one, lowered himself gingerly, and tested another foothold in a little bunch of dry moss. "All right. My rifle, Steve." It was handed down. At that precise moment there came to them the sound of approaching voices. "Your gun, Steve! Quick. Now, then, over you come. That's right--no, the other hand--your foot goes there--easy, now." They stood together on a three-inch ledge, their heels projecting over space. Nor had they reached this precarious safety any too soon, for already their pursuers were passing along the rim above. One of them stopped on the edge, scarce eight feet above them. "They must have come this way," he said to a companion. "But I expect they're hitting the trail about a mile from here." "_Si, Pablo_. Can you feed me a cigareet?" the other asked. The men below, scarce daring to breathe, waited, while the matches glimmered and the cigarettes puffed to a glow. Every instant they anticipated discovery; and they were in such a position that, if it came, neither of them could use his weapons. For they were cramped against the wall with their rifles by their sides, so bound by the situation that to have lifted them to aim would have been impossible. "The American--he has escaped us this time," one of them said as they moved off. "_Maldito_, the devil has given him wings to fly away," replied Pablo. After the sound of their footsteps had died, Gordon resumed his descent. He reached the stunted oak in safety, and was again joined by his friend. "Looks like we're caught here, Steve. There ain't a sign of a foothold below," the younger man whispered. "Mebbe the branches of that tree will bend over." "We'll have to try it, anyhow. If it breaks with me, I'll get to the bottom, just the same. Here goes." Catching hold of the branches, he swung down and groped with his feet for a resting-place. "Nothing doing, Steve." "What blamed luck!" "Hold on! Here's a cleft, away over to the right. Let me get a hold on that gun to steady me. That's all right. The rest's easy. I'll give you a hand across--that's right. Now we're there." At the very foot of the cliff an unexplainable accident occurred. Dick's rifle went off with noise enough to wake the seven sleepers. "Come on, Steve. We got to get out of here," he called to his partner, and began to run down the hill toward their cabin. He covered ground so fast that the other could not keep up with him. From above there came the crack of a rifle, then another and another, as the men on the ridge sighted their prey. A spatter of bullets threw up the dirt around them. Dick felt a red-hot flame sting his leg, but, though he had been hit, to his surprise he was not checked. Topping the brow of a little rise, he caught sight of the cabin, and, to his consternation, saw that smoke was pouring from the door and that within it was alight with flames. "The beggars have set fire to it," he cried aloud. So far as he could see, four men had been left below. They did not at first catch sight of him as he dodged forward in the shadows of the alders at the foot of the hill. Nor did they see him even when he stopped among the rocks at the rear, for their eyes were on Davis and their attention focused upon him. He had come puffing to the brow of the hillock Gordon had already passed, when a shout from the ridge apprised those below of his presence. Cut off above and below, there was nothing left for Steve but a retreat down the road. He could not possibly advance in the face of four rifles, and he knew, too, that the best aid he could offer his friend was to deflect the attention of the watchers from him. He fell back promptly, running from boulder to boulder in his retreat, pursued cautiously by the enemy. His ruse would have succeeded admirably, so far as Dick was concerned, except for that young man himself. He could not sit quiet and see his friend the focus of the fire. Wherefore, it happened that the attackers of Davis were halted momentarily by a disconcerting fusillade from the rear. The "American devil" had come out into the open, and was dropping lead among them. At this juncture a rider galloped into view from the river gorge along which wound the road. He pulled his jaded horse to a halt beside the old miner and leaped to the ground. Without waiting an instant for their fire to cease, he ran straight forward toward the pursuing Mexicans. As he came into the moonlight, Dick saw with surprise that the newcomer was Don Manuel Pesquiera. He was hatless, apparently too unarmed. But not for a second did this stop him as he sprinted forward. Straight for the spitting rifles Don Manuel ran, face ablaze with anger. He had covered half the distance before the weapons wavered groundward. "Don Manuel!" cried Sebastian, perturbed by this apparition flying through the night toward them. Dick waited only long enough to make sure that hostilities had for the moment ceased against his friend before beginning his search for the tin box. He quartered back and forth over the ground behind the burning house without result, circled it rapidly, his eyes alert to catch the shine of the box in the moonbeams, and examined the space among the rocks at the base of the hill. Nowhere did he see what he wanted. "I'll have to take a whirl at the house. Some of them may have carried it back inside," he told himself. As he stepped toward the door, Don Manuel came round the corner. At his heels were Steve and the four Mexicans who had but a few minutes before been trying industriously to exterminate the miner. Don Manuel bowed punctiliously to Gordon. "I beg to express my very great regrettance at this untimely attack," he said. "Don't mention it, _don_. This business of chasing over the hills in the moonlight is first-class for the circulation of the blood, I expect. Most of us got quite a bit of exercise, first and last." Dick spoke with light irony; but one distraught half of his attention was upon the burning house. "Nevertheless, you will permeet me to regret, _señor_," returned the young Spaniard stiffly. "Ce'tainly. You're naturally sore that you didn't get first crack at me. Don't blame you a bit," agreed Dick cheerfully but absently. "Funny thing is that one of your friends happened to send his message to my address, all right. Got me in the left laig, just before you butted in and spoiled their picnic so inconsiderate." "You are then wounded, sir?" "Not worth mentioning, _don_. Just a little accident. Wouldn't happen again in a thousand years. Never did see such poor shots as your valley lads. Say, will you excuse me just a minute? I got some awful important business to attend to." "Most entirely, Señor Gordon." "Thanks. Won't be a minute." To Pesquiera's amazement, he dived through the door, from which smoke poured in clouds, and was at once lost to sight within. "He is a madman," the Spaniard murmured. "Or devil," added Sebastian significantly. "You will see, _señor_, he will come out safe and unharmed." But he did not come out at all, though the minutes dragged themselves away one after another. "I'm going after him," cried Davis, starting forward. But Don Manuel flung strong arms about him, and threw the miner back into the hands of the Mexicans. "Hold him," he cried in Spanish. "Let me go. Let me go, I say!" cried the miner, struggling with those who detained him. But Pesquiera had already gone to the rescue. He, too, plunged through the smoke. Blinded unable to breathe, he groped his way across the door lintel into the blazing hut. The heat was intense. Red tongues of flame licked out from all sides toward him. But he would not give up, though he was gasping for breath and could not see through the dense smoke. A sweep of wind brushed the smoke aside for an instant, and he saw the body of his enemy lying on the floor before him. He stooped, tried to pick it up, but was already too far gone himself. Almost overcome, he sank to his knees beside Gordon. Close to the floor the air was still breathable. He filled his lungs, staggered to his feet, and tried to drag the unconscious man across the threshold with him. A hundred fiery dragons sprang unleashed at him. The heat, the stifling smoke were more than flesh and blood could endure. He stumbled over a fallen chair, got up and plowed forward again, still with that dead weight in his arms; collapsed again, and yet once more pulled himself to his feet by the sheer strength of the dogged will in him. So, at last, like a drunken man, he reeled into safety, the very hair and clothes of the man on fire from the inferno he had just left. A score of eager hands were ready to relieve him of his burden, to support his lurching footsteps. Two of them were the strong brown hands of the woman he loved more than any other on earth, the woman who had galloped into sight just in time to see him come staggering from that furnace with the body of the man who was his hated rival. It was her soft hands that smothered the fire in his hair, that dragged the burning coat from his back. He smiled wanly, murmured "Valencia," and fainted in her arms. Gordon clutched in his stiffened fingers a tin box blistered by the heat. CHAPTER XXIII THE TIN BOX Dick Gordon lay on a bed in a sunny south room at the Corbett place. He was swathed in bandages, and had something the appearance of a relic of the Fourth of July, as our comic weeklies depict Young America the day after that glorious occasion. But, except for one thing which he had on his mind, the Coloradoan was as imperturbably gay as ever. He had really been a good deal less injured than his rescuer; for, though a falling rafter had struck him down as he turned to leave the hut, this very accident had given him the benefit of such air as there had been in the cabin. Here and there he had been slightly burned, but he had not been forced to inhale smoke. Wound in leg and all, the doctor had considered him out of danger long before he felt sure of Don Manuel. The young Spaniard lay several days with his life despaired of. The most unremitting nursing on the part of his cousin alone pulled him through. She would not give up; would not let his life slip away. And, in the end, she had won her hard fight. Don Manuel, too, was on the road to recovery. While her cousin had been at the worst, Valencia Valdés saw the wounded Coloradoan only for a minute of two each day; but, with Pesquiera's recovery, she began to divide her time more equitably. "I've been wishing I was the bad case," Dick told her whimsically when she came in to see him. "I'll bet I have a relapse so the head nurse won't always be in the other sick room." "Manuel is my cousin, and he has been very, very ill," she answered in her low, sweet voice, the color in her olive cheeks renewed at his words. The eyes of the Anglo-Saxon grew grave. "How is Don Manuel to-night?" "Better. Thank Heaven." "That's what the doctor told me." Dick propped himself on an elbow and looked directly at her, that affectionate smile of his on his face. "Miss Valdés, do you know, ever since I've been well enough, I've been hoping that if one of us had to cross the Great Divide it would be me?" Her troubled eyes studied him. "Why do you say that?" "Because it would seem more right that way. I came here and made all this trouble in the valley. I insulted him. I had in mind another hurt to him that we won't discuss just now. Then, when it comes to a showdown, he just naturally waltzes into Hades and saves my life for me at the risk of his own. No, ma'am, I sure couldn't have stood it if he had died." "I'm glad you feel that way," she answered softly, her eyes dim. "How else could I feel, and be a white man? I tell you, it makes me feel mean to think about that day I threw him in the water. Just because I'm a great big husky, about the size of two of him, I abused my strength and----" "Just a moment," the girl smiled. "You are forgetting he struck you first." "Oh, well! I reckon I could have stood that." "Will you be willing to tell him how you feel about it?" "Will I? Well, I guess yes." The young woman's eyes were of starry radiance. "I'm so glad--so happy. I'm sure everything will come right, now." He nodded, smiling. "That's just the way I feel, Miss Valencia. They couldn't go wrong, after this--that is, they couldn't go clear wrong." "I'm quite certain of that." "I want to go on record as saying that Manuel Pesquiera is the gamest man I know. That isn't all. He's a thoroughbred on top of it. If I live to be a hundred I'll never be as fine a fellow. My hat's off to him." There was a mist in her soft eyes as she poured a glass of ice water for him. "I'm so glad to hear you say that. He _is_ such a splendid fellow." He observed she was no longer wearing the solitaire and thought it might be to spare his feelings. So he took the subject as a hunter does a fence. "I wish you all the joy in the world, Miss Valdés. I know you're going to be very happy. I've got my wedding present all picked out for you," he said audaciously. She was busy tidying up his dresser, but he could see the color flame into her cheeks. "You have a very vivid imagination, Mr. Gordon." "Not necessary in this case," he assured her. "You're quite sure of that, I suppose," she suggested with a touch of ironic mockery. "I haven't read any announcement in the paper," he admitted. "It is always safe to wait for that." "Which is another way of saying that it is none of my business. But then you see it is." He offered no explanation of this statement, nor did he give her time to protest. "Now about that wedding present, Miss Valdés. It's in a tin box I had in the cabin before the fire. Can you tell me whether it was saved? My recollection is that I had it at the time the rafter put me to sleep. But of course I don't remember anything more till I found myself in bed here." "A tin box? Yes; you had it in your hands when Manuel brought you out. They could hardly pry your fingers from it." "Would you mind having that box brought to me, Miss Valdés? I want to be sure the present hasn't been injured by fire." "Of course not. I don't just know where it is, but it must be somewhere about the place." She was stepping toward the door, with that fine reaching grace of a fawn that distinguished her, when his voice stopped her. She stopped, delicate head poised and half turned, apparently waiting for further directions. "Not just this minute, please. I've been lying here all day, with nobody but Steve. Finally he got so restless I had to turn him out to pasture. It wouldn't be right hospitable to send you away so soon. That box can wait till you have had all of me you can stand. What I need is good nursing, and I need it awful bad," he explained plaintively. "Has Mrs. Corbett been neglecting you?" "Mrs. Corbett--no!" he shouted with a spirit indomitable, but a voice still weak. "She's on earth merely to cook me chicken broth and custard. It's you that's been neglecting me." The gleam of a strange fire was in her dark, bright eyes; in her cheeks the soft glow of beating color. "And _my_ business on earth is to fight you, is it not? But I can't do that till you are on your feet again, sir." He gave her back her debonair smile. "I'm not so sure of that. Women fight with the weapons of their sex--and often win, I'm told." "You mean, perhaps, tears and appeals for pity. They are weapons I cannot use, sir. I had liefer lose." "I dare say there are other weapons in your arsenal. I know you're too game to use those you've named." "What others?" she asked quietly. He let his eyes rest on her, sweep over her, and come back to the meeting with hers. But he did not name them. Instead, he came to another angle of the subject. "You never know when you are licked, do you? Why don't you ask me to compromise this land grant business?" "What sort of a compromise have you to offer, sir?" she said after a pause. "Have your lawyers told you yet that you have no chance?" "Would it be wise for me to admit I have none, before I go to discuss the terms of the treaty?" she asked, and put it so innocently that he acknowledged the hit with a grin. "I thought that, if you knew you were going to lose, you might be easier to deal with. I'm such a fellow to want the whole thing in my bargains." "If that's how you feel, I don't think I'll compromise." "Well, I didn't really expect you would. I just mentioned it." "It was very good of you. Now I think I'll go back to my cousin." "If you must I'm coming over to his room as soon as the doc will let me, and as soon as he'll see me." She gave him a sudden flash of happy eyes. "I hope you will. There must be no more trouble between him and you. There couldn't be after this, could there?" He shook his head. "Not if it takes two to make a quarrel. He can say what he wants to, make a door-mat out of me, go gunning after me till the cows come home, and I won't do a thing but be a delegate to a peace conference. No, ma'am. I'm through." "You don't know how glad I am to hear it." "Are you as anxious I should make up my quarrel with you as the ones with your friends?" he asked boldly. The effrontery of this lean, stalwart young American--if effrontery it was, and no other name seemed to define it--surprised another dash of roses into the olive. "The way to make up your quarrel with me is to make up those with my friends," she answered. "All right. Suits me. I'll call those deputies off and send them home. Pablo and Sebastian will never go to the pen on my evidence. They're in the clear so far as I'm concerned." She gave him both her hands. "Thank you. Thank you. I'm _so_ glad." The tears rose to her eyes. She bit her lip, turned and left the room. He called after her: "Please don't forget my tin box." "I'll remember your precious box," she called back with a pretense of scorn. He laughed to himself softly. There was sunshine in his eyes. She had resolved to leave him to Mrs. Corbett in future, but within the hour she was back. "I came about your tin box. Nobody seems to know where it is. Everybody remembers having seen it in your hands. I suppose we left it on the ground when we brought you to the house, but I can't find anybody that removed it. Perhaps some of my people have seen it. I'll send and ask them." He smiled disconsolately. "I may as well say good-bye to it." "If you mean that my boys are thieves," she retorted hotly. "I didn't say that, ma'am; but mebbe I did imply they wouldn't return that particular box, when they found what was in it. I shouldn't blame them if they didn't." "I should. Very much. This merely shows you don't understand us at all, Mr. Gordon." "I wish I had that box. It ce'tainly disarranges my plans to have it gone," he said irritably. "I assure you I didn't take it." "I don't lay it to you, though it would ce'tainly be to your advantage to take it," he laughed, already mollified. "Will you please explain that?" "All my claims of title to this land grant are in that box, Miss Valdés," he remarked placidly, as if it were a matter of no consequence. She went white at his words. "And it is lost--probably in the hands of my people. We must get it back." "But you're on the other side of the fence," he reminded her gaily. With dignity she turned on him. "Do you think I want to beat you that way? Do you think I am a highwayman, or that I shall let my people be?" "You make them draw the line between murder and robbery," he suggested pleasantly. "I couldn't stop them from attacking you, but I can see they don't keep your papers--all the more, that it is to their interest and mine to keep them." She said it with such fine girlish pride, her head thrown a little back, her eyes gleaming, scorn of his implied distrust in her very carriage. For long he joyfully carried the memory of it. Surely, she was the rarest creature it had ever been his fortune to meet. Small wonder the gallant Spaniard Don Manuel loved her. Small wonder her people fed on her laughter, and were despondent at her frowns. Dick Gordon was awake a good deal that night, for the pain and the fever were still with him; but the hours were short to him, full of joy and also of gloom. Shifting pictures of her filled the darkness. His imagination saw her in many moods, in many manners. And when from time to time he dropped into light sleep, it was to carry her into his dreams. CHAPTER XXIV DICK GORDON APOLOGIZES Don Manuel was at first too spent a man even to wish to get well. As his cousin's nursing dragged him farther and farther back into this world from which he had so nearly slipped, he was content to lie still and take the goods the gods provided. She was with him for the present. That sufficed. Whether he lived or died he did not care a hand's turn; but the while Fate flipped a coin to determine whether it should be life or death for him, he had Valencia's love as he feared he would never have it in case he recovered. For these days she lived for him alone. Her every thought and desire had been for him. On this his soul fed, since he felt that, as they slipped back into the ordinary tide of life, she would withdraw herself gently but surely from him. He had fought against the conviction that she loved his rival, the Colorado claimant to the valley. He had tried to persuade himself that her interest in the miner was natural under the circumstances and entirely independent of sentiment. But in the bottom of his heart such assurances did not convince. "You will be able to sit up in a few days. It's wonderful how you have improved," she told him one day as she finished changing his pillow. "Yes, I shall be well soon. You will be relieved of me," he said with a kind of gentle sadness. "As if I wanted to be," she reproved softly, her hand smoothing down his hair. "No. You're very good to me. You don't want to be rid of me. But it's best you should be. I have had all of you that's good for me, my cousin, unless I could have more than I dare hope." She looked through the window at the sunlit warmth of the land, and, after a long time, said: "Must we talk of that, Manuel?" "No, _niña_--not if I am once sure. I have guessed; but I must be certain beyond the possibility of mistake. Is my guess right? That it can never be." She turned dim eyes on him and nodded. A lump had risen to her throat that forbade speech. "I can still say, dearest, that I am glad to have loved you," he answered cheerfully, after an instant's silence. "And I can promise that I shall trouble you no more. Shall we talk of something else?" "There is one thing I should like to tell you first," she said with pretty timidity. "How proud I am that such a man could have loved me. You are the finest man I know. I must be a foolish girl not to--care for you--that way." "No. A woman's heart goes where it must. If a man loses, he loses." She choked over her words. "It doesn't seem fair. I promised. I wore your ring. I said that if you saved ... him ... I would marry you. Manuel, I ... I'll keep faith if you'll take me and be content to wait for ... that kind of love to grow." "No, my cousin. I have wooed and lost. Why should you be bound by a pledge made at such a time? As your heart tells you to do, so you must do." He added after a pause: "It is this American, is it not?" Again she nodded twice, not looking at him lest she see the pain in his eyes. "I wish you joy, Valencia--a world full of it, so long as life lasts." He took her fingers in his, and kissed them before he passed lightly to another subject: "Have you heard anything yet of the tin box of Mr. Gordon's?" She accepted the transition gratefully, for she was so moved she was afraid lest she break down. "Not yet. It is strange, too, where it has gone. I have had inquiries made every where." "For me, I hope it is never found. Why should you feel responsibility to search for these papers that will ruin you and your tenants?" "If my men had not attacked and tried to murder him he would still have his evidence. I seek only to put him in the position he was in before we injured him." "You must judge for yourself, Valencia. But, if you don't mind, I shall continue to wish you failure in your search," he replied. It was now that Jimmie Corbett came into the room to say that Mr. Gordon would like to call on Don Manuel, if the latter felt able to receive him. Pesquiera did not glance at his cousin. He answered the boy at once. "Tell Mr. Gordon I shall be very glad to see him," he said quietly. Nor did he look at her after the boy had left the room, lest his gaze embarrass her, but gave his attention wholly to propping himself up on his elbow. Dick stood a moment filling the doorway before he came limping into the room. From that point he bowed to Miss Valdés, then moved forward to the bed. He did not offer to shake hands, but stood looking down at his rival, with an odd look of envy on his face. But it was the envy of a brave and generous man, who acknowledged victory to his foe. "I give you best, Don Manuel," he finally said. "You've got me beat at every turn of the road. You saved my life again, and mighty near paid with your own. There ain't anything to say that will cover that, I reckon." The Spaniard's eyes met his steadily, but Pesquiera did not say a word. He was waiting to see what the other meant. "You're a gamer man than I am, and a better one. All I can say is that I'm sorry and ashamed of myself for the way I treated you. If you still want to fight me, I'll stand up and give you a chance to pepper me. Anything you think right." "If you put it so, sir, I have no choice but to join you in regrets and hopes of future amity." "I can understand that you'd like to spill me over a ten-acre lot, and that you don't listen to my apologies with any joy," said the Coloradoan, smiling whimsically down at his former foe. "I do not forget that the first offense was mine, _Señor Gordon_," the Spaniard answered. Then came Jimmie Corbett again with a message for Miss Valdés. "Pablo wants to see you, ma'am. Just rode over from the ranch. Says it's important." The hands of the two men met in a strong grip as Valencia left the room, and so, too, did their steady gazes. Each of them knew that the other was his rival for the heart of the girl. Oddly enough, each thought the other was the successful suitor. But there was in each some quality of manliness that drew them together in spite of themselves. Valencia found Pablo sitting on the porch. A rifle lay across his knees ready for emergencies. The deputies had ridden away to the other end of the valley that morning, but Menendez did not intend to be caught napping in case of their unexpected return. Miss Valdés smiled. "You needn't be so careful, Pablo. I bring you good news--better than you deserve. Mr. Gordon has promised to drop the cases against you and Sebastian. Even if the officers arrest you, nothing can come of it except a trip to Santa Fé for a few days. If I were you I would give myself up. The rewards have been withdrawn, so it is not likely your friends will betray you." "But, _Doña_, are you sure? Will this _Americano_ keep his word? Is it certain they will not hold me in prison?" "I tell you it is sure. Is that not enough? Did you find Mr. Gordon so ready to give you his word and break it when he was your prisoner?" "True, _Doña_. He laughed at us and told us to kill him. He is a brave man." "And brave men do not lie." Pablo turned to his horse and took down from the horn of the saddle a gunny sack tied to it. This he opened. From it he drew a tin box that had been badly blistered with heat. "It is _Señor_ Gordon's tin box. After you carried him to the house here the other night I found it under a cottonwood. So I took it home with me. They are papers. Important---- Is it not so?" "Yes. I have been looking everywhere for them. You did right to bring them back to me." "Perhaps they may help you win the land. Eh, _Doña_?" "Perhaps. You know I offered a reward of twenty-five dollars for the box. It is yours. Buy some furniture with it when you and Juanita go to housekeeping." "That is all past, alas, _Señorita_. Juanita looks down her nose when I am near. She does not speak to me." "Foolish boy! That is a sign she thinks much of you. Tell her you did wrong to accuse her. Beg her to forgive you. Do not sulk, but love her and she will smile on you." "But--this _Señor_ Gordon?" "All nonsense, Pablo. I have talked with Juanita. It is you she loves. Go to her and be good to her. She is back there in the milkhouse churning. But remember she is only a girl--so young, and motherless, too. It is the part of a man to be kind and generous and forbearing to a woman. He must be gentle--always gentle, if he would hold her love. Can you do that, Pablo? Or are you only a hot-headed, selfish, foolish boy?" "I will try, _Doña_," he answered humbly. "For always have I love' her since she was such a little _muchacha_." "Then go. Don't tell her I sent you. She must feel you have come because you could no longer stay away." Pablo flashed his teeth in a smile of understanding and took the path that led round the house. He followed it to the sunken cellar that had been built for a milkhouse. Noiselessly he tiptoed down the steps and into the dark room. The plop-plop of a churn dasher told him Juanita was here even before his eyes could make her out in the darkness. Presently he saw more clearly the slender figure bent a little wearily over the churn. Softly he trod forward. His hand went out and closed on the handle above hers. In startled surprise she turned. "You--Pablo!" she cried faintly. "I have so longed to see you--to come to you and tell you I was wrong, _niña_---- Oh, you don't know how I have wanted to come. But my pride--my hard, foolish pride--it held me back. But no longer, heart of my heart, can I wait. Tell me that you forgive--that you will love me again--in spite of what I said and have done. I cannot get along without my little Juanita," he cried in the soft Spanish that was native to them both. She was in his arms, crying softly, nestling close to him so that his love might enfold her more warmly. Always Juanita had been a soft, clinging child, happy only in an atmosphere of affection. She responded to caresses as a rose does to the sunlight. Pablo had been her first lover, the most constant of them all. She had relied upon him as a child does upon its mother. When he had left her in anger and not returned she had been miserably unhappy. Now all was well again, since Pablo had come back to her. CHAPTER XXV THE PRINCE CONSORT Valencia returned to Don Manuel's room carrying a gunny sack. She found Dick Gordon sitting beside his rival's bed amiably discussing with him the respective values of the Silver Doctor and the Jock Scott for night fishing. Dick rose at her entrance to offer a chair. She was all fire and animation. Her eyes sparkled, reflecting light as little wavelets of a sun-kissed lake. "Supreme Court decision just come down in your favor?" asked the other claimant to the valley with genial irony. "No, but--guess what I've got here." "A new hat," hazarded Gordon, furrowing his brow in deep thought. "Treason!" protested Manuel. "Does the lady live who would put her new hat in a gunny sack?" "You may have three guesses, each of you," replied Miss Valdés, dimpling. The miner guessed two guinea pigs, a million dollars, and a pair of tango slippers. Pesquiera went straight to the mark. "A tin box," he said. "Right, Manuel. Pablo brought it. He had just heard I was looking for the box--says he found it the night of the fire and took it home with him. His idea was that we might use the papers to help our fight." "Good idea," agreed the Cripple Creek man, with twinkling eyes. "What are you going to do with the papers now you have them, Miss Valdés?" "Going to give them to their owner," she replied, and swung the sack into his lap. He took out a bunch of keys from his pocket, fitted one to the lock of the box, and threw up the lid. Carefully he looked the papers over. "They are all here--every last one. I'm still lord of the Rio Chama Valley--unless my lawyers are fooling me mighty bad." "It's a difference of opinion that makes horse races, _Señor_," retorted Manuel gaily from his pillows. "I'll bet one of Mrs. Corbett's cookies there's no difference of opinion between my lawyers and those of Miss Valdés. What do you honestly think yourself about the legal end, ma'am?" "I think that law and justice were divorced a good many years ago," she answered promptly. "Which is another way of saying that you expect me to win out." "By advice of counsel we decline to make any admissions, sir." "You don't have to say a word. The facts do all the talking that is necessary." Gordon glanced in a business-like fashion over several papers. "This would be a fine time for friend Pablo to attack me again. Here are several of the original papers--deed of the grant, map of it with the first survey made, letters showing that old Moreño lived several years in the valley after your people were driven out at the time of the change in government. By the way, here's a rather interesting document. Like to look at it, Miss Valdés?" He handed to her a paper done up in a blue cover after the fashion of modern legal pleadings. Valencia glanced it over. Her eye caught at a phrase which interested her and ran rapidly down the page. "But--I don't understand what this means--unless----" She looked up quickly at Gordon, an eager question in her face. "It means what it says, though it's all wrapped up in dictionary words the way all law papers are." Valencia passed the document to Pesquiera. "Read that, and tell me what you think it means, Manuel." Her face was flushed with excitement, and in her voice there was a suggestion of tremulousness. The Spaniard read, and as he read his eyes, too, glowed. "It means, my cousin, that you have to do with a very knightly foe. By this paper he relinquishes all claim, title and interest in the Moreño grant to Valencia Valdés, who he states to be in equity the rightful owner of same. Valencia, I congratulate you. But most of all I congratulate Mr. Gordon. Few men have the courage to make a gift of a half million acres of land merely because they have no moral title to it." "Sho! I never did want the land, anyhow. I got interested in the scrap. That's all." The miner looked as embarrassed as if he had been caught stealing a box of cigars. The young woman had gone from pink to white. The voice in which she spoke was low and unsteady. "It's a splendid thing to do--the gift of a king. I don't know--that I can accept it--even for the sake of my people. I know now you would be fair to them. You wouldn't throw them out. You would give new deeds to those who have bought land, wouldn't you?" "How are you going to keep from accepting it, Miss Valdés? That paper is a perfectly legal document." She smiled faintly. "I could light a cigarette, Mr. Gordon, as you once did." "Not a bit of use. I wired to Santa Fé by Steve to have that paper--the original of it--put on record this afternoon. By this time I expect you're the princess of the Rio Chama all right." She still hesitated, the tide of feeling running full in her heart. It was all very well for this casual youth to make her a present of a half million acres of land in this debonair way, but she could not persuade herself to accept so munificent a gift. "I don't know--I'll have to think--if you are the legal owner----" "You're welching," he told her amiably. "I make a legal deed of conveyance because we are all agreed that my title isn't morally good. We're not a bunch of pettifoggers. All of us are aiming to get at what's right in settling this thing. You know what is right. So do I. So does Mr. Pesquiera. Enough said. All we have to do then is to act according to the best we know. Looks simple to me." "Maybe it wouldn't look so simple if you were at the other end of the bargain, Mr. Gordon. To give is more blessed than to receive, you know." "Sure. I understand that. I get the glory and do all the grand-standing. But you'll have to stand for it, I reckon." "I'm going to think it over. Then I'll let you know what I can do." She looked at him sharply, a new angle of the situation coming home to her. "You meant to do this from the first, Mr. Gordon." "Not quite from the first. After you had taken me to your ranch and I had seen how things stood between you and the folks in the valley I did. You've smoked me, ma'am. I'm a born grand-stander." He laughed in amusement at himself. "I wanted to be it, the hero of the piece, the white-haired boy. But that wasn't the way it panned out. I was elected villain most unanimous, and came mighty near being put out of business a few times before I could make the public _sabe_ I was only play acting. Funny how things work out. Right at the last when I've got the spotlight all trained for me to star and the music playing soft and low, Don Manuel here jumps in and takes the stage from me by rescuing the villain from a fiery furnace. I don't get any show," he complained whimsically. Valencia smiled. "The action of the play has all revolved around you, anyhow. That ought to satisfy you. Without you there wouldn't have been any entertainment at all." "I've had plenty of fun for my money. I'm not making any complaint at all. When a pretender invades a country to put the reigning queen out of business he has a license to expect a real warm welcome. Well, I got it." Once again Jimmie Corbett appeared in the doorway, this time with a yellow envelope which he handed to Gordon. Dick read the enclosed telegram and passed it to Pesquiera. The Spaniard waved his hand and made a feeble attempt at a cheer. "Am I to hear the good news?" Valencia asked. "Read it, Mr. Pesquiera." Manuel read: "Relinquishment of claim to Moreño grant in favor of Valencia Valdés filed ten minutes ago. Have you taken my advice in regard to consolidation? KATE UNDERWOOD." "What does she mean about a consolidation?" asked Miss Valdés. Dick flushed. "Oh, that was just something we were talking over--some foolishness or other, I reckon. Nothing to it. The important point is that the legal fight is over. You're now the owner of both the Valdés and the Moreño claims." "_Le roi est mort! Vive la reine!_" cried Manuel gaily. "I can't be said to have had a very peaceful reign. Wish you better luck, ma'am." He let his eyes rest drolly on the invalid for a moment. "And I hope when you take a prince consort to share the throne he'll meet all expectations--which I'm sure he will." Dick shook hands with the bright-eyed flushing girl. She laughed in the midst of her blushes. "_Gracias, señor!_ I'll save your good wishes till they are needed." "_Adios_, _Don_ Manuel. See you to-morrow if you're up to it. I expect you've had enough excitement for one day." "I'll let you know then whether I can accept your gift, Mr. Gordon," Valencia told him. "That's all settled," he assured her as he left. * * * * * It was in the evening that he saw her again. Dick had stopped in the hall on the way to his room to examine a .303 Savage carbine he found propped against the wall. He had picked the weapon up when a voice above hailed him. He looked up. Valencia was leaning across the balustrade of the stairway. "I want to talk with you, Mr. Gordon." "Same here," he answered promptly. "I mean I want to talk with you. Let's take a walk." "No. You're not up to a walk. We'll drive. My rig is outside." Ten minutes later they were flying over the hard roads packed with rubble from decomposed sandstone. Neither of them spoke for some time. He was busy with the reins, and she was content to lean back and watch him. To her there was something very attractive about the set of his well-modeled head upon the broad shoulders. He had just been shaved, and the scent of the soap wafted to her a pleasant sense of intimacy with his masculinity. She could see the line above which the tiny white hairs grew thick on the bronzed cheeks. A strange delight stirred in her maiden heart, a joy in his physical well-being that longed for closer contact. None of this reached the surface when she spoke at last. "I can't let things go the way you have arranged them, Mr. Gordon. It isn't fair. After the way I and my people have treated you I can't be the object of such unlimited generosity at your hands." "Justice," he suggested by way of substitution. "No, generosity," she insisted. "Why should you be forced to give way to me? What have I done any more than you to earn all this?" "Now you know we've all agreed----" "Agreed!" she interrupted sharply. "We've taken it for granted that I had some sort of divine right. When I look into it I see that's silly. We're living in America, not in Spain of the seventeenth century. I've no right except what the law gives me." "Well, the law's clear now. I'm tired of being shot at and starved and imprisoned and burned to make a Mexican holiday. I'm fed up with the excitement your friends have offered me. Honest, I'm glad to quit. I don't want the grant, anyhow. I'm a miner. We've just made a good strike in the Last Dollar. I'm going back to look after it." "You can't make me believe anything of the kind, Mr. Gordon. I know you've made a strike, but you had made it before you ever came to the valley. Mr. Davis told me so. We simply couldn't drive you out. That's all humbug. You want me to have it--and I'm not going to take it. That's all there is to it, sir." He smiled down upon her. "I never did see anyone so obstinate and so changeable. As long as I wanted the land you were going to have it; now I don't want it you won't take it. Isn't that just like a woman?" "You know why I won't take it. From the very first you've played the better part. We've mistreated you in every way we could. Now you want to drown me in a lake of kindness. I just can't accept it. If you want to compromise on a fair business basis I'll do that." "You've got a first-rate chance to be generous, too, Miss Valdés. I'm like a kid. I want to put this thing over my way so that I'll look big. Be a nice girl and let me have my own way. You know I said my wedding present was in that tin box. Don't spoil everything. Show me that you do think we're friends at last." "We're friends--if you're sure you forgive me," she said shyly. "Nothing in the world to forgive," he retorted cheerfully. "I've had the time of my life. Now I must go home and get to work." "Yes," she agreed quietly, looking straight in front of her. He drove in silence for a mile or two before he resumed the conversation. "Of course I'll want to come back for the wedding if you send me an invitation. I think a good deal of the prince consort, you know. He's one man from the ground up." "Yes?" "He's the only man I know that's good enough for you. The more I see of him the better I like him. He's sure the gamest ever, a straight-up man if ever there was one." "I'm glad of that." She flashed a little sidelong look at him and laughed tremulously. "It's good of you to pick me a husband you can endorse so heartily. Would you mind telling me his name--if it isn't a secret?" "You know mighty well, but I reckon all girls play the game of making believe it isn't so for a while. All right. You don't have to admit it till the right time. But you'll send me a card, won't you?" Her eyes, shyly daring, derided him. "That's no fair, Mr. Gordon. You go out of your way to pick a prince consort for me--a perfect paragon I'm given to understand--and then you expect me to say 'Thank you kindly, sir,' without even being told his name." He smiled. "Oh, well, you can laugh at me all you like." "But I'm not laughing at you," she corrected, her eyes dancing. "I'm trying to find out who this Admirable Crichton is. Surely I'm within my rights. This isn't Turkey, you know. Perhaps I mayn't like him. Or, more important still, he may not like me." "Go right ahead with your fun. Don't mind me." "I don't believe you've got a prince consort for me at all. If you had you wouldn't dodge around like this." At that instant he caught sight by chance of her ungloved left hand. Again he observed that the solitaire was missing. His eyes flashed to hers. A sudden hope was born in his heart. He drew the horse to a halt. "Are you telling me that----? What about Don Manuel?" he demanded. Now that the crisis was upon her, she would have evaded it if she could. Her long lashes fluttered to the hot cheeks. "He is my cousin and my friend--the best friend I have," she answered in a low voice. "No more than that?" "No more." She lifted her eyes and tried to meet his boldly. "And now I really think you've been impudent enough, don't you?" He imprisoned her hands in his. "If it isn't Don Manuel who is it?" She knew her eyes had failed her, that they had told him too much. An agony of shyness drenched her from head to foot, but there was no escape from his masterful insistence. "Will you let me go ... please?" "No--not till you tell me that you love me, Valencia, not till you've made me the happiest man alive." "But ..." He plunged forward, an insurgent hope shaking his imperturbability. "Is it yes, dear? Don't keep me waiting. Do I win or lose, Valencia?" Bravely her eyes lifted to his. "I love you with all my heart and soul. I always have from the first. I always shall as long as life lasts," she murmured. Swept away by the abandon of her adorable confession, he caught her in his arms and drew her to him. Close as breathing he held her, her heart beating against his like a fluttering bird. A delicious faintness overcame her. She lay in his embrace, wonderfully content. The dewy eyes lifted again to his. Of their own volition almost their lips met for the first kiss. THE END 
18352	----	[Illustration: "EVERY ONE HELD HIS RIFLE IN READINESS TO SHOOT THE ESCAPING APACHES"] CAPTURED BY THE NAVAJOS BY CAPTAIN CHARLES A. CURTIS U.S.A. ILLUSTRATED NEW YORK AND LONDON HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS Copyright, 1904, by HARPER & BROTHERS. CONTENTS CHAP. I. INTRODUCES THE BOYS II. ATTACKED BY NAVAJOS III. WARLIKE PUEBLOS IV. IN A NAVAJO TRAP V. A SIEGE AND AN AMBUSCADE VI. CROSSING THE RIVER VII. A SWOLLEN STREAM AND STOLEN PONY VIII. OVER THE DIVIDE--A CORPORAL MISSING IX. THE RESCUING PARTY X. THE CORPORALS ARE PROMOTED XI. BOTH PONIES ARE STOLEN XII. INDIANS ON THE WAR-PATH XIII. THE BOY SERGEANTS DO GOOD SERVICE XIV. ON THE DESERT WITHOUT WATER XV. THE PONIES ARE FOUND XVI. APACHES IN SKULL VALLEY XVII. PURSUIT OF THE APACHES XVIII. ON THE TRAIL OF THE APACHES XIX. THE ATTACK ON THE APACHE CAMP ILLUSTRATIONS "EVERY ONE HELD HIS RIFLE IN READINESS TO SHOOT THE ESCAPING APACHES" Frontispiece "MOUNTED, THE BOYS PRESENTED A WARLIKE APPEARANCE" "CORPORAL HENRY ASKED CAPTAIN BAYARD TO INQUIRE FOR MANUEL PEREA" "'GOD HAS GIVEN ME AMONG MANY FRIENDS, TWO THAT ARE SOMETHING MORE'" CAPTURED BY THE NAVAJOS I INTRODUCES THE BOYS It was late in the fall of the second year of the civil war that I rejoined my company at Santa Fé, New Mexico, from detached service in the Army of the Potomac. The boom of the sunrise gun awoke me on the morning after my arrival, and I hastened to attend reveille roll-call. As I descended the steps of the officers' quarters the men of the four companies composing the garrison were forming into line before their barracks. Details from the guard, which had just fired the gun and hoisted the national colors, were returning to the guard-house, and the officers were hastening to their places. At the conclusion of the ceremony I turned again towards my quarters, and noticed two handsome boys, evidently aged about fifteen and thirteen, dressed in a modification of the infantry uniform of the army, and wearing corporals' chevrons. They stood near the regimental adjutant, and seemed to be reporting their presence to him. At breakfast, the adjutant chancing to sit near me, I asked him who the youthful soldiers were. "They are the sons of Lieutenant-Colonel Burton, Corporals Frank and Henry," he replied. "They hold honorary rank, and are attached to head-quarters, acting as messengers and performing some light clerical work." "How do they happen to be in Santa Fé?" "Mother recently died in the East, and the colonel had them sent here in charge of a tutor who is to fit them for college, I believe." Later, on the same day, being desirous of looking over this ancient Indian and Mexican town, I was making a pedestrian tour of its streets, and chanced to be opposite San Miguel School in the eastern section during the pupils' recess. Half a dozen boys were engaged in throwing the lasso over the posts of the enclosing fence, when suddenly from a side street appeared the young corporals whom I had seen at reveille. The Mexican boys instantly greeted them with derisive shouts and jeers. They called them little Gringos and other opprobrious names, and one young Mexican threw the loop of his lasso over the smaller corporal's head and jerked him off his feet. His companions laughed loudly. The older corporal instantly pulled out his knife and cut the rope. Then the two brothers stood shoulder to shoulder, facing the crowd, quite ready to defend themselves. The young Mexicans, gesticulating and shouting, crowded round the two brothers, and blows appeared imminent. "Muchachos," suddenly cried a ringing voice from the rear, in Spanish, "are you not ashamed? A hundred against two!" A handsome lad forced his way through the crowd, placed himself beside the two corporals, and faced his young countrymen. Before the Mexicans recovered from their surprise the bell of San Miguel summoned them to school. They hurried away, leaving the two corporals with the young Mexican who had come to their assistance. "My name is Frank Burton," said the older corporal, extending his hand to the Mexican, "and this is my brother, Henry." The Mexican boy grasped the proffered hand, and said, "My name is Manuel Perea, of Algodones." "We are the sons of the commanding officer at the fort. Can't you come and see us next holiday?" "I should much like to; I will ask the fathers if I may." "Come over, and we will try to make your visit pleasant." "How well you speak Spanish! It will be a great pleasure to visit American boys who can speak my language, for I know but few English words." "Next Saturday, then?" "At ten o'clock, if the padres consent. Good-bye," and Manuel disappeared into the school-room. The following Saturday I saw the two corporals and their newly acquired companion at the post and at dinner in the mess-room, and a friendship was then formed which was to continue for many years. One evening, nearly a month afterwards, I received an order to march my company into the Jemez Mountains to co-operate with other detached commands in a war being carried on against the Navajo Indians. Just as I had laid aside the order after reading it, Colonel Burton entered, and, taking a seat by my fireside, announced that he had been ordered on detached service to northern Colorado, on a tour of inspection, which would require him to be absent for a considerable period, and that he had been thinking of allowing his sons to accompany me to my camp at Los Valles Grandes. "The hunting and fishing are fine in those valleys, and Frank and Henry would enjoy life there very much," he said. "They have done so well in their studies that they deserve a well-earned recreation." "I should much like to have their company, sir," I replied, "but would it not be exposing them to great danger from the Indians?" "The officer whom you are to relieve has been in the valleys nearly a year, and he reports that he has not seen a Navajo in all that time. Of course, it may be your fortune to meet them, but I do not think so. If you do, then the boys must give a good account of themselves. In any engagement that involves the whole command they must not forget they are the sons of a soldier. Still, I do not want them needlessly exposed. You are quite sure it will give you no trouble to take them?" "Few things could afford me greater pleasure on such isolated duty, sir. They will be good company for me." "Thank you for your kindness. The lads will report to you to-morrow morning. I will see that they are properly fitted out, and will write you now and then during my absence, and as soon as I return to Santa Fé they can be sent back." Colonel Burton then took his departure, and I turned to a local history to learn from its pages something of the tribe with which I might be brought in contact. The home of the Navajos lay between the Rio Grande del Norte on the east, the Rio Colorado on the west, the Rio San Juan on the north, and the Rio Colorado Chiquito on the south, but from time immemorial they had roamed a considerable distance beyond these borders. They had always been known as a pastoral race, raising flocks and herds, and tilling the soil. They owned, at the time we began war upon them, sheep and ponies by the thousand, and raised large quantities of corn, wheat, beans, and other products. They numbered between twelve and fifteen thousand, and could put three thousand mounted warriors in the field. They were industrious, the men doing all the hard work instead of putting it upon the women, as do the Indians of the plains and all of the marauding tribes. They manufactured their wearing apparel, and made their own weapons, such as bows, arrows, and lances. They wove beautiful blankets, often very costly, and knit woollen stockings, and dressed in greater comfort than did most other tribes. In addition to a somewhat brilliant costume, they wore numerous strings of fine coral, shells, and many ornaments of silver, and usually appeared in cool weather with a handsome blanket thrown over the shoulders. The Navajos and the New Mexicans were almost continually at war. Expeditions were frequently fitted out in the border towns by the class of New Mexicans who possessed no land or stock, for the sole purpose of capturing the flocks and herds of the Navajos. The Indians retaliated in kind, making raids upon the settlements and pasture lands, and driving off sheep, horses, and cattle to the mountains. Complaints were made by the property-holders, and war was declared against the Indians. The military department of New Mexico was in fine condition to carry on a successful war. Besides our regiment of regular infantry, it had two regiments of California volunteer infantry and one regiment each of California and New Mexican cavalry. The Navajo upon the war-path was terribly in earnest, and his methods of waging war were like those of the redman everywhere. With the knowledge that the American soldier was an ally of his old-time enemy, and that the Mexican was wearing the uniform of the "Great Father," he no longer hesitated to look upon us as his enemies also, and resolved to combat us up to the very walls of our posts. No road in the Territory was safe to the traveller; no train dared move without an escort. Towns were raided, and women and children carried into captivity. Frightful cases of mutilation and torture were constantly occurring in the mountain fastnesses. Troops took the field, and prosecuted with vigilance a war in which there was little glory and plenty of suffering and hard service. Every band of Indians captured was taken to the Bosque Rodondo, on the Rio Pecos, where a large fort had been established. It was occupied by a strong garrison of infantry and cavalry. I had found social life in Santa Fé very pleasant during my brief stay there, so I was not overjoyed when I received the order to march my company to Los Valles Grandes, there to relieve the California company already referred to. But the order being peremptory, we packed our baggage during the first hours of the night, and were on the road soon after daybreak. It was the 3d of October when the boy corporals and myself, mounted on sturdy Mexican ponies, rode out of Fort Marcy for our new station, one hundred miles due west. The regimental band escorted the company through the plaza and for a mile on our way, playing, after immemorial custom, "The Girl I Left Behind Me," and adding, I thought with a vein of irony, "Ain't Ye Glad You've Got Out th' Wilderness?" On the morning of the 8th, after four days of gradual and constant ascent from the valley of the Rio Grande, which we had forded at San Ildefonso, we began the slower ascent of the most difficult portion of our march. The woods were full of wild turkeys and mountain grouse, made fat on the pine-nuts, and Frank and Henry and the soldier huntsmen secured a generous supply for our first meal in our new military home. It took us from early morning until noon of the last day's march to reach the highest point of the road. What with the frequent halts for the men to fasten a rope to the wagon-poles and aid the severely taxed mules up the steepest places, to fill gullies and sloughs with stones and brush, to pry mired wheels up to firm ground, and repair broken harnesses and wagons, we were over half a day in going a distance which could have been accomplished in two hours by soldiers unencumbered with a baggage and supply train. The downward march on the western slope of the mountain-range was rapidly made over a smooth road through a continuous avenue of overarching forest trees, and without a halt. From the lower limit of the forest we caught the first glimpse of the Great Valleys. The valley before us was fourteen miles long, and of a nearly uniform width of eight miles. It was almost surrounded by mountains; in fact, while there were many trails leading out of it, there was but one practicable wagon-road--that by which we had entered. But at the southern extremity there was a precipitous cañon, through which flowed a considerable stream. To the west was another cañon, a dry one, called La Puerta--the doorway--which led into the second valley, called the Valley of San Antonio. The Great Valley, on the eastern edge of which I had halted the company for a few moments' rest and observation, was lower through the centre than at the sides. It was not unlike an oblong platter, and was absolutely treeless, except that opposite us a bold, pine-clad point jutted out from the western mountain-range about three miles, like a headland into the sea. The whole valley was verdant with thick grass. The two boys, sitting on their ponies a few yards in advance of the company line, were in raptures over the prospect. "This is the first bit of country I've seen in New Mexico that looks like Vermont," said Frank. "Yes, and what a change in the space of a few miles!" observed Henry. "On the opposite side of this range were only bunch-grass, cactus, and sand, and here we have fine turf and waving grass. What are those objects in that farther corner, sir?" he continued, turning to me and pointing to the southwest. "Look like deer or grazing cattle." "There is a small herd of deer there, sure enough," I replied, after making out the objects through my glass. "We shall not want for venison if we have good luck with our rifles." "Deer, antelope, turkeys, ducks, geese, sand-hill crane, and trout!" exclaimed Frank. "We've hit a hunter's paradise." "And bears and catamounts, too, I suspect," said Henry, looking a little lugubrious. "My, but wouldn't I like to kill a bear!" said Frank. "Well, I don't believe I shall hunt for one, and I hope a bear won't hunt for me," said the younger lad. "I'll be satisfied with turkeys, grouse, ducks, and trout." Six miles due west, a little south of the wooded point, detached from it about half a mile, we perceived a line of small cabins, which we inferred was the volunteer encampment. They stretched across a little level space, enclosed by a gently sloping ridge of horseshoe shape. The ridge, in fact, proved to be of that shape when we examined it later. The row of sixteen cabins stretched across the curve, and looked out of the opening towards the eastern side of the valley. Fifty yards in front of the cabins, running across the horseshoe from heel to heel, flowed a crystal stream of water twenty feet wide and two feet deep, which rose from forty-two springs near the northern end of the valley. The ridge enclosing the encampment was nowhere more than twenty-five feet above the level parade. The cabins were built of pine logs laid up horizontally, flanked on the north by the kitchen and stable, and on the south by a storehouse. Behind the cabins, at the centre of the horseshoe curve, two-thirds the way up the slope of the ridge, and overlooking the encampment from its rear, stood the guard-house, in front of which paced a sentinel. Resuming our march, a brisk step soon brought us to the encampment. At the brook before the parade I was met by the volunteer officers, who did not disguise their joy at the prospect of leaving what they considered a life of unbearable exile. Even before the customary civilities were passed, the captain asked me if my animals were in a condition to warrant his loading the wagons with his company property as soon as I unloaded mine, as he wished to make an evening's march towards Santa Fé. I told him I thought they were, provided he took the two wagons belonging to the camp in addition, so that the loads would be light. He approved of my suggestion, and promised to send back the wagons as soon as he reached Fort Marcy. The wood-yard being well supplied with fuel, I saw no reason why the wagons and mules could not be spared the ten days necessary to make the round trip. One reason for doing all I could to facilitate the immediate departure of the Californians was that my men were anxious to move into the cabins at once. With my first glance at the encampment, it had seemed to me too open to surprise. The adjacent forest-clad point crept up near the left flank, offering an effectual screen to an attacking party, and the overlooking sentinel at the guard-house did not have a range of vision to the rear of more than fifty yards. He was not on the summit of the ridge by at least half that distance, and walked along the side of the guard-house next the cabins. He could see nothing of the surface of the valley to the west of the ridge, and when passing along the front of the building, as he paced backward and forward, he saw nothing to the rear of his beat. I expressed my opinion of the situation to the volunteer captain, but he replied, "Pshaw! you might as well take the sentinel off, for all the good he does as a lookout for Indians." "Have you seen none?" "Not a solitary moccasin, except an occasional Pueblo, since I've been here--eleven months." "I suppose you have scouted the country thoroughly?" "There isn't a trail within thirty miles that I do not know. These bundles of wolf-skins and other pelts you see going into the wagons are pretty good evidence that my men know the country." We walked to the kitchen, and found, hanging on the walls of the store-room, a dozen quarters of venison, the fat carcass of a bear, and several bunches of fowl. "We are not obliged to kill our cattle to supply the men with meat," added the captain. "We butcher only when we need a change from wild meat." "I saw from the edge of the valley where I entered it that you have deer." "Pretty much everything but buffalo is here." "I hear your brook is full of fish." "There's where you make a mistake," he replied. "There is not a fish in this valley. The water is spring water, and must possess some mineral property distasteful to trout, for they never run up here. In San Antonio Valley, six miles to the west, in a brook less clear than this, you can catch them by the cart-load." "I suppose you intend to take this venison with you?" "Not if you will accept the gift of all but a few quarters, which we will take for friends in the city." "Thank you and your men. It will be a treat to us, and keep us going until we can put in a hunt on our own account." We went back to the parade, and stood looking at the surrounding mountains in the deepening twilight. "What other ways are there in and out of the valley, besides the one which we entered?" I asked. "Well, on the east and south sides there is a trail between the peaks, four in all, and one good bridle-path to the Pueblo of Jemez. That descends from the valley level to the Jemez River bottom, a drop of nearly three thousand feet, in a distance of three miles, zigzagging twice that distance." "And to the west and north?" "To the north there is a trail to Abiquiu, rarely used, and to the west there is only La Puerta, into which all the other trails from the east and south concentrate. It is to watch La Puerta that this camp was established." "And you say you have seen no Navajos or signs of them since you came?" "Yes, plenty of signs, but no Indians. Parties have passed here in the night, but none were driving stock." I learned all I could of the captain while his men hurried their baggage into the wagons, but he was too much excited over the prospect of leaving the Great Valleys, as well as curious to know of events in Santa Fé, to give me much information. When the guard of regulars relieved the volunteer guard, I placed my sentinel on a beat a dozen yards in rear of the guard-house, which enabled him to see several hundred yards back of the ridge, and yet not show himself prominently to an approaching foe. The volunteers at last marched away, and I made a casual examination of the cabins. I noticed that the inner surface of the log walls had been hewn smooth, and the names, company, and regiment of the former occupants had been carved with knives or burned in with hot pokers along the upper courses. Each had a wide, open, stone fireplace and chimney set in one corner, after the Mexican fashion. No uniform design had been observed in the construction of the cabins, the occupants having followed their own ideas of what would prove comfortable. Height, width, and depth were variable, but their fronts were in perfect alignment. The hut which had been occupied by the officers and which fell to the boys and myself was at the right of the line, next the storehouse, a little removed from the others. It was twenty by twenty feet, partitioned on one side into two alcoves in which were rude bedsteads, one of which was assigned to the boys and one to myself. A door opened on the south side, and a window, the only glass one in camp, looked out upon the parade. Floors in all the cabins were of earth, raised a foot higher than the outside surface of the ground, smoothed with a trowel and carpeted with blankets, until later, when skins of wild animals took their place. Doors were made of puncheons, swung on wooden hinges and fastened with wooden latches operated by latch-strings. Our first day in camp was principally spent in making ourselves comfortable. The men were busy in filling bed-sacks from the hay-stacks, and in repairing the cabins and articles of furniture. Ten head of beef cattle had been turned over to me with the other property of the camp. I had placed them in charge of a soldier, with orders to herd them in the valley immediately in front of the opening, where they could be plainly seen from the parade as well as the guard-house. At noon two Mexican hunters, father and son, rode up to my door, the former mounted on a mule and the latter on a burro, or donkey. The elder said their names were José and Manuel Cordova, of Cañoncito, that they were looking for deer, and would like permission to make the camp their place of rendezvous. I gave them permission to do so, and their animals were turned loose with our stock. About four o'clock in the afternoon the boy corporals and myself, tired with our work of repairing and arranging quarters, sat down to a lunch of broiled grouse. We were busily picking the last bones when we were startled by loud shouts. Quickly running to the centre of the parade, where the men were rapidly assembling with their arms, I saw the soldier-herdsman coming towards camp as fast as he could run, waving his hat and shouting. Behind him the steers were running in the opposite direction, driven by six Indians on foot. They were waking the echoes with their war-whoops. II ATTACKED BY NAVAJOS The six Navajos made no attempt to shoot the herder, although for some time he was within easy rifle range. They contented themselves with driving the cattle towards the southern section of the valley. At the first alarm Sergeant Cunningham got the men into line without a moment's delay. He had hardly counted off when the report of the sentinel's rifle was heard, followed by his shouting, excitedly, "Indians! Indians! This way! This way!" In the direction of the guard-house I saw the sentinel and guard getting into line with great rapidity. They were gesticulating wildly to us. Frank Burton, who was standing near me, shouted, "Henry, get your carbine and fall in with me on the left!" "Don't expose yourselves, boys," I said. "The colonel told me to keep you out of danger." "We are needed, sir," answered Frank, promptly, and the two youngsters instantly placed themselves on the left of the line. I broke the company to the rear through the intervals between the cabins. The men had only the marching allowance of ten rounds of ammunition, so I had a couple of boxes broken open with an axe, and cartridges were distributed to them. The two Mexicans joined us, and steadily and rapidly we advanced up the slope to unite with the guard. Scarcely two hundred yards distant we saw a compact body of over three hundred Indians. They were charging down upon us, and with a general and frightful war-whoop they began firing. We deployed as skirmishers. The men fired by volleys, sheltering themselves behind bowlders, logs, and ridges. Instantly, at the head of the mounted column, there was an emptying of saddles. The onset was suddenly checked, and the Indians broke into two divisions. Part of the force swept along the outer side of the horseshoe ridge to the south, and the other part wheeled round to the north. I met the attack by dividing my men into two divisions. The men moved along the interior slopes, firing as they ran, and kept pace with the ponies running to the extremities. The Navajos had lost twenty men. A chief, who had been in the front of the fight throughout, had the utmost difficulty in holding them in close column. "That is the great chief, El Ebano," cried the elder Cordova, as he put his gun to his shoulder. Taking careful aim at the gray-haired leader, he fired, and one of the most famous chieftains of the Navajos rolled from his saddle. The beautiful black horse he had been riding ran on towards us. With El Ebano dead, the Indians were dismayed. A moment later they were in full retreat, and joined their comrades who had stolen our cattle. * * * * * Our casualties were few. Sergeant Cunningham's scalp had been grazed along the left side, Private Tom Clary had the lobe of an ear cut, Privates Hoey and Evans were wounded along the ribs, and Corporal Frank Burton had a bullet wound in the right shoulder. The Indians had gathered in a compact body about three miles to the southward, evidently holding a council of war. Reflecting that they would not be likely to repeat their attack immediately, I walked out with the first sergeant and a few of the men to note what casualties had befallen the enemy, and learn if there were any wounded men in need of assistance. As I neared the place where the charge had been checked, I met Corporal Frank Burton leading a black pony, gently stroking his nose and talking soothingly to him, while the animal seemed half divided between fear and newly awakened confidence. "Oh, isn't he a beauty, sir!" exclaimed the boy--"isn't he just a perfect beauty!" "He certainly is a very handsome horse," I answered, after walking around him and taking in all his graces and points. "Take him to the stable and we will see to what use we can put him." "Do you think it would be possible for me to own him, sir?" inquired the boy, in an anxious voice. "As spoil of war, corporal?" "I suppose so, sir. I was first to capture him, you know." Before I could reply to this we were startled by a loud whinny, a little to the north, which was promptly answered by the black, and, looking in that direction, we saw a cream-colored pony, with high-erected head, looking anxiously in the direction of our captive. "That seems to be a friend of your pony's," I said. "Another beauty, too, sir! Can't we catch it for Henry?" "Perhaps we can. It seems inclined to stay by this one. I see all the other loose ponies have joined the Indians. But wait now until we look over the field." We now turned our attention to the prostrate bodies of the fallen enemy. All were dead. The body of El Ebano, clad in black buck-skin, ornamented with a profusion of silver buttons, chains, and bracelets, lay face upward, his resolute, handsome countenance still in the embrace of death. I told the men we would give him and his comrades a warrior's burial on the morrow, and returned to camp to make it defensible against a possible night attack. The advantage of numbers was decidedly on the side of the Indians, and I felt if they could show the firmness and dash of white men our chances of repelling a resolute attack were small. Counting the Mexicans and the boys, we numbered but forty-eight, to their three hundred or more. We were in the centre of a large valley, with no knowledge of our surroundings nor with any way out except the road by which we had entered. Should we leave the protection of our ridge and cabins and take to the open valley we should be at the mercy of our foes. Even supposing we could pass out of the valley unmolested, there were the forests and defiles, filled with natural ambuscades. We could not hope to pass them and reach the Rio Grande alive. Only a few hours of daylight remained. Whatever was to be done in preparation for defence must be done at once. In the wood-yard there were tiers of dry pine-logs, many of them four feet in diameter, and all about twenty feet long. With drag ropes and by rolling we conveyed them to the points of the ridge and to each end of the guard-house, and erected effective barricades. While this work was going on the two boys were busy in an attempt to capture the cream-colored pony. Frank led the black towards it, while Henry rattled the contents of a measure of corn and coaxed the cream-color in a tongue foreign to that with which the animals were familiar to approach and partake of it. Tired at last of what seemed a vain attempt, the young corporal set the box before the black, which at once began to munch the crackling corn, and the other pony, attracted by the sound, trotted up and placed her nose beside her friend's. Instantly its bridle-rein was seized, and the lads uttered a shout of triumph and led the prizes to the stable. From the top of the ridge I looked occasionally through my field-glass at the enemy. They still continued well to the south on the western side of the brook. They had dismounted and appeared to be carrying on an animated consultation. After a considerable interval of time, four of their number mounted, and, collecting the ten beeves, mule, and burro, which had been grazing near by, drove them up and down in front of the camp, beyond rifle range. They made gestures for us to come and take them--an invitation which, for obvious reasons, I declined to accept. I quite agreed with Private Tom Clary, who, as he placed his brawny shoulder to a big log to roll it up the slope, remarked to his "bunky," Private George Hoey, "That's an invitation, begorra, I don't fale loike acciptin'." "Ye'd niver make yer t'ilet for anither assimbly if ye did, Tom. I don't think the lutinint will risk the comp'ny's hair in that way," replied Hoey. To have attempted to recover our stock would have necessitated a division of our force, and the main body of the Navajos stood ready to dash in and cut off a party making such a reckless move. This was what they had originally attempted to accomplish, as I heard years afterwards from a chief who took part in the raid. Failing to draw us out in pursuit of our lost stock, the Navajos moved slowly away in the deepening dusk to a point close against the forest on the eastern side of the valley and nearly opposite our camp. There they built a row of five fires, which soon became, in the darkness, the only evidence of their presence. I caused the sentinels to be increased, and, after dressing the wounds of the men and removing a bullet from Frank's shoulder, went to bed without undressing. After some half-hour of silence, Henry said: "Mr. Duncan." "Yes; what is it?" "I'm going to name my pony Chiquita." "And I'm going to name mine Sancho," added Frank. "What are you going to do with the animals you brought here?" I asked. "Turn them in in place of the two we captured," answered Henry. "All right; for general utility. Good-night." "Good-night. Thank you, sir." Half an hour before midnight the sergeant of the guard aroused me to report that strange noises could be heard from the rear of the camp. I went to the top of the ridge and listened. A sound like the dragging of branches over the ground, with occasional pauses, fell upon my ears. I sent for the elder Cordova, and he listened long, with an ear close to the ground. His opinion was that the Indians were creeping up for another attack. Orders were sent to Sergeant Cunningham to wake the men without noise and assemble them at the barricades. A little after midnight the moon rose over the mountains and bathed the valley in a beautiful light. As the moon cleared herself from the summits of the range and her rays fell upon the line of paling camp-fires of the Indians, my field-glass revealed the fact that the raiders had departed. Ponies and riders were gone. In the whole length and breadth of the Great Valley not a living being was in sight outside the limit of our encampment. An inspection to the rear, to the scene of the late conflict, revealed the fact that the body of El Ebano and the group of dead warriors which lay about him at nightfall had been taken away. Their removal had caused the rushing and creeping sounds we had heard. Mounting my horse, and accompanied by four men upon the four ponies, I crossed the valley to the Indian fires, but found nothing there except the horns, hoofs, and entrails of our captured cattle. The flesh had probably been packed upon the Cordovas' mule and burro to ration a raiding party into the valley of the Rio Grande. A well-defined trail went back through the forest, which Cordova afterwards assured me led to the town of Pina Blanca. Returning to camp, I wrote a letter to the commanding general, giving an account of the attack and its repulse, and despatched it by the Mexicans, who, taking cut-offs with which they were acquainted, and borrowing horses in relays at ranches on the way, delivered it next evening at Santa Fé. The general sent a hundred troopers to Los Valles Grandes, where they came galloping into camp two evenings afterwards. As Captain Wardwell sprang from his saddle and wrung my hand, he exclaimed: "God bless you, Duncan! I came out expecting to bury the bones of you and your men." I was glad to see the California cavalry officers, and, during the three days of their stay in the valley for rest after a forced march, did the honors to the best of my ability. On the day of their departure the wagons returned loaded with supplies. Instructions were received to send back all but one wagon and six mules. With the departure of cavalry and wagons, life in the valley settled down to quiet routine. I spent some time in instructing my companions, according to an agreement I had made with their father. Not being a West-Pointer, but a college graduate with a fair knowledge of Greek and Latin, and some other acquirements not considered of military utility, I was able to carry out a desire of the colonel and assist the boys in preparing themselves for college. We rarely received visits from the outside world. The nearest hamlet was an Indian pueblo, twenty-six miles away, in the Rio Jemez Valley, and representatives of the army seldom had occasion to visit our outposts. The mail arrived from Santa Fé every Saturday afternoon, and left every Monday morning in the saddle-bags of two cavalry express-men. To the soldiers life in the valleys was very pleasant. Duty was light, and there were no temptations to dissipation or to be out of quarters at night, and there were no confinements to the guard-house for disorder. Evenings were spent over books and papers and quiet games, and the days in drill, repairing buildings, providing the fuel for winter, hunting, and scouting. As previously referred to, we were in a region of abundant game. The boy corporals accompanied the hunting-parties, and became skilled in bringing down whatever they sighted. Henry, as well as Frank, shot his bear, and soon our floor was covered with the skins of wolves, coyotes, bears, and catamounts, skilfully dressed and tanned by the Cordovas. And now I must introduce a principal character of my story, a valued friend who took a conspicuous part in our scouting and hunting, and who, later on, did valuable service to myself and my youthful comrades. Just as I was about to leave Santa Fé for Los Valles Grandes, the regimental adjutant--since a distinguished brigadier-general in the war in the Philippines--gave me a beautiful young setter named Victoriana, and called Vic for convenience. She was of canine aristocracy, possessing a fine pedigree, white and liver-colored, with mottled nose and paws, and a tail like the plume of Henry of Navarre. The boys, soon after our arrival in the valleys, carrying out a conceit suggested by the letters "U.S." which are always branded upon the left shoulder of all government horses and mules, marked with a weak solution of nitrate of silver upon Vic's white shoulder the same characters, and as long as she continued to live they were never allowed to grow dim. Vic came to me with no education, but plenty of capacity, and the corporals and I spent much time during the long evenings and on the days when we did not accompany the scouting and hunting parties, in training her. She learned to close the door if we simulated a shiver, to bring me my slippers when she saw me begin to remove my boots, to carry messages to the first sergeant or the cook, to return to the camp from long distances and bring articles I sent for. Vic was an unerring setter and a fine retriever. She was taught not to bark when a sound might bring an enemy upon us, and she would follow patiently at my heels or those of either of the boys when told to do so and never make a break to the right or left. Our repeated scoutings soon made us acquainted with every trail in and out of the valley. I obtained permission from department head-quarters to employ the elder Cordova as spy and guide, and he was of invaluable use to us. He was able to show me a mountain-trail into the valley of San Antonio besides the one through La Puerta, which I kept in reserve for any desperate emergency which might make it necessary to use another. We frequently went trout-fishing with an armed party, and could pack a mule with fish in a few hours. One morning, near the close of October, Cordova left the camp before reveille on a solitary hunting-trip in order to reach Los Vallecitos, four miles to the south of our valley, before sunrise. He had gone but half an hour, and I was dressing after first bugle-call for reveille, when I was startled by the rapid approach of some one running towards my door. Presently the guide tumbled into the cabin, gasping: "Muchos Navajos, teniente, muchos Navajos!" (Many Navajos, lieutenant, many Navajos!) "Where are they, and how many?" I asked. "About half a league over the ridge," pointing to the south. "They chased me from the Los Vallecitos trail. They number about a hundred." Without waiting for more definite information, I told the boys, who were hastily getting into their clothes, to stay in the cabin, and, going for Sergeant Cunningham, ordered him to parade the company under arms without delay; then, taking my glass, I went to the top of the ridge. Lying down before reaching the crest, I looked through the screening grass and saw a party of eighty-three Indians, halted and apparently in consultation. They were in full war costume, and were painted and feathered to the height of Indian skill. III WARLIKE PUEBLOS The party of Indians halted for nearly ten minutes, evidently in excited dispute, accompanying their talk with much gesticulation. I had time to notice that the details of dress were not like those of the Navajos with whom we had recently had a fight; but as the old hunter Cordova had pronounced them Navajos, I gave the matter little consideration. They did not seem to be aware of the existence of an encampment of soldiers in the valleys, and after a brief delay moved on towards La Puerta. Returning to the parade, I ordered the six mules and four ponies brought to my door, saddled and bridled, and all the men not on guard to assemble under arms with cartridge-boxes filled. Fortunately, the mail-riders had arrived the previous evening from Santa Fé, so I ordered them to form a part of the expedition, and placed the party of thirteen under command of Sergeant Cunningham, mounted upon my horse. The sergeant was directed to take the "reserved trail" through the hills into the valley of San Antonio and bring his men into the western end of La Puerta before the Indians could pass through it. I impressed it upon him on no account to fire unless the redmen showed fight, to leave his mules and horses concealed in the timber at the entrance of the cañon, and so dispose his men as to convey the impression that thirteen was but a part of his force. Just before the horsemen were to start I overheard Private Tom Clary, who was mounted on Frank's recent equine acquisition, Sancho, say to the boy: "Corpril Frank, laddie, can ye give me the Naviho words for _whoa_ and _get up_? I'm afeared the little baste 'll not understand me English, and may attimpt to lave for his troibe." "You needn't speak to him, Tom. Use your reins, curb, and spurs," replied the boy. "True for you, corpril; a pull to stop, and a spur to go ahead. That's a language that nades no interpreter." For myself, I proposed to follow up the Navajos with the rest of the company as soon as they were fairly within the cañon, and I expected to capture them without blood-shed. We started, the mounted men turning to the north of the wooded point and entering the forest, and the footmen marching direct for La Puerta. I kept my men out of sight under the rolls of the valley surface, and moved at quick time. When the redmen were well within the walls of the cañon we deployed right and left, and closed up rapidly behind them. The Indians showed perceptible astonishment when they perceived this unexpected and warlike demonstration, but they soon recovered, and then, feeling the superiority of the mounted man over the footman, they broke into derisive shouts and made gestures conveying their contempt for us. This continued for some time, when they suddenly showed confusion. They dashed at a gallop to the north side of the passage, and skirted it for a considerable distance, as if looking for a place of escape. Failing to find one they dashed wildly to the other side, where they met with no better success, and then they halted and consulted. Presently one of their number rode out and waved a white cloth. Upon this I approached alone and made signs for them to dismount and lay down their arms. They did so, and at another sign withdrew in a body, when my men picked up everything and collected their ponies. I was certainly surprised at such a bloodless result of my strategy, and, after shaking hands with the chief, began my return march to camp. We had gone but a short distance when I overheard Private Clary, one of the mounted men, who was riding near me, say to Private Hoey beside him. "D'ye moind the cut uv thim chaps' hair, Jarge?" "Indade I do that, Tom," replied George. "Thim's no Navihos!" "Not a bit uv it. I'd as soon expict to see one in currls!" I had a wholesome respect for the opinions of these old soldiers, for they had campaigned against Indians in Texas, Utah, Colorado, and New Mexico long before I had seen a more savage redman than the indolent, basket-making descendants of the Passamaquoddies and Penobscots. Accordingly, without appearing to notice their remarks, I approached the chief, and said, interrogatively: "Apache?" A shake of the head. "Ute?" Another shake. "Navajo?" "Si, señor!" he said, with a bow of his head, and I moved triumphantly on, satisfied that my eighty-three prisoners were Navajos. But presently I heard Clary ask, "Jarge, did ye iver see Navihos with blankets like thim?" "Niver!" answered Hoey, emphatically. Evidently the two soldiers did not believe they were Navajos, and were "talking at me." But if not Navajos, Apaches, or Utes, who were these warriors? When we were near camp we were met by Cordova, who had remained behind to recover from the fatigue of his early morning run. As soon as he came up to the Indians there seemed to be an immediate recognition. He and the chief met and embraced, and conversed for a few moments in a language that was neither English nor Spanish. Then the hunter turned to me, looking shamefaced, and said, in Spanish, "Lieutenant, these Indians are Pueblos, of Santo Domingo." Whoever knows the character of the Pueblos will appreciate the joke I had perpetrated upon myself. Many towns in New Mexico are inhabited by these Indians--towns which stood on their present sites when Coronado entered the country in 1541. They form an excellent part of the population, being temperate, frugal, and industrious. They dress in Indian style, and when at war paint and disfigure themselves like any other of the red peoples, so that a green soldier would see no difference between them and the wilder tribes. The Pueblos explained that they were in pursuit of a band of Navajos who had stolen some of their cattle the previous night. When they first saw Cordova they attempted to approach him to inquire if he had seen any Navajo "signs." My appearance and warlike demonstrations they could not account for, not knowing there was a camp of soldiers in the valley. When I put the questions, Apache? Ute? Navajo? the chief thought I was asking him if he was in pursuit of a party of one of those tribes. Being in pursuit of Navajos, he answered yes to that name. A week after my captives had returned to their homes in Santo Domingo, at the close of a long and fruitless search for their lost stock, a gentleman and his servant, mounted on broncos and leading a pack-mule, rode up to my cabin late in the afternoon. He introduced himself as a government Indian agent for the Navajos, and handed me a letter from the department commander. It stated that the bearer was on his way to the Indian pueblo of Jemez, to prevent the massacre of a number of Navajo women, children, and old men who had sought asylum there, and authorized me to furnish him with all the aid in my power. After dismounting and entering my quarters, the agent stated that, the Navajo country being over-run by national troops, many of the principal men had sent their wives and children, with a few old men, to Jemez for safety; that the party of Dominicans which had been recently captured by us, being bitterly disappointed at their lack of success in retaking their missing cattle, had determined to go to Jemez and wreak vengeance upon the enemy. The Santo Dominicans had informed the people of Jemez that if they interfered to prevent the slaughter of the Navajos they would be considered by the military authorities as allies of that tribe, and treated accordingly. Convinced, from what the agent told me, that I should act without unnecessary delay, I proposed that we should start for Jemez at once, but he declared himself too much fatigued by a long journey to undertake a night ride of twenty-six miles. My instructions from the general were to conform my movements to the wishes of the agent, so I very reluctantly and much against my convictions concluded to wait until morning. He strongly insisted there was no reason for haste, as the Dominicans had not planned to leave their pueblo before noon. We set out, therefore, at four o'clock next morning. Sergeant Cunningham asked permission to accompany the expedition, and I allowed him to do so, leaving Sergeant Mulligan in charge until our return. We were a party of thirteen, mounted on every available animal in camp. Henry was left behind, but Frank accompanied us, mounted on the recently captured Sancho, proud of his horse and proud to be included in the detachment. We passed through an interesting country, filled with wind-carven pillars and minarets, eroded shelves and caverns, and lunched at noonday beside a dozen boiling sulphur springs. We also passed Cañoncito, the little village which was the home of José Cordova. As we came in sight of the tinned spires of the church at Jemez, we heard a distinct murmur, and halted at once. In a moment the murmur swelled into an unmistakable Indian war-whoop. It was plainly evident the Dominicans had arrived before us. As soon as I heard the war-whoop I told Sergeant Cunningham to bring up the men as rapidly as possible, sticking to the travelled road, and, accompanied by the agent and Corporal Frank, I put spurs to my horse and dashed towards the town. Our route was through the cultivated land, while that of the soldiers was on the hard ground along the foot-hills. Ours was in a direct line, over deep, soft earth, frequently crossed by irrigating ditches, while theirs, although nearly treble the distance, was over firm soil without a break. We struck directly for the church spires, which I knew rose from the central plaza. Often we plunged down the banks of _acequias_, carrying avalanches of soil with us into two or three feet of water, to make a difficult scramble up the crumbling wall of the opposite side; and as we neared the pueblo, the louder grew the discordant yells of the Dominicans. As I reached the border of the plantation I found between me and the road, which here entered the town, a cactus hedge about five feet high, with no passage through it except at a considerable distance to the right. The agent veered away to the opening, but Corporal Frank kept Sancho close behind me, and I gave my good thoroughbred his head and rode sharply at the hedge, cleared it at a bound, receiving but a few scratches from the cactus spines. Turning my head as I came into the road, I saw Frank come through like a trooper and join me. Clear of the hedge, I found myself at the foot of a narrow street which passed between two tall adobe buildings and entered the plaza near the centre of its western side. I took it at a run, and when half-way through saw directly before its inner end, facing the north, a group of old, gray-haired Navajos standing alone with their arms folded, and holding their blankets firmly about their breasts, while in their immediate front were some one hundred mounted Indians, painted and ornamented in true aboriginal warrior style. On the terraced fronts of the houses and their flat roofs, and along the three sides of the square, seemed to be gathered the entire population of the town, looking passively on. Before I had more than taken in the situation, a rattling discharge of rifles came from the direction of the Dominicans, and the old men fell in a heap to the ground. Covered with dust and mud, our horses reeking with foam, Corporal Frank and I burst through the crowd of spectators on the west side of the plaza, and gained the open space just as the firing-party was advancing with gleaming knives and wild yells to complete the tragedy by scalping the slain. Raising my right hand I shouted, in Spanish, "Stop where you are!" Frank had unslung his carbine and was holding it by the small of the stock in his right hand, the barrel resting in his left, looking calmly and resolutely at the hesitating Indians. The blood of three generations of soldierly ancestors was thrilling his veins with a resolution to act well in any emergency which might arise. The Pueblos halted, and at the same moment a group of eighteen women and nearly three times as many children, some of them in arms, who had been reserved--as I afterwards learned--for later shooting, ran into the space and clung to my feet, stirrups, and the mane and tail of my horse, entreating with eyes and voices for protection. The war-cries had ceased and the Dominicans had gathered in an angry and gesticulating group, when Sergeant Cunningham and the rest of the men appeared on foot, running into the plaza from a side street, and formed in line before us. The massacre ended with the death of the old men. Aided by the agent and the Catholic priest of the pueblo I succeeded in impressing upon the Jemez warriors that they must discountenance any further hostile demonstrations of the Santo Dominicans, and told the latter that unless they promptly withdrew and departed for their own reservation I should punish them for their recent conduct. They at once sullenly departed. That evening, by the light of a brilliant moon, the dead Navajos were buried upon a hill-top overlooking the town, amid the wailing of their women and much ceremonious demonstration by the Jemez people, and Frank and I retired for the night to the house of the hospitable priest. Early the following morning I held an inspection of the mules and horses, and finding the wheel and swing spans were much exhausted by the unaccustomed gait they had maintained in the forced march from the valleys, I determined to give them a day's rest before making the return trip. Finding Sergeant Cunningham's, Frank's, and my own horses none the worse for their exertions, I concluded that we three would return at once to camp. I placed Corporal Duffy in charge of the party, and told him after one day had passed to return by way of the hot springs. Instead of returning by the route we came, the sergeant, Frank, and I were to take a shorter and rougher one pointed out to us by Padre Gutierrez. This trail was almost as straight as an arrow, but led through a section of the country over which we had not scouted. At half-past nine o'clock the three of us started, Vic bounding and barking at my horse's head. IV IN A NAVAJO TRAP Six miles from Jemez our road, which, after leaving the cultivated valley of the Pueblos had narrowed to a path, entered the forest and ran along the side of a small brook, which it continued to follow for several miles, and then rose gradually to the side of a range of hills. We were walking our animals along the side of this acclivity, at a considerable distance above the brook on our left, their hoofs making no noise in the soft, black earth, when I was startled by the braying of an ass somewhere in the ravine. Sergeant Cunningham and Corporal Frank threw themselves quickly from their saddles and held the horses by the bits to prevent them from responding to the greeting, and I quickly sought a place from which I could make an observation. We were in a clump of evergreen trees which commanded a view of the ravine and obscured us from sight in all directions. Looking across the ravine, I caught a glimpse of a party of Indians a little beyond the brook. Through my glass I made them out to be a party of twenty-seven Navajos, sitting about a camp-fire eating their dinner. As many ponies were grazing near, and a mule and burro. From certain peculiar markings I had observed the day Cordova joined me in the valleys, I had no difficulty in recognizing the last two animals to be his property. Packs were lying near the fire, showing that the captured animals were being used as beasts of burden. All this time I had entirely overlooked the presence of my dog Vic. Had I thought of her in season, it would have been easy to have kept her close at my heels; but I had left her free to wander, not thinking of any threatening danger. Suddenly I heard a chorus of grunts from the Indians, and looking in their direction I saw Vic stand for an instant with her forefeet on a prostrate log, look questioningly at the savages, and then drop down into the furze and disappear. The sight of a white man's dog, wearing a brilliant metallic collar, produced an electrical effect. Instantly the redmen sprang to their feet, seized their arms, and began saddling and bridling their ponies. "Vic has betrayed us, sergeant," I said. "We must get out of here as quickly as possible." As we sprang into our saddles and regained the trail Vic came with a bound before us, and I immediately gave her positive orders to keep close at our heels. We rode as fast as it was possible to do without making a noise, hoping that we might get a considerable distance away before we were discovered. We had not proceeded far, however, when a yell announced that we were seen. As we galloped on we saw that it was impossible for the Indians to cross to our side of the ravine. Every mile we passed the path rose higher and the sides of the stream grew more precipitous. The Indians were pursuing a path parallel to ours and about half a mile in our rear. What was the nature of the country ahead we did not know. The fact that they were pursuing, and with such eagerness, seemed to indicate they knew of some advantage to be gained farther on. On and on we rode, I in advance, the sergeant next, and Frank behind. The trail wound through the trees and clumps of underbrush, with occasional openings through which we could catch glimpses of our eager pursuers. The prospect appeared exceedingly gloomy. As we galloped on I noticed at last, through a rift in the wood a considerable distance in advance, an eminence or butte which lifted its summit nearly three hundred feet skyward, and which presented on the side towards us an almost perpendicular wall. When we approached it we saw a neat log-cabin nestling under its overarching brow. We dismounted, led our panting and utterly exhausted animals into the cabin, closed the doors, and went to the windows with our rifles. The cabin was about thirty by twenty feet in area, and stood with its northern end close against the perpendicular wall of the butte, with an overhanging cliff a hundred feet above it. If a stone had been dropped from the sheltering cliff it would have fallen several feet away from the cabin's southern wall. At the end of the cabin farthest from the butte the ground upon which it stood broke off perpendicularly twenty feet downward, to a spring--the source of the brook we had been following since we left Jemez. The only way to cross from one trail to the other, except by going several miles down the brook or to the north end of the butte, was, therefore, through the cabin, and for this purpose a door had been placed in each side. The cabin could be approached only on the east and west sides, and was unassailable at its north and south ends. Each wall contained a small window, except the one which rested against the butte, and there a wide, stone fireplace had been built. Three men with plenty of rations and ammunition could make a good defence. Water could be had by lowering a bucket or canteen from the southern window to the spring, twenty-four feet below its sill. The Indians had discovered that we had found shelter from their pursuit and for the present were safe, and all but five, who soon afterwards appeared in the edge of the forest to the east, had joined the main party to the west of us. They showed great respect for our place of refuge and rifles, and kept well out of range. The sergeant's and my Springfield rifle could throw a bullet farther and could be loaded more rapidly than any rifles in their possession, and Frank with his Spencer could fire about twenty balls to our one. We removed the saddles and bridles from our animals, and, hitching them in the corners each side of the fireplace, began a discussion of our prospects. "If we could keep a couple of fires going before the doors during the night, sir," said the sergeant, "we might keep them away." "I am afraid a fire would be of greater advantage to them than to us," I replied; "we should have to expose ourselves every time we replenished it. I wonder if the roof is covered with earth? It is flat." "I'll tell you in half a minute, sir," said Frank, and entering the fireplace he proceeded to ascend the wide-mouthed chimney by stepping on projecting stones of which it was built. In a moment he called down to me, "Yes, sir; it is covered with about two feet of earth." "All right then. If we can get pine enough to keep a blaze going then we will have one. A fire on the roof will illuminate everything about us and leave our windows and doorways in darkness. It will aid our aim and confuse the Indians." We set to work at once and pulled down all the bunks, and with large stones from the fireplace succeeded in breaking into fragments the pine puncheons and posts of which they were made. Then Sergeant Cunningham ascended the chimney and tore away one side of the part which projected above the roof--the side looking in the direction opposite the precipice. This would enable one of us to stand in the top and replenish the fire, and at the same time remain concealed from the enemy. As we could be fired upon from only two directions, the fire tender would be safe. Fortunately, Padre Gutierrez's housekeeper had put up a lunch sufficient to last us, including Vic, for three days, and water could be drawn easily through the southern window with a canteen and lariat. "I'm afraid those chaps 'll get us in the end, sir," observed the sergeant. "Of course we can eat horse-meat for a while after our victuals are gone, but we are three and they are twenty-seven--we are prisoners and they are free." "Very true, sergeant," I replied, "but something may turn up in our favor. The Jemez party will reach camp day after to-morrow, and when it learns we are not there we shall be looked up." "If another party of Navajos don't jump them, sir." "Of course, the chances are against us, sergeant, but let us keep up our spirits and make a good fight." "I'll do my best, sir, as I always have done, but this is a beastly hole to be caught in." "But why don't you send Vic for help, Mr. Duncan?" asked Frank. "Laddie, I believe you have saved us! Thank you for the suggestion. We'll put the little girl's education to a practical test." "What! Going to send her to Jemez for the men?" asked Sergeant Cunningham. "No; I hardly think I could make her understand our wishes in that direction, but there is no doubt she can be sent to camp. She has done that many times." "Yes, sir, she'll go to the valley," said Frank. "You know I sent her with a message to you from San Antonio Valley, six miles. I wonder how far camp is from here?" "'Bout nine miles," replied the sergeant; "but she'll do it, I think. Look at her!" Vic had come forward, and sat looking intelligently from one to the other of us while this discussion ran on. "All right, little girl," I said, patting and smoothing her silky coat, "you shall have a chance to help us after dusk. Go and lie down now." The dog went to a corner and, lying down on Frank's saddle-blanket, appeared to sleep; and while Corporal Frank took my place at a window I wrote a message to Sergeant Mulligan at the camp, describing our desperate situation and requesting him to send a detachment to our rescue. I also prepared a flat, pine stick, and wrote upon it, in plain letters, "Examine her collar." I intended she should carry the stick in her mouth, as she had hitherto carried articles and messages, fearing she would not understand she was to go on an errand unless all the conditions of her education were observed. During that day the Navajos simply showed their presence occasionally among the trees, far away on either flank. We once heard the rapid strokes of an axe, as of chopping, and wondered what it could mean. Nothing further happened till dusk. Then I called Vic and attached the note to her collar, wrapped in a piece of my handkerchief. "I think, sergeant," I said, "we had better send our message before it gets darker and the Navajos close up nearer or the corporal lights his fire." "Yes, she can't leave any too soon, sir, I think. It's going to be pokerish work for us before morning, and I shall be mighty glad to see a few of old Company F appear round that rock." After fastening the note securely in the dog's collar, I placed the stick in her mouth and, opening the eastern door, said, "Now, little Vic, take that stick to the sergeant--go!" She turned from the doorway, crossed the room, and dropped the stick at Sergeant Cunningham's feet. The sergeant stooped, and placing his hand under her chin raised her head upward and laid his bronze cheek affectionately upon it. "Well, Vicky," he said, "there is but one sergeant in the world to you, and he is here, isn't he?" "That's so, sir," exclaimed Corporal Frank, addressing me. "We never sent her to anybody but you, the sergeant, and the cook." "True enough. I'll have to send her to the cook--the only one now in camp to whom she has borne messages. As he is the dispenser of fine bones and dainties, and she has had nothing to eat since morning, perhaps it is as well he is to receive this message. Here, Vic," placing the chip once more in her mouth, "take this stick to the cook--go!" The setter looked at me an instant, then at the sergeant and corporal, walked to the door, looked out, and then glanced questioningly at me. "Yes, little one; the cook--go!" She bounded through the doorway and turned the corner of the butte at a run, bearing our summons to our comrades at Los Valles Grandes. For some time after the departure of Vic the sergeant and I stood at our windows and gloomily watched the darkness deepen in the woods. Frank looked out of the window above the spring and was also silent. I was disposed to put off the lighting of our fire upon the roof as long as it appeared safe to do so, in order to husband our fuel. The animals, disappointed of the forage usually furnished them at this hour, stamped impatiently and nosed disdainfully the stale straw and pine plumes which we had emptied from the bunks and which were now scattered over the floor. It was during a momentary lull of this continuous noise that I heard a crushing sound as of a heavy wheel rolling over twigs and gravel, but was unable to guess its meaning. Fearing that further delay to light our fire might bring disaster upon us, I told Corporal Frank to kindle it. He ascended the chimney, lighted a few splinters of pitch-pine and placed them upon the roof, and as soon as they were well lighted added to them half a dozen billets of wood which Sergeant Cunningham passed up to him. Soon a brilliant blaze was leaping upward, and, being reflected strongly by the white sandstone of the overhanging cliff, lighted the whole space about the cabin. As soon as Frank descended to the floor we gazed long and anxiously out of the windows. Everything about us was now plainly visible to our eyes, and we felt sure our movements could not be seen by the Navajos. To the east all was silent, and for a long while we saw nothing in that direction to suggest a lurking foe. To the west we could see no enemy, but the same mysterious sound of crushing and grinding came to our ears. What could it be, and what did it threaten? Adjusting my field-glass I looked from my window in the direction of the puzzling sound, and on the farther edge of the opening, near the wood, saw a log about three feet in diameter and twenty-five or more in length slowly rolling towards us, propelled by some unseen force. Passing the glass to the sergeant, I said: "The Indians seem to be rolling a log in our direction. What do you think of it?" "I think it's easy to understand, sir," replied the sergeant, after a long look. "That log is a movable breastwork, which can be rolled to our door." "True, sergeant. Probably a dozen or more warriors are lying behind it and rolling it forward. Rather a black prospect for us if we cannot stop it!" We all three gathered at the western window, and for some moments watched the slow approach of the moving breastwork. V A SIEGE AND AN AMBUSCADE We continued to watch long and anxiously the slowly rolling log. Not a glimpse of the motive power could be obtained, but it ground and crushed its way along with ominous certainty, straight in our direction. Just as I had come to the conclusion that assistance could not arrive in time, the log stopped. I looked through my glass and saw the cause. "Sergeant," I exclaimed, "the log has struck a rock! Open the door and draw a bead on it! Don't let a man leap over it to remove the stone! Corporal, guard the east window!" The sergeant stood ready at the open door. All the efforts of the prostrate men behind the log had no effect, except to swing the end farthest from the obstacle slightly ahead. "There seems to be nothing for them to do but to remove the stone. Keep a sharp eye on the log, sergeant!" I had hardly spoken when a sudden discharge of rifles ran irregularly along the length of the log, and under cover of the fire and smoke a stalwart warrior leaped over, raised the stone, and had borne it nearly to the top, when Sergeant Cunningham's rifle spoke sharply. The stone dropped on our side; the Indian fell forward, with his arms extended towards his friends, who pulled him over the log, and he was screened from our sight. The volley of the Navajos did us no harm. Corporal Frank replenished the fire on our roof from time to time, and our vigilant watch went on. At last the sergeant, who still stood at the open door, exclaimed, "Lieutenant, the stone is moving! It's dropping into the ground!" "It's gone, and here comes our fate," I said. "They must have dug under the log with their knives and sunk the stone." "Yes, sir, and they're safe to reach the cabin door and roast us out." "If there were two or three more stones in the way, sergeant, the delay they would cause might serve us until help comes." "I'll run out there with one, Mr. Duncan," said Frank. "No, laddie," replied the sergeant, "that's a duty for me. I'll drop a couple there in a minute." "And when you return, sergeant, I will drop two more," said I. We went quickly to work to carry out our plan. The corporal once more mended the fire, and then we selected from the loose rubbish which had been torn from the top of the chimney several large-sized stones. Removing his shoes, the sergeant, with my assistance, raised two big stones to his breast, and stood in the doorway with them clasped firmly in his arms. I took the revolvers in my hands, whispered the word, and he started out at a rapid walk, setting his feet down carefully and without noise. He dropped the stones, one before the other, without attracting attention, and regained the cabin without a shot being fired on either side. Now it was my turn, and I went beyond the place where he had dropped his last stone. At that instant an alarm was shouted from the distant wood, and an Indian raised his head above the log and fired. The bullet struck the falling rock, and sent a shower of stinging splinters into my face. I turned and fled. With the discharge of the Indian's rifle Sergeant Cunningham and Corporal Frank opened a rapid fusillade with the revolvers, which successfully covered my retreat to the cabin; but we knew that our last chance at stone-dropping was past. Several terribly long hours had crept past since we saw Vic turn the butte on her errand to the valleys. Judging by the time it had taken the Navajos to bore a tunnel under their log and undermine the first trigging-stone, we estimated that two more hours must pass before the four obstructions we had placed in their way could be removed, unless they took some more speedy method. It was quite nine miles to camp, and the dog could easily reach it in about an hour. If she had arrived, help should by this time be fairly on the way; but if she had been killed by the besiegers before she reached the north end of the butte, or had been torn in pieces by the wolves! Should the log once reach our door, we could not hope to do more than make the price of our lives dear to the enemy. While the sergeant and I stood at the door and window, speculating in no very hopeful vein over these probabilities, there came a scratch at the eastern door. Frank was at the window on that side, and, startled by the sound, he called to us, "I'm afraid an Indian has sneaked up on us, sir." Again the scratching was heard, this time accompanied by a familiar whine, which presently swelled into a low bark. "Oh, Mr. Duncan, it's Vic! It's Vic!" shouted the boy, and, springing to the door, he flung it wide open. In trotted Vic, and, coming up to me, she dropped a stick at my feet bearing the words: "In the collar, as before." It took some little time for Corporal Frank to secure the messenger. She capered about the room, licked our hands and faces, jumped up to the noses of the ponies, and behaved as if she was conscious of having performed a great feat and was overjoyed to have returned safely. But Vic surrendered to the boy at last, and, submitting her neck for inspection, he found attached to her collar a letter which read as follows: "CAMP AT LOS VALLES GRANDES. "_November 20, 1863_. "Lieutenant,--Message received, and the messenger fed. Corporal Coffey and eight men leave here at 10.15 P.M. "JAMES MULLIGAN, _Sergeant_." "Come here, little doggie," said Sergeant Cunningham. "If we get out of this, the company shall pay for a silver collar and a medal of honor for the finest dog in the army." "If that detail marches at the regulation gait of three miles an hour," I said, "it should be here by a quarter-past one, and it is now a quarter to twelve." My anxiety over our prospects was so great I neglected to show proper gratitude to our devoted messenger. "The men will do better than that, sir, if they keep on the road. The trouble will be in finding this trail. They have never been this way." "I think the junction of this and the hot-springs trail cannot be far from here. Let's take a shot at that log every three minutes from now on, and the noise may attract our friends." We began firing at once, aiming at the under side of the log where it touched the earth. I am confident this must have sent some sand and gravel into the eyes of the rollers, if it did no other damage. Two of the trigging-stones we had dropped were soon undermined and sunk, and the log had stopped at the third, less than a hundred yards away. As it came on, the sergeant climbed to the top of the chimney, and shortly afterwards returned with the report that he had seen the prostrate body of a warrior revealed beyond--good evidence that his first shot had been fatal. If the next two stones should be as rapidly removed as the others, we feared the Indians would reach us, unless the rescuing party prevented, at about half-past twelve. Marked by our periodical shots at the log, the time hurried all too rapidly on, the Indians slowly and surely approaching the cabin. The third stone disappeared, and the log moved with a louder grating over the gravelly soil to the fourth and last obstacle, about thirty yards away, and paused. "I believe, lieutenant," said Cunningham, "I could hit those fellows' legs now from the chimney." "All right, sergeant. Close your door and go up and try it," I replied. "A redskin with a broken leg can do us as little injury as one with a broken head." The words were hardly spoken and the sergeant had barely reached the fireplace, when, as if in anticipation of this movement, two figures leaped over the end of the log nearest the perpendicular rock, ran to the corner formed by the cabin and the wall, and by the aid of the dovetailed ends of the logs clambered quickly to the roof. I sent a shot at them, but it had no effect. No sooner had they reached the roof than they threw the flaming brands and coal of our bonfire down the chimney, where they broke into fragments and rolled over the floor, setting fire to the scattered straw and plumes. Busy putting stops into the windows, and fastening them and the doors, we could do nothing to extinguish the fire before it got well under way. A blanket was thrown over the top of the chimney to prevent a draught, and soon the whole interior was thick with stifling smoke. The horses plunged frantically, sending the fire in every direction. Our eyes began to smart painfully, and we felt ourselves suffocating and choking in the thick and poisonous atmosphere. To remain in the house was to be burned alive; to leave it was to perish, perhaps, in a still more horrible way. Just as I was on the brink of despair, the sergeant gasped rather than spoke: "They are here, lieutenant. Hark! Hark!" Ping! Ping! We heard the sound of rifle-shots, accompanied by a good, honest, Anglo-Saxon cheer. Was there ever sweeter music? The war-whoops ceased, the blanket was quickly withdrawn from the chimney-top, and two thuds on the east side of the cabin showed the Indians had left the roof. A general scurrying of feet and other thuds down the perpendicular wall back of the spring were evidence that the besiegers were in full and demoralized flight. We threw the doors open, and our friends rushed in, and before a greeting was uttered feet and butts of rifles were sweeping brands and straw into the fireplace, and the roaring draught was fast clearing the air. Before I had fairly recovered my sight, and while still engaged in wiping away the tears the smoke had excited to copious flow, I heard a sobbing voice near me say: "Oh, Franky, brother, if it had not been for dear little Vicky what would have happened to you?" Blinking my eyes open, I saw the boy corporals with their right arms about each other's neck, holding their Spencers by the muzzles in their left hands. "Why, Henry," I said, "you did not make that march with the men?" "Couldn't keep him back, sir," answered Corporal Coffey. "Said his place was with his brother. Made the march like a man, and fired the first shot when we turned the bluff." We shook hands all round, and then went out to see whether the volleys of the rescuing party had inflicted any punishment upon the Navajos. Two dead Indians lay near the cabin, and farther away the one that had fallen when attempting to remove the obstacle before the log. There were traces of others having been wounded. A fire was promptly kindled outside the cabin, and we sat about it for a time to rest and enjoy a lunch. The horses had been somewhat singed about the legs, but were not disabled. An hour afterwards Sergeant Cunningham placed Corporal Henry on his pony, Chiquita, and we started for the valleys. At daybreak the day after we left Jemez we reached camp, and on the evening of the same day the detachment we had left behind for a rest also arrived, without adventure on the march. Cordova and his son at once set out on the trail of the Navajos, whom we reported to be in possession of their animals, to ascertain why they were in our vicinity. After four days' scouting the Mexicans returned with the information that they found the Indians had left their camp on the Jemez road after their defeat. They had struck straight through the hills for the Rio Grande, where they joined the main body, the same which had attacked us the day after our arrival in the valleys, and which had recently made several successful raids on the flocks and herds near Peña Blanca and Galisteo. It was the guide's opinion that the party which had besieged me in the cabin had been to the valleys to see what chance there was of running captured stock through there. Their report must have been favorable, for Cordova said a detachment of forty-seven Navajos was now encamped in Los Vallecitos, apparently intending to pass us the following night with a large number of cattle, horses, mules, and sheep. I began at once to make preparations to retake the stolen stock and to capture the Navajos. That the Navajos, if they were watching our movements, might not surmise we knew of their presence near us, I ordered the scouting party and huntsmen not to go out next morning, and all the men to keep within the limits of the parade. The next evening I marched all the company, except the guard, including the boy corporals, by way of the reserved trail into the valley of St. Anthony, and entered La Puerta from the western end. This was done for fear some advance-guard of the redmen might witness our movement if we went by the usual way, and because so large a party might leave a trail visible to the keenly observant enemy even by starlight, and there would be moonlight before we could cross the valley. It was my intention to make an ambush in La Puerta. In the narrowest part of that cañon, where it was barely fifty yards wide, the walls rose perpendicularly on each side. A hundred yards east and west of this narrowest portion of the pass were good places of concealment. I placed Sergeant Cunningham and thirteen men at the western end, and took as many and the boys with me to the eastern. The sergeant was instructed to keep his men perfectly quiet until the head of the herd had passed their place of concealment, and then, under cover of the noise made by the moving animals, to slip down into the cañon, and when the rear of the herd came up make a dash across the front of the Indians and begin firing, taking care not to hit us. For myself, I intended to drop into the pass with my detachment when the Navajo rear had passed, deploy, and bag the whole party and the booty. It was a long and tiresome wait before the raiders appeared. The men had been told that they might sleep, and many of them had availed themselves of the permission. The moon rose soon after ten o'clock, and made our surroundings plainly visible in the rarefied atmosphere peculiar to the arid region of the plains and Rockies. I sat on a bowlder and watched through the tedious hours until three o'clock, when Corporal Frank approached from the direction of the place where his brother was sleeping. "What sound is that, Mr. Duncan?" he whispered. I listened intently, and presently heard the distant bleating of sheep, and soon after the deeper low of an ox. "The Indians must be approaching," I replied. "You may stir up the men. Be careful that no noise is made." I continued to listen, and after a long time noticed a sound like the rushing of wind in a pine forest. It was the myriad feet of the coming flocks and herds, hurrying along the grassy valley. The men began to assemble about me, all preserving perfect silence, listening for the approaching Indians. Another half-hour passed, and over a roll in the surface of the valley, revealed against the sky, looking many times their actual size in the uncertain perspective, appeared two tall figures, whose nearer approach showed to be mounted Indians piloting the captured stock, which followed close behind. "Corporal Henry," I said, "drop carefully down into the trail and skirt closely along the wall until you come to Sergeant Cunningham's position, and tell him the Indians are close by. Tell him also to allow the two Indians in advance to pass unmolested." I sent this order by the younger boy because I suspected he was feeling that Corporal Frank's expedition to Jemez, with the adventures of the return trip, had given him a certain prominence to be envied. I meant Henry should divide honors with his brother hereafter. The little corporal silently disappeared beneath the wall, and a few minutes afterwards the two Indians entered the defile, and the goats and sheep, which had been spread widely over the open valley, scampered, crowded, and overleaped one another as they closed into the narrow way. There seemed to be fully two thousand of them, intermingled with a motley herd of horses, mules, asses, and kine of all sizes and descriptions, numbering three hundred or more, all driven by a party of seventy-three Indians. The cattle-thieves were evidently congratulating themselves upon having run the gantlet of the military camp and being out of danger, for they had abandoned the traditional reserve of the Indian race, and were talking loudly and hilariously as they passed my wing of the ambuscade. The Indians fell completely into the trap, and they and the cattle with them were captured without any difficulty. During the winter our supply of grain ran short, and I sent a party, with the Cordovas as guides, to Jemez. They were unable to get through the snow, and the elder Cordova was so badly frost-bitten that in spite of all we could do he died in the camp. Then I went with a larger party, and was successful. On June 1st orders came to break up the camp, and on the 9th the accumulated stores of nineteen months' occupation were packed, and with a train of ten wagons we set out for Santa Fé. VI CROSSING THE RIVER Two days after my arrival at the Territorial capital I was ordered to proceed alone to Los Pinos, a town two hundred miles south, in the valley of the Rio Grande, and report to Captain Bayard, commanding officer of a column preparing for a march to Arizona. On reaching Algodones, on the eastern bank of the great river, I was visited by a Catholic priest. He told me that Manuel Perea, the Mexican lad with whom the boy corporals were so friendly at Santa Fé, was a prisoner in the hands of Elarnagan, a chief of the Navajos. He begged me to assist in his release, and I promised to do all I could, consistently with my military duty. Two days after arriving at Los Pinos, where I found a troop of California volunteer cavalry and also another troop of New Mexican volunteers, the boy corporals unexpectedly arrived. Colonel Burton had changed his plans and had allowed them to accompany me. They at once asked to be assigned to duty, and I promised to consult with Captain Bayard. My interview with him concluded, I returned to my tent and found the boys busy in fitting up two cot bedsteads, spreading mats before them, hanging a small mirror to the rear tent-pole, and arranging their marching outfit as they proposed to set it up at every encampment between the Rio Grande and Prescott. "Did you have this tent pitched for our use, sir?" asked Henry. "I did not know you were coming, corporal, so that is impossible. Your tent was placed here some days ago by the post commander, for the accommodation of visiting officers who have since gone. Captain Bayard has assigned it to you." "Then we are to have the tent to ourselves?" "Yes." "Isn't that just jolly, Frank?" "Fine. To-morrow we'll place a short rail across the back for our saddles and saddle-blankets, two pegs in the tent-pole for bridles, and raise a box somewhere for curry-combs and brushes." "Can't we have Vic here, too, sir?" asked Henry. "And leave me all alone?" I replied. "You wouldn't mind it, would you, sir?" "Well, I'll leave it to Vic. You may make a bed for her, and we'll see which she will occupy--yours, or her old bed near mine." "All right, sir; we'll try it to-night." "Now something about yourselves, boys. Your tent is to be always pitched on the left of mine; you are to take your meals with the officers, and your ponies will be taken care of by one of the men who--" "That will not do, sir," interrupted Frank. "Father has always required us to take care of our arms, clothing, and horses like other soldiers, just as we always did in the valleys, you know. He says an officer who rides on a march, particularly an infantry officer, should not require a soldier who has marched on foot to wait upon him." "Very well; do as you choose." I returned to my own tent and went to bed. Placing two candles on a support near my pillow, I tucked the lower edge of the mosquito-bar under the edge of my mattress, and, settling back comfortably, proceeded to read the last instalment of news from "the States"--news which had been fifteen days on the way from the Missouri. As I read of battle, siege, and march I was conscious that the boys were having some difficulty in inducing Vic to remain with them. When at last all was quiet, except their regular and restful breathing, a soft nose was thrust up to my pillow, and I opened an aperture in the netting large enough to exchange affectionate greetings, and Vic cuddled down on her bed beside mine and went to sleep. This was always her custom thereafter. While she was very fond of the boys, and spent most of her waking hours with them, no persuasion or blandishments could prevent her, when she knew the boys had dropped into unconsciousness, from returning to my tent, offering me a good-night assurance of her unchanged affection, and going to sleep upon her old bed. The time had now come for us to begin our march to Arizona. Company F had arrived, and the boy corporals were again in possession of their beautiful horses. Grain, hay, and careful attendance had put new graces into the ponies' shapes, and kind treatment had developed in each a warm attachment for its young master. The first day of our march was spent in crossing the Rio Grande del Norte and making camp four miles beyond the opposite landing. There was a ferry-boat at Los Pinos, operated by the soldiers of the post, capable of taking over four wagons at a time. We rose at an earlier hour than usual, and by daybreak our train of eighty-nine wagons, drawn by five hundred and thirty-four mules, was on its way to the river. The two boy corporals joined me as I followed the last wagon. Mounted on their handsome animals, with carbines on their right hips, revolvers in their belts, portmanteaus behind their saddles, and saddle-pouches on each side, they were, indeed, very warlike in appearance. The two detachments of cavalry and their officers, accompanied by a paymaster and a surgeon, proceeded at once to the river, crossed and went into camp, leaving the infantry and its officers to perform the labor of transferring, from one shore to the other, wagons and mules, a herd of three hundred beef cattle, and a flock of eight hundred sheep. The boy corporals also remained behind to act as messengers, should any be required. Mules and oxen swam the stream, but the sheep were boated across. On the last trip over our attention was attracted by a sudden shouting up-stream, followed by a rapid discharge of fire-arms. In the river, less than a quarter of a mile distant, were several objects making their way towards the western shore. When near the bank, and in shoaling water, we saw the objects rise, until three Indians and three ponies stood revealed. As soon as they reached the shore the men sprang into their saddles and rode rapidly away. A shout from our rear caused us to look towards the shore we had just left, and we saw the post-adjutant sitting on his horse on the embankment. He said: "Three Navajos have escaped from the guard. Send word to Captain Bayard to try to recapture them. If they get away they will rouse their people against you, and your march through their country will be difficult." [Illustration: "MOUNTED, THE BOYS PRESENTED A WARLIKE APPEARANCE"] I wrote a brief message, handed it to Corporal Frank, and when the boat touched the western landing he dashed off at full speed in the direction of camp. The afternoon was well advanced when Henry and I, with the infantry, entered the first camp of our march. We found Frank awaiting our arrival, and learned from him that Captain Bayard had sent two detachments of cavalry in pursuit of the Indians, and that they had returned after a fruitless attempt to follow the trail. On our first evening in camp many of the officers and civilians gathered in groups about the fires for protection against the mosquitoes, to smoke, to discuss the route, and to relate incidents of other marches. Captain Bayard took from his baggage a violin, and, retiring a little apart, sawed desperately at a difficult and apparently unconquerable exercise. There I found him at the end of a tour of inspection of train and animals, and obtained his sanction to a plan for the employment of the boy corporals. I proceeded to tell the boys what their duties would be. Corporal Frank was to see to the providing of wood, water, and grass while we were on the march. He was further instructed that he was to conform his movements to mine, and act as my messenger between the train, the main body, and the rear guard. These were to be his regular duties, but he was to hold himself in readiness for other service, and be on the alert for any emergency. The odometer with which to measure the distance to Prescott was placed in charge of Corporal Henry, and he was told to strap this to the spokes near the hub of the right hind wheel of the last wagon in the train, taking care that the wagon should start from the same point where it had turned from the main road into camp the previous day. He was to report the distance we had marched to the commanding officer at guard-mounting, which, on the march, always takes place in the evening instead of morning, as at posts and permanent camps. After reaching Fort Wingate, and taking up the march beyond, he would ride with the advance, and act as messenger of communication with the rear; but until then he would ride with his brother and me. The next morning found all ready for a start at three o'clock. The boy corporals found it a hardship to be wakened out of a sound sleep to wash and dress by starlight and sit down to a breakfast-table lighted by dim lanterns. There was little conversation. All stood about the camp-fires in light overcoats or capes, for Western nights are always cool. When the boys and I started to ride out of camp we were, for a few moments, on the flank of the infantry company. It was noticeable that although the men were marching at "route step," when they are not required to preserve silence, few of them spoke, and very rarely, and they moved quite slowly. Corporal Henry, at the end of a prolonged yawn, asked, "Are we going to start at this hour every morning, sir?" "Yes, usually," I replied. "How far do we go to-day, Frank?" "Eighteen miles is the scheduled distance," answered Frank. "How fast do men march?" "Three miles an hour," said I. "Then we shall be in camp by ten o'clock. I don't see the sense of yanking a fellow out of bed in the night." "Of course, Henry, there's a good reason for everything done in the army," observed Frank, with soldierly loyalty. "Where's the sense of marching in the dark when the whole distance can be done in six hours, and the sun rises at five and sets at seven? I prefer daylight." Evidently our youngest corporal had not had his sleep out, and was out of humor. "Will you please explain, sir?" asked Frank. "With pleasure," I answered. "It is more comfortable to march in the early morning, when it is cool. Marches rarely exceed fifteen or twenty miles a day, except where the distance between watering-places is more than that. Sometimes we are obliged to march forty miles a day." "Seems to me the officers are very tender of the men," observed the sleepy Henry. "Fifteen and twenty miles a day, and five or six hours on the road, can't tire them much." "Why not try a march on foot, Henry?" suggested his brother. "It might prove a useful experience." "Let me suggest something better," said I. "Tie your pony to the back of that wagon, and crawl in on top of the bedding and have your nap out." Henry disdained to reply, but with a long and shivering yawn relapsed into silence. In a little more than six hours we reached the Rio Puerco, and forded its roily, brackish current to a camping-place on the other side. Harry, who with daylight and warmth had recovered his good-humor, examined the odometer and reported the distance travelled to be 18.65 miles. He entered in his note-book that the Spanish name Puerco meant, as a noun, hog, and as an adjective, dirty. He thought the river well named. He also mentioned that on the eastern side of the stream there was an excellent camping-place, but that much pains had been taken to ford it to a very poor one. After pondering this apparently unreasonable movement he asked: "Why did we not camp on that grassy park on the opposite side?" "I suppose it appears to you there can be no good reason for crossing to this side?" I asked, in reply. "It does seem even more absurd than starting on a march just after midnight--something like going into a wood-shed to rest on a wood-pile when one could as well go into a parlor and rest on a divan." "And certainly," added Frank, "we have gained nothing in distance in crossing. The march is to be short to-morrow." "Still, boys, there is quite as good a reason for doing this as for starting early to avoid the heat of the day. These Far Western streams have a trick of rising suddenly; very rarely, to be sure, but frequently enough to cause commanding officers to be on their guard. A rainfall fifty or seventy-five miles up-stream might send down a volume of water that would make it impassable for several hours or several days, according as the fall is large or small; so the rule in the army is, 'cross a stream before camping.'" "Have you ever been caught by a rise, sir?" "Twice. Once on this very stream, near its mouth. I was in command of a small escort to a train. The wagon-master advised me to cross, but I was tempted by a fine meadow on the lower side, in contrast to a rough place on the opposite side, to take my chances. I was compelled to remain there five days. The other delay was on the Gallina; but that was rising when we approached and we had no choice about crossing. We were delayed that time but two days." "I heard the paymaster and surgeon grumbling about the folly of crossing just now," said Frank. "Very likely; this is their first march in the Far West." "The captain and lieutenants heard them, but did not explain, as you have. Why was that?" "There are two reasons. One is that in the army, as well as out of it, 'tenderfeet' are left to learn by experience; the other is that our surgeon resents being cautioned or advised. Now, boys, after dinner you had better take a _siesta_. By doing so you will find it less difficult to make an early start to-morrow morning." "Thank you," replied Frank. "Tom Clary and George Hoey have told us that a nap is the correct thing after dinner on the march. Henry and I are going to try it." "I am sorry, sir," added Henry, "that I was so ill-humored this morning. I will try to do as the soldiers do when they first start out--say nothing till day breaks." "The early start was a surprise to you; you will be prepared for it hereafter." A reverberating peal of thunder interrupted our conversation and caused us to glance towards the west. There we saw a mass of dark clouds rolling down upon us. Bolt after bolt of lightning zigzagged across the sky and from sky to earth, and peal after peal of thunder crashed upon our ears. VII A SWOLLEN STREAM AND STOLEN PONY It was our custom at all camps to park the supply-train in the form of an oval, with the tongues of the wagons outward and the wheels locked. An entrance, the width of a wagon, was left at one end. When, therefore, it became certain that a tempest was about to break upon us, using the boy corporals as messengers, the chief wagon-master received orders from me to drive up the mules and corral them within the circle of wagons, and the commissary stock was hurried under the shelter of a rocky mesa west of the camp. All this was to prevent a stampede should the coming tempest be accompanied by wind and hail. Tent-pins were driven in deeper, guys tightened, cavalry horses driven up, hobbled, and secured to picket ropes, loose articles thrown into wagons, and every precaution taken to be in readiness for the storm. We had not long to wait before the rain came down in torrents. In an incredibly short time the water was flowing swiftly down the slope to the river. It gathered against our tent, and finding the frail structure must go, we seized everything portable, dashed into the furious downpour, and climbed to the tops of surrounding bowlders. Through the sheets of rain we could dimly see the cavalry horses standing knee-deep in water, men looking out of the covered wagons, into which they had crawled for shelter, or standing, like ourselves, on the bowlders, their bodies covered with ponchos and gum blankets. Wall-tents, the sides of which had been looped up when pitched, stood with the flood flowing through them; cranes, upon which hung lines of kettles in preparation for dinner, standing alone, their fires and firewood swept away. The whole country as far as we could see was one broad sheet of rushing water, and the river, which was little more than a rill when we crossed it a few hours before, now rolled and boomed, a torrent several fathoms deep and dirtier than ever. The storm continued little over half an hour, and with the return of sunlight the surface water rapidly disappeared. Demoralized tents were then set up, baggage and bedding examined, and the wet articles exposed to the sun; and before night, except for the booming of the river, little remained to remind us that we had been through a storm. Just before retreat, Frank, Henry, and I stood on the bank of the river watching the trunks and branches of trees rush past, and the occasional plunge of a mass of earth undermined by the current. "Well," said Frank, after silently contemplating the scene a few moments, "what you told us about crossing a stream before camping upon it has proved true, sir, and very quickly, too." "Yes; I think even the paymaster and surgeon must be congratulating themselves they are on this side of that flood," I replied. Next morning we resumed our march at the usual hour, and passed over 23.28 miles to a deserted Mexican town and Indian pueblo. On the following day we crossed a chain of hills into the valley of the Rio Gallo. As we debouched from a deep ravine we caught sight of the pueblo of Laguna, illuminated by the sun, just rising, behind us. The town stands upon a rocky eminence overlooking the river, which waters, by irrigation, its large and well-cultivated valley. When within four miles of it I proposed to the boys that we should hasten forward in advance of the wagons and visit the town. We galloped on, and were hospitably received by the Indian governor, who did the honors of the community in person. He showed us the interior of the terraced buildings, and conducted us through the subterranean _estufa_ where, for centuries before the invention of the friction-match, the Indians kept their sacred fire--fire made sacred through the difficulty of obtaining it or rekindling it when once extinguished--and so watched day and night by sleepless sentinels. When we entered the town we left our horses hitched to the willows on the bank of the irrigating ditch, near the wall of the first house, and I ordered the dog Vic to remain with them. Three-quarters of an hour afterwards Vic looked into the _estufa_ from above, gave three sharp barks, and dashed away. We were so deeply interested in the examination of a lot of scalps, quaint pottery, weapons of warfare, etc., that we paid no attention to her. Presently she appeared a second time, repeated her barking, and ran off again. A few moments later the dog again showed herself at the sky-light, and thrusting her head downward continued to bark until I approached the foot of the ladder. As I did so she uttered a sound of anxiety, or distress, and disappeared. "Something must be the matter with our animals, boys," I remarked. "Frank, go and see what has happened, while Henry and I take leave of our host." Corporal Frank climbed the ladder two rungs at a step, while Henry and I remained to thank the governor for his kindness and bestow some trifling gifts upon the rabble of children that had followed us closely throughout our visit. We then ascended the ladder and started for the place where we had left our animals. Hurrying down the narrow alley we met Frank, who was nearly breathless with exertion and excitement. While yet at a considerable distance from us he shouted: "Chiquita's gone! Can't see her anywhere!" Hastening to the willows I found that Henry's pony was indeed missing. I thought she had simply broken loose, and would be found somewhere in the neighborhood, so mounted and made a hasty search. I saw our train several miles away, toiling up a long ascent, but there was no sign of a riderless pony on the road. On my return to the willows Henry said: "Chiquita did not break away, sir; her halter-strap was too strong, and I tied it with a cavalry hitch. She must have been unfastened by some one. Perhaps these Pueblos have stolen her." "She may have been stolen, as you suggest," I replied, "but not by the Pueblos. We were their guests, and our property was sacred." The Indians, seeing our trouble, gathered about us, and among them I saw the governor. Making my way to him, I explained what had happened. He turned to his people and addressed them in his own tongue. A young girl approached and said something, at the same time pointing to the southwest. Looking in the direction indicated, over a long stretch of broken country, bordered on the west by an irregular range of sandstone mesas, I thought I saw a moving object near the foot of a rugged bluff, several miles distant; but before I could adjust my field-glass the object had turned the bluff and disappeared. One thing, however, I did see--it was Vic, sitting on a knoll less than a mile from the pueblo. "I wonder we have not thought of Vic's absence all this time," I said; "there she is, on the trail of the thief, wondering why we do not pursue." "The good doggie," said Henry. "She did her best to tell us Chiquita was stolen, and she means to do her best to retake her." Turning to the governor, I asked, "Are there any Navajos about here?" "There is a large band in the _cienaga_, three leagues from here. The lost pony will be found there." I directed Henry to run after the train and report what had happened. "Wave your handkerchief," said I, "and some one will come to meet you. If it should be a mounted man, take his animal, overtake Captain Bayard, tell him all you know, and say that Frank and I have gone in pursuit, and that I request him to send a detachment of cavalry to look us up." Henry started off with a celerity begotten of his anxiety at the loss of his pony and the fear that his brother might fall into danger unless a body of troopers followed him closely. Frank and I then galloped towards Vic. As soon as the dog saw us approaching she sprang into the air, shook herself in an ecstasy of delight, then put her nose to the earth, and went steadily on in advance, threading her way through clumps of sage-brush and greasewood and along the ravines. The tracks of a shod pony satisfied us that we were on the trail of Chiquita and her Navajo rider. The boy had kept well down in the ravines and depressions, in order to screen himself from observation and possible pursuers. We, however, were not obliged to follow his tracks; Vic did that, and we took the general direction from her, cutting across turnings and windings, and making much better progress than the thief could have done. An hour's ride brought us to the bluff behind which I had seen an object disappear. Vic turned it and began to ascend the almost dry bed of the stream, in the bottom of which I could see occasional depressions at regular distances, as if made by a horse at a trot. Soon the brook enlarged, becoming a flowing stream, and the tracks were no longer visible. That the brook flowed from the _cienaga_, or marsh, where the Navajos were rendezvoused, was an easy inference. The Indian boy was endeavoring to reach that place with the stolen pony. Directing Frank to keep up the left side of the stream, and to look for tracks indicating that Chiquita had left its bed, I took the right side and hastened on. Willows now began to appear along the banks, showing that we had reached a permanent flow of water. Twice we came to masses of bowlders which made it impossible for a horse to travel in the stream, and we found that the pony had skirted them. We had now reached a point where a small brook entered the larger one from the right. We dismounted at the confluence to make an observation. Vic suddenly began to bark furiously; then a yelp and a continued cry of pain showed that the dog was hurt, and presently she appeared with an arrow through the thick of her neck. Advancing cautiously I caught sight of Chiquita in a cleft of the rock at my left, and an Indian boy standing behind her and aiming an arrow over the saddle. A sharp twang, and the missile flew through my hair between my right ear and my hat-rim. The boy then sprang forward, and raised a knife as if to hamstring the pony. But it was not to be, for a carbine spoke, and the raised arm of the Indian fell at his side. "Well done, Frank!" I called. We ran forward to capture the young Navajo, but he quickly disappeared behind a large rock and was seen no more. Returning to the main brook with Chiquita, we tied the horses to the willows and began a search for Vic. I called her by all the pet names to which she was accustomed, but received no response. I searched over as great a distance as I dared, with a consciousness that a band of Navajos was not far distant. Reluctantly abandoning our search, we were preparing to return to the train and escort when we descried a large war-party of Indians riding towards us from the direction of the _cienaga_. It was at once evident they saw us, for, raising a terrific war-whoop, their irregular mass broke for us in a furious charge. Death certainly awaited us if captured, and this thought prompted us to leave our exposed position instantly. Leading Chiquita, and telling Frank to follow, I dashed down the stream in the direction of the Fort Wingate road. As we flew along, feeling positive that the Indians would overtake us, I eagerly surveyed the rocky wall on our left, hoping to find a break in which we could shelter ourselves and hold the enemy in check until our friends arrived. But no opening appeared, and it seemed impossible for us to reach Laguna alive. On we went into the dense bushes, a hail of bullets and a rush of arrows about our ears. But at this moment the clear notes of a cavalry trumpet sounded "deploy," and the California cavalry crashed through the willows and we were saved. They broke into a skirmish-line behind us, but only a few shots were fired and the Navajos were gone. Being an escort, we could not delay for further operations against the enemy. Our duty was to return at once to the train. Frank and I were both uninjured, but a bullet had raised the chevron on the boy's sleeve, and another had shattered the ivory hilt of his revolver. The volunteers dismounted for a rest, and I took the opportunity to make a further search for Vic, my faithful companion and friend. Leaving my horse with Frank, I started towards the place where I had last seen her. As I descended a shallow ravine to the willow-clad brook I came upon an unexpected sight, and paused to witness it. On his knees, close to the water, his back towards me, was Corporal Henry. Extended at his left side was Vic, held closely under his left arm, her plumy tail hanging dejectedly in my direction. An occasional dispirited wag showed that she appreciated the kindness being shown her. The boy was evidently busy at something that elicited from the animal, every now and then, faint cries of pain. I heard something snap, and saw him lay two parts of an arrow on the ground to his right; then he drew a handkerchief from his pocket, dipped it in the brook, and apparently washed a wound. All the time the boy could be heard addressing his patient in soothing tones, occasionally leaning his face against her head caressingly. "Poor little Vicky! Nice, brave doggie! There, there; I will not hurt you more than I can help. They can't shoot you again, girlie, for lots of your friends are here now. You shall ride back to the train on Chiquita with me. We'll own Chiquita together after this." I felt a little delicacy about breaking in upon this scene and letting the boy know I had overheard all his fond talk to Vic, so withdrew into a clump of bushes and began calling the dog. Henry promptly answered: "Here she is, sir. This way. She wants to come, but I think she had better not." "Is she much hurt?" I asked, approaching them. "Not dangerously, sir. This arrow passed through the top of her neck. I notched it and broke it, so as not to be obliged to draw the barb or plume through the wound. She is weak from her long run and loss of blood. The wound might be bound up if her collar was off." "I will remove it and not put it on again until the sore heals," I answered, and, taking a key from my pocket, I took off the collar and assisted in dressing the wound. After petting Vic for a while, and using quite as much "baby talk" in doing so as Henry had in dressing the wound, I asked the boy how he came to return with the cavalry. "I ran ahead, as you told me to, sir, and the wagon-master came to meet me. He lent me his mule, and I rode on to Captain Bayard and made my report. The captain sent Lieutenant Baldwin and his men, and lent me a spare horse to come along as guide." "Have you seen Chiquita?" "At a distance. Is she all right?" "Yes, but very tired. Let us join the troop, for it is time we were on our way to the train." Our return ride was at a walk. Henry turned his cavalry horse over to a trooper to be led, and mounted Chiquita with Vic in his arms. Arrived in camp he took the dog to the surgeon for treatment, and in a few days she was as lively as ever. VIII OVER THE DIVIDE--A CORPORAL MISSING Fort Wingate was reached in two more marches--six in all from the Rio Grande--and we went into camp for two days for rest and some needed repairs to wagons before undertaking the second and longer section of our military journey--a section upon which at that time no white man had set up a home. Recalling my promise to the priest who had interviewed me in behalf of Señora Perea, I made inquiries of the Port Wingate officers concerning her son. None of them had heard more than she already knew, but a scout claimed he had recently seen a Mexican boy herding ponies for the Navajo chief Elarnagan, thirty miles north of Zuñi. The evening before resuming our march Captain Bayard informed me that there was an emigrant family camped half a mile to the west of Fort Wingate, which had been awaiting our arrival in order to travel to Arizona under our protection. He told me to assign the family a place in the train. I went to their camp, and found it located in a grove of cottonwoods a short distance out, on the Arizona trail. Mr. Arnold, the head of the family, never ceased his occupation while I was talking to him. He was constructing a camp-table and benches of some packing-boxes he had procured from the post trader. He was a tall, well-proportioned man, of dark complexion and regular features, with black, unkempt hair and restless brown eyes. He was clothed in a faded and stained butternut suit of flannel, consisting of a loose frock and baggy trousers, the legs of the trousers being tucked into the tops of road-worn boots. His hat was a battered and frayed broad-brimmed felt. Mrs. Arnold sat on a stool superintending the work, bowed forward, her elbows on her knees, holding a long-stemmed cob-pipe to her lips with her left hand, removing it at the end of each inspiration to emit the smoke, which curled slowly above her thin upper lip and thin, aquiline nose. She was a tall, angular, high-shouldered, and flat-chested woman, dark from exposure to wind, sun, and rain, her hair brown in the neck, but many shades lighter on the crown of her head. Her eyes were of an expressionless gray. A brown calico of scant pattern clung in lank folds to her thin and bony figure. The three daughters were younger and less faded types of their mother. Each was clad in a narrow-skirted calico dress, and each was stockingless and shoeless. Mother and daughters were dull, slow of speech, and ignorant. After staying long enough to give the necessary instructions and exchange civilities with each member of the family in sight, I was riding slowly back to the roadway, intending to take a brisk canter to the fort, when Corporal Henry's voice called from a clump of cedars at the back of the Arnold family's wagons. "Oh, Mr. Duncan, may I speak to you a moment?" Turning my horse in the direction of the voice, I saw my young friend approaching, switching a handsome riding-whip in his hand. "You haven't seen all the family, sir," he said. "I have seen Mr. and Mrs. Arnold and those the mother said were all their children--the three barefooted girls." "But there is one more girl, sir, a very pretty one, too--a niece. She's back of the wagons making friends with Vic and Chiquita. You must not go without seeing her." I went back with Henry and saw a girl of about fourteen standing by Chiquita, holding her by the bridle-rein and smoothing her neck, while Vic nestled at her feet. She seemed very attractive at my first casual glance, impressing me favorably. A blonde, possessed of abundant flaxen tresses held in a band of blue ribbon, having a complexion which her recent journey had tanned and sprinkled with abundant freckles, but giving promise of rare beauty with added years and less exposure to sun and wind. Her clothing was fashionably made and well fitted, and her delicate feet were encased in neat boots and stockings. "Miss Arnold," said Henry, "permit me to introduce our quartermaster, Lieutenant Duncan--and Mr. Duncan," continued the boy, "it gives me pleasure to present to you Miss Brenda Arnold." The quality, modulation, and refinement of the voice in which the girl assured me of her pleasure in meeting me, confirmed my first impression. "But how did you make the acquaintance of Corporal Henry Burton, Miss Arnold?" I asked. "I was riding back from the fort, sir, where I had been to mail some letters, and my pony, Gypsy, lost a shoe and came near falling. The stumble caused me to drop a package, and Mr. Burton chanced to come up and restore it to me, and he also picked up Gypsy's shoe. He accompanied me to camp, and since we arrived has been giving me the history of Vic, Sancho, and Chiquita." "And that, of course, included something of the history of their devoted attendants?" "Yes, I have learned something of the gallant deeds of Corporals Frank and Henry Burton and Lieutenant Duncan at Los Valles Grandes and on the march here. When I meet Corporal Frank I shall know you all." "He will present himself to-morrow, no doubt," I observed. "But about that pony's shoe; do you want it reset?" "Yes, but who can do it?" "At our next camp, to-morrow, our soldier-blacksmith shall set it." "But I do not belong to government, sir." "But part of this government belongs to you," replied Henry. "I'll lead Gypsy to the forge for you, and Private Sattler shall shoe her as he does Chiquita, and polish the shoes, too." The Arnold family history, gathered incidentally on the march, and at a period later in my story, was briefly this: Brenda was the only daughter of Mr. Arnold's only brother, and had been reared in a large inland city of New York. Her father and mother had recently perished in a yachting accident, and the young girl had been sent to her paternal uncle in Colorado. There were relatives on the mother's side, but they were scattered, two brothers being in Europe at the time of the accident. Brenda had reached her Western uncle just as he was starting on one of his periodical moves--this time to Arizona. The different social status of the families of the two brothers was unusual, but not impossible in our country. One of the brothers was ambitious, of steady habits, and possessed of a receptive mind; the other was idle, impatient of restraint, with a disinclination to protracted effort of any kind. The distance to the first camp beyond Fort Wingate where we were sure to find water was twenty-two miles; and it being impossible for us to leave the post before three o'clock in the afternoon, we determined to make a dry camp five and a half miles out. When Frank and Henry learned that the start was not to be an early one they rode out to the Arnold camp with the information, and the former was duly presented to Miss Brenda. Gypsy was brought into the fort and shod, and returned to her mistress in season for the march. The evening was well advanced when we pitched our tents at the dry camp. Horses and mules were turned out to graze for the first time without water, and although in this mountain region the grass was abundant, they did not cease to whinny and bray their discontent throughout the night. The sun dropped behind the mountain spurs, and we drew nearer and nearer the fires, adding a thicker garment as the twilight deepened into night. Frank expressed the trend of thought by asking, "We now march into the heart of the Navajo country, do we not, sir?" "Not precisely through the heart, but along its southern border." "They'll try to make it lively for us, I suppose?" "They will certainly watch us closely, and will take advantage of any carelessness on our part." "Do you think there is any chance of our finding Manuel Perea?" "Hardly; he is too far off our route. We cannot leave the train to look him up." There was a suspicious choke in the voice of the little corporal when he said: "It is awful to think we are going so near the dear old boy and can do nothing for him. Only think of his poor mother!" "I was told at the fort that she has offered five thousand dollars to the man who will bring Manuel to her," said Frank. "I wish I could bring him in for nothing." "Brenda says she believes we shall find him somehow," Henry said. "I hope she is right, for I saw his mother at Algodones and promised her to rescue him or become a prisoner with him." "So she wrote me at Los Pinos," I replied. "Well, something may turn up to enable us to serve his mother. Let us go to bed." Next morning we were again on the road by starlight. A march of sixteen miles brought us to Agua Fria--cold water. Less than a hundred yards west of the spring was a ridge which did not rise fifty feet above it, and that was the "backbone" of the continent. The water of Agua Fria flowed into the Atlantic; the springs on the other side of the ridge flowed into the Pacific. The wagons of the Arnold family travelled between the rear-guard and the government wagons. They consisted of two large "prairie schooners," drawn by three pairs of oxen each, a lighter wagon, drawn by four horses, beside which four cows, two ponies, and four dogs were usually grouped. The father and eldest daughter drove the ox-teams, the mother the horse-team, and two daughters rode the ponies. Brenda's pony, Gypsy, was her own property, purchased soon after she joined her uncle in Colorado. As my station and Frank's were with the rear-guard, or along the flanks of the train, Miss Brenda commonly rode with us after daylight. Henry, after leaving Fort Wingate, rode with the advance. After supper at Agua Fria, Corporal Frank ordered all water-kegs to be filled, for the water at El Morro, or Inscription Rock, our next camping-place, was poor. The distance was seventeen and a half miles. The next march was to the junction of the Rio Pescado and Otter Creek, twenty-two miles, and the following to Arch Spring, nineteen miles. This way took us through the ancient town of Zuñi, an Indian community described by the Spanish priest, Father Marco de Niga, in 1559. After leaving Zuñi, a march of thirty-two miles brought us late in the evening to a spring variously called by Mexicans, Indians, and Americans, Ojo Rodondo, Wah-nuk-ai-tin-ai-z, and Jacob's Well. It is a funnel-shaped hole in a level plain, six hundred feet in diameter at the top, and one hundred and sixty feet deep. At the bottom of the hole is a pool of brackish, green water, reached by a spiral track around the wall. Our cooks first procured a supply of water, and then the animals were driven down in detachments. They waded, swam, and rolled in the water until it was defiled for human use. An hour after our arrival four Navajos appeared and were admitted to an interview with Captain Bayard, of whom they asked information concerning the terms offered their bands as an inducement to surrender and go upon the reservation. In reply to our questions they told us we would find plenty of water at Navajo Springs, seven miles from Jacob's Well, and that there had been a heavy rainfall at the west. As the Indians were preparing to leave, Corporal Henry came forward and asked Captain Bayard to inquire for Manuel Perea. The captain thanked the boy for the suggestion, and did so; and we learned that a Mexican boy, answering the description given, was assisting in herding the ponies of Elarnagan, north of the Twin Buttes, at the head of Carizo Creek. "Carizo Creek," said Frank, reflectively, turning over his schedule of distances, "that is 19.05 miles from here." [Illustration: "CORPORAL HENRY ASKED CAPTAIN BAYARD TO INQUIRE FOR MANUEL PEREA"] "Yes, and there are the Twin Buttes," said Henry, pointing to two prominent peaks to the northwest. "Can't we go there, sir? It cannot be more than thirty miles." "I would not be justified in leaving the road except upon an extraordinary emergency," replied Captain Bayard. "Don't you suppose, sir, that Elarnagan would give Manuel up for the large reward his mother offers?" asked Brenda Arnold, who stood by the side of the boy corporals, an interested listener to all that had been said. The captain asked her question of the Indians, and one of them replied that the chief had refused large offers heretofore, and would doubtless continue to do so. "Cannot you scare him by a threat?" asked Henry. "I will try it, corporal," answered the captain. Then, turning to the Navajos, he continued: "Tell the chief, Elarnagan, that it is not the part of a brave warrior to cause grief and sorrow to women and children; tell him that the great chief at Santa Fé is fast bringing this war to a close, and that two-thirds of his people are already on the reservation at Bosque Rodondo; tell him that when he surrenders--which will not be long from now--if the boy Manuel is not brought in safe he will be severely punished." "Thank you," said Henry. The Indians left in a northerly direction. At guard-mounting Captain Bayard announced that, owing to the recent fatiguing marches and the lack of good water, we would go no farther than Navajo Springs the following day, and that we would not break camp before eight o'clock. This announcement was received with pleasure; for since leaving Agua Fria little water had been drunk, it being either muddy, stagnant, or alkaline. The water at Navajo Springs was said to be pure. Ten o'clock next morning found us at the springs. They were fifteen in number, clustered in an area of less than an acre. Each was of the dimensions of a barrel set upon end in the ground, with a mere thread of water flowing from it--a thread which the fierce sun evaporated before it had flowed a rod from its source. It soon became plain to every one that we could not long remain there. The Indians had said there had been a heavy rainfall at the west. Five and one-twentieth miles over a rough, red, and verdureless country brought us to the Rio Puerco of the West. There was not a drop of water in it. The commanding officer ordered me to take ten cavalrymen, with shovels, and go on to Carizo Creek, and, if I found no running water, to sink holes in a line across its bed. The boy corporals were allowed to go with me. The distance to Carizo was seven miles, over a high, intervening ridge, and the creek, when we reached it, was in no respect different from the one we had just left. We opened a line of holes six feet deep, but found very little water. Sending Corporal Henry back with a message to Captain Bayard, we pushed on to Lithodendron Creek, a distance of thirteen miles, and found about an acre of water, four inches deep, in the bed of the stream, under the shadow of a sandstone cliff. It was miserable stuff--thick, murky, and warm--but it was better than nothing; I sent a soldier back to the command, and sat down with Frank under the cliff to wait. The march had lengthened into thirty-two miles, over an exceedingly rough country, and it had been continuous, with no noonday rest, and under a broiling sun. Frank and I sat a little apart from the soldiers, watching for the arrival of the approaching wagons. Time dragged slowly on until after nine o'clock, when a faint "hee-haw" in the far distance gave us the first hint that the train was over the divide and that the unfailing scent of the mules had recognized the vicinity of water. An hour more passed before Sergeant Cunningham and half a dozen privates of the infantry company marched down to the roily pool and stooped for a drink. The rest of the men were straggling the length of the train, which arrived in sections, heralded by the vigorous and continued braying of the mules. No one felt inclined to pitch a tent, partly on account of extreme fatigue, but chiefly because the ground was rough and stony and cacti in endless variety strewed the surface, branching and clustering about the petrified trunks of giant trees which gave the creek its name. There was no grass in the vicinity, and no grain on the train. The animals when turned loose went to the pool and drank, and then wandered about the wagons calling for forage. Lowing of cattle, bleating of sheep, braying of mules, and whinnying of horses never ceased as the suffering animals wandered in search of food. There was no fuel for fires in the midst of this petrified forest of prostrate trees, so hard bread and raw bacon made our supper. After a time I began to wonder why Vic had not come to greet me. She had accompanied Henry when he went back with my message, and I knew that if he had returned she would have looked me up immediately. I was about to search for her, when Frank appeared, and asked, "Have you seen my brother?" "No," I replied, "nor have I seen Vic. They must be with the rear guard." "No, sir; they are not there. I have just seen the sergeant of the guard." "Have you visited the Arnolds?" "Yes, sir; and Miss Brenda says they have not seen him since he came back from you." "Is not Corporal Henry here?" asked Captain Bayard, who had approached and overheard a part of our conversation. "No, sir," I answered. "I sent him to you at Carizo to say we had found no water." "He reported to me," the captain replied, "and I sent him back at once with orders for you to proceed to Lithodendron, as you have done." "He did not reach me. I came here because it seemed the only thing to do." "Henry not here!" and the captain and all of us began moving towards the train. "Cause an immediate search to be made for him. Examine every wagon. He may have got into a wagon and fallen asleep." It is needless to say, perhaps, that this search was participated in by nearly every individual in the command not too tired to stir. Henry was known to all, and had in many gentlemanly and kindly ways acquired the respect and affection of soldiers and civilian employés. Every wagon was examined, although from the first there was a general presentiment that it would be useless. In the wagon assigned to the use of the boy corporals and myself, Henry's carbine and revolver were found, but Frank said his brother had not worn them during the day. The mule and cavalry herds were examined for the cream-colored pony, but that also was missing. Then the thought suggested itself that the lad might be wandering on the road we had just traversed; but an examination of the sergeant of the guard showed that to be impossible. But one conclusion could be arrived at, and that was that Henry had been picked up by the Navajos when returning from the command to my detachment on the Carizo. At the conclusion of the search the officers gathered near their wagons for a consultation. Frank remained apart, silent and miserable. Captain Bayard said: "It is impossible for us to make an immediate pursuit with horses in such a condition as ours. To attempt a pursuit over the barren region about us would be to invite failure and disaster. If we had Mexican ponies, or Indian ponies like those of the boys, we might start at once. The boy is probably a prisoner, and a delay of one or two days can make little difference to him." "But can we go with any better prospect of success to-morrow or next day?" I asked. "Yes, a march of sixteen miles and a half will bring us to the Colorado Chiquito--a stream flowing at all times with pure water; there, also, we shall find abundance of grass and a recently established cavalry camp. I received a letter from the department commander before I left Wingate, stating that Lieutenant Hubbell and forty New Mexican cavalry had been ordered there three weeks ago. We shall find an abundance of grain at the camp, and can put our animals in good condition for an expedition into Elarnagan's country in a few days. Now, gentlemen, let us get such rest as we can, and start at an early hour in the morning." IX THE RESCUING PARTY At the close of the consultation I rejoined Corporal Frank, and we went back to our former seat under the cliff. The boy was exceedingly depressed, and I did my best to persuade him that all would end well and his brother would be rescued. "But he may be dead, or dying," he answered to my arguments. "No; that is improbable. Had he been killed, the Indians would have taken particular pains to mutilate and place his body where the passing column would have seen it. That in itself is good evidence that he is living. The worst that is likely to happen is that he may be held for ransom or exchange." "But how _can_ I wait?" exclaimed Frank. "I feel as though I ought to start now." "That would do no good," I replied. "You cannot find your brother's trail, nor could you follow it in the night." "I cannot help thinking, sir, that Henry will send Vicky with a message, and I fear that she cannot follow us so far. She must be fearfully hungry and thirsty. I feel as if I ought to go and meet her." "You may be right about the message. As Vic was without her collar, she may not have been killed." The hours crept slowly on. The uneasy animals never ceased their walk backward and forward between the water and the wagons, uttering their discontent. Towards midnight, overcome by the fatigues of the day, I fell into a doze, and did not wake until called at three. A breakfast similar to our supper was served, and we were ready for the road. The mules were harnessed while vigorously braying their protests against such ill usage, and, once under way, slowly drew the wagons to the summit of the divide between the Lithodendron and the Little Colorado, a distance of twelve miles. I did not see Frank while overlooking the drawing out of the train, but gave myself no anxiety on his account, thinking he had accompanied the advance. We had proceeded about a mile when a corporal of the guard ran after me, and reported that the Arnolds were not hitching up. Halting the train, I rode back and found Brenda sitting by the road-side in tears. "What is the matter, Miss Arnold?" I asked. "Oh, it is something this time," she sobbed, "that even you cannot remedy." "Then you think I can generally remedy things? Thank you." "You have always helped us, but I do not see how you can now." "What is the trouble, please?" "Our poor oxen have worn their hoofs through to the quick. They were obliged to travel very fast yesterday, and over a flinty road, and their hoofs are worn and bleeding. Uncle says we must remain behind." "Perhaps things are not as bad as you think," I said. "Let us go back and see." Rising dejectedly, and by no means inspired by hope, Brenda led the way to the Arnold wagons, where I found the father and mother on their knees beside an ox, engaged in binding rawhide "boots" to the animal's feet. These boots were squares cut from a fresh hide procured from the last ox slaughtered by the soldier-butcher. The foot of the ox being set in the centre, the square was gathered about the ankle and fastened with a thong of buck-skin. "Are all of your cattle in this condition, Mr. Arnold?" I asked. "Only one other's 's bad's this, but all uv 'em's bad." "That certainly is a very bad-looking foot. I don't see how you kept up, with cattle in that condition." "Had to, or git left." "That's where you make a mistake. We could not leave you behind." "I didn't think 'twould be uv any use t' say anythin'," said Mr. Arnold. "You seem t' have all you can haul now." "We have over three hundred head of oxen in our commissary herd that we purchased of a freighter. We can exchange with you. A beef is a beef. Turn your cattle into our herd, and catch up a new lot. When we get to Prescott you can have your old teams if you want them." "Thank you agin, sir. I shall want 'em. They know my ways an' I know theirs." From the top of the divide the road, smooth and hard, descended to the river, ten miles away. At nine o'clock the head of the column had reached the banks, and a few moments later men and horses had partaken of the clear, cool water. As the infantry and cavalry moved away from the shore the wagons came down the decline, the mules braying with excitement at the sight of the water gleaming through the green foliage of the cottonwoods and the verdant acres of rich grass that stretched along the river-side. Brakes were put on and wheels double-locked, until the harness could be stripped off and the half-frantic animals set free to take a turn in the river. Sheep and oxen plunged down the banks and stood leg-deep in the current while they drank the grateful water. A few moments later all the refreshed animals were cropping the generous grass. As I was going to Captain Bayard I observed Brenda Arnold taking the odometer from its wheel and making an entry in a note-book. Approaching her, I asked: "Why are you doing that, Miss Brenda?" "I promised Mr. Frank I would do it until he and Mr. Henry return," was her answer. "Promised Frank? Where has he gone?" "Gone to find his brother." "And you knew what you are telling me when we were exchanging oxen this morning?" "Yes, sir." "Why did you not tell me?" "Mr. Frank said I must not before we arrived here." "Have you no idea of the fearful danger in which he has placed himself?" "I know he has gone to find Henry, and that he said he should find him," and the pretty girl betrayed her lack of confidence in the boy's project by sitting down in the grass and bursting into tears. "When did Corporal Frank start?" I asked. "Last night. He gave Sancho about a dozen pounds of hard bread, filled his canteen with water which Aunt Martha had filtered through sand, and asked me to attend to the odometer, and rode off in the darkness. Don't you really believe the boys will return, sir?" "God grant they may," I answered; "but it is very doubtful." Here was fresh trouble--trouble the whole command shared, but which rested heaviest upon Captain Bayard and myself. We were answerable to Colonel Burton for the manner in which we executed his trust. "Ride down the valley," said the captain to me after I had concluded my account of what Brenda had said, "and look for Lieutenant Hubbell's camp. It cannot be far from here. Tell him to send me three days' grain for forty animals. While you are gone I will select a camp farther down stream, and within easy communication with him, park the train, and establish order. We will remain here until we know what has become of the boys." I found the New Mexican cavalry camp three miles down the river, and obtained the desired forage. When I returned our new camp was established, fires burning, and cooking well under way. Captain Bayard informed me that the detachment of Mexican cavalry which had accompanied us thus far would leave at this point and not rejoin us. "I have ordered Baldwin to grain his horses and be ready to start in search of our boys at daybreak," continued the captain. "You will accompany him. We shall be in no danger, with Hubbell so near. You can take thirty pounds of grain on your saddles, and you will find plenty of water on the Carizo where it breaks from the hills." "How many days are we to stay out?" "You are to take five days' rations. If the boys are not found in that time I fear they will never be found." I went to bed early, and soon fell into a fitful slumber, which lasted until an hour before midnight. I arose, dressed, and sat down by the smouldering camp-fire, a prey to unpleasant reflections. Suddenly the sound of a cantering horse approaching from the north fell upon my ears. What could it mean? I listened intently. The horse slowed down to a walk. He entered the camp. The voice of Private Tom Clary, who was posted as sentinel No. 1, challenged: "Halt!--who comes there?" "A friend--Corporal Frank Burton," was the answer. "Blest be the saints! Corpril Frank, laddie, is it you--and aloive?" said the sentinel, forgetting in his joy to continue the usual formality of the challenge or to call the corporal of the guard. Springing from my seat I walked towards the sentinel, and there, by the light of the moon, I saw Frank, mounted upon Sancho, with Vic in his arms. I reached up to take my dog, but the boy quickly exclaimed: "Be careful, sir, be careful! She's badly hurt. Here's the letter she brought. Henry is alive." To attempt to relate all that now occurred would be impossible. In some mysterious manner the news of Frank's arrival crept through the camp, and half-dressed figures of officers and soldiers gathered about the camp-fire, curious to listen to an account of the boy's adventure. One little, blanketed figure ran out of the darkness, caught Vic's face between her two palms, nestled her cheek against it, and with a cheerful "good-night," disappeared as suddenly as she had come. I took Vic in my lap as I sat on the ground, and by the light of a blazing pine-knot proceeded to examine her condition. I found the mouth and feet of the poor animal full of the spines of the _cholla_ cactus, a growth which is simply a mass of fine thorns. This cactus grows in patches, and when the dead clusters fall to the ground the spines stick to everything touching them. The dog had stepped into a bed of these bunched needles, and filled her feet, and in trying to remove them with her teeth had thrust them through cheeks, lips, and tongue, literally closing her jaws. Her paws bristled with them like pin-cushions. As to Frank's adventures: After leaving the Arnolds, as already described by Brenda, he retraced the route to Carizo Creek and to the Rio Puerco without seeing any sign of his brother. Returning to the west he dismounted at the crossing of the Carizo. He felt sure that if Henry had been captured by the Navajos he must have been taken in the dry bed of that creek. A long and patient search resulted in the discovery of tracks made by several ponies running along the eastern side of the Carizo to the north and the hills. One of the set showed the print of iron shoes. Frank mounted again and followed this trail up the valley for some hours. He was thinking about returning, when he saw a white object moving on a hill-side, far in advance. It seemed to tumble, rise, and go in a circle, then tumble, rise, and circle again. Frank's curiosity was aroused, and he rode on to examine the object. A few hundred yards more revealed the fact that he had come upon the missing Vic, and that something was seriously the matter with her. At first Frank thought she was mad or in a fit, but as he came nearer she sat up and made demonstrations of joy at his approach. He dismounted, and found her in the condition already described. On the ground was a chip, neatly cut and shaven, which she was in vain attempting to take between her sealed jaws. Frank understood the matter at once. Whenever Victoriana was sent on a message she was given a stick to deliver. It was plain that some one had sent her to either Frank or me. Of course, it could have been no one but Henry. She had come thus far, and had stepped into a bed of _cholla_. In trying to remove the needles from her feet she had absolutely sealed her mouth; in the attempt to recover the chip she had made the movements that had attracted the boy's attention. Nothing was written on the stick. Around the dog's neck was tied a cravat of dirty buck-skin. Untying and opening it, Frank found the inner surface covered with writing, evidently traced in berry-juice with a quill or a stick. It read as follows: "Captured by the Navajos. Am herding ponies north of Twin Buttes, at the head of Carizo. Come to butte with cavalry, and wave handkerchief from left peak about noon. If I do not come, look for me in plain north of butte. Don't worry; I'm all right. "HENRY." I remained at the fire long after every one had returned to their beds or duty, busy in extracting the _cholla_ spines from Vic's mouth and feet. The dog seemed to understand the necessity of the treatment she was receiving, and bore the pain submissively, with only occasional moans and cries, until the operation ended. She then received a drink of water, and went to bed with Frank. At daybreak the rescue detachment left camp, retraced our route to the Carizo, where Corporal Frank put us upon the trail of the Indians. We climbed to the highest point reached by the path, and saw it descend on the opposite side to a brook, deep in the valley. Here we halted, took the horses a short distance down the slope we had just ascended, picketed them in a grassy nook, and Frank and I started to ascend the left peak. "Mr. Baldwin," I said, as I moved away, "when you see us start to return, saddle and bridle as rapidly as possible, so as to be ready for emergencies." "I'll do so. You can depend upon us to be ready when wanted," was the reply. We scrambled through a scattering growth of piñon and junipers for several yards, and at last came to a perpendicular shaft of sandstone twenty feet high, with a flat top. The diameter of the shaft was about fifty feet. "Henry could not have come up here, or he never would have set us to attempt an impossibility," said Frank, as his eyes ran up and down the rock. "Perhaps it may not be so impossible as it appears," I replied. "Let us walk round the butte." We passed to the right, and, having found a practicable place for attempting the ascent, accomplished the feat in a few moments. On the flat summit we found the remains of former fires that had undoubtedly been lighted as signals. The view was grand and extensive. Directly to the north lay many verdant valleys--grazing-grounds of the nomadic Navajos. One of these valleys lay at the foot of the mountain upon which we stood, with a bright stream of water crossing its hither border. Well out in the valley were several flocks of sheep and goats, and close to the opposite side of the brook was a herd of ponies. After Frank had looked long and anxiously towards the flocks and herds, he said: "Those specks near the ponies must be men, I suppose. I wonder if Henry is among them? Shall I make the signal?" "Not yet. It is not yet noon. Let us lie down among these rocks, where we shall be less conspicuous, and use the field-glass." "Tell me what you see, sir, if you please." "There are five large flocks of sheep in the charge of a lot of women, some mounted and some on foot. The pony herd, which must number several hundred, is in charge of three naked Indians--boys, I think. There are no other persons in sight. Take a look for yourself." Frank accepted the glass and surveyed the valley. "I can see nothing that looks like Henry," he said. "He certainly cannot be there. Why are those boys so ghostly white?" "They are covered with yeso to protect them from sunburn." "Oh yes--whitewash." "Gypsum. The Mexicans use it for whitewash, and to preserve the complexion." "Well, those boys must have plastered it on thick; they look like living statues. Not a rag on them except 'breech-clouts.' Hello, there comes a troop around that mound to the right. Must be two hundred men." Taking the glass, I looked again. Coming into sight from the opposite side of an elevation on the farther side of the valley was a party of two hundred and fifteen Navajo warriors. They rode to each flock of sheep in succession, stopped near the women a few moments, and then came down to the pony herd. They approached the boys, and one large Indian, who appeared to be the chief, lifted the smaller boy out of his saddle, and, swinging him to his shoulder, dashed around the herd at full speed, and then set him back in his own saddle, and patted him approvingly on the back. The party next proceeded to exchange the ponies they were riding for fresh ones from the herd, and then disappeared behind the trees which bordered the brook to the west. "The pony that small boy rides looks like Chiquita," remarked Frank; "but the saddle and bridle are different. Señora Perea said that Manuel was herding ponies for the Navajos, and that he was naked." "Yes, I know; but the letter Vic brought from Henry made no mention of another boy, and there are three with that herd. But let us make the signal and see what will happen." Standing up and advancing to the edge of the butte's top, I waved my handkerchief from side to side, keeping my eyes fixed upon the three boys. They formed in line, facing us, looked long in our direction, and then, as if started by a spring, they flew down the plain, leaped the brook, and galloped up the long ascent towards the concealed cavalrymen. X THE CORPORALS ARE PROMOTED The three Indian boys were doing their utmost to excite their ponies to their greatest speed up the height. As they sped on they glanced repeatedly backward, as if fearing pursuit. Higher and higher they came up the steep until we could not doubt it was their intention to reach the command. "What does it mean? What does it mean?" exclaimed Frank. "Why are those Navajo boys running their horses in this direction? It can't be--" "Never mind, Frank," I interrupted. "Let us get down to the men as soon as we can. The Indian women are already riding after the war-party." At considerable risk to life and limb we slid down the ragged angle which we had ascended, and hurried to where Baldwin and the soldiers stood beside their saddled steeds. We had barely reached the crest from which we could see the valley when the three whitewashed boys appeared on their panting and foaming animals, the little one on the buck-skin pony in the lead. "What in the world is this?" exclaimed Baldwin. "Three whitewashed young redskins! What do they want of us?" "Here we are!" shouted a familiar voice, in excellent English. "Here we are--Manuel, Sapoya, and I!" Before we could sufficiently recover from our surprise, or, rather, calm our joyful realization of a hope born of the boys' start from the valley below, they were among us, and Henry had sprung from his horse and embraced his brother, leaving a generous coating of _yeso_ upon the army blue. Tears of joy had ploughed two streaks through the whiting on his face, and lent a comical effect to the boyish countenance. A general handshake ensued, and Corporal Frank asked, "Where are your clothes, Henry?" "Confiscated by the chief Elarnagan." "Not to wear?" "Well, no; I think they might prove baggy on his diminutive person." "Then why did he take them?" "He has a numerous progeny, and the young Elarnaganitos have an article apiece. My saddle and bridle went to Mrs. Elarnagan. She rides astride, you know." "When did the chief take your clothes?" "Just as soon as I arrived in the valley my horse and I were stripped of--But hold on, Frank; what am I thinking of?" and Henry ran to one of the other boys, a graceful youngster whose perfect limbs and handsome face the _yeso_ could not mask, and who sat his horse as if he were a part of the animal. Saying something to him in an undertone, the boy dismounted and approached me with Henry, who said, in Spanish: "This is Manuel Augustine Perea y Luna, of Algodones. It is he who planned the escape when I told him there were soldiers near." I took the Mexican boy's hand and assured him of the great happiness his escape afforded me, and the greater happiness it would afford his mother and relatives. Frank approached, took Manuel's hand, and then dropped it to give him a hearty and brotherly embrace. "Ah, Manuelito mio, I dreamed many dreams of rescuing you as we marched through this country, but I never believed they would be realized," he said. "But the little Enrique acted, and I am here," laughed Manuel. "And Frank acted, too," said I, "as you shall soon hear; and you will learn that it took both boys to effect your rescue." "Pardon me," replied Manuel, "but it is not safe to remain here longer. Elarnagan, whom you saw leaving the valley with his warriors, is intending to move down the Lithodendron to attack your train somewhere on the Colorado Chiquito." At the close of his remarks Manuel turned away, as if to mount his horse, and then, as if correcting an oversight, he said, "Wait one moment, sir." Going up to the third boy, he spoke a few words to him in an unknown tongue. The boy sprang to the ground and came forward. "This is Sapoya," continued Manuel, "a Cherokee boy, whom I found a captive when I joined Elarnagan's band. He is my brother, and will go with me and share my home." Sapoya extended his hand and clasped mine. He was a handsome Indian boy, about the same age and height as his friend. He addressed me in Navajo, which was interpreted by Manuel: "I am glad to meet one who has helped to open the broad land again to my brother and me. But our horses stand still, while those of our enemy fly to retake us." Evidently the Mexican and Cherokee boys had no desire to again fall into the hands of the Navajo chief. We made no further delay, but mounted and forced our animals down the mountain defiles as rapidly as possible. As soon as the route would permit, Henry and Manuel rode on each side of Frank, and I heard the former ask about Vic. Frank answered in Spanish, so that the Mexican boy might understand. Such expressions as "La perra brava!" "La fina perrita Vic!" from time to time showed they were hearing of Vic's adventures. [Illustration: "'GOD HAS GIVEN ME, AMONG MANY FRIENDS, TWO THAT ARE SOMETHING MORE'"] Finding that Corporal Frank was not doing himself justice in his narration, I drew alongside the boys and related what I knew of Frank's midnight ride and rescue of Vic, an event which, had it not occurred, would have left Henry and his friends still in captivity. At the conclusion of my tale Manuel changed his position from the flank to one between the brothers, and, taking a hand of Frank in his left, and one of Henry's in his right, rode on a few moments in silence. Then he said: "God has given me, among many friends, two that are something more. But for your brave acts I should still be a captive. Thank you for myself, my dear mother, and Sapoya." Having reached the wagon-road crossing of the Carizo, we turned at a canter over the divide between it and the Lithodendron. As we rose above a terrace our attention was attracted to two mounted Indians scurrying off into the broken and higher country on our right. "Ah, look!" shouted Manuel; "they expected to stop three naked, unarmed boys, and they are surprised to meet a troop of cavalry! Viva los Estados Unidos! Run, you sheep-stealers, we are safely out of your hands!" Upon reaching the summit of the divide the whole war-party stood revealed, far to our right, out of rifle-shot. Plainly, our presence was a great surprise to them. Although they greatly outnumbered us, the country was too open for their system of warfare, and they were poorly armed. They stood sullenly aloof, and allowed us to canter past unmolested. Just as our rear was passing them we noticed a solitary warrior advance and show a white cloth. "That is Elarnagan," said Manuel. "He wants to speak with you." Accompanied by the Mexican boy to act as interpreter, I advanced to the chief. He took my hand with dignity, and said he accepted the loss of his pale-faced captives as the fortune of war, but he demanded the return of Sapoya. He said that in a fight with the Utes, ten years before, his people had captured a Cherokee chief, who was visiting that tribe with his wife and child. The chief and his wife had died, and he, Elarnagan, had brought up the child as his own. He asked that Sapoya be restored to him. I called the Indian lad to me and, repeating the words of the chief, said, "You may answer for yourself." "Sapoya says to the bravest warrior of the Navajos, that he is grateful for all the favors that he has received, and that he thinks he has returned by hard service ample payment for all. He brought parents, three horses, and ample clothing to the Navajos; he takes nothing away but the pony he rode. He has shared his blanket and food with his brother, Manuel, for these many moons, undergoing fatigue and exposure with him, until his heart beats as one with his comrade's, and he desires to go with him to his home and become one of his people." The chief said nothing in reply, but advancing gave his hand in amity to both boys, and rode back to his people. "He is a good chief and a brave one," said Manuel, as we rejoined the command, "but I should cherish kindlier memories of him if he had given us some clothing and an extra blanket." Later, as we were riding slowly out of the bed of Lithodendron, Frank said, "I do not see how the Indians came to spare Vic." "One of them did attempt to kill her, but I threw my arms about her and the chief patted her head and gave orders that she should not be hurt. I think if her collar had not been taken off at Laguna she would have been killed in a scramble to possess it. Even Elarnagan would have considered her life worthless compared with the possession of such a beautiful trinket." "The chief seems to have taken quite a liking to Corporal Henry," I remarked. "Not enough to allow him to retain his clothing," said Manuel; "but he would not permit him to be deprived of his pony. Perhaps you saw him, when you were on the butte, dash round the herd with Henry on his shoulder?" "Frank and I saw it," I answered. "He said, when he placed Henry back upon Chiquita, 'He will make a brave chief.'" Camp was reached a little after dark, and the boys plunged into the river to remove the _yeso_, and then dressed themselves in civilized garments, Henry drawing on his reserve, and the others from the quartermaster's stores. Had not Victoriana been a modest doggie, the amount of praise and attention she received from the four boys would have turned her head; and the boys themselves had no reason to complain of the kindly congratulations they received from the infantry company. Word was sent to Lieutenant Hubbell that Manuel Perea had been rescued, and the following morning all the New Mexicans not on duty rode into camp to congratulate the boy upon his escape. Spanish cheers and Spanish felicitations filled the air for an hour. When the volunteers had gone and quiet was resumed, Brenda came, and her delight at seeing the boys again showed itself in ceaseless caressings of Vic and many requests for a repetition of the account of their flying ride when the signal was waved from the butte. When she at last withdrew, to repeat the story to her relatives, the corporals and I wrote a letter to Señora Perea, to be delivered by her son. In my portion I related the circumstances attending his recovery, detailing the part taken by the boy corporals, the dog, and the troop. I said no one desired to claim the generous reward she had offered, since no one in particular had rescued Manuel; many things had combined to enable him to escape. If the lady insisted upon paying the reward, we all desired that it should be devoted to the education of Sapoya. Frank added a few lines, and Henry closed the letter. The younger corporal wrote: "I've laughed with the rest over my two days' captivity among the Navajos, and made light of it. I don't mind telling you that after shivering through two nights without clothes and without enough blankets, being bitten by mosquitoes and flies, and scorched daytimes by the sun, I begin to think Manuel a great hero. "You know when I saw you I told you I was going to bring back Manuel or be a prisoner with him. That, of course, was all foolish talk, for I planned nothing. To be sure, I was a prisoner with him for two days and had something to do about bringing him back, but it all happened without planning. It seems as if God directed us all through. Frank, Vic, the soldiers, officers, and myself--even the dry time from Jacob's Well to the Lithodendron--all had something to do with finding Manuel. "About the reward the lieutenant speaks of, we think none of us deserve it. We've talked it over, and we think if you would give Sapoya a chance at school, and if you cannot make a white boy of him make him an educated man, that would be the best reward. He's very intelligent, and if he can have a good chance will learn fast. "Frank and I have a scheme we hope you will approve of. Mr. Duncan has secured a detail from the War Department to a boys' military school in the States as instructor in tactics, and will probably go in November. We are intending to ask papa to let us join that school after the Christmas holidays. We want you to send Manuel and Sapoya there. Won't you, please? Be sure and say yes. Think what a fine chance it will be for Sapoya. "You know we boys feel something more than a friendship for one another. I suppose it is like the comradeship of soldiers who have stood shoulder to shoulder in battle. There is a tie uniting us that is closer and firmer than friendship; we feel more like brothers. "We will write often. Hoping Manuel will arrive home safe, and that he may never again be a captive, "I remain your friend, "HENRY BURTON." Our letters were despatched by Manuel and Sapoya to Lieutenant Hubbell's camp, where Captain Bayard directed the boys to await the detachment of New Mexican cavalry which had accompanied us from the Rio Grande and which was shortly to return there. We resumed our march the following day at a very early hour, and as we passed the cavalry camp two half-dressed boys came bounding out to the road-side to once more repeat their affectionate good-byes and renew their promises to meet in the future. The march continued for a week longer, through a region over which the Pullman car now rushes with the modern tourist, but through which we moved at the gait of infantry. The boy corporals and Brenda Arnold climbed eminences, looked through clefts in precipices into the sublime depths of the great cañon, stood on the edge of craters of extinct volcanoes, penetrated the mysterious caverns of the cliff-dwellers, fished for trout in a mountain lake, caught axolotl in a tank at the foot of San Francisco Mountain, shot turkeys, grouse, and antelope, and enjoyed the march as only healthy youngsters can. Brenda became a pupil of the boys in loading and firing their revolvers, carbines, and fowling-pieces, and made many a bull's-eye when firing at a mark, but invariably failed to hit anything living. Henry said she was too tender-hearted to aim well at animals. That she was no coward an incident to be told in a future chapter will prove. When our train and its escort reached Fort Whipple, or, rather, the site of that work--for we built it after our arrival--the Arnolds caught up their cattle from our herd, and after a two weeks' stay in Prescott removed to a section of land which they took up in Skull Valley, ten miles to the west by the mountain-trail, and twenty-five miles by the only practicable wagon-road. This place was selected for a residence because its distance from Prescott and its situation at the junction of the bridle-path and wagon-road made it an excellent location for a way-side inn. At a dress-parade held the evening before the family's departure for their new home, Brenda sat on her pony, Gypsy, near Captain Bayard, and heard an order read advancing her young friends from the grade of corporal to that of sergeant, "for soldierly attention to duty on the march, gallant conduct in the affair at Laguna, and meritorious behavior in effecting the rescue of captive boys from the Navajos at Carizo Creek; subject to the approval of Colonel Burton." XI BOTH PONIES ARE STOLEN "Here, Frank, come and help push this gate, I can't start it alone." "Don't be in such a hurry, Henry. Wait just a moment. I think I hear a horse coming down the Prescott road. I want to see if it is the express from La Paz." The younger boy ceased his efforts to close the gates, and advancing a few steps before the entrance of the fort, looked up the valley to where the road from Prescott appeared from behind a spur of the foot-hills. The two boys had mounted their sergeant's chevrons and adopted white stripes down the legs of their trousers. As they stood side by side Vic approached and placed herself between them, nestling her delicate muzzle against the younger boy's hip and responding to his caresses with waves of her plumy tail. "Do you think we shall hear from father, Frank?" "We ought to; you know he said in his last letter he was getting settled at the Presidio, and would soon send for us." "Takes twelve days to bring a letter from San Francisco. I suppose it'll take us longer to go there; seems to me he might get ready for us while we are on the road," said Henry, lugubriously. "I'm getting mighty tired of opening and shutting these gates." "You forget father has to visit all the posts where companies of his regiment are stationed. That will probably take him all of a month longer." "And we must go on opening and closing gates and running errands in Arizona? But come; let's get a swing on 'em and watch for the expressman afterwards. We haven't much time before retreat." The gates closed a fort which we had built since our arrival in Arizona. Peeled pine logs, ten feet long, had been set up vertically in the ground, two feet of them below the surface and eight above, enclosing an area of a thousand square feet, in which were store-rooms, offices, and quarters for two companies of soldiers and their officers. At corners diagonally opposite each other were two large block-house bastions, commanding the flanks of the fort. The logs of the walls were faced on two sides and set close together, and were slotted every four feet for rifles. At one of the corners which had no bastions were double gates, also made of logs, bound by cross and diagonal bars, dovetailed and pinned firmly to them. Each hung on huge, triple hinges of iron. The two boys returned to the gates, and, setting their backs against one of them and digging their heels in the earth, pushed and swung it ponderously and slowly, until its outer edge caught on a shelving log set in the middle of the entrance to support it and its fellow. Then, as the field-music began to play and the men to assemble in line for retreat roll-call, they swung the second gate in the same way, and braced the two with heavy timbers. The boys then reported the gates closed to the adjutant. As the companies broke ranks and dispersed the boy sergeants went to the fifth log, to the left of the gates, and swung it back on its hinges. This was one of two secret posterns. On the inside of the wall, when closed, its location was easily noticeable on account of its hinges, latches, and braces; on the outside it looked like any other log in the wall. Their work being completed, the boys asked permission of the adjutant to stand outside the wall and watch for the mail. "All right, sergeants," said the adjutant; "there is no further duty for you to perform to-day." Frank and Henry ran through the postern, and arrived on the crest of the bluff overlooking the Prescott road just as a horseman turned up the height. The news that the La Paz courier had arrived spread rapidly through the quarters, and every man not on duty appeared outside the walls. Joining the boy sergeants, I said, "Boys, if you want to drop the job of opening and closing the gates, it can hereafter be done by the guard." "Thank you, sir. We took the job, and we'll stick to it," replied Sergeant Frank. "I wonder if Samson could lift those gates as easily as he did the gates of Gaza?" questioned Henry, seating himself on a log which had been rejected in the building and taking Vic's head in his lap and fondling her silken ears. "We can't remain here much longer," said Frank; "I think this express will bring an order for us to go to San Francisco." "Very likely. No doubt life here is not very enjoyable for boys." "I should say not," said Henry, "for we can't look outside the fort unless a dozen soldiers are along for fear the Apaches 'll get us." "But you can go to Prescott." "Prescott!" in a tone of great contempt; "twenty-seven log cabins and five stores, and not a boy in the place--only a dozen Pike County, Missouri, girls." "And we can't go there with any comfort since Texas Dick and Jumping Jack stole Sancho and Chiquita," added Frank. Further conversation on this subject was temporarily interrupted by the arrival of the expressman. A roan bronco galloped up the slope, bearing a youthful rider wearing a light buck-skin suit and a soft felt hat with a narrow brim. He was armed with a breech-loading carbine and two revolvers, and carried, attached to his saddle, a roll of blankets, a haversack, and a mail-pouch. Dismounting, he detached the pouch, at the same time answering questions and giving us items of news later than any contained in his despatches. After handing his pouch to the quartermaster-sergeant, his eyes fell upon the boy sergeants. "I saw Texas Dick and Juan Brincos at Cisternas Negras," he said, addressing them. "My! Did you, Mr. Hudson?" exclaimed Henry, springing to his feet and approaching the courier. "Did they have our ponies?" "You know I never saw your ponies; but Dick was mounted on a black, with a white star in his forehead, and Juan on a cream-color, with a brown mane and tail." "Sancho!" said Frank. "Chiquita!" said Henry. "Do you know where they were bound?" asked Captain Bayard. "I did not speak to them, nor did they see me; I thought it would be better to keep out of the way of such desperate characters in a lonely place. I learned from a friend of theirs at Date Creek that they intend to open a monte bank at La Paz." "Then they are likely to remain there for some time." "Can't something be done to get the ponies back, sir?" asked Frank. "Perhaps so. I will consider the matter." The mail was taken to my office and soon distributed through the command. Among my letters was one from Colonel Burton, the father of the boy sergeants. He said he had been expecting to send for his sons by this mail, but additional detached service had been required of him which might delay their departure from Whipple for another month, if not longer. He informed me that a detail I had received to duty as professor of military science and tactics in a boys' military school had been withheld by the department commander until my services could be spared at Fort Whipple, and that he thought the next mail, or the one following it, would bring an order relieving me and ordering me East. This would enable me to leave for the coast about the first week in November. Frank and Henry shared my quarters with me, and that evening, seated before an open fire, I read their father's letter, and remarked that perhaps I should be able to accompany them to San Francisco, and, if the colonel consented to their request to go to the military school with me, we might take the same steamer for Panama and New York. "Oh, won't that be too fine for anything!" exclaimed the younger sergeant. "Then I'll not have to leave Vicky here, after all." Vic, upon hearing her name called, left her rug at my feet and placed her nose on Henry's knee, and the boy stroked and patted her in his usual affectionate manner. "Then you have been dreading to leave the doggie?" I asked. "Yes; I dream all sorts of uncomfortable things about her. She's in trouble, or I am, and I cannot rescue her and she cannot help me. Usually we are parting, and I see her far off, looking sadly back at me." "Henry is not the only one who dreads to part with Vic," said Frank. "We boys can never forget the scenes at Los Valles Grandes, Laguna, and the Rio Carizo. She saved our lives, helped recover Chiquita, and she helped rescue Manuel, Sapoya, and Henry from the Navajos." "Yes; but for her I might have lost my brother at La Roca Grande," remarked Henry. "That was probably her greatest feat. Nice little doggie--good little Vicky--are you really to go to San Francisco and the East with us?" "I believe if I only had Sancho back, and Henry had Chiquita, I should be perfectly happy," observed the elder brother. After a slight pause, during which the boy seemed to have relapsed into his former depression, Henry asked: "Do they have cavalry drill at that school?" "Yes, the superintendent keeps twenty light horses, and allows some of the cadets to keep private animals. All are used in drill." "And if we get our ponies back, I suppose we shall have to leave them here. Do you think, sir, there is any chance of our seeing them again?" asked Frank. "Not unless some one can go to La Paz for them. Captain Bayard is going to see me after supper about a plan of his to retake them." "I wonder what officer he will send?" "Perhaps I shall go." "Father could never stand the expense of sending them to the States, I suppose," said Henry, despondently. "They could easily be sent to the Missouri River without cost," I observed. "How, please?" "There is a quartermaster's train due here in a few weeks. It would cost nothing to send the ponies by the wagon-master to Fort Union, and then they could be transferred to another train to Fort Leavenworth." "Frank, I've a scheme!" exclaimed the younger boy. "What is it?" "If Mr. Duncan finds Sancho and Chiquita, let's send them to Manuel Perea and Sapoya on the Rio Grande. When they go to the military school they can take our horses and theirs, and we'll join the cavalry." "That's so," said Frank. "Manuel wrote that if he went to school he should cross the plains with his uncle, Miguel Otero, who is a freighter. He could take the whole outfit East for nothing. There would remain only the cost of shipping them from Kansas City to the school." "Yes, but before you cook a hare you must catch him," said I. "And our two hares are on the other side of the Xuacaxélla[1] Desert," said Frank, despondently. "I suppose there is small chance of our ever seeing them again." [Footnote 1: Pronounced Hwar-car-hál-yar.] Our two boy sergeants had found life in Arizona scarcely monotonous, for the hostile Apaches made it lively enough, compelling us to build a defensible post and look well to the protection of our stock. A few years later a large force, occupying many posts, found it difficult to maintain themselves against those Indians, so it cannot seem strange to the reader that our small garrison of a hundred soldiers should find it difficult to do much more than act on the defensive. Close confinement to the reservation chafed the boys. A ride to Prescott, two miles distant, was the longest the boys had taken alone. Two weeks before this chapter opens they had been invited to dine with Governor Goodwin, the Governor of the Territory, and he had made their call exceedingly pleasant. When, at an advanced hour in the evening, the boys took leave of their host and went to the stable for their horses, they found them gone, with their saddles and bridles. Inquiries made next day in town elicited the information that two notorious frontier scamps, Texas Dick and Juan Brincos, an American and Mexican, were missing, and it was the opinion of civil and military authorities that they had stolen the ponies. The boys took Vic to the Governor's, and, showing her the tracks of her equine friends, she followed them several miles on the Skull Valley trail. It was plainly evident that the thieves had gone towards the Rio Colorado. After supper I accompanied the commanding officer to his quarters. He told me that the express had brought him a communication from the department commander, stating that, since Arizona had been transferred to the Department of the Pacific, our stores would hereafter be shipped from San Francisco to the mouth of the Rio Colorado, and up that stream by the boats of the Colorado Steam Navigation Company to La Paz. He said he had decided to send me to La Paz to make arrangements with a freighter for the transportation of the supplies from the company's landing to Fort Whipple. "And while you are in La Paz," said the captain, "look after those horse-thieves, and turn them over to the civil authorities; but, whether you capture them or not, be sure to bring back the boys' ponies." "What do you think about allowing the boys to go with me?" "No doubt they would like it, for life has been rather monotonous to them for some time, especially since they lost their horses. Think it would be safe?" "No Indians have been seen on the route for some time." "The 'calm before the storm,' I fear." "The mail-rider, Hudson, has seen no signs for a long time." "So he told me. The excursion would be a big treat to the lads, and, with a good escort and you in command, Duncan, I think they will be in no danger. Tell the adjutant to detail a corporal and any twelve men you may select, and take an ambulance and driver." "Shall I go by Bill Williams Fork or across the Xuacaxélla?" "The desert route is the shortest, and the courier says there is water in the Hole-in-the-Plain. There was a rainfall there last week. That will give you water at the end of each day's drive." I returned to my rooms and looked over an itinerary of the route, with a schedule of the distances, and other useful information. After making myself familiar with all its peculiarities, I told Frank and Henry that if they desired to do so they might accompany me. They were overjoyed at the prospect. Henry caught Vic by the forepaws and began to waltz about the room. Then, sitting down, he held her head up between his palms and informed her that she was going to bring back Sancho and Chiquita. "I do not intend to take Vic, Henry," I said. "Not take Vic? Why not, sir?" "The road is long and weary--six days going and six returning, over a rough and dry region--and she will be in the way and a constant care to us." "But how are we going to find our horses without her? She always helps whenever we are in trouble, and she will be sure to assist us in this if we take her," said Sergeant Henry, emphatically. "She need be no care to you, sir," said the elder boy; "Henry and I will look after her." "I am sorry to disappoint you, boys, but I cannot take the dog. She will be left with Captain Bayard." This decision made the boys somewhat miserable for a time. They commiserated the dog over her misfortune, and then turned their attention to preparations for the journey. "Have you ever been to La Paz?" asked Frank. "I have never been beyond Date Creek in that direction," I replied. "Is the Xuacaxélla really a desert?" "Only in the rainless season. Grasses, cacti, and shrubbery not needing much moisture grow there. One of the geological surveys calls it Cactus Plain. It is one hundred miles long. There is water in a fissure of a mountain-spur on one side called the Cisternas Negras, or Black Tanks, but for the rest of the distance there was formerly no water except in depressions after a rainfall, a supply that quickly evaporated under a hot sun and in a dry atmosphere. A man named Tyson has lately sunk a well thirty miles this side of La Paz." "It was at Black Tanks the expressman saw Texas Dick and Juan Brincos with our ponies," said Henry. "What a queer name that is!--Juan Brincos, John Jumper, or Jumping Jack, as nearly every one calls him." "He is well named; he has been jumping stock for some years." "I thought Western people always hanged horse-thieves?" "Not when they steal from government. Western people are too apt to consider army mules and horses common property, and they suppose your ponies belong to Uncle Sam." "Frank," said Henry, just before the boys fell asleep that night, "I felt almost sure we should recapture the ponies when I thought Vic was going, but now I'm afraid we never shall see them again." XII INDIANS ON THE WAR-PATH The following day we were so delayed by several minor affairs that we did not begin our journey until the middle of the afternoon. At the time of which I write there were but two wagon-roads out of Prescott--one through Fort Whipple, which, several miles to the north, divided into a road to the west, the one over which we had marched from New Mexico, and a second which left in a northwesterly direction. We took the latter, pursuing it along the east side of Granite Range for eight miles, when we passed through a notch in the range to Mint Creek, where the road made an acute angle and followed a generally southwesterly course to La Paz. We halted for the night at the creek, eight miles from the fort. Our ambulance was provided with four seats--one in front for the driver, fixed front and rear seats in the interior, with a movable middle seat, the back of which could be let down so that it fitted the interval between the others and afforded a fairly comfortable bed. On the rack behind were carried the mess chest, provisions, and bedding, and inside, under the seats, were the ammunition and some articles of personal baggage. Beneath the axle swung a ten-gallon keg and a nest of camp kettles. While supper was being prepared the boys wandered about the reed-grass in a fruitless search for some ducks they had seen settle in the creek. Private Tom Clary, who was acting as our cook, having spread our meal of fried bacon, bread, and coffee upon a blanket to the windward of the fire, called them to supper. While sugaring and stirring our coffee, the cook stood by the fire holding two long rods in his hands, upon the ends of which were slices of bacon broiling before the glowing coals. Suddenly he exclaimed: "Look there, sergeant laddies! look there!" raising and pointing with both sticks and the rashers of bacon towards the reed-grass behind us. There in its very edge sat Mistress Vic, winking her eyes and twitching her ears deprecatingly, plainly in doubt as to her reception. "Stop, boys! keep quiet!" I said, to prevent a movement in her direction. "Vic, you bad girl, how dared you follow me?" No reply, only a slow closing and opening of the eyes and an accompanying forward and backward movement of the ears. "Go home! Go!" The setter rose, dropped her head, and, turning dejectedly, disappeared with drooping tail into the tall grass. Both boys exclaimed at once: "Don't drive her off, sir! Poor little Vic!" "Well, go and see if you can coax her back. If she returns with you she may go to La Paz." The boys ran eagerly into the grass, and soon I heard them soothing and pitying the dog, telling her that it was all right, and that she could go. But it was evident she doubted their authority to speak for me, for Henry presently came running towards me. "She won't come, sir. Keeps moving slowly back in the direction of the fort. She looks so sorry and so tired. Only think how badly she feels, and it is a long distance to Whipple! Can't she stay with us until morning?" "Then she will not come with you?" "No. She is your dog, and knows it. She never disobeys you." "But she followed me here; that looks very much like disobedience." "But you did not tell her not to come." "I believe you are right. I forgot to tell her to stay." "And she did not hear you tell the corporal to tie her, sir. You told him in your room, and she was outside." "Then you think she is not to blame for following us?" "Of course not. She's a military dog, and always obeys orders." "But how guilty she looked." "It was not guilt made her look so, sir; it was disappointment." "Yes, I think you are right, Henry. I'll let her go with us. Let us try an experiment, and see if she understands ordinary conversation. You know some people think dogs do." "Yes, sir; I know Vic does." "I'll speak to her without altering my tone of voice. Now watch. 'Here, Vicky, little girl, it's all right; you may go with us.'" Out of the reeds, bounding in an ecstasy of delight, came Vic. She sprang about me, then about the boys, the soldiers, and animals, and then approaching the fire, sat down and looked wistfully at the rashers of bacon Clary was still broiling. It was settled in her dog mind that she was now a recognized member of our party. We resumed our journey with the first break of dawn and rode to Skull Valley. The first section of the road passed through a rough, mountainous, and wooded country; but at the end of thirteen miles it entered a level valley, which gradually broadened into a wide plain that had been taken up by settlers for farms and cattle ranges. Being well acquainted, I made several calls at the log-cabins which skirted the road. At the Arnold house we were made very welcome, and after a generous dinner were escorted through the house and stables by the entire family. I had visited the valley many times when on scouting or escort duty, and had seen the Arnold cabins gradually substituted for their tents, and their acres slowly redeemed from grazing ground to cultivated fields; but since my last visit Mr. Arnold had adopted an ingenious means of defence in case of an Indian attack. The house and stables from the first had been provided with heavy shutters for windows and doorways, and loop-holes for fire-arms had been made at regular four-foot intervals. These the proprietor had not considered ample, and had constructed, twenty yards from the house, an ingenious earthwork which could be entered by means of a subterranean passage from the cellar. This miniature fort was in the form of a circular pit, sunk four feet and a half in the ground, and covered by a nearly flat roof, the edges or eaves of which were but a foot and a half above the surface of the earth. In the space between the surface and the eaves were loop-holes. The roof was of heavy pine timber, closely joined, sloping upward slightly from circumference to centre, and covered with two feet of tamped earth. To obtain water, a second covered way led from the earthwork to a spring fifty yards distant, the outer entrance being concealed in a rocky nook screened in a thick clump of willows. As we were climbing into our ambulance, preparatory to resuming our journey, Brenda said: "If you had reached here three hours earlier you might have had the company of two gentlemen who are riding to La Paz." "Sorry I did not meet them. Who were they?" "Mr. Sage and Mr. Bell from Prescott. They are going to purchase goods for their stores; and that reminds me that not one of you has mentioned the object of this journey of yours." "That is really so," I replied. "You have made every minute of our call so interesting in showing us your improvements and the fort, and in doing the hospitable, that we have not thought of ourselves. Frank, tell her about the ponies." Sergeant Frank, aided by Sergeant Henry, told in full of the loss of their animals, and said we intended to try to capture Texas Dick and Juan Brincos and recover Sancho and Chiquita. At the end of the boys' story, Brenda asked: "The thieves were a Mexican and an American?" "Yes." "The American had a scar on the bridge of his nose, and the Mexican had lost his front teeth?" "Exactly. What do you know about them, Brenda?" "They were here, but I did not see their ponies nearer than the stable; they were black and cream color. The Mexican traded saddles with uncle. You'll find the one he left in the lean-to, on a peg beside the door." Both boys leaped to the ground and ran round the house to the lean-to, and presently returned with Henry's neat McClellan saddle. It had been stripped of its pouches and small straps, but was otherwise unharmed. "Well, when I come back with Chiquita, Mr. Arnold, I'd like to trade saddles." "All right, youngkett, I'll trade, or you can take it now, and welcome," replied the ranchman. "No; I'll leave it until I return." The saddle was taken back to the lean-to, and after a few more words of leave-taking we started up the valley. A few miles of rapid travelling brought us to a steep ascent into a mountainous range to the right. We had proceeded but a short distance through a narrow and rugged roadway when we were overtaken by the military expressman whom we had left at Fort Whipple. He had come from Prescott to Skull Valley by a short cut. "I have a letter for you, lieutenant," said he, approaching the ambulance. Unfastening the mail-pouch, he turned its contents upon the back seat. A heap of loose letters and three well-worn books strewed themselves over the cushion. Frank picked up the books and examined their titles. "Xenophon's _Memorabilia_, Euripides' _Alcestis_ and _Medea_, and a Greek grammar!" exclaimed the astonished youngster. "What are you doing with these college text-books on the La Paz trail?" "Making up conditions," replied the courier, a blush deepening the brown of his face. "What are conditions?" asked Henry. "Oh, blissful ignorance! Why was I not spared the task of enlightening it?" answered the courier. "Conditions are stumbling-blocks placed in the way of successful trackmen, football players, and rowing men by non-appreciative and envious professors." "'Joseph Gould Hudson, University of Yalvard,'" read Frank from the fly-leaf of the _Memorabilia_. "Is that your name, Mr. Hudson?" "I'm so borne on the Yalvard catalogue." "Please explain, Mr. Hudson," I said, "how a college boy happens to be in Arizona running the gantlet of this mail-route and making up conditions in Greek?" "I was stroke in the crew that won the championship for Yalvard at New London one year ago, and got behind in these. I was conditioned, and being ashamed to face an angry father, struck out for myself on the Pacific coast. I drifted about from mining-camp to cattle-range until I was dead broke; this place offered, and I took it because I could find nothing else. I've had lots of opportunities for reflection on the Xuacaxélla. I'm the repentant prodigal going home to his father." "Oh, you are no prodigal, Mr. Hudson," observed Henry. "We've heard all about you; you are too brave." "Thank you, Sergeant Henry. No, I've not wasted my substance in riotous living, nor have I eaten husks, but I've been prodigal in wasting opportunities." "Lost a whole college year, haven't you?" I asked. "I hope not. There is a German university man at La Paz who has been coaching me. He thinks if I keep at work until after Christmas I can go on with my old class. This is my last trip, and if I escape the Apaches once more I'm going to lay off and work hard for a few months, and then return to New Havbridge for examination. There's something in that letter that concerns me." Opening the letter, I learned that Captain Bayard knew Mr. Hudson's story. He said this was to be the last trip of the courier, but that after his return to La Paz he would come out to meet me at Tyson's Wells and report whether the horse-thieves were in town. He also suggested that in establishing a transshipment storehouse at the steamboat-landing I place Hudson in charge. The pay would be of use to him while "making up." The courier wished us a pleasant journey, and rode away at a scrambling canter up the pass. He had been gone but a few moments when I heard a shout, and, looking up, saw him standing on a pinnacle by the way-side, on the summit of the ascent. He was looking in the opposite direction, and I saw him fire three shots from his carbine in rapid succession. Dismounting the men, I made rapid preparations to meet an attack, and proceeded to work our way slowly up the height, and when we reached the narrow level at the top we found Hudson and the two soldiers that formed our advance occupying a shelter among the rocks to the left, and gazing down the opposite slope. "What is it, Hudson?" I asked. "A party of Indians attempted to jump me here. There they go now--across that opening in the sage-brush!" A dozen Indians dashed across an open space south of the road, but too far away for effective shooting, and then two more passed over, supporting a third between them. "You must have hit one of them." "I tried to. I think another was hurt more seriously, by the way he acknowledged my shot." "Are you hurt?" "A slight scratch on the arm near the shoulder, and my horse is hurt." An examination of Hudson's arm proved that the scratch was not serious, but I thought it best to exchange his horse for one belonging to a soldier. We then went on, Frank and I walking in advance of the ambulance mules. "There's something down there in the road by Ferrier's grave, sir," said Corporal Duffey. "Looks like a dead man." "Is that where Ferrier was killed?" I asked. "Yes, sir; I was in command of the detail that came here to look him up. He had built a little stone fort on that knoll up yonder, and kept the redskins off three days. He kept a diary, you remember, which we found. He killed six of them, and might as many more, but he couldn't live without sleep or food, and the rascals got him. They scattered the mail in shreds for miles about here." "Who was Ferrier?" Frank asked. "He was a discharged California volunteer, who rode the express before Mr. Hudson." "Do you think Mr. Hudson knew his predecessor had been killed?" "Yes; the incident was much talked of at the time." We were nearing the object in the road. Suddenly the mules caught sight of it, backed, and crushed the ten-gallon keg under the axle against a bowlder--a serious mishap, as our after experience will show. Walking on, we came to the mutilated bodies of two men, several yards apart, whom we had no difficulty in recognizing to be the tradesmen Bell and Sage. With axe, bayonets, and tin cups we dug a shallow grave beside Ferrier's. We placed the bodies side by side, and heaped a pyramid of stones above them. The courier again bade us good-bye, and we went on. The rest of the ride through the mountain-pass was accomplished without adventure, and evening found us encamped at Willow Springs. The boys shot a few quail here, of the variety known as the California quail, distinguished by an elegant plume of six feathers on the top of its head. Clary broiled them for breakfast. The road on the following day was so rough that for much of the way we were unable to move faster than a walk--the slow walk of draught animals. When near a place called Soldiers' Holes, on account of some rifle-pits sunk there, the corporal called my attention to a pool of blood in the road. A close examination led us to believe that two men had fallen, that one had been wounded, and that a second party had come and taken the wounded man away. The locality was well adapted for a surprise. On the left was a growth of dense shrubbery extending from the road to the foot of the mountain-range. On the opposite side was an open plain. We were moving on again, when Frank remarked: "There seems to have been a big gathering of Apaches along this road." "Yes; a war-party bent on mischief. They have struck at two points, and I fear a third--Date Creek--may have been attacked by this time. That is where we are to pass the night." Then turning to Corporal Duffey, I continued: "The road from here to the creek is soft and loamy, and we are not likely to make much noise; caution the men to be quiet and not show themselves outside the track. If the Indians are at the ranch it will be best for us to appear there unexpectedly." "Do Indians never stand up like white men, and fight?" asked the younger boy. "Frequently, but their system is different from ours; however, our latest military tactics appear to be modelled on theirs." Although this section of our journey was but twenty-five miles long, our rate of progress had been so slow that the day was nearly closed when we came in sight of the lines of cottonwoods that bordered Date Creek. We turned at last sharply to the left, and began a descent through a narrow ravine towards the creek. We were nearing its widening mouth when a half-dozen sharp reports of fire-arms broke upon our ears. A halt was ordered and the men directed to prevent the animals from betraying our presence by whinnying or braying. Telling Sergeant Henry to remain behind and keep Vic with him, I went in advance with Sergeant Frank. "What do you think is going on?" asked my companion, as several more reports rang out. "What I feared; the Apaches are attacking the men who went out to bring in the dead and wounded men at Soldiers' Holes." "And if Mr. Hudson was not the wounded man there, I suppose he is sure to be in this scrape. Why not rush in with the escort and frighten them away?" "They may be too many for us," I answered, "and it will be prudent to learn the situation at the ranch before we go nearer. I want to join the white men without the Indians' knowledge, if possible." "If Mr. Hudson is not dead, he must know we are here." "He may be there, and the men may know we are on the road, but it certainly does not look like it." "Can't Vic be sent with a message?" "No; she will not take a message to a stranger." We had now reached a point from which we could see a log cabin, a stable, and an open shed or tool-house. On the side of the buildings towards us, as if screening themselves from an enemy in the opposite direction, were a few men. "If you would like me to, sir, I can crawl to the house without being seen," said Frank. "That cart, wagon, oven, and stack will screen me." "Yes, you can do it easily. Tell Mr. Hopkins that we are here--seventeen, counting you two boys--and to make no demonstration when we close up. I will explain a plan to him which, I think, will enable us to teach the Apaches a lesson. If you find Mr. Hudson there, tell him to show himself at a window or door." XIII THE BOY SERGEANTS DO GOOD SERVICE Frank dropped flat upon the earth and worked his way to the cabin without being seen. Instantly I received a signal from Mr. Hopkins through a back window, and a moment later Mr. Hudson looked out of a back door and raised his hat. I was glad to see that his college career was still a possibility. Hurrying back to the ambulance, I caused the animals to be grouped in charge of the driver and two soldiers, and with the rest of the detail moved in the direction of the ranch buildings. It had become so dark that we might possibly have passed over the open space without being seen, but, for fear of accidents, we covered it, as Frank had done, on all fours. The first persons I met when I rose to a vertical position were Hudson and Frank, who took me to Mr. Hopkins. The ranchman greeted me with the assurance that the arrival of my party was a godsend, and had probably saved their scalps. I learned that the men at Date Creek, including the mail-carrier, numbered seven; that three were in the stable and four in the house. These buildings were the same distance from the stream, and fifty feet apart. The bank of the creek was perpendicular for a mile either way, standing fully twelve feet above the surface of the water; but there was a notch with a sloping descent, midway between the buildings, down which the live-stock was driven to water. This slope offered the only practicable point of attack, unless the Indians chose to move by one of our flanks over a long level. Mr. Hopkins said he had crept out to the shrubbery on the edge of the precipitous river-bank, to the left of the slope, just before my arrival, and had seen on the opposite shore a small party of men moving through the willow branches towards our left. He believed it was a flanking-party, intending to make a feint from that direction and enable the main body to charge through the notch in the bank. Believing the repelling force to be but seven, the Indians were quite sure of success. I was convinced that Mr. Hopkins's inferences were correct; but in order that no mistake should be made, I sent two veterans in frontier service, Privates Clary and Hoey, to reconnoitre both flanks. They were gone half an hour, and returned with the information that no demonstration was being made towards our right, but that a dozen or more men had gathered on the opposite shore, at a point where they could cross and turn our left flank. Preparations to meet this movement were begun at once. Sergeant Frank was sent to the ambulance with orders for the men in charge to bring in the animals, two at a time, and fasten them in the rear of the stable and stack. This was easily accomplished in the darkness. The ambulance was left in charge of Vic. While this was going on, and I was overlooking the construction of rifle-shelters on the flanks, Sergeant Henry approached and asked if he could not be of some use. Something in the tone of the boy's voice showed me he felt he had been neglected, while his brother had been kept busy. "What would you like to do?" I asked. "Does a soldier choose his duty, sir?" was the reply, uttered with some dignity. "Not usually, sergeant, it is true. I have a very important thing for you to do--something for which I was intending to look you up. Go and find Private Clary, and tell him to help you carry several armfuls of hay from the stack to the right of the slope. Make a heap, so that when it is lighted it will illuminate the approach from the creek. Ask Mr. Hopkins if he has any kerosene or other inflammable stuff to sprinkle on the hay and make it flash up quickly and burn brilliantly. Then throw up a shelter in which you can lie and be ready to light the hay when signalled." "Yes, sir. Thank you. I'll attend to everything." Not more than fifteen minutes had elapsed when the boy sergeant returned and informed me that the bundle of hay was prepared and a shelter constructed. "Mr. Hopkins has two gallons of axle-grease and two quarts of spirits of turpentine." "Excellent. Mix them together and sprinkle the hay thoroughly. Then place yourself in the shelter, and when you see a light flash from the west window of the house light your bonfire." "I'll do so, sir," and the boy ran away in the darkness. An hour had passed when loud whoops gave us warning of the enemy's approach. It was the war-cry of the terrible Apaches. Not a sound came from the creek. I strained my eyes in that direction, but nothing was visible in the black darkness beneath the pendulous branches of the willows. At last I saw the fixed reflections of the stars in the surface of the pool diffuse themselves into myriads of sparkling atoms. A considerable body of Indians must be in the water, but none appeared in sight. Yes, they were crossing in two columns, to the right and left of the notch, concealed by the high shore, and would shortly unite and charge up the slope. Baldwin ran to the stable to tell the men there that the Apaches were coming, and to be on the alert. The whoops of the flanking party redoubled, and were accompanied by a desultory firing, which the four men opposing them answered in the same way. Then I saw the sparkling water of the pool cut off from my sight, and knew that a body of men stood on the slope between us and the creek. "Frank, show the light! Men, ready!" The lantern flashed from the window, quickly answered by a flash on the bank, and a mass of red flame threw its luminous tresses skyward, bathing the whole scene in light. In the notch, half-way up the slope, stood a momentarily paralyzed group of nearly a hundred painted warriors. Every rifle in the hands of the white men in the two buildings spoke, and instantly the notch emptied itself pell-mell of its living throng. Only a few prostrate bodies showed the Apaches had been there. With the discharge of fire-arms a silence immediately fell upon the scene, in marked contrast to the shrieking and yelling of a moment before. The bonfire burned low, and went out. Once more we were in darkness. We believed the Indians would make no further demonstration, and an hour later a scouting party ascertained that they had gathered their dead and departed. Sentinels were posted, the ambulance run in by hand, the stock fed, and a midnight meal cooked. While sitting by the camp-fire, listening to the sizzling of the bacon and sniffing the aroma of the coffee, Mr. Hopkins introduced me to his men and guests, and I heard an explanation of the tracks and blood at Soldiers' Holes. Early that morning three gentlemen, who had passed the night at the ranch, started for Prescott. They were a Mr. Gray, a Scotch merchant at La Paz; Mr. Hamilton, a lawyer of the same place; and a Mr. Rosenberg, a freighter. When near the Holes, Mr. Hamilton, who was riding in advance, was shot by Indians concealed in the sage-brush. Mr. Rosenberg's mule was wounded, and plunged so that his rider fell to the ground. Mr. Gray, seeing the plight of the freighter, rode to his side, seized him by the collar, and aided him to leap to a seat behind him. It is probable that this act of generous daring might have ended in the death of both men but for a diversion caused by the sudden and unexpected appearance of the military expressman. He came up a slope from a lower level, and, taking in the situation at a glance, let fly three shots from his breech-loading carbine that caused the Indians to lie low. The three men rode to the ranch, and Mr. Hopkins and his three workmen accompanied them to bring in the body of Mr. Hamilton. The Indians did not begin to concentrate at the creek until after the burial. Supper being over, the boys and I were getting into our blankets for the rest of the night, when Mr. Hudson, who had been preparing to depart, came to bid us good-bye. "I seem to take frequent leave of you, these times, lieutenant," he said. "Yes; and your farewell ride with the Whipple mail so far seems to have been anything but monotonous. I think the _Anabasis_ would be a more suitable subject of study on this route than the _Memorabilia_." "'Hence they proceeded one day's journey, a distance of five parasangs, and fell in with the barbarians,' might well be said of this trip, for a fact." "Hadn't you better travel with me the rest of the way?" "I think we have seen the last of the Apaches. They do not range south and west of here. Good-bye, sir." "Good-bye, until we meet at Tyson's Wells." The next morning, when the boys, Vic, and I were taking our places in the ambulance, Mr. Hopkins and his men, Mr. Gray and Mr. Rosenberg, approached us mounted. They informed me that they were going to La Paz. "The Ingins are gettin' a little too thick here," observed the ranchman. "I find it diffikilt to git proper rest after a hard day's work. Think I'll stay away until Uncle Sam's boys thin 'em out a little more." "Can I obtain a five or ten gallon keg of you, Mr. Hopkins?" I asked. "Ours was accidentally smashed on the road." "Haven't a keg to my name, lieutenant. One way 'n' ernuther all's been smashed, give away, or lent." The ride from the ranch to the edge of the desert plain was twelve miles, a portion of it over a rugged ridge. To the point where we were to ford the creek was two miles, and there the hired men, pack-mules, and ranch cattle turned off on the Bill Williams Fork route to the Rio Colorado. Once on the level of the Xuacaxélla our team broke into a brisk trot, and we rolled along with a fair prospect of soon crossing the one hundred miles between Date Creek and La Paz. Messrs. Gray, Rosenberg, and Hopkins shortly turned into a bridle-path which led into a mine. Before taking leave of us Mr. Gray told me that my camping-place for the night would be at the point of the third mountain-spur which jutted into the plain from the western range. We had not travelled long before we realized our misfortune in having smashed our water-keg. Each individual in our party possessed a three-pint army canteen, which had been filled when we forded the creek in the early dawn. These were to last us until evening, through an exceedingly sultry day. Frank, Henry, and I did our best to overcome our desire for water, but the younger boy could not refuse the appeals of Vic, when she looked up with lolling tongue and beseeching eyes to the canteens. The men were the greatest sufferers, unless I except their horses. Long before mid-day their canteens were empty and their mouths so dry that articulation was difficult and they rarely spoke. At five we arrived opposite the third spur, where we found a wand sticking in the ground and holding in its cleft end a slip of paper. It proved to be a note from Mr. Hudson, saying that this was the place to camp, and the Black Tanks were on the southern side of the spur, three miles distant. In a few minutes, with the horses and mules divested of saddles, bridles, and harnesses, leaving two men behind to guard the property and collect fuel for a fire, we were on the way to water. Hurrying along, we saw before us a long, irregular range, apparently three thousand feet in height, which had been cleft from summit to base as if by a wedge. In this rent we found water--water deposited in a natural reservoir by the periodical rainfalls in millions of gallons, a reservoir never known to be dry. Climbing over the dike which enclosed the main deposit, we descended to the cistern, filled our cups, and swallowed the contents without taking a breath. When we dipped up a second, Tom Clary looked into the depths of his cup with knitted brows. "Whist, now, sergeant laddies!" he exclaimed. "Look into the wather! It's aloive with wigglers of ivery variety. They're 's plinty as pays in a soup." "Ugh! And we are full of them, too, Tom," said Henry, looking into his cup with narrow-eyed anxiety. Pausing in the act of taking a second drink, I looked into my cup, and saw that it contained myriads of animalcula and larvæ, which zigzagged from side to side in the liveliest manner. "Will they hurt us, Tom?" questioned Henry. "I rickon they've got the worst of it, sergeant laddie; but I think I'd fale a bit aisier if I was blindfolded or takin' a drink in the dark. I prefer me liquid refrishment with a little less mate, not to minshin its bein' less frisky." We had come to the Cisternas Negras with towels, intending to wash off the dust of travel. We now used one of them to strain the water, and were astonished to see that each gallon left behind it a plump spoonful of animalcula. The water was sweet, but, after discovering the abundant life in it, we deferred drinking more of it until it had been boiled. As we pursued the narrow path to camp in single file, we noticed Vic a considerable distance to the right, scouting and nosing about in an earnest manner. Evidently she thought she had made an important discovery, for she several times paused and looked in our direction and barked. But we were too hungry to investigate, and soon she disappeared from our view. When we reached the ambulance the boys put a few cakes of hard bread in their pockets, and, taking their shot-guns, went out to look for some "cottontails" while supper was being prepared. Believing we were well out of the range of hostile Indians, I did not object to their going alone. They passed a considerable distance beyond the growth of _Cereus giganteus_, over a level stretch covered with knee-high bunch-grass and desert weeds, without seeing a hare. Pausing on the brink of a shoal, dry ravine, they stood side by side, and rested the butts of their guns upon the ground. Just then a shout of "Supper! supper!" came from the group at the camp-fire. "Hate to go back without anything," said Frank, so I afterwards heard. "Strange we can't see a rabbit now, when we saw dozens on the way to the Tanks." "That's because we didn't have a gun," said Henry. "You don't believe the rabbits knew we weren't armed then and know we are now?" "Hunters tell bigger stories than that about 'Brer Rabbit.' Not one has bobbed up since we got our guns." Suddenly from the flat surface of the plain, not twenty yards from where the boys stood, where nothing but bunch-grass and low shrubbery grew, sixteen Indians sprang up to full height, like so many Jacks-in-a-box. XIV ON THE DESERT WITHOUT WATER The boys were frightened. Their hearts leaped into their throats, and it was difficult for them to restrain an impulse to turn and run; but a soldierly instinct brought them to a "ready," with eyes fixed upon the probable enemy. "Quick, Henry! shoot!" exclaimed Frank, intending to reserve his own fire. The younger sergeant raised his double-barrelled shot-gun to his shoulder and pulled both triggers. Down went the sixteen Indians as if the bird-shot had been fatal to all. The plain became in an instant as objectless as it was a moment before. "Load, Henry, and, backward, march!" said Frank, ready to fire whenever a head showed above the grass, and at the same time moving as rapidly as possible towards the camp-fire. "How! how! how!" was chorused from the direction of the Indians, and several naked brown arms were stretched upward, holding rifles horizontally in the air. "That means peace," said Henry. "They aren't going to fire. Let's answer. How! how! how!" "How! how! how!" Frank joined in, and at once the sixteen redmen sprang to their feet, apparently none the worse for Henry's double charge of bird-shot at short range. They held their weapons above their heads, and continuing to utter their friendly "How!" rapidly advanced towards the boys. "They aren't playing us a trick, are they, Frank?" asked Henry, in an anxious tone. "No," replied the elder boy, after snatching a glance to the rear. "The lieutenant and soldiers are saddling. The Indians dare not harm us on an open plain in sight of a mounted force." The boys stopped, and the redmen came up and began shaking hands in a most friendly manner, over and over again, repeating "How!" many times. They were clad in loose and sleeveless cotton shirts, all ragged and dirty, with no other clothing. The one who appeared to be chief was distinguished by the possession of three shirts, worn one above the other. Each man possessed several hares and field-rats, held against his waist by tucking the heads under his belt. The boy sergeants and their strange guests reached the camp-fire, and the hand-shaking and exchange of amicable civilities went on for some time. The chief approached me and, placing a finger on one of my shoulder-straps, asked, in mongrel Spanish: "Usted capitan?" (Are you the captain?) I replied in the affirmative. "Yo capitan, tambien; mucho grande heap capitan." (I'm a captain, too; a very great heap captain.) He then asked where we were from and where we were going, and informed us that they were Yavapais on a hunting expedition. We exchanged hard bread with them for a few cottontails, and set Clary to making a rabbit-stew, the boys and I deferring our supper until it should be ready. "Oh, Mr. Duncan," shouted Henry from the direction of the Indians, a few moments later, "come and see what these creatures are doing!" I left the ambulance and joined the group of soldiers who stood in a circle about an inner circle of seated Indians. Each Yavapai had selected a rat from the collection in his belt, and had laid it on the coals without dressing it or in any way disturbing its anatomy. He rolled the rat over once or twice, and took it up and brushed and blew off the singed hair. He placed it again on the coals for a moment, and, taking it up, pinched off the charred fore legs close to the body and the hind legs at the ham-joint. Replacing it on the fire, he turned it over a few more times. Picking it up for the third time, he held it daintily in the palm of his left hand, and with the fingers of his right plucked off the flesh and put it in his mouth. When we were making our beds ready for the night, Vic, whom we had forgotten in the exciting events of the evening, trotted into camp and laid a horseshoe in Henry's lap. The lad took it up, and exclaimed: "One of Chiquita's shoes!--a left hind shoe!" "How do you know?" I asked. "Private Sattler always shaped the heel of the left shoe like this, to correct a fault in her gait." "May I look at the shoe, sergeant?" asked Corporal Duffey, approaching from the group of men near the guard's fire. "Shoes are like hand-writing--no two blacksmiths make them alike. I am a blacksmith by trade, and know all the shoes made by the smiths of our regiment. This," examining it, "is one of Sattler's. He put a side-weight on it, and here is the bevel-mark of his hammer." "Then our ponies have certainly passed here, and Vic was on their trail when we saw her coming from the Tanks," remarked Frank; "but there could have been no scent after so long a time." "Oh, she knows Sancho's and Chiquita's tracks," asseverated Henry; "she knows their halters, bridles, and will bring them when told to, without mistake." The sentinel awakened us next morning at four o'clock, and informed us that the Indians had left two hours before. The animals were again driven to the Tanks, the vessels and canteens filled, and at six o'clock we were on the road. Nearly all our water was used in the preparation of breakfast, except that in the canteens. It would have been better if we had made a third trip to the cisterns and refilled our coffee-pot and camp-kettles; but the delay necessary to do it, and the assurance that there was water at Hole-in-the-Plain, determined me to go on at once. The weather was a repetition of that of the previous day--hot and windless. The road proved generally smooth, but there were occasional long stretches over which it was impossible to drive faster than a walk. About four in the afternoon we reached Hole-in-the-Plain, and found nothing but a few hundred square yards of thin mud. The fierce rays of the sun had nearly evaporated every vestige of the recent rainfall, and in twenty-four hours more the mud would be baked earth. Vic, consumed with thirst and suffering in the extreme heat, waded into the mud and rolled in it until she was the color of a fresh adobe, and was, in consequence, made to ride thereafter in disgrace on the driver's foot-board. We had intended to pass the night at the Hole, but want of water compelled us to move on. Very gloomy and doubtful of the outcome, we left the Hole-in-the-Plain. We were toiling slowly up a slope, nearly a dozen miles on this third stage of the desert route, when a horseman overtook us, who proved to be Mr. Gray. He slowed up, listened to my account of our perplexities, and after saying many hopeful and cheering things, telling us that Tyson's Wells were now not far ahead, he galloped swiftly away in the darkness. At midnight the road ascended to a considerably higher level and became suddenly hard and smooth. The driver urged the team into a series of brief and spasmodic trots, which lasted a couple of hours, when we again descended to a lower level, where the wearily slow gait was resumed. With the slower pace our spirits fell and our thirst increased. As Private Tom Clary expressed it to the driver: "In a place like this a gallon of Black Tanks water would be acciptible without a strainer, and no reflictions passed upon the wigglers." "That's so, Tom," called Henry, from the depths of his blankets; "I could drink two quarts of it--half and half." "Half and half--what do you mean?" I asked. "Half water and half wigglers," was the answer. "I thought you were asleep." "Can't sleep, sir; I'm too thirsty. Did drop off once for two or three minutes, and dreamed of rivers, waterfalls, springs, and wells that I could not reach." "I've not slept at all," said Frank; "just been thinking whether I ever rode over a mile in Vermont without crossing a brook or passing a watering-trough." "It's beginning to grow light in the east," observed the driver. "By the time we reach the top of the next roll we can see whether we are near the Wells." "You may stop the team, Marr," said I; "we will wait for the escort to close up." We got out to stretch our legs, while the straggling soldiers slowly overtook us. The man on the wounded bronco did not arrive until the edge of the sun peeped above the horizon, and I ordered him to remove the saddle and bridle, hitch the animal behind the ambulance, and take a seat beside the driver. Just when we were about to start again, Frank asked permission to run ahead with the field-glass to the rising ground and look for Tyson's Wells. I consented, and told him to signal us if he saw them, and that if he did not we would halt, turn out, and send the least worn of the escort ahead for relief. Frank started, and presently disappeared behind some brush at a turn in the road. An instant later he shouted and screamed at the top of his voice. Whether he was shouting with joy or terror, or had gone out of his senses, we were unable to guess. It sounded like "Who-o-o-op! water! water! water!" Had the boy seen a mirage and gone mad? We could see nothing but the broad hollow about us, barren and dry as ever. But still the boy continued to shout, "Water! water!" and presently he appeared round the bend, running and holding up what appeared to be a letter. It was a letter. When Frank reached the ambulance tears were in his eyes as he handed me a yellow envelope. "Found it on the head of a barrel over there, with a stone on it to prevent it from blowing away." Breaking open the envelope with trembling fingers, I read: "TYSON'S WELLS. "DEAR LIEUTENANT.--Please accept four barrels of water and four bushels of corn, with my compliments. "GRAY." Need I confess the emotions with which we realized the service this brave Arizona merchant had done us? or need I mention that Mr. Gray--God bless him, wherever he may be!--is always remembered with gratitude by me? for this is no idle incident invented to amuse a reader, but an actual occurrence. Water!--four barrels!--one hundred and sixty gallons! That meant two gallons for every man and boy, and eight gallons for each animal. It meant rest, speed, safety. We moved across the ravine and found the four barrels by the road-side. The animals were secured to the ambulance and the acacia bushes, the heads of the barrels removed, and after each person had satisfied his thirst the camp kettles were used, until horses and mules had drunk the contents of one each. The stock was then turned out to graze. When coffee was poured, Private Tom Clary arose, and, holding up his tin cup, said to his comrades: "Here's a toast to be drunk standin', b'ys, and for many raysons, which I think nade not be explained to this assimbly, I'm glad to drink it in a decoction whose principal ingraydiant is wather. Here's to Mr. Gray, whose conduct at Soldiers' Holes, at Date Creek, and on the Walkerhelyer has won our admiration. May he niver lack for the liquid he has so ginerously dispinsed, nor a soft hand to smooth his last pillow, and plinty of masses for the repose of his sowl!" Frank and Henry sprang towards the circle of soldiers, raised their cups as Clary finished his sentiment, and joined in the hearty response when he closed. At one o'clock the animals were caught up, given the remainder of the water and their portion of the corn, and got ready for the road. Once up the slope Marr cracked his whip, the mules started into a trot, the horses of the escort broke into a canter, and amid the cheerful clatter of hoofs and the rattle of wheels we sped on our way as fresh as if we were just leaving Fort Whipple. A ride of twenty miles brought us to Tyson's Wells. These were two in number, sunk at an intersection of several roads leading to settlements and mines, an accommodation to trains, flocks, and herds, and a profit to the owner. I learned from Colonel Tyson that immediately upon his arrival Mr. Gray had hired a wagon to take water and corn to us. He had bargained for the driver to go until he met us, but the man being prepaid may account for his not fulfilling his agreement to the letter. The rest of the day and night was spent at the Wells, the boys and I taking our supper at the Desert Hotel, kept by the colonel. At the table, Henry, in a tone of evident anxiety, asked if we should return the way we came. "Yes, if we can find a few kegs in La Paz that will hold water," I answered. "But we cannot haul kegs enough in the ambulance to supply the animals." "It will not be difficult. We will follow the army custom in such cases, and I will promise you that there will be no suffering from thirst when we cross the desert again." Just as we were preparing for bed Mr. Hudson arrived from La Paz. He informed me that Texas Dick and Jumping Jack were there and in possession of the ponies; that there was to be a horse-race the day after to-morrow, and the ponies had been entered. At this news the boy sergeants became much excited, and proposed a dozen impracticable ways of going on at once and seizing their property. Hudson said he had talked the matter over with Mr. Gray, and the merchant had advised that we give out a report in La Paz that we were there on the transportation and storehouse business only, and make no immediate attempt to capture the ponies. He said the town was full of the friends of the horse-thieves, and that our movements would be closely watched and reported to them. If they became alarmed they would probably run across the Mexican boundary at once. "But why cannot we attend the race with the escort, as spectators, and seize them?" asked Frank. "That is a move they will be sure to be looking for. If any of you go to the race, I believe neither of those men nor the ponies will be there." I told Hudson to return to La Paz before daylight and circulate the report that I was coming for the purpose he had mentioned. I also requested him to watch Jack and Dick, and if he saw them making preparations for flight to come and meet me. We were met on the outskirts of the town by Mr. Gray, who told us we were to be his guests during our stay, and that his corral and store-rooms were at the service of my men and stock. Going directly to the house of the hospitable trader, we found it to consist of well-furnished bachelor quarters, with several spare rooms for guests. The boys were assigned a room by themselves, and I one adjoining them, in which we found ample evidence that our host had looked forward with pleasure to our visit and had fully understood boyish needs and desires. Henry, after exchanging his travelling-dress for a neat uniform, appeared upon the veranda with glowing face and shining hair. "Mr. Gray, how pleasant you have made our room for us! Have you any boys of your own?" he asked. "Only two nephews, Sandy and Malcolm, in the 'Land of Cakes,'" was the reply. "What a good uncle you must be to them!" "Thank you, laddie. I hope the bairns are as fine boys as you and your brother." "You are very kind to say so, sir. May I ask you a question?" "A dozen, laddie. What is it?" "When you overtook us on the desert you said it was not far to Tyson's Wells, and that we should soon be there." "Ah! then you thought it a long way, sergeant?" "Perhaps my terrible thirst had something to do with it, but it seemed more than twenty-five miles. I thought you had a queer notion of distances." "Only a little deception to keep up your heart, laddie. I saw you were in sad need of water, and I made a hard ride to send it to you, but I wanted you to do your best to meet it. What do you think of the shrinking properties of water when applied to a desert road?" "Wasn't it great, though! Those last twenty miles your four barrels shrank into nothing but a pleasant three hours' ride." After dinner Mr. Hudson reported that he had dropped information at the hotels and business places that we were here to meet a director of the Colorado Navigation Company. We also learned from him that the steamer _Cocopah_ had arrived that morning from up-river, and was now lying at her landing, one mile below town, awaiting the return of the director from Wickenburg. Both Mr. Gray and Hudson were of the opinion that the horse-thieves were suspicious of our presence, for their agents had been unable to locate the ponies at any stable in town. The horse-race was advertised to come off on the afternoon of the following day, half a mile below the steamboat-landing, and Texas Dick and Juan Brincos had entered horses for the stakes. Mr. Gray thought the appearance of the ponies in the race would depend entirely upon what course we pursued. If we attended the race the ponies would not be there; if we stayed away he had no doubt they would run. Believing the trader's convictions to be correct, I instructed the escort not to go south of the town during the day of the races, and told Frank and Henry to amuse themselves about the streets or in the vicinity of Mr. Gray's residence. I then started with our host to procure a building for a military storehouse. For the rest of the day the boys showed little disposition to wander about; they spent most of their time lounging on their beds with a book, or asleep. XV THE PONIES ARE FOUND The following day the boy sergeants rose from their beds fully refreshed, and after breakfast began to explore the town. They made some purchases in the stores, and found much amusement in watching a bevy of Mojave Indian girls buying pigments to be used in adorning their necks, arms, and faces. Following the bronze maidens to the shore of a lagoon that backed up to the town from the river, they seated themselves beneath a cottonwood and witnessed the designing of tracings in many colors, made with endless and musical chatterings, accompanied by an evident consciousness that they were objects of interest to two pale-face boys. After completing the tinting the girls would walk about for a while and display their work to admiring friends, and then plunge into and swim about the lagoon with the ease and grace of a lot of mermaids; emerging with no trace left of their recent ornamentation, they would proceed to renew it in different designs, and take another swim. "Quite like watering-place belles with extensive wardrobes," remarked Frank. "And takes about as long to put on the paint as to put on a fashionable dress," said Henry, "but not so long to remove it." Another thing that amused the boys was a _balsa_, or raft, made by the Mojaves, of the cane-grass which grew in the river-bottoms to the height of fifteen feet. A large bundle bound at the ends with grass ropes would sustain two men. The boys borrowed one of an Indian girl, who was sitting in the shade of some willows prinking herself artistically with an original and intricate pigmentary pattern. Stepping on board, they paddled about the lagoon for a considerable period. Tiring at last of the sport, they separated, Frank saying that he was going for his shot-gun, and perhaps shoot for some quail, and Henry that he meant to find Tom Clary and set some lines for catfish. The younger sergeant failing to find the soldier, selected a line, and, procuring some bait, returned alone to the lagoon. On his way he met the Indian girl walking along the sidewalk, an object of admiration and envy to the men and women of her people. Her bronze flesh was adorned with a lacelike tracery of beautiful design, in many tints. "How exceedingly pretty!" said Henry, in Spanish, a language fairly well understood by the aborigines of the Southwest. "I, or my paint?" asked the girl, coquettishly. "The paint is well put on; but I think you prettiest just after a swim." "Thank you, señor." "May I use the balsa again, Indita?" "Si, señor, and you may keep it, but return the paddle." "Thank you. I will leave the paddle on the shore where you were sitting." With this exchange of civilities Henry walked down to the pool. An idea had occurred to him. He wondered if he could not float down the river to the racing-ground and get a peep at Sancho and Chiquita, as they came in victors. He felt sure no ponies in Arizona could outrun them. But Mr. Duncan had told the escort not to go to the race. True; but what harm could there be if he kept out of sight? Placing an empty box on the raft for a seat, he took Vic on board, and began paddling out of the lagoon. Speed could not be made with such a craft; it was simply a convenience for crossing or journeying down the river. The Mojaves, whose village was five miles above La Paz, came down on freshly made _balsas_ every day, but walked home, carrying their paddles. Once well out of the lagoon, and in the river-current, the boy and dog were swept along at a swift rate. A mile down the shore he saw a crowd of men, mounted and on foot, intently watching something inland. He was approaching the race-course. He made a landing on a sand-spit that struck off from an outward curve of the bank, and dragged the _balsa_ out of the water. The shore rose abruptly from the bar to a height two feet above his head. He lifted and boosted Vic up, and seizing the long tufts of overhanging grass and thrusting his feet into the loops of willow roots, drew himself to the higher level and crept into a screen of low bushes. Peering through the branches, Henry saw a straight-away course, parallel to the river, bordered for three hundred yards with the motley crowd of a mining and Indian country. At the northern end of the course was a group of ten ponies, out of which he found no difficulty in discovering two, a black and a cream-color, and recognizing in them the property of his brother and himself. In his opinion they were the handsomest animals in the group. At the fourth signal--a pistol-shot--the ponies got away. Down the three-hundred-yard track they sped, and over the last fourth the black and cream-color led by a length, crossing the goal with Sancho half a neck in advance. Of course the little sergeant knew they would beat, and in spite of his sorrow at the loss of his ponies--intensified by this stolen sight of them--he could not refrain from clapping his hands and saying, aloud, "Bravo, Sancho! Bravita, Chiquita!" The subdued cheer was promptly answered by a succession of barks at the foot of the tree, and Vic, interpreting the boy's clapping and speech to mean that she was free to go, dashed off at the top of her speed for the race-course, and to its southern end, where the victors were now held by their dismounted riders. Vic bounded wildly about them for a few moments, and then, standing still, Henry saw each horse in turn place its nose to the dog's nose. One of the men struck the dog sharply with the loop of his bridle-rein, and as she fled back in the direction of the tree in which the boy was, he saw the riders hold a brief consultation and then follow the dog. Henry, perceiving he was discovered, let himself down from the tree. Texas Dick and Jumping Jack approached. "Ven acá, muchacho" (Come here, boy), said the Mexican. Henry did not stir, and Dick said to his companion, in Spanish: "He does not understand your lingo. I will try him in English: Come here, boy." Henry had not disregarded Juan's summons for any particular reason, but the remark of Dick gave him an idea. By pretending ignorance of Spanish he might learn something that would be of advantage to him. Accordingly, he came forward when Dick spoke. "From Fort Whipple, ain't yer, sonny?" "I am." "D' ye know these critters?" "The black is my brother's, the light is mine." "Lookin' on 'em up, I s'pect?" "We shall take them, if we can." "You see, I was right," continued Dick to his companion, in Spanish. "They came here to take these horses." "Then we better call for the prize, collect our stakes, and leave," said Juan. "Where shall we go?" asked Dick. "Arizona's getting uncomfortable for me, and your kin across the Mexican line don't love you." "Valgame Dios, no! Let's cross the river and go to San Diego or Los Angeles." "Estar bueno. Come with us, youngster," he added, in English; "and mind ye keep a quiet tongue in yer head or ye'll have no head to wag it in after ye've spoke." Henry followed the men to the head of the race-course, where they received their prizes and winnings, and withdrew to the river-bank. There they divided the money and held a conference. "We'd better cross the river to-night and camp at El Rincon until morning, and then strike for Dos Palmas and the coast." "Shall we leave our monte and other stuff in town?" asked Juan. "No; you stay here and take care of the boy, and I'll go back and sell out. Anastacio Barela will buy. Look sharp that the young soldier does not send a message by his dog. I heard lots of strange stories of her performances in that line at Prescott. I will bring down something for our supper and the road." Dick galloped away, leaving the Mexican and Henry to await his return. As the twilight deepened into darkness the boy's thoughts grew more and more despondent. He now fully and sadly realized that his disobedience of orders had brought disgrace upon himself, and ruined every chance of recovering the ponies, for once the thieves got well away they were secure from capture. It was night when Dick returned and told the Mexican that he had made an advantageous sale of their gambling outfit. "Now, kid, ye kin slope," he said, addressing the disheartened lad. "Tell the lieutenant that he kin look for us at Hermosilla, on the other side of the Mexican bound'ry. Good-bye." Henry hurried away towards La Paz, with Vic close at his heels. There was no occasion for haste, for he felt that nothing in the town could overtake the lost Sancho and Chiquita; still he hurried and stumbled on in the darkness. "Oh, Vicky," said the boy, in his misery, stooping to caress his companion, "I ought to be court-martialled and dishonorably discharged from the service for this. I have done very wrong. I have lost our ponies for good." The dog licked his hand sympathetically, and then suddenly bounded away, barking, and Henry heard Frank's voice say: "Why, Tom, here's Vic!" "Thin Sargint Hinery must be near," said the soldier. "Yes, I'm here, Frank--and oh, Frank, I'm in such trouble!" And in a curiously jumbled and half-incoherent manner Henry related his afternoon's experience. At the conclusion of the recital the three held a consultation as to what was best to be done. Time was precious, and the town was nearly two miles distant. "Sargints," said Private Tom Clary, "I belave we can do bist by oursilves. Me afthernoon's lave ixpires at tattoo, but if, as me shuparior officers, ye'll allow me to be out of camp a bit longer, I think we can sarcumvint the thaves." "We'll do our best to get you excused by the lieutenant," said Frank. "Thank you, sargint laddie. You say the grass-boat is near by, Sargint Hinery?" "Not far from here, Tom. Just west of the middle of the race-course." "And the thaves are going to camp and cook their supper on the other side?" "So they said." "Thin we'll attimpt to interfare with their arrangemints. I think the liftinint will commind an 'absence without lave' if we bring in the raskils and the ponies." The soldier and boys turned, and, bidding Vic keep close to them, hurried to the bar where Henry had left the gift of the Mojave belle. As they were lifting the elastic raft into the water they heard the voices of men on the river, accompanied by the splashing of water, and knew that the horse-thieves were fording the stream. The Colorado was shoal, having an average autumnal depth of four feet at La Paz. Clary secured two poles from the river débris lodged on the bar, one for Frank and one for himself. Henry sat on the box in the middle, holding his companions' guns across his lap with one hand, and grasping Vic's collar with the other. The well-filled game-bags lay between his feet. The _balsa_ moved slowly towards the opposite shore and swiftly down-stream, the stalwart Irish soldier's feet settling into the loosely bound stems as he poled. Becoming alarmed when he found the water standing above his ankles, he called, in a subdued undertone: "Sargint Frank, I belave I shall go through the bottom of this l'aky craft before we git across." "Take Henry's paddle, Tom; it lies on the right side of the box. Lay it across the reeds and stand on it." "Ah, sure and that's betther. Kape yer ind a little more up-strame, sargint. We'll steer by the avening star." In a few minutes the _balsa_ lodged against the shore in the still water of a little cove. The boys and soldier were aware that they were landing some miles below their starting-point, for the current was strong and swift, while the horse-thieves had forded the river almost in a direct line. They climbed the bank, and ordering Vic to keep close by them, began to move as fast as possible up the shore. They had made their way for nearly an hour over a rough and miry river-bottom when the setter showed sudden excitement and began sniffing to the right and left. "She must have struck their path from the river to their camping-place, Tom," said Frank. "Look sharp, Vicky, look sharp!" "But she seems to be working up-stream," said Henry. "I should think they would have gone straight inland." "There's an excillint rayson for that, sargint laddie," returned Clary. "One of the routes t' th' coast begins exactly opposite th' town, and they must go up-strame to foind it; El Rincon the landing-place is called." "The Corner?" "Yis, Th' Corner. Th' shore binds out there a wee bit." Man and boys continued to struggle along, until across a level, grassless plot they saw, near a clump of cottonwoods, a fire, where Texas Dick and Jumping Jack were plainly visible, cooking their supper. On the side of the fire opposite the river were two saddles, upon which rested their rifles and revolvers. Still farther west the two ponies were picketed and grazing. Clary told Henry to go to the ponies and stay there with Vic, while he and Frank crept upon the thieves. Screening themselves behind tufts and swells, and lastly behind the saddles, they worked across the level, the sound of their moving being covered by the booming and rushing of the mighty river. When within twenty yards of the fire and five from the saddles, Private Tom Clary sprang to his feet, aimed his double-barrelled shot-gun at the thieves, and shouted: "Throw up your arrums!" At the same instant Frank made a flying leap for the saddles, and seized the rifles and revolvers. Henry ran forward and assisted his brother in keeping Dick and Juan under the muzzles of their own rifles, while Clary securely bound them. This accomplished, the boys went back for a moment to renew their acquaintance with their horses. Yes, the chase was over, and their favorites were again in their possession; and it cannot appear strange that the young soldiers went into boyish ecstasies of delight at their good-fortune, embracing, patting, and talking to Sancho and Chiquita as if they understood all that was said to them. But at last they joined Clary at the fire, and the three, while they continued to carry on the interrupted cooking of their captives, discussed ways and means of returning to La Paz, and it was decided to send the setter with a message. A note was pencilled on a page of Frank's diary, attached to Vic's collar, and she was taken to the river-bank and given a stick, with orders to deliver it to her master. With but little hesitation she plunged into the murky current, and soon disappeared in the darkness in the direction of the other shore. While the boy sergeants were going through these adventures I remained in La Paz. At retreat and tattoo roll-calls Corporal Duffey had reported Private Clary absent, adding the words "and unaccounted for," and at Mr. Gray's table the boys were absent from supper. At first I gave myself no anxiety over the absentees, but at midnight, becoming alarmed, I began a search for them. I soon learned that Henry had been seen to paddle out of the lagoon on a Mojave _balsa_, accompanied by Vic, and that Frank and Clary had gone quail-shooting. I did not feel especially anxious about the older boy, for he was in the company of one of the most trustworthy of our veteran soldiers, and would probably soon turn up safe. But Henry--gone down the turbulent river on a frail bundle of grass--what might I not fear? I led all the men of the detail--every one of them as anxious as myself--on a long and fruitless search beside the river, without coming upon a clew. Returning to Mr. Gray's, and dismissing the men, I sat upon the veranda alone, sadly reflecting upon the absence of my young companions and Vic. In the midst of my sad reflections there scrambled up the steps a wet and bedraggled dog, who dropped at my feet a chip. Carrying her in my arms to my room, I lighted a lamp and examined her collar, and found a few leaves of a memorandum-book covered with Frank's hand-writing. The news of Vic's arrival with a message spread quickly, and soon the household was gathered in my room and in possession of the news of the exploit of the boys and Tom Clary. "Good! good!" exclaimed the director of the Navigation Company. "Come with me to the _Cocopah_. We'll steam across and get the whole party." On the western shore of the Colorado, Private Tom Clary and the boy sergeants sat by the fire broiling quail, which they seasoned from the supplies of Texas Dick and Juan Brincos, and accompanied by slices of toasted bread from the same source. In the midst of their enjoyment of "quail on toast" a loud "who-o-of! who-o-of! who-o-of!" came across the river. "Hullo!" said Henry; "the old _Cocopah_ is starting for the Gulf mighty early. I should think the pilot would find it difficult to keep off the shores when it is so dark." The boys could see by the boat's changing lights that her bow, which had been headed up-stream, when she lay at the bank, was swinging slowly out into the stream, and they expected shortly to see her starboard lights as she headed downward. But she seemed to pause, with her furnace fires and pilot lanterns pointing towards them. "Who-o-of! who-o-of! who-o-of!--patter, patter, patter." The noise of the steamer grew louder and louder, until the boys rose from their seats and stared in surprise at the rapidly growing lights. "I really believe she is coming here," said Frank. "She is, or she nades a dale of space to turn in," observed Private Tom. Presently two tall smoke-stacks separated themselves from the darkness and appeared high above their heads. "Ahoy there, boys!" shouted the captain's voice from the bridge. "Ay, ay, sir!" answered Frank. "Get ready to come on board! Below there--stand by to lower gang-plank! Now!--lower away!" Down came the plank, and a joyous group of friends walked down to the shore to greet the boys and the soldier. A few moments afterwards the boy sergeants led their ponies on board, and Private Tom Clary escorted the prisoners. The _Cocopah_ cleared away and paddled back to the La Paz side, where Texas Dick and Juan Brincos were turned over to the civil authorities, and Sancho and Chiquita to the escort in Mr. Gray's corral. Three days later the boys and I took leave of Mr. Hudson, who was now in charge of the government storehouse, and, accompanied by Mr. Gray, started for Fort Whipple. Hanging under the hind axle of the ambulance was a ten-gallon keg, and inside was another. We left La Paz early in the morning and arrived at Tyson's Wells at nine o'clock. Remaining there until six o'clock in the evening, we watered our animals, and with freshly filled kegs started for Hole-in-the-Plain, where we stayed until the following evening, the animals passing the day on grass without water. A second night-drive brought us to Cisternas Negras, and the third to Date Creek, from which last point we resumed travelling by daylight. At Skull Valley, at the earnest request of Miss Brenda Arnold, Henry was allowed to remain for a few days' visit. He promised to join the next incoming mail-rider, and to ride back to the fort by way of the mountain-trail. XVI APACHES IN SKULL VALLEY It was near midnight, four days after my return from La Paz, that I sat by my open fire, absorbed in a recently published popular novel. I was suddenly aroused by a distant and rapid clatter of horse's feet. The sound came distinctly through the loop-holes in the outer wall of the room--loop-holes made for rifles and left open for ventilation. Dropping my book upon the table, I listened intently to the hoof-beats. Some one was riding from the direction of Prescott, evidently in great haste; and Arizona being a country of alarms, I surmised that the rider was coming to the fort. The horseman stopped at the great gates. "Halt! Who comes there?" rang out the voice of Private Tom Clary, who was sentinel No. 1, stationed at the post entrance. "Sargint Hinery, is it you, laddie?" the voice continued, in a lower and gentler tone. "Yes, Tom; and, oh, tell Mr. Duncan, quick, that--" "Whist! Take care, laddie! Howld on a bit!" and a rifle fell clattering to the ground and two solid feet sprang forward with a rush. Hearing this, I started for the secret postern, and as I opened my door, heard the honest old soldier shout: "Corpril uv th' guard, No. 1!" and, in a lower and appealing tone: "Liftinint, if ye hear me, come quick to the little sargint. I fear th' dear b'y is dyin'." In an instant I was through the narrow gate-way, standing beside a group of the guard that surrounded Clary, who, kneeling beside a panting and reeking pony, held the inanimate form of Henry Burton in his arms. "Corpril Duffey, will ye let one uv the b'ys walk me bate a minate till I can take the laddie in?" asked Tom. "Yes, Clary, go ahead, and stay as long as you're needed," was the kindly answer. "Is it to your room I'll be takin' him, sor?" asked Clary, rising and holding his burden across his breast. "Of course, and place him on my bed. Corporal Duffey, send a man for the surgeon and hospital steward, and send another with the pony to the stable." It was too dark to take in details, but I noticed Chiquita was utterly exhausted, and that she was covered with foam. Following Clary to my room, I saw, when the light fell upon Henry's face, that his right cheek and neck were bleeding, and that his left arm hung unnaturally limp by the bearer's side. We placed him upon the bed, and Surgeon Coues, who had now arrived and pronounced the boy to be simply in a faint from loss of blood and over-exertion, applied restoratives and brought him back to consciousness. As Henry's eyelids raised, and he recognized me, he said, weakly: "Oh, Mr. Duncan, tell Captain Bayard the Indians have attacked Mr. Arnold's ranch, and that Mrs. Arnold is dead!" "Indians attacked the ranch! When?" "About four o'clock." "How many?" "Don't know. Seemed as if there were over a hundred. And don't stop to worry over me. Don't stop an instant--these scratches are nothing--but send the soldiers, quick, or Brenda and all will be killed!" "How did you get away from the ranch? But you are right, this is no time for talk." I aroused the other officers instantly, and sent Frank to his brother. All assembled in my quarters, and, while the surgeon dressed the wounds in cheek and neck and set a fractured radius, orders for an expedition to Skull Valley were issued, and Henry told his story. At the time this incident occurred the Californians had been mustered out of service and returned to their distant homes, and the garrison at Fort Whipple consisted of infantry only. But there were many "dough-boys" who were good riders, and a number of excellent horses were kept by the quartermaster for emergencies which required speed and short service. Captain Bayard gave orders for a sergeant, three corporals, and twenty-two privates to be got in readiness for mounted service, with rations for five days. The command was given to me, and Private Tom Clary immediately applied to be relieved from guard in order to accompany me. His request was granted. Sergeant Frank concluded to remain with his brother. "I know it is rough on you, Frankie," said Henry, "not to have a chance to win a few scars, too; but I should be dreadfully worried if you were to go, and I'm worried enough about Brenda now. You must stay with me." And so it was settled, and Frank remained behind, lending his pony Sancho to Private Clary. During all this preparation, dressing of wounds, and setting of fractures, Henry had managed to give us an account of what had happened at Skull Valley before he left. I will, however, repeat it a little more connectedly, with additions obtained later from other parties. After I left Sergeant Henry in the valley, as I passed through there from the Xuacaxélla, he had for three days devoted himself to the amusement of his young hostess, Brenda, and her cousins. There were many reasons why the Arnolds were not fearing an attack at the time, the principal one being that the Indians had recently been defeated at Date Creek. With that affair they seemed to have withdrawn, and no signs of them had been seen since. Near the close of the afternoon of the fourth day of Henry's visit a party of forty-one Apaches had suddenly appeared, and had spent an hour or more reconnoitring the valley and its approaches. Apparently becoming satisfied that they would not be interrupted in their attack by outside parties, they began active operations by collecting the Arnold cattle and horses, and placing them in charge of two of their number near the spring. Next they fired one of the out-buildings, and under cover of the smoke gained entrance to a second, which stood less than a hundred feet from the north side of the house. Knocking the mud and chips from between the logs here and there, they were enabled to open fire upon the settlers at short range. With the first appearance of the Indians, Mr. Arnold, assisted by two travellers who had arrived that afternoon from Date Creek on their way to Prescott, closed the windows and doorways with heavy puncheon shutters, removed the stops from the loop-holes, directed the girls to carry provisions and property into the earthwork, got the arms and ammunition ready, and awaited further demonstrations. The available defensive force consisted of every member of the family, including Sergeant Henry Burton and the two strangers. The mother and daughters had been taught the use of fire-arms by the husband and father, and Brenda had been taught by the boy sergeants. In an emergency like the one being narrated, where death and mutilation were sure to follow capture, the girls were nerved to do all that could have been expected of boys at their ages. Until the Apaches gained possession of the second out-building, few shots had been exchanged, and the besieged closely watched their movements through the loop-holes. It was while doing this that a bullet pierced the brain of Mrs. Arnold, and she fell dead in the midst of her family. The body of Mrs. Arnold was borne to the cellar by the sorrowing husband, accompanied by the weeping children. The firing became desultory and without apparent effect. Ball and arrow could not pierce the thick walls of the log-house; only through the loop-holes could a missile enter, and by rare good-fortune none of the defenders, after the first casualty, chanced to be in line when one did. The family again assembled in defence of their home and lives, the grave necessity of keeping off the impending danger banishing, in a measure, the thoughts of their bereavement. An ominous silence on the part of the Indians was broken at last by the swish of a blazing arrow to the roof. Mr. Arnold rushed to the garret, and with the butt of his rifle broke a hole in the covering and flung the little torch to the ground. But another and another burning arrow followed, and in spite of desperate and vigilant action the pine shingles burst into flames in several places. At this juncture Henry, whose station was on the south side of the house, approached Mr. Arnold and said: "Sir, I see Chiquita grazing near the spring, close to the edge of the willows, and the two Indians there with the herd keep well this way, watching the fight. If you think best, I will creep through the passage, mount, and ride to the fort for the soldiers." Mr. Arnold did not at once reply. He took a long look through a loop-hole towards the spring, and Henry, misinterpreting his silence, said: "Don't think I want to desert you, sir, and skip the ranch. I'll stay here and do my best with the others, but I thought, perhaps, if I could do it, I might save you all." "God bless ye, my boy; nobody can doubt yer fightin' 'bility; yer was born a soldier. I was only thinkin' yer chance uv gittin' by them two redskins at the spring's mighty small." "Then you think it a good plan?" "Yes; I'd like to have ye do it, if ye can." "Thank you, sir. I'll do my best." Then the lad passed around the rooms, taking the hand of each defender in farewell until he reached Brenda. As he took her hand in his right and fondly lay his left upon it, the young girl broke into uncontrollable sobbing, and, throwing her disengaged arm over his shoulder, said: "Oh, Henry! what a dear, brave boy you are! You never think of yourself, but always of your friends!" "I will bring the soldiers, Brenda, and you shall all be saved. Keep up a good heart." "But it is such a long ride, and even if you do get away, you may find us dead or captives when you return." "You must be brave, Brenda--no, not brave, for you are that already; but be patient. We are sure to be here before those fellows can take the little fort. That can be defended as long as the ammunition holds out." Then the boy kissed the pretty Brenda and her cousins, and dropped into the cellar. Passing into the earthwork, he selected his saddle and bridle from a heap of others, buckled on his spurs, dropped with bowed head upon his knees a moment, and crept into the passage leading to the spring. Groping his way between the narrow walls, he presently emerged through a natural crevice in a mass of bowlders near the spring. Standing in the screen of willows, he parted the branches cautiously in the direction of the two Indians, and saw them less than a hundred yards distant, standing with their backs towards him watching the Arnold house, the roof of which was now a roaring, leaping mass of flame. Closing the boughs again, Henry opened them in an opposite direction and crept softly up to Chiquita, holding out his hand to her. The docile pony raised her head, and, coming forward, placed her nose in his palm, submitting to be saddled and bridled without objection or noise. Leaping into the saddle, the boy drove his spurs into the animal's flanks, and was off at a furious run in the direction of Whipple. Startled by the hoof-beats, the Apaches looked back, and began running diagonally across the field to try to intercept the boy before he turned into the direct trail. Arrow after arrow flew after him, one wounding him in the neck and another in the cheek, and when the distance began to increase between him and his pursuers and they saw the boy was likely to get away, one raised his rifle and sent a bullet after him, which fractured the radius of his left arm. "Well, Chiquita," said Henry, as he turned fairly into the Prescott trail and had realized the exact nature of his injuries, "you haven't got a scratch, and are good for this run if I can hold out." It was dusk when Henry began his ride, and it rapidly grew darker as he hurried along the trail. Neither he nor the pony had been over it before. Twice he got off the trail, and long and miserable stretches of time elapsed in regaining it; but the fort was reached at last and the alarm given. XVII PURSUIT OF THE APACHES With twenty-eight men, including two scouts picked up as we passed through Prescott, and the post surgeon, I left for Skull Valley. The night was moonless, but the myriad stars shone brilliantly through the rarefied atmosphere of that Western region, lighting the trail and making it fairly easy to follow. It was a narrow pathway, with but few places where two horsemen could ride abreast, so conversation was almost impossible, and few words, except those of command, were spoken; nor were the men in a mood to talk. All were more or less excited and impatient, and, wherever the road would permit, urged their horses to a run. The trail climbed and descended rugged steeps, crossed smooth intervals, skirted the edges of precipices, wound along borders of dry creeks, and threaded forests of pine and clumps of sage-brush and greasewood. Throughout the ride the imaginations of officers and men were depicting the scenes they feared were being enacted in the valley, or which might take place should they fail to arrive in time to prevent. It is needless to say, perhaps, that the one person about whom the thoughts of the men composing the rescuing party centred was the gentle, bright, and pretty Brenda. To think of her falling into the hands of the merciless Apaches was almost maddening. On and on rode the column, the men giving their panting steeds no more rest than the nature of the road and the success of the expedition required. At last we reached the spur of the range behind which lay Skull Valley. We skirted it, and with anxious eyes sought through the darkness the place where the ranch buildings should be. All was silence. No report of fire-arms or whoop of savages disturbed the quiet of the valley. Ascending a swell in the surface of the ground we saw that all the buildings had disappeared, nothing meeting our anxious gaze but beds of lurid coals, occasionally fanned into a red glow by the intermittent night breeze. But there was the impregnable earthwork; the family must be in that. I dashed swiftly forward, eagerly followed by my men. The earthwork was destroyed, nothing but a circular pit remaining, in the bottom of which glowed the embers of the fallen roof-timbers. A search for the slain was at once begun, and continued for a long time. Every square rod of the valley for a mile was hunted over without result, and we all gathered once more about the two cellars, in which the coals still glowed. "It was in the cellar of the house that Sergeant Henry said the body of Mrs. Arnold was laid, was it not?" asked Dr. Coues. "Yes," I replied. "Then if all were killed after he left--shot from time to time--would not their remains be likely to be beside hers?" "Not beside hers, I think. The last stand must have been made in the fort." "Then the bodies, or what is left of them, must lie under that circular bed of coals, Duncan, if they died here." "Probably, doctor. It's an uncanny thing to do, but we must stir the coals and see." A thorough search revealed nothing. "Does th' liftinint moind that Sargint Hinery mintioned a covered way that led from th' cellar to th' spring?" asked Private Tom Clary, who wielded a rail beside me. "Perhaps th' pretty lassie and her frinds are in that." "That is so, Clary; thank you for the suggestion," I answered. "Can you make out the opening?" "Nothin' sure, sor. Behoind thim wagon-tires there sames to be a natural slope of earth." "Tip the tires over, Clary," I ordered; and presently a number of tires, from which the fire had burned the felloes, spokes, and hubs, fell into the coals, disclosing a recently filled aperture. "Looks as if the end of a passage had been filled, doesn't it?" asked the surgeon. "It certainly does," I answered. "Let us go to the spring and examine." Accompanied by the doctor and several men, I rode to the spring. When we arrived there we broke a way through the thick-set willows into an irregular mass of small bowlders. Climbing over these, we found ourselves at the mouth of a narrow passage about four feet high and two feet wide. "This must be the entrance to the covered way," I remarked, and placing my head in the crevice, I called: "Oh, Mr. Arnold, we are here--your friends from Fort Whipple!" "Thank Heaven!" in a man's tones, came clearly through the entrance, accompanied by a sudden outburst of sobs in girlish voices. "We'll be there directly," spoke another man's voice--that of a stranger. "We've heard your horses' hoofs jarring the ground for some time, but we thought it safest to lay low until we were sure it wasn't redskins." Then followed the sound of steps, accompanied by voices, sounding at the entrance, as a voice spoken in a long tube appears to be uttered at the listener's end. Some time elapsed before those who seemed so near appeared; but at last there emerged from the passage Mr. Arnold, two strange men, and three girls--but no Brenda. "Where is Brenda, Mr. Arnold?" I asked. "Heaven only knows, lieutenant. She gave herself up to the Apaches." "Gave herself up to the Apaches! What do you mean?" "That's precisely what she did, lieutenant," said one of the strangers, adding: "My name is Bartlett, from Hassayampa, and this is Mr. Gilbert, from Tucson. We were on our way from La Paz to Prescott and stopped here for a meal, and got corralled by the Indians. But about the girl Brenda: she took it into her head, after we got into the little fort, that unless some one could create a diversion to mislead the devils, we'd all lose our scalps." "That beautiful young girl! Gave herself up to certain torture and death! Why did you allow it?" "Allow it!" exclaimed Mr. Bartlett, indignantly. "I hope, lieutenant, you don't think so hard of me and my friend as to believe we'd have allowed it if we'd suspected what the plucky miss meant to do!" "Tell me the circumstances, Mr. Bartlett," said I. The party moved slowly along the path from the spring to the fires, and as they walked Mr. Arnold and the travellers gave an account of all that had happened after Sergeant Henry left for Fort Whipple. The burning arrows sent to the pitch-pine roof became so numerous that the besieged found it impossible to prevent the flames from catching in several places. Henry was hardly out of sight before the house became untenable, and the defenders were obliged to retire to the fort. When the house was consumed, and its timbers had fallen into the cellar a mass of burning brands, the space about the earthwork was clear, and the rifles at its loop-holes kept the Indians close within the out-building they had occupied since the attack began. No one dared to show himself to the unerring marksmen, who watched every movement. For a long time silence reigned among the Indians. The whites, however, felt sure that plans were being matured which meant disaster to them. At last these plans were revealed in a constant and rapid flight of arrows, directed at a point between two loop-holes--a point which could not be reached by the besieged, and where, if a considerable collection of burning brands could be heaped against the logs, between the earth and the eaves, the pine walls and rafters must take fire. Walls and roof were too solid to be cut away, and water could not reach the outside. The defenders, when they realized what the result of a fire would be, held a consultation, and decided that in the event of the fire getting control of the fort they should retire into the covered way, block up the entrance with earth, and remain there until help should arrive. It was thought the Indians would suppose all had perished in the flames. "But they know we came here by an underground passage from the house," said Brenda; "will they not suspect we have entered another passage if we all disappear?" "P'r'aps they may," answered Mr. Arnold; "I had not thought of that. We'll have to take our chances." "If one of us was to appear to escape from here, and join them," continued the girl, "I think they would suppose the others had perished, and make no search." "That may be true, but I'll take my chances here," said Mr. Gilbert. "So will I," said his companion. "A fellow wouldn't last a minute outside this fort. I prefer smothering to the death those devils will give me." It soon became evident to the besieged that the outer wall was on fire. The sun had gone down and darkness was deepening in the valley when the first tongue of flame licked through a crevice in the roof and showed that the fire had gained a foothold. Soon a hole appeared, close to the eaves, which gradually enlarged towards the centre of the roof and along the surface of the earth. With blankets the fire was beaten out on the sides, but it crept insidiously along between the timber and earth covering. In making the roof, branches of pine had been spread over the timber, and the branches in turn covered with a thick layer of straw to prevent the earth from filtering between the logs. This material was as dry as tinder, and held the fire. The men stood at the loop-holes and compelled the savages to remain under cover of the out-building, while the four girls exerted themselves to keep the fire from showing inside. Delay until help could arrive from Whipple was what all were struggling to gain; but the increasing heat and smoke showed the defenders at last that they could no longer put off retiring to the covered way. The word was given and all entered it, and the men with shovels began to close the entrance. When it was a little more than half closed the hole in the roof had become triangular, resembling the space between two spokes and a felloe of a wheel. On the earth, or felloe side of the triangle, there was no fire; but the other sides were burning fiercely. Making a sudden dash, and before any one could realize her intention, Brenda leaped past the shovellers, sprang over the embankment they were throwing up, and by the aid of a bench sprang up the four-foot wall, through the flame-bordered aperture, and disappeared, her clothing apparently in a blaze. The war-whoops immediately ceased. No attempt at pursuit or rescue was made. The Arnolds and the strangers felt that it would be useless, and only result in the death of the pursuers. The work of closing the passage was resumed and completed, and all sat down to await the slow flight of time and the possible arrival of the soldiers. After listening to the story of the Arnolds I concluded that Brenda had fallen a victim to the cruelty of the Apaches, and that we should find her mutilated and disfigured body. A rapid and excited search was at once began. Far and wide, over plain, through ravines, and into the foot-hills rode the soldiers, leaving no part of the country for several miles around unsearched; but not a trace of the missing girl was discovered. Once more the detachment gathered near the ruins of the Arnold home, and began preparations for returning to Whipple. The remains of the dead wife and mother were lifted from beneath the charred timbers and deposited in a grave near by. While the burial was taking place, the two scouts, Weaver and Cooler, were absent, looking for the Apache trail. Day was dawning, and as it was probable when they returned that the command could start, I ordered the horses fed from the loose forage scattered about, and the men to prepare their breakfast. The scouts returned as the men were dispersing from their meal, and Cooler placed in my hand a dainty lock of flaxen hair, wound around the middle with a strand of the same. "I found it," said the scout, "beside the ravine yonder, a little more than two miles from here. The young miss is alive, and dropped it for a 'sign.' The redskins all left in that direction." Whatever Brenda's three cousins may have lacked in education and cultivation, they wanted nothing in affection. They gathered about the little tress, took it daintily in their palms, kissed it again and again, and moistened it with tears. Low sobs and endearing names for the brave darling who had been willing to sacrifice her life to preserve theirs fell from their lips. Poor, rude, frontier maids, they had shown an equal bravery all through the defence, and proved themselves to be worthy descendants of the race that lived through the colonial struggles with the Indians of the Mohawk Valley. The three girls gathered about me, and, clinging to my arms, besought me to go to the rescue of their cousin. "Yes, yes, girls," I replied; "everything shall be done that possibly can be. We will start at once, and I hope to bring her back to you." Turning to the father, I said, "Mr. Arnold, I will leave you a luncheon for the road, and you must try to make the distance to Prescott on foot." "Yes, sir; we can do it easy, thank you." "I would leave you some of the men as escort, but in such an expedition I need more than I have." "That's all right, Mr. Dunkin; 'f I had a beast I'd go with ye. There'll be no Apaches round these parts agin for a considerable spell," and his eyes ran sadly over the ruins of his home, the wreck of his property, resting finally on the grave of his wife. Yes, Brenda was alive, and a prisoner of the Apaches, spared by them, probably, as children sometimes are after such raids, for adoption. It was plainly our duty to rescue her from the fate of a continued life with her captors. XVIII ON THE TRAIL OF THE APACHES After a further delay, to allow the scouts and their broncos to breakfast, the party mounted and turned to the west. Calling Paul Weaver to ride by my side, I questioned him about the region before us. "I suppose you are familiar with this part of the country, Paul?" "Ought t' be. Trapped and hunted here since I was twenty, and I'm nigh on to sixty-five now." "Have these Apaches a camping-place near here?" "Yes; they spend a part of every year here-abouts, gatherin' mezcal. From the direction they've took, I b'lieve they're goin' to Santy Maree Creek." "That flows into Bill Williams Fork, does it not?" "Yes, an' 't has a northern and southern branch. One of th' favorite campin'-places of th' Mezcalleros 's on th' southern branch." "How far is it from here?" "'Bout fifty mile." "Easy of approach?" "Toler'ble; good ridin' all th' way, 'cept a bit of bowlder country on a divide." "Is the camp open to attack?" "Wide open arter yer git into th' valley. There's a waterfall, or, rather, a piece of rips ther' that 'll drown th' n'ise of our comin'." "Isn't it strange Indians should camp in such a place?" "They're Mezcallero 'Paches, and the'r food, th' mezcal, grows thick round ther'. 'Sides, ther's no other place on th' stream combinin' grazin' and waterin', and they've never been hunted into that region yit." "Well, Paul, they will be now." I urged the men on as fast as possible, taking care not to exhaust the horses and unfit them for a long pursuit. The soldiers were animated by a strong desire to punish the Indians for their treatment of the family in Skull Valley, and were excited by the fear that the gentle and beautiful young girl in their hands might fall a victim to some barbaric cruelty before they could be overtaken, so that the animals were constantly urged close to their powers of endurance. Near the middle of the forenoon, as the soldiers were riding up a cañon, on each side of which rose rugged sandstone precipices, we came to a fork in the trail and the cañon. Not only the track parted, but, judging from footprints, most of the captured stock had passed to the right. Weaver said the right-hand path led to the northern branch of the Santa Maria, and the left to the southern. I halted the detachment, perplexed. To divide my party of twenty-nine in order to follow both trails seemed to me to be inviting disaster. To take the whole number over a wrong trail and not rescue Brenda was a course to be dreaded. I called up the scouts, Weaver and Cooler, for a consultation. "Don't you think it is probable," I asked, "that a girl who was thoughtful enough to drop a 'sign' to show she is alive and a captive, would be likely to give a hint here as to which trail she was taken over?" "That's prob'ble, liftinint," replied Weaver. "'F you'll hold th' boys here a bit, George an' I'll ride up th' two trails a piece an' look for signs." "Go quite a distance, too. She might not get an opportunity to drop anything for some time after leaving the fork." "That's true, sir," said Cooler; "the redskins would naturally be watching her closely. Which way will you go, Paul?" "Let the liftinint say," answered the elder scout, tightening his belt and readjusting his equipments for resuming his riding. "All ready, then," said I. "You take the right, Weaver, and George the left. While you are gone we'll turn out the stock." The scouts departed, and a few moments later the horses of the command were cropping the rich grass of the narrow valley, sentinels were placed to watch them and look for the return of the guides, and the rest of the men threw themselves upon the turf to rest. An hour passed away, when Weaver was seen returning from the northern trail. As he approached he held something above his head. Directing the horses to be made ready, I walked forward to meet him, and received from his hand a small bow of blue ribbon, which I at once recognized to be the property of Brenda. It now appeared certain the girl captive had been taken over the road to the right; so, without waiting for the return of Cooler, the men were ordered into their saddles, and we started along the northern trail. Our march had not long continued, however, when Private Tom Clary, who was riding in the rear, called to me. Looking back, I saw the young scout galloping rapidly forward and waving his hat in a beckoning manner. A halt was ordered, and Cooler rode up to me and placed in my hand _a lock of flaxen hair, bound with a thread of the same_. Placed by the other they were twin tresses, except that the last was slightly singed by fire. Well, tears glistened on the eyelids of some of the bronzed veterans at the sight of the tiny lock of hair. We had barely escaped taking the wrong trail. "God bliss the darlint," said grizzled Tom Clary. "There's not a ridskin can bate her with their tricks. We'll bring her back to her frinds, b'ys, or it'll go hard wid us." Clary's remarks were subscribed to by many hearty exclamations on the part of his fellow-soldiers. We had no difficulty in understanding that the Apaches had expected to be pursued and had dropped the ribbon to mislead us, and that Brenda had dropped her "sign" to set her friends right. I asked the guides if it was not probable the Apaches had set a watch on the overlooking heights to see which road we should take at this point. "It's sartin', liftinint," answered Weaver; "they're watchin' us sharp jest now." "Then we had better continue on the northern trail awhile and mislead them, you think?" "That's it, liftinint. That's th' best thing to do. We needn't reach their camp until after midnight, an' we might 's well spend th' time misleadin' em." "Yes, and it'll be better to reach them a few hours after midnight, too," added Cooler; "they sleep soundest then." "Then we will go on as we began for some time longer," I replied, and the soldiers again moved at a brisk canter over the northern trail. An hour passed, and a halt was made in a grassy nook, where the horses were turned out to graze until dusk. Our route was then retraced to the fork and the march resumed over the southern branch. Night overtook us on a high ridge covered with loose, rounded bowlders, over which it was necessary to lead the horses slowly, with considerable clatter and some bruises to man and beast. The rough road lasted until a considerable descent was made on the western side, and ended on the edge of a grassy valley. At this point Weaver advised that the horses should be left and the command proceed on foot; for if the Indians were in camp at the rapids it would be impossible to approach mounted without alarming them, while if on foot the noise of the rushing water would cover the sound of all movements. Six men were sent back to a narrow defile to prevent the attacking party from being surprised by the detachment of Indians which had taken the northern trail, should they intend to rejoin their friends at the rapids. Upon the recommendation of the scouts I determined to defer making an attack until after three o'clock, for they assured me that at that time the enemy would be feeling quite secure from pursuit and be in their deepest sleep. The horses were picketed, guards posted, and a lunch distributed, and all not on duty lay down to wait. Time dragged slowly. About one o'clock a noise on the opposite side of the creek attracted attention, and Cooler crept away in the darkness to ascertain its cause. In half an hour he returned with the information that the party of Mezcalleros who had taken the northern trail had rejoined their friends and turned their animals into the general herd. Upon learning this I despatched a messenger to call in the six men sent to guard the defile. When the time for starting arrived one man only was left with the picketed horses, and the rest of us slipped down the slope to the river-bottom, taking care not to rattle arms and equipments, and began a slow advance along a narrow pathway, the borders of which were lined with the spiked vegetation of the country. Moving on for some time, I judged from the sound of flowing water that we were nearing the camp, and, halting the party, sent the scouts to reconnoitre. They returned with the information that the camp was close at hand, and contained thirteen mat and skin covered tents, or huts, and that the stolen stock and Indian ponies were grazing on a flat just beyond. No guards were visible. The flat about the encampment was covered with Spanish-bayonet, soapweed, and cacti, with here and there a variety of palmetto, which attains a height of about twenty-five feet, the trunks shaggy with a fringe of dead spines left by each year's growth. Cooler suggested that at a given signal the trunks of two of these trees should be set on fire to light up the camp, and enable the soldiers to pick off the Apaches as they left their shelter when our attack should begin. He also proposed that we yell, saying: "If you out-yell 'em, lieutenant, you can out-fight 'em." Although I seriously doubted whether twenty-five white throats could make as much noise as half a dozen red ones, I consented to the proposition. I sent nine men to the flat upon which the ponies and cattle were grazing, with orders to place themselves between the creek and herd, and when the firing began drive the animals into the hills. When these instructions had been given, Surgeon Coues asked me if the firing would be directed into the tents. "Yes, doctor," I replied. "Of course, Miss Brenda is in one of them," he observed. "Yes, and if we shoot into them indiscriminately we are quite as likely to hit her as any one." "Can you think of any way of locating her?" "No; I am at a dead loss. We will try Cooler's plan of yelling, and perhaps that will bring the Indians out." I sent Clary, who had been directed to remain near me, for Sergeant Rafferty, and when the sergeant appeared directed him to forbid any one to fire a shot until ordered to do so. XIX THE ATTACK ON THE APACHE CAMP Orders were passed and dispositions so made that one-half the force was placed on each flank of the camp. All movements were made at a considerable distance from the place to be attacked, and the utmost care taken not to make a sound that would alarm the sleeping foe. Once on the flanks, the men were to creep up slowly and stealthily to effective rifle range. When the trunks of the palmettos were lighted all were to yell as diabolically as possible, and fire at every Indian that showed himself. The front of the camp looked towards the creek, which flowed over bowlders and pebbles with a great rush and roar. The Indians were expected in their flight to make a dash for the stream, and attempt to pass through the shoal rapids to the wooded bluffs beyond. My instructions were for the men to screen themselves on the flanks, behind the yuccas, Spanish-bayonet, emole, and cacti. Accompanied by Tom Clary and Paul Weaver, I selected a clump of vegetation on the northern side, from which the front of the tents could be observed. Sergeant Rafferty, with George Cooler, was on the opposite flank, and the lighting of a tree on my side was to be the signal for one to be lighted on the other, and for the yelling to begin. This plan was carried out. The flash of one match was followed promptly by the flash of another. Two flames burst forth, and rapidly climbed the shaggy trunks of the little palms, lighting up the whole locality. At the same instant an imitation war-whoop burst from vigorous lungs and throats. Every one held his rifle in readiness to shoot the escaping Apaches, but not a redskin showed his jetty head. The soldiers yelled and yelled, practising every variation ingenuity could invent in the vain attempt to make their tame white-man utterances resemble the blood-curdling, hair-raising, heart-jumping shrieks of their Indian foes, now so strangely silent. Not a savage responded vocally or otherwise. But for the presence of the captive girl in one of the thirteen tents the attack would have begun by riddling the thinly covered shelters with bullets at low range. The two burning trees had gone out and two others had been lighted, and it soon appeared evident that if something was not done to bring out the foe the supply of torches would soon be exhausted and nothing accomplished. In the darkness the advantage might even turn to the side of the redman. Surgeon Coues, who reclined near me, asked: "Do you think any of those fellows understand English?" "Perhaps a few common phrases. They know Spanish fairly well from living for some centuries near the Mexicans." "Are they quite as old as that, lieutenant?" "You know what I mean, doctor." "Why not speak to Brenda in English, and ask her to try to show us where she is? The Apaches will not understand--will think you are talking to your men." "An excellent idea, doctor. I'll try it." Private Tom Clary was sent along both flanks with orders for all yelling to cease and for perfect quiet to be maintained. Then, acting upon the surgeon's suggestion, I called, in a clear, loud voice: "Brenda, we are here--your friends from the fort. Your relatives are safe. Try to make a signal, or do something by which we can learn where you are. Take plenty of time, and do nothing to endanger your life." A long silence ensued, during which two more pillars of fire burned out. I was beginning to fear I should be obliged to offer terms to the Indians, leaving them unhurt if they would yield up their captive and the stolen stock; but before I had fully considered this alternative Clary, who was returning along the rear of the line of tents from his recent errand, approached and said: "Liftinint, as I was crapin' along behoind th' wiggies I saw somethin' loike a purty white hand stickin' out from undher th' edge of th' third from this ind." "Show it to me," said I. "I'll go with you." Making a slight détour to the rear, the soldier and I crept up to the back of the tent indicated, pausing at a distance of twenty feet from it. Nothing definite could be made out in the darkness. A narrow, white object was visible beneath the lower edge. Sending Clary back a few yards to light up a palm, I fixed my eyes on the object mentioned, and as the flames leaped up the trunk perceived by the flaring light a small, white hand, holding in its fingers the loose tresses of Brenda's hair. The question was settled. The captive girl was in the third tent from the right of the line. Waiting until the fire went out, Clary and I made our way back to our former station. "Go around the lines again, Clary, and tell Sergeant Rafferty to move his men to a point from which he can cover the rear of the camp, and open fire on all the tents except the third from the right." "All roight, sor; th' b'ys 'll soon mak' it loively for th' rids." "Tell the sergeant to light up some trees." "Yes, sor." I then crept slowly back to my own flank, and ordered a disposition of my half of the party so as to command the space in front of the line of tents. In another instant the flames were ascending two tree-trunks, and the rapid cracking of rifles broke our long reserve. With the first scream of a bullet through their flimsy shelters the Indians leaped out and ran for the river. Few fell. Rapid zigzags and the swinging of blankets and arms as they ran confused the aim of the soldiers. In less than five minutes the last Apache was out of sight, and the firing had ceased. We dashed up to the tents, and I rushed to the one from which I had seen the hand and tress thrust out, and called, "Brenda!" There was no response or sound. Looking into the entrance, I saw in the dim light of the awakening day the figure of a girl lying on her back, her feet extended towards me, and her head touching the rear wall. The right arm lay along her side, and the left was thrown above her head, the fingers still holding her hair. A terrible fear seized my heart. I again called the girl by her name, but received no answer. I went in, and with nervous fingers lighted a match and stooped beside her. Horror-stricken, I saw a stream of blood threading its way across the earthern floor from her left side. I shouted for Dr. Coues, and the surgeon hurried in. From his instrument-case he took a small, portable lamp, and, lighting it, fell upon his knees beside the prostrate girl. During the following few moments, while the skilled fingers of the firm-nerved surgeon were cutting away clothing to expose the nature of the wound, my thoughts found time to wander to the distant family, on its way to the fort, and to the boy sergeants there. I thought what a sad message it would be my province to bear to them, should this dear relative and cherished friend die by savage hands. There was little hope that the pretty girl could live. To me she seemed already claimed by death. She who had made our long and weary march from Wingate to Whipple so pleasant by her vivacity and intelligence, and had latterly brightened our occasional visits to Skull Valley, was to die in this wretched hole. But the _tactus eruditus_ of the young surgeon was continuing the search for some evidence that the savage stab was not fatal, and his mind was busy with means for preserving life, should there be a chance. I watched his motions, and assisted now and then when asked, and waited with strained patience for a word upon which to base a hope. At last the surgeon gently dropped the hand whose pulse he had long been examining, and said: "She is alive, and that is about all that can be said. You see, her hands, arms, and neck are badly scorched by the dash she made through the fire at the ranch. Then this wicked knife-thrust has paralyzed her. She has bled considerably, too, but she lives. Press your finger upon this artery--here." "Can she be made to live, doctor?" "The knife has not touched a vital part, but it may have done irreparable injury. I can tell more presently." Nothing more was said, except in the way of direction, for some time, the surgeon working slowly and skilfully at the wound. At last, rearranging the girl's clothing and replacing his instruments in their case, he said: "If I had the girl in the post-hospital, or in a civilized dwelling, with a good nurse, I think she might recover." "Can't we give her the proper attendance here, doctor?" I asked. "I fear not. She ought to have a woman's gentle care, for one thing, and some remedies and appliances I haven't with me for such a delicate case. It is the long distance between here and the fort, and the rough road, that make the outlook hopeless. She cannot survive such a journey." "Then we will remain here, doctor," said I. "Write out a list of what you want, and I will send a man to Whipple for tents and supplies, a camp woman, Frank, Vic, and the elder Arnold girl." "Duncan, you are inspired!" exclaimed the doctor. "I'll have my order ready by the time the messenger reports, and then we'll make Brenda comfortable." A letter was written to Captain Bayard, the surgeon's memoranda enclosed, and a quarter of an hour afterwards fleet-footed Sancho was flying over the sixty miles to Fort Whipple as fast as Private Tom Clary could ride him. Three days later a pack-train arrived, with a laundress from the infantry company, Frank Burton, and Mary Arnold, and with stores and supplies necessary for setting up a sick-camp. The wounded girl mended rapidly from the start. In due time Brenda recovered sufficiently to bear transportation to Prescott, where she joined her uncle and cousins. Rapid changes quickly followed. I received orders directing me to report for duty at once at the Seabury Military School, and by the same mail came letters from Colonel Burton directing his sons to accompany me. At the end of the next fortnight, just as we were packed for a journey to the Pacific coast, Brenda received instructions from her maternal relatives to make the same journey, and joined us. Frank and Henry's project to transport their ponies East, and their plans for Manuel and Sapoya, were also carried out. Boys and ponies became a prominent contingent to the corps of cadets under my military instruction during the following three years. Later, Henry went to West Point and became an officer of the army. Frank and Manuel went to college, the former becoming a distinguished civil engineer and the latter a prominent business man. Sapoya closed his school career at Seabury, and rejoined his people in the Indian Territory, becoming a valued and respected leader of his people. On a beautiful lawn before a fine mansion on the eastern shore of the Hudson River, beneath the shade of a stately elm, stands a small monument, upon the top of which rests a finely chiselled model of a setter dog. Beneath, on a bronze tablet, is engraved: "BENEATH THIS STONE LIES VICTORIANA, THE LOVED AND ESTEEMED FRIEND OF CHARLES ALFRED DUNCAN, FRANK DOUGLAS BURTON, BRENDA ARNOLD BURTON, HENRY FRANCIS BURTON, MANUEL AUGUSTINE PEREA Y LUNA, SAPOYA SNOYGON PEREA." THE END 
279	----	Photos and Maps of Trinity (Atomic Test) Site The picture files are courtesy of U.S. Army White Sands Missile Range Public Affairs Office: basecamp.gif -- Base camp for Trinity site workers. blast.gif -- Trinity test blast at 10 seconds. crater.gif -- Oppenheimer and Groves examine tower piling in crater. gadget1.gif -- Lifting the "gadget" into the 100-foot tower. gadget2.gif -- Norris Bradbury with the "gadget". jumbo.gif -- Unloading Jumbo. mcdonald.gif -- McDonald-Schmidt ranch house, where plutonium core was assembled. patch.gif -- Patch issued to Manhattan Project military participants. tr_map1.gif -- Map of roads to Trinity Site and visitors' site map. whitsand.gif -- Emblem of the U.S. Army White Sands Missile Range. 
17088	----	* * * * * +-----------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note: A number of very obvious | | typographical errors have been corrected in this | | text. For a complete list please see the bottom of | | the document. | +-----------------------------------------------------+ * * * * * [Illustration: "UNDER THE HAT BRIM DRAWN FORWARD TO HIS LINE OF VISION HIS EYES ... GAZED FORTH KEEN AND OBSERVANT"] THE IRON FURROW BY GEORGE C. SHEDD FRONTISPIECE BY HENRY A. BOTKIN A.L. BURT COMPANY Publishers New York Published by arrangement with Doubleday, Page & Company COPYRIGHT, 1919, 1920, BY DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES AT THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N.Y. THE IRON FURROW THE IRON FURROW CHAPTER I The Ventisquero Range stretches across the circumference of one's vision in a procession of mountains that come tall and blue out of the distant north and seemingly march past to vanish in the remote south like azure phantoms. The mountains wall the horizon and dominate the mesa, their black forest-clad flanks crumpled and broken and gashed by cañons, lifting above timber-line peaks of bare brown rock that pierce the clouds floating along the range. At sunrise they cast immense shadows upon the mesa spreading westward from their base; and at sunset they reflect golden and purple glows upon the plain until the earth appears swimming in some iridescent sea of ether; while over them from dawn till dusk, traversed by a few fleecy clouds, lies the turquoise sky of New Mexico. At a certain point in the range a small cañon opens upon the mesa with a gush of gravel and sand that flows a short way into the sagebrush and forms a creek bed. Tucked back in the little cañon there is a considerable growth of bushes and trees, cool and fresh-looking in the shadow of the gorge during the summer season, a splash of vivid green there at the bottom of the dusty gray mountain, but at the cañon's mouth this verdure ceases. Only an insignificant stream of water ran, one day, in the stony creek bed that meandered out upon the mesa, and it appeared under the hot July sun and among the hot stones for all the world like a rivulet of liquid glass. That was all the mesa had to show, only its endless gray sagebrush and the creek bed almost dry--unless one should reckon the three parched cottonwood trees beside the stream, a little way down from the cañon, and the flat-roofed adobe house near by, and the empty corral behind built of aspen poles. In that immensity of mountain and mesa the house looked like a brick of sun-baked mud, the corral like a child's device of straws, the three cottonwoods like three twigs stuck in the earth. Or, at any rate, that is how they appeared to a horseman regarding them from the main mesa trail a mile away. The rider, a slender tanned young fellow of about twenty-eight, sat in the saddle with the relaxed ease of habit which allowed his body to accommodate itself to the steady jogging trot of his horse. A roll comprising clothes wrapped in a black rubber coat was tied behind the cantle. His Stetson hat was tilted up at the rear and down in front almost on his nose--a thin, bony nose, slightly curved and with the suggestion of a hook in the tip, just the sort of nose to accord with his lean, sunburnt cheeks and clean-cut chin and straight-lipped mouth. Under the hat brim drawn forward to his line of vision his eyes, notwithstanding his air of lounging indolence, gazed forth keen and observant. He had the appearance of a man who might be seeking a few stray cattle, or riding to town for mail, and in no particular hurry about it, either, this hot afternoon; but, for all that, Lee Bryant was proceeding on important business--important for him, anyhow. When everything one possesses is about to be risked on a venture, the matter is naturally vital; and at this moment he was moving straight to the initiative of his enterprise. Where the road crossed the creek bed to continue northward, a trail branched off and followed up the stream to the little ranch house by the three cottonwood trees. Here the creek had not yet begun to cut an arroyo and had washed merely a course five or six feet deep and some fifty feet wide through the mesa, so that from a distance the shallow gash was invisible and the ground appeared unbroken. It was because of the flat character of the mesa, too, that Bryant on reaching the bank of the stream was able to see on the opposite side two persons a quarter of a mile off riding toward him; women, he perceived. Far north of them on the road, a black spot in a haze of dust, seemingly motionless but as one could guess advancing rapidly, was an automobile. Bryant rode his horse down into the creek bed and turned him aside to a small pool on the upper side of the crossing, under the cut-bank, where the horse thrust his muzzle into the water and drank greedily. The rider swung himself out of the saddle, knelt a pace beyond, where the rivulet trickled into the pool, and also drank. "Wet anyway, even if warm, eh, Dick?" he remarked, when done. "Don't drink it all, old scout; leave a swallow for the ladies." Still on his knees he looked appraisingly down the creek and then up it, and added derisively, "Some stream, this Perro, some stream!" After rolling and lighting a cigarette, he meditated for a time in the same kneeling position. His horse finished drinking and moved a step nearer his master, where he stood with head lowered, water dripping from his lip, body inert. But presently he pricked his ears and turning his head toward the other bank gave a low whinny. Bryant got to his feet. The two women he had beheld at a distance had now reached the ford. Their ponies snuffing water immediately dipped into the creek bed and crossed its sandy bottom with quickened steps. Young women the riders were, scarcely more than girls, it seemed to Bryant; wearing divided khaki skirts and white shirt waists and wide-brimmed straw hats tied with thongs under their chins. In this region where white men were none too numerous, and women of their own kind scarcer yet, and girls scarcest of all, the presence here of the pair aroused in the young fellow a lively interest. He led Dick aside that their ponies might approach the pool. "Thank you; they are very thirsty," said the nearer girl, with a nod. The ponies plunged forefeet into the water and stood thus with noses buried, drinking with eager gulps. "The afternoon is so hot and the road so dusty," the speaker continued, "that the poor things were almost choked." She was the smaller of the pair, of medium height and having a graceful, well-molded figure, with frank gray eyes, a nose showing a few freckles, smooth soft cheeks slightly reddened by sun, and an expressive mouth. Bryant judged that she had small, firm hands, but could not see them as she wore gauntlets. He further decided that she was neither plain nor pretty: just average good-looking, one might say. An air of friendliness was in her favour, though what might or might not be a prepossessing trait, depending on circumstances, was the suggested obstinacy in her round chin. "Don't you yourselves wish a drink? You must be thirsty, too," Bryant addressed the young ladies. "If your ponies won't stand, I'll look after them." "Oh, they'll not run off, unless we forget to let the reins hang, as has happened once or twice," said the girl who previously had spoken. "For they're regular cow-ponies. At first we had a hard time remembering just to drop the lines when we dismounted instead of tying them to a post somewhere; and for a while we had a feeling that they certainly would gallop off if we did let the reins hang, as we'd been instructed. But they never did." She turned to her companion. "Imo, aren't you thirsty? I'm going to get down and have a drink." With which she swung herself down from her saddle upon the sand. The second girl was tall and thin, lacking both the spirits and stamina of the other; a crown of fluffy golden hair was hinted by the little of it the young fellow could see under the brim of her big hat; her eyes were of a soft blue colour, probably weak; while her face, the skin of which was exceedingly white with but a tinge of the sun's fiery burn, was regular of feature and delicately formed. She walked to the rill languidly, where stooping she drank from her palm. Most of the water that she dipped escaped before reaching her lips; and Bryant doubted if she were really successful in quenching her thirst. The heat, the dust, and the ride appeared to have been almost too much for her strength, exhausting her slender store of vitality. The other girl, who had coiled herself down by the trickling stream and bent forward resting her hands in the water, drank directly from the rivulet. "There, that's the way to do it, Imo," she declared, when she had straightened up, hat-brim, nose, chin, all dripping. "Like the ponies! I hope I haven't lost my handkerchief." And she began to search about her waist. "I'd fall flat in the water if I tried it, as sure as the world," the taller girl responded. They rose to their feet and joined Bryant. "You're the young ladies who are homesteading just south of here, aren't you?" he inquired, politely. "Yes, two miles south on Sarita Creek," the smaller answered. Then after an appraising regard of him she continued, "We took our claims only last April. And they're not very good claims, either, we're beginning to fear; the creek goes dry about this time. That's why no one had filed on the locations before. Have you a ranch somewhere near?" "No. That is, not yet. I'm a civil engineer, but I'm thinking strongly of settling down here. If I do, we shall be neighbours. My name is Lee Bryant; this is my horse Dick; and I've a dog called Mike, which stopped aways back on the road to investigate a prairie dog hole. Now you know who we are," he concluded, with a smile. The girl thereupon told him her name was Ruth Gardner and that of her companion Imogene Martin. "We'll be very glad to have you call at our little ranch when you're riding by," Ruth Gardner said, graciously. "Aside from Imogene's uncle and aunt, who live in Kennard and who've come to see us several times, we've not had a single visitor in the three months and a half we've been there, except once an old Mexican who was herding sheep near by and came to ask for matches. Of course, not many people know we're there, I imagine. From the road one can't see our cabins--we had to have two, you know, one for each claim, and they sit side by side--because they're in the mouth of the cañon among the trees. It's really cool and pleasant there during the heat of the day. Any time you come, you'll be welcome." "Yes, Mr. Bryant," Imogene Martin affirmed. "A man now and then in the scenery will help out wonderfully." "I'll stop the first time I'm passing," he stated. Lee Bryant understood the significance of the invitation: they were starved for company and would be grateful for the society of a person they believed respectable. He had seen a good deal of homesteading conditions in the West; he knew the hardships involved in "holding down" claims, of which the dreary monotony and loneliness of the life were not the least. One earned ten times over every bit one got of a free government homestead. For men it was bad enough; but for woman, for girls like these, who had probably come from the East in trustful ignorance and with rosy visions, the homestead venture impressed him not only as pitiful but as tragic. "I'll certainly ride down to see you," he assured them again. "And perhaps, being an engineer, you'll show us why the water doesn't run downhill in our bean patch, as it ought to do," Imogene Martin remarked. Bryant laughed and nodded agreement. "You'll find that it's your eyes, and not the water, that have been playing tricks," he said. "Ground levels and ditch grades are deceiving things close to the mountains, because the latter tilt one's natural line of vision. That's why water seems to run uphill when you look toward the range. I'll soon fix your ditch line when I set an instrument in your bean patch and sight through it once or twice. The water will behave after that, I promise you." They continued to chat of this and of the failing of Sarita Creek, until the automobile that Bryant had earlier sighted shot into view on the northern bank of the creek, whence at decreased speed it descended into the bottom and ground its way across through sand and gravel. Driving the hooded car was a man of about thirty years, of slim figure and with a pale olive skin that betrayed an admixture of American and Mexican blood. Beside him in the front seat sat a girl whose clear pink complexion made plain that in her was no mingling of races; her hat held by a streaming blue veil and her form incased in a silk dust coat. The tonneau was occupied by two men: one an American with a van dyke beard sprinkled with gray, the other a short, stout, swarthy Mexican, whose sweeping white moustache was in marked contrast to his coffee-coloured face. The car, with radiator steaming and hissing, was stopped at a spot close to where Lee Bryant and his companions stood. The young man at the wheel, unlatching the door, stepped out. "I'll bet the stop-cock of the radiator is open," he addressed the girl with the blue veil, "or the engine wouldn't be so hot." After making an examination of the faucet, he returned to the door and procured a folding canvas bucket, saying, "That's the trouble, and the radiator is empty." But the young lady scarcely heeded him. She had loosened the blue veil knotted at her throat and pushed it back from her cheeks to free them to the air; she sat regarding with interested eyes the group of three standing a few paces off by the horses. In her gaze, too, there was a faint curiosity, as if she wondered who the persons might be, and what they were doing here, and of what they had been conversing when interrupted. An exceedingly lovely girl she was, as the engineer had instantly perceived; her features molded in soft lines and curves that enchanted, a tint like that of peach petals in her cheeks, with warm, sensitive lips and brown, shining eyes--a radiant, intelligent face. Against the background of the place, the creek bed of sand and stones and the banks fringed with dusty sagebrush, she glowed with the freshness of a desert rose. The driver of the car took a step toward Bryant, extending the bucket. "Dip me some water out of that hole while I look at my tires, will you?" he said. At the words, which were rather more of a command than a request, the engineer regarded him fixedly while the blood stirred beneath his tan, but finally took the bucket. The other turned back to the car, where he made a pretense of inspecting a front wheel and then, with a foot on the running-board and elbow resting on knee, twisting indolently a point of his small moustache, he began to converse with his companion of the blue veil. Bryant filled the radiator. Two trips to the pool were necessary to obtain enough water for that purpose, but he finished the job with the same thoroughness that he went through with any business once undertaken, whether pleasant or otherwise. As he poured the contents of the bucket into the radiator's spout, he took stock of the automobile party. His face hardened with a slight contempt when he considered the effeminate-appearing young Mexican who had bade him bring water and the girl talking with him; which she must have noticed and taken to herself, for when their eyes met he saw that a flush dyed her cheeks and that she bit her lip nervously. He snapped the radiator cap shut. At the click the man stopped fingering his moustache, ended his talk, mounted to his seat, and started the engine. Bryant handed him the bucket, folded flat again, which the recipient tossed down by his feet. "Here, my man," said the olive-skinned young fellow at the wheel, with a forefinger and thumb searching a waistcoat pocket as the car began slowly to move forward. He tossed a quarter to the engineer. Bryant instinctively caught it, as one catches any suddenly thrown object. For an instant he remained transfixed, incredulous, astounded, then the blood flamed in his face and he cast the coin back at its donor. "No Mexican can throw money to me!" he exclaimed. For answer he received an angry look and snarled word from the driver. Beyond the man Bryant beheld the startled, embarrassed, and yet interested face of the girl with the veil, her lips a little parted, her eyes intent on him. Then the car lurched out of the sand, splashed through the rivulet, ascended the inclined roadway of the creek bank, and sped from view. The sudden spark of antagonism flashing between the engineer and the young Mexican made the two girls by the ponies acutely aware that the horseman after all was a stranger, a man of whom they knew nothing, an unknown quantity. And so the two exchanged a glance and drew on their gauntlets and said they must be riding home. Thereupon Bryant assisted them to mount. As he separated from them to follow the trail up the creek to the ranch house by the three cottonwoods, Ruth Gardner called to him not to forget his promised visit to their cabins. He assured them he should remember. When the girls were some distance off, they waved across the sagebrush at him and he swung his hat in reply. Off then the pair went at a gallop, with the automobile on the road far south of them leaving a hazy streamer of dust above the earth; the riders going farther and farther away, becoming smaller and smaller on the mesa, until at last they were but bobbing specks in the golden sunshine. CHAPTER II As Lee Bryant reined his horse to a stop before the small ranch house, a man seated on a stool just within the open doorway rose and came out to join him. He was a man of thin, stooped body; his sandy hair streaked with gray formed a fringe about his bald crown; and on his lined, sunburnt face there rested a shadow of worry that appeared to be habitual. Bryant dismounted and shook hands with the ranchman. "Well, how are you making it, Mr. Stevenson?" he greeted. "As I promised if I should be riding by this way again, I've stopped to say 'howdy.' Doesn't seem a month has passed since I stayed over night with you? How's Mrs. Stevenson? Hope you're both well." "Just feeling fair, just fair. Glad you stopped, Bryant," was the answer. "My wife was wondering only the other day what had become of you. Bring your horse around to the corral." They went behind the house, where the young man removed saddle and bridle from Dick and turned him into the enclosure. Stevenson gathered an armful of hay from a small heap near by and tossed it over the fence to the horse, which began to eat eagerly. Lee glanced about, gave a sharp whistle; from the trail by the creek a bark answered him. Then an Airedale came racing through the sagebrush, now and again leaping high to gain a view of his master and finally breaking out upon the clear ground about the ranch house. "Mike, you're too inquisitive about other animals' dwellings," Lee addressed him as he arrived, wet from an immersion in the creek and panting from his run. "Some day a rattler in a hole you're digging into will nip you on the nose and you'll wish you'd been more polite. Come along now and be good." He walked with Stevenson back to the house, where leaving the dog to drop in the shade outside they entered. The interior was cool and dim after the hot, glaring sunshine; and Bryant, having greeted Mrs. Stevenson, sat down gratefully in a rocking-chair, glad to avail himself of the room's comfort. Crude as an adobe house is both in appearance and in construction, it is admirably adapted to the climate of the arid Southwest; its flat dirt roof and thick walls built of sun-baked mud bricks, plastered within and smoothly surfaced without, defying alike the heat of midsummer and the icy blasts of winter and lasting in that dry clime half a century. This ranch house of the Stevensons', originally built by some Mexican, as Bryant judged, had been standing twenty-five or thirty years and was still tight and staunch. "Your creek's pretty dry, I see," the young fellow remarked afteratime, when they had exchanged news. "By August there won't be any water in it at all," Stevenson said, "except a little that always runs in the cañon. I'll have to haul it from there then. You see now why I can't keep stock here." His wife stopped the needle with which she mended an apron while they talked, and looked out of a window. On her face was the same tired, anxious expression that marked her husband's countenance. "I've barely kept our garden alive," she said, "but it won't be for much longer." "That's too bad, Mrs. Stevenson," Lee Bryant replied. "However, one can't do anything without water. Still, your sheep are doing well, I suppose; the grass is good on the mountains this summer." An answer was not immediately forthcoming from the rancher; he sat staring absently at the backs of his roughened hands, now and again rubbing one or the other, and enveloped in a gloom that Bryant could both see and feel. Then all at once Stevenson began to talk, in a voice querulous and morose. "We're going to quit here, sell the sheep, and go back East. I was swindled when I bought this ranch, and I want to get away before I lose my last cent. Came out to this country five years ago from Illinois with forty thousand dollars, and now we're going back with what I can sell my sheep for, maybe twenty-five hundred cash. Menocal robbed me right at the start, selling me this place for twenty-five thousand--twenty thousand down and a mortgage for the remaining five thousand--when the place was just five thousand acres of sagebrush, with no more water than runs in this creek. I was a tenderfoot all right! The land agent at Kennard showed it to me in June when the Perro was booming, and I believed him when he said it ran that way all the year around. Look at it now! I didn't have sense enough to inquire and learn about it, being in a hurry to get into the sheep business and thinking I should be rich in no time. That agent sold it to me for irrigated land, and a bargain at five dollars an acre. Menocal, who owned it and deeded it to me, pretends he isn't responsible for what the man said. Five dollars an acre! It's worth about fifty cents for winter range, and no more." "If it could be irrigated, it would be a bargain sure enough at five dollars," Lee stated. "And there's another water right for the place you said when I was here before." "Yes, there is--on paper. Water was appropriated out of the Pinas River, but that's eight miles north of here, and it would cost a hundred thousand dollars, if not more, to build a dam and a canal along the mountain side. No, sir; that appropriation was just some more of Menocal's tricky work! He jammed it through the land office thirty years ago and, they say, never did any more to comply with the law requiring delivery of the water on this ground than to have a man drive around pouring a bucketful out of a barrel upon each quarter section." "Some pretty shady transactions were put across in those early days," Bryant commented. "Well, ain't matters just as bad now?" Stevenson asked, quickly. "He still has the appropriation, or rather I'm supposed to have it with this ranch. Because Menocal controls the Mexican vote hereabouts, which is about all the vote there is, why, nobody has ever disturbed him about that water right. And he's using that water, belonging to me, to irrigate a lot of bottom farms along the river, for which no water can be appropriated, the Pinas not carrying enough. I rode over one day and looked at those farms--all grain and alfalfa. Well, he'll get this ranch back, anyway. The mortgage he holds on it is due next week and I can't pay it. Wouldn't even if I had the money. We're going to pull up stakes and leave." Bryant silently regarded the other's haggard face and stooped figure, whose expression and resigned attitude revealed clearly Stevenson's surrender. He was a man discouraged, disheartened, whipped. "What's wrong with the sheep?" he questioned, at length. "Not much that isn't wrong. When I started five years ago, I invested in three thousand head. One time I had them increased to fifty-five hundred--three bands. Thought I was doing first rate; and I was then. But everything began to go against me. It seemed as if I always got the worst herders; and not having any water to raise alfalfa I had to buy winter feed, which was expensive; and a lot of them got the scab and died; and last year I lost nearly all my lambs at lambing time, the band being caught out in a storm and being in the wrong place. Just one thing after another, to break my back. Had trouble about the range, too. When I started them off this spring, they were down to seven hundred; and I've been losing some right along from one cause or another. No lambs, either, this spring, except dead ones. I thought I could hang on till my luck changed, but losing a hundred head two weeks ago was the last straw. I'm done now." "What happened, Stevenson?" "One of Menocal's herders mixed his flock with my six hundred, did it deliberately, I'm convinced; there were three thousand head of his. Billy was tending ours--and Billy is only fourteen, you know. I had come down here for some supplies and when I returned, I found him crying. The Mexican had separated the sheep and we were a hundred short, gone with his, and he would pay no attention to Billy, swearing he had only his own band. And he drove them away. I went to Menocal, who was very polite, but he said I must be mistaken as his herders were all honest men; and I've not got my sheep back, and I'm not likely to. For that band is now thirty miles away somewhere. No use to go to court--Menocal owns everything and everybody around here. So I'm quitting." "The sheep business isn't all roses, that's certain," Lee Bryant remarked. "It's hard luck that your band ran down just when the price of mutton and wool is going up. So you're letting the ranch slide?" "Yes, I can't pay the mortgage; Menocal would foreclose at once if I tried to stay. Last time I was in town he asked me about paying it off and when I told him I shouldn't be able to do that, he said he'd have me deed it back to him to save foreclosure proceedings. And he was smiling, too. He knew all the time that he'd get the ranch back; and when he does, he'll sell it to some other sucker." "Both of us have wished a hundred times that we'd never sold our Illinois farm to come here," Mrs. Stevenson said, plaintively. "I don't know what we'll do when we go back, for that matter. Just rent a place, I guess. Land is so high-priced there that we'll never be able to buy a farm again." "Renting there is better than starving here," her husband declared. "We'll have a better home, too. When we first came to this place, we planned on building a fine house, but I never had the money loose, and we've just kept on from year to year living in this 'dobe hole. Good thing I didn't have the money, however, for we'd lose the house along with the ranch if we had built. Well, we're going back East, anyhow, as soon as I sell the sheep. Graham, who has the big ranch on Diamond Creek, south of where those girls are homesteading, is coming up in a day or two to look at them, maybe buy them. You can see Graham's big white house from the Kennard trail." Bryant nodded. "I know the place, saw it when passing," said he. Then he went on, "When I was at the ford watering my horse before coming here, an auto crossed the creek. In the rear seat were a fat Mexican, whom I took to be Menocal, and a white man with a pointed beard. The latter perhaps was Graham?" "Yes, that must have been him. Which way were they driving?" "South." "Going to the Graham ranch, I s'pose." "There was a slim young fellow driving the car--some Mexican blood in him," Lee stated. "Menocal's son, Charlie, a half-breed snippet who puts on airs because his father's rich," Stevenson said, in a disgusted tone. "A white woman married Menocal, you know." "In the front seat with the young fellow was a girl, rather pretty," Bryant appended. "That's Louise, I imagine," Mrs. Stevenson said, reflectively. "Yes, it must have been her. She's Mr. Graham's daughter. A nice girl, too. That Menocal boy is crazy to marry her, the talk is." "And is she crazy to marry him?" Lee inquired, amused by this gossip. "Well, not exactly crazy, I'd say; I don't see how she could be. But he'll be worth a lot of money some day, and she may overlook considerable on that account. Menocal's boy has been to college; besides, the family goes everywhere with white folks. I guess a Mexican is supposed to be really white, isn't he?" "Those having pure Spanish blood," the engineer explained. "Nearly all the ones around here that I've seen have more Indian in them than anything else, however, with a dash of other races perhaps. From the glimpse I had of Menocal, I'll venture to say he has Red men among his ancestors." "Mexican or Indian or whatever he is, he can squeeze money out of nothing, like a Jew," Stevenson complained. "Look how much he has made out of this ranch; look at what he has made out of me! And it's just that way with everything he holds. The Mexicans all around this section sell him their stuff cheap and take what he pays, because they don't know any better and because he's their leader. He has the big store at Bartolo, which you've seen, and owns the bank there, and has any number of farms up and down the Pinas River, and runs I don't know how many bands of sheep; and besides, he elects the county officers, and fixes the taxes to suit himself, and recommends the water inspector for this district, and--and--well, what chance has an ordinary man to get ahead here?" Lee Bryant let a pause ensue. He rolled a cigarette and struck a light and carefully got the tobacco to burning. "You say you're going to let the ranch go back to Menocal," he stated, abruptly. "You've made up your mind that you won't keep it, anyway. All right. Now I've a proposition to make you." Stevenson looked at him with curiosity. "A proposition? What is it?" he asked. "It's this: I've a farm of eighty acres in Nebraska that I'll trade you for it. I could offer you less, but I won't; you have an equity here of value, and I'm not the kind of man to beat you down to nothing. If we deal, you shall have something in return for your interest. This eighty of mine is worth a hundred dollars an acre--eight thousand; it's mortgaged for five thousand, which leaves an equity of three thousand; on it are good buildings and it's rented until next March. You could then take possession. It's a good farm, and with the money you'll have from the sale of your sheep you can make a good start on the place, which is in the corn and wheat section. My equity of three thousand isn't worth, to be sure, anything like what you paid Menocal for this ranch, but it's something--and all that I can afford to give." The rancher stared at Lee as if he could not credit his ears. "Are you in earnest?" he demanded, at last. "Why I've just told you there's no water here. A man can't make a living on the place, and the mortgage is due next week." "I'll pay off the mortgage; I've enough money saved up to do that." "But, man, without water----" "Listen, Stevenson, I know exactly what I'm about," the engineer interrupted. "This thing's a gamble with me, I admit, but you needn't do any worrying on that score. I'm going in with my eyes open; I know the risks and am willing to take them. What about my offer?" Stevenson, still gazing at his visitor in wonderment, was at a loss; he rubbed his knuckles doubtfully, hitched about on his chair and knit his brows, perplexed, hesitating, as was his manner when presented with any new affair, even with one palpably to his advantage. It was clear that in this lack of quick decision lay much of the reason for his failure. His wife exclaimed in appeal, "Oh, John, if Mr. Bryant really means it, why don't you say yes? I can't understand why he makes us such a fine offer, but he is making it. We can start again; we'll be back in a farming country like what we're used to, even if it isn't in Illinois; we'll have a farm of our own, a home of our own, and will not have to rent. Oh, why don't you say yes?" The rancher looked from his wife to Bryant and back again, pursing his lips. "But I don't understand this," he said. "You heard what he explained," she replied, anxiously. "He expects to pay off the mortgage and be rid of Mr. Menocal. Perhaps he knows the sheep business better than you do; you never did learn it well, John, and you ought never to have stopped farming. You were a good farmer; you will be again. We can go on this place in Nebraska and raise corn and wheat and hogs, and I'll have chickens to help clear the debt. Why, it's a chance for us to be independent again, and have a home, and neighbours, and attend church, and--and be happy, John!" "That's so," her husband agreed. "We are going to leave here anyway," she continued to urge. "We wouldn't have had anything but the money from the sheep, but now you'll be getting a farm, too. I'd think you'd jump at Mr. Bryant's offer." "But maybe, after all, the ranch is worth more than I thought," Stevenson speculated. His wife sank back in her seat, picked up her sewing, and tried to resume her task, but her fingers trembled and her lashes were winking fast. Lee gazed at her sympathetically. Then he lifted his hat from the floor and stood up. "Well, there are other places I can trade for," he remarked. "I thought I was doing you a good turn in proposing the exchange, especially as you're about to lose your place. I wouldn't be beating you out of anything, certainly, and as your wife says, you'd really be getting something for nothing. The mortgage is due next week, you must remember." Stevenson's mind, however, was running in another channel. "I'll tell you how we can deal," he said, with an assumption of shrewdness. "You pay me the five thousand you plan to pay off the mortgage with, and get Menocal to renew the loan. Five thousand--why, my equity is worth more than that! Besides, you've some scheme for making money out of this ranch." "What if I have?" "That makes a difference when it comes to a deal." "Not with me," the engineer stated, curtly. "If that's your attitude, we'll drop the matter. Probably you yourself can arrange an extension of the mortgage or a renewal, if you're minded to remain." "You know, John, that you can't; Mr. Menocal has already refused," Mrs. Stevenson said, in a low voice. "I ought to have cash in addition to your farm," her husband insisted. "You get none," Lee replied. "Well, this trade is what I came to see you about. From the way you talked when I was here last I supposed you might consider my offer favourably, but I guess we can't do business. I'll ride on to Bartolo." At this statement Mrs. Stevenson wiped her eyes, rose and went into the inner room, closing the door after her. The engineer moved as if to depart. "Now, wait a minute," Stevenson exclaimed. "Well?" "I'll take--let me figure a minute." Bryant tossed his hat on the table in disgust and relighted his cigarette. "Stevenson, listen," he began. "You're an older man than I am, but just the same I'm going to say a few things that you need to hear. I couldn't say them and wouldn't say them before your wife, but now I'm going to turn loose. You can do as you damn please about trading, take my offer or leave it; if you refuse, though, you'll lose both ranch and farm. The trouble with you is that you can't see the difference between a good proposition and a bad one. That's why you bought this ranch on say-so. That's why now you're turning down my offer. You either jump without first looking, or you wait until it's too late. You don't pay attention strictly to what's immediately under your hand, but waste your energy wondering if you can't get rich from something out of your reach. That's what has been the trouble with you in the sheep business, I imagine. Here when I offer you a farm for a ranch that's slipping through your fingers, you at once get greedy. Most of the time you don't know your own mind; you hesitate and speculate and vacillate and worry. Why, you deserve to lose your ranch and your sheep and everything else. And your wife suffers for your faults! You're a failure, and you've dragged her down with you. If you're not a failure, and a fool, too, go bring her back into this room and tell her you're going to make this trade, so you two will have a farm and the home she wants and so her mind will be easy once more. You've been thinking of only yourself long enough; now begin to think of her comfort and happiness." Stevenson came angrily to his feet. "No man ever talked to me like that before, I'll have you know!" he cried. The engineer kept his place, with no change of countenance. "Well, one has talked to you like that now and I'm the man," he said. "And I don't retract a word. It's the truth straight from the shoulder. What are you going to do about it? Why, nothing, just nothing. Because I've talked cold, hard facts, and you know it." The momentary fire died from Stevenson's eyes. He shuffled his feet for a little, looked about the room with the worried aspect he usually showed, brushed his lips with the back of his hand. "You're pretty rough----" he began. "Don't stand there talking; go get your wife," Bryant said, sharply. Stevenson turned and walked slowly to the closed door. He cleared his throat, stared at the panels for a moment, and at last pushed it open. "Come out, Sarah, we're going to trade," he announced. The woman came forth. About her eyes was a slight redness, but on her lips there was a tremulous smile. "I'm glad," she said, "I'm glad, John." "Yes, I decided it was a good trade to make," her husband assured her. "No need to think it over longer." They came to where Bryant stood, unconcealed pleasure showing on Mrs. Stevenson's face. "You may like to see these kodak pictures of the farm and its house," the young man said, producing an envelope from a pocket. "Take a chair here by the window, Mrs. Stevenson, where you'll have the light. See, this one shows the house, with the trees and lilac bushes in front, and gives you a glimpse of the flower garden. Pretty, don't you think?" She readjusted her spectacles. After a time she gazed from the pictures through the window at the stretch of sagebrush. "And I'll have neighbours, too," she said, in an unsteady voice. "The loneliness here was killing me." Stevenson considered the backs of his hands in awkward silence. "Neighbours, lots of them," Bryant affirmed. "I kind of pity you having to stay," she said, looking up at him with a smile. The engineer laughed. "Why, this country suits me right down to the ground," he replied. "I've been in the West ten years, wouldn't live anywhere else. And I don't expect to be lonely; Menocal will probably attend to that. Besides, there are two good-looking young ladies just south of here, on Sarita Creek." "That's so," she said, laughing also. "First thing we hear, you'll be married," Stevenson remarked, with a quick grin. "Oh, I'm safe--there are two of them," Bryant returned, clapping the rancher on the shoulder. CHAPTER III The town of Bartolo slumbered in the July sunshine. Nothing stirred on its one long street, lined with scarcely a break on either side by mud-plastered houses that made a continuous brown wall, marked at intervals by a door or pierced by a window; nothing stirred, neither in front of Menocal's large frame store at the upper end of it, with the little bank adjoining, nor before the small courthouse grounds across the way, where the huge old cottonwoods spread their shade, nor along the entire length of the beaten street down to Gomez's blacksmith shop and Martinez's saloon across from each other at the lower end; nothing, not even the pair of burros drowsing in the shade of the wall, or the dogs lying before doors, or the goats a-kneel by the saloon, or the fowls nested down in the dust. Only the Pinas River, issuing from the black cañon a mile or so above, was in motion; and, indeed, it appeared to partake of the general somnolence, barely rippling along its gravelly bed, shallow and shrunken, and giving forth but an indolent glitter as it flowed past the town. The day was hot and it was the hour of the siesta, therefore everything slept--everything, man, beast and fowl, from Menocal, who was snoring in his hammock on the vine-clad veranda of his big stuccoed house just beyond the store at the head of the street, to the goats at the foot of it by the silent saloon. Bryant, descending from the mesa into the river bottom and riding into the street, had he not known otherwise, might have supposed the population vanished in a body. But he was aware that it only slept; and he had no consideration for a siesta that retarded his affairs. He dismounted before the courthouse and entered the building, whose corridor and chambers appeared as silent, as lifeless, as forsaken as the street itself. Coming into the Recorder's office, he halted for a look about, then pushed through the wicket of the counter and stepped into an inner room, where he stirred by a thumb in the ribs a thin, dusky-skinned youth reclining in a swivel chair with feet in repose on a window-sill, who slept with head fallen back, arms hanging, and mouth open. "Come, _amigo_, your dinner's settled by this time," the engineer stated. "Grab a pen and record this deed." The clerk sleepily shifted his feet into a more comfortable position. "We're behind in our work," said he. "Just leave your deed, and the fee, and we'll get around to it in a few days." "So you're too busy now, eh?" "Yes. We've had a good many papers to record this month." "Where's the Recorder?" "Not back from dinner yet," was the answer. The speaker once again prepared to rest. From the outer office the slow ticking of a clock sounded with lulling effect, while the grassy yard beyond the window, shaded by the boughs of the cottonwoods, diffused peace and drowsiness. The clerk closed his eyes. "Just leave the deed and fee on the desk here," he murmured. "And tip-toe out, too, I suppose." "If you feel like it," the young Mexican remarked, with a faint insolence in his voice, the insolence of a subordinate who believes himself protected by his place. Bryant's hand shot swiftly out to the speaker's shoulder. With a snap that brought him up standing the clerk was jerked from his seat, and before his startled wits gathered what was happening he was propelled into the outer office. "Record this deed, you forty-dollar-a-month penpusher, before I grow peevish and rearrange your face," Bryant ordered, with his fingers tightening their grasp on the youth's collar. "You're receiving your pay from the county, and are presumed to give value received. Anyway, value received is what I'm going to have now." "Let go my neck!" "Let go nothing. When I see you settle down to this big book, then I let go. No '_mañana_' with me, boy; right here and now you're going to give me an exhibition of rapid penmanship. Savey? Take up your pen; that's the stuff. Now dip deep in the ink and draw a full breath and go to it." Bryant released his hold on the cowed clerk, but remained by his side, where his presence exerted an amazingly energizing effect upon the scribe. The pen scratched industriously to and fro across the page, over which the youth humped himself as if enamoured of the tome, only at intervals risking a glance at the lean-faced, vigilant American. When he had finished the transcription, stamped the deed and closed the book, Bryant handed him the amount of the fee. "Thank you," the clerk said, with an excess of politeness. He was still nervous. He furtively observed his visitor stowing the deed in a pocket, as if expecting Bryant to initiate some new violence, and resolved on flight if he should. "There, my friend, that's all you can do for me just now," the engineer remarked. "But I shall return soon, so keep awake and ready. When you see me entering, advance _pronto_. If anything annoys me, it's being kept waiting by a Mexican boy-clerk. Do you get that clearly?" "_Si, señor_," the other replied, unconsciously lapsing into his native tongue. "_Muy bueno_--and bear it in mind. Now I advise you to get to work on the documents you've allowed to accumulate; it's half-past two and you've had enough of a siesta for one noon." With which Bryant took his departure. Outside he led his horse across the street to the frame store. Beside the latter stood Menocal's house, with its smooth green lawn and its beds of poppies, its trees, its fence massed with sweet peas, and its vine-covered veranda, where the engineer had a glimpse of a corpulent figure in a hammock. The only sound from the place was the musical gurgle of water in a little irrigation ditch bordering the lawn. Inside the long store Bryant aroused the only man in sight, a Mexican who slept on the counter with his head pillowed on a pile of overalls. "Go tell Menocal there's a man here to see him on business," Lee said. The awakened sleeper slid off his perch, rubbed his eyes, yawned, stretched himself, and then shook his head with great gravity. "Mr. Menocal takes his siesta till three o'clock; you can see him at that time," he said, in English. "I'll see him now." "Impossible! He is very angry when awakened for a small matter." Bryant went a step nearer to the speaker. "Where do you get the authority to decide that my business is a small matter?" he demanded, with a menace of manner that caused the other to retreat in haste. "Go bring him and make me no more trouble." The man went. Bryant lighted a cigarette and fell to surveying the store's merchandise. Several minutes passed before a murmur of voices apprised him of the coming of the men. Menocal entered the side door first, approaching heavily and sleepily the spot where the engineer waited. He had not put on coat or collar; his short figure appeared more than ever obese; his sweeping white moustache divided his plump, shiny brown face; and his air was that of one who must put up with vexatious interruptions because of the important position he filled. "You wish to speak with me?" he asked, shortly. "That's why I'm here," Bryant returned. Menocal gazed at him owlishly for a time. "You're the man who threw my son's money back at the ford day before yesterday, aren't you?" he questioned. "The same." "Why did you throw it back?" "Why did he throw it at me in the first place? You should train him to use better judgment. You yourself wouldn't have done it." "No," Menocal said. Then, as if the subject were dismissed, he asked, "What do you wish to see me about?" "About the mortgage on the Stevenson place: I've bought the ranch. Stevenson moves off in a few days." Menocal's brows lifted and remained so, as if fixed in their new elevation. He slowly rubbed the end of his nose with his forefinger. The sleepiness had wholly vanished from his countenance. "Come into the bank," he said, finally; and moved toward the front door. The engineer accompanied him. In a space railed off from the cashier's grille in the little building next door they sat down. The teller was visible in the cage, where now he appeared very busy though he had undoubtedly been drowsing when they entered. "So you've bought the Stevenson ranch," Menocal said. "Yes. I've just had the deed recorded." "The mortgage is due in a few days; I told him it wouldn't be renewed by me." "Perhaps now that I have the place----" "No; I've carried that loan long enough. If it isn't paid when due, I'll start foreclosure proceedings immediately." Bryant nodded. "Well, I merely asked out of curiosity," said he. "It's your right to demand payment--and I'm on hand with the money. Make out a release so that I can clear the record. Here's a Denver draft for six thousand dollars--I figure principal and interest at five thousand four hundred and you can have the balance placed to my credit in the bank. I shouldn't continue the loan at its present rate of interest in any case; eight per cent. is too much for money. Besides, I want the ranch clear of incumbrance." With an expressionless face Menocal gazed at the draft, turned it over, examined the back, then at last laid it down on his desk. "Isidro," he called to the teller, "make out a mortgage release for the Stevenson place. Copy the description from the mortgage in my file in the vault. Afterward credit six hundred dollars to--What is your name?" "Lee Bryant." "Six hundred dollars to Lee Bryant, Isidro. Mr. Bryant will give you his signature." Again facing his visitor, he said, "Do you know that that ranch has no water to speak of? I'm afraid you may not find the property what you expect." "It has a good appropriation from the Pinas River here." "Ah, but it can't be used," Menocal exclaimed, with a bland smile. "I propose to use it." "What!" Bryant kept his eyes fixed on the amazed banker's orbs. "Didn't I speak clearly?" he inquired. "I own one hundred and twenty-five second feet of water in this river and it's my intention to apply it. I'm going to make a real ranch down there." A shadow seemed to settle on Menocal's face, leaving it altered, less placid, more purposeful. "Considerable capital will be required to build a canal there," he remarked. "You're certainly not going into this thing on your own account, are you? Who is putting up the money? Eastern people?" Bryant smiled, but made no answer. His smile and his silence provoked an angry gleam from the banker's eyes. "Well, it doesn't matter," Menocal continued. "But you're going to discover that you haven't this water right, after all." "What makes you think so?" "Because it was never used, because no real canal was ever built, only a little ditch that doesn't exist now. The right will be cancelled, and the water will be reappropriated for lands along the river." "For farms on which you're now using it, you mean?" "I'm not saying where." Bryant leaned forward and tapped the banker's desk with a finger-tip. "Mr. Menocal, don't try to start any trouble with me," he said, with jaw a little outthrust. "_Dios!_ You dare talk that way to me?" "I repeat it, don't attempt to keep something that doesn't belong to you. You may want to--but don't try it. I know all about the water appropriation for the ranch I've bought; all about your sworn affidavit filed thirty years ago, with an accompanying map, certifying that a canal was built and water delivered to the land. It's a matter of record. Now you seek to reappropriate this water, or to have the right cancelled, and see where you wind up. Thirty years ago men winked at false affidavits, but it's different to-day." The Mexican's white moustache drew up tight under his thick nose, disclosing his teeth in a snarl. "You threaten me--me!" "I'm not threatening, only warning you. Or if you wish a still milder word, let me say advising," Bryant rejoined. The banker's eyes, however, continued to flash at the engineer, as if alive in their sockets and hunting a mark to strike. "You accuse me of dishonour!" he exclaimed. "I don't know why I should pay attention to your charge, which is false. A ditch was built to the ranch--" "Mighty small one, then. No trace of it remains." "One was built, one was built!" "Very well, Mr. Menocal, grant that it was. It but strengthens my position. But let us pass to recent times; five years ago you passed title to Stevenson with the water right as a reality when you sold him the ranch; your son is water inspector for this district, or was until a year ago, anyway, making reports to the state. Did he say anything in them about this canal or water right having ceased to exist? No." "His reports were largely routine," the other stated, regaining his composure. "Still they were official. I'm simply pointing out to you, Mr. Menocal, why it will be unwise for you to endeavour to have this water appropriation cancelled. You sold it to Stevenson as a live right--the deed proves that; and now that I have the property I shall make it such in fact. You've been using the water for other land, which possibly will suffer afterward, but that doesn't affect the case in the least. That water is a valuable property; when it's delivered on my ranch, the land will be worth fifty dollars an acre. You may have calculated that no one who got hold of the Perro Creek ranch ever would or could use the water, but in that you were in error: I can and will use it, and you must understand that fact." Menocal fell into consideration. He folded his hands across his stomach and remained thus, pondering, occasionally lifting his lids for a scrutiny of Bryant's face. "I'll give you ten thousand cash for the place as it stands and hand you my check now," he said, at length. "Not to-day, thank you," the engineer replied. "What is your price?" "The ranch isn't for sale. It'll be worth a quarter of a million when it's watered. No, it's not on the market at present." A deep sigh issued from the banker's lips; he blinked slowly several times before speaking, with a resigned countenance. "I see you've some capitalists behind you," said he, "for it will take money to build a dam and a canal. If they saw a reasonable profit without the trouble of construction, no doubt they would be willing to sell." "Put your mind at rest, Mr. Menocal; you have only me to deal with; there are no capitalists running this show yet. But the water system will be built, never fear." Menocal's eyebrows went up. "Ah, so?" he asked, softly. Then his face smoothed itself out; and Bryant realized that he had been led into a betrayal of importance. "You would do well to name a price, Mr. Bryant." "No; I propose to develop the ranch," the engineer answered, curtly. "Is the release made out? If it is, I'll be on my way." "It's too bad you refuse, too bad," Menocal said, with a lugubrious shake of his head. He called Isidro. The clerk placed a card before Bryant for his signature and gave him a check book. Then he laid the mortgage release in front of Menocal, who signed and passed it to the engineer. "You'll find it correct," the Mexican stated. "Isidro is a notary and has filled out the acknowledgment." Nevertheless, the visitor took care to read the paper and compare it with his deed before he rose. "Well, that ends my business for the afternoon," said he, "and I'll take no more of your time. You understand where I stand, Mr. Menocal." The latter gave a number of slow nods saying, "I understand, I understand. Good day, Mr. Bryant. And remember that you have an account with us and that the bank will be pleased to render you any service possible." Sleepily the banker, watching through the bank window, saw the young man lead his horse across the street and once more disappear within the courthouse. Then for some minutes he continued in somnolent contemplation of the courthouse front. At last he called: "Isidro, Isidro! Go find Joe García and tell him I wish to speak with him in half an hour in my garden. Look for him at home and in the saloon, but find him wherever he is. That man who just went out now, Isidro,----" "Yes," answered Isidro. "He's one of those hard, obstinate Americans, Isidro--and his eyes, they are bad eyes, I don't like them." "Yes," Isidro concurred, who had not noticed the eyes at all. CHAPTER IV Charlie Menocal, who after his sleep had read a few chapters in a novel, went out of the shaded room where he had reposed and into the garden. There he discovered his father in talk with Joe García. "What's going on?" he exclaimed. "Lost a horse, or a wife or something, Joe?" "No, Charlie; this is business," García said, with a grin. Menocal continued to give his instructions to the latter. They had to do with bringing a few hundred sheep from one of the bands feeding in the hills. They were to be driven down on the mesa to graze, and kept moving about near the Stevenson ranch house; García was to observe what the young man there did, all he did, whom he saw, and as far as possible where he went. Particularly was he to note if surveyors came and set to work anywhere. If the young man appeared to be engaged at any task on the mountain side, Joe was to approach with his sheep. And he was to report everything he learned. Charlie's attention became more lively as he listened to his father's directions to the man, and when García had departed he asked, "Who are you after? Who's this young fellow you speak of as being at the Perro Creek ranch? Didn't Stevenson deed the place back?" Menocal senior twisted an end of his flaring moustache. "May a thousand damnations fall on him! No, he didn't," he responded, wrathfully. "But that only means you'll have to foreclose the mortgage. It will take longer, that's all." Charlie was vice-president of his father's bank--his name was so printed on the stationery, at least--and was familiar with his parent's affairs, though he was averse to anything like industry. He much preferred the pursuit of pleasure to work, and his automobile to the grille of the bank. He was accurately aware, too, of his father's weakness for him, an only child, and of his father's inclination to indulge his desires; and shrewdly played upon the fact. Nevertheless, in matters of business he possessed a certain sharpness. "Stevenson sold the ranch to this young man Bryant, who just now paid off the mortgage," Menocal explained. "Then he was stung," Charlie averred. "Wait, you don't know all, my son. He plans to build a dam and a canal and use that old water right out of the Pinas, taking the water with which we irrigate the farms down at Rosita. It will leave them dry; the alfalfa will die; no more grain or peas or beans will be raised on them; they won't have even good pasturage; they will go back to sagebrush and cactus--all those farms, all those beautiful ranches! Altogether four or five thousand acres! They are worth two hundred thousand dollars now--to-morrow worth nothing! Half my winter hay comes from them; half my peas for fattening lambs. I shall have to sell part of my sheep. I'm a millionaire now, but I'll be reduced, I'll be less than a millionaire, and so almost poor again. It's very bad; it mustn't be; I must stop him using the water." Even Charlie became solemn at the prospect of losing two hundred thousand dollars and being less than a millionaire. "The right hasn't been used; we'll have it cancelled," he said, with sudden confidence. "He refused to sell the place to me for ten thousand dollars cash," the father stated. "He's no fool--and he's a bad customer, Charlie; he said he would send me to prison for perjury if I tried to cancel the right." "Perjury, pouf!" Charlie sneered. "He couldn't send me to prison, of course, for I have too much money, but he might make it unpleasant for me, very unpleasant. Politics are to be considered; I mustn't get a bad name in the party and in the state. I must be careful. The records show that the ranch has had the water, and while in my possession. As he says, that would be difficult for me to explain if I entered court against him. The matter mustn't get into court or into the land office. Later we can have the water right cancelled and reappropriated--later, when he has gone away, when no dust can be raised about it." "Is he going away?" "Don't be stupid, Charlie. He must go away; that is necessary: I'm considering plans. He must be pursuaded--or----" "Or forced," said his son, with reckless bright eyes. "Men generally depart from a locality when public opinion is brought to bear on them," the elder remarked. "He can be made unpopular until he desires to leave." "We'll run him out, just leave that part to me." "Charlie, nothing rash must be done, remember that, and nothing illegal. I shall think of some plan soon." "Nothing rash, but nothing uncertain, father. Two hundred thousand is a lot of money. I, too, shall plan." The prospect of ousting an intruder who had challenged his family's right to control what it wished here, who indeed had the audacity to attempt to robe the effort under a claim of legality, appealed to young Menocal as an undertaking most attractive. The fact that all the advantage was on his side, of influence, of wealth, of race, of power that might be exerted through ignorant Mexicans in a hundred subtle and vindictive ways, made the enterprise all the more alluring. The Indian strain in his blood--a strain which accounts for much that sets American and Mexican apart, unconsciously in his case gave a tinge of cruelty to his anticipation. Aspiring himself to pass as an American, it never failed to please him when he could slight or humiliate an American; and he lacked his father's restraint of impulses, as he came short of his sagacity and perseverance. Indeed, secretly the son believed his father too conservative, too cautious, too old-fashioned and slow; and at times was exceedingly impatient with methods that he was confident he could immensely improve. His father considered him for a time. "Charlie, you leave this matter alone," he said. "You keep out of it. Whatever's to be done, I'll do. You would go too far. You can give your attention to seeing that the crops are watered and the hay cut on time; you should be down at Rosita now looking after things." "I'll run down in the car this evening," was the answer. "To-morrow I'm going to Kennard, where I haven't been for two weeks. The wool in the warehouse there should be sold, and a buyer from Boston wrote, you know, that he would be there this week. And I think we can get our price." Kennard was the nearest railroad point and forty miles south. It was a pleasant little city, with some of the attractions of larger places. Of these Charlie was thinking rather than of the wool. He would attend to the wool business, of course, but it was an excuse instead of a reason for the projected visit on the morrow. "Very well, it's time the wool is sold; the price is good at present," his father agreed. Charlie recurred to the matter of the Stevenson ranch. "What's this fellow's name who bought out Stevenson?" "Lee Bryant. A young man. And I don't like him; I'm afraid he's a trouble-maker. You should remember him, Charlie, for he's the fellow who filled the radiator of the car at the ford on Perro Creek and who threw your money back in your face." Young Menocal's thin figure stiffened, while his small black moustache rose in two points of ire. "Him! That scoundrel who insulted me before Louise! That lamb-stealer!" he shrilled. "That is the man," his father affirmed. Charlie spat forth a string of Spanish curses. When he had recovered from his outburst of passion, he said: "Well, I'm glad he's the man. He'll pay for that. Louise said nothing, but she heard him. And now he's trying to steal our water, too! I'd like to tie him down on a cactus-bed and run a band of sheep over him." "Charlie, Charlie, control yourself. Don't exhaust your strength by being angry; it's bad for you in this heat; sunstrokes are sometimes brought on that way. Besides, such talk as you uttered is foolish and dangerous." "Bah, I'm not afraid of a sunstroke." "Anyway, it's unwise to be angry," his father warned. "When you're in a temper, you talk loud; and people may hear it and repeat it, making trouble. Now I must return to the bank. But remember what I say: you're not to meddle in this Perro Creek matter. Do you hear?" "Oh, yes, I hear," said Charlie. His face as his father walked away did not, however, indicate acquiescence in this tame course. His heart was full of rancour for the insulting stranger of the ford; and where the fires of his hatred blew, his feet would follow. CHAPTER V Though Lee Bryant, during his colloquy with Menocal, had spoken confidently of his ability to obtain money wherewith to construct a canal system linking the Pinas River and the Perro Creek ranch, he had no definite promise of funds from any source. Nor would the project be ripe for financing before he had completed his surveys and made his cost estimates. He had become interested in the undertaking in this way. Staying over night with the Stevensons by chance a month previous, a stranger, his speculation was aroused when through questions about the ranch he learned of the unused Pinas River water right, a right valid but apparently impracticable. Was it indeed impracticable? Would the cost of bringing water to the land be, after all, prohibitive? In fact, had a competent engineer ever gone into the matter? He doubted it. The history of the property, so far as he could glean from Stevenson, disclosed on the part of no one any serious effort ever to develop the ranch. In the beginning Menocal had probably had some faint notion of carrying out the scheme, but if so, had afterward abandoned the enterprise. The tract of five thousand acres of land had originally been a small Mexican grant; it lay in the midst of government land; and when Menocal came into possession of the ranch, some conception of utilizing water from the Pinas must have inspired him to acquire the appropriation of one hundred and twenty-five second feet. Well, the land, theoretically at any rate, had water; and if water actually could be delivered, an extraordinary value would accrue to the now nearly worthless tract. It was a problem for engineers; it was one of the possibilities that if seized might be converted into a fact. Bryant was an engineer, and he was just then foot-loose. From the worried ranchman, Stevenson, who appeared glad to talk of his affairs to someone, he learned that the man was both dissatisfied with the country and straitened in circumstances. Bryant judged that his host would consider any offer which would enable him to realize something on the ranch and to depart; so that particular aspect of the matter if undertaken, namely, securing title to the land and water right, seemed favourable. If no insurmountable obstacle stood in the way of building a dam and a canal, arising from construction elements, it assuredly looked as if money was to be made out of the project. With his mind kindling to the idea Bryant rode northward next morning along the base of the mountains, studying the hillsides where a canal naturally should run, all the way up to the Pinas River. Afterward he reconnoitered the mesa, hitting at last on a slight elevation, hardly to be called a ridge, that projected from a hillside a mile below Bartolo and curved in a gentle crescent for about three miles from the range of mountains down the mesa, again bending in toward the hills close to the north line of the Perro Creek ranch. Next, he absented himself for a week at the state capital, where he industriously studied the water and land records pertaining to the district. When he returned, he brought with him a surveying instrument and a boy for helper. He pitched a tent out of sight in a hollow at the foot of a hill, worked early and late running his lines, establishing a dam site, and surveying the river bottom near the mouth of Pinas Cañon, and remained practically unseen except by a few incurious Mexicans. His instrument proved the correctness of his conclusion regarding the crescent-shaped elevation as a practical grade for a canal, which though necessitating a longer course would nevertheless immensely lessen the time, expense, and difficulties of digging when compared with a line along the mountains' flanks with its danger of washouts and earth slides. Nor did he stop there. He made rapid but reliable topographical measurements, on a general scale, of the mesa for five miles out from the mountains, between Bartolo and Perro Creek, locating among other things a large depression in the plain, three miles southwest of the town, which might by diking be converted into a flood water reservoir. Then he folded his tent and again disappeared for a week. When, finally, he rode to Stevenson's ranch house that hot July afternoon and made a trade for the five thousand acres of land, he was the possessor of considerably more knowledge of the locality and its possibilities than any one would have guessed. And now he was owner of the ranch and committed to the enterprise. A few days after Bryant's visit to Bartolo Stevenson disposed of his sheep to Graham, the owner of the large ranch on Diamond Creek, loaded his household goods, except the stove and some of the furniture which the engineer bought, and with his wife and boy drove away in his sheep wagon for Kennard and for the new farm in Nebraska. Bryant's own effects--trunk, bedding, provisions, surveying instruments, draughting-board, and the like, came up from the railroad town by wagon, and with them the fourteen-year-old lad, Dave Morris, a gangling, long-legged boy extremely dependable and extraordinarily serious, who had carried rod for the engineer during the week of preliminary surveying. The man and boy now attacked the canal line in earnest, with Bryant intent on establishing its course, location, and displacement exactly, so that he could make necessary blueprints and compile construction estimates. It was while they were working along the first mile of the line, where it ran from the Pinas River along the base of a hill to the low ridge that bore out upon the mesa, that they received their first interruption. The worst and most expensive part of the canal to build would be this section, and the engineer was therefore taking especial care in its surveying; near the river the line traversed several fenced tracts of ground extending part way up the hillside, fields owned by natives; and it was one of these Mexicans who slouched forward to the spot where Bryant and Dave worked and ordered them to get out of his field. Bryant straightened up from sighting through his transit, and asked, "What's on your mind? What's disturbing your brain, _hombre_?" "You get off," was the unkempt fellow's answer. "Why?" "You can't come on my ranch; get off." The engineer pulled a map from his hip pocket--a copy made from one filed in the land commissioner's office thirty years previous. He spread it open before the Mexican. "See this? Here is Bartolo, here is the river, here is your field," he said, pointing with a finger. "Now look at that line; it runs across this field right where we stand. That's the Perro Creek Canal, extending down to Perro Creek." The man stared at the earth under his feet. "No, I see no canal," he stated, now looking right and left as if to make sure. "There is no canal." "Yes, there is. But it needs cleaning badly. I'm surveying its banks again and then I shall clean out the dirt. You can see that it needs cleaning, because you can scarcely see it at all. Menocal, the banker, didn't take very good care of the canal after he built it; that's the trouble. Hello, does that surprise you? Yes, Mr. Menocal got the water right and dug the ditch in the first place; and he also secured a right of way across these fields, sixty feet wide, by buying it from whoever owned the ground at that time, and the right of way is certified to the state. Now, I own Perro Creek ranch and the Perro Creek canal and likewise the right of way. So you see, José, or whatever your name is, we're standing on my ground and not yours; I could even make you take down your fence where it crosses my right of way." The Mexican blinked stupidly. "I was born here; my father was born here; my grandfather lived here," he said. "There have been little ditches, many of them, but never a big canal in this field. You must get off." "No; you're mistaken. Go see Mr. Menocal and he will set you right." "I saw Charlie Menocal, who said to drive strangers off." "Well, Charlie had best keep his fingers out of this dish, or he may find it full of pepper, and you tell him so next time you talk with him." Bryant folded his map and restored it to his pocket, while the Mexican went away to his house. That day the engineer worked until darkness shut down. At three o'clock next morning he routed his young assistant out of bed and by dawn they were in the fields again. Knowing that the Menocals had set about impeding and if possible altogether obstructing him, he proposed to be done, as quickly as careful surveying allowed, with the fenced part of the hillside where plausible controversies could be invented. Toward the end of the second day he had progressed into the last tract of owned ground. He breathed more freely. In his statement to the Mexican concerning the right of way he had been exactly right; and he was following to a dot the original course taken by the early ditch. He could have improved upon this section of the canal by another survey, but that would have involved him in a host of troubles, very likely unsolvable ones, in securing title to another strip of ground across the fields. Without question Menocal's influence would prevent the owners from selling, even if Bryant had the money with which to buy a second right of way, which he had not. Dollar for dollar it would be cheaper in the long run to use the old line. Well, Dave was already across the last fence with his rod; they would soon be working entirely on government land; and with that, it did not matter for the present what the Mexican landowners thought or did. Bryant had walked fifty yards or so away from his transit to call something to Dave, when the crack of a rifle sounded from the hillside and a bullet whined near by. The engineer pivoted about. Another shot followed, and he beheld a spurt of dust close by his instrument. The hidden rifleman was not seeking to murder him, but to destroy his tools. There were no more shots and he resumed work. Later on, as he neared the fence and was establishing his last points within the field, a horseman with a gray moustache came galloping up along the stretch of barb wire. He nodded, inquired if the engineer was named Bryant, and announced that he had half a dozen injunctions to serve. "I expected something like this; glad you didn't arrive any sooner," Lee remarked. "Well, I was away from town, or I'd have been here by noon," the horseman, an American, stated. "The injunctions cover all these places between here and the river. You and any one you hire must keep off the tracts specified until the cases come up before the judge." "All right, sheriff. Wait till I take a last squint or two and I'll vacate." The horseman idly watched the engineer make his final measurements, then when Bryant had lifted his tripod over the wire and told his assistant Dave they would call it a day and stop, he dismounted and sat down for a smoke with the man on whom he had served his papers. "Looks as if you've stirred up some interest in your doings," he remarked, expelling a thread of smoke. "All the Mexicans from here down to Rosita are gabbling about your canal. Don't seem pleased with you." "There's one who doesn't, in any case," was the response. "He took a couple of shots at my instrument a while ago from up yonder in the sagebrush when I had stepped aside for a moment." The sheriff gazed at the hillside. "A few _hombres_ around here will bear watching," said he. For a little he meditated, then went on, "You're a white man and so am I; they don't like our colour any too well, at bottom. I s'pose you know that." "Yes. But they needn't express their feelings with rifles. As far as these injunctions are concerned, they'll be dismissed eventually, for there's no question about my right of way through here. Menocal secured it himself and it's all a matter of record--the deeds, the certificate to the state, and the rest." "Menocal got it, you say?" "Nobody else. Some time or other he must have expected to water Perro Creek ranch, which he owned until he sold it to Stevenson." "I knew he had that place," said the visitor, "but I didn't know it carried a water right from the Pinas. Where does this move of yours hit Menocal?" "In his ranches down the river; he's been using this water for them," Bryant explained. "I suppose it's been taken for granted by nearly everyone that the water belonged to those farms down there, but it doesn't." "How much water in this right?" "Hundred and twenty-five second feet." "Whew! That takes a chunk out of the Pinas. And I presume that by this time Menocal knows what you're doing?" "Oh, yes; I told him. He doesn't like it, of course." The sheriff turned for a full view of Bryant's face. In respect to features the two men were not unlike: both had the same thin curving nose and level eyes and cut of jaw. "Well, let me say as between man and man," the elder spoke, "that Menocal won't let you take away that much water from him if he can help it. And I'll drop you some more news, in addition: several Mexicans are going to file on homesteads or desert claims along the base of the hills south of here, scattered along like and running part way up the mountain sides. I don't know where your canal to Perro Creek will go, but if its line follows the foot of the range, as may be likely, it might happen to find those claims in the way." "Any idea in your mind where those fellows may locate their filings?" "No; I can't say definitely. Shouldn't be surprised if they began stringing them along a couple of miles south of here till they reached Perro Creek." Bryant gazed at the flank of the mountain. The gentle ridge where his ditch line left the hillside was but half a mile away. Beyond that the Mexicans could file to their hearts' content, for they would be left on one side by the canal. But in all this he perceived Menocal's cunning hand. "Much obliged to you, sheriff," said he. "I'll see if I can't find some way to satisfy those chaps when the time comes." His visitor rose and put foot in stirrup. "If any of these Mexicans grow ugly, let me know," he remarked. "I'll tell them where to head in. Drop in at my office at the courthouse when you're in town; Winship's my name. I brought these notices over myself in order to look at you, for they were saying you are a trouble-maker, but that's what these natives frequently state when they want to fix an alibi for themselves before they start something. I'll see if I can learn anything of the fellow who was up yonder shooting. These _hombres_ are altogether too free with firearms, anyway. Better feed that lad there with you a few more meals a day; looks as if he could use them." Bryant laughed. "Dave's a little lean, but he's all there. Looks don't count, do they, partner?" "I do the best I can," Dave responded, solemnly. "Not at meal-time, I reckon," the sheriff said. "Feed up and get fat. A kid like you has no business having so many joints and bones sticking out." "I been through a hard winter last winter, and this spring, too, till Mr. Bryant picked me up." "How's that?" the horseman inquired. "My mother died at Kennard. I didn't get on very well after that; not much there for a boy to work at. And I hadn't any folks." "Hump. What's your last name?" "Morris." "Any relation to Jack Morris?" "He was my father." The sheriff nodded. "Knew him well; he died four years ago. And your mother died last winter? Little woman, I recall." "Little, but a lot better than plenty of bigger ones I know of," Dave asserted, stoutly. "She died of pneumonia." "Boy, I've held you on my knee when you were about as high as my hand. But I guess you don't remember that, and I'm mighty sorry to learn your mother's gone. Dave--is that your name? Well, now, Dave, fight your grub harder from now on." The speaker gathered his reins, nodded, and rode away along the barb wire fence. CHAPTER VI "When gentlemen of a dark and sinister cast of mind deliberately set out to frustrate one's legitimate efforts under a misapprehension as to the course to be pursued, the proper diplomacy in such a case is to foster the delusion circulating in their craniums as long as possible and thus divert their attention from the real purpose. Don't you agree with me, David?" Lee Bryant gravely inquired of his young companion, as they were about to set forth next morning. "Yes, sir," Dave affirmed, to whom the statement was so much Greek. "Then since the vote is unanimous, we'll proceed to run a line along the mountain side where it will collide with these new homesteads." The engineer shouldered tripod and rod, whistled Mike to heel, and with Dave started forward. Half way to Bartolo they perceived three men busy on the hillside, so Bryant swung up to a point a quarter of a mile off and began surveying. When he approached the workmen, Mexicans naturally, he saw that they were engaged in setting fence posts, of which a row was already in line part way up the hill. The men dropped their tools and confronted him as he drew near. "This is my land; you keep away," one exclaimed, with waving arms, while the other backed him up in a show of force. "How can I build a canal here if you won't let me go through?" Bryant demanded. "No go through, no canal on my claim!" "Well, just let me run a line, anyhow." "No. Keep off, keep off," was the obstinate answer. The engineer continued to argue, now as if in anger and now with a conciliatory mien, all the while protesting that the homesteader must not prevent the construction of the canal. But he received only shakes of the head, short replies, and malicious looks. So at length, with every pretense of disappointment and dejection, he went down the hillside. A mile farther along, where he found two more men occupied at similar labour, he likewise dissembled his purpose, with the same opposition, controversy, and retreat. He thereupon led Dave back to the ranch house, where he prepared and ate dinner with satisfaction. Very likely Menocal would receive reports that evening faithfully depicting his chagrin and despair, or whatever were the Mexican equivalents. Yet while he deluded the banker, he must secretly carry on his actual surveying on the mesa. Since the men setting fence posts had a fairly wide view of the plain, he determined to work in the open only for two or three hours at daybreak before the Mexicans were about. For Menocal, or any one else, must have no suspicion of his real ditch line until an application for construction of the project had been filed in the state engineer's office. Signs that the banker had taken measures to keep him under surveillance were not wanting. "Dave," he said, "have you noticed a sheepherder with a bunch of sheep hanging around here, when he should be up in the mountains where the range is good?" "Yes, I've seen him. And he hasn't a full band, either." "Looks as if he's grazing down here on the mesa so as to watch us," Bryant mused. "When we went north, he and his sheep drifted in that direction; when we were over on the mountain side, they followed there. What shall we do about it?" "I don't see that we can do anything except to watch him, too, and fool him." The lad took thought for a moment, and then proceeded, "Somebody was around here yesterday while we were away, for I saw a brown paper cigarette stub on the ground in front of the door this morning. You use white papers; it's mostly Mexicans who have those straw papers." "Then we had better put an extra nail or two in the windows as a precaution," Lee stated, "before we go down to Sarita Creek. And I'll leave Mike here also. If anybody comes fooling around, he'll take a piece out of the fellow's leg." In addition to nailing the windows and leaving Mike at the door, much to his dissatisfaction, Bryant secreted his papers, note-books, and maps, the theft of which would be an extremely serious loss. Menocal probably would not instigate open lawlessness, but his hirelings might break into the house on their own initiative. And this was not unlikely since a bitter feeling was systematically being aroused against Bryant and his project among the preponderate Mexican inhabitants. But for the time being he dismissed this matter from his thoughts, when with tripod and rod and a bundle of stakes on Dick's saddle he and Dave set out for Sarita Creek, leading the horse. Bryant had postponed, under pressure of work, the business of fixing the feminine homesteaders' garden ditch, until his conscience began to prick him on the subject. He had neither seen nor had news of them since the chance meeting at the ford; but now, as he could survey his canal line on the mesa only during the early hours, he planned to make frequent visits to the girls. That they already had a caller this afternoon he discovered on arriving at the two little cabins built of boards, peeping forth from among the trees in the mouth of the cañon. The place was indeed charming, with its grass and shade, with its brook flowing close by the dwellings, with walls of rock rising behind. Just now an automobile rested before the trees; and the engineer saw a man sitting on the grass with Ruth Gardner and Imogene Martin, the three chatting and laughing gaily. When Bryant got a good look at the other visitor he gave vent to an ejaculation in which was blended surprise and contempt. "That magpie! Of all damn impudence!" For the cavalier so debonairly entertaining the young ladies was none other than the olive-skinned Charlie Menocal. A sense of pique was Bryant's succeeding feeling. He would have disdainfully denied that he was moved by a pang of jealousy. But he had anticipated finding the girls alone and having a pleasant chat with them, enjoying their companionship, relaxing from the strain of arduous work, harkening to their badinage. Indeed, if the interloper had been someone else, some other man, at least, he would have experienced a turn of disappointment--but that the individual should be this tricky, coddled, egotistical Charlie Menocal! Well, he should align the girls' irrigating ditch and then go about his business. "I've been delayed in coming to correct your water flow," he remarked, when the fair homesteaders had given him greeting, "but I'm on hand at last." Ruth Gardner, looking prettier and fuller of spirits than ever, assured him the ditch was behaving no better than before. Her next words, however, left him with an impression that he and not Charlie Menocal was the intruder, which hardened his annoyance into a desire to have done with the matter. "I wish you had come some other day, for we're just about to depart," she exclaimed. "Mr. Menocal is very kindly taking Imo and me in his car to see the old ruins of a pueblo somewhere over west. We'll be gone probably all the rest of the afternoon, and there'll be no one to show you the ditch and what's wrong with it." "Oh, I'll find out what's wrong and straighten out the trouble," the engineer replied. "You've a spade or shovel, I suppose? Go right ahead with your exploring expedition and don't worry about me; the ditch will be working properly when you return." "Well, if you don't really need us----" "Not in the least," was his assurance. She still hesitated, while her look travelled from Bryant to Menocal and back again. To the engineer that inclusive regard indicated that her mind was less concerned with the garden ditch than with a comparison of her two visitors; and with a sudden feeling of warmth about his neck Bryant admitted to himself that he presented no attractions. He wore laced boots, soiled khaki trousers and flannel shirt, with his hat pulled over one eye against the sun; Menocal was dressed in light gray clothes, thin and cool, low white shoes, a pale pink silk shirt (trust a Mexican for colour somewhere!) a vivid rose-hued scarf, and a white cap. To further emphasize the contrast, Bryant led a loaded horse and a gangling boy, while Charlie Menocal leaned at ease against his twin-six. Quite a difference, for a fact. And it was plain that Ruth Gardner noted it with discrimination. Imogene Martin now spoke. "I don't think I'll go, Ruth. I've not been feeling well the last day or two, as you know, and I'm afraid to risk the sun." "Oh, come on, Imo. The ride will do you good," her friend replied, with a trace of impatience. "No, I told Mr. Menocal when he proposed the expedition that I doubted if I should go." "Too bad not to come, Miss Martin," that worthy remarked, without enthusiasm. Clearly his interest in what company he should have did not point toward her. "I'm going, at any rate," Ruth Gardner said. And then, "Oh, dear! I overlooked altogether introducing you you two gentlemen." Bryant was human; the opportunity was one he could not let pass. So smiling broadly he said: "We've met before, haven't we, Menocal? At Perro Creek ford." And receiving no response but a scowl, he spoke at large, "Well, I must get busy if I'm to save those beans." He led Dick, with Dave at his side, toward the garden on open ground below the trees, where the bean vines were already turning yellow for lack of water. He chuckled as he went, for the disappearance of Charlie Menocal's patronizing air and the sudden thundercloud hanging on his visage attested that the charge had gone home. Ten minutes later the automobile passed the garden, but Bryant, who had set up his tripod and stationed Dave with his rod some distance off, did not see the hand Ruth Gardner waved. His eye was where an engineer's eye should be, at his transit. "She waved at you," Dave called. "Who?" "That girl with the Mexican." "Well, what of it?" When Bryant used that tone, Dave recognized the wisdom of silence. He pretended that he had not heard. Even his employer, whom he worshipped, had strange, mysterious moods. CHAPTER VII The defect in the ditch proved to be one of minor character, which Bryant corrected after a few observations and half an hour's work with a shovel. While he was thus engaged, Imogene Martin, wearing a wide-brimmed straw hat, strolled out to watch his operations. She was in a friendly and talkative mood, and asked questions concerning ditches and irrigation and surveying, and about Dave, and speculated on the ruins of the pueblo whither Ruth and Charlie Menocal had gone, and said she was glad Bryant had bought the ranch just north of their claims and would be their neighbour. Only, she added, she was sorry to learn that he was having trouble with the people about; Mr. Menocal had stated such to be a fact, though what he had further hinted of Bryant's endeavour to gain property to which he had no title and of the engineer's being a trouble-maker, she did not for one instant believe. "I'll be a trouble-maker for Charlie and his dad if they continue their present policy," Lee vouchsafed, tossing aside a shovelful of earth. Imogene Martin carefully flattened a hill of bean plants for a seat, sat down, and locked her hands over her knees. "I think you're to be trusted, so I'll tell you a secret," she remarked, smiling. "Charlie Menocal doesn't make a 'hit' with me, either. When you referred to the ford, I could scarcely keep my face straight; and my feeling ill this afternoon, though partly true, was also partly manufactured, because I didn't want to go to those old ruins with him. I don't care for men like him especially. I share the feeling of my uncle in Kennard--" "You have an uncle there? I thought you were from the East." "I am; from Ohio. But I've an uncle and aunt living in Kennard, which is the reason Ruth and I came to this section for homesteads. Ruth was crazy to take up a claim, having read how easily one is acquired, while my health was not very good and the doctor at home thought it would be improved by being in the open in a high altitude. Uncle said I'd better stay with him and aunt, but I knew how terribly disappointed Ruth would be if I did, because she couldn't homestead alone. So uncle declared that if homesteaders we had to be, then we must locate near him where he could have me under his eye, so to speak. I myself am not taking this claim business very seriously. And now uncle, who once had some controversy with the elder Menocal, wouldn't be very well pleased if he knew the son was making calls on us." "So others besides myself have trouble with the Menocals," Bryant stated. "Apparently. I don't know what this particular difficulty was about, but uncle is president of a bank in Kennard and so it may have been some financial matter. Or it may have been over politics; both of them mix in that. Anyway, he doesn't think highly of the elder Menocal, and has no use at all for the younger; so I know he would be vexed at Ruth and me for receiving this Charlie." "You didn't know him that day he and I clashed at the ford," Lee suggested. "Oh, no. Our meeting came about one afternoon about a week afterward. He overtook us on the road a mile or so away from here and politely offered to bring us home in his car; we were walking and couldn't very well refuse his courtesy, and then he asked to call and Ruth at once gave him permission, and that's the way it came about. But I thought it wise to draw the line at going off miles and miles with him to see ruins. Of course, Ruth hasn't any uncle to consider, but uncle or no uncle I should have drawn the line just the same." "A colour line, eh?" Lee asked, with a lift of his brows. "Yes, that's it, though I hesitated to put it in just those words," she agreed, with a nod, while both her lips and her blue eyes smiled at him in amusement. "Really, Mexicans are of different blood and race, you know, and I feel the--gulf. That probably sounds foolish and ridiculous, still I can't help the feeling. When I look at a man like Charlie Menocal, I see the Mexican strain uppermost even if his mother was white; and I think what strange, savage, unguessed traits may lurk in his blood from a long time back; and I shiver. One dare not say they have ceased. There may be forces at work in his soul that are inherited from the very tribesmen who dwelt in that pueblo ages ago, whose ruins he and Ruth have gone to see. Who knows? And I'm never able to rid myself of the feeling that such forces exist in him and his kind." The engineer thrust his shovel into the earth and seated himself beside the girl. "Nor I," said he. "And I suppose that feeling will remain between persons of different races as long as the races themselves last. Those who ignore or deny it are simply blind. Why, look, there's antipathy between even white men of different nationalities! So what else is to be expected when the question is one of race and colour? Nor will one or two generations change what is infused in blood and sinew." "Now, that's what uncle says," Imogene Martin declared, "and asserts that's the reason why Mexicans born and raised here are in sympathy with those across the border in any trouble Mexico has with our country." Her face all at once became amused. "He says craniums were shaped long before governments." Bryant laughed on hearing that concise summing up of the case. And then they continued to talk of this and other subjects, while Dave Morris drew near and silently drank in the conversation, most of which passed above his head. As for the engineer, he found in his companion a peculiar charm that he never would have suspected from their first meeting at the ford; a pleasure begotten of a quick intelligence and a keen, trained mind. "I've delayed you in your work," she exclaimed, at length. "Except to throw out a few shovelfuls of dirt, and that will take but a moment. I was done. I didn't sit down until it was practically put in shape. I hope we shall have another talk soon; this one has been a great treat for me. Let me help you up." When he had cleaned the last clods from the ditch, he set off with tripod and shovel on shoulder to walk with her to the cabins, while Dave followed with Dick. At the houses Bryant cast an appraising look at the scanty heap of chopped wood and wound up his visit by seizing the axe and attacking the store of dry poles hauled from the cañon by the man who had built the cabins. "There, that will keep you going for awhile," he stated, when he had produced a large pile of sticks. "I don't believe you're strong enough to handle an axe, Miss Martin; and it would grieve me deeply to learn you had removed a toe in the attempt. Really, this homesteading game isn't for women and girls." "Oh, we've made out fairly well." "Your spirit is admirable, but I can't say as much for your judgment in the matter," he returned, good-naturedly. "Still, we all go hunting trouble in our own individual fashion; if not in one way, why, then in another." It was after five o'clock when Lee Bryant and Dave, once more leading the loaded horse, took their departure and followed Sarita Creek down to the mesa trail. When they had struck into the latter and travelled it for half a mile, they saw a long distance ahead someone walking toward them, also leading a horse. In a land where men saddle a mount to ride a few hundred yards, the singular coincidence excited their curiosity. They wondered why the fellow walked, as doubtless he was wondering the same thing of them. But as they drew nearer they perceived the pedestrian to be not a man but a woman; and when they met Bryant recognized in her the girl who had sat by Charlie Menocal in his automobile at the ford. Her gray corded riding habit was dusty; she appeared both hot and tired; and her countenance showed a deep dejection. The horse she led was limping. Bryant raised his hat and addressed her. "Your horse has gone lame, I see. Can I be of any service to you?" "I'm afraid not; he acts as if he had strained a tendon," she replied. "So I'm leading him home. Our ranch is on Diamond Creek." "But you had a fall! There's blood on your glove." "No, it's not from that," she said, with a shake of her head. Bryant again remarked the exquisite molding of her face as he had noted it at their first meeting, and her wide brow and clear brown eyes and the fineness of her skin, and her warm, sensitive lips, at this instant moving in the barest tremble imaginable. She was gazing at him with a curious, troubled look. "Bring Dick here," Lee bade Dave. He swiftly untied the ropes and removed tripod, rod, and saddle. Then he unfastened the hitch of the saddle of the horse the girl led. "Why, what are you doing?" she exclaimed. "Giving you a fresh horse. You can ride mine home and send him back to me to-morrow; I live just ahead on Perro Creek at the Stevenson place." "I wondered if you weren't the new owner, for I had learned that the ranch had been sold by Mr. Stevenson. Father bought his sheep. You are Mr. Bryant, aren't you? This is most kind to lend me your horse." "You'll find Dick gentle; and you can lead your own mount. Walking appears to have exhausted you." Again she shook her head, with an odd expression growing upon her face--anxiety, distress, just what Lee could not exactly decide. But as she made no explanation, he gave her a hand and swung her upon Dick, after which he handed her the reins and advanced the hope that she should arrive home without further misadventure. She made no move to depart, however, but sat regarding the engineer. "I was at your house," she stated, finally. "To see me?" "To find you, or someone, who could help me. When my horse went lame near the ford, I found that he had picked up a stone which I couldn't remove. So I led him to your house, seeking assistance. When I reached there----" She stopped in her recital, compressing her lips and gazing off across the sagebrush. "Well?" the engineer encouraged. "When I reached there, I heard a dog whining." Bryant stiffened. "I left my dog Mike behind," said he. "The sound was really more like a moaning," she went on. "At first I could see nothing, but when I looked everywhere I found that it came from one of the three cottonwood trees. Somebody had hurt him, and the poor creature was suffering terribly. I--I can hardly tell what had been done to him!" And she shuddered. "Mike! They've killed my dog Mike!" "They nailed him to a cottonwood tree. A nail through each leg. A nail through his throat. Nails through his body. They had crucified him. And, oh, his pitiful eyes!" Lee Bryant stood perfectly still and quiet. Dave was frozen and horrified. Both gazed fixedly across the mesa to where the cottonwoods could be seen. "Is Mike alive yet?" Bryant asked presently, in an unsteady voice. "No; not now. I found a piece of iron and hammered the nails free. Then I lifted him down and carried him to the creek and washed his wounds. But he died. I see his eyes yet, looking up at me." For a little she was overcome. Then she resumed, "When he was dead, I carried him up to your door, for I knew you must have loved him." Bryant glanced up at her. "Mike would know you were a friend," he said. She nodded and reined Dick about. Leading the other horse, she rode away through the sunshine that burnished the mesa. CHAPTER VIII July passed. Followed August, with days likewise hot and unvarying except for a scarcely appreciable retardation of dawn. Perro Creek now showed no water at all in its shallow bed; the garden planted by the Stevensons was long dried up; the sagebrush was dustier than ever; and Bryant and Dave were hauling in a barrel on a sledge water for their use from a pool in the cañon. From daybreak until about eight o'clock in the morning the engineer and his assistant worked on the canal line. Bryant had run a fictitious survey along the mountain side, staking it out conspicuously for any one to see, to the first of the fenced claims of the Mexican homesteaders, where it ended as if blocked; but his real line on the mesa remained unstaked. To the low ridge, or spur of ground, projecting from the mountain's base at a point half a mile south of his right of way through the fields, where the canal began its sweep out upon the plain, he gave considerable time. The fall of this at first was sharp, and concrete drops would have to be constructed at intervals for a distance of a mile or so in order to lower the water. When this section was left behind, he advanced rapidly along the line, for the surface of the gentle crescent swell was smooth, its grade fairly regular, and its contour fixed by nature. Essential points he marked by stones, with merely their surfaces exposed, so that if noticed they would be considered scattered pieces of rock from the hills. At the proper time they would constitute guides for later staking. Evenings Bryant spent in developing his notes and in making tracings of the canal sections covered. During the day hours, when he knew watchful eyes were on him, he made a topographical survey of his ranch; work that he could carry on openly. The five thousand acres comprising the tract had a general direction of east and west, being about four miles long and two miles wide, which for the most part lay equally on each side of Perro Creek. By using the water of this stream during the flood season, a period of some weeks in spring and early summer, Bryant would be able very considerably to augment the supply from the Pinas. It was necessary to join the two sources in a unified system of laterals that would efficiently serve the tract; and therefore the whole enterprise required study, innumerable measurements, calculations of dirt moving, of water distribution, of dam, weir, and gate construction, of soil analysis--a coördination of the thousand and one matters concerned in an irrigation project that are preliminary to breaking ground. So early and late he toiled, and with him Dave Morris. The boy indeed did enough for a man. And Bryant would sometimes arise from his drawing board where he worked after supper until midnight, to go and affectionately gaze at Dave sleeping the sleep of exhaustion. One afternoon, when the pair were at work near the southern boundary of the ranch, Ruth Gardner came through the sagebrush to the spot, a mile from Sarita Creek. "I could see you, just black specks, from our cabins; and since you don't visit us, I made up my mind to visit you," she announced. "I've noticed you down here for two days past. Days and days have gone by without you coming to pay another call." "Well, we've been sticking pretty steadily at our job," Bryant replied. "Won't you use this bag of stakes for a seat? It will keep you off the ground." Ruth accepted the proffered resting place and loosened the thongs of her hat, inspected her face in a tiny mirror produced from somewhere, rubbed her nose with a handkerchief, and then gave her attention to her companions. "Our garden has grown splendidly since you fixed the ditch," she said. "Thanks to you. How is yours?" "It has expired." "Then you shall have things out of ours--if you'll come get them. See, I'm using that to decoy you. There are beans, peas, lettuce, radishes, and new potatoes, not very large yet, of course. I know just what you're doing: working hard, eating only canned stuff, skimping your food, and ruining your digestion." Bryant laughed. Her tone had expressed indignation, while her face was directly accusatory. "We seem to have fair health, don't we, Dave?" he remarked. "You look positively thin," said she. "And as for this poor starved shadow that you call Dave! Well, I won't say my thoughts. For a penny I'd invite myself to dinner at your house just to see what you do have." At this possibility both the engineer and his young assistant displayed signs of consternation. Under pressure of work housekeeping had been an unimportant trifle frequently postponed; last meal's dishes were washed while the next meal was preparing; clothes were left where they were carelessly flung; and surveying tools, maps, and papers littered the rooms. No, it was not a dwelling in which to entertain a feminine guest. "Maybe I had better go there and clear up things some," Dave stated, uneasily. And without awaiting a reply from Bryant, he set off through the sagebrush for the house. Ruth began to laugh, resting her cheeks in her hands. "That poor solemn boy, he took me seriously!" she exclaimed. "I shouldn't come alone, of course; it wouldn't be proper--and Imo would be horrified. Well, you may as well sit down and talk to me, Mr. Bryant, for you can't work alone, and I've come to stay awhile. Imogene told me what a nice talk she had with you the afternoon I went to the ruins, and I hoped you'd come soon again, but you never did." "Perhaps I haven't been exactly neighbourly." He lowered himself to the ground and sat cross-legged, considering her. "I thought that possibly I had offended you in going off so abruptly with Charlie Menocal," she said, with eyes fastened on his. "You and he aren't very good friends. I know----" "We're not friends at all; we're enemies." "That need not keep you away from us. He has been very civil and kind, but neither Imogene nor I have any particular fancy for the man. Besides, I think his chief interest in life centres around a girl living on Diamond Creek, named Louise Graham; he hinted that they were as good as engaged. Very likely we shall see little more of him. So if your dislike at meeting him is the reason for your staying away, you haven't a good reason at all. Don't you think Imo and I ever tire of listening to each other? Any two girls would, living alone by themselves. After your promise at the ford we were delighted--and how many calls have we had from you? Just one. With me away, too!" "To-morrow will be Sunday; I'll stop work at noon and come," he declared. She pointed a forefinger at him and wiggled her thumb, in imitation of a pistol. "Hold up your right hand and swear it," she commanded, "or I'll shoot." She continued to menace Bryant while he obeyed. "There, now you're safe. And bring that hungry boy and we'll feed you both; this is a dinner invitation, understand. Now, tell me about everything." "Everything?" "All you're doing with that three-legged telescope and these stakes." She smoothed her dress and manifested an expectant interest. The impression Bryant had gained at the first accidental meeting at Perro Creek, of her good looks, of her vitality and irrepressible spirits, was heightened. As he recollected his feeling of pique at her visit with Charlie Menocal to the ruined pueblo, he realized that he had indulged in a bit of senseless, unwarranted umbrage; and now had, in consequence, a quick desire to make amends. It was as if he must reëstablish himself in her good opinion and his own. Their talk ran on from topic to topic. The gaiety of her comments pleased him; the youthfulness of her was irresistible; and he found himself observing the changing curves of her throat and cheek as she turned her head a little aside or raised her chin; found himself watching for certain unconscious attitudes; awaiting the lift of her eyes to his, harkening for particular tones of her voice. And Bryant, who, though he knew it not, was also athirst for companionship, more and more yielded to her subtle feminine attraction. "She's even prettier than I supposed," he thought. Her lips, her nose, her eyes of deep gray with their wonderfully long lashes--each had a particular charm of its own. He admired the grace of her figure. He felt an odd surprise at her apparent soft and pliant strength, as at a discovery. His mind thrilled with delight at her laughter. "Look where the sun is!" she exclaimed, all at once. "Straight over our heads--noon. Your David will be wondering where you are, while Imogene will imagine I'm lost. Let me pick a flower to stick in the ribbon of your hat and then I'll go." "Your fingers will suffer; I'll get some," Lee said, quickly. From a spreading bed of prickly-pear he plucked a dozen of the cactus blossoms, ranging in colour from a delicate lemon to a deep orange. He turned to her. "First I'll decorate you," he said. "Please assume an angelic expression and gaze straight at the camera." She tilted her chin upward and thrust her arms downward with all five fingers of each hand stretched apart. But immediately she began to laugh. Lee gave her a reproving tap on the uplifted chin and then fastened the flowers in her hat-band. A thrill like fire ran through his body at the proximity of that soft, round chin, those red lips, her eyes gleaming with merriment. "Now, beauty!" he said, stepping back. The yellow blossoms made a garland about her hat. "Do you like them thus?" she asked, delighted. "Immensely." "Then they shall stay there. And Imo will die of envy when I tell her they're yours." "Nobody ever died of that." "Perhaps not. But she will suffer extremely. You didn't even put bean plants in her hat." Lee was highly amused at this raillery. He began to walk forward by her side as she moved away from the spot, now addressing her, now listening to her words, in a desire to stretch the last minute to the uttermost. Her head came just even with his shoulder, so that she had to raise her face to gaze at him when he spoke, and in the act there was something simple, winning, blithe, as likewise in the swing of her lissom figure beside his own there was an inimitable jauntiness and cheer. He divined her eager, ardent spirit; and the closeness of her, this comradeship, set his blood humming. Abruptly he halted, laying a finger on her arm. "I mustn't go the whole way, you know," he said, "though I should like to. For, by heavens, you've opened my eyes! Didn't realize how satiated with myself I'd become. But I'll make up for that now, Miss Ruth, and it won't be very long before you and your friend will be planning how to rid yourselves of me." "Just try us and see," she exclaimed. "Well, I shall. Till to-morrow, then." "Till to-morrow, yes." She moved forward some paces and wheeled about, pointing her forefinger at his head and working her thumb. "Beware--and don't forget!" Then after another advance and face about she concluded by blowing him a kiss off the palm of her hand, with which performance she did actually start for home, weaving her way through the sagebrush and going farther and farther off. "What a pretty little witch she is!" thought Lee; and he, too, made his way from the spot. Dave's hot, harassed face greeted him at the door. "Where is she? Didn't she come?" he cried, peering about everywhere. "Well, thank goodness for that! But if that isn't the way with a girl--and after I'd swept up and made the beds and scraped all the skillets, too!" CHAPTER IX That Sunday afternoon at Sarita Creek! The dinner, so savoury, so delectable; the two girls, arrayed in cool white lawn, rosy-cheeked, beaming; the gay talk and banter and laughter; the blissful hours together on the grass beneath the trees, with the wide mesa diffusing an immense languor, with the mountains bestowing a vast peace, with the brook at their feet murmuring an accompaniment to their words--hours to treasure, hours of pure gold: Little wonder that Dave, lying full length and gazing upward through the boughs at the blue vault, allowed his eyelids to sink and at last to close. Little wonder the girls' faces grew dreamy and their voices gentle. And none, none at all, that Lee succumbed to the spell. He was still under the enchantment when toward sunset Ruth suggested they go up the cañon. But Imogene, arousing herself, declared that she had letters to write; and Dave, still fast asleep, was already on roamings of his own. Ruth and Lee therefore went alone up the path through the trees and underbrush, until they emerged in the cool, dusky gorge formed by the contracting of the rocky walls. The brook rippled by over stones and moss. A few insects hovered over the stream with their tiny bodies shining like bronze. From somewhere came a sweet, honeyed smell of flowers. "Imo writes letters regularly," Ruth explained concerning her friend, "to an instructor in a university in the East. I don't think they're exactly affianced, but expect to be. Waiting, apparently. Waiting until he's a professor--and until her health is better, too, I imagine. An agreement to let things rest as they are for the present, one might say. Imogene talks very little about it, and of course I ask no questions." She sat down on a fallen tree, patting its trunk to signify a place for him at her side. Pointing at crevises in the cañon wall, she began to tell him the names she and Imogene had given them--Bandit's Stair, Devil's Crack, Bear's Hole, and to enumerate those assigned the jutting points and knobs along the rim that by a stretch of the imagination bore a resemblance to animals or human heads. As she talked, with her gray eyes at times turning to his to learn if he was interested, he felt anew the charm of her youthfulness, of her vivid personality. It dwelt in her small, firm hands pointing now here, now there, in her slender, rounded form faced toward him, in her red lips, her soft smooth cheek, her brow, in her glances and her animated words. He noted again, as a quality altogether delicious, the air of unconscious friendliness that he had perceived at their very first encounter. It quite offset the slight touch of obstinacy in her chin--but, in truth, did the latter require an offset? He had earlier thought that with such a trait one could not foretell where its possessor might go, or what do, or what exact, under stress of feeling. He smiled at that now. How ridiculous the notion! Why shouldn't a girl have a bit of determination in her make-up? Well, she should. It gave force to her character. It made her more individual, more attractive. It coloured a nature so essentially feminine as Ruth Gardner's with elusive and delightful possibilities. "See, up yonder at the top!" she exclaimed. "That piece of rock like a man's head and shoulders I named Lee Bryant, after you." "Do I look as block-headed as that?" "No. It was not because of any resemblance, but because you kept your back so long toward us. Now, however, since you've repented and ceased to neglect us, I shall call it after someone else. Perhaps after the stage-driver who takes our letters down to Kennard; he sits hunched up like that. I'll seek a much nicer rock to represent you." "That's wholly unnecessary, for I intend to keep before your eyes in person." "Which will be the nicest of all," said she, smiling. He continued to gaze at her, to listen to her voice, with a pleasure he made no effort to conceal. And she, on her part, seemed to surrender herself to the enjoyment of the moment; her eyes remaining longer on his, her tones softening to a slow, tender utterance almost carrying a caress, her face keeping its languorous smile; as if the honey-sweet fragrance from the unseen flowers had invaded her spirit. A pause came in their talk. They sat unmoving, without stir of hand or head, quiescent. Then Lee all at once experienced a feeling of profound compassion for Ruth as he regarded her, a poignant stab in his breast like pain. Sitting there without movement, with her hands idle upon her lap, with her face a little lifted and her eyes wistfully bent on the great wall opposite, she seemed so young and small to be dwelling at such a place, so helpless, so solitary, that her presence appeared a cruel irony of fate. Her homesteading was a desperate clutch at security; and her situation was utterly different from that of her friend, Imogene Martin, who viewed the matter as in the nature of a health-seeking holiday, and who was sustained by the knowledge that she had wealthy relations at Kennard to whom she could return. Far different, indeed. At the thought of the homesickness that at times Ruth must know, of the lonesomeness of mountain and mesa from which she must suffer, of the deprivations, the hard bareness of the life, the moments of despair, he had a sensation of the bitter unfairness of things and a desire to snatch her safe away from the harsh pass in which she stood. It would be only right, it would be only just. When presently she looked about and found his eyes rapt on her face, a quick blush spread over her throat and cheeks. "I think--think we should go home now," she said, with a catch of her breath. "Yes," said he, rising. He leaped the log on which they had been sitting and then put up a hand to help her mount. Holding his fingers she raised herself upon the tree trunk. But suddenly the bark gave way; she slipped, lost her balance, and pitched forward. Lee caught her in his arms. For an instant she rested there in his clasp, her surprised eyes gazing into his. A quiver passed over her form. Her lips were parted, but she had ceased to breathe. Likewise in Bryant's breast the breath had stopped. A fierce passion swept him to hold her always thus, warm and close and secure. His arms trembled at the thought; at which her eyelashes began to flutter and her breath to come once more, as hurried as the beat of her heart. And then, yielding utterly to the swirl of mad impulse, he kissed her--once, twice, and twice again. Afterward he set her on her feet. "I guess that ends our friendship," he said, with a wavering smile. "Lost my head altogether. Couldn't help it. I looked at you and--and it just happened. All my will and sense vanished in an instant. Bewitched!" The colour was still in her face, and her air was uncertain, disturbed. But at his words, so palpably sincere and self condemnatory, she began to smile. "Perhaps--if we just forget----" The smouldering fire in his eyes flared suddenly. "Forget? I'll never forget that minute, those kisses," he exclaimed. "Hanged if I want to, or will!" "If, then, we don't repeat them, and are more circumspect, why, I'll overlook it," she said, a little confusedly. "I know you meant no discourtesy." He gave a savage shake of his head. "And Imogene and I both prize your friendship." "Thank you, Ruth. You take an awful load off my heart." She glanced up at him, now once more composed. Her eyes gleamed with a veiled impishness. "No girl ever died from being kissed. But what a splendid lover you would make!" Away she darted a few steps, to whirl and point and waggle a finger at the dumfounded youth. "Are you coming? Because I don't consider this a wise place to be with a flighty, irresponsible man, first name Lee. Besides, it's beginning to grow dark in here." Bryant joined her. The glow was still in his eyes, but in all other respects he was his usual self, calm, collected. Together they went down the cool, dim cañon, with its honey scent of flowers drifting with them; and though they talked lightly of things of no importance, there was a little smile on the lips of each and sometimes their eyes met, as if sharing a new, sweet intimacy. Thereafter, frequent as were Lee's calls at Sarita Creek of evenings, he seldom had Ruth to himself and on more than one occasion had to share her company with Charlie Menocal, much to his impatience. When Imogene sometimes succeeded in detaining the fellow at her side, Bryant silently gave her unutterable thanks. And Ruth seemed day by day more receptive to his passion. "I think of only two things, my canal and you," he declared to her one night. "When you put me first and the canal second, why, who knows what I may think then?" she said, tantalizingly. "But to esteem an irrigation ditch before me, the idea! What if you had to choose between us?" And she continued thus to tease him, fanning the fires hotter in his breast. By the end of August Bryant had completed the survey of the canal line down to a point where it touched the northern boundary of the ranch, tapping the latter's system of distributing ditches. Pinas River, Perro Creek, and the tract to be watered were thus united. Though later, doubtless, it would be necessary to make minor corrections, as always, the surveying was finished. One tracing showed the entire irrigation scheme from the dam on the Pinas to the tips of the laterals branching out in a gridiron over the land. There were other tracings, too, on a larger scale and of successive sections, ready to be taken to Kennard in order to make blueprints. "Town for us to-morrow, Dave," Lee exclaimed one day, as he rolled and tied his maps in a waterproof canvas. "We're due for a rest; our job is done for the present. We'll leave the instruments and note-books with the girls at Sarita Creek, who've agreed to keep them until we return. The Mexicans are still hanging around." Toward the middle of the afternoon they appeared at the cabins, where they disengaged Dick from his burden of freight and turned him out to graze. Imogene was nursing an obstinate headache in her darkened bedroom, and Dave immediately settled himself under a tree with a novel of the girls'. So Ruth and Lee were left to themselves. "I'm going up the creek to gather raspberries, and you came just in time to carry the basket," said she. "I discovered a large thicket of them half way up the cañon; the more you pick, the more you'll have for supper to-night. And if you don't bring Imo and me a box of chocolates, and a big box, when you come back from wherever you're going to-morrow, you need never show your lean brown face again at our doors! I'm dying for some. Oh, Lee, I really am. They help so when one's lonely." The pathetic tone in which she uttered the final words sent Bryant off in a fit of laughter. "You may count on them," he said, at length. "Your heart's of stone to laugh like that. Bonbons _do_ help when one is low-spirited." Nevertheless, her spirits were high enough on this afternoon. All the while that they were gathering raspberries she kept up a lively chatter, and when Lee suggested, now that the basket was full, leaving it at the spot and making an excursion to the head of the gorge, she readily assented. The sun was still far from setting; the air between the rocky walls was pleasant; and the cañon held forth a fresh enticement. They walked for an hour, and though they failed to gain the end of the long mountain crevice they ascended to where the springs that fed the brook had their source, and where the rivulet trickled over ledges and among boulders, finding themselves in the heavy timber that forested the upper mountains. There they sat on a rock, Ruth holding the wild flowers she had plucked on the way, and talked. "Does your going now have to do with your project?" she questioned. "Yes; I've finished the preliminary work." "But Charlie Menocal said you were making no progress, that you were blocked." "What Charlie doesn't know would fill lots of space," Lee said. "In spite of the Menocals' opposition and tricks, I've established my survey--but don't breathe it yet! And now I'm ready for the financing of the scheme. When that's done, I'll begin actual work." Ruth considered him with shining eyes. "I'm glad you succeeded; I knew you would succeed," she exclaimed. "You've worked so hard. And I hope that it makes you famous and wealthy." "So do I," he laughed. "I need the money." She nodded. "One needs money to be happy in this world." "Oh, I don't know about that," he responded, thoughtfully. "I've probably been as happy while hammering out this survey as I'll ever be, that is, happy in my work. Of course, money means comforts and luxuries. But I doubt if it really ever brings contentment." The obstinate touch grew in her chin. "If I had plenty of money I'd have the contentment, or I'd soon find it," she declared. "Pretty clothes, and fine furniture, and automobiles, and servants, and parties, and so on, are things--at least with women--that go a long way toward satisfaction. I sometimes don't blame girls who marry rich old men; they can put up with them for the pleasures their money will procure." "Ruth, Ruth, don't utter such nonsense! At any rate, you've too much common sense ever to waste yourself on a doddering money bags." "I'll never have the chance," said she. "But if I had, I'd think it over carefully. A young man with money I could be especially nice to, and I might even set out to catch him. You see, I'm quite frank and open about it." "Nonsense," he repeated. "You'd marry no one just for his money." "That depends whether or not he caught me at a moment when I was feeling sick of everything and reckless. Look at my hands, all calloused from work. If I have to work, I shall do it for myself; not marry to work." Bryant lifted her hands and regarded them. "They please me immensely as they are; they're lovely hands," he asserted. "Then your vision is poor." "It's clear enough when I look at you, Ruth. And when you talk as you have, I become impatient because I know you don't mean it. But nonetheless, you deserve the best that any man can give, and you ought to have all the comforts and pretty things any woman has, for you're too sweet and good for a bare, commonplace life." He pressed gently the fingers he yet retained. "I told you once that you had bewitched me. It was true; I am bewitched, have been ever since I touched your dear lips. And I love you. It hurts my heart to think of you at this homesteading business--" "What else was there for me?" she asked. "I've had no business training, nothing but two years in a college, no knowledge of anything that a girl needs to hold a position. And I'm not even a good homesteader." Her tone rang with a trace of bitterness. "You ought not to have to do it--and you shall not, Ruth, if I have my way. I want to save you from it, and make life pleasant and happy for you. The money I have now is little, but I'm going ahead; I'm going ahead, and nothing shall stop me, I tell you. Soon I shall have ample means. Within a year or two. Already I've told you I love you, though this you must have known, for I've made no effort to conceal my love. To me you're the dearest, sweetest girl in the world; and all I ask is the chance to strive and toil for you, and make a home for you, and relieve you of anxiety and care, and have you for a joyous companion and mate." Ruth closed her hands on his, while her eyes grew wet. "You mean it, Lee?" "Ah, I do, I do! I love you; I hold you dearer than anything in the world." The smile she gave was tender, trustful. "I believe you," she said. She yielded to his arms. Her head fell back upon his shoulder and her look lifted to his blissfully. When he kissed her a thrill of passionate desire answered, as when on that fragrant evening in the cañon he first had fiercely pressed her lips. This was happiness--happiness. If it could but last forever! "And my love is yours, too, Lee," she exclaimed, so earnestly that he felt his heart quiver. "I want to be happy; I want to be loved; I don't want to live a life of just dreary commonplaceness, alone, uncared for, with no outlook, with no prospect of joys. I want the most there is in happiness--every girl wants that; and this monotonous existence has been robbing me, stifling me, until sometimes I've been wild enough to leap off a high rock. But now!" Bryant's arms went closer about her. "It shall be different now," he murmured. "Yes, yes; it must, it shall. There's no sense in people not being happy when the world was made for that very purpose." "Whenever you say, we'll be married," Lee stated. Ruth was silent for a time, considering this. It, indeed, left her a little startled. "But it mustn't be too soon," she replied, at last. "We had best go on as we are while your project is being started, for I wouldn't be so selfish as to make a command on your time at a critical moment, Lee dear. And I must plan clothes and things. Knowing that happiness is ahead of us, oh, homesteading then will be only a lark! I'll never need follow it up, but just abandon it when we're ready. Kiss me again, Lee, and then we must start back." They retraced their steps down the cañon, obtaining the basket of berries on the way. Once, as they neared the cabins, Ruth paused, gazing at her lover. "I had actually come to hate these claims," she said. "I felt chained to the spot, as if something would keep me in the miserable place for the rest of my life. Had I known how lonely I should be here, I never would have come." "But that's over now, Ruth. A little while longer, that's all." She gazed at him with an odd, intent, anxious expression upon her countenance. "You'll not let your irrigation project keep you here always?" she asked. "Or live in other places like it? These mountains and this desolate mesa get on my nerves. If I thought you were going to stay away from other people, foregoing all the pleasures of cities and the like, I think I should lose my courage and not be able to love you enough to stand it. I want you most of all, but shall want other things, too." He smiled indulgently. "A few years perhaps," he replied. "Till I'm solid on my feet--till I get going well--we're both young--and then----" He dismissed the matter with a wave of the hand. But that evening, when Lee and Dave had gone, when Imogene was asleep, when the soft darkness was thickening over the mesa, Ruth walked forth to the edge of the sagebrush. "I wonder," she murmured, leaving her thought unfinished. The hush of the mountains, the silence of the plain, the vastness, the emptiness, the seeming purposelessness of it all, irritated and oppressed her spirit. And she so yearned to be where the world was alive and throbbing! "I wonder if I really love him enough, or if I made a little fool of myself this afternoon?" she muttered to herself. "I wonder!" CHAPTER X Charlie Menocal's object in calling upon the young ladies at Sarita Creek was merely diversion. He was fond of girls, especially lively ones, and knew a good many here and there within reach of his motor car, including a number of pretty Mexican maidens of humble parentage. But his serious attentions centred about Louise Graham of whom in secret he was very jealous. Whenever he could find an excuse, and frequently when not, he went to the Graham ranch on Diamond Creek, five miles south of the girls' claims, where his figure was as familiar (and of about as much interest) as the magpies in the pasture. He fully meant to marry Louise, whose beauty and gracious manner even to the smallest bare-legged Mexican boy on the ranch captivated him and stirred in his breast a maddening desire for possession, so that he might cut off the rest of the world from her sweetness, so that it might alone feed his passion. Yes, he meant to have Louise. When he was with her his black eyes would shine and a ruddy tinge appear in his dusky cheeks that were as soft and smooth as a Mexican girl's, and he would restlessly finger a point of his little, silky, black moustache and feel unutterable agitations proceeding in his heart. Louise Graham did not allow him to declare his adoration, which he would have done every moment they were together; when he tried, she walked away. But Charlie counted on his good looks and his father's wealth to win her in the end. One fear alone lurked in his heart, that some young American might come along who would win her interest; and earlier in the summer he had a decided uneasiness lest Bryant prove to be the man. The scoundrelly engineer, however, had fallen head over heels in love with Ruth Gardner, so that Charlie's mind was relieved on that point. To his knowledge, Louise and Bryant had never met--which was as it should be. Charlie, having stopped about ten o'clock in the morning at the Graham ranch for a chat with Louise while on his way to Kennard, was considerably surprised and exceedingly nettled at beholding the engineer, with Dave behind him on the horse, presently riding up the lane between the rows of cottonwoods. Young Menocal had persuaded Louise to leave her household duties for the moment to sit on the veranda and talk with him. But now had come this impudent upstart! Charlie's warning of someone at hand was when Louise ceased to speak and gazed intently along the lane. His annoyance at the interruption changed to a quick jealousy as his companion rose, descended the steps, bade the engineer welcome, and extended her hand in greeting. Bryant explained that he was dropping Dave here to take the stage for Kennard when it came along after dinner. He himself was riding on. "He'll eat dinner with us, of course, and I'll put him aboard the stage myself," she exclaimed, with a pat on the shoulder of the boy who had now dismounted. "Won't you stop for a moment, Mr. Bryant? I'll give you a glass of fresh buttermilk to speed you on your way; a stirrup cup, we'll call it. The woman has just finished churning." Lee declared that he would drink a glass with very great pleasure. He was thirsty, he said, and in addition was fond of buttermilk. Menocal listened and watched him dismount and ground his teeth. Louise knew the thief, after all. Where the devil had they become acquainted? It was but one more instance of the engineer's pushing in where he wasn't wanted. And she had not invited him, Charlie, to partake of buttermilk, though, to be sure, she knew he did not like it. He felt slighted. When Bryant and Louise ascended the veranda, Dave loitering below, the engineer said nonchalantly, "Hello, Charlie, how are tricks? Anything new up your sleeve?"--in a way that set the other's blood boiling; and when he carelessly added, "What about that story the stage-driver's telling of you and a señorita going into a ditch with your car at Rosita the other night?" he was quite ready to murder both Bryant and the stage-driver. So upset was Charlie that he was unable to share in the conversation. He curtly refused a glass when Louise brought a pitcher of buttermilk, then changed his mind, and ended by choking over the wretched stuff. The situation was intolerable; his pride was smarting; the others talked on with unperturbed countenances, ignoring his silence; and his self-respect required some action in the face of the affront. He abruptly stood up and announced that he was departing. In Louise's manner at this news there was no repining that he could observe. She did not protest. Her words were impersonally pleasant as ever, but vague; and he perceived that she only half heeded his going; and that her eyes brightened when once more she turned to her visitor. This was the final stab. With hatred in his heart and a wicked glitter in his eyes, Charlie Menocal went down the steps to his automobile, feeling the need of a victim, preferably the engineer. Bryant had insulted him at the ford; he was attempting to rob him and his father; he had insolently threatened the elder Menocal; he stopped at nothing; and now he was intruding here and deceiving Louise with his arrogant pretentions. He came on Dave, standing beside the car and examining the latch of a door. "Keep your hands off that!" he snapped. At the same time he gave the boy a cuff that sent him sprawling. "That will teach you!" In two bounds Lee Bryant was at the spot. He caught the still-extended hand in an iron grip. "You miserable coward! Striking a boy!" he said, harshly. "Feeling that you must vent your spite on someone, you pick on this unoffending lad. If you ever raise so much as a finger against him again----" "Let him keep away from my machine! And drop my wrist!" Charlie Menocal snarled. "And you leave him alone hereafter, in any case," Lee warned, shoving the speaker away in disgust. Then he helped Dave to rise. Charlie straightened his disarranged tie and coat with trembling fingers. He could scarcely retain his rage; his body shook all over; his foot slipped twice when he sought to mount into his car. Leaning forward from his seat, he shook a finger in Bryant's face, exclaiming, "You'll get what's coming to you! Like your damned dog!" His face was entirely viperish. His finger came within an inch of the engineer's nose. His words carried a furious hiss. Then he whirled his car about and went tearing down the lane with exhaust wide open and roaring. When Bryant, leading Dave, rejoined Louise Graham, a flush of embarrassment dyed his face. She had sprung up at Menocal's blow knocking the boy over and remained standing, an indignant observer of the scene. When Menocal had departed, the engineer recalled suddenly what Ruth had said concerning Charlie and Louise Graham being practically engaged; and as he now saw her rigid figure and displeased countenance, he imagined he had lost her friendship. Still, he could not have acted otherwise. "I'm very sorry for this occurrence, Miss Graham," he said, contritely. "Especially as I understand Charlie Menocal is very high in your esteem." "Who dares say that!" "Well, Charlie himself is the authority, I believe," Lee responded, with a slight smile. Her eyes flashed at that. "Well, it's not the case; and if it had been, this exhibition of bad manners and bad nature on his part would have changed it. Father and I consider him--well, a nuisance. There, I'm giving you a confidence. We've tolerated him because Mr. Menocal senior is a gentleman, and a friend. Now I hope you'll not think me too talkative, but an explanation was necessary; and as far as Charlie Menocal is concerned, I'd be pleased if I never saw his face again. To knock your young friend over so heartlessly! You treated him with altogether too much leniency, Mr. Bryant." "I never do my fighting in the presence of ladies," Lee remarked, with a grin. "In fact, I try to confine my combats to those of wits." She nodded. "Of course," said she; and continued, "this is the second time he has acted disgracefully to you when I've been by. The first occasion was at Perro Creek ford. I could have sunk into the earth for shame of him when he knew no better than to fling you money after you had filled his radiator; it was pure insolence, to begin with, to ask you to do it when he should have attended to the matter himself. I admired your conduct and self-control under the circumstances, Mr. Bryant." And addressing Dave, she asked, "Will you drink another glass of buttermilk if I pour it?" Dave could and did, an example Lee followed. The subject of Menocal was dismissed, and the man and the girl fell into a conversation of general matters. She assured the engineer, when he inquired, that he was not detaining her from household affairs; and urged him, on learning of his prospective absence, to leave Dick at Diamond Creek and he himself to proceed to Kennard by stage. She owed Dick a return for the favour of carrying her home that day her own horse went lame; he could run in the pasture with the other horses, where Bryant would know he was safe. The plan included Bryant's remaining for dinner, naturally. "Have I your permission, Dave?" Lee asked. "Or do you refuse to share this pleasure with me?" Dave looked at Louise and blushed furiously. "I guess you've made your mind up," he said, to Bryant. "I guess I have," Lee admitted. Toward noon Mr. Graham joined them and laughingly stated that he was glad to make the acquaintance of the man who was causing such a furor among the Mexicans along the Pinas. He asked a number of questions and listened with interest to the engineer's brief exposition of the plan to unite the water rights of the Pinas River and of Perro Creek in a common system, though Bryant disclosed nothing of his survey on the mesa. Of the opposition Lee had met or might yet encounter the rancher was aware, for he remarked, "You have a fight on your hands." But that was his only comment. After dinner they all continued to talk while the men were smoking cigars. Graham suggested that if Bryant should need an attorney it would be well to employ one from Kennard, as those in Bartolo were nearly all Mexicans. The engineer jotted down the name of one the rancher recommended, saying that he had his injunction suits to meet in the September term of court. "Winship, the sheriff, appears to be one man in Bartolo who's all right," Lee stated. "Yes, he's a good man," Graham replied. "Can't be influenced or bought; and is perfectly square and impartial in the execution of the duties of his office. He has served twenty years, with exception of one term when he and Menocal had a disagreement. Menocal controls the votes in this county, you know; that's general knowledge. But things became so lax under the Mexican sheriff who displaced him that he was put back in office. Menocal ordered it; he has much property and believes in law and order; and there's little or no stealing with Winship in the sheriff's saddle. I've heard that he first required the banker to support him unconditionally before resuming the place." "I can believe that after a look at Winship," Lee said, smiling. Mr. Graham presently went away to a field where his men were cutting and stacking alfalfa, after thanking Bryant for rendering assistance to his daughter on the road and inviting him to call again. Louise then showed him her flower garden, ablaze with poppies, nasturtiums, sweet peas, and other blossoms he could not name; and the orchard where apples and pears and plums weighed the branches. She was remarkably beautiful, he thought; and was quite sure the roses in the garden had no petals pinker or softer than her cheeks, and was sure the water rippling in the little, grassy orchard canals was no clearer than her brown eyes, or the sky more serene than her brow. She was not in the least proud or vain or haughty, as he imagined when he first beheld her at the ford. He had had doubts of that after her kindly treatment of his dying dog Mike. And now to-day he knew that such an opinion did her an injustice, was absurd. Louise, too, was thinking as they strolled about. Which of the two girls on Sarita Creek did he love? For Charlie Menocal had said that he was infatuated with one. Charlie Menocal! Her cheeks grew warm. What he had boasted in regard to herself, and doubtless Mr. Bryant had softened the truth, filled her with anger. She would treat the insufferable wretch differently hereafter. And very likely his gossip of the engineer's feelings for one of the homesteaders was likewise a falsehood, though there was no reason in the world why Mr. Bryant shouldn't love one of them if he chose. She had never met them. They were very nice girls, she imagined. She had intended to call, but something had always prevented. As for Mr. Bryant, he seemed a very estimable young man, and good company, and an engineer of ability and will. She continued to speculate after he and Dave had departed on the stage, with a vague sense of missing them. That, she reasoned, was because Lee Bryant had "personality." And presently her thoughts followed him. Lee's mind, however, was ranging back to Sarita Creek; but Dave's was loyally with the lady of Diamond Creek ranch, as was manifest when he murmured thickly, having fallen asleep during the warm ride: "No more chicken, thank you--or jelly--or apple pie." CHAPTER XI In Kennard next morning Lee Bryant betook himself to a civil engineering firm, which he engaged to print a number of sets of blue-prints from his tracings, one set to be ready for delivery early that afternoon. Then while his suit of gray clothes, from out of his suit-case, was being pressed, he and Dave visited a florist, purchased a wreath of lilies-of-the-valley that Dave chose, and went to the cemetery to place it on the grave of the lad's mother. After that they proceeded to a clothier's, where the boy was fitted out with a new suit, a hat, shirts, underwear, and a tie. All of this caused Dave to swallow hard--but he swallowed hardest of all when Lee led him to a horse dealer's and helped him pick out a pony for trial, a gift from Bryant. He hadn't expected all this. He was too overcome to speak. "By golly, Lee, I--I----" he stammered; and stopped, and furtively wiped the moisture from his eyes. Finally they visited a savings-bank, where the engineer deposited a check to Dave's credit, his wages for a month and a half, forty-five dollars, to start an account, and the boy received a small yellow book whose one entry he thereafter studied at frequent intervals, for it was earning according to Bryant's statement four per cent a year, though Dave had not the remotest idea of how it did the earning. Then with all this business transacted they returned to the hotel, bathed, dressed in their fresh clothes, and went into luncheon. "Luncheon, what do they call dinner that for?" Dave whispered to Lee across the table. Along in the afternoon Bryant, having obtained a set of blue-prints and sent his young companion to a "movie" show, called upon the man that he all the while had had in view, Imogene Martin's uncle. A large, strong-bodied man, with a deeply lined, determined face, the latter swept his visitor with a quick, appraising look, invited him to take a seat, and to state his business. "In five minutes you can tell," said Lee, "whether or not you wish to listen longer to my proposition." "Yes." "I now own the Perro Creek ranch, of five thousand acres. It was originally owned by Mr. Menocal, of Bartolo, but recently by a man named Stevenson, from whom I bought it." "I know the place, Mr. Bryant. Proceed." "It's worth possibly three dollars an acre as it stands, or a total of fifteen thousand dollars," Lee continued. "But it has an unused water right of one hundred and twenty-five second feet from the Pinas River, sufficient to water the whole tract. How much will the ranch be worth when water is actually delivered?" "A good deal more than fifteen thousand dollars." "Rather," said the engineer, smiling. "The appropriation was secured from the state by Mr. Menocal thirty years ago; it's never been cancelled, and is good to-day. He, however, has been using the water on ranches he owns down the river. A canal from the Pinas along the mountain sides to Perro Creek would be expensive to construct, possibly prohibitive; it appears the natural line; and I suppose this deterred him. I've located a new and practical course for a ditch on the mesa, have surveyed and mapped it in detail, calculated the cost, and compiled a statement of estimates, and can build the project for sixty thousand dollars. The tract of five thousand acres can then be sold for fifty dollars an acre, or two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Shall I stop, or do you wish to hear more?" Now it was the banker's turn to smile. This visitor knew how to make a point. "Go ahead," he said. "All right. A Mexican dam across the Pinas, a mile and a half of hillside canal, some concrete drops, twelve miles of curving mesa ditch, and the ranch is reached. In addition, the flood water of Perro Creek can be utilized; I've worked this out, as well as the entire system of laterals for the land. As stated, the cost of the whole project will be about sixty thousand dollars, present price of material and labour. I'm on my way now to the capital to file application for a change in the present canal line, which, since it involves only government land, will naturally be allowed. Of course Mr. Menocal isn't taking kindly to my proposed use of this water." And Lee paused. "What has he done? Anything yet?" "Not much so far, except a little futile skirmishing," the engineer remarked, with twinkling eyes. "When I paid off his mortgage on the land, I advised him that I should use the water: and he threatened to have the water right cancelled. But he backed up on that line when I promised to lodge him in jail for making false affidavits if he tried those tactics. Thought I'd head him off in that direction at the start. I got the jump on him there. Well, now, he's using indirect means to keep control of the water, sending half a dozen Mexicans to file claims at the base of the mountains where he imagines the canal will have to go. He thinks these have blocked me; and I didn't undeceive him. He knows nothing about my actual line of survey on the mesa. Of course, the loss of this water that he fancied he had hits him where it hurts, but from what I can gather Mr. Menocal isn't a man to resort to illegal methods. He's wily, that's about all. So that's the situation." The banker regarded Bryant for a time with a noncommittal face. "State your proposition now," said he. "This is it," Bryant went on. "I propose to bond the ranch and water right for enough to build the project, then construct it, then market the land in farms at fifty dollars an acre. The canal system can be completed easily next year, and sales and colonization proceed immediately when done. Naturally, as a sale is made, the mortgage and notes will be put up behind the bonds to secure the latter. The purchasers will pay down some cash, say, ten dollars an acre; that makes fifty thousand cash and two hundred thousand dollars in notes against sixty thousand dollars in bonds. A visible profit of one hundred and ninety thousand. That amount will be covered by a stock issue. I shall set aside sixty thousand of it as a bonus to whoever purchases the bonds. Thirty thousand more shall go to whoever markets the bonds, as a commission. The remaining hundred thousand of stock----" "Goes to you, I presume." "Yes; I keep that. It's payment for the ranch and water right, for my developing the scheme and building the project. What I need is someone to sell the bonds; I'll take care of everything else. And because you, Mr. McDonnell, know the character of the land hereabouts and know water rights, the fertility of the soil when watered, and the soundness of a proper irrigation project as an investment, I've come first to you. Millions aren't involved; it's a small project; the cost is uncommonly cheap and the security therefore exceptional; you know the property personally; I, as builder, and having everything at stake, would see that the construction is right. So small an issue of bonds should be quickly placed in the East. And the commission isn't to be sneezed at." Mr. McDonnell's features relaxed into a smile. "I never saw an irrigation scheme yet that didn't look a money-maker on paper," he stated, "nevertheless, seventy-five per cent. of them wind up in the hands of a receiver." "Because of faulty estimates and wasteful construction, yes. Because they're generally too big, and the interest eats them up before the land is sold. Because some start building on a shoestring. Or because of changes in the projects that are costly, or rows in the management, or insufficient water, or bad land titles--I know, I know. I've studied and analyzed their troubles. And I propose that this Perro Creek scheme of mine shall be one irrigation project that shall succeed." "And you think you've taken all precautions?" "Yes." "With Mr. Menocal, even?" "Even with Mr. Menocal, yes. Once my application for changes has been approved and I have the money to build, what can he do?" "You seem quite sure of yourself." "I'm sure of this irrigation project, anyway. I'm going to build it." Conviction absolutely dominated his lean brown face; and the banker looking at the speaker's chin, his firm mouth, curving nose, and gray eyes full of purpose, wondered if Menocal had met his match. "Well, suppose you leave your maps and estimates for me to look over," he said. "When do you go to the capital?" "This evening." "See me again on your return. My attorney will examine your title to the land and the water right. How are the young ladies on Perro Creek getting along?" "They have plenty of fresh air and scenery," Lee responded, relaxing from the tension under which he had been. "It was rather a wild notion, their taking claims, but they wanted the experience. I hope my niece is benefited in respect to her health. My wife and I run up once in a while to see if they're comfortable." Then he added, "Perhaps I had best confess that Imogene had told me of what you were at up there, and of your involvement with Mr. Menocal. So this thing isn't wholly new to me." Bryant returned to the hotel, well satisfied with the progress he had made. In the lobby of the hotel he ran across Charlie Menocal, who gave him a venomous look and passed into the bar without speaking. What the young fellow might feel or think gave Lee no concern, though he might have taken warning from that hostile regard. For it was by Charlie's instructions that a short, stout, swart Mexican went from a native saloon to the depot that evening, where he presently identified Bryant and lounged nearer the spot. Dave at length noticed him and called Lee's attention to the fellow, whose face had a particularly sinister cast and whose eyes were fixed upon the engineer in a stony, unblinking stare. That look gave one the sensation of being gazed at by something poisonous in a clump of sagebrush. But the feeling was forgotten when the train came in on which they were departing and Bryant and Dave mounted the steps of a coach. The Mexican, on his part, returned to the saloon, where eventually he was joined by Charlie Menocal. Charlie's face was flushed and his breath alcoholic; he was a little drunk. At a corner table they conferred, drinking whisky. "You will know him now, the snake!" Charlie asked. "I would know him in the dark, señor," was the reply. They spoke in Spanish, since young Menocal's companion knew no other tongue. The latter was a newcomer to Kennard, of the name of Alvarez. He had come up from across the line, where he had been first with Carranza, and then with Zapata in his black troop, and then with Pancho Villa. He already had considerable reputation in the low Mexican quarter of the town: he had participated in many fights and raids "down there"; he was fearless; he could use a gun; he had many killings to his credit. When earlier in the day Charlie had made private inquiry of the saloon-keeper, an old friend, concerning a man of nerve that he could engage who would ask no questions, Alvarez was pointed out to him. Presently an agreement was reached between them and Charlie produced his check-book and a fountain-pen. "Here's a check for one hundred dollars," he said, writing. "Come to Bartolo, get you some blankets and food, and camp somewhere near. From time to time we'll meet and I'll tell you what's to be done. There's a saloon at Bartolo, if you get thirsty. Another hundred dollars will be yours when the job is finished, perhaps more. Meantime, you will act before others as if you did not know me. Here's the check." Alvarez rose and walked to the bar. "Is this money; a hundred dollars?" he inquired of the Mexican proprietor of the saloon. "One hundred dollars, yes," said the latter, with an assuring smile. "Made payable to you, Alvarez. Good? Good at any bank, good here at my saloon, good as gold. Better than gold, Alvarez, because easier to carry. Do you wish the money for it?" The Mexican ex-bandit jingled some dollars in his trousers' pockets. "I have enough to eat and drink," said he. "If the paper is good, if you will give me gold for it, then I will wait until I return. As you say, it's not so heavy to carry." "Bring it to me when you return. Mr. Menocal is very wealthy, very rich. He has much land and many sheep. Besides, he owns a bank full of gold and silver. The paper is good." Alvarez was impressed. He stood in thought. "Those sheep and that bank full of money! In Mexico we would form a company of revolutionists and help ourselves," he said. "That isn't the custom here," was the reply. Alvarez again stared at the check, then folded it, bit the edge with his teeth, placed it in a small leather bag suspended under his shirt by a cord about his neck, and returned to the table where Charlie Menocal waited. "I will go up yonder in a few days, señor," he stated. "There are girls there, are there not?" * * * * * One day a week later, after Bryant and Dave had returned to Kennard, and after numerous conferences with Mr. McDonnell, his attorney and an engineer called in for consultation, Lee exclaimed to his companion, "We win. McDonnell will take hold of it. Bully for him!" And he went about clearing up the odds and ends of business at a great rate. Moreover, McDonnell believed he could dispose of the bonds within a fortnight, by the middle of September. That would enable Bryant to make good headway with the dam on the Pinas River while the water was low and before cold weather set in. The attorney would look after the incorporation of the company and the stock and bond issues. Lee could at once engage a staff of assistant engineers and arrange to let the building contract. In the matter of the canal line, he had received ample assurance from members of the Land and Water Board at Santa Fé that the changes he asked would be granted. Everything was propitious, everything exactly as he would wish. "Out of those town duds, Dave," he exclaimed. "You can't be a sport any longer. Back to Perro Creek for us and your new spotted pony. And it's high time, too, for I saw you making eyes at that girl with yellow hair and angel blue eyes, whose mamma----" "You never did!" Dave yelled, crimson with ire. CHAPTER XII October. And the last golden leaves twirling down from cottonwood and aspen and mountain maple; the lofty brown peaks fresh powdered with snow; the air dazzling, keen, heady like wine; frost a-sparkle of mornings on stone, fence-post, roof, with a rainbow coruscation of diamonds; clear, high moons; marvellous, moonlit nights. It was the middle of the month. Three weeks previous, with the bonds sold and the injunction suits dismissed, the contractor employed had unloaded his outfit at Kennard, moved up the Pinas River, raised in a day his camp at the mouth of the cañon above Bartolo, and begun his task. This man, Pat Carrigan, had been in Bryant's mind from the first: a Pueblo contractor of Irish extraction, born in a railroad camp, trained on a dump, and now grizzled and aging but unequalled in handling men, in keeping them satisfied, in moving dirt. In his time he had turned off jobs from Maine to California, from Wisconsin to Texas. Already along the hillside a yellow gash was deepening from the dam site through the fenced fields where ran the right of way; while in the Pinas, low at this season, the traverse section of the river bed had been cleaned out and the base of the dam was building of stones and brush. Late on a certain afternoon Ruth Gardner and Imogene Martin stood waiting by a gray runabout at the edge of the camp. A storm was sweeping up the Ventisquero Range from the south, one of the autumn storms that marked the change of seasons, enveloping, as it advanced, the gray peaks one after another in its fog and trailing over the mesa gauzy brown streamers of rain. In the west the sun still shone unobscured, but with its light failing to a chill saffron glare as the cloud expanded over the sky. Bryant and another man, a newcomer in the last few days, an engineer from the East representing the bondholders, were walking toward the girl from the dam. As the men walked, they engaged in rather spirited argument. "You'd better hurry, you two," Ruth called. "Don't you see that rain coming? Imo and I want to reach home, Mr. Gretzinger, without being soaked." Bryant's companion waved an assuring hand without ceasing his rapid and forceful statement addressed to his fellow. Half a head shorter than Lee, he was of stockier build, a man somewhere near thirty-five or six years of age, with hair tinged with gray above his ears. Both in manner and speech he exhibited by turns superficial gayety, latent cynicism, and an egregious assumption. When Lee had introduced him to the young ladies at Sarita Creek, he had made himself at home in three minutes. He had the latest witticisms of restaurants and theatres, the newest stories, the most recent slang; his clothes were of the autumn's extreme mode; he was intelligent if frankly materialistic; and he interested, amused, and diverted the two girls. From his gay and airy talk they gathered that he had been married and divorced, that the West might have the scenery but New York had the bright lights; that money could buy anything from food to fame; and that "movies" were a bore. To the girls he was like a breath from the metropolis itself, that hard, throbbing, restless, glaring, convivial, avid, fascinating city in which is centred everything of wealth and misery, everything intense and abnormal, and everything to satisfy the desires. But the effect upon the girls was different. Imogene, though entertained, continued calm, unimpressed, unenvious; Ruth, however, as she listened and asked questions, the better they became acquainted, was bright-eyed and excited. "Don't you think him a remarkable man?" she had exclaimed to Imogene. "So experienced, so polished, so--well, everything." This was after his second visit, which he made without Bryant, stopping on his way from the dam camp to Kennard where he made the chief hotel his headquarters. Imogene had replied, "Oh, he's amusing company, and he can't be accused of being diffident, at least. But I wonder if he would wear well. His divorced wife's opinion would be valuable on that point, I fancy." That had caused Ruth to sniff. She said, "You heard his explanation; they didn't agree and so they just separated. That was sensible. When two people find they're not compatible, they shouldn't live together a minute. And I shouldn't be surprised if she was a cat." Gretzinger's speech as he and Bryant advanced toward the girls and the gray runabout was quick, determined, and uncompromising. His fleshy, aggressive face, that lacked the tan of his companion's, was fixed in dogmatic lines. From time to time he switched his gauntlets against the skirt of his fashionably cut ulster with lively impatience. "I certainly demand that these changes be made and shall recommend to the bondholders," he was saying, "that they also insist on them." "Can't help it if you do," was Lee Bryant's reply. "I know what I'm talking about: concrete is necessary. No irrigation engineer to-day who knows his business would think of anything else. Mr. McDonnell's man approved its use, the state engineer likewise. The latter wouldn't allow the change even should I ask it." "Pah! He'd not concern himself either way. I know how these state officers run things. Leave it to me; I'll arrange the matter." "Not with my consent. And he'll never grant the change over my opposition." Gretzinger gave his knee an angry slap. "I tell you it must be different, Bryant. In addition to the bonds my men have their share of stock. They consider this stock bonus as part of their investment. It is. And they intend to see that that stock earns every dollar--every dollar, do you understand?--that's to be made out of the project. I'm here to protect their interests, and shall do it." "Well?" "Now, Bryant, be reasonable. It means more profit in your own pocket, too. You're no philanthropist pure and simple, I take it, and want to make money out of this thing. So agree to this change. You'll make a saving both in time and cash. Carrigan's contract doesn't include the building of these drops; you plan to do that yourself; and if you substitute wood for concrete in these drops and in the gate-frames, it would lessen the labour cost, the material cost, the freighting cost, the----" "And in five years the wood will have rotted and then concrete will have to be put in after all," Lee interrupted. "More than that, the water will undercut wooden drops, then rip the devil out of the canal along the ridge, making the cost of rebuilding ten times what it is now and very likely causing a water shortage in the middle of an irrigating season so that the farmers' crops will be a dead loss. Fine! I suppose you didn't allow yourself to think that far." "Why should I?" Gretzinger retorted. "It's not our business to figure on all the calamities that may occur in the next fifty years, or the next ten, or the next five. We build the canal, then it's up to the farmers to keep it in shape after we turn it over to them. If anything happens, that's their lookout and the lookout of the engineer in charge." The two had come to a halt just out of earshot of the runabout. Bryant could discover on the speaker's face no other expression than a fixed intent to maintain his view. "Leaving out the injustice of such a course----" "Injustice, nothing!" the New Yorker derided. "This is cold business. The project must be built as cheaply as possible in order to give the investors the largest return. My father is one of them, and when he puts money into a thing he wants all out of it that's coming to him. So do his associates." "Let me finish what I started to say," Lee remarked. "Aside from what purchasers of land under this canal scheme have the right to expect, and what they would suffer from a disaster, it hits our own pockets in the end. Poor construction always turns out to be expensive construction. Aside from the initial cash payments from buyers, all we have from them will be notes--mortgage notes that can be paid only by crops from the land. The water insures these crops. Let the canal system go smash, and where are these notes? Nowhere. I don't propose to lose fifty or sixty thousand dollars for a short-sighted gain of ten." Gretzinger laughed, then tapped the other's shoulder with a forefinger. "Do you imagine for a minute we'll keep the paper?" he inquired. "Well, I should say not! We'll discount it ten, and if necessary twenty, per cent. to make a quick clean-up and be out. A mortgage company in the East will attend to that part of the business. These mortgages run for ten years; you certainly don't think we'll sit around that long waiting for our money and profits. The discount will make the paper attractive to small investors, among whom it will be peddled and who want long-time securities. And you'll profit from that along with the rest of us; we couldn't leave you out if we wished." "No, you can't leave me out of your calculations," said Bryant, grimly. "You see now, I hope, why it's to your interest as well as ours to make the change I suggest," Gretzinger continued. "It will equal the amount of the discount. In a year or so we'll all be out from under with bonds and stock liquidated dollar for dollar. In other words, with our profits in cash in the bank instead of in notes." "And somebody else holding the sack, eh?" Bryant's aquiline nose came down a little as he asked the question. "No, Gretzinger, you haven't persuaded me, and you never will by that argument. A pretty rotten scheme, that of yours. I shall go right ahead and use concrete." "Then you don't intend to consider bondholders as having a voice in matters?" "No." "Well, they're stockholders as well." "Minority stockholders, that's all," Lee stated, coolly. "You've said this is a matter of cold business. Very well; I'm the majority stockholder and have the control. I consider it cold business to build the drops of concrete as planned. I consider it cold business and good business to provide the farmers with a safe system. And I shall do that." Again came Ruth's call, urging Gretzinger to hurry. He answered and spoke a last word to Bryant, with a suddenly altered mien. "You're an obstinate devil, Lee," he exclaimed, cheerfully. "I'll have to think up some new arguments to get you over, I find. Now I must run along, or the ladies will be up in arms--and not my arms, either." Bryant helped him to button the curtains on the hood of the car, found an instant when he could press Ruth's hand unobserved and murmur a word in her ear, and stated that if the rain did not last he would run down (he had picked up a second-hand Ford in Kennard) to Sarita Creek after supper. "I don't see half enough of you," Ruth said, giving him a pat on the cheek with the gloved finger that now wore a diamond solitaire. To Mr. Gretzinger she continued, "If you get us home without a wetting, you may stay and eat with us; but if you don't, why, you can go straight on to town." Off the car sped down the trail toward Bartolo where it would gain the well-travelled mesa road, a hand thrust through the curtains waving back at Bryant. The engineer did not go to Sarita Creek that night, for the rain settled into a steady drizzle that lasted until well toward morning. After supper he went, however, to the adobe dwelling of the Mexican who once had warned him from his field. The man's seven-year-old boy had fallen from a horse the day previous and fractured a leg; half fearfully, half recklessly, the parent had come running to camp for medical aid; and Lee had despatched the camp doctor, a young fellow recently graduated, to treat the injury. Bryant was admitted into the house. The youngster, he learned, was resting comfortably and had been visited by the doctor that afternoon. Lee was even conducted to the bedside, where the boy's leg thick with splints and wrappings was exhibited for his benefit. "The doctor, he said I was to speak to you about his pay," the Mexican stated after a time, when he and Bryant had talked awhile in Spanish. Bryant waved the words aside. "There's no charge, nothing," said he. "I was delighted to send the doctor. I hope your son improves rapidly. The physician will continue to pay you calls until the boy no longer requires them. Those are very pretty geraniums you have in the window, señora. Are they fragrant?" Lee crossed the room and bent his face above them. The man's wife rubbed her hands together under her apron with much pleasure. Thus politely for him to notice and praise her flowers! In her heart, as in the heart of her husband, there formerly had been resentment at this white canal-builder for cutting their field with a big ditch, an occurrence which the county judge somehow had stupidly permitted. But now she did not know what to feel. Yesterday he had sent them a doctor for nothing, and this evening was smelling her flowers admiringly. He could not be exactly a monster. Removing one hand from beneath her apron, she inserted a finger-nail in her black hair and scratched her scalp, considering the subject. Winter was coming, too. Food would be needed--and besides, she long had desired one of those loud phonographs at Menocal's store, and also needed a new stove. She perceived that her husband was staring at Bryant's back with a thoughtful air. Undoubtedly he was thinking the same thing as she. "You yet want men and teams for your work, señor?" she inquired. "All I can get." "If a man falls sick while at work, would he have the services of the doctor?" "Yes, without charge. There will be work on the dam most of the winter, where the building is only a matter of stone and brush. I can use all who want employment. Then in the spring there will be the digging of the ditch on the mesa." "Five dollars for a man and his team, is it not so?" the Mexican inquired. "Yes." "What if a man's wife or children fall sick?" the woman asked. Bryant hid a smile at this shrewd bargaining. Yet he was perceiving an opportunity. There were no Mexicans at work on the project; one and all they had held off. Likewise they refused to sell him grain and hay, which necessitated the hauling of feed from a distance. But now this accident to the boy might prove a heaven-sent chance to break Menocal's monopoly of influence. "In case of sickness in the man's family, the doctor shall attend free," he stated. The woman took thought afresh. "And if the man's horses are taken sick?" "Nay, he's not a horse doctor," said Lee, smiling. And even the woman smiled. "But there's another matter. I fear it prevents," the man remarked. "It is a note for fifty dollars that the bank holds against me. If I work, Menocal will make trouble about that. I think we had best talk no more of employment." "Suppose I advance the amount in case he does, letting you work out the debt. I could keep, say, two dollars out of each day's five until you owed nothing." "That would be agreeable to me, señor. But what if he then refuses to sell me goods from his store?" "You can buy at the commissary," Lee said. "Why should you lose five dollars a day because of Menocal's bad feeling for me? You remain idle--but does he pay you, or feed you? And the wages I offer you, and the doctor's services, and the other accommodations, I also offer to other Mexicans who will work. You may tell them so. Remember, there will be teaming on the ditch until it freezes up, then work on the dam throughout the winter, then scraper work on the mesa in the spring. Five dollars a day coming in the door! You can buy meat and flour and clothes and tobacco and candy for the children and a new wagon and pictures of the Madonna, yes, all. But now I must go." "But Menocal would be very angry," said the man, with a shake of his head. Bryant bade them good-night and departed. He went up the muddy road through the wet darkness to the camp. Domination of the native mind by Menocal appeared too strong for him to break. But to his surprise next morning the Mexican came driving his team into the camp. Lee sent him to Pat Carrigan, who gave him a scraper and set him to work on the ditch. Toward noon the engineer encountered him moving dirt from the deepening excavation; the sight had an amusing feature. The man, Pedro Saurez, laboured in his own field building the canal at about the spot where he had warned Bryant away when surveying. When Saurez beheld Lee, he grinned and removed the cigarette from his lips. "It will be a fine ditch, this," was his remark. CHAPTER XIII Work on the canal section near the river advanced without incident until, one morning early in November, the plows unexpectedly uncovered a forty-foot-wide body of granite just beneath the surface. This particular difficulty was not serious, and was the contractor's; but Pat Carrigan was no more pleased than any other contractor would have been at finding rock, even a small amount, when he had figured his excavation costs on a dirt basis. "That wipes out a piece of my profits," he remarked to Bryant, after a first profane explosion. "I'll send out for some dynamite and shoot it. If it wasn't for damned troubles like this, I'd been a retired man and fat and rich long ago. Don't grin, you heartless blackguard! You'll have miseries of your own before we're done." Pat Carrigan was a true prophet. A blow of fatal nature, indeed, was preparing at the moment and fell within a week. From the state engineer Lee received a letter advising him that an application for use of the water appropriated to Perro Creek ranch had been made by a man of the name of Rodriguez, of Rosita, under an old statute long forgotten. This law was mandatory upon the Land and Water Board. It required the latter to cancel rights and to reappropriate water elsewhere to the amount in excess of what a canal actually carried, or what a canal had failed to carry for five successive years if it were not shown within ninety days after a filing for reappropriation that the said canal had been enlarged to a capacity to carry the original appropriation, and proof given of the owner's intention to employ said appropriation. Menocal once more! He had been very quiet all this while; he apparently had made no effort to dissuade the Mexicans who, following Saurez's lead, had come in increasing number to work on the canal or the dam; the man had almost passed from the engineer's mind. But he had not been idle. He had had shrewd legal talent seeking a deadly weapon for him among the musty statutes, with which he could deal the irrigation project a _coup de grâce_. And as the import of the letter penetrated Bryant's brain, his heart seemed to turn to ice. Ninety days--finish dam and canal in ninety days! As well fix a limit of ninety hours! Finally he rushed off to Pat Carrigan superintending scraper work and dragged him aside. "For God's sake, read that, Pat!" he cried. "Read what the Land and Water Board are going to do. They're going to cut the heart right out of us! Kill the project! All for a law nobody ever heard of! Read it!" Pat knit his brows and slowly extracted the meaning from the state engineer's formal, involved announcement. That something serious had occurred he guessed before Bryant had opened his lips. He had never seen the engineer so wrought up, so white, so agitated. "Let me get this right," the old contractor said, at length. "They're going to cancel your water right." "Yes." "But not at once. You've ninety days to----" "Ninety days! We can't do a year's work in ninety days, and in winter time at that!" Lee cried. "Of course not," was the answer. "But it gives you time to argue with 'em and fight this thing. My advice is to go see this Board at once. Maybe if you explain the situation, they'll call off this fellow Rodriguez." Bryant, however, remained depressed. Clearly the officials had no liberty of action in the matter. "I don't know that it will do any good," he said, "but it's all that's left to do. Pack your grip, Pat; I want you to go with me. Leave Morgan in charge. Can you start in half an hour?" The ride to Kennard was made at high speed, and on the way the men did little talking. Both wanted to weigh the disaster confronting the project. In town they sought out McDonnell, who promised to have his attorney go into the matter at once and who appeared very grave at the news. Then they returned to the hotel to await their train. Here Lee was surprised to encounter Ruth in company of Gretzinger, Charlie Menocal, and a Kennard girl with whom he was not acquainted. Ruth and Imogene, he learned, had come down the day before with the New Yorker and were staying at the McDonnell home. "We're just roaming around and amusing ourselves," Ruth said, slipping her arm within Lee's. "Come on and join us." Lee smilingly shook his head. "Can't possibly do it," said he. "I'm leaving for the capital soon." Ruth drew him aside. "But give me ten minutes of your time before you go, will you, dear?" she asked. "Come, we can go into one of the parlours where we'll be alone." And when they were seated there, she continued, "I know why you're going to Santa Fé. Charlie said he understood you were involved in some new legal trouble and that you might lose your whole project. Mr. Gretzinger laughed at him and so did I, for we knew it couldn't be true. But it's bothering you, I see; your face is anxious. I hope you'll clear up the horrid matter, whatever it is, while you're gone." Then after a pause, she remarked, "Perhaps Mr. Gretzinger could be of assistance to you." "Not in this matter," said Lee. "He has a great deal of influence, especially in the East." "But this is the West--and I don't care much for Gretzinger, besides," he stated. "So he says. More than once he has wished you would be more friendly. Isn't it a little inconsiderate of you, Lee, to hold him off at arm's length, especially when he's here as representative of the bondholders? He has a vital interest in the canal and its success. Really, I think he might be of great help if you'd permit. And it would be of great advantage to us in the future, his friendship and that of the men behind him, for they are wealthy and influential. That's one reason why you ought to cultivate him, Lee." "Go on," said he, as she paused. "Well, I thought we should discuss the matter. I'm of the opinion that you misunderstand him. You'll not deny that he's a man of ability." "No--though I know little of him." "He is, though, Lee. And an engineer of high standing, too, and of experience. Wouldn't it be wise to consult him a little more than you do? He has talked to me at times about the project and has, I believe, ideas you could use. For instance, he says that if you made certain changes in the canal there would be a considerable saving of money, by which the stockholders would benefit, you among them. He says that if in certain places wood were used instead of concrete it would mean thousands of dollars in your pocket." "It would, but it would also endanger the canal." "Mr. Gretzinger said you asserted that as your reason," she proceeded, "but he claims there's no more prospect of danger from that source than from a fly. And anyway, isn't it a matter that concerns only the buyers afterward? He says so. I don't know much about such matters, of course, but you really must look after your own best interest first--and mine. I say mine because mine will be yours after we're married. Mr. Gretzinger says your share of the saving would be at least five thousand dollars and possibly more. Lee, do this for me." "What he proposes is dishonest, Ruth." "But why? He says the state board would grant the change if proper representations were made. If the officials allowed it, I can't see where it would be dishonest." "The officials would have to be deceived to gain their consent to such a change," Lee said, patiently. "But the real point at issue is the permanency of the water system, Ruth. The poor devils who buy the land and who toil for years to pay for it are to be considered. If the canal is too cheaply constructed, they'll probably lose their crops; and losing their crops means ruin. As far as possible an engineer must insure against this danger when he builds the canal; then if any accident happens later, his conscience, at any rate, is clear." "But he says you over-estimate the risk, that wood is perfectly safe. And he's an expert engineer, too. More experienced than you, Lee." "You seem to have discussed this thing with him at great length," Bryant remarked, dryly. "I have, indeed I have, because I have your success so greatly at heart, dear. I want to see you receive every penny that you earn and all the credit you deserve; I want you to go ahead in your profession and become both wealthy and famous; but sometimes I think that you're so absorbed in the engineering part of the work that you're careless of the future. One has to be practical, too. One has to look out for one's own interests. And I don't see why your responsibility for the project doesn't end when you've built the canal, sold the land, and turned the system over to the farmers. You can't go on looking out for them after that; you're not answerable to the 'hay-seeds' who settle here for what may or may not happen. And we shall need the money that would be saved by using wood instead of concrete, Lee. When you're through here, we shall want to live in New York at least part of the time. With Mr. Gretzinger's friendship you could perhaps form a connection so that you could be there all the while, and make a big fortune. You will do this for me, won't you, Lee? It means just that much more happiness for us." She slipped her arms about his neck and kissed him impulsively, eagerly. Lee felt himself tremble at that clasp, at that kiss. Words seemed futile. His anxiety over the fate of his project gave way to a profound sickness of soul. That Ruth should thus reveal such a cloudiness of spiritual vision, such an inability to distinguish between moral values, such a ready acceptance of Gretzinger's vicious philosophy, was the final drop in his bitter cup this day. "It's not a question of either wood or concrete just at present," he said, rising. "It's whether I'm to have a project at all. I'll not go with you, Ruth, to your friends; I must think over what I'm to do and say at Santa Fé to-morrow." As he rode thither with Carrigan that night it seemed as if he now was at grapple with forces, invisible, powerful, malevolent, that strove to dispossess him of everything that was dear. His project! What means, what help, what law was there of which he could make use to ward off this deadly assault on it? And Ruth! How should he save her--save her from herself, clear the mist from her eyes, arouse her drowsing soul? All that he had aimed at and all that he had striven for hung on finding answers to those questions. CHAPTER XIV By noon Bryant and Carrigan had concluded their interviews with members of the Land and Water Board. All of them had listened, asked questions, expressed their regret at the situation in which Perro Creek project found itself, but stated that the Board had no course other than that of executing the law evoked in the case. They suggested that Bryant bring an action in the courts to test the law; they admitted that his company might be forced into the hands of a receiver; they inquired concerning the possibility of gaining the consent of the adverse party to a withdrawal of his application. Their hands, however, said one and all, were tied in the matter. The engineer and the contractor went down the steps of the state house and found a seat on a bench at a shady spot of the grounds. "Just as I expected it would be," Bryant said, grimly. He sat humped over, his elbows on his knees and his cheeks between his fists. His eyes were dull, heavy; he had not closed them during the previous night. He wore the mud-caked lace boots and stained khaki, as did Carrigan, in which he had departed from camp. "Well, we haven't quit breathing yet," Pat remarked, licking the wrapper on the cigar he was about to light. Lee sat silent for several minutes. "Anyway, I'll see you don't lose, Pat," he said. "You can figure out what profit you would have made on your contract if the ditch had been built and I'll pay you that. Then you can call off your crew." "Oh, I'll let you down easy, Lee. That wasn't worrying me any," was the rejoinder. "I was just thinking----" But his words broke off there, and he again gave his attention to the cigar wrapper that persisted in coming loose. Bryant continued his gloomy cogitation. The muscles of his cheeks moved in hard lumps beneath his fists as if he were champing some resistant substance. Over his eyes his lids from time to time drooped sleepily. But all at once he leaped up. "If I but had something I could take hold of, Pat!" he exclaimed. "Something I could lay hands on and move, like that bed of rock you uncovered! So I could go ahead! A law is so damned immaterial that one has nothing to work against. It leaves a man nowhere, helpless. It lifts him off the ground and holds him kicking futilely in the air. Just that. By God, I'm desperate enough to try anything--to try building the ditch--try whipping Menocal even under this moth-eaten law he's dug up!" Pat shut one eye against the smoke curling into it. "I was speculating a little along the same line," said he, slowly. "But twelve miles of ditch in ninety days! The whole mesa line! We'd be crazy to think of it. Let's talk of something else." Lee's mouth, nevertheless, was twitching, while gleams like light came and went on his face. "I always had a weakness for the bad bets," said Pat. "But twelve miles of ditch!" "And the nights freezing harder every week," the old contractor added. "And the days short." "Yes, and nerve shorter yet," said Pat. The remark was airily given, but the inference was plain. Lee took a step aside and stood staring across the capitol grounds, with brows knit, with lips compressed, the prey of struggling hopes and doubts. "Pat," he said, turning. "Well?" "Do you think we could do it?" "God knows; I don't. But we could give the job an awful whirl," the contractor stated. "The thing looks impossible, preposterous, but if you see the slightest chance of success I want you to say so. Dirt moving is your game, not mine. Ninety days; that's thirteen weeks. Almost a mile a week. Can it be done? Can you do it?" Pat at last threw away the cigar that refused to draw. "With men and teams enough I could build a ditch to tide-water in that time," said he, with sudden energy. "Men and scrapers, scrapers and men--that's all. You can rip the insides out of any dirt job on earth if you have the crews. Of course, it takes money, big wages, to get and hold them." "Money! What do I care for that if we build the canal? How much more will it take? How much will you need?" "Say twenty thousand more." "Get out your pencil and begin figuring it." "I don't need a pencil," Carrigan answered. "I haven't been moving dirt for fifty years without figures sticking to my hair. I've digested your blue-prints and know what's to come out of the ground. Now I'll tell you what it would be if there was no frost in the ground, as in summer--and we'll afterward allow for the frost; and what's necessary in men, horses, fresnos, shacks, horsefeed, food, clothes, and general supplies." And thereupon Carrigan began to pour forth a stream of data so exact, so comprehensive, so full, that Bryant listened in astonishment. All carried in his head, ready for use! "I hope I know my business at your age as you know yours," Lee exclaimed. "You will, or ought to. I've paid for what I know in mistakes and miscalculated jobs, as does every man some time or other--paid in hard cash. What he learns is all he gets out of losses. Now, the figures I gave were for summer work; winter dirt moving is another kind of animal. Work is slower, men are harder to keep, weather is generally bad." "This autumn has been later than usual, and it may last," said Lee. "And it may not," Carrigan stated, emphatically. "It's that that worries me about this thing. As it is, the ground freezes on top every night. Let the thermometer make a low drop, and we won't be able to stick a plow-point into it anywhere." "There's no moisture to speak of in the soil of the mesa." "Enough to freeze the dirt, just the same," said Pat. "We can leave the dam out of consideration." "Yes; no trouble about finishing that. And your concrete work, Lee, won't lose you any sleep. A carload of cement from here, gravel from the river, and a dozen Kennard carpenters to knock together gate and drop frames--no trick to crack that nut. Frost, lad, frost! It's the thing to set us groaning." Bryant sat down and put his hand on the speaker's knee. "Pat, if we go into this thing and put it through, there will be a good fat bonus for you." "Maybe there will be and maybe there won't. Maybe you'll have some money left when we're done and maybe you'll not have a red cent. In any case, the old man is with you, Lee, to the end of the scrap--if you go ahead. What about your bondholders? Will they stand for risking what's not yet spent? They will save considerable by your stopping now; they'll lose all if we fail." "What do you----" Pat's raised hand halted him. "Ask me nothing," said he. "That's for you alone to settle. If you spend their money and win, they'll say 'Thank you'--maybe; and if you go under, they'll damn you up one side and down the other and probably try to send you to the pen. You're the chief; you have to decide; you can't share the responsibility--anyway, not with me. And if you're inquiring, I'll remark that its considerable responsibility. Go off yonder by yourself and think it over a bit." Bryant left the old contractor lighting a fresh cigar. He walked to another bench a short distance away, where he sat down. In his first exultation at perceiving a fighting chance to save the project he had seen only the opportunity, but Carrigan's unexpected turn of the subject had brought him back to earth. He was guardian, as well as dispenser, of company funds. He had obligations to the bondholders. Therefore, would he be justified in risking the money on such a desperate venture? His soul sank. But his mind would not cease to revolve about the undertaking, for he could not at once relinquish his long-cherished dream. The thought of tame surrender was as wormwood in his mouth. To stand by acquiescent while the project collapsed! That prospect he could not endure. Never again, if he capitulated now, would he be able to strike out with the same courage as in this project; never with the same courage, or spirit, or faith. The project was his creation! The thing of his brain and will! Part of himself! And how confidently he had made his plans and acquired the property and started work! No doubts of his ability to carry it through! No question of his right to go ahead! No fear of the task! The engineer came suddenly to his feet. Builders throughout the world took equal risks and overcame as great obstacles every day; it was the measure of their genius and will. Engineers elsewhere crushed a way through earth and rock to their goals, and under adverse circumstances, with no thought of failure. Were there not men who would unhesitatingly take hold of this project now and complete it in the time allotted? Yes, any number. For the very same reason that he had launched the scheme. Because they had the ability, because they had the will, because, most of all, they had faith--faith in their own powers. Lee went back to Pat Carrigan. "We shall build it," said he. "And in ninety days." The contractor rose. "You talk like a real 'chief' now, Bryant," he replied. "I was waiting for that. Come along; we'll start burning the wires." CHAPTER XV Louise Graham, entering the dining car for breakfast, received a surprise at beholding Lee Bryant half way along the aisle at one of the smaller tables. He laid down the spoon with which he was delving into a half of a cantaloupe and got quickly to his feet to greet her. "So you're home again," he said, after shaking hands. "Your father told me when I met him that you were in the East. Will you share my table?" "I use 'shopping' as a pretext for a jaunt now and then," she laughed, when they were seated. "Once in a while the lure of city dissipations seizes me; I had a week in Washington and three in New York with friends, which will satisfy me for a few months. You were just starting work on your project when I went away. Are you making good progress?" "Very. But I'll make still better from now on. It's a case with me of do or be 'done', of dig out or be buried. I may as well be open about it, for everyone will know presently, anyway. The project must be completed in ninety days." "Ninety days? Great heavens!" "That's what I said, too," Lee stated, with a smile. "Several times, in fact. There is an old law, it seems, that enables interested parties to hold a stop-watch on me." "And what's the penalty if you fail to finish the work in those three months?" "Cancellation of my water right." "Cancellation? Surely not." "I tried to convince the Land and Water Board of that in Santa Fé, but made no headway." "How outrageous!" she exclaimed. The waiter at her elbow recalled her to the requirements of the moment. Still with a trace of colour in her cheeks, the result of her indignation, she scanned the menu and wrote out her order. "The thing is so utterably unreasonable," she resumed, more calmly. "Why did they let you start if they proposed afterward to hang a sword above your head?" "The Board was ignorant of this law, as was everybody else, until it was brought to light by the applicant for cancellation," said Lee, "a certain Rodriguez, of Rosita." "Who is he?" Bryant shook his head. "Don't ask me. No friend, at any rate." She regarded him steadily for a moment. "Probably a man put forward by Mr. Menocal." "I suppose so," said he. "But the idea of expecting you to build all those miles of ditch in ninety days and in the winter time! I wonder that you can be so calm." "Why shouldn't I be calm? My mind's made up. I'm going to complete the project on time." The words were uttered in a matter-of-fact tone that impressed Louise Graham far more than would any vehement assertion. As he had stated, his mind was made up, quite made up on the point. Others might think what they pleased: it carried no weight with him. The thing was certain. She examined the engineer with a new interest. There was a difference in him, what would be hard to say. One couldn't exactly put finger on it. Something in his gray eyes, perhaps; something in the sharper stamp of his aquiline nose, of his lips, of his bronzed jaw; something in his whole bearing. It went deeper than features, too; she sensed a change in the spirit of the man from what it had been that day of his going down to Kennard, when he strolled with her in her garden. He was less bouyant, less manifest, less elated, but more poised and sure. A change, yes. Then her thoughts reverted to his tremendous undertaking. "How long have you known this?" she inquired. "Since the day before yesterday. Pat Carrigan, my contractor, and I came to the capital at once to discuss the affair with the Board. The news was--well, a good deal of a facer." She nodded. "It would be," were her words. "You'll need more workmen and horses, of course." "All I can get. Pat went to Denver last night, and the labour agencies there and at Pueblo, Colorado Springs, Santa Fé, El Paso, and places farther east doubtless by now are rounding up men. We picked up an idle grading outfit yesterday in Santa Fé; it will be loaded and started by to-night." Her face became a little rueful. "That all sounds so big that I hesitate to make the offer I had in mind when I asked," she said. "What was it, Miss Graham?" "Father has twelve or fifteen teams and some scrapers used on the ranch. The horses aren't working at this season. He would be glad to let you have them, I know, if he thought they would be of any aid. But with what you'll have, perhaps you----" "I want them; I'll be more than grateful for them. I need every man and horse available. I can't get too many. Each labourer and each horse counts just that much more. It's a great kindness on your part to suggest their use to me, and I'll stop on the way to camp to see your father." "He'll consent to your employing them," said she, confidently. "Dad likes a man who puts up a good fight, and you're doing that. A fight against great odds." Bryant's face lightened with a smile almost sunny. "By heavens, it's comforting to have a friend like you," he exclaimed, "when one's in a tight place!" The waiter began to place her meal, and he turned his head to look out of the window while his mind recalled his talk with Ruth in the hotel parlour at Kennard. Little comfort he had had from her then. Her interest in the project, in fact, as he reviewed the summer, had been slight, always casual, concerned only with its financial factor, never particularly sympathetic, never warm, never eager. The thought struck him unpleasantly. It had never occurred to him before. He wondered if this indifference would continue when they were married, if in ten years--when he was about forty, say--she would be even less inclined to know his work, like the wives of some men he could name who had their own separate interests, who gave their husbands no sympathy at their tasks, nor courage, nor heart, and whose single cognizance of it had to do with the size of the income. But he drove this depressing and disloyal speculation from his mind. Ruth was young and perhaps restless, but she was sweet and full of promise. Time would round out her character; and when she had matured, she would be one in a million--a mate who cheered and inspired. Every bit of that! She would presently see the real values of things; Charlie Menocal's monkey tricks would no longer amuse her, and she would perceive what a shallow harlequin he was, while she would comprehend Gretzinger's vicious, unprincipled sophistry and turn in disgust from the man. She was inexperienced, that was all. "It will be good to be back once more where one has plenty of room," Louise Graham remarked. "In that liking, you see, I'm a genuine Westerner. That's what I missed most when at school in the East, at Bryn Mawr--space. I wanted my big mountains and wide mesa and long, restful views. And how I galloped on my pony through the sagebrush when I came back during summer vacations!" The recollection set her eyes glistening. "You still do it when you return from a trip, I'll venture to say," Lee stated, marking the glow of her face. "Yes, I do. Almost the very first thing. It clears my brain of city noise and sights and grime. It soothes my nerves. Nothing does that like our keen air with its scent of sagebrush." "Then I should see you riding up my way soon." "Oh, I'll certainly want to follow the progress of your work, Mr. Bryant. With father's teams working for you, I'll feel as if we had a part in the race." After a pause she proceeded, "The contractor's outfit went up and you were just starting the dam and excavation about the time I went East. Father mentioned in a letter to me that he had dropped in at your camp once or twice when at Bartolo." "Yes, I showed him what we were doing. We've had other visitors occasionally. Miss Gardner and Miss Martin--at Sarita Creek, you remember--come at times. Miss Martin is a niece of Mr. McDonnell, of Kennard." "So Mrs. McDonnell told me. Just before I left I called at their cabins again. But I had no more luck that time than the first; they were away somewhere. Well," she concluded, with a smile, "perhaps the third time will win; that's the rule. I'll go another time soon." "You'll like them, I'm sure. They're both charming, I think. Unusual girls." "I'll go soon," she repeated. "My desire possibly will be understood by you," said he, after a slight hesitation, "when I say that Miss Gardner and I are engaged to be married. So it would please me immensely if you two became good friends." Louise Graham showed some surprise. But this immediately changed to smiling interest. "Accept my congratulations, Mr. Bryant," she said. "You may count on our being friends. Hereafter she and Miss Martin must come to our ranch whenever they will. I suppose they ride up where you are nearly every day; Miss Gardner, in particular, must be tremendously devoted to your project and now tremendously excited, too, over your race against time. Who wouldn't be, in her place!" "Naturally," said Lee, with all the heartiness he could muster in his voice. But to himself, at least, his tone rang hollow. When an hour or so after they had finished their meal they alighted from their Pullmans at Kennard, the echo of his forced reply still sounded in his mind with persistent irony. He was glad he had an interview with McDonnell before him that would silence it, the negotiating of a large private loan. CHAPTER XVI For Bryant there now began a period of activity compared to which his earlier efforts were mere play. Headquarters were moved down to Perro Creek, ten miles nearer Kennard. In an endless procession streamed northward automobiles crammed with labourers, wagons heaped with lumber, cement, implements, food, tents, forage, and long lines of fresnos. From distant Mexican settlements came natives in ramshackle wagons and driving half-wild ponies. Out of the hills came sheep-herders and prospectors. The word of big wages ran everywhere. The drive was on. By the dam and on the tongue of ground extending from the mountain side where the canal would swing out upon the mesa, excavation for the intake gate and weir and the drops was in progress, with a crew of carpenters swiftly erecting wooden forms to receive the concrete when the diggers finished and retired. On the mesa half a dozen young engineers, using Bryant's notes and fixed points, ran anew the ditch line and set grade stakes. North of Perro Creek white tents gleamed in the sunshine; and beyond these a swarm of men and horses gashed a yellow streak in the mesa, ever extending as the days passed--cutting sagebrush, ripping through sod, flinging up earth with plow and scraper. Yes, the fight was on. The fight to secure and keep horses, to get and hold workmen, to feed and use them both mercilessly, to press them ahead like a shaft of steel, to drive them forward under lash, mile by mile, rod by rod, foot by foot, forcing a channel through the resistant earth and across the mesa--a fight to outwit frost, to outstrip time, to outreach and overcome the impossible. Bryant himself was everywhere, now at the dam, now with the carpenters, now at Perro Creek. Morgan, in charge of the north camp, succumbed to Bryant's own restless energy and matched it. The gang, now beginning to pour concrete behind the carpenters, caught the infection of his ardor. Foreman and crew on the hillside section, at his word that they had the most difficult part of the dirt work, toiled the harder. The other engineers promised to give him their best and gave him more. And in the main camp at Perro Creek Pat Carrigan extracted the last ounce of effort from man and beast. In Kennard Bryant had said to McDonnell, "Give me a good man for this end, one who can work twenty hours a day." And the banker had given him such an one: a short, bow-legged clerk with a pugnacious jaw, who took the typewritten list of Bryant's immediate requirements, read it, jerked on his hat, and bolted out of the door. He it was who kept the road north from Kennard a-jiggle with freight wagons. The fierce struggle against time became generally known. Ranchers visited the mesa for a sight of the toiling camps. Wagonloads of Mexican families, curious, observant, came and went. Automobile parties from Kennard and elsewhere made inspection trips to the spot. Even a journalist representing a Denver paper appeared, made photographs, and obtained an interview from Bryant consisting of "Finish it on time? Certainly. Can't talk any longer." Which, together with the pictures and the special writer's account, filled a page of a Sunday issue. The anxiety ever in Bryant's and Carrigan's minds was of that grim and implacable enemy, cold. Autumn had lasted amazingly; November yielded to December, with the days still fine; but who could tell when the white spectre, Winter, would lay his icy hand upon the earth? The peaks and upper slopes of the mountains were already mantled with snow. Each morning the engineer and the contractor marked with care the fall of the thermometer during the night, examined the frost upon the grass and tested its depth in the soil. They watched the barometer like hawks. They observed every cloud along the Ventisquero Range. They studied the wind, the sun, the sky. But the weather held fair. So calm was the air that at times sounds of the dynamite blasts at the granite outshoot, where a pair of miners were clearing a path for the canal, came travelling down to Perro Creek. "The Lord surely has his arms around us," said Pat, one morning. Bryant nodded, but Dave spoke up, "A cattleman who went by here yesterday, an old-timer, said: 'When December's clear, then January's drear.'" "And an old-timer once told me that same thing when I was building a railroad grade in Kansas," Pat remarked, "and I had to ship in palm-leaf fans and ice to keep my 'paddies' from fainting with the January heat." A slight exaggeration, to be sure, but showing the old contractor's contempt for wise saws pertaining to weather. Yet no one understood more than he the law of probabilities, or the balance of seasons. Some time cold must follow warmth, foul follow fair, to work the inevitable mean. And it was too much to hope that this natural law would be suspended for them until the middle of February. In fact, the nights while remaining clear were hardening. The mercury in the tube sank by possibly a degree every two nights, at last touching zero; and it correspondingly failed to arise by as much at noon. The days were cruelly short. Darkness lasted until eight in the morning; it dropped down again at five. The frost crept deeper into the earth. But construction advanced. The dam of brush and uncemented smooth brown stones, stretching across the Pinas, was gradually rising. The hillside section of ditch through the fields was finished and only the miners continued at the granite reef, the ring of their hammers on drills going steadily and the roar of the shots now and again booming out at nightfall. Excavation went forward in the spaces between the drops on the ridge leading forth upon the mesa. The carpenters had finished and returned to Kennard. The concrete gang had moved their mixer from the dam to the drops, for the intake gate and its accompanying flood weir were made, and Bryant had had their wooden frames knocked off so that the structures stood white and imposing beside the dam, like pillars of accomplishment. From Perro Creek the main camp had moved toward the northwest on the arc it must pursue, until its tents touched the horizon and the clean yellow trench, fifteen feet wide at the bottom, thirty feet wide at the top, and five feet deep, with its flanking embankments, alone was left behind, a forced and undeviating course through the sagebrush, the water way driven by a determined man. CHAPTER XVII Meanwhile Lee, under relentless pressure of work, saw less and less of Ruth. She had come a number of times at the beginning of the drive, sometimes with Gretzinger, sometimes with Imogene, to watch the feverish spectacle on the mesa; as had Louise Graham, her father, and at rare intervals Mr. McDonnell. Bryant, on his part, had gone evenings to Sarita Creek when he could spare an hour, and, for that matter, when he could not. But the meetings with her were infrequent, and always left him with a sense of inadequacy, of dissatisfaction, because partly Ruth and he seemed to have no common interests and partly that she now let her affection go for granted. Her talk was not of the subjects usually discussed by an engaged couple--of their coming marriage (though no date had been fixed) and a home and prospective joys together; it dealt wholly with amusements, dances, friends at Kennard. And though her own eyes glistened at the recital, Lee's lost their light and his speech was quenched. For his was the rôle of an outsider. Certain friendships that she maintained, moreover, were exceedingly distasteful to him. "Ruth, I've nothing against your going around so much with Gretzinger," he said one evening, "except that I don't like the fellow and believe he's crooked, and it may, under the circumstances, create gossip." "Nonsense, Lee, don't be jealous. Gretzie never takes me anywhere except in a crowd. And don't say he's crooked, or I shall be angry." "Well, let him pass," he went on. "It's Charlie Menocal I've more in mind. He talks openly against my project; he calls me a thief and a ruffian; he's an avowed enemy. Yet you run around with him as if that were of no importance, as if it made no difference. The scoundrel no doubt counts it a brilliant bit of smartness to carry about in his car the fiancée of the man he hates, and brags of it. It reflects on us both, Ruth. I ask you to consider my feelings at least that far." She regarded him speculatively for a time. Then the touch of obstinacy hardened her chin and pushed up her under lip the barest trifle. But there was no resentment in her voice when she answered and, indeed, her tone was too casual. "Oh, nobody pays any particular attention to what Charlie says," she remarked. "You surely don't really believe what you've just stated about his bragging? I don't. Of course, he hasn't brains like Mr. Gretzinger, but he's gentlemanly. And he's very kind. And so is Mr. Menocal, his father. I've eaten dinner with a party of young folks at their house twice. Your ideas of them are altogether wrong, for they've been at pains to tell me that a business difference like that with you shouldn't affect personal relations. I think the same. But that isn't all. You never take me anywhere, you won't go to the parties and shows and things. Am I to sit here every day and every night at Sarita Creek until your canal is built?" By now her words were not only casual but carried a trace of disdainfulness. "No, Ruth," said he. "I want you to have a good time and derive every pleasure that you rightly can. My greatest regret is that I can't take you and share the fun. But it goes without saying that I can't. Only, Charlie Menocal----" "Lee, what's got into you to-night? If it were not for Mr. Gretzinger's and Charlie's thoughtfulness, I'd have died of lonesomeness long before this. You know how I hate this life, this homestead business. You know I'm only waiting until you've finished and we can be married and go away where there is something worth while. Now be reasonable. You work too hard, so that every little speck looks like a mountain. And it's making you narrow, too, or will if you don't watch out. I have to kill time somehow till we can be married and so you ought not to find fault with my doing it. Run along over and talk to Imo in her cabin now, Lee; that's a good boy. I didn't get back home from town last night until after midnight, and I'm sleepy." He did not go to Imo's cabin, but to camp instead. For the bitterness of his disappointment at his failure to move her made him desire the darkness and solitude of the ride home. With her, it seemed, he was in a worse predicament than he had been when faced with the problem of his ditch; for that he had found an answer, found something to take hold of. But she was not like the mesa, to be mastered by sheer will and incessant labour. Character is intangible, and he found himself balked. One cannot lay hands on the desires in a heart and pluck them out, or on the spirit and twist it straight. His bitterness became acute when some time later Charlie Menocal came driving with Ruth along the rutted trail by the canal to where he stood inspecting a new drop. "You wait, Charlie; I'll not be long," she said, as she alighted. "Come with me out of earshot, will you, Lee?" They moved to a spot that satisfied her. "I heard you were doing this and I asked Charlie to bring me here," she began. "I wanted to see for myself. And it's true. You're going ahead and make these things out of concrete. I'm indignant, I'm hurt. After you led me to rely----" Bryant stopped her sharply. "No, Ruth, not that. I'm sorry that you gained the impression I should use wood instead of concrete; and it never was in my mind to do so, to use wood. My decision was fully made when you raised the matter in the hotel parlour at Kennard, and I explained my reasons for the decision. I didn't tell you bluntly, perhaps. I waited, trusting that you would come round to my way of thinking and realize that I could only follow my own best judgment." "I haven't changed my mind not one particle," she exclaimed, vehemently. "But, Ruth----" "I think you're throwing away good money, deliberately. That is, if you really ever make any money on your project. You may lose everything." "I may not, also. But if I should, the father of the fellow sitting in the car yonder waiting for you would be responsible. As for these drops, Ruth, Gretzinger was wrong and I was right, and so they're being built of concrete. Now please forget all about it." "And that you refused my request, I suppose." "Yes." "Well, I can't do that; it's too much to ask." An angry gleam shot from her eyes. "You might have thought more of me and less of yourself. You put your old canal first and me second." With which she swung about and marched off to the car, and it went away, rocking and lurching down the uneven trail. Lee stood looking after it. Her last words brought up the memory of the occasion when she had playfully uttered the like, one night in August, with the added inquiry, "What if you had to choose between us?" Were things drifting to such an issue? Would she at last force upon him that hard choice? He flung up a hand in a gesture of despair. Some metamorphosis had occurred in her; she was not the simple and loving Ruth to whom he had offered himself that day they picked berries in the cañon. Or was it that only now her real self was revealed? Was it that she was capable of loving only selfishly? Did she love him at all? The questions bit like acid into his heart. And a new one, that startled and dismayed his soul: Did he love her? Yes--the Ruth she yet was. But he could never love the woman she seemed on the way to become, breathing an exciting and unhealthy atmosphere, seeking purely personal gain, indifferent to worthy objects, selfish, hard, mercenary, worldly. No, that kind of Ruth would kill love. He still stood there when Morgan, who had been on an errand to headquarters, came galloping back on his way to the dam. "Accident down below," he said. "Man hurt in the mixer. Arm crushed." Bryant jerked his head about to look at the drop two hundred yards farther down the ridge. He saw the workmen grouped together. The huge cylindrical machine was motionless. "I'll see," he exclaimed, hurrying to his runabout. He drove recklessly to where the injured man lay, helped lift him into the car, and bidding the foreman stand on the running board and support the unconscious labourer, set off for headquarters at such speed as was possible. Into the low shack used for hospital purposes the two carried their charge, and as the doctor was absent Bryant began a search to find him. He ran down the camp street shouting the doctor's name and along the ditch where the teams moved, until he encountered Carrigan. "Doc ain't here. Who's hurt?" Pat asked. For a call for the doctor could mean but one thing. Bryant described the nature of the accident and both men hastened back to the hospital. The door was now closed. Before it, stood the foreman of the concrete gang, who was narrating for the benefit of a group of cooks and freighters details of the mishap. Bryant turned the knob, but the door was locked. "He stationed me here to keep men out," the foreman said. "Then he's in there." "Yes, came a-running. Was loafing out there in the brush and having a smoke. Said he was going to operate at once, then locked the door." "Not alone!" Lee exclaimed. "No, he has help. One of the engineers from the office, who had come trotting over to see what was wrong, and a girl." "A girl! What girl?" The foreman shook his head. "Don't know who she is. She came riding in from the south. When she saw us hustling round, she asked what had happened and jumped off her horse and inquired of the Doc whether she could be of any help. He looked at her, then said yes. She's in there now. One of the men is caring for her horse." "A bay horse?" "Yes. And a pretty girl, too. I'd almost lose an arm to have a good-looker like her hovering over me." "All right, Jenks. You can go back now. Get another man for your crew from Morgan. I'll obtain this fellow's name and his address, if he has any, from the time-keeper, in case he passes in his checks." The foreman started away. The group before the door disintegrated and presently disappeared. Pat glanced at the sun, lighted a cigar, and asked: "Do we start a night shift?" "Yes; whenever you can bring in the men." "Then I'll wire for some right away. The thermometer was five below this morning, and only twenty-two above this noon. She's cold at last." "Go to it, Pat. I'll stay here till Doc is through." When Carrigan had left him, Bryant sat down on a discarded oil tin lying on the ground--one of the square ten-gallon cans common about camps. He gazed at the door of the hospital shack. He could hear faint sounds from within, a footfall on the board floor, an indistinct word or murmur. Behind him and farther down the street, in the big cook tents where the crews ate, was the rattle of pans and an occasional oath or burst of laughter. There the cooks were peeling potatoes and mixing great pans of biscuit dough and exchanging jests, while here in the shack a fight was going on for a life. Bryant saw again that unshaven, heavy-faced workman, with the terribly mangled arm, whom he had brought hither. Poor devil! Some oversight, some carelessness, some mistake on the part of himself or another; and if not a dead man, then one-armed for the rest of his days. He, Bryant, could not consider these accidents with Pat Carrigan's philosophic calm--a calm acquired from decades of camp tragedies and disasters. They harrowed his spirit. Though they appeared inevitable where men delved or builded or flung forth great spans, they made the cost of constructive works seem too great. They took the glamor from projects and left them hard, grim, uninspiring tasks. Lee felt a weariness like that of age. The strain under which he laboured, the sustained effort of driving this furrow through earth that was like iron, his unavailing endeavours to reclaim Ruth, afflictions such as this of the past hour, the uncertainty of everything--all sapped his energy and shook his faith. Yet before him there were weeks of the same, or worse. He had put his hand to the plow; he could not turn back. All at once the door of the shack opened. Louise Graham came out, without hat, garbed in a great white surgical apron. Her knees seemed about to give way. Her eyes were half shut. Her face was without colour, drawn, dazed. With her from the interior came a reek of chloroform. She had been the girl in there! Bryant had guessed it, feared it. He ran forward and put an arm about her shoulders and led her to the tin oil canister on which he urged her to be seated. "No, I won't faint," she said, weakly. He knelt beside her and supported her form. "I just feel dizzy and a little sick," she went on. "Better in a moment." Lee observed her shudder. Presently she murmured, "Stuck it out, anyway. Dad says--dad says, 'Never be a quitter.' And I wasn't one." CHAPTER XVIII Rymer, a sandy-haired, blue-eyed young fellow, one of Bryant's staff, walked out of the shack, pulling on his coat. He had a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, at which he was sucking rapidly. In spite of its dark lacquer of tan his face had a grayish tinge. "Sick?" he asked of Bryant, jerking a nod toward Louise Graham. "A bit. Have Doc give you a little brandy in a glass. And bring out her things, too." Rymer went back into the shack, presently returning with the liquor and accompanied by the young doctor, who still had his sleeves rolled up. Louise swallowed the fiery dram. "That--that would raise the dead!" she gasped, wiping sudden tears from her eyes. She sat up, pushed back the hair from her brow, and began to glance about. "How's your man?" Bryant asked the doctor. "Right as a trivet--if no complications set in. Have him stowed on a cot in the inner room. Bring on your next." "You ought to be the next," said Lee, darkly. "Because I grabbed her? Well, I'll use her another time if she's about. Steady as a pin. No wasted motion, either. Passed me instruments and things like a veteran nurse. I just gave a nod or glance and she had the right tray. I wanted to pat her on the shoulder. Can't give people that thing; it's a born knack. Knowing exactly what's wanted at the instant. She has it, has it to the tips of her fingers." Lee said no more. The young doctor was still labouring under the excitement of the past hour and swimming in exultation at performing an operation that would have taxed the skill of an experienced surgeon. It had been one of those wicked cases--arm crushed to the shoulder, everything gone into a hodge-podge of flesh and arteries and splintered bone, a case for fast work and at the same time for delicate closure of the stump. This had been thrust at Higginson like a flash, he out of a medical school but a year and a half, still coaxing a moustache, so to speak. Lee perceived it all. The matter for Higginson had been like the ditch with Bryant: something tremendous, something to be met with the means at hand, something to be accomplished at all costs. And now his brain was ringing with triumph. He was superior to anything Bryant might think or say or do. For the moment he was quite ecstatic. One in his exalted state could conceive nothing unmeet in having haled a strange, sensitive girl into the ghastly business for an assistant. "I'll conduct Miss Graham to my office, where she can remain until she's wholly herself," Bryant said. "This air is too sharp. You have everything, Rymer--cap, coat, gauntlets? Bring them along." "But I'm feeling better now," Louise protested. "You're not yet fit to start home. Over there it's warm and quiet." He rose to help her remove the great apron. In the shack at the head of the street where he led her, he made her comfortable in an old arm-chair from his ranch house with a Navajo rug over her lap. As he stirred up the fire, she gazed about at the room. In one corner was a desk knocked together of boards, littered with papers; near it on the floor were boxes stuffed with rolls of blue-prints; the wall spaces between windows were filled with statements and reports; bulging card-board files rested on a shelf; from nails hung an old coat and a camera; in another corner leaned a tripod, rod, and a six-foot brass-edged measure specked with clay; and piled in a heap beyond the stove were a saddle, a pair of boots, chunks of piñon pine, and a discarded flannel shirt on which lay a gray cat nursing a kitten. Through the inner door, standing open, she had a glimpse of two cots with tumbled blankets. The place was the office and temporary home of a busy man, a rough board-and-tar-paper habitation that went forward on skids as the camp went forward, the workshop and living-quarters of a director who was stripped down to the hard essentials of toil and whose brain was the nerve centre of a desperate effort by a host of horses and men. "You have companions, I see," Louise remarked, indicating the mother cat and kitten. "Dave's," was his reply, as he finished at the stove. "He found them somewhere. There were four kittens to begin with, but only one is left. It's a hard game for cats to survive in a camp like this." "Poor little things!" "Dave says he'll save this kitten, or know why." "What about Dave himself with all these rough men?" "It leaves him untouched," Lee said. "Doesn't hurt a boy when he's made of the right stuff. He'll be better for it, in fact. Many a grown man would be more competent with the knowledge Dave's picking up here, young as he is. He's learning what work means and what men are and what's what generally. When this job is done, I'm going to send him off to school; and he'll eat up his studies. Just watch and see." Bryant laughed. "He's aching to become an engineer. He has his mark already fixed, which not one boy in a thousand at his age has. And all this is priming him to go to his mark like a shot." "I hadn't thought of that," she stated. "Actually he's soaking up more arithmetic, geology, physics, veterinary knowledge, and so on, by pumping Pat Carrigan, the engineers, and the men, than I supposed his head could hold," Lee continued. "When he gets at his books, they won't be meaningless things to him. Not much! He'll understand what prompted them and what they open up. Well, now, are you feeling better?" "Yes, I think so." Then she said, "But I'm keeping you away from your work. You go, and when I'm--" "Wouldn't think of it. Nothing pressing." And Bryant began to move about thoughtfully, now going to gaze out a window and now returning to stand and fix his eyes upon her intently. "That was a distressing experience for you," he went on, presently. "I feel all upset at your being in there. Higginson was desperate, I suppose, and grasped at you because you happened to be there and he could not wait." She put out a hand toward Lee. "Don't scold him please," she said. "Little good it would do now," he replied. "He'll be so cocky that he'll dare me to fire him if I say a word, and grin in my face, for he knows now that he's a good man and that I know it and will never let him go." "Higginson, is that his name?" Louise asked. "Well, he is a good man. When he started the engineer using the chloroform and me arranging things, he was swallowing hard. I saw he was terribly nervous and keyed up. But he went right at the operation without faltering and with a sort of doggedness. As if nothing should stop him. I myself was doing rather mistily what he wanted. The chloroform, the smell of antiseptics, the shiny instruments, the cutting, the nipping of blood-vessels with forceps and tying them, the clipping with scissors, the sewing--all went to my head. And I constantly had to tell myself, 'Don't be silly! You're not going to faint. He might fail if you did. That tray, those forceps, those sponges, that thread, that's what he wants now. Keep your head. Don't be a quitter.' And so on through eternity--it seemed an eternity, anyway. I think the young engineer with me thought so, too. He turned quite green once or twice. But then I must have looked that way throughout. All at once it was over, suddenly. Quite unexpectedly, too. I had come to believe that it would go on and on forever. But, as I say, all at once it was done and the men were wheeling the bandaged fellow into the other room. Then the doctor called over his shoulder at me, 'Open the door, girl; let in some air.' So I opened it as he wanted, and came out." Bryant was greatly affected by that simple recital. He began to walk back and forth beside Louise, restlessly thrusting his hands in his coat pockets but immediately pulling them out as if there were no satisfaction in the action, and casting troubled glances at her from under close-drawn brows. His disquietude moved her to speak. "You're worrying about me, Mr. Bryant; you mustn't do that. In a few minutes more I'll be entirely recovered. I should be foolish to pretend that the happening wasn't a shock to me, but I'm not a weakling--I've health and strength. I'll not permit the thought of the operation to depress my spirits. Indeed, I know I'll be very proud of what I did this afternoon, for it was a chance to do a real, disinterested service. And I can guess what father will say when he learns of it--'Louise, you did just right. Exactly what you should do under the circumstances.'" Already the colour had reappeared in her cheeks. A resilience of nature was indeed hers, he perceived, that enabled her to undergo ordeals that would prostrate many women. It came, undoubtedly, from the same springs out of which rose her splendid courage, her fine sympathy. Ah, that golden quality of sympathy! Because of it her duty that day had seemed plain and clear. "Louise--may I not use that name, for we're friends?--Louise, you're the bravest, kindest girl I have ever known. I mean it, really. I've never forgotten your generous act that day when someone so brutally killed my dog Mike, how you tried to save him. I didn't know you then, but that made no difference to you. And now when you find an opportunity to help save a man's life, you never flinch." "Why, it's the natural thing to do." "Is it? I was beginning to think selfishness was the natural thing," he said, with a hard, twisted smile. She rested her hand on his sleeve for an instant. A smile and a shake of her head accompanied the action. "I know better than that, Lee Bryant," she rejoined. "You're not selfish yourself and will never arrive at a time when you'll believe what you said." "But there are selfish people, many of them." "Yes. Of course." "And one can't change them, and they cause infinite anxiety in others----" "Yes; that, too. Has Mr. Menocal been troubling you in some new way?" Lee rose hastily. "I wasn't thinking of him," said he; and he went to a window and stared out at the engineers' shack across the street. Her touch on his arm, her tone, her solicitude, agitated him more than he dared let her see. Why in the name of heaven couldn't he have a Ruth who was like her? A Ruth who was a Louise, with all of her lovable qualities and splendid courage and fine nobility of heart? He swung about to gaze at her. She yet sat half turned in her seat so that her clear profile was before his eyes. Her soft chestnut hair glinted with gleams of the fire that escaped through a crack in the door. Her features were in repose. Something in her attitude, in her face, gave her a girlish appearance, as she might have looked when sixteen--an infinite candor, an innocence and simplicity, that alone comes from a serene spirit. Presently he discovered that she had moved her head about, that she was looking straight at him. Bryant experienced a singular emotion. "Some serious trouble is disturbing you," she said. Her eyes continued fixed upon his, increasing his uneasiness. He felt himself flushing. He made a gesture as if whatever it was might be disregarded, then said, "Yes." "You're not still anxious concerning me? I'm rested--see!" She sprang up, casting off the rug and spreading her arms wide for his scrutiny. The heat of the fire had put the glow into her cheeks again; a smile rested on her lips; she seemed poised for an upward flight. "I'll take you home," he said, abruptly. "Oh, no. I can ride----" "One of the boys will bring your horse to you in the morning," he continued, as if she had not spoken. "It would be dark before you reached home; dusk is already at the windows. And you would be chilled through. You've no business to be riding after what you've been through. I'll bring my car to the door while you're putting on your things." A vague fear sent him out of the door quickly. Ruth in his mind was like a figure projected far off in the landscape, occupied, distant, facing away; but Louise Graham was by, and despite his wish or will, or her knowledge, drawing his heart. What he had sought in Ruth was in her possession, the possibility of happiness. Life had deluded him and seemed about to crush him in a savage clutch. As he moved along the street, this apprehension lay cold in his breast; he could not dismiss it; it persisted like a dull throb of pain. A sudden fury swept him. The place was becoming intolerable, the mesa a hell. He burned to chuck the whole wretched business. When he returned with the car he was at least outwardly calm. He helped Louise into the seat. "I'll have you home in no time," said he. "And you must stay for supper." "Yes; why not. Might as well." "And we'll pick up the girls; all of us can crowd in here somewhere." The slightest pause followed before his answer. "Certainly," he said. "We can all ride." Imogene's cabin, however, was the only one showing a light when they stopped before the pair of little houses, and only Imogene was at home. She was delighted to go with Lee and Louise. Ruth had driven with Charlie Menocal to Kennard earlier in the afternoon, she briefly stated. Then she remarked: "Aren't you dissipating frightfully to-night, Lee?" "Like a regular devil," was the response. CHAPTER XIX Imogene had been startled by a note in Lee's answer to her bantering question that she never before had heard him use. Though his words were uttered lightly, there nevertheless was a hard ring to them, a grate, as if his teeth were on edge. Something had happened. Ruth had driven during the afternoon to see him and returned exceedingly put out. If anything had occurred, Imogene hoped it was--well, one certain thing. When Bryant brought her home that evening, he went with her into her cabin. In silence he built up the fire, fussed for a time with the lamp-wick, lighted a cigarette, took a turn across the cabin, inspected thoughtfully the back of one hand, and then lifted his gaze to Imogene. She had been waiting, with a vague alarm. And this his stern visage and burning eyes increased. "Will Ruth marry me at once, do you think?" he questioned. "To-morrow--or the next day?" His tone was calm. He might have been speaking of the cabin, asking if it kept out the wind. Imogene was dumbfounded by that voice and that inquiry. She had expected anything but either. "Not then; not so soon, I suspect," she said, at length. "When? At the end of a week, the end of a fortnight?" "I can't say," she replied with a sensation now of being harried. This would not do; she must get herself in hand. "The fact is, Lee, I'm not in Ruth's confidence. Haven't been for some considerable time. We've drifted a little apart." "Only a little?" "Only a little--I hope." The cigarette Bryant held had gone out. Presently he glanced at it, then crushed it in his palm and dropped it into a coat pocket. "Don't fence with me, Imogene," he said. "Give me the truth." The truth--well, why not? He was entitled to it. Besides, since he had eyes and a brain with which to reason he was not ignorant of the girls' waning friendship. Pretense was foolish. Imogene leaned forward in her seat and rested her crossed arms upon her knees, directing her look at the floor. Her fluffy golden hair had been slightly disarranged when she removed her hat and so remained. Her face was thinner than in the summer, with a pinched aspect about her lips. "The situation is this," she began, slowly. "Ruth and I are not really on good terms and we've been perilously near a break several times. But I've restrained my temper and my tongue to avoid one, because I feel I must remain as long as she does. No, I can't leave her here alone--that would be brutal. And ruinous for her, too. I've thought it all out pretty carefully. You see, we both agreed to stay when we came, until we agreed to go or had proved up on our claims. Probably I don't make myself very clear to you. I think now that I made a mistake and that neither of us ought ever to have attempted homesteading. So much has happened that is different from what I anticipated. Not the existence itself; I don't mean that. Other things. Ruth's change, chiefly. See, Lee, I speak frankly, for we've usually been frank toward each other. You two are engaged, but"--she straightened up in order to meet his eyes--"she's treating you abominably and shamelessly. Ordinarily, I would hold my peace, I've held it hitherto, but I can no longer. Why, I choke sometimes! Going constantly with Gretzinger, who's so despicable that he tries to use her as a tool to reach and corrupt you, or Charlie Menocal, who's your out-and-out enemy, it's too much for me, Lee. And uncle and aunt are furious with me for staying. She listen to me? Ruth listens neither to me nor any one." She rose and came close to Bryant. "You're right to marry her immediately. If you two love each other, that is." Her look was penetrating, questioning. "For she needs a restraining influence. People in Kennard are talking----" "My God!" Bryant cried, hoarsely. "No, no; not Ruth! She couldn't do anything wrong!" "No, there's nothing bad. But she has given grounds for gossip, she and some other girls. She sees too much of this Gretzinger and Charlie Menocal and men like them; and the time may come when I'll tremble. I've begged her to be discreet and considerate of your good opinion and love, but she always declares that she's acting eminently proper. Lee." "Yes." "There's something more. Gretzinger's not only finding amusement in her company, he's in love with her. After the women he's been accustomed to in New York, the rouged and jaded type he naturally would know, her freshness and spirits appeal to him. But you know what sort of man he is--cynical, unscrupulous, without principles." A long time passed before Bryant made a response. He stood knitting his brows, as if preoccupied. Imogene wondered if he had been following her at the last. "I'll speak to him about his principles in connection with Ruth," he said. The utterance was amazingly dispassionate. Then quite unexpectedly he remarked, "I've never yet had to kill a man, never as yet." Imogene shuddered, and she was terrified. It was as if a curtain had been jerked aside disclosing figures grouped for tragedy. "It must never come to that," she breathed. Bryant stirred, then began to look about the room. He grew observant. "This is bad for you, Imogene," he said, presently. "Impossible! Your uncle is right. This wretched cabin doesn't keep out cold or wind; you have to chop wood and carry water, tasks beyond your strength; you're lonely, you're ill at times--" "And Ruth?" "Well?" "You know her situation. Financial, I mean." "I less than any one know it. Extraordinary, too, now that I think of it," he said, reflectively. "What is her situation?" Immediately he added, "Of course, I guess that she has no great means and she has said that she lacks training to earn a livelihood. But her family?" "She lived with an aunt until she came here, Lee." "So she mentioned." "They didn't get on well together after Ruth went to stay with her on her parents' death," Imogene explained. "The woman was narrow-minded and exacting, especially in matters of amusements and religion. You know the type." Bryant nodded. "And Ruth was young, exuberant, and, as I now see, wilful. Their clashes were the cause of her desire to come West. We had been good friends, but not intimates; and I marvel at myself now at having gone so rashly into a thing like this, without inquiring whether our habits, tastes, desires, natures, everything, fitted us for prolonged companionship. Yes, I marvel." She sat motionless, staring at the lamp fixedly. "However, I'm in it now up to my neck. Ruth declares that she will never return to her aunt." "And she can't earn a living." "Nor would if she could, I fear," Imogene added, a little sadly. "At least, now. It would be too dull." "Then I must marry her at once." Imogene gave him a strange look. "She is waiting," said she. "For marriage?" "No, to see how you succeed. Oh, to have to say these things is dreadful, Lee!" she exclaimed. But Bryant brushed this aside with a gesture almost august in its indifference. "If you finish your project on time, she will be ready for the ceremony," the girl went on. "If you fail, she'll postpone it until you're able to provide more than just a roof, a chair, and a broom. Her very words! Love must not prevent people from being practical, from her viewpoint. So, as I say, she's waiting to discover the outcome." A corner of her mouth twisted up while she paused. Then she concluded in a low voice, "And probably something else." Bryant had again fallen into study. Imogene doubted if he had heard her added remark, and she could not divine from his countenance how fierce or in what direction his covered passion was beating. "It will be too late," said he, suddenly and, as it seemed to her, irrelevantly. Then she thought that she understood. "He's going home in a few days, for the Christmas holidays," she stated. "Possibly then Ruth will--I'm planning for us all to be at uncle's, you with us." "Gretzinger wasn't in my mind." "You said 'too late'," she pursued. "Naturally I supposed your reference to be of them." The gravity of his face deepened. "I was thinking of myself," said he, turning his eyes upon her. "If we're not married soon, very soon, it will be too late. I mean that it would be a mockery. For me, at any rate. One may wish to go one way, and be swept another, especially when the mooring line is slack." His breast rose and fell at a quick, agitated breath. "But promise me that you'll not speak of this to Ruth." "The very thing to bring her round, perhaps." "More likely to fill her with despair." This was something Imogene could not grasp. It was so inexplicable, so extravagant, so perverse, that her cheeks grew hot. "I can't follow you at all," she cried, indignantly. "Ruth alarmed, jealous, in doubt--yes, I can credit her with any one of those feelings. But despair! She lays her plans too far ahead to be led into despair." "Even if she knew I had ceased to love her? When she understood our marriage would be a hollow ceremony?" "Would it be that if you succeed with your project?" Bryant's eyes blazed suddenly. "Great God, you talk as if she were to marry the canal!" he exclaimed. He glowered for a time. "I see now what you mean. You believe she would marry me if I win out with the ditch. Being practical, she would accept money as a substitute for love. That reminds me: she herself once declared that if circumstances necessitated she could take a rich man for his riches." Bryant uttered a harsh laugh. "My Lord, I was frightened lest in a fit of anguish at losing my love she should go to the devil!" Again he yielded to an outburst of laughter that made Imogene shudder. "I fancied that at finding herself out of money, unable to work, disinclined to work, unloved, miserable, she would recklessly hurl herself into perdition. And I was going to save her from that, marry her at once, sacrifice myself! Like an egotistical fool! When all the while there was never the slightest danger or need, when all the while she held the string, not I. And love isn't a consideration whatever. And she will marry me when I've completed the project. And complete it I must, of course. Not a way out, not a single loop-hole. Oh, my Lord, my Lord, Imogene, did you ever know of anything so devilishly laughable!" And his bitter, sardonic merriment broke forth anew. The girl was appalled. All she could do was to gasp, "Oh, Lee, Lee! Don't laugh like that, don't think of it like that. You make it out worse than it is." He stopped short. By his look he might have detested her. "I state it as it is," he said. "Wherein is the actual situation better?" "You could break your engagement; certainly she has given you sufficient cause." "Yes, break with her, as might you. Why don't you?" Imogene put out a hand in protest. "You know why, Lee; I've told you," she said, earnestly. "No more can I, for the same reason," was his reply. He turned and lifted his hat and gloves from the table. "I will have no act of mine cut her adrift and push her under. Much better to stand the gaff. I suppose one hardens to anything in time." His look wandered about the room. "And the diabolic part of it all is that this squeamish feeling of responsibility for another may achieve as much harm in the long run as its lack. Who knows?" He glanced at her as if expecting an answer. Imogene remained silent; indeed, nothing need be said to so evident an enigma. For that matter, nothing more said at all. Bryant drew on his gloves and bade her good-night. At the door he remarked, quite in his accustomed manner: "I'll send Dave over in the morning with more blankets and have him chop some wood. There's a drop in the temperature coming." CHAPTER XX The predicted cold weather came, bringing winter in earnest. The frost went deeper into the ground and construction grew slower, but the days continued fine and without gales, those fierce and implacable winds that sometimes rage over the frozen mesa hours at a time under a dull, saffron sun, sharp as knives, shrieking like demons, and driving man and beast to cover. They had not yet been unleashed. Night work was begun, amid a flare of gasolene torches that gave a weird aspect to the plain. The yellow lights; the moving, shadowy forms of the workmen and horses; the cries and shouts--all made a scene gnome-like in character. Frost gleamed upon the earth in a silvery sheen under the torches' smoky flames. The headquarters building and the mess tents now glowed from dusk until dawn. Fires where workmen could warm their cheeks and hands were burning continually, fed from the great piles of wood brought from the mountains. And so by day and by night, without halt and despite cold, the restless life was maintained and the toil kept going and the hard furrow driven ahead. With the approach of Christmas the advance of the project was marked. The dam was nearing completion, with its long, gently inclined, upstream face constructed of smooth cobbles--a slope up which any vast and sudden rush of cloudburst water would slide unchecked to the crest and harmlessly pass over. All of the drops, as well as the head-gate and flood weirs, were finished, standing as if hewn out of solid white stone. The miners had blasted out a channel through the reef of rock, and gone. From the dam the canal section all along the hillside and following the ridge, from drop to drop, and out to a point on the mesa a mile beyond, was excavated, a great clean ditch; while from Perro Creek the canal ran northward for six miles to the main camp, curving in the great arc that constituted its line. Three and a half miles, and complements, constructed at one end; six miles at the other. Between, five miles of unbroken mesa. Seven weeks remained for the small camp working down from the north and the great camp pushing from the south to dig through those miles and meet--seven weeks; but in the most bitter season of the year. It seemed that it was with infinitely greater effort that the two sections of the canals were forced ahead each day. The surface of the ground was like stone, only by repeated attempts pierced by plows and torn apart; while the subsoil immediately froze if left unworked. The weaker labourers began to break: the scrawny Mexicans, the debilitated white men, the drifters and the dissatisfied; and they left the camps. These the labour agencies found it harder and harder to replace as the cold weather persisted, so that the force showed a considerable diminishment. A few days before Christmas Gretzinger paid Bryant a visit. He had not been to camp for a week and therefore on this occasion examined the progress of work with care, studying the rate of excavation and calculating the result. "You'll just about make it through, Bryant, if nothing happens to put a crimp in your advance," he stated when he was about to take his departure from the office, where he and Lee conferred. "Yes," said Bryant. "And if anything should happen, then good-bye canal." "That doesn't necessarily follow," said Lee, calmly. Gretzinger ignored this reply. He thrust an arm into his fur-lined overcoat and began to draw it on. That evening he was leaving Kennard for New York, and now was desirous of returning to town by noon, where he had a luncheon engagement with Ruth Gardner. He had casually mentioned to Bryant that the girls had gone the day before to the McDonnells for the holidays. "My people were certainly handed a phony deal here," he remarked shortly, as he buttoned the coat collar about his throat. "Questionable title to the water! Extravagance and poor management! Rotten project all through! If I had lined this thing up, I should have learned what I actually had before a cent was expended. But of course if the thing goes smash, we in the East have to stand the loss; you're losing no cash, you have nothing in it but a shoestring. Well, I'm expecting you to put your back into the job and do no loafing and pull us out of the hole you've got us into." Bryant's face remained impassive. "I'll attend to my end," said he, "if the bondholders take care of theirs. They'll have to dig up more cash." "What's that!" "More money, I said." "They'll see you in hell before they do." "Then that's where they'll look for payment of their bonds. You're not fool enough, are you, to imagine a system can be built in winter and under high pressure for what it could be constructed in summer and not in haste? Strange the idea never occurred to you before--you, Gretzinger, irrigation expert, though you never saw an irrigation ditch till you came West. The sixty thousand dollars from bonds and twenty thousand more I've put with it will be gone sometime next month. Possibly I can stretch it out to the first of February. After that, the bondholders will have to come forward to save their investment." Gretzinger unbuttoned his overcoat and sought his cigarette case. His scowl as he struck a match was lighted by vicious gleams from his eyes. "Why didn't you stop work when you received notification from the state engineer of the Land and Water Board's action?" he demanded. "When you yet had the bulk of the money?" "I preferred to continue." "And now you're sinking it all." "It costs money to move frozen dirt," said Bryant. "Well, I tell you the bondholders won't put up another penny unless----" The Easterner paused, growing thoughtful. Some minutes passed before he resumed: "There's one condition on which they'll do it, and I'll guarantee their support." "And the condition?" "That you surrender your stock to them." "For the twenty or twenty-five thousand dollars more that will be needed? My shares representing a hundred thousand? And I presume I should have to withdraw altogether." "Naturally," Gretzinger responded. "I should then take charge." Bryant's expression exhibited a certain amount of curiosity. "Do you really think you could finish the ditch on time?" he inquired. A slight sneer was the answer. Gretzinger was one not given to wasting time with men of Bryant's type. "How about it? Am I to take back to New York with me your agreement to this?" he asked, curtly. The other spread his feet apart and hooked his thumbs in his coat pockets and directed his full regard at the speaker. "You think you have me in a hole, Gretzinger," he said. "You propose to take me by the throat and shake everything out of my pockets and then throw me aside. Well, I'm in a hole, no use denying that. But you haven't me by the throat and you're not going to loot me. If I go broke, it won't be through handing over what I have to you and your gang of pirates, just make up your mind to that." "Then you intend to wreck this project. A court action will stop that, I fancy." "The only court action you can demand is a receivership for the company, and not until my money-bag is empty at that," Lee rejoined, coolly. "And the time will expire and the company be a shell before it's granted, at the rate courts move." The New Yorker considered. Finally he began to re-button his overcoat. "I'll leave the offer open," said he. "I was uncertain before about returning, but I'll probably do so now. You'll find as the pinch comes that my proposition will look better--and we might pay you two or three thousand so you'll not go out strapped. Besides, if we took over and completed the project, it would save your face; you wouldn't be wholly discredited; you would be able to get a job somewhere afterward. Might as well make the most you can for yourself out of a bad mess. Think it over, Bryant." He set his cap on his head with a conclusive air. Lee pointed at a chair by the table. "Sit down for a moment; there's another matter." He crossed to his desk, put his hand in a drawer for something, and came back. "Look at that," he said, tossing a revolver cartridge on the table before Gretzinger. The man picked it up and turned it over between thumb and finger, examining it with mingled surprise and curiosity. "What about it?" he questioned. "I understand you're interested in a certain young lady," Bryant stated, smoothly. Gretzinger straightened on his seat, flashing his look up to the other's. A sudden tightening of his lips accompanied the action and he ceased to revolve the cartridge he held. "I'll not discuss my personal affairs with you or----" "When they touch mine, you will," was the answer. "Are you jealous?" Gretzinger asked after a pause, with a trace of insolence. "Believe you are. I thought, along with your other shortcomings, you weren't capable of even that. Now that we're talking, I'll say that I've taken Ruth round and found her entertaining. What about it? And I've given her my opinion of the way you've run this work, because she asked for it. I told her that you had botched the business from the beginning. I told her you were unpractical, incompetent, small-gauged, and lightweight, and would make a failure of everything you touched. There you have it all. Well?" Bryant's brows twitched for an instant. "I guessed as much." He stood staring in silence at the table, but presently brought himself to attention. "Honour is something you don't understand. So I thought that bullet might focus your mind on possible consequences." "What's all this rot!" Lee leaned forward with his fists resting on the table and his eyes probing Gretzinger's. "If any harm comes to Ruth through you, that bullet will pay it out," he said, harshly. "You've felt its weight. It's forty-four calibre, plenty heavy enough to do the business. I can smash a potato at thirty paces. One shot is all I shall ask. I won't do any hemming and hawing over the matter, or----" Gretzinger sprang up. "See here, Bryant!" he cried. "Or advertising in the newspapers," the other went on, in a level tone. "I'll attend to your case, quickly and quietly. Here, or in New York, or wherever you are. That's all." Gretzinger had gone a little pale. He was nervously drawing on his cap. "Listen to me for a moment----" "I said that's all. Get out." And Bryant's mien brooked no temporizing. It was of Lee's nature not to brood on such matters. He had given the warning and must await the issue. Meanwhile, the burden of work and the needs of the project would afford sufficient occupation for his mind. Christmas came. Bryant had ordered that labour cease for twenty-four hours, as the gruelling fight of weeks had worn down the spirit of the men. A holiday would rest them, while a big turkey dinner and unlimited cigars and pails of candy would put them in a good humour. At dark on the afternoon before the day shift at both camps ceased work, the horses were stabled, the torches left unlighted, the fires along the ditch allowed to die down, and the project was idle. A light skift of snow had fallen during the morning, whitening the earth, but the clouds had passed away, so that the still air and clear sky gave promise of a fine morrow. Christmas Eve, however, did not lapse without a disturbing incident. About supper time Dave came running to Bryant and Pat Carrigan in Lee's shack. He had seen workmen going furtively into a tent in numbers that aroused his curiosity, and had crept unseen under the lee of the canvas shelter, where, lifting the flap, he beheld in the interior a keg on the ground and a Mexican, by light of a candle, serving labourers whisky in tin cups. "Whisky in camp!" Lee roared. "Come with me, Pat." The two men, guided by Dave, strode down the street. Before the tent indicated they halted to listen. The shelter glowed dimly; formless shadows stirred on its canvas walls; and from within came low, guarded voices and once a muffled laugh. Jerking the flaps apart Bryant entered, followed by the contractor. He forced an opening through the group of workmen by a savage sweep of his arms and came to the keg, where the Mexican at the moment was bending down and holding a cup under the spigot. When the man perceived the engineer, he leaped up. The fellow's short, squat figure and stony expression had for Bryant a vague familiarity--that face especially, brown, stolid, brutal, with a fixed, snake-like gaze. But Lee had no time to speculate on the Mexican's identity. The liquor was the important thing. The man stood motionless, holding in his left hand the half-filled cup that gave off a pungent, sickening smell of whisky; his eyes were intent on the engineer. Behind Lee, Carrigan was already herding the others from the tent. "Where did you get that stuff?" Bryant demanded. But as the Mexican only shook his head, he changed to Spanish. "Trying to start a big drunk here?" "To-morrow is a fête day, señor," was the reply. "A friend made me a present; I share it with the others. Besides, in cold weather it keeps one warm." "How long have you worked here?" "Three days." "There's a camp order: 'No liquor allowed in camp.' You can't say that you don't know it, for it's posted everywhere on placards in English and in Spanish." He received no response. A faint shrug of the shoulders, perhaps. The Mexican's glistening, sinister eyes, on the other hand, continued as rigid as orbs of polished agate, and his face as expressionless. "Well, we'll lock you up and see if we can learn who your 'friend' is that sent this barrel in," Lee stated. There was a slight movement of the man's elbow. "Watch him--his right hand!" Pat cried, sharply. The hand had darted swiftly to the fellow's hip, but Bryant's fist was as quick. It shot up, catching the man's jaw and hoisting him off his feet. Next instant the engineer had disarmed the prostrate ruffian. "The Kennard jail for you," said he, in English. "A bad _hombre_, eh! Up with you, quick." But what followed neither the engineer nor the contractor anticipated. With a lightning-like roll of his body the man vanished under the side of the tent. When the others rushed out in search of him he had made good his escape; and a search through the dark camp would be useless. They therefore emptied the keg upon the ground, extinguished the lamp, and returned to Lee's office. Though the Mexican had got away, they nevertheless had put a foot on the malicious scheme. All at once Dave, who was walking at Bryant's and Pat's heels up the street, exclaimed: "I've got that greaser's number now! We saw him once at the depot in Kennard, Lee. He was watching you, remember?" "I guess you're right; I recall him." "Bet that old devil in Bartolo put him up to this." Dave asserted. "Tut, tut, kid! Language like that on Christmas Eve! Charlie might--but not his father, I imagine." Dave, however, was not altogether to be suppressed. "Well, I don't put anything past either of them," he sniffed. CHAPTER XXI On Christmas morning the thought occurred to Lee that he had heard nothing more from Imogene of the plan for him to spend the day at the McDonnells', which she had mentioned the night of their talk. Rather strangely, too, he had not received from either of the girls even a note of holiday greeting; to Imogene he had had sent from Denver an edition of Ibsen's plays, and to Ruth a splendid set of furs, both in care of Mrs. McDonnell, who had promised they should be delivered when Santa Claus came down the chimney. Odd, the girls' silence. He was at work on his accounts at the moment, but now he remained biting the end of his pen-holder and staring through the window. From somewhere in the sagebrush came the sound of shots: Dave potting tin cans with the .22 rifle that had been Lee's gift to him. In the room was only the snapping of the fire. Presently the telephone rang. "Imo now," he exclaimed. "I'll be hanged if I go down and carry out the farce before the McDonnells." But the person proved to be Louise Graham. "I wondered--well, several things," she said, when he had answered. "First, if you had gone away anywhere; next, in case you hadn't, whether you were working; and last, should the camp be resting to-day, if you wouldn't come to Christmas dinner with father and me." "No work's going on." "Then we'll be delighted to have you come--and Dave also, of course. There's an especially fattened turkey ready to slide into the oven now. Father has just said, too, to tell you that there's going to be something else--Tom and Jerry. How does that sound?" "Like a man and a boy coming down the road toward Diamond Creek," Lee answered, with a laugh. "Thank you for your thoughtfulness in remembering us." "I'll judge how sincere you are by the amount of turkey you eat," she said. "Dinner will be about one o'clock." "We shall be prompt." Lee hung up the receiver, then glanced at his watch. It was ten. He reseated himself at his desk and endeavoured to fasten his thoughts upon the entries in the book before him, but at last he exclaimed, throwing down his pen: "Damned if I can or will!" and jumped up, and went to tramping about the office, and when Dave's cat and kitten presented themselves to be stroked, unfeelingly thrust them aside with his boot as he tramped. And when Dave came in, about half-past eleven, the boy found him part way into a clean white shirt, with the cat and the kitten eying him resentfully, and received the order: "Get a move on you; we're going to the Grahams' for dinner. See that you scrub your face, too--and ears!" Which left Dave quite as indignant as the cat, for he always washed his ears. They arrived at the Graham ranch house shortly after noon, where wreaths of holly, strings of evergreen, and red paper bells created a Christmas atmosphere. Coming from their cold ride into these cheerful rooms and to a warm welcome, the hearts of both man and boy glowed with unaccustomed feeling. And throughout the dinner that followed betimes--during which Mr. Graham's pleasantries and Louise's gay spirits and mirth evoked in Lee a blitheness to which he long had been a stranger and in Dave a state of joyous bliss--they luxuriated in halcyon well-being. After the meal Louise, at her father's suggestion, went to the piano and sang while the men were smoking their cigars. And then followed an hour at cards, High Five, at which Mr. Graham and Dave won the most games; and then a maid, a Mexican girl, Rosita, brought in a bowl of nuts and raisins for the rancher and the boy who settled themselves for a match at checkers, and Lee and Louise strolled to a window seat at the other end of the long living room. A delicate pink was in the girl's cheeks. Her eyes were tender under their long lashes; a smile still lingered on her lips. It was as if her countenance, her mind, her spirit, were suffused with the happiness and peace of the hour, of the day. "My poor one-armed man, how is he?" she asked. "I intended to go see him, but the cold has been so steady that I gave it up. You said over the telephone several days ago that he was doing as well as could be expected." "Quite out of danger now," Lee replied. "The doctor told him a lady assisted at the operation and now he's full of curiosity regarding you." "I'll surprise him some day by just walking up to his cot and saying: 'Good morning, how's my patient?' The day I'm going to pick is the next one you move camp: I want to see how all those tents and shacks and everything rise up on their feet and travel." "You shall," he stated, with a laugh. "I'll notify you of the date. About New Year's Day the next migration will occur. You've had your turn at hospital work and now perhaps you wish to try your hand at transportation. I wager you'd make a good camp manager if you took hold of the job." "Would you revive me a second time if I threatened to faint?" she queried, gayly. "You and Imogene Martin gave me just the right treatment that evening, for you kept my thoughts off the ordeal I'd been through. Next day I was myself, as I told you when you called up." "I haven't seen you since that day," Lee remarked. "I was really worried that afternoon, you know." And an echo of the anxiety he had suffered sounded in his voice. Her face showed that she noted it, and it softened. "And you have so many anxieties, too," said she. He stirred, then withdrew his gaze from her and directed it out a window. The emotion he had experienced that afternoon when she sat before his fire, when she sat there so frank and so simple-hearted, was rising in his breast again. The breath trembled a little upon his lips. But after a time he felt himself grow calmer. "I have anxieties, yes," he said, "but so, I suppose, has every man and woman, of his or her own kind and degree. And they aren't the important thing, after all. What has happened in the past, not what may occur in the future, is what really matters. One can't change the past, what's done; especially by one's own act. And if the act was a serious mistake. That's fatal! I see now that failure to accomplish what one sets out to do, as for instance in the building of my canal, may not be ruinous to a man. A man may fail and be quite as able a man as ever, as those who succeed; for human beings can do only so much and no more. Nothing that he has done or not done would alter the result. And he need not take the failure greatly to heart. But voluntary and heedless acts of folly, precipitate and unconsidered leaps in the dark, these indeed are ruinous. Oh, yes, they do the business. They become balls and chains. Leave him no choice or action. If it were only so simple as the game of checkers your father and Dave are playing! When one game is over, they can start another. But there's only one game to life." "But it is a long one, and changes," Louise said. She glanced at him. He intended that his words should be taken, she perceived, in a general sense. But the mind always seeks the specific: hers instinctively seized on the particular thorn that had prompted his utterance. Of Ruth Gardner's extraordinary and inexplicable behaviour she had become informed, like everyone else; it at first amazed, then shocked, and finally outraged her sense of decency. It repelled her--but, then, her early attempts at friendship with the other had never advanced. The girl had always been absorbed in her own doings, immersed in pleasure or in plans for pleasure, concerned entirely with the friends she had, and, unlike Imogene, received Louise's calls and approaches at cordiality with an indifference that withered all feeling. With the passing of time Louise had considered Lee's course in relation to the girl as a cause for wonder. The engineer was singularly patient, or incredibly obtuse, or marvellously in love. Whichever it was, her heart stirred with pity. He deserved better, he deserved the best. As for Ruth Gardner, she could now only think of her with a hot resentment that set her lips quivering; and she was moved at moments by a profound desire to express her sympathy to him and to give that warm encouragement his spirit on occasion must need. But she must refrain. At his speech her conclusions, but not her feelings, underwent a sharp revision. The revelation startled her. He had not been obtuse. He no longer was marvellously in love with Ruth Gardner, nor in love with her at all. Relief followed surprise in her mind, the relief that comes at a fear unrealized, a disaster avoided. Disaster had been precisely what she had sensed if not thought, since a union of two persons whose natures were as utterly different, as essentially opposed, as Lee's and Ruth's would inevitably lead to disillusionment, antagonism, sorrow, havoc. That his eyes at last were open was a blessing. "What are you thinking of?" he asked, all at once. She found his eyes full upon her. "Of what you had said," she responded. "And at this minute I'm speculating on whether anything--one's decisions, or acts, or sentiments--are ever quite conclusive or final. Or fatal, too, as you said. We might possibly except murder and suicide." She smiled as she mentioned this reservation. Lee shifted his position with a trace of impatience. "I'm not a pessimist," he exclaimed. "No, you're too active to be. Pessimism is at bottom a kind of mental indolence, I'd say--an unpleasant kind." "Some matters are not solved by action," said he. "That is, when they are out of one's hands and in another's." Her attention was caught by those words, and she hung on them for a little. They distressed her; they caused her to understand the forced immobility of his face as he spoke, and wish that he would give way to his feeling. The phrase "out of one's hands and in another's" referred undoubtedly to Ruth Gardner. She did not trust herself to speak. "What became of all those flowers that were in your garden last summer?" he asked, suddenly. "Do you dig up the roots, or cover them, or let them freeze? You have no idea how many times these cold days the recollection of that hour with you last summer when we walked among them recurs to me. It seems ages ago, however. That was one of the happy days, Louise." A delicate tint of pink stole into her face. For to her also the day had been one of happiness, as clear-cut in her memory as a cameo. The thought that it and she had been dwelling in his mind produced in her breast an unaccountable agitation. The coral pink in her cheeks deepened to a flush; she lowered her eye-lashes and averted her look. "The flowers are banked with straw, the perennials," she said, to prevent a silence. "I shall come and see them when they're blooming again," he stated. "The more I recall them, the more beautiful it seems they were--yes, and the orchard, too, and the grassy canals, and the sunshine that day. And you in the picture--the centre of the picture, Louise. The impressions one retains that stand out vividly in the mind are few: that is one of the number for me. But perhaps not for you." "Oh, for me also," she exclaimed. Bryant stared at her round forearms and hands lying on her lap, but without observing them. He had marked the quick sincerity of her response. It affected him as would her soft hand-clasp. He began to glance restlessly about the room. The dusk of the early winter night was at hand. It had thickened in the corners and over where Mr. Graham and Dave were meditating their game in silence. The flames crackling in the fireplace intensified the forming shadows. Lee recognized that it was time to be going. Nevertheless, he continued to linger for a while, with his eyes sometimes resting on his companion in enjoyment of her face, engaged in thought, experiencing a contentment in merely being in her presence. "This will be another of those days," he at length remarked, in a musing tone. His words aroused her from her own reflections. "One for winter as well as for summer," she said, raising her look. "Did I seem to be dreaming when you spoke? I was doing scarcely that; my mind was lulled; the quiet--the twilight--Christmas Day--they bring a soothing mood." "Something that in a world of money, money can't buy," Lee said. He appeared about to make a further remark, but failed to do so. His thoughts, however, had gone off somewhere, Louise observed. Then he inquired in a matter-of-fact way: "When will you ride up to camp again?" "Not until it grows warmer. Twelve miles or more is rather too far for a canter on a sharp day." He cast his eyes about at the strings of evergreen and the suspended red bells and holly wreaths. "I'll run down again, if I may, before the holidays are over," said he. "If only for another look at those things. They give a fellow a pull--out of the ditch, so to speak." And he rose. "Come, by all means," Louise replied, with a nod. CHAPTER XXII A week of twenty-below-zero weather opened the month of January and halted work on the mesa. At that time four miles of canal remained to be dug. Bryant and Pat Carrigan sat by the stove in Lee's shack and waited, as the whole camp waited, for the thermometer to rise. On one of these mornings, when Dave had gone across the street to the engineers' building, Lee informed the contractor that company funds were not far from exhausted and related his talk with Gretzinger before the latter's departure for New York. "So he would squeeze you out," Pat remarked. "What you might expect from him, nothing more! I've had the notion for some time that your cash was getting low, from the way the money has gone." "I've spent five thousand on engineering, medical, and general accounts," Lee stated, "twenty thousand on concrete work, and paid you forty thousand. I've fifteen thousand left from the sale of bonds and a personal loan I obtained from McDonnell. That will pay for about two weeks' work. And I think we've made every dollar go as far as it would under the circumstances." "My word for that." "It's this little trick of Menocal's that's burning up good coin. Sixty thousand would have built the project ordinarily; my estimates were correct enough. But having to do the job in this infernal weather is what's raising the cost forty thousand more. I feel like entering in the ledger 'To account of frost--$40,000.00.' Like that." Lee scribbled the line on a sheet of paper and handed it to Pat. "But there's one thing sure, I'll sink the last cent I have in the ground before I quit and let those Eastern pirates get their claws into me. I'll have you cut down your force if necessary and string the last dollar and last day's work out till my three months' grace is up." "Might try McDonnell for another loan," Carrigan suggested. "I hate doing that worse than anything I know. He, not the bank, let me have that twenty thousand on my unsecured note. I had nothing to offer but my stock in this company, and until the project's finished that's no better than so much blank paper. Loaned it to me because of my nerve, he said. And at the time I told him it would be enough money to carry me through, which I believed. Now to go back to him again----" Lee stopped, with an expression of deep chagrin upon his face. Pat tapped the dottle from his pipe and refilled the bowl. He glanced once or twice at the engineer during the act. "You can make a better showing now than before," said he. "Four miles more and you'll be to the good. One of the excitements of construction enterprises, and of irrigation projects in particular, I've observed, is the financing. The more often a man can go and pull his backers' legs for cash, the better financier he is. It seems to be largely a matter of keeping at them, talking them to death, wearing them out, until they weaken and hand over the money. More than one railroad was built that way. Try it on McDonnell." "You come with me." "No, thank you," said Pat, with vigour. "I thought you wouldn't," said Lee. He took Carrigan's suggestion, however, and went down through the bitter cold to see the banker. But the visit was fruitless. The bank could not make the loan, and money being tight because of first of the year settlements, McDonnell was not in shape to make it personally, nor would be in time to render any assistance. He was perfectly willing, he said, to gamble another twenty thousand on Bryant's ability to win through, but he did not have the cash. Then he went on to say that Imogene had been suffering from a slight cold, and that Ruth Gardner was visiting at present with other friends in Kennard. Lee had had a telephone call from each of them the morning after Christmas, thanking him for his gift, and later a letter from Imogene again expressing her appreciation, with a line that a change in Mrs. McDonnell's plans had prevented having him with them on Christmas. Nothing from either since. He now asked the banker to convey to Imogene his wishes for a quick recovery, then set out for camp. Ruth--he did not even know where in town to look for Ruth, had he been so inclined. Engaged! The thing would have been amusing if it was not so horrible. "No luck," he said to Pat, briefly, when in his shack warming his chilled body at the fire. "Your system may work in summer, but all the money is froze up at this time of year, like everything else." At the end of the week the winter's frigid grip on the earth relaxed and a period of mild, almost balmy days followed. Under the noon-day sun the top ground even softened a little. The camps awoke, the rested men and horses fell upon their task with new spirit, and excavation went ahead steadily. If there had been a full force, as Carrigan pointed out, he could have moved at the rate of a mile in six days instead of in eight. Still the canal was being built, yard by yard, rod by rod, until by the middle of January another mile of the total was finished. The two camps were now easily within sight of each other, the larger in the south, the smaller in the north, and but three miles apart across the sagebrush. Moreover, the last stones of the dam had been laid; it stood completed; and the men who had been engaged there moved down to add their strength to the north camp. One day toward noon Lee entered his office and to his amazement found Ruth seated there, glancing over an old magazine and toasting her feet at the stove. The furs he had given her reposed on his desk, where she had laid them aside. At his entrance she sprang up, uttered a delighted exclamation, and rushing forward clasped her arms about his neck and kissed him. "Lee, how good it seems to see you!" she said. "After so long! And I can't thank you enough for those darling furs! I've thought of you so much, working up here in the cold and alone with just men. My, your face is like ice! Come to the fire. Poor thing, you look so thin and tired! I hope that soon you'll be able to rest; I'll make it a point to see that you do take a long vacation and rest, for you need it." She concluded with a hug and another kiss. "Go easy with my ears, Ruth," he said, disengaging her arms. "They were nipped the other night and are still tender. How did you get here? I thought you were in Kennard." He led her back to her seat and began to remove his cap and long sheep-lined overcoat, saying in an undertone that the weather was really too warm for the things. Afterward he posted himself by the stove near her, where he stuffed his pipe with tobacco and began to smoke, while his eyes considered her face. "Imo and I returned to Sarita Creek yesterday," she remarked, with an air of satisfaction. "It was good to be back, too. There has been so much going on at Kennard that I felt quite worn out; one becomes weary of too much buzzing around. I don't want any more of it for some time. And I missed you dreadfully, Lee!" She flashed up a smile at him, caught his hand for an instant, and gave it a squeeze. A thin stream of smoke issued from one corner of Bryant's mouth at the action. "The people were proving somewhat tiresome also. So as the weather had moderated Imogene and I decided to return to our cabins." "Has she recovered from her cold?" Lee inquired, raising his look to the ceiling. "Oh, yes; entirely. And we're quite comfortable. We had even thought of having our ponies brought from the stable at Bartolo, so that we could ride if it grew still milder." "Risky." "Well, you're probably right." She paused and scrutinized her toes to see that they were not scorching. "Charlie brought Imo and me here on his way home; you can take us back to our cabins when we're ready to go." "Imo here?" Bryant's eyebrows lifted. "Over in the shack Dave called 'the hospital.' Dave was here when we came and Imo asked him to take her to the place; she had heard something of an injured man from Louise Graham. Did Louise really help during an operation?" Lee nodded. "Well, she's odd in many ways. Must be--what shall I say?--a little thick-skinned not to mind blood and all the rest of it. And she doesn't go about much; not at all with the real crowd at Kennard, only with a slow one when she does go. With her father well off, I'd think she would want to be doing something worth while. Charlie's still mad for her, but Gretzie thought after he met her at our cabins that she was too self-conceited. When he asked her if the men of New York, compared with Western men, didn't impress her with superiority and smartness of dress, she said, 'Not those of my acquaintance; they don't try to impress one; it isn't done in their circle, you know. That's one of the differences in manners, I suppose, that distinguishes Fifth Avenue from Broadway.' Gretzie was furious. He had been speaking of Broadway shows and restaurants and things at the time. He declared later that a little attention had turned her head, and that what she had said was all rot. I don't care for her, either. But let us talk of ourselves, Lee." "Yes, that's more interesting," he remarked, with an accent of irony that escaped her. He was curious to learn what this talk was leading to. His curiosity outweighed the irritation he felt at her calm ignoring of the past weeks, at her complacent assumption of his love, at the kiss and the caress she had bestowed, indeed, at her very presence in the room. "Tell me everything about your work and about yourself," she said, folding her hands and gazing up at him. "I'm so impatient to hear." "Nothing worth relating has occurred," he replied. "You've been well?" "Oh, quite. This is a regular health resort." "And you're not working too hard?" "For a whole week I scarcely stirred from the stove," said he. "I'm so glad. You had earned a rest. You don't seem worried about anything, either." "Worried?" His intonation was that of surprise. Then he added, as if by after-thought, "Oh, no." "How relieved I am! I feared you might be worrying your head off about difficulties--cold weather, the time limit set, perhaps money matters. I gained the impression somewhere that you might run short before you finished; I can't just say where I got it. From Imo, perhaps. Nothing definite, you know. But it's so nice to know that you're no longer anxious. That means you're sure you'll build the ditch. How much more is there to do?" "You can see the north camp out of that window." Ruth rose and went to the window indicated, where she stood surveying the men and teams at work beyond the camp and the stretch of sagebrush extending to the white specks of tents in the distance. "That's all that's left to do, Lee?" "That's all. Three miles." "Charlie Menocal hasn't said anything about it lately." "Knowing Charlie, I'm amazed," he commented. Ruth resumed her seat and proceeded to toast her toes anew. Her glances from time to time were directed at Lee's countenance somewhat speculatively. Several times she smoothed her dress with slow attention. Lee continued his deliberate smoking. "Well, it's a great comfort to know that you're well and that everything is proceeding so brightly," she stated, at length. "You must take time to run down and see me, now that I'm back. I'm not going to be satisfied with anything less than almost every evening with you. Bring along one of those nice engineer boys for Imogene while we talk." Lee gave a shake of his head. "Don't count on me," he said. "We're doing night work as well as day. We're near the end. Have to push the job. Little time to spare." He jerked the phrases forth shortly, one after another. "Do try to come once in a while, though," she responded, gazing about the room in a way that gave her speech a perfunctory character. That, at any rate, was the impression made upon Lee; and he continued to puzzle his brain as to what underlay it all--what motive, what object. At the same time he was sickened by the suave interest she pretended, by her shallow insincerity. "I've wondered if I could be of any help here to you," she went on. But a sharp movement on his part caused her to say, "Still, I know a man doesn't like a girl messing up his work. That's one reason I've been careful not to propose it before, or even to make the demands on your time that some girls would have made. I'll be glad when the project is out of the way; then we can begin to plan for ourselves." She cast her eyes upward at space. "There are lots of things to decide--where to live, and so on. You come soon and we'll set some of them down on paper for consideration." Lee could not escape that feeling of perfunctoriness in her twitter of talk. It went no further than that, however; he had no chagrin or repugnance or anger at the thin duplicity, not even at her complacent confidence in his stupidity and infatuation. For to count on his being blind to the past and deluded by her words, she could only believe him both stupid and infatuated. He was quite calm. His actual state of mind was, more than anything else, one of detachment. He imagined that he had come to a point where she was incapable of arousing in him any kind of sentiment or passion. Presently she took up her furs and walked humming about the office as she adjusted them. "I'd like to stay all day, but must be going," she said. "Imo and I were wondering, by the way, if you could send us a man with some tar-paper to line our cabins." "Of course. I'll send him after dinner. And he can chop you some wood and bring your water." She stood for a little examining a blue-print tacked on the wall. "That's like the one Mr. Gretzinger sometimes carries," she remarked. "I suppose he'll be returning one of these days. Not that it matters; he was tiresome at times, like Charlie Menocal." She studied the lines of the map attentively. "He appeared anxious to get to New York. Said something about a sweetheart there. You'll be glad if he doesn't come back to bother you again, won't you, Lee dear?" She swung about, laughing. "Oh, he'll show up." "I wasn't sure; he said he thought not." Lee emptied and put away his pipe. "He'll come," was his assured reply. "Then he must have been 'kidding' me." Her thoughtful air returned. She picked a raveling from her sleeve, and stroked her fur, and inspected the tips of her gloves, and untied and retied the strings of her cap--all with an inscrutable face. Then suddenly her mind appeared to be made up. "Well, dear, run and bring your car and we'll pick up Imogene," she said, giving him a quick pat on the cheek. Lee experienced an inward and involuntary shrinking at that touch. He no more could have returned the caress than he could have risen off the ground into the air, like those floating figures depicted in sacred paintings. After all, she was quite capable of stirring a sentiment in his heart--a sentiment of aversion. "Go join Imo," he replied. "One of the boys will bring the car to the hospital and take you home. Impossible for me to drive you there to-day." That was it--impossible, literally impossible, for his whole being was in revolt. The threshold of the door might have been a dead-line; he was unable to cross it, at any rate. With a stony aspect he watched her depart and wave a hand back at him from a distance and at last disappear. Then he closed the door and leaned his head against it, with his features drawn in an expression of pain and desperation. His position was diabolical. She meant to hold him to his word; she believed he loved her; and, anyway, she had him fast in a coil. Yes, she had him fast. And he did not love her, not at all. On the contrary, he detested her--detested her with all his heart, almost to hatred, utterly. CHAPTER XXIII "Will you be so kind as to come here?" Mr. Menocal inquired of Bryant. It was an afternoon in late January, and the banker, bundled in a great overcoat and numerous rugs, had reined his team to a halt at the spot where he found the engineer. The air was cutting. Steam in sharp jets came from the nostrils of his pair of bays, as from those of the horses straining at the plows and scrapers in the stretch of partially excavated canal near by. Lee went forward to the buggy, slapping his gloved hands together to quicken their circulation. "What do you want of me, Mr. Menocal?" he asked. "You're picking a frosty day to look at the scenery." "Well, there's a matter that's been troubling my mind for some time and I decided to let it go no longer. We have our differences, Mr. Bryant, but I wouldn't wish you to believe me responsible for a number of annoyances to which you've been put. I am a gentleman; I fight fair. For instance, I was quite within my rights in suggesting those men take homesteads down yonder along the base of the mountains, though I was wrong in my guess. Also, in taking advantage of the law under which you were limited by the Land and Water Board, I wasn't stepping out of bounds. But I've learned that some time ago a man introduced whisky into camp against your rules, and I wish to tell you that I knew nothing of it at the time and would countenance no sort of disgraceful act like that." "I judged that you wouldn't," said Lee. "Then again last summer someone killed your dog, I understand. That was a bad deed. I am fond of dogs, and had I been able to learn who did it I should have informed you so that you could have had Winship arrest him. Since that time, too, there have been other things, many of them--men cutting your telephone wire, removing your survey stakes, and the like. All making you angry. Well, I was angry when I heard that those things were being done. Resorting to questionable and criminal tactics against any man is the worst possible course a person can follow. I do not do it in your case; I will prevent any one else from doing it if I can. You have the right to work undisturbed." "I never connected you with these underhanded acts," the engineer stated. "Thank you, Mr. Bryant. It pleases me to hear you say that. I should like to see you lose your water right, of course; it would mean much money in my pocket; but I'll not do contemptible things or crooked things to get possession of it." Lee glanced at the speaker's face. It was sincere, earnest, and now relieved. He felt an increase of respect for the man, opponent though he was. Menocal appeared, to be sure, unable to comprehend the ethics involved in seeking to thwart Bryant, but he was scrupulous and honourable within his understanding. Far more so than Gretzinger, for instance. Or Charlie Menocal. The thought of the banker's son pulled Bryant up. Should he mention his conviction that Charlie was the instigator of the mischief discussed? As he was still in doubt when his visitor turned the subject, he let it rest. "The way you're going ahead with your canal, I'm afraid that my chance of retaining the water is poor, very poor," Menocal said, with a lugubrious sigh. He drew his fat chin deeper into his coat collar, tugged at the ice on his big white moustache, and ran his eyes up and down the long line of moving teams. "And it will cost me a lot of money." Again the sigh. "I didn't think you could do it; I didn't think any man in the world could do it. In cold weather, in ninety days! I said it was impossible. Charlie said it was impossible. Everyone said it was impossible." "Everyone except my contractor and me," Lee interjected, smiling a tight smile. The other nodded. "Except you, yes. And you're showing us that after all it's not impossible. I shall never say again that anything is impossible. If I ever have a big ditch to build, I shall insist, Mr. Bryant, that you take charge. Then I would say, 'I should like to have it built so and so, and by such a time,' and sit down at my desk and think no more of it, knowing it would be built." Bryant laughed softly. He could not help doing so. That naïve avowal from the one whom he considered his chief enemy tickled his fancy. And presently Menocal, catching the humour of it, himself began to smile. "I shouldn't be surprised if we have had a misconception of each other," Lee stated. "Ah, _cielos!_ That is nothing less than the truth. What a pity, too, my young friend, that we could not have found it out earlier. Our affair, perhaps--we might have reached a satisfactory agreement. This winter work, it is costing you something." "A good many extra thousand." "And, alas, costing me even more! But it is too late now." He made a tragic gesture. "It has gone too far. Within two or three weeks it will be settled one way or the other. For you if the weather remains good; for me if the weather becomes stormy." He again studied the moving horses along the canal. "For me then--perhaps. You might not allow even a great storm to stop you, in some way. This winter is remarkable; there seem to be no storms to happen. You're very lucky." "Yes, I am in that respect." "Well, I've done all that I shall do in the matter. I've become quite calm, fatalistic. There's nothing else to be." He gathered up his reins. "That's a good team you have," Lee remarked. "Of the very best. I disliked to use them in this cold, but Charlie had gone with the car to Kennard. Va! He is never at home any more. It would be well if I made him drive a team on your ditch." "Send him along; I'll give him a job," Lee said. The banker shook his head. "He would say I was crazy and he wouldn't come. He doesn't even attend to matters that require attention. This winter he has been running too much with idle men in town and spending money as if it took no effort to get it, as if it could be picked off of weeds. It's very perplexing. I am too easy with Charlie, I let him have his way too much. I should put him in a pair of overalls for a while and say, 'You are going out with a band of sheep; you have to work.' Several times I've made up my mind to do that, but when the moment came I couldn't say it. He isn't robust, he has always had the best of everything, and he's been educated in a college." "Cut off his allowance and take away his automobile. He would stay at home and attend to business then," Lee offered. "But it would shame him. He isn't a little boy any longer; he's thirty years old. The trouble is that he isn't like me, particular and careful; he's wild and impatient and reckless. His mother wasn't that way, I am not that way--I don't know where he got that nature." Menocal senior drove off and Bryant turned back to his work. The pity of the thing was, as the banker had stated, that they had been hasty in the beginning, that they had not sought to come to an understanding, some arrangement. It was another mistake. To Lee his whole past here was beginning to appear a record of oversights, incredible misjudgements, blinded blunders, and ghastly mistakes. CHAPTER XXIV Ghastly mistakes! Some cynic has said the only mistake in life a man can make is "to go broke." Bryant did not realize until afterward the irony lurking in the penumbra of the talk with Menocal. He was broke, unable to proceed, even while he listened to the banker's commendation. The workmen were busy, it was true, and the horses were pulling loaded fresnos, and plows were cutting the trench deeper; but that was an expiring motion, a last falling gesture. Only a few wretched dollars lay at the bottom of the money chest. A day more, and Menocal would have won. That evening Lee climbed in his car and drove away from camp. Carrigan had said nothing, but he as well as Bryant knew the company's bank account was drained; he would expect a settlement and when it was made, discharge the crews, pull up stakes, and move his property to Kennard. At Sarita Creek Bryant alighted. "I wish to see Ruth," he told Imogene. "Is she away? Her cabin is dark and I obtained no answer to my knock." "She's gone to town." "Well, I wanted to tell her I've failed. Work stops to-morrow. Out of money. And less than two miles to build!" Imogene's face became a picture of dismay. "Oh, no, Lee! There must be some way to go on, some place to obtain money," she cried. "None. I've tried, but have reached the end of my rope. Only twenty thousand more needed, or maybe twenty-five. Just enough to hammer through during the next two weeks. But it might as well be a million. I decided to inform Ruth at once; she might consider it important." "She would," said she, positively. "I haven't been to Sarita Creek before since you returned. You can guess why." "Yes." "Does Ruth suspect that I've ceased to love her?" he asked, frowning. "I think not. There was considerable talk on her part about being bored with Kennard and how happy she would be when she was married, but it was on the surface. She's really waiting for something I'm not able to divine. I'm reminded when I observe her of a card-player studying a hand before the cards begin to fall." "Where is she to-night? With Charlie Menocal?" "With Gretzinger." "Gretzinger back?" "Arrived in Kennard this morning. Two days ago Ruth received a letter with a New York post-mark and became very animated. I'm sure she has had none before. Then late this afternoon the man himself appeared here, ate supper with us, and took Ruth off to a concert in town. He said he had business in camp with you to-morrow." "Ruth's spirits have revived and her retirement has ended," Lee remarked, with sarcasm. "Well, don't say anything about this now to either of them." "Oh, I'll be long asleep when they return, and I'll not speak of it to Ruth in the morning. She'll not rise before noon, I suspect, as it will be one or two o'clock before they're home. Or she may stay with one of the girls she's chummy with and come up with him to-morrow. Probably that." Lee made ready to go. He gave Imogene a sardonic smile. "May the music she hears to-night strengthen her soul for the morrow's smash," he said; and went out. Where the trail from the cabins debouched upon the main mesa road he slowed the car to a stop and sat for a time in thought, with the engine humming softly and the freezing night air biting at his cheeks. It seemed to make little difference where he went, or if he went at all. Nothing worth while was at the end of any road. His inclination, however, was working and at last he set out for the Graham ranch. Since his Christmas visit he had made a number of calls there, a rather large number, indeed, considering everything. He had schooled his face and words on those occasions to a passivity he was far from feeling, and had left Louise's presence each time with a greater torment of mind. Now this was the end--of her as of everything so far as he was concerned. To-morrow the project came down in wreckage. Then he should go from Perro Creek, poorer in purse, poorer in spirit, poorer in faith, sore, and bitterly disillusionized. Louise Graham observed a shadow upon his countenance as she invited him to a seat before the fireplace. Her father was absent and she had been reading a book when Bryant's knock came. She had been wondering, too, if the engineer might not choose this night to call again. How much these calls of his now meant to her she did not dare consider. "What's wrong, Lee?" she asked at once, anxiously. "I see something has happened." He moved round on the divan that he might fully face her. "Everything so far as my affairs go," he replied. "Work stops on the canal to-morrow. That will result, of course, in the water right lapsing and in the ditch never being finished or used, except under the circumstance of my handing over my interest gratis to Gretzinger and the bondholders. If I did that even, I don't believe Gretzinger could finish it on time, for neither Carrigan nor the men would exert themselves for him as they have for me, and they would be sure of their pay in any case. The trouble is, I've used up all the money and can borrow no more. I'm through. And I can't bring myself to the point of surrendering my interest in the company to the bondholders merely to pull them out. They're trying to strangle me in order that they may profit; they could put up the cash needed easily enough if they would; but they count on my yielding. I shall not do so. And so the project fails. Those New Yorkers will wait too long if ever they do put up the funds; and I can do nothing myself. The uncompleted ditch will remain simply a scar on the mesa." "I never dreamed you were in this strait!" "No, probably not. One always hopes to the last that somehow--by a credulous belief in one's own letter of credit with Providence, I presume--one will pull through. So I delayed telling you of what was impending." "If--perhaps father----" "Your father? No. Above all persons, no. That's a suggestion I can't consider for an instant." "But what will you do?" she exclaimed, nervously. Lee glanced at her, then compressed his lips. "I'm going away; I couldn't stay here on the scene of this disaster. It would be intolerable. Before long people will be describing the unfinished project by the name of 'Bryant's Folly', or the like. Haven't you seen old, windowless structures that were never completed, or grass-grown railroad enbankments never ironed, or rusting mine machinery never assembled? Men's failures, men's 'follies'." "Lee, Lee! It never will be so!" she cried. "Nor will your project be a failure to me who have known how you've striven and sacrificed." Bryant looked past her and about the room, but his eyes in the end came back to hers. "You have always been generous in your thoughts of me," he said, in an unsteady voice. "No more than you deserved." "Listen, Louise," he went on, after a pause. "This is the last time I shall see you for a long time, possibly for all time, and it's of your kindness I wish to speak--and of another matter. Of course, I shouldn't be quite human if I hadn't complained a bit about this blow, but my complaints are done now. I'll possibly do some grimacing to myself hereafter, though. What I came to say is that wherever I go in the future I'll always carry with me as a treasure the memory of your goodness and of your face." Louise's lips had parted, while the colour slowly receded from her cheeks. "But we shall see each other," she gasped. "We'll meet, we can keep in touch." After a silence there came in a whisper, "Friends should." Bryant began to tremble. He turned away from her in order to gaze into the fire. Her low utterance had wrung the chords of his heart; he dared not allow his eyes to continue to dwell upon her face. "What good in that?" he asked. Then he gave a passionate shake of his head. "The risk for me is too great. I shall seek an engineering billet altogether out of the country, in South America, in Asia, wherever one is open. A job without responsibility, preferably. No, no; I can't remain and play with fire--any longer." An intense stillness rested in the room after these words. He doubted if Louise even breathed. "Would it be that?" she asked, at last. "Of course. Haven't you seen?" "I--I----" Her voice failed her. "I could no more help loving you, Louise, after I came to know you, than can the earth its blooming under a summer sun. The thing was inevitable." He was speaking now in a slow, fixed attempt at restraint. "And this love coming when it did, after I was betrothed to Ruth Gardner, is the capping madness of the whole nightmarish situation in which I find myself. 'Nightmarish' isn't an exaggeration, honestly. By all the empty, senseless conventions I ought to seal my lips on my love and to go dumbly away, because I'm engaged to Ruth Gardner." He turned abruptly to her. "Do you think I should?" Her hands were locked together in a clasp that expelled the blood and left them white. Her regard had the intentness of a stare. "If you love me, if you're going away--" She suddenly became agitated. "Oh, I am unhappy!" And with a quick movement she bent her head aside. "Louise, forgive me for causing this distress," he exclaimed. Without looking about she put out a hand, touched and pressed his. The unexpected act filled Bryant with amazement. He sat gazing stupidly at the hand until she withdrew it. Then he found an explanation. "You feel compassion for me," he said. "You would." A sound, low, inarticulate, reached him. "It's your kind nature to make some return for my love even if it's not love you can give. Or ought to give! I'm expecting nothing, can expect nothing. That is out of the question. If I were entirely calm and rational, I should doubtless be asking myself why I should speak of my passion instead of trying to tear it out of my heart. But, of course, being in love I'm neither the one nor the other. The only explanation for the impulse to pour out a confession like this is overcharged nerves. Or, after all, is it just unconscious egotism?" His composure had slipped off and his tone had grown savage. "Don't, don't, Lee! Don't cut at yourself!" "What was it I had started to say? Oh, yes. I had said I felt no compunction in brushing aside the usual conventions of duty as proscribed for an engaged man. Cobwebs in my case! Why pretend lies? No honour is involved that I can discover. I don't love Ruth, and I think she's incapable of loving me or any one else. She never felt half the affection I did for her, and mine withered quickly, God knows! A dash of passion on my part, and lonesomeness and the belief I should have wealth on her side--there's the salad." Louise leaned forward a little breathlessly. "And if she believes you're ruined?" she asked. "She'll hold me if she thinks she can't do better," Lee responded, bitterly. "I at least beat homesteading." "Lee!" Louise had risen. The pallor of her face startled him. Her hands were fast clenched. "What is it?" he asked, fearfully. "I can bear this. To have you love me--love me and go away! It will break my heart. To stay here alone!" The words struck his brain as if they were cast in a fierce glare of light. The suddenness of the knowledge they gave, the revelation they made, left him speechless. Louise loved him in return. The first effect upon his mind was to produce a blank incredulity; he stared at her as if to ascertain whether or not this was in truth she; for though he well knew he possessed her friendship, he had never conceived so fantastic a possibility as that of winning her love. Then a swift exaltation succeeded. He swam in a kind of spiritual ether. "Louise, Louise, my dear beloved!" he murmured. He caught her hand, pressed it. She glanced at him without replying, looked away, back again. Her bosom rose and fell with a slow and tremulous movement, as though stirring with deep, soundless sighs. A little smile hovered on her lips, tender, rapturous. But at length she withdrew her hand, while the soft gladness passed from her face. "It cannot be; you must go, Lee," she said. Bryant remembered--and felt the ice forming about his heart. He shivered slightly. The full cruelty of the situation was reached. Ruth Gardner not only held him, but he held her as well by a thread to which she could cling for safety against the blandishments of scoundrels, and her own desires, and the dark uncertainty of the future. And much as he loved Louise Graham, he could not snap that thread; much as he detested Ruth, he lacked the flintiness of heart to let her slip into the abyss. Nor would Louise have it otherwise. She was seeking his eyes, questioning them. "Well, this hour is worth it all to me," he said, calmly. "All of the unhappiness of the past, and all the loneliness of the future! I am poor now; in that fact lies what hope I have." A gentle inclination of her head answered him. "I am happy to-night, anyway," said she. "The only thing for me to do is to remain away from you," he answered. "Heaven knows I shall be miserable enough then, but I should grow desperate if I were near." "I know. We mustn't see each other, Lee dear." He walked to where his storm coat and cap lay on a chair by the door. In silence he drew on and buttoned the former. She had accompanied him to the spot and watched with moisture on her lashes his preparation for departure. His eyes were lowered while his fingers were engaged with the buttons. "You should understand about this," he said, grimly. "That man Gretzinger is after her. She has no money, no training to earn money, is crazy for pleasure and attention and clothes. I ought in all decency to break our engagement. She has given me grounds enough. But it's keeping her straight. If I broke it"--his hand dropped to his side and he stood for a moment quite still--"he drags her under." His gaze rose to hers. "I guessed it long ago," she said, in a choked voice. "And loved you for it." Next instant she leaned forward, took his temples between her hands, and lightly touched his brow with her lips. "Go, go!" she exclaimed, with an accent of despair. She herself turned and went quickly out of the room. CHAPTER XXV Bryant had asked Carrigan to come to the office at two o'clock, stating that the company was insolvent and but enough money remained to square accounts with the contractor. Pat had cast a shrewd glance at Lee and nodded. This was during the morning. Afterward the engineer had gone for a visit to the dam, the drops, and the canal line, a last view of the project as a whole; and the ride was pursued in that peculiar melancholy of spirit which appertains to mortuary events. To him, indeed, the ride marked a burial, a burial of high hopes and ambition, and of his youth, with the partially excavated canal providing their pit and the concrete work standing as a headstone. He came back to camp somewhat late for his appointment and found Pat waiting in the office, but not alone. Gretzinger stood, back to the stove, smoking a Turkish cigarette. "Well, Bryant, I've returned to discuss our little business transaction," he greeted. "Judged this to be about the right time. How's the exchequer?" "Little in it," said Lee, hanging his coat and cap on a hook. "But I made sure it was locked before leaving here; you might come any moment." "Oh, I don't waste time on an empty box," was the light answer. "Mind if Carrigan hears what we say? Don't, eh? Neither do I. He knows, or ought to know, you're through. And besides, I'll want to discuss construction matters with him when you and I are done." "Perhaps Bryant can yet secure a loan somewhere," the contractor remarked, mildly. "From Menocal, possibly," Gretzinger suggested, cocking his eyebrows at Carrigan with mock enthusiasm. "If Bryant could have secured a loan, he would have had it in his pocket before this. I made inquiry of McDonnell when I reached Kennard concerning the company's cash account and discovered that it looked awful sick. No, he can't get money for the company except through me." "I see," said Pat. Gretzinger turned to Bryant. "Now, Lee, let's get down to brass tacks. You're played out as manager and engineer-in-chief, so it's time for you to step out and give the men who are able a chance to complete the work. I made you one offer; I'm prepared to-day to make even a better one. The bondholders went thoroughly into the subject with me of what they could afford to pay you for your stock and a decision was finally reached to give you ten thousand dollars for your interest in the company. Considering everything, that's exceedingly liberal. I'm authorized to draw a check for that amount to your order when you've assigned the shares." "Not enough," Lee replied. He sat down at his desk, lifted his feet to a window ledge, and held a match to his pipe. "That's the limit." "It's not enough; I need more." "What you need and what you'll take are two different things," the other stated, sarcastically. "Go higher," Lee said, with his gaze upon the window. "Not a cent!" "I owe McDonnell twenty thousand that has gone into the canal. I've put in my ranch, and land I traded for it, and months of work and organization--value twenty thousand; and I figure my present control of things worth twenty thousand more. But let us say fifty thousand. I'll sell for fifty thousand; that gives you my stock at fifty cents on the dollar. Exceedingly liberal, I call it." The look the other directed at him was heavy with contempt. "Ten thousand is all--and make up your mind to that," said he. Then he faced round toward Carrigan, whom he addressed. "I want you to increase the force to double its strength at once, so that the work--" "What are you paying a yard for moving dirt?" "The same as before." "Not to me," Pat responded, complacently. "What do you mean?" Gretzinger demanded, angrily. "It's not enough." "Not enough! You seem to imagine your contract doesn't bind you." Pat slowly uncrossed his knees and stared at the speaker with a countenance of bewilderment. "Now what in the world is the man talking about! Contract? The only contract I had with Bryant was an oral agreement to build the dam and move dirt at a certain day rate per man and per team, terminable at his option. Oh, you mean the first contract to construct the ditch in a year! We tore that up after he got notice from the Land and Water Board." "Well, we'll continue the oral arrangement." "Not any more," said Pat. Gretzinger inspected the coal of his cigarette, replaced the latter between his lips, and glanced at Bryant. But the engineer was maintaining his consideration of objects on the outside of the window. "So you're trying to hold me up," was Gretzinger's remark. "You're slicing the fat off Bryant, and therefore I'll trim a bit off you," Carrigan replied. "You're not the only one who can work a knife. Once I used to sit back and let others keep all the easy money, but I don't any more, not any more." With considerable relish he rolled the words upon his tongue and nodded at Gretzinger. The latter scowled. "How much do you want?" he demanded. Pat spat, then remained pursing his lips while he engaged in calculation. Once he shook his head and muttered, "Not enough," and again after a time repeated the words. The man by the stove glared at the seated contractor during the prolonged period of study as if he hoped his look would consume him. "How much?" he questioned a second time, impatiently. Pat looked up at Gretzinger from under his bushy eyebrows with a steely glint showing. The lines of his weather-beaten face had hardened. "I don't like you," he stated. "I don't like you at all. When I work for people I don't like, it costs them money. I like you less and less all the time. If I go ahead and finish the ditch, I'll be liking you so little that I'll be hating myself. And when I don't like any one that much, I don't do it cheap. The job will cost you one hundred thousand dollars." "You--you----" Gretzinger choked. "Cash down before I move a wheel," Pat added, calmly. The other was white with rage. He cast his cigarette upon the floor and ground it under his heel. His lips worked and twisted in a vicious snarl. Carrigan observed him unmoved; and Bryant had turned his head about to see. "You grafters, you infernal thieves, you pair of rotten crooks!" he shouted, shooting murderous glances from one to the other. "You've 'framed' me! Arranged it between you. Been waiting for me to come back so you could spring your game! If there's any law in this state, I'll have you both where you belong for deliberately wrecking this company--in a cell!" His raving outburst continued for a while in this strain. His voice had the high and squealing pitch of a wild pig caught fast by a foot; on his pink, fleshy face, now distended with anger, was a look, too, of porcine hate and fury. The cynical and patronizing manner he usually affected had dropped off, leaving revealed his actual coarse, spiteful, greedy, craven spirit--a creature of infinite meanness. At length, however, Gretzinger's torrent of abuse diminished until it ended in a last muddy dripping of threats and curses. With an effort he strove to pull himself together and assume a composure his eyes belied, while he lighted another of his offensive Turkish cigarettes. After a time he said shortly: "You can't bluff me. When you fellows get down to my figures, then we'll do business." "Look out! Your coat is scorching--or is it only that tobacco?" Bryant rejoined. Gretzinger stepped hastily aside and felt behind him, where his hand moved about on the hot cloth fabric with searching movements. The solicitude for his garment thus quickened seemed to effect the final dispersion of his inward heat. "Well, are we going to get together on an arrangement?" he questioned, when assured his coat was uninjured. "I stated my terms--fifty thousand," Lee said. "That or nothing." "You won't get it." "Then there's the alternative of the bondholders putting up money enough to finish the work." "That, neither." "All right, Gretzinger," Bryant stated, rising. "You have an idea that I'll give in----" "Yes, I have. You'll grab this ten thousand I offer, grab it quick by to-morrow night, which is the limit I set for it to remain open. I've seen men before in a tight hole who swore they wouldn't take the terms handed them, but they always did in the end, and so will you. Only a fool wouldn't. And I fancy Carrigan won't sacrifice a good piece of work in a dull season and pull off his men and teams." Pat hoisted himself off his seat stiffly. "Why don't your outfit sell instead of trying to buy?" he asked, crossing to Lee's desk and obtaining a can of tobacco sitting there. "I suppose they'll sell." He began to stuff his pipe, pressing the tobacco into the bowl with a brown forefinger. "Certainly; they would unload what they have in this rotten project so fast that the bonds would smoke. But who in the devil would touch them?" "I might." "You?" Gretzinger began to laugh. "What have you besides your outfit? They're not taking worn-out fresnos in exchange to-day, thank you." "And what are the three bondholders you represent worth?" Pat inquired, in a nettled tone. "Half a million each, or more." Carrigan's brows rose contemptuously. "Is that all?" he exclaimed. "Why, from the way you talked, I thought they were real financiers! And they're only piffling tin-horns, after all. What d'you know about that, Lee?" Pat turned to the engineer with an amazed air. Gretzinger's anger surged up anew. "You never saw half a million in your life," he sneered. "I could buy out all three of them with what I have in one trust company in Chicago alone," was the unperturbed reply. "It's cheap sports like you that make a real man sick. How much for the bonds? You want to unload. Speak up; how much?" Despite his anger, the other's brain perceived that the contractor was in earnest. "The amount of the face of both bonds and stock, with interest on the former to date," he answered quickly. "I buy only bargains," was Carrigan's dry statement. "One hundred thousand then." "You're still sailing way up in the clouds. The stock was a bonus, Gretzinger; it cost your parties nothing. So it's only the bonds that count. And the project is rotten, it may not be finished on time, be a dead loss; your men want to get out from under; they'll jump at the chance to sell, you say. All right. They can unload on me. Wire them to deposit the bonds and stock in any New York bank and draw on McDonnell for forty thousand dollars. That's what I'll give." Gretzinger walked to the wall, where he reached down his overcoat and put it on. "The ditch will go to weeds first," he said. "The offer's open until to-morrow night," said Pat. "You bloodsuckers can't put anything over on me," was the Easterner's departing declaration, as he opened the door. "I'm on to you, Carrigan. You're backing Bryant and will finish the ditch. We'll just sit tight on our bonds and stock." Pat watched him go. "I hate to make money for men like them," he remarked to the engineer, "but I guess I can't help it, because I'll not let you down, Lee, for a matter of cash payment. I'll advance what's necessary and take a company note. Maybe you're wondering why I let you sweat all this time? Because you needed the experience. You laid down too easy. All the time that you were thinking the game was up, I was waiting for you to grab my leg and begin to pull. But you never did." "You had done too much for me already, Pat; and though I supposed you were well-fixed I had no idea you were wealthy. The thought you might risk twenty thousand dollars----" "Why not? I know this project better than any banker; it's sound, it's about completed," the old man interrupted. "All that's necessary is to take a long breath and push hard for three weeks more. Sometimes I think you have the making of a fair engineer, Lee, but you discourage me dreadfully when I try to picture you as a financier. I'm afraid you'll wind up like one of these bondholders of Gretzingers, just piffling." Lee went to stand at the window, so that Carrigan could not see his face. Emotion had unmanned him. He would not have even Pat know how strongly he was moved by this act of magnanimity. "Well, I better be getting back to the ditch," said the contractor, presently. CHAPTER XXVI A week later the long-belated big storm appeared at hand. McDonnell telephoned Bryant one morning, a morning in February now, that the weather forecast predicted blizzard conditions sweeping down the Rocky Mountain region from the Northwest. A mile of excavation yet remained to do. Lee at once sent Saurez and other Mexicans abroad in the native settlements with offers of double wages and this drew the most indolent back to camp again. They were flung into the night shift, which toiled with increased vigour at news of the impending storm. For two days and nights the desperate effort was pushed while the sky continued clear, with the crews of both camps attacking the iron earth and steadily forging closer. Bryant scarcely slept during that time, or ate. Toward morning, when the night shift went off, he would cast himself down fully dressed and drawing the blankets to his chin sleep restlessly for two or three hours, then again rise to drive the work. The third day came sunny and quiet, but with heavy warmth in the air wholly strange to the season. During the night both Lee and Pat had continually and anxiously watched the peaks of the Ventisquero Range for portent of the change imminent in the weather; and now on this morning they beheld about the crests long, low-lying layers of gray cloud. Again McDonnell telephoned, but now with particulars of the storm. It was general in character, covering the states from the Canadian line southward, with very low temperatures and raging furiously, destroying wire communications and blocking railroads, and at the moment was bearing down across Utah, Colorado, and Kansas. The entire region from the Pacific coast to the Mississippi was in its grasp. "Ten days is all that's left of our time," Lee said to the contractor, with a heavy heart. "And no one can tell how long this weather spree will last." "It's not a mile we've got to go any more, any way. With what we'll do to-day it will be half a mile of dirt moved in three days. That leaves but half a mile. This storm may be played out when it reaches us." But the worry on his face showed that he put little faith in this possibility. What he stated in regard to the ditch was true. The work of night and day had eaten well into the remaining mile between the two camps. To be sure, it had been rushed work: the sides of the ditch were gouged and ragged, the bottom uneven and rutted, and the removed dirt was piled anywhere along its banks. But nevertheless there was a canal, dug on grade and to measurement, and capable of carrying water. During the afternoon a pair of men drove two lines of waist-high stakes to mark the survey of the short section of ground yet untouched, doing this under Carrigan's supervision. In case snow came, he told Lee, he wanted something he could see. "Nine hundred yards of unbuilt ditch will be lying buried," he added, "and I don't propose to paw up the whole mesa finding this section." About four o'clock Bryant rejoined him. "Still lovely," said Pat with a grin. "I've just set some plows tearing up the scalp on another two hundred yards. If this storm will just hang off for three or four days longer, it can come and welcome. I'll have my fresnos stacked and waiting to go down to Kennard." "Take a look at the northwest," said Bryant, significantly. A smoky haze lay along the horizon. "Aye, I see. That's her hair blowing out ahead. There will be plenty of wind after awhile, I'm thinking. Get word to the men in camp, will you, to make all the tents tight." At sundown the haze in the west had thickened somewhat. The air, however, remained warm, almost oppressive, and the sharp cold that usually fell at night was wanting. The Ventisquero Peaks were hidden by a mass of cloud. At seven o'clock the night crew began work, as ordinarily; no wind was stirring and the steam that came from the horses' nostrils was light. "I'm taking a little time to skip down to Sarita Creek and see if those girls are still there. If they took a notion to stick, they'd try to do it, whether McDonnell sent after them or not. But I'll pry them out. If the storm breaks in a hurry, get the men and teams into camp at once. Don't take any chances, Pat." Thus spoke Bryant. "Aye, I've seen blizzards before," was the reply. Lee sped rapidly toward Sarita Creek, with the headlights of his car casting their glow before him upon the dark road. The silence of the night was broken only by the steady humming of his engine. The mesa seemed very hushed, unstirring, unnatural. When he reached the girls' cabins, he saw that the windows of each were lighted. The girls were there. What incredible folly! Then his lamps brought into view an automobile. He breathed relief. Someone had come for them. Alighting he walked forward and knocked on Ruth's door. When it was opened by Ruth, he discovered Gretzinger seated within. "Oh, it's you, is it? Well, come in," Ruth said. She wore a pink party gown, with her throat and smooth, round arms showing through some filmy stuff that was part of the creation. Bryant had never seen her so dressed; she looked very youthful and charming, almost beautiful. "There's a party at Kennard to-night," said she, before Lee could open his mouth to make an explanation of his presence, "and Mr. Gretzinger's taking me. He just came. Sorry you chose to-night to call, Lee. And we're starting immediately." She reached forth and gave Lee a pat on the cheek, at the same time smiling. Bryant continued stony under the touch, under the smile, under the false affection. He gazed at her and detected beneath her apparent good spirits and loveliness a suppressed excitement. His glance went to Gretzinger; the man was observing them with a restless, frowning face. On the instant the truth flashed into Bryant's brain. She was cunningly playing him off against the New Yorker, using him as a lay figure in her despicable game, bestowing endearments to anger Gretzinger and arouse his jealousy. "I came to tell you a big storm is brewing," he said quickly. "You and Imogene must plan to stay in Kennard for some time. If a heavy fall of snow occurs, the mesa will be closed for ten days or two weeks with the temperature very low." "Then I'll pack my things in my suit-case so that I can remain that long," Ruth exclaimed. "I'll stay with Mabel Seybolt. Imogene's uncle sent up his car this morning, but I didn't imagine there was any really bad storm coming and sent it back. I doubt if the snow amounts to much, anyway. The weather's too warm." Nevertheless, she began to fill a suit-case. "I'll tell Imogene also," Lee said. Ruth's eyes turned toward Gretzinger with an inquiring look. "There won't be room for three of us, will there?" "No," he answered. Her regard still continued directed at him. "I'm sure there won't be," she said, with conviction. "It probably won't storm before to-morrow, in any case. I'll tell Mr. McDonnell in the morning and he can send up his big car for her." "Or you can take her to town yourself," Gretzinger added in an indifferent tone. "I can't spare the time," Lee said. "But dearie, I'll be done packing in two minutes, while it will take Imogene half an hour," Ruth replied. "She's too slow to wait for. And she has one of her eternal headaches, too." Ruth was hurriedly removing articles from her trunk to the suit-case. "Listen, please," Lee said, addressing her. "If Imo remains she may become snowbound, and if snowbound, freeze. I can't go, I can't possibly go. With this storm coming, I must stay at camp. As things are, a blizzard may put me out of business." Ruth straightened up to confront him. "You mean the work would stop, that you couldn't finish it on time?" "That's just what I mean." "Why?" Gretzinger spoke. "You have ten days left." "Yes, and what are ten days with two feet of snow on the ground and the mercury forty below zero?" Bryant retorted. Gretzinger stood up, glanced at his watch, and buttoned his overcoat. He then bent down and set to work buckling the straps of the suit-case Ruth had closed. "You do seem to get into every possible kind of trouble, Lee," the girl said. "Perhaps I do. But the point now is about Imogene. Will you take her with you, or not?" "Mr. McDonnell can send for her to-morrow; that will be soon enough." "My God, you leave her! With a blizzard coming!" "I don't think there'll be a blizzard. Or if there is, she can get along comfortably till her uncle comes." "Are you ready, Ruth?" Gretzinger asked, impatiently. "Yes, as soon as I fasten my gloves. Anyway, Lee, you can take her to Kennard if you want to. It's because you're just obstinate. Besides, she didn't have to come up here; I told her so; I could have got along without her--much better, probably, for she's always finding fault; she came on her own responsibility and so can look out for herself; and if you're so anxious for fear she'll freeze, why, take her. It won't make any difference about your ditch that I can see, for you say you'll very likely lose it, anyway. Now you'll have to excuse us; we're going. Blow out the light, please, and lock the door, our hands are full. Give the key to Imo to keep." Two minutes later Gretzinger's car was gone with a swirl of the headlights as it circled and with a sudden roar of its exhaust. Lee extinguished the light and closed the cabin. To him that little house seemed poignant with tragedy; and he knew, whatever came, his foot would never be set in it again. He found Imogene sitting beside her sheet-iron stove, wrapped in a quilt and coughing. "I heard your car come after his; I knew it was you," she greeted him. Lee regarded her closely. "You're sick," he said. "You ought to be in bed. Ruth stated that you had a headache and now I discover you in a coughing fit bad enough to take off your head. Is your throat sore?" "A little." "Why in the name of all that's sensible haven't you gone to your uncle's? I begin to think you're unbalanced." "I explained my reasons once, Lee." She coughed again, then continued, "Ruth and I quarrelled Christmas because of actions of hers and aunt said she must leave the house. That's why you were not asked then. But she made it up afterward and so I came when she did, for she was determined to live here where she could be free. I just had to come." "And now she's leaving you in the face of the worst storm this winter, the ingrate!" Bryant exclaimed. "To-night's work finishes her with me. She may go to eternal damnation so far as I'm concerned. I'm done! She refused, she would have left you here to freeze, she set your life against her convenience! And after you had sacrificed your comfort and undergone hardships to save her good name! There's no limit to her selfishness and miserable hypocrisy. Our efforts and consideration haven't restrained her a particle, and she will tread the road she chooses irrespective of our desires or feelings. What fools we've been! You and I, Imogene Martin, aren't going to chase a will-o'-the-wisp any longer. We've wasted enough time on this delusion of saving Ruth Gardner; if she's to be saved, she must save herself--and if she will not do that, then the whole world together is of no avail. You're never going to come here again, or have anything to do with her, or let her have a part in your life. Nor am I. She walks out of our book, and we draw a pen across the bottom of the page." Imogene had covered her face with her hands during his terrible denunciation and was weeping softly. She knew it was true. She knew that Ruth had gone out of her life, for such baseness as her one-time friend had shown was not to be forgiven. "You're right--I can't go on here longer," she sobbed. "I'm sick, I'm really sick. I've been barely crawling about for the last two days. And she knew it and left me! Oh, Ruth, Ruth!" "And would have left you, storm or no storm, and whether I came or not! In order to be alone with Gretzinger!" Her heart-breaking sobs went on. "Don't weep, Imogene. Put her out of your mind." He gently placed an arm about her shoulders. "Come, I will take you to Louise." That she had been "crawling about the last two days" was apparent when she attempted to rise. Her strength suddenly vanished, her knees gave way. Bryant secured her coat and cap, wrapped her in blankets from the bed, and carried her out to the car. Then he put out her lamp and locked the door. And that turning of the lock, Lee felt, terminated a painful chapter of his life. CHAPTER XXVII As by the girls' cabins, so before the Graham house, Lee perceived a motor car. He brought his own machine to a stop near it and cut off his engine. At the same instant the door opened in the house, where by the light shining through the portal he saw Louise's and Charlie Menocal's figures. Menocal stepped forth. "You will please go now," Louise was saying. "When you telephoned I told you then that I shouldn't go with you, or go to the dance at all." Bryant had alighted and was arranging the blankets about Imogene. Charlie's voice spoke, rather truculently: "I told you I was coming for you, didn't I? Now see what a position that leaves me in! People think you're coming. I promised to bring you." "Then you were too presumptuous," Louise said. "Now go. You're only making a bad matter worse." "See here, Louise----" "You had my refusal and I've repeated it a dozen times," she interrupted, indignantly. "Must I shut the door in your face to silence you? And here's another car. Have some regard for my personal feelings, sir." Lee by now had lifted Imogene into his arms and started toward the speakers. "Be a good sport, Louise," Menocal pursued, in a tone intended to be wheedling. "Run upstairs and put on a party dress while I wait for you. You don't understand how much I want you to come along to this dance." His words were a little thick and stumbling. "Hush! Don't you see someone has come? You've been drinking; and you're sickening to me." "I don't care if someone is there! Let 'em hear, Louise. Let all the world hear, let your father hear, let anybody hear! Because I love you, and so you must come to the dance." Suddenly his tone changed to an angry hiss. "You've been treating me like a cur, refusing to see me or go with me, and not letting me come here. I came to-night! I've stood for enough from you; you can't play me for a fool any longer. And you're going to marry me, too." Bryant perceived by the lamplight of the doorway that the fellow had snatched her hand, that the two were struggling. Burdened with Imogene as he was, Lee was helpless to enterfere. But he went hastily up the steps toward them. Louise tugged herself free. "Oh, you contemptible creature!" she cried, in a voice of quivering passion. "It's only because you know father is out caring for stock that you dare stay here to insult me." Then looking past Menocal, she exclaimed, "Who is that?" "I, Bryant," said Lee. "With Imogene. She's ill, she needs to be put to bed. There was no time to ask your permission to bring her, but I knew----" "Of course! If this beast will stop making a scene and go!" Charlie Menocal was pulling on his fur cap. "So here's our swell-headed crook of an engineer butting in again," he sneered. "You better be hunting up your own chicken, or Gretzinger will have her. Who y' say you got there?" "Stand aside!" Bryant's voice struck the other like the lash of a whip, and the half-drunken youth instinctively fell back a pace, so that Lee could pass with his charge into the house. But as Louise was about to follow Menocal seized her arm. "Girlie, you're not going to throw me down? You'll be good to me and come----" Louise shook off his hand, darted through the doorway, and quickly closing the door turned the key in the lock. Then still grasping the door-knob she leaned with her head against the panels, face white, lips trembling, and her breast rising and falling stormily. "Oh, Lee! For you to be forced to see and hear that!" she said, in a tone of anguish. "I think nothing of it; you could not avoid him." After a moment she recovered herself and said, "Wait until I call Rosita." When she returned with the Mexican girl, she conducted Bryant to an upper chamber where he placed Imogene upon a bed, pressed the latter's hand assuringly, and then left her in charge of the other two while he went below to telephone to her uncle. McDonnell had already set out for Sarita Creek, his wife informed Lee. He had started about half an hour before. Bryant went out of the house and entering his car drove down the lane to the main road, where he stopped. Soon far away in the south there was a flash of light, repeated at intervals, until at length it grew into a steady, powerful glare that threw his own machine into strong relief, that dazzled and blinded him. Finally the other car stopped near by. "What's the trouble, Jack?" McDonnell's voice came, addressed to his chauffeur. Bryant went forward to the banker, who was leaning out of the limousine. He gave the information that neither of the girls was at Sarita Creek and explained that Imogene was at the Graham house, comfortable though ill. "She's too sick to be removed and will probably need a nurse for a time," he concluded. "I brought her here as soon as I learned her condition. Miss Graham put her to bed." "All right; I'll run in and see her. Much obliged to you, Bryant," was the answer. Then in a vexed strain he went on, "What I expected to happen has happened. Advice, pleadings, commands haven't prevented her from following out this crazy affair. You may not believe it, but she's as stubborn as a mule when she wants to be. My wife has been almost distracted all winter. Well, I'll send up a doctor and a nurse both as soon as I return to Kennard, if there's time before this storm. Still at work?" "Still digging. Will keep at it till the last minute." "Supposed you would. That's the lane there, isn't it?" Next minute the big car had passed Lee's and was moving up the roadway between the rows of cottonwoods toward the house. But Bryant did not at once start for camp. His mind was busy with pictures--pictures of the two girls as he first had seen them at Perro Creek, and at their cabins afterward, and finally to-night: Imogene, weak and racked by a cough and huddling in a quilt beside her sheet-iron stove, and Ruth in her own cabin, standing in the lamplight in her pink party dress with round arms and throat showing through its filmy gauze, unconcerned and intent upon her own ends. At last he glanced up at the impenetrable sky. Something soft and wet had floated against his cheek. Then he saw here and there in the funnel of light projected by his car lamps what looked like solitary bits of white down sinking through the radiance. Snow! CHAPTER XXVIII The first flakes were but the precursors of a heavy fall of snow that almost immediately began, soundless, without wind, filling the air and whitening the earth, and that was still continuing unabated two hours later. It mantled the shoulders of the workmen and the withers of the horses; it clogged the wheels of the fresnos so that dirt was moved with ever-increasing difficulty; it veiled the flaring gasolene torches and choked the night. Where a plow ran or a scraper scooped earth, snow speedily obliterated the mark, and with the passing of time both men and animals found it necessary to struggle more and more desperately in the dirt cut against mud and snow and gloom. Carrigan contracted his working line, placing the torches at shorter intervals and keeping the scrapers in close succession. The foremen informed him frequently that the men were growing exhausted and rebellious, but he ordered them to hold the crews at the task. He and Bryant moved to and fro constantly, giving encouragement or lending a hand to help start a stalled fresno. By sheer power of their wills they were combatting the snow, forcing the work ahead, deepening the stretch of excavation that had been opened that afternoon; by iron determination they were wrenching out the last spadeful of earth possible and exacting the final ounce of man power before the snow had its way. The strange warmth continued. The temperature was not even down to freezing and the men, muddied and wet to the knees, dripped with perspiration, while the horses' flanks were soaked with both sweat and melted snow. It was difficult to breathe, what with the heavy, oppressive air and what with the fall of suffocating snow, constantly growing thicker. Horses slipped and went down, but were raised again; fresnos were mired, but freed once more; men gave out and were sent to their camp. And the fight kept on. But about eleven o'clock Bryant felt a cool puff of air on his cheeks, light and of brief duration. It was followed by a second, this time quicker and stronger, blowing from the northwest and sending the snow a-scurry in a slanting fog of flakes past the flames of the torches. He studied this change for a moment, then sought out Carrigan. "Time to make a break for cover," he announced. "Wind is coming and the devil will be to pay when once it picks up all this loose snow." "Well, we're about at a standstill, anyway," was the reply. "I'll have the crews draw the scrapers and plows off at one side where we can get at them. I had a spare horse tent put at the disposal of the Mexicans, and have had men in both camps piling baled hay all evening around the big tents for windbreaks. We'll issue extra blankets and crowd the crews into the shacks and mess quarters where there are stoves." "What about water if our pipe freezes?" "Then the horses will eat snow like the range ponies, I guess--and the rest of us, too." At that he went off to order the work stopped, as did Bryant. For some time the wind blew only in those fitful puffs Lee had noted or died down entirely for short periods; and of this fact the night shift took advantage to assemble the fresnos and plows beside the canal and to drive their horses to shelter. The crews of the north camp, being fewer, got away first; and thither Bryant plowed through the snow with them to see all made safe. When he returned, Carrigan was just herding the last man and team toward the main camp. Together the contractor and the engineer extinguished the torches, then made their way, carrying a flare with them, toward the glow showing at the edge of the camp, where an oil-soaked bale of hay burned as a guide. At their backs the wind and snow blew with gradually increasing strength. They made the rounds of the horse tents packed with animals, the mess tents packed with workmen--with those men only come and those newly aroused from sleep and gathered here--of the shacks, the hospital, the engineers' headquarters and the big commissary tent, all crowded with white men and Mexicans, steaming with moisture, smoking cigarettes and pipes, giving off a rank smell of clay and human bodies and wet clothes and horses, who talked and laughed and waited restlessly. The pair waded around examining guy-ropes, stakes, the protective walls raised of hay bales. They took advantage of a sudden dropping of the wind to go among the small tents, thrusting their flares within each and having a look, to make certain no sleeper of the day shift had been overlooked. Then at last they stumbled up the street to Bryant's shack. The wind now had utterly died away. The snow had resumed its thick, silent fall straight to earth. Carrigan was kicking his boots clean against the door-sill when Lee exclaimed, "Listen to that, Pat!" Carrigan wiped the moisture from his ears and harkened. "That's the Limited coming, and making no stops," he remarked. "Get in!" They entered the little building. The office contained the engineering staff and several others. Tobacco smoke lay thick in the room. Outside, the faint whining sound was growing steadily in volume until at last it deepened into a roar very like that of an approaching express train, as Pat had suggested. Followed a smart blow on the shack. Then it reeled and the night was filled with a howling tumult that deafened the men inside; the blizzard had burst upon the mesa. Through the windows one could see nothing, for the air had become a black maelstrom of whirling snow and darkness where a choked roar persisted as steadily as the bass thunder of Niagara. The warmth had vanished; a cutting cold, as if striking direct from arctic ice, minute by minute drove the mercury in the thermometer on Bryant's wall downward with unbelievable swiftness. If anything, the fury of the storm seemed to increase as time passed, swelling to such terrible violence that one imagined nothing could withstand its force, its mad blasts, its deadliness. "Those mess tents and horse tents," Lee said to Carrigan, anxiously. "They're safer under their lee of hay than is this little paper box we're sitting in," the contractor replied. "I've been through blizzards before, and know how to meet them." From by the stove one of the engineers spoke. "But we'll never see some of those little tents any more. There are several travelling toward Mexico by now." "And my new flannel shirt!" cried another, suddenly. "Washed it this noon and hung it out on a line and forgot all about it. Oh, Lord, where is it now?" "Good-bye, little shirt, we'll never see you more!" said the first, sentimentally. "You'll be hanging on the Equator by morning." "While we're left here in the drifts," said a third. "Oh, the lovely, big, white drifts there'll be to-morrow!" Toward one o'clock the first furious rush of the storm had passed and it had settled into a fifty-mile-an-hour wind, bitterly cold, with snow that drove against the building in fine particles. Freezing air never ceased to enter the thin walls of boards and tar paper. It was necessary to keep the cast-iron stove red-hot to secure anything like comfort. And to this dreadful cold and snow, thought Lee, Imogene would have been left deliberately by Ruth Gardner and Gretzinger! Carrigan bade the others roll up in their blankets and get what sleep they could while he and Bryant tended the fire. Lee saw that Dave was warm and well-wrapped. The men, worn out by prolonged exertions, made themselves beds on the floor or stretched themselves out on their seats, drew their coverings closer, closed their eyes, slept. The contractor and the engineer, together before the fire, continued to talk in low tones. "Haven't told you yet," said Pat, presently, "but we picked up that Mexican this evening who was trying to start a drunk Christmas Eve. It was while you were at Sarita Creek. Saurez told me he had sneaked into camp and meant mischief. Some of us caught him behind the commissary tent with a can of oil, just ready to fire the camp." "A fine night for us all to have been left without shelter," Lee remarked. "Where is he?" "In the hospital tied up, with a trusty man to watch him. Here's what I found on him. Look inside." And Pat handed over a dirty leather bag with a long string. "Found this around his neck." Lee extracted four pieces of paper from the sack--all checks drawn to the order of F. Alvarez. Besides these there were two twenty-dollar gold pieces, three rings, and several unset turquoises. "Well, we can make use of these checks," he said, after thought. "I'll talk to the fellow to-morrow." He restored the miscellaneous collection of property to the sack. On the panes of the small windows the snow beat and the wind hammered. Carrigan stuffed the stove with pine knots. Afterward he refilled his pipe, cast a sharp glance about at the sleeping occupants of the room, and said: "You've got what you need now to mix medicine with the banker." He confirmed his words with several satisfied nods. "Yes," said Bryant. Carrigan proceeded to meditate. "Awhile back I sent for some more dynamite," he stated, breaking the silence. "Didn't say anything to you about it at the time. It was there in the commissary tent under a stack of cases of peaches and bags of coffee. If this Alvarez had got his oil on that canvas and a fire going, there sure would have been some fire-works. You would have had a reservoir blown right in the middle of your project, I'm thinking." "What in the name of heaven do you want with dynamite!" "Well, my boy, there's a lot of ground that can't be dug, but I never saw any that nitro wouldn't move. What I got is dirt-blowing dynamite, the kind powder companies sell for making drainage ditches and blowing stumps and so on. I didn't know whether I should have to use it, but I always like to have a trick up my sleeve. Powder is ordinarily too expensive to employ when fresnos can work, yet it's just the thing in a pinch. We're in an emergency now. If it should set in and snow right along, with one storm on top of another, as may happen after so long a mild season, powder even may not help us out. These last eight hundred yards are going to make us weep before we're through, I'm guessing. But just the same, I'm counting on this dynamite. It can't blow like this forever, and the minute it quits we'll grab hold." Lee twisted about to look at a window. The particles of snow were biting at the glass relentlessly, while the howl of the gale told only too plainly how the drifts were being heaped on the dark mesa. "We'll finish this ditch on time even if hell freezes over," he said, slowly. "I'm not going to be beaten at this late day." He continued to sit gazing at the frosted panes and harkening to the roaring blasts. On the floor and in the chairs the blanketed men slept heavily. Pat fed the fire anew. But through the cracks of the walls the cold sifted more and more intense, while along the edges of the boards there formed thick fringes of glistening frost. CHAPTER XXIX For four days the bitter cold and fierce wind held the camps in thrall, then the latter blew itself out. The cold, however, still endured though the sun shone. When one looked forth from camp, all that could be seen was a snowbound earth; mesa and mountains were as white and silent as some polar region; nothing moved; nothing seemed to live out yonder. It was like a dazzling, frigid, extinct world. The main mesa road was blocked and telephone wires were down. What went on outside the limits of the camp's snow-drifted horizon its dwellers knew not--nor for the moment cared. Work was the only thought. With hastily constructed snow-plows roads had been broken among the tents and shacks as soon as the weather allowed, and afterward broad paths made to the working ground. The section of undug canal was now scraped bare. There, sheltered by tents and warmed by sagebrush fires, men bored in the iron-like earth powder-holes in rows that exactly aligned the canal. On the morning of the fifth day a first stretch of fifty yards was blown out, whereupon teams and scrapers were rushed into the ragged cavity to deepen and clear the ditch before the soil froze anew. This was at the north end. In the afternoon one hundred yards at the south end went up in a blast and crews from the main camp fell upon this area. That night the sky clouded over again. All the next day snow came down steadily. The workmen played cards in the mess tents and waited. Carrigan busied himself at accounts and waited. Bryant waited, with impatience and anxiety gnawing at his heart. There were six hundred yards and more unexcavated, and but three days of his time remained. The snow ceased at nightfall and work was instantly resumed by aid of the torches; again the desperate scraping of snow, bundled men at fires and sheltered by windbreaks, the drilling of holes in the frozen ground, the reliefs every two hours, the thawing of nipped fingers and toes and noses. All night hot food and boiling coffee were served at intervals to the cold and hungry labourers. At nine o'clock next morning two hundred yards of dirt went spraying into the air, with the subsequent struggle in the long hole: fresnos bearing forth what earth was loose and what the plows broke out; the horses, blinded by the glare of snow, staggering forward under curse and lash; the men toiling in a sort of grim fury. A maximum of effort finished one hundred and fifty yards more by eleven o'clock. Carrigan ordered all work to stop until nine next morning. "The men are 'all in'," he told Lee. "We'll crack this last nut to-morrow." "But what if it sets in to snow? More than two hundred and fifty yards left to do, and only to-morrow and the day after to work." "We'll have to risk it." "Will your powder hold out?" "Yes." He regarded Bryant keenly. "Say, what you need isn't information but sleep. You worked all day yesterday, and all last night, and to-day again, and here it is going on midnight. I'm going to tell you the schedule for to-morrow to calm your mind, then you roll into your blankets. At nine o'clock in the morning all hands except the cooks go at the drills and stay by them till the stretch is holed. Whenever that's done, which should be about evening, we shoot the chunk. And after that we hit the bottom with every scraper and fresno and horse and man, with the cooks fighting the coffee-boilers, and never come out of the ditch till the last lump of dirt is moved. That's the programme. I figure it will be about midnight when the last card's turned, maybe an hour or so after. I promised the men double wages and a box of cigars apiece out of the store and a few other things perhaps--I don't remember. So you get your sleep, for there's a big day ahead to-morrow. That dirt all goes out before you'll have another chance to hit the hay." Bryant arose next morning at seven. The sky was overcast and the thermometer was sixteen below zero when he examined it. Across the snow he could see the north camp stirring to life, awakening in the frosty, pallid light of dawn. Stretching thither ran uneven snowy ridges, save at one place where they lay bare and brown--the banks of the canal. When the small interval still undug was moved, the ditch would be finished from river to ranch, from the Pinas down to Perro. And this was to be the last day of toil! To-day the camps were to hurl themselves at that short remaining strip of earth and tear it out; the furrow so long pressed ahead through the iron ground was to be brought to an end; the enemy, frost, was to be conquered at last. When he thought of the inexorable labour done under heart-breaking conditions, in spite of cold and wind and snow, and with sufferings and deprivations little considered. Bryant felt for the workmen, rough though they were, a strong affection. They had done the bitter work. "Out goes the chunk to-day," was Pat's greeting that morning. A spirit of eagerness, almost of enthusiasm, pervaded the crews that first went forth in the cold to work at the drills. It was the final attack, and they went from their steaming breakfast with jests and laughter that rang back over the snow. Sixteen below zero, and they laughed! Bryant had a sudden conviction that nothing could stop such men--neither weather, nor elements, nor fate itself. They were heroes not to be daunted. They swung the hammer of Thor against the earth and were worthy of an epic. Toward the middle of the afternoon of that day Carrigan said to the engineer: "We're making better time than I calculated. The holes will all be drilled by five o'clock; we're loading them as they're done and we'll shoot at five-thirty." "What about supper?" "Supper at five. Then the men will be back and ready to jump in the ditch when the shot's fired." "And be done twenty-four hours before the hour set by the Land and Water Board," said Lee. "That's cutting it fine enough as it is. Who's that waving yonder toward camp?" And Carrigan pointed a mittened hand at a figure swinging an arm and shouting Bryant's name. The engineer stared for a time. "Charlie Menocal," he said, finally. "Morgan--Morgan, come here!" he called. And as Morgan came to join him, Lee addressed Pat, "I'll just run over to Bartolo with this young scoundrel. The road's open and I'll be back by dark. Want Morgan to come along to look after him and Alvarez, the man you caught." "Better start back in plenty of time. The sky's thickening again. More snow in sight, Lee." "I shall." "You might invite old man Menocal to return with you," Pat remarked, with a grin, "and see us put the kibosh on his dream of owning the Pinas River. What are you going to do with this boy of his? Send him over the road?" "I haven't decided yet." "That's where he ought to go, after trying to burn us out the night of the blizzard." He turned away to the work. "You're not to let this fellow over there waiting for us get away, Morgan," Lee stated. "I'll freeze on to him." They went along the snowy path toward camp, coming up with Menocal, who waited until they arrived and then accompanied them toward Bryant's office. "Have a letter for you from Ruth," he said. "Had a terrible time getting up from Kennard. Road isn't half opened, but I found a man to drive me home. Promised Ruth to deliver this to you." He drew the letter from an inner pocket and handed it to the engineer, who glanced at the writing on the envelope, his own name, and shoved the epistle into his glove. When they gained camp, Lee said: "Morgan and I are going to Bartolo with you, and also a friend of yours called Alvarez. We nabbed him as he was trying to burn our camp about two hours before the blizzard. Take this man to headquarters, Morgan, and keep him till I come over." Menocal's face became livid with anger and alarm. "Let me go, damn you!" he shouted, shrilly. Bryant waved a hand towards the engineers' shack and thither Charlie was propelled, cursing and struggling, in Morgan's firm grasp. Entering his office, Lee closed the door, walked to the stove, and standing there produced the letter. It was the first and only missive he had ever received from Ruth. He gazed at the envelope and the scrawled writing on it with an impression of strangeness, but this gave way to a curiosity as to the contents. He had a strong suspicion of the letter's purport. Ruth would have reviewed her conduct that night at Sarita Creek, and, with her instinctive cunning, perceived it would alienate Lee. The message doubtless carried an adroit explanation and excuse, ending up with numerous declarations of her affection and hypocritical assertions of her anxiety on his account. Disgust overwhelmed him. He was minded to cast the thing into the stove unread. At last, however, muttering to himself, he thrust a forefinger under the flap and ripped the envelope open. A newspaper clipping that had been enclosed in the letter dropped to the floor. He read: DEAR LEE: After thinking the matter over very carefully, I've decided to release you from our engagement. If this pains you, as I fear it will, I'm extremely sorry, but I've discovered that we're not temperamentally suited to each other. You've failed, besides, so I understand, which further convinces me of that. And in addition, I've learned of late that I love another, who loves me. Therefore it's much better that I take this step, much better and much wiser--don't you think so? However, Lee, I shall always be your friend. It may interest you to know that this evening Mr. Gretzinger and I are to be married. Privately, with only a few close friends. We depart immediately after the ceremony for New York. Mr. Menocal is to pack my things at Sarita Creek, so you need not bother about them. I understand Imogene is visiting at the Graham ranch; I'm dropping her a note there telling her the news. With best wishes, RUTH. Bryant lifted from the floor and read the clipping. It was a short announcement, evidently from a Kennard paper, of the prospective wedding that night of Miss Ruth Gardner, of Sarita Creek, and Mr. J. Senton Gretzinger, of New York. When he had read this, Lee gently tilted and shook the envelope. But no diamond solitaire dropped out. CHAPTER XXX They were waiting in the sheriff's office in the court house in Bartolo. They were waiting for Mr. Menocal. Winship had sent a messenger for him. At one place in the room, handcuffed and tied, sat the evil-eyed Alvarez; at another sat Charlie Menocal, silent and apprehensive and with a sickly pallor showing under his dusky skin; and between them lounged Morgan. The sheriff and Bryant stood across the room conversing of the storm. "I thought your goose was cooked when that blizzard hit us," Winship was saying. "Froze, you mean," was Lee's smiling reply. "I thought so myself for a while. We've hammered along, however. To-night the last dirt goes out." "That was an idea now--powder." "It was Carrigan's, not mine. It saved us. The old man has forgotten more than I ever knew. Here's the banker now." The door swung open, admitting Menocal, blinking from the snow's sheen. He bade the sheriff and the engineer good day, glanced sharply at them and then at the others. When his look encountered his son, his eyebrows went up. "So you're home finally," he addressed him. "After two weeks' time!" His regard moved about from one to another of the trio. "What does this mean, Charlie? Who is that fellow wearing handcuffs?" He paused, staring steadily at his son. "What have you been doing to bring you into Winship's office?" As Charlie continued to sit silent, he turned to the sheriff. "I'll explain, Mr. Menocal, but what I have to say won't be pleasant hearing for you," Lee stated, at a nod from Winship. "Take this chair, if you please." The banker sat down, heavily. He sighed, while his fat cheeks shook with a slight tremble. "What has he done?" he asked, with his eyes fixed on an ink-well on the sheriff's desk. Briefly and without temper Bryant related the circumstance of seeing Alvarez in Kennard one day during the previous summer, when the man appeared to be watching him. Charlie was also in town on that day. Alvarez was the man who had attempted to make the workmen drunk in camp on Christmas Eve, but he had escaped on that occasion. He had stolen into camp again on the afternoon preceding the blizzard and two hours after sundown had been captured seeking to fire the commissary tent. When made a prisoner, he had been searched. On his person were found several checks for sums ranging from fifty to one hundred dollars. Bryant drew the leather sack from his pocket, extracted the checks, and handed them to the banker. "You see they are given by your son," said he. "I've questioned this Alvarez and he has finally admitted that he was employed by Charlie and instructed by him what to do. Your son, therefore, is the instigator of the attempted crime, and Alvarez, an ignorant and brutal outlaw from Mexico, was merely his tool. I pass over the matter of the whisky and the petty inconveniences earlier caused me and my men. But here is an act of a different character, Mr. Menocal. The man's endeavour to fire our camp, had it been successful, would perhaps have resulted in the death of scores of men, as the storm broke shortly after and they would have been without shelter." Charlie Menocal sprang to his feet. "Before God, I didn't know he would choose that night!" he cried, passionately. "I meant only to stop their work!" His father shook his head sadly. "That makes no difference, my son; you planned a wicked deed," he said, in a barely audible voice. Morgan pushed the young man back upon his chair and Bryant went on. As he proceeded, he had found it harder and harder to address the parent; and his task was no easier now. The eyes of the father had gone to the slender, sagging figure of his son and seemed to be the eyes of an expiring man; his plump cheeks were working under an excess of emotion; then his head went down suddenly as under the blow of a club. "Because of the character of the act," Lee said, "it wasn't only a stroke at me but at every animal and man in the entire south camp. I want to make this clear in order to show how black and dastardly the thing was. Whether Charlie understood or intended the destruction of all the lives and property there is no excuse; it was a deed that would have carried terrible results in its train. I don't even let my mind conceive them. All this has followed, Mr. Menocal, from the single fact that your son disliked me in the beginning. To that may be added an idea that I was depriving you of something to which I had no right, namely, the title to the Perro Creek canal appropriation. And there, I think, responsibility for his course touches you." He paused to gaze at the Mexican, whose face had become drained of colour. "Mr. Menocal, the water is mine," he continued, "and to-night some time it will be mine beyond all dispute, for then the ditch will be finished. So much for that. Some days ago we had a talk that, I believe, led us each to a better opinion of the other. I think that as a leader here in Bartolo and around about you're a force for good; you believe in law, order, and education; and I know, from what I've learned, that you carry many of the people on store accounts for long periods when crops are bad or when they are distressed by sickness. I'm confident you're endeavouring to elevate them so far as possible; and I admit frankly that I've modified very greatly my first estimation of you. That weighs in the scale against Charlie's actions. "Then there's one kindness Charlie himself has done me, though he may not be aware of the fact. I'll not say what it is; let it suffice that it is the case. A very great kindness it was, indeed! I count that likewise in the opposite scale. And then there are other things to consider, one among them that after all no harm has come to me. The enmity he's held for me has simply recoiled upon his own head. All he has to show for it after months of hating and contriving is his position here in this room to-day--and a dead dog. Surely it must make plain to him that his course has been not only futile but foolish." The engineer glanced at the young fellow. He sat in an attitude of despair that almost equalled his father's. "Well, that brings me to the point," Bryant said. "You've been too indulgent with Charlie, Mr. Menocal, as you once acknowledged to me. You've given him too much money, too much admiration, too much head, and it has led him up against the bars of the state prison. The question is whether or not I shall open the gate and push him in, as at first I determined to do on securing the proof in this leather sack. If I thought he would keep on along his present line, I should say yes, merely as a matter of public policy, but I've had several days to think the thing over and have come to the conclusion he'll soon realize his folly, if he doesn't now. And another restraint should be the good name and the happiness of his father. I'm not vindictive, Mr. Menocal, and less on this day than I've ever been. I don't believe in causing people misery merely for the pleasure of inflicting it or because I happen to have the power. We all have enough to contend with, as it is. I don't propose to ruin your position here, and end your influence, and blast your life, by sending your son to the penitentiary. That would make me no happier, and would make a number of people infinitely wretched, while perhaps starting Charlie on the road to hell. Very likely so. I much prefer to see everyone cheerful and at work. Suppose we ship this fellow yonder back to Mexico--Winship can arrange that--and destroy the checks, and tear up this sheet of Charlie's record, so to speak. Only one or two persons besides ourselves know of the matter and I'll ask them to forget it." Lee struck a match and ignited the checks, holding them while they burned until at last he dropped them on the floor, where they blazed, curled up in strips of black ash, and were no more. He glanced about at the others. Winship was picking his teeth with a quill toothpick, with his mind apparently far away on other matters. Morgan stolidly chewed tobacco and kept a wary eye on the bandit, Alvarez. Charlie sat pale, limp, gazing at nothing. The elder Menocal had lifted his eyes to Bryant, at whom he looked mistily; he appeared to have aged astonishingly, his cheeks having gone flabby, slack, and gray, while a slight tremour shook his head. "That's all, I guess," Bryant said, briskly. "We'll just consider our relations established on the same footing they were before this occurrence." He put out a hand, smiling. The banker struggled to his feet and clasped it in both of his. "They shall not be on the same footing, but on a better one, Mr. Bryant, if it's in my power to make them so," he exclaimed, in a choked voice. "That suits me right down to the ground, Mr. Menocal." The Mexican was silent. His lips parted, quivered, and shut again. His hold on the engineer's hand tightened. "I--I can't talk now, can't say what I wish to say," he said, mastered by feeling. "When I'm more myself, when I can talk--another time----" He ceased, but presently finished, "Another time I'll tell the gratitude in my heart. Now my shame for my son and for myself----Come, Charlie, take me home." They went out. Winship came to life and crossing the room dragged the outlaw Mexican to his feet, then pushed him over the floor and into the hall on his way to the cells in the basement. Morgan pulled on his hat. Bryant glanced at the paper ashes on the floor, then did likewise. It was time to get back to camp. CHAPTER XXXI The first snowflakes of another storm were beginning to flutter down by the time the two men reached camp, and dusk had set in. On the drifted road from Bartolo, over which but few wagons had passed, travel was slow and they had consumed an hour and a half on their return. The torches were burning along the canal, appearing at a distance like winter fireflies, but the crews of workmen had gone to supper. Bryant and Morgan, when they drove down the street in camp, could hear them at their meal in the glowing mess tents--a subdued hubbub of plates and knives and voices. Half an hour later they were pouring forth toward the horse tents, while the engineers were making their way along the torch-lit path to the stretch of undug canal. "We'll allow fifteen minutes for them to get the teams out, then shoot," Carrigan said to Lee, as they moved along. "All the shots are in and double-fused. Doesn't appear to be any wind behind this snow." The air, though cold, was still. The flakes were not yet falling heavily and they lay on the hard crust of snow as light as silk fluff. What might be coming down in another hour from the darkness overhead, however, could not be foretold, while if both a gale and a great fall of snow occurred the labour of the night would be increased a hundred-fold. Bryant's anxiety was no longer on account of the time limit fixed by the Land and Water Board. He knew that since the revelations made in the sheriff's office the claimant Rodriguez would never press his case, even were the canal never completed. But he had the keen desire of a tired man to clean up the job and be done, and a pride in keeping faith with himself in accomplishing what he had sworn he should do, build the project in ninety days. He would never have it said by any one that he had failed in that. By Gretzinger, for example. Ruth in particular! She believed that he had already failed when she wrote her letter. By the end of the quarter of an hour prescribed by Carrigan teams and workmen were coming along the snowy road in a long line. From the north camp also a string of animals in pairs was advancing by light of the torches. A warning shout sounded from the ditch section. Men retreated. Then a roaring boom burst upon the night, with other thunderous reports following in rapid succession, until it seemed that the mined earth cascading upward in the darkness was the bombardment of scores of cannon. The flames of the torches and the falling snow tossed and whirled at the percussion of air. Showers of clay rained upon the earth. Vibrations jarred the ground. Then the companies of horses and men, fastening upon scrapers, hastened into the trench. The remaining strip that joined the two sections of canal had been blown out and now this was the final, culminating assault. When this two hundred and fifty yards of ditch line had been widened and deepened to correspond to the rest, water would flow of summers in a small river from the dam down to the broad acres of Perro Creek ranch. Hour after hour the steady labour proceeded--plows ran; flat scrapers and wheeled fresnos followed, scooped up the earth, bore it to the banks above; horses tugged and strained; men toiled, pausing only to thaw their feet and hands at fires burning by the ditch or to drain great tin-cups of the scalding coffee that the cooks dipped from cans. And steadily the excavation widened and deepened hour by hour, the slope of the sides becoming apparent, the banks rising higher and the ditch assuming its desired shape and size. At eleven o'clock the cooks wheeled immense canisters of sliced beef and bread among the workmen, who seized the food and ate it as they worked. At midnight the plows were cutting near the bottom, and the work was going faster, as the frost did not strike this deep into the soil. At one o'clock in the morning, amid thickening snow, the last scraperfuls of dirt were going out, while the engineers, with their long rules, were checking depths and slopes. "By golly, she's about done!" exclaimed Dave, who had been permitted to remain up on this eventful night and who had been moving about, here, there, and everywhere, in a great state of excitement. "By golly, she is, Lee!" "Yes, by golly; the ditch you helped me survey, too." "By golly, yes!" He had forgotten that. The last dirt moved with a rush. Then, even as the teams were dragging the loads from the excavation, Carrigan passed to a foreman the word that announced the end of work. It ran along the canal from mouth to mouth, at first in a call but finally in a shout that swelled to a roar of exultation. That roar rang over the snow and through the night like the cry of an army which has gained a walled city. "Done!" said Bryant, to himself. Back to the camps trooped the teams and men by the flare of the torches they carried in jubilation. Not a soul in all that company but felt the triumph beating in Lee's heart. Finished, built! Despite frost and snow they had driven the iron furrow through to the end, and on time. Toil-weary though they were, their spirits were light. They knew themselves fellow-workers in a redoubtable achievement. Carrigan and Bryant were among the last to go. To the latter there was in the fact of completion a sense of unreality. As he took a final view of the ditch before setting out for camp, events raced through his mind--his coming, his first labours, the confused interplay of his life with those of the Menocals, McDonnell, Gretzinger, Carrigan, Imogene, Ruth, and Louise; the months of incessant toil; of brain-racking and body-wearing endeavour to force the canal forward; of unresting strife with frost and snow and earth, of being under a pitiless hammer. He could not easily realize that he was now free of all this. "I have an empty feeling," he remarked to Carrigan. "One always has a 'let-down' after a hard job," was Pat's sage rejoinder. "You'll feel restless for maybe a week now." They went from the spot up the snowy road and turned in at Pat's shack for a smoke. Late as it was, neither felt the need of sleep as yet. "Well, it's a comfort to know that we don't have to plug again at that ground in the morning," Lee remarked, with a sigh of satisfaction. He had his feet on the table, his body relaxed, and his pipe going. "Yeah. The only disappointment I have," Pat said, "is not having lifted the bonds and stocks out of Gretzinger. If we hadn't been so pressed for time, we might have played him a little till he took the hook. I don't like his kind at all." Bryant laughed. "Why, he's the best friend I have," he exclaimed. "What do you think he did for me?" "Well, what? Besides trying to shake you down?" "Pat, he carried off and married my girl." The contractor lowered his feet, placed his hands upon his knees, and gazed at Bryant, with brows down-drawn and under lip up-thrust. "That good-for-nothing Ruth what's-her-name?" he demanded. In all the months of their association it was the first time he had ever spoken of her to Bryant. "Ruth Gardner, yes." Carrigan rose, gave Lee a long and solemn look, then went to a trunk in the corner of the room. This he unlocked and opened. From its interior he produced a black bottle. "I don't take a drink very often," he announced, coming forward and setting the bottle on the table, "but this is one of the times. We'll take one to celebrate your luck." CHAPTER XXXII About the middle of the next afternoon Lee Bryant was riding southward from camp on the main mesa trail. The road was difficult and his horse Dick made slow time along the snowy path broken by wagons through the drifts, but the rider let the animal choose his own gait, as he had done that hot July day when coming up from the south to buy the Perro Creek ranch. On reaching the ford Lee pulled rein. How different now the creek from on that burning afternoon of his encounter with Ruth Gardner and Imogene Martin! Snow covered its bed; the sands where he had knelt, the little pool, the foot-prints, lay hidden from sight. How much had happened since! And how different was his life! He had suffered much and learned much since that hour of meeting; and he should never henceforth view this spot without a little feeling of melancholy. The youth and two girls who drank there at the rill were no more: they had become other persons. Presently he dismissed thoughts of this and set Dick wading across the ford. Yonder he now could see the three bare cottonwoods, with the low adobe house near by where he and Dave had lived and laboured at the surveys for the project. The bones of his dog Mike, too, rested there under the ground. This brought to mind the meeting with Louise upon the road--and it was Louise to whom at this moment he was going. He began to urge Dick to greater efforts. Once on a stretch of road, bare and wind-swept, he pushed him into a gallop. It seemed interminable, this snow-bound trail. But at last he crossed Sarita Creek (with but a single glance at the cañon's mouth where the two cabins stood untenanted and abandoned among the naked trees) and then covered the long miles to Diamond Creek, and rode up the lane between the rows of cottonwoods to the house, where Louise, who had perceived his approach from a window, appeared at the door to greet him. "We were terribly alarmed for your safety the night of the blizzard," she said, "but the mail-man finally made his trip to Bartolo and back, and said you were still there and not blown away. And he also stated that you were working night and day." "Not any more," said Lee, swinging from the saddle. "You have finished! I can read it on your face!" she cried, joyfully. "Yes; we threw out the last clod at one o'clock this morning." "I needn't tell you that I'm proud and happy; you know that, Lee. Even happier than when I learned you were able to continue, at the time you supposed you were unable. Put up your horse and come in. You're half frozen." Bryant endeavoured to discover from her face what he wished to know, but did not succeed. So he asked: "Have you had your mail lately?" "Not for three days. The mail-man made one trip and then the next snow closed the road again to Kennard." Lee went off to stable Dick. On his return he found Louise at the door still waiting, and she helped him to remove his overcoat and scarf when they passed in to the fire. Then they pushed a divan forward and she bade him spread out his hands before the blaze. "It wasn't so long ago that we agreed we mustn't see each other again, and here we are together," he stated, with a pretense of solemnity. He extended his hands to the heat and moved his fingers about to expel their numbness. "I don't know what your father would say if he knew all the circumstances." "I--I don't know, either," Louise stammered, in dismay at the thought. "How's Imogene?" he inquired. "Improving slowly. All she needed was to get away from that horrid cabin and horrid--well, surroundings." "And your father's here?" "At one of the feed corrals, I think. He had all the cattle rounded up before the blizzard and held here and fed. A big task, with several thousand head." "Then we're safe," said Lee. Louise looked at him doubtfully. She knew not what to make of this talk and his portentous air, and felt a new apprehension rising in her mind. "What is it? What has happened now, Lee?" she whispered. But all at once he began to laugh. He caught her hand and holding it gazed, smiling, into her eyes. Then he drew from his pocket an envelope, which (still keeping prisoner the hand he had captured) he waved to and fro before her eyes. "If I didn't know you well, I'd think you had lost your wits," she cried. "I have--wits and heart both. With joy! Wait, I'll take the letter out so that you can read it. The only blessed thing I ever knew her to do! I bless her for it, at any rate." He pulled the letter and the clipping from their cover and laid them in Louise's hand. "Read, read the tidings!" The girl's fingers began to tremble as her eyes flitted along the lines. But she read no more than the first part of the letter. She turned to him with her eyes misty, her face radiant. "I could weep for happiness--but I'm not going to." She made a little dab with her handkerchief at her lashes. "Oh, Lee, to think you're free! And that now we may love each other!" "I thought we did." "Of course we did--but you know what I mean." "You didn't read it all," said he. "You don't know yet the poor opinion she has of me." Louise crumpled the letter in her hand and cast it into the flames. "Nor do I want to know it," she exclaimed. "All I care about is my own opinion of you, and our love. That's enough. Perhaps we shall be all the happier for the little misery she caused us." Her eyes dwelt proudly upon him, upon his face that showed new lines of strength, that was clear and calm, that revealed a spirit come to full manhood, that was luminous with the love she inspired. He had taken her hands and was regarding her tenderly. "Ruth rendered me one service," said he. "She taught me that there's an appearance which may be mistaken for the substance. That shall be to her credit." He sat silent, smiling thoughtfully for a moment. Then he raised his eyes and drew Louise toward him. "But you, Louise, awoke real love." His arms enclosed her fast and their lips met in a first kiss. "We shall walk among the flowers and in the orchard again, Lee dear," she murmured, "as we did once before. And I shall bring you buttermilk as I did that morning--but there will be no Charlie Menocal." "No. Charlie won't annoy us in the future." "And when the snow is gone we'll ride along your canal----" "Our canal now, sweetheart." "Along our canal and see where you worked so hard and struggled and won, and I'll listen while you point here and there and tell of the obstacles overcome, and of all you did. We shall be gay and happy." "As I'm happy now," he said, softly. "Do you know what I see there in the firelight? A building, a house--our home." Louise's face lifted to his, all sweetness and trust. "I see it, too," she murmured. "On Perro Creek ranch," Lee continued, "with the sagebrush gone and in its place fields of grain and alfalfa spreading out to the horizon, with water rippling along in little canals and fat cows standing about, and contented farmers at work, and perhaps a railroad somewhere in the background, and ourselves in the foreground by our new home, where flowers are growing, too, and--and----" Louise's arms slipped up and about his neck, until her cheek rested against his. "You dream and then you build--you dream and make your dreams come true," she said. "You're my dreamer-builder." Lee was smiling. The caress in her words, the warm touch of her cheek, her heart beating against his, all made his happiness complete. "And your lover," he whispered. THE END * * * * * =Popular Copyright Novels= _AT MODERATE PRICES_ Ask Your Dealer for a Complete List of A.L. Burt Company's Popular Copyright Fiction * * * * * =Adventures of Jimmie Dale, The.= By Frank L. Packard. =Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.= By A. Conan Doyle. =After House, The.= By Mary Roberts Rinehart. =Ailsa Paige.= By Robert W. Chambers. =Alton of Somasco.= By Harold Bindloss. =Amateur Gentleman, The.= By Jeffery Farnol. =Anna, the Adventuress.= By E. Phillips Oppenheim. =Anne's House of Dreams.= By L.M. Montgomery. =Around Old Chester.= By Margaret Deland. =Athalie.= By Robert W. Chambers. =At the Mercy of Tiberius.= By Augusta Evans Wilson. =Auction Block, The.= By Rex Beach. =Aunt Jane of Kentucky.= By Eliza C. Hall. =Awakening of Helena Richie.= By Margaret Deland. =Bab: a Sub-Deb.= By Mary Roberts Rinehart. =Barrier, The.= By Rex Beach. =Barbarians.= By Robert W. Chambers. =Bargain True, The.= By Nalbro Bartley. =Bar 20.= By Clarence E. Mulford. =Bar 20 Days.= By Clarence E. Mulford. =Bars of Iron, The.= By Ethel M. Dell. =Beasts of Tarzan, The.= By Edgar Rice Burroughs. =Beloved Traitor, The.= By Frank L. Packard. =Beltane the Smith.= By Jeffery Farnol. =Betrayal, The.= By E. Phillips Oppenheim. =Beyond the Frontier.= By Randall Parrish. =Big Timber.= By Bertrand W. Sinclair. =Black Is White.= By George Barr McCutcheon. =Blind Man's Eyes, The.= By Wm. MacHarg and Edwin Balmer. =Bob, Son of Battle.= By Alfred Ollivant. =Boston Blackie.= By Jack Boyle. =Boy with Wings, The.= By Berta Ruck. =Brandon of the Engineers.= By Harold Bindloss. =Broad Highway, The.= By Jeffery Farnol. =Brown Study, The.= By Grace S. Richmond. =Bruce of the Circle A.= By Harold Titus. =Buck Peters, Ranchman.= By Clarence E. Mulford. =Business of Life, The.= By Robert W. Chambers. Popular Copyright Novels _AT MODERATE PRICES_ Ask Your Dealer for a Complete List of A.L. Burt Company's Popular Copyright Fiction * * * * * =Cabbages and Kings.= By O. Henry. =Cabin Fever.= By B.M. Bower. =Calling of Dan Matthews, The.= By Harold Bell Wright. =Cape Cod Stories.= By Joseph C. Lincoln. =Cap'n Abe, Storekeeper.= By James A. Cooper. =Cap'n Dan's Daughter.= By Joseph C. Lincoln. =Cap'n Eri.= By Joseph C. Lincoln. =Cap'n Jonah's Fortune.= By James A. Cooper. =Cap'n Warren's Wards.= By Joseph C. Lincoln. =Chain of Evidence, A.= By Carolyn Wells. =Chief Legatee, The.= By Anna Katharine Green. =Cinderella Jane.= By Marjorie B. Cooke. =Cinema Murder, The.= By E. Phillips Oppenheim. =City of Masks, The.= By George Barr McCutcheon. =Cleek of Scotland Yard.= By T.W. Hanshew. =Cleek, The Man of Forty Faces.= By Thomas W. Hanshew. =Cleek's Government Cases.= By Thomas W. Hanshew. =Clipped Wings.= By Rupert Hughes. =Clue, The.= By Carolyn Wells. =Clutch of Circumstance, The.= By Marjorie Benton Cooke. =Coast of Adventure, The.= By Harold Bindloss. =Coming of Cassidy, The.= By Clarence E. Mulford. =Coming of the Law, The.= By Chas. A. Seltzer. =Conquest of Canaan, The.= By Booth Tarkington. =Conspirators, The.= By Robert W. Chambers. =Court of Inquiry, A.= By Grace S. Richmond. =Cow Puncher, The.= By Robert J.C. Stead. =Crimson Gardenia, The, and Other Tales of Adventure.= By Rex Beach. =Cross Currents.= By Author of "Pollyanna." =Cry in the Wilderness, A.= By Mary E. Waller. =Danger, And Other Stories.= By A. Conan Doyle. =Dark Hollow, The.= By Anna Katharine Green. =Dark Star, The.= By Robert W. Chambers. =Daughter Pays, The.= By Mrs. Baillie Reynolds. =Day of Days, The.= By Louis Joseph Vance. =Depot Master, The.= By Joseph C. Lincoln. =Desired Woman, The.= By Will N. Harben. =Popular Copyright Novels= _AT MODERATE PRICES_ Ask Your Dealer for a Complete List of A.L. Burt Company's Popular Copyright Fiction * * * * * =Destroying Angel, The=. By Louis Jos. Vance. =Devil's Own, The.= By Randall Parrish. =Double Traitor, The.= By E. Phillips Oppenheim. =Empty Pockets.= By Rupert Hughes. =Eyes of the Blind, The.= By Arthur Somers Roche. =Eye of Dread, The.= By Payne Erskine. =Eyes of the World, The.= By Harold Bell Wright. =Extricating Obadiah.= By Joseph C. Lincoln. =Felix O'Day.= By F. Hopkinson Smith. =54-40 or Fight.= By Emerson Hough. =Fighting Chance, The.= By Robert W. Chambers. =Fighting Shepherdess, The.= By Caroline Lockhart. =Financier, The.= By Theodore Dreiser. =Flame, The.= By Olive Wadsley. =Flamsted Quarries=. By Mary E. Wallar. =Forfeit, The.= By Ridgwell Cullum. =Four Million, The.= By O. Henry. =Fruitful Vine, The.= By Robert Hichens. =Further Adventures of Jimmie Dale, The.= By Frank L. Packard. =Girl of the Blue Ridge, A.= By Payne Erskine. =Girl from Keller's, The.= By Harold Bindloss. =Girl Philippa, The.= By Robert W. Chambers. =Girls at His Billet, The.= By Berta Ruck. =God's Country and the Woman.= By James Oliver Curwood. =Going Some.= By Rex Beach. =Golden Slipper, The.= By Anna Katharine Green. =Golden Woman, The.= By Ridgwell Cullum. =Greater Love Hath No Man.= By Frank L. Packard. =Greyfriars Bobby.= By Eleanor Atkinson. =Gun Brand, The.= By James B. Hendryx. =Halcyone.= By Elinor Glyn. =Hand of Fu-Manchu, The.= By Sax Rohmer. =Havoc.= By E. Phillips Oppenheim. =Heart of the Desert, The.= By Honoré Willsie. =Heart of the Hills, The.= By John Fox, Jr. =Popular Copyright Novels= _AT MODERATE PRICES_ Ask Your Dealer for a Complete List of A.L. Burt Company's Popular Copyright Fiction * * * * * =Heart of the Sunset.= By Rex Beach. =Heart of Thunder Mountain, The.= By Edfrid A. Bingham. =Her Weight in Gold.= By Geo. B. McCutcheon. =Hidden Children, The.= By Robert W. Chambers. =Hidden Spring, The.= By Clarence B. Kelland. =Hillman, The.= By E. Phillips Oppenheim. =Hills of Refuge, The.= By Will N. Harben. =His Official Fiancee.= By Berta Ruck. =Honor of the Big Snows.= By James Oliver Curwood. =Hopalong Cassidy.= By Clarence E. Mulford. =Hound from the North, The.= By Ridgwell Cullum. =House of the Whispering Pines, The.= By Anna Katharine Green. =Hugh Wynne, Free Quaker.= By S. Weir Mitchell, M.D. =I Conquered.= By Harold Titus. =Illustrious Prince, The.= By E. Phillips Oppenheim. =In Another Girl's Shoes.= By Berta Ruck. =Indifference of Juliet, The.= By Grace S. Richmond. =Infelice.= By Augusta Evans Wilson. =Initials Only.= By Anna Katharine Green. =Inner Law, The.= By Will N. Harben. =Innocent.= By Marie Corelli. =Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu, The.= By Sax Rohmer. =In the Brooding Wild.= By Ridgwell Cullum. =Intriguers, The.= By Harold Bindloss. =Iron Trail, The.= By Rex Beach. =Iron Woman, The.= By Margaret Deland. =I Spy.= By Natalie Sumner Lincoln. =Japonette.= By Robert W. Chambers. =Jean of the Lazy A.= By B.M. Bower. =Jeanne of the Marshes.= By E. Phillips Oppenheim. =Jennie Gerhardt.= By Theodore Dreiser. =Judgment House, The.= By Gilbert Parker. =Keeper of the Door, The.= By Ethel M. Dell. =Keith of the Border.= By Randall Parrish. =Kent Knowles: Quahaug.= By Joseph C. Lincoln. =Kingdom of the Blind, The.= By E. Phillips Oppenheim. =Popular Copyright Novels= _AT MODERATE PRICES_ Ask Your Dealer for a Complete List of A.L. Burt Company's Popular Copyright Fiction * * * * * =King Spruce.= By Holman Day. =King's Widow, The.= By Mrs. Baillie Reynolds. =Knave of Diamonds, The.= By Ethel M. Dell. =Ladder of Swords.= By Gilbert Parker. =Lady Betty Across the Water.= By C.N. & A.M. Williamson. =Land-Girl's Love Story, A.= By Berta Ruck. =Landloper, The.= By Holman Day. =Land of Long Ago, The.= By Eliza Calvert Hall. =Land of Strong Men, The.= By A.M. Chisholm. =Last Trail, The.= By Zane Grey. =Laugh and Live.= By Douglas Fairbanks. =Laughing Bill Hyde.= By Rex Beach. =Laughing Girl, The.= By Robert W. Chambers. =Law Breakers, The.= By Ridgwell Cullum. =Lifted Veil, The.= By Basil King. =Lighted Way, The.= By E. Phillips Oppenheim. =Lin McLean.= By Owen Wister. =Lonesome Land.= By B.M. Bower. =Lone Wolf, The.= By Louis Joseph Vance. =Long Ever Ago.= By Rupert Hughes. =Lonely Stronghold, The.= By Mrs. Baillie Reynolds. =Long Live the King..= By Mary Roberts Rinehart. =Long Roll, The.= By Mary Johnston. =Lord Tony's Wife.= By Baroness Orczy. =Lost Ambassador.= By E. Phillips Oppenheim. =Lost Prince, The.= By Frances Hodgson Burnett. =Lydia of the Pines.= By Honoré Willsie. =Maid of the Forest, The.= By Randall Parrish. =Maid of the Whispering Hills, The.= By Vingie E. Roe. =Maids of Paradise, The.= By Robert W. Chambers. =Major, The.= By Ralph Connor. =Maker of History; A.= By E. Phillips Oppenheim. =Malefactor, The.= By E. Phillips Oppenheim. =Man from Bar 20, The.= By Clarence E. Mulford. =Man in Grey, The.= By Baroness Orczy. =Man Trail, The.= By Henry Oyen. =Man Who Couldn't Sleep, The.= By Arthur Stringer. =Popular Copyright Novels= _AT MODERATE PRICES_ Ask Your Dealer for a Complete List of A.L. Burt Company's Popular Copyright Fiction * * * * * =Man with the Club Foot, The.= By Valentine Williams. =Mary-'Gusta.= By Joseph C. Lincoln. =Mary Moreland.= By Marie Van Vorst. =Mary Regan.= By Leroy Scott. =Master Mummer, The.= By E. Phillips Oppenheim. =Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes.= By A. Conan Doyle. =Men Who Wrought, The.= By Ridgwell Cullum. =Mischief Maker, The.= By E. Phillips Oppenheim. =Missioner, The.= By E. Phillips Oppenheim. =Miss Million's Maid.= By Berta Ruck. =Molly McDonald.= By Randall Parrish. =Money Master, The.= By Gilbert Parker. =Money Moon, The.= By Jeffery Farnol. =Mountain Girl, The.= By Payne Erskine. =Moving Finger, The.= By Natalie Sumner Lincoln. =Mr. Bingle.= By George Barr McCutcheon. =Mr. Grex of Monte Carlo.= By E. Phillips Oppenheim. =Mr. Pratt.= By Joseph C. Lincoln. =Mr. Pratt's Patients.= By Joseph C. Lincoln. =Mrs. Belfame.= By Gertrude Atherton. =Mrs. Red Pepper.= By Grace S. Richmond. =My Lady Caprice.= By Jeffrey Farnol. =My Lady of the North.= By Randall Parrish. =My Lady of the South.= By Randall Parrish. =Mystery of the Hasty Arrow, The.= By Anna K. Green. =Nameless Man, The.= By Natalie Sumner Lincoln. =Ne'er-Do-Well, The.= By Rex Beach. =Nest Builders, The.= By Beatrice Forbes-Robertson Hale. =Net, The.= By Rex Beach. =New Clarion.= By Will N. Harben. =Night Operator, The.= By Frank L. Packard. =Night Riders, The.= By Ridgwell Cullum. =Nobody.= By Louis Joseph Vance. =Okewood of the Secret Service.= By the Author of "The Man with the Club Foot." =One Way Trail, The.= By Ridgwell Cullum. =Open, Sesame.= By Mrs. Baillie Reynolds. =Otherwise Phyllis.= By Meredith Nicholson. =Outlaw, The.= By Jackson Gregory. * * * * * +------------------------------------------------------+ | Typographical errors corrected in text: | | | | page 19: mortage replaced by mortgage | | page 62: Monocal replaced by Menocal | | page 63: Monocal replaced by Menocal | | page 66: dissappointed replaced by disappointed | | page 130: Sante replaced by Santa | | | +------------------------------------------------------+ * * * * * 
548	----	PROJECT TRINITY 1945-1946 by Carl Maag and Steve Rohrer United States Atmospheric Nuclear Weapons Tests Nuclear Test Personnel Review Prepared by the Defense Nuclear Agency as Executive Agency for the Department of Defense Destroy this report when it is no longer needed. Do not return to sender. PLEASE NOITIFY THE DEFENSE NUCLEAR AGENCY, ATTN: STTI, WASINGTON D.C. 20305, IF YOUR ADDRESS IS INCORRECT, IF YOU WISH TO BE DELETED FROM THE DISTRIBUTION LIST, OR IF THE ADDRESSEE IS NO LONGER EMPLOYED BY YOUR ORGANIZATION. Since declassified CONTENTS: LIST OF FIGURES LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS AND ACRONYMS REPORT DOCUMENTATION PAGE FACT SHEET PREFACE CHAPTERS: 1 INTRODUCTION 1.1 Historical Background of Project TRINITY 1.2 The Project TRINITY Site 1.3 The Project TRINITY Organization 1.4 Military and Civilian Participants in Project TRINITY 2 THE ACTIVITIES AT PROJECT TRINITY 2.1 Preshot Activities 2.2 Detonation and Postshot Activities 2.3 Activities after 16 July 1945 3 RADIATION PROTECTION AT PROJECT TRINITY 3.1 Organization 3.2 Site Monitoring Group 3.3 Offsite Monitoring Group 4 DOSIMETRY ANALYSIS OF PARTICIPANTS IN PROJECT TRINITY 4.1 Film Badge Records 4.2 Gamma Radiation Exposure REFERENCE LIST LIST OF FIGURES 1-1 Location of Alamogordo Bombing Range 1-2 TRINITY Site and Major Installations 1-3 Tent Used as Guard Post at Project TRINITY 1-4 Truck Used as Guard Post at Project TRINITY 1-5 Organization of Project TRINITY 2-1 The TRINITY Shot-tower 2-2 The TRINITY Detonation, 0530 Hours, 16 July 1945 2-3 The South Shelter (Control Point) 2-4 Inside One of the Shelters 2-5 The Base Camp, Headquarters for Project TRINITY 2-5 The Base Camp, Headquarters for Project TRINITY 2-6 Project TRINITY Personnel Wearing Protective Clothing 2-7 "JUMBO" after the TRINITY Detonation LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS AND ACRONYMS The following abbreviations and acronyms are used in this volume: AEC Atomic Energy Commission DOD Department of Defense LASL Los Alamos Scientific Laboratory MAUD [Committee for the] Military Application of Uranium Detonation MED Manhattan Engineer District R/h roentgens per hour UTM Universal Transverse Mercator REPORT DOCUMENTATION PAGE SECURITY CLASSIFICATION OF THIS PAGE (When Data Entered): UNCLASSIFIED 1. REPORT NUMBER: DNA 6028F 2. GOVT ACCESSION NO.: 3. RECIPIENT'S CATALOG NUMBER: 4. TITLE (and Subtitle): PROJECT TRINITY 1945-1946 5. TYPE OF REPORT & PERIOD COVERED: Final Report 6. PERFORMING ORG. REPORT NUMBER: JRB 2-816-03-423-00 7. AUTHOR(S): Carl Maag, Steve Rorer 8. CONTRACT OR GRANT NUMBER(S): DNA 001-79-C-0473 9. PERFORMING ORGANIZATION NAME AND ADDRESS: JRB Associates 8400 Westpark Drive McLean, Virginia 22102 10. PROGRAM ELEMENT. PROJECT, TASK AREA & WORK UNIT NUMBERS: Subtask U99QAXMK506-08 11. CONTROLLING OFFICE NAME AND ADDRESS: Director Defense Nuclear Agency Washington, D.C. 20305 12. REPORT DATE: 15 December 1982 13. NUMBER OF PAGES: 76 14. MONITORING AGENCY NAME & ADDRESS(if different from Controlling Office): 15. SECURITY CLASS. (of this report): UNCLASSIFIED 15a. DECLASSIFICATION/DOWNGRADING SCHEDULE: N/A Since UNCLASSIFIED 16. DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT (of this Report): Approved for public release; distribution unlimited. 17. DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT (of the abstract entered In Block 20, If different from Report): 18. SUPPLEMENTARY NOTES: This work was sponsored by the Defense Nuclear Agency under RDT&E RMSS Code B350079464 U99QAXMK50608 H2590D. For sale by National Technical Information Service, Springfield, VA 22161. The Defense Nuclear Agency Action Officer, Lt. Col. H. L. Reese, USAF, under whom this work was done, wishes to acknowledge the research and editing contribution of numerous reviewers in the military services and other organizations in addition to those writers listed in block 7. 19. KEY WORDS (Continue on reverse side if necessary and Identify by block number): TRINITY Los Alamos Scientific Laboratory Alamogordo Bombing Range Manhattan Engineer District Manhattan Project Personnel Dosimetry Radiation Exposure Nuclear Weapons Testing 20. ABSTRACT: This report describes the activities of an estimated 1,000 personnel, both military and civilian, in Project TRINITY, which culminated in detonation of the first nuclear device, in New Mexico in 1945. Scientific and diagnostic experiments to evaluate the effects of the nuclear device were the primary activities engaging military personnel. FACT SHEET Defense Nuclear Agency Public Affairs Office Washington, D C. 20305 Subject: Project TRINITY Project TRINITY, conducted by the Manhattan Engineer District (MED), was designed to test and assess the effects of a nuclear weapon. The TRINITY nuclear device was detonated on a 100-foot tower on the Alamogordo Bombing Range in south-central New Mexico at 0530 hours on 16 July 1945. The nuclear yield of the detonation was equivalent to the energy released by detonating 19 kilotons of TNT. At shot-time, the temperature was 21.8 degrees Celsius, and surface air pressure was 850 millibars. The winds were nearly calm at the surface; at 10,300 feet above mean sea level, they were from the southwest at 10 knots. The winds blew the cloud resulting from the detonation to the northeast. From 16 July 1945 through 1946, about 1,000 military and civilian personnel took part in Project TRINITY or visited the test site. The location of the test site and its major installations are shown in the accompanying figures. Military and Scientific Activities All participants in Project TRINITY, both military and civilian, were under the authority of the MED. No military exercises were conducted. The Los Alamos Scientific Laboratory (LASL), which was staffed and administered by the University of California (under contract to the MED), conducted diagnostic experiments. Civilian and military scientists and technicians, with assistance from other military personnel, placed gauges, detectors, and other instruments around ground zero before the detonation. Four offsite monitoring posts were established in the towns of Nogal, Roswell, Socorro, and Fort Sumner, New Mexico. An evacuation detachment consisting of 144 to 160 enlisted men and officers was established in case protective measures or evacuation of civilians living offsite became necessary. At least 94 of these personnel were from the Provisional Detachment Number 1, Company "B," of the 9812th Technical Service Unit, Army Corps of Engineers. Military police cleared the test area and recorded the locations of all personnel before the detonation. A radiological monitor was assigned to each of the three shelters, which were located to the north, west, and south of ground zero. Soon after the detonation, the monitors surveyed the area immediately around the shelters and then proceeded out the access road to its intersection with the main road, Broadway. Personnel not essential to postshot activities were transferred from the west and south shelters to the Base Camp, about 16 kilometers southwest of ground zero. Personnel at the north shelter were evacuated when a sudden rise in radiation levels was detected; it was later learned that the instrument had not been accurately calibrated and levels had not increased as much as the instrument indicated. Specially designated groups conducted onsite and offsite radiological surveys. Safety Standards and Procedures The safety criteria established for Project TRINITY were based on calculations of the anticipated dangers from blast pressure, thermal radiation, and ionizing radiation. The TR-7 Group, also known as the Medical Group, was responsible for radiological safety. A limit of 5 roentgens of exposure during a two-month period was established. The Site and Offsite Monitoring Groups were both part of the Medical Group. The Site Monitoring Group was responsible for equipping personnel with protective clothing and instruments to measure radiation exposure, monitoring and recording personnel exposure according to film badge readings and time spent in the test area, and providing for personnel decontamination. The Offsite Monitoring Group surveyed areas surrounding the test site for radioactive fallout. In addition to these two monitoring groups, a small group of medical technicians provided radiation detection instruments and monitoring. Radiation Exposures at Project TRINITY Dosimetry information is available for about 815 individuals who either participated in Project TRINITY activities or visited the test site between 16 July 1945 and 1 January 1947. The listing does not indicate the precise military or unit affiliation of all personnel. Less than six percent of the Project TRINITY participants received exposures greater than 2 roentgens. Twenty-three of these individuals received exposures greater than 2 but less than 4 roentgens; another 22 individuals received between 4 and 15 roentgens. PREFACE From 1945 to 1962, the U.S. Government, through the Manhattan Engineer District (MED) and its successor agency, the Atomic Energy Commission (AEC), conducted 235 tests of nuclear devices at sites in the United States and in the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. In all, an estimated 220,000 Department of Defense (DOD)* participants, both military and civilian, were present at the tests. Project TRINITY, the war-time effort to test-fire a nuclear explosive device, was the first atmospheric nuclear weapons test. * The MED, which was part of the Army Corps of Engineers, administered the U.S. nuclear testing program until the AEC came into existence in 1946. Before DOD was established in 1947, the Army Corps of Engineers was under the War Department. In 1977, 15 years after the last above-ground nuclear weapons test, the Centers for Disease Control** noted a possible leukemia cluster among a small group of soldiers present at Shot SMOKY, a test of Operation PLUMBBOB, the series of atmospheric nuclear weapons tests conducted in 1957. Since that initial report by the Centers for Disease Control, the Veterans Administration has received a number of claims for medical benefits from former military personnel who believe their health may have been affected by their participation in the weapons testing program. ** The Centers for Disease Control are part of the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services (formerly the U.S. Department of Health, Education, and Welfare). In late 1977, DOD began a study to provide data to both the Centers for Disease Control and the Veterans Administration on potential exposures to ionizing radiation among the military and civilian participants in atmospheric nuclear weapons testing. DOD organized an effort to: o Identify DOD personnel who had taken part in the atmospheric nuclear weapons tests o Determine the extent of the participants' exposure to ionizing radiation o Provide public disclosure of information concerning participation by military personnel in Project TRINITY. METHODS AND SOURCES USED TO PREPARE THIS VOLUME This report on Project TRINITY is based on historical and technical documents associated with the detonation of the first nuclear device on 16 July 1945. The Department of Defense compiled information for this volume from documents that record the scientific activities during Project TRINITY. These records, most of which were developed by participants in TRINITY, are kept in several document repositories throughout the United States. In compiling information for this report, historians, health physicists, radiation specialists, and information analysts canvassed document repositories known to contain materials on atmospheric nuclear weapons tests conducted in the southwestern United States. These repositories included armed services libraries, Government agency archives and libraries, Federal repositories, and libraries of scientific and technical laboratories. Researchers examined classified and unclassified documents containing information on the participation of personnel from the MED, which supervised Project TRINITY, and from the Los Alamos Scientific Laboratory (LASL), which developed the TRINITY device. After this initial effort, researchers recorded relevant information concerning the activities of MED and LASL personnel and catalogued the data sources. Many of the documents pertaining specifically to MED and LASL participation were found in the Defense Nuclear Agency Technical Library and the LASL Records Center. Information on the fallout pattern, meteorological conditions, and nuclear cloud dimensions is taken from Volume 1 of the General Electric Company-TEMPO's "Compilation of Local Fallout Data from Test Detonations 1945-1962, Extracted from DASA 1251," unless more specific information is available elsewhere. ORGANIZATION OF THIS VOLUME The following chapters detail MED and LASL participation in Project TRINITY. Chapter 1 provides background information, including a description of the TRINITY test site. Chapter 2 describes the activities of MED and LASL participants before, during, and after the detonation. Chapter 3 discusses the radiological safety criteria and procedures in effect for Project TRINITY, and chapter 4 presents the results of the radiation monitoring program, including information on film badge readings for participants in the project. The information in this report is supplemented by the Reference Manual: Background Materials for the CONUS Volumes." The manual summarizes information on radiation physics, radiation health concepts, exposure criteria, and measurement techniques. It also lists acronyms and includes a glossary of terms used in the DOD reports addressing test events in the continental United States. CHAPTER 1 INTRODUCTION Project TRINITY was the name given to the war-time effort to produce the first nuclear detonation. A plutonium-fueled implosion device was detonated on 16 July 1945 at the Alamogordo Bombing Range in south-central New Mexico. Three weeks later, on 6 August, the first uranium-fueled nuclear bomb, a gun-type weapon code-named LITTLE BOY, was detonated over the Japanese city of Hiroshima. On 9 August, the FAT MAN nuclear bomb, a plutonium-fueled implosion weapon identical to the TRINITY device, was detonated over another Japanese city, Nagasaki. Two days later, the Japanese Government informed the United States of its decision to end the war. On 2 September 1945, the Japanese Empire officially surrendered to the Allied Governments, bringing World War II to an end. In the years devoted to the development and construction of a nuclear weapon, scientists and technicians expanded their knowledge of nuclear fission and developed both the gun-type and the implosion mechanisms to release the energy of a nuclear chain reaction. Their knowledge, however, was only theoretical. They could be certain neither of the extent and effects of such a nuclear chain reaction, nor of the hazards of the resulting blast and radiation. Protective measures could be based only on estimates and calculations. Furthermore, scientists were reasonably confident that the gun-type uranium-fueled device could be successfully detonated, but they did not know if the more complex firing technology required in an implosion device would work. Successful detonation of the TRINITY device showed that implosion would work, that a nuclear chain reaction would result in a powerful detonation, and that effective means exist to guard against the blast and radiation produced. 1.1 HISTORICAL BACKGROUND OF PROJECT TRINITY The development of a nuclear weapon was a low priority for the United States before the outbreak of World War II. However, scientists exiled from Germany had expressed concern that the Germans were developing a nuclear weapon. Confirming these fears, in 1939 the Germans stopped all sales of uranium ore from the mines of occupied Czechoslovakia. In a letter sponsored by group of concerned scientists, Albert Einstein informed President Roosevelt that German experiments had shown that an induced nuclear chain reaction was possible and could be used to construct extremely powerful bombs (7; 12)*. * All sources cited in the text are listed alphabetically in the reference list at the end of this volume. The number given in the text corresponds to the number of the source document in the reference list. In response to the potential threat of a German nuclear weapon, the United States sought a source of uranium to use in determining the feasibility of a nuclear chain reaction. After Germany occupied Belgium in May 1940, the Belgians turned over uranium ore from their holdings in the Belgian Congo to the United States. Then, in March 1941, the element plutonium was isolated, and the plutonium-239 isotope was found to fission as readily as the scarce uranium isotope, uranium-235. The plutonium, produced in a uranium-fueled nuclear reactor, provided the United States with an additional source of material for nuclear weapons (7; 12). In the summer of 1941, the British Government published a report written by the Committee for Military Application of Uranium Detonation (MAUD). This report stated that a nuclear weapon was possible and concluded that its construction should begin immediately. The MAUD report, and to a lesser degree the discovery of plutonium, encouraged American leaders to think more seriously about developing a nuclear weapon. On 6 December 1941, President Roosevelt appointed the S-1 Committee to determine if the United States could construct a nuclear weapon. Six months later, the S-1 Committee gave the President its report, recommending a fast-paced program that would cost up to $100 million and that might produce the weapon by July 1944 (12). The President accepted the S-1 Committee's recommendations. The effort to construct the weapon was turned over to the War Department, which assigned the task to the Army Corps of Engineers. In September 1942, the Corps of Engineers established the Manhattan Engineer District to oversee the development of a nuclear weapon. This effort was code-named the "Manhattan Project" (12). Within the next two years, the MED built laboratories and production plants throughout the United States. The three principal centers of the Manhattan Project were the Hanford, Washington, Plutonium Production Plant; the Oak Ridge, Tennessee, U-235 Production Plant; and the Los Alamos Scientific Laboratory in northern New Mexico. At LASL, Manhattan Project scientists and technicians, directed by Dr. J. Robert Oppenheimer,* investigated the theoretical problems that had to be solved before a nuclear weapon could be developed (12). * This report identifies by name only those LASL and MED personnel who are well-known historical figures. During the first two years of the Manhattan Project, work proceeded at a slow but steady pace. Significant technical problems had to be solved, and difficulties in the production of plutonium, particularly the inability to process large amounts, often frustrated the scientists. Nonetheless, by 1944 sufficient progress had been made to persuade the scientists that their efforts might succeed. A test of the plutonium implosion device was necessary to determine if it would work and what its effects would be. In addition, the scientists were concerned about the possible effects if the conventional explosives in a nuclear device, particularly the more complex implosion-type device, failed to trigger the nuclear reaction when detonated over enemy territory. Not only would the psychological impact of the weapon be lost, but the enemy might recover large amounts of fissionable material. In March 1944, planning began to test-fire a plutonium-fueled implosion device. At LASL, an organization designated the X-2 Group was formed within the Explosives Division. Its duties were "to make preparations for a field test in which blast, earth shock, neutron and gamma radiation would be studied and complete photographic records made of the explosion and any atmospheric phenomena connected with the explosion" (13). Dr. Oppenheimer chose the name TRINITY for the project in September 1944 (12). 1.2 THE PROJECT TRINITY SITE The TRINITY site was chosen by Manhattan Project scientists after thorough study of eight different sites. The site selected was an area measuring 29 by 39 kilometers* in the northwest corner of the Alamogordo Bombing Range. The Alamogordo Bombing Range was located in a desert in south-central New Mexico called the Jornada del Muerto ("Journey of Death"). Figure 1-1 shows the location of the bombing range. The site was chosen for its remote location and good weather and because it was already owned by the Government. MED obtained permission to use the site from the Commanding General of the Second Air Force (Army Air Forces) on 7 September 1944 (12). Figure 1-2 shows the TRINITY site with its major installations. * Throughout this report, surface distances are given in metric units. The metric conversion factors include: 1 meter = 3.28 feet; 1 meter = 1.09 yards; and 1 kilometer = 0.62 miles. Vertical distances are given in feet; altitudes are measured from mean sea level, while heights are measured from surface level, unless otherwise noted. Ground zero for the TRINITY detonation was at UTM coordinates 630266.** Three shelters, located approximately 9,150 meters (10,000 yards) north, west, and south of ground zero, were built for the protection of test personnel and instruments. The shelters had walls of reinforced concrete and were buried under a few feet of earth. The south shelter was the Control Point for the test (12). The Base Camp, which was the headquarters for Project TRINITY, was located approximately 16 kilometers southwest of ground zero. The principal buildings of the abandoned McDonald Ranch, where the active parts of the TRINITY device were assembled, stood 3,660 meters southeast of ground zero. Seven guard posts, which were simply small tents or parked trucks like the ones shown in figures 1-3 and 1-4, dotted the test site (9). ** Universal Transverse Mercator (UTM) coordinates are used in this report. The first three digits refer to a point on an east- west axis, and the second three digits refer to a point on a north-south axis. The point so designated is the southwest corner of an area 100 meters square. 1.3 THE PROJECT TRINITY ORGANIZATION The organization that planned and conducted Project TRINITY grew out of the X-2 Group. LASL, though administered by the University of California, was part of the Manhattan Project, supervised by the Army Corps of Engineers Manhattan Engineer District. The chief of MED was Maj. Gen. Leslie Groves of the Army Corps of Engineers. Major General Groves reported to both the Chief of Engineers and the Army Chief of Staff. The Army Chief of Staff reported to the Secretary of War, a Cabinet officer directly responsible to the President. Figure 1-5 outlines the organization of Project TRINITY. The director of the Project TRINITY organization was Dr. Kenneth Bainbridge. Dr. Bainbridge reported to Dr. J. Robert Oppenheimer, the director of LASL. A team of nine research consultants advised Dr. Bainbridge on scientific and technical matters (3). The Project TRINITY organization was divided into the following groups (3): o The TRINITY Assembly Group, responsible for assembling and arming the nuclear device o The TR-1 (Services) Group, responsible for construction, utilities, procurement, transportation, and communications o The TR-2 Group, responsible for air-blast and earth-shock measurements o The TR-3 (Physics) Group, responsible for experiments concerning measurements of ionizing radiation o The TR-4 Group, responsible for meteorology o The TR-5 Group, responsible for spectrographic and photographic measurements o The TR-6 Group, responsible for the airblast-airborne condenser gauges o The TR-7 (Medical) Group, responsible for the radiological safety and general health of the Project TRINITY participants. Each of these groups was divided into several units. Individuals were also assigned special tasks outside their groups, such as communications and tracking the TRINITY cloud with a searchlight (3). 1.4 MILITARY AND CIVILIAN PARTICIPANTS IN PROJECT TRINITY From March 1944 until the beginning of 1946, several thousand people participated in Project TRINITY. These included not only the LASL scientists, but also scientists, technicians, and workmen employed at MED installations throughout the United States. According to entrance logs, film badge data, and other records, about 1,000 people either worked at or visited the TRINITY site from 16 July 1945 through 1946 (1; 3; 8; 15; 16). Although supervised by Major General Groves and the Army Corps of Engineers, many Manhattan Project personnel were civilians. Military personnel were assigned principally to support services, such as security and logistics, although soldiers with special skills worked with the civilians (7; 12). Most of the military personnel were part of the Army Corps of Engineers, although Navy and other Army personnel were also assigned to the project (4; 12). CHAPTER 2 THE ACTIVITIES AT PROJECT TRINITY The TRINITY nuclear device was detonated on a 100-foot tower (shown in figure 2-1) at UTM coordinates 630266 on the Alamogordo Bombing Range, New Mexico, at 0530 Mountain War Time, on 16 July 1945. The detonation had a yield of 19 kilotons and left an impression 2.9 meters deep and 335 meters wide. The cloud resulting from the detonation rose to an altitude of 35,000 feet (5). The TRINITY detonation is shown in figure 2-2. At shot-time, the temperature was 21.8 degrees Celsius, and the surface air pressure was 850 millibars. Winds at shot-time were nearly calm at the surface but attained a speed of 10 knots from the southwest at 10,300 feet. At 34,600 feet, the wind speed was 23 knots from the southwest. The winds blew the cloud to the northeast (5). 2.1 PRESHOT ACTIVITIES Construction of test site facilities on the Alamogordo Bombing Range began in December 1944. The first contingent of personnel, 12 military policemen, arrived just before Christmas. The number of personnel at the test site gradually increased until the peak level of about 325 was reached the week before the detonation (2; 12). On 7 May 1945 at 0437 hours, 200 LASL scientists and technicians exploded 100 tons of conventional high explosives at the test site. The explosives were stacked on top of a 20-foot tower and contained tubes of radioactive solution to simulate, at a low level of activity, the radioactive products expected from a nuclear explosion. The test produced a bright sphere which spread out in an oval form. A column of smoke and debris rose as high as 15,000 feet before drifting eastward. The explosion left a shallow crater 1.5 meters deep and 9 meters wide. Monitoring in the area revealed a level of radioactivity low enough to allow workers to spend several hours in the area (3; 12). The planned firing date for the TRINITY device was 4 July 1945. On 14 June 1945, Dr. Oppenheimer changed the test date to no earlier than 13 July and no later than 23 July. On 30 June, the earliest firing date was moved to 16 July, even though better weather was forecast for 18 and 19 July. Because the Allied conference in Potsdam, Germany, was about to begin and the President needed the results of the test as soon as possible, the TRINITY test organization adjusted its schedules accordingly and set shot-time at 0400 hours on 16 July (3; 12; 14). The final preparations for the detonation started at 2200 on 15 July. To prevent unnecessary danger, all personnel not essential to the firing activities were ordered to leave the test site. During the night of 15 July, these people left for viewing positions on Compania Hill,* 32 kilometers northwest of ground zero. They were joined by several spectators from LASL (3; 12). * "Compania" also appears as "Compana," "Campagne," or "Compagna" in various sources. Project personnel not required to check instruments within the ground zero area stationed themselves in the three shelters or at other assigned locations. The military police at Guard Posts 1, 2, and 4 blocked off all roads leading into the test site, and the men at Guard Post 8, the only access to the ground zero area from the Base Camp, ensured that no unauthorized individuals entered the area (9; 12). At 0100 hours on 16 July, military policemen from Guard Posts 3, 5, 6, and 7 met to compare their logs of personnel authorized to be in the ground zero area. The guards then traveled along the access roads to clear out all project personnel. As individuals left for their assigned shelters or stations, their departures from the test area were recorded in the military police logs. By 0200 the area sweep was completed, and the military police went to their shelters and stations. A final check of personnel was made in each shelter (3; 9; 12). At the time of detonation, 99 project personnel were in the three shelters: 29 in the north shelter, 37 in the west shelter, and 33 in the south shelter. Dr. Oppenheimer, Dr. Bainbridge, and other key personnel awaited the firing at the south shelter, which served as the Control Point. Figure 2-3 shows the exterior of the south shelter; figure 2-4 gives an interior view of one of the shelters, most likely the south. Although most of the shelter occupants were civilians, at least 23 military participants were spread among the three shelters (1; 12). The remainder of the test site personnel were positioned at the Base Camp 16 kilometers south-southwest of ground zero, or on Compania Hill, or at the guard posts. Important Government officials, such as General Groves and Dr. Vannevar Bush, Director of the U.S. Office of Scientific Research and Development, viewed the detonation from a trench at the Base Camp. The Base Camp is depicted in figure 2-5. The military police of Guard Posts 1 and 2 were instructed to be in foxholes approximately five kilometers west and north, respectively, from their posts. The military police of Guard Posts 3 and 4 were instructed to be in foxholes south of Mockingbird Gap. A radiological safety monitor was assigned to the group from Guard Post 4. Guard Post 5 personnel were to be in the south shelter, Guard Post 6 personnel in the west shelter, and Guard Post 7 personnel in the north shelter. The military police of Guard Post 8 remained at that post, 400 meters east of the Base Camp (9). An evacuation detachment of between 144 and 160 officers and enlisted men was stationed near Guard Post 2, about 14 kilometers northwest of ground zero. These men were on standby in case ranches and towns beyond the test site had to be evacuated. Five radiological safety monitors were assigned to this detachment. Ninety-four men of the evacuation detachment belonged to Provisional Detachment Number 1, Company "B," of the 9812th Technical Service Unit, Army Corps of Engineers, from LASL. The identity of the remaining evacuation personnel has not been documented (3; 4; 8; 10; 15). With the exception of the shelter occupants (99 personnel) and evacuation detachment (between 144 and 160 men), the number of personnel at the test site at the time of detonation has not been documented. Film badge records show that approximately 355 people were at the test site at some time during 16 July. The shelter occupants and 44 men of the evacuation detachment are on this list. It has not been possible to pinpoint the location of many of the remaining personnel. Some were at the Base Camp or on Compania Hill. Since many of these people returned to the test site after shot-time to work on experiments, their film badges registered exposures from residual radioactivity on 16 July. Based on the documented personnel totals, at least the following 263 individuals were at the test site when the device was detonated (1; 4; 8-10; 13; 15): o 99 shelter occupants at shelters 9,150 meters north, south, and west of ground zero o 144 to 160 officers and enlisted men of the evacuation detachment, located 14 kilometers northwest of ground zero near Guard Post 2 o Five radiological safety monitors assigned to the evacuation detachment to perform offsite monitoring of nearby towns and residences o One radiological safety monitor assigned to Guard Post 4 o Two military policemen at each of the seven guard posts (indicated by photographs such as figures 1-3 and 1-4). 2.2 DETONATION AND POSTSHOT ACTIVITIES Because of bad weather, the Project TRINITY director (Dr. Bainbridge) delayed the detonation, which had been scheduled for 0400 hours. By 0445, however, the forecast was better, and shot-time was set for 0530. This gave the scientists 45 minutes to arm the device and prepare the instruments in the shelters. The final countdown began at 0510, and the device was detonated at 0529:45 Mountain War Time from the Control Point in the south shelter (3; 12). No one was closer than 9,150 meters to ground zero at the time of the detonation. With the exception of a few men holding the ropes of barrage balloons or guiding cameras to follow the fireball as it ascended, all shelter personnel were in or behind the shelters. Some left the shelters after the initial flash to view the fireball. As a precautionary measure, they had been advised to lie on the ground before the blast wave arrived. Project personnel located beyond the shelters, such as at the Base Camp and on Compania Hill, were also instructed to lie on the ground or in a depression until the blast wave had passed (1). However, the blast wave at these locations was not as strong as had been expected. In order to prevent eye damage, Dr. Bainbridge ordered the distribution of welder's filter glass. Because it was not known exactly how the flash might affect eyesight, it was suggested that direct viewing of the fireball not be attempted even with this protection. The recommended procedure was to face away from ground zero and watch the hills or sky until the fireball illuminated the area. Then, after the initial flash had passed, one could turn around and view the fireball through the filter glass. Despite these well-publicized instructions, two participants did not take precautions. They were temporarily blinded by the intense flash but experienced no permanent vision impairment (1; 17). People as far away as Santa Fe and El Paso saw the brilliant light of the detonation. Windows rattled in the areas immediately surrounding the test site, waking sleeping ranchers and townspeople. To dispel any rumors that might compromise the security of Project TRINITY, the Government announced that an Army munitions dump had exploded. However, immediately after the destruction of Hiroshima, the Government revealed to the public what had actually occurred in the New Mexico desert (12; 13). Immediately after the shot, Medical Group personnel began the radiological monitoring activities described in section 3.1.2. At 0815, when most of the monitoring activities were completed, preparations began for entrance into the ground zero area. To regulate entry into the area, a "Going-in Board" was established, consisting of Dr. Bainbridge, the Chief of the Medical Group, and a special scientific consultant. Its purpose was to determine whether a party had a valid reason for entering the ground zero area. The board functioned for three days. Military police at Guard Post 4 and at three roadblocks set up along Broadway controlled entry into the area. Guard Posts 3, 5, 6, and 7 were within 3,000 meters of ground zero and thus remained unmanned. At the south shelter, the Medical Group set up a "going-in" station where personnel were required to stop to put on protective clothing (coveralls, booties, caps, and cotton gloves) and pick up monitoring equipment before entering the ground zero area. Since it was not known how much radioactive material might be suspended in the air, all personnel entering the ground zero area wore complete protective covering and respirators for the first three days after the detonation. Figure 2-6 shows two Project TRINITY personnel wearing protective clothing (1). On the day of the shot, five parties entered the ground zero area. One party consisted of eight members of the earth-sampling group. They obtained samples by driving to within 460 meters of ground zero in a tank specially fitted with rockets to which retrievable collectors were fastened in order to gather soil samples from a distance. This group made several sampling excursions on 16 and 17 July. The tank carried two personnel (a driver and a passenger) each trip. No member of this party received a radiation exposure of more than 1 roentgen (1). Five other men from the earth-sampling group entered the ground zero area in a second tank, lined with lead for radiation protection. The tank, carrying the driver and one passenger, made five trips into the ground zero area to retrieve soil samples on 16 and 17 July. On two trips, the tank passed over ground zero; on the others, it approached to within about 90 meters of ground zero. The men scooped up soil samples through a trap door in the bottom of the tank. One driver who made three trips into the ground zero area received the highest exposure, 15 roentgens (1). This lead-lined tank was also used by ten men to observe the radiation area. These men, traveling two at a time, made five trips into the area on shot-day but never approached closer than 1,370 meters to ground zero. The highest exposure among these ten men was 0.3 roentgens (1). The next party to approach ground zero consisted of a photographer and a radiological safety monitor. Wearing protective clothing and respirators, the two men were about 730 meters northwest of ground zero photographing "JUMBO" from 1100 to 1200 hours. "JUMBO," shown in figure 2-7, was a massive container built to contain the high-explosive detonation of the TRINITY device and to allow recovery of the fissionable material if the device failed to produce a nuclear detonation. The plan to use "JUMBO," however, was abandoned when the scientists concluded that a fairly large nuclear explosion was certain. The container remained on the ground near the shot-tower during the detonation. Both the photographer and the monitor received an estimated radiation exposure between 0.5 and 1 roentgen (1; 7). The last party to "go in" on shot-day consisted of six men retrieving neutron detectors. They entered the test area at 1430 hours. Three of the men went to a point 730 meters south of ground zero to pull out cables carrying neutron detectors located 550 meters south of ground zero. The group wore protective clothing and respirators and spent about 30 minutes in the area. The remaining three men drove as close as 320 meters southwest of ground zero to retrieve neutron detectors. They got out of their vehicle only once, at about 460 meters from ground zero, and spent a total of about ten minutes making this trip through the area. Each man's radiation exposure measured less than 1 roentgen (1). Most of the soldiers of the evacuation detachment remained in their bivouac area near Guard Post 2. According to a report written by the detachment commander, a reinforced platoon was sent to the town of Bingham, about 29 kilometers northeast of the test site, while offsite radiological safety monitors surveyed the area. The evacuation detachment was dismissed at 1300 hours on shot-day when it became evident from offsite monitoring that evacuations would not be undertaken. The detachment returned to LASL at 0400 on 17 July (15). Two B-29 aircraft from Kirtland Field, Albuquerque, New Mexico, participated in post-shot events. Their planned mission was to pass over the test area shortly before the explosion to simulate a bomb drop. After the TRINITY device had been detonated, the aircraft would circle near ground zero, while the men onboard would measure the atmospheric effects of the nuclear explosion. This would enable them to determine whether a delivery aircraft would be endangered. However, because of bad weather on shot-day, Dr. Oppenheimer canceled the aircraft's flight in the ground zero area. Instead, the two B-29s, each with 12 men onboard, flew along the perimeter of the bombing range and observed the shot from a distance of 19 to 29 kilometers. Among those observers was a Navy captain who was also the MED Chief of Ordnance (6; 12; 13). 2.3 ACTIVITIES AFTER 16 JULY 1945 On 17, 18, and 19 July, all personnel and visitors had to receive permission to approach ground zero from the "Going-in Board." On these three days, 21 groups were authorized to go beyond the Broadway roadblocks. Most of those who sought this authorization were scientists and military support personnel whose job required that they work near ground zero. Except for a group of two military men and three civilians who went to ground zero on 16 and 17 July and a group of two civilians who approached as close as 90 meters on 18 July, the reentry personnel came no closer than 180 meters to ground zero. Of these personnel, the individual who received the highest exposure during the three days was an Army sergeant who received 15 roentgens. During the same period, two civilians received 10 roentgens and 7.5 roentgens, respectively. All other personnel received exposures of 5 roentgens or less (1; 3). After the "Going-In Board" was disbanded on 19 July, permission to enter the ground zero area had to be obtained from Dr. Bainbridge or one of his deputies. Many scientists entered the ground zero area after 19 July to retrieve instruments or to perform experiments. The population of the TRINITY test site was diminishing, however, as the emphasis shifted to preparing the devices that were to be dropped on Japan (1). On 23 July, a week after the shot, chain barricades with prominent signs warning against trespassing were placed 910 meters north, south, and west of ground zero. These barricades were supplemented with two concentric circles of red flags 1,830 and 2,740 meters from ground zero. Except during bad weather, the entire ground zero area was visible from the roadblocks. No unauthorized person was ever detected entering the ground zero area (1). On 10 August, the Broadway roadblocks were removed, and mounted military policemen began patrolling around ground zero at a distance of 730 meters. Each guard was assigned to a daily six-hour shift for a period of two weeks; in the third week, the guard was assigned tasks away from the ground zero area. The mounted guards and their horses wore film badges. No exposure greater than 0.1 roentgen was registered. On 1 September, the mounted patrol moved to a distance of 460 meters from ground zero, just outside a fence installed a week earlier to seal off the area. The same rotating patrol schedule was used. The guards' film badge readings showed an average daily exposure of 0.02 roentgens. The mounted patrol at the fence continued until early 1947 (1). Between 20 July 1945 and 21 November 1945, 67 groups entered the ground zero area. Most of these parties entered in the month after shot-day. These were the scientists and technicians conducting experiments or retrieving data. By the beginning of September, most of those who entered the ground zero area were invited guests (1). Also during the period 20 July through 21 November, at least 71 soldiers were at the TRINITY test site. Twenty-five of these men were support personnel who never went within 460 meters of ground zero. The remaining 46 men were technical personnel, laborers who erected the 460-meter fence, or military policemen who served as guides. Eleven of these men, probably members of the fence detail, spent several days at about 460 meters from ground zero. Working three to five hours per day between 9 August and 25 August, they would have been the only group to stay longer than one hour in the ground zero area. Of the remaining personnel who approached within 460 meters from ground zero, 25 spent 15 minutes and ten spent between 30 minutes and one hour in the ground zero area. Only 11 people received exposures of 3 to 5 roentgens between 20 July and 21 November. Most received less than 1 roentgen. After 21 November 1945, no one approached closer than the fence which was 460 meters from ground zero, although about 200 civilian and military personnel worked at or visited the TRINITY site through 1946 (1; 16). According to dosimetry data, entrance logs, and other records, about 1,000 individuals were at the test site at some time between 16 July 1945 and the end of 1946. This number includes not only the scientists, technicians, and military personnel who were part of Project TRINITY but also many visitors. Some of the scientists took their wives and children on a tour of the area near ground zero, particularly to view the green glass called "trinitite," which covered the crater floor. Trinitite was the product of the detonation's extreme beat, which melted and mixed desert sand, tower steel, and other debris (1; 8; 9; 16). CHAPTER 3 RADIATION PROTECTION AT PROJECT TRINITY The TR-7 or Medical Group, shown in the figure 1-5 organizational chart, was responsible for radiological safety at Project TRINITY. Many of the physicians and scientists in the Medical Group had worked with radioactive materials before and were trained in radiological safety procedures. The Chief of the Medical Group supervised the radiological safety operations and reported to the TRINITY director. In addition to providing medical care to TRINITY personnel, this group established radiological safety programs to: o Minimize radiation exposure of personnel on the test site and in offsite areas o Provide monitors to conduct radiological surveys onsite and offsite o Provide and maintain radiation detection instruments o Provide protective clothing and equipment. An exposure limit of 5 roentgens during a two-month period was established. Personnel were provided with radiation detection instruments to determine their exposures (1). 3.1 ORGANIZATION The Medical Group consisted of physicians, scientists, and administrators, as well as radiological monitors. Many of these personnel were nonmilitary, but all worked on the Manhattan Project under the administration of the Army Corps of Engineers Manhattan Engineer District. The Medical Group was divided into two monitoring groups, the Site Monitoring Group, which was responsible for onsite monitoring, and the Offsite Monitoring Group. Each reported to the Chief of the Medical Group, and each communicated with the other during the monitoring activities. In addition to these two groups, a small group of medical technicians provided radiation detection instruments to Medical Group personnel (1; 10). 3.2 SITE MONITORING GROUP The Site Monitoring Group consisted of a chief monitor, three other monitors, and several medical doctors. This group had the following functions (1; 10): o Conduct ground surveys of the test area and mark areas of radioactivity o Conduct surveys of the Base Camp and roads leading into the test area o Provide protective clothing and equipment, including film badges and pocket dosimeters, to personnel o Monitor all personnel for radioactive contamination and provide for their decontamination o Maintain a record of radiation exposures received by personnel. The Site Monitoring Group monitored the radiation exposures of personnel in the test area. The time spent by personnel in radiation areas was limited, and radiation detection instruments were provided to permit continuous monitoring of exposure rates. In many cases, a monitor from the Site Monitoring Group accompanied project personnel into the test area to monitor exposure rates (1; 10). Two members of the Site Monitoring Group, a monitor and a physician with radiological safety training, were assigned to each shelter. The supervising monitor was stationed at the Base Camp and was in radio and telephone communication with all three shelters and the offsite ground and aerial survey teams. Before any personnel were allowed to leave the shelter areas, a radiological safety monitor and a military policeman from each shelter advanced along the roads to Broadway to check radiation levels. They wore respirators to prevent them from inhaling radioactive material (1; 10). Since it was expected that any dust from the cloud would fall on one of the shelter areas within 30 minutes of the shot, plans had been made to evacuate personnel as soon as the monitors completed their initial survey. Because the cloud moved to the northeast, the south shelter (the Control Point) was not completely evacuated, although nonessential personnel were sent to the Base Camp. The west shelter was emptied of all personnel except a searchlight crew spotlighting the cloud as it moved away (1; 10). Only at the north shelter did an emergency evacuation occur. About 12 minutes after the shot, a detection instrument indicated a rapid rise in the radiation levels within the shelter. At the same time, a remote ionization monitoring device detected a rapid increase in radiation. Because of these two readings, all north shelter personnel were immediately evacuated to the Base Camp, 25 kilometers to the south. Film badges worn by personnel stationed at the north shelter, however, showed no radiation exposure above the detectable level. It was later discovered that the meter of the detector in the north shelter had not retained its zero calibration setting, and radiation at the north shelter had not reached levels high enough to result in measurable exposures of the personnel who had been positioned there. However, fallout activity was later detected in the north shelter area, proof that part of the cloud did head in that direction. This also explains why the monitoring device detected rising radiation levels (1; 12). After ascertaining that radiation levels along the roads leading from the shelters to Broadway were within acceptable limits, the radiological safety monitors and military police established roadblocks at important intersections leading to ground zero. The north shelter monitor and military police set up a post where the North Shelter Road ran into Broadway. The west shelter monitor and a military policeman blocked Vatican Road where it intersected Broadway. The south shelter monitor and military police set up a roadblock where Broadway intersected Pennsylvania Avenue (1). The monitor assigned to Guard Post 4 surveyed the Mockingbird Gap area to ensure that it was safe for the guards to return to their post. This position controlled access to the McDonald Ranch Road, which led directly to ground zero (1). At 0540 hours, the chief monitor departed from the Base Camp with a military policeman to monitor the entire length of Broadway. They first checked the roadblock at Pennsylvania Avenue and Broadway. Next they drove to the roadblock at Vatican Road and Broadway. Upon the chief monitor's arrival, the west shelter monitor traveled about nine kilometers west on Vatican Road to monitor Guard Post 1 so that the military police could reoccupy the post. The monitoring excursion to Guard Post 1 continued until the chief monitor had returned from Guard Post 2, located 17 kilometers northwest of the Vatican Road roadblock on Broadway (1; 18). The chief monitor arrived at Guard Post 2 at about 0550 hours and found the post empty. He then continued five kilometers north along Broadway to the foxholes from which the military police had watched the detonation. There he found the guards, the five radiological safety monitors assigned to the evacuation detachment, and the Commanding Officer of the evacuation detachment (1; 18). The military policemen refused to return to Guard Post 2, insisting that they had received orders over their two-way radio from the Base Commander to evacuate their post and head for San Antonio, New Mexico, a town 28 kilometers northwest of the Guard Post. The Base Commander had noted that portions of the cloud were heading northwestward and, fearing that fallout from the cloud would contaminate Guard Post 2, had ordered the military police to evacuate. The chief monitor, however, had found no significant radiation levels anywhere along the northern part of Broadway nor around Guard Post 2. The Base Commander, after being contacted by the chief monitor, drove to the foxholes and ordered the guards to return to their post. This was the only unplanned incident during the onsite monitoring (1). After Guard Post 2 was reoccupied, the chief monitor returned to the roadblock at the intersection of Broadway and the North Shelter Road. The north shelter monitor informed the chief monitor of the sudden evacuation of the north shelter, whereupon the chief monitor surveyed the north shelter area and found intensities of only 0.01 and 0.02 roentgens per hour (R/h). The chief monitor then contacted the south shelter and informed Dr. Bainbridge that the north shelter region was safe for those who needed to return, that Broadway was safe from the Base Camp to Guard Post 2, and that Guard Post 2 was now manned so that personnel leaving for LASL could be checked out (1). The chief monitor then returned to the south shelter and assembled the monitors from the three roadblocks and Guard Post 4 to prepare for entrance into the ground zero area. The time was about 0815 hours. The military police at the roadblocks were given radiation meters to survey the adjoining area. Broadway from the south shelter to Guard Post 2 was remonitored occasionally to reassure the military police that there was no radiation problem. Monitors also surveyed the Base Camp for 24 hours after the detonation. No radiation above background levels was detected there (1). The following brief description of the radiological environment in the TRINITY test area is based primarily on the results of the remote gamma recorders situated in the test area and on results of the road surveys conducted after the detonation (1). Within about 1,400 meters of ground zero (except to the north), radiation intensities between 0.2 and 1.3 R/h were detected during the first few minutes after the detonation. These readings decreased to less than 0.1 R/h within a few hours. At greater distances to the east, south, and west, radiation levels above background were not detected (1). The cloud drifted to the northeast, and higher gamma readings due to fallout were encountered in this direction. About five minutes after the detonation, a reading of 3 R/h was recorded 1,400 meters north of ground zero. Several minutes later, the intensity there had increased to greater than 7 R/h, and it continued to increase for several more minutes. Gamma detectors 9,150 meters north of ground zero, however, recorded no radiation above background levels. This indicated that the cloud had passed over or near the 1,400-meter area and only partially over the 9,150-meter area where the north shelter was located. Subsequent ground surveys of this area found no gamma intensities higher than 0.02 R/h (1). Gamma radiation levels at and around ground zero were much higher than in other onsite areas because of induced activity in the soil. Twenty-four hours after the detonation, the gamma intensity at ground zero was estimated to be 600 to 700 R/h. This estimate was based on data provided by the tank crew that drove to ground zero to obtain soil samples. The intensity decreased to about 2 R/h at 725 meters from ground zero. Gamma intensities of 0.1 R/h or more were confined within a circular area extending about 1,100 meters from ground zero (except in areas of fallout). One week after the shot, the gamma intensity at ground zero was about 45 R/h. After 30 days, intensities at ground zero had decreased to 15 R/h, and intensities of 0.1 R/h or more were not encountered beyond about 365 meters from ground zero. Gamma intensities of 3 to 10 R/h were found at ground zero three months after the detonation (1; 19). 3.3 OFFSITE MONITORING GROUP Four two-man teams and one five-man team supervised by the chief offsite monitor constituted the Offsite Monitoring Group. Before the detonation, the four two-man teams established monitoring posts in towns outside the test area. These towns were Nogal, Roswell, Fort Sumner, and Socorro, all in New Mexico. The five-man team remained at Guard Post 2 to assist in evacuation of nearby residences if the TRINITY cloud drifted in that direction. These residences, the Fite house and the homes in the town of Tokay, were 24 and 32 kilometers northwest of ground zero, respectively. Since the cloud drifted to the northeast, evacuation was not required. All offsite monitoring teams were in radio or telephone contact with personnel at the Base Camp (11). Offsite monitoring teams in areas northeast of ground zero encountered gamma readings ranging from 1.5 to 15 R/h two to four hours after the detonation. Three hours after the detonation, surveys taken in Bingham, New Mexico (located 30 kilometers northeast of ground zero) found gamma intensities of about 1.5 R/h. Radiation readings at the town of White, nine kilometers southeast of Bingham, were 6.5 R/h three hours after the detonation and 2.5 R/h two hours later. Another team monitoring in a canyon 11 kilometers east of Bingham found a gamma intensity of about 15 R/h. Five hours later, the intensity had decreased to 3.8 R/h. It was estimated that peak intensities of gamma radiation from fallout on shot-day were about 7 R/h at an occupied ranch house in this canyon area (1; 11; 19). Monitoring teams resurveyed these towns about one month after the TRINITY detonation. At Bingham, gamma readings of 0.003 R/h and 0.0001 R/h were found at ground level outdoors and at waist level inside a building, respectively. At the town of White, the highest outdoor gamma reading was 0.008 R/h. Inside a building, the highest reading was 0.0005 R/h (11). Surveys taken in the canyon area one month after the detonation indicated that gamma intensities at ground level had decreased to 0.032 R/h. The occupied ranch house was also surveyed, both inside and outside. The highest reading outdoors was 0.028 R/h, and the highest reading indoors was 0.004 R/h (11; 19). Monitoring was also conducted in offsite areas other than those to the north and northeast of ground zero. Monitors found no radiation readings above background levels (11). Significant fallout from the TRINITY cloud did not reach the ground within about 20 kilometers northeast of ground zero. From this point, the fallout pattern extended out 160 kilometers and was 48 kilometers wide. Gamma intensities up to 15 R/h were measured in this region several hours after the detonation. One month later, intensities had declined to 0.032 R/h or less (11). CHAPTER 4 DOSIMETRY ANALYSIS OF PARTICIPANTS IN PROJECT TRINITY This chapter summarizes the radiation doses received by participants in various activities during Project TRINITY. The sources of this dosimetry information are the safety and monitoring report for personnel at TRINITY, which includes a compilation of film badge readings for all participants up to 1 January 1946, and film badge data from the records of the Reynolds Electrical and Engineering Company, which contain readings through 1946 (1; 16). These sources list individual participants with their cumulative gamma radiation exposures. 4.1 FILM BADGE RECORDS During TRINITY, the film badge was the primary device used to measure the radiation dose received by individual participants. The site monitoring plan indicates that film badges were to be issued to participants. The film badge was normally worn at chest level on the outside of clothing and was designed to measure the wearer's exposure to gamma radiation from external sources. These film badges were insensitive to neutron radiation and did not measure the amount of radioactive material that might have been inhaled or ingested (1). Personnel from the Medical Group had responsibility for issuing, receiving, processing, and interpreting film badges for Project TRINITY. The Site Monitoring Group compiled the film badge records for both onsite and offsite personnel. Radiological safety personnel and military police recorded the names and identification numbers of individuals as they entered the test area. This information was recorded in an entry logbook and on a personal exposure data card. Upon leaving the test area, individuals returned their film badges to the check station. When the film badges were processed and interpreted, the reading was entered on the individuals exposure data card. In this manner, the number of times an individual entered the test area and his cumulative exposure history were recorded and maintained (1). 4.2 GAMMA RADIATION EXPOSURE The safety and monitoring report lists film badge readings for about 700 individuals who participated in Project TRINITY from 16 July 1945 to 1 January 1946 (1). This list includes both military and nonmilitary personnel who were involved with the TRINITY operation and postshot activities. However, records are available for only 44 of the 144 to 160 members of the evacuation detachment (1). In addition, some of these film badge listings may be for personnel who were only peripherally involved with TRINITY activities, such as family members and official guests who visited the site. According to the safety and monitoring report, by 1 January 1946, 23 individuals had received cumulative gamma exposures greater than 2 but less than 4 roentgens. An additional 22 individuals received gamma exposures between 4 and 15 roentgens. Personnel who received gamma exposures exceeding 2 roentgens represent less than six percent of the Project TRINITY participants with recorded exposures. As described below, these exposures generally resulted when personnel approached ground zero several times (1). Information is available regarding the activities of some of these personnel. One of the drivers of the earth-sampling group's lead-lined tank, an Army sergeant who traveled three times to ground zero, received an exposure of 15 roentgens. A second tank driver, also an Army sergeant, received an exposure of 3.3 roentgens. Three members of the earth-sampling group, all of whom traveled in the tank to ground zero, received exposures of 10, 7.5, and 5 roentgens. An Army photographer who entered the test area six times between 23 July and 20 October received 12.2 roentgens (1). Four individuals involved with excavating the buried supports of the TRINITY tower from 8 October to 10 October 1945 received gamma exposures ranging from 3.4 to 4.7 roentgens. Film badge readings for this three-day period indicate that the two individuals who operated mechanical shovels received 3.4 and 4.3 roentgens, while the two who supervised and monitored the excavation received exposures of 4.2 and 4.7 roentgens. The individual receiving 4.7 roentgens during the excavation operation had received 1.3 roentgens from a previous exposure, making his total exposure 6 roentgens (1). An Army captain who accompanied all test and observer parties into the ground zero area between 1 September and 11 October 1945 received a total gamma exposure of 2.6 roentgens (1). The activities and times of exposure are not known for other personnel with exposures over 2 roentgens. According to the dosimetry records for 1946, about 115 people visited the test site that year. No one ventured inside the fence surrounding ground zero, and no one received an exposure greater than 1 roentgen (1; 16). REFERENCE LIST The following list of references represents the documents consulted in preparation of the Project TRINITY volume. AVAILABILITY INFORMATION An availability statement has been included at the end of the reference citation for those readers who wish to read or obtain copies of source documents. Availability statements were correct at the time the bibliography was prepared. It is anticipated that many of the documents marked unavailable may become available during the declassification review process. The Coordination and Information Center (CIC) and the National Technical Information Service (NTIS) will be provided future DNA-WT documents bearing an EX after the report number. Source documents bearing an availability statement of CIC may be reviewed at the following address: Department of Energy Coordination and Information Center (Operated by Reynolds Electrical & Engineering Co., Inc.) ATTN: Mr. Richard V. Nutley 2753 S. Highland P.O. Box 14100 Las Vegas, Nevada 89114 Phone: (702) 734-3194 FTS: 598-3194 Source documents bearing an availability statement of NTIS may be purchased from the National Technical Information Service. When ordering by mail or phone, please include both the price code and the NTIS number. The price code appears in parentheses before the NTIS order number. National Technical Information Service 5285 Port Royal Road Springfield, Virginia 22161 Phone: (703) 487-4650 (Sales Office) Additional ordering information or assistance may be obtained by writing to the NTIS, Attention: Customer Service, or by calling (703) 487-4660. PROJECT TRINITY REFERENCES *Available from NTIS; order number appears before the asterisk. **Available at CIC. ***Not available, see Availability Information page. ****Requests subject to Privacy Act restrictions. 1. Aebersold, Paul. July 16th Nuclear Explosion-Safety and Monitoring of Personnel (U). Los Alamos Scientific Laboratory, Atomic Energy Commission. Los Alamos, NM.: LASL. LA-616. January 9, 1947. 170 Pages.*** 2. Bainbridge, K. T. Memorandum to All Concerned, Subject: TR Circular No. 18--Total Personnel at TR. [Base Camp, Trinity Site: NM.] July 3, 1945. 1 Page.** 3. Bainbridge, K. T. TRINITY. Los Alamos Scientific Laboratory. Los Alamos, NM.: LASL, LA-6300-H and Washington, D. C.: GPO. May 1976. 82 Pages.** 4. Bramlet, Walt. Memorandum for Thomas J. Hirons, Subject: DOD Participants in Atmospheric Tests, wo/encl. Los Alamos Scientific Laboratory. Los Alamos, NM. ISD-5. February 20, 1979. 4 Pages.** 5. General Electric Company--TEMPO. Compilation of Local Fallout Data from Test Detonations 1945-1962. Vol. 1: "Continental US Tests." Washington, D. C.: Defense Nuclear Agency. DNA 1251-1(EX.). 1979. 619 Pages. (A99) AD/AO79 309.* 6. Groves, Leslie R., LTG, USA. Memorandum for Secretary of War, [Subject: TRINITY]. [Washington, D.C.] 18 July 1945. 13 Pages.** 7. Groves, Leslie R., LTG, USA (Ret.). Now It Can Be Told: The Story of the Manhattan Project. New York, NY.: Harper and Row. 1962. 444 Pages. 8. Headquarters, 9812th Technical Service Unit, Provisional Detachment No. I (Company "B"). [Extract from: Daily Diary, Provisional Detachment No. 1 (Company "B"), 9812th Technical Service Unit.] Army Corps of Engineers, Department of War. [Santa Fe, NM.] 14 July 1945. 2 Pages.** 9. Headquarters, Special Service Detachment. Supplemental Special Guard Orders, with Appendix. Los Alamos Scientific Laboratory, Manhattan Engineer District. [Alamogordo, NM.] 14 July 1945. 4 Pages.** 10. Hempelmann, L. H., M.D. [Extracts from: "Preparation and Operational Plan of Medical Group (TR-7) for Nuclear Explosion 16 July 1945."] Los Alamos Scientific Laboratory, Atomic Energy Commission. Los Alamos, NM.: LASL. LA-631(Deleted). June 13, 1947. 32 Pages.*** 11. Hoffman, J. G. [Extracts from "Health Physics Report on Radioactive Contamination throughout New Mexico Following the Nuclear Explosion, Part A--Physics."] Los Alamos Scientific Laboratory, Manhattan Engineer District. [Los Alamos, NM.] [1945.] 31 Pages.** 12. Lamont, Lansing. Day of TRINITY. New York, NY.: Atheneum. 1965. 331 Pages. 13. Los Alamos Scientific Laboratory, Public Relations Office. "Los Alamos: Beginning of an Era, 1943-1945." Atomic Energy Commission. Los Alamos, NM.: LASL. 1967. 65 Pages.** 14. Oppenheimer, J. R. Memorandum for Group Leaders, Subject: TRINITY Test. Los Alamos Scientific Laboratory. Los Alamos, NM. June 14, 1945. 2 Pages.** 15. Palmer, T. O., Maj., USA. Evacuation Detachment at TRINITY. [Manhattan Engineer District, Army Corps of Engineers.] [Los Alamos, NM.] [18 July 1945.] 2 Pages.** 16. Reynolds Electrical & Engineering Company, Inc. [Personnel Radiation Exposures, 1945, 1946] Las Vegas, NV. Microfilm.**** 17. Warren, S. L., COL., USA. Directions for Personnel at Base Camp at Time of Shot. Los Alamos Scientific Laboratory, Manhattan Engineer District. [Alamogordo, NM.] 15 July 1945. 1 Page.** 18. Warren, S. L., COL, USA; Hempelmann, L. H., M.D. Extracts from: Personal Notes, Subject: Events in Camp Immediately Following Shot--July 16, 1945. 1945. 2 Pages.** 19. Weisskopf, V.; Hoffman, J.; Aebersold, Paul; Hempelmann, L. H. Memorandum for George Kistiakowsky, Subject: Measurement of Blast, Radiation, Heat and Light and Radioactivity at Trinity. [Los Alamos, NM.] 5 September 1945. 2 Pages.** 
44678	----	Transcriber's Note: With the exception of Figure 26, which forms the frontispiece of this work, the descriptions of individual figures have been shifted to follow their first mention in the text. Italics are indicated by _underscores_. Small capitals have been replaced by full capitals. Apparent typographical errors have been corrected. CONTRIBUTIONS FROM THE MUSEUM OF HISTORY AND TECHNOLOGY PAPER 63 THE PENITENTE MORADAS OF ABIQUIÚ _Richard E. Ahlborn_ Introduction Penitente Organization Origins of the Penitente Movement The History of Abiquiú The Architecture of the Moradas Interior Space and Artifacts Summary SMITHSONIAN INSTITUTION PRESS WASHINGTON, D.C. 1968 U.S. GOVERNMENT PRINTING OFFICE: 1968 0--287-597 For sale by the Superintendent of Documents, U.S. Government Printing Office Washington, D.C. 20402--Price 75 cents [Illustration: FIGURE 26. CROSS (_cruz_). SIZE: 106.7 centimeters high, 73.6 wide. DATE: First quarter of 20th century. ORIGIN: Abiquiú; Onésimo Martínez. LOCATION: South _morada_, center room. MANUFACTURE: Indigo blue designs (stencilled?).] _Richard E. Ahlborn_ _THE PENITENTE MORADAS OF ABIQUIÚ_ _By the early 19th century, Spanish-speaking residents of villages in northern New Mexico and southern Colorado felt the need for a brotherhood that would preserve their traditional social and religious beliefs. Known as "brothers of light," or _penitentes_, these Spanish-Americans centered their activities in a houselike building, or _morada_, especially equipped for Holy Week ceremonies._ _For the first time, two intact _moradas_ have been fully photographed and described through the cooperation of the _penitente_ brothers of Abiquiú, New Mexico._ THE AUTHOR: _Richard E. Ahlborn is associate curator in the Division of Cultural History in the Smithsonian Institution's Museum of History and Technology._ _Introduction_ This study describes two earthern buildings and their special furnishings--humble but unique documents of Spanish-American culture. The two structures are located in Abiquiú, a rural, Spanish-speaking village in northern New Mexico. Known locally as _moradas_, they serve as meeting houses for members of a flagellant brotherhood, the _penitentes_. The _penitente_ brotherhood is characteristic of Spanish culture in New Mexico (herein called _Hispano_ to indicate its derivation from Hispanic traditions in Mexico). Although penitential activities occurred in Spain's former colonies--Mexico, Argentina, and the Philippines--the _penitentes_ in the mountainous region that extends north of Albuquerque into southern Colorado are remarkable for their persistence. After a century and a half of clerical criticism[1] and extracultural pressures against the movement, physical evidence of _penitente_ activity, although scattered and diminished, still survives. As intact, functioning artifacts, the _penitente moradas_ at Abiquiú are valuable records of an autonomous, socio-religious brotherhood and of its place in the troubled history of Spanish-American culture in the Southwest. This paper maintains that _penitentes_ are not culturally deviant or aberrant but comprise a movement based firmly in Hispanic traditions as shown by their architecture and equipment found at Abiquiú and by previously established religious and social practices. Also, this paper presents in print for the first time a complete, integrated, and functioning group of _penitente_ artifacts documented, in situ, by photographs. My indebtedness in this study to local residents is immense: first, for inspiration, from Rosenaldo Salazar of Hernández and his son Regino, who introduced me to _penitente_ members at Abiquiú and four times accompanied me to the _moradas_. The singular opportunity to measure and to photograph interiors and individual artifacts is due wholly to the understandably wary but proud, _penitentes_ themselves. The task of identifying religious images in the _moradas_ was expertly done by E. Boyd, Curator of the Spanish-Colonial Department in the Museum of New Mexico at Santa Fe. The final responsibility for accuracy and interpretation of data, of course, is mine alone. [1] Beginning in 1820 with the report of ecclesiastic visitor Niño de Guevara, the Catholic Church has continued to frown upon _penitente_ activities, A modern critical study by a churchman: FATHER ANGÉLICO CHAVEZ, "The Penitentes of New Mexico," _New Mexico Historical Review_ (April 1954), vol. 22, pp. 97-123. _Penitente Organization_ _Penitente_ brotherhoods usually are made up of Spanish-speaking Catholic laymen in rural communities. Although the activities and artifacts vary in specific details, the basic structure, ceremonies, and aims of _penitentes_ as a cultural institution may be generalized. Full membership is open only to adult males. Female relatives may serve _penitente_ chapters as auxiliaries who clean, cook, and join in prayer, as do children on occasion, but men hold all offices and make up the membership-at-large. _Penitente_ membership comprises two strata distinguishable by title and activity. In his study of _Hispano_ institutional values, Monro Edmonson notes that _penitente_ chapters are divided into these two groups: (1) common members or brothers in discipline, _hermanos disciplantes_; and (2) officers, called brothers of light, _hermanos de luz_. Edmonson names each officer and lists his duties: The head of the chapter is the _hermano mayor_. He is assisted in administrative duties by the warden (_celador_) and the collector (_mandatario_), and in ceremonial duties by an assistant (_coadjutor_), reader (_secretario_), blood-letter (_sangredor_) and flutist (_pitero_). An official called the nurse (_enfermero_) attends the flagellants, and a master of novices (_maestro de novios_) supervises the training of new members.[2] In an early and apparently biased account of the _penitentes_, Reverend Alexandar Darley,[3] a Presbyterian missionary in southern Colorado, provides additional terms for three officers: _picador_ (the blood-letter), _regador_ or _rezador_ (a tenth officer, who led prayers) and _mayordomo de la muerte_ (literally "steward of death"). As host for meetings between _penitente_ chapters, the _mayordomo_ may be a late 19th-century innovation that bears the political overtones of a local leader.[4] Having less influence than individual officers are the _penitente_ members-at-large, numbering between thirty and fifty in each chapter. Through the _Hispano_ family system of extended bilateral kinship, however, much of the village population is represented in each local _penitente_ group. Edmonson's study in the Rimrock district demonstrates the deep sense of social responsibility felt by _penitentes_ for members and their extended family circles. "Special assistants were appointed from time to time to visit the sick or perform other community services which the brotherhood may undertake."[5] At other times of need, especially in sickness and death, the general _penitente_ membership renders invaluable service to the afflicted family. In addition, _penitente_ welfare efforts include spiritual as well as physical comfort such as wakes, prayers and rosaries, and the singing of funereal chants (_alabados_). At Española in November of 1965, I witnessed _penitentes_ contributing such help to respected nonmembers: grave digging, financial aid, and a rosary service with _alabados_. These spiritual services, however, are peripheral to the principal religious activity of _penitentes_--the Lenten observance of the Passion and death of Jesus. During Holy Week, prayer meetings, rosaries, and _via crucis_ processions with religious images are held at the _morada_ and at a site representing Calvary (_calvario_), usually the local cemetery. On Good Friday, vigils are kept and the _morada_ is darkened for a service known as _las tinieblas_. The ceremony of "the darkenings" consists of silent prayer broken by violent noise making. Metal sheets and chains, wooden blocks and rattles are manipulated to suggest natural disturbances at the moment of Jesus' death on the cross. This emphatic portrayal of His last hours is recalled also by acts of contrition and flagellation in _penitente_ initiation rites, punishments, and Holy Week processions. _Penitentes_ use physical discipline and mortification as a dramatic means to intensify their imitation of Jesus' suffering.[6] Heavy timber crosses (_maderos_) and cactus whips (_disciplinas_) are used in processions that often include a figure of death in a cart (_la carreta de la muerte_). Disciplinary and initiatory mortification in the _morada_ makes use of flint or glass blood-letting devices (_padernales_).[7] [2] MONRO S. EDMONSON, _Los Manitos: A Study of Institutional Values_ (Publ. 25, Middle American Research Institute; New Orleans: Tulane University, 1950), p. 43. [3] ALEXANDER M. DARLEY, _The Passionists of the Southwest_ (Pueblo, _1893_). [4] E. BOYD, Curator of the Spanish-Colonial Department, Museum of New Mexico, Santa Fe, states that Jesús Trujjillo in 1947 furnished information on other _penitente_ officers, including one man who uses the _matraca_ and one who acts as a sergeant at arms. [5] EDMONSON, loc. cit. [6] GEORGE WHARTON JAMES, _New Mexico: Land of the Delight Makers_ (Boston, 1920), lists concisely the Biblical and historical references to religious mortification practiced by New Mexican _penitentes_. [7] DARLEY (op. cit., pp. 8 ff.) gives an exhaustive list of methods of mortification said to be used by _penitentes_. _Origins of the Penitente Movement_ By 1833, bodily penance practiced in lay brotherhoods of _Hispano_ Catholics attracted criticism from the Church in New Mexico and resulted in the pejorative name _penitentes_.[8] Historically, however, within the traditional framework of Hispanic Catholicism, the _penitentes_ had precedents for their religious practices, including flagellation. _Penitente_ rites were derived from Catholic services already common in colonial New Mexico. Prayers and rosaries said before altars comprised an important part of _Hispano_ religious observances, and processions of Catholics and _penitentes_ alike were announced by bell, drum, and rifle in _Hispano_ villages. In particular, _penitentes_ used _via crucis_ processions to dramatize the Passion, portrayed in every Catholic church by the fourteen Stations of the Cross. _Penitentes_ also maintained Catholic Lenten practices by holding _tenebrae_ services, the _tinieblas_ rites mentioned above, and by flagellation. These parallels between Catholic and _penitente_ religious observances caused Edmonson to theorize that "the autonomous movement originated within the Church."[9] Variations, however, between the two religious traditions led Edmonson to discover "an important thread of religious independence and even apostasy in New Mexican history."[10] Edmonson's study of 1950 has established the persistence of _penitente_ activity in _Hispano_ culture. Three and a half centuries earlier, in 1598, Spanish settlers made a courageous thrust into the inhospitable environment of New Mexico. Through the 17th and 18th centuries, Spanish settlement along the upper Rio Grande was a tenuous thread unraveled from a stronger fabric in Mexico. Aridity and extremes in temperatures marked New Mexico's climate. Arable land was scarce and could be extended back from streams only by careful upkeep of the irrigation ditches. Plateaus rose from 1500 to more than 2500 meters in altitude. Building timbers were hard to obtain without roads or navigable rivers. Finally, distance itself was a challenge, sometimes insurmountable for the supply caravans from Mexico. Outfitted over a thousand miles to the south of Santa Fe, the Mexican caravans brought _presidio_ and mission supplies, but few goods for the common settler. By the end of the 18th century, Spanish authorities thought of the northern colonies (_provincias internas_) primarily as missionary fields and military buffer zones.[11] Cultural traditions and an insecure environment caused Spanish colonists to turn to religion for comfort. Again, however, a supply problem arose. Individual _ranchos_ were too scattered for clerical visits, and even settlements that were grouped for greater security, _poblaciones_ or _plazas_, became _visitas_ on little more than an annual basis, sharing two dozen Franciscan clergy with missions assigned to Indian _pueblos_ and Spanish villages. Before 1800, a shortage of friars prompted the Bishop in Durango to send secular clergy into the Franciscan enclave of New Mexico. In 1821 the Mexican Revolution formalized secularization with a new constitution. In brief, the traditional religious patterns of the _Hispanos_ were threatened. They needed reinforcement if they were to survive. By 1850, other conditions in New Mexico endangered the status quo of the Spanish-speaking residents. With the growing dominance of Anglo-Americans in the commercial, military, political, and social matters of Santa Fe, _Hispanos_ recognized the threat of Anglo culture to their own traditional way of life. This cultural challenge turned many _Hispanos_ back in upon themselves for physical and social security and for spiritual comfort. By the second quarter of the 19th century, _penitentes_ were common in _Hispano_ villages such as Abiquiú.[12] The immediate origins of penitentism were clearly present in early 19th-century New Mexico. Despite this evidence, historians of the Spanish Southwest have suggested geographically and culturally remote sources for the _penitentes_. Dorothy Woodward has pointed out similarities between New Mexican _penitentes_ and Spanish brotherhoods (_cofradías_) of laymen.[13] _Cofradías_ were not full church orders like the Franciscan Third Order, but they did conduct Lenten processions with flagellation. Somewhat nearer in miles but culturally more distant from _Hispano penitente_ experience was mortification practiced by Indians in New Spain. In the 16th century, Spanish chroniclers reported incidents ranging from sanguinary ceremonies of central Mexican tribes to whippings witnessed in the northern provinces of Sonora and New Mexico. While of peripheral interest to this study, these activities of American Indians had no direct bearing on _Hispano_ cultural needs in early 19th-century New Mexico. It is more significant that _Hispanos_ already knew a lay religious institution that very easily could have served as a model for the _penitente_ brotherhood--the Third Order of St. Francis. Established in 13th-century Italy and carried to Spain by the Gray Friars, the Order is recorded in contemporary histories of New Mexico before 1700. Materials in the archives of the Archdiocese of Santa Fe also document the presence of the Franciscan Third Order in New Mexico and suggest to me its influence on _penitente_ activity.[14] In March 1776, Fray Domínguez, an ecclesiastic visitor, recorded Lenten "exercises" of the Third Order under the supervision of the resident priest at Santa Cruz and, two weeks later, in April, Domínguez visited Abiquiú, where he commended the Franciscan friar, Fray Sebastian Angel Fernández, for "feasts of Our Lady, rosary with the father in church. Fridays of Lent, _Via Crucis_ with the father, and later, after dark, discipline attended by those who came voluntarily."[15] Domínguez, however, described the priest as "not at all obedient to rule"[16] when Father Fernández, acting in an independent manner, proceeded to build missions at Picuris and Sandia without authorization. But in 1777, he again praised Fray Fernández for special _Via Crucis_ devotions and "scourging by the resident missionary and some of the faithful."[17] Domínguez thus documented flagellant practices and _tinieblas_ services at Abiquiú and his approval, as an official Church representative, of these activities. Father Chavez, O.F.M., protests the theory of _penitente_ origins in the Third Order of St. Francis and counters with the idea that "penitentism" was imported directly from Mexico in the early 1800s.[18] I note, however, that the bishops seated in Santa Fe after 1848 recognized the strength of this lay socio-religious movement and tried to deal with it in terms of the Order. At a synod in 1888, Archbishop Salpointe pleaded for _penitentes_ "to return" to the Third Order. Some degree of direct influence of the Third Order on "penitentism" seems fairly certain. [8] ANGÉLICO CHAVEZ, _Archives of the Archdiocese of Santa Fe, 1678-1900_ (Washington, 1957): "Books of Patentes," 1833: books xi, xii, xix, lxxiii, and lxxxii. (Original documents from archives noted hereinafter as AASF.) [9] EDMONSON, p. 33. [10] Ibid., p. 18. [11] H. E. BOLTON, "The Spanish Borderlands and the Mission as a Frontier Institution," _American Historical Review_ (Santa Fe, 1917), vol. 23, pp. 42-61, indicates that this policy was developed after 1765 by Charles III of Spain in an attempt to reorganize the administration of his vast colonial empire. [12] AASF, Patentes, book lxxiii, box 6. [13] "The Penitentes of the Southwest" (unpublished Ph. D. dissertation, Yale University, 1935). [14] CHAVEZ, _Archives_, p. 3 (ftn.). [15] FRAY FRANCISCO ATANASIO DOMÍNGUEZ, _The Missions of New Mexico, 1776_, transl. and annot. Eleanor B. Adams and Fray Angelico Chavez (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1956), p. 124. [16] DOMÍNGUEZ, ms., from Biblioteca Nacional de Méjico, leg. 10, no. 46, p. 300. [17] Ibid., no. 43, p. 321. [18] CHAVEZ, "Penitentes," p. 100. _The History of Abiquiú_ About three generations before the first _morada_ was built at Abiquiú, the conditions of settlement mentioned earlier and subsequent historical events resulted in an environment conducive to the development of _penitente_ activity. Shortly after 1740, civil authorities in Santa Fe attempted to settle colonists along the Chama River in order to create a buffer zone between marauding Indians to the northwest and Spanish and Pueblo villages on the Rio Grande (Figure 1). This constant threat of annihilation produced self-reliant and independent-minded settlers. [Illustration: FIGURE 1. Mid-19th-century New Mexico, showing pertinent geographical features, Indian pueblos (indicated by solid triangles), and Spanish villages cited in text.] Unorthodoxy appeared early in the religious history of Abiquiú. By 1744, settlers had installed Santa Rosa de Lima as their patroness in a little riverside plaza near modern Abiquiú. After a decade, several colonists from Santa Rosa were moved to the hilltop plaza of Abiquiú, where the mission of Santo Tomás Apostol had been established. In his 1776 visit to Abiquiú, Domínguez noted, however, a continuing allegiance to the earlier patroness: "... settlers use the name of Santa Rosa, as the lost mission was called in the old days. Therefore, they celebrate the feast of this female saint [August 30th] and not of that masculine saint [St. Thomas the Apostle, December 21]."[19] Loyalty to Saint Rose survived this official protest, and village festivals have persisted in honoring Santa Rosa to this day. It is, therefore, not surprising to find her image in the earlier east _morada_ of Abiquiú. A disturbing influence in the religious life of Abiquiú were semi-Christianized servants _(genízaros)_, who had been ransomed from the Indians by Spaniards.[20] Often used to establish frontier settlements, _genízaros_ came to be a threat to the cultural stability of Abiquiú. For example, in 1762, two _genízaros_ accused of witchcraft were taken to Santa Cruz for judicial action. After the trial, Governor Cachupín sent a detachment from Santa Fe to Abiquiú to destroy an inscribed stone said to be a relic of black magic.[21] Similar incidents with _genízaros_ during the next generation prolonged the unstable religious pattern at Abiquiú. In 1766, an Indian girl accused a _genízaro_ couple of killing the resident priest, Fray Felix Ordoñez y Machado, by witchcraft.[22] And again in 1782 and 1786, charges of apostasy were entered against Abiquiú _genízaros_.[23] Another disturbing element in the religious history of Abiquiú was the disinterest of her settlers in the building and furnishing of Santo Tomás Mission. Although the structure was completed in the first generation of settlement at Abiquiú, 1755 to 1776, Domínguez could report only two contributions from colonists, both loans: "In this room [sacristy] there is an ordinary table with a drawer and key ... a loan from a settler called Juan Pablo Martin ... the chalice is in three pieces, and one of them, for it is a loan by the settlers, is used for a little shrine they have."[24] All mission equipment was supplied by royal funds (_sínodos_) except some religious articles provided by the resident missionary, Fray Fernández, who finished the structure raised half way by his predecessor, Fray Juan José Toledo. Both Franciscans found settlers busy with everyday problems of survival and resentful when called on to labor for the mission. The settlers not only failed to supply any objects, but when they were required to work at the mission, all tools and equipment had to be supplied to them.[25] Despite these detrimental influences, the mission at Abiquiú continued to grow. Between 1760 and 1793, the population increased from 733 to 1,363, making Abiquiú the third largest settlement in colonial New Mexico north of Paso del Norte [Ciudad Juarez].[26] (Only Santa Cruz with 1,650 and Santa Fe with 2,419 persons were larger.) In 1795, the pueblo had maintained its size at 1,558, with Indians representing less than 10 percent of the population.[27] The increase in size brought the mission at Abiquiú more important and longer-term resident missionaries: Fathers José de la Prada, from 1789 to 1806, and Teodoro Alcina de la Borda, from 1806 to 1823. Both men were elected directors (_custoses_) of the Franciscan mission field in New Mexico, "The Custody of the Conversion of St. Paul." _Custoses_ Prada and Borda backed the Franciscans, who were fighting for a missionary field that they had long considered their own. Official directives (_patentes_) issued by _Custos_ Prada at Abiquiú warned all settlers against "new ideas of liberty" and asked each friar for his personal concept of governmental rights.[28] In 1802, Fray Prada also complained to the new _Custos_, Father Sanchez Vergara, about missions that had been neglected under the secular clergy.[29] In this period, Abiquiú's mission was a center of clerical reaction to the revolutionary political ideas and clerical secularization that had resulted from Mexico's recent independence from Spain. In the year 1820, the strained relations between religious authorities and the laity at Abiquiú clearly reflected the unstable conditions in New Mexico. Eventually, charges of manipulating mission funds and neglect of clerical duties were brought against Father Alcina de la Borda by the citizens of Abiquiú.[30] At the same time, Governor Melgares informed the _Alcalde Mayor_, Santiago Salazar, that these funds (_sínodos_) had been reduced and that an oath of loyalty to the Spanish crown would be required.[31] This situation produced a strong reaction in Abiquiú's next generation, which sought to preserve its traditional cultural patterns in the _penitente_ brotherhoods. The great-grandsons of Abiquiú's first settlers witnessed a significant change in organization of their mission--its secularization in 1826. For three years, Father Borda had shared his mission duties with Franciscans from San Juan and Santa Clara _pueblos_, giving way in 1823 to the last member of the Order to serve Santo Tomás, Fray Sanchez Vergara. Santo Tomás Mission received its first secular priest in 1823, Cura Leyva y Rosas, who returned to Abiquiú in 1832. Officially the mission at Abiquiú was secularized in 1826, along with those at Belén and Taos.[32] The first secular priest assigned to Santo Tomás reflected the now traditional and self-sufficient character of _Hispano_ culture at Abiquiú.[33] He was the independent-minded Don Antonio José Martínez. Born in Abiquiú, Don Antonio later became an ambitious spiritual and political leader in Taos, where he fought to preserve traditional _Hispano_ culture from Anglo-American influences. The mission served by Father Martínez in Taos bore resemblance to that at Abiquiú. Both missions rested on much earlier Indian settlements, but the Taos pueblo was still active. Furthermore, Taos and Abiquiú were buffer settlements on the frontier, where Indian raids as well as trade occurred. In 1827 a census by P. B. Pino listed nearly 3,600 persons at Taos and a similar count at Abiquiú; only Santa Fe with 5,700 and Santa Cruz with 6,500 were larger villages. At this time, an independent element appeared in the religious activities of the Santa Cruz region. In 1831, Vicar Rascon gave permission to sixty members of the Third Order of St. Francis at Santa Cruz to hold Lenten exercises in Taos, provided that no "abuses" arose to be corrected on his next visit.[34] Apparently this warning proved inadequate, for in 1833 Archbishop Zubiría concluded his visitation at Santa Cruz by ordering that "pastors of this villa ... must never in the future permit such reunions of _Penitentes_ under any pretext whatsoever."[35] We have noted, however, that two generations earlier Fray Domínguez had commended similar observances at Santa Cruz and Abiquiú, and it was not until the visitation of Fray Niño de Guevara, 1817-1820, that Church officials found it necessary to condemn penitential activity in New Mexico.[36] In little more than two generations, from 1776 to 1833, the Franciscan missions were disrupted by secularization and excessive acts of penance. In the second half of the 19th century, the new, non-Spanish Archbishops, Lamy and Salpointe, saw a relation between the Franciscan Third Order and the brotherhood of _penitentes_. When J. B. Lamy began signing rule books (_arreglos_) for the _penitente_ chapters of New Mexico,[37] he hoped to reintegrate them into accepted Church practice as members of the Third Order. And at the end of the century, J. B. Salpointe expressed his belief that the _penitente_ brotherhood had been an outgrowth of the Franciscan tertiaries.[38] Abiquiú shared in events that marked the religious history of New Mexico in the last three quarters of the 19th century. We have noted the secularization of Santo Tomás Mission in 1826; by 1856 the village had its _penitente_ rule book duly signed by Archbishop Lamy. Entitled _Arreglo de la Santa Hermandad de la Sangre de Nuestro Señor Jesucristo_, a copy was signed by Abiquiú's priest, Don Pedro Bernal, on April 6, 1867.[39] While officialdom worked out new religious and political relations, villagers struggled to preserve a more familiar tradition. Occupation of New Mexico in 1846 by United States troops tended to solidify traditional _Hispano_ life in Abiquiú. In that year, Navajo harassments caused an encampment of 180 men under Major Gilpin to be stationed at Abiquiú.[40] Eventually, the Indian raids slackened, and a trading post for the Utes was set up at Abiquiú in 1853.[41] Neither the U.S. Army nor Indian trading posts, however, became integrated into Abiquiú's _Hispano_ way of life, and these extracultural influences soon moved on, leaving only a few commercial artifacts. With a new generation of inhabitants occupying Abiquiú between 1864 and 1886, the village on the Rio Chama lost its primary function as a buffer settlement against nomadic Indians and settled down into a well-established cultural pattern, which in part was preserved by the _penitentes_. Kit Carson had rounded up the Navajos at Bosque Redondo, and two decades later, by 1883, the Utes had been moved north. In preparation, the Indian trading post at Abiquiú was closed in 1872 and moved to the new seat of Rio Arriba County, Tierra Amarilla,[42] 65 kilometers northward. Within two generations, Abiquiú's population had fallen to fewer than 800 from a high of nearly 3,600 in 1827.[43] As a result, many _Hispanos_ at Abiquiú withdrew into the _penitente_ organization, which promised to preserve and even intensify their traditional ways of life and beliefs. These attitudes were materialized in the building of the _penitente moradas_. [19] DOMÍNGUEZ, _Missions_, pp. 121 (ftn. 1), 200. [20] AASF, Patentes, 1700, forbids friars to buy _genízaros_ even under the excuse of Christianizing them since the result would likely be morally dangerous. [21] H. H. BANCROFT, _History of Arizona and New Mexico_ (San Francisco, 1889), p. 258. [22] DOMÍNGUEZ, _Missions_, p. 336. [23] AASF, Loose Documents, Mission, 1782, no. 7. [24] DOMÍNGUEZ, _Missions_, p. 122. [25] Ibid., p. 123. [26] BANCROFT, p. 279. [27] AASF, Loose Documents, Mission, 1795, no. 13. [28] Ibid., 1796, nos. 6, 7. [29] Ibid., 1802, no. 18. [30] Ibid., 1820, nos. 15, 21, 38; also R. E. TWITCHELL, _The Spanish Archives of New Mexico_ (Cedar Rapids, 1914), vol. 2, pp. 630, 631. [31] AASF, Loose Documents, Mission, 1820, nos. 12, 21. [32] Ibid., 1826, no. 7. [33] Don Antonio was less than eager to accept his first post; he had to be ordered to report to duty (AASF, Accounts, book lxvi [box 6], April 27, 1826). [34] AASF, Patentes, 1831, book lxx, box 4, p. 25. [35] Ibid., book lxxiii, box 7. [36] AASF, Accounts, book lxii, box 5. [37] AASF, Loose Documents, Diocesan, 1853, no. 17, for Santuario and Cochiti; other rule books document _penitente_ chapters at Chimayo, El Rito, and Taos. [38] JEAN B. SALPOINTE, _Soldiers of the Cross_ (Banning, Calif., 1898). [39] AASF, Loose Documents, Diocesan, 1856, no. 12. [40] TWITCHELL, pp. 533-534. [41] BANCROFT, p. 665. [42] TWITCHELL, p. 447. [43] Ibid., p. 449, from P. B. PINO, _Notícias históricas_ (Méjico, 1848); and _Ninth U.S. Census_ (1870). The later figure may represent only the town proper; earlier statistics generally included outlying settlements. _The Architecture of the Moradas_ In a modern map (Figure 2), circles enclose the Mission of Abiquiú and its two _penitente moradas_. The _moradas_ lie 300 meters east and 400 meters south of the main plaza onto which Santo Tomás Mission faces from the north. Between the _moradas_ rests the local burial ground (_campo santo_), a cemetery that serves _penitentes_ as "Calvary" (_calvario_) in their Lenten re-enactment of the Passion. [Illustration: FIGURE 2. The Abiquiú area, showing the Chama River, U.S. Highway 84, and siting of buildings (the mission of Santo Tomás and the two _moradas_ are circled).] _Penitente moradas_ share a common system of _adobe_ construction with the religious and domestic structures of New Mexico. While the Indians set walls of puddled earth directly on the ground, the Spaniards, following Moorish precedent, laid _adobe_ bricks on stone foundations. Standard house-size _adobes_ average 15 by 30 by 50 centimeters. _Adobe_ bricks are made by packing a mixture of mud, sand, and straw into a wood frame from which the block then is knocked out onto the ground to dry in the sun. Stones set in _adobe_ mortar provide a foundation. The sun-dried bricks, which are also laid in _adobe_ mortar, form exterior, load-bearing walls and interior partitions. Spanish _adobe_ construction also employs wood. Openings are framed and closed with a lintel that projects well into the wall. These recessed lintel faces often are left exposed after the plastering of adjoining surfaces. Roofs are transverse beams (_vigas_), which in turn hold small cross branches (_savinos_) or planks (_tablas_). A final layer of brush and _adobe_ plaster closes the surface cracks. Plank drains (_canales_), rectangular in section, lead water from this soft roof surface (Figure 3). [Illustration: FIGURE 3. North roofline of east _morada_, showing exposed ends of ceiling beams (_vigas_), chimney of oratory stove, and construction of water drain (_canal_).] Domestic _adobe_ structures differ from ecclesiastic buildings in scale and in spatial arrangement. Colonial New Mexican churches are relatively large, unicellular spaces. Their simple nave volume often is made cruciform by a transept whose higher roof allows for a clerestory. A choir loft over the entry and a narrowed, elevated sanctuary further articulate the space at each end of the nave. In contrast, _Hispano_ houses consist of several low rooms set in a line or grouped around a court (_placita_) in which a gate and porch (_portal_) are placed. Rooms vary in width according to the length of the transverse beams, which usually are from four to six meters long.[44] The everyday living spaces inside Spanish-New Mexican houses tend to combine domestic activities and to appear similar in space and decor. Inside a _Hispano_ church, however, areas of special useage are marked off clearly within the volume. Celebration of the mass requires a special spatial treatment to indicate the sanctuary. This area is emphasized by an arched entry, lateral pilasters, raised floor, and characteristically convergent side walls. These slanting walls provide better vision for the congregation and easier movement for the celebrants. The convergent wall of sanctuaries is often visible from the exterior. It is noteworthy that both the contracted sanctuary of local churches and the linear arrangement of domestic interiors appear in the _penitente moradas_ of Abiquiú. In the plans of the Abiquiú _moradas_ (Figure 4), the identical arrangement of the three rooms reveals an origin in the typical _Hispano_ house form. George Kubler has observed that the design of _moradas_ "is closer to the domestic architecture of New Mexico than to the churches."[45] Bainbridge Bunting confirms the houselike form of _moradas_ but notes their lack of uniformity.[46] In comparison to _moradas_ of the L-plan,[47] and even of the pre-1856 T-plan structure at Arroyo Hondo,[48] the two _penitente_ buildings at Abiquiú preserve a simple | shape with one significant variation--a contracted chancel. [Illustration: FIGURE 4. Plans of south _morada_ (top) and east _morada_ (bottom): A=altar; B=standard; C=candelabra; D=sandbox; E=benches; F=fireplace; G=stove; H=chest; I=tub.] The basic form of the Abiquiú _moradas_ (Figures 5 and 6) is a rectangular box that closely resembles nearby houses. Even the long, windowless north facade of both Abiquiú _moradas_ recalls the unbroken walls of earlier _Hispano_ houses in hostile frontier regions. The Abiquiú _moradas_, however, possess one exception to the domestic form--a narrowed, accented end. On each _morada_ the west end is blunted and buttressed by a salient bell tower of stones laid in _adobe_ mortar and strengthened by horizontal boards (Figures 7 and 8). This innovation in the form of the Abiquiú _moradas_ appears to be ecclesiastic in origin. [Illustration: FIGURE 5. SOUTH _Morada_. SIZE: 24.02 meters long, 5.41 wide, 3.51 high. DATE: About 1900. LOCATION: 400 meters south of Santo Tomás Church in main plaza; seen from southeast corner. MANUFACTURE: _Adobe_ bricks on stone foundation; wood door and window frames.] [Illustration: FIGURE 6. EAST _Morada_. SIZE: 28.82 meters long, 4.88 wide, 3.58 high. DATE: 19th century. LOCATION: 300 meters east-southeast of Santo Tomás Church in main plaza; seen from northeast corner. MANUFACTURE: _Adobe_ bricks set on stone foundation; wood drains (_canales_) and beam (_viga_) ends at top of wall.] [Illustration: FIGURE 7. West end of south _morada_, showing construction of bell tower and contracted sanctuary walls.] [Illustration: FIGURE 8. Northwest view of east _morada_, showing limestone slab bell tower on contracted west end.] Plans of churches built close to Abiquiú in time, distance, and orientation could have served as sources for the design of the _moradas'_ west ends (Figure 9). Only five kilometers east of Abiquiú stood the chapel dedicated to Santa Rosa de Lima. As shown in Figure 9F, the sanctuary in its west end had a raised floor and flanking entry pilasters, features found in the east _morada's_ west end. This chapel was dedicated about 1744 and was still active as a _visíta_ from Abiquiú in 1830.[49] Through this period and to the present, the popularity of Saint Rose of Lima has persisted at Abiquiú. Her nearby chapel would have been a likely and logical choice for the design of the _morada's_ sanctuary end. [Illustration: FIGURE 9. Plans of two Abiquiú _moradas_ compared to New Mexican churches with contracted sanctuaries: A, south _morada_, B, east _morada_; C, Zía Mission; D, San Miguel in Santa Fe; E, Santa Cruz; F, Santa Rosa; G, Ranchos de Taos; H, the _santuario_ at Chimayo; I, Córdova. (From Kubler, _Religious Architecture_ [see ftn. 45]: C=his figure 8; D=28, E=9, F=34, G=13, H=22, I=35.)] A second possible source for the contracted ends of the Abiquiú _moradas_ would be the south transept chapel of the Third Order of St. Francis at Santa Cruz (Figure 9E). It was completed shortly before 1798[50] and served Franciscan tertiaries into the 1830s. Plans compared in Figure 9 indicate that the dimensions of this left transept chapel at Santa Cruz measure only five percent larger than the chapel room of the east _morada_ at Abiquiú, and the plans also reveal contracted chancel walls at both locations. The concept of a constricted sanctuary as seen in Abiquiú _moradas_ originated in earlier Spanish and Mexican churches. In 1479, architect Juan Guas used a trapezoidal apse plan in San Juan de los Reyes at Toledo and, by 1512, the design found its way into America's first cathedral at Santo Domingo. Within the first century of Spanish colonization, contracted sanctuary walls appeared on the American mainland in Arciniega's revised plan for Mexico City's Cathedral (post-1584)[51] and, again, in New Mexico, where it first appeared at the stone mission of Zía, built about 1614 (Figure 9C). Once established in the Franciscan province, the concept of converging sanctuary walls survived the 1680 Indian revolt and returned with the reconquest of New Mexico in 1693. Spaniards raised and rebuilt missions from the capital at Santa Fe (San Miguel, rebuilt 1710; Figure 9D) north to Taos (San Geronimo, 1706). Throughout the 18th century, in a three-to-one ratio, the churches of New Mexico used the contracted, as opposed to the box, sanctuary. In the early 19th century, churches at Ranchos de Taos (1805-1815[52]; Figure 9G), Chimayo (about 1810; Figure 9H), and Córdova (after 1830; Figure 9I) continued to employ the trapezoidal sanctuary form. By midcentury, _penitente_ brotherhoods are known to have been active in these villages, and the local ecclesiastic structures could have acted as an influence in the design of the _penitente moradas_ at Abiquiú. In summary, the _moradas_ at Abiquiú are traditional regional buildings in material and in basic form. The pointed west end of each building, however, is an ecclesiastic innovation in an otherwise typical domestic design. These _moradas_ provide a significant design variant in the history of Spanish-American architecture in New Mexico. [44] The "Hall of Everyday Life in the American Past" in the Museum of History and Technology (Smithsonian Institution, Washington, D.C.) displays an interior typical of a Spanish-New Mexican _adobe_ house of about 1800. [45] GEORGE KUBLER, _The Religious Architecture of New Mexico_ (Colorado Springs, 1940), p. viii. [46] BAINBRIDGE BUNTING, _Taos Adobes_ (Santa Fe, 1964), P. 54. [47] L-plan _moradas_ are pictured by Woodward [see ftn. 13] in a 1925 photograph at San Mateo, a different _morada_ from that illustrated in CHARLES F. LUMMIS, _Land of Poco Tiempo_ (New York, 1897), as well as in another Woodward photograph [see ftn. 13] taken on the road to Chimayo. L. B. PRINCE, _Spanish Mission Churches of New Mexico_ (Cedar Rapids, 1915), shows an L-plan _morada_ near Las Vegas. Was the L-plan house an unconscious recall of the more secure structure that completely enclosed a _placita_? [48] BUNTING, p. 56. After 1960 the Arroyo Hondo _morada_ became the private residence of Larry Franks. [49] AASF, Loose Documents, Mission, 1829 (May 27). [50] KUBLER, _Religious Architecture_, p. 103. [51] GEORGE KUBLER and MARTIN SORIA, _The Art and Architecture of Spain and Portugal and Their American Dominions, 1500 to 1800_ (Baltimore, 1959), pp. 3, 64, 74. [52] E. BOYD, interview, April 1966. Building date of about 1780 usually is given for the present church. Boyd, however, states that documents in AASF support the tree-ring dates given in KUBLER. _Religious Architecture_, p. 121, as 1816±10. _Interior Space and Artifacts_ The plans of the two _penitente moradas_ of Abiquiú (Figure 4) reveal an identical arrangement of interior space. There are three rooms in each _morada_: (1) the longest is on the west end and, with its constricted sanctuary space, acts as an oratory; (2) the center room serves as a sacristy; and (3) the east room is for storage. The only major difference between the two _moradas_ is the length of the storage room, which is nearly twice as long in the east _morada_. The remarkable similarities in design suggest that one served as the model for the other; local oral tradition holds that the east _morada_ is older.[53] Internal evidence indicates that the east _morada_ is indeed the older one. As shown in Figure 2, the south _morada_ is located farther from the Abiquiú _plaza_, suggesting it was built at a later date--perhaps nearer 1900, when public and official criticism had prompted greater privacy for Holy Week processions, which were considered spectacles by tourists. In addition, the lesser width of the south _morada_ rooms, the square-milled beams in the oratory, and the fireplace in the east end storage room indicate that it was built after the east _morada_. In contrast, the two corner fireplaces of the east _morada_ are set in the center room, while another heating arrangement--an oil drum set on a low _adobe_ dais--appears to have been added at a later date. The east _morada_ was the obvious model for the builders of the later one on the south edge of Abiquiú. Local _penitentes_ admit that there was a division in the original chapter just prior to 1900[54] but deny that the separation was made because of political differences, as suggested by one author.[55] The older members say that the first _morada_ merely had become too large for convenient use of the building. The three rooms in each _morada_ are distinguished by bare, whitewashed walls of _adobe_ plaster, hard-packed dirt floors, two exterior doors, and three windows. A locked door is located off the oratory in the north face of the south _morada_. Figures 10 and 11 show the sanctuaries in the south and east _morada_; and Figure 12, the back of the east _morada_ oratory. Its open door leads into the center room, where the members would not remove the boards on the windows for me to take photographs. The east end room in each _morada_ serves for storage of processional and ceremonial equipment. [Illustration: FIGURE 10. ALTAR IN SOUTH _Morada_. SIZE: 10.05 meters long, 3.51 wide. LOCATION: West room in south _morada_. DESCRIPTION: Looking west into sanctuary; dirt floor with cotton rag rugs; side walls lined with benches and hung with religious prints; square-milled timber ceiling; draped arch with candelabra; altar and gradin with religious images. (Numbers refer to subsequent illustrations.)] [Illustration: FIGURE 11. ALTAR IN EAST _Morada_. DESCRIPTION: Looking into sanctuary; dirt floor and convergent _adobe_ walls; sacristy entry marked by drapes and raised floor; candelabra and sand boxes for votive candles; draped altar table supplied with religious images. (Numbers refer to subsequent illustrations.)] [Illustration: FIGURE 12. REAR OF ORATORY, EAST _Morada_. SIZE: 10.98 meters long, 4.04 wide. LOCATION: Back of west room in east _morada_. DESCRIPTION: Looking east, to rear of oratory. Dirt floor, _adobe_-plastered walls, wooden benches, iron stove, framed religious prints on walls, ceiling of round beams (_vigas_).] STORAGE ROOM IN BOTH MORADAS.--In the south _morada_ (Figure 13), there are cactus scourges (_disciplinas_), corrugated metal sheeting used for roofing, and three rattles (_matracas_; Figure 14), also used for noise-making in _tinieblas_ services. Situated here also are black Lenten candelabrum, a ladder, a cross with silvered Passion emblems, and massive penitential crosses (_maderos_; Figure 15). The Lenten ladder and cross are shown next to the exterior entry (Figure 16). A corner fireplace is flanked by locally made tin candle sconces (Figure 17). Two 19th-century kerosene lamps appear on the fireplace mantle, and a tin-shaded lantern with its silver-plated reservoir hangs from the ceiling (Figure 15). [Illustration: FIGURE 13. FLOOR TUB IN STORAGE ROOM. SIZE: tub 53.3 centimeters high. LOCATION: South _morada_, northwest corner of room. DESCRIPTION: Cement tub, dirt floor, fire wood, galvanized tubs, enamelized buckets, braided cactus whips (_disciplinas_), wooden box rattle (_matraca_), punched tin wall sconce, corrugated metal roofing.] [Illustration: FIGURE 14. RATTLES (_matracas_). SIZE: 26 to 40 centimeters long. LOCATION: South _morada_ storage (east) room. DESCRIPTION: Flexible tongue set at one end of wooden frame, and notched cylinder on handle turning in opposite end.] [Illustration: FIGURE 15. PENITENTE CROSSES (_maderos_) IN STORAGE ROOM. SIZES: black cross 269.2 centimeters high (Figure 16); ceiling boards 2.5 by 15; _maderos_ 345 long. DATE: 20th century. ORIGIN: New Mexico, unidentified carpenter. LOCATION: South _morada_, northeast corner. DESCRIPTION: black candelabra (_tenebrario_), kerosene lanterns, tin shades, wooden keg and box under table.] [Illustration: FIGURE 16. CROSS AND LADDER (_cruz_ and _escalera_). SIZE: cross 269.2 centimeters high. DATE: Fourth quarter of 19th century. ORIGIN: New Mexico, unidentified carpenter. LOCATION: South _morada_, storage (east) room. DESCRIPTION: Milled and carved wood (painted), black cross and ladder, silvered nails (left arm), hammer and pliers (right arm).] [Illustration: FIGURE 17. CORNER FIREPLACE IN STORAGE ROOM. SIZE: mantel 106.7 centimeters high. LOCATION: South _morada_, southeast corner. DESCRIPTION: Walls, fireplace, and flue of plastered _adobe_, kerosene lamps and tin wall sconces, boarded up window to left (east).] In each _morada_ storage area, there is a tub built on the floor that serves to wash off blood after penance. Figure 13 shows the tub in the south _morada_. In the older, east _morada_, the tub (Figure 18) is a wood- and tin-lined trough pushed against the north wall and plastered with _adobe_. [Illustration: FIGURE 18. STORAGE ROOM, EAST _Morada_. SIZES: Tub 112.6 centimeters long, 46 wide, 25.6 high; ladder 175 high. DESCRIPTION: Detail of north wall showing enamelized containers, tub built into the floor for washing after penance, and ladder.] The storage room in the east _morada_ also contains commercially made lamps, such as the plated reservoir with stamped Neo-rococo motifs (Figure 19). Nearby is a processional cross with two metal faces and a small, cast corpus (Figure 20). While kerosene lanterns are evidence of east-west rail commerce after 1880, the cross probably indicates a southern contact, possibly through Parral or Chihuahua, Mexico. Locally made, however, are the woven rag rugs (_jergas_) hung over a pole (_varal_)[56] that drops from the ceiling. Also in the east _morada_ storage are two percussion rifles (Figure 21). Craddock Goins, Department of Armed Forces History, the Smithsonian Institution, identifies both as common Indian trade objects from midcentury Europe. These rifles probably were imports for sale to the Utes at the Abiquiú trading post between 1853 and 1874. At the rear of the room (Figure 22) rests a saw-horse table holding an assortment of stocks for these "trade guns," of wooden rattles (_matracas_), and of heavy crosses (_maderos_). On the ground stands a large bell, which, in a photograph (Museum of New Mexico, Photo No. 8550) taken by William Lippincott about 1945, appears on the tower of the _morada_. The silhouette dates the bell as being cast after 1760. Behind the bell rests the _morada_ death cart. Also in the room are a plank ladder and the oil drum stove raised on an _adobe_ dais (Figure 23) to the east of the exterior door. [Illustration: FIGURE 19. RESERVOIR FOR KEROSENE LAMP. SIZE: 25.4 centimeters wide. DATE: Second half of 19th century. ORIGIN: Imported to New Mexico. LOCATION: East _morada_, storage (east) room. MANUFACTURE: Silver-plated metal stamped into Rococco revival decorations.] [Illustration: FIGURE 20. PROCESSIONAL CROSS. SIZE: 30.5 centimeters high. DATE: 19th century. ORIGIN: Imported to New Mexico, probably from Mexico. LOCATION: East _morada_, storage (east) room. MANUFACTURE: Punched trifoil ends in metal face, cast corpus.] [Illustration: FIGURE 21. PERCUSSION RIFLES. SIZE: 111.8 centimeters long. DATE: Middle of 19th century. ORIGIN: European (Belgian?) exports. LOCATION: East _Morada_, storage (east) room.] [Illustration: FIGURE 22. STORAGE ROOM, EAST _Morada_. SIZES: Bell 64 centimeters wide (diameter), 47.4 high; cart 122 long (frame), 70 wide (frame), 71 between axle centers; wheels 45 high. DESCRIPTION: Detail of east wall showing saw-horse table, corrugated sheeting, bell, and death cart of cottonwood and pine.] [Illustration: FIGURE 23. STORAGE ROOM, EAST _Morada_: View next to exterior door showing low _adobe_ dais supporting oil drum stove.] SACRISTY IN BOTH MORADAS.--While a panelled wooden box in the south _morada_ stands inside the exterior door of the east room, another type of chest, said to hold cooking utensils, rests in the northwest corner of the center room of the east _morada_. Both storage chests are located in rooms with corner fireplaces. An informant said that these boxes held heating and cooking utensils and ceremonial equipment, including the _penitentes'_ rule book. As noted above, the two fireplaces in the middle room of the east _morada_ suggest that it was built earlier than the south _morada_, which has a single fireplace in the less active and more convenient rear storage room. Further evidence of this point is that the storage chest in the east _morada_ is better constructed than that in the south _morada_; the former displays a slanted top and punch-decorated tin reinforcements on its corners. In the center room there are several benches with lathe-turned legs (Figure 24). [Illustration: FIGURE 24. BENCH (_banco_). SIZE: 108 centimeters long, 51 high, 47 wide. LOCATION: East _morada_, center room.] The central room of the south _morada_ also displays a number of benches of an earlier style (Figure 25). Over the rear door appears an unusual cross (Figure 26). The cross consists of two wood planks, 1.6 centimeters thick, notched together and covered with paper. The surface bears carefully drawn, or perhaps stenciled, floral and religious designs in indigo blue: eleven Latin crosses appear among flowering vases, oversize buds, and 4-, 5-, and 8-pointed stars. These motifs probably are the result of copying from weaving or quilt pattern books of the late 19th century. A local _penitente_ leader stated that the cross was made before 1925 by Onésimo Martínez of Abiquiú, when the latter was in his thirties. (The strong religious symbolism of the New Mexican designs reminds one of the stylized motifs on Atlantic Coastal folk drawings and textiles of Germanic origin.) [Illustration: FIGURE 25. BENCH (_banco_). SIZE: 128 centimeters long, 106 high at back, 45 wide. LOCATION: South _morada_, center room.] (_Figure 26 is frontispiece._) Snare drums appear in the central room of both _moradas_ (Figures 27, 28). The drum in the east _morada_ is mounted on top of a truncated wicker basket. It is interesting to note that rifles and drums commonly are recorded in mission choir lofts in 1776 by Domínguez.[57] In addition to marking significant moments in church ritual, they are used in Indian and _Hispano_ village _fiestas_. [Illustration: FIGURE 27. SNARE DRUM (_tambor_). SIZE: 55.9 centimeters long. DATE: 19th century. ORIGIN: Imported to New Mexico. LOCATION: East _morada_, center room. MANUFACTURE: Commercially made, military type, rope lines with leather drum ears [tighteners].] [Illustration: FIGURE 28. SNARE DRUM (_tambor_). SIZE: 58.4 centimeters long. DATE: 19th century. ORIGIN: Imported to New Mexico. LOCATION: South _morada_, center room. MANUFACTURE: Commercially made, military type, reddish stain, rope tension lines with rope and leather drum ears [tighteners].] Before describing religious objects in the west end rooms of Abiquiú _moradas_, a list of similar items in Santo Tomás Mission at an earlier date (1776) is of interest: a medium-sized bell ... altar table ... gradin ... altar cloth ... a banner ... candleholders ... processional cross ... a painted wooden cross ... ordinary single-leaved door ... image in the round of Our Lady of the [Immaculate] Conception ... a wig ... silver crown ... string of fine seed pearls ... ordinary bouquet ... painting on copper of Our Lady of Sorrows (_Dolores_) in a black frame ... _Via Crucis_ in small paper prints on their little boards ... a print of the Guadalupe.[58] Comparable versions of each of these objects occur in Abiquiú's _moradas_. In fact, virtually all objects found in the _penitente moradas_ of Abiquiú are recorded as typical artifacts by church inventories and house wills of 18th- and 19th-century Spanish New Mexico.[59] ORATORY IN THE EAST MORADA.--In the rear of the oratory of the older east _morada_ (Figure 12), one sees a stove and lantern on the right. Both are imported, extracultural items. The pierced, tin candle-lantern (Figure 29) is a common artifact found throughout Europe and America.[60] [Illustration: FIGURE 29. CANDLE LANTERN. SIZE: 30.5 centimeters high. DATE: 19th century. ORIGIN: Imported to New Mexico. LOCATION: East _morada_, chapel. MANUFACTURE: Pierced tinwork.] Along the walls of the oratory hang imported religious prints framed in local punch-decorated tinwork. Tin handicraft became more widespread after 1850 when metal U.S. Army containers became available to the _Hispanos_. Designs seen on three tin frames (Figure 30) include twisted columns, crests, scallops, corner blocks, wings, and a variety of simple repoussé patterns. Paper prints in the tin frame suggest midcentury trade contacts between northern Mexico and the Atlantic Coast. Even the Mexican War (1846-1848) did not discourage American publishers such as Currier from appealing to Mexican religious and national loyalties with lithographs of Our Lady of Guadalupe (much in the same manner as the British, after the Revolution and War of 1812, profited by selling Americans objects that bore images of Yankee ships, eagles, and likenesses of Franklin and Washington). A fourth piece of local tinwork (Figure 31) in the east _morada_ oratory is a niche for a small figure of the Holy Child of Atocha, _Santo Niño de Atocha_. This advocation of Jesus, like that of His mother in the Guadalupe image, further indicates Mexican influence.[61] The image of the _Atocha_ is a product of local craftsmanship. [Illustration: FIGURE 30. RELIGIOUS PRINTS IN TIN FRAMES. SIZE: 52.1 centimeters high (center). DATE: First three-quarters of 19th century. ORIGIN: Prints imported to New Mexico; frames from New Mexico, unidentified tinsmiths. LOCATION: East _morada_, walls in chapel (west) room. MANUFACTURE: Tin frames: cut, repoussé, stamped and soldered into Federal and Victorian designs. Prints: left, _Guadalupe_, early 19th century, Mexican copperplate engraving; center, _Guadalupe_, 1847, N. Currier, hand-colored lithograph; right, _San Gregorio_ [Pope St. Gregory], mid-19th-century lithograph.] [Illustration: FIGURE 31. NICHE WITH IMAGE OF THE HOLY CHILD OF ATOCHA (_nicho_ and _El Santo Niño de Atocha_). SIZE: niche 44.4 centimeters high, image 21.6 high. DATE: Second half of 19th century. ORIGIN: New Mexico, unidentified tinsmith and _santero_. LOCATION: East _morada_, wall in chapel room. MANUFACTURE: Tin: cut, repoussé, soldered into fan, shell, and guilloche designs. Image: carved wood, gessoed and painted red and white. Rosary and artificial flowers.] These representations of religious personages are called _santos_, and their makers, _santeros_. Flat panel paintings are known locally as _retablos_, while sculptured forms are _bultos_. George Kubler, distinguished art historian at Yale, suggests that _bultos_, because of their greater dimensional realism, are more popular than planar _retablos_ with the _Hispanos_.[62] Supporting this theory is the fact that _bultos_ in the Abiquiú _moradas_ outnumber prints and _retablos_ two to one. Perhaps the most distinctive three-dimensional image in any _morada_ is not a _santo_ by definition, but a unique figure that represents death (_la muerte_). Also known as _La Doña Sebastiana_, her image clearly marks a building as a _penitente_ sanctuary. Personifying death with a sculptured image and dragging her cart to a cemetery called _calvario_, the _penitentes_ of New Mexico reflect the sense of fate common to Spanish-speaking cultures, the recognition that death is life's one personal certainty.[63] The figure of death in the east _morada_ hangs in the corner at the rear of the oratory. Placed outside for examination, this _muerte_ (Figure 32) presents a flat, oval face with blank eyes. The black gown and bow and arrow are typical of _muerte_ figures.[64] Turning toward the altar (Figure 11), one sees that death is outnumbered by images of hope and compassion: Jesus, His mother, and the saints who intercede for man. [Illustration: FIGURE 32. DEATH (_la muerte_). SIZE: 76.2 centimeters high. DATE: Early 20th century. ORIGIN: New Mexico, unidentified _santero_. LOCATION: East _morada_, back of oratory. MANUFACTURE: Carved and whitewashed wood, glass eyes and wood teeth, dressed in black fabric with white lace border, bow and arrow.] On the lower step of the altar appear a host of small, commercial products, mostly crucifixes, in plaster, plastic, and cheap metal alloys as well as numerous glass cups for candles. Above the upper ledge (_gradin_) appear five locally made images of Jesus crucified, _El Cristo_.[65] At the side of this central _Cristo_ (Figure 33) hangs a small angel, _angelito_, which traditionally held a chalice to catch blood from the spear wound. Other _Cristos_, at the Taylor Museum in Colorado Springs and at the Museum of New Mexico (McCormick Collection A.7.49-24) in Santa Fe, repeat the weightless corpus and stylized wounds used by the anonymous _santero_ who, after 1850, made these _bultos_. [Illustration: FIGURE 33. CRUCIFIX WITH ANGEL (_Cristo_ and _angelito_). SIZE: cross 139.7 centimeters high. DATE: Fourth quarter of 19th century. ORIGIN: New Mexico, unidentified _santero_. LOCATION: East _morada_, center of altar. MANUFACTURE: Carved wood gessoed and painted, over-painted in oil; crown of thorns, rosaries, crucifix; wooden plank, H-shape platform; black cross with _iNRi_ plaque; _angelito_ with white cotton skirt.] Additional _Cristo_ figures appear on the convergent walls of the east _morada_ sanctuary. There are two pairs, large and small, perhaps dating as late as 1900, one pair to the right (Figures 34, 35), the other, on the Gospel side (plates 36, 37). [Illustration: FIGURE 34. CRUCIFIX (_Cristo_). SIZE: cross 170.2 centimeters high. DATE: Second half of 19th century. ORIGIN: New Mexico, unidentified _santero_. LOCATION: East _morada_, right wall behind altar. MANUFACTURE: Carved wood, gessoed and painted, over-painted in oils; black gauze shroud over head; rosary and _iNRi_ plaque.] [Illustration: FIGURE 35. CRUCIFIX (_Cristo_). SIZE: cross 64.8 centimeters high. DATE: Second half of 19th century. ORIGIN: New Mexico, unidentified _santero_. LOCATION: East _morada_, right wall behind altar. MANUFACTURE: Carved wood, gessoed and painted; dressed in white skirt with rosary.] [Illustration: FIGURE 36. CRUCIFIX (_Cristo_). SIZE: cross 71.1 centimeters high. DATE: Second half of 19th century. ORIGIN: New Mexico, unidentified _santero_. LOCATION: East _morada_, left wall behind altar. MANUFACTURE: Carved wood, gessoed and painted, repainted in oil colors, yellow and red strips on black; dressed in white cotton skirt; rosary.] [Illustration: FIGURE 37. CRUCIFIX (_Cristo_). SIZE: cross 177.8 centimeters high. DATE: Fourth quarter of 19th century. ORIGIN: New Mexico, unidentified _santero_. LOCATION: East _morada_, left wall behind altar. MANUFACTURE: Carved wood, gessoed and painted; crown of thorns and rosary; dressed in white cotton waist cloth.] To the far left stands an important image: the scourged Jesus (Figure 38) prominent in _penitente_ activity as "Our Father Jesus the Nazarene" (_Nuestro Padre Jesus Nazareno_). By 1918, Alice Corbin Henderson[66] reports, this same figure appeared in _penitente_ Holy Week processions at Abiquiú. She claims it was made originally for the Mission of Santo Tomás. E. Boyd points out stylistic traits shared by this Abiquiú _bulto_ and the _retablo_ figures in the San José de Chama Chapel at nearby Hernández, which was the work of _santero_ Rafael Aragon, active from 1829 to after 1855.[67] Symbolic of man's physical suffering, the image of the _Jesus Nazareno_ is essential to _penitente_ enactments of the Passion. [Illustration: FIGURE 38. MAN OF SORROWS (_Ecce Homo, Nuestro Padre Jesus Nazareno_). SIZE: 1.60 meters high. DATE: Second quarter of 19th century. ORIGIN: New Mexico, Rafael Aragon, active 1829-55. LOCATION: East _morada_, to left of altar. MANUFACTURE: Dressed in red fabric gown, palm clusters and rosaries, leather crown of thorns, horsehair wig, bright border painted on platform.] On the left side of the east _morada_ altar, two carved images represent the grieving mother of Jesus as "Our Lady of Sorrows" (_Nuestra Señora de los Dolores_), one image (Figure 39) in pink equipped with her attribute, a dagger; the other (Figure 40), like many processional figures, has been constructed by draping a pyramidal frame of four sticks with gesso-dipped cloth, which, when dry, is painted to represent a skirt. The apron-like design that appears on the skirt, now hidden under a black dress, indicates that the original identity probably was "Our Lady of Solitude" (_Nuestra Señora de la Soledad_).[68] [Illustration: FIGURE 39. OUR LADY OF SORROWS (_Nuestra Señora de los Dolores_). SIZE: 99.1 centimeters base to crown. DATE: Early 20th century. ORIGIN: New Mexico, unidentified _santero_. LOCATION: East _morada_, left side of altar. MANUFACTURE: Carved wood, gessoed and painted; dressed in pink cotton gown and veil; tin crown and metal dagger; artificial flowers, rosaries.] [Illustration: FIGURE 40. OUR LADY OF SORROWS OR SOLITUDE (_Nuestra Señora de los Dolores_ or _la Soledad_). SIZE: 81.3 centimeters base to crown. DATE: Second half of 19th century. ORIGIN: New Mexico, unidentified _santero_. LOCATION: East _morada_, left side of altar. MANUFACTURE: Carved wood head and hands, gessoed, painted, and repainted; body of gesso-wetted cloth, draped on stick frame to dry, painted; dressed in black satin habit with white lace border; tin halo, rosary, artificial flowers.] Also on the left side of the east _morada_ altar, there are two male saints (_santos_) who fill vital roles in the _penitente_ Easter drama. One, St. Peter (San Pedro) with the cock (Figure 41), is a _bulto_ whose frame construction duplicates that of Our Lady (Figure 40). The cock apparently was made by another hand, and, despite its replaced tail, is a fine expression of local art. This group represents Peter's triple denial of Jesus before the cock announced dawn of the day of the Crucifixion. The _bulto_ of San Pedro has special meaning for _penitentes_ who, through their penance, bear witness to "Jesus the Nazarene." [Illustration: FIGURE 41. SAINT PETER AND COCK (_San Pedro_ and _Gallo_). SIZE: 61 centimeters high. DATE: First quarter of 19th century, and 19th century cock. ORIGIN: New Mexico, unidentified _santero_. LOCATION: East _morada_, left side of altar. MANUFACTURE: St. Peter's head (later): carved wood, gessoed and painted. Body: cloth dipped in wet gesso, draped over stick frame to dry, and painted, later over-painted. Blue gown and orange cape. Cock of carved wood, gessoed and painted; orange body with green haunch. Carved wood tail, replacement.] With the other _bulto_, _penitentes_ have also recalled the crucifixion by representing St. John the Evangelist (San Juan) at the foot of the cross, where Jesus charged the disciple with the care of His mother. The image of John (Figure 42) bears distinctive stylistic features: blunt fingers; protruding forehead, cheek bones, and chin; and a full-lipped, open mouth. [Illustration: FIGURE 42. SAINT JOHN THE EVANGELIST (_San Juan_). SIZE: 137.2 centimeters high. DATE: Second half of 19th century. ORIGIN: New Mexico, "Abiquiú _morada_" _santero_. LOCATION: East _morada_, left side of altar. MANUFACTURE: Carved wood, gessoed and painted; black horsehair wig; dressed in white cotton fabric; palm clusters and rosary.] Since these stylistic traits also occur in a _Cristo_ figure in the Taylor Museum collection[69] and in two other _bultos_--a _Cristo_ and _Jesus Nazareno_ in the south _morada_ at Abiquiú--it seems reasonable to designate the anonymous image-maker as the "Abiquiú _morada santero_." A _bulto_ that Alice Henderson identifies as St. Joseph is probably this figure of St. John (Figure 42) now resting in the east _morada_. She has reported that this image and that of St. Peter were in the mission of Santo Tomás before 1919.[70] The shift in residence for these _santos_ was substantiated by José Espinosa, who stated that several images "were removed to one of the local _moradas_ ... when the old church was torn down."[71] On the right side of the east _morada_ altar, images of two male saints reflect the intense affection felt by _penitentes_ for the Franciscan saints Anthony of Padua and John of Nepomuk. The most popular New Mexican saint, San Antonio (Figure 43), customarily carries the young Jesus, _El Santo Niño_. This image has been painted dark blue to represent the traditional Franciscan habit of New Mexico before the 1890s.[72] [Illustration: FIGURE 43. SAINT ANTHONY OF PADUA AND THE INFANT JESUS (_San Antonio y Niño_). SIZE: 43.2 centimeters high. DATE: First half of 19th century. ORIGIN: New Mexico, unidentified _santero_. LOCATION: East _morada_, right side of altar. MANUFACTURE: Carved wood, gessoed and painted with repainted head; dark blue habit; dressed in light blue cotton fabric with white border, artificial flowers.] The 14th-century saint, John of Nepomuk, Bohemia (Figure 44), is known from a legend that states he was killed by King Wenceslaus for refusing to reveal secrets of the Queen, for whom he was confessor. The story notes that, after torture, John was drowned in the Moldau River, but that his body floated all night and, in the morning, was taken to the Church of the Holy Cross of the Penitents in Prague. After the martyred chaplain was canonized in 1729, his cult spread to Rome, then Spain, and, by 1800, into New Mexico. [Illustration: FIGURE 44. SAINT JOHN OF NEPOMUK (_San Juan Nepomuceno_). SIZE: base to hat 78.7 centimeters. DATE: Second quarter of 19th century. ORIGIN: New Mexico, unidentified _santero_. LOCATION: East _morada_, right side of altar. MANUFACTURE: Carved wood, gessoed and painted; dark blue robe with white border; dressed in black hat and robe under white alblike coat; rosary.] Among the _Hispanos_, local Franciscans promoted this cult of St. John as a prognosticator and as a respecter of secrecy.[73] Due in part to this promotion, _San Juan Nepomuceno_ became a favorite of New Mexican _penitentes_. E. Boyd suggests that the image of St. John (Figure 44) may have first represented St. Francis or St. Joseph. She also notes a stylistically similar _bulto_ of St. Joseph in Colorado Springs, manufactured not long after 1825.[74] ORATORY IN SOUTH MORADA.--Turning to the south _morada_ chapel, we find numerous parallels to the earlier east _morada_ in _santo_ identities and in religious artifacts. (Figure 10 presents a previously unphotographed view of this active _penitente_ chapel with its fully equipped altar.) The walls of the west chamber of the south _morada_ are lined with benches over which hang religious prints in frames of commercial plaster and local tin work (Figure 45). [Illustration: FIGURE 45. SAINT JOSEPH AND CHRIST CHILD (_San José y el Santo Niño_). SIZE: frame 45.7 centimeters high. DATE: Fourth quarter of 19th century. ORIGIN: Imported commercial products. LOCATION: South _morada_, chapel wall. MANUFACTURE: Plaster frame, molded and gilded. Chromo-lithograph on paper. SAINT PETER (_San Pedro_). SIZE: frame 25.4 centimeters high. DATE: Third quarter of 19th century. ORIGIN: Imported, commercially made print. New Mexico, unidentified tinsmith. LOCATION: South _morada_, chapel wall. MANUFACTURE: Tin frame: cut, repoussé, stamped, and soldered. Chromo-lithograph on paper.] The tin frame for a lithograph of St. Peter reveals repoussé designs found on east _morada_ frames (Figure 30, center). Other examples of local tinwork are seen in Figure 46. On the right is a cross of punched tinwork with pomegranate ends and corner fillers that reflect Moorish characteristics in Spanish arts known as _mudéjar_. The frame dates from after 1850, as indicated by glass panes painted with floral patterns suggesting Victorian wallpaper. To the left is a niche made of six glass panels painted with wavy lines and an early 19th-century woodcut of the Holy Child of Atocha. Here again, twisted half-columns repeat a motif seen on a tin frame in the east _morada_ chapel. In front of the draped entry to the south _morada_ sanctuary stand two candelabra, one of which is shown in the doorway to the oratory (Figure 47) with tin reflectors and hand-carved sockets.[75] There are also vigil light boxes, kerosene lanterns with varnished tin shades, commercial religious images and ornaments that are similar to items in the east _morada_ sanctuary. [Illustration: FIGURE 46. NICHE WITH PRINT OF CHRIST CHILD (_Nicho_ and _Santo Niño de Atocha_). SIZE: 35.5 centimeters high. DATE: Second half of 19th century. ORIGIN: New Mexico, unidentified tinsmith. LOCATION: South _morada_, chapel walls. MANUFACTURE: Tin frame: cut, repoussé, and soldered. Glass: cut and painted. Woodcut on paper. CROSS (_cruz_). SIZE: 43.2 centimeters high. DATE: Fourth quarter of 19th century. ORIGINS: New Mexico, unidentified tinsmith. LOCATION: South _morada_, chapel walls. MANUFACTURE: Tin frame: cut, repoussé, and soldered. Glass: cut and painted.] [Illustration: FIGURE 47. CANDELABRUM (_candelabro_). SIZE: 157.5 centimeters high. DATE: Early 20th century. LOCATION: South _morada_, in front of altar in oratory. MANUFACTURE: Mill-cut wood stand, hand-carved pegs to hold candles, and hand-worked tin crosses. Painted white. One of a pair.] Embroidered textiles portray the Last Supper, and a chapter banner, made up for the brotherhood after 1925, shows the Crucifixion in oil colors. This banner bears the words "Fraternidad Piadosa D[e] N[uestro] P[adre] J[esus] D[e] Nazareno, Sección No. 12, Abiquiú, New Mexico." The title _fraternidad_ is that assumed by _penitente_ chapters that incorporated in New Mexico around 1930, although the term _cofradía_ often appears in transfers of private land to _penitente_ organizations.[76] A second banner, this one on the left, reads "Sociedad de la Sagrada Familia," which is a Catholic women's organization that often supports _penitente_ groups. In the oratory of the south _morada_, locally made images merit special notice. Two carved images flank the entry to the south _morada_ sanctuary. The _bulto_ on the right, St. Francis of Assisi (Figure 48), has a special significance. As we noted in the east _morada_, many Spanish settlers in New Mexico honored San Francisco as the founder of the Franciscans, the order whose missionaries long had served the region. The second _bulto_ (Figure 49) reveals clues that it originally had been a representation of the Immaculate Conception (_Inmaculata Concepción_). In Abiquiú, however, this figure is called _la mujer de San Juan_ ("the woman of St. John"), a phrase that indicates the major role Mary holds for the _penitentes_. With this image they refer to the moment in the Crucifixion when Jesus committed the care of His mother to St. John. As introductions to the south _morada_ chancel, St. Francis and the Marian image are excellent specimens of pre-1850 _santero_ craftsmanship. [Illustration: FIGURE 48. SAINT FRANCIS OF ASSISI (_San Francisco_). SIZE: 53.3 centimeters high. DATE: First half of 19th century. ORIGIN: New Mexico, unidentified _santero_. LOCATION: South _morada_, right wall of chapel. MANUFACTURE: Carved wood, gessoed and painted; blue habit with brown collar; wood cross and skull, tin halo; rosary beads with fish pendants.] [Illustration: FIGURE 49. THE IMMACULATE CONCEPTION (_la mujer de San Juan_ [local name]). SIZE: 55.9 centimeters high. DATE: First half of 19th century. ORIGIN: New Mexico, unidentified _santero_. LOCATION: South _morada_, left wall of chapel. MANUFACTURE: Carved wood, gessoed and painted; oil colors over earlier tempera; red gown and crown; blue cape and base.] Two more images of Mary occur on the altar of the south _morada_ sanctuary. The first (Figure 50) takes its proper ecclesiastic position on the Gospel side, to the viewer's left of the crucifix. The second "Marian" image (Figure 51) is less orthodox. Not only does this _bulto_ stand on the Epistle side of the crucifix but, like the Marian advocation cited above as _la mujer de San Juan_, this figure's identity has been changed to suit local taste. _Penitentes_ at Abiquiú refer to the image as Santa Rosa, the traditional patroness of the area following its first settlement by Spaniards. [Illustration: FIGURE 50. OUR LADY OF SORROWS (_Nuestra Señora de los Dolores_). SIZE: 104.1 centimeters high. DATE: Third quarter of 19th century. ORIGIN: New Mexico, unidentified _santero_. LOCATION: South _morada_, left side of altar. MANUFACTURE: Carved wood, gessoed and painted; dressed in pink satin; artificial flowers, tin crown.] [Illustration: FIGURE 51. VIRGIN AND CHILD OR SAINT RITA (_Santa Rosa de Lima_ [local name]). SIZE: 68 centimeters high. DATE: Fourth quarter of 19th century. ORIGIN: New Mexico, unidentified _santero_. LOCATION: South _morada_, right side of altar. MANUFACTURE: Carved wood, gessoed and painted; dressed in pink satin; cross of turned wood; artificial flowers, shell crown.] Between these Marian images there are two large _bultos_ that are examples of the work of the "Abiquiú _morada santero_" suggested earlier. Both are figures of Jesus. The first, a _Cristo_ (Figure 52), is the central crucifix on the altar. As in the east _morada_, the focal image is accompanied by an _angelito_, this time with tin wings.[77] To the right stands the other image of Jesus, the Nazarene, _Nuestro Padre Jesus Nazareno_ (Figure 53). Along with the nearby crucifix (Figure 52) and the figure of St. John the Evangelist (Figure 42) in the east _morada_, this representation of the scourged Jesus reflects the style of the "Abiquiú _morada santero_." This Nazarene _bulto_ embodies the _penitente_ concept of Jesus as a Man of suffering Who must be followed. [Illustration: FIGURE 52. CRUCIFIX WITH ANGEL (_Cristo_ and _angelito_). SIZE: Cross 144.8 centimeters high. DATE: Early 20th century. ORIGIN: New Mexico, "Abiquiú _morada_" _santero_. LOCATION: South _morada_, center of altar. MANUFACTURE: Carved wood, gessoed and painted; purple fabric, waist cloths; tin wings on _angelito_; black cross with _iNRi_ plaque.] [Illustration: FIGURE 53. MAN OF SORROWS (_Ecce Homo, Nuestro Padre Jesus Nazareno_). SIZE: 122 centimeters high. DATE: Second half of 19th century. ORIGIN: New Mexico, "Abiquiú _morada_" _santero_. LOCATION: South _morada_, right side of altar. MANUFACTURE: Carved wood, gessoed and painted; black horsehair wig, crown of thorns; purple fabric gown; palm clusters, rosaries.] The special character of the _penitente_ brotherhood is demonstrated also in the last two _bultos_ on the south _morada_ altar. The prominent size and position of St. John of Nepomuk (Figure 54) on the altar indicate again the importance given by the _penitentes_ to San Juan as a keeper of secrets. The other figure is the south _morada_'s personification of death (Figure 55), _la muerte_, here even more gaunt than the image in the east _morada_. Probably made after 1900, this figure demonstrates the persistent artistic and religious heritage of _Hispano_ culture. [Illustration: FIGURE 54. SAINT JOHN OF NEPOMUK (_San Juan Nepomuceno_). SIZE: 90.2 centimeters high. DATE: Early 20th century. ORIGIN: New Mexico, unidentified _santero_. LOCATION: South _morada_, left side of altar. MANUFACTURE: Carved wood, gessoed and painted; dressed in black gown and cap; white cotton cassock; artificial flowers; horsehair wig.] [Illustration: FIGURE 55. DEATH (_la muerte_). SIZE: 111.8 centimeters high. DATE: Fourth quarter of 19th century. ORIGIN: New Mexico, unidentified _santero_. LOCATION: South _morada_, left side of altar. MANUFACTURE: Carved and whitewashed wood; glass eyes and bone teeth; dressed in black fabric; rosary, bow and arrow.] [53] Interviews with Abiquiú inhabitants: Delfino Garcia in summer 1963 and Agapita Lopez in fall 1966. [54] Interviews with _penitente_ members at Abiquiú, summers of 1965 and 1967. [55] JOSÉ ESPINOSA, _Saints in the Valley_ (Albuquerque, 1960), p. 75. [56] DOMÍNGUEZ, _Missions_, p. 50 (ftn. 5), defines _varal_ and its customary use. [57] Ibid., pp. 107, 131 (ftn. 4), 167. [58] Ibid., pp. 121-123. [59] AASF, Loose Documents, Mission, 1680-1850, and Accounts, books xxxxv and lxiv. Also in Wills and Hijuelas, State Records Center, and in Twitchell documents, Land Management Bureau, both offices in Santa Fe, New Mexico. [60] WALTER HOUGH, _Collections of Heating and Lighting_ (Smithsonian Inst. Bull. 141, Washington, D.C., 1928), pl. 28a, no. 3. [61] STEPHEN BORHEGYI, _El Santuario de Chimayo_ (Santa Fe, 1956); also E. BOYD, _Saints and Saint Makers_ (Santa Fe, 1946), pp. 126-132. [62] GEORGE KUBLER, in _Santos: An Exhibition of the Religious Folk Art of New Mexico with an Essay by George Kubler_ (Fort Worth, Tex.: Amon Carter Museum of Western Art, June 1964). [63] A fuller discussion of the _penitente_ death cart and further illustrations are found in MITCHELL A. WILDER and EDGAR BREITENBACH, _Santos: The Religious Folk Art of New Mexico_ (Colorado Springs, 1943), pl. 30 and text. Relevant to this study is the death cart with immobile wheels recorded by HENDERSON, p. 32 [see ftn. 64], as having been used in processions before 1919. It is likely that this is the same cart described above in the storage room of the east _morada_ (Figure 22); it is important because its measurements and construction details are nearly identical to the death cart in the collections of the Museum of New Mexico, reputed to have come from Abiquiú. [64] ALICE CORBIN HENDERSON, _Brothers of Light_ (Chicago, 1962), p. 32, describes a _muerte_ figure: chalk-white face, obsidian eyes, black outfit. [65] E. BOYD, "Crucifix in Santero Art," _El Palacio_, vol. LX, no. 3 (March 1953), pp. 112-115, indicates the significance of this image form. [66] HENDERSON, pp. 13 (red gown, blindfolded, flowing black hair), 26 (red gown, bound hands, made for mission), and 43-46 (tall, almost life size, blindfolded, carried on small platform in procession from lower [east] _morada_, horsehair rope). [67] BOYD, in litt., Nov. 13, 1965. [68] BOYD, loc. cit. Regarding construction, see E. BOYD, "New Mexican Bultos with Hollow Skirts: How They Were Made," _El Palacio_, vol. LVIII, no. 5 (May, 1951), pp. 145-148. [69] WILDER and BREITENBACH, pls. 24, 25. [70] HENDERSON, p. 26. [71] JOSÉ ESPINOSA, op. cit., p. 75. [72] DOMÍNGUEZ, _Missions_, p. 264 (ftn. 59). The brown robe worn by Franciscans today is a late 19th-century innovation. [73] BOYD, _Saints_, p. 133. [74] BOYD, in litt., Nov. 13, 1965. For a comparative illustration of St. Joseph, see WILDER and BREITENBACH, pl. 42. [75] HENDERSON, p. 51, notes this pair of candelabra with the 13 sockets. Fifteen is the ecclesiastically correct number for _tenebrae_ services. [76] _Acts of Incorporation_, microfilm, Corporation Bureau, State Capitol, Santa Fe; see also Land Records, _General Indirect Index_, Rio Arriba County Court House, vols. I (1852-1912) and II (1912-1930). [77] HENDERSON, p. 51, describes the _angelito_, in the dim light of the _morada_ ceremony, as a "dove like a wasp." Another angel figure was given me through Regino Salazar by one of the _penitente_ brothers of Abiquiú. According to E. Boyd, it appears to be the work of José Rafael Aragon, who worked in the Santa Cruz area after 1825. _Summary_ The two Abiquiú _moradas_ are clearly parallel in their architectural design (including the constricted chancels), in their artifacts--especially _bulto_ identities such as Jesus (_Cristo_, _Nazareno_, _Ecce Homo_, _Santo Niño de Atocha_), Mary (_Dolores_, _Immaculata Concepción_, _Soledad_, _Guadalupe_), Saint John of Nepomuk, Saint Peter, and death--and lastly, in the ceremonies held in the buildings, which link rather than separate the _penitente_ movement and the common social values of _Hispano_ culture. Edmonson uses six institutional values to define _Hispano_ culture.[78] All six can be found in the _penitente_ brotherhood. "Paternalism" is found in the relation of the members-at-large to the officers and of all the _penitente_ brothers to _Nuestro Padre Jesus_, "Our Father Jesus." "Familism" is reflected in the structure of the _penitente_ organization and especially in the extension of its social benefits to the entire community. "Dramatism" is an essential ingredient of _penitente_ ceremonies such as the _tinieblas_. "Personalism" is revealed in the immediate and individual participation of all members in _penitente_ activities. "Fatalism" is the focus of Holy Week and of funerals and is personified by the _muerte_ figure in each _morada_. Finally, Edmonson cited "traditionalism" as definitive of _Hispano_ culture, a characteristic that is clearly evident in the _penitente_ forms of shelter, ceremonies, and artifacts. These commonplace objects and activities had been established at Abiquiú before and during the period of _morada_ building and furnishing. Literary and pictorial documents presented in this study of Abiquiú and the _penitente moradas_ reveal that their physical structure, furnishings, membership, and the brotherhood itself are related intimately to, and drawn from, the traditional and persistent Hispanic culture of New Mexico. [78] EDMONDSON, p. 62. 
40471	----	ALAMO RANCH _A Story of New Mexico_ BY SARAH WARNER BROOKS Author of "My Fire Opal," "The Search of Ceres," etc. CAMBRIDGE PRIVATELY PRINTED MCMIII UNIVERSITY PRESS . JOHN WILSON AND SON . CAMBRIDGE . U.S.A. TO LEON _Across the silence that between us stays, Speak! I should hear it from God's outmost sun, Above Earth's noise of idle blame and praise,-- The longed-for whisper of thy dear "Well done!"_ [Illustration: ALAMO RANCH] ALAMO RANCH _A STORY OF NEW MEXICO_ CHAPTER I It is autumn; and the last week in November. In New Mexico, this land of sunshine, the season is now as kindly as in the early weeks of our Northern September. To-day the sky is one cloudless arch of sapphire! The light breeze scarce ruffles a leaf of the tall alamo, the name tree of this ranch. Here any holding bigger than a kitchen garden is known as a ranch. The alamo, Spanish for poplar, lends here and there its scant, stiff shade to this roomy adobe dwelling, with its warm southern frontage and half-detached wings. Behind the house irregular out-buildings are scattered about. A commodious corral, now the distinguished residence of six fine Jersey cows, lies between the house and the orchard,--a not over-flourishing collection of peach, apricot, and plum trees. Here and there may be seen wide patches of kitchen garden, carefully intersected by irrigating ditches. Near and afar, wide alfalfa fields with their stiff aftermath stretch away to the very rim of the mesa, where the cotton-tail makes his home, and sage-brush and mesquite strike root in the meagre soil. Cones of alfalfa hay stacked here and there outline themselves like giant beehives against the soft blue sky; and over all lies the sunny silence of a cloudless afternoon with its smiling westering sun. Basking in this grateful warmth, their splint arm-chairs idly tilted against the house-front, the boarders look with sated invalid eyes upon this gracious landscape. Alamo Ranch is a health resort. In this thin, dry air of Mesilla Valley, high above the sea level, the consumptive finds his Eldorado. Hither, year by year, come these foredoomed children of men to fight for breath, putting into this struggle more noble heroism and praiseworthy courage than sometimes goes to victory in battle-fields. Of these combatants some are still buoyed by the hope of recovery; others are but hopeless mortals, with the single sad choice of eking out existence far from friends and home, or returning to native skies, there to throw up hands in despair and succumb to the foe. Sixteen miles away the Organ Mountains--seeming, in this wonderfully clear atmosphere, within but a stone's throw--loom superbly against the cloudless sky; great hills of sand are these, surmounted by tall, serrated peaks of bare rock, and now taking on their afternoon array in the ever-changing light, rare marvels of shifting color,--amethyst and violet, rosy pink, creamy gold, and dusky purple. The El Paso range rises sombrely on the gray distance, and on every hand detached sugar-loaf peaks lend their magnificence to the grand mesa-range that cordons the Mesilla Valley. And now, out on the mesa, at first but a speck between the loungers on the piazza and the distant mountain view, a single pedestrian, an invalid sportsman, comes in sight. As he nears the ranch with the slowed step of fatigue, he is heartening himself by the way with a song. When the listeners hear the familiar tune,--it is "Home, Sweet Home,"--one of them rallying his meagre wind whistles a faint accompaniment to the chorus. It is not a success; and with a mirthless laugh, the whistler abandons his poor attempt, and, with the big lump in his throat swelling to a sob, rises from his chair and goes dejectedly in. A sympathetic chord thrills along the tilted piazza chairs. The discomfited whistler is but newly arrived at Alamo; and his feeble step and weary, hollow cough predict that the poor fellow's journey will not take him back to the "Sweet Home" of the song, but rather to the uncharted country. And now the invalid sportsman steps cheerily on the piazza. "Here, you lazy folks," mocks he, holding high his well-filled game-bag, "behold the pigeon stew for your supper!" And good-naturedly hailing a Mexican chore-boy, lazily propped by a neighboring poplar trunk, he cries, "Catch!" and deftly tossing him the game (pigeons from the mesa) goes in to put away his gun. When later he returns to the piazza, bathed and refreshed, it is as if, in a room dim-lit by tallow candles, the gas had suddenly been turned on to a big chandelier. Seating himself in the vacant arm-chair, he fills a briar-wood pipe. Some of the loungers do likewise; and now, while they smoke and chat, look at the new-comer, Leonard Starr. Though not robust, he has the substantial mien and bearing of one who finds it good to live, and makes those about him also find it good. It is not long before most of these dispirited loungers are laughing at his lively stories and sallies, and cheerily matching them with their own. Well is it for this troublous world of ours that some of its children are "born to turn the sunny side of things to human eyes." CHAPTER II It is the middle of December; the Alamo boarders are now well arrived. First and foremost, Mr. John Morehouse--the one lion of the ranch--makes his bow. He is conspicuous for his able research in Archæology, and among his fellow boarders is familiarly known as "the Antiquary." Mr. Morehouse has come to New Mexico in the interest of science; he is not, however, a mere dry-as-dust collector of knowledge, and is very much inclined to unbend himself to the lighter moods and pursuits of his less scholarly fellow-men. This well-groomed, handsome man of forty is James Morley of Bangor. He has come to try this healing air for a slight, but persistent, lung affection. Mr. Morley is known to be a man of means, with all the advantages thus implied; but all the same, he is given to railing at most things under the sun; hence by the boarders he is surreptitiously dubbed "the Grumbler." Mr. Morley's growl is a foregone conclusion, and one may safely reckon on his bark; but as for his bite, it is simply nowhere. Already he has manifested a most considerate kindness for this gray-eyed little lady from Marblehead, Miss Mattie Norcross,--a sweet-mannered, quiet gentlewoman, who is currently reported as scant of filthy lucre, and hence compelled to content herself with a cramped, inexpensive bedroom for herself and her invalid sister, who has one hopelessly diseased lung. This cheery-faced Irishman, who with his shy little wife is, for a stubborn bronchial trouble, making the grand tour of the world's health resorts, and is now trying New Mexico, is, strange as it may seem, a Methodist minister. His name is Patrick Haley. It may be said of Mr. Haley that he has the genial temperament indigenous to Green Erin, and he has already won golden opinions at Alamo Ranch by the considerate brevity of his grace before meat. Among the invalids attended by their wives are Mr. Bixbee, from Ohio, and Mr. Fairlee, from New York City. Mr. Bixbee has been bidden by his medical dictator to repair his damaged vitality by rest and nourishing food. It is predicted that this surfeited "lunger," in escaping his Scylla of consumption, bids fair to strand upon the Charybdis of liver complaint, since Mrs. Bixbee, in her wifely zeal, not only plies him all day long with lunches, but makes night hideous by the administration of raw eggs throughout its drowsy hours. Mr. Roger Smith, an over-worked Harvard athlete, is taking as a restorative a lazy winter in this restful land. He has also other irons in the fire, of which, later, we shall hear more. Roger Smith is known in Boston society as one having heaps of money, but badly off for pedigree. All the same, he is, in manner and appearance, a gentleman, and has distinctly the hall-mark of Beacon Hill. He is here known as the "Harvard man." Also, among the sound-lunged invalids, is Mr. Harry Warren, a brilliant Chicago journalist. Mr. Warren is taking a vacation in Mesilla Valley, where he is said to be collecting material for future articles, and possibly for a book. The Browns have also two table-boarders from Boston,--Miss Paulina Hemmenshaw and her beautiful niece, Louise, a superbly healthy brunette. Their friend, Mr. Henry Hilton, during an absence abroad, has lent for the winter to these ladies his toy ranch, with its aesthetically fashioned dwelling-house. The Hemmenshaws dine and sup at Alamo Ranch, and the aunt, a cooking-school graduate, is known to make at Hilton Ranch for herself and niece wonderful blazer breakfasts, consisting mainly of dishes new-fangled of name, and eminently trying to mortal digestion. There are, besides, some half-dozen male lungers unaccompanied by friends; and two impecunious invalids to whom the kind-hearted landlord, George Brown, allows bed and board in return for light-choring about the ranch. These latter are democratically counted in with the dining-room boarders. Leon Starr, by common consent the "star boarder" of Alamo Ranch, has already been presented to the reader. He has taken the large two-windowed room on the ground-floor commanding a glorious view of the distant Organ Mountains. After getting his breath in this unaccustomed altitude, Leon's next care has been for the depressed lungers who daily gather on the boarding-house piazza and wonder if life is still worth living. To get them outside themselves by cheery good-fellowship, to perform for them little homely services, not much in the telling, but making their lives a world easier, has been a part of his method for uplifting their general tone. Of an inventive turn of mind, and an amateur mechanic, he has brought with him a tiny tool chest; and it soon becomes the family habit to look to Leon Starr for general miscellaneous tinkering, as the mending of door and trunk locks, the regulating watches and clocks, the adjustment of the bedevilled sewing-machine of their good landlady, and the restoration of harmonious working to all disgruntled mechanical gear, from garret to cellar. He it is who, on rainy days, manufactures denim clothes-bags for clumsy-fingered fellows; who fashions from common canes gathered on banks of irrigating ditches, photo-frames for everybody, and shows them how to arrange the long cane tassels with decorative effect above door and window, and how to soften the glare of kerosene lamps by making for them relieving shades of rose-colored paper. Pessimistic indeed is that lunger who, succumbing to the charm of this gracious nature, does not feel the cheery lift in his heavy atmosphere. From the landlord and his wife, both worn by the strain of doing their best for chronically discontented people, down to Fang Lee, the Chinese chef, Dennis Kearney, the table-waiter, the over-worked Mexican house-maids, and the two native chore-boys--one and all rise up to call the star boarder blessed. Out on the mesa the air is finer and brighter than on the lower plane of the ranch, and full of the life and stir of moving things,--quail, rabbits, and doves. Leon had at first found the thin air of this altitude somewhat difficult; but since time and use have accustomed his lungs to these novel atmospheric conditions, shooting on the mesa has become a part of his daily programme, and his quail, rabbits, and pigeons prove a toothsome contribution to the already excellent ranch table. A small, shy Mexican herd-boy, pasturing his lean goats on the mesa, gradually makes friends with the tall, kindly sportsman. As they have between them but these two mutually intelligible words, _bueno_ (good) and _mucho calor_ (very warm), their conversation is circumscribed. Kind deeds are, however, more to the point than words, and go without the saying; and when Leon instructed the ragged herd-boy in the use of his bow, and made and weighted his arrows for him, he _understood_, and became his devoted henchman, following in his path all through the week-day tramps, and on Sundays coming to the ranch with clean face and hands to adore his fetich, and watch, with admiring eyes, his novel works and ways. CHAPTER III After a protracted interval of tranquil sunshine, a stormy wind came blustering from the west, bringing to Mesilla Valley, in its wintry train, sunless days, light flurries of snow, and general dreariness. The boarders, weather-bound and dull, grew sullenly mutinous; and on the third of these stormy days, gathering in the ranch parlor after the mid-day meal, their discontent found vent in banning right and left this "land of sun, silence, and adobe." "Beastly weather!" muttered the Grumbler, drawing into the stove with a discontented shiver. "A precious sample, this, of your fine climate, Brown," jeered Bixbee, turning mockingly to the disheartened landlord, who, reckless of expense, commanded of the chore-boy fresh relays of fuel, and incontinently crammed the parlor air-tight, already red-hot. "I say, fellows," drolled the Harvard man, "let's make tracks for Boston, and round up the winter with furnace heat and unlimited water privileges, as the house-broker has it." "And with cut-throat plumbers thrown in," suggested the Grumbler with a malicious grin. "See here, you folks, draw it mild," laughed the star boarder, crossing the room with a finger between the leaves of a volume which he had been reading by the dim afternoon light of this lowering day. "Here, now, is something that fits your case to a T. Let me read you how they doctored your complaint in these parts, æons before you were born." "Anything for a change," muttered Bixbee, and, with the general consent, Leon read the following: "'When the people came out of the cold, dark womb of the underworld, then the great sun rose in the heavens. In it dwelt Payatuma, making his circuit of the world in a day and a night. He saw that the day was light and warm, the night dark and cold. Hence there needed to be both summer and winter people. "'He accordingly apportioned some of each to every tribe and clan, and thus it is down to the present day. Then those above (that is, the Sun-father and the Moon-mother), mindful lest the people on their long journey to the appointed abiding-place succumb to weariness and fall by the way, made for them a koshare, a delight-maker. His body was painted in diagonal sections of black and white, and his head, in lieu of the regulation feather-decorations, was fantastically arrayed in withered corn-leaves. "'This koshare began at once to dance and tumble. Then the people laughed, and were glad. And ever from that day, in their wanderings in search of a satisfactory settling-place in the solid centre of the big weary world, the koshare led them bravely and well. "'He it was who danced and jested to make happiness among the people. His it was to smile on the planted maize till it sprouted and flowered in the fertile bottoms, to beam joyously on the growing fruit, that it might ripen in its season. "'From that day there have been delight-makers in all the Pueblo tribes. The koshare became in time with them an organization, as the Free-masons, or the Knights of Pythias, with us. This necessity, we are told, arose from the fact that among the Pueblos there were summer people who enjoy the sunshine, and winter people,--people who determinedly prefer to live in the dark and cold.' "Is it not so," said Leon, turning down a leaf and closing his book, "with every people on the face of the earth? "Is not the 'delight-maker,'--the koshare,--under various names and guises, still in demand? It has struck me," continued he, looking quizzically at this disgruntled assemblage, "that the koshare might be an acceptable addition to our despondent circle." "Amen!" fervently responded the Methodist minister. "Right you are," said the Harvard man. "Write me as one who approves the koshare!" "Yes! yes!" eagerly exclaimed approving voices. "Let us have the koshare here and at once!" "A capital move," said Miss Paulina Hemmenshaw (born and reared in the climatic belt of clubdom, and regent of a Chapter of Daughters of the Revolution). "Let us have a Koshare Club." "Good!" echoed Mrs. Fairlee, among her intimates surnamed "the Pourer," because of her amiable readiness to undertake for her friends the helpful office that among afternoon tea-circles has been distinguished by that name. "We might give afternoon teas to the members." "And why not have recitations, with humorous selections?" bashfully suggested the gray-eyed school-mistress, who rejoiced in a fine-toned voice and in a diploma from the School of Oratory. "Yes, indeed; and music, acting, and dancing, and all manner of high jinks," exclaimed Miss Louise, who, an accomplished musician, and distinguished for her amateur acting, with her superb health and unfailing flow of spirits, might be counted in as a born koshare. "And we might unite improvement with diversion, and have, now and then, a lecture, to give interest to our club," suggested Mrs. Bixbee; and here she looked significantly at Mr. Morehouse, "the Antiquary," who as a lecturer was not unknown to fame. "Lectures," observed the Minister, "though not strictly kosharean, would be highly entertaining, and we can, no doubt, count upon our friend, Mr. Morehouse, to give us the result of some of his research in Mexican Antiquities." The Antiquary, with a smile, accepted the part assigned him by his fellow-boarder. Here the boarders went to supper, after which the more sleepy sought their beds. The evening blew stormily in; but, gathered about the centre table in the warm parlor, the leading spirits of Alamo Ranch bade the storm go by, while they inaugurated the Club of The New Koshare. The star boarder was chosen president. The Minister was elected vice-president, Miss Paulina secretary, and the Harvard man treasurer. These preliminaries well arranged, a programme was voted on, and by general approval carried. Mrs. Fairlee--the Pourer--was to give to the club-members a weekly afternoon tea. An entertainment open to the entire household was, on every Thursday evening, to be given in the ranch dining-room by the Koshare, consisting of music, tableaux, and recitations. A shooting-match, under the direction of Leon, was to come off weekly on the grounds of the establishment. There should be among the clubbists a fund collected for magazines; and on fortnightly Saturday evenings Mr. Morehouse promised to give them lectures, the result of his antiquarian researches in Mexico, New and Old; and during this course papers and talks relating to this subject should supplement his own. "The Pueblo," commented the Grumbler, "would not have found magazines strikingly kosharean; let us by all means have them," and suiting deed to word, he subscribed to the book-fund on the spot, and paid surreptitiously the subscription of the little school-ma'am, who had previously withdrawn in the interest of her invalid sister. In this fashion was inaugurated "The New Koshare" of Mesilla Valley; thereafter the Hemmenshaws bundled themselves in winter wraps and, handed into their vehicle by the Harvard man, set out in the storm for their ride to Hilton Ranch, and the Koshare betook themselves to rest. CHAPTER IV On the morrow the sun shone warm and bright, and on the mesa, and on all the desert-stretches of mesquite and sage-brush, on the broad alfalfa fields and outlying acres of Alamo Ranch, there was no longer a flake of snow. Early in this sunny day the star boarder and the Pourer, driven by a leisurely chore-boy, might have been seen taking their way to Las Cruces, the nearest village and postal centre, intent on the procurement of sundry wafers, biscuit, and other edibles pertaining to an afternoon tea. El Paso, the Texan border-town, some forty miles distant, is properly the emporium of that region. Between it and Las Cruces lies a stretch of desert more barrenly forlorn than the Long Island pine-lands, since it is totally void of forest growth, and has but here and there a sprinkle of mesquite-bushes about three feet in height, the rest being bare sand-ridges. At El Paso one may ride in street cars, luxuriate in rain-proof dwellings, lighted by electricity, and pretty with lawns and flower-pots. But even at its best, modern civilization, with its push and bustle, ill becomes the happy-go-lucky native Mexican sunning himself in lazy content against the adobe of his shiftily built dwelling. In a land of well-nigh perpetual blue sky, why need mortal man scramble to make hay while the sun shines? Yesterday has already taken care of itself. To-day is still here, and always there is _mañana_--to-morrow. As for our own upstart civilization, in this clime of ancient Pueblo refinements one must own that it takes on the color of an impertinence, and as incongruously exhibits itself as a brand-new patch on a long-worn garment. But to return to Las Cruces, which is "fearfully and wonderfully made." To look at the houses one might well fancy that the pioneer settlers had folded their hands and prayed for dwellings, and when the answering shower of mud and adobe fell, had contentedly left it where it stuck. All these structures are one-storied, and square-built; each has its one door, a window or two, and a dumpy roof, fashioned for the most part of wattles, for, as it seldom rains here, the Las Crucean has no troublesome prejudice in favor of water-tight roofs. When the sun shines he is all right; and when it rains, he simply moves from under the drip. Here, among confectionery that had long since outlived its desirability, among stale baker's cookies and flinty ginger snaps, the Koshare commissariat foraged discouragedly for the afternoon tea. Duly supplied with these time-honored sweets, Leon and the Pourer, thus indifferently provisioned, turned their faces homeward, at such moderate pace as seemed good in the eyes of an easy-going Mexican pony and his lazy Indian driver. On the afternoon of that day Mrs. Bixbee, in her airy bed-chamber, where the folding-bed in the day-time masqueraded as a black walnut bookcase, gave the first Koshare afternoon tea. Mrs. Fairlee poured from a real Russian Samovar brought over from the Hilton Ranch for this grand occasion. Somewhat to the general surprise, the Grumbler made his bow to the hostess in evening clothes, and though not exuberantly Koshare, he was in an unwontedly gracious mood; partaking with polite zest of the stale chocolates, tough cookies, and flinty ginger snaps; munching long-baked Albert biscuit; serenely bolting puckery Oolong tea; and even handing the cups,--large and substantial ones, kindly furnished from their landlady's pantry,--and commending their solidity and size as far preferable to the Dresden and Japanese "thimbles" commonly appearing on afternoon tea-tables. As for the Pourer, it must be recorded that her grace, facility, and charm of manner gave even stone china tea-cups an air of distinction, and lent to Oolong tea and stale cakes a flavor of refinement. It was on Monday that this function came off successfully. The next Koshare festivity in regular order was the shooting-match. Leon, who had inherited from some Nimrod of his race, long since turned to dust, that _true eye_ and steady hand which make gunning a success, was here master of ceremonies as well as contributor of prizes. The first of these, a pair of gold sleeve-links, he, himself, easily won, and subsequently donated to Dennis the dudish table-waiter. Of the five prizes, two others were won by the two impecunious lungers, one by the Harvard man, and another by the Antiquary. The shooting-match, enjoyed as it was by the near population of Mesilla Valley, proved a big success, and weekly grew in grace with the aborigines as having a fine flavor of circus shows and Mexican bull-fights, and was considered by the Koshare as one of their happiest hits. Equally successful was the Thursday entertainment, held in the big dining-room, under the auspices of the landlord and his wife, with the cook, waiter, maids, and chore-boys gathered about the open door. It consisted of vocal and instrumental music, and recitations in prose and rhyme; and, at a late hour, wound up with a bountiful supper contributed to the occasion by the generous landlord. Miss Hemmenshaw, the star performer, gave, with admirable Rachelesque gesture and true dramatic fire, "The Widow of the Grand Army," recited with exquisite delicacy Shelley's "Cloud," and sent shivers down the backs of the entire assemblage, by a realistic presentation of Rossetti's "Sister Helen." The grey-eyed school-marm recited with genuine "School of Oratory" precision and finish "Barbara Frietchie," Holmes' "Chambered Nautilus," Longfellow's "Sandalphon," and "Tom O'Connor's Cat." Leon read, with admirable humor, some of Mr. Dooley's best; and the Harvard man brought down the house with Kipling's "Truce of the Bear." There was some fine piano and banjo playing, and the singing of duets; and the Journalist rendered, in his exquisite tenor, Ben Jonson's rare old love-song, "Drink to me only with thine eyes." "Strange," commented the Antiquary (who in his miscellaneous mental storage had found room for some fine old Elizabethan plays), turning to Miss Hemmenshaw in the pause of the song, "Ben Jonson is dust these three hundred years, and still his verses come singing down the ages, keeping intact their own immortal flavor. The song-maker's is, indeed, an art that 'smells sweet, and blossoms in the dust.' Well might they write him, 'O rare Ben Jonson.'" "And how exquisitely," responded the lady, "is the air married to the words!" And now the Minister brought forward his Cremona. He was a finished violinist, with a touch that well-nigh amounted to genius. All praised his performance. At its close the Grumbler, in an aside to the Antiquary, thus delivered himself:-- "To _some_, God giveth common-sense; to _others_, to play the fiddle!" From the entry audience the fiddler won rousing rounds of applause, and Dennis, the waiter, ventured on the subdued shuffle of an Irish jig. This it was that suggested to the Koshare an impromptu dance, and thereupon the young people straightway took the floor. The Minister, kindly oblivious of his cloth, fiddled on; Miss Paulina called off the figures, and so, merrily, ended the first Koshare evening entertainment. CHAPTER V As it is not proposed to give this record of the doings of the "New Koshare" the circumstantiality of a diary, the chronicler may be allowed to include the ensuing teas, shooting-matches, and all the lighter kosharean festivities in the one general and final statement, that they each came off duly and successfully; and leaving their details "unhonored and unsung," proceed to a more extended account of the Saturday evening entertainments,--as all members of the club were invited to contribute to these evenings, and it was expected that the Minister would, from the storehouse of his travelling experience, contribute liberally to their delectability; and that the Journalist (who naturally thought in paragraphs, and, like the fairy who "spoke pearls," conversed in exquisitely fashioned sentences) would supplement the papers of the Antiquary by his own brilliant talks. And so it was that on the initial Saturday evening, with a full attendance and great expectations, the Koshare found themselves convened, the president in the chair, the secretary with notebook in hand, and all in dignified attention. The Antiquary--with this apt quotation from Cumming's "Land of Poco Tiempo"--began his first lecture before the club. "'New Mexico,'" quoted he, "'is the anomaly of the Republic. It is a century older in European civilization than the rest, and several centuries older still in a happier semi-civilization of its own. It had its little walled cities of stone before Columbus had grandparents-to-be; and it has them yet.' "There are," stated Mr. Morehouse, "three typical races in New Mexico. The American interpolation does not count as a type. "Of Pueblo Indians there are nine thousand, 'peaceful, home-loving, and home-dwelling tillers of the soil.' Then, here, and in Arizona, there are about twenty thousand Navajo Indians,--nomad, horse-loving, horse-stealing vagrants of the saddle, modern Centaurs. Then come the Apaches, an uncounted savage horde, whose partial civilization has been effected by sheer force of arms, and inch by inch: who accept the reservation with but half a heart, and break bounds at every opportunity. Last of all come the Mexicans, shrunken descendants of the Castilian world-finders; living almost as much against the house as in it; ignorant as slaves, and more courteous than kings; poor as Lazarus, and more hospitable than Croesus; and Catholics from A to izzard. "The Navajos and Apaches," said Mr. Morehouse, "have neither houses nor towns; the Pueblos have nineteen compact little cities, and the Mexicans several hundred villages, a part of which are shared by the invader. "'The numerous sacred dances of the Pueblos,' says Cummings, 'are by far the most picturesque sights in America, and the least viewed by Americans, who never found anything more striking abroad. The mythology of Greece and Rome is less than theirs in complicated comprehensiveness; and they are a far more interesting ethnological study than the tribes of inner Africa, and less known of by their white countrymen.' "The Pueblos of New Mexico," explained the Antiquary, "are by no means to be confounded with the Toltecs or Aztecs. It is, however, barely possible that in prehistoric ages the race in possession of Mexico may have had some tribal characteristics of the latter-day Pueblo. As of that remote time, there is not even a traditionary record; this supposition is absolutely conjectural. "By investigation and comparison it has, however, been proved that the Pueblos have racial characteristics connecting them with some mysterious stage of human life even older than that of the more barbarous Toltecs or Aztecs. "This race has from time immemorial had its book of Genesis. It is not, like that of the Hebrew, a written record, but has been orally handed down, and with careful precision, beginning with their original emergence, as half-formed human beings, from the dark of the mystic underworld of 'Shipapu' to the world of light. "After the fashion of most barbarous races, the Pueblo appears originally to have 'pitched his moving tent' in various parts of Mexico; and it may be inferred that he endured many casualities before settling himself in life. It was to tide over this trying epoch in his existence that 'Those Above,' according to tradition, made for the tribes that quaint 'Delight-Monger,' with whom we have already made acquaintance, who led them in their wanderings from the womb of Shipapu to the solid centre of their world; but, as has been already stated, this record, going back to an indefinite period of time, and having only the dubious authority of folk-lore, is only of traditional value. "The Pueblo, no less than the Aztec, is the most religious of human beings. His ceremonial, like that of the age of Montezuma, is wonderfully and minutely elaborated; and though originating in a civilization less splendid and refined, it is really less barbarous, since its rites have never, like those of the Aztec, included the horrors of human sacrifice and cannibalism. "The Pueblo, since his exit from the womb of mother Earth, seems to have given his principal attention to the cultivation of its soil. All the same, he appears never to have shirked the less peaceful responsibilities of his tribe,--putting on his war-paint at the shortest notice, to settle the quarrels of his clan. "Although like most men of savage birth and breeding, cruel in warfare, he seems never to have been abstractedly blood-thirsty, never to have killed, like his ever-belligerent neighbor, the Apache, purely for killing's sake; but, his quarrel once ended, and the present security of his clan well achieved, he has contentedly returned to the peaceful ways of life; diligently sowing, weeding, and harvesting his crops of maize, melons, squashes, and beans, and--ever mindful of the propitiative requirements of 'Those Above'--taking careful heed of his religious duties. "For a succinct account of the Pueblo cave (or cliff) dwellers," said the Antiquary, "I am largely indebted to Bandelier, from whose valuable Pueblo researches I shall often take the liberty to quote. "The imperfectly explored mountain range skirting the Rio Grande del Norte is picturesquely grand. "Facing the river, the foundation of the chain is entirely volcanic. "Colossal rocks form the abrupt walls of the gorges between these mountains, and are often so soft and friable that, in many places they were easily scooped out with the most primitive tools, or even detached with the fingers alone. "In these gorges, through many of which run unfailing streams of water, often expanding to the proportions of regular valleys, the Pueblo Indian raised the modest crop that satisfied his vegetable craving. "As it is easier to excavate dwellings than to pile up walls in the open air, the aboriginal Mexican's house-building effort was mostly confined to underground construction. He was, in fact, a 'cave-dweller,' yet infinitely of more advanced architectural ideas than our own remote forbears of Anglo Saxon cave-dwelling times. "Most of these residences might boast of from three to four rooms. They were arranged in groups, or clusters, and some of them were several stories high. "Rude ladders were used for mounting to the terrace or roof of each successive story. The Pueblo had, literally, a hearthstone in his primitive home. His fireplace was supplied with a hearth of pumice-stone. A rudely built flue, made of cemented rubble, led to a circular opening in the front wall of his cave-dwelling. Air-holes admitted their scanty light to these dusky apartments, in which there were not only conveniences for bestowing wearing-apparel, but niches for ornamental pottery, precious stones, and the like Indian bric-à-brac. The ground-floor entrance was a rude doorway closed by a hide, or mat. Plaited mats of Yucca leaves, and deer-hide, by day rolled up in corners of the sleeping-apartments, served for mattresses at night. A thick coating of mud, washed with blood, and carefully smoothed, gave to the floor a glossy effect. Some of the rooms are known to have been in dimension ten feet by fourteen. Their walls were whitewashed with burnt gypsum. "Though the time when these traditional cliff-dwellers wooed and wed, lived and died in the Rialto vale is long, long gone by, the ruins of their homes may still be seen. Some of them are tolerably intact; others are crumbled away to mere shapeless ruins. "And now, having described their dwellings, let us note some of the most marked and interesting characteristics of the men and women who made in them their homes. "We are apt," said the Antiquary, "to accord to our more enlightened civilization the origin of communism; yet, antedating by ages our latter-day socialistic fads, the communal idea enthused this unlettered people, and to a certain extent seems to have been successfully carried out. "Let not the strong-minded Anglo-Saxon woman plume herself upon the discovery of the equality of the sexes. While our own female suffragists were yet unborn, the Pueblo wife had been accorded the inalienable right to lord it over her mankind. "Among the Mexican cliff-dwellers, 'woman's rights' seem to have been as indigenous to the soil as the piñon and the prickly pear. "In the primitive Pueblo domicile, the wife appears, by tribal consent, to have been absolutely 'cock of the walk.' The husband had no rights as owner or proprietor of the family mansion, and, as an inmate, was scarcely more than tolerated. "The wife, in those ever-to-be-regretted days, not only built and furnished the house,--contributed to the kitchen the soup pot, water jars, and other primitive domestic appliances,--but figured as sole proprietor of the entire establishment. "The Pueblo woman, though married, still had, with her children, her holding in her own clan. In case of her death, the man's home being properly with _his_ clan, he must return to it. "The wife was not allowed to work in the fields. Each man tilled the plot allotted him by his clan. The crops, once housed, were controlled by the woman, as were the proceeds of communal hunts and fisheries. "The Pueblos had their system of divorce. It goes without saying that it was not attended by the red-tape complications of our time. As the husband's continuance under the family roof-tree depended absolutely on his acceptability to the wife, at any flagrant marital breach of good behavior she simply refused to recognize him as her lord. In vain he protested, stormed, and menaced; the outraged better half bade him _go_, and he _went_! Thus easily and informally were Pueblo marriages dissolved; and, this summary transaction once well concluded, each party had the right to contract a second marriage. "The Pueblo Indian is historically known as a Catholic; that is to say, he told his beads, crossed his brow with holy water, and duly and devoutly knelt at the confessional. This done, he tacitly reserved to himself the privilege of surreptitiously clinging to the Paganism of his forbears, and zealously paid his tithe of observances at the ancient shrine of 'the Sun Father' and 'the Moon Mother.' "Some of the Pueblo tribes are said still to retain the use of that ancient supplicating convenience, 'the prayer-stick.' "'Prayer-sticks, or plumes,'" explained the Antiquary, "are but painted sticks tufted with down, or feathers, and, by the simple-minded Indian, supposed especially to commend him to the good graces and kindly offices of 'Those Above.' In a certain way, the aboriginal prayer-stick seems to have been a substitute for an oral supplication. "The Pueblo, pressed for time, might even forego the hindering ceremonial of verbal request, adoration, or thanksgiving, and hurriedly deposit, as a votive offering to his easily placated gods, this tufted bit of painted wood; and, furthermore, since prayer-sticks were not always within reach, it was permitted him in such emergencies to gather two twigs, and, placing these crosswise, hold them in position by a rock or stone. And this childish make-shift passed with his indulgent gods for a prayer! "The most trivial commonplace of existence had, with the superstitious Pueblo, its religious significance; and it would seem to have been incumbent on him literally to 'pray without ceasing.' Hence the prayer-plume, or its substitute, was, with him, one of the necessities of life. Time would fail me to tell of the ancient elaborate religious rites and superstitions of the Mexican Indian; to recount his latter-day ceremonials, wherein Pagan dances, races, and sports are like the jumble of a crazy quilt, promiscuously mixed in with Christian festas and holy saint-days; and indeed the subject is too large for my sketchy handling. It may not, however, be amiss to notice the yearly celebration of the festival of San Estevan. It may be still witnessed, and seems to have been the original Harvest-home of the Mexican Indian, the observance of which has been handed down in various ways from all times, and among all peoples, and is probably the parent of our Thanksgiving holiday. "The monks of the early Catholic church, in their missionary endeavor to commend the Christian religion to the pagan mind, took care to graft upon each of the various festas of the Pueblo one of their own saint-day names. Thus it was that the Acoma harvest-home masquerades under the guise of a saint-name, though an absolutely pagan ceremonial. "It is still observed by them with genuine Koshare delight. There are dances, races, and tumbling, and the carnival-like showering of Mexican confetti from the roofs of adobe houses. In summing up this brief account of the sedentary New Mexican, I quote literally the forceful assertion of Cummings. 'The Pueblos,' says this writer, 'are Indians who are neither poor nor naked; who feed themselves, and ask no favors of Washington; Indians who have been at peace for two centuries, and fixed residents for perhaps a millennium; Indians who were farmers and irrigators, and six-story housebuilders before a New World had been beaten through the thick skull of the Old. They had,' he continues, 'a hundred republics in America centuries before the American Republic was conceived.' "This peaceably minded people, as has already been stated, are by no means to be confounded with the roving New Mexican aborigines, with the untamed Navajo scouring the plains on the bare back of his steed, or the fierce Apache, murderous and cruel. "We must not," said Mr. Morehouse, "take leave of the Pueblo, without some reference to the great flat-topped, slop-sided chain of rock-tables that throughout the length and breadth of his territory rises from the sandy plains, the most famous and best explored of which is known as 'La Mesa Encantada,'--'the Enchanted Mesa.' "According to tradition the Mesa Encantada gains its romantic name from an event which centuries ago--declares the legend--destroyed the town, then a well-populated stronghold of the Acomas. As a prelude to this legend, let me state that the Pueblo cliff-dwellers often perched their habitations on lofty, sheer-walled, and not easily accessible mesas, a natural vantage-ground from which they might successfully resist their enemies, the nomadic and predatory tribes formerly over-running the country. "The steep wall of the Acoma Mesa, with its solitary trail, surmounted by means of hand and foot holes pecked in the solid rock, was so well defended that a single man might keep an army at bay. What fear, then, should these Acomas have of their enemies? "The Acomas, like other Pueblo Indians, have from time immemorial been tillers of the soil. "From the fertile sands of their valley and its tributaries they won by patient toil such harvests of corn, beans, squashes, and cotton as secured them a simple livelihood; and 'their granaries,' it is asserted, 'were always full enough to enable them, if need be, to withstand a twelvemonth's siege.' How long the top of Katzimo, the site of the Enchanted Mesa, had been inhabited when the catastrophe recorded in the legend befell, no man may say, not even the elders of the tribe; this much is, however, known,--the spring-time had come. The sun-priest had already proclaimed from the housetops that the season of planting was at hand. The seeds from last year's harvest had been gathered from the bins; planting-sticks had been sharpened, and all made ready for the auspicious day when the seer should further announce the time of repairing to the fields. On that day (so runs the tale), down the ragged trail, at early sunrise, clambered the busy natives; every one who was able to force a planting-stick into the compact soil, or lithe enough to drive away a robber crow, hurried to the planting. Only a few of the aged and ailing remained on the mesa. "While the planters worked in the hot glare of the valley below, the sun suddenly hid his face in angry clouds. The busy planters hastened their work, while the distant thunder muttered and rolled about them. Suddenly the black dome above them was rent as by a glittering sword, and down swept the torrent, until the entire valley became a sheet of flood. The planters sought shelter in the slight huts of boughs and sticks from which the crops are watched. "The elders bodingly shook their heads. Never before had the heavens given vent to such a cataract. "When the sudden clouds as suddenly dispersed, and the sun-lit crest of Katzimo emerged from the mist, the toilers trudged toward their mountain home. Reaching the base of the trail, they found their pathway of the morning blocked by huge, sharp-edged pieces of stone, giving mute testimony of the disaster to the ladder-trail above. "The huge rock mass, which had given access to the cleft by means of the holes pecked in the trail-path, had in the great cloud-burst become freed from the friable wall, and thundered down in a thousand fragments, cutting off communication with the mesa village. The Acomas, when asked why their ancestors made no desperate effort to reach the sufferers whose feeble voices were calling to them from the summit for succor, but left their own flesh and blood to perish by slow starvation, gravely shook their heads. "The ban of enchantment had already, for these superstitious pagans, fallen upon the devoted table-land; it had become 'La Mesa Encantada.' "The publication by Mr. Charles F. Lummis, who resided for several years at the pueblo of Iselta, of the story of Katzimo, the tradition of which was repeated to him by its gray-haired priests some twelve years ago, aroused the interest of students of southwestern ethnology in the history of 'La Mesa Encantada,' and, subsequently, Mr. F. W. Hodge was directed by the Bureau of American Ethnology, of the Smithsonian Institute, to scale the difficult height of this giant mountain, for the purpose of supplementing the evidence already gained, of its sometime occupancy as a Pueblo town. His party found decided evidence of a former occupancy of the mesa, such as fragments of extremely ancient earthenware, a portion of a shell bracelet, parts of two grooved stone axes, lichen-flecked with age. Here, too, was an unfeathered prayer-stick, a melancholy reminder of a votive offering made, at the nearest point of accessibility, to 'Those Above.' "'When I consider,' says Mr. Hodge, in his charming paper, 'The Enchanted Mesa,' published in the 'Century Magazine,' some three or four years ago, 'that the summit of Katzimo, where the town was, has long been inaccessible to the Indians, that it has been swept by winds, and washed by rains for centuries, until scarcely any soil is left on its crest, that well-defined traces of an ancient ladder trail may still be seen pecked on the rocky wall of the very cleft through which the traditionary pathway wound its course; and, above all, the large number of very ancient potsherds in the earthy talus about the base of the mesa, which must have been washed from above, the conclusion is inevitable that the summit of 'La Mesa Encantada' was inhabited prior to 1540, when the present Acoma was discovered by Coronado, and that the last vestige of the village itself has long been washed or blown over the cliff.'" With this account of the Enchanted Mesa, Mr. Morehouse, amid general applause, ended his interesting paper on the Pueblo Indians; and after a short discussion by the Club of the ancient and modern characteristics of these remarkable aborigines, the Koshare, well pleased with the success of its endeavor to combine improvement with delight, adjourned to the next Monday in January. Little dreamed Roger Smith as, that night, after the Club entertainment, he handed the Hemmenshaw ladies to their wagon, for the return ride to Hilton Ranch, that the very next week he was to undertake, on their behalf, a hand-to-hand encounter with a blood-thirsty Apache. Yet so was it ordained of Fate. It has already been stated that these ladies were but day-boarders at Alamo Ranch, occupying, together with Sholto, a Mexican man-of-all-work, the Hilton Ranch, a good mile distant from the boarding-house. Louise Hemmenshaw, usually in exuberant health, was ill with a severe influenza. It was the third and cumulative day of this disease. Sholto had already been despatched to Brown's for the dinner; Miss Paulina had, in this emergency, undertaken to turn off the breakfasts and suppers from her chafing-dish. After replenishing, from the wood basket, the invalid's chamber fire, Miss Paulina administered her teaspoonful of bryonia, gave a settling shake to her pillow, and hurried down to fasten the back door behind Sholto. Lingering a moment at the kitchen window, the good lady put on her far-off glasses for a good look across the mesa, stretching--an unbroken waste of sage-brush and mesquite-bush--from the Hilton kitchen garden to the distant line of the horizon. As she quietly scanned the nearer prospect, Miss Paulina's heart made a sudden thump beneath her bodice, and quickened its pulses to fever-time; for there, just within range of her vision, was the undoubted form of an Apache savage, clad airily in breech-clout, and Navajo blanket. Skulking warily along the mesa, he gained the garden fence and sprang, at a bound, over the low paling. For a moment the watcher stood paralyzed with wonder and dismay. Meantime, under cover of a rose-trellis, the Apache, looking bad enough and cunning enough for any outrage, coolly made a reconnoisance of the premises. This done, still on all-fours, he gained the bulkhead of the small dark vegetable cellar beneath the kitchen. It chanced to have been inadvertently left open. With a satisfied grunt (and eschewing the paltry convenience of steps) he bounded at once into its dusky depths. Summoning her failing courage, this "Daughter of the Revolution" resolutely tiptoed out the front door, and, with her heart in her mouth, whisking round the corner of the devoted house, shot into place the stout outside bolt of the bulkhead door. This feat accomplished, she made haste to gain the safe shelter of the adobe dwelling. She next looked well to the bolt fastening the trap-door at the head of the ladder-like stairway leading perilously from the kitchen to the dim region below, where the Apache might now be heard bumping his head against the floor-planks, in a fruitless endeavor to discover some outlet, from this underground apartment, to the family circle above. With the frightful possibility of a not distant escape of her prisoner, the good lady lifted her heart in silent prayer, and hurrying promptly to the chamber of her niece, gave a saving punch to the fire, a glass of port wine to the invalid, and, feigning an appearance of unconcern, left the room, and slipped cautiously down to the kitchen. Here she dragged an ironing-table, a clothes-horse, and a wood-box on to the trap-door, and breathlessly waited for the Apache's next move. And now, a step might be heard on the driveway, followed by a rap at the front door. Prudently scanning her visitor through the sidelight, and assuring herself that he was no breech-clouted savage, but a fellow white man, Miss Paulina let in through the narrowest of openings,--who but their friend the Harvard man! "Dear soul!" tearfully exclaimed the good lady, while Roger Smith stood in mute wonder at the warmth of her greeting. It was but the work of a moment to explain the situation and acquaint him with the peril of the moment. Sholto, at his leisurely Mexican pace, now opportunely appeared at the back door with the hot dinner. "There is a time for all things," said the "president of Chapter 18th," as (having pulled the bewildered Mexican inside) she vigorously shot the door-bolt in place, deposited the smoking viands on the sideboard, and thus addressed him. "Sholto," said Miss Paulina, "I have an Apache here in the cellar. For the time being his ability to work us harm is limited; but an Apache is never nice to have round; and, besides, he must have terribly bumped himself poking round there all this time in the dark. One would not unnecessarily hurt even a savage. We must therefore let him up, bind him fast, and take measures for delivering him to the police at Las Cruces. Here is a clothes-line: it is good and strong; make up a lasso, and when I open the trap-door, as his head bobs in sight, throw it, and then help Mr. Smith haul him out, and tie him." Sholto's lasso was soon in working order. The trap-door once raised, the head of the unsuspecting savage flew up like a Jack in a box, and with such a rubber-like bound that Sholto's lasso went wide of the mark. In this dilemma, a scientific blow from the fist of a Harvard athlete deftly floored him, and, in the consequent lapse of consciousness, he was easily bound, and safely deposited in the bottom of the Hilton express wagon. This accomplished, Sholto and the Harvard man summarily took the road for Las Cruces, some four miles distant. The horse and his driver being in absolute accord as to the ratio of miles proper to the hour, the captors drove leisurely along; the Harvard man meantime relieving the slow monotony of the way, with incident and anecdote, and Sholto, in turn, imparting much interesting New-Mexican information. Presently a faint stir, as of the quiet, persistent nibbling of a mouse in the wall, might (but for the talking) have been heard from the bottom of the wagon. "Poor beggar!" said the Harvard man, at last recalling to mind the captive Apache; "he must, by this time, be about ready to come to." And taking from his over-coat pocket a tiny flask of brandy, he turned on his seat with the humane intention of aiding nature in bringing about that restoration. "Gone! clean gone! by George!" exclaimed the astonished athlete. The cunning savage had, with his sharp, strong teeth, actually gnawed through his wrist cords, and, with tooth and nail extricating himself from the knotted clothes-line, was already on his return from the unsatisfactory husks of Mesilla Valley, to the fatted veal of the U. S. government, in his father's house,--"The Reservation." "_They are fleet steeds that follow!_" quoted the Harvard man as the jubilant Apache, with flying heels, loomed tantalizingly on the distant plain. The startled cotton-tail, swept by "the wind of his going," scurried breathlessly to his desert fastnesses among the sage-brush and mesquite. With a humorous glance at his fast-vanishing form, the Harvard man measured with his eye the intervening distance, the speed of the escaped captive, and the pace of the propeller of the Hilton express, and gracefully accepted the situation. Sholto lazily turned the horse's head, and in process of time the discomfited captors of Miss Paulina's Apache--like John Gilpin-- "Where they did get up Did get down again." Meantime, Miss Hemmenshaw brought up the mid-day meal. "Auntie," said the invalid, "this feverish cold puts queer fancies in my head. While you were away, I must have taken a little nap, and when I awoke there seemed to be some sort of a rumpus going on below; after which I fancied that a team started away from the back door. It could not have been Sholto's; for he would be coming from Brown's about that hour with our dinner." "It may have been just a part of your dream, dear," pacified the aunt; "but come, now, here is our dinner. Let us have it together. A wonderfully nice dinner Mrs. Brown has sent us, too, and you can venture to-day on a quail, and a bit of orange pudding. For myself, I am as hungry as a bear;" and, removing the books from the oval bedroom table, Miss Paulina laid the cloth, set out the dishes and glasses, and daintily arranged the viands, which the two ladies discussed with evident relish. "And now," said the aunt, "since you have dined, and have something to brace you up, I will 'tell my experience;'" and forthwith she related to the astonished Louise the adventure of the morning. The good lady had but accomplished her exciting account, when the valiant captors of the Apache drove up. Miss Paulina, with the concentrated importance of her entire "Chapter," met and opened the door to her hero. "Well?" asked she of the crestfallen athlete. "No: ill!" replied he; "the Apache never reached Las Cruces. He managed to unbind himself, and slipped from our hands by the way. The clothes-line has come back safe; but the savage is, long ere this, well on his road to the Mescalero Reservation." "Well," said Miss Paulina, judicially, "I can't say that I'm sorry. The creature had a rough time bumping about that low, dark cellar; and your blow on his head was a tough one. And when one considers the slip-shodness of things at Las Cruces, and the possible insecurity of their jail, _we_, on the whole, are the safer for his escape; and _he_ will, of course, feel more at home now in the Reservation, and will probably remain there for a while, after the fright we gave him." Thus reassured, the Harvard man accepted Miss Hemmenshaw's invitation to stay to supper. And presently the convalescing invalid came down to express her thanks for his devoir of the morning. Reclining on the parlor lounge, in a cream-white tea gown, she looked so lovely that a man might well have dared a whole tribe of savages in her defence. By and by they had a quiet game of chess. It goes without saying that the lady won. There _might_ be men hard-hearted enough to beat Louise Hemmenshaw at chess. The Harvard man was not _of_ them. So slipped away this happy afternoon; and, at sunset Sholto appeared with the tea equipage, and the young people covertly made merry over a chafing-dish mess achieved by the Cooking School pupil; and under cover of rarebit, water-biscuit, and cups of Russian tea, the Harvard man made hay for himself in this bit of sunshine, and grew in favor with both aunt and niece. With Miss Paulina Hemmenshaw, true to her aristocratic birth and breeding, pedigree far out-weighed filthy lucre. To be well born was, in her estimation, to be truly acceptable to gods and men. Roger Smith, with his plebeian surname and unillustrious "tanner" grandfather, was by no means a suitable husband for her motherless niece, to whom, as the head of her brother's household, she had for years filled a parent's place. Louise Hemmenshaw, as the good lady shrewdly guessed, was the magnet that drew this undeclared lover to Mesilla Valley. During the preceding winter they had met at many social functions in Boston and Cambridge, and he had become the willing captive of her bow and spear. He had never told his love. The social discrepancy between the lovely aristocrat and Roger--the grandson of Roger the Tanner--was too wide to be easily overstepped. Ostensibly the Harvard man had come to New Mexico to recruit his spent energies; but in his heart of hearts he knew that dearer than health was the hope of winning the heart of Louise Hemmenshaw. Already his native refinement and charm of manner had commended him to Miss Paulina; and now, his prowess in the day's adventure had made her, for good and all, his warm friend. As to her niece, he told himself, as, that night, by the light of a low moon, he took his way to Alamo Ranch, recalling the tender pressure of the invalid's white hand, when, with a rosy blush, she bade him good-night, that in his wooing he had to-day "scored one;" and with the confident egotism of presumptuous mortals, when events play unexpectedly into their hands, he decided that Fate had prearranged this timely call of his on the Hemmenshaws, and had timed the arrival of the Apache at that opportune hour, with an especial view to the fulfilment of his own cherished wishes. CHAPTER VI Another two weeks of lighter Koshare festivities had again brought round the more solid fortnightly entertainment of the Club. Its members duly assembled, the president in his chair, and the secretary at attention, Mr. Morehouse thus began his second paper. "Before Texas," said he, "became a part of an independent republic, and until after the Mexican war (when we forced Mexico to sell us all California, New Mexico, and Arizona, nearly all of Utah and Nevada, besides Texas, and the greater part of Colorado), Mexico proper reached way up here; and it is thought by some archaeologists that the mesas or table-mountain land especially characterizing the New Mexican landscape may have afforded the suggestion for the Teocallis of the great pyramid-like mounds, with terraced sides, built by the Aztecs. Some scholars have even convinced themselves that the Aztec culture must have originated here in the North. Others wholly discard the conclusion. "Mr. Baxter, in his valuable and interesting book of Mexican travel, says, decidedly, 'The New Mexican Indians were not Aztecs, and Montezuma had no more to do with New Mexico than he did with New England.' And with this assertion I think we must all, perforce, agree. "Of the Toltecs, the probable predecessors in Mexico of the Aztecs, all written records," said the Antiquary, "have long since perished. They are known to us only through traditionary legends orally handed down by the races that succeeded them. "They are said to have entered the Valley of Anahnac from a northerly direction, coming from a mysterious unknown region, and probably before the close of the seventh century. They appear to have been a far more gentle and refined nation than their immediate successors, the half-savage Aztecs, who, at last, with their semi-civilization, dominated Mexico. By general archæological agreement, the Toltecs were well instructed in agriculture, and many of the most useful mechanic arts. "'They were,' declares Prescott, 'nice workers in metals.' They invented the complex arrangement of time adopted by the Aztecs, who are said to have been largely indebted to them for the beginnings of that incongruous civilization which reached its high-water mark in the reign of the Montezumas. So late as the time of the Spanish Conquest the remains of extensive Toltec buildings were to be found in Mexico. "'The noble ruins of religious and other edifices,' says the same writer, 'still to be seen in Mexico, are referred to this people, whose name, _Toltec_, has passed into a synonym for _Architect_.' "After a period of four centuries--having succumbed to famine, pestilence, and unsuccessful wars--this remarkable people disappeared from the land as silently and mysteriously as they had entered it. It is conjectured that some of them may have spread over the region of Central America and the neighboring isles; and that the majestic ruins of Mitla and Paleque are the work of this vanished race. Tradition affirms that a remnant of Toltecs still lingering in Anahnac 'gave points' to the next inhabitants; and the Tezcucans are thought to have derived their gentle manners and comparatively mild religion from the handful of Toltecs who still remained in the country. A Spanish priest, with that keen relish for the marvellous common to his kind, accounts for this mysterious disappearance by supernatural stories of giants and demons. "According to good authorities, more than a hundred years elapsed between the strange disappearance of the Toltecs from the land of Anahnac and the arrival on its borders of the Aztecs. "After the nomadic fashion of barbarous races, this people did not at once make a permanent settlement, but pitched their tents in various parts of the Mexican valley, enduring many casualties and hardships, and being at one time enslaved by a more powerful tribe, whom their prowess subsequently dominated. "Some of these wanderings and adventures are perpetuated in their oral traditional lore. "One of these legends is well substantiated, and current at this day, having been the origin of the device of the eagle and cactus, which form the arms of the present Mexican republic, and may be found on the face of the Mexican silver dollar. Thus it runs: 'Having in 1325 halted on the southwestern borders of the larger Mexican lakes, the Aztecs there beheld, perched on the stem of a prickly pear, which shot out from a crevice of a rock that was washed by the waves, a royal eagle of extraordinary size and beauty, with a serpent in his talons, and his broad wings open to the rising sun. "'They hailed the auspicious omen, which the oracle announced as an indication of the site of their future city.' "The low marshes were then half buried in water; yet, nothing daunted, they at once proceeded to lay the sloppy foundation of their capital, by sinking piles into the shallows. On these they erected the light dwelling-fabrics of reeds and rushes,--the frail beginnings of that solid Aztec architecture carried to such elegant elaboration in the time of the Montezumas. In token of its miraculous origin they called their city Tenochtitlan. Later it was known as Mexico, a name derived from the Aztec war-god, Mexitil. "It has been shown that the Aztec race, once permanently established in Mexico, finally attained to a civilization far in advance of the other wandering tribes of North America. "'The degree of civilization which they had reached,' says Prescott, 'as inferred by their political institutions, may be considered not far short of that enjoyed by our Saxon ancestors under Alfred. In respect to the nature of it, they may better be compared to the Egyptians; and the examination of their social relations and culture may suggest still stronger points of resemblance to that ancient people. "'Their civilization,' he goes on to say, 'was, at the first, of the hardy character which belongs to the wilderness. The fierce virtues of the Aztec were all his own. They refused to submit to European culture--to be engrafted on a foreign stock. They gradually increased in numbers, made marked improvements both in polity and military discipline, and ultimately established a reputation for courage as well as cruelty in war which made their name terrible throughout the valley.' In the early part of the fifteenth century--nearly a hundred years after the foundation of the city--that remarkable league--of which it has been affirmed that 'it has no parallel in history'--was formed between the states of Mexico and Tezcuco, and the neighboring little kingdom of Tlacopan, by which they agreed mutually to support each other in their wars, offensive and defensive, and that in the distribution of the spoil one-fifth should be assigned to Tlacopan and the remainder be divided--in what proportions is uncertain--between the two other powers. "What is considered more remarkable than the treaty itself, however, is the fidelity with which it was kept. "During a century of uninterrupted warfare that ensued no instance, it is declared, occurred in which the parties quarrelled over the distribution of the spoil. By the middle of the fifteenth century the allies, overleaping the rocky ramparts of their own valley, found wider occupation for their army, and under the first Montezuma, year after year saw their return to the Mexican capital, loaded with the spoils of conquered cities, and with throngs of devoted captives. "No State was able long to resist the accumulated strength of the confederates; and at the beginning of the sixteenth century, on the arrival of the Spaniards, the Aztec dominion reached across the continent, from the Atlantic to the Pacific." Here Mr. Morehouse ended his paper on the Toltecs, and the Koshare, with many thanks for his interesting account of these ancient races, supplemented his information by a general discussion of the genuineness of the accepted authorities for the early history of the Aztecs and of the time of Montezuma. "Prescott," said the Minister, "traces some points of resemblance between the history of the Aztecs and that of the ancient Romans; especially in polity and military success does he compare them." "Unfortunately," observed the Antiquary, "the earlier records of the Mexican people can only be scantily gleaned from oral tradition and hiero-graphical paintings." "Later, however," remarked the Journalist, "we have the seemingly more definite and reliable accounts of the Spanish chronicles." "These," returned the Minister, "being usually ecclesiastic, have warped their record to suit their own bigoted views; consequently, much of the narrative popularly known as Mexican history is to be taken with more than the proverbial pinch of salt." "It has," said the Journalist, "been urged by realistic critics of our own fascinating historian--Prescott--that since he drew his historic data, with the exception of the military record of the Spaniards, from these unreliable sources, his history is little other than the merest romance. Plainly, the assertions of some of the chroniclers are scarce more worthy of credence than the equally fascinating adventures of Sinbad the Sailor, and the impossible stories of Baron Munchausen. 'Bernard Diaz'--that enigmatical personage from whom many of Prescott's data are drawn--tells us that the Aztecs actually fattened men and women in cages, like spring chickens, for their sacrifice, and asserts that at the dedication of one of their temples a procession of captives two miles long, and numbering seventy-two thousand persons, were led to sacrifice! By the way, it has, however, been latterly proved that the so-called sacrificial stone, now exhibited in the National Museum of Mexico, is not a relic of the Aztecs, but of the earlier Toltecs (who were not addicted to human sacrifice), and is as innocent of human blood as the Calendar Stone, referred to the same period. The critics of Diaz have detected in his account constant blunders in many important matters, and his glaring geographical errors would seem to prove that, though he claims to have been, all through the Conquest, the very shadow of Hernando Cortez, he has never even been in the country he describes!" "From what I have read of Bernald," said Leon, "I think we may finish him off with 'Betsy Prig's' very conclusive objection to Sairey Gamp's 'Mrs. Harris'--there ain't no sich person!" "Even so," exclaimed the Minister, "I, for one, agree with certain downright critics who contend that Diaz was a pure fabrication, a priestly scheme of the Roman Church to screen the cruel enormities of their agent, Cortez. Father Torquemada, another of Prescott's authorities, is thought to be scarcely more reliable. Las Casas, another of our historian authorities, whose history was, at the time, promptly suppressed by the all-powerful Inquisition, declares these Spanish histories of the Conquest to be 'wicked and false.'" "And yet, in spite of these strictures," contended Leon, "I, for one, still pin my faith to Prescott and his implicit honesty of purpose. He gave us, in his own learned and fascinating way, the narrative of these priestly chroniclers as he found it. If the chroniclers lied, why, so much the worse for the chroniclers." "Lying," complained the Grumbler, "is a malady most incident to historians;" and thereupon rose to open the parlor door for the gray-eyed school teacher, who just then bade the Koshare good-night, adding that she had already been too long away from her sister. And now the chairman announced the next paper in the Koshare course for the second Saturday in February, and the members, one and all, dispersed. Sholto, roused from a most enjoyable series of naps, brought his wagon to the side door, and with a friendly grasp from the hand of Miss Paulina, and a shy, tremulous clasp from that of her niece, the Harvard man saw the ladies off. CHAPTER VII February had come, bringing in its train such weather as verified the warmest praise of New Mexico's perfect climate. It was on one of its most spring-like afternoons that a walking party of eight set out to pay a long-proposed visit to the ladies at Hilton Ranch. As the little party went gayly along the mesa, Leon, carrying his gun, shot doves for the evening meal, while the rest walked on, chatting merrily. The ladies talking over, by the way, the late attempt of the Apache on Hilton Ranch, Mrs. Bixbee declared herself curious to see the cellar in which Miss Paulina had caught that prowling savage. On their arrival that good lady, informed of this desire, kindly proceeded to gratify her guest, and the entire party was presently led by her to the kitchen, the hero of this adventure modestly walking beside the fair lady of his love. Sholto, busied about the place, was just then out of call, and Miss Hemmenshaw, intent to afford them a peep into the cellar, begged the Harvard man to raise for her the heavy trap-door. The dear lady never quite knew how it was that, leaning forward, she lost her balance, and, but for the prompt help of Roger Smith, might have landed, pell-mell, on the cellar bottom; or how, in rescuing her, he himself made the misstep that, ere he could recover his poise, threw him to the end of the ladder-like cellar stairs. Recovering breath, Roger Smith cheerily called up to the affrighted group at the top, "All right!" but, on pulling himself together to make the ascent, he suddenly found all wrong. He had sprained his ankle; and it was with painful effort that he won to the top. At this juncture Sholto, aroused by the unwonted rumpus, made his appearance, anticipating no less a disaster than the reappearance of the slippery savage, for whom he still held the lasso "in pickle." Disabled by the sprain, the Harvard man submitted himself to the stout arms of the Mexican, and, by Miss Paulina's direction, was carried into the bedroom adjoining the ranch parlor. There, laid upon a movable couch which served the double purpose of sofa and bed, Sholto having, not without difficulty, removed his boot and stocking, he submitted the swollen foot to the careful inspection of Miss Hemmenshaw, who, with a steadiness of nerve not unworthy of her "Chapter," put the dislocated joint in place, bandaged the injured member with arnica, administered an internal dose of the same restorative, and duly followed it with a glass of old Port. This done, Sholto wheeled the sufferer's couch into the adjoining parlor. Half an hour later Leon came in with a well-filled game-bag; and after an hour of mild Koshare merriment, in which the athlete but feebly joined (the pain of his ankle was still terrible), the little party took its way, in the fading sunlight, to Alamo Ranch. Miss Paulina, having promptly decided that her patient was unequal to the return by way of the jolting Hilton express team, sent to Mrs. Brown an order for supper for her guest, Louise, and herself. It was duly conveyed to Hilton's by an Alamo chore-boy. Sholto, as the sole male dependence of Hilton's, must stick to his post; for, sagely observed the "Daughter of the Revolution," two women, heroic though they might be, were no match for an Apache marauder; and as for poor Roger Smith, he could now neither "fight" nor "run away." Sholto lighted the lamps, laid the supper on the low Queen Anne table, added fresh water from the spring, and when a pot of tea had been made by the hostess' own careful hand, and Sholto had wheeled up the couch of the invalid, that he might take his supper _à la Roman_, the three made a cheery meal. When the man had removed the supper things, and piled fresh wood on the andirons, the ladies brought their work-baskets; and while they busied themselves with doily and centre-piece, the Harvard man, lying in the comfort of partial relief from pain, watched the dainty fingers of Louise Hemmenshaw as she bent industriously over her embroidery, and fell fathoms deeper in love with the dear and beautiful girl. Roger Smith stayed on at Hilton Ranch, where, thrown day after day in semi-helplessness on the kind attendance of Miss Paulina and the sweet society of her niece, he (I grieve to say) fell a ready prey to the suggestions of a certain wily personage who (according to Dr. Watts) finds employment for idle hands, and thus conceived the wickedness of cunningly using this accident to further his own personal ends. Thus devil-tempted, this hitherto upright young person resolved that it should be a long day before his sprained ankle should permit him to return to Brown's, and lose this precious opportunity of establishing himself in the good graces of the aunt, and winning the love of the niece. Far from approving the crooked policy which led Roger Smith to feign lameness long after the injured ankle had become as sound as ever, the present historian can only, in view of this lapse from integrity, affirm with Widow Bedott that "we're poor creeturs!" and, with that depreciative view of humanity, go on with this truthful narrative. A whole delicious month had been passed by the Harvard man in this paradise,--Elysian days, while, waited on by Sholto, petted by Miss Paulina, and companioned by the loveliest of houris, he dreamed out his dream. At last, on a certain decisive evening, Roger Smith found himself alone in the gloaming with Louise Hemmenshaw. The aunt, who through all these weeks had zealously chaperoned her niece, had passed into the dining-room to evolve some chafing-dish delicacy for the evening meal. Without, the setting sun flooded all the west with gold, touched the distant mountain peaks with splendor, and threw a parting veil of glory over the wide mesa. Within, the firelight made dancing shadows on the parlor wall, where the pair sat together in that eloquent silence so dear to love. "Well," said the athlete to himself (compunctiously glancing at his superfluous crutches, left within easy reach of his hand), "this performance can't go on forever. I have made believe about long enough; what better may I do than own up this very night, and somehow bring this base deceit to an end." Mentally rehearsing the formula, in which, over and over, he had asked the hand of this beautiful aristocrat, his mind still sorely misgave him. "Why," thought this depressed lover, "was not my name Winthrop, Endicott, or Sturgis, instead of Smith; and my grandfather a senator, a judge, or even a stockbroker, rather than a tanner?" Neither Miss Paulina nor her brother, he discouragedly mused, would ever countenance this unequal match. His millions would with them weigh nothing against "the claims of long descent." The sun had gone down, the after-glow had faded to gray. They were still alone. The firelight half revealed the lovely figure beside the hearth. In that gown of golden-brown velvet, with the creamy old lace at wrists and throat, the brown hair combed smoothly from the white forehead, knotted behind and fastened with a quaint arrow of Etruscan gold, Louise Hemmenshaw was simply adorable! It was indeed good to be here; and why should not a life so sweet and satisfying go on indefinitely? "It is four weeks to-day since I fell down cellar,"--such was the commonplace beginning to this much considered tale of love. "Really?" said the lady, looking innocently up from an absorbed contemplation of the fender. "It has not seemed so long. I never before realized what a serious thing it is to sprain one's ankle. You have been a most patient sufferer, Mr. Smith; and, indeed, for the past two weeks, a most jolly one. Aunt Paulina was saying to-day that it was high time we all went back to Alamo for our meals, and helped out the Koshare doings of the Club." "Dear Miss Hemmenshaw," here blurted out the culprit, "do not despise me for my meanness, since it is all for love of you that I have been shamming lameness. For these last two weeks I could at any time have walked as well as ever." And, hereupon, without the slightest reference to his crutches, he rose from his chair and skipped over to her side. "A sprain," explained this audacious lover, "may be cured in a fortnight, but it takes a good month to woo and win a fair lady. Having soon after my accident decided that point, I have done my best. Tell me, dear Louise," pleaded he, "that my time has been well spent. Say that, deceitful ingrate though I am, you will take me, for good and all." "Roger Smith," replied the lady, with much severity, "you have repaid the devoted care of two unsuspecting females by a whole fortnight of wilful duplicity. For my aunt I cannot answer; for myself, I can only reply,--since to err is human; to forgive, womanlike,--dear Roger, on the whole, I will." Miss Paulina, a moment later entering the parlor, surprised her invalid guest, standing crutchless on his firm feet, with his arm thrown about the waist of her niece. "Well, well!" exclaimed the astonished lady, "and without his crutches!" "Dear Miss Paulina," said Roger Smith with a happy laugh, "my ankle is as well as ever; and your niece has promised to marry me. Say that you will have me for your nephew." "I seem already to have gotten you, my good sir, whether I will or no," laughed Miss Hemmenshaw. "But, my stars and garters" (mentally added she), "what ever will my brother say? A tanner's grandson coming into the family! and he a Hemmenshaw, and as proud as Lucifer!" "Never mind, Auntie dear," said the smiling fiancée, guessing her thoughts. It will be all right with father when he comes to know Roger; and besides, let us remember that under the 'Star Spangled Banner' we have our 'Vanderbilts,' our 'Goulds,' and our 'Rockefellers;' but _no_ Vere de Veres. And if we _had_, why, Love laughs at heraldry, and is "'Its own great loveliness alway.'" "To-morrow," said Miss Paulina decisively, "we will all dine at Alamo Ranch." CHAPTER VIII Through this month of wooing and betrothing at Hilton Ranch, the Koshare, at Alamo, never once remitted its endeavor to hearten the despondent. The weekly entertainments took their regular course, and were successfully carried on, and, in due time, the fortnightly club convened to listen to the Antiquary's account of "Montezuma and his Time." And here the Koshare chronicle returns on its track to record that able paper. "As a consistent Koshare," said Mr. Morehouse, to his eager listeners, "it behooves me to give--without that dry adherence to facts observed by the 'Gradgrind' historian--the charming melodramatic details of that romantic monarch's life and times afforded by the popular Munchausen-like data of the Spanish chroniclers, albeit they have in their entirety, all the fascination, and, sometimes, all the unbelievableness of a fairy tale. "The Aztec government," prefaced the Antiquary, "was an elective monarchy, the choice always restricted to the royal family. "The candidate usually preferred must have distinguished himself in war; though, if (as in the case of the last Montezuma) he was a member of the priesthood, the royal-born priest, no less than the warrior was, with the Aztec, available as an emperor. "When the nobles by whom Montezuma the Second was made monarch went to inform the candidate of the result of the election, they are said to have found him sweeping the court of the temple to which he had dedicated himself. It is further asserted that when they led him to the palace to proclaim him king, he demurred, declaring himself unworthy the honor conferred on him. It is a humiliating proof of the weakness of human nature in face of temptation, to find that, later, this pious king so far forswore his humility as to pose before his subjects as a god; that five or six hundred nobles in waiting were ordered to attend daily at his morning toilet, only daring to appear before him with bared feet. "It was not until, by a victorious campaign, he had obtained a sufficient number of captives to furnish victims for the bloody rites which Aztec superstition demanded to grace his inauguration, that--amidst that horrible pomp of human sacrifice which stained the civilization of his people--Montezuma was crowned. "The Mexican crown of that day is described as resembling a mitre in form, and curiously ornamented with gold, gems, and feathers. "The Aztec princes, especially towards the close of the dynasty, lived in a barbaric Oriental pomp, of which Montezuma was the most conspicuous example in the history of the nation. "Elevation, like wine, seems to have gone to the head of the second Montezuma. "An account of his domestic establishment reads like the veriest record of midsummer madness. Four hundred young nobles, we are told, waited on the royal table, setting the covers, in their turn, before the monarch, and immediately retiring, as even his courtiers might not see Montezuma eat. Having drunk from cups of gold and pearl, these costly goblets, together with the table utensils of the king, were distributed among his courtiers. Cortez tells us that so many dishes were prepared for each meal of this lordly epicure, that they filled a large hall; and that he had a harem of a thousand women. His clothes, which were changed four times a day (like his table service), were never used a second time, but were given as rewards of merit to nobles and soldiers who had distinguished themselves in war. If it happened that he had to walk, a carpet was spread along his way, lest his sacred feet should touch the ground. His subjects were required, on his approach, to stop and close their eyes, that they might not be dazzled by his effulgent majesty. His ostentatious humility gave place to an intolerable arrogance. He disgusted his subjects by his haughty deportment, exacting from them the most slavish homage, and alienating their affection by the imposition of the grievous taxes demanded by the lavish expenditure of his court. "In his first years Montezuma's record was, in many respects, praiseworthy. He led his armies in person. The Aztec banners were carried far and wide, in the furthest province on the Gulf of Mexico, and the distant region of Nicaragua and Honduras. His expeditions were generally successful, and during his reign the limits of the empire were more widely extended than at any preceding period. "To the interior concerns of his kingdom he gave much attention, reforming the courts of justice, and carefully watching over the execution of the laws, which he enforced with stern severity. "Like the Arabian ruler,--Haroun Alraschid, of benign memory,--he patrolled the streets of his capital in disguise, to make personal acquaintance with the abuses in it. He liberally compensated all who served him. He displayed great munificence in public enterprise, constructing and embellishing the temples, bringing water into the capital by a new channel, and establishing a retreat for invalid soldiers in the city of Colhuacan. "According to some writers of authority there were, in Montezuma's day, thirty great caciques, or nobles, who had their residence, at least a part of the year, in the capital. "Each of these, it is asserted, could muster a hundred thousand vassals on his estate. It would seem that such wild statements should be 'taken with a pinch of salt.' All the same, it is clear, from the testimony of the conquerors, that the country was occupied by numerous powerful chieftains, who lived like independent princes on their domains. It is certain that there was a distinct class of nobles who held the most important offices near the person of their emperor. "In Montezuma's time the Aztec religion reached its zenith. It is said to have had as exact and burdensome a ceremonial as ever existed in any nation. 'One,' observes Prescott, 'is struck with its apparent incongruity, as if some portion had emanated from a comparatively refined people, open to gentle influences, while the rest breathes a spirit of unmitigated ferocity; which naturally suggests the idea of two distinct sources, and authorizes the belief that the Aztecs had inherited from their predecessors a milder faith, on which was afterwards engrafted their own mythology.' The Aztecs, like the idolaters to whom Paul preached, declaring the 'Unknown God' of their 'ignorant worship,' recognized a Supreme Creator and Lord of the Universe. "In their prayers they thus addressed him: 'The God by whom we live, that knoweth all thoughts, and giveth all gifts;' but, as has been observed, 'from the vastness of this conception their untutored minds sought relief in a plurality of inferior deities,--ministers who executed the creator's purposes, each, in his turn, presiding over the elements, the changes of the seasons, and the various affairs of man.' Of these there were thirteen principal deities, and more than two hundred inferior; to each of whom some special day or appropriate festival was consecrated. "Huitzilopotchli, a terrible and sanguinary monster, was the primal of these; the patron deity of the nation. The forms of the Mexican idols were quaint and eccentric, and were in the highest degree symbolical. "The fantastic image of this god of the unpronounceable name was loaded with costly ornaments; his temples were the most stately and august of their public edifices, and in every city of the empire his altars reeked with the blood of human hecatombs. "His name is compounded of two words, signifying 'humming-bird' and 'left;' from his image having the feathers of this bird on his left foot. "Thus runs the tradition respecting this god's first appearance on earth: 'His mother, a devout person, one day, in her attendance on the temple, saw a ball of bright-colored feathers floating in the air. She took it and deposited it in her bosom, and, consequently, from her, the dread deity was in due time born.' He is fabled to have come into the world (like the Greek goddess, Minerva) armed _cap-à-pie_ with spear and shield, and his head surmounted by a crest of green plumes. "A far more admirable personage in their mythology was Quetzalcoatl, god of the air; his name signifies 'feathered serpent' and 'twin.' During his beneficent residence on earth he is said to have instructed the people in civil government, in the arts, and in agriculture. Under him it was that the earth brought forth flower and fruit without the fatigue of cultivation. "Then it was that an ear of corn in two days became as much as a man could carry; and the cotton, as it grew beneath his fostering smile, took, of its own accord, the rich dyes of human art. "In those halcyon days of Quetzalcoatl all the air was sweet with perfumes and musical with the singing of birds. "Pursued by the wrath of a brother-god, from some mysterious cause unexplained by the fabler, this gracious deity was finally obliged to flee the country. On his way he is said to have stopped at Cholula, where the remains of a temple dedicated to his worship are still shown. "On the shores of the Mexican Gulf Quetzalcoatl took leave of his followers, and promising that he and his descendants would revisit them hereafter, entered his 'Wizard Skiff,' and embarked on the great ocean for the fabled land of Tlapallan. "The Mexicans looked confidently for the second coming of this benevolent deity, who is said to have been tall in stature, with a white skin, long, dark hair, and a flowing beard. Undoubtedly, this cherished tradition, as the chroniclers affirm, prepared the way for the reception of the Spanish conquerors. "Long before the landing of the Spaniards in Mexico, rumors of the appearance of these men with fair complexions and flowing beards--so unlike their own physiognomy--had startled the superstitious Aztecs. The period for the return of Quetzalcoatl was now near at hand. The priestly oracles were consulted; they are said to have declared, after much deliberation, that the Spaniards, though not gods, were children of the Sun; that they derived their strength from that luminary, and were only vulnerable when his beams were withdrawn; and they recommended attacking them while buried in slumber. This childish advice, so contrary to Aztec military usage, was reluctantly followed by these credulous warriors, and resulted in the defeat and bloody slaughter of nearly the whole detachment. "The conviction of the supernaturalism of the Spaniard is said to have gained ground by some uncommon natural occurrences, such as the accidental swell and overflow of a lake, the appearance of a comet, and conflagration of the great temple. "We are told that Montezuma read in these prodigies special annunciations of Heaven that argued the speedy downfall of his empire. "From this somewhat digressive account of the Aztec superstition, in regard to the 'second coming' of their beneficent tutelar divinity, which, as may be seen, played into the hands of Cortez, and furthered his hostile designs upon Mexico, let us return to the time in Aztec history when no usurping white man had set foot upon Montezuma's territory. "We are told that this people, in their comparative ignorance of the material universe, sought relief from the oppressive idea of the endless duration of time by breaking it up into distinct cycles, each of several thousand years' duration. At the end of each of these periods, by the agency of one of the elements, the human family, as they held, was to be swept from the earth, and the sun blotted out from the heavens, to be again freshly rekindled. With later theologians, who have less excuse for the unlovely superstition, they held that the wicked were to expiate their sins everlastingly in a place of horrible darkness. It was the work of a (so-called) Christianity to add to the Aztec place of torment the torture of perpetual fire and brimstone. The Aztec heaven, like the Scandinavian Valhalla, was especially reserved for their heroes who fell in battle. To these privileged souls were added those slain in sacrifice. These fortunate elect of the Aztecs seem to have been destined for a time to a somewhat lively immortality, as they at once passed into the presence of the Sun, whom they accompanied with songs and choral dances in his bright progress through the heavens. After years of this stirring existence, these long-revolving spirits were kindly permitted to take breath; and thereafter it was theirs to animate the clouds, to reincarnate in singing birds of beautiful plumage, and to revel amidst the bloom and odors of the gardens of Paradise. "Apart from this refined Elysium and a moderately comfortable hell, void of appliances for the torture of burning, the Aztecs had a third place of abode for immortals. Thither passed those 'o'er bad for blessing and o'er good for banning,' who had but the merit of dying of certain (capriciously selected) diseases. These commonplace spirits were fabled to enjoy a negative existence of indolent contentment. 'The Aztec priests,' says Prescott, 'in this imperfect stage of civilization, endeavored to dazzle the imagination of this ignorant people with superstitious awe, and thus obtained an influence over the popular mind beyond that which has probably existed in any other country, even in ancient Egypt.' "Time will not permit here a detailed account of this insidious priesthood; its labored and pompous ceremonial; its midnight prayers; its cruel penance (as the drawing of blood from the body by flagellation, or piercing of the flesh with the thorns of the aloe), akin to the absurd austerities of Roman Catholic fanaticism. The Aztec priest, unlike the Roman, was allowed to marry, and have a family of his own; and not _all_ the religious ceremonies imposed by him were austere. Many of them were of a light and cheerful complexion, such as national songs and dances, in which women were allowed to join. There were, too, innocent processions of children crowned with garlands, bearing to the altars of their gods offerings of fruit, ripened maize, and odoriferous gums. It was on these peaceful rites, derived from his milder and more refined Toltec predecessors, that the fierce Aztec grafted the loathsome rite of human sacrifice. "To what extent this abomination was carried cannot now be accurately determined. The priestly chroniclers, as has been shown, were not above the meanness of making capital for the church, by exaggerating the enormities of the pagan dispensation. Scarcely any of these reporters pretend to estimate the yearly human sacrifice throughout the empire at less than twenty thousand; and some carry the number as high as fifty thousand. A good Catholic bishop, writing a few years after the conquest, states in his letter that twenty thousand victims were yearly slaughtered in the capital. A lie is brought to absolute perfection when its author is able to believe it himself. "Torquemada, another chronicler, often quoted by Prescott, turns this into twenty thousand _infants_! "These innocent creatures, he tells us, were generally bought by the priests from parents poor enough and superstitious enough to stifle the promptings of nature, and were, at seasons of drought, at the festival of Haloc, the insatiable god of the rain, offered up, borne to their doom in open litters, dressed in festal robes, and decked with freshly blown flowers, their pathetic cries drowned in the wild chant of the priests. It is needless to add that this assumption has but the slightest groundwork of likelihood. "Las Casas, before referred to, thus boldly declares: 'This is the estimate of brigands who wish to find an apology for their own atrocities;' and loosely puts the victims at so low a rate as to make it clear that any specific number is the merest conjecture. "Prescott, commenting on these fabulous statements, instances the dedication of the great temple of the 'Mexican War God' in 1486, when the prisoners, for years reserved for the purpose, were said to have been ranged in files forming a procession nearly two miles long; when the ceremony consumed, as averred, several days, and seventy thousand captives are declared to have perished at the shrine of this terrible deity. In view of this statement, Prescott logically observes: 'Who can believe that so numerous a body would have suffered themselves to be led unresistingly, like sheep, to the slaughter? Or how could their remains, too great for consumption in the ordinary way, be disposed of without breeding a pestilence in the capital? One fact,' he adds, 'may be considered certain. It was customary to preserve the skulls of the sacrificed in buildings appropriate to the purpose; and the companions of Cortez say they counted one hundred and thirty-six thousand skulls in one of the edifices.' "Religious ceremonials were arranged for the Aztec people by their crafty and well-informed priesthood, and were generally typical of some circumstances in the character or history of the deity who was the object of them. That in honor of the god called by the Aztecs 'the soul of the world,' and depicted as a handsome man endowed with perpetual youth, was one of their most important sacrifices. An account of this sanguinary performance is gravely given by Prescott and other writers. Though highly sensational and melodramatic, since our betters have found it believable, we transcribe it for the New Koshare; thus runs the tale:-- "'A year before the intended sacrifice, a captive, distinguished for his personal beauty, and without a single blemish on his body, was selected to represent this deity. Certain tutors took charge of him, and instructed him how to perform his new part with becoming grace and dignity. He was arrayed in a splendid dress, regaled with incense and with a profusion of sweet-scented flowers, of which the ancient Mexicans were as fond as are their descendants at the present day. When he went abroad he was attended by a train of the royal pages; and as he halted in the streets to play some favorite melody the crowd prostrated themselves before him, and did him homage as the representative of their good deity. In this way he led an easy, luxurious life until within a month of his sacrifice. Four beautiful girls were then given him as concubines; and with these he continued to live in idle dalliance, feasted at the banquets of the principal nobles, who paid him all the honors of a divinity. At length the fatal day of sacrifice arrived. The term of his short-lived glories was at an end. "'He was stripped of his gaudy apparel, and bade adieu to the fair partners of his revelry. One of the royal barges transported him across the lake to a temple which rose on its margin, about a league from the city. Hither the inhabitants flocked to witness the consummation of the ceremony. As the sad procession wound up the sides of the pyramid, the unhappy victim threw away his gay chaplets of flowers, and broke in pieces the musical instruments with which he had solaced the hours of his captivity. "'On the summit he was received by six priests, whose long and matted locks flowed disorderedly over their sable robes, covered with hieroglyphic scrolls of mystic import. They led him to the sacrificial stone, a huge block of jasper with its upper surface somewhat convex. On this the prisoner was stretched. Five priests secured his head and limbs, while the sixth, clad in a scarlet mantle, emblematic of his bloody office, dexterously opened the breast of the wretched victim with a sharp razor of _itzli_ (a volcanic substance hard as flint), and, inserting his hand in the wound, tore out the palpitating heart. The minister of death, first holding the heart up towards the sun (also an object of their worship) cast it at the feet of the god, while the multitudes below prostrated themselves in humble adoration.' "The tragic circumstances depicted in this sanguinary tale were used by the priests to 'point a moral.' The immolation of this unhappy youth was expounded to the people as a type of human destiny, which, brilliant in its beginning, often closes in sorrow and disaster. "In this loathsome manner, if we may believe the account given, was the mangled body disposed of. It was delivered by the priests to the warrior who had taken the captive in battle, and served up by him at an entertainment given to his friends. "This, we are told, was no rude cannibal orgy, but a refined banquet, teeming with delicious beverages, and delicate viands prepared with dainty art, and was attended by guests of both sexes, and conducted with all the decorum of civilized life. Thus, in the Aztec religious ceremonial, refinement and the extreme of barbarism met together. "The Aztec nation had, at the time of the Conquest, many claims to the character of a civilized community. The debasing influence of their religious rites it was, however, that furnished the fanatical conquerors with their best apology for the subjugation of this people. One-half condones the excuses of the invaders, who with the cross in one hand and the bloody sword in the other, justified their questionable deeds by the abolishment of human sacrifice. "The oppressions of Montezuma, with the frequent insurrections of his people," concluded the Antiquary, "when in the latter part of his reign one-half the forces of his empire are said to have been employed in suppressing the commotions of the other, disgust at his arrogance, and his outrageous fiscal exactions, reduced his subjects to that condition which made them an easy prey to Cortez, whose army at last overpowered the emperor and swept the Aztec civilization from the face of the earth." "I find it strange," said the Journalist (in the little talk that followed Mr. Morehouse's able paper), "that civilized nations have held an idea so monstrous as the necessity of vicarious physical suffering of a victim to appease the wrath of a divine being with the erring creatures who, such as they are, are the work of his hands. "That unenlightened races, from time immemorial, should have supposed that the shedding of blood propitiated their angry god, or gods, is but the natural outcome of ignorance and superstition; but, that in this twentieth century, civilized worshippers should sing-- 'There is a fountain filled with blood Drawn from Immanuel's veins; And sinners plunged beneath that flood Lose all their guilty stains'-- passes my understanding." "In the ruins of Palenque there is," said the Antiquary, "a scene portrayed on its crumbling walls, in which priests are immolating in a furnace placed at the feet of an image of Saturn the choicest infants of the nation, while a trumpeter enlivens the occasion with music, and in the background a female spectator, supposed to be the mother of the victim, looks on." "The sacrifices to Moloch (or Saturn)," interpolated the Minister, "were marked features of the Phoenician idolatry. In the Bible account we read that even their kings 'made their children to pass through the fire to Moloch.'" "Well," commented the Grumbler, "it may be said of a portion of this evening's entertainment that it is distinguished by the charm found by 'Helen's' sanguinary-minded 'baby,' in the story of 'Goliath's head,'--it is 'all bluggy.'" "Right you are," responded the star boarder with a shudder. "Cold shivers have meandered along my poor back until it has become one dreadful block of ice; and, judging by the horror depicted on these ladies' faces as they listened to the details of the Aztec sacrifice, I fancy that they too have supped o'er-full of horrors." The Minister's eye rested for a moment affectionately on his stanch little wife. He sighed, and looked with mild rebuke on these godless triflers. And now the Koshare (some of them stoutly orthodox) wisely put by the question of vicarious atonement, and summarily adjourned. CHAPTER IX It was but the next week when, unexpectedly as thunderbolts now and then surprise us on days of serene, unclouded sky, an unlooked-for domestic calamity startled Alamo Ranch. Dennis, the good-natured Irish waiter, and Fang Lee, the Chinese cook, had come to blows. The battle had been (so to put it) a religious controversy, and such, as we know, have a bitterness all their own. It was inaugurated by Dennis, who, as a good Catholic, had, on a Friday, refused to sample one of Fang's _chef-d'oeuvres_,--a dish of veal cutlets with mushroom sauce. A mutual interchange of offensive words, taunts highly derogatory to his holiness Pope Leo XIII. and equally insulting to the memory of that ancient Chinese sage, Confucius, had finally led to a bout of fisticuffs. In this encounter, Fang Lee, a slightly built, undersized celestial, had naturally been worsted at the hand of the robust Hibernian, a good six feet five in his stockings. Dennis, the "chip well off his shoulder," had peacefully returned to the duties of his vocation, nonchalantly carrying in the dinner, removing the plates and dishes, and subsequently whistling "St. Patrick's Day in the Morning" under the very nose of the Confucian, as he unconcernedly washed his plates and glasses, and scoured his knives. Fang, having meantime sent in his dinner, cleaned his pots and pans, brushed his baggy trousers, adjusted his disordered pigtail, and straightway gave in his notice; and with sullen dignity retired to the privacy of his bedroom, for the avowed purpose of packing his box. On the ensuing morning he would shake from his feet the dust of Alamo Ranch. Vain were the endeavors of his discomfited employers to gain the ear of the implacable Fang Lee. He stood out resolutely for the privacy of his small sleeping apartment, obstinately refusing admission to outsiders. In a house replete with boarders, and forty miles from available cooks, Fang's pending loss was indeed a calamity. In this dilemma, the disheartened landlord and his wife begged the intercession of the star boarder,--always in high favor with the domestics, and known to be especially in the good graces of the Chinaman. Long did this envoy of peace unsuccessfully besiege the bedroom door of the offended Fang Lee. In the end, however, he gained admittance; and with adroit appeals to the better nature of the irate cook, and a tactful representation of the folly of giving up a good situation for the sake of a paltry quarrel, he finally brought Fang Lee down from his "high horse," and persuading good-natured Dennis to make suitable friendly advances, effectually healed the breach. Ere nightfall amity reigned in the ranch kitchen, and the respective pockets of the belligerents were the heavier for a silver dollar,--a private peace-offering contributed by the arbitrator. An Irishman is nothing if not magnanimous; Dennis readily "buried the hatchet," handle and all. Not so Fang Lee, who, smugly pocketing his dollar, covertly observed to the giver, by way of the last word, "All samee, Pope bigee dam foolee." With genial satisfaction the star boarder received the thanks of the Browns for having saved to them their cook, and, with simple pleasure in the result of his diplomacy, met the encomiums of his fellow-boarders. To this gracious and beautiful nature, replete with "peace and good-will to man," to help and serve was but "the natural way of living." CHAPTER X At mid-March, in this sun-loved land, the genial season far outdoes our own belated Northern May. Already, in Mesilla Valley, the peach, pear, and apricot buds of the orchard are showing white and pink. In the garden, rose-bushes are leaving out, and mocking-birds make the air sweet with song. "In the spring," said Leon Starr, parodying Tennyson one morning at the breakfast-table, "the Koshare fancy lightly turns to thoughts of Shalam. Why not make to-day our long-planned excursion to that famous colony?" "All right," responded the entire Koshare; and that afternoon a party of twelve set out from Alamo Ranch to explore that remarkable colony, some seven miles up the valley. A description of the place and an account of this excursion is copied verbatim by the present writer from the journal of one of the party. "To begin at the beginning," says the narrator, "the colony was started by one Dr. ----, a dentist from Philadelphia. He enlisted as a partner in his enterprise a man from that region of fads--Boston, Mass. To this chimera of the doctor's brain, the latter, a man of means, lent his approval, and, still more to the point, the money to carry out the doctor's plans. "Some few years ago the original founder of Shalam died, leaving to his partner the work of carrying out his half-tried experiment. "Mr. ---- lived on in the place, assuming its entire charge, and finally marrying the doctor's widow,--a lady of unusual culture and refinement, but having a bent towards occult fads, as Spiritualism, Mental Science, and their like. "Well, we arrived safely at Shalam, and were met by Mrs. ---- and a dozen or more tow-headed kids. It is noticeable that the whole twenty-seven children selected for this experiment have light hair and blue eyes. Mrs. ---- kindly presented us to her husband,--apparently a man of refined natural tendencies and fair intellectual culture, but evidently, like 'Miss Flite,' 'a little _m-m_, you know.' "Conventionally clothed, Mr. ---- would undoubtedly have been more than presentable; in his Shalam undress suit he was, to say the least, unique. "His long, heavy beard was somewhat unkempt. His feet were in sandals, without stockings. His dress consisted of a pair of white cotton pants, and a blouse of the same material, frogged together with blue tape, the ends hanging down over his left leg. Hitched somehow to his girdle was a plain watch-chain, which led to a pocket for his watch, on the front of his left thigh, placed just above the knee. When he wants time he raises the knee and takes out the watch, standing on one leg the while. "The place is beautifully situated on the banks of the Rio Grande, with a range of high mountains across the river. "It consists of two parts: 'Leontica,' a village for the workers, where they have many nice cottages, an artesian well for irrigation, and a big steam pump to force the water through all the ditches; Shalam, the home of the children, has a big tank, with six windmills pumping water into it all the time. Near the tank is the dormitory,--a building about one hundred and fifty feet in dimension. Through its middle runs a large hall for the kids to gambol in. On each side are rooms for the attendants and the larger children. "Chiefly noticeable was the cleanliness of the hall, and the signs over the doors of the chambers, each with its motto, a text from '_Oahspe_,'--the Shalam bible. "At each end of the hall was a big sign, reading thus: '_Do not kiss the children._' As none of them were especially attractive, this command seemed quite superfluous. After looking over the dormitory, we were led to the main building, projected by the late Dr. ----. This encloses a court about one hundred and fifty feet by sixty in size, and planted with fig trees. "The front of the building is taken up by the library of the doctor; on the opposite side is his picture gallery. "Rooms or cells for the accommodation of guests occupy the long sides of this structure. "I was cordially invited to occupy one of these; but the place is too creepy for me! The pictures in the gallery were all done by the deceased doctor, under the immediate direction of his 'spirit friends.' To look at them (believing this) is to be assured that artists do not go to heaven, since not even the poorest defunct painter would have perpetrated such monstrosities. "They all represent characters and scenes from the doctor's bible,--known as Oahspe, and written by him at the dictation of spirits. The drawing is horrible, the coloring worse; and no drunkard with delirium tremens could have conceived more frightful subjects! "Mr. ----, the doctor's successor, is a curious compound of crank and common-sense; the latter evinced by his corral and cattle, which we next visited. I have never seen so fine a corral nor such handsome horses and cattle. They are all blooded stock; many of the cows and calves having come from the farm of Governor Morton, in New York State. The cows were beautiful, gentle creatures; one of them is the largest 'critter' I ever saw, weighing no less than fifteen hundred pounds! "The county authorities--scandalized by the meagreness of the Shalam bill of fare--compelled Mr. ---- to enrich the children's diet with milk, and, thus officially prodded, he is trying to give them the best in the land. "The stock department of Shalam seems to be his undivided charge; while Mrs. ---- manages the garden. She kindly showed us all over it; and it is a beauty! With water flowing all through it, celery, salisfy, and lettuce all ready to eat, and other vegetables growing finely. She gave us a half bushel of excellent lettuce, which we all enjoyed. "The Shalam idea is to take these children from all parts of the country, to bring them up in accordance with its own dietetic fad (which in many respects corresponds with that of our own dream-led Alcott), feeding them exclusively on a vegetable diet so that they won't develop carnal and combative tendencies, and thus start from them a new and improved race. Will they succeed? God knows; but they seem to have started wrong; for the children are largely the offspring of outcasts, and you can't expect grapes from thistle seed. However, Mr. ---- and Mrs. ---- are both sincere, kind-hearted reformers, trying to do what they think right in their own peculiar way. They are doing no harm by their experiment--hurting no one; and if the children turn out badly, it is no worse than they would if left alone; and if well, it is a distinct triumph of brain over beastliness. It may be well to state that no _materia medica_ is tolerated at Shalam. The health of the colony is entrusted absolutely to the 'tender mercies' of mental healing. Mr. ---- is himself the picture of health, and says he does not know what it is to feel tired. ('They that be whole need no physician!') As for the Lady of Shalam, there is a look in her face that led me to think she was deadly tired of the whole business, but was too loyal either to her dead or living husband to 'cry quits.' "These children know not the taste of physic. All their ailments are treated in strict accordance with Mental Science. They eat no eggs, fish, or other animal matter, save the county-prescribed milk, living solely on grains, vegetables, and fruits; and it must be said that they all look extremely healthy. Mr. ---- informs us that he rises daily at three A.M., goes directly to his corral and milks, comes in a little after four and prepares the children's breakfast. They are called at four forty-five, and breakfast at five. At five thirty devotional exercises begin, and last until six thirty, when the father of Shalam goes out and starts the hands on the farm. At eight the children begin lessons or some kind of mental training, which lasts till dinner time. "After dinner they run wild for the rest of the day. "We left Shalam at about five P.M. On the homeward drive we discussed this odd colony, and compared notes on what we had observed. An irreverent member of the party thus summed up the whole business in his own slangy fashion,--'a man who all winter long prances round in pajamas, making folks shiver to look at him, ought to be put in an insane asylum.' So there you have his side of the question. "The original founder of Shalam, Dr. ----, not only aspired to be a painter, but, as an author, flew the highest kind of a kite, giving to the world no less than a new bible. "A glimpse at its high-sounding prospectus will scarce incite in the sane and sober mind a desire to peruse a revelation whose absurdity and fantastic assumption leaves the Mormon bible far behind, and before whose 'hand and glove' acquaintance with the 'undiscovered country' Swedenborg himself must needs hide his diminished head. "Thus it runs: '_Oahspe_; a new Bible in the words of Jehovih and his Angel Embassadors. A synopsis of the Cosmogony of the Universe; the creation of planets; the creation of man; the unseen worlds; the labor and glory of gods and goddesses in the etherean heavens with the new commandments of Jehovih to man of the present day. With revelations from the second resurrection, found in words in the thirty-third year of the Kosmon Era.' "Oahspe's claims are thus _moderate_: 'As in all other bibles it is revealed that this world was created, so in _this_ bible it is revealed _how_ the Creator _created_ it. As other bibles have proclaimed heavens for the spirits of the dead, behold _this_ bible revealeth _where_ these heavens _are_.' "Oahspe also kindly informs us 'how hells are made, and of what material,' and how the sinner is in them mainly punished by the forced inhalement of 'foul smells,'--so diabolically foul are these that one is fain to hold the nose in the bare reading of them! "'There is,' declares Oahspe, 'no such law as Evolution. There is no law of Selection.' A vegetarian diet is inculcated; and we are gravely informed that 'the spirit man takes his place in the first heaven according to his _diet_ while on earth!' "A plan for the founding of 'Jehovih's Kingdom on earth through little children' is given. This 'sacred history' claims to cover in its entirety no less a period of time than eighty-one thousand years. At quarter-past six," concludes our informant, "we arrived, tired and hungry, but glad to have gone, and glad to get back, leaving behind us Shalam, with its spirit picture-gallery and its fantastic Oahspe, for the more stable verities of commonplace existence." CHAPTER XI It was on Friday that the Koshare made their little excursion to the Shalam settlement, and the next evening they gathered in full force,--with the exception of the Hemmenshaws and the Harvard man, who still remained at Hilton Ranch, losing thereby two of the most interesting of the Antiquary's papers; but "time and tide" and Saturday clubs "stay for no man," and now came the second Aztec paper. "The Aztec government," began Mr. Morehouse, "in a few minor points is said to have borne some resemblance to the aristocratic system evolved by the higher civilization of the Middle Ages. "Beyond a few accidental forms and ceremonies, the correspondence was, however, of the slightest. The legislative power both in Mexico and Tezcuco had this feature of despotism; it rested wholly with the monarch. The constitution of the judicial tribunals in some degree counteracted the evil tendency of this despotism. Supreme judges appointed over each of the principal cities by the crown had original and final jurisdiction over both civil and criminal cases. From the sentence of such a judge there was no appeal to any other tribunal, not even to that of the King. "It is worthy of notice as showing that some sense of justice is inborn; as even among this comparatively rude people we read that under a Tezcucan prince a judge was put to death for taking a bribe, and another for determining suits in his own house (a capital offence also, by law.) According to a national chronicler, the statement of the case, the testimony, and proceedings of the trial were all set forth by a clerk, in hieroglyphical paintings, and handed to the court. "In Montezuma's day the tardiness of legal processes must have gone miles beyond the red tape of a nineteenth-century court of justice. "This vivid picture of the pomp and circumstance attendant upon the confirmation of a capital sentence by the king is presented by one of the Mexican native chroniclers: "'The King, attended by fourteen great lords of the realm, passed into one of the halls of justice opening from the courtyard of the palace, which was called "the tribunal of God," and was furnished with a throne of pure gold, inlaid with turquoises and other precious stones. "'The walls were hung with tapestry, made of the hair of different wild animals, of rich and various colors, festooned by gold rings, and embroidered with figures of birds and flowers. Putting on his mitred crown, incrusted with precious stones, and holding, by way of sceptre, a golden arrow in his left hand, the King laid his right upon a human skull, placed for the occasion on a stool before the throne, and pronounced judgment. No counsel was employed and no jury. The case had been stated by plaintiff and defendant, and, as with us, supported on either side by witnesses. The oath of the accused was, with the Aztecs, also admitted in evidence. "'The great crimes against society were all made capital. "'Among them murder (even of a slave) was punishable with death. Adulterers, as among the Jews, were stoned to death. Thieving, according to the degree of the offence, was punished with slavery or death. It was a capital offence to remove the boundaries of an estate, and for a guardian not to be able to give a good account of his ward's property. "'Prodigals, who squandered their patrimony, were punished. Intemperance in the young was punished with death; in older persons, with loss of rank, and confiscation of property. "'The marriage institution was held in reverence among the Aztecs, and its rites celebrated with formality. Polygamy was permitted; but divorces were not easily obtainable. Slavery was sanctioned among the ancient Mexicans, but with this distinction unknown to any civilized slave-holding community: no one could be _born_ to slavery. The _children_ of the slave were _free_. Criminals, public debtors, persons who from extreme poverty voluntarily resigned their freedom, and children who were sold by their parents through poverty, constituted one class of slaves. These were allowed to have their own families, to hold property, and even other slaves. Prisoners taken in war were held as slaves, and were almost invariably devoted to the dreadful doom of sacrifice. A refractory or vicious slave might be led into the market with a collar round his neck, as an indication of his badness, and there publicly sold. If incorrigible, a second sale devoted him to sacrifice. "'Thus severe, almost ferocious, was the Aztec code, framed by a comparatively rude people, who relied rather on physical than moral means for the correction of evil. In its profound respect for the cardinal principles of morality, and a clear perception of human justice, it may favorably compare with that of most civilized nations.' "'In Mexico,' says Prescott, 'as in Egypt, the soldier shared with the priest the highest consideration. The King must be an experienced warrior. The tutelary deity of the Aztecs was the God of war. The great object of their military expeditions was to gather hecatombs of captives for his altars.' The Aztec, like the (so-called) _Christian crusader_, invoked the holy name of religion as a motive for the perpetration of human butchery. He, too, after his own crude fashion, had his order of knighthood as the reward of military prowess. Whoever had not reached it was debarred from using ornaments on his arms or on his person, and was obliged to wear a coarse white stuff, made from the threads of the aloe, called _nequen_. Even the members of the royal family were not excepted from this law. As in Christian knighthood, plain armor and a shield without device were worn till the soldier had achieved some doughty feat of chivalry. After twenty brilliant actions officers might shave their heads, and had, moreover, won the fantastic privilege of painting half of the face red and the other half yellow. The panoply of the higher warriors is thus described. Their bodies were clothed with a close vest of quilted cotton, so thick as to be impenetrable to the light missiles of Indian warfare. This garment was found so light and serviceable that it was adopted by the Spaniards. "The wealthier chiefs sometimes wore, instead of this cotton mail, a cuirass made of thin plates of gold or silver. Over it was thrown a surcoat of the gorgeous feather work in which they excelled. Their helmets were sometimes of wood, fashioned like the heads of wild animals, and sometimes of silver, on the top of which waved a panache of variegated plumes, sprinkled with precious stones. They also wore collars, bracelets, and earrings of the same rich materials. "'A beautiful sight it was,' says one of the Spanish conquerors, 'to see them set out on their march, all moving forward so gayly, and in so admirable order!' "Their military code had the cruel sternness of their other laws. Disobedience of orders was punished with death. "It was death to plunder another's booty or prisoners. It is related of a Tezcucan prince that, in the spirit of ancient Roman, he put two of his sons to death--after having cured their wounds--for violating this last-mentioned law. A beneficent institution, which might seem to belong to a higher civilization, is said to have flourished in this semi-pagan land. "Hospitals, we are told, were established in their principal cities for the cure of the sick, and as permanent homes for the disabled soldier; and surgeons were placed over them who 'were,' says a shrewd old chronicler, 'so far better than those in Europe that they did not _protract the cure in order to increase the pay_.' "The horse, mule, ox, ass, or any other beast of burden, was unknown to the Aztecs. Communication with remotest parts of the country was maintained by means of couriers, trained from childhood to travel with incredible swiftness. "Post-houses were established on all the great roads, at about ten leagues distance apart. The courier, bearing his despatches in the form of hieroglyphical painting, ran with them to the first station, where they were taken by another messenger, and so on, till they reached the capital. Despatches were thus carried at the rate of from one to two hundred miles a day. "A traveller tells us of an Indian who, singly, made a record of a hundred miles in twenty-four hours. A still greater feat in walking is recorded by Plutarch. _His_ Greek runner brought the news of a victory of a hundred and twenty-five miles in a single day! "In the funeral rites of this ruder people one traces a slight resemblance to those of the more cultivated Greek. They burned the body after death, and the ashes of their dead, collected in vases, were preserved in one of the apartments of the home. After death they dressed the person's body in the peculiar habiliments of his tutelar deity. It was then strewed with pieces of paper, which operated as a charm against the dangers of the dark road he was to travel. If a chief died he was still spoken of as living. One of his slaves, dressed in his master's clothes, was placed before his corpse. The face of this ill-starred wretch was covered with a mask, and during a whole day such homage as had been due to the chief was paid to him. At midnight the body of the master was burnt, or interred, and the slave who had personated him was sacrificed. Thereafter, every anniversary of the chief's birthday was celebrated with a feast, but his death was never mentioned. "The Spanish chroniclers have told us (and in reading these statements due allowance must be made for their habit of 'stretching the truth') that to the principal temple--or Teocallis--in the capital five thousand priests were in some way attached. These, in their several departments, not only arranged the religious festivals in conformity to the Aztec calendar, and had charge of the hieroglyphical paintings and oral traditions of the nation, but undertook the responsibility of instructing its youth. While the cruel and bloody rites of sacrifice were reserved for the chief dignitaries of the order, each priest was allotted to the service of some particular diety, and had quarters provided for him while in attendance upon the service of the temple. "Though in many respects subject to strict sacerdotal discipline, Aztec priests were allowed to marry and have families of their own. Thrice during the day, and once at night, they were called to prayers. They were frequent in ablutions and vigils, and were required to mortify the flesh by fasting and penance, in good Roman Catholic fashion, drawing their own blood by flagellation, or by piercing with thorns of aloes. They also, like Catholic priests, administered the rites of confession and absolution; but with this time-saving improvement: confession was made but _once_ in a man's life,--the long arrears of iniquity, past and present, thus settled, after offences were held inexpiable. "Priestly absolution was received in place of legal punishment for offences. It is recorded that, long after the Conquest, the simple natives, when under arrest, sought escape by producing the certificate of their confession. "The address of the Aztec confessor to his penitent, with his prayer on this occasion, has come down to us. As an evidence of the odd medley of Christianity and paganism that marked this queer civilization, it is quaintly interesting. 'O merciful Lord,' prayed he, 'thou who knowest the secrets of all hearts, let thy forgiveness and favor descend, like the pure waters of heaven, to wash away the stains from the soul. Thou knowest that this poor man has sinned, not from his own will, but from the influences of the sign under which he was born.' "In his address to the penitent he urges the necessity of instantly procuring a slave for sacrifice to the Deity. After this sanguinary exhortation he enjoins upon his disciple this beautiful precept of Christian benevolence: 'Clothe the naked, feed the hungry, whatever privations it may cost thee, for, remember, their flesh is like thine, and they are men like thee.' "Sacerdotal functions (excepting those of sacrifice) were allowed to women. "At a very tender age these priestess girls were committed for instruction to seminaries of learning, in which, it is recorded, a strict moral discipline for both sexes was maintained, and that, in some instances, offences were punished by death itself. "Thus were these crafty Mexican priests (the Jesuits of their age) enabled to mould young and plastic minds, and to gain a firm hold upon the moral nature of their pupils. The priests had (as we are told) their own especial calendar, by which they kept their records, and regulated, to their liking, their religious festivals and seasons of sacrifice, and made all their astrological calculations; for, like many imperfectly civilized peoples, the Aztecs had their astrology. This priestly calendar is said to have roused the holy indignation of the Spanish missionaries. "They condemned it as 'unhallowed, founded neither on natural reason, nor on the influence of the planets, nor on the course of the year; but plainly the work of necromancy, and the fruit of a contract with the devil.' "We are told that not even in ancient Egypt were the dreams of the astrologer more implicitly referred to than in Aztec Mexico. "On the birth of a child he (the astrologer) was instantly summoned, and the horoscope--supposed to unroll the occult volume of destiny--was hung upon by the parent in trembling suspense and implicit faith. No Millerite in his ascension robe, awaiting the general break-up of mundane affairs, ever looked forward with more confidence to the final catastrophe than did the ancient Mexican to the predicted destruction of the world at the termination of one of their four successive cycles of fifty-two years. "Prescott gives us this romantic account of the festival marking that traditional epoch: "'The cycle would end in the latter part of December; as the diminished light gave melancholy presage of that time when the sun was to be effaced from the heavens, and the darkness of chaos settle over the habitable globe, these apprehensions increased, and on the arrival of the five "unlucky days" that closed the year they abandoned themselves to despair. They broke in pieces the little images of their household gods, in whom they no longer trusted. "'The holy fires were suffered to go out in the temples, and none were lighted in their own dwellings. Their furniture and domestic utensils were destroyed, and their garments torn in pieces, and everything was thrown into disorder. On the evening of the last day, a procession of priests moved from the capital towards a lofty mountain, about two leagues distant. They carried with them as a victim for the sacrificial altar the flower of their captives, and an apparatus for kindling the new fire, the success of which was an augury for the renewal of the cycle. "'On the funeral pile of their slaughtered victim, the _new fire_ was started by means of sticks placed on the victim's wounded breast. As the light soared towards heaven on the midnight sky, a shout of joy and triumph burst forth from the multitudes, who covered the hills, the terraces of the temples, and the housetops with eyes anxiously bent upon the mountain of sacrifice. Couriers with torches lighted at the blazing beacon bore the cheering element far and near; and long before the sun rose to pursue his accustomed track, giving assurance that a new cycle had commenced its march, altar and hearthstone again brightened with flame for leagues around. "'All was now festivity. Joy had replaced despair. Houses were cleansed and refurnished. Dressed in their gayest apparel, and crowned with chaplets and garlands of flowers, the people thronged in gay procession to the temples to offer up their oblations and thanksgivings. It was the great secular national festival, which few alive had witnessed before, or could expect to see again.' "Although we find in the counsels of an Aztec father to his son the following assertion, 'For the multiplication of the species God ordained _one_ man _only_ for _one_ woman,' polygamy was nevertheless permitted among this people, chiefly among the wealthiest classes. "Marriage was recognized as a religious ceremony, and its obligations strictly enjoined. Their women, we are told, were treated with a consideration uncommon among Indian tribes. It is recorded that their tranquil days were diversified by the feminine occupations of spinning, feather-work, and embroidery, and that they also beguiled the hours by the rehearsal of traditionary tales and ballads, and partook with their lords in social festivities. "Their entertainments seem to have been grand and costly affairs. Numerous attendants, of both sexes, waited at the banquet; the halls were scented with perfumes, flowers strewed the courts, and were profusely distributed among the arriving guests. "As they took their seats at the board, cotton napkins and ewers of water were placed before them; for, as in the heroic days of Greece, the ceremony of ablution before and after eating was punctiliously observed by the Aztecs. The table was well provided with meats, especially game, among which our own Thanksgiving bird, the turkey, was conspicuous. These more solid dishes were flanked by others of vegetables, and with fruits of every variety found on the North American Continent. "The different viands were skilfully prepared, with delicate sauces and pungent seasoning, of which the Mexicans were especially fond. They were further regaled with confections and pastry; and the whole was crowned by an 'afterclap' of tobacco mixed with aromatic substances, to be enjoyed in pipes, or in the form of cigars, inserted in holders of tortoise shell or silver. The meats were kept warm by chafing-dishes. The table was ornamented with vases of silver (and sometimes of gold) of delicate workmanship. "We are told by the chroniclers that agriculture was, before the Conquest, in an advanced state. There were peculiar deities to preside over it, and the names of the months and of the religious festivals had more or less reference to it. The public taxes were often paid in agricultural produce. As among the Pueblos, Aztec women took part in only the lighter labors of the field,--as the scattering of the seed, the husking of the ripened corn. "Maize, or Indian corn, the great staple of the North American continent, grew freely along the valleys, and up the steep sides of the Cordilleras, to the high table-land. Aztecs were, we are told, well instructed in its uses, and their women as skilled in its preparation as the most expert New England or Southern housewife. "In these equinoctial regions, its gigantic stalk afforded a saccharine matter which supplied them with a sugar but little inferior to that of the cane itself (which, after the Conquest, was introduced among them). Passing by all their varieties of superbly gorgeous flowers, of luxuriously growing plants, many of them of medicinal value, and since introduced from Mexico to Europe, we come to that 'miracle of nature,' the great Mexican aloe, or _maguey_, which was, in short, meat, drink, clothing, and writing material for the Aztec, as from its leaves was made their paper, somewhat resembling Egyptian _papyrus_, but more soft and beautiful. "Specimens of this paper still exist, preserving their original freshness, and holding yet unimpaired the brilliancy of color in hieroglyphical painting. It is averred that the Aztecs were as well acquainted with the uses of their mineral as of their vegetable kingdom, deftly working their mines of silver, lead, and tin. It has, however, been contended by Wilson, in his 'New Conquest of Mexico,' that, in spite of Cortez's statement to the contrary, 'it is not to be supposed that the Spaniards found the Aztecs in the possession of silver, since its mining requires a combination of science and mechanical power unknown and impossible to their crude civilization.' He considerately allows them the capability of gathering gold from their rich soil. "Prescott, on the contrary, tells us that 'they opened veins for the procurement of silver in the solid rock, and that the traces of their labors in these galleries furnished the best indications for the early Spanish miners.' "Who shall decide when doctors disagree? Not, indeed, a Koshare, whose laudable purpose it is to eschew the wearisome 'gradgrinds' of history, and accept the infinitely more charming conclusions of the romancer. "Gold, say the chroniclers, was easily gleaned from the beds of their rivers, and cast into bars, or in the form of dust, made part of the regular tribute of the southern provinces of Montezuma's empire. They cast, also, delicately and curiously wrought vessels of gold. Though their soil was impregnated with iron, its use was unknown to this people. As a substitute for this metal, they used, for their tools, a bronze made from an alloy of tin and copper, or of itzli,--a dark transparent metal, found in abundance in their hills. With the former they could cut the hardest substances, such as emeralds and amethysts. "It has been contended that an ignorance of the use of iron must necessarily have kept the Mexican in a low state of civilization. On the other hand, it is urged that iron, if even known, was but little in use among the ancient Egyptians, whose mighty monuments were hewn with tools of bronze, while their weapons and domestic utensils were of the same material. For the ordinary purposes of domestic life, the ancient Mexicans made earthenware, and fashioned cups, bowls, and vases of lacquered wood, impervious to wet, and gorgeously colored. "Among their dyes, obtained from both mineral and vegetable substances, was the rich crimson of the cochineal, the modern rival of the far-famed Tyrian purple. Later, this coloring material was introduced into Europe, from Mexico, where the curious cochineal insect was nourished with great care on plantations of cactus. "The Aztecs were thus enabled to give a brilliant coloring to their webs of cotton, which staple, in the warmer regions of their country, they raised in abundance. With their cotton fabrics, manufactured of every degree of fineness, they had the original art of interweaving the delicate hair of rabbits and other animals, which made a cloth of great warmth as well as beauty. "On this they often laid a rich embroidery of birds, flowers, or some other fanciful device. It is supposed that the Aztec 'silk,' mentioned by Cortez, was nothing more than this fine texture of cotton, hair, and down. "But the art in which they especially excelled was their plumage or feather-work. Some few existing specimens of this ancient art (one of them a vestment said to have been worn by Montezuma himself) have, we are told, 'all the charm of Florentine mosaic.' "The gorgeous plumage of tropical birds, especially of the parrot-tribe, afforded every variety of color, and the fine and abundant down of the humming-bird supplied them with a finish of soft aerial tints. The feathers pasted on a fine cotton web were wrought into dresses for the wealthy. Hangings for apartments and ornaments for the temples were thus fashioned. Labor was held in honorable estimation among this people. An aged Aztec chief thus addressed his son: 'Apply thyself to agriculture, or to feather-work, or some other honorable calling. Thus did your ancestors before you. Else, how could they have provided for themselves and their families? Never was it heard that nobility alone was able to maintain its possessor.' "The occupation of the merchant was held by them in high respect. These were of prime consideration in the body politic, and enjoyed many of the most essential advantages of an hereditary aristocracy. Mexico, as their abundant use among the Aztecs testifies, is especially rich in precious stones. It is the land of the emerald, the amethyst, the turquoise, and the topaz; and that superbest of gems, the fire opal, is native to its generous soil. "One of Cortez's wedding gifts to his second bride is thus described: 'This was five emeralds of wonderful size and brilliancy. These jewels had been cut by the Aztecs into the shapes of flowers, and fishes, and into other fanciful forms, with an exquisite style of workmanship which enhanced their original value.' "It was gossiped at court that the Queen of Charles the Fifth had an eye to these magnificent gems, and that the preference given by Cortez to his fair bride had an unfavorable influence on the Conqueror's future fortunes. Among the 'royal fifth' of the Mexican spoils sent by Cortez to the Spanish Emperor, we are told of a still more wonderful emerald. It was cut in a pyramidal shape, and of so extraordinary a size that the base of it was affirmed to have been as broad as the palm of the hand. "This rich collection of gold and jewelry, wrought into many rare and fanciful forms, was captured on its road to Spain by a French privateer, and is said to have gone into the treasury of Francis the First. Francis, we are told, looking enviously on the treasures drawn by his rival monarch from his colonial domains, expressed a desire to 'see the clause in Adam's testament, which entitled his brothers of Spain and Portugal to divide the New World between them.' "The Aztec picture writing, rude though it was, seems to have served the nation in its early and imperfect state of civilization. "By means of it, as an auxiliary to oral tradition, their mythology, laws, calendars, and rituals were carried back to an early period of their civilization. "Their manuscripts, the material for which has already been described, were most frequently made into volumes, in which the paper was shut up like a folding screen. With a tablet of wood at each extremity, they thus, when closed, had the appearance of books. A few of these Mexican manuscripts have been saved, and are carefully preserved in the public libraries of European capitals. The most important of these painted records, for the light it throws on the Aztec institutions, is preserved in the Bodleian Library at Oxford. The greater part of these writings, having no native interpretation annexed to them, cannot now be unriddled. "A savant who, in the middle of the seventeenth century travelled extensively through their country, asserts that, 'so completely had every vestige of their ancient language been swept away from the land, not an individual could be found who could afford him the least clue to the Aztec hieroglyphics.' "Some few Aztec compositions, which may possibly owe their survival to oral tradition, still survive. These are poetical remains, in the form of odes, or relics of their more elaborate prose, and consist largely of prayers and public discourses, that show that, in common with other native orators, the Aztecs paid much attention to rhetorical effect. The Aztec hieroglyphics included both the representative and symbolical forms of picture-writing. "They had various emblems for expressing such things as, by their nature, could not be directly represented by the painter; as, for example, the years, months, days, the seasons, the elements, the heavens, and so on. "A serpent typified time, a tongue denoted speaking, a footprint travelling, a man sitting on the ground an earthquake. "The names of persons were often significant of their adventures and achievement. "Summing up this account of Aztec civilization, we find that, although of the countries from which Toltec and Aztec in turn issued tradition has lost the record, it is nevertheless affirmed, by so reliable an historian as Humboldt, that the former introduced into Mexico the cultivation of maize and cotton; that they built cities, made roads, and constructed pyramids. 'They knew,' says this authoritative historian, 'the uses of hieroglyphical paintings; they could work metals, and cut the hardest stones; and they had a solar system more perfect than that of the Greeks and Romans.' "After their mysterious disappearance from the table-lands of Mexico, the Aztecs, who succeeded them, gradually amalgamated all that was best in their civilization, and, engrafting upon it their own, became as a nation what they were in the time of the second Montezuma, when Cortez and his conquering army treacherously swept their civilization from the face of the earth. "A thoughtful traveller still finds in Mexico traces of this people, its early possessors. "The Mexicans, in their whole aspect," he observes, "give a traveller the idea of persons of decayed fortune, who have once been more prosperous and formidable than now, or who had been the offshoot of a more refined and forcible people." CHAPTER XII It was but the day after the delivery of this most interesting paper by Mr. Morehouse, that the laggards from Hilton Ranch, who had missed it, and the preceding one, returned to their places at the dinner-table; and on that very afternoon Miss Paulina, with all due formality, announced the engagement of her niece to Mr. Roger Smith. Recovered from the first shock of surprise, the Koshare celebrated the betrothal by a pink afternoon tea, and made such slight engagement offerings as were found available, remote from silversmith, florist, and bric-à-brac dealer. The ladies gave bureau scarfs, table doilies, and centre-pieces _ad infinitum_; the Antiquary bestowed a bit of Mexican pottery dating back to the "cliff-dwellers." Leon framed the photographs of the handsome pair in Mexican canes, as an engagement gift; and the most despondent "lunger" of them all had a kindly wish for their young and happy fellow-boarders, setting out on that beautiful life-journey to whose untimely end he, himself, was sadly tending. Among the more observing of the Koshare, much wonder was expressed at the slow mending of Roger Smith's sprained ankle. It was at the engagement tea that Miss Paulina innocently said, in response to these strictures, "Yes, it _did_ take a long time to cure dear Roger's sprain. Years ago," continued the good lady, "I had the same accident; and, if I remember rightly, in less than a fortnight after the sprain I was walking without any crutches. One would think now," she went on, "that in this lovely dry climate a sprain would mend rapidly; but, though I did my very best, the result was far less prompt than I had hoped." "Sprains differ," interposed the audacious subject of these remarks, unawed by the disapproving glances of his betrothed; "the surgeons tell us that fractures are both simple and compound. Mine, dear Miss Hemmenshaw, was undoubtedly compound." This he said by way of accounting to his friends for his tardy convalescence. To himself he thought, looking at this kind, unsuspicious new auntie, "Dear, delicious old goose!" This is what the niece said when, later, she got this incorrigible lover to herself: "Roger, I am quite convinced that your conscience is seared with a hot iron, whatever that process, supposed to indicate utter moral callousness, may be." "My dear girl," laughed the unabashed culprit, "I am, as you know and deplore, a good Catholic, and consequently hold with the astute Jesuit Fathers that the end justifies the means." CHAPTER XIII It was in the sunny, lengthened days of early March that the Antiquary, the Journalist, the star boarder, and the Grumbler undertook their long-projected trip to the Sacramento Mountains, there to visit the Government Reservation, nestled in the sheltered Mescalero Valley, which gives its name. Well equipped with camping conveniences, the four Koshares set forth on their journey of one hundred and twenty-five miles. It was their intention to "make haste slowly," and nothing could better have suited the leisurely pair of Mexican horses, and the equally easy-going Mexican driver, who, with his team, had been hired for the expedition. The first night of their journey was passed beneath the open sky, with the rounded moon riding clear and fair above them, and the desert of sand and sage-brush all about them. On the second, they lodged at the solitary dwelling of a ranchman, whose nearest neighbor was thirty-five miles distant. At the journey's end, they were cordially received by Lieutenant Stottler, Government Agent at the Mescalero Reservation, and throughout their visit were treated by him with a kindly hospitality and a genial courtesy beyond praise. Of the Apache, now transformed by the iron hand of civilization from a blood-thirsty savage to a passably decent and partially self-supporting member of the republic, it has been aptly said that Nature has given him "the ear of the cat, the cunning of the fox, and the ferocious courage and brutishness of the gray wolf." The whole vast realm of his native ranges, desert though they seem, are known to teem with ever-present supplies for his savage menu. There are found fat prairie mice, plump angle-worms, gray meat of rattlesnake and lizard, and of leathery bronco,--all easy-coming "grist for that 'unpernickety' mill," his hungry stomach. Is he minded for a vegetable diet, for him the mescal lavishly grows; and the bean of mesquite, reduced to meal, makes him palatable cakes. Fruit of Spanish bayonet dried in the sun, and said thus to resemble dates, is at hand for his dessert; and of mountain acorns alone he may make an excellent and nutritious meal. From the primeval years this belligerent savage is said to have especially harried that dismal waste in New Mexico known as _Jornado del Muerta_, "Journey of Death." This awful desert is declared to be literally "the battle-ground of the elements." In the winter it is made fearful by raging storms of wind and snow, in which frozen men and animals leave their bodies, as carrion prey, to the hungry mountain wolf. In later times it is "the skulking place of unscrupulous outlaws, and many a murdered traveller makes good the name it bears." It is thus finely depicted by a modern traveller: "Near the southern boundary of New Mexico stretches a shadeless, waterless plateau, nearly one hundred miles long, and from five to thirty miles wide, resembling the steppes of northern Asia. Geologists tell us this is the oldest country on the earth, except, perhaps, the backbone of Central Africa; at least, the one which has longest been exposed to the influence of agents now in action. The grass is low and mossy, with a wasted look; the shrubs are soap-weed and bony cactus; the very stones are like the scoria of a furnace. It is sought by no flight of bird; no bee or fly buzzes on the empty air; and, save the lizard and horned frog, there is no breath of living thing. One might fancy that this dreary waste had served its time, had been worn out, unpeopled, and forgotten." In the (not long past) day of his power and might, to steal and murder, under the show of friendship; to beat out the brains of unsuspecting men; to carry off to captivity, worse than death, the women and larger children, was, with the Apache, merely a question of opportunity. In the Apache war--ending in October, 1880, and lasting but a year and a half,--it is estimated that more than four hundred white persons were scalped and tortured to death with devilish ingenuity. The details of Indian fighting are everywhere much the same; but in strategy and cruelty that of the Apache surpasses all the sons of men. Victorio, the chief who led the war with his band, was surrounded at last, and captured, and killed in the mountains of Mexico. With the death of Victorio (whose only son, Washington, was shot in the fall of 1879, leaving no one to succeed him) the cause was lost. His wife, we are told, after Victorio's death, cut off her hair, in the old Greek fashion, and buried it,--an offering to the spirit of this fallen chief, to whom (devil though he was) she was devoted. It is told of Rafael, one of Victorio's band, that when maddened by _tiswin_ (an intoxicant made by the Indian from corn), he fatally stabbed his wife, and, after her death, overcome with penitence, sacrificed all his beads and most of his clothes to the "dear departed," cut his and his children's hair short, and sheared the manes and tails of his horses. These manifestations of anguish over, he went up into a high hill, and howled with uplifted hands. Women are regarded by the Apaches as an incumbrance. They are of so little account that they are not even given a name. Mothers _mourn_ at their birth. The Indians occupying a reservation of seven hundred square miles in southern New Mexico, and numbering, at the present writing, about four hundred and fifty souls, are typical Apaches, and closely related by blood to the other Apaches of Arizona and New Mexico. They exhibit the usual race characteristics,--of ignorance, stubbornness, superstition, cruelty, laziness, and treachery. In December, 1894, Lieutenant Stottler first assumed the charge of these Indians. In spite of the fact that for many years a generous government had supplied them annually with rations, clothing, working implements, etc., they were then living in _tepees_, or brush shelters, on the side hills; clad in breech-clout and blanket, wearing paint, and long hair, and thanklessly receiving their rations of beef, flour, coffee, sugar, salt, soap, and baking-powder. A few of them condescended to raise corn and oats; but acres of tillable land on the reservation were still unused. "They were," says Lieutenant Stottler, in an able and interesting report, "not only contented with this order of things, but desirous and determined to prolong it indefinitely." Fifty per cent of their children were in school, but the parents were wholly opposed to their education. Among them were twenty strong, broad-shouldered Indian adults, educated at the expense of thousands of dollars, yet still running about the reservation in breech-clout and blanket, wilder than any uneducated Indian on it. The girls were held from school, and at ten and twelve years of age were traded for ponies, into a bondage worse than any known slavery. Fourteen Indian policemen are allowed the agent. Their especial duty is to see that the herd of beef cattle for their own eating is properly cared for. The police, each had a cabin to live in; but each, in scorn of this civilized innovation, had carefully planted alongside of his cabin a _tepee_ to sleep in. To get these policemen into civilized clothing, under threat of duress, and to order all _tepees_ away from their cabins, was the agent's first move. Next, it was decided that all children five years old and upwards _must_ be placed in school at the beginning of the school year, whether the parents were willing or not. Every Indian man was ordered to select a piece of land, and put in his posts. To break up the influence of chiefs or bands, who, claiming the whole country, deterred the people from work, by threats, appears to have been up-hill work; "but now," says the agent (in 1897), "there are no chiefs, and 'work or starve' is the policy." Formerly, government supplies of clothing, wagons, harness, and utensils, as soon as issued, had been packed on burros and sold for a mere song to settlers about the reservation. This abuse was promptly stopped, as also was the making of _tiswin_. This native drink, made from Indian corn, is said to be more maddening in its effect than any other known intoxicant; Indians brutalized by _tiswin_ fought, as do our own drunkards, and often wounded or killed each other. For corn to make this detestable beverage, an Indian would trade away the last article in his possession. It was proclaimed by the agent that the maker of this poison would be imprisoned for six months, at hard labor, in the guard-house. This stopped its manufacture, and there are no longer drunken Indians at the reservation. Occasionally they still get liquor at Las Cruces, when sent there for freight. All supplies are hauled from the railroad over-land. The distance is one hundred and ten miles; about one hundred thousand pounds are annually brought in this way to the reservation, and without harm or loss. Much of the Indian's savagery lies (like Samson's strength) in his hair; to his long, matted tresses he clings tenaciously. As a beginning, Lieutenant Stottler induced one old fellow--a policeman--with the reward of a five-dollar gold piece to cut his precious locks. Thus metamorphosed, he became "the cynosure of all eyes." His squaw made life a burden to him; and thus badgered, he, in turn, pestered the agent to get the entire police force to cut theirs. It was long before the general consent to part with these cherished tresses could be won; and it became necessary to put some of the Indians in the guard-house to accomplish this reform. Finally, orders were asked from Washington, and received, compelling submission to the shearing. When the Indians saw the Washington order, they all gave in, with the exception of a last man, who had to be "thumped into it." Their hair well cut, a raid was made on breech-clout and blanket. Now they all appear in civilized clothing. This seems to have been the turning-point in their wildness. "Now," says the agent, "they come and ask for scissors and comb to cut their hair, and volunteer the information that they were 'fools to oppose it.'" About half a dozen of these Indians were found by Lieutenant Stottler with two wives; since none others were permitted, this matrimonial indulgence, polygamy, is, consequently, dying a natural death at Mescalero. It is found hard to control the ancient practice of dropping a wife and taking up another without the troublesome formality of a divorce, which has practically the same result as polygamy. In spite of the slip-shodness of the marriage-tie among the Indians, "they are," says the Lieutenant, "about as badly henpecked as it is possible to imagine. Not by the wife, however; but by that ever dreaded being, her mother." He gives in his paper a most amusing account of the relation between the son-in-law and this much-maligned treasure of our higher civilization. "Just why it is," he says, "no Indian has ever been able to explain to me, but an Indian cannot look at his mother-in-law. "If she enters his _tepee_, he leaves; if he enters and she is within, he flees at once. He cannot stay in her august presence. If his wife and he quarrel, his mother-in-law puts in an appearance, and manages his affairs during his enforced absence so long as she pleases. Perhaps she takes his wife to her own _tepee_, where he dare not follow. In this dilemma, he either comes to terms, or the situation constitutes a divorce. "Does the agent wish a child brought to school, or a head of a family to take land, and try to farm it, the mother-in-law, if hostile (and she usually is), appears on the scene. Then the head of the family hunts the woods for refuge. "The sight of several stalwart bucks hiding behind doors, barrels, and trees, because a dried-up, wizened squaw heaves in sight, is a spectacle that would be ludicrous, were it not for its far-reaching results. As an Indian may take, in succession, many wives, who still stand to his credit, the agent has, practically, many mothers-in-law to contend with. Consequently, these family magnets have been officially informed that the guard-house awaits any of them who may be found maliciously interfering with the families of their children. "Hard labor added to this sentence, it is hoped, may at length have the effect of breaking up this absurd superstition." By this account it may be seen that "one of the most far-fetched notions that ever entered into the minds of men" is found domesticated among the Mexican aborigines. It is asserted, as a chronological fact, that the Mexican Pueblos "invented the mother-in-law joke gray ages before it dawned upon our modern civilization." The lamented Cushing, in his account of the "restful, patriarchal, long-lonely world" of his research, tells us that he found the mother-in-law a too pronounced factor in the Zuni family circle; and, as we know, in our own higher civilization the mother-in-law, held in good-natured reprobation, serves to point many a harmless jest. White enthusiasts--with whom the "wrongs of the Indian" are a standing grievance--but imperfectly realize the difficulty of taming these savages, getting them well off the warpath, and making them cleanly and self-supporting. It may, therefore, be well to present the side shown us by the agent in his able paper of statistical facts. "The Apache tribe," he tells us, "has one hundred and sixteen children at school,--nineteen at Fort Lewis, Colorado, and ninety-seven at the reservation boarding-school. Each child has one-half day in class and one-half day of industrial work. The girls take their turns in the laundry, sewing-room, and kitchen, and at dormitory work. The boys do the heavy work in the kitchen and laundry, chop the wood, and till the farm under the charge of the industrial teacher. All the vegetables for their use are raised on the farm, and the surplus sold. "The aim of the school is to teach the rising generation of Apaches how to make a living with the resources of the reservation, and, in time, to become self-supporting. "To this end useful rather than fancy trades are taught. Boys are detailed with the blacksmith and carpenter, to learn the use of common tools. To do away with the inborn contempt of the aboriginal male for the women of his tribe, boys and girls at the reservation are not only trained to study, recite, and sit at meals with girls, but a weekly 'sociable' is held for the scholars. "On such nights they have games and civilized dances. Every boy is required formally to approach and request, 'Will you dance this dance with me?' and to offer his partner his arm when the reel, quadrille, etc., is finished, and escorting her to her seat, leave her with a polite 'thank you.'" In the agent's report for the years 1896-97, "this year," he says, "the Indian boys raised twenty-five thousand pounds beets, twenty thousand pounds cabbage, one thousand pounds cauliflower, five hundred pounds turnips, one thousand four hundred pounds celery, five hundred pounds radishes, one thousand four hundred pounds of onions, nineteen thousand pounds of pumpkins and squash, four hundred pounds of peas, nine hundred and sixty pounds of corn, six thousand five hundred pounds of potatoes, besides cucumbers, pie-plant, and asparagus. "The school has a pen of swine, a flock of chickens, and a fine herd of milch cows; and all the hay and fodder for them and the horses are raised on the farm. Oats and corn are purchased from the Indians, who, in 1895, raised one hundred and fifty thousand pounds. "The adult Indians," he adds, "cut this year one hundred and sixty cords of wood for the school, for which I paid them two dollars and fifty cents per cord. In the winter of 1896 the industry of blanket-making was introduced into the reservation. Navajo blanket-makers were employed to teach to the Mescalero women their incomparable method of carding, spinning, and dyeing wool, and weaving blankets. Twenty of the Mescaleros," boasts the agent, "can to-day make as good blankets as the Navajos themselves. "The reservation is mountainous, and one of the finest sheep ranges in the country. Government has allowed five thousand sheep for general distribution at the reservation, and in addition, five hundred head for the school; where a room is now set aside for the looms of the older girls, who will, in their turn, become instructors in this useful art. This puts into their hands another opportunity to become self-supporting." The visitors from Mesilla Valley were kindly admitted behind the scenes at the reservation, to make acquaintance with its people, both old and young; and were highly interested and entertained by the picturesqueness of the Indian character. The Grumbler had brought his camera along. He was a skilled amateur photographer, and had offered his services in that capacity to the little party. To bring his household under the focus of that apparatus was no easy task for the courteous agent. An Indian is nothing if not a believer in witches. In his aboriginal mode of life witch-hunting and witch-punishing are among his gravest occupations. He pursues them with a vigorous hand, and with a superstitious zeal equal to that of the most persistent white man in the palmiest days of Salem witch-hunting and witch-burning. The Mescaleros, to a soul, are believers in witchcraft. The camera, as might be seen from its effect, was plainly bewitched. They would have none of it. The school children, having no choice, must needs range themselves in scared, sullen rows, and be "took" under compulsion. Suspiciously eying the operator, they sullenly took their prescribed pose, and heedless of the immemorial request, "Now look pleasant," went sourly through the terrible ordeal. Some of the older girls, pleased with the novelty, submitted more cheerfully; but the younger pupils, looking askance at the white men, covered their faces, so far as was possible, with hair, or hands, and were thus providentially carried safely through this process of bewitchment. Some of the schoolboys had fine, intelligent faces; of others, the Grumbler subsequently observed that "they were the kind that grow up and scalp white settlers." A curious young squaw, from the opened slit of her _tepee_, watched the approach of the party with their bedevilled machine. Her position was excellent; but no sooner had the operator arranged his camera for a snap shot at this picturesque subject, than, with a scared yell, the woman bounded out of range, closing behind her the aperture--her front door. The result was merely an uninteresting view of an Indian _tepee_, which is like nothing more than a mammoth ant-hill, minus the symmetry and nice perpendicular of that more intelligently fashioned structure. Two incorrigible squaws in "durance vile" for making _tiswin_, as they sullenly served their sentence of hard labor at the reservation woodpile, looked defiantly up from their task of chopping fuel, and scowled viciously at the witch machine and its abettors. They, however, succeeded in getting a fairly good picture of these hideous-faced beings, as "withered and wild" as the uncanny sisters who brewed "hell broth" before the appalled Macbeth, beneath the midnight moon, on Hampton Heath. A mild-eyed Indian woman, whose peaceful occupation was to scrub the reservation floors, kindly submitted to the bother of being put into a picture, along with the insignia of her office,--a scrubbing-pail. Not so "Hot Stuff," a highly picturesque squaw, claiming the proud distinction due to the "oldest inhabitant." This "contrairy" female, impervious to moral suasion, was finally induced to pose before the terrible "witch-thing" by the threat of having her rations withheld until her consent to be "taken" was obtained. Scared and reluctant, she was at last photographed; but required Lieutenant Stottler to protect her with his arm through the perils of this unfamiliar ordeal. This he good-naturedly did, and is immortalized along with this aged squaw. After an interesting visit of two nights and a day at the reservation, the Koshare turned their faces towards Mesilla Valley, where, after two uneventful days, they arrived in safety, full of the novelties encountered, charmed with the courteous and gentlemanly agent, but wearied with the long ride, and heartily glad to return to white civilization. CHAPTER XIV It was at the close of the week succeeding that of the little journey across the mountains that the Koshare held their last Saturday evening session. To punctuate the finality of this gathering, a variation from the usual programme was proposed by the Antiquary. Members of the Club were requested to supplement his brief paper by giving such written or verbal statements, along the same line as their own research might enable them to make. To this proposal many of the Koshare had agreed, and had come well primed for lively discussion. The attendance was unusually full, nearly all the boarders, in addition to the regular Club members, being in attendance. The Antiquary led with the following interesting paper, which, as he explained, was, in a way, supplementary to those on the Aztecs. "As the Tezcucans were of the family of the Aztecs," began Mr. Morehouse, "and are said far to have surpassed them in intellectual culture and the arts of social refinement, some slight notice of their civilization may not prove irrelevant. "Ixtilxochitl is the uneuphonious name of the native chronicler, purporting to be a lineal descendant of the royal line of Tezcuco, who has given us his highly colored narrative of the Tezcucan civilization. It may be prefaced with the information that Ixtilxochitl (who flourished so late as the century of the Conquest) has had his reputation so torn to tatters by the critics of later years that he has, figuratively, 'not a leg to stand on.' "But as Prescott commends his 'fairness and integrity,' and says 'he has been followed, without misgiving, by such Spanish chroniclers as could have access to his manuscripts,' without attempting to settle the vexed question of the probability of its details (which are a combination of 'Munchausen' and 'Arabian Nights'), we also will follow his marvellous story of the Tezcucan Prince Nezahualcoyotl. Passing lightly over the fascinating chapter of that prince's romantic adventures,--his marvellous daring, his perilous escapes from the fierce pursuit of the usurper Maxtla, and the dethronement and violent end of that bloody-minded monarch,--we come to the time when Nezahualcoyotl, restored to the throne of his fathers, is firmly established in the love and fealty of his people, and may turn his attention to the production of the odes and addresses handed down in Castilian by his admiring descendant Ixtilxochitl. This admirable monarch was, we are informed, 'the Solon of Anahauc.' His literary productions turn, for the most part, on the vanity and mutability of human life, and strikingly embody that Epicurean poetic sentiment, expressed, at a later time, by our own English poet, Herrick, in such verses as 'Gather ye rose-buds while ye may.' "'Banish care,' sings the royal Tezcucan bard; 'if there be bounds to pleasure, the saddest life must also have an end. Then wear the chaplet of flowers, and sing thy songs in praise of the all-powerful God; for the glory of the world soon fadeth away. "'Rejoice in the green freshness of thy spring; for the day will come when thou wilt sigh for these joys in vain. Yet the remembrance of the just' (piously adds the poet) 'shall not pass away from the nations; and the good thou hast done shall ever be held in honor.' And anon,--returning to his _Epicurean_ 'muttons,'--he sings: 'Then gather the fairest flowers in the gardens to bind round thy brow, and seize the joys of the present ere they perish.' "An English translation of one of Nezahualcoyotl's odes has been made from the Castilian. It harps upon the same old string, as also do his prose essays, which have less literary merit than his verse. We are told by his panegyrist that not all the time of this incomparable monarch was passed in dalliance with the muse, but that he won renown as a warrior, and in the interests of peace also fostered the productive arts that made his realm prosperous, as agriculture, and the like practical pursuits. Between times he appears to have looked well after the well-being of his children, who, in numbers, rivalled the progeny of our modern patriarch, Brigham Young. It is recorded that by his various wives this monarch had no less than sixty sons and fifty daughters. (One condones his disgust with life!) The Tezcucan crown, however, descended to the children of his one legal wife, whom he married late in life. The story of his wooing and winning this fair lady is almost an exact counterpart of the Bible account of King David's treacherous winning of Uriah's beautiful consort. "It is related of Nezahualcoyotl, that having been married for some years to this unrighteously obtained wife, and not having been blest with issue by his beautiful queen, the priests persuaded him to propitiate the gods of his country--whom he had pointedly neglected--by human sacrifice. He reluctantly consented; but all in vain was this mistaken concession. Then it was that he indignantly repudiated these inefficient Pagan deities. "'These idols of wood and stone,' said he, 'can neither hear nor feel; much less could they make the heavens, and the earth, and man, the lord of it. These must be the work of the all-powerful unknown God, creator of the universe, on whom alone I must rely for consolation and support.' He thereupon withdrew to his rural palace, where he remained forty days, fasting and praying at stated hours, and offering up no other sacrifice than the sweet incense of copal, and aromatic herbs and gums. "In answer to his prayer, a son was given him,--the only one ever borne by his queen. After this, he made earnest effort to wean his subjects from their degrading religious superstition, building a temple, which he thus dedicated: 'To the Unknown God, the _Cause_ of _Causes_.' No image was allowed in this edifice (as unsuited to the 'invisible God'), and the people were expressly prohibited from profaning its altars with blood, or any other sacrifice than that of flowers and sweet-scented gums. In his old age the king voiced his religious speculations in hymns of pensive tenderness. "In one of these, he thus piously philosophizes: 'Rivers, torrents, and streams move onward to their destination. Not one flows back to its pleasant source. They must onward, hastening to bury themselves in the bosom of the ocean. The things of yesterday are no more to-day, and the things of to-day shall cease to-morrow. The great, the wise, the valiant, the beautiful,--alas, where are they?'" "The compositions of Nezahualcoyotl," observed the Grumbler, as the Antiquary folded away his finished paper, "though strictly founded on fact, are not exhilarating. His family was too large; and the wonder is, not that his odes and hymns are depressing, but that he should have the heart to 'drop into poetry' at all!" "We are told," rejoined the Journalist, "by his descendant with the unpronounceable name, that once in every four months his entire family, not even excepting the youngest child, was called together, and orated by the priesthood on the obligations of morality, of which, by their exalted rank, they were expected to be shining examples. To these admonitions was added the compulsory chanting of their father's hymns." "Poor beggars!" pitied the Grumbler; "how they must have squirmed under this ever-recurring royal 'wet blanket!'" "You forget," said Leon Starr, coming to the rescue of the poet-father, "that in view of their inevitable mortality the bard had already advised them to 'banish care, to rejoice in the green freshness of their spring; to bind their brows with the fairest flowers of the garden, seize the joys of the present, and'--in short, had given them leave to have no end of larks, which, of course, they naturally and obediently did." "It is a noteworthy fact," observed Mr. Morehouse, "that many aborigines--though but scantily supplied with clothing, as the natives of Samoa and the Sandwich Islanders--take great delight in adorning the body with flowers. To this liking the Tezcucan king especially appeals in his odes and hymns. The Mexicans have from time immemorial doted on flowers. This taste three hundred years or more of oppression has not extinguished." "Do you remember, dear," asked Mr. Bixbee, turning to his wife, "the flower market in the Plaza at Mexico?" (The pair had, a year or two earlier, explored that city)--"that iron pavilion partly covered in with glass, and tended by nut-brown women and smiling Indian girls?" "Shall I ever forget it?" was her enthusiastic response. "The whole neighborhood was fragrant with perfume of vases of heliotrope, pinks, and mignonette; and such poppies, and pansies, and forget-me-nots I never elsewhere beheld!" "One can believe in absolute floral perfection," said the Journalist, "in a country which embraces all climates. 'So accurately,' observes Wilson, 'has nature adjusted in Mexico the stratas of vegetation to the state of the atmosphere, that the skilful hand of a gardener might have laid out the different fields, which, with their charming vegetation, rise, one above another, upon the fertile mountain sides of the table-land.' "Along with many other important vegetable growths, the cotton-plant is supposed to be indigenous to Mexico, as Cortez, on his first landing, found the natives clothed in cotton fabrics of their own manufacture. Its culture continues to the present day, but with very little improvement in method since the earlier time of the Spanish Conquest." "And now," asked the Harvard man, "since we are on the subject of Mexican natural floral products, may I speak my little piece, which I may call, 'What I have learned about the Cactus'?" The Koshare graciously assenting, Roger Smith thus began: "In Mexico the cactus is an aboriginal and indigenous production. Several hundred varieties are identified by botanists. A beautiful sort is Cereus grandiflora. As with us, this variety blooms only at night; its frail, sweet flower dying at the coming of day. The cactus seems to grow best in the poorest soil. No matter how dry the season, it is always juicy. Protected by its thick epidermis, it retains within its circulation that store of moisture absorbed during the wet season, and when neighboring vegetation dies of drought is still unharmed. Several varieties of cactus have within their flowers an edible substance, which is, in Monterey, brought daily to market by the natives. That species of cactus which combines within itself more numerous uses than any known vegetable product is known as the maguey, or century plant. "Upon the Mexican mountains it grows wild as a weed; but as a domestic plant it is cultivated in little patches, or planted in fields of leagues in extent. Its huge leaf pounded into a pulp makes a substitute both for cloth and paper. The fibre of the leaf, when beaten and spun, forms a silk-like thread, which, woven into a fabric, resembles linen rather than silk. This thread is now, and ever has been, the sewing thread of the country. From the leaf of the maguey is crudely manufactured sailcloth and sacking; and from it is made the bagging now in common use. "The ropes made from it are of that kind called manila. It is the best material in use for wrapping-paper. When cut into coarse straws, it forms the brooms and whitewash brushes of the country, and as a substitute for bristles it is made into scrub-brushes, and, finally, it supplies the place of hair-combs among the common people. So much for the cactus leaf; but from its sap arises the prime value of the plant. "From this is made the favorite intoxicating drink of the common people of Mexico. This juice in its unfermented state is called honey water. When fermented it is known as pulque. The flowering maguey, the 'Agava American,' is the century plant of the United States. "In its native habitat the plant flowers in its fifteenth year, or thereabout; and we are assured that nowhere, as is fabled, does its bloom require a long century for its production. The juice of the maguey is gathered by cutting out the heart of the flower of the central stem, for whose sustenance this juice is destined. A single plant, thus gingerly treated, yields daily, for a period of two or three months, according to the thriftiness of the plant, from four to seven quarts of the honey water, which, before fermentation, is said to resemble in taste new sweet cider. "Large private profit accrues to the owner of maguey estates, and the government excise derived from the sale of the liquor is large. Pulque is the lager of the peon. It was the product of the country long before the time of the Montezumas; and Ballou tells us that 'so late as 1890 over eighty thousand gallons of pulque were daily consumed in the city of Mexico.' "It is said to be the peculiar effect of pulque to create, in its immoderate drinkers, an aversion to other stimulants; the person thus using it preferring it to any and all other drinks, irrespective of cost." The Minister followed Roger Smith with an account of a famous tree of Mexico. "It was at Papotla," said this much-travelled invalid, "a village some three miles from that capital, that we saw this remarkable tree, which is called 'The Tree of the Noche Triste' (the Dismal Night), because Cortez in his disastrous midnight retreat from the Aztec capital is said to have sat down and wept under it. Be that as it may, the Noche Triste is undoubtedly a tree of great age. It is of the cedar family, broken and decayed in many parts, but still enough alive to bear foliage. "In its dilapidated condition it measures ten feet in diameter, and exceeds forty feet in height. Long gray moss droops mournfully from its decaying branches, and, taken altogether, it is indeed a dismal tree. "It is much visited, and held sacred and historic by the people, who guard and cherish it with great care." "It calls up singular reflections," commented the Journalist, "to look upon a living thing that has existed a thousand years, though it be but a tree. Though so many centuries have rolled over the cypresses of Chapultepec, they are yet sound and vigorous. "These trees are the only links that unite modern and ancient American civilization; for they were in being when that mysterious race, the Toltecs, rested under their shade; and they are said to have long been standing, when a body of Aztecs, wandering away from their tribe in search of game, fixed themselves upon the marsh at Chapultepec, and, spreading their mats under these cypresses, enjoyed in their shadow their noontide slumber. Then came the Spaniards to people the valley with the mixed races, who respected their great antiquity, so that during all the battles that have been fought around them they have passed unharmed, and amid the strife and contentions of men have gone quietly on, adding many rings to their already enlarged circumference. 'Heedless,' says Wilson, 'of the gunpowder burned over their heads and the discharge of cannon that has shaken their roots, as one ephemeral Mexican government succeeded another, these cypresses still remain unharmed, and may outlive many other dynasties.'" "Apropos of the subject," said the Antiquary, "Nezahualcoyotl, according to his descendant, the native historian, embellished his numerous villas with hanging gardens replete with gorgeous flowers and odoriferous shrubs. The steps to these charming terraces--many of them hewn in the natural porphyry, and which a writer who lived in the sixteenth century avers that he himself counted--were even then crumbling into ruins. Later travellers have reported the almost literal decay of this wonderful establishment. Latrobe describes this monarch's baths (fabled to have been twelve feet long by eight wide) as 'singular basins, perhaps two feet in diameter, and not capacious enough for any monarch larger than Oberon to take a ducking in.' "The observations of other travellers confirm this account. Bullock tells us that some of the terraces of this apparently mythical palace are still entire; and that the solid remains of stone and stucco furnished an inexhaustible quarry for the churches and other buildings since erected on the site of that ancient Aztec city. "Latrobe, on the contrary, attributes these ruins to the Toltecs, and hints at the probability of their belonging to an age and a people still more remote. Wilson, on the other hand, positively accords them to the Phoenicians." "In reading up on this famous empire, Tezcuco," said Leon Starr, "one is inclined to believe that every vestige of this proud magnificence could not possibly have been obliterated in the short period of three centuries, leaving on the spot only an indifferently built village, whose population of three hundred Indians, and about one hundred whites, maintain themselves in summer by gardening, and sending in their canoes daily supplies of 'herbs and _sullers_' (whatever this last may be) to Mexico, and, in winter, by raking the mud for the 'tegnesquita,' from which they manufacture salt." "Wilson," said the Grumbler, "tells us that 'the Tezcucan descendant of an emperor "lied like a priest."' However that may be, one cannot quite swallow his own relation 'in its entirety.'" "Right you are," responded the Harvard man; "and now here is Miss Norcross, waiting, I am sure, to cram us still further with Mexican information." "It is only," said this modest little lady, "some bits that I have jotted down about Mexican gems;" and shyly producing her paper, she thus read: "In enumerating the precious stones of Mexico,--the ruby, amethyst, topaz, and garnet, the pearl, agate, turquoise, and chalcedony,--one must put before them all that wonder of Nature,--the Mexican fire opal, which, though not quite so hard as the Hungarian or the Australian opal, excels either of them in brilliance and variety of color. Of this beautiful stone Ballou has aptly said, 'It seems as if Nature by some subtle alchemy of her own had condensed, to form this fiery gem, the hoarded sunshine of a thousand years.' He tells us that, in his Mexican travels he saw an opal, weighing fourteen carats, for which five thousand dollars was refused. 'Really choice specimens,' he goes on to say, 'are rare. The natives, notwithstanding the abundance of opals found in Mexico, hold tenaciously to the price first set upon them. Their value ranges from ten dollars to ten hundred.' "In modern times, as we all know, a superstition of the unluckiness of the stone long prevailed. Now, the opal has come to be considered as desirable as it is beautiful, and, endorsed by fashion, takes its rightful place among precious gems. A London newspaper states that a giant Australian opal, oval in shape, measuring two inches in length, an inch and a half deep, and weighing two hundred and fifty carats, is destined to be given to King Edward the Seventh; and that Mr. Lyons, the giver, a lawyer of Queensland, desires that it should be set in the King's regalia of the Australian federation. The London lapidaries believe it to be the finest and largest opal in the world. "Its only rival in size and beauty is the Hungarian opal, possessed by Emperor Francis Joseph of Austria. This gem is known as the 'Imperial opal,' and is said, in its rainbow beauty, to display the blended colors of the ruby, the emerald, and the amethyst. "What is termed the 'fire' of the gem appears to burn in its remotest depths, with a glow and fervor which at times seem to convert the stone from the opaque to the semi-transparent." "We have in our own family," said Miss Paulina Hemmenshaw, supplementing this account, "a rare Mexican opal. Long, long ago, it was given as an engagement ring to my mother's youngest sister, by her lover, who, while travelling in Mexico, had secured this exquisite stone for a betrothal pledge. On the very eve of her wedding-day my beautiful Aunt Margaret died of an unsuspected heart-disease. The old superstition of the unluckiness of the opal being then dominant, my aunt's superb ring was laid by as a thing malignant as beautiful. "As a child I was sometimes allowed to take this sad memento of my dead aunt from its nest of cotton wool and admire its harmful splendor. At my mother's death it descended, along with all her own jewels, to me, her only daughter. Now that we have outlived the foolish superstition in respect to this precious stone, I have made up my mind," said the good aunt, beaming kindly on her niece, "to take this ring from the Safety Vault, on our return to Boston, and make it one of my wedding gifts to this dear child." "Many thanks, dear ladies," said Mrs. Bixbee, as Miss Paulina ended, "for your talks about the opal. It is my favorite among precious stones. I even prefer it to the diamond, as something warmer and more alive. I am glad that its character is looking up in these days." "All the same," said Mrs. Fairlee, complacently turning on her slim white finger a superb Hungarian sapphire, "nothing would tempt me to wear a stone even suspected of uncanniness. Trials and crosses, of course, will befall one, but it seems to me foolhardy to wear jewels supposed to attract misfortune, and, for my part, I am still suspicious of opals; and were I King Edward, I shouldn't thank my loyal Australians for the gift of an ill-omened jewel, however costly and beautiful." "Well," commented the Journalist, "every one for his fancy; mine, I confess, is to 'mouse round' among musty book-shelves. Looking over my portable store of odds and ends for something relevant to this evening's discussion, I came upon this extract from the 'Voyages of one "Thomas Page,"'--a black letter copy of whose long-forgotten book, printed in London, in 1677, is still extant. As a curious picture of the times, it is not without an especial value; and, with your approval, I will now read it: "This account must be prefaced with the explanation that Thomas Page was an English Dominican, who, as a missionary-monk, with his brother Dominicans travelled to his destination in Manila, by the road across Mexico, landing, by the way, at Vera Cruz, and there depositing some illustrious fellow-voyagers. "'When we came to land,' says this quaintly circumstantial writer, 'all the inhabitants of the city had congregated in the Plaza to receive us. The communities of monks were also there, each one preceded by a large crucifix,--the Dominicans, the San Franciscans, the Mercedarios,--in order to conduct the Virey (the Viceroy) of Mexico as far as the Cathedral. "'The Jesuits and friars from the ships leaped upon the shore from the ships. Many of them (the monks) on stepping on shore, kissed it, considering that it was a holy cause that brought them there,--the conversion of the Indians, who had before adored and sacrificed to demons; others kneeled down and gave thanks to the Virgin Mary and other saints of their devotion, and then all the monks hastened to incorporate themselves with their respective orders in the place in which they severally stood. The procession, as soon as formed, directed itself to the Cathedral, where the consecrated wafer (called in the English original the bread God) was exposed upon the high altar, and to which all kneeled as they entered.... The services ended, the Virey was conducted to his lodgings by the first Alcalde, the magistrate of the town, and judges, who had descended from the capitol to meet him, besides the soldiers of the garrison and the ships. Those of the religious orders that had just arrived were conducted to their respective convents, crosses, as before, being carried at the head of each community. "'Friar John presented us [his missionaries] to the Prior of the Convent of San Domingo, who received us kindly, and directed sweetmeats to be given us; and also there was given to each of us a cup of that Indian beverage which the Indians call chocolate. "This," the good friar tells us, "was but a prelude to a sumptuous dinner, composed of flesh and fish of every description, in which there was no lack of turkeys and capons. This feast," he naïvely apologizes, "was not set out for the purpose of worldly ostentation, but to manifest to us the abundance of the country." "'The Prior of Vera Cruz,' he informs us, 'was neither old nor severe, as the men selected to govern communities of youthful religious orders are accustomed to be. On the contrary, he was in the flower of his age, and had all the manner of a joyful and diverting youth. His fathership, as they told us, had acquired the Priory by means of a gift of a thousand ducats, which he had sent to the Father Provincial. After dinner he invited some of us to visit his cell, and then it was we came to know the levity of his life.... "'The cell of the Prior was richly tapestried, and adorned with feathers of birds of Michoacan; the walls were hung with various pictures of merit; rich rugs of silk covered the tables; porcelain of China filled the cupboards and sideboards; and there were vases and bowls containing preserved fruits and most delicate sweetmeats. "'Our enthusiastic companions did not fail to be scandalized at such an exhibition, which they looked upon as a manifestation of worldly vanity, so foreign to the poverty of a begging friar.... "'The holy Prior talked to us only of his ancestry, of his good parts, of the influence with the Father Provincial; of the love which the principal ladies and the wives of the richest merchants manifested to him, of his beautiful voice, of his consummate skill in music. In fact, that we might not doubt him in this particular, he took the guitar and sung a sonnet which he had composed to a certain _Amaryllis_. This was a new scandal to our newly arrived _religious_, which afflicted some of them to see such libertinage in a prelate, who ought, on the contrary, to have set an example of penance and self-mortification, and should shine like a mirror in his conduct and words.... In the Prior's cell of the Convent of Vera Cruz' (concluded this character sketch) 'we listened to a melodious voice, accompanied with a harmonious instrument, we saw treasures and riches, we ate exquisite confectioneries, we breathed amber and musk, with which he had perfumed his syrups and conserves. O, that delicious Prior!' exclaims our English monk, the humor of the situation overcoming his horror of the scandalous behavior of the ecclesiastic." "And now," said the Minister, producing some leaves of sermon-like script, "may I call your attention, my friends, to the striking analogies found in the religious usages and belief of the Aztec,--correspondent with those of the Christian,--some of which I have considered in this little paper? "One of the most extraordinary coincidences with Christian rites may, I think, be traced in their ceremony of naming their children,--the Aztec baptism. An account of this rite, preserved by Sahagan, is thus put into English: "'When everything,' says the chronicler, 'necessary for the baptism had been made ready, all the relations of the child were assembled, and the midwife, who was the person that performed the rite of baptism. After a solemn invocation, the head and lips of the infant were touched with water, and a name was given it; while the goddess Cioacoatl, who presided over childbirth, was implored that "the sin which was given to this child before the beginning of the world might not visit the child, but that, cleansed by these waters, it might live and be born anew." This,' continues the narrator, 'is the exact formula used: "O my child! take and receive the water of the Lord of the world, which is our life, and is given for the increasing and renewing of our body. It is to wash and purify. I pray that these heavenly drops may enter into your body and dwell there, that they may destroy and remove from you all the sin which was given to you at the beginning of the world. "'She then washed the body of the child with water. This done, "He now liveth," said she, "and is born anew; now is he purified and cleansed afresh, and our Mother Chalchioitlyene (the goddess of water) again bringeth him into the world." Then taking the child in both hands, she lifted him towards heaven, and said, "O Lord, thou seest here thy creature, whom thou hast sent into the world, this place of sorrow, and suffering, and penitence. Grant him, O Lord, thy gifts and inspiration; for thou art the Great God, and with thee is the great goddess." Torches of pine illuminated this performance, and the name was given by the same midwife, or priestess, who baptized him.' "The difficulty of obtaining anything like a faithful report of these rites from the natives," said the Minister, "was complained of by the Spanish chroniclers, and no doubt led them to color the narrative of these (to them) heathen rites and observances with interpolations from their own religious belief. 'The Devil,' said one of these bewildered missionary monks, 'chose to imitate the rites of Christianity, and the traditions of the chosen people, that he might allure his wretched victims to their own destruction.' Leaving these monkish annalists to their own childish conclusions, and absurd interpretations of the Aztec religious analogies, we pass on to the tradition of the Deluge, so widely spread among the nations of the Old World, the Hebrew account of which was thus travestied by these semi-barbarians. Two persons, they held, survived this historical flood,--a man named Coxcox, and his wife. Their heads are represented in ancient paintings, together with a boat floating on the waters. "Another tradition (which is credited by Humboldt) affirms that the boat in which Typi (their Noah) weathered the flood was filled with various kinds of animals and birds, and that, after some time, a vulture was sent out by Typi, to reconnoitre,--as was done in the Hebrew flood,--but remained feeding on the dead bodies of the giants which had been left on the earth as the waters subsided. The little humming-bird, Huitozitsilin, was then sent forth, and returned with a twig in his mouth. The coincidence of this account with the Bible narrative is worthy of remark. "On the way between Vera Cruz and the capital stands the tall and venerable pyramidal mound called the temple of Chulola. It rises to the height of nearly one hundred and eighty feet, and is cased with unburnt brick. The native tradition is that it was erected by a family of giants who had escaped the great inundation, and designed to raise the building to the clouds; but the gods, offended by their presumption, sent on the pyramid fires from heaven, and compelled the giants to abandon their attempt. "This story was still lingering among the natives of the place at the time of Humboldt's visit to it. The partial coincidence of this legend with the Hebrew account of the tower of Babel cannot be denied. This tradition has also its partial counterpart in the Hebrew Bible. Cioacoatl, 'our lady and mother, the first goddess who bringeth forth,' who is by the Aztecs believed to have bequeathed the sufferings of childbirth to women as the tribute of death, by whom sin came into the world, was usually represented with a serpent near her, and her name signified the 'Serpent-woman.' "This fable, as will be seen, reminds us of the 'Eve' in the Hebrew account of the Fall of Man. The later priestly narrators, minded to improve upon this honest Aztec tradition, gave the Mexican Eve two sons, and named them Cain and Abel. "In this Aztec rite, coming down to us through tradition, the Roman Catholics recognized a resemblance to their especial ceremony of Christian Communion. An image of the tutelary deity of the Aztecs was made of the flour of maize, mixed with blood; and after consecrating by the priests, was distributed among the people, who, as they ate it, showed signs of humiliation and sorrow, declaring it was the flesh of the deity. "We are told by a Mexican traveller, Torquemeda, a Spanish monk, that, later on, when the Church had waxed mighty in the land, the simple Indian converts, with unconscious irony, called the Catholic wafer 'the bread-God.'" Here the discussion was, for a moment, interrupted by the withdrawal of Miss Mattie Norcross and her invalid sister, who, wearied with long sitting, had dropped her tired head upon her sister's shoulder and gone quietly to sleep. As the Grumbler rose to open the door for the two, all present might see the courteous air of protection and kindly sympathy which accompanied this simple bit of courtesy. Evidently, the Grumbler had met his fate at Alamo Ranch. "And now," said the star boarder, coming finally into the talk, "since Mr. Morehouse has kindly condensed for us the history of the aboriginal Mexican from the far-off day of the nomadic Toltec to the splendid reign of the last Montezuma,--treacherously driven to the wall by the crafty Cortez, when the Spaniard nominally converted the heathen, overthrew his time-honored temples, rearing above their ruins Christian churches, and, intent to 'kill two birds with the same stone' filled his own pockets, and swelled the coffers of far-off Spain with Aztec riches,--I have thought it not irrelevant to take a look at the humble native Mexican as he is found by the traveller of to-day. "First, let me say that it has been asserted of Mexico that 'though geographically near, and having had commercial relations with the world for over three hundred years, there is probably less known of this country to-day than of almost any other claiming to be civilized.' 'To the Mexicans themselves,' declares an observing traveller, 'Mexico is not fully known; and there are hundreds of square miles in South Mexico that have never been explored; and whole tribes of Indians that have never been brought in contact with the white man.' "Mexico may well be called the country of revolutions, having passed through thirty-six within the limit of forty years. In that comparatively short period of time no less than seventy-three rulers, 'drest in a little brief authority,' have played their parts upon the Mexican stage until the curtain dropped (too often in blood) upon their acts, and they were seen no more. "Humboldt, in the seventeenth century, pronounced the fairy-like environs of the city of Mexico 'the most beautiful panorama the eye ever rested upon.' On the table-land of this country the traveller is, at some points, eight thousand feet above the level of the sea. At such heights the air is so rarefied that the least physical effort well-nigh deprives the traveller of breath. 'Through this rarefied atmosphere all the climates and productions of the world,' it has been affirmed, 'are embraced within the scope of a single bird's-eye view.' In portions of the country the _vomito_ renders the climate especially unkindly to the alien. "We are told that three quarters of the present Mexican population can neither read nor write, possess little or no property, and can form no intelligent ideas of political liberty, or of constitutional government. "The degraded condition of the laboring classes is imputed in a measure to the constitutional inertia of a race who have no climatic conditions to contend with in their life-struggle; whose simple wants are easily satisfied, and who (it may be inferred) never know that 'divine discontent' which is the fulcrum on which the higher civilization turns. The manner of living, among this class, is thus described by Wells: "'Their dwellings in the cities are generally wanting in all the requirements of health and comfort, and consist mostly of rooms on the ground-floor, without proper light or ventilation, often with but the single opening for entrance. In such houses there is rarely anything answering to the civilized idea of a bed, the occupants sleeping on a mat, skin, or blanket, on the dirt floor. There are no chairs or tables. There is no fireplace or chimney, and few or no changes of raiment; no washing apparatus or soap, and in fact no furniture whatever, except a flat stone with a stone roller to grind their corn, and a variety of earthen vessels to hold their food and drink, and for cooking, which is generally done over a small fire within a circle of stones outside, and in front of the main entrance to the dwelling. "'Their principal food is _tortillas_,--a sort of mush made of soaked and hand-ground Indian corn, rolled thin, and then slightly baked over a slow fire. Another staple of diet is boiled beans (_frijoles_). Meat is seldom used by laborers; but when it is attainable, every part of the animal is eaten. Should one be so fortunate as to have anything else to eat, the _tortilla_ serves as plates, after which service the plates are eaten. When their simple needs are thus satisfied,' says this observing traveller, 'the surplus earnings find their way into the pockets of the pulque or lottery-ticket sellers, or into the greedy hands of the almost omnipresent priest.' "These lotteries are, we are told, operated by the Church, and form one of its never-failing sources of income, proving even more profitable than the sale of indulgences. "The idolatrous instinct, inherited from far-off Aztec ancestors, decidedly inclines the native Mexican to a worship that has its pictures and images, and its bowings before the Virgin and countless hosts of saints, and the priest finds him an easy prey. "'While we were in the country,' says Ballou, 'a bull-fight was given in one of the large cities on a Sunday, as a benefit towards paying for a new altar-rail to be placed in one of the Romish churches.' "Religious fanaticism takes root in all classes in Mexico, even among the very highest in the land. It is recorded of the Emperor Maximilian--a man of elegant manners, and of much culture and refinement--that he walked barefoot on a day of pilgrimage to the shrine of the Virgin of Guadaloupe,--distant some two or three miles from the city of Mexico, over a dusty, disagreeable road. "It is but fair to add, in conclusion," said Leon Starr, "that it is asserted of the cultivated classes of Mexico that they are not at all in sympathy with the extortions and other irregularities of their priesthood." With these interesting statistics ended the last effort of the New Koshare to combine improvement and entertainment. Hard upon this more solid delight-making followed the last afternoon tea, the lighter Thursday evening entertainment, and the final shooting-match. All these gatherings took on a tinge of sadness from the certainty that the little winter family, brought together by Fate at Alamo Ranch, were so soon to separate. CHAPTER XV Spring had now well come. In the shade it was already more than summer heat. Fortunately there is, in New Mexico, no such thing as sun-stroke; and one moves about with impunity, though the mercury stands at fervid heights. It was on All Fools' day that the star boarder, accompanied by a little party of the Koshare,--made up to escort him as far on his homeward way as El Paso,--turned his back upon the loveliness of Mesilla Valley. Through all this "winter of their discontent" Leon had lent himself heartily to the work of delight-making; and the saddest of them all had been cheered by his genial atmosphere. What wonder if to these it was but a dolorous leave-taking; and that amid the general hand-shaking some eyes were wet, and some partings said with big lumps that would rise in swelling throats! A good face was, however, put upon it all; and even Fang, Dennis, and the chore-boy, sent a blessing and a cheery good-bye in the wake of the favorite boarder. As for the small Mexican herd-boy,--who, with his best clean face, had come up to the ranch to look his last upon the adored white man under whose tuition he had become "a mighty hunter before the Lord,"--he simply "lifted up his voice and wept." Following hard upon this departure came the general break-up of the Koshare circle. The Hemmenshaws, with the bridegroom elect, Roger Smith, were the next to depart. Miss Paulina, as may be inferred, turned her face Bostonward with her heart in her mouth, in view of that account of her chaperonage to be rendered to the father whose daughter she had, as it were, handed over to the grandson of a tanner. And here the historian, asking leave to interrupt for a moment the routine of the narrative, informs the gentle reader that that august personage, Col. Algernon Hemmenshaw, was ultimately placated; and that if a tanner's descendant bearing the non-illustrious name of Smith was not altogether a desirable graft for the Hemmenshaw ancestral tree, a fortune of more than a round million tipped the balance in his favor, and the permitted engagement came out in early May-time. Beacon Hill, at its announcement, threw up its hands in amazement and distaste. "To think," it exclaimed, "that Louise Hemmenshaw, who might have had her pick among our very oldest families, should take up with the grandson of a tanner!" * * * * * Out on the mesa it is early nightfall. The little day-time flutter and stir of moving things has, with the setting sun, given place to silence and rest. A rounded moon looks serenely down upon the grey sage-brush, the mesquite-bushes, on the lonely stretch of sandy desert. The last gleam of day has faded from the Organ Mountains, leaving them to dominate, in sombre grandeur, the distant landscape. In the warm, haunted silence of this perfect night two lovers saunter slowly along the mesa. These happy beings are not unknown to us. The lady is from Marblehead; the other has before-time been dubbed the Grumbler. The name no longer fits the man. His defective lung has righted itself in this fine New Mexican atmosphere. No more is he at odds with fate; he has become sincerely in love with life, with the climate, and, most of all, with the sweet little teacher from Marblehead. They are to be married early in June. The climate admirably suits the invalid sister, and it is hoped that in this fine dry air her well lung may remain intact, and so serve her for years to come. The Grumbler, having money enough to order his residence to his liking, has determined to settle permanently in New Mexico. To that end he has, for the time, rented the Hilton place. Later, he intends to lay out "as a gift for his fair" the ranch of her dreams. Here, in the beautiful Mesilla Valley, we may predict that the married pair, like the enchanting couples of fairyland, will "live happy ever after." And now it but remains for the chronicler of the New Koshare to take leave of "the land of sunshine." A backward glance at the half-deserted Alamo shows us a dreary handful of incurables still tilting their piazza-chairs against its adobe front, warming their depleted blood in the grateful sunshine, and each, as best he may, accepting the inevitable. Long, long ago it was that the Pueblos made that traditional journey "from Shipapu to the centre of their world" with the heaven-provided Koshare, in particolored attire, and fantastic head-dress of withered corn-husks, jesting and dancing before them to lift and lighten the weary road. Yet since then, through all the centuries, the "Delight-Maker," in one shape or another, has been in requisition in every land beneath the sun. 
39814	----	produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive and the Gooogle Print project.) THE CHURCH ON THE CHANGING FRONTIER [Illustration] [Illustration: BIG HOLE RIVER, MONTANA] COMMITTEE ON SOCIAL AND RELIGIOUS SURVEYS TOWN AND COUNTRY DEPARTMENT EDMUND DES. BRUNNER, Director THE CHURCH ON THE CHANGING FRONTIER A STUDY OF THE HOMESTEADER AND HIS CHURCH BY HELEN O. BELKNAP WITH ILLUSTRATIONS MAPS AND CHARTS NEW YORK GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA PREFACE The Committee on Social and Religious Surveys was organized in January, 1921. Its aim is to combine the scientific method with the religious motive. The Committee conducts and publishes studies and surveys, and promotes conferences for their consideration. It coöperates with other social and religious agencies, but is itself an independent organization. The Committee is composed of: John. R. Mott, Chairman; Ernest D. Burton, Secretary; Raymond B. Fosdick, Treasurer; James L. Barton and W. H. P. Faunce. Galen M. Fisher is Associate Executive Secretary. The offices are at 111 Fifth Avenue, New York City. In the field of town and country the Committee sought first of all to conserve some of the results of the surveys made by the Interchurch World Movement. In order to verify some of these surveys, it carried on field studies, described later, along regional lines worked out by Dr. Warren H. Wilson[1] and adopted by the Interchurch World Movement. These regions are: I. Colonial States: All of New England, New York, Pennsylvania and New Jersey. II. The South: All the States south of Mason and Dixon's line and the Ohio River east of the Mississippi, including Louisiana. III. The Southern Highlands Section: This section comprises about 250 counties in "The back yards of eight Southern States." IV. The Middle West: The States of Ohio, Indiana, Michigan, Illinois, Wisconsin, Iowa and northern Missouri. V. Northwest: Minnesota, North Dakota, South Dakota and eastern Montana. VI. Prairie: Oklahoma, Kansas and Nebraska. VII. Southwest: Southern Missouri, Arkansas and Texas. VIII. Range or Mountain: Arizona, New Mexico, Utah, Colorado, Idaho, Wyoming, Nevada and western Montana. The Director of the Town and Country Survey Department for the Interchurch World Movement was Edmund deS. Brunner. He is likewise the Director of this Department for the Committee on Social and Religious Surveys. The original surveys were conducted under the supervision of the following: Beaverhead County--Rev. Charles T. Greenway, State Survey Supervisor of the Interchurch World Movement for Montana. The County Leader was Rev. Thomas W. Bennett. Hughes County--Mr. C. O. Bemies, State Survey Supervisor of the Interchurch World Movement for South Dakota. The County Survey Leader was Rev. H. H. Gunderson. Sheridan County--Mr. A. G. Alderman, State Survey Supervisor of the Interchurch World Movement for Wyoming and Utah. The County Survey Leader was Rev. M. DeWitt Long, D.D. Union County--Rev. H. R. Mills, State Survey Supervisor of the Interchurch World Movement for New Mexico. The County Survey Leader was Professor A. L. England. In the spring of 1921 the field worker, Miss Helen Belknap, of the Committee on Social and Religious Surveys, visited these counties, verified the results of the survey work previously done, and secured additional information not included in the original study. Special acknowledgment should be made to the ministers, county officers and others in these counties for their helpful coöperation and assistance in the successful completion of the survey. The statistical and graphical editor of this volume was Mr. A. H. Richardson of the Chief Statistician's Division of the American Telephone and Telegraph Company, formerly connected with the Russell Sage Foundation. The technical advisor was Mr. H. N. Morse of the Presbyterian Board of Home Missions, who was also associate director of the Town and Country Survey in the Interchurch World Movement. Valuable help was given by the Home Missions Council; by the Council of Women for Home Missions through their sub-Committee on Town and Country, and by a Committee appointed jointly by the Home Missions Council and the Federal Council of Churches for the purpose of coöperating with the Committee on Social and Religious Surveys in endeavoring to translate the results of the survey into action. The members of this Joint Committee on Utilizing Surveys are: _Representing the Federal Council of Churches_ Anna Clark C. N. Lathrop Roy B. Guild U. L. Mackey A. E. Holt A. E. Roberts F. Ernest Johnson Fred B. Smith Charles E. Schaeffer _Representing the Home Missions Council and the Council of Women for Home Missions_ L. C. Barnes, Chairman Rodney W. Roundy, Secretary Alfred W. Anthony Rolvix Harlan Mrs. Fred S. Bennett R. A. Hutchison C. A. Brooks Florence E. Quinlan C. E. Burton W. P. Shriver A. E. Cory Paul L. Vogt David D. Forsyth Warren H. Wilson INTRODUCTION THE POINT OF VIEW This book is a study of the work of Protestant city, town and country churches in four counties on the Range. It discusses the effect on the Church of the changing conditions in the Rocky Mountain States, and the task of the Church in ministering to the situation which exists to-day. This survey, therefore, does not attempt to deal directly with the spiritual effect of any church upon the life of individuals or groups. Such results are not measurable by the foot rule of statistics or by survey methods. It is possible, however, to weigh the concrete accomplishments of churches. These actual achievements are their fruits and "by their fruits ye shall know them." The four counties studied in this book are Beaverhead in Montana, Sheridan in Wyoming, Union in New Mexico and Hughes in South Dakota. Many considerations entered into their choice. For one thing, it must be borne in mind that this book, while complete in itself, is also part of a larger whole. From among the one thousand county surveys completed or nearly completed by the Interchurch World Movement, twenty-six of those made in the nine most representative rural regions of America were selected for intensive study. In this way it was hoped to obtain a bird's-eye view of the religious situation as it exists in the more rural areas of the United States. All the counties selected were chosen with the idea that they were fair specimens of what was to be found throughout the area of which they are a part. In selecting the counties an effort was made to discover those which were typical, not merely from a statistical viewpoint, but also from the social and religious problems they represented. For example, the four counties described in this pamphlet were chosen because they are representative of large sections throughout the Range area. It is recognized that there are reasons why exception may be taken to the choice of counties. No area is completely typical of every situation. A careful study of these counties, however, leads to the conclusion that they are fair specimens of the region they are intended to represent. All these studies have been made from the point of view of the Church, recognizing, however, that social and economic conditions affect its life. For instance, it is evident that various racial groups influence church life differently. Germans and Swedes usually favor liturgical denominations; the Scotch incline to the non-liturgical. Again, if there is economic pressure and heavy debt, the Church faces spiritual handicaps, and needs a peculiar type of ministry. Because of the importance of social and economic factors in the life of the Church the opening chapters of this book are occupied with a description of these factors. At first glance some of these facts may appear irrelevant, but upon closer observation they will be found to have a bearing upon the main theme--the problem of the Church. Naturally the greatest amount of time and study has been devoted to the churches themselves; their history, equipment and finances; their members, services and church organizations; their Sunday schools, young people's societies and community programs, have all been carefully investigated and evaluated. Intensive investigation has been limited to the distinctly rural areas and to those centers of population which have less than five thousand inhabitants. In the case of towns larger than this an effort has been made to measure the service of such towns to the surrounding countryside, but not to study each church and community in detail. The material in this book presents a composite picture of the religious conditions within these four counties. Certain major problems, which were found with more or less frequency in all four counties, are discussed, and all available information from any of the counties has been utilized. The opening pages of the book, however, summarize the conditions within each county. While this method has obvious drawbacks it is felt that the advantages outweigh them, and that this treatment is the best suited to bring out the peculiar conditions existing throughout this area. The appendices present the methodology of the survey and the definitions employed. They also include in tabular form the major facts of each county as revealed by the investigation. These appendices are intended especially to meet the needs of church executives and students of sociology who desire to carry investigation further than is possible in the type of presentation used for the main portion of the book. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I THE RANGE COUNTRY 19 II ECONOMIC AND SOCIAL TENDENCIES 40 III WHAT OF THE CHURCH? 56 IV THE CHURCH DOLLAR 71 V TO MEASURE CHURCH EFFECTIVENESS 77 VI THE PREACHERS' GOINGS AND COMINGS 90 VII NEGRO AND INDIAN WORK 96 VIII NON-PROTESTANT WORK 98 IX SEEING IT WHOLE 102 APPENDICES I METHODOLOGY AND DEFINITIONS 121 II TABLES 125 ILLUSTRATIONS, MAPS AND CHARTS ILLUSTRATIONS BIG HOLE RIVER, MONTANA _Frontispiece_ PAGE. THE TOWN LOCK-UP 23 LONELINESS IN UNION COUNTY 25 AFTER SOME YEARS 25 TWO COMMUNITY CENTERS 27 A SPANISH-AMERICAN TYPE AND A TYPICAL ADOBE HOUSE IN NEW MEXICO 31 WHERE MAIN STREET MIGHT HAVE RUN 33 A WYOMING RANCH 35 A MONTANA MINING CAMP 36 WHEN OIL IS FOUND 37 A FARM BUREAU DEMONSTRATION 41 A HOME DEMONSTRATION AGENT 42 A TRUCK FARM IN HUGHES COUNTY 44 FRUITS OF THE EARTH 45 UP-TO-DATE REAPING ON THE PLAINS 47 WISDOM IS JUSTIFIED 49 CAMPING IN SHERIDAN COUNTY 51 A FRONTIER CELEBRATION 53 A VOICE IN THE WILDERNESS 57 NO ROOM FOR BOTH 58 EPISCOPAL CHURCH AND PARISH HOUSE 64 A NEGLECTED OUTPOST OF CHRISTIANITY 75 NOT A STORE BUT A CHURCH 78 A CASE OF COÖPERATION 80 HAPPY LITTLE PICNICKERS 85 A GOOD TIME WAS HAD BY ALL 85 PROGRAM OF A COMMUNITY RALLY 88 A PARSONAGE BUT NO CHURCH 94 AN OASIS IN THE DESERT 98 WATERING HER GARDEN 103 A COMMUNITY RENDEZVOUS 104 "MARY, CALL THE CATTLE HOME!" 106 WAITING AT THE CHURCH 107 HITTING THE TRAIL 108 THE FAMILY MANSION 110 A REAL COMMUNITY HOUSE 114 A CHURCH THAT SERVES THE COMMUNITY 115 MAPS MONTANA AND WYOMING 20 SOUTH DAKOTA AND NEW MEXICO 22 CHURCH AND COMMUNITY MAP OF HUGHES COUNTY, SOUTH DAKOTA 54-55 COMMUNITY MAP OF SHERIDAN COUNTY, WYOMING 59 MAP SHOWING CHURCHES AND PARISH BOUNDARIES OF SHERIDAN COUNTY 59 CHURCH AND COMMUNITY MAP OF BEAVERHEAD COUNTY 60 MAP SHOWING CHURCHES AND PARISH BOUNDARIES OF UNION COUNTY, NEW MEXICO 61 COMMUNITY MAP OF UNION COUNTY, NEW MEXICO 62 ROMAN CATHOLIC CHURCHES AND PARISHES, UNION COUNTY, NEW MEXICO 99 CHARTS I ANALYSIS OF PROTESTANT CHURCH MEMBERS 66 II CHURCHES GAINING IN MEMBERSHIP 67 III ACTIVE CHURCH MEMBERSHIP 69 IV CHURCHES WITH LESS THAN 50 MEMBERS 69 V RELATION OF SIZE OF CHURCH MEMBERSHIP TO GAIN 70 VI THE CHURCH DOLLAR 72 VII FREQUENCY OF CHURCH SERVICES 79 VIII NUMBER OF PASTORS DURING PAST TEN YEARS 91 IX RESIDENCE OF THE MINISTERS 93 THE CHURCH ON THE CHANGING FRONTIER CHAPTER I The Range Country A vast expanse of endlessly stretching plains, dun-colored table-lands, mysterious buttes against a far horizon, and "always the tremendous, almost incredible distances"--this is the typical Range country. There are a sweep to it and a breadth, and such heavens over the earth! In the East, unless some crimson sunset attracts indifferent eyes, the sky makes less of the picture than the earth. But this is sky country. Roughly, the Range area comprises the states between the Middle West and the Far West, and includes a wide variety of landscape. Contained in this picturesque area are eight states with parts of others, a million square miles over which are spread four million people about a third less than are crowded into New York City. The four counties here studied, each in a different state, provide fair samples of a great deal of the country. Beaverhead County, in Montana, and Sheridan County, in Wyoming, are not far distant one from the other. Both are partly mountainous, rugged in contour, with wide valleys rimmed by mountains, and miles of undulating range land and low-lying hills traced by rivers. This is the country where "the smoke goes straight up and the latch-string still hangs on the outside of the old-timer's cabin," where still the "sage-hen clucks to her young at the water-hole in the coulee ... with lazy grace, the eagle swings to his nest in the lofty pinnacle and the prairie dog stands at his door and chatters." Beaverhead is in the extreme southwestern corner of Montana, slightly northwest of Yellowstone Park and straight south from Butte. It is bounded by Rocky Mountain ranges on the west, south and northwest. On the south and west it faces the State of Idaho. The county is well drained and watered by the two principal rivers, the Big Hole and Beaverhead, and by their tributaries, and here, too, the Missouri River has its source. Beaverhead County embraces 5,657 square miles or 3,620,480 acres. Of this area, 1,365,000 acres are included in the Beaverhead National Forest Reserve scattered over the north, west and southern parts of the county. A small part of the Madison National Forest also extends into the county on the west. The altitude at Monida, in the southern part of the county, is about 6,500 feet above sea level. [Illustration: MONTANA AND WYOMING Locating Beaverhead and Sheridan Counties.] The Wyoming county, Sheridan, lies in the extreme north central section of the state, about 110 miles east of Yellowstone Park, Montana forming its northern boundary. Sheridan is about 100 miles long and thirty miles wide, the total area being 2,574 square miles, or 1,647,360 acres, less than half the area of the Montana county, Beaverhead. The Big Horn Forest Reserve covers 383,493 acres of Sheridan County. Rivers and creeks are numerous, the chief ones being Tongue River, Powder River and Big Goose, Prairie Dog and Clear Creeks. The city of Sheridan, the county seat, has an altitude of 3,737 feet above sea level. The other two counties, Union in New Mexico and Hughes in South Dakota, consist largely of plain lands. Union lies in the northeastern corner of the state of New Mexico, with three states, Colorado, Oklahoma and Texas, to the north and east of her. Union included 5,370 square miles, or 3,436,800 acres, at the time this survey was made. About one-sixth of the southwestern part of Union County has, however, been added to part of Mora County, to the southwest, to form a new county named Harding which was formally inaugurated on June 14th, 1921. The land consists mainly of dry, level plains and mesas, although there are some mountains and isolated hills or buttes. Aside from the mountainous area, which is wooded, there are scarcely any trees with the exception of a few along the larger creeks and those cultivated around ranch houses. The northwestern corner of the county is the most mountainous. The county is drained chiefly by Ute Creek, flowing southeast through the western and southwestern sections into the Canadian River, and in the northern part by the beautiful Cimarron. There are a number of small streams, but many are dry during a large part of the year. Union has exhilarating, bracing air and radiant sunshine. [Illustration: SOUTH DAKOTA AND NEW MEXICO Locating Hughes and Union Counties.] Hughes is a small county almost exactly in the center of the State of South Dakota. It has the shape of a right-angled triangle with the Missouri River forming its hypothenuse from the northwest to the southeast corner. It covers 485,760 acres of high and rolling prairie, with river and creek bluffs and bottom lands. Several creeks and small rivers flow directly through Hughes, and it is on the whole one of the best-watered counties in South Dakota. Pierre, the county seat, is the capital of the state. Early Days on the Frontier The story of these counties is bound up with the discovery and subsequent history of the West. It is, as Viola Paradise says, "the story of Indians and early explorers; of hunters and fur traders in the days not so very long ago when the bison ranged the prairies; then of a few ranchmen, scattered at great distances; of great herds of cattle and sheep, succeeding the wild buffaloes; and of the famous cowboy; then of the coming of the dry farmer with his hated fences; and of the crowding out of the open range cattlemen and the substitution of the homesteader." [Illustration: THE TOWN LOCK-UP This primitive jail at Bannock, once chosen as the capital of Montana, has held some rough characters in its time, but is now abandoned.] It was at Two Forks, in Beaverhead County, near what is now the village of Armstead, that Lewis and Clark, at a critical point in their expedition, were met and befriended by the Shoshones, the tribe of their Indian girl guide, Sacajawea.[2] This was on August 17, 1805. White fur traders soon followed in the track of this famous expedition, and after them came Jason and Sidney Lee, in 1834, the first missionaries to reach Montana. The next landmark in the county's history is the "gold strike" on Grasshopper Creek, in 1862. News of the find spread like wild-fire. Miners rushed to the creek and set up their tents, shacks and log cabins. Unlike Rome, this first town of Montana, called Bannock, was built in a single night. Soon after the gold seekers had settled down to work in earnest, the road agents, a well-organized gang of "roughs" from all over the West, began to rob the stage-coaches travelling between Bannock and Virginia City. "Innocent" was their pass-word; mustaches, beards and neckties tied with a sailor's knot, their sign of membership. After a succession of miners, homeward bound with their gold-dust, had dropped from sight, never to be heard of again, those who remained decided to elect a sheriff. Their choice fell upon a certain Henry Plummer, who was also sheriff of Virginia City. Plummer, however, never seemed to arrest the right man, a circumstance which was explained later when it was discovered that he was the chief of the gang of road agents. The funeral of a miner who had died of mountain fever, the first man for some time to die from a natural cause, gave the community the opportunity to organize secretly the "Vigilantes," and finally to round up the road agents, either hanging them or giving them warning to leave the country. Montana was established as a territory in 1864, Bannock becoming the first capital, and in the sane year the first county seat of Beaverhead County. The capital was removed to Virginia City in 1865, but not until 1882 did Dillon become the county seat. The boundaries of Beaverhead changed very little until 1911, when 938 square miles of Madison County, 600,320 acres in all, were annexed. Men began settling on the land west of Bannock as early as 1862; stock men mainly with herds. A few farmers also began to take up choice bits of land along the rivers. The railroad, then the Utah Northern, entered from the south in 1879. As it was being built, tent towns were established every fifty miles. One of these towns was never moved and grew into the present town of Dillon. The first attempt to open up to the white man the land along the Powder and Lower Tongue Rivers, in what is now Sheridan County, was made by General Patrick E. Conner on August 29, 1865, and was eminently successful. He attacked the Arapahoe Indians with a force of 250 regular soldiers and successfully routed seven hundred warriors. The next effort ended, however, in disaster. On the twenty-first day of December, 1866, at a point on Sheridan's southern boundary now known as Massacre Hill, eighty-two officers and men sacrificed their lives to the hostile Sioux and Cheyennes in attempting to open a road across the country from Fort Laramie to Montana. [Illustration: LONELINESS IN UNION COUNTY The black spot in the center of this not very attractive picture is a squatter's hut.] [Illustration: AFTER SOME YEARS In contrast with the top picture is this one of an attractive farmhouse which shows what can be done on the plains of New Mexico.] The first claim ever taken up in this region was in 1878, on Little Goose Creek, near Big Horn, and the first irrigation ditch was constructed the next year. Big Horn was laid out in 1880, and the first store opened. The first newspaper in the county was the Big Horn _Sentinel_, and the first agricultural fair was held in Big Horn in 1885. The first cabin was built on the present site of Sheridan City in 1878. Sheridan was laid out in 1882 and incorporated as a city in 1884. Until 1881, the territory contained in Johnson and Sheridan Counties was unorganized and had no county government, but lay within the jurisdiction of Carbon County courts. It became Johnson County in 1881. In 1887 it was divided by popular vote, the northern portion being named Sheridan County in memory of the gallant General Phil Sheridan, whose army, in the 1881 expedition, camped on the site of Sheridan City. Union County, in centuries past the camping grounds of vanished tribes, is now white man's country, but it did not become so until the Santa Fé trail opened the great Southwest. With the Rabbit Ear Mountains to guide settlers the old trail came across Union County, untravelled until 1822, and finally, two years later, the first wagons crept slowly westward, facing in that pioneer mood now become historic the hardships of climate and the perils of hostile redskins. In Union County the story survives of a massacre by Indians, which accounts for the tardy white settlements in this region. In 1870, there were about a dozen homes of white settlers in the whole area. The railroad, in 1887-88, encouraged development which began with Clayton a year later. In February, 1893, the Territorial Legislature incorporated into Union County parts of Colfax, Mora and San Miguel. The original boundaries of Union County were not changed until 1903, when 265 square miles were added to Quay County. Beginning in the northern part of the county and gradually working southwards, stockmen took up claims close to water and used public land for grazing. Up to about 1900, most of the territory remained open range land in which cattle were raised on a large scale, but since that time, it has gradually been homesteaded. [Illustration] [Illustration: TWO COMMUNITY CENTERS The local store and the school of De Grey community, Hughes County, S. D., the only meeting places for widely scattered "neighbors."] The section around Pierre, in Hughes County, was the oldest settlement in the State of South Dakota. Fort Pierre, across the river from Pierre, was established in 1817, and there was continuous settlement after that. At the conclusion of the Red Cloud War of 1866-68, the Laramie Treaty with the Sioux Indians established a great Sioux reservation embracing all the land west of Missouri, from the Niobrara River on the south to the Cannon Ball River on the north and northwest, to the Yellowstone. This reservation lay unbroken until 1876, the year when the Indians surrendered the Black Hills. When the gold rush to the Black Hills began, Fort Pierre was the nearest settled point and the traffic center. Because the railroad had no right of way through the reservation, the line could not be extended to the Black Hills. The first permanent American settlement in Hughes County was made in 1873, when Thomas L. Riggs established the Congregational Indian Mission at Oahe, where he still continues a church. When the railway reached Pierre in 1881, there came the first "boom" in the history of the county. All sorts and conditions of people took up half sections, and Hughes County was almost homesteaded between the years 1881 and 1883. The second boom came in the years 1899-91, later followed by a reaction and slump. About the year 1903, Pierre was selected as the State capital. All sorts of efforts were made to steal the honor for some other town until in 1905 a bill provided for a capitol building at Pierre which was completed in 1913. The railway began in 1906 to extend to the Black Hills. Thereafter, until 1910, all the region west of Missouri was settled, and practically all of these new settlers came through Pierre. In 1911 the construction was finished, people were out of work, and there came another slump. There was also a drought during the period 1911-12-13. Transportation and Roads There is practically no competition between railroads in any of these counties. Each has one main line running through it, along which are located the county seat and other smaller centers. Beaverhead has the Oregon Short Line; Sheridan the Chicago, Burlington & Quincy; Hughes the Chicago & Northwestern; and Union the Colorado & Southern. Three counties also have small sections of branch lines, and Sheridan has twelve miles of trolley line giving city service, and reaching all but one of the mining camps to the north of Sheridan City. None of these counties has really adequate train service. The distance from markets thus becomes an acute problem in certain parts of all four counties, but especially in Beaverhead, Sheridan and Union on account of their greater distances. Each county has at least one good stretch of road. A large proportion of the crossroads have never been improved. Many of them are only trails. Beaverhead has 2,365 miles of roads, of which 1,500 miles are improved and 865 are unimproved. Approximately $278,147.00 has been spent on roads in the last five years. The combined length of public roads in Sheridan County is 796 miles. Five miles are hard-surfaced, five are red shale, seventeen are gravel, 150 are State Highway and 410 are legally established traveled roads, sixty-six feet wide and dragged when necessary. There are also 200 miles of unimproved roads known as "feeders." During the last five years, approximately $310,000.00 has been spent on county roads, not including the amount spent on State roads. Both Sheridan and Beaverhead are fortunate in their location on highways leading to Yellowstone Park; Beaverhead is on the Western Park-to-Park highway, and Sheridan is on the Custer Battlefield highway. During the past four years roads in Union County have improved. The Colorado to Gulf highway from Galveston to Denver, enters the county at Texline and continues for seventy-five miles to the Colfax County line northwest of Des Moines. This is graded road and it is maintained partly by the Federal Government, which pays 50 per cent., and partly by the State and county which pay 25 per cent. each. There are 180 miles of State highways in the county for which the State and county each pay 50 per cent. Two Federal Aid projects are also under way in the county at present. Something over 650 miles of roads are maintained by the county, and there are about 2,000 miles of community roads which are dependent upon local care. The total road mileage of Hughes County is 978, with no hard-surfaced but with four miles of gravel roads, and 175 miles of other improved roads. There are also 799 miles of unimproved road. Forty-five miles of highway have been built by the State between Pierre and Harrold and are maintained by the county. The People All these counties were settled chiefly by homesteaders who came from all over the United States, but chiefly from the Middle West and Southwest. Missouri, Nebraska, Iowa, Kansas, Texas and Oklahoma are the states most widely represented. A great many are children of original homesteaders. The breathless haste with which settlers occupied and developed this great primeval region of the West, rich in natural resources, is shown by the following figures of population: Beaverhead Hughes Sheridan Union 1870 722 1880 2,712 262 1890 4,655 5,044 1,972 1900 5,615 3,684 5,122 4,528 1910 6,444 6,271 16,324 11,404 1920 7,369 5,711 18,132 16,680 The greatest period of growth for Beaverhead was from 1870 to 1880; for Hughes from 1880 to 1890; but both Union and Sheridan made their largest increase from 1900 to 1910, while Beaverhead during those years has made a slow, steady gain. Hughes has had "booms," and has gained and lost population in succeeding decades. Sheridan and Union, the newer counties, have forged rapidly ahead of the others in population. Sheridan, on account of her city, has made a rapid urban increase, but her rural increase has been slow and steady. Union is a large county with no Forest Reserve area and has been homesteaded rapidly. Although, in 1903, 265 square miles were taken away from Union, the population in 1910 was 11,404, or an increase of 151.9 per cent. during the decade from 1900. The density of rural population per square mile in Beaverhead is 9.8, in Sheridan 3.5, in Hughes 3.3 and in Union 3. The West has a smaller percentage of foreign-born population than the East or Middle West. In three of the states represented, Montana, Wyoming and South Dakota, the percentage of foreign-born has decreased in the last decade. In Montana, it decreased from 24.4 per cent. to 17 per cent.; in Wyoming, from 18.6 per cent. to 13 per cent.; and in South Dakota, from 17.2 per cent. to 12.9 per cent. New Mexico, with the smallest proportion of foreign-born of any of the four states, went from 6.9 per cent. in 1910 to 8 per cent. in 1920. Sheridan, with 15.9 per cent., is the only one of the four counties studied whose foreign-born population remained constant. In Beaverhead, the proportion fell from 18.1 to 14, in Hughes from 11.4 to 8.1 and in Union from 2.2 to 1.7. The total number of foreign-born in all four counties is 4,670, or 9.7 per cent. of the total number of people. Germans predominate in Union, Hughes and Sheridan. In Beaverhead, the predominating nationalities are Danes, Swedes and Austrians. The New Americans in Beaverhead, Hughes and Union are largely on the land; in Sheridan County, the majority are in the mining camps. [Illustration] [Illustration: A SPANISH-AMERICAN TYPE AND A TYPICAL ADOBE HOUSE IN NEW MEXICO] Less than one hundred Indians are reported in the combined four counties, and the number has been diminishing in every county except Union. Sixty-nine of the eighty-one reporting are in Hughes County, a small section of which is included in the Crow Creek Indian Reservation. But Hughes had 169 in 1910. Spanish-Americans in Union, a cross between Mexicans and Pueblo Indians (the Spaniards brought no women with them for 400 years), equal between one-fourth and one-third of the total population. They live chiefly in the south-central and southwestern sections of the county, and together with their habitations remind one of picturesque Mexico. Sheridan County has the largest proportion of negroes of any of the four counties--147 out of a total of 214; but these western states in general have only a small percentage of negroes in their population, varying from 1.6 per cent in New Mexico to 9.7 in Wyoming. The Chinese and Japanese in the four counties number, all told, less than 150. Wide Spaces and Few People County areas ordinarily group themselves into so-called "communities," where individuals share common social and economic interests centering in a definite locality. In this country, with its scattered pioneer population, community groupings are less definite and permanent than in the East or Middle West. Here they are usually determined by topography, and especially by the rivers and creeks and the railroad. Along the railroad are trade centers which serve the entire county. The majority of these communities are of small population and large area, with a small trading center containing stores, hotel, school, possibly a church or two and some houses huddled together. The county seat largely centralizes the life of each county. Outside the trade centers and the open country area included within their community boundaries, the counties fall into certain social groupings. Where the land is good, and is being intensively developed, there are well-defined permanent communities. Some have even grown staid and conservative. In other sections the story is pathetically different. One lonely family, a forlorn row of claim shacks along the horizon, are all that is left of a real social life that existed only a few years before. A woman standing at the door of the only habitation in a round of sky and stretch of plain, tells how "all the good neighbors are gone and us left grieving for the fine times we once had." Transiency is usual in homesteading country, many people only remaining long enough to homestead their land. In Beaverhead and Hughes, which have been longer homesteaded, there is a larger proportion of residents of more than fifteen years than in the other two counties. But in all four counties, there are temporary groups of people with some social life at present, which may or may not have significance in the future. On the whole, present development tends to be permanent because most of the desirable land in Beaverhead, Sheridan and Union, and all of the land in Hughes has long since been taken up. All community limits are more or less indefinite. For example, a rancher living near the boundary of two communities may go to two or more centers for trade. And a dance or barbecue will bring people from any number of the communities. [Illustration: WHERE MAIN STREET MIGHT HAVE RUN The hut of a lonely homesteader.] County interests tend to become concentrated in increasing proportion in the county seat. Dillon, the Beaverhead County seat, is fairly well located in the central eastern section. It is considered one of the best business towns of the state, drawing trade from every point in Idaho. Dillon is a retired ranchers' town, conservative and wealthy. Community spirit is not manifest. The old settlers run the town and are not friendly to the ideas of others. Even a Commercial Club has found it hard to survive in Dillon. Sheridan City, the county seat of Sheridan County, with a population of about 10,000, is wide-awake and progressive. Although there are a number of growing industries and it is a division point on the railroad, Sheridan is also dependent to a large extent upon farming. Clayton, the county seat of Union, a town with a spirit of "boost," informs travellers by means of a bill board that it is "the smallest town on earth with a Rotary." Clayton's large proportion of transient population is at once typical of the frontier in its nonchalant spirit, in its cowboys with sombreros, jingling spurs and high-heeled boots that click along the pavements; it typifies the Range country in the canvas-covered wagons, coming in provided with camping outfits and rations to last for several days because "home" is far away. But all this is gradually changing, and Clayton is becoming more of a farming center, less like the frontier and more like the Middle West. Pierre, the Hughes County seat and State capital, is a busy town. It has a number of industries and is the center for an extensive farming and stock-raising region, but the capitol overshadows the rest of the town in importance. Means of Livelihood Cattle were once raised on a large scale in this country. That was the day of the cowboy. But with the coming of the homesteader and his fenced land, stock has had to be raised in smaller herds and more restricted areas. In the old days, there was a great deal of open range land. Most of this has now been homesteaded. Naturally the rancher has resented the steady appropriation of his "free range" by the farmer. While cattle raising is still the chief source of income, there has been a steady gain in the relative value of farming, especially since the introduction of irrigation and dry-farming methods. About half the farm land in both Beaverhead and Sheridan is under irrigation, and there is some irrigated land in the northern part of Union, but practically no irrigation in Hughes County. Some dry farming is carried on in every section of each county. General farming and dairying rank next to stock raising. Hay and forage are the chief crops. Considerable farm land is fit only for range land for cattle; it is too broken or dry for crops. Dairying is comparatively a new development. Forest Reserve land in Beaverhead and Sheridan is allotted to ranches for cattle range. In Beaverhead National Forest, 10,530 acres have been homesteaded and seventy-five claims have been listed, chiefly in 160 acre tracts. Very little homesteading has been done in the Big Horn National Forest because the entire area is above the practical range of farm crops, and killing frosts occur every month in the year. In the entire forest, only about a dozen tracts have been taken under the homestead laws, averaging a little over one hundred acres each; all have been abandoned, except a few used as summer resorts. [Illustration: A WYOMING RANCH The home of a well-to-do rancher in Sheridan County.] As is usually the case in frontier country, a large majority of the farms and ranches are operated by owners. South Dakota, at the threshold of the West, has a larger proportion of tenancy than any of the other states represented. The percentage in South Dakota is 34.9 per cent., in New Mexico it is 12.2 per cent., in Wyoming it is 12.5 per cent., and in Montana it is 11.3 per cent. In Beaverhead tenancy has decreased from 10.2 per cent. in 1910 to 7.2 per cent. in 1920. In Sheridan, it has remained about the same, 20.5 per cent. in 1910 and 20.4 per cent. in 1920. Hughes has had a marked increase--from 16.6 per cent. in 1910 to 30.9 per cent. in 1920. Tenancy has increased 11.9 per cent. in Union during the past decade. This has been partly because so much of the land is held by absentee owners who have proved up on the land, moved away, and are waiting for property to go up in value; also because on account of the high taxation some cattlemen find that they make better profits by renting instead of owning. Beaverhead County is rich in minerals, including gold, silver, copper, lead, ore, graphite, coal and building stone. Comparatively little mining has been done since the war on account of low prices. A large amount of coal is produced in Sheridan County. Stretching out one after the other in a compact series, there are six large mines north of Sheridan City, set in the midst of an agricultural area and having little relation to the rest of the county. There is also a small coal mine being operated at Arvada in the eastern part of the county. A number of farmers and ranchmen are lucky enough to have small coal veins on their land, and mine their own coal with pick and shovel. [Illustration: A MONTANA MINING CAMP] Oil is thought to be present in both Hughes and Union, but very little has been done with its development. There is some coal in the mountains in Union, and building stone and deposits of lime and alum are found in some communities. There are numerous gas wells in Hughes County. Many ranches have wells giving sufficient gas for all domestic purposes. Each county has a number of smaller industries, such as printing establishments, lumber yards, etc. Sheridan City has several large plants, including an iron works, flour mill, sugar beet factory and a brick and tile plant. All the counties benefit from the summer auto-tourist trade. The city and towns all have camping grounds for tourists. Sheridan has a tourist building, with a sitting-room, fire-place for rainy days and rest rooms, in her city park. Sheridan also has a park in the Big Horn Mountains. Both Beaverhead and Sheridan have a small number of resorts. Sheridan has three "Dude" ranches, the largest of which is the Eaton ranch, established in 1904. The Young Idea Good school systems have been developed in the comparatively short time since these counties were organized and running as active units of group life. Buildings are almost all fairly well built. Teachers receive good salaries. Of course, the schools are nowhere near ideal. The isolation and distances present serious school problems. Small rural schools persist where distances are great. Union is the only county of the four with any consolidated schools. The problem of supervision is great. Each county has local school districts and a local board of trustees in each. The county superintendent, a woman in each county, has a difficult time visiting the more remote schools and does not reach them often. Many roads and trails are practically impassable during the largest part of the school year. Because of the isolation it is often difficult to find a teacher or to get a place for her to live, when one is secured. School terms vary from five to nine months, the longer terms predominating. Only six communities in the four counties have active Parents' and Teachers' associations. [Illustration: WHEN OIL IS FOUND The Snorty Gobbler Project at Grenville, N. M.] Besides the two elementary schools in Dillon, used as model schools by the State Normal which is located there, Beaverhead County has forty-six elementary schools. Two of these, the schools in both villages, Wisdom and Lima, offer one year of high school. The only four-year high school in the county, located at Dillon, has sixteen teachers and a student enrollment of 185. The entire school enrollment in the county in 1920-21 was 2,671; the total number of teachers, 100; the total cost of school maintenance $510,006.00. The State Normal had an enrollment of 561 during the summer of 1920; 190 in the winter of 1920-21 and 620 in the summer of 1921. There were seventy-four schools running in Sheridan County in 1920-21, not including the city schools. In addition to the Sheridan High School, there are five schools in the county offering some high school training. Big Horn has had a four year course, but this year (1921-22) is sending her third and fourth year high school pupils to Sheridan City in a school bus; Dayton offers two years of high school, and Ranchester, Ulm and Clearmont each have one year. An annual county graduation day is held in the Sheridan High School. It is an all-day affair with a picnic in the park in the afternoon. The total number of pupils in rural schools in 1920-21 was 1,850, the total cost of maintenance, $264,647.21. The Sheridan High School with its enrollment of 522 is the largest in the state. The total school enrollment of the county, including the five Sheridan City elementary schools and the high school was 4,772. There was a total of 173 teachers, of which ninety-six were employed in the rural schools. A parochial school in Sheridan City has an enrollment of about 180 and four teachers. The city also has two privately owned business colleges with a total enrollment of 150. In Union County, there are 108 elementary schools outside of Clayton, with a total enrollment of 4,500 and a force of 170 teachers. Nine schools have some high school work. Five have a two-year course; two have a four-year course. Several elementary schools have been consolidated within the past few years, and occupy new buildings to which the children living at a distance are transported in motor trucks. Besides four earlier issues of school bonds, totalling $79,000, the people have voted, in this year of hard times, an additional issue of $88,000. Clayton has four elementary schools with seventeen teachers and an enrollment of 723. The Clayton High School has twelve teachers and an enrollment of 225. It has a new well-equipped building. Hughes County has thirty-nine rural schools outside of Pierre. Four schools offer some high school work, two offering one year, one two years and one three years. Pierre has three elementary schools. The Pierre four-year high school has 220 students. The total school enrollment of the county, including the schools in Pierre, was 1,530, the total number of teachers seventy and the total cost of maintenance $130,199.35. There is a Government Indian Industrial School located just outside Pierre. The lack of opportunity for high school training in so large a part of each county, brings about an increasing migration into the county seat for educational advantages. Many families leave their ranches and move in for the winter instead of sending a child or two. Some come in for elementary schools, because of bad roads and the inaccessibility of their country school. This is one of the greatest factors in the growth of these centers. To illustrate the number of pupils from the country, 150 of the 522 pupils of the Sheridan High School are non-resident and all but about ten are from Sheridan County. In Union County, fifty of the 225 pupils in the Clayton High School come from all over the county, the majority coming from ten miles around Clayton. The number of county children attending Clayton schools is increasing at the rate of about 15 per cent. a year. These children have certain marked characteristics. They are older for their grade than the town children, they average higher marks, and are anxious to make the best of their opportunity. In other words, they do not take education for granted, like the town or city child. CHAPTER II Economic and Social Tendencies Growth of the Farm Bureau No greater laboratory exists for scientific farming than in this western country. A Farm Bureau, popularized through county agents, is an asset of prime significance to a region that will endow the rest of the country with the fruits of its development. Hughes, in 1915, was the first of the four counties to organize a Farm Bureau. Sheridan and Union followed in 1919. Beaverhead County has no Farm Bureau. A County Farm Agent was employed for eight months in 1918, but did not have the support of the ranchers. They felt that an agent, in a stock raising county like Beaverhead where hay flourished without cultivation, was a needless expense. As one rancher remarked, "We did not want some one who knew less about our business than we did." As an index to the success attending expert farm advice, one entire community in Beaverhead attempted and abandoned dry farming, whereas in other counties where Farm Bureaus and agents have given service and advice no entire community has failed so completely. The Farm Bureaus not only improve agricultural methods, but are creating local leaders and a community spirit. The Farm Bureau offers a definite program that is rewarding if adopted. It develops in the individual community a spirit of independence and self-respect which must precede coöperation. The Sheridan Farm Bureau records a typical objective: "to promote the development of the most profitable and permanent system of agriculture; the most wholesome and satisfactory living conditions; the highest ideals in home and community life, and a genuine interest in the farm business and rural life on the part of the boys and girls and young people.... There shall be a definite program of work ... based on the results of a careful study of the problems of the county. It shall be formulated and carried out by the members of the organization, with the assistance of their agents and specialists as may be available from the State Agricultural College." Each Farm Bureau has county leaders or a board of directors, each member specializing in and promoting some particular project, as poultry, cattle, marketing of grain, dairying, roads, child welfare, clothing, food and county fair. During 1919-1920 forty-three Farm Bureau meetings were held in Sheridan County, with a total attendance of 1,321. Twenty extension schools or courses were given with a total attendance of 261. Two community fairs were held, and six communities put on recreation programs. The Farm Bureau upheld Governor Carey's announcement of Good Roads Day by donating $3,300 worth of work on the roads. Seventeen communities were organized; twelve have community committees. Nothing can better create community spirit and enlist coöperation. [Illustration: A FARM BUREAU DEMONSTRATION The County Agent for Sheridan is making grasshopper poison.] Each community also adopts a program of work of its own under the leadership of the community committee. A community program for Union County, which is inaccessible to the railroad, is as follows: Program of Work Goal for 1921 Accomplishments Work Still To Be to Date Done Poultry Market eggs Letters written Prices not sufficient for markets to warrant shipping as yet Livestock Organize pig Two talks club Two leaders Organize calf secured club Home beautifi- Plant trees, Planted cation vines and shrubbery Road Fix bad Secured county Keep at it places aid. Got bridge Rodent Rodent poison 11 poisoned Eradication demonstration Coyote "Kill 'em" Nine put out Complete it coyote poison and killed 48 coyotes [Illustration: A HOME DEMONSTRATION AGENT Here is a Woman's Club at an all-day meeting in Union County receiving instructions in the workings of an iceless refrigerator.] The Farm Bureau works with the County Agents, the Home Demonstration Agents, and the Boys' and Girls' Club leaders, wherever such agents exist. The County Agents are giving themselves whole-heartedly to their jobs, and the demands for their services keep them busy driving through counties for purposes of demonstration or organization. The Hughes County agent reports the following schedule: fifty days on animal disease, thirty-seven and one-half days on boys' and girls' club work, thirty-seven days on organization, twenty-three days on marketing and 116 days on miscellaneous work. Sheridan and Union have Home Demonstration agents, energetic women, who go out over the county organizing groups of women and giving demonstrations and talks. Some of their achievements in Sheridan County may be cited. Hot lunches were established in six rural schools in coöperation with the Public Health Nurse; some phase of health work was carried on in four communities and in Sheridan City schools a clothing school was held; 200 women were taught the Cold Pack method of canning; four home convenience demonstrations were given; five pressure cookers were purchased; twenty-five flocks were culled; twelve American cheese demonstrations were given, and 500 pounds of cheese made. Boys' and girls' club work is carried on in every county except Beaverhead. The boys and girls all over the county are organized into clubs and work on various kinds of projects. Union County's record for 1920 is notable: Kind of Club Total Membership Value of Products, 1920 Pig Club 83 $8,107.00 Calf Club 39 1,568.00 Poultry Club 30 367.00 Cooking " 36 220.00 Serving " 36 310.00 Bean " 13 165.60 Maize " 10 120.00 Corn " 25 1,765.00 --- ---------- Total 272 $11,622.60 Pure-bred hogs and cattle owned by boys and girls are sold under the auspices of the Farm Bureau. Prizes are offered. In Sheridan County, the county club champions are sent to the "Annual Round-up" at the State University. In Hughes, three teams of three members each were given a free trip to the State Fair as a reward for their efforts and achievements. One member of the Cow-Calf Club won a free trip to the International Live Stock Show in Chicago as a prize for his exhibit at the State Fair. Development of Coöperation Irrigation means coöperation, but coöperation in buying and marketing is comparatively a new development. Coöperation, however, is a necessity because so many farmers are distant from the trade centers and shipping points. Coöperation is the prime interest of the Farm Bureaus which, in some counties, undertake coöperative buying and selling. The Hughes County Farm Bureau has been especially effective in promoting coöperative enterprise. Says the County Agent: The Medicine Valley Farm Bureau has done considerable work along different lines, but the most outstanding has been the promotion of a Farmers' Coöperative Elevator. Most of the stock in this enterprise has been sold and work will be started very soon on the building.... The Harrold Live Stock Shipping Association was promoted by the Farm Bureau Community Club south of Harrold. Several meetings were held by this club on marketing. Members were supplied with coöperative shipping instructions and information. At the present time, most of the stock shipped out of Harrold is shipped through this organization. It has proved a success. This community club was also instrumental in the promotion of a coöperative elevator at Harrold ... in addition to the organization projects on marketing, considerable buying and selling in car-load lots has been done by the different Farm Bureau Community Clubs. The Snake Butte Community Club has bought four car-loads of coal for its members, with a saving of at least $200. They have also bought a car of flour, a car of apples and a car of fence posts, all of which has effected a saving of another $200. Three other community clubs have bought supplies by the car-load. These purchases have netted members of the county a saving of approximately six hundred dollars.... (The Farm Bureau through its exchange service has located 4,550 bushels of seed flax, 495 pounds of Grimm alfalfa seed, 200 bushels of seed wheat, 100 bushels of rye and 800 bushels of seed corn.) One thousand, six hundred and eighty-five pounds of wool was also directed to the state pool of the National Wool Warehouse and Storage Company at Chicago, Illinois. [Illustration: A TRUCK FARM IN HUGHES COUNTY] Beaverhead County has three active stock-growers' associations, the most active of which is the Big Hole Stockmen's Association which established stock yards at Wisdom and at Divide, their shipping point. They finally induced the railroad to help pay for the yards. This association was founded chiefly to work for a road from the Big Hole over into the Bitter Root Valley. The Forest Service was willing to help build the road if Beaverhead and Ravalli Counties would also help. Beaverhead County did not favor the project because it feared competition from the Bitter Root products. But the Big Hole Valley wanted the road on account of the business it would bring in. The Stockmen's Association raised about $7,000 towards it and the county finally put in $3,500. Besides their contribution of money, the members of the Association donated time and teams. One reason why they have held together so well and so long was because they shared the debt. It has been hard sledding, but they have won out. Their wage scale, which is established annually, was successfully operated for the first time last year (1921), when all but two ranchers stuck to the prescribed wage of $2.00 per day for hay hands. They have fixed up the Fair Grounds at Wisdom and give a Pow-wow there every year. [Illustration: FRUITS OF THE EARTH The Community spirit expresses itself in friendly rivalry at Union County Fair.] Largely through the influence of the Farm Bureau, two coöperative organizations were recently started in Union County, the Union County Farmers' Mutual Hail Insurance Association and the Registered Live Stock and Pure Bred Poultry Association. There is only one other active coöperative at present, a Telephone Company at Mount Dora, capitalized at $3,000. A state-wide marketing association has 280 Union County members who produced in 1920 one-third of all the products marketed through the organization. Besides the marketing associations, Hughes has a coöperative Farmers' Lumber Company. All these counties have coöperative stores. A coöperative store at Wisdom in Beaverhead County has fifty stockholders. Lima had a coöperative store in 1919-1920 which failed through poor management. Two Rochdale Coöperative stores were started three years ago in Ulm and Clearmont in Sheridan County. When the central organization took the surplus earnings of the branch stores to make up failures in other stores in the chain instead of declaring dividends, both the Sheridan County stores withdrew and organized coöperatives of their own in March, 1921. Sheridan City for the past eight years has had a coöperative store in which ranchers and farmers from nearby communities have most of the shares. There is also a Miners' Store in Sheridan City. Hughes County has one coöperative store with 150 stockholders. Urban and Rural Rivalry All the centers are service stations for the farmers. In some places the old, deep-seated antagonism between town and country is noticeable. There is the feeling that the merchants overcharge, that big business sets the prices, that capital is to be distrusted. Most of the merchants have been of the old individualistic type which places the dollar higher than the community, an idea which the Commercial Clubs are altering. This is especially noticeable in Union County, where the feeling between country and town has been very bitter. The farmers unfortunately are unfriendly to and distrustful of the merchants and business men. Each group is really interdependent, but 'such' a feeling retards progress and development. As one leading farmer put it, "The prejudice between the farmer and business man _must_ be overcome. There is no limit to the results if we can just get together." The farmers feel that the average merchant in buying farm products has not discriminated between a good and a bad product so far as price goes. In short, the honest farmer does not want to sell bad eggs or sandy maize, but he doesn't like to get a poor price for a good product. Farmers feel that the merchants have overcharged them for goods and obtained high profits and they are undoubtedly right to some extent. The farmers believe that the fact of their charging goods on credit with the merchant gives the latter an unfair advantage over them, that the merchant thinks he can pay any price he wants when purchasing from the farmer. Chambers of Commerce and Commercial Clubs are working toward a better understanding. Get-together meetings have been started. The first Union County meeting prepared the farmers by letters and visits, in order to suggest a more friendly and constructive meeting ground. In Sheridan and Pierre, the Commercial Clubs have been very ready to coöperate in any movements that would benefit the farmer. An example of happier relations between farmer and merchant is the rest room for farmers' wives maintained in Dillon by the Good Government Club. [Illustration: UP-TO-DATE REAPING ON THE PLAINS Answering the World's Prayer for Daily Bread.] Hard Times In the history of this Range area the last three years have been the most difficult for farmers and ranchers. They have suffered acutely from the sharp drop in prices of stock and farm products. Part of the Range section has had a severe drouth. Beaverhead has had several dry years. Last year (1921), thousands of dollars' worth of hay had to be shipped into the county as feed, and much livestock had to be sent out of the county to graze. In addition to drouth, grasshoppers, fairly plentiful before, became a scourge in part of Sheridan the summer of 1921. The farmers, helped by the Farm Bureau, worked hard to exterminate them with poisoned oats. Simultaneously with the drouth and grasshopper scourge in certain sections, the decrease in prices has led to hard times and much suffering. Whereas a rancher was "well off" a few years ago, he now considers himself lucky if he is "in the hole" for only a few thousand. The farmers are bitter. They feel that something is wrong with the "system." One can hardly blame them when crops bring no profit, while taxes seem to be higher than ever. The hard times have made ranchers and farmers do more serious thinking about taxes, farm conditions, and the marketing of farm products than they have ever done before. E. T. Devine, writing on "Montana Farmers" in _The Survey Magazine_, gives the farmers' position: Montana farmers are much like other American producers, urban and rural, but they are even harder hit than most of their fellow countrymen, except, of course, unemployed town workers. They share in the general calamity of relatively low prices for agricultural products and they have also just passed through several years of unprecedented drouth. Freight rates are high and burdensome, and the things the farmers have to buy are still high in proportion to the prices which they get for their grain and stock. These farmers are therefore in debt, and are borrowing more than they can. They are actually and not merely in a chronically distorted imagination, having difficulty in paying their interest and taxes; and if their equity is small they are losing it.... The farmers are not seeking fundamental or permanent solutions. What concerns them is to get immediate and appreciable relief from taxes. Hard times, as in Union County, usually strike our best assets. The county first had a County Agent in 1915, a Home Demonstration Agent in 1917, and Assistant County Agent in 1918 and a Club Leader in 1918. Unfortunately, the hard times forced upon the country a program of retrenchment. In 1920 the Assistant County Agent and, early in 1921, the Club Leader were removed. At present, there is a determined effort in some quarters to dispense with the other two workers. Social Agencies Country folk keep track of things. County papers as well as outside newspapers are read in all communities. These outside newspapers come from Denver, Kansas City, Butte or Omaha, depending upon location. Four newspapers are published in Beaverhead, two in the county seat, and one in each of the two villages. Rural Sheridan prints but one newspaper, _The Tongue River News_, at Ranchester. Two dailies are published in Sheridan City. Three communities in Union, and three in Hughes County, publish their own papers. The town of Clayton has the _Examiner_ and the _Tribune_, as well as a paper printed in Spanish. Grenville and Des Moines, two villages in Union, also have local papers. In Hughes County, Pierre has two papers, and Blunt and Harrold one each. The editors are almost all progressive and up-to-date, and vitally interested in the welfare of their communities. More and better libraries are an urgent need of all these counties. Sheridan, Pierre and Dillon all have splendid Carnegie libraries. The majority of the schools have small school libraries. But there is only one public library in Beaverhead County, besides that in Dillon, in the community house of Wisdom village. Sheridan has no other library in the whole county. The only libraries in Union County are a collection of books for public use in the office of a village lumber yard and a small travelling library. Hughes County has a town library and three circulating libraries. [Illustration: WISDOM IS JUSTIFIED The Community House at Wisdom, Beaverhead County.] Good leadership is always essential to progress. Every one of these counties is fortunate in having some splendid county-wide leaders who are devoting themselves to their county's progress. Wherever a county has a Farm Bureau, leadership is developed by that organization. But in rural sections where distances prevent people from coming together, leadership is wanting. Each ranch is a small isolated world and by the very nature of things there are few community undertakings. The development of local leadership, especially in remote sections, should become the concern of this country. As Hart says in his book, "Community Organization," "the destiny of civilization is wrapped up in the future of community life. If that life becomes intelligent, richly developed, democratically organized, socially controlled--the future of civilization is secure.... The determination is largely one of leadership." Community Spirit Red Cross work, during the war, did a great deal toward bringing about a unified spirit. The Farm Bureau is working in this direction. When real needs arise, a community spirit is born, and unsuspected qualities of loyalty, coöperation and leadership develop, as happened in one community in Sheridan County, when that community wanted the State highway: they canvassed every load of wheat that went to Sheridan City from their community to show how much their road was used. Another splendid example of community spirit was the pageant staged by Armstead Community, in Beaverhead County, to celebrate the anniversary of the Lewis and Clark Expedition. Every one in the community, even the babies as Indian papooses, took part. About half of all the communities have a real community spirit, i.e., a willingness on the part of the people to work unselfishly, coöperatively, for the best interests of the community. This spirit, fostered by the Farm Bureau or by war work, has directed communities to concern themselves with their roads, schools, methods of farming and the creation and strengthening of all community bonds and interests. The results of this spirit are shown in social and educative agencies like Lodges and the local branches of the Farm Bureau. Of the sixty-eight Lodges only seventeen are for women, and their total enrollment is about 7,000 members. While women have fewer Lodges their attendance is more enthusiastic and regular than in the case of the men. There are Commercial Clubs in the city and towns, and in a number of the villages. The American Legion has five branches in the four counties. Eight communities have Literary Societies meeting regularly. Then there are the many clubs and societies which are purely social. These include sewing clubs, card clubs, athletic clubs and similar organizations which are found in the city and towns, and in about one-third of the other communities. There are musical organizations in seven communities, and four communities have community singing. These organizations, together with the schools and churches, give the inspiration for most of the social life. [Illustration] [Illustration: CAMPING IN SHERIDAN COUNTY The colored cook, at least, seems to delight in her surroundings.] "Movies," Motors and the Dance All the larger centers have moving-picture theatres. With the coming of the "movie," and the general ownership of cars, there is a growing tendency to go into the centers for amusement. Dancing is the most popular recreation. If an event is really a success, it ends with a dance. In many communities a dance is the only thing that will "go." One reason for this is the lack of leadership; a dance needs no planning to speak of, which is not the case with other forms of indoor recreation. Dances attract people from great distances and are generally held on Saturday night, lasting until Sunday morning, with a feast at midnight. Perhaps the Farm Bureau has an exhibition during the day, and there is a community dance in the evening. It is held in the hall over the poolroom. An orchestra of three army veterans plays good lively jazz. The latest tunes and dances of the city are as familiar in these remote communities as are the latest modes and fashions. No country square dances here; nothing older than the very latest dancing, and the most modern of ear-capped coiffures! Whole families attend, and parents take the floor along with the young folks. There is a great friendliness. The young men are well set-up, muscular and tanned, and some of them even wear spurs which clink together as they dance. Feminine noses are not as white as they might be, though powder puffs are here, very properly concealed. Most of these girls ride horseback as well as their brothers, and both young women and men, with their athletic supple figures, their innate sense of grace and rhythm, might put to shame our tired, anæmic city dancers. At midnight, there is a supper of fried chicken, sandwiches and real cake brought a few dozen miles more or less by team or car. Everything tastes good because it is made at home. Afterwards, the tireless feet continue the intricate, graceful measures. But outside the brightly lighted hall, and beyond the sound of laughter and music broods the silent, mysterious night of a spacious country. How many city dancers know the homeward drive through a big country, the moon perhaps lighting the river, the contours of plain and butte, and the sleeping hamlets? The most popular forms of outdoor recreation are the community barbecues, frontier days and pow-wows. Only those who live this free, healthy life in the heart of nature have appetites worthy of a barbecue. At noon the delicious beef, roasted all night over a deep trough of coals, and basted with real butter, is a social meal that many of us envy. There are frontier field days with sports belonging to ranch life, such as horse racing and broncho busting. The day usually ends with a big dance. Even the "dude" ranches in Sheridan hold Frontier days, and great events they are, too, with many spectators. In sections of Sheridan and Union Counties, but especially in Beaverhead, there is the beauty of the country which furnishes recreation in itself. Nature has lavished upon them every gift of line and color. The mountains and the streams, the woods and the canyons, hold a hundred delightful possibilities that are within the reach of almost every one. It is a playground as varied as it is perfect. On Saturdays and Sundays in the summer, car after car, packed with camp equipment and home-made delicacies, head for the health-giving hills and mountains. [Illustration: A FRONTIER CELEBRATION The Barbecue is an institution typical of the Range Country and is attended by settlers from far and near.] [Illustration: CHURCH AND COMMUNITY MAP OF HUGHES COUNTY, SOUTH DAKOTA] CHAPTER III What of the Church? What country landscape is complete without the church spires? In this spacious western region, in the heart of awe-inspiring natural scenery, the church spires are guideposts to almost 50,000 people. This land is new. It has been the changing frontier. Tremendous developments have been in process. The country is in a transition stage between the stock-raising past and the agricultural future. Population has increased rapidly; population has been shifting. The whole background has been kaleidoscopic. The Church has faced bewildering changes and growth. The burden of increasing its service and equipment has been heavy; it has not been able to "keep up" with the pace of civilization. The story of early church growth in the cowboy country is one inspiring loyalty since it eloquently traces the faithfulness of a few in a country where God was easily forgotten. One of the first things to be read of rough-and-ready Bannock, among the earliest mining towns on the Range, is that church services were held there. The Church migrated with its congregations. Missionaries from the East came through with the fur trappers and preached the word of God. When the land began to be taken up by settlers, impromptu meetings were held, and Sunday schools were started in many places which had no ministers. Some of these points of worship gradually developed into organized religious bodies so that at present there are churches which have grown up with the country. A Difficult Field The Church in this frontier country has always faced great difficulties. Chiefly, there is the vast area of it, with a scattered and transient population. Homesteaders are a restless, uncertain, human quantity. Some are engrossed in getting a start. Others move on as soon as they have "proved up" on their claims. All are poor; there is always an economic struggle going on. The old frontier spirit of "let have and let be" survives from the cowboy days. This free and easy spirit says: "Boys drinking?--well, boys have to have their good times. Streets weedy?--well, they might be worse." The same spirit says: "No churches?--well, we're just as well off and our money is better in the bank than paying for a minister who never gets out and does an honest day's work." "Good-bye, God, we're going to Wyoming," said a little Boston girl as the family was starting west. This typifies what happened as people from the East and Middle West moved out to the frontier. In the desperate struggle for existence homesteaders had little time for Christian enterprise. Because of the great distances and scattered population, adequate church ministry has been difficult if not impossible. People had for so long lived without a church that indifference developed. The longer they stayed the less they took the church for granted. The older the section, one finds to-day, the less likely it is to want church ministry. Newer homesteaders, recently come from other parts of the country where the church was more available, are more eager for church and Sunday school. [Illustration: A VOICE IN THE WILDERNESS The M. E. Church at Mosquero, Union County, N. M.] Development and Distribution The differences in religious development and psychology according to the time of settlement are well illustrated by these counties. Generally speaking, Beaverhead grew up before the Church had made much headway. It is conservative. The general attitude is the wary one of "Let the Church alone." Men class churches among those feminine luxuries with which a real, red-blooded man has little to do. On the other hand, Union, the most recently developed county of the four, still has a marked "church consciousness." The majority of the people have not yet broken with the habits and customs of the more closely settled and churched Middle West from which they came. The other two counties combine these two conditions. Part of Sheridan is like Union, a region newly homesteaded. Part of it is like Beaverhead, old and settled with frontier habits. Hughes, on the threshold of the West, retains the frontier sentiment of all the other counties. [Illustration: NO ROOM FOR BOTH The Presbyterian Church at Melrose, Montana, and its next-door neighbor, a deserted saloon.] Church work has been going on in these counties since 1867, when Protestant work was started at Bannock, in Beaverhead County. Churches were organized in the other counties in succeeding decades. The first Protestant church was organized in Hughes between 1870 and 1880, in Sheridan and Union Counties between 1880 and 1890. In this comparatively short time, some churches have gone under. Beaverhead has had nine Protestant churches, of which six are now active. One church, located just outside the border of the county in Melrose, a small hamlet, is included in this report. Dillon, the county seat, has four churches, or one Protestant church for about every 675 persons. Outside Dillon, the habitable rural area of the county has two Protestant churches, or one church for about every 1,800 square miles and for about every 2,300 persons. Roman Catholics have two organized churches in the county, Mormons have one active and one inactive church, and there is one Christian Science church. [Illustration: COMMUNITY MAP OF SHERIDAN COUNTY, WYOMING] [Illustration: MAP SHOWING CHURCHES AND PARISH BOUNDARIES OF SHERIDAN COUNTY] [Illustration: CHURCH AND COMMUNITY MAP OF BEAVERHEAD COUNTY] [Illustration: MAP SHOWING CHURCHES AND PARISH BOUNDARIES OF UNION COUNTY, NEW MEXICO] [Illustration: COMMUNITY MAP OF UNION COUNTY, NEW MEXICO] Sixteen Protestant churches have been organized in Hughes County, all but one of which are now active. Pierre, the county seat, with six of the churches, has a Protestant church for about every 535 people. Outside Pierre and the section occupied by the Crow Creek Indian Reservation, the rural area of the county has one Protestant church for about every seventy-three square miles, and for every 300 persons. There are three Catholic churches outside the Indian Reservation. Sheridan County has had twenty-two Protestant churches, of which seventeen are now active and two are inactive. The city of Sheridan has nine Protestant churches, one church for about every 1,020 persons; outside Sheridan, the habitable area of the county has one Protestant church for about every 220 square miles, and for about every 1,130 persons. The county has five Catholic churches, a Mormon, a Christian Science, and a Theosophical organization. The newest county of the four has the most churches. Thirty-nine Protestant churches have been organized in Union County, thirty-one of which are now active. Clayton, the county seat, has four churches, one for about every 625 persons; outside Clayton, the rural area of the county has one Protestant church for about every 280 square miles and for about every 525 persons. There are five organized Catholic churches. The four counties now have a total of seventy active Protestant churches representing eleven different denominations, but there is an acute need of a more strategic distribution. Churches located in the city of Sheridan will henceforth be referred to as "city" churches; churches located in the towns of Dillon, Pierre and Clayton will be referred to as "town" churches; those located in villages, a classification applying to all centers with a population of 250 to 2,500, will be referred to as "village" churches; and those located in hamlets of less than 250 population or the open country will be known as "country" churches. Classified in this way, nine, or 13 per cent. of the total, are "city" churches; thirteen, or 19 per cent., are "town" churches; fourteen, or 20 per cent., are "village" churches, and thirty-four, or 48 per cent., are "country" churches. Other than Protestant churches will be discussed in a separate chapter. God's Houses A live church organization should have a building of its own. It is hard, indeed, to preach the reality of religion without a visible house of God. Yet nearly one-third of the organizations have no buildings and must depend on school houses, homes or depots. Some of these churches, located in strategic places, acutely need buildings and equipment if they are to hold their own in the future. For others, however, the possession of buildings would be a tragedy, since they would thus become assured of a permanency which is not justified. All the city and town churches have buildings, as well as twelve of the fourteen village, and fifteen of the thirty-four country, churches. In addition, two inactive organizations have buildings which are available and are used to some extent. [Illustration: EPISCOPAL CHURCH AND PARISH HOUSE Beaverhead County, Montana.] The majority of the buildings are of wood; fourteen are of brick, cement or adobe. Unfortunately, the Range has no typical pioneer architecture of its own. Most of the buildings are reminiscent of New England forbears. Many of them look barren and unkempt. Standing forlorn upon the plains, most of the open country churches are unrelieved by any sign of trees. Little or no effort has been made to make them attractive. Thirty buildings are lighted by electricity. Twenty-two churches are of the usual one-room type, eleven have two-room buildings, four have three rooms, three have five rooms, six have six rooms or more. A few possess special facilities for social purposes. One town church has a parish house. Nine have extra rooms and some special equipment, including three gymnasiums. Stereopticon outfits have been installed in one city and in two town churches. One other town church borrows a stereopticon once a month from a public school, and one town church occasionally borrows the county moving-picture machine. A new kind of community house was built last summer by the Sheridan Presbyterian Church. It is a summer camp on a mountain stream not far from the Big Horn Mountains, about twenty miles south of Sheridan. The building is used for kitchen, dining room, rest room and general headquarters. Each family brings its own tent when using the camp. The purpose is to make it a place for tired people, and especially for those who have no cars or other means of taking an outing during some part of the hot weather. The community idea expresses itself in a plan whereby those owning cars shall sometimes transport a family that otherwise might have no outing. Church property is valued at $592,323, and it is noteworthy that the churches have acquired property of such value in so short a time. The fact that church growth is a present-day phenomenon is illustrated by the two splendid buildings erected since this survey was made, and the preparations for a third which will cover an entire block. The highest value of any city church is $70,000, of any town church $75,000, of any village church $7,000 and of any country church, $4,000. Twenty-eight churches have parsonages, their total valuation amounting to $61,300, or an average value of $2,189. About one-third of the churches carry some indebtedness on their property. Twenty-five churches report a total debt of $57,695, of which amount $28,500 was borrowed by six city churches, $21,700 by four town churches, $2,905 by five village churches and $4,590 by eight country churches. The money was spent for new buildings, new parsonages, repairs and, in one case, for a garage to hold the preacher's Ford. Curiously enough, instead of being a hardship, working to pay off a debt often brings church members together into a unified working group. The interest paid ranges from 4 to 8 per cent. Church Membership Even more important than the material assets of the churches are their human assets--their members. The total number enrolled in Protestant churches in the four counties is 5,820. Active members number 3,956, or 68 per cent., while 1,013, or 17.4 per cent., are classed as inactive, i.e., they neither attend church services nor contribute to church support, and 851, or 14.6 per cent., are non-resident. The country and city churches have the highest proportion of non-resident members--16.9 per cent. and 16.6 per cent., respectively; the town figure is next at 11.7 per cent., and the village percentage is 9.83. These people have moved, or else live too far away to come to church services. In addition to the enrolled membership, there are members of distant churches who have never transferred to local churches. They are scattered through all these counties, and their number is, of course, not known and cannot be estimated. Some may have been asked to join local churches, but it is certain that some have not, and that no one knows or seems to care if they have been members of some church elsewhere. They may attend local churches occasionally, but it is more likely that they do not. Some of them feel like the little hard-working ranch lady who said, "I was a church member out in Iowa, thirty-five years ago, but I've never done lifted by letter and I've been here so long now, I guess I never will." [Illustration: CHART I] The Protestant church member who moves away is not followed up by his church as a general thing. This is partly due to frequent ministerial changes, partly to the lack of well-kept church records, and partly to lack of interest. Of course, the fault is not only with the churches on the Range; it is a shortcoming of the churches everywhere. Since, however, a transient population is characteristic of this country, it would seem to be a matter of prime importance for churches to keep track of the movements of their members. This matter concerns not only local churches and their denominations, but also calls for coöperation among different denominations. [Illustration: CHART II] Most of the churches are in the larger centers. Of the total resident church membership nearly 43 per cent. belong to city churches, 28 per cent. to town churches, 11 per cent. to village churches and only 15 per cent. to country churches. As the center decreases in size, the more it draws from the surrounding country. Thus, 93 per cent. of the total resident families of city churches live in the city and 7 per cent. live outside; 87 per cent. of the total resident families of town churches live in the town and 13 per cent. live outside; 62 per cent. of the total resident families belonging to village churches live in villages and 38 per cent. live outside. Somehow the Church has failed to appeal to the men. A prominent man who never came to church in one of the towns in the counties studied, said to a minister: "Here is a hundred dollars. For God's sake, don't let the church go down!" This man realized that the community needed the church, but he chose to help from the outside. This is the prevailing attitude: the men are not antagonistic, but they are indifferent. All the counties have a higher proportion of men than of women in the population; each has a higher proportion of women than men in the church membership. Beaverhead, preponderant by 58.3 per cent. in males, has the lowest proportion of adult men in the church membership, 23.8 per cent. Union has the highest proportion of men, 32.7 per cent. For all the churches of the four counties, 30.5 per cent. of all church members are males over twenty-one, 8.6 per cent. are males under twenty-one, 47.5 per cent. are females over twenty-one and 13.4 per cent. are females under twenty-one. A larger proportion of young people are enrolled in the city and town churches than in those of the village and open country. City and town church memberships have 9 per cent. boys, and 14.36 per cent. girls. Villages have 6.75 per cent. boys, and 12.26 per cent. girls. Open country churches have 8.19 per cent. boys, and 9.26 per cent. girls. One reason for the small number of young people is that many grew up without the Church. The children now growing up have better church opportunities. The hope of the Church for the future is to reach the children. The small church prevails on the Range, the average active membership being only about fifty-seven. For the various groups, the active membership is as follows: AVERAGE ACTIVE MEMBERSHIP Country Village Town City Average Beaverhead 8 6 81 49 Hughes 8 39 109 59 Sheridan 33 62 185 117 Union 16 33 66 24 The country churches have an average of eighteen, the village churches thirty-five, the town churches ninety-one and the city churches 185 members each. Forty-nine of the seventy churches have fifty active members or less, and thirty-six, or 51.4 per cent., of these have less than twenty-five each. Twenty-one churches have each more than fifty active members. Forty-four out of the forty-nine churches of less than fifty members are either in villages or in the open country. All the churches of more than 100 members are either town or city churches. [Illustration: CHART III] [Illustration: CHART IV] It is an acknowledged fact that the size of membership has a good deal to do with church efficiency; in a word, that the small church is a losing proposition. Until the present, the small church on the Range has been a necessity because of the small and scattered population. It is only the larger centers that have been able to support good-sized churches. Even with the coming of irrigation, this Western country will never be as thickly populated as the East or Middle West. Nor can a fair comparison be made between the churches in the larger centers in the Middle West and far West. A different policy is likewise needed here because many of these centers in the West are surrounded with large unchurched areas and on that account their churches should be strategic centers for a radiating religious work. [Illustration: CHART V] In the matter of gain or loss in membership, it is to be noted that, during the last year, a little more than half the churches made a net gain in membership, sixteen churches broke even on the year and seventeen showed a net loss. Thus, 3 per cent. of all the churches remained stationary, 24 per cent. lost in membership and 53 per cent. gained. Of the churches with 50 or more members, 82 per cent. gained; of those with less than 50 members only 33.3 per cent. gained. Seven hundred and sixty-four new members were taken in during the year. Forty per cent. of these were taken in by letter, the rest on confession of faith. This gain by confession was about 13 per cent. of the previous net active membership. Gain was distributed according to sex and age as follows: Adult male 31.0% Adult female 42.4% Boys 11.7% Girls 14.9% CHAPTER IV The Church Dollar One way, though by no means the only way, that the Church can judge of its successful work is by the financial support that it receives. In this Range country nearly all of the Church dollar is raised locally, except about twelve cents donated toward church work by denominational boards. Various methods are used by the local church for raising the other eighty-eight cents. Half the churches use a budget system. That is, they set down at the beginning of the fiscal year an itemized budget of the amount which they need, on the basis of which amount subscriptions are obtained from each church member or family. Twenty-five churches finance all their work this way and ten churches budget only their local needs. Thirty-two churches make an annual every-member canvass, i.e., every member is asked regularly each year to contribute something toward the church. Weekly envelopes, in single or duplex form, are used in twenty-four churches. Forty churches can be said to have a system of regular, frequent payments. The rest of the churches depend upon various combinations of quarterly or annual payments, plate collections at services, bazaars and other money-raising devices. Incidentally, the Ladies Aid and Missionary Societies are real stand-bys in the matter of church upkeep and benevolences. In fully half the churches, women's organizations undertake to raise some part of the church expenses in various ways, from regular weekly contributions to distributing bags to be filled with pennies for every year of the contributor's age, or by making gayly colored holders at three cents each. Nearly one hundred thousand dollars were raised by the 3,956 active members in the year of the survey. This is the "real thrill" of the church dollar. The total amount of the budget raised on the field by sixty-eight of the seventy churches[3] was $97,571.98. Of this amount $70,910.74, or little less than three-fourths, was procured by subscriptions; $9,464.24, or slightly less than one-tenth, by collections, and the balance of the $17,197.00 by miscellaneous means. This is an average amount per church of $990.25. Here again it is clear that the larger the membership of a church, the greater the impetus from within for further growth and activities. This condition is evident in the various church campaigns. The city churches raise more than twice as much as the churches in the town, village or country, but with their larger membership there is not a corresponding drain on the individual. Thus, the city and village church members give about the same, $24.87 and $24.47 respectively per year; the town members give $29.63; the country members, with fewer buildings, fewer services, and less resident ministers to maintain than the members in the centers, pay $16.12 each. [Illustration: CHART VI Figures refer to total amount raised and spent, including Home Mission Aid.] Considering that nearly half the churches raise their money haphazardly, the average contribution per church and per member, in these four counties on the Range, is most encouraging. Of course, it must be borne in mind that 1919-1920 came at the end of the fat years, and hard upon this prosperous period followed the lean one of high freight rates and low prices for farm products. Church finances depend in part upon the practical presentation of the financial needs of the Church, and upon education in Christian stewardship--i.e., in learning the value of church work at home and abroad. But there is another side to the question which is quite as vital. Is the Church rendering a real service to the community, and has it an adequate and worth-while ministry? After all, people cannot be expected to give more than they receive in service. Not quite all the money was spent. In each group there was a small surplus; $85.00 for the country churches, $64.24 for the village, $64.00 for the town, and $365.89 for the city churches. Of the total amount spent, $41,268.79, or about 43 per cent., paid salaries, $24,657.55, or 25 per cent., was given to missions and benevolences, and the remaining 32 per cent. was used for local expenses and upkeep. The total amount given to benevolences averages $6.27 a year. All the money spent averages $24.67 per resident active member, a good record indeed for a homesteading country. The question of benevolences is important because many churches offer no other means to their members of learning and practising unselfish giving and service. One of the standards adopted by the Interchurch World Movement was that the amount given to benevolences should at least equal 25 per cent. of the total amount spent. The proportion of all money raised which is used to pay salaries and local expenses is higher in country and village churches, while the proportion given for missions and benevolences is lower than in the town and city churches. In other words, the country and village churches have less surplus over and above their running expenses. Benevolences receive 14.3 per cent. of all money raised by the country churches, and 12.75 per cent. of all money raised by the village churches. Town churches, on the other hand, give 23.84 per cent. of their receipts to benevolences, and the city churches give 33.65 per cent. The finances of city churches are well proportioned, almost an equal amount going for salaries, missions and all other expenses. Home Mission Aid It has already been stated that about twelve cents of the church dollar come from the denominational boards in the form of Home Mission aid. The total amount given to the local churches in the year preceding the survey was $12,937.50, which went to forty-one churches in amounts varying from $50 to $750. Two more churches would have been receiving aid if they had had a pastor, and still another church had there been a resident pastor. Of the forty-one churches receiving aid, two are city, seven are town, seven are village and twenty-five are country churches. Of course, some of these churches, in their turn, hand back money to other boards in the form of missions and benevolences. All the city churches give $13,382.04 in benevolences and missions and receive $2,100; all the town churches give $8,304.96 and receive $3,035; the village churches give $1,650 and receive $3,650, and the country churches give $1,320 and receive $4,152. By counties, Beaverhead gets back 46.8 per cent. of what she gives, Hughes gets back 47.3 per cent., Sheridan 37.2 per cent., while Union is the only county which receives more than she gives--24.4 per cent. The churches which receive aid send back to the boards $2,872.79. In a word, the churches send money to the church boards, who in turn remit this money. This would seem a strange story to some one not versed in church ethics and denominational procedure. But giving and serving is one of the fundamental ideas of the Christian religion, and money given for missions and benevolences is good training as well as definitely a service to humanity. The Range has always been Home Mission territory; justifiably too, because homesteaders have not been able to pay for religious ministry. A homesteader's "bit" is hard earned enough, and seldom adequate to his needs. Nevertheless, the problem of financial aid is always a serious one. Subsidization of persons as well as institutions must be wisely handled or moral deterioration is likely to set in. The Y. M. C. A. never subsidizes a county for its rural work. If the county cannot pay, it must do without the work. Ordinarily, several counties combine for rural Y. M. C. A. work and have one secretary among them. An excellent grading system for their aided fields has been worked out by the Presbyterian Home Mission Board.[4] One of the first questions considered is the prospect of self-support. How far has it been the policy of the Boards to help a church to a status of self-support? Forty-four of the seventy active churches have had aid during the last thirty years. Only four of these churches are now self-supporting. It has already been pointed out that three churches did not receive aid during the year preceding the survey because they lacked pastors. Development toward self-support has evidently not been a criterion of the Boards in granting money. Another test is whether the field is a "strategic service opportunity"--either allocated to this denomination or a field presenting a unique need. Some of the churches fall within such a classification. A total of about $207,170 has been received, given by eleven denominations. City churches have received $40,850, town churches $67,465, village churches $47,430 and country churches $51,425. Of the total amount, $44,980 has gone to fifteen strategic service churches. In addition, four of the aided churches receiving $27,000 serve special groups of population, of which one is Swedish, one Norwegian, and two are German Lutheran churches. There remain thirty churches receiving $136,190. Three churches, receiving $6,830, are the only ones in their community. All the rest are in communities with other churches, at least one of which in each case is aided. [Illustration: A NEGLECTED OUTPOST OF CHRISTIANITY A village church in the center of a large unevangelized area, served by a minister living thirty-five miles away.] Aid Misapplied Some aid has very evidently been granted without a definite understanding on the part of the board as to whether other churches were concerned, whether the community could really support a church, whether, after all, it was good sense to assist a church in that particular situation. Not very much money has been spent. More could have been used to advantage. As H. Paul Douglass says in "From Survey to Service," "It is in the nature of the case that the conquest of distance by the Gospel will take very disproportionate amounts of money compared with other forms of missions. It can be cheap only when it is adequate." The policy has too often been to help keep alive a great many struggling churches which did little to justify support, rather than to develop a smaller number of churches in greater need of help in a poorly churched area. In other words, the policy has been one of denominational expansion rather than of denominational concentration and demonstration. Home Mission aid too often creates futile competition within a community by supporting a church for selfish denominational purposes. Some of these churches were better dead, and they would have died of natural causes but for Home Mission aid. There are good and bad instances of denominational help. One denomination has aided three churches for thirty years, but has not helped any one of them for the last ten years. They had reached a self-supporting status. But, when a denomination lavishes $18,000 of Home Mission aid in keeping alive a church in a village of 150 population, where there is also another church, and when the village is situated near to a large, well-churched center, such aid is wasted. The same denomination fails to give with liberality to a far needier case, the only Protestant church in a small village, a railroad center, located fairly in the center of a large unevangelized area. In one of its valleys, a resident recently remarked that they had heard no preaching for twenty years. This instance of neglect is in Montana, and the territory has been allocated to this denomination since 1919, so that other churches are keeping their hands off. Yet this church, which had a resident pastor until two years before the time of the survey, is now being served by a pastor of a town church living thirty-five miles away who preaches there on a _week-day_ night. No preaching on Sunday, no pastoral work, obviously no community work in the village and no touch at all on the districts outside of the village! How well could the lavish aid of $18,000 have been put to use in this churchless area! This desperate condition needs as much aid every year as _all_ the Boards give _all_ forty-one aided churches at present. Instead, this church has been allocated to one denomination, and is now getting less attention than before. This case constitutes an abuse of the principle of allocation. CHAPTER V To Measure Church Effectiveness Add members contributing to the support of an organization to a probable minister and possibly to a building and you have the ground-plan of the average church in this Western country. What, then, is the church program? How are the churches attempting to serve their members, and just how much are they contributing through their program and activities to the life about them, toward bringing about a genuine Christianization of a community life? Religious values, it is true, are spiritual and cannot be tabulated in statistical tables. This fact is as fully recognized as the corollary that circumstances often limit ideals. What the churches are doing, however, ought to be a fair test of their underlying purpose. In a word, then, what do they consider their job and are they "putting it across"? Opportunities for Worship All the churches have services for the preaching of God's word, but it has already become evident in the preceding pages that in certain sections of the Range country the Church, even as a social factor, is regarded rather as a curiosity by the men. An amusing story with a Bret Harte flavor is told of an early meeting in Beaverhead County. The hall in Glendale, a busy place then, with banks, restaurants, even a paper, was filled with a rough-and-ready audience of miners and cowboys listening to a lantern lecture. Vastly delighted over the trick, one man after another quietly rose from his seat and stepped out of the window. When the preacher ended his talk and the hall lighted up not a soul remained but himself. The next day, however, his audience made it right. They passed a hat and collected $300 for him. As has been noted, more than half of the church buildings are adapted to preaching and nothing else, nineteen churches, of necessity, holding their meetings in school houses. The frequency of services varies. The larger centers have an abundance of church meetings. All but two of the town and two of the city churches have two preaching services each Sunday. But only three country and two village churches are so fortunate. Two additional churches, one a village and one a town church, have the advantage of two services a Sunday because they unite regularly with other churches near them, both of which hold two services a Sunday. [Illustration: NOT A STORE BUT A CHURCH Christian Church at Des Moines, Union County.] Forty-five of the seventy churches have less than two services a Sunday. Of thirty churches, twenty-five country and five village churches, each has less than four services a month. Those located in the larger well-churched centers have an ample number of services, while the majority of churches with less than two services a Sunday are country churches. Yet most of these are holding the only service in their community. Seventy-three and five-tenths per cent. of all the country churches have less than four services each month, and 44 per cent. have only one service or even less. All but one of the eighteen churches with only one service or less per month are country churches. Ten churches hold special musical services. Mid-week prayer meetings are held by sixteen of those which have two services each Sunday, but by only one of the forty-five churches in the group holding the fewer number of services. Except in winter, the chief handicap to attendance in Beaverhead and Sheridan lies in the rugged landscape. Country members in all the counties have real difficulty in getting to church throughout the year. Most of them have long distances to go, and the roads make travel difficult in winter and early spring. In summer, haying is carried on very generally seven days of the week, and church attendance is a problem even if the church service is held at night. The aggregate monthly attendance is 18,337 and as the total number of services is 286, the average attendance per service is about sixty-five persons, low enough, but higher than the average active membership per church, which is about fifty-six. Average seating capacity, active membership and attendance compare as follows: [Illustration: CHART VII] Country Village Town City Churches Churches Churches Churches Total Average seating capacity 129[5] 177[6] 285 436 233 Average active membership 18 36 91 196 56 Average attendance at services 34 37 72 112 65 It is evident from the table above that the churches are only about one-fourth filled on the average. Nothing is more disheartening than a church three-quarters empty in which the echoes of the minister's voice reverberate over the vacant seats. Union Services Tangible evidence of coöperation and good-will among churches of different denominations is found in "union" services, which thirty-eight churches might reasonably hold in these counties. Just twenty-one of these churches do unite, the majority for Thanksgiving Day services and in fewer instances, for Chautauqua, Baccalaureate, Memorial Day, and summer evening services. In two instances, two churches, Methodist and Presbyterian, are uniting for services and Sunday schools, their other organizations meeting separately. Since the time of the survey, two churches, located in an overchurched hamlet, have also temporarily put this plan into effect. [Illustration: A CASE OF COÖPERATION The M. E. Church at Blunt, S. D., which being pastorless joined with the Presbyterian Church for preaching services.] Evangelism A greater portion of the evangelistic work is done through revival meetings, although less than half of the churches hold them. Of all the members admitted on confession of faith by all the churches during the year, 76 per cent. were converted in revival meetings, and joined one of the churches holding such a revival. Thirty-one of the seventy churches held or united in thirty such meetings, one being a union meeting of two churches. Pastors conducted fifteen meetings, in three of which a neighboring pastor or evangelist assisted. Fourteen meetings were held by visiting clergymen. The meetings were well attended, extending from seven to thirty-five days, the average meeting lasting thirteen days. Eighty-seven per cent. of the 385 converts and the thirteen who were reclaimed joined the churches holding the revival. This gain amounted to 72 per cent. of the total gain in membership made by these same thirty-one churches during the entire year. Forty-four per cent. of all the churches held revivals, and while they represent only 45 per cent. of the total harvest by confession and letter, yet three-fourths of all the gain made by confession of faith were obtained by these churches. The country churches held seventeen meetings, averaged four new members each, and made 20 per cent. of the total gain. The village churches held five meetings and the town churches held four meetings, both averaging five new members each, the village churches making 8 per cent. of the total gain and the town churches 6 per cent. The city churches held only four meetings, averaged about fifty-seven new members each and realized one-third of the total gain made. Children and the Churches Sunday schools are the big hope of this country. Young people and older people are not so much interested in the Church and religion because so many have grown up without it, but the children have had more chance to know the Church. Sunday schools are to-day the most frequent form of church work in these Western counties. They are especially hopeful because so many of them over-ride denominational lines and unionize; also because they persist when all other church spirit seems to be dead. Fifty-six churches have Sunday schools of their own, and one city church has a mission Sunday school in addition to its own. Two groups of two churches each combine their Sunday schools. Only three churches neither maintain their own Sunday schools nor help with a union school. Thirty-seven union Sunday schools are being carried on in the four counties, nine of which have the assistance of church organizations meeting in the same building. Three are located in mining camp villages, the rest in small hamlets or open country. These union schools have a fourth of the total Sunday school enrollment. People on ranches and far from town start Sunday schools under local leadership without waiting for churches to be organized. When a newcomer sends his children to Sunday school it is often the only contact made with religious activity in the new country. The independent Sunday school has, therefore, in a sense, a greater responsibility than the church Sunday school. The importance of the Sunday school is brought out in a comparison between Sunday school enrollment and resident church membership. Country Village Town City Total Number of churches 34 14 13 9 70 Number of Sunday schools 56 14 12 10 92 Total resident church membership 745 563 1,389 2,272 4,969 Total enrollment of church Sunday schools 897 731 1,430 1,475 4,533 Total enrollment of all Sunday schools 2,373 829 1,430 1,475 6,107 Average enrollment of all Sunday schools 42 59 119 147 67 Average attendance of all Sunday schools 28 40 79 104 50 The enrollment of church Sunday schools is larger than the total church membership in Union County, and larger than resident church membership in Beaverhead, Hughes or Union. The total enrollment of all Sunday schools is 23 per cent. higher than the total resident church membership. Without the Union County Sunday schools this enrollment equals only 91 per cent. of the resident church membership. Thirty-five churches have a larger Sunday school enrollment than resident church membership; all nine churches helping with Union Sunday schools have a smaller membership than the Union school enrollment. This discrepancy is high in some churches. For example, a country church has thirty-five enrolled in the Sunday school and only eight church members; a village church with sixty-five enrolled in its Sunday school has seven church members; a town church has fifteen church members and 150 enrolled in its Sunday school. Country and village Sunday schools show the best record. The total enrollment of all country Sunday schools, including the Union schools, is more than three times as high as church membership. The enrollment of all village Sunday schools is about 47 per cent. higher than village church enrollment. There are no Union Sunday schools in the towns or city. Except in the city the average Sunday school enrollment exceeds average resident church membership, the advantage being twenty-two for the country schools, nineteen for the village, and twelve for the town schools. The average city church membership, however, exceeds average Sunday school enrollment by 105. When Sunday school enrollment is higher than church membership, it is ordinarily encouraging as a promise of future growth. But the large discrepancies between village and open country church membership and Sunday school enrollment, coupled with the low percentage of young people in their church memberships, show that these churches are not recruiting new members from their Sunday schools as they might. Nor are the churches relating themselves to any extent to the separate Sunday schools in outlying sections. This _can_ be done, and is most successful in a few cases. For example, the Apache Valley Sunday School, which meets on Sunday afternoons at a schoolhouse in Union County, is being "fathered" by two ministers from Clayton, six miles away, who go out on alternate Sundays. This Sunday school is live and flourishing. It maintains a high percentage of attendance and carries on various activities. Attendance in general is good. The percentage of enrollment represented in the attendance on a typical Sunday varies from 66.7 per cent. for the town to 70.8 per cent. for the city schools. Yet only twenty-five schools make definite efforts to increase their attendance. The various methods used are contests such as a competitive Boys' and Girls' day, a fall Rally Day, cards, rewards and prizes, a Banner Class, a Look-out Committee and the Cross and Crown System. During the year preceding the survey, 168 pupils joined the churches from the Sunday schools, and there were seven probationers at the time the survey was made. Decision Day was held in four country, one village, five town and four city schools. The results were meager. Only thirty-five declared for church membership. Nine town and city schools have classes to prepare for church membership, eight schools have sent twenty scholars into some kind of Christian work during the last ten years. A country Sunday school in Hughes County has shown what can be done in this respect. It has sent five young people into Christian service during the last ten years, and five more in the whole history of the school. It is significant that one consecrated pastor has served this Sunday school and church during this entire time. Cradle Rolls are another excellent method of enlistment. Yet these are kept in only twenty-six schools. The total enrollment is 473. One of the greatest needs of this country is more local and better trained leadership, not only for Sunday schools but for the community at large. The only definite training for leadership is eight Teacher Training classes, held in two city, four town, one village and one country school. Mission study is carried on in seventeen schools more or less frequently, several additional schools annually presenting the cause of missions. One city school has a four-day institute for the study of Sunday school methods and missions. Twenty-nine schools make regular missionary offerings, and seven take them once a year. Twelve schools have libraries with an average of seventy-three volumes each. Eighty-three schools give out Sunday school papers. There are 507 classes, an average of about twelve per class. Proper preparation is one of the greatest needs of the Sunday schools in these counties. Much of the instruction is haphazard and indifferent. Men teach 123 classes and 26.6 per cent. of the total enrollment. Ordinarily, the man teacher, if there is one, takes the adult class at the expense of the growing boy who needs him more than the adults. Graded lessons are used exclusively in ten schools and twenty others use them in some classes. Seventeen schools have organized classes. Sixty-six schools are open throughout the year. The pastor is superintendent in six schools, teacher in fifteen, substitute teacher in one, "helps" in nineteen, is a student in two, and in one reports his job as "superintendent; teacher and janitor." Social events for the Sunday schools mean picnics, class parties, and sometimes a real ice cream sociable. About one-third of the schools have a reasonable amount of social activity, while sixteen report a great deal. Fifty-seven schools have picnics, and great events they are, too, with more cakes and pies and goodies of all sorts than the community is likely to see again for another year. One or more classes have socials, parties and "hikes" in seventeen schools (four village, nine town and four city). The "Anti-Kants" is an interesting class of young women. Every time one of the class becomes engaged, there is a party and a shower, called a graduation. Twenty graduations have taken place in the history of the class. About half of the schools have programs for special days, especially for Children's Day, Christmas and Easter. One Union school has an Easter picnic and egg-hunt. Nineteen schools have mixed socials, such as parties, indoor picnics, ice cream suppers and entertainments. One town school has a weekly social. The only special Sunday school organizations are a Choir Association and Sunday school athletic teams in three town churches which play competitive games. Twenty report no social life of any sort in connection with their schools. They do not even have a picnic to liven things up. [Illustration: HAPPY LITTLE PICNICKERS The Baptist Mission at Kleenburg, Wyoming, does good work for the kiddies.] [Illustration: A GOOD TIME WAS HAD BY ALL A Sunday School class picnic in Union County.] Other Church Organizations Various other organizations have been developed within the churches for business, educational and social purposes. Women have a great many, men have very few. Fifty-six women's organizations are carried on in thirty-seven churches, of which nine are village and nine country churches. There are twenty-eight Ladies' Aids, thirteen Missionary Societies and various Guilds, Circles, Auxiliaries, a Manse Society, a King's Daughters, an Adelphian and a Dorcas. The total enrollment is 1,682, or about 70 per cent. of the total female resident church membership over twenty-one, and 17 per cent. of the total female population aged from eighteen to forty-four, in the four counties. The attendance averages about twenty-one to each organization. In sorry contrast to this array, men's organizations number only seven, and all are connected with city or town churches in Pierre, the county seat of Hughes County. The enrollment is 300, or 27 per cent. of the total resident church membership in city and town of males over twenty-one years of age, and only 3 per cent. of the total male population between the ages of eighteen and forty-four in the four counties. Men and women have two organizations in common. One is a missionary society which, contrary to custom, shares its endeavors with men, the other is a dramatic club for any one old or young who has dramatic ability. This interesting organization gives a splendid amateur show every year. A former professional actor, who also coaches dramatics in the high school, is the coach. Boys Left Out There are only eight organizations for girls in seven town or city churches. Two hundred and twenty-two, or 42 per cent., of all the girls under twenty-one in the town and city resident membership are enrolled. One is a Friendly Society, and the rest are various kinds of guilds. But boys are the most shabbily treated of all. There are only four organizations especially for them, all in town churches and two in one church, so that only three churches have special clubs for their boys. The enrollment is sixty-nine, or about 21 per cent. of all the boys under twenty-one enrolled in city and town church membership. Boys and girls together have two organizations in two town churches with a membership of seventy-three. One is a Junior League, and the other a Junior Baptist Young People's Union. Young people have twenty-eight organizations in ten country, three village, nine town and six city churches. Eight of them are Epworth Leagues, eight are Christian Endeavors and the rest are various Young People's Societies, Baptist Young People's Unions, Mission Volunteers, Young People's Alliances, two Choir Organizations and one Purely for Fun Club. Their total enrollment of 834, together with the membership of the mixed boys' and girls' organizations, equals 84 per cent. of the total church resident membership under twenty-one.[7] More people in the community are reached through the meetings of these organizations than by any other single church activity, with the exception of the celebration of special days. These meetings are often community affairs, especially in the case of the women's organizations. In twenty organizations, the attendance exceeds the enrollment. The men's clubs work for the church, and several do practical community work. Their programs in all but two cases include dinners, either at every meeting or at special banquets during the year. One club puts on a Father and Son banquet every year. Men's Forum and Ladies' Aids The most interesting outcome of the work of any of the men's organizations is the Men's Forum, recently developed in Sheridan by the combined Men's Clubs of the Congregational and Protestant churches. This was the first open forum held in Wyoming. The attendance at the meetings averaged 400. The principles of the forum are as follows: The complete development of democracy in America. A common meeting ground for all the people in the interest of truth and mutual understanding, and for the cultivation of community spirit. The freest and fullest open discussion of all vital questions affecting human welfare. Participation on the part of the audience from the Forum Floor whether by questions or discussion. The freedom of the Forum management from responsibility for utterances by speakers from the platform or floor. Among the subjects presented have been "Community Problems," "The Church and Industrial Conflict," "The Golden Rule in Business: Is It Practicable?" "The Farmers' Movement in America," "Bolshevism," "Feeding the World: Is It America's Job?" There is no more encouraging sign of community interest in public questions, and a conscious effort on the part of the Church to develop a public opinion on social, economic and religious problems. [Illustration: PROGRAM OF A COMMUNITY RALLY] The Ladies' Aid is often the only woman's organization in the community. Most of these clubs meet once or twice a month, with regular programs for Bible study or missions, organize sewing and quilting bees, and bazaars, etc. The help they give in church finances has already been appreciated. Any such common interest and responsibility holds many an organization together. Several promote social welfare work. One organized a Teachers' Training Class to improve material for Sunday school teachers. One village has a community Ladies' Aid which works for the church, although only a few are church members. The community woman's club in a small hamlet is studying missions as a part of its program. In one community, the Ladies' Aid of the only church, which is pastorless, meets regularly and holds a yearly bazaar to pay the occasional supply preacher and keep the church in repair. At the "Frontier Day" given by a Dude Ranch, the Ladies' Aid from a nearby hamlet had a booth for selling hamburgers and lemonade. In one of the mining camps, the Ladies' Aid of the Mission church sent out invitations for an afternoon tea to raise money for a new piano for the Kindergarten. It turned out to be a great social event attended by women, many of them foreign, from all the camps in the vicinity. Here is another Ladies' Aid, the only organization in all that part of a sparsely settled country, and many miles from town which holds eight socials a year and every social is a supper. Those suppers bring out whole families, and are the biggest annual events. Is it any wonder? The woman on the Range has a lonesome time of it. Ranches are far apart. She rarely sees her neighbors and less frequently goes to town. This woman needs social activities more than her town sister. Yet only nine out of thirty-four country churches have women's organizations. Young People's Meetings are generally held Sunday nights, and the majority hold an occasional social. One town Young People's organization has a successful Bible Study Class. The Purely for Fun Club, as its name implies, is purely social and meets twice a month. It has a special garden party once a year. This club is one of the activities of a M. E. community church located in a new dry-farming community which is having a struggle to make both ends meet, but is doing good work in that community. The people are loyal, even enthusiastic. There is not, however, even a church building, let alone any equipment for social activities. A building is desperately needed for church and community center, nor can the members provide it themselves. Cases of this kind represent possibilities for the most effective sort of home mission aid. CHAPTER VI The Preachers' Goings and Comings This is a field that challenges a preacher. The love of a new world has drawn his potential flocks and with them a pastor may come to new pastures where the satisfaction of creative pioneer work is not its least attraction. Settlements have grown up almost over night. People have come from all over the East, Middle West and Southwest. Many families live far from their neighbors. Leadership is the challenging need and it is primarily the task of the Church to furnish and develop it. The initial handicap is that here people, from a matter of habit, do not yearn for church ministry as they do in other parts of the country. Their traditions do not include it. It is the preacher who must "sell" the idea of religion and the Church. No one else will do it. He must be a "builder of something out of nothing--a pioneer of the Gospel, creator as well as evangelist." The Vagrant Minister One of the most startling facts brought out by this survey is the degree to which the ministers have been transient. Always a detriment to effective work, this lack of permanency is especially unfortunate in a country of such rapid growth and so transient a population. It takes more than average time to win people's confidence because they do not accept the Church _per se_. There are problems enough to be met when a preacher "hog-ties," as the Western slang puts it, meaning when he stays on the job. But the preachers have come and gone along with the rest. Three of the forty-five churches organized for ten years or more have had the same preacher throughout the period, and five more churches have had only two pastors. But seven churches have changed pastors three times, ten have changed four, seven have changed five, six have changed six, five have changed seven, one has changed eight and one has changed nine times during this period. About half of the country and village churches, 38 per cent. of the town, and one-fourth of the city churches have had five or more pastors during the last ten years. Of the churches organized within the last ten years, ten have had one pastor, eight have had two, one has had three, three have had four, one has had six, one has had seven and two have had no regular pastors during the entire time. These men have indeed had the spirit of wanderlust. They have scarcely stayed long enough to get acquainted with their task. [Illustration: CHART VIII] Lapses between pastors are revealed. The changing has meant loss of time to three-fourths of the churches. Thus, of the group of churches organized ten years or more, city churches have been vacant 2.5 per cent. of the ten years, town churches 6 per cent. of the time, village churches 11 per cent. and country churches 17 per cent. of the time. The churches organized in the last ten years, of which the majority are in small hamlets and the open country, have been vacant 20 per cent. of the time. Again the churches in the larger centers fare better. Distribution of Pastors The churches in the four counties are at present being served by forty ministers who have been a long time in church service, but only a short time in their present fields. Their average length of time in their present charge is only two and one-third years. Twelve of the forty-one present pastors have been in their parishes less than a year, and fourteen more have been serving from one to two years inclusive. Thirty-two ministers give their entire time to the ministry. Eight have some other occupation in addition to their church work. One is a student, and the rest are ranchers. These eight men serve eleven churches in the four counties and eight churches outside. Thirteen churches were without regular pastors at the time of the survey, but five churches were only temporarily pastorless--transiency caught in the act! Four of the thirteen were being supplied by local or travelling preachers, one a woman homesteader. The remaining fifty-seven churches, therefore, were being served by forty regular ministers, and two resident social workers who take care of a Baptist Mission at a mining village in Sheridan County. The regular ministers also serve twenty churches in other counties, making a total of seventy-seven churches, or 1.87 churches per man. This is a slightly lower proportion of ministers per church than the region averages. How the ministers are divided up so that they will go around is shown in the following table. The sixteen preaching points and missions which these same men also serve are not included because in general they do not take the same amount of time as a regular church.[8] Preachers with No Other Preachers with Occupation Other Occupation Serving one church 18 (B-3, H-5, S-8, U-2) 3 (H-2, U-1) Serving two churches 9 (B-1, H-3, S-2, U-3) 1 (..., U-1) Serving three churches 3 (..., H-1, S-1, U-1) 2 (..., U-2) Serving four churches 2 (..., U-2) Serving five churches 2 (...............U-2) -- -- Total 32 8 The denominational basis of church organization, as a preceding chapter shows, leads to an uneven distribution of churches and ministers. If it were not for denominational lines, it would be possible to make a better distribution of the ministers so as to give a larger proportion of the communities a resident minister. The centers have an abundance of ministers, but outside the centers there are too few. Thus, thirty-three of the churches have resident preachers, but twenty-two, or _two-thirds_, of these churches are located in centers which have other resident ministers. More than half of the churches with resident pastors are town or city churches. Only _nine_ communities have one or more resident ministers serving a single church on full time. One of these communities is the city, three are the towns, one is a village community in Beaverhead, one the mining town with the two social workers, and three are country communities. Only eighteen communities have such full-time resident pastors. Ten other churches have pastors living adjacent to their buildings, but in each case the pastor also serves other churches, or has other occupation. Fourteen churches have pastors living from five to eighteen miles distant, four have ministers living from eighteen to thirty-five miles distant. One has its pastor living fifty miles away, one sixty-five and one 120 miles. Four pastors live outside their counties. [Illustration: CHART IX] An adequate parsonage is one means of keeping a resident pastor. About half of the churches have parsonages. Of the forty churches with buildings, thirty-four have parsonages and one country pastor has a parsonage and no church building. Three parsonages were not being used at the time of the survey. The residence of pastors and the distribution of pastoral service have a clear relation to growth. The pastor is ordinarily responsible for the evangelistic success of the church. If a pastor is non-resident or has too large a territory to serve, his personal contribution is lessened. Of the churches having resident pastors, two-thirds made a net gain. Of those with non-resident pastors, only one-third gained. Pastors' Salaries. The question of ministers' salaries is important. Inadequate salaries have undoubtedly caused some of the restlessness among the ministry. Salaries vary as the minister is on full or on part time, as shown in the following table. The full-time one-church man commands a wage higher than the man with more churches, or the man with another occupation. [Illustration: A PARSONAGE BUT NO CHURCH The M. E. pastor shown here with his wife and baby has a house but no church building on his circuit. He preaches in three school houses.] Minister Full Time with Other Full Time Part Time Minister Occupation Minister Minister with More and More with One with One Than One Than One Church Church Church Church Maximum salary $2,650 $1,550 $3,250 $1,900 Minimum salary 600 840 880 100 Average 1,835 1,195 1,507 610 These average salary figures may be compared with the average salary of the Y. M. C. A. county secretaries for the entire United States which was $2,265 in 1920. Training of Ministers Standards of the various denominations as to the educational qualifications of the ministers vary. Eighteen of the forty-one pastors are graduates of colleges and theological seminaries; six others are college graduates, three are graduates of seminaries or Bible Schools, but have no college training. One minister is going to seminary. Ten ministers have had no special training for the ministry. CHAPTER VII Negro and Indian Work Racial Cordiality In this Range country, there are not many negroes in proportion to the white settlers, and the relations between the races are cordial. Beaverhead County has twenty-eight negroes in Dillon and Lima communities. Sheridan County has a total of about 295. A small neighborhood, Cat Creek, six miles west of the city of Sheridan has about 250 negroes. There are six negro farm owners at Cat Creek with farms of 320 acres each. Considerable community spirit has been developed, which is manifested by increased friendliness and by pride in the farms. The Plum Grove Club has sixteen members, and meets twice a month for discussions on crop welfare and for social times. There is a Sunday school, with an enrollment of fifteen and an average attendance of ten, which is kept going for eight months of the year. Preaching services are held occasionally. The negroes in the city of Sheridan are hard-working and industrious. They are mainly laborers, but some have small businesses. Organizations include a Mutual Aid Society with fifty members and three lodges which are all inactive at present. The National Association for the Advancement of Colored People has a local branch with 100 members. A recently organized Athletic Club of fifteen members hopes to branch out into a regular athletic association. Colored Churches There are two colored churches--a Methodist Episcopal and a Baptist North. The Methodist Episcopal was organized in 1908; the Baptist in the following year. Both churches have resident pastors, serving but one point each. Each denomination has a church building and a parsonage. The combined value of the church buildings is $3,500, of the parsonages $500. The Baptist church has recently been rebuilt. Both churches use weekly envelopes for raising their money which amounted to $2,887.14 last year, $1,164.25 of which was by subscription, and $680 by collection. There was no surplus or deficit. From this fund $938.79 was spent for salaries, $142.17 for missions and benevolences, and $1,500.04 for rebuilding and repairs. The Baptist church receives home mission aid of $600. The Methodist church has thirty-six members, having made a net gain of seven in the year preceding the survey. The Baptist church has twenty-six members whose membership has remained constant. The total net active membership of the two churches is fifty-one. Each church holds eight Sunday preaching services a month. Both have Sunday schools. The Methodist Sunday school, with an enrollment of sixteen, is kept going the year round; the Baptist Sunday school, with an enrollment of twelve, meets for only seven months. The Methodist church has three other organizations--a Woman's Missionary Society, a Willing Workers and Ladies' Aid, and a Literary Society for both sexes with a membership of fifty. The Baptists have one organization, a Christian Aid, with a membership of twelve, to which both men and women belong. One church has had six, the other five, pastors in the last ten years. The present pastors are graduates of both college and seminary. A friendly feeling exists between the white and colored people in Sheridan, which is manifested by a willingness on the part of the white churches to help the colored. The colored ministers are included in the Sheridan Ministerial Union. Indian Missions Part of the Crow Creek Indian Reservation extends into the southeastern part of Hughes County, and about 70 per cent. of the people living in this section of Hughes are Indians. All are farmers owning their own land. An Episcopal Indian Mission was established here in 1892. The pastor, who lives in Fort Thompson, conducts one morning service a month. There are twenty-six members, of whom twenty-one are active. There is no Sunday school, but a Ladies' Aid with five members meets every week and has twice as large an attendance as it has enrollment. There is also a Catholic Mission located near the Episcopal Mission, which was started about 1911. The priest comes from outside the county and holds one mass each month. There are about fifteen families in the membership. CHAPTER VIII Non-Protestant Work Roman Catholic The Roman Catholic work is the strongest non-Protestant religious activity in all the four counties and naturally has a large number of foreign-born and Spanish-American communicants in its parishes. There is a total of twenty-four organized Catholic churches. Beaverhead County has two, Hughes three, Sheridan five and Union fourteen. The city of Sheridan, and each of the towns supports a Catholic church; eight are located in villages, two of which are in Sheridan mining camps, and twelve in small hamlets. Nine priests, seven of whom live in these counties, serve the twenty-four churches. Four churches, two in villages and two in small hamlets, are served by priests living outside the county. [Illustration: AN OASIS IN THE DESERT The grounds in which this Catholic Church and parsonage stand make this the only spot of verdure in a barren waste extending for miles on every side.] Each of the twenty-four churches has a building. There are six priests' houses, valued at $21,000, and two parochial school buildings. The value of church buildings is estimated at a total value of $98,800. The total value of church property, including land, is $211,025. None of the churches have any social equipment. The total receipts of all the churches last year amounted to $23,157.56 and this amount was spent largely on salaries and church upkeep. The only churches receiving aid are two in Union, each of which received $500. The average salary is $892. [Illustration: ROMAN CATHOLIC CHURCHES AND PARISHES, UNION COUNTY, NEW MEXICO] The total membership is about 5,152, which is within 668 of the total Protestant figure for seventy churches. The average total membership is 215 per church. Only three of the twenty-four churches have as few as fifty members or less. Thirteen churches have Catechism and Confirmation classes, with a total enrollment of 416. Attendance is high; it equals 77 per cent. of the enrollment. There are seventeen other organizations, three for men, ten for women, one for boys, one for girls and two for young people. The total enrollment is 771. The church in Sheridan has a parochial school. Catholic church membership increased more rapidly than the Protestant in Beaverhead and Hughes and less rapidly in Sheridan from 1890 to 1916, according to the United States religious census. In Union, from 1906 to 1916, the Protestant membership increased more rapidly than the Catholic. Catholic membership is greater than Protestant membership in every county but Hughes. There are a total of nineteen Catholic mission centers in Union and Beaverhead. Penitentes There are about five groups of Penitentes in Union County, with an average of twenty-five members each. No women belong. The Penitentes are all Spanish-Americans and are largely sheep and cattle herders. Their small adobe and stone buildings are called "morada." Meetings are held in Lent, on the last three days of Holy Week. During the ceremonies, members inflict personal punishment, often carrying it to an extreme. This sect, which was at one time distributed over the whole territory of New Mexico, since 1850 has retreated towards the north. As to their origin, Twitchell in his "History of New Mexico" says: "It is possible that the Penitentes, particularly by their scourging themselves with whips made of cactus, come from the order of Flagellants which was a body of religious persons who believed by whipping and scourging themselves for religious discipline they could appease the divine wrath against their sins and the sins of the age." The Penitentes are not recognized by the Catholic Church. Latter Day Saints Dillon, in Beaverhead, and the city of Sheridan, each have a Mormon church. There is a church building in Dillon, and the one in Sheridan is now being erected. There is also an inactive church at Lima, organized in 1900. The Mormon membership is eighty-five in Dillon and thirty-six in Sheridan. Both churches have Sunday schools, with a total enrollment of seventy and relief societies with a total membership of thirty-five. Christian Science There are two Christian Science churches, located in Dillon and in the city of Sheridan, both organized in 1919. The Dillon church meets in an office, but the Sheridan church has a building valued at $2,500. The church membership is about 170. Both churches have Sunday schools, with an enrollment of about thirty in Dillon and about fifty in Sheridan. Theosophical The city of Sheridan has a Theosophical Society which meets in a real estate office. The membership is seventeen. Six new members were taken in last year. Meetings are held every Friday night. Two meetings a month are for members only, and two are public lectures. CHAPTER IX Seeing It Whole The Range, our last real frontier, has grown up. Round-ups are miniature and staged. All the land is fenced. The cowboy is passing, if not gone. Even "chaps" and a sombrero are rare, unless worn by a "Dude" from the East. The last 100 years have seen a remarkable growth and change in this country. The cattleman and the cowboy have largely given way to the homesteader, and he in turn has become a regular farmer or, as he prefers it, "rancher." The Land of the Homesteader The cowman used to insist that no one could make a living on the semi-arid Range. For many years "there was no sign of permanent settlement on the Plains and no one thought of this region as frontier." Then the Homesteader came. "And always, just back of the frontier," says Emerson Hough in "The Passing of the Frontier," "advancing, receding, crossing it this way and that, succeeding and failing, hoping and despairing, but steadily advancing in the net result--has come that portion of the population which builds homes and lives in them, and which is not content with a blanket for a bed and the sky for a roof above." Homesteaders are good stock upon which to build a civilization. Many of them are sturdy folk who have come to the West to establish homes and with determination are doing so. Of course, there are the habitual drifters who have always been failures because they never stayed long enough anywhere to succeed. But they prove up on their claims and then go elsewhere, drifting still. Others leave, holding their land as an investment, because they have not found the land or the circumstances up to their expectations. The free land has gradually been taken up, so that there is very little of it left in any one of these counties. The population is becoming less transient on this account. More people are staying because there is no more free land, and no other newer frontier. What, then, has the survey shown of the Range? How has it fared in its 100 years of growth? What are its assets as well as its needs? In a word, what has it made of itself? The very presence of real farm-houses on dry farming land and mesas speaks in itself of a small world conquered. Of course, there are farm-houses in the valleys. But sheer grit is all that achieves a house and a barn and a wind-shield of trees out on the mesa. Lumber is expensive and must be hauled from the nearest market. Trees, so wary of growing there, must be watched, watered and carefully tended every day for the first five years. A home on the plains means more sweat and toil and effort than a home anywhere else in our country. [Illustration: WATERING HER GARDEN This homesteader of ten years' standing has succeeded in cultivating an attractive garden patch even in the thirsty soil of New Mexico.] Self-Help the Rule The development of the Range has been haphazard. Any Land Company has been able to work up a "boom" at will. Not even misrepresentations and uncounted, unlimited hardships have stirred the Government to form and follow any better colonization policy for its unoccupied lands than its "Homestead laws." The western farmer has never been cherished by his Government as has been the Canadian farmer. Until the comparatively recent development of county agent services and the Farm Bureau, he has had to work for everything he got with very little help from any one. An intense economic struggle is behind the homesteaders. They begin from the bottom up. Some are just now beginning, but for the majority the difficulty of getting a start is over. But the last few years have been hard for every farmer and rancher on the Range, old settler and new alike. No part of the country can afford to have the men on the land as hard pressed as these men have been. Too large a proportion of the farms have been mortgaged for the economic well-being of a nation. [Illustration: A COMMUNITY RENDEZVOUS Often the general store is the only gathering place for neighbors miles apart.] Made up largely of people from the Middle West, this country has taken on some of the characteristics of that region--in the development of small and large centers, and in the improved roads and schools. But on account of the nature of the soil, it will be many years before the Range becomes a second Middle West, if ever. The land will not support as many people per square mile. Much of the area will remain, for years to come, a land of large distances and comparatively few people. The future of the Range is not to be summed up by saying, "Go to, this country will soon become a second Middle West. Just give it time." "If you want to see neighbor Adams, you'll find him in town on Saturday afternoon, most like round Perkins' store." Such will be the advice given in regard to meeting almost any farmer living in almost any part of these counties. As roads have improved, and autos have come to be generally used by the farmers as a means of transportation, the trade centers along the railroads, especially the county seats, have increased greatly in size and importance. This growth of the centers is characteristic of the whole United States. Until after 1820 less than 5 per cent. of the American people lived in cities of 8,000 population and over. In 1790 there were but five cities in the United States having a population of 8,000. Now a majority live in the cities; but the West does not yet have the urban development of the East. Importance of the County Seat As the county seats are coming gradually to have more of a direct relationship to the country around them, they should assume more responsibility toward their counties. Through their organizations and Civic Leagues of business men, these centers are just waking up to the fact that the towns are dependent upon them. As one farmer in Union County said, "There is no permanent prosperity except that based on the farmer. If our town is big and top-heavy and the farmers are taxed heavily to keep the town up, it is killing the goose that laid the golden eggs. The 1,000 farmers tributary to Clayton must pay the bills of everything brought in because, ultimately, the products of the farm have to pay for everything. When conditions are bad, the farmer has to pay the bill and keep going besides." If the development of the future is to be sound each side will do its best to understand the other. A Centralized School System School systems are becoming better. People realize the advantages of education. More and more young people are being sent to college. But as distances are gradually being overcome, schools should be administered wholly from the county seat. The County Unit plan does away with the local school district boards. This system equalizes burdens and advantages, minimizes dissension, and conduces to economy and efficiency. The average school board has no standards by which to judge an applicant for teaching. One disadvantage of the district system is that so often daughters are put in as teachers. The county unit plan means centralized control. The county superintendent, who is selected solely because of education, training and successful experience, takes over most of the duties which the various districts now have. This means a comprehensive and efficient plan of education for the whole county. Social Needs Other great needs are a better organized social life and more recreational activities. Outside the larger center, there is a great lack of social life. Social organizations are fairly abundant, but they are almost all city or town affairs. Living on the land is a more solitary affair for women than for men. The men drive to town, but the women stay home week in and week out with few diversions. A postmistress in Montana told about two women living on large cattle ranches about six miles apart, a small distance in that country. She said to one of them: "There is Mrs. Denis at the door just going out. Did you see her?" The other lady answered: "Yes, but I hardly know Mrs. Denis." They had lived there for more than ten years, near neighbors for the Range country, and yet barely acquainted! [Illustration: "MARY, CALL THE CATTLE HOME!" But this "Mary" is a homesteader's wife and the Range is a long way from the Sands o' Dee, and "Mary" herself is usually a long way from anywhere.] The Part of the Church Finally, there is the duty of the Church. "The churches performed an inestimable social function in frontier expansion," says John Dewey. "They were the rallying points not only of respectability but of decency and order in the midst of a rough and turbulent population. They were the representatives of social neighborliness and all the higher interests of the communities." The Church has played an important rôle in the past, but its position in this same country to-day is disappointing. For some reason it has not become essential to the landscape. [Illustration: WAITING AT THE CHURCH A Christian Church in Union County which draws its congregation from a wide area.] The immense distances and scattered population have, of course, been a great problem. All the country west of the Mississippi makes up 70.9 per cent. of the total area of the United States, while the western area has only 30 per cent. of the total population. In 1850, it had only 8.6 per cent. of the population. The average density per square mile in the United States is 35.5 persons. Illinois has 115.7 people per square mile, but Montana has an average density of only 3.8, Wyoming of 2, New Mexico of 2.9 and South Dakota of 8.3 persons. Much of the Range has never had the chance to go to church, and one result of the lack of church facilities in the past is that it is difficult now to create a church spirit. Homesteading is no fun. It means being away from doctors and comforts, getting ahead little by little, facing set-backs, discouragements and loneliness. Of course, a homesteader is absorbed by his place. Unless he is simply proving up on his claim for the purpose of selling it, he must be absorbed if he is to succeed. He broke with most of his home ties before he came and, after arriving, has not had time to go adventuring for any but those simple things which he must have. "Church" is one of the things he left behind. Church services have rarely followed him, and generally he has been too busy to seek them. Even if he were minded to hunt them out, it takes more than average courage to be "different" when one's neighbors are largely of a common mind. So the absence of church has become a habit. [Illustration: HITTING THE TRAIL Will this settler find a church welcome in his new home?] But probably the greatest hindrance to church work has been the shifting population. Churches have trained lay leaders only to have them leave "en masse." Out of the fourteen churches which have been abandoned in these four counties, nine have gone under because their members melted away. The carrying over of the care-free frontier spirit often makes for a general slackness. This spirit has in it the freedom of the West, the perfect democracy of the cowboy, and is essentially individualistic. If directed into right channels, it should be an asset instead of a drawback. What the Frontier Church Is Five sentences sum up the Church on the Range. It is a church of the center. It is, in the main, a church of the middle-aged. It has been a church with haphazard leadership. It is a church of past achievements and of unlimited future possibilities, provided it has an inspired and sustained leadership. It is a church which needs a social vision. It is natural that, where the centers along the railroad have been the only "sure" things in a country of constantly shifting settlements, the largest number of churches have been established in such centers. But these churches have not reached the great unevangelized areas around them. The "isolated, unattached Christian," who lives perhaps only a few miles from town, has been neglected by the church in the center. It is natural, too, that this should be largely a church of the middle-aged. What is there to attract the young people? Many of the church organizations have no buildings. With few exceptions, buildings are equipped for little else but preaching and listening. Nearly half of the churches have less than four services a month. The Sunday schools are not well organized. With the start the Sunday schools now have, possibilities are unlimited if they can be conducted on a more business-like basis. Yet these young people and children are the great hope of the church. No more wide-awake, vigorous young people are to be found. "If only the Church could work out something that would last through the week," said one of them, "it would seem more real." But in many communities the women's organization is not only the sole organization in the church, outside the Sunday school, but the only one in the community. The work has been haphazard. Home Mission aid has been spent out of all proportion to fitness. The same amount now received would go further, eventually, if spent in fewer places. With means and leaders adequate for a small area only, the general idea of some denominations has been to hold, but to do little with a large area. There has been some unnecessary over-lapping of work. With their large fields, the ministers cannot be expected to do more than they are doing at present which is, in most churches, occasional preaching. A missionary pastor said, concerning one of his charges in a neglected community in Union, "The second time I went to preach no one came. Do you think I'd go back?" Under the present system of many points and long distances, this pastor could hardly afford to use the time to go back. Yet, to succeed, church ministry must be steadier and more long-suffering. There are some New Americans in each county, but they are in larger numbers in Sheridan and Beaverhead. A large number of the Spanish-Americans in Union are not provided for by the Catholic church, and the only Protestant work for them in the county, a Spanish American Mission in Clayton, has been given up. In Sheridan County there is great need of a comprehensive program that shall include all six mines. There should be at least two community houses built with organized social activities and evening classes; the staff to include a domestic science teacher. With the exception of one class for half a dozen Italian mothers in one of Sheridan's mining villages, no Americanization work is being done in any county. The churches should enlarge their vision so as to include the New Americans. [Illustration: THE FAMILY MANSION With the family and the Union County doctor in front of it. The family is Spanish-American.] What the Frontier Church Can Be It is possible for the Church to serve this kind of country with its scattered people. It is difficult but it can be done. Certain denominations have succeeded with what they call a "demonstration parish." The plan is exactly the same as that of the experimental farms conducted by the Government. A comprehensive seven-day-a-week plan, which has in mind the whole man, mind, body and soul, in place of the old circuit-rider system, is the program of the Congregational Demonstration Parish in Plateau Valley, Colorado. Six thousand feet up on the western slope of the Rockies, this valley is shut in on three sides by rugged, white-capped mountains. It is thirty miles long, from one to six miles wide, and contains about 150 square miles of territory. This is a small world in itself, self-contained by the nature of its environment. Of the 3,500 people, 750 live in the four small villages of Collbran, Plateau City, Melina and Mesa. The one great industry of the valley is stock-raising. Farmers have devoted themselves chiefly to raising beef cattle, but an interest in dairying is increasing. Pure-bred stock is now the goal of their efforts. This beautiful mountain valley was chosen as a "model parish" to show what could be done by the Church throughout a large, thinly settled area. Although there were five church buildings in the valley, the church-going habit seemed to have been lost or never acquired, possibly because religious privileges had been meager and not altogether suited to the peculiar needs of the people and the country. It is doubtful if 250 people living in the valley were church members or attendants, while not more than 200 children went to Sunday school regularly. Few persons, however, were actually hostile toward religion or the Church. Here was the opportunity and the challenge. The work centers in Collbran village, where there is a Congregational church organization and building. There are two men on the staff. The pastor has charge of the church school, the Christian Endeavor, and the work with men and young people in Collbran village. He also does visiting throughout the valley. The Director of Extension Work has the responsibility for establishing and maintaining out-stations, financing the local budget, and supervising the activities and the building of the Community House. This Community House is to be the center and great achievement of the modern socio-religious program. The completed building will have rooms and equipment for an ideal church school, kindergarten, game room, library, rest-room and men's club. The gymnasium will have a floor space seventy-five by forty feet and a gallery; it will also serve as an auditorium, while a stage, dressing-rooms and a moving-picture booth form part of the equipment. The basement will have billiard room, bowling alleys, lockers, baths, dining room and kitchen. The entire cost of the building will be approximately $25,000, to be financed in part by the Congregational Church Building Society and in part by local pledges. This is Home Mission aid well spent. The first and second units were completed and opened for use on Christmas Day, 1921. The first unit is the auditorium. The second unit contains the library, assembly room, men's room, women's room, large billiard room and two offices which are to be used as headquarters for the boys' and girls' organizations. The third unit will be completed in the summer of 1922. The pastor and extension man have office hours in the morning. In the afternoon, the women's rest room, with its easy chair, lounge and cribs for babies, and the men's club are open. The billiard and reading rooms are open from one to five-thirty and the library is open from three-thirty to five. This library already has 1,200 books, and there are shelves for 3,800 more. The library service is probably the most appreciated part of the work for it fills a long and sorely felt need. In the evening, the men's and women's rooms are open, and the reading room and billiard room are open from seven to nine. The privileges of the Community House are for each man, woman and child in the valley irrespective of church or creed. So far as possible, everything enjoyed at the center is to be taken to the furthest circumference of the valley. The equipment for the extension work consists of a truck, auto, moving-picture machine and a generator. The community truck is used to furnish group transportation and to promote inter-neighborhood "mixing" in competitive and other ways. The Extension Director is organizer, social engineer and community builder. He has a regular circuit of preaching appointments and Sunday schools. His program includes a one-hour visit to four schools every week. Ten minutes are used for physical exercises, thirty minutes for public school music with the coöperation of the teacher and twenty minutes for religious education. He takes out library books and Sunday school papers to the teacher, and once a month shows educational moving-pictures. The people are already responding to this constructive program. Within four months, the Collbran Church School has increased nearly 150 per cent. in average daily attendance. The Christian Endeavor Society includes practically all the young people of the intermediate age. The Scouts and Camp Fire organizations are very active and recently held a dual meet with the Mesa organizations. Wrestling, basket-ball, hog-tying and three-legged races were some of the events. Within the year, thirty-seven members were added to the Collbran church, among whom were the leading lawyer, banker, doctor, contractor, editor, merchant and rancher. The other two denominations in the valley, the Methodist Episcopal and Baptists, are coöperating in the effort. The small Methodist Episcopal church at Plateau City has come into the movement by arrangement with the Methodist Episcopal Conference, and has become part of the larger parish. This church and community will unite with the Congregational church on a common budget for the support of general work. There is now Methodist Episcopal work in the extreme end of the valley, Baptist in the central part, and Congregational in the extreme west. Each church sticks to its own territory; each urges members of its own denomination to work with churches in other sections. But the larger parish equipment serves all in the extension program. The work is only begun. The larger purpose is to break down distinctions between neighborhoods, as well as between village and country, and to weld all people living over a wide area into one large community with community spirit and a common loyalty. This cannot be done by the Church alone; doctors, visiting nurse, school teachers, county agent and farm bureau will gradually be called into a coöperative team play. This, then, is the Church not merely aspiring to leadership, but utilizing its opportunity with a real program. Asking no favors because of its divine origin, it is determined to make itself a necessity in the community by virtue of what it does. It is the Church "actually practising a religion of fellowship, giving value for value and serving all the people and all of their interests, all of the time." The Larger Parish Plan This Larger Parish plan is the old circuit rider system brought up to date, and given an all-around significance through the use of modern means of transportation and an equipment suited to a religio-social program. The minister is no less a preacher and man of God because he is a community builder. His measure of "success" is his ability to work out with his people a genuine program of rural and social service. With its community church and program, the Larger Parish plan seeks to make the church both a religious and a social center. Under its own roof, if necessary, or better, with an adjoining community house, it has equipment which provides for ideal worship, a modern church school and well-supervised social and recreational activities. It amounts to a church that offers advantages like those of the Y. M. C. A. and Y. W. C. A. By means of this program, the rural church puts itself at the center rather than at the far circumference of rural life, and becomes one of the most active agencies in the community. [Illustration] [Illustration: A REAL COMMUNITY HOUSE Members of this Presbyterian Church at Sheridan building their own community house under the leadership of the pastor. The women of the church provided the eats.] This plan remedies a characteristic disability of the average rural minister and his church--the neglect in farmstead visitation. Especially on the plains, isolation and loneliness persist despite modern improvements. There are country homes near to villages or towns into which no minister or church visitor goes from one year's end to another. Within reach of almost any church on the Range, and over great stretches of country, children may be found who are growing up without any religious training. In the face of this need and its challenge, the Larger Parish plan need not wait for people to come into the Church. By means of a well-equipped extension program the Church, and everything it stands for, is taken to all who need its ministrations. [Illustration: A CHURCH THAT SERVES THE COMMUNITY The M. E. Church and parsonage at Clearmont, Wyoming.] Preaching is essential. But when a minister and congregation can "brother" scattered peoples, they are most helpful in bringing the Kingdom of God to rural America. There may be some justice in the excuse that "the farmer and his family might easily come in to services in their automobile," but it is true that a "house-going minister makes a church-going people." The Larger Parish plan furnishes the minister the equipment and help to do just this thing. It views the church as a service institution. The Montana Plan It is even possible for a whole state to make a united plan for church work. Montana has had its area, community by community, county by county, or valley by valley, "allocated" to the religious care and undisputed responsibility of one or more denominations. For this new and progressive policy the people of the State were themselves responsible, and its development will be watched with intense interest. Unfortunately one of the fields in the only Montana county in this survey is not receiving the attention it should from its "allocated denomination." This is the work in the southern part of the county, now served by a non-resident pastor. A glance at the map will show how effectively the larger parish plan could be applied. Two tasks face the churches in these counties: First, to increase and enlarge the work of the churches already established, and, secondly, to reach and serve the great unevangelized areas. The former is a problem for the individual church and community. The latter is a problem demanding the coöperation of all religious forces on the field, for "there is religious need enough to tax the best energies and resources of all." The churches in this new western country must keep pace with their rapidly changing environment, and with elastic yet inclusive programs really become community churches. The county seat towns should assume more responsibility for their surrounding areas; in other words, they should plan and develop larger parishes. Especially in Beaverhead and Hughes, this area is unchurched and to a great extent neglected. While the social and economic life of these "centers" naturally overshadows a great portion of the county areas, yet the churches minister very inadequately to their needs. The church parishes on the map represent few members. The centers are growing, their influence is ever widening, so that the Church, in building up her work at the center with the idea not only of serving the people at hand but of reaching just as thoroughly the people in the surrounding areas, will naturally fulfill her destiny. To reach areas outside the influence of the church work at the centers, colporteurs should be employed. A Sunday school missionary could give permanence to all Sunday school work and help to organize new schools in Union and possibly in Sheridan County. Some additional churches should be established; others might very well be closed. But it is chiefly up-to-date, educated, resident pastors that are needed, with a belief that the rural task is worth their lives. Coöperation the Solution The psychological and religious differences in these four counties have already been shown. All should not be treated alike. Every county is different. Every county demands individual study and treatment. Such conditions call for the survey method and for intensive coöperation. This is the key to the whole situation. Business, though still competitive and on an individual basis, combines for the community good, as in the case of Rotary and Civic Clubs. The churches might well emulate this example in organization. There are competent Ministerial Unions in Pierre and Sheridan City. What is needed now is a Council of Religion in each county with a program enlisting every minister and every church, and including every square mile of occupied land in the county. All problems are related. The causes of church ineffectiveness lie in non-coöperation. Ministers have stayed too short a time to relate themselves to their parish and their people; denominations in establishing new churches have not been curious enough about the lay of the land; the various component parts have been unrelated--the preacher to the church, the fringe areas to the church in the center and, finally, the Church to the people. The Frontier of the Future Yesterday the Range population was busy settling down. To-day it is haphazardly here, and still coming. And what of to-morrow? Franklin K. Lane wrote at the end of his term of service in the Department of the Interior: "We are quickly passing out of the rough-and-ready period of our national life, in which we have dealt wholesale with men and things, into a period of more intensive development in which we must seek to find the special qualities of the individual unit whether that unit be an acre of desert, a barrel of oil, a mountain canyon, the flow of a river, or the capacity of the humblest of men." Here is fertile ground for well directed and progressive development. The East is crystallized into its habits and customs. The West is more plastic because it is in the social making, and is willing, at need, to change its ways. The social baggage of the eastern states is only partly unpacked in this region. The young West is developing a flexible social and institutional life in keeping with its phenomena of time and place. Great possibilities are ahead. A real welding process has begun during the last few years as the population tends to become more static, or as it learns to coöperate in such agencies as Red Cross work during the war and the work of the Farm Bureau. A new social spirit is developing. The Church has counted for a great deal on the Range and has done some good, fundamental work. But in order to keep abreast of the new development and to help bring to the Range a "satisfying community life which is profitable, sociable, healthful and full of culture and charm and, above all, full of God," the Church must make its ministry broader, steadier and more available. APPENDICES I: METHODOLOGY AND DEFINITIONS II: TABLES APPENDIX I Methodology and Definitions The method used in the Town and Country Surveys of the Interchurch World Movement and of the Committee on Social and Religious Surveys differs from the method of earlier surveys in this field chiefly in the following particulars: 1. "Rural" was defined as including all population living outside incorporated places of over 5,000. Previous surveys usually excluded all places of 2,500 population or over, which follows the United States Census definition of "rural." 2. The local unit for the assembling of material was the community, regarded, usually, as the trade area of a town or village center. Previous surveys usually took the minor civil division as the local unit. The disadvantage of the community unit is that census and other statistical data are seldom available on that basis, thus increasing both the labor involved and the possibility of error. The great advantage is that it presents its results assembled on the basis of units which have real social significance, which the minor civil division seldom has. This advantage is considered as more than compensating for the disadvantage. 3. The actual service area of each church as indicated by the residences of its members and adherents was mapped and studied. This was an entirely new departure in rural surveys. Four chief processes were involved in the actual field work of these surveys: 1. The determination of the community units and of any subsidiary neighborhood units included within them. The community boundaries were ascertained by noting the location of the last family on each road leading out from a given center who regularly traded at that center. These points, indicated on a map, were connected with each other by straight lines. The area about the given center thus enclosed was regarded as the community. 2. The study of the economic, social and institutional life of each community as thus defined. 3. The location of each church in the county, the determination of its parish area, and the detailed study of its equipment, finance, membership, organization, program and leadership. 4. The preparation of a map showing, in addition to the usual physical features, the boundaries of each community, the location, parish area and circuit connections of each church, and the residence of each minister. The following are the more important definitions used in the making of these surveys and the preparation of the reports: GEOGRAPHICAL _City_--A center of over 5,000 population. Not included within the scope of these surveys except as specifically noted. _Town_--A center with a population of from 2,501 to 5,000. _Village_--A center with a population of from 251 to 2,500. _Hamlet_--Any clustered group of people not living on farms whose numbers do not exceed 250. _Open Country_--The farming area, excluding hamlets and other centers. _Country_--Used in a three-fold division of population included in scope of survey into Town, Village and Country. Includes Hamlets and Open Country. _Town and Country_--The whole area covered by these surveys, i.e., all population living outside cities. _Rural_--Used interchangeably with Town and Country. _Community_--That unit of territory and of population characterized by common social and economic interests and experiences; an "aggregation of people the majority of whose interests have a common center." Usually ascertained by determining the normal trade area of each given center. The primary social grouping of sufficient size and diversity of interests to be practically self-sufficing in ordinary affairs of business, civil and social life. _Neutral Territory_--Any area not definitely included within the area of one community. Usually an area between two or more centers, and somewhat influenced by each, but whose interests are so scattered that it cannot definitely be assigned to the sphere of influence of any one center. _Neighborhood_--A recognizable social grouping having certain interests in common, but dependent for certain elemental needs upon some adjacent center within the community area of which it is located. _Rural Industrial_--Pertaining to any industry other than farming within the Town and Country area. POPULATION _Foreigner_--Refers to foreign-born and native-born of foreign parentage. _New Americans_--Usually includes foreign-born and native-born of foreign or mixed parentage, but sometimes refers only to more recent immigration. In each case the exact meaning is clear from the context. THE CHURCH _Parish_--The area within which the members and regular attendants of a given church live. _Circuit_--Two or more churches combined under the direction of one minister. _Resident Pastor_--A church whose minister lives within its parish area is said to have a resident pastor. _Full-time Resident Pastor_--A church with a resident pastor who serves no other church, and follows no other occupation than the ministry, is said to have a full-time resident pastor. _Part-time Pastor_--A church whose minister either serves another church also, or devotes part of his time to some regular occupation other than the ministry, or both, is said to have a part-time minister. _Non-Resident Member_--One carried on the rolls of a given church but living too far away to permit regular attendance; generally, any member living outside the community in which the church is located unless he is a regular attendant. _Inactive Member_--One who resides within the parish area of the church, but who neither attends its services nor contributes to its support. _Net Active Membership_--The resultant membership of a given church after the number of non-resident and inactive members is deducted from the total on the church roll. _Per Capita Contributions or Expenditures_--The total amount contributed or expended, divided by the number of the net active membership. _Budget System_--A church which, at the beginning of the fiscal year, makes an itemized forecast of the entire amount of money required for its maintenance during the year as a basis for a canvass of its membership for funds, is said to operate on a budget system with respect to its local finances. If amounts to be raised for denominational or other benevolences are included in the forecast and canvass, it is said to operate on a budget system for all monies raised. _Adequate Financial System_--Three chief elements are recognized in an adequate financial system: a budget system, an annual every-member canvass, and the use of envelopes for the weekly payment of subscriptions. _Receipts_--Receipts have been divided under three heads: a. Subscriptions, that is monies received in payment of annual pledges. b. Collections, that is money received from free will offerings at public services. c. All other sources of revenue, chiefly proceeds of entertainments and interest on endowments. _Salary of Minister_--Inasmuch as some ministers receive, in addition to their cash salary, the free use of a house while others do not, a comparison of the cash salaries paid is misleading. In all salary comparisons, therefore, the cash value of a free parsonage is arbitrarily stated as $250 a year, and that amount is added to the cash salary of each minister with free parsonage privileges. Thus an average salary stated as $1,450 is equivalent to $1,200 cash and the free use of a house. APPENDIX II Tables I LAND AND FARM AREA IN THE RANGE COUNTIES ACCORDING TO THE FEDERAL CENSUSES FOR 1910 AND 1920 Beaverhead Hughes 1920 1910 1920 1910 Approximate land area (acres) 3,620,480 3,020,160 485,760 485,760 Land in farms (acres) 637,009 461,315 284,907 165,069 Improved land in farms (acres) 270,603 275,530 144,237 62,531 Woodland in farms (acres) 7,142 3,088 7,032 2,521 8,741 Other unimproved land in farms (acres) 359,264 182,697 133,638 100,017 Per cent. of land area in farms 17.6 15.3 58.7 34.0 Per cent. of farm land improved 42.5 59.7 50.6 37.9 Average acreage per farm 992.1 860.7 784.9 440.2 Average improved acreage per farm 421.5 514.0 397.3 116.7 Sheridan Union 1920 1910 1920 1910 1,647,360 1,648,000 3,436,800 3,436,800 625,796 421,543 2,515,522 814,011 113,385 95,368 273,748 72,630 7,269 51,634 1,854 503,670 318,906 2,190,140 739,527 38.0 25.6 73.2 23.7 18.1 22.6 10.9 8.9 643.8 527.6 948.5 423.3 116.7 119.4 103.2 37.8 The average acreage per farm in Beaverhead and Sheridan has increased very slightly in the past ten years, while the improved acreage per farm has decreased. In Hughes and Union, however, there is a decided increase in both the acreage per farm and the improved acreage per farm. II FARMS AND FARM PROPERTY IN THE RANGE COUNTIES ACCORDING TO THE FEDERAL CENSUSES FOR 1910 AND 1920 _Farms Operated by Owners_ Beaverhead 1920 1910 Number of farms 559 456 Per cent. of all farms 87.1 85.1 Land in farms (acres) 490,453 324,248 Improved land in farms (acres) 214,638 194,592 Value of land, buildings (dollars) 12,753,847 6,021,007 Number of farmers owning entire farm 506 439 Number of farmers hiring additional land 53 17 _Color and Nativity of Owners_ Number of native whites 385 305 Number of foreign-horn whites 174 151 Number of non-whites 0 0 _Farms Operated by Tenants_ Number of farms 46 55 Per cent. of all farms 7.2 10.3 Land in farms (acres) 42,489 43,196 Improved land in farms (acres) 18,536 25,565 Value of land and buildings (dollars) 1,410,170 1,056,695 _Color and Nativity of Tenants_ Number of native whites 37 38 Number of foreign-born whites 9 15 Number of non-whites 0 2 _Farms operated by managers_ Number of farms 37 25 Land in farms (acres) 104,067 93,871 Improved land in farms (acres) 37,429 55,373 Value of land and buildings (dollars) 2,900,920 1,520,630 Hughes Sheridan Union 1920 1910 1920 1910 1920 1910 245 308 734 626 2,282 1,891 67.5 82.1 75.5 78.3 86 98.3 151,684 124,686 455,057 302,076 2,043,800 716,506 69,052 45,675 68,729 63,631 216,881 70,047 6,291,101 3,136,356 10,454,136 6,742,704 22,052,531 3,973,909 165 219 591 503 1,670 1,822 80 89 143 123 612 69 187 224 595 519 2,241 1,809 47 64 131 105 38 77 11 20 8 2 3 5 112 63 198 164 344 22 30.9 16.8 20.4 20.5 13 1.1 117,163 34,283 86,147 108,233 292,004 14,305 65,200 16,136 28,832 28,922 37,362 1,705 3,459,605 933,680 3,663,700 2,616,525 3,424,668 88,840 396 57 173 150 289 20 141 6 24 12 54 2 0 0 1 2 1 0 6 4 40 9 26 10 16,060 6,100 84,592 11,234 179,718 83,200 9,985 720 15,824 2,815 19,505 878 352,500 103,560 2,483,650 240,200 1,834,472 306,210 As is usual in districts that have been homesteaded, the proportion of ownership is high. But because of absentee ownership, land companies operating over large areas and high taxes, the rate of tenancy is increasing. III ACREAGE AND VALUE OF CULTIVATED CROPS IN THE RANGE COUNTIES ACCORDING TO FEDERAL CENSUSES FOR 1910 AND 1920 Beaverhead Hughes _Cereals_ 1920 1910 1920 1910 Corn 10,740 4,352 Oats 4,118 15,255 2,891 3,684 Wheat 2,157 763 4,499 3,761 Barley 903 225 1,560 131 Rye 47 96 962 96 _Hay and Forage_ All tame and cultivated crops 36,243 26,996 4,667 827 _Special Crops_ Potatoes 198 408 219 272 All other vegetables 9 87 25 132 Dollars Dollars Dollars Dollars Value of all crops $3,883,480 $1,529,830 $1,141,939 $ 225,315 Cereals 200,733 414,539 539,471 78,654 Hay and forage 3,597,990 1,080,093 505,323 103,592 Vegetables 80,421 33,622 49,673 15,336 Dairy products 64,083 41,176 71,379 29,162 Sheridan Union 1920 1910 1920 1910 292 200 51,077 3,220 2,916 8,043 2,819 431 11,466 9,898 14,094 377 801 1,601 552 3 93 224 618 10 35,067 35,766 7,925 2,688 267 808 619 157 35 367 142 365 Dollars Dollars Dollars Dollars $1,655,937 $1,108,967 $5,198,986 $ 295,293 335,719 368,205 3,050,879 84,410 1,036,246 596,473 1,092,554 152,494 109,670 110,087 110,700 18,687 174,759 85,512 313,632 18,230 The most important crops are hay and forage in Beaverhead and Sheridan; in Union cereal crops; in Hughes, both in nearly equal proportions. Dairying is a comparatively new development. IV URBAN AND RURAL POPULATION OF THE RANGE COUNTIES ACCORDING TO THE FEDERAL CENSUSES FOR 1910 AND 1920 Beaverhead Hughes 1920 1910 1920 1910 Distribution of population: Rural population 4,668 6,446 2,502 2,615 Rural increase 1910-1920 27.6% -4.3% Urban population 2,701 3,209 3,656 Urban increase 1910-1920 -12.2% Total population 7,369 6,446 5,711 6,271 Total increase 1910-1920 14.3% -8.9% Density of population per sq. mile: Rural density .8 1.4 3.3 3.4 Total density 1.3[9] 1.4 7.5 8.3 No. of dwellings 1,832 1,493 1,301 1,419 No. of families 1,937 1,561 1,387 1,492 Sheridan Union Total 1920 1910 1920 1910 1920 1910 9,007 7,916 16,680 11,404 32,857 28,381 13.8% 46.3% 15.8% 9,175 8,408 15,085 12,064 9.1% 25% 18,182 16,324 16,680 11,404 47,942 40,445 11.4% 46.3% 18.5% 3.5 3.1 3.1 2.1 7.1[9] 6.3 3.1 2.1 4,169 3,376 3,768 2,961 11,070 9,249 4,492 3,186 3,956 3,093 11,772 9,632 V RACIAL COMPOSITION OF POPULATION OF THE RANGE COUNTIES ACCORDING TO FEDERAL CENSUS OF 1920 Beaverhead Hughes Sheridan Union[10] Number Rank Number Rank Number Rank Number Rank Total population 7,369 5,711 18,182 16,680 Native White, Total 6,261 5,155 15,058 16,376 Native parentage 4,454 3,752 11,454 15,512 Foreign parentage 1,024 778 2,314 414 Mixed parentage 783 625 1,290 450 Foreign White, Total 1,035 462 2,895 278 Austria 69 7 15 9 90 12 5 14 Canada 150 1 49 2 126 9 26 3 Czecho-Slovakia 11 14 4 11 90 12 7 12 Denmark 121 2 42 3 44 17 6 13 England 98 5 38 4 194 4 19 5 Finland 23 11 3 12 66 13 0 France 17 12 6 10 51 16 5 14 Germany 107 3 118 1 541 1 49 1 Greece 11 14 4 11 53 15 10 10 Hungary 4 16 1 14 107 11 10 10 Ireland 106 4 22 6 56 14 12 8 Italy 33 9 3 12 240 3 8 11 Jugo-Slavia 27 10 0 169 7 0 Mexico 0 0 192 5 13 7 Norway 33 9 49 2 38 18 3 15 Poland 2 17 2 13 290 2 11 9 Russia 13 13 20 7 181 6 28 2 Scotland 33 9 3 12 108 10 10 10 Sweden 80 6 37 5 143 8 15 6 Switzerland 43 8 18 8 15 20 6 13 Syria 0 0 0 22 4 Wales 7 15 3 12 22 19 0 All other countries 47 25 79 13 Other than white 73 94 229 26 VI AGE AND SCHOOL ATTENDANCE IN THE RANGE COUNTIES ACCORDING TO THE FEDERAL CENSUS FOR 1920 Beaverhead Hughes Sheridan Union Number Per Number Per Number Per Number Per cent. cent. cent. cent. Under 7 years 1,057 ... 847 ... 2,779 ... 3,217 ... 7 to 13 years inclusive 850 ... 790 ... 2,395 ... 2,909 ... Attending school 789 92.8 714 90.4 2,225 92.9 2,594 89.2 14 and 15 years 213 ... 201 ... 564 ... 700 ... Attending school 195 91.5 191 95 495 87.8 590 84.3 16 and 17 years 206 ... 216 ... 531 ... 655 ... Attending school 137 66.5 153 70.8 286 53.9 337 51.5 18 to 20 years inclusive 302 ... 306 ... 829 ... 846 ... Attending school 68 22.5 82 26.8 147 17.8 140 16.5 The proportion of children in school is high through the age of sixteen. Beyond that age the ratio of attendance falls off rapidly, Sheridan and Union having a smaller proportion in school than the other two counties. VII ILLITERACY IN THE RANGE COUNTIES ACCORDING TO THE FEDERAL CENSUS FOR 1920 Beaverhead Hughes Sheridan Union Number Per Number Per Number Per Number Per _Ten Years and Over_ cent. cent. cent. cent. Total 5,950 ... 4,520 ... 14,320 ... 12,123 ... Illiterates 59 1.0 20 1.4 437 3.1 668 5.5 Native Whites 4,863 ... 3,982 ... 11,284 ... 11,830 ... Illiterates 13 .3 2 .1 33 .3 652 5.5 Foreign Born Whites 1,023 ... 460 ... 2,828 ... 276 Illiterates 29 2.8 9 2. 393 13.9 14 5.1 Negro 14 ... 23 ... 131 ... 12 ... Illiterates 3 ... 1 ... 4 3.1 1 ... _16-20 Years Inclusive_ Total 508 ... 522 ... 1,359 ... 1,501 ... Illiterates 2 .4 1 .2 9 .7 44 2.9 _Illiteracy 21 Years and Over_ Males 42 1.4 8 .5 276 4.2 211 4.6 Native Whites 11 ... ... ... 16 ... 205 ... Foreign Born Whites 18 ... 5 ... 252 ... 6 ... Negro 2 ... ... ... 3 ... ... ... Females 15 .8 11 .7 148 3.2 350 9.2 Native Whites 1 ... 1 ... 9 ... 341 ... Foreign Born Whites 10 ... 4 ... 137 ... 8 ... Negro 1 ... ... ... 1 ... 1 ... The rate of illiteracy is higher in Sheridan and Union than in Beaverhead and Hughes. VIII DEVELOPMENT OF PROTESTANT CHURCH ORGANIZATIONS ON THE CHANGING FRONTIER A BEAVERHEAD Total Number Churches K SHERIDAN Number Now Abandoned B BEAVERHEAD Number Now Active L SHERIDAN Number Now Inactive C BEAVERHEAD Number Now Abandoned M UNION Total Number Churches D BEAVERHEAD Number Now Inactive N UNION Number Now Active E HUGHES Total Number Churches O UNION Number Now Abandoned F HUGHES Number Now Active P UNION Number Now Inactive G HUGHES Number Now Abandoned Q TOTAL Total Number Churches H HUGHES Number Now Inactive R TOTAL Number Now Active I SHERIDAN Total Number Churches S TOTAL Number Now Abandoned J SHERIDAN Number Now Active T TOTAL Number Now Inactive Period of organization: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T 1871-80 1 1 .. .. 1 1 .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. .. 2 2 2 .. 1881-90 7 4 3 .. 8 7 1 .. 3 2 1 .. 1 1 .. .. 19 14 5 .. 1891-1900 .. .. .. .. 1 1 .. .. 5 5 .. .. 3 3 .. .. 9 9 .. .. 1901-10 2 2 .. .. 1 1 .. .. 7 4 1 2 15 9 5 1 25 16 6 3 1911-20 .. .. .. .. 5 5 .. .. 6 6 .. .. 21 18 3 .. 32 29 3 .. -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- Total 10 7 3 .. 16 15 1 .. 21 17 2 2 40 31 8 1 87 70 14 3 About one-sixth of all the churches which have been organized are now either abandoned or inactive. Population has shifted; communities have changed; the churches sometimes have not survived. IX-A DISTRIBUTION OF CHURCHES AMONG DENOMINATIONS Churches in _Denominations_ Country Village Town City Total Baptist, North 0 1 2 1 4 Baptist, South 3 1 1 0 5 Church of Christ or Christian 0 1 1 1 3 Church of Christ (Unprogressive) 2 1 0 0 3 Congregational 3 0 1 1 5 Evangelical Association 0 0 1 0 1 Lutheran: Norwegian Lutheran of America 0 0 1 0 1 German 0 0 0 1 1 Swedish 0 0 0 1 1 Polish 0 1 0 0 1 Others 0 1 0 0 1 Methodist, North 13 6 3 1 23 Methodist, South 6 0 0 0 6 Nazarene 1 0 0 0 1 Presbyterian in U. S. A. 3 2 1 1 7 Protestant Episcopal 0 0 2 1 3 Seventh Day Adventist 1 0 0 1 2 United Brethren 2 0 0 0 2 -- -- -- -- -- Total 34 14 13 9 70 IX-B _Denominations_ Beaverhead Hughes Sheridan Union Total Baptist North 1 1 2 0 4} Baptist South 0 0 0 5 5} 9 Church of Christ or Christian 0 1 1 1 3 Church of Christ (Unprogressive) 0 0 0 3 3 Congregational 0 2 3 0 5 Evangelical Association 0 1 0 0 1 Lutheran: Norwegian Lutheran of America 0 1 0 0 1} German 0 0 1 0 1} Swedish 0 0 1 0 1} 5 Polish 0 0 1 0 1} Others 0 1 0 0 1} Methodist North 2 6 5 10 23} Methodist South 0 0 0 6 6} 29 Nazarenes 0 0 0 1 1 Presbyterian in U. S. A. 3 1 1 2 7 Protestant Episcopal 1 1 1 0 3 Seventh Day Adventist 0 0 1 1 2 United Brethren 0 0 0 2 2 -- -- -- -- -- Total 7 15 17 31 70 With so many denominations at work in the field, every square mile of inhabited area ought to be reached. But large areas and many people are not even touched by the church. X-A RESIDENCE AND ACTIVITY OF CHURCH MEMBERS BY TYPES OF COMMUNITIES Churches in Country Village Town City Total Net active members 616 497 1,178 1,665 3,956 Inactive " 129 66 221 607 1,013 Non-resident " 152 60 186 453 851 Total enrollment 897 623 1,575 2,725 5,820 Average per congregation 26 45 121 303 83 X-B BY COUNTIES Churches in Beaverhead Hughes Sheridan Union Total Net active members 345 884 1,988 739 3,956 Inactive " 96 74 646 197 1,013 Non-resident " 94 108 496 153 851 Total enrollment 535 1,066 3,130 1,089 5,820 Average per congregation 76 71 184 35 83 The non-resident member is an "unattached Christian" and no one looks out for him. XI-A CHURCHES CLASSIFIED ACCORDING TO SIZE BY TYPES OF COMMUNITIES Churches with a net active membership of: Country Village Town City Total 25 or less 26 7 2 1 36 26 to 50 7 4 1 1 13 51 to 100 1 3 5 1 10 101 to 150 0 0 3 1 4 Over 150 0 0 2 5 7 -- -- -- -- -- Total 34 14 13 9 70 XI-B BY COUNTIES Churches with a net active membership of: Beaverhead Hughes Sheridan Union Total 25 or less 3 7 4 22 36 26 to 50 1 2 5 5 13 51 to 100 2 3 2 3 10 101 to 150 1 1 1 1 4 Over 150 0 2 5 0 7 -- -- -- -- -- Total 7 15 17 31 70 Scattered and transient population together with denominational competition has resulted in a large proportion of small churches. XII HOW THE CHURCHES HAVE GROWN DURING A ONE-YEAR PERIOD BY TYPES OF COMMUNITIES Country Village Town City Churches Churches Churches Churches Total Number Per Number Per Number Per Number Per Number Per Cent Cent Cent Cent Cent Gained 12 35 7 50 10 77 8 89 37 53 Stationary 9 27 6 43 1 8 0 0 16 23 Declined 13 38 1 7 2 15 1 11 17 24 -- --- -- --- -- --- -- --- -- --- Total 34 100 14 100 13 100 9 100 70 100 The gain in church membership increases with the size of the community. XIII MEMBERSHIP GAIN OF THE CHURCHES ORGANIZED TEN YEARS OR MORE, DURING THE LAST TEN YEARS Nine Seven Thirteen Eight Country Village Town City Year Churches Churches Churches Churches Total 1910 257 166 1,197 1,012 2,632 1915 303 278 1,385 2,011 3,977 1920 326 271 1,575 2,660 4,852 Village and Country Churches Increased 41% Town and City Churches Increased 92%. XIV AGE AND SEX OF RESIDENT MEMBERS By Counties Beaverhead Hughes Sheridan Union Men over 21 24% 31% 31% 33% Women over 21 55% 45% 47% 47% Young men and boys under 21 8% 10% 9% 7% Young women and girls under 21 13% 14% 13% 13% The churches are not winning the boys and girls. They need better recreational methods and broader programs. XV WAYS OF RAISING MONEY A CITY Beaverhead K VILLAGE Sheridan B CITY Hughes L VILLAGE Union C CITY Sheridan M COUNTRY Beaverhead D CITY Union N COUNTRY Hughes E TOWN Beaverhead O COUNTRY Sheridan F TOWN Hughes P COUNTRY Union G TOWN Sheridan Q ENTIRE COUNTY Beaverhead H TOWN Union R ENTIRE COUNTY Hughes I VILLAGE Beaverhead S ENTIRE COUNTY Sheridan J VILLAGE Hughes T ENTIRE COUNTY Union Number of churches with: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T Budget for all monies 0 0 5 0 2[11] 3 0 1 0 2 0 1 0 4 4 3 2 9 9 5 Budget for local expenses only 0 0 1 0 1 3 0 1 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 2 1 4 1 3 Annual every member canvass 0 0 6 0 3[11] 5 0 2 0 4 0 1 0 3 4 4 3 12 10 7 Both budget and every member canvass 0 0 6 0 3[11] 5 0 1 0 3 0 1 0 3 4 3 3 11 10 5 No budget and no every member canvass 0 0 3 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 0 4 0 0 1 11 0 0 4 16 Total number of churches 0 0 9 0 4 6 0 3 2 5 2 5 1 4 6 23 7 15 17 31 A fair proportion of the churches are using modern methods of financing their work. XVI OCCUPATIONS OF CHURCH MEMBERS A Number of Members B Per Cent of Total Churches Located in CITY TOWN VILLAGE COUNTRY ENTIRE COUNTY A B A B A B A B A B Beaverhead: Retired farmers 6 5.7 6 5.3 Operating farmers 28 26.6 28 24.8 Farm renters Farm laborers Business or professional 51 48.6 2 40 2 66.7 55 48.7 All others 20 19.1 3 60 1 33.3 24 21.2 Total reporting occupations 105 100 5 100 3 100 113 100 Hughes: Retired farmers 6 2.8 1 1.7 7 2.5 Operating farmers 8 3.8 34 58.7 6 75 48 17.2 Farm renters 12 20.7 1 12.5 13 4.7 Farm laborers Business or professional 114 53.5 6 10.3 120 43 All others 85 39.9 5 8.6 1 12.5 91 32.6 Total reporting occupations 213 100 58 100 8 100 279 100 Sheridan: Retired farmers 16 2.3 16 2 Operating farmers 49 7.2 41 51.8 90 11.1 Farm renters 8 12 15 19 23 2.8 Farm laborers 5 .7 5 .6 Business or professional 179 26.2 6 7.6 185 22.9 All others 426 62.4 49 100 17 21.6 492 60.6 Total reporting occupations 683 100 49 100 79 100 811 100 Union: Retired farmers 1 1 Operating farmers 13 16.4 41 622 46 80.1 100 49.5 Farm renters 3 5.1 3 1.5 Farm laborers 3 5.1 3 1.5 Business or professional 36 45.6 11 16.6 3 5.1 50 24.7 All others 30 38 14 212 2 3.6 46 22.8 Total reporting occupations 79 100 66 100 57 100 202 100 Of the four counties, Union is the only one with a higher percentage of farmers on its rolls than of men in other occupations. Yet over half the churches in the four counties are country churches. XVII-A THE AMOUNT OF MONEY RAISED AND SPENT The amount raised by the local churches is $97,571.98. Per cent. Subscription $70,910.74 72.68 Collections 9,464.24 9.7 All other methods 17,197.00 17.62 ---------- $97,571.98 XVII-B The amount spent by the local churches is $96,992.85. Per cent. Salaries $41,268.79 43. Missions and benevolences 24,657.55 25. Upkeep and all other expenses 31,066.51 32. The entire amount spent for church purposes is $110,080.35. Per cent. Salaries $54,356.29[12] 49. Missions and benevolences 24,657.55 23. Upkeep and all other expenses 31,066.51 28. Of the entire church dollar, about 12 per cent. comes from Denominational Boards. XVIII RECEIPTS PER CHURCH Country Village Town City Total Thirty-one Fourteen Thirteen Eight Sixty-six From: Churches Churches Churches Churches Churches Subscription $235.45 $526.51 $1,972.93 $3,824.04 $1,074.41 Collections 57.99 106.57 254.35 358.49 143.40 All other methods 12.96 297.42 458.01 834.63 260.55 ------- ------- --------- --------- --------- Total $306.40 $930.50 $2,685.29 $5,017.16 $1,478.36 XIX RECEIPTS PER ACTIVE MEMBER Country Village Town City Total Thirty-one Fourteen Thirteen Eight Sixty-six Churches Churches Churches Churches Churches Subscription $12.39 $14.07 $21.77 $18.65 $18.04 Collections 3.05 2.85 2.81 1.75 2.41 All other methods .68 7.95 5.05 4.07 4.37 ------ ------ ------ ------ ------ Total $16.12 $24.87 $29.63 $24.47 $24.82 The average active member is generous in the support of his church. XX EXPENDITURES PER CHURCH Country Village Town City Total Thirty-one Fourteen Thirteen Eight Sixty-six For: Churches Churches Churches Churches Churches Salaries $220.12 $366.43 $1,247.31 $1,637.50 $625.28 Missions and Benevolences 42.59 117.85 638.84 1,672.75 373.60 Upkeep and all other expenses 40.95 441.63 794.22 1,661.18 470.70 ------- ------- --------- --------- --------- Total $303.66 $925.91 $2,680.37 $4,971.43 $1,469.58 XXI EXPENDITURES PER ACTIVE MEMBER Country Village Town City Total Thirty-one Fourteen Thirteen Eight Sixty-six For: Churches Churches Churches Churches Churches Salaries $11.59 $9.79 $13.76 $7.99 $10.50 Missions and Benevolences 2.24 3.15 7.05 8.16 6.27 Upkeep and all other expenses 2.16 11.80 8.76 8.10 7.90 ------ ------ ------ ------ ------ Total $15.99 $24.74 $29.57 $24.25 $24.67 XXII-A HOW A TYPICAL DOLLAR IS RAISED AND SPENT BY THE LOCAL CHURCHES Country Village Town City Total Thirty-one Fourteen Thirteen Eight Sixty-six By: Churches Churches Churches Churches Churches Subscription $.77 $.57 $.74 $.76 $.73 Collections .19 .11 .09 .07 .10 All other methods .04 .32 .17 .17 .17 ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- Total $1.00 $1.00 $1.00 $1.00 $1.00 XXII-B Country Village Town City Total Thirty-one Fourteen Thirteen Eight Sixty-six For: Churches Churches Churches Churches Churches Salary $.72 $.39 $.46 $.33 $.43 Missions and Benevolences .14 .13 .24 .34 .25 Upkeep and all other expenses .14 .48 .30 .33 .32 ----- ----- ----- ----- ----- Total $1.00 $1.00 $1.00 $1.00 $1.00 On the average, these churches devote one-fourth of their receipts to benevolences. XXIII GRADING FOR HOME MISSION FIELDS--PRESBYTERIAN CHURCH IN U. S. A. A. Promising Field: 1. Prospect of self-support. 2. Strategic service opportunity. B. Problematic Field: 1. Uncertain of community development. 2. Denominational responsibility uncertain. C. Field to be relinquished: 1. Should be self-sustaining. 2. Work should be discontinued. This would be a good test to apply to every aided church on the Range. XXIV NUMBER OF CHURCH SERVICES Number of Services Country Village Town City a Month Churches Churches Churches Churches Total Eight 3 3[13] 12[14] 7 25 Seven 0 0 0 0 0 Six 0 0 1 0 1 Five 0 0 0 0 0 Four 6 6[13] 0 2 14 Three 0 0 0 0 0 Two 9 3 0 0 12 One 12 0 0 0 12 No regular service 2 2 0 0 4 Services in summer only 2 0 0 0 2 -- -- -- -- -- Total 34 14 13 9 70 About three hours a week set aside for church services and Sunday school means six days a year; only twenty-five out of seventy churches have as large a number. XXV ATTENDANCE AT SERVICES COMPARED WITH SEATING CAPACITY AND ACTIVE MEMBERSHIP Beaverhead Hughes Sheridan Union Average seating capacity 197 277 286 160 Average active membership 49 59 117 24 Average attendance at services 52 50 80 67 An average attendance one-third less than the seating capacity means many empty seats. XXVI ORGANIZATIONS IN THE CHURCHES OTHER THAN SUNDAY SCHOOLS Mixed Men Women Grown-up Young People Number Members Number Members Number Members Number Members Churches in: Country 0 0 9 171 0 0 10 239 Village 0 0 9 166 0 0 3 81 Town 2 74 22 710 0 0 9 314 City 5 226 16 635 2 40 6 200 -- --- -- ----- -- -- -- --- Total 7 300 56 1,682 2 40 28 834 Boys Girls Boys and Girls Number Members Number Members Number Members 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 3 54 5 128 2 73 1 15 3 94 0 0 -- -- -- --- -- -- 4 69 8 222 2 73 Women's organizations are numerous; men have only one-eighth as many. Less than half of the churches have young people's organizations. XXVII NUMBER OF PASTORS WHO HAVE SERVED THE CHURCHES WHICH HAVE BEEN ORGANIZED TEN YEARS OR MORE A One Pastor F Six Pastors B Two Pastors G Seven Pastors C Three Pastors H Eight Pastors D Four Pastors I Nine Pastors E Five Pastors Churches in: A B C D E F G H I Country 1 1 2 2 2 3 1 0 1 Village 1 1 1 2 1 1 3 1 0 Town 0 1 3 4 2 2 1 0 0 City 1 2 1 2 2 0 0 0 0 -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- Total 3 5 7 10 7 6 5 1 1 The turn-over on the part of the ministers has been high. Two-thirds of these churches have had a new minister every two and one half years or oftener. XXVIII RESIDENCE OF PASTORS IN RELATION TO THEIR CHURCHES Country Village Town City Total Churches with: Pastor resident in parish 8 8[15] 10 8 34 Pastor resident in community but not in parish 4 0 0 0 4 Pastor resident in other community in same county 12 2 0 0 14 Pastor resident in another county 3 0 1 0 4 No regular pastor 4 4 2 0 10 Supply pastor 3 0 0 1 4 -- -- -- -- -- Total 34 14 13 9 70 About half of the churches have their ministers resident among the members. XXIX SALARIES OF MINISTERS ACCORDING TO PROPORTION OF TIME DEVOTED TO THE MINISTRY Ministers Giving Ministers Full Time to with other Ministry Occupation With One With More Than Church One Church Pastors receiving:[16] Over $2,000 6 3 $1,501-$2,000 4 3 2 $1,201-$1,500 5 3 0 $1,001-$1,200 2 2 0 $ 751-$1,000 0 3 1 $ 501-$ 750 1 0 0 $ 101-$ 500 0 0 2 $ 100 or less 0 0 1 No salary 0 0 2 -- -- -- Total 18 14 8 With the high cost of living, it is difficult to sustain adequate family life on many of these salaries. It is not strange that eight of the ministers must earn part of their support at other occupations. XXX GAIN AND LOSS IN MEMBERSHIP AS RELATED TO RESIDENCE OF MINISTERS (One year period) Churches with: Country Village Town City Total Resident minister 8 8[17] 10 8 34 Number gaining 4 5 7 7 23 Number stationary 2 3 2 0 7 Number losing 2 0 1 1 4 Non-resident minister 19 2 1 0 22 Number gaining 5 2 1 0 8 Number stationary 17 0 0 0 7 Number losing 7 0 0 0 7 About two-thirds of the churches with resident ministers made a gain in membership; of the churches with non-resident ministers only about one-third show a gain. Fourteen churches were either pastorless or were served by a supply. Six of them made a gain during the year preceding the survey. FOOTNOTES: [1] See Wilson, "Sectional Characteristics," _Homelands_, August, 1920. [2] A monument to Sacajawea was erected in Armstead in 1915. [3] Three country churches raised no money during the year and one city church, which tithes, did not have financial figures available. [4] See Table XXIII. [5] 17 country churches have buildings. [6] 13 village churches have buildings. [7] The membership of the separate boys' and girls' organizations cannot be added here because it would involve duplication. [8] The capital letters in parentheses in the Table indicate the respective counties, Beaverhead, Hughes, Sheridan, Union. [9] In deriving these figures the Census Board has included the forest reserve territory. The following figures were obtained by excluding this area (with the exception of the inhabited portion of Beaverhead): Total density per square mile of Beaverhead 2.1 Total density per square mile of Sheridan 9.2 On the Range the development of centers is just beginning. [10] The Census does not give Spanish-American separately. They are of course native-born and are included under that division. Per cent. of native increase is 20.7 in Beaverhead for 1910-20 " " " " decrease " 4.1 " Hughes " 1910-20 " " " " increase " 12.1 " Sheridan " 1910-20 " " " " " " 32.2 " Union " 1910-20 In Sheridan, the "New Americans" are in the mines; in the other counties, they are on the land. [11] Two federated churches have a single budget and a single canvass. [12] 76.37% of this amount was raised by local churches. The rest came from the denominational boards. [13] One church in each of these groups unites regularly with a church holding eight services. [14] One church in this group also has four week day services. One church has its four services on week day nights and has no Sunday services. [15] One church in this group has two resident social workers. [16] Including $250 rental value of parsonage if there is one. [17] One church in this group has two resident social workers. UNIQUE STUDIES OF RURAL AMERICA TOWN AND COUNTRY SERIES TWELVE VOLUMES MADE UNDER THE DIRECTION OF EDMUND DES. BRUNNER, PH.D. What the Protestant Churches Are Doing and Can Do for Rural America--The Results of Twenty-six Intensive County Surveys _Description_ _Publication Date_ (1) Church and Community Survey of Salem County, N. J. Ready (2) Church and Community Survey of Pend Oreille County, Washington Ready (3) Church and Community Survey of Sedgwick County, Kansas Ready (4) Religion in the Old and New South Forthcoming (5) The New and Old Immigrant on the Land, as seen in two Wisconsin Counties Ready (6) Rural Church Life in the Middle West Ready (7) The Country Church in Colonial Counties Ready (8) Irrigation and Religion, a study of two prosperous California Counties Ready (9) The Church on the Changing Frontier Ready (10) The Rural Church Before and After the War, Comparative Studies of Two Surveys Forthcoming (11) The Country Church in Industrial Zones Ready (12) The Town and Country Church in the United States Forthcoming "_They are fine pieces of work and examples of what we need to have done on a large scale._" Dr. Charles A. Ellwood, Dept. of Sociology, University of Missouri. "_I am heartily appreciative of these splendid results._" Rev. Charles S. Macfarland, Genl. Secy., Federal Council of the Churches of Christ in America. Published by GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY, New York FOR COMMITTEE ON SOCIAL AND RELIGIOUS SURVEYS 111 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK 
20382	----	[Illustration: ONE OF THE "BOYS." (Portrait. See p. 125.) Frontispiece.] RANCHING, SPORT AND TRAVEL BY THOMAS CARSON, F.R.G.S. WITH SIXTEEN ILLUSTRATIONS T. FISHER UNWIN LONDON LEIPSIC Adelphi Terrace Inselstrasse 20 1911 [_All Rights Reserved_] INTRODUCTORY NOTE This book is somewhat in the nature of an autobiography, covering as it does almost the whole of the Author's life. The main portion of the volume is devoted to cattle ranching in Arizona, New Mexico and Texas. The Author has also included a record of his travels abroad, which he hopes will prove to be not uninteresting; and a chapter devoted to a description of tea planting in India. CONTENTS CHAP. PAGE I. TEA PLANTING 13 In Cachar--Apprenticeship--Tea Planting described--Polo --In Sylhet--Pilgrims at Sacred Pool--Wild Game--Amusements--Rainfall--Return to Cachar--Scottpore --Snakes--A Haunted Tree--Hill Tribes--Selecting a Location--Return to England. II. CATTLE RANCHING IN ARIZONA 42 Leave for United States of America--Iowa--New Mexico--Real Estate Speculation--Gambling--Billy the Kid--Start Ranching in Arizona--Description of Country--Apache and other Indians--Fauna--Branding Cattle--Ranch Notes--Mexicans--Politics--Summer Camp--Winter Camp--Fishing and Shooting--Indian Troubles. III. CATTLE RANCHING IN ARIZONA (_continued_) 81 The Cowboy--Accoutrements and Weapons--Desert Plants--Politics and Perjury--Mavericks--Mormons--Bog Riding. IV. ODDS AND ENDS 103 Scent and Instinct--Mules--Roping Contests--Antelopes --The Skunk--Garnets--Leave Arizona. V. RANCHING IN NEW MEXICO 117 The Scottish Company--My Difficulties and Dangers--Mustang Hunting--Round-up described--Shipping Cattle--Railroad Accidents--Close out Scotch Company's Interests. VI. ODDS AND ENDS 152 Summer Round-up Notes--Night Guarding--Stampedes--Bronco Busting--Cattle Branding, etc. VII. ON MY OWN RANCH 170 Locating--Plans--Prairie Fires and Guards--Bulls--Trading --Successful Methods--Loco-weed--Sale of Ranch. VIII. ODDS AND ENDS 198 The "Staked Plains"--High Winds--Lobo Wolves--Branding --Cows--Black Jack--Lightning and Hail--Classing Cattle--Conventions--"Cutting" versus Polo--Bull-Fight--Prize-Fights--River and Sea Fishing--Sharks. IX. IN AMARILLO 226 Purchase of Lots--Building--Boosting a Town. X. FIRST TOUR ABROAD 234 Mexico--Guatemala--Salvador--Panama--Colombia--Venezuela --Jamaica--Cuba--Fire in Amarillo--Rebuilding. XI. SECOND TOUR ABROAD 250 Bermudas--Switzerland--Italy--Monte Carlo--Algiers --Morocco--Spain--Biarritz and Pau. XII. THIRD TOUR ABROAD 256 Salt Lake City--Canada--Vancouver--Hawaii--Fiji --Australia--New Zealand--Tasmania--Summer at Home. XIII. FOURTH TOUR ABROAD 270 Yucatan--Honduras--Costa Rica--Panama--Equador--Peru --Chile--Argentina--Brazil--Teneriffe. XIV. FIFTH TOUR ABROAD 287 California--Honolulu--Japan--China--Singapore--Burmah --India--Ceylon--The End. APPENDIX 317 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS ONE OF THE "BOYS" (_see_ page 125) _Frontispiece_ PLUCKING TEA LEAF 20 NAGAS 37 ROPING A GRIZZLY 70 A SHOOTING SCRAPE 76 ONE OF OUR MEN, TO SHOW HANG OF SIX-SHOOTER 78 1883 IN ARIZONA, AUTHOR AND PARTY 80 WOUND UP, HORSE TANGLED IN ROPE 106 WATERING A HERD 116 HERD ON TRAIL, SHOWING LEAD STEER 137 CHANGING HORSES 153 A REAL BAD ONE 164 BREAKING THE PRAIRIE 230 FIRST CROP--MILO MAIZE 230 LLAMAS AS PACK ANIMALS 279 DRIFTING SAND DUNE, ONE OF THOUSANDS 279 PERUVIAN RUINS. NOTE DIMENSIONS OF STONES AND LOCKING SYSTEM 281 PALACE OF MAHARANA OF UDAIPUR 310 RANCHING, SPORT AND TRAVEL CHAPTER I TEA PLANTING In Cachar--Apprenticeship--Tea Planting described--Polo--In Sylhet--Pilgrims at Sacred Pool--Wild Game--Amusements--Rainfall--Return to Cachar--Scottpore--Snakes--A Haunted Tree--Hill Tribes--Selecting a Location--Return to England. Having no inclination for the seclusion and drudgery of office work, determined to lead a country life of some kind or other, and even then having a longing desire to roam the world and see foreign countries, I had arranged to accompany a friend to the Comoro Islands, north of Madagascar; but changing my mind and accepting the better advice of friends, my start was made, not to the Comoro Islands, but to India and the tea district of Cachar. Accordingly the age of twenty-two and the year 1876 saw me on board a steamer bound for Calcutta. Steamers were slow sailers in those days, and it was a long trip via Gibraltar, Suez, Malta, the Canal and Point de Galle; but it was all very interesting to me. Near Point de Galle we witnessed from the steamer a remarkable sight, a desperate fight, it seemed to be a fight and not play, between a sea-serpent, which seemed to be about fifteen feet long, and a huge ray. The battle was fought on the surface of the water and even out of it, as the ray several times threw himself into the air. How it ended we could not see. Anyway we had seen the sea-serpent, though not the fabulous monster so often written about, and yet whose existence cannot be disproved. The sea-serpent's tail is flattened. At Calcutta I visited a tea firm, who sent me up to Cachar to help at one of the gardens till a vacancy should occur. Calcutta, by the way, is or was overrun by jackals at night. They are the scavengers of the town and hunt in packs through the streets, their wolfish yelling being a little disconcerting to a stranger. It was a long twelve days, but again a very interesting journey, in a native river boat, four rowers (or towers), to my destination. I had a servant with me, who proved a good, efficient cook and attendant. It was rather trying to the "griffin" to notice, floating in the river, corpses of natives, frequently perched upon by hungry vultures. The tea-garden selected for me was Narainpore, successfully managed by a fellow-countryman, who proved to be a capital chap and who made my stay with him very pleasant. Narainpore was one of the oldest gardens, on teelah (hilly) land and quite healthy. There I gave what little help I could, picked up some of the lingo, and learned a good deal about the planting, growth and manufacture of tea. Neighbours were plentiful and life quite sociable. Twice a week in the cold weather we played polo, sometimes with Munipoories, a hill tribe whose national game it is, and who were then the undoubted champions. The Regent Senaputti was a keen player, and very picturesque in his costume of green velvet zouave jacket, salmon-pink silk dhotee and pink silk turban. In Munipoor even the children have their weekly polo matches. They breed ponies specially for the game, and use them for nothing else, nor would they sell their best. Still, we rode Munipoor "tats" costing us from 50 rupees to 100. They were exceedingly small, averaging not eleven hands high, but wiry, active, speedy, full of grit, and seemed to love the game. As the game was there played, seven formed a side, the field was twice as large as now and there were no goals. The ball had to be simply driven over the end line to count a score. It may be remarked here that the great Akbar was so fond of polo, but otherwise so busy, that he played the game at night with luminous balls. These Munipoories were a very fine race of people, much lighter of colour than their neighbouring tribes, very stately and dignified in their bearing, and thorough sportsmen. Many of their women were really handsome, and the girls, with red hibiscus blossoms stuck in their jet-black hair, and their merry, laughing faces and graceful figures, were altogether quite attractive to the Sahib Log. But to return to tea. Our bungalow was of the usual type, consisting of cement floor, roof of crossed bamboos and two feet of sun-grass thatch, supported by immense teak posts, hard as iron and bidding defiance to the white ants. The walls were of mats. Tea-gardens usually had a surface of 300 to 1000 acres; some were on comparatively level ground, some on hilly (teelah) land. These teelahs were always carefully terraced to prevent the wash of soil and permit cultivation. The plants were spaced about three to six feet apart, according to whether they were of the Chinese, the hybrid, or the pure indigenous breed, the last being the largest, in its native state developing to the dimensions of a small tree. I may as well here at once give a short sketch of the principal features of tea planting and manufacture, which will show what the duties of a planter are, and how various are the occupations and operations embraced. One must necessarily first have labour (coolies). These are recruited in certain districts of India, usually by sending good reliable men, already in your employ, to their home country, under a contract to pay them so much a head for every coolie they can persuade (by lies or otherwise) to come to your garden. The coolies must then bind themselves to work for you for, say, three to four years. They are paid for their work, not much it is true, but enough to support them with comfort; the men about three annas (or fourpence) a day, the women two annas (or threepence). As they get to know their work and become expert, the good men will earn as much as six annas a day, and some of the women, when plucking leaf, about the same. This is more than abundant for these people. They not only have every comfort, but they become rich, so that in a few years they are able to rest on their earnings, and work only at their convenience and when they feel like it. They are supplied with nothing, neither food nor clothing; medicine alone is free to them. The native staff of a garden consists of, say, two baboos, or book-keepers and clerks, a doctor baboo, sirdars or overseers, and chowkidars or line watchmen. A sirdar accompanies and has charge of each gang of coolies on whatever branch of work. One is also in charge of the factory or tea-house. Plant growth ceases about the end of October. Then cold-weather work begins, including the great and important operation of pruning, which requires a large force and will occupy most of the winter. Also charcoal-burning for next season's supply; road-making, building and repairing, jungle-cutting, bridge-building, and nursery-making: that is, preparing with great care beds in which the seed will be planted early in spring. Cultivation is also, of course, carried on; it can never be overdone. In the factory, some men are busy putting together or manufacturing new tea-boxes, lining them carefully with lead, which needs close attention, as the smallest hole in the lining of a tea-chest will cause serious injury to the contents. When spring opens and the first glorious "flush" is on the bushes, there is a readjustment of labour. Pluckers begin to gather the leaf, and as the season advances more pluckers are needed, till possibly every man, woman and child may be called on for this operation alone, it being so important that the leaf flush does not get ahead and out of control, so that the leaf would get tough and hard and less fit for manufacture; but cultivation is almost equally important, and every available labourer is kept hard at it. What a pleasure it is to watch a good expert workman, be he carpenter, bricklayer, ploughman, blacksmith, or only an Irish navvy. In even the humblest of these callings the evidence of much training, practice or long apprenticeship is noticeable. To an amateur who has tried such work himself it will soon be apparent how crude his efforts are, how little he knows of the apparently simple operation. The navvy seems to work slowly; but he knows well, because his task is a day-long one, that his forces must be economised, that over-exertion must be avoided. This lesson was brought home to me when exasperated by the seeming laziness of the coolie cultivators, I would seize a man's hoe and fly at the work, hoe vigorously for perhaps five minutes, swear at the man for his lack of strenuousness, then retire and find myself puffing and blowing and almost in a state of collapse. If an addition or extension is being made to the garden, the already cut jungle has to be burnt and the ground cleared in early spring, the soil broken up and staked: that is, small sticks put in regular rows and intervals to show where the young plants are to be put. Then when the rains have properly set in the actual planting begins. This is a work that requires a lot of labour and close and careful superintendence. Imagine what it means to plant out 100 acres of ground, the plants set only three or four feet apart! The right plucking of the leaf calls for equally careful looking after. The women are paid by the amount or weight they pluck, so they are very liable to pluck carelessly and so damage the succeeding flush, or they may gather a lot of old leaf unsuited for manufacturing purposes. In short, every detail of work, even cultivation, demands close supervision and the whole attention of the planter. When the new-plucked leaf is brought home it is spread out to wither in suitably-built sheds. (Here begins the tea-maker's responsibility.) Then it must be rolled, by hand or by machinery; fermented, and fired or dried over charcoal ovens; separated in its different classes, the younger the leaf bud the more valuable the tea. It is then packed in boxes for market, and sampled by the planter. He does this by weighing a tiny quantity of each class or grade of tea into separate cups, pouring boiling water on them, and then tasting the liquor by sipping a little into the mouth, not to be swallowed, but ejected again. [Illustration: PLUCKING TEA LEAF.] All this will give an idea of the variety of duties of a tea-planter. He has no time for shooting, polo, or visiting during the busy season. But at mid-winter the great annual Mela takes place at the station, the local seat of Government. The Mela lasts a couple of weeks, and it is a season of fun and jollity with both planters and natives. There were two or three social clubs in Silchar; horse and pony racing, polo, cricket and football filled the day, dinner and sociability the night; and what nights! The amount of liquor consumed at these meetings was almost incredible. Nothing can look more beautiful or more gratifying to the eye of the owner than a tract of tea, pruned level as a table and topped with new fresh young leaf-shoots, four to eight inches high, in full flush, ready for the pluckers' nimble fingers. At the end of one year I was offered and accepted the position of assistant at a Sylhet garden, called Kessoregool, the property consisting of three distinct gardens, the principal one being directly overseered by the manager, an American. He, of course, was my superior. My charge was the Lucky Cherra Gardens, some few miles away. There I spent two years, learning what I could of the business, but without the advantage of European society; in fact, the Burra Sahib and myself were almost the only whites in the district, and as he was drunk quite half the time, and we did not pull very well together, I was left to my own resources. I found amusement in various ways. There was no polo, but some of the native zemindars (landed proprietors) were always ready to get up a beat for leopards, tigers, deer and pig. Their method was simply to drive the game into a net corral and spear them to death. The Government Keddas, under Colonel Nuttal, were also not far away in hill Tipperah, and it was intensely interesting to watch operations. Close to my garden also was a sacred pool and a very beautiful waterfall. This was visited twice a year by immense numbers of natives, some from great distances, for it was a famous and renowned place of pilgrimage. It could only be approached through my garden; and as there was no wagon road, the pilgrims were always open to inspection, so to speak; and they were well worth inspection, as among them were many races, all ages, both sexes, every caste or jat; robes, turbans and cupras of every shape and colour; fakirs and wonder-workers, and beggars galore. Here, and on such an occasion only, could the sahib see face to face the harems of the wealthy natives, consisting of women who at no other time showed themselves out of doors. Being the only sahib present I had all the "fun of the fair" to myself, but always regretted the want of a companion to share it with me. As to wild game, there were lots of jungle fowl (original stock of our familiar barn-door cocks and hens), a few pigeons, Argus pheasants, small barking deer, pigs, sambur, barrasingha, metnas, crocodiles, leopards, tigers, bears and elephants; but I had little time for shooting and it was expensive work, the jungle being so thick that riding elephants were quite necessary. If keen enough, one could sit all night on a machan in a tree near a recent "kill," on the chance of Stripes showing himself; but it never appealed to me much, that kind of sport. If a tiger was raiding the cattle I would poison the "kill" with strychnine. In this way I secured several very fine animals, getting two at one time, so successfully poisoned that their bodies actually lay on the dead bullock. One time I shot an enormous python, some eighteen feet in length, which took several men to carry home. Monkeys were plentiful and of several kinds. I was very fond of wandering amongst the high-tree jungle and quietly watching their antics. In the dense forest there is little undergrowth, so that one can move about freely and study the extraordinary forms of vegetation displayed. Ticks and leeches are to be dreaded--a perfect nuisance. If you sit down or pause for a few moments where no leeches are in sight, suddenly and quickly they will appear marching on you, or at you, at a gallop. The popular idea of a wealth of flowers in tropical jungles is a misconception. In tree jungle no flowers are to be found, or at any rate they are not visible. But if one can by some means attain an elevation and so be able to overlook the tree-tops, he will probably be rewarded with a wonderful display, as many jungle trees are glorified with crowns of gorgeous colours. There will he also discover the honey-suckers, moths, butterflies, the beetles, and all the other insect brood which he had also vainly looked for before. The fruits are likewise borne aloft, and therefore at the proper time these tree-tops will be the haunt of the monkeys, the parrots, the bats, the toucans, and all frugivorous creation. Of all fruits the durian is the most delicious. Such is the universal opinion of men, including A. R. Wallace, who have had the opportunity of becoming familiar with it. It is purely tropical, grows on a lofty tree, is round and nearly as large as a cocoanut. A thick and tough rind protects the delicacy contained within. When opened five cells are revealed, satiny white, containing masses of cream-coloured pulp. This pulp is the edible portion and has an indescribable flavour and consistence. You can safely eat all you want of it, and the more you eat the more you will want. To eat durian, as Mr Wallace says, is alone worth a voyage to the East. But it has one strange quality--it smells so badly as to be at first almost nauseating; some people even can never bring themselves to touch it. Once this repulsion is mastered the fruit will probably be preferred to all other foods. The natives give it honourable titles, exalt it, and even wax poetical over it. Of course we all know the multitudinous uses of the bamboo. This grass is one of the most wonderful, beautiful and useful of Nature's gifts to uncivilized man. And yet one more use has been found for it. In the East a new industry has sprung up, viz., the making of "Panama" hats of bamboo strips or threads. In texture and pliability these hats are said to even surpass the genuine "Panamas," are absolutely impervious to rain, and can be produced at a much lower cost. The Looshais killed pigs, and even tigers, by ingeniously setting poisoned arrows in the woods, which were released by the animals pressing on a string. One of my coolies was unfortunate enough to be shot and killed in this way. Growing on decayed tree stumps I frequently found a saprophyte (_hymenophallus_), much larger than its English representative, indeed a monster in comparison, and possessing a vile and most odious smell, yet attractive to certain depraved insects. I made a very fine collection of butterflies, moths and beetles, which, however, was entirely destroyed by worms or ants during its passage to England. The magnificent Atlas moth was common in Sylhet and Cachar. What an extraordinarily beautiful creature it is, sometimes so large as to cover a dinner-plate. I never was privileged to see it fly. It seemed to be always in a languid or torpid condition. Thunderstorms occur almost daily during the wet season. By lightning I lost several people. In one case, whilst standing watching a man remove seedlings from a nursery bed, standing indeed immediately behind and close to him, there came a thrilling flash of lightning. It shook myself as well as several women who stood by. The man in front of me, who had been sitting on his haunches with a steel-ribbed umbrella over him, remained silent and still. At last I called on him to continue his work and pulled back the umbrella to see his face. He was stone dead. Examination showed a small blackish spot where the steel rib had rested and conveyed the fatal shock. The approach of the daily rainstorm, usually about noon, was a remarkable sight. Immense fan-shaped, thunderous-looking clouds would come rolling up, billow upon billow, travelling at great speed and accompanied by terrific wind. A flash of lightning and a crashing peal of thunder and the deluge began, literally a deluge. The rainfall averaged about 180 inches in seven months. At Cherrapunji, in the Kassia Hills, within sight of my place and only about twenty miles distant, the rainfall was and is the greatest in the world, no other district approaching it in this respect, viz., averaging per annum 450 inches; greatest recorded over 900 inches; and there is a record of _one_ month, July, of a fall of nearly 400 inches; yet all this precipitation takes place during the six or seven wet months, the rest of the year being absolutely dry and rainless. These measurements are recorded at the Government Observatory Station and need not be disputed. It may readily be supposed that the wet season, summer, with its high temperature and damp atmosphere, was very trying to the European, and even to the imported coolies. Imagine living for six continuous months in the hottest palm-house in Kew Gardens; yet the planter is out and about all day long; nearly always on pony back, however, an enormously thick solah toppee hat or a heavy white umbrella protecting his head. The dry, or cold season, however, was delightful. Close to Lucky Cherra Garden was a tract of bustee land on which some Bengali cultivators grew rice and other crops. Our Company's boundary line in some way conflicted with theirs, and a dispute arose which soon developed into a series of, first, most comical mix-ups, and afterwards into desperate "lathi" fights. The land in dispute was being hurriedly ploughed by buffalo teams belonging to the Bengalis; to uphold our claim I also secured teams and put them to ploughing on the same piece of ground. This could only lead to one thing--as said before, terrific lathi fights between the teamsters. For several days I went down to see the fun, taking with me a number of the stoutest coolies on the garden. The men seemed to rather enjoy the sport, though a lick from a lathi (a formidable tough, hard and heavy cane) was far from a joke. Finally the bustee-wallahs agreed to stop operations and await legal judgment. After eighteen months I was suddenly left in sole charge of all the Company's gardens, the Burra Sahib having finally succumbed to drink; but I was not long left in charge, being soon relieved by a more experienced man. Shortly after I was ordered to Scottpore Garden in Cachar, the manager of which, a particularly fine man and a great friend of mine, had suffered the awful death of being pierced by the very sharp end of a heavy, newly-cut bamboo, which he seems to have ridden against in the dark. He always rode at great speed, and he too, in this way, was a victim of drink. The tremendously high death-rate amongst planters was directly due to this fatal habit. Scottpore was a new (young) garden, not teelah, but level land, having extremely rich soil. The bushes showed strong growth and there were no "vacancies"; indeed it was a model plantation. Unfortunately, it had the character of extreme unhealthiness. Of my three predecessors two had died of fever and one as before mentioned. The coolie death-rate was shocking; so bad that, during my management, a Government Commission was sent to look into the situation, and the absolute closing of the garden was anticipated. The result was that I was debarred from recruiting and importing certain coolies from certain districts in India, they being peculiarly susceptible to fever and dysentery. Almost every day at morning muster the doctor reported so and so, or so many, dead, wiped off the roll. Naturally the place suffered from lack of labour, a further draining of the force being the absconding of coolies, running off, poor devils, to healthier places, and the stealing of my people by unscrupulous planters. On several occasions, when riding home on dark nights, have I detected white objects on the side of the road. Not a movement would be seen, not a sound or a breath heard, only an ominous, suspicious silence reigned; it meant that these were some of my people absconding, being perhaps led off by a pimp from another garden--and woe betide the pimp if caught. I would call out to them, and if they did not respond would go after them; but generally they were too scared to resist or to attempt further to escape; so I would drive them in front of me back to the garden, inspect them and take their names, try to find out who had put them up to it, etc., and dismiss them to the lines in charge of the night-watchman. You could not well punish them, though a good caning was administered sometimes to the men. Thus the plantation, instead of presenting a clean, well-cultivated appearance, had often that of an enormous hayfield; nevertheless the output and manufacture of tea was large and the quality good. All that I myself could and did take credit for was this "quality," as the prices obtained in Calcutta were the best of all the Company's gardens. At Scottpore there was no lack of neighbours. My bungalow was on two cross-roads, a half-way house so to speak; consequently someone was continually dropping in. Frequently three or four visitors would arrive unannounced for dinner; the house was always "wide open." Whisky, brandy and beer were always on the sideboard, and in my absence the bearer or khansamah was expected, as a matter of course, to offer refreshments to all comers. The planter's code of hospitality demanded this, but it was the financial ruin of the Chota Sahib, depending solely on his modest salary. At Scottpore I went in strong for vegetable, fruit and flower gardening, and not without success. Visitors came from a distance to view the flower-beds and eat my green peas, and I really think that I grew as fine pineapples and bananas as were produced anywhere. The pineapple of good stock and ripened on the plant is, I think, the most exquisite of all fruits. A really ripe pine contains no fibre. You cut the top off and sup the delicious mushy contents with a spoon. In such a hot, steamy climate as we had in these tea districts, the rapidity of growth of vegetation is, of course, remarkable. Bamboos illustrate this better than other plants, their growth being so much more noticeable, that of a young shoot amounting to as much as four inches in one night. It sometimes appeared to my imagination that the weeds and grass grew one foot in a like period, especially when short of labour. The planter usually takes a pride in the well-cultivated appearance of the garden in his charge; but how can one be proud if the weeds overtop the bushes? It may be appropriate here to note that eighty-five per cent. of the twenty-four hours' growth of plants occurs between 12 p.m. and 6 a.m.; during the noon hours the apparent growth almost entirely ceases. Garden coolies are generally Hindoos and are imported from far-off districts. The local peasantry of Bengal are mostly Mohammedans and do not work on tea-gardens, except on such jobs as cutting jungle, building, etc. They speak a somewhat different tongue, so that we had to understand Bengali as well as Hindustani. I may mention here that as Hindoos regard an egg as defiling, and Mohammedans despise an eater of pork, our love for ham and eggs alienates us from both these classes; what beasts we must be! The Hindoos and the Bengal Mussulmans are characterized by cringing servility, open insolence, or rude indifference. Contrast with this the Burmese agreeableness and affability, or the bearing of the Rajput and the Sikh. In those days the natives cringed before the Sahib Log much more than they do now. Then all had to put their umbrellas down on passing a sahib, and all had to leave the side-walk on the white man's approach; not that the law compelled them to do so, it was simply a custom enforced by their masters, in the large cities as well as in the mofussil. We thought it advisable at all costs to keep the coolies in a proper state of subjection. Thus, when on a certain occasion a coolie of mine raised his kodalie (hoe) to strike me I had to give him a very severe thrashing. Another time a man appeared somewhat insolent in his talk to me and I unfortunately hit him a blow on the body, from the effects of which he died next day. Some of these people suffer from enlarged spleens and even a slight jar on that part of their anatomy may prove fatal. A few more notes. Among the Sontals in Bengal the snake stone, found within the head of the Adjutant-bird, is applied to a snake bite exactly in the same way and with the same supposed results as the Texas madstone, an accretion found, it is said, in the system of a white stag. Many natives of India die from purely imaginary snake bites. In Oude there have been many instances verified, or at least impossible of contradiction, of so-called wolf-children, infants stolen by wolves and suckled by them, that go on all fours, eat only raw meat, and, of course, speak no language. The Nagas, a hill tribe and not very desirable neighbours, practise the refined custom of starving a dog, then supplying it with an enormous feed of rice; and when the stomach is properly distended, killing it, the half-digested mess forming the _bonne-bouche_ of the tribal feast. Snake stories are always effective. I have none to tell. My bungalow roof, the thatch, was at all times infested by snakes, some quite large. At night one frequently heard them gliding between the bamboos and grass, chasing mice, beetles, or perhaps lizards, and sometimes falling on the top of the mosquito bar, or even on the dinner-table; but these were probably harmless creatures, as most snakes are. The cobra was not common in Cachar. It may be said here that a snake's mouth opens crossways as well as vertically, and each side has the power of working independently, the teeth being re-curved backwards. Prey once in the jaws cannot escape, and the snake itself can only dispose of it in one way--downwards. At Scottpore I employed an elephant for certain work, such as hauling heavy posts out of the jungle. Sometimes his "little Mary" would trouble him, when a dose of castor oil would be effectively administered. Unfortunately, he misbehaved, ran amok, and tried to kill his mahout, and so that hatthi (elephant) had to be disposed of. When clearing jungle for a tea-garden the workmen sometimes come on a certain species of tree, of which they are in great dread. They cannot be induced to cut it down and so the tree remains. Such a one stood opposite my bungalow, a stately, handsome monarch of the forest. It was a sacred, or rather a haunted tree, but as its shade was injurious to tea-plant growth I was determined to have it destroyed. None of my people would touch it; so I sent over to a neighbour and explained the facts to him, requesting him to send over a gang of his men to do the deed. I was to see that they had no communication with my own people. Well, his men came and were put to work with axes. The result? Two of them died that day and the rest bolted. Yet this is not more extraordinary than people dying of imaginary snake bites. Shortly afterwards an incident occurred to still further strengthen the native belief that the tree was haunted. I had a very fine bull terrier which slept in the porch at night, the night-watchman also sleeping there. One time I was aroused by terrific yells from the dog, and called to the watchman to know the trouble. After apparently recovering from his fright he told me the devil had come from the tree and carried off the dog. The morning showed traces of a tiger's or leopard's pugs, and my poor terrier was of course never seen again. The hill tribes surrounding the valley of Cachar were the Kassias, Nagas, Kookies, Munipoories and Looshais, all of very similar type, except that the Munipoories were of somewhat lighter skin, were more civilized and handsomer. The Kassias were noted for their wonderful muscular development, no doubt accounted for by their being mountaineers, their poonjes (villages) being situated on the sides of high and steep mountains. All their market products, supplies, etc., were packed up and down these hills in thoppas, a sort of baskets or chairs slung on the back by a band over the forehead. In this way even a heavy man would be carried up the steep mountain-side, and generally by a woman. Once, in later years, whilst in Mexico, near Crizaba, I was intensely surprised to meet in the forest a string of Indios going to market and using this identical thoppa; the similar cut of the hair across the forehead, the blanket and dress, the physical features, even the peculiar grunt emitted when carrying a weight, settled for me the long-disputed question of the origin of the Aztecs. In Venezuela I saw exactly the same type in Castro's Indian troops, as also in the Indian natives of Peru. [Illustration: NAGAS] The Kassias were fond of games, such as tossing the caber, putting the weight and throwing the hammer, apparently a tribal institution. The Kookies and Nagas were restless, warlike and troublesome, and addicted to head hunting. They periodically raided some tea-gardens to secure lead for bullets, and incidentally heads as trophies. Several planters had been thus massacred, and at outlying gardens there was always this dread and danger. On one occasion an urgent message was brought to me from such a garden, whose manager happened to be in Calcutta. His head baboo begged me to come over and take charge, if only to reassure the coolies, who had been running off into the jungle on the report of a threatened Naga raid. On going over I found the people tremendously excited, and most of them scared nearly to death. My presence seemed to allay their fright, though if the savages had come we could have done nothing, having only a few rifles in the place and the coolies totally demoralized. Luckily Mr Naga did not appear. The Looshais were a particularly warlike race, and gardens situated near their territory were supplied by Government with stands of arms and had stockades for defence in case of attack. The tea-planter's life was to me a very enjoyable one. There was lots of interesting work to be done, lots of sport and amusement, and lots of good fellows. The life promised to be an ideal one. For its enjoyment, however, indeed for its possibility, there is one essential--good health. Unfortunately that, during the whole period at Scottpore, was not mine; for the whole eighteen months fever had its grip on me; appetite was quite gone, and I subsisted on nothing but eggs, milk and whisky. Six months more would have done me up; but just at this time came the announcement of my father's death. For this reason and on account of my health I resigned the position and prepared to visit home, meaning to return, however, to India. I determined before going to look out a piece of land suitable for a small plantation; and, after much consideration, decided to hunt for it in Eastern Sylhet. So bidding adieu to friends I hied me down to the selected district, secured a good man as guide (a man of intelligence and intimate knowledge of the country was essential), and hired an elephant to carry us and break a way through the jungle. In the course of our search we came to a piece of seemingly swampy ground; the high reeds which had once covered it had been eaten down and the surface of the bog trodden on till it became caked, firm and almost solid. Our path was across it, but on coming to the edge the elephant refused to proceed. On the mahout urging him he roared and protested in every way, so much so that I was somewhat alarmed and suggested to the mahout that the elephant knew better than he the danger of proceeding. Finally, however, the elephant decided to try the ground, and carefully and slowly he made his way across, his great feet at every step depressing the surface, which perceptibly waved like thin ice all around him. I was prepared and ready to jump clear at the first sign of danger, for had we broken through we should have probably all disappeared in the bog. Hatthi was as much relieved as myself on reaching terra firma. My guide told me that this land had no bottom, that under the packed surface there was twenty feet of soft, black, loamy mud. This set me thinking. I was after something of this nature. In the course of the next day we came upon a somewhat similar piece of ground, some 300 acres in extent, still covered with the original reeds and other vegetation. The soil was in places exposed and was of a rich, dark brown loamy character. Taking a long ten-foot bamboo and pressing it firmly on the ground it could be forced nearly out of sight. That was enough for me. The object sought for was found. Further tests with a spade and bamboo were made at different points; deep drainage seemed practicable, and, what was quite important, a small navigable river bounded the property. Then I hunted up a native surveyor, traced the proposed boundaries, got numbers and data, etc., to enable me to send my application to the proper quarter, which I soon afterwards did, making a money deposit in part payment to the Government. My task was completed, and I at once started for Calcutta and home. As things turned out I never returned to the country and so had to abandon my rights, etc.; but in support of my judgment I was very much gratified to learn years afterwards that someone else had secured and developed this particular piece of land as a tea-garden, and that it had turned out to be the most valuable, much the most valuable, piece of tea land, acre for acre, in the whole country. Often and bitterly since then have I regretted not being able to return and develop and operate this ideal location. More than that, I had learned the tea-growing business, had devoted over three years to its careful study, felt myself in every way competent, and had found a life in many ways suited to my tastes. All this had to be abandoned. In India the white man lives in great luxury. He has a great staff of servants, his every whim and wish is anticipated and satisfied, his comfort watched over. To leave _this_, to go straight out to the West, the wild and woolly West, where servants were not! The very suggestion of such a thing to me on leaving India would have received no consideration whatever. It would have seemed utterly impossible, but "El Hombre propone y el Deos depone" as the Mexicans say. During the whole four years' stay in India I was practically barred from ladies' society, nearly all the planters being unmarried men. Alas! for twenty years longer of my life this very unfortunate and demoralizing condition was to continue. There were no railroads then to Cachar and no steamers, so I again performed the journey to Calcutta in a native boat, and there, by-the-bye, I witnessed the sight for the first time of an apparent lunatic playing a game called Golf; a game which later was to be more familiar to me, and myself to become one of the greatest lunatics of all. The run home was in no way remarkable, except for the intense anticipated pleasure of again seeing the old country. CHAPTER II CATTLE RANCHING IN ARIZONA Leave for United States of America--Iowa--New Mexico--Real Estate Speculation--Gambling--Billy the Kid--Start Ranching in Arizona--Description of Country--Apache and other Indians--Fauna--Branding Cattle--Ranch Notes--Mexicans--Politics--Summer Camp--Winter Camp--Fishing and Shooting--Indian Troubles. My health seemed to have reached a more serious condition than imagined; and so on the advice of my friends, but with much regret, I decided to henceforth cast my lot in a more bracing climate. Having no profession, and hating trade in any form, the choice was limited and confined to live stock or crop farming of one kind or another. Accordingly, after six months at home and on complete recovery of health, I took my way to the United States of America, first to Lemars in Iowa, where was a well-known colony of Britishers, said Britishers consisting almost entirely of the gentlemen class, some with much money, some with little, none of them with much knowledge of practical business life or affairs, all of them with the idea of social superiority over the natives, which they very foolishly showed. Sport, not work, occupied their whole time and attention. Altogether it seemed that this was no place for one who had to push his fortunes. The climate, too, seemed to be far from agreeable, in summer being very hot, in winter very cold; so, with another man, I decided to go further west and south, to the sheep and cattle country of New Mexico; not that I had any knowledge of sheep or cattle, hardly knowing the one from the other; but the nature of Ranch life (Ranch with a big R) and the romance attaching to it had much to do with my determination. Arrived in New Mexico I went to live with a sheepman--a practical sheepman from Australia--to study the industry and see how I liked it. In the neighbourhood was a cattle ranch and a lot of cowboys. I saw much of _their_ life, and was so attracted by it that the sheep proposition was finally abandoned as unsuitable. Still, I was very undecided, knew little of the ways of the country and still less of the cattle business. I moved to the small town of Las Vegas, then about the western end of the Santa Fé railroad. Here I stayed six months, making acquaintances and listening to others' experiences. Las Vegas was then a true frontier town. It was "booming," full of life and all kinds of people, money plentiful, saloons, gambling-dens and dance-halls "wide open." Real Estate was moving freely, prices advancing, speculation rife, and--I caught the infection! A few successful deals gave me courage and tempted me further. I became a real gambler. On some deals I made tremendous profits. I even owned a saloon and gambling-hall, which paid me a huge rental and gave me my drinks free! The world looked "easy." Not content with Las Vegas, I followed the road to Albuquerque and Socorro, had some deals there and spent my evenings playing poker, faro and monte with the best and "toughest" of them. Santa Fé, the capital, was then as much a "hell" as Las Vegas. Let me try to describe one of these gambling resorts. A long, low room, probably a saloon, with the pretentious bar in front; tables on either side of the room, and an eager group round each one, the game being roulette, faro, highball, poker, crapps or monte. The dealers, or professional gamblers, are easily distinguished. Their dress consists invariably of a well-laundered "biled" (white) shirt, huge diamond stud in front, no collar or tie, perhaps a silk handkerchief tied loosely round the neck, and an open unbuttoned waistcoat. They are necessarily cool, wide-awake, self-possessed men. All in this room are chewing tobacco and distributing the results freely on the floor. Now and then the dealers call for drinks all round, perhaps to keep the company together and encourage play. But poker, the royal game, the best of all gambling games, is generally played in a retired room, where quietness and some privacy are secured. Mere idlers and "bums" are not wanted around; perhaps the room is a little cleaner, but the floor is littered, if the game has lasted long, with dozens of already used and abandoned packs of cards. At Las Vegas the majority of the players were cowboys and cattlemen; at Socorro miners and prospectors; at Albuquerque all kinds; at Santa Fé politicians and officials and Mexicans, but Chinamen, always a few Chinamen, everywhere; and what varied types of men one rubs shoulders with! The cowpunchers, probably pretty well "loaded" (tipsy), the "prominent" lawyer, the horny-handed miner, the inscrutable "John"; the scout, or frontier man, with hair long as a woman's; the half-breed Mexican or greaser elbowing a don of pure Castilian blood; the men all "packing" guns (six-shooters), some in the pocket, some displayed openly. The dealer, of course, has his lying handy under the table; but shooting scrapes are rare. If there is any trouble it will be settled somewhere else afterwards. But things took a turn; slackness, then actual depression in Real Estate values set in, and oh! how quickly. Like many others, I got scared and hastened to "get out." It was almost too late, not quite. On cleaning up, my financial position was just about the same as at the beginning of the campaign. It was a lesson, a valuable experience; but I admit that Real Estate speculation threw a glamour over me that still remains. It is the way to wealth for the man who knows how to go about it. About this time two Englishmen arrived in Las Vegas, and we soon got acquainted. One could easily see that they were not tenderfeet. On the contrary, they appeared to be shrewd, practical men of affairs. They had been cattle ranching up north for some years, had a good knowledge of the business, and were "good fellows." They had come south to look out a cattle ranch and continue in the business. They wanted a little more capital, which seemed my opportunity, and the upshot was that we formed a partnership, for good or for ill, which lasted for many years (over twelve), but which was never financially successful. Considering my entire ignorance of cattle affairs, and having abounding confidence in my two partners, I agreed to leave the entire control and management in their hands. It was about this time (1883) that I was fortunate enough to meet at Fort Sumner the then great Western celebrity, "Billy the Kid." Billy was a young cowboy who started wrong by using his gun on some trivial occasion. Like all, or at least many, young fellows of his age he wanted to appear a "bad man." One shooting scrape led to another; he became an outlaw; cattle troubles, and finally the Lincoln County War, in which he took a leading part, gave him every opportunity for his now murdering propensities, so that soon the tally of his victims amounted to some twenty-five lives. The Lincoln County New Mexico "War," in which it is believed that first to last over 200 men were killed, was purely a cattleman's war, but the most terrible and bloody that ever took place in the West. New Mexico was at that time probably the most lawless country in the world. Only a month after my meeting Billy in Fort Sumner he was killed there, not in his "boots," but in his stockings, by Sheriff Pat Garret. He was shot practically in his bed and given no "show." His age when killed was only twenty-three years. There were afterwards many other "kids" emulous of Billy's renown, because of which, and their youthfulness, they were always the most dangerous of men. Our senior partner, not satisfied with New Mexico, went out to Arizona for a look round, liked the prospect, and decided to locate there, so we moved out accordingly. Arizona (Arida Zona) was at this time a practically new and unoccupied territory; that is, though there were a few Mexicans, a few Mormons and a great many Indians, a few sheep and fewer cattle, it could not be called a settled country, and most of the grazing land was in a virgin state. My partner had bought out a Mexican's rights, his cattle, water-claims, ranches, etc., located at the Cienega in Apache county, near the head-waters of the Little Colorado River. To close the deal part payment in advance had to be made; and to ensure promptness the paper was given to my care to be delivered to the seller as quickly as possible. Accordingly I travelled by train to the nearest railroad point, Holbrook, found an army ambulance about to convey the commanding officer to Camp Apache, and he was good enough to allow me to accompany him part of the way. It was a great advantage to me, as otherwise there was no conveyance, nor had I a horse or any means of getting to the ranch, about eighty miles. Judging from the colonel's armed guard and the fact of travelling at night, it occurred to me that something was wrong, and on questioning him he told me that he would not take any "chances," that the Apaches were "out" on the war-path, but that they never attacked in the dark. This lent more interest to the trip, though it was interesting enough to me simply to see the nature of the country where we had decided to make our home. We got through all right. Next morning I hired a horse and reached the ranch the same day. As this was to be our country for many years to come, it will be well to describe its physical features, etc. Arizona, of course, is a huge territory, some 400 by 350 miles. It embraces pure unadulterated desert regions in the west; a large forest tract in the centre; the rest has a semi-arid character, short, scattering grass all over it; to the eye of a stranger a dreary and desolate region! The east central part, where we were, has a general elevation of 4000 to 6000 feet above sea-level, so that the fierce summer heat is tempered to some extent, especially after sundown. In winter there were snowstorms and severe cold, but the snow did not lie long, except in the mountains, where it reached a depth of several feet. The Little Colorado River (Colorado Chiquito), an affluent of the Greater River, had its headquarters in the mountains, south of our ranch. It was a small stream, bright and clear, and full of speckled trout in its upper part; lower down most of the time dry; at other times a flood of red muddy water, or a succession of small, shallow pools of a boggy, quicksandy nature, that ultimately cost us many thousands of cattle. The western boundary of Arizona is the Big Colorado River. Where the Santa Fé railroad crosses it at the Needles is one of the hottest places in North America. In summer the temperature runs up to as high as 120 degrees Fahr., and I have even heard it asserted to go to 125 degrees in the shade; and I cannot doubt it, as even on our own ranch the thermometer often recorded 110 degrees; that at an elevation of 4000 feet, whereas the Needles' elevation above sea-level is only a few hundreds. At Jacobabad, India, the greatest heat recorded is 126 degrees, and at Kashan, in Persia, a month--August--averaged 127 degrees, supposed to be the hottest place on earth. Above the Needles begins or ends the very wonderful Grand Cañon, extending north for 270 miles, its depth in places being as much as 6000 feet, and that at certain points almost precipitously. The wonderful colouring of the rocks, combined with the overpowering grandeur of it, make it one of the most impressive and unique sights of the world. Now, stop and think what that is--2000 yards! say a mile; and imagine the effect on a stranger when he first approaches it, which he will generally do without warning--nothing, absolutely nothing, to indicate the presence of this wonderful gorge till he arrives at its very brink. Its aspect is always changing according to the hour of day, the period of the year, the atmospheric conditions. The air is dry and bracing at all times; and as pure, clear and free from dust or germs as probably can be found anywhere on earth. The panorama may be described as "_wunderschön_." Anyone of sensibility will sit on the rock-rim for hours, possibly days, in dumb contemplation of the beauty and immensity. No one has yet, not even the most eloquent writer, been quite able to express his feelings and sentiments, though many have attempted to do so in the hotel register; some of the greatest poets and thinkers admitting in a few lines their utter inability. Our Colorado Chiquito in its lower parts has an equally romantic aspect. Close to our ranch was another of Nature's wonders, a petrified forest, quite unique in that the exposed tree trunks are solid masses of agate, chalcedony, jasper, opal and other silicate crystals, the variety of whose colouring, with their natural brilliancy, makes a wonderfully beautiful combination. These trees are supposed to have been the Norfolk Island pine, a tree now extinct, are of large dimensions, all prostrate, lying in no particular order, and all broken up into large or smaller sections. Many carloads have been removed and shipped to Eastern factories, where the sections are sawn through and polished, and the most lovely table tops, etc., imaginable produced. One must beware of rattlesnakes when prowling about these "ruins." To complete the physical description of Arizona territory something must be said of the pine-clad mountain range to the south of us. The bulk of this area constituted the Apache Indian Reservation. It was reserved for these Indians as a hunting-ground as well as a home. No one else was allowed to settle within its boundaries, or graze their sheep or cattle there. It was truly a hunter's paradise, being largely covered with forest trees, broken here and there by open parks and glades and meadow lands, drained by streams of clear cool water, which combining, produced a few considerable-sized rivers, "hotching" with trout, unsophisticated and so simple in their natures that it seemed a positive shame to take advantage of them. These mountains were the haunt of the elk, the big-horned sheep, black-and white-tailed deer, grizzly, cinnamon, silver tip, and brown and black bears; the porcupine, racoon and beaver; also the prong-horned antelope, though it is more of a plains country animal. But more of this some other time. The Apache Indians (Apache is not their proper name, but Tinneh; the former was given to them by the Mexicans and signifies "enemy") were and are the most dreaded of all the redskin tribes. They always have been warlike and perhaps naturally cruel, and at the time of our arrival in the country they had about attained their most bloodthirsty and murderous character. Shocking ill-treatment by white skalawags and United States officials had changed their nature; but more about them also by-and-by. North of us were the numerous and powerful Navajo Indians. They were not so much dreaded by us, their Reservation being further away, and they then being of a peaceful disposition, devoted to horse and sheep breeding and the manufacture of blankets. These are the famous Navajo blankets so often seen in English homes, valued for the oddness of their patterns and colours, but used in Arizona mainly as saddle blankets. The majority of them are coarsely made and of little intrinsic value; but others, made for the chiefs or other special purposes, are finely woven, very artistic, and sell for large sums of money. Rain will not penetrate them and they make excellent bed coverings. These Navajoes used to declare that they would never quit the war-path till a certain "Dancing Man" appeared, and that they would never be conquered till then. An American officer, named Backus, at Fort Defiance, constructed a dummy man, who danced by the pulling of wires, and showed him to the Indians. They at once accepted him as their promised visitor, and have since then never gone on the war-path. This may seem an incredible tale, but is a fact. Also near us were the Zuni Indians, who, like the Pueblo Indians, lived in stone-built communal houses, had entirely different customs to those of the Apaches and Navajoes, and are perhaps the debased descendants of a once powerful and advanced nation. Whilst speaking of Indians, it may be said that the plains tribes, such as the Comanches, believe in the immortality of the soul and the future life. All will attain it, all will reach the Happy Hunting-Ground, unless prevented by such accidents as being scalped, which results in annihilation of the soul. Is it not strange that though these barbarians believe in the immortality of the soul yet our materialistic Old Testament never even suggests a future life; and it seems that no Jew believes or ever was taught to believe in it. Indian self-torture is to prove one's endurance of pain. A broad knife is passed through the pectoral muscles, and a horse-hair rope inserted, by which they must swing from a post till the flesh is torn through. Indians will never scalp a negro; it is "bad medicine." By the way, is not scalping spoken of in the Book of Maccabees as a custom of the Jews and Syrians? The tit-bits of a butchered carcass are, to the Indians, the intestines, a speciality being the liver with the contents of the gall bladder sprinkled over it! Horses, dogs, wolves and skunks are greatly valued for food. Amongst certain tribes Hiawatha was a Messiah of divine origin, but born on earth. He appeared long ago as a teacher and prophet, taught them picture-writing, healing, etc.; gave them the corn plant and pipe; he was an ascetic; told them of the Isles of the Blessed and promised to come again. In Mexico Quetzalcohuatl was a similar divine visitor, prophet and teacher. But to return to our own immediate affairs. At a reasonable price we bought out another cattleman, his ranches, cattle and saddle horses. As required by law, we also adopted and recorded a cattle brand. Our first business was to brand our now considerable herd, which entailed an immense amount of very hard work. This in later years would have been no very great undertaking, but at that time "squeezers" and branding "chutes" were not known. Our corrals were primitive and not suited for the work, and our cattle extraordinarily wild and not accustomed to control of any kind. Indeed, the men we had bought out had sold to us for the simple reason that they could not properly handle them. The four-legged beasties had got beyond their control, and many of them had almost become wild animals. These cattle, too, had very little of the "improved" character in them. Well-bred bulls had never been introduced. Some of the bulls we found had almost reached their allotted span--crusty old fellows indeed and scarred in many a battle; "moss-heads" we called them, and the term was well applied, for their hoary old heads gave the idea of their being covered with moss. Most of the cattle had never been in a corral in their lives, and some of the older steers were absolute "outlaws," magnificent creatures, ten to twelve years of age, with immense spreading horns, sleek and glossy sides, and quite unmanageable. They could not be got into a herd, or if got in, would very soon walk out again. Eventually some had to be shot on the range like any wild animal, simply to get rid of them; but they at least afforded us many a long and wild gallop. There was one great steer in particular, reckoned to be ten or twelve years old, quite a celebrity in fact on account of his unmanageableness, his independence and boldness, which we had frequently seen and tried to secure, but hitherto without success. He had a chum, another outlaw, and they grazed in a particular part of the range far from the haunts of their kin and of man. Three of us undertook to make one more effort to secure him. At the headquarters ranch we had gathered a herd of cattle and we proposed to try and run the steer in that direction, where the other boys would be on the lookout and would head him into the round-up. Two of us were to go out and find the steer and start him homewards; I myself undertook to wait about half-way, and when they came in sight to take up the running and relieve them. They found him all right about twenty miles out, turned him and started him. No difficulty so far. He ran with the ease of a horse, and he was still going as he willed, without having the idea of being coerced. Meantime I had been taking it easy, lolling on the ground, my horse beside me with bridle down. Suddenly the sound of hoof-beats and a succession of yells warned me to "prepare to receive cavalry." Through a cleft in a hill I could see the quarry coming at a mad gallop directly for me, the two men pounding along behind. I had just time and no more to tighten girth and get into the saddle when he was on me, and my horse being a bit drowsy it needed sharp digging of the spurs to get out of the way. I forget how many miles the boys said they had already run him, but it was a prodigious distance and we were still eight miles from the ranch. The steer was getting hot, it began to suspect something, and to feel the pressure. As he came down on me he looked like a mountain, his eyes were bright, he was blowing a bit, and looked particularly nasty. When in such a condition it does not do to overpress, as, if you do, the chances are the steer will wheel round, challenge you and get on the fight. Much circumspection is needed. He will certainly charge you if you get too near, and on a tired horse he would have the advantage. So you must e'en halt and wait--not get down, that would be fatal--wait five minutes it may be, ten minutes, or a quarter of an hour, till the gentleman cools off a bit. Then you start him off again, not so much driving him now, he won't be driven, but guiding his course towards the herd. In this case we succeeded beautifully, though at the end he had to be raced once more. And so he was finally headed into the round-up; but dear me, he only entered it from curiosity. No round-up for him indeed! no corral and no going to market! He entered the herd, took a look round, a sniff and a smell, and was off again out at the other side as if the devil was after him, and indeed he wasn't far wrong. The chase was abandoned and his majesty doomed later on to a rifle bullet wherever found. Our principal and indeed only corral at that time was of solid stone walls, a "blind" corral, and most difficult to get any kind of cattle into. While pushing them in, each man had his "rope" down ready to at once drop it over the horns of any animal attempting to break back. Thus half our force would sometimes be seen tying down these truants, which were left lying on the ground to cool their tempers till we had time to attend to them; and it is a fact that some of these individuals, especially females, died where they lay, apparently of broken hearts or shame at their subjection. They showed no sign of injury by rough usage, only their damnable tempers, rage and chagrin were responsible for their deaths. Inside the corral everything, of course, had to be roped and thrown to be branded. It was rough and even dangerous work, and individual animals, again generally cows, would sometimes make desperate charges, and even assist an unfortunate "puncher" in scaling the walls. In after years we built proper corrals, and in the course of time, by frequent and regular handling, the cattle became more docile and better-mannered. For one thing, they were certainly easily gathered. When we wanted to round them up we had only to ride out ten or twenty miles, swing round and "holler," when all the cattle within sight or hearing would at once start on the run for the ranch. These were not yet domesticated cattle in that they always wanted to run and never to walk. Indeed, once started it was difficult to hold them back. This was not very conducive to the accumulation of tallow on their generally very bare bones. I well remember the first bunch of steers sold off the ranch, which were driven to Fort Wingate, to make beef for the soldiers. About two hundred head of steers, from six to twelve years of age, all black, brown, brindle or yellow, ne'er a red one amongst them; magnificently horned, in fair flesh, perfect health and spirits; such steers you could not "give away" to-day; but we got sixty dollars apiece for them and were well rid of them; and how they walked! The ponies could hardly keep up with them; and what cowman does not know the pleasure of driving fast walking beef cattle? Ne'er a "drag" amongst them! You had only to "point" them and let them "hit the trail"; but a stampede at night was all the more a terrific affair, though even in such a case if they got away they would keep together, and when you found one you found them all. Such a bunch of magnificent, wild, proud-looking steer creatures will never be seen again, in America at least, because you cannot get them now of such an age, nor of such primitive colours; colours that, I believe, the best-bred cattle would in course of long years and many generations' neglect revert to. The method adopted when an obstreperous steer made repeated attempts to leave the herd was to send a bullet through his horn, which gave him something to think about and shake his head over. No doubt it hurt him terribly, but it generally was an effective check to his waywardness. And when some old hoary-headed bull wanted to "gang his ain gait" a piece of cactus tossed on to his back, whence it was difficult to shake off, would give him also something to think about. Another small herd we some time later disposed of were equally good travellers, and indeed were driven from the ranch in one day to Camp Apache, another military post, a distance of over 40 miles. In this case the trail was through forest country where there was no "holding" ground, so they had to be pushed through. Our herd increased and throve fairly well for a number of years till other "outfits" began to throw cattle into the country, and sheepmen began to dispute our right to certain grazing lands. We did not quite realize it at the time, but it was the beginning of the end. We had gone into a practically virgin country, controlled an immense area, and the stock throve accordingly. But others were jealous of our success, threw in their cattle as already said, and their sheep, and ultimately we swamped one another. The grass was eaten down, over-grazed, droughts came, prices broke, and so the end. From 500 our annual calf brand mounted to 4000; halted there, and gradually dropped back to the original tally. Our cattle, from poverty, bogged in the river, or perished from hunger. This was all due to the barbarous grazing system under which we worked, the United States refusing to sell or lease land for grazing purposes; consequently, except at the end of a gun, one had no control over his range. Cattle versus sheep wars resulted, stealing became rampant and success impossible. Among other sales made was that of some 1500 steers, of all ages, which we drove right up to the heart of Colorado and disposed of at good prices. This drive was marked by a serious stampede, on a dark night in rough country, by which two of the boys got injured, though happily not seriously. Then another time we made an experimental shipment of 500 old steers to California, to be grazed and fattened on alfalfa. They were got through all right and put in an alfalfa field, and I remained in charge of them. Our cattle were not accustomed to wire fences, or being penned up in a small enclosure, and of course had never seen alfalfa; so for a week or more they did nothing but walk round the fence, trampling the belly-high lucerne to the ground. Gradually, however, they got to eating it, and in six weeks began to pick up. Briefly stated, this adventure was a financial failure. Like the cattle I had been myself an entire stranger to the wonderful alfalfa plant, and I never tired marvelling at its exuberance of growth and its capacity for supporting animal life. The heat in San Joachin Valley in high summer is almost overpowering, and vegetable growth under irrigation quite phenomenal. Alfalfa was cut some six or seven times in the season; each time a heavy crop. After taking cattle out of one pasture, then grazed bare, it was only three weeks till the plant was in full growth again, in full flower, two feet high and ready for the reception of more live stock. The variety of animal life subsisting on alfalfa was extraordinary. All kinds of domestic stock throve on it and liked it. In our field, besides cattle, were geese, ducks, turkeys, rabbits and hares in thousands, doves and quails in flocks, and gophers innumerable; frogs, toads, rats and mice; while bees, wasps, butterflies and moths, and myriads of other insects were simply pushing one another out of the way. It was a wonderful study. In Utah much difficulty was found in growing clover. This was accounted for by the fact that there were no old maids in that polygamous country. Old maids naturally were not allowed! And there being none, there were of course no cats to kill the mice that eat the bumble-bees' nests; thus, no bumble-bees to fertilize it, therefore no clover. Old maids have found their function. Figs could not be grown successfully in California till the Smyrna wasp had been imported to fertilize the flower. And while talking of bees: on the Mississippi River bee-keepers are in the habit of drifting their broods on rafts up the river, following the advance of spring and thus securing fresh fields and pastures new of the young spring blossoms; which is somewhat similar to the Chinaman's habit of carrying his ducks (he does love ducks), thousands of them, on rafts and boats up and down the broad Yangtse to wherever the richest grazing and grub-infested beds may be found. I should not forget to say that care must be used in putting cattle on alfalfa. At some seasons it is more dangerous than at others. A number of these steers "bloated," and I had to stick them with a knife promptly to save their lives. A new experience to me, but I soon "caught on." But something must be said about our little county town, San Juan, county seat of Apache County in which we were located. St Johns consisted of one general store, three or four saloons, a drug store, a newspaper office, court-house, jail, etc. A small settlement of Mormons, who confined themselves to farming on the narrow river bottom, and an equal number of Mexicans, an idle and mischievous riffraff, though one or two of them had considerable herds of sheep, and others were county officials. County affairs were dreadfully mismanaged and county funds misused. For our own protection we had to take part in politics, form an Opposition, and after a long struggle, in which my partners did noble service, we carried an election, put in our own officials, secured control of the county newspaper, and had things as we wanted them. But it was a bitter fight, and the old robber gang, who had run the county for years, were desperate in their resentment. Unfortunately, this resentment was basely and maliciously shown by an attempt, successful but happily not fatal, to poison one of my partners. He had a long and grim fight with death, but his indomitable will pulled him through. I myself, though I had little to do with politics, had a narrow escape from a somewhat similar fate. Living at that time, in winter, at what was called the Meadows Camp, I usually had a quarter of beef hung in the porch. Frost kept it sweet and sound for a long period, and every day it was my practice to cut off a steak for consumption. There were two cats, fortunately, and a slice was often thrown to them. One morning I first gave them their portion, then cut my own. In a few minutes the unfortunate animals were in the throes of strychnine poisoning and died in short order. It was a shock to me and a warning. The Mexicans continued for some time to be mean and threatening. Bush-whacking at night was attempted, and they even threatened an attack on our headquarters ranch; but we were a pretty strong outfit, had our own sheriff, and by-and-by a number of good friends. In our district rough country and timber prevented the cattle drifting very much. In winter they naturally sought the lower range; in summer they went to the mountains. Headquarters was about half-way between. It was finally arranged that I should take charge of the lower winter camp during winter and the mountain camp during summer. My partners mostly remained at headquarters. In summer time, from April to the end of October, this arrangement suited me very well indeed; in fact, it was made at my own suggestion; and the life, though a solitary one for long periods, suited me to the ground and I enjoyed it immensely. Practically I lived alone, which was also my own wish, as it was disagreeable to have anyone coming into my one-roomed cottage, turning things over and making a mess. I did my own cooking, becoming almost an expert, and have ever since continued to enjoy doing so. Of course I could have had one of the boys to live with me; but no matter what good fellows cowboys generally are, their being in very close companionship is not agreeable, some of their habits being beastly. Thus it came about that my life was a very solitary one, as it had been in India, and as it afterwards continued to be in New Mexico and Texas. Few visitors came to my camp in summer or winter. Now and then I was gladdened by a visit of one or other of my partners, one of whom, however, cared nothing for fishing or shooting, and the other was much of the time entirely absent from the country. During our short periodical round-ups of course I attended the "work" with the rest; but to spend one whole month, as I did once, without not only not conversing with, but absolutely not seeing a human being, is an experience that has probably come to very few men indeed. However, as said before, life in the White Mountains of Arizona was very enjoyable. Peaks ran up to 10,000 feet; and the elevation of my camp was about 8000 feet. Round about were extensive open parks and meadows, delightfully clear creeks and streams; grass a foot high, vast stretches of pine timber, deep and rocky cañons, etc., etc. When we first shoved our cattle up there the whole country was a virgin one, no settlements or houses, no roads of any kind, except one or two Indian hunting trails, no cattle, sheep or horses. There were, as already stated, elk, mountain sheep, antelope, deer, bears, panthers, porcupines, coons, any amount of wild turkey, spruce grouse, green pigeons, quail, etc., etc. There were virgin rivers of considerable size, swarming with trout, many of which it was my luck to first explore and cast a fly into. Most of this lovely country, as said before, was part of the Apache Indian Reservation, on which no one was allowed to trespass; but the boundary line was ill-defined and it was difficult to keep our cattle out of the forbidden territory. Indeed, we did not try to do so. The Indian settlement was at Fort Apache, some thirty miles from my camp. These people, having such an evil reputation, are worthy of a few more notes. Such tales of cruelty and savagery were told of them as to be almost incredible. They were the terror of Arizona and New Mexico, yet they were not entirely to blame. Government ill-treatment of Cochise, the great chief of the Chiricaua Apaches, had set the whole tribe on the war-path for ten years. A military company, called the Tombstone Toughs, was organized in Southern Arizona to wipe them out, but accomplished nothing. Finally, America's greatest Indian fighter, General Crook, was sent to campaign in Arizona in 1885. The celebrated chiefs, Geronimo and Natchez, broke out again and killed some twenty-nine white people in New Mexico and thirty-six in Arizona before Crook pushed them into the Sierra Madre Mountains in Sonora, where at last Geronimo surrendered. Victorio was an equally celebrated Apache war-chief and was out about the same time. Fortunately these last raids were always made on the south side of the Reservation. We were happily on the north side, and though we had frequent scares they never gave us serious trouble. So here were my duties and my pleasures. The saddle horses when not in use were in my care. The cattle also, of course, needed looking after. I was in the saddle all day. Frequently it would be my delight to take a pack-horse and go off for a week or two into the wildest parts of the Reservation, camp, and fish and shoot everything that came along, but the shooting was chiefly for the pot. Young wild turkeys are a delicacy unrivalled, and I became so expert in knowing their haunts that I could at any time go out and get a supply. One of my ponies was trained to turkey hunting. He seemed to take a delight in it. As soon as we sighted a flock, off he would go and take me up to shooting range, then stop and let me get two barrels in, and off again after them if more were needed. Turkeys run at a great rate and will not rise unless you press them. Big game shooting never appealed to me much. My last bear, through lack of cartridges to finish him, went off with a broken back, dragging himself some miles to where I found him again next morning. It so disgusted me as to put me off wishing to kill for killing's sake ever afterwards. A wounded deer or antelope, or a young motherless fawn, is a most pitiable sight. There was, and perhaps still is, no better bear country in America than the Blue River district on the border of Arizona and New Mexico. On these shooting and fishing trips I was nearly always alone, and many times experienced ridiculous scares. Camping perhaps in a deep cañon, a rapid stream rushing by, the wind blowing through the tall pines, the horses tethered to tree stumps, a menagerie-like smell of bears frequently quite apparent, your bed on Mother Earth without tent or covering, if your sleep be not very sound you will conjure up all sorts of amazing things. Perhaps the horses take fright and run on their ropes. [Illustration: ROPING A GRIZZLY. (By C. M. Russell.)] You get up to soothe them and find them in a lather of sweat and scared to a tremble. What they saw, or, like men, imagined they saw or heard in the black darkness, you cannot tell. Still you are in an Indian country and perhaps thirty miles from anywhere. Many a night I swore I should pack up and go home at daylight, but when daylight came and all again seemed serene and beautiful--how beautiful!--all fear would be forgotten; I would cook my trout or fry the breast of a young turkey, and with hot fresh bread and bacon grease, and strong coffee.--Why, packing up was unthought of! One of my nearest neighbours was an old frontiers-man and Government scout. He had married an Apache squaw, been adopted into the tribe (White Mountain Apaches) and possessed some influence. He liked trout-fishing, so once or twice I accompanied him with his party, said party consisting of his wife and all her relatives--indeed most of the tribe. The young bucks scouted and cut "sign" for us (another branch of the Apaches being then on the war-path), the women washed clothes, did the cooking, cleaned and smoked the fish, etc. These Indians were rationed with beef by the Government, while they killed no doubt quite a number of our cattle, and even devoured eagerly any decomposed carcass found on the range; but they preferred the flesh of horses, mules and donkeys, detesting pork and fish. In these mountains in summer a serious pest was a green-headed fly, which worried the cattle so much that about noon hour they would all congregate in a very close herd out in the open places for self-protection. No difficulty then in rounding up; even antelope and deer would mix with them. When off on a fishing and hunting trip it was my custom to set fire to a dead tree trunk, in the smoke of which my horses would stand for hours at a time, even scorching their fetlocks. In these mountains, too, was a place generally called the "Boneyard," its history being that some cattleman, stranger to the country, turned his herd loose there and tried to hold them during the winter. A heavy snowfall of several feet snowed the cattle in so that they could not be got out or anything be done with them. The whole herd was lost and next spring nothing but a field of bones was visible. At another time and place a lot of antelope were caught in deep snow and frozen to death. A more remarkable case was that of a bunch of horses which became snowed in, the snow being so deep they could not break a way out. The owner with great difficulty managed to rescue them, when it was found they had actually chawed each other's tails and manes off. Indian dogs have a great antipathy to white men, likewise our own dogs towards Indians, which our horses also share in. Horses also have a dread of bears. Once when riding a fine and high-strung horse a bear suddenly appeared in front. Knowing that my mount, as soon as he smelt the bear, would become uncontrollable, I quickly shot the bear from the saddle, and immediately the scared horse bolted. To preserve trout I sometimes kippered them and hung them up to dry. Quickly the wasps would attack them, and, if not prevented, would in a short space of time leave absolutely nothing but a skeleton hanging to the string. It was later demonstrated that cattle, too, thought them a delicacy, no doubt for the salt or sugar ingredients. Snakes also have a weakness for fish, and I have seen them approach my trout when thrown on the river bank and drag them off for their own consumption. While fishing or shooting one must always be on the careful lookout for rattlesnakes. In the rough cañons and river banks the biggest rattlers are found, and you may jump, tumble or scramble on the back of one and run great chance of being bitten. On the open prairie, where smaller rattlers are very plentiful, they always give you warning with their unique, unmistakable rattle. Once, on stooping down to tear up by the roots a dangerous poison weed, in grasping the plant my hand also grasped a rattlesnake. I dropped it quick enough to escape injury, but the cold sweat fairly broke out all over me. The bite is always painful, but not always necessarily fatal. "Rustlers" is the common name given to cattle or horse thieves. Arizona had her full share of them. That territory was the last resort of outlaws from other and more civilized states. Many of our own "hands" were such men. Few of them dare use their own proper names; having committed desperate crimes in other states, such as Texas, they could not return there. Strange to say, the worst of these "bad" men often made the best of ranch hands. Cowboys as a class, that is, the genuine cowboys of days gone by, were a splendid lot of fellows, smart, intelligent, self-reliant and resourceful, also hard and willing workers. If they liked you, they would stay with you in any kind of trouble and be thoroughly loyal. No such merry place on earth as the cow camp, where humour, wit and repartee abounded. The fact of every man being armed, and in these far-off days probably a deadly shot, tended to keep down rowdyism and quarrelling. If serious trouble did come up, it was settled then and there quickly and decisively, wrongly or rightly. Let me instance a case. In round-up camp one day a few hot words were suddenly heard, guns began to play, result--one man killed outright and two wounded. The case of one of the wounded boys was rather peculiar. His wound was in the thigh and amputation was necessary. Being a general favourite, we, myself and partners, took turns nursing him, dressing his wounds and cheering him up as well as we could. He rapidly recovered, put on flesh and was in high spirits, and, as the doctor said, quite out of danger; but one day this big strong young fellow took it into his foolish head that he was going to die. Nothing would persuade him to the contrary, and so die he did, and that without any waste of time. In preparing a body for burial it is the custom, a burial rite indeed, not to wrap the corpse in a shroud, but to dress it in a complete ordinary costume, a brand-new suit of black clothes, white shirt, socks, etc., etc.--whether boots or not I forget, but rather think so--dress him probably better than the poor fellow was ever dressed before, and in this manner he was laid in the ground. The man who started the shooting was named "Windy M'Gee," already an outlaw, but then cook for our mess wagon. Shortly afterwards he killed a prominent lawyer in our little town, or at least we suspected him strongly, though another man suffered for the crime; but such incidents as these were too common to attract world-wide attention. On another occasion one of our men got shot in the thigh, by whom or how I do not now remember, but he was a different sort of man from the boy just mentioned. We knew him to be quite a brave, nervy man in action, having been in one of our fighting scrapes with rustlers; but as a patient he showed a most cowardly disposition, developing a ferocious temper, rejecting medical advice, cursing everybody who came around, so that he lay for months at our charge, until we really got to wish that he would carry out his threat of self-destruction. He did not, but he was crippled for life and did not leave a friend behind. [Illustration: A SHOOTING SCRAPE. (By C. M. Russell.)] Then, too, the cowboy, in matter of accoutrements, was a very splendid fellow indeed. His saddle was gaily decorated with masses of silver, in the shape of buttons, buckles and trimmings, etc. Likewise his bridle and bit; his spurs were works of loving art from the hands of the village metal-worker, and likewise heavily plated with silver. The rowels were huge but blunt-pointed, and had little metal bells attached. His boots cost him near a month's pay, always made to careful order, with enormously high and narrow heels, as high as any fashionable woman's; his feet were generally extremely small, because of his having lived in the saddle from early boyhood up. He wore a heavy woollen shirt, with a gorgeous and costly silk handkerchief tied loosely round his neck. His head-covering was a very large grey felt hat, a "genuine Stetson," which cost him from five to twenty dollars, never less. To keep the big hat in place a thong or cord is tied around and below the back of the head instead of under the chin, experience having proved it to be much more effective in that position. His six-shooter had plates of silver on the handle, and his scabbard was covered with silver buttons. It should be said that a saddle, such as we all used, cost from forty to sixty dollars, and weighed generally about forty pounds, not counting saddle blankets. Sometimes the saddle had only one "cinch" or girth, generally two, one of which reached well back under the flank. Such heavy saddles were necessary for heavy work, roping big cattle, etc. The stirrups were then generally made of wood, very big and broad in sole and very heavy, sometimes covered with tapaderos, huge leather caps to save the feet from thorns in heavy brush, and protect them from cold in severe weather. To protect our legs we wore over the trousers heavy leather chaparejos, sometimes of bear or buffalo hide. Let it be noted that a genuine cowpuncher never rolls his shirt sleeves up, as depicted in romancing novels. Indeed he either protects his wrists with leather wristlets, or wears long gauntlet gloves. Mounted on his favourite horse, his was a gay cavalier figure, and at the "Baillie" he felt himself to be irresistible to the shy and often very pretty Mexican señoritas. There you have a pretty faithful picture of the cowboy of twenty-five years ago. It remains to say something of the "shooting irons." In the days of which I write there was no restriction to the bearing of arms. Every man carried a six-shooter. We, and most of our outfit, habitually carried a carbine or rifle as well as the smaller weapon. The carbine was carried in a scabbard, slung from the horn, under the stirrup flap, and so under the leg. This method kept the weapon steady and left both arms free. By raising the leg it was easily got at, and it interfered in no way with the use of the lariat (La Riata). The hang of the six-shooter required more particular consideration; when needed it would be needed _badly_, and therefore must be easily drawn, with no possible chance of a hitch. The butt of a revolver must point forwards and not backwards, as shown in the accompanying illustration, a portrait of one of our men as he habitually appeared at work. We ourselves did not go the length of wearing three belts of cartridges and two six-shooters; but two belts were needed, one for the rifle and the other for the smaller weapon. Some of the boys were always getting into scrapes and seemed to enjoy protracted fights with the Mexicans. There must be no flap to the scabbard, and the point must be tied by a leather thong around the thigh to keep it in correct position; and of course it was hung on the right side and low down on the hip, so as to be easily got at. Only when riding fast was a small loop and silver button passed through the trigger guard to prevent the gun from jolting out and being lost. The chambers were always kept full and the weapons themselves in perfect working order. Very "bad" men tied back or removed the trigger altogether, cocking and releasing the hammer with the thumb, or "fanning" it with the left hand. This permitted of very rapid firing, so that the "aar would be plumb full of lead." [Illustration: ONE OF OUR MEN. (To show the hand of six-shooter.)] As an instance of quick shooting, two of our neighbours had threatened to kill each other at sight: and we were all naturally interested in the results. When the meeting did take place, quite unpremeditated, no doubt, each man saw the other about the same instant, but one of them was just a little the quicker, and put a bullet through his enemy's heart. It was a mortal wound of course; but before the unlucky man fell he was also able to "get his work in," and both fell dead at the same instant. This was no duel. The first to fire had the advantage, but the "dead" man was too quick for him, and he did not escape. If I remember right, a good riddance. There was one other way of "packing a gun." It was called the Arizona way. Legal gentlemen, some gamblers, and others who for various reasons wished to appear unarmed, simply put the pistol in the coat side pocket, and in use fired from that position through the pocket. It was not often so used, but I have known cases of it. In this way it was difficult to know whether a man was "heeled" (armed) or not. Of course our usual weapon, the long Colt 45° six-shooter could not be so used, being too cumbrous. [Illustration: 1883 IN ARIZONA. AUTHOR AND PARTY.] CHAPTER III CACTUS RANCHING IN ARIZONA--_continued_ The Cowboy--Accoutrements and Weapons--Desert Plants--Politics and Perjury--Mavericks--Mormons--Bog Riding. The "rustling" of cattle was very common in Arizona in these days. By "rustling" is not meant the petty burning out of a brand, or stealing of calves or odd beef cattle. It was carried on on the grand scale. Bands of rustlers operated together in large bodies. Between our range and the old Mexican border extended the Apache Reservation, a very large tract of exceedingly rough country, without roads of any description, the only signs of human presence being an occasional Indian trail and abandoned wickyups. Beyond the Reservation lay certain mining towns and camps, such as Clifton, Camp Thomas, Tombstone, and others; and then the Mexican frontier. The rustlers' business was to steal cattle, butcher them in the mountains, and sell the beef to the mining towns; or drive them over into Old Mexico for disposal, and then again drive Mexican cattle or horses back into Arizona. Some of these gangs were very powerful and terrorized the whole country, so much so that decent citizens were afraid "to give them away." Our cattle ranged well into the mountains, and up to a certain period we had no occasion to think that any "dirty" work was going on; but at last we "tumbled" to the fact that a gang was operating on our range. Word was brought us that a bunch of some 200 cattle had been "pulled" (Scotch, lifted). I was off the ranch at the time, but one of my partners at once started on the trail with three of the men. After some days very hard riding they caught up on the thieves at early dawn, in fact when still too dark to see very well. Shooting began at once. None of our men were hurt. Two of the enemy were badly wounded, but managed in the darkness to scramble off into the rocks, or were carried off by their companions. Our party captured their saddle horses and camp outfit, but did not feel themselves strong enough to continue the chase in such a country. The cattle were found close to the camp, but so footsore that it was impossible to move them homewards. They then returned to the ranch, and we at once organized a strong force of some seventeen men, well mounted and abundantly supplied with ammunition, etc. Again taking the trail we met the cattle on their way home, and gave them a push for a mile or so; and thinking them safe enough we prepared to continue south. On arriving at the scene of last week's fight we noticed that the big pine trees under which the rustlers camped had gun-rests notched in the sides of them, not newly made, but showing that they had been cut a long while ago, probably in anticipation of just what had happened. That day in camp, a horseman, the most innocent-looking of individuals, appeared, took dinner with us, and gave some plausible reason for his presence in that out-of-the-way place. It is strictly against cowboy etiquette to question a guest as to his personality, his movements or his occupation. We, however, felt very suspicious, especially as after he had gone we stumbled on to a coffee-pot and frying-pan, still warm, which had evidently been thrown into the bushes in great haste. In fact, this confirmed our suspicions that our visitor was one of the gang, and we thereafter stood careful guard round our horses every night. The cattle we decided to leave alone to take their chances of getting home, thinking the rustlers would not have the "gall", in face of our near presence, to again try to get off with them; but they did! These cattle never reached the ranch. Had they been left alone their wonderful homing instinct would certainly have got them there just as quick as they could travel. However, we did not realize the fact of the second raid till on our return no sign of these cattle could be found. So we continued south, passing through the roughest country I ever set eyes on, the vegetation in some places being of the most extraordinary nature, cacti of all kinds forming so thick a jungle that one could hardly dismount. Such enormous and freakish-looking growths of this class of plant few can have ever looked on before. The prickly pear "nopal" was the most common, and bore delicious, juicy and refreshing fruit. Indeed, being out of water and short of "chuck," we were glad to accept Nature's offering, but at a dreadful cost, for in a little while our mouths and tongues were a mass of tiny, almost invisible spines, which the most careful manipulation of the fruit could not prevent. But the most astonishing of these growths was the pitahaya (correct name saguarro), or gigantic columnar cactus, growing to a height of thirty to fifty feet, bearing the fruit on their crowns; a favourite fruit of the Pima Indians, though by what means they pluck it it would be interesting to know. Besides an infinite variety of others of the cactus family, there were yuccas, agaves and larreas; the fouquiera and koberlinia, long and thorny leafless rods; artemisias and the algarrobbas or mesquite bean-trees, another principal food of the Indians and valuable for cattle and horses. The yucca when in full bloom, its gigantic panicles bearing a profusion of large white bells, is one of Nature's most enchanting sights. Besides all these were massive biznagas, cholas, bear-grass or palmilla, and the mescal, supplying the principal vegetable food of the Apaches. Never in Texas, Arizona, or even Old Mexico, have I seen such a combination of varieties of such plants growing in such profusion and perfection; but being no botanist, and quite incompetent to give a proper appreciation of these wonders, we will return to the trail. At one place, hidden in a cañon, we ran on to a stone-built and fortified butchering establishment, but without sign of life around. Continuing, we finally came to Clifton, the copper-mining town, then perhaps the "hardest" town in Arizona. The townspeople appeared pleased to see us. Martial law was prevailing, and they seemed to think we were a posse deputized to assist in restoring order. Anyway, the sheriff informed us that nearly thirty men had left the town that day for their camp, a fortified position some ten or fifteen miles away. They were all rustlers, and somehow or other had heard of our coming. Mr Sheriff was also kind enough to advise us that we were not nearly strong enough to tackle them; so adopting his advice, after securing supplies, we rode off, and by travelling all night and working round avoided the enemy's "position." Next day we unexpectedly ran on to a large bunch of our own cattle quietly grazing on the hillside. We rounded them up, but our brands were so completely burned out and effaced that, when we put them in the corral at Camp Thomas and claimed ownership, the sheriff refused to acknowledge it, and we had to draw his attention to a small jaw brand lately adopted by us but unnoticed by the thieves, and therefore not "monkeyed" with. This was proof enough, and so our long and tedious trip was to some extent compensated for. The particular rustlers we were after we could hear nothing of, except one man, who was lying wounded at a certain establishment, but who was carefully removed before we got to the place. On returning home there were only two possible passes through the mountains. It was lucky we took the one, as the other, we afterwards learned, had been put into a state of defence and manned by the outlaws, who in such a place could have shot us all down without danger to themselves. This short narrative will give some sort of idea of the state of the country at that period. Thereafter it became necessary that the cattle in the mountains should be more carefully guarded and looked after, and the duty fell to me to "cut sign." By "cutting sign" is meant, in this instance, the riding round and outside of all our cattle, pushing back any that had strayed too far, and carefully looking out for fresh sign (footprints) of cattle or horses leading beyond our range limits. Such sign was always suspicious, and the trail must be followed till the stock was found and accounted for. If horse tracks accompanied the cattle it would be a dead sure proof that something was wrong. I continued this work for a long time, but nothing suspicious occurred. At last, one day when searching the open country with my field-glasses, I was gratified and at the same time alarmed to see three or four men driving a considerable herd of cattle in the direction, and on exactly the same trail as before taken by the rustlers. Convinced that all was not right, and quite realizing that there was the prospect of serious trouble for myself, I lit out for them, keeping as well under cover as possible, till, on mounting a small tree-covered knoll, I found myself directly overlooking their camp. There were the cattle, from four to five hundred, and there the men, preparing their mid-day meal, four of them in all, and all strangers to me. It was necessary at all costs to know who they were, so I was obliged to disclose myself by going into their camp. The number of saddle horses they had with them led me to think that they were not real professional cattle thieves. Had they been indeed rustlers it would have been a risky thing to do, as they would have had to dispose of me in some way or other. By my horse brand they at once knew what "outfit" I belonged to. Their brands, however, were strange to me. They asked me to eat, of course; and I soon found out that their party was headed by one Pete----, whose reputation I had often heard of as being of the worst. He said he had been grazing these cattle in some outlying park, and was now taking them home to his ranches somewhere in New Mexico. That was all right; but since he had passed through part of our range it was necessary to inspect the herd. This he resisted by every means he could think of, asserting that they were a "clean" bunch, with no "strays," and that he was in a great hurry to push on. I insisted, however, on riding through them, when, not much to my surprise, I found about twenty large unbranded calves, apparently without their "mammies." On asking Pete for an explanation: "Oh," he said, "the mammies were shore in the herd" and he "warn't no cow thief," but on my persisting he finally exclaimed, "Well, take your damned _caves_ and let's get on," or some such words; so I started in and cut out nearly twenty big unbranded calves, which certainly did not have their mothers with them; which, therefore, were clearly not his property; were probably ours, but whether they were or not did not matter to me. Pete and his men pulled out home, but I caught and branded over half of these calves before turning them loose, and it is probable we got the rest of them at the next round-up. When a man is single-handed and has to make his fire up as well as catch and tie down the calves he has his hands pretty full. In this case I used only one fire and so had to drag the calves up close to it; every bit of tie rope in my pocket, thongs cut off the saddle, even my pocket-handkerchief, were all brought into service; as at one time there were as many as four calves tied down at once. I had only the one little branding-iron, a thin bent iron rod, generally carried tied to the saddle alongside the carbine. The branding-iron must be, if not quite red-hot, very nearly so. Then the calf has to be ear-marked and altered. When the mothers are near by the bellowing of the young ones as the hot iron burns into the hide makes them wild with fear and anxiety, and the motherly instinct to charge is strained to the utmost, though they seldom dare to do it. The calves themselves, if big and stout enough, will often charge you on being released, and perhaps knock you over with a painfully hard punch. This was merely an adventure which lent some excitement and interest to the regular work. Happily no more serious raid on our cattle occurred in that direction, but one never knew when a little "pulling" might take place and so had to be constantly on the alert. About this time certain ill-disposed individuals tried "to get their work in on us" by asserting land frauds on our part. They tried every possible way to give us "dirt," that is, to put us to trouble and expense, and even send us to the pen if they could. They succeeded in having me indicted for perjury by the Grand Jury at Prescott, the then capital of Arizona. It cost us some money, but no incriminating evidence was forthcoming and the trial was a farce. The trial jury consisted of miners, cattlemen, saloon-keepers and others, and by mixing freely with them, standing drinks, etc., we managed to "correct" any bad feeling there might have been against us. Certainly these jurymen might have made trouble for me, but they did not. This notwithstanding that my friend, a special land agent sent out from Washington and principal witness against me, swore that I had assaulted him at a lonely place (and I well remember the occasion), and that he felt his life in such danger that he had to travel with a guard, etc. This came from politics. Having described summer life and occupations, and before going to winter camp, something must be said about our headquarters ranch, situated some twenty miles off. Here were the grain-house, the hay stacks, wagon sheds, corrals, the kitchen, general messroom, the bunk house and private rooms for ourselves. There was a constant succession of visitors. Nearly every day some stranger or neighbour "happened" in for a meal. Everyone was welcome, or at least got free board and lodging and horse feed. There being a paid cook made things different. But it was hot down here in summer-time, hot and dry and hardly attractive. The lower part of the range was much of it sandy country. With the temperature at 110° in the shade the sand would get so hot as to be almost painful to walk on, certainly disagreeable to sit on. And when one wanted to rest the only shade you could find would be in the shadow of your horse, which at noon meant your sitting right under him; and your saddle, on remounting, would be so hot as to be really very uncomfortable. Between round-ups there was not much work to do. Before round-up a general shoeing of the horses had to be gone through. I shod my own, except in cases of young ones undergoing the operation for the first time, when assistance was needed. Except poker every night we had few amusements. It was almost a daily programme, however, to get our carbines and six-shooters out and practise at targets, firing away box after box of ammunition. No wonder we were pretty expert shots, but indeed it needs much practice to become so. It should be said that amongst our visitors there were, no doubt, many angels whom we entertained unawares; but also, and no doubt of this, many blackguards and desperadoes, "toughs" and horse-thieves. An old English sailor, who had farmed a little in the mountains, was on one occasion left alone at our headquarters to take charge of it during our absence on the work. Two men came along and demanded something which the old man would not give and they deliberately shot him dead. We caught the miscreants, but could not convict them, their plea being self-defence. They really should have been hung without trial. Lynchings of cattle and horse thieves and other criminals were not then uncommon. I have twice come on corpses swinging in the wind, hung from trees or telegraph posts. But the most distressing sight witnessed was in Denver's fair city when a man, still alive, was dragged to death all through the streets by a rope round his neck, followed by a howling mob! By the way, a strange couple once surprised me at my mountain camp, viz., two individuals dressed much alike, both wearing the hair in a long pigtail, both dressed in leather "chaps," high-heeled boots, woollen shirts, big felt hats, rifles and six-shooters, and both as "hard"-looking as they ever make them. One was a man, the other a woman! They volunteered to me nothing of their business, but I watched the horses a little closer. And I may as well here give another little incident that occurred in my summer camp. A United States cavalry officer appeared one day at my door and demanded that I at once move the cattle off the Reservation. This was a sudden and rather big order. I told him that I was alone and could not possibly do it at once, or for several days. "Oh," he said, he "would help me," he having some forty nigger troopers with him. "All right," I said, and took the men along with me, got back behind the cattle, spread these novel cowboys out and began to drive, when such a shouting and shooting of guns took place as never was heard before in these parts. We drove the cattle, really only a thousand head or so, back to the supposed Reservation border, quite unmarked and vague, and so left them, only to wander back again at their leisure to where they had been. The officer made all kinds of threats that he would turn the Indians loose on them, but nothing more was then done. At my winter camp, some thirty-five miles below headquarters, there was a good three-roomed frame house, a corral, etc., and the Little Colorado River flowed past near by. It was to these lower parts of the range that most of our cattle drifted in winter time. Two or three other large cattle-ranches marched with us there. A small Mormon settlement was not far off. These Mormons were a most venturesome people and daring settlers. Certainly they are the most successful colonists and a very happy people. Living in close community, having little or no money and very little live stock to tempt Providence (rustlers), theirs is a peaceable, though possibly dull, existence. They had frequent dances, but we Gentiles were not admitted to them.[1] [Footnote 1: _See_ Appendix, Note 1.] In winter one lives better than in the hot weather, table supplies being more varied. In summer, excepting during the round-ups, we never had butcher meat, and in my camp butter, eggs and milk were not known; but in winter I always had lots of good beef, potatoes, butter and some eggs from the Mormons, but still no milk. This was varied, too, by wild duck, teal and snipe shot along the river bottom. Talking of snipe, it is very wonderful how a wounded bird will carefully dress and apply down and feathers to the injury, and even apply splints and ligatures to a broken limb. My principal duties at this season consisted in riding the range on the lookout for unbranded calves, many calves always being missed on the round-up. This was really rather good sport. Such calves are generally big, strong, fat, and run like jack-rabbits, and it takes a fast and keen pony to catch them. Occasionally you would be lucky enough to find a maverick, a calf or a yearling so old as to have left its mother and be still running loose without a brand and therefore without an owner. It was particular satisfaction to get one's rope, and therefore one's brand, on to such a rover, though it might really not be the progeny of your own cattle at all. It was no easy job either for one man alone to catch and brand such a big and wild creature, especially if among the brush and cedar trees. A certain stimulant to your work was the fact that you were not the only one out on a maverick hunt. There were others, such as your neighbours, or even independent gentlemen, expert with the rope and branding-iron, who never bought a cow critter in their lives, but started their herds by thus stealing all the calves they could lay hands on. A small crooked iron rod, an iron ring, or even an old horseshoe, did duty as branding-iron on these occasions. The ring was favoured by the latter class of men, as it could be carried in the pocket and not excite suspicion. Of course we branded, marked and altered these calves wherever we found them. "Hair branding" was a method resorted to by dishonest cowboys; by burning the hair alone, and not the hide, they would apparently brand the calf with its rightful owner's brand; but later, when the calf had grown bigger and left its mother, they would slap on their own brand with comparative safety. One had to be constantly on the lookout for such tricks. The Mexicans, too, were fond of butchering a beef now and then, so they too required watching; but my busiest time came with early spring, when the cattle were in a poor and weak condition. The river-bed, too, was then in its boggiest state. Cattle went in to drink, stuck, and could not get out again, and thus some seasons we lost enormous numbers of them. Therefore I "rode bog" every day up and down the river. When I found an animal in the mud I had to rope it by the horns or feet and drag it by main force to solid ground. A stout, well-trained horse was needed. It was hard, dirty work and exasperating, as many of those you pulled out never got up again, and if they did would invariably charge you. No special tackle was used; you remain in the saddle, wrap the rope round the horn and dig the spurs in. Of course, on your own beat, you dragged out all you could, no matter of what brand; but when, as often happened, you failed to get them out, and they belonged to someone else, you were not allowed to shoot them; so that there the poor creatures lay for days, and perhaps even weeks, dying a lingering, but I am glad to think and believe not a painful, death. What an awful death for a reasoning, conscious man. Dumb animals, like cattle, happily seem to anticipate and hope for nothing one way or another. Once I found a mare in the river in such a position under a steep bank that nothing could be done for her. Her young colt was on the bank waiting and wondering. Very regretfully I had to leave them and carefully avoided passing that way for some days to come till the tragedy had terminated. The Little Colorado River, and afterwards the Pecos River in New Mexico, I have often seen so thick with dead and dying cattle that a man might walk up and down the river on the bodies of these unfortunate creatures. The stench would become horrible, till the spring flood came to sweep the carcasses to the sea or covered them up with deposit. Quicksand is much more holding than mere river mud. If only the tip of the tail or one single foot of the animal is covered by the stuff, then even two stout horses will not pull it out. The Pecos River is particularly dangerous on account of its quicksandy nature, and it was my custom, when having to cross the mess wagon, to send across the ramuda of two or three hundred saddle horses to tramp the river-bed solid beforehand. On one occasion when crossing quite a small stream my two driving ponies went down to their hocks, so that I had to cut the traces and belabour them hard to get them out. Had they not got out at once they never would have done so. My ambulance remained in the river-bed all night and till a Mexican with a bull-team luckily came along next day. At the Meadows, my winter camp, I had to fill a contract of two or three fat steers for the town butcher every week. With a man to help me we had to go far afield and scour the range to get suitable animals, the best and fattest beeves being always the furthest out. After corralling, which might mean a tremendous amount of hard galloping and repeated failures, the most difficult part of the job was the actual killing, which I accomplished by shooting them with a six-shooter, not a carbine. Only when a big steer has its head down to charge can you plant a bullet in exactly the right spot, a very small one, too, on the forehead, when he will drop like a stone. It was very pretty practice, but risky, as to get them to charge you must be afoot and inside the corral. The butcher was rather astonished when I first accomplished this trick, but it saved time and a lot of trouble. Such were my winter duties. Sometimes neighbours would look in, and the weekly mail and home papers helped to pass the time. I read a great deal, and so the solitariness of the position was not so trying as one might suppose. Indeed, books were more to me than the neighbours' society. "Incidents" occurred, of course, but I will only mention one. In winter I only kept up two saddle horses, picked ponies, favourites and almost friends. They were fed with grain night and morning, and, to save hay, were allowed to graze out at night. They regularly returned at early morning for their feed, so I never had to go after them. One morning, however, they did not appear. It was quite unaccountable to me and very awkward, as it left me afoot and unable to do anything. Not till about 10 a.m. did they come galloping in, greatly excited, their tails in the air, puffing and snorting. It did not look quite right. Someone had been chasing them. At noon, while preparing early dinner, a man, a stranger, rode up to the house, and of course was invited to eat. He was very reticent, in fact would hardly speak at all, and gave no hint as to who he was or anything about himself. While eating there was suddenly a rapid succession of rifle-shots heard outside. We both rushed to the door and saw a man riding for life straight to the house, with half a dozen others shooting at him from horseback. He was not touched, only his horse being killed at the door. The new-comer and my strange guest at once showed that they were very intimate indeed, so that I quickly and easily put two and two together. The following party in the meantime had stopped and spread out, taking positions behind the low hills and completely commanding the house. Only their big hats showed and I could not make out whether they were Mexicans or white men. My two guests would tell me nothing, except to assert that they knew nothing of their followers, or why they began shooting. Realizing that these two had me at their mercy, that they could make me do chores for them, fetch water, cook, feed and attend to the horses till nightfall, when with my own two fresh mounts they might possibly make a bolt for it, I got a bit anxious, and determined to find out who the larger party were. So walking out and waving my hat I caught their attention and, on advancing further, one of the party came out and met me. They were neighbouring cattlemen, and explained that the two men in my house were rustlers, and they were determined to take them dead or alive. They asked me to join their party as they were going to "shoot up" the house if necessary. To this I would not consent and went back. After a deal of talk and persuasion the two men finally agreed to give me their guns, preliminary to meeting two of the other party, who were also asked to approach unarmed. They met, much to my relief, and when, somehow or other, the two men allowed themselves to be surrounded by the rest they saw the game was up and surrendered. Then the funny thing happened and the one reason for the telling of this story. They all came down to the house, had dinner together, chatted and cracked jokes, and not a word was said about the immediate trouble. They were all "punchers," had worked together, knew each other's affairs, etc., etc. The one party was about to send the other to the penitentiary, or perhaps the gallows; but you would have thought it was only a pleasant gathering of long-separated friends. The two rustlers were lodged in the county jail, quickly broke out, and soon afterwards died in their "boots," one at the hands of the sheriff. For tracking jail-breakers Indians, Navajoes or Apaches were sometimes employed, and the marvellous skill they showed was simply astonishing and inexplicable; all done by reading the "sign" left by the escaping party, but "sign" often quite unnoticeable to the white man. Indeed, an Indian would follow a trail by sign much as a hound will do by scent. Talking of scent, the homing instinct of horses and cattle is very wonderful and mysterious; but it is not generally known that a horse has also great power of scent. A horse will follow its mate (nearly all horses have their chums) many miles merely by sense of smell, as my long experience of them has amply proved to me. On one occasion I for some reason displaced the near horse of my driving team and hitched up another. After driving a distance of fifteen miles and returning homewards on the same road, soon in the distance could be seen said near horse busy with nose on the ground picking up the trail, and so absorbed in it that even when we got up quite close he did not notice us. When he did recognize his chum and companion his evident satisfaction was affecting. CHAPTER IV ODDS AND ENDS Scent and Instinct--Mules--Roping Contests--Antelopes--The Skunk--Garnets--Leave Arizona. This shall be a sketchy chapter of odds and ends, but more or less interesting according to the individual reader. The horse's intelligence is nothing compared to that of the mule, and as riding animal in rough country a mule should always be used. In Mexico, Central American States and the Andes mules are alone used; and what splendid, even handsome, reliable creatures they are on roads, or rather trails, such as it would be hazardous to take horses over. I once saw the unusual sight of two big strong mules (our ammunition pack animals) roll together down a very steep hillside. Happily neither mules nor loads were at all damaged, but it was a steepish hill, as on our returning and trying to climb it we had to dismount and hang on to the horses' tails. Another good point about mules is that they will not founder themselves. Put an open sack of grain before a hungry mule and he will eat what he wants, but never in excess, whereas a horse would gorge and founder himself at once. As said before, the homing instinct of horses and cattle is very remarkable. I have known horses "shipped" by a railway train in closed cars to a distance of over 400 miles, some of which on being turned loose found their way back to their old range. Cattle, too, may be driven a hundred or two hundred miles through the roughest country, without roads or trails of any kind, and even after being held there for several weeks will at once start home and take exactly the same route as that they were driven over, even though there be no "sign" of any kind to guide them and certainly no scent. On my shooting and fishing trips I rode one horse and packed another. The packed horse, on going out, had to be led, of course, unless indeed he was my saddle-horse's chum. But on going home, after even a couple of weeks' absence, I simply turned the pack-horse loose, hit him a lick with the rope, and off he would go with the utmost confidence as to the route, and follow the trail we had come out on, each time a different trail be it remembered, with ridiculous exactitude; yet there was no visible track or sign of any kind. Indeed, I would often find myself puzzled as to our whereabouts and feel quite confident we were at fault, when suddenly some familiar tree or landmark, noticed on going out, would be recognized. Parts of our Arizona range were covered with great beds of broken malpais rock, really black lava, hard as iron, with edges sharp and jagged. Over such ground we would gallop at full speed and with little hesitation, trusting absolutely to our locally-bred ponies to see us through. English horses could never have done it, and probably no old-country horseman would have taken the chances. We got bad falls now and then, but very seldom indeed considering conditions. The bits used then were murderous contrivances, being of the kind called spade or ring bits. By means of them a horse could be thrown on his haunches with slight effort, even his jaw may be broken. Luckily the bit is little used by the cowboy. His horse knows its painful character, and so obeys the slightest raising of the rider's hand. It should also be remarked that the cow-pony is guided, not by pulling either the right or left rein, but by the rider carrying his bridle hand over to the _left_ if he wants to go to the left, and vice versa. There is no pulling on the mouth. The pony does not understand that; it is the slight pressure of the right rein on the _right_ side of the neck that turns him to the _left_. The reata in those days was nearly always made of plaited raw hide, and often made by the boys themselves, though a good reata required a long time to complete and peculiar skill in the making of it. Quirts (quadras) and horse hobbles were also made of raw hide. As everyone knows, the horn of the saddle is used in America to hold roped cattle with. In South America a ring fixed to the surcingle is used; while in Guatemala and Costa Rica the reata is tied to the end of the horse's tail! It is a very pretty sight to see a skilled roper (the best are often Mexicans) at work in a corral or in a herd; or better still, when after a wild steer on the prairie. But roping is hardly ever used nowadays, one reason of the "passing" of the old-time cowboy. We used to have great annual roping competitions in New Mexico and Texas, when handsome prizes were given to the men who would rope and tie down a big steer in quickest time. I once or twice went in myself to these competitions and was lucky enough to do fairly well, being mounted on a thoroughly trained roping horse; but it is a chancy affair, as often the best man may unluckily get a lazy sort of steer to operate on, and it is much more difficult to throw down such an animal than a wild, active, fast-galloping one; for this reason, that on getting the rope over his horns you must roll him over, or rather _flop_ him over, on to his back by a sudden and skilful action of your horse on the rope. If properly thrown, or flopped hard enough, the steer will lie dazed or stunned for about half a minute. During that short period, and only during that short period, you must slip off your horse, run up to the steer and quickly tie his front and hind feet together, so tightly and in such a way that he cannot get up. Then you throw up your hands or your hat, and your time is taken. While you are out of your saddle your horse will, if well trained, himself hold the steer down by carefully adjusting the strain on the rope which still connects the animal's horns with the horn on the saddle. [Illustration: WOUND UP. (Horse tangled in rope.) (By C. M. Russell.)] I may here tell a wonderful story of a "buck" nigger who sometimes attended these gatherings. He was himself a cowboy, and indeed worked in my neighbourhood and so I knew him well. He was a big, strong, husky negro, with a neck and shoulders like a bull's. You cannot hurt a nigger any way. Well, this man's unique performance was to ride after a steer, the bigger and wilder the better, and on getting up to him to jump off his horse, seize the steer by a horn and the muzzle, then stoop down and grip the animal's upper lip with his teeth, turn his hands loose, and so by means of his powerful jaws and neck alone throw down and topple the steer over. The negro took many chances, and often the huge steer would fall on him in such a way as would have broken the neck or ribs of any ordinary white man. In this case also the steer must be an active one and going at a good pace, otherwise he could not be thrown properly. Stock-whips were never allowed. Useful as they may be at times, still the men are liable to ill-treat the cattle, and we got on quite well without them. Dogs, too, of course, were never used and never allowed on the range. They so nearly resemble the wolf that their presence always disturbs the cattle. This deprivation of canine society, as it may be imagined, was keenly felt by us all, perhaps more especially by myself. Had I only then had the companionship of certain former doggy friends life would have been much better worth living. As a protection at night too, when out on long journeys across the country, during the hunting and fishing trips, or even at the permanent camps, the presence of a faithful watch-dog would probably have saved me from many a restless night. The Navajo Indian's method of hunting antelope was to strew cedar branches or other brush in the form of a very long wing to a corral, lying loose and flat on the ground. The antelope on being driven against it will never cross an obstruction of such a nature, though it only be a foot high, but will continue to run along it and so be finally driven into the corral. And antelope are such inquisitive animals! On the Staked Plains of New Mexico the Mexicans approach them by dressing themselves up in any ridiculous sort of fashion, so as least to resemble a human being. In this way they would not approach the antelope, but the antelope would approach them, curious to find out the nature of such an unusual monstrosity. Antelope, there, were still very plentiful, and even in my own little pasture there was a band of some 300 head. Only at certain times of the year did they bunch up together; at other times they, though still present, were hardly noticeable. I would like to make note of the curious misnaming of wild animals in North America. Thus, the antelope or pronghorn is not a true antelope, the buffalo is not a buffalo, the Rocky Mountain goat is not a goat, and the elk is not an elk. By the same token the well-known "American aloe," or century plant, is not an aloe, but an agave. While in Arizona I used to carry in a saddle pocket a small sketch-book and pencil, and on finding one of the beautiful wild flowers the Rocky Mountains are so famous for, that is, a new kind, I would at once get down and take a sketch of it, with notes as to colour, etc. The boys were at first a bit surprised, and no doubt wondered how easily an apparent idiot could amuse himself. I was considerably surprised myself once when busy sketching on the banks of a brawling stream in the mountains. A sudden grunt as of a bear at my elbow nearly scared me into the river. On turning round, there was an armed Apache brave standing close behind me; but he was only one of a hunting party. What sentiment that grunt expressed I never learnt. It is remarkable how a range or tract of country that has been overstocked or over-grazed will rapidly produce an entirely new flora, of a class repugnant to the palate of cattle and horses. In this way our mountain range in particular, when in course of a very few years it became eaten out, quickly decked itself in a gorgeous robe of brilliant blossoms; weeds we called them, and weeds no doubt they were, as our cattle refused to touch them. Certain nutritious plants, natives of the soil, such as the mescal, quite common when we first entered the country, were so completely killed out by the cattle that later not a single plant of the kind could be found. Amongst the fauna of Arizona was, of course, the ubiquitous prairie dog; and as a corollary, so to speak, the little prairie owl (_Athene cunicularis_), which inhabits deserted dog burrows and is the same bird as occupies the Biscacha burrows in Argentina. Rattlesnakes, so common around dog-towns, enter the burrows to secure the young marmots. Another animal frequently seen was the chaparral-cock or road-runner, really the earth cuckoo (_Geococcyx Mexicanus_), called paisano or pheasant, or Correcamino, by the Mexicans. It is a curious creature, with a very long tail, and runs at a tremendous rate, seldom taking to flight. Report says that it will build round a sleeping rattlesnake an impervious ring of cactus spines. Its feathers are greatly valued by Indians as being "good medicine," and being as efficacious as the horseshoe is with us. A still more curious animal, not often seen, was the well-named Gila monster or Escorpion (_Heloderma suspectum_), the only existing animal that fills the description of the Basilisk or Cockatrice of mediæval times; not the _Basilicus Americanus_, which is an innocent herbivorous lizard. This Gila monster is a comparatively small, but very hideous creature, in appearance like a lizard, very sluggish in its movements, and rightly owning the worst of reputations. Horned toads, also hideous in appearance, and tarantulas (_Mygales_), very large centipedes and scorpions, were common, and lived on, or rather were killed because of their reputation, but they seldom did anyone harm. But the most highly appreciated, that is the most feared and detested, of wild creatures was the common skunk, found everywhere, mostly a night wanderer and a hibernator. He is a most fearless animal, having such abundant and well-reasoned confidence in his mounted battery, charged with such noxious gases as might well receive the attention of our projectile experts. The first time I ever saw one he came into my mountain hut. Knowing only that he was "varmint" I endeavoured to kill him quickly with a spade. Alas! the spade fell just a moment too late and henceforth that hut was uninhabitable for a month. The only way to get one out of the house is to pour buckets of cold water on it. That keeps the tail down (unlike a horse, which cannot kick when his tail is up); but when his tail goes up, then look out! The skunk is also more dreaded by the cowboy and the frontiers-man than the rattlesnake. It is their belief that a bite from this creature will always convey hydrophobia. Being a night prowler it frequents cow camps, and often crawls over the beds spread on the ground, and it certainly has a habit of biting any exposed part of the human body. When it does so, the bitten man at once starts off to Texas, where at certain places one can hire the use of a madstone. The madstone is popularly supposed to be an accretion found somewhere in the system of a white stag. It is of a porous nature, and if applied to a fresh wound will extract and absorb the poison serum. Texans swear that it "sticks" only if there be poison present--does not stick otherwise. A fanciful suggestion! And yet, no doubt, the skunk does sometimes convey hydrophobia through its bite. I have myself often had the pleasant experience of feeling and knowing that a skunk was crawling over my carefully-covered-up body. But enough of this very objectionable creature. In Texas some of the boys used to carry in their pockets a piece of "rattlesnake root," which when scraped and swallowed after a bite was held to be an antidote, though otherwise a virulent poison. In this placid land of ours, so free of pests, mosquitoes, fleas and leeches, we are also free of the true skunk; but we do have, as perhaps you are aware, a small creature armed and protected in much the same way. This is the bombardier-beetle, common in certain other countries, but also found in England, which if chased will discharge from its stern a puff of bluish-white smoke, accompanied by a slight detonation. It can fire many shots from its stern chasers. It is said that a highly volatile liquid is secreted by glands, which when it meets the air passes into vapour so suddenly as to produce the explosion. The Mexicans of the United States deserve more than a passing notice. Many of them have Indian blood and are called Greasers, but the majority are of fairly pure Spanish descent. Contact with the Americans has made them vicious and treacherous. They have been robbed of their lands, their cattle and their horses, bullied and ill-treated in every possible way. But even now many of them retain their character, almost universal amongst their compatriots in Old Mexico, for hospitality, unaffected kindness, good breeding and politeness. A Mexican village in autumn is picturesque with crimson "rastras" of Chile pepper hung on the walls of the adobe houses. To the Mexicans we owe, or rather through them to the Aztecs, the delightfully tasty and delicious enchiladas and tamales. Among native animals should not be forgotten the common jacket-rabbit (hare). She affords capital coursing, and someone has said runs faster than an ice boat, or a note maturing at a bank, so she must indeed be speedy. It is interesting to recall that puss in Shakespeare's time was _he_ and not _she_. Among our feathered friends the humming-bird was not uncommon. These lovely but so tiny little morsels are migrants. Indeed one of the family, and one of the tiniest and most beautiful, is known to summer in Alaska and winter in Central America; thus accomplishing a flight twice a year of over two thousand miles. An interesting little note too may be made of the fact that the garnets of Arizona are principally found on ant-heaps, being brought to the surface by the ants and thrown aside as obstructions only fit for the waste-basket. But they are very beautiful gems and are regularly collected by the Indians. There was little or no gold mining in our part of the territory; but there were current many tales of fabulously rich lost Claims, lost because of the miners having been massacred by the Indians or other causes. In likely places I have myself used the pan with the usual enthusiasm, but luckily never with much success. The practice of that very curious custom, the "couvade," seems to be still in force among some of the Arizona Indian tribes, among whom so many other mysterious rites and customs prevail. The loco-weed (yerba-loco) was common in our country and ruined many of our horses, but more about it hereafter. After ten years, a long period of this life in Arizona, an offer came to me which, my partners consenting, was gladly accepted, viz., to take charge of and operate certain cattle-ranches in New Mexico in the interests of a Scottish Land and Mortgage Company. Things had not been going well with us and the future held out no prospects of improvement. Also I had been loyal to my agreement not to take or seek any share in the management of affairs, and the natural desire came to me to assume the responsibility and position of a boss. But dear me! had I foreseen the nature of the work before me, and the troubles in store, my enthusiasm would not have been quite so great. [Illustration: WATERING A HERD.] CHAPTER V RANCHING IN NEW MEXICO The Scottish Company--My Difficulties and Dangers--Mustang Hunting--Round-up described--Shipping Cattle--Railroad Accidents--Close out Scotch Company's Interests. Bidding good-bye to Arizona I travelled to Las Vegas, New Mexico, now quite an important place. Calling on Mr L----, the manager of the Mortgage Company, and the Company's lawyers, the position of affairs was thus stated to me. The Company had loaned a large sum of money to a cattleman named M----, who owned a large ranch with valuable water-claims and a very fine though small herd of cattle. M---- had paid no interest for several years and attempted to repudiate the loan, so the Company decided to foreclose and take possession. Well, that seemed all right; so after getting power of attorney papers, etc., from the Company, I started down to the ranch, some eighty miles and near Fort Sumner, and introduced myself to M----, who at once refused to turn over the property to me or to anyone else, and sent me back to Las Vegas in a somewhat puzzled state of mind. Recounting my experience to Mr L---- and the lawyers, after a long confab they decided that I should go down again and _take_ possession. They refused me the services of a sheriff or a deputy to serve the papers and represent the law. No, I was to take possession in any way my wits might suggest; they merely proposing that everything I did I should put on paper and make affidavit to and send up to them. By this time I had learned that M---- was very much stirred up about it, was quite determined to give nothing up, and that really he was a dangerous man who, if pushed to extremities, might do something desperate. The lawyers told me there was another, a right, usual and legal way of taking possession, but for private reasons they did not wish to proceed in that way; and so I finally agreed to go down again and do what I could. Buying some horses and hiring a Mexican vaquero to show me the country, and especially to be a witness to whatever took place, we pulled out for Fort Sumner. The spring round-up was about to begin, and near by I found M----'s "outfit" wagon, "cavayad" of horses, his full force of "hands" and the foreman H----. After dining with them I pulled out my papers to show H---- who I was and told him I had come there to take possession of M----- 's saddle horses, the whole "ramuda" in fact of nearly a hundred head. Oh, no! he had no instructions to give them up; he did not know anything of the matter and he certainly would not let me touch them! I said I had come to carry out my orders and meant to do so; and mounting, rode out to gather up the grazing ponies. At once they came after me, not believing that anyone would dare do such a thing in their presence, and began to jostle me, with more evil intentions in their eyes. Desisting at once, and before they had gone too far, I told them that that was all I wanted, said good-bye in as friendly a way as possible, and went before a Justice of the Peace and made affidavit of having attempted to take possession of the horses till resisted by force, in fact, that physical violence had been used against me. This was sent to Las Vegas, and in due course the lawyers advised me that it was satisfactory and recommended me to adopt similar methods when attempting to get possession of the ranches, cattle, stock horses, etc. This was a funny position to be in! M----was a popular man; the other cattlemen would certainly side with him and resent such novel and apparently high-handed proceedings. Myself was an entire stranger in the whole of that huge country, devoted solely to cattle interests, and of course did not have a friend nor did expect to have any. In fact M---- 's appellation of me as that "damned Scotsman" became disagreeably familiar. The round-up was then a long way off down the river, some 100 miles, working up towards Fort Sumner; so I decided to visit the ranches. We rode out to one where was a house (unoccupied) and a spring, there stayed one night, and on departing left an old coffee-pot, some flour, etc., as proof of habitation and so gave myself the right to claim having taken possession. From there to the headquarters ranch was some thirty-five miles. On our route we came across a number of M----'s stock horses (he claimed about four to five hundred) and, taking the opportunity, we got together some 200 head, inspected them, and in this way, the only way open to me, claimed having taken possession. But now with fear and trembling we approached the ranch where M---- and his family, as I knew, were residing. A hundred yards from the house was the main spring of water, to which and at which we went and camped for dinner. Somehow or other M---- heard of our presence and out he came, a shot-gun in his hand, fury in his eyes, and his wife clinging to his coat-tails. No doubt he meant to shoot, but I was quite ready for him and put a bold face on it. Things looked nasty indeed and I was determined to fire should he once raise his gun. Perhaps this boldness made him think a bit, and I was very much relieved indeed when he resorted to expressive language instead of any more formidable demonstration. Though it was necessary to tell him that I was come to take possession of the ranch, he was not on to the affidavit game, and the result was that on returning to Fort Sumner I swore to having attempted to take possession but had been resisted by force. As explained before, such an affidavit was, in the eye of the law, a strong point in our contention of having taken possession. At least, so our legal advisers affirmed. From Fort Sumner I then started for the round-up, taking with me a white man, the Mexican having got scared and quit. Having bought more horses, enough to fully mount two men, we joined the work. Fortunately M----'s outfit had gone up the river with a large herd of cattle, and was during their absence represented by the foreman of another ranch. What I did was to get all the foremen together (there were some ten wagons on the work) and explain to them who I was, that I was there to work and handle the M---- cattle, that if they would help me I should be obliged, but they were to understand that they would be regarded as doing it for my Company. They only said they were going to help in the usual way to gather the cattle and brand the calves; that I could work or not as I liked; that, in fact, it was none of their business as to whose the cattle were. So after working on a bit an affidavit was sent in that I had "worked" the cattle and had _met no resistance_. But mine was an extremely disagreeable position. During this round-up I noticed that M----was carefully gathering all the steers and bulls of any age he could find. I notified my people and asked them to send the sheriff down to help me. Things were coming to a point as it were; it was evidently M----'s intention to drive the steers out of the territory, knowing that once over the Texas line we could no longer enjoin him. His whole force of men depended on this to get their wages out of these steers, as every one of them was at least three months in arrears, some of them six, twelve, and even eighteen months. Thus I knew they would make every effort to succeed in the drive and would be desperate men to interfere with. The last day of the round-up was over, and in the evening I was careful to note the direction taken by the herd. In the meantime L---- had sent me a restraining paper to serve and I was of course determined to do it; but late that night my relief was great to see the sheriff, a Mexican, drive into camp. Here was a proper representative of the law at last, though I do not think he himself liked the job overmuch, officers of his breed being habitually treated with contempt by the white men. We agreed to take up the trail early next morning, knowing that the distance to the line was forty miles straight across the Staked Plains, no fences, no roads or trails, and no water for thirty miles at least. So up and off before daybreak, he driving a smart pair of horses, I with only my saddle pony, at as quick a gait as a wheeled vehicle could move; drove till his team began to play out, when luckily we came upon a mustang-hunter's camp and were supplied with two fresh mounts. Pushing on we at last spied in the far distance what was unmistakably a herd of cattle. Experience told me that the cattle had been watered, a fact which was thankfully noted. Watered cattle cannot be driven except at a very slow walk, and the herd was still seven or eight miles from the Texas line. M----'s foreman had made a fatal mistake! Had he not watered them they might have escaped us. They must have thought they had hoodwinked me and were probably then rejoicing at their success. They had certainly made a noble effort, having travelled all night and on till noon next day at a speed I had not thought possible. (There were even bulls in the herd.) One can imagine the feelings of the party when they at last saw us two riding at top speed directly on their trail. Cuss words must have flown freely, and no doubt the more desperate ones talked resistance. I was really anxious myself as to what course they would decide on, M---- not being with them, and they thinking of nothing but the settlement of their wages. On coming up to them they looked about as "mad" as any men could be. But they decided rightly; and seeing the game was up, merely tried to get me to promise to pay their back wages. This I would not do, but said there was time enough to talk that over afterwards; that meantime the herd must be driven back to its proper range, and to this they finally agreed. Word was brought in that M---- was lying out on the prairie, prostrated by the sun, helped no doubt by his realizing that his little scheme had been defeated. We had him brought into camp, but I declined to see him and returned to Fort Sumner. Soon afterwards M---- threw up the sponge, so to speak, and agreed to turn the property over to us. These M---- cattle, numbering only 2000, did not justify the running of a mess wagon and full outfit, so I made arrangements with a very strong neighbouring ranch company to run the cattle for us, only myself attending the round-ups to see that our interests were properly protected. Meantime the stock horses must be looked after. Fraudulently M---- had started new brands on the last two crops of colts, the pick of them going into his wife's brand; and her mares ranged with M----'s, now ours. The band ran apparently anywhere. They had the whole Staked Plains of New Mexico to wander over, there being then absolutely no fences for a distance of 200 miles. Some 200 head of the gentler stock ranged near home; the balance, claimed to number some 300 more, were mixed up with the mustangs and were practically wild creatures, some of them having never been rounded up for over two years. By this time some of M----'s old hands had come over to my side. They knew the country, knew how best to handle these horses, and by favourable promise I got them to undertake to help in discriminating as to which colts were the Company's property and which Mrs M----'s. So I put up an "outfit," wagon, cook, mounts for seven or eight men, etc., and set out on a very big undertaking indeed, and one that M----himself had not successfully accomplished for several years--a clean round-up of all the stock horses in the country. These Staked Plains (Llanos Estacados) were so called because the first road or trail across them had to be staked out with poles at more or less long intervals to show direction, there being no visible landmarks in that immense level country. They are one continuous sweep of slightly undulating, almost level land, well grassed, almost without living water anywhere, but dotted all over with depressions in the ground, generally circular, some of great size, some deeper than others, which we called "dry lakes," from the fact that for most of the year they were nearly all dry, only here and there, and at long distances apart, a few would hold sufficient muddy water to carry wild horses and antelope through the dry season. But which lakes held water and which not was only known to these wild mustang bands and our mares that ran with them. We took out with us some hundred of the gentler mares, the idea being to graze these round camp, and on getting round a bunch of the outlaws to drive them into this herd and so hold them. Nearly every bunch we found had mustangs amongst them. The mustang stallions we shot whenever possible. They were the cause of all our trouble. These stallions did not lead the bands, but fell behind, driving the mares in front and compelling them to gallop. When pressed, the stud would wheel round as if to challenge his pursuers. He presented a fine spectacle, his eyes blazing and his front feet pawing the ground. What a picture subject for an artist! The noble stallion, for he does look noble, no matter how physically poor a creature he may chance to be, wheeling round to challenge and threaten his pursuer, his mane and tail sweeping the ground, fury breathing from his nostrils and his eyes flashing fire! Is he not gaining time for his mares and progeny to get out of danger? A noble object and a gallant deed! Then was the time to shoot. But, yourself being all in a sweat and your horse excited, straight shooting was difficult to accomplish. We worked on a system; on finding a band, one man would do the running for six or eight miles, then another would relieve him, and so on, the idea being to get outside of them and so gradually round them in to the grazing herd. We had special horses kept and used for this purpose, fast and long-winded, as the pace had to be great and one must be utterly regardless of dog and badger holes, etc. This kind of work we kept up for a couple of weeks, some days being successful, some days getting a run but securing nothing. We made a satisfactory gathering of all the gentler and more tractable mares, but some of the wilder ones we could not hold. At night we stood guard over the band, and it was amusing, and even alarming, how the stallions would charge out and threaten any rider who approached too near his ladies. A good deal of fighting went on too between these very jealous gentlemen. As illustrating what the wild stallions are capable of, I may relate here how, one night when we had a small bunch of quite gentle mares and colts in a corral, a mustang stallion approached it, tore down the gate poles, took the mares out and forced them to his own range, some thirty miles away; and he must have driven them at a great pace, as when we followed next morning it was quite that distance before we saw any sign of them. The story is told of M---- himself who one dark night saw what he supposed was one of these depredators, shot it with his rifle, and found he had killed the only highly-bred stud he possessed. At last we started homewards, meaning to separate the properties of the two claimants; but M---- owned the only proper horse-separating corral in the whole country, and from obstinacy and cussedness would not let us use it. Here was a pretty go! To drive to any other corral would mean taking M----'s horses off their proper range and the law forbade us doing so, and he knew it. So we were compelled to do what I reckon had never been done or attempted before--separate the horses on the open prairie! First we cut out and pushed some half a mile away all mares and young unbranded colts to which the Company's title could not be disputed; also the stallions and geldings of like nature; then came the critical and difficult part of the operation--to cut out and separate mothers from their unbranded colts, and branded colts, some even one or two years old, from their mothers. And not only cut them out, but hold them separate for a full couple of hours! No one can know what this means but one who has tried it. I had done a fair amount of yearling steer-cutting; but hard as that work is, it is nothing compared with the separating of colts from their dams. The only way was to suddenly scare the colt out and race him as hard as you could go to the other bunch. But if by bad luck its mother gave a whinny, back the colt would come like a shot bullet, and nothing on earth could stop him. Fortunately I had kept a fresh horse in reserve, a very fine fast and active cutting pony. I rode him myself, and but for him we would never have accomplished what we did. When we got through our best horses were all played out. But it was absolutely necessary to move our own mare band to the nearest corral at Fort Sumner, a distance of thirty miles, which we did that evening. To night-herd them would have been impossible. The title to many of these colts, branded and unbranded, was very much mixed up, and indeed still in the Courts. Nevertheless I prepared next morning to brand them for the Company. The fire was ready, the irons nearly hot, when up drove M----in a furious rage. I do not think I ever saw a man look so angry and mean. He held a shot-gun in his hand and, presenting it at me, swore he would kill me if I dared to proceed any further. My foreman, who knew him well, warned me to be careful; there seemed no doubt that he meant what he said; he was too mad to dispute with, and so! well, his bluff, if it were a bluff, carried the day and I ordered the mares to be turned loose. As it turned out afterwards it was well I did so, as further legal complications would have resulted. But as I began to think of and remember the time that had been spent and the amount of hard work in collecting these horses, I felt rather ashamed of my action. And yet, can one be expected to practically throw his life away, not for a principle, but for a few head of young colts not even his own property? But, as said before, the disputed title influenced me to some extent; that, and the muzzle of the shot-gun together certainly did. A word about mustangs. They were very wary, cunning animals, keen of scent and sharp of eye. Invariably, when one first sighted them, they would be one or two miles away, going like the wind, their tails and manes flying behind them; and be it noted that when walking or standing these manes as well as tails swept the ground. Few of them were of any value when captured; many of them were so vicious and full of the devil generally that you could do nothing with them, and they never seemed to lose that character. Like the guanaco of South America, the wild stallion always dungs in one particular spot, near the watering-place, so that when hunting them we always looked out for and inspected these little hillocks. It may also be mentioned here that guanacos, like wild elephants and wild goats, have their dying ground, so to speak, where immense quantities of their bones are always found. Cattle when about to die select if possible a bush, tree or rocky place, perhaps for privacy, quietness, or some other reason unknown to us. The next and last time we rounded up the stock horses I left the wilder ones alone, and gave a contract to some professional mustangers to gather them at so much per head. These men never attempt to run them down. They "walk" them down. A light wagon, two mules to pull it, lots of grain, some water and supplies, are what you need. On sighting a band you simply walk your team after them, walk all day and day after day, never giving them a rest. Keep their attention occupied and they will neglect to feed or drink. Gradually they become accustomed to your nearer presence, and finally you can get up quite close and even drive them into your camp, where your companions are ready with snare ropes to secure them, or at least the particular ones you want to catch. Prince, a horse I used to ride when mustang hunting, once accidentally gave me a severe tumble. He was running at full speed when suddenly a foreleg found a deep badger hole; over he went of course, head over heels, and it is a miracle it did not break his leg off. These badger holes, especially abandoned ones, go right down to a great depth, and the grass grows over them so that they are hardly visible. Dog holes always have a surrounding pile of earth carefully patted firm and trod on, no doubt to prevent entrance of rain flood-water; thus they are nearly always noticeable. Dog towns are sometimes of great extent, one in my pasture being two miles long and about a mile wide. They are generally far from water, many miles indeed, often on the highest and driest parts of the plain and where the depth to water may be 500 feet or more. They must therefore depend entirely on the juices of the green grass, though in dry seasons they cannot even have that refreshment; and they never scrape for roots. But even the small bunnies (called cotton-tails) are found in like places and must subsist absolutely without water, as they do not, or dare not, on account of wolves, etc., get far away from their holes. No sooner was the M---- trouble well over than my Company saw fit to foreclose on two other cattle outfits, one of which bowed to the law at once. The other gave us, or rather me, a lot of unnecessary trouble, and I had again "to take chances" of personal injury. All these cattle were thrown on to the M---- range, and this increased the herd so much as to justify the running of our own wagon and outfit. Eastern New Mexico, the country over which our cattle ranged, was a huge strip of territory some 250 miles by 100 miles, no fences, no settlers, occupied only by big cattle outfits owning from 8000 to 75,000 cattle each. The range was, however, much too heavily stocked, the rains irregular, severe droughts frequent, and the annual losses yearly becoming heavier; so heavy in fact that owners only waited a slight improvement in prices to sell out or drive their cattle out of the country. The way the cattle were worked was thus. The spring round-up began in March, far down the river, and slowly worked north to our range. Our wagon, one of many more, would join the work some 110 miles south of our range, but I sent individual men to much greater distances. The work continued slowly through the range, branding the spring calves, and each outfit separating its own cattle and driving its own herd. Twelve or more wagons meant some 300 riders and about 3000 saddle horses. So the operation was done on a grand scale; thousands of cattle were handled every day, and altogether such a big round-up was a very busy and interesting scene. Intricate and complicated work it was, too, though not perhaps apparent to an outsider; but under a good round-up boss, who was placed over the bosses of all the wagons, it was wonderful how smoothly the work went on. A general round-up took a long time and was no sooner over than another was begun at the far south border (the Mexico line) and the thing repeated. Our own cattle had got into the habit of drifting south whenever winter set in. It took us all summer to get them back again, and no sooner back than a cold sleet or rain would start them south. In fact, in winter few of our own cattle were at home, the cattle on our range being then mostly those drifted from the northern part of the territory. Such were the conditions in a "free range" country, and these conditions broke nearly all these big outfits, or at least compelled them to market their stuff for whatever it would bring. Partly on account of long-drawnout lawsuits we held on for seven or eight years, when on a recovery of prices our Company also closed out its live-stock interests. During the turning-over of these, the Company's cattle, to the purchasers, of course they had to be all branded, not with a recorded brand, but simply with a tally brand, thus /**, on the hip. Had there been a convenient separate pasture to put the tallied cattle into as they were tallied, much work would have been saved and no opportunity offered for fraud, such as will now be suggested and explained. The method adopted was to begin gathering at one end of the range, tally the herd collected, and then necessarily turn them loose. But we had bad stormy weather and these tallied cattle drifted and scattered all over the country and mixed up with those still not rounded up. This at once gave the opportunity for an evilly-inclined man to do just as was soon rumoured and reported to me. It was even positively asserted to me by certain cowmen (this was while I was confined in bed from an accident) that the buyer had a gang of men out operating on the far end of the range, catching and tally-branding for him the still untallied cattle. A simple operation enough, in such an immense district, where four men with their ropes could, in a few undisturbed days' work, cheat the Company out of enough cattle at $20 a head to be well worth some risk. Several men were positive in their assertions to me. But I knew these gentlemen pretty well--cattle-thieves themselves and utterly unprincipled; perhaps having a grudge against the said buyer, perhaps wanting merely to annoy me, and also possibly hating to see such a fine opportunity not taken advantage of. In the end, when brought to the scratch, not one of these informers would testify under oath. Whether afraid to, as they would undoubtedly have run strong chances of being killed, or whether they were just mischief-makers, as I myself have always believed, it is impossible to know accurately. The buyer, being a man of means and having many other interests in the district, would certainly hesitate long before he took such a very dangerous risk of discovery. All that can be said about it is that though I employed detectives for some time to try to get evidence bearing on the subject, no such evidence was ever obtained. The shortage in the turnover was due simply to the usual miscalculation of the herd; the herd which never before had been counted and could not, under range conditions, be counted. These were still "trailing" days, which means that steers sold or for sale were driven out of the country, not shipped by rail cars. One great trail passed right through our ranch (a great nuisance too), and by it herd after herd, each counting, maybe, 2500 cattle, was continually being trailed northwards, some going to Kansas or the Panhandle, most of them going as far north as Nebraska, Wyoming and Montana. These latter herds would be on the trail continuously for two or three months. Our own steers were always driven to the Panhandle of Texas, where, if not already contracted to buyers, they were held till sold. [Illustration: HERD ON TRAIL. SHOWING LEAD STEER.] A herd of breeding-stock when on the trail must be accompanied by one or more calf wagons, wagons with beds well boxed up, in which the youngest or new-born calves are carried, they being lifted out and turned over to their mother's care at night or during stoppages. In the old days, when such calves had no value, they were knocked on the head or carelessly and cruelly abandoned. It is a strange fact to note that when a herd is on the trail there is always a particular steer which, day after day and week after week, occupies a self-assigned position at the head of the herd, and is therefore called the "lead steer." I have often wondered what his thoughts might be, if any; why he so regularly placed himself at the head of affairs and was apparently so jealous of his commanding position. Yes, the lead steer is a mysterious creature, yet if displaced by death or some such cause, another long-legged, keen traveller will at once take his place. It should be explained that a herd on the trail travels naturally best in an extended form, two deep, seldom more than three or six, except towards the tail end, called the "drag": so that a herd of 2000 steers will form a much-attenuated line a mile in length from one end to the other. Which reminds me of an incident in this connection. I was moving a small lot of steers, some 400 head in all, to pasture in the Panhandle of Texas. The force consisted only of the wagon driver, one cowboy and myself. But the cowboy turned out to be quite ignorant of the art of driving cattle, did more harm than good, and so annoyed me that I dismissed him to the rear to ride in the wagon if he so chose, and myself alone undertook to drive, or rather not so much to drive, that being hardly necessary, as to guide the herd on its course. I got them strung out beautifully half a mile long, and they were making good time, when suddenly a confounded sheep herder and his dog met the lead steers and the procession was at once a scene of the most utter confusion. It should be explained here that, in the case of a small herd thus strung out, its guidance, if left to only one man, may be done from the rear by simply riding out sharply to one side or the other and calling to the lead cattle. How I did curse that wretch and his dog. A man on foot was bad enough; but a man on foot with a dog! Horrors! Yet, perhaps, barring the delay in getting the cattle started again, the incident had its uses, as it had just previously occurred to me that the line was getting a bit too long and might soon be out of control. Such are the uses of adversity. It can be understood that even a small herd of 400 lusty young steers can keep a man, or even two or three men, busy enough, especially if there are any cattle on the range you are passing through. In this case there were fortunately few. Amarillo, being the southern end of the Kansas railroad, was a great cattle market. Buyers and sellers met there; and there, immediately around the town, were congregated at any time in spring as many as 40,000 cattle, all under herd. Amarillo was then the greatest cattle town in the world. She was the successor of such towns as Wichita and Fort Dodge, simply because she was at the western terminus of the railway. Though a pretty rowdy town her manners were an improvement on such places as Dodge, where in the height of her wickedness a gambling dispute, rivalry for the smile of a woman, or the slightest discourtesy, was sufficient ground for the shedding of blood. My life during these eight years had its pleasures and its troubles; certainly much discomfort and a lot of disagreeable work. During the working season, April to November, my time was mostly spent with the round-up or on the trail, with occasional visits to our head office in Las Vegas, and also to Amarillo on business matters. To cover these immense distances, near 300 miles (there were few or no desirable stopping-places), I used a light spring wagon or ambulance, holding my bedding, mess-box, grain for the team, some water, stake ropes, and a hundred other things. I nearly always camped out on the prairie, of course cooked my own meals, was out in all kinds of weather--sun, rain, heat and drought, blizzards and frightful lightning storms. My favourite team was a couple of grey ponies. From being so much together we got to understand each other pretty thoroughly, and we had our adventures as well. Once on going up a very steep hill the ponies lost their footing. The wagon backed and turned over, and ponies and wagon rolled over and over down the hill among the rocks till hung up on a cedar stump. I was not much hurt, but found the ponies half covered with stones and rocks that had rolled on to them, the wagon upside down and camping material scattered everywhere. Cutting the tugs and rolling the stones away the ponies jumped up miraculously little injured, and even the wagon still serviceable, but I had to walk a long way to get assistance. Then we have fallen through rotten bridges, stuck in rivers and quicksands, and all sorts of things. One pony of this team, "Punch," was really the hardiest, best-built, best-natured and most intelligent of any I have ever known. Many a time, on long trips, has the other pony played completely out and actually dropped on the road. But Punch seemed to be never tired. He was a great pet too, and could be fondled to your heart's content. He had no vice, yet was as full of mischief as he could possibly pack. His mischief, or rather playfulness, finally cost him his life, as he once got to teasing a bull, the bull charged, and that was his end. It was with this team too that when driving in New Mexico through a district where white men were seldom seen, but on a road which I had often selected as a shorter route to my destination, I came on a Mexican ill-treating his donkey. His actions were so deliberate as to rouse my ire, and I got down, took the club from him and threatened castigation. On proceeding on the road I passed another Mexican mounted on a horse and carrying a rifle. Happening by-and-by to look back much was my surprise, or perhaps not very much, to see the gun and horse handed over to the first man, and himself mounted and galloping after me. Knowing at once what it meant, that his game was to bushwhack me in the rough cañon immediately in front, I put the whip to my team to such good purpose that we galloped through that cañon as it had never been galloped through before. I would have had no show whatever in such a place, and so was extremely glad to find myself again in the open country. Another time I hitched up another team, one of which, a favourite mustang-chaser, had never been driven. We made some ten miles all right till we came to the "jumping-off" place of the plains, a very steep, long and winding descent. Just as we started down, Prince, the horse mentioned, got his tail over the lines, and the ball began. We went down that hill at racing speed, I having absolutely no control over the terrified animals, which did not stop for many miles. Again, with the same team I once started to Amarillo, being half a day ahead of the steer herd. First evening I camped out at a water-hole and staked out Prince with a long heavy rope and strong iron stake pin. The other horse was hobbled with a rope hobble. Some wolves came in to water, and I was lying on my bed looking at them when the horses suddenly stampeded, the strong stake rope and pin not even checking Prince. They were gone and I was afoot! Prince ran for forty miles to the ranch. The hobbled horse we never saw again for more than twelve months, but when found was fat and none the worse. Next day the trail outfit came along and so I hitched up another team. But the worst trouble I used to have was with a high-strung and almost intractable pair of horses, Pintos, or painted, which means piebald, a very handsome team indeed, whose former owner simply could not manage them. Every time we came to a gate through which we had to pass I, being alone, had to get down and throw the gate open. Then after taking the team through I had of course to go back to shut the gate again. Then was the opportunity apparently always watched for by these devils, and had I not tied a long rope to the lines and trailed it behind the wagon they would many times have succeeded in getting away. Yet it is only such a team that one can really care to drive for pleasure; a team that you "feel" all the time, one that will keep you "interested" every minute, as these Pintos did. How often nowadays does one ever see a carriage pair, or fours in the park or elsewhere that really needs "driving"? "Shipping" cattle means loading them into railroad cars and despatching them to their destination. The cattle are first penned in a corral and then run through chutes into the cars. One year I sold the Company's steers, a train-load, to a Jew dealer in Kansas. They were loaded in the Panhandle and I went through with them, having a man to help me to look after them, our duty being to prod them up when any were found lying down so they would not be trodden to death. At a certain point our engine "played out" and was obliged to leave us to get coal and water. While gone the snow (a furious blizzard was blowing) blew over the track and blocked it so effectively that the engine could not get back. The temperature was about zero and the cattle suffered terribly; but there we remained stuck for nearly two days. When we finally got through, of course the buyer refused to receive them, and I turned them over to the railway company and brought suit for their value. The case was thrice tried and we won each time; and oh, how some of these railroad men did damn themselves by perjury! But it is bad business to "buck" against a powerful railway corporation. This will serve to give an idea as to what shipping cattle means. Many hundreds of thousands, or even millions, are now shipped every year. Trail work is abandoned, being no longer possible on account of fences, etc. Such great towns as Chicago and Kansas City will each receive and dispose of in one day as many as ten to twenty thousand cattle, not counting sheep or hogs. It was when returning to Amarillo after this trip that I was fortunate enough to save the lives of a whole train-load of people. One night our passenger train came to a certain station, and the conductor went to get his orders. Nearly all the passengers were asleep. When he returned I happened to hear him read his orders over to the brakeman. These orders were to go on to a certain switch and "side track" till _three_ cattle trains had passed. At that point there was a very heavy grade and cattle trains came down it at sixty miles an hour. Two trains swung past us, and to my surprise the conductor then gave the signal to go ahead. We did start, when I at once ventured to remark to him that only two trains had so far gone by. He pooh-poohed my assertion; but after a few minutes began to think that he himself might just possibly be wrong. Meantime I got out on the platform and was ready to jump. The conductor most fortunately reversed the order, and the train was backed on to the siding again, none too soon, for just then the head-light of the third cattle train appeared round a curve and came tearing past us. It was a desperately narrow escape and I did not sleep again that night. Writing afterwards to the general manager of the railway company about it my letter was not even acknowledged, and of course no thanks were received. While on the subject of railroad accidents it has been my misfortune to have been in many of them, caused by collisions, spreading of rails, open switches, etc., etc., but I will only detail one or two. Once when travelling to Amarillo from a Convention at Fort Worth the train was very crowded and I occupied an upper berth in the Pullman. As American trains are always doing, trying to make up lost time, we were going at a pretty good lick when I felt the coach begin to sway. It swayed twice and then turned completely over and rolled down a high embankment. Outside was pitch dark and raining. There was a babel of yells and screams and callings for help. I had practically no clothes on, no shoes, and of course could find nothing. Everything inside, mattresses, bedding, curtains, baggage, clothing, babies, women and men were mixed up in an extraordinary way. Above me I noticed a broken window, through which I managed to scramble, and on finding out how things were returned to the coach to help other passengers. Underneath me seemed to be a dying man. He was in a dreadful condition and at his last gasp, etc., and he made more row than the rest put together. Reaching down and removing mattresses, he grasped my hand, jumped up and thanked me profusely for _saving_ his life. He was not hurt a bit, indeed was the only man in the lot who escaped serious injury. The men behaved much worse than the women. However we soon had everybody out and the injured laid on blankets. Meantime a relief train had arrived with the doctor, etc. He examined us all, asked me if I was all right, to which I replied that I was, as I really felt so at the time. But in half an hour I was myself lying on a stretcher and unable to move, with a sprained back and bruised side, etc., and a claim for damages against the railway company. Another time, when riding in the caboose (the rear car) of a long freight train, with the conductor and brakeman, the train in going down a grade broke in three. The engine and a few cars went right on and left us; the centre part rushed down the hill, our section followed and crashed into it, and some seven or eight cars were completely telescoped. I had been seated beside the stove, my arm stretched round it, when, noticing our great speed, I drew the conductor's attention to it. He opened the side door to look out. Just then the shock came and he got a frightful lick on the side of the head, and myself was thrown on top of the hot stove; but none of us were seriously hurt. Again, once when making a trip to Kansas City and back, the whole Pullman train went off the track and down the embankment; and on the return journey we ran into an open switch and were derailed and one man killed. Both might have been very serious affairs. With the closing out of the Mortgage Company's interests of course my salaried employment came to an end. But before closing this chapter it should be mentioned that I had in the meantime suffered a nasty accident by a pony falling back on me and fracturing one leg. It occurred at the round-up, and I was driven some thirty miles, the leg not even splinted or put in a box, to my ranch. I sent off a mounted man to Las Vegas, 130 miles, for a surgeon, but it was a week before he got down to me and the leg was then in a pretty bad shape. He hinted at removing it, but finally decided to set it and put it in plaster, which he did. He then left me. The leg gave me little trouble, but unfortunately peritonitis set in. The agony then suffered will not soon be forgotten. There was a particularly ignorant woman, my foreman's wife, in the house; but I had practically no nursing, no medicine of any kind, and the diet was hardly suited for a patient. The pain became so great that I was not able to open my mouth, dared not move a muscle, and was reduced to a mere skeleton. Then it occurred to my "guardians" to send once more for the doctor. Another week went by, and when he came I had just succeeded in passing the critical stage and was on the mend. In after years this attack led to serious complications and a most interesting operation, which left me, in my doctor's words, "practically without a stomach"; and without a stomach I have jogged on comfortably for nearly ten years. How a little thing may lead to serious consequences! I had previously, and have since, had more or less serious physical troubles, but a good sound constitution has always pulled me through safely. Among minor injuries may be mentioned a broken rib, a knee-cap damaged at polo, and another slightly-fractured leg, caused again by a pony just purchased, and being tried, falling back on me; not to mention the _sigillum diavoli_ (don't be alarmed or shocked) which occasionally develops, and always at the same spot. While the round-up and turnover of the Company's cattle was proceeding, I thought it well to keep lots of whisky on hand to show hospitality (the only way) to whomsoever it was due. On receiving a large keg of it I put it in my buggy and drove out of camp seven or eight miles to some rough ground, and having, in Baden-Powell way, made myself sure no one was in view and no one spying on my movements I placed it amongst some rocks and brush in such a way that no ordinary wanderer could possibly see it. From this store it was my intention to fill a bottle every other day and so always have a stock on hand. But Kronje or De Wett was too "slim" for me; a few days afterwards on my going there, like a thief in the night--and indeed it was at night--I found the keg gone. Someone must have loaded up on it, someone who had deliberately watched me, and his joy can be easily pictured. So someone was greatly comforted, but not a hint ever came to me as to who the culprit was. My intercourse with M---- provided some of the closest "calls" I ever had (a call means a position of danger); still not so close as on a certain occasion, at my summer camp in Arizona, when one of the men and myself were playing cards together. We were alone. The man was our best "hand," and a capital fellow, though a fugitive from justice, like some of the others. It became apparent to me that he was cheating, and I was rash enough to let him understand that I knew it, without however absolutely accusing him of it. At once he pulled out his gun, leant over, and pointed it at me. What can one do in such a case? He had the "drop" on me; and demanded that I should take back what I had said. Well, I wriggled out of it somehow, told him he was very foolish to make such a "break" as that, and talked to him till he cooled down. It was an anxious few minutes, and I am very proud to think he did not "phase" me very much, as he afterwards admitted. Peace was secured with honour. I was lucky to be able to leave the West and the cattle business with a hide free from perforations and punctures of any kind. CHAPTER VI ODDS AND ENDS Summer Round-up Notes--Night Guarding--Stampedes--Bronco Busting--Cattle Branding, etc. Round-up and trail work had many agreeable aspects, and though it was at times very hard work, still I look back to it all with fond memories. The hours were long--breakfast was already cooked and "chuck" called long before sunrise; horses were changed, the night horses turned loose and a fresh mount for the morning's work caught out of the ramuda. By the time breakfast was over it was generally just light enough to see dimly the features of the country. The boss then gave his orders to the riders as to where to go and what country to round-up, also the round-up place at noon. He started the day-herd off grazing towards the same place, and finally saw the wagon with its four mules loaded up and despatched. There was generally a "circus" every morning on the men starting out to their work. On a cold morning a cow-horse does not like to be very tightly cinched or girthed up. He resents it by at once beginning to buck furiously as soon as his rider gets into his saddle. [Illustration: CHANGING HORSES.] Even staid old horses will do it on a very cold morning. But the "young uns," the broncos, are then perfect fiends. Thus there is nearly always some sport to begin the day with. By noon the round-up has been completed and a large herd of cattle collected. Separating begins at once, first cows and calves, then steers and "dry" cattle, the property of the different owners represented. Dinner is ready by twelve, horses changed again and the day-herd is watered, and then the branding of the calves begins. But wait. _Such_ a dinner! With few appliances it is really wonderful how a mess-wagon cook feeds the crowd so well. His fuel is "chips" (_bois des vaches_); with a spade he excavates a sunken fireplace, and over this erects an iron rod on which to hang pots, etc. He will make the loveliest fresh bread and rolls at least once a day, often twice; make most excellent coffee (and what a huge coffee-pot is needed for twenty or thirty thirsty cowpunchers), serve potatoes, stewed or fried meat, baked beans and stewed dried fruit, etc. Everything was good, so cleanly served and served so quickly. True, any kind of a mess tastes well to the hungry man, but I think that even a dyspeptic's appetite would become keen when he approached the cattleman's chuck wagon. Dinner over the wagon is again loaded up, the twenty or more beds thrown in, the team hitched and started for the night camping-ground, some place where there is lots of good grass for the cattle and saddle horses, and at the same time far enough away from all the other herds. The saddle horses in charge of the horse "wrangler" accompany the wagon. The men are either grazing and drifting the day-herd towards the camp, or branding morning calves, not in a corral but on the open prairie. The calves, and probably some grown cattle to be branded, must be caught with the rope, and here is where the roper's skill is shown to most advantage. At sundown all the men have got together again, night horses are selected, supper disposed of, beds prepared and a quiet smoke enjoyed. If a horse-hair rope be laid on the ground around one's bed no snake will ever cross it. But during work the beds are seldom made down till after sunset, by which time rattlesnakes have all retired into holes or amongst brush, and so there is little danger from them. First "guard" goes out to take charge of the herd. The herd has already been "bedded" down carefully at convenient distance from the wagon. Bedding down means bunching them together very closely, just leaving them enough room to lie down comfortably. They, if they have been well grazed and watered, will soon all be lying resting, chewing their cuds and at peace with the world. Each night-guard consists of two to four men according to the size of the herd, and "stands" two to four hours. The horse herd is also guarded by "reliefs." In fine weather it is no great hardship to be called out at any hour of the night, but if it should be late in autumn and snow falling, or, what is worse still, if there be a cold rain and a bitter wind it is very trying to be compelled to leave your warm bed at twelve or three in the morning, get on to your poor shivering horse and stand guard for three hours. It should be explained that "standing" means not absolute inaction but slowly riding round and round the herd. Yes, it is trying, especially in bad weather and after working hard all day long from before sun-up. How well one gets to know the stars and their positions! The poor night-herders know that a certain star will set or be in such and such a position at the time for the next relief. Often when dead tired, sleepy and cold, how eagerly have I watched my own star's apparently very slow movement. The standard watch is at the wagon, and must not be "monkeyed" with, a trick sometimes played on tenderfeet. Immediately time for relief is up the next is called, and woe betide them if they delay complying with the summons. Of course the owner or manager does not have to take part in night-herding, but the boys think more of him if he does, and certainly the man he relieves appreciates it. In continued wet and cold weather such as we were liable to have late in October or November, when it might rain and drizzle for a week or two at a time, our beds would get very wet and there would be no sun to dry them. Consequently we practically slept in wet, not damp, blankets for days at a time; and to return from your guard about two in the morning and get into such an uninviting couch was trying to one's temper, of course. Even one's "goose haar piller," as the boys called their feather pillow, might be sodden. To make your bed in snow or be snowed over is not nearly so bad. No tents were ever seen on the round-up. Everyone slept on the open bare ground. But for use during my long drives across country I got to using a small Sibley tent, nine feet by nine feet, which had a canvas floor attached to the walls, and could be closed up at night so as to effectually prevent the entrance of skunks and other vermin. This tent had no centre pole whatever. You simply drove in the four corner stake-pins, raised the two light rods over it triangularwise, and by a pulley and rope hoist up the peak. The two rods were very thin, light and jointed; and in taking the tent down you simply loosed the rope, knocked out the stake-pins, and that was all. During these long guarding spells you practically just sit in your saddle for four hours at a stretch. You cannot take exercise and you dare not get down to walk or you will stampede the cattle. But, yes, you may gallop to camp if you know the direction, and drink a cup of hot strong coffee, which in bad weather is kept on the fire all night, re-light your pipe and return to "sing" to the cattle. Then the quiet of these huge animals is impressive. About midnight they will get a bit restless, many will get on their feet, have a stretch and a yawn, puff, cough and blow and in other ways relieve themselves, and if allowed will start out grazing; but they are easily driven back and will soon be once more resting quietly. The stampeding of the herd on such a night is almost a relief. It at once effectually wakes you up, gets you warm, and keeps you interested for the rest of your spell, even if it does not keep you out for the rest of the night. I should explain that "singing" to the cattle refers to the habit cowboys have, while on night-guard, of singing (generally a sing-song refrain) as they slowly ride round the herd. It relieves the monotony, keeps the cattle quiet and seems to give them confidence, for they certainly appear to rest quieter while they know that men are guarding them, and are not so liable to stampede. Stampeding is indeed a very remarkable bovine characteristic. Suppose a herd of cattle, say 2000 steers, to be quietly and peacefully lying down under night-guard. The air is calm and clear. It may be bright moonlight, or it may be quite dark; nothing else is moving. Apparently there is nothing whatever to frighten them or even disturb them; most of them are probably sound asleep, when suddenly like a shot they, the whole herd, are on their feet and gone--gone off at a more or less furious gallop. All go together. The guard are of course at once all action; the men asleep in camp are waked by the loud drumming of the thousands of hoofs on the hard ground and at once rush for their horses to assist. The stampede must be stopped and there is only one way to do it--to get up to the lead animals and try to swing them round with the object of getting them to move in a circle, to "mill" as we called it. But the poor beasts meantime are frantic with fear and excitement and you must ride hard at your level best, and look out you don't get knocked over and perhaps fatally trampled on. You must know your business and work on one plan with your fellow-herders. On a pitch dark night in a rough country it is very dangerous indeed. The cattle may run only a short distance or they may run ten miles, and after being quieted again may once more stampede. Indeed, I took a herd once to Amarillo and they stampeded the first night on the trail and kept it up pretty near every night during the drive. But, as said before, the remarkable part of the performance is the instantaneous nature of the shock or whatever it is that goes through the slumbering herd, and the quickness of their getting off the bed-ground. Cow and calf herds are not so liable to stampede, but horses are distinctly bad and will run for miles at terrific speed. Then you must just try and stay with them and bring them back when they stop, as you can hardly expect to outrun them. Still, I do not think that stampeded horses are quite so crazy as cattle, and they get over their fright quicker. Let me try to illustrate a little better an actual stampede. The night was calm, clear, but very dark--no moon, and the stars dimmed by fleecy cloud strata. The herd of some 2000 steers was bedded down, and had so far given no trouble. Supper was over and the first guard on duty, the rest of the men lying on their beds chatting and smoking. Each man while not on duty has his saddled horse staked close by. Soon everyone has turned in for the night. A couple of hours later the first guard come in, their spell being over, and the second relief takes their place. The cattle are quiet; not a sound breaks the silence except the low crooning of some of the boys on duty. But suddenly, what is that noise?--like the distant rumbling of guns on the march, or of a heavy train crossing a wooden bridge! To one with his head on the ground the earth seems almost to tremble. Oh, we know it well! It is the beating of 8000 hoofs on the hard ground. The cowboy recognizes the dreaded sound instantly: it wakens him quicker than anything else. The boss is already in his saddle, has summoned the other men, and is off at full gallop. The cook gets up, re-trims his lamp, and hangs it as high on the wagon top as he can, to be visible as far as possible. It is good two miles before we catch up on the stampeded herd, still going at a mad gallop. The men are on flank trying to swing them round. But someone seems to be in front, as we soon can hear pistol-shots fired in a desperate endeavour to stop the lead steers. But even that is no avail, and indeed is liable to split the herd in two and so double the work. So the thundering race continues, and it is only after many miles have been covered that the cattle have run themselves out and we finally get them quietened down and turned homewards. Someone is sent out scouting round to try to get a view of the cook's lantern and so know our whereabouts. But have we got all the cattle? The men are questioned. Where's Pete? and where's Red? There must be cattle gone and these two men are staying with them. Well, we'll take the herd on anyway, bed them down again, get fresh horses, and then hunt up the missing bunch. So, the cattle once more "bedded," and every spare hand left with them, as they are liable to run again, two of us start out to find if possible the missing men. We first take a careful note of the position of any stars that may be visible, then start out at an easy lope or canter. It is so dark that it seems a hopeless task to find them. Good luck alone may guide us right; and good luck serves us well, for after having come some eight or nine miles we hear a man "hollering" to us. He had heard our horses' tread, and was no doubt mightily relieved at our coming, as of course he was completely lost in the darkness and had wisely not made any attempt to find his way. But there he was, good fellow, Red! with his little bunch of 200 steers. Yes, the herd had split, that's how it was. But where is Pete? Oh! he doesn't know; last saw him heading the stampede; never saw him since. Can he be lost and still wandering round? That is not likely, and we begin to suspect trouble. The small herd is directed campwards, and some of us again scout round, halloing and shouting, but keeping our eyes well "skinned" for anything on the ground. At last, by the merest chance, we come on something; no doubt what it is--the body of a man. "Hallo, Pete! What's the matter?" He stirs. "Are you badly hurt?" "Dog-gone it, fellows, glad to see you! My horse fell and some cattle ran over me. No! I ain't badly hurt; but I guess you'll have to carry me home." The poor fellow had several ribs broken, was dreadfully bruised, and his left cheek was nearly sliced off. There we had to leave him till morning, one of us staying by. Happily Pete got all right again. Breaking young colts was a somewhat crude process. Not being of the same value as better bred stock they were rather roughly treated. If you have a number to break you will hire a professional "bronco-buster"; for some five dollars a head he will turn them back to you in a remarkably short time, bridle-wise, accustomed to the saddle and fairly gentle. But he does not guarantee against pitching. Some colts never pitch at all during the process, do not seem to know how; but the majority do know, and know well! The colt is roped in a corral by the forefeet, jerked down, and his head held till bridled; or he is roped round the neck, snubbed to a post and so held till he chokes himself by straining on the running loop. As soon as he falls a man jumps on to his head and holds it firmly in such a way that he cannot get up, and someone slips on the Hackamore bridle. Thus you will see that a horse lying on its side requires his muzzle as a lever to get him on his feet. Then he is allowed to rise and to find, though he may not then realize it, that his wild freedom is gone from him for ever. He is trembling with fright and excitement, and sweating from every pore. To get the saddle on him he is next blindfolded. A strong man grasps the left ear and another man slowly approaches and, after quietly and kindly rubbing and patting him, gently puts the saddle blanket in place; then the huge and heavy saddle with all its loose strings and straps is carefully hoisted and adjusted, and the cinch drawn up. In placing the blanket and the saddle there will likely be several failures. He will be a poor-spirited horse that does not resent it. Now take off the blinders and let him pitch till he is tired. Then comes the mounting. He is blinded again, again seized by the ear, the cinch pulled very tight, and the rider mounts into the saddle. It may be best first to lead him outside the corral, so that he can run right off with his man if he wants to. But he won't run far, as he soon exhausts himself in his rage and with his tremendous efforts to dismount his rider. A real bad one will squeal like a pig, fall back, roll over, kick and apparently tie himself into knots. If mastered the first time it is a great advantage gained. But should he throw his rider once, twice or several times he never forgets that the thing is at least possible, and so he may repeat his capers for a long time to come. All cow-horses have ever afterwards a holy dread of the rope, never forgetting its power and effect experienced during the breaking process. Thus, in roping a broken horse on the open or in a corral, if your rope simply lies _over_ his neck, and yet not be round it, he will probably stop running and resign himself to capture. Even the commonly-used single rope corral, held up by men at the corners, they will not try to break through. Bronco-busters only last a few years, the hard jarring affects their lungs and other organs so disastrously. One of our men, with the kindest consideration, much appreciated, confidentially showed me a simple method of tying up a bronco's head with a piece of thin rope, adjusted in a particular way, which made pitching or bucking almost, but not always, an impossibility. He was perhaps a little shamefaced in doing so, but such sensibility was not for me; anything to save one from the horrible shaking up and jarring of a pitching horse! And yet there was always the inclination to fix the string surreptitiously. Much better that the boys should _not_ see it. [Illustration: A REAL BAD ONE.] It may be said here that a horse has a lightning knowledge as to whether his rider be afraid of him or not, and acts accordingly. In branding my method was to simply tie up one forefoot and blindfold the colt, when a small and properly-hot stamp-iron can be quickly and effectively applied before he quite knows what is hurting him. In early days we used only Spanish Mexican broncos for cow-ponies. They were broken bridle-wise, and perhaps had been ridden a few times. Bands of them were driven north to our country, and for about fifteen dollars apiece you might make a selection of the number wanted, say twenty to fifty head. Some of these ponies would turn out very well, some of little use. You took your chances, and in distributing them amongst the men very critical eyes were cast over them, you may be sure, as the boys had to ride them no matter what their natures might turn out to be. Such ponies were hardy, intelligent, active, and stood a tremendous amount of work. Later a larger stamp of cow-horse came into use, even horses with perhaps a distant and minute drop of Diomede's blood in them--Diomede, who won the first Derby stakes, run for in the Isle of Man by the way, and who was sold to America to become the father of United States thoroughbreds and progenitor of the great Lexington. But such "improved" horses could never do the cow work so well as the old original Spanish cayuse. In a properly-organized cattle country all cattle brands must be recorded at the County seat. Because of the prodigious number and variety of brands of almost every conceivable pattern and device it is difficult to adopt a quite new and safe one that does not conflict in some way with others. This for the honest man; the crooked man, the thief, the brand-burner is not so troubled. _He_ will select a brand such as others already in use may be easily changed into. To give a very few instances. If his own brand be 96 and another's 91 the conversion is easy. If it be [**#] and another's [**-II-] it is equally easy; or if it be [**3--E], as was one of our own brands, the conversion of it into [**d--B] is too temptingly simple. It was only after much consideration that I adopted for my own personal brand [**U]--a mule shoe on the left hip and jaw. It was small and did not damage the hide too much, was easily stamped on, looked well and was pretty safe. Among brands I have seen was HELL in large letters covering the animal's whole side. With a band of horses a bell-mare (madrina) is sometimes used. The mare is gentle, helps to keep the lot together, and the bell lets you know on a dark night where they are. With a lot of mules a madrina is always used, as her charges will never leave her. All the grooming cow-ponies get is self-administered. After a long ride, on pulling the saddle off, the pony is turned loose, when he at once proceeds to roll himself from one side to another, finishing up with a "shake" before he goes off grazing. If he has been overridden he may not succeed in rolling completely over. This is regarded as a sure sign that he has been overridden, and you know that he will take some days, or even maybe weeks, to recover from it. I have seen horses brought in absolutely staggering and trembling and so turned loose. A favourite mount is seldom so mistreated; and if the boss is present the rider knows he will take a note of it. One can imagine how delightful and refreshing this roll and shake must be, quite as refreshing as a cold bath (would be) to the tired and perspiring rider. Alas! cold or hot baths are not obtainable by the cattleman for possibly months at a time. The face and hands alone can receive attention. The new and modern idea of bodily self-cleansing is here effectually put in force and apparently with good health results. The rivers when in flood are extremely muddy; when not they are very shallow, and the water is usually alkaline and undrinkable, as well as quite useless for bathing purposes. Cow-ponies generally have sound feet and durable hoofs, but in very sandy countries the hoofs will spread out in a most astonishing way and need constant trimming. In droughty countries like Arizona and New Mexico we were frequently reduced to serious straits to find decent drinking-water. On many occasions I have drunk, and drunk with relief and satisfaction, such filthy, slimy, greenish-looking stuff as would disgust a frog and give the _Lancet_ a fit, though that discriminating journal would probably call it soup. Sometimes even water, and I well remember the places, that was absolutely a struggling mass of small red creatures that yet really tasted not at all badly. Anyway it was better than the green slime. Thirst is a sensation that must be satisfied at any cost. Once when travelling in the South Arizona country, we being all strung out in Indian file, over a dozen of us, the lead man came on a most enticing-looking pool of pure water. Of course he at once jumped off, took a hearty draught, spat it out and probably made a face, but saying nothing rode quietly on. The next man did the same, and so it went on till our predecessors had each and all the satisfaction of knowing that he was not the only man fooled. The water was so hot, though showing no sign of it, that it was quite undrinkable--a very hot spring. In the alkali district on the Pecos River the dust raised at a round-up is so dense that the herd cannot even be seen at 200 yards distance. This dust is most irritating to the eyes; and many of the men, including myself, were sometimes so badly affected that they had to stop work for weeks at a time. In circuses and Wild-West shows one frequently sees cowgirls on the bill. Of course, on actual work on the range there is no such thing as a cowgirl. At least I never saw one. CHAPTER VII ON MY OWN RANCH Locating--Plans--Prairie Fires and Guards--Bulls--Trading--Successful Methods--Loco-weed--Sale of Ranch. A year before selling out the Company's cattle I had started a small ranch for myself. Seeing that it was quite hopeless to run cattle profitably on the open-range system, and having longing eyes on a certain part of the plains which was covered with very fine grass and already fenced on one side by the Texas line--knowing also quite well that fencing of public land in New Mexico was strictly against the law (land in the territories is the property of the Federal Government, which will neither lease it nor sell it, but holds it for home-steading)--I yet went to work, bought a lot of wire and posts, gave a contract to a fence-builder and boldly ran a line over thirty miles long enclosing something like 100,000 acres. The location was part of the country where our stock horses used to run with the mustangs, and so I knew every foot of it pretty well. There was practically no limit to the acreage I might have enclosed; and I had then the choice of all sorts of country--country with lots of natural shelter for cattle, and even country where water in abundance could be got close to the surface. In my selected territory I knew quite well that it was very deep to water and that it would cost a lot of money in the shape of deep wells and powerful windmills to get it out; yet it was for this very reason that I so selected it. Would not the country in a few years swarm with settlers ("nesters" as we called small farmers), and would they not of course first select the land where water was shallow? They could not afford to put in expensive wells and windmills. Thus I argued, and thus it turned out exactly as anticipated. The rest of the country became settled up by these nesters, but I was left alone for some eight years absolutely undisturbed and in complete control of this considerable block of land. More than that the County Assessor and collector actually missed me for two years, not even knowing of my existence; and for the whole period of eight years I never paid one cent for rent. On my windmill locations I put "Scrip" in blocks of forty acres. Otherwise I owned or rented not a foot. Just a line or two here. I happen to have known the man who invented barbed wire and who had his abundant reward. Blessings on him! though one is sometimes inclined to add cursings too. It is dangerous stuff to handle. Heavy gloves should always be worn. The flesh is so torn by the ragged barb that the wound is most irritating and hard to heal. When my fence was first erected it was a common thing to find antelope hung up in it, tangled in it, and cut to pieces. Once we found a mustang horse with its head practically cut completely off. The poor brutes had a hard experience in learning the nature of this strange, almost invisible, death-trap stretched across what was before their own free, open and boundless territory. And what frightful wounds some of the ponies would occasionally suffer by perhaps trying to jump over such a fence or even force their way through it; ponies from the far south, equally ignorant with the antelope of the dangers of the innocent-looking slender wire. In another way these fences were sometimes the cause of loss of beast life, as for instance when some of my cattle drifted against the fence during a thunder and rain storm and a dozen of them were killed by one stroke of lightning. Into this preserve my cattle-breeding stock were put: very few in number to begin with, yet as many as my means afforded. My Company job and salary would soon be a thing of the past and my future must depend entirely on the success of this undertaking. Once before I had boldly, perhaps rashly, taken a lease of a celebrated steer pasture in Carson County, Texas, and gone to Europe to try and float a company, the proposition being to use the pasture, then, and still, the very best in Texas, for wintering yearling steers. No sounder proposition or more promising one could have been put forward. But all my efforts to get the capital needed failed and it was fortunate for me that at the end of one year I succeeded in getting a cancellation of the lease. On first securing the lease the season was well advanced and it became an anxiety to me as to where I should get cattle to put in the pasture, if only enough to pay the year's rent--some 7000 dollars. One man, a canny Scotsman, had been holding and grazing a large herd of 4000 two-year-old steers, all in one straight brand, on the free range just outside. He knew I wanted cattle and I knew he wanted grass, as he could not find a buyer and the season was late. We both played "coon," but I must say I began to feel a bit uncomfortable. At last greatly to my relief and joy, he approached me, and after a few minutes' dickering I had the satisfaction of counting into pasture this immense herd of 4000 cattle. Meantime, I had also been corresponding with another party and very soon afterwards closed a deal with him for some 3700 more two-year-old steers. Thus with 7700 head the pasture was nearly fully stocked, the rent for the first year was assured, and I prepared to go to the Old Country to form the company before mentioned. But before going I found it necessary to throw in a hundred or so old cows to keep the steers quiet. The steers had persisted in walking the fences, travelling in great strings round and round the pasture. They had lots of grass, water and salt, but something else was evidently lacking. Immediately the cows were turned loose all the uneasiness and dissatisfaction ceased. No more fence walking and no more danger (for me) of them breaking out. The family life seemed complete. The suddenness of the effect was very remarkable. This pasture has ever since been used solely for my proposed purpose and every year has been a tremendous success. First of all a word about my house and home. Built on what may be called the Spanish plan, of adobes (sun-dried bricks), the walls were 2-1/2 feet thick, and there was a courtyard in the centre. Particular attention was paid to the roof, which was first boarded over, then on the boards three inches of mud, and over that sheets of corrugated iron. The whole idea of the adobes and the mud being to secure a cool temperature in summer and warmth in winter. No other materials are so effective. As explained before, there were no trees or shrubs of any kind within a radius of many miles. So to adorn this country seat I cut and threw into my buggy one day a young shoot of cotton-wood tree, hauled it fifty miles to the ranch, and stuck it in the centre of the court. Water was never too plentiful; so why not make use of the soap-suddy washings which the boys and all of us habitually threw out there? When the tree did grow up, and it thrived amazingly, its shade became the recognized lounging-place. With a few flowering shrubs added the patio assumed quite a pretty aspect. Another feature of the house was that the foundations were laid so deep, and of rock, that skunks could not burrow underneath, which is quite a consideration. Under my winter cottage at the Meadows Ranch in Arizona skunks always denned and lay up during the cold weather, selecting a point immediately under the warm hearthstone. There, as one sat reading over the fire, these delightful animals, within a foot of you, would carry on their family wrangles and in their excitement give evidence of their own nature; but happily the offence was generally a very mild one and evidently not maliciously intended. Around the house was planted a small orchard and attempts were made at vegetable-growing. But water was too scarce to do the plants justice. Everything must be sacrificed to the cattle. One lesson it taught me, however, and that is that no matter how much water you irrigate with, one good downpour from Nature's fertilizing watering-can is worth more than weeks of irrigation. Rain water has a quality of its own which well or tank water cannot supply. Plants respond to it at once by adopting a cheery, healthy aspect. It had another equally valuable character in that it destroyed the overwhelming bugs. How it destroyed them I don't know: perhaps it drowned them; anyway they disappeared at once. In my own pasture in New Mexico I for various reasons decided to "breed," instead of simply handle steers. Steers were certainly safer and surer, and the life was an easy one. But there appeared to me greater possibilities in breeding if the cows were handled right and taken proper care of. It will be seen by-and-by that my anticipations were more than justified, so that the success of this little ranch has been a source of pride to me. The ranch was called "Running Water," because situated on Running Water Draw, a creek that never to my knowledge "ran" except after a very heavy rain. Prairie fires were the greatest danger in this level range country, there being no rivers, cañons, or even roads to check their advance. Lightning might set the grass afire; a match carelessly dropped by the cigarette-smoker; a camp fire not properly put out; or any mischievously-inclined individual might set the whole country ablaze. Indeed, the greatest prairie fire I have record of was maliciously started to windward of my ranch by an ill-disposed neighbour (one of the men whose cattle the Scotch Company had closed out and who ever after had a grudge against me) purposely to burn me out. He did not quite succeed, as by hard fighting all night we managed to save half the grass; but the fire extended 130 miles into Texas, burning out a strip from thirty to sixty miles wide. On account of a very high wind blowing that fire jumped my "guard," a term which needs explanation. All round my pasture, on the outside of the fence, for a distance of over forty miles was ploughed a fire-guard thus: two or three ploughed furrows and, 100 feet apart, other two or three ploughed furrows, there being thus a strip of land forty miles long and 100 feet wide. Between these furrows we burnt the grass, an operation that required great care and yet must be done as expeditiously as possible to save time, labour and expense. A certain amount of wind must be blowing so as to insure a clean and rapid burn; but a high gusty wind is most dangerous, as the flames are pretty sure to jump the furrows, enter the pasture, and get away from you. The excitement at such a critical time is of course very great. In such cases it was at first our practice to catch and kill a yearling, split it open and hitch ropes to the hind feet, when two of us mounted men would drag the entire carcass over the line of fire. It was effective but an expensive and cumbrous method. Later I adopted a device called a "drag," composed of iron chains, in the nature of a harrow, covered by a raw hide for smothering purposes. This could be dragged quite rapidly and sometimes had to be used over miles and miles of encroaching fire. The horses might get badly burnt, and in very rank grass where the fierce flames were six to eight feet high it was useless. Sometimes we worked all night, and no doubt it formed a picturesque spectacle and a scene worthy of an artist's brush. Across the centre of the pasture for further safety, as also around the bull and horse pasture, was a similar fire-guard, so that I had in all some fifty-five miles of guard to plough and burn. It is such critical and dangerous, yet necessary, work that I always took care to be present myself and personally boss the operation. Without such a fire-guard one is never free from anxiety. Many other ranchers who were careless in this matter paid dearly for it. These fires were dangerous in other ways. A dear old friend of mine was caught by and burnt to death in one. Another man, a near neighbour, when driving a team of mules, got caught likewise, and very nearly lost his life. He was badly burnt and lost his team. Hitherto it had been the universal custom of cattlemen to use "grade" bulls, many of them, alas! mere "scrubs" of no breeding at all. No one used pure-bred registered bulls except to raise "grade" bulls with. I determined to use "registered" pure-bred bulls alone, and no others, to raise _steers_ with, and was the first man to my knowledge to do so. Neighbours ridiculed the idea, saying that they would not get many calves, that they could not or would not "rustle"--that is, they would not get about with the cows--that they would need nursing and feeding and would not stand the climate. Well, I went east, selected and bought at very reasonable figures the number needed, all very high bred, indeed some of them fashionably so, and took them to the ranch. By the way, bulls were not called bulls in "polite" society: you must call them "males." Very shortly afterwards there was a rise in value of cattle, a strong demand for such bulls, and prices went "out of sight." Thus the bulls that cost me some 100 dollars apiece in a little while were worth 200 or even 300 dollars. The young bulls "rustled" splendidly, and as next spring came along there was much interest felt as to results. To my great delight almost every cow had a calf, and nearly every calf was alike red body and white face, etc. (Hereford). I kept and used these same bulls six or seven seasons; every year got the highest calf-brand or crop amongst all my neighbours; and soon, with prudent culling of the cows, my small herd (some 2000) was the best in the country; and my young steers topped the market, beating even the crack herds that had been established for twenty years and had great reputations. To give an instance: my principle was to work with little or no borrowed money. Thus my position was such that I did not always _have_ to market my steers to pay running expenses; and as I hate trading and dickering, as it is called, my independence gave me a strong position. Well, once when travelling to the ranch I met on the train two "feeders" from the north, who told me they wanted to buy two or three hundred choice two-year-old, high-bred, even, well-coloured and well-shaped steers. Having by chance some photos in my pocket of my steers (as yearlings taken the year before) I produced them. They seemed pleased with them and asked the price, which I told them; but they said no ranch cattle were worth that money and ridiculed the idea of my asking it. "Oh," I said, "it is nothing to me; that is the price of the cattle," but I carefully also told them how to get to my place and invited them to come and see me. Oh, no! they said it was too ridiculous! We travelled on to Amarillo and I at once went out to Running Water. Only two days afterwards, on coming in to dinner, I found my two gentlemen seated on the porch waiting for me. After dinner we saddled up and went out to see the steers. The dealers were evidently surprised and made a long and careful inspection. Evidently they were well pleased, and on returning to the house it was also evident that they were going to adopt the usual tactics of whittling a small piece of wood (a seemingly necessary accompaniment to a trade) and "dickering"; so I again told them my terms, same as before, and hinted that they might take or leave them as they liked. The deal was closed without further ado, some money put up, and next day I started for England, leaving to the foreman the duty and responsibility of delivering the steers at the date specified. These men, like most other operators, were dealing with borrowed money got from commission houses in Kansas City. I learnt afterwards that their Kansas City friends, on hearing of the trade, refused to supply the funds till they had sent a man out specially to see the two-year-old steers that could possibly be worth so much money. He came out, saw them, and reported them to be well worth the price; and they were acknowledged to be the finest small bunch of steers ever shipped out of the south-west country. This was very gratifying indeed. Another revolution in ranch practice was the keeping up of my bulls in winter-time and not putting them out with the cows till the middle of July. This also met with the ridicule of all the "old-timers"; but it was entirely successful! The calf crop was not only a very large one but the calves were dropped all about the same time, were thus of an even age (an important matter for dealers), and they "came" when their mothers were strong and had lots of milk. Young cows and heifers having their first calves had to be watched very closely, and we had often to help them in delivery. It may also be mentioned here that the sight of a green, freshly-skinned hide, or a freshly-skinned carcass, will frequently cause cows to "slink" their calves. The smell of blood too creates a tremendous commotion amongst the cattle generally; why, is not quite known. I also made a practice in early spring of taking up weak or poor cows that looked like needing it, putting them in a separate pasture and feeding them on just two pounds of cotton-seed meal once a day; no hay, only the dry, wild grass in the small pasture. The good effect of even such a pittance of meal was simply astounding. Thereafter I do not think I ever lost a single cow from poverty or weakness. This use of meal on a range ranch was in its way also a novelty. Afterwards it became general and prices of cotton-seed and cotton-seed meal doubled and more. When a very large number of range cattle, say 2000 or so, required feeding on account of poverty, hay in our country not being obtainable, cotton-seed (whole) would be fed to them by the simple and effective method of loading a large wagon with it, driving it over the pasture, and scattering thinly, not dumping, the seed on to the grass sod. The cattle would soon get so fond of it that they would come running as soon as the wagon appeared and follow it up in a long string, the strongest and greediest closest to the wagon, the poor emaciated, poverty-stricken ones tailing off in the rear. But not one single seed was wasted, everyone being gleaned and picked up in a very short time. It is the best, easiest and most effective way: indeed, the only possible way with such a large number of claimants. And as said before, the recuperating effect of this cotton-seed is simply astonishing. It may be noted, however, that if fed in bulk and to excess the animals will sometimes go blind, which must be guarded against. In the matter of salt it had become the common practice to use sacked stuff (pulverized) for cattle. There was a strong prejudice against rock salt; so much so that when I decided to buy a carload or two it had to be specially ordered. Another laugh was raised at my proposed use of it. The cattle would get sore tongues, or they would spend so long a time licking it they would have no time to graze, etc., etc. Meantime I had lost some cows by their too quick lapping of the pulverized stuff. Thereafter I never lost one from such a cause and the cattle throve splendidly. Besides, the rock salt was much easier handled and considerably more economical. My wells were deep, none less than 250 feet, the iron casing 10-inch diameter, the pipe 6-inch or 8-inch, and the mill-wheels 20 feet in diameter; this huge wind power being necessary to pump up from such a depth a sufficiency of water. The water was pumped directly into very large shallow drinking wooden tubs, thence into big reserve earthen tanks (fenced in), and thence again led by pipe to other large drinking-tubs outside and below the tanks, supplied with floating stop-valves. This arrangement, arrived at after much deliberation, worked very well indeed; no water was wasted, and it was always clean; and in very cold weather the cattle always got warm, freshly-pumped well water in the upper tub, an important matter and one reason why my cattle always did so well. But oh, dear! the trouble and work we often had with these wells! Perhaps in zero temperature something would go wrong with the pump valve or the piston leather would wear out, or in a new well the quicksand would work in. Neither myself, foreman nor boy was an expert or had any mechanical knowledge; though continued troubles, much hard work, accompanied by, alas! harder language, was a capital apprenticeship. In bitter cold freezing weather I well remember we once had to pull out the rods and the piping three times in succession before we got the damned thing into shape, and then we did not know what had been the matter. To pull up first 250 feet of heavy rod, disjoint it, and lay it carefully aside; then pull up 250 feet of 6-inch or 8-inch iron piping, in 20-feet lengths, clamp and disjoint it, and put it carefully aside; then to use the sand-bucket to get the sand out of the well if necessary; repair and put into proper shape the valve and cylinder, etc.; then (and these are all parts of one operation), re-lower and connect the 250 feet of heavy piping, the equally long rods, and attach to the mill itself--oh, what anxiety to know if it was going to work or not! On this particular occasion, as stated, we--self, foreman and one boy--actually had to go through this tedious and dangerous performance three times in succession! To pull out the piping great power is needed, and we at first used a capstan made on the ranch and worked by hand. But it was slow work, very slow, and very hard work too; afterwards we used a stout, steady team of horses, with double tackle, and found it to work much more expeditiously. But there was always a great and ever-present danger of the pipe slipping, or a clamp, a bolt, or a hook, or even the rope breaking with disastrous results. These wells and mills afforded any disgruntled cowhand or "friendly" neighbour a simple and convenient opportunity of "getting even," as a single small nail dropped down a pipe at once clogged the valve and rendered the tedious operation necessary. I had altogether five of such wells. A little more "brag," if it may be called so, and I shall have done. But it will need some telling, and perhaps credulity on the reader's part. A certain wild plant called "loco" grows profusely in many parts of the Western States; but nowhere more profusely than it did in my pasture. Indeed it looked like this particular spot must have been its place of origin and its stronghold in time of adversity. Certainly, although it was common all over the plains, I never saw in any place such a dense and vigorous growth of it, covering like an alfalfa field solid blocks of hundreds of acres. This is no exaggeration. It had killed a few of our cattle in Arizona and ruined some of our best horses. The Scotch Company lost many hundreds of cattle by it, and also some horses. The plant seems to flourish in cycles of about seven years; that is, though some of it may be present every year it only comes in abundance, overwhelming abundance, once in the period stated. The peculiarity about it, too, is that it grows in the winter months and has flowered and seeded and died down by midsummer. Thus it is the only green and succulent-looking plant to be seen in winter-time on the brown plains. It is very conspicuous and in appearance much resembles clover or alfalfa. Cattle as a rule will avoid it, but for some unknown reason the time comes when you hear the expression the "cattle are eating loco." If so they will continue to eat it, to eat nothing else, till it is all gone; and those eating it will set the example to others, and all that have eaten it will go stark staring mad and the majority of them die. Horses are even more liable to take to it, and are affected exactly in the same way; they go quite crazy, refuse to drink water, cannot be led, and have a dazed, stupid appearance and a tottering gait, till finally they decline and die for want of nourishment. I have seen locoed horses taken up and fed on grain, when some of them recovered and quite got over the habit even of eating the weed; but these were exceptions. Most locoed horses remained too stupid to do anything with and were never of much value. There is one strange fact, however, about them; saddle horses, slightly locoed, just so bad that they cannot be led, and therefore useless as saddlers, do, when hitched up to a wagon or buggy, though never driven before, make splendid work horses. They go like automatons; will trot if allowed till they fall down, and never balk. The worst outlaw horse we ever had, one that had thrown all the great riders of the country and had never been mastered, this absolute devilish beast got a pretty bad dose of the weed; and, to experiment, we hitched him up in a wagon, when lo! he went off like any old steady team horse. This is all very interesting; but that is enough as to its effect on live stock. At the request of the Department of Agriculture I sent to Washington some specimens of a grub which, when the plant reaches its greatest exuberance and abundance, infests it, eating out its heart and so killing it. It destroys the plant, but alas! generally too late to prevent the seed maturing and falling to earth. The plant itself has been several times carefully examined, its juices tested and experimentally administered to various animals. But no absolutely satisfactory explanation of its effects has been given out; and certainly no antidote or cure of its effects suggested. Well, in a certain year the seven years' cycle came round; faithfully the loco plant cropped up all over the plains, the seed that had lain dormant for many years germinated and developed everywhere. As winter approached (in October) my fall round-up was due. Calves had to be branded, some old cows sold, and some steers delivered. I had sold nothing that year. On rounding-up the horses many of them showed signs of the weed. The neighbours flocked in and the work began. Only one round-up was made, when the idea seized me that if these cattle were "worked" in the usual way--that is, jammed round, chased about and "milled" for several hours--they would get tired and hungry, and on being turned loose would be inclined to eat whatever was nearest to them--probably the loco plant. It seemed so reasonable a fear, and I was so anxious about the cattle, that I ordered the foreman there and then to turn the herd quietly loose, explained to the neighbours my reasons for doing so, but allowed them to cut out what few cattle they had in the herd: and the year's work was thus at once abandoned. All that winter was a very anxious time. Reports came in from neighbouring ranches that their cattle were dying in hundreds. On driving through their pastures the loco appeared eaten to the ground; all the cattle were after it, and poor, staggering, crazy animals were met on the road without sense enough to get out of your way. By the end of next spring some of my neighbours had few cattle left to round-up. One neighbour, the largest cattle-ranch in the world, owning some 200,000 head, was estimated to have lost at least 20,000. And meantime how were affairs going in my little place? It will seem incredible, but what is here written is absolute truth. The loco was belly high; the self-weaned calves could be seen wading through it; but ne'er a nibbled or eaten plant could be found. I often searched carefully for such dreaded signs but happily always failed: and I did not lose a single cow, calf or steer, nor were any found showing the slightest signs of being affected. Many reasons were advanced for the miraculous escape of these cattle; people from a hundred miles away came to see and learn the reason. No satisfactory explanation was suggested, and finally they were compelled to accept my own one, and agree that leaving the cattle undisturbed by abandoning the fall round-up was the real solution of the problem. The only work my men did that winter was to keep the fences up and in good shape, and whenever they saw stray cattle in my pasture to turn them out at once, fearing the danger of bad example. Next winter, the loco being still very bad, the same tactics were adopted and only one solitary yearling of mine was affected. So ended the worst loco visitation probably ever experienced in the West; not perhaps that the plant was more abundant than at some other periods, though I think it was, but for some unknown reason the cattle ate it more freely. The temperature on these plains sometimes went so low as 20° below zero, with wind blowing. There was no natural shelter, literally nothing as big as your hat in the pasture, and several men advised the building of sheds, wind-breaks, etc. But experience told me just the opposite. I had seen cattle (well fed and carefully tended) freeze to death inside sheds and barns. Also I had seen whole bunches of cattle standing shivering behind open sheds and wind-breaks till they practically froze to death or became so emaciated as to eventually die of poverty. If you give cattle shelter they will be always hanging around it. So I built no sheds or anything else. When a blizzard came my cattle had to travel, and the continued travelling backwards and forwards kept the blood in circulation. There were a few cases of horns, feet, ears and mammæ frozen off, but I never had a cow frozen to death and never lost any directly from the severity of the weather. More than that, I never fed a pound of hay. Our name for calves that had lost their mothers, and therefore the nourishment obtained from milk, was "dogies." These dogies were ever afterwards unmistakable in appearance, and remained stunted, "runty" little animals of no value. Yet, if taken up early enough and fed on nourishing diet, they would develop into as large and well-grown cattle as their more fortunate fellows.[2] [Footnote 2: Appendix, Note III.] My foreman was an ordinary cowboy, but he was a thorough cattleman, had already been in my employ for seven years, and his "little peculiarities" were pretty well known to me. He became desperately jealous of his position (as foreman), resenting interference. It is a good characteristic, this desire for independence, if also accompanied by no fear of responsibility; and on these lines my ranch was run. I allowed him great independence, never interfered so long as he carried out general orders and "ran straight"; but I also put on him full responsibility. More than that, I allowed him to run his own small bunch of cattle, some hundred head, in my pasture, and gave him the use of my bulls; his grass, salt and water cost him nothing. This was a very unusual policy to adopt. But the idea was that it would thus be as much his interest as mine to see the fences kept up and in good repair, to see that the windmills and wells were kept in order, that the cattle had salt, were not stolen, etc., and prairie fires guarded against. Well, it all turned out right. My presence at the ranch during a year would not perhaps amount to a month of days; I could live in Denver, San Francisco or Mexico, and only come to the place at round-ups and branding-times. I do not think that a calf was ever stolen from me. The fact was I knew cattle in general and my own cattle in particular so well (and he knew it) that he had no opportunity, and perhaps was afraid to take advantage of me. It must be here mentioned that on selling out, and in tallying my cattle over to the buyer, the count was disappointingly short; not nearly so short as the Scotch Company's cattle, it is true, but still, considering that my cattle were inside a good fence, were well looked after, the huge calf crop and apparently small death loss, there was a shortage. Then there is no wonder at the greater shortage of the Company's cattle, where almost no care could be taken of them, where the calf tallies were in the hands of, and returned by, the foremen of other outfits, where the range was overstocked, the boggy rivers a death-trap, where wolves and thieves had free range, and where blackleg, mismothering of calves and loco made a big hole in the number of yearlings. In my pasture were also wolves and blackleg; and the loss in calves by these, difficult to detect, is invariably greater than suspected. Only one case of cattle-thieving occurred at my own ranch and I lost nothing by it. Two men stopped in for supper one day; they were strangers, but of course received every attention. They rode on afterwards, coolly picked up some thirty head of my cattle, drove them all night into Texas and sold them to a farmer there. Of course they were not missed out of so many cattle; but someone in Texas had seen them at their new home, noticed my brand and sent word to me. On going after them I found they had been sold to an innocent man who had paid cash for them and taken no bill of sale. It was not a pleasant duty to demand the cattle back from such a man, but he ought to have known better. Some rustlers in Arizona once detached from a train at a small station a couple of carloads of beef cattle, ran them back down the track to the corral, there unloaded the cattle and drove them off. This very smart trick of course was done during the night and while the crew were at supper. For all these reasons it will be seen why my small ranch was such a success and such a profitable and money-making institution. But alas! it was to be short-lived! As explained before, I was paying no rent and my fences were illegal. "Kind" friends, and I had lots of them, reported the fences to Washington; a special agent was sent out to inspect, ordered the fence down and went away again. I disregarded the order. To take the fence down meant my getting out of the business or the ruin of the herd. Next year another agent came out, said my fence was an enclosure and must come down. Seeing still some daylight I took down some few miles of it, so that it could not be defined as an enclosure, but only a drift-fence. During the winter, however, I could not resist closing the gap again. Next season once more appeared a Government agent, who in a rage ordered the fence down under pains and penalties which could not well be longer disregarded. Cattle were up in price; a neighbour had long been anxious to buy me out; he was somewhat of a "smart Alick" and thought _he_ could keep the fence up; he knew all the circumstances; so I went over and saw him, made a proposition, and in a few minutes the ranch, cattle, fences and mills were his. Poor man! in six months his fence was down and the cattle scattered all over the country. He eventually lost heavily by the deal; but being a man of substance I got my money all right. So closed my cattle-ranching experiences some eight years ago (1902). It may be noted that experience showed that polled black bulls were no good for ranch purposes. They get few calves, are lazy, and have not the "rustling" spirit. Durhams or Shorthorns also compared poorly in these respects with Herefords, and besides are not nearly so hardy. The white face is therefore king of the range. And bulls with red rings round the eyes by preference, as they can stand the bright glare of these hot, dry countries better. It used to be my keen delight to attend the annual cattle shows and auction sales of pure-bred bulls, and I would feel their hides and criticize their points till I almost began to imagine myself as competent as the ring judges. The ranch was in the heart of the great buffalo range. (Indeed the Comanche Indians, and even some white men, used to believe firmly that the buffaloes each spring came up out of the ground like ants somewhere on these Staked Plains, and from thence made their annual pilgrimage north.) It seems these animals were not loco eaters. On my first coming to New Mexico there were still some buffaloes on the plain, the last remnant of the uncountable, inconceivable numbers that not long before had swarmed over the country. Even when the first railroads were built trains were sometimes held up for hours to let the herds pass. As late as 1871 Colonel Dodge relates that he rode for twenty-five miles directly through an immense herd, the whole country around him and in view being like a solid mass of buffaloes, all moving north. In fact, during these years the migrating herd was declared to have a front of thirty to forty miles wide, while the length or depth was unknown. An old buffalo hunter loves nothing better than to talk of the wonderful old times. One of the oldest living ranchmen still has a private herd near Amarillo and has made many experiments in breeding the bulls to domestic Galloway cows. The progeny, which he calls cattalo, make excellent beef, and he gets a very big price for the hides as robes. CHAPTER VIII ODDS AND ENDS The "Staked Plains"--High Winds--Lobo Wolves--Branding--Cows--Black Jack--Lightning and Hail--Classing Cattle--Conventions--"Cutting" versus Polo--Bull-Fight--Prize-Fights--River and Sea Fishing--Sharks. More odds and ends! and more apologies for the disconnected character of this chapter. It must be remembered that these notes are only jotted down as they have occurred to me. Of their irrelativeness one to another I am quite conscious, but the art of bringing them together in more proper order is beyond my capacity. Possibly it might not be advisable anyway. In my pasture of some 100,000 acres there was not a tree, a bush, or a shrub, or object of any nature bigger than a jack-rabbit; yet no sight was so gladsome to the eyes, no scenery (save the mark!) so beautiful as the range when clothed in green, the grass heading out, the lakes filled with water and the cattle fat, sleek and contented. Yet in after years, when passing through this same country by the newly-built railway in winter-time, it came as a wonder to me how one could have possibly passed so many years of his life in such a dreary, desolate, uninteresting-looking region. To-day the whole district, even my own old and familiar ranch, is desecrated (in the cattleman's eyes) by little nesters' (settlers) cottages, and fences so thick and close together as to resemble a Boer entanglement. I had done a bit of farming and some years raised good crops of Milo maize, Kafir corn, sorghum, rye, and even Indian corn. But severe droughts come on, when, as a nester once told me, for two years nothing was raised, not even umbrellas! These plains are, it may be safely said, the windiest place on earth, especially in early spring, when the measured velocity sometimes shows eighty miles per hour. When the big circular tumble weeds are bounding over the plains then is the time to look out for prairie fires; and woe betide the man caught in a blizzard in these lonely regions. Once when driving from a certain ranch to another, a distance of fifty miles, my directions were to "follow the main road." Fifty miles was no great distance and my team was a good one. I knew there were no houses between the two points. After driving what long experience told me was more than fifty miles, and still no ranch, I became a bit anxious; but there was nothing for it but to keep going. Black clouds in the north warned me of danger. I pushed the team along till they were wet with sweat; some snow fell; it grew dark as night; and a regular blizzard set in and I was in despair. I had a good bed in the buggy, so would myself probably have got through the night all right, but my horses were bound to freeze to death if staked out or tied up. As a last resource I threw the reins down and left it to the team to go wherever they pleased. For some time they kept on the road, but soon the jolting told me that they had left it and we began to go down a hill; in a little while great was my joy to see a light and to find ourselves soon in the hospitable shelter of a Mexican sheep-herder's hut. The Mexican unhitched the team and put them in a warm shed. For myself, he soon had hot coffee and tortillas on the table. I never felt so thankful in my life for such accommodation and such humble fare. The horses had never been in that part of the country before, that I knew; it was pitch dark, and yet they must have known in some mysterious way that in that direction was shelter and safety, as when I threw the lines down they even then continued to face the storm. It may be noted here that buffaloes always face the storm and travel against it; cattle and horses never. Before entirely leaving the cattle business a few more notes may be of interest. Plagues of grasshoppers and locusts sometimes did awful damage to the range. When visiting at a neighbour's one must not dismount till invited to do so; also in saluting anyone the gloves must be removed before shaking hands. This is cowboy etiquette and must be duly regarded. At public or semi-private dances there is always a master of ceremonies, who is also prompter and calls out all the movements. He will announce a "quardreele," or maybe a "shorteesche," and keeps the company going with his "Get your partners!" "Balance all!" "Swing your partners!" "Hands across!" "How do you do?" and "How are you?" "Swing somewhere," and "Don't forget the bronco-buster," etc. etc., as someone has described it. The Mexicans are always most graceful dancers; cowboys, with their enormously high heels, and probably spurs, are a bit clumsy. At purely Mexican dances (Bailies) the two sexes do not speak, each retiring at the end of a dance to its own side of the room. Most cowboys have the peculiar faculty of "humming," produced by shaping the mouth and tongue in a certain way. The "hum" can be made to exactly represent the bagpipes; no one else did I ever hear do it but cowpunchers. I have tried for hours but never quite succeeded in the art. Besides coyotes, which are everywhere common, the plains were infested by lobo wolves, a very large and powerful species; they denned in the breaks of the plains and it was then easiest to destroy them. They did such enormous damage amongst cattle that a reward of as high as thirty dollars per scalp was frequently offered for them, something less for the pups. The finding of a nest with a litter of perhaps six to eight young ones meant considerable money to the scalp-hunter. The wolves were plentiful and hunted in packs; and I have seen the interesting sight of a small bunch of mixed cattle rounded up and surrounded by a dozen of them, sitting coolly on their haunches till some unwary yearling left the protecting horns of its elders. Every time, when riding the range, that we spotted a lobo ropes were down at once and a more or less long chase ensued, the result depending much whether Mr Wolf had dined lately or not. But they were more addicted to horse and donkey flesh if obtainable. For purposes of poisoning them I used to buy donkeys at a dollar apiece and cut them up for bait. With hounds they gave good sport in a suitable country. But it is expensive work, as many dogs get killed, and no dog of any breed, unless maybe the greyhound, can or will singly and twice tackle a lobo wolf. In the springtime, when the calves are dropping pretty thick, it is exceedingly interesting to note the protective habits of the mother cows. For instance, when riding you will frequently come on a two or three days' old baby snugly hidden in a bunch of long grass while the mother has gone to water. When calves get a little older you may find at mid-day, out on the prairie, some mile or two from water, a bunch of maybe forty calves. Their mammies have gone to drink; but not all of them! No, never all of them at the same time. One cow is always left to guard the helpless calves, and carries out her trust faithfully until relieved. This was and is still a complete mystery to me. Does this individual cow select and appoint herself to the office; or is she balloted for, or how otherwise is the selection made? This might be another picture subject--the gallant cow on the defensive, even threatening and aggressive, and the many small helpless calves gathering hastily around her for protection. Her! The self-appointed mother of the brood. When branding calves, suppose you have 400 cows and calves in the corral. First all calves are separated into a smaller pen. Then the branding begins. But what an uproar of bellows and "baas" takes place! My calves were all so very like one another in colour and markings that one was hardly distinguishable from another. The mothers can only recognize their hopeful offspring by their scent and by their "baa," although amongst 400 it must be rather a nice art to do so--400 different and distinct scents and 400 differently-pitched baas. Among these notes I should not forget to mention a brush plant that grows on the southern plains. It is well named the "wait-a-bit" thorn. Its hooks or claws are sharper than a cat's, very strong and recurve on the stems: so that a man afoot cannot possibly advance through it, and even on a horse it will tear the trousers off you in a very few minutes. Is the name not appropriate? Nothing so far has been said on the subject of "hold-ups." Railway train hold-ups were a frequent occurrence, and were only undertaken by the most desperate of men. One celebrated gang, headed by the famous outlaw, Black Jack, operated mostly on a railway to the north of us and another railway to the south, the distance between being about 400 miles. Their line of travel between these two points was through Fort Sumner; and in our immediate neighbourhood they sometimes rested for a week or two, hiding out as it were, resting horses and laying plans. No doubt they cost us some calves for beef, though they were not the worst offenders. What annoyed me most was that Black Jack himself, when evading pursuit, raided my horse pasture one night, caught up the very best horse I ever owned, rode him fifty miles, and cut his throat. In New Mexico, where at first it seemed everybody's hand was against me, I was gratified to find that I had got a reputation as a fist-fighter, and as I never practised boxing in my life, never had the gloves on, never had a very serious fist fight with anyone, the idea of having such a reputation was too funny; but why should one voluntarily repudiate it? It was useful. The men had also somehow heard that I could hold a six-shooter pretty straight. Such a reputation was even more useful. I was not surprised therefore that a plan should be hatched to test my powers in that line. It came at the round-up dinner-hour on the Company's range (New Mexico). A small piece of board was nailed to a fence post and the boys began shooting at it. In a casual way someone asked me to try my hand. Knowing how much depended on it I got out my faithful old 45° six-shooter that I had carried for fifteen years, and taking quick aim, as much to my own surprise as to others', actually hit the centre of the mark! It was an extraordinarily good shot (could not do it again perhaps in twenty trials) but it saved my reputation. Of course no pressure could have persuaded me to fire again. That reminds me of another such occasion. Once when camped alone on the Reservation in Arizona, a party of officers from Camp Apache turned up. They had a bite to eat with me and the subject of shooting came up. Someone stuck an empty can in a tree at a considerable distance from us and they began shooting at it with carbines. When my turn came I pulled out the old 45° pistol and by lucky chance knocked the bottom out at the first shot. My visitors were amazed that a six-shooter had such power and could be used with such accuracy at that distance. In this case it was also a lucky shot; but constant practice at rabbits, prairie dogs and targets had made me fairly proficient. In New Mexico I had a cowboy working for me who was a perfect marvel, a "born" marksman such as now and then appears in the West. With a carbine he could keep a tin can rolling along the ground by hitting, never the can, but just immediately behind and under it with the greatest accuracy. If one tossed nickel pieces (size of a shilling) in succession in front of him he would hit almost without fail every one of them with his carbine--a bullet not shot! He left me to give exhibition shooting at the Chicago Exposition. On my ranch, at Running Water Draw, was unearthed during damming operations, a vast quantity of bones of prehistoric age; which calls for the remark that not only the horse but also the camel was at one time indigenous to North America. Nothing has been said yet about hail or lightning storms. Some of the latter were indescribably grand, when at night the whole firmament would be absolutely ablaze with flashes, sheets and waves so continuous as to be without interval. Once when lying on my bed on the open prairie such a storm came on. It opened with loud thunder and some brilliant flashes, then the rain came down and deluged us, the water running two inches deep over the grass; and when the rain ceased the wonderful electric storm as described continued for an hour longer. The danger was over; but the sight was awe-inspiring in the extreme. Night-herding too during such a storm was a strange experience. No difficulty to see the cattle; the whole herd stood with tails to the wind; the men lined out in front, each well covered by his oilskin slicker, and his horse's tail likewise turned to the storm; the whole outfit in review order so to speak, the sole object of the riders being to prevent the cattle from "drifting." This book contains no fiction or exaggeration; yet it will be hardly believed when I state that hail actually riddled the corrugated iron roof of my ranch house--new iron, not old or rusty stuff. The roof was afterwards absolutely useless as a protection against rain. Mirages in the hot dry weather were a daily occurrence. We did not see imaginary castles and cities turned upside down and all that sort of thing, but apparent lakes of water were often seen, so deceptive as to puzzle even the oldest plainsman. Cattle appeared as big as houses and mounted men as tall as church steeples. In all the vicious little cow-towns scattered about the country, whose attractions were gambling and "tarantula juice," there was always to be found a Jew trader running the chief and probably only store in the place. I have known such a man arrive in the country with a pack on his back who in comparatively few years would own half the county. What a remarkable people the Jews are! We find them all over the world (barring Scotland) successful in almost everything they undertake, a prolific race, and good citizens, yet carrying with them in very many cases the characteristics of selfishness, greed and ostentation. Something should be said about "classing" cattle. "Classing" means separating or counting the steers or she cattle of a herd into their ages as yearlings, "twos," "threes," etc. It used to be done in old days by simply stringing the herd out on the open plain and calling out and counting each animal as it passed a certain point. But later it became the custom to corral the herd and run them through a chute, where each individual could be carefully inspected and its age agreed on by both parties. Even that might not prove quite satisfactory, as will be shown in the following instance. I had sold to a certain gentleman (a Scotchman again), manager for two large cattle companies, a string of some 1000 steers, one, two and three years old. I drove them to his ranch, some 300 miles, and we began classing them on the prairie, cutting each class separately. It is difficult in many cases to judge a range steer's age. Generally it is or should be a case of give-and-take. But my gentleman was not satisfied and expressed his dissatisfaction in not very polite language. So to satisfy him I agreed to put them through the chute and "tooth" them, the teeth being an infallible test (or at least the accepted test) of an animal's age. To my surprise this man, the confident, trusted manager of long years' experience, could not tell a yearling from a "two" or a "two" from a "three," but sat on the fence and cussed, and allowed his foreman to do the classing for him. The Texas Cattlemen's Annual Convention was a most important event in our lives. It was held sometimes in El Paso, sometimes in San Antonio, but oftenest in Fort Worth, and was attended by ranchmen from all over the State, as well as by many from New Mexico, and by buyers from Wyoming, Montana, Nebraska, Kansas and elsewhere. Being held early in spring the sales then made generally set the prices for the year. Much dickering was gone through and many deals made, some of enormous extent. Individual sales of 2000, 5000 or even 10,000 steers were effected, and individual purchases of numbers up to 20,000 head; even whole herds of 30,000 to 50,000 cattle were sometimes disposed of. It was a meeting where old friends and comrades, cattle kings and cowboys, their wives, children and sweethearts, met and had a glorious old time. It brought an immense amount of money into the place, and hence the strenuous efforts made by different towns (the saloons) "to get the Convention." Among the celebrities to be met there might be Buffalo Jones, a typical plainsman of the type of Buffalo Bill (Cody). Jones some years ago went far north to secure some young musk oxen. None had ever before been captured. He and his men endured great hardships and privations, but finally, by roping, secured about a dozen yearlings. The Indians swore that he should not take them out of their territory. On returning he had got as far as the very edge of the Indian country and was a very proud and well-pleased man. But that last fatal morning he woke up to find all the animals with their throats cut. Only last year Jones, with two New Mexican cowboys and a skilled photographer, formed the daring and apparently mad plan of going to Africa and roping and so capturing any wild animal they might come across, barring, of course, the elephant. His object was to secure for show purposes cinematograph pictures. He took some New Mexican cow-ponies out with him, and he and his men succeeded in all they undertook to do, capturing not only the less dangerous animals, such as antelope, buck and giraffe, but also a lioness and a rhinoceros, surely a very notable feat. Amarillo in the Panhandle was then purely a cattleman's town. It was a great shipping point--at one time the greatest in the world--and was becoming a railroad centre. I was there a good deal, and for amusement during the slack season went to work to fix up a polo ground. No one in the town had ever even seen the game played, so the work and expense all fell on myself. I was lucky to find a capital piece of ground close to the town, absolutely level and well grassed. After measuring and laying off, with a plough I ran furrows for boundary lines, stuck in the goalposts, filled up the dog-holes, etc., and there we were. At first only three or four men came forward, out of mere curiosity perhaps. After expounding the game and the rules, etc., as well as possible we started in to play. The game soon "caught on," and in a little while a number more joined, nearly all cattlemen and cowpunchers. They became keen and enthusiastic, too keen sometimes, for in their excitement they disregarded the rules. The horses, being cow-ponies, were of course as keen and as green as the players, and the game became a most dangerous one to take part in. Still we kept on, no one was very badly hurt, and we had lots of glorious gallops--fast games in fact. The word "polo" is derived from Tibetan pulu, meaning a knot of willow wood. In Cachar, and also at Amarillo, we used bamboo-root balls. The game originated in Persia, passed to Tibet, and thence to the Munipoories, and from the Munipoories the English learnt it. The first polo club ever organized was the Cachar Kangjai Club, founded in 1863. It may be remarked here that, hard as the riding is in polo, in my opinion it does not demand nearly such good riding as does the "cutting" of young steers. In polo your own eye is on the ball, and when another player or yourself hits it you know where to look for it, and rule your horse accordingly. In "cutting," on the other hand, your horse, if a good one, does nearly all the work; just show it the animal you want to take out and he will keep his eye on it and get it out of the herd without much guidance. But there is this great difference: you never can tell what a steer is going to do! You may be racing or "jumping" him out of the herd when he will suddenly flash round before you have time to think and break back again. Herein your horse is quicker than yourself, knowing apparently instinctively the intention of the rollicky youngster, so that both steer and your mount have wheeled before you are prepared for it. You must therefore try to be always prepared, sit very tight, and profit by past experiences. It is very hard work and, as said before, needs better horsemanship than polo. To watch, or better still to ride, a first-class cutting horse is a treat indeed. During these last few years of ranch life my leisure gave me time to make odd excursions here and there. Good shooting was to be had near Amarillo--any amount of bobwhite quail, quantities of prairie-chickens, plovers, etc. And, by-the-bye, at Fort Sumner I had all to myself the finest kind of sport. There was a broad avenue of large cotton-wood trees some miles in length. In the evening the doves, excellent eating, and, perhaps for that reason, tremendously fast fliers, would flash by in twos or threes up or down this avenue, going at railroad speed. But my pleasure was marred by having no companion to share the sport. Then I made many trips to the Rocky Mountains to fish for rainbow trout in such noble streams as the Rio Grande del Norte, the Gunnison, the Platte and others. In the early days these rivers were almost virgin streams, hotching with trout of all sizes up to twelve and even fifteen pounds. The monsters could seldom be tempted except with spoon or live bait, but trout up to six or seven pounds were common prizes. Out of a small, a ridiculously small, tributary of the Gunnison River I one day took more fish than I could carry home, each two to three pounds in weight. But that was murdering--mere massacre and not sport. During a cattle convention held at El Paso I first attended a bull-fight in Juarez and I have since seen others in the city of Mexico and elsewhere. The killing of the poor blindfolded horses is a loathsome, disgusting sight, and so affected me that I almost prayed that the gallant, handsome matadors would be killed. Indeed, at Mexico City, I afterwards saw Bombita, a celebrated Spanish matador, tossed and gored to death. The true ring-bull of fighting breed is a splendid animal; when enraged he does not seem to suffer much from the insertion of banderillas, etc., and his death stab is generally instantaneously fatal. Certainly the enthusiasm of the ring, the presence of Mexican belles and their cavalleros, the picturesqueness and novelty of the whole show are worth experiencing. It should be remembered that the red cloth waved in front of him is the main cause of Toro's irritation. Why it should so irritate him we don't know. When a picador and his horse are down they are absolutely at the mercy of the bull; and the onlooker naturally thinks that he will proceed to gore man and horse till they are absolutely destroyed. But the cloth being at once flaunted near him he immediately attacks it instead and is thus decoyed to another part of the ring. Thus, too, the apparent danger to the swordsman who delivers the _coup de grâce_ is not really very great if he show the necessary agility and watchfulness. When a bull charges he charges not his real enemy, but that exasperating red cloth; and the man has only to step a little to the side, but _still hold the cloth in front_ of the bull, to escape all danger. Without this protecting cloth no matador would dare to enter the ring. The banderilleros, too, thus escape danger because they do their work while the bull's whole attention is on the red cloth operated by another man in front. The man I saw gored, tossed and killed must have made some little miscalculation, or been careless, and stood not quite out of the bull's way, so that the terrible sharp horns caught him, as one may say, _by mistake_. The Mexicans, too, like my coolies in India, were great cock-fighters. It is a national sport and also a cruel one. Matadors are paid princely sums. The most efficient, the great stars, come from Spain. Many of them are extremely handsome men and their costume a handsome and picturesque one. As a mark of their profession they wear a small pigtail, not artificial but of their own growing hair. I travelled with one once but did not know it till he removed his hat. Denver and San Francisco were great centres of prize-fighting. In both places I saw many of the great ring men of the day, in fact never missed an opportunity of attending such meetings. It was mostly, however, "goes" between the "coming" men, such as Jim Corbett and other aspirants. A real champion fight between heavyweights I was never lucky enough to witness. Base-ball games always appealed to me, and to witness a first-class match only a very great distance would prevent my attendance. To appreciate the game one must thoroughly understand its thousand fine points. It absorbs the onlooker's interest as no other game can do. Every player must be constantly on the alert and must act on his own judgment. The winning or losing of the match may at any moment lie with him. The game only lasts some two hours; but for the onlookers every moment of these two hours is pregnant with interest and probably intense excitement. Here is no sleeping and dozing on the stands for hours at a time as witnessed at popular cricket matches. Time is too valuable in America for that, and men's brains are too restless. At a ball-game the sight of a man slumbering on the benches is inconceivable. Sea-fishing also attracted me very much. On the California coast, around Catalina and other islands, great sport is to be had among the yellow-tails, running up to 50 lbs. weight. They are a truly game fish and put up a capital fight. Jew-fish up to 400 lbs. are frequently caught with rod and line, but are distinctly not a game fish. Albacores can be taken in boat-loads; they are game enough but really too common. The tuna is _par excellence_ the game fish of the coast. At one time you might reasonably expect to get a fish (nothing under 100 lbs. counted), but lately, and while I was there, a capture was so rare as to make the game not worth the candle. A steam or motor launch is needed and that costs money. I hired such a boat once or twice; but the experience of some friends who had fished every day for two months and not got one single blessed tuna damped my ambition. Tunas there run up to 300 lbs., big enough, and yet tiny compared with the monsters of the Mediterranean, the Morocco coast and the Japanese seas; there they run up to 2000 lbs. The tuna is called the "leaping" tuna because he plays and hunts his prey on the surface of the water; but he never "leaps" as does the tarpon. Once hooked he goes off to sea and will tow your boat maybe fifteen miles; that is to say, he partly tows the boat, but the heavy motor launch must also use its power to keep up or the line will at once be snapped. The tuna belongs to the mackerel family, is built like a white-head torpedo, and for gameness, speed and endurance is hard to beat. Only the pala of the South Pacific Seas, also a mackerel, may, according to Louis Becke, be his rival. Becke indeed claims it to be the gamest of all fish. But its manoeuvres are different from a tuna's and similar to those of the tarpon. What is finer sport, I think, and perhaps not quite so killing to the angler, is tarpon-fishing. Most of our ambitious tarpon fishers go to Florida, where each fish captured will probably cost you some fifty dollars. My tarpon ground was at Aransas Pass, on the Gulf Coast of Texas. There in September the fish seem to congregate preparatory to their migration south. I have seen them there in bunches of fifty to seventy, swimming about in shallow, clear water, their great dorsal fins sticking out, for all the world like a lot of sharks. My first experience on approaching in a small row boat such an accumulation of fish muscle, grit and power will never be forgotten. It was one of _the_ events of my chequered life. The boatman assured me I should get a "strike" of a certainty as soon as the bait was towed within sight of them. My state of excitement was so great that really all nerve force was gone. My muscles, instead of being tense and strong, seemed to be relaxed and feeble; my whole body was in a tremble. To see these monster fish of 150 to 200 lbs. swimming near by, and to know that next moment a tremendous rush and fight would begin, was to the novice almost a painful sensation. Not quite understanding the mechanism of the powerful reel and breaks, and being warned that thumbs or fingers had sometimes been almost torn off the hand, I grasped the rod very gingerly. But I need not say what my first fish or any particular fish did or what happened. I will only say that I got all I wanted--enough to wear me out physically till quite ready to be gaffed myself. It is tremendously hard work. To rest myself and vary the sport I would leave the tarpon and tackle the red-fish, an equally game and fighting fish, but much smaller, scaling about 15 to 20 lbs. There was a shoal of them visible, or at least a bunch of about 100, swimming right on the edge of the big breaking surf. Like the tarpon they thus keep close company on account of the sharks (supposition). It was dangerous and difficult to get the boat near enough to them; but when you did succeed there was invariably a rush for your bait and a game fight to follow. They are splendid chaps. Then I would return to the tarpon and have another battle royal; and so it went on. But sometimes you would hook a jack fish (game, and up to 25 lbs.), and sometimes get into a shark of very big proportions. Indeed, the sharks are a nuisance, and will sometimes cut your tarpon in two close to your boat, and they eagerly await the time when you land your fish and unhook him to turn him loose. Another noble fish, of which I was lucky enough to get several, was the king-fish, long, pike-shaped and silvery, a most beautiful creature, and probably the fastest fish that swims. I had not realized just how quick any fish could swim till I hooked one of these. He acts much as the tarpon does. But I have not yet told how the latter, the king of the herring race, does act. On being hooked he makes a powerful rush for a hundred yards or so; then he springs straight up high out of the water, as much as six to ten feet, shakes his head exactly as a terrier does with a rat, falls back to make another rush and another noble spring. He will make many springs before you dare take liberties and approach the landing shore. But the peculiarity of this fish is that his runs are not all in one direction. His second run may take quite a different line; and at any time he may run and spring into or over your boat. When two anglers have fish on at the same time, and in close neighbourhood, the excitement and fun are great. The tarpon's whole mouth, palate and jaws have not a suspicion of muscle or cartilage about them; all is solid bone, with only a few angles and corners where it is possible for the hook to take good hold. Unless the hook finds such a fold in the bones you are pretty sure to lose your fish--three out of four times. Probably by letting him gorge the bait you will get him all right, but it would entail killing him to get the hook out. In winter the tarpons go south, and perhaps the best place to fish them is at Tempico in Mexico. But let me strongly recommend Aransas Pass in September. There is good quail-shooting, rabbits, and thousands of water-fowl of every description; also a very fair little hotel where I happened to be almost the only visitor. At Catalina Islands, by the way, whose climate is absolutely delightful, where there are good hotels, and where the visitors pass the whole day in the water or on land in their bathing-suits, one can hire glass-bottom boats, whereby to view the wonderful and exquisitely beautiful flora of the sea, and watch the movements of the many brilliantly-coloured fish and other creatures that inhabit it. The extraordinary clearness of the water there is particularly favourable for the inspection of these fairy bowers. One day I determined to try for a Jew-fish, just to see how such a huge, ungainly monster would act. Anchoring, we threw the bait over, and in a short time I pulled in a rock cod of nearly 7 lbs. weight. My boatman coolly threw the still hooked fish overboard again, telling me it would be excellent bait for the big ones we were after. Well, I did not get the larger fish; but the sight on looking overboard into the depths was so astonishing as to be an ample reward for any other disappointment. On the surface was a dense shoal of small mullet or other fish; below them, six or eight feet, another shoal of an entirely different kind; below these another shoal of another kind, and so on as far down as the eye could penetrate. It was a most marvellous sight indeed, and showed what a teeming life these waters maintain. It seemed that a large fish had only to lie still with its huge mouth open, and close it every now and then when he felt hungry, to get a dinner or a luncheon fit for any fishy alderman. It must be a fine field for the naturalist, the ichthyologist, probably as fine as that round Bermudas' coral shores, as illustrated by the new aquarium at Hamilton. But I can hardly think that the fish of any other climate can compare for brilliancy of colouring and fantastic variety of shape with those captured on the Hawaiian coast and well displayed in the aquarium at Honolulu. I must not forget to mention that at Aransas Pass one may sometimes see very large whip or sting-rays. They may easily be harpooned, but the wonderful stories told me of their huge size (I really dare not give the dimensions), their power and ferocity, quite scared me off trying conclusions with them. There one may also capture blue-fish, white-fish, sheepheads and pompanos; all delicious, the pompanos being the most highly-prized and esteemed, and most expensive, of America's many fine table fishes. Order a pompano the first opportunity. Having already mentioned sharks, it may be stated here that one captured in a net on the California coast four years ago was authoritatively claimed to be the largest ever taken, yet his length was only some 36 feet; although it is true that the _Challenger_ Expedition dredged up shark teeth so large that it was judged that the owner must have been 80 to 90 feet long. The Greynurse shark of the South Seas is the most dreaded of all its tribe; it fears nothing but the Killer, a savage little whale which will attack and whip any shark living, and will not hesitate to tackle even a sperm whale. Shark stories are common and every traveller has many horrible ones to recount. Yet the greatest and best authorities assert that sharks are mere scavengers (as they are, and most useful ones) and will never attack an active man, or any man, unless he be in extremities--that is, dead, wounded or disabled; though, as among tigers, there probably are some man-eaters. A large still-standing reward has been offered for a fully-certified case of a shark voluntarily attacking a man, other than exceptions as above noted, and that reward has not yet been claimed. Whenever I hear a thrilling shark story I ask if the teller is prepared to swear to having himself witnessed the event; invariably the experience is passed on to someone else and the responsibility for the tale is laid on other shoulders. On a quite recent voyage a talkative passenger confidently stated having seen a shark 70 feet long. I ventured to measure out that distance on the ship's deck, and asked him and his credulous listeners to regard and consider it. It gained me an enemy for life. One of the most famous and historical sharks was San José Joe, who haunted the harbour of Corinto, a small coast town in Salvador. Every ship that entered the harbour was sure to have some bloodthirsty fiend on board to empty his cartridges into this unfortunate creature. His carcass was reckoned to be as full of lead as a careful housewife's pin-cushion of pins. But all this battering had no effect on him. Finally, and after my own visit to that chief of all yellow-fever-stricken dens, a British gun-boat put a shell into Joe and blew him into smithereens. In many shark-infested waters, such as around Ocean Island, the natives swim fearlessly among them. This ocean island, by the way, is probably the most intrinsically valuable spot of land on earth, consisting of a solid mass of coral and phosphate. "Pelorus Jack," who gave so much interest to the Cook Channel in New Zealand, was not a shark. CHAPTER IX IN AMARILLO Purchase of Lots--Building--Boosting a Town. Enough of odds and ends. To return to purely personal affairs. After selling the cattle and ranch the question at once came up--What now? I had enough to live on, but not enough to allow me to live quite as I wished, though never ambitious of great wealth. What had been looked forward to for many years was to have means enough to permit me to travel over the world; and at the same time to have my small capital invested in such a way as would secure not only as big a per cent. interest as possible, with due security, but also a large probability of unearned increment, so to speak; and above all to require little personal attention. Dozens of schemes presented themselves, many with most rosy outlooks. I was several times on the very verge of decision, and how easily and differently one's whole future may be affected! Perhaps by now a millionaire!--perhaps a pauper! At one time I was on the point of buying a cotton plantation in the South. The only obstacle was the shortage of convict labour! A convict negro _must_ work; the free negro won't. Finally I bought some city lots in the town of Amarillo--the most valuable lots I could find, right at the city's pulse, the centre of business; in my judgment they would in all probability always be at the centre, and that as the city grew so would their value grow, and thus the unearned increment would be secured. I bought these lots by sheer pressure; the owner did not want to sell, but I made him name his own price, and closed the deal, to his astonishment. It was a record price and secured me some ridicule. But the funniest part has to come. In a little while I became dissatisfied with my deal, and actually approached the seller and asked him if he would cancel it. He too had regretted parting with the property, and to my relief assented. Once more I spent nearly a year ranging about the whole western country, looking into different propositions, and again I came back to Amarillo, again was impressed with the desirability of the same lots, and actually demanded of the still more astonished owner if he would sell them to me. No! no! he did not want to part with them; and I knew he spoke the truth. Again I forced him, and so hard that at last he put on what he considered a prohibitory price, a much higher one than before asked, but I snapped him up at once. The news soon got all over town, it could not be kept quiet. Once more the supposed knowing ones and "cute" business men eyed me askance, and no doubt thought me a fool, or worse. Only one man approved of my action, but I valued his opinion more than that of all the rest. This deal again made a stir amongst the Real Estate offices, and lot values went soaring; and when I had erected a handsome business block on the property a regular "boom" set in. It gave the little town a lift and the people confidence. One man was good enough to tell me that I had more "nerve" than anyone he had ever met. Did he mean rashness? Well, my nerve simply came from realizing what a fine outlook lay before the town. It seemed to me to be bound to be a great distributing centre, also a railroad centre; that the illimitable acreage of plains-lands was bound in time to be settled on, and that thus the population would rapidly increase; which anticipations have happily come true. My whole capital, and more, was now sunk and disposed of. My mind at least in that respect was at rest; and it certainly looked as if the long-nursed scheme was about to be realized. In a few years the unearned increment was at least 100 per cent.; rents also went up surprisingly, and also, alas! the taxes. Unfortunately, within a year after completion of the building, and while I was in Caracas, Venezuela, an incendiary, a drunken gambler who had been running a "game" illicitly in one of the rooms, and who had been therefore turned out, deliberately used kerosene oil and set fire to the building. Result, a three-quarters' loss! Luckily I was well insured; even in the rentals, to the surprise of many people who had never heard of rental insurance before. The insurance settlement and payment was effected between myself and the agent in less than half an hour, and just as soon as I could get at it an architect was working on plans for a new structure. With the three months' loss on account of my absence, it was more than a year before the new building was ready for occupancy. It was, and is, a better-arranged and handsomer one than the old block, and its total rental is much greater. The town has grown very much and seems to be permanently established. The building, and my affairs, are entirely in the hands of a responsible agent; and I am free to go where inclination calls. Nothing shall be said about the worries, the delays, the wage disputes, the lawsuits, etc., seemingly always in attendance on the erection of any building. Well, it is over now, and too sickening to think about! Nor shall much be said about the frequent calls on the property-owner to subscribe, to "put up," for any bonus the city may have decided to offer to secure the placing in "oor toon" of a State Methodist College, a State Hospital, a State Federal Building; or to induce a new railroad to build in; not to mention the securing for your own particular district of the town the site of a new court-house, a new post-office, etc. etc. The enmity caused by this latter contest is always bitter. But always anything to boost the town! This little town actually last year paid a large sum to the champion motor-car racer of America to give an exhibition in Amarillo. Even a flying-machine meeting was consummated, one of the first in the whole West. In this plains country, such as surrounds Amarillo, during the land boom, immense tracts were bought by speculators, who then proceeded to dispose of it to farmers and small settlers. They do this on a methodical and grand scale. One such man chartered special trains to bring out from the middle States his proposed clients or victims. To meet the trains he owned as many as twenty-five motor-cars, in which at once on arrival these people were driven all over the property to make their selection. The first breaking of this prairie country is done with huge steam ploughs, having each twelve shares, so that the breaking is done very rapidly, the depth cultivated being only some two inches or three inches. The thick close sod folds over most beautifully and exactly, and it was always a fascinating sight, if a sad one, to watch this operation--the first opening up of this soil that had lain uncultivated for so many æons of time. The seed may be simply scattered on the sod before the breaking, and often a splendid crop is thus obtained. Simplicity of culture, truly! [Illustration: BREAKING THE PRAIRIE.] [Illustration: FIRST CROP--MILO MAIZE.] Before leaving the United States of America a few notes about that country. Though as a rule physically unpicturesque, it has some great wonder-places and beauty spots, such as the Yosemite Valley, the Grand Cañon of the Colorado, the Yellowstone Park, the Falls of Niagara, and the big trees of California, which trees it may be now remarked are conifers (Sequoia gigantea and Sequoia sempervirens), which attain a height of 400 feet. Sempervirens is so called because young trees develop from the roots of a destroyed parent. If the reader has never seen these enormous trees he cannot well appreciate their immense altitude and dimensions. Remember that our own tallest and noblest trees in England do not attain more than 100 feet or so in height; then try to imagine those having four times that height and stems or trunks proportionately huge. It is like comparing our five-storey buildings with the forty-storey buildings of New York, eight times their altitude. Yet these big trees are not so big as the gums of Australia; the Yellowstone Geysers are, or were, inferior to the like in New Zealand; and Niagara is surpassed by the Zambesi Falls, still more so by the waterfall in Paraguay, and infinitely so by the recently-discovered falls in British Guiana. The Guayra Falls, on the Paraná River, in Paraguay, though not so high in one leap as Niagara, have twice as great a bulk of water, which rushes through a gorge only 200 feet wide. Its cities, such as San Francisco, Chicago, St Louis, New Orleans and others, are not as a rule beautiful; even Washington, the capital, was a tremendous disappointment to my expectant gaze; though my judgment might possibly be affected by the following incident. While standing at the entrance of the extremely beautiful New Union Railway Station a cab drove up, out of which a woman stepped, followed by a man. He hurried after her, and right in front of me drew a pistol and shot her dead, and even again fired twice into her body as she lay on the ground. Then he quickly but coolly put the gun to his own head and killed himself. This city seems badly planned and some of its great federal buildings are monstrous. The Pennsylvania Avenue is an eyesore and a disgrace to the nation. Boston, I believe, is all that it should be. Denver is a delightful town. New York, incomparable for its fabulous wealth, its unequalled shops, its magnificently and boldly-conceived office buildings and apartment blocks, its palatial and perfectly-appointed hotels, its dirty and ill-paved streets, is the marvel of the age and is every year becoming more so. Its growth continues phenomenal. If not now it will soon be the pulse of the world. There is never occasion in American hotels, as there is in English, in my own experience, to order your table waiter to go and change his greasy, filthy coat or to clean his finger-nails! No, in the smallest country hotel in the United States the proprietor knows that his guests actually prefer a table servant to have clean hands, a clean coat, etc., and waiters in restaurants are obliged to wear thin, light and noiseless boots or shoes, not clodhoppers. That phenomenon and much-criticized individual, the American child, is blessed with such bright intelligence that at the age of ten he or she is as companionable to the "grown-up" as the youth of twenty of other countries, and much more interesting. English people are inclined to think Americans brusque and even not very polite. Let me assure them that they are the politest of people, though happily not effusive. They are also the most sympathetic and, strange as it may appear, the most sentimental. Their sympathy I have tested and experienced. Their brusqueness may arise from the fact that they have no time to give to formalities. But a civil question will always be civilly answered, and answered intelligently. Nor are Americans toadies or snobs; they are independent, self-reliant and self-respecting people. CHAPTER X FIRST TOUR ABROAD Mexico--Guatemala--Salvador--Panama--Colombia--Venezuela--Jamaica --Cuba--Fire in Amarillo--Rebuilding. Among the many long trips leisure has permitted, the first was a tour through Mexico, Guatemala and Salvador to Panama; thence through Colombia and Venezuela; Jamaica and Cuba; needless to say a most interesting tour. Mexico has a most delightful climate at any time of the year, except on the Gulf Coast, the Tierra Caliente, where the heat in summer is tropical and oppressive. She has many interesting and beautiful towns. The city itself is rapidly becoming a handsome one, indeed an imperial one. Accommodation for visitors, however, leaves much to be desired. The country's history is of course absorbingly interesting, and the many remains of Aztec and older origin appeal much to one's curiosity. There is a capital golf-course, a great bull-ring, and a pelota court. There is much wealth, and every evening a fine display of carriages and horses. The little dogs called Perros Chinos of Mexico, also "Pelon" or hairless, have absolutely no hair on the body. They are handsome, well-built little creatures, about the size of a small terrier. They are said to be identical with one of the Chinese edible dogs. Cortez found them in Mexico and Pizarro in Peru. How did they get there? Popocatepetl, a magnificent conical volcano, overlooks the city and plain. I tried to ascend it but a damaged ankle failed me. A trip to Oaxaca to see wonderful Mitla should not be missed. There also is the tree of Tuli, a cypress, said to measure 154 feet round its trunk. Also a trip to Orizaba city is equally interesting, if only for the view of the magnificent Pico de Orizaba, a gigantic and most beautiful cone 18,000 feet high; but also for the beautiful scenery displayed in the descent from the high plateau of Mexico, a very sudden descent of several thousand feet in fifteen miles, with a railroad grade of one in fourteen, from a temperate climate at once into a tropical one. More than that, it leads you to the justly-celebrated little Hotel de France in Orizaba, the only good hotel in all Mexico. The imposing grandeur of a mountain peak depends of course greatly on its elevation above its base; for instance, Pike's peak, to the top of which I have been, is some 15,000 feet above sea-level, but only 8000 above its base. The great peaks of the Andes likewise suffer, such as Volcan Misti at Arequipa, nearly 20,000 feet above the sea, but from its base only 12,000 feet. Then imagine Orizaba peak at once soaring 16,000 feet above the city, not one of a chain or range, but proudly standing alone in her radiant beauty. From Orizaba I went on to Cordova, where it is the custom of the citizens of all ranks and ages to assemble in the evenings in the plaza to engage in the game of keeno or lotto. Many tables are laid out for the purpose. The prizes are small, but apparently enough to amuse the people. Of course I joined in the game, happened to be very successful, and as my winnings were turned over to some small boys, beautiful little black-eyed rascals, my seat was soon surrounded by a merry crowd and great was the fun. How beautiful and captivating are these Spanish and even Mestizo children, the boys even more so than their sisters. From this point I took train, over the worst-built and coggliest railroad track I ever travelled on, to the Isthmus of Tehuantepec, to see the famous Eads Route, over which he proposed to transport bodily, without breaking cargo, ocean-going sailing ships and steamers from the Gulf to the Pacific Ocean. Also to visit the Tehuana tribe of Indians, whose women have the reputation of being the finest-looking of native races in the Western world. They wear a most extraordinary and unique combined headdress and shawl. In the markets could certainly be seen wonderfully beautiful faces, quite beautiful enough to justify the claim mentioned. At Rincon is the starting-point of the projected and begun Pan-American railroad, which will eventually reach to Buenos Ayres. At Salina Cruz, the Pacific end of the isthmus, and I should think one of the windiest places on earth, perhaps beating even Amarillo, I met a young American millionaire, a charming man who had large interests in Guatemala. We sailed together from Salina Cruz on a small coasting steamer bound for Panama. Except only at Salina Cruz, where a terrific wind blows most of the year, the weather was calm, but the heat very great. Not even bed-sheets were provided, nor were they needed. Sailing by night we made some port and stopping-place every day. The view of the coast is most interesting. You are practically never out of sight of volcanoes, some of them of great height and many of them active. One particularly, Santa Maria, attracted our attention because of its erupting regularly at intervals of half an hour; regularly as your watch marked the stated period a great explosion occurred and a cloud of smoke, steam and dust was vomited out and floated away slowly landwards. In the clear calm air it was a magnificent spectacle and I never tired watching it. Another volcanic peak had recently been absolutely shattered, one whole side as it were blown off it. On arriving at San José, the port of Guatemala city, we had a great reception, my friend being the owner of the railroad--the only railroad in this State. A special train took us up to the capital, splendidly-horsed carriages were put at our disposal, and we were banqueted and entertained at the Opera, my friend insisting that I should share in all this hospitality. The American minister joined our party and made himself agreeable and useful. Guatemala city was once the Paris of America, was rich, gay and prosperous; to-day it is--different, but still very interesting. You are there in a bygone world, an age of the past. Revolutions and inter-State wars have driven capital from the country; progress is at a standstill; confidence in anybody does not exist. As in the Central American States, "Ote toi de la que m'y mette" is on the standard of every ambitious general, colonel or politician. It is the direct cause of all the revolutions. At Corinto a lady, whom we became intimate with, landed for the professed purpose of "revoluting." Yet the country is a naturally rich one, having on the highlands a splendid temperate climate, and everywhere great mineral and agricultural resources. We were fortunate to see a parade of some of the State troops; and such a comical picture of military imbecility and inefficiency could surely not be found elsewhere. The officers swaggered in the gayest of uniforms; the men were shoeless, dirty and slovenly. On approaching the city one passes near by the famous volcanoes Fuego, Aqua and Picaya (14,000 feet), and mysterious Lake Anatitlan. A shooting-trip had been arranged for us: a steam launch on the lake, Indians as carriers, mules, etc. etc., but my friend declined for want of time. Among the fauna of the country are common and black jaguars, tapirs, manatees, peccaries, boas, cougars or pumas, and alligators. Also the quetzal, the imperial bird of the great Indian Quiche race, and the Trogan resplendens. Poinciana regia and P. pulcherrima are common garden shrubs or trees, but the finest Poinciana I ever saw was in Honolulu. Vampire bats are more common in Nicaragua, but also exist in Guatemala. They have very sharp incisors and bite cattle and horses on the back or withers, men on the toes if exposed, and roosters on the comb. They live in caves, and not as the large fruit bats of India, which repose head downwards, hanging from trees in great colonies. Vampires live on blood, having no teeth suitable for mastication. It is a strange fact that Germans, who now have the great bulk of the trade throughout Central America, are very unpopular. Nor are the Americans popular. "Los Americanos son Bestias," "Esos Hombres son Demonios" express the feeling. I was told that in Guatemala there exists a tribe of Indians which does not permit the use of alcoholic drink and actually pays the State compensation instead. Among other places we called at were Esquintla, Acajutla, and La Libertad, from which point we got a magnificent view of the Atatlan volcano in full activity; also at San Juan del Sur. From Leon, in Nicaragua, some fourteen active volcanoes can be seen. In Salvador only two of the eleven great volcanoes of the State are now "_vivo_," viz., San Miguel and Izalco. The latter is called the Lighthouse of Salvador, because it explodes regularly every twenty minutes. The lesser living vents are called infernillos--little hells. Altogether it looks like Central America, as a whole, with its revolutions and its physical and political instability, must be a very big hell. Salvador, though the smallest of the Central American States, is the most prosperous, enterprising and densely-populated. She was the first to become independent and the first to defy the Church of Rome. It had been my intention to sail through Lake Nicaragua and down the river San Juan to San Juan del Norte. But accommodation at that port and steamer communication with Colon was so bad and irregular that the trip was regretfully abandoned, and I went on to Panama with my friend. This gentleman possessed a personal letter from President Roosevelt addressed to the canal officials, ordering (not begging) them to permit a full inspection of the works, and to tell the "truth and the whole truth." Consequently we saw the works under unusual and most favourable conditions. The Americans have made remarkable progress, assisted by their wonderful labour-saving appliances, chief among which are the 100-ton shovels, the Lidgerwood car-unloaders, and the track-shifters. But chiefly, of course, by their sanitary methods, the protection afforded the employees against mosquitoes, and the abolition of mosquito conditions. The natives and negroes are immune to yellow fever, but not to malaria. As most of us know, Major Ross of the I.M.S., in 1896, proved the connection of malaria with the anopheles mosquito; and in 1902 Mr Reed of the U.S. Health Commission tracked the yellow fever to the stegomyia mosquito. Yellow fever requires six days to develop. It should be noted that the stegomyia insect is common in India, but luckily has not yet been infected with the germ of yellow fever. And it may also be here mentioned that the connection between bubonic plague and rats, and the fleas that infest them, was discovered by the Japanese scientist, Kitasato. The history of the canal may be touched on, if only to show the American method of securing a desired object, certainly a quick, effective and, after all, the only practical method. The Panama railway was built by Americans in 1855 to meet the rush to California gold-fields. The De Lesseps Company bought the road for an enormous figure, and started the canal works, to be abandoned later on, but again taken up by a new French Company. In 1901 Uncle Sam got his "fine work" in when he bluffed the new French Panama Company into selling it to him for 40,000,000 dollars, simply by threatening to adopt the Nicaragua route. Yet the Company's property was well worth the 100,000,000 dollars asked for it. To carry out the bluff, the Isthmian Canal Commission (U.S.) actually reported to Congress that the Nicaragua route was the most "practical and feasible" one, when it was well known to the Commission that the route was so impracticable as not to be worthy of consideration. At least common report had it so. In 1903 Colombia refused the United States offer to purchase the enlarged canal zone. At once Panama province seceded from the State, and sold the desired zone to the United States for 10,000,000 dollars, conditionally on the United States recognizing and guaranteeing the young Republic. The deal was cleverly arranged, and was again perhaps the only effective method to obtain possession. The tide at Panama measures 20 feet, at Colon only 2 feet. In 1905 the International Board of Consulting Engineers, summoned by President Roosevelt, recommended, by eight to five, a sea-level canal (two locks). But Congress adopted the minority's 85-feet-level plan (6 locks), with an immense dam at Gatun, which dam will not be founded on rock, but have a central puddled core extending 40 feet below the bottom of the lake, and sheet piling some 40 feet still deeper. At least that is as I then understood it. De Lesseps was not an engineer and knew little of science. His Company's failure was directly due to his ignorance and disregard of the advice of competent men. Manual labour on the canal has been done mostly by Jamaica negroes. As said before, they are immune to yellow fever; and, speaking of the negro, it may be said here that his susceptibility to pain, compared to that of the white man, is as one to three, but the effect of a fair education is to increase it by one-third. What then is that of the monkey, the bird, the reptile or the fish? May I dare the statement, though most of us perhaps know it, that the sensitiveness of woman to that of man is as fifty-three to sixty-four. Even the woman's sense of touch, as in the finger-tips, being twice as obtuse as man's. The Bouquet D'Afrique, of course, is perceptible to us and offensive, but it is said that to the Indians of South America both black and white men are in this respect offensive. The "Foetor Judaiicus" must be noticeable also to have deserved the term. But this is sad wandering from the subject in hand and not exactly "reminiscences." I only hope that this and other departures, necessary for stuffing purposes, may be excused, especially as they are probably the most entertaining part of the book. To return to the town of Panama. In the bay and amongst the islands were quite a number of whales and flocks of pelicans. More curious to observe was an enormous number of small reddish-brown-coloured snakes, swimming freely on the surface of the sea, yet not seemingly heading in any particular direction. I could get no information regarding them. The famous Pearl Islands lie forty miles off Panama. The pearls are large and lustrous. On reaching harbour the health officials came on board, and to my surprise selected me alone among the passengers for quarantine. The explanation was that I had gone ashore at Corinto. So I was ordered to take up my abode during the period of incubation in the detention house, a building in an isolated position; there I was instructed, much to my relief, that I might go to town or anywhere else during daylight, but must, under severe penalty, be back and inside the protecting screens before the mosquitoes got to work. The object was that no mosquito after biting me should be able to bite anyone else. We had been some two and a half days out of Corinto, so my period of detention was not of long duration. I also got infinitely better messing than any hotel in Panama afforded. The seas on either side of Darien Isthmus were at one time the scene of the many brave but often cruel deeds of the great adventurers and explorers like Drake, buccaneers like Morgan, pirates like Kidd and Wallace. Morgan, a Welshman, sacked and destroyed old Panama, a rich and palatial city, in 1670. He also captured the strong fortress town, Porto Bello. Drake captured the rich and important Cartagena. Captain Kidd, native of Greenock, was commissioned by George III. to stamp out piracy, but turned pirate himself and became the greatest of them all. It had been my intention to sail from Panama to Guayaquil, cross the Andes, and take canoe and steamer down the Amazon to Para. But the reports of yellow fever at Guayaquil, the unfinished state of the Quito railroad, and the disturbed state of the Trans-Andean Indians, through whose country there would be a week's mule ride, decided me to alter my plans once more. So, bidding good-bye to my very kind New York friend, who went home direct, I myself took steamer for a Colombian port and thence trained to Baranquillo, a considerable town on the Magdalena River. It was a novel experience to there find oneself a real live millionaire! The Colombian paper dollar (no coin used) was worth just the hundredth part of a gold dollar; so that a penny street car ride cost the alarming sum of five dollars, and dinner a perfectly fabulous amount. By Royal Mail steamer the next move was to La Guayra, the seaport of Caracas, a most romantic-looking place, where the mountains, some 9000 feet high, descend almost precipitously to the sea. There we saw the castle where Kingsley's Rose of Devon was imprisoned. At that time President Castro was so defying France that war and a French fleet were expected every day. Consequently his orders were that no one whomsoever should be allowed to enter the country. All the passengers of course, and for that very reason perhaps, were hoping to be allowed to land, if only to make the short run up to the capital and back. At Colon, assisted by my American friend and the United States consul, we "worked" the Venezuela Consul into giving me a passport (how it was done does not matter), which at La Guayra I, of course, produced. Of no avail! No one must land. But just when the steamer was about to sail a boat full of officials appeared at the steamer's side, called out my name, and lo! to the wonder of the other passengers, I was allowed to go ashore. This was satisfactory, and I at once took train to the capital, climbing or soaring as in a flying-machine the steep graded but excellent road (most picturesque) to Caracas. There I found that the Mardi Gras Carnival was just beginning. In my hotel was the war correspondent of the _New York Herald_, just convalescing from an attack of yellow fever and still incapable of active work. He was good enough to ask me to fill his place should hostilities ensue. No other correspondent was in the country and he himself had to put up a 10,000 dollar bond. I willingly agreed, and so stayed nearly two weeks in Caracas awaiting eventualities. During this time, owing to the Carnival, the town was "wide open"; every night some twenty thousand people danced in the Plaza Bolivar, a huge square beautifully paved with tiling. The dancers were so crowded together that waltzing simply meant revolving top-wise. A really splendid band provided the music. What a gay, merry people they are! And how beautiful these Venezuela women, and how handsome the men! In the streets presents of great value were tossed from the carriages to the signoras on the balconies. At a ball the men, the fashionables, wore blue velvet coats, not because of the season, but because it is the customary male festive attire. Caracas was delightful and extraordinarily interesting. What splendid saddle mules one here sees! Castro every day appeared with his staff all mounted on mules. All the traffic of the country is done with them, there being no feasible wagon roads. Castro had a most evil reputation. The people hated but feared him. His whole army consisted of Andean Indians, and he himself had Indian blood in his veins. The climate at Caracas is delightful. After two weeks and nothing developing, and not feeling quite well, I returned to La Guayra and took steamer back to Colon. Feeling worse on the steamer I called in the doctor, and was greatly alarmed when he pronounced yellow fever. On arriving at Colon, of course, I was not permitted to land so had to continue on the ship to Jamaica. The attack must have been a very mild one, as when we reached Jamaica I was nearly all right again. Jamaica is a beautiful island with a delightful winter climate. Also very good roads. Among other places visited was Constant Spring Hotel, once the plantation residence and property of one of my uncles. At Port Antonio, on the north side of the island, is a very fine up-to-date American hotel, which of course was greatly appreciated after the vile caravanserais of Central America. Thence on to Cuba, the steamer passing through the famous narrows leading to Santiago. A pleasant daylight railroad run through the whole island brought me to the great city of Havana, not, as it appeared to me, a handsome or attractive city, but possessing a good climate and a polite and agreeable population. The principal shopping street in Havana is so narrow that awnings can be, and are, stretched completely across it. In the centre of the harbour was visible the wreck of the United States battleship _Maine_. Here in Havana, on calling at the Consulate for letters, or rather for cablegrams, as I had instructed my Amarillo agent not to write but to cable, and only in the case of urgent consequence, I found a message awaiting me. No need to open it therefore to know the contents! Yes, my building had been burnt to the ground two months ago. A cable to Caracas had not been delivered to me. So, back to Amarillo to view the ruins. In the United States of America one cannot insure for the full value of a building; or at least only three-quarters can be recovered. So my loss amounted to 8000 or 10,000 dollars. But no need of repining, and time is money, especially in such a case. So a new building was at once started, rushed and completed, in almost record time. CHAPTER XI SECOND TOUR ABROAD Bermudas--Switzerland--Italy--Monte Carlo--Algiers--Morocco--Spain--Biarritz and Pau. In November 1907 I again left Amarillo bound for Panama and the Andes. But the only steamer offering from New Orleans was so small, and the messing arrangements so primitive, that I abandoned the idea, railed to New York, saw a steamer starting for the Bermudas and joined her. For honeymoon and other trips the Bermudas are a favourite resort of New Yorkers. Fourteen honeymoon couples were reckoned to be on board. The climate of these islands is very delightful. The hotels are quite good; English society pretty much confined to the Army and Navy; two golf-courses; the best of bathing, boating and sea-fishing. The Marine Aquarium is most interesting. The roads are good and not a motor-car in the land! The islands are composed solely of coralline limestone. It can be quarried almost anywhere. Blasting is not necessary, the stone being so soft that it can be sawn out in blocks of any size to meet the architect's needs. It is beautifully white and hardens after exposure. After staying two weeks I returned to New York and took passage to Cherbourg, crossed France to Lausanne, saw some friends and then went on to St Moritz, which we all know is so famous for its wonderful winter climate, intensely cold but clear skies and bright sunshine. Curling, hockey, skiing, tobogganing and bobbing were in full swing; the splendid hotels crowded; dinners and dances every day. A very jolly place indeed. After ten days' stay a sledge took me over the mountains to Chiavenna, thence steamer over the lake to Como, and train to Milan. It was very cold and foggy there, but the city is a handsome one; I saw the Cathedral, the arcade, etc., and visited the famous Scala Opera House and its wonderful ballet. Thence to Genoa--very cold--and on to Monte Carlo, at once entering a balmy, delicious climate. The season was just beginning, but the play-rooms were pretty full. With its splendid shops, fine hotels, gardens, Casino, pigeon-shooting, etc. etc., Monte Carlo is unrivalled. It is distinctly a place to wear "clothes," and the women's costumes in the play-rooms and Casino are enough to make the marrying man think twice. After visiting Monaco, Nice and Cannes, at Marseilles I took steamer to Algiers. Barring its agreeable winter climate there is not much attraction there. Here I was told that the marriageable Jewess is kept in a dark room, fed on rich foods and allowed no exercise; treated, in fact, as a goose for a fat liver. So I went on to Blida, where is a French Army Remount Depot. A large number of beautiful Arab horses were being inspected and shown by their picturesque owners. They were not the type for cow-ponies and seemed a bit light for cavalry purposes. From Blida I went by train to Oran, a considerable port in Algiers. There was nothing particular to see or do except visit a certain Morocco chief who had started the late troubles at Fez and was here in durance vile (chains). Among the few tourists I met a Hungarian and his English wife and we became fairly intimate. His wife told me he was the dread of her life, being scorching mad on motor-cars. It happened there was one and only one car in the town for hire, and the Baron must needs hire it and invite me, with his wife, to a trip up a certain hill or mountain overlooking the city. A holy man, or marabout, denned on the top and we must pay our respects. The road proved to be exceedingly steep, and zigzagged in a remarkable way, with very sharp, angular turns. No car had ever been up it, and few carriages. We reached the top in due time, saluted the old man and started back. My friend was at the wheel and did a few turns all right, till we came to a straight shoot, very narrow, a ditch on one side, trees on the other, and just here the brake refused to work. Reaching over I touched his shoulder and suggested that he should go slower. No reply; he was speechless, and we knew at once that he had lost control, and realized our horrible position. On we rushed, he guiding it straight all right, till we approached the bend, the worst on the road, and quite impossible to manipulate at great speed. Right in front was an unguarded cliff, with a drop of 500 feet over practically a precipice. But--well, there was no "terrible accident" to be reported. Most fortunately a pile of rocks had been accumulated for the purpose of building a parapet wall, and on to the top of this pile the car jumped and lodged, without even turning over. The jar and shock were bad enough, but no one was much hurt. It reminded me of another occasion when I got a jar of a different kind. Once, after playing golf with a man in America, he offered to drive me to town in his motor-car. Knowing him to be a scorcher I excused myself by saying that I was not ready to go. He started; very soon afterwards word came back that he had run into a telegraph post and killed himself and his driver. Such things tend to cool one's motor ambition. At Oran I boarded a small French steamer for Mellilla, in Spanish Morocco, a Spanish convict station and a considerable military post. This was just before Spain's recent Riff Campaign. The table fare on the steamer was not British! Cuttle-fish soup or stew was prominent on the bill; a huge dish of snails was always much in demand, and the other delicacies were not tempting, to me at least. Eggs, always eggs! How often in one's travels does one have to resort to them. In Mellilla itself there was no hotel. We messed at the strangest restaurant it was ever my ill-luck to enter. The troops reminded me somewhat of those of Guatemala, slovenly, slouching, and poorly dressed. Their officers were splendid in gold braid, feathers and gaudy uniforms. Around the town were circular block-houses, beyond which even then no one was allowed to go. Indeed, mounted tribesmen could be seen sometimes riding up to the line and flourishing their guns in apparent defiance. Curiosity made me venture forward till warned back by the guard. These Riffians were certainly picturesque-looking rascals. Mellilla was then not on the tourist's track, so was all the more interesting and novel. From there by steamer to Gibraltar, stopping at Ceuta on the way. At Gibraltar a friend, Capt. B----, took me all over the rock, the galleries, and certain fortifications. A meeting of hounds near Algeciras was attended. Thence by train to Granada to visit the marvellously lovely Alhambra, and of course to meet the King of the Gipsies; Ronda, romantic and picturesque; Cordova and its immense mosque and old Roman bridge; and so on to Madrid by a most comfortable and fast train; but the temperature all through Central Spain is extremely cold in winter. The country is inhospitable-looking, and the natives seem to have abandoned their picturesque national dress. One must now go to Mexico to see the cavalier in his gay and handsome costume. In Madrid I of course visited the splendid Armoury; also the National Art Gallery with its Velasquezs and Murillos. From Madrid to San Sebastian, the season not yet begun, and Biarritz. Here I spent a most enjoyable month: dry, bracing climate, good golf-course, good hotels, etc. It was the English season; the Spanish season being in summer. On King Edward's arrival with his entourage and fashionable followers golf became impossible, so I went on to Pau and played there. From Pau a short run took me to Lourdes, with its grotto, chapel, etc. From Pau to Bordeaux, a handsome, busy town. Then Paris and home. CHAPTER XII THIRD TOUR ABROAD Salt Lake City--Canada--Vancouver--Hawaii--Fiji--Australia--New Zealand--Tasmania--Summer at Home. The fall of 1908 saw me off on a tour which finally took me round the world. Space will only permit of its itinerary and a few of my impressions and experiences. From Amarillo I trained north to Salt Lake City, passing through the wonderful gorge of the Arkansas River and the cañon of the Grand; scenery extremely wild and impressive. At Salt Lake found a large, busy, up-to-date city. Visited the tabernacle, and heard the great organ, the largest in the world; and a very fine choir. The acoustics of this immense and peculiarly-shaped building are most perfect. The Temple Gentiles are not allowed to enter. Outside the irrigation limits the country has a most desolate, desert, hopeless aspect. What nerve the Mormons had to penetrate to such a spot.[3] [Footnote 3: _See_ Appendix.] It may be noted here that one Sidney Rigdon was the compiling genius of Mormonism; and it was he who concocted the Mormon Bible, not Joe Smith. And what a concoction! No greater fraud was ever perpetrated. Hence by Butte, Montana, the great copper-mining city, to Great Falls, where we crossed the Missouri River, there 4000 miles from the sea, yet twice as large as the Thames at Windsor. On entering Canadian territory a remarkable change in the character of the people, the towns and the Press was at once noticeable. From Calgary by the C.P.R. the trip through the Selkirk range to Vancouver was one of continuous wonder and delight--noble peaks, dense pine forests, rushing rivers and peaceful lakes. Arrived at Vancouver city, a city of illimitable ambition and bright prospects. I there met in the lobby of the hotel two very old friends whom I had not seen for many years. They dined with me, or rather wined and dined, and we afterwards spent a probably uproarious evening. I say probably, because the end was never evident to me till I woke up in my bed, whither someone had carried me, with my stockinged foot burning in a candle; another such illuminant had been lighted and placed at my head. My waking (and I was "waked" in two senses) endangered, and at the same time prevented, the probable burning down of the building. Next morning I was taken suddenly ill, but not due to the evening's carousal, so went across the bay to Victoria and hunted up a doctor, who immediately ordered me into hospital (the Victoria Jubilee) and operated on me the very same day. The operation was the most painful that I have ever undergone but was entirely successful, though it detained me in the hospital for over a month. From Victoria I trained to San Francisco, passing through lovely Washington and Oregon States, and Northern California; and from San Francisco took steamer to Honolulu. San Francisco was rising from its ashes, but still presented a terrible aspect, and gave a good idea of how appalling the catastrophe must have been. At Honolulu I spent a most enjoyable two weeks, golfing a little, surf riding, etc. The climate is ideal, hotels are good, parts of the islands lovely. They are all volcanic, and indeed some are nothing but an agglomeration of defunct craters. On one of the islands, Maui, is the largest crater on earth (unless perhaps a certain one in Japan), its dimensions being 2000 feet in depth, eight miles wide, and situated on the top of a mountain, Haleakala, 10,000 feet high. Its surface, seen from the rock-rim, exactly resembles that of the moon. I of course also visited the largest island of the group--Hawaii--passing _en route_ Molokai, the leper settlement. Hawaii has two very high volcanic mountains, Mauna Kea and Mauna Loa, some 13,000 feet. The land is very prolific, the soil consisting of pulverized lava and volcanic dust, whose extreme fertility is due to a triple proportion of phosphates and nitrogen. On the slope of Mauna Loa is the crater of Kilauea, and in its centre the "pit," called Haleamaumau, the most awe-inspiring and in other ways the most remarkable volcano in the world. Landing at Hilo, by train and stage we went to see it. My visit was made at night when the illumination is greatest. Traversing the huge crater, four miles in diameter, the surface devoid of all vegetation, seamed and cracked, and in places steam issuing from great fissures, we suddenly arrived at the brink of the famous pit, and what an astonishing sight met our gaze! The sheer walls of the circular pit were some 200 feet deep: the diameter of the pit one quarter of a mile: the contents a mass of (not boiling, for what could the temperature be!) restless, seething, molten, red-hot lava, rising from the centre and spreading to the sides, where its waves broke against the walls like ocean billows, being a most brilliant red in colour! Flames and yet not flames. Now and then geysers of fire would burst through the surface, shoot into the air and fall back again. The sight was to some people too awful for prolonged contemplation, myself feeling relieved as from a threat when returning to the hotel, but still with a desire to go back and again gaze into that awful maelstrom. The surface of the pit is not stationary, at one time being, as then, sunk 200 feet; another time flush with the brim and threatening destruction; and again almost disappearing out of sight. At any time and in whatever condition it is an appalling spectacle and one never to be forgotten. Sugar and pineapples are the main products of the islands; but one should not miss visiting the aquarium at Honolulu to see the collection of beautiful and even comical-looking native fishes; some of extravagant colouring, brilliant as humming-birds, gay as butterflies; of shapes unsuspected, and in some cases indescribable, having neither length nor breadth, depth nor thickness; hard to distinguish head from tail, upside from underside; speed being apparently the least desirable of characteristics. Do they depend for protection and safety on their grotesque appearance? or do their gaudy robes disarm and enchant their ferocious and cannibalistic brethren? One of the funniest sights I ever saw was a base-ball game played here between Chinese and Japanese youngsters. What a commanding position these islands occupy in ocean navigation, as a coaling or naval station, or as a distributing point. America was quick to realize this; and now splendid harbours and docks are being constructed, and the place strongly fortified so as to rival Gibraltar. In January 1909 I joined the new and delightful New Zealand Steamship Company's steamer _Makura_ bound for Sydney. On board was, amongst a very agreeable company, a gentleman bound for New Zealand on a fishing-trip, who told me such marvellous tales of his fishing prowess in Scotland that I put him down for one of the biggest liars on earth. More of him afterwards. Also on board was a young English peer, Earl S----, a very agreeable man, whose company I continued to enjoy for the greater part of this tour. We had a delightful passage, marred for me, however, by a severe attack of neuritis, which continued for three solid months, the best doctors in Sydney and Melbourne failing to give relief. Our ship first called at Fanning Island, a cable station (delivering four months' mail), a mere coral atoll with its central lagoon, fringe of cocoanut trees and reef. The heavy swell breaking on the reef, and the wonderful blue of the water, the peaceful lagoon, the bright, clear sky, and the cocoanut trees, formed a picture never to be forgotten. A picture typical of all the many thousands of such Pacific islets. After passing the Union and Wallace groups we crossed the 180° meridian, and so lost a day, Sunday being no Sunday but Monday. Then arrived at Suva, Fiji Islands. The rainy season having just begun it was very hot and disagreeable. The Fijians are Papuans, but tall and not bad-looking. Maoris, Hawaiians and Samoans are Polynesians, a much handsomer race. The Fijians were remarkable for their quick conversion to devout Christianity. So late as 1870 cannibalism was general. Prisoners were deliberately fattened to kill. The dead were even dug up when in such a condition that only puddings could be made of them. Limbs were cut off living victims and cooked in their presence; and even more horrible acts were committed. The islands are volcanic, mountainous, and covered by forests. Our visit was about the time of the Balolo worm season. The Balolo worm appears on the coast punctually twice a year, once in October (the Little Balolo) and once about the 20th November (the Great Balolo). They rise to the sea surface in writhing masses, only stay twelve hours and are gone. The natives make a great feast of them. The worm measures 2 ins. to 2 ft. long, is thin as vermicelli and has many legs. Never is a single worm seen at any other time. Leaving Fiji, we passed the Isle of Pines, called at Brisbane, and arrived at Sydney on the 25th November. Of the beauties and advantages of Sydney Harbour we have all heard, and I can only endorse the glowing descriptions of other writers. Hotels in Australia and New Zealand are very poor, barring perhaps one in Sydney and a small one in Melbourne. A great cricket match was "on"--Victoria versus New South Wales--so I must needs go to see, not so much the game itself as the very famous club ground, said to be the finest in the world. In the Botanical Gardens, near a certain tree, the familiar, and I thought the unmistakable, odour of a skunk was most perceptible. Hailing a gardener and drawing his attention to it, he replied that the smell came from the tree ("malotus" he called it), but the crushed leaves, the bark and the blossom certainly gave no sign of it and I remained mystified. Fruit of many kinds is cheap, abundant and good. Sydney is not a prohibition town! Far from it. Drink conditions are as bad as in Scotland. Many of the people, especially from the country, have a pure Cockney accent and drop their h's freely; indeed I met boys and girls born in the colony, and never out of it, whose Cockney pronunciation was quite comical. It struck me that Australians and New Zealanders are certainly not noted for strenuousness. Of course the tourist must see the Blue Mountains, and my trip there was enjoyable enough, I being greatly impressed with the Leura and other waterfalls (not as falls) and the wonderful and beautiful caves of Janolan. Wild wallabies were plentiful round about, and the "laughing jackass" first made himself known to me. February 2nd.--S---- and myself took passage to New Zealand, the fish-story man being again a fellow-traveller. During the crossing numerous albatrosses were seen. In New Zealand we visited all the great towns, Wellington, Auckland, Christchurch, Dunedin and others, all of them pleasant, agreeable places, Christchurch being especially attractive. What a grand, healthy, well-fed and physically fit-looking people the New Zealanders are. Scotch blood predominates, and really there is a great similarity between the two peoples. At Rotorua we met the Premier and other celebrities, S---- being very interested in Colonial politics. Rotorua is a very charming place; I did some fishing in the lake, where trout were so numerous that it was not much sport catching them. Illness unfortunately prevented my going further afield and fishing for larger trout in the rivers. A Colonel M---- and sister who were in New Zealand at that time claimed to have beaten the record, their catch averaging over 20 lbs. per fish (rainbows), as they told me on again meeting them in the Hebrides. We did the Wanganui River of course; and the geysers at Whakarewarewa, under the charge of Maggie, the Maori guide. As you no doubt are aware, the Maori fashion of salutation is to rub noses together. As long as they are pretty noses there cannot be much objection; but some of the Maori girls are themselves so pretty that mere rubbing is apt to degenerate and one's nose is liable to slip out of place. Maggie, the Maori guide, a very pretty woman and now at Shepherd's Bush, can tell all about it and even give a demonstration. Here in Whakarewarewa one is impressed with the fact that this little settlement is built on what is a mere shallow crust, under which, at the depth of only a few feet, is a vast region of boiling mud and water. Everywhere around are bubbling and spluttering mud-wells, some in the form of miniature geysers; steam is issuing everywhere from clefts and crannies in the ground; and one almost expects a general upheaval or sinking of the whole surface. The principal geyser was not and had not been for some weeks in action. It can be forced into action, however, by the singular method of dropping a bar of soap down the orifice, when a tremendous rush of steam and water is vomited out with terrific force. Sir Joseph Ward, the Premier, is the only person authorized to permit this operation: but though he was at our hotel, and we were personally intimate with him, he declined to favour us with the permission, it being explained that the too-frequent dosing of the geyser had seemed to have a relaxing effect on the activity. At Dunedin S---- left me to visit Milford Sound. Too unwell to accompany him, I continued on to the Bluff and then took steamer to Hobart, Tasmania. New Zealand has a great whale-fishery and it was my hope to see something of it by a short trip on one of the ships employed; but the opportunity did not present itself. May I here offer a few notes picked up on the subject of whales, etc. The sperm or cachalot whale is a dangerous and bold fighter and is perhaps the most interesting of all cetaceans. His skin, like that of the porpoise, is as thin as gold-beaters' leaf. Underneath it is a coating of fine hair or fur, not attached to the skin, and then the blubber. He has enormous teeth or tushes in the lower jaw, but has no baleen. He devours very large fish, even sharks, but his principal food seems to be cuttle-fish and squids, some of them of as great bulk as himself. These cuttle-fish's tentacle discs are as big as soup-plates, and surrounded by hooks as large and sharp as tiger claws; while their mouths are armed with a parrot-like beak capable of rending anything held to them by the tentacles. These disc hooks are often found in ambergris, an excretion of the sperm whale. The sperm whale spouts diagonally, other whales upwards. So-called porpoise leather is made of the skin of the white whale. The porpoise is the true dolphin, the sailor's dolphin being a fish with vertical tail, scales and gills. Bonitoes are a species of mackerel, but warm-blooded and having beef-like flesh. Near Hobart I saw the famous fruit and hop lands on the Derwent River. It was midsummer here and extremely hot, hotter than in Melbourne or anywhere else on this trip. From Hobart I railed to Launceston and thence steamer to Melbourne. Melbourne is a very handsome city as we all know. It was my hope to continue on with S---- north by the Barrier Reef, or rather between the reef and the mainland, and so on to China, Japan, Corea, and home by Siberia; but my doctor advised me not to attempt it, so I booked passage for Colombo instead, and S---- and myself necessarily parted. But it was with much regret that I missed this wonderful coasting trip, long looked forward to and now probably never to be accomplished. On my way home I visited beautiful Adelaide, and the younger city, Perth, which reminded me much of the West American mining towns. Colombo needs no call for notice. At Messina we saw the ruined city, the devastation seeming to have been very terrible; but it presented no such awful spectacle of absolutely overwhelming destruction as did San Francisco. Etna was smoking; Stromboli also. Then Marseilles, Paris, and home. During that summer at home I was fortunate enough to see the polo test matches between Hurlingham and Meadowbrook teams, otherwise England versus America. It was a disheartening spectacle. The English could neither drive a ball with accuracy nor distance; they "dwelt" at the most critical time, were slow in getting off, overran the ball, and in fact were beaten with ease, as they deserved to be. An even more interesting experience was a visit to the aviation meeting at Rheims, the first ever held in the world, and a most successful one. Yet the British Empire was hardly represented even by visitors. Such great filers as Curtis, Lefevre, Latham, Paulhan, Bleriot and Farman were all present. In the autumn I had a week's salmon-fishing at Garynahine in the Lews. The weather was not favourable and the sport poor considering the place. Close by is the Grimersta river and lodge, perhaps the finest rod salmon fishery in Scotland. A young East Indian whom I happened to know had a rod there, and was then at the lodge. On asking him about fishing, etc., he told me, and showed me by the lodge books, that the record for this river was fifty-four salmon in one day to one rod, all caught by the fly! The fortunate fisherman's name? Mr Naylor! the very man I had travelled with to New Zealand! I have vainly tried for three seasons now to get a rod on this river, if only for a week, and at £30 a week that would be long enough for me. I also this autumn had a rod on the Dee, but only fished twice; no fish and no water. During this summer I golfed very determinedly, buoyed up by the vain hope of becoming a first-class player--a "scratch" man. Alas! alas! but it is all vanity anyway! What does the angler care for catching a large basket of trout if there be no one by to show them to? And what does the golfer care about his game if he have not an opponent or a crowd to witness his prowess? At Muirfield I enjoyed the amateur championship--R. Maxwell's year. CHAPTER XIII FOURTH TOUR ABROAD Yucatan--Honduras--Costa Rica--Panama--Equador--Peru--Chile--Argentina--Brazil--Teneriffe. October 1909 saw me on board the steamer _Lusitania_, bound for New York and another long trip somewhere. What a leviathan! What luxury! Think of the Spanish dons who crossed the same ocean in mere cobble boats of fifty tons, and our equally intrepid discoverers and explorers. What methods did they adopt to counteract the discomfort of _mal de mer_? Which reminds me that on this same _Lusitania_ was the Viscomte D----, Portuguese Ambassador or Minister to the United States of America, who confidentially told me that he at one time was the worst of sailors, but since adopting a certain belt which supports the diaphragm the idea of sea-sickness never even suggests itself to him. For the public benefit it may be said that this belt is manufactured by the Anti Mal de Mer Belt Co., National Drug and Chemical Co., St Gabriel Street, Montreal, Canada. Bad sailors take note! On this steamer were also, as honoured guests, Jim Jeffries, the redoubtable, going to his doom; "Tay Pay" O'Connor; and Kessler, the "freak" Savoy Hotel dinner-giver; also, by the way, a certain London Jew financier, who gave me a commission to go to and report on the Quito railroad. When travelling west from New York in the fall one is filled with admiration for the wonderful colour of the maple and other trees. Europe has nothing at all comparable. This wonderful display is alone worth crossing the Atlantic to see. I found that the past summer had been a record hot one for Texas. The thermometer went to 115° in the shade. Eggs were cooked (fried, it is to be supposed) on the side-walk, and popcorn popped in the stalks. In November I sailed from New Orleans for Yucatan to visit at Merida a Mexican friend, who turned out to be the King of Yucatan, as he was popularly called, he being an immense landed proprietor and practically monopolist of the henequin industry. Henequin, or Sisal hemp, is the fibre of _Agave Sisalensis_, a plant very like the _Agave Americana_, from which pulque is extracted. Thence round the corner, so to speak, to British Honduras, where we called in at Belize, whose trade is in mahogany and chicklee gum, combined with a deal of quiet smuggling done with the Central American States. Quite near Belize, among the innumerable islands and reefs, was the stronghold of the celebrated pirate Wallace (Scotchman). Many man-o'-war birds and pelicans were in the harbour. From Belize to Porto Barrios, the eastern terminus of the Guatemala railway. Here we are close to the scene of that wonderful and mysterious Central American prehistoric civilization, which has left for our antiquarians and learned men a life-work to decipher the still dumb symbols carved on its stupendous ruins. In Guatemala, and near this railway, are Copan and Quiriguá, and probably other still undiscovered dead cities. Some of these Guatemala structures show a quite extraordinary resemblance to those at Angkor in Cambodia. Mitla and Palenque are in Mexico and are equally remarkable. The latter is still difficult to get to. Here again (Palenque) the temple shows a strange similarity to that at Boro Budoer in Java. Was it Stamford Raffles who said that, as far as the expenditure of human labour and skill goes, the pyramids of Egypt sink into insignificance when compared with this sculptured temple of Boro Budoer. Chichen-Itza, Labna, Sayil and Uxmal are all in Yucatan and approached from Merida. How many more of such very wonderful ruins are still hidden in the dense jungle of these countries it will be many years yet before we may know. Some I have seen myself, and it is still my hope very soon to visit others. Among the wild animals of Yucatan and Honduras are the jaguar (_Felis onça_) with spots, ocellated or eyed; and the panther (_Felis concolor_) called puma in Arizona; the vaca de aqua or manatee, shaped like a small whale but with two paddles; the howling monkey, largest in America, and the spider monkey; the iguana, largest land lizard known to history, and alligators. Alligators are confined to the Western Hemisphere; crocodiles were supposed to be peculiar to the East, but lately a true crocodile (_Crocodilus Americanus_) has been identified in Florida. The alligator covers its eggs with a heap of rubbish for warmth and so leaves them; the African crocodile, on the contrary, buries them in the sand and then sits over them. The cardinal bird and the ocellated turkey must not be forgotten. Here may be found the leaf-cutting ants, which store the leaf particles in order to grow a fungus on, and which they are very particular shall be neither too damp nor too dry. Also another ant, the _Polyergus Rufescens_, a pure slave-hunter, absolutely dependent on its slaves for all the comforts of life and being even fed by them. In Honduras there are many Caribs, still a strong race of Indians, having a strict and severe criminal law of their own. They are employed mostly as mahogany cutters, and are energetic, intelligent and thoroughly reliable workmen. Puerto Cortez in Honduras has the finest harbour on the whole Atlantic coast of Central America. Note.--St Thomas is supposed to have visited and civilized the Central American Indians, as Quetzalcohuatl did in Mexico. On leaving New Orleans it had been my intention to enter Nicaragua and report to a certain New Orleans newspaper on the conditions in that most distressful country; said paper having commissioned me to do so. Entrance to the State could only be made from Guatemala, but that country's consul in New Orleans refused to issue the necessary passport. Had I gone as an Englishman, and not as an American, there might have been no difficulty. As said before, Central American States have a dread and suspicion of Yankees. This was at the time that two Yankee revolutionists had been shot by the President of Nicaragua. The next place of call was Limon, the port of Costa Rica. Every foot of land on these coasts, suitable for the growth of bananas, has been bought up by the great American Fruit Co., a company of enormous resources and great enterprise. Limon is a delightful little town from whence the railway runs to San José, the capital, which stands some 4000 feet above sea-level. Costa Rica is a peace-loving little state, prosperous, and enjoying a delightful climate. Much coffee and cocoa is grown, shaded by the Bois immortel or madre de Cacao. The live-stock industry is also a large one, and the animals seen on the high grassy plains are well grown and apparently well bred enough. I visited Cartago, a city which soon afterwards was destroyed by an earthquake. On the railroad trip up to and back from the capital we passed through lovely and romantic scenery, high hills, deep ravines and virgin tropical forest. The rainy season was at its height, and how it rained! The river was a raging torrent, and from the railway "cut" alongside continuous land-slides of loose gravelly soil were threatening the track with demolition. Indeed, at some points this had actually occurred, and the train several times had to be stopped to allow the gangs of workmen to clear the way. A bad slide, had it hit the train, would have pushed the whole thing into the deep and turbulent river. All the passengers were much alarmed, and I stood on the car platform ready to jump, though the jump would necessarily have been into the seething water. November 27th.--Colon once more! Went on to Panama. The Chagres River was in the highest state of flood known in twenty years. November 30th.--Sailed on steamship _Chile_ with about thirty passengers, all Spanish Americans, bound for Equador, Peru or Chile. December 3rd.--Reached the Equator, and I donned warmer clothes. We saw whales, sharks, porpoises, rays and thrashers. Entered the Guayaquil River. Here was where Pizarro first landed and obtained a footing. The steamer anchored in quarantine a mile below the city. Yellow fever was raging as usual, and the Quito railroad was blocked by the revolutionists, so my projected visit again for the second time fell through. Guayaquil has the highest permanent death-rate of all cities. The state produces much cocoa and mangrove wood. The town is the centre of the Panama hat trade, which hats are made of the sheaths of the unexpanded leaves of the jaraca palm, or of the long sheaths protecting the flower-cone of the hat palm (_taquilla_); and they can only be made in a favourable damp atmosphere. Here on the mangrove roots and submerged branches enormous quantities of oysters may be found. Oysters on trees at last! Belonging to Equador State are the Galapagos Islands, 500 miles westward. Of course we did not visit them, but they are remarkable for their giant tortoises and their wild cattle, donkeys and dogs. It is said that these dogs do not bark, having forgotten how to; but they develop the power after contact with domestic ones. The Guayaquil River swarms with alligators, but luckily the alligator never attacks man. We sailed south down the coast, calling at many ports. From Guayaquil south to Valparaiso, a distance of 2000 miles, we enjoyed bright, clear weather, a pleasant, sometimes an even too low temperature, and peaceful seas, a condition which the captain assured me was constant, the low temperature being due to the South Polar or Humboldt current. The absolute barren condition of this whole coast is also indirectly due to this current, the temperature of the sea being so much below that of the land that evaporation and condensation do not take place. After passing some guano islands on December 9th we landed at Callao, the port of Lima. Went on to Lima, a city founded by Pizarro, and once a very gay, luxurious and licentious capital. It is celebrated for its handsome churches. Its streets are narrow and the whole population seemingly devoted to peddling lottery tickets. There are many Chinamen amongst its 150,000 inhabitants. The Roman Catholics control the country, which is absolutely priest-ridden, Reformed or other churches not being permitted in Peru. A revolution was attempted only a few days ago, the President having been seized and dragged out of his office to be shot. The military, however, rescued him and the revolution was over in twenty-four hours. Peru's resources, outside of the very rich mining districts, will eventually be found in the Montaña country, on the lower eastern slopes of the Andes. Her people are backward, and, at least in Cuzco and Arequipa, I should say the dirtiest in the world. There is as yet little or no tourist traffic on this coast; and there will not be much till better steamers are put on and hotels improved. In Lima, however, the Hotel Maury is quite good, though purely Spanish. It never rains on this coast, yet Lima is foggy and cold. I took a trip up to Oroya over the wonderful Meiggs railway. M. Meiggs was an American, who had to leave his country on account of certain irregularities. We reached a height of 16,000 feet, the country being absolutely barren and devoid of vegetation, but very grand and imposing. December 16th.--Sailed from Callao for Mollendo, calling at Pisco. Here, close to the harbour, are wonderful guano islands, on two of which were dense solid masses of birds covering what seemed to be hundreds of acres of ground. How many millions or billions must there have been! And yet, it being the evening, millions more were flighting home to the islands. With glasses they could be seen in continuous files coming from all directions. These birds are principally cormorants and pelicans. There are also very many seals, and we saw some whales. These islands presented one of the most marvellous sights I ever saw. And what enormous, still undeveloped, fisheries there must be here to support this bird-life. To-day we also passed a field of "Red Sea," confervæ or infusoria. We were favoured for once with a grand view of the Andean peaks, which are seldom well seen from the coast, being wrapped in haze and clouds. [Illustration: LLAMAS AS PACK ANIMALS.] [Illustration: DRIFTING SAND DUNE. (One of thousands.)] Arrived at Mollendo, port of Arequipa and Bolivia, I at once took train and rose rapidly to an elevation of 8000 feet, arriving in the evening at Arequipa. The whole country is desolate in the extreme. On the high plains we passed through an immense field of moving sand-hills, all of crescent shape, the sand being white and of a very fine grain. On approaching Arequipa the sunset effect on the bright and vari-hued rock strata and scoriæ, backed by the grand Volcan Misti, 19,000 feet high, made a marvellously beautiful picture, the most beautiful of its kind ever seen by me, and showing how wonderfully coloured landscapes may be without the presence of vegetation of any kind. Hotels in Arequipa are very primitive, and after a glance at the market and its filthy people you will confine your table fare to eggs and English biscuits as I did. Arequipa has been thrice destroyed by earthquakes and is indeed considered the quakiest spot on earth. Priests, monks, ragged soldiers and churches almost compose the town; yet it has a very beautiful Plaza de Armas, where in the evenings Arequipa fashion promenades to the music of a quite good band. I seemed to be the only tourist here. On the 20th I took train to Juliaca, rising to 15,000 feet; thence two days to Cuzco, the celebrated southern capital of the Incas, whose history I will not here touch on. Not only are there abandoned Inca remains, but also in high Peru and Bolivia remains of structures erected, as it is now supposed, 5000 years ago. The pottery recently found would suggest this, it being as gracefully moulded and decorated as that of Egypt of the same period; authority even declaring it to be undistinguishable from the latter, and they also testify to evidence of an extremely high and cultivated civilization, not barbaric in any sense, in these remote periods. Indeed, the civilization of the country at that far-off time must have been quite as advanced as in the Nile Valley. Cyclopean walls and other remains show a marvellous skill in construction; individual blocks of granite-stone, measuring as much as fifteen to twenty feet in diameter, being placed in these walls with such skill that even to-day a pen-knife blade cannot be inserted between them. No mortar was used, but the blocks are keyed together in a peculiar way. How this stone was so skilfully cut and transported we cannot imagine; even with iron and all our modern appliances it is doubtful if we could produce such exactitude. [Illustration: PERUVIAN RUINS. (Note dimensions of stones and locking system)] At Puna one gets a good view of Lake Titicaca, still a large lake, but once of much greater dimensions. Sailing over and among the high peaks it was here my good fortune to view for the first time that majestic bird, the condor, which, it is declared, has never been seen to flap its wings. Thus in the South Seas I had been privileged to see the albatross, and here the condor. Lucky, indeed, to have viewed these monarchs of the air, free in their proper element, in all their pride, grace and beauty. How often, as a boy, or even as a man, has one anticipated "some day" seeing these noble birds in their native haunts! Also many llamas and alpacas, the former very handsome animals. The vicuñas and guanacos are the wild representatives of this family, and are also very abundant. In Arequipa I suffered somewhat from "nevada," due to electric conditions, and distinct from "saroche." Saroche never affected me. December 27th.--Sailed for Valparaiso, calling at Iquique, Antofagasta and Coquimbo. The coast country is so desolate and arid that at some of these purely nitrate towns school-children's knowledge of trees and other plants is derived solely from painted representations on boardings erected for the purpose. This may seem libellous, but is not so. We arrived at Valparaiso on New Year's Day. The city showed few signs of its late disaster. The harbour is poor, and the place has few attractions. Society was attending a race meeting at Viño del Mar. Went on to Santiago, the capital, 1500 feet elevation, population claimed 300,000; our route lying through rich, well-cultivated valleys. The climate and general appearance of the country are much like those of California, the temperature being quite hot at mid-day but cool always in the shade, the nights being chilly. This was midsummer. Santiago has some handsome buildings and a very attractive Plaza Mayor; the hotels are poor. The Chilians are an active, intelligent, wide-awake people; are great fighters and free from the religious trammels of Peru. From here I took train to Los Andes; then by narrow gauge line, the grade being 7 per cent. on the cog track, through barren rough gorges to the Cumbre, or summit, 13,000 feet high. The most commanding peak that we saw was Aconcagua, over 23,000 feet high, and the highest mountain in the Western Hemisphere. At Lago del Inca, at the entrance to the incompleted tunnel, we left the train and took mules or carts to the summit, where is an immense, surprising and commanding figure of the Christ. On the Argentina side we again took train to Mendoza, an important town and centre of the fruit and wine country. Thence a straight run over the immense level pampas, now pastures grazed by innumerable cattle, sheep and horses, to Buenos Ayres. Many rheas (ostriches) were seen from the train. These birds, the hens, lay in each other's nests, and the male incubates--perhaps to save the time of the hens; which reminds one of the cuckoo, who mates often, and whose stay is so limited that she has no time to incubate. Yet she does not lay in nests, but on the ground, and the eggs are deposited by the male in the nests of birds whose eggs they most resemble, and only one in each. By-the-by, whilst in Santiago a quite severe quake occurred, but there were few casualties, only two people being killed. It was at night, and my bedroom being on the third floor of the only three-storey building in town, I continued to lie in bed, not indeed knowing what to do, and resigning myself to fate. I distinctly do not want to live in quaking countries! The sensation produced on one by an earthquake is peculiar and different from all others. One is not so much alarmed as overawed; one feels so helpless, so insignificant; you know you can do nothing. What may happen next at any moment is beyond your ken; only when you realize that the disturbance has actually shaken these immense mountain masses and these boundless plains do you appreciate the forces that have caused it. The Krakatoa outbreak raised the water in our Thames four inches. A great Peruvian earthquake sent a tidal wave into the Red Sea. Buenos Ayres is a city of some 1,200,000 people, half Italians (the working and go-ahead half) and half Spanish Americans. But there is also a very mixed population. There are many fine buildings and palatial residences, but the business streets are ridiculously narrow, save and except the Avenida de Mayo, which is one of the handsomest streets in the world. The new boulevards, the parks and race-tracks all deserve admiration. The hotels are not quite good enough--not even the palatial "Plaza." Prices, and indeed the cost of living, are quite as great as in New York. It was too hot to remain long, so I crossed to Montevideo, went all over the town; but beyond seeing (not meeting, alas!) one of the most beautiful girls I ever saw in my life, there was not much to interest. So, on the White Star Liner _Athenic_, I hastened to England. It may be remarked here that though Buenos Ayres and Santiago claim, and offer, wonderful displays of horsed carriages in their parks, if one watches them critically he will seldom see a really smart turn-out. The coachman's badly-made boots, or a strap out of place, or a buckle wanting, or blacking needed, all detract from the desirable London standard. January 24th.--We entered beautiful Rio harbour. In the town the temperature was unbearable. The city is in the same transformation condition as Buenos Ayres; the streets are narrow, except the very handsome new Avenida Central. The esplanade on the bay is quite unequalled anywhere else. Surely a great future awaits Rio! A trip up Corcovada, a needle-like peak, some 2000 feet high, overlooking the bay, should not be missed. We sailed again for Teneriffe to coal, which gave us an opportunity to admire the grand peak and get some idea of the nature of the country. Thence home. Perhaps a short note on the great historical personages of Central and South America may be of interest. Among these the greatest was Simon Bolivar, who with Miranda, the Apostle of Liberty, freed the Northern States of South America from Spanish dominion. It was Bolivar who in 1826 summoned the first International Peace Congress at Panama. San Martin, an equally great man, born in Argentina, freed the southern half of the Continent. Lopez, president in 1862 of Paraguay, has secured notoriety for having had the worst character in all American history. Petion, almost a pure negro, deserves also a prominent place. He was born in 1770, was a great, good and able man, and freed Haiti; he also assisted and advised Bolivar. May I also remind you here that Peru is the home of the Peruvian bark tree (cinchona) and the equally valuable coca plant, which gives us cocaine. Paraguay is the country of the yerba-mate, universally drunk there, supplanting tea, coffee, cocoa and coca. Like coca it has very stimulating qualities. El Dorado, the much-sought-for and fabulous, was vouched for by Juan Martinez, the chief of liars, who located it somewhere up the Orinoco River. The Spaniards, and also the Portuguese, were wonderful colonizers and administrators. Just think what enormous territories their civilization influenced, and influenced for good. Certainly the torch of the Inquisition accompanied them; but even under that dreadful blight their colonies prospered and the conquered races became Iberianized, such was their masters' power of impressing their language, religion and manners on even barbarous tribes. CHAPTER XIV FIFTH TOUR ABROAD California--Honolulu--Japan--China--Singapore--Burmah --India--Ceylon--The End. I hope these hasty notes, so hurriedly and scantily given, may have interested my readers enough to secure their company for one more globe-trot, which shall be rushed through in order to bring these reminiscences to a close. A momentous event of 1910 was the death of King Edward VII., which threw everybody into deep mourning; and it seemed to me Englishwomen never looked so well as when dressed in black. In the autumn I started for New York and Amarillo. Never before was I so impressed with the growth and improvement and possibilities of New York city, soon to be the most populous, wealthiest and greatest city the world has ever seen. The incomparable beauty of the American woods and forests in the fall again attracted me and afforded much pleasure. From Amarillo I went on to San Francisco, stopping off to have yet one more sight of the Grand Cañon of the Colorado River. San Francisco was now almost completely restored, and much on the old plan. Her Knob-hill palaces are gone, but her hotels are better and more palatial than ever. November 22nd.--Sailed on a Japanese steamer for Yokohama, via Honolulu. These Japanese steamers are first-class, and noted for cleanliness and the politeness of the entire ship's company. We coaled at Honolulu and then proceeded. On approaching Yokohama we got a fine view of Fuji-San, the great national volcano, as it may be called, its perfect cone rising sheer from the low plain to a height of 12,700 feet. Fuji is at present quiescent; but Japan has some active volcanoes, and earthquakes are very frequent. My visit was at the least favourable time of the year, viz., in winter. The country should be seen in spring, during the cherry-blossom season, or in the autumn, when the tree foliage is almost more beautiful. From Yokohama I went on to Tokio, formerly Jeddo, and now the capital. It is a large and busy city with some fine Government modern buildings. The palace, parks and temples form the sights. In the city proper as in all Japanese towns, the streets are very narrow and crowded with rickshaws, the only means of passenger conveyance. At the Anglo-Japanese dinner, given at my hotel, I had an opportunity of seeing Japanese men and women in full-dress attire, and to notice the extreme formalities of their greetings. A Japanese gentleman bows once, then again, and, as if he had forgotten something, after a short interval a third time. From Tokio I went to Kioto, formerly the residence of the Mikado, now purely a native city, with no modern buildings and still narrower streets; but it is the centre of the cloisonné, damascening and embroidery industries. Hotels in Japan are everywhere quite good. Here I visited the fencing and jiu-jitsu schools, which are attended by a large number of pupils, women as well as men. Also the geisha school, and saw girls taught dancing, music and tea ceremony. What perfectly delightful and charming little ladies Japanese girls of apparently all classes are. The smile of the geisha girl may be professional, but is very seductive and penetrating; so that the mere European man is soon a willing worshipper. The plump little waitresses in hotels and tea-houses, charmingly costumed, smiling as only they can smile, are incomparable. The Japanese, too, are the cleanest of all nations; the Chinese and Koreans among the dirtiest. They are extremely courteous as well as polite. A drunken man is hardly ever seen in Japan, a woman never. An angry word is hardly ever heard; indeed, the language has no "swear" words. All the people are artistic, even æsthetic. Arthur Diosy in his book declares that the Japanese are the most cheerful, peaceable, law-abiding and kindliest of all peoples. Up till the "Great Change," 1871, trade was considered unsuitable for, and degrading to, a gentleman. Women here, by-the-by, shave or have shaven the whole face, including the nose and ears, though not the eyebrows. How these Japs worship the beauties of Nature! Few of us might see much beauty in a purple cabbage; yet in my hotel purple cabbages were put in prominent places to decorate the dining-hall, and were really quite effective. From Kioto I went to Nara, once the capital of the Empire, a pretty place with large park and interesting museum. A great religious festival was on, including a procession of men in ancient armour and costumes. There was also some horse-racing, which was quite comical. Apparently no European but myself was present. On travelling to Nara I passed through the tea district of Oji. The gardens are very beautiful and carefully tended. It was a great treat to me this first opportunity to see something of Japanese peasant life, and to admire the intensive and thorough cultivation. Not a foot of productive soil is wasted. The landscape of rice-fields, succeeded by tea-gardens, bamboo groves, up to the forest or brush-clad hills, and the very picturesque villages and farmhouses and rustic temples, form many a delightful picture. In the growing season the whole country must be very beautiful. Excellent trout and salmon fishing may then be had. The adopted national game for youths seems to be base-ball, and not cricket as in China. Next I went to Kobe, via Osaka, the great manufacturing centre of the Empire. At Kobe took another Japanese steamer for Shanghai, calling at Moji, Shimonoseki and Nagasaki, and traversing the wonderfully beautiful inland Sea of Japan, a magnified, and quite as beautiful, Loch Lomond. This sea was dotted with innumerable fishing-boats. Indeed, Japan's sea-fisheries must be one of her most valuable assets. Moji harbour is a beautiful one, has an inlet and an outlet, but appears land-locked. On the mainland side is Shimonoseki, where Li Hung Chang signed the Peace Treaty with Japan, and where he was later wounded by an assassin. Nagasaki has also a fine harbour. From here I took a rickshaw ride over the hills to a lovely little summer coast-resort, passing through a most picturesque country. Japan has, among many others, one particular curiosity in the shape of a domestic cock, possessing a tail as much as fifteen feet in length, and which tail receives its owner's, or rather its owner's owner's, most careful consideration. The unfortunate bird is kept in a very small wicker cage, so small that he can't turn round, the long tail feathers escaping through an aperture and drooping to the ground. Once a day the bird is taken out and allowed to exercise for a short time on a spotlessly clean floor-mat. While in Japan I was told that her modern cultured men are satisfied with a simple work-a-day system of Ethics, priestly guidance being unnecessary, and they regard religion as being for the ignorant, superstitious or thoughtless. Thus they "emancipate their consciences from the conventional bonds of traditional religions." It has been remarked that the Japanese will probably never again be such heroes, or at least will never be such reckless, fanatical fighters as they were in the late war, as civilization and property rights will make life more worth living and therefore preserving. The same might apply to the Fuzzy Wuzzies, to Cromwell's Ironsides, and to some extent our own Highlanders and others of a like fanatical tendency. It had been my intention and hope to visit Korea, Port Arthur, Mukden and Peking; but was advised very strongly, on account of the extreme cold and almost Arctic conditions said to be prevailing in North China, not to go there. But at Shanghai I had better information, contradicting these reports and describing the weather as delightful at the capital. Shanghai has an immense river and ocean trade, and in the waterway are swung river gun-boats of all nations, as well as queer-looking Chinese armed junks, used in putting down piracy. I visited the city club, the country club, and the racecourse, and took a stroll at night through Soochow Road, among the native tea-houses, theatres, etc. Someone advised me to visit a town up the river on a certain day to witness the execution of some dozen river pirates and other criminals, a common occurrence; but such an attraction did not appeal to me. In China, as in Japan and other countries, the German, often gross, selfish and vulgar, is ever present. But he is resourceful and determined, and threatens to push the placid Englishman to the wall. Though the practice is not now permitted, Chinese women's bound and deformed feet are still to the stranger a constant source of wonder. It is said the custom arose in the desire of Court ladies to emulate the very tiny feet of a certain royal princess; but it is also suggested that the custom was instituted to stop the female gadding-about propensity! Here in Shanghai I first observed edible swallow-nests in the market for sale. They did not look nice, but why should they not be so, knowing as we do that the young of swallows, unlike those of other birds, vent their ordure over the sides, so that the nests are not in any way defiled. Here I also learned that Pidgin, as in the expression "Pidgin" English, is John's attempt to pronounce "business." From Shanghai to Soochow city, a typical Chinese walled town, still quite unmodernized, and no doubt the same as it was 2000 years ago. Tourists seldom enter it, and no European dwells within its walls, inside of which are crowded and jammed 500,000 souls. The main street was not more than six to eight _feet_ wide, and so filled with such a jostling, busy crowd of people as surely could not be seen anywhere else on earth. Even rickshaws are not allowed to enter, there being no room for them. Progress can only be made on a donkey, and then with much shouting and discomfort. What a busy people the Chinese are! Some day they may people the earth. They seem to be even more intelligent than the Japanese, more honest and more industrious; and have an almost lovable disposition. And what giants they are compared to their neighbours!--the men from the north being especially so. I also went by narrow and vile-smelling streets to visit a celebrated leaning pagoda near Soochow, and on returning took the opportunity offered of inspecting with much interest a mandarin's rock-garden, purely Chinese and entirely different from Japanese similar retreats. In Shanghai I visited the original tea-house depicted on the well-known willow-pattern china ware. January 1st.--Arrived at Hong-Kong and admired its splendid harbour and surroundings. This is one of the greatest seaports in the world, with an enormous trade. The whole island belongs to Great Britain; unlike Shanghai, where different nationalities merely have concessions. In the famous Happy Valley I had several days' golfing with a naval friend, and we played very badly. A trip up the river to Canton, the southern capital of China, an immense city with 2,000,000 population, was full of interest. Half the population seemingly live in boats. What indefatigable workers the Chinese are. They seem to work all night and they seem to work all day. They are busy as ants. If one cannot find employment otherwise he will make it! Barring the beggars, there are no unemployed and no unemployables. What a mighty force they must become in the world's economy. We estimate China's population by millions, but forget to properly scale their energy and industry. What is the future of such a people to be! Yet they seem to be incapable of any general national movement: each is absorbed in his immediate work and contented to be so; so unlike the Japanese, with equal energy and industry, plus boundless ambition and patriotism.[4] [Footnote 4: Appendix, Note I.] The Chinaman's pigtail calls for explanation. The Manchus, on conquering China in 1644, decreed that all Chinese should shave the rest of the head but wear the pigtail. The Chinese would not submit to this; so the politic Manchu emperor further decreed that only loyal subjects might adopt the custom, criminals to be debarred. This ruse was so successful that now the Chinaman is even proud of his adornment, and little advantage is being taken of a recent relaxation of the decree. Sailing for Singapore I was blessed with a cabin all to myself, and what a blessing it is! In all my travels I have been singularly fortunate in securing privacy in this way. There is not much to interest in Singapore. It is one of the hottest places on earth, the same in winter and summer, purely tropical. It has, however, fine parks, streets and open places. The principal hotel is the "Raffles," which I should imagine is also the worst. The most notable feature of Singapore is the variety of "natives" domiciled there--Ceylonese, Burmese, Chinese, Japanese, Siamese, Hindoos and Malays. After leaving Singapore we looked in at Penang, where we had time to inspect a famous Chinese temple. An American Army General, D----, and his wife were among the passengers, and I found much pleasure in their company; indeed, we travelled thereafter much together in Burmah and India. Rangoon, where we arrived next, is a large, well-laid-out city, as cosmopolitan as Singapore. The bazaars are well worth visiting, and the working of elephants in the great teak yards is one of the tourist's principal sights. But the great Shwe Dagon pagoda is of course the centre of interest, and indeed it is one of the most astonishing places of worship it has been my fortune to visit. The pagoda itself is of the typical bell shape, solidly built of brick, gilded from base to summit, and crowned with a golden Ti. The shrines, too, which surround and jostle it, hold the attention and wonder of the visitor. There are very many of these, mostly of graceful design, with delicate and intricate wood carvings and other decorations. The pagoda is the most venerated of all Buddhist places of worship, containing as it does not only the eight sacred hairs of Gautama, but also relics of the three Buddhas who preceded him. It is also from its great height, 370 feet (higher than St Paul's Cathedral), and graceful shape, extremely imposing and sublime. From Rangoon I trained to Mandalay, on the Irawadi River, not a large town, but rich in historical associations, and famous for its Buddhist pagodas, such as The Incomparable and the Arakan; also the Queen's Golden Monastery. King Theebaw's palace remains much as it was, and well worth examination. The population here is almost purely Burmese; in fact you see the Burmese at their best, and the impression is always favourable. What brilliant but beautiful colours they affect in their head-clothes, jackets and silken gowns. They are a cheerful, light-hearted and good-natured people, lazy perhaps, but all apparently well enough to do. The boys and the young men play the national game of football, the ball, made simply of lightly-plaited bamboo strips, being kicked and tossed into the air with wonderful skill and activity, never being allowed to touch the ground. The way they can "take" the ball from behind, and with the heel or side of the foot toss it upwards and forwards, would be a revelation even to the Newcastle United. The women and girls have utmost freedom and are to be seen everywhere, often smoking enormous cigarettes: merry and careless, but always well, and often charmingly, dressed. A fine view, and good idea, of the great Irawadi River may be obtained from Mandalay; but time was pressing, so I railed back to Rangoon instead of making the river trip, which my friends, the D----s, did. The steamer to Calcutta was unusually crowded, but I was again fortunate enough to secure the use of the pilot's cabin all to myself. The Hugli River was familiar even after thirty-four years' absence, and in Calcutta I noticed little change. The hotels, including the Grand and Continental, are quite unworthy of the city, only the very old and well-known Great Eastern approaching the first-class character. Calcutta was getting hot, so I at once went on to Darjeeling, hoping to get a view of what my eyes had ever longed to see--the glorious high peaks of the Himalayas, and the roof of the world. After a few hours' run through the celebrated Terai jungle, the haunt, and probably final sanctuary, of the big game of India, the track ascends rapidly and picturesquely through the tea district of Kangra, and arrives at Darjeeling, elevation 7500 feet, the summer home of the Bengal Government and the merchant princes of Calcutta and elsewhere. I had been forewarned that the chances of seeing the high peaks at this time of the year were extremely slim; but my experience and disappointment in connection with Korea and Peking taught me to disregard such warnings; and, as it turned out, I was rewarded with a perfect day and magnificent views of Mounts Kinchinjunga and Everest, and all the other majestic heights; seen, too, in all their phases of cloud and mist, of perfectly clear blue sky, and of sunrise and sunset effects. It was indeed a most satisfying and absorbing twenty-four hours' visit, as I had also time, under the guidance of an official friend, to visit the picturesque weekly market or bazaar, where natives from Sikkim, Nepal, Butan and Tibet may be seen in all their dirt and strangeness. Also the quite beautiful Botanic Gardens, the Club House, the prayer-wheels, etc. More than that, I was privileged to pay my respects to the Dalai Lama, who had but recently left his kingdom and taken refuge here. The acknowledged spiritual head of the Buddhists of Mongolia and China is a young man with a dreamy, absorbed expression of countenance, perhaps not of much intellectuality, but who is approachable even to the merely curious. My friend and kind cicerone was Commissioner of the Bengal police, and was extremely busy laying guards along the railroad and taking all other necessary precautions for the safety of the German Imperial Crown Prince during his projected visit to Darjeeling, a visit ultimately abandoned. I can imagine his chagrin at the waste of all his labours, expense to the Indian Government, etc. etc., due to the caprice of this apparently frivolous and not quite courteous young hopeful. Indeed, the Crown Prince, though a popular young fellow enough, was the source of trouble and tribulation to his hosts, breaking conventions and scandalizing Society by his disregard of its usages. Returning to Calcutta I thence took train to Agra via Allahabad, purposely, on account of the great discomfort and poor hotel accommodation due to the large tourist traffic, avoiding Lucknow, Benares and Cawnpore. At Allahabad the Aga Khan, temporal head of the Mohammedans of India, and a man of great authority and influence, joined our train, and part of the way I was lucky enough to be in his company and had an opportunity of speaking with him. In appearance he is a Turk, quite European in dress, and seems capable, energetic, sociable and agreeable. At every stopping-place he received an ovation, crowds of his Mussulman supporters and friends, among them apparently being chiefs and rajahs and other men of high degree, greeting him with much enthusiasm, which enthusiasm I learned was aroused by His Highness' endeavour towards the raising of the status of the Mohammedan College of Aligarh to that of a university. I should say here that, on Indian railways, the first-class carriages are divided into compartments, containing each four beds, but in which it is customary to put only two passengers, at least during sleeping hours, and unless an unusual crowd requires otherwise. It was also on this train I made the acquaintance of a gentleman on his way to visit the Maharaja of Gwalior, and who was kind enough to ask me to accompany him. I told him that if he would secure me an invitation from the Maharaja I would be only too pleased to do so. Gwalior was a place on my itinerary anyway; to go there as a guest would secure me many advantages not attainable by the ordinary tourist. My friend said he would see the Maharaja at once and have my visit arranged for. A few days afterwards I received advice that it had been done, so on arrival at Gwalior I was met by one of the State carriages and conveyed to the Guest House, formerly the zenana, close to the palace, a very beautiful and handsome building, where an excellent staff of servants, capital meals, choice liquors and cigars, were at our free disposal. His Highness does not eat with his guests, but they are all put up in this building; and during big shoots, durbars, or festive occasions, the house is always full. At the time of my visit the few guests included two Scotch manufacturers, who had just effected large sales of machinery to the Maharaja, the one securing from him an order worth £60,000 for steam-breaking ploughs, the other an order of some £20,000 for pumping appliances. The Maharaja is a thoroughly progressive man, has an enormous revenue, and devotes a large part of it to the bringing into cultivation tracts of hitherto unbroken and unoccupied land, which no doubt will eventually increase his revenue and provide homesteads for his people. Sindia, as his name is, is a keen soldier, a keen sportsman, and most loyal to the British Raj. He moves about freely, wearing a rough tweed suit, is busy and occupied all day long, and though he has ministers and officials of all degrees, and keeps great state on occasion, his army numbering some 5000 men, he finds time to superintend the various departments of his Government, and to administer his State with a thoroughness uncommon among Indian potentates. The new palace is very beautiful and furnished in European manner, apparently quite regardless of expense. The crystal chandeliers in the reception-rooms are magnificent, and must alone represent fabulous sums. Near by the palace are a number of lions, now kept in proper cages, but I must say from the smell and filth not under very sanitary conditions. These lions he had imported from abroad and turned loose to furnish sport to his shooting friends; but they killed so many of the peasantry that they had to be recaptured and confined. The town of Lashkar, the State capital city, being reported full of plague, I was naturally careful in passing through. Nothing in it calls for comment, however. Gwalior Fort, on a high rocky plateau, has much historic interest. In it are the ancient palaces, still in fair condition but long ago abandoned, certain Jain temples covered with bas-relief carvings, tanks and many old ruins. The entrance is handsome and impressive. My friend and myself were supplied with an elephant, so we rode all over the immense fort, now almost silent, having only a small guard and a few other occupants. Altogether I enjoyed the visit very much, and after three or four days' stay returned to Agra. Everyone knows Agra, with its heavenly Taj-Mahal, its great fortress, its pearl mosque, its beautiful halls of audience and its palaces. It is truly sad to know that one of our former Governor-Generals actually proposed to tear down the Taj-Mahal so that he could use the marble for other purposes! Among these delights of architecture one could wander for days, ever with an unquenched greed for the charm of their beauties. One sees marbled trellis-work of exquisite design and execution, and inlaid flower wreaths and scrolls of red cornelian and precious stone, as beautiful in colour as graceful in form. Agra's cantonment avenues and parks are kept in excellent order. The temperature at the time of my visit was delightfully cool, and the hotel the best I had yet found in India. Fatepur Sikri, a royal city built by Akbar, only to be abandoned by him again, is near Agra, and possesses enough deserted palaces, mosques and other beautiful buildings to make it well worth a visit. There is, for instance, the great mosque, rival to the Taj-Mahal, the inside of which is entirely overlaid with mother-of-pearl. From Agra I went to Delhi, India's imperial city. In and around it are innumerable palaces, mosques, tombs and forts, each and all worthy of careful inspection; but I will only mention the Jama Musjid; inside the fort the Diwan-i-Am, wherein formerly stood the famous peacock throne; and the Diwan-i-Kas, at either end of which, over the outer arches, is the famous Persian inscription, "If Heaven can be on the face of the earth it is this! Oh, it is this! Oh, it is this!" In the city itself is the famous street called Chandni Chauk. North of the city is a district where the principal incidents of the siege took place, and there also is the plain devoted to imperial durbars and assemblages. South of the city are many celebrated tombs, such as those of Emperor Humayun, and of Tughlak; and the majestic Kutab Minar. Mutiny recollections of course enormously add to one's interest in Delhi, and many days may be agreeably passed in company with her other historic, tragic and romantic associations. At the time of my visit preparations were already beginning for the great Coronation Durbar to be held next winter. Most hotels and private houses have already been leased. What the general public will do for accommodation I do not know. One will almost necessarily, like the King, have to go under canvas. The Circuit House will only be used by His Majesty should bad weather prevail. The native rulers of every grade are going to make such a display of Oriental magnificence as was never seen before. To many it will be their ruin, or at least a serious crippling of their resources; but it is a chance for display that does not often occur and they seem determined to make the most of it. Here at Delhi the General and myself again joined forces, he and his wife having visited Lucknow and Cawnpore. We took train direct to Peshawar, via Rawal Pindi and Lahore. I never knew anyone who enjoyed foreign travel so much as my American friend. He was in a constant state of delight, finding interest and pleasure in small matters that never even attracted my attention, though as a rule my faculty for observation is by no means obtuse. In Burmah the bright-hued cupras of the natives filled him with intense joy, and the presence of some closely-screened native ladies on a ferryboat so held his gaze that his wife (and I suspect they were not long married) must have felt pangs of jealousy. But he was a keen soldier, and had frequently represented his country at the German and other manoeuvres, and had been Adjutant-General at the inauguration of President Roosevelt, a very honourable position indeed. So he was intensely interested in old forts and battlefields, and his enthusiasm while in Peshawar and the Khaiber Pass was boundless. More than that he was a strong Anglo-Phile, and amused me by his disparaging criticism on how his own Government did things in the Philippines and elsewhere, compared with what he saw in India and other British possessions. Peshawar is a very delightful place, or so at least it appeared to me. We lodged in a capital though small hotel. The climate was then very agreeable; the cantonment gardens and avenues are a paradise of beauty, at least compared with the surrounding dry and semi-barren country. In the native city one mixed with new races of people, Afghans and Asians, and picturesque and fierce-looking tribesmen from the hills. Also an immense number of camels, the only means of traffic communication with western and northern native states. But before arriving at Peshawar one must not forget to mention the magnificent view obtained from the car windows of the glorious range of Cashmere Snowy Mountains, showing peaks of 20,000 to 25,000 feet elevation; nor the crossing by a fortified railway bridge of the historic Indus River, near Attock, at the very spot where the Greek Alexander entered India on his campaign of conquest A mile above this point the Kabul River joins the Indus. Here too is a romantic-looking town and fortress built by the Emperor Akbar, still unimpaired and in occupation by British troops. The approaches to the bridge and fort are strongly guarded, emplacements for guns being noticeable at every vantage point on the surrounding hills, while ancient round towers and other fortifications tell of the troublous times and martial deeds this important position has been witness to. For our visit to the Khaiber Pass General Nixon, Commandant at Peshawar, put a carriage at our disposal, in which we drove as far as Jamrud, the isolated fort so often pictured in our illustrated papers, where we exchanged into tongas, in which to complete the journey through the pass as far as Ali Musjid. The pass is now patrolled by the Afridi Rifles, a corps composed of Afridi tribesmen commanded by British officers. At frequent intervals along the route these Afridi sentinels can be seen standing on silent guard on all commanding points of the hills. One sees numerous Afridi hamlets, though what the occupants find to support themselves with it is difficult to understand. A good carriage road continues all the way, in places steep enough and tortuous, as the rough broken nature of the country necessitates. By another road or trail, paralleling our own, a continuous string of camel caravans proceeds in single file at a leisurely gait, the animals loaded with merchandise for the Kabul market and others in Central Asia. It is a rough, desolate and uninteresting country, yet grand and beautiful in its way, and one is at once struck with the difficulties to be encountered by troops endeavouring to force their way through, commanded as the pass is at every turn by positions so admirably suited for guerrilla warfare and delightful possibilities for an enemy with sniping propensities. At Ali Musjid the camel and carriage tracks come together. Here at this little mosque was the point beyond which we were not allowed to proceed; so after a most interesting visit we returned to Peshawar. We were most fortunate in the weather, as the strong wind which always blows down the pass is in winter time generally excessively cold. At Peshawar I bade good-bye to my most agreeable American friends, the General being keen on visiting Quetta; whither, had it not been so much out of my own proposed line of travel, I would gladly have accompanied him. So my next move was back to Delhi, and thence by train via Jeypore to Udaipur, one of the most delightfully picturesque and interesting of all Indian native capitals. There is a tiny little hotel at Udaipur, outside the walls, showing that visiting tourists are few and far between. The Maharana holds by his old and established customs, and has none of the modern spirit shown by such princes as Sindia, the Nizam, and certain other native chiefs. He has, however, gone so far as to furnish his new palace in a most gorgeous manner, the chairs, tables, mirror frames, bedsteads seen in the State apartments being composed of crystal glass. The show attraction of the palace, in the eyes of the attendants, who were ever at one's beck and call, was a Teddy dog with wagging head, which miracle of miracles one seemed to be expected to properly marvel at. The old palace, adjoining the new, is a much finer building, being mostly of marble, and is purely Oriental in its stairways, doorways, closets, balconies and delightful roof-gardens, as one's preconceived notions expect an Eastern potentate's palace to be. The new palace showed no sign of occupancy, and I imagined the Maharana, then absent, really favours the older building, and small blame to him! Around in various places the State elephants are stabled, or rather chained, in the open air, and looked after by their numerous attendants. In the grand court in front were several of these animals, and a myriad of pigeons, protected by their sanctity, flew about in clouds, or perched on the projections of the palace walls. From a boat on the large and lovely lake, on whose very edge the commanding palace stands, a beautiful view is obtained. On islands in the lake two delightful little summer palaces are built, of white marble and luxuriously furnished within. Elephants were bathing themselves at the water's edge, and the roar of caged lions was heard from the neighbouring royal garden. Pea-fowl perched on the marble colonnade, and pigeons were circling and sailing in the glorious sunshine. What a sight! especially when evening drew in, and the setting sun lighted up the graceful cupolas and domes, and threw shadows round the towers and battlements, the whole reflected in the glassy surface of the water. At one place near by the wild pigs approached to be fed and some grand old fellows may be seen amongst them. [Illustration: PALACE OF MAJARANA OF UDAIPUR.] It is still the custom of nearly all men here above the rank of coolie to carry swords or other weapons. For are these Rajputs not of a proud and warlike race, as may be seen by their bearing; and is not their Maharana of the longest lineage in India, and the highest in rank of all the Rajput princes? A few miles from the capital is Chitorgarh. Here I saw the wonderful old fortress, with its noble entrance gate, and the ancient town of Chitor, once the capital of Mewar. Also the two imposing towers of Fame and Victory. Throughout the state one is struck by the great number of wild pea-fowl picking their way through the stubble just as pheasants do. The flesh of pea-fowl, which I have tasted, is excellent eating, surpassing that of the pheasant. One also sees numbers of a large grey, long-tailed monkey, which seem to preferably attach themselves to old and ruined temples or tombs. From here, Chitorgarh, I next took train to Bombay, passing through Rutlam, a great poppy-producing centre. At Baroda I received into my compartment the brother of the late Gaikwar (uncle of the present?). It had often occurred to me before to wonder how the high-class natives travel on the railways. Never had I yet seen a native enter a first-class compartment where there happened to be any Europeans. In this instance, at Baroda, I had noticed a man, apparently of consequence, judging by his attendants, evidently wanting to travel by this train. Soon one of the party approached, and almost humbly, it seemed more than politely, asked if I would have no objection to the company of the brother of the Gaikwar. Of course I said I could have no objection, and so we travelled together to Bombay. But what is the feeling between the two races that keeps them thus apart? Bombay surprised me more by the delightfully cold breeze then blowing than by anything else. I took a drive over Malabar Hill and saw the Parsee Towers of Silence, as they are popularly called. The immense Taj Hotel, where I stayed one night, by no means justifies its pretensions. Indeed, it is one of the poorest or worst in all India. Next day I started out for Hyderabad, and had a long, hot, slow twenty-four hours' journey; the principal crop noticed being to me the familiar Kafir corn. Yes, it was very hot and dusty. As usual, the train was packed with natives, but myself seemed to be the only European on board. Arrived at Hyderabad, I at once drove over to Secunderabad, a very large British cantonment and station. From here, missing the friends I had come to see, and there being nothing to specially interest otherwise, I again took train to Madras. A letter of introduction in my pocket to the Nizam's Prime Minister might have been useful in seeing the city had I presented it, but pressure of time induced me to push on; nor did I stop in Madras longer than to allow of a drive round the city, the heat being very great. Indeed, I was getting very tired of such hurried travel and sight-seeing, and was longing for a week's rest and quietude in the cool and pleasant highlands of Ceylon. My health also was now giving me some concern; so on again to Madura, _en route_ to Tuticorin, from whence a steamer would take me across to the land of spicy breezes. Madura has a wonderful old temple of immense size, surrounded by gopuras of pyramidal form, in whose construction huge stones of enormous dimensions were utilized; the temple also has much fine carving, etc. The old palace is of great beauty and interest. Colombo was, as usual, uncomfortably warm; only on the seashore at Galle Face could one get relief, and Galle Face with its excellent hotel is certainly a very delightful place. I did not stay in Colombo, but at once took train to visit Anauradapura and the dead cities of Ceylon. Here was the heart of a district ten miles in diameter, practically covered by the site and remains of the ancient city, which in its prime, about the beginning of the Christian era, ranked with Babylon and Nineveh in its dimensions, population and magnificence. Its walls included an area of 260 square miles. Among its ruins the most notable are the dagobas (pagodas), some of such enormous size that the number of bricks used in their construction baffles conception. One of the dagobas has a diameter of 327 feet and a height of 270. It is solidly built of bricks, and contains material enough to build a complete modern town of 50,000 people. These Buddhist dagobas of Ceylon have the bell-shape form, and serve the same purpose as the Shwe Dagon in Rangoon, viz., to shelter relics of the Buddhas. Close by, within the walls of a Buddhist temple, or monastery, still grows the famous Bo or Pipal tree, the oldest living historical tree in the world, brought here 250 B.C. from Buddh Gaya in India. Only a fragment of the original main trunk now exists, the various offshoots growing vigorously in the surrounding compound, all still guarded and attended by the priests as lovingly as when done 2200 years ago. At Anauradapura is a quite charming little Rest House, shaded and surrounded by beautiful tropical trees of great variety. From here I went to Kandy, the former capital of the native kings of that name. In the fourteenth century a temple was erected here to contain a tooth of Buddha and other relics. Later, the temple was sacked and the sacred tooth destroyed, but another to which was given similar attributes was put in its place. Kandy is a pretty spot, with a good hotel and agreeable climate, its elevation being 1800 feet above sea-level. Near by is Paradenia and the beautiful Botanical Gardens, in which it is a perfect delight to wander. We had already passed through a most lovely and picturesque country; but the grandest and most impressive scenery of Ceylon lies between Kandy and Newara Elia. Tea-gardens extend everywhere, and the cosy, neat-looking bungalows of the planters have a most attractive appearance. Newara Elia stands very high, some 7000 feet. Its vegetation is that of a temperate climate, and in the winter months the climate itself is ideal. The bracing atmosphere suggests golf and all other kinds of sport, and golfing there is of the very best kind. There is an excellent hotel, though I myself put up at the Hill Club. All Ceylon is beautiful, the roads are good, and many delightful excursions can be made. I do not think I ever saw a more beautiful country. But the sailing date draws near, so I must hurry down again to Colombo, and thus practically complete my second tour round the world. A P. & O. steamer brought us to Aden, the canal, Messina and Marseilles. We enjoyed lovely cool and calm weather all the way till near the end, when off the "balmy" coast of the Riviera we encountered bitter cold winds and stormy seas. And so through France to England, to the best country of them all, even though it be the land of coined currency bearing no testimony to its value; where registered letters may be receipted for by others than the addressee; and where butcher meat is freely exposed in the shops, and even outside, to all the filth that flies--my last fling at the dear old country. Someone has asked me which was the most beautiful place I had ever seen? It was impossible to answer. The whole world is beautiful! The barren desert, the boundless ocean, the mountain region and the flat country, even these monotonous Staked Plains of New Mexico, under storm or sunshine, all equally compel us to admiration and wonderment. In closing this somewhat higgledy-piggledy narrative, let me once more express my hope that readers will have found in it some entertainment, perhaps instruction, and possibly amusement. APPENDIX _Note I._--An outcry against Mormonism has been raised lately in this country. It is its polygamous character that has been attacked. But does polygamy deserve all that is said about it? It is not immoral and should not be criminal. Compare it with the very vicious modern custom of restricted families, which is immoral and should be criminal. Where is our population going to come from? The Chinese, Japanese, Indians and negroes are swarming all over the earth; while our race is almost stagnant, yet owning and claiming continents and islands practically unpeopled. Some day, possibly, polygamy will have to be permitted, even by the most civilized of nations. _Note II._--In this present year there is much writing and much talking about arbitration treaties and preferential tariffs. A general arbitration on _all_ matters between the United States and Great Britain is probably quite impracticable. Preferential tariff within the Empire would be highly advantageous to the Mother Country. If so, let us go for it while the opportunity offers. But it does seem to me there is a much-mistaken idea prevalent at home as to the loyalty of the Colonies and Dominions. One travels for information and should be allowed to give his conclusions. What holds these offshoots to the mother stem? Loyalty? I think not. Simply the realization that they are not (not yet) strong enough to stand alone: and it is the opinion of many that, as soon as they are, loyalty will be thrown to the winds; and naturally! (Since the above was written has it not been abundantly verified?) There is also even a belief (the wish being father to the thought) that the United States of America have a sentimental feeling for the Old Country; and one frequently hears the platform or banquet stock phrase, "Blood is thicker than water." It would be well if our people were enlightened with the truth. After twenty-five years' residence in the United States I will dare to say that the two nations are entirely foreign and antagonistic one to another. And it is a fortunate thing that between them few "Questions" remain to be arbitrated either by pen or sword. The two peoples do not understand one another, and do not try to. The ordinary English traveller does not meet or mix with the real American people, who are rapidly developing a civilization entirely their own, in social customs, in civil government, and even in fashions of dress. _Note III._--Might a just comparison not be drawn between these "dogies" and the type of men we now recruit for our standing Army? Are they not dogies? Is it not a fact that many of them never had a square meal in their lives! At least they look like it. But when taken up, if not while yet babies at least when they are still at a critical age of development, say eighteen years, and fed substantially and satisfyingly, as is now done in the Army, what an almost miraculous physical change takes place! And not only physical, but mental and moral, due to the influence of discipline and athletic exercises. If such be the effect on our few annual recruits, why not submit the whole young manhood of the nation to such beneficial conditions by the introduction of compulsory national military service? And not only that! Is not the private soldier of this country, alone of all others, refused admission to certain places of entertainment open to the public? Why? Because he is a hireling. Because no man of character or independence will adopt such a calling. He would degrade himself by doing so. But make the service compulsory to all men, and at once the calling becomes an honourable one. Can it be imagined for a moment that any of our raw recruits enter the service from a love for King and country? No; they sell their birthright for a red coat and a pittance, renounce their independence and stultify the natural ambition that should stimulate every man worthy of the name. Though our men do not have the initiative and self-resource of the Americans, still they are the smartest and best-set-up troops in the world. Many of them are of splendid physique and look like they could go anywhere and do anything. The whole world _was_ open to them; yet here they still are in the ranks, dummies and automatons, devoid of ambition and self-assertiveness. Only national service will rid us of the army of unemployables. It will develop them physically and mentally, and make men of them such as our Colonies will be glad and proud to admit to citizenship. EDINBURGH COLSTONS LIMITED PRINTERS 
45452	----	CONNIE CARL AT RAINBOW RANCH By Joan Clark The Goldsmith Publishing Company CHICAGO ------------------------------------------------------------------------ COPYRIGHT MCMXXXIX BY THE GOLDSMITH PUBLISHING COMPANY MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Contents I. A HOMECOMING FOR CONNIE II. THE COMING RODEO III. BAD NEWS IV. THE FOREMAN'S BOAST V. POP BRADSHAW'S TREACHERY VI. KIDNAPING CATAPULT VII. A MIDNIGHT ESCAPADE VIII. A RESCUE IX. MR. POSTIL'S OFFER X. THE HOLDUP XI. WRANGLING DUDES XII. AN ARGUMENT XIII. OVER THE PRECIPICE XIV. A TELLTALE HANDKERCHIEF XV. AN UNPLEASANT REVELATION XVI. THE ROUNDUP XVII. A NIGHT PROWLER XVIII. STAMPEDE XIX. TURNING THE HERD XX. THE END OF THE TRAIL ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Connie Carl at Rainbow Ranch CHAPTER I A Homecoming for Connie "I'll take your luggage now, Miss," said the colored porter politely. "We'll be a-pullin' into Red Gulch in five minutes." "Yes, I know," replied the girl softly, without shifting her gaze from the window. For the past hour Connie Carl had been watching the horizon beyond the flashing telegraph poles. A faint cloud-like blue line which represented New Mexico's mountains--her mountains--had steadily moved closer. She was going home at last, home to Rainbow Ranch. At first glance a stranger never would have taken Connie Carl for a Westerner. The girl was neatly dressed in a blue suit with gray suede slippers, and a wisp of auburn-red hair peeped from beneath her jaunty felt hat. She looked for all the world like a young lady who had just graduated from a stylish Eastern finishing school, which in truth, she had. But now, at sixteen, Connie Carl had returned to the prairie land she loved, to make her home once more at the place of her birth, Rainbow Ranch. The train had slowed down for the station. Connie went quickly down the aisle, waiting in the vestibule until the train came to a full stop. "Someone meetin' you, Miss?" asked the porter as she slipped a coin into his hand. "This heah Red Gulch ain't nothin' but a wide place in the road." "Yes, I've wired ahead, so I'm sure someone will meet me," said Connie with a smile. "Anyway, I've been here before." The porter set out the luggage on the platform. As the train pulled slowly away, Connie looked quickly about. Two men in wide brimmed hats and blue overalls were loading freight on a motor truck, but she did not know either of them. Otherwise the platform was deserted. "It's queer there's no one here to meet me," thought Connie. "Perhaps I didn't send my wire in time for it to reach the ranch." After hesitating a moment, the girl picked up her heavy suitcases and carried them into the unswept little station. She walked over to the ticket window where the agent was busy with a report. "Hello, Andy!" said Connie. The agent looked up and stared. Then light broke over his face. "Well, if it ain't Connie Carl! I'm sure glad to see you back." "I'm glad to get back home too, Andy. It seems as if I've been gone half my life." "Let's see, how long has it been?" "Three years--three long years." "So they educated you, did they, Connie?" "Well, they tried it," laughed the girl, "but I've not forgotten how to ride a horse. I can hardly wait to get out to the ranch. I thought someone would meet me." "Haven't seen Blakeman or any of the Rainbow outfit in town for a week. Roads have been pretty muddy. But you can get through now." "I'll hire a rig," said Connie. "Does old Charlie Trench still rim his jitney?" "Same as ever," the agent agreed with a grin. Then his face became sober. "But you may find other changes around here." "What sort of changes?" inquired Connie quickly. "Oh, one thing and another," answered the agent vaguely. "Say, I see Charlie across the street now. If you want to catch him you better hurry." Connie hastened across the street, stopping the old man just as he was entering a cafe. He greeted her with a hearty handshake and declared that he would be glad to drive her out to Rainbow Ranch. "Everything looks just the same," laughed Connie as Charlie loaded her bags into the decrepit old car. "Maybe they look thet way," replied the old taxi driver shortly, "but they ain't! You'll find plenty of changes, Connie--'specially out at Rainbow." "Why, is anything the matter, Charlie?" Connie stared at him in surprise. "I thought everything was running well. The foreman, Forest Blakeman, seemed to be very efficient." "Sure, he's efficient. 'Specially where his own interests are concerned. You'll find most of the old outfit broken up." "Isn't Red Farnham there?" asked Connie in amazement. "And Shorty and Sixshooter Pete?" "Red left six months ago," Charlie answered with a shrug. "Sixshooter Pete drifted north this spring, and some of the other boys hired out to the Drowsy Water outfit. Shorty took himself to Mexico. I reckon Lefty Forbes is about the only one still there." "Why didn't Blakeman write me about these changes?" asked Connie indignantly. "Why, those boys were my father's most loyal cowhands. Rainbow Ranch won't seem like home without them." "There's been a lot of changes since your Dad died, Connie." "Yes," agreed the girl soberly. "When he willed Rainbow Ranch to me, he provided that I must attend school in the East. I never wished to leave New Mexico because I feel that I belong here. Now that I'm through school, I'm aiming to take over the management of Rainbow Ranch myself." Old Charlie glanced sideways at the girl as he steered the car along the narrow dirt road. "Maybe that won't be so easy to do, Connie," he said quietly. "Dad left Rainbow Ranch to me, didn't he?" the girl asked sharply. "What are you driving at anyway, Charlie? I wish you'd speak right out." "I've already talked a-plenty, Connie. You'll get the lay of the land soon enough." Old Charlie lapsed into moody silence, devoting all his attention to the road. For a time they drove through a winding canyon, following the bed of a swift-moving stream. On either side rose red rock walls which under the light of the fading sun took on many beautiful hues. By craning her neck Connie could see the tops of spruce trees, aspens and cottonwoods. The girl watched the blue mountains moving closer and closer. She breathed deeply of the fresh, crisp air. It was good to be home, and yet the edge had been taken from her enjoyment. She felt disturbed. Both the station agent and Old Charlie had hinted that she would find many changes at Rainbow Ranch. She wondered if she had trusted too much in the judgment of her foreman, Forest Blakeman. Presently the car rolled over the crest of a high hill. Connie leaned forward and glanced down into the valley. She could see the rambling old adobe buildings of Rainbow Ranch. The car crept down the hill, and came at last to a huge wooden gateway. Old Charlie unfastened it and they drove up a long lane to the courtyard of the ranch house. A dog began to bark. As Connie stepped from the car, she saw a tall, dark-haired man striding toward her. It was the ranch foreman, Forest Blakeman. "Howdy, Miss Connie," he said heartily, sweeping off his sombrero. "Welcome home to Rainbow Ranch. I was just aimin' to drive in to Red Gulch myself." "Then you did receive my telegram?" asked Connie. "Yes, but a lot of work piled up on us this afternoon, and I couldn't get away as early as I planned. We're short handed you know." "Charlie was telling me that Shorty and Red are gone." "Yes," nodded the foreman indifferently. "Here, let me take your bags. You must be tired after your long trip." "I am," Connie confessed wearily. She followed the foreman into the ranch house. A feeling of relief came over her for inside the dwelling very little had been changed. The adobe walls, mellowed by the smoke of the fireplace, were still adorned with her father's Mexican treasures. The furniture was all massive and hand carved. A shy Mexican girl whom Connie had never seen before in her trips to the ranch took her bags and led her down a long tiled corridor to the east bedchamber. Connie unpacked her luggage and changed into a fresh skirt and blouse. She was tired but she felt too excited to lie down. She went to the window and opened it. Below she could see the corrals and the barn, and beyond, a long stretch of green meadow land. "I wish I had time for a canter before supper," Connie thought. She had forgotten to ask the foreman about her favorite mount, Silvertail. Connie had raised the big gray from a colt and he was the best horse in the Rainbow string. Leaving the ranch house, the girl walked rapidly toward the barn. But she stopped short as she saw a familiar slouched figure leaning against the corral bars. "Connie!" cried a gruff voice. "Lefty Forbes!" laughed Connie, clasping his horny hand in her own. "I'm glad to see one familiar face around here." "I reckon you won't be seein' mine much longer," drawled the cowboy. "What do you mean?" asked Connie quickly. "Blakeman is figurin' on givin' me my honorable discharge if I kin read the signs," replied the cowboy dryly. "But I calculate to beat him to the trigger. I'll be quittin' any day now." "Oh, Lefty, you can't! Why, I need you here." "That's the only reason I've stayed on, Connie," said the cowboy soberly. "I thought a lot of your Dad, and this ranch. But there ain't nothin' I can do now. Blakeman runs things with a purty high hand." "He's only the foreman, Lefty. Now that I'm home, I mean to manage the ranch myself." "I reckon you don't know jest how bad things are, Connie." "Blakeman wrote me the ranch had been losing money the past year. Is that what you mean, Lefty?" "Things have been runnin' down hill ever since he took over, Connie. Blakeman's handled the ranch with a high hand. First he fired Pete and Shorty----" "He discharged them?" Connie gasped. "Why I thought they left of their own accord----" "Well, they didn't. They didn't see eye to eye with Blakeman so he told 'em to go. 'Course you know how the cattle market's been the last few years. An' Blakeman seems to have a talent for sellin' at the bottom. Truth is, things are in a purty bad way." "I mean to have a talk with Blakeman tomorrow," Connie declared. "If he doesn't wish to handle the ranch as I say, I'll find a new foreman." "You can't do that, Connie." "Why can't I? Isn't this my ranch?" "It was your ranch," said the cowboy quietly, "but I reckon now that the First National Bank has a strangle hold on it. They have a couple of notes----" "Yes, Blakeman wrote me about that," Connie interrupted, "but I understood the debt was only a small one." "It's enough so the bank can take over any time. For the past year Blakeman has paid the interest out of his own pocket--or so he claims. And you're owin' him more than a year's back salary. So you see, unless you're supplied with ready cash, you can't tell him to go." "I begin to understand," murmured Connie. "Blakeman is a slick sort of fellow, Connie. You want to think your way and move slow." And with that bit of sage advice, Lefty Forbes moved off toward the barn. CHAPTER II The Coming Rodeo Connie was abroad at dawn the next morning. Dressed in riding clothes, she let herself out of the ranch house and went to the barn where Silvertail was stabled. The big gray turned his head at her approach and gave a low whinny of welcome. Connie laughed with delight as she patted the mane on his glossy neck. "You did miss me, Silvertail," she said softly. "And how lonesome I've been for you!" She led the horse from the barn, and with a quick, agile spring vaulted on his back. Connie needed no saddle. She had learned to ride bareback as a child, and when it came to handling a high spirited horse there were few cowboys who were her equal. Turning her mount eastward toward the rising sun, the girl dug in her heels. Silvertail snorted and the dust rolled from under his hoofs. The rhythmic, regular beat of the steel shoes came as music to Connie's ears. Silvertail's action, as always, seemed nothing short of marvelous. He ran smoothly and easily, obedient to the slightest touch of his mistress. Connie rode him with body bent low, the wind whipping her hair about her face. "We've gone far enough," she said at last, turning back toward the ranch. As they came up to the corrals, Lefty Forbes emerged from the bunkhouse. Connie slid to the ground, her face flushed, her eyes bright with excitement. "Oh, Lefty, Silvertail is marvelous!" she declared. "In all the world there's not a horse to compare with him." "Nor a rider who stacks up with you," replied the cowboy affectionately. "I suppose you saw the posters advertisin' the rodeo." "No! When is it coming, Lefty?" Connie asked eagerly. "Next week. Entries close Thursday night. They're offerin' some good prizes this year. Five hundred dollars for the best gal bronco rider. I remember you won out in that event when you were just a kid----" "I'm afraid I was a better rider then than I am now," said Connie. "I've been out of practice for three years." "You can still ride circles around all the girls in this county," Lefty insisted loyally. "It might be an easy way to pick up some money." "Or a few broken bones," added Connie with a laugh. "No, I think I'll let someone else try for that five hundred dollars." After breakfast she asked Forest Blakeman if she might have a talk with him. "I reckon you can," he replied with a frown. "It's time you learn just how matters are around here. I hate to tell you, Miss Connie, but the old Rainbow is headed for the rocks." "You gave me no hint of it in your letters," said Connie. "Didn't see what good it would do to worry you. We might have made it if the bottom hadn't fallen out of the cattle market. Lost a thousand dollars on our last shipment." "My father always made money from this ranch. It's considered one of the best in New Mexico." "Times have changed since your Dad was alive, Miss Connie. Most of the smart ranchers have gone into the Dude business." "Then why can't we do the same?" demanded Connie. "The ranch house would hold at least a dozen guests. If necessary we could build on an extra wing and----" "It takes money to make improvements, Miss Connie." The foreman spoke with a slight sneer which was not lost upon the girl. "Can't we raise even a few hundred dollars? That would be enough to get us started." "We can't raise a dime--not a dime. Our credit has been stretched to the limit. Fact is, there's a note coming due for fifteen hundred dollars at the First National--that's next month. If you're not able to meet it, I'm afraid you're going to lose the ranch, Miss Connie." Connie stared at the foreman thoughtfully. She had not realized that matters could be so bad. "You should have told me about it months ago," she murmured. "No one could have done a better job than I of managing this ranch," the foreman snapped. "I've worked night and day at the job. I've even advanced my own money to pay interest on the ranch debts. My own salary hasn't been paid for months!" "I wasn't blaming you," Connie said quickly. "I just wish you hadn't kept these things from me. What do you think is the best for us to do?" "If the bank won't renew your note you're through," replied the foreman bluntly. "I can't advance any more of my own money." "I certainly don't expect it of you," said Connie quietly. "Tomorrow I'll drive in to town and see the banker." After Blakeman had gone to the barn, she sat for a long while on the top rail of the high corral, gazing toward the distant mountains. She felt very alone and for the first time in her life, inadequate to the situation. For some reason which she could not have explained, she did not like Forest Blakeman. Nor could she entirely trust him. He had badly mismanaged the Rainbow Ranch, she believed, allowing the quality of the stock to run down and the buildings to deteriorate. But she could not discharge him because she owed him money. "Lefty is right," Connie thought uncomfortably. "I'll have to move carefully." The girl sat watching the horses which had been herded into the smaller pens. A sorrel in particular held her attention for only the night before one of the cowboys had told her that the animal was as yet unbroken. Presently Lefty and Alkali Pete came out of the barn with a saddle. They grinned at Connie as they stopped by the corral. "Now you'll see some fun," said Lefty grimly. "Old Firewater has a wicked look in his eye this morning." Connie watched with keen interest as Lefty's swinging rope started the sorrel to running in wide circles around the corral. Then the lariat flashed out, stopping the animal neatly. While the two cowboys were trying to get the saddle on, the sorrel snorted and snapped his teeth and fought at their slightest touch. Connie slid down from the fence. "Lefty, let me ride Firewater," she pleaded. "Not this baby, Connie," said the cowboy. "He's thrown me twice." "Oh, Lefty, don't be stubborn. You know I can do it. Anyway, I'm not afraid to wipe up a little corral dust. It won't be the first time." "Quit your teasin'," muttered Lefty. But in the end he gave in, just as Connie knew he would. When the sorrel was saddled, the cowboys blindfolded him, and held his head between them until Connie was mounted. Then the ropes were released and the blindfold jerked away. "Yip-ee!" yelled Lefty, jumping aside. "Ride 'im, Connie!" For an instant Firewater stood perfectly still. Then he ducked his head, shot up into the air and came down stiff-legged. At every jump he seemed to go a little higher and strike the ground harder. Connie's slender little body whipped back and forth as she waved her hat and used her rowels. But after a few minutes Firewater stopped bucking and the girl rode him off across the sage. She came back flushed and triumphant. "Nice work," praised Lefty as she slid to the ground. "Lefty, I've been thinking over what you said about the rodeo," Connie declared slowly. "Do you really believe I'd have any chance to win that prize for bronco riding?" "I sure do, Connie. No girl around here would have a chance against you, unless maybe it might be Enid Bradshaw." "I could use five hundred dollars right now," Connie went on soberly. "I've decided to go out for it, Lefty." "The boys from the Rainbow will sure be pullin' for you." "I'll have to get busy and practice up," Connie declared. "Until rodeo time I expect to be one big black and blue spot." Rather well pleased with her decision to enter the contest, the girl spent the afternoon making an inspection of the ranch. Everywhere she found evidence of careless management. "If only I could win five hundred dollars in the rodeo, I'll be able to pay Blakeman everything I owe him," she thought. "Then I can get rid of him." After her long ride over the range, Connie felt more at peace with the world. Supper was over when she saw a lone rider turn in at the gate. "Why, that's Pop Bradshaw!" the girl thought as she recognized the stout rancher. She quickly arose from the porch and went to meet him. "Hello, there, Connie," beamed the old man as he stiffly dismounted. "Didn't know you were back home." "Yes, I arrived yesterday," Connie answered as she shook hands. "How is Enid?" "Oh, fine, fine. She's grown a lot since you saw her last, but for that matter, so have you. Blakeman here, I suppose?" "Why, yes, he's out at the barn," Connie replied. She wondered what had brought Pop Bradshaw to the ranch but did not like to ask. "Ride over an' see Enid," the old rancher invited cordially. "She'll be right glad to visit with you again." "I'll do that," Connie promised. The old rancher went on toward the barn. Connie sat down on the steps again. "I wonder what business Pop has with my foreman?" she reflected. "If it's anything to do with the ranch, I'm the one he should see. But I don't seem to cut much ice around here." Since her arrival Connie had felt somewhat like a guest. She had been treated with the greatest of politeness by Forest Blakeman, but he paid scant attention to any suggestion which she offered. His attitude rather than his words had given her to understand that he did not consider her opinions worthy of notice. Connie was thinking of going indoors when Pop Bradshaw and the foreman emerged from the barn. Pop was leading a horse. In the gathering dusk the girl could not be certain which animal it was. But as the two men came closer she saw that it was Silvertail. The foreman did not notice Connie sitting on the porch. He said to Pop Bradshaw: "Well, you've made a good bargain this time. You've bought a fine hoss." Connie wondered if she had heard correctly. But she could not doubt her own ears, and besides, she saw that the rancher was preparing to lead Silvertail away. "Just a minute please," she said, stepping forward. "Mr. Blakeman, why is Pop Bradshaw taking my horse?" "Why, I bought him a few days ago," answered the rancher before the foreman could reply. "You bought Silvertail?" Connie echoed in amazement. "But he's my horse. I'd not sell him to anyone." "Now be reasonable, Miss Connie," interposed Blakeman. "We need money and Silvertail's not much use as a cow pony. I thought the best thing to do would be to get rid of him." "You might have consulted me," retorted Connie, striving to control her anger. "I don't aim to take your hoss if you feel thet way about it," Pop Bradshaw said hastily. "It's nothin' to me one way or the other." "Thank you, Pop," replied Connie gratefully. "I couldn't possibly let Silvertail go. Mr. Blakeman quite overstepped his authority." The foreman's dark eyes flashed angrily, but he made no comment until after the rancher had ridden away. "You made a mistake, Miss Connie," he said coldly. "You may not get another chance to sell to a good owner like Pop." "I'll not sell Silvertail to anyone!" "I hope you're right," returned the foreman with a shrug. "But after you've talked with the banker you may get a different idea!" CHAPTER III Bad News Forest Blakeman's words gave Connie a strange feeling. For a moment it had seemed to her that the foreman took satisfaction in knowing that she was fighting with her back to the wall. It was almost as if he wished to see her lose Rainbow Ranch. She brushed aside the thought. After all, had not Blakeman gone without his salary for many months in an effort to stave off financial ruin? It was unjust of her to question his motives. But it would be hard for her to forgive him for trying to sell Silvertail. Early the next morning Connie took the car and drove in to Red Gulch. She was waiting at the door of the First National Bank when it opened at nine o'clock. "Come right in, Miss Carl," invited the president, leading the way to his private office. Connie thought he glanced at her a bit appraisingly as she seated herself opposite him. She came straight to the point. "Mr. Haynes, I wanted to talk to you about our note which is coming due in a few days." "Oh, yes," murmured the banker. "On the sixteenth, I believe. I trust you are prepared to pay it." "Well, no, I'm not," Connie admitted. "But with a six months' extension----" "I am afraid that is impossible, Miss Carl," the banker said quickly. "I should like to do it, of course, but I must think of my depositors." "But Mr. Haynes, you don't realize what this will mean!" Connie cried. "I'll lose my ranch--everything! If only I had a little more time, even three months----" The banker smiled tolerantly but shook his head. "If you had a year, Miss Carl, it would not help. Ranching is no longer the profitable industry it was in your father's time." "I could make it pay if only I had a little time," Connie insisted desperately. "I'd take summer boarders--dudes from the city." "I fear you haven't the capital for that," smiled the banker. "I know exactly how you feel, Miss Carl, and I only wish I might help you." Connie left the bank feeling discouraged and almost ill. Mr. Haynes' attitude had stunned her. She had never believed that he would refuse to extend the note. "Somehow I must raise fifteen hundred dollars before the sixteenth of the month," she told herself grimly. "But how? There's no possible way." Connie crossed over to the grocery store where she bought a box of supplies to take back to Rainbow Ranch. She chatted for a few minutes with the genial owner, Joe Ferris, who had known her since she was a child. It was well after the noon hour when finally she started home. The girl drove automatically, her mind absorbed with the problem which beset her. Upon reaching the ranch she avoided Blakeman, feeling that she could not bear to talk with him in her present mood. Slipping out to the barn she saddled Silvertail and went for a run through the sage. The rush of cool air seemed to quiet her nerves. She rode toward the vermilion cliffs, following an indistinct trail but one which Connie knew well. Suddenly Silvertail shied. The girl was startled to see a man lying on the ground ahead of her. Instantly she thought that it was someone in hiding, then she saw that he lay perfectly still. Springing from the saddle, Connie ran to him and dropped on her knees. He was a lean young man, clean-shaven and pale. She had never seen him before. "Are you hurt?" she gasped. The man stirred, opened his eyes and tried to smile. "Water," he mumbled. Connie ran to get it from her canteen. She pressed the container to the man's lips and he drank thirstily. "Not too much," she warned. Tearing off the sleeve of her blouse she sopped it in water and sponged his forehead. "How did you get here?" she asked. "Where is your horse?" "Haven't any," the man mumbled. "I walked from Red Gulch." "You walked!" exclaimed Connie. "No wonder you had a touch of heat. You're a stranger around these parts, aren't you?" "I guess maybe I am," the man admitted. "I'm looking for a job. They told me in Red Gulch I might get one out at Rainbow Ranch. I started walking but I couldn't find the place." "Why, you're at Rainbow Ranch now," declared Connie. "But as for getting a riding or cowboy job----" "I can ride even if I don't own a horse," the man said quickly. "My name is Jim Barrows." "I'm real glad to meet you," replied Connie smiling. She liked the young man but she doubted very much that he could ride or that he knew anything about ranch work. A cowboy never would have tried to walk the distance from Red Gulch, nor would one accustomed to outdoor life have been affected by the sun. Jim Barrows obviously was a tenderfoot. "Here, let me help you," she said kindly as the man tried to raise himself. "If you're able to ride my horse I can get you to the ranch house. Or maybe it would be better to go for help." "No, I can make it," Jim Barrows insisted. "My head isn't so woozy now." Connie helped him into the saddle, observing that he really did know how to mount. Then she led Silvertail down the trail. "What made you think of getting a job at Rainbow Ranch?" she asked presently. "They told me in Red Gulch that the place was badly in need of a few good men. I guess the ranch has been run by a girl who lives in the East and she's let it go to pieces." Connie bit her lip and avoided looking at Jim Barrows. "I need a job mighty bad," the man went on. "Fact is, I've not had a square meal in a week." "I'll see that you get one as soon as we reach the house," Connie promised. "I'm sorry to put you to so much trouble, Miss. Say, do you live near here?" "Yes, at Rainbow Ranch," the girl answered, laughing. "I neglected to tell you my name. I am Connie Carl." "Why, you're the girl who owns the ranch!" "Yes." "Say, I didn't mean anything----" "Don't worry about that," said Connie quickly. "I know what people are saying, and in a way it is true. I trusted too much in the ability of my foreman. About that job, I'll have Blakeman talk with you. We are short handed, but I'm afraid we can't pay very much even for a good cowhand." "I'd be willing to work almost for my grub." "In that case I think we should be able to come to some sort of deal," Connie laughed. Lefty and Alkali were working in the corrals when the girl led the horse into the courtyard. They turned to stare at the stranger. "Lefty!" Connie called. "Come here and help Mr. Barrows into the house. Tell Marie to give him all the food he can eat." "You bet!" replied the cowboy. Supported by Lefty, the stranger walked quite steadily into the kitchen. Connie went to find the foreman. He was not at the barn or in the leather shop, but when she returned a few minutes later to the house, she discovered him talking angrily with Lefty. "Who is this stranger?" he demanded. "What's he doing here?" "You'll have to ask Connie," returned Lefty with a shrug. "I don't know nothin' about it." "I was just looking for you, Mr. Blakeman," said Connie. "I found the man lying on the trail. He's down on his luck and hasn't had a square meal in days. I brought him here. I thought you might find some work for him to do." "We can't pay the men we have now," the foreman snapped. "Anyway, I don't like the looks of this fellow." "I do," said Connie quietly. "My father never would have turned a man away when he was hungry and half-sick." "He's no more sick than you are," retorted the foreman. "I can tell when a guy is puttin' on." "I don't agree with you at all," returned Connie. "What reason would he have for pretending that he was ill?" "I don't like him," said Blakeman stubbornly. "We ought to cut down expenses wherever we can." "A few dollars won't make any difference now. I wish you would hire him, Mr. Blakeman." "We could use a herder," spoke up Lefty. "The cattle in that southeast section have been gittin' out into the road. Another calf was killed yesterday." The foreman glared angrily at the cowboy and started to walk away. "Just a minute," Connie called after him. "I'll tell Barrows that he is hired." "It's your ranch," the foreman said sullenly. "But you're making a mistake!" Connie made no reply but went into the kitchen. Jim Barrows had just finished the ample lunch which Marie had set before him. "I couldn't help overhearing," he said to Connie. "Thanks for going down the line to help me." "We'll be glad to have you work here," smiled Connie. "I hope you didn't get into trouble on my account." Connie shook her head. "Blakeman is only my foreman. I'm really the boss here, but he doesn't seem to realize it. I guess maybe that's because he knows I'll probably lose the ranch in a short while." Connie did not go on for she felt that she had told the stranger too much already. He regarded her curiously but did not ask leading questions. "When do I start work?" he inquired presently. "Why, whenever you feel able," Connie told him. "I'm a lot better already," the man declared heartily. "I'll be ready to go to work in the morning." After Connie had gone, Jim Barrows wandered outdoors. He went out to the corrals and talked for a time with Lefty and Alkali. The foreman coldly ignored him, but the other cowboys tried to be friendly. It came to them by degrees that the stranger knew more about ranch work than they had thought. "There's something queer about that fellow," Lefty confided to Connie later on. "How do you mean?" she asked quickly. "Seems to me like I've seen him before, only I can't remember where," the cowboy said, scratching his shaggy locks. "But I'm dead sure of one thing. Jim Barrows ain't the greenhorn we took him to be." CHAPTER IV The Foreman's Boast Try as she would, Connie could not rest that night. Her mind was a turmoil of worries which made anything but fitful sleep impossible. The girl stood long by her bedroom window, gazing out across the moonlit ranch which had been her childhood home; now her sole possession. She could not rid her mind of the fear that soon her beloved Rainbow would pass into the hands of another owner. At dawn she dressed and sauntered down to the stables. When Connie was a little girl she liked nothing better than to get up early to see the sunrise; and this morning, as the eastern sky reddened against the distant mountains, the old scenes lived again. Connie was startled from her reverie by the sound of masculine voices coming from the bunkhouse. The cowboys were starting the day with their usual round of banter. They talked so loudly that she could not help hearing every word that the men said. "Well, Alkali," Lefty Forbes drawled, "in a few days now me and you can feast our eyes on the champeen bulldogger of these here parts." "Meanin' who?" Alkali asked. "Why, meanin' old Blakeman hisself. To hear him tell it a man would think nobody even heard of bulldoggin' till he came along." "I wouldn't lay no money on him," Alkali said. "The guy is a big loud-speaker." "And that ain't all he is nuther," Lefty added. "He's a washout when it comes to runnin' a ranch. Look at the jam he's got this place into." "Yeah, and Miss Connie walked right into it. What a homecomin'!" "I know. Alkali. And I feel rotten about the whole deal. Miss Connie is one swell kid. If it weren't for her I'd quit today." At that moment the girl saw Forest Blakeman approaching from around the house. She wished to warn Lefty and Alkali. If the foreman heard them there might be trouble. Picking up a large clod of earth she tossed it against the bunk-house door. "Hey, what's that?" Lefty shouted. Both cowboys emerged and looked about. "It was only I," Connie laughed. Then she jerked her head in the direction from which Blakeman approached. "There comes your friend now," she said, her voice lowered. "Oh, that big ape," Alkali muttered, scorn in his voice. The foreman came up to the trio, looking quickly from one to the other. He remarked that Connie was abroad early. "Yes, Mr. Blakeman," she replied. "I couldn't sleep so I wandered down here. Beautiful sunrise, isn't it?" "It's o.k., I reckon." "I think we are going to have fine weather for the rodeo," Connie continued mischievously. "Are you in any of the events, Mr. Blakeman?" "Tell her, Blake!" laughed Lefty and there was an edge to his voice. "Tell her they couldn't run the show without you doin' some fancy bulldoggin'." "Yeah!" Alkali put in. "They don't come no hotter than Blake when he sets himself to dump over a steer by his horns." "Now listen, you two," Blakeman said, perceptibly angered. "I don't have to take any sarcasm from a couple of cow stooges like you! I'll show you what I can do. I'll be on hand for the bulldoggin' and I hope you lugs lay your money against me!" Having delivered himself of this defy, Forest Blakeman turned on his heel and walked off. "We'll be there to see it, won't we, Alkali?" Lefty chortled. "With both of our hair in one braid," Alkali agreed. "Just wait till Blake goes up against Catapult. Boy, oh boy, will that steer ruin him?" Connie did not quite follow the two men's conversation. She wondered who this Catapult might be. "Why, that's Pop Bradshaw's prize bulldoggin' steer, Miss Connie," Lefty explained. "That old hunk of animated baloney has got a neck that's made of pure spring steel." "It sure is," Alkali confirmed. "That steer ain't never been throwed in his whole life. If you ask me there ain't a man a-livin' who can do it, nuther." "He must be quite an animal," Connie remarked, laughing. "Blakeman's been braggin' all winter he's a champeen bulldogger," Alkali went on contemptuously. "No one round here ain't even seen him toss up a cow!" The talk ceased abruptly as Jim Barrows came up from the house. He walked with a firm step and seemed to have fully recovered his strength. "You're to start herdin' in the southeast section," Lefty told him. "I'll ride out that way with you after breakfast," Connie said quickly. "I thought I might go over to the Bradshaw ranch." The stranger nodded and followed Lefty to the corrals. He roped his own horse and did it neatly the girl observed. By the time she had finished breakfast he was ready to start and had saddled Silvertail for her. As they rode along, Connie kept stealing quick glances at her companion. She could not figure him out. Lefty had been right in saying that he was no tenderfoot. But who was he? Connie might have asked a number of direct questions, but she did not. After all, Jim Barrows' business was his own, she thought. She had no call to inquire into his private life. At the Forks the girl said good-bye and rode on toward the Bradshaw ranch where she hoped to renew her friendship with Enid. "It's three long years since we've seen each other," she thought. "I imagine we've both changed a great deal." Connie unhooked the gate without dismounting and galloped up the lane to the ranch house. The sound of hoofbeats brought both Enid and her father to the door. "Connie!" cried Enid, rushing out to meet her. "My, but it's good to see you again." Connie sprang lightly to the ground, tossing the reins over Silvertail's head. "You're surely a wonderful sight for sore eyes yourself!" she declared. "I thought you'd be coming over to see me." Enid glanced quickly at her father and then looked away. "Well--I intended to come--but----" "I know," said Connie quickly, "I haven't been home many days." "Come on into the house," Enid invited. "I hear you happen to own a champion steer by the name of Catapult, Mr. Bradshaw," remarked Connie as she stepped up on the veranda. "Reckon I do," answered the rancher. "I'd love to see Catapult," Connie went on. "All the boys are saying no one can throw him." "Catapult's out on the range now," replied the rancher. It seemed to Connie that his voice was not very friendly. At any rate he did not carry on the conversation. "Come on into the house, Connie," urged Enid hurriedly. Connie spent a pleasant hour with her friend, but there were moments when they both felt ill at ease and at a loss for something to say. "It's only because we haven't seen each other for such a long while," Connie thought. When she left she gave Enid a cordial invitation to ride over to the Rainbow. In the days which followed the girl found much to occupy her time at the ranch. She spent many hours in the saddle practicing for the rodeo. Sometimes she rode alone and occasionally with the new cowhand, Jim Barrows. He had proven himself to be both quiet and efficient, but his very ability seemed to infuriate Forest Blakeman who gave him the most disagreeable tasks about the ranch. Twice Connie drove over to the Bradshaw Ranch. She and Enid had delightful visits and at times they came close to recapturing the old feeling of comradeship which had existed between them. But always Connie sensed that Pop Bradshaw did not seem to like her. At least he never became cordial or even as friendly as upon the day of their first meeting. "Don't mind Pop," Enid said to her once. "He's not himself these days. We've been losing money on the ranch, and you know what this place means to him. He'd rather give an eye than lose it." "I know exactly how he feels," Connie replied. Although she went many times to the Bradshaw Ranch, Enid never once came to the Rainbow. At first Connie was puzzled and then hurt. "I feel almost as if Enid didn't like me at times," she thought. "Can it be that she's jealous because I'll compete against her in the riding contest?" Connie could not really believe that Enid would take such a narrow-minded attitude. Yet something was wrong. She was certain of that. "I'll not go to the Bradshaw Ranch until she comes over to see me," Connie thought. Several days elapsed and Enid did not visit Rainbow Ranch. A sense of hurt gave way to one of indignation. "Well, if that's how she feels about it, I'll show her I really can ride!" Connie told herself grimly. "I'll win that prize if it's the last thing I ever do." That very afternoon she roped Dynamite, one of the most unmanageable horses on the ranch. Despite the efforts of every cowboy at the Rainbow, Dynamite had never been successfully broken. "Connie, you're plumb crazy to try it," Lefty told her. "That hoss is a sunfisher. He'll go over on his back sure as shootin'." Connie would not be dissuaded. With Lefty's help she saddled the broncho, while the other cowboys came to the corral fence to watch. Then the blindfold was jerked from Dynamite's eyes and the gate swung open. The bronco shot up into the air, twisted and came down with a terrific jar which all but unseated Connie. Again he leaped, seeming to double in the middle. "Ride 'im, Connie!" shouted Lefty. But Dynamite had not played his best trick. He shot straight into the air and before the girl could free herself, came down on his back. Connie was pinned beneath. A yell went up from the cowboys, but it was Jim Barrows who was the first to act. His rope sailed out to catch the fallen bronco, thus preventing Dynamite from running while Connie's feet were still in the stirrups. "Are you bad hurt?" Lefty cried as he and Alkali ran to help her. "No, I'm all right," Connie said shakily. Her face was pale and twisted with pain. "You are hurt, kid," Lefty said, lifting her to her feet. "Just my shoulder," Connie muttered. "No bones busted?" "Not even a little one, Lefty. But I did twist my shoulder pretty hard." Connie tried to laugh and failed completely. "It served me right," she said. "I should have known enough to stay off Dynamite. I was trying to show off." Connie brushed the dirt from her clothes and walked slowly to the house, conscious that the cowboys were watching her soberly. She had done a very foolish thing in trying to ride Dynamite. The penalty was apt to be great. "Unless my shoulder mends rapidly I'll never be able to ride in the rodeo," she thought. "And without that five hundred dollars I haven't a Chinaman's chance of saving the ranch." CHAPTER V Pop Bradshaw's Treachery In the morning Connie's shoulder was so stiff and sore that the slightest movement of her arm gave her great pain. At Lefty's suggestion she rode in to Red Gulch to consult old Doctor Horn. Other than to give her a liniment to rub on, there was nothing he could do. "Just rest the muscles for the next two weeks," he advised. "It will gradually get better." "But I'm planning to ride in the rodeo," Connie declared anxiously. The doctor shook his head. "Don't do anything foolish, Connie. I doubt very much that your shoulder will be well by that time." Connie left the doctor's office feeling as if all her troubles had reached a climax. She knew she had no one to blame save herself, yet that made it no easier. She was walking along, eyes on the ground when she heard her name called. Turning quickly she saw Nate Jordan, an old rancher who had been a close friend of her father's. He operated a profitable dude ranch, the Circle R, near Santa Fe. "Why, hello, Nate!" cried Connie in delight. "What are you doing up in our country?" "You should ask," laughed the rancher. "Didn't I just sell your foreman one of my best steers?" "How should I know?" retorted Connie in a light vein. "After all I'm only the owner of the ranch. You didn't really sell Blakeman a steer?" "Shore did, Connie. Thought you knew all about it." "I certainly didn't," the girl replied soberly. "Nate, Blakeman shouldn't have done that without asking me. I'm so hard up for money I don't know when we'll be able to pay--if ever." "Blakeman settled for cash," the rancher told her. "But if you don't want to go through with the deal it's all right with me. Just have one of your men trundle the steer back to the Circle R." "Did you just now take the animal to the ranch, Nate?" "No, Blakeman came for the steer himself yesterday afternoon. I rode over this way today to see a man." "That's funny," said Connie slowly. "Blakeman didn't say anything to me about buying a steer." "Well, suit yourself about keepin' the animal." "Thanks, Nate," said Connie gratefully. "I'll talk it over with Blakeman when I get back to the ranch." All the way to the Rainbow she puzzled over Blakeman's strange deal with the rancher. She was almost positive that the foreman had not brought a steer to the ranch the previous day. In fact, she remembered seeing him when he rode into the yard and had noticed how tired his pony appeared. "If Blakeman doesn't have enough money to pay salaries, how could he buy a steer?" she reflected. "Especially when we don't need one. There's something mighty queer about this business." The foreman was nowhere about when Connie reached the ranch. However, she asked both Lefty and Alkali if any new stock had been bought and both assured her in the negative. "I believe I'll just wait and see if Blakeman says anything about the matter to me," she thought. Later when the foreman returned she carelessly mentioned that she had seen Nate in town. While Blakeman gave her a quick, sharp glance, he said nothing about the steer. Connie was further puzzled because her inspection of the ranch stock did not reveal an addition to the herds. "Did he buy that steer with his own money or with mine?" Connie speculated. "And where is the animal?" She spent the morning going over the records which Blakeman had kept. The foreman had not been a good bookkeeper and it was almost impossible to tell anything about his figures. "He may have cheated me," the girl thought. "I can't tell. But in any event, it looks as if the ranch will not pay for itself on the present basis. My only hope would be to operate a dude ranch, but I can't do that without money." Connie glanced at the calendar and frowned. Only two more days until the rodeo, and then a scant ten days before the sixteenth. She was certain she could never meet her obligations. "I'd have a chance if I could win a few prizes at the rodeo," she told herself. "Oh, why did I have to cripple myself?" Connie tried to move her right arm and winced with pain. She thought the muscles weren't quite as sore as they had been. Perhaps she would enter the riding contest anyway. The girl was sitting moodily by the window when she heard hoofbeats in the courtyard. Enid came riding up to the door. Connie's depression vanished as if by magic and she rushed out to greet the ranch girl. "Oh, Connie, I just heard about how you hurt yourself!" Enid cried as she alighted and looped her lines over the hitching post. "Will you be out of the rodeo?" "I'm not sure," Connie answered. She felt warmed because Enid had cared enough to ride over to the ranch. At the same time she was ashamed because she had doubted the girl's friendliness. "Oh, I hope you are able to ride," Enid went on. "It will be too mean if you're forced out of the contest." "Do come in and stay for lunch," Connie invited cordially. "Oh, no I can't," Enid said hastily. "I really shouldn't have come, only Dad went to town to see a man----" She broke off in confusion as if she had revealed too much. "Doesn't your father like you to come here?" Connie asked quietly. "Well, he--oh, it isn't that," Enid began to stammer. "I can't explain, Connie, but Pop has changed lately. He isn't himself--he----" "I think I understand," Connie said quietly, although she didn't at all. "I hope I'll see you at the rodeo," Enid declared hastily. "I'll have to be riding back now." Without looking directly at her friend, she sprang into the saddle and rode from the yard. "Pop Bradshaw has told her to keep away from me," Connie thought shrewdly. "One would think I might be a brand of poison! There's something going on around here that I don't understand." Scarcely had Enid left the courtyard when Forest Blakeman strode up to where Connie was standing. "Wasn't that Enid Bradshaw?" he asked curtly. "Yes." "Did she want to see me?" "If she did, she forgot to mention it." The foreman made no reply, but turned and walked swiftly toward the barn. A few minutes later Connie saw him ride away down the road. It occurred to her as she watched the disappearing figure that in the past few days Blakeman had made many unexplained trips. "I'd like to find out where he's going," she decided impulsively. "It may be a sneaking trick to follow, but that's exactly what I shall do!" Connie saddled Silvertail and without telling anyone of her purpose, rode in pursuit of Blakeman, taking care to keep a long distance behind him. In a very short time she was convinced that he was on his way to Red Gulch. "He's probably going there to buy nails or something of the sort," the girl thought. "But since I've come this far I may as well keep on." Connie lagged even farther behind, for she did not wish the foreman to suspect that he was being trailed. When she finally came into Red Gulch Blakeman was nowhere in sight, but she saw his mare tied up in front of the pool hall. Connie had no errands to occupy her time so she thought she would drop over to the doctor's office. "You should never ride in the rodeo," he said to her after he had examined her shoulder. "But I know it's no use to tell you that. So go ahead." "Thank you, doctor," laughed Connie. She left his office feeling in a much better mood. Suddenly she slackened her speed as she saw Forest Blakeman just ahead of her. He was entering the Norton Cafe. Connie was quite certain he had not seen her. She walked slowly on, wondering whether or not to return to Rainbow Ranch. Although she had tied Silvertail on a side street, the foreman might see the horse. Then of course he would know that she had followed him unless she had a ready excuse for her trip to town. Connie was so absorbed with her thoughts that she bumped squarely into a heavy-set man who was coming from the opposite direction. It was Pop Bradshaw. "Why, hello, Pop!" said Connie. "'Mornin'," responded the old rancher uneasily. He turned and entered the Norton Cafe. Connie glanced curiously through the plate glass window. Forest Blakeman was nowhere in sight so she knew that he must have stepped into one of the ice cream booths. And now Pop Bradshaw disappeared from sight in a similar manner. "It looks to me as if they are meeting each other by appointment," Connie mused. "What business can they be having together?" Her suspicions aroused, Connie quietly entered the cafe, seating herself in a booth adjoining the one occupied by the two men. She knew they were there for she could hear their voices. "I'd not advise you to double cross me, Pop!" Blakeman said distinctly although in a low tone. "This is a fine time to get cold feet!" "Don't get excited now," returned Pop in a quavery voice. "I'll do as I said. I'm only sayin' it goes agin' my grain to play it on the boys thet way with them all thinkin' I've entered Catapult in the rodeo same as always." By this time Connie was all attention. She leaned closer to the wall so that she would not miss a single word. "Let's get this straight," said the cool voice of the foreman. "I paid you five hundred dollars to keep that old horned rhinoceros of yours out of the show. You agreed and took the money and now you're cryin' around about me playin' it dirty on the boys. You knew it was dirty before you took the money, didn't you?" "I didn't realize it then, I reckon. I'm ready and willin' to pay you back." "And leave me holdin' the sack! Oh, no you don't! Where have you got that steer now?" "Oh, he's safe enough," replied the rancher. "He's in the mountain meadow." "Then see that he stays there until after the rodeo," said the foreman. "Deliver Nate's steer to the rodeo barns tomorrow just as I told you. That's all you have to do." Connie waited to hear no more. Quietly she slipped away from the cafe. CHAPTER VI Kidnaping Catapult Connie felt a trifle stunned by the conversation which she had overheard. "I'd never have believed it if I hadn't heard with my own ears," she thought. "Pop Bradshaw, who has stood for everything honest and square in this community! For five hundred dollars he means to keep Catapult out of the rodeo, substituting a steer which Blakeman will be sure to throw in the bulldogging event!" The girl mounted Silvertail and started slowly Back toward the ranch. She rode along in deep thought for a time. "I'll not let Blakeman get by with it!" she exclaimed. "It's a cheap, contemptible trick!" Connie was smiling by the time she reached the ranch. She knew exactly what to do. Calling Lefty and Alkali she asked them casually if bets were running heavy on the bulldogging event. "Sure, Blakeman's goin' to lose his shirt," Lefty grinned. "He's been coverin' everything in sight." "He hasn't a chance against Catapult," added Alkali with satisfaction. "That's just the point I was about to bring up," said Connie quietly. "Supposing another steer should be substituted for Catapult?" "There's no chance of that," declared Lefty. "Pop Bradshaw entered old Catapult two weeks ago." "Well, I've just learned something which will interest you. Pop plans to substitute another steer for Catapult--one which resembles him in appearance, I judge." Connie then repeated every word of the conversation she had heard in the restaurant. "Why, the dirty crook!" exclaimed Lefty. "No wonder Blakeman was so willin' to cover all bets. He thought he'd clean up pretty!" "We got to do something about this!" muttered Alkali. "Let's protest to the committee." "An' spoil all the fun?" said Lefty. "No, I got a better idea! We'll kidnap old Catapult tonight and sneak him into the rodeo barns! Then Pop can't squawk without givin' himself and the whole scheme away." "That idea ain't nothin' to whoop 'em up about," complained Alkali. "That mountain medder is in plain sight of Pop's house. It's surrounded by hills and there's just one way out. That's down the trail past Pop's buildings." "We can do it real quiet-like so he won't ketch us," insisted Lefty. "Don't you reckon Catapult's tracks on the trail will show?" Alkali asked jeeringly. "Trust Papa," replied Lefty with a mysterious grin. The two cowboys separated, after pledging Connie to secrecy regarding their proposed adventure. Lefty immediately rode to Red Gulch to hold a confidential consultation with Jack Crawford who was in charge of the barns at the rodeo. In an hour Forest Blakeman returned to the ranch without explaining where he had been. But all that day he was aware of curious stares which followed him. He could feel that something was in the air. Now and then coming unexpectedly upon a group of cowboys he would hear his name being mentioned. In anger he vented his spite upon Jim Barrows. The day passed slowly. Connie went to her room early but she did not go to bed. Instead she read until nearly midnight. Then she snapped out her light and sat by the window. In a short time she saw Lefty and Alkali emerge from the bunkhouse carrying several gunnysacks. At their shrill whistle, she quickly joined them. Alkali led Silvertail and two broncos down to the main road where they all mounted. "What are you planning to do with the gunnysacks?" Connie asked curiously as they rode toward the Bradshaw Ranch. "I'm aimin' to tie 'em on Catapult's hooves so he won't leave no tracks," explained Lefty. "Ain't that the dizziest idear any sane guy ever had?" demanded Alkali. "How we goin' to get gunnysacks on Catapult? Maybe you think he'll just hold up his feet nice an' purty like he was in a shoe shop!" "Now see here," Lefty said sharply. "Are you with me or ain't you?" "Oh, I'm with you all right," drawled Alkali, "but my doubts sure are percolatin'." All was still about the Bradshaw Ranch as the three rode quietly into the mountain meadow. No lights were burning in the house. Connie and the two cowboys tied their horses to a clump of cottonwood trees. Lefty removed the gunnysacks from his saddle and Alkali threw a coil of rope over his shoulder. "It may not be easy to find Catapult," Connie whispered. "This is a big meadow." "Yeah," Alkali added, "he's apt to be roostin' in any one of these thousand acres." "I figure Catapult will be parked by the lake for the night after this blisterin' hot day," said Lefty. "That old uncanned baloney has more sense than his owner." After a brisk walk the three approached the lake. From that point they moved cautiously, crawling forward until they reached the bank. Lefty pulled aside a clump of overhanging tree branches and looked out over the moonlit water. A dark blot appeared at the opposite end of the lake and Lefty's excited fancy envisioned it as a life-sized steer. "It's Catapult, Alkali, sure as you're a cow nurse!" he muttered. "He's standin' in up to his belly, a-swishin' flies with his tail." The three conspirators crept slowly around the little lake to the rear of the place where Catapult's presence was suspected. "It's him!" exclaimed Lefty. "Get your rope ready, Alkali, and if you nail him, tie the other end to this here tree. Then I'll wade out and shoo him in." The rope swished through the air and landed fairly around the big steer's head. Lefty waded out toward the frightened animal, circling around him and splashing water with his cupped hands. Connie watched anxiously because she was afraid that Catapult might turn upon the cowboy and gore him with his sharp horns. But instead. Catapult bolted headlong for shore. "Keep him circlin' 'round the tree," Lefty called to Alkali as he followed the steer ashore. The two cowboys drove Catapult around and around the tree until his head banged into it. Then they roped his front and hind legs together. Catapult fell to the ground and rolled over on his side. "Now come on with them gunnysacks," Lefty said exaultantly. Alkali chuckled as he helped his friend bind the pads on the steer's feet. "Guess we better bring up our hosses before we untie this here bovine," he chuckled. "He'd make us feel like a tail to a kite a hoofin' it." Alkali disappeared into the darkness and soon returned, riding his own horse and leading the other two. "Pass me that rope, Lefty," he directed. "Then you can untie him." The frightened steer arose to his feet with a snort. He eyed his tormentors for a moment and then bolted. Alkali's horse braced and Catapult was brought up sharply. "He'll soon wear out them gunnysacks at this rate," Lefty lamented. "We've got to quiet him down." "Get a rope on him too if you can," Alkali advised. "Move up ahead. I'll stay behind. Then when he makes a pass at you, I'll hold him, and when he lays back you yank him right along with you." Lefty's rope swished through the air and settled neatly over Catapult's thick neck. Then riding ahead, with Alkali's rope leading to the rear, the two cowboys began their task of leading Catapult from the meadow. Connie found it hard to control her laughter. The steer presented such a ludicrous spectacle even in the uncertain moonlight, thumbing along the trail shod in gunnysacks. At times he would stop as if trying to fathom the strange method of torment. Then Lefty's rope would become taut and pull him along. Again he would take a lunge forward in a brave effort to escape but Alkali's rope would stiffen and bring him up short. They emerged from the mountain meadow and turned to the main road. Connie breathed a sigh of relief. And just at that moment Catapult stopped and whiffed the night air. Then he gave voice to the loudest and longest bellow in his system. "If Pop hears that we're sunk," groaned Lefty. A light flickered in the ranch house. "He heard it all right," muttered Alkali. "Now what are we going to do?" asked Connie nervously. "You always have such brilliant ideas. Lefty! Think of something quick!" CHAPTER VII A Midnight Escapade A thicket of small trees and bushes loomed up in the moonlight fifty yards ahead of the trio. Lefty pointed to the spot as he said: "We'll have to park in there and take a chance." Scarcely had the unique cavalcade disappeared into the thicket when Pop Bradshaw and his foreman emerged from the ranch house. They looked about and then walked over to the meadow trail. Connie and the cowboys could hear them conversing in low tones and they saw Pop shoot the beam of his flashlight on the trail. "We must have dreamed it, Sam," he said in a puzzled tone. "The only way out of the meadow is down this trail and there's not a fresh steer track on it. Just a few horse and shoe tracks where some of the boys went in to do a little fishin' at the lake." The two men walked back to the ranch house. "That was a narrow escape," chuckled Connie as Lefty and Alkali started Catapult on the move again. "Sure was," Lefty agreed. "I'll be glad when we get this critter to the rodeo barns." Connie parted company with the cowboys farther on down the road, returning alone to the ranch while they delivered Catapult into the keeping of Jack Crawford. It was after two o'clock when she reached home. Letting herself quietly into the house, she went to bed and slept so soundly that she did not awaken until Marie opened the door in the morning. "Oh, I had no idea it was so late!" Connie cried in dismay. "If I don't hurry I'll be late for the rodeo." As she hurriedly dressed in cowgirl regalia which she planned to wear in the parade, she tried out her shoulder. It was still sore, but she could bear the pain now when she moved it. Connie had coffee and rolls in the patio alone, and then hastened outside. Lefty and Alkali, resplendent in bright colored shirts and silver-trimmed sombreros, were saddling up their broncos ready to start for Red Gulch. Blakeman and Jim Barrows already had left. "How did you come out last night after we parted company?" she asked quickly. "Everything's set," chuckled Lefty. "And you should have heard old Blake a-blowin' around this morning. He thinks he has that bulldoggin' event cinched. Wait 'till Catapult gives him the double 'o'." Connie laughed and declared that she would not miss the fun for anything in the world. Saddling Silvertail she rode into Red Gulch with her friends. On the way in she told them of her determination to compete in the various events open to girls. "You're takin' a big chance with that game shoulder," Lefty declared. "I wouldn't do it if I was you." "That money means a lot to me," Connie replied soberly. "If I could win the five hundred dollar prize, I might be able to raise enough extra so I could meet my bank obligations. Then I'd be able to keep the ranch." "We'll sure be a-pullin' for you, Connie," Alkali declared warmly. Red Gulch was jammed with visitors even at such an early hour. The town was decorated with flags; bands, playing slightly off key, marched up and down the streets. Cowboys in big hats and high-heeled boots lounged in the doorways of buildings calling out friendly greetings to passers-by. Indians from nearby reservations added to the crowd. At the entrance of the Fairgrounds Connie parted with her friends. While she went to the rodeo barn to look over the horses. Lefty and Alkali wandered toward the arena. Immediately an official hailed them. "I can use you boys," he said. "I want you to keep everyone except rodeo officers, performers and owners out of the ring." Lefty and Alkali leaped the fence and strolled about observing the fast-gathering throngs that swarmed into the terraced tiers of the wooden grandstand. Men in charge of the day's activities hustled about on horseback, calling orders, while a group of starters and judges conferred at the distant end of the arena. Suddenly Lefty's eyes were arrested by the sight of Pop Bradshaw talking with Forest Blakeman near the arena fence. An intriguing idea flashed into his mind. What could be sweeter than for Pop to be among those immediately present when Catapult magically appeared in place of the steer which he believed had been substituted? "Come on in. Pop," he called. "We want you in here to see that Catapult gets a square deal." The idea delighted the crowd. The old man hesitated but friendly hands seized and boosted him over the fence. Connie, who understood the prank which the cowboys were playing on Pop, felt rather sorry for him. But she had no sympathy for Forest Blakeman. He was swaggering about the arena, his attitude proclaiming that already he had been named the champion bulldogger. As Connie stood by the fence, Jim Barrows sauntered over. After making a few casual remarks he fell silent, but the girl noticed that his gaze followed Blakeman almost constantly. "Your foreman reminds me of someone," he said thoughtfully. "That's funny," laughed Connie. "Blakeman was saying almost the same thing to me about you. By the way, where did you work before you came to the Rainbow, Jim?" "Oh, one place and another," the man answered vaguely. "Mostly on ranches down in Texas." Without giving Connie an opportunity to ask another question, he moved away. "He certainly means to keep his past his own," the girl reflected thoughtfully. "I never met anyone so reserved. I wonder if perhaps he hasn't been in trouble sometime?" Connie dismissed the matter from her mind because it was time for the opening parade. She rode in it, side by side with Enid Bradshaw. The other girl nodded almost curtly to Connie, offering no remark save to ask about her injured shoulder. Connie tried not to show her hurt at Enid's attitude. It only made her more determined than ever to win in the riding event. The preliminary contests were quickly run off. Roping events, steer riding and Indian races excited but passing interest. At last the bulldogging event was called. Several cowboys from the Bar Six Ranch performed with a skill which brought cheers from the crowd. The steer was allowed a thirty foot start after he had rushed from the pen. Then horse and rider were after him, with a hazer to keep the animal in a straight course. Catching the steer by the horns, the cowboy would hurl himself from the saddle, and twist the animal's horns until he rolled over in the dust. "Bring on Blakeman!" shouted the crowd. "Let's see him throw Catapult!" Lefty glanced anxiously toward the stanchion, trying to catch Jack Crawford's eye. He need have had no fears, for just then the gate opened and a large rangy animal was driven in. Shouts of "Catapult! Catapult, do your stuff!" informed Forest Blakeman that something had gone amiss. It dawned upon him instantly that Pop Bradshaw had double crossed him. Despite his anger he realized that there could be no retreat. To default would be to make himself ridiculous, and brand himself a coward. He waved to the crowd and rode alongside the stanchion. As the bars dropped. Catapult rushed out into the arena. Partisans of the animal greatly outnumbered those of the man and cries of, "Throw him, Catapult," muffled occasional urgings of, "Throw him, cowboy!" Blakeman appeared oblivious of the crowd as he drove home his spurs and rushed pell mell after the fleeing steer. They traversed nearly the full length of the arena before the sorrel overtook the steer and raced him head to head. Then Blakeman shot through the air in a perfect leap as if hurled from the saddle by the uncoiling of a gigantic spring. Headforemost he dived, his body parallel to the ground. He grasped Catapult's horns and brought him to a standstill. Then, exerting the last iota of his strength, Blakeman made a supreme effort to bring the animal to the ground. Catapult's head slowly turned under the tremendous force of the man's tensed muscles. But he suddenly snorted and with a sharp toss of his head, hurled his tormentor into the air. Blakeman sprawled into soft turf, twenty feet away. The crowd roared its delight; the air became thick with sailing sombreros. Lefty and Alkali laughed until they collapsed weakly against the fence. "And him claimin' to be a champeen bulldogger!" Lefty jeered. Blakeman arose unhurt but with a mighty anger surging through him. Not a dozen paces away he saw Pop Bradshaw, the man he believed to be the author of his downfall. Furiously, he advanced upon the embarrassed rancher. "So you double crossed me!" he said menacingly. "You'll pay for this!" "I didn't know anything about it," whined the old man. Apparently aware that any violence upon the person of Pop Bradshaw would only draw the anger of the crowd, Blakeman turned and limped away. He was followed by the boos of the throng. "Guess that ought to put a damper on his braggin' for a while," Lefty grinned. "I'll bet Pop spends the rest of his life wonderin' how Catapult got out of the mountain medder too!" His voice died quickly away for the announcer was calling the next event. It was the bronco riding contest for girls. "Where's Connie?" Lefty muttered. With one accord he and Alkali turned the chutes. They saw the girl, white-faced and grim, perched on the fence, waiting for her turn to ride. The two cowboys crowded close enough to speak an encouraging word. "Good luck, Connie!" grinned Lefty. "I'll need it," Connie replied with a forced smile. "I've drawn Tanglefoot--the worst bronco in the lot." CHAPTER VIII A Rescue As Lefty and Alkali both knew well, Tanglefoot was a wild bronco which had brought the downfall of more than one ambitious rodeo rider. If Connie were able to handle him she might win the grand prize, but even the two cowboys doubted that she had the skill. Connie was the fifth rider. Before her there were three local girls whose riding while good was not particularly colorful. The fourth contestant, Enid Bradshaw, by far outpointed her opponents. She knew she had done well and a satisfied smile played over her face as she left the arena. "I'll have to ride as I never did before if I beat that!" thought Connie. Her turn came next. She mounted Tanglefoot from the fence. "Let her go!" As the shout went up, the gate flew open, and out streaked the roan, landing with a running buck in the midst of the judges, forcing them to wheel their horses. A ripple of comment passed over the crowd. Here was a girl who could ride! Tanglefoot, too, acted as if he were surprised. For a moment he seemed to be debating the disgrace of his failure to dislodge his fair rider. Then the wiry little mustang went into a veritable paroxysm of bucking. Connie never knew that seconds could spin out to such an interminable length. The horse leaped into the air, twisting his lithe body like an ancient equine ancestor trying to shake off a puma or a jaguar from his back. Down he would come, stiff-legged, and then rise again into the air as if his muscles were made of spring steel. From her waist up Connie held her body as relaxed as possible, at the same time shifting her weight with lightning-like rapidity to preserve her balance. Her torso remained vertical to the ground, regardless of Tanglefoot's rapid maneuvers. Waving her hat with her rein-free hand, the girl kept a graceful seat through it all. Tanglefoot's best was not good enough. Connie at last heard the timekeeper's pistol. The contest was over as far as she was concerned. She felt that she had acquitted herself well and she was sure of it when she heard the cheers of the crowd ringing in her ears. Leaping from Tanglefoot's saddle to the back of another horse led by the hazer, she galloped in triumph from the ring. "That was wonderful ridin'," Lefty told her proudly, a few minutes later. "If you don't win the prize then the judges have been bought off!" Connie watched anxiously as four other girls took their turns in the contest. One was thrown while the other three had drawn horses which did not require a high degree of skill to ride. "It's in the bag, Connie!" whispered Lefty excitedly. And he was right. A few minutes later the announcer rode forth to broadcast through his megaphone that Connie Carl had won first prize in the riding contest. "Oh, Lefty!" the girl cried, fairly overcome by her good fortune. "Just think! Five hundred dollars! And maybe I'll win more before the day is over." Connie had entered her name in a free-for-all race as well as a roping contest. In the latter event she placed third, netting a cash award of fifty dollars. Second prize in the running race brought her an additional two hundred dollars. It was a proud moment for Connie when she stepped forward to claim her ribbons and a slip of paper which represented seven hundred and fifty dollars. Jim Barrows, separating himself from the crowd, come over to the fence to congratulate the girl. "What will you do with so much money?" he asked jokingly. "I could use six times as much!" Connie laughed. "I think I'll take it home and hide it under the bed. I know one thing! Not a cent will be deposited in the First National Bank." "You don't trust the banker?" smiled the cowboy. "He and I don't feel too friendly toward each other." "Seriously though, Miss Carl, you're not thinking of carrying that money on your person?" "Why not?" asked Connie quickly. "I'll cash the check just before I start for the ranch." "Aren't you afraid someone might rob you?" Such a thought had never even occurred to Connie. "There hasn't been a holdup around here since the stagecoach stopped running!" she laughed. "Besides, no one could ever get this money away from me." Jim Barrows said no more, but after chatting for a few minutes wandered off again. It was the longest conversation he had ever carried on with Connie. "He really acted as if he were worried about my money," the girl thought. The rodeo was drawing to a close and already many persons were leaving the stands. Connie's eye wandered over the crowd. She wondered what had become of Pop Bradshaw and Enid. She had not seen the old rancher since the bulldogging event, nor had the girl appeared to congratulate her upon winning out in the bronco riding contest. "In her heart I don't believe Enid really likes me," Connie told herself. "And from now on it will be harder than ever for us to be friends." She turned her attention once more to the arena. Only one more event remained on the day's program, an Indian race. At the opposite side of the track she could see the ponies being lined up. They were small, sleek, beautiful animals, so high spirited that their riders had trouble holding them in position. The Indians themselves, adorned with bright sashes, paint and feathers, added a colorful note to the scene. The start of the race was delayed and the crowd grew more impatient. An increasing number deserted the stands, many leaving the bleachers to crowd against the fence. A portion of it gave way causing a momentary flurry of excitement. "Back from the track, folks!" warned one of the guards, but when he moved off a minute later, the crowd swarmed through the opening again. No one noticed that a child, separated from its parents, stood alone just inside the break of the fence. Then at last the starter's pistol cracked and the racers were off! Down the track in a cloud of dust came the ponies, their bareback riders bent low as they urged their mounts to greater speed. At that moment, the child, unaware of any danger, started to toddle across the track. Midway to the other side the little girl saw the oncoming horses and heard the thundering hoofs. Frozen by terror she stopped and stood perfectly still. "That child will be killed!" screamed a woman. Before any of the guards could act, Connie slid down from the fence. The racers were almost at the grandstand. With no thought for her own safety, the girl darted out onto the track, directly in the path of the onrushing horses. CHAPTER IX Mr. Postil's Offer Connie rushed forward and snatched the child up in her arms. With the riders bearing down upon her, she dived head foremost, rolling over and over at the side of the track. The horses thundered past, and were lost in a cloud of dust. The crowd, thrilled by Connie's act of bravery, surged forward. In vain the guards sought to keep the arena clear. Friendly hands seized Connie and the child, lifting them to their feet. The little girl was crying piteously, but more from fright than because she had been hurt. Her only injury was a slight bruise on her arm. "Are you all right, Baby?" Connie asked. "You threw me down in the dirt," the little girl said accusingly. "Just look at my pretty dress! I'm not a baby either!" "Of course you're not," agreed Connie soothingly. "What is your name?" Just at that moment a stout gentleman came hurrying up. He caught the child in his arms, hugging her tightly. Without saying a word he brushed the child's disheveled hair out of her eyes and mopped the dirt from her face with his handkerchief. "I don't believe she's hurt, sir," declared Connie. "Only shaken up a bit." The old gentleman seemed too shocked by the accident to make any reply. Connie started to move away. "No, wait, please," he requested. "You saved my granddaughter's life. I must talk with you." "Anyone would have done the same, sir," Connie responded, smiling. "I just happened to be close to the fence." "I saw it all," the old man declared. "You risked your life to save the child. It was magnificent." "Oh, hardly that," said Connie, flushing with embarrassment. "I didn't know Doris had wandered away until I saw her on the track," the old gentleman went on. "I was stunned--paralyzed for I thought surely she would be killed. The child is all I have in the world." "I quite understand," Connie murmured. "I haven't told you my name," the man said offering an engraved card. "I am James Postil." Connie, after introducing herself, glanced at the card, noticing that it bore a New York address. She remarked that Mr. Postil was a long way from home. "Yes, I am spending my vacation in the Southwest," he explained. "My granddaughter and I came out here to live at one of these dude ranches for a few weeks." "I hope you found a nice place and that you're having an enjoyable time," Connie said pleasantly. "It hasn't turned out that way yet. I was looking for a nice, quiet ranch where Doris could run wild and grow healthy and strong. Perhaps you've heard of Silverhorn Ranch?" "Oh, yes," nodded Connie, "only it isn't really a ranch at all. Don't you find it more on the order of a big tourist hotel?" "That's it exactly! Something going on from morning to night. I've made up my mind to move out. But you're not interested in my difficulties. Tell me about yourself." "There is really nothing to tell," said Connie evasively. "You are too modest, I fear," smiled the old gentleman. "I remember you now. You are the young lady who won the bronco riding contest. Come, let's go somewhere away from the crowd. I'd like to talk with you." By this time Connie had gathered that James Postil was a man of considerable wealth, and she half suspected that he meant to offer her money for saving his grandchild. Of course she would refuse. Mr. Postil seemed to sense the girl's attitude, for he led up to the subject very gradually. First he told her more about himself. The head of a large manufacturing company in the east, he found himself at sixty-eight, lonely and alone in the world save for his one grandchild. "I've done my best to raise her up right," he told Connie, "but Doris has been too much under the care of a governess. That's why I cut loose this summer and brought her out here. I thought I'd try to give her a little personal looking-after. So far the idea hasn't turned out very well." "You'll probably find a more satisfactory place to stay than Silverhorn Ranch, Mr. Postil. I can understand that it wouldn't be suitable for Doris at all." "Here I am, talking about myself again," declared Mr. Postil. "I've not given you an opportunity to tell me a thing about yourself." Connie had not meant to reveal any of her personal troubles, but she found the old gentleman a most sympathetic listener. He interposed a question here and there and before she knew it he had learned the entire story of her financial difficulties. "I don't believe you need to worry any more," Mr. Postil said briskly. "How much is your bank loan?" "Oh, I didn't mean----" "I know you didn't, young lady," smiled Mr. Postil, "but it happens that I owe you a great debt for saving the life of my grandchild. Doris means more to me than anything in the world. Now I'll be only too happy to give you enough money----" "Oh, no," broke in Connie. "I couldn't take a penny." "Call it a loan then." Connie was sorely tempted but she shook her head. "I really think I'll be able to weather the storm unaided," she insisted. "With the seven hundred and fifty dollars I won today, I'll fix the ranch up a bit and advertise for summer boarders. Then if the bank learns I am going ahead in a profitable way, my note may be extended." Mr. Postil asked Connie many questions about Rainbow Ranch. With no conscious attempt to exaggerate she described the wonderful fishing streams and the lake. "We have an extra special attraction, too," she added. "The ruins of ancient cliff dwellings. My father discovered them in the canyon years ago, and experts say they are in as fine a state of preservation as any ruins in the Southwest." "Why, you have everything at your ranch," declared Mr. Postil enthusiastically. "I've been trying to find just such a place. How about taking Doris and me as your first paying guests?" "Why, I'd like to have you," Connie stammered, "only the ranch house isn't fixed up. The food would be plain and there wouldn't be any frills." "That's exactly what I want," Mr. Postil insisted. "I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll finish out the week at Silverhorn, then Monday morning I'll come to your place, and I may be able to round up a few other guests for you. Here's a couple weeks' board and room money in advance." The old gentleman handed her two bills. "Why, you've given me a hundred dollars!" Connie protested. "I can't accept that much." "Take it, take it," Mr. Postil urged carelessly. "I'm a very cranky old man and require a lot of service. You'll find it will be worth that much to keep me." Connie was quite overcome by her good fortune. She tried to thank Mr. Postil for his generosity. "I'm doing myself the service," he declared. "I'll get busy right away and see if I can't locate those friends of mine. If I have any luck I'll send you word." "But you've not even seen the ranch," Connie protested. "You may not like it at all." "I have no worry on that score," said Mr. Postil confidently. After he and Doris had walked away, Connie stood for several minutes with the money held tightly in her hand. It did not seem possible that so many wonderful things could have happened in one day. Yet it was true. "I can't help but succeed if Mr. Postil brings his rich friends to the ranch," she thought excitedly. "But I'll need to hire extra household help and redecorate the bedrooms. Oh, I have a million things I must do." Connie wandered about the rodeo ground searching for Alkali or Lefty. She felt she had to tell someone about her good fortune, but apparently both cowboys had drifted away from the arena. Finally she gave up the search, and presenting her check at the rodeo office, received cash in the amount of seven hundred and fifty dollars. Connie pinned the bills together and fastened the roll inside her shirt pocket. It was after six o'clock by the time she rode Silvertail out of the grounds. The streets still swarmed with people and Red Gulch would be a lively place until the small hours of the morning. But Connie was eager to get back home. The sky in the west glowed rosy pink and slowly darkened. On either side of the lonely road the limestone cliffs were a blaze of reflected color. Connie rode slowly, enjoying the twilight. As she cantered along she made her plans. With eight hundred and fifty dollars she could remodel the ranch house, hire another Mexican woman to help Marie, and still have money left. With even a few paying guests she soon would have all her debts paid. Connie whistled a gay little tune. For the first time since she had returned home from the East, she felt entirely happy. The sun dropped below the horizon line and the distant mountains seemed to cast their dark shadow over the earth. A chill wind sprang up, rustling the ragged branches of the gnarled cedars. Connie shivered and drew her jacket more closely about her. She could feel the cold numbing her fingers. Rainbow Ranch was still many miles away. The narrow road wound and twisted as it steadily climbed toward Eagle Pass. Just ahead was a short tunnel bored in the rock. As they approached it, Silvertail quivered and pricked up his ears. "What's the matter, old boy?" Connie asked softly. She thought someone might be approaching from the opposite direction but she heard no one. It had grown so dark that she could not see far ahead. Yet for some reason Connie shared Silvertail's uneasiness. She rode into the tunnel. As the walls closed in about her, she glanced nervously over her shoulder. It was as if she could feel a presence. Yet of course there could be no one in the tunnel. Connie breathed easier as she saw a circle of light ahead. The tunnel had not been longer than fifty feet yet it had seemed six times that length. Connie relaxed in the saddle, and just at that moment, as she emerged from the tunnel, she heard a horse nicker from the bushes at the side of the road. Before she could turn her head to look, a man rode out in front of her, deliberately blocking the way. A blue bandana handkerchief had been pulled high over his mouth, and a revolver dangled carelessly from his hand. "Pass over the money," he said in a low, grim voice. "And don't try any tricks!" CHAPTER X The Holdup Connie's first impulse was to spur Silvertail into a gallop and try to ride by the holdup man. But an instant's reflection convinced her that such a course would be sheer folly. He might coolly shoot her down. "Hurry up and hand over that money!" the man commanded again. Connie was certain she had heard the voice somewhere before. From the strained manner in which the man spoke she believed that he was disguising his normal tone. "What money?" she asked, stalling for time. "Don't try to bluff," retorted the man curtly. "I know you have it pinned inside your shirt pocket. Will you give it up or shall I take it?" He urged his horse a pace closer. Connie slowly reached up as if to unpin the roll of money. But the thought of handing over her earnings was more than she could bear. Suddenly, throwing caution to the wind, she spurred her horse. Silvertail lunged forward. The holdup man laughed harshly as he seized the horse's bridle bringing him up so sharply that Connie was nearly unseated. "Oh, no you don't!" he said. Connie felt the cold muzzle of a revolver press against her side. Her determination to save the money at all cost ebbed quickly away. She reached up and unpinned the roll of money. The holdup man jerked it from her hand. "Now dismount!" he commanded. Connie hesitated and then slowly obeyed. The masked man gave Silvertail a sharp clip with his quirt which sent the horse racing down the road. Then with a mock bow to Connie, he wheeled his own pony, and disappeared into the brush. For several minutes the girl could hear the thud of hoofs and then all was quiet. Connie stood in the middle of the road, too stunned to move. Every penny of the money she had won at the rodeo was gone! And likewise lost was the hundred dollars given her by Mr. Postil as an advance on his board and room. After a moment Connie started on down the road. She had a long, discouraging walk ahead of her for the nearest habitation was Slocer's Ranch, a full mile away. "This is the cruelest thing that ever happened," Connie told herself bitterly as she trudged along. "All my hopes ended!" A half hour later she pounded on the door of the Slocer ranch house. Connie knew the owners well although she had not seen them since her return from the East. They were two bachelor brothers who worked the ranch in partnership. George Slocer, a man with a bushy red beard, opened the door. For a moment he did not recognize Connie. "May I use your telephone?" she asked quickly. "It's terribly important." "Why, if it isn't Connie Carl!" exclaimed the rancher. "Come right in. You didn't walk all the way here?" "Yes, from Eagle Pass! I was held up." Connie related what had occurred. Then she telephoned the sheriff's office in Red Gulch, asking him to send a posse at once to search for the man. "We'll saddle up and do a little huntin' ourselves," George Slocer promised. "That's the lowest trick I ever heard tell about. Stealing a gal's money!" "I don't believe there's a chance of catching the man now," Connie said glumly. "He's had a good half hour's start." "Did you get a look at him?" the rancher asked. "Not really. It was so dark and he kept the handkerchief over his face." "Didn't recognize the hoss?" "No, it was a dark pony about Silvertail's size. I'm sure it must have been some man who knew me because he disguised his voice." "Likely someone who knew you were carrying the money on your person. Do you remember tellin' anyone you were cashin' the check?" "Why, no--" Connie said, and then recalled that she had spoken to Jim Barrows. He had warned her that she was acting unwisely, but she had taken his advice lightly. "Several persons were standing near when I cashed the check at the rodeo office," she ended, "but I don't remember anyone in particular." "I reckon your money is gone, Connie," the rancher admitted, buckling on his gun belt. "But there's a chance the sheriff may catch the fellow." The Slocer brothers loaned the girl a horse so that she might ride on to Rainbow Ranch while they went to join the sheriff's posse. When Connie finally rode into the courtyard Marie came running out to meet her. The Mexican girl was relieved to see her young mistress, for some minutes before Silvertail had galloped up to the gate without a rider. "Oh, I'm glad Silvertail came home," Connie said in relief. "But I thought he would." She told Marie what had happened and asked if the cowboys had returned from Red Gulch. No one was back. Connie took the borrowed horse to the barn and unsaddled him. Then, feeling discouraged and fairly ill, she went to her own room. Marie rapped a few minutes later and brought in a tray of food and a hot drink. "You are so kind, Marie," Connie said gratefully. "Perhaps food will make me feel better." She had eaten no lunch or supper, yet she did not feel hungry. But rather than disappoint the Mexican girl, she made a pretense of enjoying the food. "What am I to do now?" Connie thought when she was alone once more. "Mr. Postil arrives Monday and nothing will be ready for him. I've accepted his money so I can't turn him away, yet for two weeks he'll be a financial liability rather than an asset." After tossing for more than an hour on her pillow the girl at last fell asleep. She was so exhausted that she did not awaken until morning. Connie went downstairs to learn that news of her misfortune had preceded her. The cowboys came to offer their sympathy. Later in the morning George Slocer rode in to report that the sheriff's posse had been unable to find a trace of the holdup man. "Oh, the money is gone all right," Connie said gloomily. "Perhaps it served me right for carrying so much on my person." She was leaning dejectedly against the corral bars when Lefty came to talk with her. "I wish there was somethin' we could do to help you," he said. Connie hesitated and then without looking directly at Lefty replied quickly: "I hate to ask this, Lefty, but I know you picked up a tidy bit of money yesterday at the rodeo. Would you lend it to me for a few weeks?" "I sure would, Connie, if I had any left," the cowboy answered. "I'm plumb ashamed to tell you but me and Alkali did a little celebratin'. We're both busted flat." "That seems to be a common ailment around Rainbow Ranch," Connie said ruefully. "Why don't you ask Jim Barrows?" "Oh, I wouldn't do that," Connie replied quickly. "Besides, he hasn't any money." "You're wrong there, Connie. I saw him countin' a big roll this morning in the bunk house." "I don't know where he'd get it," Connie said, frowning thoughtfully. "He was stony broke when he came here, and he's not even received his wages since then. What do you think of Jim, Lefty?" "Oh, I guess he's all right. He minds his own business and that's somethin'." "I like him too," said Connie. "Lefty, I'm thinking of giving you and Jim new jobs. I suppose you've heard about my idea to turn this place into a dude ranch?" "Yeh, I did hear somethin' about it, but I figgered you wouldn't do anything rash like that." "I don't believe it's a rash idea at all," Connie said, smiling. "If I hadn't been held up everything would have worked out beautifully. But now I'm in the business whether I like it or not. My first prize dude arrives Monday, and there may be others." "What's this new job?" Lefty asked uneasily. "You and Jim are to wrangle the dudes--if we snare any. I thought you could take Mr. Postil riding and fishing. And we'll plan special little over-night camping trips--anything to keep folks entertained." "Look here, Connie," Lefty began to protest, but his voice trailed off as Forest Blakeman swung into view. The foreman, still smarting from his recent humiliation at the rodeo, was in a bad mood. "You might do a little work, Lefty, instead of loafing around all morning," he said curtly. "Get those calves watered." "They're already watered," Lefty muttered but he moved away from the corral. The foreman turned to Connie, making no attempt to disguise his annoyance. "A nice mess we're in now, Miss Connie! It seems to me you might have consulted me before you decided to turn this place into a dude ranch! Just how do you think we'll be able to feed and entertain a house full of guests when we can't even pay our regular help?" "Everything would have turned out all right if only I hadn't been robbed." "Aren't you forgetting that the sixteenth of the month isn't far away?" "Oh, I'm beaten," Connie acknowledged. "I realize that. There's no chance my money will ever be recovered." The foreman was silent for a moment. Then he said in a lowered tone: "I don't suppose it ever occurred to you to question Jim Barrows?" "To question him? About his personal affairs?" "They'd bear investigation all right," Blakeman replied grimly. "But I wasn't referring to that. I meant about what he was doing yesterday and where he got that big roll of money." "I suppose at the rodeo----" "That's what he claims," Blakeman said shortly. "I have a different opinion." "Just what are you trying to suggest?" Connie asked. "I know you've never liked Jim Barrows." "That has nothing to do with it. But there's no use trying to convince you he's bad medicine." "If you have the slightest evidence against him I'll certainly listen to it," Connie replied coldly. "What do you think the man has done?" The foreman looked quickly about to make certain no one was within hearing distance. Then he said tersely: "Jim Barrows is a sneak and a crook! He was the masked man who held you up at Eagle Pass!" CHAPTER XI Wrangling Dudes "That is a very dangerous statement to make unless you have proof," Connie replied gravely. "Jim Barrows' bank roll is proof enough for me," the foreman answered gruffly. "He knew you were carrying the prize money home with you, didn't he?" "Yes," admitted Connie reluctantly. "And where was he last night? No one saw him in town. He came back to the ranch about four o'clock this morning. His horse was just about done up." "The idea sounds ridiculous to me," Connie said scoffingly. "I think you're inclined to be entirely too suspicious, Mr. Blakeman." "All right," retorted the foreman with a shrug. "I knew you wouldn't believe me. But don't say later that I didn't warn you." After Blakeman had walked away, Connie stood for a long while gazing off toward the distant mountains. She knew perfectly well that the foreman bore Jim Barrows a grudge and would enjoy seeing him involved in trouble. For that reason she largely discounted his words. Yet the accusation he had made served to arouse a certain distrust in her mind. Little things which had seemed insignificant before now took on greater importance. It was true, as Blakeman had said, that Jim Barrows knew she intended to carry the rodeo prize money on her person. His sudden acquisition of a bank roll did seem rather strange. She was almost sure the man had been without funds when he first came to Rainbow Ranch. As Connie mulled the matter over in her mind, she saw Jim Barrows emerge from the bunk house and walk toward the barn. She was tempted to summon him, but could not quite bring herself to do it. "The idea is ridiculous!" she told herself again. "I'll not think any more about it." But Connie found that it was not easy to dismiss the matter from her mind. She caught herself studying the cowboy and pondering Forest Blakeman's words. Late afternoon brought a message from Mr. Postil in the form of a telegram sent out from Red Gulch. "Expect three more guests Monday," it read. "W. P. Grimes, son Cecil, and daughter Helena, arriving with me." Connie scarcely knew whether to feel elated or dismayed. But at least the message served to shake her from the lethargy into which she had fallen. She promptly set Marie to work cleaning and preparing the guest chambers. The rooms were pleasant enough but they were barren. There were so many things needed--curtains, rugs and linen. "I'm going to town now to buy supplies," Connie told the servant. "I'll just have to get credit, that's all. And I'll try to find another woman to help you." At the dry goods store in Red Gulch, the girl made her selections. As the owner wrapped up the package, he remarked casually: "Well, so you're going into the dude business?" "Only in a very small way." "Reckon the fever's struck everyone around here," the storekeeper went on. "Hear your neighbor's going to try it too." "My neighbor?" "Sure, Pop Bradshaw. He's fixing up the ranch and planning on quite a number of city folks spending the summer there. They say he's going to build a swimming pool." "Things like that cost money," Connie said gravely. "I didn't know Pop had it to spend." "Oh, he's just the front so they say. I hear that the banker is behind the deal." The news filled Connie with deep resentment. It seemed unjust to her that the bank, while refusing to grant an extension to her loan, would risk a large amount in trying to develop Pop Bradshaw's run-down ranch. She was offended, too, because Enid had told her nothing about the proposed plan. "Sometimes I feel as if I haven't a true friend in this community," Connie thought bitterly. "As for Mr. Haynes, I believe he deliberately planned to get my ranch. And the worst is that he'll undoubtedly succeed!" Back at Rainbow Ranch the girl called Lefty and Jim Barrows to tell them about their new duties. "In the morning you must be on hand to greet the guests when they arrive," she declared. "I'll appoint you two to keep them happy and satisfied. And now we may as well take a ride over your route." "Route?" demanded Lefty. "Are we supposed to run a milk wagon too?" "It's this way," explained Connie. "The guests probably will wish to ride. Either you or Jim must escort them, and I'd like to have you give an interesting little talk about the different places of interest." "Jim here is the one to do that," Lefty insisted. "He's the handsome boy and he has style. He could give the ladies a lot of good poses a-settin' on his steed and a-pointin' off dreamy-like into space." "You'll make a good stage cowboy yourself when you get used to the idea," Connie laughed. "Come on, let's ride up to the lake." The three riders passed along a narrow trail which led through a dense wood of cedar trees. The path soon became steep and narrow, causing the horses to labor as they climbed single file toward the summit. Upon reaching the top of the hill, Connie dismounted, and throwing the reins to the ground, said to her companions: "This is Lover's Leap." "It's what?" demanded Lefty incredulously. "It used to be Conner's Lake but from now on we're calling it Lover's Leap," Connie chuckled. "Didn't you ever hear the story about how a beautiful Indian princess jumped off here and lost her life when her beloved warrior married another squaw?" A grin spread over Lefty's face. "Oh, sure, I get the idea," he said. "Atmosphere." "The lake doesn't really need any build-up," Connie declared. "Our guests will not find a more beautiful spot anywhere in New Mexico." As she spoke, Connie moved nearer the edge of the cliff. The opposite side of the hill top sheered off into a perpendicular wall of rock nearly sixty feet high. At the base of the declivity was a small pool of deep blue water. Beyond, the hill sloped gently away into the wooded valley. "I'd be careful, Miss," warned Jim Barrows uneasily. "It must be seventy feet down to that lake." "Not quite so far," replied Connie, moving back from the cliff. "But it's a long drop." After viewing the scene for a few minutes the three riders mounted again and rode down to a fork in the trail. "This path leads to the cliff dwellings," Connie explained for Jim Barrow's benefit. "There are two trails, but for an inexperienced rider this one is best." "Alkali was telling me about those cliff ruins," Jim Barrows remarked. "Your father discovered them years ago, didn't he?" "Yes, and they're in an almost perfect state of preservation. Dad had some excavation done and cut away brush. If you've never been over we might go now. I could spend hours there." "I've seen Blakeman over this way a lot," Barrows commented as they started down the trail. "I reckon he's interested in such things." "Not that I ever heard," laughed Connie. "Blakeman's hobbies aren't so very cultural, I fear." "He was probably over this way lookin' for a stray cow," Lefty contributed. The trail wound down into the valley and then ascended at a steep angle. A little farther on, Connie halted her horse so that Jim Barrows might view the cliff dwellings from this particular point. "Of course you know the cliff people were widely distributed throughout the Southwest in prehistoric times," she remarked. "The most noted of their ruins are at Mesa Verde, the national park, but I think ours are just as interesting if they're not so large." "What was the idea of building their homes up under the lip of the cliff?" the cowboy asked. "Oh, that was for protection against their enemies," Connie explained. "Then too, it gave them shelter from the cold. As we go farther you'll find that the cliff dwellers used many devices to guard the entrances of their homes." "It takes an acrobat to get to the place," Lefty added. "On the other trail you have to go through a narrow tunnel." "This route is much easier," Connie said, "but we'll do a little fancy climbing." She urged her horse on again and for a time they rode single file, circling the cliffs as they ascended higher. Presently, tying their steeds to a tree, they continued afoot. By means of a knotted rope, Connie swung herself down to the lower level of the cliff. "The old cliff dwellers didn't need ladders to get up and down as we do," she told Barrows, pointing out toe holds which had been chipped in the rock. "They climbed like flies." The three companions now stood on a shelf of rock and earth. Back beneath the lip of the cliff were visible the geometrical ruins of square granaries, round towers and oblong rooms cut with tiny windows and doors. Connie told Barrows that seven different families once had occupied the site. "How do you know?" he inquired curiously. "Why, by the number of kivas," she declared. "Here, I'll show you what I mean." She pointed out a deep, circular hole in the earth which had been roofed over. It was large enough to have held perhaps twenty or thirty people. "A kiva such as this was used for ceremonial purposes only," she explained, "but each little tribe or family had its own. There is a great deal of lore connected with them but I'll not bore you with that. Would you like to go down into it?" "How would I get out again?" he inquired. "Oh, one of the other kivas has a ladder. Dad put it in years ago." "Let's take a look at it then," Barrows agreed. Connie crossed over to another kiva which had been hidden from view by a high wall. "Why, where is the ladder?" she asked in surprise. "Looks like someone has swiped it," Lefty declared peering down into the dark opening. "I'll have to make another before our dude season gets in full swing." "We could let you down on a rope if you'd like to see the inside," Connie offered. "But there's nothing down there." "I'll not bother this time," the man returned. "It's getting late anyway." "Yes," agreed Connie, quickly, "we really should be getting back to the ranch." They retraced their way, finding themselves winded by the time they reached the horses. "It's funny about that ladder," Lefty muttered as they started down the trail. "I'd like to know who swiped it." Presently they swung back into the path leading from Lover's Leap and Connie pointed out a site which would be excellent for picnics. "You've really given a lot of thought to this dude ranch business, haven't you?" Jim Barrows asked soberly. "Yes," Connie acknowledged; "it seems to me we have wonderful attractions here. A dude ranch has been one of my dreams. A silly one, I'm afraid." To hide her emotion, she quickly rode on down the trail. Presently she reined in to indicate a large cliff across the ravine. At this hour of sunset it was a shimmering wall of color. "Echo Cliff," she said softly. "Be sure to point it out to our dudes." "Say, you sure have picked up a lot of fancy names," Lefty complained good naturedly. "They are the names I gave these places when I was a child. I was a great one to pretend, you know." "Will the rock really echo?" asked Jim. "Listen!" commanded Connie. Cupping her hands to her mouth she gave a long, clear cry which came back not once but several times. "Say, that's a real echo!" Lefty exclaimed. "In all the years I been workin' here I never knew you could get an echo like that." "Maybe I'll be able to teach you a few things about this ranch," Connie laughed. "I know and love every rock and stone here." "If you lose the place," said Lefty, "it will be a rotten shame." No sooner were the words spoken than he regretted them. Connie's smile faded and a tired look came over her face. "Yes," she replied. And then, pulling her jacket more closely about her throat, she added: "It's getting chilly. Let's be going home." CHAPTER XII An Argument In the excitement of preparing for the expected guests Connie forgot entirely Forest Blakeman's warning concerning Jim Barrows. She had meant to question him about his activities on the day of the rodeo but somehow the opportunity never presented itself. She did not believe that he could have had anything to do with the holdup at Eagle Pass. Early Monday morning a high powered limousine drove into the courtyard, bringing Mr. Postil, his small granddaughter, and the Grimes family. The latter consisted of F. P. Grimes, a distinguished railroad official, his son Cecil, and daughter, Helena. Connie and the cowboys were on hand to greet the guests and to make them welcome. Helena, who appeared to be about eighteen, was a pretty, dark haired girl, dressed in a modish white suit. She gazed about with undisguised distaste as she alighted from the car. "I don't think I shall like this place at all," Connie heard her say to her father. "Why, it's nothing but a run-down cattle farm." Cecil, several years older than his sister, looked equally pained as he gazed about the courtyard. "My man," he said, addressing Lefty in a condescending tone, "will you be good enough to show me to my room?" "Just follow me," Lefty replied gruffly. "Our butler ain't workin' today." Mr. Postil and Mr. Grimes, apparently old friends, lingered in the courtyard for a few minutes while Connie took Helena to her bedchamber. "Only one room?" the girl asked in surprise. "And no private bath?" "I'm afraid not," Connie said politely. "This isn't a very luxurious place, of course. It's merely a ranch." "I can see that," Helena murmured dryly. A flush of anger spread over Connie's face. Offering no reply she quickly left the girl alone. "Wrangling dudes isn't going to be quite as great a pleasure as I expected," she thought grimly. "I've never seen such a spoiled girl in all my life. And Cecil is just like her, too!" Connie found it a relief to talk with Mr. Grimes and Mr. Postil. They both seemed well pleased with Rainbow Ranch and assured her that they would not mind a few inconveniences. "It will do my son and daughter good to rough it for a few weeks," the railroad man declared. "Life has always been too easy for them." Connie quite agreed with Mr. Grimes before the day was ended. Helena spent nearly all of her time sulking while Cecil annoyed the cowboys by asking ridiculous questions and trying to let them know that he considered them as menials whose sole function was to serve him. "If this is a sample of the dudes I'm to herd, I'm quittin' right now," Lefty complained to Connie. "Oh, you wouldn't let me down at a time like this," she said quickly. "Mr. Postil is fine and for that matter, so is Mr. Grimes." "Old Grimes ain't so bad," the cowboy admitted. "He broke down and told me he's plannin' to make a regular he-man out of that son of his. If that ain't a laugh!" "You be nice to Cecil, Lefty. Remember, he's a paying guest." "Oh, I'll treat him gentle unless he 'my mans' me again. Then I'm liable to give him a good poke in the nose!" With the ranch undermanned, and the new arrivals demanding constant service, Connie found herself hard pressed to keep the household running smoothly. It seemed to her that Forest Blakeman had lain down on his job completely. He made it increasingly clear that he was not in sympathy with her plan of trying to run a dude ranch. However, for some reason which was not clear to Connie, Blakeman singled Helena out, and wasted hours chatting with her. The girl kept the other cowboys from their work too, assuming that it was their duty to keep her entertained. "There's just nothing to do around here," she complained to Connie. "Perhaps you'd like to ride," Connie suggested. "I'll have Alkali saddle up a pony for you." "Let's do go for a canter," proposed Cecil who had come up behind the girls. "I was looking over the horses just now. There's one that's not bad--the others are nags." Connie smiled as she followed the brother and sister to the barn. She felt quite certain that neither of them had ever done much riding. It therefore took her by surprise when she learned that the horse which Cecil had chosen for his own was none other than Silvertail. "I reckon you'll like Star a lot better, sir," Alkali told the boy persuasively. "Silvertail belongs to Miss Connie, and no one rides him but her." Cecil gazed disdainfully at Star, a beautiful roan. "If I can't have a horse of my own choosing then I'll not ride," he said peevishly. "Saddle Silvertail for him, Alkali," Connie instructed quietly. The cowboy did as he was told, noting as the young man mounted that he was stiff and awkward. "You better handle Silvertail easy," he warned. "That hoss is high-spirited." "Alkali, you ride along with them," Connie directed. "We don't need a guide," Helena said quickly. "Not unless that other young man is free." "The foreman?" Connie inquired. "I'm afraid he isn't. If you wish I'll go with you----" "We'll ride alone," interrupted Helena rudely. "Come along, Cecil." Connie and Alkali watched the two ride away. Helena evidently had taken lessons in the East for she sat her horse well, but her brother bounced high in the saddle. "That conceited coot will ruin Silvertail's gait," Alkali muttered. "I only hope Cecil isn't thrown," Connie replied anxiously. "It would serve him right to get pitched into a cactus plant--but he's too lucky for that." Connie turned her eyes away from the riders, for just then a car drove into the courtyard. It was Lefty returning from Red Gulch where he had gone for supplies, but the girl was surprised to see two middle-aged women with him. The cowboy climbed out over the car door and came hurrying toward Connie. "Say, I dragged home two more dudes," he reported in a whisper. "Found 'em at the postoffice. They was inquirin' for a place to stay, so I gave 'em a long line about Rainbow. They're schoolmarms." "Lefty, you're a genius!" Connie laughed. She hastened to the car to greet the newcomers. They were pleasant women, spinsters who hailed from Elkhart, Indiana. This was their first trip West and they assured Connie they were enjoying every minute of it. "This is such a lovely ranch," Miss Gladwin declared enthusiastically. "Yes, isn't it," echoed Miss Parker. "And so Mexican! I love the atmosphere." Connie's spirits soared. She had become so accustomed to complaints during the past day, that she had begun to think nothing about Rainbow Ranch was right. It was a pleasure to meet two dudes who were not difficult to please. The teachers were delighted with their bedrooms. They confessed to Connie that they had never ridden horseback, but were dying to try it. "We'll take a trip to Lover's Leap tomorrow," Connie promised. "And perhaps to the cliff dwellings." Hearing the sound of clattering hoofs in the courtyard, the girl excused herself and hurried outside. Silvertail, minus a rider, was wandering aimlessly about near the corrals. Before Connie could reach the horse, Alkali came running from the barn and caught his bridle. "Cecil must have been thrown!" Connie gasped. "Oh, I hope he's not badly hurt." Alkali said nothing but a look of smug satisfaction came over his face. Connie mounted Silvertail and rode out to learn what had happened. She had not gone far when she saw Helena approaching on horseback with Cecil trudging along beside her. "I'm so glad you're not injured," Connie said in relief as she drew rein. "It's not your fault that I'm not!" the youth snapped. "Why didn't you warn me the horse was vicious?" "Silvertail isn't vicious," Connie replied. "But we did try to tell you that he has to be properly handled." "It was your own fault, Cecil," said Helena with a shrug. "Why don't you learn to ride?" Connie dismounted, offering to let the youth take her place while she walked. "I'd not ride that horse again for a hundred dollars!" Cecil snapped. "And it's fortunate for you that I wasn't injured." As Connie expected, the young man made a distorted report of the incident to his father that evening. Mr. Grimes did not take the affair very seriously. However, the conversation was overheard by the two teachers. Inclined to be nervous, they immediately jumped to the conclusion that all of the horses at Rainbow Ranch were unsafe. It required the combined efforts of Connie, Alkali, Lefty and Jim Barrows to convince them otherwise. Even then they were decidedly uneasy over the proposed trip to Lover's Leap and the cliff dwellings. "Are you quite certain this beast isn't an outlaw?" Miss Parker asked Lefty timidly as he led up her pony the next morning. "Ma'am, this hoss was raised on milk," the cowboy assured her. "She's so lazy she won't even swish flies." Connie was hopeful that Cecil would not be a member of the party, but at the last minute both he and his sister decided to make the trip. Mr. Grimes and Mr. Postil, had planned a fishing trip to a nearby lake with Alkali serving as guide. "We'll go first to Lover's Leap and then to the cliff dwellings," Connie announced. "What a silly name--Lover's Leap," Cecil scoffed. Lefty rode at the head of the party while Connie brought up the rear. Progress along the trail necessarily was slow for the two teachers could ride comfortably only at a walk. However, they enjoyed the scenery and Connie liked to answer their questions. Cecil was annoyed by the slow pace and made frequent complaints about the heat. Nothing interested him save his own discomfort. The party stopped for lunch at Echo Canyon where Lefty opened the packages of food packed by Marie and boiled coffee over an open fire. "I hope there's really something worth seeing at the end of this trail," Cecil grumbled as they started on once more. A little later they approached the summit of the steep incline. There Lefty halted the party. "We dismount here and walk the rest of the way, folks." "What?" demanded Cecil. "Up that mountain? Why can't we ride?" "There's not room at the top to tie so many horses," Connie explained. Everyone dismounted and Lefty fastened the ponies to a tree. Then they started the tedious climb afoot. The two teachers, both plump and short of breath, were very cheerful about it. When they reached the summit and peered over the cliff at the pool below, they declared they had not seen such a beautiful spot anywhere on their vacation trip. "It's well worth the climb," Miss Parker asserted. "So far as I can see, it's just a lake," said Cecil irritably. "And a pretty dinky one at that." Connie told the story of the Indian princess who had leaped to her death. The teachers were awed by the tale, asking if it were really true. "Of course it isn't," answered Cecil before Connie could speak. "You hear that same story everywhere. About how far down is the lake?" "A little over sixty feet," Lefty replied briefly. "Looks about half that distance to me," Cecil said speculatively. "I guess out West here they have to exaggerate everything or it wouldn't make a good story." "It really is that far down," Connie told him. She was growing irritated with Cecil, and Lefty too was having difficulty in holding his temper. The spoiled young man had no right to ruin the trip for the other members of the party, yet that was exactly what he was doing. "Once years ago I dived off here and I thought I'd never reach the water," Connie went on. "I did it on a dare." "You jumped from this cliff?" Cecil asked incredulously. "Yes," Connie admitted, "but it was a silly thing to do. I'll never try it again." Cecil remained silent but the expression on his face disclosed that he doubted the girl's story. Somewhat nettled, Connie said quietly to Helena and the teachers: "If you care to step over this way I'll show you another pretty view of the valley. On a clear day you can see the cliff dwellings from here." The three women followed her a short distance away. Lefty and Cecil were left alone at the edge of the cliff. Connie paid no heed to them until a few minutes later when she was startled by the sound of their voices. The men were arguing in loud, angry tones. "That's the last crack I'll take from you," she heard Lefty say in a deadly drawl. "Now it's your turn to take one from me!" His fist shot out, connecting squarely under Cecil's jaw. It was not a hard blow, but the young man staggered backwards. He stumbled over a stone and the soft rock gave way beneath his feet. Lefty darted forward to save him, but he was too late. With a terrified shriek Cecil tumbled headlong over the precipice. CHAPTER XIII Over the Precipice Cecil's panic-stricken cry was muffled by a resounding splash as his body struck the pool below. "My brother will drown!" screamed Helena hysterically. "He can't swim a stroke!" Connie had rushed to the edge of the cliff. Jerking off her riding boots, she poised for an instant on the brow of the declivity. Then she shot out into space head foremost, turning slowly in mid-air so that she broke the water with the lower part of her body. The force of the fall sent her deep into the pool and even her heavy clothing did not protect her from the stinging lash of the blow. Two powerful strokes brought her to the surface. Cecil was almost within arm's reach, sputtering and wildly thrashing the water. Connie whipped an arm about his chest and towed him to the edge of the pool. She climbed out on a low ledge of rock and pulled him up after her. For a few minutes Cecil sputtered water like a lawn sprinkler. Then instead of thanking Connie for saving him he said wrathfully: "I shall report this to my father. He'll have that cowboy of yours arrested!" "I don't know what came over Lefty," Connie said soothingly. "He's usually very even tempered. You must have said something which angered him." Cecil avoided the girl's glance. "The fellow tried to drown me," he snapped. "But he'll pay for it." "Lefty didn't mean to push you over the precipice, I am sure of that," replied Connie. "You slipped on the rock, and then it crumbled." "I suppose you'll not even discharge him for this?" "I haven't thought that far," answered Connie quietly. "Let's not discuss it now. We'll both catch our deaths if we sit around in these wet clothes." "I'm so bruised and battered I can't walk," Cecil complained. "You're lucky no bones are broken," Connie told him and added impishly: "it really is a sixty foot drop." This time Cecil did not dispute her word. He followed her sullenly as she went ahead and parted the bushes. They climbed from the pool-basin and circled the hill until they struck a trail. This led them back toward Lover's Leap but they had not gone far before they met Lefty and the three women. "Oh, Cecil, are you all right?" called his sister. "I'm still alive," the young man muttered. "No thanks to that brute!" He glared at Lefty. "Cecil," the cowboy said anxiously, "I hope you don't think I pushed you off that steep cliff a-purpose." "Oh, no," replied the youth mockingly. "I suppose you were just being playful! An old western custom no doubt." "It was an accident, and I'm mighty sorry," Lefty said contritely. "Maybe I owe you an apology, and I'm makin' it now." "I'll accept no apology from you," retorted Cecil. "You'll be reported to the authorities." Connie shot Lefty a glance which warned him to say nothing more. "Let's talk about it after we get back to the ranch," she said. "We'll have to postpone our visit to the cliff dwellings until later." "I'll get the horses," Lefty declared. "We may as well all walk along with you," replied Connie. "Cecil and I will freeze if we stand here." Lefty tried to put his jacket around Connie but she passed it on to Cecil. He took it most ungallantly, and Miss Parker then stripped off her light sweater, insisting that the girl wear it. "Cecil, I think you might thank Miss Carl for saving your life," Helena reminded her brother. "It was a pretty brave thing to do--jumping off that cliff after you." "I did thank her," Cecil replied. He had said no word of appreciation to Connie, but the girl expected none. If only he could be induced to forget the incident, that was all she asked. Somehow she must keep him from reporting the matter to the authorities. As the party trudged along the trail, Lefty dropped back to walk with Connie. "I guess I've messed things up pretty thoroughly now," he said gloomily. "Yes, you have, Lefty. Why did you strike him? It was inexcusable." "I just couldn't help myself, Connie. That fellow has been gettin' under my skin ever since he came here. He just pulled one crack too many and I saw red." "What did he say to you, Lefty?" "Well, I don't just remember." "Was it about me, Lefty?" Connie pinned him down. "Tell me the truth." "Well, yes, it was," Lefty admitted reluctantly. "He made a remark I didn't like--intimatin' that everything you said was just a lot of apple sauce." "It was very gallant of you to go to my defense. But I hardly think Cecil's remark called for such drastic action." "It was the way he said it. And I've stood a lot from him, Connie. I just lost my head that's all. I'll pack up my duds as soon as I get back to the bunk house." "Have I asked you to do that, Lefty?" "No, but this places you in a bad spot. The only thing for me to do is to get out." "I want you to stay, Lefty. Why, I couldn't run the ranch without you. Sometimes I feel you're the only person I can entirely trust." "I've let you in for a heap of trouble, Connie. When old man Grimes hears what I did to that sweetheart son of his, he'll make things hard for you. If I get out of the way he might not be quite so tough." "I'm not afraid of Mr. Grimes, Lefty." "Maybe not, but his money comes in mighty useful," Lefty answered dryly. Connie knew that the cowboy was entirely right. It was a foregone conclusion that Cecil would give an exaggerated report of the incident to his father. The least she could expect would be that Mr. Grimes and his spoiled brood would depart, taking with them Mr. Postil, his small daughter, and perhaps the two teachers. Nor could she greatly blame anyone for leaving. Connie came out of her reverie as she heard Cecil, who was far ahead, shout something back. "Now what's the matter with him?" muttered Lefty. "Where are our horses?" called the youth. Connie and Lefty quickened their pace. When they came within view of the cedars where the ponies had been tied, they stopped short in amazement. The horses were gone. "Now what!" exclaimed Connie. Although they could see where the ponies had nibbled at the tree branches and trampled the ground, but there was no sign of the animals. "This is just another evidence of gross carelessness!" said Cecil angrily. "The horses weren't tied well and they've run off." Lefty's face grew very red but he managed to control his temper. "It isn't logical that six horses would break away at the same time," Connie said quietly. "Besides, I'm sure they were well tied." "Well, they're gone," said Cecil sullenly. "You can see that." "How did they get away?" inquired Miss Parker. "I don't know," admitted Connie soberly. She met Lefty's gaze. Someone deliberately had turned the horses loose. They were certain of that. The cowboy bent down to examine the soft earth. It was impossible to tell if there were alien footprints by the cedars for Cecil and the girls had tramped everywhere. "Now what are we going to do?" demanded Cecil. "I'm freezing to death if that means anything to you." "How far are we from the ranch?" asked one of the teachers anxiously. "Over two miles," Connie replied. "I'm afraid we'll have to walk back." "Walk?" Cecil cried furiously. "In these wet clothes? This is absolutely the last straw." "First we'll build a fire and dry you out," Connie said. "Lefty, see if you can find some wood." The teachers tried to help the cowboy, but neither Helena nor her brother would so much as pick up a stick. Cecil's temper sweetened a trifle after he had warmed himself by the big bonfire. But he took keen pleasure in showing Helena bruised marks on his skin. It did not seem to occur to him that Connie too might be in discomfort. The girl drew Lefty aside to discuss the situation. "Someone set those horses free deliberately," Connie said. "Sure, they never walked away themselves." "Who could have done it, Lefty?" The cowboy shook his head. "It might have been some smart Mexican kid," he said finally. "Do you know what I believe?" Connie asked. "Someone is afraid I'll make a success of this dude ranch. It looks to me as if that trick was done for the deliberate purpose of making the guests leave." "Pop Bradshaw is trying to start up in the dude business," Lefty said thoughtfully. "Maybe he got wind of how we smuggled Catapult into the rodeo grounds. I know Blakeman's been makin' it plenty tough for him ever since." "Pop wouldn't do a thing like this," Connie replied slowly. "We didn't think he'd double-cross his friends either. But he did. Maybe he's aimin' to get your dudes away from you, Connie." "If they're all like Cecil he's welcome to them," answered Connie wearily. The party began the long trek back to the ranch. Lefty and Connie, accustomed to walking, did not mind the rough trail, but the others found it trying. Helena had not worn suitable shoes. Her complaints were nearly as annoying as those of her brother. At first the school teachers tried to be cheerful but soon they gave up the effort. And then to add to the difficulties, Miss Parker twisted her ankle. "I don't think I can walk another step," she murmured. "Oh, dear, why did we ever come on this horrible trip?" "There's only one thing to do," Connie decided. "Lefty, you go on ahead to the ranch and come back with some horses. We'll have a long wait here, but it's the best that can be done." "I'll get back just as soon as I can," the cowboy promised. He started down the trail but had gone only a few feet when he halted. Emerging from among the trees was a lone rider leading a string of horses. "It's Jim Barrows!" shouted Lefty, waving his hat. "And he has our ponies!" CHAPTER XIV A Telltale Handkerchief "Good old Jim!" murmured Connie gratefully as she saw the rider coming up the trail. "He's saved our lives." Lefty hurried down the path to meet the man and help him with the horses. "Everything all right?" asked Jim as he rode up. "I was worried when I found your ponies on the trail. I thought you knew how to tie a rope, Lefty." Ignoring the thrust, the cowboy asked quickly: "Where did you find the hosses, Jim?" "Down the trail about half a mile. Couldn't figure how they all broke away." "They didn't break loose," Lefty answered grimly. "Someone untied 'em a-purpose. You didn't see anyone on the trail?" Jim Barrows shook his head. "How did you happen to be over this way yourself?" Lefty asked curiously. "I thought you were wranglin' steers for Blakeman today." Jim Barrow's eyes narrowed. "You're not hintin' I turned those horses loose----" "Now don't get touchy, Jim," Lefty said quickly. "'Course I wasn't hintin' at anything like that. I just asked a civil question." "I came over this way today because I thought something might go wrong." "Your bones sort of told you?" "Well, I had a feeling. And it turns out I was right." Lefty made no reply as he followed Jim up the trail, but he studied the man intently. Connie had not heard the talk between the two cowboys. She greeted Jim warmly. "What happened to you, Miss Connie?" he asked in astonishment, observing her bedraggled appearance. "Oh, we had a little accident," she answered vaguely. "We're certainly grateful to you, Jim, for bringing our horses." The man dismounted and helped the school teachers into the saddle. Unnoticed by all save Connie, a blue bandanna handkerchief dropped from his pocket. She thought that he would pick it up, but after the other members of the party had started down the trail, he rode after them, leaving the handkerchief lying on the ground. As Connie rode past the spot, she reached low and swept it up. She would not have given it a second glance save that it reminded her of the handkerchief which the masked bandit had worn the night he robbed her of her rodeo earnings. There was nothing unusual about a blue bandanna, however, for many cowboys carried them. Yet as Connie folded the bit of cloth she noticed that two initials had been stamped in one corner. But they were not the letters which the girl might have expected to see. "'J. R.'," she mused, "that doesn't seem right. Jim's last name doesn't begin with an 'R.'" Connie carefully examined the letters again to make certain that she had not mistaken a "B" for an "R." "It's an 'R' all right," she decided. "Why should Jim be carrying a handkerchief marked like this unless he's passing under an assumed name?" Connie had intended to return the handkerchief to the man, but now she thrust it into her pocket, and when she rode alongside a few minutes later, made no mention of finding it. The girl did not know what to think. It was possible, of course, that Jim had come into possession of another person's handkerchief and was using it as his own. But that did not seem probable. "Perhaps Blakeman was right about the man," Connie reflected. "From the very first he believed that Jim had a past." Upon reaching the ranch, Cecil immediately inquired for his father. Learning that Mr. Grimes had not returned from the fishing trip, he disappeared to his room. Connie changed her own clothing and then went to talk with Forest Blakeman. He had heard the story of the mishap from Helena, a version which strongly favored her brother. "I take it you're discharging Lefty?" the foreman inquired. "No," Connie replied, "he acted rashly, but it wasn't entirely his fault. Cecil had the ducking coming to him." "If you'll excuse me for saying it, you're making a mess of this ranch," Blakeman told her bluntly. "I was against this dude idea from the first, but since you brought guests here, I don't believe in cooking up damage suits." "Cecil wasn't hurt." "He may claim differently. Miss Connie, the best thing you can do is to sell this ranch before the bank takes it over." "I don't know of anyone who would buy it." "If your price was right I might be able to find you a buyer," Blakeman said quickly. "But you couldn't expect any fancy figure." "Who is your prospect?" "Well, I'm not at liberty to say. But if you'd take, say five thousand dollars, I think I could swing the deal. That would pay off your bank note and give you something clear." "This ranch is worth three times that amount at least," Connie replied. "I'll never sell unless I'm compelled to do it." "If you wait very long you'll miss your chance," Blakeman warned. "The bank may sell you out, and then you'll get even less." Connie made no reply but turned away. She had seen Jim Barrows crossing the courtyard and wished to talk with him. The foreman followed her gaze. "If you'd give me a free hand I'd send that fellow on his way," he declared. "What do you know about Jim Barrows?" Connie questioned, pausing again. "I told you what I thought of him the other day. They're saying in town that you've taken a fugitive from justice to shelter." "Who said a thing like that?" Connie asked sharply. "Why, it's common talk. If you weren't so blind you could see for yourself that he's not a square shooter." "You don't really have any evidence against him?" "I can't prove that he's wanted by the law--no. But I do know he's no hand for us. Why, today, he was supposed to be wrangling steers, and he walked off from the job." "It was lucky for me that he did," Connie said ruefully. "But I think I'll have a talk with him." "Don't expect him to break down and tell you his life history," Blakeman said with a trace of sarcasm. "He won't do it. The only thing I'd tell him would be to get out." Connie did not answer. After the foreman had gone to the barn she stood by the corrals lost in thought. She did not know what she could say to Jim Barrows. Perhaps she might return the handkerchief and ask him to explain the initials. Connie had seen the man disappear into the bunk house and she knew that the other cowboys were busy elsewhere. This would be her opportunity to talk with him alone. She walked slowly toward the bunk house, dreading the interview. The door was half ajar. As Connie paused, hesitating to rap, she saw Jim Barrows move across the room. He had not heard her approach. There was something about his manner which struck Connie as odd. Instead of rapping on the door, she waited and watched. Barrows glanced out the window toward the barn, and then he crossed over to a battered chest which stood near Blakeman's bunk. The box belonged to the foreman, Connie knew, for she had heard Lefty joking about how Blakeman always kept his love letters locked in it. To the girl's amazement, Barrows took a handful of keys from his pocket. He selected one and fitted it into the lock. Connie had seen quite enough. She pushed open the door of the bunk house. Jim Barrows whirled about and his hand went instinctively to his hip pocket. Connie noted the gesture and her lips tightened. "Oh, it's you, is it?" the man laughed, relaxing. "You were afraid it was Blakeman," Connie replied coldly. "Jim Barrows, may I ask what you are doing?" "I guess you can see for yourself, Miss. I was trying to open this chest." "Forest Blakeman's chest," Connie supplied. "I reckon you're right." Jim Barrows grinned arrogantly. "Why were you trying to open his chest?" "Well, I just had a sudden itch to find out what was inside. Prying into things is a weakness of mine." "It seems to be," Connie answered scornfully. "Jim Barrows, there are a number of things which you might explain." She took the blue handkerchief from her pocket, offering it to him. "You dropped this on the trail and I picked it up," she told him. "Is it yours?" "It must be if you saw me drop it," he returned amiably. "This may seem very amusing to you, but I don't see anything funny about it," Connie said, her anger rising. "This handkerchief happens to be marked with the initials 'J. R.' Perhaps you can explain that." The expression of the man's face changed. He took the handkerchief from Connie, staring at the telltale markings. "Barrows isn't your real name, is it?" Connie demanded. "No," the man admitted after a long hesitation. "Then tell me what it is." "I can't do that." "You're wanted by the law!" Connie accused. "Do I look like a criminal?" the man countered, a faint smile playing over his lips. "I believe you've been acting a part ever since you came here!" Connie went on indignantly. "That day I found you on the trail--I don't believe you were sick at all. You pretended you were broke and out of work, but I notice you have plenty of money now." "You are very observing," the man replied very quickly. "I've been very blind." "I'll set your mind at rest upon one point. I am not a fugitive from the law." "Then why are you using a name other than your own?" "I have a very good reason--one which I cannot reveal." "For all I know you may be the man who held me up at Eagle Pass," Connie continued heatedly. "That's what Blakeman tried to tell me----" "Oh, so you've been listening to him?" "By your own admission you have good reason not to use your true name." "And it is a good reason," the man returned with emphasis. "Connie, I want you to promise that you'll not say anything to Blakeman about this." "Why should I protect you? You've given me no explanation for trying to break into his chest. In fact----" Connie's voice trailed off for just at that moment Lefty appeared in the doorway. He looked quickly from one to the other. But he gave no indication that he had overheard the conversation. "Connie," he said significantly, "Mr. Grimes has been talking with Cecil. He wants to see you right away." "I'll come," said the girl wearily. She faced Jim Barrows once more. "There are still several things I wish to say to you," she told him gravely. "We'll finish our conversation after I have seen Mr. Grimes." CHAPTER XV An Unpleasant Revelation Connie walked slowly toward the ranch house, inwardly bracing herself for an unpleasant interview with Mr. Grimes. She found the old gentleman awaiting her on the veranda. "I know why you wish to see me," she said quickly before he could speak. "I can't tell you how sorry I am about what happened this afternoon." "You risked your life to pull my son from the lake, young lady. I wish to thank you." Connie was taken completely by surprise. Mr. Grimes did not look in the least angry. "Why, didn't Cecil tell you----" she began. "Oh, yes, my son said a number of things about this fellow called Lefty, but I finally got the true story out of him. He probably deserved the ducking." Connie could scarcely believe that she had heard correctly. She had been expecting a severe rebuke. Her surprise was heightened as the old gentleman continued: "Cecil has become a difficult problem of late. I dare say a few such experiences might serve to take some of the conceit out of the boy." "Then you're not angry?" Connie gasped. Mr. Grimes glanced quickly about to make certain that no one was within hearing distance of his voice. "Quite the contrary," he declared. "I wish I had been there to see it myself. We'll just consider the incident closed." "That's very generous of you, Mr. Grimes," Connie said gratefully. "Will you be staying on?" "Yes, indeed. I'm thoroughly enjoying ranch life. And I think it may have a beneficial effect upon both Cecil and Helena." Connie felt as if a great load had been lifted from her shoulders. After talking with Mr. Grimes for a few minutes she went back toward the bunk house. Meeting Lefty she paused to tell him the good news. "The old gent is a real man," the cowboy declared admiringly. "Too bad his son can't be more like him." "Yes, it is." "Maybe a ducking a day would do him good just like the old man said." "Perhaps, but don't you try it," Connie warned with a laugh. "From now on you're to keep out of Cecil's way as much as possible." "Don't worry," Lefty rejoined, "I don't have any hankerin' for that sissy's company." Connie returned to the bunk house to resume her talk with Jim Barrows. Now that she had thought the matter over she decided there could be only one course open to her. Unless the man made a satisfactory explanation for his strange actions she must discharge him. Connie knocked on the door and, when there was no answer, pushed it open. The room was deserted. She glanced toward the bunk occupied by Barrows. It was neatly made up but an Indian blanket, which the cowboy had bought from Lefty, was gone. Jim's meager belongings likewise were missing. "Lefty!" Connie called. The cowboy came quickly toward the bunk house. "What's wrong?" he asked in surprise. "I think Barrows has skipped out, Lefty. At least his things are gone. Did you see him leave?" "Why, no, Connie. He was here the last I knew." "Let's see if he's taken one of the horses." They ran to the barn. One glance assured them that instead of a pony, Jim Barrows had appropriated the ranch car. "That fellow certainly had his nerve!" Lefty exclaimed angrily. "What's the big idea anyway?" "I'm afraid he was a crook," Connie admitted ruefully. "My suspicions were aroused and I made the mistake of letting him know. Now we're minus a car." "I'll ride in to Red Gulch right away and report to the sheriff," Lefty promised. After he had gone, Connie wandered back to the bunk house. Thinking that Barrows might have appropriated other property which did not belong to him, she made an inspection. Nothing seemed to have been taken. More from curiosity than for any other reason she tried the lid of Forest Blakeman's chest. It was still locked. "I wonder what he does keep inside?" she mused. "Well?" asked a sharp voice behind her. Startled, Connie whirled around to see Forest Blakeman standing in the doorway. She laughed in confusion, realizing that the man easily might misinterpret her action. "I was just looking about----" she began, but Blakeman cut her short. "So I observe. You seem to be interested in my personal belongings." Connie flushed at the accusation. "I hope you don't think I was trying to break into your chest," she said. "Oh, no!" "Mr. Blakeman, I don't understand you at all. I came here because I wished to see if Jim Barrows had taken anything from the bunk house. He went off a few minutes ago in the car after we had a rather unpleasant talk together." The foreman's countenance underwent a swift change. "Barrows has gone for good?" he questioned. "Well, I'm glad you discharged him." "Apparently I was wrong about him and you were right," Connie admitted ruefully. "He stole the ranch car. I don't know what we'll do without one." "Have you notified the sheriff?" "Lefty went to Red Gulch to do it." "Maybe it's just as well not to press the matter," the foreman said thoughtfully. "We're rid of Barrows and that's something." "That doesn't bring the car back--or my money if he really did take it. Somehow it's hard to believe----" "Now don't start cooking up sentiment over that worthless fellow," Blakeman interrupted quickly. "You have enough troubles without worrying over him." "You're quite right there, Mr. Blakeman." The foreman hesitated, and then asked with an abrupt change of tone: "Have you been thinking over what I said the other day about selling the ranch?" "I've been thinking, but my answer is still the same. I'll never sell unless I'm compelled to do it." "This is the eleventh," the foreman reminded her. "Have you talked with the banker lately?" "I'm going in to Red Gulch tomorrow. I suppose I'll have to come to some decision after I've seen Mr. Haynes again." "Well, let me know," Blakeman nodded, as Connie walked slowly away. It was after nine o'clock that evening when a familiar car came up the lane to the ranch house. Hearing the sound of the motor, Connie ran outside. "Why, Lefty!" she cried in delight as the car stopped with a jerk. "You found our automobile!" The cowboy climbed out and started to untie his horse which he had led on a long rope behind the vehicle. "Barrows didn't skip off with it after all," he told Connie. "I found the car in front of the drug store at Red Gulch." "Did you see Jim?" "No, I couldn't find him anywhere in town. I reckon he abandoned the car and maybe hopped a freight." Connie asked Lefty if he had talked with the sheriff. "Yes, but you know Old Daniels," the cowboy replied. "He's lazy as they come. Said he couldn't do nothin' unless there was a warrant for Barrows' arrest." "I'm not sure I want to get out a warrant," Connie returned slowly. "I have no real evidence against him." "That's what I figured," Lefty nodded. "So I reckon there's no more to be done." In the morning Cecil and Helena complained that they had not yet seen the cliff dwellings. Before Connie could assign either Lefty or Alkali to escort them, the foreman volunteered to serve as guide. While the arrangement did not please Connie she could not protest for Helena immediately accepted Blakeman's offer. After the three had ridden away, she took advantage of their absence to drive in to Red Gulch. Upon presenting herself at the bank she was admitted to Mr. Haynes' private office. "Good morning, Miss Carl," he said pleasantly. "Have a chair." Connie sat down, feeling very ill at ease. Mr. Haynes was watching her shrewdly. Already she suspected that it would be useless to make another request for an extension to her note. Hesitantly, she explained her plan to launch forth into a dude ranch. "I have seven paying guests now," she declared, "and within a few weeks I hope to increase the number. I'm sure I'll be able to pay off the loan in another three months." "Miss Carl, I admire your determination," replied the banker, "but I must think about my depositors. I regret to say we cannot renew your note." Connie arose, pushing back her chair. "You refuse to give me a chance," she said bitterly. "And I know the reason! From the first you have schemed to take over the ranch. Through Pop Bradshaw you plan to gain control of the best land in the county!" "You're quite wrong, Miss Carl," the banker answered quietly. "This rumor that we are taking over the Bradshaw place and running it as a dude ranch is quite unfounded. I have no idea who is behind the idea, but the financing has not gone through this bank." "I'm sorry I lost my temper," Connie apologized. "I'll try to get the money by the sixteenth." She turned quickly and walked from the room. As she opened the door, a tall man who had been standing at the writing desk near the private office partition, ducked his head and slipped out the side door of the bank. "Why, that looked like Jim Barrows!" Connie thought. Whoever it was, she believed that he had been listening to her conversation with Mr. Haynes. The walls were thin and she had not taken care to lower her voice. Undoubtedly, the man had heard every word. Connie darted to the door. She looked up and down the street. The man was nowhere to be seen. "It was Jim Barrows," she told herself. "He didn't want me to see him--that's why he ran away." CHAPTER XVI The Roundup Connie spent a half hour searching the streets for the man, and finally abandoned the hunt. It was early afternoon by the time she reached Rainbow Ranch. Lefty met her by the corral gate. "Well, how did the guests like the cliff dwellings?" she inquired cheerfully. "Blakeman never took 'em there," the cowboy reported. "Instead they went for a ride down to the Rainbow River." "But there's nothing to see on that trail!" Connie exclaimed. "It's just a tiresome, dusty ride! Why didn't he take the party to the cliffs as he was supposed to do?" "Guess he wanted to be contrary," Lefty replied. "He never has cottoned to this dude idea. Can you stand some more bad news, Connie?" "I've had so much already, I'm getting hardened to it. What is it this time? You didn't pitch Cecil in the lake again?" "No, he's been real decent to me ever since that duckin'." "What is the bad news, Lefty?" "The two school marms left a few minutes ago. They took their luggage and went just as soon as they got back from the Rainbow River trip. Miss Parker told me to give this to you." He offered a check which was made out for the exact amount owed by the women. "But I thought they intended to stay at least two weeks more," Connie murmured, staring at the check. "Maybe they didn't like the trip." "That was part of it," Lefty agreed. "They came in lookin' pretty hot and bothered." "Do you know where they went?" "Yes, to the Bradshaw Ranch. Said they had heard it was a lot better place." "Someone has been talking with them." "Looks like it all right. Pop had the nerve to come for them himself." "He's no friend of mine any more," Connie said indignantly. "I wish I had been here." "It wouldn't have done any good." "No, I suppose not," Connie sighed. "I talked with the banker today, Lefty." "What did he say?" "Oh, you might know he refused to extend my note. All the way home I tried to think what I could do. Unless I sell there's only one way out. I'll have a big roundup and dispose of every Longhorn I own. What do you think of the idea?" Lefty was silently chewing a blade of grass. "We've been losin' money on cattle ever since Blakeman took over the ranch," he said slowly. "I think it's a smart thing to do, Connie." "Then I'll talk with Blakeman right now," the girl declared. "There's no time to be lost. We'll start the roundup tomorrow." Before broaching the subject to the foreman Connie asked the man for an explanation of why he had taken the party of dudes to the Rainbow River instead of the cliff dwellings. "I figured it would prove more entertainin' to them," he replied with a shrug. "After this I wish you would carry out my orders, Mr. Blakeman. But I'll say no more about it. I'd like your opinion now on another matter--I'm planning a big roundup." She went on to tell of her idea, and was surprised when the foreman offered opposition. "You couldn't sell your cattle at a worse time," he insisted. "And how do you aim to round up the herd without more riders? You've kept Alkali and Lefty pretty well tied up with the dudes." "We'll let the guests help with the roundup," Connie declared gaily. "It should prove an exciting experience for them." "A lot of help they'd be. Especially Cecil." "Anyway, it will be a means of keeping them entertained. As for riders, we might get a few from the Slocer Ranch. Some of their cows will be mixed with ours and they'll probably want to do their own cutting-out." "A roundup would take a couple of days," the foreman frowned. "Some of the cows have strayed into the canyons. It will be a hard job to round them all up. How will you feed the men?" "We'll get out Dad's old chuck wagon," Connie said, her eyes dancing. "It hasn't been used in years, but it will be fun to see it roll once more!" "And will you have Marie do the cooking?" the foreman inquired sarcastically. Connie shook her head, refusing to take offense. "We'll borrow Cookie from the Bar R Ranch and run everything in the grand old style. It should be a real roundup." "That's what I'd like to see," boomed a hearty voice behind them. "A roundup!" Connie turned to see Mr. Postil who had come up with his small granddaughter. "You'll certainly have an opportunity, Mr. Postil, if you don't mind riding a horse," Connie laughed. "I'm going to start rounding up all my cattle tomorrow." "And will you brand them?" asked the little girl. "Only a few of the calves which I may keep," Connie answered. "Branding isn't as necessary as it was at one time, now that most of the free range is gone." "I've not been in a saddle for twenty years," Mr. Postil declared, "but if you have a nice gentle horse I might try it." "We have just the one for you," Connie promised. "I'm going too," said the little girl. "We'll let you ride in the chuck wagon with Cookie," Connie laughed. "Then you'll be perfectly safe." News of the coming roundup spread swiftly. Somewhat to the surprise of everyone, Cecil and Helena both showed interest, and Mr. Grimes said he would not miss it for anything. Immensely cheered, Connie got out the car and drove to the Slocer Ranch to ask the owners if she might borrow a few of their punchers for the big drive. "I can let you have two of the boys," George Slocer promised. "We're short handed ourselves or I could give you more help." "I'll get along all right with that number," Connie said. "That will give me five dependable men." Her next call was at the Bar R Ranch. In passing Pop Bradshaw's place, Connie saw the two teachers and Enid sitting on the front veranda. She pretended not to see them. Putting on a burst of speed she drove past, her eyes glued on the ribbon of road. Connie was cordially received at the Bar R. Cookie, the old colored man, who had flipped flapjacks in many a chuck wagon, grinned from ear to ear when he learned that his culinary services were needed for a roundup. Connie took him with her to Red Gulch, there to select his own supplies for the trip. It was long after supper before they returned to Rainbow Ranch with the car loaded. However, the girl could not think of sleep, for many things remained to be done. "I'll have to get the chuck wagon up from the field," she told Cookie. "I'll see about it now while you start unloading the car." Connie looked about for one of the men, but Lefty and Alkali were both busy pitching hay to the horses. "Have you seen Blakeman?" she asked. "He was around here a minute or two ago," said Alkali. Connie went to the bunk house but she could not find the foreman. "Oh, well, I'll get the chuck wagon myself," she decided. "It will be easier than waiting for someone else to do it." She went back to the barn for one of the work horses and harness. The chuck wagon had been left in the south field and she was relieved to find that standing in the weather had not damaged it. Hitching up, she towed it back to the ranch house. As Connie closed the gate behind her, she was surprised to observe Cecil and Helena mounting horses. "Are you going for a ride?" she asked as they came up. "It is a pretty night." "We're on our way to see those famous cliff dwellings by moonlight," Helena declared. "Ever since we arrived you've been promising us a close glimpse of them. We've decided to do our own exploring." "Oh, but it's so late to start out for the cliffs," Connie protested. "And it isn't safe for you to go alone." "Nonsense," replied Helena impatiently. "We're not children." "It's very easy to become lost on the trail. Besides, if you're taking part in the roundup you really should get some sleep. We'll have a hard day tomorrow." "You sound just like a Granny," Helena laughed. "Cecil and I know how to take care of ourselves." "Come on, Helena," urged the boy impatiently. "If you're really determined to go, I'm going too," Connie said quietly. "Then you'll have to catch up with us," Helena replied, digging her heels into her steed's ribs. Connie hurriedly turned the chuck wagon over to Cookie, and saddling Silvertail, set off in pursuit of the boy and girl. She felt irritated beyond measure. It did not seem to matter to them at all how much trouble they caused. If left to themselves they would be sure to take a wrong turn in the trail. Connie soon overtook the reckless pair. She had very little to say as the horses clattered over the stony road. It was truly a beautiful night and soon Connie, falling under the spell of the big moon, could bear no resentment. Often when she was a child she and her father had visited the cliffs upon just such an evening. The recollection of the remarkable sight had lingered long in her memory. Connie selected the South trail because it would give the best view of the cliff dwellings as they descended into the valley and climbed again to the other side. Emerging from a screen of pines, she reined in her horse and waited for Helena and Cecil who had fallen behind. With a sweep of her arm she pointed across the canyon. In the moonlight the white rocks shone weirdly, and the dark squares, each one marking the prehistoric dwelling place of an ancient tribe, looked like somber eyes peering across the valley. "Why, it's beautiful," Helena murmured. Even Cecil was deeply impressed by the sight. For a long moment no one spoke. Then Connie sat up very straight as she saw something move along the face of the cliff opposite them. For just an instant she thought that it might be a wild animal but the next moment she clearly distinguished the form of a man. He crept along the cliff trail, making his way toward an opening in the rocks. "Who's there?" Connie shouted across the chasm. There was no answer. With head bent low, the man fled into the dense bushes which lined the narrow trail. CHAPTER XVII A Night Prowler "Who was that fellow?" Cecil asked in a frightened whisper. "Why did he run when you called?" "I don't know," the girl answered. "We'll find out." She urged Silvertail down the steep trail. "Wait," protested Cecil in alarm. "We're unarmed, and there's no telling who that man may be. Maybe we ought to call off this trip." "You and Helena ride back to the ranch," Connie urged. "I'm going over there." "Then we'll stay with you," declared Helena with surprising courage. "After all, this was our idea." The horses picked their way slowly and cautiously down the steep path. Soon they reached the bottom of the canyon and began the ascent. Connie kept her eyes on the trail above them which circled the cliff. She had seen no sign of anyone moving about. "Let your horse have his head," she warned as the way became more treacherous. Presently Connie called a halt. They tied their steeds to a pine tree and continued afoot. The trail became dangerously narrow, so that a slight misstep would mean a plunge over the sheer precipice. "Let's not go any farther," Helena gasped. "I'm afraid." "You and Cecil wait for me here," Connie commanded. Leaving the pair huddling with their backs to the cliff, she hurried on down the trail. Connie knew every inch of it and had no fear of falling. But she glanced sharply at the overhanging bushes. Everything was still. Yet the girl had a feeling that her movements were being observed. Using the crude steps which had been cut in the cliff by the ancient dwellers, Connie descended between two faulted rocks. As she picked up the trail again at the bottom, she saw something bright and shiny lying on the ground. It was a tiny silver knife. With a murmur of astonishment she reached down for it. "Why, that looks like Jim Barrows' knife," she thought as she examined it. Connie remembered that the man had worn an ornamental silver knife fastened to his watch chain. Her reflection was a brief one for as she fingered the article, Helena gave a piercing scream. Fearing that harm had befallen the girl, Connie thrust the knife into her pocket and scrambled up the cliff by means of toe holds cut there by the ancient dwellers. She ran along the trail until she caught sight of Cecil and Helena standing where she had left them. "Oh, you're all right, thank goodness," she gasped. "When I heard that scream I was frightened nearly out of my wits." "I saw someone moving in the bushes!" Helena reported. "Where?" Helena pointed to a group of shrubs some distance above them. Connie knew that it would be impossible to reach the spot without a dangerous climb. Unarmed, she had no desire to investigate. "Let's get away from here," Cecil urged. "You can't hope to learn the identity of that prowler." Connie did not mention that already she had gained an important clue. She felt certain the knife belonged to Jim Barrows. But why would he be investigating the cliff dwellings? Was it possible that he was living in one of the kivas, hiding there in fear that the law would overtake him? She hesitated, wondering if she ought not to go back and make a thorough search. Helena read her thought and grasped her by the hand. "Do let's go away from here," she pleaded. "Cecil and I were wrong about wishing to come in the first place. Please don't go back into that dark hole under the cliff. Something dreadful might happen." "All right, we'll return to the ranch," Connie said. "I doubt that we could learn anything to-night anyway." "Who do you think was hiding in those bushes?" Cecil asked nervously as they mounted their horses. "Oh, perhaps a cowboy from Slocer's Ranch," Connie replied carelessly. "One of the boys might have come over here just to see the cliff dwellings by moonlight. Nearly every cowboy has a sentimental streak, you know." "I hadn't observed it," Helena responded dryly. "It doesn't seem to me the man would have run away unless he were afraid of being recognized." Connie did not trust herself to offer any comment as they began the descent into the valley. The discovery that Jim Barrows was lurking in the vicinity disturbed her more than she cared to have Cecil and Helena know. For the most part the three rode in silence. The incident of the night had served to sober Helena and her brother and they had lost their superior airs. Ascending the trail on the far side of the canyon, they turned their horses toward Rainbow Ranch. Connie was dead tired but a great many things remained to be done before she could feel free to turn in. "Don't forget that the roundup starts tomorrow at daybreak," she called to Cecil and Helena as the couple dismounted and walked toward the house. "We'll be up," Helena promised. During Connie's absence Cookie had nearly finished loading the chuck wagon. The girl helped him complete the task and then went to talk with Lefty regarding details of the next day's work. "Has Blakeman returned yet?" she questioned. "No, he hasn't," Lefty admitted. "This is a fine night for him to streak off somewhere. Leavin' all the work. Connie, I reckon you know your own business, but if you ask me, Blakeman ain't never had your best interests to heart." "I know he's opposed to this roundup." "He sure is, Connie. That's why he's layin' down on the job." "I owe Blakeman money," Connie said slowly. "If it weren't for that I'd let him go now, but as it is my hands are tied." "Sure, I can see how it is," Lefty admitted. Connie started to turn away, and then abruptly halted. "Oh, Lefty," she said, "I wish you'd be particularly alert during the roundup. I happen to know that Jim Barrows is keeping close to the ranch, and I'm afraid he may try to make trouble." "Jim Barrows?" the cowboy asked in surprise. "I saw him tonight, or at least I think I did," Connie replied, and went on to tell how she had picked up the silver knife on the trail near the cliff dwellings. Lefty examined the knife carefully. "That's his all right," he said. "Wonder what Jim was doing around there?" "I mean to find out as soon as we get this roundup off our hands, Lefty. But remember, keep a sharp watch tomorrow. We can't afford to have anything go wrong." "I'll be on my guard," the cowboy promised. "And I'll tip Alkali off too." Despite her great weariness, Connie awoke the next morning feeling completely refreshed. At the first sign of dawn she was down at the corrals helping rope horses. Besides those required for the guests, each rider would need two extras. At four-thirty the cowboys from the Slocer Ranch galloped into the courtyard, announcing themselves ready for the big drive. The foreman assigned them to their duties and with Lefty and Alkali they rode off again. By five o'clock the chuck wagon was on its way. Mr. Grimes, Mr. Postil and the little girl went with Cookie. Helena and Cecil chose to follow on horseback. Connie knew that the dudes would prove more of a handicap than an aid in the roundup, but she was pleased to see how much interest everyone was taking. Most amazing to her was the change of attitude shown by Helena and Cecil. The pair actually seemed eager to win her approval. With the chuck wagon established in a temporary camp, Connie rode away to cover the eastern portion of the range. For several hours she kept to the saddle, rounding up every stray steer. Far to the southward she could see a great cloud of dust which meant that Alkali and Lefty, who covered that section, had their herd on the move. The Slocer boys would be slower for they were searching the canyons. Irrespective of brand Connie rounded up every steer she could find. Nearly all bore the mark of the Rainbow outfit, but there were a few strays belonging to the Slocers and Pop Bradshaw. It was nearly sundown before Connie could drive her steers to the knoll where the other cattle grazed. Alkali and the Slocer boys were riding through the herd cutting out those which did not bear the Rainbow brand. Connie went to the chuck wagon for a cup of hot coffee and a dish of steaming stew. It was the first food she had tasted since morning. "You look all done in," observed Lefty who had thrown himself on the ground for a few minutes' rest. "Oh, I'm all right," Connie declared. "It's been a wonderful drive! I had no idea I owned so many steers. If I get anything like a fair price, I'll be able to pay my debts and have a tidy sum left." "You ought to go back to the ranch and get some sleep tonight," Lefty advised. "We can hold the herd without you." "Perhaps I will after supper," Connie agreed. "Are the dudes having a good time?" "Old man Grimes said he enjoyed every minute of it," Lefty reported, pouring himself another cup of coffee. "He and Mr. Postil took the kid and went back to the ranch a few minutes ago." Connie could see Helena and Cecil riding with Forest Blakeman, evidently under the impression that they were helping him keep the herd under control. While she was eating they came up to the chuck wagon, flushed and excited. "Oh, it's been wonderful!" declared Helena excitedly. "I'd not have missed it for anything in the world. Cecil and I are staying tonight to help hold the herd." "That's fine," replied Connie--"we need riders." She avoided looking at Lefty who had a pained expression on his face. Presently the cowboy arose, and saddling a fresh pony, rode out to relieve Alkali. Cookie soon had a hearty supper ready and both Cecil and Helena did justice to it, making no complaint at the rough fare. They did not notice that both Connie and Alkali kept glancing at the slowly darkening sky. "Looks like a storm blowin' up," the cowboy presently remarked. "Yes," agreed Connie. "And the cattle seem to be growing more restless. We may need more riders before morning. I'm staying, of course." "Is there any danger of a stampede?" Cecil asked eagerly. "Reckon it would give you a real thrill to see one," Alkali commented dryly. "Well, maybe you'll get your chance." After supper while Helena and Cecil sat around the campfire, Connie rode slowly around the herd. The cattle seemed fairly quiet. A few animals were on their feet but most of them were lying down. Lefty's discordant voice could be heard singing an old cowboy song. Connie rode over to talk with him. "How does the weather look to you, Lefty?" "Not so good," he admitted, squinting up at the moving clouds overhead. "We'll have rain before morning. I wish we had a few extra men." "The cattle seem to be quiet." "Sure, they are now, but there's something in the air, Connie. You can feel it. When the storm breaks, I'll be plumb surprised if they don't start rattlin' their hocks." Connie went back to the campfire knowing that it was wise to get as much rest as possible. She warned Cecil and his sister that a storm was coming, but both elected to remain. They spread out their bed tarps near the chuck wagon. Connie fell asleep almost at once, but in a short while she was awake again. The air had grown cold. It was pitch dark. Connie arose and tossed a log on the fire. She could not see the herd to the southward but she heard the rumble of hoofs. The steers were on the move again. "I ought to be getting out there," Connie thought. "There's going to be trouble a-plenty." Cookie had left the coffee pot on the bed of coals. She poured herself a cup of the strong brew, trying to get the sleep out of her eyes. As she sipped the coffee she heard a horse pounding across the hard ground. Enid Bradshaw rode into the firelight, springing from the saddle. "Connie," she said breathlessly, "there's going to be a bad storm, and your cows are sure to run. I came over to help if you need me." "Thank you," replied Connie coldly, after a moment of silence. "We don't need any help." "I know how you feel toward me," Enid said earnestly. "You think Pop and I have plotted to ruin you." "You did take two of my guests away," Connie returned. "But in business and love they say all is fair." "Connie, you must believe me--I didn't have anything to do with it. I never wanted my father to start the dude ranch in competition with you." "I believe you, Enid," Connie said slowly. "I'm sure you wouldn't lie to me. After all, why should I be offended? Your father has a perfect right to go into the dude business if he likes." "He never wanted to do it either," Enid went on desperately. "But we've been so hard pressed for money. The part I can't forgive is that he betrayed you." "What do you mean, Enid?" "Oh, Pop isn't running the ranch at all now--another party has gained control--a man who means to ruin you." "The bank?" "No, Connie--someone you've trusted. Pop will never forgive me for telling, but I must! I can't stand by and see you cheated out of everything you own." "Who is it?" Connie demanded. But Enid did not answer for just at that moment the very heavens seemed to open. A vivid streak of lightning zigzagged across the inky sky, and a torrent of rain descended. Then the earth trembled, and the sound struck fear to Connie's heart. The herd had stampeded! CHAPTER XVIII Stampede "The cattle are running!" cried Connie. "The boys never will be able to hold them in this storm!" "We must get out there and help," Enid shouted grimly. This time Connie did not refuse her aid. Before she could saddle Silvertail, Enid vanished into the night. Cecil and Helena, awakened by the sudden downpour, called to Connie, but she paid no heed. Pulling on her slicker, she leaped into the saddle and followed Enid. The rain was coming down in torrents and another brilliant flash of lightning momentarily revealed a surging mass of steers. The terrified animals were running away from the camp toward the canyon. The earth shook under the pounding of their hooves. All thought of the important revelation which Enid had been upon the point of making at the time the storm broke, had been swept from Connie's mind. But she felt warmed by the girl's generous offer of aid. Enid really was her friend after all. In this emergency, any feeling of resentment had been forgotten. The stampede called for quick action and courageous riding. Connie did not need to dig in the rowels of her spurs for Silvertail knew what was expected of him. She could feel his mighty heart pounding against her legs as he raced to overtake the leaders of the herd. Connie bent low over Silvertail's neck, trusting that there were no fences or badger holes ahead. Should her horse stumble she would be badly injured if not crushed to death. Through the rain the girl saw someone riding ahead of her. She could not tell who it was, but a man turned in his saddle and shouted something at her. She did not distinguish a word above the roar. Farther away a rider was firing his revolver into the air, trying to stem the tide. Connie, Alkali, and the boys from the Slocer Ranch outdistanced the leaders of the herd, fighting valiantly to turn them. The cattle had run less than a half mile when they began to circle. "They're starting to mill!" Connie shouted. "We'll hold 'em!" yelled Alkali. Connie could hear the crackling of horns rubbing together. Each flash of lightning revealed the cattle churning into a tighter circle. A cowboy rode close to Connie, rain spouting from his sombrero. She saw that it was Lefty. "Look out for another break!" he shouted. "They're millin' too close!" Suddenly two dark forms dashed out of the herd. "Get 'em, Silvertail!" Connie cried. She jumped her horse at the animals, sending them scurrying back into the churning mass. The rain had slackened and Connie was hopeful that the cattle would quiet down. They were not milling so closely now. The riders were getting them well under control. Then from the other side of the herd a revolver cracked, spitting a trail of fire into the black void. "Who did that?" cried Lefty angrily. "Someone's shootin' straight into the herd!" Connie heard the cowboy shout Cecil's name, but she did not believe that any of the dudes had been responsible for the shot. She was quite certain neither Helena nor her brother were armed, and she doubted that they had ridden out to help stop the herd. One of her own men was trying deliberately to start another stampede! Already the mischief had been accomplished. At the point where the revolver had been discharged the herd swerved and broke apart. The cattle had started to run again. Determined to learn the identity of the person who had started the stampede, Connie spurred Silvertail. Near the spot where the revolver had been fired she caught a glimpse of a rider. It was too dark to see his face clearly. Then a ragged streak of lightning brightened the sky. With a start Connie recognized her foreman, Forest Blakeman. She could not believe that he had been guilty of such a low, contemptible act. But even as she was assailed with doubt, she saw him raise his revolver and shoot again--straight into the herd. A great fury took possession of Connie. In a flash everything became clear to her. She understood now what Enid had intended to tell her. From the very first Forest Blakeman had plotted to gain control of Rainbow Ranch. That was why he had not favored the roundup, knowing that if she succeeded in marketing her cattle, he would never be able to force her to sell at his own terms. "How stupid and blind I have been," she thought. Connie rushed her horse straight at the foreman. He turned in the saddle and saw her coming. As a flash of lightning illuminated the sky, she knew that he recognized her. "Drop that gun!" she shouted furiously. "Drop it, you traitor!" Blakeman wheeled his horse and disappeared into the darkness. Connie did not pursue him. She could not have done it had she wished for Silvertail was running with the herd. A shiver ran down the girl's spine as the realization came to her that they were heading straight toward the canyon. At this particular point the cliffs were unprotected by fences or trees. And there was a sheer drop of several hundred feet to the valley below. The canyon could not be more than a quarter of a mile away. Blakeman deliberately had stampeded the cattle in that direction, hoping that the animals would run over the precipice and be killed. Unless she could turn them in time, her entire herd would be lost! CHAPTER XIX Turning the Herd Connie leaned low in the saddle and rode as she had never ridden before. But terror held her in its grip. Time was so short--the cliffs so near. A frenzy took possession of the girl. Everything she had in the world was at stake. If the herd went over the precipice she would lose every animal and her last chance to save Rainbow Ranch. She had to turn the herd even at the risk of her own life. Silvertail was racing alongside the leaders now, but they would not swerve. On they ran straight toward the cliffs with the herd thundering behind. Frantically Connie tore off her slicker as she rode. Folding it, she used it to strike at the leaders. Time after time she brought it down on the rumps of the Longhorns, trying to swerve them to the right. Connie's heart pounded from the exertion and her breath came in gasps, but still she struck out with all her strength. The cliffs were very close now. It was no use, Connie thought with faltering courage. They were doomed to go over, she and Silvertail with the cattle. She could not save herself by turning back now. The tide of cattle would sweep them on as surely as if they were caught in the swift-moving stream of a mighty river. Then the girl became aware of another rider. Enid too was riding at the head of the herd, discharging her revolver and fighting desperately to check the leaders. Alkali and Lefty must be there too, loyal and true, risking their lives to help her. New courage and strength came to Connie. A touch of her spurs sent Silvertail leaping after a rangy Longhorn at the very head of the herd. With all her might Connie brought the slicker across the animal's face. He whirled to the right and the herd followed. Keeping Silvertail between the frantic animals and the dark precipice Connie uttered a little prayer. She hoped fervently that the cattle would turn at a sharp enough angle to avoid the cliff. A flash of lightning showed that her horse was running not more than thirty feet parallel to the brink. As they raced along Connie felt the herd edging sideways toward the precipice, slowly pressing her mount closer and closer to destruction. Desperately she spurred Silvertail alongside the leading steer and slashed with her slicker at the animal's head. The steer swerved in the opposite direction carrying his blind followers clear of the brink. Connie's heart leaped. She had won! Although the danger was past, the work was by no means done. It took a half hour of hard riding before the animals could be halted in their mad run. But at last they were milling again so that the cowboys could hold them by riding slowly around the herd. Not until then did Connie have an opportunity to speak with Enid. "You were wonderful," she told the girl. "I'll never forget it--never. You risked your life to save my cattle." "I did no more than Lefty or Alkali or any of the boys," Enid answered quietly. "Besides, I owe you a great deal, Connie. I must tell you about Forest Blakeman. He has deliberately plotted to ruin you." "I know," Connie responded. "I learned the truth tonight when I saw him shoot into the herd." "Then he was the one who stampeded the cattle! What a criminal thing to do! But it is in keeping with his character." "Tell me everything you know about Blakeman," Connie urged. "Months ago he loaned my father money, and he has made trouble for us ever since. At the time of the rodeo he forced him to keep Catapult out of the show, expecting to win a large sum of money for himself. But something went wrong----" "I know about that," Connie nodded. "Pop didn't wish to deceive his friends but he had no choice. Oh, Connie, that was why I felt so ashamed to face you. I suspected too that Blakeman intended to ruin you, but I couldn't tell you without exposing Pop's part in the affair." "Substituting another steer for Catapult wasn't such a terribly serious thing, Enid," Connie said kindly. "Please don't take it so hard." "There's more to it than that. After the rodeo Blakeman came to our ranch and threatened my father. He made him do exactly what he said. Pop didn't want to start a dude ranch to rival yours. Blakeman arranged to have Miss Parker and her friend come to our place too. He wanted you to fail in your enterprise." "I realize that now," Connie said bitterly. "Only a miracle saved me tonight. But why has Blakeman done all these things to me?" "Because he's grasping and cruel," Enid replied. "Dude ranching is going to develop into a big thing out here, and your place is the cream of the lot. You have natural scenery and the cliff dwellings will draw a great many guests. Once you get started your business will grow by leaps. Blakeman has known that, and he's been determined to gain control for himself." "I'm glad you came to tell me all this, Enid. It's cleared up so much misunderstanding." "Then you'll forgive Pop and me?" the girl asked eagerly. "In our hearts we've wished you only success." "Of course I forgive you," Connie returned heartily. "And now I have something disagreeable to do. I must find Blakeman." Connie knew that the foreman had disappeared immediately after he had fired into the herd. Undoubtedly aware that she had recognized him, he had fled from the scene. He might have gone back to the ranch house to pack up his belongings. If she rode hard she might intercept him. Connie did not say anything to Alkali or Lefty for they were busy with the cattle. But as she started away, Enid rode after her. "I'm going along, Connie," she declared. "It's not safe for you to face Blakeman alone. You don't know that man as I do. He might try anything." "I imagine he's skipped out by this time," Connie replied. "But let's see if we can catch him." The first rays of the morning sun were coloring the East as they rode across the range toward the ranch. When they were still some distance away, Connie drew rein and her companion likewise halted. They both had observed a lone horseman leaving Rainbow Ranch. "That looks like Blakeman," Connie said. "He's riding off now." "But he's not going toward Red Gulch," returned Enid. "He's heading for the canyon." "Come on," Connie urged, "we mustn't let him get away." The girls raced their tired steeds on toward the horseman. Apparently he did not observe their approach for he was traveling in the opposite direction and they were a long distance away. Blakeman was riding hard too, and they could not gain. Presently they saw the man disappear down into the canyon. "Enid, I believe he's taking the South trail toward the cliff dwellings!" Connie exclaimed. "Maybe we ought to let him go. We'll never catch him now." "Yes, we will," insisted Connie stubbornly. "He'll not be able to travel very fast down in the canyon." Minutes later, their ponies breathing hard, the girls reached the top of the canyon. Mounting the other side they could see Forest Blakeman. "He's going straight to the cliff dwellings!" Connie exclaimed. "I wonder why----" She sprang from her horse, tying him to a tree. "You're giving up the pursuit, Connie?" asked Enid in surprise. "No, but I'd rather Blakeman wouldn't know we're following him. He's up to something, Enid, and I intend to learn what it is. I know a short-cut to the other side but the trail isn't wide enough for our horses." Enid slid from the saddle and quickly tied her pony beside Silvertail. Then Connie led the way down the trail. Whenever they were within view of Blakeman they took care to bend low behind the bushes which overhung the path. The caution was unnecessary. The foreman never glanced back. "He's making straight for the cliff dwellings all right," Connie observed a few minutes later. "We'll take this fork in the trail and circle, coming in from the other direction." The girls lost sight of the man as he disappeared behind a wall of rock. Their own trail wound deeper into the canyon, past a spring which in days gone by had provided water for the cliff dwellers. "We're following the path actually used by the women of the tribe when they came for water," Connie explained as the girls hurried along. "This is the shortest route to the cliff house, but it's a hard climb." They had gone only a few steps, when in turning a sharp bend, Connie came to an abrupt halt. Tied to a pine tree on the slope was a pinto pony. "That's not a horse from Rainbow Ranch!" Enid exclaimed in surprise. "No," answered Connie, staring at the pony. "I never saw it before. It couldn't have been left here by Blakeman because he's on the other trail." The girls looked quickly about but they saw no sign of a rider. Hastening on again, they climbed a rocky path toward the high cliffs. As they drew closer, they approached cautiously, keeping an alert watch for Forest Blakeman. Presently they saw his horse tied up at the same point where Connie, Cecil and Helena had left their steeds the previous night, but the foreman had vanished. "He must be somewhere in the cave back under the cliff," Connie whispered. "Perhaps down in one of the kivas." "But what could he be doing down there?" Enid asked blankly. "Let's get closer and see if we can find out," Connie urged. They followed the trail upward, coming to a tunnel so narrow that they had trouble in squeezing through on hands and knees. Emerging at the end, Connie and Enid stepped out on a wide shelf. Just ahead were the ruined dwellings, built snugly under the lip of the cliff. "Look!" whispered Connie. She pointed toward one of the kivas at the far end of the shelf upon which they stood. A crude ladder leading down into the hole wiggled slightly as if someone were climbing on it. Then Forest Blakeman's head and shoulders appeared. Although the girls were unsheltered he did not see them immediately. That was because he was engrossed in examining something in his hand. Connie saw that it was a roll of bills. As he put the money into his pocket she and Enid ran forward. "Just a minute, Forest Blakeman!" At the sound of Connie's voice, the foreman whirled around to face the girls. A look of fear gave way to one of insolent defiance. "Well?" he asked brazenly. "You have a great many things to explain, Forest Blakeman," said Connie grimly. "First, why did you stampede my herd?" The man laughed harshly. "Why did I stampede your herd?" he mocked. "I'd advise you not to make rash accusations without proof." "I have it and that's why you tried to get away!" Connie cried. "And another thing--where did you get that roll of money which I saw you counting? You had it cached in the kiva and it's my money! Money that you stole from me that night at Eagle Pass!" "You're crazy," muttered Blakeman, but his expression disclosed that Connie's accusation had been a true one. "You were the one who held me up," Connie cried with conviction. "You've kept the money hidden here in the kiva, and that's why you never wanted anyone to come near this place. Give me my money!" Blakeman started to retreat. Connie and Enid followed. "Give me my money," Connie repeated again. "If you don't----" The foreman whirled around. "I'll give you something else," he shouted angrily. "When you strike the bottom of the canyon you'll not be apt to carry any tales!" He hurled himself toward the girls. Enid gave a piercing scream. Whether or not the man intended to push them off the narrow ledge the girls never knew for before he could touch them a cool voice rang out. "Stand where you are, Forest Blakeman. And reach for the sky!" Wheeling around, Enid and Connie saw Jim Barrows leap nimbly down from the rocks, his gun trained on the foreman. CHAPTER XX The End of the Trail The foreman slowly raised his hands above his head. Jim Barrows frisked him of his revolver and took possession of the roll of bills which he tossed over to Connie. She quickly counted the sum. "There's exactly seven hundred dollars here," she reported. "Just fifty less than I lost." "I reckon Kerrigan spent the fifty," said Jim. "What did you call me?" demanded the foreman savagely. "Jack Kerrigan--wanted in Texas for cattle stealing and on a few other charges. You've eluded the authorities very cleverly, Jack, but the law has caught up with you at last." "Are you a government man?" Connie gasped. "Reckon I am, Miss," the man agreed, without taking his gaze from the foreman. "Keep your hands up, Jack, and don't try any monkey business." "I don't understand at all," murmured Connie in bewilderment. "I thought----" "Just what I hoped you would," finished the detective. "If you had suspected who I was my entire purpose would have been defeated. I'll explain everything after I've taken this hombre to jail. March on down the trail, Jack!" Connie and Enid, still somewhat dazed by what had happened, followed the two men. Barrows compelled the foreman to ride ahead of him down the trail while he kept him covered. The girls had a dozen questions which they wished to ask, but the detective seemed in no mood for explanations. He promised them he would return to Rainbow Ranch just as soon as he had delivered his prisoner to the sheriff at Red Gulch. "I'm hopelessly mixed now," Connie confided to Enid after they had parted company with the detective. "To think that I believed Jim Barrows might have been the one who robbed me of my money!" "I don't wonder you arrived at such a conclusion," Enid replied after she had heard of the various evidence which had come into her friend's possession. "So many things aren't explained even now." But the girls did not have long to wait until all of their questions were answered. By the time they had changed into dry clothing and refreshed themselves with breakfast, Jim Barrows returned to the ranch. "I'll start at the beginning," he declared. "First of all my name isn't Jim Barrows. Instead it is Jim Ragon." "So that accounts for the initialed handkerchief which I picked up," Connie commented. "Yes, and I suppose you've guessed that I came here for the deliberate purpose of getting a job. I had been tipped off that Blakeman might be the man I was after." "You weren't sick at all that day I found you on the trail?" "I'm afraid I was playing possum. I thought I might appeal to your sympathy if you thought I was down and out. So I waited for you on the trail. It was a mean advantage to take, but it did serve my purpose. You were kind enough to give me a job." "Blakeman was suspicious of you from the very first." "He didn't like me," the detective admitted, "but until today I am sure he did not suspect who I was. You understand now why I was trying to break into his chest?" "You were after evidence." "Yes, and I did succeed in getting a paper which definitely links your foreman with a crime committed in Texas. I could have arrested him yesterday but by waiting I hoped to learn more." "Did you think that he was the person who robbed me at Eagle Pass?" Connie questioned. "Yes, I felt certain of it. I thought that by keeping watch of him I might learn where he had cached the money." Connie took a silver knife from her pocket, offering it to the detective. "Here is something which belongs to you, I believe." "Where did you find it?" he asked quickly. "I picked it up last night on the trail to the cliff dwellings." "I must have dropped it when I followed your foreman there," the detective responded. "I've been watching him ever since I started working here at the ranch. Finally I figured out that his secret trips to the cliffs must have some significance. Last night I searched the kivas without success. Today I lay in wait for Blakeman, as you know, with better luck." "What will happen to him?" Connie asked. The detective shrugged. "Oh, he'll probably get twenty years if he pleads guilty. I have him locked up at the jail now. Late this afternoon I'm starting back to Texas with him." "Then I may not see you again," Connie said regretfully. "You must forgive me for discharging you." "You did me a service," the man smiled. "The only thing I worried about was that you might tell Blakeman I had been prying into his chest." "I'll always be grateful to you," Connie said earnestly. "And you'll be remembered as the finest hand I ever had!" "Maybe you'll see me again next summer," the man promised as he prepared to ride away. "I've taken a liking to this ranch. I'd enjoy spending my vacation here." "We'll be looking for you back next year," Connie declared. Later in the morning the girls rode to Red Gulch themselves. By that time the cowboys had driven the cattle to the stockyards, and the loading was nearly completed. "Did we lose many animals in the stampede?" Connie asked Lefty anxiously. "Only two," he answered. "You're a-sittin' pretty now, Connie. This shipment ought to net you a nice amount." "I'll not need very much of the money to pay off my bank debt," she told him gaily. "With the seven hundred dollars I already have, I'll make a first payment on the note. Then as soon as my check comes back for this stock, I'll settle it." "Looks like you'll get a good market for your cattle too," Lefty declared. "You ought to have quite a bit left over." "I can use it," laughed Connie. "Oh, I have wonderful plans! I'll remodel, and I'll buy thoroughbred stock. Perhaps I'll build a new wing on the ranch house and advertise for dudes!" "Going into the business strong?" "That's right," Connie agreed. "This morning Mr. Grimes said he intends to come back next year bringing Cecil and Helena. And he knows several other people he expects to interest in our place." "I could do without Cecil myself," Lefty muttered. "Oh, he's improving every day," Connie laughed. "In another year perhaps you'll make a real cowboy of him." "Wranglin' dudes ain't my favorite pastime." "Oh, that reminds me. Lefty, you're to have a new job--and if we do well, a new salary to go with it." "What doin'?" the cowboy asked cautiously. "You're to be the new foreman." Lefty stared at Connie as if he could not believe his ears. His mouth widened in a grin. "That's sure swell of you, Connie. I--I don't know what to say." His horny hand reached out and grasped hers. After leaving the stockyards, Connie went directly to the First National Bank. Mr. Haynes received her with a cordiality which was amusing to the girl. He gave her a receipt for the seven hundred dollars, assuring her that she need not worry about the remaining amount. "Thank you," said Connie, "but I'll pay off the rest of my debt in three days." And she was able to keep her word. The sale of the cattle netted far more than the girl had expected. Upon receiving the check in payment, her first act was to settle the note with the bank. "Rainbow Ranch is really mine again," Connie thought with satisfaction as she rode slowly home. Her gaze wandered toward the vermilion cliffs. She had never seen them quite so beautiful as they were at this moment, tinted by the last rays of the afternoon sun. Behind her sloped the golden plain. Ahead in majestic splendor rose the painted mountains. Connie drew rein to gaze for a moment at the familiar scene. Then with a gay laugh she spurred Silvertail into a brisk canter and they raced home to Rainbow Ranch. THE END 
43776	----	Transcriber's Note: Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. Italic text is denoted by _underscores_. Superscripts are prefixed with a ^caret. This book is the third of three volumes. Page numbering continues from Volume 2. The other volumes are available at: Volume 1: http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/43774 Volume 2: http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/43775 Pike's Expeditions. VOLUME III. THE EXPEDITIONS OF ZEBULON MONTGOMERY PIKE, To Headwaters of the Mississippi River, Through Louisiana Territory, and in New Spain, During the Years 1805-6-7. A NEW EDITION, NOW FIRST REPRINTED IN FULL FROM THE ORIGINAL OF 1810, WITH COPIOUS CRITICAL COMMENTARY, MEMOIR OF PIKE, NEW MAP AND OTHER ILLUSTRATIONS, AND COMPLETE INDEX, BY ELLIOTT COUES, Late Captain and Assistant Surgeon, United States Army, Late Secretary and Naturalist, United States Geological Survey, Member of the National Academy of Sciences, Editor of Lewis and Clark, etc., etc., etc. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. III. Index--Maps. NEW YORK: FRANCIS P. HARPER. 1895. COPYRIGHT, 1895, BY FRANCIS P. HARPER, New York. All rights reserved. LIST OF MAPS AND OTHER PLATES. VOLUME I. PORTRAIT OF ZEBULON M. PIKE, Frontispiece FACSIMILE LETTER OF ZEBULON M. PIKE, Facing Page lx VOLUME III. FALLS OF ST. ANTHONY. MAP OF THE MISSISSIPPI RIVER FROM ITS SOURCE TO THE MOUTH OF THE MISSOURI. FIRST PART OF CAPTAIN PIKE'S CHART OF THE INTERNAL PART OF LOUISIANA. CHART OF THE INTERNAL PART OF LOUISIANA. MAP OF THE INTERNAL PROVINCES OF NEW SPAIN. SKETCH OF THE VICE ROYALTY OF NEW SPAIN. (The above six maps are reproduced in facsimile from the Philadelphia edition of 1810.) HISTORICO-GEOGRAPHICAL CHART OF THE UPPER MISSISSIPPI RIVER, COMPILED AND DRAWN UNDER THE DIRECTION OF DR. ELLIOTT COUES, BY DANIEL W. CRONIN, 1895. [Illustration: FALLS of S^T ANTHONY] INDEX. N. B.--This index covers all the matter of the two preceding volumes, both of main text and notes thereto. It is mainly an index of names, proper and common, without analysis of what comes under them. All proper names are intended to be indexed in every place where they occur, except a few of incessant recurrence, in the cases of which some selection is made. Of common names the list is quite full, though it is exclusive, as a rule, of mere mention or allusion. Proper are distinguished from common nouns by capitalization, the same as they would be if occurring in ordinary sentences. The arrangement of the entries is intended to be strictly alphabetical, without regard to the logical order in which phrase-names and phrases would follow one another; thus, Mountjoy's name comes between Mt. Hosmer and Mt. Keyes; various Sandy things interrupt the canon of Spanish saints whose names begin with San; and so on. Contractions and abbreviations are alphabetized as if they were spelled out. Place-names which are phrases are entered as usually spoken or written, but a great many of them are also re-entered in another form or in other forms; as, Rio Conejos and Conejos r. Alternative and variant names of the same thing are all entered, but cross-references are made only in special cases. Roman numerals all refer to pages of the introductory matter in Vol. I.; the unbroken pagination of the rest of the work obviates reference by vol. for the Arabic figures. Besides serving the usual purpose, this index has been made the depository of various belated items, which do not appear elsewhere in the work, and really contains no little additional information, with here and there a correction. Usual abbreviations or contractions for names of States and Territories, civic and military titles, etc.; also, the following: Ark. r., Arkansaw river; br., branch (of a stream); chf., (Indian) chief; co., county; cr., creek; fk., fork (of a stream); Ind., Inds., Indian, Indians; isl., island; l., lake; ldg., landing; Miss. r., Mississippi river; Mo. r., Missouri river; Mt., mt., Mount, mountain; pk., peak; pra., prairie; pt., point; r., river; rap., rapid or rapids; res., (Indian) reservation; R. R., Ry., railroad, railway; sl., slough; spr., spring, springs; st., street; St., Saint; sta., (railroad) station; tp., township. A Aaiaoua, 22 Abadie, d', 213, 214 Abajo, Hacienda de, 682 Abboinug, 31 Abert, J. J., 334 Abert, J. W., 429, 446, 607, 615, 617, 630, 633, 645, 737 Abicu, N. M., 604 Abies balsamea, 132, 318, 320 Abilene, Kas., 403, 404 Abricu, N. M., 605 Abrupt Discharges, see Kapuka Abstract of Indians, etc., 590, 591 Abstract of Nations, etc., 346, 347 Acanza, 559 Acapulco, Mex., 721, 722, 791 Accault, M., 3, 5, 13, 35, 64, 65, 68, 70, 71, 91, 95 accountants, 286 acequias, 621, 652, 740, 741 Acer saccharinum, 157 Achipoe is a form of the word Ojibway or Chippewa Aco, Acoma, N. M., 630, 745 Acomita, N. M., 745 Act of Congress, see Congress Acts of Minnesota Legislature, 74, 164 Adaes, Adahi, Adai, Adaise, Adaizan, Adaize, Adaizi, 713, 714 Ada, Kas., 405 Adams co., Ill., 6, 9, 11 Adams, Gov. A., xlix, lv, 457, 471, 490 Adams isl., 26 Adams, Lieut., 686 Adams, Mrs. Ann, 84 Adams, Prest. J., lxx Adana sta., Col., 442 Adayes, Adees, 713, 714 Adobe, Col., 462 Adobe cr., 446 Adyes, 713, 714 Africa, 525 Agate cr., 468 agave, 681 agricultural establishment, 15, 16, 211 agriculture of Osages, 532 Agua Caliente, N. M., 597, see Ojo Caliente Agua de Leon, 675 Agua Fria, N. M., 614 Agua Fria r., Ariz., 734 Agua Nueva, Mex., 653 Aguas Calientes, State of, 719, 723 Agua Verde l., 776 Aguazul Inds., 731, 736, see Havasupai Ahacus, 742 Ahmokave, Hamookhabi, are same word as Mojave, and said by some to mean "three mountains" Aiatans, 412 Aiavvi, 22 Aile pra., 206 Aile Rouge, 69, 202, 205, 257, 347 Aiowais, 346, 347 Aird, George, 24 Aird, James, 24, 32, 225, 293 Aishkabugakosh, Aishkebugekoshe, Aishkibugikozsh, 169 Aitkin, Alfred, see Aitkin, Wm. Aitkin co., Minn., 134, 135, 137, 143, 175, 314 Aitkin l., 137 Aitkin, Minn., 134, 135, 136, 137, 157 Aitkin, Robert, see Aitkin, Wm. Aitkin's ferry, 122 Aitkin's post is that referred to, 138 Aitkinsville, see Aitkin, Wm. Aitkin, Wm., or Wm. A., or Wm. R., or Robert, 330, believed to be the same "Mr." Aitkin. Among licensed traders in Minnesota in 1833 were W. A. Aitkin, at Fond du Lac, and Alfred Aitkin, at Sandy l. Wm. Aitkin, of Little Rock, signed a memorial in 1848. In Minn. Hist. Coll., I. 86, J. F. Williams speaks of W. A. Aitkin as at Sandy l. in 1832; see op. cit., V. 483; on p. 382 it says W. A. Aitken was given the trade of the Amer. Fur Co. in Fond du Lac dept., 1826; died 1851, "and lies buried at Aitkinsville (Swan river)." The Hist. Up. Miss. Vall., 1881, says Wm. Aitkin located at Swan r., 1848. His half-breed son Alfred, doubtless the one above mentioned, was murdered at Leech Lake post, 1836. Name varies also to Aitken, Aikin, Aiken Ajuntos isl., 692 Akansa, 559 Akaque, 347 Ako l., 166, named for M. Accault by Hon. I. V. D. Heard Alabama, cx, cxi, 748 alacrans, 763 Alameda Arriba, Mex., 688 Alameda, N. M., 619 alamedas, 681, 682 Alamito, Mex., 677 Alamo de los Pinos, N. M., 621 Alamo de Parras, Mex., 677, 681 Alamo de Peña, 652 Alamo, Mex., 688, 689 Alamo r., br. of Rio Grande, 691 Alamos, 761 Alamosa, Col., 494 Alamosa cr., 494, 497 Alamosa de Parras, 680 Alamosa r., in N. M., 637 Alamos r., 774 Alamos, Sonora, 773 Alarcon, Alarchon, Hernando de, discovered Colorado r. of the West, Aug. 26th, 1540; said he navigated it 85 leagues; returned same year without joining Coronado Albach's Annals, 438 Albany Argus, xxiii Albany, Ill., 26 Albany, N. Y., liii, lxx, lxxiii Albion, Minn., 128 Alboquerque, A. d', 619 Albuquerque, Alburquerque, N. M., 619, 621, 625, 626, 739, old town founded about 1701. See H. H. Bancroft's Arizona and New Mexico, notes to pp. 168, 228, 231 _seq._ Albykirk, Albykirky, 619 Alchedoma, see Jalchedum Alcontre r., 691 Alder r., 137 Aldrich, Hon. Chas., preface and xlix Alencaster, Alencastre, see Allencaster Aleutian isls., 53 Alexander, Gen., 82 Alexandria, Mo., 14 Algodones, N. M., 616, 617, 619 Algona l., 310 Algonquian, Algonquin Inds., 289, 337, 341, 346, 351, 353 Alice l., 162 Aliche, 711 alicrans, 763 Alim8pigoiak, Alinoupigouak, see Assiniboine Allamakee co., Ia., 38, 41, 42, 305 Allan, see Allen Alleghany, Allegheny mts., 444, 454, 523 Allen, Allan, Maj. W., ciii Allen, Andrew H., preface Allencaster, Don Joachin or Joaquin del Real, xlvii, 504, 508, 509, 608, 609, 610, 611, 612, 613, 622, 758, 807, 808, 809, 823, 828, 850, was governor 1805-08 Allencaster's brother, 648 Allen co., Kas., 395, 397 Allende r., 670 Allen, J. A., see Coues and Allen Allen, Judge C. H., 390 Allen l., 128, 332, named by Brower for Lieut. James Allen Allen, Lieut. Jas., 97, 101, 102, 103, 104, 122, 124, 127, 143, 147, 156, 161, 163, 167, 309, 328, 329, 330, 331, 332, 335 Allenoga r., 162, name compounded by Schoolcraft of Allen + oga Allen's bay, 157, 158, 160, 332 Allouez, 288 Alma bluffs, 58 Almagra, Almagre r., 452 Almansa, see D'Almansa Alma, Wis., 55, 56, 57, 59, 60, 62 Almighty, the, 352, 353 Alomas, 761, see Alamos Alona, 742 Alnwick, Col., 465 Alston, Mr., 841 Altac, Altar, in Sonora, 773 Altar r., 771 Alton, Ill., 2, 5 Alvarado, Hernando de, August, 1540, was sent by Coronado from Cibola (Zuñi) to Cicuye (Pecos) via Acuco (Acoma) and Tiguex (near Bernalillo, N. M.), and returned to Tiguex Amaqua, Amaquaqua, 735, also Amacava, Amajava Amaranth isl., 6 Amazon bend, 2 Amazonian woman, 694 Amelia l., 90 American Antiquarian Society, xxxiv American Fur Company, 156, 204, 298 American Philosophical Society, 77 American State Papers, 10, 840 Americus sta., Col., 470 amusements, Spanish, 789 Anakigi, 66 Analectic Magazine, lxxix Anamas r., 445, 730, see Animas r. Andabazo cr. or r., 672, 673 Andaig r., in Schoolcraft, 1855, for Karishon or Crow r. Andalusia, Ill., 23, 24 Anderson, Col. A. L., 634 Anderson, Geo., 154, 155, 172, 180, 202, 272, 280, 283 Anderson, Geo., his brother, 202 Anderson, Mrs. M. B., preface Andes, 461 Andreas' Historical Atlas, 17 André, Maj., lxvi Androctonus biaculeatus, 763 Andromeda, 67 Andrus cr., 163, named by Brower for the treasurer of the Minnesota Game and Fish Commission Andrusia l., 160, named by Schoolcraft for Andrew Jackson, president 1829-37 Andrusian lakes of Eastman, 1855, are Elliott Coues and Pamitascodiac or Tascodiac Angelina, Angeline r., 709, 710, 782 Angle isl., 7 Anglo-American, xlvi, xlvii, 809 Anglojibway, 31 Animas r., br. of Rio Grande, 637 Anitons, 313 Annals of Iowa, xlix Annals of New Mexico, 738 Ann l., 90 Anoka co., Minn., 96 Anoka, Minn., 94, orig. Sioux name of settlement at mouth of Rum r., meaning "on both sides" Anser albifrons, 692 Antaya, Pierre, 37, 303, also found as Antagna antelope, 399, 653, see cabrie Antelope cr., br. of Ark. r., 547 Antelope cr., br. of Grape cr., 491 Antelope hills, Okla., 559 Anthony, St., 91 Anthony sta., N. M., 640 Antigua r., 722 Antilocapra americana, 399, 653 antiquities of Arizona, 741, 742 Antlers Hotel, Colorado Springs, 456 Antoine r., 213 Apache arrows, 747, 749 Apache assassin, 752 Apache weapons, 749 Apaches, xlvii, xcviii, 413, 598, 599, 631, 632, 633, 636, 639, 648, 651, 679, 697, 731, 735, 744, 746, 747, 748, 749, 750, 751, 752, 768, 778, 785 Apaches, anecdotes of, 750, 751, 752 Apaches, character of, 748 Apaches, classification of, 748 Apaches of the Gila, 748 Apachquay l., 301 Apex sta., Mo., 5 apikan, 136, Ojibway name of the portage-strap in Barraga's Dict. Apina, 742 Apishapa bluffs, 448 Apishapa, Apishipa, Apishpa r., 447, 448 Apostles' r., 734, translating Rio de los Apostoles, name given to the Gila by Father Kino, 1699, when he called four of its branches Los Evangelistas apostles, twelve, 764 Appaches, see Apaches Appannose, Appanooce, Ill., 17, 18 Appanoose cr., in Kas., 520 Apple r., 27, 28 Appleton, 300 Apuckaway, Apukwa l., 301 Aqas nueva, 653 Aqua, see Agua Aqua Caliente, N. M., 597, 600, 601, 623, see Agua Caliente and Ojo Caliente aqueduct of Chihuahua, 765, 766 Aquico, 742 Aquinsa, 742 Arago, Dominique François, 334, b. Estagel, Feb. 26th, 1786, d. Paris, Oct. 2d, 1853 Araignee Jaune, 347 Arapahoes, 435 archbishoprics, archbishops, 800, 801 Archevêque, Jean l', 780, b. Bayonne, France, 1671, son of Claude Archevêque and Marie d'Armagnac; was at Santa Fé, 1696, with Pierre Meunier and Jacques Grollet, two other of La Salle's men; married Antonia Gutierez, 1697; married again Aug. 16th, 1719; had sons Miguel and Augustin Archibeque (as the name became in New Mexico); was killed by Pawnees and French somewhere on South Platte r. or Ark. r., Aug. 16th, 1720: see biog. in Bandelier's Gilded Man, pp. 289 to 302 Archibeque, see Archevêque Archipelago in Miss. r., 100, 192 architecture of Pawnees, 533, 534 archives, see Ontario and War Dept. Arcs, River of, 815 Aretiqui r., 738 Arispea, 771, 773 arit, 772 Arivaca, 771 Arivaipa Apaches, 748 Arizona, xcviii, 646, 727, 730, 731, 734, 735, 736, 741, 742, 743, 744, 746, 747, 748, 770, 771, 772, 773 Arizpa, Arizpe, 719, 771, 772, 773 Arkansas, Arkansaw, cx, 559 Arkansas City, Tex., 697 Arkansas Post, Ark., 215, 432, 560, 561, 714 Arkansaw City, Kas., 549 Arkansaw Divide, in Col., 443, 451 Arkansaw dry route, in Kas., 433, 434 Arkansaw hills, in Rocky mts., 471 Arkansaw journey, Pike's, 357 to end of Pt. 2, also 845 to 854 Arkansaw journey, Wilkinson's Report on, 539 to 561 Arkansaw map, 426 Arkansaw Osages, 526, 529, 530, 532, 556, 557, 561, 566, 582, 590, 591, 827 Arkansaw Post, see Arkansas Post Arkansaw r., xlv, xlvii, li, lxiv, 3, 381, 424, 425 and continuously to 482, 514, 515, 516, 517, 518, 522, 523, 524, 535, 541, 544 and continuously to 561, 563, 564, 580, 581, 583, 585, 587, 589, 590, 591, 592, 606, 612, 642, 692, 704, 705, 815, 822, 827, 834, 835, 837, 838, 840, 841, 844, 846, 847, 852, 854, 855 Arkansaw r., crossings of the, 439 Arkansaw route, 446, 447 Arkansaw schism, 530 Arkansaw villages, Kwapa, 559, 560 Arkansaw villages, see Arkansaw Osages Arkensa Inds., 560 Arkensaw, see Arkansaw Armendaris Grant, 633 Armes du Roy, etc., 64 Armijo, Don M., 607 armorer killed, lxxxv, lxxxvi Arms of God r., 706 Armstrong, Gen. J., lxxiii, lxxix, lxxxiii, xc, ci, cii Army of the West, 333, 446, 607, 639, 727, 737 Arnold, one, 27 Arnold's cr., 469 Arny, N. M., 634 Arrowsmith, Mr., xlii arrows poisoned, 747 Arroyo del Espinazo, 616 Arroyo Hondo, 614, see Cua-kaa Arroyo Seco, 654 Artaceoasa cr., 696 Arthur, Mo., 390 Arundinaria macrosperma, 561 Asbury, 5 Ascencion r., 771 Ashburn sta., Mo., 7 Ash cr., br. of Ark. r., 426, 433 Ash cr., br. of Mo. r., 366 Asherville, Kas., 408 Ash House, 278 Ashkibogi-sibi, 81 Ash r. of Pike, 363, 364, 366 Ashton cr., 6 Ashui, Zuñians' name of themselves Asia, 641 Ask a Buggy Cuss, 169 Asp, a ship, lxxxiii Aspidonectes ferox, 539 Assawa l., 162, 167, 335 Assawa Lake fk., 162 Assawe l., 162 Asseni-sipi is an old name of Rock r. in Ill. Assiniboine Inds., 171, 255, 272, 347, 348, 354 Assiniboine r., 168, 254, 256, 322 Assinipoualak, see Assiniboine Assumption of the B. V. M., 734 Assyrian, the, 631 Astecostota, Tex., 696 Astoria, 168 Astor, J. J., 76 astronomy, 604 Asturias, 674 Asuncion, Fray Juan de, or de Olmeda, see Nadal Asuncion r., see Rio de la Atascosa co., Tex., 696 Atascosa cr., 696 Atayos, 713 Atchafalaga bluff, 43 Atchipoue is a form of the word Ojibway or Chippewa Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fé R. R., 399, 404, 432, 434, 440, 441, 447, 448, 521, 550, 553, 619, 621, 626, 638, 731 Athapasca, 141 Athapasca l., 278 Athapascan stock, 697, 731, 735, 744, 746 Athapuscow, 141 Atkinson, Gen., 45 Atlantic and Pacific R. R., 621, 626, 731, 776 Atlantic ocean, xlv, 444, 522, 718, 720, 722, 724, 732, 746 Atlas, Ill., 7 Atlas isl., 7 Atlas l., 6 Atoyac r., in Mex., 721 Atoyac r., in Tex., 709, 710, 782 Atrisco, N. M., 619, 621, 625, 626, is most probably the place where Pike met Dr. Robinson: see Pajarito, Tousac, and St. Fernandez, N. M. Attila the Hun, 632 Aubray, Aubrey, preferably Aubry, François Xavier, 442, and delete the query there. This is the famous Canadian French plainsman, b. Maskinongé, Dec. 4th, 1824, murdered at Santa Fé, N. M., by Maj. R. H. Weightman, U. S. A., Aug. 20th, 1854: see Tassé, II., 1878, pp. 179-227, best biography, with portrait. Aubrey City and Aubrey valley, Ariz., 730, and Fort Aubray, Col., named for him Aubry, French officer, 667 Auchinleck, lxxix Audebee, C., 451 Audevies cr., 96 Au Canoe r. in Schoolcraft, 1820, for Cannon r. near L. Pepin, compare Ocano r. and cr. Au Fevre r. in Schoolcraft, 1820, for Fever or Galena r. Auguelle, Antoine, 3, 13, 35, 64, 65, 70, 91 Augusta bend, 363 Augusta, Mo., 363 Auhaha r., 7 Aura, 688 Aurora, a newspaper, lxix, lxxxiv, xcix Austin, Tex., 698, 704 Autobee, C., 451 Au Vasse, Auxvasse cr., 369 Au Vasse, Auxvasse r., 369 avena fatua, 38 Aveyron, France, 411 Avicu, 742 Awishinaubay, 31 Ayavois, Aye8ias, 22 Ayer, Rev. Mr. F., 125, 336 Ayoes, Ayoois, Ayooues, Ay8ay, Ayo8ois, Ayouez, 22 Azevedo, see Zuñiga y B Baal, priests of, 41 Babaseekeendase, 134 Babbtown, Mo., 372 Babesigaundibay, Babikesundeba, 134 Babruly cr., 372 Baca co., Col., 442, 443 Baca Grant, N. M., 640 Bachimba, Mex., 667, 668 Back cr., 34 Backwater l., 147 Bacon, Judge Thos. W., preface, 8, 10 Bacorelli, 731, is traceable to Bucareli of Garcez, 1775-76, and Puerto del Bacorelli corresponds to a part of the Grand Cañon of the Colorado r. through Kaibab plateau, below the mouth of the Colorado Chiquito Bacuachi, 773 Bad Axe, battle of, 46, 338 Bad Axe bend, 49 Bad Axe r., 45, 48, 49, 338 Bad Axe, Wis., 49 badger, 96, 315, 432 Badger cr., 475 Badger sta., Col., 475 Bad Heart, a chf., 347 Bagatwa l., 150 Bagnell, Mo., 374, 375 Baie de Noc, 297 Baie Verte, 298, 299 Bailey's cr., 368 Bain, Jas., jr., preface Bairdstown, Ky., 756 Bajada, 614 Bajan, Mex., 685 Baker cr., 401 Baker, Gen. J. H., 166, 167, 336 Baker's ferry, 97, over the Miss. r., between Dimick's isl. and Spring rap. Baker's trading house, 126, was near Camp Coldwater above Fort Snelling Bakinoa, 762 Bald isl., 73 Bald mt., Col., 493 Baldwin City, Kas., 519 Baldy mt., Col., 493 Baldy mt. or pk., N. M., 606, 736 Baldy pk., Col., 492 Ball Club l., 150, 322, 325 Ballenger, Sgt. J., 359, 360, 362, 375, 432, 547, 565, 568, 580, 587, 818, 845, 855 ball game, 207 Ball Game r., 51 balsam-fir, 132, 318, 320, 321 Balsam-fir l., 320 Baltimore co., Md., cxi Baltimore, Md., cvii, 333, 656 Banfill, John, see Fridley Bank of the Dead, 341 Bangs, Wm., 336 Banner, Kas., 403 Baraga, Rev., 102 Barego or Borages, Don, 687 Barelo, Capt., 670, 671, 673, 675, 676, 682, 694, 695, 712, 839 Barilla, 636 Barn bluff, Minn., 70, height as given there is by city survey of 1859; railroad levels make it 335 ft. above depot grounds Barnesville, Kas., 395 Barney canal is between Miss. r. and Lake Peosta, at Dubuque, Ia. Barn Hill, Mo., 12 Barn mt., Minn., 70, see Barn bluff Barn, The, 205, 308, 356 Baroney, see Vasquez Baroteran, Mex., 688 Barra de Santander, 724 Barral r., 670 Barr, a person, 709 Barre, Gov. de la, 72 Barrionuevo, Francisco de, on Coronado's expedition, discovered Taos in 1541 Bar r. of Pike, 6, 7, 290, is identified with South Two Rivers by Beck, Gaz., 1823, p. 316 Barrois, Céleste, 388 Barroney, see Vasquez Bartholomew, Mr., 609, 613, 614, 615, 807 Bartlett, J. R., 645 Barton, Capt. J. L., cviii Barton co., Kas., 423, 424, 425, 433, 522 Barton co., Mo., 385 Baie Verte, see Baye, La. In 1785, it had about 55 pop. in 7 families, in 1812 about 250 pop. Bashier, Major, 692 Bas Lac aux Cèdres Rouges or du Cèdre Rouge, 135, 356 Bass brook, 147 Bassett's cr., 94 Bass l., near Minneapolis, Minn., 90 basswood, 315 Bastonnais, Bastonnaise, 188 Bastrop, Baron, 704 Bastrop, Tex., 704, 705 Batacoso, 773 Bates co., Mo., 370, 385, 390 Bates, Frederick, 10, 388 Bates' isl., 366 Bates, Moses D., 9 bathytaphy, 73 Baton Rouge, La., liv, 564 Batopilas, Batopilis, 762 battle, see names of battles Battle cr. and isl., 45 Battleground, in Kas., 439 Battle rap., 98 Batton Rouge, 564 baugahudoway, 150 Bavbien, C., 607 Bavispe, Bavista, 771, 773 Bayard sta., Kas., 397 Bay City, Wis., 63 Bay cr., Ill., 6 Baye des Puans or Puants, 298 Baye, La, 298, 299 Baye Verde, 356 Bay of Puante, 68 Bay of the Holy Spirit, 444 Bayogoula, Bayoucogoula, _i. e._, people of the bayou, bayouc, or bayouque; see N. Y. Nation, Nov. 15th, 1894 Bayou au Roi, 5 Bayou Bartholomew, 704 Bayou chute, 11 Bayou Lennan, 712 Bayou Pierre, 713 Bayou Roi, 5 Bayou St. Charles, 8, 10 Bayou San Miguel, 712 Bayou San Patricio, 712 Bay r. of Pike, 364, 365 Bay St. Charles, 9, 10 Bay Settlement, 129 Baxter sta., 129 Bazar, Kas., 401 Bean cr. is given in Beck's Gaz., 1823, p. 89, as a name of Rivière au Fèvre, _i. e._, Galena r. Bean, Ellis, liii Beans cr., N. M., 604 Bear r., br. of Fountain r., in Col., 452 Bear cr., br. of May cr., in Col., 492 Bear cr., br. of Miss. r., in Minn., 163 Bear cr., br. of Miss. r., in Mo., 8 Bear cr., br. of Osage r., in Mo., 373, 382, 383 Bear Creek cañon, 456 Bear Creek isl., 370 Bear cr. is Loose cr., 370 Bear cr. is Noir cr., 7, 290 Bear cr. is translation of Makoqueta cr., which see Beard, Jack, 384 Beard, Mr., 437 Bear isl., 153, in Leech l. Bear isl., 99, in Miss. r., Sect. 2, tp. 33, range 29, 4th M. Bear pt., at Lake Itasca, 167, was named by Peter Turnbull in 1883 Bear r. is Loose cr., 370 Bear r., Utah, 738 Bear spr., N. M., 746 Beau or Beaux, a chf., 172, 173, 175, 189 Beautiful Bird, a chf., 384, 552, 591 Beaver, Col., 462 Beaver cr., br. of Ark. r., in Col., 462 Beaver cr., br. of Ark. r., Kaw Agency, 550 Beaver cr., br. of Osage r., 377, 378 Beaver depot, Col., 462 Beaver isl., Ia., 26 Beaver isl. is the largest (middle) one of the Coon isls., near Coon cr., Anoka co., Minn. Beaver isls. of Pike, 99, 192, 193 Beaver or Chabadeba r., 51 beavers, 99, 100 Beaver Tail, a person, 76 Bécasse, Beccasse, 84, 88 Becker co., Minn., 128, 164, 318 Beck's ferry, 638 Beck's Gazetteer, 3, 637, 532, 657 Beck's place, in Mo., 4 Beckwith, Lieut. E. G., 424, 433, 437, 439, 457, 491, 518, 520, 733, 734 Bedouins of Texas, 706 Beech's, Ill., 4 Beef l., 301 Beef r., 56, 58 Beef sl., 58, 60 Bed cr., 460 Beemis, Private, 332 Bega de Maraujo, 677 beggars, beggary, 790, 701 Behar, Bejar, see Bexar Bekozino-sibi, 102 Belen, N. M., 629 Belle Fontaine cemetery, 357 Belle Fontaine cr., 357, 358 Belle Fontaine, Mo., lxii, 213, 214, 264, 271, 357, 358, 360, 365, 393, 420, 511, 539, 562, 565, 572, 573, 597, 845, 851 Belle Oiseau, see Bel Oiseau Belle Prairie, Minn., 125 Bellerive, L. St. A. de, 214 Belle Roche, 375 Bellevue, Ia., 28 Bellevue sta., Col., 474 Bellevue tp., Minn., 102 Bellows, J., 734 Belleville, Tex., 691 Bel Oiseau, Belle Oiseau, a chf., and his son of same name, 383, 384, 409, 423, 551, 552, 591 Beloit, Kas., 421 Beloit, Wis., 24 Beltramian source of Miss. r., 157 Beltrami co., Minn., 159, 164, 329 Beltrami, J. C., 5, 14, 16, 18, 22, 26, 27, 28, 35, 36, 41, 43, 44, 49, 52, 54, 60, 66, 69, 70, 81, 84, 85, 86, 96, 97, 99, 100, 102, 103, 118, 122, 123, 124, 126, 127, 128, 132, 137, 138, 143, 144, 145, 150, 151, 159, 160, 192, 199, 204, 328, 329, 330, 332 Belvidere, Wis., 57 Bemejigemug, Bemidji, Bermiji l., 160, 161, 163, 331, the spelling with B instead of P first made about 1866 by A. J. Hill at E. F. Ely's suggestion Bemidj-sibi, 289 Bench st., St. Paul, 75 Bend cr. of Nicollet, 99 Bender, Russia, 571 Benêt, Mr., 370 Benham's isl., 25 Bénite, Bennet, Bennight, Benoit, Mr., 370 Bent co., Col., 443, 445, 447 Bent, Chas., 607 Bent, Mr., 446 Benton co., Ark., 558 Benton co., Minn., 101 Benton co., Mo., 371, 377, 380 Benton, Thos. H., 649 Bent's Fort, Col., 447 Bent's fort, old, 444, 446, 447 Bergamo, Italy, 328 Bergen, Wis., 49 Berger cr. or r., 365, 366 Berger's bottom, 365, 366 Berks co., Pa., cxi Berlin, Ill., 26 Berlin, Wis., 301 Bermiji l., 161 Bermijo r., 558 Bernalillo co., N. M., 619, 629 Bernalillo, N. M., 616, 619, dates from 1701 Bernard, Col., 475 Bernicla canadensis, 89 Berosus, 182 Berthier, Minn., 326 Berti, Mr., 170 Beshaw cr., 385 Beson, Tex., 703 Bessel l., 151 Bessemer, Col., 452 Bête Puante r., 18 Betsy sl., 57 Bexar co., Tex., 697 Bexar, Bexer, Bejar, Behar, San Antonio de, Tex., 697 Bible, 406 bibliography of Pike's books, xxxiii to l Bicentenary, see Hennepin Biedma, de, 288 Bienville, M. de, 77 Big Bay or Three Brothers, 8 Big Blue camp, 518, 519 Big Blue cr. or r., 518, 519 Big Buffalo cr., 377 Big Bull cr., 519 Big Burning, 335, is a tract denuded of wood by fire, E. of Lake Itasca Big Caney cr., 555 Big Coon cr., 518, 522 Big cr., br. of Cuivre r., 4 Big cr., br. of Grand r., Mo., 379 Big cr., see Big Stew cr. Big cr., see North and South do. Big Devil cr., 16 Big Duckett cr., 362 Big Eagle, a chf., 85 Big Eddy, in Miss. r., 131 Big falls or Sauk rap., 356 Big Foot, a chf., 556, 557 Big Foot, nickname of St. Denis, 714 Big Gravois cr., 374, 375 bighorn, 476 Big isl., 18, 210 Big John cr. and spr., 518, 521 Big Knives, 148 Big Manitou r., 391 Big Monegan or Monegaw cr., 385 Big Muddy r. of L. and C., 369 Big Nemaha r., 418 Big Osage Inds., see Grand do. Big Pipe, a chf., 347 Big pt., in Leech l., 153 Big rap. or Sauk rap., 100 Big Rice l., on Boy r. connection, 155 Big Rice l., on Willow r. route, 320 Big River sl., 16 Big Rock cr., br. of Neosho r., 518, 521 Big Rock cr., br. of Osage r., 376 Big Rogue, a chf., 591 Big Rush cr., 27 Big Sand cr. of Gregg, 444 Big Sandy cr., br. of Ark. r., 442, 443 Big Sandy r., br. of Bill Williams' r., 730 Big Soldier, a chf., 370, 371, 527 Big Stew cr., 6 Big Stone l., 343, 344, 349 Big Suck-off, 41 Big Summer isl., 297 Big Tabeau cr., 379 Big Tavern cr., 369, 372 Big Timbers, 444 Big Track, a chf., 556 Big Turkey cr., 522 Big Walnut cr., 425, 426 Big Winnipeg or Winnibigoshish l., 322 Bijou cr., 451 Billon, F. L., 194, 204, 213 Billon's Annals, 39, 357, 388 Bill Williams' fk. of Colorado r., 730 Bill Williams' mt., 730, 731 Biogen Series, xxxii Birch bay, 279 Birch l., 317 Bird cr., 555 Birth l., 128 Biscay, see New Biscay Bishop of Rome, 80 Bissell, Capt. or Gen. D., 570, 603 Bissell, D., of Vt., 570 Bissell, H. W., 570 Bissell, L., 570 Bissell, R., 570 Bitch l., 124, 329 Bitch r., 124 Black Bear cr., 556 Blackbird isl., 7 Blackburn, E., liii Blackburn sta., 483 Black Dog, a chf., 348 Black Eagle, a chf., 347 Black Hawk, a chf., 11, 45 Black Hawk co., Ia., 22 Black Hawk, Ia., 23 Black Hawk Purchase, 45 Black Hawk sl., 21 Black Hawk War, second, 45 Black Jack cr., 518, 519, 520 Black Jack, Kas., 519 Black Jack pt., 518, 519 black larch, 319 Blackman's Mills, 375 Black Mesa, 601 Black mts. or range, in N. M., 631, 747 Black r., 51, 52, 56, 58, 296, 305 Black River bay, civ Black Rocks, Mex., 691 Blacksmith sl., 55 Black Soldier, a chf., 76 Black Squirrel cr., 451 blaireau, 432 Blair, F. P., 607 Blanchard, R., 554 Blanchard's isl., 22 Blanchard's rap., 104 Blanchette, the hunter, 214, 361 Blakely, Mr., 207 Bleak House, lxiii Bledsoe co., Tenn., cxi Blessed Virgin Mary, 289, 734 blockhouse on Ark. r., 481 blockhouse on Conejos r., 495, 496, 497 Blockhouse or post on Miss. r., 105, 106, 107 Blondeau, Mr., 32, 34, 211 Blood of Christ mts., 490 Bloody run, 37, 41 Bloomfield, Gov. J., lix Blouin, Louis, 194 Blow Snake r. is translation of Ojibway name of Naiwa r. Blueberry cr., 143 Blue cr., br. of Ark. r., 443, 444 Blue cr., br. of Gila r., 735 Blue Earth r., 65, 68, 77, 78, 79, 349 Blue, Maj. U., xxvi, xxviii Blue Mound, Mo., 385, is in S. E. ¼ of Sect. 3, tp. 37, range 30 Blue Mounds, Cherokee country, 555 Blue Mound tp., Mo., 385 Blue mts. of Pike, 483 Blue or Blue Earth r., 78, 79 Blue r., in Ariz., 735 Blue r., in Col., 471 Blue Spirit, a chf., 343, 347, 349 Bluff cr., 518, 521 Bluff in the Water, 54 Bluff isl., 54 Bluffton, Mo., 368, 369 Blumenau, 487 Blummer, Chas., 607 Board of Honor, cviii Bob, Bobb, Bobbs, Bobs cr., 4 Body of Christ cr., 707 Brèche-dent, a chf., 351 Bodark r., 815 B[oe]ger cr., 365 B[oe]uf isl., 365 B[oe]uf l., 801 B[oe]uf qui Joue, a chf., 347 B[oe]uf qui Marche, a chf., 84, 88 B[oe]uf r., br. of Miss. r., 56, 58 B[oe]uf r., br. of Mo. r., 364, 365 Bofecillos mts., 642 Bog cr., 324 Bogottowa l., 150 Bogtown, Ill., 4 Bogus cr., 63 Boiling Spring r., 452 Boilvin, N., xxxiv, 292 bois blanc, 315 Boivin, N., xxxiv, 292 Boisbriant, P. D. de, 531 Bois Brûlé cr., 372 Bois Brûlé r., 71, 309 Bois Brulle, a chf., 347 Boley, Pvt. John, 1, 117, 142, 143, 144, 145, 174, 175, 359, 360, 432, 547, 845, 854, 855 Bolinger, Bollinger cr., 376 Bolson de Mapimi, 672, 673, 675, 676, 677, 678, 686, 762 Bolter's isl., 4 Bolvar, Mr., 292, may be Boivin or Boilvin, N. Bonaparte, J., 576 Bonaparte, N., 381, 702, 805, 831 Bonasa umbellus, 97 Bon Fils sta., Mo., 361 Bon Homme, Mo., 57 Bon Homme r., 362 Bonito pueblo, 630 Bonnet du B[oe]uf, a chf., 591 Bonnet, Mr., 370 Bonpland, Aimé, xli, xlii, 718, 792 Bon Secours l., 65 Bookoosaingegon in Schoolcraft, 1820, is Bras Cassé or Broken Arm, chf. of Sandy l. Boom isl., 98, in Miss. r. at Monticello, Wright co., Minn., just below the ferry Boone, Daniel, 364, 367 Boone's Lick, 367, 570 Booneville, Col., 448, 451 Boon's Lick, see Boone's Borages, Don, 687, see Barego Borden, B. C., see Palmburg Borgne, Le, a chf., 88 Bosquecito, Bosquecitos, N. M., 633 Bosquecito, N. M., lower, 640 Bosque del Apache, 633 Bosque de los Pinos, 621 Bosque, N. M., 629 Bosse, D., preface Bostonian, 188 botany, 603 Bottom of the Lake, 356 Boucher, P. du, 65 Bouchette, lxxvi Boulanger sl., 74 Boulder's isl., 4 Bourbon co., Kas., 394, 395, 396, 397 Bourbeuse cr., 364 Bourgne, see Borgne Bousky, Bousquai, Bousquet, Mr. Chas., 139, was in Fond du Lac Dept., N. W. Co., in 1799 Boussant, 155 Boutwell cr., 167, named by Brower for next Boutwell, Rev. W. T., 328, 331, 332, 334 Bouvet, Mathurin, 10 Bouvin, Mr., 139, compare Boivin or Boilvin Bowdark r., 815 Bowditch l., 161, 162 Bowen, F., lxvi Bowers, see Joe Bowers Bowl, see Greater and Lesser Reservoir Bowwood r., 815 Boy l., 155 Boynton's isl., 99 Boy or Boy's r., 153, 155, 156, 320, 334 Braba was a name of Taos in 1541 Braces r., 706, 707 Brackenridge's Travels, 361 Brackettville, Tex., 690 Braddock's defeat, 438, 531 Bradford, Col., 490, 491, 492 Bradley, Corp. or Sergt. Samuel, 1, 20, 54, 56, 108, 114, 115, 117, 124, 127, 128, 131, 136, 137, 138, 139, 172, 173, 177, 193, 359, 360, 372, 373, 401, 428, 432, 547, 845, 854, 855 Braggers, 345, 349 Brainerd, Minn., 129, 130, 131, 135, 177, 179, 318 Branches of the Vine, 777 Branden, Pvt. Peter, 1, 854 Brandy r., 96 Brannan, lxxix, lxxxiii, ci Bras Cassé, Bras Casse, Brasse Casse, a chf., 88, 338, 347 Brasses, Brassos r., Mex., 673, 678 Brasses, Brassos, Brassus r., Tex., lii, 678, 706, 707 Bravo r., 641, 642, 643, 644, see Rio Grande and Rio del Norte Brazeau, Marie, 388 Brazito, battle and tract, 640 Brazos, Col., 596 Brazos pk., 597 Brazos r., Brazos de Dios r., lii, 560, 705, 706, 707, 779, 780, 781 Breche, Brèche-dent, a chf., 176, 189, 190 Breck l., 166 brelau, brelaw, 96, 432 Brent's, N. M., 637 Brevoort, Capt. H. B., xxvi, xxviii, see also Michigan Pioneer Collections, I. p. 373, VIII. p. 449 Bridge cr., 518 Bridgeport, Kas., 403, 404 Bridgeport, Mo., 366 Bridgeport, Wis., 38 Brigade order, Pike's, lxxx Brisbois, Mr., 36 Briscoe, Pvt., 332 British generalities not indexed British medals, 551 British sergeant killed, xc Britt's ldg., 49 Brock, Gen., c Brockman, Mo., 373 Brock's, Ill., 4 Brockway, Minn., 102 Broken Arm, a chf., 88, 338, 347 Broken Arrow sl., 50 Broken Gun channel, 52 Broken Teeth or Tooth, a chf., 134, 176, 347 Brook Luta, 402, 403 Brooks, officer of artillery, lxxx Broolay, Stephen, 30 Brother Jonathan, 711 Brotherton, Mo., 361 Brouisseau, J. Le F. d'I. de, 214 Broulé r., in Schoolcraft, 1855, see Bois Brûlé r. Brower, Hon. J. V., preface, 101, 105, 158, 159, 160, 163, 164, 165, 166, 167, 288, 326, 328, 331, 332, 336 Brower isl., in Hernando de Soto l., named by a committee consisting of Capt. R. Blakely, Mr. Chas. D. Elfelt, and Hon. I. V. D. Heard, for Hon. J. V. Brower Brower ridge, 165, 166 Brower r. is the name I have given to that stream which flows into Lake Winnibigoshish and is commonly reckoned as III. or Third r., which see: see also Annals of Iowa for Apr., 1895, p. 22 Brown cañon, 472 Brown Cañon sta., Col., 472 Brown, Clara or Clarissa, xxx, xxxiii Brown co., Ind., cxi Brown co., Wis., 298, 299 Brown, Browne, Dr. Jos., 388, 579 Brown, Gen. John, xxx, xxxiii, lix Browning, Hon. D. M., preface Brown, John, 394 Brown, Pvt. John, 1, 115, 359, 360, 373, 432, 454, 457, 476, 482, 488, 489, 490, 510, 845, 854, 855 Brown's cr., br. of Ark. r., 472 Brown's cr., br. of Miss. r., 90 Brown's fall, 90, 92 Brown's isl., 98 Brownsville, Minn., 49, 206 Brownsville, N. Y., lxxxii Brûlé I., 153, 155 Brunet, F., 334, 335 Bruno cr., 401 Brusha for Brèche-dent, 176 Brush cr., 519 Brush Hollow cr., 462 Brushy cr., 559 Brushy Mound, see Timbered Hill Bruske, Bruské, Brusky, Chas., 139 Bruslé, Étienne, 30 Bryan, F. T., 645 Bryan, Guy, 602 Bryant, Hon. C. S., 88 Bryant's cr., 5 Buade, L. de Frontenac de, 294 Buade l., 91, 95, 313 Buade r., 289 Bucanieus, La Touche de la Cote, 423 Bucareli, see Bacorelli. Gen. Antonio Maria Bucareli y Urzua, b. Seville, Jan. 24th, 1717, d. at Mexico Apr. 9th, 1779, was 1760-71 Governor of Cuba, and 1771 to death Viceroy of New Spain Bucasse, a chf., 88 Buck, a chf., 156, 157, 172, 173, 175, 189; Schoolcraft, 1855, p. 444, calls him Iaba Waddik Buck cr., Ia., 34 Buck cr., or Suicide cr., 556 Buck cr., Wis., 41 Buck cr., Wis., another, 42 Buckeye cr., 381 Bucklin, Kas., 437 Buckman, Geo. R., preface Buckman Hotel, Little Falls, Minn., 123 Buckner's cr., 429 Bucks, a chf., see Buck Bucks co., Pa., xx, 602, 656 Budd and Bartram, 656 Buenacus r., 703 Buenaventura, Mex., 653 Buenaventura r., 733 Buena Vista, battle of, xix, 760 Buena Vista, Col., 469, 470, 471 Buenavista, Sonora, 773 Buenos Aires, 739 buffalo, passim, for example, 58, 426, 427, 428, 429, 433, 434, 438, 439, 440, 441, 472, 473, etc. Buffalo buttes, N. M., 597 Buffalo City, Wis., 57 Buffalo co., Wis., 55 Buffalo cr., br. of Little Platte r., 468 Buffalo cr., br. of Miss. r., in Minn., of Pike, 103, 110 Buffalo cr., br. of Miss. r., in Minn., being first one below Brainerd, on the E., mouth in Sect. 3, tp. 44, range 31, 4th M. Buffalo cr., br. of Miss. r., in Mo., or Pike's Bar r., 7, 290 Buffalo cr., br. of Republican r., 404, 405, 408, 420 Buffalo crs., see Big and Little Buffalo, Ia., 23, 24 Buffalo isl. in Miss. r., 7 Buffalo isl. in Mo. r., 365 Buffalo l., 301, 302 Buffalo, Buffaloe r., br. of Miss. r., in Mo., 4, 355 Buffalo, Buffaloe r., br. of Miss. r., in Wis., 55, 56, 58, 59, 65, 290, 305 Buffalo r., br. of Mo. r., 365 Builder of Towns, a chf., 557 Bukesagidowag r., 152 Bullard's cr., 64, 69. Bullard was the trader who settled at Red Wing in 1850 and laid out the town Bull cr., 518, 519 Bungo, Wm., 336 Bunting, Rev. O. S., preface, civ, cv Burch, Capt. D. E., cix Bureau of Ethnology, 238 Bureau of Indian Affairs, 238 Burger, Caspar, 365 Burger's cr. and bottom, 365 Burgwin, Capt. J. H. K., 606 burial, burying-ground, 73 Burke, Pvt., 332 Burlingame, Kas., 520 Burling, Mr., 662 Burlington bluffs, 18, 19 Burlington, Ia., 18, 19 Burlington isl., 18 Burlington, Kas., 399 Burlington, Vt., cviii Burnet's Notes N. W. Terr., 438 Burnett co., Wis., 72 Burnt, a chf., 156, 347 Burnt isl., 356 Burnt, Burntwood r., 308, 309, 310 Burr, Aaron, lv, lvi, 500, 501, 504, 652, 692, 826, 836 Burris cr. and valley, 55 Burr's Pass, 638 Busard Blanc, 89 Businause, 134 Bustamente, Mex., 670 bustard, 89 But, see Butte Butler, Capt. E., xxviii Butler co., Kas., 549 Butler, J. D., 40 Butte de Mort, des Morts, 300, 301, 341, 356 Butte des Morts l., 300, 301, 340 Butte d'Hyvernement, 51, 52, 53, 54 C Caballo Cone, 637 Caballos mts., 635 Cabaso, Father J. A., 703, 708 Cabeça de Vaca, 713 Caberairi, Caberarie, Cabrera, Don A., 660, 661, 662 Caberairi, Señora M. C., 659 Caberet's isl., 1 Cabezua, see Jabezua r. cabrie, 399, 653, 738, 772 Cache cr., in Ark., 559 Cache cr., in Col., 471 caches, 437, 439, 535 Caddo, see Caddoan Inds. Caddoa, Col., 443 Caddoa cr., 443, 444 Caddoan bluffs, 443 Caddoan Inds., Caddoes, 412, 526, 557, 591, 706, 708, 711, 713 Caddodaquis, 714 Caddy cr., 371 Cadena, Mex., 674 Cadena pass, 674, 675 Cadillac, A. de la M., 714 Cadiwabida, 176 Cadiz, 660, 702 Cæsar, a negro, 666 Cahagatonga, 527, 591, council name of Osage chf., Cheveux Blancs or White Hair, said to mean Big Ice Cahokia, Ill., 206, 602 Cahokias, 339 Caigua is same word as Kiowa Cajuenche was a tribe of Yuman Inds., called Cojuenchis on Pike's map Calhoun co., Ill., 3, 4, 5 Calhoun, J. C., 83 Calhoun l., 90 Calhoun pt., 3 Caliente cr., 597, 598, 600 California, cxi, cxii, 446, 641, 645, 719, 725, 727, 728, 729, 733, 734, 735, 736, 742, 746, 770, 773 Callaway, Capt. Jas., 367 Callaway co., Mo., 368, 369 Callejito spr., 653 Calumet co., Wis., 300, 301 Calumet cr., 6 Calvinistic Creator, 332 Camanche, Ia., 27 Camanche Inds., 536, 563, 565, 566, 590, 706, and see Comanches Camargo, Mex., 692 Camden, lvi Camden co., Mo., 371, 374, 375, 376 Camden, Ill., 3 Cameron Cone, 456 Cameron, Mr. M., 66, 67, 70, 82, 86, 202, 208, 238 Camino a Senora, 651, 653 Camino de Monasterio, Camion de Monaseo, 670 Campagnoni, Comtesse de, 328, 330 Camp Allegheny, xxiv, xxvi Camp Apache, 748 Campbell, Archibald, 25 Camp Belle Fontaine, lxii Campbell, Mr., of Nicollet, 200 Campbell, Mr., of Pike, was John Campbell, 206, 207, 211, 269 Campbell, R. B., 645 Campbell's isl. and chain, 25 Camp Coldwater, 83. An undated military map in MS., in the Minn. Hist. Soc., marks it in a sort of cove opp. the head of the first island above Fort St. Anthony. Lieut. Douglas' Historical Rep., dated Dec. 4th, 1879, says this camp was at a spring near the old trading house Camp cr., br. of Miss. r., 18 Camp cr., br. of Vermilion r., 400 Campeche, 718 Camp Hualapais, 736 Camp Independence, 386, 388, 390, 392, 393, 396, 577 Camp Osage, 518, 522 Camp Price, 736 Camp St. Peter's, 83 Camp Terre au B[oe]uf, lxiv Canabe, Canabi, 742 Canada, xxvi, lxxvi, 229, 558, and passim Cañada Alamosa, 637 Cañada cr., N. M., 605 Canada grouse, 175 Cañada, N. M., 598 Cañada r., 558, 606 Canadian Institute, 168, 278 Canadian oats or rice, 38 Canadian or Cañadiano r., xlvii, 437, 552, 558, 559, 606, 705 Canal, Eureka Irrigating, 434 canals, see acequias Canary isls., 461, 701 Cances, 706, see Kanzes Candelaria, Mex., 650 Candelaria, N. M., 619 cane, a plant, 561 Cane or Caney cr., 556 Caney r., 555 Cannon r., 50, 62, 67, 68, 69, 70, 73, 205, 308, 309, 348, 349, 356 Cano, Canoe, Canot r., near Lake Itasca, 163, see Chemaun r. Cano, Canoe, Canon, Canot r., see Cannon r. canoe-men, 286 canoe voyage to Lake Itasca, 160, 161, 162, 163, 164, 165, 166, 167 Cañon City, Col., 359, 360, 462, 463, 464, 465, 466, 469, 472, 475, 476, 479, 480, 481, 482, 483, 642, 847 Cañon de Chaca, Chasco, 632 Cañon de Chelly, 731 Cañon of Colorado r., 730, 731, see Grand Cañon Cañon or Canadian r., 558 Canon or Canot r., see Cannon r. Canton chute, 12 Canton, Kas., 403, 521 Cantonment Washington, lxv Cantonment Belle Fontaine, 213, 357, 358, 360, and see Belle Fontaine Cantonment Davis, 14 Cantonment Missouri, 573, see Belle Fontaine Cantonment St. Peter's, see New Hope Canton, Mo., 11, 12 Cap à l'Ail, à l'Ail Sauvage, 42, 43 Cap au Grais, Gre, Grès, Gris, 4, 5 Cape Galena, 375 Cape Garlic, 42, 43 Cape Garlic r., 42 Cape Girardeau, 710 Cape Gray, 5 Cape Jerardeau, 710 Cape Puant, 43 Cape Tepoca, 771 Cape Winnebago, 42, 43 Cape Winnebago cr. or r., 42, 43 Capilla pk., 629 Capitan mt., 631 Capitol Hill, lxiii capitulation of York, ciii Capoli, 42 Capoli bluff and cr., 43 capot, capote, 835 Cap Puant, 43 Captain cr., 519 Caquina, 742, name appears as Caquima in 1680, Vetancurt, Teatro Mexicano; see Cequimas caravan road, route, or trail, 401, 424, 425, 429, 433, 517, 518, 519, 520, 521, 522 Carbunker's pt., 360 Cardenas, Garcia Lopez de, was sent by Coronado from Cibola to the Colorado r., summer of 1540 Cardinal r., 377, 378 Carey, H. C., and Hart, 553 Carle's isl., 6 Carlisle, Pa., 748 Carlisle spr., Col., 460 Carlos IV., 794 Carlton, Col., 442, 443 Carlton, Kas., 403, 404 Carmen r., 651, 652 Carmen sta., Mex., 652 Carnage r., 163 Car of Commerce bend, 360 Carondelet, Baron de, 657 Carondelet, Mo., 215 Carracal, Carrizal, Mex., 650, 651, 652, 767, 770 Carracal r., 650 Carrizal, Mex., 767, 770 Carrizalillo, 646 Carrizo mts., 631 Carrizo spr., 695 Carrizo, Tex., 691 Carroll co., Ill., 27, 28 Carroll or Corral cr., 475 Carroll's isl., 6 Carron, Thomas, 180, 184, 347 Carson, Christopher, 446 Carte du Canada, 71 Carter, Pvt. Jacob, 1, 359, 360, 432, 482, 490, 509, 510, 845, 850, 854, 855 Carver, Capt. Jonathan, 35, 59, 60, 61, 65, 77, 80, 81, 92, 94, 95, 96, 97, 198, 199, 200, 201, 205, 236, 295, 306, 309, 313, 314, 315, 338 Carver's cave, 75, 198, 199, 200, 201 Carver's Terrace, 60, 61 Casa Calva, Marques de, 661 Casa Colorada, N. M., 629 Casa Grande, Ariz., 734, 741, 742 Cascade cañon and road, 456 Cascade, Col., 456 Cascade cr., 90 Casey, Gen. T. L., preface Casey's isls., 94 Cashesagra, 556, 557, 558 Cash's isl., reference lost Caso, Cassa Calva, Casso Calvo, Marquis of, 612, 661, 816 Cassa Yrujo, Marquis de, 815 Cass co., Minn., 128, 130 Casse-Fusils channel, 52 Cass, Gov. Lewis, 36, 83, 134, 137, 157, 158, 159, 199, 327, 330, 333, 358 Cassina l., 157, 158, 327 Cassina r., 289 Cass l., xlviii, cx, 135, 152, 153, 157, 158, 159, 160, 167, 168, 173, 263, 322, 323, 324, 327, 328, 329, 330, 335 Cass r., 159, 289 Cassville sl., 34 Cassville, Wis., 32, 34 Castañeda, Piedro, chronicler of Coronado's expedition, 1540-42, his work first pub. in French in 1838 Castañuela, Mex., 683 Casti's courtiers, 330 Castle of San Juan, 722 Castroville, Tex., 690, 697 casualties at York, xci Catalonian, 654 Cataract cañon, 731, 736 Catarractes, see Saltus Astiaius Catawabata, Catawabeta, 176, 347, 351 Catfish cr., 32, 209, 294 Catfish isl., 362 Catholic Block, St. Paul, 75 Catholic religion, 663 Catlin, Col., 448 Catlin, Geo., 14 Catskill, N. Y., 405 Cattail cr., 27 cattle barons or kings, 704 cavalry, Spanish, 795 Cave cr., 379 Cavelier, J., 779 Cavelier, R., 779, 780, see La Salle caves, 198, 199, 200, 201, 363 Cave Treaty, 201 Cawree, Cawrees, 343 Cayman l., 673, 762 Cayome, liii Cayone, 770 Cazaguaguagine-sibi, 151 Cebola, 742 Cebolleta, N. M., 619, 630 Cebolletita, N. M., 630 cedar, 157 Cedar co., Mo., 384, 385 Cedar cr., Ill., 27 Cedar cr., Kas., 519 Cedar cr., Minn., 53 Cedar cr., see Lower Red Cedar r. Cedar Falls, Ia., 22 Cedar Grove, Kas., 401 Cedar isl., 98 Cedar l., see Upper and Lower Red Cedar Lake sta., Minn., 135 Cedar Point, Kas., 401 Cedar rap., Fox r., 300 Cedar rap., Miss. r., 98 Cedar Rapids, Ia., 22 Cedar r., 175, see Lower Red Center sl., 41 Century Cyclopedia, 737, 745, 756 Century Dictionary, 39, 101, 204 Cequimas, 630. Mr. F. W. Hodge of U. S. Bureau of Ethnology identifies the place so marked on Pike's map as the Cibolan pueblo of Kiakima or Kyakima, not Acoma, as my text says. What text gives of Acoma is not thereby affected in other respects. See also Caquina Cerro Blanco, 492, 493 Cerro Chifle, 598 Cerro Cristobal, 598 Cerro Cuchillo Negro, 639 Cerro Gordo, battle of, 673 Cerro Gordo cr. or r., 672, 673 Cerro Gordo, Mex., 673 Cerro Magdalen, 638, 639 Cerro Manzano, 631 Cerro Montoso, 598 Cerro Montoso, another, 629, 631 Cerro Olla, 598 Cerro Orejas, 598 Cerro Robledo, 638, 639 Cerro San Antonio, 597 Cerro San Pascual, 639 Cerro Taoses, 598 certificate, Allencaster to Pike, 809 certificate, Bloomfield's, lix certificate of papers seized, 817, 818, 819, 820 Cevilleta Grant, 628 Cevola is Cibola Chaas, 35 Chabadeba, Chabaoudeba, Chabedeba r., 51 Chacat, 630, 743 Chacito r., 614 Chacktaws, 526 Chaco cañon, people, and r., 630, 731 Chactaws, 557, 560, 591 Chaffee co., Col., 469, 471 Chagouamikon bay, 296 Chahpahsintay, 76 Chalcedony buttes, 462 Chaldeans, 182 Chalk cr., 469, 472 Chama, N. M., 601 Chama r., 597, 600, 601, 604, 629 Chamberino, N. M., 640 Chambers' bay, named by Brower for Julius Chambers Chambers, Col. T., 358 Chambers' cr., 166, 167 Chambers isl., 298 Chambers, Julius, 166, 167, 336, see New York Herald, June and July, 1872, especially July 6 Chambers, Mr., 437 chameleon, 431 Chamita, N. M., at confluence of Rio Chama with Rio Grande, on site of old pueblo Yunque or Yuque Yunque Chamois, Mo., 368, 369 Champanage, 347 Champlain frontier, district, xxiii, lxxii, lxxxv, and see Lake Champlain's Hundred Associates, 31 Chancery, lxiii Chandler cr., 462 Chandler, John, lxxi Chanpoksamde, 58 Chantaoeteka, 347 Chantapeta, 349 Chapala l., 720 chaparral, 671 Chapetones, 738, 739 Chaporanga, 591 Chaquamegon bay, 80, 296 Characterish, 409, 414, 542, 543, 544, 551, 591 Charbonnier isl. and pt., 361 Charcoal, Col., 469 Charette bend, 365 Charette, La Charette, Mo., 361, 363, 364, 512, 568, 572 Charette's cr. and village, 361 Charez cr., 424, 518 Charger, a chf., 349 Charles IV., 214, 711, 804 Charles bayou, 8 Charles r., 451 Charles Scribner's Sons, xlviii Charlestown, Ia., 27 Charlevoix, P. F. X. de, 77, 79 Chartres, Duc de, 531 Chartron, Mr., 364 charqui, 798 Chasco cañon and r., 630, 731 Chase co., Kas., 395, 400, 401 Chase, Kas., 424 Chaska, Minn., 342 Chasseb[oe]uf, C. F., 154 chasseurs du bois, 513 Chatamutah, 342 Chatanwakoowamani, Chatewaconamani, 85, 342, 347, and see Chet- Chauncey, Comm. I., lxxiii, lxxix, ixxx, lxxxiii, xcviii, ci, ciii Chavez, A. J., 424, 621 Chavez cr., 424, 518 Chavez, Don M., 621 Chavez map, 288 Chavez, N. M., 626 Chea, 745 Chef de la Terre, 172, 260, 346 Chein Blanche, 187 Chekakou, 68 Chelly cañon, 731 Chemaun r., 163. This Chippewa name was used by Schoolcraft in 1855, and is adopted by Brower and myself for this river Chemehuevis, 735, 744 Chemequaba, 731, 735 Chenal à Loutre, 366 Chenal Écarté, 6, and see snicarty chenegay is said to be a corruption of Sp. cienega. The word exists, but the alleged derivation is dubious Cheney cr., 15 Chen hyperboreus, 89 Chenire, Ia., 28 Cheniers, M. and A., 139 Chenowagesic l., 162, named for a Leech Lake Chippewa in 1881 Chenoway's son, 347 Cherokee country, 397, 555, 558, 559 Cherokee co., Kas., 397 Cherokee fort, old, 657 Cherokee Inds., 526, 557, 591, 594 Cherokee trail, old, 448, 451 Cherry cr., 448 Cherry l. is among the names of Lake Erie Chesapeake, frigate, cv, cvii Chesnaye, A. de la, 313 Chester co., Pa., cx Chesterfield, Lord, xxxi Chetanwakoamene, 74, 85, 348, and see Chat- Chetho Kette, 630 Cheveu Blanc, Cheveux Blanc, Cheveux Blanche, Cheveux Blancs, 375, 382, 387, 389, 390, 391, 392, 527, 558, 577, 578, 581, 582, 591 Chevréuil r. in Schoolcraft, 1820, is a name of Deer r., Itasco co., Minn. Chewawa, 683, see Chihuahua Chewitt, Lt. Col. W., ciii Chewokmen, Chewokomen, 148 Cheyenne bottoms, Kas., 424, 425, 517 Cheyenne co., Col., 443 Cheyenne co., Kas., 410 Cheyenne cr., Col., 442, and see North and South Cheyenne Inds., 435 Cheyenne mt. or pk., 454, 455, 456 Cheyenne r., 343 Chia, 745 Chiapa, Chiapas, 718, 721, 722, 726 Chicago and Alton R. R., 7 Chicago and Northwestern R. R., 27 Chicago, Burlington, and Northern R. R., 54 Chicago, Burlington, and Quincy R. R., 7, 9, 19, 36 Chicago, Dubuque, and Minneapolis R. R., 41 Chicago, Ill., 3 Chicago, Kansas, and Nebraska R. R., 402, 437, 521 Chicago, Milwaukee, and St. Paul R. R., 27, 37, 74, 302 Chicago, Rock Island, and Pacific R. R., 24, 44 Chickasaw bluffs, 657 Chickasaw Inds., 526, 591 Chico cr., 451 Chico, Kas., 403 Chico sta., Col., 451 Chief Himself, a chf., 591 Chief of the Land, a chf., 172, 347 Chien Blanc, Chien Blanche, Chienne Blanche, 121, 187, 189 Chienne r., 343 Chifle mt., 598 Chigomi l., 331 Chihuahua City, xlvii, lii, liii, liv, 411, 414, 536, 610, 611, 625, 626, 628, 634, 648, 649, 650, 653, 654, 655 and to 667, 669, 671, 690, 695, 713, 759, 760, 761, 764, 765, 766, 767, 769, 770, 771, 787, 808, 809, 810, 812, 813, 820, 822, 823, 828, 829, 831, 837, 838, 851 Chihuahua State, 640, 641, 648, 669, 673, 674, 675, 677, 678, 681, 719, 726, 742, 759, 762, 770, 774, 775 Chihuahua r., 765 chile colorado, 798 Chili, N. M., 601 Chillpecker cr., 164 Chilocco, Chilocky cr., 550 Chimayo settlements, 605 Chimborazo, 641 Chimney butte, 744 Chimney rock, 57 Chimoguemon, 148 China, xxxi, 804 Chingouabé, 77 Chinook, 188 Chino valley, 730 Chipeway Inds., xcv, 346, 347, and see Chipp- Chipeway r., 60, 350, 355, and see Chipp- Chipeway, Travers, or Pemidji l. appears on Nicollet's orig. map Chippewa, battle of, lxxxi Chippewa, City of, in Harper's Mag., XIX., 1859, pp. 50, 51, is Ojibway, Minn., which see Chippewa Inds., throughout Pt. 1, esp. 30, 31, 83, 310, 350, 352, 353, 354, and see Chipe- and Ojib- Chippewa, Chippewa r., br. of Miss. r., 35, 56, 58, 59, 60, 61, 62, 63, 78, 296, 305, 306, 348 Chippewa r., br. of Minn. r., 316 Chippewa-Sioux boundary, 310 Chiricahua Apaches, 748 Chiricahua mts., 644 Chisago co., Minn., 309 Chivola is Cibola Chocktaw country, 559 Choctaw Inds., 713 Choteau, see Chouteau Chouagen, lxxv Chouart, M., 295 Choumans, 412 Chouteau, A., senior, 213, 215 Chouteau, C., 393 Chouteau, G., 292 Chouteau, Mrs. A., 213 Chouteau, P., 222, 241, 242, 333, 381, 384, 514, 529, 530, 550, 551, 557, 558, 568, 559, 576, 579 Chouteau's fort on Osage r., 384, 385 Chouteau's isl., Ark. r., 440 Chouteau's isl., Miss. r., 1 Christ, 764, 801, and see Body and Blood of Christianity, Christian religion, Christians, 182, 599, 663, 753, 768 Christy, lxxix Chtoka, 531, qu. Chetopa? Chucagua, 288 Chuchacas, Chuchachas, 745 Chumpa on some maps is Cumpa Chupadera mesa, 631 churches of Chihuahua, 764, 765, 766 Churchville, Ia., 14 Chusco is Chasco and Chaco Chusco r., 731 Chute de la Roche Peinte, 123, 316 Cia, 604, 605, 745, was a large pueblo till after the revolt of 1680 Cibola, Seven Cities of, 630, 742 Cibolleta, N. M., 628 Cibolo r., 697, 703 Cicuique, Cicuye, 737 Cienega Apache, 637 Cienega Grande, Hacienda de, 682 Cienega, N. M., see Vitior Cieneguilla, N. M., 614, see Tziguma and Vitior Cilla, 745 Cimarone r., 552, 554 cimarron, 438 Cimarron, Kas., 437, 438, 439 Cimarron r., 438, 552, 553, 554, 555, 556, 705 Cimarron r., or Salt fk. of Ark. r., 552, 553, 554 Cimarron route, 426, 439 Cimmaron r., see Cimarron r. Cinaloa, 774 Cincinnati, Ill., 7 Cincinnati ldg., 7, 8 Cincinnati, O., xxvi, xxxi, 446, 836 Cincinnati, Wis., 34 Cincinnatti, O., 836 Cinyumuh, 744 Cioux, 313, see Sioux Cistus creticus, 494 Cities of Cibola, 630, 742 City of the Pines, 130 City of Vera Cruz, 722 Ciudad Juarez, 641 Ciudad Porfirio Diaz, 691 Ciudad Victoria, 724 Civil War, 634 civilized Indians, 752, 753 Civola is Cibola Civona is Cibola Claflin, Kas., 424 Claiborne, Gen. F. L., xxvi, xxvii Claiborne, Gen. W. C. C., 660 Clark co., Mo., 12, 13, 14 Clark co., Wis., 52 Clarke co., Kas., 556 Clarke cr., at Lake Itasca, named by Brower for Hopewell Clarke Clarke, Hopewell, 167, 336 Clarke l., at Lake Itasca, named by A. J. Hill for Hopewell Clarke Clarke pool, at Lake Itasca, named by Brower for Hopewell Clarke Clark, Geo. R., xcviii Clarksville isl., 6 Clarksville, Mo., 6 Clark, W., xxviii, cxiii, 10, 30, 36, 57, 60, 87, 134, 291, 292, 330, 357, 361, 734, and see Lewis and Clark, Wm. H., 36 Clavigero, F. X., xli Clay co., Kas., 410 Clay cr., 443 Clayton co., Ia., 34, 38, 304 Clayton, Ia., 34 Clear cr., br. of Cottonwood r., 401, 402, 521 Clear cr., br. of Miss. r., 43 Clear cr., br. of Osage r., 385 Clear or Clear Water r., 56, 57 Clear or Platte r., 101, 102, 103, 111, 112, 116, 192, 193, 315, 316 Clear Water cr. in Wis., 63 Clear Water, Minn., 98, 99 Clear Water or Minneiska r., 57, 355 Clear-water r. appears in Schoolcraft, 1820, for Minn. r. Clear Water r., bet. Wright and Stearns cos., Minn., 99, 193 Clemson, Capt., lxii, 367 clerks, 286 Clermont, a chf., 557, 558 Clifton, Ill., 2 Clinch, Gen., lxxxvii Clinton co., Ia., 26, 37, 224 Clinton, Dewitt C., 27 Clinton, Ia., 27 Clinton's r. is Chemaun cr. Cloquet isl., 96 Cloud co., Kas., 410 Clouquet isl., 96 Cluses, Savoy, 333 Coahuila, xli, liii, 648, 673, 675, 678, 679, 682, 689, 690, 692, 696, 697, 719, 723, 724, 725, 726, 759, 762, 775, 776, 777, 778 Coahuila de Zaragoza, 775 Coal Camp cr., 377, 378 Coal cr., 462 Cobero, see Covero Cocculus indicus, 283 Cochetope pass, 596 Cochiti, N. M., 606, 745 cochmelies, 613 Cockalin portage, 347 Cockien, 299 Cock isl., 6 Cocklebur sl., 6 Cocolo, 299 Cocomaricopas, 735 Cocopas, 735, 736 C[oe]ur du Killeur Rouge, 347 C[oe]ur Mauvais, 347 Coffey co., Kas., 395, 399 Cogquilla, Cogquillo, 668, 678, 686, 697, 701, 724, 725, 727, 729, 747, 752, 759, 762, 775, 777, 778, 779, 780, 781, and see Coahuila Cog Railway, 456 Cohahuila, 673, 775, see Coahuila Cohasset, 145, 147 Cohonino, see Cosnino coinage, 792 cojinillos, 613 Cojnino cañon, 731, 736, and see Cosnino Cojuenchis, 735, and see Cajuenche Colbertia, Colbertie, is a former name of the whole Miss. r. region Colbert r., 289, 295 Colcaspi isl., 157, 158 Cold cr., 696 Cold r. of Carver, 102 Cold Water cr., 357, 358 Cole Camp cr., 377, 378 Cole co., Mo., 371, 372 Cole cr., 520 Coleman, N. M., 638 Cole's or Coles' cr., 367 Colerado r., 706, see Colorado r. Colima, Mex., 718, 719 Collen or Colly ford, 385 colluvies gentium, 705 Colly, S., liii, 609, 613 Colonia, Mex., 677 Colorado basin, 732 Colorado Chiquito r., 630, 731, named Rio Colorado by Oñate in 1604 Colorado City, Col., 452 Colorado College, xlix Colorado Grande r., 630, 744 Colorado Midland R. R., 467, 468, 469, 470, 471 Colorado, N. M., 638 Colorado River Agency, 736 Colorado r., of Cal., 522, 523, 524, 622, 623, 630, 644, 645, 646, 647, 730, 731, 732, 733, 734, 735, 736, 770, discovered by Alarcon Aug. 26th, 1540, visited in 1540 by Cardenas from Cibola, visited 1541 by Melchior Diaz, who called it Rio del Tizon, visited 1604 by Juan de Oñate, who called it Rio Grande de Buena Esperanza Colorado r., of Tex., 696, 698, 704, 705, 780, 781 Colorado r., of the East, 558, 705, 815, 816 Colorado r., of the West, xlv, xlviii, 645, 705, see Col. r. of Cal. Colorado river-system, 730, 731, 732 Colorado Springs, Col., xlix, cxii, 452, 453, 454, 456, 467 Colorado State, xlviii, cxiii, 441, and continuously to 510, also 595, 596, 597, 732, 746, 822 Columbia co., Wis., 302 Columbia r., 168, 642, 727 Comanche co., Kas., 556 Comanche Inds., xlvii, 407, 412, 435, 459, 468, 571, 706, 737, 743, 744, 746, see Camanche Inds. and Tetans Comanche, Ia., 27 Comanche res., 412 Comanche sl., 26 Comandes, 412, see Comanches Commerce, Ill., 15 commerce of New Spain, 739, 766, 791 commerce of the Miss. r., 274 communal houses, 741 Company of the West, 531 compass stolen, 694 Compostela, Mex., 720 Conception r., 289 Concho, Mex., 669 Conchos basin and r., 642, 668, 669, 670, 673, 762, 765 Conchos, Mex., 770 Condé, 44 Condé l., 71, 310 Conde, Mexican Commissioner, 644 Conejos co., Col., 596 Conejos, Col., 596, 597 Conejos, Durango, 674 Conejos pk., 494 Conejos r., xlvi, 495, 496, 497, 499, 502, 596, 622, 641, 816, 848, 855 Conejos r., error for Chama r., 600 Cone mt., 736 Confederates, 560 conferences, 221, 266, 267 Congress, xxix, xxxiv, lvi, lvii, lxii, lxiv, lxxxi, cvii, 81, 237, 647, 704, 705, 827, 840, 841, 851 Congress water, 452 Connecticut, xxvii, liii, 570, 711, 715 Connecticut Herald, lxix Conner, Maj. S. S., ciii Conquest, a ship, lxxxiii Conradi, read Conrad's shoals, 125, mistake of the engineer's chart Conrad, Lucas and Co., lxi conspiracy of Indians, 768 Constancia, N. M., 629 Constantine, Emperor, 71 Contadero, N. M., 634, 635, 636 Continental Divide, xlv, 466, 467, 468, 469, 471, 479, 483, 637 Conurus carolinensis, 474 Conway, Thos., lvi Cook, Capt., 53 Cooke, P. St. G., 637, 639 Cooke, Prof., 336 Cooke's range, 638 Cooke trail, 639 Coolidge, Kas., 441 Cooley, see Colly Coon cr., Ia., 43 Coon cr., Kas., 434, 435, see Big and Little Coon cr., Minn., 94, 101 Coon cr., Wis., 49 Coon isl., 6 Coon's hacienda, 645 Coon sl., Ill., 6 Coon sl., Wis., 49 Cooper, historian, lxxix Cooper, J. F., 431 Copala, 759 Copes, Dr. J. S., President New Orleans Academy of Science, was among those whom a recent dishonest adventurer deceived, and for whom Lake Copes was named near Lake Itasca Copperas cr., 22 Copper cr., Col., 462 Copper cr., Ill., 22 Copper cr., Wis., 42 copper mines, various, 78, 79, 80, 637, 673, 674, 734, 761 Copper r., 4, 211, 290 Copp, Pvt., 332 Coqquella, see Coahuila Coquillas, Mex., 652 Coquimas on Humboldt's map is source of Pike's Cequimas, which see Coquimo is Caquina, see Kyakima Coquite is a form of Cicuique or Cicuye, see Pecos Corbeau François, 347 Corbeau isl., 128, 279, 316, 356 Corbeau r., 128, 294, 316, 317, 319, 320 Cordawa, Ill., 26 Cordeliers, 333 Cordero, Gov., 411, 694, 698, 699, 700, 702, 703, 704, 710, 770, 778, 785, 813, 832, 836, 839 Cordilleras, 333 Cordova, Ill., 26 Coregonus clupeiformis, 297 Coregonus sp., 169 Cormorant pt., 313 Coronado, Francisco Vasquez de, 742, b. Salamanca about 1500; governor of New Galicia, 1539; then married to dau. of Alonzo d'Estrada; left Compostela Feb. 1st, 1540; at Culiacan Easter Monday; ascended Rio Sonora; crossed Rio San Juan June 24th; reached Cibola middle of July, no doubt at pueblo of Hawikuh, not Kyakima, as usually said; captured it; heard of Moki country by name of Tusayan; sent Pedro de Tobar there, that summer; sent Hernando de Alvarado to Cicuye or Pecos in August; sent Garcia Lopez de Cardenas to the Colorado r. and on his return thence to the Rio Grande, to prepare winter quarters at Tiguex, at or near present Bernalillo, N. M. Coronado left Cibola, reached Rio Grande near present Isleta, N. M.; ascended to Tiguex; fought and captured pueblos, massacred some Tiguas, and made himself master of the Rio Grande valley, where he wintered 1540-41; started from Pecos May 3d, 1541, to discover the fabulous Quivira, guided by a foreign Indian called El Turco, "the Turk," and another Indian named Xabe; went in general N. E., and crossed Ark. r. somewhere in present Kansas; found Quivira to be no place, but wherever Quivira Inds. followed the buffalo; hanged the Turk; stayed with the Quiviras about a month, and returned to Pecos and Rio Grande in Oct.; a part of his force had returned to Tiguex in July; he was there re-enforced by Pedro de Tobar; wintered 1541-42; was seriously injured by fall from his horse; evacuated Tiguex Apr., 1542; left three priests and some others there and fell back on Cibola; returned to Culiacan; left there July 4th, 1542, for City of Mexico; was received there with disfavor; withdrew to Cuernavaca, and there died after 1548: see Bandelier, Gilded Man, pp. 162-257 corporal punishment, 796 corps du ballet, 627 Corpus Christi, 706 Corpus Christi cr., 707 Corpus Christi, Tex., 690, 696 Corral Bluffs, Col., 453 Corral or Carroll cr., 475 Corrales, N. M., 619 correspondence, see letter correspondence and conferences, 221 Cortés, H. or F., 288, 501, 719, 722, 755 Corvidæ, 85 Cosninas Inds., 730, 731 Cosninas mts., 731 Cosnino cañon, 731. This and Cojnino, Cohonino, etc., are Moki words, otherwise Kohnina Costa Rica, 718, 726 Costello co., Col., 492 Costilla, see Hidalgo y Costilla r., 494 costumes, Spanish, 788 Coteau de Prairie, 343, 348 Côte sans Dessein, 369, 370 Cotopaxi, Col., 475, 476 Cottel's isl., 8 Cottlebaum's ldg., 363 Cottleville ldg., 362 Cotton, Mr., 139 cottonwood, 442, 728 Cottonwood cr., br. of Ark. r. from Sawatch mts., 469, 470 Cottonwood cr., br. of Currant cr., 477 Cottonwood cr., br. of Grape cr., 487 Cottonwood cr., fk. of Neosho r., see Cottonwood r. Cottonwood Falls, Kas., 400, 401 Cottonwood isls., 11 Cottonwood r., fk. of Neosho r., 395, 397, 400, 401, 402, 403, 518, 521, 523 Cotulla, Tex., 690 Coues and Allen, 97 Coues, E., letter to, xx Coues, E., memoir of Pike, xix to cxiii Coues, Mrs. E., 107 Couhatchattes is a name of the Mandans Council Grove cr., 401, 518, 521 Council Grove, Kas., 401, 518, 521 Council Grove, Smoky Valley, and Western R. R., 404 Council Hill, Ia., 305 council with Pawnees, 414, 415, 416 council with Sioux, 46, 83, 84 Courcelle, de, 294, 312 coureurs des bois, 276 Coursier's hacienda, 667 Courtchouattes is a name of the Mandans Courtois sl., 41 Court Oreilles l., 306 courts-martial, Spanish, 799 cousin, 338 Couture, a person, 560, 714 Couverte Blanche, 347 Cove cr., 559 Covero, N. M., 616, 630 Covert cr., 405, 406 cowboys, 705, 739 Cow cr., 424, 425, 426, 545, 548 Cowhorn l., 162 Cowley co., Kas., 549, 550 Cowperthwait map, 122 Cow-wing r., 128, see Crow Wing r. Coxe's Carolana, 50 Coyotero Apaches, 748 Crab Island chain and sl., 25 Cradled Hercules, 165, 328 Crane totem, 134 Crawford co., Ark., 559 Crawford co., Wis., 37, 41, 42 creasing horses, 436 Credit isl., 24 Creek country, 397 Creek Inds., 397, 400, 513, 557, 591 creek, see names of creeks Creely, Theresa, 222 Crees, 351, 354 Creoles, Creolians, 510, 617, 670, 738, 764, 771, 774, 784, 790, 802 Crescent spr., near Lake Itasca, named by Brower Creux, de, 31, 310 Creuzfeldt, F., 734 Crêvec[oe]ur cr., 362 Cricetus talpoides, 97 Criminal isl., 4 Cripple cr., 456 Cristivomer namaycush, 297 Cristobal mt. or pk., 598, 635, see Fra Cristobal Crittenden, Mo., 377 Crocker cr., 401 Crocker, N. M., 636 Crockett, Davy, 38 Crockett, Tex., 708 Croix, C. F. de, 678 Croix, T. de, 677 Crooked cr., br. of Ark. r., 447 Crooked cr., br. of Cimarron r., 439 Crooked marsh, 361 Crooked rap., 142 Crooked sl., Ill., 6 Crooked sl., Ia., 41, 42 Crooked sl., Minn., 56 Crook, Gen. Geo., 747, 748, d. Mar. 21st, 1890 Crooks, Ramsay, 204 crossings of Ark. r., 439 Cross l., on Pine River route, 174 Cross or Traverse l., 161 Cross sta., 550 Crosswater is Schoolcraft's name, 1855, of Bemidji l. Crotalus confluentus, 429 Crow cr., 25 Crow Feather r., 128 Crowing r., 128, see Crow Wing r. Crow r., 96, 97, 128, 315 Crow r., 128, see Crow Wing r. Crow Wing co., Minn., 127, 128, 130, 132, 135, 175 Crow Wing isl., 128, 129 Crow Wing, Minn., 125, 129, 130, 326. It was a place of importance to the fur trade in the territorial days--a sort of Ultima Thule. But when the N. P. R. R. founded Brainerd, the people moved themselves and even some of their houses to the new town; those that were left were burned Crow Wing r., 104, 128, 129, 130, 153, 170, 177, 178, 179, 316, 317, 319, 320, 331, 334, 350, 351. John McDonnell, in Masson's Bourgeois, 1st ser., 1886, p. 269, writing about 1797, speaks of _l'aile du corbeau_, "after a portage of that name" on the road between Prairie du Chien and Red r. of the N. Crozat, 289, 714 Crying Mound is a name of Blue Mound, Mo. Crystal cr., 452 Crystal l., 135 Ctenosaura teres, 771 Cua-Kaa, old Tañoan pueblo on Arroyo Hondo, N. M., abandoned before 1550 Cuapa, 745 Cuaphooge, Cuapooge, names of the ancient pueblo on the site of which was built Santa Fé, N. M. Cuba, lxvi, 699, 749 Cub cr., 373 Cubero, N. M., 616 Cucapa, 735 Cuchans, 735, 736 Cucharas r., 448 Cuchilla, N. M., 601 Cuchillo Negro r., 637 Cueres is a form of Keres Cueva Springs, N. M., 598 Cuivre isl., 4 Cuivre r., 4, 290 Cuivre sl., 4 Culebra mts., 445 Culebra r. or cr., 445, 494, 507 Culiacan, Mex., 774 Culiacan or Culican r., 774 Culver, Kas., 405 Cumanche found for Comanche Cumberland Heights, xxix Cumming's hollow, 42 Cummings sta., N. M., 638 Cumpa, N. M., 630, 743; Pike took it from Humboldt's map Cuni, 742 Curling Hair, Curly Head, Curleyhead, a chf., 133, 134 Currant cr., 464, 465, 477 Currant Creek pass, 465 Cushing, Col. T. H., 575, 826, 827, 836 Cushing, F. H., 741, 742 Custer co., Col., 483, 484, 488, 489, 491 Cutbank r., 494 Cut Foot Sioux r., 324, 325 Cut Hand cr., 143 Cutler sta., N. M., 636 Cut-off l., 147 Cut Toe l., 324 Cuvero, see Covero Cuyamanque, Cuyamunge, N. M., 605 Cuyler's pt., 367 Cynomys ludovicianus, 429 Cypewais or Cypoway r., 60 Cythara or Cytherea isls. of Beltrami A. J. Hill thinks are those at mouth of Rabbit r., though Beltrami says only 6 m. below Pine r. D D'Abadie, 213, 214 Dacota, see Dakota Daily Democrat, St. Paul, 85 Daily Transcript, Little Falls, 107, 123 Dakota co., Minn., 72, 73, 74 Dakota cr., Minn., 52, 74 Dakota Inds., 345, 348, 349, see Sioux Dakota, Minn., 52, 53 Dallas City, Ill., 18 Dallas co., Mo., 376, 380, 384 Dallas, Tex., 697 Dallum, R., 607 D'Almansa, Capt. A., xlvi, 611, 613, 614, 615, 622, 627, 628, 633 Dam bay, 324, 325 Dameron, Mo., 5 Danger l., 166, was named by Peter Turnbull Danton, Wm., liii Danville, Mo., 367 Dardenne, Dardonne isl., 4 Darien, 522 Darke co., O., cxi, 438 Dauntless, a chf., 348 Dauntless Society, 86 Dauphine, Mo., 370 Davenport, Ia., 21, 24, 25 Davenport l., 174 Davenport, Mr., 709, 710 Daviess, Joseph Hamilton, b. Bedford co., Va., Mar. 4th, 1774, d. near Tippecanoe, Ind., Nov. 8th, 1811, of wounds rec'd at battle of T. the day before: see Jo Daviess Davis, N. H., 358 Dayton bluff, St. Paul, Minn., 75, 198, 199, 201 Dayton, Hennepin co., Minn., 96 Dayton rap., 96, 97 Dead, Lake of the, Coahuila, 673 Dead, Lake of the, N. M., 635 Dead Man's cañon, 455 Dead Man's spr., 636 Dead mt., 639 Dean cr. or brook, 132, 135, 173, 175, 177 Dearborn co., Ind., xxi Dearborn, Gen. H., xxi, li, lvii, lviii, lix, lx, lxi, lxiii, lxx, lxxii, lxxiii, lxxiv, lxxix, lxxx, lxxxiii, xcvii, xcviii, ci, cii, ciii, 15, 239, 418, 567, 575, 582, 583, 584, 585, 705, 841, 842, 845, 853, 854 Dearing's ldg., 370 Dease, F. M., 25 Death mt., 635 Death's Door bluffs, 297 Death's Head cr., 28 death's heads, 28 De Biedma, 288 De Breche, 176, 177, 189, 190, 347, 351, see Brêche-dent De Corbeau r., 128, 294, see Crow Wing r. De Courcelle, 294 De Creux, 31, 310 De Cross, see La Crosse pra. Deep cr., br. of Osage r., 379 Deep Water cr., br. of Grand r., Mo., 379 Deer cr., br. of Ark. r., Okla., 550 Deer cr., br. of Mo. r., or Grindstone cr. of L. and C., 370 Deer cr., br. of Neosho r., Kas., 397 Deer cr., br. of Osage r., Mo., 377, 378 Deer cr. of L. and C., 368 Deerfield, Kas., 440 Deer Lodge co., Mont., cxi Deer or White Oak l., Minn., 147, 148 Deer r., Itasca co., Minn., 147, 150, 321 Deer River (town), Itasca co., Minn., 145, 166, 167 Deis, see St. Dies and Sandia Deity, 353, 806 De la Harpe, B., 77, 78, 79 Del Arroyo pueblo, 630 Delassus, Gov., 367 De Launay, 560 Delaware, lxxxvi Delaware Inds., 526, 591 Delaware r., xx Delhi, Wis., 301 De L'Isle, 81, 95, 313 Delpetrero, 653 Delta co., Mich., 297 deluge-myth, 182 Deluot l., 153, 155 Demaray cr., 165, named by Brower for Mrs. Georgiana Demaray, dau. of Wm. Morrison Demaray, Mrs. Geo., 326 Demick's isl., 97 Demidouzaine, Demi Douzen, Demie Douzaine, 84, 88 Deming, N. M., 638 Demizimaguamaguen-sibi, 160 Demon r., 14, see Des Moines r. De Moyen r., 222, 291, 293, 339, 343, 344, 347, see Des Moines r. De Moyen rap., 13, 25, 291, 337, 347 Dendragapus canadensis, 175 Dendragapus obscurus, 458 Denmark isl., 7 Denver and Rio Grande R. R., 460, 462, 469, 470, 471, 492, 494, 597 Denver, Col., xliv, xlv, cxii, 456, 457, 466, 467, 490, 495 Denver ed. of Pike, xliv, xlv Denver, Leadville, and Gunnison br. of U. P. R. R., 470 Denver, South Park, and Pacific R. R., 467, 469 Department of Archives, Ottawa, xcii Department of Taos, 598 Department, see War do. De Pere, Depere, Wis., 298, 299 Derby, Lieut. G. H., see Fort Ripley Derby, Tex., 690 De Sable l., see Sandy l. De Sezei, see Lisa Desgrozeliers, 295 Desiré, a person, 334, 335 Des Moines co., Ia., 18, 21 Desmoin, Des Moines, Des Moyan r., lxii, 13, 14, 15, 206, 222, 291 Des Moines, Desmoines rap., 2, 9, 221, 222 Des Moins, Ia., xlix De Soto, H., 288 De Soto r., 163 De Soto, Wis., 42 d'Esprit, Pierre, 295 Détergette, D., 214 Détour de Pin, des Pins, Miss. r., 74 Détour de Pin, du Pin, Wisc. r., 302, 303 Détour, La., 356 Détour pt., 297 Détroit, 297 Detroit isl., 297 Detroit, Mich., xxiii, xxx, xciv, xcvii, 229 De Veau, Jacques, 194 Devil's cr., Ia., 16, 17 Devil's isl., Ia., 16 Devil's l., N. Dak., 314 Devil's Race-ground, 363 De Witt Clinton's r., 163 Dhegiha, 412, 559 Diamond Bluff, Wis., 73 Diamond cr., 401, 518, 521 Diamond isl., in the Miss. r., so called by river-men, gives name to the town on the Wisconsin side nearly opposite it, near the bold bluff Diamond l., 90 Diamond spr., 401, 518, 521 Diaz, Capt. Melchior, attempted to discover Cibola, Nov. 17th, 1539, to Mar. 20th, 1540; reached Colorado r. of the West in 1541, and found traces of Alarcon D'Iberville, 77, 78, 288, 713, 714 Dickinson co., Kas., 395, 403, 404 Dickson, Col. Robert, 40, 99, 117, 118, 119, 120, 154, 155, 176, 180, 181, 186, 189, 191, 193, 194, 195, 196, 198, 202, 223, 225, 242, 261, 267, 294, 295, 298, 299, 300, 302 Dicotyles torquatus, 697 Dido, Queen, 704 Dill, Lt. J., xxvi, xxviii Dindon, see Turkey r., 355 Dimick's isl., 97, 98, 194 diplomacy, English and Spanish-American, 803 discipline, Spanish military, 797 dish game, 535 dispunishable, 204 Dissertation on Louisiana, Pike's, 511 District of Columbia, 229, 721 District of St. Charles, 360 District of St. Louis, 388 Disturnell's map, 644, 645 Divine r., 3 Division cr., 164, so named by Brower, is first fk. of Miss. r. below Itasca l., and heads on divide between Mexican and Hudsonian waters Dixon, Mr., 267 Dixon's, Ill., 4 Dobson's sl., 16, 17 Dodd's crossing, 12 Dodd's isl., 369, 370 Dodge City, Kas., 434, 437, 438 Dodge, Col. H., 45 Dodge's br., 32 Dodsley, R., xxxi Doe l., 124, 329 Doe r., 124 Dog cr., 373 Dog Inds., 35, 36, 303, 338 Dog Plains, 35, see Prairie du Chien Dog's Meadow, 355, see Prairie du Chien Dog's Plain, 35, see Prairie du Chien Dog, The, a chf., 36 Dogtown, Ill., 5 Dollie, Mo., 385 Dolly Varden Expedition, 336 Dolly Varden l., 166, named in N. Y. Herald, July 6th, 1872, by Julius Chambers, after name of his canoe Dolores hacienda, 671, 672 Dolores, Mex., 765 Dolores sta., Mex., 671 Dolores r., in Utah, 730, 732 Dome Rock, 465 Dominion of Canada, 558 Dona Ana Bend Colony, 639 Dona Ana co., N. M., 638, 640 Dona Ana hills, 639 Dona Ana, N. M., 639, 640, 644 Dona is properly Doña, often now Donna Doniphan, Col. A. W., 634, 636, 640, 654, 655, 667, 674, 746 Doniphan's Expedition, 429, 446, 649, 652, 654, 655, 746, 747 Don r., in Ontario, lxxvii, c Dorante, S., see Estévan Door co., Wis., 297 Door in the Mountain, 751 Door of the Prison, 674 Dornick sta., 470 Doty or Doty's isl., 300 Douay, Friar A., 779, 780 Double r., 97 Dougherty, Pvt. T., xlvi, 1, 359, 360, 432, 482, 485, 486, 487, 490, 505, 506, 509, 510, 845, 854, 855 Douglas co., Kas., 519 Douglas co., Wis., 310 Douglas, S. A., 310 Douglasville, Ill., 8 Dousman, H. M., 204 Doylestown, Pa., 602 Dozier's bend and ldg., 362 Dragoon cr., 520 Draper, L. C., 11, 239 Dresbach, Minn., 53 Dresbach's isl., 53 Drury sl., 23 Dry cr., br. Ark. r., in Col., 443 Dry cr., br. of Mulberry cr., in Kas., 404 Dry or Horse cr., in Col., 446 Dry route on Ark. r., 433, 434, 437 Dry Walnut cr., 425 Drywood cr., 386 Du Bois or Dubois cr., 363, 364 Du Bois r., 2 Dubuque, Ia., 20, 27, 28, 32, 293, 294; lat. 42° 29´ N., long. 90° 44´ W., pop. 30,311 in 1890 Dubuque interrogation, 226 Dubuque, Julien, 29, 30, 32, 37, 209, 211, 224, 225, 226, 268, 294, 303; best biogr. in Tassé, I. pp. 239-62, with view of his grave Dubuque, Kas., 423 Dubuque's bluff, 294 Dubuque's lead mines, 28, 29, 226 Duc de Chartres, 531 Duchouquette, B. (for J. B.), 578, 579 Duchouquette, F. L., 388 Duchouquette, J. B., 387, 388 Duchouquette, Marie, 222 duck-billed cat, 5 Duck cr., 25 Duck Creek chain and sl., 25 Duckett, see Little and Big Duck l., Mex., 651, see Patos l. Duck l., Minn., Crow Wing co., 131, 177 Duck l., Minn., near Minneapolis, 90 Dug Out cr., 18 Dudley, Lieut., xcvii Duhaut, 560, 779, 780 Duimas r., 732 Duke cr., 364 Duke of York, lxxvi Duluth, 130, 135 Duluth and Winnipeg R. R., 143, 145, 148, 167 Du Luth, Le Sieur D. G., 70, 71, 72, 309, 312, 313 Dumoulin, Amaranthe, 222 Dunbar, Wm., 473, 612, 704, 827, 834 Duncan, Mr., 81 Dundas, lxviii Dundee sta., Kas., 432 Dundee sta., Mo., 365 Dunegan, F. B., 214 Duponceau l., 153, 323 Du Quarre, 347 Durango, archbishop of, 800 Durango, City of, 761, 762, 763, 764, 770, 773, 775 Durango, State of, 648, 673, 674, 675, 678, 679, 689, 719, 723, 726, 747, 759, 763, 774, 775 Durazno l., 650 Durgan's cr., 11, 291 Durham, Kas., 401, 402, 403, 521 Durham's for Durnam's isl., 94 Durkee's isl., 11 Durnam's isl., 94 Duroc, Mo., 377 Durrett, Dr. R. T., preface and li, lii dusky grouse, 458 Dutch cr., 483 Dutch ed. of Pike, xxxviii, xliii, xliv Dutch Fred, 163 Dutchman isl., 18 Dutch or Swift cr., 483 Dutton, Pvt., 332 Dwelling of the Great Spirit, 198 Dwissler's cr., 518, 520 E Eagle, see Killeur, 118 Eagle bay, 297 Eagle bluff, on Green bay, Wis., 297 Eagle bluff, on Miss. r., Wis., 56, 57 Eagle cr., br. of Miss. r., Wis., 55, 57 Eagle cr., br. of Neosho r., Kas., 399, 400 Eagle isl., 6 Eagle Nest savannah, 150 Eagle pass, 690, 696 Eagle r., br. of Grand r., 471 Eagle's Nest isl., 2 Eagle sta., N. M., 636 Eakins, Mr., lxx Eamozindata r., 67 Eanbosandata, 348 East Arm of Lake Itasca was so named by Brower East Burlington, Ill., 19 East Dubuque, Ill., 32 East fk. of Ark. r., 471 East fk. of Elk r., 98 East fk. of Miss. r., on Eastman's map of 1855, is the Naiwa, Laplace, or Schoolcraft r., 331 East Indies, 791 East Indies, Spanish, 718 Eastman, Capt. Seth, U. S. A., 162, 163, d. Aug. 31st, 1875 East Naiwa r., 162 East Ojibway, see Ojibway, Minn. Easton, Pa., xx East r. of Pike, br. of Osage r., 382 East Turkey cr., 455 East St. Cloud, Minn., 100 East Savannah r., 138 East Swan r. of Nicollet, 143 East Wing cr., 370 Eaton, Mrs. B. H., xxxii Eau Claire r., 56, 57, 305, 355 Eau de Vie r., 96 ecclesiasticism in New Spain, 801 Eccleston l., 153, 155 Echararria, Lt. J., 703 Economy of Human Life, xxxi Ectopistes migratorius, 211 Ecuadorean Andes, 461 Eddy, Corporal, 211 Eden, Dickens' City of, 11 Edgerton, Kas., 519 Educational Reporter Extra, 327 Edwards Co., Kas., 434 Edwards r., see Beck's Gazetteer, 1823, p. 104 Egg Harbor, 298 Egypt, 621 Eight Mile cr., in Col., 462 Eight Mile cr., in Kas., 520 El, see some of the Sp. names without the definite article élan, eland, 87, 240 Elan Levie or Leve, 240 El Andabazo cr., 672, 673 Elbert co., Col., 443 El Beson, 703 Elceario, 649 Elco, Kas., 400 El Dorado, liv, 501 electricity, 759, 760 Electric pk., 483 Elephant butte, 637 Eleven Mile cañon, 466, 467 Elisaira, Elizario, 770 Elk co., Kas., 555 Elk cr., br. of Ark. r., in Ark., 558 Elk cr., br. of Miss. r., in Ia., 27 Elk cr., feeder of Elk l., Itasca basin, 166 elk-hunting, 109, 110, 111, 112 Elk l., formerly Itasca l., 326, 327 Elk l., near Itasca l., 165, 166, 334, was surveyed, located, and marked with posts in Oct., 1875, by E. S. Hall Elk l. of Pike, now Little Rock l., 102 Elk pool, near Elk l., Itasca basin, was so named by Brower Elk r., br. of Miss. r., in Ia., 27 Elk r., br. of Miss. r., in Minn., 95, 97, 101, 314 Elk r., br. of Verdigris r., 555 Elk r., in British America, 278 Elk r., 289, is the Miss. r. between Elk or Itasca l. and Bemidji l. Elk r. of Allen, by error, 122 Elk r. of Pike, now Little Elk r., 124, 316 Elk River (town), Sherburne co., Minn., 97 Elk spr., at E. side of Elk l., Itasca basin, were so named by Brower Ellicott City, Md., 656 Ellicott, Hon. A., 656, 657 Ellicott's Mills, Md., 656 Ellinwood, Kas., 522 Elliott Coues l., 160 Elliott, Lt. J. D., ciii Ellis co., Kas., 404 Ellis isl., 2 Ellison's cr., 18 Ellsworth co., Kas., 404, 423 Elm cr., br. of Council Grove cr., 518, 521 Elm cr., br. of Marais des Cygnes r., 518, 521 Elm cr., br. of Miss. r., 94 Elm cr., br. of Neosho r., 397, 398 Elmdale, Kas., 401 Elm isl., in Cass l., 158 Elmo, Kas., 403 Elohist, 182 El Paso co., Col., 443, 452, 465 El Paso co., Tex., 640 El Paso del Norte, 595, 619, 631, 632, 638, 639, 640, 641, 642, 643, 644, 645, 646, 647, 648, 650, 651, 682, 684, 686, 729, 739, 740, 756, 760, 762 El Paso de los Tres Rios, 685 El Paso, Tex., xxxii, 641, 642, 643 El Peñol, 653, 654 El Pozo, 677, 680, 682 El Rio, 288 El Rosario r., 774 El Saucillo, 669 Elsberry, Mo., 5 El Torreon, 677, 679 El Turco, see Coronado Elvira l., 162 Embarras, Embarrassments r., 56, 305, 355 Embuda, Embudo, N. M., 598, 606 Embudo cr., 606 Emily bend, 365 Emory, Lt. or Maj. W. H., 429, 554, 607, 617, 631, 642, 643, 644, 645, 646, 647, 691, 692, 697, 712, 737, 788 Empire gulch, 471 Emporia, Kas., 397 Enbudo, 606 Encina hacienda, 687 Encinal, Tex., 690 Encinas, Mex., 687, 688 Encinillas l., 653 Encinillas, Mex., 654 Engineer Bureau, 549, 554 England, passim, xxxi, 802, 804 English chain, 15 English diplomacy, 803 English ed. of Pike, xxxviii, xxxix English generalities not indexed Ensign, Kas., 437 Enterprise isl., 4 Eokoros, 50 Eororos, 65 épinette, 319, 321, 324 Épinettes, River of, 324 Epouvette isl., 295 Epsport, 296 Erethizon dorsatum, 125 Erie, battle of, lxxxi, see Fort Erie Erie, Minn., 318 Esanapes, 68 Escalante, 730, 738 Escalon, 674 Eschkebugecoshe, 169 Escondido r., 289 escopate, escopet, escopette, 508 Eshkabwaka l., 159 Eshkibogikoj, Eskibugeckoge, 169, 261, 335, 347, 351 Española, N. M., 601 Espejo, Antonio de, was on the Rio Grande of N. M. in 1583, but did not found Santa Fé, whose "tercentennial" of 1883 was too previous; he died 1585 Espinazo, Arroyo del, 616 Espiritu Santo bay, 697 Espiritu Santo r., 288 Espiritu Santo spr., 675 Esprit Bleu or Blue, 343, 347 Esprit, Pierre de, 295 Esquagamau l., 135 Esquibugicoge, 169 Essai Militaire, 503 Essanapes, 50 Esterolargo mt., 638 Estévan, Estévanico, the negro killed by the Cibolans in 1539, see Nizza. He is sometimes mistakenly called Stefano Dorante estufa, 737 Ethnography of the Mississippi, 337 Étienne, Veuve, 295 Etlah sta., Mo., 365 Eureka, Wis., 301 Eureka Irrigating Canal, Kas., 434 Eustace, Capt., xcii Eustis, Hon. Wm., lxv, lxvii Eustis, Maj., lxxx, lxxxi, lxxxviii, lxxxvix Evangelists, The, is trans. of Los Evangelistas, collective name given by Kino in 1699 to four branches of the Gila r., now the Salado or Salt, the Verde, Santa Cruz, and San Pedro Ewing's cr., 369, 370 Ewing, Wm., 15, 222, 223, 291, 292 examination of papers, 610 ex[oe]cias, 741 explosions, 109, and see magazines Exposition Grounds, Toronto, lxxvi, lxxviii Eyeish, Eyish, 711 F Fabas, Fabbas r., 9 Fabius isl., 10, 11 Fabius r., 9, 10 Fabius tp., Mo., 11 Fair American, a ship, lxxxiii Fairbanks, a Mr., 324 Fairfield, Mo., 380 Fairport, Ia., 23 Fall cr., Pike co., Ill., 6 Fall Inds., 278 Falling Leaf, a chf., 43 Falling Rock cr., 2 Fall r., br. of Verdigris r., 555 Falls cr., or Bassett's cr., 94 Falls, see names of falls, besides the following: Falls of Pakagama, 147 Falls of St. Anthony, 35, 91, 195, 196, 198, 227, 231, 232, 234, 235, 244, 310, 311, 321, 348, 356, 844, and see the elaborate illustrated article in Final Rep. Geol. Surv., Minn., II., 4to Fanning, Capt. A.C.W., lxxxvii Faraone Apaches, 632, 748 Faribault, A., 76 Faribault, B., 76 Faribault, J. B., 76, 83, see Tassé, II., pp. 309-331, portrait Faribault, Minn., 76 Farm Island l., reference lost Farnese, A., a pope, 599 Farris Hotel, Pueblo, Col., 453, 454 Father Gabriel, 64 Father of Waters, 289 Father, Son, and Holy Ghost r., 708 Faucon Noir is F. name of Black Hawk, a chf. Fawn cr., 400 Fay, H. A., lxxix, ci Featherstonhaugh, G. W., 11, 14, 18, 26, 51, 54, 61, 63, 66, 79, 80, 81, 85, 200, 289, 295, 298, 299 Febvre, Jos. d'I. de Brouisseau le, 214 Federal City, 824, 833 Federal District of Mexico, 721 Feebyain, 338 Fee Fee cr., 362 Femme Osage r., 362, 363 Fener, Mr., 243 Fénelon, F. de S. de la Mothe-, xxiv Fennai, F., 243, was a boatman in Amer. Fur Co., Feb. 25th, 1819 Ferara, Capt. de, 686 Ferdinand cr., 357 Fernandez, Don B., 508, 595 Fern Leaves, 349 Fero, D., liii, liv, 660, 665, 811, 812 Ferrebault, see Faribault Ferrero, Don J. J. de, 686 Ferro, D., 660, see Fero Ferry sl., 41 Ferryville, Wis., 42 Fest's ferry, 637 Fever r., 28, 29 Fiddle cr., 363 Fiddler's bend, 301 Field, T. W., xlii Fievre r., 29 Fifer's ldg., 361 Fifth rap. of Nicollet, 125 figs, fig trees, 675, 676, 681 Filotrano, 329 Fils de Killeur Rouge, 118, 180 Fils de Penechon, Penichon, Pinechon, or Pinchow, 83, 84, 86, 195, 197, 198, 257, 346, 347 Filson Club, lii Finan, P., lxxix, lxxxviii, xcvii Finlay, Anthony, 553 Finlayson, J., 553 Finney co., Kas., 440 Fire pra., lxii First Dragoon cr., 520 First fk. of Ark. r., 448, 463 Fish cr., br. of Marais des Cygnes r., 518, 521 Fisher, Judge, Capt., or Mr., 6, 35, 37, 42, 87, 206, 209, 211, 224, 225, 269, 372 Fisher's cr., 41 Fisher's ldg., 368 Fisher sta., Col., 470 Fish l., on Bend cr., 99 Fishline l., 317 Fish r. or St. Croix r., 72 Fitz Gerald, David, preface Fiuntenas, 773 Five Points sl., 6 flag incident, 89 Flambeau r., 306 Flanders, 677, 701 Flat Mouth, a chf., 134, 156, 169, 170, 171, 172, 260, 335, 347, 351 Flat r., 102 Flax r. is a name of the Colorado Chiquito, in frequent use about 40 years ago, trans. Rio de Lino of early Sp. records Fletcher cr., 125, 179 Fleury, Judge, 727 Flint cr. or r., 19 Flint hills, 19 Flite, Miss., lxiii Floating Bog cr., 167 Floating Moss l., 165 Floodwood, Minn., 143 Floodwood r., 143 Florado r., 669, 670 Florence, Col., 462 Florence, Italy, 328 Florence, Kas., 401 Florence, Minn., 63 Florida, as a captaincy-general, 718 Florida boundary, 657 Florida, Mex., 683, 684 Florida mts., 638 Florida or Florido r., 669, 670, 671, 762 Florida, State of, lxvi, lxxxvii, 734, 779 Florissant, Col., 465, 467 Florissant, Mo., 214, 511 Fly pass, 492 Foley sta., Mo., 5 foliated talc, 729 folle avoine, 38 Folle Avoine Inds., 38, 117, 118, 120, 124, 125, 126, 298, 299, 300, 301, 305, 306, 309, 314, 340, 341, 343, 346, 347, 351 Fond du Lac co., Wis., 300 Fond du Lac department, 280, 282, 284, 285 Fond du Lac, Minn., 139, 141, 168, 170, 181, 295, 321, 356 Fond du Lac r., 321 Fond du Lac, Wis., 24 Fons et Origo spr., 165 Fontainebleau, 213 Fontaine qui Bouille r., 452 Fontaine-qui-bouit r., 453 Fontaine r., 452 Ford co., Kas., 435, 436, 437 Ford, Col., 475 Ford, Kas., 436, 437 Forest Hill, Kas., 423 forestry question, 524 Forked r., 289 Forks of Ark. r., 463, and see under East, First, Grand, Lake, North, Pike's, Tennessee, and Third Forks of Miss. r., at Crow Wing r., 317 Forks of Miss. r., at Leech Lake br., 325 Forsyth, Maj. B., lxxx, lxxxiv, lxxxv, lxxxvi, xcvi, cii Forsyth, Maj. Thos., 12, 19, 22, 26, 54, 56, 88, 89, 118, 239 Fort Adaize, 713, 714 Fort Adams, 564, 565, 827 Fort Armstrong, 25, begun May, 1816; named for the Secretary of War: see Annals of Iowa, Jan., 1895, pp. 602-614, plate Fort Atkinson, 358, 425, 434, 439 Fort Atkinson, old, below Fort Dodge, abandoned before 1866 Fort at or below Lake Pepin, built by Perrot, 65 Fort at Toronto, lxxvii Fort Aubray, Aubrey, Aubry, 442 Fort Beauharnois, 65, 80, 308 Fort Bliss, 643 Fort Bourbon, 256 Fort Brady, 332 Fort Carondelet, 384, 387, 541 Fort Cayome, liii Fort Charles the Prince, 214 Fort Chartres, 204, 213, 214, 531, 532 Fort Clark, see Fort Osage Fort Clark, Tex., 690 Fort Clemson, 367 Fort Conchos, 668 Fort Conrad, 633, 634 Fort Craig, 634 Fort Crawford, 36, 45 Fort Crawford, on Des Moines r., 13 Fort Crèvec[oe]ur, 3, 64, 68 Fort Crittenden, 773 Fort Cummings, 638 Fort Dauphin, 256 Fort de Charters, 531 Fort Dodge, 437 Fort Duncan, 690, 691, 696 Fort Duquesne, 453 Fort Edwards, 14 Fort Elisiaira, Elizario, 648, 649 Fort Erie, lxxxvii, xc Fort Ewell, 696 Fort Falls, 692 Fort Fayette, xxvi Fort Fillmore, 640 Fort Frontenac, lxxii, 70, 309 Fort Gage, 532 Fort Gaines, 127 Fort Garland, 493, 494, 596 Fort George, lxxiii, lxxiv, xciv, xcv, xcviii, cvi Fort Griffin, 706 Fort Howard, 299 fortifications, supposed, 57, 59, 60 Fort Inge, 696 Fort Jesup, 712 Fort La Baie, La Baye, 298 Fort La Reine, 254, 255, 256 Fort Larned, 425, 426, 429, 435, 444 Fort Leavenworth, 333, 405, 446, 519 Fort L'Huillier, 65, 78, 79 Fort Lesueur, 71, 73 Fort Lowell (old), 596 Fort Lyon, 435, 444, 445 Fort McDowell, 734, abandoned Fort McHenry, lxiv Fort McIntosh, 690, 691, 696 Fort Mackinac, 176 Fort McRae, 635, 636, 637, named for Capt. Alex. McRae, killed at battle of Valverde, Feb. 21st, 1861; site selected by A. L. Anderson, in the cañon E. of Rio Grande, about 40 m. S. of Fort Craig. Fort Madison (fort and town, Ia.), 17 Fort Mann, 437 Fort Marcy, 605, 607, was built precisely on the site of the older one of two Indian villages which were replaced by Santa Fé, N. M. Fort Marsiac, Massac, xxv, 656, 657 Fort Mason, 771, 773 Fort Mellon, lxxxvii Fort Mohave, Mojave, 736 Fort Niagara, lxxvi, cvi Fort Osage (or Clark), 520 Fort Oswego, ciii Fort Perrot (various or alleged), 54, 59 Fort Pike, La., cx Fort Pike, N. Y., civ, cx Fort Point (Clark or Osage), 520 Fort Prince Charles, 358 Fort Recovery, 438 Fortress Monroe, 45 Fort Reynolds, 451 Fort Riley, 404, 405, 408, 425 Fort Ringgold, 692 Fort Ripley (old), 127, site selected by Gen. Geo. Mercer Brooke, surveyed Sept. 24th, 1848, by Lieuts. Geo. Hasket Derby and Robert Stockton Williamson, both then of U. S. Top. Engrs., former of Ph[oe]nixiana and Squibob fame, latter noted in connection with Pac. R. R. expls. and surveys; see Harper's Mag., XIX, 1859, p. 54 Fort Ripley (town), Minn., 127, 179 Fort Rouillé, lxxv, lxxvi, lxxxiii, xcii, cii Fort St. Anthony (Snelling), 30, 58, 82, 83, 328, 329 Fort St. Antoine, Beef r., 58 Fort St. Antoine, Lake Pepin, 65 Fort St. Croix, 309 Fort St. Louis, Ill., 560, 714 Fort St. Louis, Ia., 13 Fort St. Louis, Mo., 269 Fort St. Louis, Tex., 560, 779, 780 Fort St. Pierre, 80 Fort Sarah, 425 Fort Scott, 394, 395 Fort Selden, 636, 638, 639, 640 Fort Smith, 559 Fort Snelling, 30, 58, 75, 82, 83, 84, 85, 90, 91, 236, 243, 310, 328, 334, 358, 405: see also Ex. Doc. No. 9, Ho. Reps., 40th Congr., 3d Sess. Fort Stanton, 447 Fort Thorn, 638 Fort Tompkins, ciii Fort Toronto or Rouillé, lxxv, cii Fort Toronto or York, lxxvii Fort Towson, 519 Fort Whipple, 735, 747 Fort William (British), 169 Fort William, Col., 446 Fort Wingate, 607, 619, 629, 742 Forty-niners, cxi Fort York, lxix, lxxiii, lxxiv, lxxvi, lxxvii, lxxviii, lxxix, lxxx, lxxxiii, lxxxiv, lxxxv, lxxxvii, xcii, xciii, xciv, xcv, xcvii, c, ci; and see York Fort Yuma, 646, 736 Fort Zara, Zarah, 425; gone before 1866 Foster, Dr. Thos., 85, 86, 87, 88 Fountain cave, 75, 199, 200, 201 Fountain City bay, 57 Fountain City, Wis., 55, 56 Fountain cr., 452 Fountain r., 445, 451, 452, 453, 454, 459, 463 Four Brothers isls., 4 Fourche de la Côte du Kansas, 423 Four Mile cr., 399 Fourth rap., 104 Fowlshiels, xlv Fownda, Chevalier Don, 812, 813 Fox Inds., 26, 31, 35, 36, 301, 330, 338, 339, 346, 347 Fox isl., 12, 13 Fox pra., 12 Fox r., Ia., 12, 13 Fox r., Wis., 291, 294, 295, 298, 299, 301, 302, 338, 340, 341, 347 Fox sl., 13 Fox-Wisconsin portage, route, traverse, 24, 35, 68, 294, 302 Fra Cristobal, 634, 635, 639 Fra Cristobal mt. or pk., 633, 637 Frame cr., 366 France, 213, 701, 805 Francisco, Don, 618 Francis r., 377, 378 François r., 95, 313 Franconia, 309 Frank, a Pawnee, 402, 408, 416, 569 Franklin co., Kas., 520 Franklin co., Mo., 363, 364, 365, 366 Franklin mts., 631, 640 Franklin, Tex., 643 Franquelin, J. B., 3, 13, 24, 35, 48, 49, 51, 71, 72, 73, 81, 91, 95, 309, 313 Fraser, Lieut., lxxxiv, lxxxvii, xc, xcix Fray Cristobal, 635, 636 Frazer City, Minn., 318 Frazer, Jas., 37, 40, 42, 44, 48, 49, 50, 51, 52, 54, 55, 58, 59, 61, 70, 82, 91, 201, 202, 205, 206, 207, 238, 242, 243, 244 Frazer, Jos. J., 40 Frazer, Robert, 40 Frazier l., in Itasca basin, flows into Little Mantrap l. Fredonia, Ia., 23 Fredonia, Kas., 555 Freeman, Col. C., 564, 715 Freeman, Mr. Thos., li, 412, 473, 710, 827, 841 Frémont co., Col., 460, 462, 483 Frémont, J. C., 79, 333, 334, 381, 446, 452, 453, 457, 645 Frémont pass, 471 Frémont's pk., 462 French, Capt. S. G., 643, 645 French ed. of Pike, xxxviii, xl French influence on Osage Inds., 531 Frenchman's bar, 74 French post, old, near Trempealeau, 54 French rap., 131 French Rapids was also name of a paper town on E. side of Miss. r., still-born or extinct about 1857 French Raven, a chf., 347 French relations, 288 Frene cr., 366 Fresaie, 179 Fresno, 667 Freytas, 288 Friar Christopher, 639 Friar Christopher mt., 633, 634, 635, 639 friars, two, 755, are uncertain: see Nadal Nizza, and Asuncion, J. de la Fridley's bar, 94. Fridley was a local magnate in territorial times, whose farm was at the mouth of Rice cr., where he laid out a town he called Manomin, and in 1859 made a new county of this name, though Manomin co. consisted of less than half a township (T. 30, R. 24, 4th M.), being little over 15 sq. miles. The county was nicknamed "Fridley's farm." Under the State constitution no county could be less than a certain area without an affirmative vote of its inhabitants. This one did not work well, and those most interested wanted to get rid of it. To do so required a special alteration of the constitution. This was made, and Manomin was annexed to Anoka co. in 1870, with the result of the curious spur or lobe (Fridley township) which hangs to the latter. It is a wonder that the knowing ones did not see how Minneapolis would have been aggrandized by adding Manomin to Hennepin co. The original settler on Manomin was John Banfill, about 1848 Frio r., 696 Frijoles cr., 604 Frobisher, Mr., 188 Frontenac, L. de Buade de, 77, 294, 307, 312 Frontenac, Minn., 63, 64, 65, 69 Frontenac r., 289 Frontera, Fronteras, Tex., 643, 644, 645, 646 Fronteras, Sonora, 773 Front range of Rocky mts., 444, 451, 452, 454, 456, 467 Front st., Toronto, lxxviii Fruitland, Ill., 4 Frye isl., near Hancock's, in S. W. ¼ of Sect. 14, below Elk r. Fuentes, Mex., 691 Fuerte r., 762 Fulton, Fulton's isl., 25, 27 Fulton, Ill., 27 Fulton, Kas., 394 furs and peltries, return of, 284, 285 fur trade, 274 G Gachupines, 738, 739 Gadsden purchase or treaty, 644, 645, 646, 647, 727, 770 Gagiwitadinag l., 166 Gaillard, Gaillard's r., 377, see Giard Galena, Ill., 28 Galena r., 28, 29, 32 Gales and Seaton, 840 Galisteo cr., 615 Gallardo, see Galvez y Galland, Ia., 15 Gallatin, Mr., lxx Gallego, Gallejo spr., 652 Gallegos, N. M., 601 Gallinipper cr., 383 Galtier, Rev. L., 75 Galueston's, Galveston bay, 710, 781 Galves, Count of, 803, 804 Galveston, Tex., 707 Galvez, Don D. C., 803 Galvez y Gallardo, B., 803, 804 game of ball, 50, 207 games, Pawnee, 534, 535 games, Spanish, 789 Gange, see Grange Ganges r., 70 Gannett, Henry, preface Ganville, 310 Garcia, Don F., 643 Garde, see Mont La Garde Garden City, Kas., 440 Garden isl., 158 Garden of the Gods, 452; name arose before 1859 Gardner, Col., 492 Garey, Bill or Wm., 446 Garfield, Kas., 434, 435 Garland, Col. J., 425 Garlic bluffs, cape, and r., 42, 43 Garrison cr., Ark., 559 Garrison cr., Ont., lxxvii Garrison, O. E., 336 Garrison pt. was named by Brower for O. E. Garrison, who visited Lake Itasca in July, 1880 Garzas, Mex., 668, 669 Gasconade City, Mo., 367 Gasconade co., Mo., 366, 369 Gasconade r., 11, 366, 367, 368, 369, 512 Gass, P., 364 Gastacha, 288 Gaston, 30 Gatchi Betobeeg is Schoolcraft's name, 1855, for the great morasses above Pokegama falls Gates, Gen., lvi, lvii Gates of the Rocky mts., 642 Gatschet, A. S., 706, 713 Gatuño, 677 Gaurreau, Lt. F., ciii Gauss l., 153, 155 Gauthier, Gaultier, see Verendrye Gayard r., 37, see Giard r. Gayarré, Charles Étienne Arthur, 714, b. Louisiana, Jan. 9th, 1805, was living 1894, since dead Gayashk l., 134 Gayashk r., 129, 334 Gaygwedosay cr., 166, 334, so named by Brower, see Trying to Walk Gayoso de Lemas, Don M., lv, 657 Gear, Rev. Ezekiel Gilbert, of Conn., was chaplain at Fort Snelling 1838-53, and at Fort Ripley 1860-67; d. Oct. 13th, 1873 Gear l., 174 Geary co., Kas., 404, 410 geese, 89 General Land Office, 7, 26, 491, 554 General Pike, a ship, cix, cx. Further information in Barrie's Army and Navy, p. 38, and Roosevelt's Naval War of 1812, p. x, fig. Emmons says she was 875 tons, carried 28 long 24's, and was second frigate launched on Lake Ontario; commanded by A. Sinclair and Wm. M. Crane; served in Comm. Chauncey's squadron, for some time as flagship, against the English, Aug. 7th-11th, Sept. 11th, and Sept. 28th, 1813: in the last action burst a gun, and had 27 killed and wounded. (A. W. Greely, _in lit._, May 21st, 1895.) General Putnam, a steamboat, 9 general remarks on New Spain, 786 to 806 Genesis, 182 Geneva, Ia., 23 Genoa, Wis., 49 Gens de Mer, 31 Gens des Feuilles, 118, 120, 197, 230, 258, 343, 345, 346, 347, 349 Gens des Feuilles Tirées, 345, 346, 347, 349 Gens du Lac, 69, 81, 86, 95, 197, 207, 267, 313, 314, 342, 345, 346, 347 Gens du Large, 81, 345 Geomys talpoides, 97 George, see Fort George George III., lxxvi George l., 161 George's bay, 771 Georgia, cx, 715 Georgian bay, lxxv German ed. of Pike, xliv Germany, xxviii Gerrales, 629 Geulle Platte, Geuelle Platte, 169, 261, 347 Ghaymnichan is a form of Remnicha, which see Ghisdhubar, 182 Ghost r., 733 Giard, Basile, 303 Giard, Giard's r., 37, 304, 347 Giaucthinnewug, 171 Gibraltar pt., lxxvii, xcii Gieulle Platte, 351 Gihagatche, 591 Gilans, 748 Gila r., 637, 639, 644, 645, 646, 728, 730, 734, 735, 736, 741, 742, 756, 773; date of discovery 1538; crossed by Friar Marcos de Nizza in 1539; name appears on Kino's map, 1701; river also called Gila by Venegas, 1757, and Font, 1777; this name for the river dates from 1697, though Gila was name of a province in 1630; first name of the river was Rio del Nombre de Jesus, Oñate, 1604; the name Rio de los Apostoles is later, having been first applied by Father Kino in 1699 Gila river-system, 734, 735 Gilbert, Gilberttown, Ia., 25 Gilbert's isl. and ldg., 7 Gilead, Ill., 5 Gileño Apaches, 748 Gilfillan l., 336; named by Brower for Rev. J. A. Gilfillan, who held first religious services known at Lake Itasca, May, 1881 Gilfillan, Rev. J. A., 166 Gilmer, J. F., 607 Gitchigomi l., 330 Givens, Maj., lxxxv, xcii, xciii Gladstone, Mo., 375 Glaize cr., 375 Glasco, Kas., 408 Glasscock's isl., 8 glaucoma, 81 Glaucus isl., 8 Glazier l., 166 Glen Erie or Eyrie cr., 452 Glen Haven, Wis., 34 Glenn, Kas., 519 Glen's ldg., 370 Glen, The, 518, 519 Gloucester, a ship, xciv Gnacsitares, 50, 68 God, 64, 182, 196, 353, 382, 432, 501, 573, 576, 587, 602, 657, 706, 801 Goddard's r., 306, 309 Godwin, Lt. A., cviii Golden's cr., 15 gold mines, 759, 760, 761 Gomez, 604, 615 Gonzales, Tex., 703 Goode, Prof. G. Brown, preface Good Help l., 65 Good Help r., 58 Good Hope r., trans. of Rio Grande de Buena Esperanza, which see Goodhue co., Minn., 63, 64, 65, 69, 73 Goodhue, J. M., 65 Goodman's r., 362 Goodnight, Col., 459 Good or Ninnescah r., 549 Good Road, a chf., 86 Good Sight mts. and pk., 638 Good Sparrow Hunter, a chf., 85 Goodwin, see Godwin Goodwin, Gov. John N., 727 Goodwin's isl., 96 Goose bay, 70 Goose isl., 153 Goose r., 97 Gorden, Pvt. Wm., 1, 359, 360, 432, 482, 490, 510, 845, 854, 855 Gordon, Geo., 602 Gordon's bay, 41 Gordon's ferry, 28 gorget, 586 Goths, 632 Gouelle Platte, 169 Gove co., Kas., 404 government of New Biscay, 768, 769 government of New Mexico, 754 Governor Tompkins, a ship, lxxxiii Gove sta., Col., 483 Graeton, see Greaton Grafton, Ill., 2, 5 Graham, Col. J. D., 644 Graham, D., 25, 238 Graham, H. R., 833 Granada, Col., 442 Granada cr., 442 Granada sta., N. M., 636 Grand Auglaise cr., 375 Grand cañon, Ark r., 462, 466, 476, 477, 478, 479, 847 Grand cañon, Colorado r., 730, 731, 732, 735 Grand chute, Fox r., Wis., 299 Grand copper mines, 637 Grand Duchy of Nassau, 452 Grande Avenue, Miss. r., 175 Grande de Santiago r., 719 Grande Île, 194 Grand Encampment, 59, 60, 205 Grand Encampment isl., 60 Grande Prairie Mascotin, 22 Grande r., see Rio Grande and Rio del Norte Grande Rivière au Vase or Vaseuse, 369 Grand fk. of Osage r., 383, 513 Grand fk. or Solomon r., 421 Grand fks. of Ark. r., 445, 451, 463 Grand isl., Cass l., 157, 158 Grand isl., La Crosse, 51 Grand Isle, one of Pike's Beaver isls., 194, 262 Grand Kakalin, Kaukauna, Konimee, 299, 300 Grand Lac, 30, 310 Grand Marais, 75, 310, 342, 348 Grand Osage Inds. or village, 381, 385, 386, 387, 389, 390, 391, 392, 393, 394, 529, 530, 531, 532, 541, 550, 551, 555, 558, 562, 563, 566, 576, 579, 582, 590, 591 Grand Osage r., see Osage r. Grand Pawnees, 412, 413, 449, 450, 451, 532, 542, 544, 583, 590, 591 Grand pk., 456, 457, 458 Grand Pest, Peste, a chf., 566, 586, 588 Grand Portage, 188, 326 Grand Rapids, Itasca co., Minn., 137, 146 Grand raps., in Miss. r., Itasca co., Minn., 142, 143, 144, 145, 321 Grand raps., or Sauk raps., 100, 193, 315, 356 Grand r., a cr. in Wis., 301 Grand r., a name of the Miss. r., 288 Grand r., br. of Colorado r., 471, 479, 524, 596, 732 Grand r., br. of Osage r., 379, 382, 540 Grand r. or Cottonwood r., 402 Grand r. or Neosho r., 397, 398, 399, 400, 401, 515, 541, 552, 556, 557 Grand Saline r., in Kas., 405, 420, 422, 545, 586 Grand Saline r. or Cimarron r., 552, 553, 554, 555 Grand Saline r. or Newsewtonga r., 552 Grange, La or The, 70, 205, 308, 356 Granger co., Tenn., liii Granite cr., 727, 734 Granite gulch and sta., Col., 471 Granite mt., 730 Grant co., Kas., 439 Grant co., N. M., 638 Grant co., Wis., 37 Grant, Mr., of N. W. Co., 133, 136, 137, 139, 140, 142, 143, 144, 146, 155, 156, 175, 176, 180, 184, 189, 190, 191, 261 Grant's house, 142, 144, 145, 146, 280 Grant's pra., 21, 22, 211 Grape cr., cx, 462, 463, 482, 483, 484, 487, 489, 490, 491, 847 Grape sta., Col., 483 grapevines, 681 Gratiot, Chas., 10 Gravel or Gravois cr., 374, see Big, Grand, Little, Upper Gravelly isl., 297 Gravel r. of Pike, 512, see Big, Little Grave r., 71 Graveyard cr., 443 Gravis cr., 374 Gravois Mills, Mo., 375 Grayback mt., 492, 493 Gray, Capt. A., xxvi, xxvii Gray co., Kas., 437, 438, 440 Gray Horse cr., 556 Gray, Prof. A., 39 Greaser cr., 491 Greasy cr., 369 Great American Desert, 733 Great Bend, Kas., 359, 420, 424, 425, 426, 427, 429, 436, 441, 443, 518, 522, 539, 548 Great bend of Ark. r., 408, 425, 436, 521, 547 Great bend of Miss. r., 163 Great Britain, 213, 803, and passim Great Cape Gray, 5 Great Crow, a chf., 85 Greater Ultimate Reservoir Bowl, 164, so named by Brower, the area in which the Miss. r. arises to flow into West Arm of Lake Itasca Great Gravel cr., 375 Great Kaukauna, 299 Great Lakes, 3, 24, 35, 72, 294, and see their names Great Macoketh r., 28, 293 Great Marsh or March, 75 Great Morasses, see Gatchi Betobeeg Great Northern R. R., 167 Great North r., 816, see Rio Grande Greaton, Capt. R. H., xxvi, xxvii Great Osage r., 385, see Osage r. and Marais des Cygnes r. Great r., 288, 289, is the Miss. r. Great r. of the Couhatchatte Nation, Verendrye, 1737, is the Missouri Great Saline r., in Kas., 405, 420, 423, 545 Great Salt l., 732, 733, 738 Great Spirit, 198, 256, 258, 265 Great Spirit l., 314 Great Wabiscihouwa, 44 Great Western Ry., xc Greely, Gen. A. W., preface, xlviii, cx, 470 Green bay, 3, 24, 31, 297, 298, 299, 338, 340 Green Bay, Ia., 18 Green Bay, Wis., 298, 299 Greenbush, N. Y., lxx Green co., Mo., 380 Greenhorn mts., 452 Greenhorn r., 451, 488, 490 Green isl., Green bay, 298 Green isl., Mo. r., 357 Green Lake co., Wis., 301 Green l., Minn., 97 Green l., Wis., 301 Green Leaf r., 81 Green, Mrs., cvii Green mts., 733 Green Prairie tp., Minn., 124, 125 Green r., br. of Colorado r., 479, 732, 733 Green r., br. of Minnesota r., 77, 79 Green's bottom and chute, 362 Greenville, O., xxvii, 438 Greignon, Greinnor, Greinway, Greinyea, 181, 194, compare Grignon Gregg, Dr. Josiah, 394, 398, 410, 424, 437, 439, 444, 446, 457, 463, 480, 482, 496, 517, 518, 521, 553, 558, 613, 633, 635, 636, 641, 650, 651, 652, 653, 737, 739, 763, 764 Gregory, Morrison co., Minn., 122 Gregory's ldg., 12, 13 Grenadier pt., lxxxiii Grey, see Gray, Capt. A. Grey Cloud, Grey Cloud isl. and sl., 174 Greysolon du Luth, Le Sieur D., 70, 312 Griegos, N. M., 617 Griffith, a deserter, 687, 688 Grignon, Augustin, living 1859, then oldest inhabitant of Wis.; see Tassé, I., p. 1, portrait Grignon, Louis, 181 Grignon, Mr., 139 Grijalva, 718 Grimes isl., 6 Grindstone cr., 370 Griswold, Mo., 365 Grollet, Jacques, or Grolee, Santiago, was among those who conspired to kill La Salle in 1687; was at Santa Fé, N. M., 1696; Bernalillo, N. M., married Elena Galvegos in 1699, and was living in 1705 Groseilliers, 295, 296; Groseilliers l. in Itasca basin named for him by Brower Groshong, Grosjean, Jacob, 367 Gross Calumet, a chf., 347 Grosse Isle, 555 Gros Ventres, 171, 344 Grotto l., 200 Ground Apple pra., 27 Grouse cr., 549 Growler, a ship, lxxxiii Grozayyay, see Groseilliers Guachoya, 288 Guadalajara, Guadalaxara, audience, archbishopric, administration, city, or State, 718, 719, 720, 723, 726, 755, 765, 774, 786, 800 Guadalajara, Spain, 719 Guadalquivir r. The Rio Grande was named Rio Guadalquiver at confluence of Rio Conchos by Friar Augustin Rodriguez or Ruiz, on Chamuscado's expedition of 1581 Guadalupe, Col., 596 Guadalupe Hidalgo treaty, 644, 645, 646 Guadalupe mts., 631, 736 Guadalupe, Guadelupe r., 696, 697, 703, 705, 780, 781, 782 Guadiana, 764 Guagarispa is Arizpe Guajuquilla, Mex., 670, 671, 672, 673, 770 Gualamalia, see Guatemala Gualpi, 731, 743, see Walpi Guanabal, Guanabel r., 677, 678, 681 Guanajuato, Guanaxuato, administration, city, or State, 718, 719, 720, 721, 723, 724 Guatemala, Guatimalia, 718, 722, 726 Guaxequillo, 670, 672, 762, 770 Guaymas, 770, 771 Guelle Plat, 169 Guerin, a Mr., 51, 295 Guerin, Jean, 296 Guerin, Vital, 75, see Tassé, II., pp. 1-29, portrait Guerra, Father A., 619, 621, 622 Guerrero, Don Rey de, 682 Guerrero, Guerro, Mex., 691 Guerrero, State, 718, 721, 722 Gueule Platte, 156, 169, 335, 351 Guin's cr., 6 Guipaulavi is Shupaulovi Guipu is a form of the native name of the Tihua pueblo, Santo Domingo, N. M. Gulf of California, 523, 637, 641, 644, 705, 718, 726, 731, 734, 735, 747, 756, 762, 770, 771, 772, 774, 791 Gulf of Mexico, 164, 165, 302, 310, 321, 523, 560, 641, 642, 644, 682, 690, 696, 705, 707, 708, 709, 718, 722, 724, 729, 781, 782, 791 Gulf of St. Lawrence, 310, 353 Gull isl., 297 Gull l., 134 Gull r., 129, 334 Gull River sta., Minn., 129 Guloo, Don H., 671, 683, 686 Gulph, see Gulf Gunnison, Capt. J. W., 408, 425, 433, 437, 439, 491, 733, 734 Gunnison, Col., 469 Gunnison r., 466, 467, 468, 471, 596, 732 Guodiana, Lieut., 710, 712 Gusman family, 719, 729 gutta serena, 81 Guttenberg channel, 34 Guttenberg, Ia., 34 Guyagas spr., 652 Guyamas, 771 Guy Fawkes, cvi Guzman l., 650 Guzman, N. B., 719 Guzzler's gulch, 429 Gwin's cr., 6 Gypsum City, Kas., 403, 404 Gypsum cr., 403, 404 H Hacienda de Abajo, 682 Hacienda de Cienega Grande, 682 Hacienda de Dolores, 671, 672 Hacienda del Petrero, 653 Hacienda de Patos, 683, 684 Hacienda de San José de Pelayo, 673 Hacienda de San Lorenzo, 681, 777 Hacienda Encina, 687 Hacienda Poloss, 683 hackmetack, 319 Hackley's chute and isl., 13 Hacuqua is Zuñian name of Aco or Acoma, according to Cushing Haddock sl., 57 Hadley cr., 6 Haha Inds., 348 Halcheduma, see Jalchedum Haldemand cr., 400 Haldimand, U. C., xci Hale l., 143 Half Dozen, a chf., 88 Half Moon battery, lxxvii, lxxxviii Half Moon cr., 471 Half Moon l., 131, 177 Halfway house, 456 Half-way r., 559 Hall, Edwin S., 167, 336, opened first road in Itasca l. basin for G. L. O. survey in 1875 Halley, Col. A., 384, settled about 1839 at Halley's Bluff Halley's Bluff, 384, on S. side of Osage r., in N. E. ¼ of Sect. 34, T. 38, R. 30, 2 m. S. of West Bellevoir Hallico r., 380 Hall l., near Itasca l., named for E. S. Hall by Brower Hallock, Chas., 326 Hallock, Minn., 326 Hall's ferry, 361 Halona, 742 Ham, a mythical person, 56 Hamburg bay, 6 Hamburg, Ill., 5, 6 Hamburg, Mo., 362, 363 Hamilton, a ship, lxxxiii Hamilton co., Kas., 441 Hamilton, Gov. H., xcviii Hamilton, Ill., 14, 15 Hamilton, Lt.-Col. Wm. S., 36 Hamilton, Tex., 711 Hamish is Jemez Hammond, Kas., 394 Hammond's chute, 52 Hamookhabi is same word as Mohave Hampton, Gen., lxv Hampton, Ill., 25 Hamtramck, Col. J. F., xxvi Hamtramck, J. F., xxvi Hamtramck, Mich., xxvi Hancock co., Ill., 13, 15, 17, 18 Hancock isl., above Dayton, Minn. Hancock's bottom, 363, 364 Hanging Kettle l., 135 Hannibal and St. Jo. R. R., 8 Hannibal, Mo., 8, 9, 10, 211 Hano, 744 Hanover, N. H., lxxxi Hapita, 744 Harding, Kas., 396 Hardscrabble, Col., 453 Hardscrabble cr., 462, 488 Harkness cr., 6 Harland, Kas., 440 Harlan, Dr. Richard, 771 Harmon's Journal, 278 Harmony Mission, Mo., 385 Harpe, B. de la, 77, 78, 79 Harper and Brothers, 553, 554 Harper cr., Kas., 399 Harper, F. P., preface Harper's Ferry, Va., 41 Harper's Gazetteer, 554 Harper sl., 41, 42 Harper's Magazine, 326 Harriet l., 90 Harrison, ex-Prest. B., preface, xxxii Harrison, Gen. Wm. H., xxx, 11, 222 Harrison, J. C. S. or Symmes, xxx, xxxii Harrison's ldg., 369 Harrison, W. H., xxxii, xxxiii Harris sl., 28 Harrower, H. D., 327, 333, 336 Hart, see Carey and Hart, a person, 60 Hartsell's, Hartzell's ranch, 468 Hasatch, 745 Hasca for Itasca l., in Schoolcraft, 1855 Hashakedatungar, 526 Hasisadra, 182 Hassler l., 153, 155 Hastain, Mo., 377 Hastings, Ill., 4 Hastings, Minn., 65, 72, 73 Hasty, Minn., 99 Hatch, E. A. C., 87 Hatchet chute, 4 Hatch sta., 638 Hat isl., 298 Hauicu, see Havico Hause, Major, 76 Hauteurs des Terres, 164, 165 Haut Lac de Cèdre Rouge or aux Cèdres Rouges, 157, 356 Havasupai, 731, is a Walapai word from _havesu_, "down in," and _pai_, "people," with ref. to residence in the bottom of the cañon. Ewing in the Great Divide, Dec., 1892, p. 203, says it is from _ahah_, "water," _visua_, "green," and _pai_, with ref. to verdure of the place where these Indians live. The etym. which makes the word a corruption of Sp. _agua_, "water," _azul_, "blue," and _pais_, "country," is fictitious: see Aguazul Inds. and Yavasupai Inds., also Jasquevilla Havico, Havicu, Hawiku, Hawikuh, 742, 15 m. S. W. of Zuñi, first discovered of the seven cities of Cibola, and the original "Cibola" of Marcos de Nizza, 1539; taken by Coronado, 1540; abandoned, 1679 Hawilhamook r. is Bill Williams' fk. of the Colorado Hawkeye cr., 19 Hawk that Chases Walking, a chf., 85 Hay cr., br. of Cannon r., 70 Hay cr., br. of Miss. r., Crow Wing and Aitkin cos., Minn., 135, 175 Hay cr., br. of Miss. r., Morrison co., Minn., 103 Hayden, Dr. F. V., 443, 466, 483, 491, 495 Hayden's pass, 475 Hay, Kas., 396 Head, Mr. L., 495, 496 Heagler's ldg., 361 Heart of Fire, a chf., 349 Heart of the Red Eagle, a chf., 347 Heart of the Town, a chf., 591 Heathcote, Lt.-Col., xcii Hebe, 620 Hector, F. L., 657 Hedgehog harbor, 297 Height of Land, 164 Height of Land l., 317, 318 Heitman, F. B., Heitman's Register, xxii, lxxx, lxxxvi, lxxxviii Helena isl., 295 Helena, Wis., 302 heli[oe]cias, 741 Helix l., 150 Helvetius on Man, 801 hemlock, 320 Henderson co., Ill., 18, 19 Henderson, Martin, 691, 692, 693 Henderson r., 20, 291 Hennepin Bicentenary, 91: see report in full, with speeches, etc., in Minn. Hist. Coll., VI., pt. 2, 1891, pp. 29-74 Hennepin co., Minn., 94, 96, 97 Hennepin, L., 3, 5, 8, 13, 23, 35, 51, 58, 64, 65, 68, 70, 71, 72, 77, 81, 91, 92, 95, 96, 288, 289, 309, 313, 314, 329 Hennepin r., 163, see Wakomiti r. Henry, A., jun., 168 Henry, A., sen., 188 Henry co., Mo., 371, 381 Henry, Geo., 361, 362, 374, 375, 393, 568 Henry VIII., 599 Herald, see Connecticut and New York do. Herault, Elizabeth, 296 Herculean Incunabula, 166 Hermann isl., 366 Hermann, Mo., 366 Hermanos, Mex., 686, 687, 688 Hermosillo, 770, 771 Hernando de Soto l., 164, named by Brower with implied ref. to the wooded shores (Hernand of the Grove) Herrera, Capt., 709 Herrera, Gov. Don S., 698, 699, 701, 702, 703, 704, 710, 711, 786, 836, 839 Herring's cr., 468 Herron, N. M., 640 Hersey chute, 23 Heshota Oaquima is the Zuñian pueblo Kyakima Heshota-uthla, see Hish- Heth's cr., 429 He Who Drives Villages, a chf., 591 Heytman's ldg., 42 Hhemnicha, 70, is same word as Remnicha. Initial sound is strongly aspirated, like _hr_ or _rh_, and was marked _h_ with a dot over it, or double _h_, or _ch_ or letter _r_ was used in stead. The word is compounded of _he_, hill, _mini_, water, and _cha_, wood Hiawatha, 90 Hickory Apaches, 731 Hickory chute, 7 Hickory co., Mo., 380 Hickory pt., 520 Hidalgo, City of, 720 Hidalgo, State of, 718, 721, 722 Hidalgo y Costilla, Don M., 765 Hidatsas, 344 Hidden r., 289 Hiens, one, 714, 779, 780 hier[oe]cias, 741 hieroglyphics, 198, 199, 200 Hieronimo, 770 Hietans, 412, 706 Higgins', Col., 469 High cr., br. of Little Platte r., 468 High cr., br. of Oil cr., 465 Highest pk., 459 High pra. of Pike, 26 High Rock r., 67 Hila is Gila Hill, A. J., preface, 29, 70, 107, 166, 167, 199, 201, 256, 328 Hillock of the Dead, 356 Hill pt., see Point Hill Hillsborough, N. M., 637 Hilton, Lieut., see Hinson Hinckley's bend, 363 Hinson, Lieut. John, of Mississippi, second lieut. 2d Infantry Feb. 16th, 1801, honorably discharged June 1st, 1802, is probably the Lieut. "Hilton" of xxvi, xxviii Hishota-uthla, preferably Heshota-uthla, 742 Historical Register, xxii, see Heitman History of New Mexico, 755, 756 Hobbs br. of Gypsum cr., 403, 404 Hodge, F. W., preface Hogan-wanke-kin, 72 Hog isl., 18 Hogle's cr., 380 Hogtown, 5 hog, wild, 697 Hohang r., 72 Hohenzollern, Prince of, lxvi Hohtchunhgrah, 39 Hoka, Hokah r., 49, 50 Holcombe, R. I., preface, 8, 10, 365, 379, 385, 390 Hole in the Day I., a chf., 134 Holland cr., 403 Holloway isl., 379 Hollys, Col., 441, 442 Holmes isl., 361 Holton, Maj. A., xxiii, xxx Holy Cross l. and r., 71 Holy Ghost, 182, 675 Holy Ghost bay, 706 Holy Ghost r., 288 Holy Ghost r., see Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, Bay of the, 444 Homan's park, 474 Homer chute, 55 Homer, Minn., 55 Hominy cr., 555 Homme Riche, 591 Hondo r., 696, 697 Honduras, 726 Honey cr., or Camp cr. of Nicollet, Ill., 18 Honey cr., Pike co., Ill., 6 Honoré, L. T., 222 Hook l., 147 Hook, Lieut. M., xxvi, xxviii Hoosier cr., 399 Hoover, Mo., 394 Hopee, see Hopi Hop Hollow, 2 Hopi, Hopituh, 744 Hoppock, Hopsock, Capt. J. L., lxxxvi Horcasitas, Chihuahua, 667 Horcasitas, Sonora, 773 Horicon marshes, 24 horn frog, 431 Horn l., 159 Hornos, Mex., 677 Horse cr., br. of Grape cr., 485, 487 Horse cr., or Dry cr., 446 Horse mt. or range, N. M., 635, 637, 638 Horseshoe bend, 57 Horseshoe isl., 297 Horseshoe l., Minn., 145 Horseshoe l., Mo., 386 horses of the Pawnees, 533 horses, wild, 433, 435, 436 Hosford, E. and E., 328 Hotcañgara, 39 Hot Spring, N. M., 816 Hough, lxxix Houghton, Dr. D., 170, 328, 331 Houghton, Mr. J., 607 Houghton's flats, 98 Houho Otah, 347 Houire, L. T., 222, 223 House, Capt. J., lxii houses of the Pawnees, 533 House, Thos., liv Houston co., Minn., 48, 49, 50, 51, 52, 206 Houston co., Tex., 708 Howard bend, 362 Howard co., Mo., 367 Howard cr., 165, named by Brower for Mrs. Jane S. Howard, dau. of Schoolcraft Howard, L. O., preface Howard's isl., 6 Howbert, Col., 465 Howchungera, 39 Howell's isl., 362 Howell sta., Kas., 437 Howe's Hist. Coll. Ohio, 438 Hualpee, Hualapais, 736, 744 Hubbard co., Minn., 128, 162, 164, 318 Hubbard cr., 433 Hucaritspa is Arizpe Huddleston, Pvt., Solomon, 1, 115, 359, 360, 378, 432, 548, 845, 854, 855 Hudson Bay Co., 167, 280, 281 Hudsonian waters, 164, 263, 328 Hudson's bay, 263, 277, 327 Huerfano co., Col., 488, 489, 491, 492 Huerfano mts., 448 Huerfano park, 448, 491 Huerfano pass, 448 Huerfano r., 448, 451, 463, 482, 488, 489, 490, 491, 492, 494 Huertas, N. M., 633 Huetbatons, 312, 313 Hughes, A. E., 429 Hughes, J. T., 333, 429, 446, 631, 636, 640, 652, 655, 673, 746, 747, 764 Hughes, Lt. or Maj. D., xxvi, xxviii, 213 Hughes pt., 296 Huillier, M. l', 77, 78 Humber r., lxxv, lxxvii, lxxxiii Humboldt, A. von, xxxix, xli, xlii, xliii, 553, 631, 681, 718, 792 Humphrey's cr., 373 Hungo Pavi, 630 Hunt, Brigade Major, ci Hunt, Col. T., lxii, 575, 581 Hunter, Dr., 473, 704 Hunt, Geo., lxii Hunt, Thos., lxii Hurd and Houghton, xlvi Huron Inds., lxxv, 296 Huron, Ia., 21 Huron sl., 20 Hurricane cr., isl., and ldg., 9 Hurricane isl. and settlement, 7, 8, 9, 211 Hutchinson, Kas., 424, 548 Hu-yá, 118 Hydrocephalus l., 331 Hymie, see Guloo hypsitaphy, 73 I Iaba Waddik, 157, see Buck Ibarra, Don M. de, 680, 682 Ibarra, F. de, 759 Iberville, Pierre le Moyne, Sieur d', 77, 78, 288, 713, 714 Ichesohungar, 591 Ida cr., 64, 69 Ietans, 407, 412, 571, 632, 744, see Comanche Inds., Tetaus Igomi l., 330 Ihanctoua, see Yancton Ihanktonwans, 343 Île, see Isle Île à Loutre, 366 Ilhuicamina, 737 Ilinois, Illenois, Illin, Illini, Illinois, etc., Inds., 3, 339, 559 Illinoets l., 296 Illinois, cx, 531, 603, 818, 825 Illinois r., br. of Ark. r., 558 Illinois r., br. of Miss. r., 2, 3, 4, 13, 35, 64, 68, 77, 93, 255, 289, 560, 714 Iminijaska, 75 Immaculate Conception r., 289 Imnijaska, see Iminijaska Incunabula, Herculean, 166 Independence Hall, cxiii Independence, Kas., 555 Independence, Mo., 379, 424, 517, 518, 519 India, 738 Indianapolis, Ind., xxxiii Indiana State, cx, cxi Indian agencies, 748 Indiana Terr., xxi, 11 Indian Bureau, 238, 553, 554 Indian conspiracy, 768 Indian cr., br. of Big Blue cr., 519 Indian cr., br. of Big Gravel cr., 375 Indianola, Tex., 697 Indian rice, 38 Indians, see names of tribes and chfs. Indian territory, former, 518, 519 Indian Terr., present, 400, 480, 549, 552, 559, 706, 748 Infant Mississippi, 165, 167 Ingalls, J. J., 438 Ingalls, Kas., 438, 439 Ingersoll, historian, lxxix Inglebert de Brouisseau, J. Le F. d', 214 Ingleman cañon, 452, 456 Ingouville, Lieut., xciii Ingram, Pvt., 332 Inies, 709 insurrection, Spanish, 804 instructions to Kennerman, 245 instructions to Pike, 562, 563, 564, 565, 566 Interior Provinces of New Spain, 718 Interlaken, Col., 472 Internal Provinces of New Spain, 719, 726, 727 and continuously to 786 interpreters, 286 inventory of papers seized, 817, 818, 819 Inyan Bosndata r., 67 Inyantonka l., 343 Iola, Kas., 397 Ioua r., 48 Iowa City, 23 Iowa district, 45 Iowa gulch, Col., 471 Iowa Inds., 23, 292, 339, 346, 347, 361, 526, 551 Iowa isl., 4 Iowa r., 21, 22, 23, 211, 292, 293, 337, 339, 347, 348, 355, and see Upper Iowa r. Iowa sl., 20 Iowa State Hist. Dept., xlix Iowa Terr., 45 Iron Knoll, 465 Iron mt., 492 Iron Springs, 447 Iroquois, lxxiv, lxxvi, 288, 351 irrigating canal, 434 irrigation, 740 Irving l., 161, 331 Irving's Astoria, 361 Irving, Washington, 367 Isabel cr., 63 Isabel l., 73 Isan l., 313 Isantanka, 148 Ishkode-wabo r., 314 Ishmaelites, 705 Iskatappe, 409, 421, 542, 551, 591 Iskode Wabo, 96 Island cr., feeder of Itasca l., named by Brower as falling in opp. Schoolcraft's isl. Island l., 317 Island of Ozawindib, 158 Island of the Sun, 103 Island of the Turn, 356 Island rap., 131 Islati, 313 Isle au Détour, 297 Isle Brûlé, 297, 356 Isle de Corbeau, 128, 279, 316, 356 Isle de Pou, des Poux, 297, 356 Isle du Détour, 356 Isle, G. de L', 71 Islenois, 3 Isle Pelée, 65, 71, 73, 77 Isle Racro, 297 Isles, Lake of the, 94 Isleta, N. M., 621, 623, 643, in Pike's time was the largest settlement between Albuquerque and Belen; pop. 419 Inds. and 378 Spaniards in 1805 Isletas, bet. Tex. and Coahuila, 692 Isleta sta., N. M., 621, 626 Isleta, Tex., 643 Islets, in Rio Grande, 692 Isle Vermillion, 298, 356 Isle Verte, 297 Islinois, 3 Israel, 526 Issanati, Issanti, Issanoti, Issaqui, 313 Issati, 71, 313 Issati, Lake of the, 95 Issati, River of the, 95 Issayati, 313 Isthmus of Darien, 522 Itasca, canoe voyage to Lake, 160, 161, 162, 163, 164, 165, 166, 167 Itasca co., Minn., 142, 143, 144, 159 Itasca l., 124, 152, 158, 159, 160, 161, 162, 163, 164, 165, 166, 167, 289, 326, 328, 329, 331, 332, 335 Itascan basin, 322, 331 Itascan sources, 151, 159, 329 Itasca State Park, 164, 329 Itaska l., 96 Itoye, 347 Iturbide, Emperor, 719 Ives, Lt. J. C., should have been named, 645 Ivison, Blakeman, Taylor and Co., 326, 327 Ixtaccihuatl, 723 Izatys, 312, 313 Izdubar, 182 J Jabezua, see Javesua Jackson, Col., 448 Jackson, Corp. J. R., 1, 359, 360, 432, 482, 490, 502, 505, 510, 845, 850, 853, 854, 855 Jackson co., Ia., 27, 28 Jackson co., Mo., 518 Jackson co., Wis., 52 Jacquez, Mr., 650 Jacuihu, 742 Jah-pinuniddewin, "place of violent deaths," given by Schoolcraft, 1832, as origin of Pinidiwin Jahveh, priests of, 41 Jalchedum, 735, not identified there, were the Yuman tribe otherwise known as Alchedoma Jalisco, 719, 723, 759, 774 Jamaica, 576 James I., 182 James, a writer, lxxix James, Dr. Edwin, 29, 457 Jameson isl., 98 James' pk., 457 Jamestown, Kas., 408 Jamestown ldg., 360 Janos, 770, 819 Japhet, 56 Jaquesila r., on Hugh Murray's map, 1829, see Jasquevilla r. Jaquesua, see Javesua Jara cr., 494, 497 Jarales, N. M., 629, see Xaxales Jarrot, see Jearreau, and in Tassé, I., p. 147 Jarvis, Capt., xciv Jarvis cr., 424, 522 Jarvis, Minn., 318 Jasquevilla r., 731, see Javesua Jauflione, Jauflioni, Jaustioni, Justioni r., 9, 10, 11, 290, 291, 339 Jaune r., 73, 355 Javesua, Jabezua, first in Garces, 1775-76, as name of the river in the cañon in which the Havasupai Inds. live, is origin of the names Jaquesua, Jaquesila, Jasquevilla, etc., which are, therefore, not connected with Jicarilla, but with Havasupai, which is also found as Havesua, etc. Jaway r., 22 Jay, Mr., 247 Jearreau, Mr., 206, 207 Jefferson barracks, 358 Jefferson co., Ind., 332 Jefferson co., Tenn., liv Jefferson r., br. of Ark. r., 552, 553 Jefferson r., br. of Mo. r., xlix Jefferson, Thos., xxix, lxiii, lxx, 229, 271, 287, 388, 543, 704, 705, 734, 853 Jeffreon, Jeffrion r., 10, 11, 290 Jehovah, Jehovist, 182 Jemez mts., 615, 616 Jemez, N. M., 604, 615, 737 Jemez r., 615, 616, 629, 745 Jemez trail, 605 Jena, lxvi Jennesse, Mr., 194, 262 Jeronime, Jeronimo, 770 Jersey co., Ill., 2, 3 Jerseyman, lix Jesuitism, 501 Jesuit Relations, 329, 349 Jesuits, 30, 765 Jesus, 620 Jetans, 412 Jeunesse, Mr. La, 194, 262 Jewell co., Kas., 409, 410 Jewell, Kas., 420 Jewett map, 324 Jews, 182 Jicarilla Apaches, 731, 748; the name means "little baskets," referring to what they make Jicarilla mts., 631, 731 Jimenez, Chihuahua, 670 Jimenez r., Tamaulipas, 724 Jimenez, Señ., 647 Jimmy or Jimmy's Camp, 453 Jimmy's Camp cr., 452 Jo Daviess co., Ill., 27, 28 Joe Bowers, cxii Jogues, 349 Johnny cr., 443 Johnson co., Kas., 519 Johnson, Maj. E., 425 Johnson's cr., Stearns co., Minn., with town site St. Augusta about its mouth Johnston and Ward, 554 Johnston, A. R., 637 Johnston, Francis, 683 Johnston, Geo., 328, 331 Johnston, J. E., 645 Johnston's Atlas, 554 Johnston's l., 128 Joint Commission, 644 Joliet l., 163 Joliet, Louis, 3, 13, 288, 294, 295, 296, 394, 559; b. Québec, Sept. 21st, 1645, d. May, 1700 Jollyville, Ia., 18 Jones, A. J., 163 Jones, Capt. C. G., lxxxii Jones' cr., 163 Jones, Hon. Wm., xcviii Jordan, a cr. in Minn., 70 Jordan, a r. in Utah, 738 Jornada del Muerto, 634, 635, 636, 639, 739 Josephine l., 166, named in 1888 by Brower Joutel, 713, 779, 780 Jouy, Comte de, lxxv Jowa, Jowah, Joway r., 22 Joya cañon, 629, 630, 632 Joya Grant, N. M., 628, 631, and see La Joya Joya, Mex., 685 Joyita, N. M., 630 Juarez, Ciudad or City of, in Chihuahua, 641 Juarez, in Coahuila, 689 Juchereau de St. Denis, L., 714 Julia, a ship, lxxxiii Julia l., 159, 328 Julian source, 151, 157, 279, 328, 329 Julimes, 668 Jumas for Yumas on Humboldt's map jumping-off place, 518, 519 Junction City, Kas., 404, 405 Juniper mts., 730, 736 Juniperus virginiana, 157 Junot, Chas., 818 Jupiter, 390, 414, 482, 564, 576 Justioni r., 10 K Kabekona l. and r., 152 Kabe-Konang l., 334 Kabikons falls, 147 Kabikons rap., 144 Kabitawi r., 98 Kabukasagetewa l., 147 Kachiwasigon, 347 Kadewabedas, 176 Kadikomeg l., 174, 334 Kadowaubeda, 176 Kaginogumag l., 128 Kagiwan r., 128 Kagiwegwon is Schoolcraft's name, 1855, for Crow Wing r. Kahra, Kahras, 343, 348, 349 Kaibab plateau, see Bacorelli Kaichibo Sagitowa l., 128 Kakabika, Schoolcraft, 1855, or Kakabikons rap., 144 Kakakibons falls, Schoolcraft, 1832 and 1855, are his Little-falls raps., near Lake Itasca Kakalin, 299, 340 Kallmeyer's ldg., 367 Kamanitiguia, 251, 280 Kamdiyohi co., Minn., 97 Kametonga l., Schlc., 1855, is Sandy l., Aitkin co., Minn. Kaminaigokag r., 324 Kankakee r., 3 Kankana, Kankarma, Kankauma r., 299, 300 Kanizotygoga-sibi, 103 Kans, see Kansas Kansas Agency, 550 Kansas and Colorado R. R., 424 Kansas City and Southern R. R., 383 Kansas City, Clinton, and Springfield R. R., 383 Kansas City, Fort Scott, and Gulf R. R., 395, 519 Kansas City, Mo., 517, 518, 519 Kansas Diminished Reserve, 521 Kansas Inds., 381, 391, 401, 402, 407, 410, 412, 413, 414, 417, 418, 525, 526, 536, 544, 559, 562, 563, 576, 578, 583, 584, 585, 586, 590, 591, 706, 757, 846 Kansas Ind. trail, 401, 402 Kansas r., li, 402, 404, 405, 408, 412, 420, 423, 424, 473, 515, 516, 517, 518, 519, 523, 532, 541, 542, 543, 544, 545, 546, 560, 584, 591, 834, 837 Kansas, State, cx, 395 (entered) continuously to 441 (left), 518, 519 Kansas State Historical Society, xlvii Kansas Trust Lands, 521 Kanses, Kanzes, etc., see Kansas Kapitotigaya-sibi, 97 Kapoja, Kaposia, 40, 74, 85, 86, 182, 199, 342, 348 Kapoo, see Santa Clara, N. M. Kappa, 559 Kapp, F., lxvi Kapuka Sagatawag is rendered by Schlc., 1855, translated Abrupt Discharges Kapukasagitowa l. and r., 152, 153 Karamone, 266, 268, 347 Karishon r., 97 Kasagaskwadjimekang l., 153 Kaskaskia, Kaskaskias, 28, 222, 339, 500, 570, 603 Kathio, 313 Kaukauna falls, 299 Kaumains, 412 Kaw, see Kansas Kawaiko, 745 Kawakomik, Kawakonuk r., 99 Kawanibio-sibi, 99 Kawasidjiwong r., 306 Kawkawnin, 299 Kaw rap., 385 Kay, Alex., 338, see also Tassé, I. pp. 338-340 Kayaways, 846, see Kiowa Inds. Kearney co., Kas., 440, 441 Kearny, Gen. S. W., 429, 446, 607, 639, 727 Keating, Prof., 29, 37, 40, 41, 43, 51, 59, 66, 69, 70, 74, 77, 78, 79, 80, 86, 199, 310, 328, 330 Kecheahquehono r., 705 Kechepagano r., 171 Keeskeesedatpun l., 324 Kegwedzissag, 166, 334, 335 Keithsburg, Ill., 21 Kekebicaugé, 123 Keleroy, Ia., 34 Keller's bar, 27 Keller's isl., 27 Kelly's isl., 5 Kemp's ldg., 361 Kendall, G. W., 739, 763 Kenistenos, 171 Kennerman, Sgt. Henry, 1, 98, 105, 119, 176, 178, 193, 221, 245, 359, 360, 362, 365, 393, 420, 570, 845, 854, 855 Kentucky, xxx, li, liii, lvi, cx, cxi, 691, 756, 758, 833 Keokuck, Keokuk, Ia., 2, 9, 12, 13, 14, 15, 211, 291 Keokuk l., 22, so called before 1838, as the site of Keokuk's first village in Iowa, occupied by him about 1826-34. For his portrait, see Catlin's pl. 280 and pl. 290 Keoxa, 348 Kera, Keran, see Keres Kerelec, Gov., 213 Keres, Keresan, Keresans, 598, 604, 606, 615, 616, 617, 629, 630, 742, 743, 744, 745, 752 Kern, E. H., 734 Keswhawhay, 745 Ketchupawe, 742 Kettle cr., 42 Kettle hill, 53 Kettletas, Mr., 6 Kewaunee co., Wis., 298 Keweenaw bay, 296 Keychias, Keyes, 708 khoya, 118 Kiakima, see Kyakima Kianawe, see Kyanawe Kibby, Judge T., lvi Kicapous r., 24 Kichais, 708 Kichi for Kitchi l., 159 Kichi Gummi, 310 Kickapoo, Kickapou Inds., 222, 526, 591 Kickapoo isl., 5 Kickapoo r., 24 Kigigad, 36 ki-han, 118 Kikassias, 28 killed and wounded at Fort York, xci Killein, Killien, Killiou, Killieu Noir, Killeur Rouge, 118, 180, 198, 347 Killpecker cr., 164 Killroy, Kilroy, Ia., 34 Killow, 118 Kimberly is the place where the N. P. R. R. crosses Rice r. King, Chas., liii Kingdom of New Leon, 724 Kingdom of New Spain, 718, 719 King l., 74 King, Maj. Wm., lxxxvi, ciii King of Mexico, 804 King, Prof. H., preface King's isl., 8 Kingston, U. C., lxxii, lxxiii, xci, xcii, xciv, xcv, c Kiniew is a form of the word Killeur: see under Killein, and _cf._ Masson, II. p. 316 Kinsley, Kas., 434 Kiosh, Kioshk r., 128, 129 Kiowa co., Col., 443 Kiowa co., Kas., 435 Kiowa, Comanche, and Wichita res., 748 Kiowa cr., 451 Kiowa Inds., 435, 468, 743, 846 Kiowa res., 412 Kioxa, 43 Kipesagi, Kipisagee, Kipy Saging, 36 Kirk, T. H., 54 Kiskahoo l. is Schoolcraft's name, 1820, for the first lake on the Miss. r. above Cass l., also called by him Andrusia, _i. e._, Lake Elliott Coues of Brower Kitchemocummon is Harmon's form of the word Kitchimokomen Kitchi Gummi, 330 Kitchimokomen, 148 Kitchi-sibi or Great r. is a name of the Miss. below the confluence of the Leech Lake fk., 289 Kitihi for Kitchi l., 159 Kittson co., Minn., 326 Kiyuska, 43 Knife Inds., 313 Knife l., 313 Knife rap., cx, 104, 122 Knistenaux, 354 Knobby cr., 377 Knowlton, F. H., 39 Kohnina, see Cosnino cañon Komtonggomog l. is a name of Sandy l., in Schoolcraft, 1820 Konamik, Schoolcraft, 1855, see Konimee Konimee, 299 Konomee, Schoolcraft, 1820, see Konimee Krider's bend, 6 Krider's isl., 6, 7 Kubba Kunna l., 161, 334 Kuhnbrook, Kas., 403 Kunersdorf, lxvi Kurtzman, S., 107 Kuthumi, xxxii Kwaiantikwokets, 744 Kwapas, 559, 560 Kwiwisens r., 153, 320, 334 Kyaways, 535, 537, 743, 745, 757 Kyakima, Kiakima, 742, is Pike's Cequimas, which see. The pueblo was occupied before 1599, abandoned after 1680 Kyanawe, 742 L Labadie's bottom and cr. or sl., 363 La Baie, Wis., 298, 290 La Bajada, N. M., 614 Labal, 288 Labardie, Mr., 579 La Barre, Gov. de, 72 La Baye, Wis., 298, 299 La Beesh r. is Schoolcraft's rendering in 1820 of Miss. r. above Cass l. Labeish, La Biche l., 158 La Biche r. is the Miss., as flowing from L. La Biche (Itasca) to L. Bemidji La Brule, 157, 347 Labusciere, Jos., 214 La Cadena, Mex., 674 La Cadena pass, 675 Lac à la Biche, 158, 289 Lac à la Crose, 150 Lac à la Queue de Loutre, 317 Lac a Puckaway, 301 Lac au Sable, 137 Lac aux Cèdres Rouges, see Bas and Haut Lac aux Chênes, 147 Lac aux Sangsues, 153 Lac Buade, 313 Lac Butte des Morts, 300, 301, 340 Lac Chapala, 720 Lac Court Oreilles, 306 Lac de B[oe]uf, 302 Lac de Bon Secours, 65 Lac de Buade, 313 Lac de Condé, 310 Lac de Grosse Roche, 343, 344, 347 Lac de la Providence, 309 Lac de Sable, 120, 133, 137, 138, 139, 140, 141, 144, 191, 263, 280, 320, 321, 350, 351, 356 Lac des Assenipoils, 64 Lac des Buttes, 278 Lac des Claies is a name of Lake Simcoe Lac des Issatis, 313 Lac des Mille Lacs, 312, 313, 314 Lac des Pleurs, 65 Lac des Prairies, 256 Lac des Puants, 300 Lac des Sioux, 313 Lac de Susma, 650 Lac de Timpanagos, 733, 738 Lac de Tracy, 310 Lac du Cayman, 673, 762 Lac du Sable, 173 Lace, Minn., 318 La Charbonnière, 361, 511 La Charette, Charrette, Mo., 361, 363, 364, 512 La Charette cr. and bottom, 364 La Chesnaye, A. de, 313 Lac La Beesh, la Biche, 158, 166, 327, 329 Lac la Crosse, 150 Lac la Folle, 163, see Pinidiwin l. Lac la Folle of Morrison, 326, 327 Lac la Pluie, 347 Lac la Queue de Loutre, see Otter Tail l. Laclede co., Mo., 375, 376 Laclede, P. L., 193, 213, 214, 215, 560 Laclede's village, 204, 214 Lac Macdon, 713 Lac Mille Lacs, 312 Lac Puckway, 356 Lac que Parle, 66 La Crescent, Minn., 51, 52 La Crosse co., Wis., 49, 52 La Crosse pra., 51 La Crosse r., 51, 58, 72, 305 La Crosse r., discharge of Ball Club l., 322 La Crosse, Wis., 49, 50, 51, 52, 206 Lac Rouge, 356 La Cruz, Chihuahua, 669 Lac Ste. Croix, 71 Lac Sang Sue, 152, 153, 240, 319, 350, 356 Lac Sapin, 320 Lac's pt., 364 Lac Supérieur, 310 Lac Terrehaute, 317 Lac Travers, Traverse, 161, 331, and see Bemidji l. Lacus Algonquiniorum, 31 Lacus F[oe]tentium, 31 Lacus Superior, 310 Lacus Superior Nicolleti, 165 Lac Vaseux, 302, 356 Ladron mts., 632 Lady of the Lake, a ship, lxxxiii Lady's cr., 385 Lady, Wm., 385, early settler in Mo., a hatter, still living in Oregon Lafayette co., Mo., 379 La Feuille, Fieulle, a chf., 43, 54, 208, 347, 348 La Fievre r., 29 La Folle l., 163 La Florida, Mex., 683, 684 La Fon, J., 578, 591 La Frontera, Tex., 643 La Fye, a chf., 43 La Garde, see Mont La Garde Lagard l., 317 Lago de Chapala, 719, 720 Lago de la Condelaria, 650 Lago del Munto, 636 Lago de San Martin, 653 Lago de Tlahualila, 673 La Grain of Pike, 675, is perhaps F. _la grenade_, pomegranate La Grange, Minn., 308 La Grange, Mo., 9, 11, 12, 205, 291 Laguna de Agua Verde, 776 Laguna de las Encinillas, 653 Laguna del Cayman, 673 Laguna del Muerto, Mex., 673, 677, 678, 681, 762, 776 Laguna del Muerto, N. M., 635, 636 Laguna de Parras, 677, 678, 681, 776 Laguna de Patos, 651 Laguna de Xacco, 673 Laguna, N. M., 630, 745, the pueblo established as late as 1700 La Jara cr., 494, 497 La Jeunesse, Mr., 194 La Joya de Cibolleta, N. M., 628 La Joya, N. M., new, 629, 631 La Joya, N. M., old, 628, 629 La Joyita, N. M., 630 La Junta, Col., 446, 447 La Harpe, B. de, 65, 71 La Harpe, Kas., 397 La Hontan, Baron, 35, 49, 50, 64, 67, 68, 69, 71, 80 La Hontan r., 50, 67, 68 Lake, see names of lakes, also Lac, Lago, and Laguna, besides the following Lake Champlain, lxxii, lxxiii Lake City, on Lake Pepin, 62, 63, 64 Lake co., Col., 471 Lake cr., feeder to Twin lakes, Col., 472 Lake de Sable, see Lac de Sable and Sandy l. Lake Erie, 351 Lake fk. of Ark. r., 471 Lake Huron, lxxv, 30, 295, 340, 351 Lake Itaska, 96. The small settlement there was a competitor of St. Paul for capital honors in territorial times, when there was no Minneapolis to contest the case, as the title to Ind. lands W. of the Miss. r. at the Falls of St. Anthony was not extinguished till 1851 Lake Maskuding or in the Prairie, 22 Lake Michigan, 3, 24, 293, 295, 296, 297, 298, 340, 351 Lake Mille Lacs, 312, 313 Lake of Live Oaks, 653 Lake of Tampanagos, 738 Lake of Tears, 65 Lake of the Dead, Mex., 673 Lake of the Dead, N. M., 635 Lake of the Hills, 278 Lake of the Illinoets, 296 Lake of the Island, 129, 317 Lake of the Isles, 94 Lake of the Issati, 95 Lake of the Mountain, 129, 317 Lake of Thequaio, 738 Lake of the Two Mountains, 351 Lake of the Woods, 279, 281, 351 Lake Ontario, xxxi, lxxii, lxxiii, lxxiv, lxxv, lxxvi, lxxvii, cx, 351 Lake pk., N. M., 606, 736 Lake Peosta is part of the sl. in front of Dubuque, Ia., connected by Barney canal Lake Rebecca, 74 Lake Relief, 65 Lake r. of Pike, 102, 315, 316 Lake Simcoe, lxxv Lake Superior, 30, 71, 72, 124, 138, 169, 247, 249, 277, 286, 295, 296, 297, 306, 308, 310, 321, 330, 340, 350 Lake Tlahualila, 673 Lake Traverse r., 160 Lake Willowmarsh, 26 Lake Winepie, 168 Lake Winipie, L. Winnipeg, 278, 280, 322, 327, 351, 353 Lake Winnebago, 24 Lake Winnipeg, 351, 353 Lalande, A., 602 La Lande, B., xlix, 500, 502, 602, 604, 623, 624 Lamalee chain, 15 Lamalee's cr., 15 La Marque, Marie Anne, 255 La Marque, Mgr. de, 254 Lamar sta., Col., 442, 443 Lamberton, N. J., xx La Mesa, N. M., 634, 640 Lamie, Lamme, see Larme Lamoille, Minn., 53, 55 Lamont, Hon. D. S., preface, xx Lamson, Mr., 85 Lamy, see Larme Lancaster, Pa., 656 Lance, a chf., 361 land-tortoise, 431 Lane co., Kas., 425 Lane, J. H., 383 Lane's isl., 98 Langham, E. L., 358 Lanman, Chas., 327, 335 Lansing, Ia., 42, 43 Laplace r., 162, 334 La Plata, 804 la platte, a game, 535 La Platte r., 412, 479, 500, 523, 524, 532, 536, 591, 744, 757, 758, 831, 840, 852, and see Platte r. and North and South La Pointe, 80 La Pomme r., 27, 28 La Prairie, Minn., 144, 145 La Puebla de los Angeles, Mex., 722, 723 La Puebla, Mex., city and State, 721, 722, 723 La Ramada, Mex., 670, 671 La Ranchera, a mt. in N. M., 637 Laredo, Tex., 689, 690, 691, 692, 696 Larix americana, 319 Larme, B., 388, 578, 579, 819 Larned res., 425, 429, 433 La Rochelle, France, 77 Larregui, see Salazar y Larry's cr., 15 Las Acequias, N. M., 741 Lasale, La Salle l., 161, 331, 779, 780 La Salle r., 163 La Salle, Le Sieur de, 3, 35, 51, 64, 70, 71, 72, 91, 288, 309, 560, 714 La Salmera mt., 638 Las Animas, Col., 445 Las Animas co., Col., 442, 443, 445, 446 Las Canopas, 741 Las Coquillas, Mex., 652 Las Cruces, N. M., 639, 640 Las Fronteras, Tex., 643 Las Garzas, Mex., 668, 669 Las Huertas, N. M., 633 Las Isletas, bet. Coahuila and Tex., 692 Las Lunas, N. M., 621, 628, 629 Las Minas, Mex., 652 Las Nutrias, N. M., 629 Las Pennuclas, 635 Las Vegas mts., 736 La Tulipe, Tulip, B., 381, 576 Launay, De, 560 Laurentian waters, 143 Lava butte and sta., N. M., 636 La Vaca, Tex., 779 La Vera Cruz, 721 Lawrenceburg, Ind., 383 Lawrence, Capt. James, cv, cvii Lawrence co., Mo., 384 laws of N. M., N. Biscay, 754, 768, 769 laws of the U. S., 238 Lead isl., 18 lead mines, 28, 226, see Dubuque Leadville, Col., 467, 471 Leaf, a chf., 43, 347, 348 Leaf Beds, 349 Leaf Inds., 118 Leaf r., br. of Crow Wing r., 128, 317 Leaf r., br. of Miss. r., of Pike, or Elk r. near Rum r., 95, 97, 101, 314, 315, 356 Leaf Shooters, 44, 349 Leaf's Sioux, 44 league, Mexican, 669 Lea, I., 553 Lean Clare, Claire r., 56, 57, 305 Leander, 576 Leapers, 346, 347 L'eau Chaud, N. M., 597 Leavenworth, Col. H., 83, 239 Leavenworth, Kas., 383, 405, 426 Leavenworth-Sioux treaty, 239 Le Brûlé, a chf., 157 Le Claire, Ia., 25, 26, 293 Le Cousin, 338 Le Cross, Crosse, see Lac La Crosse Ledoux P. O., Minn., 122 Leech l., 122, 128, 129, 133, 134, 137, 139, 142, 144, 145, 146, 151, 152, 153, 155, 157, 158, 159, 169, 170, 172, 173, 189, 241, 247, 259, 260, 261, 280, 282, 284, 285, 312, 317, 319, 320, 322, 323, 326, 331, 334, 335, 346, 347, 350, 356 Leach Lake br., fk., or r., 137, 149, 150, 151, 152, 153, 289, 322, 323, 324, 325 Leech Lake r., Willow r., 141 Leech Lake traverse, 101 Leech-Otter Tail traverse, 317 Lee co., Ia., 13, 15, 16, 17, 18, 291 Lee or Lee's cr., 559 Lee Panes, Lee Pawnees, 697, see Lipans Lee, S., 106 Lefei, Lefoi, a chf., 43 Le Fou, J., 578 Lefoy, a chf., 43 Legend of Lake Pepin, 66, 67 Legends of Pike's pk., 456, 457, 458 Le Jeune, Father, 349 Lemas, see Gayoso de Le Moine factory, 18 Le Moine r., 14 Lenexa, Kas., 519 Lennan bayou, 712 Lenox, Minn., 128 Le Noyeau, 347 Lentz, Pvt., 332 Leonard, Mr., 470 Leona r., 696 Leona Victoria, 682 Leon, Don A. de, 780 Leopold hill, 28 Le Panis, see Lipans Le Picard, 64 Leroux, Antoine, 639, see his biography in Tassé, II. pp. 229-48 Le Roy, 186 Leroy, Kas., 399 Lertensdorfer, E., 607 Les Coquillas of Pike, 652 Lesser Ultimate Reservoir Bowl, the drainage area of the E. arm of Lake Itasca, named by Brower Le Sucre, 156, see Sucre Lesueur, Fort, 71 Le Sueur, Minn., 88 Lesueur, Pierre, 65, 71, 72, 77, 78, 79, 80, 313 Lesueur r., 79 Lesueur's Terrace, 73 Le Tiembre, Henri, settled 1837 at foot of Timbered hill, Mo. Letter, Allencaster to Salcedo, xlvi Letter, Chauncey to Jones, xcvii Letter, Dearborn to Armstrong, ci, cii Letter, Dearborn to Montgomery, 842 Letter, Dearborn to Pike, lviii Letter, Eaton (Mrs.) to Coues, xxxii Letter, Harrison to Coues, xxxii Letter, Lamont to Coues, xx Letter, McGillis to Pike, 251 Letter, Pike to Allencaster, 807, 809 Letter, Pike to Campbell and Fisher, 269 Letter, Pike to Dearborn, lvi, lviii, lix, lx, lxi, lxii, lxiii, 582 Letter, Pike to Dickson, 261 Letter, Pike to Eustis, lxiv, lxv Letter, Pike to McGillis, 247 Letter, Pike to Natchez Herald, lii Letter, Pike to Philadelphia Aurora, lxix Letter, Pike to Salcedo, 812, 820, 837 Letter, Pike to Wilkinson, 221, 223, 232, 263, 269, 271, 567, 568, 572, 573, 576, 577, 580, 581, 585, 589, 822, 828 Letter, Pike (Z.) to Dearborn, xxi Letter, Salcedo to Pike, 814, 825 Letter, Salcedo to Wilkinson, 815 Letter, Sheaffe to Prevost, xci, xcii Letter, Wilkinson to Pike, lxiv, 562, 563, 564, 565, 566, 573, 825 Letter, Williams to Holton, xxiii Le Vent, 591 Lewis and Clark, xxviii, xlix, li, lxiii, 2, 4, 6, 13, 17, 18, 22, 24, 26, 40, 48, 51, 57, 66, 86, 96, 100, 102, 103, 127, 168, 181, 215, 254, 277, 278, 345, 349, 357, 360, 361, 363, 364, 365, 366, 367, 368, 370, 388, 412, 428, 431, 444, 481, 520, 524, 556, 557, 559, 593, 642, 727, 745, 834, 841 Lewis, Capt. M., xxvi, xxviii, cxiii, 40, 198, 271, 277, 384, 594, 656, 734 Lewis co., Mo., 9, 12, 291 Lewis, T. H., 54, 107, 201, 256 Lexington and Southern R. R., 390 Lexington, Ky., lvi Libby, Minn., 138 Library of Amer. Biogr., xix Library of Congress, xxxiv Light cr., 383 Lille, Flanders, 677 Lima, Peru, 725 Lime r., 383 Limestone cr., 443 Limitar mts., 632 Limitar, N. M., 633 Lincoln co., Col., 443 Lincoln co., Kas., 423 Lincoln co., Mo., 4, 5 Lincoln co., Neb., 467 Lincoln, Kas., 423 linden, 315 Lindsburg, Kas., 403 Lindsey, a Mr. Chas., 168 Linn co., Ia., 23 Linn cr., 376 Linn Creek, Mo., 376 Linnell, Minn., 318 Linwood, Ia., 24 Liotot, 779, 780 Lipan Apaches, Lipans, 680, 697, 706, 746, 748, 778 Lippincott, Grambo and Co., 332 Lisa, M. de, 361, 384, 387, 388, 529, 557, 574, 575, 576, 579 L'Isle, G. de, 71, 81, 95, 313 Little Arkansaw r., br. of Ark. r. in Kas., 424, 518, 522, 548, 621 Little Arkansaw r., or Salt fk. of Ark. r., 552, 553, 554 Little Berger's, Burger's cr., 365 Little Boy r., 320 Little Brassos, Brazos r., 707 Little Buffalo cr., 377 Little Bull cr., 519 Little Calumet cr., 6 Little Caney cr., 555 Little Cape Gray, 5 Little Cedar cr., 400 Little chute, Fox r., 300 Little Cimarron r., 558 Little Colorado r., 730 Little Coon cr., 435 Little Corbeau, 243, 257 Little Cow cr., 424, 518, 522 Little Crow, a chf., 85, 87, 88 Little Duckett cr., 362 Little Elk l., at Lake Itasca, named by Brower Little Elk rap., 123, 124 Little Elk r., 101, 123, 124, 179 Little Fall cr., 123 Little falls, Itasca co., Minn., 147, see Pokegama falls Little falls, Morrison co., Minn., 123, 316 Little Falls, Morrison co., Minn., 104, 106, 107, 123, 125, 128, 129, 179 Little Falls tp., Morrison co., Minn., 122 Little Fork cr., 124 Little Fountain cr., 452, 455, 459 Little Gravel r. of Pike, 374 Little Gravois cr., 374, 375 Little Ioway r., 48 Little Kakalin, Kaukauna, Konimee, 299, 340 Little Lake r. of Carver, 99 Little Lake Winnipeg, 322 Little Long l., 129, 317 Little Maquoketa r., 32 Little Mississippi r., 163 Little Monegan, Monegau, Monegaw cr., 384 Little Muddy r. of Lewis and Clark, 369 Little Niangua r., 376 Little Osage Inds., 371, 381, 389, 396, 529, 530, 531, 532, 540, 541, 555, 576, 819 Little Osage, Mo., 394 Little Osage r., 384, 385, 386, 390, 393, 394, 395, 396, 404, 473, 513, 514, 523, 555, 557, 584 Little Osage village, 387, 388, 390, 391, 392, 393, 578, 580, 590, 591 Little Pine l., 318 Little Platte r., 468 Little Pomme de Terre r., 380 Little Prairie r. of Nicollet, 138 Little rap., Fox r., 299 Little rap., Minn. r., 347 Little Raven, a chf., 40, 74, 85, 201, 347, 348 Little River, Kas., 522 Little Rock, Ark., 560 Little-rock falls of Schoolcraft, 1832 (and 1855), see Kakabikons Little Rock l., 316 Little Rock r., 101, 102, 315, 316 Little Sack r., 102 Little Saline r., 405, 406, 423, 545 Little Sand cr., 442 Little Sandstone bluff, 38 Little Sauk r., 101 Little-severed Rock falls, 147 Little shoot, Fox r., 299 Little Six, a chf., 88 Little Streight, 356 Little Sturgeon bay, 298 Little Tabo, Teabo, Tebeau, Tebo cr. or r., 379 Little Tavern cr., 369, 372 Little Tebeau, Tebo cr. or r., 379 Little Thunder, a chf., 266 Little Two Rivers r., 103, 104 Little Turkey cr., 522 Little Verdigris r., 555 Little Vermillion l., 128, 317 Little Walnut cr., 425, 426, 427 Little White Oak pt., 148, 149 Little Willow r., 135 Little Winnepeck l., 322 Little Winnibigoshish l., 150, 325 Little York, lxxvi Live Oak co., Tex., 696 Live Oaks l., 653 Livingston cr., 420 Livingston, Mont., 642 Liza, see Lisa lizards, 771 Llanero Apaches, 748 Llanos Estacados, 707 Lo, 182 loadstone, 761 Lockhart, Tex., 704 Lockwood, Capt. B., 686 lodges of Osages, 528 Logan co., Kas., 404 Logan cr., 369 Lone Elm, Kas., 518, 519 Lone Rock, Wis., 302 Long br. of Cow cr., 522 Longfellow, H. W., 90 Long Gulch cr., 468 Long, John, 602 Long Knives, 138 Long, Major S. H., 5, 14, 17, 25, 26, 29, 35, 36, 37, 40, 41, 43, 44, 48, 50, 51, 53, 54, 57, 58, 59, 60, 61, 66, 67, 69, 70, 72, 73, 74, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 83, 84, 85, 86, 92, 95, 137, 138, 145, 158, 199, 201, 302, 310, 314, 316, 328, 329, 330, 345, 366, 457, 553, 558 Long Prairie r., 128, 316 Longrice, Long Rice l., 128 Long r., Nokasippi r., 127 Long r. of La Hontan, 49, 50, 67, 68, 69, 71 Longueil, Longueuil, 167 Long Water l., 317 Loomis, Capt. G., 405 Loomis, Eliza, 405 Loose cr., 370 Lopez, Juan, a Franciscan at Bernalillo, N. M., in 1580 Lord, H., 358 Loredo, 691, see Laredo Loring, Capt., xciv Lorrimier's son, 710 Los Ajuntos isl., 692 Los Angeles, Cal., 664 Los Gallegos, N. M., 601 Los Griegos, N. M., 617 Los Guanacos, 741 Lo, shamans of, 41 Los Hornos, 741 Los Medanos, Mex., 650 Los Muertos, 741 Los Nogales, Ariz. or Sonora, 646, 773 Los Palomos, N. M., 637 Los Pinos cr., 597 Los Pinos, N. M., 621, 626, 628, a very lately named place, appar. after 1854; name possibly a personal one? Lossing, Benson John, b. Feb. 12th, 1813, d. June 3d, 1891, lxxv, lxxviii, lxxix, lxxxviii, lxxxix, xc, civ, cxii, cxiii Lost cr., br. of Miss. r., Ia., 18 Lost cr., br. of Miss. r., Wis., 63 Lost cr., br. of Mo. r., 366 Lost or Clear cr., 521 Lost or Willow cr., 518, 521 Lost sl., 46 Lost spr., 401, 518, 521 Lost Spring sta., Kas., 521 Lothario spr., 651 Louis XIV., 13, 30, 64, 560 Louisa co., Ia., 21, 22, 23 Louisiana, xlvii, xlix, lvi, 10, 11, 16, 213, 214, 227, 229, 268, 279, 357, 360, 444, 571, 699, 701, 714, 718, 727, 756, 779, 834, 845 Louisiana, Mo., 6, 7 Louisiana, Pike's Dissertation on, 511 Louisiana Purchase, see Louisiana Louisiana, State, lxxxi, xc, 696, 699, 711, 726 Louisiana Territory, see Louisiana Louisianaville, Mo., 6 Louisiane r., 289, 296 Louis le Grand, 333 Louis r., 289 Louisville, Ky., lii Loup Blanche, a chf., 591 Loup r., 300, 301, 356 Loups, see Pawnee Loups Louter r., 366 Loutre isl., 367 Loutre r., 366, 367 Lover's Leap, 63 Lower California, 735, 770 Lower Canada, lxxvi Lower chain of Rock rap., 25 Lower crossing of Ark. r., 439 Lower Fox r., 295, 298, 299, 300 Lower l., Miss. r., near Red Wing, Minn., 70 Lower Nicollet l., 165 Lower Pajarito, N. M., 626 Lower Pimas, 735 Lower Red Cedar l., 102, 133, 134, 135, 138, 172, 173, 174, 175, 176, 180, 186, 279, 311, 314, 316, 320, 356. The N. W. Co. House site was examined by T. H. Lewis, at instance of A. J. Hill, Oct. 7th, 1886; former position of three houses visible, with ruins of one chimney; stones of two other chimneys said to have been hauled away for foundations; these stones had been taken from the lake shore; the remains are on a high steep bank overlooking the lake; ground covered with small brush and high grass; land back of the buildings is cultivated and strewn with animal bones Lower Red Cedar r., 134, 135, 261 Lower St. Croix l., 72, 308 Lowther, Hon. Mrs., xxxi Loyalists, lxxvi Lozieres, B. de, 713 L'Rhone, L'Rone, 172, 173, 174 Lucas, John B. C., 10 Lucifer spr., 651 Lukens, Capt. J., xxvi, xxvii Lunas, N. M., 621, 628, 629 Lund sta., Minn., 98 Lusk's ferry, 570 Luta brook or cr., 402, 403 Luter r., 366 Lutra canadensis, 132 Lyendecker l., at Lake Itasca, named by Brower for John Lyendecker Lyndon, N. M., 640 Lynxville, Wis., 41, 42 Lyon co., Kas., 395, 397, 399, 400, 521 Lyons, Ia., 27 Lyons, Kas., 424, 522 Lytle's pra., 52 M M', Mac, and Mc treated as one Macalester College, 254 Maçaque, Macaquia, 742 Macarty, Chevalier, 531 McBean, John, 139 M'Cartie, a Mr., 531 McClure, James, 334 McCormick, R. C., 727 M'Coy, a Mr., 278 McCoy, John C., 554 M'Coy, S., liii McCoy's isl., 6 McCrary, Geo. W., 17 McDaniel, John, 424 McDonald's house, 278 Macdon l., 713 McDougal's eddy and rap., 103, 104 McFarlane, one, 558 McGarrahan, Wm., lxiii McGee's, Col., 469 M'Gillis, Mr. Hugh, 154, 155, 171, 172, 173, 174, 180, 241, 247, 250, 254, 274 McGirk's isl. and ldg., 366, 367 McGregor, Ia., 37, 224 McGregor, Minn., 137 McGuire, Father, 698, 699 McHugh, Minn., 318 McIntire, Gov. A. W., 496 Mackay or M'Kay, a Mr., 278 McKay l., in Itasca basin, named by Brower for Rev. Stanley A. McKay, who first baptized there, 1891 Mackenzie, a Mr., 278 McKenzie cr., 385 Mackenzie, McKenzie, Sir A., 354 Mackinac, 170 Mackinac co., Mich., 295 McKinney's r., 125 McLean, D., xciv McLean's cr., 4 Maclura aurantiaca, 816 Maclure, Col., lxxx, lxxxi, lxxxvii, xcvi McMahon, Maj. Wm., 438 McMullen co., Tex., 696 McNeal, Capt., xciii McNeal's ferry, 102 Macomb, Gen. A., xxvii, xxix, 332 McPherson co., Kas., 403, 404 McPherson, Kas., 521, 522 Macraragah, 268, 347 Macuwa isl., 153 Madison Barracks, civ Madison co., Ill., 1 Madison, flagship, lxxxiii, xci, xcvii, c, cx Madison, Ind., 332 Madison, Ia., 17, 18, see Fort Madison Madison, James, lxx, 814 Madrid, 457, 613, 677, 700, 721 magazine explosions, lxxviii, lxxix, lxxxviii, lxxxix, xc, xci, xciii, xcv, xcvi, xcviii, xcix Magdalena, N. M., 632 Magdalena r., 771 Magdalene r., 71 Magdalen mts., 631, 632, 638 Magdalen r., 309 Magdeburg, lxvi Magdelaine r., 71, 309 magic of Osages, 527 magpies, 460 Magui, 744 Maguire, Wm. M., preface, xliv, xlv, cxiii, 453, 466, 490, 491, 492, 495, 496 Mahas, Mahaws, 343, 526, 544, 583, 591 Mahgossau, 89 Mahwawkeeta is same as Makoqueta Maiden rock, 63 Maiden Rock City, Wis., 63, 64 Maiden's head or rock, 63 Maison Françoise, 80 Majave, 735 Makandwyinniniwag, 170 Makarty, Chevalier, 531 Makokety, Makoqueta r., 28, 32, 33 Malabanchia, Malabouchia, 288 Malachite, Col., 492 Malagare, see Malgares Malgares, Don F., 413, 414, 420, 457, 499, 537, 611, 624, 625, 626, 627, 628, 630, 633, 634, 635, 648, 649, 652, 654, 655, 656, 658, 659, 660, 661, 662, 664, 665, 666, 667, 670, 671, 698, 712, 750, 754, 809, 810, 829, 839, 851. Name also appears as Melgares, and as that of last civil and military governor under the Spanish crown, 1818 to 1822 Malhern qu. Malheur cr., 366 Maligne, Maline r., 707 Malpimi, see Mapimi Malta, Order of, 657 Mancy, see Many Mandanes, Mandans, 168, 254, 255, 256, 278, 734, 757 Maney, La., 712 Maney, see Many Manidowish r., 306 Manila, audience of, 718 Manistique r., 296 Manitou and Pike's Peak R. R., 452 Manitou cr. of Beltrami, 16 Manitou Springs, Col., 452, 454, 456 Mankato, Kas., 420 Mankato r., 68, 79, 80 manners, etc., 754, 755, 767, 787 Manny, La., 712 Manny, see Many Manomin co., Minn., see Fridley. This county is now Fridley tp. of Anoka co. Manomin cr., or Rice cr., Anoka co., Minn., 94 Manomin l., Aitkin co., Minn., discharging by Rice Lake r. or Sand Lake r. into Sandy l., 137 Manomin l., on Fox r., Wis., 303 Manomin l., various, see Rice l. and Pinidiwin l. Manomin r., or Rice r., Aitkin co., Minn., near Mud r., 136 Manton, W., preface manufactures, etc., 776, 791 Manville sta., Col., 442 Manya Wakan r., 316 Many, Capt. James B., xxvi, xxviii, 210, 211, 213, 514, 694 Many, La., 712 Manzano mts. and pk., 629 Mapimi, Mex., 674, 675, 676, 678, 680, 685, 689, 761, and see Bolson de Mapini, see Mapimi Maple brook, 103 Maple isl., Ill. or Mo., 2, 5 Maple isl., Minn., 103 Mapula, Mex., 667 Maquanquitons, Maquaquity, and Maquoqueti in Schoolcraft, 1820 and 1855, for Makoqueta r. Maqui, 744 Maquoketa, see Makoqueta r. Marais Croche, 361 Marais des Cygnes r., 386, 519, 520, 521 Marais d'Ogé, d'Osier, 26 Marais sl., 41 Maraujo, Bega de, 677 Marcharavieja, 803 Marchessau r., 63 Marchon, Capt. E., 703 Marcy, Capt. or Gen. R. B., 452, 473, 645 Mare de Oge, 26 Margry's Relations, 23, 70, 71 Mariana, Mariano r., 697, 776, 780. Maricopas, 735, 736, lived further down the Gila, with their Yuman kindred, when the original of Pike's map was made Marie Croche l., 361 Marier, Mr., 243 Maries co., Mo., 371 Maries r., 371 Marion City, Mo., 11 Marion co., Ala., cxi Marion co., Kas., 395, 401, 402, 403, 521 Marion co., Mo., 8, 9 Marion, Kas., 401, 402, 521 Maria, Sieur de, 779 Marmaton, Marmiton r., 386, 389, 390, 393, 394, 396 Marmot pk., 470 maroon, 438 Marquee, 712 Marquette, 3, 13, 35, 71, 289, 294, 295, 296, 559 Marquette co., Wis., 301 Marquette l., 161, 331 Marsh cr., br. of Buffalo cr., 409 Martell's l., 41 Marten r., 143 Marthasville, 364 Martin, Abraham, 296 Martin cr., 401 Martin, Geo. W., xlvii Martin's, Ill., 4 Martin's or Slate cr., 465 Mar Vermejo, Red Sea, old name of the Gulf of California Mary cr., 166, 167, named by Peter Turnbull for his wife Mary l., 166, named by Brower for Mary Turnbull, first white woman at Lake Itasca, 1883, gave birth there to first white child; her cabin was on the hill on E. side of the E. arm, opp. Turnbull pt. Maryland, xxviii, lvii, lxxxvi, ciii, civ, cxi, 229, 539, 656 Mary, La., 712 Mary, see Many Mary's Home, Mo., 372 Mary valley, in the Lesser Ultimate Reservoir Bowl, named by Brower for Mrs. Mary Turnbull Masciccipi r., 288 Mascoutens, Mashkudens, 81, 145 Mashongnavi, 744, is Pike's Mosanis Maskoutens r., 13 Mason, Prof. O. T., preface Mason's isl., 3 Masoretic points, 182 Massachusetts, xxvii, xxviii, xxix, lxxx, lxxxi, lxxxvii, lxxxviii, ciii, 715, 826 massacre of Gunnison's party, 733 massacre of Osages, 531 Massas cr., 366 Massey, Ia., 32 Massey's cr., 366 Massey, Wm., 358 Matagorda bay, 779, 781 Matagorda isl., 697 Matagorda, Tex., 705, 707 Matamoras, Mex., 677 Matape r., 771, 773 Matcho Maniton, 100 Matfield Green, Kas., 401 Mathers, U. S. Commissioner, 518 Matsaki, 742 Matthews, Dr. W., 741 Maturrangos, 739 Maugraine or Noel, 393, 566, 579, 581, 591 Maupeme, Maupemie, Mausseme, see Mapimi Mauvaise Hache r., 49 Maverick co., Tex., 695 Maxwell, Mr., 211 May cr., 492 Mayes, 706 Mayner, Maynor, or Mayron, Don A., 659, 660, 661, 662 Mayo r., 771 Mayron, Mex., 677 Mazatlan, Mex., 774 Mazatlan r., 774 Mde, Sioux name of Lake Pepin, two syllables, first short, last accented as if Meday´ Mde Wakanton l., 94 Mdewakantonwan Sioux, 74, 95, 201, 313, 342 Mdote-mini-sotah, 81 Mdoteminiwakan r., 314 Meade co., Kas., 556 Meadow qu. Medano cr., 482 Meadow r., 145, 321 Meadows, Col., 459 Means r., 13, 355 Meaogeo r., 137 Meaux, France, 295 Mecan, Mechan r., 301 Mechesebe r., 288 Medano cr., 482, 491 Medano pass, 499, 491, 493, 650 Medanos, Mex., 650 medicine-stone, 73 Medicine Wood, 74 Medina co., Tex., 697 Medina r., 697, 776 Medora, Mo., 370 Meeker co., Minn., 97 Meek, Sgt. W. E., xlvi, 1, 114, 115, 118, 178, 359, 360, 432, 482, 490, 506, 509, 510, 595, 830, 832, 845, 850, 853, 854, 855 Mekabea Sepe, 29 Melcher or Michon, more probably Melchior, Don, 686, 688 Meles taxus, 96 Meline, Col. J. F., xlvi, xlvii, lv, cxii Melish, John, 553 Menard, 51, 71, 295, 296 Menasha, 300 Menaugh, Pvt. H., 1, 359, 360, 432, 482, 490, 506, 510, 845, 854, 855 Menchokatonx, 313 Mendesuacantons, 313 Mende Wahkantoan, 345, 348 Mendota, Minn., 76, 81, 83 Mendoza, a viceroy, 718 Meno Cockien, 356 Men of Achievement Series, xlviii Menomene Inds., see Menomonee Inds. Menomene r., 340 Menomeny-sibi, 138 Menomine, Menominie Inds., see Menomonee Inds. Menomonee cr., Ill., 32 Menomonee Inds., 38, 39, 183, 299, 330, 340, 341, 346, 347 Menomonee settlement, 300 Mer a Doge, 26 Mercer co., Ill., 21 Mercer co., O., 438 Mercer cr., 400 Merchant, a chf., 268 Mercier, Mr., 243 Mer Douce, 30 Merior, Maj., 411 Merriam, Kas., 519 Merrimac isl., 74, was the nidus of a spiritualists' camp, 1892-93 Merrimac, Minn., 74 Mesa Prieta, 634 Mescalero Apaches, 631, 632, 748 Mescalero res., 748 Meschaouay r., 50 Meschasipi r., 288 Meschetz Odeba r., 35 mesquite, 704 Mesquite, N. M., 640 Messchsipi r., 288 Messila, N. M., 640 Messipi, Messisipi r., 288 Meteorological Observations, 216, 217, 218, 219, 220, 716, 717 Meteros r., 682 Metifs, 510, 738, 764, 768, 771, 774, 790 Metoswa raps., 160, were so named by Schoolcraft, 1855, because he supposed they were 10 in number Meunier, Pierre, see Archevêque Mexican boundary, 641, 642, 644, 645, 646, 647, 691, 692, 735 Mexican claims, 647 Mexican mts., in Col., 444, 445, 822 Mexicano or Mexican r., 702, 711 Mexican tour, Pike's, begins 595, runs to end of Vol. II. Mexican waters, 164 Mexico, in various applications, _passim_ throughout Pt. 3, and 270, 340, 677, 683, 684, 718, 720, 721, 722, 723, 724, 726, 735, 739, 740, 742, 743, 746, 765, 786, 790, 800 Meyer, Wm., 238 Miakechesa, Mia Kechakesa, 345, 349 Miami co., Kas., 519 Miami rap., xxvi Miawakong r., 316 Michals, Mr. Myers, 20 Micheli-, see Michil- Michigan, State or Territory, xxx, 45 Michilimackinac, 20, 68, 70, 181, 183, 229, 247, 250, 261, 276, 280, 281, 294, 295, 298, 303, 304, 306, 327, 345, 346, 352 Michi Sepe, 288 Michler, Lt. Nathaniel, 645, 647, 692 Michoacan, 718, 719, 720, 721, 723 Michon, see Melcher Micissypy r., 288 Mico, 288 Middle cr., br. of Cottonwood r., 401 Middle cr., br. of Mo. r., 369 Middle Nicollet l., 165 Middle or Half-way r., 559 Middle park, Col., xlviii, 479 Middle r., br. of Mo. r., 369 Midway, Col., 469 Midway Reservoir, at Clarke l. and vicinity, named by Brower Mier, Mex., 691, 692, 696 Migadiwin cr., 98 Migiskun Aiaub l., 317 migrations of Pawnees, 535 Mikenna l., in Itasca basin, named by A. J. Hill Milakokia r., 295 Milan, Ill., 4, 24, 293 Military Academy, see West Point military discipline, Spanish, 797 military force, 755, 769, 772, 773, 793 Mil Lac, 312 Millada r., 688, 689, 777 Mill cr., br. of Big Gravel cr., 375 Mill cr., br. of Kansas r., 519 Mill cr., br. of Marmiton r., 396 Mille Lac, 311, 312 Mille Lac l., 312 Mille Lacs, 70, 102, 135, 312 Mille Lacs co., Minn., 312, 314 Mille Lacs l., 91, 94, 95, 96, 152, 351 Miller bend, 365 Miller co., Mo., 371, 372, 373, 374 Miller cr., 385 Miller, Pvt. Theo., xlvi, 1, 108, 109, 110, 113, 114, 115, 117, 145, 146, 149, 151, 153, 154, 155, 187, 359, 360, 371, 432, 454, 457, 464, 470, 472, 476, 482, 490, 506, 509, 510, 854, 855 Miller's ldg., 365 Milles Lac, Milles Lacs, 312 Millieu r., 559 Mill isl., 123 Mill l., 312 Mill Pine cr., 63 Milltop, Col., 469 Milor, a half-breed, 66 Milton sta., Kas., 521 Mimbreño Apaches, 748 Mimbres mts. or range, Mex., 674 Mimbres mts. or range, N. M., 637 Minas, Mex., 652 Mineola, Mo., 367 Mineral bluff, 52 Mine r., 383, 384 Miners, Miner's, Miners' cr., 34 mines, 673, 674, 759, 760, 761 Minetares, 344 Minirara, 91 Miniskon r., 57 Minisotah r., 81 Minitik isl. of Beltrami is the large round cut-off close above the mouth of that Manomin or Rice r. which falls in 4 air-line miles above Missagony r. Miniwakan l., Minn., 314 Miniwakan l., N. Dak., 314 Minnay Chonkahah, 54 Minnay Sotor r., 81, 295 Minneapolis, Kas., 405 Minneapolis, Minn., 70, 82, 83, 90, 91, 92, 236. The 89,483 names in city directory of 1893 supposed to represent a pop. of 223,707 Minnehaha, 91, 92 Minnehaha falls, 90 Minneiska bluffs, 57 Minneiska, Minn., 57 Minneiska r., 56, 57, 305 Minneopa, Minn., 55 Minnequa l., 453 Minneshonka, 54 Minneska r., 57 Minnesota City, Minn., 56 Minnesota Historical Society, or Collections of, xxxv, cxiii, 14, 17, 25, 26, 29, 31, 43, 54 Minnesota isl., Wis., 53 Minnesota r., cx, 24, 31, 69, 74, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 82, 83, 91, 179, 227, 260, 310, 328 Minnetonka l., 90 Mino Cockien r., 295 Minowa Kantong, 69, 74, 342, 343, 344, 345, 346, 347 Minsi-sagaigon-ing, 312, 313, 314 mintage, 792 Mirabeau, 801 Miranda, 576 Mire r., 383, 384 Misacoda r., 309 Misakoda of Schoolcraft, 1855, see Misacoda r. Mischipi r., 288 Misconsin, Misconsing, Miscou r., 35 Mishongnivi, 744 Misi River r., 312 Misisaga, lxxvi, xcv Misisipi r., 287 Miskonsing r., 35 Miskwakis, 338 Missagony r., Missayguani-sibi, 96, 135, 136 Missilimackinac, 67, 68, see Michili- Mission Agency, Cal., 736 Mission of Adayes, 713 missions of New Mexico, see under pueblos in general Missisagaiegon, Mississacaigan l. and r., 313, 314 Missisagus, see Misisaga Mississawgaigon r. of Schoolcraft, 1820, is Rum r. Mississippian place-names, 355 Mississippi Herald, lvi Mississippi r., geography of the, 287 Mississippi r., noted names of, 288 Mississippi r., not indexed--throughout Pt. 1, and elsewhere passim Mississippi spr., in the center of the Greater Ultimate Reservoir Bowl, named by Brower Mississippi State, cx, 700 Mississippi Terr., lxv, 662, 666 Mississipy r., 288 Missourians of Doniphan's Exp., 654 Missouri Geological Report, 372 Missouri Inds., 338, 346, 525, 526, 536, 591 Missouri, Kansas, and Texas R. R., 8, 385, 397 Missouri Pacific R. R., 365, 370, 379, 385, 390, 403, 404, 448 Missouri r., not indexed--Pt. 2 to 369 and elsewhere passim Missouri River Commission, 363, 364, 365, 366, 369 Missouri, State of, cx, cxi, and in Pt. 1 to 14, in Pt. 2 to 395, also 518, 519 Missouriton, Mo., 363 Mitchell co., Kas., 421 Mitchell, Lt.-Col., 674 Mitchell, Lt.-Col. G. E., ci, ciii Mitchell, S. A., 553, 554 Mitschaoywa r., 50 Mobile isl., 2 Moctezuma r., 771 Modenas pass, 491 Moeng8oana r., 13 Mogollon Apaches, 748 Mogollon, Mogoyon mts., 730 Mohace, 744 Mohave Inds., 736 Mohave r., 776 Mohotse, 744 Moingana, Moingoana r., 13 Mojave, 735 Mojou, Joseph, 87 Moki, 630, 731, 742, 743, 744 Moki buttes or mesas, 743, 744 mole, 97 Moline chain, 25 Moline, Ill., 25 Moloch, priests of, 41 Mommytaw r., 386 Monastery Road, 670, 706 Monclova, 776, 777 Monegaw Springs, Mo., 384 Monistique r., 296 Monkey, see Moki Monk r., 14 Monmouth, lxvi Monongahela r., 438 Montagne de Salines, 631, 632 Montagne qui Trempe à l'Eau, 52, 54, 206, 356 Montaigne de la Prairie, 348 Montaigne de Sel, 732 Montana, xlix, cxi Montbrun's tavern, 368, 369 Montebello, 14 Monte de los Tres Rios, 685 Monte Largo, 619 Montello, 301 Montelovez, 673, 677, 685, 686, 689, 695, 701, 775, 777, 779, 784 Mont Elrey, El Rey, 701, 725, 784 Monterey bay, 725 Monterey, Count of, 725, 755 Monterey, Mex., 685, 690, 692, 701, 725, 784 Monte Rito Alto, 483 Montezuma I., II., 737 Montezuma, Kas., 437 Montgomery co., Kas., 400, 555 Montgomery co., Mo., 4, 366, 367, 368 Montgomery, Hon. John, lxiii, 841, 842 Monticello, Minn., 97, 98, 99 Mont La Garde is Schoolcraft's name for La Grange, at Red Wing, Minn. Montoso mt., 598 Montoyo, Tex., 640, 643 Montpelier, Ia., 23, 24 Montreal, Can., lxxvii, 77, 167, 312 Montreal, Ill., 18 Montreal r., Wis., 306 Montrose, Ia., 16, 291 Montrose isl., 16 Montville, Col., 493 Monument cr., 452 Moon cr., 400 Moore, Dr. John, 616 Moore, Geo. H., 326 Moorhead, Minn., 318 Moors, 787 Moose rap., 137 Moqui, 730, 731, 744 Moquino pueblo, 630 morals, 754, 755, 769, 787 Moranget, 779, 780 Morantown, Kas., 397 Morelos, Mex., 718, 721, 722 Morelos y Pavon, J. M., 720 Morgan co., Mo., 371, 374, 377 Mormon battalion, 333, 639 Mormon cr., Wis., 50 Mormons, 15, 734 Moro r., 559 Morris co., Kas., 521 Morrison, Allan, 326, 327, guided Chas. Lanman to Lake Itasca in 1846 Morrison co., Minn., cx, 102, 103, 107, 122, 123, 125, 127, 128, 179 Morrison hill, 165, named by Brower for Wm. Morrison Morrison, James, 360 Morrison l., 164, named by Brower for Wm. Morrison Morrison's, Minn., 130 Morrison, Wm., 139, 164, 167, 181, 326, 327, 336, b. Canada, 1783, d. there Aug. 7th, 1866 Morrison, Wm., of Kaskaskia, 500, 507, 602, 603 Morrison, Wm. R., 603 Morse's Atlas and Gazetteer, 10, 549, 553 Morte r., 49, 50, 67, 68 Morton, S. G., 747 Mosanis, 730, 743, see Mashongnavi Mosca cr., 492, 493 Mosca pass, 490, 492, 493, 506 Mosca pk., 629 Moscosaguiagon l., 329 Mosier's isl. and ldg., 6 Moska, Mosko r., 124 Mosquito rap., 100, 194 Moss l., 153 Moszasnavi is Mashongnavi Mothe-Cadillac, A. de la, 714 mother-ditches, 741 Mother l., 90 Moundville, Wis., 302 Mountain Island r., 54 Mountain, Lake of the, 129, 317 Mountain of Salt, 732 Mountain of the Dead, 637 Mountain of the Three Rivers, 685 mountain rams, 476 Mountains of Magdalen, 631, 632 Mountain Which Soaks, etc., 54, 55, 356 Mt. Antero, 469 Mt. Brinley, 484 Mt. Cheyenne, 455, 456 Mt. Chimborazo, 461 Mt. Elbert, 471 Mt. Harvard, 470 Mt. Herring, 483 Mt. Hosmer, 43 Mountjoy, Pvt., 1, 359, 360, 432, 470, 472, 482, 490, 510, 845, 854, 855 Mt. Keyes, 469, 474 Mt. Lincoln, 524 Mt. McDowell, 734 Mt. Magdalen, 632 Mt. Navajo, 731, 744 Mt. Pascal, 633 Mt. Pisgah, 456, 465 Mt. Princeton, 469 Mt. Robinson, 484 Mt. Rosa, 455, 456 Mt. Royal Cemetery, 167 Mt. St. Elias, 722 Mt. San Diego, 639 Mt. Shavane, 469, 474 Mt. Soak Your Feet, etc., 53 Mt. Tremble Oh, Trempealeau, Trombalo, Trombonello, Trump Low, 52, 53. Strombolo is another form, once frequent Mt. Truchas, see Truchas mt. Mt. Tyndall, 483 Mt. Vernon barracks, 748 Mt. Vernon, Minn., 57 Mt. Washington, Col., 454 Mt. Washington, N. H., 454 Mt. Yale, 470 Mouse r., 168, 278 Mozeemleek, 68 Mozier's isl., 6 Muckpeanut, Muckpeanutah, 208, 347 Muckundwas, 169, 170 Mud cr., br. of Ark. r. in Col., 443, 444 Muddy cr., br. of Grape cr., 491 Muddy cr., br. of Huerfano r., 448, 490, 491, 492 Muddy cr., br. of Mo. r., 369, see Big and Little Muddy cr., br. of Osage r., 382, 386 Muddy l., on Fox r., 302, 356 Muddy l., on Leech Lake fork, 151, 323 Muddy r., see Mud r. Muddy York, lxxvi Mud l., Aitkin co., Minn., 135 Mud l., on Leech Lake fork, 151, 153, 324 Mud or Muddy r., Aitkin co., Minn., 135, 136, 320 Mud sl., Ill., 6 Mugua is Moki Mukimduawininewug, 171 Mukundwais, 170 Mukwa isl., 153 Mulberry cr., br. of Ark. r. in Kas., 436, 437 Mulberry cr., br. of Ark. r. in Col., 444 Mulberry cr., br. of Smoky Hill r., 404 Mullanphy isl., 361 Mundy's ldg., 7 Mungo-Meri-Paike, xlv, xlvi Mung's isl., 363 Murdoch's ldg., 363 Musaqui, 742 Musca pass, 492 Muscatine co., Ia., 22, 23, 24 Muscatine, Ia., 21, 22, 23, 145 Muscatine isl. and sl., 22 Muscononges, 351 Muse of Mitylene, 66 Mushkoda r. of Schoolcraft, 1855, see Prairie r. Mushkotensoi-sibi, 145 Music pass, 482, 490, 491, 493 Music pass of Hayden, 491 Music's ferry, 361 Muskogees, 513 musqueet, 704 mustangs, 707, 783 Mycycypy r., 288 Myers, Col., xcv mystic rites, 753, 754 N Nabajoa r., 731, Indiens de Nabajoa appears on Humboldt's map, whence Pike took the name: see Navajo Nachez r., 782, see Neches r. Nachitoch, Nachitoches, see Natch- Nacodolhes, xli Nacogdoches co., Tex., 709, 710 Nacogdoches, Tex., xli, liii, liv, 411, 412, 708, 709, 710, 711, 784, 786, 839 Nadal, Fray Pedro, and Fray de la Asuncion were two friars who first entered New Mexico, _i. e._, Arizona, in 1538, before September of that year Nadouasioug, Nadouechiouec, Nadouecioux, Nadouesiouack, Nadouesiouek, Nadouesseronons, Nadouesserons, Nadouessi, Nadouessis, 312, 349, and see Sioux Nadouessioux r., 13, and see Des Moines r. Nadoussiou, River of the, 95, and see Rum r. Naduesiu, 349 Nafiap, 619 Nagadoches, Naggadoches, see Nacogdoches Nagajika cr., 13 Nahjo, 730, see Navajo Inds. Naisha, 748 Naiwa l., 161 Naiwa Lake fk., 162 Naiwa r., 162, 331, 334 Namago-sibi, 143 Namakagon r., 309 Nambe, 605 Nambe cr., 605 Nanahaws, 746, see Navajo Inds. Nanesi r., 448, 481 Nankele, Nankesele r., 127 Nanpashene, 86 Naouadiches, 714 Napesi, Napeste, Napestle r., 448 Napoleon I., 381 Narcotah, 346, 347 Narrows, The, in Kas., 518, 520 Nasas, Nassas, Nazas r., 673, 677, 678, 679, 681, 762 Nashville, Ia., 15 Nassas, see Nasas Nassau, Grand Duchy of, 452 Nassau, Ia., 14 Natches r., 708, 709 Natchez Herald, lii Natchez Inds., 713 Natchez massacre, 714 Natchez, Miss., liii, liv, 657, 666, 692, 699, 700, 708, 827 Natchez r., 709 Natchitoches co., La., 713 Natchitoches Inds., 714 Natchitoches, Nachitoches, Nachitoch, La., xxi, xli, l, li, lii, 77, 360, 414, 497, 504, 537, 565, 571, 575, 592, 661, 690, 696, 705, 706, 708, 711, 784, 823, 824, 827, 828, 837, 839, 848, 855 Nathrop, Col., 469, 472 National Academy of Sciences, 741 Nation, The, of N. Y., 6, 40 Natural Obelisk r., 67 Nau, Antoine, xli, xliii, xliv, lxi, 833 Naudowessies, 80 Nauvoo, Ill., 15, 16, 211 Navajo cr., 491 Navajo, Navaho Inds., 619, 630, 633, 634, 730, 731, 744, 746. Mr. F. W. Hodge informs me he can fix the date of advent of the Navajos in latter part of the 15th century, though they were not strong enough to make mischief till early in the 17th Navajo res., 746 Navajo r., 731 Navarino, Wis., 299 Navasota r., 707 Nazas, see Nasas Nazeekah, 88 Ndakotahs, 79 Neale, Capt. W., xci Neal, W. E., 336 Necha r., 302 Nechech, 347 Neches, Nechez, Nachez r., 696, 708, 709, 710, 782 Necktame, 347 Needle, a mt. in Col., 465 Neenah, 300 Negracka r., 549, 552, 553, 554, 705 Negracka r., of Wilkinson, 549 Nehemgar r., 376, 513, 540 Neill, Rev. E. D., 29, 31, 75, 80, 84, 139, 170, 254, 313, 349 Nelson, Hon. Mr., cvii Nelson's r., 327 Nemaha r., 418 Nemitsakouat, 71 Nemitsakouat r., 309 Nenescah, Nenesesh, Nenesquaw r., 549 Neocho, see Neosho r. Neosho basin, 395 Neosho Falls, Kas., 398 Neosho r., 395, 397, 398, 399, 400, 401, 473, 514, 515, 518, 521, 541, 552, 556, 557 Neouoasicoton r., 309 Neozho, see Neosho r. Nepeholla r., 408 Ne Perce, see Nez Percé Nepesangs, 351 Nepesta, Col., 448 Nescutanga, Nescutango r., 552, 554 Neskalonska r., 549, 552 Neska r., 555 Ness co., Kas., 425 Nesuhetonga, Nesuketonga, Nesuketong r., 552, 553, 554 Neuces, see Nueces r. Nevada, 732, 735 Nevomes, 735 New Albin, Ia. or Minn., 45 New Amsterdam, Wis., 52 Newark, lxxvi Neway l., 161, and see Naiwa l. New Biscay, liii, 610, 638, 641, 649, 650, 673, 678, 719, 720, 723, 725, 727, 729, 739, 749, 756, 759, 762, 763, 764, 765, 766, 767, 768, 769, 770, 771, 772, 774, 775, 769, 808, 823 New Boston, Ill., 21, 23 New Braunfels, Tex., 703 New cave, 199, 200, 201 New Englanders, 188 Newfoundland banks, 77 New Galicia, 719 New Hampshire, lxxxi, ciii, 454 New Haven, Mo., 365 New Hope, Minn., 83. An undated military map (MS.) in the Minn. Hist. Soc. marks "Cantonment St. Peter's" opp. W. end of Pike's isl., about ¾ m. from center of Mendota. This is presumably the place christened New Hope New Jersey, xx, xxii, lix, lx, lxii, cviii, cix New Leon, 701, 719, 724, 725, 759, 775, 776, 779, 786 New Madrid, 657 New Mexico, xlvi, xlvii, lii, 444, 446, 447, 461, 483, 497, 499, 503, 536, 537, 555, 559, 564, 571, 572, 583, 588, 591, 595, 597, continuously to 641, also 696, 697, 719, 726, 727 and continuously to 758, 769, 770, 772, 775, 779, 813, 815, 818, 823, 825, 838, 848, 849 New Mexico, aborigines of, 743 New Mexico, agriculture of, 740, 741, 742 New Mexico, animals of, 738 New Mexico, government and laws of, 754 New Mexico, history of, 755, 756 New Mexico, lakes of, 737 New Mexico, manners and morals of, 754 New Mexico, military force of, 755 New Mexico, population of, 738 New Mexico, religion of, 755 New Mexico, trade and commerce of, 739 New Okat, 347 New Orleans, La., lxiv, 213, 360, 539, 564, 687, 699, 703, 757, 813, 824, 825, 855 Newport isl., 74 Newport, Minn., 72, 73, 74 Newry, lxxix New San Ander, 724, 725, 729, 775, 779 New San Ander r., 724 Newsewketonga r., 552, 555, 556 New Spain, passim, as 499, 560, 563, 571, 598, 641, 656; Special Observations on, 718 and to end of the chapter; General Remarks on, 786 to 806; 818 New York Evening Post, 326 New York Herald, lxix, lxx New York, Ia., 27 New York State, xxvi, xxvii, xxviii, xxix, liii, lxvi, lxxxii, lxxxiv, lxxxviii, cix, 656 Nez Corbeau, Nez de Corbeau, 203, 267, 347 Nez Percé, 346, 347 Nezuma, 540, 550, 551, 591 Niagara, battle of, falls, r., or town, lxxiii, lxxvi, lxxxi, xc, xcvii. Thirty-nine ways of spelling the word are found Niangua r., 376, 379, 540 Nicholson, Capt. B., xc, civ Nickerson isl. is opp. mouth of Elk r. Nicolet, Jean, 31, 349 Nicollet Heights, 165 Nicollet, J. N., 4, 5, 7, 8, 12, 13, 14, 16, 18, 22, 23, 24, 26, 28, 34, 35, 36, 42, 43, 49, 50, 52, 53, 54, 57, 58, 61, 63, 64, 65, 67, 68, 69, 70, 79, 80, 81, 82, 90, 94, 95, 96, 97, 99, 100, 101, 102, 103, 104, 122, 123, 124, 126, 127, 128, 129, 131, 135, 136, 137, 138, 142, 143, 144, 145, 147, 148, 150, 151, 153, 155, 156, 159, 161, 162, 163, 164, 165, 166, 167, 200, 201, 213, 214, 215, 309, 312, 314, 316, 323, 324, 328, 331, 333, 334, 335, 336, 363, 364, 365 Nicolletian source of Miss. r., 159 Nicollet lakes, 165 Nicollet's cave, 75 Nicollet's cr., so called by T. H. Kirk, 1887, is the Infant Mississippi Nicollet valley, 165 Nicollet, Wis., 299 Niemada l. is near Little Mantrap l., in Itascan basin Nika, 780 Nile of the Bolson, 678 Niles, H., Niles' Register, lxix, lxxi, lxxix, lxxx, lxxxii, lxxxiv, xc, xcvi, xcvii, xcix, ci, ciii, cv, cvi, cvii, cviii, cix Nimissakouat, 71 Nimissakouat r., 309 Nine Mile isl., 32 Nininger, Minn., 74 Ninnescah r., 549 Nipissing l., 351 Niobrara res., 44 Niota, Ia., 17, 18 Niota isl., 17 Nissipikouet, 71 Nissipikouet r., 309 Niza, Nizza, Friar Marcos or Marcus, of Nicæa, Nice, or Nizza, Italy, on Nov. 25th, 1538, had received instructions from Don Antonio de Mendoza, first viceroy of New Galicia, and left San Miguel de Culiacan on Friday, Mar. 7th, 1539, with the negro Estévan or Estévanico as guide, to go N. into present Sonora and Arizona to Cibola; he discovered the Cibolan pueblo of Ahacus, now Hawiku, where Estévan had gone before him and been killed; returned to Culiacan Sept. 2d, 1539, reported descubrimiento de las siete ciudades, _i. e._, seven cities of Cibola, and died at City of Mexico Mar. 25th, 1558 Noachian, Noah, Noah's ark, 56, 182 Noal, Noel, or Maugraine, 393, 581 Nogal arroyo, 637 Nogales, lii, 657 Nogales, see Los Nogales Nogal mts., 631 Noir cr., 290 Noire r., 296 Noissour, Noix r., 695 Noka, a chf., 127 Noka r., 127 Nokasele, Noka Sipi, Nokasippi Nokay r., 127, 128, 178, 179, 316 Nolan, Capt. Philip, li, lii, lv, 609, 657, 660, 666, 767, 811 Nolan, J. B., 255 Nolan, Le Sieur, 255 Nolan, Noland, Nolant, Chas., 255, 256 No Man's Land, 727 Noonan, Noonan's pk. or mt., 462, 463, 478, 479 Normandie, 779 North Arm of Lake Itasca so named by Brower North Bend, O., xxxi, xxxii, xxxiii North Big cr., 399 North Buffalo, Ia., 24 North Carolina, liii, lxxxiv, cx, cxi North Cheyenne cr., 452 North Dakota, 278, 704 Northern Pacific R. R., 167, 318 North Fabius r., 10 North fk. of Ark. r., 452, 453 North fk. of Canadian r., 559 North fk. of Osage r., 394 North Fritz isl., 7 North La Crosse, Wis., 51 North McGregor, Ia., 37, 41, 304 North Mexico, 524, 535, 641, 650, 654, 738, and see New Mexico North mt., or Pike's pk., 461 North park, Col., 479, 642 North Platte r., 467, 479, 524, 642, 729 North Two Rivers, 10, 11, 290, 291 North Washington, Mo., 364 North West Company, 133, 134, 135, 136, 137, 138, 139, 140, 141, 145, 154, 155, 167, 168, 174, 241, 247, 248, 250, 251, 253, 262, 263, 270, 276, 278, 279, 280, 281, 282, 283, 284, 285, 286, 306, 321, 346, 347, 835 North West Company house on Sandy l., 143, 144, 146, 153, 156; it was built 1794 Norwood, D., 131 Nova Zembla, 242 Noyer cr., 290 Nuage Rouge, 208, 343, 347 Nueces r., 695, 696, 697, Nuesas on Hugh Murray's map of 1829 Nuestra Señora de Belem, see Belen, N. M. Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe de Pojuaque, mission, see Pojuaque Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe de Zuñi, mission, see Zuñi Nuestra Señora de la Asumpcion de Zia, mission, see Cia Nuestra Señora de los Angeles de Pecos, mission, see Pecos Nuestra Señora de los Dolores de Sandia, 619, see Sandia pueblo Nueva España, 718 Nueva Galicia, 719 Nueva Viscaya, Vizcaya, 719, 720, 739, 759 Nuevo Laredo, 691 Nuevo Leon, 678, 682, 689, 690, 692, 699, 724, 726, 775, 776 Nuevo Mejico, 727, see New Mexico Nuevo Reino de Leon, 724, 725 Nuevo San Ander, 724, 725, 726 Nuevo Santander, 724 Num Inds., 412 Nunpakea, 349 Nutrias, N. M., 629 Nutt sta., N. M., 638 Nyburg, Col., 451 O Oahaha, Oahahah r., 7, 290, 355 Oajaca, City of, 721 Oajaca, State of, 721, 722 Oak cr., br. of Ark. r., Col., 462 Oak Grove cr., br. of Ark. r., 475 Oak l., 147, 148, see White Oak l. Oakland Reserve, 706 Oak pt., Minn., 147, 148, see White Oak pt. Oak pt., Wis., 295, 356 oaks, 776 Oaks, Mex., 687 Oaks, N. M., 636 Oanoska, 348 Oatishtye, one form of native name of San Felipe, N. M. oats, 38 Oaxaca, see Oajaca Obequelle is the form of Obiguitte in Taliaferro's Autobiog., p. 210 Obeya, Mex., 688 Obigouitte, 172, 247, 260 Observations on New Spain, Pike's, 503, 718 and to end of chap. IV. Ocano r., 163, of Schoolcraft, 1855, for Au Canot, see Cano r. Ocano r. of Schoolcraft, 1820, Narr., p. 257, is Cannon r., which see Ocano spr., at head of Ocano r. or Andrus cr., named by Brower Ocapa, 559 Ocaté r., 558 Ochangras, 346, 347 Ochente Shakoan, 345 Ochungraw, 31 O'Connell's isl., 19 Odelltown, N. Y., lxxxiv [OE]conomy, see Economy Oetbatons, 313 Oganga l. is Schoolcraft's name, 1820, for the first lake on the Miss. r. below L. Bemidji, appar. that he later called Pamitascodiac or Tascodiac, _i. e._, Lake Vandermaelen of Nicollet Ogawahasa, 591 Ogden, Maj. E. A., 405 Ogdensburg, lxxxv Ogechie l., 316 Ogo mall a Ukap, 649, 650 Oguoppa, 559 Ohio, cx, cxi, 686, 836 Ohio r., xxv, xxxi, xxxii, 229, 656, 657 Oholoaïtha, 66, 69 Oil cr., 462, 463, 464, 465, 477, 480 Ojibwa Inds., lxxvi, 30, 31, 170, see Chippewa Inds. Ojibwa res., 314 Ojibway, Minn., was a paper town which never materialized. Townsite surveyed 1856 by J. R. Moulton; it extended E. 7/8 m. from mouth of "Palm" (= Mud) r. and S. 5/8 m. from mouth of Sesabagomag r., thus adjoining present Aitkin. A furore was raised and shares sold at fabulous prices, but there was never a building on it. This is satirized by Charles Hallock in Harper's Mag., XIX, 1859, pp. 50, 51, by the name of City of Chippewa. There were named an East Ojibway and a West Ojibway. Mr. A. J. Hill sends me an original certificate of a share in the latter, No. 77, date 1856 Ojo Caliente, Col., 495, 496 Ojo Caliente, N. M., 597, 600, 816 Ojo Caliente, N. M., near Zuñi, 742 Ojo Caliente sta., Chihuahua, 652 Ojo Caliente sta., N. M., 597 Ojo de Callejon, 652 Ojo del Muerto, 636, 637 Ojo de Lotario, 651 Ojo de Malayuque or Samalayuca, 650 Ojo Lucero, 651 Ojo Malalka, 650 Ojo Oso, 746 Ojo San Bernardo, 672 Ojo San Blas, 672 Ojos Calientes, Chihuahua, 652 Ojos Calientes, on Jemez r., N. M., 615 Oklahoma, 412, 550, 552, 554, 555, 556, 559 Olathe, Kas., 519 Old Baldy mt., Col., 493 Old Baldy mt., N. M., 632 Old Bustard, a chf., 89 Old Fort Toronto, lxxv Old French fort near Trempealeau, 54 Old French fort, see Fort Rouillé Old Man's rap., 376, 539 Old Pawnee village, 410 Old Priest, a chf., 87 Old Sioux village, 348 Old Zuñi, a group of six small pueblos occupied between 1680 and 1705 oligarchies, aboriginal, 526 Olla mt., 598 Olmeda, see Asuncion, Fray de la Olmsted's bar, 126, 179, spelling preferable to Olmstead, as no doubt named for S. Baldwin Olmsted, a lumberman of Belle Prairie. One David Olmsted came to Minn. in 1848 with Winnebagoes who were then removed to Long Prairie Olney, Col., 448 Olopier, 347 Olpe, Kas., 399, 400 Omaha Inds., 344, 525, 526, 559, and see Mahaw Inds. Omoshkos r., 124 Omoshkos Sogiagon, 158, 166, 289 Omri, 301 Omushkozo-sagaiigun is same as Omoshkos Sogiagon. (Gilfillan.) Onalaska, Wis., 53 Oñate, Cristobal de, Governor of New Galicia in 1539, was father of the next Oñate, Juan de, 607, 755, 756. Oñate's first settlement in 1598, date often given as that of founding of Santa Fé, N. M., by him, was not there, but at confluence of Rio Chama with Rio Grande, opp. San Juan, N. M., near present Chamita sta. of the railroad; he there began to build what he called San Francisco de los Españoles Aug. 23d, 1598, and the settlement was called San Gabriel in 1599; ruins visible till about 1694; only establishment of whites in N. M. till 1608, when Oñate repaired to location of present Santa Fé. (Bandelier.) One-eye, One-eyed Sioux, 88 One Hundred and Forty-two Mile cr., 518, 521 One Hundred and Ten Mile cr., 518, 520 Oneida, a ship, lxxxiii Onion cr., 521 Onisconsin r., 35 Onomonikana-sibi, 147 Ontario, see Lake Ontario, a ship, lxxxiii Ontario, U. C., lxxv, lxxvi, lxxx, 168, 274, 278 Ontero's hacienda, 626 Oole, a chf., 157, 347 Ootyiti is Cochiti Opejas, 773 Opening of the Virgin, 706 Opii, 744 Oppelousas, liii opuggiddiwanan, 135 opuntia, 681 Oquawka, Ill., 19, 21 Oraibi, 744 Orano or Orono, Minn., is a village on the knoll 1½ m. W. of Elk River, laid out 10 years before the latter, and for some years the county-seat Oraybe, 730, 743, 744 Orchards, N. M., 633 Order of Malta, 657 Oregan, The, 727 Oregon trail, 519 O'Reilly, Oreily, Gov. or Gen. A., 214, 714 Orejas mt., 598 orenac, 87 Organ, N. M., 640 Organ, Organic, Organon mts., 631, 640 Orick's ldg., 361 Original Leve, 83, 84, 85, 87, 240 orignac, 87 Orignal Levé, 87, 240, 347 orignal, oriniac, 87 Orizaba, 722 Orizaba mt., 722 Orleans, see New Orleans Orleans parish, La., cx Orleans territory, 411 Oronos isls., plural, not Orono's or Oranos, 98, see Orano Oronto bay, 306 Orphan r., 451 Orrick's ldg., 361 Ortelius, 288 Ortiz, Chihuahua, 668 Ortiz hills, 597 Orton's isl., 10, 11 Oruilla, 674 Oryzeæ, 39 Osage Agency, 555 Osage agriculture, 532 Osage basin, 395, 396 Osage Bluff, Mo., 372 Osage census, 590 Osage City, Mo., 371 Osage co., Kas., 520 Osage co., Mo., 368, 369, 371, 372 Osage cooks, 528 Osage divisions, 529 Osage feasts, 528 Osage fk. of Gasconade r., 376 Osage Inds., 229, 338, 347, 358, 359, 360, 367, 372, 381, 382, 387, 388, 389, 390, 391, 392, 393, 394, 402, 409, 410, 414, 417, 418, 422, 432, 513, 514, 525, 526, 527, 531, 532, 533, 534, 535, 536, 537, 540, 541, 542, 543, 546, 549, 555, 556, 557, 558, 559, 562, 565, 566, 567, 573, 574, 576, 583, 584, 585, 586, 588, 589, 590, 591, 692, 694, 697, 752, 845, 846, and see Grand and Little Osage Inds., Ark. band of, 529, 530, 532 Osage Iron Works, Mo., 376 Osage lodges, 528, 529 Osage magic, 527 Osage massacre, 531 Osage, Minn., 318 Osage orange, 816 Osage r., xxiii, li, 68, 225, 229, 357, 368 and following to 385, 473, 512, 513, 514, 515, 518, 519, 523, 529, 539, 555, 556, 557, 568, 569, 573, 576, 584, 591, 756, 757, 815, 818, 837, 840, 845 Osage tp., Mo., 390 Osage towns or villages, 395, 513, 514, 516, 560, 577, 580, 581, and see Grand and Little Osagi, 338 Osakis l., 316 Osakis r., 101 Osaukee, Osauki, Osawki, 101, 338 Osceola Mills, Wis., 309 Osceola, Mo., 382, 383 Osha pk., 629 Oshkosh, Wis., 300, 301 Ossowa l., 162, see Assawa l. Ossowa l., on Crow Wing route, 128 Oswego, N. Y., lxxv Otagamis, 338 Otchagra Inds., 39 Otchipwe Dictionary, 102 Otentas r., 13 Otermin, Gov., 641 Otero, A. J., 607 Otero co., Col., 445, 447 Otoe, a place, 556 Oto Inds., 340, 367, 525, 526, 536, 544, 583, 591 Otsego, Minn., 98 Ottagamie, Ottagaumie, Ottaguamie Inds., 36, 307, 346, 347 Ottahtongoomlishcah, 201 Ottawa co., Kas., 405 Ottawa cr., 519, 520 Ottawa Inds., 297, 299, 351, and see Ottoway Ottawa, Kas., 519, 520 Ottawa, Ont., lxxx, xcii Ottawa, Ottawaw lakes, 296, 306, 309 Otter cr., br. of Miss. r., in Ill., 27 Otter cr., br. of Miss. r., in Minn., 98 Otter cr., br. of Neosho r., 399 Otter isl., Miss. r., 19 Otter isl., Mo. r., 366, 367 Otter r., br. of Mo. r., 366, 367 Otter sl., Mo. r., 366 Otter Tail co., Minn., 128, 317, 318 Otter Tail l., 128, 317, 326, 349, 351 Otter Tail pt., 153, 334 Otter Tail r., 318 Otter Tail traverse, 101 Ottonwey r., 94 Ottoway Inds., 347, 351, and see Ottawa Inds. Ouaboucha is a F. form of Wapasha Ouadebaetons, 313 Ouachipouanes, Cree name of the Mandans Ouapikoutee, Ouapikouti, 8apik8ti, 349 Ouate, see Oñate Ouchata r., 612 Ouchipawah, 257, 346, 347 Ouchipewa Sippi, 355 Ouchipouwaictz r., 60 Oude r., 702 Oufotu, 559 Ouinipigou, 31 Ouinipigous, 31 Ouinipique l., 322 Ouisconsin, Ouisconsinc, Ouisconsing, Ouisconching r., 35, 38 Ouiseconsaint, name of Wisconsin r. in Malhiot's Jour. of 1804, Masson, I. 1889, p. 235. Also Ouisseconsaint Ouiscousing r., 35, 36, 180, 224, 265, 294, 302, 303, 304, 306, 308, 340, 347, 355, 843 Ousconsing r., in Schoolcraft, Narr. of, 1820 Ouscousin r., 35 Outagamas, 308 Outagamie co., Wis., 299, 300 Outaouas, 296 Outard, Outarde Blanche, 89, 90 8tantas, Outontantas, 8t8ntes r., 13 Oviscousin r., 35 Ovis montana, 438, 476 Owah-Menah, given as Sioux name of St. Anthony falls in Schoolcraft, 1820 Owen, Dr. D. D., 4, 6, 8, 14, 16, 18, 24, 26, 28, 34, 49, 57, 58, 70, 99, 101, 122, 123, 124, 127, 135, 136, 143, 147, 159, 324 Owings, Pvt. D., 1, 114, 854 Owisconsin, Owisconsing r., 35 Owl cr., 425, 518 Owl l. of Beltrami is Ball Club l. Oxaca, 721, 722, 723 Ox-portage rap., 142 Ozagig, 101 Ozark mts., 370 Ozaukee, 101 Ozawindib, 158, 328, 331 Ozawindib isl., 158, 159 Ozawindib pt., 167, so named by Brower, for Schoolcraft's guide of 1832 Ozawindib village, 158 P Pacaua l., 301 Pacific ocean or waters, xlv, xlviii, xlix, 444, 466, 470, 471, 522, 644, 645, 718, 720, 727, 732, 733, 774, 805 Packegamau, Packegamaw falls or l., 147, 321, 356, see Pokegama Packwaukee, 301 paddlefish, 5 Padillas, 626 Padoucas, Paducahs, 412, 536, 591, 757 Pagadawin, Pagadowan l., 150 Pago is Pecos Paguate, 630, 745 Pahuska, 558, see White Hair Paike, see Mungo-Meri-Paike Pain Court, Mo., 214 Paine l., 161, named for Bartlett C. Paine, of Indianapolis, Ind. Paine, Thos., 154 Paint cr., 41 Painted Rock cr., 41 Painted rock, in Kas., 433 Painted Rock, Minn., 41, 206 Painted Rock raps., or Little falls, Minn., 123, 316 painted stone, 73 Pajarito, N. M., 621, 626, pop. 500 in 1853, see Tousac and St. Fernandez, N. M. Pakagama falls, 146, 147, see Pokegama Pakegamanguen, Pakegomag l., 147 Palayo, see Pelayo Palisade r., 289 Pallalein, 764 Palmburg, Minn., 138, was laid out in Oct., 1856, by B. C. Borden, but never lived. The plot occupied the N. half of Sect. 25, tp. 50, R. 24, 4th mer., and extended 1/16 of a mile over into the sects. to the N. and E. palmetto, 776 Palm r. is a quondam name of that Mud r. or Ripple cr. on which is Aitkin, Minn. Palm r., Tamaulipas, 724 Palms, River of, 289 Palo Alto, battle of, 675 Palomas l., 650 Palomo r., 637 Palomos, N. M., 637 Pamajiggermug l., 161 Pamitascodiac l., 160, of Schoolcraft, 1855, is same as his Tascodiac l., is one of his two Andrusian lakes, and is Nicollet's Vandermaelen l. Pamitchi Gumaug, 331 Pamitchi l., 161 Panami, etc., r., 731 Pananas, Pananis, 255, 815, see Pawnee Inds. panhandle, 692 Panis, 563, 567, 568, 569, 574, 578, 581, 590, 591, 697, see Pawnee Inds. Panisciowa, 86 Panther cr., 373 Panther cr., another, 385 Paola, Kas., 519 Paotes r., 13 Pa8itig8ecii or Paouitigouecii, De Creux, 1684, a name of the Saulteurs; compare Pawtucket Papagos, 735 Papa Paulo III., 599 Pap chute, 57 papers, examination of Pike's, 610 Papinsville, Mo., 385 Papoose isl., 25 Paquiu, 737 paradise, a terrestrial, 676, 677 Paraje, Paraje ferry, 634, 635 Parallel r., 97 Paras, see Parras Parent, Emily F., 364 Parent, P., see Parrant Parida, N. M., 633 Paris, France, 77 Paris, Kas., 422 Paris, treaty of, 213, 657 Parkdale, Col., 462, 465, 476, 477 Parke, J. G., 645 Parker tp., Minn., 124 Park, Itasca State, 164 Parkman, F., 714 Park, Mungo, xlv Park on Osage r., 380, 381, 576 Park range of R. mts., 467, 468, 469, 470, 471, 847 Park Rapids, Minn., 167, 318 parra, 681 Parrant, Peter, 75, otherwise Pierre Parent and [OE]il de Cochon, see Pig's Eye Parras l., 681, 762 Parras, Mex., 649, 674, 676, 677, 680, 681, 682, 683, 777 parroquia, 607, 765 partridge, 175 Pashepaho, 361 Passeri, Mlle., 328 Pass, in mts., see names of passes Pass of Cadena, 674 Passo, of Pike, see El Paso Pass of Three Rivers mt., 685 Pass spr., 652 Pass, The, see El Paso Pass wine or whisky, 641 Pastora, Mex., 684 Patmos, Kas., 399 Patos, hacienda, 683, 684 Patos l., 651 Patos, Mex., 674, 677, 682, 683, 684 Patos mt., 685 Patterson pt., 296 Patton, an old man, 367 Patton's pt. and ldg., 365 Pattos, see Patos Paul III., 599 Paulier, Mr., 99, 193, 194, 195, see Porlier, J. Pauns, Paunts, 31 Pauwaicun l., 300 Pavon, 720, see Morelos y Pawating, a form of the Ojibwa name of the Sault Ste. Marie; compare Powhatan Pawmaygun l., 300 Pawnane, 590 Pawnee Agency, 556 Pawnee confederation, 412 Pawnee council, 414, 415, 416 Pawnee co., Kas., 429, 433, 434 Pawnee fk. of Ark. r., 425, 429, 432, 433 Pawnee games, horses, houses, 533, 534, 535 Pawnee Inds., 358, 367, 384, 391, 392, 393, 394, 402, 407, 408, 409, 410, 412, 417, 418, 419, 420, 421, 422, 423, 426, 442, 449, 450, 451, 532, 533, 534, 535, 536, 543, 544, 547, 551, 583, 587, 588, 589, 590, 591, 592, 596, 603, 611, 697, 744, 754, 815, 829, 845, 846, and see above and below Pawnee Loups, 412, 418, 532, 583, 590, 591 Pawnee Mahas, Mahaws, 412, 413, 544, 583 Pawnee migrations, policy, 533, 535 Pawnee Republic, 404, 409, 410, 412, 413, 419, 515, 516, 532, 541, 582, 583, 585, 590, 591, 846, and see Pawnee village Pawnee rock, 432, 453 Pawnee Rock, Kas., 433 Pawnees, Spanish influence on, 535, 537 Pawnee village, xlix, 357, 405, 407, 409, 410, 414, 516, 541, 542, 552, 560, 592, see Scandia Pawnee village, old, 410 Pawnee wars, 535 Pawnee Wolves, see Pawnee Loups Pawns, 31 Paykie is a Spanish form of Pike's name Payogona is Pecos Peace Rock, of Schoolcraft, is the stony hill in Stearns co., Minn., ½ m. below mouth of Little Rock r. Peacock, A., lxxix Peak, see names of peaks Peak of Teneriffe, 461 Peakers, cxii Pearce, Col. C., ci Pearl l., 90 Pearsall, Tex., 690 Pears, Joel, liii Pearson's br., 377 Peau Blanche, 347 Pecagama, 147, see Pokegama peccary, 697, 777, 782 Pecit, 347 Peckagama, 327, see Pokegama Peck's cr., 459 Pecos cañon, 737 Pecos, N. M., 737 Pecos pueblo, old, 737. In 1885 28 Pecos Inds. were living at Jemez; the Pecos and Jemez together formed a "tribe" of the Tañoan stock Pecos r., 631, 632, 736, 737, 762 Pecucio, Pecucis, 606 Peel isl., 18 Pekitanoui is an old name of the Mo. r., about 1750 Pekushino r., 102 Pelagius, Pelayo, a person, 674 Pelayo, Mex., 673, 674 Pelée isl., 65, 71, 73, 77 Pelia, 673 Pelican bend and isl., 360, 361 Pelican isl., Leech l., 153 Pelican l., 133 Peltier, Isidore, 194 peltries, return of furs and, 284, 285 Pembina, N. Dak., 328, 332 Pemidji l., 161 Peña Blanca, N. M., 606, 607, 615 Penáculos, Los, 635 Peña, Mex., 677 Peñasca Blanca, N. M., 630 Penechon, 86 Penicaut, 71 Penichon, Penition, 86 Pennsylvania, xxvii, xxviii, xxix, lxxxix, ci, cx, cxi, 656, 715 Penrose, C. B., 10 peonage, 768 People descended from Ferns, 345 People of Lake Thousand-lakes, 313 People of Spirit l., 314, 345 People of the Ferns, 345 People of the Lakes, 69, 346, 347 People of the Leaves, 258, 345, 346, 347 People of the Leaves detached, 346, 347 People that Shoot at Leaves, 345 Peoria, Ill., 3 Peouareas r., 13 Peouerias, 48 Pepin co., Wis., 61, 62, 64 Pepin l., 34, 44, 58, 59, 60, 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 72, 78, 80, 198, 202, 203, 205, 243, 264, 307, 308, 342, 348 Pepin, personal name, 65. One Jean Pepin married Madeline Loiseau at Boucherville, Nov. 23d, 1685. A connection of the leader of the expedition of 1727 was the wife of a Pepin, Neill in Minn. Hist. Soc. Coll., X. 1888. Boucher had an uncle named Pepin, Kirk, Illust. Hist. Minn. Pepin, Wis., 63 Peralta, N. M., 626, 628, 629. The name is modern; see St. Fernandez, N. M. Perchas r., 637 Perch l., 162 Perham, Minn., 318 Perillo, N. M., 636 Perkins, lxxix Perlier, Mr., 99, 193, see Porlier, J. Permidji l., 161, for Bemidji on Stieler's Hand Atlas Peronal, Mex., 674, 675 Perreault, 338 Perrique cr. is Peruque cr. Perrot, N., 35, 48, 59, 71, 77, 80, 288, 296, 313 Perruque isl., 4 Perry isl., 4 Perseus, 67 Pert, a ship, lxxxiii, c Peru, 677, 678, 725, 739 Peruque cr. and isl., 4 Petaca, N. M., 598 Peterah cr., 94 Peter, Lt. Geo., 229 Peterson, M., 222 Petessung, 343, 347 Petit Cap au Grès, 38 Petit Corbeau, Fox chf., 347 Petit Corbeau, Carbeau, Sioux chf., 40, 74, 82, 83, 84, 85, 89, 182, 200, 201, 231, 238, 243, 257, 310, 347, 348 Petit D'Etroit, détroit, 297, 356 Petite chute, Fox r., 299 Petite Rivière au Vase, Vaseuse, 369 Petites Coquilles isl., cx Petites Côtes, 214, 361 Petite Shute, 356, see Pokegama Petit Grey or Gris, 38, 224, 304 Petit Kakalin, Kaukauna, 299 Petit Mort, 338 Petit Osage, 590, 591, see Little Osage Phaon, 66 Pharr's isl., 6 Philadelphia, Pa., xxxiv, lxi, lxxxiv, cxiii, 602, 687, 747 Ph[oe]nix, Ariz., 728, 734, 741 Phozuangge is Pojuaque Phragmites communis, 325 Phrynosoma douglasi, 431 Piadro mt., 638 Piasa cr. and isl., 2 Piaxtla r., 774 Picacho of Orizaba, 722 Picard du Gay, 64, 91 Picard du Gay lakes, in Itasca basin, named by Brower for Antoine Auguelle, the Picard Picatoire is found as a name of Purgatory r. Picea alba, 102 Pickadee cr., 41 Pickering bay, 153 Pickering Valley R. R., cx Picket-wire r., 445 Pico de Teyde, 461 pictographs, 201 Picuris, 606 Picwabic r., 102 Piedra Amarilla r., 733 Piedras Negras, Mex., 691 Pierce, Benj., 646 Pierce co., Wis., 63, 64, 70, 72, 73, 243 Pierceville, Kas., 40 Piernas, Capt. P., 214, 358 Pierre Jaune r., 479, 729, 733 Pigeon cr., 637 Pigeon r., 324 pigeons, wild, 211 Pig's Eye, a person, 75 Pig's Eye marsh or l., 75, 310, 342, 348 pike, a fish, cxi, 137 Pikean source of Miss. r., 151, 159 pike, a weapon, lxix Pike bay, see Pike's bay Pike, Capt. John, xx, lix Pike City, Cal., cx Pike, Clarissa Harlowe, xxxii Pike counties, various, cx Pike co., Ill., cxi, cxii, 6, 7, 8 Pike co., Ind., cxi Pike co., Ky., cxi Pike co., Mo., cxi, cxii, 6, 7, 8, 9 Pike co., O., cxi Pike cr., cx, 104, 123, 316 Pike Creek tp., Mo., cx Pike Creek tp., Morrison co., Minn., cx, 104, 122, 123, 124 Pike, death of, c Pike, fatal wound of, xcix Pike Five Corners, N. Y., cx Pike, Ill., cx Pikeland, Pa., cx Pike, Maj. Z., xx, xxi, xxiv, lix, 657 Pike, memoir of, xix to cxiii Pike Mills, Pa., cx Pike, Mrs. Z., xxi Pike, Mrs. Z. M., xxvi, xxxi, xxxiii, 91, 211, 223, 247, 567, 576, 841 Pike, N. Y., cx Pike, Niles' eulogy of, cv Pike, N. C., cx Pike, O., cx Pike, portraits of, cxii Pike raps., cx, 100, 104, 122 Pike r., or Willow r., 137, 320, 356 Pikes, a class of emigrants, cxi, cxii Pikesagidowag r., 152 Pike's bay, cx, 157, 158, 324 Pike's Brigade order, lxxx Pike's brother, lxvii Pike's Dissertation on Louisiana, 511 to 538 Pike's Ethnography of the Miss. r., 337 to 354 Pike's fk. of Ark. r., cx, 463, 482 Pike's Geography of the Miss. r., 287 to 336 Pike's isl., cx, 76, 197, 239 Pike's letters, see Letters Pike's mt., cx, 37 Pike's Observations on New Spain, 718 to 806 Pike's pk., cxi, cxii, 444, 451, 452, 454, 455, 456, 457, 458, 461, 462, 464 Pike's Peak Cog Ry., 456 Pike's Peak, Ind., cxi Pike's Peak, Mich., cxi Pike's Peak, Mont., cxi Pike's proclamation, lxxi Pike's regiment, lxviii, lxix Pike's regiment, action by, cviii Pike's speeches, see Speech Pike's tablet, civ Pike sta., O., cxi Pike's treaty with Sioux, see Treaty Pikesville, Md., cxi Pikesville, O., cxi Pikesville, Pa., cxi Pike's vocabulary, see Vocabulary Piketon, Ky., cxi Piketon, Mo., cxi Piketon, O., cxi Pike tp., Berks co., Pa., cxi Pike tp., Potter co., Pa., cx Pike townships, various, cx Pikeville, Ala., cxi Pikeville, Ind., cxi Pikeville, Ky., cxi Pikeville, N. C., cxi Pikeville, O., cxi Pikeville, Tenn., cxi Pikeville tp., N. C., cxi Pike, Z. M., see foregoing Pilabo, locality of Socorro, N. M. Pilate pk., 456 Pillagers, Pilleurs, 118, 169, 170, 171 Pilot isl., 297 Pilot knob, 83 Pima Agency, 735, 736 Pima Inds., 735 Pimas Altas, 735 Pimas Bajas, 735 Pima village, 639 Pimetoui, 3 Piña Blanca, 607 Pinawan, 742 Pinchon, Pinchow, 86 Pinckney bend and pt., 365, 366 Pinckney, Capt., lxii Pinckney, Pinckneyville, Mo., 365 Pincourt for Pain Court in John Macdonell's Journ., Masson, I. 1889, p. 273 Pine Bend, Minn., 74 Pine bend or turn, 74 Pine Bend, Wis., 302 Pine camp, 126, 179 Pinechon, 86 Pine cr., br. of Ark. r., 470, 472 Pine cr., br. of Grape cr., 482, 483 Pine cr., discharging into Target l., 50 Pine cr., Ia., 23 Pine cr. of Pike, or Swan r., 105, 108, 122, 131, 179, 318, 319, 373 Pine cr., Pierce co., Wis., 63 Pine Creek rap., 245 Pine knoll, 175 Pine l., Aitkin co., Minn., 135 Pine l., of Otter Tail traverse, 317, 318 Pine l., on Pine r. route, 174 pinenet, 319, 321 Pine rap., 142 Pine ridge, 177 Pine r., br. of Miss. r., 130, 131, 134, 137, 153, 173, 174, 175, 177, 318, 319, 334, 351, 356 Pine r., br. of Wisconsin r., 302 Pines r., 102 Pines Tail r., 102 Pinichon, 86 Piniddiwin, Pinidiwin, Pinnidiwin l. and r., 163 Pinnacles, 635 Pinneshaw, 86 Pinnidiwin, see Piniddiwin Pino, N. M., 606 pinole, 798 Pinos cr., 597 Pintado pueblo, 630 Piorias, 339 Piper's ldg., 361 pirogues, 23 Pisa tower, civ Pitahauerat, 412 Pitchers r. of Beltrami, Mr. A. J. Hill thinks is the Mud r. at Aitkin, Minn. Pitt, lxxvi Pittman, historian, 532 Pittsburg of the West, 453 Pittsburg, Pa., xxiv, lxii Piutes, 733 place-names, Vocabulary of Mississippian, 355 Placentia, Newfoundland, 67 plagiarism, xli, xlii Plantagenet l., 161, 331, 334 Plantagenian fk. or source of Miss. r., 151, 161, 162, 331, 334 Plata r., see Platte r. Platte l., 316 platter game, 535 Platte r., br. of Miss. r., 101, 102, 103, 111, 112, 116, 184, 315, 316 Platte r., br. Mo. r., li, 340, 412, 466, 473, 479, 500, 523, 524, 532, 536, 591, 729, 733, 744, 757, 758, 831, 840, 847, 852, and see Little, North, and South Plattsburgh, N. Y., xxix, lxix, cix Playing Buffalo, a chf., 347 Plaza Grande, 634 Pleasant Valley, Col., 475 Pleasant Valley cr., 518, 521 Pleasant Valley, Ia., 25 Plé l., 128, 317 Plum cr., in Kas., 421 Plum cr., in Minn., 99 Plum isl., 297 Plummer, S. L., 334 Plunderers, 170 plus, 283 Plympton l., 174 Poanagoan-sibi, 97 Pocan cr., 556 pocket-gopher, 97 Pockquinike, 88, 338, 347 Point Ahome, 762 point, as a measure of distance, 135 Point au Chene, 356 Point Clinton, 306 Point de Sable, 307, 356 Point Douglas, 72 Point du Chene, 295 Pointe au Barque, 297 Pointe au Chêne, 295 Pointe au Sable, 65 Pointe aux Chênes, 148 Pointe de Sable, 61, 65 Pointe de Tour, 297 Pointed Horn, a chf., 591 Pointed rock, 41 Pointe Seul Choix, 296 Point Hill, 167 Point Hughes, 296 Point Lobos, 771 Point No Point, 62, 64, 65 Point of Rocks, Col., 492 Point of Rocks, N. M., 636 Point of Woods, 101 Point Patterson, 296 Point Prescott, 87 Point Rosa, 771 Point Sable, 299 Point St. Ignace, 295 Point Scott, 296 Point Wiggins, 297 Poison cañon, 492 poisoned arrows, 747 Pojoaque, Pojuaque, Pojuate, 605, 606, 630 Pokegama falls, 137, 142, 146, 147, 152, 321 Pokegama l., 143, 145, 147 Pokegoma, 147 Pokeway l., 301 Polander hollow, 42 Polecat cr., 556 Polecat r., 18 policy of Pawnees, 533 politics, Spanish, 802 Polk co., Mo., 380 Polk co., Wis., 309 Polk isl., 18 Poloss, hacienda, 683 Polvadero mts., 632 Polvaredo, N. M., 605 Polyodon spatula, 5 pomegranates, 681, and see La Grain Pomme de Terre pra., 27 Pomme de Terre r., 378, 380 Ponca Agency, P. O., and res., 552 Ponca Inds., 559 Ponca sta., 550 Ponce de Leon, 675 Ponce de Leon, Gen., 640 Poncho cr., 474 Poncho pass, 474, 492 Poñi r., 558 Pons naturalis, 165 Pontiac, 339 Pontoosuc, 18 Poojoge, see San Ildefonso Pope's cr., 21 Pope's Essays, 406, 801 Pope's r., 21 Pope sta., N. M., 636 Popocatepetl, 457, 722 Populus, 728 Populus angustifolia, 494 Porcupine Quill cr., 63 Porfirio Diaz, 691 Porlier, Jacques, 194, 195 Portage bay, 297 Portage de Cockalin, 347 Portage des Perre, or des Peres, 347 Portage des Sioux, 2, 3, 212 Portage, Leech l. to Winnibigoshish l., 153, 323 Portage, Minn., 137 Portage, St. Croix r., 369 Portage, Wis., 302 Port Byron, Ill., 25 Port de Mort, des Morts, 297, 356 Porter, Gen. M., xxvi, xxvii Portfolio, The, lxxix Port Hope, Wis., 302 Portland isl., 369 Portland, Mo., 369 Port Louisa, 22 Port of the Dead, 356 Porto Rico, 576 Port Royal, Mo., 363 Port Scipio, Mo., 9 Portsmouth, 77 Portsmouth, N. H., lxvi Porus, 652 Poskoyac r., 256 Possitonga r., 555 Poste aux Arkansas, 215, 560, 780 Post-Nicolletian explorers, 335, 336 Potatoe pra., 27 Potatoe r., 378, 380 Poteau r., br. of Ark. r., 558, 559 Poteau r., br. of Osage r., 376 Potier, Pothier, Mr., 99, 193, 194 Potowatomie Inds., 297, 347, 358, 367, 526, 531, 540, 574, 579, 591 Potowatomies isl., 356 Potrero de las Vegas, 745 Potrero, N. M., 605 Potrero San Miguel, 745 Potrero Viejo, 745 Potrillo, Mex., 688 Potteau, Pottoe r., br. of Ark. r., 558, 559 Potter co., Pa., cx Potter's isl., 16 Potter, Wm., 734 Pottoe r., br. of Osage r., 376, 377, 378 Pottoe r., see Poteau r. Poualak, see Assiniboine Pou isl., 297 Pouñel r., 558 Poutowatomies, 297 Poux isl., 297 Povete, N. M., 639 Powell, Maj. J. W., 39, 443, 705, 713 Poygan l., 300, 301, 340 Pozo, Pozzo, Mex., 677, 680, 682 Prado, J., 646 Prague, lxvi Prairie à la Crosse, 51 Prairie à l'Aile, Aux Ailes, 54, 88 Prairie Chicken cr., 518, 521 Prairie de la Crosse, 51 Prairie des François, 342, 343 prairie dogs, 430, 431 Prairie du Chien, Wis., cx, 20, 26, 35, 36, 37, 43, 45, 68, 82, 134, 181, 183, 196, 198, 204, 205, 209, 221, 223, 224, 230, 242, 263, 265, 266, 267, 269, 294, 295, 303, 304, 305, 339, 340, 342, 345, 346, 347, 355, 372, 405, 843 Prairie du Frappeur, 27 Prairie du Rocher, 532 Prairie la Crosse, 49 Prairie la Crosse r., 51, 305 Prairie la Port, Ia., 34 Prairie le Aisle, 54, 55 Prairie l'Eau de Vie, _i. e._, Rum r., 356 Prairie le Chien, 35 Prairie le Cross, 55 Prairie isl., 73, 77 prairie mole, 97 Prairie of Cross r., 355 Prairie Percée, 127 prairie problem, 525 Prairie r., br. of Miss. r., 145, 321 Prairie r., feeder of Sandy l., 138, 168, 321 prairie-squirrels, 429 Pratt, a deserter, 687 prehistoric village at Lake Itasca, 164 Preinier, Premier, 347 Premiro, Don D., 725 Prentis, N. L., xlvii, xlviii, lvi, cxi, cxii Prescott, Ariz., 727, 734, 747, 748 Prescott plains, 727 Prescott, William Hickling, 727 Prescott, Wis., 72, 73, 243 President of the U. S., lviii, 238, 239, 254, and see names of presidents Presidio de Carracal, 651 Presidio de las Juntas, Santas, 669 Presidio del Norte, 642, 669, 736, 762, 770 Presidio del Rio Grande, see Presidio Grande Presidio de San Paubla, 668 Presidio de Tubson, 735 Presidio Grande, 648, 679, 689, 690, 692, 696, 729, 776, 778, 779 Presidio Pelia, 673 Presidio Rio Grande, see Presidio Grande Presidio Salto, see Presidio Grande Presidio San Antonio, Sonora, 773 Presidio San Elizario, 649, 650 Presidio San Pablo, 668 Presidio San Vincento, 776 Prevost, Sir Geo., lxxiii, xci, xcv Price, Col., 446 Price, Col. W. R., 736 Price, Gen. S., 384 Price r., 732 Price's cr., 15 prices of goods in exchange, 283 Priestley, Mr., 154 Priest's rap., 298 priest temples, 741 Prince of Peace, 84 Princeton, Ia., 26 proclamation, Pike's, lxxi Proctor cr., 377 Proctor, Mo., 377 Procyon lotor, 94, 96 Proft's cr., 372 Promontory bluffs, 487 promotions of Spanish troops, 798 Prophet r., 127 Prosopis juliflora, 704 Prospect pk., 494, 596 Providence l., 309 Providence, ways of, 841 Province of Biscay, 412, and see New Biscay Province of Texas, see Texas Province of Tusayan, 744 Provincias Internas, 719, and see their names Prowers co., Col., 441, 442, 443 Prowers sta., Col., 442, 443 Preuss, C., 452 Psoralea esculenta, 73 Puans, Puant Inds., 31, 38, 39, 206, 207, 208, 209, 300, 301, 302, 303, 305, 340, 341, 346, 347 Puante r., 13 Puant rap., 300, 356 Puckaway l., 301 Puckegan cr., 301 Puckway l., 301, 340 Puebla, a state of Mexico, 718, 720, 721, 722, 723 Puebla de los Angeles, Mex., 722, 723 Pueblita, N. M., 745 Pueblito, N. M., 629 Pueblitos de Belen, 629 pueblo, see names of pueblos, besides the following Pueblo, Col., xlix, 432, 434, 445, 451, 452, 453, 454, 455, 459, 462 Pueblo de Taos, 598 Pueblo Inds., Pueblonians, 453, 458, 598, 599, 619, 743, and see names of them. Pueblo revolt, 641, 756 pueblos in general, 598, 599, 742, 743. Governor Allencaster's official census of missions and curacies of New Mexico, Nov. 20th, 1805, representing pop. of towns and pueblos practically as they were when Pike went through, is as follows--the first figures of the several sets being Indians, the others Spaniards: San Geronimo de Taos, 508+1337; San Lorenzo de Picuries, 250+17; San Juan de los Caballeros, 194+1888; Santo Thomas de Abiquiu, 134+1218; Santa Clara, 186+967; San Ildefonso, 175+176; San Francis de Nambé, 143+37; Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe de Pojuaque, 100+177; San Diego de Tesuque, 131+188; N. S. de los Angeles de Pecos, 104+402; San Buenaventura de Cochiti, 656+497; Santo Domingo, 333+140; San Felipe, 289+440; N. S. de los Dolores de Sandia, 314+405; San Diego de Jemes, 264+337; N. S. de la Asumpcion de Zia, 254+none; Santa Ana, 450+68; San Augustin de Isleta, 419+378; N. S. de Belem, 107+1588; Santa Fé, none+2963; La Cañada, none+2188; Alburquerque, none+4294; San Estévan de Acoma, 731+none; San Josef de la Laguna, 940+138; N. S. de Guadalupe de Zuñi, 1470+5; Royal Garrison, none+778; jurisdiction of El Paso and pueblo, none+6209. Total Inds. enumerated, 8,172; total Spaniards, 26,835; grand total, 35,007. Pueblo Viejo, 605 Puerco r., br. of Rio Grande, 629, 633 Puerco r. of the West, 730 Puerco r., see Pecos r. Puerta, 652 Puerta de Cadena, 674 Puerta de la Virgen, 669 Puerto del Bacorelli, 731, see Bacorelli Puerto r., see Pecos r. Pugonakeshig r., 134 Pulaski co., Mo., 371, 375 Pumly Tar r., 380 Punames, 745 Puncho cr., 474 Puncho pass, 492 punishments of Spanish troops, 796 punk, 103 Punta de Agua, 773 Punto del Bosque, 629 Punyeestye, 745 Punyekia, 745 Purgatory r., 442, 443, 444, 445, 446, 447, 463, 517 Pursley, James, xlix, 468, 756, 757, 758 Purvis, Mo., 376 Pusityitcho, 745 Puyatye, Keresan name of Tañoans Q Qotyiti is Cochiti Quagila, 775 Quakers, 530, 656 Quapaw, Quappa, 559, 560 Quarry Sugar cr., 15 Quashquame, 361 Quatroons, 764 Quebec, c, 714 Quebec, Province of, lxxvi Queen Anne's l., 161 Queen Charlotte sound, 279 Queen Dido, 704 Queen's bluff, 53 Queenston, Queenstown Heights, xciv, c Queen's wharf, Toronto, lxxviii Quenemo, Kas., 520 Quercus nigra, 519 Quera, Queres, Queris, Quirix, 616, 745, and see Keres Querecho, 748 Querétaro, 721, 723 queries proposed to Mr. Dubuque, 226 Quihi cr., 696 Quihi r., 696 Quill r. is one of Schoolcraft's names, 1855, of Crow Wing r. Quincy, Ill., 9, 11 Quinipissas, 560 Quinn, Mr., 200 Quires is Keres Quiver r., 4 Quizquiz, 288 R Rabbit l., 131 Rabbit l., another, 134 Rabbit r., Col., 494, and see Conejos r. Rabbit r., Minn., 139 Rabledillo, 639 Raccoon cr., Minn., 94 Raccoon cr., Wis., 49 Raccoon sl., 49 Race-ground, Devil's, 363 Racine r., 49, 305, 355 Racoon cr. and sl., see Raccoon Racro isl., 297 Radisson l., in Itascan basin, named by Brower Radisson, Marguerite H., 296 Radisson, P. E. de, 289, 295, 296 Raft channel, 49 Ragozin, Z. A., 182 Rahbahkanna l., 161 Rainey cr., 377 Rainville, Jos., see Reinville, and see biogr. in Tassé, I. pp. 293-304. Pike's man was b. about 1779 Rain which Walks, a chf., 540, 550, 591 Rainy cr., 377 Rainy l., 80, 172, 350 Rainy Lake r., 171 Raisins r., 67 Ralls co., Mo., 7, 8 Ralph, Apache assassin, 752 Ramada, Mex., 670, 671 Rambo, 685 Ramsay, Gen. Alex., 326 Ramsay, Mr., 361 Ramsey's cr., 6 Ranche de St. Antonio, 678 Rancheria sta., Mex., 651 Ranchero mt., 637 Ranchitos d'Isleta, 626 Rancho de Taos, 598 Rancho Nuevo, 683 Rancho Sabinal, 629 Rancho San Antonio, 678, 679 Ranchos d'Albuquerque, 619 Ranchos de Belen, 629 ranchos, various unnamed, 684, 685, 688, 689 Randall tp., Minn., 124 Rand, Lt. B., xxvi, xxvii Randolph co., Ill., 532 Randolph, Ill., 2 Raney cr., 377 rapid, see names of rapids and following Rapides Croches, 299 Rapides des Peres, 298 Rapid r. of Long, 73 Rapids City, Ill., 25 Rapids of Painted Rock, 316 rations of Spanish troops, 798 Raton mts., 447, 558 rattlesnakes, 229, 431 Raven, a chf. (Wiahuga), 349 Raven, a Fox chf., 31 Raven, a ship, lxxxiii Raven isl., 356 Raven r., 128, 177, 341, 346, 355, and see Crow Wing r. Raven's Nose, a chf., 203, 208, 347 Raven's Plume r., 128 Raven's pt., 323, 324 Raven's Wing r. of Schoolcraft, 1855, is Crow Wing r. Raymbault, 349 Raynal, G. T. F., 411 Read's ldg., 61, 62 Reale, a Mr., 173, 174. One Constant _Relle_ was employed by A. F. Co. Aug. 3d, 1818, deserted 1819, killed winter of 1821-22: see Wis. Hist. Soc. Coll., XII. p. 166. One Antonio _Reilh_ or _Reilhe_ appears in W. H. S. C., XI. p. 164. These names probably the same, but different persons Rebecca l., 74 reboso, 787, 788 recapitulation of furs and peltries, 284, 285 Recollect priest, 64 Recovery, O., 438 Red Cedar, 157 Red Cedar cr., see Lower Red Cedar r. Red Cedar isl. in Cass. l., 158 Red Cedar l., see Lower and Upper do. Red Cedar r., Ia., 22, 23, 26, 292, 293 Red Cedar r., Minn., 159, 289 Red Cloud, a chf., 208, 343, 347 Red Cloud, Neb., 410 Red cr., br. of Ark. r., Col., 460 Red cr., or Red Rock cr., 556 Red Earth Inds., 338 Red fk. or Cimarron r., 552, 553, 554 Red fk. or Salt fk. of Ark. r., 552, 553, 554 Red House, N. M., 629 Red l., xlviii, 152, 156, 171, 172, 260, 280, 284, 285, 326, 332, 346, 347, 350, 351 Redmond's Ranch, Tex., 691 Red Oak pt., 147 Red Quilliou, 118 Red r., Ark. r., 589 Red r., Canadian r., xlvii, 558 Red r., Cimarron r., 705 Red r. of Arkansas, 705 Red r. of California, 742, see Colorado r. Red r. of Louisiana or of the Miss. r., li, lv, 519, 563, 564, 565, 571, 585, 591, 592, 593, 596, 690, 694, 696, 697, 705, 710, 712, 713, 714, 727, 738, 746, 754, 805, 807, 809, 815, 822, 823, 834, 838, 847, 848, 849, 850, 852 Red r. of Natchitoches, 558, 705 Red r. of Pike, of various identifications, 412, 413, 466, 468, 469, 473, 480, 481, 482, 484, 490, 502, 504, 505, 525, 537, 624, 705 Red r. of Texas, 696, 704, 705, 781, 782, 785 Red r. of the East, 705 Red r. of the Mo. r., 523: and see Yellow-stone r. Red r. of the North, xlviii, 128, 139, 159, 171, 172, 183, 247, 254, 263, 278, 279, 280, 317, 318, 326, 328, 343, 349, 350, 351, 354, 704 Red r. of the West, 705 Red r., Salt fk. of Ark. r., 552, 553, 554, 704 Red River trail, 326 Red r., Wis., 298, 356 Red River, Wis., 298 Redrock, 556 Red Rock cr., 556 Red Rock, Minn., 73 Red's place, 5 Red Thunder, a chf., 208, 343, 347 Red Wing, a chf., 68, 69, 202, 203, 308, 347 Red Wing band or village, 69, 70, 88 Red Wing, Minn., 62, 69, 70, 308 Reed, Joseph, liii Reed r., 279 Rees, Dr. Thos., xxxviii, xxxix, xl, xlv Reeves, U. S. Commissioner, 518 Refugio, Mex., 680 Regent of France, 531 Register, see Heitman, and Niles Reid, J., 702 Reino de la Nueva Vizcaya, 759 Reino de Leon, 724 Reino de Nueva Galicia, 719 Reinulle, Reinville, Jos., 39, 40, 87, 99, 180, 207, 242, and see Rainville Relief l., 65 religion, 755, 770, 800 Remnicha, compounded of three words meaning "hill," "water," "wood," was a comprehensive Sioux name of the stretch of country from foot of Barn bluff (La Grange) to Cannon r., about the center of which was the old Indian village, and is the modern town, of Red Wing, drained by the coulee nicknamed the Jordan Remnicha cr. or r., 70 Remnichah, 70 Reno, Col., 464 Reno co., Kas., 424, 548 report of late occurrences, etc., xlvi report on the Arkansaw, Wilkinson's, 539 report to Congress, 840, 841 Republican fk. of Kansas r., 395 Republican Pawnees, 412, 541, 542 Republican r., xlix, 357, 404, 407, 409, 410, 420, 473, 516, 543 Republic City, Kas., 409 Republic co., Kas., 408, 409, 410 Reservoir Bowl, see Greater and Lesser ditto Resting l., Rest in the Path l., 161 return of furs and peltries, 284, 285 return of men employed, etc., 286 return of military force in New Spain, 793 return of persons, etc., 1 revenue, Spanish, 791, 792 revolt of the pueblos, 756 Revolutionary army, xxvi, xxvii, lvi Revolutionary War, 183 Rey, Don P. R., 646 Reynard Inds., 25, 26, 31, 35, 36, 209, 293, 303, 307, 337, 338, 339, 341, 346, 347, 361, 591, and see Fox Inds. Reynolds, John, 657 Rhoades, Kas., 403 Rhodes hill, 167, named for D. C. Rhodes, of Verndale, Minn., photographer, by Brower Rhyolite pk., 465 Rib r., 494 rice, 38 Rice co., Kas., 424, 522 Rice cr. (= Nagajika cr., near Brainerd), 131 Rice-eaters, 39 Rice l., a pond near Winnibigoshish dam, 325 Rice l., discharging by Rice Lake or Sandy Lake r., into Sandy l., 137 Rice l. = L. Ann, 90 Rice l. (near Sisibakwet l.), 147 Rice l., on Fox r., Wis., 302 Rice l. (= Pinidiwin l.), 163 Rice l., see Big Rice l. Rice Lake r., a feeder of Sandy l., 137 Rice lakes, near Iowa r., 292 Rice or Manomin cr., Anoka co., 94 Rice r. (in Aitkin co., 4½ m. above mouth of Mud r.), 136, 137, 320 Rice r. (= Nagajika cr., near Brainerd), 131 Rice, Willard, 747 Richardson and Co., 139 Richardson, Dr. John, 97 Richardson, Judge N., 106, 107, 123 Richards, Stephen, liv Rich Hill, Mo., 390 Richland co., Wis., 302 Rich Man, a chf., 542, 591 Richmond, Minn., 53 Richmond, Va., 826 Riddle, Lt. D., lxxxix, ci Ridgway library, xxxiv Riggs and Pond, 43 Riggs' Dictionary, 118 Riggs' ranche, 465 Riggs, Rev. S. R., 85, b. Steubenville, O., Mar. 23d, 1812, d. Beloit, Wis., Aug. 24th, 1883 Rigi mt., 454 Riley, Pvt., 332 Rinconada, N. M., 606 Rincon, N. M., 636, 638, 639 Rinehart, Mo., 394 Rineland ldg., 367 Ringgold barracks, 682, 692 Rio, see names of rivers besides the following Rio Abajo, 729 Rio Alamo, 691 Rio Alamos, 771, 774 Rio Alamosa, 637 Rio Alcontre, 691 Rio Allende, 670 Rio Almagra, Almagre, 452 Rio Altar, 771 Rio Angelina, 709, 710 Rio Animas, 637 Rio Arriba, 729 Rio Atoyac, 721 Rio Azul, 735 Rio Bavispe, 771 Rio Bravo, 641, 642, 643, 645, 729, 730, and see Rio del Norte, Rio Grande. Name Rio Bravo extant before 1600 Rio Brazos, 781 Rio Caliente, 597, 600 Rio Cañada, Cañadiano, 558, 606, and see Canadian r. Rio Carmen, 651, 652 Rio Chacito, 614 Rio Chaco, 630, 731 Rio Chasco, 731 Rio Chama, 597, 600, 601, 604, 629 Rio Chelly, 731 Rio Chusco, 731 Rio Cibolo, 697, 703 Rio Colorado, Canadian r., xlvii Rio Colorado del Este, 705 Rio Colorado del Occidente, 705 Rio Colorado of California, 522, 523, 524, 622, 623, 644, 730, 734, 735, 736 Rio Colorado of Texas, 698, 704, 705, 781 Rio Colorado, see Red r. of Louisiana Rio Conchos, 642, 668, 669, 670, 762, 765 Rio Conejos, 358, 359, 483, 484, 494, 495, 496, 497, 499, 595, 596, 597, 622, 816, 848, 855 Rio Costilla, 494 Rio Cuchillo Negro, 637 Rio Culebra, 445, 494, 507 Rio Culiacan, Culican, 774 Rio de Barral, 670 Rio de Buena Guia, so called in 1540, is the Rio Colorado Rio de Carracal, 651 Rio de la Antigua, 722 Rio de la Ascencion, 771 Rio de la Asuncion, 734, more fully called Rio de Nuestra Señora de la Asuncion or Asumpcion; name appears in Venegas, Hist. Cala., 1757 Rio de la Culebra, 494 Rio de las Anamas, Animas, 445, 731 Rio de las Animas Perdidas was a name of Purgatory r. Rio de las Palizadas, 289 Rio de las Palmas, 289 Rio de las Palmas, Mex., 724 Rio de las Vacas, before 1600, is Pecos r. Rio del Espiritu Santo, 288 Rio del Fuerte, 762, 774, named for Fuerte de Montes Claros, built 1610 Rio de Lino, of Coronado, 1540, is the Colorado Chiquito, hence called Flax r. Rio del Nombre de Jesus is the name originally given to the Gila r. by Juan de Oñate, 1604 Rio del Norte, xlvi, 494, 497, 509, 521, 523, 524, 535, 541, 595, 596, 640, 641, 642, 678, 728, 729, 730, 731, 733, 736, 737, 738, 744, 756, 762, 809, 816, 822, 838, 848, 849, 850, 851; name probably originated on Don Antonio Espejo's exped. of 1582. See Rio Grande Rio de los Anamas, 730, 732 Rio de los Apostoles, 734, see Apostles' r. Rio de los Brazos de Dios, 706 Rio de los Dolores, 730, 732 Rio de los Duimas, 732, of Pike, identification confirmed; it is simply error of transcribing Rio de las Animas from Humboldt's map Rio de los Martires appears on Humboldt's map and above it the legend Tout ce Pays de puis la mission de Zuñi jusqu'aux Indiens Cobaji a été visité par le Père Pedro Font, 1775. Name originated with Father Kino, 1699, who first applied it to the Col. r. Rio de los Palisados, 289 Rio de los Panami, etc., 731 Rio del Tizon, see Colorado r. Rio de Nanesi, Napesi, Napestle, 448, 481 Rio de Nasas, 673 Rio de Ozul, 735 Rio de Piedro Amaretto del Missouri, 733 Rio de San Clemente, 733 Rio de Santa Buenaventura, 733 Rio de Santa Fé, 606, 607 Rio de Taos, 598 Rio El Rosario, 774 Rio Escondido, 289 Rio Florida, Florido, 669, 670, 671, 762 Rio Frio, 696 Rio Galisteo, 615 Rio Gila, Hila, Jila, Xila, 637, 644, 645, 730, 734, 735, 736, 741, 742, and see Gila r. Rio Grande, xlix, lv, 288, 444, 445, 463, 474, 482, 483, 490, 492, 493, 494, continuously to 648, 650, 651, 669, 682, 685, 689, 690, 691, 692, 693, 695, 697, 712, 724, 729, 730, 731, 733, 734, 736, 744, 745, 746, 747, 756, 775, 776, 778, 779, 816, 822, and see Rio del Norte. Name Rio Grande found in narrative of exped. of Gaspar Castaño de Sosa, 1591 Rio Grande City, Tex., 692 Rio Grande de Buena Esperanza is the Colorado of the West, so named by Juan de Oñate in 1604 Rio Grande de los Apostolos, 734 Rio Grande de Santiago, 719 Rio Guadalupe, 780, 781 Rio Guanabel, 677, 678, 681 Rio Hondo, 696, 697 Rio Jasquevilla, 730 Rio Jemez, 615, 616, 629, 745 Rio Jimenez, 724 Rio Magdalena, 771 Rio Mariano, 697 Rio Matape, 771, 773 Rio Mayo, 771 Rio Mazatlan, 774 Rio Meteros, 682 Rio Mexicano, 682 Rio Moctezuma, 771 Rio Nabajoa, 730 Rio Napeste, 448 Rio Nasas, Nassas, Nazas, 673, 677, 678, 679, 681, 762 Rio Navajo, 731 Rio Oude, 702 Rio Palomo, 637 Rio Pecos, 631, 632, 736 Rio Perchas, 637 Rio Piaxtla, 774 Rio Puerco, 629, 633 Rio Puerco of the West, 730 Rio Puerco, or Puerto, for Pecos, 632, 736 Rio Purgatorio, 445 Rio Quiburi, before 1700, name of San Pedro r., br. of the Gila Rio Quihi, 696 Rio Rojo, Roxo, 705 Rio Sabinas, 679, 685, 687, 688, 689, 691, 776 Rio Salado, Ariz., 734 Rio Salado, Mex., 691, 776 Rio Salado, N. M., 632 Rio Salinas, 682, 685 Rio Salinas, br. of Gila r., 734 Rio San Antonio, br. of Rio Conejos, 682, 685 Rio San Antonio, br. of Rio Grande, 780, 781 Rio San Buenaventura, 733 Rio San Francisco, br. of Gila r., 735, 741 Rio San Francisco del Tigre, 682 Rio San José, 745 Rio San Juan, Mex., 682, 685, 692, 776 Rio San Juan, N. M., 630, 731, 746 Rio San Lorenzo, Sinaloa, 774 Rio San Marco, 703, 704, 781 Rio San Maria, see Santa Maria r. 730 Rio San Miguel, Mex., 774 Rio San Miguel, Tex., 696 Rio San Paubla, 668, 762 Rio San Pedro, br. of Gila r., 735 Rio San Pedro, in Chihuahua, 668, 669, 762 Rio San Rafael, 730 Rio Santa Fé, 606, 607, 613, 614 Rio Santa Teresa, 707 Rio San Xavier, 730 Rios, Capt., 357, 358 Rios, Don F., 214 Rio Seco, 696 Rio Tigre, 682 Rio Toyac, 710 Rio Trinidad, 707, 708 Rio Verde, Ariz., 727, 730, 734 Rio Verde, Mex., 721 Rio Yampancas, 738 Rio Yaqui, 771, 772 Rio Zanguananos, 732 Rio Zuñi, 630 Ripley, 179, see Fort Ripley Ripley, Col. E. W., lxxxi Ripple cr., 135 Rising Moose, a chf., 87, 347 Rising Sun, Minn., 52, 53 Rita Servilleta, 597 Rita Vallecita, 597 Rito Alto mt., 483 Rito San José, 630 Riveaux cr., 370 River, see names of rivers, also under Rio and Rivière, and some following Rivera, Mex., 685 River of Arcs, 815 River of Chihuahua, 765 River of Embarrassments, 355 River of Lake Traverse, 160 River of Means, 355 River of Palms, 289 River of Rabbits, 816 River of the Arms of God, 706 River of the Boiling Spring, 452 River of the Fort, 774 River of the Issati, 95 River of the Mountain which Soaks, etc., 54, 356 River of the Prairie of Cross, 355 River of Wild Bulls, 58 Rivers, Capt. F., 214 Riverside, Minn., is a town site in Fridley tp., Anoka co., 1 m. above mouth of Rice cr. Riverside sta., Col., 470, 472 River that Divides Itself in Two, 289 Riverview, Mo., 377 Rivière, see names of rivers, also under Rio and River, besides the following Riviere a Canon, 356 Rivière a Cigue, for à Cigne, 356 Rivière à l'Aile de Corbeau, 128 Rivière à la Biche, 289 Rivière à la Crosse, 322 Rivière à la Roche, 24 Rivière à l'Ours, l'Ourse, 370 Rivière à Loutre, 366 Rivière Antoine, 213 Rivière au B[oe]uf, br. of Miss. r., in Mo., 4, 355 Rivière au B[oe]uf, br. of Miss. r., in Wis., 56, 305 Rivière au B[oe]uf, br. of Mo. r., 365 Rivière au Bois d'Arc, 815 Rivière au Canon, 67, 308, 342 Rivière au Dindon, 355 Rivière au Feve, Fevre, see Fever r. Rivière au Milieu, 559 Rivière au Pin, 356 Rivière au Sel, 7, 355 Rivière au Solé (for au Saule) of Schoolcraft, 1820, also Alder r., is Willow r., Aitkin co., Minn. Rivière aux Embarras, 57 Rivière aux Feuilles, 356 Rivière aux Frênes, 366 Rivière aux Racines, 49, 355 Rivière aux Raisins, 67 Rivière aux B[oe]ufs, 65 Rivière aux Canots, 67 Rivière aux Cèdres Rouges, 289 Rivière aux Riveaux, 370 Rivière aux Saukes, 101, 356 Rivière de Ayoua, 355 Rivière de Bon Secours, 58, 65 Rivière de Buade, 289 Rivière de Colbert, 289 Rivière de Corbeau, 104, 128, 129, 130, 189, 316, 317, 318, 319, 326, 343, 348, 350, 351, 355 Rivière de la Conception, 289 Rivière de la Fièvre, 29 Rivière de la Fontaine qui Bouille, 452 Rivière de la Madelaine, Magdelaine, 71, 95, 309 Rivière de la Montagne qui Trempe, etc., 54, 305, 307 Rivière de la Prairie de Crosse, 355 Rivière de l'Eau de Vie, 96 Rivière de Louis, 289 Rivière de Louisiane, 289 Rivière d'Embarras, 355 Rivière de Mendeouacanion, 95 Rivière de Moyen, 355 Rivière de Roche, 23, 24, 25, 337, 339, 340 Rivière de St. François, 95 Rivière de St. Louis, 289 Rivière des Arounoues, 49 Rivières des B[oe]ufs, 58, 65 Rivière de Seignelay, 3 Rivière des Épinettes, 324 Rivière des Feuilles, br. of Crow Wing r., 128, 317 Rivière des Feuilles, br. of Minnesota r., 326 Rivière des Feuilles, br. of Miss. r., 97 Rivière des François, 95, 313 Rivière des Illinois, br. of Ark. r., 558 Rivière des Illinois, br. of Miss. r., 3 Rivière des Kicapous, 24 Rivière des Loups, 356 Rivière des Mongana, 13 Rivière des Noix, 695 Rivière des Ouisconsins, 35 Rivière des Rochers, 355 Rivière des Sioux, 95, 313 Rivière de Tombeau, 71 Rivière du B[oe]uf, 342 Rivière du Brochet, 137, 356 Rivière du Portage, 95 Rivière Embarras, 56 Rivière Jaune, Vermilion r., 73 Rivière Jaune, Yellow r., 41, 355 Rivière la Pomme, 28 Rivière l'Eau Claire, 57, 355 Rivière Longue, 49, 50, 67, 68 Rivière Maligne, 707 Rivière Morte, 49, 50, 67, 68 Rivière Noir, 51, 296 Rivière Puante, 13 Rivière Purgatoire, 445 Rivière Rouge, see Red r. of the North Rivière Rouge, Wis., 298, 356 Rivière St. Croix, 71 Rivière Ste. Thérèse, 707 Rivière St. Pierre, 356 Rivière Sanglante, 332 Rivière Sauteaux, 355 Rivière Verte, 77, 78 Roaring r., 63 Roasters, 31 Robbers, 170 Robedoux, Mr., 6 Robert's isl., 122 Robertson, qu: Rev. Wm., 238 Robert st., St. Paul, 74 Robideau's pass, 492 Robidou of New Mexican places was Antoine (brother of Joseph, Sen.), b. St. Louis, Aug. 29th, 1794, d. St. Joseph, Mo., Apr. 29th, 1860 Robidoux fk. of Gasconade r., named for Joseph Robidou, Sen., founder of St. Joseph, Mo., b. Aug. 2d, 1783, d. May 27th, 1868 Robinson, Dr. J. H., xlvi, lxi, 359, 361, 364, 365, 368, 372, 373, 374, 375, 381, 382, 394, 401, 402, 408, 421, 425, 427, 428, 429, 432, 435, 444, 449, 450, 454, 457, 459, 461, 463, 464, 469, 470, 472, 476, 477, 478, 480, 482, 483, 485, 486, 487, 490, 495, 497, 498, 502, 503, 504, 510, 543, 545, 546, 566, 568, 569, 577, 589, 594, 603, 608, 621, 622, 623, 624, 627, 628, 651, 658, 659, 662, 664, 665, 666, 698, 712, 761, 766, 809, 815, 816, 824, 834, 835, 845, 848, 850, 851, 852, 854, 855 Robinson sta., Col., 447 Robledo, N. M., 636 Rob Roy Expedition, 336 Roche Blanche, 343, 344 Roche Jaune r., 479, 733 Roche, Mr., 243 Rocher Rouge cr., 63 Rochers Peints, Roches Peintes, 41 Rockbridge co., Va., 691 Rock Cañon, Col., 459 Rock cr., br. of Ark. r., 459 Rock cr., br. of Bull cr., 519 Rock cr., br. of Vermilion r., 400 Rock cr., near Pawnee village, Kas., 419, and see White Rock cr. Rock creeks, two, in Kas., 518, 520 Rockdale sta., Col., 447, 448 Rockhill, W. W., preface Rock isl., at Little Falls, Minn., 123 Rock isl., at mouth of Rock r., 210 Rock Island co., Ill., 23, 24, 293 Rock Island, Ill., 21, 23, 24, 25 Rock Island rap., 295 Rock ldg., 4 Rockport, Ill., 7, 24 Rock r., 15, 23, 24, 32, 180, 210, 222, 265, 293, 301, 303, 338, 355 Rock River raps., 209 rock-rose, 494 Rockville, Mo., 385 Rocky cr. of Pike, 103 Rocky Ford, Col., 446 Rocky hills of Pike, 26 Rocky mts., 256, 278, 332, 354, 360, 444, 452, 454, 456, 733 Rocky mts., Gates of the, 642 Rocky Mountain sheep, 438 Rocky r., 24 Rocky shoal, 167 Rocque, A., 36, 41 Rocque's trading house, 61 Rocus, Father, 659, 839 Rodriguez, Augustin, a Franciscan, at Bernalillo, N. M., in 1580 Rodriques, Rodreriques, Rodriguez, Capt. S., 411, 661 Roger, lxxix Rogers, H. D., 333 Rojo r., 705 Rolette, Michel, 204 Rolett, Rolette, Jos., Sen., 204, full name Jean Joseph Rolette, see Tassé, I. pp. 143-211, portrait Rolett, Rollet, Roulet, Mr., 36, 60, 204, 207 Rollingstone sl., 57 Rolling Thunder, a chf., 347 Roman confessional, 748 Roman Nose, a chf., 203, 205, 208 Roma, Tex., 692 Rome, Italy, 342 Rook's r., 97 Root r., 49, 50, 305, 355 Roque, A., see Rocque, Rocque's Rosati l., 153, 155 Rosedale, Kas., 519 Rosita, Col., 484 Rosita cr., 485 Roslin, Wis., 302 Rossbach, lxvi Rosseau, see Rousseau roster of the party, 1 Roubideau's pass, 492 Rouen, 779 Rouillé, A. L., lxxv Rouillé monument, lxxvi, lxxviii Roulet, see Rolett Round Grove, Kas., 518, 519 Round l., 324 Round Lake r., 324 Round mt., Col., 483, 484 Round mt., N. M., 636 Roussand, Mr., 155, 156 Rousseau channel, 36, 40 Rousseau, J. J., 801 Rousseau, Rosseau, Pierre, 39, 61, 97, 127, 184, 854 Rowan, Hon. J., lvi Roxo r., 705 Royal Gorge, 462, 463, 466, 476, 477 Royalton, Minn., 102 Royce, C. C., 238, 239 Roy, of N. W. Co., 159, 169 Roy, Pvt. Alex., 1, 184, 186, 359, 360, 432, 482, 490, 510 Rubicon, Spanish-American, 711 Rubi, Father, 617, 618, 619, 628 rubric of rivers, 705 Rudsdell, John, 66 ruins in Arizona, 741, 742 Rule cr., 443 Rum r., 94, 95, 96, 101, 194, 196, 311, 313, 314, 343, 350, 351, 356 Running sl., 6 Running Turkey cr., 522 Ruque, see Rocque and Rocque's Rural Cemetery, 357 Rush co., Kas., 425 Rush cr., br. of Ark. r., 460 Rush cr., Ill., 27 Rush cr., Minn., 63 Rush cr. of Lewis and Clark, 369 Rush cr., Wis., 42 Rush isl., 19 Rush l., bay of Leech l., 153 Rush l., Little Winnibigoshish l., 325 Rush l., Otter Tail series, 318 Rush l., Wis., 301 Rush pt., 325 Russell co., Kas., 404, 423 Russia, 571 Ruter, 780 Ruxton cr., 452, 456 Ruxton, G. F., 457, 598 S Sabal palmetto, 776 Sabinal, Sabinal sta., N. M., 629 Sabinas r., 679, 685, 687, 688, 689, 691, 777 Sabine bay or l., 709, 782 Sabine co., La., 712, 713 Sabine co., Tex., 710 Sabine l., 709, 782 Sabine r., bet. La. and Tex., l, 407, 696, 702, 708, 709, 710, 711, 712, 713, 782 Sabine r., in Mex., see Sabinas r. Sabinetown, Tex., 711, 712 Sabinez, N. M., 628, 629 Sabin's Bibl. Amer., xxxiv Sable l., 120, 241, and see Sandy l. Sabula, Ia., 27 Sac and Fox boundary, war, and treaty, 9, 11, 45, 367 Sac Inds., 5, 15, 16, 19, 20, 24, 31, 101, 210, 211, 293, 330, 337, 338, 339, 361, 384, 526, 551, 570, 591, and see Fox Inds. Sackett's Harbor, lxxiii, lxxx, lxxxii, lxxxiii, xcii, xciv, xcvii, ciii, civ, cx Sack r., 101, see Sauk r. Sacque, see Sac Inds. Sacramento mts., 631, 736 Sacramento r., 654, 655 Sac r., br. of Miss. r., 315, see Sauk r. Sac r., br. of Osage r., 381, 383, 384, 385, 514 Sacs and Foxes, see Sac Inds. and Fox Inds., also Sac and Fox Sac village, see Sac Inds. Saddle mt., 464, 465 Sagatagon r., 103 Saget, 780 Saguache co., Col., 491, 492 Saguache mts., 596 Saint, Sainte, as follows, abbrev. St., Ste., see also San, Santa, and Santo St. a fé, St. Affe, St. Affee, lii, liii, 706, see Santa Fé St. Albans, Mo., 362, 363 St. Ander, 724, see Santander and New San Ander St. Anthony, 289 St. Anthony's falls, 70, 75, 82, 83, 90, 91, 92, 93, 94, 195, 196 St. Antoine, fort on L. Pepin, 71 St. Antonio r., 780 St. Antonio, Tex., liii, 666, 692, 697, 783, 784, 785, 786, 813, 814, 836, see San Antonio de Bexar St. Aubert, Mo., 369 St. Aubert's isl., 370 St. Aubert sta., Mo., 370 St. Augusta, Minn., 99, 100, 194 St. Augustine, Fla., 734 St. Bernard bay, 779, 781 St. Charles bayou, 8, 11 St. Charles co., Mo., 3, 4, 360, 363, 364 St. Charles district, lvi, 10, 360 St. Charles, Mo., 214, 229, 360, 361, 511, 512, 567, 568, 569 St. Charles r., 451, 454, 463, 488, 490 St. Clair co., Mo., 371, 381, 383, 384, 385 St. Clair, Gen. A., 438 St. Cloud, Minn., 99, 100, 101, 120, 193, 315 St. Croix falls, 309, 310 St. Croix, fort, 71 St. Croix l., 72, 308 St. Croix, Ste. Croix, a trader, 71, 72 St. Croix, Ste. Croix r., 48, 52, 58, 60, 62, 65, 70, 71, 72, 73, 77, 80, 95, 205, 227, 231, 243, 279, 306, 308, 309, 338, 342, 347, 348, 350 St. Denis, St. Dennie, L. J. de, 714 St. Dies mts., 616, see Sandia mts. St. Dies pueblo, 619, see Sandia St. Domingo, Mex., 677, 766 St. Domingo, N. M., 615, 752 St. Elias mt., 722 St. Elizabeth, Mo., 372 Ste. Thérèse r., 707 St. Ferdinand, Mo., 214 St. Ferdinand tp., Mo., 357 St. Fernandez, N. M., 624, 625, 809, 851, and see San Fernandez, N. M. Pike's elusive "St. Fernandez" must have been Peralta itself, or that immediate vicinity, close to Valencia. I halted him correctly there, on p. 626. Peralta or Peralto is a modern name, and I find that there was in 1844 a town called St. Fernandez or San Fernando, in that place; also, Pike's mileage hence to his next place, St. Thomas (Tomé) is quite right for this determination. See further, Whipple, P. R. R. Rep., III., Pt. 3, p. 12, where is given San Fernando de Taos ("de Taos" in error), a place between Valencia and Tomé, with a pop. of 800 St. Fernandez, Tex., 696 St. Francis d'Assisi, de Paola, de Sales, 95 St. Francis, monks of, 766 St. Francis r., br. of Gila r., 741 St. Francis r., Elk r., 97 St. Francis, St. François r., Rum r., 35, 95, 96, 313, 314 St. Genevieve, 213, 215, 691 St. Helen's isl., 295 St. Ignace, Ignatius pt., 356 St. Jacomb mt., 638 St. Jeronime, Jeronimie, liv, 660 St. John's cr. and isl., 364 St. John's, Mo., 364 St. John's, N. M., 601, 602, 603, 604, see San Juan St. John's parish, Eng., 167 St. John's r., 364 St. Joseph l., 351 St. Joseph mission, Tex., 697 St. Lawrence, Minn., 318 St. Lawrence r., lxxii, lxxiii, 277, 302, 326 St. Louis and Hannibal R. R., 8 St. Louis bay, 779 St. Louis chain, 25 St. Louis co., Mo., 1, 2, 357 St. Louis de Potosi, see San Luis de Potosí St. Louis fort, see Fort St. Louis St. Louis, Keokuk, and N. W. R. R., 5, 7, 8 St. Louis, Mo., xxii, xxix, lxiv, 1, 3, 5, 11, 20, 171, 204, 206, 213, 214, 215, 221, 222, 223, 225, 226, 228, 237, 247, 257, 258, 259, 263, 266, 267, 268, 269, 270, 272, 273, 287, 292, 294, 317, 346, 347, 357, 358, 360, 361, 367, 384, 387, 388, 391, 411, 437, 557, 567, 570, 577, 579, 580, 581, 590, 602, 603, 608, 609, 756, 757, 809, 815, 818, 825, 826, 833, 842, 845, 854 St. Louis Potosi, see San Luis de Potosí St. Louis r., of Lake Superior, 138, 143, 168, 280, 321, 330 St. Louis r., or Illinois r., 3 St. Louis r., or Miss. r., 289 St. Luis Potosi, see San St. Malo, 296 St. Marco, St. Mark r., 704, 781, see San Marco r. St. Martin's isl., 297 St. Mary's falls, 30, 330, see Sault Ste. Marie St. Michael mission, 65 St. Michael's church, Trenton, civ St. Paul, fort of, 668, see Presidio San Pablo St. Paul ldg., 75 St. Paul, Minn., cxiii, 72, 74, 75, 82, 83, 92, 130, 182, 201, 348; names in directory of 1893, 84,461, are supposed to represent a pop. of 190,262 St. Paul sl., Ia., 41 St. Peter, St. Peter's r., 30, 31, 35, 61, 68, 69, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 82, 197, 199, 200, 202, 226, 227, 231, 232, 233, 234, 242, 243, 244, 257, 258, 260, 264, 267, 309, 310, 316, 342, 343, 344, 346, 347, 348, 349, 356, and see St. Pierre r. St. Philip's, N. M., 616, 752, and see San Felipe St. Pierre, Capt., St. Pierre de, Jacques le Gardeur, St. Pierre Repantigni, 80 St. Pierre or St. Pierre's r., 24, 65, 66, 72, 80, 81, 230, 310, 316, 356, 844, and see St. Peter's r. St. Thereseor r., 707 St. Thomas, Mo., 372 St. Thomas, N. M., 628, see Tomé St. Vrain, Marcellus, 446 Sakawes, Sakawis, 101, see Sac and Sauk Saladoans, 741 Salado r., br. of Gila r., 735, 741 Salado r., br. of Rio Grande in Mex., 691, 776 Salado r., br. of Rio Grande in N. M., 632 Salazar y Larregui, Don J., 644, 646, 647 Salcedo, Don N., xlvii, liv, 411, 655, 656, 657, 658, 659, 661, 662, 663, 664, 667, 675, 683, 689, 690, 702, 771, 810, 811, 812, 813, 814, 815, 817, 818, 820, 821, 822, 823, 825, 828, 830, 832, 837, 839 Salida, Col., 472, 474, 476 Salina, Kas., 403, 404, 405 Salinal, Tex., 690 Salinas mts., 631, 632 Salinas r., or Saline r., Mex., 682, 685 Saline co., Kas., 395, 404, 405 Saline cr., br. of Osage r., 373 Saline cr., or Salt fk. of Ark. r., 552, 553, 554 Saline mts., 632 Saline r., Great, of Kas., 403, 404, 405, 420, 423, 426, 515, 545 Saline r. of Pike, br. of Osage r., 375 Saline r., or Cimarron r., 552, 553, 554 Saline r., or Salt fk. of Ark. r., 552, 553, 554 Saline r., see Salinas r. Saline r., unidentified, 556 Salle, 779, 780, see La Salle Sallison cr., 559 Salmera mt., 638 Salmo namaycush, 297 Salt cr., br. of Osage r., 384 Salt cr., br. of Solomon r., 405, 408, 422 Salt cr., or Salt fk. of Ark. r., 552, 553, 554 Saltelo, Don I., 508, 595, 807 Saltelo, see Saltillo, Mex. Salt fk. of Ark. r., 549, 552, 553, 554, 556, 705 Saltiaux, Saltiers, 30 Saltillo, Mex., 649, 677, 682, 683, 684, 692, 775, 776, 778 Salt mt., 732 Salt r., br. of Gila r., 734, 741 Salt r., br. of Miss. r. in Mo., 7, 211, 290, 355 Salt r., in Kas., 404 Salt r., see Salt fk. of Ark. r. Saltus Astiaius, De Creux, 1684, is the Sault Ste. Marie Saltville, Kas., 422 Salt Works, Col., 469 Samalayuca, 649, 650 Samuel, J., 358 San Ander, see New Santander San Andreas mts., 631, 632, 635, 640 San Antonio camp, Mex., 672 San Antonio cr., 494, 597 San Antonio de Bexar, Tex., liii, 666, 677, 678, 689, 690, 692, 694, 695, 696, 697, 698, 699, 700, 701, 704, 713, 776, 780, 781, 783, 784, 785, 786 San Antonio de Jaral, and cr., 683, 684 San Antonio mt., 597 San Antonio, N. M., 604 San Antonio, N. M., another, 633 San Antonio, Rancho de, on Rio Nasas, 678, 679 San Antonio r., in Tex., 696, 697, 703, 780 San Antonio, Tex., see ditto de Bexar and St. Antonio, Tex. San Augustin co., Tex., 710 San Augustin del Isleta, mission, see Isleta, N. M. San Augustin, Fla., settled 1560 or 1565 San Augustin pass, 640 San Bartolomé, N. M., 616 San Bernardo bay, 781 San Bernilla, N. M., 619 San Blas spr., 672 San Buenaventura de Cochiti, mission, see Cochiti San Buenaventura, fort of, 770 San Carlos Agency, 735, 736 San Carlos mts., 642 San Carlos res., 748 San Carlos r., in Ariz., 735 San Carlos r., in Col., 451, 452 Sanchez, Tex., 690 San Clemente r., 733 San Clemente tract, N. M., 628 San Cruz, 773, see Santa Cruz, Ariz. Sand Bank cr. of Lewis and Clark, 17 Sandbank cr. of Pike, 18 Sand-bank pra., 21 Sand bay of Pike, 18 Sand cr., br. of Fountain r., in Col., 452 Sand cr., in Crow Wing co., Minn., 131 Sand cr., in San Luis Valley, Col., 490, 491, 493 Sand cr., near Grand Cañon, in Col., 462 Sand Dunes, 491, 492, 493 Sand Hill pass, 484, 490, 491, 492, 506, 650 Sand Hills, Kas., 439 Sand Hills, Mex., 650 Sandia mts., 615, 616, 618, 619, 631 Sandia pueblo, N. M., 618, 619, 752. The documentary evidence adduced by Meline, pp. 214-220, for "founding" of the place in 1748, does not apply to the orig. founding of Sandia pueblo, but to arrangements for Friar J. M. Menchero's herding there a lot of "converts" (Mokis and others), who he was afraid might get away from him if something remarkable was not done San Diaz mts., 616, 631 San Diaz pueblo, 618, 619 San Diego, Cal., 639 San Diego de Jemes, mission, see Jemez San Diego de Tesuque, mission, see Tesuque San Diego mt., 639 San Diego, N. M., 639 San Dies, see Sandia pueblo Sandival, Sandival's hacienda, 619 Sand l., see Sandy l. San Domingo, Mex., 677 San Domingo, N. M., 613, 614, 615, 616, 617, 752, more often called Santo Domingo, which see Sand or Medano cr., 490, 491, 493 Sand Point r., 63, 65 Sand pra., Ia., 28 Sandusky, Ia., 15 Sandy cr., br. of Cimarron r., 439 Sandy cr., in Wis., 34 Sandy l., 102, 120, 133, 134, 136, 137, 138, 139, 140, 141, 142, 145, 153, 155, 168, 170, 173, 176, 178, 191, 241, 279, 280, 281, 285, 316, 320, 321, 327, 338, 346, 347, 350, 351, 356 Sandy l., near St. Paul, is now called L. Como Sandy Lake rap., 137 Sandy Lake r., 137, 140, 320 Sandy l., unidentified, 173, 174 Sandy pt., 61, 63, 356 Sandy Point cr., 63 Sandy r., see Sandy Lake r. Sandy r., tributary to Leech l., 153 San Elceario, Elizario, Tex., 643 San Estévan de Acoma, mission, see Acoma San Felipe, N. M., 616, 617, 618, 621, 745, 752, on west side of Rio Grande since 1630 San Felipe, N. M., old, 617 San Fernandez de Taos, N. M., 598 San Fernandez, N. M., 625, 627, 628, and see St. Fernandez, N. M. San Fernando de Rosas, Mex., 691 Sanford's cr., 371 San Francisco, a church, 765 San Francisco, Cal., 736 San Francisco de los Españoles, see Oñate San Francisco del Tigre r., 682 San Francisco de Nambé, mission, see Nambe San Francisco mt., Ariz., 730, 731, 741 San Francisco range or divide, Ariz., 741 San Francisco r., 741 San Francisco r., another, in Ariz., is Rio Verde San Gabriel, N. M., see Oñate San Geronimo de Taos, mission of Taos Sanglante r., 332 Sangonet, Mr., 573 Sangre de Cristo mts., 359, 444, 445, 448, 463, 474, 475, 479, 482, 483, 484, 485, 486, 487, 488, 490, 491, 492, 493, 706, 848 Sangre de Cristo pass, 492, 494 Sang Sue, Sangsue l., 122, 141, 240, 241, 319, 350 Sangue Sue br. or fk., 151 Sangue Sue l., 152 Sanguinet, Chas., jr., 573 San Ildefonso, N. M., 605, or pueblo of Poojoge, existent since 1598 San Jeronimo, Mex., liv, 660 San José, Col., 596 San José de Pelayo hacienda, 673 San Josef de la Laguna, mission, see Laguna, N. M. San José, mission, Tex., 697, 698 San José, N. M., various places, 601, 604, 633, 637 San José r., br. of Rio Puerco, 630, 745 San José sta., in Chihuahua, 651 San Juan Bautista, Mex., 770 San Juan castle, 722 San Juan [de Ulúa], 722 San Juan, first capital of N. M., 756 San Juan, Mex., 677, 680 San Juan mts., 492, 494, 595, 596, 622 San Juan, N. M., 600, 601, 602, 603, 604, 605, 606, 743; mission there more fully called San Juan de los Caballeros San Juan range, see ditto mts. San Juan r., in Mex., 682, 685, 692, 776 San Juan r., N. M. and Utah, 630, 731, 746, may be that indicated on Pike's map by the legend "Land seen by Father ... Escalante in 1777" San Juan road, in Col., 469 San Lorenzo de Picuries, mission at Picuris, N. M. San Lorenzo el Real treaty, 656 San Lorenzo hacienda, 681, 682, 777 San Lorenzo, in Coahuila, 777 San Lorenzo, on Rio Nasas, 677 San Lorenzo r., in Sinaloa, 774 San Luis cr. or r., 482, 491, 496 San Luis lakes, hills, park, 492, 493, 494, 497, 596 San Luis Potosí, liii, liv, 719, 720, 722, 723, 724, 725, 775, 800 San Luis r., see do. cr. San Luis valley, lv, 474, 484, 490, 491, 492, 493, 494, 495, 497, 641 San Marcia, N. M., 634 San Marco or Marcos r., 703, 704, 781 San Marcos or Yaatze, N. M., 18 m. S. S. W. of Santa Fé, pop. 600 in 1680 San Mateo mts., pk., 637 San Miguel bayou, 712 San Miguel, N. M., 640, 737 San Miguel r., br. of Dolores r., 732 San Miguel r., br. of Sonora r., 771, 774 San Miguel r., in Tex., 696 San Miguel's church, in present Santa Fé, N. M., represents the younger one of two Indian pueblos which occupied that site; this one had a pop. of 700 in 1630 San Oreille, Oriel, see Sans Oreille San Pablo, Mex., 668, 770 San Pablo r., 668 San Pascual mt., 633, 634 San Patricio bayou, 712 San Paubla, Mex., 770 San Paubla r., 668, 762 San Pedro de Jaquesua r. of Garces, 1775-76, is the Colorado Chiquito: see Jasquevilla r. San Pedro, N. M., 633 San Pedro r., br. of Gila r., 639, 735 San Pedro r., in Chihuahua, 668, 669, 762 San Pedro r., in Tex., 697 San Philip de Queres, 616, and see San Felipe San Rafael, Col., 596 San Rafael r., 730, 732 San Rosa, see Santa Rosa Sansamani, 347 Sans Bois cr., 559 San Sebastian, 677, 678 Sans Nerve, a chf., 591 Sans Oreille, Orielle, a chf., 370, 371, 377, 382, 392, 393, 394, 396, 528, 591 Santa Ana, N. M., 745 Santa Barbara, 638 Santa Clara cr., 605 Santa Clara, N. M., 605, on site of Kapoa, a pueblo existent since 1598 Santa Cruz, Ariz., 773 Santa Cruz de Rosales, 668 Santa Cruz, N. M., 605, 606 Santa Cruz r., 734, 735, 773 Santa Eulalia, 764 Santa Fé mts., 606, 736 Santa Fé, Fe, Fee, N. M., xli, xlvii, lii, lvi, 359, 405, 413, 414, 424, 426, 429, 437, 438, 446, 498, 499, 500, 502, 503, 504, 505, 509, 517, 544, 558, 563, 571, 574, 583, 586, 588, 595, 596, 597, 604, 605, 606, 607, 608, 609, 610, 611, 612, 613, 614, 615, 619, 622, 623, 627, 633, 639, 640, 641, 643, 729, 737, 738, 739, 740, 745, 746, 753, 755, 756, 758, 764, 807, 809, 816, 819, 820, 823, 828, 829, 831, 849, 850, 851, see Fort Marcy, Oñate, Juan de, and San Miguel's church Santa Fé r. or cr., 606, 607, 613, 614 Santa Fé road, route, trail, old caravan, etc., 401, 424, 425, 429, 433, 446, 517, 518, 519, 520, 521, 522 Santa Maria, Juan de, Franciscan friar at locality of Bernalillo, N. M., in 1580 Santa Maria l., 650, 776 Santa Maria mts., 730 Santa Maria r., 730, so named by Garces, 1775-76 Santa Mayara, 677 Santa Rita, 670 Santa Rosa, 679, 775, 777, 779 Santa Rosalia, Mex., 669, 670 Santa Teresa r., 707 Santa Teresa, Tex., 643 Santego, Santiago r., 720 Santo Domingo, audience of, 718 Santo Domingo, N. M., 615, 745. Before Oñate, 1598, Santo Domingo was on Arroyo de Galisteo, more than 1 m. E. of present Wallace; was partly washed out by a freshet; inhabitants moved further W. and built another pueblo, similarly destroyed. Next built on Rio Grande, and likewise wiped out. Present town has had three such disasters in 200 years, last in 1886, when its churches were demolished. (F. W. Hodge, in letter, 1895.) San Tomas, N. M., 628 Santo Tomas de Abiquiu, mission, see Abiquiu San Xavier del Bac, 735. _Bac_ is a corruption of Piman word _bat-ki_, "old house" San Xavier r., 730, 732 Sapah Watpa, 52 sapin, 132, 318, 321 Sappah r., 52 Sappho, 67 sap pine, 132, 318, 320, 321 Saque, Saques, 303, 346, 347, see Sac Inds. and Sauk Sarah Ann isl., 4 Saramende, Don P. R., 651 Saskashawan, Saskatchewan r., 256, 278 Sassassaouacotton, 101 Sassicy-Woenne rap., 144 Satterfield, Mo., 12 Satterfield's cr., 12 Sauceda, Mex., 684 Saucier, François, 3, 214 Saucier, French engineer, 531 Saucillo, Mex., 668, 669 Sauerwein's woodyard, 18 Sauk raps., 100, 101, 193, 315 Sauk, Saukee Inds., 101, 338, 339, 341, 346, 347, see Sac Inds., and Sacs and Foxes Sauk, Saukes r., 101, 315, 356 Sault de St. Antoine, 91 Sault de Ste. Marie, 30 Sault du Gaston, 30 Saulteurs, Saulteux, 30 Sault Ste. Marie, 330, 349 Sauteaux Inds., 297, 299, 303, 306 Sauteaux, r., br. of Minnesota r., 316 Sauteaux, Sauteur r., br. of Miss. r., 60, 279, 305, 306, 307, 355 Sauteurs, 30, 31, 346, 347 Sautiaux r., 60 Sautiers, 30 Saut St. Antoine, 91 Sauz, Mex., 654 Savanna, Ill., 27 Savanna isl., 27 savanna partridge, 175 Savanna r., br. of Miss. r., 138 Savanna, Savannah r., feeder of Sandy l., 138, 321, 330, and see West do. Savanna, Savannah r., see East do. Savary, a writer, 621 Saverton, Mo., 8 Savinal, N. M., 629 Sawatch range, 469, 471, 479, 483, 492 Sawk, Sawkee, 101, 346, 347, see Sauk Saw-mill cr., 429 Sawyer co., Wis., 309 Sawyer r., 289 sawyers, 12 Say and Calhoun, 92 Sayers, John, 139, 168 Say, Thos., 41, 330 Scalops aquaticus, 97 scalp, scalp incident, scalping, xcvii, xcviii Scalp l., 317 Scammon, E. P., 334 Scandia, Republic co., Kas., 411, is given by N. L. Prentis as "traditional" site of Pike's Pawnee village, but I doubt it; seems decidedly too far S. E. Schell City, Mo., 385 Schenectady barges, 223 Schiras, see Shiras Schoolcraft co., Mich., 296 Schoolcraft, H. R., 36, 63, 85, 92, 101, 127, 128, 129, 143, 147, 148, 150, 153, 156, 157, 158, 159, 161, 162, 163, 169, 170, 176, 199, 309, 314, 317, 324, 326, 327, 328, 329, 330, 331, 335, 338 Schoolcraft isl., 166, 167, 332 Schoolcraft r., 162, 334 Schwanders, Col., 469 Schweidnitz, lxvi Scioux, see Sioux Scipio r., 9 Scirpus lacustris, 325 scorpions, 763 Scotland, xlv Scotland co., Mo., 12 Scott, Capt. John, lxxxvi Scott, Capt. M., 37, 38, 41 Scott co., Ia., 24, 25, 26, 293 Scott, Gen. W., lv, 45, 84 Scott, Lieut. John, lxxxvi Scott pt., 296 Scott purchase, 45 Scott's ldg., 7 Scourge, a ship, lxxxiii Scranton, Kas., 520 Scribner's Sons, xlviii Scrub Oak r., 127 Seaman's isl., 41 Sea of the North, 310 Sea People, 31 Search, Mo., 377 Search's isl., 2 Searles, Mr., 164 Searles, O. O., 123 Sea, Sgt., 712 Seaton, see Gales and Sebastian co., Ark., 559 Second cr. of Pike, 105, 123 Second Dragoon cr., 520 Second fk. of Ark. r., 445, 463 Second raps. of Nicollet, 100 Second r., 324 Second Saline r., 545 Seco r., 696 Secretary of State, xlii Secretary of the Navy, xcviii, ci Secretary of War, xx, xxi, xxix, l, li, lvii, lx, lxi, lxiii, lxiv, lxv, lxvi, lxvii, lxxiii, lxxix, xcvii, ci, 564, 567, 575, 585, 841, 842, 845, 851, 853, 855 Sedalia, Warsaw, and Southern R. R., 379 Sedgwick, Capt. T., xxvi, xxvii Sedgwick co., Kas., 548 Seemunah, 745 Seguna, 629, see Laguna, N. M. Seignelay, Marquis de, 3, 70, 312 Seignelay r., 3 Selden cañon, 639 Selkirk, Lord, 118 Selkirkshire, xlv Sellers sta., N. M., 638 Sel r., 7, 355 Seltzer spr., 452 Semerone r., 552, 553, 554 Senate, U. S., 231, 236, 238 Senora, see Sonora Septuagint, 182 Sequimas, 630, see Cequimas Servilleta, Col., 596, 598 Sesabagomag l. and r., 135, 136 Seseetwawns, 313 Seven Cities of Cibola, 630, 742 Seven Lakes, 456 Seven Mile cr., 470 Seventh rap. of Nicollet, 131 Severn r., lxxv Sevier l. and r., 732, 733, 734 Sevilleta, Sibilleta of Pike, was a Piro Indian village, so named by Oñate in 1598 from fancied resemblance to Seville in Spain Seymour, S., 41 Sezei, see Lisa Shackleford co., Tex., 706 Shaff's cr., 429 Shahkpay, Shahkpaydan, 88 Shakea, 69, 348 Shakeska, 349 Shakopee, Minn., 88, 342 Shakpa, 88, 348 Shannon, a ship, cv Shannon co., Mo., cx Sharpsdale, Col., 492 Shawanese, 526, 591 Shawanoe, 180, 186, 187, 189, 193, 347 Shawanoe hunter, 780 Shaw cr., 385 Shaw, G. W., 334 Shawinukumag cr., 167 Shaw, Maj. Gen., xcii Shawnee, Shawnee Agency, Kas., 519 Shawonese, 191, see Shawanese Sheaffe, R. H., lxxviii, lxxxviii, xc, xci, xcii, xcv, xcvi, xcvii, c, cii Shea, J. G., 5, 23, 65, 71, 91, 95, 312 sheep, wild, 438 Shell Lake, Minn., 318 Shell r., 669 Shell Rock cañon, 443 Shell Rock cr., 22 Shelton's isl., 365 Shem, a mythical person, 56 Shenga Wassa, 551, 591 Shenoma, 744 Shenouskar, 347 Shepherd, Ill., 8 Shepherd r., 365 Shepherd's cr., 365 Sherburne co., Minn., 96, 97 Sherlock, Kas., 440 Shiba l., 331 Shichoamavi, 744 Shienne r., 349 Shields' br., 2 Shikagua cr., 18 Shingle cr., 94 Shinumo, 744 Shipauliwisi, 744 Shipley, Mo., 370 Shiras, Lieut. P., xxvi, xxvii Shiuano is Zuñians' name of their country Shiwina, 742 Shoemaker, Capt. P., xxvi, xxvii, xxix Shokauk cr. or r., 18 Shokokon sl., 18, 19 Shongapavi, 744 Shooter, a chf., is Wacouta Shooters at Leaves, 349 Shoshonean, 731, 735, 743, 744, 746 Shoshones, 341 Shouchoir pt., 296 Shumepovi, Shumopavi, 744, is Pike's Songoapt Shupaulovi, 744 Shute de la Roche Peinture, 123, 316 Shute de St. Antoine, 356 Sia, 604, 745 Sibilant l., named by Brower from its shape of the sibilant letter S Sibilleta, N. M., 628, 632, 739, see Sevilleta Sibley, Dr., 77, 559, 705, 706, 708, 709, 711, 713, 714, 785, 835 Sibley, Gen. H. H., 40, 76, 86, 204, 239, 333 Sibley l., 129 Sibley, Mo., 520 Sibley, Mr., U. S. Commissioner, 518 Sibola, 742 Sichumovi, 744 Siegfried cr., 166, named by Brower for A. H. Siegfried Sienega, Sieneguilla, see under C Sierra Blanca, Col., 448, 483, 493 Sierra Blanca, N. M., 631 Sierra Christopher, 632, 633, 639 Sierra co., Cal., cx Sierra co., N. M., 637, 638 Sierra de el Sacramento, 631 Sierra de Guadalupe, 631 Sierra de la Cola, 640 Sierra de las Mimbres, 674 Sierra de los Caballos, 635, 637, 638 Sierra de los Cosninas, 731 Sierra de los Organos, 631 Sierra de Tampanagos, 738 Sierra la Sal, 732 Sierra Madre, 733, 761, 762, 764 Sierra Magdalena, 632 Sierra Magillez, 632 Sierra Obscura, Oscura, 631, 632 Sierra Verde, 733 siesta, 660 Sieur Dacan, d'Acau, d'Accault, d'Ako, 64 Signal butte, 744 Silla, 745 Silver Cliff, Col., 482, 483, 484 Silver cr., Col., 483 Silver cr., Kas., 401 Silver cr., Minn., 98, 99 Silver Creek Siding, Minn., 99 silver mines, 759, 760, 761 Simcoe, Gov. J. G., lxxvi, lxxvii Simcoe l., lxxv Simpson, Kas., 408 Simpson, Lieut. J. H., 598, 615, 619, 630, 645 Sinaloa, city, 774 Sinaloa r., 774 Sinaloa, State, 719, 726, 739, 740, 759, 770, 773, 774, 775 Sinecu pueblo, 643 Singonki-sibi, 143 Singuoako r., 132 Sinipee, Sinipi, Sinope, Ia., 32 Sinsinawa, Sinsinaway, Sinsinniwa, Sissinaway cr. or r., 28, 32 Siouan, 345, 412, 559 Sioux, passim throughout Pt. 1, esp. 30, 31, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 50, 82, 91, 341, 342, 343, 344, 345, 346, 347, 348, 349, 352, 353, 354, passim in Pt. 2, 744, 746, see also following Sioux-Chippewa boundary, 72, 101 Sioux councils, 83, 84, 207 Sioux l., 313 Sioux of the Prairie, 81 Sioux outbreak of 1862, 85 Sioux, Pike's speech to, 46 Sioux r., 95, 313 Sioux r. of Beltrami, 97 Sioux sl., 41 Sioux treaty, Pike's, 227, 231, 233, 234, 235, 236, 237, 238, 239 Sioux village, old, 348 Sipans, 746, see Lipans Sirens, The, 126 Sisibakwet l., 147 Sisitoans, Sisitonwans, Sissetons, Sissitons, 120, 208, 313, 343, 345, 346, 347, 348, 349 Sister bluffs, 297 Sitgreaves, Capt. L., 645 Sivola is Cibola Six, a chf., 88, 348 Six Mile cr., Col., 462 Six Mile cr., Ill., 6 Six Mile cr., Kas., 401 Sixth rap. of Nicollet, 126 Sketch of Arkansas journey, 845 to 854 Skidis, 412 Skin cr., 559 Skunk r., 18 slack-rope, 694 Slate cr., br. of Ark. r., 549 Slate or Martin's cr., 465 Slater's ferry, 96 Slave l., 278 Slave r., 278, 376 Sleepy-eye, 99 Slim chute and isl., 6 Small, C. H., preface, 453, 454 smallpox, 170, 171 Smallpox cr., 28, 29 Small pra. of Pike, 12 Small rap. of Nicollet, 142 Small Saline r., 545 Smith, Geo., 182 Smith, J. Calvin, 554 Smith, Lieut. or Gen. Thos. A., 715, 827 Smith, Luther R., preface Smith, Pvt. Pat., 1, 359, 360, 432, 481, 482, 490, 506, 509, 510, 612, 845, 854, 855 Smith's Canada, lxxix Smith's chain, 25 Smithsonian Institution, xx Smith, W. F., 645 Smoking mt., 723 Smoky Hill buttes, 404 Smoky Hill fk. or r., 395, 403, 404, 405, 408, 410, 419, 420, 423, 424, 426, 473, 515, 541, 545, 584 Smoky Hill route, 425, 426, 429 Snag r., 289 Snake cr., 556 Snake Inds., 341, 743 Snake r., br. of Rio Grande, 494 Snake r., br. of St. Croix r., 95 Snelling, Col. J., 83, 330 Snelling, W. J., 84, 330 Snibar, Sniabar, 6 snicarty, 6, 7, 8, 11, 41, 42, 51 Snively, Col., 439 Snow mts. of Pike, 483 snowshoes, lxix Sny carte, Sny levee, 6 Sny Magill, 34 Soaking mt., 54 Soap cr., 375 Sobaipuri, 735 Socorro co., N. M., 628, 637 Socorro grant, 633 Socorro mts., 632 Socorro, N. M., 632, 633, old pueblo destroyed 1681, and new town founded 1817 Socorro, Tex., 643 Soda Springs, Col., 483 soft-shelled turtles, 539 Soldat de Chien, 591 Soldier of the Oak, a chf., 541 Soldier's cr., 520 Soldier's Dog, a chf., 591 Solferino, Ia., 15 Solomon r., 403, 404, 405, 408, 420, 421 Sombrerito, Mex., 674 Son, and Holy Ghost r., see Father, etc. Songaskitons, Songasquitons, 312, 313 Songoapt, 731, 743, is Shumopavi Songukumigor, 134 Son in Law, a chf., 591 Son of Waters, 289 Sonora, city, 772 Sonora, Ill., 15 Sonora, military force of, 772, 773 Sonora r., 771, 773 Sonora, Senora, State, 649, 651, 653, 678, 719, 726, 727, 735, 739, 740, 756, 759, 761, 766, 769, 770, 771, 772, 773, 774, 775 Soone, 742 Sossabegoma-sibi of Beltrami is Sesabagomag r. Soters, 30 Soulard, A. P., 9, 226 Souris r., 168 South America, 791, 804 South Arkansaw r., 472, 474 South Big cr., 399 South br. or fk. of Miss. r., or Leech Lake br., 151 South Cheyenne cr., 452 South Coon cr., 550 Southern Caddoan, 714 Southern California, 776 Southern California R. R., 731 Southern Ute res., 748 South Fabius r., 10 South fk. of Ark. r., 482 South fk. of Miss. r., or Plantagenian Source, 162, 331 South Fritz isl., 7 South Kansas R. R., 519 South mts. of Pike, or Wet mts., 462 South Oil cr., 465 South park, Col., xlviii, 452, 463, 464, 465, 466, 467, 468, 469, 477, 480, 642, 757 South Park, Kas., 519 South Park, Minn., 74 South Platte r., 451, 464, 465, 466, 467, 468, 473, 524, 642, 729, 847 South Point isl., 363 South Point, Mo., 363 South Pueblo, Col., 452, 453 South Sea, 720, 721, 727 South Two Rivers, Mo., 10 Soutors, 30 Spain, 213, 501, 502, passim in Pts. 2 and 3, as 727, 808, 810, 811, 821, 823, 850, see New Spain, Spaniards, Spanish Spalding, D., 358 Spaniards, 227, 229, 254, passim in Pt. 2, and throughout Pt. 3 Spanish America, 802 Spanish-American diplomacy, 803 Spanish bayonet, 776 Spanish beggary, 791 Spanish cavalry, 795 Spanish chain on Miss. r., 15 Spanish costumes, 788 Spanish courts-martial, 799 Spanish ecclesiasticism, 801 Spanish games, 789 Spanish influence over Pawnees, 535, 537, 543, 544 Spanish Inds., 535, 538, and see pueblos in general Spanish insurrection, 804 Spanish l., 713 Spanish manufactures, 791 Spanish military force, see Spanish troops Spanish peaks, 448 Spanish politics, 802 Spanish principles of military authority, 800 Spanish relations to the U. S., 805 Spanish revenues, 791, 792 Spanish spies, 503 Spanish troops, 794, 795, 796, 797 Sparks, Capt. R., 412, 558, 710 Sparks, Jared, xix, lxvi Sparks, Pvt. John, xlvi, 1, 12, 54, 56, 108, 110, 113, 114, 115, 119, 179, 245, 246, 359, 368, 373, 377, 380, 420, 425, 432, 461, 462, 472, 482, 485, 486, 487, 490, 505, 506, 509, 510, 845, 854, 855 Spatularia spatula, 5 Spearville, Kas., 434 speeches, Chippewa chfs. to Pike, 259 speeches, Inds. to Pike, 266, 267, 268 speeches, Pike to Sioux, 46, 226 speech, Pike to Puants, 265 speech, Pike to Sauteaux, 254 Spencer's cr. and isl., 25 Spikebuck, Col., 476 Spirit hill, 53 Spirit l., Devil's l., N. Dak., 314 Spirit l., Mille Lacs l., Minn., 314 Spirit l., small one, Minn., 314 Split Hand r., 143 Spofford, A. R., preface, xxxiv spoon-billed cat, 5 Spring butte, 744 Spring cr., br. of Cannon r., 70 Spring cr., br. of Grape cr., 485 Spring cr., br. of Miss. r., 18 Spring cr., br. of Mulberry cr., 404 Spring Lake sl., 6 Spring rap., 98 Spring Ridge, Spring Ridge cr., 165, so named by Brower Spring runs, several, 465 spruce, 101, 102 Spruce cr., 18 spruce partridge, 175 Spunk brook or r., 103, 184 Squaw cr., 472, 474 Squaw isl., 4 Stabber, a chf., 361 Stag cr., 403, 404 Stag isl., 5 Staked plains, 707 stampede, 783 Standing Buffalo, a chf., 349 Standing Cedars, 72, 101 Standing Elk or Moose, a chf., 87, 240 Standing Rock r., 67 Starca, Stasca, in Schoolcraft, 1855, stand for Itasca Stars and Stripes up, c State Dept., 239 State papers, 840 State Park, Itascan, Minn., 164, 329 States, The, where left, 518, 519 Statistical Abstract, 589, 590, 591 Statutes at Large, 11 Stavely, J. W., 9 Stearns co., Minn., 99, 100, 102 Stephens l., 147, 148 Stephensonville, Ill., 24 Steuben, Baron F. W. A. H. F. von, lxvi, lxviii Steuben, Steubenville, lxvi Stevenson, Col. Jas., 742 Stinkards, Stinkers, 31, 39 Stinkers' bay, 298 Stinkers' l., 300 Stinking cr., 13 Stinking l., 340 Stinking rap., 356 Stirling, Capt., 214 Stirling isl., 5 Stirling, Mo., 5 stockade on Conejos r., 495, 496, 497 stockade on Swan r., 105, 106, 107 Stockbridge and Brotherton, 300 Stockholm, Minn., 62, 63 Stoddard co., Mo., cxi Stoddard cr., 49 Stoddard, Minn., 49 Stone of Fruit, a chf., 347 Stone Sioux, 348, 354 Stoney, see Stony Stony brook or cr. enters Miss. r. in Stearns co., Minn., 1 m. S. of town line 126-27 Stony cr., in La., 713 Stony or Stoney r., 24, 32, 210, 293, 355 Stony Point, Sac village, 210 Stoute, Pvt. F., 1, 359, 432, 476, 482, 490, 510, 845, 854, 855 Strawberry isl., 298 Strawberry r., 306 Strong Ground, a chf., 134 Strong, Lt.-Col. D., xxvi, xxvii Strong, Maj. E., 715 Stuben, see Steuben Stump l., 58 Sturgeon bay, 297, 298 Sturgeon l., 73 Stygian caverns, 201 Sucre, a chf., 259, 260, 347, 351 Sues, 346, 347, see Sioux Sugar cr., in Ia., 16, 17 Sugar cr., in Mo., 372 Sugar cr., in Wis., 42 Sugar-loaf hill, 55 sugar maple, 157 Sugar pt., 156, 157 suicide, 66 Suicide cr., 556 Suinyi, 630, 742 Suisinawa cr., 32 Sully, Duc de, 182 Sulphur spr., 468 Sumbraretto, 674 Sumner, Col. E. V., 425 Sumner co., Kas., 549 Sunday Cone, 638 Sune, 742 Sun isl., 103 sun-temples, 741 Suppai, Supai, forms of Havasupai Susma, 650 Sussitongs, 120, 121, 197, 258, 263, 267, 343, 344, 345, 346, 347 Suter, Maj. C. R., 295, 299 Suycartee sl., 6 Swallows, Col., 460 Swallow's Nest, 383 Swamp l., 131, 177 Swan l., 321 Swan, Maj. Wm., lxxx, lxxxi Swan r., Aitkin co., Minn., 143, 321, 356 Swan r., Morrison co., Minn., 17, 99, 101, 104, 106, 122, 132, 178, 179, 186, 193, 315, 316, 318 Swan r. of Allen, by error, 124 Swan River P. O., Minn., 123 Swan River tp., Minn., 103, 104, 122 Swan sl., 6 Sweden isl., 4 Sweet, a chf., 156, 157, 168, 172, 260, 347 Sweetland cr., 23 Sweetwater cr., 470 Swift cr., 483 Swift, Dean, 204 Swift sl., 6 Switzerland, 454 Switzerland of America, 472 Switzler's cr., 518, 520 Sycamore chain, 25 syenite, 73 Sylvain, L. P., preface, xcii, xcv Sylvan isl., 25 Sylvan Lake sta., Minn., 129 syn[oe]cias, 741 syphilization, 736 Syracuse, Kas., 441 T Tabasco, 718, 722 Tabeau creeks, see Big and Little Tachies, Tachus, 709 Tacokoquipesceni, 86 Tacubaya, 803 Tahama, Tahamie, 87, 88, 347 Tahkookeepayshne, 86 Tahma cr., 23 Tahtawkahmahnee, 88 Tahuglauk, 68 Takopepeshene, 86, 348 Talahsee cr., 477 Talangamene, 69, 347 talc, 729 Taliaferro l., 131 Taliaferro, Maj. L., 83, 84, 89, 330 333 Tallahassa, Tallahassee cr., 477 Tamahaw, 87 Tamalisieu, 288 tamarac, 319 Tamaulipas, 692, 722, 724, 725, 775, 776 Tamaya, 745 Tammahhaw, 87 Tammany, 411 Tampa, Kas., 402, 403 Tampanagos l., 738 Tampico, 724 Tanakaways, 705 Tancards, 705, 706, 785 Tandy, D. C., 358 Tandy, R. E., 358 Tankahuas, Tanks, 705 Tanner, H. S., 553, 554 Tañoan pueblos, 598, 601, 604, 605, 615, 619, 643, 737, 742, 743, 744, 752 Tanos, 653 Taoapa, 88, 348 Taos co., N. M., 598 Taos cr., 598 Taoses mt., 598 Taos, N. M., xlvii, 438, 446, 453, 598, 606, 607, 618, 739, 745, 758, discovered 1541 by Barrionuevo of Coronado's army Taos r., 598 Taos valley, 492 Taoyatidoota, 85 Tapage, 412 Tapatui, 288 Tapoueri Inds., 48 Taracone Apaches, see Faraone Tarehem, 591 Target l., 50 tariff of prices in exchange, 283 Tascodiac l., 160 Tassé, 194 Tatamane, Tatamene, 203, 347 Tatanga, _i. e._, Buffalo Sioux, named first in Radisson's Journal, pub. by Prince Society of Boston Tatangamani, 69, 342 Tatangashatah, 347 Tatankanaje, 349 Tatanka Yuteshane, 349 Tate cr., 400 tattoo, 72 Tatunkamene, 69 Taucos is found for Tewa Tau-formed peninsula, 153 Taui is Taos Tavern cr., 363, 369 Tavern, The, 363 Tawangaha, 591 Tawanima, 559 Taxidea americana, 96, 432 Taxus, 709 Taylor co., Wis., 52 Taylor isl., 8 Taylor, Z., 17, 45, 725 Tcawi, 412 Tchahtanwahkoowahmane, Tchaypehamonee, 85 Tchikun, 748 Tchishi, 748 Teabo creeks, see Big and Little Teakiki r., 3 Tears, Lake of, 65 Tebo creeks, see Big and Little Tebo r., br. of Mo. r., 379 Tecumseh st., Toronto, lxxviii Teepeeota pt., 59, 60 Tegatha was a name of Taos Teguan, 744 Teissier, 779 Tell, Wm., 289 Tempe, Ariz., 741 Teneriffe, Peak of, 461 Ten Mile cr., br. of Blue r., 471 Ten Mile cr., br. of Bull cr., 519 Ten Mile cr., br. of Oil cr., 465 Tennai, 746 Tennessee, liii, liv, cxi, 691, 694 Tennessee fk. of Ark. r., 471 Tennessee r., 656 Tepeedotah, Tepeeota pt., 59, 60 tequesquite, 654 Terenate, 772 Terre Beau, 379 Tesugue, Tesuque, 605, 606, 625 Tetankatane, 348 Tetans or Tetaus, 407, 412, 413, 441, 449, 459, 526, 535, 536, 537, 563, 566, 570, 571, 574, 587, 588, 590, 591, 592, 600, 620, 744, 745, 756, 778 Tête du Mort, des Morts cr., 28 Tetilla pk., 614 Tetoans, 349 Tetobasi, 528, 591 Tetons, 343, 346, 347 Tewa, Tewan, 744 Texan expedition of 1841, 739, 765 Texas, xxxii, lii, liii, 436, 559, 560, 640, 641, 642, 643, 644, 645, 661, 678, continuously from 690 to 711, 719, 724, 725, 726, 727, 746, 775, 777, 778, 779, and to 786 Texas cr., in Col., 475, 483 Texas Creek sta., Col., 475 Texican, 709 Texus, lii Teyde, Pico de, 461 Tharp, Sgt., 712 Theakiki r., 3 Thequaio l., 738 Thequao, A. de, 738 Thermopylæ, 571 Thermopylæ of Texas, 698 Thieves' isl., 21 Thinthonhas, 313 Third fk. of Ark. r., 451, 463 Third rap. of Nicollet, 101 Third r., 324 Third River bay, 324 Thirty-nine Mile mt., 464, 465 Thomas, a chf., 180, 181, 184, 187, 189, 196 Thomason's, Ill., 4 Thomomys talpoides, 97 Thompson, a writer, lxxix Thompson, David, 138, 139, 159, 167, 168, 278 Thompson gulch, 471 Thompson, Ill., 27 Thompson isl., 18 Thompson, Prof. A. H., preface Thompson, R. F., preface, 11, 553 Thornberry r., 324 Thousand isls., 99, 100, 120, 192, 193 Thousand-lakes l., 312, 313 Three Brothers, 8 Three Rivers, Canada, 296 Three Rivers mt., Mex., 685 Three Rivers pass, 685 Three Rocks sta., N. M., 597 Thundering rap., 144 Thunder l., 155 Thunder mt. is the high Zuñi mesa called Toyoalana Thurman cr., 400 Thwaites, R. G., preface Tiburon isl., 771 Ticorilla is Buschmann's form of Jicarilla Tierra Amarilla, 597 Tierra Blanca, 650 Tierra Caliente, 722 Tierra Fria, 722 Tiger, Tigre r., 682, 725 Tijeras cañon, 619 Tijera, Tijeras cr., 619, 626 Tilden's isl., 6 Tilia americana, 315 Tillier, Mr., 567 Timbered Hill, 385, said to be named for one Henri de Tiembre, also called Brushy Mound Timpa, Timpas cr., 446, 447 Timpanagos l., 733, 738 Tintonbas, Tintonhas, Tintons, 313 Tioscaté, 77 Tipiota, 59 Tipisagi, 36 Tippet's ldg., 45, 48 Tippin and Streeper, 649 Titoan, Titongs, Titonwans, 343, 344, 345, 346, 347 Tkanawe, see Kyanawe Tlahualila l., 673 Tlascala, 718, 721, 722 Toas, see Taos Todd co., Minn., 128 Todos Santos, 706 toise, 540 Toluca, 721 Tomahawk cr., 519 Tomaw, 180, 347, and see Carron Tomb r., 71 Tomé Grant, 629 Tomé hill, 628 Tomé, N. M., 628 Tomé ranches, 628 Tomichi r., 471 Tompkins ldg., 7 Tongue pt., 324 Tonkawa, Tonkawan, 705, 706 Tonnere, Tonnerre Rouge, 208, 267, 270, 343, 344, 347 Tonnerre qui Sonne, 347 Tons, see Taos Tonti, H. de, 560, 714 Tonti, L., 560 Tontine insurance, 560 Tonto Apaches, 748 Tonto basin, 748 Tonty, H. de, 560 Tonuco sta., N. M., 639 Toolsboro, Ia., 23 Topeka Commonwealth, xlvii Topeka, Kas., xlvii Topeka, Minn., 125, 179 Topeka, Saline, and Western R. R., 521 Torch r., 306 Toronto bay, lxxv, lxxvii Toronto l., lxxv Toronto, Ont., lxxiv, lxxv, lxxvi, lxxvii, 168, 278 Torreon, Mex., 677, 679 Tortugas, N. M., 640 Totonteac, 744 Touche de la cote Bucanieus, 423 touchwood, 103 Tourmansara, 391 Tous, see Taos Tousac, 621, 625. Of the alternatives given in the text, 625, it seems most probable we are to take for Pike's Tousac the next village below Atrisco, _i. e._, Pajarito, and that Atrisco was the place where he met Dr. Robinson Towa for Iowa in Hugh Murray, 1829 Towaiotadootah, 85 Tower, The, 679 Toyac r., 710, 782, 784, see Atoyac and under Rio Toyoalana, Zuñian name of Thunder mt. Trachyte, Trackite Knob, 465 Tracy l., 310 trade, etc., 739, 766, 791 Trainer, alias Henderson, 693 Tramha, Trampas, Tranpa, 606 transcontinental route, 523, 731, 732 Trappist monks and r., 13 Traverse of Lake Pepin, 61, 65 Travers, Traverse l., on Miss. r., 161 Travers, Traverse l., on Red r., 118, 349 treaty, Mr. Jay's, 247 Treaty of Fontainebleau, 213, 657 Treaty of Paris, 213, 657 Treaty of Prairie du Chien, 36 Treaty with Sacs and Foxes, 11 Treaty with Sioux, Pike's, 231, 239 Trego co., Kas., 404 Trejos, N. M., 629 Trempealeau co., Wis., 52, 53 Trempealeau r., 54, 56, 58, 305, 307 Trempealeau, Wis., 52, 53, 55 Trenton, N. J., xx, lix, civ Trenton, Wis., 70 Tres Piedras, N. M., 597 Tres Rios, Monte de los, 685 Treviño, Mex., 685 Trimbelle r., 73 Trinchera cr., 494, 497, 507 Trinchera mt., 445 Trinidad r., 707, 708 Trinidad, Tex., 708 Trinity r., 696, 703, 706, 707, 708, 710, 779, 781, 782, 784, 786 Trinity, Tex., 708 Trinity, The, 707 Trionyx ferox, 539 Triplet lakes, near Morrison l. and Whipple l., named by Brower Trompledo, Schlc., 1855, for Trempealeau trout, 297 Trout cr., Col., 469, 471 Trout cr., Itasca co., Minn., 143 Trout Creek pass, 469, 847 Trout Creek Pass hills, 469 Trout cr., Winona co., Minn., 53 Trout cr., Wis., 41 Trout r., 143 Truchas, Truches mt. or pk., 606, 736 Trudeau, Gov. Z., 358 Trujillo, 659 Trumbull, Jonathan, 711 Truro, Col., 465 Truxillo, 659, 839 Trying to Walk is E. trans. of name of Nicollet's guide Gaygwedosay, 1836, who lately died at supposed age of 115 years; portrait published, 1895, by Brower Tsea, 745 Tshiquite, 737 Tsia, 745 Tsuga canadensis, 320 Tubac, Ariz., 771, 773, was an Indian mission about 1699 Tubson, 773 Tucayan, 743, 744 Tucson, Ariz., 639, 734, 773. The orig. Piman rancheria, pop. 331 in 1760-67, became site of a Spanish presidio about 1772, and actual settlement by Spaniards was in 1776. The contention of great antiquity of Tucson as a white settlement is thus a popular myth Tuerto cr., 616 Tulenos, 770 Tulip, see La Tulip Tully, 12 Tully isl., 12 Tumbling rock, 56 Tuque cr., 364 Turk, see Coronado Turkey cr., br. of Ark. r., in Col., 452, 454, 455, 456, 457, 459, 460 Turkey cr., br. of Ark. r. in Okla., 550 Turkey cr., br. of Huerfano r., 491 Turkey cr., br. of Kansas r., 519 Turkey cr., br. of Little Ark. r., in Kas., 518, 522 Turkey cr., br. of Neosho r., 399 Turkey cr., br. of Osage r., 377, 378 Turkey cr., br. of Smoky Hill r., 403 Turkey isl., 381 Turkey r., 32, 34, 293, 294, 339, 355 Turkey's foot, 22, 292 Turkish ladies, 790 Turnbull, Peter, opened a road in Itasca basin, 1882 Turnbull pt., 167, named by Brower for Peter Turnbull, first white resident at L. Itasca Turner, Capt. E. D., xxvii, 725 Turner's, Turner's isl., 5 Turning Point, 297 Turn isl., 356 Turn, The, 356 Turtle brook is Turtle r. near Turtle l., Minn., D. Thompson, 1798 Turtle isl., 8 Turtle l., 161, 332 Turtle mt., 255, 278 Turtle Portage r., 324 Turtle r., 157, 158, 159, 167, 168, 263, 328 Turtle River lakes, 157, 158 turtles, 539 Tusayan, 742 Tuscumbia, Mo., 373 Tuttasuggy, 371, 386, 389, 391, 540, 550, 552, 591 Tuzan, 744 Twin Creek pass, 465 Twin isls., 18 Twin lakes, Col., 471, 472 Twin lakes, Minn., 166, so named by Brower Twin Lakes sta., Col., 471 Twin r., 103 Two Branch, Ill., 4 Two Branch isl., 4 Two Butte cr., 442, 443 Two Creek pass, 465 Two Lakes l., 317 Two Mountains l., 351 Two Rivers Baptist Association, 10 Two Rivers brook, 103 Two Rivers, Minn., 103, 105, 110, see Little Two Rivers, Mo., 10, 11, see North and South Two Rivers tp., Minn., 103 Tympanuchus americanus, 98 Tyrrell, J. B., 168, 278 Tyson's cr., 17 Tzia, 745 Tziguma, old pueblo near Cienega, N. M., pop. under 1000, abandoned after revolt of 1680 U Ugarte, Capt., 698 Ukaqpa, 559 Ulloa, A. d', 214 Ulloa, Count, 357 Ulloa, Francisco de, was first in Gulf of California in 1539 Ultimate Reservoir Bowl, see Greater and Lesser do. Ultima Thule, 457 Ulua, see Ulloa Ulysses, Kas., 439 Umas, 736, see Yuma Inds. Unadilla, N. Y., 405 Una Vida, 630 Uncle Sam, 711 Undine region, 68 Union Avenue, Pueblo, Col., 453, 454 Union gulch, Col., 471 Unionists, 560 Union Jack down, c Union Pacific R. R., 404, 471 United Empire Loyalists, lxxvi United States, 231, 232, 236, 237, 238, 240, 241, 247, 248, 249, 250, 262, 263, 265, 266, 270, 279, 280, 727, 808, 810, 811, 812, 813, 814, 816, 817, 818, 821, 822, 823, 825, 837, 838, 840, 842, 843, 844, 846, 850, 851, 853, 854 United States and Mexican Boundary, 644, 645, 646, 647, 691, 692 United States and New Spain Boundary, 656 United States Geological Survey, 369, 370, 491 United States mt., 606 United States Northern Boundary, 279 upékan is Chip. name of the portage-strap in Wilson's Dict., 1874; see p. 136 Upham sta., N. M., 636 Upper Canada, xxiii, lxxvi, lxxxviii, cii Upper cañon of S. Platte r., 466 Upper chain, 15 Upper chain of Rock r., 25 Upper Cottonwoods, 688 Upper crossing of Ark. r., 439 Upper Ford, Tex., 645 Upper Fox r., 295, 300, 301 Upper Gravel r., 376, 377 Upper Iaway r., 48 Upper Iowa r., 42, 44, 45, 48, 206, 305, 307, 308, 339, 342 Upper l., near Red Wing, Minn., 70 Upper Nicollet l., 165 Upper or Eleven Mile cañon, 466 Upper Pajarito, N. M., 626 Upper Pimas, 735 Upper Red Cedar l., xlviii, 153, 157, 158, 159, 323, 326, 351, 356 Upper Red r. of Pike, 535 Upper Rio Grande, 474 Upper St. Croix l., 72, 309, 310 Upper St. Croix r., 309 Upper Zumbro outlet, 61 Uraba was a name of Taos Ures, 773 Usawa, Usaw-way l., 162, 331 Usaya, 744 Utah, 630, 731, 732, 733, 734, 735, 736 Utah Inds., 508, 535, 537, 591, 618, 744, 746, 849, 850 Utah l., 738 Ute cr., 494 Ute cr. = Brush Hollow cr., 462 Ute Inds., xlvi, 448, 453, 492, 596, 743, 816 Ute pass, 456, 464 Utica, N. Y., xlvi V Vacamora, 771 Vache Blanche, 347 Valasco, F., 817, 819, 820 Valencia co., N. M., 628, 629, 742 Valencia, N. M., 618, 628 Valladolid, Mex., 720, 721, 723 Valladolid, Spain, 720 Vallance, J., 553 Valley City, Ia., 25 Vallois, Don P., 661, 662 Vallois, Señora M., 659 Valverde ford is near the ruins of Valverde, and about 5 m. N. of Fort Craig, N. M. Valverde, N. M., 633, 634 Van Bibber, Mr., 367 Van Buren, Ark., 559 Van Buren, M., 358 Vandals, 632 Van Dalsem, Capt. H. H., cviii Vandermaelen l., 160 Vaqueria, 684 vaquero, 684 vara, 669 Varennes, P. G. de, 254 Vargas, 737 Vasquez, A. F. B., or "Baroney," lxiv, 359, 360, 361, 362, 364, 365, 368, 371, 386, 387, 390, 393, 401, 403, 414, 416, 420, 421, 422, 429, 432, 435, 449, 459, 470, 472, 474, 477, 478, 480, 481, 482, 490, 506, 509, 510, 545, 579, 580, 612, 834, 845, 853, 855 Vaugondy, 559, 695, 734 Veau, Mr. Jacques, 194, 195 Vegas, Col., 459 Velasco, see Valasco, F. Velasco, viceroy, 755 Vellita, N. M., 629 Venadito, 685 Venus' spr., 651 Vequeria cr., 683 Vequeria, Mex., 683, 684 Vera Cruz, administration or State of, 673, 718, 720, 721, 722, 723, 724 Vera Cruz, city of, 721, 722, 791 Veragua, Veraqua, 726 Verdegris r., 400 Verde r., Ariz., 727, 730, 734 Verde r., Mex., 721 Verdigris, Kas., 400 Verdigris, Verdigrise r., 399, 400, 515, 532, 555, 556, 557, 560, 584 Verendrye, Le Sieur de, 254, 255, 256 Veritas, Caput, 331 Vermijo r., 558 Vermilion cr., br. of Osage r., 377, 378 Vermilion r., br. of Ark. r., 395, 400, 514, 515, 555, 557 Vermilion r., br. of Miss. r., Cass co., Minn., 147 Vermilion r., br. of Miss. r., Dakota co., Minn., 72, 73 Vermilion r. of Beltrami = Deer r., Minn., 147 Vermilion sea, old name of the Gulf of California, for Red sea Vermilion sl., 73 Vermillion isl., 298, 356 Vermillion r. of Pike, br. of Osage r., 379 Vermont, 570 Vermonter, 242 Vernon co., Mo., 370, 385 Vernon co., Wis., 49 Verte, Isle, 297 Verte r., 77, 78 Verum Caput, 165, 331 Verumontanum, 165 Verwyst, 101 Veta pass, 492, 494 Viana, Capt. or Don F., 412, 709, 710, 839 Viceroyalty of New Spain, 719 Vicksburg, Miss., 708 Victoria City, Mex., 724 Victoria, Wis., 49 Victor, Kas., 422 Victory, Wis., 45 Vide-poche, 215 Vieau, Jacques, 194 Vieux Desert l., 128 Vigil, D., 607 Village Creek, Ia., 43 Village de Charette, 568, 572 Villamil, Don B., 659, 661, 662 Villa Rica de la Vera Cruz, 722 Villiers, N. de, 214 Villineuve, a person, 413 Vimont's Relations, 31 Vine cr., 559 vineyards, 681 Vingt-une isl., 361 Viola, Wis., 41 Virginia, a boat, 84 Virginia, a State, xxvii, xxviii, liii, lxxxviii, 656, 691, 715, 826, 833 Virgin r., 732 Visscher, Capt. N. J., xxvi, xxvii Vitior, 613, 614. This baffling name is clearly a misprint, Mr. F. W. Hodge believes, for Sienega (Cienega), place on a cr. of same name, br. of Santa Fé r., 2 m. S. E. of Cieneguilla, which appears on most maps of to-day. Cienega and Cieneguilla were both towns of Santa Fé co. in 1844, but La Bajada may be later. Cienega had pop. 500, and Cieneguilla, pop. 300, in 1853-54, according to Whipple, P. R. R. Rep. III., Pt. 3, p. 12 Vocabulary, etc., 355 volcano, 723 Volcano sta., N. M., 597 Volney, Count, 154 Voltaire, 154, 801 Vulgate, 182 W Wabasha, 43, 171, 206, 260, 342, 347, 348 Wabasha I., II., III., 44 Wabasha co., Minn., 56, 57, 64 Wabasha, Minn., 57, 59, 60, 61 Wabasha st., St. Paul, 74 Wabashaw, 44, 88 Wabash r., 68, 438 Wabash Ry., 8, 15 Wabash, St. Louis, and Pacific R. R., 360 Wabesapinica, Wabezipinikan, Wabisapencun, Wabisapincun, Wabisipinekan r., 26 Wabezi r., 122 Wabiscihouwa, 44 Wabisipinekan r., 293 Wabizio-sibi, 122 Wablo cr., 383 Waboji, 338 Wacanto, Wacantoe, 343, 347 Wachpecoutes, 263 Waconda, Mo., 12 Waconda, Wacondaw pra., 12 Wacoota, Wacouta, 69 Wacouta, Goodhue co., Minn., 63 Waddapawmenesotor, 81 Wadena co., Minn., 128 Wade, Pvt., 332 Wadub r., 101 Wagoner's cr., 15 Wahkantahpay, 88 Wahkanto, 349 Wahkootay is Wacouta, 88 Wahkpakotoan, 344, 345, 349 Wahkpatoan, 345, 349 Wahpatoota, 349 Wahpaykootans, 88 Wahpeton Sioux, 85 Wahpetonwans, 118 Wajhustachay, 61 Wakan-tibi, 200 Wakarusa pt., 520 Wakarusa r., 408, 520 Wakoan, 706 Wakomiti is the Ojibway name of the stream misnamed Hennepin r., and should stand: see Annals of Iowa, Apr., 1895, p. 26 Wakon-teebe, 198 Wakouta, 62, 69 Wakouta, Goodhue co., Minn., 63 Wakpatanka is Sioux name of the Miss. r., meaning Great river Wakpatons, 313 Wakuta, Wakute, see Wacoota, 69 Walapais, 736 Walbach, Gen. J. De B., xxvii, xxviii Walker, Capt. Joel P., of Cal., 446 Walker, Lt. J. P., 656, 658, 660, 664, 665, 666, 761, 767, 817, 819, 820, 821, 830 Walking Buffalo, a chf., 69, 88 Wallace co., Kas., 404 Wallace, Joseph, 531, 532, 560, 714 Wallace, N. M., see Santo Domingo, N. M. Wall, a Mr., xxi Walnut cr., br. of Ark. r., 424, 425, 426, 429, 517, 518, 522, 545, 546, 547 Walnut cr., or White Water r., 549 Walnut Hills, lii, 657 Walpi, 744, is Pike's Gualpi Walworth, Capt. John, lxxxvii, lxxxviii Wamaneopenutah, 347 Wamdetanka, 85 Wamendetanka, 348 Wamendi-hi, 118 Waminisabah, 347 Wanomon r., 147 Wanotan, 349 Wanyecha cr., 94 Wapahasha, Wapasha, Wapashaw, 43, 44, 61, 86, 348 Wapello, Louisa co., Ia., named for a chf. who had his village on Iowa r. near present city Wapsipinecon, Wapsipinicon r., 26 Wapuchuseamma, 745 Waqpatonwan, Waqpetonwan, 313, 343 Waqpekute, 344 Waraju r., 66 War Department, xix, xx, xxii, l, lviii, lix, lx, lxi, lxiii, lxv, lxxii, xcvi, cxiii, 236, 239, 446, 549, 554, 593, 645, 812, 842, 844, 851, 855 Ward, see Johnston and, 554 Ward, Prof. L. F., 38 Ward's isl., 11 War Eagle, 348 Warm spr., Mex., 652, 653 Warm spr., N. M., 597 Warner's ldg., 49 Warpekutes, 44 Warpetonwans, 313 Warpool l., 129, 317 Warren co., Mo., 363, 364, 365, 366 Warren, Gen. G. K., xlv, 56, 57, 58, 62, 91, 295, 310, 333, 457, 558 Warren, Gen. Jos., cvi, cix Warren, Hon. W. W., 31, 127, 134, 150, 157, 170, 171, 176 Warsaw, Ill., 14 Warsaw isl., 379 Warsaw, Mo., 379 wars of Pawnees, 535 Warwater r., 128 Wasaba Tunga, 591 Wasbasha, 590 Wascheta r., 827 Wasetihoge r., 555 Washburn co., Wis., 309 Washington co., Ark., 558 Washington co., Minn., 72, 73, 74 Washington, D. C., xxxiv, xlii, li, liv, lvi, lviii, lix, lx, lxiii, lxv, 358, 410, 510, 538, 550, 551, 582, 583, 587, 647, 656, 812, 813, 827, 833, 835, 845, 851, 855 Washington, Geo., lvi, lxvi, lxviii, lxx, 49, 289, 408, 656, 701 Washington Irving's l., see Irving l. Washington isl., 279 Washington, Mo., 363, 364 Washington, Tex., 560, 707 Washione, 347 Washita r., 612, 704, 827 Washpecoute, 344, 345, 346, 347 Washpetong, 343, 344, 345, 346, 347 Wasonquianni, 343, 347 watab, 101, 102 Watab rap., 101, 102 Watab r., 101 Watapan Menesota, 81 Watapan Tancha, a form of the Sioux name of the Miss. r. watap, watapeh, 101 Watchawaha, Watchkesingar, 591 Wate-paw-mené-Sauta as Sioux name of Minnesota r. in Schlc., 1820 water-oats, water-rice, 38 Waters, John, liii Watertown, Ill., 25, 210 Watpà-menisothé, 81 Watson, Prof. S., 39 Wattah r., 101 wattap, 102 Waubojeeg, 127 Waucon Junction, 41 Waucouta, see Wacouta Waukan r., 301 Waukenabo l., 135 Waukon, Ia., 41 Waukon Junction, 41 Wauppaushaw, 43, 54 Wawana, 143 Way Aga (or Ago) Enagee, 86, 231, 238 Wayne co., Mich., xxvi, cxi Wayne co., N. C., cxi Wayne co., O., cxi Wayne, Gen. A., xxvi, 438, 712 Wazi Oju r., 57 Weablo cr., 383 Wea cr., 519 Weakaote, 349 Weather Diary, 216, 217, 218, 219, 220, 716, 717 Weaubleau cr., 383 Weaver mts., 730 Webber cr., 559 Webber's falls, 558, 559 Webber's Falls, Ind. Terr., 558 Webb, Tex., 690 Webster co., Mo., 376, 380 Webster co., Neb., 404, 410 Webster park, 462, 478, 479 Weed Bush is a corruption of Vide Poche Weekly Register, see Niles' Wejegi, 630 Weller-Conde line, 644 Weller, J. B., 644, 645 Wellman, W. D., 365 Well of Mineral Water, 680 Well of Putrid Water, 680 Wells' br., 377 Wells cr., 63, 65 wells in Mexico, 680 Wellsville sta., 475 Wenepec l., 322 Wentaron is a form of the Ind. name of Lake Simcoe West Arm of Lake Itasca, so namedby Brower, see Itasca l. West Brainerd, Minn., 130 Western battery, lxxvii, lxxviii, lxxix, lxxxviii, xc, xcvi, cii Western Ocean, 524, 721, 722 West Fork of Miss. r., on Eastman's map of 1855, is the main stream from Lake Itasca West Indies, 718 West Lake Champlain, lxxii Westminster, Engl., 167 West Monument cr., 452 West Naiwa r., 162 West Newton chute, 57 West Oil cr., 465 West Ojibway, see Ojibway, Minn. Weston gulch, 471 West Point, N. Y., xxvi, lxvii, lxxxvii, 405, 656, 734 Westport isl., 5 Westport, Jackson co., Mo., 408, 517, 518, 519 Westport, Lincoln co., Mo., 5 West Quincy, Mo., 9 West Savannah r., 138 West Swan r. of Nicollet, 143 West Turkey cr., Col., 455 West Turkey cr., Kas., 522 Wet Glaize cr., 375 Wetmore's Gazetteer, 3 Wet mts., 448, 451, 463, 482, 483, 484, 485, 487, 488, 848 Wet Mountain valley, 482, 483, 434, 485, 848 Wet Stone, a chf., 531 Wet Walnut cr., 425, 426 Whakoon-Thiiby, 200 Wheeler, Lt. G. M., 483 Whelply, Pvt. D., 1, 854 Whipple, A. W., 645, 735 Whipple, Capt. J., xxvi, xxvii Whipple l., named by Rev. J. A. Gilfillan for Bishop H. B. Whipple, 165 Whistler, Maj. J., 358 White Bear-skin r., 131, 177 White Blanket, a chf., 347 White Buffalo, a chf., 347 White Bustard or Buzzard, a chf., 89 White Dog, a chf., 121, 189 whitefish, 169, 297 White Fisher, a chf., 127, 176 Whitefish l., 133, 173, 174, 175, 319, 334 White Hair, a chf., 387, 388, 390, 551, 558, 563, 565, 576, 578, 579, 591, and see Cheveux Blancs Whitehouse's isl., 366 Whitely cr. is a name of the Rice or Nagajika cr. 2 m. N. E. of Brainerd Whitely isl. is just below Seventh or French raps. White Mountain Apaches, 748 White mts., Ariz., 730 White mts., N. H., 454 White mts., N. M., 631, 640, 736 White mts. of Pike, in Col., 483, 492, 493 White Nails, a chf., 349 White Oak l., 147, 148 White Oak or Stephens l., 147, 148, 150 White Oak pt., 146, 147, 148, 150 White r., br. of Miss. or of Ark. r., 514, 515, 757 White r. or Ark. r., 692, 694 White r. or Cottonwood r., 402 White r. or Neosho r., 397, 398, 473, 514, 515, 584 White r., Wis., 301 White Rock cr., Kas., 404, 405, 408, 409 White Rock, Kas., 409 White Rock, on Minnesota r., 343 White Rock, St. Paul, Minn., 75 Whiteside co., Ill., 27 White Skin, a chf., 347 White Snow mts. of Pike, 479 white spruce, 102 White Water cr., N. M., 637 White Water r., Kas., 549 White Water r., Minn., 56, 57, 305 White Wolf, a chf., 542, 551, 591 whitewood, a tree, 315 Whiting, Gen. H., xix, xxx, xxxiv, xlv, lxviii, lxxiv, lxxix, lxxxv, lxxxix, xc, xcix, cvi, 44, 275, 499, 500, 501 Whitman, Kas., 549 Whitney, a Mr., 302 Who-walks-pursuing-a-hawk, a chf., 85 Whymper, Edw., 461 Wiahuga, 349 Wibru, Corporal, 332 Wichaniwa r., 95, 97 Wichita, Kas., 548 Wichita res., 412 Wiggins, O. P., 457 Wild Bull r., 58 Wildcat cr., 49 wild hogs, 697 Wild Horse cr., 442 wild horses, 433, 435, 436, 738, 782, 783 wild oats or rice, 38 Wild Oats r. of L. and C. map, 1814, and of Beltrami, is that Rice r. which is between Aitkin and Willow r., 138 wild pigeons, 211 Wild Rice l., on Willow River route, 320 Wild Rice Sissetons, 349 wild rye, 47 wild sheep, 438 Wild Swan r., 143 Wilkinson, Gen. James, xxi, xxii, xxvii, xxix, xlvi, li, lv, lvi, lvii, lviii, lxiii, lxiv, lxxiv, 2, 15, 17, 37, 84, 85, 206, 221, 222, 223, 224, 225, 229, 232, 237, 239, 240, 244, 246, 255, 259, 269, 270, 271, 273, 293, 358, 361, 375, 381, 386, 388, 392, 418, 431, 481, 500, 504, 539, 561, 562, 563, 564, 565, 566, 567, 568, 569, 570, 571, 572, 573, 574, 575, 582, 585, 586, 587, 588, 589, 592, 593, 594, 662, 697, 703, 712, 810, 817, 819, 820, 821, 824, 836, 841, 842, 844, 845, 852 Wilkinson, Lieut. J. B., xxxvi, xli, li, 223, 225, 263, 359, 360, 361, 364, 365, 372, 373, 381, 382, 385, 386, 387, 389, 390, 392, 393, 403, 406, 407, 409, 414, 421, 425, 426, 427, 431, 432, 514, 515, 518, 532, 539, 540, 541, 542, 543, 544, 545, 546, 547, 565, 568, 572, 577, 578, 580, 585, 587, 589, 592, 708, 818, 819, 824, 826, 827, 833, 834, 835, 845, 846, 852, 855 Wilkinson's Report on the Arkansaw, 432, 539 to 561 Wilkinsonville, xxvi Williamsburg, Col., 482 Williams, Gen. J. R., xxiii, xxx Williams, Helen M., xli Williams isl., in Osage r., 377 Williams, J. Fletcher, xxxv, 31, 44, 76, 85, 87, 88, 201 Williams, Lt.-Col. Jonathan, xxvii, xxix Williams, Lt. J. R., preface, xxiii, xxx Williams, Lt., unidentified, xxvi, xxviii, is no doubt Thomas W. Williams of N. Y., ensign 12th Infantry Jan. 14th, 1799, second lieutenant Mar. 2d, 1799, honorably discharged June 15th, 1800, second lieutenant 1st Infantry Feb. 16th, 1801, resigned July 28th, 1801 Williams' pass, 491 Williams, Peter, 18 Williamson, Lt. R. S., see Fort Ripley Willibob l., 143 Willow cr., br. of Ark. r., Col., 443 Willow cr., br. of Cottonwood r., Kas., 401 Willow cr., br. of Osage r., Mo., 385 Willow cr. or Lost cr., Kas., 518 Willow Inds., 278 Willowmarsh l., 26 Willow portage, 142 Willow r., 137, 142, 153, 155, 320 Willows, Mex., 684 Willow spr., 518, 519, 520 Willow Springs cr., 459 Wilmot, Mr., 207, 209, 211 Wilson co., Kas., 555 Wilson cr., br. of Oil cr., 464, 465 Wilson isl., 98 Wilson, Lt. J., xxvi, xxviii Wilson, Mr., on Pike's pk., 457 Wilson, Pvt. J., 359, 432, 548, 845, 855 Wilson's cr., br. of Huerfano r., 491 Winapicane, 819 Winboshish appears on Stieler's Hand Atlas for Winnibigoshish Winchell, Prof. N. H., preface, 95, 106, 333 Winchester, Va., liii Wind, a chf., 371, 387, 389, 392, 393, 540, 550, 578, 580, 581 windshake or windshock, 109 Wind that Walks, a chf., 203, 347 Windy pt., 324 Winebagos, 346, 347 Winepie l., 168 Wing pra., 54 Winipec or Winnibigoshish l., 322 Winipeg l., 351, 353 Winipeque br. of Miss. r., or main r. above Leech Lake br., 325 Winipeque or Winnibigoshish l., 149, 152, 322, 323 Winipie or Winnibigoshish l., 149, 152, 351 Winipie or Winnipeg l., 278, 280, 322, 327, 351, 353 Winnebago cape, 42, 43 Winnebago chain, 25 Winnebago council, 207, 208, 209 Winnebago co., 300, 301 Winnebago cr. or r., 42, 43, 46 Winnebago Inds., 31, 39, 43, 265, 266, 340, 341 Winnebago l., 24, 295, 300, 301, 340 Winnebago pra., Stearns co., Minn., between Watab raps. and Brockway Winnebago rap., 300 Winnebago village, 300 Winnebeegogish l. of Schlc., 1855 Winnepegoosis l., 322 Winnepeg or Winnibigoshish l., 322 Winneshiek sl., 42 Winnibigoshish l., 138, 149, 152, 153, 158, 159, 168, 317, 322, 323, 324, 325 Winnipec or Winnibigoshish l., 322, 327 Winnipeg l., 351, 353 Winnipegoos is Winnibigoshish l., D. Thompson, 1798 Winnipek is Winnibigoshish l., Schlc., 1855 Winona, a maiden of myth, 66 Winona co., Minn., 52, 53, 57 Winona, Minn., 54, 55, 56, 88, 206 Winship, W. W., preface Winsor, J., 296 Winterbotham's map, xli, 696, 697, 702, 707 wintering grounds, 99 Winter's ldg., 53 Wisconsan r., 35 Wisconsin Central R. R., 302 Wisconsin r., 3, 34, 35, 71, 78, 224, 295, 302, 303, 304, 338 Wiscoup, 156, 259, 347, 351 Wise Family, a chf., 591 Wise, Kas., 397 wishtonwish, 429, 430, 431 Wislizenus, Dr., 339, 437, 446, 518, 521, 631, 635, 649, 650, 652, 653, 654, 667, 668, 669, 670, 671, 672, 674, 675, 680, 681, 682, 683, 684, 739, 747, 759 Wissakude r., 309 Withlachoochee r., lxxxvii Without Ears, a chf., 591 Without Nerve, a chf., 591 Wiyakonda, Mo., 12 Woco-sibi, Wokeosiby, 127 Wolf cr., br. of Ark. r. in Col., 442 Wolf cr. of Pike, 103, 184 Wolfe, Gen., lxxxiii, c Wolf Inds., 35, 338 Wolf r., 300, 301, 356 Wollstonecraft, Maj. C., 715 Wolverine cr., 396 Woman in White mt., 723 women and children, 286 Woodbridge, N. J., lix Woodcock, 88 Wood cr., br. of Miss. r., 2 Wood cr., br. of Mo. r., 363, 364 Wood, Mr., 201, 202, 205, 206, 207 Woodruff, J. C., 554 Woods, Lake of the, 279, 281, 351 Woods, Mr., 37, 42 Woodson co., Kas., 395, 398, 399 Wool, Gen. J. E., 669, 674, 679, 684 Woolstoncraft, Capt., 715 Wooster, Maj. Gen. D., cvi Worcester, Mass., xxxiv Word of God, 182 wounded, see killed and Wright co., Minn., 96, 97, 98 Wright's cr., 381 Wright's isl., 379 Wrightstown, 299 Wuckan l., 340 Wuckiew Nutch, 208, 343, 347 Wukunsna, 347 Wyaconda, Mo., 12 Wyaconda r., 9, 291 Wyaganage, 86, 342, 347 Wyalusing, Wis., 34 Wyoming co., N. Y., cx Wyoming, Ia., 23 Wyoming sl., 23 X Xacco l., 673 Xalisco, 719 Xaxales, 628, 629, has been thought to have been so called as once a temporary Apache rancheria of huts, jacales, or xacales; but see Jarales. The form Xarales is also found Xenia, Kas., 396, 397 Xicarilla for Jicarilla, in Don José Cortez, 1799 Xila is Gila Xisuthros, 182 Xocoyotzin, 737 Xougapavi is Shongapavi X. Y. Company, 139, 277 X. Y. Z., one, 336 Y Yaatze, see San Marcos Yabijoias, 735, of Pike, simply error in copying Indiens Yabipias à longues barbes from Humboldt's map Yahowa r., 22, see Iowa r. Yahowa r., 44, see Upper Iowa r. Yakwal, 706 Yamajab is Mojave Yamaya, 735 Yampancas r., 738 Yamparicas Inds., 738 Yanctongs, 120, 121, 197, 207, 208, 258, 264, 267, 343, 344, 345, 346, 347, see Yanktons Yanctons for Hietans, 563 Yanga r., 540 Yankee, 188 Yanktoan, 345, 349 Yanktoanan, 345, 349 Yanktonnais, 343 Yanktons, 120, 343, 346, 347 Yanos, 653 Yaos, 598 Yaqui r., 771, 773 Yattasses, 713 Yavapais, 735 Yavasupai Inds., 731, 736, see Havasupai Yawayes or Yawayhaws are Iowa Inds. Yawoha, Yawowa r., 22, see Iowa r. Yawowa r., 44, see Upper Iowa r. Yeager's ldg., 366 Yellow banks, 19 Yellow Head, a chf., 158 Yellow Head r., 334 Yellow r., br. of Miss. r., 38, 41, 305, 355 Yellow r., br. of St. Croix r., 309 Yellow Skin Deer, a chf., 591 Yellow Spider, a chf., 347 Yellowstone Park, 473 Yellowstone r., 168, 479, 642, 729, 733 Yeo, Sir J., lxxiv York harbor, lxxiv York, killed and wounded at, xci Yorktown, lxvi York, U. C., xxiii, lxxvi, lxxvii, lxxviii, lxxix, lxxx, lxxxiii, lxxxiv, xxxv, lxxxvii, xcii, xciii, xciv, xcv, xcvii, c, ci, ciii, civ, cv, cvi, and see Fort York Youngar r., 376 Young, Brigham, 411 Young, Col., xcv Youngs, Capt. White, lxxxvi, cix Yrujo, see Cassa Yrujo Yucatan, 718, 726 Yucca arborescens, 776 Yucca canaliculata, 776 yuccas, 776 Yucca treculeana, 776 Yuma, Col., 646 Yuma, Yuman Inds., 735, 736, 744 Yungar r., 375, 376, 513, 540 Yunque, Yuque, Yunque, see Chamita Yuraba was a name of Taos Yutas, 816, see Utes Z Zacataca, Zacatecas, administration, city and State, 719, 720, 723, 724, 725, 755, 759, 775 Zakatagana-sibi, 103 Zandia mts., 618 Zandia pueblo, 618 Zanguananos r., 732 Zapato cr., 493 Zaragoza, 674 Zaragoza, Coahuila de, 775 Zavalza, 674 Zenia, Kas., 396 Zerbin, Dr., 698, 699, 700 Zesuqua, 605 Zia, 745 Ziamma, 745 Zibola, 742 Zizania aquatica, 38, 39 Zond, see Fond Zoto for Les Otoes, 346 Z. R., cv Zuloaga, Don M., 659, 660, 662, 665 Zumbro r., 56, 57, 58, 59, 61, 305 Zumi, Zuñi, Zuñian, 629, 630 Zuñi, see Old Zuñi Zuñian mts., 730 Zuñiga y Azevedo, C. de, 725 Zuñi is a Keresan name of the Zuñis Zuñi r., 630 Zuñis, Zuñians, 737, 742, 743, 744, 745 THE END. [Illustration: A CHART of the INTERNAL PART OF LOUISIANA, Including all the hitherto unexplored Countries, lying between the River La Platte of the Missouri on the N: and the Red River on the S: the Mississippi East and the Mountains of Mexico West; with a Part of New Mexico & the Province of Texas by Z. M. PIKE Capt.^n U.S.I.] [Illustration: A MAP of THE INTERNAL PROVINCES OF NEW SPAIN. _The Outlines are from the Sketches of but corrected and improved by Captain ZEBULON M. PIKE who was conducted through that COUNTRY in the Year 1807, by Order of the Commandant General of those Provinces.] [Illustration: The FIRST PART of CAPT^N PIKE'S CHART of the Internal Part of LOUISIANA Plate 1. _See Plate 2^d & References. Reduced and laid down on a Scale of 40 miles to the Inch. By Anthony Nau.] [Illustration: A SKETCH of the VICE ROYALTY Exhibiting _the several Provinces and its Aproximation to the Internal Provinces of NEW SPAIN. Harrison sc^t] [Illustration: HISTORICO=GEOGRAPHICAL CHART OF THE UPPER MISSISSIPPI RIVER COMPILED AND DRAWN TO ACCOMPANY PIKE'S EXPEDITIONS, UNDER THE DIRECTION OF DR Elliott Coues, BY DAN'L W. CRONIN. 1895 Copyright, 1895 by Francis P. Harper, N. Y.] [Illustration: THE INFANT MISSISSIPPI OR CRADLED HERCULES. (AFTER BROWER)] [Illustration: MAP OF THE Mississippi River FROM ITS SOURCE to the MOUTH of the MISSOURI: Laid down from the notes of Lieut^t Z. M. Pike, by Anthony Nau. Reduced, and corrected by the Astronomical Observations of M^r. Thompson at its source; and of Capt^n. M. Lewis, where it receives the waters of the Missouri. BY. NICH^S. KING. Engraved by Francis Shallus. Philadelphia] 
47625	----	courtesy of the Digital Library@Villanova University (http://digital.library.villanova.edu/)) MOTOR STORIES THRILLING ADVENTURE MOTOR FICTION NO. 7 APR. 10, 1909 FIVE CENTS MOTOR MATT'S CLUE THE PHANTOM AUTO _by STANLEY R. MATTHEWS_. [Illustration: "Look a leedle oudt!" yelled Carl, as Motor Matt made a quick jump for the phantom auto.] _STREET & SMITH, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK._ MOTOR STORIES THRILLING ADVENTURE MOTOR FICTION _Issued Weekly. By subscription $2.50 per year. Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1909, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C., by_ STREET & SMITH, _79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York, N. Y._ No. 7. NEW YORK, April 10, 1909. Price Five Cents. Motor Matt's Clue; OR, THE PHANTOM AUTO. By the author of "MOTOR MATT." CONTENTS CHAPTER I. A NIGHT MYSTERY. CHAPTER II. DICK FERRAL. CHAPTER III. LA VITA PLACE. CHAPTER IV. THE HOUSE OF WONDER. CHAPTER V. SERCOMB. CHAPTER VI. THE PHANTOM AUTO AGAIN. CHAPTER VII. SURROUNDED BY ENEMIES. CHAPTER VIII. THE KETTLE CONTINUES TO BOIL. CHAPTER IX. ORDERED AWAY. CHAPTER X. A NEW PLAN. CHAPTER XI. A DARING LEAP. CHAPTER XII. DESPERATE VILLAINY. CHAPTER XIII. TIPPOO. CHAPTER XIV. IN THE NICK OF TIME. CHAPTER XV. A STARTLING INTERRUPTION. CHAPTER XVI. THE PRICE OF TREACHERY. CHAPTER XVII. THE LUCK OF DICK FERRAL. BILL, THE BOUND BOY. A WINTER STORY OF COLORADO. CHARACTERS THAT APPEAR IN THIS STORY. =Matt King=, concerning whom there has always been a mystery--a lad of splendid athletic abilities, and never-failing nerve, who has won for himself, among the boys of the Western town, the popular name of "Mile-a-minute Matt." =Carl Pretzel=, a cheerful and rollicking German lad, who is led by a fortunate accident to hook up with Motor Matt in double harness. =Uncle Jack=, a wealthy Englishman, with ways and means of his own for accomplishing things, who leads a hermit's life in the wilds of New Mexico. =Dick Ferral=, a Canadian boy and a favorite of Uncle Jack; has served his time in the King's navy, and bobs up in New Mexico where he falls into plots and counter-plots, and comes near losing his life. =Ralph Sercomb=, a cousin of Dick Ferral, and whose sly, treacherous nature is responsible for Dick's troubles. =Joe Mings=, } three unscrupulous friends of Sercomb, all =Harry Packard=,} motor-drivers, and who come from Denver to help =Balt Finn=, } Sercomb in his nefarious plans. CHAPTER I. A NIGHT MYSTERY. "Oh, py shiminy! Look at dere, vonce! Vat it iss, Matt? Br-r-r! I feel like I vould t'row some fits righdt on der shpot! It's a shpook, you bed you!" A strange event was going forward, there under the moon and stars of that New Mexico night. The wagon-road followed the base of a clifflike bank, and at the outer edge of the road there was a precipitous fall into Stygian darkness. A second road entered the first through a narrow gully. A few yards beyond the point where the thoroughfares joined an automobile was halted, its twin acetylene lamps gleaming like the eyes of some fabled monster in the semigloom. Two boys were on the front seat of the automobile, and one of them had leaned over and gripped the arm of the lad who had his hands on the steering-wheel. The eyes of the two in the car were staring ahead. What the boys saw was sufficiently startling, in all truth. Out of the gully, directly in advance of them, had rolled a white automobile--springing ghostlike out of the darkness as it came under the glare of the acetylene lights. The white car was a runabout, with two seats in front and an abnormally high deck behind. It carried no lamps, moved with weird silence, and, strangest of all, _there was no one in either seat_! Yet, with no hand on the steering-wheel, the white car made the dangerous turn out of the gully into the main road with the utmost ease, and was now continuing on between the foot of the cliff and the brink of the chasm with a steadiness that was--well, almost hair-raising. Motor Matt, who had been piloting the Red Flier slowly and carefully along that dangerous course, had cut off the power and thrown on the brake the instant the white car leaped into sight. As he gazed at the receding auto, and noted the conditions under which it was moving, a gasp escaped his lips. "That beats anything I ever heard of, Carl!" he muttered. "It vas a shpook pubble!" clamored Carl Pretzel. "I don'd like dot, py shinks. Durn aroundt, or pack oop, or do somet'ing else to ged oudt oof der vay. Shpooks iss pad pitzness, und schust vy dit it habben don't make no odds aboudt der tifference. Ged avay, Matt, und ged avay kevick! Py Chorge! I vas so vorked oop as I can't dell." Carl released Matt's arm, pulled a big red handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped the perspiration from his face. He was having a chill and perspiring at the same time; and his mop of towlike hair was trying to stand on end. Matt started the Red Flier. There was gas enough in the cylinders to take the spark, so that it was not necessary to get out and use the crank. To turn around on such a road was out of the question, even if Matt had desired to do so--which he did not. Nor did he reverse the engine and back away, but started along in the trail of the white car. "Vat you vas doing, anyvay?" cried Carl. "I'm going to follow up that phantom auto and see if I can find what controls it." "You vas grazy, Matt! Meppy ve ged kilt oof ve ged too nosey mit dot machine. It don'd pay to dake some chances in a case like dose. I know vat I know, und dot's all aboudt it. Go pack pefore der shpook pubble hits us und knock us py der cliff ofer!" Carl was excited. He believed in "spooks" and Motor Matt didn't, and that was all the difference between them. "Don't lose your nerve, Carl----" "It vas gone alretty!" groaned Carl, crouching in his seat, hanging on with both hands and staring ahead with popping eyes. "Nothing's going to happen," went on Matt. "There's no such thing as ghosts, Carl." "Don'd I know ven I see vone?" quavered Carl. "You t'ink I vas plind, Matt. Dot pubble moofs mitoudt nopody to make it go like vat it does; und it don'd hit der rocks or go ofer der cliff. Donnervetter! I vish I vas somevere else, py grickets. Ach! I vas so colt like ice, und I sveat; und my teet' raddle so dot I don't hardly peen aple to shpeak anyt'ing." "We've seen the Red Flier moving along without anybody aboard, Carl," said Matt, in an attempt to quiet his chum's fears. "Yah, so," answered Carl, "aber der Ret Flier vas moofing along some shdraighdt roads, und der veel vas tied mit ropes so dot she keeps a shdraighdt course. Aber dot shpook pubble don'd haf nopody on, und der veel ain'd tied, und yet she go on und on like anyding. Ach, I peen as goot as a deadt Dutchman, I know dot." While the boys were thus arguing matters the Red Flier was trailing the phantom auto. The white machine, still controlled in some mysterious manner, glided safely along the treacherous trail. It was beyond the glow of the acetylene lights, but the moonlight brought it out of the gloom like a white blur. In advance of the runabout Matt saw a place where the road curved around the face of the cliff. The phantom auto melted around the curve. Hardly had it vanished when a loud yell was wafted back to the ears of the boys. Carl nearly jumped out of his seat, and a frightened whoop escaped his lips. "Ach, du lieber!" he wailed. "Ve vas goners, Matt, ve vas bot' goners. I can't t'ink oof nodding, nod efen my brayers! Vat vas dot? I bed you it vas der teufel gedding retty to chump on us. Whoosh! I never had some feelings like dis yet." "Don't be foolish, Carl," said Matt. "There was no spook back of that yell, but real flesh and blood. Keep a stiff upper lip and we'll find out all about it." Just then the Red Flier rounded the turn. A long, straightaway course lay ahead of the boys, lighted brightly by the lamps and, farther on, by the moon and stars. But _the phantom auto had vanished_! Matt was astounded, and brought the Red Flier to a halt once more. With a high wall of rock on one side of the road, and an abyss on the other, where could the white car have gone? "Ach, chiminy!" chattered Carl. "Poof, und avay she goes. Der pubble vas snuffed oudt, und schust meldet indo der moonpeams. Dis vas a hoodoo pitzness, all righdt. Ve ged der douple-gross pooty soon, I bed you someding for nodding!" "But that yell----" "Der teufel make him! Id don'd vas nodding but der shpook feller, saying in der shpook languge, 'Ah, ha, I ged you pooty kevick!' I vish dot I hat vings so I could fly avay mit meinseluf." Matt got down from the car and started to walk forward. Carl let off a yell and scrambled after him. "Don'd leaf me, Matt! It vas goot to be mit somepody ad sooch a dime. Misery lofes gompany, und dot's vat I need." "Come on, then," laughed Matt. "Vere you go, hey?" "I'm going to see if I can discover what became of that car." "It vent oop on der moonpeams," averred Carl earnestly. "You can look, und look, und dot's all der goot it vill do. Dake it from me, Matt, dot ve don'd vas----" "Ahoy, up there!" The words seem to come from nowhere--or, rather, from everywhere, which was equivalent to the same thing. Carl gave a roar and tried to push himself into the face of the cliff. "Vat I tell you, hey?" he groaned. "Dere it vas again. Matt, more und vorse dan der odder dime. Righdt here iss vere ve kick some puckets; yah, leedle Carl Pretzel und Modor Matt King vill be viped oudt like a sponge mit a slate." "Keep still, Carl!" called Matt. "There's no ghost back of that voice. Listen a minute." Turning in the road, Matt lifted his head. "Hello!" he called. "Hello, yourself!" came the muffled but distinct response. The voice seemed to float out of the blackness of the chasm, and Matt stepped closer to the edge. "Who are you?" he asked. "My name'll be M-u-d, Mud, if you don't man a line an' give me a boost out of this." "Where are you?" "Down the wall, hanging like a lizard to a piece of scrub. Can't you tell by my talk where I am? From the looks, I'm about a fathom down; but I'll be all the way down if you don't get a move on. Shake yourself together, mate, and be lively!" Carl's fear, as this conversation proceeded, was gradually lost in curiosity. The voice from over the brink had a very human ring to it, and the Dutch boy was beginning to feel easier in his mind. "Get the rope out of the tonneau, Carl," called Matt. "Hurry up!" "Bully!" came from below, the person on the wall evidently hearing Matt's order to Carl. "That's the game, matey. If you've got a rope, reeve a bowline in the end and toss it over. I'm a swab if I don't think it's up to you to do it, too. I wouldn't have slid over the edge if your white devil-wagon hadn't made me dodge out of the way. How'd it--Wow!" The voice below broke off with a startled whoop. "What's the matter?" called Matt. "The bush pulled out a little," was the answer, "and I thought I was gone. Rush things up there, will you?" At that moment Carl came with the rope, and Matt, standing above the place where he supposed the unseen speaker to be, allowed the noosed end to slide down to him. "I've got it!" cried the voice. "Are you ready to lay on?" "Catch hold, Carl," said Matt, "and brace yourself. All ready," he shouted, when he and Carl were planted firmly with the rope in their hands. "Then here goes!" The rope grew taut under a suddenly imposed weight, and Matt and Carl laid back on it and hauled in. CHAPTER II. DICK FERRAL. A young fellow of seventeen or eighteen crawled over the brink of the chasm and sat on the rocks to breathe himself. The lamps of the Red Flier shone full on him, so that Matt and Carl were easily able to take his sizing. He wore a flannel shirt, cowboy-hat and high-heeled boots. His trousers were tucked in his boot-tops. His bronzed face was clean-cut, and he had clear, steady eyes. "Wouldn't that just naturally rattle your spurs?" he asked, looking Matt and Carl over as he talked. "I thought you fellows had put a stamp on that rope and were sending it by mail. It seemed like a good while coming, but maybe that was because I was hangin' to a twig and three leaves with the skin of my teeth." He swerved his eyes to the Red Flier. "You've lit your candles," he added, "since you scared me out of a year's growth by flashin' around that bend. If you'd had the lights going _then_, I guess I could have crowded up against the cliff instead of makin' a jump t'other way and going over the edge." "You vas wrong mit dot," said Carl. "It vasn't us vat come along und knocked you py der gulch." "That's the truth," added Matt, noting the stranger's startled expression. "We were following that other automobile, and stopped when we heard you yell." Without a word the rescued youth got up and went back to give the Red Flier a closer inspection. When he returned, he seemed entirely satisfied that he had made a mistake. "I did slip my hawser on that first idea, and no mistake," said he. "As I went over, I saw out of the clew of my eye that the other flugee was white. Yours is bigger, and painted different. What are your names, mates?" Matt introduced himself and Carl. "I'm Dick Ferral," went on the other, shaking hands heartily, "and when I'm at home, which is about once in six years, I let go the anchor in Hamilton, Ontario. I'm a sailor, most of the time, but for the last six months I've been punching cattle in the Texas Panhandle. A crimp annexed my money, back there in Lamy, and I'm rolling along toward an old ranch my uncle used to own, called La Vita Place. It can't be far from here, if I'm not off my bearings. Where are you bound, mates, in that steam hooker?" "Santa Fé," answered Matt. "Own that craft?" and Dick Ferral nodded toward the car. "No; it belongs to a man named Tomlinson, who lives in Denver. Carl and I brought it to Albuquerque for him. When we got there, we found a line from him asking us to bring the car on to Santa Fé. If we got there in two weeks he said it would be time enough, so we're jogging along and taking things easy." "If you've got plenty of time, I shouldn't think you'd want to do any cruising in waters like these, unless you had daylight to steer by." "We'd have reached the next town before sunset," Matt answered, "if we hadn't had trouble with a tire." "It was a good thing for me you were behind your schedule, and happened along just after I turned a handspring over the cliff. If you hadn't, Davy Jones would have had me by this time. But what became of that other craft? I didn't have much time to look at it, for it came foaming along full and by, at a forty-knot gait, but as I slid over the rock I couldn't see a soul aboard." "No more dere vasn't," said Carl earnestly. "Dot vas a shpook pubble, Verral. You see him, und ve see him, aber he don'd vas dere; nodding, nodding at all only schust moonshine!" "Well, well, well!" Ferral cast an odd glance at Motor Matt. "That old flugee was a sort of Flying Dutchman, hey?" "I don'd know somet'ing about dot," answered Carl, shaking his head gruesomely, "aber I bed you it vas a shpook." "There wasn't any one on the car," put in Matt, "and it's a mystery how it traveled this road like it did. It came out of a gully, farther back around the bend, right ahead of us. We followed it, and when we had come around that turn it had vanished." "What you say takes me all aback, messmates," said Ferral. "I'm no believer in ghost-stories, but this one of yours stacks up nearer the real thing in that line than any I ever heard. Say," and Ferral seemed to have a sudden idea, "if you fellows want a berth for the night, why not put in at La Vita Place?" "Sure, Matt, vy nod?" urged Carl. "How far is it, Ferral?" asked Matt. "It can't be far from here, although I'm a bit off soundings on this part of the chart. I've never been to Uncle Jack's before--and shame on me to say it--and likely I wouldn't be going there now if the old gentleman hadn't dropped off, leaving things in a bally mix. They say I'm to get my whack from the estate, if a will can be found, although I don't know why anything should come to me. I've always been a rover, and Uncle Jack didn't like it. My cousin, Ralph Sercomb--I never liked him and wouldn't trust him the length of a lead line--stands to win his pile by the same will. Ralph is at the ranch, and, I suppose, waitin' for me with open arms and a knife up his sleeve." "When did your uncle die?" inquired Matt. "As near as I can find out, he just simply vanished. All he left was a line saying he was tired of living alone, that he never could get me to give up my roaming and come and stay with him, and that while Ralph came often and did what he could to cheer him up, he had always had a soft place in his heart for me, and missed me. He said, too, in that last writing of his, that when he was found his will would be found with him, and that he hoped Ralph and I would stay at the ranch until the will turned up. That's what came to me, down in the Texas Panhandle, from a lawyer in Lamy. As soon as I got that I felt like a swab. Here I've been knockin' around the world ever since I was ten, Uncle Jack wanting me all the time and me holding back. Now I'm coming to the ranch like a pirate. Anyhow, that's the way it looks. If Uncle Jack was alive he'd say, 'You couldn't come just to see me, Dick, but now that I'm gone, and have left you something, you're quick enough to show up.'" Ferral turned away and looked down into the blackness of the gulch. He faced about, presently, and went on: "But it wasn't Uncle Jack's money that brought me. Now, when it's too late, I'm trying to do the right thing--and to make up for what I ought to have done and didn't do in the past. A fellow like me is thoughtless. He never understands where he's failed in his duty till a blow like this brings it home to him. He's the only relative Ralph and I had left, and I've acted like a misbemannered Sou'wegian. "When I went to sea, I shipped from Halifax on the _Billy Ruffian_, as we called her, although she's down on the navy list as the _Bellerophon_. From there I was transferred to the South African station, and the transferring went on and on till my time was out, and I found myself down in British Honduras. Left there to come across the Gulf of Galveston, and worked my way up into the Texas Panhandle, where I navigated the Staked Plains on a cow-horse. Had six months of that, when along came the lawyer's letter, and I tripped anchor and bore away for here. As I told you, a crimp did me out of my roll in Lamy. He claimed to be a fellow Canuck in distress, and I was going with him to his hotel to see what I could do to help him out. He led me into a dark street, and somebody hit me from behind and I went down and out with a slumber-song. Then I got up and laid a course for Uncle Jack's. If you'll go with me the rest of the way, I'll like it, and you might just as well stop over at La Vita Place and make a fresh start for Santa Fé in the morning." "We'll do it," answered Matt, who was liking Dick Ferral more and more as he talked. "Dot's der shtuff!" chirped Carl. "Oof you got somet'ing to eat at der ranch, und a ped to shleep on, ve vill ged along fine." "I guess we can find all that at the place, although I don't think the ranch amounts to much. Uncle Jack was queer--not unhinged, mind you, only just a bit different from ordinary people. He never did a thing in quite the same way some one else would do it. When he left England, a dozen years ago, he stopped with us a while in Hamilton, and then came on here and bought an old Mexican _casa_. He wanted to get away from folks, he said, but I guess he got tired of it; if he hadn't, he wouldn't have been so dead set on having me with him after my parents died. The bulk of his money is across the water. But hang his money! It's Uncle Jack himself I'm thinking about, now." "We'll get into the car," said Matt, "and go on a hunt for La Vita Place." Matt stepped to the crank. As he bent over it, Carl gave a frightened shout. "Look vonce!" he quavered, pointing along the road with a shaking finger. "Dere iss some more oof der shpooks!" Matt started up and whirled around. Perhaps a hundred feet from where the three boys were standing, a dim figure could be seen, silvered uncannily by the moonlight. "Great guns, Carl!" muttered Matt. "Your nerves must be in pretty bad shape. That's a man, and he's been walking toward us while we were talking." "Vy don'd he come on some more, den?" asked Carl. "Vat iss he shtandin' shdill mit himseluf for? Vy don'd he shpeak oudt und say somet'ing?" "Hello!" called Ferral. "How far is it to La Vita Place, pilgrim?" The form did not answer, but continued to stand rigid and erect in the moonlight. "Ve'd pedder ged oudt oof dis so kevick as ve can," faltered Carl, crouching back under the shadow of the car. "I don'd like der looks oof dot feller." "Let's get closer to him, Ferral," suggested Matt, starting along the road at a run. "It's main queer the way he's actin', and no mistake," muttered Ferral, starting after Matt. Matt was about half-way to the motionless figure, when it melted slowly into the black shadow of the cliff. On reaching the place where the figure had stood, it was nowhere to be seen. "What do you think of that, Ferral?" Matt asked in bewilderment. Ferral did not reply. His eyes were bright and staring, and he leaned against the rock wall and drew a dazed hand across his brows. CHAPTER III. LA VITA PLACE. "I'm all ahoo, and that's the truth of it," muttered Ferral. "This is the greatest place for seein' things, and then losin' track of 'em, that I ever got into. There was certainly a man standing right there where you are, wasn't there?" "That's the way it looked to me," answered Matt. "It can't be that we were all fooled. Imagination might have played hob with one of us, but it couldn't with all three." Ferral peered around him then looked over the shelf into the gulch, and up toward the top of the cliff. "Well, sink me, if this ain't the queerest business I ever ran into! Some one must be hoaxin' us." "Why should any one do that?" asked Matt. "What have they got to gain by such foolishness?" "I'm over my head. There's no use staying here, though, overhaulin' our jaw-tackle. Let's go on to the ranch." "That's the ticket! If what we've seen and can't understand means anything to us, it's bound to come out." They started back. "Are you on good terms with your cousin, Ralph Sercomb?" Matt asked, as they walked along. "The last time I saw him was six years ago, when I came to Hamilton to settle up my father's estate. Ralph was there, and I licked him. I can't remember what it was for, but I did it proper. He was always more or less of a sneak, but he's got one of these angel-faces, and to take his sizing offhand no one would ever think he'd do anything wrong." "Does he live in Hamilton?" "No, in Denver. His mother and my mother were Uncle Jack's sisters. Last I heard of Ralph he was driving a racing-automobile for a manufacturing firm--a little in your line, I guess, eh?" By that time the two boys had got back to the machine. Carl was up in front, imagining all sorts of things. "I peen hearing funny noises," he remarked, as Matt "turned over" the engine and then got up in the driver's seat, "und dey keep chabbering, 'Don'd go on, go pack, go pack,' schust like dot. I t'ink meppy ve pedder go pack, Matt." "We can't go back, Carl," returned Matt, starting the machine as soon as Ferral had climbed into the tonneau. "We couldn't turn around in this road even if we wanted to." "Vell, hurry oop und ged avay from dis shpooky blace. Der kevicker vat ve do dot, der pedder off ve vas. I got some feelings dot dere is drouple aheadt. Dot shpook plew indo nodding ven you come oop mit it, hey?" "The man vanished mysteriously--that's the size of it. If it was daylight, we might be able to figure out how he got away so suddenly." Under Motor Matt's skilful guidance the Red Flier ran purring along the dangerous road. Half a mile brought the car and its passengers to the end of the cliff and the chasm, and they whirled out into level country, covered with brush and trees. "There's a light ahead, mates!" announced Ferral, leaning over the back of the front seat, and pointing. "It's on the port side, too, and that agrees with the instructions I got on leaving Lamy. That's La Vita Place, all right enough, and Ralph's at home if that light is any indication." Owing to the fact that the house was almost screened from the road by trees and bushes, it was impossible for the boys to see much of it. The single light winked at them through a gap in the tree-branches, and was evidently shining from an up-stairs window. "While you're routing out your cousin and telling him he has company for the night, Ferral," said Matt, turning from the road, "Carl and I will look for a place to leave the car." "Aye, aye, pard," assented Ferral, jumping out. "There must be a barn or something, I should think. Go around toward the back of the house." There was a blind road leading through the dark grove toward the rear of the place. The car's lamps shot a gleam ahead and Matt pushed onward carefully. When he and Carl came opposite the side of the house, they heard voices, somewhere within the building, talking loudly. They could not distinguish what was said, as the intervening wall of the building smothered the words. "Ve don't vas der only gompany vat dey haf do-nighdt, Matt," remarked Carl, in a tone of huge relief. "It feels goot to be so glose py so many real peoples afder dot shpook pitzness." "I didn't think you believed in ghosts, Carl," laughed Matt. "Vell, a feller vas a fool ven he don'd pelieve vat he sees, ain'd he?" "That depends on how he looks at what he sees." This was too deep for Carl, and before he could frame an answer, Matt brought the Red Flier to a halt in front of a small stone barn. The barn had a wide door, and Matt got out, took the tail lamp and went forward to investigate. Opening one of the double doors, he stepped inside. The barn was a crude affair, the stones having been laid up without mortar. The roof consisted of a thatch of poles and boughs, overlaid with earth. There was plenty of room in the structure, however, for the machine, and there were no horses in the place to damage it. While Carl opened both doors, Matt ran the Red Flier into its temporary garage. Just as they had closed the doors and were about to start for the house, Ferral ran up to them out of the darkness. "Here's a go!" he exclaimed. "I pounded on the front door till I was blue in the face, and no one showed up." "There's some one in the house, all right," declared Matt. "Carl and I heard them." "Sure ve dit," struck in Carl, "so blain as anyt'ing. Und dare vas a lighdt, Verral--ve all saw der lighdt." "Well, there's no noise inside the house now, and no light, either," replied the perplexed Ferral. "What sort of a blooming place is it? As soon as I began pounding on the door, the voices died out and the light vanished from the window." "Are you positive this is La Vita Place?" asked Matt, with a sudden thought that they might have made a mistake. Ferral himself had said that he had never been to the ranch before, and it was very possible he had gone wrong in following directions. "Call me a lubber if I ain't," answered Ferral decidedly. "Come around front and I'll show you." Together the three boys made their way back through the gloomy grove, turned the corner of the building and brought up at the front door. The house continued dark and silent. Ferral scratched a match and held the flickering taper at arm's length over his head. "Look at that printing above the door," said he. There, plainly enough, were the rudely painted words, "La Vita Place." "We're takin' our scope of cable this far, all right," observed Ferral, dropping the match and laying a hand on the door-knob, "and I guess I've got as good a right in Uncle Jack's house as anybody. Open up, I say!" he shouted, and shook the door vigorously. No one answered. Not a sound could be heard inside the building. Matt stepped back and ran his eye over the gloomy outline of the structure. It was a two-story adobe, the windows small and deeply set in the thick walls. The window through which the light had been seen was now as dark as the others. This was as puzzling as any of the other events of the night, but it could be explained. Those inside were not in a mood to receive callers; but, even if that was the case, why could not some one come to the door and say so? "I'm going to get in," said Ferral decidedly, stepping back as though he would kick the door open. "Wait a minute," suggested Matt, "and let's see if the kitchen door isn't unlocked." "It isn't--I've tried it." "How about the windows?" "The lower ones are all fastened." "Then I'll try one of the upper ones." There was a tree close to the corner of the house with a branch swinging close to the window through which the boys had seen the light. Watched by Ferral and Carl, Matt climbed the tree and made his way carefully out along the branch. When opposite the window, he was able to step one foot on the deep sill and balance himself while lifting the sash. "It's unlocked!" he called down softly. "I'll get inside and open the door." "There's no telling what you'll find inside there," Ferral called back. "We'll all climb up and get in at the window, then look through the house together." Carl was beginning to have "spooky" feelings again. Not wanting to be left alone by the front door, he insisted on being the next one to climb the tree. Matt, who had got into the house, reached out and gave his Dutch chum a helping hand. When Ferral came, they both gave him a lift, and all three were presently inside the up-stairs room. "There's been somebody here, and not so very long ago," said Matt. "I smell tobacco smoke." "It's t'ick enough to cut mit a knife," sniffed Carl. "I'll strike a match and look for a lamp," said Ferral, "then we can see what we're doing." As the little flame flickered up in his hands, the boys took in the dimensions of a small, square room. A table with four chairs around it stood in the center of the room, and on the table was a pack of cards, left, apparently, in the middle of the game. In the midst of the cards stood a lamp. Ferral lighted the lamp. "Four people were here," said he, picking up the lamp, "and it's an easy guess they can't be far away. We'll cruise around a little and see what we can find." Opening the only door that led out of the room, Ferral stepped into the hall. Just as he did so, a sharp, incisive report echoed through the house. A crash of glass followed, and Ferral was blotted out in darkness. CHAPTER IV. THE HOUSE OF WONDER. "Ferral!" cried Matt in trepidation. "Aye, aye!" answered the voice of Ferral. "Hurt?" "Not a bit of it, matey. Strike me lucky, though, if I didn't have a tight squeak of it. The lamp-chimney was smashed and the light put out. If the bullet had gone a few inches lower, the lamp itself would have been knocked into smithereens and I'd have been fair covered with blazing oil. That flare-up proves the skulkers are still aboard." He lifted his voice. "Ahoy, there, you pirates! What're you running afoul o' me like that for? I've a right here, being Dick Ferral, of the old _Billy Ruffian_. Mr. Lawton's my uncle." Silence fell with the last word. There were no sounds in the house, apart from the quiet, sharp breathing of the three boys. Outside the faint night wind soughed through the trees, making a sort of moan that was hard on the nerves. Carl went groping for Matt, giving a grunt of satisfaction when he reached him and took a firm hold of his coat-tails. "Ve pedder go py der vinder vonce again," suggested Carl, catching his breath, "make some shneaks py der pubble und ged apsent mit ourselufs. Ven pulleds come ad you from der tark it vas pedder dot you ain'd aroundt. Somepody don'd vant us here." "I'm here because it's my duty," said Ferral, still in the hall, "and by the same token I've got to stay here and overhaul the whole blooming layout--but it ain't right to ring you in on such a rough deal. You and the Dutchman can up anchor and bear away, Matt, and I'll still be mighty obliged for your bowsing me off that piece of wall, and sorry, too, you couldn't be treated better under my uncle's roof." "You're not going to cut loose from us like that, Ferral," replied Matt. "We'll stay with you till this queer affair straightens out more to your liking." "But the danger----" "Well, we've faced music of that kind before." "Bully for you, old ship!" cried Ferral heartily. "I'll never forget it, either. Now, sink me, I'm going through this cabin from bulkhead to bulkhead, and if I can lay hands on that deacon-faced Sercomb, he'll tell me the why of this or I'll wring his neck for him." Matt stepped resolutely into the hall and ranged himself at Ferral's side. Ferral was drawing a match over the wall. The gleam of light would make targets of the boys for their unseen enemies, but there would have to be light if the investigation was to be thorough. No shot came. "Either we've got the swabs on the run," muttered Ferral, "or I'm a point off. The lamp's out of commission, so I'll leave it here on the floor. We've got to find another." "Be jeerful, be jeerful," mumbled Carl. "Efen dough ve ged shot fuller oof holes as some bepper-poxes it vas pedder dot ve be jeerful." "Right-o," answered Ferral, moving off along the hall. "Only two rooms on this floor," he added, looking around; "we'll go into the other and try for a lamp we can use." The door of the second room opened off the hall directly opposite the door of the first. The boys stepped in and found themselves in a bedroom. There was a rack of books on the wall, a trunk--open and contents scattered--carpet torn up and bed disarranged. "Looks like a hurricane had bounced in here," remarked Ferral. "Here's a candle," said Matt, and lifted the candlestick from the table and held it for Ferral to touch the match to the wick. When the candle was alight, Ferral stepped to the table and looked at a portrait swinging from the wall. It was the portrait of a gray-haired man. A broad ribbon crossed his breast and the insignia of some order hung against it. In spite of the surrounding perils, Ferral took off his hat. "Uncle Jack," he murmured, his voice vibrant with feeling. "The warmest corner of my heart is set aside for his memory, mates. I wish I'd done more for his comfort when he was alive." He turned away abruptly. "But we can't lose time here. What have you got there, Matt?" Matt had seen a sword swinging from the wall. Drawing the blade from its scabbard, he was holding it in his hand. "I'd thought of borrowing this," said he, "until we see what's ahead." "That's a regular jim-hickey of an idea!" With one hand Ferral twitched at a lanyard about his neck and brought out a dirk. "I might as well carry this, too," he added. "Und vat vill I do some fighding mit?" asked Carl anxiously. "I don'd got anyt'ing more as a chack-knife." "You stay behind and act as rear-guard, Carl," said Matt. "Dick and I will go ahead." With sword and dirk in readiness for instant use, Matt and Ferral forged along the short hall to the stairs, peering carefully around them as they went. They did not see anything of their enemies and could not hear a sound apart from the noise they made themselves. The flickering gleams of the candle showed a number of rich furnishings in the lower hall. The first story consisted of three rooms, parlor, library and kitchen. The parlor covered one side of the house, and was divided by a passage from the two rooms on the other side. But in none of the rooms, nor the hall, was any of their lurking foes to be seen! "Dis vas der plamedest t'ing vat efer habbened!" whispered Carl. "A rekular vonder-house! Noises, und lights, und pulleds, und nopody aroundt." "Wait," warned Ferral, making for an open door that evidently led into the cellar, "we haven't looked through the hold yet. We'll go down and get closer to bilge-water! I warrant you we'll stir up the rats." They descended a short flight of stairs into a rock-walled cellar. The cellar covered the entire lower part of the house, and was so high as to leave plenty of head-room. On a shelf were a number of cobwebbed bottles, and in one corner was a bin of potatoes--but there were no enemies in the cellar. "Shiver me!" muttered Ferral, peering dazedly at Matt through the flickering gleams of the candle. "How do you account for this?" "The four people who were here," returned Matt, "must have got out while we were in your uncle's room. If they have gone to the barn and tampered with the Red Flier----" This startling thought turned Motor Matt to the right about, and he raced back to the first floor. Carl and Ferral followed him swiftly. There were only two outside doors to the house, one leading from the kitchen, and the other from the front hall. Investigation showed that both of these doors were bolted on the inside. All the lower windows were also securely fastened. Ferral dropped down in a chair in the front hall and drew his hand across his forehead. "I'll be box-hauled if I can twig this layout, at all!" he muttered. "Those fellows couldn't get out and leave those doors and windows locked on the inside." "And they couldn't have got past us on the stairs and got out the way we came in," added Matt, equally nonplused. "We looked carefully as we came down from the upper floor, and the rascals must have been driven ahead of us. I'm knocked all of a heap, and that's a fact." Carl cantered forward. "Der shpooks vas blaying viggle-vaggle mit us," he averred in a stage whisper. "Led us say goot-by, bards, und shkin oudt. It vas pedder so, yah, so helup me." "Are you getting cold feet, matey?" queried Ferral. "I peen colt all ofer," admitted Carl, "efer since dot shpook pubble vented off indo nodding righdt vile ve look. Den der man-shpook meldet oudt, und dese oder shpooks faded. Yah, you bed my life, ve vill go oop in shmoke ourselufs oof ve shtay here long." "Carl does a lot of foolish talking, Dick," spoke up Matt, "but he's as game as a hornet, for all that. Don't pay any attention to his spook talk. I saw a lantern in the kitchen, and a padlock and key lying on a shelf. While you two are trying to solve this riddle, I'm going out to the barn and get a lock and key on the Red Flier. I can't afford to let anything happen to that machine." "I vill go mit you, Matt," said Carl. "You stay here with Dick," Matt answered. "I'll not be gone more than a minute." Hurrying into the kitchen he lighted the lantern; then, with the padlock and key in his pocket and the sword in his hand, he unbolted the kitchen door and made his way to the barn. He listened intently as he went, but there was no sound in the gloomy grove save the hooting of an owl. He found the Red Flier just as he and Carl had left it, and an examination of the barn proved that no one had taken refuge there. After putting the bolt upon the door and locking it--he already had the spark-plug in his pocket--he felt easier, and returned unmolested to the house. While he was gone, Ferral and Carl had lighted a large lamp in the parlor and drawn the shades at the windows. They were seated comfortably in easy chairs, eating sandwiches of dried beef and bread. "There's your snack, mate," cried Ferral, pointing to a plate on the table. "Better get on the outside of it. We may have a lively time, and it's just as well to prepare ourselves for whatever is going to happen." Carl, now that the tension had eased a trifle and food was in sight, was feeling better. "I guess ve got der whole ranch py ourselufs," he beamed, his mouth half-full of sandwich. "Ve schared dem odder fellers avay. Oof dey shday avay undil ve clear oudt, dot's all vat I ask." "Who were the lubbers, and how did they slip their cables?" queried Ferral. "That's the point that's got me hooked. Do you think that white car, and that man we saw in the road, had anything to do with the swabs who were in here?" Before Matt could answer, a rap fell on the front door and its echoes ran through the house. Carl jumped up in a panic. "Blitzen and dunder!" he cried chokingly, struggling with his last mouthful of sandwich and peering wildly at Matt and Dick, "dere's somet'ing else! Schust ven ve ged easy in our mindts, bang goes der front door! Now vat?" "We'll see what," returned Ferral grimly, getting to his feet and starting for the hall. Matt followed him, sword in hand, and ready for any emergency that might present itself. CHAPTER V. SERCOMB. The rapping on the door had grown to a vigorous thumping before Ferral and Matt reached the entrance. Quickly throwing the bolt, Ferral pulled the door open and a young man of twenty-one or two stepped in. He was well built and muscular and had a smooth, harmless face. The face was so void of expression that, to Matt, it showed a lack of character. Ferral was carrying the candle. Through its gleams, he and the newcomer stared at each other. "Why--why," murmured the youth who had just entered, "can this be my cousin Dick?" "You've taken my soundings all right, Sercomb," answered Ferral coolly. "Wasn't you expecting me?" "Well, yes, in a way," and Sercomb's eyes roamed to Matt. "We got track of you down in Texas, and the lawyer said he'd sent word, but we didn't know whether you'd come or not." "Where have you been, Sercomb?" and Matt saw Ferral's keen eyes studying the other's face. Sercomb met the look calmly. "I've been spending the evening at a neighbor's," he replied, "my nearest neighbor's--a mile away through the hills." "Got out of an up-stairs window, didn't you?" asked Ferral caustically. "What do you mean?" demanded Sercomb, a slight flush running into his face. "Why, when you started to make that call you left all the lower windows fastened and both outside doors bolted on the inside." "There's some mistake," answered Sercomb blankly. "When I went away I left the front door open. We don't go to the trouble of locking doors in this country, Dick." "Well, these were locked when I got here. What's more, there were four men in a room up-stairs playing cards. Come, come, you grampus! Don't try to play fast and loose with me. How did you and the other three lubbers get out of the house? And why wouldn't you let me in when I rapped?" "Look here," blustered Sercomb, "what do you take me for? You never liked me, and you're up to your old trick of suspecting me of something crooked whenever anything goes wrong. I was hoping you'd got over that. Uncle Jack was all cut up over the way you treated me, and he never could understand it. Now that he's dead and gone, I should think we might at least be friends." "Dead and gone, is he," asked Ferral quickly. "How do you know?" "Because I've found him--and the will." Ferral was dazed, as though some one had struck him a blow in the face. Matt, who was watching Sercomb intently, thought he saw an exultant flash in his eyes as he spoke. "The poor old chap," Sercomb went on, "was tucked away in a thicket of bushes, less than a stone's throw from the house. I don't know whether there was any foul play--I haven't been able to find his Hindu servant, Tippoo, yet, but there weren't any marks on the body. I laid Uncle Jack away in the grove, and I'll show you the place in the morning. The will was in his coat-pocket, and wrapped in a piece of oilskin. It was very sad, very sad," and Sercomb averted his face for a moment; "and to think that neither you nor I, Dick, was with him. But come into the other room. I'm tired and want to sit down and rest." Ferral, like one in a dream, followed his cousin into the parlor. Sercomb was standing in front of Carl, apparently wondering where Ferral had picked up so many friends. "Here, Ralph," said Ferral, suddenly rousing himself, "I'd forgot to introduce my friends," and he presented Matt and Carl. "What you've told me," he went on, "catches me up short and leaves me in stays. I heard that Uncle Jack had disappeared, but not that Davy Jones had got him." For the moment, Ferral's feelings caused him to thrust aside his dislike of Sercomb. "It's too confounded bad, and that's a fact," said Sercomb, throwing himself into a chair and lighting a cigarette. "I haven't been down to see the old chap for six months. Our firm had a machine in the endurance run from Chicago to Omaha, and I was busy with that, and in getting ready for a big race that's soon to be pulled off, so my hands were more than full. When I got the lawyer's letter, though, I broke away from everything and came on here." "Why didn't the lawyer tell me Uncle Jack and the will had been found?" asked Ferral. "That only happened two days ago. The lawyer wrote you the same time he wrote me." "But I saw the lawyer in Lamy, day before yesterday----" "He didn't know it, then." "How does the will read, Ralph?" "Everything was left to me, this place and all Uncle Jack's holdings in South African stock. Of course, you know, you've never come near him, Dick. If you had, the will might have read different." "I don't care the fag-end of nothing about Uncle Jack's money; it was Uncle Jack himself I wanted to see. If this place is yours, Sercomb----" and Ferral broke off and started to get up. "You and your friends are welcome to stay here all night," said Sercomb. "It's not much of a place, and I'm going to pack up the valuables, send them to Denver, and clear out." "Going to keep up your racing?" Sercomb smiled. "Hardly; not with a mint of money like I've got now," he answered. "In a few months, I'm off for old England." A brief silence followed, broken suddenly by Sercomb. "But I'm bothered about the intruders you say were here when you came. They must have locked both doors on the inside." "A rum go," said Ferral, "if strangers can come in and make free with a person's property like that." "Tell me about it. This country is a good deal of a wilderness, you know, and strangers are likely to do anything." Ferral said nothing concerning the phantom auto, nor about the man who had so mysteriously vanished on the cliff road; he confined himself strictly to what had happened in the house, and tipped Matt and Carl a wink to apprise them that they were to let it go at that. Sercomb seemed greatly wrought up, and insisted on taking a lamp and making an investigation of the upper floor. "They were thieves," Sercomb finally concluded. "They thought I had gone away for the night, and so they came in here and tore up Uncle Jack's bedroom like we see it. It was known that Uncle Jack had money, and it was just as well known that he had disappeared." "If you knew all that yourself," said Ferral, "why didn't you lock up before you went visiting?" "I was careless," admitted Sercomb, with apparent frankness. "The one thing that bothers me is the fact that you were shot at, Dick! A nice way for you to be treated in Uncle Jack's own house!" "Don't let that fret you, Sercomb. I've had belaying-pins and bullets heaved at me so many times that I don't mind so long as they go wide. We'll have a round with our jaw-tackle to-morrow. Just now, though, I and my mates are ready for a little shut-eye. Where do we berth?" "Two of you can fix up Uncle Jack's bed and sleep there; the other can bunk down on the couch in the room where those four rascals were playing cards. I'll sleep down-stairs on the parlor davenport. Yes," Sercomb added, "it will be just as well to sleep over all this queer business, and do our talking in the morning. Good night, all of you." Leaving the lamp for the boys, Sercomb went stumbling down-stairs. "What do you think of Ralph Sercomb, Matt?" whispered Ferral, when Sercomb had left the stairs and could be heard moving around the parlor. "I don't like his looks," answered Matt frankly, "nor the way he acts." "Me, neider," put in Carl. "He vas a shly vone, und I bed you he talks crooked mit himseluf." "That's the way I always sized him up," admitted Ferral, "and strikes me lucky if I think he's improved any since I saw him last. But he's got the will, and poor old Uncle Jack----" Ferral's eyes wandered to the picture on the wall, and he shook his head sadly. "I'd have a look at that will," said Matt, "and I'd get a lawyer to look at it." "These lawyer-sharps, of course, will have their watch on deck, but I hate to quibble over the old chap's property when it's Uncle Jack himself I wanted to find. Anyhow, I got my whack, all right, to be cut off without a shilling; at the same time, Ralph got more than was his due. But I'm no kicker." "If Sercomb drives a racing-car," went on Matt, "he must have skill and nerve." "Nerve, aye! Cousin Ralph always had his locker full of that. But how shall we sleep? My head's all ahoo with what's happened, and I need sleep to clear away the fog. You and your mate take the bed, Matt, and I'll----" "No, you don't," said Matt. "I'm for the couch in the other room." Matt insisted on this, and finally had his way. He was not intending to sleep on the couch, but to go out to the barn and spend the night in the tonneau of the Red Flier. If Sercomb knew so much about automobiles, Matt felt that the touring-car would bear watching. He had no confidence in Sercomb, and felt sure that he was playing an underhand game of some kind. Sitting down on the couch, Matt waited until the house was quiet, then went softly to the open window, climbed through, and made his way to the ground by means of the tree. Hardly had his feet struck solid earth, when he heard the front door drawn carefully open. Sercomb stepped out and noiselessly closed the door behind him. Matt, intensely alive to the possibilities of the unexpected situation, drew back into the darker shadows of the tree-branches. Sercomb, moving away a little from the house, gave a low whistle. A hoot, as of an owl, came instantly from the grove. Sercomb started away rapidly in the direction from which the sound came. Matt followed him, keeping carefully in the shadows. CHAPTER VI. THE PHANTOM AUTO AGAIN. Sercomb did not follow the blind trail that led to the main road. He made for the road, but took his way along a foot-path that led through the grove. It was not at all difficult for Matt to shadow him, and the young motorist was considerably surprised to see Sercomb gain the road at a point where a heavy touring-car had drawn up. The car was about the size of the Red Flier and, in the semidarkness, looked very much like it. But it had a top. Three men were standing near the head of the machine, in the glow of the lamps. They were all fairly well dressed, quite young, and there was little of the ruffian about them. They greeted Sercomb excitedly, and for several minutes all four of them engaged in a brisk conversation. Their voices were pitched in too low a tone, and Matt was too far away to hear what was said. Undoubtedly, Matt reasoned, these three who had just come in the automobile had formed part of the number who had been in the up-stairs room. The fourth member of the party must have been Sercomb, himself. But how had Sercomb and the other three got away? Their departure from the house was a mystery. And where had they kept their automobile while they were in the house? This was another mystery. They were planning evil things of some sort, and against Dick Ferral. Matt had a clue. It assured him that Sercomb had not told the truth when he said he knew nothing about the so-called intruders who had vanished from the house so strangely. Sercomb, by this stealthy meeting with the three in the road, proved to Matt that he knew all about the men. From their earnest talk it was clear that they were plotting mischief. Wishing that he could overhear something of what was said, Matt began creeping carefully along the path. By getting a few yards nearer he was sure that he would be within ear-shot. Just as he had nearly reached the coveted point for which he was making, and the mumble of talk was breaking up into an occasional word which he could distinguish, the conversation broke off with a chorus of excited exclamations. Matt started up, at first fearing he had been seen, and that the four in the road were coming to capture him. But in this he was mistaken. All four of them, as a matter of fact, had started in his direction, but they abruptly halted and whirled around. Matt's heart jumped when he saw what it was that had claimed their attention. _It was the phantom auto!_ The white runabout was wheeling swiftly along the road in the direction of the treacherous cliff trail. The streaming lights of the touring-car were full upon the ghostly runabout, showing the vacant seats distinctly. The weird spectacle was more than enough to fill the four men with momentary panic. They stood as though rooted to the ground, watching the runabout turn of its own accord from the road, pass the touring-car, and then come neatly back into the road again. An oath broke from one of the men. Leaping to the touring-car he cranked up the machine quickly and hopped into the driver's seat. Two others jumped in behind him, one in front and the other behind, Sercomb being the only one who remained at the roadside. Swiftly the touring-car was turned and headed in pursuit. Then, suddenly, there came the report of a firearm, shivering through the still air. At first, Matt thought one of those in the touring-car had fired at the runabout; then, a moment more, he knew he was mistaken. The shot had come from the runabout and had punctured one of the touring-car's front tires. The big car limped and slewed until the power was cut off and it came to a halt. Those who were in the car piled out, sputtering and fuming, and Sercomb ran forward and joined them. Together, all four watched the white phantom whisk out of sight. There followed a good deal of talking and gesticulating among Sercomb and the three with him. Finally one of them took off the tail lamp and all made an examination of the damaged tire. A jack was got out and the forward wheel lifted. From his actions, Sercomb was nervous and excited. He kept walking from the road, looking toward the house and listening. He fancied, no doubt, just as Matt did, that the sound of the shot might have awakened the sleepers in the house. However, this did not seem to have been the case. Leaving one of the men to tinker with the tire, Sercomb took the other two and led them off through the grove. They passed within a yard of where Matt was crouching in the bushes, but their plans, whatever they were, had been settled, and they were doing no talking. Matt continued to dodge after Sercomb. The course he and the two with him were taking did not lead toward the house, but angled off through the grove on a line that would take them fully a hundred feet past the nearest wall of the adobe building. Abreast of the house, at that point, there was a circular space, clear of timber and with only a patch of brush in the center. Matt, not daring to venture beyond the edge of the timber, stood and watched while Sercomb and his companions disappeared in the thicket. Matt's position was such that he could see all around the little patch of bushes, and he watched for the three men to appear on the other side. They did not appear, and as minute after minute slipped away, Matt's amazement and curiosity increased. The men had gone into that little thicket, and why had they not shown themselves again? What was there in that bunch of brush to attract them and keep them so long? Matt concluded to investigate. There might be danger in doing that, as there would be three against him if he was discovered, but he knew he had only to raise his voice to bring Ferral and Carl. This clue, which he had picked up so unexpectedly in the night, called upon him to make the most of it and, if possible, discover what Sercomb was up to. Hastening across the cleared space, he came to the thicket without a challenge. Resolutely he plunged into the bushes--and the next moment the ground seemed to drop out from under him. Throwing out his hands wildly he plunged downward, struck an incline and rolled over and over, finally coming to a jolting stop on hard earth, on his hands and knees. The suddenness of his fall had bewildered him. He was bruised a little, but not otherwise hurt, and as his wits returned his curiosity came uppermost. What sort of a place was he in? His groping hands informed him that the incline he had rolled down was a rude stairway. A patch of starlight above revealed the opening into which he had stumbled. Climbing the stairway, he reached a stone landing and lifted himself erect in the very center of the thicket. A flat slab, tilted upon its edge, showed how the hole was covered when not in use. Matt drew a quick breath. The mysteries of La Vita Place were clearing a little. Here, undoubtedly, was a passage communicating with the house. Sercomb and the other three men must have used it in making their strange escape from the up-stairs room, earlier in the night. But why were Sercomb and his two companions going back through the passage? Instinctively Matt's suspicions flew to Dick Ferral. Sercomb was planning some evil against him, and the two from the touring-car were there to help him carry it out. Matt hesitated a moment, trying to decide whether he should go through the passage or reach the house by crossing the cleared place and entering the front door. He decided upon the passage. The rascals had gone that way and would probably make their escape in the same manner. Hurrying down the steps he began making his way along a gallery. The passage was not wide, for he could stretch out his hands and touch either side. It ran straight, and Matt pushed rapidly through the gloom, trailing a hand along one wall. He knew he had only a hundred feet to go before he should reach the house, but in his haste he covered the distance before he realized it, and stumbled against a flight of steps. While he was picking himself up, he heard a commotion from somewhere above--a wild scramble of feet, a thump of blows and an overturning of furniture. Above the hubbub sounded the voice of Carl. "Vat's der madder mit you? Hoop-a-la! Take dot, oof you like or oof you don'd like, und dere's anoder! Matt! Come along for der fight _fest_! Vere you vas, Matt, vile der scrimmage iss going on! Verral! Iss dot you?" Just then, as Matt began scrambling upward, a form came hurtling down. "They're onto us, Joe!" panted a voice. "This way, old pal! Nothing doing to-night. Cut for it! I ran into something at the foot of the steps--look out for that!" Matt, who had been thrown violently against the wall, heard forms dashing past him. Before he could interfere with them, they were well along the passage. CHAPTER VII. SURROUNDED BY ENEMIES. Although the two men had got past Matt, nevertheless he followed them to the end of the passage, arriving just in time to see them disappear through the opening and close the aperture with the slab. Only two went out. What had become of Sercomb? Had Ferral and Carl captured him--catching him red-handed and so unmasking his treachery? In any event, Ferral and Carl had proven more than a match for the two miscreants who had stolen in upon them. Thankful that the affair had turned out so fortunately for his friends, although still mystified as to what Sercomb's purpose was, Matt groped his way back along the corridor and mounted the steps. It was a long flight--much longer than the one at the other end of the passage--and, at the top, Matt was confronted by a blank wall. He ran his hands over it, and, in so doing, must have touched a spring, for a section of the wall slid back and a sudden glow of lamplight blinded him. "Ach, du lieber!" came the astounded voice of Carl. "Dere vas Matt, py chincher! Vere you come from, hey?" Matt stepped from the head of the steps into the room in which Ferral and Carl had been sleeping. The panel closed noiselessly behind him. "Sink me!" muttered Ferral, stepping past Matt to run his hands over the wall. "A nice little trap-door in the wall, or I'm a Fiji!" He whirled around. "How does it come you stepped through it, messmate?" "Where's Sercomb?" whispered Matt, peering around. "What's he got to do with this?" Just at that moment Sercomb's voice came up from below. "What's going on up there? Anything happened, Dick?" "Two men came in and made trouble for us!" shouted Matt. "Didn't you hear 'em run down the stairs?" "No, I didn't hear anybody!" answered Sercomb. "Take a look around, and we'll see what we can find up here." During this brief colloquy, Ferral and Carl were staring at Matt in open-mouthed astonishment. Matt whirled to Ferral. "Not a word to Sercomb about that hole in the wall," he whispered. "Tell me quick, what happened in here?" "I was sleeping full and by, forty knots," answered Ferral, in the same low tone, "when I felt myself grabbed. It was dark as Egypt, and I couldn't see a thing. I shouted to Carl, and we had it touch and go, here in the dark. My eye, but it was a scrimmage! Right in the midst of it the fellows we were fighting melted away. I had just got the glim to going when you stepped in on us." "Wasn't Sercomb in the fight?" "Why, no. He must have been down-stairs, sleeping like a log. He only just chirped--you heard him." "Well, Sercomb came into this room with two other men, through that hole in the wall----" "Is that right?" demanded Ferral, his face hardening. "Yes, but don't say a word about it. Wait till we find out what his game is." "How dit you know all dot, Matt?" queried Carl. Briefly as he could Matt sketched his recent experiences. The astonishing recital left his two friends gasping. "The old hunks!" breathed Ferral, scowling. "I can smoke his weather-roll, fast enough. What did I tell you about the soft-sawdering beggar?" Matt stepped into the hall and listened. Apparently, Sercomb was not in the house. Coming back, he pulled his two friends close together so they could hear him without his speaking above a whisper. "Sercomb has gone out to hurry up the repairs on the big car and get it out of the way. We can talk a little, but we've got to be wary. Don't let Sercomb know anything about this clue I've picked up. We're surrounded by enemies, Ferral, and you're the object of some sort of game they've got on. By lying low, perhaps we can get wise to it." "Dot shpook auto has dook a hant in der pitzness," murmured Carl, flashing a fearful glance around. "I don'd like dot fery goot." "This spook business will all be explained, Carl," said Matt, "and you'll find that flesh and blood is mixed up in the whole of it. That white runabout put a shot into one of the tires of that big touring-car, and no revolver ever went off without a human hand back of it. We know, too, how those men got away from that room where they were playing cards. They ran in here, got through the hole in the wall and went out by way of the tunnel. That shot that was fired at you, Dick, and put out the lamp, must have come from this room, just before Sercomb and the others dodged through the wall." "Sercomb?" echoed Ferral. "Sure! It's a cinch he was playing cards in that room with the three men. He came here from Denver, and he must have traveled in that big car and brought the others with him." "Oh, he's the nice boy!" commented Ferral sarcastically. "A fine cousin, that swab is! That phantom flugee is mixing in the game. I wonder if Sercomb has anything to do with that?" "No. When the phantom auto showed up in the road, Sercomb and all three of the others were scared nearly out of their wits. I'll bet that was the first time Sercomb ever saw it. Besides, the bullet that pierced the tire of the big car came from the runabout. That wouldn't have happened if the runabout was here to help Sercomb's plans." "Right-o. What kind of a bally old place is this, anyhow? Holes in the wall, tunnels, and all that--it fair dazes me. What could Uncle Jack have wanted of a secret passage?" "Didn't you tell me that this was an old Mexican house, and that your uncle bought it?" asked Matt. "That's how he got hold of the place, matey." "Then it must have come into his hands like we find it. The Mexicans used to build queer houses; I found that out while I was down in Phoenix." Matt turned away and took a look at the walls. They were wainscoted in cedar, all around. Every little way there were panels, and the entrance to the passage, which Matt had recently used, was by a panel. "The walls of these adobe houses are always thick," went on Matt, "but these walls are even thicker than common. There's room in this wall for that stairway, and no one would ever suspect the wall is hollow, simply because it's made of adobe." "How does the door work?" queried Ferral, stepping to the wainscoting and trying to manipulate the panel. "I'd like to know how to get the cover off the blooming hatch; the knowledge might come handy." Along the wainscoting, about five feet from the floor, were arranged clothes-hooks. Matt, helping Ferral hunt for the secret spring that operated the panel, pulled on one of the hooks. Instantly the panel slid open, answering the pull on the hook with weird silence. "Chiminy grickets!" murmured Carl, stepping back. "Dot looks like der vay to der infernal blace." Ferral stepped forward as though he would pass through the opening, but Matt caught his arm and held him back. "Don't go down there now, Ferral," said he. "When Sercomb comes we want him to find us here. He doesn't guess that I'm next to what he's done to-night, and none of his confederates know it. If we keep mum, the knowledge may do us a lot of good. If we try to face him down with it, we'll only show him our hands without accomplishing anything." "The sneaking lubber!" growled Ferral. "Why, he berthed us in this room so he and his mates could sneak in on us while we were asleep. But," and here Ferral rubbed his chin perplexedly, "what did they want to do that for?" "We'll find out," returned Matt, "if we play our cards right." "You're the lad to discover things," said Ferral admiringly. "I never had a notion you were going to slip out of the house when you left us." "And I never had a notion what I was going to drop into," said Matt, "I can promise you that. But it is a tip-top clue, and we'll be foolish if we don't use it for all it's worth." "You've started off in handsome style! Your head-work makes me feel like a green hand and a lubber." "Dot's Matt, Verral," declared Carl, puffing up like a turkey-cock. "He alvays does t'ings in hantsome shdyle, you bed you. He iss der lucky feller to tie to, dot's righdt. I know, pecause I haf tied to him meinseluf, und I haf peen hafing luck righdt along efer since, yah, so. Be jeerful, eferypody, und oof der shpooks leaf us alone, ve vill all come oudt oof der horn py der pig end. But vat makes Sercomb act like dot?" "He wants Uncle Jack's property," scowled Ferral, "and I'll wager that's what he's working for." "But how can he be working for it when he's already got it?" put in Matt. "He claims to have found your uncle, and to have secured the will." "That's his speak-easy for it. He's a long-winded grampus, and can talk the length of the best bower, but that don't mean that there's any truth in all his wig-wagging." "Now you're hitting the high gear without any lost motion," said Matt. "Between you and me and the spark-plug, Dick, I don't think he ever found your uncle; and, as for the will, if he really has it, and everything's left to him, what's all this underhand work for?" A sudden thought came to Ferral. "Say," he whispered hoarsely, "do you think that sneaking cur could have handed out any foul play to Uncle Jack? I hate to think it of him, but----" "No," answered Matt gravely, "I don't think----" He was interrupted by some one coming in at the front door, and stopped abruptly. "There's Sercomb now," he whispered. "Let's hear what he's got to say for himself. Mind you don't let out anything about my clue. When you had your trouble, I ran in here from the other room and lent a hand." "Are you up there?" came Sercomb's voice. "I can't find a soul about the place." From the road the boys could hear the muffled pounding of a motor. And they knew, even as Sercomb spoke, that he was not telling the truth. CHAPTER VIII. THE KETTLE CONTINUES TO BOIL. Sercomb came up-stairs and stepped into the room. Daylight was just coming in through the windows, and the gray of the morning and the yellow of the lamplight gave Sercomb's face a ghastly look. Nevertheless, it was a frank and open face--as always. "Now, Dick," cried Sercomb, "what in the world has been going on here? Do you mean to say that some one came into this room and attacked you?" "That's the how of it, old ship," answered Ferral, repressing his real feelings admirably. "As near as we can figure out, there were two of them. It was so dark, though, we couldn't see our own fists, so there may have been more than two." "Some of the gang who dropped in here while I was away, I'll bet," said Sercomb. "I'm thinking the same thing, Ralph," returned Ferral, with a meaning look at Matt. "They were handy, too, but not handy enough. They left us all at once, and how they ever did it beats me. We boxed the compass for 'em, though, and when we'd worked around the card they thought they had enough--and ducked." "Where did they go?" "Didn't you hear them go out the front door?" "Not I, Dick! If I had, I'd have taken a part in the scrimmage myself." "You were slow hearing the racket, Ralph. It was all over when you piped up." "I heard it quick enough, but I was sound asleep when it aroused me. Being a little bewildered, I went out into the kitchen." Something like loathing swept over Matt as he watched Sercomb's face and listened to his smooth misstatement. "Wonder how Uncle Jack managed to hang on in such a lawless country as this," said Ferral. "No one ever bothered him. He was pretty well liked by the scattered settlers." "Everybody liked the old chap! I thought no end of him myself." "Too bad you didn't show it, Dick, while he was alive," said Sercomb. There wasn't any sarcasm in his voice--only a dry, expressionless statement of what Ferral knew were the cold facts. Nevertheless, there was a gratuitous slur in the words. Ferral bristled at once, but a look from Matt caused him to curb his temper. "Belay a bit on that, Ralph," said Ferral mildly. "I know it well without your say-so to round it off. From now on, though, I'll do my best to show Uncle Jack what I think of him." Sercomb looked a little puzzled. "His will shows everybody what he thought of you--at the last," said he. It looked as though Sercomb was deliberately trying to force a quarrel, but Ferral, still with Matt's glances to admonish him, did not fall into the trap. "I'll go down and get breakfast," observed Sercomb, after waiting in vain for a response from Ferral. "Some Denver friends are coming up from Lamy to make me a little visit, and we may be a bit crowded here. There are three of them." It was a broad hint for Dick Ferral to take his two friends and leave, as soon after breakfast as he could make it convenient. Ferral fired up at that. Matt and Carl had served him well, and he was not the one to put up with any back-handed slaps from his cousin Ralph. "By the seven holy spiritsails, Sercomb!" he cried, "I'll have you know that I and my friends have as much right under Uncle Jack's roof as you and yours. We'll be here to breakfast, and as long as we want to stay." "Now, don't fly off at a tangent, Dick," returned Sercomb, with a distressed look. "I didn't mean anything like that, and why do you go out of your way to take me in any such fashion? I'll go down and get the meal for all of us--if you can put up with my cooking." "Go and help, Carl," said Matt. "We don't want to make Mr. Sercomb any extra trouble. We won't be here very long, anyhow." "Dot's me," said Carl, as cheerfully as he could. He hated to be associated with Sercomb, but the idea of a meal always struck a mellow note in Carl's get-up. "You understand, don't you, Mr. King?" said Sercomb, in a whining tone, turning to Matt and jerking his head toward Ferral. "Perfectly," smiled Matt. Carl and Sercomb went out. When they were going down the stairs Ferral shook his fist. "Shamming the griffin!" he growled; "the putty-faced shark, I'd like to lay him on his beam-ends! Do you wonder I've had a grouch at him all these years, Matt?" "No, I don't," said Matt frankly; "but stick it out. I've a hunch, Dick, that you're soon going to be done with your cousin for good and all. He's playing a game here that's going to get him into hot water." Matt stretched himself out on the bed. "I'm going to lie here," said he, "and you can talk to me. Carl will keep an eye on Sercomb. Tell me more about your uncle." "He was no end of a toff in London," replied Ferral, taking a chair and casting a look at the portrait. "His wife died, and that broke him up; then his daughter died, and that was about the finish. He bucked up, though, and crossed the pond. When he was in Hamilton he said he wanted to go some place where there wasn't so many people. Then he came here." "This last move of his," said Matt, "looks like a strange one to me." "He was full of his crochets, Uncle Jack was, but there was always a good bit of sense down at the bottom of them. Sercomb would have gone down on his knees and licked his boots, knowing Uncle Jack had money, and nobody but him and me to leave it to. There's another cut to my jib, though. I wouldn't go around where he was because I was afraid he'd think the same of me. I've got a notion, Matt, and it just came to me." "What is it?" "I'll bet that, when Uncle Jack left, he hid that will, and that he signed it and left blank the place where his heir's name was to be. The one that was shrewd enough to find it, you know, could put in his own name." "Why should he do that?" "Just to see whether Sercomb or I was the smarter." "But you overlook what your uncle said about being found wherever the will was discovered." "Right-o. I'm always overlooking things. You see, I'm taken all aback with this game of Sercomb's. If I knew what his lay was, or what he's trying to accomplish, I'd have my turn-to in short order. Still, as you say, he's going to get his what-for no matter which way the wind blows." "There's a lot of things happened that are mighty mysterious," mused Matt; "little by little, though, they're clearing up. That clue I hooked onto last night makes several things clear. Did Sercomb know you were coming?" "The Lamy lawyer must have told him he'd found out where I was, and had written to me. One thing I did do, and that was to sling my fist to a letter for Uncle Jack, once a month, anyhow. So he knew I was down in the Panhandle." "When you pounded on the door last night, Sercomb must have suspected it was you. If he hadn't, he'd have let you in." "He'd have let me in anyhow, only he didn't want me to see those other three swabs. And then for him to play-off like he did, and say he was calling at a neighbor's! It would have done me a lot of good to blow the gaff, when he came in on us a spell ago, and let him understand just where he gets off." "That wouldn't have helped any, and it might have spoiled our chances for finding out what he's up to." What answer Ferral made to this Matt did not hear. The young motorist had put in a strenuous night, and he was worn out. Ferral's words died to a mumble, and before Matt knew it he was sound asleep. Some one shook him, and he opened his eyes and started up. "Dozed off, did I?" he laughed. "Sorry, old man, but I didn't sleep any last night, you know. You were saying----" An odor of boiling coffee and sizzling bacon floated up from down-stairs. "What I was saying, mate," answered Ferral, "was some sort of a while ago. I've had my jaw-tackle stowed for an hour, letting you do the shut-eye trick. But now it's about mess-time, I reckon; and, anyhow, those friends of Sercomb's are here from Lamy. Listen!" The chug of a motor on the low gear came to Matt. Getting up, he looked out of a window that commanded the front of the house. A car was coming slowly along the blind trail from the road, following the same course the Red Flier had taken the night before. As the automobile drew closer, Matt gave a startled exclamation. "Some new kink in the yarn, Matt?" queried Ferral. "I should say so!" answered Matt. "That's the same car that was in the road last night----" "What?" demanded Ferral, grabbing Matt's arm. "There's no doubt of it, Dick," said Matt; "and the three in the car are the same ones Sercomb met and talked with. Two of them, of course, are the handy-boys who blew in here and roughed things up with you and Carl." The car came to a stop in front. Just then the front door opened and Sercomb rushed out. "Hello, fellows!" he called. "Mighty glad to see you. Pile out and clean up for the grub-pile----" Matt heard that much, and just then had to turn around to look after Ferral. With an angry growl, Ferral had broken away and started down the stairs. "Dick!" called Matt, running after him. But Ferral gave no heed to the call. He was down the stairs and out of the door like a shot. Matt was close on his heels, but he was not close enough to keep him from trouble. "You two-faced crimp!" Matt heard him yell. "You'll down me in Lamy and take my money, will you, and then show up here! Now, strike me lucky if I don't play evens!" CHAPTER IX. ORDERED AWAY. Matt remembered at once what Ferral had said about having been robbed while on his way to La Vita Place. Now that Ferral had recognized one of the newcomers as the man who had made the treacherous assault on him, a new light was thrown on that Lamy robbery. If the thief was one of Sercomb's friends, it looked as though Sercomb must have had a guilty knowledge of the affair--perhaps had planned it. Matt attempted to grab Ferral and pull him away, but Sercomb and the other two got ahead of him. The three laid hold of Ferral so roughly that Matt immediately gave them his attention. "Let up on that!" he cried, catching Sercomb and jerking him away just as he was about to strike Ferral with his clenched fist. "There's no need of pounding Dick." "I'll pound _you_ if you give me any of your lip!" answered Sercomb. "The latch-string's out," answered Matt grimly. "Walk in." At that moment Carl rolled out of the door. "Vat's der rooction?" he tuned up, his eyes dancing over the squabble. Carl was always as ready to fight as he was to eat, which is saying a good deal. "Help me get Ferral away from that fellow, Carl," called Matt. "On der chump!" Carl landed right in the midst of the struggle, and in about half a minute he and Matt had separated Ferral from his antagonist. With a neat crack, straight from the shoulder, Matt disarmed a fellow who had jerked a wrench out of the automobile. This put the last finishing touch to the clash, and both sides drew apart, bunching together, and each panting and glaring at the other. "Dere iss only vone t'ing vat I can do on a embty shtomach, und dot's fighdt," wheezed Carl, slapping his arms. "It don'd vas ofer so kevick? I got a pooty leedle kitney-punch vat I vould like to hant aroundt, only I don'd haf der dime." "Take off your grappling-hooks, Matt," puffed Ferral, squirming to get out from under Matt's hands. "Dowse me if I've taken that crimp's full measure, yet. The nerve of him, breezing right up here with my money in his clothes!" "Steady!" said Matt, closing down harder on Ferral and easily holding him. "This has gone far enough." "I should say it had," spoke up Sercomb, showing a flash of temper. "Pretty way for my friends to be treated! I won't stand for it." "When you've got thieves for friends, Sercomb," cried Ferral, "you're liable to have to stand for a good deal!" "Hand him one for that, Joe!" urged one of the newcomers. "That's the first time I ever heard a thing like that batted up to Joe Mings, and him not raising so much as a finger against the man that said it." "We've got to think of Ralph, Harry," said Joe Mings. "This row makes it uncomfortable for him." "Especially since the chap that's making such a holy show of himself is my own cousin," remarked Sercomb, with bitter reproach. "The more shame to you," flared Ferral, "to let the hound that robbed your own cousin come here like he's done, and take his part. Keep your offing, Joe Mings," he added, to the thief, "or I'll tie you into a granny's knot and heave you clean over your devil-wagon! Where's that money? I need it, and I'm going to have it." "I don't know what you're talking about," answered Mings. "You must be dippy! Why, I never saw you before until you rushed out and tried to climb my neck." "You two-tongued swab! Do you mean to stand up there and say you didn't meet me in Lamy, tell me you were a Canadian in distress, and ask me to go to your boarding-house with you and square a bill with your landlady? And will you say you didn't land on me with a pair of knuckle-dusters in a dark street and run off with my roll?" "That's a pipe," asserted Joe Mings. "Somebody's doped you." "Enough of this, Dick," said Sercomb. "Joe's a friend of mine. All these lads are friends, and all of them drivers of speed-cars. They're here by my invitation. As for you, you're not here by anybody's invitation----" "Except Uncle Jack's," interposed Ferral grimly. "Uncle Jack has cashed in, and he's not to be counted. This ranch belongs to me, and you and your ruffianly friends will leave it. Your friends can't ever come back here--and neither can you until you learn how to behave. Come on in, boys," he added to the others. "Grub's on the table." "Avast a minute!" called Ferral. "I'm ready to trip anchor and slant away--having never liked you so you could notice, and liking you less than ever after this round--but I and my mates will have our chuck before we go. What's more, that shark will hand over my funds, or I'll come back here with an officer and make him more trouble than he can get out of." "He hasn't got your money," said Sercomb, "so he can't turn it over. What's more, you'll dust out of here _now_!" "Oh, I will!" Ferral lurched for the door, and Matt and Carl followed him. "You may have right and title to this bally old dugout, Sercomb, but you'll have a chance to show me that in court; and Uncle Jack may be dead and gone, but that's something I'll find out for myself, and make good and sure of it, at that. His money don't bother me, for I've my two hands and know the ropes of a trade, so I won't starve; but it's Uncle Jack himself I'm thinking of. As for you, you were always a mixture of bear, bandicoot, and crocodile, and I wouldn't trust you the length of a cable. I and my mates are going in and eat, and if you want to avoid a smash, don't cross our hawser while we're doing it." He turned from the door, and, followed by Matt and Carl, went into the sitting-room, where the table had been spread. "Now we've got Sercomb's signals," said Ferral, dropping into a chair at the table, "and know where we all stand. What do you think of this new twist in the game, Matt?" "Too bad it happened," answered Matt, as he and Carl likewise seated themselves. "We were just getting squared away to find out something worth while, Dick." "I couldn't hold myself in, that's all. The idea of Sercomb having that crimp in tow! I'm a Fiji if I don't think my dear cousin put up that Lamy job with Mings." "I'd thought of that, too. But why should he do it?" "To knock the bottom out of my ditty-bag and keep me away from La Vita Place. More belike, he'd a notion Mings would land me in a sick-bay. You remember Uncle Jack's room was all torn up when we first saw it?" Matt nodded. "Why was that?" Ferral went on. "Carpet torn away, sea-chest dumped all over the floor, everything in a raffle. Why was that?" "What do you think was the cause of it?" Ferral leaned across the table. "Sercomb had been looking for Uncle Jack's will!" he declared. "He never found Uncle Jack, and he never found the will. If he's got a piece of paper, it's one he's fixed up for himself." "Mighty serious talk, old chap," said Matt gravely, "but I've a hunch you've got the right end of it, at that. But for this row, we might have been on fairly good terms with Sercomb, and have used our knowledge, in a quiet way, to discover what he's trying to do." "Vell," remarked Carl, "he has rushed dot gang in here, und dot makes four to dree. Meppy id vas pedder ve don'd shday. Aber I'd like to hang on, you bed you! Sooch a chance for some fighding I nefer foundt yet." Then followed a brief interval of silence, during which the boys gave their whole attention to their food. Ferral was first to speak. "You were going to set sail for Santa Fé this morning, Matt." "We could never pull out and leave you in this mess," answered Matt. "Mr. Tomlinson has given us plenty of time to get to Santa Fé." "Sure, ve shday undil you vas pedder fixed to be jeerful, Verral," put in Carl. "Dot's der greadt t'ing in life, my poy, alvays to make some shmiles, no madder vich vay chumps der cat, und be jeerful." "You're a pair of mates worth having," averred Ferral, with feeling. "I don't know what I'd have done if it hadn't been for you. The very first thing you haul me off a cliff wall. If you hadn't done that, by now Sercomb would be having the run of the ship. I'll do something for you some time, even if I have to travel around the world to do it. Just now, though, I'd like to know what's become of Tippoo, Uncle Jack's _kitmagar_ and _khansa-man_." "Vat's dose?" inquired Carl. "The Hindu foot-servant and steward," explained Ferral. "Uncle Jack was in India for a while, and that's where he picked up Tippoo. Sercomb, when we first met him here, hinted that Tippoo may have handed Uncle Jack his come-up-with, but that was unjust. Tippoo would lay down his life for Uncle Jack, and has been devoted to him for years." A noise from the barn reached those in the sitting-room. A window of the room commanded a view of the barn. Matt, suddenly looking through the window, uttered an exclamation, sprang up, grabbed his hat, and rushed through the kitchen and out of the house. "What's the bloming racket now?" cried Ferral, likewise getting to his feet. "Look vonce!" answered Carl, pointing through the window. "Dere iss a shance for more scrimmages! Led us fly some kites so ve don'd lose nodding oof der seddo." Through the window Ferral could see that the barn doors had been broken open, and that Sercomb and his three companions were around the Red Flier. Knowing Matt's concern on account of the machine, Ferral lost not a moment in running through the kitchen and following Matt and Carl. CHAPTER X. A NEW PLAN. "Get away from that machine!" cried Matt, leaping into the barn. He had grabbed up a club on the way, and as he spoke he advanced threateningly upon Sercomb and his friends. All four were in the car or around it. What they were trying to do Matt did not know, but he felt pretty sure they had not broken into the barn with harmless intentions concerning the Red Flier. Sercomb turned away from the front of the machine and the others got out. "What are you intending to do with that club?" Sercomb demanded. "That depends on what you're trying to do to that car," answered Matt. "This is my property and the car has no business here. We want this place for the other machine." "Then leave the barn and I'll run the machine out. I don't allow any one to fool with that car." "There ain't one of us," struck in Mings, "that don't know more about a car in a minute than you do in a year." "That may be," said Matt, "but I'm boss of the Red Flier, all the same." "I've heard about you, King," went on Mings. "Dace Perry, of Denver, is a friend of mine, and he told me just what kind of a four-flusher you are--always sticking your nose into other people's business, same as now." "Glad to hear Perry has a friend," returned Matt amiably, "but he could have told you a whole lot that I guess he thought he hadn't better." Just then Carl and Ferral flocked into the barn. "Are they trying to scuttle that red craft, Matt?" asked Ferral. "No," was the reply, "they're just going to run it out of the barn to make room for the other car. I told them I'd attend to it." "And when you get the car out of the barn," said Sercomb pointedly, "just keep going, all of you." "We'll do that to the king's taste," averred Ferral. "I wouldn't hang around here with you and your outfit for a bushel of sovs, Sercomb, although I'm coming back after my roll." "Come on, fellows," called Sercomb, and left the barn with his friends at his heels. Matt got the Red Flier in shape, Carl climbed into the tonneau and Ferral into the front seat, and they moved out of the barn. As they passed around the house they saw Mings sitting in the other car, evidently watching it to make sure it would not be tampered with. He scowled at the Red Flier as it passed. "Dey like us a heap--I don'd t'ink," chuckled Carl. "I bed you dot Mings feller iss vone oof der chumps vat come indo der room lasht nighdt, Verral." "He don't like me any too well," said Ferral grimly. "And he's none too easy in his mind, either. He knows what I can do to him for that Lamy business." "Are you really going to get an officer in Lamy and come back here?" asked Matt. "Strike me lucky if I'm not!" Reaching the main road, Matt turned in the direction of Lamy and the cliffs. "We'll take you to Lamy," said Matt, "and bring the officer back. We've the whole day before us, though, and there's something else I'd like to do." "Name it, mate. I'm in for anything." "I'd like to go along the top of those cliffs and see if I can find how and where that white runabout went to last night." "If you go along the cliffs, you'll have to walk. Why not make your examination from the road?" "We can't see enough from the road, Dick. There may be something on the other side of that ridge. By walking, and staying on the cliffs, we can see both sides. The mystery of that white auto may be the key to the whole affair at La Vita Place. Now's the time to settle it. If we don't, Sercomb and those other fellows will." "Right-o! We'll leave the Red Flier somewhere and tackle the game on foot." "We can't leave the Red Flier alone," said Matt. "I was going to suggest, Dick, that we run the car off the road, between here and the cliffs, and that you stay with it. I've got to look out for the machine, you know. I came pretty near losing it, near Fairview, in Arizona, and that gave me a jolt I'll never forget. It's a five-thousand-dollar car, and if anything happened to it it would be difficult to explain the matter satisfactorily to Mr. Tomlinson." "I smoke you, mate," returned Ferral. "You've butted into this affair of mine, and if you were to lose the old flugee on account of it, I'd feel worse than you. I'll stay with the thing, and you can be sure nothing will happen to it. You and Carl go hunt for the spook-car. I'll wait. How far do you intend to hoof it over the cliffs?" "If necessary, I'd like to go clear to that gully where the machine flashed into the cliff road ahead of us; but I'm particularly anxious to look over the ground this side of the turn, at the place where the white car vanished so mysteriously." "Crack the nut! If any one can do it, by jingo, it's Motor Matt." By then they had reached a point about half-way between La Vita Place and the cliffs. Here, off to one side of the road, there was a patch of timber, and Matt turned the Red Flier, ran across the flat ground, and drew up among the trees. "Here's a good shady place for you to wait, Dick," said Matt. "Carl and I may not be back before noon." "Take your time, mate. I'm the greatest fellow to sojer in the dog-watch you ever saw. Take your turn-to, and when you want me on deck, just give the call." Matt and Carl got out, returned to the road, and proceeded on toward the cliffs. The road was a straight stretch clear to the first turn that carried it to the edge of the precipice. Matt and Carl remarked upon this as they strode forward. "A pad blace for any one to come in der nighdt, oof dey vas regless," observed Carl. "I don'd vant to go ofer dot roadt again in der nighdt, nod me." "We won't have to go over it again with our lamps, Carl," said Matt. "It won't take us long to run to Lamy, get an officer, and come back to La Vita Place. If we get back to the Red Flier by noon, we can make the round trip to town by four o'clock, and have half an hour to get our dinner." "Sure! Dot's der talk. Aber I don'd t'ink ve vas going to findt der vite car, Matt." "I'm not expecting to find the white car, but I want to discover how it managed to vanish like it did." Carl shook his head gruesomely. He was still half-inclined to credit the runabout with "shpook" proclivities, and Matt's new plan didn't appeal to him very powerfully. When they came to the chasm they paused to note how the road, in reaching its treacherous path along the edge, broke suddenly from a straight line into a sharp curve. Certainly it was a bad place for motoring. In order to get to the top of the cliff that edged the road on the right, the boys had to do some hard climbing; but when they were on the crest of the uplift, the view that stretched out around them was ample reward for their toil. On their left they could look down on the ribbon of road, winding between the foot of the cliff and the chasm; and on their right they looked away toward a swale, which made the cliff-tops a sort of divide. "Dot gulch down dere," shuddered Carl, looking over the cliff, "iss more as a million feed teep, I bed you." "I don't know about that," said Matt, "but it's deep enough." "Oof Verral hat dumpled from dot push," went on Carl, "he vould haf gone clear py China." "That swale," said Matt, pointing in the other direction, "is where the gully enters the hills. As the gully runs on toward Lamy it comes closer and closer to the cliff trail." He turned and looked behind him. In the distance he could see the clump of timber where Ferral had been left with the Red Flier; and beyond the little patch of woods could be seen the larger grove that sheltered La Vita Place. The touring-car was screened from sight, and so was the adobe house. Matt was not interested in either of them just then, however, but was working out another problem in his mind. "Carl," said he, "there's just a hint of a road leading out of the swale and off toward La Vita Place." "Vell, vat oof dot?" asked Carl. "Incidentally," answered Matt, "if one wanted to cut off a good big piece of that dangerous road, in going to Lamy, he could leave La Vita Place and follow the blind track through the swale and gully, coming out on the cliff trail just where the white runabout showed itself in front of us last night." "Py shiminy!" exclaimed Carl. "You're der feller to vork mit your headt, Matt. Yah, so. Meppy dot's der vay dot shpook car come oudt on us, hey? You t'ink she come from La Fita Blace?" "That's only a guess. The white car had to come from somewhere. Let's go on." They climbed across the rugged cliff-top, and as they neared the turn where the white runabout had vanished the night before, the gully angled quite close to them; then, bending with the curve of the cliff road, went on until it merged with the face of the cliffs. At this point the cliff was not so high, with respect to the road, and its face was not so steep. While Matt was trying to figure out how the phantom auto had made its abrupt disappearance, a sudden cry from Carl drew his attention. "Ach, du lieber!" faltered Carl. "Der teufel is coming some more. See here, Matt!" Matt, following Carl's shaking finger with his eyes, saw the white runabout. Apparently of its own volition, it was proceeding Lamyward along the gully. Sometimes it darted out of sight behind a rise in the gully wall, and again it came into full view, white, gleaming, and presenting a most uncanny spectacle. CHAPTER XI. A DARING LEAP. While Matt watched the car an idea darted through his head. "The way to find out about that auto is to capture it," said he, speaking quickly. "How you vas going to do dot?" queried Carl. "Oof ve hat der Ret Flier along, meppy ve could oferhaul der shpook, aber I don'd know vedder it vould be righdt to indulch in any sooch monkey-doodle pitzness. Ven der car puffs oudt mit itseluf, ve vould puff oudt mit it. Vere you vas going, Matt?" Matt was lowering himself over the top of the steep bank, just around the curve above the cliff road. "Come on," he called back, "and be careful. This is dangerous work." Carl was not in a mood to tamper with the white runabout, nor was he in a mood to let Matt do the tampering alone. Sorely against his will, he began lowering himself down the steep bank, close beside his chum. "Vy dis iss, anyvay?" he asked. "Vat a regless pitzness! Oof ve lose holdt oof somet'ing, ve vould fall in der roadt, undt meppy scood righdt ofer der roadt und go down vere Verral ditn't go." "Hang on, Carl, that's the thing to do," returned Matt. "Yah, you bed you I hang on! I don'd vant to fall py China und make some visits mit der Chings. I vouldn't enchoy dot, as I vould be all in bieces. Aber for vy iss dis, Matt? Vy you do dot?" As they worked their way down the desperate slope, hanging to stunted bushes and projecting rocks, Matt explained. "The white runabout may be going to Lamy," said he, "but I hardly think it would show up in the town like that----" "Id vould schare der peobles oudt oof deir vits oof it dit!" puffed Carl. "Wow!" he fluttered, making a slip and only saving himself a fall by grabbing a bush with both hands. "A leedle more, Matt, und you vouldn't haf hat no Dutch bard." "But it's my opinion," pursued Matt, completely wrapped up in the work in hand, "that the runabout is going to make the turn, just as it did last night, and come back toward La Vita Place along the cliff road." "Vy it do dot foolishness, hey?" "Give it up. Perhaps we'll know all about it before long. Find a good place, about six feet above the road, and hang on." "Yah, you bed my life I don'd ged indo der roadt oof der shpook pubble iss coming. I vould haf to ged oudt oof der vay, und meppy I vould go ofer der edge like vat Verral dit, und you couldn't haf some ropes to helup me oudt. I vas fixed all righdt, Matt." Carl had planted himself on a good foothold and was clinging to a stunted bush. Matt was on a level with him and a little to one side. "Listen!" cried Matt. It was impossible, of course, for the boys to see around the shoulder of the cliff, but a low murmuring sound reached their ears, growing quickly in volume. "Dot's it!" said Carl excitedly; "she vas coming, I bed you! She vill go py righdt unter us, und ve can look down und see vat ve can see, vich von't be nodding. Aber I vish dot I vas some odder blace as here. Oof dot----" Carl broke off his talk. Just then the white car came spinning around the curve. What Motor Matt was intending to do Carl hadn't the least notion, but he was pretty sure it must be something reckless. The car was nearly upon them when Motor Matt, a resolute gleam in his gray eyes, loosened his hold on the rocks. Carl's shock of tow-colored hair began to stand up like porcupine bristles. Something was about to happen, and he caught his breath. Then something _did_ happen, and the Dutch boy got back his breath with a rush. "Look a leedle oudt!" yelled Carl, as Motor Matt made a quick jump for the phantom auto. It was a daring leap--so daring that Carl hung to his bush with both hands and expected to see his chum either miss the machine altogether or else carom off the opposite side, bound into the road, and go hurtling into the chasm. But Matt was too athletic, his nerves were too steady, and his eyes too keen for that. Carl saw him land in the front of the white runabout in a heap. He was thrown violently against the seat, and then went sprawling against the dash. The runabout slewed dangerously, and something like a squeal came from somewhere. "Ach, chincher," panted Carl; "he vas some goners! I don'd nefer expect to see Motor Matt alife any more! Donnervetter! Vy he do dot?" Quickly as he could, Carl dropped into the road. "Matt!" he called, whirling about and looking in the direction the white car had been going. Then he staggered back against the rocks. The auto had disappeared and taken Motor Matt along with it! Carl's nerves were in rags. He didn't know what to do. Possessed with the notion that Matt had faded into nothing along with the spook car, he turned and began running the other way. He stopped suddenly, however. Matt was his pard, and to run away from him like that was something Carl knew he ought not to do. But was he running away from Matt? If Matt had been snuffed into nothing with the car, how could he be running away from him? This was all foolish, of course, but Carl was so upset he wasn't himself. He stopped his running, however, and came stealthily back, staring on all sides of him with eyes like saucers. "Now vat I vas going to do?" he groaned. "Dere don'd vas a Modor Matt any more, und dere iss der Red Flier, pack along der roadt, und Verral, und sooch a mess as I can't dell at der La Fita Blace. Ach, himmelblitzen!" Carl, overcome by the dark outlook, sank down on the rocks and covered his face with his hands. Near him the face of the cliff was covered with a growth of bushes and trailing vines. Suddenly Carl heard a voice that lifted him to his feet as though a spring had been released under him. It was his name! Somebody had called his name, and it sounded like Matt's voice. "Vot it iss?" demanded Carl, a spasm of hope running through him. "Come here!" Carl looked all around, but without seeing where he was to go. "Iss dot you, Matt?" he asked. "Sure." "Vere you vas, den? How you t'ink I come py you oof I don'd know dot? Chiminy grickets, aber dis iss keveer!" "I'm inside the cliff," Matt answered. "Push through the bushes." Carl stepped in front of the trailing vines and brush. "Iss it all righdt?" he quavered. "Come on, come on," called Matt impatiently. Carl pushed the bushes and vines aside, revealing a wide clear space which had been completely masked by the foliage. The ground, breaking in a level stretch from the cliff road, led smoothly away into the very bosom of the cliff. Still dubious, Carl pushed slowly on into the darkness. The vines fell back behind him and the parted bushes snapped across the opening. "I can't see nodding!" he wailed. "Come straight ahead," said Matt reassuringly. "I'm only a little ways off, and the car is here, too." "Iss der shpook in der car?" Matt laughed. "We'll settle this spook business in short order," said he. Carl reached the car, and felt Matt's hand guiding him around the side. "How you shtop der pubble, Matt?" faltered Carl. "I didn't stop it; somebody else did that." At that moment a muffled voice called: "Get in de car, sahib! We go on to de daylight." Carl gave a jump and grabbed hold of Matt. "Who iss dot?" he fluttered. "We'll find out before we're many minutes older," said Matt. "Get in, Carl." Assisted by Matt, Carl got into one of the seats, while Matt climbed into the other. "All ready," announced Matt, in a loud voice. Instantly a glow from the acetylene lamps flooded the gloom ahead. The boys could see a rocky tunnel, wide and high, leading straight on through the heart of the cliff. "Ach!" chattered Carl. "Ve go py kingdom come now, I bed you." "Hardly that," laughed Matt. "We're bound for daylight once more. Wait and watch." Swiftly and surely the white car glided on. Presently the boys saw trailing vines and bushes ahead of them, similar to the screen at the other end of the tunnel. _Snap!_ Off went the lights. Then, with startling suddenness, they brushed through the screen and were once more in the broad light of day. The gully lay before them, and when they had reached the center of it the car came to a halt. "Vouldn't dot knock you shlab-sitet?" murmured Carl wonderingly. "In vone door und oudt der odder! Ach, blitzen, und den some! Aber who vas dot vat shpoke in der tark?" "Here's where we find out," rejoined Matt, leaping down. Carl likewise gained the ground. As he did so, the deck of the car, behind the seats, lifted slowly until it lay wide in an upright position. Then a form slowly rose, a form with a chocolate-colored face, the head crowned with a white turban. Jumping from the boxlike recess in the rear of the car, the form stretched itself and salaamed. "You surprise', sahib? Ah, ha!" CHAPTER XII. DESPERATE VILLAINY. Although Matt and his friends did not know it, yet the course taken by the Red Flier on leaving La Vita Place was watched. Joe Mings, climbing a tree, kept the car under his eyes. In the distance he saw it leave the road, then he could make out two figures returning on foot to the road and proceeding toward the cliffs. He called down the result of his observations. "What do you suppose they're up to?" asked Sercomb, with a worried look, as Mings slid back to the ground. "I pass," replied Harry Packard, one of the most lawless of the quartet; "but it's a fair gamble, Ralph, that they're not up to any good." "I should say not," said Balt Finn, the driver of the touring-car. "That Ferral is after Mings' hide." "Well," said Mings sullenly, "I wouldn't have gone through Ferral in Lamy if you hadn't said so, Ralph." "I'd like to know what their game is," mused Sercomb. "Mings, you and Packard go to the place where they left the car. If you can smash the car some way, they won't be able to go to Lamy until we're ready to leave here." "A nice jaunt before breakfast!" muttered Packard. "We can stand it, I reckon," scowled Mings. "Let's take a drink all around and try it, anyhow." Packard pulled a flask from his pocket and took a swallow of its fiery contents; then he passed the flask to Mings. "You fellows have got some in the house," said Packard, corking the flask and returning it to his pocket. "Joe and I will take this with us. Maybe we'll need it," and he winked at Mings. "Be careful what you do to the fellow that stayed with the car," cautioned Sercomb. "Suppose it's Ferral?" "Then," returned Sercomb, with a significant look, "be careful _how_ you do what you're going to. You fellows fell down last night." "I'll not forget in a hurry the thumping that Ferral and the Dutchman gave us," growled Packard. "And don't you forget, Mings," said Sercomb, "what Ferral will do to you if he gets to Lamy. Smash the car." Mings and Packard started off briskly toward the place where the Red Flier had been left. The spot was not more than half a mile from La Vita Place. Ferral, all unconscious of the fact that two of his enemies were approaching, sprawled out in the front seat of the Red Flier and puzzled his brain over the queer situation in which he found himself. He could make nothing of it, and as time slipped away his brain grew more and more befuddled. He was hoping Matt and Carl might discover something of importance, or, if they did not, that when the Red Flier returned from Lamy with an officer, the law might do something to clear up the mystery in which Uncle Jack had plunged everything at La Vita Place. A deep quiet reigned in the little grove. A droning of flies was the only sound that disturbed the stillness. The warm air and the silence made Ferral drowsy. Once he roused up, thinking he heard a sound somewhere around him; then, assuring himself that he was mistaken, he sank back on the front seat and his nodding head bowed forward. Suddenly, before he could do a thing to protect himself, a quick arm went round his throat from behind, and he felt some one catch his feet from the side of the car. He gave a shout of consternation as his head bent backward and his eyes took in the face that leered above him. It was the face of Mings! "Caught!" laughed Mings hoarsely. "Thought you'd shaken us, eh? Well, you were shy a few!" "Just a few!" tittered the voice of the man on the ground. "Here's a rope," went on Mings, kicking the coiled riata, which Matt carried in the car, out through the swinging door. "Take it and tie his legs, Harry. I'll hold him. Got a strangle-grip and he can't budge." As soon as Packard let go his hold, Ferral began to kick and struggle; but Mings was in such a position that he could keep him very easily from getting away. Packard, although tipsy from the effects of the liquor he and Mings had imbibed on the way from La Vita Place, tied one end of the rope quickly about Ferral's ankles. The free end of the rope was then wound around the seat and Ferral's hands were made fast behind him. In a few minutes he was bound to the seat and absolutely helpless. Mings and Packard, gloating over his predicament, got around in front of the car. "How do you like that?" asked Packard. "He likes it," hiccoughed Mings; "you can tell that by the looks of him." "You're a fine lot of swabs!" exclaimed Ferral contemptuously. "Sercomb ordered me off the place, and I slanted away; now you follow me with your beach-comber tricks. Oh, yes, you're a nice lot! What are you trying to do?" "Going to smash the car," answered Mings. "You keep your hands off this car!" cried Ferral, realizing suddenly that he had been caught napping, and that Motor Matt might get into a lot of trouble on account of it. "Well," grinned Packard, "you just watch us." "Are you going to Lamy?" demanded Mings. "That's where I'm going!" declared Ferral resolutely. "Not to-day you won't; and not in this car. We're going to fix Motor Matt for butting into our plans, and we're going to fix you so you won't get to Lamy and back before we're on the road to Denver. You're cute, but you're not so cute as we are. Oh, no! Is he, Packard?" "We're the boys!" observed Packard. They were both partly intoxicated. Naturally lawless, the liquor they had taken had made them more so. "See here," said Ferral, desperately anxious to save the car, "you've got some of my money, Mings, and I could have you jugged for taking it, but if I'll promise not to get an officer and to let you keep the money, will you leave this car alone? It doesn't belong to Motor Matt, and he's responsible for it. I was left here to watch it----" "Nice watchman!" sputtered Packard; "fine watchman! Eh, Mings?" "Dandy watchman!" and Mings laughed loudly. "He didn't hear a sound when I sneaked into the tonneau. I tell you what, Packard!" he exclaimed, as a thought ran suddenly through his befogged brain. "Well, tell it!" urged Packard. "Let's send him to Lamy." "Send him to Lamy?" "Sure! Let's put him in the road and open the car up! Mebby he'll get to Lamy." "He'll smash into the rocks, that's what he'll do." "Well, that'll fix the car. By the time Motor Matt pulls Ferral out of the wreck, I guess he won't feel like getting an officer." Ferral could hardly believe his ears. "You scoundrels wouldn't dare do a thing like that!" he cried. "He says we wouldn't dare, Packard," mumbled Mings. "He don't know us, eh, Mings?" "Not--not even acquainted. Let's throw the old benzine-buggy against the rocks, and give Motor Matt a surprise." "He'll be surprised, all right. Serve him right, too, for meddling with Sercomb's business." "He's a meddler, that's sure. Dace Perry told me all about him." "Dace Perry's a blamed good fellow. He's one of our set." "Can you navigate the car to the road?" asked Packard. "Navigate a dozen cars! Anything more in the flask?" "All gone," answered Packard gloomily. "Well, there's more back at the house." Mings got into the car and Packard did the cranking. When the car started it nearly ran over Packard. "Trying to kill me?" shouted Packard, rolling out of the way. "You're too slow," laughed Mings. Fumbling awkwardly with the levers and the steering-wheel, Mings managed to get the car into the road and headed for the cliffs. "Cut off a piece of that rope, Packard," called Mings. "I'll tie the wheel so as to be sure the car goes to Lamy." "That's right," answered Packard, "you want to be sure." He took out his knife, slashed a piece from the free end of the rope, and handed it up to Mings. The latter began lashing the wheel. "Sercomb ought to give us a chromo for this," said Packard, watching Mings as he worked. "You tell him we ought to have a chromo," returned Mings, with a foolish grin. "Sercomb's a blamed good chap; nicest chap I know." Meanwhile, Ferral's face had gone white. He was fighting desperately with the ropes, but they held him firmly and he could not free his hands. A sickening sensation ran through him. Neither Mings nor Packard had a very lucid idea of what they were attempting. They were fair examples of what liquor can do for a person in certain situations. "Belay!" cried Ferral desperately. "You don't understand what you're doing, you fellows! You've headed me for the cliffs, and----" "They're big and hard, those cliffs," said Mings, "and you'll hit 'em with quite a jolt. But it'll only smash the car, Ferral, and we had orders to smash the car." Having finished with the wheel, Mings got on the running-board. Packard cranked up again. Mings threw in the clutch with his hand, pushed on the high gear, and was thrown off as the car jumped ahead. He collided with Packard, and both tumbled on the ground and rolled over and over. When they had struggled to their feet, the two scoundrels saw something that almost sobered them. _It was the white runabout racing across the level ground in the direction of the road and the flying red car!_ But, what was even more strange, Motor Matt was in the driver's seat of the runabout, and beside him was a strange, turbaned figure which neither Packard nor Mings had ever seen before. On the ground, a long way in the rear of the racing runabout, stood a figure which Packard and Mings recognized as being that of Motor Matt's Dutch chum. CHAPTER XIII. TIPPOO. The little brown man in the turban Matt instantly recognized as a Hindu, undoubtedly the servant of Mr. Lawton, Ferral's uncle. Here was a find, and no mistake! Tippoo had vanished at the same time Mr. Lawton effected his queer disappearance, and the discovery of one might easily lead to the finding of the other. "Is your name Tippoo?" asked Matt. "_Jee_, sahib." "Vat iss dat?" muttered Carl. "Gee! Iss it a svear vort? He don'd look like he vas madt mit himseluf." The Hindu certainly was taking his discovery in good part. His brown face was parted in a perpetual smile, and he seemed morbidly anxious to please. "Does _jee_ mean yes?" asked Matt. The turban ducked vigorously. "_Jee, Jee!_" "Dot's two gees, vich means gootness cracious," bubbled Carl, very happy to find that the ghost had been laid; "und also it means jeerful. Led's try to be dot. So der shly brown roosder vas in der pack oof der pubble all der time! How he make it go, I vonder, ven he don'd vas aple to see der vay?" Matt was also curious on that point. Stepping closer to the automobile, he looked into it, and saw a wonderful combination of mirrors and levers. The smiling Hindu, observing the trend of the boys' interest, advanced and doubled himself up in the back of the runabout. As he lay there, in tolerable comfort and with a cushion under his head, there was a mirror in front of his eyes. Other mirrors, set at various angles, cunningly reflected the scenery in front of the car. When the deck was closed down it was evident that the enclosed space became a sort of camera obscura. Convenient to the Hindu's right hand was a small wheel with an upright handle on its rim. As he turned the wheel he steered the car--entirely independent of the steering-wheel in front. The spark was manipulated by a small lever near the wheel, and so were the throttle, the brakes, and the gears. Strangest of all, though, was the arrangement for cranking inside the box. This device was so ingenious that it should have entitled its originator to a patent. "But vat's der goot oof it all?" queried Carl. "For vy shouldt a feller vant to pen himseluf oop in a smodery leedle blace like dot und leaf der two frondt seads vagant? Ach, vat a foolishness!" Matt also wondered at that. "Why do you ride in such cramped quarters, Tippoo," asked Matt, "when you could just as well ride on a seat?" "Baud mens, sahib," said Tippoo, clutching his forehead with one hand and bowing forward. "Where were you going in the car?" "'Round-around, 'round-around." "Ring aroundt a rosy," said Carl. "I haf blayed dot meinseluf, aber nod mit a pubble." "Where is Lawton, sahib?" asked Matt. "_Jee, jee!_" exclaimed the Hindu. "He talks vorse der longer vat he speaks," said Carl disgustedly. "Ven ve vas in der tunnel, he shpeak pooty goot, aber now he don'd say nodding like vat ve can undershtand." Matt despaired of being able to find out anything he wanted to know, and thought it would be well to take Tippoo to Ferral. "You know Dick Ferral?" queried Matt. "_Jee!_" "Do you know where we left the red automobile?" "_Jee!_" "Gee stands for grazy, too, vich he iss," said Carl. "Will you take us to our car?" went on Matt. "Awri'," answered the Hindu. "Dot's pedder," said Carl. Tippoo lowered the deck carefully over the queer mechanism in the box, and motioned Matt and Carl to get into the car. Matt got into the driver's seat, having a mind to run the car himself, and Carl got into the other one. Tippoo stood in front of Carl, getting in after he had "turned over" the engine by means of the crank in front. He watched Matt sharply, evidently wanting to make sure that he knew what he was about. Matt started along the gully, marveling at the smooth course its bottom offered. The runabout responded quickly to the slightest turn of the steering-wheel, and every other part of the mechanism worked to perfection. Tippoo, delighted at the skill with which Matt handled the car, bent over and gave him an approving slap on the shoulder. "Chimineddy!" laughed Carl, "der prown feller likes you, Matt." "I guess he likes the way I run the car," said Matt. "It's a little dandy! I never handled a machine that purred along in neater style. I wish I knew more about the get-up in the back part of it." "Ven somebody blays der shpook schust for foolishness, I don'd like dot," said Carl. "You mighdt haf got your prains knocked oudt by chumping indo der car--und all pecause der prown feller vanted to blay shpook!" "Me play gose, sahib, but not to scare de good white mans--only de baud white mans." This from Tippoo, who was plainly keeping track of the conversation. "Did you see us on the cliff road last night?" queried Matt. "_Jee._" "And you got away by running the machine into the cliff?" "_Jee_, sahib." "You didn't have any lights. How could you see where you were going?" "Me know de road, no need de light till me get in de tunnel, sahib." "You stopped the car in the tunnel last night, and came back into the road?" Tippoo nodded. "Why was that?" "Me see fin' out if Dick sahib be awri'." "Ah! You were worried about Dick, eh, and you came back to see if he was all right." "Sure." "Why didn't you wait till we could speak with you?" "Naboob sahib give order no." "Who is the 'nabob sahib'?" Tippoo affected not to hear the question. "He don'd vant to talk about dot," put in Carl. "He shies all aroundt dot Uncle Chack." "You came past the house in the road last night?" asked Matt. This question evidently startled the Hindu. "Sahib see de car las' night?" he asked. "Yes." "Me no see sahib." "What were you riding past the other car for?" "Try scare baud white mans. Try see dem. Naboob sahib say so. _Jee!_" "Then you must have been the one who fired that revolver and put a bullet through the tire?" For answer to this, Tippoo pulled a revolver from a sash about his waist. "Make lift board with head, make _dekke_, den bang!" He laughed. "Fine shoot, eh?" "Certainly it was a fine shot," answered Matt. "Were you trying to keep away from Dick sahib?" "Try keep 'way from Dick sahib, and from Ralph sahib. All same. Leave 'em 'lone. Naboob sahib say so." This conversation, which cleared up some more dark points, carried the runabout out of the swale and onto the flat stretch which led off in the direction of La Vita Place. The course to the ranch paralleled, at a distance of about a quarter of a mile, the other road that led from the cliffs. Matt turned the nose of the runabout so as to lay a direct course for the patch of trees where the Red Flier had been left. Before they had covered more than half the distance between the swale and the trees, a loud cry escaped the Hindu. His eyes were fastened upon the other road. "_Dekke!_" he called, pointing. Matt looked in the direction indicated. "Ach, dunder!" cried Carl. "Dere iss der Ret Flier in der roadt, und some fellers vas aroundt it--two oof dem." "Dick sahib him tied in car!" shouted Tippoo. "Dey let car go! Car go to de cliff, Dick sahib tied! _Kabultah! Hurkut-jee! Hur-r-r-kut-jee!_" Tippoo lifted his hands and wrung them in an agony of fear and apprehension. By that time Matt was able to take in the situation. He saw Ferral, bound in the front of the car, and the car speeding toward the cliffs and the chasm. Vividly before his eyes floated that turn of the treacherous road. The car would go straight until it reached the turn, and then, if no one was at hand to stop it, the Red Flier would go into the chasm and carry Ferral with it. Motor Matt's face set resolutely. "I'm going to slow down, Carl," said he, "and you pile out! There's too much freight for the race we've got to make." "All righdt! Don'd led nodding habben, bard, now ven ve're so near droo mit dis monkey-dootle pitzness." Carl jumped for the ground, and Tippoo sank limply into his seat. Matt immediately threw on the high speed, giving an angle to the car's course which would lay it alongside the Red Flier. Like a flash, the white car leaped over the flat ground, Tippoo still wringing his hands and muttering fearfully to himself. CHAPTER XIV. IN THE NICK OF TIME. There was no road-bed under the wheels of the white runabout, but, for all that, the earth was firm, although rilled, at irregular distances, with little sandy ridges. The car, being light, seemed fairly to leap over these small rises. The Hindu had to hang to his seat with both hands in order to keep from being hurled out of the car. His turban was jolted down over his eyes, and after he had tried to knock it back into place half a dozen times, he flung it down on the floor of the car. "We come close, closer!" he breathed, leaning forward in his seat and peering steadily at the big touring-car. "Naboob sahib be big mad at dis. We save Dick sahib!" Matt could see that they were rapidly overhauling the Red Flier, but, as he measured the gain, he knew they would have only a scant margin, at best, if they kept Ferral and the car from shooting into the chasm. Flinging across the road a dozen feet behind the Flier, Matt brought the runabout closer on that side. "I'm going to jump from this car to the other one, Tippoo," he shouted, "as soon as we get where I can do it. The minute I jump, you be sure and grab the steering-wheel and take care of the runabout. Understand?" "_Jee_, sahib!" Ferral was able to twist his head around and keep track of the gallant race the runabout was making. He must have been astounded to see the white car, with Matt and the Hindu, trailing after him. "You're coming, mate!" he yelled. "Let 'er out for all she's worth! The brink of the precipice is right ahead!" Matt was aware of their nearness to the abyss. A few rods farther and they would be at the turn of the road. The touring-car, of course, being lashed to run on a straight line, would plunge to destruction unless halted. With a final spurt, Matt drove the runabout abreast of the Red Flier. The two cars were now running side by side, and not a second could be lost if Matt was to transfer himself to the Flier in time to be of any assistance to Ferral. As he took his hands from the wheel, Tippoo leaned sideways and gripped the rim. For an instant Matt was poised on the foot-board, steadying himself by holding to the seat. A moment more and he had thrown himself across the gap between the two cars. It was his second daring leap for that day, but this jump was more dangerous than the other one, for, if he had slipped, he would have had two cars to reckon with, instead of one. Both cars were racing furiously, and the Red Flier, with no hand to hold it, was taking all inequalities of the road and plunging and swaying as it rushed onward. But Motor Matt never put his mind to anything that he did not accomplish. Ferral drew back in the seat to give him every chance, and Matt sprawled with a jar that made the car shiver from crank to tail light. Whether he was hurt or not did not appear. In a flash he was up, cutting off the power and bearing down on the emergency-brake. It was a stop such as Matt hated to make, for fear of wrenching the machinery, but it was either that or go over into the chasm. As it was, the Red Flier ran across the curve and quivered to a halt, with the front wheels on the very brink. Matt and Ferral, from their seats, could look over the hood and down into the dizzy, swirling depths below. Ferral's face was white as death, and he relaxed backward, limp and gasping. Matt backed the Flier away, and turned around, then drew his knife from his pocket and cut the ropes that bound Ferral. "Who did this, Dick?" he asked huskily. "Two of my cousin's friends," replied Ferral, drawing his hands around in front of him and rubbing his chafed wrists. "Toss us your fin! What you've done this day, messmate, Dick Ferral will never forget." A shiver ran through him as he gripped Matt's hand. "The murderous scoundrels!" muttered Matt, his eyes flashing. "They didn't mean it to be as bad as it was, I'll have to give 'em credit for that. They had about three tots of grog aboard, and aimed only to run the flugee into the rocks and stave it in. They didn't know about that jumping-off place, or else they'd forgotten about it." "It's bad enough, all right. No matter if the Flier had only smashed into the rocks, you might have been killed, tied as you are. They sneaked up on you, back there in that patch of timber?" "Aye, and it was all my fault. I was mooning, and that gave them a chance. If they hadn't caught me from behind, I could have bested the two of them, for they had been topping the gaff strong. I was careless, Matt, and you might have lost the machine on account of it." "Bother the machine, old fellow! It was you that brought my heart in my throat. In a pinch like that, it's the man that counts, not the machinery he happens to have along with him." "Right-o! If there hadn't been a whole man in that white car, I might as well have been sewed in a hammock and slipped from a grating, with a hundred-pound shot at my pins." Tippoo had halted the runabout and had watched with wide eyes while Matt made his hair-raising jump and stopped the big car. He now leaped down from the runabout and hurried to Ferral. Catching one of his hands, he bowed over and pressed it to his temples. "Sink me, but the fix I was in fair hid the curious part of the rescue," went on Ferral. "Where'd you get hold of Tippoo, Matt? And how did you come to have the white car handy?" In a few words Matt straightened out the situation so it was clear to Ferral. "I'm a Fiji, Matt," breathed Ferral, "if you ain't chain-lightning when it comes to doing things. Tippoo, where's Uncle Jack?" "Me no say, Dick sahib," answered Tippoo, dodging the question. "You can tell me whether he's dead or alive, can't you?" roared Ferral. "Me no say, Dick sahib," persisted Tippoo. "You come 'long La Vita Place--come 'long with Tippoo." "I was ordered away from there by Sercomb. If I go any place, it will be to Lamy after an officer. I'll raise a jolly big row with that gang at La Vita Place, scuttle 'em!" Tippoo stared blankly at Ferral. "Ralph sahib order Dick sahib away?" repeated the Hindu, as though he scarcely believed his ears. "He said he had found Uncle Jack's remains, and the will, and that the will left everything to him, and he ordered me and my mates away." Tippoo bent forward and gripped his forehead. "_Joot baht, joot baht!_" he mumbled. "Blast his lingo!" growled Ferral. "It takes Uncle Jack to get the lay of him." "Dick sahib, you go with Tippoo back to La Vita Place?" The Hindu was so deeply in earnest that he compelled Ferral's attention. "What do you want me back there for?" "You go, you learn all--ever'thing," and Tippoo flung his arms out in a comprehensive gesture. "Now, strike me lucky, the beggar knows something. Yes, we'll go, if for nothing more than to walk in on my dear cousin Ralph and face Mings and Packard. Get into your old catamaran, Tippoo, and bear away. We'll hold you hard during the run, if I'm any judge of Motor Matt." Tippoo went back to the runabout, got into the seat, and started for La Vita Place. "Old Chocolate certainly is an A. B. at running that craft," mused Ferral, watching the ease with which Tippoo handled the runabout. "But what was the good of all that Flying Dutchman business? Why did Tippoo want to tuck himself away in the locker behind when he could ride up in front in comfort and like a gentleman?" "I suppose," answered Matt, "that we'll find all that out when we get back to La Vita Place." A glint came into Ferral's eyes. "Will we?" he cried, bringing his fist down on his knee. "Aye, mate, even if I have to take Ralph Sercomb by the throat and shake the whole blessed truth out of him. If it's a game of dirks they're playing, I warrant you they'll find me handy with mine." "Go slow, Dick, whatever you do," counseled Matt. "You've held yourself pretty well in hand, so far, and you'll be the gainer for it." They had been wheeling along the road at a good clip, and came finally to a place where Carl was waiting for them. "Vell, vell!" cried Carl, as Matt stopped for him to hop into the tonneau, "vot kindt oof a rite vas dot you dook mit yourseluf, Verral?" "The kind, mate," answered Ferral, "that I hope I'll never take again." "Yah, I bed you! Modor Matt chumped in und shtopped der car, hey? I knew dot he vould. Ven he geds dot look in his eyes, py chincher, like vat he hat, you can bed someding for nodding his madt vas oop. How did it habben, Verral?" And while Ferral was rehearsing the whole story for Carl's benefit, the white runabout and the Red Flier came to a halt in the road in front of La Vita Place. Tippoo jumped down and motioned for those in the rear car to follow him. "Tippoo is the boss, Dick," said Matt; "get down and we'll trail after him. Don't let your temper get away from you when we're in the house." "The way I feel now, matey," answered Ferral, "I'd like to sail in and lay the 'cat' on the whole bunch. A precious crew they are, and no mistake." Tippoo led the way along the foot-path, and Ferral, Matt, and Carl followed him closely. Voices could be heard in the house, and it was clear Sercomb and his companions had not noticed the approach of the two cars. Standing by the door, the Hindu motioned for the boys to pass in ahead of him. CHAPTER XV. A STARTLING INTERRUPTION. The parlor at La Vita Place, as has already been stated, covered half of the first floor of the house. The distinctive feature of the large room was an immense fireplace, which, after the Mexican fashion, was built across one corner. Above the fireplace, on the angling surface that reached from wall to wall, was a dingy, life-size painting of a saint. The painting was in a heavy frame, which was set flush with the wall. There were a few things about the old adobe _casa_ which had been left exactly as they had come into Mr. Lawton's hands from the original Mexican owners of the place. This picture of the saint was one of them. The parlor was finely furnished. The floors were laid with tiger and lion-skins, trophies of the chase, and on every hand were curios and ornaments dear to the eccentric old Englishman because of their associations. In this room Sercomb and his Denver friends were gathered. They had had their breakfast--Mings and Packard had just finished theirs--and all were excitedly discussing what Mings and Packard had done, and what they had seen. Mings and Packard, it may be stated, had been sufficiently sobered by their experiences, and not a little frightened. "Confound the luck, anyhow!" cried Sercomb. "Nothing seems to go right with me. If you fellows had got hold of Ferral last night, all this couldn't have happened to-day." "If we'd done that, Ralph," said Mings gloomily, "we don't know what would have happened to-day. Motor Matt and that Dutch pal of his would have been left, and they'd have kicked up a big ruction when they found Ferral had disappeared." "We could have taken care of Motor Matt and the Dutchman," snapped Sercomb, "and Mings and Packard could have run Ferral away in the automobile and dropped him so close to the quicksands that he'd have wandered into them in the dark. He'd never have shown up here to make me any trouble." Bitterness throbbed in Sercomb's voice. "That fellow has been a drawback to me ever since we were kids, and now he's got to step in and try to knock me out of Uncle Jack's money!" "You wasn't a favorite of your Uncle Jack, eh?" queried Balt Finn. "No, blast the old codger! He never seemed to like me, and I was always around him. Dick, who never came near, was the one he had always in mind." "Well, has the old fluke cashed in?" asked Packard. "That's the point." "Of course he has! He was always a high liver, and it's a wonder apoplexy didn't take him long ago. Feeling that he was about to die, he made his will, put it in his pocket, and tucked himself away somewhere, just to see whether Dick or I would be first to locate him. Precious little I care about the old juniper, if I could lay hands on the will." "The one you've made out, Ralph," said Packard, "is pretty well gotten up. You've imitated your uncle's signature in great shape." "The deuce of it is," returned Sercomb, "I don't know just what property he's got, so I can schedule it. If I could find the original will, I could copy that part of it." "Maybe," suggested Finn, "this is only a tempest in a teapot, and that the old man left you all his property, after all." "I don't know, of course, but I'm afraid he's given Dick too much. I don't want him to have a cent." "Well," growled Mings, "I'm hoping you'll make good your claim to the estate, Ralph. You've promised to remember us all around, you know." "That promise goes!" averred Sercomb. "Once I get my hooks on Uncle Jack's money, you can bet I'll do the handsome thing by you fellows. Just now, though, what we've got to think about is this: Dick was started toward the cliffs in that car of King's, and King showed up in that confounded white runabout and chased after Dick and the touring-car. What I'd like to know, did King save Dick? Everything hangs on that. If Dick got smashed against the cliffs, he can't tell about that Lamy business, nor about Mings and Packard tying him in the car. You fellows," and here Sercomb turned to Mings and Packard, "ought to have hung around to see how it came out." "Oh, yes," returned Mings sarcastically, "we ought to have hung around and given them a chance to nab us. I guess not! We got back here as quick as we could. But you take it from me--King never saved Ferral." "You fellows went too far," continued Sercomb. "I told you to smash the car, but I didn't tell you to smash Ferral along with it." "That's what you meant, Sercomb, whether you said it or not," spoke up Packard. "You wanted him taken away last night and dropped in the quicksands----" "I wanted him put out of the car close to the quicksands," qualified Sercomb, "so that he'd have got into them himself." "It's all the same thing," said Balt Finn. "Call a spade a spade and don't dodge." "Who was that fellow with the queer head-gear we saw in the car?" asked Packard. A look of dismay crossed Sercomb's face. "If that was Tippoo----" he began, but got no farther. Just then there were steps in the hall, and Ferral entered the room, followed by Matt and Carl. Sercomb and his guilty associates jumped to their feet. "Why--why, Dick!" exclaimed Sercomb, staring. "Yes, you cannibal!" shouted Ferral; "it's Dick, but no thanks to you and your gang of pirates that I'm here, alive and kicking. Now, Mings, confound you, you and Packard have got a chance to tell me whether my dear cousin put you up to that job over toward the cliffs." "We've got a chance to run you off the place, that's what we've got," answered Mings. "Heave ahead!" cried Ferral, squaring himself. "I'd like a chance at you, just one." Mings glared at him, but remained sullenly silent. Ferral turned to Sercomb. "I'm here to sink a lead to the bottom of this, my gay buck," said he, "and before I turn my back on La Vita Place I'll know the truth. What have you done with Uncle Jack? A scoundrel who'd treat me as you have wouldn't hesitate to deal foully with----" "There, there, Dick," interrupted Sercomb, fluttering his hand, "that will do you. You're judging me by yourself." "I'm judging you by your actions," stormed Ferral. "It's been tack-and-tack with you ever since I knew you, and you never yet shifted your helm without having something to gain for Sercomb. You cozzened around Uncle Jack, toadying to him for his money; when he disappears, you bear away for here, rip things fore and aft looking for a will, and, when you fail to find one, fix a document up to suit yourself. You're as crooked as a physte's hind leg, and you couldn't sail a straight course to save your immortal soul. Now, here's where I stand, Ralph Sercomb: Either you'll tell me the whole of it about Uncle Jack, or I go to Lamy and come back here with an officer. If I do that, I'll round-up every man Jack of you, and give you the hottest time you ever had in your lives; but tell me the truth about Uncle Jack, and I'll leave here and stay away." "Uncle Jack is dead," declared Sercomb. "How many times do you want me to tell you that?" "That's still your play, is it?" scoffed Ferral. "Then, between you and me and the capstan, my buck, you lie by the watch!" A hoarse cry escaped Sercomb. His hand swept under his coat, and when it appeared a bit of steel glimmered in his fist. "Put up your gun," ordered Ferral. "You took one shot at me with it last night, and if you try it again I'll turn a trick you'll remember." "Get out of here!" ordered Sercomb. "You can't come into my place and talk to me like that." He lifted the weapon, the muzzle full upon Ferral. Matt and Carl stepped up shoulder to shoulder with Ferral, and Mings, Packard, and Finn drew nearer to Sercomb. A tense moment intervened, followed by a quick, pattering footfall. Tippoo glided in and placed himself resolutely between Ferral and the leveled weapon. "Tippoo!" gasped Sercomb, stepping back and letting the revolver drop at his side. "_Jee!_" answered the Hindu. His eyes were not fixed on Sercomb, nor on any one else in the room, but on the dingy saint in the frame over the mantel. He waved his arms sternly, separated Sercomb and his friends, and passed through their gaping ranks toward the fireplace. The he salaamed, calling loudly: "Naboob sahib! Is de time not come? _Dekke!_" Thereupon a most astounding thing happened. While those in the room stared like persons entranced, the great frame that enclosed the pictured saint quivered against the wall. Slowly it moved outward at the top, dropped lower and lower, until it had passed the mantel and its upper edge was resting on the floor. The inner side of the picture, now disclosed, was arranged in a series of steps, so that a stairway was formed from the mantel downward. At the top of the short flight, gaping blackly over the fireplace, a square recess was disclosed in the angle formed by the two walls of the room. For an instant the blank gloom was undisturbed; then, slowly, a tall, gray-haired form showed itself. The form was erect and soldierly, clad in black; the face was fine, the forehead high, and the eyes quick and keen. For a space this figure stood in the opening, the eyes sweeping the room and finally resting on Ferral. While still gazing at Ferral, the figure stepped over the mantel with military decision and descended step by step until it reached the floor. The stairway lifted itself, when relieved of the weight, swung upward, and closed the opening. Once more the pictured saint was in the accustomed place. "Dick!" called a voice. The figure in black stepped forward with outstretched hand. "Uncle Jack!" exclaimed Ferral, starting forward. CHAPTER XVI. THE PRICE OF TREACHERY. This most astounding event had left everybody gasping. A ghastly pallor had rushed into Sercomb's face. His three companions were hardly in better case. All four realized that the unexpected had happened, and that it boded ill for them. But Sercomb was not long in pulling himself together. "Why, uncle!" he exclaimed, forcing a laugh; "this is a tremendous surprise, and a glad one. I have been worried to death about you!" He offered his hand. Mr. Lawton looked at him steadily. Under that look Sercomb's assurance faded, his hand dropped, and he fell back. "I would like you better, sir," said the old Englishman, "if you showed the courage to acknowledge what you have done and face the consequences. You must know that I am aware of all that has taken place here; and yet you have the brazen insolence to step forward and offer me your hand!" "I guess we'd better be going, Sercomb, old chap," said Mings. "I think so, too," spoke up Balt Finn. "It's getting along toward noon, and we'll get out the car and start north." "Come on, boys," urged Packard. They started toward the door. At a gesture from Mr. Lawton, Tippoo stepped in front of the door and drew the revolver from his sash. The Denver man fell back in trepidation. "You'll start north very soon," said Mr. Lawton keenly, "and when you go you'll take Sercomb with you. First, however, there is something to be told, and you'll wait to hear it. "Ever since I came to America I have had Ralph and Dick in mind. Either I was to divide my property between them, or else I was to cut off one and leave all to the other. In some respects I am a particular man. What property I have collected I want to fall into hands that will do the most good with it. With that end in view I have tried to make a study of Ralph and Dick. "It was easy for me to study Ralph. Whenever I asked him to come here and see me, he came; and he remained, as a rule, until I asked him to go. He had ways about him which I did not like, but I feared that was merely a prejudice. I like the youth who is open and aboveboard, who says what he means and who is frank and fearless. Ralph did not seem to be that. "Dick I never could get to come to me." Mr. Lawton lifted his hand and rested it on Ferral's shoulder. "I couldn't understand this, for by making a little of me he had everything to gain. He was serving his king afloat--I liked that--but I felt that he might take a little time off for a visit, every two or three years, with the forlorn old man 'way off here in the American wilds. "When Dick wrote me from Texas, I conceived a plan. By this plan I hoped to bring both my nephews here, and to find out, beyond all cavil, just which was the better entitled to what I shall some day leave. "With the Lamy lawyer to help, the little conspiracy was hatched. Identically the same letters were sent to Ralph and Dick, each stating that I was tired of living alone, that I was going to get out of the way, and that wherever I was found my _will_ would be found with me." A grim smile hovered about the bristling gray mustache of the old man. "I did not say what the will was," he went on, "but I will remark here that it was purely the mental process by which I intended to judge which of my nephews was the more worthy. "Ralph lost no time in coming to La Vita Place. He brought with him these friends of his"--Mr. Lawton swept his hand about to indicate Finn, Mings and Packard--"and they carried on with liquor and cards, spending their time sleeping, eating, gambling and hunting for the will. There was never any concern about Uncle Jack--their interest was all in the will and Uncle Jack's money. Everything that went on in this house I knew about--as well as everything that went on outside. Tippoo, with the aid of the runabout, kept me informed of events beyond the walls; and, as for the others, I heard and saw for myself. "This old adobe house is like a medieval castle. In the old times, when settlers were even fewer in this country than they are now, lawless Mexicans used the place for nefarious purposes; and, back beyond their time, the old friars who were here under the Spaniards made this their retreat. The walls are honeycombed with passages, and every room can be reached secretly and secretly watched. I discovered these passages for myself, and have passed many a lonely hour unearthing the mysteries of the place. "Ralph, during one of his visits here, found the passage leading from the bushes to my sleeping-room, up-stairs. He knew of that, but none of the others. "One thing I did not know about until now was Ralph's plan to have Mings meet Dick in Lamy, when he was coming here, and steal his money. It is hard to think one of my blood is a thief----" "Uncle!" gasped Sercomb. "Stand as you are, sir!" cried Mr. Lawton sternly. "Let us name the truth as it should be! It was not your hand that struck Dick down, and his money is not now in your pocket, but yours was the plan, and you are even more guilty than Mings. Although I could not protect Dick from that danger, yet he was equal to it himself. "When he came here, I was watching Ralph and his friends playing cards up-stairs; I saw them put out the light and retreat noiselessly to my bedroom; and I heard the shot that was fired at Dick before the young rascals left the house by the secret way. "All the rest that followed, during the night, I understood, save that I did not know, until I heard Matt talking with Carl and Dick in my room, how he had been able to spy upon Sercomb and his friends and gather a clue to Sercomb's duplicity. "The ruffianly attack on Dick and Carl by Mings and Packard, who, under orders from Sercomb, were plotting to carry Dick off to the quicksands, horrified me. I would have shown myself then and there had not Dick and Carl protected themselves so valiantly and turned the tables on Dick's would-be abductors. "Tippoo, in the car, was watching the automobile in front, and he disabled the machine so that Dick could not be carried off, in case Mings and Packard succeeded. "The most contemptible act of all was that where Mings and Packard followed Dick and his friends, when they had been ordered away, and attempted Dick's life----" "I did not sanction that!" cried Sercomb desperately. His hopes were crumbling in his grasp like a rope of sand. "I did not tell Mings to tie Dick in the car and set the car toward the cliffs! Uncle! I----" "Silence!" thundered Mr. Lawton. "I will have no false excuses. I know what you wanted! You wanted to get Dick out of the way. In your greed to get all of my property you shut your eyes to the heinousness of your conduct and struggled only to achieve your aim. "Here, in this house, Ralph, I have watched barefaced duplicity and murderous resolve battling with frankness and fearlessness! I have seen you deliberately, and with three unscrupulous friends to help, play every card you could in an attempt to beat your own cousin. And I have felt shame that one of our line could act so like a cur. "Had I known, in the beginning, just how far your greed would lead you, had I even remotely imagined all the dangers that would encompass Dick when he tried to follow out my last request, I would never have proceeded in the way I did. "But now it is over. I have seen you both when you could not know I was near; I have watched your actions, weighed even your words, and I am able to judge between you." A certain grimness of resolve came into the fine old face as Mr. Lawton went on. "Ralph, you can expect from me--nothing. When I leave this place for good and all, and go to Denver--which will be in a few days--there will not be even a deed to La Vita Place to go to you. Considering my present mood, not a shilling of my money, sir, will go to you. To whom it _does_ go, I will leave you to guess. Go back to your racing; and if, before I die, you have come nearer making a man of yourself, perhaps I will reconsider. You and your friends have an automobile in the barn. Take it, at once, and leave here." A deep silence fell over the room. Tippoo stepped away from the door and tucked the revolver back into his sash. Mings, Packard and Finn bolted--glad, no doubt, to get away so easily. Sercomb started after them, but hesitated. "Uncle," he began tremulously, "if you will----" "Go!" ordered Mr. Lawton sternly. Then Sercomb's true character came uppermost. Halting in the door he shook his fist at Matt and Dick. "I'll play even with both of you for this!" he gritted, then whirled and darted after his crestfallen companions. "Come, Carl," said Matt, hurrying toward the hall door, "we'll go and keep an eye on the car." "You bed you," exulted Carl, running after Matt. "It vas easy for Verral to be jeerful now, hey? Aber id don'd vas so easy for dose odder chaps. Donnervetter, vat a surbrise!" When the other touring-car whisked out of the barn, through the grove and into the road, there were four very gloomy passengers aboard. Hardly looking at Matt and Carl, they kicked up the dust toward Santa Fé and Denver. Tippoo appeared, as soon as the car had vanished. "Sahib," said he to Matt, "you go to de house. I take care of bot' cars. Naboob sahib say so." "Napoo sahip cuts a goot deal oof ice mit us, Tibboo," said Carl, "und I guess dot ve go, hey, Matt?" "Sure, we will," replied Matt. "But be careful of this car, Tippoo. It has had so many close calls lately that I am scared of my life when it's out of my hands." "Me take good care, sahib," answered Tippoo reassuringly. Matt and Carl, full of wonder and satisfaction because of the way the affair had ended, started back along the foot-path to the house. CHAPTER XVII. THE LUCK OF DICK FERRAL. Mr. Lawton and Ferral met Matt and Carl in the parlor. They had been having a brief talk together, and there was a pleased look on Lawton's face and a happy light in Ferral's eyes. Mr. Lawton stepped forward and caught Matt cordially by the hand. "Matt," said he, "you have been a stanch friend of Dick's in the little time you have known him, and you have twice saved his life. He is indebted to you, but I am under an even greater obligation. But for your aid, the little plan I conceived for getting at the relative merits of my two nephews might have ended disastrously and given me something to regret till the last day of my life. I thank you, my lad; and you, too, Carl," he finished, turning to the grinning Dutch boy. "Oh, vell," said Carl, "it don'd vas nodding vat I dit. Matt vas der vone. He iss alvays der vone dot geds dere mit bot' feets ven anyding iss bulled off." "You both did nobly, and perhaps some time, somewhere, I can show you that I am not insensible of the debt I owe," went on Mr. Lawton. "Just now," he added, turning away and walking to the end of the mantel, "Dick has expressed a desire to see the place where I have lived for several days, and I presume you and Carl, Matt, are also interested." He pressed a spring under the end of the mantel and the great frame descended and presented its flight of steps. "I will go first, as I know the ropes," said Mr. Lawton. "The rest of you will follow." He ascended the stairs. Dick, Carl and Matt went after him and the frame closed and left them in a narrow space in the dark. Mr. Lawton lighted a candle and flashed it across the inner side of the picture and above the last step. "The eyes of the picture, you will see," he observed, "are cut out. That gave me an opportunity to note what took place in the parlor. A very old device which I have seen in old castles on the Rhine, and even in one or two houses in Delhi. Now," and he faced about, "we will go on." The passage wound around the house through the hollow wall. Two steps led up and over the front door. In the sitting-room there was a niche with a crucifix and candles. Holes in the back of the niche enabled one to look out and observe all that took place in the sitting-room. In like manner, there was a concealed place for keeping track of what went on in the kitchen. In the kitchen wall a dozen steps led upward to the second floor, and in the two upper rooms there were also peep-holes cleverly arranged. "The passage Ralph knew about," explained Mr. Lawton, "has no connection whatever with this other burrow. It is entirely distinct and apart. The only way to get directly into the house from these corridors is by the opening over the parlor mantel. Now we will descend to the subterranean part of the establishment." A continuation of the steps that led upward in the kitchen wall conducted the explorers downward into a place that was a sort of basement, although having no connection with the cellar of the house. Here the boys were surprised to find the white runabout. "Here's a point I'm twisted on, Uncle Jack," said Dick. "What in the name of the seven holy spritsails, did you ever let Tippoo go spooking around the country for?" Mr. Lawton laughed. "Dick," said he, "this country is full of scoundrels who would not hesitate to get the better of an old man and his Hindu servant if there were a few dollars to be gained. Now, rascals of that ilk are superstitious, and I have kept them at bay by this harmless deception. This old, ill-favored shell of a house is supposed to be haunted, for dark deeds are known to have taken place here. That auto is my own idea. Tippoo has made regular trips with it every night up the gully, around on the cliff road, through the cliff and so back to the house. La Vita Place, by that means, has lived up to its unenviable reputation, and the thieves have left me severely alone. "The auto came in very handily during this play of Ralph's. Ralph knew nothing about the car, and during his visits here I was careful to keep a knowledge of it away from him. Tippoo would take a trip abroad and watch events outside; then he would come back and report to me. When Matt jumped into the car, there on the cliff road, Tippoo was willing enough to be discovered, for he knew that I was planning to show myself very soon, anyhow. Tippoo, however, had orders from me to say nothing about what I was doing. Here," added Mr. Lawton, stepping off along the rock-walled room, "is the way the car left its quarters whenever it wanted to make its ghostly round." Matt, as he followed Mr. Lawton, noticed a supply of gasoline and oil, and congratulated himself on the fact that there would be no difficulty in getting the Red Flier fit for the road when the time came for Carl and himself to start. A wide passage led for a hundred feet or more beyond the end of the stone room, a gentle grade, at its farther end, leading upward. A door, flush with the earth, was pushed upward by Mr. Lawton, and the blinding light of day flooded the passage. "We might as well get out here," said Mr. Lawton, and the rest followed him into a brushy covert in the grove. On one side of the covert the brush had been cleared away to leave a smooth track for the car. "The road," explained the old man, "leads directly to the gully. Tippoo, when he desired to make his round, had only to push up the door, take his ghostly ride, and then come back again." "That idea of a crank in the machine for turning over the engine," said Matt, "is a mighty good one and ought to be patented." "You may have it, Matt," said Mr. Lawton. "I am too old to bother with patents." The door was closed and the little party wandered back through the grove to the house. Tippoo, in the kitchen, was busily at work getting a meal ready. "This," observed Mr. Lawton, as they all seated themselves on a bench in the shade, "is one of the happiest, as well as the saddest, days of my life. I have discovered what Dick really is, and that's where the bright part comes in; but I have also found out that my sister's son is a contemptible scoundrel--and I would rather have lost everything I own than to have discovered it. This racing-game must be demoralizing." "It isn't the game, Mr. Lawton," interposed Matt earnestly, "but the character of the fellows who take it up. There isn't a thing in a speed contest to demoralize any one." "You may be right, Matt," answered Mr. Lawton, "but it's hard to understand how Ralph could prove so false to all the Lawton ideals. His father was a gentleman in every sense of the word; and his mother--there was never a finer woman on earth." After a short silence, Mr. Lawton turned once more to Matt. "You are going to Santa Fé?" he queried. "Yes," replied Matt, "and then to Denver. Mr. Tomlinson, who owns the Red Flier, has a place for me on the racing-staff of a firm of automobile-makers." "Ah! I would have spoken differently a moment ago, if I had known that you intended entering the racing-field. You'll never go wrong. But, when you get to Denver, beware of the rascally crew who just left here. They are very bitter against you." "They'll not bother me, sir," said Matt stoutly. "Oof dey dry it on," spoke up Carl, "py chincher dey vill ged somet'ing vat dey don'd like." "Dick and I will be in Denver soon," said Mr. Lawton, "and then we shall look you up. You will hear from us again, Matt. The debt we are under to you cannot be easily canceled." "I've been repaid already," returned Matt. "What I have done has given me a friend in Dick Ferral--and that's worth everything." "Your fin, mate," said Ferral, reaching over and clasping Matt's hand. Just then Tippoo appeared in the kitchen door. "Tiffin, sahib!" he called, and they all filed into the house--Carl, as usual when there was eating in prospect, leading the way. THE END. THE NEXT NUMBER (8) WILL CONTAIN MOTOR MATT'S TRIUMPH OR, Three Speeds Forward. The White-caps--Motor Matt's Foes--Suspicious Doings--A Villainous Plot--Matt Goes Trouble-hunting--Higgins Tells What He Knows--Brisk Work at Dodge City--Matt Interviews Trueman--No. 13--Where Is Motor Matt?--Running Down a Clue--Forty-eight Hours of Darkness--At the Last Minute--The First Half of the Race--Well Won, King!--Conclusion. MOTOR STORIES THRILLING ADVENTURE MOTOR FICTION NEW YORK, April 10, 1909. TERMS TO MOTOR STORIES MAIL SUBSCRIBERS. (_Postage Free._) Single Copies or Back Numbers, 5c. Each. 3 months 65c. 4 months 85c. 6 months $1.25 One year 2.50 2 copies one year 4.00 1 copy two years 4.00 =How to Send Money=--By post-office or express money-order, registered letter, bank check or draft, at our risk. At your own risk if sent by currency, coin, or postage-stamps in ordinary letter. =Receipts=--Receipt of your remittance is acknowledged by proper change of number on your label. If not correct you have not been properly credited, and should let us know at once. ORMOND G. SMITH, } GEORGE C. SMITH, } _Proprietors_. STREET & SMITH, Publishers, 79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York City. BILL, THE BOUND BOY. Bill Bradley was a blacksmith boy. He was an orphan, and had been apprenticed to old Carnahan the day Lincoln was elected, and had pumped the bellows and swung the sledge every day since. Old Carnahan was a stern task-master, and got out of his bound boy all the law would allow. We used to pass the shop every time we drove from our farm in the country, and there was nothing in the county seat, the greatest town we had ever seen, so notable as the great shock of fiery red hair displayed by Bill Bradley. He always stood at the door of the shop as we passed at noon-time and nodded at us with the cheeriest sort of a smile. It was a thing to remember with pride when a town boy honored us with recognition. Money was mighty scarce in our house those days. Dimes were things to treasure carefully; and dollars, when they came, were something spoken of with bated breath and hidden away--or paid out grudgingly. And iron was in demand. The cannons made those first years of the war called into requisition it seemed to me all the fragments of old cast iron there was in the country. Blacksmiths were paying first a cent, then two cents, and finally two and a half cents a pound; though they did not make a difference whether you "took it out in trade" or demanded cash. We boys in the country used to gather up every bit of metal that would sell, and carefully save it till we had a hundred pounds or more, and then take it to town and convert it into the infrequent cash or the almost as acceptable and quite costly groceries. One day when we took our plunder to town we found the streets in strange commotion. "They're listing soldiers," said a nervous voice in our ears, and when we turned we found Bill Bradley, wide-eyed, excited, and reckless. We were surprised, for we knew it was time for him to be at the forge, and we knew how strict was his employer in the matter of time. We drove to the blacksmith shop with the fragments of iron, and found Bill Bradley there before us. He was pumping the bellows, and old man Carnahan was rating him soundly for his absence. The red head was a trifle higher, the blue eyes a trifle wider, and the breath was quicker and more charged with warning. Carnahan should have known. But he didn't. He grew more enraged, till at a word of defense from the boy he lost his temper completely, and, in a fit of exasperation, struck his apprentice. The blow was not a severe one, and Bill could not have suffered a twinge of pain. But his pride was hurt, and that blow ended for him, as that larger, later blow ended for four millions of others, his season of servitude. "I'll quit you," he cried, trembling and almost weeping with excitement and rage. "I'll list for a soldier." We left the iron in a pile on the shabby floor, and followed him with palpitating hearts to the little lobby of the post-office. He was greeted with a chorus of shouts, as was each new recruit, and a touch of ridicule must have mingled with the hailing, for it straightened him and stiffened him and sent him to the captain with as firm a front as ever was borne by a novice. If the men were changed by the donning of the blue, what transformation was this wrought in our blacksmith boy? He was inches taller and fathoms deeper. He was a man. He stood about with the recruits, his brow darkening a little when Carnahan approached, for he did not yet understand the privilege of a warrior. But more than any other man in uniform he was severed from civil life. He was one of this wonderful legion that was filling the world with comment--and filling the homes with woe. We came to town that Saturday when the troops were mustered in, and watched them drilling. We saw our blacksmith boy, and wondered how we ever had addressed him, he was a being so different from all he had been before. We saw the march by twos and fours and company front, the double-quick and the charge; and we heard the fledgling officers swear with strange oaths at the men they were later to push into conflict. We fancied Bill Bradley would not stand much of that. We saw them march to the depot, and then wept, I fear, at the passionate good-bys. There were fathers and younger brothers and desolate wives; but the saddest of all were the partings from mothers. It was so piteous, the hopelessness of their despair, the utter abandon of their tears. And then after much shaking of hands and waving of hands the train was away. We saw load after load go by on the cars after that, and always looked eagerly for the sight of some face we knew. But the faces which we knew were swallowed and lost in a sea of strangeness--a sea, we pray, which never may grow familiar. We read of the terrible battles that Western army fought; we read of their victories, and the far too frequent defeats. We read the lists of killed and wounded, and saw at last in the longest column the name of Private William Bradley. How far that name removed him from us! He was William now--not common Bill; not Bill the blacksmith's bound boy. We wondered if there was anything we could do for him, and in the next box that went from our town mother sent underclothes and stockings to the youth; for there was no one near us by blood or friendship who weathered that winter in the South, and no one near Bill to remember him. And one day toward the dawn of spring a letter came from the hospital, written in the clumsy hand of the orphan, acknowledging the receipt of the clothes, and thanking for them with the clumsy, genuine feeling of one who seldom speaks and never forgets a favor. He was well again, he said, and would be returned for duty in the morning. They looked for another hard battle, for the enemy was massing, and this new general that had won in the past believed in sledge-hammers and decisive measures. At the end of the letter was the sentence: "Tha have mad me a corprl." How proud he was of that--prouder of it than were the thousands who had other things to comfort them. And how near us he seemed to come as the weary months went by and the fighting began again. Once fix your mind on a man in the distance and a man who stands front face with danger night and day and never flinches; and it is wonderful how completely he will fill your sky. You imagine all manner of great things about him, dread all manner of terrible things, and end at last by loving him. So, when that other battle was fought by the general who believed in sturdy blows, and when Vicksburg laid down her arms at the feet of a victorious army, we read again in the terrible lists of the killed and wounded the name of our blacksmith boy. This time, too, it was among the wounded--in the longest column; but it bore a prefix that surprised us. It was "Sergeant Bradley" now. The meager details of that time did not help us to all the information we wanted. We did not know how badly he was injured, but we sent a box of jellies and pickles and things that are not issued with the rations; and got another letter telling of the battle. And it makes no difference how many of these reports you read in the paper, this letter from a man who was in the thick of the fight was far more authentic. It was far more real. But Sergeant Bradley was sorely wounded this time. We found more about it later when a letter from the captain was printed in the county paper, detailing the events that had been important from a subaltern's standpoint and boasting of the prowess of his men. In this was told the story of a Mississippi regiment, those tigers of the South--a charge that was met by the tattered remnant of the Indiana brigade. He told of the clashing of man against man, and the loss of the banner over and over again--that banner that went down to the army with the blessings of a thousand women when Corinth fell. And it told how, when the howling, shouting, slashing, shrieking legions swept the Northerners back for a moment, and the guns were taken and not a thing could live in the sea of triumphant assault, Corporal William Bradley had wrapped his shattered arms about the flag and rolled with it right under the guns that were turned against his brethren. "I knew you would come back again," said the hero, when the charge was repulsed and the battery was recaptured. "I knew you would come back, and I saved the flag." He had, and he wore a sergeant's chevron for his heroism. But the hurt would not heal. The sulphurous smoke, the fearful concussions of earth and air as he burrowed under the guns and waited for rescue, the sword thrusts and bayonet pricks, the white flesh torn by whistling ball, and the two bones broken by the shattered shell--all this was tribulation which would not pass away. Sergeant Bradley lay long in the hospital. One night in the autumn, as we sat there under a waning moon and listened to the shrill complaint of a hidden cicada, we were conscious of a figure making slow progress along the path by the roadside. It was a man, and even in the darkness of night we could see it was not familiar. For the matter of that, the figure of a man at all those days was not a common thing. Men were away in the South, as a general rule. But this figure grew stranger as it came nearer. Presently the gate swung open, and the watch-dog gave challenge. We silenced him and rose to meet a limping, swaying figure in Federal blue. He said nothing, and seemed, with that grinning insistence of the uncouth man, to wish we might remember him. We had filled our thought with Bradley, no doubt; but this could not be he. It was, however, and when we were sure of that we gave him a welcome and hearty cheer. But he was very weak. It seemed, after the first timid acceptance of our greeting, he began to fail, and to take less and less of interest in the things about him. We thought he would like to hear news from town. He had forgotten all about the town. We hoped a little later he would enjoy a word of cheer from the front. There was no army for him now. He lay there so white on the pillow, his red hair making the whiteness more vivid; his blue eyes looking so steadily, yet so listlessly, at a single point in the wall; he stirred so slightly at the passing of day and night--and then he closed his eyes. It was long before he opened them again. When he did he saw mother beside him. She was cooling the cloth she laid on his forehead. "I thought I wanted to come home," he said, and then closed his eyes again. There was no relevancy in the remark. No one had spoken to him, and there had never been a thought of this or other place as a home for him. It must have been on his mind all the time. But there was youth to support him, and the blessings of twenty years to pour their vigor into his veins. His mending was slow, but it was sure. He walked about the farm at Thanksgiving, and returned to duty at Christmas. He was a different man. It seemed impossible he ever could have been a bound boy. He was dignified, self-reliant. He spoke easily and without embarrassment, no matter if it was a general addressed. And he was a lieutenant when the war was done. No, he didn't die. He lived to remember twenty battles and a dozen wounds. He lived to make a modest beginning in business, and to follow it to comfortable success. He owns his home now and under his broad hat hides red hair that will never be quite gray. He stands to-day with his children at the graves of the men who were with him in the army, who were with him in danger and suffering and success. He stands with those children and tells them the story and the lesson of the day. To him it was the working out of a problem, the right solution after years of wrong. To him and to me his record typifies the average of that darker period. Thousands and tens of thousands went in with a whim to come out with a halo. They enlisted under the spur of example, of banter, of pique. Yet they fought like Greeks, and forgave like Christians. It was the hand of the common man that left home duties and home obligations to take up the greater cause of a nation. It was the triumph of simplicity--that silent legion which boasted little before the war, and never complained when hardship came. It was the triumph of all that is good in the American who lives to see the realization of dreams that were not bold enough to paint their horoscope when prophecy was loudest. A WINTER STORY OF COLORADO. The wild beasts upon Hicks Mountain were limited almost entirely to the coyotes; these persisted, in spite of advancing settlement, but in this section of Colorado the grey wolf, the mountain-lion, and the bear had been practically exterminated. For five years the stock had run the hills quite unmolested. A coyote will kill sheep, but its depredations are confined otherwise to the poultry, barring now and then a sick and abandoned calf. However, in the winter of 1905, rumors spread that the grey wolves had returned. Calves were being killed and eaten, sows mutilated, and even large steers torn about the legs and chest. One rancher discovered in the timber across the pasture from his house the remains of a yearling heifer killed only that night; whatever had attacked it had devoured it, hide and all, to the very largest bones, leaving only the scattered remnants of a skeleton. Now, a mountain-lion would have eaten part and buried the rest; a bear would also have eaten part, and saved the rest for later; coyotes would only have gnawed and mangled the carcass; the great grey wolf alone would have worked a destruction so complete. The ground was bare of snow, and covered with pine-needles, thus being unfavorable for tracks. Mr. Jeffries had heard no howling. Nevertheless, the grey wolf, the stockman's scourge, was blamed. Traps were set, and poisoned meat was discreetly put out, but only the coyotes suffered, apparently. Then Ned Coswell, early one morning, while searching for a lost milk-cow, came over a little rise, and saw below him in a hollow in the park a number of wolfish animals collected about a dead body, tearing at it. Ned was unarmed, but, spurring his horse, he rode down upon them recklessly, whooping. "There were about a dozen of them," related Ned, "and I knew they weren't wolves, because they were colored differently, more like dogs. They looked at me coming, and, boys, I didn't know for a minute whether they were going to get out of the way or not. Old Medicine Eye"--his horse--"wasn't a bit afraid; just pricked his ears and kept on, which made me think all the more they weren't wolves. "They were dogs, boys, nothing but dogs. There was a brindled one that looked like a bulldog, and several woolly dogs, like sheep-dogs, and one big black-and-white shaggy fellow, biggest of all. They all lifted their heads, and stood staring at me, and I was beginning to think that maybe I'd been in too much of a hurry. But first one sneaked off, showing his teeth, into the brush, and another and another, and they all went, and I was mighty glad to have them go. They'd been eating at a dead steer--mine, too--but I don't know whether they'd killed it or not. I wish I'd had a gun." After that the ranchers made it a habit again to carry a gun of some kind when out on the range. However, for a long time nobody, when armed, caught any glimpse of the wild dogs. That is likely to be the case in hunting; the unprepared frequently have the opportunities. For instance, Frank Warring, while on his way home from town in his wagon, toward evening of a cloudy day, beheld the pack cross the road right in front of him, the animals in single file, one following another, silent as specters, noses outstretched, the big, shaggy black-and-white fellow leading. In the rear were two or three puppies, perhaps nine months old. Frank had no gun. Somebody else also saw the pack. The brutes' depredations continued, being limited, so far as we could ascertain, to our vicinity, as if they had selected Hicks Mountain for a hunting-ground. They hunted without howling. A spasmodic, rabid bark was the only sound that we could attribute to them, but it was sufficient. We were afraid of this wild pack; more afraid than of wolves. There is something uncanny about a dog gone wild, for he combines the lessons taught by domesticity with the instincts of savagery. As nobody from our section had missed dogs, we concluded that this band had come down upon us from Wyoming, a hundred and fifty miles north. Up in Wyoming wild dogs had been bothering the sheep-range. Probably energetic measures adopted by the irate sheep men had driven the marauders to seek new fields. Finally, Sam Morris had a chance to retaliate. He was hunting deer afoot. The day was dark and snowy. As he was sitting motionless beside a boulder, watching the slope below and the ascent across the draw, the dog-pack suddenly streamed out from the pines down there, and all at a lope threaded the bottom of the draw, onward bound. The shaggy black-and-white was leading, as usual. Sam's gun was loaded with buckshot, and he waited greedily, that he might get more than one dog with his charge. But the animals were too shrewd to travel bunched; they left intervals, as do the wolves when trailing, and when at last Sam would desperately have "whanged away," his gun missed fire. Rather chagrined was Sam, telling his tale afterward. He confirmed the previous statements that the pack was variously colored, made up of different breeds; a strange invasion surely. The trail through the draw remained unobliterated, for no snow fell for two weeks thereafter. We found that the dog-pack was utilizing this draw for a pass. It appeared to lead from one favorite point to another. The trail grew more distinct, but it scarcely widened; the dogs stepped always, so it seemed, in the same spots. It was vain to set traps; the disturbance of the snow was noticed at once. Poison was disregarded. The pack kept on ranging the country and attacking stock. Sam was anxious to retrieve himself, and he and I agreed to put in our time watching that trail until we should "fix" some of those outlaws. I remember that it was the tenth day of January, and toward four o'clock in the afternoon, when, for perhaps the sixth or seventh time, we ensconced ourselves between two boulders on the slope overlooking the trail below. The sky was cloudy; a snowstorm was evidently approaching. Cloudy days seemed to be those upon which the dog-pack was most likely to be sighted. Probably upon such days it emerged earlier on account of the waning light. This afternoon we had been in ambush only a half-hour when the pack appeared. In silent, single file the pack came trotting out of the timber on our right, and across before us, following the trail in the draw. The big, black-and-white, shaggy fellow was the first; next to him was the brindle. I recognized them, for every narrative had contained them. I don't know exactly why, but the sight of them all, trotting so silently, so swiftly, business-bent, thrilled me with a little chill. About their steady gait was something ominous, unreal. A pack of wolves I could have surveyed without special emotion, for I should have known what to expect, but a pack of dogs, gone wild--ugh! They are neither dogs nor wolves, but, as has been said, an uncanny blending. We had agreed what to do. Sam only nudged me, and levelled his gun. There was an instant of suspense, and we fired practically together. We had rifles, and were using black powder, and the smoke was momentarily thick. When it cleared, the shaggy leader was kicking in the snow, and the brindle was lying still. My bullet had not sped quite as truly as Sam's; his aim had been the brindle. The rest of the pack were racing madly onward, and although we fired twice more, we did not hit any of them. We went down to our victims. The brindle had just life enough in him to snarl at us ere he died. The big black-and-white was gasping. Then a strange thing occurred. As I stood over him, he wagged his bushy tail; his eyes were not wild, but soft, suffering, appealing. He was now all dog and would turn to his chosen friend, man, for sympathy and aid. "Poor old chap!" I said. His eyes were glazing fast; he hauled himself on his side over the snow toward me. "Look out!" warned Sam. But there was no need. With a final effort, the animal just managed to lick my boot-toe, and with his head upon it, he shivered and was still. I declare, a lump rose in my throat. As I bent to pat his coat--I love dogs, and he had struck me right to the heart, marauder though he had been--I felt a collar round his neck, concealed by his long, curly hair. Upon the collar was a plate, engraved "Prince." Somebody's "Prince" had he been, somebody's pet. But whose? A more perfect example of atavism, reversion to type--call it what you will--would be hard to present. The dog-pack never again, as far as there was evidence, traversed that trail. Nor was it seen again upon Hicks Mountain. It seemed almost as if it had been composed of weird phantoms, like the spectral packs of German and Provençal legend, and had dissolved at our gunshots. _ESPECIALLY IMPORTANT!!_ MOTOR STORIES _A New Idea in the Way of Five-Cent Weeklies._ Boys everywhere will be delighted to hear that Street & Smith are now issuing this new five-cent weekly which will be known by the name of MOTOR STORIES. This weekly is entirely different from anything now being published. It details the astonishing adventures of a young mechanic who owned a motor cycle. Is there a boy who has not longed to possess one of these swift little machines that scud about the roads everywhere throughout the United States? Is there a boy, therefore, who will not be intensely interested in the adventures of "Motor Matt," as he is familiarly called by his comrades? Boys, you have never read anything half so exciting, half so humorous and entertaining as the first story listed for publication in this line, called "=Motor Matt; or, The King of the Wheel=." Its fame is bound to spread like wildfire, causing the biggest demand for the other numbers in this line, that was ever heard of in the history of this class of literature. Here are the titles to be issued during the next few weeks. Do not fail to place an order for them with your newsdealer. =No. 1.--Motor Matt; or, The King of the Wheel.= =No. 2.--Motor Matt's Daring; or, True to His Friends.= =No. 3.--Motor Matt's Century Run; or, The Governor's Courier.= =No. 4.--Motor Matt's Race; or, The Last Flight of the "Comet."= =No. 5.--Motor Matt's Mystery; or, Foiling a Secret Plot.= =No. 6.--Motor Matt's Red Flier; or, On the High Gear.= =No. 7.--Motor Matt's Clue; or, The Phantom Auto.= =No. 8.--Motor Matt's Triumph; or, Three Speeds Forward.= =No. 9.--Motor Matt's Air-ship; or, The Rival Inventors.= 32 LARGE SIZE PAGES SPLENDID COLORED COVERS PRICE, FIVE CENTS PER COPY AT ALL NEWSDEALERS, OR SENT POSTPAID BY THE PUBLISHERS UPON RECEIPT OF THE PRICE. _STREET & SMITH, Publishers, NEW YORK_ _THE BEST OF THEM ALL!!_ MOTOR STORIES IT IS NEW AND INTENSELY INTERESTING We knew before we published this line that it would have a tremendous sale and our expectations were more than realized. It is going with a rush, and the boys who want to read these, the most interesting and fascinating tales ever written, must speak to their newsdealers about reserving copies for them. =MOTOR MATT= sprang into instant favor with American boy readers and is bound to occupy a place in their hearts second only to that now held by Frank Merriwell. The reason for this popularity is apparent in every line of these stories. They are written by an author who has made a life study of the requirements of the up-to-date American boy as far as literature is concerned, so it is not surprising that this line has proven a huge success from the very start. Here are the titles now ready and also those to be published. You will never have a better opportunity to get a generous quantity of reading of the highest quality, so place your orders now. =No. 1.--Motor Matt; or, The King of the Wheel.= =No. 2.--Motor Matt's Daring; or, True to His Friends.= =No. 3.--Motor Matt's Century Run; or, The Governor's Courier.= =No. 4.--Motor Matt's Race; or, The Last Flight of the "Comet."= TO BE PUBLISHED ON MARCH 22nd =No. 5.--Motor Matt's Mystery; or, Foiling a Secret Plot.= TO BE PUBLISHED ON MARCH 29th =No. 6.--Motor Matt's Red Flier; or, On the High Gear.= TO BE PUBLISHED ON APRIL 5th =No. 7.--Motor Matt's Clue; or, The Phantom Auto.= TO BE PUBLISHED ON APRIL 12th =No. 8.--Motor Matt's Triumph; or, Three Speeds Forward.= =Price, Five Cents= To be had from newsdealers everywhere, or sent, postpaid, upon receipt of the price by the publishers _STREET & SMITH, Publishers, NEW YORK_ Transcriber's Notes: Italics are represented by _underscores_, bold by =equal signs=. Retained some unusual spellings (e.g. "bloming") within dialogue on the assumption they are intentional. Page 4, changed "Billy Ruffin" to "Billy Ruffian" to match second instance of ship's nickname. Page 12, added missing quote after "while I was down in Phoenix." Changed oe ligature in "Phoenix" to oe (ligature retained in HTML edition). Page 13, removed unnecessary quote after "slaps from his cousin Ralph." Page 17, removed unnecessary quote before "It was impossible, of course...." Changed "intendeing" to "intending" ("What Motor Matt was intending to do"). Page 18, changed "Someting" to "Something" ("Something was about to happen"). Page 19, removed unnecessary apostrophe after "Mings" ("Mings was in such a position"). Page 20, changed "medding" to "meddling" ("meddling with Sercomb's business"). Page 21, changed "Mat" to "Matt" ("Matt started along the gully"). Page 25, changed "than" to "that" ("frame that enclosed"). Page 26, changed "in" to "is" ("house is like"). Page 28, changed "Villianous" to "Villainous" in "Villainous Plot." 
31380	----	Proofreading Team at http://www.fadedpage.com [Illustration] BRED OF THE DESERT A HORSE AND A ROMANCE BY MARCUS HORTON [Illustration] NEW YORK GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS Published by Arrangement with Harper & Brothers COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY HARPER & BROTHERS PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA PUBLISHED APRIL, 1915 TO A. D. B. S. H. WHO TAUGHT CONSIDERATION FOR THE DUMB THIS WORK IS LOVINGLY INSCRIBED CONTENTS Chapter Page I. A COLT IS BORN 1 II. FELIPE CELEBRATES 15 III. A SURPRISE 27 IV. A NEW HOME 35 V. LONELINESS 47 VI. THE FIRST GREAT LESSON 57 VII. A STRANGER 72 VIII. FELIPE MAKES A DISCOVERY 85 IX. THE SECOND GREAT LESSON 98 X. THE STRANGER AGAIN 112 XI. LOVE REJECTED 126 XII. ADVENTURE 145 XIII. IN THE WASTE PLACES 156 XIV. A PICTURE 172 XV. CHANGE OF MASTERS 175 XVI. PAT TURNS THIEF 186 XVII. A RUNNING FIGHT 199 XVIII. AN ENEMY 210 XIX. ANOTHER CHANGE OF MASTERS 228 XX. FIDELITY 240 XXI. LIFE AND DEATH 256 XXII. QUIESCENCE 280 XXIII. THE REUNION 285 BRED OF THE DESERT CHAPTER I A COLT IS BORN It was high noon in the desert, but there was no dazzling sunlight. Over the earth hung a twilight, a yellow-pink softness that flushed across the sky like the approach of a shadow, covering everything yet concealing nothing, creeping steadily onward, yet seemingly still, until, pressing low over the earth, it took on changing color, from pink to gray, from gray to black--gloom that precedes tropical showers. Then the wind came--a breeze rising as it were from the hot earth--forcing the Spanish dagger to dipping acknowledgment, sending dust-devils swirling across the slow curves of the desert--and then the storm burst in all its might. For this was a storm--a sand-storm of the Southwest. Down the slopes to the west billowed giant clouds of sand. At the bottom these clouds tumbled and surged and mounted, and then, resuming their headlong course, swept across the flat land bordering the river, hurtled across the swollen Rio Grande itself, and so on up the gentle rise of ground to the town, where they swung through the streets in ruthless strides--banging signs, ripping up roofings, snapping off branches--and then lurched out over the mesa to the east. Here, as if in glee over their escape from city confines, they redoubled in fury and tore down to earth--and enveloped Felipe Montoya, a young and good-looking Mexican, and his team of scrawny horses plodding in a lumber rigging, all in a stinging swirl. "Haya!" cried Felipe, as the first of the sand-laden winds struck him, "Chivos--chivos!" And he shot out his whip, gave the lash a twist over the off mare, and brought it down with a resounding thwack. "R-run!" he snarled, and again brought the whip down upon the emaciated mare. "You joost natural lazy! Thees storm--we--we get-tin'--" His voice was carried away on the swirling winds. But the horses seemed not to hear the man; nor, in the case of the off mare, to feel the bite of his lash. They continued to plod along the beaten trail, heads drooping, ears flopping, hoofs scuffling disconsolately. Felipe, accompanying each outburst with a mighty swing of his whip, swore and pleaded and objurgated and threatened in turn. But all to no avail. The horses held stolidly to their gait, plodding--even, after a time, dropping into slower movement. Whereat Felipe, abandoning all hope, flung down reins and whip, and leaped off the reach of the rigging. Prompt with the loosened lines the team came to a full stop; and Felipe, snatching up a blanket, covered his head and shoulders with it and squatted in the scant protection of a forward wheel. The storm whipped and howled past. Felipe listened, noting each change in its velocity as told by the sound of raging gusts outside, himself raging. Once he lifted a corner of the blanket and peered out--only to suffer the sting of a thousand needles. Again, he hunched his shoulders guardedly and endeavored to roll a cigarette; but the tempestuous blasts discouraged this also, and with a curse he dashed the tobacco from him. After that he remained still, listening, until he heard an agreeable change outside. The screeching sank to a crooning; the crooning dropped to a low, musical sigh. Flinging off the blanket, he rose and swept the desert with eyes sand-filled and blinking. The last of the yellow winds was eddying slowly past. All about him the air, thinning rapidly, pulsated in the sun's rays, which, beaming mildly down upon the desert, were spreading everywhere in glorious sheen. To the east, the mountains, stepping forth in the clearing atmosphere, lay revealed in a warmth of soft purple; while the slopes to the west, over which the storm had broken, shone in a wealth of dazzling yellow-white light--sunbeams scintillating off myriads of tiny sand-cubes. The desert was itself again--bright, resplendent-gripped in the clutch of solitude. Felipe tossed his blanket back upon the reach of the rigging. Then he caught up reins and whip, ready to go on. As he did so he paused in dismay. For one of the mares was down! It was the off mare, the slower and the older mare of the two. She was lying prone and she was breathing heavily. Covered as she was with a thin layer of fine sand, and tightly girdled with chaotic harness straps, she was a spectacle of abject misery. But Felipe did not see this. All he saw, in the blinding rage which suddenly possessed him, was a horse down, unready for duty, and beside her a horse standing, ready for duty, but restrained by the other. Stringing out a volley of oaths, he stepped to the side of the mare and jerked at her head, but she refused stubbornly to get up on her feet. Gripped in dismay deeper than at first, Felipe fell back in mechanical resignation. Was the mare dying? he asked himself. He could ill afford to lose a mare. Horses cost seven and eight dollars, and he did not possess so much money. Indeed, all the money he had in the world was three dollars, received for this last load of wood in town. So, what to do! Cursing the mare had not helped matters; nor could he accuse the storm, for there had been other storms, many of them, and each had she successfully weathered--been ready, with its passing, to go on! But not so this one! She--Huh? Could it be possible? Ah! He looked at the mare with new interest. And the longer he gazed the more his anger subsided, became finally downright compassion. For he was reviewing a something he had contemplated at odd times for weeks with many misgivings and tenacious unbeliefs. Never had he understood it! Never would he understand that thing! So why lose time in an effort to understand it now? Dropping to his knees, he fell to work with feverish haste unbuckling straps and bands. With the harness loose, he dragged it off and tossed it to one side. Then, still moving feverishly, he led the mate to the mare off the trail, turned to the wagon with bracing shoulder, backed it clear of the prostrate animal, and swung it out of the way of future passing vehicles. It was sweltering work. When it was done, with the sun, risen to its fierce zenith, beating down upon him mercilessly, he strode off the trail, blowing and perspiring, and flung himself down in the baking sand, where, though irritated by particles of sand which had sifted down close inside his shirt, he nevertheless gave himself over to sober reflections. He was stalled till the next morning--he knew that. And he was without food-supplies to carry him over. And he was ten miles on the one hand, and five up-canyon miles on the other, from all source of supplies. But against these unpleasant facts there stood many pleasant facts--he was on the return leg of his journey, his wagon was empty, and he had in his possession three dollars. Then, too, there was another pleasant fact. The trip as a trip had been unusual; never before had he, or any one else, made it under two days--one for loading and driving into town, and a second for getting rid of the wood and making the return. Yet he himself had been out now only the one day, and he was on his way home. He had whipped and crowded his horses since midnight to just this end. Yet was he not stalled now till morning? And would not this delay set him back the one day he had gained over his fellow-townsmen? And would not these same fellow-townsmen rejoice in this opportunity to overtake him--worse, to leave him behind? They would! "Oh, well," he concluded, philosophically, stretching out upon his back and drawing his worn and ragged sombrero over his eyes, "soon is comin' a _potrillo_." With this he deliberately courted slumber. Out of the stillness rattled a wagon. Like Felipe's, it was a lumber rigging, and the driver, a fat Mexican with beady eyes, pulled up his horses and gazed at the disorder. It was but a perfunctory gaze, however, and revealed to him nothing of the true situation. All he saw was that Felipe was drunk and asleep, and that before dropping beside the trail he had had time, and perhaps just enough wit, to unhitch one horse. The other, true to instinct and the law of her underfed and overworked kind, had lain down. With this conclusion, and out of sheer exuberance of alcoholic spirits, he decided to awaken Felipe. And this he did--in true Mexican fashion. With a curse of but five words--words of great scope and finest selection, however--he mercilessly raked Felipe's ancestors for five generations back; he objurgated Felipe's holdings--chickens, adobe house, money, burro, horses, pigs. He closed, snarling not obscurely at Felipe the man and at any progeny of his which might appear in the future. Then he dropped his reins and sprang off the reach of his rigging. Felipe was duly awakened. He gained his feet slowly. "You know me, eh?" he retorted, advancing toward the other. "All right--_gracios_!" And by way of coals of fire he proffered the fellow-townsman papers and tobacco. The new-comer revealed surprise, not alone at Felipe's sobriety, though this was startling in view of the disorder in the trail, but also at the proffer of cigarette material. And he was about to speak when Felipe interrupted him. "You haf t'ink I'm drunk, eh, Franke?" he said. "Sure! Why not?" And he waved his hand in the direction of the trail. Then, after the other had rolled a cigarette and returned the sack and papers, he laid a firm hand upon the man's shoulder. "You coom look," he invited. "You tell me what you t'ink thees!" They walked to the mare, and Franke gazed a long moment in silence. Felipe stood beside him, eying him sharply, hoping for an expression of approval--even of congratulation. In this he was doomed to disappointment, for the other continued silent, and in silence finally turned back, his whole attitude that of one who saw nothing in the spectacle worthy of comment. Felipe followed him, nettled, and sat down and himself rolled a cigarette. As he sat smoking it the other seated himself beside him, and presently touched him on the arm and began to speak. Felipe listened, with now and again a nod of approval, and, when the _compadre_ was finished, accepted the brilliant proposition. "A bet, eh?" he exclaimed. "All right!" And he produced his sheepskin pouch and dumped out his three dollars. "All right! I bet you feety cents, Franke, thot eet don' be!" Frank looked his disdain at the amount offered. Also, his eyes blazed and his round face reddened. He shoved his hand into his overalls, brought forth a silver dollar, and tossed it down in the sand. "A bet!" he yelled. "Mek eet a bet! A dolar!" Then he narrowed his eyes in the direction of the mare. "Mek eet a good bet! You have chonce to win, too, Felipe--you know!" Felipe did not respond immediately. Money was his all-absorbing difficulty. Never plentiful with him, it was less than ever plentiful now, and was wholly represented in the three dollars before him. A sum little enough in fact, it dwindled rapidly as he recalled one by one his numerous debts. For he owed much money. He owed for food in the settlement store; he owed for clothing he had bought in town; and he owed innumerable gambling debts--big sums, sums mounting to heights he dared not contemplate. And all he had to his name was the three dollars lying so peacefully before him, with the speculative Franke hovering over them like a fat buzzard over a dead coyote. What to do! He could not decide. He had ways for this money, other than paying on his debts or investing in a gambling proposition. There was to be a _baile_ soon, and he must buy for Margherita (providing her father, a caustic _hombre_, bitter against all wood-haulers, permitted him the girl's society) peanuts in the dance-hall and candy outside the dance-hall. The candy must be bought in the general store, where, because of his many debts, he must pay cash now--always cash! So what to do! All these things meant money. And money, as he well understood, was a thing hard to get. Yet here was a chance, as Franke had generously indicated, for him to win some money. But, against this chance for him to win some money was the chance also, as conveyed inversely by Franke, of his losing some money--money he could ill afford to lose. "You afraid?" suddenly cut in Franke, nastily, upon these reflections. "I don' see you do soomt'ing!" Which decided Felipe for all time. "Afraid?" he echoed, disdainfully. "Sure! But not for myself! You don' have mooch money to lose! But I mek eet a bet--a good bet! I bet you two dolars thot eet--thot eet don' be!" It was now the other who hesitated. But he did not hesitate for long. Evidently the spirit of the gambler was more deeply rooted in him than it was in Felipe, for, after gazing out in the trail a moment, then eying Felipe another moment, both speculatively, he extracted from his pockets two more silver dollars and tossed them down with the others. Then he fixed Felipe with a malignant stare. "I bet you t'ree dolars thot eet cooms what I haf say!" Felipe laughed. "All right," he agreed, readily. "Why not?" He heaped the money under a stone, sank over upon his back with an affected yawn, drew his hat over his eyes, and lay still. "We go to sleep now, Franke," he proposed. "Eet's long time--I haf t'ink." Soon both were snoring. Out in the trail hung the quiet of a sick-room. The long afternoon waned. Once a wagon appeared from the direction of town, but the driver, evidently grasping the true situation, turned out and around the mare in respectful silence. Another time a single horseman, riding from the mountains, cantered upon the scene; but this man, also with a look of understanding, turned out and around the mare in careful regard for her condition. Then came darkness. Shadows crept in from nowhere, stealing over the desert more and more darkly, while, with their coming, birds of the air, seeking safe place for night rest, flitted about in nervous uncertainty. And suddenly in the gathering dusk rose the long-drawn howl of a coyote, lifting into the stillness a lugubrious note of appeal. Then, close upon the echo of this, rose another appeal in the trail close by, the shrill nicker of the mate to the mare. It awoke Felipe. He sat up quickly, rubbed his eyes dazedly, and peered out with increasing understanding. Then he sprang to his feet. "Coom!" he called, kicking the other. "We go now--see who is winnin' thot bet!" And he started hurriedly forward. But the other checked him. "Wait!" he snapped, rising. "You wait! You in too mooch hurry! You coom back--I have soomt'ing!" Felipe turned back, wondering. The other nervously produced material for a cigarette. Then he cleared his throat with needless protraction. "Felipe," he began, evidently laboring under excitement, "I mek eet a _bet_ now! I bet you," he went on, his voice trembling with fervor--"I bet you my wagon, thee horses--thee whole shutting-match--against thot wagon and horses yours, and thee harness--thee whole damned shutting-match--thot I haf win!" He proceeded to finish his cigarette. Felipe stared at him hard. Surely his ears had deceived him! If they had not deceived him, if, for a fact, the _hombre_ had expressed a willingness to bet all he had on the outcome of this thing, then Franke, fellow-townsman, _compadre_, brother-wood-hauler, was crazy! But he determined to find out. "What you said, Franke?" he asked, peering into the glowing eyes of the other. "Say thot again, _hombre_!" "I haf say," repeated the other, with lingering emphasis upon each word--"I haf say I bet you everyt'ing--wagon, harness, _caballos_--everyt'ing!--against thot wagon, harness, _caballos_ yours--everyt'ing--thee whole shutting-match--thot I haf win thee bet!" Again Felipe lowered his eyes. But now to consider suspicions. He had heard rightly; Franke really wanted to bet all he had. But he could not but wonder whether Franke, by any possible chance, knew in advance the outcome of the affair in the trail. He had heard of such things, though never had he believed them possible. Yet he found himself troubled with insistent reminder that Franke had suggested this whole thing. Then suddenly he was gripped in another unwelcome thought. Could it be possible that this scheming _hombre_, awaking at a time when he himself was soundest asleep, had gone out into the trail on tiptoe for advance information? It was possible. Why not? But that was not the point exactly. The point was, had he done it? Had this buzzard circled out into the trail while he himself was asleep? He did not know, and he could not decide! For the third time in ten hours, though puzzled and groping, trembling between gain and loss, he plunged on the gambler's chance. "All right!" he agreed, tensely. "I take thot bet! I bet you thees wagon, thees _caballos_, thees harness--everyt'ing--against everyt'ing yours--wagon, horses, harness--everyt'ing! Wait!" he thundered, for the other now was striding toward the mare. "Wait! You in too mooch hurry yourself now!" Then, as the other returned: "Is eet a bet? Is eet a bet?" The fellow-townsman nodded. Whereat Felipe nodded approval of the nod, and stepped out into the trail, followed by the other. It was night, and quite a dark night. Stretching away to east and west, the dimly outlined trail was lost abruptly in engulfing darkness; while, overhead, a starless sky, low and somber and frowning, pressed close. But, dark though the night was, it did not wholly conceal the outlines of the mare. She was standing as they approached, mildly encouraging a tiny something beside her, a wisp of life, her baby, who was struggling to insure continued existence. And it was this second outline, not the other and larger outline, that held the breathless attention of the men. Nervously Felipe struck a match. As it flared up he stepped close, followed by the other, and there was a moment of tense silence. Then the match went out and Felipe straightened up. "Franke," he burst out, "I haf win thee bet! Eet is not a mare; eet is a li'l' horse!" He struck his _compadre_ a resounding blow on the back. "I am mooch sorry, Franke," he declared--"not!" He turned back to the faint outline of the colt. "Thees _potrillo_," he observed, "he's bringin' me mooch good luck! He's--" He suddenly interrupted himself, aware that the other was striding away. "Where you go now, Franke?" he asked, and then, quick to sense approaching trouble: "Never mind thee big bet, Franke! You can pay me ten dolars soom time! All right?" There was painful silence. "All right!" came the reply, finally, through the darkness. Then Felipe heard a lumber rigging go rattling off in the direction of the canyon, and, suddenly remembering the money underneath the stone, hurried off the trail in a spasm of alarm. He knelt in the sand and struck a match. The money had disappeared. CHAPTER II FELIPE CELEBRATES It was well along in the morning when Felipe pulled up next day before his little adobe house in the mountain settlement. The journey from the mesa below had been, perforce, slow. The mare was still pitiably weak, and her condition had necessitated many stops, each of long duration. Also, on the way up the canyon the colt had displayed frequent signs of exhaustion, though only with the pauses did he attempt rest. But it was all over now. They were safely before the house, with the colt lying a little apart from his mother--regarding her with curious intentness--and with Felipe bustling about the team and now and again bursting out in song of questionable melody and rhythm. Felipe was preparing the horses for the corral at the rear of the house, and soon he flung aside the harness and seized each of the horses by the bridle. "Well, you li'l' devil!" he exclaimed, addressing the reclining colt. "You coom along now! You live in thees place back here! You coom wit' me now!" And he started around a corner of the adobe. The colt hastily rose to his feet. But not at the command of the man. No such command was necessary, for whither went his mother there went he. Close to her side, he moved with her into the inclosure, crowding frantically over the bars, skinning his knees in the effort, coming to a wide-eyed stand just inside the entrance, and there surveying with nervous apprehension the corral's occupants--a burro, two pigs, a flock of chickens. But he held close to his mother's side. Felipe did not linger in the corral. Throwing off their bridles, he tossed the usual scant supply of alfalfa to the horses, and filled their tub from a near-by well. Then, after putting up the bars, he set out with determined stride across the settlement. His direction was the general store, and his quest was the loan of a horse, since his team now was broken, and would be broken for a number of days to come. The store was owned and conducted by one Pedro Garcia. Pedro Garcia was the mountain Shylock. He loaned money at enormous rates of interest, and he rented out horses at prohibitive rates per day. Also, being what he was, Pedro had gained his pounds of flesh--was alarmingly fat, with short legs of giant circumference. Usually these legs were clothed in tight-fitting overalls, and his small feet incased in boots of high-grade leather wonderfully roweled. Yet many years had passed since Pedro had been seen in a saddle. Evidently he held to the rowels in fond memory of his days of slender youth and coltish gambolings. Pedro was seated in his customary place upon an empty keg on the porch, and Felipe, ignoring his grunted greeting, plunged at once into the purpose of his call. He had come to borrow a horse, Felipe explained. One of his own was unfit for work, yet the cutting and drawing must go on. While the mare was recuperating, he carefully pointed out, he himself could continue to earn money to meet some of his pressing debts. Any kind of horse would do, he declared, so long as it had four legs and was able to carry on the work. The horse need not have a mouth, even, he added, jocosely, for reasons nobody need explain. After which he sat down on the porch and awaited the august decision. Pedro remained silent a long time, the while he moistened his lips with fitful tongue, and gazed across the tiny settlement reflectively. At length he drew a deep breath, mixed of disgust and regret, and proceeded to make slow reply. It was true, he began, that he had horses to rent. And it was further true, he went on, deliberately, that he kept them for just this purpose. But--and his pause was fraught with deep significance--it was no less true that Felipe Montoya bore a bad reputation as a driver of horses--was known, indeed, to kill horses through overwork and underfeed--and that, therefore, to lend him a horse was like kissing the horse good-by and hitching up another to the stone-boat. Nevertheless, he hastened to add, if Felipe was in urgent need of a horse, and was prepared to pay the customary small rate per day, and to _pay in advance--cash--_ Here Pedro paused and popped accusing eyes at Felipe, in one strong dramatic moment before continuing. But he did not continue. Felipe was the check. For Felipe had leaped to his feet, and now stood brandishing an ugly fist underneath the proprietor's nose. Further--and infinitely worse--Felipe was saying something. "Pedro Garcia," he began, shrilly, "I must got a horse! And I have coom for a horse! And I have thee money to pay for a horse! And if I kill thot horse," he went on, still brandishing his fist--"if thot horse he's dropping dead in thee harness--I pay you for thot horse! I haf drive horses--" "_Si, si, si!_" began Pedro, interrupting. "I haf drive horses on thees trail ten years!" persisted Felipe, yelling, "and in all thot time, Pedro Garcia, I'm killin' only seven horses, and all seven of thees horses is dyin', Pedro Garcia, when I haf buy them, and I haf buy all seven horses from you, Pedro Garcia, thief and robber!" He paused to take a breath. "And not once, Pedro Garcia," he went on, "do I keeck about thot-a horse is a horse! But I haf coom to you before! And I haf coom to you now! I must got a horse quick! And I bringin' thot horse back joost thee same as I'm gettin' thot horse--in good condition--better--because everybody is knowin.' I feed a horse better than you feed a horse--and I'm _cleanin'_ the horse once in a while, too!" Which was a lie, both as to the feeding and the cleaning, as he well knew, and as, indeed, he well knew Pedro knew, who, nevertheless, nodded grave assent. "_Si_," admitted Pedro. "_Pero ustede--_" "A horse!" thundered Felipe, interrupting, his neck cords dangerously distended. "You give me a horse--you hear? I want a horse--a horse! I don' coom here for thee talk!" Pedro rose hastily from the keg. Also, he grunted quick consent. Then he stepped inside the store, followed by Felipe, who made several needed purchases, and, since he had his enemy cowed, and was troubled with thirst created by the protracted harangue, to say nothing of the strong inclination within him to celebrate the coming of the colt, he made a purchase that was not needed--a bottle of _vino_, cool and dry from Pedro's cellar. With these tucked securely under his arm, he then calmly informed Pedro of the true state of his finances, and left the store, returning across the settlement, which lay wrapped in pulsating noonday quiet. In the shade of his adobe he sat upon the ground, with his back comfortably against the wall. Directly the quiet was broken by two distinct sounds--the pop of a cork out of the neck of a bottle, and the gurgle of liquid into the mouth of a man. Thus Felipe set out upon a protracted debauch. In this debauch he did nothing worth while. He used neither the borrowed horse nor his own sound one. Each day saw him redder of eye and more swollen of lip; each day saw him increasingly heedless of his debts; each day saw him more neglectful of his duties toward his animals. The one bottle became two bottles, the two bottles became three, each secured only after threatened assault upon the body of Pedro, each adding its store to the already deep conviviality and reckless freedom from all cares now Felipe's. He forgot everything--forgot the stolen money, forgot the colt, forgot the needs of the mare--all in exhilarated pursuit of phantoms. Yet the colt did not suffer. Becoming ever more confident of himself as the days passed, he soon revealed pronounced curiosity and an aptitude for play. He would stare at strutting roosters, gaze after straddling hens, blink quizzically at the burro, frown upon the grunting pigs, all as if cataloguing these specimens, listing them in his thoughts, some day to make good use of the knowledge. But most of all he showed interest in and playfulness toward his mother and her doings. He would follow her about untiringly, pausing whenever she paused, starting off again whenever she started off--seemingly bent upon acquiring the how and why of her every movement. But it was his playfulness finally that brought him first needless suffering. The mare was standing with her nose in the feed-box. She had stood thus many times during the past week; but usually, before, the box had been empty, whereas now it contained a generous quantity of alfalfa. But this the colt did not know. He only knew that he was interested in this thing, and so went there to attempt, as many times before, to reach his nose into the mysterious box. Finding that he could not, he began, as never before, to frisk about the mare, tossing up his little heels and throwing down his head with all the reckless abandon of a seasoned "outlaw." He could do these things because he was a rare colt, stronger than ever colt before was at his age, and for a time the mare suffered his antics with a look of pleased toleration. But as he kept it up, and as she was getting her first real sustenance since the day of his coming, she at length became fretful and sounded a low warning. But this the colt did not heed. Instead he wheeled suddenly and plunged directly toward her, bunting her sharply. Nor did the single bunt satisfy him. Again and again he attacked her, plunging in and darting away each time with remarkable celerity, until, her patience evidently exhausted, she whisked her head around and nipped him sharply. Screaming with pain and fright, he plunged from her, sought the opposite side of the inclosure, and turned upon her a pair of very hurt and troubled eyes. Yet all the world over mothers are mothers. After a time--a long time, as if to let her punishment sink in--the mare made her way slowly to the colt, and there fell to licking him, seeming to tell him of her lasting forgiveness. Under this lavish caressing the colt, as if to reveal his own forgiveness for the dreadful hurt, bestowed similar attention upon her--in this attention, though he did not know it, softening flesh that had experienced no such consideration in years. Thus they stood, side by side, mother and son, long into the day, laying the foundation of a love that never dies--that strengthens, in fact, with the years, though all else fail--love between mother and her offspring. Other things, things of minor consequence, added their mite to his early development. One morning, while the mare was asleep, the colt, alert and standing, was startled by the sudden movement of a large rooster. The rooster had left the ground with loud flapping of wings, and now stood perched upon the corral fence, like a grim and mighty conqueror, ruffling his neck feathers and twisting his head in pre-eminent satisfaction. But the colt did not understand this. Transfixed, he turned frightened eyes upon the cause of the unearthly commotion. Then suddenly, with another loud flapping of wings, the rooster uttered a defiant crow, a challenge that echoed far through the canyon. Whereat the colt, eyes wide with terror, whirled to his mother, whimpering babyishly. But with the mare standing beside him and caressing him reassuringly, all his nervousness left him, and he again turned his eyes upon the rooster and watched him till the cock, unable to stir combat among his neighbors, left the fence with another loud flapping of wings, and returned to earth, physically and spiritually, there to set up his customary feigned quest for worms for the ladies. But the point was this--with this last flapping of wings the colt remained in a state of perfect calm. Thus he learned, and thus he continued to learn, in nervous fear one moment, in perfect calm the next. And though his hours of life were few indeed, he nevertheless revealed an intelligence far above the average of his kind. He learned to avoid the mare's whisking tail, to shun or remove molesting flies, to keep away from the mare when she was at the feed-box. All of which told of his uncommon strain, as did the rapidity with which he gained strength, which last told of his tremendous vitality, and which some day would serve him well against trouble. Yet in it all lurked the great mystery, and Felipe, blustering to occasional natives outside the fence during his week of debauch, while pointing out with pride the colt's very evident blooded lineage, yet could tell nothing of that descent. All he could point out was that the mare was chestnut-brown, and when not in harness was kept close within the confines of the corral, while here was a colt of a dark-fawn color which would develop with maturity into coal-black. And there was not a single black horse in the mountains for miles and miles around. Nor was the colt a "throw-back," because-- "Oh, well," he would conclude, casting bleared eyes in the direction of the house, wearily, "I got soom _vino_ inside. You coom along now. We go gettin' a drink." Which would close the monologue. One morning early, Felipe, asleep on a bed that never was made up, heard suspicious sounds in the corral outside. He sprang up and, clad only in a fiery-red undershirt, hurried to a window. Cautiously letting down the bars, with a rope already tied around the colt's neck, was the mountain Shylock, Pedro Garcia, intent upon leading off the innocent new-comer. Pedro no doubt had perceived an opportunity either to force Felipe to meet some of his debts, or else hold the colt as a very acceptable chattel. Also, he evidently had calculated upon early dawn as the time best suited to do this thing, in view of Felipe's long debauch upon unpaid-for wine. At any rate, there he was, craftily letting down the bars. Raging with indignation and a natural venom which he felt toward the storekeeper, Felipe flung up the window. "_Buenos dias, señor!_" he greeted, cheerfully, with effort controlling his anger. "Thee early worm he's takin' thee _potrillo_! How cooms thot, _señor_?" he asked, enjoying the other's sudden discomfiture. "You takin' thot li'l' horse for thee walk--thee exercise?" And then, without waiting for a reply, had there been one forthcoming, which there was not, he slammed down the window, leaped to the door, flung it open--all levity now gone from him. "Pedro Garcia!" he raged. "You thief and robber! I'm killin' you thees time sure!" And, regardless of his scant attire, and stringing out a volley of oaths, he sprang out of the doorway after his intended victim. But Pedro Garcia, though fat, was surprisingly quick on his feet. He dropped the rope and burst into a run, heading frantically past the house toward the trail. And, though Felipe leaped after him, still clad only in fiery-red undershirt, the storekeeper gained the trail and set out at top speed across the settlement. Felipe pursued. Hair aflaunt, shirt-tail whipping in the breeze, bare feet paddling in the dust of the trail, naked legs crossing each other like giant scissors in frenzied effort, he hurtled forward exactly one leap behind his intended victim. He strained to close up the gap, but he could not overtake the equally speedy Pedro, whose short legs fairly buzzed in the terror of their owner. Thus they ran, mounting the slight rise before the general store, then descending into the heart of the settlement, with Pedro whipping along frantically, and Felipe still one whole leap behind, until a derisive shout, a feminine exclamation of shrieking glee, awoke Felipe to the spectacle he was making of himself before the eyes of the community. He stopped; growled disappointed rage; darted back along the trail. Once in the privacy of his house, he hurriedly donned his clothes and gave himself over to deliberations. The result of these deliberations was that he concluded to return to work. After a scant breakfast of chili and coffee he moved out to the corral. He leaned his arms upon the fence and surveyed the colt with fresh interest. "Thot li'l' _caballo_," he began, "he's bringin' me mooch good luck. Thot _potrillo_ he's wort' seven--he's wort'--_si_--eight dolars--thot _potrillo_. I t'ink I haf sell heem, too--queek--in town! But first I must go cuttin' thee wood!" With this he let down the bars and entered the inclosure. Then his thoughts took an abrupt turn. "I keel thot Pedro Garcia soomtime--bet you' life! He's stealin' fleas off a dog--thot _hombre_!" Felipe drove the borrowed horse out of the inclosure, and then singled out the mate to the mare. As he harnessed up this horse, the colt, standing close by, revealed marked interest. Also, as Felipe led the horse out of the corral the colt followed till shut off by the bars, which Felipe hurriedly put up. But they did not discourage him. He remained very close to them, peering out between the while Felipe hitched the team to his empty lumber rigging. Then came the crack of a whip, loud creaking of greaseless wheels, the voice of Felipe in lusty demand, all as the outfit set out up the trail toward the timber-slopes. But not till the earth was still again, the cloud of dust in the trail completely subsided, did the colt turn away from the bars and seek his mother, and then with a look in his soft-blinking eyes that told of concentrated pondering on these mysteries of life. CHAPTER III A SURPRISE Next morning, having returned from the timber-slopes, Felipe, fresh and radiant, appeared outside the corral in holiday attire. Part of this attire was a pair of brand-new overalls. Indeed, the overalls were so new that they crackled; and Felipe appeared quite conscious of their newness, for he let down the bars with great care, and with even greater care stepped into the inclosure. Then it was seen, since he was a Mexican who ran true to form, there was a flaw in all this splendor. For he had drawn on the new overalls over the older pair--worse, had drawn them on over _two_ older pairs, as revealed at the bottoms, where peered plaintively two shades of blue--lighter blue of the older pair, very light blue of the oldest pair--the effect of exposure to desert suns. So Felipe had on three pairs of overalls. Yet this was not all of distinction. Around his brown throat was a bright red neckerchief, while between the unbuttoned edges of his vest was an expanse of bright green--the coloring of a tight-fitting sweater. There was reason for all this. Felipe was going to town, and he was taking the mare along with him, and the mare naturally would take her colt; and because he had come to know the value of the colt, Felipe wished to appear as prosperous in the eyes of the Americans in town as he believed the owner of so fine a colt ought to appear. Therefore, still careful of his overalls, he set about leisurely to prepare the team for the journey. He crossed to the shed, hauled out the harness, tossed it out into the inclosure. Promptly both horses stepped into position. Also, the older mare, whether through relief or regret, sounded a shrill nicker. This brought the colt to her side, where he fell to licking her affectionately, showing his great love for her bony frame. And when Felipe led the horses out of the corral he followed close beside her, and when outside held close to her throughout the hitching, and to the point even when Felipe clambered to the top of the high load and caught up the reins and the whip. Then he stepped back, wriggling his fuzzy little tail and blinking his big eyes curiously. "Well, _potrillo_," began Felipe, grinning down upon the tiny specimen of life, "we goin' now to town! But first you must be ready! You ready? All right! We go now!" And he cracked the whip over the team. They started forward, slowly at first, the wagon giving off many creaks and groans, then fast and faster, until, well in the descent of the hard canyon trail, the horses were jogging along quite briskly. The colt showed the keenest interest and delight. For a time he trotted beside the mare, ears cocked forward expectantly, eyes sweeping the canyon alertly, hoofs lifting to ludicrous heights. Then, as the first novelty wore off, and he became more certain of himself in these swift-changing surroundings, he revealed a playfulness that tickled Felipe. He would lag behind a little, race madly forward, sometimes run far ahead of the team in his great joy. But he seemed best to like to lag. He would come to a sudden stop and, motionless as a dog pointing a bird, gaze out across the canyon a long time, like one trying to find himself in a strange and wonderful world. Or, standing thus, he would reveal curious interest in the rocks and stumps around him, and he would stare at them fixedly, blinking slowly, a look of genuine wonderment in his big, soft eyes. Then he would strain himself mightily to overtake the wagon. Once in a period of absorbed attention he lost sight of the outfit completely. This was due not so much to his distance in the rear as to the fact that the wagon, having struck a bend in the trail, had turned from view. But he did not know that. Sounding a baby outcry of fear, he scurried ahead at breakneck speed, frantic heels tossing up tiny spurts of dust, head stretched forward--and thus soon caught up. After that he remained close beside his mother until the wagon, rocking down the mouth of the canyon, swung out upon the broad mesa. Here the outfit could be seen for miles, and now he took to lagging behind again, and to frisking far ahead, always returning at frequent intervals for the motherly assurance that all was well. As part of the Great Scheme, all this was good for him. In his brief panic when out of sight of his mother he was taught how very necessary she was to his existence. In his running back and forth, with now and again breathless speeding, he developed the muscles of his body, to the end that later he might well take up an independent fight for life. In the curious interest he displayed in all subjects about him he lent unknowing assistance to a spiritual development as necessary as physical development. All this prepared him to meet men and measures as he was destined to meet them--with gentleness, with battle,--with affection--like for like--as he found it. It was all good for him, this movement, this change of environment, this quick awakening of interest. It shaped him in both body and spirit to the Great Purpose. This interest seemed unbounded. Whenever a jack-rabbit shot across the trail, or a covey of birds broke from the sand-hills, he would come to a quick pause and blink curiously, seeming to understand and approve, and to be grateful, as if all these things were done for him. Also, with each halt Felipe made with _compadres_ along the trail, friends who entered with him in loud badinage over the ownership of the colt--an ownership all vigorously denied him--the colt himself would cock his ears and fix his eyes, seemingly aware of his importance and pleased to be the object of the cutting remarks. And thus the miles from mountain to the outskirts of town were covered, miles pleasurable to him, every inch revealing something of fresh interest, every mile finding him more accustomed to the journey. They reached a point on the outskirts where streets appeared, sharply defined thoroughfares, interlacing one with the other. And as they advanced vehicles began to turn in upon the trail, a nondescript collection ranging from an Indian farm-wagon off the Navajo reservation to the north to a stanhope belonging to some more affluent American in the suburbs. With them came also many strange sounds--Mexican oaths, mild Indian commands, light man-to-man greetings of the day. Also there was much cracking of whips and nickering of horses along the line. And the result of all this was that the colt revealed steadily increasing nervousness, a condition enhanced by the fact that his mother, held rigidly to her duties by Felipe, could bestow upon her offspring but very little attention. But he held close to her, and thus moved into the heart of town, when suddenly one by one the vehicles ahead came to a dead stop. Felipe, perched high, saw that the foremost wagons had reached the railroad crossing, and that there was a long freight-train passing through. Team after team came into the congestion and stopped. Cart and wagon and phaeton closed in around the colt. There was much maneuvering for space. The colt's nervousness increased, and became positive fear. He darted wild eyes about him. He was completely hedged in. On his right loomed a large horse; behind him stood a drowsing team; on his left was a dirt-cart; while immediately in front, such was his position now, stood his mother. But, though gripped in fear, he remained perfectly still until the locomotive, puffing and wheezing along at the rear of the train, having reached the crossing, sounded a piercing shriek. This was more than he could stand. Without a sound he dodged and whirled. He plunged to the rear and rammed into the drowsing team; darted to the right and into the teeth of the single horse; whirled madly to the left, only to carom off the hub of a wheel. But with all this defeat he did not stop. He set up a wild series of whirling plunges, and, completely crazed now, darted under the single horse, under a Mexican wagon, under a team of horses, and forth into a little clearing. Here he came to a stop, trembling in every part, gazing about in wildest terror. Following its shrill blast, the engine puffed across the crossing, the gates slowly lifted, and the foremost vehicles began to move. Soon the whole line was churning up clouds of dust and rattling across the railroad tracks. Felipe was of this company, cracking his whip and yelling lustily, enjoying the congestion and this unexpected opportunity to be seen by so many American eyes at once in his gorgeous raiment. In the town proper, and carefully avoiding the more rapidly moving vehicles, he turned off the avenue into a narrow side street, and pulled up at a water-trough. As he dropped the reins and prepared to descend, a friend of his--and he had many--hailed him from the sidewalk. Hastily clambering down, he seized the man's arm in forceful greeting, and indicated with a jerk of his head a near-by saloon. "We go gettin' soomt'ing," he invited. "I have munch good luck to tell you." Inside the establishment Felipe became loquacious and boasting. He now was a man of comfortable wealth, he gravely informed his friend--a wizened individual with piercing eyes. Besides winning a bet of fifteen dollars in money, he explained, he also held a note against Franke Gamboa for fifty dollars more on his property. But that was not all. Aside from the note and the cash in hand, he was the owner of a colt now of great value--_si_--worth at least ten dollars--which, added to the other, made him, as anybody could see, worthy of recognition. With this he placed his empty glass down on the bar and swung over into English. "You haf hear about thot?" he asked, drawing the back of his hand across his mouth. Then, as the other shook his head negatively, "Well, I haf new one--_potrillo_--nice li'l' horse--_si_!" He cleared his throat and frowned at the listening bartender. "He's comin' couple days before, oop on thee mesa." He picked up the glass, noted that it was empty, placed it down again. "I'm sellin' thot _potrillo_ quick," he went on--"bet you' life! I feed heem couple weeks more mebbe--feed heem beer and soom cheese!" He laughed raucously at the alleged witticism. "Thot's thee preencipal t'ing," he declared, soberly. "You must feed a horse." He said this not as one recommending that a horse be well fed, but as one advising that a horse be given something to eat occasionally. "_Si!_ Thot's thee preencipal t'ing! Then he's makin' a fast goer--bet you' life! I haf give heem--" He suddenly interrupted himself and laid firm hold upon the man's arm. "You coom wit' me!" he invited, and began to drag the other toward the swing-doors. "You coom look at thot _potrillo_!" They went outside. On the curb, Felipe gazed about him, first with a look of pride, then with an expression of blank dismay. He stepped down off the curb, roused the drowsing mare with a vigorous clap, again looked about him worriedly. After a long moment he left the team, walking out into the middle of the street, and strained his eyes in both directions. Then he returned and, heedless of his new overalls, got down upon his knees, sweeping bleared eyes under the wagon. And finally, with a last despairing gaze in every direction, he sat down upon the curb and buried his face in his arms. For the colt was gone! CHAPTER IV A NEW HOME With the beginning of the forward movement across the railroad the colt, ears cocked and eyes alert, moved across also. Close about him stepped other horses, and over and around him surged a low murmuring, occasionally broken by the crack of a whip. Yet these sounds did not seem to disturb him. He trotted along, crossing the tracks, and when on the opposite side set out straight down the avenue. The avenue was broad, and in this widening area the congestion rapidly thinned, and soon the colt was quite alone in the open. But he continued forward, seeming not to miss his mother, until there suddenly loomed up beside him a very fat and very matronly appearing horse. Then he hesitated, turning apprehensive eyes upon her. But not for long. Evidently accepting this horse as his mother, he fell in close beside her and trotted along again in perfect composure. Behind this horse was a phaeton, and in the phaeton sat two persons. They were widely different in age. One was an elderly man, broad of shoulders and with a ruddy face faintly threaded with purple; the other was a young girl, not more than seventeen, his daughter, with a face sweet and alert, and a mass of chestnut hair--all imparting a certain esthetic beauty. Like the man, the girl was ruddy of complexion, though hers was the bloom of youth, while his was toll taken from suns and winds of the desert. The girl was the first to discover the colt. "Daddy!" she exclaimed, placing a restraining hand upon the other. "Whose beautiful colt is that?" The Judge pulled down his horse and leaned far out over the side. "Why, I don't know, dear!" he replied, after a moment, then turned his eyes to the rear. "He must belong with some team in that crush." The girl regarded the colt with increasing rapture. "Isn't he a perfect dear!" she went on. "Look at him, daddy!" she suddenly urged, delightedly. "He's dying to know why we stopped!" Which, indeed, the colt looked to be, since he had come to a stop with the mare and now was regarding them curiously. "I'd love to pet him!" The Judge frowned. "We're late for luncheon," he declared, and again gazed to the rear. "We'd better take him along with us out to the ranch. To-morrow I'll advertise him in the papers." And he shook up the mare. "We'd better go along, Helen." "Just one minute, daddy!" persisted the girl, gathering up her white skirts and, as the Judge pulled down, leaping lightly out of the phaeton. "I've simply _got_ to pet him!" She cautiously approached the colt. He permitted her this approach. Nor did he shy at her outstretched hand. Under her gentle caresses he stood very still, and when she stooped before him, as she did presently, bringing her eyes upon a level with his own, he gazed into them very frankly and earnestly, as if gauging this person, as he had seemed to tabulate all other things, some day to make good use of his knowledge. After a time the girl spoke. "I wish I could keep you always," she said, poutingly. "You look so nice and babyish!" But she knew that she could not keep him, and after a time she stood up again and sighed, and fell to stroking him thoughtfully. "I'll have you to-day, anyway," she declared, finally, with promise of enjoyment in her voice, as one who meant to make the most of it. Then she got back into the phaeton. The Judge started up the horse again. They continued through the town, and when on its northwestern outskirts turned to the right along a trail that paralleled the river. The trail ran north and south, and on either side of it, sometimes shielding a secluded ranch, always forming an agreeable oasis in the flat brown of the country, rose an occasional clump of cottonwoods. The ranch-houses were infrequent, however; all of them were plentifully supplied with water by giant windmills which clacked and creaked above the trees in the high-noon breeze. To the left, across the river, back from the long, slow rise of sand from the water's edge, rose five blunt heights like craters long extinct; while above these, arching across the heavens in spotless sheen, curved the turquoise dome of a southwestern midday sky, flooding the dust and dunes below in throbbing heat-rays. It was God's own section of earth, and not the least beautiful of its vistas, looming now steadily ahead on their right, was the place belonging to Judge Richards. House and outhouses white, and just now aglint in the white light of the sun, the whole ranch presented the appearance of diamonds nestling in a bed of emerald-green velvet. Turning off at this ranch, the Judge tossed the reins to a waiting Mexican. Helen was out of the phaeton like a flash. Carefully guiding the colt around the house and across a _patio_, she turned him loose into a spacious corral. Then she fell to watching him, and she continued to watch him until a voice from the house, that of an aged Mexican woman who presided over the kitchen, warned her that dinner was waiting. Reluctantly hugging the colt--hugging him almost savagely in her sudden affection for him--she then turned to leave, but not without a word of explanation. "I must leave you now, honey!" she said, much as a child would take leave of her doll. "But I sha'n't be away from you long, and when I come back I'll see what I can do about feeding you!" The colt stood for a time, peering between the corral boards after her. Then he set out upon a round of investigation. He moved slowly along the inside of the fence, seeming to approve its whitewashed cleanliness, until, turning in a corner, he stood before the stable door. Here he paused a moment, gazing into the semi-gloom, then sprang up the one step. Inside, he stood another moment, sweeping eyes down past the stalls, and finally set out and made his way to the far end. In the stall next the last stood a brown saddle-horse, and in the last stall the matronly horse he had followed out from town. But he showed no interest in these, bestowing upon each merely a passing glance. Then, discovering that the flies bothered him here more than in the corral, he walked back to the door and out into the sunlight again. In the corral he took up his motionless stand in the corner nearest the house. He did not stand thus for long. He soon revealed grave uneasiness. It was due to a familiar gnawing inside. He knew the relief for this, and promptly set out in search of his mother. He hurried back along the fence, gained the door of the stable, and stepped into the stable, this time upon urgent business. He trotted down past the stalls to the family horse, and without hesitation stepped in alongside of her. Directly there was a shrill nicker, a lightning flash of heels, and the colt lay sprawling on the stable floor. Never was there a colt more astonished than this one. Dazed, trembling, he regained his feet and looked at the mare, looked hard. Then casting solicitous eyes in the direction of the saddle-horse, he stepped in alongside. But here he met with even more painful objections. The horse reached around and bit him sharply in the neck. It hurt, hurt awfully, but he persisted, only to receive another sharp bite, this time more savage. Sounding a baby whimper of despair, he ran back to the door and out into the motherless corral. He made for the corner nearest the house. But he did not stand still. He cocked his ears, pawed the ground, turned again and again, swallowed frequently. And presently he set out once more in search of his mother; though this time he wisely kept out of the stable. He held close to the fence, following it around and around, pausing now and again with eyes strained between the boards. But he could not find his mother. Finally, resorting to the one effort left to him that might bring result, he flung up his little head and sounded a piteous call--not once, but many times. "Aunty," declared the girl, rushing into the genial presence of the Mexican cook, "what shall I do about that colt? He must be hungry!" The old woman nodded and smiled knowingly. Then she stepped into the pantry. She filled a long-necked bottle with milk and sugar and a dash of lime-water, and, placing the bottle in the girl's hands, shoved her gently out the door and into the _patio_. Racing across to the corral, Helen reached the colt with much-needed aid. He closed upon the bottle with an eagerness that seemed to tell he had known no other method of feeding. Also, he clung to it till the last drop was gone, which caused Helen to wonder when last the colt had fed. Then, as if by way of reward for this kindly attention, he tossed his head suddenly, striking the bottle out of her hands. This was play; and Helen, girlishly delighted, sprang toward him. He leaped away, however, and, coming to a stand at a safe distance, wriggled his ears at her mischievously. She sprang toward him again; but again he darted away. Whereupon she raced after him, pursuing him around the inclosure, the colt frisking before her, kicking up his heels and nickering shrilly, until, through breathlessness, she was forced to stop. Then the colt stopped, and after a time, having regarded her steadfastly, invitingly, he seemed to understand, for he quietly approached her. As he came close she stooped before him. "Honey dear," she began, eyes on a level with his own, "they have telephoned the city officials, and your case will be advertised to-morrow in the papers. But I do wish that I could keep you." She peered into his slow-blinking eyes thoughtfully. "Brownie--my saddle-horse--is all stable-ridden, and I need a good saddler. And some day you would be grown, and I could--could take lots of comfort with you." She was silent. "Anyway," she concluded, rising and stroking him absently, "we'll see. Though I hope--and I know it isn't a bit right--that nothing comes of the advertisement; or, if something does come of it, that your rightful owner will prove willing to sell you after a time." With this she picked up the bottle and left him. And nothing did come of the advertisement. Felipe did not read the papers, and his knowledge of city affairs was such that he did not set up intelligent quest for the colt. So the colt remained in the Richards' corral. Regularly two and three times a day the girl came to feed him, and regularly as his reward each time he bunted the bottle out of her hand afterward. Also, between meals she spent much time in his society, and on these occasions relieved the tedium of his diet with loaf sugar, and, after a while, quartered apples. For these sweets he soon developed a passion, and he would watch her comings with a feverish anxiety that always brought a smile to her ready lips. And thus began, and thus went on, their friendship, a friendship that with the passing months ripened into strongest attachment, but which presently was to be interrupted for a long time. Hint of this came to him gradually. From spending long periods with him every day his mistress, after each feeding now, took to hurrying away from him. Sometimes, so great was her haste to get back to the house, she actually ran out of the corral. It worried him, and he would follow her to the gate, and there stand with nose between the boards and eyes turned after her, whimpering softly. And finally, with his bottle displaced by more solid food, and the visits of his mistress becoming less frequent, he awoke to certain mysterious arrivals and departures in a buggy of a sharp-eyed woman all in black, and he came to feel, by reason of his super-animal instinct, that something of a very grave nature was about to happen to him. Then one morning late in August he experienced that which made his fears positive convictions, though precisely what it was he did not immediately know. His mistress stepped into the corral with her usual briskness, and, walking deliberately past him, turned up an empty box in a far corner and sat down upon it, and called to him. From the instant of her entrance he had held himself back, but when she called him he rushed eagerly to her side. She placed her arms around his neck, drew his head down into her lap, and proceeded to unfold a story--later, tearful. "It's all settled," she began, with a restful sigh. "We have discussed it for weeks, and I've had a dreadful time of it, and aunty--my Mexican aunty, you know--and my other aunty, my regular aunty--I have no mother--and everybody--got so excited I didn't really know them for my own, and daddy flared up a little, and--and--" She paused and sighed again. "But finally they let me have my own way about it--though daddy called it 'infant tommyrot'--and so here it is!" She tilted up his head and looked into his eyes. "You, sir," she then went on--"you, sir, from this day and date--I reckon that is how daddy would say it--you, sir, from this day and date shall be known as Pat. Your name, sir, is Pat--P-a-t--Pat! I don't know whether you like it or not, of course! But I do know that I like it, and under the circumstances I reckon that's all that is necessary." Then came the tears. "But that isn't all, Pat dear," she went on, tenderly. "I have something else to tell you, though it hurts dreadfully for me to do it. But--but I'm going away to school. I'm going East, to be gone a long time. I want to go, though," she added, gazing soberly into his eyes; "yet I am afraid to leave you alone with Miguel. Miguel doesn't like to have you around, and I know it, and I am afraid he will be cruel to you. But--but I've got to go now. The dressmaker has been coming for over a month; and--and I'm not even coming home for vacation. I am to visit relatives, or something, in New York--or somewhere--and the whole thing is arranged. But I--I don't seem to want--to--to go away now!" Which was where the tears fell. "If things--things could only be--be put off! But I--I know they can't!" She was silent, silent a long time, gazing off toward the distant mountains through tear-bedimmed eyes. "But when I do come back," she concluded, finally, brightening, "you will have grown to a great size, Pat dear, and then we can go up on the mesa and ride and ride. Can't we?" And she hugged him convulsively. "It will be glorious. Won't it?" He didn't exactly say. His interest was elsewhere, and, resisting her hugging, he began to nuzzle her hands for sweets. Whereupon she burst into laughter and forcibly hugged him again. "I forgot," she declared, regretfully. "You shall have them, though--right away!" Then she arose and left him--left him a very much mystified colt. But when she returned with what he sought he looked his delight, and closed over the sweets with an eagerness that forced her into sober reflection. "Pat," she said, after a time, "I don't think you care one single bit for me! All you care about, I'll bet, is what I bring you to eat!" Then she began to stroke him. "Just the same," she concluded, after a while, tenderly, "you're the dearest colt that ever lived!" She dallied with him a moment longer, then abruptly left him, running back to the house. The days which followed, however, were full of delight for him. Now that the mysterious activity in the house was over with, his mistress began to visit him again with more than frequent regularity. And with each visit she would remain with him a long time, caressing him, talking to him, as had been her wont in the earlier days of their friendship. But as against those earlier days he had changed. Possibly this was due to her absence. Instead of frisking about the inclosure now, as he had used to frisk--whirling madly from her in play--he would remain very still during her visits, standing motionless under her caresses and love-talk. Also, when she took herself off each time, instead of hurrying frantically after her to the gate, he would walk slowly, even sedately, into his corner, the one nearest the house, and there watch her soberly till she disappeared indoors. Then--further evidence of the change that had come upon him--he would lie down in the warm sunlight and there fight flies, although before he had been given to worrying the family horse or irritating the brown saddler--all with nervous playfulness. And he was dozing in his corner that morning when his mistress came fluttering to him to say good-by. He slowly rose to his feet and blinked curiously at her. "Pat dear," she exclaimed, breathlessly, "I'm going now!" She flung her arms around his neck, held him tightly to her a moment, then stepped back. "You--you must be good while--while I'm gone!" And dashing away a persistent tear, she then hurriedly left him, speeding across the _patio_ and stepping into the waiting phaeton. He watched the vehicle roll out into the trail. And though he did not understand, though the seriousness of it all was denied him, he nevertheless remained close to the fence a long time; long after the phaeton had passed from view, long after the sound of the mare's paddling feet had died away, he stood there, ears cocked, eyes wide, tail motionless, in an attitude of receptivity, spiritual absorption, as one flicked with unwelcome premonitions. CHAPTER V LONELINESS Pat's mistress was gone. He realized it from his continued disappointed watching for her at the fence; he realized it from the utter absence out of life of the sweets he had learned to love so well; and he realized it most of all from the change which rapidly came over the Mexican hostler. Though he did not know it, Miguel had been instructed, and in no mistakable language, to take good care of him, and, among other things, to keep him healthily supplied with sweets. But Miguel was not interested in colts, much less in anything that meant additional labor for him, and so Pat was made to suffer. Yet in this, as in all the other things, lay a wonderful good. He was made to know that he was not wholly a pampered thing--was made to feel the other side of life, the side of bitterness and disappointment, the side at times of actual want. And this continued denial of wants, of needs, occasionally, hardened him, as his earlier experiences had hardened him, toughened him for the struggles to come, brought to him that which is good for all youth--realization that life is not a mere span of days with sweets and comforts for the asking, but a time of struggle, a battle for supremacy, and it is only through the battle that one grows fit and ever more fit for the good of the All. Not the least of his trials was great loneliness. One day was so very like another. Regularly each morning, after seeking out his favorite corner in the corral, he would see the sun step from the mountain-tops, ascend through a cool morning, pour down scorching midday rays, descend through a tense afternoon, and drop from view in the chill of evening. Always he would watch this thing, sometimes standing, other times reclining, but ever conscious of the dread monotony of it all. Nothing happened, nobody came to caress him, no one paid him the least attention. A forlorn colt, a lonely colt, doubly so for lack of a mother, he spent long days in moody contemplation of an existence that irked. One day, however, came something of interest into the monotony of his life. Evidently tiring of attending each horse in turn in the stalls, Miguel built a general box for feed in one corner of the inclosure, and then, by dint of loud swearing and the free use of a pitchfork, instructed the colt to feed from it with the others. Not that Pat required instruction as to the feeding itself--he was too much alive to need driving in that respect. But he did show nervous timidity at feeding with the other horses, and so Miguel cheerfully went to the urging with fork and tongue. But only the one time. Soon the colt took to burying his nose in the box along with the others, and would wriggle his tail with a vigor that seemed to tell of his gratitude at being accepted as part of the great establishment and its devices. And then another thing. With this change in his method of feeding, he soon came to reveal steadily increasing courage and independence. Oftentimes he would be the first to reach the box, and, what was more to the point, would hold his position against the other horses--hold it against rough shouldering from the family horse, savage nipping from the saddler, even vigorous cursing and flaying from the swarthy hostler. With the approach of winter he revealed his courage and temerity further. Of his own volition one night he abruptly changed his sleeping-quarters. Since the memorable occasion when the mare had kicked him out of her stall he had sought out a stall by himself with the coming of night, and there spent the hours in fear-broken sleep. But this night, and every night thereafter, saw him boldly approaching the mare and crowding in beside her in her stall, where, in the contact with her warm body and in her silent presence, he found much that was soothing and comfortable. Which, too, marked the beginning of a new friendship, one that steadily ripened with the passing winter and, by the time spring again descended into the valley, was an attachment close almost as that between mother and offspring. When in his playful moments, rare indeed now for one of his age, he would inadvertently plunge into her, or stumble over a water-pail, she would nicker grave disapproval, or else chide him more generously by licking his neck and withers a long time in genuine affection. Thus the colt changed in both spirit and physique. And the more he changed, and the larger he grew, the greater source of trouble he became to the Mexican. Before, he had feared the man. Now he felt only a kind of hatred, and this lent courage to make of himself a frequent source of annoyance. With the return of warm weather he resumed his old place in his favorite corner. He did this through both habit and a desire to warm himself in the sun's rays. And it was all innocent enough--this thing. Yet, innocent though it was, more than once, in passing, the Mexican struck him with whatever happened to be in his hands. At such times, whimpering with pain, he would dart to an opposite corner, there to stand in trembling fear, until, his courage returning, and his hatred for the man upholding him, he would return and defiantly resume his day-dreaming in the corner. This happened for perhaps a dozen times before he openly rebelled. And when he did rebel--when the Mexican struck him sharply across the nose--he whipped around his head like lightning and, still only half awake, sank his teeth savagely into the man's shoulder. Followed a string of oaths and sudden appearance of a club, which might have proved serious but for the Judge's timely call for the horse and phaeton. Whereupon the Mexican slunk off into the stable. But as he went Pat saw the gleam in his black eyes, and knew that some day punishment most dire and cruel would descend upon him. He passed through his second summer, that period of trial and sickness for many infants, in perfect health. In perfect health also he passed through the autumn and on into his second winter. Growing ever stronger with the passing seasons, he came to reveal still further his wonderful vitality, and to reveal it in many ways. Often he would take the initiative against the Mexican, kicking at him without due cause, refusing always to get out of his way, once nipping him sharply as he hurried past under pressing orders from the house. Also, having grown to a size equal to the brown saddler, he began to reveal his antipathy for this animal. Not only would he shoulder him away from the feed-box, but he would kick and snap at him, and once he tipped over the water-pail for no other reason, seemingly, than to deprive the saddler of water. The result of all this was that, with the passing seasons, both the Mexican and the saddler showed increasing respect for him, and the former went to every precaution to avoid a serious encounter. But it was bound to come in spite of all his efforts to avoid it. Fighting spring flies in the stable one morning, Pat was aroused by a familiar sound in the corral. It was the sound which usually accompanied feeding, and, whirling, he plunged eagerly toward the door. As he did so the Mexican, about to enter the stable, appeared on the threshold. Pat saw him too late. He crashed headlong into the Mexican and sent him reeling out into the inclosure. From that moment it was to the death. The Mexican painfully gained his feet and, swearing a mighty vengeance, caught up a heavy shovel. Pat saw what was coming and, dashing out into the corral, sought protection behind the feed-box. But the infuriated man hunted him out, dealing upon his quivering back blow after blow, until, stung beyond all caution, Pat sprang for the object of his suffering. But the man leaped aside, delivering as he did so another vicious blow, this time across Pat's nose--most tender of places. Dazed, trembling, raging with the spirit of battle, he surveyed the man a moment, and then, with an unnatural outcry, half nicker, half roar, he hurtled himself upon his enemy, striking him down. But he did not stop here. When the man attempted to rise he struck him down again, and a third time. Then, seeing the man lying motionless, he uttered another outcry, different from the other, a whimpering, baby outcry, and, whirling away from the scene, hurried across the corral and into the stable, where he sought out the family horse and, still whimpering babyishly, stood very close beside her, seeking her sympathy and encouragement. This closed the feud for all time. Miguel was not seriously hurt. But he had learned something, even as Pat had learned something, and thereafter there existed tacit understanding between them. The seasons passed, and the third year came, and with it the beginning of the end of Pat's loneliness. One morning late in June he was aroused by the voice of the Mexican, who, with brushes and currycomb in hand, had come to clean him. Pat was in need of just this cleaning. Though wallowing but little, leaving that form of exercise to the older horses, he nevertheless was gritty with sand from swirling spring winds. So he stood very still under the hostler's vigorous attention. But Miguel's ambition did not stop here. He turned to the other horses and curried and brushed them also, working till the perspiration streamed from him. But this was not the end. He set to work in the stable, and scraped and cleaned to the last corner, and rubbed and scoured to the smallest harness buckle. It was all very unusual, and Pat, standing attentive throughout it all, revealed marked interest and something of surprise. Soon he was to know the reason. Along toward noon, as he was feeding at the box, he saw a very dignified young woman leave the house, cross the _patio_ in his direction, and come to a stop immediately outside the fence. Though the feed-box always held his interest above all other things, and though it was strongly attracting him now, he nevertheless could not resist the attention with which this young woman regarded him. He returned her gaze steadily, wondering who she was and what she meant to do. He soon found out, for presently she set out along the fence and came to a stop directly in front of him. She did more. She held out a hand and sounded a single word softly. "Pat!" she called. And now something took place inside the colt. With the word, far back in his brain, in the remotest of cells, there came an effort for freedom. It was a grim struggle, no doubt, for the thing must fight its way against almost all other thoughts and scenes and persons in his memory. But at length this vague memory gained momentum and dominance. And now he understood. The young woman outside the fence was his little mistress of early days! Lifting his head, he gave off a shrill and protracted nicker of greeting. Helen dropped her hand. "Bless you!" she cried, and sped along the fence, opened the gate, and ran inside. "You do know me, don't you?" she burst out, and, hurrying to his side, hugged him convulsively. "And I'm so glad, Pat!" she went on. "It--it has been a long three years!" She stepped back and looked him over admiringly. "And you have grown so! Dear, oh, dear! Three years!" Again she stepped close and hugged him. "I am so proud of you, Pat!" All this love-talk, this caressing and hugging, was as the lifting of a veil to Pat. Within him all that had lain dormant for three years--affection, desires, life itself--now pressed eagerly to the surface. And though his mistress did not look the same to him--though he found himself gazing down now instead of up to engage her eyes--yet, as if she had been gone but a day, he suddenly nuzzled her hand for loaf sugar and quartered apples. Then as suddenly he regretted this. For she had left him--was running across the corral. Frantically he rushed after her and, with a shrill cry of protest, saw her enter the house. But soon she appeared again, and when close, and he saw the familiar sweets in her hand, he nickered again, this time in sheer delight. And if he had doubted his good fortune before, now, with his mouth dripping luscious juices, he knew positively that he had come into his own again. Sometime during the feast Helen noticed a scar across his nose. "Why, Pat!" she exclaimed. "How ever did you get that?" But Pat did not say. Indeed, it is doubtful whether, in this happiest of moments, he would have descended to such commonplaces. But it was no commonplace to Helen, and she promptly sought out the Mexican. Yet Miguel declared that he knew nothing of the scar. He had been very watchful of the colt, he lied, cheerfully, and the scar was as much a mystery to him as it was to her. Whereupon Helen decided that Pat had brought it about through some prank, and, after returning to him and indulging in further caresses and love-talk, reluctantly took leave of him, returning to the house, there to begin unpacking her numerous trunks. Thus their friendship was renewed. Pat was older by three years, as the girl was older by three years. But each was much older than that in point of development. Where before had been baby affection in him and girl affection in her, now was a thing of greater worth and more lasting quality--affection of a grown horse and a grown woman. In the days which followed this was brought out in many ways. The colt did not once frisk and play about the inclosure, a trait she remembered best; yet she did not wish it. She preferred him as he was, finding in his mature conduct something that enhanced his beauty; and rare beauty it was, as she frequently noted in running proud eyes over his lines, and in noting it came more and more to feel not alone great pride for him, but a sure love as well--not the love woman gives to man, of course, but the love she can give, and does give, without stint, to all dumb animals. CHAPTER VI THE FIRST GREAT LESSON Helen spent much time in the society of the horse. Aside from attending to his wants, such as food and water, she more than once took comb and brush in hand and gave him a thorough cleaning. This invariably brought a grin to the ugly features of Miguel, and when the Judge was present, which was not often, a smile of delight mixed with derision to his ruddy features. But never would Helen permit them to discourage her. She would brush and curry Pat till his coat shone like new-mined coal, and then, after surveying the satiny sheen critically, she would comb out his long tail, sometimes braid his glossy mane, and, after that, scour his hoofs till they were as clean and fresh as the rest of him. In her pride for him she liked to do these things, and often regretted that he did not require her attention more than he did. One day, with characteristic suddenness, she decided to have him broken to saddle. Therefore, next morning, three horse-breakers--one professional and two assistants--armed with ropes and saddles, appeared in the corral. Pat was sunning himself in his corner, and at their entrance only cocked his ears and blinked his eyes lazily. Outside the inclosure Helen, together with a scattering of spectators, attracted by the word of this treat in town, stood quietly expectant. One of the assistants, a raw-boned individual with hairy wrists, drove Pat out of his corner, while the professional, a large man of quiet demeanor, turned to Miguel, who was standing in the stable door, and put a question to him. Miguel, out of his own experience, warned them against the horse. Whereupon the large man neatly roped Pat, settling the noose skilfully around the horse's neck. Instantly Pat was a quivering bundle of nerves. Bracing his legs, he drew back on the rope. But the man held to it grimly. The man did more. He suddenly raced across the inclosure, gave the rope a deft twist, and followed the twist with a vigorous jerk. Pat plunged heavily to the ground. He lay dazed, breathing laboriously, till the rope slackened. Then he started to rise. But he only gained his fore legs. The second assistant, a slender youth, resisted his efforts, forcing Pat's head back by sitting upon it. Pat twisted and writhed to throw him off. But the man stayed with him, and finally had him prone to earth again. Whereupon Pat experienced the chagrin of his first defeat. Yet he could see. Upon the retina of each eye danced a picture. It was that of his mistress, surrounded by open-mouthed spectators, outside the fence, gazing down upon him with seeming approval. This once, but only this once, he felt dislike for her. One of the men approached with a halter. Pat had seen these things in the stable, and he instinctively knew what they were for. But he would not accept this one. Embittered by his fall, chafing under the weight upon his head, he struggled so successfully that he finally dislodged the man. Then he sprang to his feet again, and, trembling in every part, glared savagely at his tormentors. "Better give him a twist," quietly suggested the professional. Pat heard the remark. But he did not understand, and so remained quiet. Presently he felt a light hand creeping up along his neck, pausing, patting him, creeping along farther, pausing and patting him again. It was not unpleasant, and under the soothing influence he came to believe that his tormentors had experienced a change of attitude. But he was mistaken. Suddenly his ear was gripped as in a vise. Also, it was twisted sharply, once, twice, and then held in a relentless grip. He stood still as death. Up and down his spine, from his ear to his tail, coursed shrieking pain, hacking him like the agony of a thousand twisting knives. Under the terror of it he stopped breathing--stopped till he must breathe or swoon. Then he did take air, in short, faint gasps, but each gasp at terrible cost. And standing thus, fearing to move, he accepted the halter. He could do naught else. The raw-boned assistant turned to Helen apologetically. "Lively hoss, Miss Richards," he declared. "Reckon we're in for a little exercise." And he grinned. Anxiously Helen mounted the fence, standing upon a lower board. "You won't hurt him, I hope--that is, needlessly! I don't want that, you know!" And she gazed at Pat with pitiful eyes. The other laughed. "No; 'tain't that," he hastened to reassure her. "He's lively--that's all." The professional looked Pat over speculatively, and again made a suggestion. "Better blindfold him, Larry," he said. Pat heard this as he had heard the other. And because he was coming to know this man's voice, and to interpret it correctly, despite the agony it cost him he went on his guard, spreading and bracing his legs as against shock. He did not receive shock, however. Merely a piece of soft flannel was tucked gently under his halter and drawn carefully over his eyes. Against the soft pressure of it he closed his eyes. As he did so the hand released his ear. Conscious of sweet relief from the dread pain now, he opened his eyes again, only to discover that he could not see! Here was new distress! He did not understand it. He knew that his eyes were open; knew that it was the time of sunshine; knew with grim certainty that he was awake. Yet he could not see! He flung up his head; tossed it across and back; flung it down again. Yet the unnatural darkness! He took to pawing the ground. He began to recall his surroundings before this strange darkness had descended upon him--the girl outside the fence, the spectators upon the fence, the tormentors inside the fence, the glorious sunlight, the distant shimmering mountains, the stable and outhouses and cottage. But all were gone from him now. Everything was black with the blackness of night! Again he tossed his head--and again and again. But still the darkness! He was afraid. Here came a change. Across his vision leaped sudden flashing lights, myriads of them, dancing strangely before him. Gripped in new fear, he watched them closely, saw them hurry, pause, hurry again, all in dazzling array. They kept it up. Breathlessly he saw them dart to and fro, speed near, whirl and twist, until out of sheer distress he closed his eyes for relief. But he got no relief. He saw the lights as before, saw them dancing and pirouetting before his eyes, and suddenly whisk away, as though satiated with their fiendishness. But they left him limp and faint and with a throbbing pain in his head. Again he stamped the earth and shook his head. But the darkness clung. He could not throw off the thing before his eyes. Yet he persisted. He tossed his head until dizziness seized him. Then he stopped all effort and relaxed. His head began to droop; he let it droop, low and lower, until he smelled the earth. This aroused him. His spirit of fight rose again. He jerked up his head, sounded a defiant outcry, stiffened his legs for action. This for a moment only, for he did not act--somehow felt it was not yet time. But he gave way to a grim restlessness. He took to rocking like a chained elephant--from right hind to left fore, from left hind to right fore legs--changing, always changing. "Well, old son," came a voice on his chaotic thoughts, "we've just found a bridle that'll suit. But it took us a mean long time to do it, didn't it?" Pat stopped swaying. He stopped suddenly, as one checked by a mighty force. And so he was. For he knew now that the time had come. Here was his tormentor! Here was one of them within reach! The time had come to strike, to strike this man, to crush him to earth, to kill the cause of his suffering-- "Here, hoss," went on the voice, soothingly, the while Pat smelled a something of the stable underneath his nose. "Go to it! It's right harmless--now, ain't it?" Which it seemed to be from the smell. But Pat struck--reared with the speed of lightning and struck. The blow was unexpected. It sent the man spinning, whirling across the inclosure. He dropped into a corner like a log. There was a tense moment. Spectators sat dazed; horsemen stood rigid; the girl screamed. Then the large man ran to the prostrate form. He bent over, gazed briefly, straightened up with a reassuring smile. Presently the assistant arose and, rubbing his shoulder ruefully, caught up the fallen bridle. Soon the work of breaking was resumed as though nothing had happened. Pat was standing motionless. But he was keenly alert. He heard the man draw near, felt the hand creeping along his neck, but he had learned his lesson well. He reared and struck again--this time only empty air. Yet, as he returned to earth, almost before he touched ground, the hand was around his ear, another was around his other ear, he was feeling the dread twist again, twofold. Every twitch of muscle, every least gasp for air, sent excruciating pain throughout the ends of him. Fearing to move, yet clamoring for breath, he slowly opened his mouth. Which was what they wanted, evidently. He felt a cold something suddenly thrust between his teeth. It was hard as well as cold. He tasted it, rolled it over his tongue, and found it not painful. Then came something else. His head was being hurriedly fitted with a leathery contrivance. But neither was this painful, save only as it touched his twisted ears, and he therefore experienced no increasing alarm. Then, with this adjusted, he was introduced to something else--a something held close under his nose. He smelled this carefully; noted that it reeked with odors of the stable; smelled it again. Next he knew it was being placed gently upon his back. It was soft, and quite hairy, and though it irritated him a little, he accepted it without loss of composure. But when it was followed, as it was directly, by a heavier something, a something fitting his back snug and hard, he instantly determined to rebel, despite his twisted ears. But he could not withstand the increased pain, and he permitted the thing to be made secure with straps around his body. And now came a heavier something, a free and loose weight, something with spring and give to it, and which had flung up from the ground. And suddenly, flaying his pained senses, understanding flashed upon him. This was a man. There was a tormentor upon his back, gripping the thing in his mouth, holding him solidly to the ground. He-- "Go!" It was a word of command. With the word Pat felt his ears released. As he thrilled with relief the cloth was jerked off his eyes. For a time the fierce daylight blinded him. Then the pupils of his eyes contracted and all objects stood out clearly again--the men in the corral, the spectators on the fence, his mistress outside the fence. Also he saw the sunlit stable, and Miguel in the doorway, and the house in the trees. All had come back to him, and he stood gazing about him blinkingly, trying to understand, conscious of straps binding his body and restraining his breathing. Then suddenly he understood--remembered--remembered that he had been abused, had been tortured as never before. And he awoke to the fact that he was still being tortured. There was this thing in his mouth. There was this contraption on his head. There was that thing on his back, and the weight upon the thing. Also, there was that binding of his belly, and the irritation due to the prickly something pressing his back and sides. All these facts stung him, and under the whip of them he awoke to a mighty urging within. It was his fighting spirit rekindling--the thing that was his birthright, the thing come down to him from his ancestors, the thing that told him to rebel against the unnatural. And heeding this, voice, heeding it because he knew no other, he decided to give decisive battle. In a frenzy of effort he suddenly reared. He pirouetted on hind legs; pawed the air with fore legs; lost his balance. Failing to recover himself, he went over backward. He struck the earth resoundingly, but he realized that the weight was gone, and he felt a faint glow of victory! "Wow!" yelled a spectator, excitedly. Pat heard this and hastily regained his feet. And because he was uncertain of his next move he remained motionless. This was a mistake, as he soon discovered. For he saw two men leap, grasp both his ears; felt the dread twist again. So he remained still, and he felt the man mount again. Then came rumbling in upon his tortured soul again the insistent voice telling him to rebel further, and to keep on rebelling until through sheer brute strength he had mastered these unnatural things. With the grip on his ears released he once more gave heed to this clamoring within. He leaped straight up into the air. Returning to earth with nerve-shattering shock, he whirled suddenly, pitched and bucked, tossed and twisted, all in mad effort. But the weight clung fast. He whirled again, and again leaped, leaped clear of the ground, returning to it this time on stiffened legs. But he could not shake off the weight. He flung across the corral, twisting, writhing, bucking; flung back again--heart thumping, lungs shrieking for air, muscles wrenching and straining; and again across, responding, and continuing to respond, to the ringing voice within, like the king of kings that he was. But he could not dislodge the weight. "Great!" yelled an excited spectator. "See that hoss sunfishin'!" burst out another. "An' corkscrewin'!" added a third. "Better 'n a outlaw!" amplified a fourth. And now the first again: "Stay with him, Alex! I got two dollars--Oh, hell!"--this disgustedly. "Come out o' that corner!" Then suddenly he turned, face red as fire, and apologized to Helen. "I beg your pardon, Miss Richards," he offered, meekly. But he turned back to the spectacle and promptly forgot all else in his returning excitement. "Shoot it to him, Alex!" he yelled. "Shoot it; shoot it! He's a helldinger, that hoss!" Frenziedly he then yawped, cowboy fashion: "Whe-e-e-o-o-o-yip-yip! Whe-e-e-o-o-o-yip-yip!" Yet Helen--poor Helen!--had not heard. Holding her breath in tense fear, eyes upon her pride fighting his fight of pride, half hopeful that he would win, yet fearful of that very thing, she watched the strife of man skill against brute strength, keyed up almost to snapping-point. But her horse did not win. Neither did he lose. She saw him take up, one after another, every trick known to those familiar with horses, and she marveled greatly at his unexpected knowledge of things vicious. Along one side of the inclosure, across the side adjacent to it, back along the side opposite to the second, then forward along the first again--thus round the corral--he writhed and twisted in mighty effort, bucking and pitching and whirling and flinging, the while the sun rose higher in the morning sky. Spectators clambered down from the fence, stood awhile to relieve cramped muscles, clambered on the fence again; but the horse fought on; coat necked with white slaver, glistening with streaming sweat in the sunlight, eyes wild, mouth grim, ears back, he fought on and on till it seemed that he must stop through sheer exhaustion. But still he fought, valiantly, holding to the battle until, with a raging, side-pitching twist, one never before seen, he lost his footing, plunged to the ground, tore up twenty feet of earth, crashed headlong into the fence, ripped out three boards clean as though struck by lightning--lay motionless in a crumpled heap. The man was thrown. He arose hastily. As he wiped away his perspiration and grime he saw blood on his handkerchief. He was bruised and bleeding, and wrenched inwardly, yet when Pat, returning to consciousness, hastily gained his feet, the man leaped for the horse, sounding a muffled curse. But he did not mount. And for good reason. For Pat was reeling like a drunken man--head drooping, fore parts swaying, eyes slowly closing. At the sight one of the spectators made a plea in Pat's behalf. "Whyn't you take him outside?" he demanded. "Into the open. This ain't no place to bust a horse like him! That horse needs air! Get him out into about three-quarters of these United States! Git ginerous! Git ginerous! I hate a stingy man!" Whereupon Helen at last found voice. "Wait!" she cried, evenly, and, turning, sped along the fence to the gate. Inside the corral she hurried to the horse and flung her arms around his neck. "Pat dear," she began, tenderly, "I am so sorry! But it's 'most over with now, if you'll only accept it! Can't you see, Pat? It is so very necessary to both of us! For then I myself can ride you! Please, Pat--please, for my sake!" Whereupon Pat, as if all else were forgotten--all the torture, all the struggle and shock--nickered softly and nuzzled her hands for sugar and apples. Suppressing a smile, and accepting this as a good omen, she stroked him a few times more and then stepped back. "Later, dear!" she promised and left him, suddenly mindful of spectators. But, though she felt the blood rush into her cheeks, she did not leave the inclosure. The horse-breaker stepped resolutely to Pat and, laying firm hands upon the bridle, waited a moment, eying Pat narrowly, then flung up into the saddle. Pat's sides heaved, his knees trembled, but he did not resist. Eyes trained upon his mistress, as if he would hold her to her promise, he set out peacefully, and of his own volition, across the inclosure. Further, even though he could not see his mistress now, he turned in response to the rein and started back across the inclosure. And he kept this up, holding to perfect calm, breaking into a trot when urged to it, falling back into a walk in response to the bridle, round and round and round until, with a grunt of satisfaction, the man dismounted close beside the girl and handed her the reins. "Rides easy as a single-footer, Miss Richards," he declared. "Where can I wash up?" Which ended Pat's first great lesson at the hands of man. But though this lesson had its values, since he was destined to serve mankind, yet he had learned another thing that held more value to him as an animal than all the teachings within the grasp of men--he had learned the inevitable workings of cause and effect. His nose was scraped and his knees were scraped, and all these places burned intensely. And, intelligent horse that he was, he knew why he suffered these burns--knew that he had brought them about through his own sheer wilfulness. True, he was still girt with bands and straps, and in a way they were uncomfortable. But they did not pain him as the wounds pained him. Not that he reasoned all this out. He was but a dumb animal, and pure reasoning was blissfully apart from him. But he did know the difference between what had been desired of him and what he himself had brought on through sheer wilfulness. Thus he awakened, having learned this lesson with his headlong plunge into the fence, and having added to the lesson of the futility of rebellion the very clear desires of his mistress. Other and less intelligent horses would have continued to respond to the ancestral voice within till death. But Pat was more than such a horse. With the men gone, he revealed his intelligence further. Helen commissioned Miguel to fit him with her saddle and bridle, then hurried herself off to the house. Returning, clad in riding-habit and with hands full of sugar and quartered apples, she fed these delectables to him till his mouth dripped delightful juices. Then, while yet he munched the sweets, she mounted fearlessly. Sitting perfectly still for a time to accustom him to her weight, she then gave him the rein and word. Without hesitation he responded, stepping out across the inclosure, acknowledging her guiding rein in the corner, returning to the starting-place and, with the word, coming to a stop. It was all very beautiful, rightly understood, and, thrilled with her success, Helen sat still again, sat for a long time, gazing soberly down upon him. Then she bent forward. "Pat," she began, her voice breaking a little with emotion suddenly overwhelming her, "this begins our real friendship and understanding. Let us try to make it equal"--she straightened up, narrow eyes off toward the mountains--"equal to the best that lies within us both." CHAPTER VII A STRANGER As the weeks passed, each day bringing its period of companionship, this friendship and understanding between them became perfect in its simplicity. Pat learned to know her wishes almost without the reins, and he showed that he loved to carry her. Also, with these daily canters on the mesa he developed in bodily strength, and it was not long before he was in the pink of condition. Yet it was a perfection that was only natural for him. The quality of his blood was shown in his nostrils, which were wide and continuously atremble; in his eyes, which were bright and keenly alert; and in his ears, which were fine and vibrant. Stepping through town each morning under Helen's restraining hand, he would pick up his hoofs with a cleanliness and place them down with a grace that always commanded the attention of admiring eyes. But he seemed unconscious of his quality. Dressed in her usual dark riding-habit, Helen entered the corral one morning for her daily canter across the mesa. Already Pat was bridled and saddled. But as she stepped alongside to mount, Miguel appeared in the stable door with a brief tale of trouble and a warning. It seemed that he had experienced difficulty in preparing the horse, and between puffs at a cigarette he strongly advised Helen to be careful. "He's a-very fresh thees mornin'," he concluded, with an ominous shake of his head. Helen looked Pat over. He appeared in anything but a cantankerous mood. He was standing quietly, eyes blinking sleepily, ears wriggling lazily, in an attitude of superior indifference toward all the world. So, untroubled by the hostler's tale, she slipped her foot into the stirrup. Instantly the horse nickered queerly and stepped away. "Steady, Pat!" she gently admonished, and again attempted to mount. But, as before, he stepped away, this time more abruptly. He began to circle around her, prancing nervously, pausing to paw the ground, prancing again nervously. She held firm grip on his bridle, however, and sharply rebuked him. "Pat," she exclaimed, "this is a new trait!" And then, before he could resist again, she caught hold of the saddle-horn, leaped up, hardly touching the stirrup, and gathered the reins quickly to meet further rebellion. But with her in the saddle Pat was quite another horse. He snapped his ears at attention, wheeled to the gate, and cantered briskly out of the corral. It was a beautiful morning. The air nipped with a tang of frost, and she rode swiftly through town and up the hill to the mesa in keen exhilaration. Once on the mesa, Pat dashed off ecstatically in the direction of the mountains. The pace was thrilling. The rush of the crisp wind, together with the joy of swift motion, sent tingling blood into Helen's cheeks, while the horse, racing along at top speed, flung out his hoofs with a vigor that told of the riot of blood within him. Thus they continued, until in the shadow of the mountains--just now draped in their most delicate coloring, the pink that accompanies sunbeams streaming through fading haze--she pulled Pat down and gave herself over to the beauty of the scene. The horse, also appreciative, came to a ready stop and turned his eyes out over the desert in slow-blinking earnestness. "Pat!" suddenly cried Helen. She pulled his head gently around in the direction of the mountain trail. "Look off there!" Above the distant trail hung a thin cloud of dust, and under the cloud of dust, and rolling heavily toward town, creaked a lumber rigging, piled high with wood and drawn by a pair of plodding horses--plodding despite the bite and snarl of a whip swung with merciless regularity. The whip was in the hands of a brawny Mexican, who, seated confidently on the high load, appeared utterly indifferent to the trembling endeavors of his scrawny team. He was inhaling the smoke of a cigarette, and with every puff mechanically flaying the horses. The spectacle aroused deep sympathy in the girl. "Only consider, Pat!" she exclaimed, after a while. "Those poor, miserable horses--half-starved, cruelly beaten, yet of God's own making!" She was silent. "Suppose you had been born to that service, Pat--born to that oppression! You are one of the fortunate!" And she bent forward and stroked him. "One of the fortunate!" she repeated, thoughtfully. Indeed Pat was just that. But not in the way Helen meant. For such was the whim of Fate, and such is the limit of human understanding, she did not know, and never would know, save by the grace of that Fate, that Pat had been born in just that service, born to just that oppression; that only by the kindness of Fate he had been released from that service, that oppression, that he had been guided out of that environment and cast into a more kindly, bigger, and truer environment--her own! But Pat only blinked stolid indifference at the spectacle. He appeared to care nothing for the misery of other horses, nor to appreciate her tenderness when directed elsewhere than toward himself. After a time, as if to reveal this, he set out of his own volition toward a particularly inviting bit of flower, dainty yellow in the brown of the desert. Plucking this morsel, he fell to munching it in contentment, and continued to munch it till the last vestige disappeared. Then, again of his own volition, he broke into a canter. Helen smiled and pulled him down. "You're a strange horse, Pat," she declared, and fell to stroking him again. "And not the least strange thing about you is your history. Sometimes I wonder whether you are actually blooded. Certainly you look it, and at times assuredly you act it; yet if you are so valuable, why didn't somebody claim you that time? It is all very mysterious." And she relapsed into silence, gazing at him thoughtfully. Aroused by sudden faint gusts of wind, she glanced around and overhead. She saw unmistakable signs of an approaching storm, and swung Pat about toward home. As the horse broke into a canter the gusts became more fitful and sharper, while the sun, growing dim and hazy, cast ever-increasing shadow before her. Presently, as far as the eye could reach, she saw the landscape spring into active life. Dust-devils whirled about in quick eddies, stray sheets of paper leaped up, tumbleweed began steady forward movement, rabbit-like, scurrying before the winds, the advance occupied by largest growths, the rear brought up with smallest clumps, the order determined by the area each presented to the winds. It was all very impressive, but, knowing the uncertain character of the elements, and uncertain whether this foretold violent sand-storm or milder wind-storm, she was gripped with apprehension. She urged Pat to his utmost. And Pat responded, though he really needed but little urging. With each sudden gust he became increasingly afraid. Holding himself more and more alert to every least movement about him, he was steadily becoming keyed up to a dangerous pitch. Rollicking tumbleweed did not worry him any more than did the swirling dust-devils. These were things of the desert, each the complexion of the desert. But not so with scraps of paper. Their whiteness offered a startling contrast to the others, and, whisking about frantically, they increased his fears. Then suddenly a paper struck him, whipped madly across his eyes. It was unexpected, and for an instant blinded him. Gripping the bit in his teeth, he bolted. His sudden plunge almost unseated Helen. But, recovering, she braced herself grimly in the stirrups and pulled mightily on the reins. But she could not hold him. He increased his speed, if anything, and hurtled across the desert--head level, ears flat, legs far-reaching. She braced herself again, flinging back head and shoulders, thrusting her feet far forward, and continued to pull. But it counted for nothing. Yet she did not weaken, and under her vigorous striving, coupled with the jolting of the horse, her tam-o'-shanter flew off, and her hair loosened and fell, streaming out whippingly behind. And then suddenly, struck with terror herself, she cried out in terror. "Pat!" she burst out. "Pat! Pat!" But the horse seemed not to hear. Thundering madly forward, he appeared blind as well as fear-stricken, and Helen, suddenly seeing a barb-wire fence ahead, felt herself go faint, for she had never taken a fence, and she knew that Pat never had. She must get control of herself again. And this she did. Stiffening in the stirrups, she gripped a single rein in both hands and pulled with all her strength. But she could not swerve the horse. On he plunged for the obstruction, evidently not seeing it. She screamed again. "Pat! Pat! Pat!" But, as before, the horse did not heed. He dashed to the fence. He hesitated, but only for an instant. Throwing up his head, he rose and took the fence cleanly. Once on the other side, he resumed his frantic racing--pounding along in the mountain trail, his course clearly defined, hurtling madly straight toward town. With the fence safely cleared, and the way ahead free of vehicles, Helen regained much of her composure. Settling calmly to the rhythmic movement, she permitted the horse free rein. Once she reached back to gather up her hair, but the motion of the horse forbade this. So she fell to watching his splendid energy, finding herself quite calm and collected again, vaguely wondering how it would end. For the horse seemed tireless. Wise in his knowledge of first principles, and remembering the terrible slap across his eyes, Pat continued to rush forward. As he ran he kept eyes alert about him, fearing another blow. He knew that the thing was white, and he watched for a white something. Instead of a white something, however, there presently loomed up beside him a brown something, browner even than the desert, a something racing along beside him, moving with a speed equal to his own--even greater than his own! But he did not pause to analyze this. Instead, he forced himself to greater efforts, pounding the hardened trail with an energy that hurt his ankles, stretching neck and legs to their utmost limit of fiber--on and on in increased frenzy. But he could not best this object beside him. Yet that did not discourage him. He continued grimly forward, stung to desperation now by a double purpose, which was to outrun this thing on his right as well as get away from the other possible pursuing object. Yet the brown thing gained upon him--drew steadily nearer, steadily closer--he saw a hand shoot out. He felt a strong pull on his bridle, a tearing twist on the bit in his mouth, and found himself thrown out of his stride. But not even with this would he accept defeat. He reared in a nervous effort to shake off the hand. Finding this futile, he dropped back again, and at last came to a trembling, panting, nerve-racked pause. The thing was a horseman. He hurriedly dismounted, still retaining hold on Pat's bridle, and smiled up at Helen. "I--I tried to overtake you--to overtake you before you reached the fence," he began to explain, pausing between words for breath. "This horse of yours can--can claim--claim anything on record--for speed." And he looked Pat over admiringly. Helen did not speak at once. In the moment needed to regain her self-possession she could only regard him with mute gratitude. She saw that he was young and well-built, though lean of features, but with frank, healthy eyes. He was not at all bad-looking. Also she observed that he was neatly garbed in puttees and knickerbockers, and she quickly appraised him as the usual type of Easterner come into the valley to spend the winter. Then she suddenly remembered her hair. Woman-like, she hastily gathered it up into a knot at the back of her head before she answered this young man smiling up at her. "Pat never ran like that before," she explained, a bit nervously. "I was beginning to wonder what would happen at the railroad crossing. You checked him just in time. I--I really owe--" "Sure he won't charge again?" interrupted the young man, evidently wishing to avoid any expression of gratitude on her part. "I--I am quite certain," she replied, and then, after thanking him, slowly gathered up the reins. But she did not ride on, for the reason that the other, now absorbed in a cool survey of Pat's outlines, retained his hold on the bridle. Yet neither the survey nor the grip on the bridle displeased her. "A splendid horse," he declared, after a moment. "A beautiful animal!" Then, evidently suddenly mindful that he was detaining her, he stepped back. Helen again prepared to ride on. "Pat is a beautiful horse," she agreed, still a little nervous. "And like all beauty," she added, "he develops strange moods at times." Then, her sense of deep gratitude moving her, she asked, "Were you going toward town?" For reply he swung into the saddle. He wheeled close, and they set out. He appeared a little ill at ease, and Helen took the initiative. "From the East, I take it?" she inquired. "There are not a few Easterners down here. Some have taken up permanent residence." "Yes," he replied, "I'm from the East--New York." She liked his voice. "We are here for the winter--mother and myself. Mother isn't strong, and your delightful climate ought to improve her. I myself came along"--he turned twinkling eyes toward her--"as guide and comforter and--I fear--all-round nuisance." He was silent. "I like this country," he added, after a moment. Helen liked him for liking her country, for she had true Western pride for her birthplace. So she said the natural thing, though without display of pride. "Everybody likes it down here." He looked at her hesitatingly. "You're not from the outside, then?" "No," she rejoined. "I am a native." He showed restless curiosity now. "Tell me," he began, engagingly, "about this country. What, for instance, must one do, must one be, to--to be--well, to be accepted as a native!" He said this much as one feeling his way among a people new to him, as if, conscious of the informal nature of their meeting, he would ease that informality, yet did not know precisely how. Yet Helen found herself quite comfortable in his society now, and, permitting herself great freedom, she spoke almost with levity. "You have asked me a difficult question," she said. "Offhand I should say you must ride every morning, sleep some part of the early afternoon, and--oh, well, ride the next morning again, I reckon." And she smiled across at him. "Are you thinking of staying with us?" He nodded soberly. Then he went on. "What else must one do?" he asked. "Is that all?" His eyes were still twinkling. Helen herself was sober now. "No," she replied, "not quite. One must think a little, work a little, do a little good. We are very close together down here--very close to one another--and very, very far from the rest of the world. So we try to make each day register something of value, not alone for ourselves, but for our neighbors as well." She was silent. "We are a distinct race of people," she concluded, after a moment. He turned his head. "I like all that," he declared, simply. "Though I'm afraid I won't do--much as I dislike to admit it. You see, I've never learned to live much in the interest of others." He regarded her with steady eyes. Helen liked him for that, too. Evidently he had had too much breeding, and, from his remark, knew it. So she took it upon herself at least to offer him encouragement. "You will learn," she rejoined, smiling. "Everybody does." With this, Helen discreetly changed the subject. She entered upon less intimate matters, and soon, sweeping off into a rhapsody over the country--its attraction for Easterners, its grip on Westerners--she was chatting with a freedom typical of the country. For by now she was interested, and for some inexplicable reason she found herself drawn to the smiling stranger. Also, Pat was interested. But not in the things which appealed to his mistress. Pat was pondering the sullen nature of the horse beside him, and as they rode slowly toward town he stole frequent sidelong glances at his unfriendly companion. But all he could arrive at was that, while appearing peaceable enough, this horse was the most self-satisfied animal chance had ever thrown his way. After a time he ceased all friendly advances, such as pressing close beside him and now and again playfully nipping at him, and took up his own affairs, finding deep cause for satisfaction in the return of his breath after the long race, and in the passing of pain from his strained legs, to say nothing of the complete absence of flying papers around him. They crossed the railroad track and entered the town. Here the young man took a polite leave of Helen, and Pat, seeing the unfriendly horse canter away at a brisk gait, himself set out briskly, feeling somehow called upon to emulate the step of the other. And thus he continued through town to the river trail, which he followed at an even brisker stride, and thence to the ranch and the corral. Here his mistress took leave of him--abruptly, it seemed--and made her way straight into the house. Directly the Mexican came and removed his saddle and bridle. With these things off, he shook himself vigorously, and then took up his customary stand in the corner, and confidently awaited the reappearance of his mistress with sugar and apples--a reward she never had denied him. But he waited this time in vain. CHAPTER VIII FELIPE MAKES A DISCOVERY Pat waited in vain two whole days. Not once did she come to him, not once did he lay eyes upon her. He became nervous and irritable, and in this emptiness, equal to that which he had suffered during the three years she was away, he spent every waking moment in the corral, standing in his favorite corner, eyes strained toward the house, occasionally interrupting the silence with a pleading nicker. But his vigil gained him nothing, his watching remained unrewarded, his outcries went unanswered. Finally, with the close of each day he would enter the stable, but only to brood through half the night--wondering, wondering. But never did he give up hope. Nor had he given up hope now, this morning of the third day, when, standing in his corner as usual, he heard a door close in the house. As always, his heart leaped with expectation, and he gave off a protracted whinny. Also he pressed close to the fence. This time he was not disappointed. For coming slowly toward him, with her hands behind her back, was his mistress. "Pat," she began, standing close before him, "I have neglected you purposely. And I did it because I have lost confidence in you." She regarded him a long moment coldly, then was forced to smile. "I suppose I feel toward you much as I used to feel toward a doll of mine that had fallen and cracked its head. I want to shake you, yet I can't help but feel sorry for you, too." And again she was silent. Pat shifted his feet uneasily. He did not quite understand all this, though he knew, despite the smile of his mistress, that it was serious. Still, encouraged by the smile, he pressed close and asked for sweets, nuzzling her coat-sweater persistently. But she stepped away. Whereupon he reached his neck after her, and became almost savage in his coaxing. Finally he was relieved to see her burst into a peal of laughter. "Here!" she said, and held out both hands. "I don't care if your head is broken!" Glory be! Two red apples in one hand; a whole handful of loaf sugar in the other! If ever a horse smiled, he smiled then. Also, he promptly accepted some of the sugar, and, enjoying every delicious mouthful, reached for an apple. But she drew back. Evidently she was not yet finished with her reprimand. "Blissfully unconscious of your behavior that morning, aren't you?" she continued. "Not a bit ashamed; not one speck regretful!" Well--he wasn't. He was not a bit ashamed, not one speck regretful. Merely, he was sweet-hungry. And now that the sugar was gone, he wanted one of those apples mightily. Finally she gave him one, and then the other, feeding them to him rapidly, but not more rapidly than he wanted them. Then she spoke again. "Pat dear," she said, her voice undergoing change, "I'm troubled. I am foolish, I know. But I can't help it. I advised that very nice young man to ride every morning. And he may do it. But if he does, sooner or later, perhaps the very first morning, we shall meet up there on the mesa. I want that, of course; but for reasons best known to Easterners, I don't want it--not yet." She gazed off toward the mountains. "I reckon, Pat dear," she concluded, after a moment, turning her eyes back to him, "we'd better ride in the afternoons for a time. Yet the afternoons are so uncomfortably hot. Oh, dear! What shall I do?" But the horse did not answer her. All he did was stand very still, eyes blinking slowly, seemingly aware of the gravity of the situation, yet unable to help her. Indeed, that her serious demeanor had struck a note of sympathy within him he presently revealed by once more pressing very close to her--this in the face of the fact that she had no more sweets with her and he could see that she had no more. The movement forced her back, and evidently he perceived his mistake, for he quickly retraced one step. Then he fell to regarding her with curious intentness, his head twisting slowly in a vertical plane, much as a dog regards his master, until, evidently finding this plane of vision becoming awkward, he stopped. After which Helen playfully seized his ears and shook his head. "You're a perfect dear!" she exclaimed. "And I love you! But I'm afraid we--we can't ride mornings any more--not for a while, at any rate." With this she left him. He followed her to the gate, and with reluctance saw her enter the house. Then he rested his head upon the topmost board and, though he hardly expected it, waited for her return. Finally he abandoned his vigil, making his way slowly into the stable. He found both horses in their stalls, restlessly whisking their tails, offering nothing of friendliness or invitation. Also he awoke to the depressing atmosphere here, and after a time returned to the corral, where he took up a stand in his favorite corner and closed his eyes. Soon he was dreaming. Sound as from a great distance awoke him. He opened his eyes. Outside the fence, and regarding him gloatingly, were two swarthy Mexicans in conversation. This was what had awakened him. "Bet you' life!" one was saying, the taller man of the two. "Thot's my li'l' horse grown big lak a house--and a-fine! Franke, we gettin' thot _caballo_ quick. We--" A door had closed somewhere. The men heard it and crouched. But neither abandoned the ground. After some little time, hearing nothing further to alarm them, they set out along the fence to a rear door in the stable. It was not locked, and they lifted the latch and tiptoed inside. Up past the stalls they crept with cat-like stealth, gained the door leading into the corral, came to a pause, and gazed outside. The horse was still in his corner, his black coat glistening in the sunlight, and Felipe once more burst into comment, excited, but carefully subdued. "A-fine! A-fine!" he breathed, rapturously. "He's lookin' joost lak a circus horse! You know, Franke," he added, turning to the other, "I haf see thee pictures on thee fences--" He interrupted himself, for the man had disappeared. "Franke!" he called, whispering. "You coom here. You all thee time--" He checked himself and smiled at the other's forethought. For Franke was emerging from a stall, carrying a halter. "Good!" he murmured. "I am forgettin' thot, _compadre_!" Then once more he turned admiring eyes upon the horse. "Never--_never_--haf I see a horse lak thot! Mooch good luck is comin' now, Franke! Why not?" They stepped bravely forth into the corral. Yet their hour had been well timed. The house was still, quiet in its morning affairs, while the countryside around, wrapped in pulsating quiet, gave off not a sound. Cautiously approaching the horse, Franke slipped the halter into position, the while Felipe once more uttered his admiration. He was a little more direct and personal, however, this time. "Well, you black devil!" he began, doubling his fist under Pat's nose. "You haf run away from me thot time, eh? But you don' run away again--bet you' life! I got you now and I keep you thees time! I haf work for you--you black devil--mooch work! You coom along now!" They led the horse into the stable, down past the stalls, and out the back door. Then they set out toward the river trail, and, with many furtive glances toward the house, gained it without interruption. Felipe's lumber rigging and team of scrawny horses stood in the shade of a cottonwood, and Franke made the horse fast to the outhanging end of the reach. When he was secure both men seated themselves just back of the forward bolster, one behind the other, and Felipe sent his horses forward. Safely out of the danger zone, though Felipe entertained but little fear of the consequences of this act, believing that he could easily prove his ownership, he became more elated with his success and burst out into garrulous speech. "You know, Franke," he began, with a backward glance at the horse ambling along peacefully in the dust, "thot _caballo_ he's strong lak a ox. He's makin' a fine horse--a _fine_ horse--in thees wagon! He's--" He suddenly interrupted himself. "Franke," he offered, generously, "for thees help I'm takin' off five dolars on thot debt now. You know? You haf never pay me thot bet--thee big bet--thee one on thee wagon and thee horses. And you haf steal seex dolars, too! But I'm forgettin' thot, now, too. All right?" The other nodded grateful acceptance. Then, as if to show gratitude further, he very solicitously inquired into the matter, especially with reference to Felipe's discovery of the horse after all these years. They were clattering across the mesa now, having come to it by way of a long detour round the town, and before replying Felipe gave his team loose rein. "Well," he began, as the horses fell back into a plodding walk, "I haf know about thot couple weeks before. I haf see thees _caballo_ in town one mornin', and a girl she is ridin' heem, and everybody is lookin', and so I'm lookin'." He paused to roll a cigarette. "And then," he continued, drawing a deep inhale of smoke, "I haf know quick lak thot"--he snapped his fingers sharply--"quick lak thot"--he snapped his fingers again--"there's my _potrillo_ grown big lak a house! And so--" "But how you knowin' thot's thee horse?" interrupted the other. "How you knowin' thot for sure?" Evidently Franke was beginning to entertain grave doubts concerning this visit to the corral. But Felipe only sneered. "How I know thot?" he asked, disdainfully. "I'm joost tellin' you! I know! Thot's enough! A horse is a horse! And I know thees horse! I know every horse! I got only to see a horse once--once only--and I'm never forgettin' thot horse! And I'm makin' no meestake now--bet you' life!" Nevertheless, flicked with doubt because of the gravity of the other, he turned his head and gazed back at the horse long and earnestly. Finally he turned around again. "I know thot horse!" he yelled. "And I'm tellin' you thees, Franke," he went on, suddenly belligerent toward the other. "If you don' t'ink I'm gettin' thee right _caballo_, I have you arrested for stealin' thot seex dolars thot time! Money is money, too. But a horse is a horse. I know thees horse. Thot's enough!" Yet he relapsed into a moody silence, puffing thoughtfully on his cigarette. Behind the outfit, Pat continued along docilely. In a way he was enjoying this strange journey across the mesa. It was all very new to him, this manner of crossing, this being tied to the rear of a wagon, and he found himself pleasantly mystified. Nor was that all. Not once had he felt called upon to rebel. In perfect contentment he followed the rigging, eyes upon the outhanging reach, for he was intent upon maintaining safe distance between this thing and himself. Once, when they were mounting up to the mesa, he had met with a sharp blow from this projection--due to sudden change of gait in the horses--and he only required the one lesson to be ever after careful. As for the men forward, he knew nothing of them, and never, to his knowledge, had seen them before. But in no way was he concerning himself about them. Nor, indeed, was he worrying over any part of this proceeding. For in his dumb animal way he was coming to know, as all dumb servants of man come to know, that life, after all, is service, a kind of self-effacing series of tasks in the interests of others, and that this ambling along behind the vehicle was but one of the many kinds. "And," suddenly broke out Felipe, who, having threshed the matter out to his satisfaction, now felt sure of his position once more, "I haf follow thees girl and thee horse. I haf see thee place where she's goin'--you know." And he winked foxily. "And then I haf coom to thees place, two, three times after thee horse. But always thee man is there. But thees mornin' I'm seein' thot _hombre_ in town, and so I haf go gettin' you to coom help me. But you haf steal seex dolars. I'm forgettin' thot--not! And if you say soomt'ing to soombody soomtime, I'm havin' you arrested, Franke, for a t'ief and a robber--same as I ought to arrest thot Pedro Garcia oop in the canyon." Franke maintained discreet silence. But not for long. Evidently he suddenly thought of a point in his own favor. "You' havin' good luck thees time, Felipe," he declared, tranquilly, "especially," he hastened to add, "when I'm t'inkin' of thee halter. Without thee halter, you know, you don' gettin' thees _caballo_." Felipe ignored this. "I haf need a horse," he went on, thoughtfully. "Thee mot'er of thees black fel'r--you know, thot's thee mot'er--she's gettin' old all time. She's soon dyin', thot _caballo_. Thees black horse he's makin' a fine one in thees wagon." Franke said nothing. Nor did Felipe speak again. And thus, in silence, they continued across the mesa and on up the canyon to the little adobe in the settlement. Arrived before the house, Franke quickly disappeared in the direction of his home, leaving Felipe to unhitch and unharness alone. But Felipe cared nothing for this. He was supremely happy--happy in the return of the long-lost colt, doubly happy in the possession of so fine a horse without outlay of money. Whistling blithely, he unhitched the team, led them back into the corral, returned to the wagon again. Here, still whistling, he untied the black and escorted him also into the inclosure. Then, after scratching his head a long moment in thought, he set out in the direction of the general store and a bottle of _vino_. As the man disappeared, Pat, standing uncertainly in the middle of the corral, followed him with a look in his eyes that hinted of vague memories that would not down. And well he might be flicked with vague memories. For he was at last returned to the brief cradle of his babyhood. Late that same afternoon, Helen, attired in riding-habit, left the house for her first afternoon canter. As she slowly crossed the _patio_, she noted the absence of Pat from his usual corner, but, assuming that he was inside the stable, called to him from the gate. But she received no answering whinny. Slightly worried, she entered the corral and stepped to the stable door, and again sounded his name. Again she received no answering whinny. She entered the stable, walked past the stalls, peered in at each with increasing alarm. Only the saddle-horse and the family horse met her troubled eyes. She stood for a moment dismayed, then once more she sounded the horse's name. But, as before, she received no answering whinny. Puzzled, perplexed, troubled with misgivings, yet refusing to believe the worst, she fell to analyzing the thing. She knew that since coming to the ranch Pat at no time had been outside the corral save in her charge. Also she recalled that only a short hour or two before she had given him sweets and had talked with him. Nor could the horse have strayed out of the inclosure, because she remembered that the gate was latched when she had reached it. All these facts flashed across her as she stood with grave eyes sweeping the stable. Finally she stepped back to the door and gazed out into the sunlight of the corral; but, as before, the inclosure was empty and silent, and now, somehow, forbidding. She called again--called to the horse, called to the Mexican. But again came only the echo of her voice, sounding hollow and solemn and plaintive through the stable. Suddenly her heart stopped beating. She remembered that the hostler had left for town on foot early in the morning. And now her fears broke bounds. The horse was gone! Some one had come in Miguel's absence. Her Pat had been stolen! He was gone for ever out of her life! Standing a moment, trembling with bitterness, she darted out of the stable, out of the corral, across the _patio_. She sped into the house and her father's study, caught up the receiver of the telephone. And then, after a long time, the connection. And her father's voice. And her frantic inquiry. And the Judge's smiling reply. And her recital of the facts--pleading, pitiful, almost whimpering. And now the Judge's serious rejoinder. And then her imperious request that he come home. And the Judge's regretful reply--could not on account of pressing matters. And then her tearful, choking outburst into the transmitter! And now suddenly the wires crossing and a strange voice demanding that she get off. And with it her utter collapse. She whirled away from the telephone, flung herself down upon a couch, and gave way to a wild outburst of tears. The thing _was_ pitiful. The horse had occupied a very big place in her life. And because that place now was empty, and because she saw no promise of its ever being filled, she sobbed wretchedly a long time. Then, rising quietly, she ascended the stairs to her room. Here she sank into a chair, one that overlooked the corral, and began an analysis of the case, taking the affair up from the very first day of Pat's coming into her life. She did not go further than that. Woman that she was, endowed with strongest intuitions and insight, she knew she had sounded the mystery of his disappearance, had sounded it as clearly as though she had been present. "Pat's rightful owners have found him and put in their claim!" She got up and began to pace the floor. "I know it," she declared with conviction. "I know it as well as I know I'm in this room. Pat--Pat has been--been taken and--and--" Tears choked back her words. Again she turned to her bed and gave way to a paroxysm of grief. Her tears lasted until sleep mercifully descended. And thus she lay, outstretched and disheveled, until the sun, slanting across the room, settled its mellow rays upon her. And even though the touch was light and gentle and somehow sympathetic, it awoke her. She rose and hurried to a window. Out in the corral all was quiet. She dropped into a chair and turned her eyes to the east--out over the mesa to the distant mountains. The mountains were draped in their evening purple, which seemed to her like mourning for her lost happiness--a happiness that might have been hers always with the horse. CHAPTER IX THE SECOND GREAT LESSON Next morning Pat, imprisoned in a tiny stable, tried to get out by thrusting his head against the door. But the door would not give. Alone in semi-darkness, therefore, he spent the day. Twice a Mexican youth came to feed and water him, but always the quantity was insufficient, and always the boy carefully locked the door after him. Because of this, together with the poor ventilation, Pat became irritable. He longed for the freedom of the big corral--its sunlight, the visits of his mistress--but these were steadfastly denied him. And so through another night and another day, until he became well-nigh distracted. He stamped the floor, fought flies, dozed, dreamed strange dreams, stamped the floor again. After three days of this, sounds outside told him of the return of man and horses. But not till the next morning, and then quite late, was he released from the odious confinement. Felipe bustled in, all eager for business. He drove his recent acquisition out into the corral and set to work harnessing one of the team--the mate of the aged mare. When she was bridled and standing in the trail in front of his empty wagon, he hurriedly returned to the new horse, placed a bridle upon his head, led him forth, and swung him close beside the other horse. He winced just a little at the incongruity of the team, though he did not let it delay him. He picked up the half of the harness and tossed it over the mare's back. Then he caught up the other half, and, preparing to toss it upon the black, began to straighten out deep and unexpected tangles. "Well, you black devil," he began, as he twisted and turned the much-bepatched harness, "you doin' soom work now! All you' life you havin' mooch good times! Eet is not for thee fun thot you live, you know?" he went on, academically, continuing to disentangle the harness. "Eet is for thee work thot you live! Work--thot's thee answer!" Then, having straightened the harness at last, with a grunt of satisfaction he tossed it lightly up. Instantly there was wild commotion. With a kick and a plunge the horse flung off the harness. Felipe stood dumfounded. It had never occurred to him that the horse was not broken to harness. Horses reared as this one evidently had been reared ought certainly to be educated to all kinds of service. Yet this horse evidently was not. He scratched his head in perplexity. To break a horse to harness was no child's play, as he well knew. To break a horse of this character to harness, as he well understood also, was a task that required exceptional patience and hardihood. What should he do? There was his constant press for money. The aged mare having almost dropped in the trail the evening before, was unfit for toil, and to break a horse to harness meant loss of time, and, as every one knows, loss of time meant loss of money. So what should he do? He was utterly at a loss. Striding to the doorstep, he sat down and regarded the horse with malevolent disgust. After a time, jerking off his hat savagely, he burst out into a thundering tirade. "You black devil! You haf give me more trouble than anyt'ing I haf ever own--chickens, burro, pigs, horses, money--money, even--money I haf owe thot robber Pedro! First you haf run away thot time! Then you haf mek me steal you out of thot place couple days before! And now"--he suddenly leaped to his feet--"now you haf mek me break you to thees wagon and harness!" He advanced to the startled horse and brandished his fist. "But I break you!" he snarled--"I break you like a horse never was broke before! And--and if I don' break you--if you don' do what I haf say--I break every bone inside!" With this he began feverishly to peel off his coat. And this is the lot of the dumb. Merely for not knowing what a man believed he should know, Pat was to be humiliated, was to be punished far beyond justice and decency. And because he was a horse abnormally highstrung and sensitive, this punishment was to be doubly cruel. To him a blow was more painful than to the average horse, even as a word of kindness sank deeper and remained longer to soften his memory. On his maternal side he was the offspring of native stock, but he was blooded to the last least end of him, and while from his mother he had inherited his softer traits, like his affection for those who showed affection for him, it was from his sire, unknown though he was, that he inherited an almost human spirit of rebellion when driven by lash or harsh word, and also the strength to exercise it. In the face of these qualities, then, he was to be broken to harness and a wagon by a man! Felipe lost little time in preparation. He set out through the settlement, his destination a distant and kindly neighbor. He moved at a stride so vigorous that the good townspeople, roused by the rare spectacle of a man in a hurry, interrupted their passive loafing beside well and in doorway, and turned wondering eyes after him. But if their eyes showed wonderment at his going, on his return they showed amazement and a kind of horror. For Felipe, acting for once in the capacity of work-horse, was straining along at the end of a huge wagon-tongue affixed to a crude and mastodonic axle which in turn supported two monolithic cart-wheels. It was a device by which he meant to break the horse to harness, and, perspiring freely, and swearing even more freely, he dragged it shrieking for grease through the settlement, really at work, but work which was not to be admired. Reaching the clearing in front of his house, he dropped the heavy tongue and whipped out a red handkerchief with a sigh of relief. Also, as he wiped away the perspiration on his forehead and neck and arms, he turned baleful eyes upon the innocent cause of his toil. "You black devil!" he growled, after a moment. "I feex you now--bet you' life! And you can keeck--and keeck and keeck! You don' worry thees cart mooch! You black devil!" Then he became active again. He strode back into the corral, sought out an old harness and a huge collar, and dragged them forward into the trail. Flinging them aside in the direction of the cart, he then turned to the mare, removed the work-harness from her, and led her into position before the warlike vehicle. Again perspiring freely, but losing no breath now in abusive talk, he quickly harnessed her up and then strode forward to the black. After eying him narrowly a moment, he seized his bridle and led him back alongside the mare, where he proceeded nervously to harness him. "We see now," he began, as he picked up the massive collar. "You can stond still--thot's right! And maybe you can take thees t'ing--we see!" The collar was much too large for workaday use, but it was not too large for this purpose. Its very size gave it freedom to pass over the head without the usual twisting and turning. Nor did the horse rebel when it was so placed--a fact which gave Felipe much relief, since he now believed that he would not have the trouble he had anticipated. Also, with the collar in position, he was but a moment in adjusting the hames, making fast the bottom strap, and hooking the tugs securely. With everything in readiness he then caught up the reins and the whip, and stepped away to begin the real work of breaking. "_Haya!_" he cried, and touched up the off-horse. She started forward, as always with this command from her master. But she did not go far. Pat was the cause of the delay. Understanding neither the contraption at his heels, nor the word of command from the man, he held himself motionless and pleasantly uninterested, gazing slowly about at the landscape. Nor did he offer to move when the man cut him viciously with the whip. The lash pitted his tender flesh and hurt mightily; but even though he now understood what was required of him, he only became stubborn--bracing his legs and flattening his ears, forcefully resisting the counter efforts of the mare beside him. And this was his nature. Long before he had demonstrated that he would not be governed by a whip. That day in the Richardses' corral, when he was broken to saddle, cruelty alone would never have conquered him. Cruelty there had been, and much of it; but with the cruelty there had been other things--evidence of affection at the right moment, both in his mistress and in the men about him, and these, coupled with quick understanding, had made the breaking a success. And had there been evidence of kindness now, somewhere revealed early by this man, Pat might have drawn the cart as the straining mate at his side was attempting to draw it. But there was no evidence of kindness, and as a result he remained stubborn and wilful, standing braced and trembling, true in every particular to the spirit of his forebears. Nor was Felipe less true to the spirit within himself. Infuriated, uncompromising, believing this to be merely the cussedness natural with the native horses, he abandoned all hope of instant success and gave way to brutality. Dropping the reins and reversing the whip in his hands, he began to beat the horse unmercifully, bringing the heavy butt down again and again, each mighty thwack echoing down the canyon. The result was inevitable. The horse began to kick--straight back at first, then, finding his hoofs striking the cart, he swung sideways to the tongue and kicked straight out. This last was sudden, and narrowly missed Felipe, who leaped to one side. Then, unable to reach the horse with the butt, he reversed the whip again and resumed his first torture, that of pitting the legs of the horse with the lash. "Keeck!" he snarled, continuing to swing the whip. "Keeck! Keeck! I can keeck, too!" He swung his arm till it ached, when he stopped. Whereupon the horse settled down. But his eyes were ablaze and he was trembling all over. Also, while undoubtedly suffering added distress from the taut and binding traces, he continued to stand at right angles to the mare--head high, nostrils quivering, mouth adrip with white slaver--until the spirit of rebellion appeared to grip him afresh. With a convulsive heave he moved again, making another quarter turn, which brought him clear of the tongue and facing the vehicle. Then he set up a nervous little prancing, whisking his tail savagely, now and again lifting his heels as if to strike. That was all. He gained no ground forward, nor did it appear as if he would ever move forward. "You--you--" began Felipe, then subsided, evidently too wrathful for words. And he remained silent, gazing wearily toward the settlement, as though about to call assistance. The stillness was heavy and portentous. Both horses were motionless. Felipe continued silent. Off toward the settlement all was still. Overhead, the early-morning sky pressed low, spotless and shimmering, brooding. Around and about, the flies seemed to stop buzzing. Everywhere lurked the quiet. The earth appeared bowed in humiliation, hushed in prayer as for the unfortunate one, while up and down the trail, basking in world-old light, lay dust of centuries, smug and contented in its quiescence. All nature was still, gripped in tense quiet. The crack of a whip broke it. Felipe, suddenly bestirring himself, had sprung forward and dealt the horse a blow with the butt. Across the nose, it had sounded hollow and distant; and the horse, whipping up his head in surprised pain, now turned upon the man a look at once sorrowful and terrible, a look which spelled death and destruction. Nor did he only look. With a strange outcry, shrill and piercing, awaking the canyon in unnatural echoes, he whirled in his harness and reared, reared despite his harness, and struck out with venomous force. It was quick as a lightning flash, but, quick as it was, Felipe avoided it. And it was fortunate that he did. Terror-stricken and dropping the whip, he sped to the rear, to a point behind the cart, and there turned amazed eyes at the pirouetting horse. What manner of horse was this, he asked himself. Could it be that this horse, black as night, was truly of the lower regions? Certainly he looked it, balancing there on his hind legs, with his reddened eyes and inflamed nostrils! And--But what was this? From the corral had come a shrill nicker, the voice of the aged mare. But that was not it! With the outcry, seemingly an answer to the black's maddened outcry, the black dropped to all-fours again, turning quick ears and eyes in the direction of the sound! What manner of horse was this, anyway? Never before had he seen such a horse! He felt himself go limp. There is a call in nature that sounds for life against death. It is a call put forth in innumerable different tongues around the world, and it sounds somewhere every second of the day and darkness--through jungles, across swamps, down mountains, over plains, out of valleys. It is a cry of warning, a cry to disarm foes. It is an outcry of good as against evil--the squawk of a hen to her chicks, the bleat of a sheep to her lambs, the grunt of a sow to her sucklings, the bellow of a cow to her calf, the purr of a cat to her kittens, the whine of a dog to her puppies, the drum of a partridge to her young. A cry from the heart to the heart, an appeal of flesh to its own flesh, it is the world-old mother-call. And the horse heard this call. He probably did not recognize in it a call of the mother-heart, any more than it was possible for the aged mare to recognize in his outcry the voice of her own flesh. What he did hear, no doubt, was the voice of a friend, one who understood and pitied, and would help if it could help. At any rate, he stood very still, seemingly grateful for the evidence of a champion, seemingly anxious that it sound again. But it did not sound again. Yet he made no further effort to give battle. He held to his attitude of intent listening, ears cocked forward and eyes straining and tail at rest, until Felipe, stung into action by an idea wrought out of all this, hastened out from behind the cart and away in the direction of the corral. At sight of him the horse became restless again, squaring himself once more to the mare, stamping his feet and champing his bit nervously. He seemed to lose all recollection of the outcry, all the peace it had engendered within him. Of such are the kingdom of the dumb. Possessed by his idea, an idea so brilliant that he himself marveled, Felipe was not long in putting it to test. He hurriedly bridled the aged mare and led her out into the trail. He placed her alongside the black--for reasons which, had the _compadre_ Franke been present, Felipe might have suggested with a crafty wink--then hastily began to unhitch the team-mate. And it was just here that he proved his foresight. In the work of unhitching the mate, he should have encountered, and had expected, trouble from the black. But he did not. The mare sounded another friendly nicker when arranged beside him, and the black, pricking up his ears sharply, turned to her and proceeded to establish his friendship by licking her. So Felipe did not meet with difficulty from that direction; nor did he have trouble in the direction of the team-mate herself. She seemed glad to be relieved from her unsuccessful task, and Felipe, glad to relieve her in the light of his brilliant idea, led her off to one side quickly, then returned and swung the old mare into her place. He hitched her up, picked up the reins and whip, and set about with his test. "We see now," he began, his voice quiet and encouraging. "Maybe you work wit' thee old woman! We see!" And he gave a low command. With the command Pat started forward, urged to it by the aged mare--pulling more than his share of the load. Perhaps it was due to her presence; perhaps to the note of kindness in Felipe's voice. At any rate, he moved, and he moved forward, and he moved with a steady pull. Yet he did not proceed far. Though he did not stop through rebellion. It was simply to renew his attentions to the old mare. He began to caress her as if he really recognized in this rack of an animal his own lost mother. But recognition, of course, was impossible. Long before, the only source of recognition, appeal made through digestive organs, had disappeared. Nevertheless, he lavished upon her unwonted affection until Felipe gently but firmly urged him forward again. Then again he proceeded, pulling all of the load this time, bringing about a slack in the traces of the mare and a consequent bumping of her hind legs against the cart which seemed to awaken some of her dying spirit. Up and down the trail they moved, the mare sedately, the horse actively, prancing gaily, appearing to take gleeful pleasure in his task, until Felipe, kindled with elation and pride, decided to drive on into the settlement and there become the object of covetous eyes. Therefore he urged the team forward to a point in front of the general store, where in lordly composure sat Pedro, occupying his customary seat on an empty keg on the porch. At sight of him Felipe's joy leaped to the heavens, and he pulled up the team, ostensibly to adjust a forward buckle, but in reality to afford Pedro an uninterrupted view of the beautiful black. Moving forward to the head of the horses, he watched out of the tail of his eye Pedro's lazy survey of the team. "Where you got thot horse?" inquired Pedro, after a long moment, as he slowly removed a cigarette from between his lips. "I mean," he added, "where you haf _steal_ thot _caballo_?" Felipe winced. But he did not immediately retort. He carried out his bluff, unbuckling and buckling one of the straps, then mildly straightened up and faced the man. "Pedro," he began, tensely, "you haf know--José, Juan, Manuel, Francisco, Carlotta--all haf know--thot eet is only one t'ief in all thees place! And thot man--thot t'ief--is Pedro Garcia!" Pedro grunted. "Where you haf steal thot horse?" he repeated, without show of anger. "You can give me thot horse," he continued, placidly. "You haf owe me mooch money. I take thot horse for payment--everyt'ing. You give thot _caballo_ to me." Felipe turned to the team. "I give you one keeck in thee belly!" he roared. Then he touched up the horses and started back toward the house. Gone was all elation, all pride, all gleeful consciousness of possession. Gaining the clearing, he decided to try out the other horse with the black. He realized that the aged mare was unfit, even though in the last hour she had appeared greatly to improve, and he must accordingly match up a team. So he unhitched her and swung the mate into place. He met with disagreeable surprise, however. The black would not pull with this horse. Instead, he held himself quietly at rest, gazing about sleepily over the landscape, a trick of his, as Felipe had learned, when quietly rebelling. Felipe looked at him a moment, but did not try to force him with tongue or lash. For he was coming to understand this horse, and, concluding that sooner or later, under proper treatment, he would probably accept duty with any mate, determined to abandon work for the day. Whereupon he unhitched the horses and led them all back into the corral. Then he put up the bars and set out in the direction of the settlement. Which ended Pat's second great lesson at the hand of man. He was sore and somewhat stiff from the struggle, but he did not fret long over his condition, for he soon awoke to the presence of that beside him in the corral which caused him to forget himself completely. It was the worn-out structure of skin and bones who had befriended him in his hour of trial. He gazed at her a moment, then approached and fell to caressing her, showing in this attention his power to forget self--aches, sores, troubles--in his affection and gratitude toward all things warranting affection and gratitude. CHAPTER X THE STRANGER AGAIN Meantime, Helen was becoming desperate over her loss. Unwilling to accept the theory of her household, which was that Pat had been stolen by a band of organized thieves and ere this was well out of the neighborhood and probably the county, she had held firmly to her original idea, _viz._, that the horse was in the possession of his rightful owners, and so could not be far out of the community. Therefore, the morning following his disappearance, having with sober reflection lightened within her the seriousness of it all, she had set out in confident search for him, mounted on her brown saddler. But though she had combed the town and the trails around the town, quietly interviewing all such teamsters and horsemen as might by any chance know something about it, yet in answer to her persistent inquiries all she had received was a blank shake of the head or an earnest expression of willingness to assist her. So, because she had continued her search for three days without success, inquiring and peering into every nook and corner of the community, she finally had come to regard her quest as hopeless, and to become more than ever an image of despair. The evening of the fourth day there was a dance. It was one of the regular monthly affairs, and because Helen was a member of the committee she felt it her duty to attend. One of the young men, accompanied by his mother and sister, drove out for her, but she left the house with reluctance and a marked predisposition not to enjoy herself. But she forgot this when she presently beheld the young man from the East whom she had encountered on the mesa. He was standing close beside a rather frail little woman, undoubtedly his mother, who with the matrons of the town was seated near a fireplace watching the dancers. He was introduced. Later they sat out one of his numbers alone together in a corner behind some potted palms. In the course of their conversation Helen informed him of the disappearance of her horse, and asked him, as she asked everybody she met now, if he knew anything or had heard anything concerning the loss. The young man knew nothing of the great disappearance, however, though he did offer it as his belief that a horse of Pat's obvious value could not long remain in obscurity. This was encouraging, and Helen felt herself become hopeful again. But when he offered his services in the search, as he did presently, she felt not only hopeful again, but somehow quite certain now that it would all be cleared up. For there was that in this young gentleman which caused confidence. What she told him, however, was that she was grateful for his offer, and should be greatly pleased to have him with her. And thus it was that, on the morning of the fifth day, Helen Richards and Stephen Wainwright--the young man's name--together with two of Helen's close friends, were riding slowly across the mesa, alert for any combination in harness which might reveal the lost Pat. Helen and Stephen were well in the lead, and Helen had broken the silence by addressing Stephen as a native, recalling their first meeting. Whereupon the young man, smiling quietly, had wanted to know why; but after she had explained that it was because he had enlisted himself in the search for a horse, adding that in doing so he had conformed with one of the unwritten laws of the country, he still confessed himself in the dark. This had been but a moment before, and she now settled herself to explain more fully. "A horse is, or was, our most valued property," she began. "I reckon the past tense is better--though we'll never quite live down our interest in horses." She smiled across at him. "Long ago," she went on, "in the days of our Judge Lynch, you know, a stolen horse meant a hanged man--or two or three--as not infrequently happened. But all that is history now. Yet the feeling remains. And whenever one of our horses disappears--it is rare now--we all take it more or less as a personal loss. In your willingness to help find Pat, therefore, you declare yourself one of us--and are gladly admitted." He rode along in silence. "Why was the feeling so intense in the old days?" he inquired, after a time. "It was due to physical conditions," she replied--"the geography of the country. Water-holes were few and very far apart, and to get from one to another often entailed a journey impossible to a man without a horse. To steal his horse, therefore, was to deprive him of his sole means of getting to water--practically to deprive him of his life. If he didn't die of thirst, which frequently he did, at best it was a very grave offense. It isn't considered so now--not so much so, at any rate--unless in the desert wastes to the west of us. Yet the feeling still lurks within us, and a stolen horse is a matter that concerns the whole community." He nodded thoughtfully, but remained silent. Suddenly Helen drew rein. Before her was a horned toad, peculiarly a part of the desert, blinking up at them wickedly. He drew rein and followed her eyes. "A horned toad, isn't it?" Helen shook her head. "Are you interested in such things?" she inquired. "In a way--yes," he affirmed, doubtfully. "Though I can't see good reason for their existence." His eyes twinkled. "Can you?" Helen was thoughtful a moment. "Well, no," she admitted, finally. "Yet there must be a good reason. Reptiles must live for some good purpose. All things do--don't you think?" Then, before he could make a rejoinder, she went on: "I sometimes feel that these creatures were originally placed here to encourage other and higher forms of life to come and locate in the desert--were placed here, in other words, to prove that life is possible in all this desolation." He glanced at her. "Certainly it has worked out that way, at any rate," he ventured. "Good old Genesis!" He smiled. "It seems to have," she agreed, thoughtfully. "Because you and I are here. But it goes a long way back--to Genesis--yes. Following the initial placing, other and higher organisms, finding in their migratory travels this evidence of life, accepted the encouragement to remain, and did remain, feeding upon the life found here in the shape of toads and lizards--to carry the theory forward a step--even as the toads and lizards--to carry it back again--fed upon the insects which they in their turn found here. Then along came other forms of life, higher in the cosmic setting, and these, finding encouragement in the presence of the earlier arrivals, fed upon them and remained. And so on up, to the forerunners of our present-day animals--coyotes and prairie-dogs. And after these, primitive man--to find encouragement in the coyotes and prairie-dogs--and to feed upon them and remain. Then after primitive man, the second type--the brown man; and after the brown man, the red man; and after the red man, the white man--all with an eye to sustenance, and finding it, and remaining." Stephen's eyes swept around the desert absently. He knew--this young man--that he was in the presence of a personality. For he could not help but draw comparisons between the young woman beside him and the young women of his acquaintance in the East. While he had found Eastern girls vivacious, and attractive with a kind of surface charm, never had he known one to take so quiet and unassuming an outlook upon so broad a theme. It was the desert, he told himself. Here beside him was a type unknown to him, and one so different from any he had as yet met with, he felt himself ill at ease in her presence--a thing new to him, too--and which in itself gave him cause to marvel. Yes, it was the desert. It _must_ be the desert! In this slender girl beside him he saw a person of insight and originality, a girl assuredly not more than twenty years of age, attractive, and thoroughly feminine. How ever did they do it? He harked back in his thoughts to her theory. And he dwelt not so much upon the theory itself as upon her manner of advancing it. Running back over these things, recalling the music of her voice, together with her spoken musings, he came to understand why, with that first encounter, he had found himself almost instantly curious concerning desert folk. Not that he had known why at the time, or had given that phase of it consideration. He did remember that he had been strongly impressed by the way she had managed her bolting horse. But aside from that, there had been something in her personality, an indefinable calm and sureness, a grip upon herself, that he had felt the very first moment. Undoubtedly all this had flicked him into a novel curiosity. He pulled himself together with an effort. "I like your theory," he answered, smiling. "And it must be true, because I am told horned toads are fast disappearing. Evidently they have served their purpose. But tell me," he concluded, "what is becoming of them? Where are they going?" She laughed. "I can't tell you that. Perhaps they just vanish into the fourth--or maybe the fifth--dimension!" And this was the other side of her, a side he had come to learn while with her at the dance, and which made her lovable as well as admirable. But she was speaking again, and again was serious. "I have yet another theory," she said--"one as to why these creatures are here, you know." She smiled across at him. "It is all my very own, too! It is that in their presence among us--among mankind--they unwittingly develop us through thought. Thinking exercises the brain, we are told, and exercising the brain makes for world-advancement--we are told." Then, suddenly, "I hope you don't think me silly--Mr. Native?" But he remained sober. "Tell me," he asked, after a time, "what it is about this country--I mean other than friendships, of course--that gets under a fellow's soul and lifts it--to the end that he wants to remain here? I know there is something, though I can't for the life of me place it. What is it, anyway?" She turned upon him sharply. "Do you really feel that way?" she asked, evidently pleased. "I feel that way. But why do I feel that way? What is it? You know what I mean. There is something--there must be!" "I know what you mean--yes," she replied, thoughtfully. "Yet I doubt if I myself, even after all these years, can define it. What you 'feel' must be our atmosphere--its rarity, its power to exhilarate. Though that really doesn't explain it. I reckon it's the same thing--only much more healthful, more soulful--that one feels in large cities after nightfall. I mean, the glare of your incandescent lights. I honestly believe that that glare, more than any other single thing, holds throngs of people to an existence not only unnatural, but laden with a something that crushes as well." She was silent. Again Stephen felt the strange pull on his interest, but he said nothing. After a time she went on. "City-dwellers," she explained, "don't begin their day till the approach of dark. It's true of both levels of society, too--lower as well as upper. And I believe the reason for this lies, as I have said, in the atmosphere--their man-made atmosphere--just as the secret of your feeling the way you do lies in our atmosphere--God-made. Were this atmosphere suddenly to disappear, both out of your cities and out of my deserts, both your world and my own would lose all of their charm." Stephen bestirred himself. "What psychology do you find in that?" he asked, dwelling upon the fact that she knew his East so well. "Merely the effect of softening things--for the soul as well as the eye--through the eye, indeed, to the soul. Our atmosphere here does that--softens the houses, and the trees, and the cattle, and the mountains, and the distant reaches. It softens our nights, too. Perhaps you have noticed it? How everything appears shrouded in a kind of hazy, mellow, translucent something that somehow reacts upon you? I have. And I believe that is the secret of one's wanting to remain in the country, once he has exposed himself to it. It is a kind of spell--a hypnosis. When out of it one wants to get back into it. "I know I felt it when I was East, attending school," she went on, quietly. "Living always in this atmosphere, I somehow had forgotten its charm--as one will forget all subtle beauty unless frequently and forcibly reminded of it. But in the East I missed it, and found myself restless and anxious to get back into it. Indeed, I felt that I must get back or die! So one day, when your Eastern spirit of sudden change was upon me, I packed and came home. It was a year short of my degree, too. But I could not remain away another day--simply had to get back--and back I came. My degree--my sheepskin"--she was smiling--"couldn't hold me!" "Then you've spent some time in the East?" he asked, tentatively. "Yes," she replied, "that much--three years. And I didn't like it." "Why?" he asked, a little surprised. She regarded him curiously. He saw a look of mild annoyance in her eyes, one that seemed to tell of her inability to understand so needless a question. "I just didn't," she rejoined, after a moment. "I discovered that you Easterners value things which are diametrically opposite to the things we value, and that you value not at all those things which we value most of all." He had to laugh. "What are they?" he wanted to know. For an instant she showed shyness. "Oh, I can't say," she declared, finally. "Some day I may tell you." Stephen realized that it must be serious. He was hesitating whether to press her further, when he saw her tighten her reins, put spurs to her horse, and go flashing off in the direction of the mountain trail. As she dashed off he heard her call out: "Pat!" she cried. "Pat! It's Pat!" Then she glanced to the rear. "Adele! Sam! It's Pat! Come, quick!" Stephen spurred on with the others. He galloped after this hard-riding girl--so intensely alive--a girl past his understanding. Over dunes and across flats he charged, followed closely by the others, urging his horse to his utmost. But, try as he might, he could not overtake her or even lessen the distance between them, so furious was her race for her lost horse. Finally he burst out upon the trail and drew rein beside her, standing with the others in the path of an oncoming wood-wagon, anxiously awaiting its slow approach. It was a curious outfit. One of the team, an aged and decrepit horse, was laboring along with head drooping and hoofs scuffling the trail, while beside it, with head erect and nostrils aquiver and hoofs lifting eagerly, stepped the glorious Pat! Both horses were draped in a disreputable harness, crudely patched with makeshift string and wire, and both were covered with a fine coating of dust. Atop all this, high and mighty upon an enormous load of wood, sat a Mexican, complacently smoking a cigarette and contentedly swinging his heels, evidently elated with this prospect of parading his horse before a group of Americans. But as he drew close a look of uneasiness crept over him, and he pulled up his team and shrugged his shoulders, as a preliminary, no doubt, to disappearance behind the Mexican shield of "No sabe!" Helen swung close to him. There was a choice between a contest and diplomatic concession. She decided to offer to purchase the horse at once, believing this to be the easiest way out of the trouble. "_Señor_," she began in Spanish, "_deseo comprar_ _aquel caballo negro. Puedo pagar cualquire cantidad razonable por el. Se perdio y nosotros lo cuidamos, y he aprendido a quererlo mucho. Si usted quiere venderlo me haria un gran favor. Siento mucho que me lo hayan quitado._" The Mexican looked relieved. He slowly removed his hat with true Castilian courtesy. "_Señorita_," he replied, "_lo venderia con gusto pero pienso que me paga lo que quiero por el_." Which delighted Helen. "_Pagare lo que sea._" The Mexican hesitated a moment. "_¿Pagara cuarenta pesos?_" he asked, finally. "_Yo tambien quiero al caballo mucho_," he added. "_Pero por cuarenta pesos pienso--pienso que lo olvido._" And he grinned. Helen turned to the others. For Stephen's benefit she explained what had been said, and the men promptly offered to make up the required forty dollars. Helen turned to the Mexican, accepted his price, and requested him to release Pat from the harness. Whereat the Mexican smiled broadly; shrugged his shoulders suddenly; forgot his rôle of "No sabe." "How," he burst out--"how I'm gettin' thees wagon to town? I'm pullin' eet myself?" The others laughed. Then Helen, deciding upon another arrangement, instructed him to drive forward. She could see her father in town, she explained to the others, and there also, after the exchange of money, the Mexican could purchase another horse. Which closed the matter. The Mexican started the team forward, while the others fell in alongside, ranging themselves on either side. Thus they journeyed into town--a strange cavalcade--Pat prancing, the mare drooping, the Mexican visibly pleased, the others gratified by their unexpected success. In town they turned into a side street, and there Helen left them, going off in the direction of her father's office. When she returned, the Judge was with her. He read the Mexican a brief but stern lecture on the law pertaining to the recovery of lost property, and closed the deal. Whereupon the wood-hauler unharnessed Pat, bestowed him smilingly upon Helen, and took himself off, evidently in quest of another horse, for he headed straight as a plumb-line for the city pound. * * * * * Pat was home again. He knew it from many things--the white fence, the clean stable, the Mexican hostler with broom in hand. And though he was at home where he wanted to be, yet he found himself filled with vague uneasiness. After a time he sought to relieve it. He made his way into the stable, but he found no relief there. He returned to the corral, and began slowly to circle inside the fence, but neither did this relieve him. Finally he took up his old stand in the sunlit corner, where he fell to listening with ears and eyes attentive to least sounds. But even this did not relieve him. Nor would anything ever relieve him. Never would he find absolute solace from his inner disquiet. For what he sought and could not find, what he listened for and could not hear, was another of those sounds which had relieved the tedium of his brief stay in the mountains, the friendly nicker of the aged mare, gone to toil out her life in the racking treadmill between town and mountain. CHAPTER XI LOVE REJECTED Pat had just been clipped. And never was there a horse nearer perfection! Shorn of all hair, his splendid physique, now in fullest maturity, stood out clean-cut and fascinating. In weight he might have tipped the scales at ten hundred pounds. In color his skin, which now showed clearly, was a shade darker than that of the elephant, but it showed the richness of velvet. His body through the trunk was round and symmetrical; his haunches were wide without projection of the hip-bones; and his limbs, the stifle and lower thigh, were long and strong and fully developed. Added to these, he was high in the withers, the line of back and neck curving perfectly; his shoulders were deep and oblique; and his long, thick fore arm, knotty with bulging sinews, told of powerful muscles. And finally, his knees across the pan were wide, the cannon-bone below thin and short, the pasterns long and sloping, and the hoofs round and dark and neatly set on. While over all--over the small, bony head, beautiful neck and shoulders--over the entire body, clear down to the hoofs--ran a network of veins like those on the back of a leaf, only more irregular--veins which stood out as though the skin were but thin parchment through which the blood might burst. A rare horse, rare in any country, doubly rare in this land of the small Spanish product, was the rating given to Pat by men trained to judge value at sight. And so widespread did this appraisal become, along trail, beside camp-fire, in bunk-house, that it was known throughout the length and breadth of the Territory, and beyond the Territory, that Judge Richards was the owner of a horse the like of which never had been seen south of the Pecos. For several days after the clipping, Helen did not choose to ride. So Pat was permitted the doubtful pleasure of loafing about in the inclosure. Then one morning, when the winter day was unusually warm, he awoke to a great clatter of hoofs outside the corral. Directly he saw a party of young people, men and girls under the chaperonage of a comely matron, dismounting in high spirits. As the party swung down he saw his mistress appear from the house, attired in her riding-habit, and, understanding the object of all this, since these parties had become frequent in the past two months, he pressed close to the fence, anxious to be off. The Mexican bridled and saddled him; his mistress and the others mounted; soon all clattered out upon the river-trail. The day was beautiful, and Helen, riding, as usual, beside Stephen, both in the rear, enjoyed the morning keenly. Overhead, out of a shimmering azure sky, the sun beamed mildly down, penetrating the chill of the morning, yet leaving enough tang to bring a bloom to their cheeks. On their left the river, high with melted snows from the north, moved in slow eddies near the shore, quicker eddies away from the shore, steady and swift flow in the middle--a changing, fascinating panorama. There fell a long silence before she turned to the young man beside her. "Well, Mr. Native," she began, smiling, "I hope you don't mean to bury yourself this morning! For more than a month you have had very little to say to me. I don't like it, because I can't understand it, and so I won't have it!" Then she became serious. "Whatever is the matter, Stephen?" Pat, walking slowly beside the unfriendly horse, was attentive. He heard his mistress's voice, and somehow knew she was troubled. Then directly he had positive proof of this, for she suddenly began to stroke his neck and shoulders. Always she did this when thoughtful, but though he strained his ears for further sounds of her voice, he did not hear her. What he did hear presently was the voice of the young man, and having learned long before to discriminate between different shades of the human voice, he knew from its low and tense quality that the topic was a vital one. He listened sharply, heedful of any least change of intonation that might be interpreted as a climax. But instead he was relieved presently to hear the voice of his mistress again, breaking in upon the low, constrained tones of the young man. Pat held his ears steadily back. He noted that her voice was well under control, and she appeared to be answering the young man. Also, it was quite evident that she was not accepting his argument, whatever it was. Yet her voice took on many delicate changes. Sometimes he heard a note of pleading; again, mild exasperation; and once a falling inflection which hinted at sadness. So it continued, his mistress talking as he had never heard her talk before, until the group ahead drew rein and wheeled, indicating their intention of returning. Then once more the voice of his mistress changed suddenly and became light, even gay, leaving Pat, as he himself was turned around, a very much mystified horse. Yet this gaiety did not last. When they were well on their way back toward the ranch, with the sun higher and brighter in the heavens, and the trail correspondingly whiter and more dazzling to the eye, he found himself listening to grave tones again--the voice of the young man. He talked steadily now, his flow of words always tense, though occasionally interrupted by the other with a quiet rejoinder. Then suddenly he ceased altogether, and Pat, acutely conscious of the silence which descended upon them, was relieved when it was broken by sounds of laughter ahead. Still the pair above him did not speak. Each appeared to be adrift on a sea of thought the like of which he had never known. And it continued, this ominous silence, and became heavier, until he saw the ranch loom up ahead. Then he felt his mistress urge him into a canter that she might join the others for the parting. But when the party broke up, as it did with much good feeling, and he found himself turned loose to one side, with his mistress and the young man walking into the shade of a cottonwood, he found himself forced, since he now was out of range of their voices, to forego any further listening, keenly against his desires. So he gave it all up as a bad job. "Stephen," began Helen, seating herself upon a hummock of earth, "I am sorry--sorry beyond words--that it has turned out this way! I must admit that I like you--like you very much! But--but I am afraid it is not the sort of liking you ask." He was seated beside her, reclining upon one elbow, absently thrusting the tip of his riding-whip into a tuft of grass. And now again, as before that morning, he told her of his very great love for her, his deep voice vibrant with emotion, grimly acknowledging himself as unworthy of her, yet asking with rare simplicity that she take him anyway, take him in spite of his unworthiness, declaring it as his belief she would find him in time worthy--that he would try to make himself worthy--_would_ make himself worthy--would overcome those faults which evidently--though she had not as yet told him what they were--made him impossible in her eyes. Then suddenly he asked her to tell him precisely what these faults were. He knew that he had many and could only blame himself for them. But which of them did she find chiefly objectionable? He was pitiable in his pleading. But Helen shook her head. "I--I can't tell you, Stephen," she declared, her voice breaking. "It--it is too much to ask of--of any girl." He rose, turning toward the distant mountains, bright and smiling in their noonday splendor. As his eyes dwelt upon them in brooding silence, Helen gained her feet. And, aware of her great part in this wretchedness, she took his hand very gently in her own. Subtly conscious of the touch, realizing the tumult in his soul, she found herself suddenly alive to a feeling within her deeper than mere pity and sympathy. It was the anguish preceding tears. Quickly withdrawing her hand, she turned and fled to the house. Inside, she slowly approached a window. He was leading Pat into the corral; and, watching him unsaddle and unbridle her horse, her treasure, she awoke to something else within her, a strange swelling of her heart, different from anything she had ever known. It was like ownership; it was a something as of maternal pride, a something new to her which she could not fathom. She turned away. When she looked out again, her eyes dry and burning, he was riding slowly along the trail toward town. It was the beginning of the end. Winter passed, with horses abandoned for the delights, swift-following, of dinner and dance and house party. These affairs made deep inroads upon Helen's time, and so Pat was left pretty much to his own reflections. Yet he managed to fill the days to his satisfaction. Standing in the stable, he loved to watch the snow-capped mountains, and the tiny white clouds scudding around them, and the mellow radiance of golden sunlight streaming over them. Also, gazing out of the little square window, he spent long periods in viewing the hard brown of the nearer mesaland--the dips and dunes and thread-like arroyos, with an occasional horseman crawling between. Or else, when he found himself yearning for his mistress, he would turn eyes upon the house, and with lazy speculation regard its sun-flecked windows, tightly shut doors, and smoking chimneys, in the hope that she might step forth. Then came more mild weather when he would spend long hours outside the stable, in his corner in the corral, there to renew his silent vigil over nature and the house from this vantage. Thus he filled his days, and found them not so long as formerly in his babyhood, when each hour was fraught with so many little things that demanded his closest interest and attention. Nights found him early at rest. But not all nights. Nights there were when the house would be lighted from cellar to garret, when spectral forms would move in and out of doors, and when shadows would flicker across drawn shades. Such nights were always his nights, for he would hear sounds of merriment, and voices lifted in song, and above the voices, tinkling toward him on the crisp air, the music of a piano. Such nights were his nights, for he knew that his mistress was happy, and he would force open the stable door, step out under the cold stars, and take up his stand in his corner, there to rest his head upon the topmost board and turn steady eyes upon the scene of merriment until the last guest had departed. Always on these nights, with wintry chills coursing down his legs or rollicking along his spine, he found himself wanting to be a part of this gaiety, wanting to enter the house, where he instinctively knew it was warm and comfortable, where he might nuzzle the whole gathering for sugar and apples. But this he could not do. He could only turn longing eyes upon the cottage and stand there until, all too soon, sounds of doors opening and closing, together with voices in cheery farewell, told him that the party was at an end. Then he would see mysterious forms flitting across to the trail, and lights in the house whisking out one by one, until the cottage gradually became engulfed in darkness. Then, but not till then, would he turn away from his corner, walk back slowly into the stable, and, because of the open door, which he could open but never close, suffer intensely from the cold throughout the long night. One such occasion, when the round moon hung poised in the blue-black dome of heaven, and he was standing as usual in his corner, with eyes upon the brilliantly lighted house, he became suddenly aware of two people descending the rear porch and making slowly toward him. At first he did not recognize his own mistress and the young man who had been her almost constant companion since that memorable fright on the mesa eight months before. But as they drew closer, and he came to know the slender form in white, he sounded a soft whinny of greeting and pressed eagerly close to the fence. The pair came near, very near; but neither of them paid the least attention to him--a fact which troubled him deeply. And directly his mistress spoke, but, as she was addressing herself to the young man, this troubled him even more. But he could listen, and listen he did. "Stephen," she was saying, "you _must_ accept my answer as final. For you must know, Stephen," she went on, quietly, "that I have not changed toward you. My answer to-night, and my answer to-morrow night, and my answer for ever, in so far as I can see, will be what it was last autumn. I am more than sorry that this is so. But it is so, nevertheless." She was firm, though Pat, knowing her well, knew that it required all the force of her trembling soul to give firmness to her words. Stephen felt something of this as he stood beside her in grim meekness. With his hungry eyes upon her, he felt the despair of one sunk to utter depths, of a man mentally and physically broken. For he loved this girl. And it was this love, God-given, that made him persist. In the spell of this love he realized that he was but a weak agent, uttering demands given him to utter, and unable, through a force as mighty as Nature herself, to do otherwise. Yet though he was utterly torn apart, he was able, despite this mighty demand within him, to understand her viewpoint. He had understood it from the first. But the craving within would not let him accept it. "I suppose," he rejoined, "that the one decent course for me would be to drop all this. But somehow I can't. I love you that way, Helen! Don't you understand? I cannot let go! I seem to be forced repeatedly to make--make a boor of myself!" There was a moment's silence. "Yet I have resisted it," he went on. "I have fought it--fought it with all the power I have! But I--I somehow--cannot let go!" Helen said nothing. She herself was coming to realize fully the depths of this man's passion. She knew--knew as few women have known--that here was a man who wanted her; but she knew also, and she was sorry to know it, that she could not conscientiously give herself to him. She regretted it not alone for his sake, but for her own as well. She liked him, liked him better than any other man she had ever known. But she knew that she could not marry him, and believed in her heart that her reasons for refusing him were just reasons. But she remained silent, true to her decision. When Stephen spoke again it was not to plead with her; he seemed at last to have accepted her refusal for all time. But he asked her reason for absolutely refusing him--not that it mattered much now, since he faced the inevitable, but thought the knowledge might in future guide and strengthen him. He talked rapidly, hinting at beliefs and idolatries, comparing West with East, and East with West, while he stood motionless, one hand upon the fence--earnest, sincere, strong in his request. When he had uttered his last sad word, Helen found herself, as she searched his drawn profile pityingly, no more able to deny him an answer than at the time of their first chance meeting she could have controlled the fate which had brought it about. "Stephen," she burst out, "I will tell you--though I don't want to tell you--remember! And if in the telling," she hurried on, "I prove rather too candid--please stop me! You will, won't you?" He nodded listlessly. "To begin with," she began, quietly, dreading her task, "we as a people are selfish. We are isolated here--are far from the center of things--but only certain things. We are quite our own center in certain other ways. But we are selfish as regards advancement, and being selfish in this way--being what we are and where we are--we live solely for that advancement--for the privilege of doing what we will, and of knowing! It is the first law of the country down here--of my people! We have aims and aspirations and courage all peculiar to ourselves. And when we meet your type, as I met you, we come--(Now, stop me when I get too severe!)--we come to know our own values a little better--to respect ourselves, perhaps--though perhaps, too, I shouldn't say it--a little more. Not that you lack virtues, you Easterners, but they differ from ours--and probably only in kind. And exactly what your type is you yourself have made plain to me during our many little trips together in the saddle. And--and now I fear I must become even more personal," she broke off. "And I am very sorry that I must. Though I know you will forgive me. You will, won't you?" And she looked up at him wistfully. "You thought it might benefit you to know. This is only my opinion. Others may not see it this way. But I am giving it for what it is, and I am giving it only because you asked it and have asked it repeatedly." He roused himself. "Go on," he said, with evident forced lightness. "I see your viewpoint perfectly." "Well," she resumed, hurriedly, "you lack ambition--a real ambition. You have ridden horses, played tennis, idled about clubs. You were a coddled and petted child, a pampered and spoiled youth. You attended a dozen schools, and, to use your own language, were 'canned' out of all of them. Which about sums up your activities. You have idled your time away, and you give every promise of continuing. I regret that I must say that, but I regret more deeply that it is true. You have many admirable qualities. You have the greatest of all qualities--power for sincere love. But in the qualities which make one acceptable down here--Wait! I'll change that. In the qualities which would make one acceptable to me you are lacking to a very considerable degree. And it is just there that you fill me with the greatest doubt--doubt so grave, indeed, that I cannot--and I use the verb advisedly--cannot permit myself to like you in the way you want me to like you." Again he bestirred himself. "What is that, please? What is that quality?" "I have tried to tell you," she rejoined, patiently. "It is a really worth-while ambition. You lack the desire to do something, the desire to be something--a desire that ought to have been yours, should have been yours, years ago--the thing part and parcel of our blood down here. It may take shape in any one of a hundred different things--business ventures; personal prospectings; pursuit of art, science; raising cattle--anything, Stephen! But something, something which will develop a real value, both to yourself and to your fellow-man. We have it. We have inherited it. We got it from our grandfathers--our great-grandfathers, in a few cases--men who wanted to know--to learn--to learn by doing. It is a powerful force. It must be a powerful force, it must have been strong within them, for it dragged them out of the comforts of civilization and led them into the desert. But they found what they sought; and in finding what they sought they found themselves also. And what they found--" "Was something which, having drawn them forward to the frontier, filled them with dislike for those who remained behind?" "If you wish to put it that way--yes." Her answer was straight and clean-cut. "But what of those who remained behind?" asked Stephen, alert now. "Surely the quality was there! It must be there yet! Those of the old-timers who remained behind must have stayed simply because of circumstances. Good men often curb the adventurous spirit out of sheer conscientious regard for others who--" "It is you, Stephen!" interrupted Helen, quietly. "It is you, yourself. All Easterners are not like you, I well know. Yet you and your type are found in all parts of the East." Stephen stood for a long moment, his eyes fixed on the mystic skyline. Then he turned to her as if about to speak. But there was only the silent message of his longing eyes. Finally he turned away and, as if unconsciously, fell to stroking the horse. He had nothing to say, and he knew it. The girl was right, and he knew that. She had pointed out to him only what others at different times had mildly tried to make him see. He was a rich young man, or would be after a death or two in his family. But that in itself was no excuse for his inertia. Many had told him that. But he had never taken it seriously. It had remained for the little woman beside him to make him fully realize it. She alone had driven it home so that it hurt. Yet between this girl and the others who had taken him mildly to task there was the difference between day and darkness. For he loved this girl, and if she would not marry him for reasons which he knew he could remedy, then it was up to him to accept her criticism, which was perhaps a challenge, and go forth and do something and be something, and reveal his love to her through that effort. What it would be he did not know. He did know he must get out of the town--get out of the Territory, if needs be--but he must go somewhere in this country of worthy aspiration and live as he knew she would have him live, do something, be something, something that for its very worth to her as well as to all mankind would awaken her ready response. Such a move he realized, as he stood beside her, would be as decent in him as she in her criticism had been eloquently truthful. The vigor, the relentless certainty, with which she had pointed out his weakness--no one before had had the courage to deal with him like this. And reviewing it all, and then casting grimly forward into his future, he suddenly awoke, as he gently stroked this mettled horse, to a strange likeness between the spirit of horse and mistress. He turned to Helen. "You are very much alike," he declared--"you and your horse." Then he paused as if in thought. "The spirit of the desert," he went on, absently, "shows itself through all the phases of its life." Helen brightened "I am glad you think that of us, Stephen," she answered, as if relieved by this unexpected turn. "Pat is truly of the desert. He was born and bred in this land of _amole_ and cactus." "And you?" he asked. "I also," she replied, gravely. "I too was born and bred in this land of _amole_ and cactus." Suddenly she turned her head. "I am afraid they are looking for us." They returned to the house. Helen's guests were preparing to depart. There was much high humor, and when the last but one was gone, and this one, Stephen, standing on the porch with hat in hand, Helen found that for the moment she had forgotten her distress. At sight of him, however, it all returned to her, and she faced him with earnest solicitude. "Tell me, Stephen," she burst out, "that you forgive me my unkind words, and that you will try to forget them. But whether you succeed in that or not, Stephen," she hastily added, her voice breaking, "tell me that you will continue to be friendly. We want you, all of us--I want you! I have enjoyed our rides together so much! They have meant much to me, and I hope they have been enjoyable to you. So let us go on, on this accepted basis, and be friends. Tell me you will, Stephen!" He was silent a long time. Then he told her of his hastily made plans. He was going away from town, of course. He could not remain, under the circumstances. Yet where he was going he didn't know. He would go farther West, probably--go somewhere and try to make good--try to do something worth while, to be something worth while. Saying which, he then thanked her fervently for everything--for her society, for her frank criticism, for having awakened him to an understanding of himself. Helen stood speechless. She had not anticipated this, that he would go away, that he would leave her. A deep-surging bitterness gripped her, and for a moment she almost relented. But only for a moment. The spell passed, and she looked at him with frank, level eyes. "I am sorry to hear that, Stephen," she declared, quietly. "We want you with us--all of us. But--but tell me," she concluded, finding the words coming with difficulty--"tell me that you feel no--no antagonism toward me, Stephen, because I can't--can't love you as you want me to love you, and that you understand that--that in deciding as I have I--I only wanted to be true--true to both of us!" For answer he seized both her hands in his. He gazed straight down into her eyes. "I love you, Helen," he murmured, and then slowly released her fingers. He left her so quietly that she hardly knew that he was gone. A step on the trail aroused her, and, lifting her eyes, she saw him striding away with shoulders back and head erect, as if awakened to a new manhood. And watching him go, as she felt, for the last time, she could no more control a sob than he at the moment could turn back. For a while she followed him with wistful eyes, then, finding sudden need for consolation, she hurried off the porch and across to the corral. Pat was there to receive her, and she flung her arms around his neck and gave way to sudden tears. "Pat," she sobbed, "I--perhaps I do love him! Perhaps I have done wrong! I--I--" She interrupted herself. "What shall I do, Pat?" she burst out, bitterly. "Oh, what shall I do?" Pat could not advise her. But he remained very still, supporting her weight with dumb patience, until she turned away, going slowly back into the house. Then he pressed close into his corner and sounded a shrill, protracted nicker. That was all. He saw the door close. He waited, pursuing his old habit, for all the lights to go out. And directly they began to disappear, one by one, first in the lower half of the house, then in the upper half, until all save one were extinguished. This one, as he knew from long experience, was in the room of his mistress. But though he waited and watched till the moon slanted behind the western hills, and the stars to the east dimmed and faded, and the gray of dawn stole across the sky above the mountains--though he waited and watched till his legs ached from long standing, and his eyes smarted from their steady vigil, and the Mexican appeared yawning from the depths of the stable, and from over toward town rose sounds of worldly activity--yet the light in her room burned on. Then the Mexican drove him into the stable. But not even now did he abandon his vigil. He entered his box-stall, with its tiny square window, and fixed his troubled gaze again upon the house. The sky was bright with coming day. From somewhere arose the crow of a rooster. Out on the river trail a team plodded slowly to market. But the light in the room was still burning. CHAPTER XII ADVENTURE It was late afternoon when Helen came down from her room. She had regained her calm. The Judge had gone about his affairs, her aunt was deep in her siesta, the Mexican woman was bustling about in the kitchen. Refusing this kindly soul's offer of food, she walked listlessly into the library and sank into a huge chair. Spring was well advanced, yet there was an open fire. Elbows upon the arms of her chair, hands clasped under her chin, she turned unseeing eyes upon the flickering flames. Motionless, barely breathing, she was a picture of hopeless grief. Yet her thoughts were active. One after another the swift-moving events of the night before came to her--a night of delightful happenings and torturing surprises. She recalled that the crowd had been unusually gay, but that Stephen had been unusually quiet and absorbed. She remembered the games, and the story-telling, and the toasting of marshmallows in the grate. But over against these simple pleasures there had been Stephen, entering into the gaiety only because he must, now forcing a smile, now drawing back within himself, until a chorus of laughter would again force him to smile. Yet she had understood, and she had excused him. She had thought him resigned and content to be merely one of the crowd. And then had come that opportunity which evidently he had sought. It had come as a surprise. But with it had come also a sudden desire to be alone with him, and to impress upon him her convictions. So they had gone out into the moonlight, to the corral fence, and to Pat, where she had endeavored to make everything clear. And then their return, and the departure of her guests, and his lingering on the porch, and his decision to go away, to leave her for ever. He hadn't put it in just that way! But that was what he was doing--that was what he had done. He had gone from her for ever. The thought hurt. It hurt because she knew what part she had taken in it. She knew that she herself had sent him away. And when he had left her she knew, as she knew now, that in her heart she did not want it. For she liked him--liked his society. She liked his care-free manner, his whimsical outlook upon her country, his many natural talents--his playing, and the naïveté of his singing, while he often admitted that his voice hurt him, and so must hurt others. No, she had not wanted him to go away. And somehow it had never occurred to her that he would go for ever. But he was gone, and she could not resign herself. Yet there was no calling him back. She had made a decision, had forced him to understand certain things. So she must accept it. But it hurt. It was slowly dawning upon her that she would never forget him. Then another thought came to her. Since he was going, and since she had sent him away, it occurred to her that she ought to help him. It seemed to be her duty. Yet she could not determine how. He was going forth to prove himself. He would go where men only could go, and she was but a woman. And she wanted him to prove himself--she knew that--knew it more with every moment that passed. She believed he had it in him. Yet she might help in some way. She wanted to be of some use to him in his undertaking. What could she do? Suddenly, as she sat there, seemingly powerless, there came a shrill nicker whipping across from the corral--the voice of Pat. Like a flash she had it! Stephen would go into the cattle country--she believed that. And in the cattle country he would need a horse, a good horse, such a horse as Pat. She would present the horse to Stephen! She would send Pat with him because she herself could not go with him. This she could do. Thus she would help Stephen to find himself, as her ancestors had found themselves. She would help him to become what she wanted him to become--a man--a _man_! Yes, she would give Pat to Stephen. She would send the horse as she had sent the man--forth into the world of deeds--deeds denied her sex. She rose hurriedly and ascended to her room. At her desk she drew paper and pen toward her. My dear Stephen [she began her letter],--I am sending Pat to you through Miguel. I wanted to help you in some way. I cannot help you myself directly, but in Pat I feel you will have a valuable aid. Take him--take him with my dearest and best wishes for your success. Pat may actually show you the way--may actually point the way out to you. Who knows? He understands who you are, I know, and I am sure he knows what you have been, and what you still are, to me. Helen. For a moment she sat deep in thought. Then suddenly awaking to the lateness of the hour, she arose and, going to the corral, called to the hostler. Miguel appeared, and she handed him the note, giving him careful instructions the while in regard to the horse. The Mexican smiled and entered the stable in quest of saddle and bridle, the while she turned to Pat in his corner and explained what she was about to do. "Pat dear," she began, nestling her cheek against his head, "you are going away. You are going with Stephen. Do you remember Stephen?" Emotion began to grip her. "You have served me well, Pat, and faithfully. I hope you will prove as true to your new master. I--I wanted to help him. But I--I couldn't--couldn't--" She could not go on. Gazing up into his eyes she seemed to see him waver--knew that it was because of her blinding tears--and abruptly left him and returned to the house. In her room she stood weeping at the window overlooking the corral. She saw the Mexican bridle and saddle her pride, saw him carefully tuck away her note, and saw him mount Pat with a great show of importance, as though elated with his commission. Then she saw him ride Pat out of the corral, across into the river trail, and turn toward town. Seeing her horse go from her, perhaps for all time, she turned from the window and flung herself across her bed, where she gave way to her grief. Her Pat was gone! Her Pat--heart of her life--was gone! Miguel was indeed pleased with his commission. Never before had he been astride this so-wonderful horse. As he rode along, testing the ease of Pat's gait, noting with what readiness he responded to the reins, he fell to wishing that it were not so near dusk, since then he might become the object of envious eyes in town. But he could not control the hour of day, even though he could control the horse's movements. So he cantered along until he reached the town proper, when he slowed Pat into a walk. Lights were being switched on along the avenue, and in their glare he enjoyed to the full whatever admiring glances were turned his way from the sidewalks. But as he neared the hotel where Stephen was stopping he urged Pat into a canter first, then into a gallop, pulling up before the side entrance with a quick reining that brought both the horse and himself to a stop with a magnificent flourish. It was good--as he admitted to himself. Then he slipped to earth. And now his magnificence left him, for he never before had entered this so-beautiful hostelry. Girting in his belt, however, he strode up the steps, faltered on the threshold, and was directed to the clerk. This magnate handed the letter to a bell-boy. Stephen was seated in his room when he read Helen's note. When he raised his eyes he stared unseeingly at the light across the street, deep in thought. He knew what this had cost Helen. Riding with her almost every day for months, he could not but understand the depth of her attachment for the horse. Pat for years had been the one big factor in her life. And now she was giving Pat to him, to help him prove himself. It was a great thing to do, so great that he must accept it, and already, at this proof of her interest, he somehow felt assured of success. Also he saw a way open. He would go down into the cattle country, make a connection with some cattle interests, and, with Pat as guide and friend and capable servant, work out his destiny. Exactly what that would be he did not know. But he did know that he was going after it. He turned to the boy still standing in the doorway. "Tell the man that I'll be down directly," he said. Then he made his way into his mother's suite of rooms. The frail little woman showed surprise at his decision. But she said nothing. She nodded quiet acquiescence and went on with her instructions to her maid, who was laying clothing away in preparation for the return East in the morning. Evidently she knew her boy. Whereupon Stephen, after explaining further, though no more fully than before, left her, descending to the office. Miguel was standing awkwardly near the doorway, and with Stephen's appearance touched his hat and led the way outside. Pat was facing three boys, the center of their interest, but when Stephen approached him, and talked to him, he turned and responded with a soft whinny, seeming to understand. Miguel remained at a respectful distance, awaiting orders. Then telling him to wait for a note to be taken to Miss Richards, Stephen re-entered the hotel. The boys swirled off in play. Miguel stood alone with the horse. There were but few persons on the streets, since it was early evening and people were at supper. Miguel's wandering eyes at length rested upon the swing-doors of a saloon opposite--rested there a long time. Finally, unable longer to resist their spell, he glanced at Pat's bridle, noted that the reins were securely tied, and then yielded to the attention of the saloon. In a moment the swing-doors closed upon him. They had barely ceased swinging when out of a doorway just down the street stole the figure of a man. He was young, smooth of face, garbed in blue shirt and overalls, with eyes well concealed under a black sombrero low-drawn. He moved out of the shadow cautiously, with many furtive glances about him. Then he swiftly crossed the street, hurried along the sidewalk to Pat, and reached the horse's head and bridle. Untying the reins from the post, he leaped into the saddle. Then he swung Pat around, put light spurs to him, and urged him rapidly across the avenue. Beyond the avenue toward the north lay Stygian darkness. In these black depths he disappeared. At this moment the clerk in the hotel was aroused by the unusual spectacle of one of his guests--young Wainwright--leaping down the stairs. He looked up with a surprised question. But Stephen ran past him, across the office, without heed. He gained the door, rushed down the steps, and shouted. The boys ceased playing, a passer-by came to a stop, out of the saloon opposite stepped Miguel. Miguel hastened across, drawing his hand over his mouth as he ran. Stephen opened upon him breathlessly. "He's gone!" he burst out. "I saw it from my window. A young man in blue shirt and overalls. The horse has been stolen!" Miguel threw up both hands in despair. "_Valgame Dios!_" he cried. "I am lose my job!" He looked about him blankly. Sick at heart, not knowing what to do, Stephen himself bolted back into the hotel. He entered the telephone booth and rang up the Judge's office. It was late, but he took a chance. The Judge answered the call. His voice was weary with the strain of a long day. "Who in thunder wants me at this hour?" he drawled, not unpleasantly. "Can't you let a man--" Stephen interrupted with an apology. Then he told the Judge of the loss. The Judge's voice changed instantly. "Fine business!" he snapped. "But I reckon I know who to look for. There's only one man--one gang--in the Territory that would do that in that way. It's a job for the range police." Then his voice softened. "Don't worry, Stephen!" he added. "You just sit tight. I'll take it up with the authorities." Stephen left the booth and entered the writing-room. Here he added a sad postscript to his note to Helen. Then he went outside, despatched Miguel with the letter, returned to his room and sat down, disconsolate and angry. To have Pat sent to him with this noble generosity, and then to lose him! Surely fate was more than unkind. The horse, given into his keeping, had been wrested from him at once. Yes, he was all that Helen had intimated that he was--a man incapable of trust, a man such as she could never permit herself--and he recalled her words now with rankling bitterness--to care for in the way he wanted her to care for him. Knowing that Pat was gone from him, and gone in such ignoble fashion, he knew that he never could face the horse's mistress again. This was bitterest of all! For a time he gave way to despair. Presently he awoke to a sense of stern responsibility. The horse had been delivered. Miguel had safely delivered him. It was all up to him then, Stephen, and to nobody else. He alone was responsible, and it was his duty to get Pat back. Out of his self-doubting this realization came with a sense of comfort. His course now lay clearly before him. He would get the horse back! He _must_ get him back! There was nothing else left for him. For if he ever expected to return to Helen, and this was his life's hope, he must return to her with the horse. He could return to her in no other way. He saw the difficulties. This was a large country, and he knew but very little of its activities. He recalled what the Judge had intimated--that the character of the thieves was such as to offer no encouragement of successful pursuit to any but men schooled to the country and the habits of the thieves. Yet against this and in his favor was the widespread reputation of Pat, and that certainly ought to be of some help in his pursuit. But, difficult or easy--take a month or a year--take five years--he would get Pat and return him to his mistress! The Judge had spoken of range police. Why couldn't he enlist with these men, enlist in any capacity, and accompany them till such time as he should learn the country well enough to venture out alone if necessary in his quest? At any rate, he would have a talk with the Judge--would see him early in the morning. He arose to his feet. The thing was settled in his mind. Also for the first time in his life his view had an object. He would go forth into life, get that which it withheld from him, bring it back and place it before the woman of his choice. And now, so great is the power, so prompt the reward, of energy rightly applied, he found himself whistling as he began to toss wearing-apparel into a traveling-bag. CHAPTER XIII IN THE WASTE PLACES Pat well knew that this new experience was a strange thing. The trip with the hostler, the unusual hour of day, the appearance of his mistress's friend, the stranger out of the night, the hurried departure from the hotel, all told him that. But whether it was right or wrong, he did not know. His mistress had quite sanctioned his leaving the corral, and so all things developing out of that must have her sanction also--thus worked his instincts. So not once had he rebelled. Nor was he rebelling now. And yet--and this was his emotional conflict--within him was a vague feeling that he should rebel, should kick, buck, toss, and pitch, and throw off this stranger. It grew upon him, this feeling, until, in a section of town unfamiliar to him, he decided to give way to it, to take a chance, anyway, of unseating this man and dashing back into that part of town familiar to him. But he did not. Suddenly a soothing voice restrained, the voice of his rider, which swept away for a time all thought of rebellion. "So you're Pat!" the man said, and, though his voice was gentle, and perhaps kindly, as Pat judged the human voice, he yet somehow did not like the owner of it. "Well, they hain't lied to me, anyway," went on the voice. "You're one nice piece of horseflesh!" That was all. But somehow it dispelled all discontent within Pat. Thereafter he thought only of his task, which was that of holding to a devious course through winding alleys and streets well under rein, until he found himself on the river trail and heading south through a section not unfamiliar to him. Then his interest only quickened. As he went on, it came to him that he rather liked this traveling through the gloom of night. It was a new experience for him, and the trail, familiar to him, yet somehow not familiar, offered much of interest. Ranch-houses, clumps of trees, soft-rustling fields of alfalfa, looming up before or beside him, taxed his powers of recognition as the stars in the heavens, becoming ever more overcast, withdrew, and with them the moon, leaving the earth and its objects finally mere tragic outlines. These objects, rising silently before him, gave him many fitful starts, and seemed to forbid this night-incursion. But he held to the trail, for the most part in perfect contentment, enjoying his unwonted call to duty, but wondering whither it was leading him. This contentment did not last. It broke as he found himself rounding a bend which he recognized as leading to the river bridge. The change came not through the flicking of his conscience like his former feeling, but through sudden awakening to physical discomfort. For a time he did not know what it was--though he had questioned the new grip on the reins, the rider's seat, his weight. There it was. The man's weight. Miguel had been heavy, of course, but Miguel's seat had been short-lived. This man must weigh fully as much as Miguel, and twice as much as his mistress, and he had been on his back now a long time. There came another something. As Pat grew aware of the weight it seemed to become heavier, so he decided to seek relief of some sort. He dropped back into a walk, grimly taking his comfort into his own control. And, half expecting that the man would force him into a canter again, he continued at a walk. But neither by word nor movement did the man show that he noticed the change. So Pat settled to his task again, once more enjoying quiet satisfaction. But neither did this last. He soon found another cause for dissatisfaction. He found it because, unconsciously, he was looking for it. He found it this time in the tight grip on his reins, which was setting up a sore chafing in the corners of his mouth. His mistress had never held him so tightly. The result of it, together with his other discomfort, was that he became sullen and antagonistic, and, descending the slight grade to the bridge, he determined to resist. And resist he did. He came to a sudden stop, threw down his head, pitched and bucked frantically. His efforts carried him all over the trail, and once dangerously near the edge and the turbulent waters below. But he found himself unable to throw off the weight. "Guess maybe--I made--a slight--mistake!" exploded the rider, clamping his knees against Pat. "But go--go to it--old trader!" Pat accepted the challenge. For this he knew it was. He leaped and twisted; returned to earth with a jolt; pitched and tossed and bucked. And he kept it up, fighting grimly, till he discovered its futility, when he stopped. A moment he stood, breathing heavily, then he set out across the bridge, whisking his tail and wriggling his ears, all in spirited acceptance of reluctant defeat. He did not attempt further rebellion. Slow-kindling respect stirred within him for this man upon his back--the respect but not love which one entertains toward the mighty, and he gained the end of the bridge and turned south along the trail, partly reconciled. Yet he had not rebelled in vain. The grip on his bit no longer annoyed him, and though the weight still remained heavy, somehow it seemed more endurable now through some cause which he could not determine--probably his increased respect for it. So he trotted along, amiably disposed toward all the world, pleasantly anticipatory of the immediate future, ears and eyes alert and straining toward all things. On his left the river gurgled softly in the desert stillness--a stillness sharply broken. From afar off came a strange call, the long-drawn howl of a coyote. It was not alone. Instantly from a point dead ahead rose another, grooving into the echo of the first in a staccato yelp. Then the first opened up with a choking whine that lifted steadily into an ecstatic mating-call, and Pat saw a black something, blacker even than the night, leap against the far, faint skyline, dangle seemingly a trembling moment, then flash from view across the desert. Which was but one of the many incidents that served to hold his interest and increase his alertness as he fox-trotted along the road. Nor was one of them without its informing value. For this was his first night journey, and what he saw now would remain with him vividly, helping him to become as successful on night trails as he was now by day. Something else came to him out of the darkness. It was off to his distant right and well back from the river. It was a tiny gleam of light, shining out of the density of the desert. He watched it with studied interest. It glowed like a cat's eye, and, fascinated, quietly speculative, he kept his eyes upon it until, as he turned a bend in the trail, he saw another light flash into view close beside the first, and equal to it in brilliancy. Suddenly, watching these lights, his interest leaped higher. This was his destination. He instinctively knew it. And presently he was certain of it, for his master, urging him to the right, now sent him along a narrow path that led straight toward the lights. Within a very few moments Pat found himself before a hulk of an adobe. It was a long, rambling structure, somehow forbidding, and he blinked as he stared with faint apprehension at the lamplight streaming out of two windows. Directly the man dismounted and, making the reins fast to a post, walked toward the house. For a moment Pat saw his tall figure silhouetted in the doorway, to the accompaniment of a quiet chorus of greetings from within, then he saw the door close upon him, and immediately afterward a hand appear at the windows and draw down the shades. And now he felt a great loneliness creep over him, slowly at first, then somehow faster as he heard voices within sink from a cheerful note of greeting to a low rumble of discord. He began to take heed of objects close around him. He discovered, now that all light was shut off, that he was not alone. To his left stood two horses, with heads drooping, legs slightly spread, reins dangling, quiet and patient in their mute waiting. Promptly with the discovery he took a step in their direction, intent upon establishing friendship. But he found himself checked with a jerk. For an instant he did not understand this. Then he remembered that his reins were tied, and because his mistress never had deemed this necessary he came to feel a kind of irritation, though he made no attempt to force his freedom. Yet, keeping his eyes upon the other horses, he saw that they themselves were free to come and go, that their reins were dangling on the ground. And now he realized that he was under suspicion. He knew what that was from long association with the Mexican hostler, and, smarting under it, he determined to show his new master, and that before many hours had elapsed, he as well as these others was capable of trust. The door flung open and three men filed out. A fourth remained standing on the threshold, holding up a smoking lamp. Other than the tread of heels no sound accompanied their appearance, no comment, no laughter, no farewells. This made a deep impression upon him, and with further misgivings he watched the men descend the few loose steps and make for the horses, his own master, the tallest of the men, coming slowly toward him. A moment of gathering reins, then all mounted, and one, a squat, powerfully built man, evidently the leader, turned in a southwesterly direction, riding off in the engulfing darkness, heading away from the river. Seeing this, Pat stepped out after him, pressing close upon the heels of his horse, conscious that the third horse, ridden by a little man, was crowding him for second position. But he held stubbornly to his place, and in this place set out along an unmarked trail. He covered mile after mile at a fox-trot, mile after mile in absolute silence, until faint rays of dawn, streaking the sky above a ridge to the east, surprised him into realization of the quick passage of night and his own prolonged duty therein. It was all very strange. Daylight followed swiftly. From a dull lead color the sky immediately above the ridge, which stretched away interminably north and south, gave way to a pink indescribably rich and delicate. Steadily this pink crept over the heavens, rolling up like the gradual unfolding of a giant canvas, dragging along in its wake hues verging toward golden yellow, until the whole eastern sky, aflame with the light of approaching day, was a conflagration of pinks and yellows in all their manifold mixtures, promising, but not yet realizing, a warmth which would dispel the spring chill left by the long night. Then, with the whole east blazing with molten gold, there came the feeling of actual warmth, and with it the full radiance of day--bringing out in minute detail rock and arroyo and verdant growth, and an expanse of desert unbroken by the least vestige of animal life. At this absence of all that which would suggest the presence of life--adobes, corrals, windmills--Pat awoke again to vague uneasiness and fell to pondering his future under these men, whom he now instinctively knew pursued ways outside the bounds of the civilization of his past. A voice behind, presumably that of the little man, interrupted the protracted silence. It was high-pitched. "How's that hoss a-holdin', Jim?" Pat felt a slight twitch on the reins. Evidently the man had been in deep thought, out of which the voice had startled him. Directly he made answer. "I got quality here, Glover--I guess. Can't never tell, though. He's a good horse, but he mayn't pan out good for me." There was further silence. "Johnson," went on the high-pitched voice again, after a time, "did ye git what Zeke said about the country down there?" But the leader seemed not to hear. Straight as an arrow, bulking large upon a little gray mare, he moved not the fraction of an inch with the question. Whereupon the little man, after muttering something further about Zeke, relapsed into silence. Suddenly Pat stumbled and fell to his knees. He quickly regained his feet, however, and resumed the steady forward grind. And grind it now was becoming. His legs burned with a strange distress, his eyes ached from loss of sleep. Throughout his body was a weariness new to him. He was not accustomed to this ceaseless fox-trotting. He could not recall the time when, even on their longest excursion, his mistress had forced him like this. She had always considered him to the extent of granting him many blissful periods of rest. He found himself wanting some such consideration now. He felt that he would like to drop into a walk or to burst into a canter, knowing the relief to be found in any change of gait. But this was denied him. Yet, since the other horses gave no sign of weariness, each appearing possessed of endurance greater than his own, he refrained, through a pride greater even than his distress, from making of his own accord any change in his gait. Toward noon, as he was brooding over another distress, one caused by gnawing hunger, he felt his master draw down. Also, the others came to a stop. With the men dismounted, he swept eyes over the scene. But he saw nothing that appeared to warrant pause. The place was dead and desolate, barren of all that which had invariably met his gaze when pausing with his mistress. But when one of the men began to build a fire, while the others flung off light saddle-bags from the little gray and the sorrel--an exceptionally rangy horse--he came in a way to understand. Further, with the fire crackling pleasantly and his bridle and saddle removed, he understood fully the cause of this halt. It was time to feed; and, raging with hunger, he forgot all other distress in the thought that now he would have a generous quantity of food, which he believed was due him, since he had more than earned it in his prolonged service through the night. Indeed, so certain was he of reward, he prepared himself for sugar and quartered apples, and, with mouth dripping saliva, stood very still, eyes following every move of his new master. But he was doomed to bitter disappointment. Instead of sugar and quartered apples, his master tied a rope around his neck and, with a friendly slap, left him to his own devices. Wondering at this, he gazed about him--saw that the other horses were grazing. Disappointed, fretful, stung into action by hunger pangs, he set out in their direction, curious to learn what it was they were feeding upon so eagerly. But, as had happened the night before, he found himself checked with a jerk. He did not like it, for it made him conscious again of his master's suspicions. So he turned a sour gaze upon his unrestricted companions until, forced to it by inner yearnings amounting to acuteness now, he himself lowered his head and fell to grazing. But he found it all too insufficient. His stomach urgently demanded grain and alfalfa. And he yearned for a little bran-mash. But there were none of these. He saw not even a tiny morsel of flower to appease his inner grumblings, and finally, lifting his head in a kind of disgust, he ceased to graze altogether. As he did so, the men made ready to resume the journey, replacing bridles and saddles and saddle-bags. Pat found himself hopeful again, believing that with the end of this prolonged service, which in view of the distance already traversed must be soon, he would have those things for which his body and soul cried out. And thus he set forth, occupying his former place in the order of advance, moving, as before, at a fox-trot and amid silence from the men. He was still hopeful of better things to come. But it was all a drear experience. The grind began to tell upon him. As he trotted along, thirst-stricken, miserably nourished, weary from loss of sleep and this ceaseless toil, he sought frankly for cause to rebel, as he had done in the first hour of this strange call to new duty. And he found it. He found it not only in the man's weight, and the infrequent contact of spurs, and the tight grip on the reins, all as on that first occasion, but he found it as well in other things--in the dust thrown up by the little gray ahead, in the sun's rays slanting into his eyes from the west, in the scorching, blistering heat of this same ruthless orb beating down upon his back. Suddenly, cost him what it would, he dropped out of the fox-trot into a walk, prepared to fight for this change of stride to the last breath. He did not hold to it, however, even though his master, curiously enough, permitted him the change. Pride asserted itself, and after a time, of his own volition, finding the gap between himself and the others much too wide to please him, he broke into a canter and quickly closed the gap, crowding back into his place between the other two horses. That was all of rebellion, though the mood still remained. Bitter, disappointed, nervous, and irritable, he continued forward, wanting things--wanting food and water, wanting sounds of voices, wanting a respite from this unnerving grind. But he made no effort to get them or to show that he wanted them. And he knew why he maintained this attitude of meek acceptance. He was too weak to enforce his demands. He knew that it required energy to buck and pitch, and he knew that he lacked this energy. So he continued along in sullen resignation until, accepting the hint of his instincts, he closed his eyes. This brought relief, and after a time, his movements becoming ever more mechanical, he found himself adrift upon a peaceful sea of semi-coma, oblivious to all trouble--hunger pangs, thirst, weariness. When he returned to full consciousness, somewhat refreshed and fit for farther distances, he found the sun well down the western sky, the cool of evening wrapping him about in delightful zephyrs, and he was still keeping his place between the two horses. Dusk found him in a small oasis. His master slipped to earth, and with relief Pat gazed about him. He saw a clump of trees, and in their depths, glinting out at him between the trunks, a shimmering pool of water. Also, near these trees, on the edge of the grove, he saw a shack made up of rough logs. But he was interested only in the pool, and, when his master removed his saddle, eagerly and with a soft nicker he stepped toward it. But the man jerked him back. So he waited, realizing that he had been hasty, till his bridle was removed, when again he stepped toward the pool. But again he was jerked back, this time by a firm grip on his forelock. So again he waited while the man placed the disagreeable rope around his neck. With this secure, he found himself led into the grove, where he soon was quenching his raging thirst, and where, after drinking, he felt more kindly not only toward the man, but toward the whole world. When he was conducted back into the open, and the end of the rope made fast to a stake, he lifted his voice in a shrill nicker proclaiming his satisfaction. Then he stood very still, watching the man enter the shack, utterly absorbed in getting that long-delayed reward of sugar and quartered apples. But again he waited in vain. The man did not reappear; indeed, none of the men reappeared. So after a time, swallowing his disappointment, he turned his eyes upon the other horses. As at noon, they were grazing industriously, and he knew what was in store for him. He regarded them a long moment, trying to bring himself to graze also, but finding that his knowledge of better things would not permit him. Yet there was one pleasant surprise. The little gray, sounding a soft whinny, made her way slowly toward him. This was unexpected friendliness, for the horse had seemed hostile earlier, and he promptly showed his pleasure by licking her neck with lavish attention. And though he found her coat gritty with dust, he continued this generous attention till she lowered her head and resumed her grazing. This reminded him of his own fierce hunger, and he promptly lowered his own head, following her example with a kind of gratitude, and fell to grazing with her, finding in her interest the one ray of light in all the darkness of his distress and continued disappointment. And thus he fed, keeping with her to the limits of his tether, until, soon after the candlelight had whisked out in the shack, she lay down in the yielding sand with a restful sigh. Pat understood this, but he regarded it with uncertainty, knowing that he himself with the coming of night always had protection in a stable. Then, deciding that it was right and fitting, especially as the sorrel also sank into the sand, he himself bent his knees and lay down to rest in the warmth of the desert. But his lesson in the open was not yet fully learned. Next morning, with the other horses astir, and with the men moving in and out of the shack, he saw his master coming toward him. Reaching him, the man untied the rope from the stake, led him to the pool of water, and permitted him to drink. Then he returned him to the open, and there removed the rope from him entirely. But despite this he found that he was not free from suspicion. For now the man tied a short rope around his fore ankles, and strode back into the shack, leaving him, as before, to his own devices. Half expecting the man to return with sugar and apples, Pat watched him take himself off with mild anticipation. But as the man did not return he bethought him after a time of his sterner hunger, and took prompt step in the direction of a tuft of grass. Instantly he felt a sharp twitch at his ankles and fell headlong. For a moment he lay dazed, utterly at a loss to understand, thrashing about frantically in futile effort to regain his feet. Then he became calm again, and brought craftiness instead of brute force to bear upon the trouble. He regained his feet. Then he studied the cause of the disaster, and finally stepped out again, cautiously now, having learned his lesson. So he did not stumble. But he did feel the check around his ankles again. Steadying himself, he saw clearly the cause of his previous discomfiture, but he did not accept it as defeat. Casting his eyes toward the other horses, he awoke to the fact that they, as well as himself, were hobbled. Watching them, studying them, he finally saw one rear, strike out with his front legs, and draw his hind legs up to meet the advance. So that was it! He now knew what he himself must do. Feeling out his hobbles carefully, gathering quick courage the while, he himself at length reared, struck out with fore legs, followed up with hind legs, and found himself directly over the tuft of grass. This was pleasant, and he promptly began to nibble it, finding it no less toothsome--perhaps more toothsome--for the effort. And when he had finished this he gazed about for others, and, seeing others, moved upon each in turn as he had moved upon the first, rearing and striking, following it with hind legs, rearing and striking again, following again with hind legs, all successfully. And so he learned his second great lesson in the open. Thus he began his life in the desert. Fraught as it was with much discomfort, both spiritual and physical, he yet found much of interest in it all, and he was destined to find in it, as time went on, much more of even greater interest. And in the days which followed, and the weeks and months following these, because he showed that he was willing and anxious to learn, to attune himself to the life, he aroused in all who came in contact with him, men as well as horses, an esteem and affection which made life smoother and more pleasant for him than it might otherwise have been. CHAPTER XIV A PICTURE A hundred miles west from the shack, stretching away from it in an almost unbroken expanse, was a desert within the desert. _Amole_ and sagebrush and cactus vied with each other to relieve the dead, flat, monotonous brown. Without movement anywhere, save for the heat-waves ascending, this expanse presented an unutterably drear and lonesome aspect. It terminated, or partly terminated--swerving off into the south beyond--in a long sand-dune running northeast and southwest. This mighty roll lay brooding, as did the world-old expanse fringing it, in the silence of late morning. Overhead a turquoise sky, low, spotless, likewise brooding, dipped down gracefully to the horizon around--a horizon like an immense girdle, a girdle which, as one journeyed along, seemed to accompany him, rapidly if he moved rapidly, slowly if he moved slowly--an immense circle of which he was the center. The sun was glaring, and revealed here and there out of the drifts a bleached skeleton, mutely proclaiming the sun as overlord, while over all, around and about and within this throbbing furnace, there seemed to lurk a voice, a voice of but a softly lisped word--solitude. Suddenly, like a mere dot against the skyline, there appeared over the giant dune to the north a single horseman. A moment he seemed to pause on the crest, then began the long descent, slowly, with almost imperceptible movement. He was not more than under way when another dot appeared against the skyline, a second horseman, close behind the first, who, like the first, after seeming to pause a moment on the crest, dipped into the long slope with almost imperceptible movement. A third dot appeared, two dots close beside each other, and these, like the others, dipping into the descent with almost imperceptible movement, for all the world like flies reluctantly entering a giant saucer. And then appeared another, the fifth, and then no more. The last also seemed to pause a brief moment on the crest, and also dipped with almost imperceptible movement into the long descent. They struck the floor of the furnace. Details began to emerge. One was a fat man, another was a gaunt man, a third was a little man--all smooth of face. Then there was a man with a scrubby beard. And there was another smooth-faced man, riding a little apart from the others, a little more alert, perhaps, his garments not their garments, his horse a little rounder of outline, a little more graceful of movement. They might have been in conversation, these riders out of the solitude. But all were heavily armed. And all rode slowly, leisurely, taking their own good time, as if this in itself was duty, with orders uncertain, or with no orders at all. They rode on across the desert within the desert, presenting three-quarter profile, then, with an hour passing, full profile, then, with another hour passing, quarter profile, and now, with yet another hour passing, five agreeable backs--broad, most of them, all topped with sombreros, and all motionless save for the movement of their mounts. On and on they rode into the south, underneath a blistering sun at full zenith. They became mere dots again upon the pulsating horizon, mere specks, and disappeared in the shimmering haze. Solitude, the voice of solitude, the death-stillness, throbbing silence, reigned once more. Not an animal, not an insect, not a tree, struck the eye. The arid and level floor was again clean of movement. The sun glared, revealing here and there out of the drifts a bleached skeleton, in this speechless thing mutely proclaiming its own sway. Beneath the sun the horizon, an immense girdle, swept round in unbroken line, pulsating. The turquoise sky hung low, spotless and shimmering, brooding, dipping smoothly down to the horizon and to the long sand-dune running to northeast and southwest. Skirting this dune, reaching to it out of the east, then swerving off to the south beyond, lay the almost unbroken expanse, the desert within the desert, its dead, flat, monotonous brown relieved here and there with alternating sagebrush and cactus and _amole_, stretching back a distance of a hundred miles to the shack. CHAPTER XV CHANGE OF MASTERS The interior of the shack was comparatively bare. On the floor, which was of adobe, and therefore hard and smooth as cement, were five three-legged stools and a table, all crude and evidently shaped out of saplings from the grove. There was but a single window, high up, tiny and square, containing neither glass nor frame, which looked out upon the south. Built against the walls were some shelves, upon which lay a scant supply of tinware, and in the opposite wall was a tier of bunks, just now littered with soiled blankets. Evidently this place had sheltered these men frequently, for each moved about it with easy familiarity, and obviously it was a retreat, a rendezvous, a hiding-place against the range police. A game of cards was about to be started. The three men were seated round the table, and before two of them--the younger man, Jim, and the heavy-set man, the leader, Johnson--was an even distribution of chips. The third man, Glover, was smoking a short-stemmed pipe, evidently having been cut out of the play. "Jim," said Johnson, showing his perfect teeth with an unpleasant grin, "we'll hop right to this! I think my little proposition here is fair and square. Thirty dollars in money against that black horse out there. I told you where you could get a good horse, and you got one sure enough! And he's yours! But I've taken a kind of shine to him myself, and why ain't this a good way to push it over? My little gray and thirty dollars in money. What's the matter with it?" The other did not appear greatly pleased, nevertheless. Thoughtfully he riffled the cards a long moment. Then he looked up into Johnson's black eyes steadily. "Poker?" he asked, quietly. "Draw poker," replied the leader, giving his black mustache a satisfied twist. He jerked his head in the direction of the chips. "Win all, take all," he added. Jim lowered his eyes again. He was not more than a boy, this outlaw, and he had formed a strong attachment for the black horse. And because he had come to understand Pat and to appreciate him, he hated to think of the horse's serving under this bloodless man opposite. Pat's life under this man would be a life of misery. It was so with all of Johnson's horses. Either they died early, or else, as in the case of the little gray, their spirits sank under his cruelty to an ebb so low that nothing short of another horse, and one obviously capable of rendering successful protection, roused them to an interest in their own welfare. This was why the little gray, he recalled, had approached the black the first night after reaching the shack. Evidently she had recognized in him an able protector, should he care to protect her, against the brutality of her master. And so to play a game of cards, or anything else, with a view to losing possession-- "I don't hear you saying!" cut in the cold voice of the other upon his thoughts. "Ain't the stakes right?" Jim looked up. "I guess so," he said. "I'm tryin' to figure--percentages and the like." Again he relapsed into thought. He feared this man as he feared a snake. For Johnson had a grip on him in many ways, and in ways unpleasant to recall. So he knew that to refuse meant a volley of invectives that would end in his losing the horse anyway, losing him by force, and a later treatment of the animal, through sheer spite, the brutality of which he did not like to contemplate. So he did not reply; he did not dare to say yes or no. Either way, the horse was gone. For Johnson was clever with the cards, fiendishly clever, and when playing recognized no law save crookedness. "Jim," burst out Johnson, controlling himself evidently with effort, "I want to ask you something. I want you to tell me something. I want you to tell me who it was grubstaked you that winter you needed grubstaking mighty bad. I want you to tell me who it was got you out of that scrape over in Lincoln County two years ago. I want you to tell me who it was took care of you last winter--under mighty trying circumstances, too--and put you in the way of easy money this spring! But you needn't tell me," he suddenly concluded, picking up the cards savagely. "I know who it was without your telling me, and you know who it was without my telling you. And now what's the returns? When I give you a chance to come back a little--in a dead-square, open game of cards--you crawl into your shell and act like I'd asked you to step on the gallows." Jim permitted himself a quiet smile. "I don't think I'm playing the hog, exactly," he rejoined, evenly. "I guess maybe I'm thinking of the horse as much as anything. And not so much of him, either, maybe, as of you, the way you handle horses if they don't dance a two-step when you want a two-step. In about a week, Johnson," he continued, mildly, "you'd have that horse jabbed full of holes with them Mexican rowels of yours! He wouldn't stand for that kind of affection, or I'm no judge of horseflesh. He ain't used to it; he ain't that kind of a horse--your kind! You ought to see that yourself. You don't want no spirited horse like him, because either you'd kill him or he'd kill you. _I_ can see it, if you can't!" "We'll now cut for deal," interposed Johnson, grimly. "Take myself," went on the other, half smiling "why I like the idea of keeping him. I used to kill cats and rob nests and stone dogs when I was a kid; but later I learned different. I didn't kill cats and rob nests after that; dogs I got to petting whenever I'd meet one. I got acquainted with animals that way. Made the acquaintance from both angles--seeing how they acted under torture, then learning how they acted under kindness. I know animals, Johnson," he added, quietly. "And an animal to me is an animal and something more. A horse, for instance. I see more in a horse than just an easy way of getting around. But that ain't you. You're like a man I once knowed that kept a dog just because the dog was a good hunter. If I couldn't see more in a dog than just what he's fit for, I'd quit the sport." "Now we'll cut for deal." Jim had been rocking back and forth easily on two legs of his stool. He now dropped forward squarely on the floor and nodded assent. "Cut for deal," he said, quietly. "You!" The game began. Glover, who evidently found interest in discussions, but none whatever in a game of cards, tilted back against the wall and began to talk, now that the argument was over. "Zeke tells me," he began in a nasal voice, tamping the tobacco into the bowl of his pipe reflectively, "as how they's a bunch o' Injun renegades movin' south'ards off the reservation on a hell-toot. I meant to speak of it afore, but forgot, as usual. Jim's talk here o' animals lovin' each other that away reminds me." He lifted gray eyes to Johnson. "Didn't Zeke say nothin' to you about that, neither?" he asked, evidently mindful of some other grave oversight on the part of "Zeke." Johnson did not reply until after three or four rounds of the cards. "Zeke told you a lot of things that hour you sat with him alone," he rejoined, with broad sarcasm. "Zeke must like you!" "Mebbe," agreed Glover, accepting the remark with all seriousness. "He says as how Fort Wingate is out, and I remarks that sich a move about terminates the performance. He agrees with me--says fust squint them renegades gits at regular troops they'll hunt gopher-holes as places o' ginerous salvation." The others remained silent. The game was going decidedly against Jim. It had gone against him from the first--as he had known it would. Yet he continued to play, watchful of his opponent, keen to note any irregularities. Yet he had discovered nothing that might be interpreted as cheating. Still he was losing, and still, despite all beliefs to the contrary, he entertained hope, hope that he might win. If he did win, he told himself, Johnson was enough of a white man to accept the defeat and leave the horse where he was. Yet his chips were steadily dwindling; the cards persistently refused to come his way; only once thus far had he held a winning hand. But he played on, becoming ever more discouraged, until, suddenly awaking to an unexpectedly good hand, he opened the pot. The raises followed back and forth swiftly, but he lost again. And now Johnson, as he mechanically drew the chips toward him, broke the silence. "Zeke got you all worked up, didn't he?" he declared, turning his eyes upon Glover. "As for renegades," he went on, beginning to deal the cards again, "I've knowed 'em--hull droves of 'em--to stampede on the whistle of a rattler." Evidently he was returning to good humor. Glover took his pipe from his mouth. "Renegades gits stirred up every jest so often," he observed. "I s'pose it's because of the way they feel about things. Being run offen the reservations thataway ain't nowise pleasant, to begin with, and then havin' to hang around the aidges for what grub their folks sees fit for to sneak out to 'em ought to make it jest that much more monotonous--kind of. Reckon I'd break out myself--like a man that eats pancakes a lot--under sich circumstances. Zeke says this band--the latest gang to git sore--is a-headin' dead south. Talks like we might run agin trouble down there. More'n one brand, too--the police and the reg'lars all bein' out thataway. They're all out--Zeke says." The others were absorbed in play, and so made no retort. Whereat Glover, with a reflective light in his eyes, continued: "I've seen something myself," he went on, evidently mindful of Johnson's observation. "I've seen better men than Injuns stampede on less than rattlesnakes--and cover a heap more ground in a lot less shorter time. What I'm talkin' about is skunks," he explained, to nobody in particular--"hydrophoby skunks--their bite. Why," he continued, warming to his subject and seemingly ignorant of its myths, "I once seen a man ride into San Mercial with his face that white it wouldn't 'a' showed a chalk mark! And he was holdin' up his thumb like it was pizen--which it was! And he was cuttin' for old Doc Struthers that fast his cayuse was sparkin' out of his ears. Bit by a hydrophoby skunk--yes, sirree. Got to the Doc's just in time, too! But he allus was lucky--the Doc! Money jest rolled into that party all the time. But some folks don't jest quite make it--horses gives out, or something. And if they ain't got the sand to shoot the finger off--" A sudden shadow across the window checked him. He quietly reached for his gun. Also, Johnson lifted quick eyes to the window. And now Jim turned his head. Directly Glover rose to his feet; Johnson got up off his stool; Jim flung to the door. A moment they stood tense. Then Jim moved cautiously to the window. He gazed outside. As he did so his features relaxed. Presently he returned to the table. "That horse," he explained, eyes twinkling. The others returned to their places. All were visibly relieved. But Glover did not go on with his yarn. Lighting his pipe again, he fell to smoking in thoughtful silence. Jim picked up his cards. He saw four kings. But he felt no elation. Before him was a mere dribble of chips, and he knew that he could not hold out much longer. Johnson was coldly surveying his own cards, and after a studied moment opened the pot. Jim thrust forward half his small stack, followed by Johnson with a raise, whereupon Jim placed all he had upon the board. That closed the game. The other spread out his cards generously, and Jim, glancing listlessly at four aces, rose from the table. Turning to the window, he saw Pat still lingering near the shack. He gazed at him a long moment in silence. "He's yours," he said, finally, facing Johnson. "Reckon I'll go outside for a little air." Outside, he made straight for Pat, removed the hobbles, led him into the grove. As the horse quenched his thirst, Jim sat down with his back against a tree and removed his hat. "Sorry, old-timer," he began, quietly, "but it can't be helped. We--" He interrupted himself; shoved Pat away a step. "That's better," he went on, smiling. Then, as Pat looked puzzled, "On my foot--yes," he explained. "All of your own, too, of course!" he added. "But one of mine, too!" He was silent. "As I was remarking," he continued, after a moment, "we've got to beat him some other way. You're a likely horse." He lowered his eyes thoughtfully. He did know of a way to beat Johnson. That way was to mount Pat, ride hard for the open, and race it out against the little gray mounted by Johnson. But already he could see the vindictive and cursing Johnson in pursuit, discharging guns before him. So the idea was hopeless, for he knew that Johnson even now was alert for some such move. But even if it were feasible, he realized that he never could rid himself of the man. Others had tried, as he well recalled--tried to break away from him for all time, with a result in no way to Johnson's credit. Two had never been seen again, which pointed grimly to the fact that Johnson lived up to his favorite maxim, which was that dead men tell no tales. Another was the case of that poor luckless devil who, through some mysterious workings of the law, having broken with Johnson, had been arrested and convicted of a crime long forgotten. But Jim knew, as others closely associated with Johnson knew, that it was Johnson who indirectly had sent the unfortunate one to the penitentiary. So it required courage, a kind of unreasoning desperation, to quit the man and the life he led. Suddenly Jim took a new hold upon himself. What, he began to ask himself, was getting into him? Why was he suddenly thinking of quitting Johnson? What would he do if he did quit him? To his kind all decent channels were closed for any but the exceptional man. But that wasn't it! Why was he arguing with himself along these lines? What was getting into him? He felt as if some good and powerful influence was come into his life! He had felt like this in Denver when a Salvation Army lassie had approached him. But this wasn't Denver! Nor was there a woman! What was it, anyway? He could not decide. He arose and laid his hand upon Pat's forelock. "It's a regular case," he said, leading the horse out of the grove, "for something to turn up. It generally does, anyway," he concluded. "Don't it, Old Gravity?" CHAPTER XVI PAT TURNS THIEF A week passed before Pat knew of his change in masters. But that was not strange. Busily engaged in keeping himself alive on scant herbage, he took but little interest in anything else. Besides, his young friend continued to make much of him, talking in soothing tones and gently stroking his sides, and the little gray, holding herself faithfully near, also maintained quiet evidence of friendliness. So he had no reason to suspect change. But one morning, with camp broken, and saddle-bags flung out, and the window sealed over, and the door shut and barred, and the other horses bridled and saddled, there came to him in the person of the large man himself--a person he had instinctively disliked--the first sign of the change in his fortune. The man approached, bridle on arm, to remove his hobbles. He remained motionless under this, and prepared also to accept the bridle quietly. But in bridling him the man was rough to an extent he had never before known--forcing an oddly shaped bit against his tongue, and twisting and turning his sensitive ears as if these delicate organs were so much refractory leather or metal. Then came the saddle, and with it further torture. The forward belt was made snug, which he was accustomed to and expected; but when the rear girdle was cinched so tight that he found difficulty in breathing, he became nervous and wanted to protest. It was all very unusual, this rough handling, and he did not understand it. The effect of the tight cinch was peculiar, too. With the knot tied firmly, he felt girded as for some great undertaking, his whole nervous system seemed to center in his stomach, and all his wonted freedom and buoyancy seemed compressed and smothered. With all this, and the man in the saddle and spurring viciously, he realized grimly the change in masters. They set out at a fox-trot, continuing their southwesterly direction. It was an unmarked course from the beginning, leading them steadily down into the Mogollon range, and, as before, Johnson was occupying the lead, with Jim next behind, and Glover bringing up the rear. And, as on the first leg of the journey, all rode in silence. So Pat was in the lead, and while he found his new master half as heavy again as the other, he also found compensation for the increased weight in the position which he occupied. Not that he was proud to be in the lead; nothing from the beginning of this adventure had caused a thrill of either joy or pride. But he did find in his new place freedom from dust cast up by the heels of his companions, and he trotted along in contentment, to all outward appearances. But it was only an appearance of content. Within were mixed emotions. While he felt pleasure at being active again, while he was resigned in a way to his hunger pangs, and he was glad that his friends, the little gray and the young man, were still with him, yet against all this was a sense of revolt at the unnecessary tightness of the cinch, the hard hand on the reins, and the frequent touch of spur and heel and stirrup against his sides. Finally the feeling which began at that initial torture in bridling swelled with the consequent annoyances into approaching revolt. He became ugly and morose. This soon revealed itself. He was crossing a wide arroyo. Without counting costs, grimly blind to the result, he burst out of the fox-trot into a canter. He held to this a thrilling moment, and then, finding himself keyed to greater exertions, abandoned the canter and broke into a sharp run. It was all done quickly, the changes of stride lapping almost within his own length, and his heart leaped and pounded with delight, for the change somehow relieved him. But it was a mistake. Quickly as it was done, he found himself almost as quickly jerked up, swung viciously around, and his sides raked with ruthless spurs. He gasped a moment under the smarting fire of the spurs, then, as in the old days, reared in a towering rage. And this was a mistake. Too late he found the man's weight overbalancing him. He struggled to recover himself, plunged over backward, and down, striking the earth heavily. Hurriedly he regained his feet, but not so the man, not till the others sprang to his assistance. Then he realized what he had done, realized it fully as he caught the venomous gleam in the man's eyes and heard the storm of abuse volleying from his lips. Then, looking at the man, and listening to his raging outburst, he conjured up out of the dim past memories of the Mexican hostler and of that single encounter in the white corral. And now his fear for the man left him. "I'll kill him! I'll shoot the horse!" roared Johnson, his face yellow underneath the tan. He reached toward his side-arms. But he did not shoot. With his face white and drawn Jim strode to Pat's head, while Glover, quick to understand, played the solicitous attendant, assisting the limping Johnson into the saddle. And that closed the incident. Presently all were riding along again, with Johnson, wincing under internal distress, holding his reins more loosely than before. But it was not without its good. As on that other occasion in the corral, Pat had learned something. He had measured a man, and he knew, and knew that the man knew, that he had come off victor. But it gave him no secret gratification. He continued to trot along, holding steadily to the gait, subtly aware of the slackened rein and of the wrenched and loosened girdle, until, with the coming of noon, the blessed relief from the weight of the man, the ill-fitting saddle, and the over-tight girth, came also an agreeable surprise. He was turned out to graze without hobble or tether, and for this consideration he felt faint glimmerings of respect for his new master. Making free at first with the other horses, he set off to enjoy to the full his new-found liberty. But as he pursued ever farther the elusive vegetation in the joy of freedom, he presently awoke to his great distance from camp, and, indeed, from the other horses. Conscious of a sudden gripping loneliness and a certain apprehension, he began to retrace his way. As he did so, out of the silence came a nasty whirring sound, and suddenly he felt a rope settle over his head. Surprise, then anger, displaced his loneliness and apprehension; he jerked back to escape the rope. But it held fast. He braced his legs and began to pull steadily. But the harder he pulled the worse the rope choked him. Finally he ceased all effort and turned his eyes along the rope. At the far end stood the little mare, legs braced in the sand, and astride her, stolid and grim, and with eyes narrowed, the figure of the large man. At sight of him Pat began to pull again, more through ugliness now than desire to escape, until he found that he was dragging the little gray out of her stiffened hold. Then he slackened off. Also, as she wheeled back toward camp, he set out amiably after her. In camp he found his young friend scattering and deadening the coals of the camp-fire, and the little man making up the saddle-bags. This told him that the journey was to be resumed, and he stood quiet and peaceful as he was being bridled and saddled, and afterward he trotted along under the guidance of his master without show of anger or rebellion. Indeed, though the sun was hot, and the unmarked trail tedious, and the weight on his back heavier than ever, he felt less fretful and more contented than at any time since leaving the little ranch beside the river--possibly because of the thrill of his double encounter. Ahead and on either hand the desert soon began to break and lift. As they went on the dunes grew to be hills and heights, growing, looming, closing in upon them. Now and again a clump of trees or a shoulder of rock or a stretch of foliage stepped out in relief against the brown of the landscape, revealing more than once ideal grazing-land. Also, as they penetrated deeper into this broken country, the sky overhead showed change. From a spotless blue it revealed tiny splotches of gray-white cloud scudding before upper currents. With the passing hours these clouds became heavy, sullen, and threatening, until the sun, dipping into the west, sinking in a kind of hazy moisture, left the heavens completely overcast, cold and bleak and forbidding--a dense mass of cloud-banks down to the tip of ridge and range. And now came dusk, short and chill, and with it the slow ascent of a long grade, leading them up to a ridge, low and ragged, trailing away interminably to north and south in the gloom. Complete darkness found them deep among high hills. The men drew rein beside a little stream. They watered the horses, and then, throwing off saddle-bags and gathering brush, they built a tiny fire. Glover appeared nervous and worried, and when the meal was ended turned to mount and be off again. But Johnson called him back. Johnson was seated on the ground, close beside Jim, and Glover sat down with them. Thus they waited, silent, reflective, watching, while about them pressed the close night, seeming by its touch to impart to them something of its solemnity. Off at one side the horses, bridled and saddled, waited also--watching and waiting, motionless, and over them all brooded a stillness that was mighty and portentous. Thus they waited for two hours, wrapped in profound silence, and then Johnson, after scanning the sky, rose and made for the horses. The others quickly followed him. Their trail led into a narrow defile. Up this winding way they rode, with Johnson in the lead, up and ever up, until they burst through a clump of brush at the top. There they drew rein and again waited, silent, reflective, watching. Presently Glover, with eyes turned eastward, uttered a grunt which meant relief. The clouds in the eastern sky were breaking. Through the heavy banks came a faint glimmering of moonlight. At first but a hair-line, it widened out, reaching up and across the sky, developing steadily into the semblance of a frozen flash of heat lightning, until all the eastern heavens showed a shimmering expanse, broken here and there by black clouds sullenly holding their own, which flooded the underscudding desert in beautiful mottled gray-green coloring. Wider and wider the light spread, up and away on either hand, moving stealthily across the sky, until the sheen of it broke over the ridge itself, and then swept beyond to the west, laying bare a broad expanse of mesa dotted with gray-green specks that told of the presence of hundreds of cattle. And now the sullen clouds took to weaving, swaying under the pressure of upper-air currents, the specks below beginning to lift and fall with the motion of the clouds like bits of wreckage undulate on the sea. The air-drifts descended, came closer, fanning the cheeks of the men, rustling through the leaves which crowned the ridge, and breaking the heavy silence. The air-currents flicked the desert with their freight of swift-moving shadows, causing strange movement among the bits of wreckage--the cattle. It was a glorious march, lighting up the western expanse beneath and revealing a flat country, unbroken by dune or cleft as far as the eye could penetrate. So the light moved on, crowding before it sullen shadows which presently disappeared. Johnson broke the stillness. "We'd better move along down," he said, and shook Pat's reins. The horses began the long descent. As compared with the upward climb they made slow progress. Forced to feel their way, they moved always in halts and starts, over saplings, around bulging rocks, along narrow ledges, and at length gained the mesa, where the men drew rein. Johnson, sweeping his eyes coolly over the field of his campaign, began to give orders. "Jim," he snapped, "cut in over there--that arroyo--and crowd 'em around to the south. Don't go too deep." Then, as Jim caught up his reins, "Glover, swing off this side--close in. We'll keep close in down to the line. Hop along!" Pat remained standing. He turned his eyes after the little gray and her rider. He saw the pair swing up over a rise of ground at a gallop, dip from view into a hollow, and appear again on the level beyond. Across this they rode, speeding to the opposite slopes, then slackening as they ascended, making quietly among the nervous cattle, horses and riders moving with the easy certainty that told of much experience. Then he saw the head and shoulders of the young man above the surging herd, crowding a part of it slowly in his direction, to the right, to the left, forward and around, always making steadily toward him. It was interesting, and he continued to watch the cool steadiness of the man and the easy control of the horse, until he caught sight of the other, riding the opposite flank, but also crowding steadily toward him. He fell to watching this man, who, not so tall as Jim among the herd, but as quietly active, was also pressing to right and left and forward and around among the cattle, relentlessly cutting them out. Soon there was a general forward movement, the young man riding on the far side, the little man closing up the rear, and this brought the whole herd, some bellowing loudly, others in sullen silence, still others contentedly munching, directly opposite. Then he felt the prick of spurs, and, throwing himself eagerly at the task, he galloped around behind the advancing cattle, falling into the position now abandoned by the little man, who cantered around and forward upon the left flank. It was exciting, and for a moment he thrilled. Then came the only interruption. A big steer, breaking suddenly out of the herd, tore madly to the rear. Pat, nearest the escaping beef, was spurred in pursuit. It was unexpected, the spurring, and it was savage, and, jolted out of soothing reflection, he flattened his ears and balked. The man spurred him again and again and again, finally raking his sides mercilessly. Whereupon Pat balked in earnest, bucking and pitching viciously. At this the man swung his quirt, cutting Pat repeatedly over head and ears. Yet Pat continued to plunge, holding grimly to his lesson, which was to teach this man the futility of this treatment. He did not throw the man off, but neither did he go ahead. Finally the man ceased his brutality, and evidently coming to understand, headed Pat after the moving herd without spur or quirt. Then Pat, though still rankling under the cruelty, sprang eagerly forward, desirous of showing his willingness to serve when rightly used. That was all. The night passed quietly, the men, alert to their tasks, each separated from the other, riding stolidly into golden dawn. But not till late, with the sun half-way to its zenith, and then only because of safe distance from possible detection, did they draw rein. Saddle-bags were thrown off, though bridle and saddle were left on in case of emergency, and the horses were turned out on short tethers. The men risked a fire, since they were in the shadow of a ridge, and when the coffee-pot was steaming seated themselves on the ground, in a close circle. For the first time since midnight one spoke. It was Johnson. "We'll hold west of Lordsburg," he declared, sweeping his eyes gloatingly over the herd. "Francisco Espor and his gang over the line'll weep when they see that bunch--for joy!" Jim leaned back upon one elbow. "What was that rumpus last night," he inquired, "right after we started?" Then he showed his thoughts. "I mean, the horse." Johnson swung his head around. For a moment he appeared not to understand. Then suddenly his eyes lost their good-humored twinkle and grew hard. "Lost one," he answered, abruptly. "The horse stalled." He narrowed his eyes as he stared vindictively at Pat. "I must take a day off, after we get over the line," he snapped, "and break that animal to saddle, bridle, spur, quirt, and rope. He 'ain't never been broke, that horse, and he's naturally mean!" Jim sat up. "Not with me," he declared, quietly, "when we got acquainted. You ain't taking him right, that's all." Johnson eyed him surlily. "You're a wonderful piece!" he snapped; and then, by glint of eye and jerk of head showed that he dismissed the subject. But Jim seemed to feel otherwise. "Maybe I am," he retorted, turning absent eyes in the direction of the horse. "But I ain't all. I happen to know of another wonderful piece. I'm only a one-territory piece." Johnson grinned. "Go on," he urged, politely. "There's no 'go on' to it," rejoined Jim, revealing equal politeness. "I'm only thinking of a piece I happen to know that runs about a man that's wanted more or less in seven states and two territories. Running double, he's hard to get." Johnson reached over coolly and struck him nastily across the mouth. Then as coolly he sat back, while Jim slowly rose to his feet. His eyes were blazing. "Thanks," he said, tensely. "I've heard a lot about your killings," he went on, breathless with anger. "I guess maybe that's the way--" "Hush!" broke in Glover, excitedly, his eyes upon the ridge to the east. The others turned. Moving slowly along the crest, disappearing, reappearing, disappearing again, was the figure of a man. They gazed a long moment, when the figure dropped from view again. They continued to gaze, silent, rigid, watchful, peering narrowly against the morning sunlight. Presently the figure reappeared, lower against the gray background, moving slowly as before, evidently crouching. Lower it came, quarter down the slope, half-way, then again disappeared. Johnson broke the tense silence. "Sheepherder!" he snapped, and turned savage eyes back upon Jim. But Glover leaped to his feet. "If that's a sheepherder," he cried, making for the horses at a run, "then I'm a sheep!" CHAPTER XVII A RUNNING FIGHT A rifle-shot forced instant action. Jim whirled away from the camp-fire and saddle-bags and sprang toward the horses, while Johnson, leaping up with the agile twist of an athlete, gained his feet running. Jim headed grimly for Pat, but Johnson reached him a breath in advance. Snatching up the reins and mounting, he dug Pat viciously with his huge rowels. At that Pat balked. The man swore and cursed and spurred again; but the horse remained obdurate. Seeing this, Johnson stopped spurring. Thereupon Pat flung forward, dragging his tether clear of its stake, and crowded close beside the gray. Jim was mounted on the gray, bending low in the saddle, racing in frantic pursuit of Glover. Mounted on the sorrel, Glover was well in the lead, speeding straight into the west, riding at right angles to the ridge, galloping hard for the open desert. The echo of the shot reverberated again faintly, and around them closed a tense silence. Others were making for the open. Out of the underbrush, riding easily, burst a handful of rangers. Stephen was one of them. As they swept into the clear country, well-armed, well-mounted, the look on their strong, bronzed faces told of their purpose, which was to get the thieves alive, if possible. Down the long slope they galloped, hats low against the sunlight, elbows winging slightly, heads and backs slanting to the winds, speeding like a group of centaurs. Other than Stephen, there were four of these range police. Men of insight, of experience, keen in the ways of the lawless, knowing best of all the type ahead, they rode without strain, without urging, knowing that this was a long race, a matter of endurance, a test, not for themselves so much as for the horses, those of the pursued as well as their own. Loosely scattered, they rode, eyes not upon the thieves, but upon the horses carrying the thieves, as if hopeful for another break like that shown at the start by the magnificent black. Thus rode the rangers. Not so Stephen. Stephen knew no such laws. All he knew was that after long weeks of futile riding, here at last was Helen's Pat galloping madly away from him. Lashing and spurring his own bay mare, resolute and determined, he gradually began to pull away from the others. Ahead, Johnson began slowly to gather in his trailing tether-rope. Almost without visible effort he wound it around his saddle-horn. Whereupon Jim, evidently aroused to like danger of tripping, set to work at the loop around the little gray's neck. The knot was tight, and his position cramped, but he persisted, and, with it loose, tossed the rope away. Glover already was free from his trailing rope, having taken the time at the outset hurriedly to cast it off. And he was still in the lead, the sorrel carrying him without seeming effort, and moving steadily away from the others, each long stride gaining half as much ground again as the swinging gait of Pat or the quick and nervous reaching of the little gray. But all were moving at top speed, racing desperately across the desert, leaping sand-dunes, dipping into hollows, mounting eagerly over larger dunes, on and on like the wind, sending up with each fling of hoof swirling clouds of dust and gravel. It was a grim effort. Such a time comes to but few men. And such a crisis tests the mettle of men and shows the differences. Gripped in a primal emotion, fear for life, weak men show strength, and strong men weakness. Harmless men murder, murderous men weep, blasphemous men pray, praying men curse. Yet under such a stress strong men often reveal greater strength, rising to physical and spiritual heights of reserve that mock a following fate, even as praying men often pray harder and more fervently than ever they prayed in times of calm. Individual in peace, mankind is individual in war. It is the way of man. And thus it was with these three hurtling forward in the shadow of doom. Glover, ever weak, ever apprehensive, yet always considerate of others, now revealed unexpected strength and appeared considerate only of himself. Crouching in his saddle, apparently mindful of but a single thing--escape--he lashed his horse brutally, swinging his quirt rhythmically, now and again darting cold eyes backward. Johnson, given by nature to bravado and bluster, was even more defiant in this supreme moment. He rode with a plug of tobacco in hand, biting off huge pieces frequently, more frequently squirting brown juices between lips white as the telltale ring around his mouth--a ring as expressive as the hollows beneath his glittering eyes. And Jim, ever worried, ever conscious of himself, sat in his saddle easily, now that he was about to reap the harvest of his ill-sown seeds, riding with eyes on the horse alongside--Pat--studying with coolly critical gaze the animal's smoothness of gait, wonderful carriage of head, unusual and beautiful lifting of forelegs. Thus, in this valley of the shadow, each was his true self and something more, or less, as the chaotic spirit within viewed the immediate future or scanned the distant past. Another shot from the posse--a screaming bullet high overhead--a command to stop! But they did not stop. Instead, Johnson, rising in his stirrups, unholstered a huge revolver and fired point-blank at the rangers. It was the wrong thing to do, and instantly Jim drew away from the leader. This left a clear gap between, and exposed the speeding Glover ahead to fire from the rear. And suddenly it came, a volley of rifle-shots, and Glover, stiffening suddenly, was seen to clutch at his saddle-horn. Also, he turned his head and shoulders as if to cry out. But he uttered not a sound. Evidently the jostling of his sorrel forbade. He turned his head to the front again, and, slumping low in his saddle, began frantic use of spur and quirt. But the sorrel had lost his stride, and before he could regain it Jim and Johnson had dashed alongside. Jim swung close and looked at Glover. Glover returned the gaze, and again appeared about to speak. But now the sorrel flung forward into his stride, and the movement seemed to decide Glover against all utterance. But Jim understood. He held close to Glover, but turned his eyes after Johnson. Instantly he scowled and his mouth drew grimly down. For Johnson was swinging off at a tangent, riding out of the set direction, rapidly pulling away from them. For one sullen moment Jim regarded him; then turned his head to the rear. One of the rangers, a young man mounted on a graceful bay--with the rangers, yet apparently not one of them--was riding well forward out of the group. Understanding Johnson's move now, comprehending his utter selfishness in thus swinging away from them, Jim gazed pityingly at Glover. But Glover did not notice him. He himself was following the swift-riding Johnson with blazing eyes, and suddenly he exploded in vindictive anger. "Put a hole in him!" he cried, hoarsely. "Shoot him! Shoot him, Jim! I--I can't!" But neither could Jim. It was not his nature. Yet there was one thing he could do. And this he did. He took fresh hold on the reins, and, grim and deliberate and vengeful, swung about after Johnson. Further, in swinging his horse about he purposely crowded the sorrel over also. This brought both in direct pursuit of Johnson, and soon they overtook him. But not because of their greater speed. Suffering from an unwonted raking of spurs, Pat had taken to sudden rebellion--balking at first, then beginning to buck, flinging about in all directions except the way desired by the fugitive on his back. Riding close and noting this, Jim felt glad beyond all decency. He even chuckled with satisfaction, conscious almost of a desire to dismount and hug the black. Then his feeling changed. He regretted his glee, became fearful for the man, and called sharply to the horse. And now Pat came to a stand. This for a moment only. Then of his own accord he sprang forward again, speeding as eagerly now as but a moment before he had rebelled, and soon he was galloping alongside the gray. Eminently pleased with the whole performance, Jim again chuckled in delight and burst forward at top speed. Nor was this rebellion lost on Stephen. Riding well forward of the others, when he saw Pat offering resistance he whipped and spurred his mount in the hope that Pat would hold out. But Pat did not hold out, though Stephen knew that he would have, had he but understood. Also, there was his handicap--handicap of the others also. Neither he nor they dared to fire lest they should shoot the black. Occasionally the thieves spread apart, thus giving a chance for a shot with safe regard for Pat. But these openings were infrequent. All they could do was ride in the hope that the thieves might be seized with panic at last and give themselves up. But no such thought came to the fugitives. Johnson, after his galling experience with Pat, looked more grimly determined than ever to get away. Presently he struck back again. He drew a revolver, rose in his stirrups, and fired twice to the rear. It was not without result. Up from the rangers swept a chorus of yells, and Jim, turning his head, saw the foremost pursuer, the young man who was evidently not a ranger, circle headlong over his tumbling horse. He turned to the front again, and, understanding what would follow, whipped and spurred furiously. Suddenly the answer came. The desert awoke in a fusillade of shots, and Jim saw Glover, who once more was in the lead, drift out of his saddle, slip down much as a child descends from its high-chair, and fall to earth in a crumpled heap. He swerved and dashed alongside. For an instant he drew rein and studied the still face. Then he lifted his eyes, gazing off absently toward the distant skyline, the mellow haze in the hills, the shimmering of heat-waves above the dunes, the glistening reflections of light off myriads of tiny sand cubes. Glover--poor Glover--had paid the price, and had paid it in silence. He wheeled his horse and sped after Johnson. He overtook him swinging up over a slight elevation. Dead ahead, not more than two miles distant, he saw a long grove of trees. It gave him hope. Here was a chance for effective resistance. Here both he and Johnson could dismount, drive the horses into shelter, seek shelter themselves, and open fire upon the posse. His spirits kindled. He would shoot to kill, as he knew Johnson would shoot to kill, and then, with the rangers helplessly disabled, he would mount Pat, mount the black this time, and if Johnson became ugly he would shoot him. Then he would ride to the east, ride out of this life, and with the horse take up a decent existence somewhere, abandoning crime forever. He would-- More shots from the rear interrupted him. Evidently the rangers, mounting over the rise themselves, had also caught sight of the grove. Evidently, too, they were taking no chances against such a stand as he was contemplating. At any rate, the firing became rapid and continuous, and it was deadly, for suddenly he saw Johnson wilt in the saddle, drop his revolver, drop the reins, and clutch at his left arm. Also he heard a cry--heard it sharp and clear above the pounding of the gray's hoofs and the creak and crunch of his own saddle-leather. "I'm hit! I'm hit, boy! They--they've got me!" Pat himself heard the outcry and felt the loosened rein. It puzzled him. He did not know whether to keep going or to slacken down. But he kept on going--going hard. Yet he would have welcomed a halt. He was weak and faint. He could not remember the time, save that memorable day on the mesa, when he had run so hard and so continuously. Yet ahead lay trees, and instinctively he accepted them as his destination. In that grove perhaps was water, an opportunity for rest, and abundance of food. So he continued forward, grimly conscious of his burning ankles, his pounding and fluttering heart and heaving and clamoring lungs--plunging forward under the weak urging of his heavy master, responding now through force of habit--feeling that because he was in motion he must continue in motion. It was a numb, mechanical effort, involuntary and apart from him, as much apart from his control as was the beating of his heart. Another volley came from the rear, and with it another violent change in his master. The man cried out and loosened his feet in the stirrups. Yet Pat continued to gallop until he felt the weight slowly leaving him, felt it go altogether, felt it dangling from one stirrup. Then he came to a stop. As he did so the little gray dashed past--his friend. And now great loneliness gripped him. He started forward. But the weight in his stirrup checked him. He came to a stop again. Then he wanted to nicker in protest, but he found that he could not. He was too weak to utter sound. So he stood there, his eyes upon the little gray and her rider, watching them hurtling toward the grove. Then the thudding of hoofs came to his ears from the rear, and, slowly turning, he saw a group of horsemen riding wearily--one hatless; another with flaying quirt; a third with smoking carbine; a fourth, a large man, smooth and red of face, riding heavily--all galloping toward him. But they did not hold his interest. His heart and soul lay with the little gray mare, and, turning to the front again, he saw mare and rider swinging out of sight around the end of the grove. Confidently he watched for their appearance beyond. Presently he saw them sweep into view again--moving at a gallop, swinging across a wide plain that held them clear to his straining eyes--saw them grow faint and fainter, small and ever smaller--become a hazy speck on the horizon--finally disappear from view in the engulfing dunes and vales of the surrounding desert. And now, weakened as he was, he sounded a forlorn, protracted nicker of protest. The rangers pulled up, breathless. They dismounted stiffly, released the weight from Pat's stirrup, and carried it off a little ways. He watched them a moment, noting their ease of movement and business-like air, and then turned his gaze to the horses. All were strange to him, and he looked them over frankly, resting his eyes finally upon a chunky white. Instinctively he knew that this horse was mean, and he hated mean horses as he hated mean men. Observing that this one showed his teeth freely at him, the while holding his small ears almost constantly flat, he measured him for difficulties in the future, if the association were to continue. Then he turned his eyes back to the men. As he did so, out of the silence rode a single horseman. He was mounted upon the sorrel, and Pat wondered at this. But as the man drew near and Pat saw a blood-smeared, ghastly face, he wondered still more. For there was something familiar about this lone rider, and he took a step toward him. Presently he saw him gain the outer edge of the circle, and then a strange thing happened. He saw the young man begin to weave in his saddle, saw two of the others suddenly leap for him--saw them reach him just in time to save him from tumbling limply to the ground. Then he noted another queer thing. He saw the young man's left arm dangle oddly from the shoulder; saw the young man himself grasp it, wincing with excruciating pain, and saw him turn wide eyes suddenly toward him. Then he heard the man speak. "Look--look him over!" he cried, and his voice was a curious mixture of distress and restrained excitement. "I--I don't want him--him to go back--to go back--hurt--hurt in--in--" And now Pat saw the strangest thing of all. He saw the young man slowly close his eyes and sink back into the arms of the others as one dead. He saw the others exchange troubled glances and lay the insensible form down tenderly on the sand. It was all very unusual, something new in his life; and, not knowing what else to do, yet somehow feeling that he should do something, be it never so little, he lowered his head and sounded a trembling nicker into the silence. CHAPTER XVIII AN ENEMY There was water in the grove, and the men made camp at the edge of the trees. "The Doc," which was what the rangers early had affectionately nicknamed Stephen, was suffering a compound fracture of the left arm, together with numerous bruises and scratches about the head and face. He had had a nasty fall. His horse had stumbled and almost instantly died as the result of the big cattle-rustler's shots. The men set and splinted Stephen's arm as best they could, and they bandaged his head with rare skill; but it was deemed advisable for him to remain quiet for a time. So Stephen lay listlessly smiling at the bantering of the men, too sick at heart really to take interest in any living thing. His arm pained him, and his head ached, while throughout his body he was sore and stiff and well-nigh incapable of moving. But not once following the first complete collapse did he let go of himself, although when the men set his arm it seemed that he must. Somehow he was contented that everything was as it was. True, he was hurt. But also he had found Pat, had recovered the horse for Helen, and the horse now was within sound of his voice, did he but care to lift it. His physical hurts would get well, his spiritual hurts never without the recovery of the horse. And now he had the horse. One morning it became apparent that their food-supplies would soon need replenishing. So it was decided to break camp for the nearest town, a Mexican settlement some eighty miles to the southwest. Stephen had been walking about somewhat cheerfully for three or four days, and his condition was such that he could ride forward slowly without danger to his arm. So they broke camp, utilizing the sorrel as a pack-horse--there now were two extra saddles and bridles--and set out, Stephen, of course, mounted upon Pat. Once more Pat found himself following an unmarked and desolate trail. Moving always at a walk now instead of the conventional fox-trot, he found his service, save for this and one other thing, identical with that under his previous masters. The single other difference was that instead of irritating silence, these men unwittingly soothed him with their talk and swift exchange of jokes. Thus the hours passed, until noon came, when, with his bridle and saddle removed, and pungent odors of savory cooking tickling his nostrils, he received the privilege of grazing over the whole desert unhobbled and untethered. But this, liberal as it seemed, brought him nothing of the nourishment his soul craved. After an hour or two of lazy wandering, while the men passed the time at cards, he was sent forward again along the ever-mysterious trail. And thus he moved, through the long hot afternoon, the cool and lingering twilight, on to a night camp where once more he was turned loose with the other horses to glean as best he might life-giving sustenance from the scant herbage. But it was drearily monotonous. Throughout it all, however, there was one who kept his interest alive. It was the white horse. In the camp holding himself aloof, as if superciliously refraining from close contact, on the trail this horse took to revealing his antagonism. He would stand a short way from him while they grazed, lay back his ears and whisk his tail, and, whenever the chance came, he would snap viciously at the other horses. Pat understood the meaning of all this, and held himself ready to resist attack, yet he simply looked at the horse with a kind of amused speculation. Nor at any time did he feel grave apprehension. That he did not take the horse seriously lay in the fact that after drawing near in this fashion and bristling nastily the white horse would quickly draw away again, steadily and craftily, and then fall to worrying one of the other horses, usually one of smaller size that quite obviously feared him. There came the time when the white did not confine his threatenings to the grazing-periods. He became aggressive on the march. Though less free to give battle here, which was possibly his reason, he would frequently jockey close, and either flash his head around with teeth snapping, or else, as if to make Pat feel inferiority, would plunge forward to a point immediately in front, and in this position fling back choking dust or gravel. At such times the round-faced man, the white's master, would drag him away mightily, or, if he was not quick enough, then the sorrel, drowsing along behind on a lead-rope, would unconsciously offer resistance. But it was all very disagreeable, and Pat, while finding that it broke up the monotony of the journey, yet at length found himself also becoming irritated. He finally gave way to it. It was his nature to brood over annoyances and sometimes to heap grains of injustice into mountains of woes. He fell to thinking of his general lot, his misfortunes, the lack of proper food, the occasional lack of water, until he became sullen and peevish. The change showed in sudden starts at unusual sounds which brought sharp protests from his young master, and then he began to refuse to eat. This was grave, and he knew it. But he could not or would not help it; he never knew quite which it was. But he did not eat. Instead of moving about with the other horses, nose to ground, mouthing the bunch-grass, he would mope by himself well away from the other horses, standing with head hanging and ears inert, all in motionless silence. As the water-holes became farther apart, and the grazing worse yet, he did this more and more, until the white horse, evidently seeing his lack of spirit, became a source of downright aggravation, frequently taking lightning nips at him. At such times Pat would lift his head and hold himself erect and vigilant during the grazing-period, but he brooded, none the less, and as persistently refused to eat. This was not lost upon Stephen or the rangers, neither his refusing to eat nor the white's antagonism. They spent hours discussing both. Having found in Pat none of the regular symptoms of disease, yet aware that something grave was the matter, the rangers fell to discussing Pat's condition with much earnestness, frequently interrupting their arguments on the one subject to declare that the white horse, provided Pat held out and healed up against his complaint, would get a fight such as was never before witnessed in the desert. That they were evenly matched both as to build and strength was recognized; that Pat was possessed of a reserve that told of finer courage all agreed. Yet in this last lurked opportunities for argument; and argue they did, sometimes long into the night, the little man known as the Professor and the rangy individual with the scrubby beard showing the greatest vehemence. Yet despite all their arguments, to which Stephen invariably listened in smiling silence, none as yet had offered good reason for the villainous attitude of the white toward the peaceful Pat. "_I_ know!" suddenly declared the man with the scrubby beard one evening, after the tin dishes had been cleared away. "It's jealousy!" He narrowed his eyes out through the darkness in the direction of the horses. "Who ever 'u'd believe old Tom out there 'u'd show jealousy? I see it, though, the first day. You recollect we made a heap of the black, kind of petting him up some, and Tom, bein', as he sure is, an intelligent hoss, I reckon he figured it out that he'd played the game and been faithful all along, and then to see himself set back that way by a complete stranger, it jest nachelly made him sore. Same as it would you or me, mebbe, if we was informed polite and all that from headquarters that they was a new man comin' to jine us that was the pure quill whichever way you looked at him. Old Tom is bein' et up with jealousy, I'm regretful to say." "Animiles feels things a heap more'n humans does," put in the little man known as the Professor. "But they're more reserved in showin' 'em out. Yit when they do show 'em out, they're a lot less polite about it than humans." "Nachelly," snapped the lean man, glaring savagely across the fire at the other. "But that ain't tellin' us what ails the black," he went on, dropping the subject of the white and taking up with the symptoms of the black, evidently through perverseness. "He's solemn and dumpish," he declared, thoughtfully, "like he might have distemper. But he 'ain't got distemper. And his teeth ain't sharp, yet he don't eat at all. And I can't see anything the matter with his insides." "Did you look?" inquired the Professor, innocently, but with a quick wink at Stephen. "Yes, I--" began the lean man, only to check himself with an angry snort. Then he shifted the topic again, reverting to the case of old Tom. "That white hoss'll about push that matter to a finish," he declared. "See if what I say don't pan out! Tom he'll just about obey that law o' nature which animals has knowed from long before the ark, but which us humans is just gettin' a hold on. He'll remove the cause--old Tom will--or get himself removed. He ain't nobody's fool--nor never was!" And he rested his eyes significantly upon the Professor. The Professor was busy, however. He had pulled a deck of cards from his hip pocket, and now was riffling them with pointed interest. Directly he began to deal them around, carefully overlooking the lean man as he did so. But the latter, dropping over upon one elbow, permitted the game to proceed without offering objection to the oversight, a peculiar one, since he was in the full glare of the fire. That argument was closed. But next morning Pat received unexpected attention. His young master approached him, looped a rope around his neck, and gave the end to the large man, who mounted the white. Then the lean man bridled and saddled the sorrel for the young man, who evidently was unable conveniently to do these things with his one hand. After this he loaded Pat with the extra saddles and bridles, and thus they set out. It was a not unfavorable change, and Pat, while harboring mixed emotions, since he now was trailing along behind the white, yet found himself in a lighter mood. Feeling little jealousy of the white, however, he soon forgot the changed relations, finding in his own position a new viewpoint upon the cavalcade which was interesting. For now he could survey the whole squad, five horses of varied size and action, and this, as he studied the individual gait of each, was not without its pleasure. Also, being, as he was, free from the weight of a man, he felt an airy lightness that was positively refreshing. And finally, since he was out of reach of the nagging white, this blessing alone made him grateful. So he followed along, working yet not working, with a feeling of complete composure such as had not been his for many a day. Still his composure did not last. The novelty wore off toward noon, and he found himself morose and introspective again. Sounding the depths of his grievances, he at length took to thinking of the white corral beside the river. Not in many a day had he thought of the ranch. But he was recalling it now, not through affection, not because it was home to him, but because, brooding over his many discomforts in the open, he was suddenly remembering that his life had not always been this--that he knew actual comfort, knew what it was to have his wants gratified. And recalling these facts, he naturally recalled that which had made them possible--the little ranch in the valley. So he let his thoughts linger there. Faint and elusive at first, those other days became finally quite vivid, days of expectancy and gratification, days of sugar and quartered apples, days of affection and love-talk from his pretty little mistress. And how he missed them all! How he missed them--even the Mexican hostler and the brown saddler and the old matronly horse--his mother by adoption! But they were gone from him now, gone for all time out of his life. Yet though he believed them gone, he continued to brood on them, to live each day over again in his thoughts, till the men ahead dismounted suddenly. Then he was glad to turn his attention to other matters, things close around him. One of these was the coming of the lean man with a pair of familiar objects in his hands--this after the noonday meal. "Well, my bucky," he began, turning critical eyes over Pat, "I been studyin' your case a heap, and I've come to think I'm old Doctor Sow himself. Your young man here is knocked out of all possible good," he went on, as Stephen smilingly approached, "and so it occurred to me, sir, as how you ain't sick no more'n I be. What ails you is you're an aristocrat--something that's been knocked around unusual--what with them rustlers and with us that's worse than rustlers--and got yourself all mussed up and unfit! All you need is a cleanin'--that's what ails you! You're just nice furniture--a piece o' Sheraton, mebbe--that's all over sweepings, and I'm the he-maid that's going to dust you off. Hold still, now." So Pat, after taking a step toward Stephen, who now was stroking him tenderly, held very still, not only under the soothing caress, but under the operation--for such was the cleaning--since he was gritty beyond belief. Also, after the operation he felt immeasurably better, and better still when Stephen led him to a tiny stream and he had relieved his thirst. But that was not all of joy. Turned loose with the other horses, he fell to grazing eagerly, actually finding it good, and once lifting a long and shrill nicker in gratitude for this change in his condition. Nor did his delight stop here. With camp broken, and his young master, instead of returning him to the lead-rope, bridling and saddling him awkwardly with one hand, he set out along the trail at a gait so brisk that it brought a startled exclamation from the young man, who promptly pulled him down. But though he was forced to keep a slow gait, yet frequently during the afternoon, conscious of his fresh coat and the sense of buoyancy it gave him, he flung up his head and nickered loud and joyfully. Also, with night once more descending, and the stars twinkling in the blue-black heavens, and the sheen of a rising moon flooding the desert, he moved about among the other horses with a vigor that was almost insolence, seizing tufts of grass wherever he saw them, heedless of others' rights. Around the fire sat or sprawled the men. Two of them were industriously mending, one a shirt, the other a bridle. The Professor and the man with the scrubby beard were complacently smoking, while Stephen, glad to stretch out after the day's ride with an arm that constantly distressed him, was reclining upon a blanket, staring into the flames and conjuring up in their leaping tongues numerous soothing pictures. As he sat there the man with the beard suddenly addressed him. "Doc," he drawled, removing his pipe from between whiskers that glinted in the light of the fire, "now that you've got him, what are you thinking of doing with that horse?" "I'll take him back," replied Stephen, pleasantly. The other was silent. "Shore!" he rejoined, after a moment. "But take him back where?" "Where he belongs." There was further silence. "Excuse me!" finally exclaimed the other. "I was thinking as mebbe you'd take him whence he came." Stephen sat erect and looked at the other. He was smoking again complacently. "Whence come you?" asked Stephen, after a time. The other slowly removed his pipe. Then he told him. Then Stephen spoke. And then the man rose stiffly, crossed solemnly to him and shook hands with him cordially. "I knowed you was white the fust day I see you," he declared. Then he waved a vague hand over the others. "They've all--all of 'em--traveled that way. I was raised--" A sudden shrill scream out in the darkness interrupted him. It was a horse. The cry stirred the entire camp. The Professor arose, sauntered out, whistling, whirled, and called back sharply. The others ran toward him; the large man struck a match. The white horse was limping on three legs. They bent over and examined the fourth. The match went out. All straightened up. As they did so Pat sounded a shrill nicker. "Busted!" exclaimed the large man, quietly. "Well, I'm a goat! That black horse has kicked old Tom clear over the divide. I--I'm clean done! Quick as lightning, too! No preambles; no circumlocutions; no nothing. Just put it to him. Good Lord!" Then he regretfully drew a revolver. "I reckon you boys better stand back." A shot broke the quiet, and the desert shivered and was still again. The white horse sank to the ground. Stephen walked to Pat, struck a match, and looked him over critically. Pat was torn and bleeding in two places along the neck, but otherwise he needed no attention. Stephen patted him thoughtfully, gratefully, fighting the horror of what might have been had this splendid horse weakened in the crisis. No wonder the little girl in the valley worshiped him. But he said nothing. After a time he returned to the fire and sat down among a very sober group of men. Presently the man with the scrubby beard broke the quiet. His voice sounded hollow and distressed. "I knowed it," he declared. "Though I thought old Tom 'u'd done better." He began to roll a cigarette. "Pore old Tom! He's killed; he's dead--dead and gone." With the cigarette made, he snatched a brand from the fire and lighted it. He fell to smoking in thoughtful silence, in his eyes a look of unutterable sadness. The Professor bestirred himself. "Tell me," he asked, lifting his gaze to the heavens reflectively--"tell me, does any of you believe that horses--any animiles--has souls?" The lean man glanced at him. His eyes now had the look of one anxious to express his views, but cautiously refused to be baited. Finally he made answer. "If you're askin' my opinion," he said, "I'll tell you that I know they have." He was silent. "I know that animals has the same thing we've got," he continued--"that thing we call the soul--but they've got it in smaller proportions, so to speak. It's easy as falling off a bucking bronc. Take old Tom out there. Take that Lady horse that got killed two years ago by rustlers--take any horse, any dumb animal--and I'll show you in fifteen different ways that they've got souls." "How?" The lean man glared. "Now 'how'!" he snapped. "You give me a mortal pang. Why don't you never use your eyes once like other and more decent folks? Get the habit. You'll see there ain't any difference between animals and humans, only speech, and they've got that!" The large man smiled. "Let's have it, Bob," he invited. "Where'll we look for it first?" The lean man showed an impatience born of contempt. "Well," he began, tossing away his cigarette, "in desires, first, then in their power to appreciate, and, finally, in their sense of the worth of things. They have that, and don't you think they hain't. But they've got the others, too. Animals like to eat and drink and play, don't they? You know that! And they understand when you're good to 'em and when you're cussed mean. You know that. And they know death when they see it, take it from me, because they're as sensitive to loss of motion, or breathing, or animal heat, as us humans--more so. They feel pain, for instance, more'n we do, because, lackin' one of the five--or six, if you like--senses, their other senses is keyed up higher'n our'n." The Professor looked belligerent. "Get particular!" he demanded. "I won't get particular," snapped the other. "S'pose you wrastle it out for yourself--same as us humans." Evidently he was still bitter against this man. "That Lady horse o' mine," he went on, his eyes twinkling, addressing himself to the others, "she had it all sized about right. She used to say to me, when I'd come close to her in the morning: 'Well, old sock,' she'd say, throwin' her old ears forward, 'how are you this mornin'?--You know,' she'd declare, 'I kind o' like you because you understand me.' Then she'd about wipe her nose on me and go on. 'Wonder why it is that so many of you don't! It's easy enough, our language,' she'd p'int out, 'but most o' you two-legged critters don't seem to get us. It's right funny! You appear to get 'most everything else--houses, and land, and playin'-cards, and sich. But you don't never seem to get us--that is, most o' you! Why, 'tain't nothin' but sign language, neither--same as Injuns talkin' to whites. But I reckon you're idiots, most o' you, and blind, you hairless animals, wearin' stuff stole offen sheep, and your ugly white faces mostly smooth. You got the idee we don't know nothin'--pity us, I s'pose, because we can't understand you. Lawzee! We understand you, all right. It's you 'at don't understand us. And that's the hull trouble. You think we're just a lump o' common dirt, with a little tincture o' movement added, just enough so as we can run and drag your loads around for you. Wisht you could 'a' heard me and old Tom last night, after you'd all turned in, talkin' on the subject o' keepin' well and strong and serene o' mind. Sign language? Some. But what of it, old whiskers? Don't every deef-and-dumb party get along with few sounds and plenty of signs? You humans give me mortal distress!' "And so on," concluded this lover of animals. "Thus Lady horse used to talk to me every mornin', tryin' to make me see things some little clearer. And that's all animals--if you happen to know the 'try me' on their little old middle chamber work." He fell silent. The others said nothing. Each sat smoking reflectively, gazing into the dying flames, until one arose and prepared to turn in. Stephen was the last except the Professor and the man with the scrubby beard. And finally the Professor gained his feet and, with a glance at the last figure remaining at the fire, took off his boots and rolled up in his blanket. For a long moment he stared curiously at the other bowed in thought. "Ain't you goin' to turn in?" he finally inquired. "You ain't et up by nothin', be you?" The lean man slowly lifted his head. "I was thinkin'," he said, half to himself, "of a--a kind of horse's prayer I once see in a harness-shop in Albuquerque." The other twisted himself under his blanket. "How did it go?" he asked, encouragingly. "Let's all have it!" The lean man arose. "'To thee, my master,' it started off," he began, moving slowly toward his blanket. Suddenly he paused. "I--I don't just seem to remember it all," he said, and sat down and pulled off one of his boots. He held it in his hands absently. The Professor urged him on. "Let her come," he said, his face now hidden in the folds of his covering. "Shoot it--let's hear." "'To thee, my master, I offer my prayer,'" presently continued the other, turning reflective eyes toward the flickering coals. "'Feed me, water me, care for me, and, when the--the day's work is done, provide me with shelter and a clean, dry bed, and, when you can, a stall wide enough for me to lie down in in comfort. Always be kind to me. Talk to me--your voice often means as much to me as the reins. Pet me sometimes, that I may serve you the more gladly and know that my services are appreciated, and that I may learn to love you. Do not jerk the reins, and do not whip me when going up-hill. And when I don't understand you, what you want, do not strike or beat or kick me, but give me a chance to understand you. And if I continue to fail to understand, see if something is not wrong with my harness or feet.'" The Professor's blanket stirred. "Go on!" he yelled. "Sounds all right. Go ahead! Is that all?" "I disremember the rest," replied the other. "Let's see!" He was silent. "No," he finally blurted out, "I can't get it. It says something about overloading, and a-hitching where water don't drop on him, and--Oh yes! 'I can't tell you when I'm thirsty,' it goes on, 'so give me cool, clean water often. Never put a frosty bit in my mouth; first warm it by holdin' it a moment in your hands. And, remember, I try to carry you and your burdens without a murmur, and I wait patiently for you long hours of the day and night. Without power to choose my shoes or path, I sometimes stumble and fall, but I stand always in readiness at any moment to lose my life in your service. And this is important, and, finally, O my master! when my useful strength is gone do not turn me out to starve, or sell me to some cruel owner to be slowly tortured and starved to death; but do thou, my master, take my life in the kindest way, and your God will reward you here and hereafter. You will not consider me irreverent, I know, if I ask all this in the name of Him Who was born in a stable.'" The Professor's blanket stirred again. "Go on," he demanded in muffled tones. "Is that all?" The lean man slipped off his second boot. "No," he replied, quietly, "that ain't all." "Well, go ahead. It's good. That horse must 'a' been a city horse; but go on!" "Only one more word, anyway," was the rejoinder. He was still holding his boot. "What is it?" "Why"--the voice was solemn--"it's 'Amen.'" "Aw, shucks!" came from the depths of the blanket. The lean man turned his head. "Say, you!" he rasped, belligerently. "What?" For answer the boot sailed across the camp. The Professor popped his head out of the blanket, drew it back suddenly, popped it out again, all strongly suggestive of a turtle. There was a hoarse laugh, then silence, but none of those men forgot the Prayer of the Horse. CHAPTER XIX ANOTHER CHANGE OF MASTERS The next morning Pat had a change from the tedium of the desert. With the others he struck into a narrow canyon that led out to a beaten trail upon a rolling mesa. The trail wound diagonally across the mesa from the south and lost itself in snake-like twistings among hills to the north. Guided to the right into this trail, Pat found himself, a little before noon, in a tiny Mexican settlement. It was a squat hamlet, nestling comfortably among the hills, made up of a few adobes, a lone well, and a general store. The store was at the far end, and toward this his young master directed him. As they rode on Pat noticed a queer commotion. Here and there a door closed violently, only to open again cautiously as they drew opposite, revealing sometimes two, sometimes three, sometimes five pairs of black eyes, all ranged timidly one pair over another in the opening. Dogs skulked before their approach, snarling in strange savagery, while whole flocks of chickens, ruffling in dusty hollows, took frantically to wing at their coming, fleeing before them in unwonted disorder. And finally, as they moved past the well, a half-grown boy, only partly dressed, hurtled out of the side door of one house, raced across a yard to the front door of another house, and slammed the door shut behind him in a panic. It was all very strange, and it made a deep impression upon him. Also it evidently impressed the men, for as they drew rein in front of the store, with its dust-dry shelves and haunting silence, all asked quick questions of the proprietor, a little wizened, gimlet-eyed Mexican who was leaning in the doorway. After glancing over their accoutrements with a nod of understanding, he answered, explaining the reason for the agitation. It was all the result of a raid. Three days before a band of marauders had swept down from the north, ransacked pigstys and chicken-coops and corrals, and galloped off madly to the south. Yes, they had plundered the store also. Indian renegades--yes. He could not say from what reservation. Yes, they were armed, and in warpaint, and riding good horses--all of them. No, he could not say--about thirty in the band, perhaps. He--What? Yes, he had alfalfa and, if they wished, other things--beans and rice and canned goods. No, the renegades had not wholly cleaned out the store. Yes, he had matches. No, they had not-- What? _Vino?_ To be sure he had _Vino_! He would get--how many bottles?--right away! It was in the cellar, where he kept it cool, and reasonably safe from all marauders--including himself. With this slight witticism he disappeared into the store. The men dismounted. They sat down upon the porch, and one of them, the large man, removed his hat, produced a blue bandana, and fell to mopping his red face. The day was warm, and the settlement, lying low under surrounding peaks, received none of the outside breezes. Also, it was inert now, wrapped in the quiet of a frightened people. There was no movement anywhere save that of ruffling hens in the dust of the trail, and the nearer switching of horses' tails. Once this stillness was broken. Among the houses somewhere rose feminine lamentations, wailing sobs, the outburst cutting the quiet with a sharpness that caused the men to turn grave eyes in its direction. And now the keeper of the store reappeared, bearing three bottles of wine in his arms, and numerous supplies, which the men accepted and paid for. Then all led their horses back to the well, which was in a little clearing, and there prepared to make camp, throwing off saddle-bags and accoutrements and building a fire while they planned a real meal. Pat was enjoying all this. The settlement had a faintly familiar look, and he half expected to see a swarthy Mexican, whip in hand, approach him with abusive tongue. Also, after weeks of far horizons and unending sweeps of desert, he found in this nearness of detail pleasurable relief. It was good to see something upright again without straining across miles of desolation, even as it was good to see adobes once more, with windows and doors, and smoke curling up out of chimneys. He felt a deep sense of security, of coziness, which he had been fast losing on the broad reaches, together with his sight for short distances. For his eyes had become affected since leaving the white corral beside the river, although with this he was aware of a peculiar gain. His sense of hearing now was most acute, and he could hear the least faint sounds--sounds which, before his taking to the open, he could not have heard. So he was enjoying it all, feeling real comfort, a kind of fitness, as if he belonged here and would better remain here for ever. Then, with a generous supply of alfalfa tossed to him, as to the other horses, he became convinced that he should remain in this little settlement for all time. Along in the afternoon the storekeeper, accompanied by a native woman, who was tear-stained and weeping, crossed the settlement. At the moment the men, lounging about on blankets, were discussing ways and means for Stephen. He need not continue with them now, they informed him, unless he wanted to. Arrangements could be made here to get him to a railroad in some kind of vehicle, leading Pat behind. But it was up to him. They weren't hurrying him away, by any means, yet it sure was up to him to get proper treatment for his arm, which showed slow signs of recovery. Stephen was considering this when the two Mexicans approached. The proprietor of the store started to explain, when the little woman draped in a black mantilla interrupted him with further sobbing and a pointing finger--pointing back across the settlement. "_Caballeros_," she began, "you coom please wit' me, I--I haf show you soomt'ing." Then again she burst into weeping. Startled, Stephen arose, and the others gained their feet. They set out across the settlement. They struck between some adobe houses, crossed some back yards, dodged under clothes-lines, and found themselves in a tiny graveyard. The woman brought them to a stop before a fresh mound of earth. Here she knelt in another outburst of tears, while the gimlet-eyed storekeeper explained. It was a little boy twelve years old. The marauders had stolen his pig. He had bitterly denounced them, and one--evidently the leader--had shot him. It was too bad! But it was not all. In one of the houses, the large house they had passed in coming here, lay an old man, seventy-eight years of age, dying from a rifle-shot. Yes, the renegade Indians had shot him also. What had he done? He had defended his chickens against theft. It was too bad! It was all too bad! Could not there something be done? To live in peace, to live in strict accord with all known laws, such was the aim and such had been the conduct of these people. And then to have a band of cutthroats, murderers, thieves, descend upon their peace and quiet in this fashion! It was all too bad! The rangers turned away from the scene. All save the woman set out across the settlement, returning to the camp in silence. Seated once more, they fell to discussing this situation. And discussing the tragedy, they reverted to Stephen and his own troubles, light in comparison. They themselves, they acknowledged, had their work all cut out for them. It was what they got their money for. But there was hardly any use, they pointed out, in Stephen's accompanying them on this mission. Yet he could go if he wanted to. What did he say? And Stephen, gazing off thoughtfully toward the tiny mound of fresh earth, and seeing the little woman prostrated with grief upon the grave, knew that Helen, herself bitter with loss, and no doubt needing Pat as much almost as this woman needed her own lost one, would have him do what he wanted to do. And what he wanted to do, felt as if he must do, was to accompany these men, go with them, disabled though he was, and help as best he could to bring down retribution upon the renegades. And he made known his wishes to the others, finally, expressing them with a note of determination. As they bridled and saddled, leaving all equipment not actually required, the proprietor of the store, his small eyes eager, stood close and frequently repeated his opinion that murder in even more gruesome form had been committed to the north. Then they set out, following the direction taken by the Indians, riding briskly, keyed up to energy through hope of encounter, although Stephen suffered not a little from the jolting of his arm. Dropping down from the hills, they swung out upon the mesa, and thence made into the south along a winding trail. Ordinarily they would have lingered to accept the strained hospitality of the settlement. But this was duty, duty large and grave, and, conscious of it all, they pressed forward in silence. The renegades' tracks stood out clearly, and the rangers noted that some of the horses were shod, others only half shod, while the greater number were without shoes at all. This told of the marauders' nondescript collection of mounts, and also acquainted them with the fact that many of the animals had been stolen. On through the afternoon they rode, making but little gain, since the tracks became no fresher. When darkness fell, though still in the open without protection of any kind save that offered by a slight rise of ground, they dismounted and prepared to make camp. Throughout the afternoon Pat had felt something of the grim nature of this business. This not only because of the severe crowding which he had endured--though that had told him much--but because of the unwonted silence upon the men. So he had held himself keenly to the stride, rather liking its vigor after long days of walking, finding himself especially fit to meet it after his recent change of food. And although the sun had been swelteringly hot, yet the desert had been swept with counteracting breezes, and, with night finally descending, he had felt more than ever his fine mettle, and now, even though his master was painfully dismounting, he felt fit to run his legs off at the least suggestion. This fitness remained with him. When his young master turned him loose at the end of a generous tether, he stepped eagerly away from the firelight and out into the light of a rising moon, not to graze, for he felt no desire to graze, having eaten his fill and more at noon, but to give vent to his high spirits in unusual rolling in the sands. This he quickly proceeded to do, kicking and thrashing about, and holding to it long after the men about the fire had ceased to come and go in preparing their meal, long after they had seated themselves in the cheerful glow, smoking and talking as was their habit. The Professor noticed it. He looked at the man with the beard pointedly. "That Pat hoss he's workin' up another job o' cleanin' for you," he observed. "Seemed in an awful hurry, too," he added, then dropped his eyes innocently. The other was punching new holes in his belt with an unwieldy jack-knife. He suddenly gave off twisting the point of the knife against the leather and lifted it menacingly in the direction of his tormentor. "Look-a-here, Professor," he retorted, "I ain't feelin' any too pert right now, and I'll take a hop out o' you if you don't shet up!" The Professor looked grieved. "What's the matter of you?" he inquired. "Never you mind!" The knife went back to the leather again. "Let that horse roll if he wants to! It ain't any skin off your hands!" Which was the key-note of all assembled save the Professor. All except him appeared tense and nervous and in no way inclined to joke. For a time after the lean man's rebuke they engaged in casual talk, then one after another they drew off their boots and rolled up in their blankets. All but Stephen. His arm was throbbing with unusual pain. It was still in splints, and still bandaged in a sling around his neck, and since it always hurt him to change positions, he remained seated beside the fire, wrapped in sober thought. Outside, in the green-white light of the moon, he heard the horses one by one sink to rest. Around him the desert, gripped in death-stillness, pressed close, while overhead the star-sprinkled dome of heaven, unclouded, arched in all its wonted glittering majesty. A long time he sat there, keenly alive to these things, yet thinking strange thoughts, thoughts of his loneliness, and what might have been, and where he might have been, had he never met the girl. These were new thoughts, and he presently arose to rid himself of them and turned in, and soon was in a doze. Some time later, he did not know how much later, he was aroused by a sound as of distant thunder. But as he lifted his head the sound disappeared. Yet when he dropped his head back again he heard it. He pressed his left ear close to earth. The sound grew louder and seemed to come nearer. Again he lifted his head. As before, he could hear nothing save the snoring of the large man and the dream-twitching of the Professor. He gazed about him. The camp was still. He peered outside in the moonlight. The horses were all down--at rest. At length he dropped back once more, closed his eyes sleepily, and soon dozed a second time. But again he was aroused. He whipped up his head. The sound was thundering in his ears. He heard trampling hoofs--many hoofs--immediately outside. He leaped to his feet. He saw horsemen--Indians--the renegades--crowding past, riding frantically to the north. He called sharply to the others, who were already waking and leaping to their feet. He turned to the horses. They were all there, standing now, alert and tense. Wheeling, he stared after the Indians. They were speeding away like the wind, close huddled, fleeing in a panic. He watched them, dazed, saw them ascend a rise, become a vacillating speck in the moonlight, and drop from view in a hollow beyond the rise. He turned to the men. All stood in mute helplessness, only half comprehending. He opened his mouth to speak, but as he did so there came a sudden interruption. It was a bugle-call, rollicking across the desert, crashing into the death-like hush which had settled upon the camp. He turned his eyes toward the sound--to the south. Over a giant sand-dune, riding grouped, with one or two in the lead, swept a company of cavalrymen. Down the slope they galloped, moonlight playing freely upon them, bringing out every detail--the glint of arms, the movement of hat-brims, the lift and fall of elbows--pounding straight for the camp. Another blast of the bugle, crisp and metallic, and they swerved; they drew near, nearer still, came close on the right, and swept past in a whirlwind of sounds, thundering hoofs, cursing men, slamming carbines, creaking saddles, snorting horses. So they swept on into the north, pushing, crowding, jostling, throwing back flying gravel, odors of sweat, swirling dust-clouds. They mounted rapidly over the rise, and became, as the pursued, vacillating specks, and then disappeared in the hollow beyond. Stephen recovered himself. He swept his eyes again over the horses. He saw a change among them. Three were calm, but not the other two. Both of them were weaving faintly, and, even as he sprang to them, one sank slowly to the ground. Wondering, dazed, gripped in apprehension, he bent over it. The horse was a stranger, and it was gasping its last breath. Dismayed, he turned to the other. This horse also was a strange horse, and it was white with foam and panting, also run to death. Astonished, cold with apprehension, he looked for Pat. But neither Pat nor the sorrel was to be seen. Then the truth overwhelmed him. The renegades, seeing fresh horses here, had made a swift change. Pat was gone! For one tense moment he stood spellbound. Then he sprang into action. He dressed as best he could, called to the others to bridle and saddle a horse, and leaped into the saddle. His whole body rebelled at the movement. But he set his jaw grimly, and, clutching at his bandaged arm, yet keeping his grip on the reins, he spurred frantically after the cavalry. As he dashed away he shouted back his purpose. But the men, standing with wide eyes turned after him, heard only the end: "I'll get him in spite of hell!" CHAPTER XX FIDELITY Meantime Pat was running at top speed across the desert. Yet he was trying to understand this strange call to duty. Roused from fitful slumber by trampling hoofs, he had felt an excited hand jerking him to his feet, and after that a slender rope looped round his lower jaw. Then he had been urged, with a wriggling form on his bare back, frantic heels drumming his sides, and a strange voice impelling him onward past a surging crowd of horsemen, still only half awake, out into the open. When he was well in the fore, he had found himself crowded to his utmost--over sand-dune, into arroyo, across the level--around him thundering hoofs, panting horses, silent men, all speeding forward in the glorious moonlight. It was a strange awakening, yet he had not entertained thoughts of rebellion, despite the fact that he had not liked the flaying rope, the soft digging heels, the absence of bridle and saddle. It was strange; it was not right. None of it had checked up with any item of his experience. Yet, oddly enough, he had not rebelled. Nor was he harboring thoughts of rebellion now. Racing onward, smarting with each swing of the lash, he found himself somehow interested solely in holding his own with the other horses. Suddenly, alert to their movements, he saw a cleft open in their surging ranks, made by the fall of an exhausted horse. Yet the others did not stop. They galloped on, unheeding, though he himself was jerked up. Then followed a swift exchange of words, and then the unhorsed man mounted behind Pat's new master. Carrying a double load now, Pat nevertheless dashed ahead at his former speed, stumbling with his first steps, but soon regaining his stride and overtaking the others. And though it cost him straining effort, he felt rewarded for his pains when one of the men uttered a grunt which he interpreted as approval. But it was all very strange. A canyon loomed up on his left. He had hardly seen the black opening when he was swung toward it. He plunged forward with the other horses, and was the first to enter the canyon's yawning mouth. Between its high walls, however, he found himself troubled by black shadows. Many of them reached across his path like projections of rock, and more than once he faltered in his stride. But after passing through two or three in safety he came at length to understand them and so returned to his wonted self-possession. But he was laboring heavily now. His heart was jumping and pounding, his breath coming in gasps, but he held to the trail, moving ever deeper into the hills, until he burst into a basin out of which to the right led a narrow canyon. Then he slowed down and, turning into the canyon, which wound and twisted due north and south in the bright moonlight, he continued at a slower pace. But his heart no longer was in the task. The weight on his back seemed heavier; there was a painful swelling of his ankles. He knew the reason for this pain. It had come from unwonted contact with hard surfaces and frequent stepping on loose stones in this strange haste with a strange people in the hills. Yet he kept on, growing steadily more weary, yet with pride ever to the fore, until a faint light began to streak the overhead sky, stealing cautiously down the ragged walls of the canyon. Then he found himself pulled into a walk. He was facing a narrow defile that wound up among the overhanging crags. Glad of the privilege of resting, for a walk was a rest with him now, he set forward into the uninviting pass. Up and up he clambered, crowding narrowly past boulders, rounding on slender ledges, up and ever up. As he ascended he saw gray-white vales below, felt the stimulus of a rarer air, and at last found his heart fluttering unpleasantly in the higher altitude. Yet he held grimly to his task, and, when broad daylight was streaming full upon him, he found himself on a wide shelf of rock, a ledge falling sheer on one side to unseen depths, towering on the other to awe-inspiring heights. Here he came to a halt. And then, so tired was he, so faint with exhaustion, so racked of body and spirit, that he sank upon the cool rock even before the men could clear themselves from him, and lay there on his side, his eyes closed, his lungs greedily sucking air. The glare of full daylight aroused him. Regaining his feet, he stared about him. He saw many strange-looking men, and near them many dirty and bedraggled horses. He turned his eyes outward from the ledge. He saw around him bristling peaks, and below them, far below, a trailing canyon, winding in and out among hills toward the rising sun, and terminating in a giant V, beyond which, a connecting thread between its sloping sides, lay an expanse of rolling mesa. It was far from him, however--very, very far--and he grew dizzy at the view, finding himself more and more unnerved by the height. At length he turned away and swept his eyes again over the horses, where he was glad to find the rangy sorrel. Then he turned back to the men, some of whom were standing, others squatting, but all in moody silence. As he looked he grew aware that a pair of dark eyes were fixed upon him. He stared back, noting the man's long hair and painted features and the familiar glow of admiration in his eyes. Believing him to be his new master, he continued to regard him soberly until the man, with a grunt and a grimace, rose and approached him. Pat stood very still under a rigid examination. The man rubbed his ankles, turned up his hoofs, looked at his teeth; and at the conclusion of all this Pat felt that he had met with approval. Also, he realized that he rather approved of the man. Then came a volley of sounds he did not understand, and he found himself touched with grave apprehension. But not for long. The man led him across the ledge to a tiny stream trickling down the rocks, walking with a quiet dignity he long since had learned to connect with kindliness. This and the fact that he led him to water determined his attitude. Toward noon, as he was brooding over hunger pangs, he was startled by excited gutturals among the men. Gazing, he saw one of the men standing on the edge of the shelf, pointing out through the long canyon. With the others, Pat turned his eyes that way. Between the distant V dotting the mesa beyond rode a body of horsemen. They were not more than specks to his eyes, proceeding slowly, so slowly, in fact, that while he could see they were moving he yet could not see them move as they crawled across the span between the canyon's mouth. Interested, gripped in the contagion of the excitement round him, he kept his eyes upon the distant specks until the sun had changed to another angle. But even after this lapse of time, so distant were the horsemen, so wide the canyon's mouth, they had traveled only half-way across the span. Yet he continued to watch, wondering at the nervousness around him, conscious of steadily increasing heat upon him, until the last of the slow-moving specks, absorbed one by one by the canyon's wall, disappeared from view. Then he turned his eyes elsewhere. The men also turned away, but continued their excited talk. But even they after a time relapsed into silence. What it was all about Pat did not know. He knew it was something very serious, and suddenly fear came to him. He saw some of the men lie down as if to sleep, and he feared that they intended to remain here for ever, in this place absolutely destitute of herbage. But after a time, made sluggish by the attitude of the men, he himself attempted to drowse. But the heat pulsating up off the rocks discouraged him, and he soon abandoned the attempt, standing motionless in the hot sun. A change came over him. He took to brooding over his many discomforts--hunger pangs, loss of sleep, bothersome flies, the pain of his swollen ankles. As the day advanced his ankles swelled more, and grew worse, the flies became more troublesome, and his inner gnawings more pronounced. So the time went on and he brooded through the still watches of the afternoon, through the soft stirrings of evening, on into night again. With the coming of night light breezes rose from the spaces below to spur his fevered body into something of its wonted vigor. And the night brought also preparations among the men to journey on. This he welcomed, even more than the cooling zephyrs. There was some delay. His master entered upon a dispute with the horseless man. The voices became excited and rose to vehement heights. But presently they subsided when Pat himself, anxious to be active, sounded a note of protest. Yet the argument proved to his benefit. Instead of mounting him behind his master, the odd man swung up behind another man on the sorrel. Then he was permitted to move forward, and as he approached the narrow defile he sounded another nicker, now of gratification. The pass dropped almost sheer in places. As he descended, more than once he was compelled to slide on stiffened legs. In this at first he felt ecstatic danger thrills. But only at first. Soon he wearied of it, and he was glad when he struck the bottom, where, after being guided out of shadow and into broad moonlight, he found himself moving to the west in a deep canyon. With the other horses he burst into a canter, and continued at a canter hour after hour, following the winding and twisting canyon until daylight, with its shadows creeping away before him, revealed to his tired eyes a stretch of mesa ahead, dotted with inviting clumps of bunch-grass. Then of his own volition he came to a stop and fell to grazing. Soon all the horses were standing with mouths to earth, feeding eagerly. The men, sitting for a time in quiet conversation, finally dismounted, laughing now and then, and casting amused glances toward the black horse. Soon they mounted again to take the trail. Instead of riding with the other on the sorrel, the odd man swung up on Pat's back behind his master. But as Pat no longer suffered from hunger, he complacently accepted the return of the double load. Then all moved forward. Pat jogged out of the canyon, turning to the right on the desert, and moved rapidly north in the shadow of the hills. He held to his stride, and toward noon, rounding a giant ridge projecting into the desert from the hills, he saw ahead on his right, perhaps two miles distant across a basin, the mouth of another canyon. Evidently his master saw it also, and obviously it contained danger, for he jerked Pat down to a walk. Almost instantly he knew that the danger was real, for the man, sounding a sharp command to the others, brought him to a full stop. Then followed an excited discussion, and, when it ended, Pat, gripped in vague uneasiness, found himself urged forward at top speed. Yet in a dim way he knew what was wanted of him. He flung himself into a long stride and dashed across the wide basin, across the mouth of the canyon, into the shadow of the hills again. Breathless, he slackened his pace with thirty excited horses around him, mad swirling clouds of dust all about, and before him the oppressive stillness of the desert. They were safely past the danger zone. He pressed on at a slow canter. Ahead the mesa revealed numerous sand-dunes, large and small, rising into the monotonous skyline. Plunging among them, he mounted some easily, others he skirted as easily, and once, to avoid an unusually large one, he dropped down into the bed of an arroyo, traveled along its dry course, and then clambered up on the desert. But it was wearying work, and, becoming ever more aware of his double load, he began to chafe with dissatisfaction. Yet he held to his gait, hopeful of better things--he was always hopeful of better things now--until he reached another dune, larger than any as yet encountered, when once more he broke out of his stride to circle its bottom. As he did so, of his own volition he checked himself. Dead ahead he saw horses scattered about, and beyond the horses, rising limply in the noon haze, a thin column of smoke. Also, he felt both his riders stiffen. Then on the midday hush rose the crack of firearms from the direction of the camp. His master lifted a shrill voice. He felt a mighty pull at his head. He swung around like a flash. Then came the flaying of a rope and frantic urging of heels. He plunged among the surging horses, dancing and whirling excitedly, and out into the open beyond. He set his teeth grimly, and raced headlong to the south, galloping furiously, tearing blindly over the desert. He headed straight for the distant basin, straight for the mouth of the canyon, hurtling forward, struggling mightily under his double load. He did not know it, but he was speeding into a tragic crisis. The others overtook him. They were carrying but single loads. But they did not pass him. He saw to that. He burst forward into even greater speed, clung to it grimly, forged into a position well in the lead. And he held this place--around him frenzied horses, frantic riders; behind him, to the distant rear, shot after shot echoing over the desert; before him the baking sands, shimmering heat-waves, sullen and silent. He raced on, swinging up over dunes, dropping into hollows, speeding across flats, mounting over dunes again, on and on toward the basin and the mouth of the canyon--and protection. But again disaster. Suddenly, out of the canyon poured the cheerful notes of a bugle. On the vibrant wings of the echoes, streaming into the basin from the canyon, swept a body of flying horsemen. Instantly he checked himself. Then his master sounded a shrill outcry, swung his head around violently, and lashed him forward again. He hurtled headlong, dashing toward the distant ridge, the peninsula jutting out into the desert. Grimly he flung out along this new course. But he kept his eyes to the left. He saw the horsemen there also swerve, saw them spread out like a fan, and felt his interest kindle joyously. For this was a race! It was a race for that ridge! And he must win! He must do this thing, for instinctively he knew that beyond it lay safety. There he could flee to some haven, while cut off from it, cut off by these steady-riding men on his left, he must submit to wretched defeat. So he strained himself harder and burst into fresh speed, finding himself surprised that he could. In the thrill of it he forgot his double load, forgot the close-pressing horses, forgot irritating dust. On he galloped, racing forward with machine-like evenness--on his left the paralleling horsemen, to his rear yelling and shooting, on his right his own men and horses, and for them he felt he must do big things. Suddenly the shooting in his rear ceased. Evidently these men had received some warning from the riders on his left. Then he awoke to another truth. The horsemen on his left were gaining. It troubled him, and he cast measuring eyes to the front. He saw that he was pursuing a shorter line to the ridge; he believed he still could reach it first. So again he strained on, whipping his legs into movement till they seemed about to snap. But the effort hurt him and he discovered that he was becoming woefully tired. Also, the double weight worried him. It had not become lighter with the miles, nor had he grown stronger. Yet he galloped on with thundering hoofs, the tranquil desert before him, the thud of carbines against leather to the left, behind him ominous silence. But he kept his eyes steadily to the left, and presently he awoke to something else there, something that roused him suddenly and in some way whipped his conscience. For now he saw a white figure amid the khaki, racing along with them--a part of them and yet no part of them--a familiar figure wearing a familiar bandage. This for a brief moment only. Then he took to measuring distances again; saw that the cavalrymen were holding to the course steadily, racing furiously as he himself was racing for the ridge. Would he win? A shrill outcry from his master, and he found himself checked with a jerk. It was unexpected, sudden, and he reared. The movement shook off the second man. Dropping back upon all-fours, Pat awoke to the relief the loss of this load gave him. Grimly determining to hold to this relief, he dashed ahead, following the guidance of his master in yet another direction, hurtled away before the second man could mount again. He found that he was speeding in a direction almost opposite from the ridge. He did not understand this. But his regret was not long lived. Casting his eyes to his left in vague expectancy of seeing the familiar spot of white again, he saw only his own men and horses, and beyond them the smiling desert. Puzzled, he gazed to the right. Here he saw the cavalrymen, and though puzzled more, he yet kept on with all his power. As he ran he suddenly awoke to the presence of a new body of horsemen on his distant left, a smaller band than the cavalrymen, men without uniforms, most of them hatless, all yelling. He remembered this yell, and now he understood. He was speeding toward the mouth of the canyon; had been turned completely around. And thus it was, he knew, that the horsemen once on his left were now on his right, and the madly yelling group at his rear was now on his left. He awoke to another realization. This was a race again, a race with three new entrants now--all three making toward the canyon. Would he win? He fell to studying the flanking groups. On his right, riding easily, bent to the winds, their heavy horses swinging rhythmically, their accoutrements rattling, galloped the cavalry--steady, sure of themselves, well in hand. On his left, riding furiously, without formation, dashed the smaller group of riders--their horses wrangling among themselves, one or two frequently bucking, all flinging forward in excited disorder. This disorder, this evident nervousness, he feared. He knew somehow that the first real trouble would come from this source. He knew men to that extent. And suddenly his fears were realized. With the three converging lines of direction drawing closer, and the mouth of the canyon but a short distance away, out of this group on his left came a nasty rifle-fire, followed by a mighty chorus of yells. There was a result at once. Close beside him a horse stumbled; the man astride the horse was thrown headlong; from the cavalrymen on his right came a single shrill, piercing outcry--a cry to desist! But he did not understand this. Nor did he heed it. Galloping forward, eyes upon the ever-nearing canyon, he at length became grimly conscious of approaching defeat--of the firm and ruthless closing in upon him from either side of the two bands. And now, and not till now, realizing as he did that the thing was beyond him, that he could not reach the canyon first--now, and not till now, though soul and body were wrecked by exhaustion, Pat abated his speed. Instantly pandemonium broke loose. He heard the firing on his left increasing. He felt his master make ready to return it. He saw others around him, twisting vengefully into position, open with repeating rifles. Then the cavalrymen, evidently forced into it by the others, swung to the fray with their carbines, which began to boom on his right. The whole basin echoed and re-echoed sharp reports. Across his eyes burst intermittent flames. His ears rang with shots and yells. The shooting became heavier. Bullets sang close about him--seemed centered--as if the enemy would cut down his master at once and disrupt the others through his loss. The bullets sang closer still. And now immediately about him men and horses dropped, upsetting other riders, tumbling over sound horses--all in a seething chaos. He became dazed. His eyes were blinded with the flashes, and his ears ached with the crash and tumult. He grew faint. A dizziness seized him. But on he labored, his head aching, his eyes growing dimmer, his limbs numb and rebellious, his heart thumping in sullen rebellion, his ears bursting with the uproar. Another change swept over him. Mist leaped before his eyes. The roaring in his ears subsided. His legs flew off--he had no legs! The mist became a film. Yet he could see--see faintly. He saw a mad jumble of flying men and horses--a riotous mixture of color, arms, and firearms whirling and interlaced, a grim, struggling mass in death-grips. It swept close--crashed over him, struck him full. He felt the impact--then another. The ground rose and struck him. And now there fell upon him a great and wonderful peace--and a blank--then a voice, a familiar voice, and he drifted into unconsciousness. He was wakened by a fiery liquid in his throat. He slowly opened his eyes. He saw men and horses, many of them, standing or reclining in small groups. He saw them between the legs of a group immediately around him--men gazing down at him pitifully. As he lay thus dazed he heard the familiar voice again. It was sounding his name. He struggled to his feet. Steadying himself against his dizziness, he looked curiously at the young man standing before him. And suddenly he recognized him. This was his young master with the white around his arm and neck--the young man who had ridden him into the Mexican settlement, and who had been so good to him there, giving him generous quantities of alfalfa. He--But the voice was sounding again. "You poor dumb brute!" said Stephen, quietly; and Pat liked the petting he received. "You've just come through hell! But--but if they get you again--anywhere, friend of mine--they'll wade through hell themselves to do it." He was silent. "Pat, old boy," he concluded, finally, "you're going back home! I--I'm through!" A strange thing took place in Pat. Hearing this voice now, and seeing the owner of it, though he had seen him and heard his voice many times just before this last heartbreaking task under a strange master, he suddenly found himself thinking of the little ranch beside the river, and of his loving mistress, and also the cold and cruel Mexican hostler. And, thinking of them, he found himself thinking also of another, one who had accompanied him and his mistress on many delightful trips in the valley and up on the mesa in the shadow of the mountains. And now, thinking of this person, he somehow recognized this young man before him fully, and wondered why this had not come to him before. For this was the same young man--curiously pale, curiously drawn and haggard--but yet the same man. Understanding, understanding everything, he nickered softly and pressed close, mindful of yet another thing--something that had helped to make his life on the little ranch so pleasant and unforgettable. What he was mindful of, and what he now sought, was sugar and quartered apples. CHAPTER XXI LIFE AND DEATH The third group in the affray consisted of cowboys. Weary and bedraggled, yet joyous at the suppression of the uprising, they set out for home about noon. Stephen, mounted upon Pat, accompanied them. They headed into the northwest, riding slowly, talking over the affair, while Stephen explained in part his interest in the black horse. Night found them near a water-hole, and here they went into camp, Stephen weak and distressed, his whole body aching, his arm and shoulder throbbing in agonizing pain. The men proved attentive and considerate; but he lay down exhausted and courted sleep, hardly hearing what they said. Sleep came to him only fitfully, and he was glad when break of day brought a change. They rode on through the second day, usually in sober silence, on into another dusk and another night of torture. A third day and a third dusk followed, but there was no camp this time. Continuing forward, just before dawn, with the moon brilliant in the heavens, they reached a cluster of buildings. One of them was a dwelling with a fence around it as a protection against cattle and horses, and to the rear of this all dismounted. Stephen led Pat into a spacious stable, and, with the assistance of the others, unsaddled and unbridled him, watered and fed him generously, then left him for the night. Instantly Pat began to inquire into his condition and surroundings. He was stiff and sore and a little nervous from the events of the past few days, and he found the stable, spacious though it was, depressing after his protracted life in the open. Yet there were many offsetting comforts. He had received a generous supply of grain and all the water he could drink. Then there was another comfort, though he awoke to this only after sinking to rest. His stall was thickly bedded with straw, which was comfort indeed, and though he had become accustomed to the pricking of the desert sand, he nestled into the straw with a sigh of satisfaction. To his right and left other horses stirred restlessly, and from outside came an occasional nicker, presumably from some unroofed inclosure. All these sounds kept him awake for a time, and it was approaching day before he felt himself sinking off into easy slumber. He was awakened by the coming of a stranger into his stall. It was broad daylight, and he hastily gained his feet, mystified for an instant that he should be sleeping in broad day, and not a little troubled by his strange surroundings. The new-comer was a fat youth with a round and smiling face, who, as he raked down the bedding, talked in a pleasing drawl. "Pat," he began, shoving him over gently, "you're shore some cayuse. Wouldn't mind ownin' a piece o' you myself. But I was goin' for to say there's trouble come onto you. That mighty likable pardner o' yours is gone in complete--sick to death. We've telephoned for the doc, but he's off somewheres, and we've got to wait till he gits back. But it's shore too bad--all of it. Steve he's got a nasty arm and shoulder, and he's all gone generally. Mighty distressin' I call it." With this he slapped Pat heartily and left him. When he had gone Pat felt a depression creeping over him. It became heavier as the hours passed. He knew that his young friend was somewhere about, and could not understand why he failed to come to him himself, instead of sending this stranger. Then, with the hours lengthening into a day, and the days dragging into a week, with only the smiling stranger coming to him regularly, and petting and stroking and talking to him, he came to feel that something of grave and serious nature was going on outside. So he longed to get out of the stable, out into sunlight and away from this restraint, and to see for himself what it was that was holding his master from him. Then late one afternoon he heard a step approaching. It was his master's step, yet it was very different. It was slow and dragging, and while the voice was the same, yet there was a note of hollowness as he spoke that did not belong there, a note as if it required great effort to speak at all. But in spite of this he recognized his young master, and sounded a welcoming nicker, anxious to be off. For somehow he believed that now he would be taken out into the sunlight. Nor was he disappointed. After a moment's petting the young man led him outdoors, and there began to bridle and saddle him, slowly, with many pauses for breath, all as if it hurt him, as indeed it must, since he still wore the white bandages. Then there appeared a group of interested young men, suddenly, as though they had just discovered the proposed departure. "See here, Steve," one of them exploded, "this ain't treating us a bit nice. You're a mighty sick man. I ain't saying that to worry you, neither; but I can't see the idee of your hopping out of bed to do this thing. You stick around till the doc comes again, anyway. Now, don't be a fool, Steve." Stephen continued slowly with his saddling. "It's decent of you fellows," he said, quietly. "And I don't want you to think me ungrateful. It's just a feeling I've got. I want to get this horse back where he belongs." Another of the group took up the attempt at persuasion. "But you're sick, man!" he exclaimed, beginning to stroke Pat absently. "You won't never make the depot! You owe it to everybody you've ever knowed to get right back into bed and stay there!" But Stephen only shook his head. Yet he knew that what the boys said was true. He was sick, and he knew it. He realized that he ought to be in bed. And he wanted to be in bed. But already he had suffered too much, lying inert, not because of his arm and the fever upon him, though these were almost unbearable, but because of the haunting fear, come to him ever more insistently with each passing day, that since Pat had escaped from him twice thus far, he was destined to escape from him a third time. Sometimes this fear took shape in visions of a blazing fire in the stable, in which Pat was burned to a crisp; again it took form in some malady peculiar to horses which would prove equally disastrous. At last, unable to withstand these pictures longer, he had crept out of bed, dressed as best he could, and stolen out of the house, bent upon getting Pat to the railroad, and there shipping him east to Helen at whatever cost to himself. So here he was, about to ride off. "You're--you're mighty decent," he repeated, hollowly, by way of farewell. "But I've got to go. And don't worry about my making the station," he added, reassuringly. "I have the directions, and I'll get there in time to make that ten-thirty eastbound to-night." He clambered painfully up into the saddle. A third member of the group, the round-faced and smiling cowpuncher, opened up with his pleasing drawl. "Why'n't you stay over till mornin', then?" he demanded. "The ranch wagon goes up early, and you could ride the seat just like a well man." But Stephen remained obdurate, and, repeating his thanks and farewells, he urged Pat forward at a walk because he himself could not stand the racking of a more rapid gait. The men sent after him expressions of regret mingled with friendly denunciations, but he rode steadily on, closing his ears grimly against their pleas, and soon he was moving slowly across the Arizona desert. His direction was northwest, and his destination, though new to him, a little town on the Santa Fé. As he rode forward through the quiet of the afternoon he found his thoughts a curious conflict. At times he would think of the girl, and of his love for her, and of the long, still hours spent in the ranch-house brooding, especially the nights, when, gazing out at the stars, he had wondered whether she knew, or, knowing, whether, after all, she really cared. They had been lonely nights, fever-tossed and restless, nights sometimes curiously made up of pictures--pictures of a runaway horse and of a girl mounted upon the horse, and of long walks and rides and talks with her afterward, and of the last night in her company, outside a corral and underneath a smiling moon, the girl in white, her eyes burning with a strange glow, himself telling his love for her, and hearing in return only that she did not and could not return that love. These were his thoughts at times as he rode forward through the desert solitude. Then he would awaken to his physical torture, and in this he would completely forget his spiritual distress, would ask why he had flung himself into this mocking silence and plunged into all this misery and pain. He knew why--knew it was because of the girl. But would it have been better to accept her dismissal and, returning to the East, let her pass out of his memory? In his heart he knew that he could not. There followed the thought of his responsibility for Pat, and of what was left for him to do. He recalled the theft, and his weeks of futile riding to recover the horse, and the thrill accompanying risk of life when he finally recovered him. And after that the second theft, and another and more dreadful ride when he raced through the night after the cavalry--the torture of it, the agony of his arm, the shooting, and the grappling hand to hand, and Pat sinking with exhaustion, and the thrill again, his own, at having the horse once more in his possession. It was _worth_ it--all of it--and he was _glad_--glad to have had an object for once in his life. And he still had that object, for was he not riding the horse on a journey which would end in placing Pat in the hands of the adorable girl who owned him? Thus he rode through the afternoon and on into an early dusk. Suddenly awaking to the Stygian darkness around him, he gave over thinking of the past and future and turned uneasy thoughts upon the present. Above him was a black, impenetrable dome, seemingly within touch of his hand; around and about him pressed a dense wall that gave no hint of his whereabouts. Yet he believed that he was pursuing the right direction; and, forgetting that Pat, no more than himself, knew the route, he gave the horse loose rein. Thus for an hour, two hours, three, he rode slowly forward, when like a flash it came to him that he was hopelessly lost. He reined in the horse sharply. For a time he sat trying to place himself. Failing in this, he raised his eyes, hoping for a break in the skies. But there was no glimmer of light, and after a while, not knowing what else to do, he sent Pat forward again. But his uneasiness would not down, and presently he drew rein again, dismounted, and fell to listening. There was not a breath of air. He took a step forward, his uneasiness becoming fear, and again stood motionless, listening, gripped by the oppressive stillness of the desert. It crept upon him, this death-quiet, seemed to close about him suffocatingly. Suddenly he started. Out of the dense blackness had come a voice, weak and plaintive. He turned tense with excitement and listened keenly. "Hello, there! This--over this way!" He could see nothing; but he moved in the direction of the voice. After a few strides he was stopped by a consciousness of something before him, and there was a constrained groan. "Careful, man--I'm hurt. Unhorsed this morning. Been crawling all day for shade. Strike a match, will you? God! but it's a night!" Stephen struck a light. As it flared up he saw prone in the sand a young man, his face drawn with pain, his eyes dark and hunted. The match went out. He struck another. The man was pitifully bruised and broken. A leg of his trousers had been torn away, and the limb lay exposed, strangely twisted. His track, made in crawling through the sand, stood out clearly, trailing away beyond the circling glow of light. A moment of flickering, and the second match went out. "Which way were you headed, friend?" Stephen asked, pityingly. His heart went out to the stricken stranger. He wanted to ask another question, too, but he hesitated. But finally he asked it. "Who are you, old man?" For a moment the fellow did not reply. The silence was oppressive. Stephen regretted his question. Then suddenly the man answered him, weakly, bitterly, as one utterly remorseful. "I'm Jim," he blurted out. "Horse-thief, cattle-rustler." Stephen bit his lip. More than ever he regretted that he had asked. Well, something had to be done, and done quickly. Could he but feel sure of his direction, he might place this unfortunate upon Pat and walk with him to the railroad town, where proper medical and surgical attendance could be obtained. But this he was unable to do, since he fully realized he was astray. "Brother," he suddenly explained, "I was headed, myself, toward the railroad. A little before dark I lost my way. Do you happen to know--" "Sit down," interrupted the other, faintly. "I've been--been lost--a week." Stephen sat down thoughtfully. All hope of serving the man for the present was gone. He must wait till daybreak at least. Then somebody or something might appear to show him the way out. He thought of the ranch wagon, and of Buddy's offer, and it occurred to him that unless he was too far off the regular course he might attract Buddy. It was a chance, anyway. "I've been 'most dead, too, for a week," suddenly began the other. "I 'ain't eat regularly, for one thing--'most a month of that, I reckon. Been times, too, when I couldn't--couldn't find water. I didn't know the country over here. Had to change--change horses a couple times, too. Because--" He checked himself. "I made a mistake--the last horse. He give me all--all that was comin'--" A nicker from Pat interrupted him. Stephen felt him cringe. Directly he felt something else. It was a cold hand groping to find his own. The whole thing was queer, uncanny, and he was glad when the man went on. "Did--did you hear that?" breathed the fellow, a note of suppressed terror in his voice. "Did you hear it, friend? Tell me!" His voice was shrill now. Stephen reassured him, explaining that it was his horse. But a long time the man held fast, fingers gripping his hand, as if he did not believe, and was listening to make sure. At length he relaxed, and Stephen, still seated close beside him, heard him sink back into the sand. "I was getting away from--from--Oh, well, it don't--don't make any difference." The fellow was silent. "I needed a--a horse," he continued, finally. "My own--the third since--since--my own had played out. I was near a ranch, and--and it was night, and I--I seen a corral with a horse standing in it--a gray. It was moonlight. I--I got the gate open, and I--I roped him, and--" He interrupted himself, was upon one elbow again. "It was a stallion--a cross-bred, maybe--and--and say, friend, he rode me to death! I got on him before I knowed what he was. Bareback. He shot out of that corral like he was crazy. But I--I managed to hold--hold to him and--if he'd only bucked me off! But he didn't. He just raced for it--tore across the country like a cyclone. He rode me to death, a hundred miles, I bet, without a stop. And I held on--couldn't let go--was afraid to let go." He was silent. "Are you--you dead sure, friend, that was your horse?" Stephen again reassured him, realizing the fear upon the man and now understanding it. But he said nothing. "And then somewhere off here he throwed me," went on the man. "But he--he was a raving maniac. He turned on me before I could get up, and bit and kicked and trampled me till I didn't know nothing--was asleep, or something. When I came to--woke up--he was still hanging around. He's around here yet! I heard him all day--yesterday! He's off there to the east somewheres. He's--he's looking for me. I kept still whenever I'd see him or hear him, and then when he'd move off out of sight, or quit--quit his nickering, I'd crawl along some more. I'm--I'm done, stranger," he concluded, weakly, dropping over upon his back. "I'm done, and I know it. And it was that horse that--that--" He was silent. Stephen did not speak. He could not speak after this fearsome tale. Its pictures haunted him. He could see this poor fellow racing across the desert, clinging for life to that which meant death. His own condition had been brought about through a horse, a horse and wild rides at a time when he should have been, as this unfortunate undoubtedly should have been, in bed under medical care. For a moment he thought he would tell him a tale of misery equal to his own, in the hope that he might turn him from thoughts of his own misfortunes. But before he could speak the other broke in upon his thoughts with a shrill outcry. He had raised himself upon one elbow again, and now was pointing toward the eastern sky. "Look!" he cried. "Look off there!" Stephen turned his eyes in the direction of the pointing finger. He saw a faint light breaking through the black dome of the sky. As he watched it, it trickled out steadily, like slow-spreading water, filtering slowly through dense banks of clouds, folding them back like the shutter of a giant camera, until the whole eastern sky was a field of gray clouds with frosty edges, between which, coming majestically forward through the green-white billow, appeared finally a moon, big and round and brilliant, casting over the earth a flood of wonderland light, streaming down upon the dunes and flats in mystic sheen, bringing out the desert in soft outline. Near by, the light brought out the form of Pat, standing a short distance off with drooping head, motionless in all the splendor of his perfect outline. Stephen turned back to the man. He found him staring hard at the horse. He did not understand this until the fellow burst out excitedly, his eyes still fixed on Pat. "Whose horse is that?" he demanded. "Tell me. Do you own that black horse?" Stephen slowly shook his head. He thought the question but another expression of the stranger's nervous apprehension due to his experience. Yet he explained. "He belongs back in New Mexico," he said, quietly--"the Rio Grande Valley. He was stolen last spring. Been ridden pretty hard since, I guess. I happen to know where he belongs, though, and I was taking him to a shipping-point when I lost my way. That's the horse you heard nicker a while ago," he added, soothingly. The man sank flat again. "I stole him," he blurted out. "I--I hope you'll get him back where he belongs. His--his name is Pat. He's--he's the best horse I ever rode." He relapsed, into silence, motionless, as one dead. Stephen himself remained motionless. He looked at the man curiously. He believed that he ought to feel bitter toward him, since he saw in him the cause of all his own misery. But somehow he found that he could feel nothing but pity. In this man with eyes closed and gasping lips Stephen saw only a brother-mortal in distress, as he himself was in distress, and he forgave him for anything he had done. He looked at Pat, understanding the temptation, and then turned his eyes pityingly toward the man--the stranger, dozing, murmuring strangely in his sleep. Seeing him at rest, and realizing the long hours before daybreak, Stephen finally dropped over upon one elbow, and prepared to pass the night as best he could. He was suffering torture from his arm and shoulder, and burning with the fever shown in his hot skin and parched lips. The night passed restlessly. He saw the first rays of dawn break over the range and creep farther and farther down the valley, throwing a pale pink over the landscape and sending gaunt shadows slinking off into the light. A whinny from Pat aroused him. He arose painfully, gazed at the man at his feet, and then turned his eyes toward the distant horizon. A second whinny disturbed him and he shifted his gaze. Far above two great buzzards, circling round and round, faded into the morning haze. From a neighboring sand-dune a jack-rabbit appeared, paused a quivering moment, then scurried from view. The morning light grew brighter. A third whinny, and Pat now slowly started toward him. But again he fastened his eyes upon the distant horizon, hoping for a sight of the ranch wagon. But no wagon appeared. At length he turned to the horse. Pat stood soberly regarding the man, his ears forward, head drooping, tail motionless, as if recognizing in this mute object an erstwhile master. And suddenly lifting his head, he sounded a soft nicker, tremulously. Then again he fell to regarding the still form with strange interest. The form was still, still for all eternity. For the man was dead. Stephen sat down. He was shaking with fever and weakness. He placed a handkerchief over the face in repose, almost relieved that peace had come to this troubled soul. Then he thought of possible action. He realized that he was utterly lost. He had Pat, and for this he was thankful, since he knew that he could at least mount the horse and leave him to find a way out. But the horse alone must do it. He himself was bewildered, for the desert in broad day, as much as in the long night, revealed nothing. On every hand it lay barren, destitute of movement, wrapped in silence, seeming to mock his predicament. Yet he could not bring himself to mount at once. He sat motionless, suffering acutely, knowing that the least exertion would increase his pain--a machine run down--not caring to move. Suddenly, off to the east appeared a horse--a gray. It cantered majestically to the top of a dune, and stood there--head erect, nostrils quivering, ears alert, cresting the hillock like a statue. Stephen shivered. For instinctively he knew this to be the gray stallion, the cross-bred, that had trampled the form beside him. His first impulse was to mount Pat and spur him in a race for life; his second impulse was to crouch in hiding in the hope of escaping the keen scrutiny of that merciless demon. He chose the race. Springing to his feet, he leaped for Pat, and he grasped the saddle-horn. In his haste he slipped, lost his stirrup, and fell back headlong. The shock made him faint, and for a time he was unconscious. Shrill neighing aroused him, and, hastily gaining his feet, he saw Pat running lightly, well-contained, to meet the swiftly advancing gray stallion. Then events moved with a terrible unreality. The gray screamed defiantly and leaped toward Pat faster and faster. Pat braced his legs to meet the assault. But no assault came. With rare craft the gray suddenly checked himself, coming to a full stop two lengths away. Here, with ears flat and lashing tail, he glared at Pat, who, equally tense, returned defiance. Thus they stood in the desert, quiet, measuring each other, while Stephen, crouched, watching them, remembering the lifeless form beside him, prayed that Pat would prove equal to the mighty stallion. He had no gun. Pat alone could save him. If Pat were conquered nothing remained but death for both. For with Pat dead--and surely this masterful foe would stop at nothing short of death--Stephen realized that he himself, in his present condition, would never see civilization again. He could not walk the distance even if he knew the way, nor could he hope to mount the victorious stallion, should Pat be defeated, because only one man had done that, and that man lay dead beside him. The thought of being alone in the desert with the dead struck chill to his heart. He recalled his first ride with Helen, and her tales of men and horses in the early days, and what it meant to a man to have his horse stolen from him. It was all clear to him now, and he clenched his sound hand till the nails cut the flesh. Unless Pat fought a successful fight he was doomed to die of thirst, even if the stallion did not attack him. As he looked at Pat, his only hope in this dread situation, he prayed harder and more fervently than before that his champion would win. Pat thrilled with the sense of coming battle, but he did not fear this horse. He remembered that once he had struck down a rival, and before that he had twice given successful battle to men--to a finish with the Mexican hostler, another time when he had brought his enemy to respect and consider him. Therefore he had no reason to fear this horse, even though he saw in the gray's splendid figure an enemy to be carefully considered. But not for an instant did Pat relax. For this was a crafty foe, as shown by his sudden halt, which Pat knew was the prelude to a swift attack. So he watched with keen alertness the flattened ears, the lashing tail--his own muscles held rigid, waiting. The gray began a cautious approach. He put forward his legs one after another slowly, the while he held his eyes turned away, as if he were wholly absorbed in the vastness of the desert reaches. This was but a mere feint, as Pat understood it, and yet he waited, curious to know the outcome, still holding himself rigidly on guard. Closer came the gray, closer still, until he was almost beside him. Pat heard the whistle of his breath and saw the wild light in his eyes, and for an instant feared him. Yet there was no attack. The gray calmly gained a point immediately alongside and stopped, head to Pat's rump, separated from him by not more than half his length. Yet he did not attack; but Pat did not relax. And again they stood, end to end now and side by side, until Pat, coming finally to think, against his better judgment, that this was, after all, only a friendly advance, became less watchful. Then the blow fell. With a shrill scream that chilled Pat's heart the gray leaped sideways with a peculiar broadside lunge intended to hurl him off his feet. It was a form of attack new to Pat, and therefore never known to his ancestors, and before he could brace himself to meet it he found himself rolling over and over frantically in the sand. He sprang up, screaming with rage, while the gray was trampling him with fiendish hoofs. He steadied himself, resisted the onslaught, took the offensive himself. He lunged with bared teeth, sank them into yielding flesh, and wheeled away quickly. But not fast enough. The gray slashed his rump. He turned back, tore the gray's shoulder, wheeled sharply, attacked with lightning heels, and darted away again. But again the gray sprang upon him, ripped his rump a second time, and sprang off like a fiend. Raging, vindictive, Pat hurtled after him, and snapped again and again, drawing hot blood pungent of taste and smell, and then he leaped aside. But not far enough. The gray dashed into him, enveloped him in a whirlwind of clashing teeth and flashing heels, and wheeled away in a wide circle, screaming to the heavens, leaving Pat, with a dozen stinging wounds, dazed and exhausted. But Pat was quick to recover himself. Also, he took council. Never had he fought like this. His battle with the white horse had been brief--brief because of sudden releasing of weeks of venom stored within him by the white's continuous nagging, brief because of the white's inability to spring from each attack in season to protect himself. But no such sluggishness hampered this enemy, and he grimly realized that this was a struggle to the death. But he felt no fear. He respected the other's craft and wit and strength. Yet he knew that he himself had strength, while he realized that strength alone would not conquer. Craft and wit must serve with strength. Having strength, he himself must adopt the other qualities, must adapt himself to the occasion, exercise wit and craft, wait for openings, feint and withdraw, feint and attack, until, wearying this enemy, and puzzling him, there would come the chance to strike a death-blow. He knew what the death-blow was--knew it from his encounter with the white. He must inflict it first, lest the gray anticipate him, for the gray undoubtedly knew, also, from his experience and from his ancestors, what the death-blow was. After a moment of gasping breath and gradually clearing eyes he felt self-control and assurance return. Since his enemy appeared to be waiting, he himself continued to wait. He waited three minutes, five minutes, ten, until the nervous tension would permit him to wait no longer. Remembering his plans, and emulating the first approach of the gray, he started slowly toward him, putting forward one foot after another quietly, his eyes upon the distant horizon. He even outdid the gray in his craft. As he drew near, he suddenly took on the manner of one seeking friendliness, nickering once softly, as if he had had enough of this and would ask reconciliation. But his ruse failed. The gray was wise with the wisdom of the world-free. Plunging suddenly upon him, he snapped for his ears, but missed. His teeth flashed at Pat's neck, lodged, and ripped the flesh. He whirled, lashed out with his heels, missed, and sped away. Pat wheeled again and again, almost overthrown, and staggered away. Again he took council with himself. He was not beaten, he knew that. But neither was the enemy beaten. He knew that also. And he knew he must bide his time. Twice he had closed with the enemy, and twice he had come away the worse. Nothing was to be gained by this method. He must bide his time, wait for an encounter, dodge it if the moment proved unpropitious, but refrain from close attack. He must wait for his chance. As he stood there, alert to every least thing, he suddenly awoke to tease breathing close behind him. For one flaming moment he was puzzled. Then he remembered that he had been watching the gray out of the corner of his eye. He had seemed to be off guard, and the other had stolen cautiously around behind him, evidently to take advantage of this chance. He swallowed hard. The enemy was stealing upon him. He wanted to wheel, believed he ought to wheel if he would save himself, but he did not. Instead, he brought craft into play. He listened patiently, intensely alert, and bided his time. The breathing came closer, closer still, and stopped. He heard the enemy swallow. He conquered his longing to turn, and remained still as death. The gray drew no closer. He seemed to be waiting, also biding his time. And now it became a test, a matter of nervous endurance, each waiting for the other. Around them pressed the desert solitude. There was no sound anywhere. The sun beat down upon the earth remorselessly. And still Pat waited, but not for long. There was a soft tread behind him, and he knew that he had won in the contest of endurance. With the footfalls he heard spasmodic breathing. And yet he waited. But he was ready to strike--to deal the death-blow. Closer came the restrained breathing, was close behind him. Then he struck with all his strength. And his lightning heels found their mark. He heard the crack of bone and a long, terrible scream. He wheeled and saw the gray limping away. Gripped in sudden overwhelming fury, sounding a cry no less shrill than that of the gray, he leaped upon the enemy, bore him to earth, and, knowing no mercy, he trampled and slashed the furiously resisting foe into a bleeding mass. Then he dashed off, believing that it was all over. He turned toward Stephen and flung up his head to sound a cry of joy. But he did not sound it, for, taken off his guard, he suddenly found himself bowled over by the frenzied impact of the gray. And Stephen, tense with suspense, felt hope sink within him. For the gray stallion, even with fore leg broken, was smothering the prostrate Pat in a raging attack. He saw Pat struggle time and again to gain his feet. At last, only after desperate effort, he saw him rise. He saw him spring upon the crippled gray and tear his back and neck and withers until his face and chest were covered with blood. And then--and at sight of this he went limp in joy and relief--he saw Pat wheel against the gray and lash out mightily, and he saw the gray drop upon breast and upper fore legs--hopelessly out of the struggle. For Pat had broken the second fore leg, and this fiend of the desert was down for all time. And now Pat did a strange thing. As if it suddenly came to him that he had done a forbidden thing--for, after all, he was a product of advanced civilization--he flung up his head a second time and sounded a babyish whimper. Then he trotted straight to Stephen, there to nestle, as one seeking sympathy, under his master's enfolding arms. And Stephen, understanding, caressed and hugged and talked to him in a fervor of gratitude, until, awaking to the distress of the stallion, he staggered to his feet, intent upon a search for a revolver in the clothing of the still form. He found one, unexpectedly, in concealing folds, and with it shot the gray. Then he dragged himself to Pat, clambered dizzily into the saddle, gave the horse loose rein. Pat set out at a walk. He was bleeding in many places, and he was sore and burning in many others. But he did not permit these things to divert him from his task. He went on steadily, going he knew not whither, until he felt his master become inert in the saddle. This troubled him, and, without knowing precisely why he did it, he freshened his gait and continued at a fox-trot well into the morning, until his alert eyes suddenly caught sight of a thin column of dust flung up by galloping horses and swiftly revolving wheels. Then he came to a halt, and, still not understanding his motives, he pointed his head toward the distant vehicle and sounded a shrill nicker. The effort brought disaster. He felt his young master slip out of the saddle, saw him totter and sink in a heap on the sand. And now he understood fully. Throwing up his head again, he awoke the desert with an outcry that racked his whole body. But he did not stop. Again and again he flung his call across the silence, hurling it in mighty staccato in the direction of the ranch wagon until he saw the man suddenly draw rein, remain still for a time, then start up the horses again, this time in his direction. And now, and not till now, he ceased his nickering, and, in the great weariness and fatigue upon him, let his head droop, with eyes closed, until his nose almost touched the ground. And although he did not know it, in the past four hours this dumb animal had in every way lived up to the faith and trust reposed in him by the little woman in the distant valley. CHAPTER XXII QUIESCENCE After long jogging behind the ranch wagon Pat found himself back in a stable. He found himself attended once more by the round-faced and smiling young man who had looked after him before. This friend put salve upon his wounds, and after that, for days and days, provided him with food and water, sometimes talking to him hopefully, sometimes talking with quiet distress in his voice, sometimes attending to his wants without talking at all. It was all a dread monotony. The days became shorter; the nights became longer; a chill crept into the stable. All day long he stamped away the hours in restless discontent, longing for a change of some sort, longing for a sight of his young master, wanting to get out into the open, there to race his legs off in thrilling action. Once this wish was granted. The weather was quite cold, and his round-faced friend came to him that morning showing every sign of haste. Hurriedly he bridled and saddled Pat, rushed him out of the stable, flung up across his back, and put spur to him with such vigor that he was forced into a gait the like of which he had not taken since his breathless speeding to the accompaniment of shots. Out across the desert he raced, breasting a cold wind, on and on till he found himself in a small railroad town. Here he was pulled up before a little cottage, and saw his friend mount the front steps and pull a tiny knob in the frame of the door. A moment of waiting and he saw a portly man appear, heard sharp conversation, saw his friend run down the steps. Then again he felt the prick of spurs, and found himself once more cantering across the desert. But not toward home. Late in the afternoon, wearied and suffering hunger pangs, he found himself in another small town and before another tiny cottage, with his friend pulling at a knob as before, and entering into crisp conversation with the person who answered, a lean man this time, who nodded his head and withdrew. After this he once more breasted the cold winds, worse now because of the night, and continued to breast them until he found himself back in the stable. Thus he had his wish. But it was really more than he had wanted, and thereafter he was content to remain in peace and rest in the stable. But he was not always confined to the stable now. His friend began to permit him privileges, and one of these was the spending of long hours outdoors in a private corral. Here, basking in the sunlight, which was not free from winter chill, he would spend whole days dreaming and wondering--wondering for the most part about his master, the master he liked, and finding himself ever more distressed because of his continued absence. Sometimes, in the corral, he would see men walk slowly in and out of the ranch-house, or come to a halt outside his fence and stand for long minutes gazing at him, a look in their eyes, he thought, though he was not quite sure, of pity mingled with sorrow. But though these men came to him frequently, yet they rarely ever spoke to him; even as his round-faced friend, though still regularly attentive, rarely ever spoke to him now. It was all mysterious. He knew that something of a very grave nature was in the air, but what it was and why his real master never came to him as did the other men, he did not know, though sometimes he would be obsessed with troubled thoughts that all was not well with the young man. Then one day, with spring descending upon the desert, he saw something that quickened his interest in life. He saw a door open in the house, saw a very thin young man appear on the threshold, saw him slowly descend the steps and walk toward him. It was his master. Yet was it? He pressed close to the fence, gazed at the man long and earnestly. Then he knew. It was indeed the same young man. He was much thinner now than when last he had come to him, and he seemed to lack his old-time energy, but nevertheless it was he. In a moment he knew it for certain, for the man held out a long, thin, white hand and called his name. This was the beginning of the end. Thereafter two and three times a day the young man came to him, sometimes in the corral, sometimes in the stable, but always with each successive visit, it seemed to Pat, revealing increasing buoyancy and strength. And finally there came a day, bright and warm, when his master came to him, as it proved, to remain with him. The young man was dressed for riding, and he was surrounded by all the men Pat had ever seen about the place, and not a few whose faces were new to him. They led him out of the stable into the open, a dozen hands bridled and saddled him, then all crowded close in joyful conversation. "Well, sir," began the round-faced young man, slapping Pat resoundingly upon the rump, "you're off again! And believe me I'm one that's right sorry to see you go. I don't care nothin' about this pardner o' yours--he don't count nohow, anyway. He's been sick 'most to death, shore, but he's all right now as far as _that_ goes. His arm is all healed up, and he's fit in every other way--_some_ ways--yet he's takin' himself off from as nice people as ever dragged saddles through a bunk-house at midnight. But that ain't it. He's takin' old black hoss away with him, and it don't jest set. I shore do hate to see you go." Which seemed to express the opinions of the others. And somehow, even when his master was in the saddle and everything pointing to a final departure, Pat found himself hating to go. But duty was duty, and after his master had gathered up the reins and all had cordially shaken hands he broke into a canter, and, followed by a chorus of mighty yells, headed into the interminable desert, within him the feeling of one upon the threshold of new life, or of old and delightful life returned. Before he realized either the lapse of time or the distance traveled, he found himself cantering into the little railroad town he had visited so hurriedly in the winter. And there followed another experience new to Pat--a journey by train back to his home. CHAPTER XXIII THE REUNION Stephen awoke quite late in the morning after his arrival in Pat's home town. Standing before a window in his room at the hotel, he saw a young woman cantering across the railroad tracks in the direction of the mesa. It was Helen, and, at sight of her, for a brief and awful moment he wavered in his decision. Then he remembered his suffering, and the determination made while convalescing, and, hastening his toilet, he hurried through breakfast and made his way to the livery-stable where Pat had spent the night. Pat nickered joyful greeting, as if understanding what was to come. Bridling and saddling him, Stephen mounted and rode into the street at a canter. He turned into the avenue, crossed the railroad tracks, and mounted the long, slow rise to the mesa at a walk. He moved slowly because he wanted time to think, to pull himself together, to the end that he might hold himself firmly to his decision in this last talk. And yet--and this was the conflict he suffered--he could hardly restrain himself, hold himself back, from urging Pat to his utmost. He reached the first flat in the long rise. Absorbed in troubled reflections, he was barely conscious of the nods from two men he passed whom he knew--Hodgins, kindly old soul, book in hand; Maguire, truest of Celts, a twenty-inch slide-rule under his arm. Nodding in friendly recognition, both men gazed at the horse, seeming to understand, and glad to know that he was back. Mounting the second rise, he saw another whom he knew. A quarter of a mile to his left, on the tiny porch of a lone adobe, sat Skeet under a hat, feet elevated to the porch railing, head turned in a listening attitude, as though heeding a call, or many calls, from the direction of a brick-and-stone structure to the southwest. Everywhere familiar objects, scenes, stray people, caught his eye as he rode slowly out upon the mesa, trying to get his thoughts away from the immediate future, from Helen, his successful return of the horse, and that other thing, his determination to leave this spacious land for ever. Suddenly he saw her. She was standing beside her brown saddler, her hand upon the bridle, gazing thoughtfully toward the mountains, now in their morning splendor. He rode Pat to a point perhaps twenty feet behind her, and then quietly let go of the reins and dropped to earth. For a moment he stood, his heart a well of bitterness; then, taking Pat's rein, he stepped toward her, quietly and slowly, intent upon making her surprise complete, because of her great love for the horse. She continued motionless, her hand upon the bridle, facing the mountains, and he came close before she turned. He stopped. She stood perfectly still, eyes upon him, upon the horse, a slow pallor creeping into her face. Presently, as one in a spell, she let fall the reins, slowly, mechanically, and stepped toward him, a step ever quickening, her face drawn, in her eyes a strange, unchanging glow, until, when almost upon him, she held out both arms in trembling welcome and uttered a pitiful outcry. "Stephen! Pat!" she sobbed. "Why--why didn't you--" She checked herself, came close, reached one arm around Pat, the other around Stephen, and went on. "I am--am glad you--you have come back--back to me." Her white face quivered. "Both of you. I--I have suffered." And Stephen, swept away by the tide of his great love, and forgetting his determination, forgetting everything, bent his head and kissed her. She did not shrink, and he kissed her again. Then he began to talk, to tell her of her wonderful horse. Slowly at first, hesitating, then, as the spirit of the drama gripped him, rapidly, sometimes incoherently, he told of his adventures with the horse, and of Pat's unwavering loyalty throughout, and of that last dread situation when both their lives depended upon Pat's winning in a death-grapple with a wild horse. And then, as the gates of speech were opened, he showed her his own part, telling her that as Pat had been true to her trust, so he himself had tried to be true to her faith and trust, and was still trying and hoping, against his convictions, that she understood, that she would consider his love for her and would take him, because he loved her wholly and he needed her love to live. His tense words broke at last, and then he saw her looking up at him through tear-dimmed eyes and smiling, and in the smile he saw the opening of a life new and wonderful. After a little she turned to Pat. She fell to stroking him in thoughtful silence. Then she turned back. "I had heard much of what you have been through," she began, slowly, her voice soft and vibrant with deep sympathy, in her eyes that same steady glow. "The rangers reported to headquarters, and headquarters reported to Daddy. They told of the running fight, Stephen, and how--how you were hurt. And they told of the renegades, and their descent upon your camp, and of Pat's disappearance. And they told of the way you mounted another horse, hurt and sick though you were, and rode off in pursuit. But from there they knew nothing more. But they had spoken of the cavalry, and I wrote to Fort Wingate, inquiring, and they told me what they knew--that you had joined them and ridden with them through that dreadful fight, though they had tried to keep you out of it on account of your condition, and that afterward you had gone off with some cowboys--they didn't know to what ranch. So I looked up every brand in that section, Stephen," she went on, her voice beginning to break. "And I wrote to every place that might by any possible chance know something. But nobody knew. And--and--there I--I was stopped. You had been swallowed up in that desert, and I--I knew you must be ill--and I realized that I--I had sent you into it all." She sobbed and leaned her head against him. "I couldn't do anything, Stephen. I was helpless. All I have been able to do at any time, Stephen, was to--to sit at a window and wait--wait to hear from you--wait for your return--and hope, hope day in and day out that--that you were safe. I--I have--have suffered, Stephen," she concluded, sobbing wretchedly now. "I have suffered--suffered so much!" He drew her close in his arms, united at last in complete understanding. The brown saddler, left free, wandered away indifferently; but Pat remained beside them, and presently they felt the tender touch of his beautiful head, as if in comprehension and blessing. Their hands went out to him, and Pat nickered softly at the love in their caress. Then Stephen gently raised Helen's sweet, tear-stained face to his, and in her eyes he read the certainty of the great happiness of years to come, while Pat, raising his head proudly to the desert, stood above them as if in solemn protection. THE END ZANE GREY'S NOVELS May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS Colored frontispiece by W. Herbert Dunton. Most of the action of this story takes place near the turbulent Mexican border of the present day. A New York society girl buys a ranch which becomes the center of frontier warfare. Her loyal cowboys defend her property from bandits, and her superintendent rescues her when she is captured by them. A surprising climax brings the story to a delightful close. DESERT GOLD Illustrated by Douglas Duer. Another fascinating story of the Mexican border. Two men, lost in the desert, discover gold when, overcome by weakness, they can go no farther. The rest of the story describes the recent uprising along the border, and ends with the finding of the gold which the two prospectors had willed to the girl who is the story's heroine. RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE Illustrated by Douglas Duer. A picturesque romance of Utah of some forty years ago when Mormon authority ruled. In the persecution of Jane Withersteen, a rich ranch owner, we are permitted to see the methods employed by the invisible hand of the Mormon Church to break her will. THE LAST OF THE PLAINSMEN Illustrated with photograph reproductions. This is the record of a trip which the author took with Buffalo Jones, known as the preserver of the American bison, across the Arizona desert and of a hunt in "that wonderful country of yellow crags, deep canons and giant pines." It is a fascinating story. THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT Jacket in color. Frontispiece. This big human drama is played in the Painted Desert. A lovely girl, who has been reared among Mormons, learns to love a young New Englander. The Mormon religion, however, demands that the girl shall become the second wife of one of the Mormons-- Well, that's the problem of this sensational, big selling story. BETTY ZANE Illustrated by Louis F. Grant. This story tells of the bravery and heroism of Betty, the beautiful young sister of old Colonel Zane, one of the bravest pioneers. Life along the frontier, attacks by Indians, Betty's heroic defense of the beleaguered garrison at Wheeling, the burning of the Fort, and Betty's final race for life make up this never-to-be-forgotten story. GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK NOVELS OF FRONTIER LIFE BY WILLIAM MacLEOD RAINE HANDSOMELY BOUND IN CLOTH. ILLUSTRATED. May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list MAVERICKS. A tale of the western frontier, where the "rustler," whose depredations are so keenly resented by the early settlers of the range, abounds. One of the sweetest love stories ever told. A TEXAS RANGER. How a member of the most dauntless border police force carried law into the mesquite, saved the life of an innocent man after a series of thrilling adventures, followed a fugitive to Wyoming, and then passed through deadly peril to ultimate happiness. WYOMING. In this vivid story of the outdoor West the author has captured the breezy charm of "cattleland," and brings out the turbid life of the frontier with all its engaging dash and vigor. RIDGWAY OF MONTANA. The scene is laid in the mining centers of Montana, where politics and mining industries are the religion of the country. The political contest, the love scene, and the fine character drawing give this story great strength and charm. BUCKY O'CONNOR, Every chapter teems with wholesome, stirring adventures, replete with the dashing spirit of the border, told with dramatic dash and absorbing fascination of style and plot. CROOKED TRAILS AND STRAIGHT. A story of Arizona; of swift-riding men and daring outlaws; of a bitter feud between cattle-men and sheep-herders. The heroine is a most unusual woman and her love story reaches a culmination that is fittingly characteristic of the great free West. BRAND BLOTTERS. A story of the Cattle Range. This story brings out the turbid life of the frontier, with all its engaging dash and vigor, with a charming love interest running through its 320 pages. GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK JACK LONDON'S NOVELS May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list. JOHN BARLEYCORN. Illustrated by H. T. Dunn. This remarkable book is a record of the author's own amazing experiences. This big, brawny world rover, who has been acquainted with alcohol from boyhood, comes out boldly against John Barleycorn. It is a string of exciting adventures, yet it forcefully conveys an unforgettable idea and makes a typical Jack London book. THE VALLEY OF THE MOON. Frontispiece by George Harper. The story opens in the city slums where Billy Roberts, teamster and ex-prize fighter, and Saxon Brown, laundry worker, meet and love and marry. They tramp from one end of California to the other, and in the Valley of the Moon find the farm paradise that is to be their salvation. BURNING DAYLIGHT. Four illustrations. The story of an adventurer who went to Alaska and laid the foundations of his fortune before the gold hunters arrived. Bringing his fortunes to the States he is cheated out of it by a crowd of money kings, and recovers it only at the muzzle of his gun. He then starts out as a merciless exploiter on his own account. Finally he takes to drinking and becomes a picture of degeneration. About this time he falls in love with his stenographer and wins her heart but not her hand and then--but read the story! A SON OF THE SUN. Illustrated by A. O. Fischer and C. W. Ashley. David Grief was once a light-haired, blue-eyed youth who came from England to the South Seas in search of adventure. Tanned like a native and as lithe as a tiger, he became a real son of the sun. The life appealed to him and he remained and became very wealthy. THE CALL OF THE WILD. Illustrations by Philip R. Goodwin and Charles Livingston Bull. Decorations by Charles E. Hooper. A book of dog adventures as exciting as any man's exploits could be. Here is excitement to stir the blood and here is picturesque color to transport the reader to primitive scenes. THE SEA WOLF. Illustrated by W. J. Aylward. Told by a man whom Fate suddenly swings from his fastidious life into the power of the brutal captain of a sealing schooner. A novel of adventure warmed by a beautiful love episode that every reader will hail with delight. WHITE FANG. Illustrated by Charles Livingston Bull. "White Fang" is part dog, part wolf and all brute, living in the frozen north; he gradually comes under the spell of man's companionship, and surrenders all at the last in a fight with a bull dog. Thereafter he is man's loving slave. GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK STORIES OF RARE CHARM BY GENE STRATTON-PORTER May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list LADDIE. Illustrated by Herman Pfeifer. This is a bright, cheery tale with the scenes laid in Indiana. The story is told by Little Sister, the youngest member of a large family, but it is concerned not so much with childish doings as with the love affairs of older members of the family. Chief among them is that of Laddie, the older brother whom Little Sister adores, and the Princess, an English girl who has come to live in the neighborhood and about whose family there hangs a mystery. There is a wedding midway in the book and a double wedding at the close. THE HARVESTER. Illustrated by W. L. Jacobs. "The Harvester," David Langston, is a man of the woods and fields, who draws his living from the prodigal hand of Mother Nature herself. If the book had nothing in it but the splendid figure of this man it would be notable. But when the Girl comes to his "Medicine Woods," and the Harvester's whole being realizes that this is the highest point of life which has come to him--there begins a romance of the rarest idyllic quality. FRECKLES. Decorations by E. Stetson Crawford. Freckles is a nameless waif when the tale opens, but the way in which he takes hold of life; the nature friendships he forms in the great Limberlost Swamp; the manner in which everyone who meets him succumbs to the charm of his engaging personality; and his love-story with "The Angel" are full of real sentiment. A GIRL OF THE LIMBERLOST. Illustrated by Wladyslaw T. Brenda. The story of a girl of the Michigan woods; a buoyant, lovable type of the self-reliant American. Her philosophy is one of love and kindness towards all things; her hope is never dimmed. And by the sheer beauty of her soul, and the purity of her vision, she wins from barren and unpromising surroundings those rewards of high courage. AT THE FOOT OF THE RAINBOW. Illustrations in colors by Oliver Kemp. The scene of this charming love story is laid in Central Indiana. The story is one of devoted friendship, and tender self-sacrificing love. The novel is brimful of the most beautiful word painting of nature, and its pathos and tender sentiment will endear it to all. GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK JOHN FOX, JR'S. STORIES OF THE KENTUCKY MOUNTAINS May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list THE TRAIL OF THE LONESOME PINE. Illustrated by F. C. Yohn. The "lonesome pine" from which the story takes its name was a tall tree that stood in solitary splendor on a mountain top. The fame of the pine lured a young engineer through Kentucky to catch the trail, and when he finally climbed to its shelter he found not only the pine but the foot-prints of a girl. And the girl proved to be lovely, piquant, and the trail of these girlish foot-prints led the young engineer a madder chase than "the trail of the lonesome pine." THE LITTLE SHEPHERD OF KINGDOM COME Illustrated by F. C. Yohn. This is a story of Kentucky, in a settlement known as "Kingdom Come." It is a life rude, semi-barbarous; but natural and honest, from which often springs the flower of civilization. "Chad," the "little shepherd," did not know who he was nor whence he came--he had just wandered from door to door since early childhood, seeking shelter with kindly mountaineers who gladly fathered and mothered this waif about whom there was such a mystery--a charming waif, by the way, who could play the banjo better than anyone else in the mountains. A KNIGHT OF THE CUMBERLAND. Illustrated by F. C. Yohn. The scenes are laid along the waters of the Cumberland, the lair of moonshiner and feudsman. The knight is a moonshiner's son, and the heroine a beautiful girl perversely christened "The Blight." Two impetuous young Southerners fall under the spell of "The Blight's" charms and she learns what a large part jealousy and pistols have in the love making of the mountaineers. Included in this volume is "Hell fer-Sartain" and other stories, some of Mr. Fox's most entertaining Cumberland valley narratives. Ask for complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York B. M. Bower's Novels THRILLING WESTERN ROMANCES Large 12 mos. Handsomely bound in cloth. Illustrated CHIP, OF THE FLYING U A breezy wholesome tale, wherein the love affairs of Chip and Della Whitman are charmingly and humorously told. Chip's jealousy of Dr. Cecil Grantham, who turns out to be a big blue eyed young woman is very amusing. A clever, realistic story of the American Cowpuncher. THE HAPPY FAMILY A lively and amusing story, dealing with the adventures of eighteen jovial, big hearted Montana cowboys. Foremost amongst them, we find Ananias Green, known as Andy, whose imaginative powers cause many lively and exciting adventures. HER PRAIRIE KNIGHT A realistic story of the plains, describing a gay party of Easterners who exchange a cottage at Newport for the rough homeliness of a Montana ranch-house. The merry-hearted cowboys, the fascinating Beatrice, and the effusive Sir Redmond, become living, breathing personalities. THE RANGE DWELLERS Here are everyday, genuine cowboys, just as they really exist. Spirited action, a range feud between two families, and a Romeo and Juliet courtship make this a bright, jolly, entertaining story, without a dull page. THE LURE OF DIM TRAILS A vivid portrayal of the experience of an Eastern author, among the cowboys of the West, in search of "local color" for a new novel. "Bud" Thurston learns many a lesson while following "the lure of the dim trails" but the hardest, and probably the most welcome, is that of love. THE LONESOME TRAIL "Weary" Davidson leaves the ranch for Portland, where conventional city life palls on him. A little branch of sage brush, pungent with the atmosphere of the prairie, and the recollection of a pair of large brown eyes soon compel his return. A wholesome love story. THE LONG SHADOW A vigorous Western story, sparkling with the free, outdoor, life of a mountain ranch. Its scenes shift rapidly and its actors play the game of life fearlessly and like men. It is a fine love story from start to finish. Ask for a complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction. Grosset & Dunlap, 526 West 26th St., New York 
30352	----	[Illustration: "'LOOK! LOOK! THERE BY THOSE LITTLE BUSHES!'"] Santa Fé's Partner Being Some Memorials of Events in a New-Mexican Track-end Town By Thomas A. Janvier Author of "The Passing of Thomas" "The Uncle of an Angel" "The Aztec Treasure-House" "In the Sargasso Sea" Etc. Etc. New York and London Harper & Brothers Publishers 1907 Copyright, 1907, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All rights reserved. Published September, 1907. TO C. A. J. CONTENTS I. PALOMITAS 1 II. THE SAGE-BRUSH HEN 15 III. HART'S NEPHEW'S HOLD-UP 44 IV. SANTA FÉ CHARLEY'S KINDERGARTEN 77 V. BOSTON'S LION-HUNT 127 VI. SHORTY SMITH'S HANGING 163 VII. THE PURIFICATION OF PALOMITAS 208 Illustrations "'LOOK! LOOK! THERE BY THOSE LITTLE BUSHES!'" _Frontispiece_ "HER LEFT HAND WAS LAYING IN HER LAP, AND THE OLD GENT GOT A-HOLD OF IT" 22 "WROTE OUT A NOTICE THAT WAS TACKED UP ON THE DEEPO DOOR" 84 "'ONE OF THE NEW GERMAN KINDERGARTEN APPLIANCES'" 120 "STARING 'ROUND THE PLACE SAME AS IF HE'D STRUCK A MENAGERIE" 132 "'IT'S HOTTER THAN SAHARA!' SAID THE ENGLISHMAN" 166 "AND DOWN HART WENT IN A HEAP ON THE FLOOR" 196 "'DON'T HANG HIM, SIR!' SHE GROANED OUT" 224 SANTA FÉ'S PARTNER SANTA FÉ'S PARTNER I PALOMITAS I've been around considerable in the Western Country--mostly some years back--and I've seen quite a little, one way and another, of the folks living there: but I can't really and truly say I've often come up with them nature's noblemen--all the time at it doing stunts in natural nobility--the story-books make out is the chief population of them parts. Like enough the young fellers from the East who write such sorts of books--having plenty of spare time for writing, while they're giving their feet a rest to get the ache out--do come across 'em, same as they say they do; but I reckon the herd's a small one--and, for a fact, if you could cross the book brand with the kind you mostly meet on the ranges the breed would be improved. Cow-punchers and prospectors and such don't look like and don't act like what tenderfoots is accustomed to, and so they size 'em up to be different all the way through. They ain't. They're just plain human nature, same as the rest of us--only more so, through not being herded close in. About the size of it is, most folks needs barbed wire to keep 'em from straying. In a rough country--where laws and constables ain't met with frequent--a good-sized slice of the population 's apt to run wild. With them that's white, it don't much matter. The worst you can say against 'em is, they sometimes do a little more shooting than seems really needed; but such doings is apt to have a show of reason at the bottom of 'em, and don't happen often anyhow--most being satisfied to work off their high spirits some other way. With them that's not white, things is different. When the Apache streak gets on top it sends 'em along quick into clear deviltry--the kind that makes you cussed just for the sake of cussedness and not caring a damn; and it's them that has give some parts of the Western Country--like it did New Mexico in the time I'm talking about, when they was bunched thick there--its bad name. In the long run, of course, the toughs is got rid of--being shoved out or hung out, at first by committees and later on in regular shape by sheriffs and marshals--and things is quieted down. It's the everlasting truth, though, that them kind of mavericks mostly is a blame sight commoner in parts just opened than the story-book kind--that's always so calm-eyed and gentle-natured and generous and brave. What's more, I reckon they'll keep on being commoner, human nature not being a thing that changes much, till we get along to the Day of Judgment round-up--and the goats is cut out and corralled for keeps. For certain, it was goats was right up at the head of the procession in the Territory in my time--which was the time when the railroads was a-coming in--and in them days things was rough. The Greasers living there to start with wasn't what you might call sand-papered; and the kind of folks found in parts railroads has just got to, same as I've mentioned, don't set out to be extry smooth. Back East they talked about the higher civilization that was overflowing New Mexico; but, for a cold fact, the higher civilization that did its overflowing on that section mostly had a sheriff on its tracks right along up to the Missouri--and the rest of the way done what it blame felt like, and used a gun. Some of them native Mexicans wasn't bad fighters. When they went to hacking at one another with knives--the way they was used to--they often done right well. But when they got up against the higher civilization--which wasn't usually less 'n half drunk, and went heeled with two Colt's and a Winchester--they found out they'd bit off more'n they could chew. Being sandy, they kept at it--but the civilizers was apt to have the call. And in between times, when the two of 'em--the Greasers and the civilizers--wasn't taking the change out of each other, they both of 'em took it out of anybody who happened to come along. Yes, sirree!--in them days things was a good deal at loose ends in the Territory. When you went anywheres, if you was going alone, you always felt you'd better leave word what trail you took: that is, if you was fussy in such matters, and wanted what the coyotes left of you brought in by your friends and planted stylish--with your name, and when it happened, painted on a board. This place where the track got stuck--sticking partly because there was trouble with the Atchison, and partly because the Company couldn't foreclose onto a year jag any more out of the English stockholders to build on with--was up on a bluff right over the Rio Grande and was called Palomitas. Being only mostly Greasers and Indians living in the Territory--leaving out the white folks at Santa Fé and the army posts, and the few Germans there was scattered about--them kind of queer-sounding names was what was mainly used. It wasn't never meant to be no sort of an American town nohow, Palomitas wasn't--being made to start with of 'dobes (which is Mexican for houses built of mud, and mud they was in the rainy season) spilled around on the bluff anywheres; and when the track come along through the middle of it the chinks was filled in with tents and shingle-shacks and dugouts--all being so mixed up and scattery you'd a-thought somebody'd been packing a town through them parts in a wagon and the load had jolted out, sort of casual over the tail-board, and stuck where it happened to come down. The only things you could call houses was the deepo, and the Forest Queen Hotel right across the track from it, and Bill Hart's store. Them three buildings was framed up respectable; with real windows that opened, and doors such as you could move without kicking at 'em till you was tired. The deepo was right down stylish--having a brick chimney and being painted brown. Aside the deepo was the tank and the windmill that pumped into it. Seems to me at nights, sometimes, I can hear that old windmill going around creaking and clumpetty-clumpetting now! Palomitas means "little doves"--but I reckon the number of them birds about the place was few. For about a thousand years, more or less, it had been run on a basis of two or three hundred Mexicans and a sprinkling of pigs and Pueblo Indians--the pigs was the most respectable--and it was allowed to be, after the track got there, the toughest town the Territory had to show. Santa Cruz de la Cañada, which was close to it, was said to have took the cake for toughness before railroad times. It was a holy terror, Santa Cruz was! The only decent folks in it was the French padre--who outclassed most saints, and hadn't a fly on him--and a German named Becker. He had the Government forage-station, Becker had; and he used to say he'd had a fresh surprise every one of the mornings of the five years he'd been forage-agent--when he woke up and found nobody'd knifed him in the night and he was keeping on being alive! But when the track come in, and the higher civilization come in a-yelling with it and spread itself, Palomitas could give points to the Cañada in cussedness all down the line. Most of it right away was saloons and dance-halls; and the pressure for faro accommodation was such the padre thought he could make money by closing down his own monte-bank and renting. Denver Jones took his place at fifty dollars a week, payable every Saturday night--and rounded on the padre by getting back his rent-money over the table every Sunday afternoon. He'd a-got it back Sunday mornings if the padre hadn't been tied up mornings to his work. (He was a native, that padre was--and went on so extra outrageous his own folks couldn't stand him and Bishop Lamy bounced him from his job.) Pretty much all the time there was rumpusses; and the way they was managed made the Mexicans--being used, same as I've said, to knives mostly--open their eyes wide. It seemed really to jolt 'em when they begun to find out what a live man with his back up could do with a gun! Occurrences was so frequent--before construction started up again, and for a while after--the new cemetery out in the sage-brush on the mesa come close to having as big a population as the town. What happened--shootings, and doings of all sorts--mostly centred on the Forest Queen. That was the only place that called itself a hotel in Palomitas--folks being able to get some sort of victuals there, and it having bunks in a room off the bar-room where passers-through was give a chance to think (by morning they was apt to think different) they was going to have a night's sleep. Kicking against what you got--and against the throwed-in extras you'd a-been better without--didn't do no good. Old Tenderfoot Sal, who kept the place, only stuck her fat elbows out and told the kickers she done the best she knowed how to, and she reckoned it was as good as you could expect in them parts, and most was suited. If they didn't like the Forest Queen Hotel, she said, they was free to get out of it and go to one that suited 'em better--and as there wasn't none to go to, Sal held the cards. She was a corker, Sal was! By her own account of herself, she'd learned hotel-keeping through being a sutler's wife in the war. What sutling had had to do with it was left to guess at, and there was opinions as to how much her training in hoteling had done for her; but it was allowed she'd learned a heap of other things--of one sort and another--and her name of Tenderfoot was give her because them fat feet of hers, in the course of her travels, had got that hard I reckon she wouldn't a-noticed it walking on red-hot point-upwards ten-penny nails! In the Forest Queen bar-room was the biggest bank there was in town. Blister Mike--he was Irish, Blister was, and Sal's bar-keep--had some sort of a share in it; but it was run by a feller who'd got the name of Santa Fé Charley, he having had a bank over in Santa Fé afore Sal give him the offer to come across to Palomitas and take charge. He was one of the blue-eyed quiet kind, Charley was, that's not wholesome to monkey with; the sort that's extra particular about being polite and nice-spoken--and never makes no mistakes, when shooting-time comes, about shooting to kill. When he was sober, though--and he had to keep sober, mostly, or his business would a-suffered--he wasn't hunting after rumpusses: all he did was to keep ready for 'em, and hold his end up when they come along. He had the habit--same as some other of the best card sharps I've met with--of dressing himself in black, real stylish: wearing a long-tail coat and a boiled shirt and white tie, and having a toney wide-brimmed black felt hat that touched him off fine. With them regular fire-escape clothes on, folks was apt to take him for one; and, when they did, he always met 'em half-way by letting on preaching was his business--till he got 'em on the other side of the table and begun to shake down what cards he needed from up inside them black coat-sleeves. Mostly they ended by thinking that maybe preaching wasn't just what you might call his strongest hold. It helped him in his work more'n a little, sometimes, dressing up that way and talking to suit, like he knowed how to, real high-toned talk; but I do believe for a fact he enjoyed the dollars he got out of it less 'n he did the fun it give him making fools of folks by setting up rigs on 'em--he truly being the greatest hand at rigging I ever seen. Somehow--not having the comfort of being able to get drunk half as often as he wanted to--it seemed like he give himself the let-out he needed in them queer antics; and, for certain, he managed 'em always so they went with a hum. When him and the Sage-Brush Hen played partners in rigging anybody--as they was apt to, the Hen being much such another and so special friends with Charley she'd come on after him from Santa Fé--there mostly was a real down spirited game! She was what you might call the leading lady in the Forest Queen dance-hall, the Sage-Brush Hen was; and if you wanted fun, and had to choose between her and a basket of monkeys, all I've got to say is--nobody'd ever a-took the monkeys who knowed the Hen! That girl was up to more queer tricks than anybody of her size and shape--she had a powerful fine shape, the Hen had--I've ever laid eyes on; and she'd run 'em in you so slick and quiet--keeping as demure as a cat after birds while she was doing it--you'd never suspicion anything was happening till you found the whole town laughing its head off at you for being so many kinds of a fool! Things wasn't any time what you might call too extra quiet in Palomitas; but when them two--the Hen and Santa Fé--started in together to run any racket you may bet your life there was a first-class circus from the word go! Grass didn't grow much under their feet, either. The very minute the Hen struck the town--coming on after Santa Fé, same as I've said, and him waiting for her when she got there--they went at their monkey-shining, finishing two-handed what the Hen had started as a lone-hand game. Right along from then on they kept things moving spirited, one way and another, without much of a let-up. And they ended off--the day the two of 'em, owing to circumstances, lit out together--by setting up on all of us what I reckon was the best rig ever set up on anybody anywheres since rigs was begun! Palomitas was a purer town, Cherry said--it was him led off in the purifying--after we was shut of 'em, and of some others that was fired for company; and I won't say he wasn't right in making out it was a better town, maybe, when we'd got it so blame pure. But they had their good points, the Hen and Santa Fé had--and after they was purified out of it some of us didn't never quite feel as if the place was just the same. II THE SAGE-BRUSH HEN The Hen blew in one day on Hill's coach, coming from Santa Fé, setting up on the box with him--Hill run his coach all the time the track was stuck at Palomitas, it being quicker for Santa Fé folks going up that way to Pueblo and Denver and Leadville than taking the Atchison out to El Moro and changing to the Narrow Gauge--and she was so all over dust that Wood sung out to him: "Where'd you get your Sage-Brush Hen from?" And the name stuck. More folks in Palomitas had names that had tumbled to 'em like that than the kind that had come regular. And even when they sounded regular they likely wasn't. Regular names pretty often got lost coming across the Plains in them days--more'n a few finding it better, about as they got to the Missouri, to leave behind what they'd been called by back East and draw something new from the pack. Making some sort of a change was apt to be wholesomer and often saved talk. Hill said the Hen was more fun coming across from Santa Fé than anything he'd ever got up against; and she was all the funnier, he said, because when he picked her up at the Fonda she looked like as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth and started in with her monkey-shines so sort of quiet and demure. Along with her, waiting at the Fonda, was an old gent with spectacles who turned out to be a mine sharp--one of them fellows the Government sends out to the Territory to write up serious in books all the fool stories prospectors and such unload on 'em: the kind that needs to be led, and 'll eat out of your hand. The Hen and the old gent and Hill had the box-seat, the Hen in between; and she was that particular about her skirts climbing up, and about making room after she got there, that Hill said he sized her up himself for an officer's wife going East. Except to say thank you, and talk polite that way, she didn't open her head till they'd got clear of the town and begun to go slow in that first bit of bad road among the sandhills; and it was the old gent speaking to her--telling her it was a fine day, and he hoped she liked it--that set her stamps to working a little then. She allowed the weather was about what it ought to be, and said she was much obliged and it suited her; and then she got her tongue in behind her teeth again as if she meant to keep it there--till the old gent took a fresh start by asking her if she'd been in the Territory long. She said polite she hadn't, and was quiet for a minute. Then she got out her pocket-handkerchief and put it up to her eyes and said she'd been in it longer'n she wanted, and was glad she was going away. Hill said her talking that way made him feel kind of curious himself; but he didn't have no need to ask questions--the old gent saving him that trouble by going for her sort of fatherly and pumping away at her till he got the whole thing. It come out scrappy, like as might be expected, Hill said; and so natural-sounding he thought he must be asleep and dreaming--he knowing pretty well what was going on in the Territory, and she telling about doings that was news to him and the kind he'd a-been sure to hear a lot of if they'd ever really come off. Hill said he wished he could tell it all as she did--speaking low, and ketching her breath in the worst parts, and mopping at her eyes with her pocket-handkerchief--but he couldn't; and all he could say about it was it was better'n any theatre show he'd ever seen. The nubs of it was, he said, that she said her husband had taken out a troop from Fort Wingate against the Apaches (Hill knew blame well up there in the Navajo country was no place to look for Apaches) and the troop had been ambushed in a cañon in the Zuñi Mountains (which made the story still tougher) and every man of 'em, along with her "dear Captain" as she called him, had lost his hair. "His loved remains are where those fierce creatures left them," she said. "I have not even the sad solace of properly burying his precious bones!" And she cried. The old gent was quite broke up, Hill said, and took a-hold of her hand fatherly--she was a powerful fine-looking woman--and said she had his sympathy; and when she eased up on her crying so she could talk she said she was much obliged--and felt it all the more, she said, because he looked like a young uncle of hers who'd brought her up, her father being dead, till she was married East to her dear Captain and had come out to the Territory with him to his dreadful doom. Hill said it all went so smooth he took it down himself at first--but he got his wind while she was crying, and he asked her what her Captain's name was, and what was his regiment; telling her he hadn't heard of any trouble up around Wingate, and it was news to him Apaches was in them parts. She give him a dig in the ribs with her elbow--as much as to tell him he wasn't to ask no such questions--and said back to him her dear husband was Captain Chiswick of the Twelfth Cavalry; and it had been a big come down for him, she said, when he got his commission in the Regulars, after he'd been a Volunteer brigadier-general in the war. Hill knowed right enough there wasn't no Twelfth Cavalry nowhere, and that the boys at Wingate was A and F troops of the Fourth; but he ketched on to the way she was giving it to the old gent--and so _he_ give _her_ a dig in the ribs, and said he'd knowed Captain Chiswick intimate, and he was as good a fellow as ever was, and it was a blame pity he was killed. She give him a dig back again, at that--and was less particular about making room on his side. The old gent took it all in, just as it come along; and after she'd finished up about the Apaches killing her dear Captain he wanted to know where she was heading for--because if she was going home East, he said, he was going East himself and could give her a father's care. She said back to him, pleasant like, that a young man like him couldn't well be fathering an old lady like her, though it was obliging of him to offer; but, anyway, she wasn't going straight back East, because she had to wait awhile at Palomitas for a remittance she was expecting to pay her way through--and she wasn't any too sure about it, she said, whether she'd get her remittance; or, if she did get it, when it would come. Everything bad always got down on you at once, she said; and just as the cruel savages had slain her dear Captain along come the news the bank East he'd put his money in had broke the worst kind. Her financial difficulties wasn't a patch on the trouble her sorrowing heart was giving her, she said; but she allowed they added what she called pangs of bitterness to her deeper pain. The old gent--he wasn't a fool clean through--asked her what was the matter with her Government transportation; she having a right to transportation, being an officer's widow going home. Hill said he give her a nudge at that, as much as to say the old gent had her. She didn't faze a bit, though. It was her Government transportation she was waiting for, she cracked back to him smooth and natural; but such things had to go all the way to Washington to be settled, she said, and then come West again--Hill said he 'most snickered out at that--and she'd known cases when red-tape had got in the way and transportation hadn't been allowed at all. Then she sighed terrible, and said it might be a long, long while before she could get home again to her little boy--who was all there was left her in the world. Her little Willy was being took care of by his grandmother, she said, and he was just his father's own handsome self over again--and she got out her pocket-handkerchief and jammed it up to her eyes. [Illustration: "HER LEFT HAND WAS LAYING IN HER LAP, AND THE OLD GENT GOT A-HOLD OF IT"] Her left hand was laying in her lap, sort of casual, and the old gent got a-hold of it and said he didn't know how to tell her how sorry he was for her. Talking from behind her pocket-handkerchief, she said such sympathy was precious; and then she went on, kind of pitiful, saying she s'posed her little Willy'd have forgot all about her before she'd get back to him--and she cried some more. Hill said she done it so well he was half took in himself for a minute, and felt so bad he went to licking and swearing at his mules. After a while she took a brace--getting down her pocket-handkerchief, and calling in the hand the old gent was a-holding--and said she must be brave, like her dear Captain'd always been, so he'd see when he was a-looking at her from heaven she was doing the square thing. And as to having to wait around before she went East, she said, in one way it didn't make any matter--seeing she'd be well cared for and comfortable at Palomitas staying in the house of the Baptist minister, who'd married her aunt. Hill said when she went to talking about Baptist ministers and aunts in Palomitas he shook so laughing inside he most fell off the box. Except the Mexican padre who belonged there--the one I've spoke of that made a record, and Bishop Lamy had to bounce--and sometimes the French ones from San Juan and the Cañada, who was straight as strings, there wasn't a fire-escape ever showed himself in Palomitas; and as to the ladies of the town--well, the ladies wasn't just what you'd call the aunt kind. It's a cold fact that Palomitas, that year when the end of the track stuck there, was the cussedest town, same as I've said it was, in the whole Territory--and so it was no more'n natural Hill should pretty near bust himself trying to hold in his laughing when the Hen took to talking so off-hand about Palomitas and Baptist ministers and aunts. She felt how he was shaking, and jammed him hard with her elbow to keep him from letting his laugh out and giving her away. * * * * * Hill said they'd got along to Pojuaque by the time the Hen had finished telling about herself, and the fix she was in because she had to wait along with her aunt in Palomitas till her transportation come from Washington--and she just sick to get East and grab her little Willy in her arms. And the old gent was that interested in it all, Hill said, it was a sight to see how he went on. At Pojuaque the coach always made a noon stop, and the team was changed and the passengers got dinner at old man Bouquet's. He was a Frenchman, old man Bouquet was; but he'd been in the Territory from 'way back, and he'd got a nice garden behind his house and things fixed up French style. His strongest hold was his wine-making. He made a first-class drink, as drinks of that sort go; and, for its kind, it was pretty strong. As his cooking was first-class too, Hill's passengers--and the other folks that stopped for grub there--always wanted to make a good long halt. Hill said it turned out the old gent knowed how to talk French, and that made old man Bouquet extra obliging--and he set up a rattling good dinner and fetched out some of the wine he said he was in the habit of keeping for his own drinking, seeing he'd got somebody in the house for once who really could tell the difference between good and bad. He fixed up a table out in the garden--aside of that queer tree, all growed together, he thought so much of--and set down with 'em himself; and Hill said it was one of the pleasantest parties he'd ever been at in all his born days. The Hen and the old gent got friendlier and friendlier--she being more cheerful when she'd been setting at table a while, and getting to talking so comical she kept 'em all on a full laugh. Now and then, though, she'd pull up sudden and kind of back away--making out she didn't want it to show so much--and get her pocket-handkerchief to her eyes and snuffle; and then she'd pull herself together sort of conspicuous, and say she didn't want to spoil the party, but she couldn't help thinking how long it was likely to be before she'd see her little boy. And then the old gent would say that such tender motherliness did her credit, and hers was a sweet nature, and he'd hold her hand till she took it away. Hill said the time passed so pleasant he forgot how it was going, and when he happened to think to look at his watch he found he'd have to everlastingly hustle his mules to get over to Palomitas in time to ketch the Denver train. He went off in a tearing hurry to hitch up, and old man Bouquet went along to help him--the old gent saying he guessed he and Mrs. Chiswick would stay setting where they was, it being cool and comfortable in the garden, till the team was put to. They set so solid, Hill said, they didn't hear him when he sung out to 'em he was ready; and he said he let his mouth go wide open and yelled like hell. (Hill always talked that careless way. He didn't mean no harm by it. He said it was just a habit he'd got into driving mules.) They not coming, he went to hurry 'em, he said--and as he come up behind 'em the Hen was stuffing something into her frock, and the old gent was saying: "I want you to get quickly to your dear infant, my daughter. You can return at your convenience my trifling loan. And now I will give you a fatherly kiss--" But he didn't, Hill said--because the Hen heard Hill's boots on the gravel and faced round so quick she spoiled his chance. He seemed a little jolted, Hill said; but the Hen was so cool, and talked so pleasant and natural about what a nice dinner they'd been having, and what a fine afternoon it was, he braced up and got to talking easy too. Then they all broke for the coach, and got away across the Tesuque River and on through the sandhills--with Hill cutting away at his mules and using words to 'em fit to blister their hides off--and when they fetched the Cañada they'd about ketched up again to schedule time. After the Mexican who kept the Santa Cruz post-office had made the mess he always did with the mail matter, and had got the cussing he always got from Hill for doing it, they started off again--coming slow through that bit of extra heavy road along by the Rio Grande, but getting to the deepo at Palomitas all serene to ketch the Denver train. All the way over from Pojuaque, Hill said, he could see out of the corner of his eye the old gent was nudging up to the Hen with his shoulder, friendly and sociable; and he said he noticed the Hen was a good deal less particular about making room. The old gent flushed up and got into a regular temper, Hill said, when Wood sung out as they pulled in to the deepo platform: "Where'd you get your Sage-Brush Hen from?"--and that way give her what stuck fast for her name. As it turned out, they might a-kept on a-hashing as long as they'd a mind to at Pojuaque; and Hill might a-let his mules take it easy, without tiring himself swearing at 'em, on a dead walk--there being a wash-out in the Comanche Cañon, up above the Embudo, that held the train. It wasn't much of a wash-out, the conductor said; but he said he guessed all hands likely'd be more comfortable waiting at Palomitas, where there was things doing, than they would be setting still in the cañon while the track-gang finished their job--and he said he reckoned the train wouldn't start for about three hours. * * * * * The Hen and the old gent was standing on the deepo platform, where they'd landed from the coach; and Hill said as he was taking his mails across to the express-car he heard him asking her once more if she hadn't better come right along East to her lonely babe; and promising to take a father's care of her all the way. The Hen seemed to be in two minds about it for a minute, Hill said, and then she thanked him, sweet as sugar, for his goodness to her in her time of trouble; and told him it would be a real comfort to go East with such a kind escort to take care of her--but she said it wouldn't work, because she was expected in Palomitas, and not stopping there would be disappointing to her dear uncle and aunt. It was after sundown and getting duskish, while they was talking; and she said she must be getting along. The old gent said he'd go with her; but she said he mustn't think of it, as it was only a step to the parsonage and she knew the way. While he was keeping on telling her she really must let him see her safe with her relatives, up come Santa Fé Charley--and Charley sung out: "Hello, old girl. So you've got here! I was looking for you on the coach, and I thought you hadn't come." Hill said he begun to shake all over with laughing; being sure--for all Charley in his black clothes and white tie looked so toney--it would be a dead give away for her. But he said she only give a little jump when Santa Fé sung out to her, and didn't turn a hair. "Dear Uncle Charley, I _am_ so glad to see you!" she said easy and pleasant; and then round she come to the old gent, and said as smooth as butter to him: "This is my uncle, the Baptist minister, sir, come to take me to the parsonage to my dear aunt. It's almost funny to have so young an uncle! Aunt's young too--you see, grandfather married a second time. We're more like sister and brother--being so near of an age; and he always will talk to me free and easy, like he always did--though I tell him now he's a minister it don't sound well." And then she whipped round to Charley, so quick he hadn't time to get a word in edgeways, and said to him: "I hope Aunt Jane's well, and didn't have to go up to Denver--as she said she might in her last letter--to look after Cousin Mary. And I do hope you've finished the painting she said was going on at the parsonage--so you can take me in there till my transportation comes and I can start East. This kind gentleman, who's going up on to-night's train, has been offering--and it's just as good of him, even if I can't go--to escort me home to my dear baby; and he's been giving me in the sweetest way his sympathy over my dear husband Captain Chiswick's loss." Hill said he never knowed anybody take cards as quick as Santa Fé took the cards the Hen was giving him. "I'm very happy to meet you, sir," he said to the old gent; "and most grateful to you for your kindness to my poor niece Rachel in her distress. We have been sorrowing over her during Captain Chiswick's long and painful illness--" "My dear Captain had been sick for three months, and got up out of his bed to go and be killed with his men by those dreadful Apaches," the Hen cut in. "--and when the news came of the massacre," Charley went right on, as cool as an iced drink, "our hearts almost broke for her. Captain Chiswick was a splendid gentleman, sir; one of the finest officers ever sent out to this Territory. His loss is a bad thing for the service; but it is a worse thing for my poor niece--left forsaken along with her sweet babes. They are noble children, sir; worthy of their noble sire!" "Oh, Uncle Charley!" said the Hen. "Didn't you get my letter telling you my little Jane died of croup? I've only my little Willy, now!" And she kind of gagged. "My poor child. My poor child!" said Santa Fé. "I did not know that death had winged a double dart at you like that--your letter never came." And then he said to the old gent: "The mail service in this Territory, sir, is a disgrace to the country. The Government ought to be ashamed!" Hill said while they was giving it and taking it that way he most choked--particular as the old gent just gulped it all down whole. Hill said the three of 'em was sort of quiet and sorrowful for a minute, and then Santa Fé said: "It is too bad, Rachel, but your Aunt Jane did have to go up to Denver yesterday--a despatch came saying Cousin Mary's taken worse. And the parsonage is in such a mess still with the painters that I've moved over to the Forest Queen Hotel. But you can come there too--it's kept by an officer's widow, you know, and is most quiet and respectable--and you'll be almost as comfortable waiting there till your transportation comes along as you would be if I could take you home." Hill said hearing the Forest Queen talked about as quiet and respectable, and Santa Fé's so sort of off-hand making an officer's widow out of old Tenderfoot Sal, set him to shaking at such a rate he had to get to where there was a keg of railroad spikes and set down on it and hold his sides with both hands. Santa Fé turned to the old gent, Hill said--talking as polite as a Pullman conductor--and told him since he'd been so kind to his unhappy niece he hoped he'd come along with 'em to the hotel too--where he'd be more comfortable, Santa Fé said, getting something to eat and drink than he would be kicking around the deepo waiting till they'd filled in the wash-out and the train could start. Hill said the Hen give Santa Fé a queer sort of look at that, as much as to ask him if he was dead sure he had the cards for that lead. Santa Fé give her a look back again, as much as to say he knew what was and what wasn't on the table; and then he went on to the old gent, speaking pleasant, telling him likely it might be a little bit noisy over at the hotel--doing her best, he said, Mrs. Major Rogers couldn't help having noise sometimes, things being so rough and tumble out there on the frontier; but he had a private room for his study, where he wrote his sermons, he said, and got into it by a side door--and so he guessed things wouldn't be too bad. That seemed to make the Hen easy, Hill said; and away the three of 'em went together to the Forest Queen. Hill knowed it was straight enough about the private room and the side door--Santa Fé had it to do business in for himself, on the quiet, when he didn't have to deal; and Hill'd known of a good many folks who'd gone in that private room by that side door and hadn't come out again till Santa Fé'd scooped their pile. But it wasn't no business of his, he said; and he said he was glad to get shut of 'em so he might have a chance to let out the laughing that fairly was hurting his insides. As they was going away from the deepo, Hill said, he heard Santa Fé telling the old gent he was sorry it was getting so dark--as he'd like to take him round so he could see the parsonage, and the new church they'd just finished building and was going to put an organ in as soon as they'd raised more funds; but it wasn't worth while going out of their way, he said, because they wouldn't show to no sort of advantage with the light so bad. As the only church in Palomitas was the Mexican mud one about two hundred years old, and as the nearest thing to a parsonage was the Padre's house that Denver Jones had rented and had his faro-bank in, Hill said he guessed Charley acted sensible in not trying to show the old gent around that part of the town. * * * * * Hill said after he'd got his supper he thought he'd come down to the deepo and sort of wait around there; on the chance he'd ketch on--when the old gent come over to the train--to what Santa Fé and the Hen'd been putting up on him. Sure enough, he did. Along about ten o'clock a starting-order come down--the track-gang by that time having the wash-out so near fixed it would be fit by the time the train got there to go across; and Wood--he was the agent, Wood was--sent word over to the Forest Queen to the old gent, who was the only Pullman passenger, he'd better be coming along. In five minutes or so he showed up. He wasn't in the best shape, Hill said, and Santa Fé and the Hen each of 'em was giving him an arm; though what he seemed to need more'n arms, Hill said, was legs--the ones he had, judging from the way he couldn't manage 'em, not being in first-class order and working bad. But he didn't make no exhibition of himself, and talked right enough--only he spoke sort of short and scrappy--and the three of 'em was as friendly together as friendly could be. Hill said he didn't think it was any hurt to listen, things being the way they was, and he edged up close to 'em--while they stood waiting for the porter to light up the Pullman--and though he couldn't quite make sense of all they was saying he did get on to enough of it to size up pretty close how they'd put the old gent through. "Although it is for my struggling church, a weak blade of grass in the desert," Santa Fé was saying when Hill got the range of 'em, "I cannot but regret having taken from you your splendid contribution to our parish fund in so unusual, I might almost say in so unseemly, a way. That I have returned to you a sufficient sum to enable you to prosecute your journey to its conclusion places you under no obligation to me. Indeed, I could not have done less--considering the very liberal loan that you have made to my poor niece to enable her to return quickly to her helpless babe. As I hardly need tell you, that loan will be returned promptly--as soon as Mrs. Captain Chiswick gets East and is able to disentangle her affairs." "Indeed it will," the Hen put in. "My generous benefactor shall be squared with if I have to sell my clothes!" "Mustn't think of such a thing. Catch cold," the old gent said. "Pleasure's all mine to assist such noble a woman in her unmerited distress. And now I shall have happiness, and same time sorrow, to give her fatherly kiss for farewell." The Hen edged away a little, Hill said, and Santa Fé shortened his grip a little on the old gent's arm--so his fatherly kissing missed fire. But he didn't seem to notice, and said to Santa Fé: "Never knew a minister know cards like you. Wonderful! And wonderful luck what you held. Played cards a good deal myself. Never could play like you!" Santa Fé steadied the old gent, Hill said, and said to him in a kind of explaining way: "As I told you, my dear sir, in my wild college days--before I got light on my sinful path and headed for the ministry--I was reckoned something out of the common as a card-player; and what the profane call luck used to be with me all the time. Of course, since I humbly--but, I trust, helpfully--took to being a worker in the vineyard, I have not touched those devil's picture-books; nor should I have touched them to-night but for my hope that a little game would help to while away your time of tedious waiting. As for playing for money, that would have been quite impossible had it not been for my niece's suggestion that my winnings--in case such came to me--should be added to our meagre parish fund. I trust that I have not done wrong in yielding to my impulse. At least I have to sustain me the knowledge that if you, my dear sir, are somewhat the worse, my impoverished church is much the better for our friendly game of chance." Hill said hearing Santa Fé Charley talking about chance in any game where he had the dealing was so funny it was better'n going to the circus. But the old gent took it right enough--and the Hen added on: "Yes, Uncle Charley can get the organ he's been wanting so badly for his church, now. And I'm sure we'll all think of how we owe its sweet music to you every time we hear it played!"--and she edged up to him again, so he could hold her hand. "It must make you very, very happy, sir," she kept on, speaking kind of low and gentle, but not coming as close as he wanted her, "to go about the world doing such generous-hearted good deeds! I'm sure I'd like to thank you enough--only there aren't any fit words to thank you in--for your noble-hearted generous goodness to me!" The old gent hauled away on her hand, Hill said, trying to get her closer, and said back to her: "Words quite unnecessary. Old man's heart filled with pleasure obliging such dear child. Never mind about words. Accept old man's fatherly kiss, like daughter, for good-bye." But he missed it that time too, Hill said--and Hill said, speaking in his careless cuss-word way, it was pretty damn rough on him what poor luck in fatherly kisses he seemed to have--because just then the train conductor swung his lantern and sung out: "All aboard!" That ended things. Before the old gent knowed what had got him, Santa Fé and the Hen had boosted him up the steps onto the platform of the Pullman--where the Pullman conductor got a grip on him just in time to save him from spilling--and then the train pulled out: with the Pullman conductor keeping him steady, and he throwing back good-bye kisses to the Hen with both hands. Hill said the Hen and Santa Fé kept quiet till the hind-lights showed beyond the end of the deepo platform: and then the Hen grabbed Santa Fé round the neck and just hung onto him--so full of laugh she was limp--while they both roared. And Hill said he roared too. It was the most comical bit of business, he said, he'd tumbled to in all his born days! It wasn't till the train got clean round the curve above the station, Hill said, that Charley and the Hen could pull 'emselves together so they could talk. Then the Hen let a-go of Santa Fé's neck and said comical--speaking kind of precise and toney, like as if she was an officer's wife sure enough: "You had better return to your study, dear Uncle Charley, and finish writing that sermon you said we'd interrupted you in that was about caring for the sheep as well as the lambs!" And then they went off together yelling, Hill said, over to the Forest Queen. III HART'S NEPHEW'S HOLD-UP Hill always said he counted on coming into Palomitas some day on one of his mules bareback--leaving the other five dead or stampeded, and the coach stalled somewhere--and bringing his hair only because road-agents hadn't no use for hair and his wasn't easy to get anyhow, he being so bald on top there wasn't nothing to ketch a-hold of if anybody wanted to lift what little there was along the sides. Of course that was just Hill's comical way of putting it; but back of his fool talk there was hard sense--as there was apt to be back of Hill's talk every time. He knew blame well what he was up against, Hill did; and if he hadn't been more'n extra sandy he never could a-held down his job. Till Hill started his coach up, the only way to get across to Santa Fé from Palomitas was to go a-horseback or walk. Both ways was unhealthy; and the coach, being pretty near as liable to hold-ups, wasn't much healthier. It had to go slow, the coach had--that was a powerful mean road after you left Pojuaque and got in among the sandhills--and you never was sure when some of them bunches of scrub-cedar wasn't going to wake up and take to pumping lead into you. Only a nervy man, like Hill was, ever could have took the contract; and Hill said he got so rattled sometimes--when it happened he hadn't no passengers and was going it alone in among them sandhills--he guessed it was only because he had so little hair to turn anything it didn't turn gray. Hill slept at the Forest Queen, the nights he was in Palomitas--he drove one way one day and the other way the next--and the boys made things cheerfuller for him by all the time rigging him about the poor show he had for sticking long at his job. He'd look well, they said, a-laying out there in the sage-brush plugged full of lead waiting for his friends to call for him; and they asked him how he thought he'd enjoy being a free-lunch counter for coyotes; and they told him he'd better write down on a piece of paper anything he'd like particular to have painted on the board--and they just generally devilled him all round. Hill didn't mind the fool talk they give him--he always was a good-natured fellow, Hill was--and he mostly managed to hit back at 'em, one way or another, so they'd come out about even and end up with drinks for all hands. The only one who really didn't like that sort of talk, and always kicked when the boys started in on it, was the Sage-Brush Hen. She said it was a mean shame to make a joke about a thing like that, seeing there wasn't a day when it mightn't happen; and it wasn't like an ordinary shooting-match, she said, that come along in the regular way and both of you took your chances; and sometimes she'd get that mad and worried she'd go right smack out of the room. You see, the Hen always thought a heap of Hill--they having got to be such friends together that first day when he brought her over to Palomitas on the coach and helped her put up her rig on the old gent from Washington; and, back of her liking Hill specially, she really was about as good-natured a woman as ever lived. Except Hart's nephew--she did just hate Hart's nephew, who was a chump if ever there was one--she always was as pleasant as pie with everybody; and if any of the boys was hurt--like when Denver Jones got that jag in his shoulder rumpussing with Santa Fé Charley; and she more friends with Charley, of course, than with anybody else--she'd turn right in and help all she knowed how. But it's a cold fact, for all her being so good-natured and obliging, that wherever that Hen was there was a circus. It was on her account Charley and Denver had their little difficulty; and, one way and another, there was more shooting-scrapes about her than about all the other girls put together in all the dance-halls in town. Why, it got to be so that one corner of the new cemetery out on the mesa was called her private lot. It wasn't her fault, she always said; and, in one way, it wasn't--she always being willing to be sociable and friendly all round. But, all the same, wherever that Sage-Brush Hen was, there was dead sure to be an all-right cyclone. * * * * * One night when the boys at the Forest Queen was rigging Hill worse'n usual, and the Hen all the time getting madder and madder, Santa Fé Charley come into the game himself. Knowing how down the Hen was on such doings he usually didn't. I guess he and she'd been having some sort of a ruction that day, and he wanted to get even with her. Anyhow, in he come--and the way he played his hand just got the Hen right up on her ear. What Charley did was to start a thirty-day pool on Hill as to when it would happen. Chances was a dollar apiece--the dates for thirty days ahead being written on bits of paper, and the bits crumpled up and put into a hat, and you took one--and the pool went to whoever got the right date, with consolation stakes to whoever got the day before and the day after. Charley made a comical speech, after the drawing, telling the boys it was what you might call a quick return investment, and he guessed all of 'em had got left who'd drawed dates more'n a week away. Hill took it all right, same as usual; and just to show 'em he didn't bear no malice he bought a chance himself. He was one of the best-natured fellows ever got born, Hill was. There wasn't no Apache in him nowhere. He was white all the way through. So he bought his chance, that way, and then he give it to the Hen--telling her if he pulled the pot himself it wouldn't be much good to him, and saying he hoped she'd get it if anybody did, and asking her--if she did get it--to have some extry nice touches put on the board. Well, will you believe it? When Hill give that Hen his chance she begun to cry over it! She knew it wouldn't do to cry hard--seeing what a mess it would make with her color when the tears got running--and so she pulled herself up quick and mopped her eyes dry with her pocket-handkerchief. And then she let out with all four legs at once, like a Colorado mule, and everlastingly gave it to all hands! It was just like the Hen, being so good-hearted, and thinking so much of Hill, to fire up like that about Santa Fé's pool on when he'd get his medicine; and all the boys knowed that beside the address she was making to the whole congregation Santa Fé was going to get another, and a worse one, when she had him off where she could play out to him a lone hand. But the boys didn't mind the jawing she give 'em--except they was a little ashamed, knowing putting such a rig on Hill was a mean thing to do--and I guess the whole business would have ended right there (only for the dressing-down Santa Fé was to get later) if Hart's nephew hadn't taken it into his head to chip in--being drunker'n usual, and a fool anyway--and so started what turned out to be a fresh game. I do suppose Hart's nephew was about the meanest ever got born. Bill Hart was a good enough fellow himself, and how he ever come to have such a God-forsaken chump for a nephew was more'n anybody could tell. Things must have been powerful bad, I reckon, on his mother's side. He was one of the blowing kind, with nothing behind his blow; and his feet was that tender they wasn't fit to walk on anything harder'n fresh mush. The boys all the time was putting up rigs on him; and he'd go around talking so big about what he meant to do to get even with 'em you'd think he was going to clean out the whole town. But he took mighty good care to do his tall talking promiscuous: after making the mistake of trying it once on a little man he thought he could manage--a real peaceable little feller that looked like he wouldn't stand up to a kitten--and getting his nose and his mouth and his eyes all mashed into one. The little man apologized to the rest for doing it that way, saying he'd a-been ashamed of himself all the rest of his life if he'd gone for a thing like that with his gun. Well, it was this Hart's nephew--like enough he had some sort of a name that belonged to him, but he wasn't worth the trouble of finding out what it was--who chipped in when the Hen took to her tirading, and so give things a new turn. Standing up staggery, and talking in his drunk fool way, he told her the road across to Santa Fé was as safe as a Sunday-school; and he said he'd be glad to be in Hill's boots and drive that coach himself, seeing what an interest she took in stage-drivers; and he asked her, sort of nasty, how she managed to get along for company when Hill was at the other end of his run. Hart's nephew was drunker'n usual that night, same as I've said, or even he'd a-knowed he'd likely get into trouble talking that way to the Hen. For about a minute things looked real serious. The Hen straightened right up, and on the back of her neck--where it showed, she not being fixed red there to start with--she got as red as canned tomatoes; and some of the boys moved a little, sort of uneasy; and Santa Fé reached out over the piles of chips for his gun. He didn't get it, because the Hen saw what he was doing and stopped him by looking at him quick--and knowing what Charley was when it come to shooting, you'll know the Hen sent that look at him about as fast as looks can go! The game had stopped right there; and it was so quiet in the room you'd a-thought the snoring of the two drunks asleep on benches in one corner was a thunder-storm coming down the cañon! Of course what we all expected the Hen to do was to wipe up the floor with Hart's nephew by giving him such a talking to--she could use language, the Hen could, when she started in at it--as would make him sorrier'n usual he'd ever been born; and I guess, from the looks of her, that was what at the first jump she meant to do. But she was a quick-thinking one, the Hen was, and she had a way of getting more funny notions into that good-looking head of hers than any other woman that ever walked around on this earth alive--and so she give us all a real jolt by playing out cards we wasn't expecting at all. Just as sudden as a wink, she sort of twitched and twinkled--same as she always did when she was up to some new bit of deviltry--and when she set her stamps to going she talked like as if she was real pleased. She didn't look, though, as good-natured as she talked--keeping on being straightened up, and having a kind of setness in her jaws and a snappiness in them big black eyes of hers that made everybody but Hart's nephew, who was too drunk to know anything, dead sure she still was mad all the way through. "If he'll lend 'em to you, and I guess he will, why don't you get into Mr. Hill's boots?" she said to Hart's nephew. And then she fetched up a nice sort of smile, and said to him real friendly-sounding: "I do like stage-drivers, and that's a fact--and there's no telling how pleasant I'll make things for you if you'll take the coach across to Santa Fé to-morrow over that Sunday-school road! Will you do it?" And then the Hen give him one of them fetching looks of hers, and asked him over: "Will you do it--to oblige _me_?" Now that was more words at one time than the Hen had dropped on Hart's nephew since he struck the camp; and as the few he'd ever got from her mostly hadn't been nice ones, and these sounding to him--he being drunk--like as if they was real good-natured, he was that pleased he didn't know what to do. Of course he was dead set on the Hen, same as everybody else was--she truly was a powerful fine woman--and it just was funny to see how he tried to steady himself on his legs gentlemanly, and was all over fool smiles. So he said back to the Hen--speaking slow, to keep his words from tumbling all over each other--he'd just drive that coach across to Santa Fé a-hooping if Hill'd lend it to him; and then he asked Hill if he might have it--and told him he could trust him to handle it in good shape, because everybody knowed he was a real daisy at driving mules. For a fact, Hart's nephew did manage well at mule-driving. It was one of the blame few things that fool knowed how to do. Denver Jones allowed it was because he was related to 'em--on the father's side. "Just for this once, Mr. Hill," said the Hen, speaking coaxy. And she got her head round a little--so Hart's nephew couldn't see what she was doing--and give Hill a wink to come into the game. Hill didn't know what in the world the Hen was up to--nobody ever did know what that Hen was up to when once she got started--but he reckoned he could take it back in the morning if he didn't think what she wanted would answer, so in he come: telling Hart's nephew he might have the coach to do anything (Hill was a kind of a careless talker) he damn pleased with; and saying he'd have it hitched up and ready down at the deepo next morning, same as usual, so he could start right off when the Denver train come in. When things was settled, all quick that way, Hart's nephew took to squirming--he seeing, drunk as he was, he'd bit off a blame sight more'n he cared to chew. But with the Hen right after him--and Hill and all the rest of the boys backing her, they being sure she'd dandy cards up her sleeve for the queer game she was playing--he couldn't make nothing by all his squirms. The boys got at him and told him anybody could see he was afraid; and the Hen got at him and told him anybody could see he wasn't, and she said she knew he was about the bravest man alive; and Hill got at him and told him the road had improved so, lately, the nearest to road-agents you ever seen on it was burros and cotton-tail rabbits; and all of 'em together kept getting more drinks in him right along. So the upshot of it was: first Hart's nephew stopped his squirming; and then he took to telling what a holy wonder he was at mule-driving; and then he went to blowing the biggest kind--till he got so he couldn't talk no longer--about what he'd do in the shooting line if any road-agents come around trying their monkey-shine hold-ups on _him_! So it ended, good enough, by their getting him fixed tight in his hole. The boys kept things going with him pretty late that night, and when he showed up in the morning at the deepo--a delegation seeing to it he got there, and Hill having the coach all ready for him--he still had on him a fairly sizable jag. But he'd sobered up enough--having slept quite a little, and soaked his head at the railroad tank--to want to try all he knew how to spill himself out of his job. It took all the Hen could do--the Hen had got up early and come down to the deepo a-purpose to attend to him--and all the boys could do helping her, to get him up on that coach-box and boosted off out of town. He was that nervous he was shaking all over; and what made him nervouser was having no passengers--nobody for Santa Fé having come in on the Denver train. It was just a caution to see his shooting outfit! The box of the coach looked like it was a gun-shop--being piled up with two Winchesters and a double-barrelled shot-gun (the shot-gun, he said, was to cripple anybody he didn't think it was needful to kill); and beside that he had a machete some Mexican lent him hooked on to his belt, and along with it a brace of derringers and two forty-fives. Hill was the only one who didn't laugh fit to kill himself over that layout. Hill said Hart's nephew done just right to take along all the guns he could get a-hold of; and Hill said he'd attended to the proper loading of every one of them weepons himself. At last--with all the boys laughing away and firing fool talk at him, and the Hen keeping him up to the collar by going on about how brave he was--he did manage to whip up his mules and start off. Sick was no name for him--and he was so scared stiff he looked like he was about ready to cry. After he'd got down the slope, and across the bridge over the Rio Grande, and was walking his mules on that first little stretch of sandy road on the way to La Cañada, we could see him reaching down and fussing over his layout of guns. For a cold fact, there was a right smart chance that Hart's nephew--and 'specially because his fool luck made most things come to him contrary--really might run himself into a hold-up; and, if he did, it was like as not his chips might get called in. For all Hill's funny talk about meeting nothing worse'n burros and cotton-tail rabbits, that road was a bad road--and things was liable to occur. Hill himself was taking his chances, and he blame well knowed it, every day. But it was the sense of the meeting that if a hold-up of that coach attended by fatalities was coming, it couldn't come at a better time than when Hart's nephew was on the box--the feeling being general that Hart's nephew was one that could be spared. I guess Bill Hart felt just the same about it as the rest of us--leastways, he didn't strain himself any trying to keep his nephew home. * * * * * Things went kind of nervous that day at Palomitas. All the boys seemed to have a feeling, somehow, there was going to be happenings; and we all just sort of idled round waiting for 'em--taking more drinks 'n usual, and in spite of the drinks getting every minute lower and lower in our minds. Except the day Hart's aunt spent with him, and Santa Fé Charley run the kindergarten, I reckon it was the quietest day we ever went through--at least till we got along to the clean-up that turned Palomitas into what some of us felt was a blame sight too much of a Sunday-school town. One reason why we all was so serious was because the Sage-Brush Hen--who started most of what happened--didn't show up as usual; and all hands got a real jolt when some of the boys went off to the Forest Queen to ask about her, and old Tenderfoot Sal told 'em she was laying down in her room and wasn't feeling well. The Hen being always an out-and-out hustler, and hard as an Indian pony, her not being well shook us up bad. Everybody was friends with her, same as she was friends with everybody--even when she got into one of her tantrums, and took to jawing you, you couldn't help liking her--and knowing she wasn't feeling like she ought to feel put a big lot more of a damper on all hands. So we just kept on taking drinks and getting miserabler with 'em--and feeling all the time surer something was coming bouncing out at us from round the corner, and wondering what kind of a stir-up we was likely to have. It was along about four o'clock in the afternoon the cyclone struck us; and it was such a small-sized one, when we did get it, we didn't know whether to laugh or swear. But the cyclone himself didn't think there was anything small about him: being Hart's nephew--so scared to death all the few wits he ever had was knocked clean out of him--who come into Palomitas, white as white-wash, riding bareback one of the coach mules. He just sort of rolled off the mule, in front of the Forest Queen, and went in to the bar and got four drinks in him before he could speak a word--and then he said he'd been held up at the Barranca Grande by about two hundred road-agents who'd opened up on him and killed all the mules except the one he'd got away on; and his getting away at all, he said, was only because he'd put up such a fight he'd scared 'em--and after that because they couldn't hit him when once he was off, and had the mule going on a dead run. Then he took two more drinks, and told his story all over again; and as it was about the same story both times--and he so scared, and by the time he told it over again so set up with his drinks, it didn't seem likely he'd sense enough left to be lying--the boys allowed like enough it was true. What he had to tell--except he piled on more road-agents than was needed--was about reasonable. He said he'd done well enough as far as Pojuaque--where he'd had his dinner and changed mules, same as usual, at old man Bouquet's. And after he'd left Pojuaque he'd got along all right, he said, except he had to go slow through the sandhills, till he come to the Barranca Grande. It's a bad place, that barranca is. The road goes sharp down into it, and then sharp up out of it--and both banks so steep you want all the brakes you've got to get to the bottom of it, and more mules than you're likely to have to get to the top on the other side. Well, Hart's nephew said he'd just got the coach down to the bottom of the barranca--he'd took the last of the slope at a run, he said, and was licking away at his mules for all he was worth to start 'em up the far side--when the road-agents opened on him, being hid in among the cedar-bushes, from the top of the bank and from both sides of the trail. You never seen such a blaze of shooting in all your life, Hart's nephew said; and he said before he'd a chance to get a gun up all his mules was hit but one. He said he jumped quick from the box, taking both Winchesters and the shot-gun with him, and having his guns and the derringers in his belt beside, and got behind the one mule that hadn't been downed and opened up on the bushes where the smoke was and let go as hard as he knowed how. He said he must a-killed more'n twenty of 'em, he guessed, judging by the yelling and groaning, and by the way they slacked up on their fire. Their slacking that way give him a chance, he said, and he took it--cutting the mule loose from the harness with one hand, while he kept on blazing away over her back with the other; then letting 'em have it from both hands for a minute, from what guns he had left that wasn't empty, to sort of paralyze 'em; and then getting quick on the mule's back and starting her down the barranca on a dead run. He had balls buzzing all about him, he said, till he got out of sight around a turn in the barranca; and he said before he made that turn he looked back once and saw a big feller up on top of the bank letting off at him as hard as he could go. Just to show he still had fight in him, he said, he let off back at him with his two derringers--which was all he had left to shoot with--and he was pretty sure, though of course it was only luck did it with the mule bouncing him so, the big feller went down. He was a tremendous tall man, he said; and he guessed he was a Greaser, seeing he had a big black beard and was dressed in Greaser clothes. He said he didn't mind owning up he was scared bad while he was in it; but he said he guessed anybody would a-been scared with all them fellers shooting away at him--and, as he'd made as good a fight of it as he knowed how, he didn't think he was to be blamed for ending by running from such a crowd. He kept on down the barranca for about two miles, he said, till he struck the cross-trail to Tesuque; and he headed north on that till he got to Pojuaque--where he give the mule a rest, she was blowed all to bits, the mule was, he said; and he got some of old man Bouquet's wine in him, feeling pretty well blowed to bits himself; and then he come along home. Well, that seemed a straight enough story. The only thing in it you really could pick on--except the number of road-agents, he only having seen one, and the rest being his scared guesswork--was the mule not being hit while he was doing all that firing over the back of her. But all fights has their queer chances in 'em; and that was a chance that might a-happened, same as others. Of course, the one big general thing that didn't seem likely was that such a runt as Hart's nephew should have stood up the way he said he did to as much as one road-agent--let alone to the half-dozen or so that like enough had got at him. But even a thing like Hart's nephew sometimes will put up a fight when it's scared so bad it really don't more'n half know what it's doing--and the boys allowed he might have done his fighting that way. That the size of his scare had been big enough to make him do a'most anything showed up from the way he kept on being scared after it was all over--he coming into Palomitas looking like a wet white rag when, by his own showing, he'd been out of reach of anybody's hurting him for four or five hours anyway, and had had a chance to cool off at Pojuaque while he was loading in old man Bouquet's wine. And so, taking the story by and large, the boys allowed that likely most of it was true; and some of 'em even went so far as to say maybe Hart's nephew wasn't more'n half rotten, after all. It was a good story to hear, anyway; and everybody was sorry the Hen wasn't around to hear it. But when some of the boys tried to rout her out, Tenderfoot Sal stood 'em off savage--telling 'em to go about their business, and the Hen's head was aching bad. So the boys had to take it out in making Hart's nephew keep on telling all he had to tell over and over; and he was glad of the chance to, and did--till he got so many drinks in him he couldn't tell anything; and then his uncle, with Shorty Smith helping, took him off home. * * * * * Next morning, having pretty much slept himself sober, Hart's nephew went cavorting around Palomitas--that little runt did--like he was about ten foot tall! He had the whole thing over, in the course of the day, a dozen times or more; and as he kept on telling it--now he was sober enough to add things on--it got to be about the biggest fight with road-agents that ever was. The thing that was biggest was the one man he allowed he'd really seen. Why, Goliath of Gath wasn't in it with that fellow, according to Hart's nephew! And he was that desperate and dangerous to look at, he said, not many men would a-had the nerve to try at him with only a derringer--and, what was more, to bring him down. It was well along in the afternoon before we got it for a fact that Hart's nephew really had killed the Greaser. The thing growed that way--from his first telling how he thought he'd hit him--until it ended with the Greaser giving a yell like a stuck pig; and then staggering and throwing his arms up; and then rolling over and over down the side of the barranca to the bottom of it--with his goose cooked all the way through! We was all down at the deepo waiting for the Denver train to pull out, same as usual, while Hart's nephew was doing his tallest talking--and while he was hard at it somebody jumped up and sung out the Santa Fé coach was coming along on the other side of the river from Santa Cruz. Well, that was about the last thing anybody was expecting--and everybody hustled up off the barrels and boxes where they was a-setting and looked with all their eyes. Sure enough, there the old coach was--just as it always was, about that time of day--coming along as natural as you please. After a while, it keeping on getting nearer, we could see it was old Hill himself up on the box driving his mules in good shape; and when he got along near the bridge we could hear him swearing at 'em--Hill did use terrible bad language to them mules--in just his ordinary way. Then he rattled the mules over the bridge and brought 'em a-clipping up the slope this side of it; and then in another minute he pulled right up at the deepo platform where we all was. Hill was laughing all over as he come up to us, and so was a Mexican who was setting on the box with him--a nice tidy little chap, with a powerful big black beard on him--and Hill sung out: "Have you boys heard about the hold-up?" And then he and the little Mexican got to laughing so it was a wonder they didn't fall off. Nobody was thinking nothing about Hart's nephew--till he let off a yell and sung out: "That's the man held the coach up! Get a bead on him with your guns!" And he got his own gun out--and like enough would a-done some fool thing with it if Santa Fé Charley, who was right by him, hadn't smacked him and jerked it out of his hand. Santa Fé smacked so's to hurt him; and he put his hand up to his face and said, kind of whimpery: "What are you hitting me like that for, Charley? I ain't done nothing. I tell you that man on the box with Hill is the one I was held up by yesterday. He's dangerous. If we don't get a-hold of him quick he'll be doing something to us with his gun!" And Hart's nephew a'most broke out crying--being all worked up, and Santa Fé having smacked him blame hard. At that, Denver Jones cut in with: "I thought you said the one you was held up by was more'n fourteen foot high, and you killed him? This man ain't big enough to hold up a baby-carriage with you in it--and he's sure enough alive. What are you giving us--you blame fool?" There's no telling what kind of an answer Denver would a-got from Hart's nephew--for he hadn't a chance to give him no answer at all. Just then Hill did the talking, and what Hill said was: "Boys, he's dead right about it. This here's the bad man that held the coach up--and as I was there, and seen it done, and drove the coach on with five mules to Santa Fé afterwards, I guess I know!" And Hill, and the little Mexican with him, just roared. When Hill could talk for laughing, he went on: "I'll own up right now, boys, I was extry over-precautious when I fixed up with empty shells that gun-shop Hart's nephew took along on the coach when he started out with it. For all the harm he done with them guns, I might just as well a-left 'em loaded the usual way. He was that scared when this here gigantic ruffian stopped him--I just happened to be a-setting in among the cedar-bushes at the time, smoking a seegar and looking on sort of casual--he couldn't do nothing more'n yell out he wasn't going to shoot, and not to murder him; and then down he jumped from the box--me a-smoking away looking at him, and this here ruffian a-shooting his Winchester across the top of the coach to where he said he thought he seen a jack-rabbit--and cut out the near wheeler; and then he scrambled up anyhow on that mule's back, and away he went down the barranca as hard as hell!" (Hill oughtn't to have said that word. But he was careless in his talk, Hill was, and he did). "But Hart's nephew being scared that way," Hill went on, a'most choking, "don't count one way or the other when you get down to the facts. It was this here dangerous devil that done that wicked deed, and he done it all alone by his dangerous self. At the risk of my life, gentlemen, I've got a-hold of him to bring him to justice, and here he is. And I guess the sooner we yank him up to the usual telegraph-pole, and so get shut of him, the sooner it'll be safe for folks to travel these roads. He's the most dangerous I ever see," said Hill, and by that time Hill was so near busted with his laughing he was purple; "and what makes him such a particular holy terror is he goes disguised!" And then--choking so he could hardly speak plain--Hill whipped round to the little Mexican and says to him: "Get your disguise off of you, you murdersome critter! Get it off, I say, and give these gentlemen a look at the terrible wicked face of you--before you and that telegraph-pole gets to being friends!" And then the little Mexican switched his big black beard off--and right smack there before us was the Sage-Brush Hen! You never heard such a yell as the boys give in all your born days! * * * * * And you never in all your born days saw such goings on as there was that night at the Forest Queen! Everybody in Palomitas was right there. The other banks and bars hadn't a soul left in 'em but the dealers and the drink-slingers--and they, not having nothing to do at home, just shut up shop and come along too. All the girls from all the dance-halls showed up, the Hen being real down popular with 'em--which told well for her--and they wanting to see the fun. Cherry happened to be down from his ranch that night; and Becker got wind of what was up and footed it across from Santa Cruz de la Cañada; and word was sent to the Elbogen brothers--they was real clever young fellows, them two Germans--and over they come a-kiting on their buck-board from San Juan. I guess it was about the biggest jam the Forest Queen ever had. Hart's nephew was the only one around the place who hung back a little, but he got there all right--being fished out of an empty flour-barrel, where he'd hid under the counter in his uncle's store, and brought along by the invitation committee sent to look for him all dabbed over with flour. Some thought the way they used Hart's nephew that night was just a little mite too hard lines--he not being let to have as much as a single drink in him, and so kept plumb sober while the Hen give him his medicine; but all hands allowed--after his sassy talk to her--he didn't get no more'n she'd a right to give. She just went at him like a blister, the Hen did; and she blistered him worse because she did it in her own funny way--telling him she did just dote on stage-drivers, and if he really wanted to please her he'd take Hill's job regular; and leading the boys up to him and introducing him, lady-like, as "the hold-up hero"; and asking him to please to tell her all about that fourteen-foot road-agent he'd killed; and just rubbing the whole thing in on him every way she knowed how. Before the Hen got done with him he was about the sickest man, Hart's nephew was, you ever seen! But I guess it learned him quite a little about how when he talked to ladies he'd better be polite. Fun wasn't no name that night for that Hen! She kept on wearing her Mexican clothes, and she did look real down cute in 'em; and she'd got a God-forsaken old rusty pepper-box six-shooter from somewheres, and went flourishing it about saying it was what she'd held up the coach with; and in between times, when she wasn't deviling Hart's nephew, she'd go round the room drawing beads on the boys with her pepper-box, and making out she was dangerous by putting her big black beard on, and standing up in attitudes so the boys might see, she said, how road-agenty she looked and bad and bold! Why, the Hen did act so comical that night all hands pretty near died with their laugh! IV SANTA FÉ CHARLEY'S KINDERGARTEN When Bill Hart, who was a good fellow and kept the principal store in Palomitas, got word his aunt in Vermont was coming out to pay him a visit--it being too late to stop her, and he knowing he'd have to worry the thing through somehow till he could start her back East again--he was the worst broke-up man you ever seen. "Great Scott! Joe," Hart said, when he was telling Cherry about it, "Palomitas ain't no sort of a town to bring aunts to--and it's about the last town I know of where Aunt Maria'll fit in! She's the old-fashioned kind, right up to the limit, Aunt Maria is. Sewing-societies and Sunday-schools is the hands she holds flushes in; and she has the preacher once a week to supper; and when it comes to kindergartens--Hart was so worked up he talked careless--she's simply hell! What's a woman like that going to do, I want to know, in a place like this--that's mainly made up of saloons and dance-halls and faro-banks, and everybody mostly drunk, and shooting-scrapes going on all the time? It just makes me sick to think about it." And Hart groaned. Cherry swore for a while, sort of friendly and sociable--he was a sympathetic man, Cherry was, and always did what he could to help--and as Hart was too far gone to swear for himself, in a way that amounted to anything, hearing what Cherry had to say seemed to do him good. "I'd stop her, if there was any stop to her," he went on, in a minute or two, speaking hopeless and miserable; "but there ain't. She says she's starting the day after she writes--having a chance to come sudden with friends--and that means she's most here now. And there's no heading her off--because she says the friends she's hooked fast to may be coming to Pueblo and may be coming to Santa Fé. But it don't make any difference, she says, as she's told she can get down easy by the railroad from Pueblo, or she can slide across to Palomitas by 'a short and pleasant coach-ride'--that's what she calls it--from Santa Fé. "That's all she tells about her coming. The rest of what's in her letter is about how glad she'll be to see me, and about how glad she knows I'll be to see her--being lonely so far from my folks, and likely needing my clothes mended, and pleased to be eating some of her home-made pies. It's just like Aunt Maria to put in things like that. You see, she brought me up--and she's never got out of her head I'm more'n about nine years old. What I feel like doing is going out in the sage-brush and blowing the top of my fool head off, and letting the coyotes eat what's left of me and get me out of the way!" Hart really did look as if he meant it, Cherry said afterwards. He was the miserablest-looking man, he said, he'd ever seen alive. Cherry said he begun to have a notion, though, while Hart was talking, how the thing might be worked so there wouldn't be no real trouble if it could be fixed so Hart's aunt wouldn't stay in Palomitas more'n about a day; and he come right on down to the Forest Queen to see if he could get the boys to help him put it through. He left Hart clearing out the room he kept flour and meal in--being the cleanest--trying to rig up for his aunt some sort of a bunking-place. He was going to give her his own cot and mattress, he said; and he could fit her out with a looking-glass and a basin and pitcher all right because he kept them sort of things to sell; and he said he'd make the place extra tidy by putting a new horse-blanket on the floor. Seeing his way to getting a grip on that much of the contract, Cherry said, seemed to make him feel a little less bad. Cherry waited till the deal was over, when he got to the Forest Queen; and then he asked Santa Fé Charley if he'd let him speak to the boys for a minute before the game went on. He was always polite and obliging, Santa Fé was, and he said of course he might; and he rapped on the table with his derringer for order, and said Mr. Cherry had the floor. Charley was old-fashioned in his ways of fighting. He always had a six-shooter in his belt, same as other folks; but he said he kept it mainly for show. Derringers, he said, was better and surer--because you could work 'em around in your pocket while the other fellow was getting his gun out, and before he was ready for business you could shoot him right through your pants. Later on, it was that very way Santa Fé shot Hart. But he always was friendly with Hart till he did shoot him; and it was more his backing than anything else--'specially when it come to the kindergarten--that made Cherry's plan for helping Hart out go through. When the game was stopped, and the boys was all listening, Cherry told about the hole Hart was in and allowed it was a deep one; and he said it was only fair--Hart having done good turns for most everybody, one time and another--his friends should be willing to take some trouble to get him out of it. Hart's aunt, he said, come from a quiet part of Vermont, and likely would be jolted bad when she struck Palomitas if things was going the ordinary way--she being elderly, and like enough a little set in her ways, and not used much to crazy drunks, and shooting-matches, and such kinds of lively carryings-on. But she'd only stay one day, or at most a day and a half--Hart having agreed to take her right back East himself, if she couldn't be got rid of no other way--and that gave 'em a chance to fix things so her feelings wouldn't be hurt, though doing it was going to be hard on all hands. And then, having got the boys worked up wondering what he was driving at, Cherry went ahead and said he wanted 'em to agree--just for the little while Hart's aunt was going to stay there--to run Palomitas like it was a regular back-East Sunday-school town. He knew he was asking a good deal, he said, but he did ask it--and he appealed to the better feelings of the gentlemen assembled around that faro-table to do that much to get Bill Hart out of his hole. Then Cherry said he wasn't nobody's orator, but he guessed he'd made clear what he wanted to lay before the meeting; and he said he was much obliged, and had pleasure in setting up drinks for the crowd. As was to be expected of 'em, all the boys--knowing Hart for a square-acting man, and liking him--tumbled right off to Cherry's plan. Santa Fé said--this was after they'd had their drinks--he s'posed he was chairman of the meeting, and he guessed he spoke the sense of the meeting when he allowed Mr. Cherry's scheme was about the only way out for their esteemed fellow-citizen, Mr. Hart, and it ought to go through. But as it was a matter that seriously affected the comfort and convenience of everybody in Palomitas, he said, it was only square to take a vote on it--and so he'd ask all in favor of Mr. Cherry's motion to say "Ay." And everybody in the room--except the few that was asleep, or too drunk to say anything--said "Ay" as loud as they knowed how. "Mr. Cherry's motion is carried, gentlemen," Santa Fé said; "and I will now appoint a committee to draught a notice to be posted at the deepo, and to call around at the other banks and saloons in the town and notify verbally our fellow-citizens of the action we have taken--and I will ask the Hen here kindly to inform the other ladies of Palomitas of our intentions, and to request their assistance in realizing them. She had better tell them, I reckon, that the way they can come to the front most effectively in this crisis is by keeping entirely out of sight in the rear." The Sage-Brush Hen, along with some of the other girls, had come in from the back room--where the dancing was--to find out what the circus was about; and when they caught on to what Palomitas was going to be like when Hart's aunt struck it they all just yelled. [Illustration: "WROTE OUT A NOTICE THAT WAS TACKED UP ON THE DEEPO DOOR"] "You've come out well once as the Baptist minister, Charley," the Hen said, shaking all over; "and I reckon you can do it again--only it won't be so easy showing off the new church and the parsonage by daylight as it was in the dark. About us girls laying low, maybe you're right and maybe you're not right. Anyway, don't you worry about us. All I'll say is, it won't be the ladies in this combine that'll give anything away!" And she and the other girls got so to laughing over it they all of 'em had to set down. Cherry was more pleased than a little the way things had gone--and he said so to the boys, and set up drinks all round again. Then he and Abe Simons--they was the committee to do it--wrote out a notice that was tacked up on the deepo door and read this way: TO THE CITIZENS OF PALOMITAS Mr. William Hart's aunt is coming to pay him a visit, and will strike this town either by the Denver train to-morrow morning or the Santa Fé coach to-morrow afternoon. She is a perfect lady, and it is ordered that during her stay in Palomitas this town has got to behave itself so her feelings won't be hurt. She is to be took care of and given a pleasant impression. All fights and drunks must be put off till she's gone. Persons neglecting to do so will be taken out into the sage-brush by members of the committee, and are likely to get hurt. Mr. Hart regrets this occurrence as much as anybody, and agrees his aunt's visit sha'n't last beyond a day and a half if she comes down from Denver, and only one day if she comes in from Santa Fé. (_Signed_) THE COMMITTEE. When Cherry got a-hold of Hart and told him what the town had agreed to do for him he was that grateful--being all worked up, anyway--he pretty near cried. As it turned out, Hart's aunt come in on Hill's coach from Santa Fé--her friends having gone down that way by the Atchison--and as Hill had been at the meeting at the Forest Queen he was able to give things a good start. Hill always was a friendly sort of a fellow, and--except he used terrible bad language, which he said come of his having to drive mules--he was a real first-class ladies' man. Hill said he spotted Hart's aunt the minute he set his eyes on her waiting for the coach at the Fonda, there not being likely to be more'n one in the Territory of that kind. She was a trig little old lady, dressed up in black clothes as neat as wax, he said, with a little black bonnet setting close to her head; and she wore gold specs and had a longish nose. But she'd a real friendly look about her, he said; and while she spoke a little precise and particular she wasn't a bit stuck-up, and seemed to be taking things about as they happened to come along. When he asked her if she wouldn't set up on the box with him, so she could see the country, she said that was just what would suit her; and up she come, he said, as spry as a queer little bird. Then he whipped up his mules--being careful not to use any language--and got the coach started, and begun right off to be agreeable by telling her he guessed he had the pleasure of knowing her nephew, and asking her if she wasn't the aunt of Mr. William Hart. Well, of course that set things to going pleasant between 'em; and when she'd allowed she was Hart's aunt, and said she was glad to meet a friend of his, she started in asking all the questions about Bill and about Palomitas she knowed how to ask. Hill said he guessed that day they had to lay off the regular recording angel and put a hired first-class stenographer on his job--seeing how no plain angel, not writing shorthand, could a-kept up with all the lies he felt it his duty to tell if he was going to bring Bill through in good shape and keep up the reputation of the town. It wasn't square to charge them lies up to him, anyway, Hill said, seeing he only was playing Cherry's hand for him; and he said he hoped they was put in Cherry's bill. By the time he'd got through with his fairy tales, he said, he'd give Hart such a character he didn't know him himself; and he'd touched up Palomitas till he'd got it so it might a-been a town just outside Boston--only he allowed they was sometimes troubled with hard cases passing through; and he told her of course she'd find things kind of half-baked and noisy out there on the frontier. And she must remember, he told her, that all the folks in the town was young--young men who'd brought their young wives with 'em, come to hustle in a new country--and she mustn't mind if things went livelier'n the way she was used to back East. Hill said she said she wasn't expecting to find things like they was at home, and she guessed she'd manage all right--seeing she always got on well with young people, and wasn't a bit set in her own ways. And she said she was as pleased as she was surprised to find out the kind of a town Palomitas was--because her nephew William's letters had led her to think it had a good many bad characters in it; and he'd not mentioned any church but the Catholic one where the natives went; and as to the Bible Class and the Friendly Aid Society, he'd never said a word about 'em at all. She went on talking so cheerful and pleasant, Hill said, it give him creeps in his back; and he got so rattled the last half of the run--coming on from Pojuaque, where they'd had dinner at old man Bouquet's--he hardly knowed what he'd told and what he hadn't, and whether he was standing on his head or his heels. Being that way, he made the only break that gave trouble afterwards. She asked him if there was a school in Palomitas, and he told her there wasn't, because all the folks in town was so young--except the natives, who hadn't no use for schools--they hadn't any children big enough to go to one. And then she said sudden, and as it seemed to him changing the subject: "Isn't there a kindergarten?" Hill said he'd never heard tell of such a concern; but he sized it up to be some sort of a fancy German garden--like the one Becker'd fixed up for himself over to Santa Cruz--and he said he allowed, from the way she asked about it, it was what Palomitas ought to have. So he told her there was, and it was the best one in the Territory--and let it go at that. He said she said she was glad to hear it, as she took a special interest in kindergartens, and she'd go and see it the first thing. Hill said he knowed he'd put his foot in it somehow; but as he didn't know how he'd put his foot in it, he just switched her off by telling her about the Dorcas Society. He had the cards for that, he said, because his mother'd helped run a Dorcas Society back East and he knowed what he was talking about. The Palomitas one met Thursdays, he told her, at the Forest Queen. That was the principal hotel, he told her, and was kept by Mrs. Major Rogers, who was an officer's widow and had started the society to make clothes for some of the Mexican poor folks--and he said it was a first-rate charity and worked well. It tickled him so, he said, thinking of any such doings at the Forest Queen--with old Tenderfoot Sal, of all people, bossing the job!--he had to work off the laugh he had inside of him by taking to licking his mules. But it went all right with the little old lady; and she was that interested he had to strain himself, he said, making up more stories about it--till by good luck she took to telling him about the Dorcas Society she belonged to herself, back home in Vermont; and was so full of it she kept things going easy for him till they'd crossed the bridge over the Rio Grande and was coming up the slope into the town at a walk. Up at the top of the slope Santa Fé Charley stood a-waiting for 'em--looking, of course, in them black clothes and a white tie on, like he was a sure-enough preacher--and as the coach come along he sung out, pleasant and friendly: "Good-afternoon, Brother Hill. I missed you at the Bible Class last evening. No doubt you were detained unavoidably, and it's all right. But be sure to come next Friday. We don't get along well without you, Brother Hill." And Santa Fé took his hat off stylish and made the old lady the best sort of a bow. Hill caught on quick and played right up to Santa Fé's lead. "That's our minister, Mr. Charles, ma'am. The one I've been telling you about," he said. "He's just friendly and sociable like that all the time. He looks after the folks in this town closer'n any preacher I ever knowed." A part of that, Hill said, was dead certain truth--seeing as Santa Fé had his eyes out straight along for everybody about the place who'd a dollar in his pocket, and wasn't satisfied till he'd scooped in that dollar over his table at the Forest Queen. "There's the new church we're building," Hill went on, as they got to the top of the slope and headed for the deepo. "It ain't much to look at yet, the spire not being put on; and it won't show up well, even when it gets its spire on it, with churches East. But we're going to be satisfied with it, seeing it's the best we can do. You'll be interested to know, ma'am, your nephew give the land." "William hasn't let on anything about it," Hart's aunt said, looking pleased all over. "But what in the world is a church doing with a railroad track running into it, Mr. Hill?" Hill said he'd forgot about the track when he settled to use the new freight-house for church purposes; but he said he pulled himself together quick and told her the track was temp'ry--put in so building material could unload right on the ground. And then he took to talking about how obliging the railroad folks had been helping 'em--and kept a-talking that way till he got the coach to the deepo, and didn't need to hustle making things up any more. He said he never was so thankful in his life as he was when his stunt was done. He was just tired out, he said, lying straight ahead all day over thirty miles of bad road and not being able once to speak natural to his mules. * * * * * Hart was waiting at the deepo, on the chance his aunt would come in on the coach; and when she saw him she give a little squeal, she was so pleased, and hopped down in no time off the box--she was as brisk as a bee in her doings--and took to hugging him and half crying over him just like he was a little boy. "Oh, William," she said, "I am _so_ happy getting to you! And I'm happier'n I expected to be, finding out how quiet and respectable Palomitas is--not a bit what your letters made me think it was--and such real good people living in it, and everything but the queer country and the queer mud houses just like it is at home. Mr. Hill has been telling me all about it, coming over, and about this new church you're building that you gave the lot for. To think you've never told me! Oh, William, I am so glad and so thankful that out here in this wild region you've kept serious-minded and are turning out such a good man!" Hart looked so mixed up over the way his aunt was talking, and so sort of hopeless, that Hill cut in quick and give him a lift. "He's not much at blowing about himself, your nephew ain't, ma'am," Hill said. "Why, he not only give the land for the church over there"--and Hill pointed at the freight-house, so Hart could ketch on--"but it was him got the Company to lay them temp'ry tracks, so the building stuff could be took right in. He's going to give a melodeon, too." "Dear William!" Hart's aunt said. "It rejoices my heart you're doing all these good deeds--and all the others Mr. Hill's been telling me about. I must kiss you again." "Oh, what I've done ain't nothing," Hart said, pulling himself together while she was kissing him. "Land's cheap, cheap as it can be, out here; and I give the Company such a lot of freight they're more'n willing to oblige me; and as to the melodeon--" Hart sort of gagged when he got to the melodeon, and Santa Fé Charley--who'd come up while they all was talking away together--reached across the table and played his hand. "As to the melodeon, Mr. Hart," Santa Fé put in, "you said that being in business you could get it at a discount off. But that does not appreciably lessen your generosity, Mr. Hart; and your aunt"--Santa Fé took off his hat and bowed handsome--"is justified in taking pride in your good deeds. I am glad to tell her that in her nephew our struggling church has its stanchest pillar and its strongest stay." "Yes, that's the way it is about the melodeon, Aunt Maria," Hart said, kind of weak and mournful. "Being in business, I get melodeons at such a discount off that giving 'em away ain't nothing to me at all. And now I guess we'd better be getting along home. It's a mighty mean home to take you to, Aunt Maria; but there's one comfort--as you'll find out when I get the chance to talk to you--you won't have to stay in it long." There was a lot of the boys standing round on the deepo platform watching the show, and they all took their hats off respectful--following the lead Santa Fé give 'em--as Hart started away up the track, to where his store was, with his aunt on his arm. The town looked like some place East keeping Sunday: the Committee having talked strong as to what they'd do if things wasn't quiet, and having rounded up--and coralled in a back room Denver Jones lent the use of--the few who'd got drunk as usual because they had to, and so had to be took care of that way. It was a June evening, and the sun about setting; and somehow it all was so sort of peaceful and uncommon--with everybody in sight sober, and no fighting anywhere, and that little old lady going along, believing Palomitas was like that always, instead of the hell on earth it was--some of us more'n half believed we'd gone to sleep and got stuck in a dream. Things was made dreamier by the looks and doings of the Sage-Brush Hen. She was the only lady of the town, the Hen was, who took part in the ceremonies--and likely it was just about as well, for the sake of keeping clear of surprises, the rest of 'em laid low. As Hart and his aunt went off together up the track, the Hen showed up coming along down it; and she was dressed that pretty and quiet--in the plainest sort of a white frock, and wearing a white sun-bonnet--and was looking so demure, like she could when she'd a mind to, nobody knowed at first who she was. "Being the minister's wife, I've been taking the liberty, Mr. Hart," she said, smiling pleasant, when the three of 'em come together on the track, "of looking around a little up at your place to see that everything has been fixed for your company the way it should be." (She hadn't been nowheres near Hart's place, it turned out--but Gospel truth wasn't just what there was most of that day in Palomitas.) She went right on down the track without stopping, passing on Hart's side, and saying to him: "My husband expects you as usual at the Friendly Aid meeting to-morrow evening, Mr. Hart. We never seem half to get along, you know, when you're not there." Hart's aunt give a little jump, and said: "Why, William, that must be Mrs. Charles, the minister's wife. What a pleasant-spoken lady she is! We met her husband just as we were driving into town." Hart said he come pretty near saying back to her, "The hell you did!"--Hart talked that careless way, sometimes--but he said he pulled up before it got out, and all he did say was, "Oh!" "She must be at the head of the Dorcas Society that Mr. Hill was telling me about," Hart's aunt went on; "and like enough she manages the kindergarten, too. I suppose, William, it's not surprising you haven't said anything in your letters about the Dorcas Society--for all you were so liberal in helping it--but I do think you might have told me about the kindergarten, knowing what a hobby of mine kindergartens are. I want to go and see it to-morrow morning, the first thing." "It's--it's not in running order just now," Hart said. "Most of the children was took sick with the influenza last week, and there's whooping-cough and measles about, and so the school committee closed it down. And they had to stop, anyway, because they're going to put a new roof on. I guess it won't blow in again for about a month--or maybe more. In fact, I don't know--you see, it wasn't managed well, and got real down unpopular--if it'll blow in again at all. I'm sorry you won't be able to get to it, Aunt Maria. Maybe it'll be running if you happen to come out again next year." "Why, how queer that is, William!" Hart's aunt said. "Mr. Hill told me it was the best kindergarten in New Mexico. But of course you know. Anyhow, I can see the schoolroom and the school fixtures, and Mrs. Charles can tell me about it when I go to the Dorcas Society--and that'll do most as well. Of course I must get to the Dorcas Society. Mrs. Charles will take me, I'm sure. It meets, Mr. Hill says, every Thursday afternoon." "Did he say where it was meeting now?" Hart asked. He was getting about desperate, he told Cherry afterwards; and what he wanted most was a chance to mash Hill's fool head for putting him in such a lot of holes. "Of course he did, William," said Hart's aunt; "and I'm surprised you have to ask--seeing what an interest you take in the Society, and how you've helped it along. It was just lovely of you to give them all those goods out of your store to make up into clothes." "That--that wasn't anything to do," Hart said. "What's in the store comes with a big discount--same as melodeons. Sometimes I feel as if I was saving money giving things away." "You can talk about your generosity just as you please, William," she went on. "_I_ think it's noble of you. And Mr. Hill said that Mrs. Major Rogers--who keeps the Forest Queen Hotel, he said, and lets the Society have a room to meet in for nothing--said it was noble of you, too. I want to get to know Mrs. Major Rogers right off. She must be a very fine woman. She's an officer's widow, Mr. Hill says, and a real lady, for all she makes her living keeping a hotel out here on the frontier. If she's a bit like that sweet-looking Mrs. Charles I know we'll get along. I'm surprised, William, you've never told me what pleasant ladies live here. It must make all the difference in the world. Don't you think it would do for me not to be formal, but just to go to Mrs. Major Rogers' hotel to-morrow and call?" "I guess--well, I guess you hadn't better go right off the first thing in the morning, Aunt Maria," Hart said. Thinking of his aunt going calling at the Forest Queen and running up against Tenderfoot Sal, he said, gave him the regular cold shakes. "And come to think of it," he said, "it's no use your going to-morrow at all. Mrs.--Mrs. Major Rogers, as I happen to know, went up to Denver yesterday; and she won't be back, she told me, before some time on in the end of next week--likely as not, she said, she wouldn't come then." By that time they'd got along to Hart's store, and Hart said: "Here's where I live, Aunt Maria. You see what sort of a place it is. But I've done my best to fix things for you as well as I know how. Come right along in--and when we've had supper we've got to have a talk." * * * * * Along about ten o'clock that night Hart come down to the Forest Queen looking pale and haggard, and he was that broke up he had to get three drinks in him before he could say a word. Everybody was so interested, wanting to hear what he had to tell 'em, he didn't need to ask to have the game stopped--it just stopped of its own accord. When he'd had his third drink, and was beginning to feel better, he said he couldn't thank everybody enough for the way they'd behaved; and that his aunt had gone to bed tired out; and he'd been talking with her steady for two hours getting things settled; and she'd ended by agreeing she'd start back East with him the next night--he having made out he'd smash in his business if he waited a minute longer--and they was going by the Denver train. And he'd got her fixed he said, so she'd keep quiet through the morning--as she was going right at mending his stockings and things the first thing when she got up; and after that she was full of getting to work with canned peaches and making him a pie. "But what's going to happen in the afternoon," he said, "the Lord only knows! That blasted fool of a Ben Hill"--Hart spoke just that bitter way about it--"hasn't had no more sense 'n to go and tell her this town's full of kindergartens, and she's so worked up there's no holding her, as kindergartens happens to be the fullest hand she holds. I've allowed we have one--things being as they was, I had to--but I've told her it's out of order, and the children laid up with whooping-cough, and the teacher sick a-bed, and the outfit damaged by a fire we had, and--and the Lord knows what I haven't told her about the damn thing." (Hart was that nervous he couldn't help speaking that way.) "But all I've said hasn't made no difference. She's just dead set on getting to what's left of that kindergarten, and I can't budge her. See it she will, she says; and I guess the upshot of Hill's chuckle-headed talk'll be to waste all the trouble we've took by landing us in the biggest give-away that ever was!" And Hart called for another drink, and had to set down to take it--looking pale. All the boys felt terrible bad about the hole Hart was in; and they felt worse because none of 'em hadn't no notion what a kindergarten did--when it did anything--and that made 'em more ashamed Palomitas hadn't one to show. Only Becker--Becker'd happened to come over from Santa Cruz that night--sized it up right; and Becker shook his head sort of dismal and said there wasn't no use even thinking about it--and that looked like a settler, because Becker seemed to know. Nobody didn't say nothing for a minute or two; and then Ike Williams spoke up--he was the boss carpenter on the freight-house job, Ike was--and said if what was wanted could be made out of boards, and made in a hurry, he'd lay off the freight-house gang the next morning and engage to have one ready by noon. Santa Fé Charley'd been sitting still thinking, not saying a word. He let out a big cuss--and Charley wasn't given to cussing--when Ike made his offer; and then he banged his hand down on the table so hard he set the chips to flying, and he said: "Mr. Hart, don't you worry--we're going to put this job through!" Everybody jumped up at that--some of 'em scrambling for the dropped chips--asking Santa Fé what he meant to do. But Charley wouldn't answer 'em. "Just you trust to Ike and me, Bill," he said. "We'll fix your kindergarten all right--only you keep on telling your aunt it ain't a good one, and how most of it got burned up in the fire. It's luck you let on to her there'd been a fire--that makes it as easy as rolling off a log. All you've got to do is to bring her down here at four o'clock to-morrow afternoon--you'd better till then keep her in the house, mending you up and making you all the pies she has a mind to--and when she gets here the kindergarten'll be here, too!" "Bring her here--to the Forest Queen?" Hart said, speaking doubtful. "Bring her here--right here to the Forest Queen," Santa Fé said back to him. "You know pretty well I do things when I say I'll do 'em--and this thing'll be done! Come to think of it," he said, "maybe it'll be better if I go to your place and fetch her along myself. It'll help if I do a little talking to her on the way down. Yes, we'll fix it that way. You and she be ready at four o'clock, and I'll come for you. That'll give her an hour here, and an hour to go home and eat her supper--and that'll get us to train-time, and then the circus'll close down. Now you go home and go to bed, Bill. You're all beat out. Just you leave things to Ike and me and go right home." Charley wouldn't say another word--so Hart had one more drink, for luck, and then he went home. He looked real relieved. When Santa Fé went to Hart's place, next afternoon, he had on his best black clothes, with a clean shirt and a fresh white tie; and he was that serious-looking you'd have sized him up for a sure-enough fire-escape anywhere on sight. Hart hadn't had no trouble, it turned out, keeping his aunt to home--she'd been working double tides ever since she got up, he said, making him things to eat and fussing over his clothes. They was all ready when Santa Fé come along, and the three of 'em stepped off down the track together--Hart having his aunt on his arm, and Santa Fé walking on ahead over the ties. Most of the boys was standing about watching the procession; but the girls--the Hen, likely, having told 'em to--was keeping on keeping quiet, and got what they could of it peeping through chinks in the windows and doors. "Why, where _are_ all the ladies, Mr. Charles?" Hart's aunt asked. "Except that sweet young wife of yours, it's just the mortal truth I haven't seen a single lady since I came into this town!" "They usually keep in-doors at this time of day, madam," Charley said. "They're attending to their domestic duties--and--and most of them, about now, are wont to be enjoying the tenderest happiness of motherhood in nursing their little babes." "It's very creditable they're such good housewives, I'm sure," said Hart's aunt; "only I do wish I could have met some of 'em and had a good dish of talk. But we'll be finding your wife at the kindergarten, I s'pose, and I'll have the pleasure of a talk with her. I've been looking forward all day to meeting her, Mr. Charles. She has one of the very sweetest faces I ever saw." "I deeply regret to tell you, madam," said Santa Fé, "that my wife was called away suddenly last evening by a telegram. She had no choice in the matter. Her call was to minister to a sick relative in Denver, and of course she left immediately on the night train. Her disappointment at not meeting you was great. She had set her heart on showing you over our poor, half-ruined kindergarten--the fire did fearful damage--but her duty was too manifest to be ignored, and she had to leave that pleasant task to me." "Now that is just too bad!" said Hart's aunt. "At least, Mr. Charles, I don't mean that exactly. It's very kind of you to take her place, and I'm delighted to have you. But I did so like your wife's looks, and I've been hoping she and I really'd have a chance to get to be friends." That brought 'em to the Forest Queen, and Charley was more'n glad he was let out from making more excuses why his wife had shook her kindergarten job so sudden. "Here we are," he said. "But I must warn you again, madam, that our little kindergarten is only the ghost of what it was before the fire. We are hoping to get a new outfit shortly. On the very morning after the disaster a subscription was started--your nephew, as always, leading in the good work--and that afternoon we telegraphed East our order for fresh supplies. By the time that the epidemic of whooping-cough has abated--I am glad to say that all the children are doing well--we trust that our flock of little ones again can troop gladly to receive the elementary instruction that they delight in, and that my wife delights to impart." "Why," said Hart's aunt, "the kindergarten's in Mrs. Major Rogers' hotel--the Forest Queen!" "After the fire, Mrs. Major Rogers most kindly gave us the free use of one of her largest rooms," Santa Fé said; "and we are installed here until our own building can be repaired. I have spared you the sight, madam, of that melancholy ruin. I confess that when I look at it the tears come into my eyes." "I don't wonder, I'm sure," said Hart's aunt. "I think I'd cry over it myself. But what a real down good woman Mrs. Major Rogers must be! Mr. Hill told me she gives the Dorcas Society the use of a room, too." "She is a noble, high-toned lady, madam," Santa Fé said. "Since her cruel bereavement she has devoted to good works all the time that she can spare from the arduous duties by which she wins her livelihood. Words fail me to say enough in her praise! Come right in, madam--but be prepared for a sad surprise!" Hart said he didn't know how much surprised his aunt was--but he said when he got inside the Forest Queen, into the bar-room where Charley's faro layout usually was, he was so surprised himself he felt as if he'd been kicked by a mule! There was the little tables for drinks, right enough; and out of the way in a corner with a cloth over it, same as usual, was the wheel. (It was used so little, the wheel was--nobody but Mexicans, now and then, caring for it--Santa Fé owned up afterwards he'd forgot it clean!) That much of the place was just as it always was; and the big table, taking up half the room, looked so natural--with the chairs up to it, and layouts of chips at all the places--that Hart was beginning to think Santa Fé was setting up a rig on him: 'till he seen what a lot of queer things besides chips there was on the table--and knowed they wasn't no game layout, and so sized 'em up to be what Charley'd scrambled together when he set out to play his kindergarten hand. And when he noticed the bar was curtained off by sheets he said he stopped worrying--feeling dead certain Charley'd dealt himself all the aces he needed to take him through. "You don't need to be told, madam, being such an authority on kindergartens," said Santa Fé, "how inadequate is our little outfit for educational purposes. But you must remember that the fire destroyed almost everything, and that we have merely improvised what will serve our purposes until the new supply arrives. We succeeded in saving from the conflagration our large table, and our chairs, and most of the small tables--used by individual children having backward intellects and needing especial care. But nearly all of the other appliances of the school were lost to us, and damage was done to much of what we saved. Here, you see, is a little table with only three legs left, the fourth having been burned." And, sure enough, Hart said, Santa Fé turned up one of the little tables for drinks and one of its legs _was_ burnt off! "All of our slates," he went ahead, "similarly were destroyed--and how much depends on slates in a kindergarten you know, madam, better than I do. Here is all that is left of one of them"--and he showed Hart's aunt a bit of burnt wood that looked like it had been part of a slate-frame afore it got afire. "Dear me! Dear me!" said Hart's aunt. "It's just pitiful, Mr. Charles! I wonder how you can get along at all." "It is not easy getting along, madam," Santa Fé said. "But we have managed to supply ourselves with a layout--I--that is--I mean we have provided ourselves with some of the simpler articles of most importance; and with these, for the time being, we keep our little pupils' hands and minds not unprofitably employed. For instance, the ivory disks of various colors--which you see arranged upon the table as the pupils have left them--serve very successfully to elucidate the arithmetical processes of numeration, addition, and subtraction; and the more intelligent children are taught to observe that the disks of varying colors are varyingly numbered--white, 1; red, 5, and blue, 10--and so are encouraged to identify a concrete arbitrary figure with an abstract thought." "That's something new in kindergartening, Mr. Charles," said Hart's aunt; "and it's as good as it can be. I mean to put it right into use in our kindergarten at home. Do you get the disks at the places where they sell kindergarten supplies?" "Really, madam, I cannot tell you," Santa Fé said. "You see, we ordered what would be needed through an agent East, and these came along. I must warn you, however, that they are expensive," Hart said, remembering what them chips had cost him, one time and another, he allowed to himself Charley was right and they was about as expensive as they could be! "Our other little appliances, madam," Santa Fé went on, "are just our own makeshift imitations of what you are familiar with--building-blocks, and alphabet-blocks, and dissected pictures, and that sort of thing. Our local carpenter made the blocks for us, and we put on the lettering ourselves--as, indeed, its poor quality shows. The dissected pictures I am rather proud of, because Mrs. Charles may be said to have invented them." (It really was the Hen who'd made 'em, it turned out.) "The method is simple enough when you have thought of it, of course--and no doubt I value my wife's work unduly because I take so much pride in all that she does. You see, she just pasted pictures from the illustrated papers on boards; and then Mr. Williams--our carpenter, you know--sawed the boards into little pieces. And there you are!" "Now that _was_ bright of her!" said Hart's aunt. "If you don't mind, I'll put one of the pictures together myself right now. I want to see how it looks, made that home-fashioned way." "I fear that our time is getting a little short, madam," said Santa Fé, in a hurry. "I've got my sermon to finish this afternoon, and I must be going in a few minutes now." The fact of the matter was he had to call her off quick. It seems the Hen hadn't had anything but _Police Gazettes_ to work on--and while the bits looked all right jumbled up, being put together they wouldn't have suited nohow at all. "Of course I mustn't keep you," said Hart's aunt. "You've been more than kind, Mr. Charles, to give me so much of your valuable time as it is. I'm just like a child myself, wanting to play with dissected pictures that way! But I must say that her making them is a thing for your wife to be proud of--and I hope you'll tell her so for me." "I guess we'd better be going now, Aunt Maria," Hart said. "Mr. Charles has his sermon to write, you know, and I want you to have time to eat your supper comfortable before we start down to the train." "I do suppose we must go," said Hart's aunt. "But I hate to, William, and that's a fact! Just because it's so make-shifty, this is the most interesting kindergarten I've ever been in. When I get home I shall really and truly enjoy telling the folks about it. And I know how pleased they'll be, the same as I am, by finding what earnest-working men and women can do--out here in this rough country--with so little to go on but their wits and their own good hearts!" And then she faced round sudden on Santa Fé and said: "I see you have your table covered with green, Mr. Charles. What's that for? You've so many good notions about kindergartens that I'd like to know." "Well, you see, madam, that green cover is a--it's a sort of--" Charley went slow for a minute, and then got a-hold of the card he wanted and put it down as smooth as you please. "That is an invention, madam," he said, "of my good wife's, too. Out here, where the sun is so violent, she said we must have a green cover on the table or the glare would be ruining all our dear little innocent children's eyes. And it has worked, madam, to a charm! Some of the children who had bad eyes to start with actually have got well!" "Well, I do declare!" said Hart's aunt. "That wife of yours thinks so sensible she just beats all!" Santa Fé give Hart a look as much as to say he'd got to get his aunt away somehow--seeing she was liable to break out a'most anywheres, and he'd stood about all he could stand. Hart allowed what Charley wanted was reasonable, and he just grabbed her by the arm and begun to lug her to the door. But she managed to give Santa Fé one more jolt, and a bad one, before she was gone. "I haven't seen what this is," she said; and she broke off from Hart and went to where the wheel was standing covered up in the corner. "I s'pose I may look at it, Mr. Charles?" she said--and before either of 'em could get a-hold of her to stop her she had off the cloth. "For the land's sake!" she said. "Whatever part of a kindergarten have you got here?" Hart said afterwards his heart went down into his boots, being sure they'd got to a give-away of the worst sort. Santa Fé said he felt that way for a minute himself; then he said he ciphered on it that Hart's aunt likely wouldn't know what she'd struck--and he braced up and went ahead on that chance. "Ah," he said--speaking just as cool as if he was calling the deal right among friends at his own table--"that is one of the new German kindergarten appliances that even you, madam, may not have seen. We received it as a present from a rich German merchant in Pueblo, who was grieved by our pitiable plight and wanted to do what he could to help us after the fire." "But what in the name of common-sense," said Hart's aunt, "do you do with it--with all those numbers around in circles, and that little ball?" [Illustration: "'ONE OF THE NEW GERMAN KINDERGARTEN APPLIANCES'"] Charley had himself in good shape by that time, and he put down his words as sure as if they was aces--with more, if needed, up his sleeve. "It is used by our most advanced class in arithmetic, madam," he said. "The mechanism, you will observe, is arranged to revolve"--he set it a-going--"in such a way that the small sphere also is put in motion. And as the motion ceases"--it was slowing down to a stop--"the sphere comes to rest on one of the numbers painted legibly on either a black or a red ground. The children, seated around the table, are provided with the numerating disks to which I have already called your attention; and--with a varying rapidity, regulated by their individual intelligence--they severally, as promptly as possible, arrange their disks in piles corresponding with the number indicated by the purely fortuitous resting-place of the sphere. The purpose of this ingenious contrivance, as I scarcely need to point out to you, is to combine the amusement of a species of game with the mental stimulus that the rapid computation of figures imparts. I may add that we arouse a desirable spirit of emulation among our little ones by providing that the child who first correctly arranges his disks to represent the indicated figure is given--until the game is concluded--the disks of the children whose calculation has been slow, or at fault." "Well, of all things in the world, Mr. Charles," said Hart's aunt, "to think of my finding such a good thing as this out here in New Mexico--when I've time and again been over the best kindergarten-supply places in Boston, and have been reading all I could lay my hands on about kindergartens for twenty years!" "Oh, we do try not to be too primitive out here, madam," said Santa Fé, taking a long breath over having got through all right; "and I am even vain enough to think that perhaps we manage to keep pretty well up with the times. But I must say that it is a pleasant surprise to me to find that I have been able to give more than one point to a lady like you, who knows every card--I should say, to whom kindergarten processes are so exceptionally well known. "And now I really must beg your permission to leave you, that I may return to my sermon. I give much time to my sermons; and I am cheered by the conviction--you must not think me boastful--that it is time well employed. When I look around me and perceive the lawless, and even outrageous, conditions which obtain in so many other towns in the Territory, and contrast them with the orderly rectitude of Palomitas, I rejoice that my humble toil in the vineyard has brought so rich a reward. I deeply regret, madam, that your present stay with us must be so short; and with an equal earnestness I hope that it may be my privilege soon again to welcome you to our happy little town." Hart's aunt--she was just pleased all over--was beginning to make a speech back to him; but Santa Fé looked so wore out Hart didn't give her the chance to go on. He just grabbed her, and got her away in a hurry--and Charley went to fussing with the cover of the wheel, putting it on again, so she couldn't get at him to shake hands for good-bye. He said afterwards he felt that weak, when he fairly was shut of her, all he could do was to flop down into a chair anyway and sing out to Blister Mike to come and get the sheets off the bar quick and give him his own bottle of Bourbon and a tumbler. And he said he never took so many drinks, one right on top of another, since he was born! There was more'n the usual crowd down at the deepo that night when the Denver train pulled out--with Hart's aunt in the Pullman, and Hart standing on the Pullman platform telling the boys up to the last minute how much he was obliged. Things went that same Sunday-school way right on to the end of the game; and Hart said his aunt told him--as they was coming along down to the deepo--she never would a-believed there could be such a town as Palomitas was, out in that wild frontier country, if she hadn't seen it with her own eyes. As to the ladies of the town, he said she told him they certainly was the most domestic she'd ever known! Hart was so grateful--and he had a right to be--he left a hunderd dollars with Tenderfoot Sal and told her to blow off the town for him that night by running a free bar. Sal done it, right enough--and that turned out to be about the hottest night Palomitas ever had. Most of the trouble was in the dance-hall, where it was apt to be, and had its start, as it did generally, right around the Sage-Brush Hen: who kept on being dressed up in her white frock and wearing her white sun-bonnet, and looked as demure as a cotton-tail rabbit, and cut up so reckless I reckon she about made a record for carryings on! Santa Fé had to fix one feller because of her--shooting him like he was used to, through his pants-pocket--and more'n a dozen got hurt in the ordinary way. Some of the shooting didn't seem quite as if it was needed; but it was allowed afterwards--even if there hadn't been no free bar--there was excuse for it: seeing the town was all strung up and had to work itself off. Santa Fé, of course, had more excuse than anybody, being most strung-upest. Bluffing his way through that kindergarten game, he said, was the biggest strain he'd ever had. But he didn't mind what trouble he'd took, he said, seeing he'd got Hart out of his hole by taking it; and he looked real pleased when Hill spoke up--just about voicing what all the rest of us was thinking--saying he was ready, after the way he'd played his kindergarten hand, to put his pile on Santa Fé Charley to make iced drinks in hell! Of course Hill oughtn't to have spoke like that. But allowances was to be made for Hill--owing to the ways he'd got into driving mules. V BOSTON'S LION-HUNT As I've said, folks in Palomitas mostly got for names what happened to come handiest and fitted. Likely that dude's cuffs was marked with something he was knowed by; but as most of us wasn't particular what his cuffs was marked, or him either, we just called him Boston--after the town he made out he belonged to--and let it go at that. Big game was what he said he was looking for: and Santa Fé Charley, with Shorty Smith and others helping, saw to it he got all he wanted and some over--but I reckon the exercises would a-been less spirited if the Sage-Brush Hen hadn't chipped in and played a full hand. He was one of the sporting kind, Boston was, that turned up frequent in the Territory in them days. Most of 'em was friends of officers at some of the posts, with a sprinkling throwed in of sons and nephews of directors of the road. Big game was what they all made out they come for; and they was apt to have about as much use for big game--when they happened to find any--as a cat has for two tails. But they seemed to enjoy letting off ca'tridges--and used to buy what skins was in the market to take home. Boston turned out to be a nephew--nephews was apt to be worse'n sons for stuck-upness--and he come in one morning in a private car hitched onto the Denver train. He had a colored man along to cook and clean his guns for him--he had more things to shoot with, and of more shapes and sizes, than you ever seen in one place outside of a gun-store--and he was dressed that nice in green corduroys, with new-fangled knives and hunting fixings hanging all over him like he was a Christmas-tree, he might have hired out for a show. He wasn't a bad set-up young feller; but with them green clothes on, and being clean shaved and wearing eye-glasses, he did look just about what he truly was. Wood had a wire a director's nephew was coming--he was the agent, Wood was--and orders to side-track his car and see he was took care of; and of course Wood passed the word along to the rest of us what sort of a game was on. But he begged so hard, Wood did, the town would hold itself in--saying if rigs was put up on a director's nephew he was dead sure to lose his job--we all allowed we'd give the young feller a day or two to turn round in, anyway; and we promised Wood--who was liked--we'd let the critter get through his hunting picnic without putting up no rigs on him if he made any sort of a show of knowing how to behave. Howsomedever, he didn't--and things started up, and nobody but Boston himself to blame for it, that very first night over in the bar-room at the Forest Queen. He had Wood in to supper with him in his car, Boston did, the darky cooking it; and Wood said--except it begun with their having pickled green plums, and some sort of messed-up stuff that tasted like spoilt salt fish and made him feel sickish--it was the best supper he ever eat. Each of 'em had a bottle of iced wine, he said; and he said they topped off with coffee that only wanted milk to make it a real wonder, and a drink like rock-and-rye, but chalks better, and such seegars as he'd never smoked in his born days. All the time they was hashing--and Wood said he reckoned they was at it a'most a full hour--Boston kept a-telling what a hell of a one (that was the sort of careless way Wood put it) he was at big-game hunting; but Wood judged--taking all his talk together--the only thing he'd ever really shot bigger'n a duck or a pa'tridge was a deer the dogs had chased into a pond for him so it hadn't no chance. But it wasn't none of Wood's business to stop a director's nephew from blowing if he felt like it, and so he just let him fan away. Bears wasn't bad sport, he said, and he didn't mind filling in time with 'em if he couldn't get nothing better; but what he'd come to Palomitas for 'special, he said, was mountain-lions--he seemed to have it in his head he'd find 'em walking all over the place, same as cats--and he wanted to know if any'd lately been seen. Wood told him them animals wasn't met with frequent in them parts (and they wasn't, for a fact, and hadn't been for about a hunderd years, likely) and maybe he'd do better to set his mind on jack-rabbits--which there was enough of out in the sage-brush, Wood told him, to load his car. And then he looked so real down disappointed, seeming to think jack-rabbits wasn't anyways satisfactory, Wood said he told him there was chances some of the boys over at the Forest Queen--they being all the time out in the mountains looking for prospects--might put him on to finding a bear, anyway; and it wouldn't do no harm to go across to the Queen and ask. And so over the both of 'em come. It was Wood's mistake bringing that green-corduroyed pill right in among the boys without giving notice, and Wood owned up it was later--allowing he'd a-been more careful if the rock-and-rye stuff on top of the wine, not being used to either of 'em, hadn't loaded him more'n he knowed about at the time. Boston didn't seem to be much loaded, likely having the habit of taking such drinks and so being able to carry 'em; but he was that high-horsey--putting on his eye-glasses and staring 'round the place same as if he'd struck a menagerie and the boys was beasts in cages--all hands was set spiteful to him right off. Things was running about as usual at the Queen: most of the boys setting around the table and Santa Fé dealing; a few of 'em standing back of the others looking on; two or three getting drinks at the bar and talking to Blister; and the girls kicking their heels on the benches, waiting till it come time to start up dancing in the other room. The only touch out of the common was the way the Sage-Brush Hen had fixed herself--she being rigged up in the same white duds she'd wore when Hart's aunt come to town, and looking so real cute and pretty in 'em, and acting demure to suit, nobody'd ever a-sized her for the gay old licketty-split Hen she was. [Illustration: "STARING 'ROUND THE PLACE SAME AS IF HE'D STRUCK A MENAGERIE"] It was between deals when Wood and Boston come in, and Santa Fé got up from the table and crossed over to 'em--Charley always was that polite you'd a-thought he was a fish-hook with pants on--and told Boston he hoped he seen him well, and was glad he'd come along. Then Wood told how he was after mountain-lions, and wasn't likely to get none; and Charley owned up they was few, and what there was of 'em was so sort of scattered the chances for finding 'em was poor. Boston didn't say much of nothing at first, seeming to be took up with trying to make out where Santa Fé belonged to--hitching on his eye-glasses and looking him over careful, but only getting puzzleder the more he stared. You see, Charley--in them black clothes and a white tie on--looked for certain sure like he was a minister; and there he was getting up red-hot from dealing faro, and having on each side of where he set at the table a forty-five gun. It was more of a mix-up than Boston could manage, and you could see he didn't know where he was at. Howsomedever, Wood had told him he'd better make out to be friendly, and take just what happened to come along without asking no questions; and I reckon the shoat really meant, as well as he knowed how to, to do what he was told. So he give up trying to size Santa Fé, and said back to him he was obliged and was feeling hearty; and then he took to grinning, like as if he wanted to make things pleasant, and says: "Really, I am very much interested in my surroundings. This place has quite the air of being a barbarian Monte Carlo. It really has, you know." That was a non-plusser for Charley--and Santa Fé wasn't non-plustered often, and didn't like it when he was--but he pulled himself together and put down what cards he had: telling Boston monte was a game he sometimes played with friends for amusement--which was the everlasting truth, only the friends mostly was less amused than he was--and he'd had a dog named Carlo, he said, when he was a boy. Boston seemed to think that was funny, and took to snickering sort of superior. He was about a full dose for uppishness, that young feller was: going on as if he'd bought the Territory, and as if the folks in it was the peones he'd took over--Mexican fashion--along with the land. Then he said he guessed Santa Fé did not ketch his meaning, and Monte Carlo was the biggest gambling hell there was. Being in the business, Santa Fé was apt to get peevish when anybody took to talking about gambling; and Boston's throwing in hell on top of it that way was more'n he cared to stand. He didn't let on--at least not so the fool could see it--his dander was started, setting on himself being one of the things his work trained him to; but the boys noticed he begun to get palish up at the top of his forehead--where there was a white streak between his hair and where his hat come--and all hands knowed that for a bad sign. Boston, of course--being strangers with him--didn't know what Charley's signs was; and he just kept on a-talking as fresh as his green clothes. "Not less psychologically than sociologically," says he, "is it interesting to find in this slum of the wilderness the degenerate Old-World vices in crude New-World garb. Here," says he, jerking his head across to the table, "is a coarse reproduction of Monaco's essence; and there, I observe, are other repulsive features equally coarse"--and he jerked his head over to where Shorty Smith was setting up drinks for Carrots at the bar. "If you dare to say one word more about my features, young man," says Carrots--having a pug-nose, Carrots was techy about her features; and she had a temper the same color as her hair--"I'll smack you in the mouth!" "And Oi'll smack your whole domn head off!" put in Blister Mike. "D'you think Oi'm going to have ladies drinking at my bar insulted by slush like you?" And Blister reached down to where he kept it among the tumblers to get his gun. It looked as if there was going to be a ruction right off. There was Carrots red-hotter than her hair; and Blister, who was special friends with Carrots, shooting mad at having anybody sassing her; and Santa Fé's forehead getting whiter and whiter; and all hands on their hind legs at having Palomitas called a slum of the wilderness--and likely worse things said about the place in words nobody'd ever heard tell of longer'n your arm. The only one keeping quiet was Wood. He was sure, Wood was, trouble was coming beyond his stopping; and as he knowed which side his bread was buttered, and how he'd be fired from his job if things happened to go serious, he just went and sat down in a corner and swore to himself sorrowful, and was about the miserablest-looking man you ever seen alive. I guess it was more'n anything else being pitiful for Wood made things take the turn they did when the Sage-Brush Hen come into the game. "Now you all hear _me_!" the Hen sung out sudden--and as the Hen wasn't much given to no such public speaking, and the boys was used to doing quick what she wanted when she asked for it, everybody stopped talking and Blister put his gun down on the bar. Most of us, I reckon, had a feeling the Hen was going to let things out in some queer way she'd thought of in that funny head of hers--same as she'd done other times when matters was getting serious--and we all was ready to help her with any skylarking she was up to that would put a stop to the rumpus and so get Wood out of his hole. As for Boston--being too much of a fool to know what he'd done to start such a racket--he was all mazed-up by it: staring straight ahead of him like a horse with staggers, and looking like he wished he'd never been born. "You all hear _me_, I tell you!" says the Hen, taking a-hold of Boston's arm sort of motherly. "While I am the school-teacher in Palomitas I shall not permit you boys to play your pranks on strangers; and 'specially not on this gentleman--whom I claim as a friend of mine because we both come from the same dear old town." That was the first time anybody'd ever heard the Hen wasn't hatched-out in Kansas City. But it didn't seem as if calling her hand would be gentlemanly, so nobody said nothing; and off she went again--talking this time to Boston, but winking the eye away from him at the boys. "It is merely a joke, sir," says the Hen, "that these young men are playing on you--and as silly a joke as silly can be. Sometimes, in spite of my most earnest efforts to stop them, they will go on in this foolish way: pretending to be wild and wicked and murderous and all such nonsense, when in reality there is not a single one among them who willingly would hurt a fly. What Miss Mortimer said about smacking you, as I hardly need to explain, was a joke too. Dear Miss Mortimer! She is as full of fun as a kitten, and as sweet and gentle"--Carrots, not seeing what the Hen was driving at, all the time was looking like a red-headed thunder-storm--"as the kindest-hearted kitten that ever was! "And now, I assure you, sir, this reprehensible practical joking--for which I beg your indulgence--definitely is ended; and I am glad to promise that you will find in evidence, during the remainder of your stay in Palomitas, only the friendliness and the courtesy which truly are the essential characteristics of our seemingly turbulent little town." The Hen stopped for a minute to get her wind back--which give the boys a chance to study over what they was told they was, and what kind of a town it turned out to be they was living in--and then off she went again, saying: "I beg that you will pardon me, sir, for addressing you so informally, without waiting for an introduction. We do not always stand strictly on etiquette here in Palomitas; and I saw that I had to put my cards down quick--I mean that I had to intervene hurriedly--to save you from being really annoyed. Now that I have cleared up the trifling misunderstanding, I trust satisfactorily, we will go back to where we ought to have started and I will ask Mr. Charles to introduce us." And round she cracked to Santa Fé and says: "Will you be so kind as to introduce my fellow-townsman to me, Mr. Charles?" Santa Fé had begun to get a little cooled off by that time; and, like as not--it was a wonder the way them two passed cards to each other--the Hen give him some sort of a look that made him suspicion what her game was. Anyway, into it he come--saying to Boston, talking high-toned and polite like he knowed how to: "I have much pleasure, sir, in presenting you to Miss Sage, who is Palomitas's idol--and a near relative, as you may be interested in knowing, of the eminent Eastern capitalist of the same name. As she herself has mentioned, Miss Sage is our school-teacher; but her modest cheek would be suffused with blushes were I to tell you how much more she is to us--how broadly her generous nature prompts her to construe her duties as the instructress of innocent youth. Only a moment ago you had an opportunity for observing that her word is our law paramount. I am within bounds in saying, sir, that in Palomitas she is universally adored." "Oh, Mr. Charles! How can you!" says the Hen, kind of turning away and looking as if what Charley'd said really had made her feel like blushing a little. Then she faced round again and shook hands with Boston--who was so rattled he seemed only about half awake, and done it like a pump--and says to him: "Mr. Charles is a born flatterer if ever there was one, sir, and you must pay no attention whatever to his extravagant words. I only try in my poor way, as occasion presents itself"--she let her voice drop down so it went sort of soft and ketchy--"to mollify some of the harsher asperities of our youthfully strenuous community; to apply, as it were, the touchstone of Boston social standards--the standards that you and I, sir, recognize--to the sometimes too rough ways of our rough little frontier settlement. It is true, though, and I am proud to say it, that the boys do like me--of course Mr. Charles's talk about my being an idol and adored is only his nonsense; and it is true that they always are nice about doing what I ask them to do--as they were just now, when they were naughty and I had to make them behave. "And now, since the formalities have been attended to and we have been introduced properly, and since you and I are fellow-Bostonians and ought to be friendly"--the Hen give him one of them fetching looks of hers--"you must come over to the bar and have a drink on me. And while we are performing this rite of hospitality," says the Hen--pretending not to see the jump he give--"we can discuss your projected lion-hunt: in which, with your permission, I shall take part." Boston give a bigger jump at that; and the Hen says on to him, sort of explaining matters: "You need not fear that I shall not sustain my end of the adventure. As any of the boys here will tell you, I can handle a forty-five or a Winchester about as well as anybody--and big-game hunting really is my forte. Indeed, I may say--using one of our homely but expressive colloquialisms--that when it comes to lion-hunting I am simply hell!" Boston seemed to be getting worse and worse mixed while the Hen was rattling her stuff off to him--and I reckon, all things considered, he wasn't to be blamed. He'd got a jolt to start with, when he come in and found what he took to be a preacher dealing faro; and he was worse jolted when his fool-talk--and he not knowing how he'd done it--run him so close up against a shooting-scrape. But the Hen was the limit: she looking and acting like the school-ma'am she said she was, and yet tangled up in a bar-room with a lot of gamblers and such as Kerosene Kate and old Tenderfoot Sal and Carrots--and then bringing the two ends together by talking one minute like he was used to East, and the next one wanting to set up drinks for him and telling him she knowed all there was to know about gun-handling and how at lion-hunting she was just hell! I guess he was more'n half excusable, that young feller was, for looking like he couldn't be counted on for telling for certain on which end of him was his heels! What he did manage to work out clear in that fool head of his was he had the chance to get the drink he needed, and needed bad, to brace him; so over he come with the Hen to the bar and got it--and it seemed to do him some good. Then Carrots--who'd begun to ketch on a little to what the Hen was after--spoke up and told him it was true what Miss Sage had told him about her kittenishness, and she hadn't meant nothing when she was talking about smacking him; and to show he had no hard feeling, she said, he must have one on her. Then Blister Mike, having sized matters up, chipped in too: saying it would make him feel comfortabler--having done some joking himself by talking the way he did and getting his gun out--if they'd all have one on the bar. As drinks in Palomitas was sighted for a thousand yards, and carried to kill further, by the time Boston had three of 'em in him--on top of the ones he'd had with Wood at supper--he was loaded enough to be careless about what was happening among the sunspots and ready to take things pretty much as they come along. The boys was ready for what might be coming too: allowing for sure the Hen was getting a circus started, and only waiting to follow suit to the cards she put down. What was needed, it turned out, was stacked with Shorty Smith; and the Hen sort of picked up Shorty with her eyes and says to him: "Your little boy Gustavus--he is _such_ a dear little fellow, and I do love him so!--was telling me at recess to-day, Mr. Smith, that you saw a lion when you were out in the mountains day before yesterday prospecting. I think that very likely you may have seen the fierce creature even more recently; and perhaps you will have the kindness to tell us"--the Hen winked her off eye at Shorty to show him what was wanted--"where he probably may be found at the present time?" Some of the boys couldn't help snickering right out when the Hen took to loading up Shorty with little Gustavuses; but Boston didn't notice nothing, and Shorty--who had wits as sharp as pin-points, and could be counted on for what cards was needed in the kind of game the Hen was playing--put down the ace she asked for and never turned a hair. "Gustavus will be tickled out of his little boots, Miss," says Shorty, "when I tell him how nice you've spoke about him; and I'm much obliged myself. He give it to you straight, the kid did, about that lion. I seen him, all right--and so close up it most scared the life out of me! And you're right, Miss, in thinking I've ketched onto him since--seeing I was a blame sight nearer to him than I wanted to be less'n four hours ago. Yes, ma'am, as I was coming in home to-night from the Cañada I struck that animal's tracks in the mud down by the ford back of the deepo--he'd been down to the river for a drink, I reckon--and they was so fresh he couldn't a-been more'n five minutes gone. When I got to thinking what likely might a-happened if I'd come along them five minutes sooner, Miss, I had cold creeps crawling all up and down the spine of my back!" Them statements of Shorty's set the boys to snickering some more--there not being no ford on the Rio Grande this side of La Chamita, and the wagon-bridge being down back of the deepo where he said his ford was--but Shorty paid no attention, and went on as smooth as if he was speaking a piece he'd got by heart. "As you know, Miss, being such a hunter," says he--making up what happened to be wanted about lions, same as he'd done about fords--"them animals takes a drink every four hours in the night-time as regular as if they looked at their watches. Likely that feller's bedded just a little way back in the chaparral so's to be handy for his next one; and I reckon if this sport here feels he needs lions"--Shorty give his head a jerk over to Boston--"he'll get one by looking for it right now. But for the Lord's sake, Miss, don't you think of taking a hand in tackling him! He's a most a-terrible big one--the out and out biggest I ever seen. The first thing you knowed about it, he'd a-gulped you down whole!" "How you do go on, Mr. Smith!" says the Hen, laughing pleasant. "Have you so soon forgotten our hunt together last winter--when I came up and shot the grizzly in the ear just as he had you down and was beginning to claw you? And are you not ashamed of yourself, after that, to say that any lion is too big for me?" Without stopping for Shorty to strain himself trying to remember that bear-hunt, round she cracked to Boston--giving Shorty and Santa Fé a chance to get in a corner and talk quick in a whisper--and says to him: "We just _are_ in luck! These big old ones are the real fighters, you know. Only a year ago there was a gentleman from the East here on a lion-hunt--it was his first, and he did not seem to know quite how to manage matters--and one of these big fierce ones caught him and finished him. It was very horrible! The dreadful creature sprang on him in the dark and almost squeezed him to death, and then tore him to pieces while he still was alive enough to feel it, and ended by eating so much of him that only a few scraps of him were left to send East to his friends. This one seems to be just that kind. Isn't it splendid! What superb sport we shall have in getting him--you and I!" What the Hen had to say about the way lions done business--'specially their eating hunters like they was sandwiches on a free-lunch counter--seemed to take some of the load off Boston, and as he got soberer he wasn't so careless as he'd been. From his looks it was judged he was thinking a lion some sizes smaller would be a better fit for him; but he couldn't well say so--with the Hen going on about wanting hers as big as they made 'em--so he took a brace, and sort of swelled himself out, and said the bigger this one was the better he'd be pleased. "But I cannot permit you, my dear young lady," he says, "to share with me the great danger incident to pursuing so ferocious a creature. I alone must deal with it. To-morrow I shall familiarize myself with the locality where Mr. Smith has found its tracks; and to-morrow night, or the night after--as the weather may determine. Of course nothing can be done in case of rain--I will seek the savage brute in its lair. And then we shall find out"--Boston worked up as much as he could of a grin, but it seemed to come hard and didn't fit well--"which of us shall have the other's skin!" "Danger for me!" says the Hen, giving him another of them looks of hers. "Just as though I would not be as safe, with a brave man like you to protect me, as I am teaching school! And to-morrow night, indeed! Do you think lions are like dentists--only the other way round about the teeth!" and the Hen laughed hearty--"and you can make appointments with them a week ahead! Why, we must be off, you and I, this very minute! I'll run right round home and get my rifle--and meet you at your car as soon as you've got yours. To think of our having a lion this way almost sitting on the front-door step! It's a chance that won't come again in a thousand years!" Away the Hen went a-kiting; and, there not being no hole he could see to crawl out of, away went Boston--only the schedule he run on was some miles less to the hour. To make sure he didn't try to side-track, Shorty went with him--leaving Santa Fé to fix matters with the Hen, and do what talking was needed to ring in the boys. Shorty put through his part in good shape: helping Boston get as many of his guns as he thought was wanted to hunt lions with--which was as many as he could pack along with him--and managing sort of casual to slip out the ca'tridges, so he wouldn't hurt nobody. It turned out Shorty needn't a-been so extry-precautious--but of course he couldn't tell. By the time Shorty had him ready, the Hen come a-hustling up--having finished settling things with Santa Fé--and sung out to him to get a move on, or likely the lion would a-had his drink and gone. The move he got wasn't much of a one; but he did come a-creeping out of the car at last, and having such a load of weepons on him as give him some excuse for going slow. "Good luck to you!" says Shorty, and off he skipped in a hurry to get at the rest of his part of the ceremonies--not paying no attention to Boston's most getting down on his knees to him begging him to come along. Then Boston wanted the colored man to come--who was scared out of his black skin at the notion, and wouldn't; and if the Hen hadn't ended up by grabbing a-hold of him--saying as it was dark, and she knowed the way and he didn't, she'd better lead him--likely she wouldn't a-got him started at all. Pulling him was more like what she did than leading him, the Hen said afterwards; but she didn't kick about his going slow and wanting to stop every minute, she said, because it give Santa Fé and Shorty more time. The night was the kind that's usual in New Mexico, and just what was wanted. There was no moon, and the starshine--all the stars looked to be about the size of cheeses--give a hazy sort of light that made everything seem twice as big as it really was, and shadows so black and solid you'd think you could cut 'em in slices same as pies. And it was so still you could a-heard a mouse sneezing half a mile off. The rattling all over him of Boston's weepons sounded like there was boilers getting rivetted close by. The Hen yanked him along easy, but kept him a-moving--and passed the time for him by telling all she could make up about what desprit critters lions was. Starting from where his car was side-tracked, they went round the deepo; and then down the wagon-road pretty near to the bridge, but not so near he could see it; and then across through the sage-brush and clumps of mesquite till they come to the river--where there was a break in the bluff, and a flat place going on down into the water that looked like it was the beginning of a ford. For a fact, it was where the Mexican women come to do their clothes-washing, and just back from the river was a little 'dobe house--flat-topped, and the size and shape of a twelve-foot-square dry-goods box--the women kept their washing things in. But them was particulars the Hen didn't happen to mention to Boston at the time. When they come to the 'dobe she give him a jerk, to show him he was to stand still there; and then she grabbed him close up to her, so she could whisper, and says: "It was here that Mr. Smith saw the ferocious animal's foot-marks almost precisely four hours ago. The habits of these creatures are so regular, as Mr. Smith mentioned, that this one certainly will return for his next drink when the four hours are ended--and so may be upon us at any moment. I hope that we may see him coming. If he saw us before we saw him--well, it wouldn't be nice at all!" The Hen let that soak in a little; and then she snuggled up to Boston, all sort of shivery, and says: "I wish that we had taken the precaution to ask Mr. Smith from which direction the tracks came. These lions, you know, have a dreadful way of stealing up close to you and then springing! That was what happened to that poor young man. So far as was known, his first notice of his peril was finding himself crushed to the ground beneath the creature's weight--and the next instant it was tearing him with its teeth and claws. I--I begin to wish I hadn't come!" And the Hen snuggled up closer and shivered bad. Boston seemed to be doing some shivers on his own account, judging from the way his guns rattled; and his teeth was so chattery his talking come queer. But he managed to get out that if they was inside the house they'd have more chances--and he went to work trying to open the door. When he found he couldn't--it being locked so good there was no budging it--he got worse jolted, and his breath seemed to be coming hard. The Hen got a-hold of him again and done some more shivers, and then she says: "It all will be over, one way or the other, in a very few moments now. And oh, how thankful I am--since so needlessly and so foolishly I have placed myself in this deadly peril--that I have for my protector a brave man! If salvation is possible, you will save me I am sure!" Boston tried to say something, but he'd got so he was beyond talking and only gagged; and while he was a-gagging there come a queer noise--sounding like it was a critter crawling around in among the bushes--that made him most jump out of his skin! Down went his guns on the ground all in a clatter; and he was scared so limp he'd a-gone down a-top of 'em if the Hen hadn't got a good grip on him with both arms. They stood that way more'n a minute, with him a-shaking all over and the Hen doing some shaking for company--and then she hiked him round so he pointed right and says: "Look! Look! There by those little bushes! Oh how horrible!" And the Hen give a groan. What was wanted to be looked at was on hand, right enough--and I reckon it showed to most advantage by about as much light as it got from the stars. All they could make sure of was something alive, moving sort of awkward and jumpy, coming out from a tangle of mesquite bushes not more'n three rods off and heading straight for 'em; and seeing it the way they did--just a black splotch all mixed in with the shadows of the bushes--it looked to be most as big as a cow! Limp as he was--so you'd a-thought there wasn't any yell in him--Boston let off a yell that likely was heard clear across the mesa at San Juan! "Shoot!" says the Hen. "I can't. I'm too frightened. Shoot quick--or we are lost!" She let go of him, so he could reach down to where he'd spilled his gun-shop and get a weepon; but Boston wasn't on the shoot, and he hadn't no use for weepons just then. All he wanted to do was to run; and if the Hen hadn't got a fresh grip on him and held him--she was a strapping strong woman, the Hen was--he would a-made a bolt for it certain sure. "No! No! Don't attempt to run!" says the Hen, talking scared and desprit. "In an instant, should we turn our backs on him, the terrible creature would be upon us with one long cruel bound!" From the way the terrible creature, as the Hen called him, was a-going on--sort of hopping up and down, and not making much headway--it didn't look as if long cruel bounds was what he was most used to. But Boston wasn't studying the matter extra careful, and as the Hen found he took pretty much what she give him she just cracked along. "To run, I tell you," says the Hen, "is but to court the quicker coming of the torturing death to which we are doomed. It will come quick enough, anyway!"--and she handed out a fresh lot of shivers, and throwed in sobs. Then she give a jump, as if the notion'd just struck her, and says: "There is a chance for us! Up on the roof of this house we may be safe. Lions can spring enormous distances horizontally, you know; but, save in exceptional cases, their vertical jumping powers are restricted to a marked degree. Quick! Put your foot in my hand and let me start you. When you are up, you can pull me up after you. Now then!"--and the Hen reached her hand down so she could get a-hold of Boston's foot and give him a send. Her using them long words about the way lions did their jumping--being the kind of talk he was used to--seemed to sort of brace him. Anyways--the lion helping hurry things by just then giving another jump or two--he managed to have sense enough to put his foot in the Hen's hand, same as she told him; and then she let out her muscle and give him such an up-start he was landed on the roof of the 'dobe afore he fairly knowed he'd begun to go! Being landed, he just sprawled out flat--and getting the Hen up after him seemed to be about the last thing he had on his mind. "Help! Help!" sung out the Hen. "The lion is almost on me! Give me your hand!" But Boston wasn't in no shape to give hands to nobody. All he did was to kick his legs about and let off groans. "Oh, I understand, now," says the Hen in a minute. "You are crying out in the hope of luring the creature into trying to reach you--as he can, if he happens to be one of the exceptional jumpers--and so give me a chance to get away. How noble that is of you! I shall take the chance, my brave preserver, that your self-sacrifice gives me--and I shall collect, and bedew with tears of gratitude, all that the savage monster leaves me of your bones! Heaven bless you--and good-bye!" And away the Hen cut--leaving Boston high and dry on the roof of the 'dobe, so scared he just lay there like a wet rag. She didn't cut far, the Hen didn't. The rest of us was a-setting around under the mesquite bushes, and she joined the party and set down too--stuffing her handkerchief into her mouth, and holding both hands jammed tight over it, to keep from yelling out with the laugh that was pretty near cracking her sides. Then we all waited till daylight--with Shorty, who had charge of the lion, working that animal as seemed to be needed whenever Boston quieted down with his groans. All hands really enjoyed theirselves, and it was one of the shortest nights I think I ever knowed. Daylight comes sudden in them parts. One minute it's so darkish you can't see nothing--and the next minute the sun comes up with a bounce from behind the mountains and things is all clear. When the sun did his part of the work and give all the light was needed, we done ours--which was coming out from among the mesquite bushes and saying good-morning polite to Boston, up on the roof of the 'dobe, and then taking the hobbles off old man Gutierrez's jackass so it could walk away home. The Hen felt she needed to have one more shot, and she took it. "My brave preserver!" says the Hen, speaking cheerful. "Come down to me--that I may bedew with tears of gratitude your bones!" VI SHORTY SMITH'S HANGING Some of them summer days in Palomitas was that hot they'd melt the stuffing out of a lightning-rod, and you could cook eggs in the pockets of your pants. When things was that way the town was apt to get quieted down--most being satisfied to take enough drinks early to make it pleasant spending the rest of the day sleeping 'em off somewheres in the shade. Along late in the afternoon, though, the wind always breezed down real cool and pleasant from the mountains--and then the boys would wake up and get a brace on, and whatever was going to happen would begin. Being that sort of weather, nobody was paying no attention worth speaking of to nothing: and when the Denver train come in--being about three hours late, like it had a way of being, after a wash-out--the place was in such a blister that pretty much all you could hear to show anybody was alive in Palomitas was snores. Besides Wood--who had to be awake to do his work when the train got there--and the clump of Mexicans that always hung around the deepo at train-time, there wasn't half a dozen folks with their eyes open in the whole town. Santa Fé Charley was one of the few that was awake and sober. He made a point, Santa Fé did, of being on hand when the train come in because there always was chances somebody might be aboard he could do business with; and he had to keep sober, mostly, same as I've said, or he couldn't a-done his work so it would pay. He used to square things up--when he really couldn't stand the strain no longer--by knocking off dealing and having a good one lasting about a week at a time. It was while he was on one of them tears of his, going it worse'n usual, he got cleaned out in Denver Jones's place--and him able, when he hadn't a jag on, to wipe up the floor with Denver!--and then went ahead the next day, being still jagged, and shot poor old Bill Hart. But them is matters that happened a little later, and will be spoke of further on. * * * * * When the train pulled in alongside the deepo platform it didn't seem at first there was nobody on it but the usual raft of Mexicans with bundles in the day-coach--who all come a-trooping out, cluttered up with their queer duds, and went to hugging their aunts and uncles who was waiting for 'em in real Mexican style. Charley looked the lot over and seen there was nothing in it worth taking time to; and then he got his Denver paper from the messenger in the express-car and started off to go on back to his room in the Forest Queen. Down he come along the platform--he was a-looking at his _Tribune_, and not paying no attention--and just as he got alongside the Pullman a man stepped off it and most plumped into him; and would a-plumped if he hadn't been so beat out by the hot weather he was going slow. He was a little round friendly looking feller, with a red face and little gray side-whiskers; and he was dressed up in black same as Charley was--only he'd a shorter-tailed coat, and hadn't a white tie on, and was wearing a shiny plug hat that looked most extra unsuitable in them parts on that sort of a day. "I beg your pardon, sir!" says the little man, as he pulled himself up just in time to keep from bumping. Charley bowed handsome--there was no ketching off Santa Fé when it come to slinging good manners, his being that gentlemanly he could a-give points to a New York bar-keep--and says back: "Sir, I beg yours! Heedlessness is my besetting sin. The fault is mine!" And then he said, keeping on talking the toney way he knowed how to: "I trust, sir, that you are not incommoded by the heat. Even for New Mexico in August, this is a phenomenally hot day." [Illustration: "'IT'S HOTTER THAN SAHARA!' SAID THE ENGLISHMAN"] "Incommoded is no name for it!" says the little man, taking off his shiny hat and mopping away at himself with his pocket-handkerchief. "I've never encountered such heat anywhere. It's hotter than Sahara! In England we have nothing like it at all." Then he mopped himself some more, and went ahead again--seeming glad to have somebody to let out to: "My whole life long I've been finding fault with our August weather in London. I'll never find fault with it again. I'd give fifty pounds to be back there now, even in my office in the City--and I'd give a hundred willingly if I could walk out of this frying-pan into my own home in the Avenue Road! If you know London, sir, you know that St. John's Wood is the coolest part of it, and that the coolest part of St. John's Wood--up by the side of Primrose Hill--is the Avenue Road; and so you can understand why thinking about coming out from the Underground and walking homeward in the cool of the evening almost gives me a pain!" Santa Fé allowed he wasn't acquainted with that locality; but he said he hadn't no doubt--since you couldn't get a worse one--it was a better place in summer than Palomitas. And then he kind of chucked it in casual that as the little man didn't seem to take much stock in Palomitas maybe he'd a-done as well if he'd stuck at home. Charley's talking that way brought out he wasn't there because he wanted to be, but because he was sent: coming to look things over for the English stockholders--who was about sick, he said, of dropping assessments in the slot and nothing coming out when they pushed the button--before they chipped in the fresh stake they was asked for to help along with the building of the road. He said he about allowed, though, the call was a square one, what he'd seen being in the road's favor and as much as was claimed for it; but when it come to the country and the people, he said, there was no denying they both was as beastly as they could be. Then he turned round sudden on Santa Fé and says: "I infer from your dress, sir, that you are in Orders; and I therefore assume that you represent what little respectability this town has. Will you kindly tell me if it is possible in this filthy place to procure a brandy-and-soda, and a bath, and any sort of decent food?" It always sort of tickled Santa Fé, same as I've said, when a tenderfoot took him for a fire-escape; and when it happened that way he give it back to 'em in right-enough parson talk. So he says to the little man, speaking benevolent: "In our poor way, sir, we can satisfy your requirements. At the Forest Queen Hotel, over there, you can procure the liquid refreshment that you name; and also food as good as our little community affords. As for your bath, we can provide it on a scale of truly American magnificence. We can offer you a tub, sir, very nearly two thousand miles long!" "A tub two thousand miles long?" says the little man. "Oh, come now, you're chaffing me. There can't be a tub like that, you know. There really can't!" "I refer, sir," says Santa Fé, "to the Rio Grande." The little man took his time getting there, but when he did ketch up he laughed hearty. "How American that is!" says he. And then he says over again: "How American that is!"--and he laughed some more. Then he said he'd start 'em to getting his grub ready while he was bathing in that two-thousand-mile bath-tub, and he'd have his brandy-and-soda right away; and he asked Charley--speaking doubtful, and looking at his white necktie--if he'd have one too? Charley said he just would; and it was seeing how sort of surprised the little man looked, he told the boys afterwards, set him to thinking he might as well kill time that hot day trying how much stuffing that sort of a tenderfoot would hold. He said at first he only meant to play a short lone hand for the fun of the thing; and it was the way the little man swallowed whatever was give him, he said, that made the game keep on a-growing--till it ended up by roping in the whole town. So off he went, explaining fatherly how it come that preachers and brandys-and-sodas in Palomitas got along together first class. "In this wildly lawless and sinful community, sir," says he, "I find that my humble efforts at moral improvement are best advanced by identifying my life as closely as may be with the lives of those whom I would lead to higher planes. At first, in my ignorance, I held aloof from participating in the customs--many of them, seemingly, objectionable--of my parishioners. Naturally, in turn, they held aloof from me. I made no impression upon them. The good seed that I scattered freely fell upon barren ground. Now, as the result of experience, and of much soulful thought, I am wiser. Over a friendly glass at the bar of the Forest Queen, or at other of the various bars in our little town, I can talk to a parishioner with a kindly familiarity that brings him close to me. By taking part in the games of chance which form the main amusement of my flock, I still more closely can identify their interests with my own--and even materially improve, by such winnings as come to me in our friendly encounters, our meagre parish finances. I have as yet taken no share in the gun-fights which too frequently occur in our somewhat tempestuous little community; but I am seriously considering the advisability of still farther strengthening my hold upon the respect and the affection of my parishioners by now and then exchanging shots with them. I am confident that such energetic action on my part will tend still more to endear me to them--and, after all, I must not be too nicely fastidious as to means if I would compass my end of winning their trust and their esteem." While Santa Fé was talking along so slick about the way he managed his parsoning, the little man's eyes was getting bulgier and bulgier; and when it come to his taking a hand in shooting-scrapes they looked like they was going to jump out of his head. All he could say was: "Good Lord!" Then he kind of gagged, and said he'd be obliged if he could get his brandy-and-soda right off. Charley steered him across to the Forest Queen, and when he had his drink in him, and another on top of it, he seemed to get some of his grip back. But even after his drinks he seemed like he thought he must be asleep and dreaming; and he said twice over he'd never heard tell of such doings in all his born days. Santa Fé just give a wink across the bar to Blister Mike--who didn't need much winking, being a wide-awake one--and then he went ahead with some more of the same kind. "No doubt, my dear sir, in the older civilization to which you are accustomed my methods would seem irregular--perhaps even reprehensible. In England, very likely, unfavorable comment would be made upon a pastor who cordially drank with members of his flock at public bars; who also--I do not hesitate, you see, to give our little games of chance their harshest name--in a friendly way gambled with them; and I can imagine that the spectacle of a parish priest engaging with his parishioners, up and down the street of a quiet village, in a fight with six-shooters and Winchesters would be very generally disapproved." "It is impossible, quite impossible," says the little man, sort of gaspy, "to imagine such a horrible monstrosity!" "Very likely for you, sir," says Charley, speaking affable, "it is. But you must remember that ours is a young and a vigorous community--too young, too vigorous, to be cramped and trammelled by obsolete conventions and narrow Old-World rules. Life with us, you see, has an uncertain suddenness--owing to our energetic habit of settling our little differences promptly, and in a decisive way. At the last meeting of our Sunshine Club, for instance--as the result of a short but heated argument--Brother Michael, here, felt called upon to shoot a fellow-member. While recognizing that the occurrence was unavoidable, we regretted it keenly--Brother Michael most of all." "Sure I did that," said Blister, playing out quick to the lead Charley give him. "But your Reverence remembers he drew on me first--and if he'd been sober enough to shoot straight it's meself, and not him, would be by now living out in the cemetery on the mesa; and another'd be serving your drinks to you across this bar. I had the rights on my side." "Precisely," says Charley. "You see, sir, it was a perfectly fair fight. Brother Michael and his fellow-member exchanged their shots in an honorable manner--and, while we mourn the sudden decease of our friend lost to us, our friend who survives has suffered no diminution of our affectionate regard. Had the shooting been unfair, then the case would have gone into another category--and our community promptly would have manifested the sturdy sense of justice that is inherent in it by hanging the man by whom the unfair shot had been fired. Believe me, sir"--and Santa Fé stood up straight and stuck his chest out--"Palomitas has its own high standards of morality: and it never fails to maintain those standards in its own stern way!" The little man didn't say nothing back. He looked like he was sort of mazed. All he did was to ask for another brandy-and-soda; and when he'd took it he allowed he'd skip having his bath and get at his eating right away--saying he was feeling faintish, and maybe what he needed was food. Of course that was no time of day to get victuals: but Santa Fé was a good one at managing, and he fixed it up so he had some sort of a hash layout; and before he went at it he give him a wash-up in his own room. It was while he was hashing, Charley said, the notion come to him how Palomitas might have some real sport with him--the same kind they had when Hart's aunt come on her visit, only twisting things round so it would be the holy terror side of the town that had the show. And he said as he'd started in with the preacher racket, he thought they might keep that up too--and make such an out and out mix-up for the little man as would give cards to any tenderfoot game that ever was played. Santa Fé always was full of his pranks: and this one looked to pan out so well, and was so easy done, that he went right across to the deepo and had a talk with Wood about how things had better be managed; and Wood, who liked fun as much as anybody, caught on quick and agreed to take a hand. The little man seemed to get a brace when he had his grub inside of him; and over he went to the deepo and give Wood the order he had from the President to see the books--and was real intelligent, Wood said, in finding out how railroading in them parts was done. But when he'd cleaned up his railroad job, and took to asking questions about the Territory, and Palomitas, and things generally--and got the sort of answers Santa Fé had fixed should be give him, with some more throwed in--Wood said his feet showed to be that tender he allowed it would a-hurt him with thick boots on to walk on boiled beans. Wood said he guessed he broke the lying record that afternoon; and he said he reckoned if the little man swallowed half of what was give him, and there wasn't much of anything he gagged at, he must a-thought Palomitas--with its church twice Sundays and prayer-meetings regular three times a week, and its faro-bank with the preacher for dealer, and its Sunshine Club that was all mixed in with shooting-scrapes, and its Friendly Aid Society that attended mostly to what lynchings was needed--was something like a bit of heaven that had broke out from the corral it belonged in and gone to grazing in hell's front yard! When he'd stuffed him as much as was needed, Wood told him--Santa Fé having fixed it that way--there was a Mexican church about a thousand years old over in the Cañada that was worth looking at; and he told him he'd take him across on his buck-board to see it if he cared to go. He bit at that, just as Santa Fé counted on; and about four o'clock off they went--it was only three mile or so down to the Cañada--in good time to get him back and give him what more was coming to him before he started off North again on the night train. Wood said the ride was real enjoyable--the little man showing up as sensible as anybody when he got to the church and struck things he knowed about; and it turned out he could talk French, and that pleased the padre--he was that French one I've spoke about, who was as white as they make 'em--and so things went along well. * * * * * The wind had set in to blow down the valley cool and pleasant as they was getting along home; and coming down on it, when they got about half a mile from Palomitas, they begun to hear shooting--and it kept on, and more of it, the closer they come to town. Knowing what Santa Fé had set the boys up to, Wood said he pretty near laughed out when he heard it; but he held in, he said--and told the little man, when he asked what it meant, that it didn't mean nothing in particular: being only some sort of a shooting-scrape, like enough--the same as often happened along about that time in the afternoon. He said the little man looked queerish, and wanted to know if the men in the town was shooting at a target; and when Wood said he guessed they was targetting at each other, and likely there'd be some occurrences, he said he looked queerisher--and said such savagery was too horrible to be true. But he wasn't worried a bit about himself, Wood said--he was as nervy a little man, Wood said, as he'd ever got up to--and all he wanted was to have Wood whip the mules up, so he'd get there quick and see what was going on. Wood whipped up, right enough, and the mules took 'em a-kiting--going at a full run the last half-mile or so, and not coming down to a walk till they'd crossed the bridge over the Rio Grande and was most to the top of the hill. At the top of the hill they stopped--and that was a good place to stop at, for the circus was a-going on right there. Things really did look serious; and Wood said--for all he'd been told what was coming--he more'n half thought the boys had got to rumpussing in dead earnest. Three or four was setting on the ground with their sleeves and pants rolled up tying up their arms and legs with their pocket-handkerchiefs; there was a feller--Nosey Green, it turned out to be--laying on one side in a sort of mixed-up heap like as if he'd dropped sudden; right in the middle of the road Blister Mike was sprawled out, with Santa Fé--his black clothes all over dust and his hat off--holding his head with one hand and feeling at his heart with the other; and just as the buck-board stopped, right in the thick of it, Kerosene Kate come a-tearing along, with the Sage-Brush Hen close after her, and plumped down on Mike and yelled out: "Oh, my husband! My poor husband! He is foully slain!" It was all so natural, Wood said, that seeing it sudden that way give him a first-class jolt. For a minute, he said, he couldn't help thinking it was the real thing. As for the little man--and he likely would have took matters just the same, and no blame to him, if his feet had been as hard as anybody's--he swallowed the show whole. "Good Heavens!" says he, getting real palish. "What a dreadful thing this is!" Santa let go of Mike's head and got up, brushing his pants off, and says solemn: "Our poor brother has passed from us. Palomitas has lost one of its most useful citizens--there was nobody who could mix drinks as he could--and the world has lost a noble man! Take away his stricken wife, my dear," he says, speaking to the Sage-Brush Hen. "Take poor Sister Rebecca home with you to the parsonage--my duties lie elsewhere at present--and pour out to her from your tender heart the balm of comfort that you so well know how to give." Then he come along to the buck-board, and says to the little man: "I greatly regret that this unfortunate incident should have occurred while you are with us. From every point of view the event is lamentable. Brother Green, known familiarly among us because of his facial peculiarity as Nosey Green--the gentleman piled up over there on the other side of the road--was as noble-hearted a man as ever lived; so was Brother Michael, whom you met in all the pride of his manly strength only this morning at the Forest Queen bar. Both were corner-stones of our Sunshine Club, and among the most faithful of my parishioners. In deep despondency we mourn their loss!" "It is dreadful--dreadful!" says the little man. And then he wanted to know how the shooting begun. "The dispute that has come to this doubly fatal ending," says Santa Fé, shaking his head sorrowful, "related to cock-tails. In what I am persuaded was a purely jesting spirit, Brother Green cast aspersions upon Brother Michael's skill as a drink-mixer. The injustice of his remarks, even in jest, aroused Brother Michael's hot Celtic nature and led to a retort, harshly personal, that excited Brother Green's anger--and from words they passed quickly to a settlement of the matter with their guns. However, as the fight was conducted by both of them in an honorable manner, and was creditable equally to their courage and to their proficiency in the use of arms, it is now a back number and we may discharge it from our minds. Moreover, my dear sir, our little domestic difficulties must not be suffered to interfere with the duties of hospitality. It is high time that you should have your supper; and I even venture to ask that you will hurry your meal a little--to the end that you may have opportunity, before the departure of your train this evening, to see something of the brighter side of our little town. After this sombre scene, you will find, I trust, agreeable mental refreshment in witnessing--perhaps even in participating in--our friendly card-playing, and in taking part with us in our usual cheerful evening dance. By your leave, Brother Wood, I will seat myself on the rear of your buck-board and drive along with you into town." The little man was too jolted to say anything--and up Charley hiked on the back of the buck-board, and away they went down the road. The rest followed on after: with the Hen holding fast to Kerosene, and Kerosene yelling for all she was worth; and behind come some of the boys toting Blister's corpse--with Blister swearing at 'em for the way they had his legs twisted, and ending by kicking loose and making a break by the shortcut back of the freight-house for home. The other corpse--seeing the way Blister was monkeyed with--stood off the ones that wanted to carry him, allowing he'd be more comfortable if he walked. * * * * * When the buck-board got down to the deepo the little man said he felt sickish--not being used to such goings-on--and didn't care much for eating his supper; and he said he thought likely he'd be better if he had a brandy-and-soda to settle his insides. So him and Santa Fé went across to the Forest Queen to get it--and the first thing they struck was Blister, come to life again, behind the bar! Santa Fé hadn't counted on that card coming out--but he shook one to meet it down his sleeve, and played it as quick as he knowed how. "Ah, Patrick," says he, "so you have taken your poor brother's place." And to the little man, who was staring at Blister like a stuck pig, he says: "They were twin brothers, sir, this gentleman and the deceased--and, as you see, so alike that few of their closest friends could tell them apart." "It was worse than that," says Blister, following right along with the same suit. "Only when one of us was drunk and the other sober, and that way there being a difference betwane us, could we tell our own selves apart--and indade I'm half for thinking that maybe it's meself, and not poor Mike, that's been killed by Nosey Green this day. But whichever of us it is that's dead, it's a domn good job--if your Reverence will excuse me saying so--the other one of us has made of Nosey: bad luck to the heart and lights of him, that are cooking this blessed minute in the hottest corner of hell!" "Tut! Tut! Brother Patrick," says Santa Fé, speaking friendly but serious. "You know how strongly I feel about profanity--even when, as in the present instance, justly aroused resentment lends to it a colorable excuse. And also, my dear brother, I beg you to temper with charity your views as to Brother Green's present whereabouts. It is sufficient for all purposes of human justice that he has passed away. And now, if you please, you will supply our visitor, here--whose nerves not unnaturally are shaken by the tragic events of the past hour--with the brandy-and-soda that I am satisfied he really needs. In that need, my own nerves being badly disordered, I myself share; and as the agonizing loss that you have suffered has put a still more severe strain upon your nerves, Brother Patrick, I beg that you will join us. The drinks are on me." "Sure your Reverence has a kind heart in you, and that's the holy truth," says Blister. "It's to me poor dead brother's health I'll be drinking, and with all the good-will in the world!" They had another after that; and then Blister said there was luck in odd numbers, and he wanted to show Palomitas knowed how to be hospitable to strangers, and they must have one on the bar. They had it all right, and by that time--having the three of 'em in him--the little man said he was feeling better; but, even with his drinks to help him, when he come to eating his supper he didn't make out much of a meal. He seemed to be all sort of dreamy, and was like he didn't know where he was. Santa Fé kept a-talking away to him cheerful while they was hashing; and when they'd finished off he told him he hoped what he'd see of the bright side of Palomitas--before his train started--would make him forget the cruelly sorrowful shadows of that melancholy afternoon. He was a daisy at word-slinging, Charley was--better'n most auctioneers. Then they come along together back to the bar-room--where the cloth was off the table, and the cards and chips out, ready for business to begin. All the boys was jammed in there--Nosey Green with his face tied up like he had a toothache, so it didn't show who he was--waiting to see what more was coming; and they was about busting with the laughs they had inside 'em, and ready to play close up to Santa Fé's hand. Charley set down to deal, same as usual, and asked the little man to set down aside of him--telling him he'd likely be interested in knowing that what come to the bank that night would go to getting the melodeon the Sunday-school needed bad. And then he shoved the cards round the table, and things begun. The little man took it all dreamy--saying kind of to himself he'd never in all his born days expected to see a minister making money for Sunday-school melodeons by running a faro-bank. But he wasn't so dreamy but he had sense enough to keep out of the game. Santa Fé kept a-asking him polite to come in; but he kept answering back polite he wouldn't--saying he was no sort of a hand at cards. About the size of it was, in all the matters he could see his way to that little man had as good a load of sand as anybody--and more'n most. Like enough at home he'd read a lot of them fool Wild West stories--the kind young fellers from the East, who swallow all that's told 'em, write up in books with scare pictures--and that was why in some ways he was so easy fooled. But I guess it would a-been a mistake to pick him up for a fool all round. Anyhow, Santa Fé got a set-back from him on his melodeon-faro racket--and set-backs didn't often come Santa Fé's way. It wasn't a real game the little man was up against, and like enough he had the savey to ketch on to what was being give him. For the look of the thing they'd fixed to start with a baby limit, and not raise it till he got warmed up and asked to; and it was fixed only what he dropped--the rest going back to the boys--should stay with the bank. But as he didn't warm up any worth speaking of, and wasn't giving himself no chances at all to do any dropping, Santa Fé pretty soon found out they might as well hang up the melodeon fund and go on to the next turn. * * * * * The Sage-Brush Hen managed most of what come next, and she done it well. She'd dressed herself up in them white clothes of hers with a little blue bow tied on at the neck--looking that quiet and tidy and real lady-like you'd never a-notioned what a mixed lot she was truly--and she'd helped the other girls rig out as near the same way as they could come. Some of 'em didn't come far; but they all done as well as they knowed how to, and so they wasn't to be blamed. Old Tenderfoot Sal--she was the limit, Sal was--wasn't to be managed no way; so they just kept her out of the show. When Santa Fé come to see faro-banking for melodeons wasn't money-making, he passed out word to the Hen to start up her part of the circus--and in the Hen come, looking real pretty in her white frock, and put her hand on his shoulder married-like and says: "Now, my dear, it isn't fair for you gentlemen to keep us ladies waiting another minute longer. We want our share in the evening's amusement. Do put the cards away and let us have our dance." And then she says to the little man, nice and friendly: "My husband is so eager to get our melodeon--and we really do need it badly, of course--that I have trouble with him every night to make him stop the game and give us ladies the dance that we do so enjoy." And then she says on to Charley again: "How has the melodeon fund come out to-night, my dear?" "Very well indeed. Very well indeed, my angel," Charley says back to her. "Eleven dollars and a half have been added to that sacred deposit; and the contributions have been so equally distributed that no one of us will feel the trifling loss. But in interrupting our game, my dear, you are quite right--as you always are. Our guest is not taking part in it; and--as he cannot be expected to feel, as we do, a pleasurable excitement in the augmentation of our cherished little hoard--we owe it to him to pass to a form of harmless diversion in which he can have a share." And then he says to the little man: "I am sure, sir, that Mrs. Charles will be charmed to have you for her partner in the opening dance of what we playfully term our ball." "The pleasure will be mine," says the little man--he was a real friendly polite little old feller--and up he gets and bows to the Hen handsome and gives her his arm: and then in he went with her to the dance-hall, with Santa Fé and the rest of us following on. It give us a first-class jolt to find all the girls so quiet-looking; and they being that way braced up the whole crowd to be like a dancing-party back East. To see the boys a-bowing away to their partners, while José--he was the fiddler, José was--was a tuning up, you wouldn't a-knowed where you was! It was a square dance to start in with: with the little man and the Hen, and Charley and Kerosene Kate, a-facing each other; and Denver Jones with Carrots--that was the only name she ever had in Palomitas--and Shorty Smith and Juanita, at the sides. Them three was the girls the Hen had done best with; and she'd fixed 'em off so well they most might have passed for back-East school-ma'ams--at least, in a thickish crowd. Everybody else just stood around and looked on--and that time, with all the Forest Queen ways of managing dancing upset, it was the turn of the Palomitas folks to think they'd struck a dream! The little man, of course, didn't know he'd struck anything but what went on always--and the way he kicked around spirited on them short little fat legs of his was just a sight to see! Like as not he hadn't got a good sight of Kerosene Kate while she was doing her killed husband act before supper; or, maybe, it was her being dressed up so tidy made a difference. Anyways, he didn't at first ketch on to her being about the freshest-made widow he'd ever tumbled to in a dancing-party. But he got there all right when the square dance was over, and José flourished his fiddle and sung out for the Señores and Señoritas to take partners for a _valsa_, and the Hen brought up Kerosene to foot it with him--telling him she was the organist who was going to play the melodeon when they got it, and he'd find her a nice partner as she was about the best dancer they had. When he did size her up he was that took aback he couldn't talk straight. "But--but," says he, "isn't this the lady whose husband was--was--" and he stuck fast. "Whose husband met with an accident this afternoon," says the Hen, helping him out with it. "Yes, this is our poor sister Rebecca--but the accident happened, you know, so many hours ago that the pang of it has passed; and--as Mr. Green, the gentleman who shot her husband, was shot right off himself--she feels, as we all do, that the incident is closed." And then Kerosene put in: "Great Scott, mister, you don't know Palomitas! Widows in these parts don't set round moping their heads off all the rest of their lives. They wait long enough for politeness--same as I've done--and then they start in on a new deal." The little man likely was too mixed up to notice Kerosene didn't talk pretty, like Santa Fé and the Hen knowed how to; and he was so all-round jolted that before he knew it--Kerosene getting a-hold of his hand with one of hers, and putting the other on his shoulder--he had his arm round her waist kind of by instinct and was footing it away with her the best he knowed how. But while he was a-circling about with her he was the dreamiest looking one you ever seen. Kerosene said afterwards she heard him saying to himself over and over: "This can't be real! This can't be real!" What happened along right away after was real enough for him--at least, he thought it was, and that come to the same thing. He was so dizzied up when Kerosene stopped dancing him--she was doing the most of it, she said, he keeping his little fat legs going 'cause she swung him round and he had to--all he wanted was to be let to set down. So Kerosene set him--and then the next act was put through. Bill Hart and Shorty Smith come up to Kerosene right together, and both of 'em asked her polite if she'd dance. She said polite she'd be happy to; but she said, seeing both gentlemen had spoke at once for her, they must fix it between 'em which one had the call. All the same, she put her hand on Hart's arm, like as if he was the one she wanted--and of course that pleased Hart and made Shorty mad. Then the two of 'em begun talking to each other, Hart speaking sarcastic and Shorty real ugly, and so things went on getting hotter and hotter--till Kerosene, doing it like she meant to break up the rumpus, shoved Hart's arm round her and started to swing away. Just as they got a-going, Shorty out with his gun and loosed off at Hart with it--and down Hart went in a heap on the floor. [Illustration: "AND DOWN HART WENT IN A HEAP ON THE FLOOR"] The whole place, of course, right away broke into yells and cusses, and everybody come a-crowding into a heap--some of the boys picking up Hart and carrying him, kicking feeble real natural, out into the kitchen; and some more grabbing a-hold of Shorty and taking away his gun. Kerosene let off howls fit to blow the roof off--only quieting down long enough to say she'd just agreed to take Hart for her second, and it was hard luck to be made a widow of twice in one day. Then she howled more. Really, things did go with a hum! Santa Fé and the rest come a-trooping back from the kitchen--leaving the door just a crack open, so Hart could peep through and see the fun--and Santa Fé jumped up on a bench and sung out "Order!" as loud as he could yell. Knowing what was expected of 'em, the boys quieted down sudden; and the Hen got a-hold of Kerosene and snuggled her up to her, and told her to weep on her fond breast--and Kerosene started in weeping on the Hen's fond breast all right, and left off her howls. The room was that quiet you could a-heard a cat purr. "My brethren," says Charley, talking sad-sounding and digging away at his eyes with his pocket-handkerchief, "Brother Hart has left us"--Hart being in the kitchen that was dead true--"and for the third time to-day our Sunshine Club has suffered a fatal loss. Still more lamentable is the case of our doubly stricken sister Rebecca--only just recovered, by time's healing touch, from the despair of her tragic widowhood, and at the threshold of a new glad life of wedded happiness--who again is desolately bereaved." (Kerosene give a dreadful groan--seeming to feel something was expected of her--and then jammed back to the Hen's fond breast again and kept on a-weeping like a pump.) "Our hearts are with Sister Rebecca in her woe," says Charley. "She has all our sympathy, and the full help of our sustaining love." "If I know anything about the sense of this meeting," Hill chipped in, "it's going to do a damn sight more'n sling around sympathy." (Hill had a way of speaking careless, but he didn't mean no harm by it.) "That shooting wasn't a square one," says Hill; "and it's likely there'll be another member missing from the Sunshine Club for doing it. There's telegraph-poles," says Hill, "right across the way!" "Brother Hill is right," Santa Fé went on, "though I am pained that his unhappy disposition to profanity remains uncurbed. The shot that has laid low Brother Hart was a foul one. Justice, my friends, exemplary justice, must be meted out to the one who laid and lowered him; and I reckon the quicker we get Brother Smith over to the deepo, and up on the usual telegraph-pole--as Brother Hill has suggested--the better it'll be for the moral record of our town. All in favor of such action will please signify it by saying 'Ay.'" And the whole crowd--except Shorty, who voted against it--yelled out "Ay" so loud it shook all the bottles in the bar. "The ayes have it," says Santa Fé, "and we will proceed. Brother Wood, as chairman of the Friendly Aid Society, I beg that you will go on ahead to the deepo and get ready the rope that on these occasions you so obligingly lend us from the Company's stores. Brother Jones and Brother Hill, you will kindly bring along the prisoner. The remaining Friendly Aiders present will have the goodness, at the appropriate moment, to render the assistance that they usually supply." And off Charley went, right after Wood, with the rest of us following on: Hill and Denver yanking along Shorty and flourishing their guns savage; the girls in a pack around the Hen holding on to Kerosene; and Kerosene doing her share of what was wanted by letting out yells. The little man was left to himself a-purpose; and he was so shook up, while he was coming along with the crowd over to the deepo, he couldn't say a word. But he managed to get his stamps going, though they didn't work well, when we was all on the platform--waiting while Wood rigged up the rope on the telegraph-pole--and he asked Santa Fé, speaking husky, what the boys meant to do. "Justice!" says Charley, talking as dignified as a just-swore-in sheriff. "As I explained to you this morning, sir, nobody in Palomitas ever stands in the way of a fair fight--like the one you happened to come in on at the finish a few hours ago--any more than good citizens, elsewhere and under different conditions, interfere with the processes of the courts. But when the fight is not fair, as in the present instance--the gravamen of the charge against Brother Smith being that he loosed off into Brother Hart's back when the latter did not know it was coming and hadn't his gun out--then the moral sense of our community crystallizes promptly into the punitive action that the case demands: as you will see for yourself, inside of the next ten minutes, when you see Brother Smith run up on that second telegraph-pole to the left and kicking his legs in the air until he kicks himself into Kingdom Come!" "Good Heavens!" says the little man. "You're not going to--to hang him?" "We just rather are!" says Santa Fé. And then he says, talking kind of cutting: "May I ask, sir, what you do in England with murderers? Do you pay 'em salaries, and ask 'em out to tea-parties, and hire somebody to see they have all the drinks they want?" The little man begun telling how English folks manage such matters, and was real excited. But nobody but the Hen paid no attention to him. The Hen--she and Kerosene was standing close aside of him--turned round to him and said pleasant she always enjoyed most the hangings they had by moonlight (the moon was at the full, and shining beautiful) because the moonlight, she said, cast over them such a glamour of romance. And her looking at moonlight hangings that way seemed to give him such a jolt he stopped talking and give a kind of a gasp. There wasn't no more time for talking, anyway--for just then the train backed in to the platform and the conductor sung out the Friendly Aiders had got to get a move on 'em, if them going by it was to see the doings, and put Shorty through. Being moonlight, and the shadows thick, helped considerable--keeping from showing how the boys had fixed Shorty up so his hanging wouldn't come hard: with a lariat run round under his arms, his shirt over it, and a loop just inside his collar where they could hitch the rope fast. When they did hitch to it, things looked just as natural as you please. Shorty got right into the hanging spirit--he always was a comical little cuss, Shorty was--pleading pitiful with the boys to let up on him; and, when they wouldn't, getting a halt on 'em--same as he'd seen done at real hangings--by beginning to send messages to all the folks he ever had. Santa Fé let him go on till he'd got to his uncles and cousins--and then he said he guessed the rest of the family could make out to do with second-hand messages from them that had them; and as it was past train-time, and the distinguished stranger in their midst--who was going on it--would enjoy seeing the show through, the hanging had got to be shoved right along. When Charley'd give his order, Carver come up--he was the Pullman conductor, Carver was, and he had his points how to manage--and steered the little man onto the back platform of the Pullman, where he could see well; and so had things all ready for the train to pull out as soon as Shorty was swung off. Wood, who'd had experience, had the rope rigged up in good shape over the cross-bar of the telegraph-pole; and Hill and Denver fetched old Shorty along--with Shorty letting on he was scared stiff, and yowling like he'd been ashamed to if it hadn't been a bunco game he was playing--and hitched him to it, with the boys standing close round in a clump so they hid the way it was done. The little man was so worked up by that time--it likely being he hadn't seen much of hangings--he was just a-hopping: with his plug hat off, and sousing the sweat off his face with his pocket-handkerchief, and singing out what was going on wasn't any better than murder, and begging all hands not to do what he said was such a dreadful deed. But nobody paid no attention to him (except Carver, he was a friendly feller, Carver was, kept a lookout he didn't tumble himself off the platform) and when Denver sung out things was ready, and Santa Fé sung out back for the Friendly Aiders to haul away, the boys all grabbed onto the rope together--and up Shorty went a-kicking into the air. Shorty really did do his act wonderful: kicking every which way at first, and then only sort of squirming, and then quieting down gradual till he just hung limp--with the kick all kicked out of him--turning round and round slow! When he'd quieted, the train conductor swung his lantern to start her, and off she went--the little man standing there on the back platform of the Pullman, a-grabbing at the railing like he was dizzy, looking back with all his eyes. And old Shorty up on the telegraph-pole, making a black splotch twisting about in the moonlight, was the last bit of Palomitas he seen! * * * * * Next day but one Carver come down again on his regular run, and he told the boys the little man kept a-hanging onto the platform railing and a-looking back hard till the train got clean round the curve. Then he give a kind of a coughing groan, Carver said, and come inside the Pullman--there wasn't no other passengers that night in the Pullman--and plumped himself down on a seat anyways, a-looking as white as a clean paper collar; and for a while he just set there, like he had a pain. At last he roused up and reached for his grip and got his flask out and had a good one; and when he'd had it he says to Carver, as savage as if Carver--who hadn't had no hand in the doings--was the whole business: "Sir, this America of yours is a continent of chaos--and you Americans are no better than so many wild beasts!" Then he had another; and after that he went on, like he was talking to himself: "All I ask is to get out of this nightmare of a country in a hurry--and safe back to my own home in the Avenue Road!" And from then on, Carver said, till it was bedtime--except now and then he took another--he just set still and glared. Carver said it wasn't any funeral of his, and so he didn't see no need to argue with him. And he allowed, he said, maybe he had some call to feel the way he did about America, and to want to get quick out of it, after being up against Palomitas for what he guessed you might say was a full day. VII THE PURIFICATION OF PALOMITAS In the long run, same as I said to start with, all tough towns gets to where it's needed to have a clean-up. Shooting-scrapes is a habit that grows; and after a while decent folks begins to be sort of sick of such doings--and of having things all upside-downey generally--and then something a little extry happens, bringing matters to a head, and the white men take hold and the toughs is fired. Just to draw a card anywheres from the pack--there was Durango. What made a clean town of Durango was that woman getting killed in bed in her tent--the boys being rumpussing around, same as usual, and a shot just happening her way and taking her. It was felt that outsiders--and 'specially ladies--oughtn't to get no such treatment; and so they had a spring house-cleaning--after what I reckon was the worst winter a town ever went through--and Durango was sobered right down. Palomitas went along the same trail, and took the same pass over the divide. All through that year, while the end of the track hung there, things kept getting more and more uncomfortabler. When construction started up again--the little Englishman, in spite of the dose we give him, reported favorable on construction and the English stockholders put up the stake they was asked to--things got to be worse still. Right away, as soon as work begun, the place was jammed full of Greasers getting paid off every Saturday night, and all day Sunday being crazy drunk and knifing each other, and in between scrappings having their pay sucked out of 'em at the banks and dance-halls--and most of the boys going along about the same rate, except they used guns instead of knives to settle matters--so the town really was just about what you might call a quarter-section of hell's front yard. Being that way, it come to be seen there'd got to be a clean-up; and what was wanted for a starter was give by Santa Fé Charley shooting Bill Hart. There was no real use for the shooting. The two of 'em just got to jawing in Hart's store about which was the best of two brands of plug tobacco--Hart being behind the counter, and Charley, who had a bad jag on, setting out in the middle of the store on a nail-kag--and the first thing anybody knowed, Charley'd let go with his derringer through his pants-pocket and Hart was done for. If Santa Fé hadn't been on one of his tears at the time, the thing wouldn't a-happened--him and Hart always having been friendly, and 'specially so after the trouble they'd had together over Hart's aunt. But when it did happen--being so sort of needless, and Hart popular--most of us made our minds up something had got to be done. * * * * * Joe Cherry headed the reform movement. He had a bunch of sheep up in the Sangre de Cristo mountains, Cherry had, but was in town frequent and always bunked at Hart's store--him and Hart having knowed each other back East and being great friends. That made him take a 'special interest in the matter; and when he come a-riding in about an hour after things was over--likely he'd a-fixed Santa Fé himself if he'd been there when it happened--he got right up on his ear. He said he meant to square accounts for Bill's shooting, and he reckoned telegraph-poling Charley was about what was needed to square 'em; and he said it was a good time, with that for a starter, for rounding-up and firing all the toughs there was in town. The rest of us allowed Cherry's notions was reasonable, and it was seen there'd better be no fooling over 'em; and so we went straight on and had a meeting, with Cherry chairman, and fixed up a Committee--and the Committee begun business by corralling Santa Fé, and then set to work and made out a list of them that was to be fired. There was about a dozen of 'em in the list; and they was told--the notice being posted at the deepo--they had twenty-four hours to get out in; and it was added that them that wasn't out in twenty-four hours would find 'emselves landed on the dumps for keeps. A few of 'em kicked a little--saying it was a free country, and they guessed they'd a right to be where they'd a mind to. But when the Committee said back it just was a free country, and one of the freest things in it was telegraph-poles--as Santa Fé Charley was going to find out for certain, and as them that was ordered to get up and get and didn't would find out along with him--even the kickingest of 'em seen they'd better just shut their heads and andy along. It wasn't till the Committee come to tackle the Sage-Brush Hen there was any trouble--and then they found their drills was against quartz! Two or three of Charley's worst shootings was charged to the Hen, she being 'special friends with him; and just because she was such a good-natured obliging sort of a woman, always wanting to please everybody, she was at the roots of half the fights that started in--so there'd come to be what was called the Hen's Lot out in the cemetery on the mesa, as I've mentioned before. The Committee put her in their list because they knowed for a fact there was bound to be ructions in Palomitas as long as she stayed there; and so they found 'emselves in a deepish hole when she said plump Palomitas suited her, and she didn't mean to be fired. The Hen knowed as well as they did she had a cinch on 'em. If they didn't like her staying, she said, they could yank her up to the next telegraph-pole to Charley's--and then she asked 'em, kind of cool and cutting, if they didn't think hanging a lady would give a nice name to the town! The Committee was in session in the waiting-room at the deepo while the Hen was doing her talking, and Santa Fé--with handcuffs on, and tied to the express messenger's safe--was in the express office, with the door open between. Everybody seen the Hen was right, and hanging her would be ungentlemanly, and nobody seemed to know what they'd better do. While they was all setting still and thinking, Santa Fé spoke up from the express office--saying he had the reputation of the town at heart as much as anybody, and to make a real clean-up the Hen ought to quit along with the others, and if they'd let him have five minutes private talk with her he'd fix things so she'd go. The Committee didn't much believe Santa Fé could deliver the goods; but they seen it would be a way out for 'em if he did--and so they agreed him and the Hen should have their talk. To make it private, he was took out and hitched fast to a freight-car laying on the siding back of the deepo--the Committee standing around in easy shooting distance, but far enough off not to hear nothing, with their Winchesters handy in case the Hen took it into her head to cut the rope and give him a chance to get away. She didn't--and she and Santa Fé talked to each other mighty serious for a while; and then they begun to snicker a little; and they ended up in a rousing laugh. Charley sung out they'd finished, and the Committee closed in and unhitched him, and took him back to the express office and hitched him to the safe again--where he was to stay till hanging-time, with members of the Committee taking turns keeping him quiet with their guns. He said he was much obliged to 'em, and the Hen had agreed to quit--and everybody was pleased all round. "I don't like not being here when Charley gets his medicine," the Hen said, "him and me being such good friends; but he says it would only worry him having me in the audience, and so I've promised him I'll light out"--and she kept her word, and got away for Denver by that night's train. Her going took a real load off the Committee's mind. Some of the other fired ones went off on the same train. The rest took Hill's coach across to Santa Fé--and made no trouble, Hill said, except they held the coach for two hours at Pojuaque while all hands got drunk at old man Bouquet's. Hill said all the rest of the way they was yelling, and firing off their guns, and raising hell generally--that was the way Hill put it--but they didn't do no real harm. It was Joe Cherry's notion that Santa Fé should be took along to Hart's funeral, and not hung till everybody got back to town again. Joe was a serious-minded man, and he said the moral effect of running things that way would pan out a lot richer than if they just had a plain hanging before the funeral got under way. Santa Fé kicked at that, at first; and a good many of the boys felt he had a right to. Santa Fé said it was all in the game to run him up to the telegraph-pole in front of the deepo, the same as other folks; but no committee had no right, he said, to make a circus of him by packing him all round the place after poor old Bill--who always had been plain in his tastes, and would have been the last man in Palomitas to want that kind of a fuss made over him--and he didn't mean to take a hand in no such fool carryings-on. He didn't want anybody to think he was squirming, he said, for he wasn't. Some men got up against telegraph-poles, and others got up against guns or pneumonia or whatever happened to come along--and it was all in the day's work. But when they did get up against it--whatever it turned out to be--that was the one time in their lives when it wasn't fair to worry 'em more'n was needed. Nobody but chumps, he said, would want to hurt his feelings by making him do trick-mule acts at poor old Bill's funeral--'specially as him and Bill always had been friendly, and nobody was sorrier than he was about the accident that had occurred. Santa Fé was a first-rate talker, and everybody but Cherry allowed what he was letting out had a good deal of sense in it. He ended up by saying that if they did make any such fool show of him he'd like 'em to put it through quick and get him back to the deepo and telegraph him off to Kingdom Come in a hurry--as he'd be glad at any price to be shut of a crowd that would play it on anybody that low down! Cherry stuck it out, though, to have things his way. Palomitas was going in for purification, Cherry said, and the moral effect of having Santa Fé along at Bill's funeral was part of the purifying. The very fact that Santa Fé was kicking so hard against it, he said, showed it was a good thing. There was sense in that, too; and so the upshot of it was the boys come round to Cherry's plan. The only serious thing against it was it meant waiting over another day, till the funeral outfit got down from Denver--all hands having chipped in to give Hart a good send-off, and telegraphed his size to a first-class Denver undertaker, with orders to do him up in style. Making him wait around so long, sort of idle, was what Santa Fé kicked hardest against at first. But after his talk with the Hen, as was remembered afterwards, he didn't do any more kicking; and some of the boys noticed he was a little nervous, and kept asking, off and on, if they still meant to run the show that way. The boys did what they could to make the time go for him--setting around sociable in the express office telling stories about other hangings they'd happened to get up against, and trying all they knowed how to amuse him, and giving him more seegars and drinks than he really cared to have. But as he was kept hitched to both handles of the safe right enough, and handcuffed, and as the two members of the Committee watching him--while they was as pleasant with him as anybody--never had their hands far off their guns, it's likely there'd been other times when he'd enjoyed himself more. * * * * * Things was spirited at the deepo when the Denver train got in. All there was of Palomitas was on deck, and Becker'd come over from Santa Cruz de la Cañada, and old man Bouquet from Pojuaque, and Sam and Marcus Elbogen had driven across on their buck-board from San Juan--and Mexicans had come in from all around in droves. The Elbogen brothers had been asked over for the funeral 'special--because they both had good voices, and the Committee thought like enough, being Germans, they'd know some hymns. It turned out they didn't--but they blew off "The Watch on the Rhine" in good shape, when singing time come out at the cemetery; and as it was a serious-sounding tune it done just as well. Singing it made trouble, though: because Hart's nephew--who knowed German and was a pill--hadn't no more sense'n to tell old man Bouquet, coming back to town, what the words meant; and that started old man Bouquet off so--the war not being long over, and his side downed--that it took two of us, holding him by his arms and legs, to keep him from trying to fight both the Elbogens at once. Being good-natured young fellows, the Elbogens didn't take offence, but behaved like perfect gentlemen--telling old man Bouquet they didn't mean to hurt his feelings, and was sorry if they had--and it ended up well by their having drinks together at the Forest Queen. All that, though, has no real bearing on the story. It happened along later in the day. Before the train got in, to save time, a rope had been rigged for Santa Fé over the cross-bar of the usual telegraph-pole--and Cherry, who knowed how to manage better'n most, had seen to it the rope was well soaped so as to run smooth. Cherry said he'd knowed things go real annoying, sometimes, when the soap had been forgot. Santa Fé looked well. He'd had a good brush up--and he needed it, after being tied fast to the safe for three days and sleeping in a blanket on the express-office floor--and he'd put on a clean shirt, and blacked his boots, and had a shave. He always was a tidy sort of a man. When the train pulled in, being on time for a wonder, some fellows from Chamita and the Embudo--come to see the doings--got out from the day-coach and shook hands; and the Denver undertaker got out from the express-car and helped the messenger unload the fixings he'd brought for poor old Bill. Everybody stood around quiet like, and as serious as you please. You might have thought it was a Sunday morning back in the States. Except now and then a drummer--bound for Santa Fé on Hill's coach--nobody much ever come to Palomitas on the Pullman; and so there was something of a stir-up when the Pullman conductor helped a lady out of the car--landing her close to where Charley in his clean shirt and handcuffs on was standing between two members of the Committee holding guns. She was a fine-shaped woman, but looked oldish--as well as you could see for the veil she had on--having a sad pale face a good deal wrinkled and a bunch of gray hair. She was dressed in measly old black clothes, and had an old black shawl on, and looked poor. Getting out into that crowd of men seemed to rattle her, and she didn't for a minute look at nobody. It wasn't till she a'most butted into Charley she seen him--and when she did see him she let off a yell loud enough to give points to a locomotive! And then she sort of sobbed out: "My husband!"--and got her arms around Santa Fé's neck and begun to cry. "My God! It's my wife!" said Charley. And if the members of the Committee hadn't caught the two of 'em quick they'd likely tumbled down. Santa Fé was the first to get his wind back. "My poor darling!" he said. "To think that you should have come to me at last--and in this awful hour!" "What does it mean, Charley? Tell me, what does it mean?" she moaned. Santa Fé snuggled her up to him--as well as he could with his hands handcuffed--and said back to her: "It means, Mary, that in less than two hours' time I am to be hung! In the heat of passion I have killed a man. It was more than half an accident, as everybody here knows"--and he looked over her head at the boys as they all jammed in to listen--"but that don't matter, so far as the dreadful result is concerned. I loved the man I shot like my own brother, and shooting him in that chance way has about broken my heart. But that don't count either. Justice must be done, my darling. Stern justice must be done. You have come just in time to see your husband die!" He was quiet for a minute, with the woman all in a shake against him--and a kind of a snuffling went through the crowd. Then he said, sort of choky: "Tell me, Mary, how are our dear little girls?" She was too broke up to answer him. She just kept on hugging him, and crying as hard as she could cry. "Gentlemen," said Santa Fé, "it is better that this painful scene should end. Take my poor wife from me, and let me pay the just penalty of my accidental crime. Take her away, please--and hang me as quick as you can!" "They sha'n't hang you, Charley! They sha'n't! They sha'n't!" she sung out--and she jerked away from him and got in front of Cherry and pitched down on the deepo platform on her knees. "Don't hang him, sir!" she groaned out. "Spare him to me, and to our dear little girls who love him with all their little hearts! Oh, sir, say that he shall be saved!" "Get up, ma'am, please," Cherry said, looking as worried as he could look. "That's no sort of a way for a lady to do! Please get up right away." "Never! Never!" she said. "Never till you promise me that the life of my dear husband shall be spared!"--and she grabbed Cherry round the knees and groaned dreadful. He really was the most awkward-looking man, with her holding onto his legs that way, you ever seen! [Illustration: "'DON'T HANG HIM, SIR!' SHE GROANED OUT"] "Oh, Lord, ma'am, _do_ get up!" he said. "Having you like that for another minute'll make me sick. I'm not used to such goings-on"--and Cherry did what he could to work loose his legs. But she hung on so tight he couldn't shake her, and kept saying, "Save him! Save him!" and uttering groans. Cherry wriggled his legs as much as he could and looked around at the boys. They all was badly broke up, and anybody could see they was weakening. "Shall we let up on Santa Fé this time?" he asked. "I guess it's true he didn't more'n half mean, being drunk the way he was, to shoot Bill--and it makes things different, anyway, knowing he's got kids and a wife. Bill himself would be the first to allow that. Bill was as kind-hearted a man as ever lived. Do please, ma'am, let go." Nobody spoke for a minute--but it was plain how the tide was setting--and then Santa Fé himself chipped in. "Gentlemen," he said, "you all know I've faced this music from the first without any squirming, and even come into Joe Cherry's plan for making me do circus stunts at the funeral for the good of the town. I'm ready to go through the whole fool business right now, and come back here when it's all over and be hung according to contract--" "Save him! Save him!" the woman sung out; and she give such a jerk to Cherry's legs it come close to spilling him. "But I will say this much, gentlemen," Santa Fé went on: "I am willing to ask for the sake of my dear wife and helpless innocent infants what I wouldn't be low down enough to ask for myself--and that is that you call this game off. This dreadful experience has changed me, gentlemen. It has changed me right down to my toes. Being as close to a telegraph-pole as I am now makes a man want to turn over a new leaf and behave--as some of you like enough'll find out for yourselves if you don't draw cards from my awful example and brace up all you know how. Give me another show, gentlemen. That's what I ask for--give me another show. Let me go home with my angel wife to the dear old farm in Ohio, where my aged mother and my sweet babes are waiting for me. Like enough they're standing out by the old well in the front yard looking down the road for me now!" Santa Fé gagged so he couldn't go on for a minute. But he pulled himself together and finished with his chest out and his chin up and speaking firm. "Let me go home, I say, to the old farm and my dear ones--and take a fresh start at leading bravely the honest life of an honest man!" Then he lowered down his chin and took his chest in and said, sort of soft and gentle: "Let go of Mr. Cherry's legs and come and kiss me, my darling! And please wipe the tears from my eyes--with my poor shackled hands I can't!" The woman give Cherry's legs one more rousing jerk, and said, sort of imploring: "Save him! Save him for his old mother's sake, and for mine, and for the sake of our little girls!" Then she got up and wiped away at Santa Fé's eyes with her pocket-handkerchief, and went to kissing him for all she was worth--holding on to him tight around the neck with both arms. The boys was all as uncomfortable as they could be--except Cherry seemed to feel better at getting his legs loose--and some of 'em fairly snuffled out loud. They stood around looking at each other, and nobody said a word. Then Santa Fé kind of wrenched loose from her kissing him and spoke up. "Which is it to be, gentlemen?" he said. "Is it the telegraph-pole--or is it another chance?" The woman moaned fit to break her heart. The silence, except for her moaning, hung on for a good minute. Then Hill broke it. "Oh, damn it all!" said Hill--it was Hill's way to talk sort of careless--"Give him another chance!" That settled things. In another minute they had the handcuffs off of Santa Fé and all the boys was shaking hands with him. And then they was asking to be introduced to his wife--she was all broke to bits, and crying, and kept her veil down--and shaking hands with her too; and they ended off by giving Charley and his wife three cheers. You never seen folks so pleased! The only one out of it was the Denver undertaker--who couldn't be expected to feel like the rest of us; and was in a hurry, anyway, to put through his job so he could start back home on the night train. "You come along with me in the coach, Charley," Hill said--Hill always was a friendly sort of a fellow--"and I'll jerk you over to Santa Fé in no time, and you can start right off East by the 6.30 train. That'll be quicker'n going up to Pueblo, and it'll be cheaper too. The ride across sha'n't cost you a cent. If you and your lady come in my coach, you come free. And I say, boys," Hill went on, "let's open a pot for them little girls! Here's my hat, with ten dollars in it for a warmer. I'd make it more if I could--and nobody'll hurt my feelings by raising my call." All hands made a rush for Hill's hat--and when Hill handed it to that poor woman, who had her pocket-handkerchief up to her eyes under her veil and was crying so she shook all over, there was more'n two hunderd dollars in it, mostly gold. "This is for them children, ma'am, with all our compliments," Hill said--and he and Charley helped her hold her shawl up, so it made a kind of a bag, while he turned his hat upside-down. "Speaking for my dear little girls, I thank you from my heart, gentlemen," Santa Fé said. "This is a royal gift, and it comes at a mighty good time. Some part of it must be used to pay our way East--back to the dear old home, where those little angels are waiting for us sitting cuddled up on their grandmother's knees. What remains, I promise you gentlemen, shall be a sacred deposit--to be used in buying little dresses, and hats, and things, for my sweet babes. I hate to use a single cent of it for anything else, but the fact is just now I'm right down to the hardpan." And everybody--remembering Santa Fé'd took advantage of being on his drunk to get cleaned out at Denver Jones's place the night before the shooting--knowed this was true. "Well, Charley, we must be andying along," Hill said. "Waiting here to see you hung has put me more'n an hour behind on my schedule. I'll have to hustle them mules like hell"--that was the careless way Hill talked always--"if we're going to ketch that 6.30 train." Everybody shook hands for good-bye with Santa Fé and his wife, and Santa Fé had his pockets stuffed full of seegars, and more bottles was put in the coach than was needed--and then we give 'em three cheers again, and away they went down the slope to the bridge over the Rio Grande, with Hill whipping away for all he was worth and cussing terrible at his mules. Whipping done some good, Hill used to say; but cuss-words was the only sure things to make mules go. "Well, boys," said Cherry, when the yelling let up a little. "I guess getting shut of Santa Fé that way is better'n hanging him; and I guess--with him and the Hen and the rest of 'em fired out of it--we've got Palomitas purified about down to the ground. And what's to all our credits, we've ended off by doing a first-class good deed! Them little girls'll be pleased and happy when their mother gets back to 'em with our money in her pocket, and brings along in good shape their father--who'd just about be in the thick of his kicking on that telegraph-pole, by this time, if she hadn't romped in the way she did on the closest kind of a close call! "And now let's turn to and get poor old Bill planted. We've kind of lost sight of Bill in the excitement--and we owe him a good deal. If Santa Fé hadn't started the reform movement by shooting him, we'd still be going on in the same old way. You may say it's all Bill's doings that Palomitas has been give the clean-up it wanted, and wanted bad!" * * * * * When Hill drove into town next afternoon--coming to the deepo, where most of the boys was setting around waiting for the train to pull out--he was laughing so he was most tumbling off the box. "I've got the damnedest biggest joke on this town," Hill said--Hill had the habit of talking that off-hand way--"that ever was got on a town since towns begun!" Hill was so full of it he couldn't hold in to make a story. He just went right on blurting it out: "Do you boys know who that wife of Charley's was that blew in yesterday from Denver? I guess you don't! Well, I do--she was the Sage-Brush Hen! Yes sirree," Hill said, so full of laugh he couldn't hardly talk plain; "that's just who she was! All along from the first there was something about her shape I felt I ought to know, and I was dead right. It come out while we was stopping at Bouquet's place at Pojuaque for dinner--they both knowing I'd see it was such a joke I wouldn't spoil it by giving it away too soon. She went in the back room at Bouquet's to have a wash and a brush up--and when she come along to table she'd got over being Charley's wife and was the Hen as good as you please! She hadn't a gray hair or a wrinkle left nowhere, and was like she always was except for her black clothes. When she saw my looks at seeing her, she got to laughing fit to kill herself--just the same gay old Hen as ever; and she always was, you know, the most comical-acting sort of a woman, when she wanted to be, anybody ever seen. "When she quieted down her laughing a little she told me the whole story. She and Charley'd fixed it up between 'em, she said; and she'd whipped up to Denver on one train and down again on the next--buying quick her gray hair and her black outfit, and getting somebody she knowed at the Denver theatre to fix her face for her so she'd look all broke up and old. She nearly gave the whole thing away, she said, when Charley asked her about the little girls. He just throwed that in, without her expecting it--and it set her to laughing and shaking so, back of her veil, that we'd a-ketched up with her sure, she said, if Charley hadn't whispered quick to pretend to cry and carry off her laughing that way. She had another close call, she said, when Charley was talking about the old farm in Ohio--she all the time knowing for a fact he was born in East St. Louis, and hadn't any better acquaintance with Ohio than three months in the Cincinnati jail. Charley ought to go on the stage, she says--where she's been herself. She says he'd lay Forrest and Booth and all them fellows out cold! "She and Charley just yelled while she was telling it all to me; and they was laughing 'emselves 'most sick all the rest of the way across to Santa Fé. When we got into town I drove 'em to the Fonda; and then the Hen rigged herself out in good clothes she bought at Morse's--it was the pot we made up for them sweet babes paid for her outfit--and give her old black duds to one of the Mexican chambermaids. They allowed--knowing I could be trusted not to go around talking in Santa Fé--they'd stay on at the Fonda till to-morrow, anyway: so I might let 'em know, when I get back again, how you boys took it when you was told how they'd played it on you right smack down to the ground! "Charley sent word he hoped there wouldn't be no hard feeling--as there oughtn't to be, he said, seeing he was so drunk when he shot Bill it was just an accident not calling for hanging; and the whole thing, anyways, being all among friends. And the Hen sent word she guessed the two of 'em had give you a first-class theatre show worth more'n you put in my hat for gate-money, and you all ought to be pleased. And they both said they'd been treated so square by you fellows they'd be real sorry to have any misunderstanding, and they hoped you'd take the joke friendly--the same as they meant it themselves." * * * * * Well, of course we all did take it friendly--it wouldn't a-been sensible to take as good a joke as that was any other way. Cherry was the only one that squirmed a little. "It's on us, and it's on us good," Cherry said; "and I'm not kicking--only you boys haven't got no notion what it is having a woman a-grabbing fast to your legs and groaning at you, and how dead sick it makes you feel!" Cherry stopped for a minute, and looked as if he was a'most sick with just thinking about it. Then he sort of shook himself and got a brace on, and went ahead with his chin up like he was making a speech in town-meeting--and it turned out, as it don't always in town-meeting speeches, what he said was true. "Gentlemen," said Cherry, "there's this to be said, and we have a right to say it proudly: we've give this town the clean-up we set out to give it, and from now on it's going to stay clean. There won't be any more doings; or, if there is, the Committee 'll know the reason why. Palomitas is purified, gentlemen, right down to the roots; and I reckon I'm mistook bad--worse'n I was when the Hen was yanking my legs about--if the Committee hasn't sand enough and rope enough to keep on keeping it pure!" THE END 
4991	----	The Pony Rider Boys in New Mexico or The End of the Silver Trail by Frank Gee Patchin, 1910 CHAPTER I SOMETHING IN THE WIND "What was that?" "Only one of the boys in the seat behind us, snoring." "Sure they're asleep?" "Yes, but what if they're not? They are only kids. They wouldn't understand." "Don't you be too sure about that. I've heard about those kids. Heard about 'em over in Nevada. There's four of them. They call themselves the Pony Rider Boys; and they're no tenderfeet, if all I hear is true. They have done some pretty lively stunts." "Yes, that's all right, Bob, but we ain't going to begin by getting cold feet over a bunch of kids out for a holiday." "Where they going?" "Don't know. Presume they'll be taking a trip over the plains or heading for the mountains. They've got a stock car up ahead jammed full of stock and equipment." "Scarecrows?" "No. Good stock. Some of the slickest ponies you ever set eyes on. There's one roan there that I wouldn't mind owning. Maybe we can make a trade," and the speaker chuckled softly to himself. A snore louder than those that had preceded it, caused the two men to laugh heartily. The snore had come from Stacy Brown. Both he and Tad Butler were resting from their long journey on the Atlantic and Pacific train. Further to the rear of the car, their companions, Ned Rector and Walter Perkins, also were curled up in a double seat, with Professor Zepplin sitting very straight as if sleep were furthest from his thoughts. They were nearing their destination now, and within the hour would be unloading their stock and equipment at Bluewater. "They're asleep all right," grinned one of the two men who occupied the seat just ahead of Stacy and Tad. "Is old man Marquand going to meet us at the station?" "Oh, no. That wouldn't be a good thing. Might attract too much attention. Told him not to. We'll get a couple of ponies at Bluewater and ride across the mountains. But we've got to be slick. The old man is no fool. He'll hang on to the location of the treasure till the last old cat's gone to sleep for good." "Any idea where the place is?" "No. Except that it's somewhere south of the Zuni range." A solitary eye in the seat behind, opened cautiously. The eye belonged to Stacy Brown. The last snore had awakened him, and he had lain with closed eyes listening to the conversation of the two men. He gave Tad a gentle nudge, which was returned with a soft pressure on Stacy's right arm as a warning that he was to remain quiet. "Do you know what the treasure consists of?" "Maybe a mine, but as near as I could draw from Marquand's talk it is jewels and Spanish money which one of the old Franciscan monks had buried. The Pueblos knew where it was, but they sealed the place up after the Pueblo revolution in 1680, and it's been corked tight ever since." "How'd Marquand get wise to it?" "From an old Pueblo Chief whose life he saved a few months ago. The old chief died a little while afterwards, but before he went, he told Marquand about the treasure." "Didn't suppose a redskin had so much gratitude under his tough skin. Does the old man know where the place is?" "No, not exactly. That's where we come in," grinned the speaker. "We are going to help him find it." "And then?" "Oh, well. There's lots of ways to get rid of him." "You mean?" "He might tumble off into a canyon, or something of the sort, in the night time. Here's the place." The train was rounding a bend into the little town of Bluewater. "Sit still," whispered Tad. "I want to get a look at those fellows so I'll know them next time I see them." The Pony Rider boy left his seat, and hurrying to the forward end of the car, helped himself to a drink of water from the tank; then slowly retraced his steps. As he walked down the car, he took in the two men in one swift, comprehensive glance, then swung his hands to his companions at the other end of the car, as a signal that they were arriving at their destination. "Know 'em?" whispered Stacy as Tad began pulling his baggage from the rack. "Never saw either before. Better get your stuff together. This train is fast only when it stops. It drags along over the country, but when it gets into a station it's always in a hurry to get away," laughed Tad. A few minutes later the party of bronzed young men sprang from the car to the station platform, where they instantly became the center of a throng of curious villagers. Readers of the preceding volumes of this series are already too well acquainted with the Pony Rider Boys to need a formal introduction. As told in "THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN THE ROCKIES," the lads had set out from their homes in Missouri for a summer's vacation in the saddle. That first volume detailed how the lads penetrated the fastnesses of the Rockies, hunted big game and how they finally discovered the Lost Claim, which they won after fighting a battle with the mountaineers, thus earning for themselves quite a fortune. In "THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN TEXAS," the boys were again seen to advantage. There they joined in a cattle drive across the state as cowboys. They played an exciting part in the rough life of the cowmen, meeting with many stirring adventures. It will be remembered how, in this story, Tad Butler saved a large part of the herd, besides performing numerous heroic deeds, including the saving of the life of a member of the party from a swollen river. At the end of their journey, they solved a deep mystery--a mystery that had perplexed and worried the cattle men, besides causing them heavy financial loss. In "THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN MONTANA," the scene shifted to the old Custer Trail, the battle ground of one of the most tragic events in American history. The story described how Tad Butler overheard a plot to stampede and kill a flock of many thousand sheep; how after experiencing many hardships, he finally carried the news to the owner of the herd; then later, participated in the battle between the cowmen and sheep herders, in which the latter emerged victorious. It will be recalled too, how the Pony Rider Boy was captured by the Blackfeet Indians and taken to their mountain retreat, where with a young companion he was held until they made their escape with the assistance of an Indian maiden; how they were pursued by the savages, the bullets from whose rifles singing over the heads of the lads as they headed for a river into which they plunged, thus effectually throwing off the savage pursuers; and finally, how in time they made their way back to the camp of the Pony Riders, having solved the mystery of the old Custer Trail. After these exciting adventures, the lads concluded to cut short their Montana trip and go on to the next stage of their journeyings, which was destined to be even more stirring than any that had preceded it. How Tad Butler and Stacy Brown proved themselves to be real heroes, was told in "THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN THE OZARKS." For a long time, an organized band of thieves had been stealing stock in the Ozark range, baffling all efforts to apprehend them. The boys had been warned to guard their own stock carefully, but despite this, their ponies were stolen from camp, one by one and in a most mysterious manner, until not an animal was left. Then, one by one, the Pony Rider Boys became lost until only Tad and Stacy remained. They were facing starvation, and it will be recalled how Tad Butler made a plucky trip to the nearest mining camp for assistance. There the boys were imprisoned underground by a mine explosion; escaping from which, they met with perils every bit as grave, and from which they were eventually rescued by Stacy himself. Through the disaster, the lads solved the Secret of the Ruby Mountain, thus putting an end for good to the wholesale thieving in the Ozark range. Though the Pony Rider Boys had suffered many hardships in their journeyings, those that lay before them were destined to try them even more. In "THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN THE ALKALI," they faced the perils of the baking alkali desert. It will be recalled how they fought desperately for water when all the usual sources of supply were found to have run dry; how Tad and Stacy Brown were captured by a desert hermit and thrown into a cave; how, after their escape, they were lost in the Desert Maze, and how after many hardships, they finally succeeded in making their way to camp, dragging behind them a wild coyote that Tad had roped when the boys were beset by the wild beasts in the dead of night. Nothing daunted by their trying experiences the Pony Rider Boys set out on the concluding trip of the season--a journey over the historic plains and mountains of New Mexico. After a long railroad ride, they had finally arrived at the town of Bluewater, from which they were to begin their explorations in the southwest. A guide was to meet and conduct them across the mountains of the Zuni range and so on to the southern borders of the state. By the time they reached the platform of the station, the stock car had been uncoupled and was being shifted to a side track where they might unload their belongings at their leisure. "I wonder where that guide is," said Tad. "He was told to be here," answered the Professor. "Never mind; we can unload better without him," averred Ned, starting off at a brisk trot for their car which had been shunted alongside the platform at the rear of the station. With joyous anticipation of the new scenes and experiences that lay before them, the lads set briskly to work, and within an hour had all the stock and equipment removed from the car. There was quite an imposing collection, with their ponies, their burros, tents and other equipment, the latter lying strewn all over the open level space beyond the station. "Looks as if a circus had just come to town," laughed Walter. "We've got a side show, anyway," retorted Ned. "What's our side show?" "Chunky's that." "No; he's the clown. The rest of us are the animals, only we're not in cages." "Hey, fellows, see that funny Mexican on the burro there," laughed Chunky. "Guess he never saw an outfit like ours before." The lads could not repress a laugh as they glanced at the figure pointed out by Stacy. The man was sitting on the burro, his feet extended on the ground before him, hands thrust deep into trousers pockets. He was observing the work of the boys curiously. The fellow's high, conical head was crowned by a peaked Mexican hat, much the worse for wear, while his coarse, black hair was combed straight down over a pair of small, piercing, dark eyes. The complexion, or such of it as was visible through the mask of wiry hair, was swarthy, his form thin and insignificant. Stacy Brown strode over to him somewhat pompously. "You speak English?" questioned the boy. "Si, señor." The Mexican's lips curled back, revealing two rows of gleaming, white teeth. "I'm glad to hear it. I didn't think you could. We are looking for a guide who was to have met us here to conduct us over the mountains. His name is Juan. It'll be something else when he does show up. Do you know him?" "Si, señor." "Isn't he coming to meet us?" "Si, señor." "Well, I must say he's taking his time about getting here. Where is he?" "Juan here, señor." "Here? I don't see him," answered the lad, looking about the place. "Me Juan," grinned the Mexican. "You?" "Never mind the señor. I'll take for granted I'm a señor, or whatever else you think. Say, fellows, come here," commanded Stacy. "Well, what's the matter?" demanded Ned, approaching, followed by the other boys. "This is it," announced Stacy, with a wave of his hand toward the Mexican. "What is it?" sniffed Ned. "This." "Chunky, what are you getting at?" questioned Walter. "Perhaps this gentleman will know where we may find our guide," interrupted the Professor, coming up. "Señor, do you know one Juan--" "Yes, he knows him," grinned Stacy. "He's very well acquainted with the gentleman." "Then where may we find this Juan "That's Juan--that's your guide," Stacy informed the Professor. "You--are you the guide?" "Si, señor." The Professor opened his eyes in amazement. The burro, on the other hand, stood with nose to the ground sound asleep, oblivious to all that was taking place about him. "Why didn't you make yourself known--why haven't you helped us to unload?" demanded the Professor in an irritated tone. "Me no peon. Me guide." "He's a guide," explained Stacy. "Guides don't work, you know, Professor. They are just ornaments. He and the burro are going to pose for our amusement." The boys laughed heartily. Professor Zepplin uttered an exclamation of impatience. "Sir, if you are going with this outfit you will be expected to do your share of the labor. There are no drones in our hive." "No; we all work," interposed Stacy. "And some of us are eaters," added Ned. Juan shrugged his shoulders and showed his pearly teeth. At the Professor's command, however, Juan stepped off the burro without in the least disturbing that animal's dreams and lazily began collecting the baggage as directed by the Professor. After the equipment had been sorted into piles, the boys did it up into neat packs which they skillfully strapped to the backs of the burros of their pack train. Juan, lost in contemplation of their labors, forgot his own duties until reminded of them by Stacy, who gave the guide a violent poke in the ribs with his thumb. Juan started; then, with a sheepish grin, became busy again. It was no small task to get their belongings in packs preparatory to the journey; but late in the afternoon the boys had completed their task. They had had nothing to eat since early morning. But they were too anxious to be on their way to wait for dinner in town. After making some necessary purchases in the village, the procession finally started away across the plain. "You'll never get anywhere with that sleepy burro, Juan," decided the Professor, with a shake of the head. "Him go fast," grinned the Mexican. "So can a crab on dry land," jeered Ned. Just then the guide utter a series of shrill "yi-yi's," whereupon the lads were treated to an exhibition such as they never had seen before. The sleepy burro projected his head straight out before him, while his tail, raised to a level with his back, stuck straight out behind him. The burro, seemingly imbued with sudden life, was off at a pace faster than a man could run. It was most astonishing. The boys gazed in amazement; then burst out in a chorus of approving yells. But it was the rider, even more than the burro, that excited their mirth. His long legs were working like those of a jumping jack, and though astride of the burro, Juan was walking at a lively pace. It reminded one of the way men propelled the old-fashioned velocipedes years before. A cloud of dust rose behind the odd outfit as the party drew out on the plains. Their ponies were started at a gallop, which was necessary to enable them to keep up with the pace that Juan had set. "Here! Here!" shouted the Professor. Juan never looked back. "We're leaving the pack train. Slow down!" Laughingly the lads pulled their ponies down to a walk; then halted entirely to enable the burros to catch up with them. By this time the pack animals had become so familiar with their work that little attention was necessary on the part of the boys. Now and then one more sleepy than the rest would go to sleep and pause to doze a few minutes on the trail. This always necessitated all hands stopping to wait until the sleeper could be rounded up and driven up to the bunch. Juan had disappeared. They were discussing the advisability of sending one of the boys out after him when he was seen returning. But at what a different gait! His burro was dragging itself along with nose to the ground, while Juan himself was slouching on its back half asleep. "You must have a motor inside that beast," grinned Tad. "Him go some, señor?" "Him do," answered Stacy, his solemn eyes taking in the sleepy burro wonderingly. "Better not waste your energy performing," advised the Professor. "We shall need what little you have. We will make camp here, as I see there is a spring near by. Help the boys unpack the burros." "Si, señor," answered the guide, standing erect and permitting his burro to walk from under him. With shouts and songs the lads, in great good humor, went to work at once, pitching their camp for the first time on the plains of New Mexico. There was much to be done, and twilight was upon them before they had advanced far enough to begin cooking their evening meal. CHAPTER II IN THE ZUNI FOOTHILLS A sudden wail from the guide attracted the attention of the party to him at once. "Now what's the matter?" demanded Tad, hurrying to him. The guide had thrown himself prone upon the ground and was groaning as if in great agony, offering no reply to the question. "Are you sick?" "Si, si, señor," moaned Juan. "Where?" "Estomago--mucho malo." "Your stomach?" "He's got a pain under his apron," diagnosed Stacy solemnly. "Been working too hard," suggested Ned. In the meantime the guide was rolling and twisting on the ground, glancing appealingly from one to the other of them. "Professor, hadn't you better fetch your medicine case and dose him up?" asked Tad. "Yes, I'll attend to him." "Give him a good dose while you are about it," urged Ned. "Something that will cure his laziness at the same time." The Professor brought his case; then, remembering something else in his kit that he wanted, he laid the case down and hurried back to his tent. However, Stacy opened the case, selecting a bottle, apparently at random, drew the cork and held the bottle under Juan's nose. "Smell of this, my son. It'll cure your estomago on the run." "Be careful, Chunky, what are you doing there?" warned Tad. "You shouldn't fool with the medicines. You--" His further remarks were cut short by a sudden yell of terror and pain from Juan. The guide leaped to his feet choking, gasping, while the tears ran down his cheeks as he danced about as if suddenly bereft of his senses. "Now you've gone and done it," growled Ned. "He never moved so fast in his life, I'll wager." Juan was running in a circle now, shrieking and moaning. Professor Zepplin approached them in a series of leaps. He could not imagine what new disaster had overtaken the lazy Mexican. "Here, here, here, what's the trouble now?" He demanded sternly. "Stop that howling!" "Chunky's been prescribing for your patient in your absence," Ned informed him. The Professor grabbed the wild guide by the collar, giving him a vigorous shake. When he released his grip, Juan sank to the ground in a heap, moaning weakly. "What's that you say? Stacy prescribed--" "I--I let him smell of the bottle," explained Stacy guiltily. "What bottle?" Stacy slowly picked up the offending bottle and handed it to the Professor. "Ammonia! Boy, you might have put his eyes out! Never let this occur again. Remember, you are not to touch the medicines under any circumstances whatever!" "Yes, sir," agreed Chunky meekly, while Ned Rector strolled away, shaking with laughter. "Drink," begged the patient. "Fetch him some water," directed Professor Zepplin. "No, no, no, señor," protested Juan, gesticulating protestingly. "What do you want?" "Guess he wants something stronger than water," suggested Ned. "Si, si, si," agreed the guide, showing his white teeth in an approving grin. "You won't get anything stronger than that in this outfit, unless you cook yourself some coffee," muttered Tad. "That's what's the matter with him," decided Chunky, who had been observing the sick man keenly. "Guess we drew a prize when we got Juan," announced Walter. "Give him some medicine, anyway," urged Ned. "He is sick--let him take the dose." "Let him have the worst you've got in your case, Professor," added Tad, with a laugh. A grim smile played about the corners of Professor Zepplin's mouth as he ran his fingers over the bottles in his medicine case. Finally, selecting one that seemed to fit the particular ailment of his patient, he directed Chunky to fetch a spoon. By this time Juan was protesting volubly that he was "all better" and did not need the medicine. The Professor gave no heed to the fellow's protestations. "Open your mouth," he commanded. Juan shut his teeth tightly together. "Open your mouth!" commanded the Professor sternly. "We want no sick men about this camp. It will fix you in a minute." But the guide steadfastly refused to separate the white teeth. "Boys, open his mouth while I pour the medicine down him," gritted the Professor. They required no urging to do the Professor's bidding. Tad and Ned ranged themselves on either side of the patient, while Chunky sat on the guide's feet. Almost before he was aware of their purpose the boys had pried his jaws open and into the opening thus made professor Zepplin dropped the concoction he had mixed. The effect was electrical. Juan leaped to his feet as if elevated by springs, uttering a yell that might have been heard a mile or more on the open plain. But Juan did not run in a circle this time. Acting upon the mathematical theory that a straight line is the shortest distance between two points, the guide made a break for the spring, howling like a madman. The Pony Rider Boys looked on in amazement. Juan fell on his knees before the spring, dipping up the water in his hands. "What did you give him, professor?" grinned Tad. "Hot drops!" answered the man of science tersely. "Not that stuff you fed me when I ate too much honey in the Rockies?" questioned Stacy. "The same." "Wow! I had ten drops and it felt like a pailful when it got inside of me." "How much did you give Juan?" questioned Walter. "Twenty drops," answered Professor Zepplin without the suspicion of a smile on his face this time. The Pony Rider Boys added their yells to those of the guide, only with a difference. The more Juan drank of the spring water, the more did the hot drops burn. All at once he sprang up and started for the plain. "Catch him!" commanded the Professor. With a shout the lads started in pursuit. They overhauled the guide some twenty rods from camp, he having proved himself fleet of foot. Then again, the fire within him perhaps helped to increase his natural speed. "I burn! I burn!" he wailed as the boys grabbed and laughingly hustled him back to camp. "You'll burn worse than that if you ever ask for liquor in this outfit," retorted Ned. "We don't use the stuff, nor do we allow anyone around us who does." "How do you feel now?" grinned the Professor as they came up to him with their prisoner. "He's got a whole camp-fire in his little estomago," announced Chunky solemnly, which sally elicited a loud laugh from the boys. "Give him some olive oil," directed the Professor. "I think the lesson has been sufficiently burned into him." But considerable persuasion was necessary to induce Juan to take a spoonful of the Professor's medicine. He had already had one sample of it and he did not want another. Yet after some urging he tasted of the oil, at first gingerly; then he took it down at a gulp. "Ah!" he breathed. "Is it good?" grinned Tad. "Si. Much burn, much burn," he explained, rubbing his stomach. "Think you want some liquor still, Juan, or would you prefer another dose of my magic drops?" "No, no, no, señor!" cried Juan, hastily moving away from Professor Zepplin. "Very well; any time when you feel a longing for strong drink, just help yourself to the hot drops," said the Professor, striding away to his tent, medicine case in hand. The guide, a much chastened man, set about assisting in getting the evening meal, but the hot drops still remained with him, making their presence known by occasional hot twinges. Supper that night was an enjoyable affair, though it was observed that the guide did not eat heartily. "Do you think he really had a pain?" asked Walter confidentially, leaning toward Ned. "Pain? No. He wanted something else." "And he got it," added Stacy, nodding solemnly. A chorus of "he dids" ran around the table, stopping only when they reached Juan himself. CHAPTER III INDIANS! "Juan, did you see two men get off the train at Bluewater yesterday when we did? One of them had a big, broad sombrero like mine?" asked Tad, riding up beside the guide next day while they were crossing the range. "Si." "Know them?" "Si," he replied, holding up one finger. "You mean you know one of them?" The guide nodded. "Who is he?" "Señor Lasar." "Lasar. What's his other name?" "Juan not know." "Did they stop in the village?" "No. Señors get ponies, ride over mountain," and the guide pointed lazily to the south-west. "Where did they go? Do you know?" Juan shrugged his shoulders, indicating that he did not. "What is Mr. Lasar's business?" Again the guide answered with a shrug. He seemed disinclined to discuss the man in whom Tad Butler was so much interested. Up to that time the lad had been too fully occupied with other matters to think of the conversation he and Stacy had overheard on the Atlantic and Pacific train. Now it came back to him with full force. "Know anybody by the name of Marquand in this country?" he asked, taking another tack. Juan said he did not, and then Tad gave up his questioning. "I was asking Juan about the two men who sat ahead of us in the train yesterday," he explained to Chunky, as the fat boy joined them. "Wha'd he say?" "One is named Lasar, but he did not know the other one. I can't help believing that those fellows were plotting to do some one a great injury." "So do I," agreed Chunky. "I guess we had better not say anything about it to the others, but we'll try to find out who this man Lasar is, and who Mr. Marquand is. Then we'll decide what to do next." Their further conversation was interrupted by the voice of the Professor, announcing that they would halt for their noonday meal. All other thoughts left the mind of Stacy Brown when the question of food was raised. He quickly slipped from his pony, running back to hurry the burros along so as to hasten the meal for which he was yearning. Only one burro was unpacked, as it was the intention of the outfit to push on soon after finishing their lunch. While the guide, under Ned's direction, was making it ready, Tad and Chunky strolled off to climb a high rock that they had seen in the vicinity and which, they thought, might give them a good view of the plains to the southwest on the other side of the range. They had promised to be back in half an hour, but circumstances arose that caused them to delay their return considerably. After threshing through the bushes, over sharp rocks and through miniature canyons, they gained at last the object of their quest. The distance had been further than they had imagined. "We'll have to make a short trip of it up to the top and back," said Tad. "It has taken us almost all our time to get here. But we'll have a look, anyway." They soon gained the top of the rock, which stood some twenty feet higher than the crest of the mountain on which it rested. "Isn't this great?" exclaimed Tad. "Might think we were in the Rockies." "Or the Ozarks." "I hope we don't have as much trouble here as we did in that range. Our guide is not much better than the Shawnee we had for a time on that trip. I can't see the foothills, but the plain on beyond is pretty clear." "Hope we don't have to chase all over the desert for water. I--" Tad grasped his companion by the sleeve and jerked him violently to the rock. "What's up? What's the matter with you?" protested Stacy. "Keep still, some one's coming." The lad's keen ears had caught a sound which Stacy had entirely failed to hear. It was the sound of horses making their way through the bushes. There were several in the party, Tad could tell by the sounds, and having in mind the man Lasar, he thought he might perhaps learn something of advantage by remaining quietly on the top of the rock. All this he explained in a few brief words to his companion. Then both boys crouched low, peering over the cliff, having first removed their sombreros. What they saw, a few moments later, surprised them very much indeed. The horsemen in single file suddenly appeared out of a draw to the east and headed for the rock where the lads were in hiding. "Look! Look!" exclaimed Tad in a low, suppressed voice. "I-n-d-i-a-n-s!" breathed Chunky. They seemed to rise right up out of the ground, as one by one they emerged from the draw to the more level rocks that lay about the hiding place of the Pony Rider Boys. "I wonder who they are?" questioned Tad. "They look savage. I wonder if they'd hurt us, Tad?" "I don't know. I do know, though, that I wouldn't trust those ugly faces one second. I thought the Blackfeet were savage, but they're not to be compared with these redskins." A full dozen of them had, by this time, come into view. They sat huddled on their ponies, their painted faces just appearing above the gayly colored blankets in which they were enveloped. "They must be cold," muttered Chunky. "Shouldn't think they'd need bed clothes around them this time of the year." "Not so loud, Chunky," warned Tad. "Know what they are, Tad?" "I wouldn't say positively, but somehow they look to me like Apaches." Tad's surmise was correct. The twelve warriors were members of the savage band that had in past years caused the Government so much trouble and bloodshed. "They're off their reservation, if they are Apaches," whispered the lad. "What does that indicate, Tad?" "I don't know. They may be on the warpath; then, again, they may be down here after game. I'm not sure even, if there is any game here. We'll lie still until they get by us. That's the best plan; don't you think so?" "Yes." "Lie perfectly still, Chunky. The little bushes in front of us will screen us, providing we don't move about. Indians have quick eyes, though they do look as if they were half asleep." "They're getting off their horses, Tad. What does that mean?" "I don't know." Tad peered through the bushes, noting every move that the redskins made. At first he thought they had discovered him and were about to surround the rock and take him prisoner. But he soon saw that such was not their intention. Tethering their ponies, the Indians cast their blankets on the ground, after having first picked out a suitable place. "They're making camp," whispered Tad. One after another of the savages took out his pipe, and soon the odor from burning tobacco was wafted to the nostrils of the hidden Pony Rider Boys. "Guess they're going to get some dinner," decided Stacy, observing that the strangers were gathering brush. This was the case. The ponies had been staked where they could browse on the green leaves, and now their masters were about to satisfy their own appetites. Tad groaned. "What is it?" questioned Stacy apprehensively. "They will be here half of the day at least. I know a little about Indians, having been captured by them once. The difference is that my Indians were in a hurry to get somewhere. These fellows seem to have all the time in the world. They're waiting--killing time for some reason. You'll see, after they finish their dinner, that they will smoke some more, then lie down for a catnap." "And--and what'll we be doing?" "We'll be hiding on the top of this rock, Chunky." "Wish I had my rifle." "Lucky for both of us that you haven't." The lads had been talking in whispers, but the words fairly froze in their mouths, when, upon glancing down they saw the eyes of a savage fixed upon them. "On your life, don't move a muscle, Chunky," whispered Tad, as soon as he had recovered his wits. Tad was not sure that the Indian saw them, yet there could be no doubt that the savage eyes were burning into their very own. Soon, however, the Indian dropped his glances to his pipe bowl and the boys breathed a sigh of relief. "Don't move yet, Chunky," directed Tad. It was a wise command, for almost instantly the Indian glanced in their direction again, and, as if satisfied, emptied his pipe and stretched out on his blanket. The two lads breathed sighs of relief. "Did he see us, do you think, Tad?" "No. At first he thought he saw something up here, but he changed his mind after a little, as you observed." By this time the redskins were cooking their midday meal, and the odor nearly drove Stacy frantic. It made him realize how hungry he was. He pulled a leaf from a bush and began chewing it in hopes of wearing off the keen edge of his appetite. "How long we got to stay here?" he demanded. "I've a good notion to get up and walk back to camp. They don't dare hurt us." "Lie still!" commanded his companion sternly. "I have a plan that we may be able to put into operation. We can't do it now, though." The lads waited, Tad almost with the patience of an Indian, Chunky ill at ease and restless. "Can't you lie still? What ails you?" "My stomach's fighting my appetite. Hear 'em growl at each other?" "S-h-h-h." "I don't care. I'd 'bout as soon be scalped as to starve to death." The braves had by now filled their stomachs, gulping their food down without the formality of chewing it at all. Stacy's amazement was partly mixed with admiration as he observed the food disappear with such rapidity. Now the braves had begun puffing at their pipes. After a time, one by one laid down his smoking bowl and stretched himself out for a nap, just as Tad had said they would. The savages were spread out so that they had a very good view of three sides of the rock on which the two lads were perched, but the fourth side was hidden from them. Tad decided that, as the Indians showed no intention of moving, they were going to remain where they were until night. "I want you to follow me, Chunky," Butler said, determined to try his plan. "You will have to move absolutely without a sound. Look before you put down foot or hand. Be sure where you place them. We'll wait a few minutes until they're sound asleep." "What you going to do--sneak?" "Try to get back to camp. The others will be coming along looking for us pretty soon, if we don't get away. The Indians might resent being disturbed, and perhaps make trouble." "Tell me when you're ready, then." Some minutes had elapsed and the lads could plainly hear the snores of their besiegers. "Now!" whispered Tad. At the same time he began crawling toward the edge of the rock at their rear. Stacy was close upon his heels. The side which the boys were to descend was much more precipitous than the one they had come up by, but offered no very great difficulties for two nimble boys. Proceeding with infinite caution, they gained the ground without a mishap. "We'll walk straight on in this direction, until we get out of sight; then we can turn to the left and hurry to the camp." Stacy nodded. As he did so his eyes were off the ground for a few seconds. Those few seconds proved his undoing. The lad stepped on a stone that gave way under him, turning his ankle almost upon its side. "Ouch!" yelled Chunky. "Now you've done it," snapped Tad. "We'll have the whole pack of them down on us. Can you walk?" "I--I don't know. I'll try." "Take hold of my hand. You've got to run." The redskins were on their feet in an instant. A few bounds carried them around the rock whence the exclamation had come. By this time Tad had dragged his companion into the bushes but not quickly enough to elude the keen eyes of the savages. The Indians uttered a short, sharp cry, then aimed their rifles at the figures of the two fleeing Pony Rider Boys. Tad saw the movement. He threw himself prone upon the ground, jerking Chunky down beside him. They were screened from the eyes of the enemy, for the moment. "Crawl! Crawl!" commanded Tad. On hands and feet the boys began running rapidly over the ground, on down into a narrow gulch. If they could gain the opposite side they would be safe, as it was unlikely that the Indians would follow them there. To do so, the boys were obliged to cross an open space. They had just reached it, when their pursuers appeared behind them. Once more the Indians raised their rifles, their fingers exerting a gentle pressure on the triggers. CHAPTER IV ON THE TRAIL OF JUAN "Look out! They're going to shoot!" cried Tad. The lads quickly rolled in opposite directions. "Hallo-o, Tad!" The call was in the stentorian voice of Professor Zepplin, to which Ned Rector added a shout of his own. Fearing that some ill had befallen Tad and Stacy, the others had started out after them. Following them came Walter and the lazy Mexican. "We're down here! Look out for the Indians!" warned Tad in a loud voice. "You're crazy!" jeered Ned. "Come out of that. What ails you fellows? The dinner's stone cold and Professor Zepplin is all in the stew." Tad scrambled to his feet, with a quick glance at the top of the ridge, where, but a moment before, half a dozen rifles had been leveled at Chunky and himself. Not an Indian was in sight. Tad was amazed. He could not understand it. Grabbing Stacy by an arm he hurried him up the other side of the gulch, where they quickly joined their companions. "What does this mean?" demanded the Professor. "Hurry! We must get out of this. It's Indians!" "They--they wanted to scalp us," interjected Stacy. "But you runned away, eh? Brave man!" chuckled Ned. "Indians! There are no Indians here. "I'll tell you about it when we get to camp. They were just about to shoot at us when you appeared up here." "'Pache bad Injun," vouchsafed Juan. "Were those Apaches?" questioned Tad. The guide shrugged his shoulders. "I was sure they were, though I do not think I ever saw an Apache before. They don't live about here, do they, Juan?" "'Pache off reservation. Him go dance. Firewater! Ugh!" making a motion as if scalping himself. "I'm hungry," called Stacy. "Yes; so am I," added Tad. "But I think we had better not wait to eat. We can take a bite in the saddle while we are moving." Stacy protested loudly at this, but Tad's judgment prevailed with the Professor, after the boys had related their experience in detail. All hands began at once to pack up the few belongings that had been taken from the burro, and once more they started on their way, moving somewhat more rapidly than had been the case in the early part of the day. "I don't suppose there will be much use in our hurrying, Professor," said the lad, after they had been going a short time. "I know enough about Indians to be sure those fellows will follow us until they satisfy themselves who and what we are. They are up to some mischief, and they thought we were spying on them. Otherwise, I do not believe they would have tried to shoot us. Don't know as you could blame them much." "I am inclined to agree with you, Master Tad. It will be good policy not to pay any attention to them if we discover any of them. Just go right along about our business as if we didn't see them at all." "And you're not likely to," grinned Tad. "Where did you say they were going, Juan?" "'Pache, go dance." "He means they're bound for a pow-wow somewhere. That explains it," nodded the lad. The rest of the day passed without incident. Not a sign of the Indians did the boys see. As a matter of fact, the roving redskins were as anxious to keep out of the sight of the Pony Riders as the boys were to have them do so. The party enjoyed the trip over the mountains immensely; and, when, a few days later, they made camp in the foothills on the southern side of the Zuni range, the boys declared that they had never had a better time. Professor Zepplin decided that they would remain in that camp for a couple of days, as he desired to make some scientific investigations and collect geological specimens. This suited the rest of the party, who were free to make as many side trips as they wished, into mountain fastnesses or over the plains to the south of them. Early in the day the guide asked permission to go away for an hour or so. They noticed that he had been uneasy, apparently anxious to get away for some reason unknown to them. "He's got something up his sleeve," decided Tad, eyeing Juan narrowly. "You may go, but we shall expect you back in time for the noon meal," the Professor told him. "Give me money," requested the guide. "Certainly. Let me see, you have worked a week. I gave you five dollars when we started out. You were to have ten dollars a week while you were with us. That leaves five dollars due you," announced the Professor. "Me work week. Me want ten dollars." "But, my man, I've already paid you five dollars, which pays you for half of the week. Here is the five dollars for the other half. That's all I owe you. Do you understand?" "Si señor. But Juan work one week," protested the guide. "Let me show him," interrupted Tad. He drew ten marks in the sand with a stick, separating them into two groups of five. "Here are ten marks, Juan. We'll call them ten dollars. Understand?" "Si." "Well, here are the first five marks in the dirt that the Professor paid you. How many does that leave?" "Five," gleamed the white teeth. "Right. Go to the head of the class," interrupted Stacy. "Chunky, you keep out of this. You'll mix him up." "Guess somebody's mixed up already," retorted the fat boy. "Five is right," continued Tad. "Five dollars is what we owe you. Is that clear now?" "Si, señor. But I work one week. Juan earn ten dollar--" "I'll tell you what to do," interjected Ned. "Start all over again. You begin work to-day; Juan, and we'll pay you ten dollars for every week from now on. You haven't worked for us before to-day, you know." The lads laughed heartily, but Juan merely showed his teeth, protesting that he had earned ten dollars. "Here," said Tad, thrusting a five dollar bill at him. "You take this. It's all we owe you. If you see any of your friends, you ask them how much we owe you. They'll tell you the Professor is right." Juan took the money greedily, still protesting that they owed him ten dollars, because he had worked a week. Mounting his burro, he rode away; at once falling into the marvelous speed that he had shown them on the first day out. The lads shouted with laughter as they saw burro and rider disappear among the foothills, both running for all they were worth, Juan uttering his shrill "yi-yi's," as he pedaled the ground. That was the last they saw of the Mexican guide that day. The rest of the day was employed in games, trick riding, rope throwing and the like. Stacy found some horned frogs, which were of considerable interest to the boys. Chunky made the discovery that the frogs liked to have their backs scratched with a stick, and the frogs of the foothills probably never spent such a happy day in all their lives as Chunky and his stick provided for them that afternoon. Late in the day, it dawned upon the boys that Juan was still absent. They consulted with the Professor about this, upon his return from a collecting trip along the foot of the mountains. But the Professor was sure Juan would be in in time for supper. Such was not the case, however. After the meal had been finished Tad announced his intention of riding off in the direction Juan had gone, to see if the guide could not be found. "I'll go with you," announced Stacy. "All right; come along," said Tad, tightening his saddle girths. "We'll have a fine gallop." "Be careful that you do not get lost, boys," warned the Professor. "Can't get lost. All we have to do is to follow the foothills. We shall probably find Juan and his burro sound asleep on an ant-hill somewhere. He's positively the laziest human being I ever set eyes on." "Better take along five dollars to bait him with," suggested Ned. "I've got my stick," said Stacy. "I'll tickle the back of the burro and its rider, just as I did the frogs." "You try that on the burro and he'll kick you into the middle of next week," warned Walter. "Yes," laughed Tad. "Did you see him kick when Juan tossed a tomato can against his heels this morning? Kicked the can clear over a tree and out of sight." "He'd make a good batter for the Chillicothe baseball team," suggested Chunky. "He'd be the only real batter in the nine. They could turn him loose on the umpire when they didn't need him on the diamond. Wouldn't it be funny to see some umpires kicked over the high board fence?" "Come along if you are going with me." Stacy swung into his saddle, and, galloping off, caught up with Tad, who was in a hurry to get back to camp before dark. "Keep your eyes to the right, Chunky, and I'll look on the left. If you see anything that looks like a lazy Mexican and a lazy burro, just call out." "I'll run over them, that's what I'll do," declared the fat boy. "Hello, there's a fellow on horseback." "I see him." The lads changed their course a little so as to head off the solitary horseman, who was loping along in something of a hurry. "Howdy," greeted the lad. "Evening, stranger. Where you hail from and where to?" "We're in camp back here. I'm looking for our guide, a Mexican named Juan. He went away this morning and we haven't seen him since." "And you won't so long as his money holds out," laughed the horseman. "Then, you've seen him? Will you tell me where I may find him?" "Sure thing, boy, but I reckon you'd better not be going any further?" "Why not?" "He's over yonder, gambling with some renegade Apaches." "Apaches!" exclaimed the lads in one voice. "Those must be the same fellows we saw up in the range. But how do you suppose he knew they were over there?" "He? Those Greasers know everything except what they ought to know--especially if there's any games of chance going on." "Will you please tell me how we can reach the place? We want to make a very early start in the morning, and I don't like to take a chance of his not getting back in time." "If ye're bound to go, keep right along the edge of the foothills. You can't miss the place. Better keep away if you don't want to be getting into a mix-up. There's going to be lively doings over there pretty soon," warned the stranger. "How do you mean? I've seen Indians before. Guess they won't hurt us if they let Juan pow-wow with them." "This is different, young man. They're going to hold a fire dance to-night--" "A fire dance?" "Yes." "I thought they weren't allowed to do that any more?" "They ain't, but they will. There's a bunch of Sabobas from over the line. They're the original fire eaters. They come over here kind of secret like. Then there's Pueblos, 'Paches, and bad ones from every tribe within a hundred miles of here. Been making smoke signals from the mountains for more'n a week past--" "I saw that yesterday and thought it was intended as a signal." "Right." "But you don't think there will be any danger in just going after our guide, do you?" "Boy, they'll be letting blood before morning, even if the Government doesn't drop down on the picnic and clean out the whole bunch of them. There is sure to be trouble before morning." "Thank you," said Tad, touching his pony; "Going on?" questioned the horseman. "Yes; I'm going to fetch Juan," replied Tad, touching spurs to his pony and galloping away, followed by Stacy Brown. The horseman sat his saddle watching the receding forms of the two Pony Rider Boys until they disappeared behind a butte in the foothills. "Well, if those kids ain't got the sand!" he muttered. CHAPTER V A DARING ACT "If you don't want to go with me you may go back, Chunky. Perhaps one would not be as likely to get into trouble as two. You can find your way, can't you?" "I go back? Think I'm a tenderfoot? Huh! Guess I ain't afraid of any cheap Wild West Indians. I'm going with you, Tad." "Very well; but see to it that you keep in the background. You have a habit of getting into trouble on the slightest provocation." "So do you," retorted Stacy. The ponies had been urged to their best pace by this time. Twilight had fallen and darkness would settle over them in a very short time now, though a new moon hovered pale and weak in the blue sky above. Tad knew this, so he did not worry about the return trip. "We should be sighting the place pretty soon," he muttered. "I see a light," announced Stacy. "Where?" "To the right. Over that low butte there." "Yes; that's so. I see it now. You have sharp eyes," laughed Tad. "I can see when there's anything to see." "And eat when there's food to be had," added Tad. "Think those are the Indians that wanted to shoot us, Tad?" he asked, with a trace of apprehension in his voice. Tad glanced at his companion keenly; "Getting cold feet, Chunky?" "No!" roared the fat boy. "I beg your pardon," grinned Tad. "I didn't mean to insult you." "Better not. Look out that you don't get chilblains on your own feet. May need a hot mustard bath yourself before you get through." They rounded the butte. A full quarter of a mile ahead of them flickered a large fire, with several smaller blazes twinkling here and there about it. Shadowy figures were observed moving back and forth, some with rapid movements, others in slow, methodical steps. "There must be a lot of them, Tad." "Looks that way. I wonder where we shall find the guide." Both boys fell silent for a time, and as they drew nearer to the scene pulled their ponies down to a walk. Tad concluded to make a detour half way round the camp in order to get a clump of bushes that he had observed between them and the redskins. From that point of vantage he would be able to get a closer view, and perhaps locate the man for whom he was looking. Riding in, they were soon swallowed up in the shadows. "Hold my pony a moment," directed Tad, slipping to the ground. "Where are you going?" "Nowhere, just this minute. I'm going to look around." The lad peered through the bushes until, uttering a low exclamation, he turned to his companion. "I see him. He's over on the other side--" "Who? Juan?" "Yes. Now I want you to remain right here. Don't move away. I'll tie my pony so he won't give you any trouble. Sit perfectly quiet, and if any Indians come along don't bother them. I'm going around the outside, so I don't have to pass through the crowd, though they seem too busy to notice anyone." Tad slipped away in the shadows until he came to a spot opposite where he had caught a glimpse of the lazy Mexican. He discovered Juan in the center of a circle of dusky Indians who were squatting on the ground. Some of the braves were clothed in nondescript garments, while others were attired in gaudy blankets. These were the gamblers. At that moment their efforts were concentrated on winning from Juan the wages of his first week's work with the Pony Rider Boys. A blanket had been spread over the ground, and on this they were wagering small amounts on the throw of the dice, a flickering camp-fire near by dimly lighting up the blanket and making the reading of the dice a difficult matter for any but the keenest of eyes. The sing-song calls of the players added to the weirdness of the scene. Tad waited long enough to observe that the guide lost nearly every time, the stolid-faced red men raking in his coins with painful regularity. "It's a wonder he has a cent left. But they're not playing for very large amounts, as near as I can tell." Each time the Mexican lost he would utter a shrill "si, si," then lured by the hope that Dame Fortune would favor him, reached greedily for the next throw. "It's time for me to do something," muttered Tad. Stepping boldly from his cover, he walked up to the edge of the circle. "Juan!" he called sharply. "Si," answered the Mexican, without looking up. "Juan!" This time the word was uttered in a more commanding voice. "You come with me!" The guide, oblivious to all beyond the terrible fascination of the game he was playing, gave no heed to Tad Butler's stern command. Three times did Tad call to him, but without result. One of the red men cast an angry glance in the Tad's direction, and then returned to his play. Without an instant's hesitation, Tad sprang over into the center of the circle, and grasping Juan by an ear, jerked him to his feet. Red hands fell to belts and dark faces scowled menacingly at the intruder. "You come with me, Juan!" Juan sought to jerk away, but under the strong pull on his ear, he did not find it advisable to force himself from his captor's grip. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself. You're lucky if Professor Zepplin doesn't give you another dose of hot drops for this. I suppose these Indians sat down to rob you," growled Tad. "No, no, no," protested Juan. By this time the Indian gamblers had leaped to their feet, an ugly light in their eyes that boded ill for the Pony Rider Boy who had interrupted them in the process of fleecing the Mexican. With one accord they barred the way in a solid human wall. Tad found himself hemmed in on all sides. It had been easy to gain an entrance to the circle, but getting out of it was another matter. "This man belongs to me," he said with as much courage in his tone as he was able to command. "You will please step aside and let us go. You're breaking the law. If you offer any resistance I'll have the government officers after you in short order." He could not have said a worse thing under the circumstances. At first they took him for a spy, possibly a Government spy. Now they were sure of it, for had not the lad told them so himself? With a growl, one who appeared to be the most important personage in the group drew his sheath knife and sprang straight at the slender figure of Tad Butler. Tad acted without an instant's hesitation. Stepping aside quickly; he cleverly avoided the knife-thrust. At the same instant, while the Indian was off his balance, not yet having recovered from the lunge, the Pony Rider Boy's fist and the Indian's jaw met in sudden collision. The impact of the blow might have been heard more than a rod away. The red man's blanket dropped from his shoulders; he staggered backward, made a supreme effort to pull himself together, then dropped in a heap at the feet of the boy who had felled him. Without waiting for the astonished red gamblers to recover their wits, Tad grasped an arm of the Mexican and sprang away into the bushes. He had done a serious thing, even though in self-protection. He had knocked down an Apache brave with his fist. The sting of that blow would rest upon the savage jaw until the insult was wiped out by the victim himself. CHAPTER VI THE FIRE DANCE OF THE RED MEN The Indians made a sudden move to pursue the lad who had done so daring a thing. One of their number restrained them, pointing to the fallen brave, as much as to say, "Revenge is for him!" With a shrug of their shoulders the Indians sank down and resumed their game as stoically as before. They gave no further heed to the unconscious Apache, who still lay just outside the circle where he had been knocked out by Tad's blow. "Hurry! Hurry!" commanded the lad, fairly dragging his companion along. "They'll be after us in a minute." Yet before the minute had elapsed Tad had halted suddenly, his wondering eyes fixed upon the scene that was being enacted before him. About a pit of red hot coals, naked save for the breech clouts they wore, swayed the bodies of half-a-dozen powerful braves. They were the fire dancers and Tad was gazing upon a scene that probably never will be seen again in this country--the last of the fire dances--a secret dance of which it was to be supposed the Government agents knew nothing. Back and forth waved the copper-colored line, right up to the edge of the pit of glowing coals, uttering a weird chant, which was taken up by others who were not in the dance. The voices of the chanters grew louder, their excitement waxed higher, as the thrill of song and dance pulsed through their veins. All at once, Tad was horrified to see one of the dancers leap into the air, uttering a mighty shriek. While still clear of the ground the dancer's body turned, then he dove head first into the bed of hot coals. He was out in an instant. The chant rose higher as the remaining dancers followed the leader into the burning pit and out of it. So quickly did they move that they seemed not to feel the heat, and from Tad's point of vantage, he was sure that none was burned in the slightest. Juan tried to pull away. But Tad held him in a firm grip. Now that the dancers had passed through the fire unscathed, others followed them, some no more than touching the live coals, then bounding out on the other side of the pit; others remaining long enough to roll swiftly across the glowing bed. Excitement was rapidly waxing higher and higher. The red men were in a dangerous mood. It boded ill for the paleface who sought to interfere with their carnival at this moment. "Come!" whispered Tad in a low, tense voice. "We've got to get out of this mighty quick! Chunky's probably half scared to death, too." Tad did not go far. He had scarcely taken half a dozen steps when a frenzied yell, a series of shrill shrieks sounded in the air. The sounds seemed to come from all directions at once. "What's that?" "Me not know." "Somebody's running a pony. I hear it coming. It's headed right for that bunch of crazy savages. Probably an Indian gone mad." It was not an Indian who was the cause of this new disturbance, as the lad discovered almost immediately afterward. "Yip, yip! Y-e-o-w! W-o-w!" The yells were uttered in the shrill voice of Stacy Brown. "It's Chunky!" groaned Tad. "Here's trouble in earnest!" They never knew just how it happened, and Chunky could not tell them, but in all probability the excitement had been too much for the fat boy! He had moved closer when the dancing began, and the fever of it got into his veins until his excitement had reached a pitch beyond his control. With a series of howls and yells, the fat boy drove the rowels of the spurs deep into his pony's aides. The animal dashed forward at a break-neck pace. Stacy headed straight for the glowing pit, yelling with every leap of the pony. Tad gazed spellbound. He seemed powerless to move. He had been deeply affected by the scenes he had seen; but this was different. The lad held his breath. Reaching the edge of the pit, Stacy's pony rose in the air, clearing the bed of coals in a long, curving leap. Two red men had just risen from their fiery bath. The hind hoofs of the pony caught and bowled them over. "Run to the camp and get help! Take my pony! Ride for your life! Don't lose a second!" gasped Tad, giving the lazy Mexican a shove that sent him stumbling until he had measured his length upon the ground. Juan picked himself up slowly; and, crawling away into the bushes, lay down to rest or hide. Stacy's pony landed fairly in the center of a bunch of half-clothed savages; some of whom went down under the pony when it landed on them so unexpectedly. The next instant the fat boy had been jerked from the animal's back, to which he was clinging desperately. With a yell the redskins hurled him toward the fire. But the force of the throw had not been quite strong enough. Stacy landed on the edge of the pit, rolling half into it, the upper part of his body being on the ground to which he was hanging, yelling lustily. His shod feet were in the fire, however, but as yet he did not realize that his clothes were burning. Tad Butler sprang quickly from his hiding place. "Crawl out!" he roared. "You'll be burned alive!" "I--I can't. I fell in," piped Stacy, all his bravery gone now. Tad leaped across the intervening space and bounded to the side of his companion. "Ouch! I'm on fire!" shrieked Stacy. Tad grabbed and hauled him from his dangerous position. One of Tad's feet slipped in while he was doing so. By this time the clothes of both lads had begun to smoulder. "Run for it! Better be burned than scalped!" shouted Tad. Holding to Chunky's arm the Pony Rider Boy started to run. He was tripped by a moccasined foot before they had gone ten feet. Both boys fell headlong. Ere they could rise half a dozen mad savages were upon them. The lads were jerked roughly to their feet, Chunky shivering, Tad pale but resolute. There was nothing that he could say or do to repair the damage that his companion had done. One whom the lad took to be a chief, from his head-dress and commanding appearance, pushed his way into the crowd about the two boys, hurling the red men aside with reckless sweeps of his powerful arms. "Ugh!" he grunted, folding his arms and gazing sternly at the two prisoners. "Who you?" Tad explained as best he could. "Why you do this?" "My friend here got excited," Tad declared. "Huh! Lie!" Tad's face burned. He could scarcely resist the impulse to resent the imputation that the savage had cast upon him. He conquered the inclination with an effort. "Sir, we had no wish to interfere with you. We came here to get one of our men who had come here to gamble. If you will release us we will return to our camp and give you no further trouble. I promise you that." "T-h-h-h-at's so," chattered Chunky. "Keep still," whispered Tad. "You'll get us into more trouble." The chief appeared to be debating the question in his own mind, when one of the men, whom Tad recognized as a member of the gambling circle, whispered something to the chief. The chief's eyes blazed. Uttering a succession of gutteral sounds, he gave some quick directions to the red men near him. "He makes a noise like a litter of pigs," muttered Chunky. Acting upon the chief's direction two braves grabbed the lads, and hurried them away, Tad meanwhile watching for an opportunity to break away. Had he been alone, he felt sure he could do so safely. But he would not leave his companion, of course. The Apaches took the boys a short distance from the camp, planked them down roughly with their backs to a rock. "Now, I wonder what next?" muttered Tad. While one of the braves stood guard over them, the second trotted back to the camp, returning after a few minutes with a third savage who carried a rifle. The boys were sure then that they were to be shot. "Huh! You run, brave shoot um!" warned one of the first pair, after which parting injunction the two captors strode away, leaving their companion to guard the boys. For a few moments the Indian walked up and down in front of them, keeping his eyes fixed on the lads. Tad noted that he walked rather unsteadily. Finally, the guard sat down facing them, some ten feet away. "Well, you've certainly gone and done it this time, Chunky," said Tad in a low voice. "What on earth made you do a crazy thing like that?" "I--I don't know." "Well, it's too late for regrets. All we can do will be to make the best of our situation and watch for an opportunity to get away." For several minutes the boys sat gazing at the stolid figure before them. Tad's mind was working, though his body was not. "Make believe you're going to sleep, but don't overdo it," whispered Tad. This was something that Stacy could do, and he did it with such naturalness that Tad could not repress a smile. "That Indian is dazed from his excitement, and if we make him think we're asleep he's likely to relax his vigilance," mused Tad, as the two boys gradually leaned closer together, soon to all appearances being wrapped in sleep. Little by little the Indian's head nodded. Finally he toppled over to one side, the rifle lying across his feet. Tad and Chunky remained motionless. The Indian snored. The boys waited. Soon the snores became regular. The moment for action had arrived. Tad pinched Chunky. "Huh! Wat'cher want?" The fat boy had in reality been asleep. "For goodness sake, keep quiet!" begged Tad in a whisper. "Don't you know there's an Indian with a gun guarding us? He's asleep. Come, but be quiet if you value your life at all. Anyway; remember that I want to save mine." Stacy was wide awake now. Together the lads crawled cautiously away, every nerve on the alert. Over by the pit of live coals the uproar was, if any thing, louder than before. The boys gave that part of the camp a wide berth. "Now get up and run!" commanded Tad. "Raise your feet off the ground, so that you won't fall over every pebble you come to." Tad and Chunky clasped hands and scurried through the bushes, making as little noise as possible, and rapidly putting considerable distance between them and the sleeping red man who had been set to watch them. "Having lots of fun, ain't we, Tad?" "Fun! You're lucky if you get off with a whole scalp--" "Wow!" exclaimed Stacy. The lads brought up suddenly. At first they were not sure what had disturbed them, that is, Tad was not. This time Stacy had seen more clearly than his companion. "Ugh!" grunted a voice right in front of them, and there before their amazed eyes stood an Indian. To their imaginations, he was magnified until he appeared nearly as tall as the moonlit mountains in the background. For one hesitating instant the lads stood staring at the figure looming over them. With an angry growl the red man bounded toward them. He had recognized the boys and was determined that they should not escape him. It was Stacy Brown's wits that saved the situation this time. As the Indian came at them the fat boy dived between the savage's naked legs, uttering a short, sharp yelp, for all the world just like that of a small dog attempting to frighten off a bigger antagonist. There could be only one result following Chunky's unexpected tactics. Mr. Redskin flattened himself on the ground prone upon his face. Somehow the fellow was slightly stunned by the fall, not having had time to save himself from a violent bump on the head. "Run for it, Chunky! He'll be after us in a second." The lads made a lively sprint for the open. In a moment, observing that they were not being followed, they halted, still in the shadows of the bushes. All at once Tad stumbled over an object in the dark. At first he thought it was another Indian, and both boys were about to run again, when the voice of the prostrate man caused them to laugh instead. "Si, si, señor," muttered the fellow. "Juan? It's Juan! Get up! You here yet?" They pulled the lazy guide to his feet, starting off with him, when all at once Tad happened to think that one of the ponies was back there somewhere among the Indians. "You stay here, and don't make a fool of yourself this time!" commanded Tad. "Where are you going?" "After your pony. You hang on to Juan. I'll hold you responsible for him, Chunky." "Guess I can take care of a lazy Mexican if I can floor a redskin," answered Stacy proudly. But Tad was off. He had not heard the last remark of his companion. In picking his way carefully around the camp to where he had seen a lot of ponies tethered, Tad found a Navajo blanket. He quickly possessed himself of it, throwing it over his head, wrapping himself in its folds. He was now in plain sight of the wild antics of the dancers, who, still mad with the excitement of the hour, were performing all manner of weird movements. For a moment, the lad squatted down to watch them. He had been there but a short time when a voice at his side startled him, and Tad was about to take a fresh sprint when he realized that it was not the voice of a savage. "Young man, you'd better light out of here while you've got the chance," said the stranger. Turning sharply, Tad discovered a man, who, like himself, was wrapped in a gaudy blanket. He was unable to see the man's face, which was hidden under the Navajo. "Who are you?" demanded the lad sharply. "I'm an Indian agent. I only got wind of this proposed fire dance late this afternoon. These men will all be punished unless they return to their reservations peaceably. If they do, they will be let go with a warning." "Do they know you're here?" "They? Not much," laughed the agent. "But supposing they ask you a question?" "I can talk all the different tribal languages represented here. You'd better go now. Where are you from?" Tad explained briefly. "Well, you have had a narrow escape tonight. If they catch you again they'll make short work of you." "They won't catch me. Thank you and good-bye." "Don't go that way. Strike straight back; then you will have an open course." "I'm going after my companion's pony. I think I know where to find it," answered Tad, wrapping the blanket about himself and stealing across an open moonlit space without attracting attention. The Indian agent watched him curiously for a moment; then he rose and followed quickly after Tad. "That boy is either a fool--which I don't think--or else he doesn't know the meaning of the word 'fear.'" Tad did not find Stacy's pony where he had expected. Indian ponies were tethered all about, singly and in groups, while here and there one was left to graze where it would. "What sort of a looking pony is yours?" questioned the agent, coming up to him. "A roan." "Then I think I know where he is. He was not like the horses in this vicinity, which attracted my attention to him." The agent led the way, in a roundabout course, to the south side of the camp, where they began looking over the animals. Occasionally a redskin would pass them, but no one gave either the slightest heed. "Here he is," whispered Tad. "Lead him off. Don't mount just yet." Tad did as the agent had suggested. But all at once something happened. Tad's blanket had dropped from his shoulders, revealing him in his true colors. An Indian uttered a yell. Tad sprang into his saddle and put spurs to the pony. In a moment more than a dozen redskins had mounted and started yelling after him, believing he was stealing a pony. Tad headed away to the south to give his companions a chance to get out of the way, and the savages came in full cry after him. CHAPTER VII FLEEING FROM THE ENEMY A shrill cry was wafted to the boy. After a few moments Tad realized that they were no longer on his trail. He knew the cry had been a signal, warning them to halt. What he did not know, however, was that the Indian agent had been responsible for the signal; that he in all probability had saved the boy's life. The lad, after satisfying himself that the Indians had abandoned the chase, at once circled about, coming back to the point where he had left Chunky and the Mexican. They were both there waiting for him. "What was all that row?" demanded the fat boy. "We were having a little horse race, that's all," grinned Tad grimly; "Hurry along, now." They reached their own camp in safety an hour later. The two boys had much to relate, and as the narration proceeded, Professor Zepplin shook his head disapprovingly. "Young gentlemen, much as I have enjoyed this summer's outing, it's a wonder I haven't had nervous prostration long before this. It'll be a load off my mind if I get you all back in Chillicothe without anything serious happening to you." "I think," suggested Tad, "that we had better strike camp at once and move on. The moon is shining brightly, and Juan ought to have no trouble in leading the way." "Yes; that will be an excellent idea. You think they may give as further trouble?" questioned the Professor. "They may before morning. They're getting more ugly every minute." "Everything worth while seems to happen when I am not around," protested Ned. "Good thing you weren't along," replied Stacy. "You'd been scared stiff. It was no place for tenderfeet." "You--you call me a tenderfoot?" snapped Ned, starting for him. "Stop quarreling, you two!" commanded Tad. "We've had all the fighting we want for one night. Get busy and help strike this camp. Guess none of this outfit could truthfully be called a tenderfoot. We've all had our share of hard knocks, and we'll have enough to look back to and think about when we get home and have time to go over our experiences together this winter." The thought, that at any minute the half-crazed savages might sweep down on them hastened the preparations for departure. The Pony Rider Boys never struck camp more quickly than they did in the soft southern moonlight that night. All at once Juan set up a wail. "What is it--what's the trouble now?" demanded Tad. "My burro. I go for him." "You'll do nothing of the sort. You'll walk, or ride a pack animal," answered Stacy. "You don't deserve to have a burro." "Here's his old burro now," called Walter, as a shambling object, much the worse for wear, came stumbling sleepily into camp. The boys set up a shout that was quickly checked by Tad. "If the burro can find the way what do you think an Indian could do, fellows?" "That's right," agreed Professor Zepplin. "We had better keep quiet--" "And hit the trail as fast as possible," added Tad. "Daylight must find us a long ways from here." "And ride all night--is that what you mean?" complained Stacy. "Yes; it'll give you an appetite for breakfast." "I've got one already." "That goes without saying," agreed Ned. "Come, come, Juan!" urged Tad, observing that the guide was doing nothing more in the way of work than rubbing the nose of his prodigal burro. "Aren't you going to help us?" "Yes; what do you think we're paying you good American dollars for?" demanded Ned. "I think some of the Professor's hot drops would be good for what ails him," observed Stacy Brown. "I'll get the Professor to give him a dose right now." "No, no, no! Juan no want fire drops." "All right; get busy, then." He did. Not since the last dose of the Professor's medicine had he shown such activity. Very soon after that the camp had been struck and the party was ready to take up its journey. Tad took a last look about, to make sure that nothing had been left. "I think I'll put out the fire," he said, tossing the bridle reins to Stacy, while he ran over to the dying camp-fire, whose embers he kicked apart, stamping them out one by one. "No use leaving a trail like that for any prowling redskin." They were quickly under way after that, Juan leading the way without the least hesitancy. He and the burro worked together like a piece of automatic machinery. "He might better walk and lead the burro," said Stacy, who had been observing their peculiar method of locomotion. "Should think it would be easier." The moon was dropping slowly westward, and the party was using it for a guide, keeping the silver ball sharply to their right. Juan on the other hand had hitched his lazy chariot to a star. By this star he was laying his course to the southward. The Pony Rider Boys enjoyed their moonlight trip immensely; and a gentle breeze from the desert drifting over them relieved the scorching heat of the late afternoon and early evening. "Guess the Indians are not going to bother us," said Walter, riding up to Tad just before daylight. "Probably not. They will be in too much trouble with the Government, after last night's performances, to give much thought to chasing us. And besides, I don't see why they should wish to do so. Had they been very anxious to be revenged on us, most likely they would not have allowed us to get away as they did." "Was it very terrible, Tad?" asked Walter Perkins. "What, the dance, or what happened afterwards?" laughed the lad. "Both?" "Well, I'm free to confess that neither was exactly pleasant. When they caught Chunky I thought it was all up with us. Hello. There's Mr. Daylight." Glancing to the left the boys saw the sky turning to gray. A buzzard screamed overhead, laying its course for the mountains where it was journeying in search of food. "What's that?" demanded Stacy, awakening from a doze in his saddle. "Friend of yours with an appetite," grinned Ned. "I thought it sounded like breakfast call," muttered Stacy, relapsing into sleep again, his head drooping forward until, a few minutes later, he was lying over the saddle pommel with arms thrown loosely about the pony's neck. Ned, observing the lad's position, suddenly conceived a mischievous plan. Unnoticed by the others, he permitted his own pony to fall back until he was a short distance behind Stacy. The others were a little way ahead. Ned rode slowly alongside his companion, as he passed, bringing the rowel of his spur sharply against the withers of Chunky's mount. The effect was instantaneous. The fat boy's mount, itself half asleep, suddenly humped its back, and with bunching feet leaped clear of the ground. "Hello, what's the matter back there?" called Ned, who by this time was a full rod in advance of his companion. Stacy did not answer. He was at that moment turning an undignified somersault in the air, his pony standing meekly, awaiting the next act in the little drama. The fat boy landed on the plain in a heap. "Are you hurt, Chunky?" cried Tad anxiously, slipping from his saddle and running to his companion. "I--I dunno, I--I fell off, didn't I?" "You're off, at least," grinned Ned. "What was the matter?" "I--I dunno; do you?" "How should I know? If you will go to sleep an a bucking broncho, you must expect things to happen." Stacy, by this time, had scrambled to his feet; after which, he began a careful inventory of himself to make sure that he was all there. He grinned sheepishly. Satisfying himself on this point, Stacy shrugged his shoulders and walked over to his pony with a suggestion of a limp. "Now that we have halted we might as well make camp for a few hours, get breakfast and take a nap," suggested the Professor. The boys welcomed this proposition gratefully, for they were beginning to feel the effects of their long night ride, added to which, two of them had had a series of trying experiences before starting out. In the meantime, Stacy Brown had been examining his pony with more than usual care. Tad observed his action, and wondered at it. A moment later, the fat boy having moved away; Tad thought he would take a look at the animal. He was curious to know what Stacy had in mind. "So that's it, is it?" muttered Tad. He found the mark of a spur on the pony's withers. While it had not punctured the skin, the spur had raked the coat, showing that the rowel had been applied with considerable force. Tad, with a covert glance about, saw Ned Rector watching him. "You're the guilty one, eh?" he demanded, walking up to Ned. "S-h-h-h," cautioned Ned. "He'll be redheaded if he knows I am to blame for his coming a cropper." "Chunky's not so slow as you might think. But that wasn't a nice thing to do. It's all right to play tricks, but I hope you won't be so cruel as to use a spur on a dumb animal, the way you did, even if he is an ill-tempered broncho. You might have broken Chunky's neck, too." Ned's face flushed. "It was a mean trick, I'll admit. Didn't strike me so at the time. Shall I ask Chunky's pardon?" "Do as you think best. I should, were I in your place." "Then, I will after breakfast." Ned got busy at once, assisting to cook the morning meal, while Juan led the ponies out to a patch of grass and staked them down. While the Pony Rider cook was thus engaged, he felt a tug at his coat sleeve. Turning sharply, Ned found Stacy at his side. Stacy's face was flushed and his eyes were snapping. "What is it, Chunky?" "Come over here, I want to talk with you." They stepped off a few paces out of hearing of the others, Tad smiling to himself as he observed Stacy's act. "Well, what's the matter, Chunky?" "I can lick you, Ned Rector!" "Wha--what?" "Said I could lick you. Didn't say I was going to, understand. Just said I could--" "Like to see you try it." "All right; it's a go." Ere Ned could recover from his surprise, Stacy Brown had launched himself upon his companion. One of Stacy's arms went about Ned's neck, one foot kicked a leg from under Ned, and the two lads went down in the dust together. It had happened in a twinkling. "Here, here! What's going on over there?" shouted the Professor, starting on a run, while the other lads were laughing. Chunky was sitting on the chest of his fallen adversary, Ned struggling desperately to throw the lad off. "Cock-a-doodle-doo!" crowed Chunky, in imitation of a rooster, flapping his hands on his thighs, in great good humor with himself. Professor Zepplin grabbed him by the collar, jerking Stacy Brown from the fallen Pony Rider Boy. Ned scrambled to his feet, and, with a sheepish grin on his face, proceeded to brush the dust from his clothes. "Downed you, did he?" questioned Tad. "It wasn't fair. I didn't know he was going to try." "Neither did the Russians when the Japs sailed into them at Port Arthur," laughed Walter. "And they got what was coming to them." "So did I. Chunky, I deserve more than you gave me. If you want to, beat me up some more." "Now, isn't that sweet of him?" chortled Stacy. "I fell off my pony, then I fell on you, and we'll call it quits, eh, Ned?" Ned put out a hand, which Stacy grasped with mock enthusiasm. "We sure will." "I'd like to know what this is all about?" questioned Walter. "Something's been going on." "I made his pony throw him over," admitted Ned. Stacy nodded with emphasis. "He found it out and jumped on me." "I'll turn you both over my knee if you try to repeat these performances," warned the Professor. Linking arms, Stacy and Ned started for the breakfast table, humming, "For he's a jolly good fellow," and a moment later all four of the lads were standing about the breakfast table, singing the chorus at the top of their voices. CHAPTER VIII ASLEEP ON THE SLEEPY GRASS The slanting rays of the sun got into the eyes of the Pony Rider Boys. Four arms were thrown over as many pairs of eyes to shut out the blinding light. "Ho-ho-hum!" yawned Chunky. Cocking an impish eye at his companions, he observed that each had fallen into a deep sleep again. The fat boy cautiously gathered up a handful of dry sand and hurled it into the air. A shower of it sprinkled over them, into their eyes and half-opened mouths. Three pairs of eyes were opened, then closed again. Encouraged by his success, Stacy chuckled softly to himself, then dumped another handful of sand over his companions. But he was not prepared for what followed. Three muscular boys hurled themselves upon him. Instantly the peaceful scene was changed into a pandemonium of yells. Down came the tent poles, the canvas rising and falling as if imbued with sudden life. Professor Zepplin, startled by the racket, roused himself and sprang from his own tent. Observing the erratic actions of the tent in which the boys had been sleeping, he instantly concluded that something serious had happened. "Boys! boys!" he cried, running to the spot, frantically hauling away the canvas. "What has happened? What has happened?" They were too busy to answer him. When finally he had uncovered what lay below, he found his charges literally tied up in a knot, rolling and tumbling, with Stacy Brown lying flat on his back, each of his three companions vigorously rubbing handfuls of sand over his face, down his neck and in the hair of his head. "I think I'll take a hand in this myself," smiled the Professor. He ran to his tent, returning quickly. In his hands he carried two pails of water. Unluckily for the boys, they had failed to observe what he was doing. Nor did they understand that they were in danger until the contents of the two pails had been dashed over them. There were yells in earnest this time. The water turned the dirt into mud at once, and their faces were "sights." Stacy's face had been protected, in a measure, by the other boys who were bending over him rubbing in the sand. The unexpected bath put a sudden end to their sport, and they staggered out shouting for vengeance. They did not even know who had been the cause of their undoing. The Professor, as he walked away smiling, had handed the pails to the grinning Juan with instructions to refill them. The unfortunate Juan, bearing the pails away, was the first person to catch the eyes of the lads, as they rubbed the sticky mud out of them. With a howl they projected themselves upon him. Juan's grin changed instantly to an expression of great concern. He went down under their charge, with four boys, instead of three, on top of him. "Duck him!" shouted some one. "Yes! Douse him in the spring!" chorused the boys. Juan cried out for the Professor, but his appeals were in vain. Shouting in high glee the lads bore him to the spring from which they got their water. They plumped him in, not any too gently, again and again. "Now roll him in the sand," suggested Ned. They did so. The wet clothing and body made the sand stick to him until the lazy Mexican was scarcely recognizable. At this point Professor Zepplin took a hand. He came bounding to the scene and began throwing the boys roughly from their unhappy victim. Perhaps he was not greatly disturbed over the shaking up the guide had sustained, but of course he confided nothing of this to the boys. "You ought to be ashamed of yourselves--for four of you to pitch on to one weak Mexican! I'm surprised, young gentlemen." "But--but--he ducked us," protested Ned. "He did nothing of the sort." "What--didn't duck us? Guess I know water when I feel it," objected Walter. "You were ducked, all right, but it is I, not Juan, who am responsible for that." "You?" questioned the lads all at once. The Professor nodded, a broad grin on his face. "But he had the pails." "I gave them to him, after pouring the water over you. That's what is known as circumstantial evidence, young gentlemen. Let it be a lesson to you to be careful how you convict anyone on that kind of evidence." "Fellows," glowed Chunky, "we've made a mistake. Let's make it right by ducking the Professor." The boys looked over Professor Zepplin critically. "I guess we'd better defer that job till we grow some more," they decided, with a laugh. The next fifteen minutes were fully occupied in cleaning up and putting on their clothes. They were all thoroughly awake now, with cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling after their violent exercise. The guide had rather sullenly washed off the wet dust that clung to his face and hands. "Never mind the clothes, Juan," advised Ned. "It'll brush off as soon as it gets dry. We'll take up a contribution to buy you a clothes brush. Ever see one?" Juan grinned. "You promise not to gamble the money away if we give it to you?" "Si." "Shell out, fellows. Ten cents apiece. That ought to salve his injured feelings." Ned passed the hat, all contributing. "That makes forty cents. Here, Professor, you haven't put in your ten yet. It'll take just fifty cents to paste up Juan's injuries." "That reminds me of a fellow I heard about once," announced Stacy. "Are you going to tell a story?" questioned Ned. "If you will keep still long enough," replied Stacy. "Then me for the bunch grass. It's like going to a funeral to hear Chunky try to tell a story." "Let him tell it," shouted the lads. "Go on, Chunky. Never mind Ned. He'll laugh when he gets back to Chillicothe," jibed Walter. "I heard of a fellow once--" "Yes; you told us that before," jeered Ned. "Not the one we ducked in the spring, was it?" grinned Tad. "Who's telling this story?" demanded Stacy belligerently. "You are, I guess. I won't interrupt again." "Well, did I say this fellow was a boy?" "No." "Well, he was--he's grown up now. He rushed into a drug store--" "Was anything chasing him?" asked Ned innocently. Stacy gave no heed to the interruption. "And he said to the man in the store, 'Please, sir, some liniment and some cement?'" "'What?' asked the clerk all in a muddle. You see, he'd never had a prescription like that to fill before. It made him tired, 'cause he thought the kid was making fun of him." "'What--what's the trouble? What do you want liniment and cement for?' "'Cause,' said the boy to the pill man, ''cause mom hit pop on the head with a plate.'" For a moment there was silence, then the boys roared. But Ned never smiled. "Laugh, laugh! Why don't you laugh?" urged Walter. "Laugh? Huh! I laughed myself almost sick over that a long time ago. Read it in an almanac when I was in short trousers." "The ponies! The ponies!" cried Juan, rushing up to them, waving his arms, then running his fingers through his long black hair until it stood up like the quills of a porcupine. "What!" queried the Pony Rider Boys in sudden alarm. "What's the matter with the ponies?" Juan pointed to the place where the stock had been tethered after they arrived at the camp. There was not an animal to be seen anywhere on the plain. "Gone!" gasped the lads, with sinking hearts. "No, no, no. There!" stammered the guide. With one accord the boys ran at top speed to the spot indicated by Juan. There, stretched out in the long grass lay bronchos and burros. "They're dead, the ponies are dead, every one of them!" cried the lads aghast. CHAPTER IX THE MIDNIGHT ALARM "What's this, what's this?" demanded the Professor, striding up. "Look! Look! The ponies are dead!" exclaimed Ned excitedly. "What do you suppose could have happened to them?" stammered Walter. "Is it possible? What's the meaning of this, guide?" Juan shrugged his shoulders and showed his white teeth. In the meantime Tad had hurried to his own pony, and was down on his knees examining it. Placing his hands on the animal's side, he remained in that position for an instant, then sprang up. "They're not dead, fellows! They're alive!" "Asleep," grumbled Ned disgustedly. "But there's something the matter with them. Something has happened to the stock," added Tad. "Only a false alarm," nodded Stacy. "Think so? Try to wake your pony up," advised Tad. Stacy had already hurried to his own broncho, and now began tugging at the bridle rein, with sundry pokes in the animal's ribs. "I can't. He's in a trance," wailed Stacy, considerably startled. That expression came nearer to describing the condition of the stock than any other words could have done. "Guide, what do you know about this?" questioned the Professor. "Has some one been tampering with our animals?" Juan shrugged his shoulders with an air of indifference. "No bother bronchs." "Then will you please tell us what is the matter with them?" "Sleepy grass!" "Sleepy grass?" chorused the lads. "Of course they're asleep all right," added Ned. "But whoever heard of sleepy grass?" "He means they're sleeping on the grass," Stacy informed them. "Ah! I begin to understand," nodded the Professor. "I think I know what the trouble is now. The guide is no doubt right." The boys gathered around him, all curiosity. "Tell us about it, Professor. We are very much mystified?" said the Pony Riders. "A long time ago I remember to have read, somewhere, of a certain grass in this region that possessed peculiar narcotic properties--" "What's narcotic?" interrupted Stacy. "Something that makes you go to sleep when you can't," explained Tad Butler, rather ambiguously. "When eaten by horses or cattle it is said to put them into deep sleep. The Rockefeller Institute, I believe, is already making an analytical test of the grass." "Please talk so I can understand it," begged Stacy. "Yes; those words make my head ache," scowled Ned. "Even the guide is making up faces in his effort to understand." "He does understand. He understands only too well. For many years this grass has been known. Cows turned out for the day would fail to return at night--" "To be milked," interjected Stacy. "And an investigation would disclose them sleeping in some region, where the sleepy grass grew And the fat boy hummed: "Down where the sleepy grass is growing." "Travelers who have tied out their horses in patches of the grass for the night have been unable to continue their journey until the animals recovered from their strange sleep. Thus the properties of the grass became known." "Indians use 'em to tame bad bronchos," the guide informed them. "Just so." "But, when will they wake up?" questioned Tad. "Mebby sun-up to-morrow," answered Juan, glancing up at the sky. "What, sleep twenty-four hours?" demanded Ned. "Si." "Preposterous." "Then, then, we've got to remain here all the rest of the afternoon and night--is that it?" demanded Tad. "It looks that way." "And you knew about this stuff, Juan?" questioned Tad. "Si." "Well, you're a nice sort of a guide, I must say." "You ought to be put off the reservation," threatened Stacy, shaking a menacing fist in front of the white teeth. In the meantime, Tad had gone over to the animals again, and, taking them in turn, sought to stir them up. He found he could not do so. The ponies' heads would drop to the ground after he had lifted and let go of them, just as if the animals were dead. "Gives you a creepy feeling, doesn't it?" shivered Walter. "I should say it does," answered Ned. "Well, what is it, Chunky?" asked Tad, who observed that Stacy had something on his mind that he was trying to formulate into words. "I've got an idea, fellows," he exploded. "Hold on to it, then. You may never get another," jeered Ned. "What is it, Master Stacy?" asked the Professor. "Then--then--then--that's what Juan and his burro have been eating all the time. I knew there was something the matter with them." A loud laugh greeted the fat boy's suggestion. "Guess he's about right, at that," grinned Tad. "A brilliant thought," agreed the Professor. "Boys, I must have some of that grass. I shall make some experiments with it." "Experiment on Chunky," they shouted. "No; he sleeps quite well enough as it is," smiled the Professor. "I want some of it too--no, not to eat," corrected the fat boy. "I'll feed it to my aunt's cat when I get back; then he won't be running away from home every night." "Better unload the rest of the equipment, boys," advised the Professor. "If we must remain here all night we might as well make the best of it." Without their ponies, the lads spent rather a restless afternoon. They had not fully realized before how much a part of them their horses had become until they were suddenly deprived of them. In the meantime, the bronchos slept on undisturbed. "I've got another idea," shouted Stacy. "Keep it to yourself," growled Ned. "Your ideas, like your jokes, graduated a long time ago." "Is there sleepy grass in the Catskill Mountains!" persisted Stacy. "We don't know, and we don't--" "I know there is, and that's what put Rip Van Winkle to sleep for twenty years," shouted the fat boy in high glee. "See, I know more than--" "Yes; you're the original boy wonder. We'll take that for granted," nodded Ned Rector. Tad, however, was not inclined to look upon their enforced delay with anything like amusement. To him it had its serious side. He had not forgotten that they had been fleeing from the Indians. When he got an opportunity to do so, without his companions overhearing, he approached the Professor. "I think it would be a good plan for us to have a guard over our camp to-night." "On account of?" "Yes." "Very well; I think myself that it would be a prudent move. Have Juan sit up, then." "No, he's a sleepy bead. Suppose we boys take turns?" "Very well; arrange it to suit yourselves. I presume we ought to do something of the sort every night. It might have saved us some trouble on our Ozark journey had we been that prudent. Arrange it to suit you. I'll take my turn." "No; we can do it, Professor. You go to bed as usual. We'll draw lots to see who takes the different watches. With the four of us we'll have to take only two hours apiece. That won't be bad at all." The other boys, after the plan had been explained to them, entered into it enthusiastically. Walter was to take the first trick, Ned the next, Chunky the third and Tad the fourth. And they were to take their guns out with them. The Professor agreed to this, now that they had become more familiar with firearms. As a matter of fact, all the boys had developed into excellent marksmen, though Tad was recognized as the best shot of the party. Professor Zepplin, during the afternoon, gave each of them a lesson in revolver shooting, using for the purpose, his heavy army revolver. They did pretty well with this weapon, but, of course, were not nearly as expert with it as with the rifle. Evening came and the stock was still sleeping soundly. There was nothing the boys could do but let them sleep, though the fact of all the ponies and burros lying about as if dead began to make the Pony Riders nervous. Night came, and with it semi-darkness, the moon being overcast with a veil of fleecy white clouds, which cast a grayish film over the landscape. The lads joked each other about having the "creeps," but none would admit the charge. Walter, with rifle slung over his right shoulder, went out on the first watch with instructions to go at least two hundred yards from camp and keep walking around the camp in a circle. This would protect them from surprises on all sides. Ned decided not to retire until he had taken his guard trick, in view of the fact that he was to go on at eleven o'clock. But Stacy, proposing to get all the sleep he was entitled to, turned in early. The rest did not disturb him. The boys were unusually quiet that evening, perhaps feeling that the responsibility of the safety of the camp rested wholly upon their youthful shoulders. Ned came in at one o'clock, after having taken his turn, unslung his rifle, drew the cartridges then put them back in the magazine again. "I might need them before morning," he told himself. Chunky being sound asleep, Ned grabbed him by a foot giving him a violent pull. "Wat'cher want? Get out!" growled the fat boy sleepily. "Get up and take your watch!" commanded Ned. "Who's afraid of Indians?" mumbled Stacy. This time Ned took the lad by the collar, jerked him to his feet and shook him until Stacy yelled "Ouch!" so loudly as to awaken the entire camp. It took some time, however, to get Stacy himself awake sufficiently to make him understand that he had a duty to perform. Finally, however, he shouldered his rifle, after surreptitiously helping himself to a sandwich from the cook tent. Then he marched off, munching the bread and meat. "See here," snapped Ned, running after him. "You're not measuring off your distance. Come back and pace it off." "How many?" "Two hundred yards. Stretch your fat legs as far as they'll go, then you'll have a yard, more or less." Stacy started all over again, forgot the count, came back, then tried it again. Even at that he was not sure whether he had gone one hundred yards or five. He was awake enough, now, to observe his surroundings. The cool breezes of the night were tossing the leaves of the cottonwoods near the water course to the west of them, while here and there in the foliage might be heard the exultant notes of a mocking bird. Stacy shivered. "Guess it's going to freeze to-night," he decided, beginning his steady tramp about the camp of the Pony Rider Boys. Muttering to himself, as was his habit when alone, Stacy kept on until finding himself opposite the ponies, he decided to go over and look at them. All were asleep. Not one had awakened since going down under the powerful influence of the "sleepy grass." "I'd like to eat some of that stuff myself, right now," Chunky decided out loud. "I'd have a good excuse for going to sleep then. Now I can't without getting jumped on by the fellows. Wonder what time it is--only half-past one. Must be something the matter with my watch. I know I've been out more'n two hours." This trip he circled out further from the camp, growing a little more confident because nothing had happened to disturb him. In the meantime the camp slept in peace--that is, the lads did until nearly time for the change of guard. Then the whole party was aroused with the sudden, startling conviction that something serious had happened. All at once the crack of a rifle sounded on the still night air. It was followed by another shot, and another, until four distinct reports had rolled across the plains. In wild disorder the Pony Rider Boys tumbled from their cots, and, grasping their weapons, leaped from the tents. "What's the row?" inquired the Professor. "Wow! Wow! Wow! Yeow!" shrieked a shrill voice to the northward. "It's Chunky. He's giving the alarm! We're attacked!" cried the lads. Bang! Bang! They saw the flash of the fat boy's weapon before the report reached their ears. A moment later the other boys caught sight of Stacy dashing into camp, hatless, waving his rifle and yelling as if bereft of his senses. "What is it? What is it?" cried the boys with one voice. "Indians! Indians! The prairie's full of them!" CHAPTER X MEETING THE ATTACK Instantly the camp was thrown into confusion. The lads ran here and there, not knowing what to do. "Get behind the ponies! That's the only cover we can find here. Run for it!" And run they did, the Professor outdistancing all the rest in his attempt to secrete himself where the enemy's weapons would not be likely to reach him. In a moment more, the camp of the Pony Rider Boys was deserted, and behind each sleeping pony lay a boy, with rifle barrel poked over the animal's back, ready to shoot at the first sign of the redskins. Stacy, in his excitement, had forgotten that not a cartridge was left in his magazine, and the others were too fully occupied to remember to tell him. For all of half an hour did the party lie protected. The boys began to grow restive. Tad's suspicions were being slowly aroused. "I'm going to do a little scouting," he told them, slipping from behind the pony and skulking along back of the tents. The moon was shining brightly now. He could see a long distance. Not a human being was in sight. "I thought so," he muttered, retracing his steps. "See here, Stacy Brown, what did you see--what did you shoot at?" he demanded sternly. "I--I shot the chute--I--I mean I chuted the shot--I mean--" "Say, what do you mean?" "I--I mean--say, leggo my neck, will you?" roared Chunky. "Fellows, he doesn't know what he means." "Guess he's been feeding on crazy grass out on the prairie," was Ned's conclusion. "There isn't an Indian anywhere around here. I know it. They would have been after us long before this, if there had been." One by one the boys came from their hiding places, the lazy Mexican last. Disapproving eyes were turned on Stacy. "Chunky, you come along and show us where you were when you shot--did you shoot at an Indian?" asked Tad. "Yes, and I--I--I shot him." "Show us. We're all from Chillicothe," demanded Ned. Stacy, with a show of importance, led the way, keeping a wary eye out for the enemy. It was noticed, however, that each of the lads held his rifle ready for business in case there should be an enemy about. "There! I was standing right over there--I guess." "You guess! Don't you know?" questioned the Professor. "Yes; that's the place." The lad walked over to the identical spot from which he had first fired his rifle. "He was over there and I shot at him, so," said Stacy, leveling the weapon. "Ye-ow! There he is, now!" shrieked the boy. Every weapon flashed up to a level with the eyes. "There is something over there on the ground," decided the Professor. "Put down your guns so you don't shoot me," said Tad. "I'm going to find out what it is." Keeping his own weapon held at "ready," the lad walked boldly over to where a heap of some sort lay on the plain. It surely had not been there during the afternoon--Tad knew that. He reached it, stooped, peered, then uttered a yell. "What is it?" they cried, hurrying up. "You've done it now, Chunky Brown. You certainly have gone and done it." "What--what is it?" cried the others in alarm. "You've shot the lazy Mexican's burro. That's your Indian, Stacy Brown." Juan, who had followed them out on the plain, uttered a wail and threw himself upon the body of his prostrate burro. The animal, it seemed, had recovered consciousness during the night, and in a half-dazed condition had wandered out on the plain. Stacy, while crouching down on the ground, had seen the head and long ears of the burro. He thought the ears were part of the head dress of a savage and let fly a volley of bullets at it. "He--he isn't dead," shouted the fat boy. "See, I just pinked him in the ears." And, surely enough, an examination revealed a hole through each ear. The holes were so close to the animal's head that it was reasonable to suppose the shot had stunned him, being already in a weakened condition from the sleepy grass. The boys set to work to rouse the burro, which they succeeded in doing in a short time. Juan, with arm around the lazy beast's neck, led it back to camp, petting and soothing it with a chattering that they could not understand. There was no more sleep in camp that night, though the boys turned in at the Professor's suggestion. Every little while, laughter would sound in one of the tents, as the others fell to discussing Stacy's Indian attack. The next morning they were overjoyed to find that the ponies had awakened and were trying to get up. "Lead them out of that grass, fellows," shouted Tad, the moment he saw the ponies were coming around. "We don't want them to make another meal of that stuff." "Nor take another of Chunky's Rip Van Winkle sleeps," added Ned. Never having had a like experience, none of the lads knew what to do with their mounts after getting them sufficiently awake to lead them to a place of safety. They appealed to Juan for advice, but the lazy Mexican appeared to know even less than they. Tad, after studying the question a few moments, decided to give them water, though sparingly. This they appeared to relish and braced up quite a little. But the boy would not allow them to graze until nearly noon, when each one took his pony out, making sure that there was none of the sleepy grass around. The animals were then permitted to graze. About the middle of the afternoon Tad decided that all were fit to continue the journey, and that it would be safe to travel until sunset. Everyone was glad to get away from the spot where they had had such unpleasant experiences, and the boys set off, moving slowly, the stock not yet being in the best of condition. Late in the afternoon, when they had about decided to make camp, one of the boys espied an object, something like a quarter of a mile away, that looked like the roof of a house. Ned said it couldn't be that, as it appeared to be resting on the ground. They asked Juan if he knew what it was, and for a wonder he did. He said it was a dug-out--a place where a man lived. "Is he a hermit?" asked Stacy apprehensively, at which there was a laugh. Stacy had not forgotten his experiences in the cave of the hermit of the Nevada Desert. For the next hour, the lads were too busy, pitching tents and unloading the pack animals, to give further thought to the dug-out or its occupant; but when, after they had prepared their evening meal, they saw some one approaching on horseback, they were instantly curious again. The newcomer proved to be the owner of the dug-out. He was a tall, square-jawed man, with a short, cropped iron-gray beard and small blue, twinkling eyes. "Will you join us and have some supper?" asked Tad politely, walking out to greet the stranger. "Thank you; I will, young man," smiled the stranger. Tad introduced himself and companions. "You probably have heard my name before, young men. It is Kris Kringle; I'm living out here for my health and doing a little ranching on the side." Stacy looked his amazement. "Is--is he Santa Claus?" he whispered, tugging at Tad's coat sleeve. "No, young man. I am not related to the gentleman you refer to," grinned Mr. Kringle. There was a general laugh at Stacy's expense. After supper, the visitor invited all hands to ride over to his dug-out and spend the evening with him. The boys accepted gladly, never having seen the inside of a dug-out, and not knowing what one looked like. Professor Zepplin had taken a sudden liking to the man with the Christmas name, and soon the two were engaged in earnest conversation. The distance being so short, Tad decided that they had better walk, leaving the ponies in charge of Juan so they might get a full night's rest. Then all hands set out for the dug-out. A short flight of steps led down into the place, the roof of which was raised just far enough above the ground to permit of two narrow windows on each side and at the rear end. The room in which they found themselves, proved to be a combination kitchen and dining room. Its neatness and orderliness impressed them at once. "And here," said Kris Kringle, "is what I call my den," throwing open a door leading into a rear room and lighting a hanging oil lamp. The Pony Rider Boys uttered an exclamation of surprised delight. On a hardwood floor lay a profusion of brightly colored Navajo rugs, the walls being hung with others of exquisite workmanship and coloring, interspersed with weapons and trophies of the chase, while in other parts of the room were rare specimens of pottery from ancient adobe houses of the Pueblos. At the far end of the room was a great fire-place. Book cases, home-made, stood about the room, full of books. The Professor realized, at once, that they were in the home of a student and a collector. "This is indeed an oasis in the desert," he glowed. "I shall be loath to leave here." "Then don't," smiled Mr. Kringle. "I'm sure I am glad enough to have company. Seldom ever see anyone here, except now and then a roving band of Indians." "Indians!" exclaimed Tad. "Do you have any trouble with them?" "Well, they know better than to bother with me much. We have had an occasional argument," said their host, his jaws setting almost stubbornly for the instant. "Most of the tribes in the state are peaceful, though the Apaches are as bad as ever. They behave themselves because they have to, not because they wish to do so." "I saw their fire dance the other night," began Tad. "What?" demanded Mr. Kringle. "Fire dance." "Tell me about it?" Tad did so, the host listening with grave face until the recital was ended. He shook his head disapprovingly. "And this--this Indian that you knocked down--was he an Apache?" "I don't know. I think so, though. He had on a peculiar head dress "That was one of them," interrupted Mr. Kringle, with emphasis. "And I'll wager you haven't heard the last of him yet. That's an insult which the Apache brave will harbor under his copper skin forever. He'll wait for years, but he'll get even if he can." The faces of the Pony Rider Boys were grave. "Have you a reliable guide?" "Far from it," answered the Professor. "If I knew where I could get another, I'd pack him off without ceremony." Kris Kringle was silent for a moment. "I need a little change of scene," he smiled. "How would you like to have me take the trail with you for a week or so?" "Would you?" glowed the Professor, half rising from his chair. "I think I might." "Hurrah!" cried the Pony Riders enthusiastically. "That will be fine." "Of course, you understand that I expect no pay. I am going because I happen to take a notion to do so. Perhaps I'll be able to serve you at the same time." The Professor grasped Mr. Kringle by the hand impulsively. "I'll send that lazy Juan on his way this very night--" "Let me do it," interposed Stacy, with flushing face. "I'll do it right, Professor. But I'll put on my pair of heavy boots first, so it'll hurt him more." The boys shouted with laughter, while the new guide's eyes twinkled merrily. "I think, perhaps, the young man might do it even more effectively than you or I," he said. "Have you weapons, Professor?" "Rifles." "That's good. We may need them." "Then you think?" "One can never tell." CHAPTER XI RIDING WITH KRIS KRINGLE A slender ribbon of dust unrolling across the plain far to the northward marked the receding trail of Juan and his lazy burro. They had given him a week's extra pay and sent him on his way. The burro was making for home, aided by the busy feet of its master, while Stacy Brown, shading his eyes with one hand, was watching the progress of the guide, whom he had just sent adrift. "Well, he's gone," grinned Stacy, turning to his companions, who were busy striking camp. "And a good riddance," nodded Tad. "He'll probably join the Indians and tell them where we are," suggested Walter. "I hadn't thought of that," replied Tad. "Still, if they wish to find us they know how without Juan's telling them." "How?" "They can follow a trail with their eyes shut," said Ned. "That's right. They do not need to be told," muttered Tad. Everything being in readiness, the boys started with their outfit for the dug-out, where they were to be joined by Kris Kringle. They felt a real relief to know that they were to have with them a strong man on whom they were sure they could rely to do the right thing under all circumstances. Tad, however, believed that Mr. Kringle had decided to join them, fearing they would be attacked by the Apaches and come to serious harm. Yet he hardly thought the redskins would dare to follow them, after the latter had once gotten over the frenzy of their fire dance. By that time the Indian agents would have rounded them all up on the reservations, where the Indians would be able to do no more harm for a while. After picking up the new guide the start was made. The party had water in plenty in the water-bags, so that no effort was made to pick up a water hole when they made camp late in the afternoon. The guide had brought in his pack a tough old sage hen, at which the lads were inclined to jeer when he announced his intention of cooking it for their supper. "You'll change your mind when you taste it, young gentlemen. It depends upon the cooking entirely. A sage hen may be a delicious morsel, or it may not," answered Mr. Kringle, with a grin. They were encamped near a succession of low-lying buttes, and to while away the time until the supper hour, the boys strolled away singly to stretch their legs on the plain after the long day's ride in the hot sun. When they returned an hour or so later, Stacy, they observed, was swinging a curious forked stick that he had picked up somewhere a few moments ago. "What you got there?" questioned Ned. "Don't know. Picked it up on the plain. Such a funny looking thing, that I brought it along." "Let me see it," asked Mr. Kringle. Stacy handed it to him. "This," said the guide, turning the stick over in his hand, "is a divining rod." "Divining rod?" demanded Stacy, pressing forward. "Yes." "Never heard of it. Is it good to eat?" "Looks to me like a wish bone," interjected Ned. "Do you eat wish bones, Chunky?" "Might, if I were hungry enough." "A divining rod is used to locate springs. Some users of it have been very successful. I couldn't find a lake with it, even if I fell in first." "Indeed," marveled the Professor. "I have heard of the remarkable work of divining rods. What Rind of wood is it?" "This is hazel wood. Oak, elm, ash or privet also are used, but hazel is preferred in this country." "Then--then we won't have to go dry any more--I can find water with this when I'm dry?" questioned Stacy. "You might; then again you might not." "Better take it away from him," suggested Ned. "He might find a spring. If he did he'd be sure to fall in and drown." The stick, which was shaped like the letter Y, was an object of great interest to the Pony Rider Boys. One by one they took it out on the plain, in an effort to locate some water. The guide instructed them to hold the Y with the bottom up, one prong in each hand and to walk slowly. But, try as they would, they were able to get no results. "The thing's a fraud!" exclaimed Ned disgustedly, throwing the divining rod away. Stacy picked it up. "I know why it doesn't work," he said. "Why?" demanded the other boys. "'Cause--'cause there isn't any water to make it work," he replied wisely. The boys groaned. Shortly after returning to camp, they found the fat boy standing over a pail of water holding the stick above it. He was talking to the stick confidentially, urging it to "do something," to the intense amusement of the whole outfit. "Now, where's your theory?" questioned the Professor. "Why, it doesn't have to work, does it? Don't we know there's water here? If we didn't the stick would tell us, maybe. Take my word for it, this outfit won't have to go dry after this. Stacy Brown and his magic wand will find all the water needed," continued the fat boy proudly. "Your logic is good, at any rate, even if the rod doesn't work at command," laughed the Professor. Supper was a jolly affair, for everyone was in high spirits. The sage hen, contrary to general expectation, was found to be delicious. Chunky begged for the wish bone and got it. He said he'd use it for a divining rod when he wanted to find a little spring. "Mr. Kringle, I am commissioned by the fellows to ask you a question," announced Tad, after the meal had been in progress for a time. "Ask it," smiled the guide. "We thought we'd like to call you Santa Claus, seeing you've brought us so much cheer. Then again, it's your name you know. Kris Kringle is Santa Claus." "Oh, well, call me what you please, young men." From that moment on, Kris Kringle was Santa Claus to the Pony Rider Boys. They had now come to a rolling country, with here and there high buttes, followed by large areas of bottom lands which were covered with rank growths of bunch grass. Traveling was more difficult than it had been, and water more scarce. It was on the second day out, after they had been skirmishing for water in every direction, that the lads heard the familiar yell from Chunky. "There goes the trouble maker," cried Ned. "He's at it again." The guide bounded up, starting on a run for the spot where Chunky's wail had been heard. The others were not far behind. They saw the red, perspiring face of the fat boy above a clump of grass, his yells for help continuing, unabated. "What is it?" shouted the guide. "I've got it, Santa Claus! I've got it!" "Got what?" roared the Professor. "The stick!--I mean it's got me. Help! Help!" Stacy was wrestling about as if engaged in combat with some enemy. They could not imagine what had gone wrong--what had caused his sudden cries of alarm. "It's the divining rod!" called the guide. "He's found water!" shouted the boys. "I've got it! I've got it! Come help me hold it. The thing's jerking my arms off." To the amazement of the Pony Rider Boys, the forked stick in the hands of the fat boy was performing some strange antics. Breathing hard, he would force it up until it was nearly upright, when all at once the point of the triangle would suddenly swerve downward, bending the rod almost to the breaking point. "See it? See it?" "Most remarkable," breathed Professor Zepplin. "Yes, there can be no doubt about it," nodded the guide. "He's bluffing," disagreed Ned. "Doesn't look to me as if he were," returned Tad. "Take hold with me here, if you don't believe me," cried Stacy. "No, not on the stick, take hold of my wrists." Ned promptly accepted the invitation. Instantly the tug of the divining rod was felt by the new hands. Ned let go quickly. "Ugh! The thing gives me the creeps." "Let me try it, Master Stacy," said Professor Zepplin. "I can't let go of it," wailed Chunky. "Step off a piece," directed the guide. Stacy did so, whereupon the divining rod immediately ceased its peculiar actions. The Professor took hold of it, but the rod refused to work for him. "Let Santa Claus try it," suggested Ned. The guide did so, but with no more success than the Professor had had. "I told you it wouldn't work for me," Mr. Kringle grinned. "Here, Master Tad, you try it." Tad, with the rod grasped firmly in his hands, walked back and forth three times without result. On the fourth attempt, however, the stick suddenly bent nearly double. All were amazed. "Why were we unable to get results, Mr. Kringle?" questioned the Professor. "According to some French writers as much depends upon the man as on the divining rod. Where one succeeds another fails absolutely. Supposing the others take a try?" Walter and Ned did so, but neither could get the rod to move for him. "I guess Chunky is the champion water-finder," laughed Ned. "Would it not be a good idea to find out whether or not there is water here?" asked the Professor. "Yes," agreed the guide. "It may be so far down that we cannot reach it, however. You know in some parts of this region they are locating water with the rod and sinking artesian wells." "Why--why didn't we think to bring some down with us?" demanded Chunky. "Can't we get any in some of the towns down here?" "Some what?" questioned the guide. "Artesian wells." A roar greeted the fat boy's question. "Bring down a load of artesian wells!" jeered Ned. "An artesian well, my boy, is nothing more than a hole in the ground," the guide informed him, much to Chunky's chagrin. The spot where the divining rod had so suddenly gotten busy was about midway of an old water course, covered with a thick growth of bunch grass. "Get some tools, boys," directed the Professor. Tad ran back to camp, which lay some distance to the east of where they were gathered. Searching out a pick and two shovels, he leaped on his pony, dashing back to the arroyo. "That was quickly done," smiled Santa Claus. "Are all of you lads as quick on an errand as that?" "Only Chunky," answered Ned solemnly. The guide began to dig, in which effort he was joined by Stacy Brown, who, with a shovel, caved in about as much dirt as he threw out. "Here, give me that shovel," commanded Ned. "You'll fill up the bole before we get it dug." Tad, having tethered his pony, took the extra shovel and went to work. "Guess it's a false alarm," decided Ned, after they were up to their shoulders in the hole. "Don't be too sure. The ground is quite damp here. Try your rod, young man." "Chunky held the divining rod over the excavation, whereupon it drew down with even greater force than before. "Dig," directed the guide. They did so with a will. "Here's water!" shouted Kris Kringle. They crowded about the hole, amazement written on every face. A fresh, cool stream bubbled up into the hole, causing those in the pit to scramble out hastily. "Some of you boys run back to camp and fetch pails and water-bags," directed the guide. "I'll go. I've got the pony here," spoke up Tad. "No; I want you to do something else for me." "We'll all go," offered Walter. The three lads started on a run, Chunky holding his precious divining rod tightly clasped in both hands. "What is it you wish?" questioned Tad. "I wish you would ride over toward that small butte and cut a load of brush. Want to rip-rap the outer edge of this water hole, so the bank will not cave in and undo all our work! Have you a hatchet?" "Yes, in my saddlebags." "Good. Hurry, please." Tad leaped into the saddle, and putting spurs to his broncho, tore through the high bunch grass, above which only his head was now observable. In a short time he was back with the green stuff piled high on the saddle in front of him, with a large bundle tied to the cantle of the saddle behind. Unloading this, Butler started back at a gallop for more. When there was work to be done, Tad Butler was happy. Activity to him was a tonic that spurred him on to ever greater efforts. This time he found himself obliged to climb higher up the butte in order to get branches of available size. These he cut and threw down. After having procured what he thought would be all he could carry the lad scrambled down, and, dropping on his knees began tying them into bundles. The heat was sweltering, and occasionally be paused to wipe away the perspiration. "I smell smoke," sniffed Tad. "I wonder where it comes from?" The odor grew stronger, but so interested was he in his labor that he did not at once understand the significance of his discovery. "W-h-o-o-e-e!" It was a long-drawn, warning shout. "It's a signal!" exclaimed the lad, straightening up. "I wonder what's the matter?" As he looked toward the camp a great wall of flame seemed to leap from the ground between him and his companions. There it poised for one brief instant, then, with a roar swooped down into the tall bunch grass, rushing roaring and crackling toward him. For an instant he stood unbelieving, then the truth dawned upon him. "The prairie's on fire!" cried Tad. CHAPTER XII THE DASH FOR LIFE The shouts of the Pony Rider Boys and of the guide were swallowed up in the roar of the flames. "They'll be burned alive!" whispered the lad. Then, all at once he realized that he himself was in dire peril. "I'll have to go the other way and be quick about it at that," he decided, making a dash for the pony, that already was whinnying with fear and tugging at its tether. Tad did not wait to untie the stake rope. With a sweep of his knife he severed it and vaulted into the saddle. Whirling the animal about he headed to the west. To his alarm he suddenly discovered that the prairie fire was rapidly encircling him, the flames running around the outer edge of the bottoms with express train speed, threatening to head him off and envelop him. Had it not been for the long grass, which, tangling the feet of the pony, made full speed impossible, the race with the flames would have been an easy one to win. As it was, Tad knew that the chances were against him. But the dire peril in which he found himself did not daunt the Pony Rider Boy. Perhaps his face had grown a shade paler underneath the tan, but that was all. His senses were on the alert, his lips met in a firm pressure and the hand gripped the bridle rein a little more firmly, perhaps, than usual. Uttering a shrill cry to inform his companions that he was alive to his peril, and at the same time to encourage the broncho, Tad dug in the rowels of his spurs. The frightened pony cleared the ground with all four feet, uttering a squeal, and launching itself at the rapidly narrowing clear space ahead of him; and urged to greater and greater endeavor at every leap by the short, sharp "yips" of his rider. For all the concern that showed in his face, Tad Butler might have been running a horse race for a prize rather than fleeing for his life. "If I make it I'm lucky,"--commented Tad grimly. He found himself wondering, at the same time, how the fire had started. He knew that the flames first showed themselves midway between where he was at work and the place where his companions were engaged at the water hole. He could not understand it. Fire was necessary to use to start fire, and he knew that none of them had been foolish enough even to light a match in the dry bunch grass of the prairie. The flames were reaching mountain high by this time, great clouds of smoke rolling in on the breeze and nearly suffocating him. At times Tad was unable to see the opening ahead of him. When, however, the smoke lifted, giving him a momentary view, he saw that the gap was rapidly closing. All at once his attention was drawn from the closing gap. "Yeow! Yeow! Yeow! Y-e-o-w!" A series of shrill, blood curdling yells from out the pall of smoke and flame at the rear, bombarded his ears. At first he thought it was Indians; then the improbability of this being the case came to him. "Yeow! Yeow! Yeow!" persisted the voice behind, and it was coming nearer every second. Tad slackened the speed of his pony ever so little, despite the peril of his position. "There's somebody in there behind me, and, he'll never get out alive if he loses his way." The moment this thought occurred to him, Tad began to yell at the top of his voice. Suddenly from out the thick veil of smoke burst a pony with a mighty snort, coming on in bounds, each one of which cleared many feet of ground. On the pony's back was Stacy Brown, hatless, coatless, his hair standing up in the breeze, his face as red as if it had come in actual contact with the flames. "Yeow!" he roared, as his pony shot past Tad as if the latter's mount were standing still. Where Stacy had come from, how he had passed through that wall of flame, Tad had not the slightest idea. As a matter of fact the explanation was simple enough. The guide had sent Chunky out to assist Tad in bringing in the rip-rapping material. Stacy had made a detour from the camp, having gotten just inside the danger zone when the fire broke out. Guided by the butte where he knew his companion must be, Stacy headed for that point. There he came upon Tad's trail, and began yelling to attract his attention. He had heard Tad's answering cry, and this inspired the fat boy to renewed efforts. Stacy, now that he had passed Tad, slowed up ever so little. He had passed his companion so swiftly that he was unable to determine whether or not Tad were in distress. The latter came up, overhauling Stacy in a few moments. Both ponies were steaming from the terrific gruelling they were giving themselves. "What you doing here?" exploded Tad. "Same thing you are." "What do you mean?" "Trying to save myself from being burned alive--" "Don't slow up! Don't slow up!" shouted Tad. "Keep going!" "I am. Wat's matter with you?" "I don't see what you had to come tumbling into this mess for," objected Tad. "Didn't tumble in. Rode in. Came to help you--" "Precious lot of help you'll be to me. Lucky if we're not both burned with our boots on. See! The flame's narrowing in on us. More steam, Chunky! More steam!" urged Tad. "Can't. Blow up the boiler if I do," Stacy could not be other than humorous, even under their present trying situation. "That's better than burning out your fires, and it's quicker too--" All at once, Chunky uttered a terrible howl. His pony had stepped into a hole and gone down floundering in the long grass, Chunky himself having been hurled over the animal's head, landing several feet in advance. "Help! Help!" The rest was lost as the fat boy's face plowed the earth filling mouth, eyes and nostrils. Tad did not lose his presence of mind, though events had been following each other in such quick succession. Changing the reins to his right hand and bunching them there, he grasped the pommel of the saddle, driving his own pony straight at the kicking, floundering Chunky. The pony swerved ever so little, Tad's body swept down, and when it rose, his fingers were fastened in the shirt collar of his companion, with Chunky yelling and choking, as he was being dragged over the ground at almost a killing pace. Tad had no time to do more than hold on to his friend. He dared not stop to lift him to the saddle just then. The flames were roaring behind them and on either side, leaving a long, narrow lane ahead, through which lay their only hope of safety. "Buck up! Buck up, Chunky!" shouted Tad, himself taking a fresh brace in the stirrups, for the weight of the fat boy's dragging body was slowly pulling Tad from the saddle. Stacy was howling like an Indian, not from fear, but from anger at the rough usage to which he was being subjected. He did not stop to think that it was the only way his life might be saved--nor that his own pony lay back there in the bunch grass amid the flame and smoke. Tad knew it. Now, by a mighty effort Tad righted himself again, and, leaning forward, threw one arm about the pony's neck, trusting to the animal to follow the outward trail to safety of its own accord. Tad felt a sudden jolt that nearly caused him to slide from his pony on the side opposite Chunky. At the same time, the strain on the lad's arm was suddenly released. Tad was up on his saddle like a flash. His right hand held the fat boy's shirt, while a series of howls to the rear told him where the owner of the shirt lay. Tad groaned. Pulling his pony fairly back on its haunches, he dashed back where Stacy lay kicking, entangling himself deeper and deeper in the bunch grass. Had Tad not had presence of mind they both might have perished right there. He was off like a flash. With supreme strength, he grasped the body of his fallen companion, raising him into the saddle. "Hold on!" he shouted. "Don't you dare fall off!" Stacy clung like a monkey to a pony in a circus race. "Y-i-i-p!" trilled Tad. He had no time to mount. Already he could feel the hot breath of the flames on his cheek. The broncho was off with a bound. "Tad! Tad!" cried Chunky in sudden alarm, now realizing that he was alone. "Whe--where are you?" "H-h-h-h-e-r-e!" "W-w-where?" "H-h-h-holding to the b-r-r-oncho's t-tail." "Wow!" howled Stacy, as, turning in the saddle, he discovered his companion being fairly jerked through the air, holding fast to the pony's tail, the lad's feet hardly touching the ground at all. The broncho, that ordinarily would have resented such treatment, too fully occupied in saving his own life from the flames, gave no heed to the weight he was dragging, and it is doubtful if he even realized there was any additional weight there. With a final, desperate leap, the broncho shot out ahead of the narrowing lane. Like the jaws of some great monster, the two lapping lines of fire closed in behind them, roaring as if with deadly rage. The pony dashed out into a broad, open water course, whose dry, glistening sands would prove an effectual barrier to the prairie fire. Tad, though everything was swimming before his eyes, realized quickly that they were now well out of danger. "St-t-t-top him. I c-c-c-an't let go if you d-d-don't." "Whoa! Whoa! Don't you know enough to quit when you're through?" chided Chunky, tugging at the reins. The broncho carried them some distance before the lad was able to pull him down. Finally he did so. "Leggo!" he shouted, at the same time whirling the pony sharply about, fairly "cracking the whip" with Tad Butler. Chunky's clever foresight probably saved Tad Butler's life, for, instantly the pony found itself free, it began bucking and kicking in a circle, kicking a ring all round the compass before it finally decided to settle down on all fours. Finishing, it meekly lowered its nose to the ground and now, as docile as a kitten after having supped on warm milk, began dozing, the steam rising in a cloud from its sides. "Well, of all the fool fools, you're the champion fool!" growled Stacy, slipping from the saddle and surveying the broncho with disapproving eyes. "Hah! I guess we'd been done to a turn by this if it hadn't been for you, just the same. Hello, Tad!" Tad had doubled up in a heap where the tail of the broncho had flung him. He was well-nigh spent, but he smiled back at his companion, who stood on a slight rise of ground, almost a heroic figure. Chunky's shirt was entirely missing, his skin red from the heat, ridged with scratches where he had come in violent contact with cactus plants, his hair tousled and gray with dust. "Well you are a sight," grinned Tad. "You wouldn't take a prize at a baby show yourself," retorted Stacy, spicily. Tad's clothes were torn, and his limbs were black and blue all the way down where the hoofs of the broncho had raked them again and again. "My arms feel a foot longer than they did. What are you looking at?" Stacy's eyes grew large and luminous as he gazed off over the plains. "Look! Look, Tad!" he whispered. CHAPTER XIII FOLLOWING A HOT TRAIL "Fire! Fire!" cried Professor Zepplin, leaping up from where he had been leaning over, watching the water bubbling in the bottom of the excavation they had made. The guide had been hanging over the hole, dipping water to Ned, who was turning it into the water-bags. "Where, where?" demanded Mr. Kringle explosively. He also sprang to his feet. "It's a prairie fire!" "The boys are caught. They'll perish!" exclaimed Professor Zepplin, with blanching face. "Go to them, go to them, Mr. Kringle!" he begged. "No living thing could get through that wall of fire, Professor," announced the guide impressively. "We'll shout and perhaps, if alive, they'll bear us." They did so, with the result already known. "Which direction did Master Stacy take?" Mr. Kringle asked. "I saw him riding down that way," replied Walter, pointing excitedly. "Then, perhaps he is safe outside of the fire zone. Some of you hurry back to the camp, The stock may take fright and stampede. No, we'll all go. The wind may shift at any moment, and while I do not think the flames could reach the camp, all our animals might be suffocated, even if they did not succeed in getting away." "But you're not going to desert Tad and Chunky, are you?" demanded Walter indignantly. "Certainly not. What can we do here? We must get the ponies first; then we'll hurry to them. I'm afraid they've been caught," answered the guide. "If there's any way of escape you may depend upon it that Master Tad has discovered that way," answered the Professor. "He is a resourceful boy, and--" But the rest were already dashing madly toward the camp and Professor Zepplin began to do so with all speed to catch up with them. The hot breath of the prairie fire had brought the color to his blanched cheeks. "How--how do you think the fire started?" stammered the Professor, when he at last came up with the guide. "It was set afire," answered Kris Kringle grimly. "Set!" shouted the Professor and the two boys all in one breath. "Yes." "By whom?" "That remains to be seen." "Do you mean that one of the boys was imprudent enough to build a fire in that grass? Surely they would not have been so foolish as to do a thing like that." "As I said, that remains to be seen. The first thing to be done is to get to them as quickly as possible, though I don't know that we can do any good. They're either out of it, by this time, or else they're not," added Mr. Kringle suggestively. "Professor, I wish you and one of the boys would get out your rifles, mount your ponies and watch the camp, while two of us go in search of the lost ones." "Watch the camp?" "Yes." "For what reason?" "Merely as a precaution." "I'll attend to that. I want all of you to get after Tad and Stacy. We don't care about the camp particularly, when compared with two human lives." The smoke was rolling over them in such dense clouds that the camp was wholly obscured from view until they were upon it. "Quick! Get the horses before they break away!" commanded the guide. "I can't find them!" shouted Ned, who had bounded on ahead and disappeared in the great suffocating cloud. Walter was only a few steps behind him, both boys groping, blinking and coughing as the smoke got into eyes and lungs. "Lie down when it gets stronger than you can stand. There's always a current of fresh air near the ground," called the guide. Both lads adopted his suggestion instantly, and they were none too soon, for already they were getting dizzy. After a few long breaths, they were up, groping about once more in search of the stock. "Over to you right," called the Professor. "We've been there. They're not there at all," answered Ned. By this time the guide had dived into the cloud. "The stock has gone," they heard him shoat. "Have they stampeded?" roared the Professor. "I don't know. I'll find out in a minute." "Queer that this smoke blows two ways at once," said Walter. "There is a slight breeze blowing this way," explained Ned. "Not enough, however, to turn the fire back. It has got too good a start." Suddenly a weird "c-o-o-e-e" sounded to the right of them. "What's that?" "It's the guide, Walt. He's trying to call the boys, to see if they are alive," explained Ned. "I don't think so. That cry is for some other purpose. I'm going over where he is to find out what it does mean. Come on." Together the lads ran as fast as they could in the direction from which the guide's voice had come. They found him with hands shaped into a megaphone, uttering his shrill cries. He made no answer to their questions as to what he was trying to do. All at once off in the cloud they heard rapid hoofbeats. The boys glanced at each other in surprise. "It's the ponies returning," breathed Walter Perkins. Ned shook his head. The cries now took on a more insistent tone, and a moment later two ponies came whinnying into the camp, snorting with fear. Kris Kringle spoke to them sharply, whereupon they came trotting up to him with every evidence of pleasure. The lads were amazed. "Can you boys shoot a rope?" "Yes," they answered together. "Which one is the better at it?" "Ned is more expert than I am." "Take one of my ponies. We've got to go after the stock. Rope and bring them in as fast as possible. It's getting late, and it will be dark before we know it. There's not more than two hours of daylight left." "I can take my pony and help," began Walter. "You haven't any pony. They're all gone." Ned and the guide dashed from the camp at break-neck speed. Emerging from the dust cloud they saw some of the stock far off on the plain. "There they are!" cried Ned "Thank goodness, they're all together. And they are not running. We've got them bunched." "Were they afraid of the smoke? What made them break away?" "They didn't break away." "What?" "Their tethers were cut and they were sent adrift," answered the guide grimly. Ned was speechless with surprise. Some of the ponies, objecting to being roped, ran away, necessitating a lively chase. Kris Kringle worked with the precision of an automatic gun and with proportionate speed. In half an hour they had roped all the ponies, and, with the burros trailing along behind, started back to camp as rapidly as possible. A heavy pall of smoke still hung over the camp and all the surrounding country. Once more they staked down the ponies and pack animals, and urging vigilance on the part of Professor Zepplin, Ned and the guide dashed away at full gallop in search of the two missing lads. "Are we going through the fire?" questioned Ned apprehensively. "We're going to try it. The worst of it must have passed before this, but we may have to turn back or turn out for spots. It's the shortest way, and the only course to follow if we want to know what has become of them." Spreading out a little they continued on their way, the ponies snorting, threatening to whirl about and race back into the open plain. The ground was like a furnace and the grass smouldered beneath them, heating their feet and singeing their fetlocks. Suddenly Ned's pony reared into the air, bucked and hurled its rider far over into the smouldering bunch grass. Ned uttered a yell of warning as he felt himself going. The guide wheeled like a flash. Ned's mount had whirled and was away like a shot. But the guide was after him with even greater speed. The chase came to an abrupt ending some few rods farther on, when Kris Kringle's lariat squirmed out, bringing the fleeing pony to the ground with its nose in the hot dust. Without dismounting, the guide turned his own mount, and fairly dragging the unwilling pony behind him, pounded back to the place where Ned had been unhorsed. "Grab him!" commanded the guide to Ned, who had quickly scrambled to his feet. "What was it that he saw?" "I don't know. Guess he made up his mind to go back." "No; he saw something. Hang on to him and cover the ground all about you till you find it." "Wha--what do you--" "Never mind. Look!" "Here! Here it is!" cried Ned aghast. The guide was at his side instantly. "It's a pony," gasped the Pony Rider boy. Kris Kringle was off his own mount instantly, and bidding Ned hold the animal, he made a brief examination of the fallen horse, after which he darted here and there, unheeding the fact that the still burning grass was blistering his feet through the heavy soles of his boots. For several rods Kringle ran along the faint trail that Tad and Stacy had left, or rather, that the fire had left after passing over it. "They beat their way out here. We may find them later. Come on!" Again Ned and the guide dashed away, both keeping their gaze on the smoking prairie about them. The smoke now was almost more than they could bear. "Do--do you think they are alive?" asked Ned unsteadily. "So far. If they are not, it's not their fault. The Professor is right. Those boys have pluck enough to pull them through, but sometimes pluck alone will not do it. A prairie fire is no respecter of pluck." They burst out into an open space. There were no signs of either of the missing boys. "Something has happened to them. We must have missed them," announced the guide. CHAPTER XIV AGAINST BIG ODDS "What is it, Chunky?" "There!" Tad jerked his companion flat on the ground, flattening himself beside Stacy at the same instant. What had caused their sudden alarm was the sight of two Indians, sitting on their ponies without saddles, some distance out on the open plain. The redskins were wrapped in their brightly colored blankets, which enveloped them from head to knees. Even the hands were invisible beneath the folds of the blankets. "D-d-do you think they saw us, Tad?" "I don't know. It's safe to say they did. Indian eyes don't miss very much. You ought to know that, by this time. I wish we could make that pony lie down." "Why don't you?" "He's too afraid of the ground--thinks it's still hot, and I don't blame him. The fire has singed him pretty well as it is." The Indians sat their mounts as motionless as statues, the ponies headed directly toward where the two lads were lying. "I'll bet they're got guns under those blankets," decided Tad. "You can't trust an Indian even while you are looking at him." "Anybody'd think you'd been hunting Indians all your life," growled Stacy. "They've been hunting me mostly," grinned Tad. "And usually caught you," added Chunky. "I don't like this lying here as if we were scared of them." "But, what else can we do, Tad?" "I don't know." "Neither do I. Wish I had a shirt. I'll spoil my complexion clear down to my waist. Resides, I'm not fit to be seen." "You're lucky to be alive," growled Tad. "I'm going to get out of this." "How?" "Listen, and you'll know. I'm going to get on the pony; then, as soon as I'm in the saddle, you jump up behind me and we'll start back to camp." "Not--not through that fire?" protested Stacy. "No; I don't dare try it. I'm afraid we'd get lost in the smoke and perhaps get burned as well. We'll ride out some distance, then turn to the left and try to go around the burned district." "What if the Indians chase us?" "I don't believe they will. They'll hardly dare do that. And, besides, these may be friendly Indians." "Huh!" grunted Stacy. "They look it." Tad got up boldly, and without even looking toward the silent red men, began fussing about his saddle, cinching the girths, and straightening the saddle. His last act before mounting was to see that the coils of his lariat were in order. "All right," announced the lad, vaulting into the saddle. Stacy scrambled up behind him without loss of time, and they rode out into the open, the fat boy peering apprehensively over his companion's shoulder. "You keep watch of them, Chunky, but don't let them see you doing it. I won't look at them at all. We don't want them to think we're afraid." Stacy fidgeted. "You bet I'll watch 'em. Wish I had my rifle." "I don't." "Huh!" "You have distinguished yourself quite enough with that rifle as it is. We don't want any more of your fancy shooting." "There they go," warned Stacy. "I see them." Tad had been cautiously observing the horsemen out of the corners of his eyes. "Moving in the same direction we are. I don't like the looks of it. Still, if they don't get any nearer we may be thankful." The pony carrying the boys was walking easily, and the mounts of the Indians were doing the same. "Jog a little," suggested Stacy. "That's a good idea. It will tell us quickly whether they are trying to keep up with us." He touched the pony lightly with his spurs. The little animal switched its tail, for its sides were tender, and started off. "There they go, Tad! Jogging the same gait as ours!" Tad's face took on the stubborn look it always wore when he had determined upon a certain course of action. "I'll beat them yet, even if there are only two of them. I wish there weren't two of us on this nag." "I'll get off and walk," suggested. Stacy. "You'll do nothing of the sort. That would be a nice thing to do, wouldn't it? They'd round you up quicker'n they could a lame burro." "Say, Tad." "What?" "I've got an idea." "What is it?" "You know that sage hen we had?" "Yes, what's that got to do with our present predicament?" "I was wondering why there aren't any sage roosters?" "You'll be a sage rooster, with your head off, first thing you know," snapped Tad in disgust. "Can't you be serious for a minute? Don't you see we are in a fix?" "Uh-huh!" "There, that fellow is trying to head us off." One of the Indians had shot away from his companion, running obliquely toward the point to which Tad was headed. The red man had gotten quite a start before the boys caught the significance of his manoeuvre. Tad dug in the spurs. At that instant the fat boy's hands had been removed from Tad, to whose body they had been clinging. The pony leaped forward, and Stacy slid over its rump, hitting the ground with a jolt that jarred him. "Wow!" howled Stacy. Tad, instantly divining what had happened, pulled up sharply; wheeled and raced back to where his companion was still complaining loudly and rubbing his body. "Get up!" roared Tad, leaning over and grasping Stacy by the hair of his head. The fat boy was jerked sharply to his feet. "Quick! Quick, climb up here!" With the help of his companion, the lad scrambled up behind Tad again, muttering and rubbing himself. By this time the leading horseman had wholly outdistanced them, and his pony was now loping along easily, while the second Indian appeared to be riding directly toward them, at right angles to the direction in which they were traveling. All at once the two Indians began riding about the boys in a circle, uttering short little "yips," intended to terrify the lads, but not loud enough to be heard any great distance away. "Hang on! We're going to ride for keeps now!" warned Tad. The fat boy threw both arms about his companion's waist as the pony let out into a swift run. At first Tad thought he had gotten safely out of the circle, only to discover that they had headed him again. The circle was narrowing, and the Indians were gradually drawing in on them. Stacy's eyes were growing larger every minute, perhaps more from astonishment than from fear. Then, too, he could not but admire the riding of their pursuers. Even the blankets of the Indians appeared not to be disturbed in the least by their rapid riding, the horsemen sitting a little sideways on the ponies' backs, the reins bunched loosely in their left bands. "They've got us, Tad." "They shan't get us!" retorted Tad stubbornly. "If they don't use their guns--and I don't believe they will--we'll beat them yet." If Stacy was doubtful he did not say so. "If they get close to us, you be ready to let go of me when I give the word," cautioned Tad. "What for? What you going to do?" "I don't know yet. That depends upon circumstances. I'm not going to let them have it all their own way while I've got a pony under me. We may get help any minute, too, so the longer we can put off a clash the better it will be for us." "Who you mean--Santa Claus?" "Yes." "They're closing in now," said Stacy. "Take your hands away from my waist." "But I'll fall off, Tad." "Slip one hand through under my belt and take hold of the cantle with the other. Sit as low as you can so as not to get in my way." Stacy obeyed his companion's directions without further comment, but he was all curiosity to know what was going to happen next. The Indians were drawing nearer every second now. The boys could see the expressions on their evil faces, intensified by the streaks of yellow and red paint. "They look as though they'd stuck their heads in a paint pail," was Chunky's muttered comment. The blankets fell away from the racing savages, flapped on the rumps of the bobbing ponies for a few seconds and then slipped to the ground. A rifle was reposing in each man's holster, as Tad observed instantly. He was thankful to note that the guns were not in the hands of the Indians. The lad's right hand had dropped carelessly to the saddle horn, the fingers cautiously gathering in the coils of the lariat that hung there. The red men did not appear to have observed his act. "Lie low!" commanded Tad, scarcely above a whisper. Stacy settled down slowly so as not to attract attention. One horseman shot directly across Tad's course, striking the lad's pony full in the face as he did so, and causing the animal to brace himself so suddenly as to nearly unseat both boys. Tad's rope was in the air in a twinkling. A warning shout from the second Indian, who was just to the rear of them, came too late. The rope shot true to its mark and the first savage, with back half-turned, had failed to observe it coming. The great loop dropped over his head. The pony braced itself and Tad took a quick turn of the rope about the pommel of his saddle. The result was instantaneous. The Indian was catapulted from his saddle with arms pinioned to his aide. "Ye-ow!" howled Chunky; unable to restrain his enthusiasm. Tad did not even hear him. "Look out! Here comes the other one!" warned the fat boy. But Tad was too busily engaged in keeping the line taut about the roped Indian. The fellow was struggling on the ground, fighting to free himself, while the boy with the rope was manoeuvring his pony in a series of lightning-like movements that made the fat boy's head swim. "Take care of him, Chunky!! I can't," gasped Tad. Stacy's eyes took on a belligerent expression as the second savage bore down upon them, with knees gripped tightly against the side of his pony, half raising himself above the animal's back, reins dropped on the pony's neck. The Indian was guiding his mount by the pressure of legs and knees alone. The angry redskin was making futile attempts to get into a position where he might grab the active Tad. He did not seem to take into account the cringing figure behind the boy who had roped the other Indian. All at once, at the opportune moment, his pony forging ahead, the Indian's hand shot out. The red, bony fingers were closing upon Tad Butler's right shoulder, when all at once something happened. The cringing fat boy rose. The right hand that had been clinging to the cantle was launched out. His body, thrown forward at the same time, lent the blow added force. Chunky's fist came into violent contact with the Indian's jaw. Mr. Redman disappeared from the back of his pony so quickly that, for a second, Stacy could scarcely believe his eyes. "Y-e-o-w! W-o-w!" howled the fat boy. "Beat it for the tall grass, Tad!" A quick glance behind him, revealed the true state of affairs to Tad Butler. He dug in the spurs, clinging to the lariat for a few feet, then suddenly releasing it, as the pony leaped away under the stinging pressure of the spurs. "Duck! Duck! They're going to shoot!" shouted Tad. CHAPTER XV HIT BY A DRY STORM "There it goes! Lower, Chunky!" A rifle had crashed somewhere to the left of them. Stacy's curiosity getting the better of him, he had twisted his body around, and was peering back; but he was bobbing up and down so fast that he found it difficult to fix his eyes on any one point long enough to distinguish what that object was. "Look! Look!" he cried, when in a long rise of the pony his eyes had caught something definite. The roped Indian was running for his pony, which he caught, leaping to its back and dashing away madly. "Hold up! Hold up! There's something doing," shouted the fat, boy. Tad swerved a little, turning to his left. Rifles were banging, and the dust was spurting up under the feet of the savage's racing pony. By this time, the second Indian had recovered from the blow that Stacy had landed on his jaw, and he too was in his saddle in a twinkling, tearing madly cross the plain. Stacy Brown uttered a series of wild whoops and yells. He knew their assailants were running and that some one was shooting at the Indians, but who it was the fat boy could only guess. Two ponies suddenly dashed out from the low-lying smoke cloud. One of their riders was swinging his sombrero and cheering; the other was firing his rifle after the fleeing savages. "Hooray, it's Santa Claus," howled Stacy, fairly beside himself with excitement. Even Tad caught something of his companion's spirit of enthusiasm. He swung his hand and started galloping toward the two horsemen. "Shoot 'em! Kill 'em!" howled Chunky. But Santa Claus merely shook his head, and after refilling the magazine of his rifle slipped it into the holster. "It would only make trouble and probably cause an uprising if I did. They know I could have winged them both had I wanted to," he grinned. "Well, you boys are a sight." "I--I lost my shirt," interjected Stacy. "And I suppose you fell in," chuckled Ned. "No; I fell off." "We're lucky to be alive," laughed Tad. "You are that. I see now that Professor Zepplin was right when he said you could take care of yourself. Never saw anything quite so slick as the way you roped that redskin--" "And--and I punched the other one," glowed Chunky. "Did you see us?" questioned Tad. "Yes, we saw the whole proceeding. But you were so mixed up that we couldn't fire without danger of hitting one of you boys. Wonder what those Apaches think struck them," laughed the guide. "How did you get through the fire?" Tad explained briefly; at the same time accounting for the loss of Stacy's shirt. "I bet that the fellow with the canary-wing face has a sore jaw," bubbled Stacy. "No doubt of it, Master Stacy. I didn't suppose you had such a punch as that. You're a good Indian fighter." "Always was," answered the fat boy, swelling with importance. "Come, we'll have to hurry back It will be dark before we reach camp, as it is, and the Professor will be worrying about you." They turned about, and, heading across the burned area, started for camp. Fitful blazes were springing up here and there, but all danger had, by this time, passed, though the smoke still hung heavy and the odor of burned vegetation smote the nostrils unpleasantly. Stacy sniffed the air suspiciously. "Tastes like a drug store fire I smelled once in Chillicothe," he averred. "I haven't made up my mind, yet, how that fire started, Mr. Kringle," wondered Tad. "I have," replied the guide tersely. "How?" "It was set afire!" "By whom?" "By one of those savages, or by somebody who was with them. They must have been watching you all the time. Did you recognize either of them as the fellow you knocked down the other might?" "No; I don't think I would know the Indian. The light was too uncertain at the fire dance, and then again, all Indians look alike to me." "It was a narrow escape." "Do you think they'll come back again?" questioned Ned. "I doubt it. They won't if they recognized me. They know me. They've done business with me before." Professor Zepplin and Walter were overjoyed when at last the party rode into camp and they learned that both boys were safe. The lads were obliged to go all over their experiences again for the benefit of the Professor and Walter. "It's getting worse and worse," decided the Professor helplessly. "I don't know where all this is going to end. I thought when we got a new guide--but what's the use? Do you think we had better start to-night, Mr. Kringle?" "No. There is no necessity." "What am I going to do for a pony?" asked Chunky. "You can ride one of mine. I always take two when on a long journey," replied the guide. Chunky's first act after reaching camp, was to provide himself with a shirt. After donning it, he announced that he had an appetite and wanted to know when they were going to have supper. "Why, you had supper hours ago," scoffed Ned. "Want another one already?" "That wasn't supper, that was four o'clock tea. Indian fighters must have real food." "Stop teasing. We'll give the 'ittle baby his milk," returned Ned. That night, Kris Kringle remained on guard himself. He would not trust the guardianship of the camp to any of the boys, for he fully expected that they would receive a visit from one or more of the Indians, though he did not tell the others so. But nothing occurred to disturb the camp, and the boys, despite their trying experiences, slept soundly, awakening in the morning fresh and active, ready and anxious for any further adventures. The party set out shortly after sunrise, and traveled all day across the uneven plains, across short mountain ranges, through deep gorges and rugged foothills. Crossing an open space the guide espied a bottle glistening in the sunlight. "There's a bottle," pointed the guide. "Want it?" Stacy glanced at it indifferently; "What do I want of a bottle?" "Then I'll take it," decided the guide, dismounting and stowing the abandoned piece of glass in his saddle bags. "Bottles are good for only two things." "And what are they, Master Stacy?" questioned the Professor. "To keep things in and to shoot at," replied the fat boy wisely. Everybody laughed at that. "I guess that embodies everything you can say about bottles," smiled the Professor. "Your logic, at times, young man, is unassailable." Chunky nodded. He had a faint idea of what Professor Zepplin meant. Late that afternoon the travelers came upon a shack in the foothills, where an old rancher, a hermit, lived when not tending his little flock of sheep, most of which, Kris Kringle said, the old man had stolen from droves that came up over the trail going north. He was an interesting old character, this hermit, and the boys decided that they would like to make camp and have him take supper with them. This the Professor and the guide readily agreed to, for everyone was hot and dusty and the bronchos were nervous and ill-natured. The boys found the old rancher talkative enough on all subjects save himself. When Chunky asked him where he came from, and what for, the old man's face flushed angrily. At the first opportunity the guide took the fat boy aside for some fatherly advice. "In this country it isn't good policy to be too curious about a man's family affairs. He's likely to resent it in a way you won't like. Most fellows out here have reasons for being out of the world, beyond what's apparent on the surface." Chunky heeded the advice and asked no more personal questions for the next hour, though he did forget himself before the evening was ended. "You seem to be having pretty dry weather down here," said the Professor, by way of starting the old man to talking. "Yep. Haven't had any rain in this belt fer the last two years." "Two years!" exclaimed the boys. "Yep. Had a few light dews, but that's all," replied the hermit. "Looks to me as if you were going to get some to-night," announced Tad. "Reckon not." "Then I'm no judge of weather." Even as Tad spoke there was a low muttering of thunder, and the far lightning flashed pale and green, and rose on the long horizon to the southwest. Kris Kringle heard the far away growl. Springing up, he began staking down the tents. "That's a good idea. We lost our whole outfit on our last trip. Think they'll stand a blow?" "I guess they will when I get through with them. Have we any more stakes in camp?" "There should be some in the kit." Tad searched until he found several more stakes, and with these and the emergency ropes, they made the tents secure. By the time they had done so, the heavens had grown black and menacing. They could see the storm sweeping down on them. It was a magnificent sight, and the lads were so lost in observing its grandeur that they forgot to feel any alarm. A cloud of dust accompanied the advance guard of the storm. "Reckon there ain't any rain in them clouds," commented the old man. "There's plenty of the other thing, though." "What's the other thing?" questioned Chunky. "Lightning." Even as he spoke a bolt descended right in the center of the camp, tearing a hole in the earth and hurling a cloud of dirt and dust many feet up into the air. The force of the explosion knocked some of the party flat. Chunky picked himself up and carefully brushed his clothes; then, solemnly walked out and sat down on the spot where the lightning had struck. "Here, here! What are you doing out there?" demanded the guide. "Sitting on the lightning." "You come in here! And quick, at that!" "Huh! Guess I know what I'm doing. Lightning never strikes twice in the same place. I'm--" By this time Kris Kringle had the fat boy by the collar, hustling him to the protection of one of the tents. No sooner had they reached it than a crash that seemed as if it had split the earth wide open descended upon them. Balls of fire shot off in every direction. One went right through the tent where they were huddled, hurling the Pony Rider Boys in a heap. They scrambled up calling to each other nervously. The shock had extinguished the lantern that hung in the tent. The guide relighted it, and, stepping outside to see what had happened, pointed to the place where Chunky had been sitting but a few minutes before. The bolt had struck in the identical spot where the previous one had landed. "Now, young man, there's an object lesson for you," Mr. Kringle said, with a grim smile. "And there's another!" replied Chunky, pointing to the outside of the tent. There lay the old rancher, whose absence they had not noted. He had been in the tent with them when they last saw him and how he had gotten out there none knew. The rancher had been stripped of every vestige of clothing by the freaky lightning. "He's dead," crooned Stacy solemnly. "Get water, quick! He's been struck by lightning!" commanded the guide, making systematic efforts to bring the old man back to consciousness. Stacy ran for the water-bags. "I am afraid it is useless, Mr. Kringle," warned, the Professor, failing to find a pulse. The boys were standing about fanning the victim, having one by one dumped the contents of their canteens in his face. Stacy returned with a water-bag after a little. "I--I--I've got an idea," he exploded, as with eyes wide open he attempted to tell them something. "Keep still. We've got something else to do besides listening to your foolishness," chided Ned. "Chunky, we're trying to save this man's life. Give me that bag," commanded Tad. The two older men were working desperately on the patient. Stacy stood around, fidgeting a little, but making no further attempt to enlighten them as to what his new idea was. After a time the rancher began to show signs of recovering. He gasped a few times then opened his eyes. "What kicked me?" he asked, with a half-grin. They could all afford to laugh now, and they did. The rancher refused their offer of clothes, saying he had another suit in his shack. "That's twice the stuff has knocked me out. Next time it'll git me for keeps," he said. "Does it strike here very often?" questioned the Professor. "Allus." "Then, there must be some mineral substance in the soil." "No, ain't nothing like that. Jest contrariness that's all. Hit my shack once, and 'cause 'twas raining, bored holes in the roof so the place got all wet inside." "But it isn't raining now. Doesn't it usually rain when you have a thunder storm here?" asked the Professor. "No. Ain't had no rain in nigh onto two year," the hermit reiterated. "You'd better go and put on some clothes," suggested Kris Kringle. "Guess that's right." The old man seemed to have forgotten his condition. The others had wrapped a blanket around him, which seemed to satisfy his demand for clothes. Gathering up the blanket he strolled leisurely toward his cabin, undisturbed by his recent experience. "Nothing like getting used to it," chuckled Stacy. "Hello, now we'll hear what your new idea is, Chunky?" jeered Ned. "Yes, what is it?" urged Tad. "Nothing much." "Never is," cut in Walter Perkins, a little maliciously. "I--I got an idea the ponies tried to kick holes in the lightning." Everybody laughed loudly. They could well afford to laugh, now that the danger had passed. "What makes you think that?" asked the guide, eyeing him sharply. "'Cause they're dead!" "What!" shouted the boys. All hands dashed from the tent, Stacy regarding them with soulful eyes, after which he surreptitiously slipped a biscuit into his pocket and strolled out after them. CHAPTER XVI CHUNKY'S NEW IDEA Three of the ponies, they found, had been knocked down and so severely shocked that they were only just beginning to regain consciousness. "Why didn't you tell us?" demanded Ned, turning on Stacy savagely. "You wouldn't let me. Maybe next time I've got an idea, you'll stop and listen." Kris Kringle's face wore a broad grin. "Master Stacy is right. He tried hard enough to tell us," he said. Chunky was humming blithely as the party set out next morning. He was pretty well satisfied with himself, for had he not been through a prairie fire, knocked a savage Apache off his horse, saved himself and his companions, besides having just escaped from being struck by lightning? Stacy swelled out his chest and held his chin a little bit higher than usual. "Chunky's got a swelled head," said Ned, nodding in the direction of the fat boy. "Swelled chest, you mean," laughed Walter. "Nobody has a better right. Chunky isn't half as big a fool as he'd have everybody believe. When we think we are having lots of fun with him he's really having sport with us. And those Indians--say, Ned, do you think they will bother us any more?" "Ask Chunky," retorted Ned. "He's the oracle of the party." "I will," answered Walter, motioning for Stacy to join them, which the latter did leisurely. "We want to know if you think we've seen the last of the Apaches? Will they bother us any more?" The fat boy consulted the sky thoughtfully. "I think there's some of them around now," he replied. "What?" Stacy nodded wisely. "Santa Claus ought to have shot them." "Why, you cold-blooded savage!" scoffed Ned. "The idea!" "You'll see. I'd have done it, myself, if I'd had my gun," declared Stacy bravely. "Good thing for you that your gun was in camp, instead of in your holster." "Yes; I'd have lost the gun when the pony went down. Poor pony! Say, Walt," he murmured, leaning over toward his companion. "Well, out with it!" "This pony of Santa Claus's can jump further than a kangaroo." "Ever see a kangaroo jump?" sneered Ned. "No; but I've seen you try to. I'll show you, Walt, when we get a chance to go out and have a contest." "That would be good sport, wouldn't it, Ned?" "What?" "A jumping contest!" "If we didn't break our necks." "Can't break a Pony Rider Boy's neck. They're too tough," laughed Walter, to which sentiment, Stacy Brown agreed with a series of emphatic nods. "Say, Tad," called Walter, "what do you say to our jumping our ponies some time to-day?" Tad grinned appreciatively. "If the stock isn't too tired when we make camp, I think it would be great fun. We haven't had any real jumping contests in a long time." "Wish we had our stallions here, Tad." "They're better off at home, Chunky. Altogether too valuable horses for this kind of work. I'll speak to the guide." "Well, what is it, young man?" smiled Kris Kringle. "If you can find a level place for our camp we want to have a contest this afternoon. Professor, will you join us?" "What kind of a contest?" "Jumping." "No, thank you." "We will camp in the foothills of the Black range. You will find plenty of level ground there for your purpose," said the guide. In order that they might have more time for their games, an early halt was called. The first work was to pitch the camp, the ponies being allowed to graze and rest in the meantime, after which the lads started out on a broad, open plain for their sport. Their shouts of merriment drifted back to the camp where Kris Kringle and Professor Zepplin were setting things to rights and preparing an early supper, the sun still being some hours high. "That's a great bunch of boys, Professor." "Great for getting into difficulties." "And for getting out of them." "I'll put them against any other four lads in the world for hunting out trouble," laughed the Professor. The result of the afternoon's sport was a total of several spills and numerous black and blue spots on the bodies of the Pony Rider Boys. Stacy Brown on Kris Kringle's pony, carried off the honors, having taken a higher jump than did any of his companions. Then Stacy did it again, after the others had tried--and failed to equal the record. The games being finished, Tad and Walter rode off to get a closer view of some peculiar rock formations that they had discovered in the high distance, while Ned and Chunky started slowly for the camp. The table had been set out in front of the tents when the fat boy and his companion came in sight of the camp. "Whew! but I'm hungry!" announced Stacy Brown. "But you didn't think of it until you saw the table set, did you?" "It wasn't the table, it was the shaking up I got back there that made me feel full of emptiness." "Huh!" "I've got an idea, Ned." "For goodness' sake, keep it to yourself, then. When you have an idea it spells trouble for everybody else around you." "Bet you I can." "Can what?" snorted Ned. "Bet you I can jump the dinner table and you can't." "Bet you can't." "Bet I can, and without even knocking a fly off the milk pitcher." "Go on, you! You try it first, and, if you don't make it, you lose. I don't have to try it if I don't want to," agreed Ned, with rare prudence. Chunky was fairly hugging himself with glee, but he took good care that Ned Rector did not observe his satisfaction. "If you don't you're a tenderfoot," taunted Stacy. "I'll show you who's the tenderfoot. You go ahead and bolt the dinner, table and all, if you dare. Now, then!" Stacy gathered up his reins. There was mischief in his eyes, which were fixed on the table, neatly set for the evening meal. "You start right after me. They'll be surprised to see a procession of ponies going over the table, won't they?" "Somebody'll be surprised. May not be the Professor and Santa Claus, though," growled Ned. Stacy had his own ideas on this question, but he did not confide them to his companion. The fat boy clucked to his pony, and the little animal started off. As they moved along, Stacy used the persuasive spurs resulting in a sudden burst of speed. "Come on!" he shouted. He heard Ned's pony pursuing him. "Hi-yi-yi-y-e-o-w!" howled the shrill voice of the fat boy. Professor Zepplin and Kris Kringle were sitting at opposite ends of the table, with elbows leaning on it, engaged in earnest conversation. There had been so much yelling out on the plain ever since the boys left camp that the older men gave no heed to this new shout--did not even turn their eyes in the direction whence Stacy Brown and his pony were sweeping down on them at break-neck speed. Suddenly the two men started back with a sudden exclamation, as a shadow fell athwart the table and a dark form hurled itself through the air, while a shrill, "w-h-o-o-p-e-e!" sounded right over their heads. The fat boy cleared the table without so much as disturbing the fly to which he had referred when making the arrangement. Kris Kringle's face wore an expansive grin as he discovered the cause of the interruption. But, Professor Zepplin's face reflected no such emotion. He was angry. He started to rise, when a second shadow fell across the table. Ned Rector, not to be outdone by his fat little friend, pursed his lips tightly, driving his broncho at the dinner table and pressing in the spurs so hard, that the pony grunted with anger. Up went the broncho in a graceful curving leap. But the pony or its rider had not calculated the distance properly. Both rear hoofs went through the table, whisking it off the ground from before the astonished eyes of Professor Zepplin and Kris Kringle. Both men drew back so violently that they toppled over backwards. 'Mid the crashing of dishes and the sound of breaking wood, the dinner table shot up into the air, while the pony ploughed the ground with its nose. Ned Rector struck the ground some distance farther on; he slid on his face for several feet skinning his nose, and filling mouth, eyes and nose with dirt. Then dishes and pieces of table began to rain down on them in a perfect shower. A can of condensed milk emptied itself on the head of Professor Zepplin, while a hot biscuit lodged inside the collar of Santa Claus's shirt. "Wow! Oh, wow!" howled the fat boy, falling off his pony in the excess of his merriment and rolling on the ground. CHAPTER XVII IN THE HOME OF THE CAVE DWELLERS Ned Rector sat up just in time to meet the wreck of the descending table. Down he went again with Stacy's howls ringing in his ears. A firm hand jerked Rector free of the debris as Kris Kringle laughing heartily hauled Ned to his feet. At the same moment Professor Zepplin had laid more violent hands on the fat boy, whom he shook until Stacy's howls lost much of their mirth. About this time Tad and Walter rode in, having hurried along upon hearing the disturbance in camp. "Stacy Brown, are you responsible for this?" demanded the Professor sternly. "I'm more to blame than he is," interposed Ned. "No, I--I had an idea," chuckled Stacy, threatening to break out into another howl of mirth. "Next time you have one, then, you will be good enough to let me know. We will tie you up until the impulse to make trouble has passed." Tad and Walter could not resist a shout of laughter. Kris Kringle was not slow to follow the example set by them, and all at once Professor Zepplin forgot his dignity, sitting right down amid the wreck and laughing immoderately. Ned washed his face, and when, upon facing them, he exhibited a peeled nose and a black eye, the merriment was renewed again. Supper was a success, in spite of the fact that many of their dishes were utterly ruined, as well as some of the provisions. But the lads gathered up the pieces and made the best of a bad job. Fortunately they carried another folding table that they had had made for their trip, and this was soon spread and a fresh meal prepared. "Well, have you two been getting into difficulties also?" questioned the Professor, after they sat down to supper. "No; we've been exploring, Walter and I," answered Tad. "Exploring?" "Yes. We discovered something that I should like to know more about." "What is that?" asked Kris Kringle, looking up interestedly. "We were over yonder, close to the mountains, which are straight up and down, and half way to the top, we saw three or four queerly-shaped rocks that looked like houses or huts. Did you ever see them, Mr. Kringle?" "No; but I think I know what you mean. They must be some of the cave dwellings of the ancient Pueblos, or perhaps as far back as the Toltecs. They built their homes in caves on the steep rocks for better protection against their enemies." "And nobody ever discovered these before?" questioned. Walter. "How queer!" "Perhaps these dwellings, if such they are, have been seen by many a traveler, none of whom had interest enough in the matter to investigate. Then again, they may have been fully explored. There's not much in this part of the country that prospectors have not looked over." "May we explore these caves, Professor?" asked Tad. "Please let us?" urged Walter. "I see no objection if Mr. Kringle will be responsible for you. I rather think I'll look into them myself. I'll confess the idea interests me. Are they easy to get at?" "I'm afraid not," answered Tad. "Santa Claus will show us the way," interrupted Stacy enthusiastically. He was frowned down by the Professor. "Why not start now?" urged Tad. The guide consulted the sun. "We might. It lacks all of three hours to dark." There was much enthusiasm in camp. The idea that they were to visit some unexplored caves, dwellings of an ancient people, filled the lads with pleasant expectancy. Before starting, Mr. Kringle sorted out some strong manila rope and several tent stakes all of which he did up into two bundles. Then he filled the magazine of his rifle, throwing this over his shoulder. "What's that for?" questioned Ned. "The gun?" "Yes." "Can't tell what we may run into in a cave, you know." After a final look at the camp all hands set out for the place indicated by Tad. It was only a short distance, so they decided to walk. Reaching the base of the mountain they gazed up. "Yes, those are cave dwellings," declared Kris Kringle. "And they are still closed. Probably they haven't been opened in two hundred years." "I'd hate to live there and have to go home in a dark night," mused Chunky. "Yes, how did they get to their houses?" wondered the other boys. "The question is, how are we going to get near enough to explore them? How shall we get up there, Mr. Guide?" asked the Professor. "We'll find a way. We shall have to climb the mountain, first." All hands began clambering up the rocks. To do so they were obliged to follow along the base of the mountain for some distance before they found a place that they could climb. Reaching the top, the guide examined their surroundings carefully. "See those little projections of rock slanting down toward the shelf?" he asked. "Yes." "Well, in the old days they probably felled a tree so it would fall on them. The occupants of the cave probably cut steps in the tree trunk over which to travel up and down. The tree has rotted away many years since." "And we can't get down, then?" "We'll find a way, Master Walter. I thought I should be able to make a rope ladder that would work, but I see it is not practicable." "How shall we do it?" "Try the old way, I guess, Master Tad." "What's that?" "The tree." "But there are no trees near here?" "Yes, there are, a few rods back. We are all strong and I guess we shall be able to make a pretty fair pair of steps." Kris Kringle had brought an axe with him. With this he cut some long, straight poles which, he explained, were intended for pike poles such as woodsmen use to roll logs. This done, he began industriously chopping at the tree after deciding upon the exact position in which he desired it to fall. "It won't reach," declared Chunky, who, with hands in pockets, legs spread wide apart, stood looking up at the flaring top of the great tree. The guide stopped chopping long enough to squint at the fat boy. "It'll reach you all right, if you stay where you are," he said, then resumed his vigorous blows. Stacy promptly took the hint and moved a safe distance away. "Get from under!" shouted the guide finally. One more blow would send the tree crashing downward. All hands scrambled for safety. One powerful blow from the axe, and with a crashing and rending, the great tree began its descent. When it struck the onlookers fully expected to see it broken into many pieces, but the bushy top, hitting the rocks first, broke the blow, and the body of the tree settled down gently without even breaking its bark. "Fine! Hurrah!" shouted the boys. "It won't reach to the edge. Going to pull it over?" questioned Stacy. "Not exactly, but we're going to get it there. Perhaps we shall not have it in place in time to explore the caves to-night, but we shall be ready to do so early in the morning. It took our friends longer to do this job, two hundred years or more ago, than it will take us. We have better tools to work with." "And better bosses," suggested Stacy. Some little time was consumed in chopping the tree loose from its stump, after which the guide worked the pike poles under the trunk at intervals near the base. The others watched these operations with interest. "Now here is where you young gentlemen will have a chance to show how strong you are. Each one grab a pike pole," Kringle directed. "Shan't I go hold the top down?" asked Stacy. "You just grab a pike pole and get busy!" laughed Mr. Kringle. "Can't get out of work quite so easy as you thought," scoffed Ned. "This is where we make you earn your supper." "I don't have to earn it. Had it already." "There are other meals coming," smiled the Professor. "Now, heo--he!" All raised on the pike poles at the same time with the result that the tree was forced down the gentle incline several feet. This was repeated again and again, the boys pausing to cheer after every lift. The tree being now perilously near the edge of the cliff Kris Kringle called a halt. Next he fastened a rope around the top and another around the base, taking a turn around a rock with each. One boy was placed on each rope, the others at the pike poles, while the guide stood at the edge giving directions. The tree trunk gently slipped over under his guidance and a few minutes later rested on the projecting rocks, that were just high enough to hold it in place. "Wouldn't take much to send it over, but I guess it will be perfectly safe," he mused. "May we go down now?" cried the boys. "No; I'll make some steps first." He did so with the axe, chopping out scoop-shaped places for steps, until finally he had reached the rock in front of the cave dwellings. The tree lay at an easy slope, its bushy top partly resting on the ledge, the latter being some eight feet deep by ten feet wide. Running up the log Mr. Kringle made another rope fast at the top, throwing the free end over. "Hold on to the rope while you are going down and you'll be in no danger of falling," he warned. The boys scrambled down the tree like so many squirrels, the Professor following somewhat more cautiously. The explorers found themselves not more than twenty feet from the ground. "Not much of a door yard. Where's the garden?" wondered Stacy, looking about him curiously. The entrance to the cave dwelling was blocked by a huge boulder, that completely filled the opening. How it had been gotten there none could say. The only possible explanation was that the boulder had been found on the shelf and applied to the purpose of protecting the cave dwellers' home. "Now we're here, we can't get in," grumbled Ned. "Nothing is impossible," answered Kris Kringle. "Except one thing." "What's that, Master Ned?" "To hammer the least little bit of sense into the head of my friend, Chunky Brown." "You don't have to, that's why," retorted Stacy quickly. "It has all the sense it'll hold, now." "I guess that will be about all for you, Ned," laughed Walter. "At least, Chunky didn't foul the dinner table when he jumped it." The guide, in the meantime, was experimenting with the boulder, inserting a pike pole here and there in an effort to move the big stone. It remained in place as solidly as if it had grown there. "There's some trick about the thing, I know, but what it is gets me. Better stand back, all of you, in case it comes out all of a sudden," Mr. Kringle warned them. All at once the boulder did come out, and it kept on coming. "Look out!" bellowed the guide. "Low bridge!" howled Stacy, hopping to one side and crouching against the rocks. The guide had sprung nimbly to one side as well. The big rock had popped out like a pea from a pod. Instead of stopping, however, it continued to roll on toward the edge. "Hug the rocks! She's going down!" shouted the guide. Go down it did, with a crash that seemed to shake the mountain. Rolling to the edge of the shelf, it had toppled over, taking a large strip of shelving rock with it. "Wow!" howled Chunky; The other boys uttered no sound, though their faces were a little more pale than usual. Kris Kringle stepped to the edge, peering over. "No one will get that up here again, right away," he said. "The cave, the cave!" shouted Walter. Everyone turned, gazing half in awe at the dark opening that the removal of the stone had revealed--an opening that had been closed for probably more than two centuries. CHAPTER XVIII FACING THE ENEMY'S GUNS "Do we go in?" asked the Professor. "Wait, I'll get some light inside first," answered the prudent guide. "Can't tell whether we shall want to go in or not." He built up a small fire within, then called to the others that they might enter. They crowded in hastily, finding themselves in a fairly large chamber, at the far end of which was a sort of natural alcove in the rocks. The remnants of a fire still lay at one side, where the last meal of the ancient dweller had probably been cooked. Several crude looking utensils lay about, together with a number of pieces of ancient pottery. "This is, indeed, a rare find!" exclaimed the Professor, carrying the precious jars out into the light for closer examination. Chunky, about that time, pounced upon an object which proved to be a copper hatchet. "Hurray for George Washington!" he shouted, brandishing the crude tool. "The man who never told--" "We've heard that before," objected Ned. "Give us something new, Chunky, if you've got to talk." The Professor came in, searching for other curios just as Stacy went out to examine his "little axe," as he was pleased to call it. He tried the edge of it on the ledge to find out if the stone would dull it, but it did not. "I'll use that to cut nails and wire with when I get back home," decided the boy. "Guess I'll chop my name in the side of the mountain here." Stacy proceeded to do so, the others being too much engrossed in their explorations to know or care what he was about. He succeeded very well, both in making letters on the wall and in putting several nicks in the edge of his new-found hatchet. He was thus engaged when all at once something struck the axe hurling it from his hand. At the same instant a rifle crashed off somewhere below and to the southeast of him. "Ouch!" exclaimed the fat boy holding his hand. "Wonder who did that?" His mind had not coupled the shot with the blow on the hatchet. Bang! A bullet flattened itself close to his head, against the rock. With a howl, the lad threw himself down on the ledge. At that instant Kris Kringle sprang to the opening of the cave. "What does this mean?" he snapped. "I don't know. Somebody knocked the axe out of my hand then shot at me." The guide discovered the trouble right there. A bullet snipped his hat from his head; and, striking the ceiling of the cave-home, dropped to the floor with a dull clatter. Kris Kringle ducked with amazing quickness. Crawling back into the cave, he reached for his own rifle and then sought the opening, taking good care not to expose himself to the fire of the unseen enemy. Stacy, on his part, had lost no time in getting to a place of safety inside, though he was prudent enough to crawl instead of getting up and walking in. "What does this mean? It can't be possible that anyone is deliberately shooting at us?" questioned Professor Zepplin in undisguised amazement. "If you doubt it step outside," suggested Kris Kringle. "Master Stacy and myself know what they tried to do, don't we, lad?" "We do." The fat boy again swelled with importance. "Look out you don't swell up so big you'll break your harness," warned Ned. "Better break it than have it shot off," mumbled Stacy. "Who can it be?" "I can't say, Professor." "It's our friends from the fire dance," was Tad's expressed conviction. "Told you they'd be here," nodded Chunky. "Why don't you shoot at them?" "Going to, in a minute. Got to find out where they are first." Now the lads were excited in earnest. Some one was shooting at them, and the guide was going to fire back. This was more than they had expected when they visited the home of the cave-dweller. "Let me take a crack at 'em," begged Chunky. "I owe 'em one." "Master Stacy, you will do nothing of the sort," reproved the Professor sternly. "The idea!" "No; if there's any shooting to be done I'll do it," announced Kris Kringle. "And Santa Claus isn't shooting with any toy gun, this time," chuckled Chunky. "Can you see the camp, to know if anyone is there?" "Yes, but only part of it, Professor. I wish you would all get over into the right hand corner there and lie flat on the floor. I'm going to try to draw their fire so that I can locate them. Can't afford to waste ammunition until we are reasonably sure where our mark is." The others quickly got into the position indicated. Placing his hat on one of the pike poles, Kringle slowly pushed it outside. There was no result, The ruse failed to draw the enemy's fire. "Oh, they've gone. We're a lot of babies," jeered Ned, jumping up and starting for the opening. Kris Kringle gave him a push with the butt of the rifle. "Want, to get shot full of holes? Wait! I'll show you." The guide sprang up, showing himself out on the ledge for one brief instant then throwing himself flat. A sharp "ping" against the rocks, followed by a heavy report, told the story. The guide had been not a second too soon in getting out of harm's way, for the bullet would have gone right through him had he remained standing. Quick as a flash Kringle's rifle leaped to his shoulder, and he fired. He had taken quick aim at a puff of smoke off toward the camp. Not content with one shot he raked the bushes all about where the puff of smoke had been seen, emptying the magazine of the rifle in a few seconds. Stacy Brown was fairly dancing with glee. "Did you hit anything?" asked the boys breathlessly. "Of course, I hit something; but whether I winged an Indian or not, I don't know. If I did, he probably is not seriously wounded. You'll hear a redskin yell when he's hit bad." "That one I punched didn't. He was hit hard," volunteered Stacy. "He didn't have time," grinned Tad. "You were too quick for him." "Look out! There comes a volley!" warned Mr. Kringle. The boys, led by the Professor tumbled into the corner in a heap, while the lead pattered in through the opening, rattling with great force like a handful of pebbles. "They're getting in a hurry," averred the Professor. "It's growing dark. They want to finish us before then, so we can't play any tricks on them after that. But, if they only knew it, and they probably do, they've got us beautifully trapped. One man below and another at the other end of our tree would be able to keep us here till the springs run dry. If there's only two of them there, as I suspect is the case, they may not want to separate. We'll see, the minute it gets dark enough so that we can move about without being observed." Some of the sage brush that Kris Kringle had brought down to light up the cave lay outside on the ledge. Using one of the poles, he cautiously raked the stuff inside, heaping it up not far from the entrance. "What you doing that for?" questioned Stacy, unable to conceal his curiosity. "You'll see, by-and-by, when we get ready to do something else. You don't think I'm going to stay here all night, do you?" There was no further firing on either side, though Mr. Kringle showed himself boldly several times. Finally Tad tried it, and was greeted with a shot the instant he appeared in the opening. "Must be me they're after," he suggested, with a forced grin, falling flat on the ledge, and wriggling back into the cave. The twilight was upon them now. The guide had been able to see the flash of the rifle below him, and had taken a quick shot at it when the enemy attempted to wing Tad Butler. Kringle had no means of knowing whether his shot had been effective or not. "I'm going to try something else in a few minutes, now," the guide told the Professor and the boys, "and I hope you all will do just as I tell you." "You may depend upon our doing exactly that," answered the Professor. "I am going to crawl out of here. The rest of you remain here until I call to you to come out, no matter if it is until morning. After I have been gone about ten minutes, light a match and toss it into the heap of sage there, but watch out that you don't get into the light. Throw the match. You're liable to be shot if you show yourselves." "Why should we make a fire and thus make targets of ourselves?" protested Ned. "That is to cover Mr. Kringle's retreat," Tad informed them. "Exactly. Master Tad, you may come along with me if you wish." Tad jumped at the offer. "But not a sound. Ask me no questions. Follow a rod or so behind me, and walk low down all the time. If you make a mistake it may result seriously for you and your friends. And, another thing." "Yes?" "Should there be any shooting, throw yourself on the ground. You will not be as likely to be hit there." "I'll obey orders, sir." "I know it." "When do we start?" "I guess we can do so now, as safely as at any time. The rascals will not be likely to be on the mountain just yet, because it is not dark enough. Yes; we'll go now." Tad waited until Kris Kringle had crawled from the cave, then lay down on his stomach and wriggled out on the ledge. There were no signs of the enemy and the camp-fire of the Pony Rider Boys glowed dimly down below. Tad, peering off into the gloom, for the moon had not yet risen, thought he saw a figure flit by the fire. He could not be sure, however. He wished he might tell the guide of his fancied discovery; but, remembering the injunction for absolute silence, he said nothing. By this time, Tad's arms were about the log. From the slight vibration he knew that Kris Kringle was somewhere between himself and the top, yet not a sound did the guide make. Tad made no more, and they would have been keen ears, indeed, that could have detected our friends' presence by sound alone. When the lad finally reached the top a hand was laid on his shoulder. The touch gave him a violent start in spite of his steady nerves. "You're all right," whispered the voice of Kris Kringle. "You'd make a good Indian. I want to explain something that I didn't wish the others to hear." "Yes?" whispered Tad. "I have only one shell left in my rifle. That's why I wanted you to go along. If, by any chance, the rascals should get me, you lie low. They'll make for the cave, as they know, by this time, that there is only one rifle in the party. The minute they do, should such an emergency arise, slide for the camp and get your gun. You'll know what to do with it. It'll be a case of saving the lives of your companions if it comes to that." "I understand," answered Tad bravely; and without a quaver in his voice. "Mind you, I don't think for a minute that it will happen. I can handle these fellows if I get the lay of the land. Keep close enough to hear me." "That's not so easy." "No; but you'll know. When I stop you do the same." CHAPTER XIX OUTWITTING THE REDSKINS Kris Kringle moved away without another word. His abrupt departure was the signal for the Pony Rider boy to start, which he did instantly. In a few minutes Tad was skulking along the top of the mountain, when he ran into the guide again. Just then the report of a rifle sounded down below them. "Are they shooting at us?" whispered Tad. "No; the boys have lighted the fire in the cave. Our friends down below took a pot shot at the blaze. Hope they didn't hit anybody." "Chunky would be the only one to get in the way, and I imagine the others would hold him back." "Come this way; we'll go down by a different trail. The redskins are watching the fire in the cave, but they may be keeping an eye on the trail at the same time." Silently the man and the boy took their way along the rough, uneven path, slowly working down into the valley. They soon reached this, for the range was low there. Reaching the foothills, the two scouts once more fell into single file, Tad Butler to the rear. He knew that the guide's rifle ahead of him was ready for instant use, and at any second now Tad expected to see the flash of a gun. The lad was not afraid, but he was all a-quiver with excitement. This stalking an enemy in the dark, not knowing at what minute that enemy might make the attack, was not the same as a stand-up fight in broad daylight. Tad wondered why the guide had not permitted the rest of the party to escape while they had the opportunity. He did not know that Kris Kringle fully expected an ambush, nor that two would stand a better chance to get through and out-wit the savages than would half a dozen of them. The pair had approached nearly to the camp, for which the guide was heading, when suddenly a hand was laid on the boy's arm in a firm grip. Tad knew the guide had seen or heard something. "What is it?" "There!" In the faint light of the camp-fire the lad, gazing where Kris Kringle had pointed, was astonished to see a figure seated at their table. From his motions it was evident that the intruder was stowing away the stolen fool at a great rate. "Is that one of them?" "Yes." "He'll have indigestion, the way he's eating. Hope he doesn't swallow the dishes, too." "I'm going to find the other one. You crawl as close to the camp as you can with safety. If you hear a disturbance, dive for the tents the instant that fellow starts. He'll move if he hears any noise. Get a gun and hurry to me, but be quiet about it." "Yes." "Remember your instructions. I may be able to handle both of them, but if I don't get the missing one at the first crack I shan't be able to take care of them both. You'll have to help me. Got the nerve?" "I'm not afraid," whispered the boy steadily. "And I've got some muscle as well." "That's evident. I'm off now." Tad was left alone. This time he could feel the guide's movements, as the latter slipped away on the soft earth. But in a moment all sound was lost. "I think I'll crawl up nearer, so as to be handy if anything occurs," decided the lad, creeping along on all fours. He could not see the light in the camp now, but he reasoned that the man at the table was sitting with his back to it, as near as Tad could judge of direction in the dark. The Indian seemed not to fear a surprise. "That's what comes from overconfidence," grinned the lad. "I wish I had something to defend myself with," he added after a pause. Tad had no sooner expressed his wish, than his fingers closed over some object on the ground. He grasped it with about the same hopefulness that a dying man will grasp at a straw. What he had found was a heavy tent stake, one that Kris Kringle had dropped from his bundle on the way to the cliff dweller's home. The lad breathed a prayer of thankfulness and crept on with renewed courage. He proceeded as far as he dared; then, lay still, listening for the noise of the expected conflict between the guide and the other red man. It came. The sound was like that of a body falling heavily. Once more the Indian at the table turned his head, listening inquiringly. He made a half motion to rise, glanced at the table, then sat down again and began to eat. "His appetite has overcome his judgment," grinned Tad. The lad could hear the faint sound of conflict somewhere to the rear of him. He was getting uneasy and began to fidget. All at once the red man sprang up, starting on a run, trailing Stacy's rifle behind him. He was headed directly for the place where Tad lay flattened on the ground, though the lad felt sure his enemy did not see him. But when the Indian suddenly sprang up into the air to avoid stepping on the object that lay there, Tad knew that further secrecy was useless. The redskin had jumped right over him, dropping Chunky's rifle as he leaped. The gun fell on the Pony Rider boy and for a second hindered his movements. But Tad was up like a flash, while the Indian whirled no less quickly, knife unsheathed, ready for battle. This was where Tad's tent stake came in handy. Without it he would have been in a much more serious fix. It was bad enough as it was. Without an instant's hesitation the lad brought the stake down on the wrist of the hand that held the knife. The knife fell to the ground, while the Indian, with a half-suppressed howl, sprang at the slender lad. Though the fellow's wrist was well-nigh useless at that moment, he was as full of fight as ever. Tad stepped nimbly aside and tried to trip his adversary, but the Indian was too sharp to be caught that way. "If he ever gets those arms around me I'm a goner," thought Tad, taking mental measure of his antagonist. Suddenly the Indian swooped down, making a grab for the rifle that he had dropped. As the redskin stooped, Tad hit him a wallop on the head with the tent stake. It must have made the savage see a shower of stars. At least, it staggered him so he was glad to let the weapon remain where it was. For a few seconds the air was full of flying legs and arms, during which the boy landed three times on the red man, being himself unhurt. Then the Indian succeeded in rushing into a clinch, and Tad found himself gripped in those arms of steel. Wriggle and twist as he would he could not free himself from their embrace. His adversary, on the other hand, found himself fully occupied in holding on to his slippery young antagonist, giving him neither time nor opportunity effectually to dispose of the slender lad. Tad was unusually muscular for his years, to which was added no little skill as wrestler. The Indian soon discovered both these qualities. And, at about that time, the lad was resorting to every trick he knew to place the Indian in a position where he could be thrown. The moment came with disconcerting suddenness, and Mr. Redman uttered a loud grunt as he landed on the ground, flat on his back. With a spring he lifted himself up, and the next instant he had thrown the slight figure of the Pony Rider Boy so heavily that everything about Tad grew black. He felt himself going. Then all at once he lost consciousness. When finally he awakened, Tad found a figure still bending over him. Quick as a flash the boy's arms went up, encircling the neck of the man kneeling by him. The next instant the fellow was on his back, with Tad sitting on his chest. "Here, here! What's the matter with you?" gasped a muffled voice, which Tad instantly recognized. "Kris Kringle!" he gasped. "Yes; and you nearly knocked the breath out of me," grinned the guide, struggling to his feet. "Well, you certainly are a whirlwind." "I--I thought you were the Indian," mattered Tad in a sheepish tone. "If it had been, there would have been no need for my interference." "Where is he?" "Over there, tied up. Both of them are. We'll decide what to do with them when we get the party together." "Tell me what happened," begged Tad. The other fellow was so busy watching the cave that he forgot to keep his ears open. I was able to approach him without being detected. When I got near enough I laid the butt of my rifle over his head. No, I didn't hurt him much. Just made him curl up on the ground long enough to enable me to tie his hands and feet. "About that time I caught the sound of something going on over here. I made a run, suspecting that you were mixing it up with the other redskin. Guess I was just in time, too, for he had you down and was reaching for something--" "His knife," nodded Tad. "It's somewhere around here now." "Well, I gave him the same medicine that I had given the other. Now we'd better go and call the others." "Thank you. I'd have been in a bad fix, if you hadn't come as you did." "So might I, had you not stopped the second one. We're quits then," said the guide, extending his hand, which Tad grasped warmly. "I'll call the others, if you wish." "Yes." Tad ran over to the base of the cliff, and shouted loudly for his companions. In half an hour the party had gathered about the camp fire, engaged in an animated discussion over the stirring experiences of the evening. It was decided that the Indians should be placed on their ponies, to which they were to be tied, with hands free and provisions enough to last them until they reached their reservation in the northern part of the state. The guide restored their rifles to them after first taking their ammunition and transferring it to his own kit. "I've wasted nearly that much on you," he said. "And, if ever you ride across my trail again, I'll use your own lead on you in a way that will stop you. You won't need bullets like these in the Happy Hunting Grounds, where you'll be going. Now, git!" And they did. The redskins rode as if a ghost were pursuing them. "That's the last, we shall see of those gentlemen," laughed Kris Kringle. "To-morrow morning we shall be on our way in peace." But the trail of the Pony Rider Boys was not to be all peace. Before them--ere they reached the end of the Silver Trail--they were to find other thrilling experiences awaiting them. CHAPTER XX TILTING FOR THE SILVER SPURS Their journey led the young horsemen across the plains, over low-lying ranges, across broad, barren table-lands and down through the bottom lands until the wide sweep of the Rio Grande River at last lay before them. After the weeks of arid landscape the sight of water, and so much of it, brought a loud cheer from the Pony Rider Boys. The next thing was to find a fording place. This they did late in the afternoon of the same day, and their further journey took them to the little desert town of Puraje. They camped on the outskirts of the village. "Here's where we get a real bath. Who's going in swimming with me?" asked Tad. "I am," shouted all the boys at once. The Professor and Kris Kringle concluded that they, too, would take a dip, and a merry hour was spent in a protected cove of the big river, where the boys proved themselves as much at home as they were in the saddle. In the evening, they purchased such supplies as the town afforded. The night passed with-out disturbance, the boys taking up their journey next morning before the sleepy town had awakened. It was a week later, when, tired and dusty, the outfit pulled up at La Luz, a quaint hamlet nestling in the foothills of the Sacramento Mountains. The place they found to be largely Mexican, and it was almost as if the visitors had slipped over the border to find themselves in Mexico itself. Decorations were in evidence on all sides; bright-colored mantillas, Indian blankets and flags were everywhere. "Hello, I guess something is going on here," laughed Tad. "We are in time, whatever it is," nodded the guide. "Probably it's a feast of some kind. You will be interested in it, if that is what it is." The feast, they learned, was to be celebrated on the morrow with games, feats of strength and horsemanship. "Do you think they will let us take part?" asked Tad, as the party made camp in the yard of a little adobe church, where they had obtained permission to camp. "I'll see about it," answered the guide. "There may be reasons why it would not be best to do so." "Maybe I can win another rifle," suggested Chunky. "These people don't give away rifles. They're too--too--what do you call it?--too artistic. That's it." The camp being on the main street of the village, attracted no little attention. After sundown, crowds of gayly bedecked young people strolled up and stood about the church yard, watching the American boys pitching their tents and preparing for their stay over night. The villagers were especially interested in watching the boys get their supper, which was served up steaming hot within fifteen minutes after preparations had begun. Chunky had bought several pies at the store, which, with a pound of cheese brought in by Ned, made a pleasant change in the daily routine. Chunky started in on the pie. Ned calmly reached over and took it away from him; then the supper went along until it came time for the dessert, when Chunky fixed his eyes on the cheese suspiciously. "See anything wrong with that cheese?" demanded Ned. "No, but I've got an idea." "Out with it! You won't rest easy until you do. What's your idea?" "I was thinking, if I had a camera, I could make a motion picture of that cheese. I heard of a fellow once--" "That will do, Master Stacy," warned Professor Zepplin. "Can't I talk?" "Along proper lines--yes." "Cheese is proper, isn't it?" "Depends upon how old it is," chuckled Tad. "You needn't make fun of my cheese. Here give it to me; I'll eat it." "You're welcome to it, Ned," laughed the boys. The fun went on, much to the amusement of the villagers, who remained near by until the evening was well along and the lads began preparing for bed. Next morning the visitors began coming in to town early. There were men from the ranches, Mexican ranch-hands arrayed in bright colors and displaying expensive saddle trimmings. There were others from the wild places on the desert, far beyond the water limits, whose means of livelihood were known only to themselves. It was a strange company, and one that appealed considerably to the curiosity of the Pony Rider Boys. The early part of the day was given over to racing, roping, gambling and other sports in which the lads were content to take no part. But there was an event scheduled for the afternoon that interested Tad more than all the rest. That was a tilting bout, open to all comers. A tilting arch had been erected in the middle of the main street, and had been decorated with flags and greens. The tilting ring, suspended from the top of the arch, was not more than an inch in diameter. The horseman who could impale it on his tilting peg and carry the ring away with him the greatest, number of times, would be declared the winner. Each one was to be given five chances. The prize, a pair of silver spurs, was to be presented by the belle of the town, a dark-eyed señorita. The guide had entered Tad in this contest; but, as the lad glanced up at the ring only an inch in diameter, he grew rather dubious. He never had seen any tilting, and did not even know how the sport was conducted. Kris Kringle gave the lad some instructions about the method employed by the tilters, and Tad decided to enter the contest. Only ten horsemen entered, most of these being either Mexicans or halfbreeds. The first trial over, five of the contestants had succeeded in carrying away the ring. Tad had waited until nearly the last in order to get all the information possible as to the way the rest of the contestants played the game. A pole had been loaned to him, or rather a "peg," they called it, eight feet long, tapered so as to allow it to go through the brass ring for fully two feet of its length. The Pony Rider boy took his place in the middle of the street, and without the least hesitancy, galloped down toward the ring, which, indeed, he could not even see. When within a few feet of the arch he caught the sparkle of the ring. His lance came up, and putting spurs to his broncho, he shot under the arch, driving the point of the peg full at the slender circle. The point struck the edge sending the ring swaying like the pendulum of a clock. A howl greeted his achievement. Tad said nothing, but riding slowly back, awaited his next trial. The rule was that when one of the contestants made a strike, he was to continue until he failed. He would be allowed to run out five points in succession if he could. "Rest the peg against your side, and lightly," advised a man, as Tad turned into the street for another try. The man was past middle age, and, though dressed in the garb of a man of the plains, Tad decided at once that he was not of the same type as most of the motley mob by which he was surrounded. The lad nodded his understanding. With a sharp little cry of warning, the boy put spurs to his pony. He fairly flew down the course. No such speed had been seen there that day. The northern bronchos that the boys were riding were built for faster work and possessed more spirit than their brothers of the desert. As he neared the arch, this time, the lad half rose in his stirrups. He knew where to look for the ring now. Leaning slightly forward he let the point of the peg tilt ever so little. It went through the ring, tearing it from its slender fastening and carrying it away. Loud shouts of approval greeted his achievement. Once more he raced down the lane, this time at so fast a clip that the faces of the spectators who lined the course were a mere blur in his eyes. He felt the slight jar and heard the click as the ring slipped over the tilting peg. "Two," announced the scorer. He missed the next one. Then the others took their turn. Only one of these succeeded in scoring. He was one of the Mexicans who made such a brave show of color in raiment and saddle cloth. "That gives the señor and the boy three apiece. Each has one turn left. The others will fall out. If neither scores in his turn, both will be ruled out and the others will compete for the prize," announced the scorer. The Mexican smiled a supercilious smile, as much as to say, "The idea of a long-legged, freckle-faced boy defeating me!" The Mexican was an expert at the game of tilting as it was practised on the desert. The man took the first turn. He sat quietly on his pony a moment before starting, placing the lance at just the proper angle--then galloped at the mark. He, too, rose in his stirrups. The spectators were silent. The ring just missed being impaled on the tilting peg, slipping along the pole half way then bounding up into the air. The spectators groaned. The Mexican had lost. Now it was Tad's turn. He rode as if it were an everyday occurrence with him to tilt, only he went at it with a rash that fairly took their breath away. Just as he was about to drive at the ring, some one uttered a wild yell and a sombrero hurled from the crowd, struck Tad fairly across the eyes. Of course he lost, and, for a moment, he could not see a thing. He pulled his pony to a quick stop and sat rubbing and blinking his smarting eyes. A howl of disapproval went up from the spectators. None seemed to know whether the act had been inspired by enthusiasm or malice. Tad was convinced that it was the latter. His face was flushed, but the lad made no comment. "You are entitled to another tilt," called the scorer. To this the Mexican objected loudly. "Under the circumstances, as my opponent objects, and as we all wish to prevent hard feelings, why not give him a chance as well? If he wins I shall be satisfied." A shout of approval greeted Tad's suggestion. This was the real sportsman-like spirit, and it appealed to them. The proposition was agreed to. But again the Mexican lost. "If the young man is interfered with this time, I shall award the prize to him and end the tournament," warned the scorer. Though Tad's eyes were smarting from the blow of the sombrero, he allowed the eyelids to droop well over them, thus protecting them from the dust and at the same time giving him a clearer vision. On his next turn, Tad tore down the narrow lane; he shot between the posts like an arrow, and the tilting peg was driven far into the narrow hoop, wedging the ring on so firmly that it afterwards required force to loosen and remove it. Without halting his pony, Tad rode on, out a circle and came back at a lively gallop, pulling up before the stand of dry goods boxes, where the young woman who was to award the prize stood swinging her handkerchief, while the spectators set up a deafening roar of applause. Tad was holding the tilting peg aloft, displaying the ring wedged on it. He made the young woman a sweeping bow, his sombrero almost touching the ground as he did so. Another shout went up when the handsome spurs were handed to him, which the enthusiastic young woman first wrapped in her own handkerchief before passing the prize over to him. And amid the din, Tad heard the familiar "Oh, Wow! Wow!" in the shrill voice of Stacy Brown. CHAPTER XXI THE FAT BOY'S DISCOVERY "I saw him! I saw him, Tad!" "Saw who, Chunky?" "I tell you, I did. Don't you s'pose I know what my eyes tell me in confidence. Don't you to go to contradicting to me." Stacy had fairly overwhelmed Tad Butler with the importance of his discovery; but, thus far, Tad had not the least idea what it was all about. "When you get quieted down perhaps you'll be good enough to tell me who it is you saw?" "The man, the man!" "Humph! That's about as clear as the water in an alkali sink. What man?" "The one we saw on the train. Don't you know?" Tad thought a moment. "You mean the one we heard talking just before we got to Bluewater?" Butler had entirely forgotten the incident. "Yes; that's him! That's him," exploded Stacy. "You say that fellow--Lasar, that's his name--is he here!" "Uh-huh." "Where?" "He got off the stage down by the postoffice, just when I was coming up here." "Was he alone?" "The other fellow wasn't with him, if that's what you mean?" "Yes." Tad went over in his mind the conversation the man Lasar had held with his companion, in which the pair were plotting against some one by the name of Marquand. "Oh, well, Chunky, it's none of our concern. I think we must have magnified the incident. I--" "He'll bear watching, Tad. He will and it's muh--muh--you understand who's going to do it," declared Chunky, swelling out his chest and tapping it with his right fist. "All right, go ahead," laughed Tad. "It's time some of us get into more trouble. The Professor will begin to think we've got a fever, or something, if we let two days in succession pass without stirring up something." "I've got an idea," exploded Stacy. "There you go. It's coming now." "I'll go tell the policeman." "Why, you ninny, there are no policemen here. Perhaps there is a sheriff. Hello, here comes the gentleman who gave me the advice that helped me to win those handsome spurs. He's introducing himself to the Professor and Mr. Kringle. Let's go over." Forgetting for the moment the subject they were discussing, Tad and Stacy strolled over to the camp-fire. "O Tad, this is Mr. Marquand, Mr. James Marquand from Albuquerque. He wants to know you. And this is another one of our Pony Rider Boys, Master Stacy Brown," said the Professor, presenting his boys. "Marquand!" exclaimed both boys under their breaths. "I am glad to know you, Master Butler. That was a very fine piece of work you did this afternoon. You've steady nerves." "If there's any credit due it is to you. Your suggestion helped me to win the prize. Without it I should have failed," answered Tad generously. "Which way are you headed?" asked Mr. Marquand. "Guadalupes," answered the guide. "The boys want to explore some of the old pueblos." "And I also," spoke up Professor Zepplin. "I understand there is much of interest in them." "I should say so," muttered their guest. "I'd like a few moments to speak with you in private, if you can spare the time," said Tad in a low voice, at the first opportunity. "At your service now, sir." "No; not here." "Then come to my room at the hotel. I'll fix it with the others," said Mr. Marquand, observing at once that the lad had some serious purpose in mind. "My friend Chunky will go with me, if agreeable to you?" "That's all right. Professor, if you have no objection I should like to have these two young men go to my quarters with me for a little while. I--" "Certainly. Don't stay out too late, boys." "No, sir." "Wonder what they've got up their sleeves?" muttered Ned, watching the receding figures of his two companions and Mr. Marquand. "You may talk," smiled the latter after they were well started. "I'd rather not until we are where we shall not be overheard," answered Tad promptly. All three fell silent. The boys followed their host to his room, apparently without having been observed. The little village was too full of its own pleasures to notice. "Be seated, boys. I take for granted that neither of you smoke?" "Oh no, sir." "Now, what can I do for you? I am sure you have something of importance to yourselves on your minds." "Not to us specially. Perhaps to you, though," replied Tad. "Indeed?" "We may be foolish. If so, you will understand that we have no motive beyond a desire to serve you." "That goes without saying." "Do you know a man by the name of Lasar--Bob Lasar, Mr. Marquand?" Mr. Marquand started, eyeing both lads questioningly. "Yes; he is associated with me in a business venture." "Told you so," interjected Stacy. "What of him?" Tad wished he was well out of it all. To be obliged to tell all he knew of Bob Lasar, and to the latter's partner, was rather a troublesome undertaking. Plucking up courage, Tad briefly related all that he and his companion had overheard on the train as they were approaching Bluewater to all of which their host listened with grave attention and increasing interest. "The incident probably would not have come back to me again but for certain things that happened to-day," Tad continued. "Would either of you know Lasar were you to see him again, do you think?" "My friend Chunky Brown saw him here to-day." "Saw him get out of the stage in front of this very hotel," nodded Stacy. "You are right. He is here. Mr. Lasar had stopped off at a near-by town on a personal matter. Can you describe the man whom you saw with him on the train?" "As I remember him, he was slightly taller than Mr. Lasar, with red hair and a moustache of the same shade." "Yes, that's Joe Comstock. No doubt about that," nodded Mr. Marquand. "You didn't hear them say what their plan was, then?" "Not definitely. Only that they intended to rid themselves of you after having obtained possession of your plans for finding the treasure, or at least learning where it is hidden." "Hm-m-m!" Mr. Marquand sat thoughtfully silent for several minutes, the lines of his face growing tense and hard. The boys could see that he was exerting, a strong effort to control himself. "You--you haven't told them your plans?" questioned Tad, in a subdued voice. "No. I was going to do so to-night, if Comstock had arrived. He may get in yet." "But you won't do so now--will you?" "No! I thank you, boys," exclaimed their host, extending an impulsive hand to each at the same time. "Then--then our information is going to be of some use to you?" "More than you can have any idea of. You have done me a greater service than you know. I thank you--thank you from the bottom of my heart! Perhaps, ere long I may be able to show my appreciation in a more substantial manner." Marquand ceased speaking abruptly and began pacing back and forth, hands thrust deep into his coat pockets. He was a man of slight build, but strong and wiry. He was well past middle age, erect and forceful. Looking at him, Tad found himself wondering how such a man could have gotten into the clutches of two such rascals as Bob Lasar and Joe Comstock. Tad hoped their host would offer some explanation, while Chunky was nearly bursting with curiosity. Mr. Marquand appeared to have forgotten their presence entirely. "I think we had better be going now," suggested Tad, rising. "Wait!" commanded their host. "Sit down! I have something to say to you. Then, perhaps, I'll walk back to your camp and have a talk with the Professor. What sort of man is your guide?" "He's a very fine man--" "That's my idea. What you heard on the train is borne out by several little things that have come under my observation within the last few days, but I did not think they would go as far as you have indicated. I will tell you frankly, that I expect the treasure which we hope to find to be a big one. How I happened to take these men in with me, in the search for it, is unnecessary to state. However, I am done with them, now, for good. They know that I have not put my information on paper, or else they might have made an end of me before this." "Is the treasure near this vicinity, Mr. Marquand?" asked Tad. "About two days' journey. I expect to find it at or near the ruins of an old Pueblo house. You know they built their homes one on top of another. Some of their adobe houses are six and seven stories high. Even if we locate the place, we may experience great difficulty in finding that of which we are in search. How would you boys like to join me? It will be an interesting experience for you?" "Help--help you find the buried treasure?" questioned Chunky, his face red with suppressed excitement. "Yes." "Great!" chorused the lads. "I'll talk with Professor Zepplin. Come, we will go over to the camp now." When Mr. Marquand and the Professor had finished their conference, Tad and Chunky leaned forward eagerly to learn the result. "Yes," nodded Mr. Marquand; "you're all going to help me find the ancient Pueblo treasure." CHAPTER XXII IN HAND-TO-HAND CONFLICT "I'm done with you, Bob Lasar! And you, too, Comstock!" thundered Mr. Marquand, as the rascals stood at the door of his room some two hours later. Mr. Marquand had been waiting for them, and with him was Tad Butler, whom he had urged to accompany him back to the hotel that he might be a witness to what took place. Perhaps, too, Mr. Marquand reasoned that his former associates might not take the same attitude toward him in the presence of the boy that they might otherwise take. The two men had halted in the doorway as Mr. Marquand hurled his decision at them. Lasar shoved his companion into the room and closed the door. "Sit down, both of you! So you thought to hoodwink me--to get the secret of the treasure and then put me out of the way, eh? That was your game, was it? Well, it's all off now. I'll have nothing further to do with you." "Why--why, Mr. Marquand, it's all a mistake!" began one of the pair. "Perhaps you'll deny having plotted against me on a train on your way to Bluewater." "I deny ever having tried to put up a game on--" "Master Tad, did you ever see these men before?" They turned on the lad quickly. Neither man had previously observed him. "Yes, sir." "Where?" "On the train, as you mentioned just now." "And they were plotting my life?" "So it seemed to me, sir." "What have you to say to that?" demanded Mr. Marquand. "That the boy lies!" Tad's face flushed angrily. "That'll do," said Marquand, more quietly. "Then you believe him--you do not believe me?" "I believe him. I know he has told me the truth. Now, it isn't necessary to explain to you. You deserve no explanation and you'll get none further than what you already have." "But--" "No 'buts' about it. I said I was done with you. Now, I want you to get out of my sight! You're a couple of rogues--so crooked that you can't walk straight." Bob Lasar's face had grown livid with rage. His anger was rapidly getting beyond all bounds. Tad observed it and saw the storm coming. It arrived a moment later when Lasar whipped out a revolver. Before Mr. Marquand could make a move to draw his own weapon Bob had aimed his weapon and pulled the trigger. Tad, instantly divining the purpose of the man when he saw his hand fly to the pistol holster under his coat, sprang forward. There was a deafening report. A bullet buried itself in the ceiling of the room. Tad had struck up the desperado's arm just in the nick of time, thus preventing a terrible crime. But the end was not yet. There were five more bullets in the cylinder of the weapon, as the lad knew full well. He grabbed Lasar's arm, hanging on desperately, at the same time trying to get a wrestling hold. The weapon went off again, this time sending a bullet into the floor. "Look out for the other fellow!" shouted Tad. Mr. Marquand already had done so. Comstock had just made an attempt to draw his own weapon when Marquand threw himself upon the man. The two went crashing to the floor, while Tad and Lasar were battling all over the room, the latter's weapon barking viciously every little while. Lasar was much more powerful than his slender antagonist, but Tad being very quick on his feet managed to keep out of the way of the revolver and at the same time to avoid being thrown. Suddenly, the boy gave the gun-hand of his opponent a quick twist. Lasar uttered a sharp exclamation of pain. The revolver clattered to the floor. Quick as a flash, Tad threw a leg behind the knee of his antagonist, gave it a quick jerk, with the result that Lasar went to the floor with great violence. By this time, occupants of the hotel were running down the hall, while others were hammering at the door. Lasar had turned the key upon entering the room. Those within did not have time to listen to the demands of those in the hall, who were demanding admission. Mr. Marquand, as soon as he got his opponent down, quickly disarmed him. "Get up!" he commanded. "I don't want to kill you. I ought to do so, but I won't." He sprang from Comstock, and jerking Tad from Lasar, whom the lad was making heroic efforts to hold down, pulled the fallen rascal to his feet. "Get out, both of you!" he commanded, covering both his visitors with his weapon. Lasar, in struggling to his feet, reached for his revolver. "Drop it or I'll fill you full of lead!" At that instant, the door burst open and half a dozen men sprang into the room. Lasar, seeing that he was caught, leaped through the open window. He was followed closely by Comstock. He, too, made a clean leap, landing on the soft ground below. "What's the meaning of this shooting?" shouted the proprietor, his face flushed with anger. "Two men tried to murder me," replied Marquand coolly. "It looks as though you were doing your share of it," snapped the proprietor, noting his guest's belligerent attitude and drawn weapon. Just then three shots in quick succession were fired from the outside. Two of the bullets narrowly missed some of the men, who had forced their way into the room. As the third shot was fired, Tad threw one hand to his head; then drew it away grinning. "Those rascals have evidently gotten a new supply of fire arms," he said. A bullet had gone through his hair and his scalp burned where the lead had brushed it. All of the newcomers drew their revolvers and sprang to the window. "Don't shoot!" cried the Pony Rider Boy; "You'll hit the wrong one. There are a hundred people down there." "He's right!" shouted Mr. Marquand, pushing his way between the men and the window, at the imminent risk of getting a bullet in his back from either Lasar or Comstock. "Let 'em go. They'll be running for home about this time. They are a couple of scoundrels, sir." "But the damage. Look at my fine room." "I'll pay for the damage, and I'll quit your hotel now. I've had enough of the place," retorted Mr. Marquand, pulling a roll of bills from his pocket. "How much is it?" "Well, you see--" "How much is it?" "Well, I guess twenty-five would be about right. You see--" "Here's your twenty-five. Clear out!" With many apologies the proprietor, accompanied by the others, backed from the room. "We came pretty near having a fight, didn't we?" Marquand smiled, looking at Tad for the first time since the disturbance began. "Almost." "He would have got me if you hadn't knocked up his gun-hand. That's another one I owe you. Well, maybe we'll have a pay day soon." "You had better go back to camp with me, and bunk in with us to-night," suggested the lad, "We shall want to make an early start in the morning, anyway. I think it will be safer there, too. That pair won't dare come fooling around our camp, knowing they can't trifle with us," added the lad, with a note of pride in his tone. "I'll do it. Not that I'm afraid of anything that walks on two legs, but the sooner we hitch up the better it'll be. Got room enough?" "Plenty. Where's your pony?" "Up near your camp. Come on." The man and the boy walked from the hotel, the former looking neither to the right nor to the left, Tad observing their surroundings half suspiciously. He was sure they had not yet heard the last of Bob Lasar and Joe Comstock. In this he was right. Marquand and the boy had gone no more than ten rods from the hotel, when the report of a revolver was heard, and a bullet fired from the corner of an adobe building passed within an inch of Mr. Marquand's head. With wonderful quickness the latter drew and sent three shots at the flash. Whether he had hit any thing or not he did not know. "Run! I don't want you to get hit," cried the boy's new friend, grasping Tad by the hand and starting off at a brisk pace. "Bullets don't scare me, so long as they don't hit me," laughed young Butler. CHAPTER XXIII MOONBEAM POINTS THE WAY "The moon will be here in a moment." "What was it the old Pueblo chief said, Mr. Marquand?" "'When the full of the moon has come and shoots its first arrow over the crests of the Guadalupes, it points the way to the treasure of my ancient people,'" quoted Mr. Marquand. "I presume that would be taken to mean that, at a certain phase of the moon, one of its beams points to where the treasure is hidden," explained Professor Zepplin. "But what leads you to believe this is the Pueblo village of your particular chief's ancestors?" "Yes; I don't see why it might not be any of the ruined adobe houses in this valley?" said Ned Rector. They had journeyed rapidly over mountain and plain to the valley of the Guadalupes, where Mr. Marquand had informed them that he expected to find the treasure. In the three days consumed on the journey, the travelers had seen nothing of either Lasar or Comstock. Evidently the pair had decided to leave the country while they still had the chance, fearing that perhaps Mr. Marquand might invoke the aid of the law to rid himself of them if they remained. The Pony Rider Boys and their outfit had arrived that afternoon, and during the remaining hours of daylight they had been excitedly exploring the ancient dwellings, most of which were in a dilapidated condition. There was one, however, two stories in height, that was in an excellent state of preservation. In fact it appeared as if it had only recently been vacated. After an examination of all the ruins Mr. Marquand had discovered what led him to believe that this was the structure which the old Pueblo chief referred to in his description of the resting place of the treasure. The chief had said he had never been near the spot. He was the only member of his tribe to whom the secret had been handed down, and he in turn had transmitted it to the white man who now stood within the shadow of the ancient dwelling place. "I have my reasons for believing this is the place," answered Mr. Marquand, in response to the Professor's question. "If I am wrong, we shall have to wait until the moon rises to-morrow night. Come inside now, and we will close the door." All hands crowded into the cool chamber, closing the heavy wooden door that barred the entrance. "Don't see how moonlight can get through solid walls," muttered Stacy. "Ought to leave the door open." No one answered him. In the darkened chamber, with its peculiar, musty odors, the boys did not feel in the mood for hilarity or even for speech. There was something about their situation that seemed to impress them profoundly. "Stand over against the wall on the side, so as not to obstruct any light that might possibly get in here," directed Mr. Marquand. The others moved silently to the side of the room indicated by him. They had stood thus for fully five minutes when an exclamation from Stacy broke the stillness harshly. "Look! Look!" cried the fat boy. A slender shaft of light had suddenly pierced the blackness, coming they knew not whence. It was there. "Must be a pin hole through the wall up near the ceiling," suggested Kris Kringle. The silver thread shot across the chamber, ending abruptly on the adobe floor some three feet from the back wall. "That's the spot!" shouted Mr. Marquand triumphantly. He threw himself on the floor, and with his knife scratched a cross on the spot where the moonbeam rested. Scarcely had he done so when the delicate shaft of light disappeared as suddenly as it had come. "It's gone," breathed the boys. "But it has pointed the way." "And we have followed the silver trail to its end," added Ned Rector poetically. "Bring the tools!" cried Mr. Marquand. While they were doing so, he struck a match and lighted the lantern that they had brought with them from their camp in the foothills. His first care was to bar the door with the heavy wooden timber that he had cut and which he now slipped into its fastenings. A close examination of the floor revealed no marks save those put there by the treasure-hunter's knife. "This house seems to be built on the solid ground. I do not think you will find anything under it," protested the Professor. "There are houses under every one of these buildings," answered Mr. Marquand. He held a short, keen edged bar in place, while Kris Kringle swung the maul. Gradually they cut a ring about two feet in diameter about the cross. The material of which the floor had been made had been tempered with the years and was almost as hard as flint. The steady thud of the heavy maul, accompanied by the click, click of the cutting bar, the dim light, the silent, expectant faces, formed a weird picture in this silent desert place. After a full half hour of this the two men paused, and stood back, drawing sleeves across their foreheads to wipe away the perspiration. Stacy Brown walked pompously over to the circle. "Maybe I can fall through it. If I can't, nobody can," he said, jumping up and down on the spot where they had been cutting. There followed a rambling sound, and with a yell, Stacy Brown suddenly disappeared from sight. In place of the circle in which he had been standing was a black, ragged hole, from which particles of the mortar were still crumbling and rattling to the bottom of the pit. "Are you there?" cried Kris Kringle, leaping to the spot, thrusting the lantern down through the opening. "Master Stacy!" "Wow!" responded the boy from the depths. "Did it hurt you?" "How far did you fall?" This and other questions were hurled at the fat boy, as his companions crowded about the opening. "I'm killed. That'll answer all your questions," replied Stacy. "Hurry up! Get my remains out of this place." The rays of the lantern disclosed a short stairway, built of the same material of which the house itself had been constructed. Mr. Marquand forced himself past the guide and was down the steps in a twinkling. He was followed by the wondering Pony Rider Boys, Professor Zepplin and Kris Kringle in short order, for all crowded down through the narrow opening. Chunky had hit the top step and rolled all the way down. He had scrambled to his feet and was rubbing his shins by the time his friends reached him. His clothes were torn and he was covered with dust. "Fell down the cellar, didn't I?" he grinned. But no one gave any heed to him now. Mr. Marquand had snatched at the lantern and was running from point to point of the chamber in which they found themselves. He was laboring under great excitement. "Here's another opening," he shouted. "We haven't got to the bottom yet." Another flight of stairs led to still another and smaller chamber below. Mr. Marquand let out a yell the moment he reached the bottom. The others rushed pell-mell after him. There, with it's top just showing above the dirt was a long iron chest. "Give me the maul!" shouted the excited treasure seeker. He attacked the rusty iron fastenings; at last the cover yielded to his thunderous blows and falling on its edge, toppled over to the floor with a crash. "Somebody's old clothes," chuckled Stacy, peering into the open chest. The garments, priestly robes that lay at the top, fell to pieces the instant Mr. Marquand laid violent hands on them. "Look! Look! Was I right or was I wrong?" he cried, beside himself with joy. There, before their astonished eyes, lay a chest of gold--coins dulled by age, small nuggets and chunks of silver, all heaped indiscriminately in the treasure chest. "I did it!" shouted Chunky. "I did it with my little feet! I fell in and discovered the treasure!" The tongues of the Pony Rider Boys were suddenly loosened. Such a shout as they set up probably never had been heard before in the ancient adobe mansion of the Pueblos. Cheer after cheer echoed through the chambers and reached the ears of a dozen desperadoes who were skulking amid the sage brush without. Professor Zepplin scooped up a handful of the coins and examined them under the lantern. "Old Spanish coins," he informed them. "Pure gold. And look at these nuggets! Where do you suppose the Indians found them?" "There are hidden mines in the State," informed Mr. Marquand. "Some of these days they will be discovered. I have been hunting for them myself, but without success. Boys, what do you think of it now? If it had not been for you I might never have seen this sight." Their eyes were fairly bulging as they gazed at the heap of gold. Chunky squatted down scooping up a double handful and letting the coins run through his fingers. Then the other boys dipped in, laughing for pure joy, more because their adventure had borne fruit than for the love of the gold itself. "Must be more'n a bushel of it," announced Stacy. "Those old Franciscans must have been saving up for a rainy day. And it never rained here at all," suggested Ned humorously. "Shall we count it?" asked Mr. Marquand. "Just as you wish," replied the Professor. "Were I in your place, Mr. Marquand, I should get the stuff out of here as soon as possible. You can't tell what may happen. I would suggest that we secure the treasure and be on our way at once. You will want to get it to a bank as quickly as possible. This is one of the things that cannot be kept quiet." "You are right. Will somebody go over to the camp and get those gunny sacks of mine? I don't want to lose sight of my find for a minute. You know how I feel about it--not that I do not trust you. You know--" "Surely we understand," smiled Tad. "And you all have an interest in it--you shall share the treasure with me--" "No, we don't," shouted the boys. "We've had more than a million dollars worth of fun out of it already." "Certainly not," added the Professor. "We'll discuss that later," said Mr. Marquand firmly. "Just now we must take care of what we have found. Who will get the bags?" "We will," answered the boys promptly. "No; you stay here. I'll get them," answered Kris Kringle. "Light me up the stairs so I don't break my neck in this old rookery." One of the boys lighted the way to the next floor, then stepped back into the cellar, where Mr. Marquand was turning over the treasure in an effort to find out if the pile extended all the way to the bottom of the chest. In the meantime Kris Kringle unbarred the door and threw it part way open. He did it cautiously, as if half expecting trouble. He threw the door to with a bang, springing to one side, and dropping the bar back into place. The reason for his sudden change of plans was that no sooner had the door opened than several thirty-eight calibre bullets were fired from the sage brush outside. Kris Kringle waited to learn whether those in the cellar had heard the shots. But they had not. They were some distance below ground, and their minds were wholly taken up with the great treasure before them. After a few moments the guide once more removed the bar, first having drawn his revolver in case of sudden surprise. Then he cautiously opened the door an inch or so. At first nothing happened. The moonlit landscape lay as silent and peaceful as if there were not a human being on the desert. There were six distinct flashes all at once and a rain of lead showered into the door. Kris Kringle took a pot shot at one of the flashes, then slammed the door shut and barred it. "Well; I hope that would get you," he muttered. Hastily retracing his steps he called the party up to the second cellar. "Did you fetch the sacks?" called Mr. Marquand. "No, but I've fetched trouble. It's coming in sackfuls." "What do you mean?" "We're besieged." "Besieged?" wondered the Professor. "Yes; there's a crowd outside, and they've been trying to shoot me up. Must be some of your friends, Mr. Marquand." "Lasar and Comstock? The scoundrels!" growled Mr. Marquand. "But we'll make short work of them." "Not so easy as you think There are more than two out there--there's a crowd and they've got rifles. Our rifles are over in the camp. I've got a six-shooter and so have you, but what do they amount to against half a dozen rifles?" "I'll talk to them, if I can get any place to make them hear," announced Mr. Marquand, starting up the stairs. "I reckon there's a window on the second floor, but you'd better be careful that you don't get winged," warned the guide. Mr. Marquand went right on, and the others followed. As the guide had said there was a small window on the floor above the ground, apparently the only one in the house. Mr. Marquand hailed the besiegers. "Who are you and what do you mean by shooting us up in this fashion?" he demanded. "You ought to know who we are, Jim Marquand, and you know what we want!" "Yes, I know you all right, Lasar, and I'll make you smart for this." "The place is as much mine as it is yours," answered Lasar. "And I propose to take it! If you'll make an even divvy of what you have found, or expect to find, we'll go away and let you alone. If you don't we'll take the whole outfit." "Take it, take it!" jeered Marquand. "You couldn't take it in a hundred years--not unless you used artillery." "Then we'll starve you out," replied the man in the sage brush. "Look out!" warned the guide. Mr. Marquand sprang to one side just as a volley crashed through the opening, the bullets rattling to the floor after bounding back from the flint-like walls. "I guess they've got you, Mr. Marquand. We can't hold out forever. If we had rifles we could pick them off by daylight. But when morning comes they'll draw back out of revolver range and plunk the first man who shows himself outside. Have you any title to this property?" "Yes. I have bought up a hundred acres about here. The deeds are in my pocket. I guess nobody has a better title.". "His title is all right," spoke up Professor Zepplin. "I made sure of that before I decided to come with Mr. Marquand." "Then there's only one thing to be done." "What's that?" "Get a sheriff's posse and bag the whole bunch." Mr. Marquand laughed harshly. "If we were in a position to get a posse we should be able to get away without one. I think we had better go below. This is not a very safe place with this open window." "I'll remain here." "What for, Kringle?" "Somebody's got to watch the front door to see that they don't play any tricks on us. It's clouding up, and if the night gets dark they'll try to get in." "How far is it to a place where we could get a sheriff?" asked Tad, who had been thinking deeply. "Hondo. Fifteen miles due east of here as the moon rises. Why?" "If I were sure I could find my way, I think I might get some help," answered the lad quietly. "You!" snapped Mr. Marquand, turning on him. "If I had a rope. Perhaps I can do it without one." "I'd like to know how?" Mr. Marquand was inclined to treat the proposition lightly, believing that such a move as proposed by Tad Butler was an impossibility. Kris Kringle, however, was regarding the boy inquiringly. He knew that Tad had some plan in mind and that it was likely to be a good one. "The rascals are all out in front of the house, aren't they?" "Yes, Master Tad. There's no reason why they should be behind the house. They know we can't get out that way; because there is no opening on that side." Tad nodded. "Then I can do it." "Tad, what foolish idea have you in mind now? I cannot consent to your taking any more chances." "Professor, we are taking long enough chances as it is. Unless we are relieved soon, we shall be starved out and perhaps worse." "What's your plan?" interrupted Kris Kringle. "See that hole in the roof up there?" Tad pointed. They had not seen it before, but they did now. A light suddenly dawned upon Kris Kringle. "Boy, you are the only level-headed one in the outfit. You would have made a corking Indian fighter." "I'm the Indian fighter," chimed in Stacy. "You can boost me up to the hole and I'll go over the rear of the house, get to the camp and from there ride to Hondo." Tad's three companions started a cheer, which the guide sternly put down. "I can't consent to any such plan," decided the Professor sternly. The rest reasoned with him until, finally, he did consent, though he knew the lad would be taking desperate chances. Tad understood that as well as the rest of them, but he was burning to be off. Kris Kringle gave him careful directions as to how to get to the place. "Take your rifle with you, if you can get it. After you get half a mile or a mile away shoot once. That will tell us you are all right." "You can help me in getting away from here, if you will do some shooting to cover my escape," suggested Tad. "That's a good idea," agreed the guide. "You wait on the roof until we begin to rake the sage with our revolvers. Then drop. Take a wide circuit, so that you won't stumble over the enemy." Tad gave his belt a hitch, stuffed his sombrero under it and announced himself as ready. The guide stepped under the hole. Tad quickly climbed to his shoulder and stood up like a circus performer. He could easily reach the roof with his hands. A second more and his feet were lifted from the shoulders of the guide. They saw the figure in the opening; then it disappeared. A slight scraping noise was the only sound they heard. Tad flattened himself out and wriggled along toward the rear of the roof. Peering over the edge he made sure that there was no one about. He then lay quietly waiting for the shooting to begin. "Let 'em have it," directed Kris Kringle. A sudden fusillade was emptied into the sage brush. Tad swung himself over the edge of the roof, hung on for a few seconds, then dropped lightly to the ground. CHAPTER XXIV CONCLUSION The enemy answered the shots with a volley, and for a few moments a lot of ammunition was wasted while the odor of gunpowder assailed nostrils on both sides. After that, the shooting died away. As the minutes lengthened into an hour, and no word of Tad's mission had been received, the defenders began to grow restless. They were under a double tension now. Mr. Marquand was pacing up and down the floor. Suddenly, forgetful of the danger that lurked out there, he poked his head out of the window. A sharp pat on the stone window frame beside him, after the bullet had snipped off the tip of his left ear, caused Mr. Marquand to draw back suddenly. He stalked about the floor, holding a handkerchief to the wounded ear, "talking in dashes and asterisks," as Chunky put it. Kris Kringle's face wore a grim smile. He was taking chances of being shot, every second now, but he insisted in holding his place at the side of the window so he could listen and watch. A thin, fleecy veil covered the moon, but it was not dense enough to fully hide objects on the landscape. "All keep quiet, now," warned Kris Kringle. "We should get a signal pretty soon." "I'm afraid something has happened to the boy," muttered the Professor. Then all fell silent. "There it goes!" exclaimed the guide in a tone of great relief. The crack of a rifle afar off sounded clear and distinct. "He's made it. Thank heaven!" breathed Mr. Marquand fervently. Chunky leaped to the opening, swung his sombrero as he leaned out, and uttered a long, shrill "y-e-o-w!" A bullet chipped the adobe at his side. Stacy ducked, throwing himself on the floor, sucking a thumb energetically. "Wing you?" inquired Kris Kringle. "Somebody burned my thumb," wailed the fat boy. "It was a bullet that burned you. Served you right too. Somebody tie that boy up or he'll be killed," counseled the guide. The besiegers could not have failed to hear the shot from Tad's rifle, but it did not seem to disturb them. They evidently did not even dream that one of the party had escaped their vigilance and that he was well on his way for assistance. The wait from that time on was a tedious and trying one, though each felt a certain sense of elation that Tad Butler had succeeded in outwitting the enemy. It was shortly after two o'clock in the morning when Kris Kringle espied a party of horsemen slowly encircling the adobe house. The riders were strung out far off on the plain. Those hiding in the sage in front of the house could not see the approaching horsemen. "There they come," whispered Kris Kringle. "Begin shooting!" The two men started firing, while the besiegers poured volley after volley through the window. The posse at this, closed in at a gallop. Their rifles now began to crash. In a few minutes it was all over. The sheriff's men surrounded the besiegers, placing every man of them under arrest. After this the officers quickly liberated the Pony Rider Boys. Three of the besiegers had been wounded. Among them, was the Mexican whom Tad had defeated in the tilting game a few days before. When all was over, the boys hoisted Tad Butler on their shoulders and marched around the adobe house shouting and singing. Mr. Marquand decided to go back with the posse, using these men as a guard for his treasure. It was understood that the Pony Rider Boys were to follow the next morning. Before leaving, Mr. Marquand called the Professor aside. "There is, on a rough estimate, all of sixty thousand dollars in the treasure chest. Had it not been for you and your brave boys I should have lost it. So, when you reach Hondo to-morrow, I shall take great pleasure in presenting to each of you a draft for two thousand dollars." Professor Zepplin protested, but Mr. Marquand insisted, and he kept his word. After the posse, with their prisoners and the treasure, had started, the Pony Rider Boys, arm in arm, started off across the moonlit meadows toward their camp. It was their last night in camp. Their summer's journeyings had come to an end--a fitting close to their adventurous travels. Not a word did they speak until they reached the camp. There, they turned and gazed off over the plain which was all silvered under the now clear light of the moon. "It has been a silver trail," mused Tad Butler. "It has indeed," breathed his companions "And we've reached the end of The Silver Trail," added the Professor, coming up at that moment. "To-morrow I'll breathe the first free breath that I've drawn in three months." The boys circled slowly around him and joined hands. Then their voices rose on the mellow desert air to the tune of "Home, Sweet Home." A week later saw the wanderers back in Chillicothe. Their welcome was a warm one. Banker Perkins found his once ailing son now transformed into a sturdy young giant. We shall meet them again in the next volume of this series--in a tale of surpassing wonders--published under the title: "THE PONY RIDER BOYS IN THE GRAND CANYON; Or, the Mystery of Bright Angel Gulch." It will be found to be by far the most interesting volume so far published about the splendid Pony Rider Boys. The End. 
12335	----	OVERLAND. A Novel By J. W. DE FOREST, Author of "Kate Beaumont," "Miss Ravenel's Conversion," &c. 1871 CHAPTER I. In those days, Santa Fé, New Mexico, was an undergrown, decrepit, out-at-elbows ancient hidalgo of a town, with not a scintillation of prosperity or grandeur about it, except the name of capital. It was two hundred and seventy years old; and it had less than five thousand inhabitants. It was the metropolis of a vast extent of country, not destitute of natural wealth; and it consisted of a few narrow, irregular streets, lined by one-story houses built of sun-baked bricks. Owing to the fine climate, it was difficult to die there; but owing to many things not fine, it was almost equally difficult to live. Even the fact that Santa Fé had been for a period under the fostering wings of the American eagle did not make it grow much. Westward-ho emigrants halted there to refit and buy cattle and provisions; but always started resolutely on again, westward-hoing across the continent. Nobody seemed to want to stay in Santa Fé, except the aforesaid less than five thousand inhabitants, who were able to endure the place because they had never seen any other, and who had become a part of its gray, dirty, lazy lifelessness and despondency. For a wonder, this old atom of a metropolis had lately had an increase of population, which was nearly as great a wonder as Sarah having a son when she was "well stricken in years." A couple of new-comers--not a man nor woman less than a couple--now stood on the flat roof of one of the largest of the sun-baked brick houses. By great good luck, moreover, these two were, I humbly trust, worthy of attention. The one was interesting because she was the handsomest girl in Santa Fé, and would have been considered a handsome girl anywhere; the other was interesting because she was a remarkable woman, and even, as Mr. Jefferson Brick might have phrased it, "one of the most remarkable women in our country, sir." At least so she judged, and judged it too with very considerable confidence, being one of those persons who say, "If I know myself, and I think I do." The beauty was of a mixed type. She combined the blonde and the brunette fashions of loveliness. You might guess at the first glance that she had in her the blood of both the Teutonic and the Latin races. While her skin was clear and rosy, and her curling hair was of a light and bright chestnut, her long, shadowy eyelashes were almost black, and her eyes were of a deep hazel, nearly allied to blackness. Her form had the height of the usual American girl, and the round plumpness of the usual Spanish girl. Even in her bearing and expression you could discover more or less of this union of different races. There was shyness and frankness; there was mistrust and confidence; there was sentimentality and gayety. In short, Clara Muñoz Garcia Van Diemen was a handsome and interesting young lady. Now for the remarkable woman. Sturdy and prominent old character, obviously. Forty-seven years old, or thereabouts; lots of curling iron-gray hair twisted about her round forehead; a few wrinkles, and not all of the newest. Round face, round and earnest eyes, short, self-confident nose, chin sticking out in search of its own way, mouth trembling with unuttered ideas. Good figure--what Lord Dundreary would call "dem robust," but not so sumptuous as to be merely ornamental; tolerably convenient figure to get about in. Walks up and down, man-fashion, with her hands behind her back--also man-fashion. Such is Mrs. Maria Stanley, the sister of Clara Van Diemen's father, and best known to Clara as Aunt Maria. "And so this is Santa Fé?" said Aunt Maria, rolling her spectacles over the little wilted city. "Founded in 1581; two hundred and seventy years old. Well, if this is all that man can do in that time, he had better leave colonization to woman." Clara smiled with an innocent air of half wonder and half amusement, such as you may see on the face of a child when it is shown some new and rather awe-striking marvel of the universe, whether a jack-in-a-box or a comet. She had only known Aunt Maria for the last four years, and she had not yet got used to her rough-and-ready mannish ways, nor learned to see any sense in her philosophizings. Looking upon her as a comical character, and supposing that she talked mainly for the fun of the thing, she was disposed to laugh at her doings and sayings, though mostly meant in solemn earnest. "But about your affairs, my child," continued Aunt Maria, suddenly gripping a fresh subject after her quick and startling fashion. "I don't understand them. How is it possible? Here is a great fortune gone; gone in a moment; gone incomprehensibly. What does it mean? Some rascality here. Some man at the bottom of this." "I presume my relative, Garcia, must be right," commenced Clara. "No, he isn't," interrupted Aunt Maria. "He is wrong. Of course he's wrong. I never knew a man yet but what he was wrong." "You make me laugh in spite of my troubles," said Clara, laughing, however, only through her eyes, which had great faculties for sparkling out meanings. "But see here," she added, turning grave again, and putting up her hand to ask attention. "Mr. Garcia tells a straight story, and gives reasons enough. There was the war," and here she began to count on her fingers, "That destroyed a great deal. I know when my father could scarcely send on money to pay my bills in New York. And then there was the signature for Señor Pedraez. And then there were the Apaches who burnt the hacienda and drove off the cattle. And then he--" Her voice faltered and she stopped; she could not say, "He died." "My poor, dear child!" sighed Aunt Maria, walking up to the girl and caressing her with a tenderness which was all womanly. "That seems enough," continued Clara, when she could speak again. "I suppose that what Garcia and the lawyers tell us is true. I suppose I am not worth a thousand dollars." "Will a thousand dollars support you here?" "I don't know. I don't think it will." "Then if I can't set this thing straight, if I can't make somebody disgorge your property, I must take you back with me." "Oh! if you would!" implored Clara, all the tender helplessness of Spanish girlhood appealing from her eyes. "Of course I will," said Aunt Maria, with a benevolent energy which was almost terrific. "I would try to do something. I don't know. Couldn't I teach Spanish?" "You _shan't_" decided Aunt Maria. "Yes, you _shall_. You shall be professor of foreign languages in a Female College which I mean to have founded." Clara stared with astonishment, and then burst into a hearty fit of laughter, the two finishing the drying of her tears. She was so far from wishing to be a strong-minded person of either gender, that she did not comprehend that her aunt could wish it for her, or could herself seriously claim to be one. The talk about a professorship was in her estimation the wayward, humorous whim of an eccentric who was fond of solemn joking. Mrs. Stanley, meanwhile, could not see why her utterance should not be taken in earnest, and opened her eyes at Clara's merriment. We must say a word or two concerning the past of this young lady. Twenty-five years previous a New Yorker named Augustus Van Diemen, the brother of that Maria Jane Van Diemen now known to the world as Mrs. Stanley, had migrated to California, set up in the hide business, and married by stealth the daughter of a wealthy Mexican named Pedro Muñoz. Muñoz got into a Spanish Catholic rage at having a Yankee Protestant son-in-law, disowned and formally disinherited his child, and worried her husband into quitting the country. Van Diemen returned to the United States, but his wife soon became homesick for her native land, and, like a good husband as he was, he went once more to Mexico. This time he settled in Santa Fé, where he accumulated a handsome fortune, lived in the best house in the city, and owned haciendas. Clara's mother dying when the girl was fourteen years old, Van Diemen felt free to give her, his only child, an American education, and sent her to New York, where she went through four years of schooling. During this period came the war between the United States and Mexico. Foreign residents were ill-treated; Van Diemen was sometimes a prisoner, sometimes a fugitive; in one way or another his fortune went to pieces. Four months previous to the opening of this story he died in a state little better than insolvency. Clara, returning to Santa Fé under the care of her energetic and affectionate relative, found that the deluge of debt would cover town house and haciendas, leaving her barely a thousand dollars. She was handsome and accomplished, but she was an orphan and poor. The main chance with her seemed to lie in the likelihood that she would find a mother (or a father) in Aunt Maria. Yes, there was another sustaining possibility, and of a more poetic nature. There was a young American officer named Thurstane, a second lieutenant acting as quartermaster of the department, who had met her heretofore in New York, who had seemed delighted to welcome her to Santa Fé, and who now called on her nearly every day. Might it not be that Lieutenant Thurstane would want to make her Mrs. Thurstane, and would have power granted him to induce her to consent to the arrangement? Clara was sufficiently a woman, and sufficiently a Spanish woman especially, to believe in marriage. She did not mean particularly to be Mrs. Thurstane, but she did mean generally to be Mrs. Somebody. And why not Thurstane? Well, that was for him to decide, at least to a considerable extent. In the mean time she did not love him; she only disliked the thought of leaving him. While these two women had been talking and thinking, a lazy Indian servant had been lounging up the stairway. Arrived on the roof, he advanced to La Señorita Clara, and handed her a letter. The girl opened it, glanced through it with a flushing face, and cried out delightedly, "It is from my grandfather. How wonderful! O holy Maria, thanks! His heart has been softened. He invites me to come and live with him in San Francisco. _O Madre de Dios!_" Although Clara spoke English perfectly, and although she was in faith quite as much of a Protestant as a Catholic, yet in her moments of strong excitement she sometimes fell back into the language and ideas of her childhood. "Child, what are you jabbering about?" asked Aunt Maria. "There it is. See! Pedro Muñoz! It is his own signature. I have seen letters of his. Pedro Muñoz! Read it. Oh! you don't read Spanish." Then she translated the letter aloud. Aunt Maria listened with a firm and almost stern aspect, like one who sees some justice done, but not enough. "He doesn't beg your pardon," she said at the close of the reading. Clara, supposing that she was expected to laugh, and not seeing the point of the joke, stared in amazement. "But probably he is in a meeker mood now," continued Aunt Maria. "By this time it is to be hoped that he sees his past conduct in a proper light. The letter was written three months ago." "Three months ago," repeated Clara. "Yes, it has taken all that time to come. How long will it take me to go there? How shall I go?" "We will see," said Aunt Maria, with the air of one who holds the fates in her hand, and doesn't mean to open it till she gets ready. She was by no means satisfied as yet that this grandfather Muñoz was a proper person to be intrusted with the destinies of a young lady. In refusing to let his daughter select her own husband, he had shown a very squinting and incomplete perception of the rights of woman. "Old reprobate!" thought Aunt Maria. "Probably he has got gouty with his vices, and wants to be nursed. I fancy I see him getting Clara without going on his sore marrow-bones and begging pardon of gods and women." "Of course I must go," continued Clara, unsuspicious of her aunt's reflections. "At all events he will support me. Besides, he is now the head of my family." "Head of the family!" frowned Aunt Maria. "Because he is a man? So much the more reason for his being the tail of it. My dear, you are your own head." "Ah--well. What is the use of all _that_?" asked Clara, smiling away those views. "I have no money, and he has." "Well, we will see," persisted Aunt Maria. "I just told you so. We will see." The two women had scarcely left the roof of the house and got themselves down to the large, breezy, sparsely furnished parlor, ere the lazy, dawdling Indian servant announced Lieutenant Thurstane. Lieutenant Ralph Thurstane was a tall, full-chested, finely-limbed gladiator of perhaps four and twenty. Broad forehead; nose straight and high enough; lower part of the face oval; on the whole a good physiognomy. Cheek bones rather strongly marked; a hint of Scandinavian ancestry supported by his name. Thurstane is evidently Thor's stone or altar; forefathers priests of the god of thunder. His complexion was so reddened and darkened by sunburn that his untanned forehead looked unnaturally white and delicate. His yellow, one might almost call it golden hair, was wavy enough to be handsome. Eyes quite remarkable; blue, but of a very dark blue, like the coloring which is sometimes given to steel; so dark indeed that one's first impression was that they were black. Their natural expression seemed to be gentle, pathetic, and almost imploring; but authority, responsibility, hardship, and danger had given them an ability to be stern. In his whole face, young as he was, there was already the look of the veteran, that calm reminiscence of trials endured, that preparedness for trials to come. In fine, taking figure, physiognomy, and demeanor together, he was attractive. He saluted the ladies as if they were his superior officers. It was a kindly address, but ceremonious; it was almost humble, and yet it was self-respectful. "I have some great news," he presently said, in the full masculine tone of one who has done much drilling. "That is, it is great to me. I change station." "How is that?" asked Clara eagerly. She was not troubled at the thought of losing a beau; we must not be so hard upon her as to make that supposition; but here was a trustworthy friend going away just when she wanted counsel and perhaps aid. "I have been promoted first lieutenant of Company I, Fifth Regiment, and I must join my company." "Promoted! I am glad," said Clara. "You ought to be pleased," put in Aunt Maria, staring at the grave face of the young man with no approving expression. "I thought men were always pleased with such things." "So I am," returned Thurstane. "Of course I am pleased with the step. But I must leave Santa Fé. And I have found Santa Fé very pleasant." There was so much meaning obvious in these last words that Clara's face colored like a sunset. "I thought soldiers never indulged in such feelings," continued the unmollified Aunt Maria. "Soldiers are but men," observed Thurstane, flushing through his sunburn. "And men are weak creatures." Thurstane grew still redder. This old lady (old in his young eyes) was always at him about his manship, as if it were a crime and disgrace. He wanted to give her one, but out of respect for Clara he did not, and merely moved uneasily in his seat, as men are apt to do when they are set down hard. "How soon must you go? Where?" demanded Clara. "As soon as I can close my accounts here and turn over my stores to my successor. Company I is at Fort Yuma on the Colorado. It is the first post in California." "California!" And Clara could not help brightening up in cheeks and eyes with fine tints and flashes. "Why, I am going to California." "We will see," said Aunt Maria, still holding the fates in her fist. Then came the story of Grandfather Muñoz's letter, with a hint or two concerning the decay of the Van Diemen fortune, for Clara was not worldly wise enough to hide her poverty. Thurstane's face turned as red with pleasure as if it had been dipped in the sun. If this young lady was going to California, he might perhaps be her knight-errant across the desert, guard her from privations and hardships, and crown himself with her smiles. If she was poor, he might--well, he would not speculate upon that; it was too dizzying. We must say a word as to his history in order to show why he was so shy and sensitive. He had been through West Point, confined himself while there closely to his studies, gone very soon into active service, and so seen little society. The discipline of the Academy and three years in the regular army had ground into him the soldier's respect for superiors. He revered his field officers; he received a communication from the War Department as a sort of superhuman revelation; he would have blown himself sky-high at the command of General Scott. This habit of subordination, coupled with a natural fund of reverence, led him to feel that many persons were better than himself, and to be humble in their presence. All women were his superior officers, and the highest in rank was Clara Van Diemen. Well, hurrah! he was to march under her to California! and the thought made him half wild. He would protect her; he would kill all the Indians in the desert for her sake; he would feed her on his own blood, if necessary. As he considered these proper and feasible projects, the audacious thought which he had just tried to expel from his mind forced its way back into it. If the Van Diemen estate were insolvent, if this semi-divine Clara were as poor as himself, there was a call on him to double his devotion to her, and there was a hope that his worship might some day be rewarded. How he would slave and serve for her; how he would earn promotion for her sake; how he would fight her battle in life! But would she let him do it? Ah, it seemed too much to hope. Poor though she was, she was still a heaven or so above him; she was so beautiful and had so many perfections! Oh, the purity, the self-abnegation, the humility of love! It makes a man scarcely lower than the angels, and quite superior to not a few reverenced saints. CHAPTER II. "I must say," observed Thurstane--"I beg your pardon for advising--but I think you had better accept your grandfather's invitation." He said it with a pang at his heart, for if this adorable girl went to her grandfather, the old fellow would be sure to love her and leave her his property, in which case there would be no chance for a proud and poor lieutenant. He gave his advice under a grim sense that it was his duty to give it, because the following of it would be best for Miss Van Diemen. "So I think," nodded Clara, fortified by this opinion to resist Aunt Maria, and the more fortified because it was the opinion of a man. After a certain amount of discussion the elder lady was persuaded to loosen her mighty grip and give the destinies a little liberty. "Well, it _may_ be best," she said, pursing her mouth as if she tasted the bitter of some half-suspected and disagreeable future. "I don't know. I won't undertake positively to decide. But, if you do go," and here she became authentic and despotic--"if you do go, I shall go with you and see you safe there." "Oh! _will_ you?" exclaimed Clara, all Spanish and all emotion in an instant. "How sweet and good and beautiful of you! You are my guardian angel. Do you know? I thought you would offer to go. I said to myself, She came on to Santa Fé for my sake, and she will go to California. But oh, it is too much for me to ask. How shall I ever pay you?" "I will pay myself," returned Aunt Maria. "I have plans for California." It was as if she had said, "Go to, we will make California in our own image." The young lady was satisfied. Her strong-minded relative was a mighty mystery to her, just as men were mighty mysteries. Whatever she or they said could be done and should be done, why of course it would be done, and that shortly. By the time that Aunt Maria had announced her decision, another visitor was on the point of entrance. Carlos Maria Muñoz Garcia de Coronado was a nephew of Manuel Garcia, who was a cousin of Clara's grandfather; only, as Garcia was merely his uncle by marriage, Coronado and Clara were not related by blood, though calling each other cousin. He was a man of medium stature, slender in build, agile and graceful in movement, complexion very dark, features high and aristocratic, short black hair and small black moustache, eyes black also, but veiled and dusky. He was about twenty-eight, but he seemed at least four years older, partly because of a deep wrinkle which slashed down each cheek, and partly because he was so perfectly self-possessed and elaborately courteous. His intellect was apparently as alert and adroit as his physical action. A few words from Clara enabled him to seize the situation. "Go at once," he decided without a moment's hesitation. "My dear cousin, it will be the happy turning point of your fortunes. I fancy you already inheriting the hoards, city lots, haciendas, mines, and cattle of our excellent relative Muñoz--long may he live to enjoy them! Certainly. Don't whisper an objection. Muñoz owes you that reparation. His conduct has been--we will not describe it--we will hope that he means to make amends for it. Unquestionably he will. My dear cousin, nothing can resist you. You will enchant your grandfather. It will all end, like the tales of the Arabian Nights, in your living in a palace. How delightful to think of this long family quarrel at last coming to a close! But how do you go?" "If Miss Van Diemen goes overland, I can do something toward protecting her and making her comfortable," suggested Thurstane. "I am ordered to Fort Yuma." Coronado glanced at the young officer, noted the guilty blush which peeped out of his tanned cheek, and came to a decision on the instant. "Overland!" he exclaimed, lifting both his hands. "Take her overland! My God! my God!" Thurstane reddened at the insinuation that he had given bad advice to Miss Van Diemen; but though he wanted to fight the Mexican, he controlled himself, and did not even argue. Like all sensitive and at the same time self-respectful persons, he was exceedingly considerate of the feelings of others, and was a very lamb in conversation. "It is a desert," continued Coronado in a kind of scream of horror. "It is a waterless desert, without a blade of grass, and haunted from end to end by Apaches. My little cousin would die of thirst and hunger. She would be hunted and scalped. O my God! overland!" "Emigrant parties are going all the while," ventured Thurstane, very angry at such extravagant opposition, but merely looking a little stiff. "Certainly. You are right, Lieutenant," bowed Coronado. "They do go. But how many perish on the way? They march between the unburied and withered corpses of their predecessors. And what a journey for a woman--for a lady accustomed to luxury--for my little cousin! I beg your pardon, my dear Lieutenant Thurstane, for disagreeing with you. My advice is--the isthmus." "I have, of course, nothing, to say," admitted the officer, returning Coronado's bow. "The family must decide." "Certainly, the isthmus, the steamers," went on the fluent Mexican. "You sail to Panama. You have an easy and safe land trip of a few days. Then steamers again. Poff! you are there. By all means, the isthmus." We must allot a few more words of description to this Don Carlos Coronado. Let no one expect a stage Spaniard, with the air of a matador or a guerrillero, who wears only picturesque and outlandish costumes, and speaks only magniloquent Castilian. Coronado was dressed, on this spring morning, precisely as American dandies then dressed for summer promenades on Broadway. His hat was a fine panama with a broad black ribbon; his frock-coat was of thin cloth, plain, dark, and altogether civilized; his light trousers were cut gaiter-fashion, and strapped under the instep; his small boots were patent-leather, and of the ordinary type. There was nothing poetic about his attire except a reasonably wide Byron collar and a rather dashing crimson neck-tie, well suited to his dark complexion. His manner was sometimes excitable, as we have seen above; but usually he was like what gentlemen with us desire to be. Perhaps he bowed lower and smiled oftener and gestured more gracefully than Americans are apt to do. But there was in general nothing Oriental about him, no assumption of barbaric pompousness, no extravagance of bearing. His prevailing deportment was calm, grave, and deliciously courteous. If you had met him, no matter how or where, you would probably have been pleased with him. He would have made conversation for you, and put you at ease in a moment; you would have believed that he liked you, and you would therefore have been disposed to like him. In short, he was agreeable to most people, and to some people fascinating. And then his English! It was wonderful to hear him talk it. No American could say that he spoke better English than Coronado, and no American surely ever spoke it so fluently. It rolled off his lips in a torrent, undefiled by a mispronunciation or a foreign idiom. And yet he had begun to learn the language after reaching the age of manhood, and had acquired it mainly during three years of exile and teaching of Spanish in the United States. His linguistic cleverness was a fair specimen of his general quickness of intellect. Mrs. Stanley had liked him at first sight--that is, liked him for a man. He knew it; he had seen that she was a person worth conciliating; he had addressed himself to her, let off his bows at her, made her the centre of conversation. In ten minutes from the entrance of Coronado Mrs. Stanley was of opinion that Clara ought to go to California by way of the isthmus, although she had previously taken the overland route for granted. In another ten minutes the matter was settled: the ladies were to go by way of New Orleans, Panama, and the Pacific. Shortly afterward, Coronado and Thurstane took their leave; the Mexican affable, sociable, smiling, smoking; the American civil, but taciturn and grave. "Aha! I have disappointed the young gentleman," thought Coronado as they parted, the one going to his quartermaster's office and the other to Garcia's house. Coronado, although he had spent great part of his life in courting women, was a bachelor. He had been engaged once in New Mexico and two or three times in New York, but had always, as he could tell you with a smile, been disappointed. He now lived with his uncle, that Señor Manuel Garcia whom Clara has mentioned, a trader with California, an owner of vast estates and much cattle, and reputed to be one of the richest men in New Mexico. The two often quarrelled, and the elder had once turned the younger out of doors, so lively were their dispositions. But as Garcia had lost one by one all his children, he had at last taken his nephew into permanent favor, and would, it was said, leave him his property. The house, a hollow square built of _adobe_ bricks in one story, covered a vast deal of ground, had spacious rooms and a court big enough to bivouac a regiment. It was, in fact, not only a dwelling, but a magazine where Garcia stored his merchandise, and a caravansary where he parked his wagons. As Coronado lounged into the main doorway he was run against by a short, pursy old gentleman who was rushing out. "Ah! there you are!" exclaimed the old gentleman, in Spanish. "O you pig! you dog! you never are here. O Madre de Dios! how I have needed you! There is no time to lose. Enter at once." A dyspeptic, worn with work and anxieties, his nervous system shattered, Garcia was subject to fits of petulance which were ludicrous. In these rages he called everybody who would bear it pigs, dogs, and other more unsavory nicknames. Coronado bore it because thus he got his living, and got it without much labor. "I want you," gasped Garcia, seizing the young man by the arm and dragging him into a private room. "I want to speak to you in confidence--in confidence, mind you, in confidence--about Muñoz." "I have heard of it," said Coronado, as the old man stopped to catch his breath. "Heard of it!" exclaimed Garcia, in such consternation that he turned yellow, which was his way of turning pale. "Has the news got here? O Madre de Dios!" "Yes, I was at our little cousin's this evening. It is an ugly affair." "And _she_ knows it?" groaned the old man. "O Madre de Dios!" "She told me of it. She is going there. I did the best I could. She was about to go overland, in charge of the American, Thurstane. I broke that up. I persuaded her to go by the isthmus." "It is of little use," said Garcia, his eyes filmy with despair, as if he were dying. "She will get there. The property will be hers." "Not necessarily. He has simply invited her to live with him. She may not suit." "How?" demanded Garcia, open-eyed and open-mouthed with anxiety. "He has simply invited her to live with him," repeated Coronado. "I saw the letter." "What! you don't know, then?" "Know what?" "Muñoz is dead." Coronado threw out, first a stare of surprise, and then a shout of laughter. "And here they have just got a letter from him," he said presently; "and I have been persuading her to go to him by the isthmus!" "May the journey take her to him!" muttered Garcia. "How old was this letter?" "Nearly three months. It came by sea, first to New York, and then here." "My news is a month later. It came overland by special messenger. Listen to me, Carlos. This affair is worse than you know. Do you know what Muñoz has done? Oh, the pig! the dog! the villainous pig! He has left everything to his granddaughter." Coronado, dumb with astonishment and dismay, mechanically slapped his boot with his cane and stared at Garcia. "I am ruined," cried the old man. "The pig of hell has ruined me. He has left me, his cousin, his only male relative, to ruin. Not a doubloon to save me.' "Is there _no_ chance?" asked Coronado, after a long silence. "None! Oh--yes--one. A little one, a miserable little one. If she dies without issue and without a will, I am heir. And you, Carlos" (changing here to a wheedling tone), "you are mine." The look which accompanied these last words was a terrible mingling of cunning, cruelty, hope, and despair. Coronado glanced at Garcia with a shocking comprehension, and immediately dropped his dusky eyes upon the floor. "You know I have made my will," resumed the old man, "and left you everything." "Which is nothing," returned Coronado, aware that his uncle was insolvent in reality, and that his estate when settled would not show the residuum of a dollar. "If the fortune of Muñoz comes to me, I shall be very rich." "When you get it." "Listen to me, Carlos. Is there no way of getting it?" As the two men stared at each other they were horrible. The uncle was always horrible; he was one of the very ugliest of Spaniards; he was a brutal caricature of the national type. He had a low forehead, round face, bulbous nose, shaking fat cheeks, insignificant chin, and only one eye, a black and sleepy orb, which seemed to crawl like a snake. His exceedingly dark skin was made darker by a singular bluish tinge which resulted from heavy doses of nitrate of silver, taken as a remedy for epilepsy. His face was, moreover, mottled with dusky spots, so that he reminded the spectator of a frog or a toad. Just now he looked nothing less than poisonous; the hungriest of cannibals would not have dared eat him. "I am ruined," he went on groaning. "The war, the Yankees, the Apaches, the devil--I am completely ruined. In another year I shall be sold out. Then, my dear Carlos, you will have no home." "_Sangre de Dios!_" growled Coronado. "Do you want to drive me to the devil? "O God! to force an old man to such an extremity!" continued Garcia. "It is more than an old man is fitted to strive with. An old man--an old, sick, worn-out man!" "You are sure about the will?" demanded the nephew. "I have a copy of it," said Garcia, eagerly. "Here it is. Read it. O Madre de Dios! there is no doubt about it. I can trust my lawyer. It all goes to her. It only comes to me if she dies childless and intestate." "This is a horrible dilemma to force us into," observed Coronado, after he had read the paper. "So it is," assented Garcia, looking at him with indescribable anxiety. "So it is; so it is. What is to be done?" "Suppose I should marry her?" The old man's countenance fell; he wanted to call his nephew a pig, a dog, and everything else that is villainous; but he restrained himself and merely whimpered, "It would be better than nothing. You could help me." "There is little chance of it," said Coronado, seeing that the proposition was not approved. "She likes the American lieutenant much, and does not like me at all." "Then--" began Garcia, and stopped there, trembling all over. "Then what?" The venomous old toad made a supreme effort and whispered, "Suppose she should die?" Coronado wheeled about, walked two or three times up and down the room, returned to where Garcia sat quivering, and murmured, "It must be done quickly." "Yes, yes," gasped the old man. "She must--it must be childless and intestate." "She must go off in some natural way," continued the nephew. The uncle looked up with a vague hope in his one dusky and filmy eye. "Perhaps the isthmus will do it for her." Again the old man turned to an image of despair, as he mumbled, "O Madre de Dios! no, no. The isthmus is nothing." "Is the overland route more dangerous?" asked Coronado. "It might be made more dangerous. One gets lost in the desert. There are Apaches." "It is a horrible business," growled Coronado, shaking his head and biting his lips. "Oh, horrible, horrible!" groaned Garcia. "Muñoz was a pig, and a dog, and a toad, and a snake." "You old coward! can't you speak out?" hissed Coronado, losing his patience. "Do you want me both to devise and execute, while you take the purses? Tell me at once what your plan is." "The overland route," whispered Garcia, shaking from head to foot. "You go with her. I pay--I pay everything. You shall have men, horses, mules, wagons, all you want." "I shall want money, too. I shall need, perhaps, two thousand dollars. Apaches." "Yes, yes," assented Garcia. "The Apaches make an attack. You shall have money. I can raise it; I will." "How soon will you have a train ready?" "Immediately. Any day you want. You must start at once. She must not know of the will. She might remain here, and let the estate be settled for her, and draw on it. She might go back to New York. Anybody would lend her money." "Yes, events hurry us," muttered Coronado. "Well, get your cursed train ready. I will induce her to take it. I must unsay now all that I said in favor of the isthmus." "Do be judicious," implored Garcia. "With judgment, with judgment. Lost on the plains. Stolen by Apaches. No killing. No scandals. O my God, how I hate scandals and uproars! I am an old man, Carlos. With judgment, with judgment." "I comprehend," responded Coronado, adding a long string of Spanish curses, most of them meant for his uncle. CHAPTER III. That very day Coronado made a second call on Clara and her Aunt Maria, to retract, contradict, and disprove all that he had said in favor of the isthmus and against the overland route. Although his visit was timed early in the evening, he found Lieutenant Thurstane already with the ladies. Instead of scowling at him, or crouching in conscious guilt before him, he made a cordial rush for his hand, smiled sweetly in his face, and offered him incense of gratitude. "My dear Lieutenant, you are perfectly right," he said, in his fluent English. "The journey by the isthmus is not to be thought of. I have just seen a friend who has made it. Poisonous serpents in myriads. The most deadly climate in the world. Nearly everybody had the _vomito_; one-fifth died of it. You eat a little fruit; down you go on your back--dead in four hours. Then there are constant fights between the emigrants and the sullen, ferocious Indians of the isthmus. My poor friend never slept with his revolver out of his hand. I said to him, 'My dear fellow, it is cruel to rejoice in your misfortunes, but I am heartily glad that I have heard of them. You have saved the life of the most remarkable woman that I ever knew, and of a cousin of mine who is the star of her sex.'" Here Coronado made one bow to Mrs. Stanley and another to Clara, at the same time kissing his sallow hand enthusiastically to all creation. Aunt Maria tried to look stern at the compliment, but eventually thawed into a smile over it. Clara acknowledged it with a little wave of the hand, as if, coming from Coronado, it meant nothing more than good-morning, which indeed was just about his measure of it. "Moreover," continued the Mexican, "overland route? Why, it is overland route both ways. If you go by the isthmus, you must traverse all Texas and Louisiana, at the very least. You might as well go at once to San Diego. In short, the route by the isthmus is not to be thought of." "And what of the overland route?" asked Mrs. Stanley. "The overland route is the _other_," laughed Coronado. "Yes, I know. We must take it, I suppose. But what is the last news about it? You spoke this morning of Indians, I believe. Not that I suppose they are very formidable." "The overland route does not lead directly through paradise, my dear Mrs. Stanley," admitted Coronado with insinuating candor. "But it is not as bad as has been represented. I have never tried it. I must rely upon the report of others. Well, on learning that the isthmus would not do for you, I rushed off immediately to inquire about the overland. I questioned Garcia's teamsters. I catechized some newly-arrived travellers. I pumped dry every source of information. The result is that the overland route will do. No suffering; absolutely none; not a bit. And no danger worth mentioning. The Apaches are under a cloud. Our American conquerors and fellow-citizens" (here he gently patted Thurstane on the shoulder-strap), "our Romans of the nineteenth century, they tranquillize the Apaches. A child might walk from here to Fort Yuma without risking its little scalp." All this was said in the most light-hearted and airy manner conceivable. Coronado waved and floated on zephyrs of fancy and fluency. A butterfly or a humming-bird could not have talked more cheerily about flying over a parterre of flowers than he about traversing the North American desert. And, with all this frivolous, imponderable grace, what an accent of verity he had! He spoke of the teamsters as if he had actually conversed with them, and of the overland route as if he had been studiously gathering information concerning it. "I believe that what you say about the Apaches is true," observed Thurstane, a bit awkwardly. Coronado smiled, tossed him a little bow, and murmured in the most cordial, genial way, "And the rest?" "I beg pardon," said the Lieutenant, reddening. "I didn't mean to cast doubt upon any of your statements, sir." Thurstane had the army tone; he meant to be punctiliously polite; perhaps he was a little stiff in his politeness. But he was young, had had small practice in society, was somewhat hampered by modesty, and so sometimes made a blunder. Such things annoyed him excessively; a breach of etiquette seemed something like a breach of orders; hadn't meant to charge Coronado with drawing the long bow; couldn't help coloring about it. Didn't think much of Coronado, but stood somewhat in awe of him, as being four years older in time and a dozen years older in the ways of the world. "I only meant to say," he continued, "that I have information concerning the Apaches which coincides with yours, sir. They are quiet, at least for the present. Indeed, I understand that Red Sleeve, or Manga Colorada, as you call him, is coming in with his band to make a treaty." "Admirable!" cried Coronado. "Why not hire him to guarantee our safety? Set a thief to catch a thief. Why does not your Government do that sort of thing? Let the Apaches protect the emigrants, and the United States pay the Apaches. They would be the cheapest military force possible. That is the way the Turks manage the desert Arabs." "Mr. Coronado, you ought to be Governor of New Mexico," said Aunt Maria, stricken with admiration at this project. Thurstane looked at the two as if he considered them a couple of fools, each bigger than the other. Coronado advanced to Mrs. Stanley, took her hand, bowed over it, and murmured, "Let me have your influence at Washington, my dear Madame." The remarkable woman squirmed a little, fearing lest he should kiss her ringers, but nevertheless gave him a gracious smile. "It strikes me, however," she said, "that the isthmus route is better. We know by experience that the journey from here to Bent's Fort is safe and easy. From there down the Arkansas and Missouri to St. Louis it is mostly water carriage; and from St. Louis you can sail anywhere." Coronado was alarmed. He must put a stopper on this project. He called up all his resources. "My dear Mrs. Stanley, allow me. Remember that emigrants move westward, and not eastward. Coming from Bent's Fort you had protection and company; but going towards it would be different. And then think what you would lose. The great American desert, as it is absurdly styled, is one of the most interesting regions on earth. Mrs. Stanley, did you ever hear of the Casas Grandes, the Casas de Montezuma, the ruined cities of New Mexico? In this so-called desert there was once an immense population. There was a civilization which rose, flourished, decayed, and disappeared without a historian. Nothing remains of it but the walls of its fortresses and palaces. Those you will see. They are wonderful. They are worth ten times the labor and danger which we shall encounter. Buildings eight hundred feet long by two hundred and fifty feet deep, Mrs. Stanley. The resting-places and wayside strongholds of the Aztecs on their route from the frozen North to found the Empire of the Montezumas! This whole region is strewn, and cumbered, and glorified with ruins. If we should go by the way of the San Juan--" "The San Juan!" protested Thurstane. "Nobody goes by the way of the San Juan." Coronado stopped, bowed, smiled, waited to see if Thurstane had finished, and then proceeded. "Along the San Juan every hilltop is crowned with these monuments of antiquity. It is like the castled Rhine. Ruins looking in the faces of ruins. It is a tragedy in stone. It is like Niobe and her daughters. Moreover, if we take this route we shall pass the Moquis. The independent Moquis are a fragment of the ancient ruling race of New Mexico. They live in stone-built cities on lofty eminences. They weave blankets of exquisite patterns and colors, and produce a species of pottery which almost deserves the name of porcelain." "Really, you ought to write all this," exclaimed Aunt Maria, her imagination fired to a white heat. "I ought," said Coronado, impressively. "I owe it to these people to celebrate them in history. I owe them that much because of the name I bear. Did you ever hear of Coronado, the conqueror of New Mexico, the stormer of the seven cities of Cibola? It was he who gave the final shock to this antique civilization. He was the Cortes of this portion of the continent. I bear his name, and his blood runs in my veins." He held down his head as if he were painfully oppressed by the sense of his crimes and responsibilities as a descendant of the waster of aboriginal New Mexico. Mrs. Stanley, delighted with his emotion, slily grasped and pressed his hand. "Oh, man! man!" she groaned. "What evils has that creature man wrought in this beautiful world! Ah, Mr. Coronado, it would have been a very different planet had woman had her rightful share in the management of its affairs." "Undoubtedly," sighed Coronado. He had already obtained an insight into this remarkable person's views on the woman question, the superiority of her own sex, the stolidity and infamy of the other. It was worth his while to humor her on this point, for the sake of gaining an influence over her, and so over Clara. Cheered by the success of his history, he now launched into pure poetry. "Woman has done something," he said. "There is every reason to believe that the cities of the San Juan were ruled by queens, and that some of them were inhabited by a race of Amazons." "Is it possible?" exclaimed Aunt Maria, flushing and rustling with interest. "It is the opinion of the best antiquarians. It is my opinion. Nothing else can account for the exquisite earthenware which is found there. Women, you are aware, far surpass men in the arts of beauty. Moreover, the inscriptions on hieroglyphic rocks in these abandoned cities evidently refer to Amazons. There you see them doing the work of men--carrying on war, ruling conquered regions, founding cities. It is a picture of a golden age, Mrs. Stanley." Aunt Maria meant to go by way of the San Juan, if she had to scalp Apaches herself in doing it. "Lieutenant Thurstane, what do you say?" she asked, turning her sparkling eyes upon the officer. "I must confess that I never heard of all these things," replied Thurstane, with an air which added, "And I don't believe in most of them." "As for the San Juan route," he continued, "it is two hundred miles at least out of our way. The country is a desert and almost unexplored. I don't fancy the plan--I beg your pardon, Mr. Coronado--but I don't fancy it at all." Aunt Maria despised him and almost hated him for his stupid, practical, unpoetic common sense. "I must say that I quite fancy the San Juan route," she responded, with proper firmness. "I venture to agree with you," said Coronado, as meekly as if her fancy were not of his own making. "Only a hundred miles off the straight line (begging your pardon, my dear Lieutenant), and through a country which is naturally fertile--witness the immense population which it once supported. As for its being unexplored, I have explored it myself; and I shall go with you." "Shall you!" cried Aunt Maria, as if that made all safe and delightful. "Yes. My excellent Uncle Garcia (good, kind-hearted old man) takes the strongest interest in this affair. He is resolved that his charming little relative here, La Señorita Clara, shall cross the continent in safety and comfort. He offers a special wagon train for the purpose, and insists that I shall accompany it. Of course I am only too delighted to obey him." "Garcia is very good, and so are you, Coronado," said Clara, very thankful and profoundly astonished. "How can I ever repay you both? I shall always be your debtor." "My dear cousin!" protested Coronado, bowing and smiling. "Well, it is settled. We will start as soon as may be. The train will be ready in a day or two." "I have no money," stammered Clara. "The estate is not settled." "Our good old Garcia has thought of everything. He will advance you what you want, and take your draft on the executors." "Your uncle is one of nature's noblemen," affirmed Aunt Maria. "I must call on him and thank him for his goodness and generosity." "Oh, never!" said Coronado. "He only waits your permission to visit you and pay you his humble respects. Absence has prevented him from attending to that delightful duty heretofore. He has but just returned from Albuquerque." "Tell him I shall be glad to see him," smiled Aunt Maria. "But what does he say of the San Juan route?" "He advises it. He has been in the overland trade for thirty years. He is tenderly interested in his relative Clara; and he advises her to go by way of the San Juan." "Then so it shall be," declared Aunt Maria. "And how do you go, Lieutenant?" asked Coronado, turning to Thurstane. "I had thought of travelling with you," was the answer, delivered with a grave and troubled air, as if now he must give up his project. Coronado was delighted. He had urged the northern and circuitous route mainly to get rid of the officer, taking it for granted that the latter must join his new command as soon as possible. He did not want him courting Clara all across the continent; and he, did not want him saving her from being lost, if it should become necessary to lose her. "I earnestly hope that we shall not be deprived of your company," he said. Thurstane, in profound thought, simply bowed his acknowledgments. A few minutes later, as he rose to return to his quarters, he said, with an air of solemn resolution, "If I can possibly go with you, I _will_." All the next day and evening Coronado was in and out of the Van Diemen house. Had there been a mail for the ladies, he would have brought it to them; had it contained a letter from California, he would have abstracted and burnt it. He helped them pack for the journey; he made an inventory of the furniture and found storeroom for it; he was a valet and a spy in one. Meantime Garcia hurried up his train, and hired suitable muleteers for the animals and suitable assassins for the travellers. Thurstane was also busy, working all day and half of the night over his government accounts, so that he might if possible get off with Clara. Coronado thought of making interest with the post-commandant to have Thurstane kept a few days in Santa Fé. But the post-commandant was a grim and taciturn old major, who looked him through and through with a pair of icy gray eyes, and returned brief answers to his musical commonplaces. Coronado did not see how he could humbug him, and concluded not to try it. The attempt might excite suspicion; the major might say, "How is this your business?" So, after a little unimportant tattle, Coronado made his best bow to the old fellow, and hurried off to oversee his so-called cousin. In the evening he brought Garcia to call on the ladies. Aunt Maria was rather surprised and shocked to see such an excellent man look so much like an infamous scoundrel. "But good people are always plain," she reasoned; and so she was as cordial to him as one can be in English to a saint who understands nothing but Spanish. Garcia, instructed by Coronado, could not bow low enough nor smile greasily enough at Aunt Maria. His dull commonplaces moreover, were translated by his nephew into flowering compliments for the lady herself, and enthusiastic professions of faith in the superior intelligence and moral worth of all women. So the two got along famously, although neither ever knew what the other had really said. When Clara appeared, Garcia bowed humbly without lifting his eyes to her face, and received her kiss without returning it, as one might receive the kiss of a corpse. "Contemptible coward!" thought Coronado. Then, turning to Mrs. Stanley, he whispered, "My uncle is almost broken down with this parting." "Excellent creature!" murmured Aunt Maria, surveying the old toad with warm sympathy. "What a pity he has lost one eye! It quite injures the benevolent expression of his face." Although Garcia was very distantly connected with Clara, she gave him the title of uncle. "How is this, my uncle?" she said, gaily. "You send your merchandise trains through Bernalillo, and you send me through Santa Anna and Rio Arriba." Garcia, cowed and confounded, made no reply that was comprehensible. "It is a newly discovered route," put in Coronado, "lately found to be easier and safer than the old one. Two hundred and fifty years in learning the fact, Mrs. Stanley! Just as we were two hundred and fifty years without discovering the gold of California." "Ah!" said Clara. Absent since her childhood from New Mexico, she knew little about its geography, and could be easily deceived. After a while Thurstane entered, out of breath and red with haste. He had stolen ten minutes from his accounts and stores to bring Miss Van Diemen a piece of information which was to him important and distressing. "I fear that I shall not be able to go with you," he said. "I have received orders to wait for a sergeant and three recruits who have been assigned to my company. The messenger reports that they are on the march from Fort Bent with an emigrant train, and will not be here for a week. It annoys me horribly, Miss Van Diemen. I thought I saw my way clear to be of your party. I assure you I earnestly desired it. This route--I am afraid of it--I wanted to be with you." "To protect me?" queried Clara, her face lighting up with a grateful smile, so innocent and frank was she. Then she turned grave, again, and added, "I am sorry." Thankful for these last words, but nevertheless quite miserable, the youngster worshipped her and trembled for her. This conversation had been carried on in a quiet tone, so that the others of the party had not overheard it, not even the watchful Coronado. "It is too unfortunate," said Clara, turning to them, "Lieutenant Thurstane cannot go with us." Garcia and Coronado exchanged a look which said, "Thank--the devil!" CHAPTER IV. The next day brought news of an obstacle to the march of the wagon train through Santa Anna and Rio Arriba. It was reported that the audacious and savage Apache chieftain, Manga Colorada, or Red Sleeve, under pretence of wanting to make a treaty with the Americans, had approached within sixty miles of Santa Fé to the west, and camped there, on the route to the San Juan country, not making treaties at all, but simply making hot beefsteaks out of Mexican cattle and cold carcasses out of Mexican rancheros. "We shall have to get those fellows off that trail and put them across the Bernalillo route," said Coronado to Garcia. "The pigs! the dogs! the wicked beasts! the devils!" barked the old man, dancing about the room in a rage. After a while he dropped breathless into a chair and looked eagerly at his nephew for help. "It will cost at least another thousand," observed the younger man. "You have had two thousand," shuddered Garcia. "You were to do the whole accursed job with that." "I did not count on Manga Colorada. Besides, I have given a thousand to our little cousin. I must keep a thousand to meet the chances that may come. There are men to be bribed." Garcia groaned, hesitated, decided, went to some hoard which he had put aside for great needs, counted out a hundred American eagles, toyed with them, wept over them, and brought them to Coronado. "Will that do?" he asked. "It must do. There is no more." "I will try with that," said the nephew. "Now let me have a few good men and your best horses. I want to see them all before I trust myself with them." Coronado felt himself in a position to dictate, and it was curious to see how quick he put on magisterial airs; he was one of those who enjoy authority, though little and brief. "Accursed beast!" thought Garcia, who did not dare just now to break out with his "pig, dog," etc. "He wants me to pay everything. The thousand ought to be enough for men and horses and all. Why not poison the girl at once, and save all this money? If he had the spirit of a man! O Madre de Dios! Madre de Dios! What extremities! what extremities!" But Garcia was like a good many of us; his thoughts were worse than his deeds and words. While he was cogitating thus savagely, he was saying aloud, "My son, my dear Carlos, come and choose for yourself." Turning into the court of the house, they strolled through a medley of wagons, mules, horses, merchandise, muleteers, teamsters, idlers, white men and Indians. Coronado soon picked out a couple of rancheros whom he knew as capital riders, fair marksmen, faithful and intelligent. Next his eye fell upon a man in Mexican clothing, almost as dark and dirty too as the ordinary Mexican, but whose height, size, insolence of carriage, and ferocity of expression marked him as of another and more pugnacious, more imperial race. "You are an American," said Coronado, in his civil manner, for he had two manners as opposite as the poles. "I be," replied the stranger, staring at Coronado as a Lombard or Frankish warrior might have stared at an effeminate and diminutive Roman. "May I ask what your name is?" "Some folks call me Texas Smith." Coronado shifted uneasily on his feet, as a man might shift in presence of a tiger, who, as he feared, was insufficiently chained. He was face to face with a fellow who was as much the terror of the table-land, from the borders of Texas to California, as if he had been an Apache chief. This noted desperado, although not more than twenty-six or seven years old, had the horrible fame of a score of murders. His appearance mated well with his frightful history and reputation. His intensely black eyes, blacker even than the eyes of Coronado, had a stare of absolutely indescribable ferocity. It was more ferocious than the merely brutal glare of a tiger; it was an intentional malignity, super-beastly and sub-human. They were eyes which no other man ever looked into and afterward forgot. His sunburnt, sallow, haggard, ghastly face, stained early and for life with the corpse-like coloring of malarious fevers, was a fit setting for such optics. Although it was nearly oval in contour, and although the features were or had been fairly regular, yet it was so marked by hard, and one might almost say fleshless muscles, and so brutalized by long indulgence in savage passions, that it struck you as frightfully ugly. A large dull-red scar on the right jaw and another across the left cheek added the final touches to this countenance of a cougar. "He is my man," whispered Garcia to Coronado. "I have hired him for the great adventure. Sixty piastres a month. Why not take him with you to-day?" Coronado gave another glance at the gladiator and meditated. Should he trust this beast of a Texan to guard him against those other beasts, the Apaches? Well, he could die but once; this whole affair was detestably risky; he must not lose time in shuddering over the first steps. "Mr. Smith," he said, "very glad to know that you are with us. Can you start in an hour for the camp of Manga Colorada? Sixty miles there. We must be back by to-morrow night. It would be best not to say where we are going." Texas Smith nodded, turned abruptly on the huge heels of his Mexican boots, stalked to where his horse was fastened, and began to saddle him. "My dear uncle, why didn't you hire the devil?" whispered Coronado as he stared after the cutthroat. "Get yourself ready, my nephew," was Garcia's reply. "I will see to the men and horses." In an hour the expedition was off at full gallop. Coronado had laid aside his American dandy raiment, and was in the full costume of a Mexican of the provinces--broad-brimmed hat of white straw, blue broadcloth jacket adorned with numerous small silver buttons, velvet vest of similar splendor, blue trousers slashed from the knee downwards and gay with buttons, high, loose embroidered boots of crimson leather, long steel spurs jingling and shining. The change became him; he seemed a larger and handsomer man for it; he looked the caballero and almost the hidalgo. Three hours took the party thirty miles to a hacienda of Garcia's, where they changed horses, leaving their first mounting for the return. After half an hour for dinner, they pushed on again, always at a gallop, the hoofs clattering over the hard, yellow, sunbaked earth, or dashing recklessly along smooth sheets of rock, or through fields of loose, slippery stones. Rare halts to breathe the animals; then the steady, tearing gallop again; no walking or other leisurely gait. Coronado led the way and hastened the pace. There was no tiring him; his thin, sinewy, sun-hardened frame could bear enormous fatigue; moreover, the saddle was so familiar to him that he almost reposed in it. If he had needed physical support, he would have found it in his mental energy. He was capable of that executive furor, that intense passion of exertion, which the man of Latin race can exhibit when he has once fairly set himself to an enterprise. He was of the breed which in nobler days had produced Gonsalvo, Cortes, Pizarro, and Darien. These riders had set out at ten o'clock in the morning; at five in the afternoon they drew bridle in sight of the Apache encampment. They were on the brow of a stony hill: a pile of bare, gray, glaring, treeless, herbless layers of rock; a pyramid truncated near its base, but still of majestic altitude; one of the pyramids of nature in that region; in short, a butte. Below them lay a valley of six or eight miles in length by one or two in breadth, through the centre of which a rivulet had drawn a paradise of verdure. In the middle of the valley, at the head of a bend in the rivulet, was a camp of human brutes. It was a bivouac rather than a camp. The large tents of bison hide used by the northern Indians are unknown to the Apaches; they have not the bison, and they have less need of shelter in winter. What Coronado saw at this distance was, a few huts of branches, a strolling of many horses, and some scattered riders. Texas Smith gave him a glance of inquiry which said, "Shall we go ahead--or fire?" Coronado spurred his horse down the rough, disjointed, slippery declivity, and the others followed. They were soon perceived; the Apache swarm was instantly in a buzz; horses were saddled and mounted, or mounted without saddling; there was a consultation, and then a wild dash toward the travellers. As the two parties neared each other at a gallop, Coronado rode to the front of his squad, waving his sombrero. An Indian who wore the dress of a Mexican caballero, jacket, loose trousers, hat, and boots, spurred in like manner to the front, gestured to his followers to halt, brought his horse to a walk, and slowly approached the white man. Coronado made a sign to show that his pistols were in his holsters; and the Apache responded by dropping his lance and slinging his bow over his shoulder. The two met midway between the two squads of staring, silent horsemen. "Is it Manga Colorada?" asked the Mexican, in Spanish. "Manga Colorada," replied the Apache, his long, dark, haggard, savage face lighting up for a moment with a smile of gratified vanity. "I come in peace, then," said Coronado. "I want your help; I will pay for it." In our account of this interview we shall translate the broken Spanish of the Indian into ordinary English. "Manga Colorada will help," he said, "if the pay is good." Even during this short dialogue the Apaches had with difficulty restrained their curiosity; and their little wiry horses were now caracoling, rearing, and plunging in close proximity to the two speakers. "We will talk of this by ourselves," said Coronado. "Let us go to your camp." The conjoint movement of the leaders toward the Indian bivouac was a signal for their followers to mingle and exchange greetings. The adventurers were enveloped and very nearly ridden down by over two hundred prancing, screaming horsemen, shouting to their visitors in their own guttural tongue or in broken Spanish, and enforcing their wild speech with vehement gestures. It was a pandemonium which horribly frightened the Mexican rancheros, and made Coronado's dark cheek turn to an ashy yellow. The civilized imagination can hardly conceive such a tableau of savagery as that presented by these Arabs of the great American desert. Arabs! The similitude is a calumny on the descendants of Ishmael; the fiercest Bedouin are refined and mild compared with the Apaches. Even the brutal and criminal classes of civilization, the pugilists, roughs, burglars, and pickpockets of our large cities, the men whose daily life is rebellion against conscience, commandment, and justice, offer a gentler and nobler type of character and expression than these "children of nature." There was hardly a face among that gang of wild riders which did not outdo the face of Texas Smith in degraded ferocity. Almost every man and boy was obviously a liar, a thief, and a murderer. The air of beastly cruelty was made even more hateful by an air of beastly cunning. Taking color, brutality, grotesqueness, and filth together, it seemed as if here were a mob of those malignant and ill-favored devils whom Dante has described and the art of his age has painted and sculptured. It is possible, by the way, that this appearance of moral ugliness was due in part to the physical ugliness of features, which were nearly without exception coarse, irregular, exaggerated, grotesque, and in some cases more like hideous masks than like faces. Ferocity of expression was further enhanced by poverty and squalor. The mass of this fierce cavalry was wretchedly clothed and disgustingly dirty. Even the showy Mexican costume of Manga Colorada was ripped, frayed, stained with grease and perspiration, and not free from sombre spots which looked like blood. Every one wore the breech-cloth, in some cases nicely fitted and sewed, in others nothing but a shapeless piece of deerskin tied on anyhow. There were a few, either minor chiefs, or leading braves, or professional dandies (for this class exists among the Indians), who sported something like a full Apache costume, consisting of a helmet-shaped cap with a plume of feathers, a blanket or _serape_ flying loose from the shoulders, a shirt and breech-cloth, and a pair of long boots, made large and loose in the Mexican style and showy with dyeing and embroidery. These boots, very necessary to men who must ride through thorns and bushes, were either drawn up so as to cover the thighs or turned over from the knee downward, like the leg-covering of Rupert's cavaliers. Many heads were bare, or merely shielded by wreaths of grasses and leaves, the greenery contrasting fantastically with the unkempt hair and fierce faces, but producing at a distance an effect which was not without sylvan grace. The only weapons were iron-tipped lances eight or nine feet long, thick and strong bows of three or three and a half feet, and quivers of arrows slung across the thigh or over the shoulder. The Apaches make little use of firearms, being too lazy or too stupid to keep them in order, and finding it difficult to get ammunition. But so long as they have to fight only the unwarlike Mexicans, they are none the worse for this lack. The Mexicans fly at the first yell; the Apaches ride after them and lance them in the back; clumsy _escopetos_ drop loaded from the hands of dying cowards. Such are the battles of New Mexico. It is only when these red-skinned Tartars meet Americans or such high-spirited Indians as the Opates that they have to recoil before gunpowder. [Footnote: Since those times the Apaches have learned to use firearms.] The fact that Coronado dared ride into this camp of thieving assassins shows what risks he could force himself to run when he thought it necessary. He was not physically a very brave man; he had no pugnacity and no adventurous love of danger for its own sake; but when he was resolved on an enterprise, he could go through with it. There was a rest of several hours. The rancheros fed the horses on corn which they had brought in small sacks. Texas Smith kept watch, suffered no Apache to touch him, had his pistols always cocked, and stood ready to sell life at the highest price. Coronado walked deliberately to a retired spot with Manga Colorada, Delgadito, and two other chiefs, and made known his propositions. What he desired was that the Apaches should quit their present post immediately, perform a forced march of a hundred and forty miles or so to the southwest, place themselves across the overland trail through Bernalillo, and do something to alarm people. No great harm; he did not want men murdered nor houses burned; they might eat a few cattle, if they were hungry: there were plenty of cattle, and Apaches must live. And if they should yell at a train or so and stampede the loose mules, he had no objection. But no slaughtering; he wanted them to be merciful: just make a pretence of harrying in Bernalillo; nothing more. The chiefs turned their ill-favored countenances on each other, and talked for a while in their own language. Then, looking at Coronado, they grunted, nodded, and sat in silence, waiting for his terms. "Send that boy away," said the Mexican, pointing to a youth of twelve or fourteen, better dressed than most Apache urchins, who had joined the little circle. "It is my son," replied Manga Colorada. "He is learning to be a chief." The boy stood upright, facing the group with dignity, a handsomer youth than is often seen among his people. Coronado, who had something of the artist in him, was so interested in noting the lad's regular features and tragic firmness of expression, that for a moment he forgot his projects. Manga Colorada, mistaking the cause of his silence, encouraged him to proceed. "My son does not speak Spanish," he said. "He will not understand." "You know what money is?" inquired the Mexican. "Yes, we know," grunted the chief. "You can buy clothes and arms with it in the villages, and aguardiente." Another grunt of assent and satisfaction. "Three hundred piastres," said Coronado. The chiefs consulted in their own tongue, and then replied, "The way is long." "How much?" Manga Colorada held up five fingers. "Five hundred?" A unanimous grunt. "It is all I have," said Coronado. The chiefs made no reply. Coronado rose, walked to his horse, took two small packages out of his saddle-bags and slipped them slily into his boots, and then carried the bags to where the chiefs sat in council. There he held them up and rolled out five _rouleaux_, each containing a hundred Mexican dollars. The Indians tore open the envelopes, stared at the broad pieces, fingered them, jingled them together, and uttered grunts of amazement and joy. Probably they had never before seen so much money, at least not in their own possession. Coronado was hardly less content; for while he had received a thousand dollars to bring about this understanding, he had risked but seven hundred with him, and of these he had saved two hundred. Four hours later the camp had vanished, and the Indians were on their way toward the southwest, the moonlight showing their irregular column of march, and glinting faintly from the heads of their lances. At nine or ten in the evening, when every Apache had disappeared, and the clatter of ponies had gone far away into the quiet night, Coronado lay down to rest. He would have started homeward, but the country was a complete desert, the trail led here and there over vast sheets of trackless rock, and he feared that he might lose his way. Texas Smith and one of the rancheros had ridden after the Apaches to see whether they kept the direction which had been agreed upon. One ranchero was slumbering already, and the third crouched as sentinel. Coronado could not sleep at once. He thought over his enterprise, cross-examined his chances of success, studied the invisible courses of the future. Leave Clara on the plains, to be butchered by Indians, or to die of starvation? He hardly considered the idea; it was horrible and repulsive; better marry her. If necessary, force her into a marriage; he could bring it about somehow; she would be much in his power. Well, he had got rid of Thurstane; that was a great obstacle removed. Probably, that fellow being out of sight, he, Coronado, could soon eclipse him in the girl's estimation. There would be no need of violence; all would go easily and end in prosperity. Garcia would be furious at the marriage, but Garcia was a fool to expect any other result. However, here he was, just at the beginning of things, and by no means safe from danger. He had two hundred dollars in his boot-legs. Had his rancheros suspected it? Would they murder him for the money? He hoped not; he just faintly hoped not; for he was becoming very sleepy; he was asleep. He was awakened by a noise, or perhaps it was a touch, he scarcely knew what. He struggled as fiercely and vainly as one who fights against a nightmare. A dark form was over him, a hard knee was on his breast, hard knuckles were at his throat, an arm was raised to strike, a weapon was gleaming. On the threshold of his enterprise, after he had taken its first hazardous step with safety and success, Coronado found himself at the point of death. CHAPTER V. When Coronado regained a portion of the senses which had been throttled out of him, he discovered Texas Smith standing by his side, and two dead men lying near, all rather vaguely seen at first through his dizziness and the moonlight. "What does this mean?" he gasped, getting on his hands and knees, and then on his feet. "Who has been assassinating?" The borderer, who, instead of helping his employer to rise, was coolly reloading his rifle, did not immediately reply. As the shaken and somewhat unmanned Coronado looked at him, he was afraid of him. The moonlight made Smith's sallow, disfigured face so much more ghastly than usual, that he had the air of a ghoul or vampyre. And when, after carefully capping his piece, he drawled forth the word "Patchies," his harsh, croaking voice had an unwholesome, unhuman sound, as if it were indeed the utterance of a feeder upon corpses. "Apaches!" said Coronado. "What! after I had made a treaty with them?" "This un is a 'Patchie," remarked Texas, giving the nearest body a shove with his boot. "Thar was two of 'em. They knifed one of your men. T'other cleared, he did. I was comin' in afoot. I had a notion of suthin' goin' on, 'n' left the critters out thar, with the rancheros, 'n' stole in. Got in just in time to pop the cuss that had you. T'other un vamosed." "Oh, the villains!" shrieked Coronado, excited at the thought of his narrow escape. "This is the way they keep their treaties." "Mought be these a'n't the same," observed Texas. "Some 'Patchies is wild, 'n' live separate, like bachelor beavers." Coronado stooped and examined the dead Indian. He was a miserable object, naked, except a ragged, filthy breech-clout, his figure gaunt, and his legs absolutely scaly with dirt, starvation, and hard living of all sorts. He might well be one of those outcasts who are in disfavor with their savage brethren, lead a precarious existence outside of the tribal organization, and are to the Apaches what the Texas Smiths are to decent Americans. "One of the bachelor-beaver sort, you bet," continued Texas. "Don't run with the rest of the crowd." "And there's that infernal coward of a ranchero," cried Coronado, as the runaway sentry sneaked back to the group. "You cursed poltroon, why didn't you give the alarm? Why didn't you fight?" He struck the man, pulled his long hair, threw him down, kicked him, and spat on him. Texas Smith looked on with an approving grin, and suggested, "Better shute the dam cuss." But Coronado was not bloodthirsty; having vented his spite, he let the fellow go. "You saved my life," he said to Texas. "When we get back you shall be paid for it." At the moment he intended to present him with the two hundred dollars which were cumbering his boots. But by the time they had reached Garcia's hacienda on the way back to Santa Fé, his gratitude had fallen off seventy-five per cent, and he thought fifty enough. Even that diminished his profits on the expedition to four hundred and fifty dollars. And Coronado, although extravagant, was not generous; he liked to spend money, but he hated to give it or pay it. During the four days which immediately followed his safe return to Santa Fé, he and Garcia were in a worry of anxiety. Would Manga Colorada fulfil his contract and cast a shadow of peril over the Bernalillo route? Would letters or messengers arrive from California, informing Clara of the death and will of Muñoz? Everything happened as they wished; reports came that the Apaches were raiding in Bernalillo; the girl received no news concerning her grandfather. Coronado, smiling with success and hope, met Thurstane at the Van Diemen house, in the presence of Clara and Aunt Maria, and blandly triumphed over him. "How now about your safe road through the southern counties?" he said. "Apaches!" "So I hear," replied the young officer soberly. "It is horribly unlucky." "We start to-morrow," added Coronado. "To-morrow!" replied Thurstane, with a look of dismay. "I hope you will be with us," said Coronado. "Everything goes wrong," exclaimed the annoyed lieutenant. "Here are some of my stores damaged, and I have had to ask for a board of survey. I couldn't possibly leave for two days yet, even if my recruits should arrive." "How very unfortunate!" groaned Coronado. "My dear fellow, we had counted on you." "Lieutenant Thurstane, can't you overtake us?" inquired Clara. Thurstane wanted to kneel down and thank her, while Coronado wanted to throw something at her. "I will try," promised the officer, his fine, frank, manly face brightening with pleasure. "If the thing can be done, it will be done." Coronado, while hoping that he would be ordered by the southern route, or that he would somehow break his neck, had the superfine brass to say, "Don't fail us, Lieutenant." In spite of the managements of the Mexican to keep Clara and Thurstane apart, the latter succeeded in getting an aside with the young lady. "So you take the northern trail?" he said, with a seriousness which gave his blue-black eyes an expression of almost painful pathos. Those eyes were traitors; however discreet the rest of his face might be, they revealed his feelings; they were altogether too pathetic to be in the head of a man and an officer. "But you will overtake us," Clara replied, out of a charming faith that with men all things are possible. "Yes," he said, almost fiercely. "Besides, Coronado knows," she added, still trusting in the male being. "He says this is the surest road." Thurstane did not believe it, but he did not want to alarm her when alarm was useless, and he made no comment. "I have a great mind to resign," he presently broke out. Clara colored; she did not fully understand him, but she guessed that all this emotion was somehow on her account; and a surprised, warm Spanish heart beat at once its alarm. "It would be of no use," he immediately added. "I couldn't get away until my resignation had been accepted. I must bear this as well as I can." The young lady began to like him better than ever before, and yet she began to draw gently away from him, frightened by a consciousness of her liking. "I beg your pardon, Miss Van Diemen," said Thurstane, in an inexplicable confusion. "There is no need," replied Clara, equally confused. "Well," he resumed, after a struggle to regain his self-control, "I will do my utmost to overtake you." "We shall be very glad," returned Clara, with a singular mixture of consciousness and artlessness. There was an exquisite innocence and almost childish simplicity in this girl of eighteen. It was, so to speak, not quite civilized; it was not in the style of American young ladies; our officer had never, at home, observed anything like it; and, of course--O yes, of course, it fascinated him. The truth is, he was so far gone in loving her that he would have been charmed by her ways no matter what they might have been. On the very morning after the above dialogue Garcia's train started for Rio Arriba, taking with it a girl who had been singled out for a marriage which she did not guess, or for a death whose horrors were beyond her wildest fears. The train consisted of six long and heavy covered vehicles, not dissimilar in size, strength, and build to army wagons. Garcia had thought that two would suffice; six wagons, with their mules, etc., were a small fortune: what if the Apaches should take them? But Coronado had replied: "Nobody sends a train of two wagons; do you want to rouse suspicion?" So there were six; and each had a driver and a muleteer, making twelve hired men thus far. On horseback, there were six Mexicans, nominally cattle-drivers going to California, but really guards for the expedition--the most courageous bullies that could be picked up in Santa Fé, each armed with pistols and a rifle. Finally, there were Coronado and his terrible henchman, Texas Smith, with their rifles and revolvers. Old Garcia perspired with anguish as he looked over his caravan, and figured up the cost in his head. Thurstane, wretched at heart, but with a cheering smile on his lips, came to bid the ladies farewell. "What do you think of this?" Aunt Maria called to him from her seat in one of the covered wagons. "We are going a thousand miles through deserts and savages. You men suppose that women have no courage. I call this heroism." "Certainly," nodded the young fellow, not thinking of her at all, unless it was that she was next door to an idiot. Although his mind was so full of Clara that it did not seem as if he could receive an impression from any other human being, his attention was for a moment arrested by a countenance which struck him as being more ferocious than he had ever seen before except on the shoulders of an Apache. A tall man in Mexican costume, with a scar on his chin and another on his cheek, was glaring at him with two intensely black and savage eyes. It was Texas Smith, taking the measure of Thurstane's fighting power and disposition. A hint from Coronado had warned the borderer that here was a person whom it might be necessary some day to get rid of. The officer responded to this ferocious gaze with a grim, imperious stare, such as one is apt to acquire amid the responsibilities and dangers of army life. It was like a wolf and a mastiff surveying each other. Thurstane advanced to Clara, helped her into her saddle, and held her hand while he urged her to be careful of herself, never to wander from the train, never to be alone, etc. The girl turned a little pale; it was not exactly because of his anxious manner; it was because of the eloquence that there is in a word of parting. At the moment she felt so alone in the world, in such womanish need of sympathy, that had he whispered to her, "Be my wife," she might have reached out her hands to him. But Thurstane was far from guessing that an angel could have such weak impulses; and he no more thought of proposing to her thus abruptly than of ascending off-hand into heaven. Coronado observed the scene, and guessing how perilous the moment was, pushed forward his uncle to say good-by to Clara. The old scoundrel kissed her hand; he did not dare to lift his one eye to her face; he kissed her hand and bowed himself out of reach. "Farewell, Mr. Garcia," called Aunt Maria. "Poor, excellent old creature! What a pity he can't understand English! I should so like to say something nice to him. Farewell, Mr. Garcia." Garcia kissed his fat fingers to her, took off his sombrero, waved it, bowed a dozen times, and smiled like a scared devil. Then, with other good-bys, delivered right and left from everybody to everybody, the train rumbled away. Thurstane was about to accompany it out of the town when his clerk came to tell him that the board of survey required his immediate presence. Cursing his hard fate, and wishing himself anything but an officer in the army, he waved a last farewell to Clara, and turned his back on her, perhaps forever. Santa Fé is situated on the great central plateau of North America, seven thousand feet above the level of the sea. Around it spreads an arid plain, sloping slightly where it approaches the Rio Grande, and bordered by mountains which toward the south are of moderate height, while toward the north they rise into fine peaks, glorious with eternal snow. Although the city is in the latitude of Albemarle Sound, North Carolina, its elevation and its neighborhood to Alpine ranges give it a climate which is in the main cool, equable, and healthy. The expedition moved across the plain in a southwesterly direction. Coronado's intention was to cross the Rio Grande at Peña Blanca, skirt the southern edge of the Jemez Mountains, reach San Isidoro, and then march northward toward the San Juan region. The wagons were well fitted out with mules, and as Garcia had not chosen to send much merchandise by this risky route, they were light, so that the rate of progress was unusually rapid. We cannot trouble ourselves with the minor incidents of the journey. Taking it for granted that the Rio Grande was passed, that halts were made, meals cooked and eaten, nights passed in sleep, days in pleasant and picturesque travelling, we will leap into the desert land beyond San Isidoro. The train was now seventy-five miles from Santa Fé. Coronado had so pushed the pace that he had made this distance in the rather remarkable time of three days. Of course his object in thus hurrying was to get so far ahead of Thurstane that the latter would not try to overtake him, or would get lost in attempting it. Meanwhile he had not forgotten Garcia's little plan, and he had even better remembered his own. The time might come when he would be driven to _lose_ Clara; it was very shocking to think of, however, and so for the present he did not think of it; on the contrary, he worked hard (much as he hated work) at courting her. It is strange that so many men who are morally in a state of decomposition should be, or at least can be, sweet and charming in manner. During these three days Coronado was delightful; and not merely in this, that he watched over Clara's comfort, rode a great deal by her side, gathered wild flowers for her, talked much and agreeably; but also in that he poured oil over his whole conduct, and was good to everybody. Although his natural disposition was to be domineering to inferiors and irascible under the small provocations of life, he now gave his orders in a gentle tone, never stormed at the drivers for their blunders, made light of the bad cooking, and was in short a model for travellers, lovers, and husbands. Few human beings have so much self-control as Coronado, and so little. So long as it was policy to be sweet, he could generally be a very honeycomb; but once a certain limit of patience passed, he was like a swarm of angry bees; he became blind, mad, and poisonous with passion. "Mr. Coronado, you are a wonder," proclaimed the admiring Aunt Maria. "You are the only man I ever knew that was patient." "I catch a grace from those who have it abundantly and to spare," said Coronado, taking off his hat and waving it at the two ladies. "Ah, yes, we women know how to be patient," smiled Aunt Maria. "I think we are born so. But, more than that, we learn it. Moreover, our physical nature teaches us. We have lessons of pain and weakness that men know nothing of. The great, healthy savages! If they had our troubles, they might have some of our virtues." "I refuse to believe it," cried Coronado. "Man acquire woman's worth? Never! The nature of the beast is inferior. He is not fashioned to become an angel." "How charmingly candid and humble!" thought Aunt Maria. "How different from that sulky, proud Thurstane, who never says anything of the sort, and never thinks it either, I'll be bound." All this sort of talk passed over Clara as a desert wind passes over an oasis, bringing no pleasant songs of birds, and sowing no fruitful seed. She had her born ideas as to men and women, and she was seemingly incapable of receiving any others. In her mind men were strong and brave, and women weak and timorous; she believed that the first were good to hold on to, and that the last were good to hold on; all this she held by birthright, without ever reasoning upon it or caring to prove it. Coronado, on his part, hooted in his soul at Mrs. Stanley's whimsies, and half supposed her to be of unsound mind. Nor would he have said what he did about the vast superiority of the female sex, had he supposed that Clara would attach the least weight to it. He knew that the girl looked upon his extravagant declarations as merely so many compliments paid to her eccentric relative, equivalent to bowings and scrapings and flourishes of the sombrero. Both Spaniards, they instinctively comprehended each other, at least in the surface matters of intercourse. Meanwhile the American strong-minded female understood herself, it is to be charitably hoped, but understood herself alone. Coronado did not hurry his courtship, for he believed that he had a clear field before him, and he was too sagacious to startle Clara by overmuch energy. Meantime he began to be conscious that an influence from her was reaching his spirit. He had hitherto considered her a child; one day he suddenly recognized her as a woman. Now a woman, a beautiful woman especially, alone with one in the desert, is very mighty. Matches are made in trains overland as easily and quickly as on sea voyages or at quiet summer resorts. Coronado began--only moderately as yet--to fall in love. But an ugly incident came to disturb his opening dream of affection, happiness, wealth, and success. Toward the close of his fourth day's march, after he had got well into the unsettled region beyond San Isidore, he discovered, several miles behind the train, a party of five horsemen. He was on one summit and they on another, with a deep, stony valley intervening. Without a moment's hesitation, he galloped down a long slope, rejoined the creeping wagons, hurried them forward a mile or so, and turned into a ravine for the night's halt. Whether the cavaliers were Indians or Thurstane and his four recruits he had been unable to make out. They had not seen the train; the nature of the ground had prevented that. It was now past sundown, and darkness coming on rapidly. Whispering something about Apaches, he gave orders to lie close and light no fires for a while, trusting that the pursuers would pass his hiding place. For a moment he thought of sending Texas Smith to ambush the party, and shoot Thurstane if he should be in it, pleading afterwards that the men looked, in the darkness, like Apaches. But no; this was an extreme measure; he revolted against it a little. Moreover, there was danger of retribution: settlements not so far off; soldiers still nearer. So he lay quiet, chewing a bit of grass to allay his nervousness, and talking stronger love to Clara than he had yet thought needful or wise. CHAPTER VI. Lieutenant Thurstane passed the mouth of the ravine in the dusk of twilight, without guessing that it contained Clara Van Diemen and her perils. He had with him Sergeant Weber of his own company, just returned from recruiting service at St. Louis, and three recruits for the company, Kelly, Shubert, and Sweeny. Weber, a sunburnt German, with sandy eyelashes, blue eyes, and a scar on his cheek, had been a soldier from his eighteenth to his thirtieth year, and wore the serious, patient, much-enduring air peculiar to veterans. Kelly, an Irishman, also about thirty, slender in form and somewhat haggard in face, with the same quiet, contained, seasoned look to him, the same reminiscence of unavoidable sufferings silently borne, was also an old infantry man, having served in both the British and American armies. Shubert was an American lad, who had got tired of clerking it in an apothecary's shop, and had enlisted from a desire for adventure, as you might guess from his larkish countenance. Sweeny was a diminutive Paddy, hardly regulation height for the army, as light and lively as a monkey, and with much the air of one. Thurstane had obtained orders from the post commandant to lead his party by the northern route, on condition that he would investigate and report as to its practicability for military and other transit. He had also been allowed to draw by requisition fifty days' rations, a box of ammunition, and four mules. Starting thirty-six hours after Coronado, he made in two days and a half the distance which the train had accomplished in four. Now he had overtaken his quarry, and in the obscurity had passed it. But Sergeant Weber was an old hand on the Plains, and notwithstanding the darkness and the generally stony nature of the ground, he presently discovered that the fresh trail of the wagons was missing. Thurstane tried to retrace his steps, but starless night had already fallen thick around him, and before long he had to come to a halt. He was opposite the mouth of the ravine; he was within five hundred yards of Clara, and raging because he could not find her. Suddenly Coronado's cooking fires flickered through the gloom; in five minutes the two parties were together. It was a joyous meeting to Thurstane and a disgusting one to Coronado. Nevertheless the latter rushed at the officer, grasped him by both hands, and shouted, "All hail, Lieutenant! So, there you are at last! My dear fellow, what a pleasure!" "Yes, indeed, by Jove!" returned the young fellow, unusually boisterous in his joy, and shaking hands with everybody, not rejecting even muleteers. And then what throbbing, what adoration, what supernal delight, in the moment when he faced Clara. In the morning the journey recommenced. As neither Thurstane nor Coronado had now any cause for hurry, the pace was moderate. The soldiers marched on foot, in order to leave the government mules no other load than the rations and ammunition, and so enable them to recover from their sharp push of over eighty miles. The party now consisted of twenty-five men, for the most part pretty well armed. Of the other sex there were, besides Mrs. Stanley and Clara, a half-breed girl named Pepita, who served as lady's maid, and two Indian women from Garcia's hacienda, whose specialties were cooking and washing. In all thirty persons, a nomadic village. At the first halt Sergeant Weber approached Thurstane with a timorous air, saluted, and asked, "Leftenant, can we leafe our knabsacks in the vagons? The gentleman has gifen us bermission." "The men ought to learn to carry their knapsacks," said Thurstane. "They will have to do it in serious service." "It is drue, Leftenant," replied Weber, saluting again and moving off without a sign of disappointment. "Let that man come back here," called Aunt Maria, who had overheard the dialogue. "Certainly they can put their loads in the wagons. I told Mr. Coronado to tell them so." Weber looked at her without moving a muscle, and without showing either wonder or amusement. Thurstane could not help grinning good-naturedly as he said, "I receive your orders, Mrs. Stanley. Weber, you can put the knapsacks in the wagons." Weber saluted anew, gave Mrs. Stanley a glance of gratitude, and went about his pleasant business. An old soldier is not in general so strict a disciplinarian as a young one. "What a brute that Lieutenant is!" thought Aunt Maria. "Make those poor fellows carry those monstrous packs? Nonsense and tyranny! How different from Mr. Coronado! _He_ fairly jumped at my idea." Thurstane stepped over to Coronado and said, "You are very kind to relieve my men at the expense of your animals. I am much obliged to you." "It is nothing," replied the Mexican, waving his hand graciously. "I am delighted to be of service, and to show myself a good citizen." In fact, he had been quite willing to favor the soldiers; why not, so long as he could not get rid of them? If the Apaches would lance them all, including Thurstane, he would rejoice; but while that could not be, he might as well show himself civil and gain popularity. It was not Coronado's style to bark when there was no chance of biting. He was in serious thought the while. How should he rid himself of this rival, this obstacle in the way of his well-laid plans, this interloper into his caravan? Must he call upon Texas Smith to assassinate the fellow? It was a disagreeably brutal solution of the difficulty, and moreover it might lead to loud suspicion and scandal, and finally it might be downright dangerous. There was such a thing as trial for murder and for conspiracy to effect murder. As to causing a United States officer to vanish quietly, as might perhaps be done with an ordinary American emigrant, that was too good a thing to be hoped. He must wait; he must have patience; he must trust to the future; perhaps some precipice would favor him; perhaps the wild Indians. He offered his cigaritos to Thurstane, and they smoked tranquilly in company. "What route do you take from here?" asked the officer. "Pass Washington, as you call it. Then the Moqui country. Then the San Juan." "There is no possible road down the San Juan and the Colorado." "If we find that to be so, we will sweep southward. I am, in a measure, exploring. Garcia wants a route to Middle California." "I also have a sort of exploring leave. I shall take the liberty to keep along with you. It may be best for both." The announcement sounded like a threat of surveillance, and Coronado's dark cheek turned darker with angry blood. This stolid and intrusive brute was absolutely demanding his own death. After saying, with a forced smile, "You will be invaluable to us, Lieutenant," the Mexican lounged away to where Texas Smith was examining his firearms, and whispered, "Well, will you do it?" "I ain't afeared of _him_," muttered the borderer. "It's his clothes. I don't like to shute at jackets with them buttons. I mought git into big trouble. The army is a big thing." "Two hundred dollars," whispered Coronado. "You said that befo'," croaked Texas. "Go it some better." "Four hundred." "Stranger," said Texas, after debating his chances, "it's a big thing. But I'll do it for that." Coronado walked away, hurried up his muleteers, exchanged a word with Mrs. Stanley, and finally returned to Thurstane. His thin, dry, dusky fingers trembled a little, but he looked his man steadily in the face, while he tendered him another cigarito. "Who is your hunter?" asked the officer. "I must say he is a devilish bad-looking fellow." "He is one of the best hunters Garcia ever had," replied the Mexican. "He is one of your own people. You ought to like him." Further journeying brought with it topographical adventures. The country into which they were penetrating is one of the most remarkable in the world for its physical peculiarities. Its scenery bears about the same relation to the scenery of earth in general, that a skeleton's head or a grotesque mask bears to the countenance of living humanity. In no other portion of our planet is nature so unnatural, so fanciful and extravagant, and seemingly the production of caprice, as on the great central plateau of North America. They had left far behind the fertile valley of the Rio Grande, and had placed between it and them the barren, sullen piles of the Jemez mountains. No more long sweeps of grassy plain or slope; they were amid the _débris_ of rocks which hedge in the upper heights of the great plateau; they were struggling through it like a forlorn hope through _chevaux-de-frise_. The morning sun came upon them over treeless ridges of sandstone, and disappeared at evening behind ridges equally naked and arid. The sides of these barren masses, seamed by the action of water in remote geologic ages, and never softened or smoothed by the gentle attrition of rain, were infinitely more wild and jagged in their details than ruins. It seemed as if the Titans had built here, and their works had been shattered by thunderbolts. Many heights were truncated mounds of rock, resembling gigantic platforms with ruinous sides, such as are known in this Western land as _mesas_ or _buttes_. They were Nature's enormous mockery of the most ambitious architecture of man, the pyramids of Egypt and the platform of Baalbek. Terrace above terrace of shattered wall; escarpments which had been displaced as if by the explosion of some incredible mine; ramparts which were here high and regular, and there gaping in mighty fissures, or suddenly altogether lacking; long sweeps of stairway, winding dizzily upwards, only to close in an impossible leap: there was no end to the fantastic outlines and the suggestions of destruction. Nor were the open spaces between these rocky mounds less remarkable. In one valley, the course of a river which vanished ages ago, the power of fire had left its monuments amid those of the power of water. The sedimentary rock of sandstone, shales, and marl, not only showed veins of ignitible lignite, but it was pierced by the trap which had been shot up from earth's flaming recesses. Dikes of this volcanic stone crossed each other or ran in long parallels, presenting forms of fortifications, walls of buildings, ruined lines of aqueducts. The sandstone and marl had been worn away by the departed river, and by the delicately sweeping, incessant, tireless wings of the afreets of the air, leaving the iron-like trap in bold projection. Some of these dikes stretched long distances, with a nearly uniform height of four or five feet, closely resembling old field-walls of the solidest masonry. Others, not so extensive, but higher and pierced with holes, seemed to be fragments of ruined edifices, with broken windows and shattered portals. As the trap is columnar, and the columns are horizontal in their direction, the joints of the polygons show along the surface of the ramparts, causing them to look like the work of Cyclopean builders. The Indians and Mexicans of the expedition, deceived by the similarity between these freaks of creation and the results of human workmanship, repeatedly called out, "Casas Grandes! Casas de Montezuma!" It would seem, indeed, as if the ancient peoples of this country, in order to arrive at the idea of a large architecture, had only to copy the grotesque rock-work of nature. Who knows but that such might have been the germinal idea of their constructions? Mrs. Stanley was quite sure of it. In fact, she was disposed to maintain that the trap walls were really human masonry, and the production of Montezuma, or of the Amazons invented by Coronado. "Those four-sided and six-sided stones look altogether too regular to be accidental," was her conclusion. Notwithstanding her belief in a superintending Deity, she had an idea that much of this world was made by hazard, or perhaps by the Old Harry. In one valley the ancient demon of water-force had excelled himself in enchantments. The slopes of the alluvial soil were dotted with little buttes of mingled sandstone and shale, varying from five to twenty feet in height, many of them bearing a grotesque likeness to artificial objects. There were columns, there were haystacks, there were enormous bells, there were inverted jars, there were junk bottles, there were rustic seats. Most of these fantastic figures were surmounted by a flat capital, the remnant of a layer of stone harder than the rest of the mass, and therefore less worn by the water erosion. One fragment looked like a monstrous gymnastic club standing upright, with a broad button to secure the grip. Another was a mighty centre-table, fit for the halls of the Scandinavian gods, consisting of a solid prop or pedestal twelve feet high, swelling out at the top into a leaf fifteen feet across. Another was a stone hat, standing on its crown, with a brim two yards in diameter. Occasionally there was a figure which had lost its capital, and so looked like a broken pillar, a sugar loaf, a pear. Imbedded in these grotesques of sandstone were fossils of wood, of fresh-water shells, and of fishes. It was a land of extravagances and of wonders. The marvellous adventures of the "Arabian Nights" would have seemed natural in it. It reminded you after a vague fashion of the scenery suggested to the imagination by some of its details or those of the "Pilgrim's Progress." Sindbad the Sailor carrying the Old Man of the Sea; Giant Despair scowling from a make-believe window in a fictitious castle of eroded sandstone; a roc with wings eighty feet long, poising on a giddy pinnacle to pounce upon an elephant; pilgrim Christian advancing with sword and buckler against a demon guarding some rocky portal, would have excited no astonishment here. Of a sudden there came an adventure which gave opening for knight-errantry. As Thurstane, Coronado, and Texas Smith were riding a few hundred yards ahead of the caravan, and just emerging from what seemed an enormous court or public square, surrounded by ruined edifices of gigantic magnitude, they discovered a man running toward them in a style which reminded the Lieutenant of Timorous and Mistrust flying from the lions. Impossible to see what he was afraid of; there was a broad, yellow plain, dotted with monuments of sandstone; no living thing visible but this man running. He was an American; at least he had the clothes of one. As he approached, he appeared to be a lean, lank, narrow-shouldered, yellow-faced, yellow-haired creature, such as you might expect to find on Cape Cod or thereabouts. Hollow-chested as he was, he had a yell in him which was quite surprising. From the time that he sighted the three horsemen he kept up a steady screech until he was safe under their noses. Then he fell flat and gasped for nearly a minute without speaking. His first words were, "That's pooty good sailin' for a man who ain't used to't." "Did you run all the way from Down East?" asked Thurstane. "All the way from that bewt there--the one that looks most like a haystack." "Well, who the devil are you?" "I'm Phineas Glover--Capm Phineas Glover--from Fair Haven, Connecticut. I'm goin' to Californy after gold. Got lost out of the caravan among the mountings. Was comin' along alone, 'n' run afoul of some Injuns. They're hidin' behind that bewt, 'n' they've got my mewl." "Indians! How many are there?" "Only three. 'N' I expect they a'nt the real wild kind, nuther. Sorter half Injun, half engineer, like what come round in the circuses. Didn't make much of 'n offer towards carvin' me. But I judged best to quit, the first boat that put off. Ah, they're there yit, 'n' the mewl tew." "You'll find our train back there," said Thurstane. "You had better make for it. We'll recover your property." He dashed off at a full run for the butte, closely followed by Texas Smith and Coronado. The Mexican had the best horse, and he would soon have led the other two; but his saddle-girth burst, and in spite of his skill in riding he was nearly thrown. Texas Smith pulled up to aid his employer, but only for an instant, as Coronado called, "Go on." The borderer now spurred after Thurstane, who had got a dozen rods the lead of him. Coronado rapidly examined his saddle-bags and then his pockets without finding the cord or strap which he needed. He swore a little at this, but not with any poignant emotion, for in the first place fighting was not a thing that he yearned for, and in the second place he hardly anticipated a combat. The robbers, he felt certain, were only vagrant rancheros, or the cowardly Indians of some village, who would have neither the weapons nor the pluck to give battle. But suddenly an alarming suspicion crossed his mind. Would Texas Smith seize this chance to send a bullet through Thurstane's head from behind? Knowing the cutthroat's recklessness and his almost insane thirst for blood, he feared that this might happen. And there was the train in view; the deed would probably be seen, and, if so, would be seen as murder; and then would come pursuit of the assassin, with possibly his seizure and confession. It would not do; no, it would not do here and now; he must dash forward and prevent it. Swinging his saddle upon his horse's back, he vaulted into it without touching pommel or stirrup, and set off at full speed to arrest the blow which he desired. Over the plain flew the fiery animal, Coronado balancing himself in his unsteady seat with marvellous ease and grace, his dark eyes steadily watching every movement of the bushwhacker. There were sheets of bare rock here and there; there were loose slates and detached blocks of sandstone. The beast dashed across the first without slipping, and cleared the others without swerving; his rider bowed and swayed in the saddle without falling. Texas Smith was now within a few yards of Thurstane, and it could be seen that he had drawn his revolver. Coronado asked himself in horror whether the man had understood the words "Go on" as a command for murder. He was thinking very fast; he was thinking as fast as he rode. Once a terrible temptation came upon him: he might let the fatal shot be fired; then he might fire another. Thus he would get rid of Thurstane, and at the same time have the air of avenging him, while ridding himself of his dangerous bravo. But he rejected this plan almost as soon as he thought of it. He did not feel sure of bringing down Texas at the first fire, and if he did not, his own life was not worth a second's purchase. As for the fact that he had been lately saved from death by the borderer, that would not have checked Coronado's hand, even had he remembered it. He must dash on at full speed, and prevent a crime which would be a blunder. But already it was nearly too late, for the Texan was close upon the officer. Nothing could save the doomed man but Coronado's magnificent horsemanship. He seemed a part of his steed; he shot like a bird over the sheets and bowlders of rock; he was a wonder of speed and grace. Suddenly the outlaw's pistol rose to a level, and Coronado uttered a shout of anxiety and horror. CHAPTER VII. At the shout which Coronado uttered on seeing Texas Smith's pistol aimed at Thurstane, the assassin turned his head, discovered the train, and, lowering his weapon, rode peacefully alongside of his intended victim. Captain Phin Glover's mule was found grazing behind the butte, in the midst of the gallant Captain's dishevelled baggage, while the robbers had vanished by a magic which seemed quite natural in this scenery of grotesque marvels. They had unquestionably seen or heard their pursuers; but how had they got into the bowels of the earth to escape them? Thurstane presently solved the mystery by pointing out three crouching figures on the flat cap of stone which surmounted the shales and marl of the butte. Bare feet and desperation of terror could alone explain how they had reached this impossible refuge. Texas Smith immediately consoled himself for his disappointment as to Thurstane by shooting two of these wretches before his hand could be stayed. "They're nothin' but Injuns," he said, with a savage glare, when the Lieutenant struck aside his revolver and called him a murdering brute. The third skulker took advantage of the cessation of firing to tumble down from his perch and fly for his life. The indefatigable Smith broke away from Thurstane, dashed after the pitiful fugitive, leaned over him as he ran, and shot him dead. "I have a great mind to blow your brains out, you beast," roared the disgusted officer, who had followed closely. "I told you not to shoot that man." And here he swore heartily, for which we must endeavor to forgive him, seeing that he belonged to the army. Coronado interfered. "My dear Lieutenant! after all, they were robbers. They deserved punishment." And so on. Texas Smith looked less angry and more discomfited than might have been expected, considering his hardening life and ferocious nature. "Didn't s'p'ose you really keered much for the cuss," he said, glancing respectfully at the imperious and angry face of the young officer. "Well, never mind now," growled Thurstane. "It's done, and can't be undone. But, by Jove, I do hate useless massacre. Fighting is another thing." Sheathing his fury, he rode off rapidly toward the wagons, followed in silence by the others. The three dead vagabonds (perhaps vagrants from the region of Abiquia) remained where they had fallen, one on the stony plain and two on the cap of the butte. The train, trending here toward the northwest, passed six hundred yards to the north of the scene of slaughter; and when Clara and Mrs. Stanley asked what had happened, Coronado told them with perfect glibness that the robbers had got away. The rescued man, delighted at his escape and the recovery of his mule and luggage, returned thanks right and left, with a volubility which further acquaintance showed to be one of his characteristics. He was a profuse talker; ran a stream every time you looked at him; it was like turning on a mill-race. "Yes, capm, out of Fair Haven," he said. "Been in the coastin' 'n' Wes' Injy trade. Had 'n unlucky time out las' few years. Had a schuner burnt in port, 'n' lost a brig at sea. Pooty much broke me up. Wife 'n' dahter gone into th' oyster-openin' business. Thought I'd try my han' at openin' gold mines in Californy. Jined a caravan at Fort Leavenworth, 'n' lost my reckonin's back here a ways." We must return to love matters. However amazing it may be that a man who has no conscience should nevertheless have a heart, such appears to have been the case with that abnormal creature Coronado. The desert had made him take a strong liking to Clara, and now that he had a rival at hand he became impassioned for her. He began to want to marry her, not alone for the sake of her great fortune, but also for her own sake. Her beauty unfolded and blossomed wonderfully before his ardent eyes; for he was under that mighty glamour of the emotions which enables us to see beauty in its completeness; he was favored with the greatest earthly second-sight which is vouchsafed to mortals. Only in a measure, however; the money still counted for much with him. He had already decided what he would do with the Muñoz fortune when he should get it. He would go to New York and lead a life of frugal extravagance, economical in comforts (as we understand them) and expensive in pleasures. New York, with its adjuncts of Saratoga and Newport, was to him what Paris is to many Americans. In his imagination it was the height of grandeur and happiness to have a box at the opera, to lounge in Broadway, and to dance at the hops of the Saratoga hotels. New Mexico! he would turn his back on it; he would never set eyes on its dull poverty again. As for Clara? Well, of course she would share in his gayeties; was not that enough for any reasonable woman? But here was this stumbling-block of a Thurstane. In the presence of a handsome rival, who, moreover, had started first in the race, slow was far from being sure. Coronado had discovered, by long experience in flirtation and much intelligent meditation upon it, that, if a man wants to win a woman, he must get her head full of him. He decided, therefore, that at the first chance he would give Clara distinctly to understand how ardently he was in love with her, and so set her to thinking especially of him, and of him alone. Meantime, he looked at her adoringly, insinuated compliments, performed little services, walked his horse much by her side, did his best in conversation, and in all ways tried to outshine the Lieutenant. He supposed that he did outshine him. A man of thirty always believes that he appears to better advantage than a man of twenty-three or four. He trusts that he has more ideas, that he commits fewer absurdities, that he carries more weight of character than his juvenile rival. Coronado was far more fluent than Thurstane; had a greater command over his moods and manners, and a larger fund of animal spirits; knew more about such social trifles as women like to hear of; and was, in short, a more amusing prattler of small talk. There was a steady seriousness about the young officer--something of the earnest sentimentality of the great Teutonic race--which the mercurial Mexican did not understand nor appreciate, and which he did not imagine could be fascinating to a woman. Knowing well how magnetic passion is in its guise of Southern fervor, he did not know that it is also potent under the cloak of Northern solemnity. Unluckily for Coronado, Clara was half Teutonic, and could comprehend the tone of her father's race. Notwithstanding Thurstane's shyness and silences, she discovered his moral weight and gathered his unspoken meanings. There was more in this girl than appeared on the surface. Without any power of reasoning concerning character, and without even a disposition to analyze it, she had an instinctive perception of it. While her talk was usually as simple as a child's, and her meditations on men and things were not a bit systematic or logical, her decisions and actions were generally just what they should be. Some one may wish to know whether she was clever enough to see through the character of Coronado. She was clever enough, but not corrupt enough. Very pure people cannot fully understand people who are very impure. It is probable that angels are considerably in the dark concerning the nature of the devil, and derive their disagreeable impression of him mainly from a consideration of his actions. Clara, limited to a narrow circle of good intentions and conduct, might not divine the wide regions of wickedness through which roved the soul of Coronado, and must wait to see his works before she could fairly bring him to judgment. Of course she perceived that in various ways he was insincere. When he prattled compliments and expressions of devotion, whether to herself or to others, she made Spanish allowance. It was polite hyperbole; it was about the same as saying good-morning; it was a cheerful way of talking that they had in Mexico; she knew thus much from her social experience. But while she cared little for his adulations, she did not because of them consider him a scoundrel, nor necessarily a hypocrite. Coronado found and improved opportunities to talk in asides with Clara. Thurstane, the modest, proud, manly youngster, who had no meannesses or trickeries by nature, and had learned none in his honorable profession, would not allow himself to break into these dialogues if they looked at all like confidences. The more he suspected that Coronado was courting Clara, the more resolutely and grimly he said to himself, "Stand back!" The girl should be perfectly free to choose between them; she should be influenced by no compulsions and no stratagems of his; was he not "an officer and a gentleman"? "By Jove! I am miserable for life," he thought when he suspected, as he sometimes did, that they two were in love. "I'll get myself killed in my next fight. I can't bear it. But I won't interfere. I'll do my duty as an honorable man. Of course she understands me." But just at this point Clara failed to understand him. It is asserted by some philosophers that women have less conscience about "cutting each other out," breaking up engagements, etc., than men have in such matters. Love-making and its results form such an all-important part of their existence, that they must occasionally allow success therein to overbear such vague, passionless ideas as principles, sentiments of honor, etc. It is, we fear, highly probable that if Clara had been in love with Ralph, and had seen her chance of empire threatened by a rival, she would have come out of that calm innocence which now seemed to enfold her whole nature, and would have done such things as girls may do to avert catastrophes of the affections. She now thought to herself, If he cares for me, how can he keep away from me when he sees Coronado making eyes at me? She was a little vexed with him for behaving so, and was consequently all the sweeter to his rival. This when Ralph would have risked his commission for a smile, and would have died to save her from a sorrow! Presently this slightly coquettish, yet very good and lovely little being--this seraph from one of Fra Angelica's pictures, endowed with a frailty or two of humanity--found herself the heroine of a trying scene. Coronado hastened it; he judged her ready to fall into his net; he managed the time and place for the capture. The train had been ascending for some hours, and had at last reached a broad plateau, a nearly even floor of sandstone, covered with a carpet of thin earth, the whole noble level bare to the eye at once, without a tree or a thicket to give it detail. It was a scene of tranquillity and monotony; no rains ever disturbed or remoulded the tabulated surface of soil; there, as distinct as if made yesterday, were the tracks of a train which had passed a year before. "Shall we take a gallop?" said Coronado. "No danger of ambushes here." Clara's eyes sparkled with youth's love of excitement, and the two horses sprang off at speed toward the centre of the plateau. After a glorious flight of five minutes, enjoyed for the most part in silence, as such swift delights usually are, they dropped into a walk two miles ahead of the wagons. "That was magnificent," Clara of course said, her face flushed with pleasure and exercise. "You are wonderfully handsome," observed Coronado, with an air of thinking aloud, which disguised the coarse directness of the flattery. In fact, he was so dazzled by her brilliant color, the sunlight in her disordered curls, and the joyous sparkling of her hazel eyes, that he spoke with an ingratiating honesty. Clara, who was in one of her unconscious and innocent moods, simply replied, "I suppose people are always handsome enough when they are happy." "Then I ought to be lovely," said Coronado. "I am happier than I ever was before." "Coronado, you look very well," observed Clara, turning her eyes on him with a grave expression which rather puzzled him. "This out-of-door life has done you good." "Then I don't look very well indoors?" he smiled. "You know what I mean, Coronado. Your health has improved, and your face shows it." Fearing that she was not in an emotional condition to be bewildered and fascinated by a declaration of love, he queried whether he had not better put off his enterprise until a more susceptible moment. Certainly, if he were without a rival; but there was Thurstane, ready any and every day to propose; it would not do to let _him_ have the first word, and cause the first heart-beat. Coronado believed that to make sure of winning the race he must take the lead at the start. Yes, he would offer himself now; he would begin by talking her into a receptive state of mind; that done, he would say with all his eloquence, "I love you." We must not suppose that the declaration would be a pure fib, or anything like it. The man had no conscience, and he was almost incomparably selfish, but he was capable of loving, and he did love. That is to say, he was inflamed by this girl's beauty and longed to possess it. It is a low species of affection, but it is capable of great violence in a man whose physical nature is ardent, and Coronado's blood could take a heat like lava. Already, although he had not yet developed his full power of longing, he wanted Clara as he had never wanted any woman before. We can best describe his kind of sentiment by that hungry, carnal word _wanted_. After riding in silent thought for a few rods, he said, "I have lost my good looks now, I suppose." "What do you mean, Coronado?" "They depend on my happiness, and that is gone." "Coronado, you are playing riddles." "This table-land reminds me of my own life. Do you see that it has no verdure? I have been just as barren of all true happiness. There has been no fruit or blossom of true affection for me to gather. You know that I lost my excellent father and my sainted mother when I was a child. I was too young to miss them; but for all that the bereavement was the same; there was the less love for me. It seems as if there had been none." "Garcia has been good to you--of late," suggested Clara, rather puzzled to find consolation for a man whose misery was so new to her. Remembering what a scoundrel Garcia was, and what a villainous business Garcia had sent him upon, Coronado felt like smiling. He knew that the old man had no sentiments beyond egotism, and a family pride which mainly, if not entirely, sprang from it. Such a heart as Garcia's, what a place to nestle in! Such a creature as Coronado seeking comfort in such a breast as his uncle's was very much like a rattlesnake warming himself in a hole of a rock. "Ah, yes!" sighed Coronado. "Admirable old gentleman! I should not have forgotten him. However, he is a solace which comes rather late. It is only two years since he perceived that he had done me injustice, and received me into favor. And his affection is somewhat cold. Garcia is an old man laden with affairs. Moreover, men in general have little sympathy with men. When we are saddened, we do not look to our own sex for cheer. We look to yours." Almost every woman responds promptly to a claim for pity. "I am sorry for you, Coronado," said Clara, in her artless way. "I am, truly." "You do not know, you cannot know, how you console me." Satisfied with the results of his experiment in boring for sympathy, he tried another, a dangerous one, it would seem, but very potent when it succeeds. "This lack of affection has had sad results. I have searched everywhere for it, only to meet with disappointment. In my desperation I have searched where I should not. I have demanded true love of people who had no true love to give. And for this error and wrong I have been terribly punished. The mere failure of hope and trust has been hard enough to bear. But that was not the half. Shame, self-contempt, remorse have been an infinitely heavier burden. If any man was ever cured of trusting for happiness to a wicked world, it is Coronado." In spite of his words and his elaborately penitent expression, Clara only partially understood him. Some kind of evil life he was obviously confessing, but what kind she only guessed in the vaguest fashion. However, she comprehended enough to interest her warmly: here was a penitent sinner who had forsaken ways of wickedness; here was a struggling soul which needed encouragement and tenderness. A woman loves to believe that she can be potent over hearts, and especially that she can be potent for good. Clara fixed upon Coronado's face a gaze of compassion and benevolence which was almost superhuman. It should have shamed him into honesty; but he was capable of trying to deceive the saints and the Virgin; he merely decided that she was in a fit frame to accept him. "At last I have a faint hope of a sure and pure happiness," he said. "I have found one who I know can strengthen me and comfort me, if she will. I am seeking to be worthy of her. I am worthy of her so far as adoration can make me. I am ready to surrender my whole life--all that I am and that I can be--to her." Clara had begun to guess his meaning; the quick blood was already flooding her cheek; the light in her eyes was tremulous with agitation. "Clara, you must know what I mean," continued Coronado, suddenly reaching his hand toward her, as if to take her captive. "You are the only person I ever loved. I love you with all my soul. Can your heart ever respond to mine? Can you ever bring yourself to be my wife?" CHAPTER VIII. When Coronado proposed to Clara, she was for a moment stricken dumb with astonishment and with something like terror. Her first idea was that she must take him; that the mere fact of a man asking for her gave him a species of right over her; that there was no such thing possible as answering, No. She sat looking at Coronado with a helpless, timorous air, very much as a child looks at his father, when the father, switching his rattan, says, "Come with me." On recovering herself a little, her first words--uttered slowly, in a tone of surprise and of involuntary reproach--were, "Oh, Coronado! I did not expect this." "Can't you answer me?" he asked in a voice which was honestly tremulous with emotion. "Can't you say yes?" "Oh, Coronado!" repeated Clara, a good deal touched by his agitation. "Can't you?" he pleaded. Repetitions, in such cases, are so natural and so potent. "Let me think, Coronado," she implored. "I can't answer you now. You have taken me so by surprise!" "Every moment that you take to think is torture to me," he pleaded, as he continued to press her. Perhaps she was on the point of giving way before his insistence. Consider the advantages that he had over her in this struggle of wills for the mastery. He was older by ten years; he possessed both the adroitness of self-command and the energy of passion; he had a long experience in love matters, while she had none. He was the proclaimed heir of a man reputed wealthy, and could therefore, as she believed, support her handsomely. Since the death of her father she considered Garcia the head of her family in New Mexico; and Coronado had had the face to tell her that he made his offer with the approval of Garcia. Then she was under supposed obligations to him, and he was to be her protector across the desert. She was as it were reeling in her saddle, when a truly Spanish idea saved her. "Muñoz!" she exclaimed. "Coronado, you forget my grandfather. He should know of this." Although the man was unaccustomed to start, he drew back as if a ghost had confronted him; and even when he recovered from his transitory emotion, he did not at first know how to answer her. It would not do to say, "Muñoz is dead," and much less to add, "You are his heir." "We are Americans," he at last argued. "Spanish customs are dead and buried. Can't you speak for yourself on a matter which concerns you and me alone?" "Coronado, I think it would not be right," she replied, holding firmly to her position. "It is probable that my grandfather would be better pleased to have this matter referred to him. I ought to consider him, and you must let me do so." "I submit," he bowed, seeing that there was no help for it, and deciding to make a grace of necessity. "It pains me, but I submit. Let me hope that you will not let this pass from your mind. Some day, when it is proper, I shall speak again." He was not wholly dissatisfied, for he trusted that henceforward her head would be full of him, and he had not much hoped to gain more in a first effort. "I shall always be proud and gratified at the compliment you have paid me," was her reply to his last request. "You deserve many such compliments," he said, gravely courteous and quite sincere. Then they cantered back in silence to meet the advancing train. Yes, Coronado was partly satisfied. He believed that he had gained a firmer footing among the girl's thoughts and emotions than had been gained by Thurstane. In a degree he was right. No sensitive, and pure, and good girl can receive her first offer without being much moved by it. The man who has placed himself at her feet will affect her strongly. She may begin to dread him, or begin to like him more than before; but she cannot remain utterly indifferent to him. The probability is that, unless subsequent events make him disagreeable to her, she will long accord him a measure of esteem and gratitude. For two or three days, while Clara was thinking much of Coronado, he gave her less than usual of his society. Believing that her mind was occupied with him, that she was wondering whether he were angry, unhappy, etc., he remained a good deal apart, wrapped himself in sadness, and trusted that time would do much for him. Had there been no rival, the plan would have been a good one; but Ralph Thurstane being present, it was less successful. Ralph had already become more of a favorite than any one knew, even the young lady herself; and now that he found chances for long talks and short gallops with her, he got on better than ever. He was just the kind of youngster a girl of eighteen would naturally like to have ride by her side. He was handsome; at any rate, he was the handsomest man she had seen in the desert, and the desert was just then her sphere of society. You could see in his figure how strong he was, and in his face how brave he was. He was a good fellow, too; "tendir and trew" as the Douglas of the ballad; sincere, frank, thoroughly truthful and honorable. Every way he seemed to be that being that a woman most wants, a potential and devoted protector. Whenever Clara looked in his face her eyes said, without her knowledge, "I trust you." Now, as we have already stated, Thurstane's eyes were uncommonly fine and expressive. Of the very darkest blue that ever was seen in anybody's head, and shaded, moreover, by remarkably long chestnut lashes, they had the advantages of both blue eyes and black ones, being as gentle as the one and as fervent as the other. Accordingly, a sort of optical conversation commenced between the two young people. Every time that Clara's glance said, "I trust you," Thurstane's responded, "I will die for you." It was a perilous sort of dialogue, and liable to involve the two souls which looked out from these sparkling, transparent windows. Before long the Lieutenant's modest heart took courage, and his stammering tongue began to be loosed somewhat, so that he uttered things which frightened both him and Clara. Not that the remarks were audacious in themselves, but he was conscious of so much unexpressed meaning behind them, and she was so ready to guess that there might be such a meaning! It seems ridiculous that a fellow who could hold his head straight up before a storm of cannon shot, should be positively bashful. Yet so it was. The boy had been through West Point, to be sure; but he had studied there, and not flirted; the Academy had not in any way demoralized him. On the whole, in spite of swearing under gross provocation, and an inclination toward strictness in discipline, he answered pretty well for a Bayard. His bashfulness was such, at least in the presence of Clara, that he trembled to the tips of his fingers in merely making this remark: "Miss Van Diemen, this journey is the pleasantest thing in my whole life." Clara blushed until she dazzled him and seemed to burn herself. Nevertheless she was favored with her usual childlike artlessness of speech, and answered, "I am glad you find it agreeable." Nothing more from Ralph for a minute; he was recovering his breath and self-possession. "You cannot think how much safer I feel because you and your men are with us," said Clara. Thurstane unconsciously gripped the handle of his sabre, with a feeling that he could and would massacre all the Indians of the desert, if it were necessary to preserve her from harm. "Yes, you may rely upon my men, too," he declared. "They have a sort of adoration for you." "Have they?" asked Clara, with a frank smile of pleasure. "I wonder at it. I hardly notice them. I ought to, they seem so patient and trusty." "Ah, a lady!" said Thurstane. "A good soldier will die any time for a lady." Then he wondered how she could have failed to guess that she must be worshipped by these rough men for her beauty. "I have overheard them talking about you," he went on, gratified at being able to praise her to her face, though in the speech of others. "Little Sweeny says, in his Irish brogue, 'I can march twic't as fur for the seein' av her!'" "Oh! did he?" laughed Clara. "I must carry Sweeny's musket for him some time." "Don't, if you please," said Thurstane, the disciplinarian rising in him. "You would spoil him for the service." "Can't I send him a dish from our table?" "That would just suit his case. He hasn't got broken to hard-tack yet." "Miss Van Diemen," was his next remark, "do you know what you are to do, if we are attacked?" "I am to get into a wagon." "Into which wagon?" "Into my aunt's." "Why into that one?" "So as to have all the ladies together." "When you have got into the wagon, what next?" "Lie down on the floor to protect myself from the arrows." "Very good," laughed Thurstane. "You say your tactics well." This catechism had been put and recited every day since he had joined the train. The putting of it was one of the Lieutenant's duties and pleasures; and, notwithstanding its prophecy of peril, Clara enjoyed it almost as much as he. Well, we have heard these two talk, and much in their usual fashion. Not great souls as yet: they may indeed become such some day; but at present they are only mature in moral power and in capacity for mighty emotions. Information, mental development, and conversational ability hereafter. In one way or another two or three of these tête-à-têtes were brought about every day. Thurstane wanted them all the time; would have been glad to make life one long dialogue with Miss Van Diemen; found an aching void in every moment spent away from her. Clara, too, in spite of maidenly struggles with herself, began to be of this way of feeling. Wonderful place the Great American Desert for falling in love! Coronado soon guessed, and with good reason, that the seed which he had sown in the girl's mind was being replaced by other germs, and that he had blundered in trusting that she would think of him while she was talking with Thurstane. The fear of losing her increased his passion for her, and made him hate his rival with correlative fervor. "Why don't you find a chance at that fellow?" he muttered to his bravo, Texas Smith. "How the h--l kin I do it?" growled the bushwhacker, feeling that his intelligence and courage were unjustly called in question. "He's allays around the train, an' his sojers allays handy. I hain't had nary chance." "Take him off on a hunt." "He ain't a gwine. I reckon he knows himself. I'm afeard to praise huntin' much to him; he might get on my trail. Tell you these army chaps is resky. I never wanted to meddle with them kind o' close. You know I said so. I said so, fair an' square, I did." "You might manage it somehow, if you had the pluck." "Had the pluck!" repeated Texas Smith. His sallow, haggard face turned dusky with rage, and his singularly black eyes flamed as if with hell-fire. A Malay, crazed with opium and ready to run _amok_, could not present a more savage spectacle than this man did as he swayed in his saddle, grinding his teeth, clutching his rifle, and glaring at Coronado. What chiefly infuriated him was that the insult should come from one whom he considered a "greaser," a man of inferior race. He, Texas Smith, an American, a _white man_, was treated as if he were an "Injun" or a "nigger." Coronado was thoroughly alarmed, and smoothed his ruffled feathers at once. "I beg your pardon," he said, promptly. "My dear Mr. Smith, I was entirely wrong. Of course I know that you have courage. Everybody knows it. Besides, I am under the greatest obligations to you. You saved my life. By heavens, I am horribly ashamed of my injustice." A minute or so of this fluent apologizing calmed the bushwhacker's rage and soothed his injured feelings. "But you oughter be keerful how you talk that way to a white man," he said. "No white man, if he's a gentleman, can stan' being told he hain't got no pluck." "Certainly," assented Coronado. "Well, I have apologized. What more can I do?" "Square, you're all right now," said the forgiving Texan, stretching out his bony, dirty hand and grasping Coronado's. "But don't say it agin. White men can't stan' sech talk. Well, about this feller--I'll see, I'll see. Square, I'll try to do what's right." As Coronado rode away from this interview, he ground his teeth with rage and mortification, muttering, "A _white_ man! a _white_ man! So I am a black man. Yes, I am a greaser. Curse this whole race of English-speaking people!" After a while he began to think to the purpose. He too must work; he must not trust altogether to Texas Smith; the scoundrel might flinch, or might fail. Something must be done to separate Clara and Thurstane. What should it be? Here we are almost ashamed of Coronado. The trick that he hit upon was the stalest, the most threadbare, the most commonplace and vulgar that one can imagine. It was altogether unworthy of such a clever and experienced conspirator. His idea was this: to get lost with Clara for one night; in the morning to rejoin the train. Thurstane would be disgusted, and would unquestionably give up the girl entirely when Coronado should say to him, "It was a very unlucky accident, but I have done what a gentleman should, and we are engaged." This coarse, dastardly, and rather stupid stratagem he put into execution as quickly as possible. There were some dangers to be guarded against, as for instance Apaches, and the chance of getting lost in reality. "Have an eye upon me to-day," he suggested to Texas. "If I leave the train with any one, follow me and keep a lookout for Indians. Only stay out of sight." Now for an opportunity to lead Clara astray. The region was favorable; they were in an arid land of ragged sandstone spurs and buttes; it would be necessary to march until near sunset, in order to find water and pasturage. Consequently there was both time and scenery for his project. Late in the afternoon the train crossed a narrow _mesa_ or plateau, and approached a sublime terrace of rock which was the face of a second table-land. This terrace was cleft by several of those wonderful grooves which are known as cañons, and which were wrought by that mighty water-force, the sculpturer of the American desert. In one place two of these openings were neighbors: the larger was the route and the smaller led nowhere. "Let the train pass on," suggested Coronado to Clara. "If you will ride with me up this little cañon, you will find some of the most exquisite scenery imaginable. It rejoins the large one further on. There is no danger." Clara would have preferred not to go, or would have preferred to go with Thurstane. "My dear child, what do you mean?" urged Aunt Maria, looking out of her wagon. "Mr. Coronado, I'll ride there with you myself." The result of the dialogue which ensued was that, after the train had entered the gorge of the larger cañon, Coronado and Clara turned back and wandered up the smaller one, followed at a distance by Texas Smith. In twenty minutes they were separated from the wagons by a barrier of sandstone several hundred feet high, and culminating in a sharp ridge or frill of rocky points, not unlike the spiny back of a John Dory. The scenery, although nothing new to Clara, was such as would be considered in any other land amazing. Vast walls on either side, consisting mainly of yellow sandstone, were variegated with white, bluish, and green shales, with layers of gypsum of the party-colored marl series, with long lines of white limestone so soft as to be nearly earth, and with red and green foliated limestone mixed with blood-red shales. The two wanderers seemed to be amid the landscapes of a Christmas drama as they rode between these painted precipices toward a crimson, sunset. It was a perfect solitude. There was not a breath of life besides their own in this gorgeous valley of desolation. The ragged, crumbling battlements, and the loftier points of harder rock, would not have furnished subsistence for a goat or a mouse. Color was everywhere and life nowhere: it was such a region as one might look for in the moon; it did not seem to belong to an inhabited planet. Before they had ridden half an hour the sun went down suddenly behind serrated steeps, and almost immediately night hastened in with his obscurities. Texas Smith, riding hundreds of yards in the rear and concealing himself behind the turning points of the cañon, was obliged to diminish his distance in order to keep them under his guard. Clara had repeatedly expressed her doubts as to the road, and Coronado had as often asserted that they would soon see the train. At last the ravine became a gully, winding up a breast of shadowy mountain cumbered with loose rocks, and impassable to horses. "We are lost," confessed Coronado, and then proceeded to console her. The train could not be far off; their friends would undoubtedly seek them; at all events, would not go on without them. They must bivouac there as well as might be, and in the morning rejoin the caravan. He had been forethoughted enough to bring two blankets on his saddle, and he now spread them out for her, insisting that she should try to sleep. Clara cried frankly and heartily, and begged him to lead her back through the cañon. No; it could not be traversed by night, he asserted; they would certainly break their necks among the bowlders. At last the girl suffered herself to be wrapped in the blankets, and made an endeavor to forget her wretchedness and vexation in slumber. Meantime, a few hundred yards down the ravine, a tragedy was on the verge of action. Thurstane, missing Coronado and Clara, and learning what direction they had taken, started with two of his soldiers to find them, and was now picking his way on foot along the cañon. Behind a detached rock at the base of one of the sandstone walls Texas Smith lay in ambush, aiming his rifle first at one and then at another of this stumbling trio, and cursing the starlight because it was so dim that he could not positively distinguish which was the officer. CHAPTER IX. For the second time within a week, Texas Smith found himself upon the brink of opportunity, without being able (as he had phrased it to Coronado) to do what was right. He levelled at Thurstane, and then it did not seem to be Thurstane; he had a dead sure sight at Kelly, and then perceived that that was an error; he drew a bead on Shubert, and still he hesitated. He could distinguish the Lieutenant's voice, but he could not fix upon the figure which uttered it. It was exasperating. Never had an assassin been better ambuscaded. He was kneeling behind a little ridge of sandstone; about a foot below its edge was an orifice made by the rains and winds of bygone centuries; through this, as through an embrasure, he had thrust his rifle. Not a chance of being hit by a return shot, while after the enemy's fire had been drawn he could fly down the ravine, probably without discovery and certainly without recognition. His horse was tethered below, behind another rock; and he felt positive that these men had not come upon it. He could mount, drive their beasts before him into the plain, and then return to camp. No need of explaining his absence; he was the head hunter of the expedition; it was his business to wander. All this was so easy to do, if he could only take the first step. But he dared not fire lest he should merely kill a soldier, and so make an uproar and rouse suspicions without the slightest profit. It was not probable that Coronado would pay him for shooting the wrong man, and setting on foot a dangerous investigation. So the desperado continued to peer through the dim night, cursing his stars and everybody's stars for not shining better, and seeing his opportunity slip rapidly away. After Thurstane and the others had passed, after the chance of murder had stalked by him like a ghost and vanished, he left his ambush, glided down the ravine to his horse, waked him up with a vindictive kick, leaped into the saddle, and hastened to camp. To inquiries about the lost couple he replied in his sullen, brief way that he had not seen them; and when urged to go to their rescue, he of course set off in the wrong direction and travelled but a short distance. Meantime Ralph had found the captives of the cañon. Clara, wrapped in her blankets, was lying at the foot of a rock, and crying while she pretended to sleep. Coronado, unable to make her talk, irritated by the faint sobs which he overheard, but stubbornly resolved on carrying out his stupid plot, had retired in a state of ill-humor unusual with him to another rock, and was consoling himself by smoking cigarito after cigarito. The two horses, tied together neck and crupper, were fasting near by. As Coronado had forgotten to bring food with him, Clara was also fasting. Think of Apaches, and imagine the terror with which she caught the sounds of approach, the heavy, stumbling steps through the darkness. Then imagine the joy with which she recognized Thurstane's call and groped to meet him. In the dizziness of her delight, and amid the hiding veils of the obscurity, it did not seem wrong nor unnatural to fall against his arm and be supported by it for a moment. Ralph received this touch, this shock, as if it had been a ball; and his nature bore the impress of it as long as if it had made a scar. In his whole previous life he had not felt such a thrill of emotion; it was almost too powerful to be adequately described as a pleasure. Next came Coronado, as happy as a disappointed burglar whose cue it is to congratulate the rescuing policeman. "My dear Lieutenant! You are heaven's own messenger. You have saved us from a horrible night. But it is prodigious; it is incredible. You must have come here by enchantment. How in God's name could you find your way up this fearful cañon?" "The cañon is perfectly passable on foot," replied the young officer, stiffly and angrily. "By Jove, sir! I don't see why you didn't make a start to get out. This is a pretty place to lodge Miss Van Diemen." Coronado took off his hat and made a bow of submission and regret, which was lost in the darkness. "I must say," Thurstane went on grumbling, "that, for a man who claims to know this country, your management has been very singular." Clara, fearful of a quarrel, slightly pressed his arm and checked this volcano with the weight of a feather. "We are not all like you, my dear Lieutenant," said Coronado, in a tone which might have been either apologetical or ironical. "You must make allowance for ordinary human nature." "I beg pardon," returned Thurstane, who was thinking now chiefly of that pressure on his arm. "The truth is, I was alarmed for your safety. I can't help feeling responsibility on this expedition, although it is your train. My military education runs me into it, I suppose. Well, excuse my excitement. Miss Van Diemen, may I help you back through the gully?" In leaning on him, being guided by him, being saved by him, trusting in him, the girl found a pleasure which was irresistible, although it seemed audacious and almost sinful. Before the cañon was half traversed she felt as if she could go on with him through the great dark valley of life, confiding in his strength and wisdom to lead her aright and make her happy. It was a temporary wave of emotion, but she remembered it long after it had passed. Around the fires, after a cup of hot coffee, amid the odors of a plentiful supper, recounting the evening's adventure to Mrs. Stanley, Coronado was at his best. How he rolled out the English language! Our mother tongue hardly knew itself, it ran so fluently and sounded so magniloquently and lied so naturally. He praised everybody but himself; he praised Clara, Thurstane, and the two soldiers and the horses; he even said a flattering word or two for Divine Providence. Clara especially, and the whole of her heroic, more than human sex, demanded his enthusiastic admiration. How she had borne the terrors of the night and the desert! "Ah, Mrs. Stanley! only you women are capable of such efforts." Aunt Maria's Olympian head nodded, and her cheerful face, glowing with tea and the camp fires, confessed "Certainly!" "What nonsense, Coronado!" said Clara. "I was horribly frightened, and you know it." Aunt Maria frowned with surprise and denial. "Absurd, child! You were not frightened at all. Of course you were not. Why, even if you had been slightly timorous, you had your cousin to protect you." "Ah, Mrs. Stanley, I am a poor knight-errant," said Coronado. "We Mexicans are no longer formidable. One man of your Anglo-Saxon blood is supposed to be a better defence than a dozen of us. We have been subdued; we must submit to depreciation. I must confess, in fact, that I had my fears. I was greatly relieved on my cousin's account when I heard the voice of our military chieftain here." Then came more flattery for Ralph, with proper rations for the two privates. Those faithful soldiers--he must show his gratitude to them; he had forgotten them in the basest manner. "Here, Pedronillo, take these cigaritos to privates Kelly and Shubert, with my compliments. Begging _your_ permission, Lieutenant. _Thank_ you." "Pooty tonguey man, that Seenor," observed Captain Phineas Glover to Mrs. Stanley, when the Mexican went off to his blankets. "Yes; a very agreeable and eloquent gentleman," replied the lady, wishing to correct the skipper's statement while seeming to assent to it. "Jess so," admitted Glover. "Ruther airy. Big talkin' man. Don't raise no sech our way." Captain Glover was not fully aware that he himself had the fame of possessing an imagination which was almost too much for the facts of this world. "S'pose it's in the breed," he continued. "Or likely the climate has suthin' to do with it: kinder thaws out the words 'n' sets the idees a-bilin'. Niggers is pooty much the same. Most niggers kin talk like a line runnin' out, 'n' tell lies 's fast 's our Fair Haven gals open oysters--a quart a minute." "Captain Glover, what do you mean?" frowned Aunt Maria. "Mr. Coronado is a friend of mine." "Oh, I was speakin' of niggers," returned the skipper promptly. "Forgot we begun about the Seenor. Sho! niggers was what I was talkin' of. B' th' way, that puts me in mind 'f one I had for cook once. Jiminy! how that man would cook! He'd cook a slice of halibut so you wouldn't know it from beefsteak." "Dear me! how did he do it?" asked Aunt Maria, who had a fancy for kitchen mysteries. "Never could find out," said Glover, stepping adroitly out of his difficulty. "Don't s'pose that nigger would a let on how he did it for ten dollars." "I should think the receipt would be worth ten dollars," observed Aunt Maria thoughtfully. "Not 'xactly here," returned the captain, with one of his dried smiles, which had the air of having been used a great many times before. "Halibut too skurce. Wal, I was goin' to tell ye 'bout this nigger. He come to be the cook he was because he was a big eater. We was wrecked once, 'n' had to live three days on old shoes 'n' that sort 'f truck. Wal, this nigger was so darned ravenous he ate up a pair o' long boots in the time it took me to git down one 'f the straps." "Ate up a pair of boots!" exclaimed Aunt Maria, amazed and almost incredulous. "Yes, by thunder!" insisted the captain, "grease, nails, 'n' all. An' then went at the patent leather forepiece 'f his cap." "What privations!" said Aunt Maria, staring fit to burst her spectacles. "Oh, that's nothin'," chuckled Glover. "I'll tell ye suthin' some time that 'll astonish ye. But jess now I'm sleepy, 'n' I guess I'll turn in." "Mr. Cluvver, it is your durn on card do-night," interposed Meyer, the German sergeant, as the captain was about to roll himself in his blankets. "So 'tis," returned Glover in well feigned astonishment. "Don't forgit a feller, do ye, Sergeant? How 'n the world do ye keep the 'count so straight? Oh, got a little book there, hey, with all our names down. Wal, that's shipshape. You'd make a pooty good mate, Sergeant. When does my watch begin?" "Right away. You're always on the virst relief. You'll fall in down there at the gorner of the vagon bark." "Wal--yes--s'pose I will," sighed the skipper, as he rolled up his blankets and prepared for two hours' sentry duty. Let us look into the arrangements for the protection of the caravan. With Coronado's consent Thurstane had divided the eighteen Indians and Mexicans, four soldiers, Texas Smith, and Glover, twenty-four men in all, into three equal squads, each composed of a sergeant, corporal, and six privates. Meyer was sergeant of one squad, the Irish veteran Kelly had another, and Texas Smith the third. Every night a detachment went on duty in three reliefs, each relief consisting of two men, who stood sentry for two hours, at the end of which time they were relieved by two others. The six wagons were always parked in an oblong square, one at each end and two on each side; but in order to make the central space large enough for camping purposes, they were placed several feet apart; the gaps being closed with lariats, tied from wheel to wheel, to pen in the animals and keep out charges of Apache cavalry. On either flank of this enclosure, and twenty yards or so distant from it, paced a sentry. Every two hours, as we have said, they were relieved, and in the alternate hours the posts were visited by the sergeant or corporal of the guard, who took turns in attending to this service. The squad that came off duty in the morning was allowed during the day to take naps in the wagons, and was not put upon the harder camp labor, such as gathering firewood, going for water, etc. The two ladies and the Indian women slept at night in the wagons, not only because the canvas tops protected them from wind and dew, but also because the wooden sides would shield them from arrows. The men who were not on guard lay under the vehicles so as to form a cordon around the mules. Thurstane and Coronado, the two chiefs of this armed migration, had their alternate nights of command, each when off duty sleeping in a special wagon known as "headquarters," but holding himself ready to rise at once in case of an alarm. The cooking fires were built away from the park, and outside the beats of the sentries. The object was twofold: first, to keep sparks from lighting on the wagon covers; second, to hide the sentries from prowling archers. At night you can see everything between yourself and a fire, but nothing beyond it. As long as the wood continued to blaze, the most adroit Indian skulker could not approach the camp without exposing himself, while the guards and the garrison were veiled from his sight by a wall of darkness behind a dazzle of light. Such were the bivouac arrangements, intelligent, systematic, and military. Not only had our Lieutenant devised them, but he saw to it that they were kept in working order. He was zealously and faithfully seconded by his men, and especially by his two veterans. There is no human machine more accurate and trustworthy than an old soldier, who has had year on year of the discipline and drill of a regular service, and who has learned to carry out instructions to the letter. The arrangements for the march were equally thorough and judicious. Texas Smith, as the Nimrod of the party, claimed the right of going where he pleased; but while he hunted, he of course served also as a scout to nose out danger. The six Mexicans, who were nominally cattle-drivers, but really Coronado's minor bravos, were never suffered to ride off in a body, and were expected to keep on both sides of the train, some in advance and some in rear. The drivers and muleteers remained steadily with their wagons and animals. The four soldiers were also at hand, trudging close in front or in rear, accoutrements always on and muskets always loaded. In this fashion the expedition had already journeyed over two hundred and twenty miles. Following Colonel Washington's trail, it had crossed the ranges of mountains immediately west of Abiquia, and, striking the Rio de Chaco, had tracked its course for some distance with the hope of reaching the San Juan. Stopped by a cañon, a precipitous gully hundreds of feet deep, through which the Chaco ran like a chased devil, the wagons had turned westward, and then had been forced by impassable ridges and lack of water into a southwest direction, at last gaining and crossing Pass Washington. It was now on the western side of the Sierra de Chusca, in the rude, barren country over which Fort Defiance stands sentry. Ever since the second day after leaving San Isidore it had been on the great western slope of the continent, where every drop of water tends toward the Pacific. The pilgrims would have had cause to rejoice could they have travelled as easily as the drops of water, and been as certain of their goal. But the rivers had made roads for themselves, and man had not yet had time to do likewise. The great central plateau of North America is a Mer de Glace in stone. It is a continent of rock, gullied by furious rivers; plateau on plateau of sandstone, with sluiceways through which lakes have escaped; the whole surface gigantically grotesque with the carvings of innumerable waters. What is remarkable in the scenery is, that its sublimity is an inversion of the sublimity of almost all other grand scenery. It is not so much the heights that are prodigious as the abysses. At certain points in the course of the Colorado of the West you can drop a plumb line six thousand feet before it will reach the bosom of the current; and you can only gain the water level by turning backward for scores of miles and winding laboriously down some subsidiary cañon, itself a chasm of awful grandeur. Our travellers were now amid wild labyrinths of ranges, and buttes, and cañons, which were not so much a portion of the great plateau as they were the _débris_ that constituted its flanks. Although thousands of feet above the level of the sea, they still had thousands of feet to ascend before they could dominate the desert. Wild as the land was, it was thus far passable, while toward the north lay the untraversable. What course should be taken? Coronado, who had crimes to commit and to conceal, did not yet feel that he was far enough from the haunts of man. As soon as possible he must again venture a push northward. But not immediately. The mules were fagged with hard work, weak with want of sufficient pasture, and had suffered much from thirst. He resolved to continue westward to the pueblas of the Moquis, that interesting race of agricultural and partially civilized Indians, perhaps the representatives of the architects of the Casas Grandes if not also descended from the mound-builders of the Mississippi valley. Having rested and refitted there, he might start anew for the San Juan. Thus far they had seen no Indians except the vagrants who had robbed Phineas Glover. But they might now expect to meet them; they were in a region which was the raiding ground of four great tribes: the Utes on the north, the Navajos on the west, the Apaches on the south, and the Comanches on the east. The peaceful and industrious Moquis, with their gay and warm blankets, their fields of corn and beans, and their flocks of sheep, are the quarry which attracts this ferocious cavalry of the desert, these Tartars and Bedouin of America. Thurstane took more pains than ever with the guard duty. Coronado, unmilitary though he was, and heartily as he abominated the Lieutenant, saw the wisdom of submitting to the latter's discipline, and made all his people submit. A practical-minded man, he preferred to owe the safety of his carcass to his rival rather than have it impaled on Apache lances. Occasionally, however, he made a suggestion. "It is very well, this night-watching," he once observed, "but what we have most to fear is the open daylight. These mounted Indians seldom attack in the darkness." Thurstane knew all this, but he did not say so; for he was a wise, considerate commander already, and he had learned not to chill an informant. He looked at Coronado inquiringly, as if to say, What do you propose? "Every cañon ought to be explored before we enter it," continued the Mexican. "It is a good hint," said Ralph. "Suppose I keep two of your cattle-drivers constantly in advance. You had better instruct them yourself. Tell them to fire the moment they discover an ambush. I don't suppose they will hit anybody, but we want the warning." With two horsemen three or four hundred yards to the front, two more an equal distance in the rear, and, when the ground permitted, one on either flank, the train continued its journey. Every wagon-driver and muleteer had a weapon of some sort always at hand. The four soldiers marched a few rods in advance, for the ground behind had already been explored, while that ahead might contain enemies. The precautions were extraordinary; but Thurstane constantly trembled for Clara. He would have thought a regiment hardly sufficient to guard such a treasure. "How timorous these men are," sniffed Aunt Maria, who, having seen no hostile Indians, did not believe there were any. "And it seems to me that soldiers are more easily scared than anybody else," she added, casting a depreciating glance at Thurstane, who was reconnoitring the landscape through his field glass. Clara believed in men, and especially in soldiers, and more particularly in lieutenants. Accordingly she replied, "I suppose they know the dangers and we don't." "Pshaw!" said Aunt Maria, an argument which carried great weight with her. "They don't know half what they claim to. It is a clever man who knows one-tenth of his own business." (She was right there.) "They don't know so much, I verily and solemnly believe, as the women whom they pretend to despise." This peaceful and cheering conversation was interrupted by a shot ringing out of a cañon which opened into a range of rock some three hundred yards ahead of the caravan. Immediately on the shot came a yell as of a hundred demons, a furious trampling of the feet of many horses, and a cloud of the Tartars of the American desert. In advance of the rush flew the two Mexican vedettes, screaming, "Apaches! Apaches!" CHAPTER X. When the Apache tornado burst out of the cañon upon the train, Thurstane's first thought was, "Clara!" "Get off!" he shouted to her, seizing and holding her startled horse. "Into the wagon, quick! Now lie down, both of you." He thundered all this out as sternly as if he were commanding troops. Because he was a man, Clara obeyed him; and notwithstanding he was a man, Mrs. Stanley obeyed him. Both were so bewildered with surprise and terror as to be in a kind of animal condition of spirit, knowing just enough to submit at once to the impulse of an imperious voice. The riderless horse, equally frightened and equally subordinate, was hurried to the rear of the leading wagon and handed over to a muleteer. By the time this work was done the foremost riders of the assailants were within two hundred yards of the head of the train, letting drive their arrows at the flying Mexican vedettes and uttering yells fit to raise the dead, while their comrades behind, whooping also, stormed along under a trembling and flickering of lances. The little, lean, wiry horses were going at full speed, regardless of smooth faces of rock and beds of loose stones. The blackguards were over a hundred in number, all lancers and archers of the first quality. The vedettes never pulled up until they were in rear of the hindermost wagon, while their countrymen on the flanks and rear made for the same poor shelter. The drivers were crouching almost under their seats, and the muleteers were hiding behind their animals. Thus it was evident that the entire brunt of the opening struggle would fall upon Thurstane and his people; that, if there was to be any resistance at all, these five men must commence it, and, for a while at least, "go it alone." The little squad of regulars, at this moment a few yards in front of the foremost wagon, was drawn up in line and standing steady, precisely as if it were a company or a regiment. Sergeant Meyer was on the right, veteran Kelly on the left, the two recruits in the centre, the pieces at a shoulder, the bayonets fixed. As Thurstane rode up to this diminutive line of battle, Meyer was shouting forth his sharp and decisive orders. They were just the right orders; excited as the young officer was, he comprehended that there was nothing to change; moreover, he had already learned how men are disconcerted in battle by a multiplicity of directions. So he sat quietly on his horse, revolver in hand, his blue-black eyes staring angrily at the coming storm. "Kelly, reserfe your fire!" yelled Meyer. "Recruits, ready--bresent--aim--aim low--fire!" Simultaneously with the report a horse in the leading group of charging savages pitched headlong on his nose and rolled over, sending his rider straight forward into a rubble of loose shales, both lying as they fell, without movement. Half a dozen other animals either dropped on their haunches or sheered violently to the right and left, going off in wild plunges and caracolings. By this one casualty the head of the attacking column was opened and its seemingly resistless impetus checked and dissipated, almost before Meyer could shout, "Recruits, load at will, load!" A moment previous this fiery cavalry had looked irresistible. It seemed to have in it momentum, audacity, and dash enough to break a square of infantry or carry a battery of artillery. The horses fairly flew; the riders had the air of centaurs, so firm and graceful was their seat; the long lances were brandished as easily as if by the hands of footmen; the bows were managed and the arrows sent with dazzling dexterity. It was a show of brilliant equestrianism, surpassing the feats of circus riders. But a single effective shot into the centre of the column had cleft it as a rock divides a torrent. It was like the breaking of a water-spout. The attack, however, had only commenced. The Indians who had swept off to right and left went scouring along the now motionless train, at a distance of sixty or eighty yards, rapidly enveloping it with their wild caperings, keeping in constant motion so as to evade gunshots, threatening with their lances or discharging arrows, and yelling incessantly. Their main object so far was undoubtedly to frighten the mules into a stampede and thus separate the wagons. They were not assaulting; they were watching for chances. "Keep your men together, Sergeant," said Thurstane. "I must get those Mexicans to work." He trotted deliberately to the other end of the train, ordering each driver as he passed to move up abreast of the leading wagon, directing the first to the right, the second to the left, and so on. The result of this movement would of course be to bring the train into a compact mass and render it more defensible. The Indians no sooner perceived the advance than they divined its object and made an effort to prevent it. Thurstane had scarcely reached the centre of the line of vehicles when a score or so of yelling horsemen made a caracoling, prancing charge upon him, accompanying it with a flight of arrows. Our young hero presented his revolver, but they apparently knew the short range of the weapon, and came plunging, curveting onward. Matters were growing serious, for an arrow already stuck in his saddle, and another had passed through his hat. Suddenly there was a bang, bang of firearms, and two of the savages went down. Meyer had observed the danger of his officer, and had ordered Kelly to fire, blazing away too himself. There was a headlong, hasty scramble to carry off the fallen warriors, and then the assailants swept back to a point beyond accurate musket shot. Thurstane reached the rear of the train unhurt, and found the six Mexican cattle-drivers there in a group, pointing their rifles at such Indians as made a show of charging, but otherwise doing nothing which resembled fighting. They were obviously panic-stricken, one or two of them being of an ashy-yellow, their nearest possible approach to pallor. There, too, was Coronado, looking not exactly scared, but irresolute and helpless. "What does this mean?" Thurstane stormed in Spanish. "Why don't you shoot the devils?" "We are reserving our fire," stammered Coronado, half alarmed, half ashamed. Thurstane swore briefly, energetically, and to the point. "Damned pretty fighting!" he went on. "If _we_ had reserved our fire, we should all have been lanced by this time. Let drive!" The cattle-drivers carried short rifles, of the then United States regulation pattern, which old Garcia had somehow contrived to pick up during the war perhaps buying them of drunken soldiers. Supported by Thurstane's pugnacious presence and hurried up by his vehement orders, they began to fire. They were shaky; didn't aim very well; hardly aimed at all, in fact; blazed away at extraordinary elevations; behaved as men do who have become demoralized. However, as the pieces had a range of several hundred yards, the small bullets hissed venomously over the heads of the Indians, and one of them, by pure accident, brought down a horse. There was an immediate scattering, a multitudinous glinting of hoofs through the light dust of the plain, and then a rally in prancing groups, at a safe distance. "Hurrah!" shouted Thurstane, cheering the Mexicans. "That's very well. You see how easy it is. Now don't let them sneak up again; and at the same time don't waste powder." Then turning to one who was near him, and who had just reloaded, he said in a calm, strong, encouraging tone--that voice of the thoroughly good officer which comes to the help of the shaken soldier like a reinforcement--"Now, my lad, steadily. Pick out your man; take your time and aim sure. Do you see him?" "Si, señor," replied the herdsman. His coolness restored by this steady utterance and these plain, common-sense directions, he selected a warrior in helmet-shaped cap, blue shirt, and long boots, brought his rifle slowly to a level, took sight, and fired. The Indian bent forward, caught the mane of his plunging pony, hung there for a second or two, and then rolled to the ground, amid a yell of surprise and dismay from his comrades. There was a hasty rush to secure the body, and then another sweep backward of the loose array. "Good!" called Thurstane, nodding and smiling at the successful marksman. "That is the way to do it. You are a match for half a dozen of them as long as you will keep cool." The besieged travellers could now look about quietly and see how matters stood with them. The six wagons were by this time drawn up in two ranks of three each, so as to form a compact mass. As the one which contained the ladies had been the leader and the others had formed on it to right and left, it was in the centre of the first rank, and consequently pretty well protected by its neighbors. The drivers and muleteers had recovered their self-possession, and were all sitting or standing at their posts, with their miscellaneous arms ready for action. Not a human being had been hit as yet, and only three of the mules wounded, none of them seriously. The Apaches were all around the train, but none of them nearer than two hundred yards, and doing nothing but canter about and shout to each other. "Where is Texas Smith?" demanded Thurstane, missing that mighty hunter, and wondering if he were a coward and had taken refuge in a wagon. "He went off shutin' an hour ago," explained Phineas Glover. "Reckon he's astern somewhere." Glover, by the way, had been useful. In the beginning of the affray he had brought his mule alongside of the headmost wagon, and there he had done really valuable service by blazing away alarmingly, though quite innocuously, at the gallopading enemy. "It's a bad lookout for Texas," observed the Lieutenant "I shouldn't want to bet high on his getting back to us." Coronado looked gloomy, fearing lest his trusted assassin was lost, and not knowing where he could pick up such another. "And how are the ladies?" asked Thurstane, turning to Glover. "Safe 's a bug in a rug," was the reply. "Seen to that little job myself. Not a bugger in the hull crew been nigh 'em." Thurstane cantered around to the front of the wagon which contained the two women, and called, "How are you?" At the sound of his voice there was a rustle inside, and Clara showed her face over the shoulder of the driver. "So you were not hurt?" laughed the young officer. "Ah! that's bully." With a smile which was almost a boast, she answered, "And I was not very frightened." At this, Aunt Maria struggled from between two rolls of bedding into a sitting posture and ejaculated, "Of course not!" "Did they hit you?" asked Clara, looking eagerly at Thurstane. "How brave you are!" he replied, admiring her so much that he did not notice her question. "But I do hope it is over," added the girl, poking her head out of the wagon. "Ah! what is that?" With this little cry of dismay she pointed at a group of savages who had gathered between the train and the mouth of the cañon ahead of it. "They are the enemy," said Thurstane. "We may have another little tussle with them. Now lie down and keep close." "Acquit yourselves like--men!" exhorted Aunt Maria, dropping back into her stronghold among the bedding. Sergeant Meyer now approached Thurstane, touched his cap, and said, "Leftenant, here is brifate Sweeny who has not fired his beece once. I cannot make him fire." "How is that, Sweeny?" demanded the officer, putting on the proper grimness. "Why haven't you fired when you were ordered?" Sweeny was a little wizened shaving of an Irishman. He was not only quite short, but very slender and very lean. He had a curious teetering gait, and he took ridiculously short steps in marching, as if he were a monkey who had not learned to feel at ease on his hind legs. His small, wilted, wrinkled face, and his expression of mingled simplicity and shrewdness, were also monkey-like. At Thurstane's reprimand he trotted close up to him with exactly the air of a circus Jocko who expects a whipping, but who hopes to escape it by grinning. "Why haven't you fired?" repeated his commander. "Liftinint, I dasn't," answered Sweeny, in the rapid, jerking, almost inarticulate jabber which was his usual speech. Now it is not an uncommon thing for recruits to dread to discharge their arms in battle. They have a vague idea that, if they bang away, they will attract the notice of some antagonist who will immediately single them out for retaliation. "Are you afraid anybody will hit you?" asked Thurstane. "No, I ain't, Liftinint," jabbered Sweeny. "I ain't afeard av them niggers a bit. They may shoot their bow arrays at me all day if they want to. I'm afeard of me gun, Liftinint. I fired it wonst, an' it kicked me to blazes." "Come, come! That won't do. Level it now. Pick out your man. Aim. Fire." Thus constrained, Sweeny brought his piece down to an inclination of forty-five degrees, shut his eyes, pulled trigger, and sent a ball clean over the most distant Apaches. The recoil staggered him, but he recovered himself without going over, and instantly roared out a horse-laugh. "Ho! ho! ho!" he shouted. "That time I reckon I fetched won av 'em." "Sweeny," said Thurstane, "you must have hit either the sun or the moon, I don't know which." Sweeny looked discomfited; the next breath he bethought himself of a saving joke: "Liftinint, it 'ud sarve erry won av 'em right;" then another neigh of laughter. "I ain't afeard av the ball," he hastened to asseverate; "it's the kick av it that murthers me. Liftinint, why don't they put the britch to the other end av the gun? They do in the owld counthry." "Load your beece," ordered Sergeant Meyer, "and go to your bost again, to the left of Shupert." The fact of Sweeny's opening fire did not cause a resumption of the close fighting. Quiet still continued, and the leaders of the expedition took advantage of it to discuss their situation, while the Indians gathered into little groups and seemed also to be holding council. "There are over a hundred warriors," said Thurstane. "Apaches," added one of the Mexican herdsmen. "What band?" "Manga Colorada or Delgadito." "I supposed they were in Bernalillo." "That was three weeks ago," put in Coronado. He was in profound thought. These fellows, who had agreed to harry Bernalillo, and who had for a time carried out their bargain, why had they come to intercept him in the Moqui country, a hundred and twenty miles away? Did they want to extort more money, or were they ignorant that this was his train? And, supposing he should make himself known to them, would they spare him personally and such others as he might wish to save, while massacring the rest of the party? It would be a bold step; he could not at once decide upon it; he was pondering it. We must do full justice to Coronado's coolness and readiness. This atrocious idea had occurred to him the instant he heard the charging yell of the Apaches; and it had done far more than any weakness of nerves to paralyze his fighting ability. He had thought, "Let them kill the Yankees; then I will proclaim myself and save _her_; then she will be mine." And because of these thoughts he had stood irresolute, aiming without firing, and bidding his Mexicans do the same. The result was that six good shots and superb horsemen, who were capable of making a gallant fight under worthy leadership, had become demoralized, and, but for the advent of Thurstane, might have been massacred like sheep. Now that three or four Apaches had fallen, Coronado had less hope of making his arrangement. He considered the matter carefully and judiciously, but at last he decided that he could not trust the vindictive devils, and he turned his mind strenuously toward resistance. Although not pugnacious, he had plenty of the desperate courage of necessity, and his dusky black eyes were very resolute as he said to Thurstane, "Lieutenant, we trust to you." The young veteran had already made up his mind as to what must be done. "We will move on," he said. "We can't camp here, in an open plain, without grass or water. We must get into the cañon so as to have our flanks protected. I want the wagons to advance in double file so as to shorten the train. Two of my men in front and two in rear; three of your herdsmen on one flank and three on the other; Captain Glover alongside the ladies, and you and I everywhere; that's the programme. If we are all steady, we can do it, sure." "They are collecting ahead to stop us," observed Coronado. "Good!" said Thurstane. "All I want is to have them get in a heap. It is this attacking on all sides which is dangerous. Suppose you give your drivers and muleteers a sharp lecture. Tell them they must fight if the Indians charge, and not skulk inside and under the wagons. Tell them we are going to shoot the first man who skulks. Pitch into them heavy. It's a devilish shame that a dozen tolerably well-armed men should be so helpless. It's enough to justify the old woman's contempt for our sex." Coronado rode from wagon to wagon, delivering his reproofs, threats, and instructions in the plainest kind of Spanish. At the signal to march, the drivers must file off two abreast, commencing on the right, and move at the fastest trot of the mules toward the cañon. If any scoundrel skulked, quitted his post, or failed to fight, he would be pistolled instanter by him, Coronado _sangre de Dios_, etc.! While he was addressing Aunt Maria's coachman, that level-headed lady called out, "Mr. Coronado, your very voice is cheering." "Mrs. Stanley, you are an example of heroism to our sex," replied the Mexican, with an ironical grin. "What a brave, noble, intelligent man?" thought Aunt Maria. "If they were only all like him!" This business took up five minutes. Coronado had just finished his round when a loud yell was raised by the Apaches, and twenty or thirty of them started at full speed down the trail by which the caravan had come. Looking for the cause of this stampede, the emigrants beheld, nearly half a mile away, a single horseman rushing to encounter a score. It was Texas Smith, making an apparently hopeless rush to burst through the environment of Parthians and reach the train. "Shall we make a sally to save him?" demanded Coronado, glancing at Thurstane. The officer hesitated; to divide his small army would be perilous; the Apaches would attack on all sides and with advantage. But the sight of one man so overmatched was too much for him, and with a great throb of chivalrous blood in his heart, he shouted, "Charge!" CHAPTER XI. An hour before the attack Texas Smith had ridden off to stalk a deer; but the animal being in good racing condition in consequence of the thin fare of this sterile region, the hunting bout had miscarried; and our desperado was returning unladen toward the train when he heard the distant charging yell of the Apaches. Scattered over the plateau which he was traversing, there were a few thickets of mesquite, with here and there a fantastic butte of sandstone. By dodging from one of these covers to another, he arrived undiscovered at a point whence he could see the caravan and the curveting mêlée which surrounded it. He was nearly half a mile from his comrades and over a quarter of a mile from his nearest enemies. What should he do? If he made a rush, he would probably be overpowered and either killed instantly or carried off for torture. If he waited until night for a chance to sneak into camp, the wandering redskins would be pretty apt to surprise him in the darkness, and there would be small chance indeed of escaping with his hair. It was a nasty situation; but Texas, accustomed to perils, was as brave as he was wicked; and he looked his darkling fate in the face with admirable coolness and intelligence. His decision was to wait a favorable moment, and when it came, charge for life. When he perceived that the mass of the Indians had gathered on the trail between the wagons and the cañon, he concluded that his chance had arrived; and with teeth grimly set, rifle balanced across his saddle-bow, revolver slung to his wrist, he started in silence and at full speed on his almost hopeless rush. If you will cease to consider the man as a modern bushwhacker, and invest him temporarily with the character, ennobled by time, of a borderer of the Scottish marches, you will be able to feel some sympathy for him in his audacious enterprise. He was mounted on an American horse, a half-blood gray, large-boned and powerful, who could probably have traversed the half-mile in a minute had there been no impediment, and who was able to floor with a single shock two or three of the little animals of the Apaches. He was a fine spectacle as he thundered alone across the plain, upright and easy in his seat, balancing his heavy rifle as if it were a rattan, his dark and cruel face settled for fight and his fierce black eyes blazing. Only a minute's ride, but that minute life or death. As he had expected, the Apaches discovered him almost as soon as he left the cover of his butte, and all the outlying members of the horde swarmed toward him with a yell, brandishing their spears and getting ready their bows as they rode. It would clearly be impossible for him to cut his way through thirty warriors unless he received assistance from the train. Would it come? His evil conscience told him, without the least reason, that Thurstane would not help. But from Coronado, whose life he had saved and whose evil work he had undertaken to do--from this man, "greaser" as he was, he did expect a sally. If it did not come, and if he should escape by some rare chance, he, Texas Smith, would murder the Mexican the first time he found him alone, so help him God! While he thought and cursed he flew. But his goal was still five hundred yards away, and the nearest redskins were within two hundred yards, when he saw a rescuing charge shoot out from the wagons. Coronado led it. In this foxy nature the wolf was not wanting, and under strong impulse he could be somewhat of a Pizarro. He had no starts of humanity nor of real chivalry, but he had family pride and personal vanity, and he was capable of the fighting fury. When Thurstane had given the word to advance, Coronado had put himself forward gallantly. "Stay here," he said to the officer; "guard the train with your infantry. I am a caballero, and I will do a caballero's work," he added, rising proudly in his stirrups. "Come on, you villains!" was his order to the six Mexicans. All abreast, spread out like a skirmish line, the seven horsemen clattered over the plain, making for the point where Texas Smith was about to plunge among the whirling and caracoling Apaches. Now came the crisis of the day. The moment the sixty or seventy Apaches near the mouth of the cañon saw Coronado set out on his charge, they raised a yell of joy over the error of the emigrants in dividing their forces, and plunged straight at the wagons. In half a minute two wild, irregular, and yet desperate combats were raging. Texas Smith had begun his battle while Coronado was still a quarter of a mile away. Aiming his rifle at an Apache who was riding directly upon him, instead of dodging and wheeling in the usual fashion of these cautious fighters, he sent the audacious fellow out of his saddle with a bullet-hole through the lungs. But this was no salvation; the dreaded long-range firearm was now empty; the savages circled nearer and began to use their arrows. Texas let his rifle hang from the pommel and presented his revolver. But the bowshots were more than its match. It could not be trusted to do execution at forty yards, and at that distance the Indian shafts are deadly. Already several had hissed close by him, one had gashed the forehead of his horse, and another had pierced his clothing. All that Texas wanted, however, was time. If he could pass a half minute without a disabling wound, he would have help. He retreated a little, or rather he edged away toward the right, wheeling and curveting after the manner of the Apaches, in order to present an unsteady mark for their archery. To keep them at a distance he fired one barrel of his revolver, though without effect. Meantime he dodged incessantly, now throwing himself forward and backward in the saddle, now hanging over the side of his horse and clinging to his neck. It was hard and perilous work, but he was gaining seconds, and every second was priceless. Notwithstanding his extreme peril, he calculated his chances with perfect coolness and with a sagacity which was admirable. But this intelligent savage had to do with savages as clever as himself. The Apaches saw Coronado coming up on their rear, and they knew that they must make short work of the hunter, or must let him escape. While a score or so faced about to meet the Mexicans, a dozen charged with screeches and brandished lances upon the Texan. Now came a hand-to-hand struggle which looked as if it must end in the death of Smith and perhaps of several of his assailants. But cavalry fights are notoriously bloodless in comparison to their apparent fury; the violent and perpetual movement of the combatants deranges aim and renders most of the blows futile; shots are fired at a yard distance without hitting, and strokes are delivered which only wound the air. One spear stuck in Smith's saddle; another pierced his jacket-sleeve and tore its way out; only one of the sharp, quickly-delivered points drew blood. He felt a slight pain in his side, and he found afterward that a lance-head had raked one of his ribs, tearing up the skin and scraping the bone for four or five inches. Meantime he shot a warrior through the head, sent another off with a hole in the shoulder, and fired one barrel without effect. He had but a single charge left (saving this for himself in the last extremity), when he burst through the prancing throng of screeching, thrusting ragamuffins, and reached the side of Coronado. Here another hurly-burly of rearing and plunging combat awaited him. Coronado, charging as an old Castilian hidalgo might have charged upon the Moors, had plunged directly into the midst of the Apaches who awaited him, giving them little time to use their arrows, and at first receiving no damage. The six rifles of his Mexicans sent two Apaches out of their saddles, and then came a capering, plunging joust of lances, both parties using the same weapon. Coronado alone had sabre and revolver; and he handled them both with beautiful coolness and dexterity; he rode, too, as well as the best of all these other centaurs. His superb horse whirled and reared under the guidance of a touch of the knees, while the rider plied firearm with one hand and sharply-ground blade with the other. Thurstane, an infantryman, and only a fair equestrian, would not have been half so effective in this combat of caballeros. Coronado's first bullet knocked a villainous-looking tatterdemalion clean into the happy hunting grounds. Then came a lance thrust; he parried it with his sabre and plunged within range of the point; there was a sharp, snake-like hiss of the light, curved blade; down went Apache number two. At this rate, providing there were no interruptions, he could finish the whole twenty. He went at his job with a handy adroitness which was almost scientific, it was so much like surgery, like dissection. His mind was bent, with a sort of preternatural calmness and cleverness, upon the business of parrying lance thrusts, aiming his revolver, and delivering sabre cuts. It was a species of fighting intellection, at once prudent and destructive. It was not the headlong, reckless, pugnacious rage of the old Anglo-Saxon and Scandinavian berserker. It was the practical, ready, rational furor of the Latin race. Presently he saw that two of his rancheros had been lanced, and that there were but four left. A thrill of alarm, a commencement of panic, a desire to save himself at all hazards, crisped his heart and half paralyzed his energy. Remembering with perfect distinctness that four of his barrels were empty, he would perhaps have tried to retreat at the risk of being speared in the back, had he not at this critical moment been joined by Texas Smith. That instinctive, ferocious, and tireless fighter, while seeming to be merely circling and curveting among his assailants, contrived to recharge two barrels of his revolver, and was once more ready for business. Down went one Apache; then the horse of another fell to reeling and crouching in a sickly way; then a charge of half a dozen broke to right and left in irresolute prancings. At sight of this friendly work Coronado drew a fresh breath of courage, and executed his greatest feat yet of horsemanship and swordsmanship. Spurring after and then past one of the wheeling braves, he swept his sabre across the fellow's bare throat with a drawing stroke, and half detached the scowling, furious, frightened head from the body. There was a wide space of open ground before him immediately. The Apaches know nothing of sabre work; not one of those present had ever before seen such a blow or such an effect; they were not only panic-stricken, but horror-stricken. For one moment, right between the staring antagonists, a bloody corpse sat upright on a rearing horse, with its head fallen on one shoulder and hanging by a gory muscle. The next moment it wilted, rolled downward with outstretched arms, and collapsed upon the gravel, an inert mass. Texas Smith uttered a loud scream of tigerish delight. He had never, in all his pugnacious and sanguinary life, looked upon anything so fascinating. It seemed to him as if _his_ heaven--the savage Walhalla of his Saxon or Danish berserker race--were opened before him. In his ecstasy he waved his dirty, long fingers toward Coronado, and shouted, "Bully for you, old hoss!" But he had self-possession enough, now that his hand was free for an instant from close battle, to reload his rifle and revolver. The four rancheros who still retained their saddles mechanically and hurriedly followed his example. The contest here was over; the Apaches knew that bullets would soon be humming about their ears, and they dreaded them; there was a retreat, and this retreat was a run of an eighth of a mile. "Hurrah for the waggins!" shouted Texas, and dashed away toward the train. Coronado stared; his heart sank within him; the train was surrounded by a mob of prancing savages; there was more fighting to be done when he had already done his best. But not knowing where else to go, he followed his leader toward this new battle, loading his revolver as he rode, and wishing that he were in Santa Fé, or anywhere in peace. We must go back a little. As already stated, the main body of the Apaches had perceived the error of the emigrants in separating, and had promptly availed themselves of it to charge upon the train. To attack it there were seventy ferocious and skilful warriors; to defend it there were twelve timorous muleteers and drivers, four soldiers, and Ralph. "Fall back!" shouted the Lieutenant to his regulars when he saw the equestrian avalanche coming. "Each man take a wagon and hold it." The order was obeyed in a hurry. The Apaches, heartened by what they supposed to be a panic, swarmed along at increased speed, and gave out their most diabolical screeches, hoping no doubt to scare men into helplessness, and beasts into a stampede. But the train was an immovable fortress, and the fortress was well garrisoned. Although the mules winced and plunged a good deal, the drivers succeeded in holding them to their places, and the double column of carriages, three in each rank, preserved its formation. In every vehicle there was a muleteer, with hands free for fighting, bearing something or other in the shape of a firelock, and inspired with what courage there is in desperation. The four flankers, necessarily the most exposed to assault, had each a United States regular, with musket, bayonet, and forty rounds of buck and ball. In front of the phalanx, directly before the wagon which contained the two ladies, sat as brave an officer as there was in the American army. The Apaches had also committed their tactical blunder. They should all have followed Coronado, made sure of destroying him and his Mexicans, and then attacked the train. But either there was no sagacious military spirit among them, or the love of plunder was too much for judgment and authority, and so down they came on the wagons. As the swarthy swarm approached, it spread out until it covered the front of the train and overlapped its flanks, ready to sweep completely around it and fasten upon any point which should seem feebly or timorously defended. The first man endangered was the lonely officer who sat his horse in front of the line of kicking and plunging mules. Fortunately for him, he now had a weapon of longer range than his revolver; he had remembered that in one of the wagons was stored a peculiar rifle belonging to Coronado; he had just had time to drag it out and strap its cartridge-box around his waist. He levelled at the centre of the clattering, yelling column. It fluctuated; the warriors who were there did not like to be aimed at; they began to zigzag, caracole, and diverge to right or left; several halted and commenced using their bows. At one of these archers, whose arrow already trembled on the string, Thurstane let fly, sending him out of the saddle. Then he felt a quick, sharp pain in his left arm, and perceived that a shaft had passed clean through it. There is this good thing about the arrow, that it has not weight enough to break bones, nor tearing power enough to necessarily paralyze muscle. Thurstane could still manage a revolver with his wounded arm, while his right was good for almost any amount of slashing work. Letting the rifle drop and swing from the pommel, he met the charge of two grinning and scowling lancers. One thrust he parried with his sabre; from the other he saved his neck by stooping; but it drove through his coat collar, and nearly unseated him. For a moment our bleeding and hampered young gladiator seemed to be in a bad way. But he was strong; he braced himself in his stirrups, and he made use of both his hands. The Indian whose spear was still free caught a bullet through the shoulder, dropped his weapon, and circled away yelling. Then Thurstane plunged at the other, reared his tall horse over him, broke the lance-shaft with a violent twist, and swung his long cavalry sabre. It was in vain that the Apache crouched, spurred, and skedaddled; he got away alive, but it was with a long bloody gash down his naked back; the last seen of him he was going at full speed, holding by his pony's mane. The Lieutenant remained master of the whole front of the caravan. Meantime there was a busy popping along the flankers and through the hinder openings in the second line of wagons. The Indians skurried, wheeled, pranced, and yelled, let fly their arrows from a distance, dashed up here and there with their lances, and as quickly retreated before the threatening muzzles. The muleteers, encouraged by the presence of the soldiers, behaved with respectable firmness and blazed away rapidly, though not effectively. The regulars reserved their fire for close quarters, and then delivered it to bloody purpose. Around Sweeny, who garrisoned the left-hand wagon of the rearmost line, the fight was particularly noisy. The Apaches saw that he was little, and perhaps they saw that he was afraid of his gun. They went for him; they were after him with their sharpest sticks; they counted on Sweeny. The speck of a man sat on the front seat of the wagon, outside of the driver, and fully exposed to the tribulation. He was in a state of the highest Paddy excitement. He grinned and bounced like a caravan of monkeys. But he was not much scared; he was mainly in a furious rage. Pointing his musket first at one and then at another, he returned yell for yell, and was in fact abusive. "Oh, fire yer bow-arreys!" he screamed. "Ye can't hit the side av a waggin. Ah, ye bloody, murtherin' nagers! go 'way wid yer long poles. I'd fight a hundred av the loikes av ye wid ownly a shillelah." One audacious thrust of a lance he parried very dexterously with his bayonet, at the same time screeching defiantly and scornfully in the face of his hideous assailant. But this fellow's impudent approach was too much to be endured, and Sweeny proceeded at once to teach him to keep at a more civil distance. "Oh, ye pokin' blaggard!" he shouted, and actually let drive with his musket. The ball missed, but by pure blundering one of the buck-shot took effect, and the brave retreated out of the mêlée with a sensation as if his head had been split. Some time later he was discovered sitting up doggedly on a rock, while a comrade was trying to dig the buckshot out of his thick skull with an arrow-point. "I'll tache 'em to moind their bizniss," grinned Sweeny triumphantly, as he reloaded. "The nasty, hootin' nagers! They've no rights near a white man, anyhow." On the whole, the attack lingered. The Apaches had done some damage. One driver had been lanced mortally. One muleteer had been shot through the heart with an arrow. Another arrow had scraped Shubert's ankle. Another, directed by the whimsical genius of accident, had gone clean through the drooping cartilage of Phineas Glover's long nose, as if to prepare him for the sporting of jewelled decorations. Two mules were dead, and several wounded. The sides of the wagons bristled with shafts, and their canvas tops were pierced with fine holes. But, on the other hand, the Apaches had lost a dozen horses, three or four warriors killed, and seven or eight wounded. Such was the condition of affairs around the train when Coronado, Texas Smith, and the four surviving herdsmen came storming back to it. CHAPTER XII. The Apaches were discouraged by the immovability of the train, and by the steady and deadly resistance of its defenders. From first to last some twenty-five or twenty-seven of their warriors had been hit, of whom probably one third were killed or mortally wounded. At the approach of Coronado those who were around the wagons swept away in a panic, and never paused in their flight until they were a good half mile distant. They carried off, however, every man, whether dead or injured, except one alone. A few rods from the train lay a mere boy, certainly not over fifteen years old, his forehead gashed by a bullet, and life apparently extinct. There was nothing strange in the fact of so young a lad taking part in battle, for the military age among the Indians is from twelve to thirty-six, and one third of their fighters are children. "What did they leave that fellow for?" said Coronado in surprise, riding up to the senseless figure. "I'll fix him," volunteered Texas Smith, dismounting and drawing his hunting knife. "Reckon he hain't been squarely finished." "Stop!" ordered Coronado. "He is not an Apache. He is some pueblo Indian. See how much he is hurt." "Skull ain't broke," replied Texas, fingering the wound as roughly as if it had been in the flesh of a beast. "Reckon he'll flop round. May do mischief, if we don't fix him." Anxious to stick his knife into the defenceless young throat, he nevertheless controlled his sentiments and looked up for instructions. Since the splendid decapitation which Coronado had performed, Texas respected him as he had never heretofore hoped to respect a "greaser." "Perhaps we can get information out of him," said Coronado. "Suppose you lay him in a wagon." Meanwhile preparations had been made for an advance. The four dead or badly wounded draft mules were disentangled from the harness, and their places supplied with the four army mules, whose packs were thrown into the wagons. These animals, by the way, had escaped injury, partly because they had been tethered between the two lines of vehicles, and partly because they had been well covered by their loads, which were plentifully stuck-with arrows. "We are ready to march," said Thurstane to Coronado. "I am sorry we can't try to recover your men back there." "No use," commented Texas Smith. "The Patchies have been at 'em. They're chuck full of spear holes by this time." Coronado shouted to the drivers to start. Commencing on the right, the wagons filed off two by two toward the mouth of the cañon, while the Indians, gathered in a group half a mile away, looked on without a yell or a movement. The instant that the vehicle which contained the ladies had cleared itself of the others, Thurstane and Coronado rode alongside of it. "So! you are safe!" said the former. "By Heavens, if they _had_ hurt you!" "And you?" asked Clara, very quickly and eagerly, while scanning him from head to foot. Coronado saw that look, anxious for Thurstane alone; and, master of dissimulation though he was, his face showed both pain and anger. "Ah--oh--oh dear!" groaned Mrs. Stanley, as she made her appearance in the front of the vehicle. "Well! this is rather more than I can bear. This is just as much as a woman can put up with. Dear me! what is the matter with your arm, Lieutenant?" "Just a pin prick," said Thurstane. Clara began to get out of the wagon, with the purpose of going to him, her eyes staring and her face pale. "Don't!" he protested, motioning her back. "It is nothing." And, although the lacerated arm hurt him and was not easy to manage, he raised it over his head to show that the damage was trifling. "Do get in here and let us take care of you," begged Clara. "Certainly!" echoed Aunt Maria, who was a compassionate woman at heart, and who only lacked somewhat in quickness of sympathy, perhaps by reason of her strong-minded notions. "I will when I need it," said Ralph, flattered and gratified. "The arm will do without dressing till we reach camp. There are other wounded. Everybody has fought. Mr. Coronado here has done deeds worthy of his ancestors." "Ah, Mr. Coronado!" smiled Aunt Maria, delighted that her favorite had distinguished himself. "Captain Glover, what's the matter with your nose?" was the lady's next outcry. "Wal, it's been bored," replied Glover, tenderly fingering his sore proboscis. "It's been, so to speak, eyelet-holed. I'm glad I hadn't but one. The more noses a feller kerries in battle, the wuss for him. I hope the darned rip'll heal up. I've no 'casion to hev a line rove through it 'n' be towed, that I know of." "How did it feel when it went through?" asked Aunt Maria, full of curiosity and awe. "Felt's though I'd got the dreadfullest influenzee thet ever snorted. Twitched 'n' tickled like all possessed." "Was it an arrow?" inquired the still unsatisfied lady. "Reckon 'twas. Never see it. But it kinder whished, 'n' I felt the feathers. Darn 'em! When I felt the feathers, tell ye I was 'bout half scairt. Hed 'n idee 'f th' angel 'f death, 'n' so on." Of course Aunt Maria and Clara wanted to do much nursing immediately; but there were no conveniences and there was no time; and so benevolence was postponed. "So you are hurt?" said Thurstane to Texas Smith, noticing his torn and bloody shirt. "It's jest a scrape," grunted the bushwhacker. "Mought'a'been worse." "It was bad generalship trying to save you. We nearly paid high for it." "That's so. Cost four greasers, as 'twas. Well, I'm worth four greasers." "You're a devil of a fighter," continued the Lieutenant, surveying the ferocious face and sullen air of the cutthroat with a soldier's admiration for whatever expresses pugnacity. "Bet yer pile on it," returned Texas, calmly conscious of his character. "So be you." The savage black eyes and the imperious blue ones stared into each other without the least flinching and with something like friendliness. Coronado rode up to the pair and asked, "Is that boy alive yet?" "It's about time for him to flop round," replied Texas indifferently. "Reckon you'll find him in the off hind wagon. I shoved him in thar." Coronado cantered to the off hind wagon, peeped through the rear opening of its canvas cover, discovered the youth lying on a pile of luggage, addressed him in Spanish, and learned his story. He belonged to a hacienda in Bernalillo, a hundred miles or more west of Santa Fé. The Apaches had surprised the hacienda and plundered it, carrying him off because, having formerly been a captive among them, he could speak their language, manage the bow, etc. For all this Coronado cared nothing; he wanted to know why the band had left Bernalillo; also why it had attacked his train. The boy explained that the raiders had been driven off the southern route by a party of United States cavalry, and that, having lost a number of their braves in the fight, they had sworn vengeance on Americans. "Did you hear them say whose train this was?" demanded Coronado. "No, Señor." "Do you think they knew?" "Señor, I think not." "Whose band was this?" "Manga Colorada's." "Where is Delgadito?" "Delgadito went the other side of the mountain. They were both going to fight the Moquis." "So we shall find Delgadito in the Moqui valley?" "I think so, Señor." After a moment of reflection Coronado added, "You will stay with us and take care of mules. I will do well by you." "Thanks, Señor. Many thanks." Coronado rejoined Thurstane and told his news. The officer looked grave; there might be another combat in store for the train; it might be an affair with both bands of the Apaches. "Well," he said, "we must keep our eyes open. Every one of us must do his very utmost. On the whole, I can't believe they can beat us." "Nombre de Dios!" thought Coronado. "How will this accursed job end? I wish I were out of it." They were now traversing the cañon from which they had been so long debarred. It was a peaceful solitude; no life but their own stirred within its sandstone ramparts; and its windings soon carried them out of sight of their late assailants. For four hours they slowly threaded it, and when night came on they were still in it, miles away from their expected camping ground. No water and no grass; the animals were drooping with hunger, and all suffered with thirst; the worst was that the hurts of the wounded could not be properly dressed. But progress through this labyrinth of stones in the darkness was impossible, and the weary, anxious, fevered travellers bivouacked as well as might be. Starting at dawn, they finished the cañon in about an hour, traversed an uneven plateau which stretched beyond its final sinuous branch gullies, and found themselves on the brow of a lofty terrace, overlooking a sublime panorama. There was an immense valley, not smooth and verdurous, but a gigantic nest of savage buttes and crags and hills, only to be called a valley because it was enclosed by what seemed a continuous line of eminences. On the north and east rose long ranges and elevated table-lands; on the west, the savage rolls and precipices of the Sierra del Carrizo; and on the south, a more distant bordering of hazy mountains, closing to the southwest, a hundred miles away, in the noble snowy peaks of Monte San Francisco. With his field-glass, Thurstane examined one after another of the mesas and buttes which diversified this enormous depression. At last his attention settled on an isolated bluff or mound, with a flattened surface three or four miles in length, the whole mass of which seemed to be solid and barren rock. On this truncated pyramid he distinguished, or thought he distinguished, one or more of the pueblos of the Moquis. He could not be quite sure, because the distance was fifteen miles, and the walls of these villages are of the same stone with the buttes upon which they stand. "There is our goal, if I am not mistaken," he said to Coronado. "When we get there we can rest." The train pushed onward, slowly descending the terrace, or rather the succession of terraces. After reaching a more level region, and while winding between stony hills of a depressing sterility, it came suddenly, at the bottom of a ravine, upon fresh green turf and thickets of willows, the environment of a small spring of clear water. There was a halt; all hands fell to digging a trench across the gully; when it had filled, the animals were allowed to drink; in an hour more they had closely cropped all the grass. This was using up time perilously, but it had to be done, for the beasts were tottering. Moving again; five miles more traversed; another spring and patch of turf discovered; a rough ravine through a low sandstone ridge threaded; at last they were on one of the levels of the valley. Three of the Moqui towns were now about eight miles distant, and with his glass Thurstane could distinguish the horizontal lines of building. The trail made straight for the pueblos, but it was almost impassable to wagons, and progress was very slow. It was all the slower because of the weakness of the mules, which throughout all this hair-brained journey had been severely worked, and of late had been poorly fed. Presently the travellers turned the point of a naked ridge which projected laterally into the valley. There they came suddenly upon a wide-spread sweep of turf, contrasting so brilliantly with the bygone infertilities that it seemed to them a paradise, and stretching clear on to the bluff of the pueblos. There, too, with equal suddenness, they came upon peril. Just beyond the nose of the sandstone promontory there was a bivouac of half naked, dark-skinned horsemen, recognizable at a glance as Apaches. It was undoubtedly the band of Delgadito. The camp was half a mile distant. The Indians, evidently surprised at the appearance of the train, were immediately in commotion. There was a rapid mounting, and in five minutes they were all on horseback, curveting in circles, and brandishing their lances, but without advancing. "Manga Colorada hasn't reached here yet," observed Thurstane. "That's so," assented Texas Smith. "They hain't heerd from the cuss, or they'd a bushwhacked us somewhar. Seein' he dasn't follow our trail, he had to make a big turn to git here. But he'll be droppin' along, an' then we'll hev a fight. I reckon we'll hev one any way. Them cusses ain't friendly. If they was, they'd a piled in helter-skelter to hev a talk an' ask fur whiskey." "We must keep them at a distance," said Thurstane. "You bet! The first Injun that comes nigh us. I'll shute him. They mustn't be 'lowed to git among us. First you know you'd hear a yell, an' find yourself speared in the back. An' them that's speared right off is the lucky ones." "Not one of us must fall into their hands," muttered the officer, thinking of Clara. "Cap, that's so," returned Texas grimly. "When I fight Injuns, I never empty my revolver. I keep one barl for myself. You'd better do the same. Furthermore, thar oughter be somebody detailed to shute the women folks when it comes to the last pinch. I say this as a friend." As a friend! It was the utmost stretch of Texas Smith's humanity and sympathy. Obviously the fellow had a soft side to him. The fact is that he had taken a fancy to Thurstane since he had learned his fighting qualities, and would rather have done him a favor than murder him. At all events his hatred to "Injuns" was such that he wanted the lieutenant to kill a great many of them before his own turn came. "So you think we'll have a tough job of it?" inferred Ralph. "Cap, we ain't so many as we was. An' if Manga Colorada comes up, thar'll be a pile of red-skins. It may be they'll outlast us; an' so I say as a friend, save one shot; save it for yourself, Cap." But the Apaches did not advance. They watched the train steadily; they held a long consultation which evidently referred to it; at last they seemed to decide that it was in too good order to fall an easy prey; there was some wild capering along its flanks, at a safe distance; and then, little by little, the gang resettled in its bivouac. It was like a swarm of hornets, which should sally out to reconnoitre an enemy, buzz about threateningly for a while, and sail back to their nest. The plain, usually dotted with flocks of sheep, was now a solitude. The Moquis had evidently withdrawn their woolly wealth either to the summit of the bluff, or to the partially sheltered pasturage around its base. The only objects which varied the verdant level were scattered white rocks, probably gypsum or oxide of manganese, which glistened surprisingly in the sunlight, reminding one of pearls sown on a mantel of green velvet. But already the travellers could see the peach orchards of the Moquis, and the sides of the lofty butte laid out in gardens supported by terrace-walls of dressed stone, the whole mass surmounted by the solid ramparts of the pueblos. At this moment, while the train was still a little over two miles from the foot of the bluff, and the Apache camp more than three miles to the rear, Texas Smith shouted, "The cusses hev got the news." It was true; the foremost riders, or perhaps only the messengers, of Manga Colorada had readied Delgadito; and a hundred warriors were swarming after the train to avenge their fallen comrades. Now ensued a race for life, the last pull of the mules being lashed out of them, and the Indians riding at the topmost speed of their wiry ponies. CHAPTER XIII. When the race for life and death commenced between the emigrants and the Apaches, it seemed as if the former would certainly be able to go two miles before the latter could cover six. But the mules were weak, and the soil of the plain was a thin loam into which the wheels sank easily, so that the heavy wagons could not be hurried beyond a trot, and before long were reduced to a walk. Thus, while the caravan was still half a mile from its city of refuge, the foremost hornets of Delgadito's swarm were already circling around it. The chief could not charge at once, however, for the warriors whom he had in hand numbered barely a score, and their horses, blown with a run of over five miles, were unfit for sharp fighting work. For a few minutes nothing happened, except that the caravan continued its silent, sullen retreat, while the pursuers cantered yelling around it at a safe distance. Not a shot was fired by the emigrants; not a brave dashed up to let fly his arrows. At last there were fifty Apaches; then there was a hurried council; then a furious rush. Evidently the savages were ashamed to let their enemies escape for lack of one audacious assault. This charge was led by a child. A boy not more than fourteen years of age, screaming like a little demon and discharging his arrows at full speed with wicked dexterity, rode at the head of this savage _hourra_ of the Cossacks of the American desert. As the fierce child came on, Coronado saw him and recognized him with a mixture of wonder, dread, and hate. Here was the son of the false-hearted savage who had accepted his money, agreed to do his work, and then turned against him. Should he kill him? It would open an account of blood between himself and the father. Never mind; vengeance is sweet; moreover, the youngster was dangerous. Coronado raised his revolver, steadied it across his left arm, took a calm aim, and fired. The handsome, headlong, terrible boy swayed forward, rolled slowly over the pommel of his saddle, and fell to the ground motionless. In the next moment there was a general rattle of firearms from the train, and the mass of the charging column broke up into squads which went off in aimless caracolings. Barring a short struggle by half a dozen braves to recover the young chief's body, the contest was over; and in two minutes more the Apaches were half a mile distant, looking on in sulky silence while the train crawled toward the protecting bluff. "Hurrah!" shouted Thurstane. "That was quick work. Delgadito doesn't take his punishment well." "Reckon they see we had friends," observed Captain Glover. "Jest look at them critters pile down the mounting. Darned if they don't skip like nanny-goats." Down the huge steep slope, springing along rocky, sinuous paths or over the walls of the terraces, came a hundred or a hundred and fifty men, running with a speed which, considering the nature of the footing, was marvellous. Before many in the train were aware of their approach, they were already among the wagons, rushing up to the travellers with outstretched hands, the most cordial, cheerful, kindly-eyed people that Thurstane had seen in New Mexico. Good features, too; that is, they were handsomer than the usual Indian type; some even had physiognomies which reminded one of Italians. Their hair was fine and glossy for men of their race; and, stranger still, it bore an appearance of careful combing. Nearly all wore loose cotton trousers or drawers reaching to the knee, with a kind of blouse of woollen or cotton, and over the shoulders a gay woollen blanket tied around the waist. In view of their tidy raiment and their general air of cleanliness, it seemed a mistake to class them as Indians. These were the Moquis, a remnant of one of the semi-civilizations of America, perhaps a colony left behind by the Aztecs in their migrations, or possibly by the temple-builders of Yucatan. Impossible to converse with them. Not a person in the caravan spoke the Moqui tongue, and not a Moqui spoke or understood a word of Spanish or English. But it was evident from their faces and gestures that they were enthusiastically friendly, and that they had rushed down from their fastness to aid the emigrants against the Apaches. There was even a little sally into the plain, the Moquis running a quarter of a mile with amazing agility, spreading out into a loose skirmishing line of battle, brandishing their bows and defying the enemy to battle. But this ended in nothing; the Apaches sullenly cantered away; the others soon checked their pursuit. Now came the question of encampment. To get the wagons up the bluff, eight hundred feet or so in height, along a path which had been cut in the rock or built up with stone, was obviously impossible. Would there be safety where they were, just at the base of the noble slope? The Moquis assured them by signs that the plundering horse-Indians never came so near the pueblos. Camp then; the wagons were parked as usual in a hollow square; the half-starved animals were unharnessed and allowed to fly at the abundant grass; the cramped and wearied travellers threw themselves on the ground with delight. "What a charming people these Monkeys are!" said Aunt Maria, surveying the neat and smiling villagers with approval. "Moquis," Coronado corrected her, with a bow. "Oh, Mo-kies," repeated Aunt Maria, this time catching the sound exactly. "Well, I propose to see as much of them as possible. Why shouldn't the women and the wounded sleep in the city?" "It is an excellent idea," assented Coronado, although he thought with distaste that this would bring Clara and Thurstane together, while he would be at a distance. "I suppose we shall get an idea from it of the ancient city of Mexico, as described by Prescott," continued the enthusiastic lady. "You will discover a few deviations in the ground plan," returned Coronado, for once ironical. Aunt Maria's suggestion with regard to the women and the wounded was adopted. The Moquis seemed to urge it; so at least they were understood. Within a couple of hours after the halt a procession of the feebler folk commenced climbing the bluff, accompanied by a crowd of the hospitable Indians. The winding and difficult path swarmed for a quarter of a mile with people in the gayest of blankets, some ascending with the strangers and some coming down to greet them. "I should think we were going up to the Temple of the Sun to be sacrified," said Clara, who had also read Prescott. "To be worshipped," ventured Thurstane, giving her a look which made her blush, the boldest look that he had yet ventured. The terraces, as we have stated, were faced with partially dressed stone. They were in many places quite broad, and were cultivated everywhere with admirable care, presenting long green lines of corn fields or of peach orchards. Half-way up the ascent was a platform of more than ordinary spaciousness which contained a large reservoir, built of chipped stone strongly cemented, and brimming with limpid water. From this cistern large earthen pipes led off in various directions to irrigate the terraces below. "It seems to me that we are discovering America," exclaimed Aunt Maria, her face scarlet with exercise and enthusiasm. Presently she asked, in full faith that she was approaching a metropolis, "What is the name of the city?" "This must be Tegua," replied Thurstane. "Tegua is the most eastern of the Moqui pueblos. There are three on this bluff. Mooshaneh and two others are on a butte to the west. Oraybe is further north." "What a powerful confederacy!" said Aunt Maria. "The United States of the Moquis!" After a breathless ascent of at least eight hundred feet, they reached the undulated, barren, rocky surface of a plateau. Here the whole population of Tegua had collected; and for the first time the visitors saw Moqui women and children. Aunt Maria was particularly pleased with the specimens of her own sex; she went into ecstasies over their gentle physiognomies and their well-combed, carefully braided, glossy hair; she admired their long gowns of black woollen, each with a yellow stripe around the waist and a border of the same at the bottom. "Such a sensible costume!" she said. "So much more rational and convenient than our fashionable fripperies!" Another fact of great interest was that the Moquis were lighter complexioned than Indians in general. And when she discovered a woman with fair skin, blue eyes, and yellow hair--one of those albinos who are found among the inhabitants of the pueblos--she went into an excitement which was nothing less than ethnological. "These are white people," she cried, losing sight of all the brown faces. "They are some European race which colonized America long before that modern upstart, Columbus. They are undoubtedly the descendants of the Northmen who built the old mill at Newport and sculptured the Dighton Rock." "There is a belief," said Thurstane, "that some of these pueblo people, particularly those of Zuni, are Welsh. A Welsh prince named Madoc, flying before the Saxons, is said to have reached America. There are persons who hold that the descendants of his followers built the mounds in the Mississippi Valley, and that some of them became the white Mandans of the upper Missouri, and that others founded this old Mexican civilization. Of course it is all guess-work. There's nothing about it in the Regulations." "I consider it highly probable," asserted Aunt Maria, forgetting her Scandinavian hypothesis. "I don't see how you can doubt that that flaxen-haired girl is a descendant of Medoc, Prince of Wales." "Madoc," corrected Thurstane. "Well, Madoc then," replied Aunt Maria rather pettishly, for she was dreadfully tired, and moreover she didn't like Thurstane. A few minutes' walk brought them to the rampart which surrounded the pueblo. Its foundation was a solid blind wall, fifteen feet or so in height, and built of hewn stone laid in clay cement. Above was a second wall, rising from the first as one terrace rises from another, and surmounted by a third, which was also in terrace fashion. The ground tier of this stair-like structure contained the storerooms of the Moquis, while the upper tiers were composed of their two-story houses, the entire mass of masonry being upward of thirty feet high, and forming a continuous line of fortification. This rampart of dwellings was in the shape of a rectangle, and enclosed a large square or plaza containing a noble reservoir. Compact and populous, at once a castle and a city, the place could defy all the horse Indians of North America. "Bless me! this is sublime but dreadful," said Aunt Maria when she learned that she must ascend to the landing of the lower wall by a ladder. "No gate? Isn't there a window somewhere that I could crawl through? Well, well! Dear me! But it's delightful to see how safe these excellent people have made themselves." So with many tremblings, and with the aid of a lariat fastened around her waist and vigorously pulled from above by two Moquis, Aunt Maria clutched and scraped her way to the top of the foundation terrace. "I shall never go down in the world," she remarked with a shuddering glance backward. "I shall pass the rest of my days here." From the first platform the travellers were led to the second and third by stone stairways. They were now upon the inside of the rectangle, and could see two stories of doors facing the plaza and the reservoir in its centre, the whole scene cheerful with the gay garments and smiling faces of the Moquis. "Beautiful!" said Aunt Maria. "That court is absolutely swept and dusted. One might give a ball there. I should like to hear Lucretia Mott speak in it." Her reflections were interrupted by the courteous gestures of a middle-aged, dignified Moqui, who was apparently inviting the party to enter one of the dwellings. Pepita and the other two Indian women, with the wounded muleteers, were taken to another house. Aunt Maria, Clara, Thurstane, and Phineas Glover entered the residence of the chief, and found themselves in a room six or seven feet high, fifteen feet in length and ten in breadth. The floor was solid, polished clay; the walls were built of the large, sunbaked bricks called adobes; the ceilings were of beams, covered by short sticks, with adobes over all. Skins, bows and arrows, quivers, antlers, blankets, articles of clothing, and various simple ornaments hung on pegs driven into the walls or lay packed upon shelves. "They are a musical race, I see," observed Aunt Maria, pointing to a pair of painted drumsticks tipped with gay feathers, and a reed wind-instrument with a bell-shaped mouth like a clarionet. "Of course they are. The Welsh were always famous for their bards and their harpers. Does anybody in our party speak Welsh? What a pity we are such ignoramuses! We might have an interesting conversation with these people. I should so like to hear their traditions about the voyage across the Atlantic and the old mill at Newport." Her remarks were interrupted by a short speech from the chief, whom she at first understood as relating the adventures of his ancestors, but who finally made it clear that he was asking them to take seats. After they were arranged on a row of skins spread along the wall, a shy, meek, and pretty Moqui woman passed around a vase of water for drinking and a tray which contained something not unlike a bundle of blue wrapping paper. "Is this to wipe our hands on?" inquired Aunt Maria, bringing her spectacles to bear on the contents of the tray. "It smells like corn bread," said Clara. So it was. The corn of the Moquis is blue, and grinding does not destroy the color. The meal is stirred into a thin gruel and cooked by pouring over smooth, flat, heated stones, the light shining tissues being rapidly taken off and folded, and subsequently made up in bundles. The party made a fair meal off the blue wrapping paper. Then the meek-eyed woman reappeared, removed the dishes, returned once more, and looked fixedly at Thurstane's bloody sleeve. "Certainly!" said Aunt Maria. "Let her dress your arm. I have no doubt that unpretending woman knows more about surgery than all the men doctors in New York city. Let her dress it." Thurstane partially threw off his coat and rolled up his shirt sleeve. Clara gave one glance at the huge white arm with the small crimson hole in it, and turned away with a thrill which was new to her. The Moqui woman washed the wound, applied a dressing which looked like chewed leaves, and put on a light bandage. "Does it feel any better?" asked Aunt Maria eagerly. "It feels cooler," said Thurstane. Aunt Maria looked as if she thought him very ungrateful for not saying that he was entirely well. "An' my nose," suggested Glover, turning up his lacerated proboscis. "Yes, certainly; your poor nose," assented Aunt Maria. "Let the lady cure it." The female surgeon fastened a poultice upon the tattered cartilage by passing a bandage around the skipper's sandy and bristly head. "Works like a charm 'n' smells like peach leaves," snuffled the patient. "It's where it's handy to sniff at--that's a comfort." After much dumb show, arrangements were made for the night. One of the inner rooms was assigned to Mrs. Stanley and Clara, and another to Thurstane and Glover. Bedding, provisions, and some small articles as presents for the Moquis were sent up from the train by Coronado. But would the wagons, the animals, and the human members of the party below be safe during the night? Young as he was, and wounded as he was, Thurstane was so badgered by his army habit of incessant responsibility that he could not lie down to rest until he had visited the camp and examined personally into probabilities of attack and means of defence. As he descended the stony path which scored the side of the butte, his anxiety was greatly increased by the appearance of a party of armed Moquis rushing like deer down the steep slope, as if to repel an attack. CHAPTER XIV. Thurstane found the caravan in excellent condition, the mules being tethered at the reservoir half-way up the acclivity, and the wagons parked and guarded as usual, with Weber for officer of the night. "We are in no tanger, Leftenant," said the sergeant. "A large barty of these bueplo beeble has shust gone to the vront. They haf daken atfandage of our bresence to regover a bortion of the blain. I haf sent Kelly along to look after them a leetle und make them keep a goot watch. We are shust as safe as bossible. Und to-morrow we will basture the animals. It is a goot blace for a gamp, Leftenant, und we shall pe all right in a tay or two." "Does Shubert's leg need attention?" "No. It is shust nothing. Shupert is for tuty." "And you feel perfectly able to take care of yourselves here?" "Berfectly, Leftenant." "Forty rounds apiece!" "They are issued, Leftenant." "If you are attacked, fire heavily; and if the attack is sharp, retreat to the bluff. Never mind the wagons; they can be recovered." "I will opey your instructions, Leftenant." Thurstane was feverish and exhausted; he knew that Weber was as good a soldier as himself; and still he went back to the village with an anxious heart; such is the tenderness of the military conscience as to _duty_. By the time he reached the upper landing of the wall of the pueblo it was sunset, and he paused to gaze at a magnificent landscape, the _replica_ of the one which he had seen at sunrise. There were buttes, valleys, and cañons, the vast and lofty plateaus of the north, the ranges of the Navajo country, the Sierra del Carrizo, and the ice peaks of Monte San Francisco. It was sublime, savage, beautiful, horrible. It seemed a revelation from some other world. It was a nightmare of nature. Clara met him on the landing with the smile which she now often gave him. "I was anxious about you," she said. "You were too weak to go down there. You look very tired. Do come and eat, and then rest. You will make yourself sick. I was quite anxious about you." It was a delightful repetition. How his heart and his eyes thanked her for being troubled for his sake! He was so cheered that in a moment he did not seem to be tired at all. He could have watched all that night, if it had been necessary for her safety, or even for her comfort. The soul certainly has a great deal to do with the body. While our travellers sleep, let us glance at the singular people among whom they have found refuge. It is said hesitatingly, by scholars who have not yet made comparative studies of languages, that the Moquis are not _red men_, like the Algonquins, the Iroquois, the Lenni-Lenape, the Sioux, and in general those whom we know as _Indians_. It is said, moreover, that they are of the same generic stock with the Aztecs of Mexico, the ancient Peruvians, and all the other city-building peoples of both North and South America. It was an evil day for the brown race of New Mexico when horses strayed from the Spanish settlements into the desert, and the savage red tribes became cavalry. This feeble civilization then received a more cruel shock than that which had been dealt it by the storming columns of the conquistadors. The horse transformed the Utes, Apaches, Comanches, and Navajos from snapping-turtles into condors. Thenceforward, instead of crawling in slow and feeble bands to tease the dense populations of the pueblos, they could come like a tornado, and come in a swarm. At no time were the Moquis and their fellow agriculturists and herdsmen safe from robbery and slaughter. Such villages as did not stand upon buttes inaccessible to horsemen, and such as did not possess fertile lands immediately under the shelter of their walls, were either abandoned or depopulated by slow starvation. It is thus that we may account for many of the desolate cities which are now found in Arizona, New Mexico, and Utah. Not of course for all; some, we know, were destroyed by the early Spaniards; others may have been forsaken because their tillable lands became exhausted; others doubtless fell during wars between different tribes of the brown race. But the cavalry of the desert must necessarily have been a potent instrument of destruction. It is a pathetic spectacle, this civilization which has perished, or is perishing, without the poor consolation of a history to record its sufferings. It comes near to being a repetition of the silent death of the flint and bronze races, the mound-raisers, and cave-diggers, and cromlech-builders of Europe. Captain Phineas Glover, rising at an early hour in the morning, and having had his nosebag of medicament refilled and refitted, set off on an appetizer around the ramparts of the pueblo, and came back marvelling. "Been out to shake hands with these clever critters," he said. "Best behavin' 'n' meekest lookin' Injuns I ever see. Put me in mind o' cows 'n' lambs. An' neat! 'Most equal to Amsterdam Dutch. Seen a woman sweepin' up her husband's tobacco ashes 'n' carryin' 'em out to throw over the wall. Jest what they do in Broek. Ever been in Broek? Tell ye 'bout it some time. But how d'ye s'pose this town was built? _I_ didn't see no stun up here that was fit for quarryin'. So I put it to a lot of fellers where they got their buildin' m'ter'ls. Wal, after figurin' round a spell, 'n' makin' signs by the schuner load, found out the hull thing. Every stun in this place was whittled out 'f the ruff-scuff at the bottom of the mounting, 'n' fetched up here in blankets on men's shoulders. All the mud, too, to make their bricks, was backed up in the same way. Feller off with his blanket 'n' showed me how they did it. Beats all. Wust of it was, couldn't find out how long it took 'em, nor how the job was lotted out to each one." "I suppose they made their women do it," said Aunt Maria grimly. "Men usually put all the hard work on women." "Wal, women folks do a heap," admitted Glover, who never contradicted anybody. "But there's reason to entertain a hope that they didn't take the brunt of it here. I looked over into the gardens down b'low the town, 'n' see men plantin' corn, 'n' tendin' peach trees, but didn't see no women at it. The women was all in the houses, spinnin', weavin', sewin', 'n' fixin' up ginerally." "Remarkable people!" exclaimed Aunt Maria. "They are at least as civilized as we. Very probably more so. Of course they are. I must learn whether the women vote, or in any way take part in the government. If so, these Indians are vastly our superiors, and we must sit humbly at their feet." During this talk the worn and wounded Thurstane had been lying asleep. He now appeared from his dormitory, nodded a hasty good-morning, and pushed for the door. "Train's all right," said Glover. "Jest took a squint at it. Peaceful's a ship becalmed. Not a darned Apache in sight." "You are sure?" demanded the young officer. "Better get some more peach-leaf pain-killer on your arm 'n' set straight down to breakfast." "If the Apaches have vamosed, Coronado might join us," suggested Thurstane. "Never!" answered Mrs. Stanley with solemnity. "His ancestor stormed Cibola and ravaged this whole country. If these people should hear his name pronounced, and suspect his relationship to their oppressor, they might massacre him." "That was three hundred years ago," smiled the wretch of a lieutenant. "It doesn't matter," decided Mrs. Stanley. And so Coronado, thanks to one of his splendid inventions, was not invited up to the pueblo. The travellers spent the day in resting, in receiving a succession of pleasant, tidy visitors, and in watching the ways of the little community. The weather was perfect, for while the season was the middle of May, and the latitude that of Algeria and Tunis, they were nearly six thousand feet above the level of the sea, and the isolated butte was wreathed with breezes. It was delightful to sit or stroll on the landings of the ramparts, and overlook the flourishing landscape near at hand, and the peaceful industry which caused it to bloom. Along the hillside, amid the terraced gardens of corn, pumpkins, guavas, and peaches, many men and children were at work, with here and there a woman. The scene had not only its charms, but its marvels. Besides the grand environment of plateaus and mountains in the distance, there were near at hand freaks of nature such as one might look for in the moon. Nowhere perhaps has the great water erosion of bygone aeons wrought more grotesquely and fantastically than in the Moqui basin. To the west rose a series of detached buttes, presenting forms of castles, towers, and minarets, which looked more like the handiwork of man than the pueblo itself. There were piles of variegated sandstone, some of them four hundred feet in height, crowned by a hundred feet of sombre trap. Internal fire had found vent here; its outflowings had crystallized into columnar trap; the trap had protected the underlying sandstone from cycles of water-flow; thus had been fashioned these sublime donjons and pinnacles. They were not only sublime but beautiful. The sandstone, reduced by ages to a crumbling marl, was of all colors. There were layers of green, reddish-brown, drab, purple, red, yellow, pinkish, slate, light-brown, orange, white, and banded. Nature, not contented with building enchanted palaces, had frescoed them. At this distance, indeed, the separate tints of the strata could not be discerned, but their general effect of variegation was distinctly visible, and the result was a landscape of the Thousand and One Nights. To the south were groups of crested mounds, some of them resembling the spreading stumps of trees, and others broad-mouthed bells, all of vast magnitude. These were of sandstone marl, the caps consisting of hard red and green shales, while the swelling boles, colored by gypsum, were as white as loaf-sugar. It was another specimen of the handiwork of deluges which no man can number. Far away to the southwest, and yet faintly seen through the crystalline atmosphere, were the many-colored knolls and rolls and cliffs of the Painted Desert. Marls, shales, and sandstones, of all tints, were strewn and piled into a variegated vista of sterile splendor. Here surely enchantment and glamour had made undisputed abode. All day the wounded and the women reposed, gazing a good deal, but sleeping more. During the afternoon, however, our wonder-loving Mrs. Stanley roused herself from her lethargy and rushed into an adventure such as only she knew how to find. In the morning she had noticed, at the other end of the pueblo from her quarters, a large room which was frequented by men alone. It might be a temple; it might be a hall for the transaction of public business; such were the diverse guesses of the travellers. Into the mysteries of this apartment Aunt Maria resolved to poke. She reached it; nobody was in it; suspicious circumstance! Aunt Maria put an end to this state of questionable solitude by entering. A dark room; no light except from a trap door; a very proper place for improper doings. At one end rose a large, square block of red sandstone, on which was carved a round face environed by rays, probably representing the sun. Aunt Maria remembered the sacrificial altars of the Aztecs, and judged that the old sanguinary religion of Tenochtitlan was not yet extinct. She became more convinced of this terrific fact when she discovered that the red tint of the stone was deepened in various places by stains which resembled blood. Three or four horrible suggestions arose in succession to jerk at her heartstrings. Were these Moquis still in the habit of offering human sacrifices? Would a woman answer their purpose, and particularly a white woman? If they should catch her there, in the presence of their deity, would they consider it a leading of Providence? Aunt Maria, notwithstanding her curiosity and courage, began to feel a desire to retreat. Her reflections were interrupted and her emotions accelerated by darkness. Evidently the door had been shut; then she heard a rustling of approaching feet and an awful whispering; then projected hands impeded her gropings toward safety. While she stood still, too completely blinded to fly and too frightened to scream, a light gleamed from behind the altar and presently rose into a flame. The sacred fire!--she knew it as soon as she saw it; she remembered Prescott, and recognized it at a glance. By its flickering rays she perceived that the apartment was full of men, all robed in blankets of ebony blackness, and all gazing at her in solemn silence. Two of them, venerable elders with long white hair, stood in front of the others, making genuflexions and signs of adoration toward the carved face on the altar. Presently they advanced to her, one of them suddenly seizing her by the shoulders and pinioning her arms behind her, while the other drew from beneath his robe a long sharp knife of the glassy flint known as obsidian. At this point the horrified Aunt Maria found her voice, and uttered a piercing scream. At the close of her scream she by a supreme effort turned on her side, raised her hands to her face, rubbed her eyes open, stared at Clara, who was lying near her, and mumbled, "I've had an awful nightmare." That was it. There was no altar, nor holy fire, nor high priest, nor flint lancet. She hadn't been anywhere, and she hadn't even screamed, except in imagination. She was on her blanket, alongside of her niece, in the house of the Moqui chief, and as safe as need be. CHAPTER XV. But the visionary terror had scarcely gone when a real one came. Coronado appeared--Coronado, the descendant of the great Vasquez--Coronado, whom the Moquis would destroy if they heard his name--of whom they would not leave two limbs or two fingers together. From her dormitory she saw him walk into the main room of the house in his airiest and cheeriest manner, bowing and smiling to right, bowing and smiling to left, winning Moqui hearts in a moment, a charmer of a Coronado. He shook hands with the chief; he shook hands with all the head men; next a hand to Thurstane and another to Glover. Mrs. Stanley heard him addressed as Coronado; she looked to see him scattered in rags on the floor; she tried to muster courage to rush to his rescue. There was no outcry of rage at the sound of the fatal name, and she could not perceive that a Moqui countenance smiled the less for it. Coronado produced a pipe, filled it, lighted it, and handed it to the chief. That dignitary took it, bowed gravely to each of the four points of the compass, exhaled a few whiffs, and passed it to his next blanketed neighbor, who likewise saluted the four cardinal points, smoked a little, and sent it on. Mrs. Stanley drew a sigh of relief; the pipe of peace had been used, and there would be no bloodshed; she saw the whole bearing of her favorite's audacious manoeuvre at a glance. Coronado now glided into the obscure room where she and Clara were sitting on their blankets and skins. He kissed his hand to the one and the other, and rolled out some melodious congratulations. "You reckless creature!" whispered Aunt Maria. "How dared you come up here?" "Why so?" asked the Mexican, for once puzzled. "Your name! Your ancestor!" "Ah!!" and Coronado smiled mysteriously. "There is no danger. We are under the protection of the American eagle. Moreover, hospitalities have been interchanged." Next the experiences of the last twenty-four hours, first Mrs. Stanley's version and then Coronado's, were related. He had little to tell: there had been a quiet night and much slumber; the Moquis had stood guard and been every way friendly; the Apaches had left the valley and gone to parts unknown. The truth is that he had slept more than half of the time. Journeying, fighting, watching, and anxiety had exhausted him as well as every one else, and enabled him to plunge into slumber with a delicious consciousness of it as a restorative and a luxury. Now that he was himself again, he wondered at what he had been. For two days he had faced death, fighting like a legionary or a knight-errant, and in short playing the hero. What was there in his nature, or what had there been in his selfish and lazy life, that was akin to such fine frenzies? As he remembered it all, he hardly knew himself for the same old Coronado. Well, being safe again, he was a devoted lover again, and he must get on with his courtship. Considering that Clara and Thurstane, if left much together here in the pueblo, might lead each other into the temptation of a betrothal, he decided that he must be at hand to prevent such a catastrophe, and so here he was. Presently he began to talk to the girl in Spanish; then he begged the aunt's pardon for speaking what was to her an unknown tongue; but he had, he said, some family matters for his cousin's ear; would Mrs. Stanley be so good as to excuse him? "Certainly," returned that far-sighted woman, guessing what the family matters might be, and approving them. "By the way, I have something to do," she added. "I must attend to it immediately." By this time she remembered all about her nightmare, and she was in a state of inflammation as to the Moqui religion. If the dream were true, if the Moquis were in the habit of sacrificing strong-minded women or any kind of women, she must know it and put a stop to it. Stepping into the central room, where Thurstane and Glover were smoking with a number of Indians, she said in her prompt, positive way, "I must look into these people's religion. Does anybody know whether they have any?" The Lieutenant had a spark or two of information on the subject. Through the medium of a Navajo who had strolled into the pueblo, and who spoke a little Spanish and a good deal of Moqui, he had been catechising the chief as to manners, customs, etc. "I understand," he said, "that they have a sacred fire which they never suffer to go out. They are believed to worship the sun, like the ancient Aztecs. The sacred fire seems to confirm the suspicion." "Sacred fire! vestal virgins, too, I suppose! can they be Romans?" reasoned Aunt Maria, beginning to doubt Prince Madoc. "The vestal virgins here are old men," replied Ralph, wickedly pleased to get a joke on the lady. "Oh! The Moquis are not Romans," decided Mrs Stanley. "Well, what do these old men do?" "Keep the fire burning." "What if it should go out? What would happen?" "I don't know," responded the sub-acid Thurstane. "I didn't suppose you did," said Aunt Maria pettishly. "Captain Glover, I want you to come with me." Followed by the subservient skipper, she marched to the other end of the pueblo. There was the mysterious apartment; it was not really a temple, but a sort of public hall and general lounging place; such rooms exist in the Spanish-speaking pueblos of Zuni and Laguna, and are there called _estufas_. The explorers soon discovered that the only entrance into the estufa was by a trapdoor and a ladder. Now Aunt Maria hated ladders: they were awkward for skirts, and moreover they made her giddy; so she simply got on her knees and peeped through the trap-door. But there was a fire directly below, and there was also a pretty strong smell of pipes of tobacco, so that she saw nothing and was stifled and disgusted. She sent Glover down, as people lower a dog into a mine where gases are suspected. After a brief absence the skipper returned and reported. "Pooty sizable room. Dark's a pocket 'n' hot's a footstove. Three or four Injuns talkin' 'n' smokin'. Scrap 'f a fire smoulder'in a kind 'f standee fireplace without any top." "That's the sacred fire," said Aunt Maria. "How many old men were watching it?" "Didn't see _any_." "They must have been there. Did you put the fire out?" "No water handy," explained the prudent Glover. "You might have--expectorated on it." "Reckon I didn't miss it," said the skipper, who was a chewer of tobacco and a dead shot with his juice. "Of course nothing happened." "Nary." "I knew there wouldn't," declared the lady triumphantly. "Well, now let us go back. We know something about the religion of these people. It is certainly a very interesting study." "Didn't appear to me much l'k a temple," ventured Glover. "Sh'd say t'was a kind 'f gineral smokin' room 'n' jawin' place. Git together there 'n' talk crops 'n' 'lections 'n' the like." "You must be mistaken," decided Aunt Maria. "There was the sacred fire." She now led the willing captain (for he was as inquisitive as a monkey) on a round of visits to the houses of the Moquis. She poked smiling through their kitchens and bedrooms, and gained more information than might have been expected concerning their spinning and weaving, cheerfully spending ten minutes in signs to obtain a single idea. "Never shear their sheep till they are dead!" she exclaimed when that fact had been gestured into her understanding. "Absurd! There's another specimen of masculine stupidity. I'll warrant you, if the women had the management of things, the good-for-nothing brutes would be sheared every day." "Jest as they be to hum," slily suggested Glover, who knew better. "Certainly," said Aunt Maria, aware that cows were milked daily. The Moquis were very hospitable; they absolutely petted the strangers. At nearly every house presents were offered, such as gourds full of corn, strings of dried peaches, guavas as big as pomegranates, or bundles of the edible wrapping paper, all of which Aunt Maria declined with magnanimous waves of the hand and copious smiles. Curious and amiable faces peeped at the visitors from the landings and doorways. "How mild and good they all look!" said Aunt Maria. "They put me in mind somehow of Shenstone's pastorals. How humanizing a pastoral life is, to be sure! On the whole, I admire their way of not shearing their sheep alive. It isn't stupidity, but goodness of heart. A most amiable people!" "Jest so," assented Glover. "How it must go ag'in the grain with 'em to take a skelp when it comes in the way of dooty! A man oughter feel willin' to be skelped by sech tender-hearted critters." "Pshaw!" said Aunt Maria. "I don't believe they ever scalp anybody--unless it is in self-defence." "Dessay. Them fellers that went down to fight the Apaches was painted up's savage's meat-axes. Probably though 'twas to use up some 'f their paint that was a wastin'. Equinomical, I sh'd say." Mrs. Stanley did not see her way clear to comment either upon the fact or the inference. There were times when she did not understand Glover, and this was one of the times. He had queer twistical ways of reasoning which often proved the contrary of what he seemed to want to prove; and she had concluded that he was a dark-minded man who did not always know what he was driving at; at all events, a man not invariably comprehensible by clear intellects. Her attention was presently engaged by a stir in the pueblo. Great things were evidently at hand; some spectacle was on the point of presentation; what was it? Aunt Maria guessed marriage, and Captain Glover guessed a war-dance; but they had no argument, for the skipper gave in. Meantime the Moquis, men, women, and children, all dressed in their gayest raiment, were gathering in groups on the landings and in the square. Presently there was a crowd, a thousand or fifteen hundred strong; at last appeared the victims, the performers, or whatever they were. "Dear me!" murmured Aunt Maria. "Twenty weddings at once! I hope divorce is frequent." Twenty men and twenty women advanced to the centre of the plaza in double file and faced each other. The dance began; the performers furnished their own music; each rolled out a deep _aw aw aw_ under his visor. "Sounds like a swarm of the biggest kind of blue-bottle flies inside the biggest kind 'f a sugar hogset," was Glover's description. The movement was as monotonous as the melody. The men and women faced each other without changing positions; there was an alternate lifting of the feet, in time with the _aw aw_ and the rattling of the gourds; now and then there was a simultaneous about face. After a while, open ranks; then rugs and blankets were brought; the maidens sat down and the men danced at them; trot trot, aw aw, and rattle rattle. Every third girl now received a large empty gourd, a grooved board, and the dry shoulder-bone of a sheep. Laying the board on the gourd, she drew the bone sharply across the edges of the wood, thus producing a sound like a watchman's rattle. They danced once on each side of the square; then retired to a house and rested fifteen minutes; then recommenced their trot. Meanwhile maidens with large baskets ran about among the spectators, distributing meat, roasted ears of corn, sheets of bread, and guavas. So the gayety went on until the sun and the visitors alike withdrew. "After all, I think it is more interesting than our marriages," declared Aunt Maria. "I wonder if we ought to make presents to the wedded couples. There are a good many of them." She was quite amazed when she learned that this was not a wedding, but a rain-dance, and that the maidens whom she had admired were boys dressed up in female raiment, the customs of the Moquis not allowing women to take part in public spectacles. "What exquisite delicacy!" was her consolatory comment. "Well, well, this is the golden age, truly." When further informed that in marriage among the Moquis it is woman who takes the initiative, the girl pointing out the young man of her heart and the girl's father making the offer, which is never refused, Mrs. Stanley almost shed tears of gratification. Here was something like woman's rights; here was a flash of the glorious dawn of equality between the sexes; for when she talked of equality she meant female preëminence. "And divorces?" she eagerly asked. "They are at the pleasure of the parties," explained Thurstane, who had been catechising the chief at great length through his Navajo. "And who, in case of a divorce, cares for the children?" "The grandparents." Aunt Maria came near clapping her hands. This was better than Connecticut or Indiana. A woman here might successively marry all the men whom she might successively fancy, and thus enjoy a perpetual gush of the affections and an unruffled current of happiness. To such extreme views had this excellent creature been led by brooding over what she called the wrongs of her sex and the legal tyranny of the other. But we must return to Coronado and Clara. The man had come up to the pueblo on purpose to have a plain talk with the girl and learn exactly what she meant to do with him. It was now more than a week since he had offered himself, and in that time she had made no sign which indicated her purpose. He had looked at her and sighed at her without getting a response of any sort. This could not go on; he must know how she felt towards him; he must know how much, she cared for Thurstane. How else could he decide what to do with her and with _him_? Thus, while the other members of the party were watching the Moqui dances, Coronado and Clara were talking matters of the heart, and were deciding, unawares to her, questions of life and death. CHAPTER XVI. It must be remembered that when Mrs. Stanley carried off skipper Glover to help her investigate the religion of the Moquis, she left Coronado alone with Clara in one of the interior rooms of the chief's house. Thurstane, to be sure, was in the next room and in sight; but he had with him the chief, two other leading Moquis, and his chance Navajo interpreter; they were making a map of the San Juan country by scratching with an arrow-point on the clay floor; everybody was interested in the matter, and there was a pretty smart jabbering. Thus Coronado could say his say without being overheard or interrupted. For a little while he babbled commonplaces. The truth is that the sight of the girl had unsettled his resolutions a little. While he was away from her, he could figure to himself how he would push her into taking him at once, or how, if she refused him, he would let loose upon her the dogs of fate. But once face to face with her, he found that his resolutions had dispersed like a globule of mercury under a hammer, and that he needed a few moments to scrape them together again. So he prattled nothings while he meditated; and you would have thought that he cared for the nothings. He had that faculty; he could mentally ride two horses at once; he would have made a good diplomatist. His mind glanced at the past while it peered into the future. What a sinuous underground plot the superficial incidents of this journey covered! To his fellow-travellers it was a straight line; to him it was a complicated and endless labyrinth. How much more he had to think of than they! Only he knew that Pedro Muñoz was dead, that Clara Van Diemen was an heiress, that she was in danger of being abandoned to the desert, that Thurstane was in danger of assassination. Nothing that he had set out to do was yet done, and some of it he must absolutely accomplish, and that shortly. How much? That depended upon this girl. If she accepted him, his course would be simple, and he would be spared the perils of crime. Meantime, he looked at Clara even more frankly and calmly than she looked at him. He showed no guilt or remorse in his face, because he felt none in his heart. It must be understood distinctly that the man was almost as destitute of a conscience as it is possible for a member of civilized society to be. He knew what the world called right and wrong; but the mere opinion of the world had no weight with him; that is, none as against his own opinion. His rule of life was to do what he wanted to do, providing he could accomplish it without receiving a damage. You can hardly imagine a being whose interior existence was more devoid of complexity and of mixed motives than was Coronado's. Thus he was quite able to contemplate the possible death of Clara, and still look her calmly in the face and tell her that he loved her. The girl returned his gaze tranquilly, because she had no suspicions of his profound wickedness. By nature confiding and reverential, she trusted those who professed friendship, and respected those who were her elders, especially if they belonged in any manner to her own family. Considering herself under obligations to Coronado, and not guessing that he was capable of doing her a harm, she was truly grateful to him and wished him well with all her heart. If her eye now and then dropped under his, it was because she feared a repetition of his offer of marriage, and hated to pain him with a refusal. The commonplaces lasted longer than the man had meant, for he could not bring himself promptly to take the leap of fate. But at last came the dance; the chief and his comrades led Thurstane away to look at it; now was the time to talk of this fateful betrothal. "Something is passing outside," observed Clara. "Shall we go to see?" "I am entirely at your command," replied Coronado, with his charming air of gentle respect. "But if you can give me a few minutes of your time, I shall be very grateful." Clara's heart beat violently, and her cheeks and neck flushed with spots of red, as she sank back upon her seat. She guessed what was coming; she had been a good deal afraid of it all the time; it was her only cause of dreading Coronado. "I venture to hope that you have been good enough to think of what I said to you a week ago," he went on. "Yes, it was a week ago. It seems to me a year." "It seems a long time," stammered Clara. So it did, for the days since had been crammed with emotions and events, and they gave her young mind an impression of a long period passed. "I have been so full of anxiety!" continued Coronado. "Not about our dangers," he asserted with a little bravado. "Or, rather, not about mine. For you I have been fearful. The possibility that you might fall into the hands of the Apaches was a horror to me. But, after all, my chief anxiety was to know what would be your final answer to me. Yes, my beautiful and very dear cousin, strange as it may seem under our circumstances, this thought has always outweighed with me all our dangers." Coronado, as we have already declared, was really in love with Clara. It seems incredible, at first glance, that a man who had no conscience could have a heart. But the assertion is not a fairy story; it is founded in solid philosophy. It is true that Coronado's moral education had been neglected or misdirected; that he was either born indifferent to the idea of duty, or had become indifferent to it; and that he was an egotist of the first water, bent solely upon favoring and gratifying himself. But while his nature was somewhat chilled by these things, he had the hottest of blood in his veins, he possessed a keen perception of the beautiful, and so he could desire with fury. His love could not be otherwise than selfish; but it was none the less capable of ruling him tyrannically. Just at this moment his intensity of feeling made him physically imposing and almost fascinating. It seemed to remove a veil from his usually filmy black eyes, and give him power for once to throw out all of truth that there was in his soul. It communicated to his voice a tremor which made it eloquent. He exhaled, as it were, an aroma of puissant emotion which was intoxicating, and which could hardly fail to act upon the sensitive nature of woman. Clara was so agitated by this influence, that for the moment she seemed to herself to know no man in the world but Coronado. Even while she tried to remember Thurstane, he vanished as if expelled by some enchantment, and left her alone in life with her tempter. Still she could not or would not answer; though she trembled, she remained speechless. "I have asked you to be my wife," resumed Coronado, seeing that he must urge her. "I venture now to ask you again. I implore you not to refuse me. I cannot be refused. It would make me utterly wretched. It might perhaps bring wretchedness upon you. I hope not. I could not wish you a pain, though you should give me many. My very dear Clara, I offer you the only love of my life, and the only love that I shall ever offer to any one. Will you take it?" Clara was greatly moved. She could not doubt his sincerity; no one who heard him could have doubted it; he _was_ sincere. To her, young, tender-hearted, capable of loving earnestly, beginning already to know what love is, it seemed a horrible thing to spurn affection. If it had not been for Thurstane, she would have taken Coronado for pity. "Oh, my cousin!" she sighed, and stopped there. Coronado drew courage from the kindly title of relationship, and, leaning gently towards her, attempted to take her hand. It was a mistake; she was strangely shocked by his touch; she perceived that she did not like him, and she drew away from him. "Thank you for that word," he whispered. "Is it the kindest that you can give me? Is there--?" "Coronado!" she interrupted. "This is all an error. See here. I am not an independent creature. I am a young girl. I owe some duty somewhere. My father and mother are gone, but I have a grandfather. Coronado, he is the head of my family, and I ought not to marry without his permission. Why can you not wait until we are with Muñoz?" There she suddenly dropped her head between the palms of her hands. It struck her that she was hypocritical; that even with the consent of Muñoz she would not marry Coronado; that it was her duty to tell him so. "My cousin, I have not told the whole truth," she added, after a terrible struggle. "I would not marry any one without first laying the case before my grandfather. But that is not all. Coronado, I cannot--no, I cannot marry you." The man without a conscience, the man who was capable of planning and ordering murder, turned pale under this announcement. Notwithstanding its commonness, notwithstanding that it has been described until the subject is hackneyed, notwithstanding that it has become a laughing-stock for many, even including poets and novelists, there is probably no heart-pain keener than disappointment in love. The shock of it is like a deep stab; it not merely tortures, but it instantly sickens; the anguish is much, but the sense of helplessness is more; the lover who is refused feels not unlike the soldier who is wounded to death. This sorrow compares in dignity and terror with the most sublime sorrows of which humanity is capable. The death of a parent or child, though rendered more imposing to the spectator by the ceremonies of the sepulchre, does not chill the heart more deeply than the death of love. It lasts also; many a human being has carried the marks of it for life; and surely duration of effect is proof of power. We are serious in making these declarations, strange as they may seem to a satirical age. What we have said is strictly true, notwithstanding the mockery of those who have never loved, or the incredulity of those who, having loved, have never lost. But probably only the wretchedly initiated will believe. Coronado, though selfish, infamous, and atrocious, was so far susceptible of affection that he was susceptible of suffering. The simple fact of pallor in that hardened face was sufficient proof of torture. However, it stood him in hand to recover his self-possession and plead his suit. There was too much at stake in this cause for him to let it go without a struggle and a vehement one. Although he had seen at once that the girl was in earnest, he tried to believe that she was not so, and that he could move her. "My dear cousin!" he implored in a voice that was mellow with agitation, "don't decide against me at once and forever. I must have some hope. Pity me." "Ah, Coronado! Why will you?" urged Clara, in great trouble. "I must! You must not stop me!" he persisted eagerly. "My life is in it. I love you so that I don't know how I shall end if you will not hearken to me. I shall be driven to desperation. Why do you turn away from me? Is it my fault that I care for you? It is your own. You are _so_ beautiful!" "Coronado, I wish I were very ugly," murmured Clara, for the moment sincere in so wishing. "Is there anything you dislike in me? I have been as kind as I knew how to be." "It is true, Coronado. You have overwhelmed me with your goodness. I could go on my knees to thank you." "Then--why?" "Ah! why will you force me to say hard things? Don't you see that it tortures me to refuse you?" "Then why refuse me? Why torture us both?" "Better a little pain now than much through life." "Do you mean to say that you never can--?" He could not finish the question. "It is so, Coronado. I never could have said it myself. But you have said it. I never shall love you." Once more the man felt a cutting and sickening wound, as of a bullet penetrating a vital part. Unable for the moment to say another word, he rose and walked the room in silence. "Coronado, you don't know how sorry I am to grieve you so," cried the girl, almost sobbing. "It seems, too, as if I were ungrateful. I can only beg your pardon for it, and pray that Heaven will reward you." "Heaven!" he returned impatiently. "You are my heaven. You are the only heaven that I know." "Oh, Coronado! Don't say that. I am a poor, sinful, unworthy creature. Perhaps I could not make any one happy long. Believe me, Coronado, I am not worthy to be loved as you love me." "You are!" he said, turning on her passionately and advancing close to her. "You are worthy of my life-long love, and you shall have it. You shall have it, whether you wish it or not. You shall not escape it. I will pursue you with it wherever you go and as long as you live." "Oh! You frighten me. Coronado, I beg of you not to talk to me in that way. I am afraid of you." "What is the cause of this?" he demanded, hoping to daunt her into submission. "There is something in my way. What is it? Who is it?" Clara's paleness turned in an instant to scarlet. "Who is it?" he went on, his voice suddenly becoming hoarse with excitement. "It is some one. Is it this American? This boy of a lieutenant?" Clara, trembling with an agitation which was only in part dismay, remained speechless. "Is it?" he persisted, attempting to seize her hands and looking her fiercely in the eyes. "Is it?" "Coronado, stand back!" said Clara. "Don't you try to take my hands!" She was erect, her eyes flashing, her cheeks spotted with crimson, her expression strangely imposing. The man's courage drooped the moment he saw that she had turned at bay. He walked to the other side of the room, pressed his temples between his palms to quiet their throbbing, and made an effort to recover his self-possession. When he returned to her, after nearly a minute of silence, he spoke quite in his natural manner. "This must pass for the present," he said. "I see that it is useless to talk to you of it now." "I hope you are not angry with me, Coronado." "Let it go," he replied, waving his hand. "I can't speak more of it now." She wanted to say, "Try never to speak of it again;" but she did not dare to anger him further, and she remained silent. "Shall we go to see the dance?" he asked. "I will, if you wish it." "But you would rather stay alone?" "If you please, Coronado." Bowing with an air of profound respect, he went his way alone, glanced at the games of the Moquis, and hurried back to camp, meditating as he went. What now should be done? He was in a state of fury, full of plottings of desperation, swearing to himself that he would show no mercy. Thurstane must die at the first opportunity, no matter if his death should kill Clara. And she? There he hesitated; he could not yet decide what to do with her; could not resolve to abandon her to the wilderness. But to bring about any part of his projects he must plunge still deeper into the untraversed. To him, by the way, as to many others who have had murder at heart, it seemed as if the proper time and place for it would never be found. Not now, but by and by; not here, but further on. Yes, it must be further on; they must set out as soon as possible for the San Juan country; they must get into wilds never traversed by civilized man. To go thither in wagons he had already learned was impossible. The region was a mass of mountains and rocky plateaux, almost entirely destitute of water and forage, and probably forever impassable by wheels. The vehicles must be left here; the whole party must take saddle for the northern desert; and then must come death--or deaths. But while Coronado was thus planning destruction for others, a noiseless, patient, and ferocious enmity was setting its ambush for him. CHAPTER XVII. Shortly after the safe arrival of the train at the base of the Moqui bluff, and while the repulsed and retreating warriors of Delgadito were still in sight two strange Indians cantered up to the park of wagons. They were fine-looking fellows, with high aquiline features, the prominent cheek-bones and copper complexion of the red race, and a bold, martial, trooper-like expression, which was not without its wild good-humor and gayety. One was dressed in a white woollen hunting-shirt belted around the waist, white woollen trousers or drawers reaching to the knee, and deerskin leggins and moccasins. The other had the same costume, except that his drawers were brown and his hunting-shirt blue, while a blanket of red and black stripes drooped from his shoulders to his heels. Their coarse black hair was done up behind in thick braids, and kept out of their faces by a broad band around the temples. Each had a lance eight or ten feet long in his hand, and a bow and quiver slung at his waist-belt. These men were Navajos (Na-va-hos). Two jolly and impudent braves were these visitors. They ate, smoked, lounged about, cracked jokes, and asked for liquor as independently as if the camp were a tavern. Rebuffs only made them grin, and favors only led to further demands. It was hard to say whether they were most wonderful for good-nature or impertinence. Coronado was civil to them. The Navajos abide or migrate on the south, the north, and the west of the Moqui pueblas. He was in a manner within their country, and it was still necessary for him to traverse a broad stretch of it, especially if he should attempt to reach the San Juan. Besides, he wanted them to warn the Apaches out of the neighborhood and thus avert from his head the vengeance of Manga Colorada. Accordingly he gave this pair of roystering troopers a plentiful dinner and a taste of aguardiente. Toward sunset they departed in high good-humor, promising to turn back the hoofs of the Apache horses; and when in the morning Coronado saw no Indians on the plain, he joyously trusted that his visitors had fulfilled their agreement. Somewhere or other, within the next day or two, there was a grand council of the two tribes. We know little of it; we can guess that Manga Colorada must have made great concessions or splendid promises to the Navajos; but it is only certain that he obtained leave to traverse their country. Having secured this privilege, he posted himself fifteen or twenty miles to the southwest of Tegua, behind a butte which was extensive enough to conceal his wild cavalry, even in its grazings. He undoubtedly supposed that, when the train should quit its shelter, it would go to the west or to the south. In either case he was in a position to fall upon it. Did the savage know anything about Coronado? Had he attacked his wagons without being aware that they belonged to the man who had paid him five hundred dollars and sent him to harry Bernalillo? Or had he attacked in full knowledge of this fact, because he had been beaten off the southern trail, and believed that he had been lured thither to be beaten? Had he learned, either from Apaches or Navajos, whose hand it was that slew his boy? We can only ask these questions. One thing alone is positive: there was a debt of blood to be paid. An Indian war is often the result of a private vendetta. The brave is bound, not only by natural affection and family pride, but still more powerfully by sense of honor and by public opinion, to avenge the slaughter of a relative. Whether he wishes it or not, and frequently no doubt when he does not wish it, he must black his face, sing his death-song, set out alone if need be, encounter labors, hardships, and dangers, and never rest until his sanguinary account is settled. The tyranny of Mrs. Grundy in civilized cities and villages is nothing to the despotism which she exercises among those slaves of custom, the red men of the American wildernesses. Manga Colorada, bereaved and with blackened face, lay in wait for the first step of the emigrants outside of their city of refuge. We must return to Coronado. Although Clara's rejection of his suit left him vindictively and desperately eager for a catastrophe of some sort, a week elapsed before he dared take his mad plunge into the northern desert. It was a hundred miles to the San Juan; the intervening country was a waste of rocks, almost entirely destitute of grass and water; the mules and horses must recruit their full strength before they could undertake such a journey. They must not only be strong enough to go, but they must have vital force left to return. It is astonishing what labors and dangers the man was willing to face in his vain search for a spot where he might commit a crime in safety. Such a spot is as difficult to discover as the Fountain of Youth or the Terrestrial Paradise. More than once Coronado sickened of his seemingly hopeless and ever lengthening pilgrimage of sin. Not because it was sinful--he had little or no conscience, remember--only because it was perplexing and perilous. It was in vain that Thurstane protested against the crazy trip northward. Coronado sometimes argued for his plan; said the route improved as it approached the river; hoped the party would not be broken up in this manner; declared that he could not spare his dear friend the lieutenant. Another time he calmly smoked his cigarito, looked at Thurstane with filmy, expressionless eyes, and said, "Of course you are not obliged to accompany us." "I have not the least intention of quitting you," was the rather indignant reply of the young fellow. At this declaration Coronado's long black eyebrows twitched, and his lips curled with the smile of a puma, showing his teeth disagreeably. "My dear lieutenant, that is so like you!" he said. "I own that I expected it. Many thanks." Thurstane's blue-black eyes studied this enigmatic being steadily and almost angrily. He could not at all comprehend the fellow's bland obstinacy and recklessness. "Very well," he said sullenly. "Let us start on our wild-goose chase. What I object to is taking the women with us. As for myself, I am anxious to reach the San Juan and get something to report about it." "The ladies will have a day or two of discomfort," returned Coronado; "but you and I will see that they run no danger." Nine days after the arrival of the emigrants at Tegua they set out for the San Juan. The wagons were left parked at the base of the butte under the care of the Moquis. The expedition was reorganized as follows: On horseback, Clara, Coronado, Thurstane, Texas Smith, and four Mexicans; on mules, Mrs. Stanley, Glover, the three Indian women, the four soldiers, and the ten drivers and muleteers. There were besides eighteen burden mules loaded with provisions and other baggage. In all, five women, twenty-two men, and forty-five animals. The Moquis, to whom some stores and small presents were distributed, overflowed with hospitable offices. The chief had a couple of sheep slaughtered for the travellers, and scores of women brought little baskets of meal, corn, guavas, etc. As the strangers left the pueblo both sexes and all ages gathered on the landings, grouped about the stairways and ladders which led down the rampart, and followed for some distance along the declivity of the butte, holding out their simple offerings and urging acceptance. Aunt Maria was more than ever in raptures with Moquis and women. The chief and several others accompanied the cavalcade for eight or ten miles in order to set it on the right trail for the river. But not one would volunteer as a guide; all shook their heads at the suggestion. "Navajos! Apaches! Comanches!" They had from the first advised against the expedition, and they now renewed their expostulations. Scarcely any grass; no water except at long distances; a barren, difficult, dangerous country: such was the meaning of their dumb show. On the summit of a lofty bluff which commanded a vast view toward the north, they took their leave of the party, struck off in a rapid trot toward the pueblo, and never relaxed their speed until they were out of sight. The adventurers now had under their eyes a large part of the region which they were about to traverse. For several miles the landscape was rolling; then came elevated plateaux rising in successive steps, the most remote being apparently sixty miles away; and the colossal scene was bounded by isolated peaks, at a distance which could not be estimated with anything like accuracy. Ranges, buttes, pinnacles, monumental crags, gullies, shadowy chasms, the beds of perished rivers, the stony wrecks left by unrecorded deluges, diversified this monstrous, sublime, and savage picture. Only here and there, separated by vast intervals of barrenness, could be seen minute streaks of verdure. In general the landscape was one of inhospitable sterility. It could not be imagined by men accustomed only to fertile regions. It seemed to have been taken from some planet not yet prepared for human, nor even for beastly habitation. The emotion which it aroused was not that which usually springs from the contemplation of the larger aspects of nature. It was not enthusiasm; it was aversion and despair. Clara gave one look, and then drew her hat over her eyes with a shudder, not wishing to see more. Aunt Maria, heroic and constant as she was or tried to be, almost lost faith in Coronado and glanced at him suspiciously. Thurstane, sitting bolt upright in his saddle, stared straight before him with a grim frown, meanwhile thinking of Clara. Coronado's eyes were filmy and incomprehensible; he was planning, querying, fearing, almost trembling; when he gave the word to advance, it was without looking up. There was a general feeling that here before them lay a fate which could only be met blindfold. Now came a long descent, avoiding precipices and impracticable slopes, winding from one stony foot-hill to another, until the party reached what had seemed a plain. It was a plain because it was amid mountains; a plain consisting of rolls, ridges, ravines, and gullies; a plain with hardly an acre of level land. All day they journeyed through its savage interstices and struggled with its monstrosities of trap and sandstone. Twice they halted in narrow valleys, where a little loam had collected and a little moisture had been retained, affording meagre sustenance to some thin grass and scattered bushes. The animals browsed, but there was nothing for them to drink, and all began to suffer with thirst. It was seven in the evening, and the sun had already gone down behind the sullen barrier of a gigantic plateau, when they reached the mouth of the cañon which had once contained a river, and discovered by the merest accident that it still treasured a shallow pool of stagnant water. The fevered mules plunged in headlong and drank greedily; the riders were perforce obliged to slake their thirst after them. There was a hastily eaten supper, and then came the only luxury or even comfort of the day, the sound and delicious sleep of great weariness. Repose, however, was not for all, inasmuch as Thurstane had reorganized his system of guard duty, and seven of the party had to stand sentry. It was Coronado's _tour_; he had chosen to take his watch at the start; there would be three nights on this stretch, and the first would be the easiest. He was tired, for he had been fourteen hours in the saddle, although the distance covered was only forty miles. But much as he craved rest, he kept awake until midnight, now walking up and down, and now smoking his eternal cigarito. There was a vast deal to remember, to plan, to hope for, to dread, and to hate. Once he sat down beside the unconscious Thurstane, and meditated shooting him through the head as he lay, and so making an end of that obstacle. But he immediately put this idea aside as a frenzy, generated by the fever of fatigue and sleeplessness. A dozen times he was assaulted by a lazy or cowardly temptation to give up the chances of the desert, push back to the Bernalillo route, leave everything to fortune, and take disappointment meekly if it should come. When the noon of night arrived, he had decided upon nothing but to blunder ahead by sheer force of momentum, as if he had been a rolling bowlder instead of a clever, resolute Garcia Coronado. The truth is, that his circumstances were too mighty for him. He had launched them, but he could not steer them as he would, and they were carrying him he knew not whither. At one o'clock he awoke Texas Smith, who was now his sergeant of the guard; but instead of enjoining some instant atrocity upon him, as he had more than once that night purposed, he merely passed the ordinary instructions of the watch; then, rolling himself in his blankets, he fell asleep as quickly and calmly as an infant. At daybreak commenced another struggle with the desert. It was still sixty miles to the San Juan, over a series of savage sandstone plateaux, said to be entirely destitute of water. If the animals could not accomplish the distance in two days, it seemed as if the party must perish. Coronado went at his work, so to speak, head foremost and with his hat over his eyes. Nevertheless, when it came to the details of his mad enterprise, he managed them admirably. He was energetic, indefatigable, courageous, cheerful. All day he was hurrying the cavalcade, and yet watching its ability to endure. His "Forward, forward," alternated with his "Carefully, carefully." Now "_Adelante_" and now "_Con juicio_" About two in the afternoon they reached a little nook of sparse grass, which the beasts gnawed perfectly bare in half an hour. No water; the horses were uselessly jaded in searching for it; beds of trap and gullies of ancient rivers were explored in vain; the horrible rocky wilderness was as dry as a bone. Meanwhile, the fatigue of scrambling and stumbling thus far had been enormous. It had been necessary to ascend plateau after plateau by sinuous and crumbling ledges, which at a distance looked impracticable to goats. More than once, in face of some beetling precipice, or on the brink of some gaping chasm, it seemed as if the journey had come to an end. Long detours had to be made in order to connect points which were only separated by slight intervals. The whole region was seamed by the jagged zigzags of cañons worn by rivers which had flowed for thousands of years, and then for thousands of years more had been non-existent. If, at the commencement of one of these mighty grooves, you took the wrong side, you could not regain the trail without returning to the point of error, for crossing was impossible. A trail there was. It is by this route that the Utes and Payoches of the Colorado come to trade with the Moquis or to plunder them. But, as may be supposed, it is a journey which is not often made even by savages; and the cavalcade, throughout the whole of its desperate push, did not meet a human being. Amid the monstrous expanse of uninhabited rock it seemed lost beyond assistance, forsaken and cast out by mankind, doomed to a death which was to have no spectator. Could you have seen it, you would have thought of a train of ants endeavoring to cross a quarry; and you would have judged that the struggle could only end in starvation, or in some swifter destruction. The most desperate venture of the travellers was amid the wrecks of an extinct volcano. It seemed here as if the genius of fire had striven to outdo the grotesque extravagances of the genii of the waters. Crags, towers, and pinnacles of porphyry were mingled with huge convoluted masses of light brown trachyte, of tufa either pure white or white veined with crimson, of black and gray columnar basalts, of red, orange, green, and black scoria, with adornments of obsidian, amygdaloids, rosettes of quartz crystal and opalescent chalcedony. A thousand stony needles lifted their ragged points as if to defy the lightning. The only vegetation was a spiny cactus, clinging closely to the rocks, wearing their grayish and yellowish colors, lending no verdure to the scene, and harmonizing with its thorny inhospitality. As the travellers gazed on this wilderness of scorched summits, glittering in the blazing sunlight, and yet drawing from it no life--as stark, still, unsympathizing, and cruel as death--they seemed to themselves to be out of the sweet world of God, and to be in the power of malignant genii and demons. The imagination cannot realize the feeling of depression which comes upon one who finds himself imprisoned in such a landscape. Like uttermost pain, or like the extremity of despair, it must be felt in order to be known. "It seems as if Satan had chosen this land for himself," was the perfectly serious and natural remark of Thurstane. Clara shuddered; the same impression was upon her mind; only she felt it more deeply than he. Gentle, somewhat timorous, and very impressionable, she was almost overwhelmed by the terrific revelations of a nature which seemed to have no pity, or rather seemed full of malignity. Many times that day she had prayed in her heart that God would help them. Apparently detached from earth, she was seeking nearness to heaven. Her look at this moment was so awe-struck and piteous, that the soul of the man who loved her yearned to give her courage. "Miss Van Diemen, it shall all turn out well," he said, striking his fist on the pommel of his saddle. "Oh! why did we come here?" she groaned. "I ought to have prevented it," he replied, angry with himself. "But never mind. Don't be troubled. It shall all be right. I pledge my life to bring it all to a good end." She gave him a look of gratitude which would have repaid him for immediate death. This is not extravagant; in his love for her he did not value himself; he had the sublime devotion of immense adoration. That night another loamy nook was found, clothed with a little thin grass, but waterless. Some of the animals suffered so with thirst that they could not graze, and uttered doleful whinneys of distress. As it was the Lieutenant's tour on guard, he had plenty of time to study the chances of the morrow. "Kelly, what do you think of the beasts?" he said to the old soldier who acted as his sergeant. "One more day will finish them, Leftenant." "We have been fifteen hours in the saddle. We have made about thirty-five miles. There are twenty-five miles more to the river. Do you think we can crawl through?" "I should say, Leftenant, we could just do it." At daybreak the wretched animals resumed their hideous struggle. There was a plateau for them to climb at the start, and by the time this labor was accomplished they were staggering with weakness, so that a halt had to be ordered on the windy brink of the acclivity. Thurstane, according to his custom, scanned the landscape with his field-glass, and jotted down topographical notes in his journal. Suddenly he beckoned to Coronado, quietly put the glass in his hands, nodded toward the desert which lay to the rear, and whispered, "Look." Coronado looked, turned slightly more yellow than his wont, and murmured "Apaches!" "How far off are they?" "About ten miles," judged Coronado, still gazing intently. "So I should say. How do you know they are Apaches?" "Who else would follow us?" asked the Mexican, remembering the son of Manga Colorada. "It is another race for life," calmly pronounced Thurstane, facing about toward the caravan and making a signal to mount. CHAPTER XVIII. Yes, it was a life and death race between the emigrants and the Apaches for the San Juan. Positions of defence were all along the road, but not one of them could be held for a day, all being destitute of grass and water. "There is no need of telling the ladies at once," said Thurstane to Coronado, as they rode side by side in rear of the caravan. "Let them be quiet as long as they can be. Their trouble will come soon enough." "How many were there, do you think?" was the reply of a man who was much occupied with his own chances. "Were there a hundred?" "It's hard to estimate a mere black line like that. Yes, there must be a hundred, besides stragglers. Their beasts have suffered, of course, as well as ours. They have come fast, and there must be a lot in the rear. Probably both bands are along." "The devils!" muttered Coronado. "I hope to God they will all perish of thirst and hunger. The stubborn, stupid devils! Why should they follow us _here_?" he demanded, looking furiously around upon the accursed landscape. "Indian revenge. We killed too many of them." "Yes," said Coronado, remembering anew the son of the chief. "Damn them! I wish we could have killed them all." "That is just what we must try to do," returned Thurstane deliberately. "The question is," he resumed after a moment of business-like calculation of chances--"the question is mainly this, whether we can go twenty-five miles quicker than they can go thirty-five. We must be the first to reach the river." "We can spare a few beasts," said Coronado. "We must leave the weakest behind." "We must not give up provisions." "We can eat mules." "Not till the last moment. We shall need them to take us back." Coronado inwardly cursed himself for venturing into this inferno, the haunting place of devils in human shape. Then his mind wandered to Saratoga, New York, Newport, and the other earthly heavens that were known to him. He hummed an air; it was the _brindisi_ of Lucrezia Borgia; it reminded him of pleasures which now seemed lost forever; he stopped in the middle of it. Between the associations which it excited--the images of gayety and splendor, real or feigned--a commingling of kid gloves, bouquets, velvet cloaks, and noble names--between these glories which so attracted his hungry soul and the present environment of hideous deserts and savage pursuers, what a contrast there was! There, far away, was the success for which he longed; here, close at hand, was the peril which must purchase it. At that moment he was willing to deny his bargain with Garcia and the devil. His boldest desire was, "Oh that I were in Santa Fé!" By Coronado's side rode a man who had not a thought for himself. A person who has not passed years in the army can hardly imagine the sense of _responsibility_ which is ground into the character of an officer. He is a despot, but a despot who is constantly accountable for the welfare of his subjects, and who never passes a day without many grave thoughts of the despots above him. Superior officers are in a manner his deities, and the Army Regulations have for him the weight of Scripture. He never forgets by what solemn rules of duty and honor he will be judged if he falls short of his obligations. This professional conscience becomes a destiny to him, and guides his life to an extent inconceivable by most civilians. He acquires a habit of watching and caring for others; he cannot help assuming a charge which falls in his way. When he is not governed by the rule of obedience, he is governed by the rule of responsibility. The two make up his duty, and to do his duty is his existence. At this moment our young West Pointer, only twenty-three or four years old, was gravely and grimly anxious for his four soldiers, for all these people whom circumstance had placed under his protection, and even for his army mules, provisions, and ammunition. His only other sentiment was a passionate desire to prevent harm or even fear from approaching Clara Van Diemen. These two sentiments might be said to make up for the present his entire character. As we have already observed, he had not a thought for himself. Presently it occurred to the youngster that he ought to cheer on his fellow-travellers. Trotting up with a smile to Mrs. Stanley and Clara, he asked, "How do you bear it?" "Oh, I am almost dead," groaned Aunt Maria. "I shall have to be tied on before long." The poor woman, no longer youthful, it must be remembered, was indeed badly jaded. Her face was haggard; her general get-up was in something like scarecrow disorder; she didn't even care how she looked. So fagged was she that she had once or twice dozed in the saddle and come near falling. "It was outrageous to bring us here," she went on pettishly. "Ladies shouldn't be dragged into such hardships." Thurstane wanted to say that he was not responsible for the journey; but he would not, because it did not seem manly to shift all the blame upon Coronado. "I am very, very sorry," was his reply. "It is a frightful journey." "Oh, frightful, frightful!" sighed Aunt Maria, twisting her aching back. "But it will soon be over," added the officer. "Only twenty miles more to the river." "The river! It seems to me that I could live if I could see a river. Oh, this desert! These perpetual rocks! Not a green thing to cool one's eyes. Not a drop of water. I seem to be drying up, like a worm in the sunshine." "Is there no water in the flasks?" asked Thurstane. "Yes," said Clara. "But my aunt is feverish with fatigue." "What I want is the sight of it--and rest," almost whimpered the elder lady. "Will our horses last?" asked Clara. "Mine seems to suffer a great deal." "They _must_ last," replied Thurstane, grinding his teeth quite privately. "Oh, yes, they will last," he immediately added. "Even if they don't, we have mules enough." "But how they moan! It makes me cringe to hear them." "Twenty miles more," said Thurstane. "Only six hours at the longest. Only half a day." "It takes less than half a day for a woman to die," muttered the nearly desperate Aunt Maria. "Yes, when she sets about it," returned the officer. "But we haven't set about it, Mrs. Stanley. And we are not going to." The weary lady had no response ready for words of cheer; she leaned heavily over the pommel of her saddle and rode on in silence. "Ain't the same man she was," slyly observed Phineas Glover with a twist of his queer physiognomy. Thurstane, though not fond of Mrs. Stanley, would not now laugh at her expense, and took no notice of the sarcasm. Glover, fearful lest he had offended, doubled the gravity of his expression and tacked over to a fresh subject. "Shouldn't know whether to feel proud 'f myself or not, 'f I'd made this country, Capm. Depends on what 'twas meant for. If 'twas meant to live in, it's the poorest outfit I ever did see. If 'twas meant to scare folks, it's jest up to the mark. 'Nuff to frighten a crow into fits. Capm, it fairly seems more than airthly; puts me in mind 'f things in the Pilgrim's Progress--only worse. Sh'd say it was like five thousin' Valleys 'f the Shadow 'f Death tangled together. Tell ye, believe Christian 'd 'a' backed out 'f he'd had to travel through here. Think Mr. Coronado 's all right in his top hamper, Capm? Do, hey? Wal, then I'm all wrong; guess I'm 's crazy's a bedbug. Wouldn't 'a'ketched me steerin' this course of my own free will 'n' foreknowledge. Jest look at the land now. Don't it look like the bottomless pit blowed up 'n' gone to smash? Tell ye, 'f the Old Boy himself sh'd ride up alongside, shouldn't be a mite s'prised to see him. Sh'd reckon he had a much bigger right to be s'prised to ketch me here." After some further riding, shaking his sandy head, staring about him and whistling, he broke out again. "Tell ye, Capm, this beats my imagination. Used to think I c'd yarn it pooty consid'able. But never can tell this. Never can do no manner 'f jestice to it. Look a there now. There's a nateral bridge, or 'n unnateral one. There's a hole blowed through a forty foot rock 's clean 's though 'twas done with Satan's own field-piece, sech 's Milton tells about. An' there's a steeple higher 'n our big one in Fair Haven. An' there's a church, 'n' a haystack. If the devil hain't done his biggest celebratin' 'n' carpenterin' 'n' farmin' round here, d'no 's I know where he has done it. Beats _me_, Capm; cleans me out. Can't do no jestice to it. Can't talk about it. Seems to me 's though I was a fool." Yes, even Phineas Glover's small and sinewy soul (a psyche of the size, muscular force, and agility of a flea) had been seized, oppressed, and in a manner smashed by the hideous sublimity of this wilderness of sandstone, basalt, and granite. Two hours passed, during which, from the nature of the ground, the travellers could neither see nor be seen by their pursuers. Then came a breathless ascent up another of the monstrous sandstone terraces. Thurstane ordered every man to dismount, so as to spare the beasts as much as possible. He walked by the side of Clara, patting, coaxing, and cheering her suffering horse, and occasionally giving a heave of his solid shoulder against the trembling haunches. "Let me walk," the girl presently said. "I can't bear to see the poor beast so worried." "It would be better, if you can do it," he replied, remembering that she might soon have to call upon the animal for speed. She dismounted, clasped her hands over his arm, and clambered thus. From time to time, when some rocky step was to be surmounted, he lifted her bodily up it. "How can you be so strong?" she said, looking at him wonderingly and gratefully. "Miss Van Diemen, you give me strength," he could not help responding. At last they were at the summit of the rugged slope. The animals were trembling and covered with sweat; some of them uttered piteous whinnyings, or rather bleatings, like distressed sheep; five or six lay down with hollow moans and rumblings. It was absolutely necessary to take a short rest. Looking ahead, Thurstane saw that they had reached the top of the tableland which lies south of the San Juan, and that nothing was before them for the rest of the day but a rolling plateau seamed with meandering fissures of undiscoverable depth. Traversable as the country was, however, there was one reason for extreme anxiety. If they should lose the trail, if they should get on the wrong side of one of those profound and endless chasms, they might reach the river at a point where descent to it would be impossible, and might die of thirst within sight of water. For undoubtedly the San Juan flowed at the bottom of one of those amazing cañons which gully this Mer de Glace in stone. An error of direction once committed, the enemy would not give them time to retrieve it, and they would be slaughtered like mad dogs with the foam on their mouths. Thurstane remembered that it would be his terrible duty in the last extremity to send a bullet through the heart of the woman he worshipped, rather than let her fall into the hands of brutes who would only grant her a death of torture and dishonor. Even his steady soul failed for a moment, and tears of desperation gathered in his eyes. For the first time in years he looked up to heaven and prayed fervently. From the unknown destiny ahead he turned to look for the fate which pursued. Walking with Coronado to the brink of the colossal terrace, and sheltering himself from the view of the rest of the party, he scanned the trail with his glass. The dark line had now become a series of dark specks, more than a hundred and fifty in number, creeping along the arid floor of the lower plateau, and reminding him of venomous insects. "They are not five miles from us," shuddered the Mexican. "Cursed beasts! Devils of hell!" "They have this hill to climb," said Thurstane, "and, if I am not mistaken, they will have to halt here, as we have done. Their ponies must be pretty well fagged by this time." "They will get a last canter out of them," murmured Coronado. His soul was giving way under his hardships, and it would have been a solace to him to weep aloud. As it was, he relieved himself with a storm of blasphemies. Oaths often serve to a man as tears do to a woman. "We must trot now," he said presently. "Not yet. Not till they are within half a mile of us. We must spare our wind up to the last minute." They were interrupted by a cry of surprise and alarm. Several of the muleteers had strayed to the edge of the declivity, and had discovered with their unaided eyesight the little cloud of death in the distance. Texas Smith approached, looked from under his shading hand, muttered a single curse, walked back to his horse, inspected his girths, and recapped his rifle. In a minute it was known throughout the train that Apaches were in the rear. Without a word of direction, and in a gloomy silence which showed the general despair, the march was resumed. There was a disposition to force a trot, which was promptly and sternly checked by Thurstane. His voice was loud and firm; he had instinctively assumed responsibility and command; no one disputed him or thought of it. Three mules which could not rise were left where they lay, feebly struggling to regain their feet and follow their comrades, but falling back with hollow groanings and a kind of human despair in their faces. Mile after mile the retreat continued, always at a walk, but without halting. It was long before the Apaches were seen again, for the ascent of the plateau lost them a considerable space, and after that they were hidden for a time by its undulations. But about four in the afternoon, while the emigrants were still at least five miles from the river, a group of savage horsemen rose on a knoll not more than three miles behind, and uttered a yell of triumph. There was a brief panic, and another attempt to push the animals, which Thurstane checked with levelled pistol. The train had already entered a gully. As this gully advanced it rapidly broadened and deepened into a cañon. It was the track of an extinct river which had once flowed into the San Juan on its way to the distant Pacific. Its windings hid the desired goal; the fugitives must plunge into it blindfold; whatever fate it brought them, they must accept it. They were like men who should enter the cavern of unknown goblins to escape from demons who were following visibly on their footsteps. From time to time they heard ferocious yells in their rear, and beheld their fiendish pursuers, now also in the cañon. It was like Christian tracking the Valley of the Shadow of Death, and listening to the screams and curses of devils. At every reappearance of the Apaches they had diminished the distance between themselves and their expected prey, and at last they were evidently not more than a mile behind. But there in sight was the river; there, enclosed in one of its bends, was an alluvial plain; rising from the extreme verge of the plain, and overhanging the stream, was a bluff; and on this bluff was what seemed to be a fortress. Thurstane sent all the horsemen to the rear of the train, took post himself as the rearmost man, measured once more with his eye the space between his charge and the enemy, cast an anxious glance at the reeling beast which bore Clara, and in a firm ringing voice commanded a trot. The order and the movement which followed it were answered by the Indians with a yell. The monstrous and precipitous walls of the cañon clamored back a fiendish mockery of echoes which seemed to call for the prowlers of the air to arrive quickly and devour their carrion. CHAPTER XIX. The scene was like one of Doré's most extravagant designs of abysses and shadows. The gorge through which swept this silent flight and screaming chase was not more than two hundred feet wide, while it was at least fifteen hundred feet deep, with walls that were mainly sheer precipices. As the fugitives broke into a trot, the pursuers quickened their pace to a slow canter. No faster; they were too wise to rush within range of riflemen who could neither be headed off nor flanked; and their hardy mustangs were nearly at the last gasp with thirst and with the fatigue of this tremendous journey. Four hundred yards apart the two parties emerged from the sublime portal of the cañon and entered upon the little alluvial plain. To the left glittered the river; but the trail did not turn in that direction; it led straight at the bluff in the elbow of the current. The mules and horses followed it in a pack, guided by their acute scent toward the nearest water, a still invisible brooklet which ran at the base of the butte. Presently, while yet a mile from the stream, they were seized by a mania. With a loud beastly cry they broke simultaneously into a run, nostrils distended and quivering, eyes bloodshot and protruding, heads thrust forward with fierce eagerness, ungovernably mad after water. There was no checking the frantic stampede which from this moment thundered with constantly increasing speed across the plain. No order; the stronger jostled the weaker; loads were flung to the ground and scattered; the riders could scarcely keep their seats. Spun out over a line of twenty rods, the cavalcade was the image of senseless rout. Of course Thurstane was furious at this seemingly fatal dispersion; and he trumpeted forth angry shouts of "Steady there in front! Close up in the rear!" But before long he guessed the truth--water! "They will rally at the drinking place," he thought. "Forward the mules!" he yelled. "Steady, you men here! Hold in your horses. Keep in rear of the women. I'll shoot the man who takes the lead." But even Spanish bits could do no more than detain the horses a rod or two behind the beasts of burden, and the whole panting, snorting mob continued to rush over the loamy level with astonishing swiftness. Meanwhile the leading Apaches, not now more than fifty in number, were swept along by the same whirlwind of brute instinct. They diverged a little from the trail; their object apparently was to overlap the train and either head it off or divide it; but their beasts were too frantic to be governed fully. Before long there were two lines of straggling flight, running parallel with each other at a distance of perhaps one hundred yards, and both storming toward the still unseen rivulet. A few arrows were thrown; four or five unavailing shots were fired in return; the hiss of shaft and _ping_ of ball crossed each other in air; but no serious and effective fight commenced or could commence. Both parties, guided and mastered by their lolling beasts, almost without conflict and almost without looking at each other, converged helplessly toward a verdant, shallow depression, through the centre of which loitered a clear streamlet scarcely less calm than the heaven above. Next they were all together, panting, plunging, splashing, drinking, mules and horses, white men and red men, all with no other thought than to quench their thirst. The Apaches, who had probably made their cruel journey without flasks, seemed for the moment insatiable and utterly reckless. Many of them rolled off their tottering ponies into the rivulet, and plunging down their heads drank like beasts. There were a few minutes of the strangest peace that ever was seen. It was in vain that two or three of the hardier or fiercer Chiefs and braves shouted and gestured to their comrades, as if urging them to commence the attack. Manga Colorada, absorbed by a thirst which was more burning than revenge, did not at first see the slayer of his boy, and when he did could not move toward him because of fevered mustangs, who would not budge from their drinking, or who were staggering blind with hunger. Thurstane, keeping his horse beside Clara's, watched the lean figure and restless, irritable face of Delgadito, not ten yards distant. Mrs. Stanley had halted helplessly so near an Apache boy that he might have thrust her through with his lance had he not been solely intent upon water. It was fortunate for the emigrants that they had reached the stream a few seconds the sooner. Their thirst was first satiated; and then men and animals began to draw away from their enemies; for even the mules of white men instinctively dread and detest the red warriors. This movement was accelerated by Thurstane, Coronado, Texas Smith, and Sergeant Meyer calling to one and another in English and Spanish, "This way! this way!" There seemed to be a chance of massing the party and getting it to some distance before the Indians could turn their thoughts to blood. But the manoeuvre was only in part accomplished when battle commenced. Little Sweeny, finding that his mule was being crowded by an Apache's horse, uttered some indignant yelps. "Och, ye bloody naygur! Get away wid yerself. Get over there where ye b'long." This request not being heeded, he made a clumsy punch with his bayonet and brought the blood. The warrior uttered a grunt of pain, cast a surprised angry stare at the shaveling of a Paddy, and thrust with his lance. But he was probably weak and faint; the weapon merely tore the uniform. Sweeny instantly fired, and brought down another Apache, quite accidentally. Then, banging his mule with his heels, he splashed up to Thurstane with the explanation, "Liftinant, they're the same bloody naygurs. Wan av um made a poke at me, Liftinant." "Load your beece!" ordered Sergeant Meyer sternly, "und face the enemy." By this time there was a fierce confusion of plungings and outcries. Then came a hiss of arrows, followed instantaneously by the scream of a wounded man, the report of several muskets, a pinging of balls, more yells of wounded, and the splash of an Apache in the water. The little streamlet, lately all crystal and sunshine, was now turbid and bloody. The giant portals of the cañon, although more than a mile distant, sent back echoes of the musketry. Another battle rendered more horrible the stark, eternal horror of the desert. "This way!" Thurstane continued to shout. "Forward, you women; up the hill with you. Steady, men. Face the enemy. Don't throw away a shot. Steady with the firing. Steady!" The hostile parties were already thirty or forty yards apart; and the emigrants, drawing loosely up the slope, were increasing the distance. Manga Colorada spurred to the front of his people, shaking his lance and yelling for a charge. Only half a dozen followed him; his horse fell almost immediately under a rifle ball; one of the braves picked up the chief and bore him away; the rest dispersed, prancing and curveting. The opportunity for mingling with the emigrants and destroying them in a series of single combats was lost. Evidently the Apaches, and their mustangs still more, were unfit for fight. The forty-eight hours of hunger and thirst, and the prodigious burst of one hundred and twenty miles up and down rugged terraces, had nearly exhausted their spirits as well as their strength, and left them incapable of the furious activity necessary in a cavalry battle. The most remarkable proof of their physical and moral debilitation was that in all this mêlée not more than a dozen of them had discharged an arrow. If they would not attack they must retreat, and that speedily. At fifty yards' range, armed only with bows and spears, they were at the mercy of riflemen and could stand only to be slaughtered. There was a hasty flight, scurrying zigzag, right and left, rearing and plunging, spurring the last caper out of their mustangs, the whole troop spreading widely, a hundred marks and no good one. Nevertheless Texas Smith's miraculous aim brought down first a warrior and then a horse. By the time the Apaches were out of range the emigrants were well up the slope of the hill which occupied the extreme elbow of the bend in the river. It was a bluff or butte of limestone which innumerable years had converted into marl, and for the most part into earth. A thin turf covered it; here and there were thickets; more rarely trees. Presently some one remarked that the sides were terraced. It was true; there were the narrow flats of soil which had once been gardens; there too were the supporting walls, more or less ruinous. Curious eyes now turned toward the seeming mound on the summit, querying whether it might not be the remains of an antique pueblo. At this instant Clara uttered a cry of anxiety, "Where is Pepita?" The girl was gone; a hasty looking about showed that; but whither? Alas! the only solution to this enigma must be the horrible word, "Apaches." It seemed the strangest thing conceivable; one moment with the party, and the next vanished; one moment safe, and the next dead or doomed. Of course the kidnapping must have been accomplished during the frenzied riot in the stream, when the two bands were disentangling amid an uproar of plungings, yells, and musket shots. The girl had probably been stunned by a blow, and then either left to float down the brook or dragged off by some muscular warrior. There was a halt, an eager and prolonged lookout over the plain, a scanning of the now distant Indians through field glasses. Then slowly and sadly the train resumed its march and mounted to the summit of the butte. Here, in this land of marvels, there was a new marvel. Incredible as the thing seemed, so incredible that they had not at first believed their eyes, they were at the base of the walls of a fortress. A confused, general murmur broke forth of "Ruins! Pueblos! Casas Grandes! Casas de Montezuma!" The architecture, unlike that of Tegua, but similar to that of the ruins of the Gila, was of adobes. Large cakes of mud, four or five feet long and two feet thick, had been moulded in cases, dried in the sun, and laid in regular courses to the height of twenty feet. Centuries (perhaps) of exposure to weather had so cracked, guttered, and gnawed this destructible material, that at a distance the pile looked not unlike the natural monuments which fire and water have builded in this enchanted land, and had therefore not been recognized by the travellers as human handiwork. What they now saw was a rampart which ran along the brow of the bluff for several hundred yards. Originally twenty feet high, it had been so fissured by the rains and crumbled by the winds, that it resembled a series of peaks united here and there in a plane surface. Some of the gaps reached nearly to the ground, and through these it could be seen that the wall was five feet across, a single adobe forming the entire thickness. All along the base the dampness of the earth had eaten away the clay, so that in many places the structure was tottering to its fall. Filing to the left a few yards, the emigrants found a deep fissure through which the animals stumbled one by one over mounds of crumbled adobes. Thurstane, entering last, looked around him in wonder. He was inside a quadrilateral enclosure, apparently four hundred yards in length by two hundred and fifty in breadth, the walls throughout being the same mass of adobe work, fissured, jagged, gray, solemn, and in their utter solitariness sublime. But this was not the whole ruin; the fortress had a citadel. In one corner of the enclosure stood a tower-like structure, forty-five or fifty feet square and thirty in altitude, surmounted on its outer angle by a smaller tower, also four-sided, which rose some twelve or fourteen feet higher. It was not isolated, but built into an angle of the outer rampart, so as to form with it one solid mass of fortification. The material was adobe; but, unlike the other ruins, it was in good condition; some species of roofing had preserved the walls from guttering; not a crevice deformed their gray, blank, dreary faces. Instinctively and without need of command the emigrants had pushed on toward this edifice. It was to be their fortress; in it and around it they must fight for life against the Apaches; here, where a nameless people had perished, they must conquer or perish also. Thurstane posted Kelly and one of the Mexicans on the exterior wall to watch the movements of the savage horde in the plain below. Then he followed the others to the deserted citadel. Two doorways, one on each of the faces which looked into the enclosure, offered ingress. They were similar in size and shape, seven feet and a half in height by four in breadth, and tapering toward the summit like the portals of the temple-builders of Central America. Inside were solid mud floors, strewn with gray dust and showing here and there a gleam of broken pottery, the whole brooded over by obscurity. It was discoverable, however, that the room within was of considerable height and size. There was a hesitation about entering. It seemed as if the ghosts of the nameless people forbade it. This had been the abode of men who perhaps inhabited America before the coming of Columbus. Here possibly the ancestors of Montezuma had stayed their migrations from the mounds of the Ohio to the pyramids of Cholula and Tenochtitlan. Or here had lived the Moquis, or the Zunians, or the Lagunas, before they sought refuge from the red tribes of the north upon the buttes south of the Sierra del Carrizo. Here at all events had once palpitated a civilization which was now a ghost. "This is to be our home for a little while," said Thurstane to Clara. "Will you dismount? I will run in and turn out the snakes, if there are any. Sergeant, keep your men and a few others ready to repel an attack. Now, fellows, off with the packs." Producing a couple of wax tapers, he lighted them, handed one to Coronado, and led the way into the silent Casa de Montezuma. They were in a hall about ten feet high, fifteen feet broad, and forty feet long, which evidently ran across the whole front of the building. The walls were hard-finished and adorned with etchings in vermilion of animals, geometrical figures, and nondescript grotesques, all of the rudest design and disposed without regard to order. A doorway led into a small central room, and from that doorways opened into three more rooms, one on each side. The ceilings of all the rooms were supported by unhewn beams, five or six inches thick, deeply inserted into the adobe walls. In the ceiling of the rearmost hall (the one which had no direct outlet upon the enclosure) was a trapdoor which offered the only access to the stories above. A rude but solid ladder, consisting of two beams with steps chopped into them, was still standing here. With a vague sense of intrusion, half expecting that the old inhabitants would appear and order them away, Thurstane and Coronado ascended. The second story resembled the first, and above was another of the same pattern. Then came a nearly flat roof; and here they found something remarkable. It was a solid sheathing or tiling, made of slates of baked and glazed pottery, laid with great exactness, admirably cemented and projecting well over the eaves. This it was which had enabled the adobes beneath to endure for years, and perhaps for centuries, in spite of the lapping of rains and the gnawing of winds. On the outermost corner of the structure, overlooking the eddying, foaming bend of the San Juan, rose the isolated tower. It contained a single room, walled with hard-finish and profusely etched with figures in vermilion. No furniture anywhere, nor utensils, nor relics, excepting bits of pottery, precisely such as is made now by the Moquis, various in color, red, white, grayish, and black, much of it painted inside as well as out, and all adorned with diamond patterns and other geometrical outlines. "I have seen Casas Grandes in other places," said Coronado, "but nothing like this. This is the only one that I ever found entire. The others are in ruins, the roofs fallen in, the beams charred, etc." "This was not taken," decided the Lieutenant, after a tactical meditation. "This must have been abandoned by its inhabitants. Pestilence, or starvation, or migration." "We can beat off all the Apaches in New Mexico," observed Coronado, with something like cheerfulness. "We can whip everything but our own stomachs," replied Thurstane. "We have as much food as those devils." "But water?" suggested the forethoughted West Pointer. It was a horrible doubt, for if there was no water in the enclosure, they were doomed to speedy and cruel death, unless they could beat the Indians in the field and drive them away from the rivulet. CHAPTER XX. When Thurstane came out of the Casa Grande he would have given some years of his life to know that there was water in the enclosure. Yet so well disciplined was the soul of this veteran of twenty-three, and so thoroughly had he acquired the wise soldierly habit of wearing a mask of cheer over trouble, that he met Clara and Mrs. Stanley with a smile and a bit of small talk. "Ladies, can you keep house?" he said. "There are sixteen rooms ready for you. The people who moved out haven't left any trumpery. Nothing wanted but a little sweeping and dusting and a stair carpet." "We will keep house," replied Clara with a laugh, the girlish gayety of which delighted him. Assuming a woman's rightful empire over household matters, she began to direct concerning storage, lodgment, cooking, etc. Sharp as the climbing was, she went through all the stories and inspected every room, selecting the chamber in the tower for herself and Mrs. Stanley. "I never can get up in this world," declared Aunt Maria, staring in dismay at the rude ladder. "So this is what Mr. Thurstane meant by talking about a stair carpet! It was just like him to joke on such a matter. I tell you I never can go up." "Av coorse ye can get up," broke in little Sweeny impatiently. "All ye've got to do is to put wan fut above another an' howld on wid yer ten fingers." "I should like to see _you_ do it," returned Aunt Maria, looking indignantly at the interfering Paddy. Sweeny immediately shinned up the stepped beam, uttered a neigh of triumphant laughter from the top, and then skylarked down again. "Well, _you_ are a man," observed the strong-minded lady, somewhat discomfited. "Av coorse I'm a man," yelped Sweeny. "Who said I wasn't? He's a lying informer. Ha ha, hoo hoo, ho ho!" Thus incited, pulled at moreover from above and boosted from below, Aunt Maria mounted ladder after ladder until she stood on the roof of the Casa Grande. "If I ever go down again, I shall have to drop," she gasped. "I never expected when I came on this journey to be a sailor and climb maintops." "Lieutenant Thurstane is waving his hand to us," said Clara, with a smile like sunlight. "Let him wave," returned Mrs. Stanley, weary, disconsolate, and out of patience with everything. "I must say it's a poor place to be waving hands." Meantime Thurstane had beckoned a couple of muleteers to follow him, and set off to beat the enclosure for a spring, or for a spot where it would be possible to sink a well with good result. Although the search seemed absurd on such an isolated hill, he had some hopes; for in the first place, the old inhabitants must have had a large supply of water, and they could not have brought it up a steep slope of two hundred feet without great difficulty; in the second place, the butte was of limestone, and in a limestone region water makes for itself strange reservoirs and outlets. His trust was well-grounded. In a sharply indented hollow, twenty feet below the general surface of the enclosure, and not more than thirty yards from the Casa Grande, he found a copious spring. About it were traces of stone work, forming a sort of ruinous semicircle, as though a well had been dug, the neighboring earth scooped out, and the sides of the opening fenced up with masonry. By the way, he was not the first to discover the treasure, for the acute senses of the mules had been beforehand with him, and a number of them were already there drinking. Calling Meyer, he said, "Sergeant, get a fatigue party to work here. I want a transverse trench cut below the spring for the animals, and a guard at the spring itself to keep it clear for the people." Next he hurried away to the spot where he had posted Kelly to watch the Apaches. Climbing the wall, he looked about for the Apaches, and discovered them about half a mile distant, bivouacked on the bank of the rivulet. "They have been reinforced, sir," said Kelly. "Stragglers are coming up every few minutes." "So I perceive. Have you seen anything of the girl Pepita?" "There's a figure there, sir, against that sapling, that hasn't moved for half an hour. I've an idea it's the girl, sir, tied to the sapling." Thurstane adjusted his glass, took a long steady look, and said sombrely, "It's the girl. Keep an eye on her. If they start to do anything with her, let me know. Signal with your cap." As he hurried back to the Casa Grande he tried to devise some method of saving this unfortunate. A rescue was impossible, for the savages were numerous, watchful, and merciless, and in case they were likely to lose her they would brain her. But she might be ransomed: blankets, clothing, and perhaps a beast or two could be spared for that purpose; the gold pieces that he had in his waist-belt should all go of course. The great fear was lest the brutes should find all bribes poor compared with the joys of a torture dance. Querying how he could hide this horrible affair from Clara, and shuddering at the thought that but for favoring chances she might have shared the fate of Pepita he ran on toward the Casa, waving his hand cheerfully to the two women on the roof Meantime Clara had been attending to her housekeeping and Mrs. Stanley had been attending to her feelings. The elder lady (we dare not yet call her an old lady) was in the lowest spirits. She tried to brace herself; she crossed her hands behind her back, man-fashion; she marched up and down the roof man-fashion. All useless; the transformation didn't work; or, if she was a man, she was a scared one. She could not help feeling like one of the spirits in prison as she glanced at the awful solitude around her. Notwithstanding the river, there still was the desert. The little plain was but an oasis. Two miles to the east the San Juan burst out of a defile of sandstone, and a mile to the west it disappeared in a similar chasm. The walls of these gorges rose abruptly two thousand feet above the hurrying waters. All around were the monstrous, arid, herbless, savage, cruel ramparts of the plateau. No outlook anywhere; the longest reach of the eye was not five miles; then came towering precipices. The travellers were like ants gathered on an inch of earth at the bottom of a fissure in a quarry. The horizon was elevated and limited, resting everywhere on harsh lines of rock which were at once near the spectator and far above him. The overhanging plateaux strove to shut him out from the sight of heaven. What variety there was in the grim monotony appeared in shapes that were horrible to the weary and sorrowful. On the other side of the San Juan towered an assemblage of pinnacles which looked like statues; but these statues were a thousand feet above the stream, and the smallest of them was at least four hundred feet high. To a lost wanderer, and especially to a dispirited woman, such magnitude was not sublime, but terrifying. It seemed as if these shapes were gods who had no mercy, or demons who were full of malevolence. Still higher, on a jutting crag which overhung the black river, was a castle a hundred fold huger than man ever built, with ramparts that were dizzy precipices and towers such as no daring could scale. It faced the horrible group of stony deities as if it were their pandemonium. The whole landscape was a hideous Walhalla, a fit abode for the savage giant gods of the old Scandinavians. Thor and Woden would have been at home in it. The Cyclops and Titans would have been too little for it. The Olympian deities could not be conceived of as able or willing to exist in such a hideous chaos. No creature of the Greek imagination would have been a suitable inhabitant for it except Prometheus alone. Here his eternal agony and boundless despair might not have been out of place. There was no comfort in the river. It came out of unknown and inhospitable mystery, and went into a mystery equally unknown and inhospitable. To what fate it might lead was as uncertain as whence it arrived. A sombre flood, reddish brown in certain lights, studded with rocks which raised ghosts of unmoving foam, flowing with a speed which perpetually boiled and eddied, promising nothing to the voyager but thousand-fold shipwreck, a breathless messenger from the mountains to the ocean, it wheeled incessantly from stony portal to stony portal, a brief gleam of power and cruelty. The impression which it produced was in unison with the sublime malignity and horror of the landscape. Depressed by fatigue, the desperate situation of the party, and the menace of the frightful scene around her, Mrs. Stanley could not and would not speak to Thurstane when he mounted the roof, and turned away to hide the tears in her eyes. "You see I am housekeeping," said Clara with a smile. "Look how clean the room in the tower has been swept. I had some brooms made of tufted grass. There are our beds in the corners. These hard-finished walls are really handsome." She stopped, hesitated a moment, looked at him anxiously, and then added, "Have you seen Pepita?" "Yes," he replied, deciding to be frank. "I think I have discovered her tied to a tree." "Oh! to be tortured!" exclaimed Clara, wringing her hands and beginning to cry. "We will ransom her," he hurried on. "I am going down to hold a parley with the Apaches." "_You_!" exclaimed the girl, catching his arm. "Oh no! Oh, why did we come here!" Fearing lest he should be persuaded to evade what he considered his duty, he pressed her hand fervently and hurried away. Yes, he repeated, it was _his_ duty; to parley with the Apaches was a most dangerous enterprise; he did not feel at liberty to order any other to undertake it. Finding Coronado, he said to him, "I am going down to ransom Pepita. You know the Indians better than I do. How many people shall I take?" A gleam of satisfaction shot across the dark face of the Mexican as he replied, "Go alone." "Certainly," he insisted, in response to the officer's stare of surprise. "If you take a party, they'll doubt you. If you go alone, they'll parley. But, my dear Lieutenant, you are magnificent. This is the finest moment of your life. Ah! only you Americans are capable of such impulses. We Spaniards haven't the nerve." "I don't know their scoundrelly language." "Manga Colorada speaks Spanish. I dare say you'll easily come to an understanding with him. As for ransom, anything that we have, of course, excepting food, arms, and ammunition. I can furnish a hundred dollars or so. Go, my dear Lieutenant; go on your noble mission. God be with you." "You will see that I am covered, if I have to run for it." "I'll see to everything. I'll line the wall with sharpshooters." "Post your men. Good-by." "Good-by, my dear Lieutenant." Coronado did post his men, and among them was Texas Smith. Into the ear of this brute, whom he placed quite apart from the other watchers, he whispered a few significant words. "I told ye, to begin with, I didn't want to shute at brass buttons," growled Texas. "The army's a big thing. I never wanted to draw a bead on that man, and I don't want to now more 'n ever. Them army fellers hunt together. You hit one, an' you've got the rest after ye; an' four to one's a mighty slim chance." "Five hundred dollars down," was Coronado's only reply. After a moment of sullen reflection the desperado said, "Five hundred dollars! Wal, stranger, I'll take yer bet." Coronado turned away trembling and walked to another part of the wall. His emotions were disordered and disagreeable; his heart throbbed, his head was a little light, and he felt that he was pale; he could not well bear any more excitement, and he did not want to see the deed done. Rifle in hand, he was pretending to keep watch through a fissure, when he observed Clara following the line of the wall with the obvious purpose of finding a spot whence she could see the plain. It seemed to him that he ought to stop her, and then it seemed to him that he had better not. With such a horrible drumming in his ears how could he think clearly and decide wisely? Clara disappeared; he did not notice where she went; did not think of looking. Once he thrust his head through his crevice to watch the course of Thurstane, but drew it back again on discovering that the brave lad had not yet reached the Apaches, and after that looked no more. His whole strength seemed to be absorbed in merely listening and waiting. We must remember that, although Coronado had almost no conscience, he had nerves. Let us see what happened on the plain through the anxious eyes of Clara. CHAPTER XXI. In the time-eaten wall Clara had found a fissure through which she could watch the parley between Thurstane and the Apaches. She climbed into it from a mound of disintegrated adobes, and stood there, pale, tremulous, and breathless, her whole soul in her eyes. Thurstane, walking his horse and making signs of amity with his cap, had by this time reached the low bank of the rivulet, and halted within four hundred yards of the savages. There had been a stir immediately on his appearance: first one warrior and then another had mounted his pony; a score of them were now prancing hither and thither. They had left their lances stuck in the earth, but they still carried their bows and quivers. When Clara first caught sight of Thurstane he was beckoning for one of the Indians to approach. They responded by pointing to the summit of the hill, as if signifying that they feared to expose themselves to rifle shot from the ruins. He resumed his march, forded the shallow stream, and pushed on two hundred yards. "O Madre de Dios!" groaned Clara, falling into the language of her childhood. "He is going clear up to them." She was on the point of shrieking to him, but she saw that he was too far off to hear her, and she remained silent, just staring and trembling. Thurstane was now about two hundred yards from the Apaches. Except the twenty who had first mounted, they were sitting on the ground or standing by their ponies, every face set towards the solitary white man and every figure as motionless as a statue. Those on horseback, moving slowly in circles, were spreading out gradually on either side of the main body, but not advancing. Presently a warrior in full Mexican costume, easily recognizable as Manga Colorada himself, rode straight towards Thurstane for a hundred yards, threw his bow and quiver ten feet from him, dismounted and lifted both hands. The officer likewise lifted his hands, to show that he too was without arms, moved forward to within thirty feet of the Indian, and thence advanced on foot, leading his horse by the bridle. Clara perceived that the two men were conversing, and she began to hope that all might go well, although her heart still beat suffocatingly. The next moment she was almost paralyzed with horror. She saw Manga Colorada spring at Thurstane; she saw his dark arms around him, the two interlaced and reeling; she heard the triumphant yell of the Indian, and the response of his fellows; she saw the officer's startled horse break loose and prance away. In the same instant the mounted Apaches, sending forth their war-whoop and unslinging their bows, charged at full speed toward the combatants. Thurstane had but five seconds in which to save his life. Had he been a man of slight or even moderate physical and moral force, there would not have been the slightest chance for him. But he was six feet high, broad in the shoulders, limbed like a gladiator, solidified by hardships and marches, accustomed to danger, never losing his head in it, and blessed with lots of pugnacity. He was pinioned; but with one gigantic effort he loosened the Indian's lean sinewy arms, and in the next breath he laid him out with a blow worthy of Heenan. Thurstane was free; now for his horse. The animal was frightened and capering wildly; but he caught him and flung himself into the saddle without minding stirrups; then he was riding for life. Before he had got fairly under headway the foremost Apaches were within fifty paces of him, yelling like demons and letting fly their arrows. But every weapon is uncertain on horseback, and especially every missile weapon, the bow as well as the rifle. Thus, although a score of shafts hissed by the fugitive, he still kept his seat; and as his powerful beast soon began to draw ahead of the Indian ponies, escape seemed probable. He had, however, to run the gauntlet of another and even a greater peril. In a crevice of the ruined wall which crested the hill crouched a pitiless assassin and an almost unerring shot, waiting the right moment to send a bullet through his head. Texas Smith did not like the job; but he had said "You bet," and had thus pledged his honor to do the murder; and moreover, he sadly wanted the five hundred dollars. If he could have managed it, he would have preferred to get the officer and some "Injun" in a line, so as to bring them down together. But that was hopeless; the fugitive was increasing his lead; now was the time to fire--now or never. When Clara beheld Manga Colorada seize Thurstane, she had turned instinctively and leaped into the enclosure, with a feeling that, if she did not see the tragedy, it would not be. In the next breath she was wild to know what was passing, and to be as near to the officer and his perils as possible. A little further along the wall was a fissure which was lower and broader than the one she had just quitted. She had noticed it a minute before, but had not gone to it because a man was there. Towards this man she now rushed, calling out, "Oh, do save him!" Her voice and the sound of her footsteps were alike drowned by a rattle of musketry from other parts of the ruin. She reached the man and stood behind him; it was Texas Smith, a being from whom she had hitherto shrunk with instinctive aversion; but now he seemed to her a friend in extremity. He was aiming; she glanced over his shoulder along the levelled rifle; in one breath she saw Thurstane and saw that the weapon was pointed at _him_. With a shriek she sprang forward against the kneeling assassin, and flung him clean through the crevice upon the earth outside the wall, the rifle exploding as he fell and sending its ball at random. Texas Smith was stupefied and even profoundly disturbed. After rolling over twice, he picked himself up, picked up his gun also, and while hastily reloading it clambered back into his lair, more than ever confounded at seeing no one. Clara, her exploit accomplished, had instantly turned and fled along the course of the wall, not at all with the idea of escaping from the bushwhacker, but merely to meet Thurstane. She passed a dozen men, but not one of them saw her, they were all so busy in popping away at the Apaches. Just as she reached the large gap in the rampart, her hero cantered through it, erect, unhurt, rosy, handsome, magnificent. The impassioned gesture of joy with which she welcomed him was a something, a revelation perhaps, which the youngster saw and understood afterwards better than he did then. For the present he merely waved her towards the Casa, and then turned to take a hand in the fighting. But the fighting was over. Indeed the Apaches had stopped their pursuit as soon as they found that the fugitive was beyond arrow shot, and were now prancing slowly back to their bivouac. After one angry look at them from the wall, Thurstane leaped down and ran after Clara. "Oh!" she gasped, out of breath and almost faint. "Oh, how it has frightened me!" "And it was all of no use," he answered, passing her arm into his and supporting her. "No. Poor Pepita! Poor little Pepita! But oh, what an escape you had!" "We can only hope that they will adopt her into the tribe," he said in answer to the first phrase, while he timidly pressed her arm to thank her for the second. Coronado now came up, ignorant of Texas Smith's misadventure, and puzzled at the escape of Thurstane, but as fluent and complimentary as usual. "My dear Lieutenant! Language is below my feelings. I want to kneel down and worship you. You ought to have a statue--yes, and an altar. If your humanity has not been successful, it has been all the same glorious." "Nonsense," answered Thurstane. "Every one of us has done well in his turn! It was my tour of duty to-day. Don't praise me. I haven't accomplished anything." "Ah, the scoundrels!" declaimed Coronado. "How could they violate a truce! It is unknown, unheard of. The miserable traitors! I wish you could have killed Manga Colorada." From this dialogue he hurried away to find and catechise Texas Smith. The desperado told his story: "Jest got a bead on him--had him sure pop--never see a squarer mark--when somebody mounted me--pitched me clean out of my hole." "Who?" demanded Coronado, a rim of white showing clear around his black pupils. "Dunno. Didn't see nobody. 'Fore I could reload and git in it was gone." "What the devil did you stop to reload for?" "Stranger, I _allays_ reload." Coronado flinched under the word _stranger_ and the stare which accompanied it. "It was a woman's yell," continued Texas. Coronado felt suddenly so weak that he sat down on a mouldering heap of adobes. He thought of Clara; was it Clara? Jealous and terrified, he for an instant, only for an instant, wished she were dead. "See here," he said, when he had restrung his nerves a little. "We must separate. If there is any trouble, call on me. I'll stand by you." "I reckon you'd better," muttered Smith, looking at Coronado as if he were already drawing a bead on him. Without further talk they parted. The Texan went off to rub down his horse, mend his accoutrements, squat around the cooking fires, and gamble with the drivers. Perhaps he was just a bit more fastidious than usual about having his weapons in perfect order and constantly handy; and perhaps too he looked over his shoulder a little oftener than common while at his work or his games; but on the whole he was a masterpiece of strong, serene, ferocious self-possession. Coronado also, as unquiet at heart as the devil, was outwardly as calm as Greek art. They were certainly a couple of almost sublime scoundrels. It was now nightfall; the day closed with extraordinary abruptness; the sun went down as though he had been struck dead; it was like the fall of an ox under the axe of the butcher. One minute he was shining with an intolerable, feverish fervor, and the next he had vanished behind the lofty ramparts of the plateau. It was Sergeant Meyer's tour as officer of the day, and he had prepared for the night with the thoroughness of an old soldier. The animals were picketed in the innermost rooms of the Casa Grande, while the spare baggage was neatly piled along the walls of the central apartment. Thurstane's squad was quartered in one of the two outer rooms, and Coronado's squad in the other, each man having his musket loaded and lying beside him, with the butt at his feet and the muzzle pointing toward the wall. One sentry was posted on the roof of the building, and one on the ground twenty yards or so from its salient angle, while further away were two fires which partially lighted up the great enclosure. The sergeant and such of his men as were not on post slept or watched in the open air at the corner of the Casa. The night passed without attack or alarm. Apache scouts undoubtedly prowled around the enclosure, and through its more distant shadows, noting avenues and chances for forlorn hopes. But they were not ready as yet to do any nocturnal spearing, and if ever Indians wanted a night's rest they wanted it. The garrison was equally quiet. Texas Smith, too familiar with ugly situations to lie awake when no good was to be got by it, chose his corner, curled up in his blanket and slept the sleep of the just. Overwhelming fatigue soon sent Coronado off in like manner. Clara, too; she was querying how much she should tell Thurstane; all of a sudden she was dreaming. When broad daylight opened her eyes she was still lethargic and did not know where she was. A stretch; a long wondering stare about her; then she sprang up, ran to the edge of the roof, and looked over. There was Thurstane, alive, taking off his hat to her and waving her back from the brink. It was a second and more splendid sun-rising; and for a moment she was full of happiness. At dawn Meyer had turned out his squad, patrolled the enclosure, made sure that no Indians were in or around it, and posted a single sentry on the southeastern angle of the ruins, which commanded the whole of the little plain. He discovered that the Apaches, fearful like all cavalry of a night attack, had withdrawn to a spot more than a mile distant, and had taken the precaution of securing their retreat by garrisoning the mouth of the cañon. Having made his dispositions and his reconnoissance, the sergeant reported to Thurstane. "Turn out the animals and let them pasture," said the officer, waking up promptly to the situation, as a soldier learns to do. "How long will the grass in the enclosure last them?" "Not three days, Leftenant." "To-morrow we will begin to pasture them on the slope. How about fishing?" "I cannot zay, Leftenant." "Take a look at the Buchanan boat and see if it can be put together. We may find a chance to use it." "Yes, Leftenant." The Buchanan boat, invented by a United States officer whose name it bears, is a sack of canvas with a frame of light sticks; when put together it is about twelve feet long by five broad and three deep, and is capable of sustaining a weight of two tons. Thurstane, thinking that he might have rivers to cross in his explorations, had brought one of these coracles. At present it was a bundle, weighing one hundred and fifty pounds, and forming the load of a single mule. Meyer got it out, bent it on to its frame, and found it in good condition. "Very good," said Thurstane. "Roll it up again and store it safely. We may want it to-morrow." Meantime Clara had thought out her problem. In her indignation at Texas Smith she had contemplated denouncing him before the whole party, and had found that she had not the courage. She had wanted to make a confidant of her relative, and had decided that nothing could be more unwise. Aunt Maria was good, but she lacked practical sense; even Clara, girl as she was, could see the one fact as well as the other. Her final and sagacious resolve was to tell the tale to Thurstane alone. Mrs. Stanley, still jaded through with her forced march, fell asleep immediately after breakfast. Clara went to the brink of the roof, caught the officer's eye, and beckoned him to come to her. "We must not be seen," she whispered when he was by her side. "Come inside the tower. There has been something dreadful. I must tell you." Then she narrated how she had surprised and interrupted Texas Smith in his attempt at murder; for the time she was all Spanish in feeling, and told the story with fervor, with passion; and the moment she had ended it she began to cry. Thurstane was so overwhelmed by her emotion that he no more thought of the danger which he had escaped than if it had been the buzzing of a mosquito. He longed to comfort her; he dared to put his hand upon her waist; rather, we should say, he could not help it. If she noticed it she had no objection to it, for she did not move; but the strong and innocent probability is that she really did not notice it. "Oh, what can it mean?" she sobbed. "Why did he do it? What will you do?" "Never mind," he said, his voice tender, his blue-black eyes full of love, his whole face angelic with affection. "Don't be troubled. Don't be anxious. I will do what is right. I will put him under arrest and try him, if it seems best. But I don't want you to be troubled. It shall all come out right. I mean to live till you are safe." After a time he succeeded in soothing her, and then there came a moment in which she seemed to perceive that his arm was around her waist, for she drew a little away from him, coloring splendidly. But he had held her too long to be able to let her go thus; he took her hands and looked in her face with the solemnity of a love which pleads for life. "Will you forgive me?" he murmured. "I must say it. I cannot help it. I love you with all my soul. I dare not ask you to be my wife. I am not fit for you. But have pity on me. I couldn't help telling you." He just saw that she was not angry; yes, he was so shy and humble that he could not see more; but that little glimpse of kindliness was enough to lure him forward. On he went, hastily and stammeringly, like a man who has but a moment in which to speak, only a moment before some everlasting farewell. "Oh, Miss Van Diemen! Is there--can there ever be--any hope for me?" It was one of the questions which arise out of great abysses from men who in their hopelessness still long for heaven. No prisoner at the bar, faintly trusting that in the eyes of his judge he might find mercy, could be more anxious than was Thurstane at that moment. The lover who does not yet know that he will be loved is a figure of tragedy. CHAPTER XXII. Although Thurstane did not perceive it, his question was answered the instant it was asked. The answer started like lightning from Clara's heart, trembled through all her veins, flamed in her cheeks, and sparkled in her eyes. Such a moment of agitation and happiness she had never before known, and had never supposed that she could know. It was altogether beyond her control. She could have stopped her breathing ten times easier than she could have quelled her terror and her joy. She was no more master of the power and direction of her feelings, than the river below was master of its speed and course. One of the mightiest of the instincts which rule the human race had made her entirely its own. She was not herself; she was Thurstane; she was love. The love incarnate is itself, and not the person in whom it is embodied. There was but one answer possible to Clara. Somehow, either by look or word, she must say to Thurstane, "Yes." Prudential considerations might come afterward--might come too late to be of use; no matter. The only thing now to be done, the only thing which first or last must be done, the only thing which fate insisted should be done, was to say "Yes." It was said. Never mind how. Thurstane heard it and understood it. Clara also heard it, as if it were not she who uttered it, but some overruling power, or some inward possession, which spoke for her. She heard it and she acquiesced in it. The matter was settled. Her destiny had been pronounced. The man to whom her heart belonged had his due. Clara passed through a minute which was in some respects like a lifetime, and in some respects like a single second. It was crowded and encumbered with emotions sufficient for years; it was the scholastic needle-point on which stood a multitude of angels. It lasted, she could not say how long; and then of a sudden she could hardly remember it. Hours afterwards she had not fully disentangled from this minute and yet monstrous labyrinth a clear recollection of what he had said and what she had answered. Only the splendid exit of it was clear to her, and that was that she was his affianced wife. "But oh, my friend--one thing!" she whispered, when she had a little regained her self-possession. "I must ask Muñoz." "Your grandfather? Yes." "But what if he refuses?" she added, looking anxiously in his eyes. She was beginning to lay her troubles on his shoulders, as if he were already her husband. "I will try to please him," replied the young fellow, gazing with almost equal anxiety at her. It was the beautiful union of the man-soul and woman-soul, asking courage and consolation the one of the other, and not only asking but receiving. "Oh! I think you must please him," said Clara, forgetting how Muñoz had driven out his daughter for marrying an American. "He can't help but like you." "God bless you, my darling!" whispered Thurstane, worshipping her for worshipping him. After a while Clara thought of Texas Smith, and shuddered out, "But oh, how many dangers! Oh, my friend, how will you be safe?" "Leave that to me," he replied, comprehending her at once. "I will take care of that man." "Do be prudent." "I will. For _your_ sake, my dear child, I promise it. Well, now we must part. I must rouse no suspicions." "Yes. We must be prudent." He was about to leave her when a new and terrible thought struck him, and made him look at her as though they were about to part forever. "If Muñoz leaves you his fortune," he said firmly, "you shall be free." She stared; after a moment she burst into a little laugh; then she shook her finger in his face and said, blushing, "Yes, free to be--your wife." He caught the finger, bent his head over it and kissed it, ready to cry upon it. It was the only kiss that he had given her; and what a world-wide event it was to both! Ah, these lovers! They find a universe where others see only trifles; they are gifted with the second-sight and live amid miracles. "Do be careful, oh my dear friend!" was the last whisper of Clara as Thurstane quitted the tower. Then she passed the day in ascending and descending between heights of happiness and abysses of anxiety. Her existence henceforward was a Jacob's ladder, which had its foot on a world of crime and sorrow, and its top in heavens passing description. As for Thurstane, he had to think and act, for something must be done with Texas Smith. He queried whether the fellow might not have seen Clara when she pushed him out of the crevice, and would not seize the first opportunity to kill her. Angered by this supposition, he at first resolved to seize him, charge him with his crime, and turn him loose in the desert to take his chance among the Apaches. Then it occurred to him that it might be possible to change this enemy into a partisan. While he was pondering these matters his eye fell upon the man. His army habit of authority and of butting straight at the face of danger immediately got the better of his wish to manage the matter delicately, and made him forget his promises to be prudent. Beckoning Texas to follow him, he marched out of the plaza through the nearest gap, faced about upon his foe with an imperious stare, and said abruptly, "My man, do you want to be shot?" Texas Smith had his revolver and long hunting-knife in his waist-belt. He thought of drawing both at once and going at Thurstane, who was certainly in no better state for battle, having only revolver and sabre. But the chance of combat was even; the certainty of being slaughtered after it by the soldiers was depressing; and, what was more immediately to the point, he was cowed by that stare of habitual authority. "Capm--I don't," he said, watching the officer with the eye of a lynx, for, however unwilling to fight as things were, he meant to defend himself. "Because I could have you set up by my sergeant and executed by my privates," continued Thurstane. "Capm, I reckon you're sound there," admitted Texas, with a slight flinch in his manner. "Now, then, do you want to fight a duel?" broke out the angry youngster, his pugnacity thoroughly getting the better of his wisdom. "We both have pistols." "Capm," said the bravo, and then came to a pause--"Capm, I ain't a gentleman," he resumed, with the sulky humility of a bulldog who is beaten by his master. "I own up to it, Capm. I ain't a gentleman." He was a "poor white" by birth; he remembered still the "high-toned gentlemen" who used to overawe his childhood; he recognized in Thurstane that unforgotten air of domination, and he was thoroughly daunted by it. Moreover, there was his acquired and very rational fear of the army--a fear which had considerably increased upon him since he had joined this expedition, for he had noted carefully the disciplined obedience of the little squad of regulars, and had been much struck with its obvious potency for offence and defence. "You won't fight?" said the officer. "Well, then, will you stop hunting me?" "Capm, I'll go that much." "Will you pledge yourself not to harm any one in this party, man or woman?" "I'll go that much, too." "I don't want to get any tales out of you. You can keep your secrets. Damn your secrets!" "Capm, you're jest the whitest man I ever see." "Will you pledge yourself to keep dark about this talk that we've had?" "You bet!" replied Texas Smith, with an indescribable air of humiliation. "I'm outbragged. I shan't tell of it." "I shall give orders to my men. If anything queer happens, you won't live the day out." "The keerds is stocked agin me, Capm. I pass. You kin play it alone." "Now, then, walk back to the Casa, and keep quiet during the rest of this journey." The most humbled bushwhacker and cutthroat between the two oceans, Texas Smith stepped out in front of Thurstane and returned to the cooking-fire, not quite certain as he marched that he would not get a pistol-ball in the back of his head, but showing no emotion in his swarthy, sallow, haggard countenance. Although Thurstane trusted that danger from that quarter was over, he nevertheless called Meyer aside and muttered to him, "Sergeant, I have some confidential orders for you. If murder happens to me, or to any other person in this party, have that Texan shot immediately." "I will addend to it, Leftenant," replied Meyer with perfect calmness and with his mechanical salute. "You may give Kelly the same instructions, confidentially." "Yes, Leftenant." Texas Smith, fifteen or twenty yards away, watched this dialogue with an interest which even his Indian-like stoicism could hardly conceal. When the sergeant returned to the cooking-fire, he gave him a glance which was at once watchful and deprecatory, made place for him to sit down on a junk of adobe, and offered him a corn-shuck cigarito. Meyer took it, saying, "Thank you, Schmidt," and the two smoked in apparently amicable silence. Nevertheless, Texas knew that his doom was sealed if murder should occur in the expedition; for, as to the protection of Coronado, he did not believe that that could avail against the uniform; and as to finding safety in flight, the cards there were evidently "stocked agin him." Indeed, what had quelled him more than anything else was the fear lest he should be driven out to take his luck among the Apaches. Suppose that Thurstane had taken a fancy to swap him for that girl Pepita? What a bright and cheerful fire there would have been for him before sundown! How thoroughly the skin would have been peeled off his muscles! What neat carving at his finger joints and toe joints! Coarse, unimaginative, hardened, and beastly as Texas Smith was, his flesh crawled a little at the thought of it. Presently it struck him that he had better do something to propitiate a man who could send him to encounter such a fate. "Sergeant," he said in his harsh, hollow croak of a voice. "Well, Schmidt?" "Them creeturs oughter browse outside." "So. You are right, Schmidt." "If the Capm'll let me have three good men, I'll take 'em out." Meyer's light-blue eyes, twinkling from under his sandy eyelashes, studied the face of the outlaw. "I should zay it was a goot blan, Schmidt," he decided. "I'll mention it to the leftenant." Thurstane, on being consulted, gave his consent. Meyer detailed Shubert and two of the Mexican cattle-drivers to report to Smith for duty. The Texan mounted his men on horses, separated one-third of the mules from the others, drove them out of the enclosure, and left them on the green hillside, while he pushed on a quarter of a mile into the plain and formed his line of four skirmishers. When a few of the Apaches approached to see what was going on, he levelled his rifle, knocked over one of the horses, and sent the rest off capering. After four or five hours he drove in his mules and took out another set. The Indians could only interrupt his pastoral labors by making a general charge; and that would expose them to a fire from the ruin, against which they could not retaliate. They thought it wise to make no trouble, and all day the foraging went on in peace. Peace everywhere. Inside the fortress sleeping, cooking, mending of equipments, and cleaning of arms. Over the plain mustangs filling themselves with grass and warriors searching for roots. Not a movement worth heeding was made by the Apaches until the herders drove in their first relay of mules, when a dozen hungry braves lassoed the horse which Smith had shot, dragged him away to a safe distance, and proceeded to cut him up into steaks. On seeing this, the Texan cursed himself to all the hells that were known to him. "It's the last time they'll catch me butcherin' for 'em," he growled. "If I can't hit a man, I won't shute." One more night in the Casa de Montezuma, with Thurstane for officer of the guard. His arrangements were like Meyer's: the animals in the rear rooms of the Casa; Coronado's squad in one of the outer rooms, and Meyer's in the other; a sentry on the roof, and another in the plaza. The only change was that, owing to scarcity of fuel, no watch-fires were built. As Thurstane expected an attack, and as Indian assaults usually take place just before daybreak, he chose the first half of the night for his tour of sleep. At one he was awakened by Sweeny, who was sergeant of his squad, Kelly being with Meyer and Shubert with Coronado. "Well, Sweeny, anything stirring?" he asked. "Divil a stir, Liftinant." "Did nothing happen during your guard?" "Liftinant," replied Sweeny, searching his memory for an incident which should prove his watchfulness--"the moon went down." "I hope you didn't interfere." "Liftinant, I thought it was none o' my bizniss." "Send a man to relieve the sentry on the roof, and let him come down here." "I done it, Liftinant, before I throubled ye. Where shall we slape? Jist by the corner here?" "No. I'll change that. Two just inside of one doorway and two inside the other. I'll stay at the angle myself." Three hours passed as quietly as the wool-clad footsteps of the Grecian Fate. Then, stealing through the profound darkness, came the faintest rustle imaginable. It was not the noise of feet, but rather that of bodies slowly dragging through herbage, as if men were crawling or rolling toward the Casa. Thurstane, not quite sure of his hearing, and unwilling to disturb the garrison without cause, cocked his revolver and listened intently. Suddenly the sentry in the plaza fired, and, rushing in upon him, fell motionless at his feet, while the air was filled in an instant with the whistling of arrows, the trampling of running men, and the horrible quavering of the war-whoop. CHAPTER XXIII. At the noise of the Apache charge Thurstane sprang in two bounds to Coronado's entrance, and threw himself inside of it with a shout of "Indians!" It must be remembered that, while a doorway of the Casa was five feet in depth, it was only four feet wide at the base and less than thirty inches at the top, so that it was something in the way of a defile and easily defensible. The moment Thurstane was inside, he placed himself behind one of the solid jambs of the opening, and presented both sabre and revolver. Immediately after him a dozen running Indians reached the portal, some of them plunging into it and the others pushing and howling close around it. Three successive shots and as many quick thrusts, all delivered in the darkness, but telling at close quarters on naked chests and faces, cleared the passage in half a minute. By this time Texas Smith, Coronado, and Shubert had leaped up, got their senses about them, and commenced a fire of rifle shot, pistol shot, and buck-and-ball. In another half minute nothing remained in the doorway but two or three corpses, while outside there were howls as of wounded. The attack here was repulsed, at least for the present. But at the other door matters had gone differently, and, as it seemed, fatally ill. There had been no one fully awakened to keep the assailants at bay until the other defenders could rouse themselves and use their weapons. Half a dozen Apaches, holding their lances before them like pikes, rushed over the sleeping Sweeny and burst clean into the room before Meyer and his men were fairly on their feet. In the profound darkness not a figure could be distinguished; and there was a brief trampling and yelling, during which no one was hurt. Lances and bows were useless in a room fifteen feet by ten, without a ray of light. The Indians threw down their long weapons, drew their knives, groped hither and thither, struck out at random, and cut each other. Nevertheless, they were masters of the ground. Meyer and his people, crouching in corners, could not see and dared not fire. Sweeny, awakened by a kneading of Apache boots, was so scared that he lay perfectly still, and either was not noticed or was neglected as dead. His Mexican comrade had rushed along with the assailants, got ahead of them, gained the inner rooms, and hastened up to the roof. In short, it was a completely paralyzed defence. Had the mass of the Apaches promptly followed their daring leaders, the garrison would have been destroyed. But, as so often happens in night attacks, there was a pause of caution and investigation. Fifty warriors halted around the doorway, some whooping or calling, and others listening, while the five or six within, probably fearful of being hit if they spoke, made no answer. The sentinel on the roof fired down without seeing any one, and had arrows sent back at him by men who were as blinded as himself. The darkness and mystery crippled the attack almost as completely as the defence. Sweeny was the first to break the charm. A warrior who attempted to enter the doorway struck his boot against a pair of legs, and stooped down to feel if they were alive. By a lucky intuition of scared self-defence, the little Paddy made a furious kick into the air with both his solid army shoes, and sent the invader reeling into the outer darkness. Then he fired his gun just as it lay, and brought down one of the braves inside with a broken ankle. The blaze of the discharge faintly lighted up the room, and Meyer let fly instantly, killing another of the intruders. But the Indians also had been able to see. Those who survived uttered their yell and plunged into the corners, stabbing with their knives. There was a wild, blind, eager scuffling, mixed with another shot or two, oaths, whooping, screams, tramplings, and aimless blows with musket-butts. Reinforcements arrived for both parties, four or five more Apaches stealing into the room, while Thurstane and Shubert came through from Coronado's side. Hitherto, it did not seem that the garrison had lost any killed except the sentry who had fallen outside; but presently the lieutenant heard Shubert cry out in that tone of surprise, pain, and anger, which announces a severe wound. The scream was followed by a fall, a short scuffle, repeated stabbings, and violent breathing mixed with low groans. Thurstane groped to the scene of combat, put out his left hand, felt a naked back, and drove his sabre strongly and cleanly into it. There was a hideous yell, another fall, and then silence. After that he stood still, not knowing whither to move. The trampling of feet, the hasty breathing of struggling men, the dull sound of blows upon living bodies, the yells and exclamations and calls, had all ceased at once. It seemed to him as if everybody in the room had been killed except himself. He could not hear a sound in the darkness besides the beating of his own heart, and an occasional feeble moan rising from the floor. In all his soldierly life he had never known a moment that was anything like so horrible. At last, after what seemed minutes, remembering that it was his duty as an officer to be a rallying point, he staked his life on his very next breath and called out firmly, "Meyer!" "Here!" answered the sergeant, as if he were at roll-call. "Where are you?" "I am near the toorway, Leftenant. Sweeny is with me." "'Yis I be," interjected Sweeny. Thurstane, feeling his way cautiously, advanced to the entrance and found the two men standing on one side of it. "Where are the Indians?" he whispered. "I think they are all out, except the tead ones, Leftenant." Thurstane gave an order: "All forward to the door." Steps of men stealing from the inner room responded to this command. "Call the roll, Sergeant," said Thurstane. In a low voice Meyer recited the names of the six men who belonged to his squad, and of Shubert. All responded except the last. "I am avraid Shupert is gone, Leftenant," muttered the sergeant; and the officer replied, "I am afraid so." All this time there had been perfect silence outside, as if the Indians also were in a state of suspense and anxiety. But immediately after the roll-call had ceased, a few arrows whistled through the entrance and struck with short sharp spats into the hard-finished partition within. "Yes, they are all out," said Thurstane. "But we must keep quiet till daybreak." There followed a half hour which seemed like a month. Once Thurstane stole softly through the Casa to Coronado's room, found all safe there, and returned, stumbling over bodies both going and coming. At last the slow dawn came and sent a faint, faint radiance through the door, enabling the benighted eyes within to discover one dolorous object after another. In the centre of the room lay the boy Shubert, perfectly motionless and no doubt dead. Here and there, slowly revealing themselves through the diminishing darkness, like horrible waifs left uncovered by a falling river, appeared the bodies of four Apaches, naked to the breechcloth and painted black, all quiet except one which twitched convulsively. The clay floor was marked by black pools and stains which were undoubtedly blood. Other fearful blotches were scattered along the entrance, as if grievously wounded men had tottered through it, or slain warriors had been dragged out by their comrades. While the battle is still in suspense a soldier looks with but faint emotion, and almost without pity, upon the dead and wounded. They are natural; they belong to the scene; what else should he see? Moreover, the essential sentiments of the time and place are, first, a hard egoism which thinks mainly of self-preservation, and second, a stern sense of duty which regulates it. In the fiercer moments of the conflict even these feelings are drowned in a wild excitement which may lie either exultation or terror. Thus it is that the ordinary sympathies of humanity for the suffering and for the dead are suspended. Looking at Shubert, our lieutenant simply said to himself, "I have lost a man. My command is weakened by so much." Then his mind turned with promptness to the still living and urgent incidents of the situation. Could he peep out of the doorway without getting an arrow through the head? Was the roof of the Casa safe from escalade? Were any of his people wounded? This last question he at once put in English and Spanish. Kelly replied, "Slightly, sir," and pointed to his left shoulder, pretty smartly laid open by the thrust of a knife. One of the Indian muleteers, who was sitting propped up in a corner, faintly raised his head and showed a horrible gash in his thigh. At a sign from Thurstane another muleteer bound up the wound with the sleeve of Shubert's shirt, which he slashed off for the purpose. Kelly said, "Never mind me, sir; it's no great affair, sir." "Two killed and two wounded," thought the lieutenant. "We are losing more than our proportion." As soon as it was light enough to distinguish objects clearly, a lively fire opened from the roof of the Casa. Judging that the attention of the assailants would be distracted by this, Thurstane cautiously edged his head forward and peeped through the doorway. The Apaches were still in the plaza; he discovered something like fifty of them; they were jumping about and firing arrows at the roof. He inferred that this could not last long; that they would soon be driven away by the musketry from above; that, in short, things were going well. After a time, becoming anxious lest Clara should expose herself to the missiles, he went to Coronado's room, sent one of the Mexicans to reinforce Meyer, and then climbed rapidly to the tower, taking along sabre, rifle, and revolver. He was ascending the last of the stepped sticks, and had the trap-door of the isolated room just above him, when he heard a shout, "Come up here, somebody!" It was the snuffling utterance of Phineas Glover, who slept on the roof as permanent guard of the ladies. Tumbling into the room, Thurstane found the skipper and two muleteers defending the doorway against five Apaches, who had reached the roof, three of them already on their feet and plying their arrows, while the two others were clambering over the ledge. Clara and Mrs. Stanley were crouched on their beds behind the shelter of the wall. The young man's first desperate impulse was to rush out and fight hand to hand. But remembering the dexterity of Indians in single combat, he halted just in time to escape a flight of missiles, placed himself behind the jamb of the doorway, and fired his rifle. At that short distance Sweeny would hardly have missed; and the nearest Apache, leaning forward with outspread arms, fell dead. Then the revolver came into play, and another warrior dropped his bow, his shoulder shattered. Glover and the muleteers, steadied by this opportune reinforcement, reloaded and resumed their file-firing. Guns were too much for archery; three Indians were soon stretched on the roof; the others slung themselves over the eaves and vanished. "Darned if they didn't reeve a tackle to git up," exclaimed Glover in amazement. It appeared that the savages had twisted lariats into long cords, fastened rude grapples to the end of them, flung them from the wall below the Casa, and so made their daring escalade. "Look out!" called Thurstane to the investigating Yankee. But the warning came too late; Glover uttered a yell of surprise, pain, and rage; this time it was not his nose, but his left ear. "Reckon they'll jest chip off all my feeturs 'fore they git done with me," he grinned, feeling of the wounded part. "Git my figgerhead smooth all round." To favor the escalade, the Apaches in the plaza had renewed their war-whoop, sent flights of arrows at the Casa, and made a spirited but useless charge on the doorways. Its repulse was the signal for a general and hasty flight. Just as the rising sun spread his haze of ruddy gold over the east, there was a despairing yell which marked the termination of the conflict, and then a rush for the gaps in the wall of the enclosure. In one minute from the signal for retreat the top of the hill did not contain a single painted combatant. No vigorous pursuit; the garrison had had enough of fighting; besides, ammunition was becoming precious. Texas Smith alone, insatiably bloodthirsty and an independent fighter, skulked hastily across the plaza, ambushed himself in a crevice of the ruin, and took a couple of shots at the savages as they mounted their ponies at the foot of the hill and skedaddled loosely across the plain. When he returned he croaked out, with an unusual air of excitement, "Big thing!" "What is a pig ding?" inquired Sergeant Meyer. "Never see Injuns make such a fight afore." "Nor I," assented Meyer. "Stranger, they fowt first-rate," affirmed Smith, half admiring the Apaches. "How many did we save?" "Here are vour in our room, und the leftenant says there are three on the roof, und berhabs we killed vour or vive outside." "A dozen!" chuckled Texas, "besides the wounded. Let's hev a look at the dead uns." Going into Meyer's room, he found one of the Apaches still twitching, and immediately cut his throat. Then he climbed to the roof, gloated over the three bodies there, dragged them one by one to the ledge, and pitched them into the plaza. "That'll settle 'em," he remarked with a sigh of intense satisfaction, like that of a baby when it has broken its rattle. Coming down again, he looked all the corpses over again, and said with an air of disappointment which was almost sentimental, "On'y a dozen!" "I kin keer for the Injuns," he volunteered when the question came up of burying the dead. "I'd rather keer for 'em than not." Before Thurstane knew what was going on, Texas had finished his labor of love. A crevice in the northern wall of the enclosure looked out upon a steep slope of marl, almost a precipice, which slanted sheer into the boiling flood of the San Juan. To this crevice Texas dragged one naked carcass after another, bundled it through, launched it with a vigorous shove, and then watched it with a pantherish grin, licking his chops as it were, as it rolled down the steep, splashed into the river, and set out on its swift voyage toward the Pacific. "I s'pose you'll want to dig a hole for _him_" he said, coming into the Casa and looking wistfully at the body of poor young Shubert. Sergeant Meyer motioned him to go away. Thurstane was entering in his journal an inventory of the deceased soldier's effects having already made a minute of the date and cause of his death. These with other facts, such as name, age, physical description, birthplace, time of service, amount of pay due, balance of clothing-account and stoppages, must be more or less repeated on various records, such as the descriptive book of the company, the daily return, the monthly return, the quarterly return, the muster-roll from which the name would be dropped, and the final statements which were to go to the Adjutant-General and the Paymaster-General. Even in the desert the monstrous accountability system of the army lived and burgeoned. Nothing of importance happened until about noon, when the sentinel on the outer wall announced that the Apaches were approaching in force, and Thurstane gave orders to barricade one of the doors of the Casa with some large blocks of adobe, saying to himself, "I ought to have done it before." This work well under way, he hastened to the brow of the hill and reconnoitred the enemy. "They are not going to attack," said Coronado. "They are going to torture the girl Pepita." Thurstane turned away sick at heart, observing, "I must keep the women in the Casa." CHAPTER XXIV. When Thurstane, turning his back on the torture scene, had ascended to the roof of the Casa, he found the ladies excited and anxious. "What is the matter?" asked Clara at once, taking hold of his sleeve with the tips of her fingers, in a caressing, appealing way, which was common with her when talking to those she liked. Ordinarily our officer was a truth-teller; indeed, there was nothing which came more awkwardly to him than deception; he hated and despised it as if it were a personage, a criminal, an Indian. But here was a case where he must stoop to falsification, or at least to concealment. "The Apaches are just below," he mumbled. "Not one of you women must venture out. I will see to everything. Be good now." She gave his sleeve a little twitch, smiled confidingly in his face, and sat down to do some much-needed mending. Having posted Sweeny at the foot of the ladders, with instructions to let none of the women descend, Thurstane hastened back to the exterior wall, drawn by a horrible fascination. With his field-glass he could distinguish every action of the tragedy which was being enacted on the plain. Pepita, entirely stripped of her clothing, was already bound to the sapling which stood by the side of the rivulet, and twenty or thirty of the Apaches were dancing around her in a circle, each one approaching her in turn, howling in her ears and spitting in her face. The young man had read and heard much of the horrors of that torture-dance, which stamps the American Indian as the most ferocious of savages; but be had not understood at all how large a part insult plays in this ceremony of deliberate cruelty; and, insulting a woman! he had not once dream'ed it. Now, when he saw it done, his blood rushed into his head and he burst forth in choked incoherent curses. "I can't stand this," he shouted, advancing upon Coronado with clenched fists. "We must charge." The Mexican shook his head in a sickly, scared way, and pointed to the left. There was a covering party of fifty or sixty warriors; it was not more than a quarter of a mile from the eastern end of the enclosure; it was in position to charge either upon that, or upon the flank of any rescuing sally. "We can do it," insisted the lieutenant, who felt as if he could fight twenty men. "We can't," replied Coronado. "I won't go, and my men shan't go." Thurstane thought of Clara, covered his face with his hands, and sobbed aloud. Texas Smith stared at him with a kind of contemptuous pity, and offered such consolation as it was in his nature to give. "Capm, when they've got through this job they'll travel." The hideous prelude continued for half an hour. The Apaches in the dance were relieved by their comrades in the covering party, who came one by one to take their turns in the round of prancing, hooting, and spitting. Then came a few minutes of rest; then insult was followed by outrage. The girl was loosed from the sapling and lifted until her head was even with the lower branches, three warriors holding her while two others extended her arms and fixed them to two stout limbs. What the fastenings were Thurstane could guess from the fact that he saw blows given, and heard the long shrill scream of a woman in uttermost agony. Then there was more hammering around the sufferer's feet, and more shrill wailing. She was spiked through the palms and the ankles to the tree. It was a crucifixion. "By ----!" groaned Thurstane, "I never will spare an Indian as long as I live." "Capm, I'm with you," said Texas Smith. "I seen my mother fixed like that. I seen it from the bush whar I was a hidin'. I was a boy then. I've killed every Injun I could sence." Now the dance was resumed. The Apaches pranced about their victim to the music of her screams. The movement quickened; at last they ran around the tree in a maddened crowd; at every shriek they stamped, gestured, and yelled demoniacally. Now and then one of them climbed the girl's body and appeared to stuff something into her mouth. Then the lamentable outcries sank to a gasping and sobbing which could only be imagined by the spectators on the hill. "Can't you hit some of them?" Thurstane asked Texas Smith. "Better let 'em finish," muttered the borderer. "The gal can't be helped. She's as good as dead, Capm." After another rest came a fresh scene of horror. Several of the Apaches, no doubt chiefs or leading braves, caught up their bows and renewed the dance. Running in a circle at full speed about the tree, each one in turn let fly an arrow at the victim, the object being to send the missile clear through her. "That's the wind-up," muttered Texas Smith. "It's my turn now." He leaped from the wall to the ground, ran sixty or eighty yards down the hill, halted, aimed, and fired. One of the warriors, a fellow in a red shirt who had been conspicuous in the torture scene, rolled over and lay quiet. The Apaches, who had been completely absorbed by their frantic ceremony, and who had not looked for an attack at the moment, nor expected death at such a distance, uttered a cry of surprise and dismay. There was a scramble of ten or fifteen screaming horsemen after the audacious borderer. But immediately on firing he had commenced a rapid retreat, at the same time reloading. He turned and presented his rifle; just then, too, a protecting volley burst from the rampart; another Apache fell, and the rest retreated. "Capm, it's all right," said Texas, as he reascended the ruin. "We're squar with 'em." "We might have broken it up," returned Thurstane sullenly. "No, Capm. You don't know 'em. They'd got thar noses p'inted to torture that gal. If they didn't do it thar, they'd a done it a little furder off. They was bound to do it. Now it's done, they'll travel." Warned by their last misadventure, the Indians presently retired to their usual camping ground, leaving their victim attached to the sapling. "I'll fotch her up," volunteered Texas, who had a hyena's hankering after dead bodies. "Reckon you'd like to bury her." He mounted, rode slowly, and with prudent glances to right and left, down the hill, halted under the tree, stood up in his saddle and worked there for some minutes. The Apaches looked on from a distance, uttering yells of exultation and making opprobrious gestures. Presently Texas resumed his seat and cantered gently back to the ruins, bearing across his saddle-bow a fearful burden, the naked body of a girl of eighteen, pierced with more than fifty arrows, stained and streaked all over with blood, the limbs shockingly mangled, and the mouth stuffed with rags. While nearly every other spectator turned away in horror, he glared steadily and calmly at the corpse, repeating, "That's Injin fun, that is. That's what they brag on, that is." "Bury her outside the wall," ordered Thurstane with averted face. "And listen, all you people, not a word of this to the women." "We shall be catechised," said Coronado. "You must do the lying," replied the officer. He was so shaken by what he had witnessed that he did not dare to face Clara for an hour afterward, lest his discomposure should arouse her suspicions. When he did at last visit the tower, she was quiet and smiling, for Coronado had done his lying, and done it well. "So there was no attack," she said. "I am so glad!" "Only a little skirmish. You heard the firing, of course." "Yes. Coronado told us about it. What a horrible howling the Indians made! There were some screams that were really frightful." "It was their last demonstration. They will probably be gone in the morning." "Poor Pepita! She will be carried off," said Clara, a tear or two stealing down her cheek. "Yes, poor Pepita!" sighed Thurstane. The muleteer who had been killed in the assault was already buried. At sundown came the funeral of the soldier Shubert. The body, wrapped in a blanket, was borne by four Mexicans to the grave which had been prepared for it, followed by his three comrades with loaded muskets, and then by all the other members of the party, except Mrs. Stanley, who looked down from her roof upon the spectacle. Thurstane acted as chaplain, and read the funeral service from Clara's prayer-book, amidst the weeping of women and the silence of men. The dead young hero was lowered into his last resting-place. Sergeant Meyer gave the order: "Shoulder arms--ready--present--aim--fire!" The ceremony was ended; the muleteers filled the grave; a stone was placed to mark it; so slept a good soldier. Now came another night of anxiety, but also of quiet. In the morning, when eager eyes looked through the yellow haze of dawn over the plain, not an Apache was to be seen. "They are gone," said Coronado to Thurstane, after the two had made the tour of the ruins and scrutinized every feature of the landscape. "What next?" Thurstane swept his field-glass around once more, searching for some outlet besides the horrible cañon, and searching in vain. "We must wait a day or so for our wounded," he said. "Then we must start back on our old trail. I don't see anything else before us." "It is a gloomy prospect," muttered Coronado, thinking of the hundred miles of rocky desert, and of the possibility that Apaches might be ambushed at the end of it. He had been so anxious about himself for a few days that he had cared for little else. He had been humble, submissive to Thurstane, and almost entirely indifferent about Clara. "We ought at least to try something in the way of explorations," continued the lieutenant. "To begin with, I shall sound the river. I shall be thought a devil of a failure if I don't carry back some information about the topography of this region." "Can you paddle your boat against the current?" asked Coronado. "I doubt it. But we can make a towing cord of lariats and let it out from the shore; perhaps swing it clear across the river in that way--with some paddling, you know." "It is an excellent plan," said Coronado. The day passed without movement, excepting that Texas Smith and two Mexicans explored the cañon for several miles, returning with a couple of lame ponies and a report that the Apaches had undoubtedly gone southward. At night, however, the animals were housed and sentries posted as usual, for Thurstane feared lest the enemy might yet return and attempt a surprise. The next morning, all being quiet, the Buchanan boat was launched. A couple of fairish paddles were chipped out of bits of driftwood, and a towline a hundred feet long was made of lariats. Thurstane further provisioned the cockle-shell with fishing tackle, a sounding line, his own rifle, Shubert's musket and accoutrements, a bag of hard bread, and a few pounds of jerked beef. "You are not going to make a voyage!" stared Coronado. "I am preparing for accidents. We may get carried down the river." "I thought you proposed to keep fast to the shore." "I do. But the lariats may break." Coronado said no more. He lighted a cigarito and looked on with an air of dreamy indifference. He had hit upon a plan for getting rid of Thurstane. The next question was, who could handle a boat? The lieutenant wanted two men to keep it out in the current while he used the sounding line and recorded results. "Guess I'll do 's well 's the nex' hand," volunteered Captain Glover. "Got a sore ear, 'n' a hole in my nose, but reckon I'm 'n able-bodied seaman for all that. _Hev_ rowed some in my time. Rowed forty mile after a whale onct, 'n' caught the critter--fairly rowed him down. Current's putty lively. Sh'd say 't was tearin' off 'bout five knots an hour. But guess I'll try it. Sh'd kinder like to feel water under me agin." "Captain, you shall handle the ship," smiled Thurstane. "I'll mention you by name in my report. Who next?" "Me," yelped Sweeny. "Can you row, Sweeny?" "I can, Liftinant." "You may try it." "Can I take me gun, Liftinant?" demanded Sweeny, who was extravagantly fond and proud of his piece, all the more perhaps because he held it in awe. "Yes, you can take it, and Glover can have Shubert's. Though, 'pon my honor, I don't know why we should carry firearms. It's old habit, I suppose. It's a way we have in the army." The lieutenant had no sort of anxiety on the score of his enterprise. His plan was to swing out into the current, and, if the boat proved perfectly manageable, to cut loose from the towline and paddle across, sounding the whole breadth of the channel. It seemed easy enough and safe enough. When he left the Casa Grande after breakfast he contrived to kiss Clara's hand, but it did not once occur to him that it would be proper to bid her farewell. He was very far indeed from guessing that in the knot of the lariat which was fast to the bow of his coracle there was a fatal gash. It was not suspicion of evil, but merely a habit of precaution, a prudential tone of mind which he had acquired in service, that led him at the last moment to say (making Coronado tremble in his boots), "Mr. Glover, have you thoroughly overhauled the cord?" "Give her a look jest before we went up to breakfast," replied the skipper. "She'll hold." Coronado, who stood three feet distant, blew a quiet little whiff of smoke through his thin purple lips, meanwhile dreamily contemplating the speaker. "Git in, you paddywhack," said Glover to Sweeny. "Grab yer paddle. T'other end; that's the talk. Now then. All aboard that's goin'. Shove off." In a few seconds, impelled from the shore by the paddles, the boat was at the full length of the towline and in the middle of the boiling current. "Will it never break?" thought Coronado, smoking a little faster than usual, but not moving a muscle. Yes. It had already broken. At the first pause in the paddling the mangled lariat had given way. In spite of the renewed efforts of the oarsmen, the boat was flying down the San Juan. CHAPTER XXV. When Thurstane perceived that the towline had parted and that the boat was gliding down the San Juan, he called sharply, "Paddle!" He was in no alarm as yet. The line, although of rawhide, was switching on the surface of the rapid current; it seemed easy enough to recover it and make a new fastening. Passing from the stern to the bow, he knelt down and dipped one hand in the water, ready to clutch the end of the lariat. But a boat five feet long and twelve feet broad, especially when made of canvas on a frame of light sticks, is not handily paddled against swift water; and the Buchanan (as the voyagers afterward named it) not only sagged awkwardly, but showed a strong tendency to whirl around like an egg-shell as it was. Moreover, the loose line almost instantly took the direction of the stream, and swept so rapidly shoreward that by the time Thurstane was in position to seize it, it was rods away. "Row for the bank," he ordered. But just as he spoke there came a little noise which was to these three men the crack of doom. The paddle of that most unskilful navigator, Sweeny, snapped in two, and the broad blade of it was instantly out of reach. Next the cockle-shell of a boat was spinning on its keel-less bottom, and whirling broadside on, bow foremost, stern foremost, any way, down the San Juan. "Paddle away!" shouted Thurstane to Glover. "Drive her in shore! Pitch her in!" The old coaster sent a quick, anxious look down the river, and saw at once that there was no chance of reaching the bank. Below them, not three hundred yards distant, was an archipelago of rocks, the _débris_ of fallen precipices and pinnacles, through which, for half a mile or more, the water flew in whirlpools and foam. They were drifting at great speed toward this frightful rapid, and, if they entered it, destruction was sure and instant. Only the middle of the stream showed a smooth current; and there was less than half a minute in which to reach it. Without a word Glover commenced paddling as well as he could away from the bank. "What are you about?" yelled Thurstane, who saw Clara on the roof of the Casa Grande, and was crazed at the thought of leaving her there. She would suspect that he had abandoned her; she would be massacred by the Apaches; she would starve in the desert, etc. Glover made no reply. His whole being was engaged in the struggle of evading immediate death. One more glance, one moment of manly, soldierly reflection, enabled Thurstane to comprehend the fate which was upon him, and to bow to it with resignation. Turning his back upon the foaming reefs which might the next instant be his executioners, he stood up in the boat, took off his cap, and waved a farewell to Clara. He was so unconscious of anything but her and his parting from her that for some time he did not notice that the slight craft had narrowly shaved the rocks, that it had barely crawled into the middle current, and that he was temporarily safe. He kept his eyes fixed upon the Casa and upon the girl's motionless figure until a monstrous, sullen precipice slid in between. He was like one who breathes his last with straining gaze settled on some loved face, parting from which is worse than death. When he could see her no longer, nor the ruin which sheltered her, and which suddenly seemed to him a paradise, he dropped his head between his hands, utterly unmanned. "'Twon't dew to give it up while we float, Major," said Glover, breveting the lieutenant by way of cheering him. "I don't give it up," replied Thurstane; "but I had a duty to do there, and now I can't do it." "There's dooties to be 'tended to here, I reckon," suggested Glover. "They will be done," said the officer, raising his head and settling his face. "How can we help you?" "Don't seem to need much help. The river doos the paddlin'; wish it didn't. No 'casion to send anybody aloft. I'll take a seat in the stern 'n' mind the hellum. Guess that's all they is to be done." "You dum paddywhack," he presently reopened, "what d'ye break yer paddle for?" "I didn't break it," yapped Sweeny indignantly. "It broke itself." "Well, what d'ye say y' could paddle for, when y' couldn't?" "I can paddle. I paddled as long as I had anythin' but a sthick." "Oh, you dum landlubber!" smirked Glover. "What if I should order ye to the masthead?" "I wouldn't go," asseverated Sweeny. "I'll moind no man who isn't me suparior officer. I've moindin' enough to do in the arrmy. I wouldn't go, onless the liftinint towld me. Thin I'd go." "Guess y' wouldn't now." "Yis I wud." "But they an't no mast." "I mane if there was one." This kind of babble Glover kept up for some minutes, with the sole object of amusing and cheering Thurstane, whose extreme depression surprised and alarmed him. He knew that the situation was bad, and that it would take lots of pluck to bring them through it. "Capm, where d'ye think we're bound?" he presently inquired. "Whereabouts doos this river come out?" "It runs into the Colorado of the West, and that runs into the head of the Gulf of California." "Californy! Reckon I'll git to the diggins quicker 'n I expected. Goin' at this rate, we'll make about a hundred 'n' twenty knots a day. What's the distance to Californy?" "By the bends of the river it can't be less than twelve hundred miles to the gulf." "Whew!" went Glover. "Ten days' sailin'. Wal, smooth water all the way?" "The San Juan has never been navigated. So far as I know, we are the first persons who ever launched a boat on it." "Whew! Why, it's like discoverin' Ameriky. Wal, what d'ye guess about the water? Any chance 'f its bein' smooth clear through?" "The descent to the gulf must be two or three thousand feet, perhaps more. We can hardly fail to find rapids. I shouldn't be astonished by a cataract." Glover gave a long whistle and fell into grave meditation. His conclusion was: "Can't navigate nights, that's a fact. Have to come to anchor. That makes twenty days on't. Wal, Capm, fust thing is to fish up a bit 'f driftwood 'n' whittle out 'nother paddle. Want a boat-pole, too, like thunder. We're awful short 'f spars for a long voyage." His lively mind had hardly dismissed this subject before he remarked: "Dum cur'ous that towline breaking. I overhauled every foot on't. I'd a bet my bottom fo'pence on its drawin' ten ton. Haul in the slack end 'n' let's hev a peek at it." The tip of the lariat, which was still attached to the boat, being handed to him, he examined it minutely, closed his eyes, whistled, and ejaculated, "Sawed!" "What?" asked Thurstane. "Sawed," repeated Glover. "That leather was haggled in tew with a jagged knife or a sharp flint or suthin 'f that sort. Done a purpose, 's sure 's I'm a sinner." Thurstane took the lariat, inspected the breakage carefully, and scowled with helpless rage. "That infernal Texan!" he muttered. "Sho!" said Glover. "That feller? Anythin' agin ye? Wal, Capm, then all I've got to say is, you come off easy. That feller 'd cut a sleepin' man's throat. I sh'd say thank God for the riddance. Tell ye I've watched that cuss. Been blastedly afeard 'f him. Hev so, by George! The further I git from him the safer I feel." "Not a nice man to leave _there_" muttered Thurstane, whose anxiety was precisely not for himself, but for Clara. The young fellow could not be got to talk much; he was a good deal upset by his calamity. The parting from Clara was an awful blow; the thought of her dangers made him feel as if he could jump overboard; and, lurking deep in his soul, there was an ugly fear that Coronado might now win her. He was furious moreover at having been tricked, and meditated bedlamite plans of vengeance. For a time he stared more at the mangled lariat than at the amazing scenery through which he was gliding. And yet that scenery, although only a prelude, only an overture to the transcendent oratorios of landscape which were to follow, was in itself a horribly sublime creation. Not twenty minutes after the snapping of the towline the boat had entered one of those stupendous cañons which form the distinguishing characteristic of the great American table-land, and make it a region unlike any other in the world. Remember that the cañon is a groove chiselled out of rock by a river. Although a groove, it is never straight for long distances. The river at its birth was necessarily guided by the hollows of the primal plateau; moreover, it was tempted to labor along the softest surfaces. Thus the cañon is a sinuous gully, cut down from the hollows of rocky valleys, and following their courses of descent from mountain-chain toward ocean. In these channels the waters have chafed, ground, abraded, eroded for centuries which man cannot number. Like the Afreets of the Arabian Nights, they have been mighty slaves, subject to a far mightier master. That potent magician whose lair is in the centre of the earth, and whom men have vaguely styled the attraction of gravitation, has summoned them incessantly toward himself. In their struggle to render him obedience, they have accomplished results which make all the works of man insignificant by comparison. To begin with, vast lakes, which once swept westward from the bases of the Rocky Mountains, were emptied into the Pacific. Next the draining currents transformed into rivers, cut their way through the soil which formerly covered the table-lands and commenced their attrition upon the underlying continent of sandstone. It was a grinding which never ceased; every pebble and every bowlder which lay in the way was pressed into the endless labor; mountains were used up in channelling mountains. The central magician was insatiable and pitiless; he demanded not only the waters, but whatever they could bring; he hungered after the earth and all that covered it. His obedient Afreets toiled on, denuding the plateaux of their soil, washing it away from every slope and peak, pouring it year by year into the cañons, and whirling it on to the ocean. The rivers, the brooklets, the springs, and the rains all joined in this eternal robbery. Little by little an eighth of a continent was stripped of its loam, its forests, its grasses, its flowers, its vegetation of every species. What had been a land of fertility became an arid and rocky desert. Then the minor Afreets perished of the results of their own obedience. There being no soil, the fountains disappeared; there being no evaporation, the rains diminished. Deprived of sustenance, nearly all the shorter streams dried up, and the channels which they had hewn became arid gullies. Only those rivers continued to exist which drew their waters from the snowy slopes of the Rocky Mountains or from the spurs and ranges which intersect the plateaux. The ages may come when these also will cease to flow, and throughout all this portion of the continent the central magician will call for his Afreets in vain. For some time we must attend much to the scenery of the desert thus created. It has become one of the individuals of our story, and interferes with the fate of the merely human personages. Thurstane could not long ignore its magnificent, oppressive, and potent presence. Forgetting somewhat his anxieties about the loved one whom he had left behind, he looked about him with some such amazement as if he had been translated from earth into regions of supernature. The cañon through which he was flying was a groove cut in solid sandstone, less than two hundred feet wide, with precipitous walls of fifteen hundred feet, from the summit of which the rock sloped away into buttes and peaks a thousand feet higher. On every side the horizon was half a mile above his head. He was in a chasm, twenty-five hundred feet below the average surface of the earth, the floor of which was a swift river. He seemed to himself to be traversing the abodes of the Genii. Although he had only heard of "Vathek," he thought of the Hall of Eblis. It was such an abyss as no artist has ever hinted, excepting Doré in his picturings of Dante's "Inferno." Could Dante himself have looked into it, he would have peopled it with the most hopeless of his lost spirits. The shadow, the aridity, the barrenness, the solemnity, the pitilessness, the horrid cruelty of the scene, were more than might be received into the soul. It was something which could not be imagined, and which when seen could not be fully remembered. To gaze on it was like beholding the mysterious, wicked countenance of the father of all evil. It was a landscape which was a fiend. The precipices were not bare and plain faces of rock, destitute of minor finish and of color. They had their horrible decorations; they showed the ingenuity and the artistic force of the Afreets who had fashioned them; they were wrought and tinted with a demoniac splendor suited to their magnitude. It seemed as if some goblin Michel Angelo had here done his carving and frescoing at the command of the lords of hell. Layers of brown, gray, and orange sandstone, alternated from base to summit; and these tints were laid on with a breadth of effect which was prodigious: a hundred feet in height and miles in length at a stroke of the brush. The architectural and sculptural results were equally monstrous. There were lateral shelves twenty feet in width, and thousands of yards in length. There were towers, pilasters, and formless caryatides, a quarter of a mile in height. Great bulks projected, capped by gigantic mitres or diadems, and flanked by cavernous indentations. In consequence of the varying solidity of the stone, the river had wrought the precipices into a series of innumerable monuments, more or less enormous, commemorative of combats. There had been interminable strife here between the demons of earth and the demons of water, and each side had set up its trophies. It was the Vatican and the Catacombs of the Genii; it was the museum and the mausoleum of the forces of nature. At various points tributary gorges, the graves of fluvial gods who had perished long ago, opened into the main cañon. In passing these the voyagers had momentary glimpses of sublimities and horrors which seemed like the handiwork of that "anarch old," who wrought before the shaping of the universe. One of these sarcophagi was a narrow cleft, not more than eighty feet broad, cut from surface to base of a bed of sandstone one-third of a mile in depth. It was inhabited by an eternal gloom which was like the shadow of the blackness of darkness. The stillness, the absence of all life whether animal or vegetable, the dungeon-like closeness of the monstrous walls, were beyond language. Another gorge was a ruin. The rock here being of various degrees of density, the waters had essayed a thousand channels. All the softer veins had been scooped out and washed away, leaving the harder blocks and masses piled in a colossal grotesque confusion. Along the sloping sides of the gap stood bowlders, pillars, needles, and strange shapes of stone, peering over each other's heads into the gulf below. It was as if an army of misshapen monsters and giants had been petrified with horror, while staring at some inconceivable desolation and ruin. There was no hope for this concrete despair; no imaginable voice could utter for it a word of consolation; the gazer, like Dante amid the tormented, could only "look and pass on." At one point two lateral cañons opened side by side upon the San Juan. The partition was a stupendous pile of rock fifteen hundred feet in altitude, but so narrow that it seemed to the voyagers below like the single standing wall of some ruined edifice. Although the space on its summit was broad enough for a cathedral, it did not appear to them that it would afford footing to a man, while the enclosing fissures looked narrow enough to be crossed at a bound. On either side of this isolated bar of sandstone a plumb-line might have been dropped straight to the level of the river. The two chasms were tombs of shadow, where nothing ever stirred but winds. The solitude of this continuous panorama of precipices was remarkable. It was a region without man, or beast, or bird, or insect. The endless rocks, not only denuded, but eroded and scraped by the action of bygone waters, could furnish no support for animal life. A beast of prey, or even a mountain goat, would have starved here. Could a condor of the Andes have visited it, he would have spread his wings at once to leave it. Yet horrible as the scene was, it was so sublime that it fascinated. For hours, gazing at lofty masses, vast outlines, prodigious assemblages of rocky imagery, endless strokes of natural frescoing, the three adventurers either exchanged rare words of astonishment, or lay in reveries which transported them beyond earth. What Thurstane felt he could only express by recalling random lines of the "Paradise Lost." It seemed to him as if they might at any moment emerge upon the lake of burning marl, and float into the shadow of the walls of Pandemonium. He would not have felt himself carried much beyond his present circumstances, had he suddenly beheld Satan, High on a throne of royal state, which far Outshone the wealth of Ormus and of Ind. He was roused from his dreams by the quick, dry, grasshopper-like voice of Phineas Glover, asking, "What's that?" A deep whisper came up the chasm. They could hardly distinguish it when they stretched their hearing to the utmost. It seemed to steal with difficulty against the rushing flood, and then to be swept down again. It sighed threateningly for a moment, and instantaneously became silence. One might liken it to a ghost trying to advance through some castle hall, only to be borne backward by the fitful night-breeze, or by some mysterious ban. Was the desert inhabited, and by disembodied demons? After a further flight of half a mile, this variable sigh changed to a continuous murmur. There was now before the voyagers a straight course of nearly two miles, at the end of which lay hid the unseen power which gave forth this solemn menace. The river, perfectly clear of rocks, was a sheet of liquid porphyry, an arrow of dark-red water slightly flecked with foam. The walls of the cañon, scarcely fifty yards apart and more stupendous than ever, rose in precipices without a landing-place or a foothold. So far as eye could pierce into the twilight of the sublime chasm, there was not a spot where the boat could be arrested in its flight, or where a swimmer could find a shelf of safety. "It is a rapid," said Thurstane. "You did well, Captain Glover, to get another paddle." "Lord bless ye!" returned the skipper impatiently, "it's lucky I was whittlin' while you was thinkin'. If we on'y had a boat-hook!" From moment to moment the murmur came nearer and grew louder. It was smothered and then redoubled by the reverberations of the cañon, so that sometimes it seemed the tigerish snarl of a rapid, and sometimes the leonine roar of a cataract. A bend of the chasm at last brought the voyagers in sight of the monster, which was frothing and howling to devour them. It was a terrific spectacle. It was like Apollyon "straddling quite across the way," to intercept Christian in the Valley of the Shadow of Death. From one dizzy rampart to the other, and as far down the echoing cavern as eye could reach, the river was white with an arrowy rapid storming though a labyrinth of rocks. Sweeny, evidently praying, moved his lips in silence. Glover's face had the keen, anxious, watchful look of the sailor affronting shipwreck; and Thurstane's the set, enduring rigidity of the soldier who is tried to his utmost by cannonade. CHAPTER XXVI. The three adventurers were entering the gorge of an impassable rapid. Here had once been the barrier of a cataract; the waters had ground through it, tumbled it down, and gnawed it to tatters; the scattered bowlders which showed through the foam were the remnants of the Cyclopean feast. There appeared to be no escape from death. Any one of those stones would rend the canvas boat from end to end, or double it into a wet rug; and if a swimmer should perchance reach the bank, he would drown there, looking up at precipices; or, if he should find a footing, it would only be to starve. "There is our chance," said Thurstane, pointing to a bowlder as large as a house which stood under the northern wall of the cañon, about a quarter of a mile above the first yeast of the rapid. He and Glover each took a paddle. They had but one object: it was to get under the lee of the bowlder, and so stop their descent; after that they would see what more could be done. Danger and safety were alike swift here; it was a hurry as of battle or tempest Almost before they began to hope for success, they were circling in the narrow eddy, very nearly a whirlpool, which wheeled just below the isolated rock. Even here the utmost caution was necessary, for while the Buchanan was as light as a bubble, it was also as fragile. Sounding the muddy water with their paddles, they slowly glided into the angle between the bowlder and the precipice, and jammed the fragment of the towline in a crevice. For the first time in six hours, and in a run of thirty miles, they were at rest. Wiping the sweat of labor and anxiety from their brows, they looked about them, at first in silence, querying what next? "I wish I was on an iceberg," said Glover in his despair. "An' I wish I was in Oirland," added Sweeny. "But if the divil himself was to want to desart here, he couldn't." Thurstane believed that he had seen Clara for the last time, even should she escape her own perils. Through his field-glass he surveyed the whole gloomy scene with microscopic attention, searching for an exit out of this monstrous man-trap, and searching in vain. It was as impossible to descend the rapid as it was to scale the walls of the cañon. He had just heard Sweeny say, "I wish I was bein' murthered by thim naygurs," and had smiled at the utterance of desperation with a grim sympathy, when a faint hope dawned upon him. Not more than a yard above the water was a ledge or shelf in the face of the precipice. The layer of sandstone immediately over this shelf was evidently softer than the general mass; and in other days (centuries ago), when it had formed one level with the bed of the river, it had been deeply eroded. This erosion had been carried along the cañon on an even line of altitude as far as the softer layer extended. Thurstane could trace it with his glass for what seemed to him a mile, and there was of course a possibility that it reached below the foot of the rapid. The groove was everywhere about twenty feet high, while its breadth varied from a yard or so to nearly a rod. Here, then, was a road by which they might perhaps turn the obstacle. The only difficulty was that while the bed of the river descended rapidly, the shelf kept on at the same elevation, so that eventually the travellers would come to a jumping-off place. How high would it be? Could they get down it so as to regain the stream and resume their navigation? Well, they must try it; there was no other road. With one eloquent wave of his hand Thurstane pointed out this slender chance of escape to his comrades. "Hurray!" shouted Glover, after a long stare, in which the emotions succeeded each other like colors in a dolphin. "Can we make the jump at the other end?" asked the lieutenant. "Reckon so," chirruped Glover. "Look a here." He exhibited a pile of unpleasant-looking matter which proved to be a mass of strips of fresh hide. "Hoss skin," he explained. "Peeled off a mustang. Borrowed it from that Texan cuss. Thought likely we might want to splice our towline. 'Bout ten fathom, I reckon; 'n' there's the lariat, two fathom more. All we've got to de is to pack up, stick our backs under, 'n' travel." It was three o'clock in the afternoon when they commenced their preparations for making this extraordinary portage. Sunk as they were twenty-five hundred feet in the bowels of the earth, the sun had already set for them; but they were still favored with a sort of twilight radiance, and they could count upon it for a couple of hours longer. Carefully the guns, paddles, and stores were landed on the marvellous causeway; and then, with still greater caution, the boat was lifted to the same support and taken to pieces. The whole mass of material, some two hundred pounds in weight, was divided into three portions. Each shouldered his pack, and the strange journey commenced. "Sweeny, don't you fall off," said Glover. "We can't spare them sticks." "If I fall off, ye may shute me where I stand," returned Sweeny. "I know better'n to get drowned and starved to death in wan. I can take care av meself. I've sailed this a way many a time in th' ould counthry." The road was a smooth and easy one, barring a few cumbering bowlders. To the left and below was the river, roaring, hissing, and foaming through its _chevaux-de-frise_ of rocks. In front the cañon stretched on and on until its walls grew dim with shadow and distance. Above were overhanging precipices and a blue streak of sunlit sky. It was quite dusk with the wanderers before they reached a point where the San Juan once more flowed with an undisturbed current. "We can't launch by this light," said Thurstane. "We will sleep here." "It'll be a longish night," commented Glover. "But don't see's we can shorten it by growlin'. When fellahs travel in the bowels 'f th' earth, they've got to follow the customs 'f th' country. Puts me in mind of Jonah in the whale's belly. Putty short tacks, Capm. Nine hours a day won't git us along; any too fast. But can't help it. Night travellin' ain't suited to our boat. Suthin' like a bladder football: one pin-prick 'd cowallapse it. Wal, so we'll settle. Lucky we wanted our blankets to set on. 'Pears to me this rock's a leetle harder'n a common deck plank. Unroll the boat, Capm? Wal, guess we'd better. Needs dryin'a speck. Too much soakin' an't good for canvas. Better dry it out, 'n' fold it up, 'n' sleep on't. This passageway that we're in, sh'd say at might git up a smart draught. What d'ye say to this spot for campin'? Twenty foot breadth of beam here. Kind of a stateroom, or bridal chamber. No need of fallin' out. Ever walk in yer sleep, Sweeny? Better cut it right square off to-night. Five fathom down to the river, sh'd say. Splash ye awfully, Sweeny." Thus did Captain Glover prattle in his cheerful way while the party made its preparations for the night. They were like ants lodged in some transverse crack of a lofty wall. They were in a deep cut of the shelf, with fifteen hundred or two thousand feet of sandstone above, and the porphyry-colored river thirty feet below. The narrow strip of sky far above their heads was darkening rapidly with the approach of night, and with an accumulation of clouds. All of a sudden there was a descent of muddy water, charged with particles of red earth and powdered sandstone, pouring by them down the overhanging precipice. "Liftinant!" exclaimed Sweeny, "thim naygurs up there is washin' their dirty hides an' pourin' the suds down on us." "It's the rain, Sweeny. There's a shower on the plateau above." "The rain, is it? Thin all nate people in that counthry must stand in great nade of ombrellys." The scene was more marvellous than ever. Not a drop of rain fell in the river; the immense façade opposite them was as dry as a skull; yet here was this muddy cataract. It fell for half an hour, scarcely so much as spattering them in their recess, but plunging over them into the torrent beneath. By the time it ceased they had eaten their supper of hard bread and harder beef, and lighted their pipes to allay their thirst. There was a laying of plans to regain the river to-morrow, a grave calculation as to how long their provisions would last, and in general much talk about their chances. "Not a shine of a lookout for gittin' back to the Casa?" queried Captain Glover. "Knowed it," he added, when the lieutenant sadly shook his head. "Fool for talkin' 'bout it. How 'bout reachin' the trail to the Moqui country?" "I have been thinking of it all day," said Thurstane. "We must give it up. Every one of the branch cañons on the other bank trends wrong. We couldn't cross them; we should have to follow them; it's an impassable hell of a country. We might by bare chance reach the Moqui pueblos; but the probability is that we should die in the desert of thirst. We shall have to run the river. Perhaps we shall have to run the Colorado too. If so, we had better keep on to Diamond creek, and from there push by land to Cactus Pass. Cactus Pass is on the trail, and we may meet emigrants there. I don't know what better to suggest." "Dessay it's a tiptop idee," assented Glover cheeringly. "Anyhow, if we take on down the river, it seems like follyin' the guidings of Providence." In spite of their strange situation and doubtful prospects, the three adventurers slept early and soundly. When they awoke it was daybreak, and after chewing the hardest, dryest, and rawest of breakfasts, they began their preparations to reach the river. To effect this, it was necessary to find a cleft in the ledge where they could fasten a cord securely, and below it a footing at the water's edge where they could put their boat together and launch it. It would not do to go far down the cañon, for the bed of the stream descended while the shelf retained its level, and the distance between them was already sufficiently alarming. After an anxious search they discovered a bowlder lying in the river beneath the shelf, with a flat surface perfectly suited to their purpose. There, too, was a cleft, but a miserably small one. "We can't jam a cord in that," said Glover; "nor the handle of a paddle nuther." "It'll howld me bagonet," suggested Sweeny. "It can be made to hold it," decided Thurstane. "We must drill away till it does hold it." An hour's labor enabled them to insert the bayonet to the handle and wedge it with spikes split off from the precious wood of the paddles. When it seemed firm enough to support a strong lateral pressure, Glover knotted on to it, in his deft sailor fashion, a strip of the horse hide, and added others to that until he had a cord of some forty feet. After testing every inch and every knot, he said: "Who starts first?" "I will try it," answered Thurstane. "Lightest first, I reckon," observed Glover. Sweeny looked at the precipice, skipped about the shelf uneasily, made a struggle with his fears, and asked, "Will ye let me down aisy?" "Jest 's easy 's rollin' off a log." "That's aisy enough. It's the lightin' that's har-rd. If it comes to rowlin' down, I'll let ye have the first rowl. I've no moind to git ahead of me betthers." "Try it, my lad," said Thurstane. "The real danger comes with the last man. He will have to trust to the bayonet alone." "An' what'll I do whirl I get down there?" "Take the traps off the cord as we send them down, and pile them on the rock." "I'm off," said Sweeny, after one more look into the chasm. While the others held the cord to keep the strain from coming on the bayonet, he gripped it with both hands, edged stern foremost over the precipice, and slipped rapidly to the bowlder, whence he sent up a hoot of exultation. The cord was drawn back; the boat was made up in two bundles, which were lowered in succession; then the provisions, paddles, arms, etc. Now came the question whether Thurstane or Glover should remain last on the ledge. "Lightest last," said the lean skipper. "Stands to reason." "It's my duty to take the hot end of the poker," replied the officer. "Loser goes first," said Glover, producing a copper. "Heads or tails?" "Heads," guessed Thurstane. "It's a tail. Catch hold, Capm. Slow 'n' easy till you get over." The cord holding firm, Thurstane reached the bowlder, and was presently joined by Glover. "Liftinant, I want me bagonet," cried Sweeny. "Will I go up afther it?" "How the dickens 'd you git down again?" asked Glover. "Guess you'll have to leave your bayonet where it sticks. But, Capm, we want that line. Can't you shute it away, clost by th' edge?" The third shot was a lucky one, and brought down the precious cord. Then came the work of putting the boat into shape, launching it, getting in the stores, and lastly the voyagers. "Tight's a drum yit," observed Glover, surveying the coracle admiringly. "Fust time I ever sailed _on_ canvas. Great notion. Don't draw more'n three inches. Might sail acrost country with it. Capm, it's the only boat ever invented that could git down this blasted river." Glover and Sweeny, two of the most talkative creatures on earth, chattered much to each other. Thurstane sometimes listened to them, sometimes lost himself in reveries about Clara, sometimes surveyed the scenery of the cañon. The abyss was always the same, yet with colossal variety: here and there yawnings of veined precipices, followed by cavernous closings of the awful sides; breakings in of subsidiary cañons, some narrow clefts, and others gaping shattered mouths; the walls now presenting long lines of rampart, and now a succession of peaks. But still, although they had now traversed the chasm for seventy or eighty miles, they found no close and no declension to its solemn grandeur. At last came another menace, a murmur deeper and hoarser than that of the rapid, steadily swelling as they advanced until it was a continuous thunder. This time there could be no doubt that they were entering upon a scene of yet undecided battle between the eternal assault of the river and the immemorial resistance of the mountains. The quickening speed of the waters, and the ceaseless bellow of their charging trumpets as they tore into some yet unseen abyss, announced one of those struggles of nature in which man must be a spectator or a victim. CHAPTER XXVII. As Thurstane approached the cataract of the San Juan he thought of the rapids above Niagara, and of the men who had been whirled down them, foreseeing their fate and struggling against it, but unable to escape it. "We must keep near one wall or the other," he said. "The middle of the river is sure death." Paddling toward the northern bank, simply because it had saved them in their former peril, they floated like a leaf in the shadows of the precipices, watching for some footway by which to turn the lair of the monster ahead. The scenery here did not consist exclusively of two lofty ramparts fronting each other. Before the river had established its present channel it had tried the strength of the plateau in various directions, slashing the upper strata into a succession of cañons, which were now lofty and arid gullies, divided from each other by every conceivable form of rocky ruin. Rotundas, amphitheatres, castellated walls, cathedrals of unparalleled immensity, facades of palaces huge enough to be the abodes of the principalities and powers of the air, far-stretching semblances of cities tottering to destruction, all fashions of domes, towers, minarets, spires, and obelisks, with a population of misshapen demons and monsters, looked down from sublime heights upon the voyagers. At every turn in the river the panorama changed, and they beheld new marvels of this Titanic architecture. There was no end to the gigantic and grotesque variety of the commingling outlines. The vastness, the loneliness, the stillness, the twilight sombreness, were awful. And through all reverberated incessantly the defiant clarion of the cataract. The day was drawing to that early death which it has always had and must always have in these abysses. Knowing how suddenly darkness would fall, and not daring to attempt the unknown without light, the travellers looked for a mooring spot. There was a grim abutment at least eighteen hundred feet high; at its base two rocks, which had tumbled ages ago from the summit, formed a rude breakwater; and on this barrier had collected a bed of coarse pebbles, strewn with driftwood. Here they stopped their flight, unloaded the boat and beached it. The drift-wood furnished them a softer bed than usual, and materials for a fire. Night supervened with the suddenness of a death which has been looked for, but which is at last a surprise. Shadow after shadow crept down the walls of the chasm, blurred its projections, darkened its faces, and crowded its recesses. The line of sky, seen through the jagged and sinuous opening above, changed slowly to gloom and then to blackness. There was no light in this rocky intestine of the earth except the red flicker of the camp-fire. It fought feebly with the powers of darkness; it sent tremulous despairing flashes athwart the swift ebony river; it reached out with momentary gleams to the nearer facades of precipice; it reeled, drooped, and shuddered as if in hopeless horror. Probably, since the world began, no other fire lighted by man had struggled against the gloom of this tremendous amphitheatre. The darknesses were astonished at it, but they were also uncomprehending and hostile. They refused to be dissipated, and they were victorious. After two hours a change came upon the scene. The moon rose, filled the upper air with its radiance, and bathed in silver the slopes of the mountains. The narrow belt of visible sky resembled a milky way. The light continued to descend and work miracles. Isolated turrets, domes, and pinnacles came out in gleaming relief against the dark-blue background of the heavens. The opposite crest of the cañon shone with a broad illumination. All the uncouth demons and monsters of the rocks awoke, glaring and blinking, to menace the voyagers in the depths below. The contrast between this supereminent brilliancy and the sullen obscurity of the subterranean river made the latter seem more than ever like Styx or Acheron. The travellers were awakened in the morning by the trumpetings of the cataract. They embarked and dropped down the stream, hugging the northern rampart and watching anxiously. Presently there was a clear sweep of a mile; the clamor now came straight up to them with redoubled vehemence; a ghost of spray arose and waved threateningly, as if forbidding further passage. It was the roar and smoke of an artillery which had thundered for ages, and would thunder for ages to come. It was a voice and signal which summoned reinforcements of waters, and in obedience to which the waters charged eternally. The boat had shudders. Every spasm jerked it onward a little faster. It flew with a tremulous speed which was terrible. Thurstane, a good soldier, able to obey as well as to direct, knowing that if Glover could not steer wisely no one could, sat, paddle in hand, awaiting orders. Sweeny fidgeted, looked from one to another, looked at the mist ahead, cringed, wanted to speak, and said nothing. Glover, working hard with his paddle, and just barely keeping the coracle bows on, peered and grinned as if he were facing a hurricane. There was no time to have a care for sunken bowlders, reaching up to rend the thin bottom. The one giant danger of the cataract was enough to fill the mind and bar out every minor terror. Its deafening threats demanded the whole of the imagination. Compared with the probability of plunging down an unknown depth into a boiling hell of waters, all other peril seemed too trifling to attract notice. Such a fate is an enhancement of the horrors of death. "Liftinant, let's go over with a whoop," called Sweeny. "It's much aisier." "Keep quiet, my lad," replied the officer. "We must hear orders." "All right, Liftinant," said Sweeny, relieved by having spoken. At this moment Glover shouted cheerfully, "We ain't dead yit There's a ledge." "I see it," nodded Thurstane. "Where there's a ledge there's an eddy," screamed Glover, raising his voice to pierce the hiss of the rapid and the roar of the cascade. Below them, jutting out from the precipitous northern bank, was a low bar of rock over which the river did not sweep. It was the remnant of a once lofty barrier; the waters had, as it were, gnawed it to the bone, but they had not destroyed it. In two minutes the voyagers were beside it, paddling with all their strength against the eddy which whirled along its edge toward the cataract, and tossing over the short, spiteful ripples raised by the sudden turn of the current. With a "Hooroo!" Sweeny tumbled ashore, lariat in hand, and struck his army shoes into the crevices of the shattered sandstone. In five minutes more the boat was unloaded and lifted upon the ledge. The travellers did not go to look at the cataract; their immediate and urgent need was to get by it. Making up their bundles as usual, they commenced a struggle with the intricacies and obstacles of the portage. The eroded, disintegrated plateau descended to the river in a huge confusion of ruin, and they had to pick their way for miles through a labyrinth of cliffs, needles, towers, and bowlders. Reaching the river once more, they found themselves upon a little plain of moderately fertile earth, the first plain and the first earth which they had seen since entering the cañon. The cataract was invisible; a rock cathedral several hundred feet high hid it; they could scarcely discern its lofty ghost of spray. Two miles away, in the middle of the plain, appeared a ruin of adobe walls, guttered and fissured by the weather. It was undoubtedly a monument of that partially civilized race, Aztec, Toltec, or Moqui, which centuries ago dotted the American desert with cities, and passed away without leaving other record. With his field-glass Thurstane discovered what he judged to be another similar structure crowning a distant butte. They had no time to visit these remains, and they resumed their voyage. After skirting the plain for several miles, they reëntered the cañon, drifted two hours or more between its solemn walls, and then came out upon a wide sweep of open country. The great cañon of the San Juan had been traversed nearly from end to end in safety. When the adventurers realized their triumph they rose to their feet and gave nine hurrahs. "It's loike a rich man comin' through the oye av a needle," observed Sweeny. "Only this haint much the air 'f the New Jerusalem," returned Glover, glancing at the arid waste of buttes and ranges in the distance. "We oughter look up some huntin'," he continued. "Locker'll begin to show bottom b'fore long. Sweeny, wouldn't you like to kill suthin?" "I'd like to kill a pig," said Sweeny. "Wal, guess we'll probably come acrost one. They's a kind of pigs in these deestricks putty nigh's long 's this boat." "There ain't," returned Sweeny. "Call 'em grizzlies when they call 'em at all," pursued the sly Glover. "They may call 'em what they plaze if they won't call 'em as long as this boat." Fortune so managed things, by way of carrying out Glover's joke, that a huge grizzly just then snowed himself on the bank, some two hundred yards below the boat. After easily slaughtering one bear, the travellers had a far more interesting season with another, who was allured to the scene by the smell of jerking meat, and who gave them a very lively half hour of it, it being hard to say which was the most hunted, the bruin or the humans. "Look a' that now!" groaned Sweeny, when the victory had been secured. "The baste has chawed up me gun barrl loike it was a plug o' tobacky." "Throw it away," ordered Thurstane, after inspecting the twisted and lacerated musket. Tenderly and tearfully Sweeny laid aside the first gun that he had ever carried, went again and again to look at its mangled form as if it were a dead relative, and in the end raised a little mausoleum of cobble-stones over it. "If there was any whiskey, I'd give um a wake," he sighed. "I'm a pratty soldier now, without a gun to me back." "I'll let ye carry mine when we come to foot it," suggested Glover. "Yis, an' ye may carry me part av the boat," retorted Sweeny. The bear meat was tough and musky, but it could be eaten, must be eaten, ind was eaten. During the time required for jerking a quantity of it, Glover made a boat out of the two hides, scraping them with a hunting knife, sewing them with a sailor's needle and strands of the sounding-line, and stretching them on a frame of green saplings, the result being a craft six feet long by nearly four broad, and about the shape of a half walnut-shell. The long hair was left on, as a protection against the rocks of the river, and the seams were filled and plastered with bear's grease. "It's a mighty bad-smellin' thing," remarked Sweeny. "An who's goin' to back it over the portages?" "Robinson Crusoe!" exclaimed Glover. "I never thought of that. Wal, let's see. Oh, we kin tow her astarn in plain sailin', 'n' when we come to a cataract we can put Sweeny in an' let her slide." "No ye can't," said Sweeny. "It's big enough, an' yet it won't howld um, no more'n a tayspoon'll howld a flay." "Wal, we kin let her slide without a crew, 'n' pick her up arterwards," decided Glover. We must hasten over the minor events of this remarkable journey. The travellers, towing the bearskin boat behind the Buchanan, passed the mouth of Cañon Bonito, and soon afterward beheld the San Juan swallowed up in the Grand River, a far larger stream which rises in the Rocky Mountains east of Utah. They swept by the horrible country of the Utes and Payoches, without holding intercourse with its squalid and savage inhabitants. Here and there, at the foot of some monstrous precipice, in a profound recess surrounded by a frenzy of rocks, they saw hamlets of a few miserable wigwams, with patches of starveling corn and beans. Sharp wild cries, like the calls of malicious brownies, or the shrieks of condemned spirits, were sent after them, without obtaining response. "They bees only naygurs," observed Sweeny. "Niver moind their blaggard ways." After the confluence with the Grand River came solitude. The land had been swept and garnished: swept by the waters and garnished with horrors; a land of cañons, plateaux, and ranges, all arid; a land of desolation and the shadow of death. There was nothing on which man or beast could support life; nature's power of renovation was for the time suspended, and seemed extinct. It was a desert which nothing could restore to fruitfulness except the slow mysterious forces of a geologic revolution. Beyond the Sierra de Lanterna the Grand River was joined by the Green River, streaming down through gullied plateaux from the deserts of Utah and the mountains which tower between Oregon and Nebraska. Henceforward, still locked in Titanic defiles or flanked by Cyclopean _débris_, they were on the Colorado of the West. Thurstane meditated as to what course he should follow. Should he strike southward by land for the Bernalillo trail, risking a march through a wide, rocky, lifeless, and perhaps waterless wilderness? Or should he attempt to descend a river even more terrible to navigate than the San Juan? It seemed to him that the hardships and dangers of either plan were about the same. But the Colorado route would be the swiftest; the Colorado would take him quickest to Clara. For he trusted that she had long before this got back to the Moqui country and resumed her journey across the continent. He could not really fear that any deadly harm would befall her. He had the firmness of a soldier and the faith of a lover. At last, silently and solemnly, through a portal thousands of feet in height, the voyagers glided into the perilous mystery of the Great Cañon of the Colorado, the most sublime and terrible waterway of this planet. CHAPTER XXVIII. Thurstane had strange emotions as he swept into the "caverns measureless to man" of the Great Cañon of the Colorado. It seemed like a push of destiny rather than a step of volition. An angel or a demon impelled him into the unknown; a supernatural portal had opened to give him passage; then it had closed behind him forever. The cañon, with all its two hundred and forty miles of marvels and perils, presented itself to his imagination as a unity. The first step within it placed him under an enchantment from which there was no escape until the whole circuit of the spell should be completed. He was like Orlando in the magic garden, when the gate vanished immediately upon his entrance, leaving him no choice but to press on from trial to trial. He was no more free to pause or turn back than Grecian ghosts sailing down Acheron toward the throne of Radamanthus. Direct statement, and even the higher speech of simile, fail to describe the Great Cañon and the emotion which it produces. Were its fronting precipices organs, with their mountainous columns and pilasters for organ-pipes, they might produce a _de profundis_ worthy of the scene and of its sentiments, its inspiration. This is not bombast; so far from exaggerating it does not even attain to the subject; no words can so much as outline the effects of eighty leagues of mountain sculptured by a great river. Let us venture one comparison. Imagine a groove a foot broad and twenty feet deep, with a runnel of water trickling at the bottom of it and a fleck of dust floating down the rivulet. Now increase the dimensions until the groove is two hundred and fifty feet in breadth by five thousand feet in depth, and the speck a boat with three voyagers. You have the Great Cañon of the Colorado and Thurstane and his comrades seeking its issue. "Do you call this a counthry?" asked Sweeny, after an awe-stricken silence. "I'm thinkin' we're gittin' outside av the worrld like." "An' I'm thinkin' we're gittin' too fur inside on't," muttered Glover. "Look's 's though we might slip clean under afore long. Most low-spirited hole I ever rolled into. 'Minds me 'f that last ditch people talk of dyin' in. Must say I'd rather be in the trough 'f the sea." "An' what kind av a trough is that?" inquired Sweeny, inquisitive even in his dumps. "It's the trough where they feed the niggers out to the sharks." "Faix, an' I'd loike to see it at feedin' time," answered Sweeny with a feeble chuckle. Nature as it is is one image; nature as it appears is a thousand; or rather it is infinite. Every soul is a mirror, reflecting what faces it; but the reflections differ as do the souls that give them. To the three men who now gazed on the Great Cañon it was far from being the same object. Sweeny surveyed it as an old Greek or Roman might, with simple distaste and horror. Glover, ignorant and limited as he was, received far more of its inspiration. Even while "chirking up" his companions with trivial talk and jests he was in his secret soul thinking of Bunyan's Dark Valley and Milton's Hell, the two sublimest landscapes that had ever been presented to his imagination. Thurstane, gifted with much of the sympathy of the great Teutonic race for nature, was far more profoundly affected. The overshadowing altitudes and majesties of the chasm moved him as might oratorios or other solemn music. Frequently he forgot hardships, dangers, isolation, the hard luck of the past, the ugly prospects of the future in reveries which were a succession of such emotions as wonder, worship, and love. No doubt the scenery had the more power over him because, by gazing at it day after day while his heart was full of Clara, he got into a way of animating it with her. Far away as she was, and divided from him perhaps forever, she haunted the cañon, transformed it and gave it grace. He could see her face everywhere; he could see it even without shutting his eyes; it made the arrogant and malignant cliffs seraphic. By the way, the vividness of his memory with regard to that fair, sweet, girlish countenance was wonderful, only that such a memory, the memory of the heart, is common. There was not one of her expressions which was not his property. Each and all, he could call them-up at will, making them pass before him in heavenly procession, surrounding himself with angels. It was the power of the ring which is given to the slaves of love. He had some vagaries (the vagaries of those who are subjugated by a strong and permanent emotion) which approached insanity. For instance, he selected a gigantic column of sandstone as bearing some resemblance to Clara, and so identified it with her that presently he could see her face crowning it, though concealed by the similitude of a rocky veil. This image took such possession of him that he watched it with fascination, and when a monstrous cliff slid between it and him he felt as if here were a new parting; as if he were once more bidding her a speechless, hopeless farewell. During the greater part of this voyage he was a very uninteresting companion. He sat quiet and silent; sometimes he slightly moved his lips; he was whispering a name. Glover and Sweeny, who had only known him for a month, and supposed that he had always been what they saw him, considered him an eccentric. "Naterally not quite himself," judged the skipper. "Some folks is born knocked on the head." "May be officers is always that a way," was one of Sweeny's suggestions. "It must be mighty dull bein' an officer." We must not forget the Great Cañon. The voyagers were amid magnitudes and sublimities of nature which oppressed as if they were powers and principalities of supernature. They were borne through an architecture of aqueous and plutonic agencies whose smallest fantasies would be belittled by comparisons with coliseums, labyrinths, cathedrals, pyramids, and stonehenges. For example, they circled a bend of which the extreme delicate angle was a jutting pilaster five hundred feet broad and a mile high, its head towering in a sharp tiara far above the brow of the plateau, and its sides curved into extravagances of dizzy horror. It seemed as if it might be a pillar of confinement and punishment for some Afreet who had defied Heaven. On either side of this monster fissures a thousand feet deep wrinkled the forehead of the precipice. Armies might have been buried in their abysses; yet they scarcely deformed the line of the summits. They ran back for many miles; they had once been the channels of streams which helped to drain the plateau; yet they were merely superficial cracks in the huge mass of sandstone and limestone; they were scarcely noticeable features of the Titanic landscape. From this bend forward the beauty of the cañon was sublime, horrible, satanic. Constantly varying, its transformations were like those of the chief among demons, in that they were always indescribably magnificent and always indescribably terrible. Now it was a straight, clean chasm between even hedges of cliff which left open only a narrow line of the beauty and mercy of the heavens. Again, where it was entered by minor cañons, it became a breach through crowded pandemoniums of ruined architectures and forsaken, frowning imageries. Then it led between enormous pilasters, columns, and caryatides, mitred with conical peaks which had once been ranges of mountains. Juttings and elevations, which would have been monstrous in other landscapes, were here but minor decorations. Something like half of the strata with which earth is sheathed has been cut through by the Colorado, beginning at the top of the groove with hundreds of feet of limestone, and closing at the bottom with a thousand feet of granite. Here, too, as in many other wonder-spots of the American desert, nature's sculpture is rivalled by her painting. Bluish-gray limestone, containing corals; mottled limestone, charged with slates, flint, and chalcedony; red, brown, and blue limestone, mixed with red, green, and yellow shales; sandstone of all tints, white, brown, ochry, dark red, speckled and foliated; coarse silicious sandstone, and red quartzose sandstone beautifully veined with purple; layers of conglomerate, of many colored shales, argillaceous iron, and black oxide manganese; massive black and white granite, traversed by streaks of quartz and of red sienite; coarse red felspathic granite, mixed with large plates of silver mica; such is the masonry and such the frescoing. Through this marvellous museum our three spectators wandered in hourly peril of death. The Afreets of the waters and the Afreets of the rocks, guarding the gateway which they had jointly builded, waged incessant warfare with the intruders. Although the current ran five miles an hour, it was a lucky day when the boat made forty miles. Every evening the travellers must find a beach or shelf where they could haul up for the night. Darkness covered destruction, and light exposed dangers. The bubble-like nature of the boat afforded at once a possibility of easy advance and of instantaneous foundering. Every hour that it floated was a miracle, and so they grimly and patiently understood it. A few days in the cañon changed the countenances of these men. They looked like veterans of many battles. There was no bravado in their faces. The expression which lived there was a resigned, suffering, stubborn courage. It was the "silent berserker rage" which Carlyle praises. It was the speechless endurance which you see in portraits of the Great Frederick, Wellington, and Grant. They relieved each other. The bow was guard duty; the steering was light duty; the midships off duty. It must be understood that, the great danger being sunken rocks, one man always crouched in the bow, with a paddle plunged below the surface, feeling for ambushes of the stony bushwhackers. Occasionally all three had to labor, jumping into shallows, lifting the boat over beds of pebbles, perhaps lightening it of arms and provisions, perhaps carrying all ashore to seek a portage. "It's the best canew 'n' the wust canew I ever see for sech a voyage," observed Glover. "Navigatin' in it puts me in mind 'f angels settin' on a cloud. The cloud can go anywhere; but what if ye should slump through?" "Och! ye're a heretic, 'n' don't belave angels can fly," put in Sweeny. "Can't ye talk without takin' out yer paddle?" called Glover. "Mind yer soundings." Glover was at the helm just then, while Sweeny was at the bow. Thurstane, sitting cross-legged on the light wooden flooring of the boat, was entering topographical observations in his journal. Hearing the skipper's warning, he looked up sharply; but both the call and the glance came too late to prevent a catastrophe. Just in that instant the boat caught against some obstacle, turned slowly around before the push of the current, swung loose with a jerk and floated on, the water bubbling through the flooring. A hole had been torn in the canvas, and the cockle-shell was foundering. "Sound!" shouted Thurstane to Sweeny; then, turning to Glover, "Haul up the Grizzly!" The tub-boat of bearskin was dragged alongside, and Thurstane instantly threw the provisions and arms into it. "Three foot," squealed Sweeny. "Jump overboard," ordered the lieutenant. By the time they were on their feet in the water the Buchanan was half full, and the swift current was pulling at it like a giant, while the Grizzly, floating deep, was almost equally unmanageable. The situation had in one minute changed from tranquil voyaging to deadly peril. Sweeny, unable to swim, and staggering in the rapid, made a plunge at the bearskin boat, probably with an idea of getting into it. But Thurstane, all himself from the first, shouted in that brazen voice of military command which is so secure of obedience, "Steady, man! Don't climb in. Cut the lariat close up to the Buchanan, and then hold on to the Grizzly." Restored to his self-possession, Sweeny laboriously wound the straining lariat around his left arm and sawed it in two with his jagged pocket-knife. Then came a doubtful fight between him and the Colorado for the possession of the heavy and clumsy tub. Meantime Thurstane and Glover, the former at the bow and the latter at the stern of the Buchanan, were engaged in a similar tussle, just barely holding on and no more. "We can't stand this," said the officer. "We must empty her." "Jest so," panted Glover. "You're up stream. Can you raise your eend? We mustn't capsize her; we might lose the flooring." Thurstane stooped slowly and cautiously until he had got his shoulder under the bow. "Easy!" called Glover. "Awful easy! Don't break her back. Don't upset _me_." Gently, deliberately, with the utmost care, Thurstane straightened himself until he had lifted the bow of the boat clear of the current. "Now I'll hoist," said the skipper. "You turn her slowly--jest the least mite. Don't capsize her." It was a Herculean struggle. There was still a ponderous weight of water in the boat. The slight frame sagged and the flexible siding bulged. Glover with difficulty kept his feet, and he could only lift the stern very slightly. "You can't do it," decided Thurstane. "Don't wear yourself out trying it. Hold steady where you are, while I let down." When the boat was restored to its level it floated higher than before, for some of the water had drained out. "Now lift slowly," directed Thurstane. "Slow and sure. She'll clear little by little." A quiet, steady lift, lasting perhaps two or three minutes, brought the floor of the boat to the surface of the current. "It's wearing," said the lieutenant, cheering his worried fellow-laborer with a smile. "Stand steady for a minute and try to rest. You, Sweeny, move in toward the bank. Hold on to your boat like the devil. If the water deepens, sing out." Sweeny, gripping his lariat desperately, commenced a staggering march over the cobble-stone bottom, his anxious nose pointed toward a beach of bowlders beneath the southern precipice. "Now then," said Thurstane to Glover, "we must get her on our heads and follow Sweeny. Are you ready? Up with her!" A long, reeling hoist set the Buchanan on the heads of the two men, one standing under the bow and one under the stern, their arms extended and their hands clutching the sides. The beach was forty yards away; the current was swift and as opaque as chocolate; they could not see what depths might gape before them; but they must do the distance without falling, or perish. "Left foot first," shouted the officer. "Forward--march!" CHAPTER XXIX. When the adventurers commenced their tottering march toward the shore of the Colorado, Sweeny, dragging the clumsy bearskin boat, was a few yards in advance of Thurstane and Glover, bearing the canvas boat. Every one of the three had as much as he could handle. The Grizzly, pulled at by the furious current, bobbed up and down and hither and thither, nearly capsizing Sweeny at every other step. The Buchanan, weighing one hundred and fifty pounds when dry, and now somewhat heavier because of its thorough wetting, made a heavy load for two men who were hip deep in swift water. "Slow and sure," repeated Thurstane. "It's a five minutes job. Keep your courage and your feet for five minutes. Then we'll live a hundred years." "Liftinant, is this soldierin'?" squealed Sweeny. "Yes, my man, this is soldiering." "Thin I'll do me dooty if I pull me arrms off." But there was not much talking. Pretty nearly all their breath was needed for the fight with the river. Glover, a slender and narrow-shouldered creature, was particularly distressed; and his only remark during the pilgrimage shoreward was, "I'd like to change hosses." Sweeny, leading the way, got up to his waist once and yelled, "I'll drown." Then he backed a little, took a new direction, found shallower water, and tottled onward to victory. The moment he reached the shore he gave a shrill hoot of exultation, went at his bearskin craft with both hands, dragged it clean out of the water, and gave it a couple of furious kicks. "Take that!" he yelped. "Ye're wickeder nor both yer fathers. But I've bate ye. Oh, ye blathering jerkin', bogglin' baste, ye!" Then he splashed into the river, joined his hard-pressed comrades, got his head under the centre of the Buchanan, and lifted sturdily. In another minute the precious burden was safe on a large flat rock, and the three men were stretched out panting beside it. Glover was used up; he was trembling from head to foot with fatigue; he had reached shore just in time to fall on it instead of into the river. "Ye'd make a purty soldier," scoffed Sweeny, a habitual chaffer, like most Irishmen. "It was the histin' that busted me," gasped the skipper. "I can't handle a ton o' water." "Godamighty made ye already busted, I'm a thinkin'," retorted Sweeny. As soon as Glover could rise he examined the Buchanan. There was a ragged rent in the bottom four inches long, and the canvas in other places had been badly rubbed. The voyagers looked at the hole, looked at the horrible chasm which locked them in, and thought with a sudden despair of the great environment of desert. The situation could hardly be more gloomy. Having voyaged for five days in the Great Cañon, they were entangled in the very centre of the folds of that monstrous anaconda. Their footing was a lap of level not more than thirty yards in length by ten in breadth, strewn with pebbles and bowlders, and showing not one spire of vegetation. Above them rose a precipice, the summit of which they could not see, but which was undoubtedly a mile in height. Had there been armies or cities over their heads, they could not have discovered it by either eye or ear. At their feet was the Colorado, a broad rush of liquid porphyry, swift and pitiless. By its color and its air of stoical cruelty it put one in mind of the red race of America, from whose desert mountains it came and through whose wildernesses it hurried. On the other side of this grim current rose precipices five thousand feet high, stretching to right and left as far as the eye could pierce. Certainly never before did shipwrecked men gaze upon such imprisoning immensity and inhospitable sterility. Directly opposite them was horrible magnificence. The face of the fronting rampart was gashed a mile deep by the gorge of a subsidiary cañon. The fissure was not a clean one, with even sides. The strata had been torn, ground, and tattered by the river, which had first raged over them and then through them. It was a Petra of ruins, painted with all stony colors, and sculptured into a million outlines. On one of the boldest abutments of the ravine perched an enchanted castle with towers and spires hundreds of feet in height. Opposite, but further up the gap, rose a rounded mountain-head of solid sandstone and limestone. Still higher and more retired, towering as if to look into the distant cañon of the Colorado, ran the enormous terrace of one of the loftier plateaus, its broad, bald forehead wrinkled with furrows that had once held cataracts. But language has no charm which can master these sublimities and horrors. It stammers; it repeats the same words over and over; it can only _begin_ to tell the monstrous truth. "Looks like we was in our grave," sighed Glover. "Liftinant," jerked out Sweeny, "I'm thinkin' we're dead. We ain't livin', Liftinant. We've been buried. We've no business trying to _walk_." Thurstane had the same sense of profound depression; but he called up his courage and sought to cheer his comrades. "We must do our best to come to life," he said. "Mr. Glover, can nothing be done with the boat?" "Can't fix it," replied the skipper, fingering the ragged hole. "Nothin' to patch it with." "There are the bearskins," suggested Thurstane. Glover slapped his thigh, got up, danced a double-shuffle, and sat down again to consider his job. After a full minute Sweeny caught the idea also and set up a haw-haw of exultant laughter, which brought back echoes from the other side of the cañon, as if a thousand Paddies were holding revel there. "Oh! yees may laugh," retorted Sweeny, "but yees can't laugh us out av it." "I'll sheath the whole bottom with bearskin," said Glover. "Then we can let her grind. It'll be an all day's chore, Capm--perhaps two days." They passed thirty-six hours in this miserable bivouac. Glover worked during every moment of daylight. No one else could do anything. A green hand might break a needle, and a needle broken was a step toward death. From dawn to dusk he planned, cut, punctured, and sewed with the patience of an old sailor, until he had covered the rent with a patch of bearskin which fitted as if it had grown there. Finally the whole bottom was doubled with hide, the long, coarse fur still on it, and the grain running from stem to stern so as to aid in sliding over the sand and pebbles of the shallows. While Glover worked the others slept, lounged, cooked, waited. There was no food, by the way, but the hard, leathery, tasteless jerked meat of the grizzly bears, which had begun to pall upon them so they could hardly swallow it. Eating was merely a duty, and a disagreeable one. When Glover announced that the boat was ready for launching, Sweeny uttered a yelp of joy, like a dog who sees a prospect of hunting. "Ah, you paddywhack!" growled the skipper. "All this work for you. Punch another hole, 'n' I'll take yer own hide to patch it." "I'll give ye lave," returned Sweeny. "Wan bare skin 's good as another. Only I might want me own back agin for dress-parade." Once more on the Colorado. Although the boat floated deeper than before, navigation in it was undoubtedly safer, so that they made bolder ventures and swifter progress. Such portages, however, as they were still obliged to traverse, were very severe, inasmuch as the Buchanan was now much above its original weight. Several times they had to carry one half of their materials for a mile or more, through a labyrinth of rocks, and then trudge back to get the other half. Meantime their power of endurance was diminishing. The frequent wettings, the shivering nights, the great changes of temperature, the stale and wretched food, the constant anxiety, were sapping their health and strength. On the tenth day of their wanderings in the Great Cañon Glover began to complain of rheumatism. "These cussed draughts!" he groaned. "It's jest like travellin' in a bellows nozzle." "Wid the divil himself at the bellys," added Sweeny. "Faix, an' I wish he'd blow us clane out intirely. I'm gittin' tired o' this same, I am. I didn't lisht to sarve undher ground." "Patience, Sweeny," smiled Thurstane. "We must be nearly through the cañon." "An' where will we come out, Liftinant? Is it in Ameriky? Bedad, we ought to be close to the Chaynees by this time. Liftinant, what sort o' paple lives up atop of us, annyway?" "I don't suppose anybody lives up there," replied the officer, raising his eyes to the dizzy precipices above. "This whole region is said to be a desert." "Be gorry, an' it 'll stay a desert till the ind o' the worrld afore I'll poppylate it. It wasn't made for Sweenys. I haven't seen sile enough in tin days to raise wan pataty. As for livin' on dried grizzly, I'd like betther for the grizzlies to live on me. Liftinant, I niver see sich harrd atin'. It tires the top av me head off to chew it." About noon of the twelfth day in the Great Cañon this perilous and sublime navigation came to a close. The walls of the chasm suddenly spread out into a considerable opening, which absolutely seemed level ground to the voyagers, although it was encumbered with mounds or buttes of granite and sandstone. This opening was produced by the entrance into the main channel of a subsidiary one, coming from the south. At first they did not observe further particulars, for they were in extreme danger of shipwreck, the river being studded with rocks and running like a mill-race. But on reaching the quieter water below the rapid, they saw that the branch cañon contained a rivulet, and that where the two streams united there was a triangular basin, offering a safe harbor. "Paddle!" shouted Thurstane, pointing to the creek. "Don't let her go by. This is our place." A desperate struggle dragged the boat out of the rushing Colorado into the tranquillity of the basin. Everything was landed; the boat itself was hoisted on to the rocks; the voyage was over. "Think ye know yer way, Capm?" queried Glover, squinting doubtfully up the arid recesses of the smaller cañon. "Of course I may be mistaken. But even if it is not Diamond Creek, it will take us in our direction. We have made westing enough to have the Cactus Pass very nearly south of us." As there was still a chance of returning to the river, the boat was taken to pieces, rolled up, and hidden under a pile of stones and driftwood. The small remnant of jerked meat was divided into three portions. Glover, on account of his inferior muscle and his rheumatism, was relieved of his gun, which was given to Sweeny. Canteens were filled, blankets slung, ammunition belts buckled, and the march commenced. Arrived at a rocky knoll which looked up both waterways, the three men halted to take a last glance at the Great Cañon, the scene of a pilgrimage that had been a poem, though a terrible one. The Colorado here was not more than fifty yards wide, and only a few hundred yards of its course were visible either way, for the confluence was at the apex of a bend. The dark, sullen, hopeless, cruel current rushed out of one mountain-built mystery into another. The walls of the abyss rose straight from the water into dizzy abutments, conical peaks, and rounded masses, beyond and above which gleamed the distant sunlit walls of a higher terrace of the plateau. "Come along wid ye," said Sweeny to Glover, "It's enough to give ye the rheumatiz in the oyes to luk at the nasty black hole. I'm thinkin' it's the divil's own place, wid the fires out." The Diamond Creek Cañon, although far inferior to its giant neighbor, was nevertheless a wonderful excavation, striking audaciously into sombre mountain recesses, sublime with precipices, peaks, and grotesque masses. The footing was of the ruggedest, a _débris_ of confused and eroded rocks, the pathway of an extinct river. One thing was beautiful: the creek was a perfect contrast to the turbid Colorado; its waters were as clear and bright as crystal. Sweeny halted over and over to look at it, his mouth open and eyes twinkling like a pleased dog. "An' there's nothing nagurish about that, now," he chuckled. "A pataty ud laugh to be biled in it." After slowly ascending for a quarter of a mile, they turned a bend and came upon a scene which seemed to them like a garden. They were in a broad opening, made by the confluence of two cañons. Into this gigantic rocky nest had been dropped an oasis of turf and of thickets of green willows. Through the centre of the verdure the Diamond Creek flowed dimpling over a pebbly bed, or shot in sparkles between barring bowlders, or plunged over shelves in toy cascades. The travellers had seen nothing so hospitable in nature since leaving the country of the Moquis weeks before. Sweeny screamed like a delighted child. "Oh! an' that's just like ould Oirland. Oh, luk at the turrf! D'ye iver see the loikes o'that, now? The blessed turrf! Here ye be, right in the divil's own garden. Liftinant, if ye'll let me build a fort here, I'll garrison it. I'll stay here me whole term of sarvice." "Halt," said Thurstane. "We'll eat, refill canteens, and inspect arms. If this is Diamond Cañon, and I think there is no doubt of it, we may expect to find Indians soon." "I'll fight 'em," declared Sweeny. "An' if they've got anythin' betther nor dried grizzly, I'll have it." "Wait for orders," cautioned Thurstane. "No firing without orders." After cleaning their guns and chewing their tough and stale rations, they resumed their march, leaving the rivulet and following the cañon, which led toward the southwest. As they were now regaining the level of the plateau, their advance was a constant and difficult ascent, sometimes struggling through labyrinths of detached rocks, and sometimes climbing steep shelves which had once been the leaping-places of cataracts. The sides of the chasm were two thousand feet high, and it was entered by branch ravines of equal grandeur. The sun had set for them, although he was still high above the horizon of upper earth, when Thurstane halted and whispered, "Wigwams!" Perched among the rocks, some under projecting strata and others in shadowy niches between huge buttresses, they discovered at first three or four, then a dozen, and finally twenty wretched cabins. They scarcely saw before they were seen; a hideous old squaw dropped a bundle of fuel and ran off screeching; in a moment the whole den was in an uproar. Startling yells burst from lofty nooks in the mountain flanks, and scarecrow figures dodged from ambush to ambush of the sombre gully. It was as if they had invaded the haunts of the brownies. The Hualpais, a species of Digger Indians, dwarfish, miserable, and degraded, living mostly on roots, lizards, and the like, were nevertheless conscious of scalps to save. In five minutes from the discovery of the strangers they had formed a straggling line of battle, squatting along a ledge which crossed the cañon. There were not twenty warriors, and they were no doubt wretchedly armed, but their position was formidable. Sweeny, looking like an angry rat, his nose twitching and eyes sparkling with rage, offered to storm the rampart alone, shouting, "Oh, the nasty, lousy nagurs! Let 'em get out of our way." "Guess we'd better talk to the cusses," observed Glover. "Tain't the handiest place I ever see for fightin'; an' I don't keer 'bout havin' my ears 'n' nose bored any more at present." "Stay where you are," said Thurstane. "I'll go forward and parley with them." CHAPTER XXX. Thurstane had no great difficulty in making a sort of let-me-alone-and-I'll-let-you-alone treaty with the embattled Hualpais. After some minutes of dumb show they came down from their stronghold and dispersed to their dwellings. They seemed to be utterly without curiosity; the warriors put aside their bows and lay down to sleep; the old squaw hurried off to pick up her bundle of fuel; even the papooses were silent and stupid. It was a race lower than the Hottentots or the Australians. Short, meagre, badly built, excessively ugly, they were nearly naked, and their slight clothing was rags of skins. Thurstane tried to buy food of them, but either they had none to spare or his buttons seemed to them of no value. Nor could he induce any one to accompany him as a guide. "Do ye think Godamighty made thim paple?" inquired Sweeny. "Reckon so," replied Glover. "I don't belave it," said Sweeny. "He'd be in more rispactable bizniss. It's me opinyin the divil made um for a joke on the rest av us. An' it's me opinyin he made this whole counthry for the same rayson." "The priest'll tell ye God made all men, Sweeny." "They ain't min at all. Thim crachurs ain't min. They're nagurs, an' a mighty poor kind at that. I hate um. I wish they was all dead. I've kilt some av um, an' I'm goin' to kill slathers more, God willin'. I belave it's part av the bizniss av white min to finish off the nagurs." Profound and potent sentiment of race antipathy! The contempt and hatred of white men for yellow, red, brown, and black men has worked all over earth, is working yet, and will work for ages. It is a motive of that tremendous tragedy which Spencer has entitled "the survival of the fittest," and Darwin, "natural selection." The party continued to ascend the cañon. At short intervals branch cañons exhibited arid and precipitous gorges, more and more gloomy with twilight. It was impossible to choose between one and another. The travellers could never see three hundred yards in advance. To right and left they were hemmed in by walls fifteen hundred feet in height. Only one thing was certain: these altitudes were gradually diminishing; and hence they knew that they were mounting the plateau. At last, four hours after leaving Diamond Creek, wearied to the marrow with incessant toil, they halted by a little spring, stretched themselves on a scrap of starveling grass, and chewed their meagre, musty supper. The scenery here was unearthly. Barring the bit of turf and a few willows which had got lost in the desert, there was not a tint of verdure. To right and left rose two huge and steep slopes of eroded and ragged rocks, tortured into every conceivable form of jag, spire, pinnacle, and imagery. In general the figures were grotesque; it seemed as if the misshapen gods of India and of China and of barbarous lands had gathered there; as if this were a place of banishment and punishment for the fallen idols of all idolatries. Above this coliseum of monstrosities rose a long line of sharp, jagged needles, like a vast _chevaux-de-frise_, forbidding escape. Still higher, lighted even yet by the setting sun, towered five cones of vast proportions. Then came cliffs capped by shatters of tableland, and then the long, even, gleaming ledge of the final plateau. Locked in this bedlam of crazed strata, unable to see or guess a way out of it, the wanderers fell asleep. There was no setting of guards; they trusted to the desert as a sentinel. At daylight the blind and wearisome climbing recommenced. Occasionally they found patches of thin turf and clumps of dwarf cedars struggling with the rocky waste. These bits of greenery were not the harbingers of a new empire of vegetation, but the remnants of one whose glory had vanished ages ago, swept away by a vandalism of waters. Gradually the cañon dwindled to a ravine, narrow, sinuous, walled in by stony steeps or slopes, and interlocking continually with other similar chasms. A creek, which followed the chasm, appeared and disappeared at intervals of a mile or so, as if horrified at the face of nature and anxious to hide from it in subterranean recesses. The travellers stumbled on until the ravine became a gully and the gully a fissure. They stepped out of it; they were on the rolling surface of the tableland; they were half a mile above the Colorado. Here they halted, gave three cheers, and then looked back upon the northern desert as men look who have escaped an enemy. A gigantic panorama of the country which they had traversed was unrolled to their vision. In the foreground stretched declining tablelands, intersected by numberless ravines, and beyond these a lofty line of bluffs marked the edge of the Great Cañon of the Colorado. Through one wide gap in these heights came a vision of endless plateaux, their terraces towering one above another until they were thousands of feet in the air, the horizontal azure bands extending hundreds of miles northward, until the deep blue faded into a lighter blue, and that into the sapphire of the heavens. "It looks a darned sight finer than it is," observed Glover. "Bedad, ye may say that," added Sweeny. "It's a big hippycrit av a counthry. Ye'd think, to luk at it, ye could ate it wid a spoon." Now came a rolling region, covered with blue grass and dotted with groves of cedars, the earth generally hard and smooth and the marching easy. Striking southward, they reached a point where the plateau culminated in a low ridge, and saw before them a long gentle slope of ten miles, then a system of rounded hills, and then mountains. "Halt here," said Thurstane. "We must study our topography and fix on our line of march." "You'll hev to figger it," replied Glover. "I don't know nothin' in this part o' the world." "Ye ain't called on to know," put in Sweeny. "The liftinant'll tell ye." "I think," hesitated Thurstane, "that we are about fifty miles north of Cactus Pass, where we want to strike the trail." "And I'm putty nigh played out," groaned Glover. "Och! _you_ howld up yer crazy head," exhorted Sweeny. "It'll do ye iver so much good." "It's easy talkin'," sighed the jaded and rheumatic skipper. "It's as aisy talkin' right as talkin' wrong," retorted Sweeny. "Ye've no call to grunt the curritch out av yer betthers. Wait till the liftinant says die." Thurstane was studying the landscape. Which of those ranges was the Cerbat, which the Aztec, and which the Pinaleva? He knew that, after leaving Cactus Pass, the overland trail turns southward and runs toward the mouth of the Gila, crossing the Colorado hundreds of miles away. To the west of the pass, therefore, he must not strike, under peril of starving amid untracked plains and ranges. On the whole, it seemed probable that the snow-capped line of summits directly ahead of him was the Cerbat range, and that he must follow it southward along the base of its eastern slope. "We will move on," he said. "Mr. Glover, we must reach those broken hills before night in order to find water. Can you do it?" "Reckon I kin jest about do it, 's the feller said when he walked to his own hangin'," returned the suffering skipper. The failing man marched so slowly and needed so many halts that they were five hours in reaching the hills. It was now nightfall; they found a bright little spring in a grassy ravine; and after a meagre supper, they tried to stifle their hunger with sleep. Thurstane and Sweeny took turns in watching, for smoke of fires had been seen on the mountains, and, poor as they were, they could not afford to be robbed. In the morning Glover seemed refreshed, and started out with some vigor. "Och! ye'll go round the worrld," said Sweeny, encouragingly. "Bones can march furder than fat anny day. Yer as tough as me rations. Dried grizzly is nothin' to ye." After threading hills for hours they came out upon a wide, rolling basin prettily diversified by low spurs of the encircling mountains and bluish green with the long grasses known as _pin_ and _grama_. A few deer and antelopes, bounding across the rockier places, were an aggravation to starving men who could not follow them. "Why don't we catch some o' thim flyin' crachurs?" demanded Sweeny. "We hain't got no salt to put on their tails," explained Glover, grinning more with pain than with his joke. "I'd ate 'em widout salt," said Sweeny. "If the tails was feathers, I'd ate 'em." "We must camp early, and try our luck at hunting," observed Thurstane. "I go for campin' airly," groaned the limping and tottering Glover. "Och! yees ud like to shlape an shnore an' grunt and rowl over an' shnore agin the whole blissid time," snapped Sweeny, always angered by a word of discouragement. "Yees ought to have a dozen o' thim nagurs wid their long poles to make a fither bed for yees an' tuck up the blankets an' spat the pilly. Why didn't ye shlape all ye wanted to whin yees was in the boat?" "Quietly, Sweeny," remonstrated Thurstane. "Mr. Glover marches with great pain." "I've no objiction to his marchin' wid great pain or annyway Godamighty lets him, if he won't grunt about it." "But you must be civil, my man." "I ax yer pardon, Liftinant. I don't mane no harrum by blatherin'. It's a way we have in th' ould counthry. Mebbe it's no good in th' arrmy." "Let him yawp, Capm," interposed Glover. "It's a way they hev, as he says. Never see two Paddies together but what they got to fightin' or pokin' fun at each other. Me an' Sweeny won't quarrel. I take his clickatyclack for what it's worth by the cart-load. 'Twon't hurt me. Dunno but what it's good for me." "Bedad, it's betther for ye nor yer own gruntin'," added the irrepressible Irishman. By two in the afternoon they had made perhaps fifteen miles, and reached the foot of the mountain which they proposed to skirt. As Glover was now fagged out, Thurstane decided to halt for the night and try deer-stalking. A muddy water-hole, surrounded by thickets of willows, indicated their camping ground. The sick man was _cached_ in the dense foliage; his canteen was filled for him and placed by his side; there could be no other nursing. "If the nagurs kill ye, I'll revenge ye," was Sweeny's parting encouragement. "I'll git ye back yer scallup, if I have to cut it out of um." Late in the evening the two hunters returned empty. Sweeny, in spite of his hunger and fatigue, boiled over with stories of the hairbreadth escapes of the "antyloops" that he had fired at. Thurstane also had seen game, but not near enough for a shot. "I didn't look for such bad luck," said the weary and half-starved young fellow, soberly. "No supper for any of us. We must save our last ration to make to-morrow's march on." "It's a poor way of atin' two males in wan," remarked Sweeny. "I niver thought I'd come to wish I had me haversack full o' dried bear." The next day was a terrible one. Already half famished, their only food for the twenty-four hours was about four ounces apiece of bear meat, tough, ill-scented, and innutritious. Glover was so weak with hunger and his ailments that he had to be supported most of the way by his two comrades. His temper, and Sweeny's also, gave out, and they snarled at each other in good earnest, as men are apt to do under protracted hardships. Thurstane stalked on in silence, sustained by his youth and health, and not less by his sense of responsibility. These men were here through his doing; he must support them and save them if possible; if not, he must show them how to die bravely; for it had come to be a problem of life and death. They could not expect to travel two days longer without food. The time was approaching when they would fall down with faintness, not to rise again in this world. In the morning their only provision was one small bit of meat which Thurstane had saved from his ration of the day before. This he handed to Glover, saying with a firm eye and a cheerful smile, "My dear fellow, here is your breakfast." The starving invalid looked at it wistfully, and stammered, with a voice full of tears, "I can't eat when the rest of ye don't." Sweeny, who had stared at the morsel with hungry eyes, now broke out, "I tell ye, ate it. The liftinant wants ye to." "Divide it fair," answered Glover, who could hardly restrain himself from sobbing. "I won't touch a bit av it," declared Sweeny. "It's the liftinant's own grub." "We won't divide it," said Thurstane. "I'll put it in your pocket, Glover. When you can't take another step without it, you must go at it." "Bedad, if ye don't, we'll lave yees," added Sweeny, digging his fists into his empty stomach to relieve its gnawing. Very slowly, the well men sustaining the sick one, they marched over rolling hills until about noon, accomplishing perhaps ten miles. They were now on a slope looking southward; above them the wind sighed through a large grove of cedars; a little below was a copious spring of clear, sweet water. There they halted, drinking and filling their canteens, but not eating. The square inch of bear meat was still in Glover's pocket, but he could not be got to taste it unless the others would share. "Capm, I feel's though Heaven'd strike me if I should eat your victuals," he whispered, his voice having failed him. "I feel a sort o' superstitious 'bout it. I want to die with a clear conscience." But when they rose his strength gave out entirely, and he dropped down fainting. "Now ate yer mate," said Sweeny, in a passion of pity and anxiety. "Ate yer mate an' stand up to yer marchin'." Glover, however, could not eat, for the fever of hunger had at last produced nausea, and he pushed away the unsavory morsel when it was put to his lips. "Go ahead," he whispered. "No use all dyin'. Go ahead." And then he fainted outright. "I think the trail can't be more than fifteen miles off," said Thurstane, when he had found that his comrade still breathed. "One of us must push on to it and the other stay with Glover. Sweeny, I can track the country best. You must stay." For the first time in this long and suffering and perilous journey Sweeny's courage failed him, and he looked as if he would like to shirk his duty. "My lad, it is necessary," continued the officer. "We can't leave this man so. You have your gun. You can try to hunt. When he comes to, you must get him along, following the course you see me take. If I find help, I'll save you. If not, I'll come back and die with you." Sitting down by the side of the insensible Glover, Sweeny covered his face with two grimy hands which trembled a little. It was not till his officer had got some thirty feet away that he raised his head and looked after him. Then he called, in his usual quick, sharp, chattering way, "Liftinant, is this soldierin'?" "Yes, my lad," replied Thurstane with a sad, weary smile, thinking meantime of hardships past, "this is soldiering." "Thin I'll do me dooty if I rot jest here," declared the simple hero. Thurstane came back, grasped Sweeny's hand in silence, turned away to hide his shaken face, and commenced his anxious journey. There were both terrible and beautiful thoughts in his soul as he pushed on into the desert. Would he find the trail? Would he encounter the rare chance of traders or emigrants? Would there be food and rest for him and rescue for his comrades? Would he meet Clara? This last idea gave him great courage; he struggled to keep it constantly in his mind; he needed to lean upon it. By the time that he had marched ten miles he found that he was weaker than he had supposed. Weeks of wretched food and three days of almost complete starvation had taken the strength pretty much out of his stalwart frame. His breath was short; he stumbled over the slightest obstacles; occasionally he could not see clear. From time to time it struck him that he had been dreaming or else that his mind was beginning to wander. Things that he remembered and things that he hoped for seemed strangely present. He spoke to people who were hundreds of miles away; and, for the most part, he spoke to them pettishly or with downright anger; for in the main he felt more like a wretched, baited animal than a human being. It was only when he called Clara to mind that this evil spirit was exorcised, and he ceased for a moment to resemble a hungry, jaded wolf. Then he would be for a while all sweetness, because he was for the while perfectly happy. In the next instant, by some hateful and irresistible magic, happiness and sweetness would be gone, and he could not even remember them nor remember _her_. Meantime he struggled to command himself and pay attention to his route. He must do this, because his starving comrades lay behind him, and he must know how to lead men back to their rescue. Well, here he was; there were hills to the left; there was a mountain to the right; he would stop and fix it all in his memory. He sat down beside a rock, leaned his back against it to steady his dizzy head, had a sensation of struggling with something invincible, and was gone. CHAPTER XXXI. Leaving Thurstane in the desert, we return to Clara in the desert. It will be remembered that she stood on the roof of the Casa Grande when her lover was swept oarless down the San Juan. She was watching him; of course she was watching him; at the moment of the catastrophe she saw him; she felt sure also that he was looking at her. The boat began to fly down the current; then the two oarsmen fell to paddling violently; what did it mean? Far from guessing that the towline had snapped, she was not aware that there was one. On went the boat; presently it whirled around helplessly; it was nearing the rocks of the rapid; there was evidently danger. Running to the edge of the roof, Clara saw a Mexican cattle-driver standing on the wall of the enclosure, and called to him, "What is the matter?" "The lariats have broken," he replied. "They are drifting." Clara uttered a little gasp of a shriek, and then did not seem to breathe again for a minute. She saw Thurstane led away in captivity by the savage torrent; she saw him rise up in the boat and wave her a farewell; she could not lift her hand to respond; she could only stand and stare. She had a look, and there was within her a sensation, as if her soul were starting out of her eyes. The whole calamity revealed itself to her at once and without mercy. There was no saving him and no going after him; he was being taken out of her sight; he was disappearing; he was gone. She leaned forward, trying to look around the bend of the river, and was balked by a monstrous, cruel advance of precipices. Then, when she realized that he had vanished, there was a long scream ending in unconsciousness. When she came to herself everybody was talking of the calamity. Coronado, Aunt Maria, and others overflowed with babblings of regret, astonishment, explanations, and consolation. The lariats had broken. How could it have happened! How dreadful! etc. "But he will land," cried Clara, looking eagerly from face to face. "Oh, certainly," said Coronado. "Landings can be made. There are none visible, but doubtless they exist." "And then he will march back here?" she demanded. "Not easily. I am afraid, my dear cousin, not very easily. There would be cañons to turn, and long ones. Probably he would strike for the Moqui country." "Across the desert? No water!" Coronado shrugged his shoulders as if to say that he could not help it. "If we go back to-morrow," she began again, "do you think we shall overtake them?" "I think it very probable," lied Coronado. "And if we don't overtake them, will they join us at the Moqui pueblos?" "Yes, yes. I have little doubt of it." "When do you think we ought to start?" "To-morrow morning." "Won't that be too early?" "Day after to-morrow then." "Won't that be too late?" Coronado nearly boiled over with rage. This girl was going to demand impossibilities of him, and impossibilities that he would not perform if he could. He must be here and he must be there; he must be quick enough and not a minute too quick; and all to save his rival from the pit which he had just dug for him. Turning his back on Clara, he paced the roof of the Casa in an excitement which he could not conceal, muttering, "I will do the best I can--the best I can." Presently the remembrance that he had at least gained one great triumph enabled him to recover his self-possession and his foxy cunning. "My dear cousin," he said gently, "you must not suppose that I am not greatly afflicted by this accident. I appreciate the high merit of Lieutenant Thurstane, and I grieve sincerely at his misfortune. What can I do? I will do the best I can for all. Trusting to your good sense, I will do whatever you say. But if you want my advice, here it is. We ought for our own sakes to leave here to-morrow; but for his sake we will wait a day. In that time he may rejoin us, or he may regain the Moqui trail. So we will set out, if you have no objection, on the morning of day after to-morrow, and push for the pueblos. When we do start, we must march, as you know, at our best speed." "Thank you, Coronado," said Clara. "It is the best you can do." There were not five minutes during that day and the next that the girl did not look across the plain to the gorge of the dry cañon, in the hope that she might see Thurstane approaching. At other times she gazed eagerly down the San Juan, although she knew that he could not stem the current. Her love and her sorrow were ready to believe in miracles. How is it possible, she often thought, that such a brief sweep of water should carry him so utterly away? In spite of her fear of vexing Coronado, she questioned him over and over as to the course of the stream and the nature of its banks, only to find that he knew next to nothing. "It will be hard for him to return to us," the man finally suggested, with an air of being driven unwillingly to admit it. "He may have to go on a long way down the river." The truth is that, not knowing whether the lost men could return easily or not, he was anxious to get away from their neighborhood. Before the second day of this suspense was over, Aunt Maria had begun to make herself obnoxious. She hinted that Thurstane knew what he was about; that the river was his easiest road to his station; that, in short, he had deserted. Clara flamed up indignantly and replied, "I know him better." "Why, what has he got to do with us?" reasoned Aunt Maria. "He doesn't belong to our party." "He has his men here. He wouldn't leave his soldiers." "His men! They can take care of themselves. If they can't, I should like to know what they are good for. I think it highly probable he went off of his own choice." "I think it highly probable you know nothing about it," snapped Clara. "You are incapable of judging him." The girl was not just now herself. Her whole soul was concentrated in justifying, loving, and saving Thurstane; and her manner, instead of being serenely and almost lazily gentle, was unpleasantly excited. It was as if some charming alluvial valley should suddenly give forth the steam and lava of a volcano. Finding no sympathy in Aunt Maria, and having little confidence in the good-will of Coronado, she looked about her for help. There was Sergeant Meyer; he had been Thurstane's right-hand man; moreover, he looked trustworthy. She seized the first opportunity to beckon him up to her eerie on the roof of the Casa. "Sergeant, I must speak with you privately," she said at once, with the frankness of necessity. The sergeant, a well-bred soldier, respectful to ladies, and especially to ladies who were the friends of officers, raised his forefinger to his cap and stood at attention. "How came Lieutenant Thurstane to go down the river?" she asked. "It was the lariat proke," replied Meyer, in a whispering, flute-like voice which he had when addressing his superiors. "Did it break, or was it cut?" The sergeant raised his small, narrow, and rather piggish gray eyes to hers with a momentary expression of anxiety. "I must pe gareful what I zay," he answered, sinking his voice still lower. "We must poth pe gareful. I examined the lariat. I fear it was sawed. But we must not zay this." "Who sawed it?" demanded Clara with a gasp. "It was no one in the poat," replied Meyer diplomatically. "Was it that man--that hunter--Smith?" Another furtive glance between the sandy eyelashes expressed an uneasy astonishment; the sergeant evidently had a secret on his mind which he must not run any risk of disclosing. "I do not zee how it was Schmidt" he fluted almost inaudibly. "He was watching the peasts at their basture." "Then who did saw it?" "I do not know. I do not feel sure that it was sawed." Perceiving that, either from ignorance or caution, he would not say more on this point, Clara changed the subject and asked, "Can Lieutenant Thurstane go down the river safely?" "I would like noting petter than to make the exbedition myself," replied Meyer, once more diplomatic. Now came a silence, the soldier waiting respectfully, the girl not knowing how much she might dare to say. Not that she doubted Meyer; on the contrary, she had a perfect confidence in him; how could she fail to trust one who had been trusted by Thurstane? "Sergeant," she at last whispered, "we must find him." "Yes, miss," touching his cap as if he were taking an oath by it. "And you," she hesitated, "must protect _me_." "Yes, miss," and the sergeant repeated his gesture of solemn affirmation. "Perhaps I will say more some time." He saluted again, and seeing that she had nothing to add, retired quietly. For two nights there was little sleep for Clara. She passed them in pondering Thurstane's chances, or in listening for his returning footsteps. Yet when the train set out for the Moqui pueblos, she seemed as vigorous and more vivacious than usual. What supported her now and for days afterward was what is called the strength of fever. The return across the desert was even more terrible than the advance, for the two scant water-holes had been nearly exhausted by the Apaches, so that both beasts and human beings suffered horribly with thirst. There was just this one good thing about the parched and famished wilderness, that it relieved the emigrants from all fear of ambushing enemies. Supernatural beings alone could have, bushwhacked here. The Apaches had gone. Meanwhile Sergeant Meyer had a sore conscience. From the moment the boat went down the San Juan he had more or less lain awake with the idea that, according to the spirit of his instructions from Thurstane, he ought to have Texas Smith tied up and shot. Orders were orders; there was no question about that, as a general principle; the sergeant had never heard the statement disputed. But when he came to consider the case now before him, he was out-generalled by a doubt. This, drifting of a boat down a strange river, was it murder in the sense intended by Thurstane? And, supposing it to be murder, could it be charged in any way upon Smith? In the whole course of his military experience Sergeant Meyer had never been more perplexed. On the evening of the first day's march he could bear his sense of responsibility no longer, and decided to call a council of war. Beckoning his sole remaining comrade aside from the bivouac, he entered upon business. "Kelly, we are unter insdructions," he began in his flute-like tone. "I know it, sergeant," replied Kelly, decorously squirting his tobacco-juice out of the corner of his mouth furthest from his superior. "The question is, Kelly, whether Schmidt should pe shot." "The responsibility lies upon you, sergeant. I will shoot him if so be such is orders." "Kelly, the insdructions were to shoot him if murder should habben in this barty. The instructions were loose." "They were so, sergeant--not defining murder." "The question is, Kelly, whether what has habbened to the leftenant is murder. If it is murder, then Schmidt must go." The two men were sitting on a bowlder side by side, their hands on their knees and their muskets leaning against their shoulders. They did not look at each other at all, but kept their grave eyes on the ground. Kelly squirted his tobacco-juice sidelong two or three times before he replied. "Sergeant," he finally said, "my opinion is we can't set this down for murder until we know somebody is dead." "Shust so, Kelly. That is my obinion myself." "Consequently it follows, sergeant, if you don't see to the contrary, that until we know that to be a fact, it would be uncalled for to shoot Smith." "What you zay, Kelly, is shust what I zay." "Furthermore, however, sergeant, it might be right and is the way of duty, to call up Smith and make him testify as to what he knows of this business, whether it be murder, or meant for murder." "Cock your beece, Kelly." Both men cocked their pieces. "Now I will gall Schmidt out and question him," continued Meyer, "You will stand on one side and pe ready to opey my orders." "Very good, sergeant," said Kelly, and dropped back a little into the nearly complete darkness. Meyer sang out sharply, "Schmidt! Texas Schmidt!" The desperado heard the summons, hesitated a moment, cocked the revolver in his belt, loosened his knife in its sheath, rose from his blanket, and walked slowly in the direction of the voice. Passing Kelly without seeing him, he confronted Meyer, his hand on his pistol. There was not the slightest tremor in the hoarse, low croak with which he asked, "What's the game, sergeant?" "Schmidt, stand berfectly still," said Meyer in his softest fluting. "Kelly has his beece aimed at your head. If you stir hant or foot, you are a kawn koose." CHAPTER XXXII. Texas Smith was too old a borderer to attempt to draw his weapons while such a man as Kelly was sighting him at ten feet distance. "Play yer hand, sergeant," he said; "you've got the keerds." "You know, Schmidt, that our leftenant has been garried down the river," continued Meyer. The bushwhacker responded with a grunt which expressed neither pleasure nor sorrow, but merely assent. "You know," went on the sergeant, "that such things cannot habben to officers without investigations." "He war a squar man, an' a white man," said Texas. "I didn't have nothin' to do with cuttin' him loose, if he war cut loose." "You didn't saw the lariat yourself, Schmidt, I know that. But do you know who did saw it?" "I dunno the first thing about it." "Bray to pe struck tead if you do." "I dunno how to pray." "Then holt up your hants and gurse yourself to hell if you do." Lifting his hands over his head, the ignorant savage blasphemed copiously. "Do you think you can guess how it was pusted?" persisted the soldier. "Look a hyer!" remonstrated Smith, "ain't you pannin' me out a leetle too fine? It mought 'a' been this way, an' it mought 'a' been that. But I've no business to point if I can't find. When a man's got to the bottom of his pile, you can't fo'ce him to borrow. 'Sposin' I set you barkin' up the wrong tree; what good's that gwine to do?" "Vell, Schmidt, I don't zay but what you zay right. You mustn't zay anyting you don't know someting apout." After another silence, during which Texas continued to hold his hands above his head, Meyer added, "Kelly, you may come to an order. Schmidt, you may put down your hants. Will you haf a jew of topacco?" The three men now approached each other, took alternate bites of the sergeant's last plug of pigtail, and masticated amicably. "You army fellers run me pootty close," said Texas, after a while, in a tone of complaint and humiliation. "I don't want to fight brass buttons. They're too many for me. The Capm he lassoed me, an' choked me some; an' now you're on it." "When things habben to officers, they must pe looked into," replied Meyer. "I dunno how in thunder the lariat got busted," repeated Texas. "An' if I should go for to guess, I mought guess wrong." "All right, Schmidt; I pelieve you. If there is no more drubble, you will not pe called up again." "Ask him what he thinks of the leftenant's chances," suggested Kelly to his superior. "Reckon he'll hev to run the river a spell," returned the borderer. "Reckon he'll hev to run it a hell of a ways befo' he'll be able to git across the dam country." "Ask him what the chances be of running the river safely," added Kelly. "Dam slim," answered Texas; and there the talk ended. There was some meditative chewing, after which the three returned to the bivouac, and either lay down to sleep or took their tours at guard duty. At dawn the party recommenced its flight toward the Moqui country. There were sixty hours more of hard riding, insufficient sleep, short rations, thirst, and anxiety. Once the suffering animals stampeded after water, and ran for several miles over plateaux of rock, dashing off burdens and riders, and only halting when they were plunged knee-deep in the water-hole which they had scented. One of the wounded rancheros expired on the mule to which he was strapped, and was carried dead for several hours, his ashy-brown face swinging to and fro, until Coronado had him thrown into a crevice. Amid these hardships and horrors Clara showed no sign of flagging or flinching. She was very thin; bad food, excessive fatigue, and anxiety had reduced her; her face was pinched, narrowed, and somewhat lined; her expression was painfully set and eager. But she never asked for repose, and never complained. Her mind was solely fixed upon finding Thurstane, and her feverish bright eyes continually searched the horizon for him. She seemed to have lost her power of sympathizing with any other creature. To Mrs. Stanley's groanings and murmurings she vouchsafed rare and brief condolences. The dead muleteer and the tortured, bellowing animals attracted little of her notice. She was not hard-hearted; she was simply almost insane. In this state of abnormal exaltation she continued until the party reached the quiet and safety of the Moqui pueblos. Then there was a change; exhausted nature required either apathy or death; and for two days she lay in a sort of stupor, sleeping a great deal, and crying often when awake. The only person capable of rousing her was Sergeant Meyer, who made expeditions to the other pueblos for news of Thurstane, and brought her news of his hopes and his failures. After a three days' rest Coronado decided to resume his journey by moving southward toward the Bernalillo trail. Freed from Thurstane, he no longer contemplated losing Clara in the desert, but meant to marry her, and trusted that he could do it. Two of his wagons he presented to the Moquis, who were, of course, delighted with the acquisition, although they had no more use for wheeled vehicles than for gunboats. With only four wagons, his animals were more than sufficient, and the train made tolerably rapid progress, in spite of the roughness of the country. The land was still a wonder. The water wizards of old had done their grotesque utmost here. What with sculpturing and frescoing, they had made that most fantastic wilderness the Painted Desert. It looked like a mirage. The travellers had an impression that here was some atmospheric illusion. It seemed as if it could not last five minutes if the sun should shine upon it. There were crowding hills so variegated and gay as to put one in mind of masses of soap-bubbles. But the coloring was laid on fifteen hundred feet deep. It consisted of sandstone marls, red, blue, green, orange, purple, white, brown, lilac, and yellow, interstratified with magnesian limestone in bands of purple, bluish-white, and mottled, with here and there shining flecks or great glares of gypsum. Among the more delicate wonders of the scene were the petrified trunks which had once been pines and cedars, but which were now flint or jasper. The washings of geologic aeons have exposed to view immense quantities of these enchanted forests. Fragments of silicified trees are not only strewn over the lowlands, but are piled by the hundred cords at the bases of slopes, seeming like so much drift-wood from wonder-lands far up the stream of time. Generally they are in short bits, broken square across the grain, as if sawed. Some are jasper, and look like masses of red sealing-wax; others are agate, or opalescent chalcedony, beautifully lined and variegated; many retain the graining, layers, knots, and other details of their woody structure. In places where the marls had been washed away gently, the emigrants found trunks complete, from root to summit, fifty feet in length and three in diameter. All the branches, however, were gone; the tree had been uprooted, transported, whirled and worn by deluges; then to commemorate the victory of the water sprites, it had been changed into stone. The sight of these remnants of antediluvian woodlands made history seem the reminiscence of a child. They were already petrifactions when the human race was born. The Painted Desert has other marvels. Throughout vast stretches you pass between tinted _mesas_, or tables, which face each other across flat valleys like painted palaces across the streets of Genova la Superba. They are giant splendors, hundreds of feet in height, built of blood-red sandstone capped with variegated marls. The torrents, which scooped out the intersecting levels, amused their monstrous leisure with carving the points and abutments of the _mesa_ into fantastic forms, so that the traveller sees towers, minarets, and spires loftier than the pinnacles of cathedrals. The emigrants were often deceived by these freaks of nature. Beheld from a distance, it seemed impossible that they should not be ruins, the monuments of some Cyclopean race. Aunt Maria, in particular, discovered casas grandes and casas de Montezuma very frequently. "There is another casa," she would say, staring through her spectacles (broken) at a butte three hundred feet high. "What a people it must have been which raised such edifices!" And she would stick to it, too, until she was close up to the solid rock, and then would renew the transforming miracle five or ten miles further on. During this long and marvellous journey Coronado renewed his courtship. He was cautious, however; he made a confidant of his friend Aunt Maria; begged her favorable intercession. "Clara," said Mrs. Stanley, as the two women jolted along in one of the lumbering wagons, "there is one thing in your life which perhaps you don't suspect." The girl, who wanted to hear about Thurstane all the time, and expected to hear about him, asked eagerly, "What is it?" "You have made Mr. Coronado fall in love with you," said Aunt Maria, thinking it wise to be clear and straightforward, as men are reputed to be. The young lady, instantly revolting from the subject, made no reply. "I think, Clara, that if you take a husband--and most women do--he would be just the person for you." Clara, once the gentlest of the gentle, was perfectly angelic no longer. She gave her relative a stare which was partly intense misery, but which had much the look of pure anger, as indeed it was in a measure. The expressions of violent emotion are alarming to most people. Aunt Maria, beholding this tortured soul glaring at her out of its prison windows, recoiled in surprise and awe. There was not another word spoken at the time concerning the obnoxious match-making. A single stare of Marius had put to flight the executioner. In one way and another Clara continued to baffle her suitor and her advocate. The days dragged on; the expedition steadily traversed the desert; the Santa Anna region was crossed, and the Bernalillo trail reached; one hundred, two hundred, three hundred miles and more were left behind; and still Coronado, though without a rival, was not accepted. Then came an adventure which partly helped and partly hindered his plans. The train was overtaken by a detachment of the Fifth United States Cavalry, commanded by Major John Robinson, pushing for California. Of course Sergeant Meyer reported himself and Kelly to the Major, and of course the Major ordered them to join his party as far as Fort Yuma. This deprived Clara of her trusted protectors; but on the other hand, she threatened to take advantage of the escort of Robinson for the rest of her journey; and the mere mention of this at once brought Coronado on his soul's marrow-bones. He swore by the heaven above, by all the saints and angels, by the throne of the Virgin Mary, by every sacred object he could think of, that not another word of love should pass his lips during the journey, that he would live the life of a dead man, etc. Overcome by his pleadings, and by the remonstrances of Aunt Maria, who did not want to have her favorite driven to commit suicide, Clara agreed to continue with the train. After this scene followed days of hot travelling over hard, gravelly plains, thinly coated with grass and dotted with cacti, mezquit trees, the leafless palo verde, and the greasewood bush. Here and there towered that giant cactus, the saguarra, a fluted shaft, thirty, forty, and even sixty feet high, with a coronet of richly-colored flowers, the whole fabric as splendid as a Corinthian column. Prickly pears, each one large enough to make a thicket, abounded. Through the scorching sunshine ran scorpions and lizards, pursued by enormous rattlesnakes. During the days the heat ranged from 100 to 115 deg. in the shade, while the nights were swept by winds as parching as the breath of an oven. The distant mountains glared at the eye like metals brought to a white heat. Not seldom they passed horses, mules, cattle, and sheep, which had perished in this terrible transit and been turned to mummies by the dry air and baking sun. Some of these carcasses, having been set on their legs by passing travellers, stood upright, staring with blind eyeballs, grinning through dried lips, mockeries of life, statues of death. In spite of these hardships and horrors, Clara kept up her courage and was almost cheerful; for in the first place Coronado had ceased his terrifying attentions, and in the second place they were nearing Cactus Pass, where she hoped to meet Thurstane. When love has not a foot of certainty to stand upon, it can take wing and soar through the incredible. The idea that they two, divided hundreds of miles back, should come together at a given point by pure accident, was obviously absurd. Yet Clara could trust to the chance and live for it. The scenery changed to mountains. There were barren, sublime, awful peaks to the right and left. To the girl's eyes they were beautiful, for she trusted that Thurstane beheld them. She was always on horseback now, scanning every feature of the landscape, searching of course for him. She did not pass a cactus, or a thicket of mezquit, or a bowlder without anxious examination. She imagined herself finding him helpless with hunger, or passing him unseen and leaving him to die. She was so pale and thin with constant anxiety that you might have thought her half starved, or recovering from some acute malady. About five one afternoon, as the train was approaching its halting-place at a spring on the western side of the pass, Clara's feverish mind fixed on a group of rocks half a mile from the trail as the spot where she would find Thurstane. In obedience to similar impressions she had already made many expeditions of this nature. Constant failure, and a consciousness that all this searching was folly, could not shake her wild hopes. She set off at a canter alone; but after going some four hundred yards she heard a gallop behind her, and, looking over her shoulder, she saw Coronado. She did not want to be away from the train with him; but she must at all hazards reach that group of rocks; something within impelled her. Better mounted than she, he was soon by her side, and after a while struck out in advance, saying, "I will look out for an ambush." When Coronado reached the rocks he was fifty yards ahead of Clara. He made the circuit of them at a slow canter; in so doing he discovered the starving and fainted Thurstane lying in the high grass beneath a low shelf of stone; he saw him, he recognized him, and in an instant he trembled from head to foot. But such was his power of self-control that he did not check his horse, nor cast a second look to see whether the man was alive or dead. He turned the last stone in the group, met Clara with a forced smile, and said gently, "There is nothing." She reined up, drew a long sigh, thought that here was another foolish hope crushed, and turned her horse's head toward the train. CHAPTER XXXIII. The tread of Coronado's horse passing within fifteen feet of Thurstane roused him from the troubled sleep into which he had sunk after his long fainting fit. Slowly he opened his eyes, to see nothing but long grasses close to his face, and through them a haze of mountains and sky. His first moments of wakening were so far from being a full consciousness that he did not comprehend where he was. He felt very, very weak, and he continued to lie still. But presently he became aware of sounds; there was a trampling, and then there were words; the voices of life summoned him to live. Instantly he remembered two things: the starving comrades whom it was his duty to save, and the loved girl whom he longed to find. Slowly and with effort, grasping at the rock to aid his trembling knees, he rose to his feet just as Clara turned her horse's head toward the plain. Coronado threw a last anxious glance in the direction of the wretch whom he meant to abandon to the desert. To his horror he saw a lean, smirched, ghostly face looking at him in a dazed way, as if out of the blinding shades of death. The quickness of this villain was so wonderful that one is almost tempted to call it praiseworthy. He perceived at once that Thurstane would be discovered, and that he, Coronado, must make the discovery, or he might be charged with attempting to leave him to die. "Good heavens!" he exclaimed loudly, "there he is!" Clara turned: there was a scream of joy: she was on the ground, running: she was in Thurstane's arms. During that unearthly moment there was no thought in those two of Coronado, or of any being but each other. It is impossible fully to describe such a meeting; its exterior signs are beyond language; its emotion is a lifetime. If words are feeble in presence of the heights and depths of the Colorado, they are impotent in presence of the altitudes and abysses of great passion. Human speech has never yet completely expressed human intellect, and it certainly never will completely express human sentiments. These lovers, who had been wandering in chasms impenetrable to hope, were all of a sudden on mountain summits dizzy with joy. What could they say for themselves, or what can another say for them? Clara only uttered inarticulate murmurs, while her hands crawled up Thurstane's arms, pressing and clutching him to make sure that he was alive. There was an indescribable pathos in this eagerness which could not trust to sight, but must touch also, as if she were blind. Thurstane held her firmly, kissing hair, forehead, and temples, and whispering, "Clara! Clara!" Her face, which had turned white at the first glimpse of him, was now roseate all over and damp with a sweet dew. It became smirched with the dust of his face; but she would only have rejoiced, had she known it; his very squalor was precious to her. At last she fell back from him, held him at arm's length with ease, and stared at him. "Oh, how sick!" she gasped. "How thin! You are starving." She ran to her horse, drew from her saddle-bags some remnants of food, and brought them to him. He had sunk down faint upon a stone, and he was too weak to speak aloud; but he gave her a smile of encouragement which was at once pathetic and sublime. It said, "I can bear all alone; you must not suffer for me." But it said this out of such visible exhaustion, that, instead of being comforted, she was terrified. "Oh, you must not die," she whispered with quivering mouth. "If you die, I will die." Then she checked her emotion and added, "There! Don't mind me. I am silly. Eat." Meanwhile Coronado looked on with such a face as Iago might have worn had he felt the jealousy of Othello. For the first time he positively knew that the woman he loved was violently in love with another. He suffered so horribly that we should be bound to pity him, only that he suffered after the fashion of devils, his malignity equalling his agony. While he was in such pain that his heart ceased beating, his fingers curled like snakes around the handle of his revolver. Nothing kept him from shooting that man, yes, and that woman also, but the certainty that the deed would make him a fugitive for life, subject everywhere to the summons of the hangman. Once, almost overcome by the temptation, he looked around for the train. It was within hearing; he thought he saw Mrs. Stanley watching him; two of his Mexicans were approaching at full speed. He dismounted, sat down upon a stone, partially covered his face with his hand, and tried to bring himself to look at the two lovers. At last, when he perceived that Thurstane was eating and Clara merely kneeling by, he walked tremulously toward them, scarcely conscious of his feet. "Welcome to life, lieutenant," he said. "I did not wish to interrupt. Now I congratulate." Thurstane looked at him steadily, seemed to hesitate for a moment, and then put out his hand. "It was I who discovered you," went on Coronado, as he took the lean, grimy fingers in his buckskin gauntlet. "I know it," mumbled the young fellow; then with a visible effort he added, "Thanks." Presently the two Mexicans pulled up with loud exclamations of joy and wonder. One of them took out of his haversack a quantity of provisions and a flask of aguardiente; and Coronado handed them to Thurstane with a smile, hoping that he would surfeit himself and die. "No," said Clara, seizing the food. "You have eaten enough. You may drink." "Where are the others?" she presently asked. "In the hills," he answered. "Starving. I must go and find them." "No, no!" she cried. "You must go to the train. Some one else will look for them." One of the rancheros now dismounted and helped Thurstane into his saddle. Then, the Mexican steadying him on one side and Clara riding near him on the other, he was conducted to the train, which was at that moment going into park near a thicket of willows. In an amazingly short time he was very like himself. Healthy and plucky, he had scarcely swallowed his food and brandy before he began to draw strength from them; and he had scarcely begun to breathe freely before he began to talk of his duties. "I must go back," he insisted. "Glover and Sweeny are starving. I must look them up." "Certainly," answered Coronado. "No!" protested Clara. "You are not strong enough." "Of course not," chimed in Aunt Maria with real feeling, for she was shocked by the youth's haggard and ghastly face. "Who else can find them?" he argued. "I shall want two spare animals. Glover can't march, and I doubt whether Sweeny can." "You shall have all you need," declared Coronado. "He mustn't go," cried Clara. Then, seeing in his face that he _would_ go, she added, "I will go with him." "No, no," answered several voices. "You would only be in the way." "Give me my horse," continued Thurstane. "Where are Meyer and Kelly?" He was told how they had gone on to Fort Yuma with Major Robinson, taking his horse, the government mules, stores, etc. "Ah! unfortunate," he said. "However, that was right. Well, give me a mule for myself, two mounted muleteers, and two spare animals; some provisions also, and a flask of brandy. Let me start as soon as the men and beasts have eaten. It is forty miles there and back." "But you can't find your way in the night," persisted Clara. "There is a moon," answered Thurstane, looking at her gratefully; while Coronado added encouragingly, "Twenty miles are easily done." "Oh yes!" hoped Clara. "You can almost get there before dark. Do start at once." But Coronado did not mean that Thurstane should set out immediately. He dropped various obstacles in the way: for instance, the animals and men must be thoroughly refreshed; in short, it was dusk before all was ready. Meantime Clara had found an opportunity of whispering to Thurstane. "_Must_ you?" And he had answered, looking at her as the Huguenot looks at his wife in Millais's picture, "My dear love, you know that I must." "You _will_ be careful of yourself?" she begged. "For your sake." "But remember that man," she whispered, looking about for Texas Smith. "He is not going. Come, my own darling, don't frighten yourself. Think of my poor comrades." "I will pray for them and for you all the time you are gone. But oh, Ralph, there is one thing. I must tell you. I am so afraid. I did wrong to let Coronado see how much I care for you. I am afraid--" He seemed to understand her. "It isn't possible," he murmured. Then, after eyeing her gravely for a moment, he asked, "I may be always sure of you? Oh yes! I knew it. But Coronado? Well, it isn't possible that he would try to commit a treble murder. Nobody abandons starving men in a desert. Well, I must go. I must save these men. After that we will think of these other things. Good-by, my darling." The sultry glow of sunset had died out of the west, and the radiance of a full moon was climbing up the heavens in the east when Thurstane set off on his pilgrimage of mercy. Clara watched him as long as the twilight would let her see him, and then sat down with drooped face, like a flower which has lost the sun. If any one spoke to her, she answered tardily and not always to the purpose. She was fulfilling her promise; she was praying for Thurstane and the men whom he had gone to save; that is, she was praying when her mind did not wander into reveries of terror. After a time she started up with the thought, "Where is Texas Smith?" He was not visible, and neither was Coronado. Suspicious of some evil intrigue, she set out in search of them, made the circuit of the fires, and then wandered into the willow thickets. Amid the underwood, hastening toward the wagons, she met Coronado. "Ah!" he started. "Is that you, my little cousin? You are as terrible in the dark as an Apache." "Coronado, where is your hunter?" she asked with a beating heart. "I don't know. I have been looking for him. My dear cousin, what do you want?" "Coronado, I will tell you the truth. That man is a murderer. I know it." Coronado just took the time to draw one long breath, and then replied with sublime effrontery, "I fear so. I learn that he has told horrible stories about himself. Well, to tell the truth, I have discharged him." "Oh, Coronado!" gasped Clara, not knowing whether to believe him or not. "Shall I confess to you," he continued, "that I suspect him of having weakened that towline so as to send our friend down the San Juan?" "He never went near the boat," heroically answered Clara, at the same time wishing she could see Coronado's face. "Of course not. He probably hired some one. I fear our rancheros are none too good to be bribed. I will confess to you, my cousin, that ever since that day I have been watching Smith." "Oh, Coronado!" repeated Clara. She was beginning to believe this prodigious liar, and to be all the more alarmed because she did believe him. "So you have sent him away? I am so glad. Oh, Coronado, I thank you. But help me look for him now. I want to know if he is in camp." It is almost impossible to do Coronado justice. While he was pretending to aid Clara in searching for Texas Smith, he knew that the man had gone out to murder Thurstane. We must remember that the man was almost as wretched as he was wicked; if punishment makes amends for crime, his was in part absolved. As he walked about with the girl he thought over and over, Will it kill her? He tried to answer, No. Another voice persisted in saying, Yes. In his desperation he at last replied, Let it! We must follow Texas Smith. He had not started on his errand until he had received five hundred dollars in gold, and five hundred in a draft on San Francisco. Then he had himself proposed, "I mought quit the train, an' take my own resk acrost the plains." This being agreed to, he had mounted his horse, slipped away through the willows, and ridden into the desert after Thurstane. He knew the trail; he had been from Cactus Pass to Diamond River and back again; he knew it at least as well as the man whose life he was tracking. He thought he remembered the spring where Glover had broken down, and felt pretty sure that it could not be less than twenty miles from the camp. Mounted as he was, he could put himself ahead of Thurstane and ambush him in some ravine. Of a sudden he laughed. It was not a burst of merriment, but a grim wrinkling of his dark, haggard cheeks, followed by a hissing chuckle. Texas seldom laughed, and with good reason, for it was enough to scare people. "Mought be done," he muttered. "Mought git the better of 'em all that way. Shute, 'an then yell. The greasers'ud think it was Injuns, an' they'd travel for camp. Then I'd stop the spare mules an' start for Californy." For Texas this plan was a stroke of inspiration. He was not an intelligent scoundrel. All his acumen, though bent to the one point of roguery, had barely sufficed hitherto to commit murders and escape hanging. He had never prospered financially, because he lacked financial ability. He was a beast, with all a tiger's ferocity, but with hardly more than a tiger's intelligence. He was a savage numskull. An Apache Tonto would have been more than his match in the arts of murder, and very nearly his match in the arts of civilization. Instead of following Thurstane directly, he made a circuit of several miles through a ravine, galloped across a wide grassy plain, and pulled up among some rounded hillocks. Here, as he calculated, he was fifteen miles from camp, and five from the spot where lay Glover and Sweeny. The moon had already gone down and left the desert to the starlight. Posting himself behind a thicket, he waited for half an hour or more, listening with indefatigable attention. He had no scruples, but he had some fears. If he should miss, the lieutenant would fire back, and he was cool enough to fire with effect. Well, he wouldn't miss; what should he miss for? As for the greasers, they would run at the first shot. Nevertheless, he did occasionally muddle over the idea of going off to California with his gold, and without doing this particular job. What kept him to his agreement was the hope of stealing the spare mules, and the fear that the draft might not be paid if he shirked his work. "I s'pose I must show his skelp," thought Texas, "or they won't hand over the dust." At last there was a sound; he had set his ambush just right; there were voices in the distance; then hoofs in the grass. Next he saw something; it was a man on a mule; yes, and it was the right man. He raised his cocked rifle and aimed, sighting the head, three rods away. Suddenly his horse whinnied, and then the mule of the other reared; but the bullet had already sped. Down went Thurstane in the darkness, while, with an Apache yell, Texas Smith burst from his ambush and charged upon the greasers. CHAPTER XXXIV. The chase after the spare mules carried Texas Smith several miles from the scene of the ambush, so that when he at last caught the frightened beasts, he decided not to go back and cut Thurstane's throat, but to set off at once westward and put himself by morning well on the road to California. Meanwhile, the two muleteers continued their flight at full gallop, and eventually plunged into camp with a breathless story to the effect that Apaches had attacked them, captured the spare mules, and killed the lieutenant. Coronado, no more able to sleep than Satan, was the first to hear their tale. "Apaches!" he said, surprised and incredulous. Then, guessing at what had happened, he immediately added, "Those devils again! We must push on, the moment we can see." Apaches! It was a capital idea. He had an excuse now for hurrying away from a spot which he had stained with murder. If any one demanded that Thurstane's body should be sought for, or that those incumbrances Glover and Sweeny should be rescued, he could respond, Apaches! Apaches! He gave orders to commence preparations for moving at the first dawn. He expected and feared that Clara would oppose the advance in some trying way. But one of the fugitives relieved him by blurting out the death of Thurstane, and sending her into spasms of alternate hysterics and fainting which lasted for hours. Lying in a wagon, her head in the lap of Mrs. Stanley, a sick, very sick, dangerously sick girl, she was jolted along as easily as a corpse. Coronado rode almost constantly beside her wagon, inquiring about her every few minutes, his face changing with contradictory emotions, wishing she would die and hoping she would live, loving and hating her in the same breath. Whenever she came to herself and recognized him, she put out her hands and implored, "Oh, Coronado, take me back there!" "Apaches!" growled Coronado, and spurred away repeating his lie to himself, "Apaches! Apaches!" Then he checked his horse and rode anew to her side, hoping that he might be able to reason with her. "Oh, take me back!" was all the response he could obtain. "Take me back and let me die there." "Would you have us all die?" he shouted--"like Pepita!" "Don't scold her," begged Aunt Maria, who was sobbing like a child. "She doesn't know what she is asking." But Clara knew too much; at the word _Pepita_ she guessed the torture scene; and then it came into her mind that Thurstane might be even now at the stake. She immediately broke into screams, which ended in convulsions and a long fit of insensibility. "It is killing her," wailed Aunt Maria. "Oh, my child! my child!" Coronado spurred at full speed for a mile, muttering to the desert, "Let it kill her! let it!" At last he halted for the train to overtake him, glanced anxiously at Clara's wagon, saw that Mrs. Stanley was still bending over her, guessed that she was still alive, drew a sigh of relief, and rode on alone. "Oh, this love-making!" sighed Aunt Maria scores of times, for she had at last learned of the engagement. "When will my sex get over the weakness? It kills them, and they like it." That night Clara could not sleep, and kept Coronado awake with her moanings. All the next day she lay in a semi-unconsciousness which was partly lethargy and partly fever. It was well; at all events he could bear it so--bear it better than when she was crying and praying for death. The next night she fell into such a long silence of slumber that he came repeatedly to her wagon to hearken if she still breathed. Youth and a strong constitution were waging a doubtful battle to rescue her from the despair which threatened to rob her of either life or reason. So the journey continued. Henceforward the trail followed Bill Williams's river to the Colorado, tracked that stream northward to the Mohave valley, and, crossing there, took the line of the Mohave river toward California. It was a prodigious pilgrimage still, and far from being a safe one. The Mohaves, one of the tallest and bravest races known, from six feet to six and a half in height, fighting hand to hand with short clubs, were not perfectly sure to be friendly. Coronado felt that, if ever he got his wife and his fortune, he should have earned them. He was resolute, however; there was no flinching yet in this versatile, yet obstinate nature; he was as wicked and as enduring as a Pizarro. We will not make the journey; we must suppose it. Weeks after the desert had for a second time engulfed Thurstane, a coasting schooner from Santa Barbara entered the Bay of San Francisco, having on board Clara, Mrs. Stanley, and Coronado. The latter is on deck now, smoking his eternal cigarito without knowing it, and looking at the superb scenery without seeing it. A landscape mirrored in the eye of a horse has about as much effect on the brain within as a landscape mirrored in the eye of Coronado. He is a Latin; he has a fine ear for music, and he would delight in museums of painting and sculpture; but he has none of the passion of the sad, grave, imaginative Anglican race for nature. Mountains, deserts, seas, and storms are to him obstacles and hardships. He has no more taste for them than had Ulysses. He has agonized with sea-sickness during the voyage, and this is the first day that he has found tolerable. Once more he is able to eat and stand up; able to think, devise, resolve, and execute; able, in short, to be Coronado. Look at the little, sunburnt, sinewy, earnest, enduring man; study his diplomatic countenance, serious and yet courteous, full of gravity and yet ready for gayety; notice his ready smile and gracious wave of the hand as he salutes the skipper. He has been through horrors; he has fought a tremendous fight of passion, crime, and peril; yet he scarcely shows a sign of it. There is some such lasting stuff in him as goes to make the Bolivars, Francias, and Lopez, the restless and indefatigable agitators of the Spanish-American communities. You cannot help sympathizing with him somewhat, because of his energy and bottom. You are tempted to say that he deserves to win. He has made some progress in his conspiracy to entrap love and a fortune. It must be understood that the two muleteers persisted in their story concerning Apaches, and that consequently Clara has come to think of Thurstane as dead. Meantime Coronado, after the first two days of wild excitement, has conducted himself with rare intelligence, never alarming her with talk of love, always courteous, kind, and useful. Little by little he has worn away her suspicions that he planned murder, and her only remaining anger against him is because he did not attempt to search for Thurstane; but even for that she is obliged to see some excuse in the terrible word "Apaches." "I have had no thought but for _her_ safety," Coronado often said to Mrs. Stanley, who as often repeated the words to Clara. "I have made mistakes," he would go on. "The San Juan journey was one. I will not even plead Garcia's instructions to excuse it. But our circumstances have been terrible. Who could always take the right step amid such trials? All I ask is charity. If humility deserves mercy, I deserve it." Coronado even schooled himself into expressing sympathy with Clara for the loss of Thurstane. He spoke of him as her affianced, eulogized his character, admitted that he had not formerly done him justice, hinting that this blindness had sprung from jealousy, and so alluded to his own affection. These things he said at first to Aunt Maria, and she, his steady partisan, repeated them to Clara, until at last the girl could bear to hear them from Coronado. Sympathy! the bleeding heart must have it; it will accept this balm from almost any hand, and it will pay for it in gratitude and trust. Thus in two months from the disappearance of Thurstane his rival had begun to hope that he was supplanting him. Of course he had given up all thought of carrying out the horrible plan with which he had started from Santa Fé. Indeed, he began to have a horror of Garcia, as a man who had set him on a wrong track and nearly brought him into folly and ruin. One might say that Satan was in a state of mind to rebuke sin. Let us now glance at Clara. She is seated beside Aunt Maria on the quarter-deck of the schooner. Her troubles have changed her; only eighteen years old, she has the air of twenty-four; her once rounded face is thin, and her childlike sweetness has become tender gravity. When she entered on this journey she resembled the girl faces of Greuze; now she is sometimes a _mater amabilis_, and sometimes a _mater dolorosa_; for her grief has been to her as a maternity. The great change, so far from diminishing her beauty, has made her seem more fascinating and nobler. Her countenance has had a new birth, and exhibits a more perfect soul. We have hitherto had little more than a superficial view of the characters of our people. Events, incidents, adventures, and even landscapes have been the leading personages of the story, and have been to its human individualities what the Olympian gods are to Greek and Trojan heroes in the Iliad. Just as Jove or Neptune rules or thwarts Agamemnon and Achilles, so the monstrous circumstances of the desert have overborne, dwarfed, and blurred these travellers. It is only now, when they have escaped from the _dii majores_, and have become for a brief period tranquil free agents, that we can see them as they are. Even yet they are not altogether untrammelled. Man is never quite himself; he is always under some external influence, past or present; he is always being governed, if not being created. Clara, born anew of trouble, is admirable. There is a sweet, sedate, and almost solemn womanliness about her, which even overawes Mrs. Stanley, conscious of aunthood and strongmindedness, and insisting upon it that her niece is "a mere child." It is a great victory to gain over a lady who has that sort of self-confidence that if she had been a sunflower and obliged to turn toward the sun for life, she would yet have believed that it was she who made him shine. When Clara decides a matter Mrs. Stanley, while still mentally saying "Young thing," feels nevertheless that her own decision has been uttered. And in every successive resistance she is overcome the easier, for habit is a conqueror. They have just had a discussion. Aunt Maria wants Clara to stand on her dignity in a hotel until old Muñoz goes down on his marrow-bones, makes her a handsome allowance, and agrees to leave her at least half his fortune. Clara's reply is substantially, "He is my grandfather and the proper head of my family. I think I ought to go straight to him and say, Grandfather, here I am." Beaten by this gentle conscientiousness, Aunt Maria endeavored to appeal the matter to Coronado. "I am so glad to see you enjoying your cigarito once more," she called to him with as sweet a smile as if she didn't hate tobacco. He left his smoking retreat amidships, took off his hat with a sort of airy gravity, and approached them. "Mr. Coronado, where do you propose to take us when we reach land?" asked Aunt Maria. "We will, if you please, go direct to my excellent relative's," was the reply. Aunt Maria held her head straight up, as if stiff-neckedly refusing to go there, but made no opposition. Coronado had meditated everything and decided everything. It would not do to go to a hotel, because that might lead to a suspicion that he knew all the while about the death of Muñoz. His plan was to drive at once to the old man's place, demand him as if he expected to see him, express proper surprise and grief over the funereal response, put the estate as soon as possible into Clara's hands, become her man of affairs and trusted friend, and so climb to be her husband. He was anxious; during all his perils in the desert he had never been more so; but he bore the situation heroically, as he could bear; his face revealed nothing but its outside--a smile. "My dear cousin," he presently said, "when I once fairly set you down in your home, you will owe me, in spite of all my blunders, a word of thanks." "Coronado, I shall owe you more than I ever can repay," she replied frankly, without remembering that he wanted to marry her. The next instant she remembered it, and her face showed the first blush that had tinted it for two months. He saw the significant color, and turned away to conceal a joy which might have been perilous had she observed it. Immediately on landing he proceeded to carry out his programme. He took a hack, drove the ladies direct to the house of Muñoz, and there went decorously through the form of learning that the old man was dead. Then, consoling the sorrowful and anxious Clara, he hurried to the best hotel in the city and made arrangements for what he meant should be an impressive scene, the announcement of her fortune. He secured fine rooms for the ladies, and ordered them a handsome lunch, with wine, etc., all without regard to expense. The girl must be perfectly comfortable and under a sense of all sorts of obligations to him when she received his _coup de théâtre_. He was not so preoccupied but that he quarelled with his coachman about the hack hire and dismissed him with some disagreeable epithets in Spanish. Next he took a saddle-horse, as being the cheapest conveyance attainable, and cantered off to find the executors of Muñoz, enjoying heartily such stares of admiration as he got for his splendid riding. In an hour he returned, found the ladies in their freshest dresses, and complimented them suitably. At this very moment his anguish of anxiety and suspense was terrible. When Clara should learn that she was a millionaire, what would she do? Would she throw off the air of friendliness which she had lately worn, and scout him as one whom she had long known as a scoundrel? Would all his plots, his labors, his perils, and his love prove in one moment to have been in vain? As he stood there smiling and flattering, he was on the cross. "But I am talking trifles," he said at last, fairly catching his breath. "Can you guess why I do it? I am prolonging a moment of intense pleasure." Such was his control over himself that he looked really benign and noble as he drew from his pocket a copy of the will and held it out toward Clara. "My dear cousin," he murmured, his dark eyes searching her face with intense anxiety, "you cannot imagine my joy in announcing to you that you are the sole heir of the good Pedro Muñoz." CHAPTER XXXV. At the announcement that she was a millionaire Clara turned pale, took the proffered paper mechanically with trembling fingers, and then, without looking at it, said, "Oh, Coronado!" It was a tone of astonishment, of perplexity, of regret, of protest; it seemed to declare, Here is a terrible injustice, and I will none of it. Coronado was delighted; in a breath he recovered all his presence of mind; he recovered his voice, too, and spoke out cheerfully: "Ah, you are surprised, my cousin. Well, it is your grandfather's will. You, as well as all others, must submit to it." Aunt Maria jumped up and walked or rather pranced about the room, saying loudly, "He must have been the best man in the whole world." After repeating this two or three times, she halted and added with even more emphasis, "Except _you_, Mr. Coronado!" The Mexican bowed in silence; it was almost too much to be praised in that way, feeling as he did; he bowed twice and waved his hand, deprecating the compliment. The interview was a very painful one to him, although he knew that he was gaining admiration with every breath that he drew, and admiration just where it was absolutely necessary to him. Turning to Clara now, he begged, "Read it, if you please, my cousin." The girl, by this time flushed from chin to forehead, glanced over the paper, and immediately said, "This should not be so. It must not be." Coronado was overjoyed; she evidently thought that she owed him and Garcia a part of this fortune; even if she kept it, she would feel bound to consider his interests, and the result of her conscientiousness might be marriage. "Let us have no contest with the dead," he replied grandly. "Their wishes are sacred." "But Garcia and you are wronged, and I cannot have it so," persisted Clara. "How wronged?" demanded Aunt Maria. "I don't see it. Mr. Garcia was only a cousin, and he is rich enough already." Coronado, remembering that he and Garcia were bankrupt, wished he could throw the old lady out of a window. "Wait," said Clara in a tone of vehement resolution. "Give me time. You shall see that I am not unjust or ungrateful." "I beg that you will not bestow a thought upon me," implored the sublime hypocrite. "Garcia, it is true, may have had claims. I have none." Aunt Maria walked up to him, squeezed both his hands, and came near hugging him. Once out of this trial, Coronado could bear no more, but kissed his fingers to the ladies, hastened to his own room, locked the door, and swore all the oaths that there are in Spanish, which is no small multitude. In a few days after this terrible interview things were going swimmingly well with him. To keep Clara out of the hands of fortune-hunters, but ostensibly to enable her to pass her first mourning in decent retirement, he had induced her to settle in one of Muñoz's haciendas, a few miles from the city, where he of course had her much to himself. He was her adviser; he was closeted frequently with the executors; he foresaw the time when he would be the sole manager of the estate; he began to trust that he would some day possess it. What woman could help leaning upon and confiding in a man who was so useful, so necessary as Coronado, and who had shown such unselfish, such magnanimous sentiments? Meantime the girl was as admirable in reality as the man was in appearance. Unexpected inheritance of large wealth is almost sure to alter, at least for a time, and generally for the worse, the manner and morale of a young person, whether male or female. Conceit or haughtiness or extravagance or greediness, or some other vice, pretty surely enters into either deportment or conduct. If this girl was changed at all by her great good fortune, she was changed for the better. She had never been more modest, gentle, affable, and sensible than she was now. The fact shows a clearness of mind and a nobleness of heart which place her very high among the wise and good. Such behavior under such circumstances is equal to heroism. We are conscious that in saying these things of Clara we are drawing largely upon the reader's faith. But either her present trial of character was peculiarly fitted to her, or she was one of those select spirits who are purified by temptation. She remembered Garcia's claims upon her grandfather, and her own supposed obligations to Coronado. She informed the executors that she wished to make over half her property to the old man, trusteeing it so that it should descend to his nephew. Their reply, translated from roundabout and complimentary Spanish into plain English, was this: "You can't do it. The estate is not settled, and will not be for a year. Moreover, you have no power to part with it until you are of age, which will not be for three years. Finally, your proposition defies your grandfather's wishes, and it is altogether too generous." Clara's simple and firm reply was, "Well, I must wait. But it would seem better if I could do it now." There was one reason why Clara should be so calm and unselfish in her elevation; her sorrows served her as ballast. Why should she let riches turn her head when she found that they could not lighten her heart? There was a certain night in her past which gold could not illuminate; there had once been a precious life near her, which was gone now beyond the power of ransom. Thurstane! How she would have lavished this wealth upon him. He would have refused it; but she would have prayed and forced him to accept it; she would have been the meeker to him because of it. How noble he had been! not now to be brought back! gone forever! And his going had been like the going away of the sun, leaving no beautiful color in all nature, no guiding light for wandering footsteps. She exaggerated him, as love will exaggerate the lost. Of course she did not always believe that he could be dead, and in her hours of hope she wrote letters inquiring about his fate. In other days he had told her much of himself, stories of his childhood and his battles, the number of his old regiment and his new one, titles of his superiors, names of comrades, etc. To which among all these unknown ones should she address herself? She fixed on the commander of his present regiment, and that awfully mysterious personage the Adjutant-General of the army, a title which seemed to represent omniscience and omnipotence. To each of these gentlemen she sent an epistle recounting where, when, and how Lieutenant Ralph Thurstane had been ambushed by unknown Indians, supposed to be Apaches. These letters she wrote and mailed without the knowledge of Coronado. This was not caution, but pity; she did not suspect that he would try to intercept them; only that it would pain him to learn how much she yet thought of his rival. Indeed, it would have been cruel to show them to him, for he would have seen that they were blurred with tears. You perceive that she had come to be tender of the feelings of this earnest and scoundrelly lover, believing in his sincerity and not in his villainy. "Surely some of those people will know," thought Clara, with a trust in men and dignitaries which makes one say _sancta simplicitas_. "If they do not know," she added, with a prayer in her heart, "God will discover it to them." But no answers came for months. The colonel was not with his regiment, but on detached service at New York, whither Clara's letter travelled to find him, being addressed to his name and not marked "Official business." What he did of course was to forward it to the Adjutant-General of the army at Washington. The Adjutant-General successively filed both communications, and sent a copy of each to headquarters at Santa Fé and San Francisco, with an endorsement advising inquiries and suitable search. The mails were slow and circuitous, and the official routine was also slow and circuitous, so that it was long before headquarters got the papers and went to work. Does any one marvel that Clara did not go directly to the military authorities in the city? It must be remembered that man has his own world, as woman has hers, and that each sex is very ignorant of the spheres and missions of the other, the retired sex being especially limited in its information. The girl had never been told that there was such a thing as district headquarters, or that soldiers in San Francisco had anything to do with soldiers at Fort Yuma. Nor was she in the way of learning such facts, being miles away from a uniform, and even from an American. One day, when she was fuller of hope than usual, she dared to write to that ghost, Thurstane. Where should the letter be addressed? It cost her much reflection to decide that it ought to go to the station of his company, Fort Yuma. This gave her an idea, and she at once penned two other letters, one directed "To the Captain of Company I," and one to Sergeant Meyer. But unfortunately those three epistles were not sent off before it occurred to Coronado that he ought to overlook the packages that were sent from the hacienda to the city. By the way, he had from the first assumed a secret censorship over the mails which arrived. Meantime he also had his anxiety and his correspondence. He feared lest Garcia should learn how things had been managed, and should hasten to San Francisco to act henceforward as his own special providence. In that case there would be awkward explanations, there would be complicated and perilous plottings, there might be stabbings or poisonings. Already, as soon as he reached the Mohave valley, he had written one cajoling letter to his uncle. Scattered through six pages on various affairs were underscored phrases and words, which, taken in sequence, read as follows: "Things have gone well and ill. What was most desirable has not been fully accomplished. There have been perils and deaths, but not the one required. The wisest plans have been foiled by unforeseen circumstances. The future rests upon slow poison. A few weeks more will suffice. Do not come here. It would rouse suspicion. Trust all to me." He now sent other letters, reporting the progress of the malady caused by the poison, urging Garcia to remain at a distance, assuring him that all would be well, etc. "There will be no will," declared one of these lying messengers. "If there is a will, you will be the inheritor. In all events, you will be safe. Rely upon my judgment and fidelity." It is curious, by the way, that such men as Coronado and Garcia, knowing themselves and each other to be liars, should nevertheless expect to be believed, and should frequently believe each other. One is inclined to admit the seeming paradox that rogues are more easily imposed upon than honest men. No responses came from Garcia. But, by way of consolation, Coronado had Clara's correspondence to read. One day this hidalgo, securely locked in his room, held in his delicate dark fingers a letter addressed to Miss Clara Van Diemen, and postmarked in writing "Fort Yuma." Hot as the day was, there was a brazier by his side, and a kettle of water bubbling on the coals. He held the letter in the steam, softened the wafer to a pulp, opened the envelope carefully, threw himself on a sofa, scowled at the beating of his heart, and began to read. Before he had glanced through the first line he uttered an exclamation, turned hastily to the signature, and then burst into a stream of whispered curses. After he had blasphemed himself into a certain degree of calmness, he read the letter twice through carefully, and learned it by heart. Then he thrust it deep into the coals of the brazier, watched it steadily until its slight flame had flickered away, lighted a cigarito, and meditated. This epistle was not the only one that troubled him. He already knew that Clara was inquiring about this man of whom she never spoke, and conducting her inquiries with an intelligence and energy which showed that her heart was in the business. If things went on so, there might be trouble some day, and there might be punishment. For a time he was so disturbed that he felt somewhat as if he had a conscience, and might yet know what it is to be haunted by remorse. As for Clara, he was furious with her, notwithstanding his love for her, and indeed because of it. It was outrageous that a woman whom he adored should seek to ferret out facts which might send him to State's Prison. It was abominable that she would not cease to care for that stupid officer after he had been so carefully put out of her way. Coronado felt that he was persecuted. Well, what should be done? He must put a stop to Clara's inquiries, and he would do it by inquiring himself. Yes, he would write to people about Thurstane, show the letters to the girl (but never send them), and so gradually get this sort of correspondence into his own hands, when he would drop it. She would be led thereby to trust him the more, to be grateful to him, perhaps to love him. It was a hateful mode of carrying on a courtship, but it seemed to be the best that he had in his power. Having so decided, this master hypocrite, "full of all subtlety and wiles of the devil," turned his attention to his siesta. For twenty minutes he slept the sleep of the just; then he was awakened by a timid knock at his door. Guessing from the shyness of the demand for entrance that it came from a servant, he called pettishly, "What do you want? Go away." "I must see you," answered a voice which, feeble and indistinct as it was, took Coronado to the door in an instant, trembling in every nerve with rage and alarm. CHAPTER XXXVI. Opening the door softly and with tremulous fingers, Coronado looked out upon an old gray-headed man, short and paunchy in build, with small, tottering, uneasy legs, skin mottled like that of a toad, cheeks drooping and shaking, chin retiring, nose bulbous, one eye a black hollow, the other filmy and yet shining, expression both dull and cunning, both eager and cowardly. The uncle seemed to be even more agitated at the sight of the nephew than the nephew at the sight of the uncle. For an instant each stared at the other with a strange expression of anxiety and mistrust. Then Coronado spoke. The words which he had in his heart were, What are you here for, you scoundrelly old marplot? The words which he actually uttered were, "My dear uncle, my benefactor, my more than parent! How delighted I am to see you! Welcome, welcome!" The two men grasped each other's arms, and stuck their heads over each other's shoulders in a pretence of embracing. Perhaps there never was anything of the kind more curious than the contrast between their affectionate attitude and the suspicion and aversion painted on their faces. "Have you been seen?" asked Coronado as soon as he had closed and locked the door. "I must contrive to get you away unperceived. Why have you come? My dear uncle, it was the height of imprudence. It will expose you to suspicion. Did you not get my letters?" "Only one," answered Garcia, looking both frightened and obstinate, as if he were afraid to stay and yet determined not to go. "One from the Mohave valley." "But I urged you in that to remain at a distance, until all had been arranged." "I know, my son, I know. I thought like you at first. But presently I became anxious." "Not suspicious of my good faith!" exclaimed Coronado in a horrified whisper. "Oh, _that_ is surely impossible." "No, no--not suspicious--no, no, my son," chattered Garcia eagerly. "But I began to fear that you needed my help. Things seemed to move so slowly. Madre de Dios! All across the continent, and nothing done yet." "Yes, much has been done. I had obstacles. I had people to get rid of. There was a person who undertook to be lover and protector." "Is he gone?" inquired the old man anxiously. "Ask no questions. The less told, the better. I wish to spare you all responsibility." "Carlos, you are my son and heir. You deserve everything that I can give. All shall be yours, my son." "That Texas Smith of yours is a humbug," broke out Coronado, his mind reverting to the letter which he had just burned. "I put work on him which he swore to do and did not do. He is a coward and a traitor." "Oh, the pig! Did you pay him?" "I had to pay him in advance--and then nothing done right," confessed Coronado. "Oh, the pig, the dog, the toad, the villainous toad, the pig of hell!" chattered Garcia in a rage. "How much did you pay him? Five hundred dollars! Oh, the pig and the dog and the toad!" "Well, I have been frank with you," said Coronado. (He had diminished by one half the sum paid to Texas Smith.) "I will continue to be frank. You must not stay here. The question is how to get you away unseen." "It is useless; I have been recognized," lied Garcia, who was determined not to go. "All is lost!" exclaimed Coronado. "The presence of us two--both possible heirs--will rouse suspicion. Nothing can be done." But no intimidations could move the old man; he was resolved to stay and oversee matters personally; perhaps he suspected Coronado's plan of marrying Clara. "No, my son," he declared. "I know better than you. I am older and know the world better. Let me stay and take care of this. What if I am suspected and denounced and hung? The property will be yours." "My more than father!" cried Coronado. "You shall never sacrifice yourself for me. God forbid that I should permit such an infamy!" "Let the old perish for the young!" returned Garcia, in a tone of meek obstinacy which settled the controversy. It was a wonderful scene; it was prodigious acting. Each of these men, while endeavoring to circumvent the other, was making believe offer his life as a sacrifice for the other's prosperity. It was amazing that neither should lose patience; that neither should say, You are trying to deceive me, and I know it. We may question whether two men of northern race could have carried on such a dialogue without bursting out in open anger, or at least glaring with eyes full of suspicion and defiance. "You will find her changed," continued Coronado, when he had submitted to the old man's persistence. "She has grown thinner and sadder. You must not notice it, however; you must compliment her on her health." "What is she taking?" whispered Garcia. "The less said, the better. My dear uncle, you must know nothing. Do not talk of it. The walls have ears." "I know something that would be both safe and sure," persisted the old man in a still lower whisper. "Leave all with me," answered Coronado, waving his hand authoritatively. "Too many cooks spoil the broth. What has begun well will end well." After a time the two men went down to a shady veranda which half encircled the house, and found Mrs. Stanley taking an accidental siesta on a sort of lounge or sofa. Being a light sleeper, like many other active-minded people, she awoke at their approach and sat up to give reception. "Mrs. Stanley, this is my uncle Garcia, my more than father," bowed Coronado. "I have not forgotten him," replied Aunt Maria, who indeed was not likely to forget that mottled face, dyed blue with nitrate of silver. Warmly shaking the puffy hand of the old toad, and doing her very best to smile upon him, she said, "How do you do, Mr. Garcia? I hope you are well. Mr. Coronado, do tell him that, and that I am rejoiced to see him." Garcia's snaky glance just rose to the honest woman's face, and then crawled hurriedly all about the veranda, as if trying to hide in corners. Thanks to Coronado's fluency and invention, there was a mutually satisfactory conversation between the couple. He amplified the lady's compliments and then amplified the Mexican's compliments, until each looked upon the other as a person of unusual intelligence and a fast friend, Aunt Maria, however, being much the more thoroughly humbugged of the two. "My uncle has come on urgent mercantile business, and he crowds in a few days with us," Coronado presently explained. "I have told him of my little cousin's good fortune, and he is delighted." "I am so glad to hear it," said Mrs. Stanley. "What an excellent old man he is, to be sure! And you are just like him, Mr. Coronado--just as good and unselfish." "You overestimate me," answered Coronado, with a smile which was almost ironical. Before long Clara appeared. Garcia's eye darted a look at her which was like the spring of an adder, dwelling for just a second on the girl's face, and then scuttling off in an uncleanly, poisonous way for hiding corners. He saw that she was thin, and believed to a certain extent in Coronado's hints of poison, so that his glance was more cowardly than ordinary. Liking the man not overmuch, but pleased to see a face which had been familiar to her childhood, and believing that she owed him large reparation for her grandfather's will, Clara advanced cordially to the old sinner. "Welcome, Señor Garcia," she said, wondering that he did not kiss her cheek. "Welcome to your own house. It is all yours. Whatever you choose is yours." "I rejoice in your good fortune," sighed Garcia. "It is our common fortune," returned Clara, winding her arm in his and walking him up and down the veranda. "May God give you long life to enjoy it," prayed Garcia. "And you also," said Clara. Coronado translated this conversation as fast as it was uttered to Mrs. Stanley. "This is the golden age," cried that enthusiastic woman. "You Spaniards are the best people I ever saw. Your men absolutely emulate women in unselfishness." "We would do it if it were possible," bowed Coronado. "You do it," magnanimously insisted Aunt Maria, who felt that the baser sex ought to be encouraged. "Señor Garcia, I ask a favor of you," continued Clara. "You must charge all the costs of the journey overland to me." "It is unjust," replied the old man. "Madre de Dios! I can never permit it." "If you need the money now, I will request my guardians, the executors, to advance it," persisted Clara, seeing that he refused with a faint heart. "I might borrow it," conceded Garcia. "I shall have need of money presently. That journey was a great cost--a terribly bad speculation," he went on, shaking his mottled, bluish head wofully. "Not a piaster of profit." "We will see to that," said Clara. "And then, when I am of age--but wait." She shook her rosy forefinger gayly, radiant with the joy of generosity, and added, "You shall see. Wait!" Coronado, in a rapid whisper, translated this conversation phrase by phrase to Mrs. Stanley, his object being to make Clara's promises public and thus engage her to their fulfilment. "Of course!" exclaimed the impulsive Aunt Maria, who was amazingly generous with other people's money, and with her own when she had any to spare. "Of course Clara ought to pay. It is quite a different thing from giving up her rights. Certainly she must pay. That train did nothing but bring us two women. I really believe Mr. Garcia sent it for that purpose alone. Besides, the expense won't be much, I suppose." "No," said Coronado, and he spoke the exact truth; that is, supposing an honest balance. The expedition proper had cost seven or eight thousand dollars, and about two thousand more had been sunk in assassination fees and other "extras." On the other hand, he had sold his wagons and beasts at the high prices of California, making a profit of two thousand dollars. In short, even deducting all that Coronado meant to appropriate to himself, Garcia would obtain a small profit from the affair. Now ensued a strange underhanded drama. Garcia stayed week after week, riding often to the city on business or pretence of business, but passing most of his time at the hacienda, where he wandered about a great deal in a ghost-like manner, glancing slyly at Clara a hundred times a day without ever looking her in the eyes, and haunting her steps without overtaking or addressing her. Every time that she returned from a ride he shambled to the door to see if the saddle were empty. During the night he hearkened in the passages for outcries of sudden illness. And while he thus watched the girl, he was himself incessantly watched by his nephew. "She gets no worse," the old man at last complained to the younger one. "I think she is growing fat." "It is one of the symptoms," replied Coronado. "By the way, there is one thing which we ought to consider. If she gives you half of this estate--?" "Madre de Dios! I would take it and go. But she cannot give until she is of age. And meantime she may marry." He glanced suspiciously at his nephew, but Coronado kept his bland composure, merely saying, "No present danger of that. She sees no one but us." He thought of adding, "Why not marry her yourself, my dear uncle?" But Garcia might retort, "And you?" which would be confusing. "Suppose she should make a will in your favor?" the nephew preferred to suggest. "I cannot wait. I must have money now. Make a will? Madre de Dios! She would outlive me. Besides, he who makes a will can break a will." After a minute of anxious thought, he asked, "How much do you think she will give me?" "I will ask her." "Not _her_," returned Garcia petulantly. "Are you a pig, an ass, a fool? Ask the old one--the duenna. It ought to be a great deal; it ought to be half--and more." To satisfy the old man as well as himself, Coronado sounded Mrs. Stanley as to the proposed division. "Yes, indeed!" said the lady emphatically. "Clara must do something for Garcia, who has been such an excellent friend, and who ought to have been named in the will. But you know she has her duties toward herself as well as toward others. Now the property is not a million; it may be some day or other, but it isn't now. The executors say it might bring three hundred thousand dollars in ready money." The executors, by the way, had been sedulously depreciating the value of the estate to Clara, in order to bring down her vast notions of generosity. "Well," continued Aunt Maria, "my niece, who is a true woman and magnanimous, wanted to give up half. But that is too much, Mr. Coronado. You see money" (here she commenced on something which she had read)--"money is not the same thing in our hands that it is in yours. When a man has a hundred and fifty thousand dollars, he puts it into business and doubles it, trebles it, and so on. But a woman can't do that; she is trammelled and hampered by the prejudices of this male world; she has to leave her money at small interest. If it doubles once in her life, she is lucky. So, you see, one half given to Garcia would be, practically speaking, much more than half," concluded Aunt Maria, looking triumphantly through her argument at Coronado. The Mexican assented; he always assented to whatever she advanced; he did so because he considered her a fool and incapable of reasoning. Moreover, he was not anxious to see half of this estate drop into the hands of Garcia, believing that whatever Clara kept for herself would shortly be his own by right of marriage. "You are the greatest woman of our times," he said, stepping backward a pace or two and surveying her as if she were a cathedral. "I should never have thought of those ideas. You ought to be a legislator and reform our laws." "I never had a doubt that you would agree with me, Mr. Coronado," returned the gratified Aunt Maria. "Well, so does Clara; at least I trust so," she hesitated. "Now as to the sum which our good Garcia should receive. I have settled upon thirty thousand dollars. In his hands, you know, it would soon be a hundred and fifty thousand; that is to say, practically speaking, it would be half the estate." "Certainly," bowed Coronado, meanwhile thinking, "You old ass!" "And my little cousin is of your opinion, I trust?" he added. "Well--not quite--as yet," candidly admitted Aunt Maria. "But she is coming to it. I have no sort of doubt that she will end there." So Coronado had learned nothing as yet of Clara's opinions. As he sauntered away to find Garcia, he queried whether he had best torment him with this unauthorized babble of Mrs. Stanley. On the whole, yes; it might bring him down to reasonable terms; the rapacious old man was expecting too large a slice of the dead Muñoz. So he told his tale, giving it out as something which could be depended on, but increasing the thirty thousand dollars to fifty thousand, on his own responsibility. To his alarm Garcia broke out in a venomous rage, calling everybody pigs, dogs, toads, etc.; and crying and cursing alternately. "Fifty thousand piasters!" he squeaked, tottering about the room on his short weak legs and wringing his hands, so that he looked like a fat dog walking on his hind feet. "Fifty thousand piasters! O Madre de Dios! It is nothing. It is nothing. It will not save me from ruin. It will not cover my debts. I shall be sold out. I am ruined. Fifty thousand piasters! O Madre de Dios!" Fifty thousand dollars would have left him more than solvent; but ten times that sum would not have satisfied his grasping soul. Coronado saw that he had made a blunder, and sought to rectify it by lying copiously. He averred that he had been merely trying his uncle; he begged his pardon for this absurd and ill-timed joke; he admitted that he was a pig and a dog and everything else ignoble; he should not have trifled with the feelings of his benefactor, his more than father; those feelings were to him sacred, and should be held so henceforward and forever. But he was not believed. He could fool the old man sometimes, but not on this occasion. Garcia, greedy and anxious, apt by nature to see the dark side of things, judged that the fifty-thousand-dollar story was the true one. Although he pretended at last to accept Coronado's explanation for fact, he remained at bottom unconvinced, and showed it in his swollen and trembling visage. Thenceforward the nephew watched the uncle incessantly; during his absence he stole into his room, opened his baggage, and examined his drawers. And if he saw him near Clara at table, or when refreshments were handed around, he never took his eyes off him. But he could not be always at hand. One day the two men rode to the city in company. Garcia dodged Coronado, hastened back to the hacienda, asked to have some chocolate prepared, poured out a cup for Clara, looked at her eagerly while she drank it, and then fell down in a fit. An hour later Coronado returned at a full run, to find the old man just recovering his senses and Clara alarmingly ill. CHAPTER XXXVII. Clara had been taken ill while waiting on the unconscious Garcia, and the attack had been so violent as to drive her at once to her room and bed. The first person whom Coronado met when he reached the house was Aunt Maria, oscillating from one invalid to the other in such fright and confusion that she did not know whether she was strong-minded or not; but thus far chiefly troubled about Garcia, who seemed to her to be in a dying state. "Your uncle!" she exclaimed, beckoning wildly to Coronado as he rushed in at the door. "I know," he answered hastily. "A servant told me. How is Clara?" He was as pale as a man of his dark complexion could be. Aunt Maria caught his alarm, and, forgetting at once all about Garcia, ran on with him to Clara's room. The girl was just then in one of her spasms, her features contracted and white, and her forehead covered with a cold sweat. "What is it?" whispered Mrs. Stanley, clutching Coronado by the arm and staring eagerly at his anxious eyes. "It is--fever," he returned, making a great effort to control his rage and terror. "Give her warm water to drink. My God! give her something." He sent three servants in succession to search for three different physicians swearing at them violently while they made their preparations, telling them to ride like the devil, to kill their horses, etc. When he returned to Clara's room she had come out of her paroxysm, and was feebly trying to smile away Aunt Maria's terrors. "My cousin!" he whispered in unmistakable anguish of spirit. "I am better," she replied. "Thank you, Coronado. How is Garcia?" Coronado looked as if he were devoting some one to the infernal furies; but he suppressed his emotion and replied in a smothered voice, "I will go and see." Hurrying to his uncle's room, he motioned out the attendants, closed the door, locked it, and then, with a scowl of rage and alarm, advanced upon the invalid, who by this time was perfectly conscious. "What have you given her?" demanded Coronado, in a hoarse mutter. "I don't know what you mean," stammered the old man. He shut his one eye, not because he could not keep it open, but to evade the conflict which was coming upon him. Taking quick advantage of the closed eye, Coronado turned to a dressing-table, pulled out a drawer, seized a key, and opened Garcia's trunk. Before the old man could interfere, the younger one held in his hand a paper containing two ounces or so of white powder. "Did you give her this?" demanded Coronado. Garcia stared at the paper with such a scared and guilty face, that it was equivalent to a confession. Coronado turned away to hide his face. There was a strange smile upon it; at first it was a joy which made him half angelic; then it became amusement. He tottered to a chair, threw himself into it with the air of a thoroughly wearied man who finds rest delicious, put a grain of the powder on his tongue, and then drew a long sigh, a sigh of entire relief. We must explain. The inner history of this scene is not a tragedy, but a farce. For two weeks or more Coronado had been watching his uncle day and night, and at last had found in his trunk a paper of powder which he suspected to be arsenic. A blunderer would have destroyed or hidden it, thereby warning Garcia that he was being looked after, and causing him to be more careful about his hiding places. Coronado emptied the paper, snapped off every grain of the powder with his finger, wiped it clean with his handkerchief, and refilled it with another powder. The selection of this second powder was another piece of cleverness. He had at hand both flour and finely pulverized sugar; but he wanted to learn whether Garcia would really dose the girl, and he wanted a chance to frighten him; so he chose a substance which would be harmless, and yet would cause illness. "You will be hung," said Coronado, staring sternly at his uncle. "I don't know what you mean," mumbled the old man, trembling all over. "What a fool you were to use a poison so easily detected as arsenic! I have sent for doctors. They will recognize her symptoms. You prepared the chocolate. Here is the arsenic in your trunk. You will be hung." "Give me that paper," whimpered Garcia, rising from his bed and staggering toward Coronado. "Give it to me. It is mine." Coronado put the package behind him with one hand and held off his uncle with the other. "You must go," he persisted. "She won't live two hours. Be off before you are arrested. Take horse for San Francisco. If there is a steamer, get aboard of it. Never mind where it sails to." "Give me the paper," implored Garcia, going down on his knees. "O Madre de Dios! My head, my head! Oh, what extremities! Give me the paper. Carlos, it was all for your sake." "Are you going?" demanded Coronado. "Oh yes. Madre de Dios! I am going." "Come along. By the back way. Do you want to pass _her_ room? Do you want to see your work? I will send your trunk to the bankers. Quit California at the first chance. Quit it at once, if you go to China." As Coronado looked after the flying old man he heard himself called by Mrs. Stanley, who was by this time in great terror about Clara, trotting hither and thither after help and counsel. "Oh, Mr. Coronado, do come!" she urged. Then, catching sight of the galloping Garcia, "But what does that mean? Has he gone mad?" "Nearly," said Coronado. "I brought him news of pressing business. How is my cousin?" "Oh dear! I am terribly alarmed. Do look at her. Will those doctors never come!" Coronado, who had been a little in advance of Mrs. Stanley as they hurried toward Clara's room, suddenly stopped, wheeled about with a smile, seized her hands, and shook them heartily. "I have it," he exclaimed with a fine imitation of joyful astonishment. "There is no danger. I can explain the whole trouble. My poor uncle has these attacks, and he is extravagantly fond of chocolate. To relieve the attacks he always carries a paper of medicine in one of his vest pockets. To sweeten his chocolate he carries a paper of sugar in the companion pocket. You may be sure that he has made a mistake between the two. He has dosed Clara with his physic. There is no danger." He laughed in the most natural manner conceivable; then he checked himself and said: "My poor little cousin! It is no joke for her." "Certainly not," snapped Aunt Maria, relieved and yet angry. "How excessively stupid! Here is Clara as sick as can be, and I frightened out of my senses. Men ought not to meddle with cookery. They are such botches, even in their own business!" But presently, after she had given Coronado's explanation to Clara, and the girl had laughed heartily over it and declared herself much better, Aunt Maria recovered her good humor and began to pity that poor, sick, driven Garcia. "The brave old creature!" she said. "Out of his fits and off on his business. I must say he is a wonder. Let us hope he will come out all right, and soon return to us. But really he ought to be seen to. He may fall off his horse in a fit, or he may dose somebody dreadfully with his chocolate and get taken up for poisoning. Mr. Coronado, you ought to ride into town to-morrow and look after him." "Certainly," replied Coronado. He did so, and returned with the news that Garcia had sailed to San Diego, having been summoned back to Santa Fé by the state of his affairs. That day and the night following he slept fourteen hours, making up the arrears of rest which he had lost in watching his uncle. Henceforward he was easier; he had a pretty clear field before him; there was no one present to poison Clara; no one but himself to court her. And the courtship went forward with a better prospect of success than is quite agreeable to contemplate. Coronado and Clara were Adam and Eve; they were the only man and woman in this paradise. People thus situated are claimed by a being whom most call a goddess, and some a demon. She is protean; she is at once an invariable formula and an individual caprice; she is a law governing the universal multitude, and a passion swaying the unit. She seems to be under an impression that, where a couple are left alone together, they are the last relics of the human race, and that if they do not marry the type will perish. Indifferent to all considerations but one, she pushes them toward each other. There is comparative safety from her in a crowd. Bachelors and maidens who mingle by hundreds may remain bachelors and maidens. But pair them off in lonely places and see if the result is not amazingly hymeneal. A fellow who has run the gauntlet of seven years of parties in New York will marry the first agreeable girl whom he meets in Alaska. There is such a thing as leaving the haunts of men and repairing to waste places to find a husband. We are told that English girls have reduced this to a system, and that fair archers who have failed at Brighton go out to hunt successfully in India. Well, Coronado had the favoring chances of solitude, propinquity, and daily opportunity. Seldom away from Clara for a day together, he was in condition to take advantage of any of those moods which lay woman open to courtship, such as gratitude for attentions, a disgust with loneliness, a desire for something to love. It was a great thing for him that there was work about the hacienda which no woman could easily do; that there were men servants to govern, horses to be herded, valued, and sold, and lands to be cultivated. All these male mysteries were soon handed over to Coronado, subject to the advice of Aunt Maria and the final judgment of Clara. The result was that _he_ and _she_ got into a way of frequently discussing many things which threatened to habituate her to the idea of being at one with him through life. Have you ever watched two specks floating in a vessel of water? For a long time they approach each other so slowly that the movement is imperceptible but at last they are within range of each other's magnetism; there is a start, a swift rush, and they are together. Thus it was that Clara was gently, very gently, and unconsciously to herself, approaching Coronado. A mote on the wave of life, she was subject to attraction, as all of us motes are, and this man was the only tractor at hand. Aunt Maria did not count, for woman cannot absorb woman. As to Thurstane, he not only was not there, but he was not anywhere, as she at last believed. Not a word from him or about him, except one letter from the Adjutant-General, which somehow evaded Coronado's brazier, gave her a moment of choking hope and fear, opened its white, official lips, acknowledged her "communication," and stopped there. The unseen tragedies in which souls suffer are numberless. Here was one. The girl had written with tears and heart-beats, and then with tears and heart-beats had waited. At last came the words, "I have the honor to acknowledge, etc., very respectfully, etc." It was one of the business-like facts of life unknowingly trampling upon a bleeding sentiment. Imagine Clara's agitations during this long suspense; her plans and hopes and despairs would furnish matter for a library. There was not a day, if indeed there was an hour, during which her mind was not the theatre of a dozen dramas whereof Thurstane was the hero, either triumphant or perishing. They were horribly fragmentary; they broke off and pieced on to each other like nightmares; one moment he was rescued, and the next tomahawked. And this last fancy, despite all her struggles to hope, was for the most part victorious. Meantime Coronado, guessing her sufferings, and suffering horribly himself with jealousy, talked much and sympathetically to her of Thurstane. So much did this man bear, and with such outward sweetness did he bear it, that one half longs to consider him a martyr and saint. Pity that his goodness should not bear dissection; that it should have no more life in it than a stuffed mannikin; that it should be just fit to scare crows with. But hypocrite as Coronado was, he was clever enough to win every day more of Clara's confidence; and perhaps she might have walked into this whited sepulchre in due time had it not been for an accident. Cantering into San Francisco to hold a consultation with her lawyer, she was saluted in the street by a United States officer, also on horseback. She instinctively drew rein, her pulse throbbing at sight of the uniform, and wild hopes beating at her heart. "Miss Van Diemen, I believe," said the officer, a dark, stout, bold-looking trooper. "I am glad to see that you reached here in safety. You have forgotten me. I am Major Robinson." "I remember," said Clara, who had not recollected him at first because she was looking solely for Thurstane. "You passed us in the desert." "Yes, I took your soldiers away from you, and you declined my escort. I was anxious about you afterwards. Well, it has ended right in spite of me. Of course you have heard of Thurstane's escape." "Escape!" exclaimed Clara, her face turning scarlet and then pale. "Oh! tell me!" The major stared. He had guessed a love affair between these two; he had inferred it in the desert from the girl's anxiety about the young man. How came it that she knew nothing of the escape? "So I have heard," he went on. "I think there can be no mistake about it. I learned it from a civilian who left Fort Yuma some weeks ago. I don't think he could have been mistaken. He told me that the lieutenant was there then. Not well, I am sorry to say; rather broken down by his hardships. Oh, nothing serious, you know. But he was a trifle under the weather, which may account for his not letting his friends hear from him." At the story that Thurstane was alive, all Clara's love had arisen as if from a grave, and the mightier because of its resurrection. She was full of self-reproaches. It seemed to her that she had neglected him; that she had cruelly left him to die. Why had she not guessed that he was sick there, and flown to nurse him to health? What had he thought of her conduct? She must go to him at once. "I am sorry to say that I can tell you no more," continued the major in response to her eager gaze. "I am so obliged to you!" gasped Clara. "If you hear anything more, will you please let me know? Will you please come and see me?" The major promised and took down her address, but added that he was just starting on an inspecting tour, and that for a fortnight to come he should be able to give her no further information. They had scarcely parted ere Clara had resolved to go at once to Fort Yuma. The moment was favorable, for she had with her an intelligent and trustworthy servant, and Coronado had been summoned to a distance by business, so that he could make no opposition. She hastened to her lawyer's, finished her affairs there, drew what money she needed for her journey, learned that a brig was about to start for the Gulf, and sent her man to secure a passage. When he returned with news that the Lolotte would sail next day at noon, she decided not to go back to the hacienda, and took rooms at a hotel. What would people say? She did not care; she was going. She had been womanish and timorous too long; this was the great crisis which would decide her future; she must be worthy of it and of _him_. But remembering Aunt Maria, she sent a letter by messenger to the hacienda, explaining that pressing business called her to be absent for some weeks, and confessing in a postscript that her business referred to Lieutenant Thurstane. This letter brought Coronado down upon her next morning. Returning home unexpectedly, he learned the news from his friend Mrs. Stanley, and was hammering at Clara's door not more than an hour later, all in a tremble with anxiety and rage. "This must not be," he stormed. "Such a journey! Twenty-five hundred miles! And for a man who has not deigned to write to you! It is degrading. I will not have it. I forbid it." "Coronado, stop!" ordered Clara; and it is to be feared that she stamped her little foot at him; at all events she quelled him instantly. He sat down, glared like a mad dog, sprang up and rushed to the door, halted there to stare at her imploringly, and finally muttered in a hoarse voice, "Well--let it be so--since you are crazed. But I shall go with you." "You can go," replied Clara haughtily, after meditating for some seconds, during which he looked the picture of despair. "You can go, if you wish it." An hour later she said, in her usually gentle tone, "Coronado, pardon me for having spoken to you angrily. You are kinder than I deserve." The reader can infer from this speech how humble, helpful, and courteous the man had been in the mean time. Coronado was no half-way character; if he did not like you, he was the fellow to murder you; if he decided to be sweet, he was all honey. Perhaps we ought to ask excuse for Clara's tartness by explaining that she was in a state of extreme anxiety, remembering that Robinson had hesitated when he said Thurstane was not so very ill, and fearing lest he knew worse things than he had told. Meanwhile, let no one suppose that the Mexican meant to let his lady love go to Fort Yuma. He had his plan for stopping her, and we may put confidence enough in him to believe that it was a good one; only at the last moment circumstances turned up which decided him to drop it. Yes, at the last moment, just as he was about to pull his leading strings, he saw good reason for wishing her far away from San Francisco. A face appeared to him; at the first glimpse of it Coronado slipped into the nearest doorway, and from that moment his chief anxiety was to cause the girl to vanish. Yes, he must get her started on her voyage, even at the risk of her continuing it. "What the devil is he here for?" he muttered. "Has he found out that she is living?" CHAPTER XXXVIII. At noon the Lolotte, a broad-beamed, flat-floored brig of light draught and good sailing qualities, hove up her anchor and began beating out of the Bay of San Francisco, with Coronado and Clara on her quarter-deck. "You have no other passengers, I understood you to say, captain," observed Coronado, who was anxious on that point, preferring there should be none. The master, a Dane by birth named Jansen, who had grown up in the American mercantile service, was a middle-sized, broad-shouldered man, with a red complexion, red whiskers, and a look which was at once grave and fiery. He paused in his heavy lurching to and fro, looked at the Mexican with an air which was civil but very stiff, and answered in that discouraging tone with which skippers are apt to smother conversation when they have business on hand, "Yes, sir, one other." Coronado presently slipped down the companionway, found the colored steward, chinked five dollars into his horny palm, and said, "My good fellow, you must look out for me; I shall want a good deal of help during the passage." "Yes, sah, very good, sah," was the answer, uttered in a greasy chuckle, as though it were the speech of a slab of bacon fat. "Make you up any little thing, sah. Have a sup now, sah? Little gruel? Little brof?" "No, thank you," returned Coronado, turning half sick at the mention of those delicacies. "Nothing at present. By the way, one of the staterooms is occupied I see. Who is the other passenger?" "Dunno, sah; keeps hisself shut up, an' says nothin' to nobody. 'Pears like he is sailin' under secret orders. Cur'ous' lookin' old gent; got only one eye." One eye! Coronado thought of the face which had frightened him out of San Francisco, and wondered whether he were shut up in the Lolotte with it. "One eye?" he asked. "Short, stout, dark old gentleman? Indeed! I think I know him." Stepping to the door of a stateroom which he had already noticed as being kept closed, he tapped lightly. There was a muttering inside, a shuffling as of some one getting out of a berth, and then a low inquiry in Spanish, "Who is there?" "Me, sah," returned Coronado, imitating, and imitating perfectly, the accent of the steward, who meantime had gone forward, talking and sniggering to himself, after an idiotic way that he had. The door opened a trifle, and Coronado instantly slipped the toe of his little boot into the crack, at the same time saying in his natural tone, "My dear uncle!" Seeing that he was discovered, Garcia gave his nephew entrance, closed the door after him, locked it, and sat down trembling on the edge of the lower berth, groaning and almost whimpering, "Ah, my son! Ah, my dear Carlos! Oh, what a life I have to lead! Madre de Dios, what a life! I thought you were one of my creditors. I did indeed, my dear Carlos, my son." "I thought you went back to Santa Fé" was Coronado's reply. "No, I did not go; I started, but I came back," mumbled Garcia. Then, plucking up a little spirit, he turned his one eye for a moment on his nephew's face, and added, "Why should I go to Santa Fé? I had no business there. My business is here." "But after your attempt at the hacienda?" "My attempt! I made no attempt. All that was a mistake. Because I was sick, I was frightened and did not know what to do. I ran away because you told me to run. I had given her nothing. Yes, I did put something in her chocolate, but it was my medicine. I meant to put in sugar, but I made a mistake and went to the wrong pocket, the pocket of my medicine. That was it, Carlos. I give you my word, word of a hidalgo, word of a Christian." It was the same explanation which Coronado had invented to forestall suspicions at the hacienda. It was surely a wonderful coincidence of lying, and shows how great minds work alike. Vexed and angry as the nephew was, he could scarcely help smiling. "My dear uncle!" he exclaimed, grasping Garcia's pudgy hand melodramatically. "The very thing that occurred to me! I told them so." "Did you?" replied the old man, not much believing it. "Then all is well." He wanted to ask how it was that Clara had survived her dose; but of course curiosity on that subject must not find vent; it would be equivalent to a confession. "Where is she going?" were his next words. "To Fort Yuma." "To Fort Yuma! What for?" "I may as well tell it," burst out Coronado angrily. "She is going there to nurse that officer. He escaped, but he has been sick, and she _will_ go." "She must not go," whispered Garcia. "Oh, the ----." And here he called Clara a string of names which cannot be repeated. "She shall not go there," he continued. "She will marry him. Then the property is gone, and we are ruined. Oh, the ----." And then came another assortment of violent and vile epithets, such as are not found in dictionaries. Coronado was anxious to divert and dissipate a rage which might make trouble; and as soon as he could get in a word, he asked, "But what have you been doing, my uncle?" By dint of questioning and guessing he made out the story of the old man's adventures since leaving the hacienda. Garcia, in extreme terror of hanging, had gone straight to San Francisco and taken passage for San Diego, with the intention of not stopping until he should be at least as far away as Santa Fé. But after a few hours at sea, he had recovered his wits and his courage, and asked himself, why should he fly? If Clara died, the property would be his, and if she survived, he ought to be near her; while as for Carlos, he would surely never expose and hang a man who could cut him off with a shilling. So he landed at Monterey, took the first coaster back to San Francisco, lurked about the city until he learned that the girl was still living, and was just about to put a bold front on the matter by going to see her at the hacienda, when he learned accidentally that she was on the point of voyaging southward. Puzzled and alarmed by this, he resolved to accompany her in her wanderings, and succeeded in getting himself quietly on board the Lolotte. "Well, let us go on deck," said Coronado, when the old man had regained his tranquillity. "But let us be gentle, my uncle. We know how to govern ourselves, I hope. You will of course behave like a mother to our little cousin. Congratulate her on her recovery; apologize for your awkward mistake. It was caused by the coming on of the fit, you remember. A man who is about to have an attack of epilepsy can't of course tell one pocket from another. But such a man is all the more bound to be unctuous." Clara received the old man cordially, although she would have preferred not to see him there, fearing lest he should oppose her nursing project. But as nothing was said on this matter, and as Garcia put his least cloven foot foremost, the trio not only got on amicably together, but seemed to enjoy one another's society. This was no common feat by the way; each of the three had a great load of anxiety; it was wonderful that they should not show it. Coronado, for instance, while talking like a bird song, was planning how he could get rid of Garcia, and carry Clara back to San Francisco. The idea of pushing the old man overboard was inadmissible; but could he not scare him ashore at the next port by stories of a leak? As for Clara, he could not imagine how to manage her, she was so potent with her wealth and with her beauty. He was still thinking of these things, and prattling mellifluously of quite other things, when the Lolotte luffed up under the lee of the little island of Alcatraz. "What does this mean?" he asked, looking suspiciously at the fortifications, with the American flag waving over them. "Stop here to take in commissary stores for Fort Yuma," explained the thin, sallow, grave, meek-looking, and yet resolute Yankee mate. The chain cable rattled through the hawse hole, and in no long while the loading commenced, lasting until nightfall. During this time Coronado chanced to learn that an officer was expected on board who would sail as far as San Diego; and, as all uniforms were bugbears to him, he watched for the new passenger with a certain amount of anxiety; taking care, by the way, to say nothing of him to Clara. About eight in the evening, as the girl was playing some trivial game of cards with Garcia in the cabin, a splashing of oars alongside called Coronado on deck. It was already dark; a sailor was standing by the manropes with a lantern; the captain was saying in a grumbling tone, "Very late, sir." "Had to wait for orders, captain," returned a healthy, ringing young voice which struck Coronado like a shot. "Orders!" muttered the skipper. "Why couldn't they have had them ready? Here we are going to have a southeaster." There was anxiety as well as impatience in his voice; but Coronado just now could not think of tempests; his whole soul was in his eyes. The next instant he beheld in the ruddy light of the lantern the face of the man who was his evil genius, the man whose death he had so long plotted for and for a time believed in, the man who, as he feared, would yet punish him for his misdeeds. He was so thoroughly beaten and cowed by the sight that he made a step or two toward the companionway, with the purpose of hiding in the cabin. Then desperation gave him courage, and he walked straight up to Thurstane. "My dear Lieutenant!" he cried, trying to seize the young fellow's hand. "Once more welcome to life! What a wonder! Another escape. You are a second Orlando--almost a Don Quixote. And where are your two Sancho Panzas?" "You here!" was Thurstane's grim response, and he did not take the proffered hand. "Come!" implored Coronado, stepping toward the waist of the vessel and away from the cabin. "This way, if you please," he urged, beckoning earnestly. "I have a word to say to you in private." Not a tone of this conversation had been heard below. Before the boat had touched the side the crew were laboring at the noisy windlass with their shouts of "Yo heave ho! heave and pawl! heave hearty ho!" while the mate was screaming from the knight-heads, "Heave hearty, men--heave hearty. Heave and raise the dead. Heave and away." Amid this uproar Coronado continued: "You won't shake hands with me, Lieutenant Thurstane. As a gentleman, speaking to another gentleman, I ask an explanation." Thurstane hesitated; he had ugly suspicions enough, but no proofs; and if he could not prove guilt, he must not charge it. "Is it because we abandoned you?" demanded Coronado. "We had reason. We heard that you were dead. The muleteers reported Apaches. I feared for the safety of the ladies. I pushed on. You, a gentleman and an officer--what else would you have advised?" "Let it go," growled Thurstane. "Let that pass. I won't talk of it--nor of other things. But," and here he seemed to shake with emotion, "I want nothing more to do with you--you nor your family. I have had suffering enough." "Ah, it is with _her_ that you quarrel rather than with me," inferred Coronado impudently, for he had recovered his self-possession. "Certainly, my poor Lieutenant! You have reason. But remember, so has she. She is enormously rich and can have any one. That is the way these women understand life." "You will oblige me by saying not another word on that subject," broke in Thurstane savagely. "I got her letter dismissing me, and I accepted my fate without a word, and I mean never to see her again. I hope that satisfies you." "My dear Lieutenant," protested Coronado, "you seem to intimate that I influenced her decision. I beg you to believe, on my word of honor as a gentleman, that I never urged her in any way to write that letter." "Well--no matter--I don't care," replied the young fellow in a voice like one long sob. "I don't care whether you did or not. The moment she could write it, no matter how or why, that was enough. All I ask is to be left alone--to hear no more of her." "I am obliged to speak to you of her," said Coronado. "She is aboard." "Aboard!" exclaimed Thurstane, and he made a step as if to reach the shore or to plunge into the sea. "I am sorry for you," said Coronado, with a simplicity which seemed like sincerity. "I thought it my duty to warn you." "I cannot go back," groaned the young fellow. "I must go to San Diego. I am under orders." "You must avoid her. Go to bed late. Get up early. Keep out of her way." Turning his back, Thurstane walked away from this cruel and hated counsellor, not thinking at all of him however, but rather of the deep beneath, a refuge from trouble. We must slip back to his last adventure with Texas Smith, and learn a little of what happened to him then and up to the present time. It will be remembered how the bushwhacker sat in ambush; how, just as he was about to fire at his proposed victim, his horse whinnied; and how this whinny caused Thurstane's mule to rear suddenly and violently. The rearing saved the rider's life, for the bullet which was meant for the man buried itself in the forehead of the beast, and in the darkness the assassin did not discover his error. But so severe was the fall and so great Thurstane's weakness that he lost his senses and did not come to himself until daybreak. There he was, once more abandoned to the desert, but rich in a full haversack and a dead mule. Having breakfasted, and thereby given head and hand a little strength, he set to work to provide for the future by cutting slices from the carcass and spreading them out to dry, well knowing that this land of desolation could furnish neither wolf nor bird of prey to rob his larder. This work done, he pushed on at his best speed, found and fed his companions, and led them back to the mule, their storehouse. After a day of rest and feasting came a march to the Cactus Pass, where the three were presently picked up by a caravan bound to Santa Fé, which carried them on for a number of days until they met a train of emigrants going west. Thus it was that Glover reached California, and Thurstane and Sweeny Fort Yuma. Once in quiet, the young fellow broke down, and for weeks was too sick to write to Clara, or to any one. As soon as he could sit up he sent off letter after letter, but after two months of anxious suspense no answer had come, and he began to fear that she had never reached San Francisco. At last, when he was half sick again with worrying, arrived a horrible epistle in Clara's hand and signed by her name, informing him of her monstrous windfall of wealth and terminating the engagement. The crudest thing in this cruel forgery was the sentence, "Do you not think that in paying courtship to me in the desert you took unfair advantage of my loneliness?" She had trampled on his heart and flouted his honor; and while he writhed with grief he writhed also with rage. He could not understand it; so different from what she had seemed; so unworthy of what he had believed her to be! Well, her head had been turned by riches; it was just like a woman; they were all thus. Thus said Thurstane, a fellow as ignorant of the female kind as any man in the army, and scarcely less ignorant than the average man of the navy. He declared to himself that he would never have anything more to do with her, nor with any of her false sex. At twenty-three he turned woman-hater, just as Mrs. Stanley at forty-five had turned man-hater, and perhaps for much the same sort of reason. Shortly after Thurstane had received what he called his cashiering, his company was ordered from Fort Yuma to San Francisco. It had garrisoned the Alcatraz fort only two days, and he had not yet had a chance to visit the city, when he was sent on this expedition to San Diego to hunt down a deserting quartermaster-sergeant. The result was that he found himself shipped for a three days' voyage with the woman who had made him first the happiest man in the army and then the most miserable. How should he endure it? He would not see her; the truth is that he could not endure the trial; but what he said to himself was that he _would_ not. In the darkness tears forced their way out of his eyes and mingled with the spray which the wind was already flinging over the bows. Crying! Three months ago, if any man had told him that he was capable of it, he would have considered himself insulted and would have felt like fighting. Now he was not even ashamed of it, and would hardly have been ashamed if it had been daylight. He was so thoroughly and hopelessly miserable that he did not care what figure he cut. But, once more, what should he do? Oh, well, he would follow Coronado's advice; yes, damn him! follow the scoundrel's advice; he could think of nothing for himself. He would stay out until late; then he would steal below and go to bed; after that he would keep his stateroom. However, it was unpleasant to remain where he was, for the spray was beginning to drench the waist as well as the forecastle; and, the quarter-deck being clear of passengers, he staggered thither, dropped under the starboard bulwark, rolled himself in his cloak, and lay brooding. Meanwhile Coronado had amused Clara below until he felt seasick and had to take to his berth. Escaping thus from his duennaship, she wanted to see a storm, as she called the half-gale which was blowing, and clambered bravely alone to the quarter-deck, where the skipper took her in charge, showed her the compass, walked her up and down a little, and finally gave her a post at the foot of the shrouds. Thurstane had recognized her by the light of the binnacle, and once more he thought, as weakly as a scared child, "What shall I do?" After hiding his face for a moment he uncovered it desperately, resolving to see whether she would speak. She did look at him; she even looked steadily and sharply, as if in recognition; but after a while she turned tranquilly away to gaze at the sea. Forgetting that no lamp was shining upon him, and that she probably had no cause for expecting to find him here, Thurstane believed that she had discovered who he was and that her mute gesture confirmed his rejection. Under this throttling of his last hope he made no protest, but silently wished himself on the battle-field, falling with his face to the foe. For several minutes they remained thus side by side. The Lolotte was now well at sea, the wind and waves rising rapidly, the motion already considerable. Presently there was an order of "Lay aloft and furl the skysails," and then short shouts resounded from the darkness, showing that the work was being done. But in spite of this easing the vessel labored a good deal, and heavy spurts of spray began to fly over the quarter-deck rail. "I think, Miss, you had better go below unless you want to get wet," observed the skipper, coming up to Clara. "We shall have a splashing night of it." Taking the nautical arm, Clara slid and tottered away, leaving Thurstane lying on the sloppy deck. CHAPTER XXXIX. Had Clara recognized Thurstane, she would have thrown herself into his arms, and he would hardly have slept that night for joy. As it was, he could not sleep for misery; festering at heart because of that letter of rejection; almost maddened by his supposed discovery that she would not speak to him, yet declaring to himself that he never would have married her, because of her money; at the same time worshipping and desiring her with passion; longing to die, but longing to die for her; half enraged, and altogether wretched. Meantime the southeaster, dead ahead and blowing harder every minute, was sending its seas further and further aft. He left his wet berth on the deck, reeled, or rather was flung, to the stern of the vessel, lodged himself between the little wheel-house and the taffrail, and watched a scene in consonance with his feelings. Innumerable twinklings of stars faintly illuminated a cloudless, serene heaven, and a foaming, plunging ocean. The slender, dark outlines of the sailless upper masts were leaning sharply over to leeward, and describing what seemed like mystic circles and figures against the lighter sky. The crests of seas showed with ghostly whiteness as they howled themselves to death near by, or dashed with a jar and a hoarse whistle over the bulwarks, slapping against the sails and pounding upon the decks. The waves which struck the bows every few seconds gave forth sounds like the strokes of Thor's hammer, and made everything tremble from cathead to stempost. Every now and then there were hoarse orders from the captain on the quarter-deck, echoed instantly by sharp yells from the mate in the waist. Now it was, "Lay aloft and furl the fore royal;" and ten minutes later, "Lay aloft and furl the main royal." Scarcely was this work done before the shout came, "Lay aloft and reef the fore-t'gallant-s'l;" followed almost immediately by "Lay aloft and reef the main-t'gallant-s'l." Next came, "Lay out forrard and furl the flying jib." Each command was succeeded by a silent, dark darting of men into the rigging, and presently a trampling on deck and a short, sharp singing out at the ropes, with cries from aloft of "Haul out to leeward; taut hand; knot away." Under the reduced sail the brig went easier for a while; but the half gale had made up its mind to be a hurricane. It was blowing more savagely every second. One after another the topgallant sails were double-reefed, close-reefed, and at last furled. The watch on deck had its hands full to accomplish this work, so powerfully did the wind drag on the canvas. Presently, far away forward--it seemed on board some other craft, so faint was the sound--there came a bang, bang, bang! on the scuttle of the forecastle, and a hollow shout of "All hands reef tops'ls ahoy!" Up tumbled the "starbowlines," or starboard watch, and joined the "larbowlines" in the struggle with the elements. No more sleep that night for man, boy, mate, or master. Reef after reef was taken in the topsails, until they were two long, narrow shingles of canvas, and still the wind brought the vessel well down on her beam ends, as if it would squeeze her by main force under water. The men were scarcely on deck from their last reefing job, when boom! went the jib, bursting out as if shot from a cannon, and then whipping itself to tatters. "Lay out forrard!" screamed the mate. "Lay out and furl it." After a desperate struggle, half the time more or less under water, two men dragged in and fastened the fragments of the jib, while others set the foretop-mast staysail in its place. But the wind was full of mischief; it seemed to be playing with the ship's company; it furnished one piece of work after another with dizzying rapidity. Hardly was the jib secured before the great mainsail ripped open from top to bottom, and in the same puff the close-reefed foretopsail split in two with a bang, from earing to earing. Now came the orders fast and loud: "Down yards! Haul out reef tackle! Lay out and furl! Lay out and reef!" It was a perfect mess; a score of ropes flying at once; the men rolling about and holding on; the sails slapping like mad, and ends of rigging streaming off to leeward. After an exhausting fight the mainsail was furled, the upper half of the topsail set close-reefed, and everything hauled taut again. Now came an hour or so without accident, but not without incessant and fatiguing labor, for the two royal yards were successively sent down to relieve the upper masts, and the foretopgallant sail, which had begun to blow loose, was frapped with long pieces of sinnet. During this period of comparative quiet Thurstane ventured an attempt to reach his stateroom. The little gloomy cabin was going hither and thither in a style which reminded him of the tossings of Gulliver's cage after it had been dropped into the sea by the Brobdingnag eagle. The steward was seizing up mutinous trunks and chairs to the table legs with rope-yarns. The lamp was swinging and the captain's compass see-sawing like monkeys who had gone crazy in bedlams of tree-tops. From two of the staterooms came sounds which plainly confessed that the occupants were having a bad night of it. "How is the lady passenger?" Thurstane could not help whispering. "Guess she's asleep, sah," returned the negro. "Fus-rate sailor, sah. But them greasers is having tough times," he grinned. "Can't abide the sea, greasers can't, sah." Smiling with a grim satisfaction at this last statement, Thurstane gave the man a five-dollar piece, muttered, "Call me if anything goes wrong," and slipped into his narrow dormitory. Without undressing, he lay down and tried to sleep; but, although it was past midnight, he stayed broad awake for an hour or more; he was too full of thoughts and emotions to find easy quiet in a pillow. Near him--yes, in the very next stateroom--lay the being who had made his life first a heaven and then a hell. The present and the past struggled in him, and tossed him with their tormenting contest. After a while, too, as the plunging of the brig increased, and he heard renewed sounds of disaster on deck, he began to fear for Clara's safety. It was a strange feeling, and yet a most natural one. He had not ceased to love; he seemed indeed to love her more than ever; to think of her struggling in the billows was horrible; he knew even then that he would willingly die to save her. But after a time the incessant motion affected him, and he dozed gradually into a sound slumber. Hours later the jerking and pitching became so furious that it awakened him, and when he rose on his elbow he was thrown out of his berth by a tremendous lurch. Sitting up with his feet braced, he listened for a little to the roar of the tempest, the trampling feet on deck, and the screaming orders. Evidently things were going hardly above; the storm was little less than a tornado. Seriously anxious at last for Clara--or, as he tried to call her to himself, Miss Van Diemen--he stole out of his room, clambered or fell up the companionway, opened the door after a struggle with a sea which had just come inboard, got on to the quarter-deck, and, holding by the shrouds, quailed before a spectacle as sublime and more terrible than the Great Cañon of the Colorado. It was daylight. The sun was just rising from behind a waste of waters; it revealed nothing but a waste of waters. All around the brig, as far as the eye could reach, the Pacific was one vast tumble of huge blue-gray, mottled masses, breaking incessantly in long, curling ridges, or lofty, tossing steeps of foam. Each wave was composed of scores of ordinary waves, just as the greater mountains are composed of ranges and peaks. They seemed moving volcanoes, changing form with every minute of their agony, and spouting lavas of froth. All over this immense riot of tormented deeps rolled beaten and terrified armies of clouds. The wind reigned supreme, driving with a relentless spite, a steady and obdurate pressure, as if it were a current of water. It pinned the sailors to the yards, and nearly blew Thurstane from the deck. The Lolotte was down to close-reefed topsails, close-reefed spencer and spanker, and storm-jib. Even upon this small and stout spread of canvas the wind was working destruction, for just as Thurstane reached the deck the jib parted and went to leeward in ribbons. Sailors were seen now on the bowsprit fighting at once with sea and air, now buried in water, and now holding on against the storm, and slowly gathering in the flapping, snapping fragments. Next a new jib (a third one) was bent on, hoisted half-way, and blown out like a piece of wet paper. Almost at the same moment the captain saw threatening mouths grimace in the mainsail, and screamed "Never mind there forrard. Lay up on the maintawps'l yard. Lay up and furl." After half an hour's fight, the sail bagging and slatting furiously, it was lashed anyway around the yard, and the men crawled slowly down again, jammed and bruised against the shrouds by the wind. Every jib and forestaysail on board having now been torn out, the brig remained under close-reefed foretopsail, spencer, and spanker, and did little but drift to leeward. The gale was at its height, blowing as if it were shot out of the mouths of cannon, and chasing the ocean before it in mountains of foam. One thing after another went; the topgallants shook loose and had to be sent down; the chain bobstays parted and the martingale slued out of place; one of the anchors broke its fastenings and hammered at the side; the galley gave way and went slopping into the lee scuppers. No food that morning except dry crackers and cold beef; all hands laboring exhaustingly to repair damages and make things taut. For more than half an hour three men were out on the guys and backropes endeavoring to reset the martingale, deluged over and over by seas, and at last driven in beaten. Others were relashing the galley, hauling the loose anchor and all the anchors up on the rail, and resetting the loose lee rigging, which threatened at every lurch to let the masts go by the board. Thurstane presently learned that the wind had changed during the night, at first dropping away for a couple of hours, then reopening with fresh rage from the west, and finally hauling around into the northwest, whence it now came in a steady tempest. The vessel too had altered her course; she was no longer beating in long tacks toward the southeast; she was heading westward and struggling to get away from the land. Thurstane asked few questions; he was a soldier and had learned to meet fate in silence; he knew too that men weighted with responsibilities do not like to be catechised. But he guessed from the frequent anxious looks of the captain eastward that the California coast was perilously near, and that the brig was more likely to be drifting toward it than making headway from it. Surveying through his closed hands the stormy windward horizon, he gave up all thoughts of getting away from Clara by reaching San Diego, and turned toward the idea of saving her from shipwreck. None of the other passengers came on deck this morning. Garcia, horribly seasick and frightened, held on desperately to his berth, and passed the time in screaming for the "stewrt," cursing his evil surroundings, calling everybody he could think of pigs, dogs, etc., and praying to saints and angels. Coronado, not less sick and blasphemous, had more command over his fears, and kept his prayers for the last pinch. Clara, a much better sailor, and indeed an uncommonly good one, was so far beaten by the motion that she did not get up, but lay as quiet as the brig would let her, patiently awaiting results, now and then smiling at Garcia's shouts, but more frequently thinking of Thurstane, and sometimes praying that she might find him alive at Fort Yuma. The steward carried cold beef, hard bread, brandy, coffee, and gruel (made in his pantry) from stateroom to stateroom. The girl ate heartily, inquired about the storm, and asked, "When shall we get there?" Garcia and Coronado tried a little of the gruel and a good deal of the brandy and water, and found, as people usually do under such circumstances, that nothing did them any good. The old man wanted to ask the steward a hundred questions, and yelled for his nephew to come and translate for him. Coronado, lying on his back, made no answer to these cries of despair, except in muttered curses and sniffs of angry laughter. So passed the morning in the cabin. Thurstane remained on deck, eating in soldierly fashion, his pockets full of cold beef and crackers, and his canteen (for every infantry officer learns to carry one) charged with hot coffee. He was pretty wet, inasmuch as the spray showered incessantly athwart ships, while every few minutes heavy seas came over the quarter bulwarks, slamming upon the deck like the tail of a shark in his agonies. During the morning several great combers had surmounted the port bow and rushed aft, carrying along everything loose or that could be loosened, and banging against the companion door with the force of a runaway horse. And these deluges grew more frequent, for the gale was steadily increasing in violence, howling and shrieking out of the gilded eastern horizon as if Lucifer and his angels had been hurled anew from heaven. About noon the close-reefed foretopsail burst open from earing to earing, and then ripped up to the yard, the corners stretching out before the wind and cracking like musket shots. To set it again was impossible; the orders came, "Down yard--haul out reef tackle;" then half a dozen men laid out on the spar and began furling. Scarcely was this terrible job well under way when a whack of the slatting sail struck a Kanaka boy from his hold, and he was carried to leeward by the gale as if he had been a bag of old clothes, dropping forty feet from the side into the face of a monstrous billow. He swam for a moment, but the next wave combed over him and he disappeared. Then he was seen further astern, still swimming and with his face toward the brig; then another vast breaker rushed upon him with a lion-like roar, and he was gone. Nothing could be done; no boat might live in such a sea; it would have been perilous to change course. The captain glanced at the unfortunate, clenched his fists desperately, and turned to his rigging. Another man took the vacant place on the yard, and the hard, dizzy, frightful labor there went on unflaggingly, with the usual cries of "Haul out, knot away," etc. It was one of the forms of a sailor's funeral. No time for comments or emotions; the gale filled every mind every minute. It was soon found that the spanker, a pretty large sail, well aft and not balanced by any canvas at the bow, drew too heavily on the stern and made steering almost impossible. A couple of Kanakas were ordered to reef it, but could do nothing with it; the skipper cursed them for "sojers" (our infantryman smiling at the epithet) and sent two first-class hands to replace them; but these also were completely beaten by the hurricane. It was not till a whole watch was put at the job that the big, bellying sheet could be hauled in and made fast in the reef knots. The brig now had not a rag out but her spencer and reduced spanker, both strong, small, and low sails, eased a good deal by their slant, shielded by the elevated port-rail, and thus likely to hold. But it was not sailing; it was simply lying to. The vessel rose and fell on the monstrous waves, but made scarcely more headway than would a tub, and drifted fast toward the still unseen California coast. All might still have gone well had the northwester continued as it was. But about noon this tempest, which already seemed as furious as it could possibly be, suddenly increased to an absolute hurricane, the wind fairly shoving the brig sidelong over the water. Bang went the spanker, and then bang the spencer, both sails at once flying out to leeward in streamers, and flapping to tatters before the men could spring on the booms to secure them. The destruction was almost as instant and complete as if it had been effected by the broadside of a seventy-four fired at short range. "Bend on the new spencer," shouted the captain. "Out with it and up with it before she rolls the sticks out of her." But the rolling commenced instantly, giving the sailors no time for their work. No longer steadied by the wind, the vessel was entirely at the mercy of the sea, and went twice on her beam ends for every billow, first to lee and then to windward. Presently a great, white, hissing comber rose above her larboard bulwark, hung there for a moment as if gloating on its prey, and fell with the force of an avalanche, shaking every spar and timber into an ague, deluging the main deck breast high, and swashing knee-deep over the quarter-deck. The galley, with the cook in it, was torn from its lashings and slung overboard as if it had been a hencoop. The companion doors were stove in as if by a battering ram, and the cabin was flooded in an instant with two feet of water, slopping and lapping among the baggage, and stealing under the doors of the staterooms. The sailors in the waist only saved themselves by rushing into the rigging during the moment in which the breaker hung suspended. Nothing could be done; the vessel must lift herself from this state of submergence; and so she did, slowly and tremulously, like a sick man rising from his bed. But while the ocean within was still running out of her scuppers, the ocean without assaulted her anew. Successive billows rolled under her, careening her dead weight this way and that, and keeping her constantly wallowing. No rigging could bear such jerking long, and presently the dreaded catastrophe came. The larboard stays of the foremast snapped first; then the shrouds on the same side doubled in a great bight and parted; next the mast, with a loud, shrieking crash, splintered and went by the board. It fell slowly and with an air of dignified, solemn resignation, like Caesar under the daggers of the conspirators. The cross stays flew apart like cobwebs, but the lee shrouds unfortunately held good; and scarcely was the stick overboard before there was an ominous thumping at the sides, the drum-beat of death. It was like guns turned on their own columns; like Pyrrhus's elephants breaking the phalanx of Pyrrhus. "Axes!" roared the captain at the first crack. "Axes!" yelled the mate as the spar reeled into the water. "Lay forward and clear the wreck," were the next orders; "cut away with your knives." Two axes were got up from below; the sailors worked like beavers, waist-deep in water; one, who had lost his knife, tore at the ropes with his teeth. After some minutes of reeling, splashing, chopping, and cutting, the fallen mast, the friend who had become an enemy, the angel who had become a demon, was sent drifting through the creamy foam to leeward. Meantime the mate had sounded the pumps, and brought out of them a clear stream of water, the fresh invasion of ocean. Directly on this cruel discovery, and as if to heighten its horror to the utmost, the captain, clinging high up the mainmast shrouds, shouted, "Landa-lee! Get ready the boats." Without a word Thurstane hurried down into the cabin to save Clara from this twofold threatening of death. CHAPTER XL. When Thurstane got into the cabin, he found it pretty nearly clear of water, the steward having opened doors and trap-doors and drawn off the deluge into the hold. The first object that he saw, or could see, was Clara, curled up in a chair which was lashed to the mast, and secured in it by a lanyard. As he paused at the foot of the stairway to steady himself against a sickening lurch, she uttered a cry of joy and astonishment, and held out her hand. The cry was not speech; her gladness was far beyond words; it was simply the first utterance of nature; it was the primal inarticulate language. He had expected to stand at a distance and ask her leave to save her life. Instead of that, he hurried toward her, caught her in his arms, kissed her hand over and over, called her pet names, uttered a pathetic moan of grief and affection, and shook with inward sobbing. He did not understand her; he still believed that she had rejected him--believed that she only reached out to him for help. But he never thought of charging her with being false or hard-hearted or selfish. At the mere sight of her asking rescue of him he devoted himself to her. He dared to kiss her and call her dearest, because it seemed to him that in this awful moment of perhaps mortal separation he might show his love. If they were to be torn apart by death, and sepulchred possibly in different caves of the ocean, surely his last farewell might be a kiss. If she talked to him, he scarcely heard her words, and did not realize their meaning. If it was indeed true that she kissed his cheek, he thought it was because she wanted rescue and would thank any one for it. She was, as he understood her, like a pet animal, who licks the face of any friend in need, though a stranger. Never mind; he loved her just the same as if she were not selfish; he would serve her just the same as if she were still his. He unloosed her arms from his shoulders, wondering that they should be there, and crawling with difficulty to the cabin locker, groped in it for life-preservers. There was only one in the vessel; that one he buckled around Clara. "Oh, my darling!" she exclaimed; "what do you mean?" "My darling!" he echoed, "bear it bravely. There is great danger; but don't be afraid--I will save you." He had no doubts in making this promise; it seemed to him that he could overcome the billows for her sake--that he could make himself stronger than the powers of nature. "Where did you come from? from another vessel?" she asked, stretching out her arms to him again. "I was here," he said, taking and kissing her hands; "I was here, watching over you. But there is no time to lose. Let me carry you." "They must be saved," returned Clara, pointing to the staterooms. "Garcia and Coronado are there." Should he try to deliver those enemies from death? He did not hesitate a moment about it, but bursting open the doors of the two rooms he shouted, "On deck with you! Into the boats! We are sinking!" Next he set Clara down, passed his left arm around her waist, clung to things with his right hand, dragged her up the companionway to the quarter-deck, and lashed her to the weather shrouds, with her feet on the wooden leader. Not a word was spoken during the five minutes occupied by this short journey. Even while Clara was crossing the deck a frothing comber deluged her to her waist, and Thurstane had all he could do to keep her from being flung into the lee scuppers. But once he had her fast and temporarily safe, he made a great effort to smile cheerfully, and said, "Never fear; I won't leave you." "Oh! to meet to die!" she sobbed, for the strength of the water and the rage of the surrounding sea had frightened her. "Oh, it is cruel!" Presently she smothered her crying, and implored, "Come up here and tie yourself by my side; I want to hold your hand." He wondered whether she loved him again, now that she saw him; and in spite of the chilling seas and the death at hand, he thrilled warm at the thought. He was about to obey her when Coronado and Garcia appeared, pale as two ghosts, clinging to each other, tottering and helpless. Thurstane went to them, got the old man lashed to one of the backstays, and helped Coronado to secure himself to another. Garcia was jabbering prayers and crying aloud like a scared child, his jaws shaking as if in a palsy. Coronado, although seeming resolved to bear himself like an hidalgo and maintain a grim silence, his face was wilted and seamed with anxiety, as if he had become an old man in the night. It was rather a fine sight to see him looking into the face of the storm with an air of defying death and all that it might bring; and perhaps he would have been helpful, and would have shown himself one of the bravest of the brave, had he not been prostrated by sickness. As it was, he took little interest in the fate of others, hardly noticing Thurstane as he resumed his post beside Clara, and only addressing the girl with one word: "Patience!" Clara and Thurstane, side by side and hand in hand, were also for the most part silent, now looking around them upon their fate, and then at each other for strength to bear it. Meantime part of the crew had tried the pumps, and been washed away from them twice by seas, floating helplessly about the main deck, and clutching at rigging to save themselves, but nevertheless discovering that the brig was filling but slowly, and would have full time to strike before she could founder. "'Vast there!" called the captain; "'vast the pumps! All hands stand by to launch the boats!" "Long boat's stove!" shouted the mate, putting his hands to his mouth so as to be heard through the gale. "All hands aft!" was the next order. "Stand by to launch the quarter-boats!" So the entire remaining crew--two mates and eight men, including the steward--splashed and clambered on to the quarter-deck and took station by the boat-falls, hanging on as they could. "Can I do anything?" asked Thurstane. "Not yet," answered the captain; "you are doing what's right; take care of the lady." "What are the chances?" the lieutenant ventured now to inquire. With fate upon him, and seemingly irresistible, the skipper had dropped his grim air of conflict and become gentle, almost resigned. His voice was friendly, sympathetic, and quite calm, as he stepped up by Thurstane's side and said, "We shall have a tough time of it. The land is only about ten miles away. At this rate we shall strike it inside of three hours. I don't see how it can be helped." "Where shall we strike?" "Smack into the Bay of Monterey, between the town and Point Pinos.' "Can I do anything?" "Do just what you've got in hand. Take care of the lady. See that she gets into the biggest boat--if we try the boats." Clara overheard, gave the skipper a kind look, and said, "Thank you, captain." "You're fit to be capm of a liner, miss," returned the sailor. "You're one of the best sort." For some time longer, while waiting for the final catastrophe, nothing was done but to hold fast and gaze. The voyagers were like condemned men who are preceded, followed, accompanied, jostled, and hurried to the place of death by a vindictive people. The giants of the sea were coming in multitudes to this execution which they had ordained; all the windward ocean was full of rising and falling billows, which seemed to trample one another down in their savage haste. There was no mercy in the formless faces which grimaced around the doomed ones, nor in the tempestuous voices which deafened them with threatenings and insult. The breakers seemed to signal to each other; they were cruelly eloquent with menacing gestures. There was but one sentence among them, and that sentence was a thousand times repeated, and it was always DEATH. To paint the shifting sublimity of the tempest is as difficult as it was to paint the steadfast sublimity of the Great Cañon. The waves were in furious movement, continual change, and almost incessant death. They destroyed themselves and each other by their violence. Scarcely did one become eminent before it was torn to pieces by its comrades, or perished of its own rage. They were like barbarous hordes, exterminating one another or falling into dissolution, while devastating everything in their course. There was a frantic revelry, an indescribable pandemonium of transformations. Lofty plumes of foam fell into hoary, flattened sheets; curling and howling cataracts became suddenly deep hollows. The indigo slopes were marbled with white, but not one of these mottlings retained the same shape for an instant; it was broad, deep, and creamy when the eye first beheld it; in the next breath it was waving, shallow, and narrow; in the next it was gone. A thousand eddies, whirls, and ebullitions of all magnitudes appeared only to disappear. Great and little jets of froth struggled from the agitated centres toward the surface, and never reached it. Every one of the hundred waves which made up each billow rapidly tossed and wallowed itself to death. Yet there was no diminution in the spectacle, no relaxation in the combat. In the place of what vanished there was immediately something else. Out of the quick grave of one surge rose the white plume of another. Marbling followed marbling, and cataract overstrode cataract. Even to their bases the oceanic ranges and peaks were full of power, activity, and, as it were, explosions. It seemed as if endless multitudes of transformations boiled up through them from their abodes in sea-deep caves. There was no exhausting this reproductiveness of form and power. At every glance a thousand worlds of waters had perished, and a thousand worlds of waters had been created. And all these worlds, the new even more than the old, were full of malignity toward the wreck, and bent on its destruction. The wind, though invisible, was not less wonderful. It surpassed the ocean in strength, for it chased, gashed, and deformed the ocean. It inflicted upon it countless wounds, slashing fresh ones as fast as others healed. It not only tore off the hoary scalps of the billows and flung them through the air, but it wrenched out and hurled large masses of water, scattering them in rain and mist, the blood of the sea. Now and then it made all the air dense with spray, causing the Pacific to resemble the Sahara in a simoom. At other times it levelled the tops of scores of waves at once, crushing and kneading them by the immense force that lay in its swiftness. It would not be looked in the face; it blinded the eyes that strove to search it; it seemed to flap and beat them with harsh, churlish wings; it was as full of insult as the billows. Its cry was not multitudinous like that of the sea, but one and incessant and invariable, a long scream that almost hissed. On reaching the wreck, however, this shriek became hoarse with rage, and howled as it shook the rigging. It used the shrouds and stays of the still upright mainmast as an aeolian harp from which to draw horrible music. It made the tense ropes tremble and thrill, and tortured the spars until they wailed a death-song. Its force as felt by the shipwrecked ones was astonishing; it beat them about as if it were a sea, and bruised them against the shrouds and bulwarks; it asserted its mastery over them with the long-drawn cruelty of a tiger. Just around the wreck the tumult of both wind and sea was of course more horrible than anywhere else. These enemies were infuriated by the sluggishness of the disabled hulk; they treated it as Indians treat a captive who cannot keep up with their march; they belabored it with blows and insulted it with howls. The brig, constantly tossed and dropped and shoved, was never still for an instant. It rolled heavily and somewhat slowly, but with perpetual jerks and jars, shuddering at every concussion. Its only regularity of movement lay in this, that the force of the wind and direction of the waves kept it larboard side on, drifting steadily toward the land. One moment it was on a lofty crest, seeming as if it would be hurled into air. The next it was rolling in the trough of the sea, between a wave which hoarsely threatened to engulf it, and another which rushed seething and hissing from beneath the keel. The deck stood mostly at a steep angle, the weather bulwarks being at a considerable elevation, and the lee ones dipping the surges. Against this helpless and partially water-logged mass the combers rushed incessantly, hiding it every few seconds with sheets of spray, and often sweeping it with deluges. Around the stern and bow the rush of bubbling, roaring whirls was uninterrupted. The motion was sickly and dismaying, like the throes of one who is dying. It could not be trusted; it dropped away under the feet traitorously; then, by an insolent surprise, it violently stopped or lifted. It was made the more uncertain and distressing by the swaying of the water which had entered the hull. Sometimes, too, the under boiling of a crushed billow caused a great lurch to windward; and after each of these struggles came a reel to leeward which threatened to turn the wreck bottom up; the breakers meantime leaping aboard with loud stampings as if resolved to beat through the deck. During hours of this tossing and plunging, this tearing of the wind and battering of the sea, no one was lost. The sailors were clustered around the boats, some clinging to the davits and others lashed to belaying pins, exhausted by long labor, want of sleep, and constant soakings, but ready to fight for life to the last. Coronado and Garcia were still fast to the backstays, the former a good deal wilted by his hardships, and the latter whimpering. Thurstane had literally seized up Clara to the outside of the weather shrouds, so that, although she was terribly jammed by the wind, she could not be carried away by it, while she was above the heaviest pounding of the seas. His own position was alongside of her, secured in like manner by ends of cordage. Sometimes he held her hand, and sometimes her waist. She could lean her shoulder against his, and she did so nearly all the while. Her eyes were fixed as often on his face as on the breakers which threatened her life. The few words that she spoke were more likely to be confessions of love than of terror. Now and then, when a billow of unusual size had slipped harmlessly by, he gratefully and almost joyously drew her close to him, uttering a few syllables of cheer. She thanked him by sending all her affectionate heart through her eyes into his. Although there had been no explanations as to the past, they understood each other's present feelings. It could not be, he was sure, that she clung to him thus and looked at him thus merely because she wanted him to save her life. She had been detached from him by others, he said; she had been drawn away from thinking of him during his absence; she had been brought to judge, perhaps wisely, that she ought not to marry a poor man; but now that she saw him again she loved him as of old, and, standing at death's door, she felt at liberty to confess it. Thus did he translate to himself a past that had no existence. He still believed that she had dismissed him, and that she had done it with cruel harshness. But he could not resent her conduct; he believed what he did and forgave her; he believed it, and loved her. There were moments when it was delightful for them to be as they were. As they held fast to each other, though drenched and exhausted and in mortal peril, they had a sensation as if they were warm. The hearts were beating hotly clean through the wet frames and the dripping clothing. "Oh, my love!" was a phrase which Clara repeated many times with an air of deep content. Once she said, "My love, I never thought to die so easily. How horrible it would have been without you!" Again she murmured, "I have prayed many, many times to have you. I did not know how the answer would come. But this is it." "My darling, I have had visions about you," was another of these confessions. "When I had been praying for you nearly all one night, there was a great light came into the room. It was some promise for you. I knew it was then; something told me so. Oh, how happy I was!" Presently she added, "My dear love, we shall be just as happy as that. We shall live in great light together. God will be pleased to see plainly how we love each other." Her only complaints were a patient "Isn't it hard?" when a new billow had covered her from head to foot, crushed her pitilessly against the shrouds, and nearly smothered her. The next words would perhaps be, "I am so sorry for you, my darling. I wish for your sake that you had not come. But oh, how you help me!" "I am glad to be here," firmly and honestly and passionately responded the young man, raising her wet hand and covering it with kisses. "But you shall not die." He was bearing like a man and she like a woman. He was resolved to fight his battle to the last; she was weak, resigned, gentle, and ready for heaven. The land, even to its minor features, was now distinctly visible, not more than a mile to leeward. As they rose on the billows they could distinguish the long beach, the grassy slopes, and wooded knolls beyond it, the green lawn on which stood the village of Monterey, the whitewashed walls and red-tiled roofs of the houses, and the groups of people who were watching the oncoming tragedy. "Are you not going to launch the boats?" shouted Thurstane after a glance at the awful line of frothing breakers which careered back and forth athwart the beach. "They are both stove," returned the captain calmly. "We must go ashore as we are." CHAPTER XLI. When Thurstane heard, or rather guessed from the captain's gestures, that the boats were stove, he called, "Are we to do nothing?" The captain shouted something in reply, but although he put his hands to his mouth for a speaking trumpet, his words were inaudible, and he would not have been understood had he not pointed aloft. Thurstane looked upward, and saw for the first time that the main topmast had broken off and been cut clear, probably hours ago when he was in the cabin searching for Clara. The top still remained, however, and twisted through its openings was one end of a hawser, the other end floating off to leeward two hundred yards in advance of the wreck. Fastened to the hawser by a large loop was a sling of cordage, from which a long halyard trailed shoreward, while another connected it with the top. All this had been done behind his back and without his knowledge, so deafening and absorbing was the tempest. He saw at once what was meant and what he would have to do. When the brig struck he must carry Clara into the top, secure her in the sling, and send her ashore. Doubtless the crowd on the beach would know enough to make the hawser fast and pull on the halyard. The captain shouted again, and this time he could be understood: "When she strikes hold hard." "Did you hear him?" Thurstane asked, turning to Clara. "Yes," she nodded, and smiled in his face, though faintly like one dying. He passed one arm around the middle stay of the shrouds and around her waist, passed the other in front of her, covering her chest; and so, with every muscle set, he waited. Surrounded, pursued, pushed, and hammered by the billows, the wreck drifted, rising and falling, starting and wallowing toward the awful line where the breakers plunged over the undertow and dashed themselves to death on the resounding shore. There was a wide debatable ground between land and water. One moment it belonged to earth, the next lofty curling surges foamed howling over it; then the undertow was flying back in savage torrents. Would the hawser reach across this flux and reflux of death? Would the mast hold against the grounding shock? Would the sling work? They lurched nearer; the shock was close at hand; every one set teeth and tightened grip. Lifted on a monstrous billow, which was itself lifted by the undertow and the shelving of the beach, the hulk seemed as if it were held aloft by some demon in order that it might be dashed to pieces. But the wave lost its hold, swept under the keel, staggered wildly up the slope, broke in a huge white deafening roll, and rushed backward in torrents. The brig was between two forces; it struck once, but not heavily; then, raised by the incoming surge, it struck again; there was an awful consciousness and uproar of beating and grinding; the next instant it was on its beam ends and covered with cataracts. Every one aboard was submerged. Thurstane and Clara were overwhelmed by such a mass of water that they thought themselves at the bottom of the sea. Two men who had not mounted the rigging, but tried to cling to the boat davits, were hurled adrift and sent to agonize in the undertow. The brig trembled as if it were on the point of breaking up and dissolving in the horrible, furious yeast of breakers. Even to the people on shore the moment and the spectacle were sublime and tremendous beyond description. The vessel and the people on board disappeared for a time from their sight under jets and cascades of surf. The spray rose in a dense sheet as high as the maintopmast would have been had it stood upright. When Thurstane came out of his state of temporary drowning, he was conscious of two sailors clambering by him toward the top, and heard a shout in his ears of "Cast loose." It was the captain. He had sprung alongside of Clara, and was already unwinding her lashings. Thrice before the job was done they were buried in surf, and during the third trial they had to hold on with their hands, the two men clasping the girl desperately and pressing her against the rigging. It was a wonder that she and all of them were not disabled, for the jamming of the water was enough to break bones. They got her up a few ratlines; then came another surge, during which they gripped hard; then there was a second ascent, and so on. The climbing was the easier and the holding on the more difficult, because the mast was depressed to a low angle, its summit being hardly ten feet higher than its base. Even in the top there was a desperate struggle with the sea, and even after Clara was in the sling she was half drowned by the surf. Meantime the people on shore had made fast the hawser to a tree and manned the halyard. Not a word was uttered by Clara or Thurstane when they parted, for she was speechless with exhaustion and he with anxiety and terror. The moment he let go of her he had to grip a loop of top-hamper and hold on with all his might to save himself from being pitched into the water by a fresh jerk of the mast and a fresh inundation of flying surge. When he could look at her again she was far out on the hawser, rising and falling in quick, violent, perilous swings, caught at by the toppling breakers and howled at by the undertow. Another deluge blinded him; as soon as he could he gazed shoreward again, and shrieked with joy; she was being carefully lifted from the sling; she was saved--if she was not dead. When the apparatus was hauled back to the top the captain said to Thurstane, "Your turn now." The young man hesitated, glanced around for Coronado and Garcia, and replied, "Those first." It was not merely humanity, and not at all good-will toward these two men, which held him back from saving his life first; it was mainly that motto of nobility, that phrase which has such a mighty influence in the army, "_An officer and a gentleman_." He believed that he would disgrace his profession and himself if he should quit the wreck while any civilian remained upon it. Coronado, leaving his uncle to the care of a sailor, had already climbed the shrouds, and was now crawling through the lubber hole into the top. For once his hardihood was beaten; he was pale, tremulous and obviously in extreme terror; he clutched at the sling the moment he was pointed to it. With the utmost care, and without even a look of reproach, Thurstane helped secure him in the loops and launched him on his journey. Next came the turn of Garcia. The old man seemed already dead. He was livid, his lips blue, his hands helpless, his voice gone, his eyes glazed and set. It was necessary to knot him into the sling as tightly as if he were a corpse; and when he reached shore it could be seen that he was borne off like a dead weight. "Now then," said the captain to Thurstane. "We can't go till you do. Passengers first." Exhausted by his drenchings, and by a kind of labor to which he was not accustomed, the lieutenant obeyed this order, took his place in the sling, nodded good-by to the brave sailors, and was hurled out of the top by a plunge of surf, as a criminal is pushed from the cart by the hangman. No idea has been given, and no complete idea can be given, of the difficulties, sufferings, and perils of this transit shoreward. Owing to the rising and falling of the mast, the hawser now tautened with a jerk which flung the voyager up against it or even over it, and now drooped in a large bight which let him down into the seethe of water and foam that had just rushed over the vessel, forcing it down on its beam ends. Thurstane was four or five times tossed and as often submerged. The waves, the wind, and the wreck played with him successively or all together. It was an outrage and a torment which surpassed some of the tortures of the Inquisition. First came a quick and breathless plunge; then he was imbedded in the rushing, swirling waters, drumming in his ears and stifling his breath; then he was dragged swiftly upward, the sling turning him out of it. It seemed to him that the breath would depart from his body before the transit was over. When at last he landed and was detached from the cordage, he was so bruised, so nearly drowned, so every way exhausted, that he could not stand. He lay for quite a while motionless, his head swimming, his legs and arms twitching convulsively, every joint and muscle sore, catching his breath with painful gasps, almost fainting, and feeling much as if he were dying. He had meant to help save the captain and sailors. But there was no more work in him, and he just had strength to walk up to the village, a citizen holding him by either arm. As soon as he could speak so as to be understood, he asked, first in English and then in Spanish, "How is the lady?" "She is insensible," was the reply--a reply of unmeant cruelty. Remembering how he had suffered, Thurstane feared lest Clara had received her death-stroke in the slings, and he tottered forward eagerly, saying, "Take me to her." Arrived at the house where she lay, he insisted upon seeing her, and had his way. He was led into a room; he did not see and could never remember what sort of a room it was; but there she was in bed, her face pale and her eyes closed; he thought she was dead, and he nearly fell. But a pitying womanly voice murmured to him, "She lives," with other words that he did not understand, or could not afterward recall. Trusting that this unconsciousness was a sleep, he suffered himself to be drawn away by helping hands, and presently was himself in a bed, not knowing how he got there. Meantime the tragedy of the wreck was being acted out. The sling broke once, the sailor who was in it falling into the undertow, and perishing there in spite of a rush of the townspeople. One of the two men who were washed overboard at the first shock was also drowned. The rest escaped, including the heroic captain, who was the last to come ashore. When Thurstane was again permitted to see Clara, it was, to his great astonishment, the morning of the following day. He had slept like the dead; if any one had sought to awaken him, it would have been almost impossible; there was no strength left in body or spirt but for sleep. Clara's story had been much the same: insensibility, then swoons, then slumber; twelve hours of utter unconsciousness. On waking the first words of each were to ask for the other. Thurstane put on his scarcely dried uniform and hurried to the girl's room. She received him at the door, for she had heard his step although it was on tiptoe, and she knew his knock although as light as the beating of a bird's wing. It was another of those interviews which cannot be described, and perhaps should not be. They were uninterrupted, for the ladies of the house had learned from Clara that this was her betrothed, and they had woman's sense of the sacredness of such meetings. Presents came, and were not sent in: Coronado called and was not admitted. The two were alone for two hours, and the two hours passed like two minutes. Of course all the ugly past was explained. "A letter dismissing you!" exclaimed Clara with tears. "Oh! how could you think that I would write such a letter? Never--never! Oh, I never could. My hand should drop off first. I should die in trying to write such wickedness. What! don't you know me better? Don't you know that I am true to you? Oh, how could you believe it of me? My darling, how could you?" "Forgive me," begged the humbled young fellow, trembling with joy in his humility. "It was weak and wicked in me. I deserved to be punished as I have been. And, oh, I did not deserve this happiness. But, my little girl, how could I help being deceived? There was your handwriting and your signature." "Ah! I know who it was," broke out Clara. "It has been he all through. He shall pay for this, and for all," she added, her Spanish blood rising in her cheeks, and her soft eyes sparkling angrily for a minute. "I have saved his life for the last time," returned Thurstane. "I have spared it for the last time. Hereafter--" "My darling, my darling!" begged Clara, alarmed by his blackening brow. "Oh, my darling, I don't love to see you angry. Just now, when we have just been spared to each other, don't let us be angry. I spoke angrily first. Forgive me." "Let him keep out of my way," muttered Thurstane, only in part pacified. "Yes," answered Clara, thinking that she would herself send Coronado off, so that there might be no duel between him and this dear one. Presently the lover added one thing which he had felt all the time ought to have been said at first. "The letter--it was right. Although _he_ wrote it, it was right. I have no claim to marry a rich woman, and you have no right to marry a poor man." He uttered this in profound misery, and yet with a firm resolution. Clara turned pale and stared at him with anxious eyes, her lips parted as though to speak, but saying nothing. Knowing his fastidious sense of honor, she guessed the full force with which this scruple weighed upon him, and she did not know how to drag it off his soul. "You are worth a million," he went on, in a broken-hearted sort of voice which to us may seem laughable, but which brought the tears into Clara's eyes. The next instant she brightened; she knew, or thought she knew, that she was not worth a million; so she smiled like a sunburst and caught him gayly by the wrists. "A million!" she scoffed, laughingly. "Do you believe all Coronado tells you?" "What! isn't it true?" exclaimed Thurstane, reddening with joy. "Then you are not heir to your grandfather's fortune? It was one of _his_ lies? Oh, my little girl, I am forever happy." She had not meant all this; but how could she undeceive him? The tempting thought came into her mind that she would marry him while he was in this ignorance, and so relieve him of his noble scruples about taking an heiress. It was one of those white lies which, it seems to us, must fade out of themselves from the record book, without even needing to be blotted by the tear of an angel. "Are you glad?" she smiled, though anxious at heart, for deception alarmed her. "Really glad to find me poor?" His only response was to cover her hands, and hair, and forehead with kisses. At last came the question, When? Clara hesitated; her face and neck bloomed with blushes as dewy as flowers; she looked at him once piteously, and then her gaze fell in beautiful shame. "When would you like?" she at last found breath to whisper. "Now--here," was the answer, holding both her hands and begging with his blue-black eyes, as soft then as a woman's. "Yes, at once," he continued to implore. "It is best everyway. It will save you from persecutions. My love, is it not best?" Under the circumstances we cannot wonder that this should be just as she desired. "Yes--it is--best," she murmured, hiding her face against his shoulder. "What you say is true. It will save me trouble." After a short heaven of silence he added, "I will go and see what is needed. I must find a priest." As he was departing she caught him; it seemed to her just then that she could not be a wife so soon; but the result was that after another silence and a faint sobbing, she let him go. Meantime Coronado, that persevering and audacious but unlucky conspirator, was in treble trouble. He was afraid that he would lose Clara; afraid that his plottings had been brought to light, and that he would be punished; afraid that his uncle would die and thus deprive him of all chance of succeeding to any part of the estate of Muñoz. Garcia had been brought ashore apparently at his last gasp, and he had not yet come out of his insensibility. For a time Coronado hoped that he was in one of his fits; but after eighteen hours he gave up that feeble consolation; he became terribly anxious about the old man; he felt as though he loved him. The people of Monterey universally admitted that they had never before known such an affectionate nephew and tender-hearted Christian as Coronado. He tried to see Clara, meaning to make the most with her of Garcia's condition, and hoping that thus he could divert her a little from Thurstane. But somehow all his messages failed; the little house which held her repelled him as if it had been a nunnery; nor could he get a word or even a note from her. The truth is that Clara, fearing lest Coronado should tell more stories about her million to Thurstane, had taken the women of the family into her confidence and easily got them to lay a sly embargo on callers and correspondents. On the second day Garcia came to himself for a few minutes, and struggled hard to say something to his nephew, but could give forth only a feeble jabber, after which he turned blank again. Coronado, in the extreme of anxiety, now made another effort to get at Clara. Reaching her house, he learned from a bystander that she had gone out to walk with the Americano, and then he thought he discovered them entering the distant church. He set off at once in pursuit, asking himself with an anxiety which almost made him faint, "Are they to be married?" CHAPTER XLII. In those days the hymeneal laws of California were as easy as old shoes, and people could espouse each other about as rapidly as they might want to. The consequence was that, although Ralph Thurstane and Clara Van Diemen had only been two days in Monterey and had gone through no forms of publication, they were actually being married when Coronado reached the village church. Leaning against the wall, with eyes as fixed and face as livid as if he were a corpse from the neighboring cemetery, he silently witnessed a ceremony which it would have been useless for him to interrupt, and then, stepping softly out of a side door, lurked away. He walked a quarter of a mile very fast, ran nearly another quarter of a mile, turned into a by-road, sought its thickest underbrush, threw himself on the ground, and growled. For once he had a heavier burden upon him than he could bear in human presence, or bear quietly anywhere. He must be alone; also he must weep and curse. He was in a state to tear his hair and to beat his head against the earth. Refined as Coronado usually was, admirably as he could imitate the tranquil gentleman of modern civilization, he still had in him enough of the natural man to rave. For a while he was as simple and as violent in his grief as ever was any Celtiberian cave-dweller of the stone age. Jealousy, disappointed love, disappointed greed, plans balked, labor lost, perils incurred in vain! All the calamities that he could most dread seemed to have fallen upon him together; he was like a man sucked by the arms of a polypus, dying in one moment many deaths. We must, however, do him the justice to believe that the wound which tore the sharpest was that which lacerated his heart. At this time, when he realized that he had altogether and forever lost Clara, he found that he loved her as he had never yet believed himself capable of loving. Considering the nobility of this passion, we must grant some sympathy to Coronado. Unfortunate as he was, another misfortune awaited him. When he returned to the house where Garcia lay, he found that the old man, his sole relative and sole friend, had expired. To Coronado this dead body was the carcass of all remaining hope. The exciting drama of struggle and expectation which had so violently occupied him for the last six months, and which had seemed to promise such great success, was over. Even if he could have resolved to kill Clara, there was no longer anything to be gained by it, for her money would not descend to Coronado. Even if he should kill Thurstane, that would be a harm rather than a benefit, for his widow would hate Coronado. If he did any evil deed now, it must be from jealousy or from vindictiveness. Was murder of any kind worth while? For the time, whether it were worth while or not, he was furious enough to do it. If he did not act, he must go; for as everything had miscarried, so much had doubtless been discovered, and he might fairly expect chastisement. While he hesitated a glance into the street showed him something which decided him, and sent him far from Monterey before sundown. Half a dozen armed horsemen, three of them obviously Americans, rode by with a pinioned prisoner, in whom Coronado recognized Texas Smith. He did not stop to learn that his old bravo had committed a murder in the village, and that a vigilance committee had sent a deputation after him to wait upon him into the other world. The sight of that haggard, scarred, wicked face, and the thought of what confessions the brute might be led to if he should recognize his former employer, were enough to make Coronado buy a horse and ride to unknown regions. Under the circumstances it would perhaps be unreasonable to blame him for leaving his uncle to be buried by Clara and Thurstane. These two, we easily understand, were not much astonished and not at all grieved by his departure. "He is gone," said Thurstane, when he learned the fact. "No wonder." "I am so glad!" replied Clara. "I suspect him now of being at the bottom of all our troubles." "Don't let us talk of it, my love. It is too ugly. The present is so beautiful!" "I must hurry back to San Francisco and try to get a leave of absence," said the husband, turning to pleasanter subjects. "I want full leisure to be happy." "And you won't let them send you to San Diego?" begged the wife. "No more voyages now. If you do go, I shall go with you." "Oh no, my child. I can't trust the sea with you again. Not after this," and he waved his hand toward the wreck of the brig. "Then I will beg myself for your leave of absence." Thurstane laughed; that would never do; no such condescension in _his_ wife! They went by land to San Francisco, and Clara kept the secret of her million during the whole journey, letting her husband pay for everything out of his shallow pocket, precisely as if she had no money. Arrived in the city, he left her in a hotel and hurried to headquarters. Two hours later he returned smiling, with the news that a brother officer had volunteered to take his detail, and that he had obtained a honeymoon leave of absence for thirty days. "Barclay is a trump," he said. "It is all the prettier in him to go that he has a wife of his own. The commandant made no objection to the exchange. In fact the old fellow behaved like a father to me, shook hands, patted me on the shoulder, congratulated me, and all that sort of thing. Old boy, married himself, and very fond of his family. Upon my word, it seems to better a man's heart to marry him." "Of course it does," chimed in Clara. "He is so much happier that of course he is better." "Well, my little princess, where shall we go?" "Go first to see Aunt Maria. There! don't make a face. She is very good in the long run. She will be sweet enough to you in three days." "Of course I will go. Where is she?" "Boarding at a hacienda a few miles from town. We can take horses, canter out there, and pass the night." She was full of spirits; laughed and chattered all the way; laughed at everything that was said; chattered like a pleased child. Of course she was thinking of the surprise that she would give him, and how she had circumvented his sense of honor about marrying a rich girl, and how hard and fast she had him. Moreover the contrast between her joyous present and her anxious past was alone enough to make her run over with gayety. All her troubles had vanished in a pack; she had gone at one bound from purgatory to paradise. At the hacienda Thurstane was a little struck by the respect with which the servants received Clara; but as she signed to them to be silent, not a word was uttered which could give him a suspicion of the situation. Mrs. Stanley, moreover, was taking a siesta, and so there was another tell-tale mouth shut. "Nobody seems to be at home," said Clara, bursting into a merry laugh over her trick as they entered the house. "Where can the master and mistress be?" They were now in a large and handsomely furnished room, which was the parlor of the hacienda. "Don't sit down," cried Clara, her eyes sparkling with joy. "Stand just there as you are. Let me look at you a moment. Wait till I tell you something." She fronted him for a few seconds, watching his wondering face, hesitating, blushing, and laughing. Suddenly she bounded forward, threw her arms around his shoulders and cried excitedly, hysterically, "My love! my husband! all this is yours. Oh, how happy I am!" The next moment she burst into tears on the shoulder to which she was clinging. "What is the matter?" demanded Thurstane in some alarm; for he did not know that women can tremble and weep with gladness, and he thought that surely his wife was sick if not deranged. "What! don't you guess it?" she asked, drawing back with a little more calmness, and looking tenderly into his puzzled eyes. "You don't mean--?" "Yes, darling." "It can't be that--?" "Yes, darling." He began to comprehend the trick that had been played upon him, although as yet he could not fully credit it. What mainly bewildered him was that Clara, whom he had always supposed to be as artless as a child--Clara, whom he had cared for as an elder and a father--should have been able to keep a secret and devise a plot and carry out a mystification. "Great ---- Scott!" he gasped in his stupefaction, using the name of the then commander-in-chief for an oath, as officers sometimes did in those days. "Yes, yes, yes," laughed and chattered Clara. "Great Scott and great Thurstane! All yours. Three hundred thousand. Half a million. A million. I don't know how much. All I know is that it is all yours. Oh, my darling! oh, my darling! How I have fooled you! Are you angry with me? Say, are you angry? What will you do to me?" We must excuse Thurstane for finding no other chastisement than to squeeze her in his arms and choke her with kisses. Next he held her from him, set her down upon a sofa, fell back a pace and stared at her much as if she were a totally new discovery, something in the way of an arrival from the moon. He was in a state of profound amazement at the dexterity with which she had taken his destiny out of his own hands into hers, without his knowledge. He had not supposed that she was a tenth part so clever. For the first time he perceived that she was his match, if indeed she were not the superior nature; and it is a remarkable fact, though not a dark one if one looks well into it, that he respected her the more for being too much for him. "It beats Hannibal," he said at last. "Who would have expected such generalship in you? I am as much astonished as if you had turned into a knight in armor. Well, how much it has saved me! I should have hesitated and been miserable; and I should have married you all the same; and then been ashamed of marrying money, and had it rankle in me for years. And now--oh, you wise little thing!--all I can say is, I worship you." "Yes, darling," replied Clara, walking gravely up to him, putting her hands on his shoulders, and looking him thoughtfully in the eyes. "It was the wisest thing I ever did. Don't be afraid of me. I never shall be so clever again. I never shall be so tempted to be clever." We must pass over a few months. Thurstane soon found that he had the Muñoz estate in his hands, and that, for the while at least, it demanded all his time and industry. Moreover, there being no war and no chance of martial distinction, it seemed absurd to let himself be ordered about from one hot and cramped station to another, when he had money enough to build a palace, and a wife who could make it a paradise. Finally, he had a taste for the natural sciences, and his observations in the Great Cañon and among the other marvels of the desert had quickened this inclination to a passion, so that he craved leisure for the study of geology, mineralogy, and chemistry. He resigned his commission, established himself in San Francisco, bought all the scientific books he could hear of, made expeditions to the California mountains, collected garrets full of specimens, and was as happy as a physicist always is. Perhaps his happiness was just a little increased when Mrs. Stanley announced her intention of returning to New York. The lady had been amiable on the whole, as she meant always to be; but she could not help daily taking up her parable concerning the tyranny and stupidity of man and the superior virtue of woman; and sometimes she felt it her duty to put it to Thurstane that he owed everything to his wife; all of which was more or less wearing, even to her niece. At the same time she was such a disinterested, well-intentioned creature that it was impossible not to grant her a certain amount of admiration. For instance, when Clara proposed to make her comfortable for life by settling upon her fifty thousand dollars, she replied peremptorily that it was far too much for an old woman who had decided to turn her back on the frivolities of society, and she could with difficulty be brought to accept twenty thousand. Furthermore, she was capable, that is, in certain favored moments, of confessing error. "My dear," she said to Clara, some weeks after the marriage, "I have made one great mistake since I came to these countries. I believed that Mr. Coronado was the right man and Mr. Thurstane the wrong one. Oh, that smooth-tongued, shiny-eyed, meeching, bowing, complimenting hypocrite! I see at last what a villain he was. _I_ see it," she emphasized, as if nobody else had discovered it. "To think that a person who was so right on the main question [female suffrage] could be so wrong on everything else! The contradiction adds to his guilt. Well, I have had my lesson. Every one must make her mistake. I shall never be so humbugged again." Some little time after Thurstane had received the acceptance of his resignation and established himself in his handsome city house, Aunt Maria observed abruptly, "My dears, I must go back." "Go back where? To the desert and turn hermit?" asked Clara, who was accustomed to joke her relative about "spheres and missions." "To New York," replied Mrs. Stanley. "I can accomplish nothing here. This miserable Legislature will take no notice of my petitions for female suffrage." "Oh, that is because you sign them alone," laughed the younger lady. "I can't get anybody else to sign them," said Aunt Maria with some asperity. "And what if I do sign them alone? A house full of men ought to have gallantry enough to grant one lady's request. California is not ripe for any great and noble measure. I can't remain where I find so little sympathy and collaboration. I must go where I can be of use. It is my duty." And go she did. But before she shook off her dust against the Pacific coast there was an interview with an old acquaintance. It must be understood that the fatigues and sufferings of that terrible pilgrimage through the desert had bothered the constitution of little Sweeny, and that, after lying in garrison hospital at San Francisco for several months, he had been discharged from the service on "certificate of physical disability." Thurstane, who had kept track of him, immediately took him to his house, first as an invalid hanger-on, and then as a jack of all work. As the family were sitting at breakfast Sweeny's voice was heard in the veranda outside, "colloguing" with another voice which seemed familiar. "Listen," whispered Clara. "That is Captain Glover. Let us hear what they say. They are both so queer!" "An' what" ("fwat" he pronounced it) "the divil have ye been up to?" demanded Sweeny. "Ye're a purty sailor, buttoned up in a long-tail coat, wid a white hankerchy round yer neck. Have ye been foolin' paple wid makin' 'em think ye're a Protestant praste?" "I've been blowin' glass, Sweeny," replied the sniffling voice of Phineas Glover. "Blowin' glass! Och, yees was always powerful at blowin'. But I niver heerd ye blow glass. It was big lies mostly whin I was a listing." "Yes, blowin' glass," returned the Fair Havener in a tone of agreeable reminiscence, as if it had been a not unprofitable occupation. "Found there wasn't a glass-blower in all Californy. Bought 'n old machine, put up to the mines with it, blew all sorts 'f jigmarigs 'n' thingumbobs, 'n' sold 'em to the miners 'n' Injuns. Them critters is jest like sailors ashore; they'll buy anything they set eyes on. Besides, I sounded my horn; advertised big, so to speak; got up a sensation. Used to mount a stump 'n' make a speech; told 'em I'd blow Yankee Doodle in glass, any color they wanted; give 'em that sort 'f gospel, ye know." "An' could ye do it?" inquired the Paddy, confounded by the idea of blowing a glass tune. "Lord, Sweeny! you're greener 'n the miners. When ye swaller things that way, don't laugh 'r ye'll choke yerself to death, like the elephant did when he read the comic almanac at breakfast." "I don't belave that nuther," asseverated Sweeny, anxious to clear himself from the charge of credulity. "Don't believe that!" exclaimed Glover. "He did it twice." "Och, go way wid ye. He couldn't choke himself afther he was dead. I wouldn't belave it, not if I see him turn black in the face. It's yerself'll get choked some day if yees don't quit blatherin'. But what did ye get for yer blowin'? Any more'n the clothes ye're got to yer back?" For answer Glover dipped into his pockets, took out two handfuls of gold pieces and chinked them under the Irishman's nose. "Blazes! ye're lousy wid money," commented Sweeny. "Ye want somebody to scratch yees." "Twenty thousan' dollars in bank," added Glover. "All by blowin' 'n' tradin'. Goin' hum in the next steamer. Anythin' I can do for ye, old messmate? Say how much." "It's the liftinant is takin' care av me. He's made a betther livin' nor yees, a thousand times over, by jist marryin' the right leddy. An' he's going to put me in charrge av a farrum that they call the hayshindy, where I'll sell the cattle for myself, wid half to him, an' make slathers o' money." "Thunder, Sweeny! You'll end by ridin' in a coach. What'll ye take for yer chances? Wal, I'm glad to hear ye're doin' so well. I am so, for old times' sake." "Come in, Captain Glover," at this moment called Clara through the blinds. "Come in, Sweeny. Let us all have a talk together about the old times and the new ones." So there was a long talk, miscellaneous and delightful, full of reminiscences and congratulations and good wishes. "Wal, we're a lucky lot," said Glover at last. "Sh'd like to hear 'f some good news for the sergeant and Mr. Kelly. Sh'd go back hum easier for it." "Kelly is first sergeant," stated Thurstane, "and Meyer is quartermaster-sergeant, with a good chance of being quartermaster. He is capable of it and deserves it. He ought to have been promoted years ago for his gallantry and services during the war. I hope every day to hear that he has got his commission as lieutenant." "Wal, God bless 'em, 'n' God bless the hull army!" said Glover, so gratified that he felt pious. "An' now, good-by. Got to be movin'." "Stay over night with us," urged Thurstane. "Stay a week. Stay as long as you will." "Do," begged Clara. "You can go geologizing with my husband. You can start Sweeny on his farm." "Och, he's a thousin' times welkim," put in Sweeny, "though I'm afeard av him. He'd tache the cattle to trade their skins wid ache other, an slather me wid lies till I wouldn't know which was the baste an' which was Sweeny." Glover grinned with an air of being flattered, but replied, "Like to stay first rate, but can't work it. Passage engaged for to-morrow mornin'." "Indeed!" exclaimed Aunt Maria, agreeably surprised by an idea. And the result was that she went to New York under the care of Captain Glover. As for Clara and Thurstane, they are surely in a state which ought to satisfy their friends, and we will therefore say no more of them. 
33095	----	THE SPANISH PIONEERS [Illustration: FRANCISCO PIZARRO.] THE SPANISH PIONEERS BY CHARLES F. LUMMIS AUTHOR OF "A NEW MEXICO DAVID," "STRANGE CORNERS OF OUR COUNTRY," ETC. Illustrated SIXTH EDITION [Illustration] CHICAGO A. C. McCLURG & CO. 1914 COPYRIGHT BY CHARLES F. LUMMIS A.D. 1893 TO ONE OF SUCH WOMEN AS MAKE HEROES AND KEEP CHIVALRY ALIVE IN OUR LESS SINGLE-HEARTED DAYS: ELIZABETH BACON CUSTER In pronouncing the Spanish names give-- _a_ the sound of ah _e_ " " ay _i_ " " ee _j_ " " h _o_ " " oh _u_ " " oo _h_ is silent _ll_ is sounded like lli in million _ñ_ " " ny in lanyard _hua_ " " wa in water The views presented in this book have already taken their place in historical literature, but they are certainly altogether new ground for a popular work. Because it is new, some who have not fully followed the recent march of scientific investigation may fear that it is not authentic. I can only say that the estimates and statements embodied in this volume are strictly true, and that I hold myself ready to defend them from the standpoint of historical science. I do this, not merely from the motive of personal regard toward the author, but especially in view of the merits of his work, its value for the youth of the present and of the coming generations. AD. F. BANDELIER. PREFACE. It is because I believe that every other young Saxon-American loves fair play and admires heroism as much as I do, that this book has been written. That we have not given justice to the Spanish Pioneers is simply because we have been misled. They made a record unparalleled; but our text-books have not recognized that fact, though they no longer dare dispute it. Now, thanks to the New School of American History, we are coming to the truth,--a truth which every manly American will be glad to know. In this country of free and brave men, race-prejudice, the most ignorant of all human ignorances, must die out. We must respect manhood more than nationality, and admire it for its own sake wherever found,--and it is found everywhere. The deeds that hold the world up are not of any one blood. We may be born anywhere,--that is a mere accident; but to be heroes we must grow by means which are not accidents nor provincialisms, but the birthright and glory of humanity. We love manhood; and the Spanish pioneering of the Americas was the largest and longest and most marvellous feat of manhood in all history. It was not possible for a Saxon boy to learn that truth in my boyhood; it is enormously difficult, if possible, now. The hopelessness of trying to get from any or all English text-books a just picture of the Spanish hero in the New World made me resolve that no other young American lover of heroism and justice shall need to grope so long in the dark as I had to; and for the following glimpses into the most interesting of stories he has to thank me less than that friend of us both, A. F. Bandelier, the master of the New School. Without the light shed on early America by the scholarship of this great pupil of the great Humboldt, my book could not have been written,--nor by me without his generous personal aid. C. F. L. CONTENTS. I. The Broad Story. CHAPTER PAGE I. THE PIONEER NATION 17 II. A MUDDLED GEOGRAPHY 25 III. COLUMBUS THE FINDER 36 IV. MAKING GEOGRAPHY 43 V. THE CHAPTER OF CONQUEST 56 VI. A GIRDLE ROUND THE WORLD 71 VII. SPAIN IN THE UNITED STATES 78 VIII. TWO CONTINENTS MASTERED 90 II. Specimen Pioneers. I. THE FIRST AMERICAN TRAVELLER 101 II. THE GREATEST AMERICAN TRAVELLER 117 III. THE WAR OF THE ROCK 125 IV. THE STORMING OF THE SKY-CITY 135 V. THE SOLDIER POET 144 VI. THE PIONEER MISSIONARIES 149 VII. THE CHURCH-BUILDERS IN NEW MEXICO 158 VIII. ALVARADO'S LEAP 170 IX. THE AMERICAN GOLDEN FLEECE 181 III. The Greatest Conquest. I. THE SWINEHERD OF TRUXILLO 203 II. THE MAN WHO WOULD NOT GIVE UP 215 III. GAINING GROUND 225 IV. PERU AS IT WAS 238 V. THE CONQUEST OF PERU 246 VI. THE GOLDEN RANSOM 257 VII. ATAHUALPA'S TREACHERY AND DEATH 265 VIII. FOUNDING A NATION.--THE SIEGE OF CUZCO 275 IX. THE WORK OF TRAITORS 284 I. THE BROAD STORY. HOW AMERICA WAS FOUND AND TAMED. THE SPANISH PIONEERS. I. THE PIONEER NATION. It is now an established fact of history that the Norse rovers had found and made a few expeditions to North America long before Columbus. For the historian nowadays to look upon that Norse discovery as a myth, or less than a certainty, is to confess that he has never read the Sagas. The Norsemen came, and even camped in the New World, before the year 1000; but they _only_ camped. They built no towns, and practically added to the world's knowledge nothing at all. They did nothing to entitle them to credit as pioneers. The honor of giving America to the world belongs to Spain,--the credit not only of discovery, but of centuries of such pioneering as no other nation ever paralleled in any land. It is a fascinating story, yet one to which our histories have so far done scant justice. History on true principles was an unknown science until within a century; and public opinion has long been hampered by the narrow statements and false conclusions of closet students. Some of these men have been not only honest but most charming writers; but their very popularity has only helped to spread their errors wider. But their day is past, and the beginnings of new light have come. No student dares longer refer to Prescott or Irving, or any of the class of which they were the leaders, as authorities in history; they rank to-day as fascinating writers of romance, and nothing more. It yet remains for some one to make as popular the truths of American history as the fables have been, and it may be long before an unmistaken Prescott appears; but meantime I should like to help young Americans to a general grasp of the truths upon which coming histories will be based. This book is not a history; it is simply a guideboard to the true point of view, the broad idea,--starting from which, those who are interested may more safely go forward to the study of details, while those who can study no farther may at least have a general understanding of the most romantic and gallant chapter in the history of America. We have not been taught how astonishing it was that one nation should have earned such an overwhelming share in the honor of giving us America; and yet when we look into the matter, it is a very startling thing. There was a great Old World, full of civilization: suddenly a New World was found,--the most important and surprising discovery in the whole annals of mankind. One would naturally suppose that the greatness of such a discovery would stir the intelligence of all the civilized nations about equally, and that they would leap with common eagerness to avail themselves of the great meaning this discovery had for humanity. But as a matter of fact it was not so. Broadly speaking, all the enterprise of Europe was confined to one nation,--and that a nation by no means the richest or strongest. One nation practically had the glory of discovering and exploring America, of changing the whole world's ideas of geography, and making over knowledge and business all to herself for a century and a half. And Spain was that nation. It was, indeed, a man of Genoa who gave us America; but he came as a Spaniard,--from Spain, on Spanish faith and Spanish money, in Spanish ships and with Spanish crews; and what he found he took possession of in the name of Spain. Think what a kingdom Ferdinand and Isabella had then besides their little garden in Europe,--an untrodden half world, in which a score of civilized nations dwell to-day, and upon whose stupendous area the newest and greatest of nations is but a patch! What a dizziness would have seized Columbus could he have foreseen the inconceivable plant whose unguessed seeds he held that bright October morning in 1492! It was Spain, too, that sent out the accidental Florentine whom a German printer made godfather of a half world that we are barely sure he ever saw, and are fully sure he deserves no credit for. To name America after Amerigo Vespucci was such an ignorant injustice as seems ridiculous now; but, at all events, Spain sent him who gave his name to the New World. Columbus did little beyond finding America, which was indeed glory enough for one life. But of the gallant nation which made possible his discovery there were not lacking heroes to carry out the work which that discovery opened. It was a century before Anglo-Saxons seemed to waken enough to learn that there really _was_ a New World, and into that century the flower of Spain crowded marvels of achievement. She was the only European nation that did not drowse. Her mailed explorers overran Mexico and Peru, grasped their incalculable riches, and made those kingdoms inalienable parts of Spain. Cortez had conquered and was colonizing a savage country a dozen times as large as England years before the first English-speaking expedition had ever seen the mere coast where it was to plant colonies in the New World; and Pizarro did a still greater work. Ponce de Leon had taken possession for Spain of what is now one of the States of our Union a generation before any of those regions were seen by Saxons. That first traveller in North America, Alvar Nuñez Cabeza de Vaca, had walked his unparalleled way across the continent from Florida to the Gulf of California half a century before the first foot of our ancestors touched our soil. Jamestown, the first English settlement in America, was not founded until 1607, and by that time the Spanish were permanently established in Florida and New Mexico, and absolute masters of a vast territory to the south. They had already discovered, conquered, and partly colonized _inland_ America from northeastern Kansas to Buenos Ayres, and from ocean to ocean. Half of the United States, all Mexico, Yucatan, Central America, Venezuela, Ecuador, Bolivia, Paraguay, Peru, Chile, New Granada, and a huge area besides, were Spanish by the time England had acquired a few acres on the nearest edge of America. Language could scarcely overstate the enormous precedence of Spain over all other nations in the pioneering of the New World. They were Spaniards who first saw and explored the greatest gulf in the world; Spaniards who discovered the two greatest rivers; Spaniards who found the greatest ocean; Spaniards who first knew that there were two continents of America; Spaniards who first went round the world! They were Spaniards who had carved their way into the far interior of our own land, as well as of all to the south, and founded their cities a thousand miles inland long before the first Anglo-Saxon came to the Atlantic seaboard. That early Spanish spirit of _finding out_ was fairly superhuman. Why, a poor Spanish lieutenant with twenty soldiers pierced an unspeakable desert and looked down upon the greatest natural wonder of America or of the world--the Grand Cañon of the Colorado--three full centuries before any "American" eyes saw it! And so it was from Colorado to Cape Horn. Heroic, impetuous, imprudent Balboa had walked that awful walk across the Isthmus, and found the Pacific Ocean, and built on its shores the first ships that were ever made in the Americas, and sailed that unknown sea, and had been dead more than half a century before Drake and Hawkins saw it. England's lack of means, the demoralization following the Wars of the Roses, and religious dissensions were the chief causes of her torpidity then. When her sons came at last to the eastern verge of the New World they made a brave record; but they were never called upon to face such inconceivable hardships, such endless dangers as the Spaniards had faced. The wilderness they conquered was savage enough, truly, but fertile, well wooded, well watered, and full of game; while that which the Spaniards tamed was such a frightful desert as no human conquest ever overran before or since, and peopled by a host of savage tribes to some of whom the petty warriors of King Philip were no more to be compared than a fox to a panther. The Apaches and the Araucanians would perhaps have been no more than other Indians had they been transferred to Massachusetts; but in their own grim domains they were the deadliest savages that Europeans ever encountered. For a century of Indian wars in the east there were three centuries and a half in the southwest. In one Spanish colony (in Bolivia) as many were slain by the savages in one massacre as there were people in New York city when the war of the Revolution began! If the Indians in the east had wiped out twenty-two thousand settlers in one red slaughter, as did those at Sorata, it would have been well up in the eighteen-hundreds before the depleted colonies could have untied the uncomfortable apron-strings of the mother country, and begun national housekeeping on their own account. When you know that the greatest of English text-books has not even the name of the man who first sailed around the world (a Spaniard), nor of the man who discovered Brazil (a Spaniard), nor of him who discovered California (a Spaniard), nor of those Spaniards who first found and colonized in what is now the United States, and that it has a hundred other omissions as glaring, and a hundred histories as untrue as the omissions are inexcusable, you will understand that it is high time we should do better justice than did our fathers to a subject which should be of the first interest to all real Americans. The Spanish were not only the first conquerors of the New World, and its first colonizers, but also its first civilizers. They built the first cities, opened the first churches, schools, and universities; brought the first printing-presses, made the first books; wrote the first dictionaries, histories, and geographies, and brought the first missionaries; and before New England had a real newspaper, Mexico had a seventeenth-century attempt at one! One of the wonderful things about this Spanish pioneering--almost as remarkable as the pioneering itself--was the humane and progressive spirit which marked it from first to last. Histories of the sort long current speak of that hero-nation as cruel to the Indians; but, in truth, the record of Spain in that respect puts us to the blush. The legislation of Spain in behalf of the Indians everywhere was incomparably more extensive, more comprehensive, more systematic, and more humane than that of Great Britain, the Colonies, and the present United States all combined. Those first teachers gave the Spanish language and Christian faith to a thousand aborigines, where we gave a new language and religion to one. There have been Spanish schools for Indians in America since 1524. By 1575--nearly a century before there was a printing-press in English America--many books in _twelve_ different Indian languages had been printed in the city of Mexico, whereas in our history John Eliot's Indian Bible stands alone; and three Spanish universities in America were nearly rounding out their century when Harvard was founded. A surprisingly large proportion of the pioneers of America were college men; and intelligence went hand in hand with heroism in the early settlement of the New World. II. A MUDDLED GEOGRAPHY. The least of the difficulties which beset the finders of the New World was the then tremendous voyage to reach it. Had that three thousand miles of unknown sea been the chief obstacle, civilization would have overstepped it centuries before it did. It was human ignorance deeper than the Atlantic, and bigotry stormier than its waves, which walled the western horizon of Europe for so long. But for that, Columbus himself would have found America ten years sooner than he did; and for that matter, America would not have waited for Columbus's five-times-great-grandfather to be born. It was really a strange thing how the richest half of the world played so long at hide-and-seek with civilization; and how at last it was found, through the merest chance, by those who sought something entirely different. Had America waited to be discovered by some one seeking a new continent, it might be waiting yet. Despite the fact that long before Columbus vagrant crews of half a dozen different races had already reached the New World, they had left neither mark on America nor result in civilization; and Europe, at the very brink of the greatest discovery and the greatest events in history, never dreamed of it. Columbus himself had no imaginings of America. Do you know what he started westward to find? _Asia._ The investigations of recent years have greatly changed our estimates of Columbus. The tendency of a generation ago was to transform him to a demigod,--an historical figure, faultless, rounded, all noble. That was absurd; for Columbus was only a man, and all men, however great, fall short of perfection. The tendency of the present generation is to go to the other extreme,--to rob him of every heroic quality, and make him out an unhanged pirate and a contemptible accident of fortune; so that we are in a fair way to have very little Columbus left. But this is equally unjust and unscientific. Columbus in his own field was a great man despite his failings, and far from a contemptible one. To understand him, we must first have some general understanding of the age in which he lived. To measure how much of an inventor of the great idea he was, we must find out what the world's ideas then were, and how much they helped or hindered him. In those far days geography was a very curious affair indeed. A map of the world then was something which very few of us would be able to identify at all; for all the wise men of all the earth knew less of the world's topography than an eight-year old schoolboy knows to-day. It had been decided at last that the world was not flat, but round,--though even that fundamental knowledge was not yet old; but as to what composed half the globe, no man alive knew. Westward from Europe stretched the "Sea of Darkness," and beyond a little way none knew what it was or contained. The variation of the compass was not yet understood. Everything was largely guess-work, and groping in the dark. The unsafe little "ships" of the day dared not venture out of sight of land, for there was nothing reliable to guide them back; and you will laugh at one reason why they were afraid to sail out into the broad western sea,--they feared that they might unknowingly get over the edge, and that ship and crew might fall off into space! Though they knew the world was roundish, the attraction of gravitation was not yet dreamed of; and it was supposed that if one got too far over the upper side of the ball one would drop off! Still, it was a matter of general belief that there was land in that unknown sea. That idea had been growing for more than a thousand years,--for by the second century it began to be felt that there were islands beyond Europe. By Columbus's time the map-makers generally put on their rude charts a great many guess-work islands in the Sea of Darkness. Beyond this swarm of islands was supposed to lie the east coast of Asia,--and at no enormous distance, for the real size of the world was underestimated by one third. Geography was in its mere infancy; but it was engaging the attention and study of very many scholars who were learned for their day. Each of them put his studious guessing into maps, which varied astonishingly from one another. But one thing was accepted: _there was land somewhere to the west_,--some said a few islands, some said thousands of islands, but all said land of some sort. So Columbus did not invent the idea; it had been agreed upon long before he was born. The question was not if there was a New World, but if it was possible or practicable to reach it without sailing over the jumping-off place or encountering other as sad dangers. The world said No; Columbus said Yes,--and that was his claim to greatness. He was not an inventor, but an accomplisher; and even what he accomplished physically was less remarkable than his faith. He did not have to teach Europe that there was a new country, but to believe that he could get to that country; and his faith in himself and his stubborn courage in making others believe in him was the greatness of his character. It took less of a man to make the final proof than to convince the public that it was not utter foolhardiness to attempt the proof at all. Christopher Columbus, as we call him (as Colon[1] he was better known in his own day), was born in Genoa, Italy, the son of Dominico Colombo, a wool-comber, and Suzanna Fontanarossa. The year of his birth is not certain; but it was probably about 1446. Of his boyhood we know nothing, and little enough of all his early life,--though it is certain that he was active, adventurous, and yet very studious. It is said that his father sent him for awhile to the University of Pavia; but his college course could not have lasted very long. Columbus himself tells us that he went to sea at fourteen years of age. But as a sailor he was able to continue the studies which interested him most,--geography and kindred topics. The details of his early seafaring are very meagre; but it seems certain that he sailed to England, Iceland, Guinea, and Greece,--which made a man then far more of a traveller than does a voyage round the world nowadays; and with this broadening knowledge of men and lands he was gaining such grasp of navigation, astronomy, and geography as was then to be had. [Illustration: Autograph of Christopher Columbus.] It is interesting to speculate how and when Columbus first conceived an idea of such stupendous importance. It was doubtless not until he was a mature and experienced man, who had become not only a skilled sailor, but one familiar with what other sailors had done. The Madeiras and the Azores had been discovered more than a century. Prince Henry, the Navigator (that great patron of early exploration), was sending his crews down the west coast of Africa,--for at that time it was not even known what the lower half of Africa was. These expeditions were a great help to Columbus as well as to the world's knowledge. It is almost certain, too, that when he was in Iceland he must have heard something of the legends of the Norse rovers who had been to America. Everywhere he went his alert mind caught some new encouragement, direct or indirect, to the great resolve which was half unconsciously forming in his mind. About 1473 Columbus wandered to Portugal; and there formed associations which had an influence on his future. In time he found a wife, Felipa Moñiz, the mother of his son and chronicler Diego. As to his married life there is much uncertainty, and whether it was creditable to him or the reverse. It is known from his own letters that he had other children than Diego, but they are left in obscurity. His wife is understood to have been a daughter of the sea-captain known as "The Navigator," whose services were rewarded by making him the first governor of the newly discovered island of Porto Santo, off Madeira. It was the most natural thing in the world that Columbus should presently pay a visit to his adventurous father-in-law; and it was, perhaps, while in Porto Santo on this visit that he began to put his great thoughts in more tangible shape. With men like "the world-seeking Genoese," a resolve like that, once formed, is as a barbed arrow,--difficult to be plucked out. From that day on he knew no rest. The central idea of his life was "Westward! Asia!" and he began to work for its realization. It is asserted that with a patriotic intention he hastened home to make first offer of his services to his native land. But Genoa was not looking for new worlds, and declined his proffer. Then he laid his plans before John II. of Portugal. King John was charmed with the idea; but a council of his wisest men assured him that the plan was ridiculously foolhardy. At last he sent out a secret expedition, which after sailing out of sight of shore soon lost heart and returned without result. When Columbus learned of this treachery, he was so indignant that he left for Spain at once, and there interested several noblemen and finally the Crown itself in his audacious hopes. But after three years of profound deliberation, a _junta_[2] of astronomers and geographers decided that his plan was absurd and impossible,--the islands could not be reached. Disheartened, Columbus started for France; but by a lucky chance tarried at an Andalusian monastery, where he won the guardian, Juan Perez de Marchena, to his views. This monk had been confessor to the queen; and through his urgent intercession the Crown at last sent for Columbus, who returned to court. His plans had grown within him till they almost overbalanced him, and he seems to have forgotten that his discoveries were only a hope and not yet a fact. Courage and persistence he certainly had; but we could wish that now he had been a trifle more modest. When the king asked on what terms he would make the voyage, he replied: "That you make me an admiral before I start; that I be viceroy of all the lands that I shall find; and that I receive one tenth of all the gain." Strong demands, truly, for the poor wool-comber's son of Genoa to speak to the dazzling king of Spain! Ferdinand promptly rejected this bold demand; and in January, 1492, Columbus was actually on his way to France to try to make an impression there, when he was overtaken by a messenger who brought him back to court. It is a very large debt that we owe to good Queen Isabella, for it was due to her strong personal interest that Columbus had a chance to find the New World. When all science frowned, and wealth withheld its aid, it was a woman's persistent faith--aided by the Church--that saved history. There has been a great deal of equally unscientific writing done for and against that great queen. Some have tried to make her out a spotless saint,--a rather hopeless task to attempt in behalf of any human being,--and others picture her as sordid, mercenary, and in no wise admirable. Both extremes are equally illogical and untrue, but the latter is the more unjust. The truth is that all characters have more than one side; and there are in history as in everyday life comparatively few figures we can either deify or wholly condemn. Isabella was not an angel,--she was a woman, and with failings, as every woman has. But she was a remarkable woman and a great one, and worthy our respect as well as our gratitude. She has no need to fear comparison of character with "Good Queen Bess," and she made a much greater mark on history. It was not sordid ambition nor avarice which made her give ear to the world-finder. It was the woman's faith and sympathy and intuition which have so many times changed history, and given room for the exploits of so many heroes who would have died unheard of if they had depended upon the slower and colder and more selfish sympathy of men. Isabella took the lead and the responsibility herself. She had a kingdom of her own; and if her royal husband Ferdinand did not deem it wise to embark the fortunes of Arragon in such a wild enterprise, she could meet the expenses from her realm of Castile. Ferdinand seems to have cared little either way; but his fair-haired, blue-eyed queen, whose gentle face hid great courage and determination, was enthusiastic. The Genoan's conditions were granted; and on the 17th of April, 1492, one of the most important papers that ever held ink was signed by their Majesties, and by Columbus. If you could see that precious contract, you would probably have very little idea whose autograph was the lower one,--for Columbus's rigmarole of a signature would cause consternation at a teller's window nowadays. The gist of this famous agreement was as follows:-- 1. That Columbus and his heirs forever should have the office of admiral in all the lands he might discover. 2. That he should be viceroy and governor-general of these lands, with a voice in the appointment of his subordinate governors. 3. That he should reserve for himself one tenth part of the gold, silver, pearls, and all other treasures acquired. 4. That he and his lieutenant should be sole judges, concurrent with the High Admiral of Castile, in matters of commerce in the New World. 5. That he should have the privilege of contributing one eighth to the expenses of any other expedition to these new lands, and should then be entitled to one eighth of the profits. It is a pity that the conduct of Columbus in Spain was not free from a duplicity which did him little credit. He entered the service of Spain, Jan. 20, 1486. As early as May 5, 1487, the Spanish Crown gave him three thousand maravedis (about $18) "for some secret service for their Majesties;" and during the same year, eight thousand maravedis more. Yet after this he was secretly proffering his services again to the King of Portugal, who in 1488 wrote Columbus a letter giving him the freedom of the kingdom in return for the explorations he was to make _for Portugal_. But this fell through. Of the voyage itself you are more likely to have heard,--the voyage which lasted a few months, but to earn which the strong-hearted Genoese had borne nearly twenty years of disheartenment and opposition. It was the years of undaunted struggling to convert the world to his own unfathomed wisdom that showed the character of Columbus more fully than all he ever did after the world believed him. The difficulties of securing official consent and permission being thus at last overcome, there was only the obstacle left of getting an expedition together. This was a very serious matter; there were few who cared to join in such a foolhardy undertaking as it was felt to be. Finally, volunteers failing, a crew had to be gathered forcibly by order of the Crown; and with his não the "Santa Maria," and his two caravels the "Niña" and the "Pinta," filled with unwilling men, the world-finder was at last ready. FOOTNOTES: [1] Pronounced C[=o]-l[=o]n,--the Spanish form. (Transcriber's note: the = signifies a macron over the o) [2] Pronounced _Hoon_-tah. III. COLUMBUS, THE FINDER. Columbus sailed from Palos, Spain, on Friday, August 3, 1492, at 8 A. M., with one hundred and twenty Spaniards under his command. You know how he and his brave comrade Pinzon held up the spirits of his weakening crew; and how, on the morning of October 12, they sighted land at last. It was not the mainland of America,--which Columbus never saw until nearly eight years later,--but Watling's Island. The voyage had been the longest west which man had yet made; and it was very characteristically illustrative of the state of the world's knowledge then. When the variations of the magnetic needle were noticed by the voyagers, they decided that it was not the needle but the north star that varied. Columbus was perhaps as well informed as any other geographer of his day; but he came to the sober conclusion that the cause of certain phenomena must be that he was sailing over _a bump on the globe_! This was more strongly brought out in his subsequent voyage to the Orinoco, when he detected even a worse earth-bump, and concluded that the world must be pear-shaped! It is interesting to remember that but for an accidental change of course, the voyagers would have struck the Gulf Stream and been carried north,--in which case what is now the United States would have become the first field of Spain's conquest. The first white man who saw land in the New World was a common sailor named Rodrigo de Triana, though Columbus himself had seen a light the night before. Although it is probable--as you will see later on--that Cabot saw the actual continent of America before Columbus (in 1497), it was Columbus who found the New World, who took possession of it as its ruler under Spain, and who even founded the first European colonies in it,--building, and settling with forty-three men, a town which he named La Navidad (the Nativity), on the island of San Domingo (Española, as he called it), in December, 1492. Moreover, had it not been that Columbus had already found the New World, Cabot never would have sailed. The explorers cruised from island to island, finding many remarkable things. In Cuba, which they reached October 26, they discovered tobacco, which had never been known to civilization before, and the equally unknown sweet potato. These two products, of the value of which no early explorer dreamed, were to be far more important factors in the money-markets and in the comforts of the world than all the more dazzling treasures. Even the hammock and its name were given to civilization by this first voyage. In March, 1493, after a fearful return voyage, Columbus was again in Spain, telling his wondrous news to Ferdinand and Isabella, and showing them his trophies of gold, cotton, brilliant-feathered birds, strange plants and animals, and still stranger men,--for he had also brought back with him nine Indians, the first Americans to take a European trip. Every honor was heaped upon Columbus by the appreciative country of his adoption. It must have been a gallant sight to see this tall, athletic, ruddy-faced though gray-haired new grandee of Spain riding in almost royal splendor at the king's bridle, before an admiring court. The grave and graceful queen was greatly interested in the discoveries made, and enthusiastic in preparing for more. Both intellectually and as a woman, the New World appealed to her very strongly; and as to the aborigines, she became absorbed in earnest plans for their welfare. Now that Columbus had proved that one could sail up and down the globe without falling over that "jumping-off place," there was no trouble about finding plenty of imitators.[3] He had done his work of genius,--he was the pathfinder,--and had finished his great mission. Had he stopped there, he would have left a much greater name; for in all that came after he was less fitted for his task. A second expedition was hastened; and Sept. 25, 1493, Columbus sailed again,--this time taking fifteen hundred Spaniards in seventeen vessels, with animals and supplies to colonize his New World. And now, too, with strict commands from the Crown to Christianize the Indians, and always to treat them well, Columbus brought the first missionaries to America,--twelve of them. The wonderful mother-care of Spain for the souls and bodies of the savages who so long disputed her entrance to the New World began early, and it never flagged. No other nation ever evolved or carried out so noble an "Indian policy" as Spain has maintained over her western possessions for four centuries. The second voyage was a very hard one. Some of the vessels were worthless and leaky, and the crews had to keep bailing them out. Columbus made his second landing in the New World Nov. 3, 1493, on the island of Dominica. His colony of La Navidad had been destroyed; and in December he founded the new city of Isabella. In January, 1494, he founded there the first church in the New World. During the same voyage he also built the first road. As has been said, the first voyages to America were little in comparison with the difficulty in getting a chance to make a voyage at all; and the hardships of the sea were nothing to those that came after the safe landing. It was now that Columbus entered upon the troubles which darkened the remainder of a life of glory. Great as was his genius as an explorer, he was an unsuccessful colonizer; and though he founded the first four towns in all the New World, they brought him only ill. His colonists at Isabella soon grew mutinous; and San Tonias, which he founded in Hayti, brought him no better fortune. The hardships of continued exploration among the West Indies presently overcame his health, and for nearly half a year he lay sick in Isabella. Had it not been for his bold and skilful brother Bartholomew, of whom we hear so little, we might not have heard so much of Columbus. By 1495, the just displeasure of the Crown with the unfitness of the first viceroy of the New World caused Juan Aguado to be sent out with an open commission to inspect matters. This was more than Columbus could bear; and leaving Bartholomew as adelantado (a rank for which we now have no equivalent; it means the officer in chief command of an expedition of discoverers), Columbus hastened to Spain and set himself right with his sovereigns. Returning to the New World as soon as possible, he discovered at last the mainland (that of South America), Aug. 1, 1498, but at first thought it an island, and named it Zeta. Presently, however, he came to the mouth of the Orinoco, whose mighty current proved to him that it poured from a continent. Stricken down by sickness, he returned to Isabella, only to find that his colonists had revolted against Bartholomew. Columbus satisfied the mutineers by sending them back to Spain with a number of slaves,--a disgraceful act, for which the times are his only apology. Good Queen Isabella was so indignant at this barbarity that she ordered the poor Indians to be liberated, and sent out Francisco de Bobadilla, who in 1500 arrested Columbus and his two brothers, in Española, and sent them in irons to Spain. Columbus speedily regained the sympathy of the Crown, and Bobadilla was superseded; but that was the end of Columbus as viceroy of the New World. In 1502 he made his fourth voyage, discovered Martinique and other islands, and founded his fourth colony,--Bethlehem, 1503. But misfortune was closing in upon him. After more than a year of great hardship and distress, he returned to Spain; and there he died May 20, 1506. The body of the world-finder was buried in Valladolid, Spain, but was several times transferred to new resting-places. It is claimed that his dust now lies, with that of his son Diego, in a chapel of the cathedral of Havana; but this is doubtful. We are not at all sure that the precious relics were not retained and interred on the island of Santo Domingo, whither they certainly were brought from Spain. At all events, they are in the New World,--at peace at last in the lap of the America he gave us. Columbus was neither a perfect man nor a scoundrel,--though as each he has been alternately pictured. He was a remarkable man, and for his day and calling a good one. He had with the faith of genius a marvellous energy and tenacity, and through a great stubbornness carried out an idea which seems to us very natural, but to the world then seemed ridiculous. As long as he remained in the profession to which he had been reared, and in which he was probably unequalled at the time, he made a wonderful record. But when, after half a century as a sailor, he suddenly turned viceroy, he became the proverbial "sailor on land,"--absolutely "lost." In his new duties he was unpractical, headstrong, and even injurious to the colonization of the New World. It has been a fashion to accuse the Spanish Crown of base ingratitude toward Columbus; but this is unjust. The fault was with his own acts, which made harsh measures by the Crown necessary and right. He was not a good manager, nor had he the high moral principle without which no ruler can earn honor. His failures were not from rascality but from some weaknesses, and from a general unfitness for the new duties to which he was too old to adapt himself. We have many pictures of Columbus, but probably none that look like him. There was no photography in his day, and we cannot learn that his portrait was ever drawn from life. The pictures that have come down to us were made, with one exception, after his death, and all from memory or from descriptions of him. He is represented to have been tall and imposing, with a rather stern face, gray eyes, aquiline nose, ruddy but freckled cheeks, and gray hair, and he liked to wear the gray habit of a Franciscan missionary. Several of his original letters remain to us, with his remarkable autograph, and a sketch that is attributed to him. FOOTNOTES: [3] As he himself complains: "The very tailors turned explorers." IV. MAKING GEOGRAPHY. While Columbus was sailing back and forth between the Old World and the new one which he had found, was building towns and naming what were to be nations, England seemed almost ready to take a hand. All Europe was interested in the strange news which came from Spain. England moved through the instrumentality of a Venetian, whom we know as Sebastian Cabot. On the 5th of March, 1496,--four years after Columbus's discovery,--Henry VII. of England granted a patent to "John Gabote, a citizen of Venice," and his three sons, allowing them to sail westward on a voyage of discovery. John, and Sebastian his son, sailed from Bristol in 1497, and saw the mainland of America at daybreak, June 24, of the same year,--probably the coast of Nova Scotia,--but did nothing. After their return to England, the elder Cabot died. In May, 1498, Sebastian sailed on his second voyage, which probably took him into Hudson's Bay and a few hundred miles down the coast. There is little probability in the theory that he ever saw any part of what is now the United States. He was a northern rover,--so thoroughly so, that the three hundred colonists whom he brought out perished with cold in July. England did not treat her one early explorer well; and in 1512 Cabot entered the more grateful service of Spain. In 1517 he sailed to the Spanish possessions in the West Indies, on which voyage he was accompanied by an Englishman named Thomas Pert. In August, 1526, Cabot sailed with another Spanish expedition bound for the Pacific, which had already been discovered by a heroic Spaniard; but his officers mutinied, and he was obliged to abandon his purpose. He explored the Rio de la Plata (the "Silver River") for a thousand miles, built a fort at one of the mouths of the Paraña, and explored part of that river and of the Paraguay,--for South America had been for nearly a generation a Spanish possession. Thence he returned to Spain, and later to England, where he died about 1557. Of the rude maps which Cabot made of the New World, all are lost save one which is preserved in France; and there are no documents left of him. Cabot was a genuine explorer, and must be included in the list of the pioneers of America, but as one whose work was fruitless of consequences, and who saw, but did not take a hand in, the New World. He was a man of high courage and stubborn perseverance, and will be remembered as the discoverer of Newfoundland and the extreme northern mainland. After Cabot, England took a nap of more than half a century. When she woke again, it was to find that Spain's sleepless sons had scattered over half the New World; and that even France and Portugal had left her far behind. Cabot, who was not an Englishman, was the first English explorer; and the next were Drake and Hawkins, and then Captains Amadas and Barlow, after a lapse of seventy-five and eighty-seven years, respectively,--during which a large part of the two continents had been discovered, explored, and settled by other nations, of which Spain was undeniably in the lead. Columbus, the first Spanish explorer, was not a Spaniard; but with his first discovery began such an impetuous and unceasing rush of Spanish-born explorers as achieved more in a hundred years than all the other nations of Europe put together achieved here in America's first three hundred. Cabot saw and did nothing; and three quarters of a century later Sir John Hawkins and Sir Francis Drake--whom old histories laud greatly, but who got rich by selling poor Africans into slavery, and by actual piracy against unprotected ships and towns of the colonies of Spain, with which their mother England was then at peace--saw the West Indies and the Pacific, more than half a century after these had become possessions of Spain. Drake was the first Englishman to go through the Straits of Magellan,--and he did it sixty years after that heroic Portuguese had found them and christened them with his life-blood. Drake was probably first to see what is now Oregon,--his only important discovery. He "took possession" of Oregon for England, under the name of "New Albion;" but old Albion never had a settlement there. Sir John Hawkins, Drake's kinsman, was, like him, a distinguished sailor, but not a real discoverer or explorer at all. Neither of them explored or colonized the New World; and neither left much more impress on its history than if he had never been born. Drake brought the first potatoes to England; but the importance even of that discovery was not dreamed of till long after, and by other men. Captains Amadas and Barlow, in 1584, saw our coast at Cape Hatteras and the island of Roanoke, and went away without any permanent result. The following year Sir Richard Grenville discovered Cape Fear, and there was an end of it. Then came Sir Walter Raleigh's famous but petty expeditions to Virginia, the Orinoco, and New Guinea, and the less important voyages of John Davis (in 1585-87) to the Northwest. Nor must we forget brave Martin Frobisher's fruitless voyages to Greenland in 1576-81. This was the end of England in America until the seventeenth century. In 1602 Captain Gosnold coasted nearly our whole Atlantic seaboard, particularly about Cape Cod; and five years later yet was the beginning of English occupancy in the New World. The first English settlement which made a serious mark on history--as Jamestown did not--was that of the Pilgrim Fathers in 1602; and they came not for the sake of opening a new world, but to escape the intolerance of the old. In fact, as Mr. Winsor has pointed out, the Saxon never took any particular interest in America until it began to be understood as a _commercial_ opportunity. [Illustration: ONE OF THE MOQUI TOWNS. _See page 87._] But when we turn to Spain, what a record is that of the hundred years after Columbus and before Plymouth Rock! In 1499 Vincente Yañez de Pinzon, a companion of Columbus, discovered the coast of Brazil, and claimed the new country for Spain, but made no settlement. His discoveries were at the mouths of the Amazon and the Orinoco; and he was the first European to see the greatest river in the world. In the following year Pedro Alvarez Cabral, a Portuguese, was driven to the coast of Brazil by a storm, "took possession" for Portugal, and founded a colony there. As to Amerigo Vespucci, the inconsiderable adventurer whose name so overshadows his exploits, his American claims are extremely dubious. Vespucci was born in Florence in 1451, and was an educated man,--his father being a notary and his uncle a Dominican who gave him a good schooling. He became a clerk in the great house of the Medicis, and in their service was sent to Spain about 1490. There he presently got into the employ of the merchant who fitted out Columbus's second expedition,--a Florentine named Juanoto Berardi. When Berardi died, in 1495, he left an unfinished contract to fit out twelve ships for the Crown; and Vespucci was intrusted with the completion of the contract. There is no reason whatever to believe that he accompanied Columbus either on the first or the second voyage. According to his own story, he sailed from Cadiz May 10, 1497 (in a Spanish expedition), and reached the mainland eighteen days before Cabot saw it. The statement of encyclopædias that Vespucci "probably got as far north as Cape Hatteras" is ridiculous. The proof is absolute that he never saw an inch of the New World north of the equator. Returning to Spain in the latter part of 1498, he sailed again, May 16, 1499, with Ojeda, to San Domingo, a voyage on which he was absent about eighteen months. He left Lisbon on his third voyage, May 10, 1501, going to Brazil. It is not true, despite the encyclopædias, that he discovered and named the Bay of Rio Janeiro; both those honors belong to Cabral, the real discoverer and pioneer of Brazil, and a man of vastly greater historical importance than Vespucci. Vespucci's fourth voyage took him from Lisbon (June 10, 1503) to Bahia, and thence to Cape Frio, where he built a little fort. In 1504 he returned to Portugal, and in the following year to Spain, where he died in 1512. These voyages rest only on Vespucci's own statements, which are not to be implicitly believed. It is probable that he did not sail at all in 1497, and quite certain that he had no share whatever in the real discoveries in the New World. The name "America" was first invented and applied in 1507 by an ill-informed German printer, named Waldzeemüller, who had got hold of Amerigo Vespucci's documents. History is full of injustices, but never a greater among them all than the christening of America. It would have been as appropriate to call it Walzeemüllera. The first map of America was made in 1500 by Juan de la Cosa, a Spaniard,--and a very funny map it would seem to the schoolboy of to-day. The first geography of America was by Enciso, a Spaniard, in 1517. It is pleasant to turn from an overrated and very dubious man to those genuine but almost unheard-of Portuguese heroes, the brothers Gaspard and Miguel Corte-Real. Gaspard sailed from Lisbon in the year 1500, and discovered and named Labrador,--"the laborer." In 1501 he sailed again from Portugal to the Arctic, and never returned. After waiting a year, his brother Miguel led an expedition to find and rescue him; but he too perished, with all his men, among the ice-floes of the Arctic. A third brother wished to go in quest of the lost explorers, but was forbidden by the king, who himself sent out a relief expedition of two ships; but no trace of the gallant Corte-Reals, nor of any of their men, was ever found. Such was the pioneering of America up to the end of the first decade of the sixteenth century,--a series of gallant and dangerous voyages (of which only the most notable ones of the great Spanish inrush have been mentioned), resulting in a few ephemeral colonies, but important only as a peep into the doors of the New World. The real hardships and dangers, the real exploration and conquest of the Americas, began with the decade from 1510 to 1520,--the beginning of a century of such exploration and conquest as the world never saw before nor since. Spain had it all to herself, save for the heroic but comparatively petty achievements of Portugal in South America, between the Spanish points of conquest. The sixteenth century in the New World was unparalleled in military history; and it produced, or rather developed, such men as tower far above the later conquerors in their achievement. Our part of the hemisphere has never made such startling chapters of conquest as were carved in the grimmer wildernesses to our south by Cortez, Pizarro, Valdivia, and Quesada, the greatest subduers of wild America. There were at least a hundred other early Spanish heroes, unknown to public fame and buried in obscurity until real history shall give them their well-earned praise. There is no reason to believe that these unremembered heroes were more _capable_ of great things than our Israel Putnams and Ethan Allens and Francis Marions and Daniel Boones; but they _did_ much greater things under the spur of greater necessity and opportunity. A hundred such, I say; but really the list is too long to be even catalogued here; and to pay attention to their greater brethren will fill this book. No other mother-nation ever bore a hundred Stanleys and four Julius Cæsars in one century; but that is part of what Spain did for the New World. Pizarro, Cortez, Valdivia, and Quesada are entitled to be called the Cæsars of the New World; and no other conquests in the history of America are at all comparable to theirs. As among the four, it is almost difficult to say which was greatest; though there is really but one answer possible to the historian. The choice lies of course between Cortez and Pizarro, and for years was wrongly made. Cortez was first in time, and his operations seem to us nearer home. He was a highly educated man for his time, and, like Cæsar, had the advantage of being able to write his own biography; while his distant cousin Pizarro could neither read nor write, but had to "make his mark,"--a striking contrast with the bold and handsome (for those days) autograph of Cortez. But Pizarro--who had this lack of education as a handicap from the first, who went through infinitely greater hardships and difficulties than Cortez, and managed the conquest of an area as great with a third as many men as Cortez had, and very much more desperate and rebellious men--was beyond question the greatest Spanish American, and the greatest tamer of the New World. It is for that reason, and because such gross injustice has been done him, that I have chosen his marvellous career, to be detailed later in this book, as a picture of the supreme heroism of the Spanish pioneers. But while Pizarro was greatest, all four were worthy the rank they have been assigned as the Cæsars of America. Certain it is that the bald-headed little great man of old Rome, who crowds the page of ancient history, did nothing greater than each of those four Spanish heroes, who with a few tattered Spaniards in place of the iron legions of Rome conquered each an inconceivable wilderness as savage as Cæsar found, and five times as big. Popular opinion long did a vast injustice to these and all other of the Spanish _conquistadores_, belittling their military achievements on account of their alleged great superiority of weapons over the savages, and taxing them with a cruel and relentless extermination of the aborigines. The clear, cold light of true history tells a different tale. In the first place, the advantage of weapons was hardly more than a moral advantage in inspiring awe among the savages at first, for the sadly clumsy and ineffective firearms of the day were scarcely more dangerous than the aboriginal bows which opposed them. They were effective at not much greater range than arrows, and were tenfold slower of delivery. As to the cumbrous and usually dilapidated armor of the Spaniard and his horse, it by no means fully protected either from the agate-tipped arrows of the savages; and it rendered both man and beast ill-fitted to cope with their agile foes in any extremity, besides being a frightful burden in those tropic heats. The "artillery" of the times was almost as worthless as the ridiculous arquebuses. As to their treatment of the natives, there was incomparably less cruelty suffered by the Indians who opposed the Spaniards than by those who lay in the path of any other European colonizers. The Spanish did not obliterate _any_ aboriginal nation,--as our ancestors obliterated scores,--but followed the first necessarily bloody lesson with humane education and care. Indeed, the actual Indian population of the Spanish possessions in America is larger to-day than it was at the time of the conquest; and in that astounding contrast of conditions, and its lesson as to contrast of methods, is sufficient answer to the distorters of history. Before we come to the great conquerors, however, we must outline the eventful career and tragic end of the discoverer of the Pacific Ocean, Vasco Nuñez de Balboa. In one of the noblest poems in the English language we read,-- "Like stout Cortes, when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific, and all his men Looked at each other with a wild surmise, Silent upon a peak in Darien." But Keats was mistaken. It was not Cortez who first saw the Pacific, but Balboa,--five years before Cortez came to the mainland of America at all. Balboa was born in the province of Estremadura, Spain, in 1475. In 1501 he sailed with Bastidas for the New World, and then saw Darien, but settled on the island of Española. Nine years later he sailed to Darien with Enciso, and there remained. Life in the New World then was a troublous affair, and the first years of Balboa's life there were eventful enough, though we must pass them over. Quarrels presently arose in the colony of Darien. Enciso was deposed and shipped back to Spain a prisoner, and Balboa took command. Enciso, upon his arrival in Spain, laid all the blame upon Balboa, and got him condemned by the king for high treason. Learning of this, Balboa determined upon a master-stroke whose brilliancy should restore him to the royal favor. From the natives he had heard of the other ocean and of Peru,--neither yet seen by European eyes,--and made up his mind to find them. In September, 1513, he sailed to Coyba with one hundred and ninety men, and from that point, with only ninety followers, tramped across the Isthmus to the Pacific,--for its length one of the most frightful journeys imaginable. It was on the 26th of September, 1513, that from the summit of the divide the tattered, bleeding heroes looked down upon the blue infinity of the South Sea,--for it was not called the Pacific until long after. They descended to the coast; and Balboa, wading out knee-deep into the new ocean, holding aloft in his right hand his slender sword, and in his left the proud flag of Spain, took solemn possession of the South Sea in the name of the King of Spain. The explorers got back to Darien Jan. 18, 1514, and Balboa sent to Spain an account of his great discovery. But Pedro Arias de Avila had already sailed from the mother country to supplant him. At last, however, Balboa's brilliant news reached the king, who forgave him, and made him adelantado; and soon after he married the daughter of Pedro Arias. Still full of great plans, Balboa carried the necessary material across the Isthmus with infinite toil, and on the shores of the blue Pacific put together the first ships in the Americas,--two brigantines. With these he took possession of the Pearl Islands, and then started out to find Peru, but was driven back by storms to an ignoble fate. His father-in-law, becoming jealous of Balboa's brilliant prospects, enticed him back to Darien by a treacherous message, seized him, and had him publicly executed, on the trumped-up charge of high treason, in 1517. Balboa had in him the making of an explorer of the first rank, and but for De Avila's shameless deed might probably have won even higher honors. His courage was sheer audacity, and his energy tireless; but he was unwisely careless in his attitude toward the Crown. V. THE CHAPTER OF CONQUEST. While the discoverer of the greatest ocean was still striving to probe its farther mysteries, a handsome, athletic, brilliant young Spaniard, who was destined to make much more noise in history, was just beginning to be heard of on the threshold of America, of whose central kingdoms he was soon to be conqueror. Hernando Cortez came of a noble but impoverished Spanish family, and was born in Estremadura ten years later than Balboa. At the age of fourteen he was sent to the University of Salamanca to study for the law; but the adventurous spirit of the man was already strong in the slender lad, and in a couple of years he left college, and went home determined upon a life of roving. The air was full of Columbus and his New World; and what spirited youth could stay to pore in musty law-books then? Not the irrepressible Hernando, surely. Accidents prevented him from accompanying two expeditions for which he had made ready; but at last, in 1504, he sailed to San Domingo, in which new colony of Spain he made such a record that Ovando, the commander, several times promoted him, and he earned the reputation of a model soldier. In 1511 he accompanied Velasquez to Cuba, and was made _alcalde_ (judge) of Santiago, where he won further praise by his courage and firmness in several important crises. Meantime Francisco Hernandez de Cordova, the discoverer of Yucatan,--a hero with this mere mention of whom we must content ourselves,--had reported his important discovery. A year later, Grijalva, the lieutenant of Velasquez, had followed Cordova's course, and gone farther north, until at last he discovered Mexico. He made no attempt, however, to conquer or to colonize the new land; whereat Velasquez was so indignant that he threw Grijalva in disgrace, and intrusted the conquest to Cortez. The ambitious young Spaniard sailed from Santiago (Cuba) Nov. 18, 1518, with less than seven hundred men and twelve little cannon of the class called falconets. No sooner was he fairly off than Velasquez repented having given him such a chance for distinction, and directly sent out a force to arrest and bring him back. But Cortez was the idol of his little army, and secure in its fondness for him he bade defiance to the emissaries of Velasquez, and held on his way.[4] He landed on the coast of Mexico March 4, 1519, near where is now the city of Vera Cruz (the True Cross), which he founded,--the first European town on the mainland of America as far north as Mexico. The landing of the Spaniards caused as great a sensation as would the arrival in New York to-day of an army from Mars.[5] The awe-struck natives had never before seen a horse (for it was the Spanish who brought the first horses, cattle, sheep, and other domestic animals to the New World), and decided that these strange, pale new-comers who sat on four-legged beasts, and had shirts of iron and sticks that made thunder, must indeed be gods. Here the adventurers were inflamed by golden stories of Montezuma,--a myth which befooled Cortez no more egregiously than it has befooled some modern historians, who seem unable to discriminate between what Cortez _heard_ and what he _found_. He was told that Montezuma--whose name is properly Moctezuma, or Motecuzoma, meaning "Our Angry Chief"--was "emperor" of Mexico, and that thirty "kings," called _caciques_, were his vassals; that he had incalculable wealth and absolute power, and dwelt in a blaze of gold and precious stones! Even some most charming historians have fallen into the sad blunder of accepting these impossible myths. Mexico never had but two emperors,--Augustin de Iturbide and the hapless Maximilian,--both in this present century; and Moctezuma was neither its emperor nor even its king. The social and political organization of the ancient Mexicans was exactly like that of the Pueblo Indians of New Mexico at the present day,--a military democracy, with a mighty and complicated religious organization as its "power behind the throne." Moctezuma was merely Tlacatécutle, or head war-chief of the Nahuatl (the ancient Mexicans), and neither the supreme nor the only executive. Of just how little importance he really was may be gathered from his fate. Having founded Vera Cruz, Cortez caused himself to be elected governor and captain-general (the highest military rank)[6] of the new country; and having burned his ships, like the famous Greek commander, that there might be no retreat, he began his march into the grim wilderness before him. It was now that Cortez began to show particularly that military genius which lifted him so far above all other pioneers of America except Pizarro. With only a handful of men,--for he had left part of his forces at Vera Cruz, under his lieutenant Escalante,--in an unknown land swarming with powerful and savage foes, mere courage and brute force would have stood him in little stead. But with a diplomacy as rare as it was brilliant, he found the weak spots in the Indian organization, widened the jealous breaches between tribes, made allies of those who were secretly or openly opposed to Moctezuma's federation of tribes,--a league which somewhat resembled the Six Nations of our own history,--and thus vastly reduced the forces to be directly conquered. Having routed the tribes of Tlacala (pronounced Tlash-cáh-lah) and Cholula, Cortez came at last to the strange lake-city of Mexico, with his little Spanish troop swelled by six thousand Indian allies. Moctezuma received him with great ceremony, but undoubtedly with treacherous intent. While he was entertaining his visitors in one of the huge adobe houses,--not a "palace," as the histories tell us, for there were no palaces whatever in Mexico,--one of the sub-chiefs of his league attacked Escalante's little garrison at Vera Cruz and killed several Spaniards, including Escalante himself. The head of the Spanish lieutenant was sent to the City of Mexico,--for the Indians south of what is now the United States took not merely the scalp but the whole head of an enemy. This was a direful disaster, not so much for the loss of the few men as because it proved to the Indians (as the senders intended it to prove) that the Spaniards were not immortal gods after all, but could be killed the same as other men. As soon as Cortez heard the ill news he saw this danger at once, and made a bold stroke to save himself. He had already strongly fortified the adobe building in which the Spaniards were quartered; and now, going by night with his officers to the house of the head war-captain, he seized Moctezuma and threatened to kill him unless he at once gave up the Indians who had attacked Vera Cruz. Moctezuma delivered them up, and Cortez at once had them burned in public. This was a cruel thing, though it was undoubtedly necessary to make some vivid impression on the savages or be at once annihilated by them. There is no apology for this barbarity, yet it is only just that we measure Cortez by the standard of his time,--and it was a very cruel world everywhere then. It is amusing here to read in pretentious text-books that "Cortez now ironed Montezuma and made him pay a ransom of six hundred thousand marks of pure gold and an immense quantity of precious stones." That is on a par with the impossible fables which lured so many of the early Spaniards to disappointment and death, and is a fair sample of the gilded glamour with which equally credulous historians still surround early America. Moctezuma did not buy himself free,--he never was free again,--and he paid no ransom of gold; while as for precious stones, he may have had a few native garnets and worthless green turquoises, and perhaps even an emerald pebble, but nothing more. Just at this crisis in the affairs of Cortez he was threatened from another quarter. News came that Pamfilo de Narvaez, of whom we shall see more presently, had landed with eight hundred men to arrest Cortez and carry him back prisoner for his disobedience of Velasquez. But here again the genius of the conqueror of Mexico saved him. Marching against Narvaez with one hundred and forty men, he arrested Narvaez, enlisted under his own banner the welcome eight hundred who had come to arrest him, and hastened back to the City of Mexico. Here he found matters growing daily to more deadly menace. Alvarado, whom he had left in command, had apparently precipitated trouble by attacking an Indian dance. Wanton as that may seem and has been charged with being, it was only a military necessity, recognized by all who really know the aborigines even to this day. The closet-explorers have pictured the Spaniards as wickedly falling upon an aboriginal _festival_; but that is simply because of ignorance of the subject. An Indian dance is _not_ a festival; it is generally, and was in this case, a grim rehearsal for murder. An Indian never dances "for fun," and his dances too often mean anything but fun for other people. In a word, Alvarado, seeing in progress a dance which was plainly only the superstitious prelude to a massacre, had tried to arrest the medicine-men and other ringleaders. Had he succeeded, the trouble would have been over for a time at least. But the Indians were too numerous for his little force, and the chief instigators of war escaped. When Cortez came back with his eight hundred strangely-acquired recruits, he found the whole city with its mask thrown off, and his men penned up in their barracks. The savages quietly let Cortez enter the trap, and then closed it so that there was no more getting out. There were the few hundred Spaniards cooped up in their prison, and the four dykes which were the only approaches to it--for the City of Mexico was an American Venice--swarming with savage foes by the countless thousands. The Indian makes very few excuses for failure; and the Nahuatl had already elected a new head war-captain named Cuitlahuátzin in place of the unsuccessful Moctezuma. The latter was still a prisoner; and when the Spaniards brought him out upon the housetop to speak to his people in their behalf, the infuriated multitude of Indians pelted him to death with stones. Then, under their new war-captain, they attacked the Spaniards so furiously that neither the strong walls nor the clumsy falconets, and clumsier flintlocks, could withstand them; and there was nothing for the Spaniards but to cut their way out along one of the dykes in a last desperate struggle for life. The beginning of that six days' retreat was one of the bitterest pages in American history. Then was the Noche Triste (the Sad Night), still celebrated in Spanish song and story. For that dark night many a proud home in mother Spain was never bright again, and many a fond heart broke with the crimson bubbles on the Lake of Tezcuco. In those few ghastly hours two thirds of the conquerors were slain; and across more than eight hundred Spanish corpses the frenzied savages pursued the bleeding survivors. After a fearful retreat of six days, came the important running fight in the plains of Otumba, where the Spaniards were entirely surrounded, but cut their way out after a desperate hand-to-hand struggle which really decided the fate of Mexico. Cortez marched to Tlacala, raised an army of Indians who were hostile to the federation, and with their help laid siege to the City of Mexico. This siege lasted seventy-three days, and was the most remarkable in the history of all America. There was hard fighting every day. The Indians made a superb defence; but at last the genius of Cortez triumphed, and on the 13th of August, 1521, he marched victorious into the second greatest aboriginal city in the New World. These wonderful exploits of Cortez, so briefly outlined here, awoke boundless admiration in Spain, and caused the Crown to overlook his insubordination to Velasquez. The complaints of Velasquez were disregarded, and Charles V. appointed Cortez governor and captain-general of Mexico, besides making him Marquis de Oaxaca with a handsome revenue. Safely established in this high authority, Cortez crushed a plot against him, and executed the new war-captain, with many of the caciques (who were not potentates at all, but religious-military officers, whose hold on the superstitions of the Indians made them dangerous). But Cortez, whose genius shone only the brighter when the difficulties and dangers before him seemed insurmountable, tripped up on that which has thrown so many,--success. Unlike his unlearned but nobler and greater cousin Pizarro, prosperity spoiled him, and turned his head and his heart. Despite the unstudious criticisms of some historians, Cortez was not a cruel conqueror. He was not only a great military genius, but was very merciful to the Indians, and was much beloved by them. The so-called massacre at Cholula was not a blot on his career as has been alleged. The truth, as vindicated at last by real history, is this: The Indians had treacherously drawn him into a trap under pretext of friendship. Not until too late to retreat did he learn that the savages meant to massacre him. When he did see his danger, there was but one chance,--namely, to surprise the surprisers, to strike them before they were ready to strike him; and this is only what he did. Cholula was simply a case of the biter bitten. No, Cortez was not cruel to the Indians; but as soon as his rule was established he became a cruel tyrant to his own countrymen, a traitor to his friends and even to his king,--and, worst of all, a cool assassin. There is strong evidence that he had "removed" several persons who were in the way of his unholy ambitions; and the crowning infamy was in the fate of his own wife. Cortez had long for a mistress the handsome Indian girl Malinche; but after he had conquered Mexico, his lawful wife came to the country to share his fortunes. He did not love her, however, as much as he did his ambition; and she was in his way. At last she was found in her bed one morning, strangled to death. Carried away by his ambition, he actually plotted open rebellion against Spain and to make himself emperor of Mexico. The Crown got wind of this precious plan, and sent out emissaries who seized his goods, imprisoned his men, and prepared to thwart his secret schemes. Cortez boldly hastened to Spain, where he met his sovereign with great splendor. Charles received him well, and decorated him with the illustrious Order of Santiago, the patron saint of Spain. But his star was already declining; and though he was allowed to return to Mexico with undiminished outward power, he was thenceforth watched, and did nothing more that was comparable with his wonderful earlier achievements. He had become too unscrupulous, too vindictive, and too unsafe to be left in authority; and after a few years the Crown was forced to appoint a viceroy to wield the civil power of Mexico, leaving to Cortez only the military command, and permission for further conquests. In 1536 Cortez discovered Lower California, and explored part of its gulf. At last, disgusted with his inferior position where he had once been supreme, he returned to Spain, where the emperor received him coldly. In 1541 he accompanied his sovereign to Algiers as an attaché, and in the wars there acquitted himself well. Soon after their return to Spain, however, he found himself neglected. It is said that one day when Charles was riding in state, Cortez forced his way to the royal carriage and mounted upon the step determined to force recognition. "Who are you?" demanded the angry emperor. "A man, your Highness," retorted the haughty conqueror of Mexico, "who has given you more _provinces_ than your forefathers left you _cities_!" Whether the story is true or not, it graphically illustrates the arrogance as well as the services of Cortez. He lacked the modest balance of the greatest greatness, just as Columbus had lacked it. The self-assertion of either would have been impossible to the greater man than either,--the self-possessed Pizarro. At last, in disgust, Cortez retired from court; and on the 2d of December, 1554, the man who had first opened the interior of America to the world died near Seville. There were some in South America whose achievements were as wondrous as those of Cortez in Mexico. The conquest of the two continents was practically contemporaneous, and equally marked by the highest military genius, the most dauntless courage, the overcoming of dangers which were appalling, and hardships which were wellnigh superhuman. Francisco Pizarro, the unlettered but invincible conqueror of Peru, was fifteen years older than his brilliant cousin Cortez, and was born in the same province of Spain. He began to be heard of in America in 1510. From 1524 to 1532 he was making superhuman efforts to get to the unknown and golden land of Peru, overcoming such obstacles as not even Columbus had encountered, and enduring greater dangers and hardships than Napoleon or Cæsar ever met. From 1532 to his death in 1541, he was busy in conquering and exploring that enormous area, and founding a new nation amid its fierce tribes,--fighting off not only the vast hordes of Indians, but also the desperate men of his own forces, by whose treachery he at last perished. Pizarro found and tamed the richest country in the New World; and with all his unparalleled sufferings still realized, more than any other of the conquerors, the golden dreams which all pursued. Probably no other conquest in the world's history yielded such rapid and bewildering wealth, as certainly none was bought more dearly in hardship and heroism. Pizarro's conquest has been most unjustly dealt with by some historians ignorant of the real facts in the case, and blinded by prejudice; but that marvellous story, told in detail farther on, is coming to its proper rank as one of the most stupendous and gallant feats in all history. It is the story of a hero to whom every true American, young or old, will be glad to do justice. Pizarro has been long misrepresented as a blood-stained and cruel conqueror, a selfish, unprincipled, unreliable man; but in the clear, true light of real history he stands forth now as one of the greatest of self-made men, and one who, considering his chances, deserves the utmost respect and admiration for the man he made of himself. The conquest of Peru did not by far cause as much bloodshed as the final reduction of the Indian tribes of Virginia. It counted scarcely as many Indian victims as King Philip's War, and was much less bloody, because more straightforward and honorable, than any of the British conquests in East India. The most bloody events in Peru came after the conquest was over, when the Spaniards fell to fighting one another; and in this Pizarro was not the aggressor but the victim. It was the treachery of his own allies,--the men whose fames and fortunes he had made. His conquest covered a land as big as California, Oregon, and most of Washington,--or as our whole seaboard from Nova Scotia to Port Royal and two hundred miles inland,--swarming with the best organized and most advanced Indians in the Western Hemisphere; and he did it all with less than three hundred gaunt and tattered men. He was one of the great captains of all time, and almost as remarkable as organizer and executive of a new empire, the first on the Pacific shore of the southern continent. To this greatness rose the friendless, penniless, ignorant swineherd of Truxillo! Pedro de Valdivia, the conqueror of Chile, subdued that vast area of the deadly Araucanians with an "army" of two hundred men. He established the first colony in Chile in 1540, and in the following February founded the present city of Santiago de Chile. Of his long and deadly wars with the Araucanians there is not space to speak here. He was killed by the savages Dec. 3, 1553, with nearly all his men, after an indescribably desperate struggle. There is not space to tell here of the wondrous doings in the southern continent or the lower point of this,--the conquest of Nicaragua by Gil Gonzales Davila in 1523; the conquest of Guatemala, by Pedro de Alvarado, in 1524; that of Yucatan by Francisco de Montijo, beginning in 1526; that of New Granada by Gonzalo Ximenez de Quesada, in 1536; the conquests and exploration of Bolivia, the Amazon, and the Orinoco (to whose falls the Spaniards had penetrated by 1530, by almost superhuman efforts); the unparalleled Indian wars with the Araucanians in Chile (for two centuries), with the Tarrahumares in Chihuahua, the Tepehuanes in Durango, the still untamed Yaquis in northwestern Mexico; the exploits of Captain Martin de Hurdaide (the Daniel Boone of Sinaloa and Sonora); and of hundreds of other unrecorded Spanish heroes, who would have been world-renowned had they been more accessible to the fame-maker. FOOTNOTES: [4] This mutiny against Velasquez was the first hint of the unscrupulous man who was finally to turn complete traitor to Spain. [5] Tezozomoc, the Indian historian, graphically describes the wonder of the natives. [6] Another specific act of treason. VI. A GIRDLE ROUND THE WORLD. Before Cortez had yet conquered Mexico, or Pizarro or Valdivia seen the lands with which their names were to be linked for all time, other Spaniards--less conquerors, but as great explorers--were rapidly shaping the geography of the New World. France, too, had aroused somewhat; and in 1500 her brave son Captain de Gonneville sailed to Brazil. But between him and the next pioneer, who was a Florentine in French pay, was a gap of twenty-four years; and in that time Spain had accomplished four most important feats. Fernão Magalhaes, whom we know as Ferdinand Magellan, was born in Portugal in 1470; and on reaching manhood adopted the seafaring life, to which his adventurous disposition prompted. The Old World was then ringing with the New; and Magellan longed to explore the Americas. Being very shabbily treated by the King of Portugal, he enlisted under the banner of Spain, where his talents found recognition. He sailed from Spain in command of a Spanish expedition, August 10, 1519; and steering farther south than ever man had sailed before, he discovered Cape Horn, and the Straits which bear his name. Fate did not spare him to carry his discoveries farther, nor to reap the reward of those he had made; for during this voyage (in 1521) he was butchered by the natives of one of the islands of the Moluccas. His heroic lieutenant, Juan Sebastian de Elcano, then took command, and continued the voyage until he had circumnavigated the globe for the first time in its history. Upon his return to Spain, the Crown rewarded his brilliant achievements, and gave him, among other honors, a coat-of-arms emblazoned with a globe and the motto, _Tu primum circumdedisti me_,--"Thou first didst go around me." Juan Ponce de Leon, the discoverer of Florida,--the first State of our Union that was seen by Europeans,--was as ill-fated an explorer as Magellan; for he came to "the Flowery Land" (to which he had been lured by the wild myth of a fountain of perennial youth) only to be slain by its savages. De Leon was born in San Servas, Spain, in the latter part of the fifteenth century. He was the conqueror of the island of Puerto Rico, and sailing in 1512 to find Florida,--of which he had heard through the Indians,--discovered the new land in the same year, and took possession of it for Spain. He was given the title of adelantado of Florida, and in 1521 returned with three ships to conquer his new country, but was at once wounded mortally in a fight with the Indians, and died on his return to Cuba. He, by the way, was one of the bold Spaniards who accompanied Columbus on his second voyage to America, in 1493. [Illustration: Autograph of Hernando de Soto.] More of the credit of Florida belongs to Hernando de Soto. That gallant _conquistador_ was born in Estremadura, Spain, about 1496. Pedro Arias de Avila took a liking to his bright young kinsman, helped him to obtain a university education, and in 1519 took him along on his expedition to Darien. De Soto won golden opinions in the New World, and came to be trusted as a prudent yet fearless officer. In 1528 he commanded an expedition to explore the coast of Guatemala and Yucatan, and in 1532 led a reinforcement of three hundred men to assist Pizarro in the conquest of Peru. In that golden land De Soto captured great wealth; and the young soldier of fortune, who had landed in America with no more than his sword and shield, returned to Spain with what was in those days an enormous fortune. There he married a daughter of his benefactor De Avila, and thus became brother-in-law of the discoverer of the Pacific,--Balboa. De Soto lent part of his soon-earned fortune to Charles V., whose constant wars had drained the royal coffers, and Charles sent him out as governor of Cuba and adelantado of the new province of Florida. He sailed in 1538 with an army of six hundred men, richly equipped,--a company of adventurous Spaniards attracted to the banner of their famous countryman by the desire for discovery and gold. The expedition landed in Florida, at Espiritu Santo Bay, in May, 1539, and re-took possession of the unguessed wilderness for Spain. But the brilliant success which had attended De Soto in the highlands of Peru seemed to desert him altogether in the swamps of Florida. It is note-worthy that nearly all the explorers who did wonders in South America failed when their operations were transferred to the northern continent. The physical geography of the two was so absolutely unlike, that, after becoming accustomed to the necessities of the one, the explorer seemed unable to adapt himself to the contrary conditions of the other. De Soto and his men wandered through the southern part of what is now the United States for four ghastly years. It is probable that their travels took them through the present States of Florida, Georgia, Arkansas, Mississippi, Alabama, Louisiana, and the northeastern corner of Texas. In 1541 they reached the Mississippi River; and theirs were the first European eyes to look upon the Father of Waters, anywhere save at its mouth,--a century and a quarter before the heroic Frenchmen Marquette and La Salle saw it. They spent that winter along the Washita; and in the early summer of 1542, as they were returning down the Mississippi, brave De Soto died, and his body was laid to rest in the bosom of the mighty river he had discovered,--two centuries before any "American" saw it. His suffering and disheartened men passed a frightful winter there; and in 1543, under command of the Lieutenant Moscoso, they built rude vessels, and sailed down the Mississippi to the Gulf in nineteen days,--the first navigation in our part of America. From the Delta they made their way westward along the coast, and at last reached Panuco, Mexico, after such a five years of hardship and suffering as no Saxon explorer of America ever experienced. It was nearly a century and a half after De Soto's gaunt army of starving men had taken Louisiana for Spain that it became a French possession,--which the United States bought from France over a century later yet. [Illustration: THE ROCK OF ACOMA. _See page 125._] So when Verazzano--the Florentine sent out by France--reached America in 1524, coasted the Atlantic seaboard from somewhere about South Carolina to Newfoundland, and gave the world a short description of what he saw, Spain had circumnavigated the globe, reached the southern tip of the New World, conquered a vast territory, and discovered at least half-a-dozen of our present States, since the last visit of a Frenchman to America. As for England, she was almost as unheard of still on this side of the earth as though she had never existed. Between De Leon and De Soto, Florida was visited in 1518 by Francisco de Garay, the conqueror of Tampico. He came to subdue the Flowery Land, but failed, and died soon after in Mexico,--the probability being that he was poisoned by order of Cortez. He left even less mark on Florida than did De Leon, and belongs to the class of Spanish explorers who, though real heroes, achieved unimportant results, and are too numerous to be even catalogued here. In 1527 there sailed from Spain the most disastrous expedition which was ever sent to the New World,--an expedition notable but for two things, that it was perhaps the saddest in history, and that it brought the man who first of all men crossed the American continent, and indeed made one of the most wonderful walks since the world began. Panfilo de Narvaez--who had so ignominiously failed in his attempt to arrest Cortez--was commander, with authority to conquer Florida; and his treasurer was Alvar Nuñez Cabeza de Vaca. In 1528 the company landed in Florida, and forthwith began a record of horror that makes the blood run cold. Shipwreck, savages, and starvation made such havoc with the doomed band that when in 1529 Vaca and three companions found themselves slaves to the Indians they were the sole survivors of the expedition. Vaca and his companions wandered from Florida to the Gulf of California, suffering incredible dangers and tortures, reaching there after a wandering which lasted over eight years. Vaca's heroism was rewarded. The king made him governor of Paraguay in 1540; but he was as unfit for such a post as Columbus had been for a viceroy, and soon came back in irons to Spain, where he died. But it was through his accounts of what he saw in that astounding journey (for Vaca was an educated man, and has left us two very interesting and valuable books) that his countrymen were roused to begin in earnest the exploration and colonization of what is now the United States,--to build the first cities and till the first farms of the greatest nation on earth. The thirty years following the conquest of Mexico by Cortez saw an astounding change in the New World. They were brimful of wonders. Brilliant discovery, unparalleled exploration, gallant conquest, and heroic colonization followed one another in a bewildering rush,--and but for the brave yet limited exploits of the Portuguese in South America, Spain was all alone in it. From Kansas to Cape Horn was one vast Spanish possession, save parts of Brazil where the Portuguese hero Cabral had taken a joint foothold for his country. Hundreds of Spanish towns had been built; Spanish schools, universities, printing-presses, books, and churches were beginning their work of enlightenment in the dark continents of America, and the tireless followers of Santiago were still pressing on. America, particularly Mexico, was being rapidly settled by Spaniards. The growth of the colonies was very remarkable for those times,--that is, where there were any resources to support a growing population. The city of Puebla, for instance, in the Mexican State of the same name, was founded in 1532 and began with thirty-three settlers. In 1678 it had eighty thousand people, which is twenty thousand more than New York city had one hundred and twenty-two years later. VII. SPAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. Cortez was still captain-general when Cabeza de Vaca came into the Spanish settlements from his eight years' wandering, with news of strange countries to the north; but Antonio de Mendoza was viceroy of Mexico, and Cortez' superior, and between him and the traitorous conqueror was endless dissension. Cortez was working for himself, Mendoza for Spain. As Mexico became more and more thickly dotted with Spanish settlements, the attention of the restless world-finders began to wander toward the mysteries of the vast and unknown country to the north. The strange things Vaca had seen, and the stranger ones he had heard, could not fail to excite the dauntless rovers to whom he told them. Indeed, within a year after the arrival in Mexico of the first transcontinental traveller, two more of our present States were found by his countrymen as the direct result of his narratives. And now we come to one of the best-slandered men of them all,--Fray Marcos de Nizza, the discoverer of Arizona and New Mexico. Fray (brother) Marcos was a native of the province of Nizza, then a part of Savoy, and must have come to America in 1531. He accompanied Pizarro to Peru, and thence finally returned to Mexico. He was the first to explore the unknown lands of which Vaca had heard such wonderful reports from the Indians, though he had never seen them himself,--"the Seven Cities of Cibola, full of gold," and countless other marvels. Fray Marcos started on foot from Culiacan (in Sinaloa, on the western edge of Mexico) in the spring of 1539, with the negro Estévanico, who had been one of Vaca's companions, and a few Indians. A lay brother, Onorato, who started with him, fell sick at once and went no farther. Now, here was a genuine Spanish exploration, a fair sample of hundreds,--this fearless priest, unarmed, with a score of unreliable men, starting on a year's walk through a desert where even in this day of railroads and highways and trails and developed water men yearly lose their lives by thirst, to say nothing of the thousands who have been killed there by Indians. But trifles like these only whetted the appetite of the Spaniard; and Fray Marcos kept his footsore way, until early in June, 1539, he actually came to the Seven Cities of Cibola. These were in the extreme west of New Mexico, around the present strange Indian pueblo of Zuñi, which is all that is left of those famous cities, and is itself to-day very much as the hero-priest saw it three hundred and fifty years ago. At the foot of the wonderful cliff of Toyallahnah, the sacred thunder mountain of Zuñi, the negro Estévanico was killed by the Indians, and Fray Marcos escaped a similar fate only by a hasty retreat. He learned what he could of the strange terraced towns of which he got a glimpse, and returned to Mexico with great news. He has been accused of misrepresentation and exaggeration in his reports; but if his critics had not been so ignorant of the locality, of the Indians and of their traditions, they never would have spoken. Fray Marcos's statements were absolutely truthful. When the good priest told his story, we may be sure that there was a pricking-up of ears throughout New Spain (the general Spanish name then for Mexico); and as soon as ever an armed expedition could be fitted out, it started for the Seven Cities of Cibola, with Fray Marcos himself as guide. Of that expedition you shall hear in a moment. Fray Marcos accompanied it as far as Zuñi, and then returned to Mexico, being sadly crippled by rheumatism, from which he never fully recovered. He died in the convent in the City of Mexico, March 25, 1558. The man whom Fray Marcos led to the Seven Cities of Cibola was the greatest explorer that ever trod the northern continent, though his explorations brought to himself only disaster and bitterness,--Francisco Vasquez de Coronado. A native of Salamanca, Spain, Coronado was young, ambitious, and already renowned. He was governor of the Mexican province of New Galicia when the news of the Seven Cities came. Mendoza, against the strong opposition of Cortez, decided upon a move which would rid the country of a few hundred daring young Spanish blades with whom peace did not at all agree, and at the same time conquer new countries for the Crown. So he gave Coronado command of an expedition of about two hundred and fifty Spaniards to colonize the lands which Fray Marcos had discovered, with strict orders never to come back! Coronado and his little army left Culiacan early in 1540. Guided by the tireless priest they reached Zuñi in July, and took the pueblo after a sharp fight, which was the end of hostilities there. Thence Coronado sent small expeditions to the strange cliff-built pueblos of Moqui (in the northeastern part of Arizona), to the grand cañon of the Colorado, and to the pueblo of Jemez in northern New Mexico. That winter he moved his whole command to Tiguex, where is now the pretty New Mexican village of Bernalillo, on the Rio Grande, and there had a serious and discreditable war with the Tigua Pueblos. It was here that he heard that golden myth which lured him to frightful hardships, and hundreds since to death,--the fable of the Quivira. This, so Indians from the vast plains assured him, was an Indian city where all was pure gold. In the spring of 1541 Coronado and his men started in quest of the Quivira, and marched as far across those awful plains as the centre of our present Indian territory. Here, seeing that he had been deceived, Coronado sent back his army to Tiguex, and himself with thirty men pushed on across the Arkansas River, and as far as northeastern Kansas,--that is, three-fourths of the way from the Gulf of California to New York, and by his circuitous route much farther. There he found the tribe of the Quiviras,--roaming savages who chased the buffalo,--but they neither had gold nor knew where it was. Coronado got back at last to Bernalillo, after an absence of three months of incessant marching and awful hardships. Soon after his return, he was so seriously injured by a fall from his horse that his life was in great danger. He passed the crisis, but his health was wrecked; and disheartened by his broken body and by the unredeemed disappointments of the forbidding land he had hoped to settle, he gave up all hope of colonizing New Mexico, and in the summer of 1542 returned to Mexico with his men. His disobedience to the viceroy in coming back cast him into disgrace, and he passed the remainder of his life in comparative obscurity. This was a sad end for the remarkable man who had found out so many thousands of miles of the thirsty Southwest nearly three centuries before any of our blood saw any of it,--a well-born, college-bred, ambitious, and dashing soldier, and the idol of his troops. As an explorer he stands unequalled, but as a colonizer he utterly failed. He was a city-bred man, and no frontiersman; and being accustomed only to Jalisco and the parts of Mexico which lie along the Gulf of California, he knew nothing of, and could not adapt himself to, the fearful deserts of Arizona and New Mexico. It was not until half a century later, when there came a Spaniard who was a born frontiersman of the arid lands, that New Mexico was successfully colonized. While the discoverer of the Indian Territory and Kansas was chasing a golden fable across their desolate plains, his countrymen had found and were exploring another of our States,--our golden garden of California. Hernando de Alarcon, in 1540, sailed up the Colorado River to a great distance from the gulf, probably as far as Great Bend; and in 1543 Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo explored the Pacific coast of California to a hundred miles north of where San Francisco was to be founded more than three centuries later. After the discouraging discoveries of Coronado, the Spaniards for many years paid little attention to New Mexico. There was enough doing in Mexico itself to keep even that indomitable Spanish energy busy for awhile in the civilizing of their new empire. Fray Pedro de Gante had founded in Mexico, in 1524, the first schools in the New World; and thereafter every church and convent in Spanish America had always a school for the Indians attached. In 1524 there was not a single Indian in Mexico's countless thousands who knew what letters were; but twenty years later such large numbers of them had learned to read and write that Bishop Zumarraga had a book made for them in their own language. By 1543 there were even industrial schools for the Indians in Mexico. It was this same good Bishop Zumarraga who brought the first printing-press to the New World, in 1536. It was set up in the City of Mexico, and was soon very actively at work. The oldest book printed in America that remains to us came from that press in 1539. A majority of the first books printed there were to make the Indian languages intelligible,--a policy of humane scholarship which no other nation colonizing in the New World ever copied. The first music printed in America came from this press in 1584. The most striking thing of all, as showing the scholarly attitude of the Spaniards toward the new continents, was a result entirely unique. Not only did their intellectual activity breed among themselves a galaxy of eminent writers, but in a very few years there was a school of important _Indian authors_. It would be an irreparable loss to knowledge of the true history of America if we were to lose the chronicles of such Indian writers as Tezozomoc, Camargo, and Pomar, in Mexico; Juan de Santa Cruz, Pachacuti Yamqui Salcamayhua, in Peru; and many others. And what a gain to science if we had taken pains to raise up our own aborigines to such helpfulness to themselves and to human knowledge! In all other enlightened pursuits which the world then knew, Spain's sons were making remarkable progress here. In geography, natural history, natural philosophy, and other sciences they were as truly the pioneers of America as they had been in discovery. It is a startling fact that so early as 1579 a public autopsy on the body of an Indian was held at the University of Mexico, to determine the nature of an epidemic which was then devastating New Spain. It is doubtful if by that time they had got so far in London itself. And in still extant books of the same period we find plans for repeating firearms, and a plain hint of the telephone! The first printing-press did not reach the English colonies of America until 1638,--nearly one hundred years behind Mexico. The whole world came very slowly to newspapers; and the first authentic newspaper in its history was published in Germany in 1615. The first one in England began in 1622; and the American colonies never had one until 1704. The "Mercurio Volante" (Flying Mercury), a pamphlet which printed news, was running in the City of Mexico before 1693. When the ill reports of Coronado had largely been forgotten, there began another Spanish movement into New Mexico and Arizona. In the mean time there had been very important doings in Florida. The many failures in that unlucky land had not deterred the Spaniards from further attempts to colonize it. At last, in 1560, the first permanent foothold was effected there by Aviles de Menendez, a brutal Spaniard, who nevertheless had the honor of founding and naming the oldest city in the United States,--St. Augustine, 1560. Menendez found there a little colony of French-Huguenots, who had wandered thither the year before under Ribault; and those whom he captured he hanged, with a placard saying that they were executed "not as Frenchmen, but as heretics." Two years later, the French expedition of Dominique de Gourges captured the three Spanish forts which had been built there, and hanged the colonists "not as Spaniards, but as assassins,"--which was a very neat revenge in rhetoric, if an unpraiseworthy one in deed. In 1586 Sir Francis Drake, whose piratical proclivities have already been alluded to, destroyed the friendly colony of St. Augustine; but it was at once rebuilt. In 1763 Florida was ceded to Great Britain by Spain, in exchange for Havana, which Albemarle had captured the year before. It is also interesting to note that the Spaniards had been to Virginia nearly thirty years before Sir Walter Raleigh's attempt to establish a colony there, and full half a century before Capt. John Smith's visit. As early as 1556 Chesapeake Bay was known to the Spaniards as the Bay of Santa Maria; and an unsuccessful expedition had been sent to colonize the country. In 1581 three Spanish missionaries--Fray Agostin Rodriguez, Fray Francisco Lopez, and Fray Juan de Santa Maria--started from Santa Barbara, Chihuahua (Mexico), with an escort of nine Spanish soldiers under command of Francisco Sanchez Chamuscado. They trudged up along the Rio Grande to where Bernalillo now is,--a walk of a thousand miles. There the missionaries remained to teach the gospel, while the soldiers explored the country as far as Zuñi, and then returned to Santa Barbara. Chamuscado died on the way. As for the brave missionaries who had been left behind in the wilderness, they soon became martyrs. Fray Santa Maria was slain by the Indians near San Pedro, while trudging back to Mexico alone that fall. Fray Rodriguez and Fray Lopez were assassinated by their treacherous flock at Puaray, in December, 1581. In the following year Antonio de Espejo, a wealthy native of Cordova, started from Santa Barbara in Chihuahua, with fourteen men to face the deserts and the savages of New Mexico. He marched up the Rio Grande to some distance above where Albuquerque now stands, meeting no opposition from the Pueblo Indians. He visited their cities of Zia, Jemez, lofty Acoma, Zuñi, and far-off Moqui, and travelled a long way out into northern Arizona. Returning to the Rio Grande, he visited the pueblo of Pecos, went down the Pecos River into Texas, and thence crossed back to Santa Barbara. He intended to return and colonize New Mexico, but his death (probably in 1585) ended these plans; and the only important result of his gigantic journey was an addition to the geographical and ethnological knowledge of the day. In 1590 Gaspar Castaño de Sosa, lieutenant-governor of New Leon, was so anxious to explore New Mexico that he made an expedition without leave from the viceroy. He came up the Pecos River and crossed to the Rio Grande; and at the pueblo of Santo Domingo was arrested by Captain Morlette, who had come all the way from Mexico on that sole errand, and carried home in irons. Juan de Oñate, the colonizer of New Mexico, and founder of the second town within the limits of the United States, as well as of the city which is now our next oldest, was born in Zacatecas, Mexico. His family (which came from Biscay) had discovered (in 1548) and now owned some of the richest mines in the world,--those of Zacatecas. But despite the "golden spoon in his mouth," Oñate desired to be an explorer. The Crown refused to provide for further expeditions into the disappointing north; and about 1595 Oñate made a contract with the viceroy of New Spain to colonize New Mexico at his own expense. He made all preparations, and fitted out his costly expedition. Just then a new viceroy was appointed, who kept him waiting in Mexico with all his men for over two years, ere the necessary permission was given him to start. At last, early in 1597, he set out with his expedition,--which had cost him the equivalent of a million dollars, before it stirred a step. He took with him four hundred colonists, including two hundred soldiers, with women and children, and herds of sheep and cattle. Taking formal possession of New Mexico May 30, 1598, he moved up the Rio Grande to where the hamlet of Chamita now is (north of Santa Fé), and there founded, in September of that year, San Gabriel de los Españoles (St. Gabriel of the Spaniards), the second town in the United States. Oñate was remarkable not only for his success in colonizing a country so forbidding as this then was, but also as an explorer. He ransacked all the country round about, travelled to Acoma and put down a revolt of its Indians, and in 1600 made an expedition clear up into Nebraska. In 1604, with thirty men, he marched from San Gabriel across that grim desert to the Gulf of California, and returned to San Gabriel in April, 1605. By that time the English had penetrated no farther into the interior of America than forty or fifty miles from the Atlantic coast. In 1605 Oñate founded Santa Fé, the City of the Holy Faith of St. Francis, about whose age a great many foolish fables have been written. The city actually celebrated the three hundred and thirty-third anniversary of its founding twenty years before it was three centuries old. In 1606 Oñate made another expedition to the far Northeast, about which expedition we know almost nothing; and in 1608 he was superseded by Pedro de Peralta, the second governor of New Mexico. Oñate was of middle age when he made this very striking record. Born on the frontier, used to the deserts, endowed with great tenacity, coolness, and knowledge of frontier warfare, he was the very man to succeed in planting the first considerable colonies in the United States at their most dangerous and difficult points. VIII. TWO CONTINENTS MASTERED. This, then, was the situation in the New World at the beginning of the seventeenth century. Spain, having found the Americas, had, in a little over a hundred years of ceaseless exploration and conquest, settled and was civilizing them. She had in the New World hundreds of towns, whose extremes were over five thousand miles apart, with all the then advantages of civilization, and two towns in what is now the United States, a score of whose States her sons had penetrated. France had made a few gingerly expeditions, which bore no substantial fruit; and Portugal had founded a few comparatively unimportant towns in South America. England had passed the century in masterly inactivity,--and there was not so much as an English hut or an English man between Cape Horn and the North Pole. That later times have reversed the situation; that Spain (largely because she was drained of her best blood by a conquest so enormous that no nation even now could give the men or the money to keep the enterprise abreast with the world's progress) has never regained her old strength, and is now a drone beside the young giant of nations that has grown, since her day, in the empire she opened,--has nothing to do with the obligation of American history to give her justice for the past. Had there been no Spain four hundred years ago, there would be no United States to-day. It is a most fascinating story to every genuine American,--for every one worthy of the name admires heroism and loves fairplay everywhere, and is first of all interested in the truth about his own country. By 1680 the Rio Grande valley in New Mexico was beaded with Spanish settlements from Santa Cruz to below Socorro, two hundred miles; and there were also colonies in the Taos valley, the extreme north of the Territory. From 1600 to 1680 there had been countless expeditions throughout the Southwest, penetrating even the deadly Llano Estacado (Staked Plain). The heroism which held the Southwest so long was no less wonderful than the exploration that found it. The life of the colonists was a daily battle with niggard Nature--for New Mexico was never fertile--and with deadliest danger. For three centuries they were ceaselessly harried by the fiendish Apaches; and up to 1680 there was no rest from the attempts of the Pueblos (who were actually with and all about the settlers) at insurrection. The statements of closet historians that the Spaniards enslaved the Pueblos, or any other Indians of New Mexico; that they forced them to choose between Christianity and death; that they made them work in the mines, and the like,--are all entirely untrue. The whole policy of Spain toward the Indians of the New World was one of humanity, justice, education, and moral suasion; and though there were of course individual Spaniards who broke the strict laws of their country as to the treatment of the Indians, they were duly punished therefor. Yet the mere presence of the strangers in their country was enough to stir the jealous nature of the Indians; and in 1680 a murderous and causeless plot broke out in the red Pueblo Rebellion. There were then fifteen hundred Spaniards in the Territory,--all living in Santa Fé or in scattered farm settlements; for Chamita had long been abandoned. Thirty-four Pueblo towns were in the revolt, under the lead of a dangerous Tehua Indian named Popé. Secret runners had gone from pueblo to pueblo, and the murderous blow fell upon the whole Territory simultaneously. On that bitter 10th of August, 1680, over four hundred Spaniards were assassinated,--including twenty-one of the gentle missionaries who, unarmed and alone, had scattered over the wilderness that they might save the souls and teach the minds of the savages. Antonio de Otermin was then governor and captain-general of New Mexico, and was attacked in his capital of Santa Fé by a greatly-outnumbering army of Indians. The one hundred and twenty Spanish soldiers, cooped up in their little adobe city, soon found themselves unable to hold it longer against their swarming besiegers; and after a week's desperate defence, they made a sortie, and hewed their way through to liberty, taking their women and children with them. They retreated down the Rio Grande, avoiding an ambush set for them at Sandia by the Indians, and reached the pueblo of Isleta, twelve miles below the present city of Albuquerque, in safety; but the village was deserted, and the Spaniards were obliged to continue their flight to El Paso, Texas, which was then only a Spanish mission for the Indians. In 1681 Governor Otermin made an invasion as far north as the pueblo of Cochiti, twenty-five miles west of Santa Fé, on the Rio Grande; but the hostile Pueblos forced him to retreat again to El Paso. In 1687 Pedro Reneros Posada made another dash into New Mexico, and took the rock-built pueblo of Santa Ana by a most brilliant and bloody assault. But he also had to retire. In 1688 Domingo Jironza Petriz de Cruzate--the greatest soldier on New Mexican soil--made an expedition, in which he took the pueblo of Zia by storm (a still more remarkable achievement than Posada's), and in turn retreated to El Paso. At last the final conqueror of New Mexico, Diego de Vargas, came in 1692. Marching to Santa Fé, and thence as far as ultimate Moqui, with only eighty-nine men, he visited every pueblo in the Province, meeting no opposition from the Indians, who had been thoroughly cowed by Cruzate. Returning to El Paso, he came again to New Mexico in 1693, this time with about one hundred and fifty soldiers and a number of colonists. Now the Indians were prepared for him, and gave him the bloodiest reception ever accorded in New Mexico. They broke out first at Santa Fé, and he had to storm that town, which he took after two days' fighting. Then began the siege of the Black Mesa of San Ildefonso, which lasted off and on for nine months. The Indians had removed their village to the top of that New Mexican Gibraltar, and there resisted four daring assaults, but were finally worn into surrender. Meantime De Vargas had stormed the impregnable citadel of the Potrero Viejo, and the beetling cliff of San Diego de Jemez,--two exploits which rank with the storming of the Peñol of Mixton[7] in Jalisco (Mexico) and of the vast rock of Acoma, as the most marvellous assaults in all American history. The capture of Quebec bears no comparison to them. These costly lessons kept the Indians quiet until 1696, when they broke out again. This rebellion was not so formidable as the first, but it gave New Mexico another watering with blood, and was suppressed only after three months' fighting. The Spaniards were already masters of the situation; and the quelling of that revolt put an end to all trouble with the Pueblos,--who remain with us to this day practically undiminished in numbers, though they have fewer towns, a quiet, peaceful, Christianized race of industrious farmers, living monuments to the humanity and the moral teaching of their conquerors. Then came the last century, a dismal hundred years of ceaseless harassment by the Apaches, Navajos, and Comanches, and occasionally by the Utes,--a harassment which had hardly ceased a decade ago. The Indian wars were so constant, the explorations (like that wonderful attempt to open a road from San Antonio de Bejar, Texas, to Monterey, California) so innumerable, that their individual heroism is lost in their own bewildering multitude. More than two centuries ago the Spaniards explored Texas, and settlement soon followed. There were several minor expeditions; but the first of magnitude was that of Alonzo de Leon, governor of the Mexican State of Coahuila, who made extensive explorations of Texas in 1689. By the beginning of the last century there were several Spanish settlements and _presidios_ (garrisons) in what was to become, more than a hundred years later, the largest of the United States. The Spanish colonization of Colorado was not extensive, and they had no towns north of the Arkansas River; but even in settling our Centennial State they were half a century ahead of us, as they were some centuries ahead in finding it. In California the Spaniards were very active. For a long time there were minor expeditions which were unsuccessful. Then the Franciscans came in 1769 to San Diego Bay, landed on the bare sands where a million-dollar American hotel stands to-day, and at once began to teach the Indians, to plant olive-orchards and vineyards, and to rear the noble stone churches so beautifully described by the author of "Ramona," which shall remain as monuments of a sublime faith long after the race that built them has gone from off the face of the earth. California had a long line of Spanish governors--the last of whom, brave, courtly, lovable old Pio Pico, has just died--before our acquisition of that garden-State of States. The Spaniards discovered gold there centuries, and were mining it a decade, before an "American" dreamed of the precious deposit which was to make such a mark on civilization, and had found the rich placer-fields of New Mexico a decade earlier yet. In Arizona, Father Franciscus Eusebius Kuehne,[8] a Jesuit of Austrian birth but under Spanish auspices, was first to establish the missions on the Gila River,--from 1689 to 1717 (the date of his death). He made at least four appalling journeys on foot from Sonora to the Gila, and descended that stream to its junction with the Colorado. It would be extremely interesting, did space permit, to follow fully the wanderings and achievements of that class of pioneers of America who have left such a wonderful impress on the whole Southwest,--the Spanish missionaries. Their zeal and their heroism were infinite. No desert was too frightful for them, no danger too appalling. Alone, unarmed, they traversed the most forbidding lands and braved the most deadly savages, and left in the lives of the Indians such a proud monument as mailed explorers and conquering armies never made. * * * * * The foregoing is a running summary of the early pioneering of America,--the only pioneering for more than a century, and the greatest pioneering for still another century. As for the great and wonderful work at last done by our own blood, not only in conquering part of a continent, but in making a mighty nation, the reader needs no help from me to enable him to comprehend it,--it has already found its due place in history. To record all the heroisms of the Spanish pioneers would fill, not this book, but a library. I have deemed it best, in such an enormous field, to draw the condensed outline, as has now been done; and then to illustrate it by giving in detail a few specimens out of the host of heroisms. I have already given a hint of how many conquests and explorations and dangers there were; and now I wish to show by fair "sample pages" what Spanish conquest and exploration and endurance really were. FOOTNOTES: [7] Pronounced Mish-tón. [8] Often misspelled Kino. II. SPECIMEN PIONEERS. I. THE FIRST AMERICAN TRAVELLER. The achievements of the explorer are among the most important, as they are among the most fascinating, of human heroisms. The qualities of mind and body necessary to his task are rare and admirable. He should have many sides and be strong in each,--the rounded man that Nature meant man to be. His body need not be as strong as Samson's, nor his mind as Napoleon's, nor his heart the most fully developed heart on earth; but mind, heart, and body he needs, and each in the measure of a strong man. There is hardly another calling in which every muscle, so to speak, of his threefold nature will be more constantly or more evenly called into play. It is a curious fact that some of the very greatest of human achievements have come about by chance. Many among the most important discoveries in the history of mankind have been made by men who were not seeking the great truth they found. Science is the result not only of study, but of precious accidents; and this is as true of history. It is an interesting study in itself,--the influence which happy blunders and unintended happenings have had upon civilization. In exploration, as in invention, accident has played its important part. Some of the most valuable explorations have been made by men who had no more idea of being explorers than they had of inventing a railroad to the moon; and it is a striking fact that the first inland exploration of America, and the two most wonderful journeys in it, were not only accidents, but the crowning misfortunes and disappointments of the men who had hoped for very different things. Exploration, intended or involuntary, has not only achieved great results for civilization, but in the doing has scored some of the highest feats of human heroism. America in particular, perhaps, has been the field of great and remarkable journeys; but the two men who made the most astounding journeys in America are still almost unheard of among us. They are heroes whose names are as Greek to the vast majority of Americans, albeit they are men in whom Americans particularly should take deep and admiring interest. They were Alvar Nuñez Cabeza de Vaca, the first American traveller; and Andrés Docampo, the man who walked farther on this continent than any other. [Illustration: WHERE ZALDIVAR STORMED THE CITY. _See page 135._] In a world so big and old and full of great deeds as this, it is extremely difficult to say of any one man, "He was the greatest" this or that; and even in the matter of journeys there have been bewilderingly many great ones, of the most wonderful of which we have heard least. As explorers we cannot give Vaca and Docampo great rank; though the latter's explorations were not contemptible, and Vaca's were of great importance. But as physical achievements the journeys of these neglected heroes can safely be said to be without parallel. They were the most wonderful walks ever made by man. Both men made their records in America, and each made most of his journey in what is now the United States. Cabeza de Vaca was the first European really to penetrate the then "Dark Continent" of North America, as he was by centuries the first to _cross_ the continent. His nine years of wandering on foot, unarmed, naked, starving, among wild beasts and wilder men, with no other attendants than three as ill-fated comrades, gave the world its first glimpse of the United States inland, and led to some of the most stirring and important achievements connected with its early history. Nearly a century before the Pilgrim Fathers planted their noble commonwealth on the edge of Massachusetts, seventy-five years before the first English settlement was made in the New World, and more than a generation before there was a single Caucasian settler of _any_ blood within the area of the present United States, Vaca and his gaunt followers had trudged across this unknown land. It is a long way back to those days. Henry VIII. was then king of England, and sixteen rulers have since occupied that throne. Elizabeth, the Virgin Queen, was not born when Vaca started on his appalling journey, and did not begin to reign until twenty years after he had ended it. It was fifty years before the birth of Captain John Smith, the founder of Virginia; a generation before the birth of Shakspere, and two and a half generations before Milton. Henry Hudson, the famous explorer for whom one of our chief rivers is named, was not yet born. Columbus himself had been dead less than twenty-five years, and the conqueror of Mexico had seventeen yet to live. It was sixty years before the world had heard of such a thing as a newspaper, and the best geographers still thought it possible to sail through America to Asia. There was not a white man in North America above the middle of Mexico; nor had one gone two hundred miles inland in this continental wilderness, of which the world knew almost less than we know now of the moon. The name of Cabeza de Vaca may seem to us a curious one. It means "Head of a Cow." But this quaint family name was an honorable one in Spain, and had a brave winning: it was earned at the battle of Naves de Tolosa in the thirteenth century, one of the decisive engagements of all those centuries of war with the Moors. Alvar's grandfather was also a man of some note, being the conqueror of the Canary Islands. Alvar was born in Xeres[9] de la Frontera, Spain, toward the last of the fifteenth century. Of his early life we know little, except that he had already won some consideration when in 1527, a mature man, he came to the New World. In that year we find him sailing from Spain as treasurer and sheriff of the expedition of six hundred men with which Panfilo de Narvaez intended to conquer and colonize the Flowery Land, discovered a decade before by Ponce de Leon. They reached Santo Domingo, and thence sailed to Cuba. On Good Friday, 1528, ten months after leaving Spain, they reached Florida, and landed at what is now named Tampa Bay. Taking formal possession of the country for Spain, they set out to explore and conquer the wilderness. At Santo Domingo shipwreck and desertion had already cost them heavily, and of the original six hundred men there were but three hundred and forty-five left. No sooner had they reached Florida than the most fearful misfortunes began, and with every day grew worse. Food there was almost none; hostile Indians beset them on every hand; and the countless rivers, lakes, and swamps made progress difficult and dangerous. The little army was fast thinning out under war and starvation, and plots were rife among the survivors. They were so enfeebled that they could not even get back to their vessels. Struggling through at last to the nearest point on the coast, far west of Tampa Bay, they decided that their only hope was to build boats and try to coast to the Spanish settlements in Mexico. Five rude boats were made with great toil; and the poor wretches turned westward along the coast of the Gulf. Storms scattered the boats, and wrecked one after the other. Scores of the haggard adventurers were drowned, Narvaez among them; and scores dashed upon an inhospitable shore perished by exposure and starvation. The living were forced to subsist upon the dead. Of the five boats, three had gone down with all on board; of the eighty men who escaped the wreck but fifteen were still alive. All their arms and clothing were at the bottom of the Gulf. The survivors were now on Mal Hado, "the Isle of Misfortune." We know no more of its location than that it was west of the mouth of the Mississippi. Their boats had crossed that mighty current where it plunges out into the Gulf, and theirs were the first European eyes to see even this much of the Father of Waters. The Indians of the island, who had no better larder than roots, berries, and fish, treated their unfortunate guests as generously as was in their power; and Vaca has written gratefully of them. In the spring his thirteen surviving companions determined to escape. Vaca was too sick to walk, and they abandoned him to his fate. Two other sick men, Oviedo and Alaniz, were also left behind; and the latter soon perished. It was a pitiable plight in which Vaca now found himself. A naked skeleton, scarce able to move, deserted by his friends and at the mercy of savages, it is small wonder that, as he tells us, his heart sank within him. But he was one of the men who never "let go." A constant soul held up the poor, worn body; and as the weather grew less rigorous, Vaca slowly recovered from his sickness. For nearly six years he lived an incomparably lonely life, bandied about from tribe to tribe of Indians, sometimes as a slave, and sometimes only a despised outcast. Oviedo fled from some danger, and he was never heard of afterward; Vaca faced it, and lived. That his sufferings were almost beyond endurance cannot be doubted. Even when he was not the victim of brutal treatment, he was the worthless encumbrance, the useless interloper, among poor savages who lived the most miserable and precarious lives. That they did not kill him speaks well for their humane kindness. The thirteen who escaped had fared even worse. They had fallen into cruel hands, and all had been slain except three, who were reserved for the harder fate of slaves. These three were Andrés Dorantes, a native of Bejar; Alonzo del Castillo Maldonado, a native of Salamanca; and the negro Estévanico, who was born in Azamor, Africa. These three and Vaca were all that were now left of the gallant four hundred and fifty men (among whom we do not count the deserters at Santo Domingo) who had sailed with such high hopes from Spain, in 1527, to conquer a corner of the New World,--four naked, tortured, shivering shadows; and even they were separated, though they occasionally heard vaguely of one another, and made vain attempts to come together. It was not until September, 1534 (nearly seven years later), that Dorantes, Castillo, Estévanico, and Vaca were reunited; and the spot where they found this happiness was somewhere in eastern Texas, west of the Sabine River. But Vaca's six years of loneliness and suffering unspeakable had not been in vain,--for he had acquired, unknowingly, the key to safety; and amid all those horrors, and without dreaming of its significance, he had stumbled upon the very strange and interesting clew which was to save them all. Without it, all four would have perished in the wilderness, and the world would never have known their end. While they were still on the Isle of Misfortune, a proposition had been made which seemed the height of the ridiculous. "In that isle," says Vaca, "they wished to make us doctors, without examining us or asking our titles; for they themselves cure sickness by blowing upon the sick one. With that blowing, and with their hands, they remove from him the disease; and they bade us do the same, so as to be of some use to them. We laughed at this, saying that they were making fun, and that we knew not how to heal; and for that they took away our food, till we should do that which they said. And seeing our stubbornness, an Indian said to me that I did not understand; for that it did no good for one to know how, because the very stones and other things of the field have power to heal,... and that we, who were men, must certainly have greater power." This was a characteristic thing which the old Indian said, and a key to the remarkable superstitions of his race. But the Spaniards, of course, could not yet understand. Presently the savages removed to the mainland. They were always in abject poverty, and many of them perished from starvation and from the exposures incident to their wretched existence. For three months in the year they had "nothing but shell-fish and very bad water;" and at other times only poor berries and the like; and their year was a series of wanderings hither and thither in quest of these scant and unsatisfactory foods. It was an important fact that Vaca was utterly useless to the Indians. He could not serve them as a warrior; for in his wasted condition the bow was more than he could master. As a hunter he was equally unavailable; for, as he himself says, "it was impossible for him to trail animals." Assistance in carrying water or fuel or anything of the sort was impossible; for he was a man, and his Indian masters could not let a man do woman's work. So, among these starveling nomads, this man who could not help but must be fed was a real burden; and the only wonder is that they did not kill him. Under these circumstances, Vaca began to wander about. His indifferent captors paid little attention to his movements, and by degrees he got to making long trips north, and up and down the coast. In time he began to see a chance for trading, in which the Indians encouraged him, glad to find their "white elephant" of some use at last. From the northern tribes he brought down skins and _almagre_ (the red clay so indispensable to the savages for face-paint), flakes of flint to make arrow-heads, hard reeds for the shafts, and tassels of deer-hair dyed red. These things he readily exchanged among the coast tribes for shells and shell-beads, and the like,--which, in turn, were in demand among his northern customers. On account of their constant wars, the Indians could net venture outside their own range; so this safe go-between trader was a convenience which they encouraged. So far as he was concerned, though the life was still one of great suffering, he was constantly gaining knowledge which would be useful to him in his never-forgotten plan of getting back to the world. These lonely trading expeditions of his covered thousands of miles on foot through the trackless wildernesses; and through them his aggregate wanderings were much greater than those of either of his fellow-prisoners. It was during these long and awful tramps that Cabeza de Vaca had one particularly interesting experience. He was the first European who saw the great American bison, the buffalo, which has become practically extinct in the last decade, but once roamed the plains in vast hordes,--and first by many years. He saw them and ate their meat in the Red River country of Texas, and has left us a description of the "hunchback cows." None of his companions ever saw one, for in their subsequent journey together the four Spaniards passed south of the buffalo-country. Meanwhile, as I have noted, the forlorn and naked trader had had the duties of a doctor forced upon him. He did not understand what this involuntary profession might do for him,--he was simply pushed into it at first, and followed it not from choice, but to keep from having trouble. He was "good for nothing but to be a medicine-man." He had learned the peculiar treatment of the aboriginal wizards, though not their fundamental ideas. The Indians still look upon sickness as a "being possessed;" and their idea of doctoring is not so much to cure disease, as to exorcise the bad spirits which cause it. This is done by a sleight-of-hand rigmarole, even to this day. The medicine-man would suck the sore spot, and pretend thus to extract a stone or thorn which was supposed to have been the cause of trouble; and the patient was "cured." Cabeza de Vaca began to "practise medicine" after the Indian fashion. He says himself, "I have tried these things, and they were very successful." When the four wanderers at last came together after their long separation,--in which all had suffered untold horrors,--Vaca had then, though still indefinitely, the key of hope. Their first plan was to escape from their present captors. It took ten months to effect it, and meantime their distress was great, as it had been constantly for so many years. At times they lived on a daily ration of two handfuls of wild peas and a little water. Vaca relates what a godsend it seemed when he was allowed to scrape hides for the Indians; he carefully saved the scrapings, which served him as food for days. They had no clothing, and there was no shelter; and constant exposure to heat and cold and the myriad thorns of that country caused them to "shed their skin like snakes." At last, in August, 1535, the four sufferers escaped to a tribe called the Avavares. But now a new career began to open to them. That his companions might not be as useless as he had been, Cabeza de Vaca had instructed them in the "arts" of Indian medicine-men; and all four began to put their new and strange profession into practice. To the ordinary Indian charms and incantations these humble Christians added fervent prayers to the true God. It was a sort of sixteenth-century "faith-cure;" and naturally enough, among such superstitious patients it was very effective. Their multitudinous cures the amateur but sincere doctors, with touching humility, attributed entirely to God; but what great results these might have upon their own fortunes now began to dawn upon them. From wandering, naked, starving, despised beggars, and slaves to brutal savages, they suddenly became personages of note,--still paupers and sufferers, as were all their patients, but paupers of mighty power. There is no fairy tale more romantic than the career thenceforth of these poor, brave men walking painfully across a continent as masters and benefactors of all that host of wild people. Trudging on from tribe to tribe, painfully and slowly the white medicine-men crossed Texas and came close to our present New Mexico. It has long been reiterated by the closet historians that they entered New Mexico, and got even as far north as where Santa Fé now is. But modern scientific research has absolutely proved that they went on from Texas through Chihuahua and Sonora, and never saw an inch of New Mexico. With each new tribe the Spaniards paused awhile to heal the sick. Everywhere they were treated with the greatest kindness their poor hosts could give, and with religious awe. Their progress is a very valuable object-lesson, showing just how some Indian myths are formed: first, the successful medicine-man, who at his death or departure is remembered as a hero, then as a demigod, then as divinity. In the Mexican States they first found agricultural Indians, who dwelt in houses of sod and boughs, and had beans and pumpkins. These were the Jovas, a branch of the Pimas. Of the scores of tribes they had passed through in our present Southern States not one has been fully identified. They were poor, wandering creatures, and long ago disappeared from the earth. But in the Sierra Madre of Mexico they found superior Indians, whom we can recognize still. Here they found the men unclad, but the women "very honest in their dress,"--with cotton tunics of their own weaving, with half-sleeves, and a skirt to the knee; and over it a skirt of dressed deerskin reaching to the ground, and fastened in front with straps. They washed their clothing with a soapy root,--the _amole_, now similarly used by Indians and Mexicans throughout the Southwest. These people gave Cabeza de Vaca some turquoise, and five arrow-heads each chipped from a single emerald. In this village in southwestern Sonora the Spaniards stayed three days, living on split deer-hearts; whence they named it the "Town of Hearts." A day's march beyond they met an Indian wearing upon his necklace the buckle of a sword-belt and a horseshoe nail; and their hearts beat high at this first sign, in all their eight years' wandering, of the nearness of Europeans. The Indian told them that men with beards like their own had come from the sky and made war upon his people. The Spaniards were now entering Sinaloa, and found themselves in a fertile land of flowing streams. The Indians were in mortal fear; for two brutes of a class who were very rare among the Spanish conquerors (they were, I am glad to say, punished for their violation of the strict laws of Spain) were then trying to catch slaves. The soldiers had just left; but Cabeza de Vaca and Estévanico, with eleven Indians, hurried forward on their trail, and next day overtook four Spaniards, who led them to their rascally captain, Diego de Alcaráz. It was long before that officer could believe the wondrous story told by the naked, torn, shaggy, wild man; but at last his coldness was thawed, and he gave a certificate of the date and of the condition in which Vaca had come to him, and then sent back for Dorantes and Castillo. Five days later these arrived, accompanied by several hundred Indians. Alcaráz and his partner in crime, Cebreros, wished to enslave these aborigines; but Cabeza de Vaca, regardless of his own danger in taking such a stand, indignantly opposed the infamous plan, and finally forced the villains to abandon it. The Indians were saved; and in all their joy at getting back to the world, the Spanish wanderers parted with sincere regret from these simple-hearted friends. After a few days' hard travel they reached the post of Culiacan about the first of May, 1536, where they were warmly welcomed by the ill-fated hero Melchior Diaz. He led one of the earliest expeditions (in 1539) to the unknown north; and in 1540, on a second expedition across part of Arizona and into California, was accidentally killed. After a short rest the wanderers left for Compostela, then the chief town of the province of New Galicia,--itself a small journey of three hundred miles through a land swarming with hostile savages. At last they reached the City of Mexico in safety, and were received with great honor. But it was long before they could accustom themselves to eating the food and wearing the clothing of civilized people. The negro remained in Mexico. On the 10th of April, 1537, Cabeza de Vaca, Castillo, and Dorantes sailed for Spain, arriving in August. The chief hero never came back to North America, but we hear of Dorantes as being there in the following year. Their report of what they saw, and of the stranger countries to the north of which they had heard, had already set on foot the remarkable expeditions which resulted in the discovery of Arizona, New Mexico, our Indian Territory, Kansas, and Colorado, and brought about the building of the first European towns in the inland area of the United States. Estévanico was engaged with Fray Marcos in the discovery of New Mexico, and was slain by the Indians. Cabeza de Vaca, as a reward for his then unparalleled walk of much more than ten thousand miles in the unknown land, was made governor of Paraguay in 1540. He was not qualified for the place, and returned to Spain in disgrace. That he was not to blame, however, but was rather the victim of circumstances, is indicated by the fact that he was restored to favor and received a pension of two thousand ducats. He died in Seville at a good old age. FOOTNOTES: [9] Pronounced Hay-ress. II. THE GREATEST AMERICAN TRAVELLER. The student most familiar with history finds himself constantly astounded by the journeys of the Spanish Pioneers. If they had done nothing else in the New World, their walks alone were enough to earn them fame. Such a number of similar trips over such a wilderness were never heard of elsewhere. To comprehend those rides or tramps of thousands of miles, by tiny bands or single heroes, one must be familiar with the country traversed, and know something of the times when these exploits were performed. The Spanish chroniclers of the day do not dilate upon the difficulties and dangers: it is almost a pity that they had not been vain enough to "make more" of their obstacles. But however curt the narrative may be on these points, the obstacles were there and had to be overcome; and to this very day, after three centuries and a half have mitigated that wilderness which covered half a world, have tamed its savages, filled it with convenient stations, crossed it with plain roads, and otherwise removed ninety per cent of its terrors, such journeys as were looked upon as everyday matters by those hardy heroes would find few bold enough to undertake them. The only record at all comparable to that Spanish overrunning of the New World was the story of the California Argonauts of '49, who flocked across the great plains in the most remarkable shifting of population of which history knows; but even that was petty, so far as area, hardship, danger, and endurance went, beside the travels of the Pioneers. Thousand-mile marches through the deserts, or the still more fatal tropic forests, were too many to be even catalogued. It is one thing to follow a trail, and quite another to penetrate an absolutely trackless wilderness. A big, well-armed wagon-train is one thing, and a little squad on foot or on jaded horses quite another. A journey from a known point to a known point--both in civilization, though the wilderness lies between--is very different from a journey from somewhere, through the unknown, to nowhere; whose starting, course, and end are all untrodden and unguessed wilds. I have no desire to disparage the heroism of our Argonauts,--they made a record of which any nation should be proud; but they never had a chance to match the deeds of their brother-heroes of another tongue and another age. * * * * * The walk of Alvar Nuñez Cabeza de Vaca, the first American traveller, was surpassed by the achievement of the poor and forgotten soldier Andrés Docampo. Cabeza de Vaca tramped much more than ten thousand miles, but Docampo much over _twenty_ thousand, and under as fearful hardships. The explorations of Vaca were far more valuable to the world; yet neither of them set out with the intention of exploring. But Docampo did make a fearful walk voluntarily, and for a heroic purpose, which resulted in his later enormous achievement; while Vaca's was merely the heroism of a very uncommon man in escaping misfortune. Docampo's tramp lasted nine years; and though he left behind no book to relate his experiences, as did Vaca, the skeleton of his story as it remains to us is extremely characteristic and suggestive of the times, and recounts other heroism than that of the brave soldier. When Coronado first came to New Mexico in 1540, he brought four missionaries with his little army. Fray Marcos returned soon from Zuñi to Mexico, on account of his physical infirmities. Fray Juan de la Cruz entered earnestly into mission-work among the Pueblos; and when Coronado and his whole force abandoned the Territory, he insisted upon remaining behind among his dusky wards at Tiguex (Bernalillo). He was a very old man, and fully expected to give up his life as soon as his countrymen should be gone; and so it was. He was murdered by the Indians about the 25th of November, 1542. The lay-brother, Fray Luis Descalona, also a very old man, chose for his parish the pueblo of Tshiquite (Pecos), and remained there after the Spaniards had left the country. He built himself a little hut outside the great fortified town of the savages, and there taught those who would listen to him, and tended his little flock of sheep,--the remnants of those Coronado had brought, which were the first that ever entered the present United States. The people came to love him sincerely,--all save the wizards, who hated him for his influence; and these finally murdered him, and ate the sheep. Fray Juan de Padilla, the youngest of the four missionaries, and the first martyr on the soil of Kansas, was a native of Andalusia, Spain, and a man of great energy both mentally and physically. He himself made no mean record as a foot-traveller, and our professional pedestrians would stand aghast if confronted with the thousands of desert miles this tireless apostle to the Indians plodded in the wild Southwest. He had already held very important positions in Mexico, but gladly gave up his honors to become a poor missionary among the savages of the unknown north. Having walked with Coronado's force from Mexico across the deserts to the Seven Cities of Cibola, Fray Padilla trudged to Moqui with Pedro de Tobar and his squad of twenty men. Then plodding back to Zuñi, he soon set forth again with Hernando de Alvarado and twenty men, on a tramp of about a thousand miles more. He was in this expedition with the first Europeans that ever saw the lofty town of Acoma, the Rio Grande within what is now New Mexico, and the great pueblo of Pecos. In the spring of 1541, when the handful of an army was all gathered at Bernalillo, and Coronado set out to chase the fatal golden myth of the Quivira, Fray Padilla accompanied him. In that march of one hundred and four days across the barren plains before they reached the Quiviras in northeastern Kansas, the explorers suffered tortures for water and sometimes for food. The treacherous guide misled them, and they wandered long in a circle, covering a fearful distance,--probably over fifteen hundred miles. The expedition was mounted, but in those days the humble _padres_ went afoot. Finding only disappointment, the explorers marched all the way back to Bernalillo,--though by a less circuitous route,--and Fray Padilla came with them. But he had already decided that among these hostile, roving, buffalo-living Sioux and other Indians of the plains should be his field of labor; and when the Spanish evacuated New Mexico, he remained. With him were the soldier Andrés Docampo, two young men of Michuacan, Mexico, named Lucas and Sebastian, called the Donados, and a few Mexican Indian boys. In the fall of 1542 the little party left Bernalillo on its thousand-mile march. Andrés alone was mounted; the missionary and the Indian boys trudged along the sandy way afoot. They went by way of the pueblo of Pecos, thence into and across a corner of what is now Colorado, and nearly the whole length of the great State of Kansas. At last, after a long and weary tramp, they reached the temporary lodge-villages of the Quivira Indians. Coronado had planted a large cross at one of these villages, and here Fray Padilla established his mission. In time the hostile savages lost their distrust, and "loved him as a father." At last he decided to move on to another nomad tribe, where there seemed greater need of his presence. It was a dangerous step; for not only might the strangers receive him murderously, but there was equal risk in leaving his present flock. The superstitious Indians were loath to lose the presence of such a great medicine-man as they believed the Fray to be, and still more loath to have such a benefit transferred to their enemies,--for all these roving tribes were at war with one another. Nevertheless, Fray Padilla determined to go, and set out with his little retinue. One day's journey from the villages of the Quiviras, they met a band of Indians out on the war-path. Seeing the approach of the savages, the good Father thought first for his companions. Andrés still had his horse, and the boys were fleet runners. "Flee, my children!" cried Fray Padilla. "Save yourselves, for me ye cannot help, and why should all die together? Run!" They at first refused, but the missionary insisted; and as they were helpless against the savages, they finally obeyed and fled. This may not seem, at first thought, the most heroic thing to do, but an understanding of their time exonerates them. Not only were they humble men used to give the good priests implicit obedience, but there was another and a more potent motive. In those days of earnest faith, martyrdom was looked upon as not only a heroism but a prophecy; it was believed to indicate new triumphs for Christianity, and it was a duty to carry back to the world the news. If they stayed and were slain with him,--as I am sure these faithful followers were not physically afraid to do,--the lesson and glory of his martyrdom would be lost to the world. Fray Juan knelt on the broad prairie and commended his soul to God; and even as he prayed, the Indians riddled him with arrows. They dug a pit and cast therein the body of the first Kansas martyr, and piled upon it a great pile of stones. This was in the year 1542. Andrés Docampo and the boys made their escape at the time, but were soon captured by other Indians and kept as slaves for ten months. They were beaten and starved, and obliged to perform the most laborious and menial tasks. At last, after long planning and many unsuccessful attempts, they escaped from their barbarous captors. Then for more than eight years they wandered on foot, unarmed and alone, up and down the thirsty and inhospitable plains, enduring incredible privations and dangers. At last, after those thousands of footsore miles, they walked into the Mexican town of Tampico, on the great Gulf. They were received as those come back from the dead. We lack the details of that grim and matchless walk, but it is historically established. For nine years these poor fellows zigzagged the deserts afoot, beginning in northeastern Kansas and coming out far down in Mexico. Sebastian died soon after his arrival in the Mexican State of Culiacan; the hardships of the trip had been too much for even his strong young body. His brother Lucas became a missionary among the Indians of Zacatecas, Mexico, and carried on his work among them for many years, dying at last in a ripe old age. As for the brave soldier Docampo, soon after his return to civilization he disappeared from view. Perhaps old Spanish documents may yet be discovered which will throw some light on his subsequent life and his fate. III. THE WAR OF THE ROCK. Some of the most characteristic heroisms and hardships of the Pioneers in our domain cluster about the wondrous rock of Acoma, the strange sky-city of the Quéres[10] Pueblos. All the Pueblo cities were built in positions which Nature herself had fortified,--a necessity of the times, since they were surrounded by outnumbering hordes of the deadliest warriors in history; but Acoma was most secure of all. In the midst of a long valley, four miles wide, itself lined by almost insurmountable precipices, towers a lofty rock, whose top is about seventy acres in area, and whose walls, three hundred and fifty-seven feet high, are not merely perpendicular, but in most places even overhanging. Upon its summit was perched--and is to-day--the dizzy city of the Quéres. The few paths to the top--whereon a misstep will roll the victim to horrible death, hundreds of feet below--are by wild, precipitous clefts, at the head of which one determined man, with no other weapons than stones, could almost hold at bay an army. This strange aerial town was first heard of by Europeans in 1539, when Fray Marcos, the discoverer of New Mexico, was told by the people of Cibola of the great rock fortress of Hákuque,--their name for Acoma, which the natives themselves called Ah'ko. In the following year Coronado visited it with his little army, and has left us an accurate account of its wonders. These first Europeans were well received there; and the superstitious natives, who had never seen a beard or a white face before, took the strangers for gods. But it was more than half a century later yet before the Spaniards sought a foothold there. When Oñate entered New Mexico in 1598, he met no immediate resistance whatever; for his force of four hundred people, including two hundred men-at-arms, was large enough to awe the Indians. They were naturally hostile to these invaders of their domain; but finding themselves well treated by the strangers, and fearful of open war against these men with hard clothes, who killed from afar with their thunder-sticks, the Pueblos awaited results. The Quéres, Tigua, and Jemez branches formally submitted to Spanish rule, and took the oath of allegiance to the Crown by their representative men gathered at the pueblo of Guipuy (now Santo Domingo); as also did the Tanos, Picuries, Tehuas, and Taos, at a similar conference at the pueblo of San Juan, in September, 1598. At this ready submission Oñate was greatly encouraged; and he decided to visit all the principal pueblos in person, to make them securer subjects of his sovereign. He had founded already the first town in New Mexico and the second in the United States,--San Gabriel de los Españoles, where Chamita stands to-day. Before starting on this perilous journey, he despatched Juan de Zaldivar, his _maestro de campo_,[11] with fifty men to explore the vast, unknown plains to the east, and then to follow him. Oñate and a small force left the lonely little Spanish colony,--more than a thousand miles from any other town of civilized men,--October 6, 1598. First he marched to the pueblos in the great plains of the Salt Lakes, east of the Manzano mountains,--a thirsty journey of more than two hundred miles. Then returning to the pueblo of Puaray (opposite the present Bernalillo), he turned westward. On the 27th of the same month he camped at the foot of the lofty cliffs of Acoma. The _principales_ (chief men) of the town came down from the rock, and took the solemn pledge of allegiance to the Spanish Crown. They were thoroughly warned of the deep importance and meaning of this step, and that if they violated their oath they would be regarded and treated as rebels against his Majesty; but they fully pledged themselves to be faithful vassals. They were very friendly, and repeatedly invited the Spanish commander and his men to visit their sky-city. In truth, they had had spies at the conferences in Santo Domingo and San Juan, and had decided that the most dangerous man among the invaders was Oñate himself. If _he_ could be slain, they thought the rest of the pale strangers might be easily routed. But Oñate knew nothing of their intended treachery; and on the following day he and his handful of men--leaving only a guard with the horses--climbed one of the breathless stone "ladders," and stood in Acoma. The officious Indians piloted them hither and yon, showing them the strange terraced houses of many stories in height, the great reservoirs in the eternal rock, and the dizzy brink which everywhere surrounded the eyrie of a town. At last they brought the Spaniards to where a huge ladder, projecting far aloft through a trapdoor in the roof of a large house, indicated the _estufa_, or sacred council-chamber. The visitors mounted to the roof by a smaller ladder, and the Indians tried to have Oñate descend through the trapdoor. But the Spanish governor, noting that all was dark in the room below, and suddenly becoming suspicious, declined to enter; and as his soldiers were all about, the Indians did not insist. After a short visit in the pueblo the Spaniards descended the rock to their camp, and thence marched away on their long and dangerous journey to Moqui and Zuñi. That swift flash of prudence in Oñate's mind saved the history of New Mexico; for in that dark _estufa_ was lying a band of armed warriors. Had he entered the room, he would have been slain at once; and his death was to be the signal for a general onslaught upon the Spaniards, all of whom must have perished in the unequal fight. Returning from his march of exploration through the trackless and deadly plains, Juan de Zaldivar left San Gabriel on the 18th of November, to follow his commander-in-chief. He had but thirty men. Reaching the foot of the City in the Sky on the 4th of December, he was very kindly received by the Acomas, who invited him up into their town. Juan was a good soldier, as well as a gallant one, and well used to the tricks of Indian warfare; but for the first time in his life--and the last--he now let himself be deceived. Leaving half his little force at the foot of the cliff to guard the camp and horses, he himself went up with sixteen men. The town was so full of wonders, the people so cordial, that the visitors soon forgot whatever suspicions they may have had; and by degrees they scattered hither and yon to see the strange sights. The natives had been waiting only for this; and when the war-chief gave the wild whoop, men, women, and children seized rocks and clubs, bows and flint-knives, and fell furiously upon the scattered Spaniards. It was a ghastly and an unequal fight the winter sun looked down upon that bitter afternoon in the cliff city. Here and there, with back against the wall of one of those strange houses, stood a gray-faced, tattered, bleeding soldier, swinging his clumsy flintlock club-like, or hacking with desperate but unavailing sword at the dark, ravenous mob that hemmed him, while stones rained upon his bent visor, and clubs and cruel flints sought him from every side. There was no coward blood among that doomed band. They sold their lives dearly; in front of every one lay a sprawling heap of dead. But one by one the howling wave of barbarians drowned each grim, silent fighter, and swept off to swell the murderous flood about the next. Zaldivar himself was one of the first victims; and two other officers, six soldiers, and two servants fell in that uneven combat. The five survivors--Juan Tabaro, who was _alguacil-mayor_, with four soldiers--got at last together, and with superhuman strength fought their way to the edge of the cliff, bleeding from many wounds. But their savage foes still pressed them; and being too faint to carve their way to one of the "ladders," in the wildness of desperation the five sprang over the beetling cliff. Never but once was recorded so frightful a leap as that of Tabaro and his four companions. Even if we presume that they had been so fortunate as to reach the very lowest point of the rock, it could not have been less than _one hundred and fifty feet_! And yet only one of the five was killed by this inconceivable fall; the remaining four, cared for by their terrified companions in the camp, all finally recovered. It would be incredible, were it not established by absolute historical proof. It is probable that they fell upon one of the mounds of white sand which the winds had drifted against the foot of the cliffs in places. Fortunately, the victorious savages did not attack the little camp. The survivors still had their horses, of which unknown brutes the Indians had a great fear. For several days the fourteen soldiers and their four half-dead companions camped under the overhanging cliff, where they were safe from missiles from above, hourly expecting an onslaught from the savages. They felt sure that this massacre of their comrades was but the prelude to a general uprising of the twenty-five or thirty thousand Pueblos; and regardless of the danger to themselves, they decided at last to break up into little bands, and separate,--some to follow their commander on his lonely march to Moqui, and warn him of his danger; and others to hasten over the hundreds of arid miles to San Gabriel and the defence of its women and babes, and to the missionaries who had scattered among the savages. This plan of self-devotion was successfully carried out. The little bands of three and four apiece bore the news to their countrymen; and by the end of the year 1598 all the surviving Spaniards in New Mexico were safely gathered in the hamlet of San Gabriel. The little town was built pueblo-fashion, in the shape of a hollow square. In the Plaza within were planted the rude _pedreros_--small howitzers which fired a ball of stone--to command the gates; and upon the roofs of the three-story adobe houses the brave women watched by day, and the men with their heavy flintlocks all through the winter nights, to guard against the expected attack. But the Pueblos rested on their arms. They were waiting to see what Oñate would do with Acoma, before they took final measures against the strangers. It was a most serious dilemma in which Oñate now found himself. One need not have known half so much about the Indian character as did this gray, quiet Spaniard, to understand that he must signally punish the rebels for the massacre of his men, or abandon his colony and New Mexico altogether. If such an outrage went unpunished, the emboldened Pueblos would destroy the last Spaniard. On the other hand, how could he hope to conquer that impregnable fortress of rock? He had less than two hundred men; and only a small part of these could be spared for the campaign, lest the other Pueblos in their absence should rise and annihilate San Gabriel and its people. In Acoma there were full three hundred warriors, reinforced by at least a hundred Navajo braves. But there was no alternative. The more he reflected and counselled with his officers, the more apparent it became that the only salvation was to capture the Quéres Gibraltar; and the plan was decided upon. Oñate naturally desired to lead in person this forlornest of forlorn hopes; but there was one who had even a better claim to the desperate honor than the captain-general,--and that one was the forgotten hero Vicente de Zaldivar, brother of the murdered Juan. He was _sargento-mayor_[12] of the little army; and when he came to Oñate and begged to be given command of the expedition against Acoma, there was no saying him nay. On the 12th of January, 1599, Vicente de Zaldivar left San Gabriel at the head of seventy men. Only a few of them had even the clumsy flintlocks of the day; the majority were not _arquebusiers_ but _piquiers_, armed only with swords and lances, and clad in jackets of quilted cotton or battered mail. One small _pedrero_, lashed upon the back of a horse, was the only "artillery." Silently and sternly the little force made its arduous march. All knew that impregnable rock, and few cherished an expectation of returning from so desperate a mission; but there was no thought of turning back. On the afternoon of the eleventh day the tired soldiers passed the last intervening _mesa_,[13] and came in sight of Acoma. The Indians, warned by their runners, were ready to receive them. The whole population, with the Navajo allies, were under arms, on the housetops and the commanding cliffs. Naked savages, painted black, leaped from crag to crag, screeching defiance and heaping insults upon the Spaniards. The medicine-men, hideously disguised, stood on projecting pinnacles, beating their drums and scattering curses and incantations to the winds; and all the populace joined in derisive howls and taunts. Zaldivar halted his little band as close to the foot of the cliff as he could come without danger. The indispensable notary stepped from the ranks, and at the blast of the trumpet proceeded to read at the top of his lungs the formal summons in the name of the king of Spain to surrender. Thrice he shouted through the summons; but each time his voice was drowned by the howls and shrieks of the enraged savages, and a hail of stones and arrows fell dangerously near. Zaldivar had desired to secure the surrender of the pueblo, demand the delivery to him of the ringleaders in the massacre, and take them back with him to San Gabriel for official trial and punishment, without harm to the other people of Acoma; but the savages, secure in their grim fortress, mocked the merciful appeal. It was clear that Acoma must be stormed. The Spaniards camped on the bare sands and passed the night--made hideous by the sounds of a monster war-dance in the town--in gloomy plans for the morrow. FOOTNOTES: [10] Pronounced Káy-ress. [11] Commander in the field: equivalent to our colonel. [12] Equivalent to lieutenant-colonel. [13] Huge "table" of rock. IV. THE STORMING OF THE SKY-CITY. At daybreak, on the morning of January 22, Zaldivar gave the signal for the attack; and the main body of the Spaniards began firing their few arquebuses, and making a desperate assault at the north end of the great rock, there absolutely impregnable. The Indians, crowded along the cliffs above, poured down a rain of missiles; and many of the Spaniards were wounded. Meanwhile twelve picked men, who had hidden during the night under the overhanging cliff which protected them alike from the fire and the observation of the Indians, were crawling stealthily around under the precipice, dragging the _pedrero_ by ropes. Most of these twelve were arquebusiers; and besides the weight of the ridiculous little cannon, they had their ponderous flintlocks and their clumsy armor,--poor helps for scaling heights which the unencumbered athlete finds difficult. Pursuing their toilsome way unobserved, pulling one another and then the _pedrero_ up the ledges, they reached at last the top of a great outlying pinnacle of rock, separated from the main cliff of Acoma by a narrow but awful chasm. Late in the afternoon they had their howitzer trained upon the town; and the loud report, as its cobble-stone ball flew into Acoma, signalled the main body at the north end of the _mesa_ that the first vantage-ground had been safely gained, and at the same time warned the savages of danger from a new quarter. That night little squads of Spaniards climbed the great precipices which wall the trough-like valley on east and west, cut down small pines, and with infinite labor dragged the logs down the cliffs, across the valley, and up the butte on which the twelve were stationed. About a score of men were left to guard the horses at the north end of the _mesa_; and the rest of the force joined the twelve, hiding behind the crags of their rock-tower. Across the chasm the Indians were lying in crevices, or behind rocks, awaiting the attack. At daybreak of the 23d, a squad of picked men at a given signal rushed from their hiding-places with a log on their shoulders, and by a lucky cast lodged its farther end on the opposite brink of the abyss. Out dashed the Spaniards at their heels, and began balancing across that dizzy "bridge" in the face of a volley of stones and arrows. A very few had crossed, when one in his excitement caught the rope and pulled the log across after him. It was a fearful moment. There were less than a dozen Spaniards thus left standing alone on the brink of Acoma, cut off from their companions by a gulf hundreds of feet deep, and surrounded by swarming savages. The Indians, sallying from their refuge, fell instantly upon them on every hand. As long as the Spanish soldier could keep the Indians at a distance, even his clumsy firearms and inefficient armor gave an advantage; but at such close quarters these very things were a fatal impediment by their weight and clumsiness. Now it seemed as if the previous Acoma massacre were to be repeated, and the cut-off Spaniards to be hacked to pieces; but at this very crisis a deed of surpassing personal valor saved them and the cause of Spain in New Mexico. A slender, bright-faced young officer, a college boy who was a special friend and favorite of Oñate, sprang from the crowd of dismayed Spaniards on the farther bank, who dared not fire into that indiscriminate jostle of friend and foe, and came running like a deer toward the chasm. As he reached its brink his lithe body gathered itself, sprang into the air like a bird, and cleared the gulf! Seizing the log, he thrust it back with desperate strength until his companions could grasp it from the farther brink; and over the restored bridge the Spanish soldiers poured to retrieve the day. Then began one of the most fearful hand-to-hand struggles in all American history. Outnumbered nearly ten to one, lost in a howling mob of savages who fought with the frenzy of despair, gashed with raw-edged knives, dazed with crushing clubs, pierced with bristling arrows, spent and faint and bleeding, Zaldivar and his hero-handful fought their way inch by inch, step by step, clubbing their heavy guns, hewing with their short swords, parrying deadly blows, pulling the barbed arrows from their quivering flesh. On, on, on they pressed, shouting the gallant war-cry of Santiago, driving the stubborn foe before them by still more stubborn valor, until at last the Indians, fully convinced that these were no human foes, fled to the refuge of their fort-like houses, and there was room for the reeling Spaniards to draw breath. Then thrice again the summons to surrender was duly read before the strange tenements, each near a thousand feet long, and looking like a flight of gigantic steps carved from one rock. Zaldivar even now wished to spare unnecessary bloodshed, and demanded only that the assassins of his brother and countrymen should be given up for punishment. All others who should surrender and become subjects of "Our Lord the King" should be well treated. But the dogged Indians, like wounded wolves in their den, stuck in their barricaded houses, and refused all terms of peace. The rock was captured, but the town remained. A pueblo is a fortress in itself; and now Zaldivar had to storm Acoma house by house, room by room. The little _pedrero_ was dragged in front of the first row of houses, and soon began to deliver its slow fire. As the adobe walls crumbled under the steady battering of the stone cannon-balls, they only formed great barricades of clay, which even our modern artillery would not pierce; and each had to be carried separately at the point of the sword. Some of the fallen houses caught fire from their own _fogones_;[14] and soon a stifling smoke hung over the town, from which issued the shrieks of women and babes and the defiant yells of the warriors. The humane Zaldivar made every effort to save the women and children, at great risk of self; but numbers perished beneath the falling walls of their own houses. [Illustration: RUINS OF CHURCH AT PECOS. _See page 161._] This fearful storming lasted until noon of January 24. Now and then bands of warriors made sorties, and tried to cut their way through the Spanish line. Many sprang in desperation over the cliff, and were dashed to pieces at its foot; and two Indians who made that incredible leap survived it as miraculously as had the four Spaniards in the earlier massacre, and made their escape. At last, at noon of the third day, the old men came forth to sue for mercy, which was at once granted. The moment they surrendered, their rebellion was forgotten and their treachery forgiven. There was no need of further punishment. The ringleaders in the murder of Zaldivar's brother were all dead, and so were nearly all the Navajo allies. It was the most bloody struggle New Mexico ever saw. In this three days' fight the Indians lost five hundred slain and many wounded; and of the surviving Spaniards not one but bore to his grave many a ghastly scar as mementos of Acoma. The town was so nearly destroyed that it had all to be rebuilt; and the infinite labor with which the patient people had brought up that cliff on their backs all the stones and timber and clay to build a many-storied town for nearly a thousand souls was all to be repeated. Their crops, too, and all other supplies, stored in dark little rooms of the terraced houses, had been destroyed, and they were in sore want. Truly a bitter punishment had been sent them by "those above" for their treachery to Juan de Zaldivar. When his men had sufficiently recovered from their wounds Vicente de Zaldivar, the leader of probably the most wonderful capture in history, marched victorious back to San Gabriel de los Españoles, taking with him eighty young Acoma girls, whom he sent to be educated by the nuns in Old Mexico. What a shout must have gone up from the gray walls of the little colony when its anxious watchers saw at last the wan and unexpected tatters of its little army pricking slowly homeward across the snows on jaded steeds! The rest of the Pueblos, who had been lying demure as cats, with claws sheathed, but every lithe muscle ready to spring, were fairly paralyzed with awe. They had looked to see the Spaniards defeated, if not crushed, at Acoma; and then a swift rising of all the tribes would have made short work of the remaining invaders. But now the impossible had happened! Ah'ko, the proud sky-city of the Quéres; Ah'ko, the cliff-girt and impregnable,--had fallen before the pale strangers! Its brave warriors had come to naught, its strong houses were a chaos of smoking ruins, its wealth was gone, its people nearly wiped from off the earth! What use to struggle against "such men of power,"--these strange wizards who must be precious to "those above," else they never could have such superhuman prowess? The strung sinews relaxed, and the great cat began to purr as though she had never dreamt of mousing. There was no more thought of a rebellion against the Spaniards; and the Indians even went out of their way to court the favor of these awesome strangers. They brought Oñate the news of the fall of Acoma several days before Zaldivar and his heroes got back to the little colony, and even were mean enough to deliver to him two Quéres refugees from that dread field who had sought shelter among them. Thenceforth Governor Oñate had no more trouble with the Pueblos. But Acoma itself seemed to take the lesson to heart less than any of them. Too crushed and broken to think of further war with its invincible foes, it still remained bitterly hostile to the Spaniards for full thirty years, until it was again conquered by a heroism as splendid as Zaldivar's, though in a far different way. In 1629 Fray Juan Ramirez, "the Apostle of Acoma," left Santa Fé alone to found a mission in that lofty home of fierce barbarians. An escort of soldiers was offered him, but he declined it, and started unaccompanied and on foot, with no other weapon than his crucifix. Tramping his footsore and dangerous way, he came after many days to the foot of the great "island" of rock, and began the ascent. As soon as the savages saw a stranger of the hated people, they rallied to the brink of the cliff and poured down a great flight of arrows, some of which pierced his robes. Just then a little girl of Acoma, who was standing on the edge of the cliff, grew frightened at the wild actions of her people, and losing her balance tumbled over the precipice. By a strange providence she fell but a few yards, and landed on a sandy ledge near the Fray, but out of sight of her people, who presumed that she had fallen the whole height of the cliff. Fray Juan climbed to her, and carried her unhurt to the top of the rock; and seeing this apparent miracle, the savages were disarmed, and received him as a good wizard. The good man dwelt alone there in Acoma for more than twenty years, loved by the natives as a father, and teaching his swarthy converts so successfully that in time many knew their catechism, and could read and write in Spanish. Besides, under his direction they built a large church with enormous labor. When he died, in 1664, the Acomas from being the fiercest Indians had become the gentlest in New Mexico, and were among the furthest advanced in civilization. But a few years after his death came the uprising of all the Pueblos; and in the long and disastrous wars which followed the church was destroyed, and the fruits of the brave Fray's work largely disappeared. In that rebellion Fray Lucas Maldonado, who was then the missionary to Acoma, was butchered by his flock on the 10th or 11th of August, 1680. In November, 1692, Acoma voluntarily surrendered to the reconqueror of New Mexico, Diego de Vargas. Within a few years, however, it rebelled again; and in August, 1696, Vargas marched against it, but was unable to storm the rock. But by degrees the Pueblos grew to lasting peace with the humane conquerors, and to merit the kindness which was steadily proffered them. The mission at Acoma was re-established about the year 1700; and there stands to-day a huge church which is one of the most interesting in the world, by reason of the infinite labor and patience which built it. The last attempt at a Pueblo uprising was in 1728; but Acoma was not implicated in it at all. The strange stone stairway by which Fray Juan Ramirez climbed first to his dangerous parish in the teeth of a storm of arrows, is used by the people of Acoma to this day, and is still called by them _el camino del padre_ (the path of the Father). FOOTNOTES: [14] Fireplaces. V. THE SOLDIER POET. But now to go back a little. The young officer who made that superb leap across the chasm at Acoma, pushed back the bridge-log, and so saved the lives of his comrades, and indirectly of all the Spanish in New Mexico, was Captain Gaspar Perez de Villagran.[15] He was highly educated, being a graduate of a Spanish university; young, ambitious, fearless, and athletic; a hero among the heroes of the New World, and a chronicler to whom we are greatly indebted. The six extant copies of the fat little parchment-bound book of his historical poem, in thirty-four heroic cantos, are each worth many times their weight in gold. It is a great pity that we could not have had a Villagran for each of the campaigns of the pioneers of America, to tell us more of the details of those superhuman dangers and hardships,--for most of the chroniclers of that day treat such episodes as briefly as we would a trip from New York to Brooklyn. The leaping of the chasm was not Captain Villagran's only connection with the bloody doings at Acoma in the winter of 1598-99. He came very near being a victim of the first massacre, in which Juan de Zaldivar and his men perished, and escaped that fate only to suffer hardships as fearful as death. In the fall of 1598 four soldiers deserted Oñate's little army at San Gabriel; and the governor sent Villagran, with three or four soldiers, to arrest them. It is hard to say what a sheriff nowadays would think if called upon to follow four desperadoes nearly a thousand miles across such a desert, and with a _posse_ so small. But Captain Villagran kept the trail of the deserters; and after a pursuit of at least nine hundred miles, overtook them in southern Chihuahua, Mexico. The deserters made a fierce resistance. Two were killed by the officers, and two escaped. Villagran left his little _posse_ there, and retraced his dangerous nine hundred miles alone. Arriving at the pueblo of Puaray, on the west bank of the Rio Grande, opposite Bernalillo, he learned that his commander Oñate had just marched west, on the perilous trip to Moqui, of which you have already heard. Villagran at once turned westward, and started alone to follow and overtake his countrymen. The trail was easily followed, for the Spaniards had the only horses within what is now the United States; but the lonely follower of it was beset with continual danger and hardship. He came in sight of Acoma just too late to witness the massacre of Juan de Zaldivar and the fearful fall of the five Spaniards. The survivors had already left the fatal spot; and when the natives saw a solitary Spaniard approaching, they descended from their rock citadel to surround and slay him. Villagran had no firearms, nothing but his sword, dagger, and shield. Although he knew nothing of the dreadful events which had just occurred, he became suspicious of the manner in which the savages were hemming him in; and though his horse was gaunt from its long journey, he spurred it to a gallant effort, and fought his way through the closing circle of Indians. He kept up his flight until well into the night, making a long circuit to avoid coming too near the town, and at last got down exhausted from his exhausted horse, and laid himself on the bare earth to rest. When he awoke it was snowing hard, and he was half buried under the cold, white blanket. Remounting, he pushed on in the darkness, to get as far as possible from Acoma ere daylight should betray him. Suddenly horse and rider fell into a deep pit, which the Indians had dug for a trap and covered with brush and earth. The fall killed the poor horse, and Villagran himself was badly hurt and stunned. At last, however, he managed to crawl out of the pit, to the great joy of his faithful dog, who sat whining and shivering upon the edge. The soldier-poet speaks most touchingly of this dumb companion of his long and perilous journey, and evidently loved it with the affection which only a brave man can give and a faithful dog merit. Starting again on foot, Villagran soon lost his way in that trackless wilderness. For four days and four nights he wandered without a morsel of food or a drop of water,--for the snow had already disappeared. Many a man has fasted longer under equal hardships; but only those who have tasted the thirst of the arid lands can form the remotest conception of the meaning of ninety-six hours without water. Two days of that thirst is often fatal to strong men; and that Villagran endured four was little short of miraculous. At last, fairly dying of thirst, with dry, swollen tongue, hard and rough as a file, projecting far beyond his teeth, he was reduced to the sad necessity of slaying his faithful dog, which he did with tears of manly remorse. Calling the poor brute to him, he dispatched it with his sword, and greedily drank the warm blood. This gave him strength to stagger on a little farther; and just as he was sinking to the sand to die, he spied a little hollow in a large rock ahead. Crawling feebly to it, he found to his joy that a little snow-water remained in the cavity. Scattered about, were a few grains of corn, which seemed a godsend; and he devoured them ravenously. He had now given up all hope of overtaking his commander, and decided to turn back and try to walk that grim two hundred miles to San Gabriel. But he was too far gone for the body longer to obey the heroic soul, and would have perished miserably by the little rock tank but for a strange chance. As he lay there, faint and helpless, he suddenly heard voices approaching. He concluded that the Indians had trailed him, and gave himself up for lost, for he was too weak to fight. But at last his ear caught the accent of Spain; and though it was spoken by hoarse, rough soldiers, you may be sure he thought it the sweetest sound in all the world. It chanced that the night before, some of the horses of Oñate's camp had strayed away, and a small squad of soldiers was sent out to catch them. In following the trail of the runaways, they came in sight of Captain Villagran. Luckily they saw him, for he could no longer shout nor run after them. Tenderly they lifted up the wounded officer and bore him back to camp; and there, under the gentle nursing of bearded men, he slowly recovered strength, and in time became again the daring athlete of other days. He accompanied Oñate on that long, desert march; and a few months later was at the storming of Acoma, and performed the astounding feat which ranks as one of the remarkable individual heroisms of the New World. FOOTNOTES: [15] Pronounced Veel-yah-gráhn. VI. THE PIONEER MISSIONARIES. To pretend to tell the story of the Spanish pioneering of the Americas without special attention to the missionary pioneers, would be very poor justice and very poor history. In this, even more than in other qualities, the conquest was unique. The Spaniard not only found and conquered, but converted. His religious earnestness was not a whit behind his bravery. As has been true of all nations that have entered new lands,--and as we ourselves later entered this,--his first step had to be to subdue the savages who opposed him. But as soon as he had whipped these fierce grown-children, he began to treat them with a great and noble mercy,--a mercy none too common even now, and in that cruel time of the whole world almost unheard of. He never robbed the brown first Americans of their homes, nor drove them on and on before him; on the contrary, he protected and secured to them by special laws the undisturbed possession of their lands for all time. It is due to the generous and manly laws made by Spain three hundred years ago, that our most interesting and advanced Indians, the Pueblos, enjoy to-day full security in their lands; while nearly all others (who never came fully under Spanish dominion) have been time after time ousted from lands our government had solemnly given to them. That was the beauty of an Indian policy which was ruled, not by politics, but by the unvarying principle of humanity. The Indian was first required to be obedient to his new government. He could not learn obedience in everything all at once; but he must at least refrain from butchering his new neighbors. As soon as he learned that lesson, he was insured protection in his rights of home and family and property. Then, as rapidly as such a vast work could be done by an army of missionaries who devoted their lives to the dangerous task, he was educated to citizenship and Christianity. It is almost impossible for us, in these quiet days, to comprehend what it was to convert a savage half-world. In our part of North America there have never been such hopeless tribes as the Spaniards met in Mexico and other southern lands. Never did any other people anywhere complete such a stupendous missionary work. To begin to understand the difficulties of that conversion, we must look into an appalling page of history. Most Indians and savage peoples have religions as unlike ours as are their social organizations. There are few tribes that dream of one Supreme Being. Most of them worship many gods,--"gods" whose attributes are very like those of the worshipper; "gods" as ignorant and cruel and treacherous as he. It is a ghastly thing to study these religions, and to see what dark and revolting qualities ignorance can deify. The merciless gods of India, who are supposed to delight in the crushing of thousands under the wheels of Juggernaut, and in the sacrificing of babes to the Ganges, and in the burning alive of girl-widows, are fair examples of what the benighted can believe; and the horrors of India were fully paralleled in America. The religions of our North American Indians had many astounding and dreadful features; but they were mild and civilized compared with the hideous rites of Mexico and the southern lands. To understand something of what the Spanish missionaries had to combat throughout America, aside from the common danger, let us glance at the condition of affairs in Mexico at their coming. The Nahuatl, or Aztecs, and similar Indian tribes of ancient Mexico, had the general pagan creed of all American Indians, with added horrors of their own. They were in constant blind dread of their innumerable savage gods,--for to them everything they could not see and understand, and nearly everything they could, was a divinity. But they could not conceive of any such divinity as one they could love; it was always something to be afraid of, and mortally afraid of. Their whole attitude of life was one of dodging the cruel blows of an unseen hand; of placating some fierce god who could not love, but might be bribed not to destroy. They could not conceive a real creation, nor that _anything_ could be without father and mother: stones and stars and winds and gods had to be born the same as men. Their "heaven," if they could have understood such a word, was crowded with gods, each as individual and personal as we, with greater powers than we, but with much the same weaknesses and passions and sins. In fact, they had invented and arranged gods by their own savage standards, giving them the powers they themselves most desired, but unable to attribute virtues they could not understand. So, too, in judging what would please these gods, they went by what would please themselves. To have bloody vengeance on their enemies; to rob and slay, or be paid tribute for not robbing and slaying; to be richly dressed and well fed,--these, and other like things which seemed to them the highest personal ambitions, they thought must be likewise pleasing to "those above." So they spent most of their time and anxiety in buying off these strange gods, who were even more dreaded than savage neighbors. Their ideas of a god were graphically expressed in the great stone idols of which Mexico was once full, some of which are still preserved in the museums. They are often of heroic size, and are carved from the hardest stone with great painstaking, but their faces and figures are indescribably dreadful. Such an idol as that of the grim Huitzilopochtli was as horrible a thing as human ingenuity ever invented, and the same grotesque hideousness runs through all the long list of Mexican idols. These idols were attended with the most servile care, and dressed in the richest ornaments known to Indian wealth. Great strings of turquoise,--the most precious "gem" of the American aborigines,--and really precious mantles of the brilliant feathers of tropic birds, and gorgeous shells were hung lavishly upon those great stone nightmares. Thousands of men devoted their lives to the tending of the dumb deities, and humbled and tortured themselves unspeakably to please them. But gifts and care were not enough. Treachery to his friends was still to be feared from such a god. He must still further be bought off; everything that to an Indian seemed valuable was proffered to the Indian's god, to keep him in good humor. And since human life was the most precious thing an Indian could understand, it became his most important and finally his most frequent offering. To the Indian it seemed no crime to take a life to please a god. He had no idea of retribution after death, and he came to look upon human sacrifice as a legitimate, moral, and even divine institution. In time, such sacrifices became of almost daily occurrence at each of the numberless temples. It was the most valued form of worship; so great was its importance that the officials or priests had to go through a more onerous training than does any minister of a Christian faith. They could reach their position only by pledging and keeping up unceasing and awful self-deprivation and self-mutilation. Human lives were offered not only to one or two principal idols of each community, but each town had also many minor fetiches to which such sacrifices were made on stated occasions. So fixed was the custom of sacrifice, and so proper was it deemed, that when Cortez came to Cempohuál the natives could think of no other way to welcome him with sufficient honor, and in perfect cordiality proposed to offer up human sacrifices to him. It is hardly necessary to add that Cortez sternly declined this pledge of hospitality. These rites were mostly performed on the teocallis, or sacrificial mounds, of which there were one or more in every Indian town. These were huge artificial mounds of earth, built in the shape of truncated pyramids, and faced all over with stone. They were from fifty to two hundred feet high, and sometimes many hundreds of feet square at the base. Upon the flat top of the pyramid stood a small tower,--the dingy chapel which enclosed the idol. The grotesque face of the stone deity looked down upon a cylindrical stone which had a bowl-like cavity in the top,--the altar, or sacrificial stone. This was generally carved also, and sometimes with remarkable skill and detail. The famous so-called "Aztec Calendar Stone" in the National Museum of Mexico, which once gave rise to so many wild speculations, is merely one of these sacrificial altars, dating from before Columbus. It is a wonderful piece of Indian stone-carving. The idol, the inner walls of the temple, the floor, the altar, were always wet with the most precious fluid on earth. In the bowl human hearts smouldered. Black-robed wizards, their faces painted black with white rings about eyes and mouth, their hair matted with blood, their faces raw from constant self-torture, forever flitted to and fro, keeping watch by night and day, ready always for the victims whom that dreadful superstition was always ready to bring. The supply of victims was drawn from prisoners taken in war, and from slaves paid as tribute by conquered tribes; and it took a vast supply. Sometimes as many as five hundred were sacrificed on one altar on one great day. They were stretched naked upon the sacrificial stone, and butchered in a manner too horrible to be described here. Their palpitating hearts were offered to the idol, and then thrown into the great stone bowl; while the bodies were kicked down the long stone stairway to the bottom of the great mound, where they were seized upon by the eager crowd. The Mexicans were not cannibals regularly and as a matter of taste; but they devoured these bodies as part of their grim religion. It is too revolting to go more into detail concerning these rites. Enough has been said to give some idea of the moral barrier encountered by the Spanish missionaries when they came to such blood-thirsty savages with a gospel which teaches love and the universal brotherhood of man. Such a creed was as unintelligible to the Indian as white blackness would be to us; and the struggle to make him understand was one of the most enormous and apparently hopeless ever undertaken by human teachers. Before the missionaries could make these savages even listen to--much less understand--Christianity, they had the dangerous task of proving this paganism worthless. The Indian believed absolutely in the power of his gory stone-god. If he should neglect his idol, he felt sure the idol would punish and destroy him; and of course he would not believe anything that could be told him to the contrary. The missionary had not only to say, "Your idol is worthless; he cannot hurt anybody; he is only a stone, and if you kick him he cannot punish you," but he had to prove it. No Indian was going to be so foolhardy as to try the experiment, and the new teacher had to do it in person. Of course he could not even do that at first; for if he had begun his missionary work by offering any indignity to one of those ugly gods of porphyry, its "priests" would have slain him on the spot. But when the Indians saw at last that the missionary was not struck down by some supernatural power for speaking against their gods, there was one step gained. By degrees he could touch the idol, and they saw that he was still unharmed. At last he overturned and broke the cruel images; and the breathless and terrified worshippers began to distrust and despise the cowardly divinities they had played the slave to, but whom a stranger could insult and abuse with impunity. It was only by this rude logic, which the debased savages could understand, that the Spanish missionaries proved to the Indians that human sacrifice was a human mistake and not the will of "Those Above." It was a wonderful achievement, just the uprooting of this one, but worst, custom of the Indian religion,--a custom strengthened by centuries of constant practice. But the Spanish apostles were equal to the task; and the infinite faith and zeal and patience which finally abolished human sacrifice in Mexico, led gradually on, step by step, to the final conversion of a continent and a half of savages to Christianity. VII. THE CHURCH-BUILDERS IN NEW MEXICO. To give even a skeleton of Spanish missionary work in the two Americas would fill several volumes. The most that can be done here is to take a sample leaf from that fascinating but formidable record; and for that I shall outline something of what was done in an area particularly interesting to us,--the single province of New Mexico. There were many fields which presented even greater obstacles, and cost more lives of uncomplaining martyrs and more generations of discouraging toil; but it is safe to take a modest example, as well as one which so much concerns our own national history. New Mexico and Arizona--the real wonderland of the United States--were discovered in 1539, as you know, by that Spanish missionary whom every young American should remember with honor,--Fray Marcos, of Nizza. You have had glimpses, too, of the achievements of Fray Ramirez, Fray Padilla, and other missionaries in that forbidding land, and have gained some idea of the hardships which were common to all their brethren; for the wonderful journeys, the lonely self-sacrifice, the gentle zeal, and too often the cruel deaths of these men were not exceptions, but fair types of what the apostle to the Southwest must expect. There have been missionaries elsewhere whose flocks were as long ungrateful and murderous, but few if any who were more out of the world. New Mexico has been for three hundred and fifty years, and is to-day, largely a wilderness, threaded with a few slender oases. To people of the Eastern States a desert seems very far off; but there are hundreds of thousands of square miles in our own Southwest to this day where the traveller is very likely to die of thirst, and where poor wretches every year do perish by that most awful of deaths. Even now there is no trouble in finding hardship and danger in New Mexico; and once it was one of the cruellest wildernesses conceivable. Scarce a decade has gone by since an end was put to the Indian wars and harassments, which had lasted continuously for more than three centuries. When Spanish colonist or Spanish missionary turned his back on Old Mexico to traverse the thousand-mile, roadless desert to New Mexico, he took his life in his hands; and every day in that savage province he was in equal danger. If he escaped death by thirst or starvation by the way, if the party was not wiped out by the merciless Apache, then he settled in the wilderness as far from any other home of white men as Chicago is from Boston. If a missionary, he was generally alone with a flock of hundreds of cruel savages; if a soldier or a farmer, he had from two hundred to fifteen hundred friends in an area as big as New England, New York, Pennsylvania, and Ohio combined, in the very midst of a hundred thousand swarthy foes whose war-whoop he was likely to hear at any moment, and never had long chance to forget. He came poor, and that niggard land never made him rich. Even in the beginning of this century, when some began to have large flocks of sheep, they were often left penniless by one night's raid of Apaches or Navajos. Such was New Mexico when the missionaries came, and very nearly such it remained for more than three hundred years. If the most enlightened and hopeful mind in the Old World could have looked across to that arid land, it would never have dreamed that soon the desert was to be dotted with churches,--and not little log or mud chapels, but massive stone masonries whose ruins stand to-day, the noblest in our North America. But so it was; neither wilderness nor savage could balk that great zeal. The first church in what is now the United States was founded in St. Augustine, Fla., by Fray Francisco de Pareja in 1560,--but there were many Spanish churches in America a half century earlier yet. The several priests whom Coronado brought to New Mexico in 1540 did brave missionary work, but were soon killed by the Indians. The first church in New Mexico and the second in the United States was founded in September, 1598, by the ten missionaries who accompanied Juan de Oñate, the colonizer. It was a small chapel at San Gabriel de los Españoles (now Chamita). San Gabriel was deserted in 1605, when Oñate founded Santa Fé, though it is probable that the chapel was still occasionally used. In time, however, it fell into decay. As late as 1680 the ruins of this honorable old church were still visible; but now they are quite indistinguishable. One of the first things after establishing the new town of Santa Fé was of course to build a church,--and here, by about 1606, was reared the third church in the United States. It did not long meet the growing requirements of the colony; and in 1622 Fray Alonzo de Benavides, the historian, laid the foundations of the parish church of Santa Fé, which was finished in 1627. The church of San Miguel in the same old city was built after 1636. Its original walls are still standing, and form part of a church which is used to-day. It was partly destroyed in the Pueblo rebellion of 1680, and was restored in 1710. The new cathedral of Santa Fé is built over the remnants of the still more ancient parish church. In 1617--three years before Plymouth Rock--there were already _eleven_ churches in use in New Mexico. Santa Fé was the only Spanish town; but there were also churches at the dangerous Indian pueblos of Galisteo and Pecos, two at Jemez (nearly one hundred miles west of Santa Fé, and in an appalling wilderness), Taos (as far north), San Yldefonso, Santa Clara, Sandia, San Felipe, and Santo Domingo. It was a wonderful achievement for each lonely missionary--for they had neither civil nor military assistance in their parishes--so soon to have induced his barbarous flock to build a big stone church, and worship there the new white God. The churches in the two Jemez pueblos had to be abandoned about 1622 on account of incessant harassment by the Navajos, who from time immemorial had ravaged that section, but were occupied again in 1626. The Spaniards were confined by the necessities of the desert, so far as home-making went, to the valley of the Rio Grande, which runs about north and south through the middle of New Mexico. But their missionaries were under no such limitation. Where the colonists could not exist, _they_ could pray and teach; and very soon they began to penetrate the deserts which stretch far on either side from that narrow ribbon of colonizable land. At Zuñi, far west of the river and three hundred miles from Santa Fé, the missionaries had established themselves as early as 1629. Soon they had six churches in six of the "Seven Cities of Cibola" (the Zuñi towns), of which the one at Chyánahue is still beautifully preserved; and in the same period they had taken foothold two hundred miles deeper yet in the desert, and built three churches among the wondrous cliff-towns of Moqui. Down the Rio Grande there was similar activity. At the ancient pueblo of San Antonio de Senecú, now nearly obliterated, a church was founded in 1629 by Fray Antonio de Arteaga; and the same brave man, in the same year, founded another at the pueblo of Nuestra Señora del Socorro,--now the American town of Socorro. The church in the pueblo of Picuries, far in the northern mountains, was built before 1632, for in that year Fray Ascencion de Zárate was buried in it. The church at Isleta, about in the centre of New Mexico, was built before 1635. A few miles above Glorieta, one can see from the windows of a train on the Santa Fé route a large and impressive adobe ruin, whose fine walls dream away in that enchanted sunshine. It is the old church of the pueblo of Pecos; and those walls were reared two hundred and seventy-five years ago. The pueblo, once the largest in New Mexico, was deserted in 1840; and its great quadrangle of many-storied Indian houses is in utter ruin; but above their gray mounds still tower the walls of the old church which was built before there was a Saxon in New England. You see the "mud brick," as some contemptuously call the adobe, is not such a contemptible thing, even for braving the storms of centuries. There was a church at the pueblo of Nambé by 1642. In 1662 Fray Garcia de San Francisco founded a church at El Paso del Norte, on the present boundary-line between Mexico and the United States,--a dangerous frontier mission, hundreds of miles alike from the Spanish settlements in Old and New Mexico. The missionaries also crossed the mountains east of the Rio Grande, and established missions among the Pueblos who dwelt in the edge of the great plains. Fray Geronimo de la Llana founded the noble church at Cuaray about 1642; and soon after came those at Abó, Tenabo, and Tabirá (better, though incorrectly, known now as The Gran Quivira). The churches at Cuaray, Abó, and Tabirá are the grandest ruins in the United States, and much finer than many ruins which Americans go abroad to see. The second and larger church at Tabirá was built between 1660 and 1670; and at about the same time and in the same region--though many thirsty miles away--the churches at Tajique[16] and Chililí. Acoma, as you know, had a permanent missionary by 1629; and he built a church. Besides all these, the pueblos of Zia, Santa Ana, Tesuque, Pojoaque, San Juan, San Marcos, San Lazaro, San Cristobal, Alameda, Santa Cruz, and Cochiti had each a church by 1680. That shows something of the thoroughness of Spanish missionary work. A century before our nation was born, the Spanish had built in one of our Territories half a hundred permanent churches, nearly all of stone, and nearly all for the express benefit of the Indians. That is a missionary record which has never been equalled elsewhere in the United States even to this day; and in all our country we had not built by that time so many churches for ourselves. A glimpse at the life of the missionary to New Mexico in the days before there was an English-speaking preacher in the whole western hemisphere is strangely fascinating to all who love that lonely heroism which does not need applause or companionship to keep it alive. To be brave in battle or any similar excitement is a very easy thing. But to be a hero alone and unseen, amid not only danger but every hardship and discouragement, is quite another matter. The missionary to New Mexico had of course to come first from Old Mexico,--or, before that, from Spain. Some of these quiet, gray-robed men had already seen such wanderings and such dangers as even the Stanleys of nowadays do not know. They had to furnish their own vestments and church furniture, and to pay for their own transportation from Mexico to New Mexico,--for very early a "line" of semi-annual armed expeditions across the bitter intervening wilderness was arranged. The fare was $266, which made serious havoc with the good man's salary of $150 a year (at which figure the salaries remained up to 1665, when they were raised to $330, payable every three years). It was not much like a call to a fashionable pulpit in these times. Out of this meagre pay--which was all the synod itself could afford to give him--he had to pay all the expenses of himself and his church. Arriving, after a perilous trip, in perilous New Mexico,--and the journey and the Territory were still dangerous in the present generation,--the missionary proceeded first to Santa Fé. His superior there soon assigned him a parish; and turning his back on the one little colony of his countrymen, the fray trudged on foot fifty, one hundred, or three hundred miles, as the case might be, to his new and unknown post. Sometimes an escort of three or four Spanish soldiers accompanied him; but often he made that toilsome and perilous walk alone. His new parishioners received him sometimes with a storm of arrows, and sometimes in sullen silence. He could not speak to them, nor they to him; and the very first thing he had to do was to learn from such unwilling teachers their strange tongue,--a language much more difficult to acquire than Latin, Greek, French, or German. Entirely alone among them, he had to depend upon himself and upon the untender mercies of his flock for life and all its necessities. If they decided to kill him, there was no possibility of resistance. If they refused him food, he must starve. If he became sick or crippled, there were no nurses or doctors for him except these treacherous savages. I do not think there was ever in history a picture of more absolute loneliness and helplessness and hopelessness than the lives of these unheard-of martyrs; and as for mere danger, no man ever faced greater. The provision made for the support of the missionaries was very simple. Besides the small salary paid him by the synod, the pastor must receive some help from his parish. This was a moral as well as a material necessity. That interest partly depends on personal giving, is a principle recognized in all churches. So at once the Spanish laws commanded from the Pueblos the same contribution to the church as Moses himself established. Each Indian family was required to give the tithe and the first fruits to the church, just as they had always given them to their pagan cacique. This was no burden to the Indians, and it supported the priest in a very humble way. Of course the Indians did _not_ give a tithe; at first they gave just as little as they could. The "father's" food was their corn, beans, and squashes, with only a little meat rarely from their hunts,--for it was a long time before there were flocks of cattle or sheep to draw from. He also depended on his unreliable congregation for help in cultivating his little plot of ground, for wood to keep him from freezing in those high altitudes, and even for water,--since there were no waterworks nor even wells, and all water had to be brought considerable distances in jars. Dependent wholly upon such suspicious, jealous, treacherous helpers, the good man often suffered greatly from hunger and cold. There were no stores, of course, and if he could not get food from the Indians he must starve. Wood was in some cases twenty miles distant, as it is from Isleta to-day. His labors also were not small. He must not only convert these utter pagans to Christianity, but teach them to read and write, to farm by better methods, and, in general, to give up their barbarism for civilization. How difficult it was to do this even the statesman of to-day can hardly measure; but what was the price in blood is simple to be understood. It was not the killing now and then of one of these noble men by his ungrateful flock,--it was almost a habit. It was not the sin of one or two towns. The pueblos of Taos, Picuries, San Yldefonso, Nambé, Pojoaque, Tesuque, Pecos, Galisteo, San Marcos, Santo Domingo, Cochiti, San Felipe, Puaray, Jemez, Acoma, Halona, Hauicu, Ahuatui, Mishongenivi, and Oraibe--twenty different towns--at one time or another murdered their respective missionaries. Some towns repeated the crime several times. Up to the year 1700, _forty_ of these quiet heroes in gray had been slain by the Indians in New Mexico,--two by the Apaches, but all the rest by their own flocks. Of these, one was poisoned; the others died bloody and awful deaths. Even in the last century several missionaries were killed by secret poison,--an evil art in which the Indians were and are remarkably adept; and when the missionary had been killed, the Indians burned the church. One very important feature must not be lost sight of. Not only did these Spanish teachers achieve a missionary work unparalleled elsewhere by others, but they made a wonderful mark on the world's knowledge. Among them were some of the most important historians America has had; and they were among the foremost scholars in every intellectual line, particularly in the study of languages. They were not merely chroniclers, but students of native antiquities, arts, and customs,--such historians, in fact, as are paralleled only by those great classic writers, Herodotus and Strabo. In the long and eminent list of Spanish missionary authors were such men as Torquemada, Sahagun, Motolinia, Mendieta, and many others; and their huge volumes are among the greatest and most indispensable helps we have to a study of the real history of America. FOOTNOTES: [16] Pronounced Tah-_hee_-ky. VIII. ALVARADO'S LEAP. If the reader should ever go to the City of Mexico,--as I hope he may, for that ancient town, which was old and populous when Columbus was born, is alive with romantic interest,--he will have pointed out to him, on the Rivera de San Cosme, the historic spot still known as El Salto de Alvarado. It is now a broad, civilized street, with horse-cars running, with handsome buildings, with quaint, contented folk sauntering to and fro, and with little outwardly to recall the terrors of that cruellest night in the history of America,--the _Noche Triste_. The leap of Alvarado is among the famous deeds in history, and the leaper was a striking figure in the pioneering of the New World. In the first great conquest he bore himself gallantly, and the story of his exploits then and thereafter would make a fascinating romance. A tall, handsome man, with yellow locks and ruddy face, young, impulsive, and generous, a brilliant soldier and charming comrade, he was a general favorite with Spaniard and Indian alike. Though for some reason not fully liked by Cortez, he was the conqueror's right-hand man, and throughout the conquest of Mexico had generally the post of greatest danger. He was a college man, and wrote a large, bold hand,--none too common an accomplishment in those days, you will remember,--and signed a beautiful autograph. He was not a great leader of men like Cortez,--his valor sometimes ran away with his prudence; but as a field-officer he was as dashing and brilliant as could be found. Captain Pedro de Alvarado was a native of Seville, and came to the New World in his young manhood, soon winning some recognition in Cuba. In 1518 he accompanied Grijalva in the voyage which discovered Mexico, and carried back to Cuba the few treasures they had collected. In the following year, when Cortez sailed to the conquest of the new and wonderful land, Alvarado accompanied him as his lieutenant. In all the startling feats of that romantic career he played a conspicuous part. In the crisis when it became necessary to seize the treacherous Moctezuma, Alvarado was active and prominent. He had much to do with Moctezuma during the latter's detention as a hostage; and his frankness made him a great favorite with the captive war-chief. He was left in command of the little garrison at Mexico when Cortez marched off on his audacious but successful expedition against Narvaez, and discharged that responsible duty well. Before Cortez got back, came the symptoms of an Indian uprising,--the famous war-dance. Alvarado was alone, and had to meet the crisis on his own responsibility. But he was equal to the emergency. He understood the murderous meaning of this "ghost-dance," as every Indian-fighter does, and the way to meet it. In his unsuccessful attempt to capture the wizards who were stirring up the populace to massacre the strangers, Alvarado was severely wounded. But he bore his part in the desperate resistance to the Indian assaults, in which nearly every Spaniard was wounded. In the great fighting to hold their adobe stronghold, and the wild sorties to force back the flood of savages, the golden-haired lieutenant was always a prominent figure. When Cortez, who had now returned with his reinforcements, saw that Mexico was untenable and that their only salvation was in retreat from the lake city to the mainland, the post of honor fell to Alvarado. There were twelve hundred Spaniards and two thousand Tlaxcaltecan allies, and this force was divided into three commands. The vanguard was led by Juan Velasquez, the second division by Cortez, the third, upon which it was expected the brunt of pursuit would fall, by Alvarado. All was quiet when the Spaniards crept from their refuge to try to escape along the dyke. It was a rainy night, and intensely dark; and with their horses' hoofs and little cannon muffled, the Spaniards moved as quietly as possible along the narrow bank, which stretched like a tongue from the island city to the mainland. [Illustration: CHURCH, PUEBLO OF ISLETA. _See page 163._] This dyke was cut by three broad sluices, and to cross them the soldiers carried a portable bridge. But despite their care the savages promptly detected the movement. Scarcely had they issued from their barracks and got upon the dyke, when the boom of the monster war-drum, _tlapan huehuetl_, from the summit of the pyramid of sacrifice, burst upon the still night,--the knell of their hopes. It is an awesome sound still, the deep bellowing of that great three-legged drum, which is used to-day, and can be heard more than fifteen miles; and to the Spaniards it was the voice of doom. Great bonfires shot up from the teocalli, and they could see the savages swarming to overwhelm them. Hurrying as fast as their wounds and burdens would permit, the Spaniards reached the first sluice in safety. They threw their bridge over the gulf, and began crossing. Then the Indians came swarming in their canoes at either side of the dyke, and attacked with characteristic ferocity. The beset soldiers fought as they struggled on. But as the artillery was crossing the bridge it broke, and down went cannon, horses, and men forever. Then began the indescribable horrors of "The Sad Night." There was no retreat for the Spaniards, for they were assailed on every side. Those behind were pushing on, and there was no staying even for that gap of black water. Over the brink man and horse were crowded in the darkness, and still those behind came on, until at last the channel was choked with corpses, and the survivors floundered across the chaos of their dead. Velasquez, the leader of the vanguard, was slain, and Spaniard and Tlaxcaltecan were falling like wheat before the sickle. The second sluice, as well as each side of the dyke, was blocked with canoes full of savage warriors; and there was another sanguinary mêlée until this gap too was filled with slain, and over the bridge of human corpses the fugitives gained the other bank. Alvarado, fighting with the rearmost to hold in check the savages who followed along the dyke, was the last to cross; and before he could follow his comrades the current suddenly broke through the ghastly obstruction, and swept the channel clear. His faithful horse had been killed under him; he himself was sorely wounded; his friends were gone, and the merciless foe hemmed him in. We cannot but be reminded of the Roman hero,-- "Of him who held the bridge so well In the brave days of old." Alvarado's case was fully as desperate as that of Horatius; and he rose as manlike to the occasion. With one swift glance about, he saw that to plunge into the flood would be sure death. So, with a supreme effort of his muscular frame, he thrust down his lance and sprang! It was a distance of eighteen feet. Considerably longer jumps have been recorded. Our own Washington once made a running jump of over twenty feet in his athletic youth. But considering the surroundings, the darkness, his wounds, and his load of armor, the wonderful leap of Alvarado has perhaps never been surpassed:-- "For fast his blood was flowing, And he was sore in pain; And heavy was his armor, And spent with changing blows." But the leap was made, and the heroic leaper staggered up the farther bank and rejoined his countrymen. From here the remnant fought, struggling along the causeway, to the mainland. The Indians at last drew off from the pursuit, and the exhausted Spaniards had time to breathe and look about to see how many had escaped. The survivors were few in number. Small wonder if, as the legend tells, their stout-hearted general, used as he was to a stoic control of his feelings, sat him down under the cypress, which is still pointed out as the tree of the _Noche Triste_, and wept a strong man's tears as he looked upon the pitiful remnant of his brave army. Of the twelve hundred Spaniards eight hundred and sixty had perished, and of the survivors not one but was wounded. Two thousand of his allies, the Tlaxcaltecan Indians, had also been slain. Indeed, had it not been that the savages tried less to kill than to capture the Spanish for a more horrible death by the sacrificial knife, not one would have escaped. As it was, the survivors saw later three score of their comrades butchered upon the altar of the great teocalli. All the artillery was lost, and so was all the treasure. Not a grain of powder was left in condition to be used, and their armor was battered out of recognition. Had the Indians pursued now, the exhausted men would have fallen easy victims. But after that terrific struggle the savages were resting too, and the Spaniards were permitted to escape. They struck out for the friendly pueblo of Tlaxcala by a circuitous route to avoid their enemies, but were attacked at every intervening pueblo. In the plains of Otumba was their most desperate hour. Surrounded and overwhelmed by the savages, they gave themselves up for lost. But fortunately Cortez recognized one of the medicine men by his rich dress, and in a last desperate charge, with Alvarado and a few other officers, struck down the person upon whom the superstitious Indians hang so much of the fate of war. The wizard dead, his awe-struck followers gave way; and again the Spaniards came out from the very jaws of death. In the siege of Mexico,--the bloodiest and most romantic siege in all America,--Alvarado was probably the foremost figure after Cortez. The great general was the head of that remarkable campaign, and a head indeed worth having. There is nothing in history quite like his achievement in having thirteen brigantines built at Tlaxcala and transported on the shoulders of men over fifty miles inland across the mountains to be launched on the lake of Mexico and aid in the siege. The nearest to it was the great feat of Balboa in taking two brigantines across the Isthmus. The exploits of Hannibal the great Carthaginian at the siege of Tarentum, and of the Spanish "Great Captain" Gonzalo de Cordova at the same place, were not at all to be compared to either. In the seventy-three days' fighting of the siege, Alvarado was the right hand as Cortez was the head. The dashing lieutenant had command of the force which pushed its assault along the same causeway by which they had retreated on the _Noche Triste_. In one of the battles Cortez's horse was killed under him, and the conqueror was being dragged off by the Indians when one of his pages dashed forward and saved him. In the final assault and desperate struggle in the city Cortez led half the Spanish force, and Alvarado the other half; and the latter it was who conducted that memorable storming of the great teocalli. After the conquest of Mexico, in which he had won such honors, Alvarado was sent by Cortez to the conquest of Guatemala, with a small force. He marched down through Oaxaca and Tehuantepec to Guatemala, meeting a resistance characteristically Indian. There were three principal tribes in Guatemala,--the Quiché, Zutuhil, and Cacchiquel. The Quiché opposed him in the open field, and he defeated them. Then they formally surrendered, made peace, and invited him to visit them as a friend in their pueblo of Utatlan. When the Spaniards were safely in the town and surrounded, the Indians set fire to the houses and fell fiercely upon their stifling guests. After a hard engagement Alvarado routed them, and put the ringleaders to death. The other two tribes submitted, and in about a year Alvarado and his little company had achieved the conquest of Guatemala. His services were rewarded by making him governor and adelantado of the province; and he founded his city of Guatemala, which in his day probably became something like what Mexico then was,--a town containing fifteen thousand to twenty thousand Indians and one thousand Spaniards. From this, his capital, Governor Alvarado was frequently absent. There were many expeditions to be made up and down the wild New World. His greatest journey was in 1534, when, building his own vessels as usual, he sailed to Ecuador and made the difficult march inland to Quito, only to find himself in Pizarro's territory. So he returned to Guatemala fruitless. During one of his absences occurred the frightful earthquake which destroyed the city of Guatemala, and dealt Alvarado a personal blow from which he never recovered. Above the city towered two great volcanoes,--the Volcan del Agua and the Volcan del Fuego. The volcano of water was extinct, and its crater was filled with a lake. The volcano of fire was--and is still--active. In that memorable earthquake the lava rim of the Volcan del Agua was rent asunder by the convulsion, and its avalanche of waters tumbled headlong upon the doomed city. Thousands of the people perished under falling walls and in the resistless flood; and among the lost was Alvarado's wife, Doña Beatriz de la Cueva. Her death broke the brave soldier's spirit, for he loved her very dearly. In the troublous times which befell Mexico after Cortez had finished his conquest, and began to be spoiled by prosperity and to make a very unadmirable exhibition of himself, Alvarado's support was sought and won by the great and good viceroy, Antonio de Mendoza,--one of the foremost executive minds of all time. This was no treachery on Alvarado's part toward his former commander; for Cortez had turned traitor not only to the Crown, but also to his friends. The cause of Mendoza was the cause of good government and of loyalty. It had become necessary to tame the hostile Nayares Indians, who had caused the Spaniards great trouble in the province of Jalisco; and in this campaign Alvarado joined Mendoza. The Indians retreated to the top of the huge and apparently impregnable cliff of the Mixton, and they must be dislodged at any cost. The storming of that rock ranks with the storming of Acoma as one of the most desperate and brilliant ever recorded. The viceroy commanded in person, but the real achievement was by Alvarado and a fellow officer. In the scaling of the cliff Alvarado was hit on the head by a rock rolled down by the savages, and died from the wound,--but not until he saw his followers win that brilliant day. The man who, next to Alvarado, deserves the credit of the Mixton was Cristobal de Oñate, a man of distinction for several reasons. He was a valued officer, a good executive, and one of the first millionnaires in North America. He was, too, the father of the colonizer of New Mexico, Juan de Oñate. June 11, 1548, several years after the battle of the Mixton, the elder Oñate discovered the richest silver mines on the continent,--the mines of Zacatecas, in the barren and desolate plateau where now stands the Mexican city of that name. These huge veins of "ruby," "black," arsenate, and virgin silver made the first millionnaires in North America, as the conquest of Peru made the first on the southern continent. The mines of Zacatecas were not so vast as those developed at Potosi, in Bolivia, which produced between 1541 and 1664 the inconceivable sum of $641,250,000 in silver; but the Zacatecas mines were also enormously productive. Their silver stream was the first realization of the dreams of vast wealth on the northern continent, and made a startling commercial change in this part of the New World. Locally, the discovery reduced the price of the staples of life about ninety per cent! Mexico was never a great gold country, but for more than three centuries has remained one of the chief silver producers. It is so to-day, though its output is not nearly so large as that of the United States. Cristobal de Oñate was, therefore, a very important man in the working out of destiny. His "bonanza" made Mexico a new country, commercially, and his millions were put to a better use than is always the case nowadays, for they had the honor of building two of the first towns in our own United States. IX. THE AMERICAN GOLDEN FLEECE. We all know of that strange yellow ramskin which hung dragon-guarded in the dark groves of Colchis; and how Jason and his Argonauts won the prize after so many wanderings and besetments. But in our own New World we have had a far more dazzling golden fleece than that mythical pupil of old Cheiron ever chased, and one that no man ever captured,--though braver men than Jason tried it. Indeed, there were hundreds of more than Jasons, who fought harder and suffered tenfold deadlier fortunes and never clutched the prize after all. For the dragon which guarded the American Golden Fleece was no such lap-dog of a chimera as Jason's, to swallow a pretty potion and go to sleep. It was a monster bigger than all the land the Argonauts lived in and all the lands they roamed; a monster which not man nor mankind has yet done away with,--the mortal monster of the tropics. The myth of Jason is one of the prettiest in antiquity, and it is more than pretty. We are beginning to see what an important bearing a fairy tale may have on sober knowledge. The myth has always somewhere some foundation of truth; and that hidden truth may be of enduring value. To study history, indeed, without paying any attention to the related myths, is to shut off a precious side light. Human progress, in almost every phase, has been influenced by this quaint but potent factor. Where do you fancy chemistry would be if the philosopher's stone and other myths had not lured the old alchemists to pry into mysteries where they found never what they sought, but truths of utmost value to mankind? Geography in particular has owed almost more of its growth into a science to myths than to scholarly invention; and the gold myth, throughout the world, has been the prophet and inspiration of discovery, and a moulder of history. We have been rather too much in the habit of classing the Spaniards as _the_ gold-hunters, with an intimation that gold-hunting is a sort of sin, and that they were monumentally prone to it. But it is not a Spanish copyright,--the trait is common to all mankind. The only difference was that the Spaniards found gold; and that is offence enough to "historians" too narrow to consider "what would the English have done had they found gold in America at the outset." I believe it is not denied that when gold was discovered in the uttermost parts of his land the Saxon found legs to get to it,--and even adopted measures not altogether handsome in clutching it; but nobody is so silly as to speak of "the days of '49" as a disgrace to us. Some lamentable pages there were; but when California suddenly tipped up the continent till the strength of the east ran down to her, she opened one of the bravest and most important and most significant chapters in our national story. For gold is not a sin. It is a very necessary thing, and a very worthy one, as long as we remember that it is a means and not an end, a tool and not an accomplishment,--which point of business common-sense we are quite as apt to forget in Wall Street as in the mines. We have largely to thank this universal and perfectly proper fondness for gold for giving us America,--as, in fact, for civilizing most other countries. The scientific history of to-day has fully shown how foolishly false is the idea that the Spaniards sought merely gold; how manfully they provided for the mind and the soul as well as the pocket. But gold was with them, as it would be even now with other men, the strong motive. The great difference was only that gold did not make them forget their religion. It was the golden finger that beckoned Columbus to America, Cortez to Mexico, Pizarro to Peru,--just as it led us to California, which otherwise would not have been one of our States to-day. The gold actually found at first in the New World was disappointingly little; up to the conquest of Mexico it aggregated only $500,000. Cortez swelled the amount, and Pizarro jumped it up to a fabulous and dazzling figure. But, curiously enough, the gold that was found did not cut a more important figure in the exploration and civilization of the New World than that which was pursued in vain. The wonderful myth which stands for the American Golden Fleece had a more startling effect on geography and history than the real and incalculable riches of Peru. Of this fascinating myth we have very little popular knowledge, except that a corruption of its name is in everybody's mouth. We speak of a rich region as "an Eldorado," or "the Eldorado" oftener than by any other metaphor; but it is a blunder quite unworthy of scholars. It is simply saying "an the," "the the." The word is Dorado; and it does not mean "the golden," as we seem to fancy, but "the gilded man," being a contraction of the Spanish _el hombre dorado_. And the Dorado, or gilded man, has made a history of achievement beside which Jason and all his fellow demi-gods sink into insignificance. Like all such myths, this had a foundation in fact. The Colchian ramskin was a poetic fancy of the gold mines of the Caucasus; but there really _was_ a gilded man. The story of him and what he led to is a fairy tale that has the advantage of being true. It is an enormously complicated theme; but, thanks to Bandelier's final unravelling of it, the story can now be told intelligibly,--as it has not been popularly told heretofore. A number of years ago there was found in the lagoon of Siecha, in New Granada, a quaint little group of statuary; it was of the rude and ancient Indian workmanship, and even more precious for its ethnologic interest than for its material, which was pure gold. This rare specimen--which is still to be seen in a museum in Berlin--is a golden raft, upon which are grouped ten golden figures of men. It represents a strange custom which was in prehistoric times peculiar to the Indians of the village of Guatavitá, on the highlands of New Granada. That custom was this: On a certain great day one of the chiefs of the village used to smear his naked body with a gum, and then powder himself from head to foot with pure gold-dust. He was the Gilded Man. Then he was taken out by his companions on a raft to the middle of the lake, which was near the village, and leaping from the raft the Gilded Man used to wash off his precious and wonderful covering and let it sink to the bottom of the lake. It was a sacrifice for the benefit of the village. This custom is historically established, but it had been broken up more than thirty years before the story was first heard of by Europeans,--namely, the Spaniards in Venezuela in 1527. It had not been voluntarily abandoned by the people of Guatavitá. The warlike Muysca Indians of Bogota had ended it by swooping down upon the village of Guatavitá and nearly exterminating its inhabitants. Still, the sacrifice had been a fact; and at that enormous distance and in those uncertain days the Spaniards heard of it as still a fact. The story of the Gilded Man, _El Hombre Dorado_, shortened to _El Dorado_, was too startling not to make an impression. It became a household word, and thenceforward was a lure to all who approached the northern coast of South America. We may wonder how such a tale (which had already become a myth in 1527, since the fact upon which it was founded had ceased) could hold its own for two hundred and fifty years without being fully exploded; but our surprise will cease when we remember what a difficult and enormous wilderness South America was, and how much of it has unexplored mysteries even to-day. The first attempts to reach the Gilded Man were from the coast of Venezuela. Charles I. of Spain, afterward Charles V., had pawned the coast of that Spanish possession to the wealthy Bavarian family of the Welsers, giving them the right to colonize and "discover" the interior. In 1529, Ambrosius Dalfinger and Bartholomew Seyler landed at Coro, Venezuela, with four hundred men. The tale of the Gilded Man was already current among the Spaniards; and, allured by it, Dalfinger marched inland to find it. He was a dreadful brute, and his expedition was nothing less than absolute piracy. He penetrated as far as the Magdalena River, in New Granada, scattering death and devastation wherever he went. He found some gold; but his brutality toward the Indians was so great, and in such a strong contrast to what they had been accustomed to from the Spaniards, that the exasperated natives turned, and his march amounted to a running fight of more than a year's duration. The trouble was, the Welsers cared only to get treasure back for the money they had paid out, and had none of the real Spanish spirit of colonizing and christianizing. Dalfinger failed to find the Gilded Man, and died in 1530 from a wound received during his infamous expedition. His successor in command of the Welser interests, Nicolas Federmann, was not much better as a man and no more successful as a pioneer. In 1530 he marched inland to discover the Dorado, but his course was due south from Coro, so he never touched New Granada. After a fearful march through the tropical forests he had to return empty-handed in 1531. Here already begins to enter, chronologically, one of the curious ramifications and variations of this prolific myth. At first a fact, in thirty years a fable, now in three years more the Gilded Man began to be a vagabond will-o'-the-wisp, flitting from one place to another, and gradually becoming tangled up in many other myths. The first variation came in the first attempt to discover the source of the Orinoco,--the mighty river which it was supposed could flow only from a great lake. In 1530, Antonio Sedeño sailed from Spain with an expedition to explore the Orinoco. He reached the Gulf of Paria and built a fort, intending thence to push his exploration. While he was doing this, Diego de Ordaz, a former companion of Cortez, had obtained in Spain a concession to colonize the district then called Maranon,--a vaguely defined area covering Venezuela, Guiana, and northern Brazil. He sailed from Spain in 1531, reached the Orinoco and sailed up that river to its falls. Then he had to return, after two years of vainly trying to overcome the obstacles before him. But on this expedition he heard that the Orinoco had its source in a great lake, and that the road to that lake led through a province called Meta, said to be fabulously rich in gold. On the authority of Bandelier, there is no doubt that this story of Meta was only an echo of the Dorado tale which had penetrated as far as the tribes of the lower Orinoco. Ordaz was followed in 1534 by Geronimo Dortal, who attempted to reach Meta, but failed even to get up the Orinoco. In 1535 he tried to penetrate overland from the northeast coast of Venezuela to Meta, but made a complete failure. These attempts from Venezuela, as Bandelier shows, finally localized the home of the Dorado by limiting it to the northwestern part of the continent. It had been vainly sought elsewhere, and the inference was that it must be in the only place left,--the high plateau of New Granada. The conquest of the plateau of New Granada, after many unsuccessful attempts which cannot be detailed here, was finally made by Gonzalo Ximenez de Quesada in 1536-38. That gallant soldier moved up the Magdalena River with a force of six hundred and twenty men on foot, and eighty-five horsemen. Of these only one hundred and eighty survived when he reached the plateau in the beginning of 1537. He found the Muysca Indians living in permanent villages, and in possession of gold and emeralds. They made a characteristic resistance; but one tribe after another was overpowered, and Quesada became the conqueror of New Granada. The treasure which was divided by the conquerors amounted to 246,976 _pesos de oro_,--about $1,250,000 now,--and 1,815 emeralds, some of which were of enormous size and value. They had found the real home of the Gilded Man,--and had even come to Guatavitá, whose people made a savage resistance,--but of course did not find him, since the custom had been already abandoned. Hardly had Quesada completed his great conquest when he was surprised by the arrival of two other Spanish expeditions, which had been led to the same spot by the myth of the Dorado. One was led by Federmann, who had penetrated from the coast of Venezuela to Bogota on this his second expedition,--a frightful journey. At the same time, and without the knowledge of either, Sebastian de Belalcazar had marched up from Quito in search of the Gilded Man. The story of that gold-covered chief had penetrated the heart of Ecuador, and the Indian statements induced Belalcazar to march to the spot. An arrangement was made between the three leaders by which Quesada was left sole master of the country he had conquered, and Federmann and Belalcazar returned to their respective places. While Federmann was chasing the myth thus, a successor to him had already arrived at Coro. This was the intrepid German known as "George of Speyer," whose real name, Bandelier has discovered, was George Hormuth. Reaching Coro in 1535, he heard not only of the Dorado, but even of tame sheep to the southwest,--that is, in the direction of Peru. Following these vague indications, he started southwest, but encountered such enormous difficulties in trying to reach the mountain pass, which the Indians told him led to the land of the Dorado, that he drifted into the vast and fearful tropical forests of the upper Orinoco. Here he heard of Meta, and, following that myth, penetrated to within one degree of the equator. For twenty-seven months he and his Spanish followers floundered in the tangled and swampy wastes between the Orinoco and the Amazon. They met some very numerous and warlike tribes, most conspicuous of which were the Uaupes.[17] They found no gold, but everywhere heard the fable of a great lake associated with gold. Of the one hundred and ninety men who started on this expedition only one hundred and thirty came back, and but fifty of these had strength left to bear arms. The whole of the indescribably awful trip lasted three years. The result of its horrors was to deflect the attention of explorers from the real home of the Dorado, and to lead them on a wild-goose chase after a related but rather geographic myth to the forests of the Amazon. In other words, it prepared for the exploration of northern Brazil. Shortly after George of Speyer, and entirely unconnected with him, Francisco Pizarro, the conqueror of Peru, had given an impulse to the exploration of the Amazon from the Pacific side of the continent. In 1538, distrusting Belalcazar, he sent his brother, Gonzalo Pizarro, to Quito to supersede his suspected lieutenant. The following year Gonzalo heard that the cinnamon-tree abounded in the forests on the eastern slope of the Andes, and that farther east dwelt powerful Indian tribes rich in gold. That is, while the original and genuine myth of the Dorado had reached to Quito from the north, the echo myth of Meta had got there from the east. Since Belalcazar had gone to the real former home of the Dorado, and had failed to find that gentleman at home, it was supposed that the home must be somewhere else,--east, instead of north, from Quito. Gonzalo made his disastrous expedition into the eastern forests with two hundred and twenty men. In the two years of that ghastly journey all the horses perished, and so did all the Indian companions; and the few Spaniards who survived to get back to Peru in 1541 were utterly broken down. The cinnamon-tree had been found, but not the Gilded Man. One of Gonzalo's lieutenants, Francisco de Orellana, had gone in advance on the upper Amazon with fifty men in a crazy boat. The two companies were unable to come together again, and Orellana finally drifted down the Amazon to its mouth with untold sufferings. Floating out into the Atlantic, they finally reached the island of Cubagua, Sept. 11, 1541. This expedition was the first to bring the world reliable information as to the size and nature of the greatest river on earth, and also to give that river the name it bears to-day. They encountered Indian tribes whose women fought side by side with the men, and for that reason named it _Rio de las Amazones_,--River of the Amazons. In 1543 Hernan Perez Quesada, a brother of the conqueror, penetrated the regions which George of Speyer had visited. He went in from Bogota, having heard the twisted myth of Meta, but only found misery, hunger, disease, and hostile savages in the sixteen awful months he floundered in the wilderness. Meanwhile Spain had become satisfied that the leasing of Venezuela to the German money-lenders was a failure. The Welser régime was doing nothing but harm. Yet a last effort was determined upon, and Philip von Hutten, a young and gallant German cavalier, left Coro in August, 1541, in chase of the golden myth, which by this time had flitted as far south as the Amazon. For eighteen months he wandered in a circle, and then, hearing of a powerful and gold-rich tribe called the Omaguas, he dashed on south across the equator with his force of forty men. He met the Omaguas, was defeated by them and wounded, and finally struggled back to Venezuela after suffering for more than three years in the most impassable forests and swamps of the tropics. Upon his return he was murdered; and that was the last of the German domination in Venezuela. The fact that the Omaguas had been able to defeat a Spanish company in open battle gave that tribe a great reputation. So strong in numbers and in bravery, it was naturally supposed that they must also have metallic wealth, though no evidence of that had been seen. Driven from its home, the myth of the Gilded Man had become a wandering ghost. Its original form had been lost sight of, and from the Dorado had gradually been changed to a golden tribe. It had become a confusion and combination of the Dorado and Meta, following the curious but characteristic course of myths. First, a remarkable fact; then the story of a fact that had ceased to be; then a far-off echo of that story, entirely robbed of the fundamental facts; and at last a general tangle and jumble of fact, story, and echo into a new and almost unrecognizable myth. This vagabond and changeling myth figured prominently in 1550 in the province of Peru. In that year several hundred Indians from the middle course of the Amazon--that is, from about the heart of northern Brazil--took refuge in the eastern Spanish settlements in Peru. They had been driven from their homes by the hostility of neighbor tribes, and had reached Peru only after several years of toilsome wanderings. They gave exaggerated accounts of the wealth and importance of the Omaguas, and these tales were eagerly credited. Still, Peru was now in no condition to undertake any new conquest, and it was not till ten years after the arrival of these Indian refugees that any step was taken in the matter. The first viceroy of Peru, the great and good Antonio de Mendoza, who had been promoted from the vice-royalty of Mexico to this higher dignity, saw in this report the chance for a stroke of wisdom. He had cleared Mexico of a few hundred restless fellows who were a great menace to good government, by sending them off to chase the golden phantom of the Quivira--that remarkable expedition of Coronado which was so important to the history of the United States. He now found in his new province a similar but much worse danger; and it was to rid Peru of its unruly and dangerous characters that Mendoza set on foot the famous expedition of Pedro de Ursua. It was the most numerous body of men ever assembled for such a purpose in Spanish America in the sixteenth century, but was composed of the worst and most desperate elements that the Spanish colonies ever contained. Ursua's force was concentrated on the banks of the upper Amazon; July 1, 1560, the first brigantine floated down the great river. The main body followed in other brigantines on the 26th of September. The country was one vast tropical forest, absolutely deserted. It soon became apparent that their golden expectations could never be realized, and discontent began to play a bloody rôle. The throng of desperadoes by whose practical banishment the wise viceroy had purified Peru, could not be expected to get along well together. No longer scattered among good citizens who could restrain them, but in condensed rascality, they soon began to suggest the fable of the Kilkenny cats. Their voyage was an orgie entirely indescribable. Among these scoundrels was one of peculiar character,--a physically deformed but very ambitious fellow, who had every reason not to wish to return to Peru. This was Lope de Aguirre. Seeing that the object of the expedition must absolutely fail, he began to form a nefarious plot. If they could not get gold in the way they had hoped, why not in another way? In short, he conceived the audacious plan of turning traitor to Spain and everything else, and founding a new empire. To achieve this he felt it necessary to remove the leaders of the expedition, who might have scruples against betraying their country. So, as the wretched brigantines floated down the great river, they became the stage of a series of atrocious tragedies. First, the commander Ursua was assassinated, and in his place was put a young but dissolute nobleman, Fernando de Guzman. He was at once elevated to the dignity of a prince,--the first open step toward high treason. Then Guzman was murdered, and also the infamous Yñez de Atienza, a woman who bore a shameful part in the affair; and the misshapen Aguirre became leader and "tyrant." His treason was now undisguised, and he commanded the expedition thenceforth not as a Spanish officer, but as a rebel and a pirate. As he steered toward the Atlantic, it was with plans of appalling magnitude and daring. He intended to sail to the Gulf of Mexico, land on the Isthmus, seize Panama, and thence sail to Peru, where he would kill off all who opposed him, and establish an empire of his own! But a curious accident brought his plans to nought. Instead of reaching the mouth of the Amazon, the flotilla drifted to the left, in that wonderfully tangled river, and got into the Rio Negro. The sluggish currents prevented their discovering their mistake, and they worked ahead into the Cassiquiare, and thence into the Orinoco. On the 1st of July, 1561 (a year to a day had been passed in navigating the labyrinth, and the days had been marked with murder right and left), the desperadoes reached the Atlantic Ocean; but through the mouth of the Orinoco, and not, as they had expected, through the Amazon. Seventeen days later they sighted the island of Margarita, where there was a Spanish post. By treachery they seized the island, and then proclaimed their independence of Spain. This step gave Aguirre money and some ammunition, but he still lacked vessels for a voyage by sea. He tried to seize a large vessel which was conveying the provincial Monticinos, a Dominican missionary, to Venezuela; but his treachery was frustrated, and the alarm was given on the mainland. Infuriated by his failure, the little monster butchered the royal officers of Margarita. His plan to reach Panama was balked; but he succeeded at last in capturing a smaller vessel, by means of which he landed on the coast of Venezuela in August, 1561. His career on the mainland was one of crime and rapine. The people, taken by surprise, and unable to make immediate resistance to the outlaw, fled at his approach. The authorities sent as far as New Granada in their appeals for help; and all northern South America was terrorized. Aguirre proceeded without opposition as far as Barquecimeto. He found that place deserted; but very soon there arrived the maestro de campo, (Colonel) Diego de Paredes, with a hastily collected loyal force. At the same time Quesada, the conqueror of New Granada, was hastening against the traitor with what force he could muster. Aguirre found himself blockaded in Barquecimeto, and his followers began to desert. Finally, left almost alone, Aguirre slew his daughter (who had shared all those awful wanderings) and surrendered himself. The Spanish commander did not wish to execute the arch-traitor; but Aguirre's own followers insisted upon his death, and secured it. * * * * * There were many subsequent attempts to discover the Gilded Man; but they were of little importance, except the one undertaken by Sir Walter Raleigh in 1595. He got only as far as the Salto Coroni,--that is, failed to achieve anything like as great a feat as even Ordaz,--but returned to England with glowing accounts of a great inland lake and rich nations. He had mixed up the legend of the Dorado with reports of the Incas of Peru,--which proves that the Spanish were not the only people to swallow fables. Indeed, the English and other explorers were fully as credulous and fully as anxious to get to the fabled gold. The myth of the great lake, the lake of Parime,[18] gradually absorbed the myth of the Gilded Man. The historic tradition became merged and lost in the geographic fable. Only in the eastern forests of Peru did the Dorado re-appear in the beginning of the last century, but as a distorted and groundless tale. But Lake Parime remained on the maps and in geographical descriptions. It is a curious coincidence that where the golden tribes of Meta were once believed to exist, the gold fields of Guiana (now a bone of contention between England and Venezuela) have recently been discovered. It is certain that Meta was only a myth, but even the myth was useful. The fable of the lake of Parime--long believed in as a great lake with whole ranges of mountains of silver behind it--was fully exploded by Humboldt in the beginning of the present century. He showed that there was neither a great lake nor were there mountains of silver. The broad savannas of the Orinoco, when overflowed in the rainy season, had been taken for a lake, and the silver background was simply the shimmer of the sunlight on peaks of micaceous rock. With Humboldt finally perished the most remarkable fairy tale in history. No other myth or legend in either North or South America ever exercised such a powerful influence on the course of geographical discovery; none ever called out such surpassing human endeavor, and none so well illustrated the matchless tenacity of purpose and the self-sacrifice inherent in the Spanish character. It is a new lesson to most of us, but a true and proved one, that this southern nation, more impulsive and impetuous than those of the north, was also more patient and more enduring. The myth died, but it had not existed in vain. Before it had been disproved, it had brought about the exploration of the Amazon, the Orinoco, all Brazil north of the Amazon, all Venezuela, all New Granada, and eastern Ecuador. If we look at the map a moment, we shall see what this means,--that the Gilded Man gave to the world the geography of all South America above the equator. FOOTNOTES: [17] Pronounced Wów-pess. [18] Pronounced Pah-_ree_-may. III. THE GREATEST CONQUEST. PIZARRO AND PERU. I. THE SWINEHERD OF TRUXILLO. Somewhere between the years 1471 and 1478, (we are not sure of the exact date), an unfortunate boy was born in the city of Truxillo,[19] province of Estremadura, Spain. He was an illegitimate son of Colonel Gonzalo Pizarro,[20] who had won distinction in the wars in Italy and Navarre. But his parentage was no help to him. The disgraced baby never had a home,--it is even said that he was left as a foundling at the door of a church. He grew up to young manhood in ignorance and abject poverty, without schools or care or helping hands, thrown entirely upon his own resources to keep from starving. Only the most menial occupations were open to him; but he seems to have done his best with them. How the neighbor-boys would have laughed and hooted if one had said to them: "That dirty, ragged youngster who drives his pigs through the oak-groves of Estremadura will one day be the greatest man in a new world which no one has yet seen, and will be a more famous soldier than our Great Captain,[21] and will divide more gold than the king has!" And we could not have blamed them for their sneers. The wisest man in Europe then would have believed as little as they such a wild prophecy; for truly it was the most improbable thing in the world. But the boy who could herd swine faithfully when there was no better work to do, could turn his hand to greater things when greater offered, and do them as well. Luckily the New World came just in time for him. If it had not been for Columbus, he might have lived and died a swineherd, and history would have lost one of its most gallant figures, as well as many more of those to whom the adventurous Genoese opened the door of fame. To thousands of men as undivined by themselves as by others, there was then nothing to see in life but abject obscurity in crowded, ignorant, poverty-stricken Europe. When Spain suddenly found the new land beyond the seas, it caused such a wakening of mankind as was never before nor ever has been since. There was, almost literally, a new world; and it made almost a new people. Not merely the brilliant and the great profited by this wonderful change; there was none so poor and ignorant that he might not now spring up to the full stature of the man that was in him. It was, indeed, the greatest beginning of human liberty, the first opening of the door of equality, the first seed of free nations like our own. The Old World was the field of the rich and favored; but America was already what it is so proud to be to-day,--the poor man's chance. And it is a very striking fact that nearly all who made great names in America were not of those who came great, but of the obscure men who won here the admiration of a world which had never heard of them before. Of all these and of all others, Pizarro was the greatest pioneer. The rise of Napoleon himself was not a more startling triumph of will and genius over every obstacle, nor as creditable morally. [Illustration: ATAHUALPA'S HOUSE, CAXAMARCA. _See page 260._] We do not know the year in which Francisco Pizarro, the swineherd of Truxillo, reached America; but his first importance here began in 1510. In that year he was already in the island of Española, and accompanied Ojeda[22] on the disastrous expedition to Urabá on the mainland. Here he showed himself so brave and prudent that Ojeda left him in charge of the ill-fated colony of San Sebastian, while he himself should return to Española for help. This first honorable responsibility which fell to Pizarro was full of danger and suffering; but he was equal to the emergency, and in him began to grow that rare and patient heroism which was later to bear him up through the most dreadful years that ever conqueror had. For two months he waited in that deadly spot, until so many had died that the survivors could at last crowd into their one boat. Then Pizarro joined Balboa, and shared that frightful march across the Isthmus and that brilliant honor of the discovery of the Pacific. When Balboa's gallant career came to a sudden and bloody ending, Pizarro was thrown upon the hands of Pedro Arias Davila, who sent him on several minor expeditions. In 1515 he crossed the Isthmus again, and probably heard vaguely of Peru. But he had neither money nor influence to launch out for himself. He accompanied Governor Davila when that official moved to Panama, and won respect in several small expeditions. But at fifty years of age he was still a poor man and an unknown one,--an humble _ranchero_ near Panama. On that pestilent and wild Isthmus there had been very little chance to make up for the disadvantages of his youth. He had not learned to read or write,--indeed, he never did learn. But it is evident that he had learned some more important lessons, and had developed a manhood equal to any call the future might make upon it. In 1522, Pascual de Andagóya made a short voyage from Panama down the Pacific coast, but got no farther than Balboa had gone years before. His failure, however, called new attention to the unknown countries to the south; and Pizarro burned to explore them. The mind of the man who had been a swineherd was the only one that grasped the importance of what awaited discovery,--his courage, the only courage ready to face the obstacles that lay between. At last, he found two men ready to listen to his plans and to help him. These were Diego de Almagro[23] and Hernando de Luque.[24] Almagro was a soldier of fortune, a foundling like Pizarro, but better educated and somewhat older. He was a brave man physically; but he lacked the high moral courage as well as the moral power of Pizarro. He was in every way a lower grade of man,--more what would have been expected from their common birth than was that phenomenal character which was as much at home in courts and conquest as it had been in herding beasts. Not only could Pizarro accommodate himself to any range of fortune, but he was as unspoiled by power as by poverty. He was a man of principle; a man of his word; inflexible, heroic, yet prudent and humane, generous and just, and forever loyal,--in all of which qualities Almagro fell far below him. De Luque was a priest, vicar at Panama. He was a wise and good man, to whom the two soldiers were greatly indebted. They had nothing but strong arms and big courage for the expedition; and he had to furnish the means. This he did with money he secured from the licentiate Espinosa, a lawyer. The consent of the governor was necessary, as in all Spanish provinces; and though Governor Davila did not seem to approve of the expedition, his permission was secured by promising him a share of the profits, while he was not called upon for any of the expenses. Pizarro was given command, and sailed in November, 1524, with one hundred men. Almagro was to follow as soon as possible, hoping to recruit more men in the little colony. After coasting a short distance to the south, Pizarro effected a landing. It was an inhospitable spot. The explorers found themselves in a vast, tropical swamp, where progress was made almost impossible by the morasses and by the dense growth. The miasma of the marsh brooded everywhere, an intangible but merciless foe. Clouds of venomous insects hung upon them. To think of flies as a danger to life is strange to those who know only the temperate zones; but in some parts of the tropics the insects are more dreadful than wolves. From the swamps the exhausted Spaniards struggled through to a range of hills, whose sharp rocks (lava, very likely) cut their feet to the bone. And there was nothing to cheer them; all was the same hopeless wilderness. They toiled back to their rude brigantine, fainting under the tropic heat, and re-embarked. Taking on wood and water, they pursued their course south. Then came savage storms, which lasted ten days. Hurled about on the waves, their crazy little vessel barely missed falling asunder. Water ran short; and as for food, they had to live on two ears of corn apiece daily. As soon as the weather would permit they put to a landing, but found themselves again in a trackless and impenetrable forest. These strange, vast forests of the tropics (forests as big as the whole of Europe) are Nature's most forbidding side; the pathless sea and the desert plains are not so lonely or so deadly. Gigantic trees, sometimes much more than a hundred feet in circumference, grow thick and tall, their bases buried in eternal gloom, their giant columns interwoven with mighty vines, so that it is no longer a forest but a wall. Every step must be won by the axe. Huge and hideous snakes and great saurians are there; and in the hot, damp air lurks a foe deadlier than python or alligator or viper,--the tropic pestilence. The men were no weaklings, but in this dreadful wilderness they soon lost hope. They began to curse Pizarro for leading them only to a miserable death, and clamored to sail back to Panama. But this only served to show the difference between men who were only brave physically and those of moral courage like Pizarro's. He had no thought of giving up; yet as his men were ripe for mutiny, something must be done; and he did a very bright thing,--one of the small first flashes of that genius which danger and extremity finally developed so conspicuously. He cheered his followers even while he was circumventing their mutiny. Montenegro, one of the officers, was sent back with the brigantine and half the little army to the Isle of Pearls for supplies. That kept the expedition from being given up. Pizarro and his fifty men could not return to Panama, for they had no boat; and Montenegro and his companions could not well fail to come back with succor. But it was a bitter waiting for relief. For six weeks the starving Spaniards floundered in the swamps, from which they could find no exit. There was no food except the shellfish they picked up and a few berries, some of which proved poisonous and caused tortures to those who ate them. Pizarro shared the hardships of his men with unselfish gentleness, dividing with the poorest soldier, and toiling like the rest, always with brave words to cheer them up. More than twenty men--nearly half the little force--died under their hardships; and all the survivors lost hope save the stout-hearted commander. When they were almost at the last gasp, a far light gleaming through the forest aroused them; and forcing their way in that direction they came at last to open ground, where was an Indian village whose corn and cocoanuts saved the emaciated Spaniards. These Indians had a few rude gold ornaments, and told of a rich country to the south. At last Montenegro got back with the vessel and supplies to Puerto de la Hambre, or the Port of Hunger, as the Spaniards named it. He too had suffered greatly from hunger, having been delayed by storms. The reunited force sailed on southward, and presently came to a more open coast. Here was another Indian village. Its people had fled, but the explorers found food and some gold trinkets. They were horrified, however, at discovering that they were among cannibals, for before the fireplaces human legs and arms were roasting. They put to sea in the teeth of a storm sooner than remain in so repulsive a spot. At the headland, which they named Punta Quemada,--the Burnt Cape,--they had to land again, their poor bark being so strained that it was in great danger of going to the bottom. Montenegro was sent inland with a small force to explore, while Pizarro camped at a deserted Indian _rancheria_. The lieutenant had penetrated but a few miles when he was ambushed by the savages, and three Spaniards were slain. Montenegro's men had not even muskets; but with sword and cross-bow they fought hard, and at last drove off their dusky foes. The Indians, failing there, made a rapid march back to their village, and knowing the paths got there ahead of Montenegro and made a sudden attack. Pizarro led his little company out to meet them, and a fierce but unequal fight began. The Spaniards were at great odds, and their case was desperate. In the first volley of the enemy, Pizarro received _seven wounds_,--a fact which in itself is enough to show you what slight advantage their armor gave the Spaniards over the Indians, while it was a fearful burden in the tropic heats and amid such agile foes. The Spaniards had to give way; and as they retreated, Pizarro slipped and fell. The Indians, readily recognizing that he was the chief, had directed their special efforts to slay him; and now several sprang upon the fallen and bleeding warrior. But Pizarro struggled up and struck down two of them with supreme strength, and fought off the rest till his men could run to his aid. Then Montenegro came up and fell upon the savages from behind, and soon the Spaniards were masters of the field. But it had been dearly bought, and their leader saw plainly that he could not succeed in that savage land with such a weak force. His next step must be to get reinforcements. He accordingly sailed back to Chicamá, and remaining there with most of his men,--again careful not to give them a chance to desert,--sent Nicolas de Ribera, with the gold so far collected and a full account of their doings, to Governor Davila at Panama. Meanwhile Almagro, after long delays, had sailed with sixty men in the second vessel from Panama to follow Pizarro. He found the "track" by trees Pizarro had marked at various points, according to their agreement. At Punta Quemada he landed, and the Indians gave him a hostile reception. Almagro's blood was hot, and he charged upon them bravely. In the action, an Indian javelin wounded him so severely in the head that after a few days of intense suffering he lost one of his eyes. But despite this great misfortune he kept on his voyage. It was the one admirable side of the man,--his great brute courage. He could face danger and pain bravely; but in a very few days he proved that the higher courage was lacking. At the river San Juan (St. John) the loneliness and uncertainty were too much for Almagro, and he turned back toward Panama. Fortunately, he learned that his captain was at Chicamá, and there joined him. Pizarro had no thought of abandoning the enterprise, and he so impressed Almagro--who only needed to be _led_ to be ready for any daring--that the two solemnly vowed to each other to see the voyage to the end or die like men in trying. Pizarro sent him on to Panama to work for help, and himself stayed to cheer his men in pestilent Chicamá. Governor Davila, at best an unenterprising and unadmirable man, was just now in a particularly bad humor to be asked for help. One of his subordinates in Nicaragua needed punishment, he thought, and his own force was small for the purpose. He bitterly regretted having allowed Pizarro to go off with a hundred men who would be so useful now, and refused either to help the expedition or to permit it to go on. De Luque, whose calling and character made him influential in the little colony, finally persuaded the mean-hearted governor not to interfere with the expedition. Even here Davila showed his nature. As the price of his official consent,--without which the voyage could not go on,--he extorted a payment of a thousand _pesos de oro_, for which he also relinquished all his claims to the profits of the expedition, which he felt sure would amount to little or nothing. A _peso de oro_, or "dollar of gold," had about the intrinsic value of our dollar, but was then really worth far more. In those days of the world gold was far scarcer than now, and therefore had much more purchasing power. The same weight of gold would buy about five times as much then as it will now; so what was called a dollar, and _weighed_ a dollar, was really _worth_ about five dollars. The "hush-money" extorted by Davila was therefore some $5,000. Fortunately, about this time Davila was superseded by a new governor of Panama, Don Pedro de los Rios, who opposed no further obstacles to the great plan. A new contract was entered into between Pizarro, Almagro, and Luque, dated March 10, 1526. The good vicar had advanced gold bars to the amount of one hundred thousand dollars for the expedition; and was to receive one third of all the profits. But in reality most of this large sum had come from the licentiate Espinosa; and a private contract insured that Luque's share should be turned over to him. Two new vessels, larger and better than the worn-out brigantine which had been built by Balboa, were purchased and filled with provisions. The little army was swelled by recruits to one hundred and sixty men, and even a few horses were secured; and the second expedition was ready. FOOTNOTES: [19] Pronounced Troo-_heel_-yo. [20] Pronounced Pee-_sáh_-roh. [21] The famous European campaigner, De Cordova. [22] Pronounced O-_yáy_-dah. [23] Pronounced Dee-_ay_-go day Al-_mah_-gro. [24] Pronounced Er-_nan_-do day _Loo_-kay. II. THE MAN WHO WOULD NOT GIVE UP. With so inadequate a force, yet much stronger than before, Pizarro and Almagro sailed again on their dangerous mission. The pilot was Bartolomé Ruiz, a brave and loyal Andalusian and a good sailor. The weather was better now, and the adventurers pushed on hopefully. After a few days' sail they reached the Rio San Juan, which was as far as any European had ever sailed down that coast: it will be remembered that this was where Almagro had got discouraged and turned back. Here were more Indian settlements, and a little gold; but here too the vastness and savagery of the wilderness became more apparent. It is hard for us to conceive at all, in these easy days, how _lost_ these explorers were. Then there was not a white man in all the world who knew what lay beyond them; and the knowledge of something somewhere ahead is the most necessary prop to courage. We can understand their situation only by supposing a band of schoolboys--brave boys but unlearned--carried blindfold a thousand miles, and set down in a trackless wilderness they had never heard of. Pizarro halted here with part of his men, and sent Almagro back to Panama with one vessel for recruits, and Pilot Ruiz south with the other to explore the coast. Ruiz coasted southward as far as Punta de Pasado, and was the first white man who ever crossed the equator on the Pacific,--no small honor. He found a rather more promising country, and encountered a large raft with cotton sails, on which were several Indians. They had mirrors (probably of volcanic glass, as was common to the southern aborigines) set in silver, and ornaments of silver and gold, besides remarkable cloths, on which were woven figures of beasts, birds, and fishes. The cruise lasted several weeks; and Ruiz got back to the San Juan barely in time. Pizarro and his men had suffered awful hardships. They had made a gallant effort to get inland, but could not escape the dreadful tropical forest, "whose trees grew to the sky." The dense growth was not so lonely as their earlier forests. There were troops of chattering monkeys and brilliant parrots; around the huge trees coiled lazy boas, and alligators dozed by the sluggish lagoons. Many of the Spaniards perished by these grim, strange foes; some were crushed to pulp in the mighty coils of the snakes, and some were crunched between the teeth of the scaly saurians. Many more fell victims to lurking savages; in a single swoop fourteen of the dwindling band were slain by Indians, who surrounded their stranded canoe. Food gave out too, and the survivors were starving when Ruiz got back with a scant relief but cheering news. Very soon too Almagro arrived, with supplies and a reinforcement of eighty men. The whole expedition set sail again for the south. But at once there rose persistent storms. After great suffering the explorers got back to the Isle of Gallo, where they stayed two weeks to repair their disabled vessels and as badly shattered bodies. Then they sailed on again down the unknown seas. The country was gradually improving. The malarial tropic forests no longer extended into the very sea. Amid the groves of ebony and mahogany were occasional clearings, with rudely cultivated fields, and also Indian settlements of considerable size. In this region were gold-washings and emerald-mines, and the natives had some valuable ornaments. The Spaniards landed, but were set upon by a vastly superior number of savages, and escaped destruction only in a very curious way. In the uneven battle the Spaniards were sorely pressed, when one of their number fell from his horse; and this trivial incident put the swarming savages to flight. Some historians have ridiculed the idea that such a trifle could have had such an effect; but that is merely because of ignorance of the facts. You must remember that these Indians had never before seen a horse. The Spanish rider and his steed they took for one huge animal, strange and fearful enough at best,--a parallel to the old Greek myth of the Centaurs, and a token of the manner in which that myth began. But when this great unknown beast divided itself into two parts, which were able to act independently of each other, it was too much for the superstitious Indians, and they fled in terror. The Spaniards escaped to their vessels, and gave thanks for their strange deliverance. But this narrow escape had shown more clearly how inadequate their handful of men was to cope with the wild hordes. They must again have reinforcements; and back they sailed to the Isle of Gallo, where Pizarro was to wait while Almagro went to Panama for help. You see Pizarro always took the heaviest and hardest burden for himself, and gave the easiest to his associate. It was always Almagro who was sent back to the comforts of civilization, while his lion-hearted leader bore the waiting and danger and suffering. The greatest obstacle all along now was in the soldiers themselves,--and I say this with a full realization of the deadly perils and enormous hardships. But perils and hardships without are to be borne more easily than treachery and discontent within. At every step Pizarro had to _carry_ his men,--morally. They were constantly discouraged (for which they surely had enough reason); and when discouraged they were ready for any desperate act, except going ahead. So Pizarro had constantly to be will and courage not only for himself, who suffered as cruelly as the meanest, but for all. It was like the stout soul we sometimes see holding up a half-dead body,--a body that would long ago have broken loose from a less intrepid spirit. The men were now mutinous again; and despite Pizarro's gallant example and efforts, they came very near wrecking the whole enterprise. They sent by Almagro to the governor's wife a ball of cotton as a sample of the products of the country; but in this apparently harmless present the cowards had hidden a letter, in which they declared that Pizarro was leading them only to death, and warned others not to follow. A doggerel verse at the end set forth that Pizarro was a butcher waiting for more meat, and that Almagro went to Panama to gather sheep to be slaughtered. The letter reached Governor de los Rios, and made him very indignant. He sent the Cordovan Tafur with two vessels to the Isle of Gallo to bring back every Spaniard there, and thus stop an expedition the importance of which his mind could not grasp. Pizarro and his men were suffering terribly, always drenched by the storms, and nearly starving. When Tafur arrived, all but Pizarro hailed him as a deliverer, and wanted to go home at once. But the captain was not daunted. With his dagger he drew a line upon the sands, and looking his men in the face, said: "Comrades and friends, on that side are death, hardship, starvation, nakedness, storms; on this side is comfort. From this side you go to Panama to be poor; from that side to Peru to be rich. Choose, each who is a brave Castilian, that which he thinks best." As he spoke he stepped across the line to the south. Ruiz, the brave Andalusian pilot, stepped after him; and so did Pedro de Candia, the Greek, and one after another eleven more heroes, whose names deserve to be remembered by all who love loyalty and courage. They were Cristóval de Peralta, Domingo de Soria Luce, Nicolas de Ribera, Francisco de Cuellar, Alonso de Molina, Pedro Alcon, Garcia de Jerez, Anton de Carrion, Alonso Briceño, Martin de Paz, and Juan de la Torre. The narrow Tafur could see in this heroism only disobedience to the governor, and would not leave them one of his vessels. It was with difficulty that he was prevailed upon to give them a few provisions, even to keep them from immediate starvation; and with his cowardly passengers he sailed back to Panama, leaving the fourteen alone upon their little island in the unknown Pacific. Did you ever know of a more remarkable heroism? Alone, imprisoned by the great sea, with very little food, no boat, no clothing, almost no weapons, here were fourteen men still bent on conquering a savage country as big as Europe! Even the prejudiced Prescott admits that in all the annals of chivalry there is nothing to surpass this. The Isle of Gallo became uninhabitable, and Pizarro and his men made a frail raft and sailed north seventy-five miles to the Isle of Gorgona. This was higher land, and had some timber, and the explorers made rude huts for shelter from the storms. Their sufferings were great from hunger, exposure, and venomous creatures which tortured them relentlessly. Pizarro kept up daily religious services, and every day they thanked God for their preservation, and prayed for his continued protection. Pizarro was always a devout man, and never thought of acting without invoking divine help, nor of neglecting thanks for his successes. It was so to the last, and even with his last gasp his dying fingers traced the cross he revered. For seven indescribable months the fourteen deserted men waited and suffered on their lonely reef. Tafur had reached Panama safely, and reported their refusal to return. Governor de los Rios grew angrier yet, and refused to help the obstinate castaways. But De Luque, reminding him that his orders from the Crown commanded assistance to Pizarro, at last induced the niggard governor to allow a vessel to be sent with barely enough sailors to man it, and a small stock of provisions. But with it went strict orders to Pizarro to return, and report at the end of six months, no matter what happened. The rescuers found the brave fourteen on the Isle of Gorgona; and Pizarro was at last enabled to resume his voyage, with a few sailors and an army of _eleven_. Two of the fourteen were so sick that they had to be left on the island in the care of friendly Indians, and with heavy hearts their comrades bade them farewell. Pizarro sailed on south. Soon they passed the farthest point a European had ever reached,--Punta de Pasado, which was the limit of Ruiz's explorations,--and were again in unknown seas. After twenty days' sail they entered the Gulf of Guayaquil, in Ecuador, and anchored in the Bay of Tumbez. Before them they saw a large Indian town with permanent houses. The blue bay was dotted with Indian sail-rafts; and far in the background loomed the giant peaks of the Andes. We may imagine how the Spaniards were impressed by their first sight of mountains that rose more than twenty thousand feet above them. The Indians came out on their _balsas_ (rafts) to look at these marvellous strangers, and being treated with the utmost kindness and consideration, soon lost their fears. The Spaniards were given presents of chickens, swine, and trinkets, and had brought to them bananas, corn, sweet potatoes, pineapples, cocoanuts, game, and fish. You may be sure these dainties were more than welcome to the gaunt explorers after so many starving months. The Indians also brought aboard several llamas,--the characteristic and most valuable quadruped of South America. The fascinating but misled historian who has done more than any other one man in the United States to spread an interesting but absolutely false idea of Peru, calls the llama the Peruvian sheep; but it is no more a sheep than a giraffe is. The llama is the South American camel (a true camel, though a small one), the beast of burden whose slow, sure feet and patient back have made it possible for man to subdue a country so mountainous in parts as to make horses useless. Besides being a carrier it is a producer of clothing; it supplies the camel's hair which is woven into the woollen garments of the people. There were three other kinds of camel,--the vicuña, the guanaco, and the alpaca,--all small, and all variously prized for their hair, which still surpasses the wool of the best sheep for making fine fabrics. The Peruvians domesticated the llama in large flocks, and it was their most important helper. They were the only aborigines in the two Americas who had a beast of burden before the Europeans came, except the Apaches of the Plains and the Eskimos, both of whom had the dog and the sledge. At Tumbez, Alonso de Molina was sent ashore to look at the town. He came back with such gorgeous reports of gilded temples and great forts that Pizarro distrusted him, and sent Pedro de Candia. This Greek, a native of the Isle of Candia, was a man of importance in the little Spanish force. The Greeks everywhere were then regarded as a people adept in the still mysterious weapons; and all Europe had a respect for those who had invented that wonderful agent "Greek fire," which would burn under water, and which no man now-a-days knows how to make. The Greeks were generally known as "fire-workers," and were in great demand as masters of artillery. [Illustration: Autograph of Pedro de Candia.] De Candia went ashore with his armor and arquebuse, both of which astounded the natives; and when he set up a plank and shivered it with a ball, they were overwhelmed at the strange noise and its result. Candia brought back as glowing reports as Molina had done; and the tattered Spaniards began to feel that at last their golden dreams were coming true, and took heart again. Pizarro gently declined the gifts of gold and silver and pearls which the awe-struck natives offered, and turned his face again to the south, sailing as far as about the ninth degree of south latitude. Then, feeling that he had seen enough to warrant going back for reinforcements, he stood about for Panama. Alonso de Molina and one companion were left in Tumbez at their own request, being much in love with the country. Pizarro took back in their places two Indian youth, to learn the Spanish language. One of them, who was given the name of Felipillo (little Philip) afterward cut an important and discreditable figure. The voyagers stopped at the Isle of Gorgona for their two countrymen who had been left there sick. One was dead, but the other gladly rejoined his compassionate comrades. And so, with his dozen men, Pizarro came back to Panama after an absence of eighteen months, into which had been crowded the sufferings and horrors of a lifetime. III. GAINING GROUND. Governor de los Rios was not impressed by the heroism of the little party, and refused them aid. The case seemed hopeless; but the leader was not to be crushed. He decided to go to Spain in person, and appeal to his king. It was one of his most remarkable undertakings, it seems to me. For this man, whose boyhood had been passed with swine, and who in manhood had been herding rude men far more dangerous, who was ignorant of books and unversed in courts, to present himself confidently yet modestly at the dazzling and punctilious court of Spain, showed another side of his high courage. It was very much as if a London chimney-sweep were to go to-morrow to ask audience and favors of Queen Victoria. But Pizarro was equal to this, as to all the other crises of his life, and acquitted himself as gallantly. He was still tattered and penniless, but De Luque collected for him fifteen hundred ducats; and in the spring of 1528 Pizarro sailed for Spain. He took with him Pedro de Candia and some Peruvians, with some llamas, some beautifully-woven Indian cloths, and a few trinkets and vessels of gold and silver, to corroborate his story. He reached Seville in the summer, and was at once thrown into jail by Enciso under the cruel old law, long prevalent in all civilized countries, allowing imprisonment for debt. His story soon got abroad, and he was released by order of the Crown and summoned to court. Standing before the brilliant Charles V., the unlettered soldier told his story so modestly, so manfully, so clearly, that Charles shed tears at the recital of such awful sufferings, and warmed to such heroic steadfastness. The king was just about to embark for Italy on an important mission; but his heart was won, and he left Pizarro to the Council of the Indies with recommendation to help the enterprise. That wise but ponderous body moved slowly, as men learned only in books and theories are apt to move; and delay was dangerous. At last the queen took up the matter, and on the 26th of July, 1529, signed with her own royal hand the precious document which made possible one of the greatest conquests, and one of the most gallant, in human history. America owes a great deal to the brave queens of Spain as well as to its kings. We remember what Isabella had done for the discovery of the New World; and now Charles's consort had as creditable a hand in its most exciting chapter. The _capitulacion_, or contract, in which two such strangely different "parties" were set side by side--one signing boldly _Yo la Reina_ ("I the Queen"), and the other following with "Francisco [X] Pizarro, his mark"--was the basis of Pizarro's fortunes. The man who had been sneered at and neglected by narrow minds that had constantly hindered his one great hope, now had won the interest and support of his sovereigns and their promise of a magnificent reward,--of which latter we may be sure a man of his calibre thought less than of the chance to realize his dream of discovery. Followers he had to bait with golden hopes; and for that matter it was but natural and right that after more than fifty years of poverty and deprivation he should also think somewhat of comfort and wealth for himself. But no man ever did or ever will do from mere sordidness such a feat as Pizarro's. Such successes can be won only by higher minds with higher aims; and it is certain that Pizarro's chief ambition was for a nobler and more enduring thing than gold. [Illustration: Autograph of Francisco Pizarro.] The contract with the Crown gave to Francisco Pizarro the right to find and make a Spanish empire of the country of New Castile, which was the name given to Peru. He had leave "to explore, conquer, pacify, and colonize" the land from Santiago to a point two hundred leagues south; and of this vast and unknown new province he was to be governor and captain-general,--the highest military rank. He was also to bear the titles of adelantado and alguacil-mayor for life, with a salary of seven hundred and twenty-five thousand _maravedis_ (about $2,000) a year. Almagro was to be commander of Tumbez, with an annual rental of three hundred thousand _maravedis_ and the rank of hidalgo. Good Father Luque was made Bishop of Tumbez and Protector of the Indians, with one thousand ducats a year. Ruiz was made Grand Pilot of the South Seas; Candia, commander of the artillery; and the eleven others who had stood so bravely by Pizarro on the lonely isle were all made hidalgos. In return, Pizarro was required to pledge himself to observe the noble Spanish laws for the government, protection, and education of the Indians, and to take with him priests expressly to convert the savages to Christianity. He was also to raise a force of two hundred and fifty men in six months, and equip them well, the Crown giving a little help; and within six months after reaching Panama, he must get his expedition started for Peru. He was also invested with the Order of Santiago; and thus suddenly raised to the proud knighthood of Spain he was allowed to add the royal arms to those of the Pizarros, with other emblems commemorative of his exploits,--an Indian town, with a vessel in the bay, and the little camel of Peru. This was a startling and significant array of honors, hard to be comprehended by those used only to republican institutions. It swept away forever the disgrace of Pizarro's birth, and gave him an unsullied place among the noblest. It is doubly important in that it shows that the Spanish Crown thus recognized the rank of Pizarro in American conquest. Cortez never earned and never received such distinction. This division of the honors led to very serious trouble. Almagro never forgave Pizarro for coming out a greater man than he, and charged him with selfishly and treacherously seeking the best for himself. Some historians have sided with Almagro; but we have every reason to believe that Pizarro acted straightforwardly and with truth. As he explained, he made every effort to induce the Crown to give equal honors to Almagro; but the Crown refused. Pizarro's word aside, it was merely political common-sense for the Crown to refuse such a request. Two leaders anywhere are a danger; and Spain already had had too bitter experience with this same thing in America to care to repeat it. It was willing to give all honor and encouragement to the arms; but there must be only one head, and that head, of course, could be none but Pizarro. And certainly any one who looks at the mental and moral difference between the two men, and what were their actions and results both before and after the royal grant, will concede that the Spanish Crown made a most liberal estimate for Almagro, and gave him certainly quite as much as he was worth. In the whole contract there is circumstantial evidence that Pizarro did his best in behalf of his associate,--the ungrateful and afterward traitorous Almagro,--an evidence mightily corroborated by Pizarro's long patience and clemency toward his vulgar, ignoble, and constantly deteriorating comrade. Pizarro had the head that fate could not turn. He was neither crushed by adversity, nor, rarer yet, spoiled by the most dazzling success,--wherein he rose superior to the greater genius, but less noble man, Napoleon. When raised from lifelong, abject poverty to the highest pinnacle of wealth and fame, Pizarro remained the same quiet, modest, God-fearing and God-thanking, prudent, heroic man. Success only intensified Almagro's base nature, and his end was ignominious. Having secured his contract with the Crown, Pizarro felt a longing to see the scenes of his boyhood. Unhappy as they had been, there was a manly satisfaction in going back to look upon these places. So the ragged boy who had left his pigs at Truxillo, came back now a knighted hero with gray hair and undying fame. I do not believe it was for the sake of vain display before those who might remember him. That was nowhere in the nature of Pizarro. He never exhibited vanity or pride. He was of the same broad, modest, noble gauge as gallant Crook, the greatest and best of our Indian conquerors, who was never so content as when he could move about among his troops without a mark in dress or manner to show that he was a major-general of the United States army rather than some poor scout or hunter. No; it was the man in him that took Pizarro back to Truxillo,--or perhaps a touch of the boy that is always left in such great hearts. Of course the people were glad to honor the hero of such a fairy tale as his sober story makes; but I am sure that the brilliant general was glad to escape sometimes from the visitors, and get out among the hillsides where he had driven his pigs so many years before, and see the same old trees and brooklets, and even, no doubt, the same ragged, ignorant boy still herding the noisy porkers. He might well have pinched himself to see if he were really awake; whether that were not the real Francisco Pizarro over yonder, still in his rags tending the same old swine, and this gray, famous, travelled, honored knight only a dream like the years between them. And he was the very man who, finding himself awake, would have gone over to the ragged herder and sat down beside him upon the sward with a gentle _Como lo va, amigo?_--"How goes it, friend?" And when the wondering and frightened lad stammered or tried to run away from the first great personage that had ever spoken to him, Pizarro would talk so kindly and of such wonderful things that the poor herder would look upon him with that hero-worship which is one of the purest and most helpful impulses in all our nature, and wonder if he too might not sometime be somewhat like this splendid, quiet man who said, "Yes, my boy, I used to herd pigs right here." The more I think of it, from what we know of Pizarro, the surer I am that he really did look up the old pastures and the swine and their ignorant keepers, and talked with them simply and gently, and left in them the resolve to try for better things. [Illustration: Autograph of Hernando Pizarro.] [Illustration: Autograph of Juan Pizarro.] But the interest which everywhere centred upon Pizarro did not bring in recruits to his banner as fast as could be desired. Most people would much rather admire the hero than become heroes at the cost of similar suffering. Among those who joined him were his brothers, Hernando, Gonzalo, and Juan, who were to figure prominently in the New World, though until now they had never been heard of. Hernando, the eldest of brothers, was the only legitimate son, and was much better educated. But he was also the worst; and being without the strict principles of Francisco made a sorry mark in the end. Juan was a sympathetic figure, and distinguished himself by his great manliness and courage before he came to an untimely end. Gonzalo was a genuine knight-errant, fearless, generous, and chivalric, beloved alike in the New World by the soldiers he led and the Indians he conquered. He made one of the most incredible marches in all history, and would have won a great name, probably, had not the death of his guide-brother Francisco thrown him into the power of evil counsellors like the scoundrel Carabajal and others, who led and pushed him to ruin. But while none of the brothers were wicked men, nor cowards, nor fools, there was none like Francisco. He was one of the rare types of whom but a few have been scattered, far apart, up and down the world's path. He had not only the qualities which make heroes and which are very common, fortunately for us, but with them the insight and the unfaltering aim of genius. Less than Napoleon in insight, because less learned, fully as great in resolve and greater in principle, he was one of the prominent men of all time. But the six months were up, and he still lacked something of the necessary two hundred and fifty recruits. The Council was about to inspect his expedition, and Pizarro, fearing that the strict letter of the law might now prevent the consummation of his great plans just for the want of a few men, and growing desperate at the thought of further delay, waited no longer for official leave, but slipped his cable and put to sea secretly in January, 1530. It was not exactly the handsomest course to take, but he felt that too much was at stake to be risked on a mere technicality, and that he was keeping the spirit if not the letter of the law. The Crown evidently looked upon the matter in the same light, for he was neither brought back nor punished. After a tedious voyage he got safely to Santa Marta. Here his new soldiers were aghast at hearing of the great snakes and alligators to be encountered, and a considerable number of the weaker spirits deserted. Almagro, too, began an uproar, declaring that Pizarro had robbed him of his rightful honors; but De Luque and Espinosa pacified the quarrel, helped by the generous spirit of Pizarro. He agreed to make Almagro the adelantado, and to ask the Crown to confirm the appointment. He also promised to provide for him before he did for his own brothers. Early in January, 1531, Francisco Pizarro sailed from Panama on his third and last voyage to the south. He had in his three vessels one hundred and eighty men and twenty-seven horses. That was not an imposing army, truly, to explore and conquer a great country; but it was all he could get, and Pizarro was bound to try. He made the real conquest of Peru with a handful of rough heroes; indeed, he would certainly have tried, and very possibly would have succeeded in the vast undertaking, if he had had but fifty soldiers; for it was very much more the one man who conquered Peru than his one hundred and eighty followers. Almagro was again left behind at Panama to try to drum up recruits. Pizarro intended to sail straight to Tumbez, and there effect his landing; but storms beat back the weak ships, so that he was obliged to change his plan. After thirteen days he landed in the Bay of San Mateo (St. Matthew), and led his men by land, while the vessels coasted along southward. It was an enormously difficult tramp on that inhospitable shore, and the men could scarcely stagger on. But Pizarro acted as guide, and cheered them up by words and example. It was the old story with him. Everywhere he had fairly to _carry_ his company. Their legs no doubt were as strong as his, though he must have had a very wonderful constitution; but there is a mental muscle which is harder and more enduring, and has held up many a tottering body,--the muscle of pluck. And that pluck of Pizarro was never surpassed on earth. You might almost say it had to carry his army pick-a-back. Wild as the region was, it had some mineral wealth. Pizarro collected (so Pedro Pizarro[25] says) two hundred thousand _castellanos_ (each weighing a dollar) of gold. This he sent back to Panama by his vessels to speak for him. _It_ was the kind of argument the rude adventurers on the Isthmus could understand, and he trusted to its yellow logic to bring him recruits. But while the vessels had gone on this important errand, the little army, trudging down the coast, was suffering greatly. The deep sands, the tropic heat, the weight of their arms and armor were almost unendurable. A strange and horrible pestilence broke out, and many perished. The country grew more forbidding, and again the suffering soldiers lost hope. At Puerto Viejo they were joined by thirty men under Sebastian de Belalcazar, who afterward distinguished himself in a brave chase of that golden butterfly which so many pursued to their death, and none ever captured,--the myth of the Dorado. Pushing on, Pizarro finally crossed to the island of Puná, to rest his gaunt men, and get them in trim for the conquest. The Indians of the island attempted treachery; and when their ringleaders were captured and punished, the whole swarm of savages fell desperately on the Spanish camp. It was a most unequal contest; but at last courage and discipline prevailed over mere brute force, and the Indians were routed. Many Spaniards were wounded, and among them Hernando Pizarro, who got an ugly javelin-wound in the leg. But the Indians gave them no rest, and were constantly harassing them, cutting off stragglers, and keeping the camp in endless alarm. Then fortunately came a reinforcement of one hundred men with a few horses, under command of Hernando de Soto, the heroic but unfortunate man who later explored the Mississippi. Thus strengthened, Pizarro crossed back to the mainland on rafts. The Indians disputed his passage, killed three men on one raft, and cut off another raft, whose soldiers were overpowered. Hernando Pizarro had already landed; and though a dangerous mud-flat lay between, he spurred his floundering horse through belly-deep mire, with a few companions, and rescued the imperilled men. Entering Tumbez, the Spaniards found the pretty town stripped and deserted. Alonso de Molina and his companion had disappeared, and their fate was never learned. Pizarro left a small force there, and in May, 1532, marched inland, sending De Soto with a small detachment to scout the base of the giant Andes. From his very first landing, Pizarro enforced the strictest discipline. His soldiers must treat the Indians well, under the severest penalties. They must not even enter an Indian dwelling; and if they dared disobey this command they were sternly punished. It was a liberal and gentle policy toward the Indians which Pizarro adopted at the very start, and maintained inflexibly. [Illustration: CHURCH OF ST. FRANCIS, CAXAMARCA. _See page 268._] After three or four weeks spent in exploring, Pizarro picked out a site in the valley of Tangara, and founded there the town of San Miguel (St. Michael). He built a church, storehouse, hall of justice, fort and dwellings, and organized a government. The gold they had collected he sent back to Panama, and waited several weeks hoping for recruits. But none came, and it was evident that he must give up the conquest of Peru, or undertake it with the handful of men he already had. It did not take a Pizarro long to choose between such alternatives. Leaving fifty soldiers under Antonio Navarro to garrison San Miguel, and with strict laws for the protection of the Indians, Pizarro marched Sept. 24, 1532, toward the vast and unknown interior. FOOTNOTES: [25] A Spanish historian of the sixteenth century, a relative of Francisco Pizarro. IV. PERU AS IT WAS. Now that we have followed Pizarro to Peru, and he is about to conquer the wonderful land to find which he has gone through such unparalleled discouragements and sufferings, we must stop for a moment to get an understanding of the country. This is the more necessary because such false and foolish tales of "the Empire of Peru" and "the reign of the Incas," and all that sort of trash, have been so widely circulated. To comprehend the Conquest at all, we must understand what there was to conquer; and that makes it necessary that I should sketch in a few words the picture of Peru that was so long accepted on the authority of grotesquely mistaken historians, and also Peru as it really was, and as more scholarly history has fully proved it to have been. We were told that Peru was a great, rich, populous, civilized empire, ruled by a long line of kings who were called Incas; that it had dynasties and noblemen, throne and crown and court; that its kings conquered vast territories, and civilized their conquered savage neighbors by wonderful laws and schools and other tools of the highest political economy; that they had military roads finer than those built by the Romans, and a thousand miles in length, with wonderful pavement and bridges; that this wonderful race believed in one Supreme Being; that the king and all of the royal blood were immeasurably above the common people, but mild, just, paternal, and enlightened; that there were royal palaces everywhere; that they had canals four or five hundred miles long, and county fairs, and theatrical representations of tragedy and comedy; that they carved emeralds with bronze tools the making of which is now a lost art; that the government took the census, and had the populace educated; and that while the policy of the remarkable aborigines of Mexico was the policy of hate, that of the Inca kings was the policy of love and mildness. Above all, we were told much of the long line of Inca monarchs, the royal family, whose last great king, Huayna Capac, had died not a great while before the coming of the Spaniards. He was represented as dividing the throne between his sons Atahualpa and Huascar, who soon quarrelled and began a wicked and merciless fratricidal war with armies and other civilized arrangements. Then, we were told, came Pizarro and took advantage of this unfraternal war, arrayed one brother against the other, and thus was enabled at last to conquer the empire. All this, with a thousand other things as ridiculous, as untrue, and as impossible, is part of one of the most fascinating but misleading historical romances ever written. It never could have been written if the beautiful and accurate science of ethnology had then been known. The whole idea of Peru so long prevalent was based upon utter ignorance of the country, and, above all, of Indians everywhere. For you must remember that these wonderful beings, whose pictured government puts to shame any civilized nation now on earth, were _nothing but Indians_. I do not mean that Indians are not men, with all the emotions and feelings and rights of men,--rights which I only wish we had protected with as honorable care as Spain did. But the North and South American Indians are very like each other in their social, religious, and political organization, and very unlike us. The Peruvians had indeed advanced somewhat further than any other Indians in America, but they were still Indians. They had no adequate idea of a Supreme Being, but worshipped a bewildering multitude of gods and idols. There was no king, no throne, no dynasty, no royal blood, nor anything else royal. Anything of that sort was even more impossible among the Indians than it would be now in our own republic. There was not, and could not be, even a nation. Indian life is essentially tribal. Not only can there be no king nor anything resembling a king, but there is no such thing as heredity,--except as something to be guarded against. The chief (and there cannot be even one supreme chief) cannot hand down his authority to his son, nor to any one else. The successor is elected by the council of officials who have such things in charge. Where there are no kings there can be no palaces,--and there were neither in Peru. As for fairs and schools and all those things, they were as untrue as impossible. There was no court, nor crown, nor nobility, nor census, nor theatres, nor anything remotely suggesting any of them; and as for the Incas, they were not kings nor even rulers, but _a tribe of Indians_. They were the only Indians in the Americas who had the smelter; and that enabled them to make rude gold and silver ornaments and images; so their country was the richest in the New World, and they certainly had a remarkable though barbaric splendor. The temples of their blind gods were bright with gold, and the Indians wore precious metals in profusion, just as our own Navajos and Pueblos in New Mexico and Arizona wear pounds and pounds of silver ornaments to-day. They made bronze tools too, some of which had a very good temper; but it was not an art, only an accident. Two of those tools were never found of the same alloy; the Indian smith simply guessed at it, and had to throw away many a tool for every one he accidentally made. The Incas were one of the Peruvian tribes, at first weak and sadly mauled about by their neighbors. At last, driven from their old home, they stumbled upon a valley which was a natural fortress. Here they built their town of Cuzco,--for they built towns as did our Pueblos, but better. Then when they had fortified the two or three passes by which alone that pocket in the Andes can be reached, they were safe. Their neighbors could no longer get in to kill and rob them. In time they grew to be numerous and confident, and like all other Indians (and some white peoples) at once began to sally out to kill and rob their neighbors. In this they succeeded very well, because they had a safe place to retreat to; and, above all, because they had their little camels, and could carry food enough to be gone long from home. They had domesticated the llama, which none of the neighbor tribes, except the Aymaros, had done; and this gave the Incas an enormous advantage. They could steal out from their safe valley in a large force, with provisions for a month or more, and surprise some village. If they were beaten off, they merely skulked in the mountains, living by their pack-train, constantly harassing and cutting off the villagers until the latter were simply worn out. We see what the little camel did for the Incas: it enabled them to make war in a manner no other Indians in America had then ever used. With this advantage and in this manner this warrior tribe had made what might be called a "conquest" over an enormous country. The tribes found it cheaper at last to yield, and pay the Incas to let them alone. The robbers built storehouses in each place, and put there an official to receive the tribute exacted from the conquered tribe. These tribes were never assimilated. They could not enter Cuzco, nor did Incas come to live among them. It was not a nation, but a country of Indian tribes held down together by fear of the one stronger tribe. The organization of the Incas was, broadly speaking, the same as that of any other Indian tribe. The most prominent official in such a tribe of land-pirates was naturally the official who had charge of the business of fighting,--the war-captain. He was the commander in war; but in the other branches of government he was far from being the only or the highest man! And that is simply what Huayna Capac and all the other fabulous Inca kings were,--Indian war-captains of the same influence as several Indian war-captains I know in New Mexico. Huayna Capac's sons were also Indian war-captains, and nothing more,--moreover, war-captains of different tribes, rivals and enemies. Atahualpa moved down from Quito with his savage warriors, and had several fights, and finally captured Huascar and shut him up in the Indian fort at Xauxa.[26] That was the state of things when Pizarro began his march inland; and lest you should be misled by assertions that the condition of things in Peru was differently stated by the Spanish historians, it is needful to say one thing more. The Spanish chroniclers were not liars nor blunderers,--any more than our own later pioneers who wrote gravely of the Indian _King_ Philip, and the Indian _King_ Powhatan, and the Indian _Princess_ Pocahontas. Ethnology was an unknown science then. None of those old writers comprehended the characteristic Indian organization. They saw an ignorant, naked, superstitious man who commanded his ignorant followers; he was a person in authority, and they called him a king because they did not know what else to call him. The Spaniards did the same thing. All the world in those days had but one little foot-rule wherewith to measure governments or organizations; and ridiculous as some of their measurements seem now, no one then could do better. No; the mistakes of the Spanish chroniclers were as honest and as ignorant as those which Prescott made three centuries later, and by no means so absurd. Peru, however, was a very wonderful country to have been built up by simple Indians, without even that national organization or spirit which is the first step toward a nation. Its "cities" were substantial, and in their construction had considerable claim to skill; the farms were better than those of our Pueblos, because they had indigenous there the potato and other plant-foods unknown then in our southwest, and were watered by the same system of irrigation common to all the sedentary tribes. They were the only shepherd Indians, and their great flocks of llamas were a very considerable source of wealth; while the camel's-hair cloths of their own weaving were not disdained by the proud ladies of Spain. And above all, their rude ovens for melting metal enabled them to supply a certain dazzling display, which was certainly not to be expected among American Indians: indeed, it would surprise us to enter churches anywhere and find them so bright with golden plates and images and dados as were some of their barbaric temples. We cannot say that they never made human sacrifices; but these hideous rites were rare, and not to be compared with the daily horrors in Mexico. For ordinary sacrifices, the llama was the victim. It was into the strongholds of this piratical but uncommon Indian tribe that Pizarro was now leading his little band. FOOTNOTES: [26] Pronounced Sów-sa. V. THE CONQUEST OF PERU. Certainly no army ever marched in the face of more hopeless odds. Against the countless thousands of the Peruvians, Pizarro had one hundred and seventy-seven men. Only sixty-seven of these had horses. In the whole command there were but three guns; and only twenty men had even cross-bows; all the others were armed with sword, dagger, and lance. A pretty array, truly, to conquer what was an empire in size though not in organization! Five days out from San Miguel, Pizarro paused to rest. Here he noticed that the seeds of discontent were among his followers; and he adopted a remedy characteristic of the man. Drawing up his company, he addressed them in friendly fashion. He said he wished San Miguel might be better guarded; its garrison was very small. If there were any now who would rather not proceed to the unknown dangers of the interior, they were at perfect liberty to return and help guard San Miguel, where they should have the same grants of land as the others, besides sharing in the final profits of the conquest. It was an audacious yet a wise step. Four foot-soldiers and five cavalrymen said they believed they would go back to San Miguel; and back they went, while the loyal one hundred and sixty-eight pressed on, pledged anew to follow their intrepid leader to the end. De Soto, who had been out on a scout for eight days, now returned, accompanied by a messenger from the Inca war-captain, Atahualpa. The Indian brought gifts, and invited them to visit Atahualpa, who was now encamped with his braves at Caxamarca.[27] Felipillo, the young Indian from Tumbez, who had gone back to Spain with Pizarro and had learned Spanish, now made a very useful interpreter; and through him the Spaniards were able to converse with the Inca Indians. Pizarro treated the messenger with his usual courtesy, and sent him home with gifts, and marched on up the hills in the direction of Caxamarca. One of the Indians declared that Atahualpa was simply decoying the Spaniards into his stronghold to destroy them without the trouble of going after them, which was quite true; and another Indian declared that the Inca war-captain had with him a force of at least fifty thousand men. But without faltering, Pizarro sent an Indian ahead to reconnoitre, and pushed on through the fearful mountain passes of the Cordillera, cheering his men with one of his characteristic speeches:-- "Let all take heart and courage to do as I expect of you, and as good Spaniards are wont to do. And do not be alarmed by the multitude the enemy is said to have, nor by the small number of us Christians. For even if we were fewer and the opposing army greater, the help of God is much greater yet; and in the utmost need He aids and favors His own to disconcert and humble the pride of the infidels, and bring them to the knowledge of our holy faith." To this knightly speech, the men shouted that they would follow wherever he led. Pizarro went ahead with forty horsemen and sixty infantry, leaving his brother Hernando to halt with the remaining men until further orders. It was no child's play, climbing those awful paths. The horsemen had to dismount, and even then could hardly lead their horses up the heights. The narrow trails wound under hanging cliffs and along the brinks of gloomy _quebradas_,[28]--narrow clefts, thousands of feet deep, where the rocky shelf was barely wide enough to creep along. The pass was commanded by two remarkable stone forts; but luckily these were deserted. Had an enemy occupied them, the Spaniards would have been lost; but Atahualpa was letting them walk into his trap, confident of crushing them there at his ease. At the top of the pass Hernando and his men were sent for, and came up. A messenger from Atahualpa now arrived with a present of llamas; and at about the same time Pizarro's Indian spy returned, and reiterated that Atahualpa meant treachery. The Peruvian messenger plausibly explained the suspicious movements related by the spy. His explanation was far from satisfactory; but Pizarro was too wise to show his distrust. Nothing but a confident front could save them now. The Spaniards suffered much from cold in crossing that lofty upland; and even the descent on the east side of the Cordillera was full of difficulty. On the seventh day they came in sight of Caxamarca in its pretty oval valley,--a pocket of the great range. Off to one side was the camp of the Inca war-captain and his army, covering a great area. On the 15th of November, 1532, the Spaniards entered the town. It was absolutely deserted,--a serious and dangerous omen. Pizarro halted in the great square or common, and sent De Soto and Hernando Pizarro with thirty-five cavalry to Atahualpa's camp to ask an interview. They found the Indian surrounded by a luxury which startled them; and the overwhelming number of warriors impressed them no less. To their request Atahualpa replied that to-day he was keeping a sacred fast (itself a highly suspicious fact), but to-morrow he would visit the Spaniards in the town. "Take the houses on the square," he said, "and enter no others. They are for the use of all. When I come, I will give orders what shall be done." The Peruvians, who had never seen a horse before, were astounded at these mounted strangers, and doubly charmed when De Soto, who was a gallant horseman, displayed his prowess,--not for vanity; it was a matter of very serious importance to impress these outnumbering barbarians with the dangerous abilities of the strangers. The events of the next day deserve special attention, as they and their direct consequences have been the basis of the unjust charge that Pizarro was a cruel man. The _real_ facts are his full justification. On the morning of November 16, after an anxious night, the Spaniards were up with the first gray dawn. It was plain now that they had walked right into the trap; and the chances were a hundred to one that they would never get out. Their Indian spy had warned them truly. Here they were cooped up in the town, one hundred and sixty-eight of them; and within easy distance were the unnumbered thousands of the Indians. Worse yet, they saw their retreat cut off; for in the night Atahualpa had thrown a large force between them and the pass by which they had entered. Their case was absolutely hopeless,--nothing but a miracle could save them. But their miracle was ready,--it was Pizarro. It is by one of the finest provisions of Nature that the right sort of minds think best and swiftest when there is most need for them to think quickly and well. In the supreme moment all the crowding, jumbled thoughts of the full brain seem to be suddenly swept aside, to leave a clear space down which the one great thought may leap forward like the runner to his goal,--or like the lightning which splits the slow, tame air asunder even as its fire dashes on its way. Most intelligent persons have that mental lightning sometimes; and when it can be relied on to come and instantly illumine the darkest crisis, it is the insight of genius. It was that which made Napoleon, Napoleon; and made Pizarro, Pizarro. There was need of some wonderfully rapid, some almost superhuman thinking. What could overcome those frightful odds? Ah! Pizarro had it! He did not know, as we know now, what superstitious reasons made the Indians revere Atahualpa so; but he did know that the influence existed. Somewhat as Pizarro was to the Spaniards, was their war-captain to the Peruvians,--not only their military head, but literally equal to "a host in himself." Very well! If he could capture this treacherous chieftain, it would reduce the odds greatly; indeed, it would be the bloodless equivalent of depriving the hostile force of several thousand men. Besides, Atahualpa would be a pledge for the peace of his people. And as the only way out of destruction, Pizarro determined to capture the war-captain. For this brilliant strategy he at once made careful preparations. The cavalry, in two divisions commanded respectively by Hernando de Soto and Hernando Pizarro, was hidden in two great hallways which opened into the square. In a third hallway were put the infantry; and with twenty men Pizarro took his position at a fourth commanding point. Pedro de Candia, with the artillery,--two poor little falconets,--was stationed on the top of a strong building. Pizarro then made a devout address to his soldiers; and with public prayers to God to aid and preserve them, the little force awaited its enemy. The day was nearly gone when Atahualpa entered town, riding on a golden chair borne high on the shoulders of his servants. He had promised to come for a friendly visit, and unarmed; but singularly his friendly visit was made with a following of several thousand athletic warriors! Ostensibly they were unarmed; but underneath their cloaks they clutched bows and knives and war-clubs. Atahualpa was certainly not above curiosity, unconcerned as he had seemed. This new sort of men was too interesting to be exterminated at once. He wished to see more of them, and so came, but perfectly confident, as a cruel boy might be with a fly. He could watch its buzzings for a time; and whenever he was tired of that, he had but to turn down his thumb and crush the fly upon the pane. He reckoned too soon. A hundred and seventy Spanish bodies might be easily crushed; but not when they were animated by one such mind as their leader's. Even now Pizarro was ready to adopt peaceful measures. Good Fray Vicente de Valverde, the chaplain of the little army, stepped forth to meet Atahualpa. It was a strange contrast,--the quiet, gray-robed missionary, with his worn Bible in his hand, facing the cunning Indian on his golden throne, with golden ornaments and a necklace of emeralds. Father Valverde spoke. He said they came as servants of a mighty king and of the true God. They came as friends; and all they asked was that the Indian chief should abandon his idols and submit to God, and accept the king of Spain as his _ally_, not as his sovereign. Atahualpa, after looking curiously at the Bible (for of course he had never seen a book before), dropped it, and answered the missionary curtly and almost insultingly. Father Valverde's exhortations only angered the Indian, and his words and manner grew more menacing. Atahualpa desired to see the sword of one of the Spaniards, and it was shown him. Then he wished to draw it; but the soldier wisely declined to allow him. Father Valverde did not, as has been charged, then urge a massacre; he merely reported to Pizarro the failure of his conciliatory efforts. The hour had come. Atahualpa might now strike at any moment; and if he struck first, there was absolutely no hope for the Spaniards. Their only salvation was in turning the tables, and surprising the surprisers. Pizarro waved his scarf to Candia; and the ridiculous little cannon on the housetop boomed across the square. It did not hit anybody, and was not meant to; it was merely to terrify the Indians, who had never heard a gun, and to give the signal to the Spaniards. The descriptions of how the "smoke from the artillery rolled in sulphurous volumes along the square, blinding the Peruvians, and making a thick gloom," can best be appreciated when we remember that all this deadly cloud had to come from two little pop-cannon that were carried over the mountains on horseback, and three old flintlock muskets! Yet in such a ridiculous fashion have most of the events of the conquest been written about. Not less false and silly are current descriptions of the "massacre" which ensued. The Spaniards all sallied out at the signal and fell upon the Indians, and finally drove them from the square. We cannot believe that two thousand were slain, when we consider how many Indians one man would be capable of killing with a sword or clubbed musket or cross-bow in half an hour's running fight, and multiplying that by one hundred and sixty-eight; for after such a computation we should believe, not that two thousand, but two hundred is about the right figure for those killed at Caxamarca. The chief efforts of the Spaniards were necessarily not to kill, but to drive off the other Indians and capture Atahualpa. Pizarro had given stern orders that the chief must not be hurt. He did not wish to kill him, but to secure him alive as a hostage for the peaceful conduct of his people. The bodyguard of the war-captain made a stout resistance; and one excited Spaniard hurled a missile at Atahualpa. Pizarro sprang forward and took the wound in his own arm, saving the Indian chief. At last Atahualpa was secured unhurt, and was placed in one of the buildings under a strong guard. He admitted--with the characteristic bravado of an Indian, whose traditional habit it is to show his courage by taunting his captors--that he had let them come in, secure in his overwhelming numbers, to make slaves of such as pleased him, and put the others to death. He might have added that had the wily war-chief his father been alive, this never would have happened. Experienced old Huayna Capac would never have let the Spaniards enter the town, but would have entangled and annihilated them in the wild mountain passes. But Atahualpa, being more conceited and less prudent, had taken a needless risk, and now found himself a prisoner and his army routed. The biter was bitten. The distinguished captive was treated with the utmost care and kindness. He was a prisoner only in that he could not go out; but in the spacious and pleasant rooms assigned him he had every comfort. His family lived with him; his food, the best that could be procured, he ate from his own dishes; and every wish was gratified except the one wish to get out and rally his Indians for war. Father Valverde, and Pizarro himself, labored earnestly to convert Atahualpa to Christianity, explaining the worthlessness and wickedness of his idols, and the love of the true God,--as well as they could to an Indian, to whom, of course, a Christian God was incomprehensible. The worthlessness of his own gods Atahualpa was not slow to admit. He frankly declared that they were nothing but liars. Huayna Capac had consulted them, and they answered that he would live a great while yet,--and Huayna Capac had promptly died. Atahualpa himself had gone to ask the oracle if he should attack the Spaniards: the oracle had answered yes, and that he would easily conquer them. No wonder the Inca war-chief had lost confidence in the makers of such predictions. The Spaniards gathered many llamas, considerable gold, and a large store of fine garments of cotton and camel's-hair. They were no longer molested; for the Indians without their professional war-maker were even more at a loss than a civilized army would be without its officers, for the Indian leader has a priestly as well as a military office,--and their leader was a prisoner. At last Atahualpa, anxious to get back to his forces at any cost, made a proposition so startling that the Spaniards could scarce believe their ears. If they would set him free, he promised to fill the room wherein he was a prisoner as high as he could reach with gold, and a smaller room with silver! The room to be filled with golden vessels and trinkets (nothing so compact as ingots) is said to have been twenty-two feet long and seventeen wide; and the mark he indicated on the wall with his fingers was nine feet from the floor! FOOTNOTES: [27] Pronounced Cash-a-_már_-ca. [28] Pronounced kay-_bráh_-das. VI. THE GOLDEN RANSOM. There is no reason whatever to doubt that Pizarro accepted this proposition in perfect good faith. The whole nature of the man, his religion, the laws of Spain, and the circumstantial evidence of his habitual conduct lead us to believe that he intended to set Atahualpa free when the ransom should have been paid. But later circumstances, in which he had neither blame nor control, simply forced him to a different course. Atahualpa's messengers dispersed themselves through Peru to gather the gold and silver for the ransom. Meanwhile, Huascar,--who, you will remember, was a prisoner in the hands of Atahualpa's men,--having heard of the arrangement, sent word to the Spaniards setting forth his own claims. Pizarro ordered that he should be brought to Caxamarca to tell his story. The only way to learn which of the rival war-captains was right in his claims was to bring them together and weigh their respective pretensions. But this by no mean suited Atahualpa. Before Huascar could be brought to Caxamarca he was assassinated by his Indian keepers, the henchmen of Atahualpa,--and, it is commonly agreed, by Atahualpa's orders. The gold and silver for the ransom came in slowly. Historically there is no doubt what was Atahualpa's plan in the whole arrangement. He was merely _buying time_,--alluring the Spaniards to wait and wait, until he could collect his forces to his rescue, and then wipe out the invaders. This, indeed, began to dawn on the Spaniards. Tempting as was the golden bait, they suspected the trap behind it. It was not long before their fears were confirmed. They began to learn of the secret rallying of the Indian forces. The news grew worse and worse; and even the daily arrival of gold--some days as high as $50,000 in weight--could not blind them to the growing danger. It was necessary to learn more of the situation than they could know while shut up in Caxamarca; and Hernando Pizarro was sent out with a small force to scout to Guamachúcho and thence to Pachacámac, three hundred miles. It was a difficult and dangerous reconnoissance, but full of interest. Their way along the table-land of the Cordillera was a toilsome one. The story of great military roads is largely a myth, though much had been done to improve the trails,--a good deal after the rude fashion of the Pueblos of New Mexico, but on a larger scale. The improvements, however, had been only to adapt the trails for the sure-footed llama; and the Spanish horses could with great difficulty be hauled and pushed up the worst parts. Especially were the Spaniards impressed with the rude but effective swinging bridges of vines, with which the Indians had spanned narrow but fearful chasms; yet even these swaying paths were most difficult to be crossed with horses. [Illustration: AN ANGLE OF THE FORTRESS OF THE SACSAHUAMAN. _See page 278._] After several weeks of severe travel, the party reached Pachacámac without opposition. The famous temple there had been stripped of its treasures, but its famous god--an ugly idol of wood--remained. The Spaniards dethroned and smashed this pagan fetich, purified the temple, and set up in it a large cross to dedicate it to God. They explained to the natives, as best they could, the nature of Christianity, and tried to induce them to adopt it. Here it was learned that Chalicuchima, one of Atahualpa's subordinate war-captains, was at Xauxa with a large force; and Hernando decided to visit him. The horses were in ill shape for so hard a march; for their shoes had been entirely worn out in the tedious journey, and how to shoe them was a puzzle: there was no iron in Peru. But Hernando met the difficulty with a startling expedient. If there was no iron, there was plenty of silver; and in a short time the Spanish horses were shod with that precious metal, and ready for the march to Xauxa. It was an arduous journey, but well worth making. Chalicuchima voluntarily decided to go with the Spaniards to Caxamarca to consult with his superior, Atahualpa. Indeed, it was just the chance he desired. A personal conference would enable them to see exactly what was best to be done to get rid of these mysterious strangers. So the adventurous Spaniards and the wily sub-chief got back at last to Caxamarca together. Meanwhile Atahualpa had fared very well at the hands of his captors. Much as they had reason to distrust, and did distrust, the treacherous Indian, they treated him not only humanely but with the utmost kindness. He lived in luxury with his family and retainers, and was much associated with the Spaniards. They seem to have been trying their utmost to make him their friend,--which was Pizarro's principle all along. Prejudiced historians can find no answer to one significant fact. The Indians came to regard Pizarro and his brothers Gonzalo and Juan as their friends,--and an Indian, suspicious and observant far beyond us, is one of the last men in the world to be fooled in such things. Had the Pizarros been the cruel, merciless men that partisan and ill-informed writers have represented them to be, the aborigines would have been the first to see it and to hate them. The fact that the people they conquered became their friends and admirers is the best of testimony to their humanity and justice. Atahualpa was even taught to play chess and other European games; and besides these efforts for his amusement, pains was also taken to give him more and more understanding of Christianity. Notwithstanding all this, his unfriendly plots were continually going on. In the latter part of May the three emissaries who had been sent to Cuzco for a portion of the ransom got back to Caxamarca with a great treasure. From the famous Temple of the Sun alone the Indians had given them seven hundred golden plates; and that was only a part of the payment from Cuzco. The messengers brought back two hundred loads of gold and twenty-five of silver, each load being carried on a sort of hand-barrow by four Indians. This great contribution swelled the ransom perceptibly, though the room was not yet nearly filled to the mark agreed upon. Pizarro, however, was not a Shylock. The ransom was not complete, but it was enough; and he had his notary draw up a document formally freeing Atahualpa from any further payment,--in fact, giving him a receipt in full. But he felt obliged to delay setting the war-captain at liberty. The murder of Huascar and similar symptoms showed that it would be suicidal to turn Atahualpa loose now. His intentions, though masked, were fully suspected, and so Pizarro told him that it would be necessary to keep him as a hostage a little longer. Before it would be safe for him to release Atahualpa he knew that he must have a larger force to withstand the attack which Atahualpa was sure at once to organize. He was rather better acquainted with the Indian vindictiveness than some of his closet critics are. Meantime Almagro had at last got away from Panama with one hundred and fifty foot and fifty horse, in three vessels; and landing in Peru, he reached San Miguel in December, 1532. Here he heard with astonishment of Pizarro's magical success, and of the golden booty, and at once communicated with him. At the same time his secretary secretly forwarded a treacherous letter to Pizarro, trying to arouse enmity and betray Almagro. The secretary had gone to the wrong man, however, for Pizarro spurned the contemptible offer. Indeed, his treatment of his unadmirable associate from first to last was more than just; it was forbearing, friendly, and magnanimous to a degree. He now sent Almagro assurance of his friendship, and generously welcomed him to share the golden field which had been won with very little help from him. Almagro reached Caxamarca in February, 1533, and was cordially received by his old companion-in-arms. The vast ransom--a treasure to which there is no parallel in history--was now divided. This division in itself was a labor involving no small prudence and skill. The ransom was not in coin or ingots, but in plates, vessels, images, and trinkets varying greatly in weight and in purity. It had to be reduced to something like a common standard. Some of the most remarkable specimens were saved to send to Spain; the rest was melted down to ingots by the Indian smiths, who were busy a month with the task. The result was almost fabulous. There were 1,326,539 _pesos de oro_, commercially worth, in those days, some five times their weight,--that is, about $6,632,695. Besides this vast sum of gold there were 51,610 marks of silver, equivalent by the same standard to $1,135,420 now. The Spaniards were assembled in the public square of Caxamarca. Pizarro prayed that God would help him to divide the treasure justly, and the apportionment began. First, a fifth of the whole great golden heap was weighed out for the king of Spain, as Pizarro had promised in the _capitulacion_. Then the conquerors took their shares in the order of their rank. Pizarro received 57,222 _pesos de oro_, and 2,350 marks of silver, besides the golden chair of Atahualpa, which weighed $25,000. Hernando his brother got 31,080 _pesos de oro_, and 2,350 marks of silver. De Soto had 17,749 _pesos de oro_, and 724 marks of silver. There were sixty cavalrymen, and most of them received 8,880 _pesos de oro_, and 362 marks of silver. Of the one hundred and five infantry, part got half as much as the cavalry each, and part one fourth less. Nearly $100,000 worth of gold was set aside to endow the first church in Peru,--that of St. Francis. Shares were also given Almagro and his followers, and the men who had stayed behind at San Miguel. That Pizarro succeeded in making an equitable division is best evidenced by the absence of any complaints,--and his associates were not in the habit of keeping quiet under even a fancied injustice. Even his defamers have never been able to impute dishonesty to the gallant conqueror of Peru. To put in more graphic shape the results of this dazzling windfall, we may tabulate the list, giving each share in its value in dollars to-day:-- To the Spanish Crown $1,553,623 " Francisco Pizarro 462,810 " Hernando Pizarro 207,100 " De Soto 104,628 " each cavalryman 52,364 " each infantryman 26,182 All this was besides the fortunes given Almagro and his men and the church. This is the nearest statement that can be made of the value of the treasure. The study of the enormously complicated and varying currency values of those days is in itself the work for a whole lifetime; but the above figures are _practically_ correct. Prescott's estimate that the _peso de oro_ was worth eleven dollars at that time is entirely unfounded; it was close to five dollars. The mark of silver is much more difficult to determine, and Prescott does not attempt it at all. The mark was not a coin, but a weight; and its commercial value was about twenty-two dollars at that time. VII. ATAHUALPA'S TREACHERY AND DEATH. But in the midst of their happiness at this realization of their golden dreams,--and we may half imagine how they felt, after a life of poverty and great suffering, at now finding themselves rich men,--the Spaniards were rudely interrupted by less pleasant realities. The plots of the Indians, always suspected, now seemed unmistakable. News of an uprising came in from every hand. It was reported that two hundred thousand warriors from Quito and thirty thousand of the cannibal Caribs were on their way to fall upon the little Spanish force. Such rumors are always exaggerated; but this was probably founded on fact. Nothing else was to be expected by any one even half so familiar with the Indian character as the Spaniards were. At all events, our judgment of what followed must be guided not merely by what _was_ true, but even more by what the Spaniards _believed_ to be true. They had reason to believe, and there can be no question whatever that they did believe, that Atahualpa's machinations were bringing a vastly superior force down upon them, and that they were in imminent peril of their lives. Their newly acquired wealth only made them the more nervous. It is a curious but common phase of human nature that we do not realize half so much the many hidden dangers to our lives until we have acquired something which makes life seem better worth the living. One may often see how a fearless man suddenly becomes cautious, and even laughably fearful, when he gets a dear wife or child to think of and protect; and I doubt if any stirring boy has come to twenty years without suddenly being reminded, by the possession of some little treasure, how many things _might_ happen to rob him of the chance to enjoy it. He sees and feels dangers that he had never thought of before. The Spaniards certainly had cause enough to be alarmed for their lives, without any other consideration; but the sudden treasure which gave those lives such promise of new and hard-earned brightness undoubtedly made their apprehensions more acute, and spurred them to more desperate efforts to escape. There is not the remotest evidence of any sort that Pizarro ever meditated any treachery to Atahualpa; and there is very strong circumstantial evidence to the contrary. But now his followers began to demand what seemed necessary for their protection. Atahualpa, they believed, had betrayed them. He had caused the murder of his brother Huascar, who was disposed to make friends with them, for the sake of being put by this alliance above the power of his merciless rival. He had baited them with a golden ransom, and by delaying it had gained time to have his forces organized to crush the Spaniards,--and now they demanded that he must not only be punished, but be put past further plotting. Their logic was unanswerable by any one in the same circumstances; nor can I now bring myself to quarrel with it. Not only did they _believe_ their accusation just,--it probably _was_ just; at all events, they acted justly by the light they had. So serious was the alarm that the guards were doubled, the horses were kept constantly under saddle and bridle, and the men slept on their arms; while Pizarro in person went the rounds every night to see that everything was ready to meet the attack, which was expected to take place at any moment. Yet in this crisis the Spanish leader showed a manly unwillingness even to _seem_ treacherous. He was a man of his word, as well as a humane man; and it was hard for him to break his promise to set Atahualpa free, even when he was fully absolved by Atahualpa's own utter violation of the spirit of the contract. But it was impossible to withstand the demands of his followers; he was responsible for their lives as well as his own, and when it came to a question between them and Atahualpa there could be but one decision. Pizarro opposed, but the army insisted, and at last he had to yield. Yet even then, when the enemy might come at any moment, he insisted upon a full and formal trial for his prisoner, and saw that it was given. The court found Atahualpa proven guilty of causing his brother's murder, and of conspiring against the Spaniards, and condemned him to be executed that very night. If there were any delay, the Indian army might arrive in time to rescue their war-captain, and that would greatly increase the odds against the Spaniards. That night, therefore, in the plaza of Caxamarca, Atahualpa was executed by the garrote; and the next day he was buried from the Church of St. Francis with the highest honors. Again the Peruvians were taken by surprise, this time by the death of Atahualpa. Without the direction of their war-captain and the hope of rescuing him, they found themselves hesitating at a direct attack upon the Spaniards. They stayed at a safe distance, burning villages and hiding gold and other articles which might "give comfort to the enemy;" and upon the whole, though the immediate danger had been averted by the execution of the war-captain, the outlook was still extremely ominous. Pizarro, who did not understand the Peruvian titles better than some of our own historians have done, and in hope of bringing about a more peaceful feeling, appointed Toparca, another son of Huayna Capac, to be war-captain; but this appointment did not have the desired effect. It was now decided to undertake the long and arduous march to Cuzco, the home and chief town of the Inca tribe, of which they had heard such golden stories. Early in September, 1533, Pizarro and his army--now swelled by Almagro's force to some four hundred men--set out from Caxamarca. It was a journey of great difficulty and danger. The narrow, steep trails led along dizzy cliffs, across bridges almost as difficult to walk as a hammock would be, and up rocky heights where there were only foot-holes for the agile llama. At Xauxa a great number of Indians were drawn up to oppose them, intrenched on the farther side of a freshet-swollen stream. But the Spaniards dashed through the torrent, and fell upon the savages so vigorously that they presently gave way. In this pretty valley Pizarro had a notion to found a colony; and here he made a brief halt, sending De Soto ahead with a scouting-party of sixty men. De Soto began to find ominous signs at once. Villages had been burned and bridges destroyed, so that the crossing of those awful _quebradas_ was most difficult. Wherever possible, too, the road had been blocked with logs and rocks, so that the passage of the cavalry was greatly impeded. Near Bilcas he had a sharp brush with the Indians; and though the Spaniards were victorious, they lost several men. De Soto, however, resolutely pushed on. Just as the wearied little troop was toiling up the steep and winding defile of the Vilcaconga, the wild whoop of the Indians rang out, and a host of warriors sprang from their hiding-places behind rock and tree, and fell with fury upon the Spaniards. The trail was steep and narrow, the horses could barely keep their footing; and under the crash of this dusky avalanche rider and horse went rolling down the steep. The Indians fairly swarmed upon the Spaniards like bees, trying to drag the soldiers from their saddles, even clinging desperately to the horses' legs, and dealing blows with agile strength. Farther up the rocky pathway was a level space; and De Soto saw that unless he could gain this, all was lost. By a supreme effort of muscle and will, he brought his little band to the top against such heavy odds; and after a brief rest, he made a charge upon the Indians, but could not break that grim, dark mass. Night came on, and the worn and bleeding Spaniards--for few men or horses had escaped without wounds from that desperate mêlée, and several of both had been killed--rested as best they might with weapons in their hands. The Indians were fully confident of finishing them on the morrow, and the Spaniards themselves had little room for hope to the contrary. But far in the night they suddenly heard Spanish bugles in the pass below, and a little later were embracing their unexpected countrymen, and thanking God for their deliverance. Pizarro, learning of the earlier dangers of their march, had hurriedly despatched Almagro with a considerable force of cavalry to help De Soto; and the reinforcement by forced marches arrived just in the nick of time. The Peruvians, seeing in the morning that the enemy was reinforced, pressed the fight no further, and retreated into the mountains. The Spaniards, moving on to a securer place, camped to await Pizarro. He soon came up, having left the treasure at Xauxa, with forty men to guard it. But he was greatly troubled by the aspect of affairs. These organized and audacious attacks by the enemy, and the sudden death of Toparca under suspicious circumstances, led him to believe that Chalicuchima, the second war-captain, was acting treacherously,--as he very probably was. After rejoining Almagro, Pizarro had Chalicuchima tried; and being found guilty of treason, he was promptly executed. We cannot help being horrified at the manner of the execution, which was by fire; but we must not be too hasty in calling the responsible individual a cruel man for all that. All such things must be measured by comparison, and by the general spirit of the age. The world did not then deem the stake a cruelty; and more than a hundred years later, when the world was much more enlightened, Christians in England and France and New England saw no harm in that sort of an execution for certain offences,--and surely we shall not say that our Puritan forefathers were wicked and cruel men. They hanged witches and whipped infidels, not from cruelty, but from the blind superstition of their time. It seems a hideous thing now, but it was not thought so then; and we must not expect that Pizarro should be wiser and better than the men who had so many advantages that he had not. I certainly wish that he had not allowed Chalicuchima to be burned; but I also wish that the shocking pages of Salem and slavery could be blotted from our own story. In neither case, however, would I brand Pizarro as a monster, nor the Puritans as a cruel people. At this juncture, the Inca Indian Manco came in gorgeous fashion to Pizarro and proposed an alliance. He claimed to be the rightful war-chief, and desired that the Spaniards recognize him as such. His proposition was gladly accepted. Moving onward, the Spaniards were again ambushed in a defile, but beat off their assailants; and at last entered Cuzco November 15, 1533. It was the largest Indian "city" in the western hemisphere, though not greatly larger than the pueblo of Mexico; and its superior buildings and furnishings filled the Spaniards with wonder. A great deal of gold was found in caves and other hiding-places. In one spot were several large gold vases, gold and silver images of llamas and human beings, and cloths adorned with gold and silver beads. Among other treasures Pedro Pizarro, an eye-witness and chronicler, mentions ten rude "planks" of silver twenty feet long, a foot wide, and two inches thick. The total treasure secured footed up 580,200 _pesos de oro_ and 215,000 marks of silver, or an equivalent of about $7,600,000. Pizarro now formally crowned Manco as "ruler" of Peru, and the natives seemed very well pleased. Good Father Valverde was made bishop of Cuzco; a cathedral was founded; and the devoted Spanish missionaries began actively the work of educating and converting the heathen,--a work which they continued with their usual effectiveness. Quizquiz, one of Atahualpa's subordinate war-captains and a leader of no small prowess, still kept the field. Almagro with a few cavalry, and Manco with his native followers, were sent out and routed the hostiles; but Quizquiz held out until put to death by his own men. In March, 1534, Pedro de Alvarado, Cortez's gallant lieutenant, who had been rewarded for his services in Mexico by being made governor of Guatemala, landed and marched on Quito, only to discover that it was in Pizarro's territory. A compromise was made between him and Pizarro; Alvarado received a compensation for his fruitless expedition, and went back to Guatemala. Pizarro was now very busy in developing the new country he had conquered, and in laying the cornerstone of a nation. January 6, 1535, he founded the Ciudad de los Reyes, the City of the Kings, in the lovely valley of Rimac. The name was soon changed to Lima; and Lima, the capital of Peru, remains to this day. The remarkable conqueror was now showing another side of his character,--his genius as an organizer and administrator of affairs. He addressed himself to the task of upbuilding Lima with energy, and his direction of all the affairs of his young government showed great foresight and wisdom. Meantime Hernando, his brother, had been sent to Spain with the treasure for the Crown, arriving there in January, 1534. Besides the "royal fifth" he carried half a million _pesos de oro_ belonging to those adventurers who had decided to enjoy their money at home. Hernando made a great impression in Spain. The Crown fully confirmed all former grants to Pizarro, and extended his territory seventy leagues to the south; while Almagro was empowered to conquer Chile (then called New Toledo), beginning at the south end of Pizarro's domain and running south two hundred leagues. Hernando was knighted, and given command of an expedition,--one of the largest and best equipped that had sailed from Spain. He and his followers had a terrible time in getting back to Peru, and many perished on the way. VIII. FOUNDING A NATION.--THE SIEGE OF CUZCO. But before Hernando reached Peru, one of his company carried thither to Almagro the news of his promotion; and this prosperity at once turned the head of the coarse and unprincipled soldier. Forgetful of all Pizarro's favors, and that Pizarro had made him all he was, the false friend at once set himself up as master of Cuzco. It was shameful ingratitude and rascality, and very nearly precipitated the Spaniards into a civil war. But the forbearance of Pizarro bridged the difficulty at last; and on the 12th of June, 1535, the two captains renewed their friendly agreement. Almagro soon marched off to try--and to fail in--the conquest of Chile; and Pizarro turned his attention again to developing his conquered province. In the few years of his administrative career Pizarro achieved remarkable results. He founded several new towns on the coast, naming one Truxillo in memory of his birthplace. Above all, he delighted in upbuilding and beautifying his favorite city of Lima, and promoting commerce and other necessary factors in the development of the new nation. How wise were his provisions is attested by a striking contrast. When the Spaniards first came to Caxamarca a pair of spurs was worth $250 in gold! A few years before Pizarro's death the first cow brought to Peru was sold for $10,000; two years later the best cow in Peru could be bought for less than $200. The first barrel of wine sold for $1600; but three years later native wine had taken the place of imported, and was to be had in Lima at a cheap price. So it was with almost everything. A sword had been worth $250; a cloak, $500; a pair of shoes, $200; a horse, $10,000; but under Pizarro's surprising business ability it took but two or three years to place the staples of life within the reach of every one. He encouraged not only commerce but home industry, and developed agriculture, mining, and the mechanical arts. Indeed, he was carrying out with great success that general Spanish principle that the chief wealth of a country is not its gold or its timber or its lands, but its _people_. It was everywhere the attempt of the Spanish Pioneers to uplift and Christianize and civilize the savage inhabitants, so as to make them worthy citizens of the new nation, instead of wiping them off the face of the earth to make room for the new-comers, as has been the general fashion of some European conquests. Now and then there were mistakes and crimes by individuals; but the great principle of wisdom and humanity marks the whole broad course of Spain,--a course which challenges the admiration of every manly man. While Pizarro was busy with his work, Manco showed his true colors. It is not at all improbable that he had meditated treachery throughout, and had made alliance with the Spaniards simply to get them in his power. At all events he now suddenly slipped away, without provocation, to raise forces to attack the Spaniards, thinking to overcome them while they were scattered at work in their various colonies. The loyal Indians warned Juan Pizarro, who captured and imprisoned Manco. Just then Hernando Pizarro arrived from Spain, and Francisco gave him command at Cuzco. The wily Manco fooled Hernando into setting him free, and at once began to rally his forces. Juan was sent out with sixty mounted men, and finally met Manco's thousands at Yucay. In a terrible struggle of two days the Spaniards held their ground, though with heavy loss, and then were startled by a messenger with the news that Cuzco itself was besieged by the savages. By a forced march they got back to the city by nightfall, and found it surrounded by a vast host. The Indians suffered them to enter,--evidently desiring to have all their mice in one trap,--and then closed in upon the doomed city. Hernando and Juan were now shut up in Cuzco. They had less than two hundred men, while outside, the slopes far and near were dotted with the camp-fires of the enemy,--so innumerable as to seem "like a sky full of stars." Early in the morning (in February, 1536), the Indians attacked. They hurled into the town fire-balls and burning arrows, and soon had set fire to the thatched roofs. The Spaniards could not extinguish the fire, which raged for several days. The only thing that saved them from being smothered or roasted to death was the public square, in which they huddled. They made several sallies, but the Indians had driven stakes and prepared other obstacles in which the horses became entangled. The Spaniards, however, cleared the road under a fierce fire and made a gallant charge, which was as gallantly resisted. The Indians were expert not only with the bow but with the _reata_ as well, and many Spaniards were lassoed and slain. The charge drove the savages back somewhat, but at heavy cost to the Spaniards, who had to return to town. They had no chance for rest; the Indians kept up their harrying assaults, and the outlook was very black. Francisco Pizarro was besieged in Lima; Xauxa was also blockaded; and the Spaniards in the smaller colonies had been overpowered and slain. Their ghastly heads were hurled into Cuzco, and rolled at the feet of their despairing countrymen. The case seemed so hopeless that many were for trying to cut through the Indians and escape to the coast; but Hernando and Juan would not hear of it. Upon the hill overlooking Cuzco was--and is to this day--the remarkable Inca fortress of the Sacsahuaman. It is a cyclopean work. On the side toward the city, the almost impregnable bluff was made fully impregnable by a huge wall twelve hundred feet long and of great thickness. On the other side of the hill the gentler slope was guarded by two walls, one above the other, and each twelve hundred feet long. The stones in these walls were fitted together with surprising skill; and some single stones were thirty-eight feet long, eighteen feet wide, and six feet thick! And, most wonderful of all, they had been quarried at least twelve miles away, and then transported by the Indians to their present site! The top of the hill was further defended by great stone towers. This remarkable aboriginal fortress was in the hands of the Indians, and enabled them to harass the beleaguered Spaniards much more effectively. It was plain that they must be dislodged. As a preliminary to this forlorn hope, the Spaniards sallied out in three detachments, commanded by Gonzalo Pizarro, Gabriel de Rojas, and Hernando Ponce de Leon, to beat off the Indians. The fighting was thoroughly desperate. The Indians tried to crush their enemies to the earth by the mad rush of numbers; but at last the Spaniards forced the stubborn foe to give ground, and fell back to the city. For the task of storming the Sacsahuaman Juan Pizarro was chosen, and the forlorn hope could not have been intrusted to a braver cavalier. Marching out of Cuzco about sunset with his little force, Juan went off as if to forage; but as soon as it was dark he turned, made a detour, and hurried to the Sacsahuaman. The great Indian fort was dark and still. Its gateway had been closed with great stones, built up like the solid masonry; and these the Spaniards had much difficulty in removing without noise. When at last they passed through and were between the two giant walls, a host of Indians fell upon them. Juan left half his force to engage the savages, and with the other half opened the gateway in the second wall which had been similarly closed. When the Spaniards succeeded in capturing the second wall, the Indians retreated to their towers; and these last and deadliest strongholds were to be stormed. The Spaniards assaulted them with that characteristic valor which faltered at no odds of Nature or of man, but at the first onset met an irreparable loss. Brave Juan Pizarro had been wounded in the jaw, and his helmet so chafed the wound that he snatched it off and led the assault bareheaded. In the storm of Indian missiles a rock smote him upon his unprotected skull and felled him to the ground. Yet even as he lay there in his agony and weltering in his blood, he shouted encouragement to his men, and cheered them on,--Spanish pluck to the last. He was tenderly removed to Cuzco and given every care; but the broken head was past mending, and after a few days of agony the flickering life went out forever. The Indians still held their stronghold; and leaving his brother Gonzalo in charge of beleaguered Cuzco, Hernando Pizarro sallied out with a new force to attack the towers of the Sacsahuaman. It was a desperate assault, but a successful one at last. One tower was soon captured; but in the other and stronger one the issue was long doubtful. Conspicuous among its defenders was a huge and fearless Indian, who toppled over the ladders and struck down the Spaniards as fast as they could scale the tower. His valor filled the soldiers with admiration. Heroes themselves, they could see and respect heroism even in an enemy. Hernando gave strict orders that this brave Indian should not be hurt. He must be overpowered, but not struck down. Several ladders were planted on different sides of the tower, and the Spaniards made a simultaneous rush, Hernando shouting to the Indian that he should be preserved if he would yield. But the swarthy Hercules, seeing that the day was lost, drew his mantle over his head and face, and sprang off the lofty tower, to be dashed to pieces at its base. The Sacsahuaman was captured, though at heavy cost, and thereby the offensive power of the savages was materially lessened. Hernando left a small garrison to hold the fortress and returned to the invested city, there with his companions to bear the cruel fortunes of the siege. For five months the siege of Cuzco lasted; and they were five months of great suffering and danger. Manco and his host hung upon the starving city, fell with deadly fury upon the parties that were driven by hunger to sally out for food, and harassed the survivors incessantly. All the outlying Spanish colonists had been massacred, and matters grew daily darker. Francisco Pizarro, beleaguered in Lima, had beaten off the Indians, thanks to the favorable nature of the country; but they hovered always about. He was full of anxiety for his men at Cuzco, and sent out four successive expeditions, aggregating four hundred men, to their relief. But the rescue-parties were successively ambushed in the mountain passes, and nearly all were slain. It is said that seven hundred Spaniards perished in that unequal war. Some of the men begged to be allowed to cut through to the coast, take ship, and escape this deadly land; but Pizarro would not hear to such abandonment of their brave countrymen at Cuzco, and was resolved to stand by them and save them, or share their fate. To remove the temptation to selfish escape, he sent off the ships, with letters to the governors of Panama, Guatemala, Mexico, and Nicaragua detailing his desperate situation and asking aid. At last, in August, Manco raised the siege of Cuzco. His great force was eating up the country; and unless he set the inhabitants to their planting, famine would presently be upon him. So, sending most of the Indians to their farms, he left a large force to watch and harass the Spaniards, and himself with a strong garrison retired to one of his forts. The Spaniards now had better success in their forays for food, and could better stave off starvation; but the watchful Indians were constantly attacking them, cutting off men and small parties, and giving them no respite. Their harassment was so sleepless and so disastrous that to check it Hernando conceived the audacious plan of capturing Manco in his stronghold. Setting out with eighty of his best horsemen and a few infantry, he made a long, circuitous march with great caution, and without giving the alarm. Attacking the fortress at daybreak, he thought to take it unawares; but behind those grim walls the Indians were watching for him, and suddenly rising they showered down a perfect hail of missiles upon the Spaniards. Three times with the courage of despair the handful of soldiers pressed on to the assault, but three times the outnumbering savages drove them back. Then the Indians opened their sluice-gates above and flooded the field; and the Spaniards, reduced and bleeding, had to beat a retreat, hard pressed by the exultant foe. In this dark hour, Pizarro was suddenly betrayed by the man who, above all, should have been loyal to him,--the coarse traitor Almagro. IX. THE WORK OF TRAITORS. Almagro had penetrated Chile, suffering great hardships in crossing the mountains. Again he showed the white feather; and, discouraged by the very beginning, he turned and marched back to Peru. He seems to have concluded that it would be easier to rob his companion and benefactor than to make a conquest of his own,--especially since he learned how Pizarro was now beset. Pizarro, learning of his approach, went out to meet him. Manco fell upon the Spaniards on the way, but was repulsed after a hot fight. Despite Pizarro's manly arguments, Almagro would not give up his plans. He insisted that he should be given Cuzco, the chief city, pretending that it was south of Pizarro's territory. It was really within the limits granted Pizarro by the Crown, but that would have made no difference with him. At last a truce was made until a commission could measure and determine where Pizarro's southern boundary lay. Meantime Almagro was bound by a solemn oath to keep his hands off. But he was not a man to regard his oath or his honor; and on the dark and stormy night of April 8, 1537, he seized Cuzco, killed the guards, and made Hernando and Gonzalo Pizarro prisoners. Just then Alonso de Alvarado was coming with a force to the relief of Cuzco; but being betrayed by one of his own officers, he was captured with all his men by Almagro. At this critical juncture, Pizarro was strengthened by the arrival of his old supporter, the licentiate Espinosa, with two hundred and fifty men, and a shipload of arms and provisions from his great cousin Cortez. He started for Cuzco, but at the overpowering news of Almagro's wanton treachery, retreated to Lima and fortified his little capital. He was clearly anxious to avert bloodshed; and instead of marching with an army to punish the traitor, he sent an embassy, including Espinosa, to try to bring Almagro to decency and reason. But the vulgar soldier was impervious to such arguments. He not only refused to give up stolen Cuzco, but coolly announced his determination to seize Lima also. Espinosa suddenly and conveniently died in Almagro's camp, and Hernando and Gonzalo Pizarro would have been put to death but for the efforts of Diego de Alvarado (a brother of the hero of the _Noche Triste_), who saved Almagro from adding this cruelty to his shame. Almagro marched down to the coast to found a port, leaving Gonzalo under a strong guard in Cuzco, and taking Hernando with him as a prisoner. While he was building his town, which he named after himself, Gonzalo Pizarro and Alonso de Alvarado made their escape from Cuzco and reached Lima in safety. Francisco Pizarro still tried to keep from blows with the man who, though now a traitor, had been once his comrade. At last an interview was arranged, and the two leaders met at Mala. Almagro greeted hypocritically the man he had betrayed; but Pizarro was of different fibre. He did not wish to be enemies with former friends; but as little could he be friend again to such a person. He met Almagro's lying welcome with dignified coolness. It was agreed that the whole dispute should be left to the arbitration of Fray Francisco de Bobadilla, and that both parties should abide by his decision. The arbitrator finally decided that a vessel should be sent to Santiago to measure southward from there, and determine Pizarro's exact southern boundary. Meantime Almagro was to give up Cuzco and release Hernando Pizarro. To this perfectly just arrangement the usurper refused to agree, and again violated every principle of honor. Hernando Pizarro was in imminent danger of being murdered; and Francisco, bound to save his brother at any cost, bought him free by giving up Cuzco. At last, worn past endurance by the continued treachery of Almagro, Pizarro sent him warning that the truce was at an end, and marched on Cuzco. Almagro made every effort to defend his stolen prize, but was outgeneralled at every step. He was shattered by a shameful sickness, the penalty of his base life, and had to intrust the campaign to his lieutenant Orgoñez. On the 26th of April, 1538, the loyal Spaniards, under Hernando and Gonzalo Pizarro, Alonso de Alvarado, and Pedro de Valdivia, met Almagro's forces at Las Salinas. Hernando had Mass said, aroused his men by recounting the conduct of Almagro, and led the charge upon the rebels. A terrible struggle ensued; but at last Orgoñez was slain, and then his followers were soon routed. The victors captured Cuzco and made the arch-traitor prisoner. He was tried and convicted of treason,--for in being traitor to Pizarro, he had also been a traitor to Spain,--and was sentenced to death. The man who could be so physically brave in some circumstances was a coward at the last. He begged like a craven to be spared; but his doom was just, and Hernando Pizarro refused to reverse the sentence. Francisco Pizarro had started for Cuzco; but before he arrived Almagro was executed, and one of the basest treacheries in history was avenged. Pizarro was shocked at the news of the execution; but he could not feel otherwise than that justice had been done. Like the man he was, he had Diego de Almagro, the traitor's illegitimate son, taken to his own house, and cared for as his own child. Hernando Pizarro now returned to Spain. There he was accused of cruelties; and the Spanish government, prompter than any other in punishing offences of the sort, threw him into prison. For twenty years the gray-haired prisoner lived behind the bars of Medina del Campo; and when he came out his days of work were over, though he lived to be a hundred years old. The state of affairs in Peru, though improved by the death of Almagro and the crushing of his wicked rebellion, was still far from secure. Manco was developing what has since come to be regarded as the characteristic Indian tactics. He had learned that the original fashion of rushing upon a foe in mass, fairly to smother him under a crush of bodies, would not work against discipline. So he took to the tactics of harassment and ambuscade,--the policy of killing from behind, which our Apaches learned in the same way. He was always hanging about the Spaniards, like a wolf about the flock, waiting to pounce upon them whenever they were off their guard, or when a few were separated from the main body. It is the most telling mode of warfare, and the hardest to combat. Many of the Spaniards fell victims; in a single swoop he cut off and massacred thirty of them. It was useless to pursue him,--the mountains gave him an impregnable retreat. As the only deliverance from this harassment, Pizarro adopted a new policy. In the most dangerous districts he founded military posts; and around these secure places towns grew rapidly, and the people were able to hold their own. Emigrants were coming to the country, and Peru was developing a civilized nation out of them and the uplifted natives. Pizarro imported all sorts of European seeds, and farming became a new and civilized industry. Besides this development of the new little nation, Pizarro was spreading the limits of exploration and conquest. He sent out brave Pedro de Valdivia,--that remarkable man who conquered Chile, and made there a history which would be found full of thrilling interest, were there room to recount it here. He sent out, too, his brother Gonzalo as governor of Quito, in 1540. That expedition was one of the most astounding and characteristic feats of Spanish exploration in the Americas; and I wish space permitted the full story of it to enter here. For nearly two years the knightly leader and his little band suffered superhuman hardships. They froze to death in the snows of the Andes, and died of heat in the desert plains, and fell in the forest swamps of the upper Amazon. An earthquake swallowed an Indian town of hundreds of houses before their eyes. Their way through the tropic forests had to be hewn step by step. They built a little brigantine with incredible toil,--Gonzalo working as hard as any,--and descended the Napo to the Amazon. Francisco de Orellana and fifty men could not rejoin their companions, and floated down the Amazon to the sea, whence the survivors got to Spain. Gonzalo at last had to struggle back to Quito,--a journey of almost matchless horror. Of the three hundred gallant men who had marched forth so blithely in 1540 (not including Orellana's fifty), there were but eighty tattered skeletons who staggered into Quito in June, 1542. This may give some faint idea of what they had been through. Meanwhile an irreparable calamity had befallen the young nation, and robbed it at one dastardly blow of one of its most heroic figures. The baser followers who had shared the treachery of Almagro had been pardoned, and well-treated; but their natures were unchanged, and they continued to plot against the wise and generous man who had "made" them all. Even Diego de Almagro, whom Pizarro had reared tenderly as a son, joined the conspirators. The ringleader was one Juan de Herrada. On Sunday, June 26, 1541, the band of assassins suddenly forced their way into Pizarro's house. The unarmed guests fled for help; and the faithful servants who resisted were butchered. Pizarro, his half-brother Martinez de Alcántara, and a tried officer named Francisco de Chaves had to bear the brunt alone. Taken all by surprise as they were, Pizarro and Alcántara tried to hurry on their armor, while Chaves was ordered to secure the door. But the mistaken soldier half opened it to parley with the villains, and they ran him through, and kicked his corpse down the stair-case. Alcántara sprang to the door and fought heroically, undaunted by the wounds that grew thicker on him. Pizarro, hurling aside the armor there was no time to don, flung a cloak over his left arm for a shield, and with the right grasping the good sword that had flashed in so many a desperate fray he sprang like a lion upon the wolfish gang. He was an old man now; and years of such hardship and exposure as few men living nowadays ever dreamed of had told on him. But the great heart was not old, and he fought with superhuman valor and superhuman strength. His swift sword struck down the two foremost, and for a moment the traitors were staggered. But Alcántara had fallen; and taking turns to wear out the old hero, the cowards pressed him hard. For several minutes the unequal fight went on in that narrow passage, slippery with blood,--one gray-haired man with flashing eyes against a score of desperadoes. At last Herrada seized Narvaez, a comrade, in his arms, and behind this living shield rushed against Pizarro. Pizarro ran Narvaez through and through; but at the same instant one of the crowding butchers stabbed him in the throat. The conqueror of Peru reeled and fell; and the conspirators plunged their swords in his body. But even then the iron will kept the body to the last thought of a great heart; and calling upon his Redeemer, Pizarro drew a cross with bloody finger upon the floor, bent and kissed the sacred symbol, and was dead. So lived and so died the man who began life as the swineherd of Truxillo, and who ended it the conqueror of Peru. He was the greatest of the Pioneers; a man who from meaner beginnings rose higher than any; a man much slandered and maligned by the prejudiced; but nevertheless a man whom history will place in one of her highest niches,--a hero whom every lover of heroism will one day delight to honor. * * * * * Such was the conquest of Peru. Of the romantic history which followed in Peru I cannot tell here,--of the lamentable fall of brave Gonzalo Pizarro; of the remarkable Pedro de la Gasca; of the great Mendoza's vice-royal promotion; nor of a hundred other chapters of fascinating history. I have wished only to give the reader some idea of what a Spanish conquest really was, in superlative heroism and hardship. Pizarro's was the greatest conquest; but there were many others which were not inferior in heroism and suffering, but only in genius; and the story of Peru was very much the story of two thirds of the Western Hemisphere. THE END. 
34996	----	Internet Archive (http://www.archive.org) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 34996-h.htm or 34996-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/34996/34996-h/34996-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/34996/34996-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See http://www.archive.org/details/delafieldaffair00kelliala THE DELAFIELD AFFAIR by FLORENCE FINCH KELLY Author of "With Hoops of Steel," etc. With Four Illustrations in Color by Maynard Dixon Chicago A. C. McClurg & Co. 1909 Copyright A. C. McClurg & Co. 1909 Published March 6, 1909 THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A. [Illustration: "HE SMILED DOWN AT HER GLOWING YOUNG FACE, AND HIS EYES SHONE WITH ADMIRATION" [Page 26]] CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. VENGEANCE AVOWED 9 II. THE EVIL THAT MEN DO 32 III. MISTAKE, OR BLUNDER? 39 IV. THE POWERS CONFER 52 V. CHASTISEMENT CONDIGN 64 VI. A STERN CHASE 78 VII. TALK OF MANY THINGS 90 VIII. SPECTRES OF THE PAST 114 IX. PERILS IN THE NIGHT 136 X. BY A HAIR'S BREADTH 145 XI. BATTLING THE ELEMENTS 160 XII. THE FIRST SHOT 177 XIII. THE SECOND SHOT 192 XIV. THREE LETTERS 210 XV. VILLAINY UNMASKED 221 XVI. A DOUBLE BLUFF 238 XVII. SENTENCE OF DEATH 256 XVIII. PLOTS AND COUNTERPLOTS 278 XIX. THE WORD UNSPOKEN 299 XX. NARROWING THE QUEST 321 XXI. THE SILENT DUEL 345 XXII. REFLECTION AND REACTION 360 XXIII. LOVE TO THE RESCUE 380 XXIV. THE HEAVENS OPEN 397 XXV. FULFILMENT OF THE LAW 414 ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE "He smiled down at her glowing young face, and his eyes shone with admiration" _Frontispiece_ "Upon man and beast the sand-storm beat bitterly" 168 "Like a flash José's arm swung back, ... and Curtis sprang lightly aside as the knife struck deep into the tree" 308 "It had come, the question she had meant not to let him ask" 404 THE DELAFIELD AFFAIR CHAPTER I VENGEANCE AVOWED Curtis Conrad turned from superintending repairs on the adobe wall, and walked across the corral to the gate at the opposite side. As he filled his pipe he looked across the wide, greenish-gray New Mexican plateau stretching far to east and south and west. It was dotted here and there with little groups of grazing cattle, and he noted a straggling procession of the creatures, their figures wavering and distorted in the heat haze, coming down from the distant foot-hills. They were following a trail that cut across the plain in a straight line to the pond across the road from the house, beyond a grove of cottonwood trees. "Poor devils!" he thought. "They're tramping miles for a drink of water, and to-morrow they'll tramp back again for their breakfast. The Castletons are going to lose big money in dead cattle this Summer, unless there's more rain than there was last. It's awful to see the poor brutes dropping in their tracks. I'll begin looking for a job in a wetter country if this Summer doesn't bring more rain." He turned his attention to his pipe, sheltering bowl and match in his hollowed hand. "No use, in this wind," he muttered. "What a blast it's blowing to-day! Well, there's no sand in it." The plain stretched away from the ranch-house in low, rolling hills, so evenly sized that it gave the impression of a level surface. Up from one of the little valleys rose a horseman, as if he had sprung suddenly from the depths of the earth. Through the heat that wavered over the plain his horse's legs drew out into long, knobby sticks, and both man and steed became an absurd caricature of the sinewy pony and cowboy rider that presently cantered up to the gate with the mail for which Conrad had been waiting. "Three cow-brutes are down on the pond trail, just where it crosses the road. One of 'em's got a calf." "Are they dead?" "Mighty nigh--will be by night." "You and Red Jack go and skin them in the morning." Conrad turned toward the house, looking at his letters. His mind still lingered over the calf. "Poor little devil, it ought to have a chance," he was thinking, when his eye caught the name on one of the envelopes. He turned upon the cowboy a gaze suddenly grown preoccupied. "No, Peters," he said; "the calf won't go with the other cattle while its mother is alive, and I saw that gray wolf skulking along the draw this afternoon. You and Red Jack'd better go down now and put the cows out of their misery. Skin them and bring the calf into the corral till night, and then put it down by the pond with the other cow-brutes." His eyes quickly returned to the letter that had attracted his attention. "Tremper & Townsend!" he exclaimed with eager surprise. "Why, they were Delafield's attorneys!" He tore open the envelope with an impatient jerk and the rushing wind almost blew from his fingers the check it contained. As his eye ran quickly down the half-dozen lines of the letter his face lighted with satisfaction and amusement. The sound of a carriage distracted his attention. It turned in at his house-gate and he hastened forward, a lean, long-legged figure of a man, hat doffed and hand outstretched. "How are you, Bancroft? Glad to see you! And Miss Bancroft, too! Of course you're coming in. Thirsty? I'll bet you are! And you know we've got the best water in Silverside County here. How much better your daughter's looking, Aleck! If you keep on like this, Miss Bancroft, you'll soon forget you were ever ill." "Oh, I've forgotten that already, there's such magic in the winds you have here," the girl replied laughingly as he lifted her to the ground. "They're strong enough to blow the past out of your memory and make you forget even your own name!" Her father suddenly turned away and began to hitch the horses. He sent back a covert glance at her as she stood at Conrad's side, a slender figure, her face still thin from recent illness but aglow with the pink of returning health, the breeze fluttering the short brown curls that clustered over her bare head. "Oh, my hat, please!" she exclaimed, with sudden remembrance of the head-covering she had left hanging in the carriage top. Curtis took it down for her and looked on with undisguised admiration while she tied it with a big bow of ribbon under her chin. Bancroft came back, explaining that they had driven since mid-forenoon from the base of Mangan's Peak, and asking if Conrad did not think they had made pretty good time with their new team of horses. Curtis looked them over critically, praising their good points, and approving heartily when Bancroft told him they had been bought for both riding and driving, for he wanted Lucy, now that she was growing strong again, to become an expert horsewoman. A big cottonwood tree grew beside the gate, and a little plot of grass, enclosed on three sides by whitewashed adobe walls, made a square of welcome green. Lucy Bancroft exclaimed with delight as they entered the tiny yard, stepping mincingly across the grass with lifted gown, and smiling back at the two men, while fleeting dimples played hide-and-seek in her cheeks. "I'm so glad, Mr. Conrad," she laughed, "that you haven't any signs up to 'keep off the grass,' for I simply must walk on it. I never saw anything so lovely as this little lawn and this beautiful big green tree, after our long ride across the plain. It makes me think of that line in the Bible about 'the shadow of a great rock in a weary land.'" "Yes," replied Curtis as he threw open the door. "I never knew until I came to New Mexico how much comfort and pleasure there can be in a few blades of grass. When I come in from a long ride and look at this little checker-board square of turf I feel as if I uncurled a whole yard of wrinkles and squints from around my eyes." The Socorro Springs ranch-house was a rambling sequence of adobe rooms, so joined one to another that they formed the eastern and part of the northern side of the big square corral. It was low and flat-roofed, and struggling tufts of weeds and grass grew along the top and trailed over the edge, adding their chapter to Nature's endless tale of the unwearied determination of Life to evade and overcome Death. The rooms opened out of one another in a long row, all with outside doors looking toward the east and some with additional doors into the corral. A bare adobe yard sloping eastward was bordered by a trickling stream of water along which grew some willows and cottonwoods. Beyond it spread a golden-green field of young alfalfa, and beyond that the greenish-gray plain stretched to the far horizon. Across the front of the house was a narrow wooden porch, and house and porch, walls and sheds, were all a dazzling white that in the vivid sunshine smote the sight like a blow across the eyeballs. In the low, large room in front gayly colored Navajo rugs were spread on the floor, white muslin curtains hung at the windows, and rose-bedecked paper covered the walls and ceiling. Unpainted shelves of pine above a battered, flat-topped desk were filled with books, and the round table in the middle of the room was littered with newspapers, magazines, tobacco pouches, and pipes. The housekeeper, Mrs. Peters, brought a pitcher of water, and Conrad explained to Lucy that the springs from which the ranch took its appellation, _Los Ojos del Socorro_, "The Springs of Succor," had been so named nearly three hundred years before by a party of Spanish explorers, because they had come unexpectedly upon the pure waters when they were almost dead from thirst. At the housekeeper's suggestion Lucy went into the next room to lie down for a half-hour's rest before they should start for their home in Golden, twenty miles farther westward. The door, accidentally left ajar, swung part way open and she could hear plainly the voices of her father and Conrad as she lay with eyes closed and thoughts wandering, scarcely heeding what they said. The two men were absorbed in a discussion of local politics. "Dan Tillinghurst is all right," said Conrad. "He's made a good sheriff and he ought to have the office again. I shall do all I can to have him renominated and to help elect him afterwards. But Dellmey Baxter for Congress again! That's where I buck, and buck hard, and keep a-buckin'." "But he's the head of the party in the Territory," objected Bancroft. "He can bring out more votes than any other man we can put up. If we turn him down in the convention they'll beat us at the polls." "We'll deserve to be beaten if we nominate him, anyway. I can't stomach him any longer, Aleck, and I don't see how you can." "Oh, you're prejudiced, Curt," said the other, good-naturedly. "You know you can never see any good in a man you dislike, and you took a dislike to Baxter the first day you set foot in the Territory." "Maybe I am prejudiced; but in Dell Baxter's case there's ample reason to be, and I'd be ashamed of myself if I wasn't. I know he's a friend of yours, but that doesn't prevent him from being the worst scoundrel in the whole Territory. I tell you, Aleck, there's nothing that man wouldn't do, unless it was something square and honest." "Come, come, Curt, that's rank exaggeration. I've been associated with Dell Baxter financially ever since I located in this part of the country, and I've always found him strictly on the square." "Then it was because it was to his interest to be square. He'll do you up yet, if he gets the chance and thinks it worth while. He's had his finger in every crooked scheme that's been put through from Raton to El Paso, and his hands are as bloody as his pockets are dirty." "Don't you think it's going a little too far," asked Bancroft, smiling calmly, "to accuse a man in that wholesale way when you haven't any basis for your assertions but the merest idle gossip?" Conrad gave an indignant snort. "Oh, I'm not saying he's done the jobs himself. He thinks too much of that fat paunch of his to put that into any danger. But why does he keep those Mexican thugs hanging around him if it isn't to use them for things he wouldn't dare do himself? Why, I heard from Santa Fe only last week that he's taken into his pay that Mexican cutthroat, Liberato Herrara, whom he saved last Winter from conviction for the Paxton murder." "No, Aleck," he went on. "I buck when it comes to Dell Baxter for Congress again. If he gets the nomination and the other side puts up Johnny Martinez, as it's likely they will, I'm going to support Johnny." "But he's a Mexican." "I don't care what he is as long as he's a decent man. He won't be a disgrace to the Territory in Washington, and that's more than you can say of Baxter." Bancroft's impassive face lighted with a bantering smile. "There's no limit to your bad opinion of a man, is there, Curt, if he once gets into your disfavor? By the way, is it true that the Castletons are behind Johnny Martinez?" "I don't know, and I don't care. I'm their hired man here on the ranch, but my vote's my own, and so's what little influence I may have, and I'll do with both of 'em just what I damn please. And if it came to a show-down, I'd be perfectly willing to lose my job if that would keep Dell Baxter from going back to Congress." Bancroft laughed again. Conrad's eye, as he turned to his desk for more cigars, fell upon the little pile of letters and papers he had just received. On the top lay the Tremper & Townsend envelope. "By the way, Aleck, you're from Boston, ain't you?" he exclaimed impulsively. In the next room, Lucy, listening sleepily to the two voices, had been noting the difference in their quality. Conrad's was high and clear, his speech rapid and incisive. Her father's, lower and more deliberate, had in it a subtle, persuasive quality. "Dear daddy!" she whispered softly, her heart warm with affection. Then the new, sharp edge in Conrad's tone gripped her attention and sent her eyes flying open. Wide awake on the instant, she listened for the sound of her father's voice again. Had she been on the scene, she might have noted that he turned an instant's keen gaze upon his companion before he answered, carelessly enough: "Yes; originally. But I've come from so many other places since then that I almost forget it, unless somebody reminds me. I haven't been back there, or known much about the old place, for years." Conrad's boyish smile illuminated his face and twinkled in his blue eyes. "Yes," he said; "'most everybody out here is so everlastingly on the lope that it's no wonder some of 'em lose their names every once in a while and have to pick up 'most anything that comes handy. I'm no exception, though I've not yet forgotten 'what was my name back in the States.' But did you know anything about the Delafield affair in Boston, fifteen or sixteen years ago?" "I heard of it at the time, but it was after I left the city. It was so long ago that I forget the details. Skipped, didn't he, with a lot of funds? Or was he the one who defaulted and jumped into the Charles River?" Conrad had an eagerness of speech and manner that in a man of less vigor would have been accounted nervousness. Voice, face, and gesture were alive with it as he responded: "Jump nothing! except to get out of reach of his creditors! He's alive yet and making money somewhere, and I mean to find him! I've got a particular interest in that man, and when I come up with him he'll have a particular interest in me. For I'm going to give him such a song-and-dance as he's never had before." Bancroft listened calmly, his face and manner as impassive as usual, but his eyes narrowed as they met his companion's excited gaze. Smiling slightly, he replied, "What has he done to stir you up so? You must have been too young to be interested in financial investments then." "So I was, directly. Nevertheless, it happens, Aleck, that the Delafield affair has influenced me and my life more than any other one thing. My father lost everything he had in Sumner L. Delafield's smash-up. I was fifteen years old then, and getting ready to go to Michigan University--afterward I was to study law and be a prominent citizen. My father met Delafield first during a business trip to Boston--we lived in central Illinois, and father was well-to-do--and, just like everybody else, he gave the man his entire confidence. You remember, of course, how Delafield came to the top as a regular young Napoleon of business, and soon made a reputation as one of the big financiers. When he turned up missing one fine morning, and it was found that the bottom had dropped out of everything, most people believed he had killed himself. But he hadn't, I happen to know, and he's still alive. Well, my father had been so influenced by Delafield--the fellow must have been a persuasive cuss--that he had put everything he could raise into the man's schemes, and had even mortgaged our home. He had a weak heart, and when he read the news of Delafield's default and disappearance he fell out of his chair dead. The sudden shock of it all prostrated my mother, and she died in giving premature birth to a child. So there was I, a fifteen-year-old boy, suddenly dropped to the bottom of poverty, with two younger sisters and a little brother to take care of. "I tell you, I swore vengeance on that man. I promised myself I'd hunt him down if it took a lifetime. I'm on his trail now, and I'm not going to leave it until I run him into his hole. Then I'm going to stand him up and call him to his face all he deserves; and give him a gun, so he can have a fair chance for his worthless life, and take one myself; and then I'll put a bullet through his scoundrel brain if I have to hang for it afterward!" In the adjoining room Lucy Bancroft, with wide eyes and heightened color, was listening to Conrad's story. The thrill of keen-edged purpose in his tense and eager tones had set her nerves to vibrating until her body was a-tremble. At his last sentence Curtis brought his fist down on the table with a crash that almost startled her into outcry. A moment of silence followed, and then she heard her father's cool and even voice, "But suppose he should put one through yours first?" "Oh, he's welcome to do that if he can draw quicker or shoot straighter than I can. He'll get one through his head before the _baile_ is over, and that's all I care about. The round-up's coming, and I reckon he knows it. For to-day I got a letter from Tremper & Townsend of Boston, who settled up his affairs after his disappearance, enclosing a check for five hundred dollars, saying he wished it sent to me as the first instalment of the amount he owed my father, which he hopes, before long, to be able to pay in full." Bancroft flicked the ash from his cigar with unusual care, looked at it with contemplative interest, and drew a whiff or two before he spoke. Turning to Conrad with a quizzical smile, he said: "Well, Curt, doesn't that rather take the edge off your purpose? Why are you still shaking your gory locks and roaring like a wounded bull at him when he's evidently doing the square thing by you? Why don't you let up on your chase and give him a chance?" "Not on your life," was Conrad's emphatic rejoinder. "It's too late in the game for me to take repentance and an honest purpose on the hoof! He's found out that I'm getting hot on the scent and he wants to buy me off--that's all that check means. It's not the loss of the money that sticks in my craw; it's the deviltry he worked years ago. Whenever I find that he's discharging his debts to all his other creditors, who aren't after him hot-foot, then I'll consent to wait for my parley until he has settled the whole score." Lucy arose from the bed depressed with a vague sense of trouble. The longing seized her to be out-of-doors again, alone with her father on the wide plain, with the wind smiting her face and filling her lungs and making her forget everything but her own joy in being alive. She rubbed her eyes, smoothed her face, and forced herself to smile at the reflection in the mirror until her agitation was subdued. And presently, smiling and self-possessed, she opened the door into the front room, just as her father was finishing some friendly advice to Conrad. "Well, Curt, it's your affair," he had said, "and if you are so dead-set on getting that kind of revenge I suppose you'll go ahead and get it. But you'd better be careful; if this man is desperate he might try to head you off by the same means. And you couldn't exactly blame him for objecting to being shot in his tracks, or for taking measures to keep you from doing it. For my part, I never thought revenge was a paying investment, and I still believe you're foolish to waste your time, energy, and money in that sort of business. "Ah, Lucy, is that you?" he went on, as she opened the door. "Come in, dear. Have you had a nap, and do you feel better?" "Yes, thank you, I've rested beautifully, and I'm ready to start whenever you wish," she replied. Conrad produced a bottle of port wine, telling them as he filled their glasses that it had been sent him by a friend in California in whose cellars it had lain for twenty years, and that it would be a good tonic for Miss Bancroft. The friend had promised to send him more, and with her permission he would take a bottle to her the next time he went to Golden. As they stepped out of the house Lucy looked toward the west, whence the wind came, and as it struck her full in the face she gasped for breath and her slender body swayed in its rushing current. She grasped her wide hat brim with both hands and held it down so that it made a frame for her face. Laughing with joy she turned to Curtis. "Oh, I love these winds, Mr. Conrad! I know they blow sand into your eyes and pelt your face with gravel, but they make you feel so good! I always want to dance when I've been out in a wind like this for a minute or two." She took half a dozen dancing steps across the little lawn. "And they are so pure and sweet," she went on more seriously, "and make you feel so--so right that it seems as if they ought to blow all the wickedness out of one's mind." "Jiminy! I wonder if she heard what I said in there!" thought Conrad with inward panic. But he smiled down at her glowing young face and his eyes shone with admiration as he replied: "That is a beautiful theory, Miss Bancroft, but I'm afraid it doesn't pan out much in practice. It rather seems to me that most people who come to New Mexico have that sort of thing blown into them instead of out of them. As for myself," and he grinned broadly, "I can't say that I feel any increase in righteousness, no matter how much I waltz around in these zephyrs." "And you must have given them a fair trial, too!" she laughed back. "But you may make all the fun you like of my little pet theory, Mr. Conrad. I shall believe in it just the same, and like the country just as much." "No; she didn't hear, and, besides, she said she'd been asleep, so it's all right," thought Curtis with much relief, as he went on eagerly: "I'm glad you're pleased with us and our winds, so that you'll want to stay. I assure you, Miss Bancroft, you can't find such a superior quality of wind anywhere else in the United States." "Oh, I'm going to stay, not on account of the wind, but on account of my father, who, I assure you, Mr. Conrad, is the most superior quality of father to be found anywhere in the United States! I've been away from him so much that now I'm perfectly happy to be with him all the time. You see, when my dear mother died five years ago, father put me in a boarding-school, and afterward sent me to Chicago for a year to study music, and there I had that attack of typhoid fever that came so near to killing me. But I'm here with him at last, and I mean to stay. And I'm learning to ride now, Mr. Conrad, and father thinks I'm getting on very well; don't you, daddy?" She turned to her father, as he came beside them at the carriage wheel, with a fond smile and a touch of her hand upon his arm. "Oh, yes," he answered, returning her smile and patting her shoulder; "you are doing bravely, Lucy. You'll soon be scouring the plain like the heroine of a dime novel." "No New Mexican girl," said Conrad as he helped her into the carriage, "thinks she can really ride until she can rope a steer. If you're going to be such an enthusiastic New Mexican you'll have to learn tricks of that sort. Get your father to bring you out here some day, and I'll give you lessons in cowboy riding." "Agreed! that would be great fun!" she exclaimed, smiling down at him, her eyes twinkling and the dimples dancing in and out of her cheeks. "We'll come out, won't we, daddy, after Miss Dent comes. I shall remember your promise, Mr. Conrad." Curtis waved a last good-bye as they turned the corner of his corral, and went back to his desk and his interrupted mail. "A mighty good fellow Aleck Bancroft is," he said in a half-aloud tone. "He doesn't palaver a lot, but he makes you feel he's your friend. I wonder if I said too much about Delafield. That check had wound me up and I sure talked more than I meant to." Long hours of solitude out-of-doors with only a silent plain around him and a silent sky above are likely to make a man so yearn for the sound of a human voice, though it be only his own, that he falls into the habit of thinking aloud. Conrad had the social temperament and it had not taken the wide and silent spaces of earth and air long to engender in him the habit of making companionship out of his own speech. He pulled thoughtfully at his sunburned moustache for a moment as he considered the matter. "It might have been just as well if I hadn't said so much," he went on aloud, "but he's close-mouthed and a good friend of mine. No, she didn't hear me--that's sure. How pretty she is when her eyes twinkle and her dimples come and go! I hope that wine will come in time for me to take her a bottle the next time I go to Golden. Well, I can call on her, anyway, and apologize because it hasn't. Hello! Here's a letter from Littleton! Has he got hold of something new about Delafield?" "I was down in the northern part of your Territory last week on other business," he read, "and I happened to meet a man who is, I think, on the trail of the very same person we're after, though he's been working it from the other end. If I'm right about it, the man we want is now some prominent and respected citizen of New Mexico, and maybe some good friend--or enemy--of yours at this moment. The man I met is Rutherford W. Jenkins, of Las Vegas. You probably know him--" "Sure! And know him to be a skunk!" Conrad exclaimed with a contemptuous snort. "I couldn't get much out of him," the letter went on, "although I gave him a tip about the trail we're on and a little of Delafield's history as a bait. He snapped at it, and then began to dissemble his satisfaction, so I'm sure it is of value to him. But not even firewater would make him give up anything more. However, I feel pretty sure that he either knows already who Delafield is or expects soon to find out. I think he's working at it with an eye to the possibilities of blackmail of one sort or another. Perhaps if you see him yourself you can get something out of him." Conrad's face glowed with satisfaction as he finished the letter. "The birds won't get a chance to make any nests in my hair this trip! I'll sashay up the line this very night and I'll find out who Delafield is from Jenkins, if I have to choke the life out of him to do it. God!" His vengeful desire glowed like a blue flame in his eyes. He jumped to his feet, stretched out his arms, and clenched his fists. "Sumner L. Delafield, it's getting time for you to say your prayers!" CHAPTER II THE EVIL THAT MEN DO Lucy Bancroft and her father were unusually silent as they drove toward home. After an effort to chatter gayly she grew quiet--to her father's surprise, for she was ordinarily a vivacious companion. Speculating uneasily whether or not she had heard Conrad's story, and reassuring himself that it could mean nothing to her in any event, he made several efforts to draw her into speech. But she answered with her mind so evidently intent elsewhere that he gave up the attempt. The fear grew on him that she had overheard the conversation and that it had left an undue impression on her mind. A mirage of singularly perfect illusion lay across the plain to their left, and he drew her attention to its silvery surface, the trees bordering its unreal banks, the cattle standing knee-deep in its waters, and the steamboat puffing across its breast. Lucy admired and wondered for a moment, then turned the other way and looked back at the green tree clusters and white buildings of the ranch they had left. Her gaze lingered there until they crossed the hill, and its summit hid the scene from view. Bancroft sought to reassure himself. Did she not say she had been asleep? And the door was shut. Surely she could not have heard! Even if she had why should she care about it? Nevertheless, her silence made him anxious. It annoyed him to think that her mind was intent upon Conrad's story. He made another effort to draw her out of her abstraction by asking how soon she expected their friend, Louise Dent, who was coming to spend the Summer with them. Lucy showed interest in this and they discussed plans for her entertainment. But presently she fell silent again, looking straight ahead with a little frown on her brow. The conviction gripped Bancroft's mind that she had overheard the cattleman's recital of his wrongs. Alarm stirred in his heart as he tried to imagine what impression it had made upon her. Would she sympathize with Conrad? For the moment he forgot everything else--business deals and political contests, friendships and enmities, in his desire to know what had been the effect upon the girl beside him of Conrad's outburst. But much as he wished to know, he feared still more the surety of what her feeling might be, and he could not bring himself to ask the questions that would draw her out. Presently Lucy's voice broke suddenly upon their silence. "I wonder what became of his sisters!" Her color rose as she spoke and she gazed with exaggerated interest at a tall, yellow-flowered cactus beside the road. "Whose sisters, Lucy?" her father asked carelessly, flicking the horses to a faster pace. But his heart sank as he thought, "She did hear it all!" "Why, Mr. Conrad's. You know he said he was left when he was only fifteen with two younger sisters and a little brother to take care of." "Oh--Conrad--I don't know. They are probably married by this time. That was a long time ago. I've heard him mention his sisters before, I think. Yes; I recall now that he has told me they are both married and prosperous somewhere in Illinois or Iowa." "And his younger brother?" "Oh, he's just a young fellow, and Curtis is putting him through college. Conrad banks with me, and I've noticed his checks sometimes when they come back." "How good he is to them! It must have been very hard on him," Lucy's tone was sympathetic, but her father replied briskly: "Oh, I don't know! Responsibility is sometimes just the thing to bring out all the good there is in a young fellow and show what sort of stuff he's made of." "I suppose that's why he's never married," Lucy went on, following her own line of thought, her voice still sounding the sympathetic note, "because he had to take care of the others." "I don't suppose that's a fault in your eyes, my dear." "Of course not, daddy!" Lucy flashed back, smiling and dimpling. "Of course a girl likes a young man better because he's more interesting and can pay her more attention. You would yourself, daddy, if you were a girl." "Very likely, my dear. But I like Curtis Conrad well enough, even if I'm not as young as you are and of your sex. I was disappointed in him to-day, though, and surprised as well. You must have heard what he said; how did it strike you to hear a young man boast of his intention to commit murder?" He spoke so earnestly and the persuasive quality in his voice was so insistent that Lucy turned upon him a quick look of surprise and question. Then her eyes fell as a sudden rush of emotion, coming she knew not whence or why, almost choked her utterance. "I don't know," she began tremulously, "perhaps he wouldn't really do it--I don't believe he would--he seems too good and kind to be really wicked or cruel." She stopped a moment, only to break out abruptly: "And it was such a wicked thing that man Delafield did! Oh, he must have been a villain! As wicked and cruel--oh, as bad as he could be! I can't blame Mr. Conrad for feeling as he does. I know it seems an awful thing for me to say, but I really can't blame him, daddy, when I think what that man made him suffer--and he was only one; there must have been many others. I might even feel the same way if I were in his place and it had been you that was killed!" There was a thrill in her voice that seemed in her father's ears to be the echo of that which had vibrated through Curtis Conrad's words when he so passionately declared his purpose. Her words were as knife-thrusts in his heart as she went on, "Oh, how I should hate him! I know I should hate him with all my strength!" He made no immediate reply, leaning forward to tap the horses with the whip-lash. Lucy choked down a sob or two, turned, threw her arms around his neck, and burst into tears. He put his arm about her with a sudden close pressure, and she, with her eyes hidden against his shoulder, could not see that his face had gone suddenly white and that underneath his brown moustache and pointed beard his lips were pale and tense. "Well, well, Lucy," he said presently, his voice calm and caressing, "there's no need to be tragic over it. Is it any of our affair, even if Conrad is our good friend? Possibly Delafield wasn't as bad as he says--it's likely Curt exaggerates about him--he usually does when he dislikes anybody. And perhaps Delafield suffered as much as--the others. Come, dear, brace up and don't be hysterical." Lucy straightened up and gave her father a wavering, wistful smile. "It was silly of me, wasn't it, daddy, to act like that! I'm ashamed of myself. I don't know why I cried--I guess it was because I am tired." CHAPTER III MISTAKE, OR BLUNDER? With eager pleasure Conrad gazed from his car window the next morning at the narrow bright ribbon of verdure with which the Rio Grande pranks itself on its southward course through New Mexico. The unkempt fields, the orchards and meadows, and the softened and caressing sunlight were as balm to his eyes, accustomed to the pale, grim southern plain and its fierce white sunshine. As the train rushed northward along the banks of the muddy stream, he looked at the little adobe houses, wondering how long these peaceful Mexican homes could withstand the pressure of the dominant American. He became aware that the men behind him were discussing the same question. "It will be only a few years," one of them was saying, "until this rich valley with all this water for irrigation will be in American hands." "The greasers are safe enough," said his companion, "until they begin to borrow on mortgages. Then their fate is settled." "I heard the other day," responded the first, "that Dell Baxter's been corralling a lot of mortgages on the land hereabouts." The other chuckled. "You bet. Dell ain't the man to let a little chance like this slip by him. These _paisanos_ look on him as a sort of 'little father' and borrow money of him with utter heedlessness of the day of reckoning. He jollies them along and tells 'em they're good fellows and hard workers, and he's sure they'll be able to pay when the time comes. Of course they never pay back a blessed _peso_, and Baxter gets the ranch. I'll bet it won't be long till he'll be exploiting a big land improvement company and selling these 'doby farms for ten times what they cost him." The talk of the two men drifted into politics, and presently Conrad heard them discussing Bancroft's loyal support of Baxter for Congress. "He's got to do it," said one of them. "Dell's been loaning him money and taking mortgages until Bancroft couldn't do anything else if he wanted to. Dell knows that Bancroft's support is a mighty important asset on account of the confidence people have in him, and Dell's been careful to cinch it good and tight." As Curtis bought an Albuquerque morning paper from the train-boy he thought indignantly, "That's all poppycock! Aleck's got too much grit to let anybody throttle him with a few dirty _pesos_. Hullo! What's this about Jenkins?" His eye had caught the name of the man he wished to see in a column of local news. As he read, "Rutherford W. Jenkins came down from Las Vegas yesterday and is stopping at the Metropolitan," his face shone with satisfaction. "Good luck!" he thought. "We'll be in Albuquerque in half an hour, and I'll go for my man like a steer on the prod!" At the hotel he found Jenkins, with a number of other men, smoking and talking on the porch. He did not expect to be remembered, for they had met only once, months before. But Jenkins came forward with his hand outstretched in greeting. "How do you do, Mr. Conrad! You don't get up to this part of the Territory very often; but we're always glad to see you." "Thank you, Mr. Jenkins. I've come this time especially to see you, and as soon as you have a moment or two to spare I'd like a private conversation." "Certainly! With pleasure! Just excuse me for a minute, will you, till I finish up the business I have with these men, and then we'll go up to my room." Conrad waited, tense and expectant, the quite apparent fact that Jenkins was engaged in mere desultory chat and story-telling increasing his irritation at the delay. He had jumped to the conclusion that Jenkins knew who Delafield was, and his breath came short and chokingly at the thought that in a few minutes he, too, would know. To know would be to act. His revolver was in his hip-pocket, and he intended to go straight from the interview to that meeting which for half his years had been the one goal of his thought. He glanced at Jenkins, saying to himself, "He looks like a weasel, and I reckon he is just enough of one to have wormed around and worked this thing out." Jenkins was tall, slender, and slightly stooped, his face long and thin, with its salient features crowded too close together. "I reckon he knows, all right," Conrad's thought went on, "and he'll tell me if I make the inducement big enough--he'd do anything for money!" Under cover of the conversation Jenkins had been doing his share of rapid thinking, prolonging the talk for that very purpose. He was putting together, with the acumen of a man in whom detective processes are a natural endowment, enough facts to convince him of the reason for Conrad's visit, considering the while just what he should do. He felt sure that he must expect a direct question about Delafield's identity, but he put off decision upon his response until he should hear the inquiry. "Now, Mr. Conrad, we'll go straight up to my room," he said cordially, laying a familiar hand upon the other's shoulder. Curtis shrank back a little, falling behind with a promptitude that left no doubt of his intention to keep the interview entirely formal. Jenkins licked his lips with an unwholesome smile, and led the way in silence. As the door closed behind them, Conrad became aware of an increase of repugnance toward this man so great that the necessity of dealing with him was an irritation. "Well, Mr. Conrad," said Jenkins, cheerfully, giving the other no time to state his mission, "I hear you are putting in some good licks for Johnny Martinez down in Silverside. What do you think of his chances down there? Pretty good, aren't they?" "Yes, I think so," Curtis replied curtly; and plunged into his own affair. "I have understood, Mr. Jenkins, from my friend Mr. Littleton, of Chicago, whom you met last week, that you are interested in a matter of prime importance to me, and that you have some information I want to get hold of." "Oh, yes; I remember meeting Littleton last week," Jenkins broke in. "A good fellow, too. So he's a friend of yours, is he? Yes; he and I scraped up quite a friendship and had a good time together. But say, Conrad, the amount of throat varnish that man can stand is something amazing!" Curtis straightened himself in his chair impatiently. "He wrote me that he had some conversation with you about Sumner L. Delafield, formerly of Boston, but now, I have reason to believe, living here in New Mexico under an assumed name." "Yes; I believe we did have a little talk about Delafield," Jenkins interrupted again. "But I'll have to confess," he went on jocularly, "that my mental condition wasn't perfectly clear and it's likely my remarks were a little foggy too. But I recall that we did have some conversation about the Delafield affair. Littleton had some personal interest in Delafield's failure, didn't he?" "No; all the work he has done on the case has been for me. I have considerable interest in it." "Have you, indeed? Now, this is a coincidence! For some time past I've been a good deal interested in that matter myself. I suppose you were roped into some of his schemes?" For a moment Curtis took counsel with himself upon what and how much he should say, only to thrust back his repulsion against saying anything at all to this man and plunge frankly into his narrative. With the utmost brevity he told of his father's ruin and of his own trailing of the culprit through so many years. Of his motives he said nothing, and of his work in tracking Delafield no more than was necessary. Few, even of his best friends, knew anything about the secret scheme of vengeance he had nursed from boyhood. Even Littleton, the detective who had aided him in the quest, did not know that he wanted to face Delafield for any reason other than to demand restitution. Having briefly outlined his story, Conrad went on to say that Littleton had led him to think that Jenkins must be engaged in the same search, and suggested that an exchange of their discoveries might be for their mutual benefit. Jenkins listened with evident interest, asking questions here and there concerning certain points in the other's long chase of the fugitive. "Yes; you've done very well, Conrad," he said, admiration in his voice, "very well indeed. That was a damned crooked trail and you've done a fine piece of work in following it through." Curtis gnawed his moustache and frowned. Jenkins's evasive speeches were increasing his irritation and repugnance almost beyond his control. "The amount of the matter is," he burst out, "I've got the notion that you know who Delafield is, and I'm willing to pay you for the information. I shall undoubtedly be able to find out for myself if I keep at it a little longer, but it happens that I want to know at once. If you know positively who he is, I am willing to pay you three hundred dollars for the knowledge." Jenkins walked to the window and stood there silently. He was weighing one thing against another, and deciding whether he should tell the whole truth, a part of it, or none at all. Presently he said to himself that a bird in the hand to-day is worth a whole flock that may be in the bush to-morrow. "Before I decide about your offer, Mr. Conrad," he began cautiously, "there are two or three things I would like to know. You are doing some good work for Martinez for Congress, I understand." "The best I can," answered Curtis with surprise. "Well, as you know, I am warmly in his favor myself. I want to get him the support of as many leading men in the Territory as possible. This man Delafield is one of Baxter's influential lieutenants, and I particularly want to win him over to Martinez. You, I happen to know, have some influence with him." A nervous start betrayed the strain Conrad was under, and an eager look lighted his face. Jenkins saw it, smiled blandly, and inwardly decided to demand another hundred dollars. "It has occurred to me," he went on, "that you might be able to influence him when I couldn't. Combine this leverage with your friendship, and I believe almost anything is possible. If I let you have this information will you agree to use it and your influence in such a way as to induce him to join in with Johnny Martinez?" The look that blazed in Conrad's eyes, coupled with the same involuntary shrinking movement that he had made in escaping Jenkins's hand at the foot of the stairway, showed the rapid ebbing of his self-control. Jenkins noticed both look and movement, and a gleam of angry resentment flashed into his dark eyes. But it was quickly repressed, as he suavely asked, "Well, what do you say?" "I don't know that I can promise," said Curtis, stiffly, "that my influence would count as much as that. Possibly it will be enough to keep him from supporting Dellmey Baxter. Yes," he went on with a grim look, "I think I can assure you he will be neutral through the rest of this campaign." "That might perhaps be satisfactory," said Jenkins meditatively, inwardly deciding to raise the price another hundred dollars in lieu of the aid for Martinez. "But if that is all you're sure of doing I shall have to ask more money for the information. It has cost me a great deal of time and effort, and if I can't bring about this result with it I must repay myself some other way. I will tell you what you want to know, Mr. Conrad, if you will give me five hundred dollars and your promise to do your best to get him to support Martinez." "That is what I said I could not do; and you are asking more money because I could not promise it." "Well, then, if you will promise to induce him to remain neutral during this campaign." "Yes; I will promise that, and I will give you the five hundred dollars." "Very well; it's a bargain." Curtis wrote his check for that sum on the First National Bank of Golden. Jenkins examined the bit of paper, folded it away in his pocket-book, rubbed his hands, and smiled at Conrad. "You will be surprised," he said, "when you hear the man's name. He is well known to you, and he is universally regarded, all over New Mexico, as a model citizen, as square and honest as any man in the Territory--and much more so than most of them." "Yes?" said Conrad, rising and reaching for his hat. "Yes, you will be astonished, I promise you," Jenkins went on, rising and facing Curtis, still smiling and rubbing his hands together in satisfaction. "For Sumner L. Delafield, the fugitive from justice,"--he began speaking slowly and impressively,--"the absconding defaulter, the man who sank the fortunes of hundreds of people, the man who had to hide in Canada and slink around in out-of-the-way places for so many years, is now known as"--there was a brief pause to give his revelation its fullest dramatic effect--"is now known in New Mexico as Alexander Bancroft, president of the bank on which your check is drawn." Conrad started, and his attitude of eager attention stiffened. For an instant half a dozen Jenkinses seemed to be whirling about the room. Out of the repugnance, contempt, and anger boiling in his veins shot a definite idea,--the desire to choke the man who had said this thing about his best friend. He leaped forward, seized Jenkins by the collar, and shook him as if he had been a ten-year-old boy. Although his arms were flying hither and yon Jenkins grabbed wildly for the pistol in his pocket. Curtis saw the movement, and with his left hand seized the butt. As he pulled it out Jenkins caught its barrel; but with a twist of his right arm and a jerk with his left Conrad wrested the gun from the other's hand and threw it under the bed. His face white and his eyes blazing, he grasped Jenkins by the shoulders and jammed him against the wall until the windows rattled. With two quick, backward strides he gained the door. Opening it with a hand stretched behind him, Curtis spoke with deliberate emphasis, pointing his words with a menacing forefinger: "Rutherford Jenkins, you are the damnedest liar and vilest skunk that ever made tracks in New Mexico, and if you ever tell that lie about Bancroft to another living soul I'll wring your neck!" Jenkins sprang toward the door, but as it closed from without he stooped, shook himself together, and swore under his breath. He took out the check, and chuckled. "I'll get it cashed before he changes his mind," he thought. Then a wave of anger and resentment rolled over him and he shook an impotent fist at the closed door. "Damn him!" he said aloud, "I'll get even with him yet." CHAPTER IV THE POWERS CONFER Lucy Bancroft bade a smiling good-bye to her father at the door of the First National Bank, and crossed the street to a store on the corner opposite. Lingering in the doorway for her turn to be waited upon, she watched him with admiring eyes. "What a handsome man daddy is," she was thinking; "I like a man to be tall and straight and broad-shouldered; and I'm glad he's always so well groomed; I'd love him just as much if he wasn't, but I couldn't be quite so proud of him." Another man was coming up the street toward her father, and Lucy smiled as her eyes fell upon him. "There's Congressman Baxter," her thought ran on. "How slouchy and dumpy he seems beside daddy! They say he's one of the smartest men in the Territory; but I'm sure daddy is just as smart as he is, and he's certainly a great deal handsomer and nicer looking. And he's just as nice as he looks, too, my dear daddy!" Bancroft appeared the man of substance and of consequence, confident alike in himself and in the regard of the community, as he stood in the door of his bank and met the Congressman with friendly greeting. "Glad to see you, Baxter! Come in! I want to have a talk with you." Dellmey Baxter shook hands cordially, pleasure at the meeting fairly radiating from his round, sunburned face, even his cold gray eyes borrowing warmth from his gratified and shining countenance. One of these eyes was set at an angle slightly oblique, its peculiarity made more prominent by the loose hanging of the upper lid from the outer corner. The expression of cunning thus given to the upper part of his face was curiously at variance with his jovial look and manner. In Bancroft's private office Baxter's first question was if the other had yet visited the mine at the base of Mangan's Peak, concerning which they had had correspondence. "Yes; I was there this week. The man who owns it hasn't _sabe_ enough about mines to know what a good proposition he's got. He'll sell cheap for cash, for he needs the money. I think it's a first-class investment, and we'd better snap it up. Shall we make it half and half?" "I don't know about going in as a partner, Aleck. I'm getting too much tied up in all kinds of enterprises, and I don't want to have more on my hands than I can attend to. But if it's a good thing I'd like to help you get hold of it; I know you'd hustle its development and make all there is in it tell for the reputation of New Mexico. I've got too many other things on hand to go in as a partner, but if you haven't the ready cash to buy it yourself I'll advance you what you need and take a mortgage on the property." In the persuasive tones of Bancroft's reply there was no hint of the reluctance and disappointment he inwardly felt at this prospect of having to increase his indebtedness to Baxter, concerning which he already felt some anxiety. "That hardly seems fair, Dell. You gave me the hint about the mine, and you ought to make more than that out of it. I'm satisfied it's an almighty good proposition and can be made to pay for itself and for the money needed in initial development inside the first year." "Oh, that's all right," Baxter responded heartily. "I'm glad to let the chance come your way, because you've got more _sabe_ and more hustle than any other man I know, and you'll do something worth while with it. Think about it, and we'll talk it over again before I go back. I'm down here now mainly for politics. You know Silverside County as well as any man in it--how do things look?" "Well, it's always a close county, you know. But you'll probably get the delegates to the convention, and I reckon you'll stand as good a chance on election day as Johnny Martinez." The other chuckled. "Well, I rather guess! Why, he's got no money to put into the fight!" "No; but there are the Castletons." "I heard that their superintendent at Socorro Springs ranch--what's his name?--Conrad?--had come out strong in his favor. What do they care about it? Neither one of 'em spends two weeks out of the year in the Territory." "Oh, if they really have any interest in it I suppose it's that everlasting 'cousin' business of the Mexicans. You know Ned Castleton married a first cousin of Johnny's, although she's half American." Baxter looked thoughtful. "If he's got the Castleton money back of him," he began doubtfully, but broke off with an opposing idea: "I've heard that the wives of the two brothers fight each other to the limit on every proposition that comes along, and I reckon if Turner's wife found out that Ned's wife wanted Martinez boosted into Congress she'd see to it that Turner blocked the game if he could." "If Ned Castleton should back up Martinez with a bagful or two of his loose cash it would make mighty hard sledding for us," observed Bancroft. Baxter pursed his lips and whistled softly. "I reckon it would!" he said, with an air of taking the other into his innermost counsels. Then he broke out warmly: "That was damn good of you, Aleck, to come out for me as squarely as you did in the Albuquerque _Leader_ the other day! It's a good thing for me, all over the Territory, to have people know that Alexander Bancroft is supporting me. They've got confidence in you, Aleck. I appreciate it, I tell you, and I won't forget it, either." Baxter had already served two terms in Congress, and some members of his party thought he should be willing to stand aside and give some one else the prize. This made him anxious about the outcome of the approaching convention, and set him to interrogating the banker regarding the intentions of this, that, and the other man of local consequence. At last he came back to the subject of the Castletons. "Do you really think, Aleck, that Ned Castleton's money is behind Martinez? If it is, that would explain Conrad's attitude." Bancroft saw that the Congressman was worried by the possibility of such effective opposition. On the instant an idea was projected into his mind, born of his own secret anxiety and his knowledge of Baxter's reputation. It came so suddenly and so vividly that it took him unawares, sending a telltale light into his eyes and across his usually impassive countenance. His lids were quickly lowered, but Baxter had already seen the revealing flash and was wondering what it might mean. The banker hesitated for a moment, his thoughts confused by the force of the bolt which had shot into his mind. "Of course I don't know anything about it," he went on cautiously, the other watching him for signs of self-betrayal, "but it looks to me as if Conrad might be acting as Ned Castleton's agent, so that Ned won't have to be mixed up in it. That would take away the chance of Mrs. Turner's trying to make her husband block the game. And Conrad is violently opposed to you. He handles you without gloves, and is doing all he can against your nomination. He says he'll bolt you if you get it, and that if the other side puts up Martinez he'll jump in and fight for him with both feet and his spurs on." The smile faded from Baxter's face, and his left eyelid drooped lower than usual--a sign that his mind was busy with some knotty problem. But he was not considering the pros and cons of the Castleton money. He was wondering why that sudden purpose had flashed in Bancroft's eyes, why he had shown that momentary discomposure, and why he was now dwelling so much more strongly on the fact of Conrad's opposition. He drew his chair nearer and in confidential tones began to inquire about the young cattleman: "Has Conrad got much influence?" "Yes; a good deal. He's a bright, energetic fellow, and he's made lots of friends." "Know anything about him, Aleck?" "Not much. Ned Castleton ran across him in San Francisco, I believe, where he was agent for one of the big cattle ranches in southern California. He's been their superintendent at Socorro Springs for two years, and he's put the ranch in better shape and made it pay better, in spite of the drought, than anybody else they've had since their father died." "But where'd he come from before Castleton got him?" "I don't know, except in a general way. I guess he's mostly run along with the cattle business in Colorado and California and New Mexico." "You really think his opposition to me down here is important?" "There's no doubt about it, Dell," Bancroft rejoined, his manner becoming more earnest and his tones more persuasive as he went on. "Curt Conrad is a fighter from the word 'go,' and he seems to have started out with the intention of doing you up. He'll sure do you a lot of damage if you can't find some way of making him change his mind. He's popular,--the sort that everybody likes, you know,--and he's always enthusiastic and cocksure, so that he has a good deal of influence of his own, whether or not he's acting for Ned Castleton. And as people generally believe he is it amounts to the same thing." "We must get at him some way," said Baxter earnestly, his cold eyes watchful of his companion's manner and expression. "Hasn't he done something that would give us a hold on him?" "No, there's nothing in that lead. I've tried argument, and you might as well talk to a cyclone." "How about money?" Bancroft shook his head decisively. "That would be the worst mistake you could make. He wouldn't touch it and he'd roar about it everywhere. The fact is, Dell, we'll have to get rid of his opposition some way. I've done everything I can, and now I'll have to put it up to you." "Well, I'll think it over," said Baxter, rising and looking at his watch. "I'll see you again about that mine business, while I'm here, and I want to talk with you about a _paisano_ ranch, up above Socorro, there's a chance of our getting. I think we'll be able to get our development company going in less than a year. When it's organized, Aleck, I want you to be president of it." "I don't know about that," Bancroft replied slowly, an uneasy recollection of some of Lucy's freely expressed ideas coming into his mind. "I may prefer to stay in the background, as a silent partner, as our arrangement is now." "It would be good for the company to have you at its head; your reputation would be an asset," Baxter objected persuasively. "By the way, Dell, did you foreclose on a man named Melgares, José Maria Melgares, a month or two ago?" "Melgares? Yes; and I was especially easy on him; let him have three months' extra time. But I had to come down on him finally. Why?" "He's here in Golden now, and he's been roaring about it. He came down here from the Mogollons, where it's likely he'd been doing some horse-stealing. And I guess he's been lifting chickens and things out of people's back-yards since he's been here." "Next thing he'll be getting arrested," Baxter chuckled, "and I'll have to defend him--for nothing. These greasers all seem to think I'm a heaven-sent protector for 'em all, no matter what they do. So long, Aleck; I'll see you again before I leave town." Baxter lounged down the street, greeting one acquaintance after another with a jovial laugh, a hearty handshake, or a slap on the shoulder, his round, red face aglow with good fellowship. But his gray eyes were cold and preoccupied. At the court-house door he stopped to talk with Dan Tillinghurst, the sheriff, and Little Jack Wilder, his deputy. "Say, Jack," said the sheriff, as the Congressman went on up the street, "what sort o' hell do you-all reckon Dell Baxter's cookin' up now? He's too jolly not to have somethin' on hand. The louder he laughs the more sulphur you can bet he's got in his pockets." "Be careful, Dan," warned Jack, "or that nomination for sheriff will miss fire." "Don't you worry about that--Dell an' me's all right; you-all just worry about the fellow that's made his eyes look like a dead fish's. Dell's sure got somethin' on his mind." There was something on Baxter's mind. He was still wondering why Alexander Bancroft had insisted so strongly upon the importance of young Conrad's opposition, which the Congressman did not believe was of much consequence. He chuckled and his left lid drooped lower as he finally decided: "I reckon he wants me to pull some chestnut or other out of the fire for him. I'll just let him think I'm taking it all in. I'd like to know what it is, though, for if I don't keep a good hold on Aleck he's likely to get heady and try to step into my shoes." CHAPTER V CHASTISEMENT CONDIGN Dan Tillinghurst and Little Jack Wilder sat under the big cottonwood in front of the court-house, commenting upon things in general, and, presently, more particularly upon Curtis Conrad and his mare, Brown Betty, when they espied him talking with the landlord in front of the hotel across the stream. The town of Golden lay in a gulch among the foot-hills. It had been a thriving silver camp in the older days. Discovered in the heyday of the pale metal, it had yielded so richly that the men flocking thither, in sheer, exultant contempt of the value of its yellow brother, had named the camp "Golden Gulch." The mines had been in the bottom of the gulch, and near them, along the banks of the stream, had been built all the houses of the mining days. The earliest roads had run along each side of the water, and these were still the main streets of the town. Facing one another across the two streets and the bed of the creek were all the public buildings and business houses, the two hotels, some of the best residences, and many of the poorer ones. The Mexican quarter, called "Doby Town" by the Americans, straggled along these thoroughfares and up the hillsides just beyond the heart of the town. Down their entire length cottonwoods of notable girth and majesty spread their branches. One of the largest and finest of these trees shaded the court-house corner where the Sheriff and his deputy were sprawling their legs and waiting for something to happen. The Sheriff was burly and broad-shouldered, although his legs had not quite been able to keep pace with the growing massiveness of his torso. The occasions were rare when his blue eyes were not twinkling with good humor, while his mouth beneath its absurd little moustache curved in a smile as habitual as his cheerful kindliness and universal optimism. Little Jack Wilder, who owed his descriptive title to his six feet three of height, was slender and lithe. He wasted neither words in talk nor bullets in pistol fights, and he had the reputation of being one of the best shots in the Southwest, as good even as Emerson Mead, over at Las Plumas in the adjoining county. Curtis Conrad walked across the bridge that spanned the stream, Brown Betty at his heels, and met their "Hello, Curt!" with "Hello! Anything new?" "Yes," said Wilder, "anyway, there's likely to be." "What sort?" "That's what we'd like to know," said Tillinghurst. "Jack's been sashaying around Doby Town for the last two days with his eye on a Mexican horse thief, waitin' for him to do something he can be arrested for; and the darn' fool won't do a thing! He just sits around respectable and behaves himself. Jack's gettin' all out of patience with him." Little Jack growled a corroborative oath, and took a chew of tobacco. "Well, if you know he's a horse thief, why don't you arrest him?" asked Conrad. "We know it all right," said Jack; "but he ain't lifted no critters yet in this county. He's been doin' some chicken-thieving and that sort o' thing around town the last week, but we ain't goin' to arrest him for that." Wilder shut his jaws with a determined snap, while Tillinghurst went on to explain in answer to Conrad's look of surprise: "If we arrest him for that he'd be taken before a justice of the peace; and you-all know what kind of a mess Diego Vigil would make of it. He'd likely fine the man whose chicken-coop had been raided because he didn't have more stuff in his back-yard to be stolen, and he'd discharge José Maria Melgares with a warning not to wake people up o' nights by letting the chickens squawk!" The Sheriff's smile broadened and ran down his throat in a chuckle. Little Jack Wilder burst explosively into brief and profane speech that showed his opinion of Mexicans, and especially of Mexican justices of the peace, to be most contemptuous. "Then why do you give them the office?" Curtis demanded. "Both parties do it, all over the Territory, though you all know that every time they get a chance they make justice look like a bobtailed horse. Up north last week one of 'em fined a man five dollars for committing murder and warned him not to do it again or he'd have to make it ten next time. You folks all knew what you might expect from Vigil when you gave him the place." "Oh, well, Curt, you-all ain't run for office yet. When you do, you'll appreciate the fact that the greasers have got to be put where they'll do the most good. I'm willin' to give 'em that much, and I'm only too thankful old Vigil and his friends don't strike for the Sheriff's place." Tillinghurst chuckled, while Wilder smiled grimly and profanely reckoned he wouldn't serve under Vigil or any other Mexican. "Mebbe that pock-marked Melgares has been up to some mischief by this time," he added. "I hain't set eyes on him for nigh two hours. Let's go down to the Blue Front, have a drink, and find out if anything's happened." They went down the street together, Brown Betty following with the bridle over her neck. A block farther down stream, a good-looking Mexican came out of the First National Bank and passed them. The Sheriff turned a second keen glance upon him. "That looks like Liberato Herrara," he said to his deputy in a hasty aside. Raising his voice he accosted the man in Spanish. The Mexican turned and replied in precise English with grave courtesy, "Did the señor speak to me?" "Yes; ain't you Liberato Herrara?" "No, señor. My name is José Gonzalez." The Sheriff apologized, and the other bowed politely, fell behind, and crossed to the other side of the stream. Conrad asked Tillinghurst if he did not believe Herrara guilty of the murder of which he had been acquitted several months before. "Of course he was. And it's likely that ain't the only one either. I'm glad this man ain't him. If he was down here it would be on some business for Baxter, and it wouldn't do for me to find out too much about it." Conrad snorted contemptuously, and Wilder said, "Dan, you're talkin' too damn much." "Oh, Curt's all right," replied the Sheriff, placidly. "He couldn't hate Baxter any more than he does if he tried, but he don't go back on his friends. This man Melgares," he went on, "that we're hopin' will make up his mind to do somethin' worth while, tells a queer yarn. He says he used to have a good ranch in the Rio Grande valley, between Socorro and Albuquerque, but he borrowed money on it from Baxter. Of course he couldn't pay, Dell foreclosed, and Melgares had to get out." "Yes; I heard the other day about Baxter's operations up there," Conrad broke in hotly. "I understand he's got hold of a lot of land in just that way. It's a cursed, low-down, dirty piece of business." "Oh, well, better men than Baxter have done the same sort of thing," the Sheriff responded. "From all I can find out about Melgares I reckon he was honest enough up to that time; but he's been goin' it pretty lively ever since. I think he's aimin' to work down to the border, where he can do the crisscross act." Conrad turned with an exclamation of sudden remembrance. "By the way! Bill Williams told me just now that Rutherford Jenkins is here, at his hotel. Have you seen him? Do you know what he's here for?" "I haven't talked with him, but I reckon he's here on some deal for Johnny Martinez." Curtis tied the mare to the hitching-post on the corner. "I've heard," he said cautiously, "that he has a venomous tongue and uses it recklessly. Do you know whether he's been doing any outrageous talking lately?" "Well, I reckon nobody would believe anything Jenkins said, anyway. But I haven't heard anything. Have you, Jack?" Some other men came along, and they all stopped to talk together. Curtis leaned against the mare and stroked her glossy neck. She poked her nose into his coat pocket and found a lump of sugar, which she ate with much dainty tossing of her head. It was some minutes before they entered the saloon. The "Blue Front" was a two-roomed shanty on the edge of the Mexican quarter. Gambling games of various sorts occupied the back room; and there, too, political deals were arranged and votes bargained and paid for between the American politicians and the leaders of the Mexicans. When Conrad and his friends came down the street a number of men were in the rear room, some talking and others busy at cards. At a table near a side window men of both races were engaged in a poker game. One of the players, a pock-marked Mexican with a defective eye, frequently glanced down the street. When he saw the Sheriff and his two companions approach, he rose and watched them. The others wanted to know what he was looking at, and he asked who was the man with the brown mare. A tall, dark American, with slightly stooping shoulders, looked up with interest as he heard them give Conrad's name, and joined the group at the window. Several of the men spoke with enthusiasm about Brown Betty, and one, who said he had once worked at Socorro Springs ranch, told them that Conrad thought more of her than of anything else he owned. When the men in front entered the saloon, the pock-marked Mexican cashed in his chips and slipped out through the rear door. The sound of Conrad's voice in the bar-room caught the attention of the tall, dark American. An angry flush reddened his face, his beady eyes snapped, and the tip of his tongue licked his lips. Then something amusing seemed to occur to him, for his features relaxed into a smile and he glanced briskly around the room. "See if you can find Melgares, will you?" he asked the Mexican with whom he had been talking. "Tell him I'll wait for him outside the back door." He stepped out into the bright sunshine, smiling and rubbing his hands together. Back of the shanty was a high adobe wall surrounding the corral of the Mexican houses fronting on the next street. A wooden door in the wall opened cautiously, and the pock-marked face looked out. "You sent for me, Señor Jenkins?" the Mexican asked. "Yes. It's all right. You needn't be afraid. I want you to do something, Melgares." They stepped inside the corral and Melgares bolted the door. "You saw Conrad's mare just now?" Jenkins began. "Fine creature, isn't she?" "Splendid, señor. The finest I have seen in a long time." "I'll warrant it! I never saw a better myself. Looks like a good traveller, doesn't she?" "Si, señor." "And a stayer, too, I guess! It wouldn't be hard to get to the Mexican border on her back, would it?" Melgares grinned, then shook his head. "But my family--I could not take them with me." "Well--see here, Melgares. Here's fifty dollars. If you'll get away with Conrad's mare you can have it for your trouble. It will take your family down there all right." "But you, señor,--where do you come in?" He looked suspiciously at Jenkins. "Oh, never mind me. Conrad did me a bad turn a while ago, and I'm evening up the score. That's all I want out of it." "But now, señor?" "Yes; now's your chance. He's in the saloon, and the mare's tied at the corner." "The Sheriff is in there, too. The risk is great." "Well, I'll go in and keep them busy. I'll raise excitement enough inside so that nobody will even look out of the windows. Get out there in five minutes, be quick about it, and ride off down the valley road." "Give me the money, señor. I'll take the chance." Jenkins returned, and entered the bar-room with his former companion without attracting the attention of Conrad and his friends. The other spoke of the report about the Castleton money and mentioned Curtis Conrad's name. Jenkins raised his voice in angry reply: "Oh, damn Conrad! Martinez don't want his help!" Curtis heard the words and turned sharply around, his face flushing. Jenkins appeared not to see him, and went on: "The Castletons are all right, but Conrad's help would be a disgrace to any party. Martinez don't want it!" His voice rang loud and shrill above the silence that had fallen suddenly upon the room. Curtis's face paled, even under its ruddy tan, and his eyes blazed. With head up he strode forward. "Jenkins," he said, without raising his voice, although it shook with a warning tremor, "I advise you to be careful. You may have your opinion about me, as I have mine about you--and you know what that is. But don't you say that again, nor anything else of the sort!" Jenkins turned toward him with an ugly sneer. Recollection of former indignities at Conrad's tongue and hands blazed up in his heart and carried him farther than he had meant to go. With an oath and a vile name he flung his glass in Conrad's face. In an instant the young man's arms were around his body. The others crowded in and tried to stop the quarrel. "Let us alone!" shouted Curtis, pushing his way toward the back room. "Wilder, take his gun, will you? Get mine out of my pocket, too. This won't be a gun play." Tillinghurst took Conrad's pistol, and Wilder succeeded in getting Jenkins's revolver, at the cost of a kick on the shin, which he repaid in kind. With Jenkins almost helpless in his grasp, Curtis struggled into the rear room. The others were all crowding after him. He turned back a face still pale and set with anger, although a twinkle of amusement was creeping into his eyes. "Dan," he called, "shut that door and keep out the crowd!" Instantly there were cries of disapproval. "Fair play!" "You're bigger than him!" "We want to see it's on the square!" Curtis scowled. "If any of you think it won't be on the square, just wait for me till I get through with him," he shouted. The Sheriff slammed the door, and set his bulk against it, saying with smiling cheerfulness: "Well, gentlemen, I reckon Mr. Jenkins won't get any more than is comin' to him, and as Sheriff I call on all of you to keep the peace and not interfere." Alone in the back room with his prisoner, Conrad dropped into a chair, dragged the other over his knees, face downward, then threw out one sinewy leg and caught under it Jenkins's two unruly limbs. Still keeping a firm grip with his left arm, he raised his right hand. "Now," he said grimly, "you're going to get the sort of spanking your mother didn't give you enough of." One after another the resounding smacks came down, while Jenkins, his strength spent in futile struggle, could do nothing but writhe helplessly under the smarting blows. The sound of them penetrated to the front room. As the men there realized what was happening they broke into laughter so uproarious that it smote upon Jenkins's ears and forced a hysterical shriek from between his gritted teeth. In Conrad's heart it inspired compassion and he desisted. "I guess that'll do for this time," he said, releasing his hold and standing the culprit on his feet. "I don't want to have to hurt you, but let me tell you, you damned skunk," and he seized Jenkins's shoulders and gave him a vigorous shake, "if you ever dare talk about me again in that way, or tell another human being what you told me about Bancroft, I'll make you wish you'd never been born." With a parting shake he let Jenkins fall back into the chair, sobbing aloud. Then he stalked to the door, not even doing his enemy the slight honor of going out backward. CHAPTER VI A STERN CHASE As the shout which greeted Conrad's entrance died away the Sheriff called out, "Now, gentlemen, you must all have one with me," and every one lined up at the bar. A rollicking din of chaff and laughter filled the room, and no one except Little Jack Wilder noticed the entrance of a Mexican at the street door. He heard the step, turned quickly, and recognized the man who had told Tillinghurst that he was not Liberato Herrara. Glancing along the line of backs at the bar, the Mexican singled out Conrad and touched his arm. "I beg your pardon, señor, but did you send some one to ride your mare?" "To ride my mare? No; what do you mean?" Before he could answer Wilder sprang forward demanding, "Is she gone?" and Conrad started for the door. "A man has just ridden her away on the run," the Mexican said excitedly, and every one in the room rushed for the street. "She's gone!" shouted Conrad. "Did you see him? What was he like?" demanded the Sheriff. "A pock-marked greaser with a bad eye?" yelled Wilder, towering threateningly above the bearer of the news. Gonzalez threw back his head, folded his arms across his breast, and answered deliberately, "He was a Mexican, señor, he was pock-marked, and he was blind in one eye." "Melgares! He's done it at last! Hooray!" shouted Wilder. Far down the street, beyond the last cottonwood, against the gray, sun-flooded road, they could see a dark object, distorted by the heat haze, but still showing the form of a man on a galloping horse. Tillinghurst's smile became an eager grin as he started up the street on a run. "Everybody come that wants to," he called over his shoulder. Wilder and Conrad were already half a block ahead of him, and several others quickly followed. When they presently came pelting back, their horses at top speed, a crowd of men still stood on the sidewalk, where the Blue Front made a splash of brilliant color against the sombre grays and browns of the surrounding adobes. Wilder's tall, thin figure was in the lead, bending forward in the saddle like a sapling in a gale, the wide, limp brim of his sombrero flapping in the wind. Conrad and Tillinghurst were pressing him close, and half a dozen others were pounding along behind these three, while a stout man, who rode awkwardly, trailed along in the rear. The crowd at the Blue Front shouted encouragingly as they clattered past, and made bets on the chances of catching the fugitive. The Mexican, Gonzalez, watched Conrad closely as he sped by, and said carelessly to the man beside him, "Señor Conrad is a good rider, the best of them all. I hope he will get back his fine mare." The horsemen swept down the street past the last straggling houses, and out into the open plain. Fleeing down the road, perhaps two miles ahead of them, galloped the Mexican. Tillinghurst measured the distance with a careful eye, and said to Conrad, "He's our meat. We can get him easy." He glanced backward, chuckled, then turned in his saddle, and called loudly, "Come along there, Pendy! Don't get discouraged!" Another of the party turned his head and yelled, "You're all right, Pendy! You'll get there before Dan does!" The stout man who brought up the rear had made sure of his gray slouch hat by tying it on with a red bandanna handkerchief. He was gripping his bridle with both hands and bouncing in his saddle like a bag of meal. "Don't you worry about me!" he yelled back good-naturedly; "you can't lose me if you try." "Who is he?" asked Curtis. "Pendy? Oh, he's a tenderfoot. Blew in from the East two or three weeks ago. Somethin' wrong with his bellows--or likely to be, though you-all wouldn't think it, considerin' his fat. He's grit clear through, though! Just look at the way he rides!" Conrad glanced back, laughed, and replied, "Oh, it'll be good for his liver!" Then he went on seriously, "Dan, do you think there's any truth in the story that this man Melgares began horse-stealing because Dell Baxter did him out of his ranch?" "Oh, I don't know! Baxter got his ranch all right, but the greaser didn't have to go to stealin' horses on that account. Chickens are safer; and _chilis_ don't even squawk. I reckon likely he steals horses because he'd ruther." "Well, anyway, Dan, all I want out of this is to get Brown Betty back. I shall not make any complaint against him. So, if he gives up the mare, I'd rather you let him go." "Huh," grunted the Sheriff, with an apprehensive glance at Wilder, a full length ahead. "For God's sake, Curt, don't let Jack hear you say that! He'd be so disgusted he'd turn tail and go straight back to Golden!" The fugitive kept his distance well; it seemed to Conrad's eye that he even gained a little. Now and again they could see him look back, and with spur and quirt urge the mare to a fresh burst of speed. "Brown Betty's a stayer," said Curtis, bringing his horse beside Tillinghurst's again, "and she's fast. I don't believe we'll catch him unless something happens to her." The Sheriff turned a smiling face and said confidently, "If we get a little nearer I reckon somethin''s likely to happen to _him_. Hello, Pendleton!" he exclaimed as the stout man came up on the other side. "That noble steed of yours is sure gettin' a gait on him, ain't he? If you-all don't wait for the rest of us there'll be trouble, I'm tellin' you!" "Say, Sheriff," called Pendleton between his gasps and grunts as he bounced up and down, "are you going to keep up this pace all day?" Tillinghurst eyed him benignly. "As long as he does," he said, nodding toward the fleeing spot of black down the road. "Say, Pendy," he went on in a kindly tone, "it's a pretty stiff gait for you-all, and unless you're anxious to take your meals standin' for the next month you'd better drop out and go back. It's likely to be an all-day job." "Not much! You can't lose me till the fun's over!" "Hooray for Pendy! He's all right!" yelled a man behind, giving Pendleton's horse a sharp cut across the flank with his whip. The beast jumped, and its rider lurched to one side, fell forward, and saved himself by grabbing the mane with both hands. The men shouted with merriment as Pendleton righted himself, turned a laughing face and shook his fist at the man who had played the joke on him. "Just wait till I get you where I want you, Jack Gaines," he called, "and you'll be sorry you ever played tricks on a tenderfoot." The gulch spread out into a wide, shallow valley--a draw, they called it--and the waters of the stream disappeared, sucked up by the thirsty earth. The valley curved to the east, the road climbing over its rim and holding straight toward the south. The figure of Melgares, mounted on Brown Betty as on a pedestal, stood out boldly for a moment against the turquoise sky as he crossed the summit, then sank out of sight beyond the hill. The party galloped on, and as they crossed the ridge and saw him on the top of a smaller hill beyond, Conrad's eye swept the distance lying between and he exclaimed, "We've gained on him!" At the same moment Little Jack Wilder, who had been watching the road intently, shouted joyously, the first words he had spoken since leaving the town, "She's cast a shoe! Now it's a cinch!" Tillinghurst turned his head and shouted, "Get your gun ready, Pendy! your chance is comin'." Jack Gaines, riding neck and neck with the Sheriff, looked back and yelled, "Come a-runnin', Pendy! The greaser can't wait for you all day!" They were gaining rapidly on Melgares and, as they swept over the top of a little hill and saw him cross the next low rise, Conrad exclaimed, "She's limping, damn him! If he hurts Brown Betty--" "You won't mind so much if we hurt him," quietly put in the Sheriff, who was riding on his lee. Curtis spurred his horse to Wilder's stirrup. "Jack," he said, "I don't want the fellow hurt. If he'll give up my mare I'm willing to let him go." Little Jack grunted contemptuously without replying. "I want you to understand," Conrad went on, "that if you take him I shall make no complaint against him, provided I get Betty unhurt." "You don't have to make no complaint," Jack growled; "I'll do that myself." They gained steadily on the fugitive, and presently Curtis curved his hands about his mouth and called, "Betty! Betty B!" They could see the mare check her speed, and the faint sound of her whinny reached their ears. Conrad called again; and the mare wheeled in her tracks. The Mexican jerked her back, lashed her furiously, and set her forward again at a gallop. Curtis called again and again, and every time they could see Melgares using whip and spur to force her on. But presently the mare dropped tail and head, arched her back, and, stiff-legged, began to jump up and down. Conrad laughed joyously and slapped his thigh. "Bully for Betty B! I never knew her to buck before." They urged on their horses and pounded down the hill toward the small circus Brown Betty was making of herself. She cavorted, shook herself, humped her back, jumped up and down, stood on her front feet and almost sat on her tail, and did everything that equine intelligence could devise to rid herself of the masterful hand on her bridle. But the Mexican kept his seat and his grip upon the rein. With spur and quirt and compelling voice he finally forced her into submission. As she quieted down they were facing the pursuing posse and Melgares had just turned the mare's head in another desperate attempt at escape when Conrad's voice rang out once more, and Brown Betty refused to move. She tossed her head, laid back her ears, and whinnied, but would not lift a hoof. The Mexican drew his revolver and shouted, "Stop!" The horsemen, not more than a hundred yards distant, drew rein at the word--all except Pendleton, who came pounding and bouncing to the front, his horse still on the gallop. Gaines, just behind Tillinghurst and Wilder, called out laughingly, "Hooray for Pendy! Go on and get him, Pendy!" Pendleton had been too much occupied with keeping his seat to try to stop his horse, and as it went on half a length in advance of the rest Gaines leaned forward and gave it a cut across the flank with his quirt. It leaped forward smartly and Pendleton, taken unawares again, bobbed down on its neck and grabbed for its mane. Melgares saw the horse start forward and instantly his revolver flashed. The bullet left a singed streak across the back of Pendleton's coat, whistled on, and found refuge in Gaines's side. Wilder's gun was out and cocked. He saw Pendleton lying on his horse's neck, and heard Gaines cry out, "I'm hit!" as he fell forward across his pommel. "Stop that!" he called. "Fire again and you're a dead man!" Melgares leaped from the mare's back and ran at full speed down the valley, away from the road. Brown Betty came trotting to Conrad's side, whinnying joyfully. Pendleton sat upright, calling out, "Say, fellows, is there any blood on my back?" They told him no and as he climbed down from his saddle clumsily he grinned and said: "Well, I can still die of consumption, then!" Tillinghurst, Wilder, and several of the others were galloping after Melgares, who was running for his life down the valley toward a clump of cactus and juniper. "Wing him, Jack!" called the Sheriff. "There's a crack in the ground down there where he can hide and pick us off as he pleases." Little Jack brought his horse to a sudden stop, aimed low, and the Mexican reeled and fell, the blood gushing from a wound in the calf of his leg. He scrambled to his feet, and fired his second shot. The bullet nicked the brim of the Sheriff's hat. There was another flash, and Wilder heard the bullet sing past his ear. "Stop it, you damned greaser!" he yelled, "or I'll let daylight through your head." In quick succession he put two holes through the Mexican's sombrero. "The next one is for your other eye!" he called, and Melgares dropped his weapon. Wilder leaped to the ground and ran toward him. He glanced at the group of horsemen, each with revolver drawn, and at Wilder coming with his gun at cock, then threw back his head with his own pistol at his temple. Little Jack grabbed his arm, but Melgares fought desperately. The others came running to Wilder's assistance, and it was not until they had taken his revolver, put handcuffs upon him, and taken from his clothing another pistol, a knife, and a belt full of cartridges, that he gave up his struggles. They put him on the horse that Conrad had ridden, with his feet tied under its belly. Tillinghurst and Wilder, revolvers in hand, rode on either side of him. Conrad, mounted on his own mare, and another were side by side with Jack Gaines laid across their laps. Two more went on at a gallop to bring out a doctor and a carriage for the wounded man. The rest rode slowly back through the hot sunlight and the high wind, guarding their captive and carrying his victim. CHAPTER VII TALK OF MANY THINGS Golden prided itself upon being "the most American town in the Territory," but for all its energy and progressiveness it had not developed an ordinary regard for its own safety. After the mines which had given it birth had been worked out, it became the depot of supplies for the widespread miles of cattle country in the plains below, the mining regions in the mountains above, and the ranches scattered along the streams within a radius of fifty miles. As its importance increased a railway sought it out, the honor of being the county seat came to it, and the ruthless Anglo-Saxon arrived in such numbers and so energetically that its few contented and improvident Mexicans, thrust to one side, sank into hopeless nonentity. When Lucy Bancroft first set upon it the pleased eyes of youthful interest and filial affection, it was a busy, prosperous place of several thousand souls. But it still clung to the gulch wherein had been the beginning of its life and fortune. All the houses of its infancy had been built along the stream that sparkled down from the mountains, and there the town had tried to stay, regardless of the floods that occasionally swept down the canyon during the Summer rains. At first its growth had been up and down the creek; afterward cross streets had been extended far out on either side, especially where gradual hill slopes gave easy grades, and roads had also been made lengthwise along the hillsides and even on their crests, where now a goodly number of homes looked out over the plains and down upon the town-filled valley at their feet. Newcomers gazed curiously at the high sidewalks, raised on posts above the level of the thoroughfares, asking why, if there was such possibility of flood, the people continued to live and do business along the bottom of the gulch. The residents thought the walled sidewalks rather a good joke, a humorous distinction, and laughed at the idea of danger. Lucy Bancroft's eyes grew wide and solemn as she listened to the tale Dan Tillinghurst told her of the first year he was in Golden, years before, when a mighty torrent roared down the gulch, carried away most of the houses, and drowned a dozen souls. "But the very next day," he added proudly, "the people began rebuildin' their houses on the identical sites from which they had been swept." "Why didn't they rebuild on higher ground?" Lucy asked. "And aren't you afraid there will be another flood that will destroy all these houses and perhaps kill a great many people?" "Oh, there's no danger now," he assured her confidently. "The climate's changin'. There's not nearly so much rain as there used to be. The creek is dry half the time nowadays, and in my first years here it never went dry at all. Just look at these flood-marks," and he pointed out to her on the side of the brick building that housed her father's bank the lines to which had risen the high waters of each Summer. She saw that those of recent years were all very low. "Yes," he assured her, "the climate's changin', there's no doubt of that. There won't be any more floods." Between Lucy and the Sheriff a mutual admiration and good-fellowship had arisen, such as might exist between an elephant and a robin. The day after her arrival Tillinghurst had told Bancroft that his daughter was "the prettiest piece of dry goods that had ever come to Golden, and if he ever let her pull her freight he'd sure deserve nothin' less than tarrin' and featherin' at the hands of an outraged community." Notwithstanding her confidence in the big Sheriff, Lucy did not like the idea of living in the gulch, and persuaded her father to build their home on the brow of the _mesa_ overlooking the town from the west. She had no definite fear of the floods nor, after her first few weeks in the place, did she so much as think of danger from such a source. She liked the site on the _mesa_, although it was new and raw and treeless, because it commanded a far-reaching view, to the mountains on the west and north and, in front, across the town and the valley to the wide gray level of the plains. She sat on the veranda of her new home with Miss Louise Dent, telling her friend what pleasure she was taking in its arrangement and direction. "At first daddy didn't want me to do it. He thought it would be too much care and responsibility for me, and that we'd better board. But I said if a girl eighteen years old wasn't old enough and big enough to begin to take care of her father she never would be, and so he gave up. And now! Well, you'll see how he enjoys our home! He just beams with happiness every time he comes into the house. And I'm perfectly happy. Daddy is so good, and it's such a pleasure to make things nice and comfortable for him!" "I'm so glad," Miss Dent replied, "that you are happy here with him. He has had so many years of lonely wandering. And I know that he has long been looking forward to the time when you and he could have a home together. Your father hasn't had an easy life, dear. You could never guess all that he has been through. But he is a strong and determined man, and he's finally won success--just as I always knew he would. That's what I admire in him so much--that he never would give up." She stopped, a faint flush mounting to her brow. Lucy threw both arms around her neck and kissed her. "Of course, Dearie," she exclaimed, "you must appreciate my father, for you've known him so long; but it makes me love you all the more to hear you say so--and oh, Dearie, I'm going to make such a beautiful home out of this place!" Lucy looked about, her girlish face glowing with proud and pleased proprietorship. "I know how new and barren it looks now, but just wait till I've been at work at it for a year!" She went on to speak of her plans, asking Miss Dent's advice. In the back-yard the gaunt wings of a big windmill gave a touch of ultra modern picturesqueness and promised the fulfilment of the girl's hope of a lawn and flowers, trees and shrubbery, in the near future. A little conservatory jutted from the southern side of the house, while a deep veranda ran halfway across the eastern front and around the other two sides. The neutral, gray-green color of the structure melted into the hue of the hills and the surrounding _mesa_, leaving its barren newness less aggressive. As they talked Lucy now and then cast a lingering glance down the street that climbed the hill from the town below, and Miss Dent thought that sometimes a shade of disappointment dimmed the bright face for an instant. She was twenty years Lucy's senior, although both looks and manner gave the lie to the fact. The loving friendship between them was one of those unusual ties between a younger and an older woman which, when they do occur, are apt to be marked by an overflowing measure of enthusiasm and loyalty. Louise Dent had been the intimate friend of Lucy's mother and, after her death, had given the bereaved girl such love and care and sympathy as had won her instant and ardent devotion, and the relationship thus established had grown stronger and closer as the years passed and Lucy matured into womanhood. The girl's enthusiastic affection had enabled her to find in Louise Dent intimate friend, elder sister, and mother combined. This complicated feeling making it impossible for her to address the elder woman by either formal title or first name, she had soon settled upon "Dearie" as a substantive term expressing their relationship, and "Dearie" Miss Dent had been to her ever since, whether between themselves or among her own intimate friends. As the shadows grew longer and the hot white sunlight became less vivid, Lucy seemed to grow restless. She rose and moved about the veranda, or ran down into the yard and back upon some trivial errand, each time stopping on the steps to send an inquiring eye down the street. Standing there, when the afternoon was far spent and the fierce westerly wind had ebbed into a gentle breeze, she pointed out to Louise the statuesque sapphire mass of Mangan's Peak against the turquoise blue of the eastern sky, and told her of the drive thither and back she and her father had taken a fortnight before, and of their call at Socorro Springs ranch. "It's an interesting place," she went on; "such a huge ranch! Why, its grazing rights extend more than a hundred miles south, away across the Mexican border. Father knows the superintendent very well, and we'll get him to drive us out there some day." A higher color rose in her cheeks; she quickly turned away, drew her chair well back, and sat down. "There's Mr. Conrad, the superintendent, coming up the hill now!" she exclaimed. "Daddy told me at luncheon that he was in town." Lucy bore her new role of hostess with a dignity so easy and gracious that it surprised Louise, and made Conrad think her more attractive than ever. Bancroft came a little later, and Curtis was urged to stay to dinner. Lucy showed him in her conservatory the collection of cactus plants she had begun to make and listened with eager interest while he gave her information about the growth of the species she already had, and told her where she could find others less common. She was anxious to have his opinion whether it would be possible to make a hedge of mesquite to replace the wooden paling around the yard; he did not know, but offered to help her try the experiment. They dined on the side veranda, where Lucy, with the help of a screen or two and some plants from her green-house, had contrived an out-of-doors dining-room. The high spirits of the two younger people dominated the conversation, as they jested and bantered, laughed, and crossed wits in little wordy sword-plays that called forth applause and encouragement from the others. Lucy sparkled and dimpled, and her color rose, while Curtis's eyes darkened and flashed. Miss Dent, watching them, realized what an attractive young woman Lucy had grown to be, and how much she had blossomed out even in the few months since their last parting. "She will have plenty of admirers," the older woman thought, with a little twinge at her heart. Still, she was very young, and it would be a long time yet before she would think of marriage. But--if she were to marry and leave her father--he would be very lonely--perhaps--and then she felt her cheeks grow warmer, and hastened to resume her part in the conversation. Louise was pleased with Conrad's face. It seemed full of character, with its broad brow, tanned cheeks, large nose, and well-set chin. She noted especially the strong, firm jaw and chin, saying to herself that they betokened a strength of will and constancy of purpose that foretold success in whatever he might undertake. He was amusing them with an account of the feud between the wives of the Castleton brothers. "But don't the men take up the quarrels of their wives," Louise asked, "or allow any feeling to come between them?" "Not in the least; nor does there seem to be any ill-feeling between the ladies. They are always good friends, and the men look upon the whole thing as a good joke. If Mrs. Turner, for instance, cooks up some new scheme for getting the better of Mrs. Ned, she tells her husband about it, he tells Ned, and they laugh over it and make bets about which will win." Lucy was interested in the Castleton ladies. Conrad said that Mrs. Turner Castleton was considered a great beauty, but that he liked Mrs. Ned, who was half Mexican, much the better and thought her the more interesting and charming. She asked if they ever visited the ranch. "Yes," said Curtis; "Ned and his wife come up for a few days every Spring. This year they'll be there after the round-up is over and the cattle shipped. Would you like to meet them? All right, we'll arrange it. While they are there I'll get up a barbecue and a _baile_, and ask some people. You and Miss Dent and your father must all come." The American in the Southwest, arrogant and contemptuous as the Anglo-Saxon always is when brought face to face with a difference in race, a difference in ideals, or a difference in speech, regards the Spanish language with frank disdain and ordinarily refuses to learn it. But where the Mexicans are present in large numbers, as in New Mexico, he adopts from the other's language a good many words which soon supplant their English equivalents. An evening party of any sort, whether a public dance in the town hall, a select affair in the house of a prominent resident, or a gathering in the Mexican quarter, is always a "_baile_," a thriftless, insignificant person of either race a "_paisano_," while upon "_coyote_" the American has seized with ready tongue, applying it to any creature, human or other, for which he wishes to express supreme contempt. Miss Dent had to have _baile_ explained to her, and their talk drifted to the subject of the Mexican people. Bancroft told her the story of the bold theft of Conrad's mare, the chase and capture of Melgares, and the wounding of Gaines. "It is thought that poor Jack cannot live," he said in conclusion, "and the Mexican is held in jail to await the result. If he dies the fellow will be tried for murder." "I've heard a queer story about Melgares," said Conrad, and went on to tell how the Mexican had lost his little ranch. Lucy listened attentively, with indignant eyes fixed on Curtis's face. "How shameful!" she broke out. "What a detestable way of getting money! The poor Mexicans! Just think of their being turned out of their homes in that way, with nothing to fall back on! I don't wonder poor Melgares became a thief--but he ought to have gone to Santa Fe and stolen Mr. Baxter's horses!" Bancroft's eyes were fixed on his plate. Had the others been watching him closely they would have seen no more than a flicker of his eyelids as his face took on a stony impassiveness. But they were looking at Lucy who, with head erect, face flushed, and eyes sparkling, made a pretty picture. "I'm glad you feel that way, Miss Bancroft," Curtis exclaimed, his face alight with approval and admiration. "I think myself it's about as despicable a way of getting money legally as man ever devised. Baxter knows when he loans the money that the poor wretches will never be able to pay back a cent of it. He wouldn't loan it to them if he thought they could, for it's their land he's after. I've heard that he's getting control in this way of a big tract in the Rio Grande valley and that he intends to form a company, advertise it through the East, and sell the land, which is really valuable, at big prices." "Well, I think it's a shameful piece of business, and I'm surprised that Mr. Baxter is engaged in it!" said Lucy with decision. "Before you condemn him so severely, daughter," interposed Bancroft, his eyes still lowered, "you should remember that the business of the loan mortgage companies has the full sanction of law and custom, and that many of the most reputable business men of the United States have engaged in it." "I can't help it, daddy, if all the Congressmen and lawyers and business men, and preachers too, in the United States are engaged in it--that doesn't make it right. Somehow it seems a different matter with these poor Mexicans, they are so helpless. Why, it's almost like stealing their homes. I'm sorry, daddy, to speak so about Mr. Baxter, but that's really the way I feel about it; I suppose he doesn't realize what an injury he's doing them. Oh, daddy," and she leaned forward eagerly, her face flushing, "you and he are such good friends, maybe you could tell him what harm he's doing and persuade him to give up that part of his business!" Conrad smiled grimly. "It's plain, Miss Bancroft," he said, without waiting for her father to reply, "that you are not intimately acquainted with Dell Baxter. I'm sorry about this Melgares business, for I can't help feeling a sort of responsibility. If the fellow is hung his family will be left destitute. Yes, he has a wife and four children," he continued in answer to Miss Dent. "I had a talk with him about the affair, and he asked me to send for his family for him. He had money with which to pay their fares, though where he got it probably wouldn't bear too close an inquiry." Lucy was looking at him eagerly, her face full of sympathy. "The poor things!" she exclaimed. "When they come you must let me know, Mr. Conrad." Bancroft abruptly changed the subject, and presently the talk drifted to a story that had just come out about the postmaster at Randall. "It's a characteristic New Mexican tale," said Curtis, turning to the ladies. "You'll soon find out, Miss Bancroft, if you don't know it already, that the cowboy song of 'What was your name in the States?' can often be applied in earnest." "Confound the fellow," thought Bancroft irritably, "why is he always harping on that subject!" "This is a particularly audacious case, though--don't you think so, Aleck?" Curtis went on. "Here this man has been living for several years in Randall, a respected citizen, holding office, with influence in the community, when, behold, it is discovered that just before coming here he had skipped from some town in Missouri, where he was postmaster, with all the money in his office and another man's wife. But his sin has finally found him out." "It always does," observed Lucy coolly. Louise Dent was conscious of a fluttering in her throat and realized that her heart was beating loudly. The moment's pause that followed seemed to her so long that she rushed into speech, without thought of what she said: "I'm afraid it does." "Why do you say 'afraid,' Dearie?" asked Lucy, with surprise. "Isn't it right that it should?" Louise made brief and noncommittal reply and Bancroft hurriedly asked Curtis how the round-up was getting on. "Well, we've got the thing started, and are ready to move the cattle on the north part of the range toward Pelham. We'll begin shipping within two or three weeks. But something seems to have struck the cowboy market this year; I've been short of hands all the Spring." "Perhaps I can give you some help," said Bancroft. "A Mexican from up North has been to me looking for work. He came the day you had the chase after Melgares and was in again to-day. He has worked for Baxter, and Dell says he is an expert cowboy and sure to give satisfaction." "He must be an unusual sort of greaser if he's looking for work," laughed Conrad. "If he's that sort, I guess he'll strike my gait." They found the Mexican sitting on the steps of the front veranda when they finished dinner. "Why," exclaimed Curtis with hearty interest, "he's the same chap that told me my mare was stolen. I hope you can ride and throw a rope; I'm obliged to you already, and I'd like to do you a good turn. I'll meet you down town presently, and if you know anything about the business I'll take you behind me on my mare to the ranch to-night, and you can go to work in the morning." The moon had just risen, and its huge white disk seemed to be resting on the plain only a little way beyond the town. Its brilliant silvery light was already working weird transformations in the landscape. "Oh, are you going to ride home to-night, through this wonderful moonlight!" Lucy exclaimed. "How I envy you!" "Yes," he answered, lowering his voice and speaking in a tone different from any she had before heard from his lips; "and it is indeed a wonderful ride! I don't know anything more impressive than the landscape of this country under a marvellous moon, like that over there. I hope we can have a ride by moonlight together, some time, when the moon is full. Does Miss Dent ride?" His voice went back to its usual tone. "I know your father is a fine rider. Perhaps we can make up a party some night, when I don't have to hurry home. I expect my brother here this Summer, to spend his vacation with me. You and Miss Dent will like him, I'm sure, for he's a fine lad. I hope we can all have some pleasant excursions together." At the sound of his softened voice Lucy felt herself swept by sudden emotion, and hastily put her hands behind her lest he should see that they were trembling. And later that night, when she looked out from her window at the white moon floating in the violet sky, suddenly her nerves went a-quiver again and her eyes sought the far, dim plain as she softly whispered, "Under a marvellous moon, like that over there!" The Mexican asked Bancroft how to reach the place where Conrad was to meet him, and the banker walked to the gate and pointed out the streets he was to follow. As he finished Gonzalez bent a keen gaze upon him and asked, significantly, "Has the señor further instructions for me?" Bancroft's start and the shade of annoyance that crossed his face as he realized that it had been noticed were not lost upon the man, whose searching look was still on him. His equanimity had been well tried already that evening, and this sudden touch upon a half-formed and most secret desire startled him for an instant out of his usual self-control. Heretofore he had merely dallied with the thought that Conrad's removal would mean his own safety, for the rest of his life. It had appeared to him merely as something the consequences of which would be desirable. His hand could not be concerned in it, he wished to know nothing about it--but if Baxter thought best--to further his own ends--why had the Mexican come to him with this impudent question? "I'm not hiring you," was his curt answer. "Certainly not, señor," the man answered calmly, his head erect, his arms folded, and one foot advanced. The trio on the veranda noted and laughed over his attitude. Lucy said he looked like a hero of melodrama taking the limelight. Miss Dent added that he was handsome enough for a matinee idol, and Conrad declared that there was no telling how many señoritas' hearts he had already broken. Bancroft turned to go back to the house, but paused an instant, and the Mexican quickly went on in a softly insinuating voice: "But if the señor should wish to say anything particular? Don Dellmey thought it might be possible." Bancroft lingered, flicking the ashes from his cigar. "I--I know nothing about it," he blurted out, uncertainly. "If Don Dellmey had anything to say to you I suppose he said it." As he turned away he heard the man say gently, "Thank you, Señor Bancroft. I shall not forget our talk." There was no reply, and the Mexican, whistling a Spanish love tune, disappeared down the hill in the weird mixed lights of the fading day and the brilliant moon. Alone on the veranda, Alexander Bancroft walked restlessly to and fro, stopping now and again as if to listen to the music from within, which he did not hear, or to look at the moonlit landscape, which he did not see. Over and over he was saying to himself that he had no idea what Dellmey Baxter had said to this Mexican, and, whatever it was, he had distinctly told the creature that he knew nothing about it. The man had come to him recommended as an expert cowboy, he had passed the recommendation on to Conrad, and that was all there was about it. Nevertheless, he knew he had reason to believe--the Congressman had intimated as much in his letter--that the man who called himself José Gonzalez was in reality Liberato Herrara, guilty of at least one murder and probably of others, whom Baxter's legal skill had saved from the gallows. Curtis had said that he should carry the man behind him to the ranch that night. Before Bancroft's inward eye a sudden vision opened: wide miles of silent plain, a great white moon hanging low in the sky, a long stretch of deserted road, and then two men on a single horse--and the light gleaming on a long knife! He shuddered as the blade flashed, and turned his face away from the plain. Then, as there came to him a sudden sense of tremendous relief, with breath and thought suspended he turned slowly, fascinatedly, and with greedy eyes searched the distant plain, as if eager to find in it some proof, at last, of his own safety. Lucy's voice rose in a gay little song above the piano and fell upon his ears. With a deep, long-drawn breath his thought leaped out and seized upon all that freedom from Curtis Conrad's pursuit would mean for him. José Gonzalez would sink out of sight, and Liberato Herrara would be back in his own home, unsuspected and silent. Some excitement would follow, search would be made, a body would be found in a mesquite thicket,--and then the interest would die out, and there would be only another grewsome tale of mystery to be added to the hundreds already told through the Southwest. And he--Alexander Bancroft--would be safe--secure in fortune and reputation and the love and honor of his daughter as long as they should live. The music within ceased and Lucy's voice rippled out in girlish laughter. His heart sank as he seemed to hear again her hot denunciation of Baxter's loan and mortgage operations. "I'll sell out to Dell and she'll never know I've had anything to do with it," he thought. Then there came ringing through his memory, as he had heard them so many times since they rode home from the Socorro Springs ranch, her passionate words, "He must have been a wicked man," and "I should hate him, with all my strength," and again his longing face turned impulsively toward the plain. "I'd kill him myself, rather than let her find out," he whispered, with teeth set. "And a man has got to protect himself out here!" his urgent thought went on. "I'll be a fool if I don't stop him before he gets his chance at me!" With a sudden stirring of conscience he remembered that this man whose death he was so ardently desiring was his friend and trusted his friendship. "I--I don't want him stuck in the back," he muttered. "I might warn him. He may not have started yet." He walked uncertainly toward the veranda steps. There was a flutter of white drapery and Lucy was laying an affectionate hand on his arm. "Oh, daddy dear," she coaxed, "won't you come in and try this duet with us? Dearie will play the accompaniment for us to sing. She brought it to me, and I'm dying to try it." "Yes, if you wish it, daughter," the banker replied, hesitation in his voice, "but I was thinking of going down town." He saw the shade of disappointment that crossed her face, and drew her hand into his arm. "It doesn't matter," he went on, "and I would rather stay at home." To himself he said as they moved to the door, "Conrad has gone by this time, and, anyway, I've no reason to think this Mexican intends to do him any harm." CHAPTER VIII SPECTRES OF THE PAST Restless was the night that followed for Alexander Bancroft; his sleep was troubled by many a dream in which one friend after another moved swiftly on to violent death. With the coming of dawn he arose to look out from the eastern windows of his room. The sky was a dome of rosy light and below lay the vast plain, dim but colorful, its gray-green mottled with vague bands and patches of opalescent lights and shadows and dotted with little islands of vivid green. His eyes clung to these darker spots, which he knew to be thickets of mesquite; piercing their shade his inner vision showed him the still body of his friend. So real was the mental picture that he turned pale about the lips and abruptly left the window. If anything had happened, he kept reassuring himself, it had been at Dellmey Baxter's instigation. He himself had had nothing to do with it. If Baxter had decided that his affairs would go more smoothly with Conrad out of the way, why should he, Alexander Bancroft, trouble himself further? And if--anything had happened--again he felt the loosening of mental strain and his spirits rose in exultation at the prospect of freedom and safety. Life was more attractive than ever with that menacing figure no longer threatening him with disclosure, disgrace, and death. He could go on with his plans for the accumulation of fortune and the enjoyment of life. He could still hold Lucy's love and honor, travel with her, marry again, work his way to a commanding place in the world of business. The future opened before him as easy and inviting as the stairs down which he went to breakfast. Lucy ran to meet him with a good-morning kiss and a rose for his buttonhole. "It's the prettiest I could find in my conservatory," she smiled at him; "but it isn't half nice enough for my daddy dear. You don't look well this morning, daddy," she went on anxiously. "Is anything the matter?" His hand slipped caressingly down over her curls and drew her to his breast in a quick embrace, instinct with the native impulse of the animal to protect its offspring. "She shall never know," was the thought in his mind. "Daddy! What a bear hug that was!" she laughed, "like those you used to give me when I was a little girl. It didn't feel as if you were ill." "I'm not," he answered lightly, kissing her pink cheek. "I guess I smoked too much yesterday, and so didn't sleep very well. Yes; I promise; I'll be more careful to-day." At breakfast his eyes dwelt much upon Louise Dent's face, gentle and pleasant. He had always liked her, and since her coming on this visit she had seemed very attractive. He knew she had strength and poise of character and a nature refined and cheerful. These qualities in her, with a certain genial, unobtrusive companionableness, had long ago won his warm friendship. But was there not in her steady gray eyes a hint of passionate depths he had never thought of before? It stirred him so deeply that for a little while, as they lingered over the breakfast table, he forgot the other facts of life, noting the faint rose flush in her cheeks, the graceful turn of her wrists, and the soft whiteness of her throat as she threw back her head and laughed. And Lucy loved her so devotedly! If she were willing to marry him their household would surely be harmonious and happy. Lucy fluttered beside him to the gate, her arm in his, as she chattered to him of the funny things her Chinese cook had been saying and doing. She lingered there, her eyes following his figure, until he turned, half a block away, to wave his hat in response to her farewell handkerchief. By the time he reached the foot of the hill Bancroft's mind was once more engrossed with the need of knowing whether or not he was at last secure from ignominious exposure. He no longer disguised from himself the fact that news of Conrad's death would be most welcome. He looked eagerly up and down the main streets; there was no sign of excitement. Had nothing happened, then? But it was still early; moreover, news of the affair might not reach the town for a day or two. The sound of horses' feet coming at a swift trot down the street on the other side of the stream made his heart beat quickly. He lingered at the door of his bank until the horseman came into view under the big cottonwoods at the next corner. It was Red Jack from the Socorro Springs ranch. At once his heart leaped to certainty. He turned to enter the bank, but stopped and looked back, undecidedly. Red Jack had not dismounted, but had drawn rein in front of the court-house at the next corner, and was sitting there quietly, looking up and down the road as if expecting somebody. He led a saddled horse. Perhaps he was to take a physician back with him. But he seemed in no haste, and in his manner there was neither excitement nor anxiety. Bancroft could wait no longer to learn what had happened. With hands in pockets he sauntered down the street. "Hello, Jack," he said indifferently to the waiting horseman. "You're in town early this morning." "I sure hiked along from the ranch early enough," the cowboy replied. "The boss hired a new man last night; and I had to come over this morning after him." Bancroft's eyes were on the cigar he was taking from his pocket, which he handed to the cowboy, saying idly, "Why, he intended last night to carry the man behind him. Did he change his mind? The man was a Mexican, wasn't he?" "Y-e-s; a measly coyote! The boss didn't bring him last night because he thought it would be too hard on Brown Betty to carry double. I wonder if mebbe that ain't my man comin' down the street right now! I've done forgot his name; do you happen to know it, Mr. Bancroft?" "I think it's José Gonzalez. He came here from Dellmey Baxter, who recommended him to me as a first-rate cowboy." "Well, he'll have to be a peach if he strikes the boss's gait," Red Jack rejoined, motioning to the Mexican. Bancroft walked back to his place of business with brows knitted and mouth drawn into grim lines. His mind was acting rapidly and ruthlessly. The sudden collapse of his house of cards, the knowledge that danger was still as imminent as ever, left him savage with desire for Curtis Conrad's death, or, rather, for the delectable land that lay beyond it. Nobody but this young hothead with his insensate desire for revenge knew or cared anything about that old affair now. With him out of the way there would be no danger from anybody or anything. Why wasn't the man sensible enough to take the money he was willing to pay, and be satisfied? Perhaps the receipt of another check or two would soften his purpose; it was worth trying. And--there was still the Mexican! Baxter had surely said something to him, and the fellow seemed to understand that he, also--but he had said nothing about it, and whatever the creature suspected was his own inference. Evidently the Mexican did suspect something and had some purpose in his mind. With Conrad so intent upon his destruction had he not every right to protect himself and his child? Of course he had, he told himself fiercely, and what means he might use were his own affair. At the door of the bank Rutherford Jenkins met him with a smiling salutation: "Good-morning, Mr. Bancroft; this is lucky! I was waiting for you here, but I've got so much to do that I'd begun to be afraid I wouldn't be able to see you before I go back." Bancroft greeted him pleasantly. "What do you mean, Jenkins," he went on, "by deserting to Martinez? Hadn't you better think again about that? We need you on our side." "That's exactly what I want to see you about," said Jenkins in a confidential tone. "Can't you come over with me to Bill Williams's hotel for a few minutes? I want to have a talk with you." They went back together, Bancroft wondering if Jenkins, who was regarded as a desirable ally by both parties, notwithstanding his character, was about to make overtures to him for deserting the Martinez fold and coming back to Baxter's. "Perhaps that spanking Curt gave him has set him against the whole Martinez following," he thought. "Baxter will be mighty glad to get him back, and I'll do my best to cinch the bargain so he can't crawl." When they entered the hotel room Jenkins moved leisurely about, got out a bottle of whiskey, and hunted up some cigars, talking all the time glibly about other matters and jumping inconsequently from one subject to another. Bancroft made several attempts to bring the conversation to the point, but each time Jenkins either blandly ignored or skilfully evaded his leading. Finally Bancroft said, looking at his watch: "Well, Jenkins, I've got to be at the bank very soon, and if there's anything particular you want to say suppose we get down to business." "Yes, yes, certainly," Jenkins replied unconcernedly. "That's what I'm coming to right now." He gave Bancroft a cigar, lighted one himself, made some jokes as he bustled aimlessly around the room, and at last sat down on the foot of the bed, facing the banker, who occupied the only chair in the little room. He ceased speaking, and Bancroft, looking up suddenly, caught in his face an expression of expectant triumph. The tip of his tongue was darting over his lips, and his small dark eyes were fixed on his guest with a look of malicious satisfaction. Instantly Bancroft's nerves were alert with the sense of coming danger. He blew out a whiff of smoke and calmly returned the other's gaze. Their eyes met thus, the one gloating, the other outwardly unmoved but inwardly astart with sudden alarm. Then Jenkins began, in a blandly insinuating tone: "Before we come to that matter about Martinez, I want to ask you, Mr.--ah--Mr. Dela--ah, I beg your pardon, Mr. Bancroft--I thought I would ask you--you've poked about a good deal, out here in the West--and in out-of-the-way places, too--and I've been wondering--I thought I'd ask you--if you've ever run across a gentleman of the name of--of--Dela--Dela--let me see--yes, Delafield--that's it--Sumner L. Delafield, of Boston. Do you remember whether or not you've ever met him?" Bancroft did not blanch nor flinch. For so many years he had schooled himself to such constant watchfulness and incessant self-control that an impassive countenance and manner had become a habit. Lucy, with her uncompromising moral decisions and her swift, unsparing condemnations, could come nearer to unnerving him than could any bolt from the blue like this. He flicked the ash from his cigar, hesitating a moment as if searching his memory, but really wondering whether Jenkins knew anything or was merely guessing and trying to draw him out. The latter seemed much the more likely. "I can't say on the instant whether I ever met such a man or not. As you say, I have gone about a good deal and, as my business most of the time has been that of mining and trading in mines, it has often taken me into out-of-the-way places, and I have met a great many people. At this moment I don't recall the name." "Don't you? I'm sorry, for I thought perhaps you could verify for me a curious story about the man that has just come to my knowledge. You know I'm always picking up information about people--I find it comes in handy now and then. Well, if you've never met him, have you ever, in the course of your Western travels, run across a man--he was a mining man, too--a mining man named Hardy--John Mason Hardy? There's a curious story about him, too, or, rather, about a man who was associated with him in a mining enterprise down in old Mexico. The other man's name was Smith--a very serviceable name is Smith; sort of like a black derby hat; no distinguishing mark about it and easy to exchange by mistake if you'd rather have some other man's." Bancroft rose and looked at his watch. "If there's anything of particular interest or importance in this, Mr. Jenkins, I'll be very glad to listen to it some other time; but I can't stay any longer this morning. I ought to have been at my desk half an hour ago." Jenkins sat still and waved him back with insistent politeness. "One moment more, Mr. Bancroft, if you please. I'm coming to the point right away. This story is of some consequence to me, and I'd like to know if you can verify it. Have another drink." Bancroft swallowed the whiskey at a gulp and Jenkins noticed that his fingers trembled as he took the glass. He was thinking, "I'd better stay and find out exactly how much he knows." Jenkins smiled under his hand as he smoothed his straggling moustache and watched Bancroft wipe the sweat from his forehead. "This man Smith," Jenkins continued, "John was his name, too--John Smith and John Mason Hardy were partners in a mining enterprise down in Mexico. One of them died down there--died, you know, in a quiet, private sort of way, and the one that came up to the States again was named Hardy, but it wasn't the same Hardy that had gone down there. You might guess, if you wanted to, that Smith killed Hardy and took his name--" He stopped and drew back suddenly, for Bancroft had sprung forward with a white, angry face and was shaking a trembling fist under his nose. "Stop there, you liar!" he exclaimed in low, tense tones. "I didn't do that. He died a natural death--of fever--and I took care of him and did my best to save his life." Jenkins recovered his self-possession first. "Oh; then you know all about it!" he said dryly, with a malicious smile. Bancroft sank back in his chair drawing his hand across his eyes and wondering why his self-control had so suddenly gone to pieces. He had thought himself proof against any surprise, but this man's sudden blow and persistent baiting had screwed his nerve tension to the snapping point. But he told himself that it probably did not matter anyway, as Jenkins evidently knew the whole story. With a desperate, defiant look he turned upon his tormentor. "Well, what do you want?" he demanded sharply. "Why have you raked up this old story?" "Oh, I found it interesting," Jenkins responded in a leisurely way, "as an instance of the way things are done on the frontier and, as I told you at first, I thought you might be able to verify it. For I was inclined not to believe it, especially as it was about one of the most prominent and respected citizens of New Mexico. But since you've confessed its truth yourself--well, I've got to believe it now. It has been a very blind trail I've followed, crooked and well hidden--wonderfully well hidden, Mr. Bancroft--and the number of names you've hoisted along its course has been bewildering. But I've managed to track you through 'em all, and to discover in Alexander Bancroft, the upright, honored, public-spirited citizen of New Mexico, the identical person of Sumner L. Delafield, the defaulting and absconding financier of Boston." Bancroft looked Jenkins sullenly in the eye. "Well, now that you have it all, what are you going to do about it?" "Pardon me, Mr. Bancroft," said Jenkins with exaggerated suavity, "ah, excuse me, I mean Mr. Delafield--that is for you to say." The banker considered for a moment only. Evidently this man knew exactly what he was about and exactly what he wanted, so that it would be of no use to beat around the bush. "Will you please say precisely what you mean?" was his answer. "That is just what I have been doing, Mr. Delafield." "Excuse me, Jenkins, but my name is Bancroft, not Delafield. I have a legal right to the name of Bancroft, given me by the legislature of Arizona. You will oblige me by addressing me in that way." "Oh, yes; I know that; and a lot of trouble I had with this chase until I found it out! But I thought you might like to hear yourself called Delafield once more--sort of like meeting an old friend, you know. Won't you have another cigar, Mr. Bancroft? No? Well, then, let's have another drink." He poured out two glasses of whiskey. Bancroft drank his without demur, but Jenkins barely touched his glass to his lips. "Well, now, Mr. Bancroft," Jenkins went on affably, smiling and rubbing his hands together, "let's get down to the practical side of this romantic story from real life. You are getting on so well here under your present name, and you have a young daughter--" he saw his listener wince at this, and then carefully repeated his words--"and you have such a beautiful and charming young daughter, who, as the heiress of a father who is making a fortune with clean hands and no cloud on his past, can be taken about the world and can make a good marriage some of these days; considering all this, I take it for granted that you would prefer to have this story buried too deep for resurrection. And it is for you to say whether it shall be buried or not." Bancroft sat in silence for a full minute, glaring at the man opposite, his lips set in a livid line. Jenkins grew nervous in the dead stillness of the room, and began to fidget. He cautiously rested his right hand on the bed close by his pistol pocket, and kept his eyes on the banker, watchful for the first hostile movement. There was need of wariness, for Bancroft was debating with himself whether it would be better to go on to the dreary end of this business and leave the room with a blackmailer's noose around his neck, or to whip out his gun, put a bullet through this man's brain, and another through his own. But the fragrance of life rose sweet to his nostrils, and his innate virility spurred him on to keep up the fight. Apparently he had brought up against a stone wall, but he had fought too long and too desperately to be willing to confess himself beaten until he could struggle no longer. He felt sure that money would keep Jenkins quiet, and after a while he might find some other means of stopping the man's mouth for good. The fellow was always in some dirty job or other, and before long doubtless some hold on him would become possible. There was Conrad still to be reckoned with--but that could wait, at least until this man was silenced. "Well," he said quietly, "what do you want? For God's sake, come to the point!" Jenkins drew a breath of relief. "Well, Mr. Bancroft, I'm interested this year in the success of Johnny Martinez. It's a matter of the first importance to me for him to be elected. But I'm afraid he hasn't got much chance if Silverside County and the rest of the South should go against him. Now, you've got more influence down here than anybody else, and you can swing it for him if you want to. That's what I want you to do." Bancroft looked up in sudden dismay. He had not expected anything of this sort. "You know I'm committed to Baxter," he said. "Oh, yes; I know. But that's nothing. In New Mexico it's not difficult to change your politics. Why, I thought of coming out for Baxter myself at first; but I'm solid for Martinez now." Bancroft rose and began pacing the half-dozen steps to and fro that the room afforded, seeking some loophole of escape from his obligations to Baxter. There were mortgages the Congressman could foreclose that would balk some of the banker's most promising plans should he attempt political treachery. He could, and undoubtedly would, reveal his associate's connection with the loan and mortgage operations in the Rio Grande valley; and Bancroft winced as he thought of this coming to Lucy's ears. And in that matter of Curtis Conrad and José Gonzalez--had he not put himself at Baxter's mercy? In this moment of supreme necessity the naked truth came before him; and he knew it to be true that he was primarily responsible for any harm that might come to the young cattleman through Gonzalez. If he did not keep faith with Baxter the Congressman would tell Curtis who it was that desired his death; and then Conrad would know where to find Delafield. In short, he knew that Baxter would stop at nothing to compel his loyalty or punish his treason. Having contemplated no course except that of fidelity in his business and political relations with Baxter, the closeness of their alliance had heretofore given him little uneasiness; and now, in this crisis, he found himself wholly in the other's power. He flung himself into his chair, his face pallid and the perspiration standing in great drops on his forehead. His breath came hard and his voice was thick as he asked: "Is there no alternative?" "Well, no; none that I can accept," Jenkins replied meditatively. "You see, it's a very important matter for me to be able to make this present to Johnny. If he wins this fight there'll be something big in it for me. No; I'll have to insist upon this as the first condition." Bancroft's lips moved soundlessly as he stared at the man sitting on the edge of the bed, nursing his knee and showing his white teeth in a triumphant smile. Then, suddenly, without a word of warning, the banker leaped forward and seized his companion around the throat. Jenkins, taken entirely off his guard, succeeded only in grasping his assailant's coat as they went down on the bed together in a noiseless scuffle. Bancroft's hands closed around his tormentor's throat, and a savage, elemental satisfaction thrilled in him and goaded him on. More and more tightly his fingers clutched as Jenkins struggled under his grip. Neither of them uttered a sound, and the silence of the room was broken only by the creaking of the bed or the occasional knocking of a foot against the chair. Bancroft's face was snarled like that of a wild beast as he watched Jenkins's visage grow livid and his struggles weaken. Of a sudden reason returned to him. If this man were to die under his hand there would be grewsome consequences--and he had enough to deal with already. He stood up, trembling, and looked anxiously at the still form on the bed. "You--you're not dead, Jenkins, are you?" he stammered awkwardly. Jenkins stirred a little, opened his eyes, put his hand to his throat, and got up, looking warily at his assailant. "It's no thanks to you that I'm not," he responded sullenly. "I didn't mean to kill you--but you--you struck me too hard--it drove me wild--and for a minute I didn't know what I was doing." Jenkins scowled, rubbed his throat again, and drank a glass of whiskey. Bancroft helped himself likewise, following it with a copious draught of water. As they faced each other again Jenkins edged away suspiciously toward the door; but Bancroft went back at once to the unsettled question. "It would ruin me, financially and in every other way, to go back on Baxter. You might just as well kill me outright as insist upon that." "But I'm going to insist upon it," was Jenkins's sullen answer. Bancroft made a despairing gesture. "But I tell you, Jenkins, the thing's impossible! It would ruin me just as surely as for you to tell all you know. You'll have to be satisfied with something else." Jenkins leaned against the bed and stared angrily at Bancroft. Physical pain had made him obstinate and determined him to press his point, more to return injury for injury than because he wanted that particular thing. "I tell you now," Bancroft went on, "that I'd rather take the last way out than try to go back on Baxter. It wouldn't be the healthiest thing in the world for you if I should kill myself shut up in this room with you, would it?" "Well, I'll waive that for the present," Jenkins replied unwillingly; "but, mind you, it's only for the present. We'll talk about it again, later in the season. For the present I want a good, big sum before you leave this room, and hereafter I've got to have a regular monthly payment, a check on the first of every month when I don't come after the cash myself." Bancroft considered for only a moment. His dilemma was clear: he must either buy this haltered freedom from Jenkins or kill him in his tracks. This latter alternative was not to be considered; and doubtless before long it would be possible to turn the tables on the creature and escape from his clutches. Jenkins folded away in his pocket-book a check and a roll of bills and smiled as he looked at Bancroft's haggard face. "I hope, Mr. Dela--ah, pardon me,--Mr. Bancroft, that I have not kept you too long from your affairs at the bank." As his eyes followed the banker's disappearing figure with a gleam of satisfaction, he patted his breast pocket and whispered: "Now for the other score!" CHAPTER IX PERILS IN THE NIGHT Red Jack and José Gonzalez joined the forces of the Socorro Springs ranch while the cattle of the morning's round-up were being driven to the watering-place near the ranch house. Across the road from the house stood a large grove of cottonwoods; a little beyond that, in the valley, a deep pond had been dug, into which flowed the outlets from the several springs. The cattle from a score of miles roundabout were accustomed to come to this pond, with its circling belt of trees, for water and for midday rest in the shade. Here the round-up was in progress, and Conrad galloped out to meet the new hand and give him instructions. As he rode off toward the hills after a bunch of straggling cattle Curtis looked after him with an approving eye. "He knows how to fork a horse, at least," he thought. In the afternoon José was set to work cutting out and bunching the two- and three-year-old steers and later at helping with the branding. Conrad watched his handling of the branding irons, and he and all the rest stopped their work to follow his movements with critical eyes as he roped and brought to the ground a belligerent steer. The superintendent was well satisfied. "At last I've got a man who knows the business and has some _sabe_," he thought. "If he goes on as well as he begins I'll keep him after the shipping is done." The next day the round-up crept slowly southward, accompanied by the chuck-wagon and a drove of fresh horses. At noon the cattle gathered during the morning were bunched at Adobe Springs, the next watering-place toward the Mexican border. Gonzalez was the only Mexican among the cowboys, the rest being Americans of one sort or another--from Texas, Colorado, the Northwest, and the Middle West. All felt toward him the contemptuous scorn born of difference in race and consequent conviction of superior merit. They had no scruples about making known their prejudice, and more than once his face flushed and his hand darted toward the knife hidden in his bosom. Yet, as the day wore on and they saw that he excelled the best of them in handling the lasso and in the cunning of his movements when cutting out the steers from the herd, they began to show him the respect that skill of any sort inspires in those who know with what effort it is acquired. After supper, when they gathered about the campfire, smoking, and scoffing good-naturedly at one another's tales of wondrous experiences, and talking over the events of the day just gone, they received him upon an equality with themselves which was only slightly grudged. He told them, in English more precise than any of them could speak, of Conrad's encounter with Rutherford Jenkins in the Blue Front, and their appreciation of the tale completed the work which his skill as a cowboy had begun. Thereafter they looked upon José as a comrade and a good fellow. Three small adobe houses, of one room each, with flat roofs and earthen floors, had been built here, as the large and never-failing springs made the spot a sure rendezvous for every round-up. The locality was infested by skunks, and the cowboys, who greatly feared midnight bites from the prowling animals, believing hydrophobia a sure consequence, usually preferred to sleep inside the houses, on bunks filled with alfalfa hay. If they ventured to sleep out-of-doors, they kept small cans of coal oil ready and, whenever a wakeful man saw one of the small creatures near, a quick turn of the wrist drenched its fur with the fluid and a brand from the smouldering campfire tossed after it sent a squealing pillar of flame flying up the hill and saved them from further disturbance that night. A board nailed across a corner of the largest house served Conrad as a desk. He kept there a lamp, writing materials, and a few books. While the men sprawled around the campfire and the last gleams of dusky red faded from the west and the moon bounded up from behind the eastern hills, he made his memoranda, wrote a letter to be sent to the post-office by the first chance comer, and lost himself for an hour in a volume of Shakespeare. When he went outside the men were walking about, yawning and stretching, ready for sleep. Curtis's imagination was still astir from his reading, and the presence of any other human being seemed an impertinence. But he said, genially: "Well, boys, you begin to look as if you wanted to turn in. Take whatever bunks you like, if you want to go inside. I'm going to sleep out here." "Better have a tin of ile handy," said Red Jack. "The polecats are sure likely to nibble your toes if you don't. The night I slept here last week I never saw the cusses so bad; durned if one of the critters didn't get inside and wake me up smellin' of my ear. I was some skeered of him stinkin' up the place so it couldn't be slept in for a year, so I jest had to lay low and wait for him to go outside, and then I doused him good with ile and throwed the candle at him. I sure reckon he's holed up somewhere now, waitin' till he can afford a new sealskin sacque before he shows hisself in good sassiety ag'in." "I don't think they'll bother me to-night," Curtis responded. At that moment he felt that nothing could disturb him, if only he could be left alone with the moonlight and the plain. "I'll sleep with my boots on, and my cheeks are not as fat as yours, Jack, so there'll be no temptation. Where do you want to bunk, José? You can sleep outside or in, just as you like." Gonzalez replied respectfully that he would rather go in. But presently he came out again with his blanket and chose a spot against the wall of one of the houses. Conrad had gone out to the herd to speak with the man on patrol and to make sure that all was well. When he returned the men had disappeared. "Good!" he said to himself. "They've all gone inside and I've got the universe to myself." He did not see the still form in its gray blanket close against the wall. Curtis took the red bandanna from his neck and tied it over his ears, to keep out the tiny things that crawl o' nights, and couched himself in his blanket on the gently rising ground with his saddle for a pillow. He lay down with his face to the east, where the dim and mellow sky, flooded with moonlight, seemed to recede far back, to the very limits of space, and leave the huge white globe suspended there in brooding majesty just above the plain. With long legs outstretched and muscles relaxed, he lay as still as if asleep, his eyes on its glowing disk. He knew all that science had discovered or guessed about the moon's character and history. But it had companioned him on so many a silent ride across long miles of dimly gleaming plain, and on so many nights like this as he lay upon the earth it had gathered his thoughts into its great white bosom, that he could not image it to himself as a mere dead and barren satellite of the earth. More easily could he understand how the living Cynthia had once leaped earthward and been welcomed with belief and love. Conrad's mind busied itself at first with the play he had just been reading, but presently wandered to his own affairs and the purpose that had been the dominant influence of half his life. He chuckled softly as he remembered the check he had recently received. "I've got him on the run," he thought, "and I'm bound to lay him out sooner or later. Lord, but it will be a satisfaction to face him finally! And he'll not get the drop on me first, either, unless Providence takes as good care of rascals as they say it does of fools." He recalled himself now and then to listen to the sounds from the sleeping herd, to the hoof-beats of the horse as the cowboy on watch rode round and round the bunch, and to his voice singing in a lulling monotone. But gradually thought and will and sense sank back toward the verge of that great gulf out of which they spring. When next he opened his eyes the moon was dropping toward the western horizon, but he had turned in his sleep and its light was still upon his face. Lying motionless, Curtis listened to the sounds from the herd, his first thought being that something unusual there must have awakened him. The coyotes were yelping at one another from hill and plain, but through their barking he could hear the snorting sigh of a steer turning in its sleep, the tramp of the horse, and the cowboy's lullaby. He recognized the voice as that of Peters, who was to have the third watch, and so knew that it must be well on toward morning. He was about to sink into slumber again when his gaze fell upon a small black and white animal nosing among some rocks near by. "Poor little devil! If it wakens any of the boys it will get a taste of hell out of proportion to its sins," he thought, and decided that he would drive it away before any one else discovered it. But the languor of sleep still held him and not a muscle moved as his eyelids began to droop. Then, through his half-shut eyes, he became conscious that something was moving, over against one of the houses, among the shadows. His eyelids lifted again and he saw the Mexican rise out of his blanket, look about, and in a crouching posture move stealthily toward him. Something in his hand glittered in the moonlight. "It's José," thought Conrad. "He's coming for the skunk with a can of oil. Quick, or I'll be too late!" He sprang to a sitting posture and flung out one arm. As he did so he noticed with sleepy surprise that José was not facing toward the animal but was coming toward him. Then, before he had time to speak, the Mexican turned, a flying something shone in the moonlight like an electric flash, and Conrad's eyes, following the gleam, saw the little creature pinned to the ground with a long knife through its neck and the gray sand darkening with its blood. "Why, José, that was a wonderful throw!" he exclaimed. "Yes, señor," the man replied quietly, as he stooped to draw out the knife and wipe it on the sand, "I am rather good at that sort of thing." CHAPTER X BY A HAIR'S BREADTH Curtis Conrad rode to the farther side of a hill sloping gently northeast of the houses as the outfit was getting under way the next morning. He remembered having seen there a rather uncommon species of cactus, and he thought to make sure of it in order to secure a specimen for Lucy Bancroft's collection when next he should pass that way on a homeward trip. José Gonzalez noted his action and presently, when a steer broke wildly from the herd and ran back, it was José who dashed after it. But, instead of heading it off and driving it back, he so manoeuvred that he contrived to get it around the hill behind which he had seen Conrad disappear. The superintendent was digging busily in the ground with his pocket-knife, having decided to take up the plant and leave it in the house in readiness for his return journey. Assured that the rest of the outfit was out of sight beyond the hill, Gonzalez left the steer to its own devices and galloped straight toward and behind the kneeling figure, his long knife drawn but concealed against his leg. Conrad's attention was engrossed in what he was doing and his thoughts were all of Lucy Bancroft, of how pleased she would be to get this rare specimen, and of how necessary it would be for him to help her plant it. José checked his horse into a walk and leaned forward, his eyes fastened on the other's back, his knife lying half hidden in his palm. On the soft ground the hoof-beats of the horse made little sound and their faint, unresounding thud was masked by the noises from the moving herd. Gonzalez drew rein within a few yards of his object and lifted his arm, with the knife balanced in his hand. At that instant the steer bellowed, and Curtis leaped to his feet, on the alert at once lest something had gone wrong with the herd. He saw the single steer and, wheeling around to look for others, his glance took in the Mexican, swerving his horse down the hill and deftly returning the knife to his belt. "Are you after the steer, José?" he called. "Is that the only one loose?" "Yes, señor. The rest are all right. This one has given me a chase, but I'll have him back right away." "Stop a minute, José. Would you mind letting me use your knife? Mine's too short and I haven't anything else." Gonzalez rode up, dismounted, and held out the knife with a courteous smile. As he stood back with one leg forward, arms folded, and head held high, Curtis thought him an image of dashing, picturesque, masculine comeliness. "José," he said, "how did you get such skill in throwing the knife? I never saw anybody do the trick better than you did it last night. I shouldn't like to have you," and he smiled as he returned the weapon, "aim this thing at me as you did at that polecat." An answering smile flashed over José's dark face, lighting up his eyes and showing a row of white teeth beneath his moustache. "I have practised it much, señor. It is not easy." The next day, Conrad, Gonzalez, and several others were getting together some cattle in the foot-hills when three of the largest steers broke away and raced wildly back toward their grazing grounds. The superintendent called the Mexican to help him, and told the others to take the remainder of the cattle, with all they might find on the way, back to the day herd. Two gallant figures they made as they galloped across the plain, the wind blowing up the wide brims of their hats, the grace and freedom of strength and skill in every movement of body and limb. Lariats were at their saddle horns, and Curtis carried a six-shooter in his belt, but Gonzalez had only his knife, thrust into his boot leg. They circled and headed off the steers, which eluded and dashed past them again and again, until presently Conrad noticed that the largest of the three acted as a sort of leader. "Rope him, José," he called, "and then we can manage the others." As Gonzalez in response came galloping toward the animal from one side, Curtis rushed past it on the other to prevent it from getting away and giving another chase. He glanced at the loop that came whirring through the air and his heart gave a bound of vexation. "The fool greaser is throwing too far," he muttered. With an instinct of sudden peril he dug in his spurs and his horse made a quick, long leap. He whirled about in time to see the snakey noose fall on the spot whence they had jumped. "What's the matter with you, José?" he shouted. "You nearly roped me instead of the steer! Try it again." Gonzalez coiled his rope and galloped after the steer and half an hour later the two men rode into the round-up, driving the panting and humbled animals. One of the younger and less experienced men, Billy Black, generally known as "Billy Kid," happened to lame his horse and bruise himself that day, and was ordered to stay in camp to nurse his knee. At Rock Springs, where they made camp next day, a man who gave his name as Andy Miller rode up and asked for a job. He explained that he had been working on a little ranch over toward Randall but had got tired of the place and was pushing for the railroad. Hampered by Billy Black's accident, Conrad was glad of the opportunity and tested his skill with horse and rope. "You'll do," he said. "I'm short of hands, and you can stay with us until we get to the railroad if you like." The new man was stockily built, and looked strong and agile. Around the campfire that night he won his way at once into the good graces of the other men, cracking jokes, telling stories, and roaring out cowboy songs until bedtime. They were so hilarious that Conrad joined their circle, smoked his after-supper pipe with them, and laughed at Miller's jokes and yarns. The Rock Springs watering-hole was in a hilly region, broken here and there by stony gulches. The outflow from the springs ran through a ravine which furrowed the hillside to its foot, turned abruptly westward, and widened out into a goodly pool, where the cattle waded and drank. The camp lay on the hillside above the springs, and the cattle were bunched over its brow on the other side. Conrad wakened early and an inviting image came to him of that pool, lying still and clear in the dim gray light, untroubled by the miring hoofs of the cattle. No one else, except the Chinese cook, busy with his breakfast fire, seemed to be awake, and no one stirred as Curtis moved down the hill, past the springs, and over the rise beyond. But Gonzalez, motionless in his blanket, watched his departure. And presently, when the cook had disappeared in the chuck-wagon, José rose, cast a cautious glance over the sleeping camp, and followed Conrad, taking advantage of occasional boulders, clumps of mesquite, greasewood, and yucca to conceal his movements. At the springs he turned down the gulch, following its course to the basin of the drinking hole, where he hid behind a great boulder, barely ten feet from the bank where lay the other's clothing. With wary eyes he watched while the superintendent waded out to the deepest part of the pool, ducked and splashed, swam a little, and presently returned to the shore. Through the brightening air the lean and sinewy body with its swelling muscles gleamed like rose-tinted marble below the tanned face and neck. Behind the boulder José crouched closer and drew the knife from his belt, while his body grew tense as he watched Conrad rub himself down and put on his clothes. "Will he never keep still a second?" Gonzalez asked himself impatiently, as he poised his knife. Curtis sat down on a flat stone and reached for his shoes and stockings, whistling a gay little melody from the last comic opera he had heard in San Francisco. A sound of shouting and the muffled noise of rushing cattle broke through the morning air, which had been as still and untroubled as the surface of the pool. Conrad, his music silenced and nerves alert, faced quickly toward the camp, turning his body from the waist upward and giving Gonzalez a fair three-quarters view of his torso. The Mexican, ready and waiting, seized an instant of arrested motion, and sent the poised weapon straight for his heart. As it left José's hand, the stone on which Curtis sat, yielding to the twisting motion of his body, slipped under him, and he threw out his left arm to preserve his balance. He was aware of something bright cleaving the air, of a sudden pain in his arm, and a stinging point in his side. But before his brain could realize what had happened, he saw José Gonzalez leap from behind the boulder and rush toward him, befouling the air with a string of Spanish oaths. Conrad sprang to his feet and wheeled, with right fist ready to meet the attack, before José could reach him. The Mexican flew at him with both arms outstretched, meaning to seize his throat and throttle him before he could comprehend his danger. Curtis saw the open guard and landed a blow on his chest which sent him staggering backward. But he returned at once, with left arm raised in defence and right hand ready to seize the other's shirt collar and choke him senseless. For a moment only was Conrad at a disadvantage by reason of the suddenness of the assault. But with the knife still bedded in his bleeding and helpless left arm, his only weapon was his right fist, which he must use for both defence and attack. The Mexican's eyes were fired with the passion of combat, and the other, ignorant of why they were fighting, knew only, by his blanched face and set jaws, that his purpose was deadly. Gonzalez, after that first blow upon his chest, was wary. He danced around Conrad, making feints and trying to get inside his guard. But Curtis, whose brain was working in lightning-like flashes, did not waste his strength pounding the air. He kept his assailant eluding his feints and jumping to escape pretended charges, thinking to wear him out in that way. He soon saw that he was the superior in boxing skill, as well as being both taller and heavier than his foe, and he began to feel assured of final victory, notwithstanding his useless hand and disabled arm. José's effort was constantly toward Conrad's left side, and Curtis guessed that he was trying to get possession of the knife still sticking in his arm. He knew that if Gonzalez recovered that weapon his chance of life would be small indeed. His bare feet were bleeding from the sharp little stones on the bank of the pool, but he was conscious neither of that nor of pain in arm or side, though the blood from his wound was making a red streak down his shirt and trousers. But he continued to hear, with a kind of divided consciousness, the sound of shouts, the rushing of cattle, and the hoofs of galloping horses. In the back of his brain he knew that there had been a stampede of the herd, and with attention absorbed in his fight for life, the thought that he was needed at the camp spurred him on to more desperate effort. José made a dash for his left side, but Curtis turned and with all his force sent a blow which caught the Mexican, intent on the knife, with shoulder unguarded. Gonzalez spun half round and reeled backward. Conrad had planted one foot on a rounding stone, and as he delivered the blow it slipped and sent him headlong. He was up again in an instant, barely in time to save himself from José's fingers, which clutched at his throat. But Gonzalez had got inside his guard and they gripped, the one with one arm and the other with two, for what each felt must be the final struggle. The American caught José's left arm between their two bodies and, reaching around him, grasped the other wrist in his right hand. They swayed back and forth, José exerting all the strength of his muscles to free his arms, while Conrad, gripping him close, used all the remnant of his strength to throw him down. By this time the Mexican's eyes were gleaming with an ugly light and his olive cheeks were flushed with anger. Whatever the purpose that had moved him at first, Curtis saw that he was fighting now with the aboriginal rage of conflict, with the fierce hate born of the blows he had received. He kicked wildly at the superintendent's shins and accidentally planted the heel of his boot squarely upon the other's bare foot. Conrad's face twitched with the hurt, and with a snarling grin Gonzalez lifted the other for similar purpose, forgetting shrewd tactics of battle in the lust of giving pain to his opponent. But Curtis caught the momentary advantage of unstable balance and with a twist and a lunge they came down together, Conrad's left shoulder striking against a stone beside which the Mexican fell. Thrilling with the surety of triumph, his enemy pinned to the ground, Curtis was barely conscious of a snapping in his shoulder and a sharp pain in his collar bone. With one knee on Gonzalez's chest, he pulled the knife from his left arm, broke it across the boulder, and threw the bloodstained pieces far out into the pond. His assailant was at his mercy now and the heat and anger of combat ebbed from his veins as he looked down at the Mexican's unresisting figure. "You have bested me this time, Don Curtis," said Gonzalez quietly. "Get up, José," replied Conrad rising, and the two men, panting from their conflict, faced each other. José stood with his arms folded and head erect and looked at his employer with unafraid eyes, in which smouldered only the traces of his recent rage. Conrad surveyed him thoughtfully for a moment before he spoke. "José, what did you do it for?" The Mexican smiled but made no reply. "Have you got anything against me?" Conrad persisted. "Do you think I've mistreated you or injured you in any way?" "No, señor, I have nothing against you." "Then what--by God, are you one of Dell Baxter's thugs? Has he sent you down here to stick me in the back?" Impelled by the flash of sudden conviction, Conrad thrust his face close to the other's and glared into his eyes. Gonzalez stepped back a pace and looked gravely across the hill at the reddening sky. His composed face and closely shut lips showed that he did not intend to answer. "Oh, all right!" Curtis exclaimed. "I don't expect you to peach on your pal. But I reckon I've sure struck the right trail this time. And look here, José! Was it me you were after when you stuck your knife in that skunk?" The Mexican's eyes fell and his black brows met in a frown. He was thinking how much trouble this man had given him by springing up so unexpectedly that night. But for that it would all have been so easy and simple! "I reckon it was!" Conrad went on hotly. "And I reckon it was me instead of the steer you rode after the next morning, with your knife ready when I looked up. And I reckon it was me instead of the steer you tried to rope when you made that remarkable miss. I've been a fool to trust a damned greaser, even when he was in plain sight. But look here, José Gonzalez!" Conrad stopped and glared into the Mexican's sombre and inscrutable eyes. Holding his bleeding left arm in his right hand he leaned forward, head thrust out and eyes blazing. "Just you look here, José Gonzalez!" he repeated. "I'm onto your little game now, and if I can't be a match for any greaser that ever tried to stick a man in the back, I'll deserve all I'll get! Just come on and try it again whenever you like! Keep at work with the round-up if you want to--I'm not going to give you your time for this. But I am going to write to Dell Baxter that I'm onto his scheme and that the minute you make another crack at me there'll be a bullet in your brain--and another in his as soon as I can get to Santa Fe to put it there, and that he'd better call you off if he wants to save his own skin. But if you can get me without my catching on first you're welcome, that's all!" The rush of running cattle swept across their preoccupied ears, and both men turned to see a dozen steers sweep past the other end of the pond and up the hill. "Quick, José! Help me head them off and turn them into the pond!" Conrad exclaimed as he started off in his bare feet. His long strides covered the distance quickly, and with hoots and yells and waving arm he soon turned their course down the hillside toward the water. Gonzalez was close behind, and together they manoeuvred the frightened beasts to the pond, where the animals forgot their panic, waded in quietly, and began to drink. "José," said the superintendent, as he sat down at the water's edge and began to bathe his muddy, bleeding feet, "I shall not mention this affair to any one here. I'll say that a steer horned me just now. I've broken my collar bone, I think, and I've got this cut in my arm, and I'll have to go to Golden at once to get patched up. When I come back I want you to remember what I just told you about getting daylight through your skull if you try any of your tricks on me again. There comes Red Jack after these cattle. Go and help drive them back to camp." CHAPTER XI BATTLING THE ELEMENTS The shadows of the little rolling hills still sprawled across the intervening valleys when Curtis Conrad started back at a gallop over the road which his outfit had been slowly traversing for four days. To his foreman, Hank Peters, he had said that he had been thrown and gored by a steer and must go to Golden to have his collar bone set, and ordered him to stay where he was, cutting out and branding, that day and night, and camp the day after at Five Cottonwoods, where he would rejoin them. The men puzzled and gossiped about the accident to their employer. "I don't see how it was possible," said Peters, "for such a thing to happen to a man that's got the boss's gumption about cow-brutes." "None of 'em was on the prod when I got to the pond," Red Jack declared. "José, you was with him. Did you see the scrimmage?" "I did not see the boss when he was down," Gonzalez replied in his precise, slightly accented English. "I was at the spring and heard him yell and I ran down to the pond at once, for I thought he needed help. I stumbled and fell and sprained my shoulder--it hurts me yet--so that when I reached the pond he was on his feet again and trying to drive the cattle into the water. I helped him and then we went back to where his shoes were. That was where Jack saw us. His arm bled a good deal there." "Somethin' happened," observed Hank Peters, "and if the boss says it was a steer on the prod, I sure reckon it was. But the thing that's troublin' me most is what started them critters off. I didn't see or hear a blamed thing likely to set 'em goin'. Did any of you?" "I didn't," Texas Bill spoke up; "but Andy was there first. Did you see what it was, Andy?" Andy Miller, the new hand, stopped to draw several deep whiffs from his newly lighted pipe before he replied. "No; I couldn't make out anything, and I was right at the edge of 'em, too. They jumped and started all at once, as crazy as I ever see a bunch of critters." "Mebbe you skeered 'em some, they not bein' used to you," suggested Billy Kid. Andy grinned. "Well, I sure ain't boastin' none about the beauty of my phiz, but no gal ain't told me yet that I was ugly enough to stampede a herd of cow-brutes," and the subject was dropped with the laugh that followed. Conrad's mare, larger and of better breed than the cow ponies, put the ground rapidly under her feet throughout the early morning. Though never trained for range work and used only for riding, he always took her on the round-up, in readiness for emergencies. His habit of talking to himself, engendered by much solitary riding, was often varied by one-sided conversations with the mare, and whatever the subject which occupied his thoughts and found fragmentary utterance in speech, his sentences were interspersed with frequent remarks to Brown Betty. Apparently she found this custom as companionable as he did, for she was sure to protest at a long period of silence. "So, ho, my pretty Brown B.," said Conrad gently, as he patted the mare's sleek neck, "that's the pace to give 'em!" A sharp twinge in his shoulder set his lips together, and an oath, having Congressman Baxter as its objective, came from between his teeth. "I'll write that damned Baxter a letter," he broke out savagely, "that will singe his eyelashes when he reads it!" His thoughts went back to the subject which so frequently occupied them--his lifelong, vengeful quest of the man who had despoiled his father, wrought destruction upon their home, and changed the current of his own life. His heart waxed hot as he recalled his interview with Rutherford Jenkins. Never for an instant had he doubted that Jenkins's statement was a deliberate lie. Smiling grimly, he stroked the mare's mane. "I was a fool, wasn't I, Betty, to suppose I'd get straight goods out of him. It cost me five hundred dollars to find out that he's a skunk,--which I knew before. I deserved all I got, didn't I, Betty, for not having more gumption." The frontiersman's caution, which grows almost instinctive in one who rides much alone over plain and mountain, sent his eyes now and again to search the long stretch of road that trailed its faint gray band across the hills behind and before him and to scan the sun-flooded reach from horizon to horizon. A red stain accentuated the meeting line of sky and plain in the west. "Betty Brown, do you see that red mark yonder?" he said, gently pulling her ear. "That means a sand-storm, and we've got to hike along at a pretty stiff pace while we can. What do you think about it, my lady?" The mare raised her head and gave a little snort. "Smell it, don't you?" he went on as he patted her approvingly. "Well, that's where you're smarter than I am, for I reckon I shan't be able to do that for another hour." He fell silent again, thinking of the Delafield matter and Jenkins's assertion that Bancroft was Delafield. "He sure knows who Delafield is," was his conclusion, announced aloud, "but he's not going to tell. He's probably blackmailing the man, whoever he is, and he won't take any chances that would be likely to spoil his income. Well, that proves that Delafield is somebody in New Mexico rich enough and prominent enough to make it worth while for Jenkins to keep his knowledge to himself. I've got that much for my five hundred, anyway. Lord, Betty, wasn't I a tenderfoot!" and he swore under his breath, half angrily, half amusedly, as he turned again to study the road and the plain. The heat haze was rising, and the clear white sunlight was master of earth and sky. Far to one side he noted the silvery lake of a mirage. But the red line had mounted higher, and become a low, dirty-red wall that seemed to fence the western expanse from north to south. "It sure looks like a bad one, Betty, and I'm afraid we shan't be able to get home to-night after all. But we'll make Adobe Springs anyway, if it doesn't catch us too soon." The pain in his shoulder brought his mind back to the conviction that Baxter had instigated the assault upon him, and he began searching for the motive. Did the Congressman think his political opposition important enough to make his taking off desirable? Suddenly he slapped his thigh and broke out aloud: "Lord! what if Baxter should be Delafield! He sure ought to be if there's anything in the eternal fitness of things. If he should be--ah-h," and he broke off with a hard, unmirthful laugh. Ransacking his memory for all he knew of Baxter's life he presently shook his head regretfully. "No; the facts are against it. There's nothing in that lead. It's a pity, though, for it would be a satisfaction--to say nothing of the public benefit--to knock 'em both off the roost at one pop." His mind busied itself with conjectures about Delafield's identity, as he considered first one and then another of the more prominent men in the Territory. He was silent so long that the mare tossed her head impatiently and whinnied. Curtis smiled and stroked her mane. "Hello, old girl!" he said aloud, "getting lonesome, are you, and you want to be talked to. Oh, you're spoiled, Betty B., that's what you are. We'll go up the hill and see Miss Bancroft, won't we, Betty, while we're in Golden; and we'll take that cactus to her, and help her plant it. And she'll come out to the fence to see you, Betty; and she'll give you a lump of sugar, and pat your nose, and look as sweet as a pink rose with brown velvet eyes. She's a bully fine girl and we like her, don't we, Betty Brown? The way she sticks by her father is great; he couldn't help being a first-class fellow, could he, B. B., with such a daughter as that?" The red wall was rising in the sky, devouring its sunlit blue and spreading out into smoky-red, angry-looking clouds. A high wind, hot and dry, swept across the plain from the west. All the cattle within Conrad's range of vision had turned their heads to the east and, although they were still grazing, moved only in that direction. Seeing a herd of antelope headed the same way, Curtis took the red bandanna from his neck and waved it toward them. As the bright signal floated in the wind their leader turned, stared, and began to walk back, the whole herd following with raised heads and gaze fixed in fascinated interest. He flaunted the red square and they came steadily on, until presently the warning of danger in the hot wind and the odor of the approaching storm overcame the compulsion of curiosity, and they wheeled again, away from the threatened peril. The small life of the plain was fleeing before the furnace-like breath of those red, surging clouds. Jackrabbits leaped across the road on fleet legs, and occasionally Conrad saw coyotes, singly or in packs, running eastward as for their lives. Fat carrion crows hurried their unwieldy flight and, higher in the air, a frequent lone hawk sailed out of the west, while now and then a road-runner cut across his path with hasting feet. "It's going to be a bad one, I guess," Curtis muttered, jamming his soft hat down closer on his head. The mare seemed to be trying of her own accord to escape the storm, and her swinging lope was steadily leaving the miles behind. "Keep it up, Betty, keep it up," he said encouragingly. "I want to reach Adobe Springs and get this message to Baxter off my mind. My shoulder's aching, old girl, but it ain't aching a bit more than I am to tell him what I think of him." Soon the sand-storm was upon them, concealing the landscape and covering the sky with its clouds. Upon man and beast it beat as bitterly as a sand-blast. It pelted and stung Conrad's face and neck, and filled his eyes and ears and nostrils until he was forced now and again to pull his hat over his face for a moment's respite in which to draw a less choking breath. "It looks as if all Arizona had got up and dusted, and was hell-bent to get out of here," he jested grimly, as he bent over the mare's neck and encouraged her with voice and gentle stroke. "That shows good sense, Betty, though it's mighty hard on us. Come right along, old girl; we must get to Adobe Springs." [Illustration: "UPON MAN AND BEAST THE SAND-STORM BEAT BITTERLY"] As the air grew thicker there shone from the sky, instead of the vivid white sunshine of a few hours before, only a dim, diffused, lurid light. Even to Curtis, sitting quartering in the saddle with his back twisted toward the wind, Brown Betty's ears were barely visible. For a while he allowed the mare to follow the road herself, until he found that her sense of duty must be supplemented by authority. For, under the discomfort of the belaboring wind and stinging sand, she began to yield to her instinct to turn tail and drift before the storm. Then he knew that he must keep a firm hand on the bridle, and his attention at the highest pitch, or they would soon be wandering helplessly over the plain. He walked long distances beside the mare, with his body shielding her head and with speech and caress keeping up her courage. Their progress was slow, for the force of the storm was so great that, though it beat against them from the side, they could struggle through it only at a walk. Hour after hour went by, and the only sign of its passage was that a dim, yellowish centre of illumination, that had once been the sun, crept slowly across the sky. As the day grew older Conrad's pain from his injury became more acute. Most of the time he felt it only as an insistent background to the keen outward discomfort of stinging sand and pounding wind. But when an occasional sharper twinge brought it more vividly to his consciousness he swore a little between his teeth, and thought of the letter he was going to write to Dellmey Baxter. The particles of sand filled his hair and encrusted his face and neck until they were of a uniform brick-red. Constant effort and encouragement were necessary to keep Brown Betty in the road, and finally he was compelled to walk at her head most of the time and with a guiding hand on her bridle counteract the unflagging urge of her instinct to drift before the blast. Thus they battled their way through the hot, beating wind and suffocating sand, while that vague core of light moved athwart the dirty heavens, dropped slowly down the western sky, and was swallowed up in the denser banks of dusk above the horizon. It had been too dark before for the discernment of objects, but a yellowish glare had filtered through the sand-laden air, lending a lurid, semi-translucence to the atmosphere. Now even that was gone, leaving a desert enveloped in pitchy darkness, while the wind roared about the ears of the travellers and pounded their bodies as with cudgels and the sand pelted their skins. Most of the time Curtis depended upon the feel of the road under his feet to maintain his direction, but now and then it was necessary for him to get down on his hands and knees in order to recover the track from which they had begun to stray. Once his fingers came in contact with a small feathered body. The bird tried to start up under his hand. He knew it must be disabled and placed it inside his shirt. Thus they plodded on through the night and the storm, the pain in his shoulder growing keener and the torture of the wind and sand ever more nerve-racking. At last the mare raised her head and gave a long whinny. Conrad felt sure that she was announcing their near approach to the food and shelter within the adobe houses. "What is it, Betty? Do you know where we are?" he asked, and she rubbed her nose against his face, nickered, and pulled at the bridle with the evident desire to turn from the direction they were pursuing. Curtis knew they were in a little hollow, and thought it might be that into which the road dipped after leaving the houses. "All right, Betty," he said. "I'll follow your lead a little way, but be cautious, old girl, and don't tie up to any lying hunches." He slackened his hold on the bridle, and the mare started off eagerly. They climbed a hill, and presently Conrad was aware of a black mass before him. Putting out his hand he felt an adobe wall. The mare crowded close against it, and stopped. She had left the road, which took the hill at a long sloping angle from the foot of the rise, and had climbed straight up the steep incline. He felt his way around the corner, unfastened the door, and entered. An emphatic "Whew!" gave vent to his feeling of relief. The mare, close at his heels, snorted in response, and Curtis, smiling in the dark, threw his arm across her neck in fellowship and said, "Feels good, doesn't it, Betty B., to get out of that hurricane from hell?" By the light of a lantern he led the mare to the spring, stabling her afterward in one of the houses. "In the best society, Betty Brown," he explained, "it's not considered good form for horses to sleep in men's houses. But you deserve the best I can give you to-night, blest if you don't, old girl, and you shall have it, too." He gathered together, for her food and her bed, the alfalfa hay from several of the bunks, and found for her also a small measure of oats. Then, having attended to her wants, he looked about for something to stay his own hunger. It was his custom to keep some canned provisions in the place, as the station was much used by his men. On a little smouldering fire in one corner of the room, he made some tea in a tin can. A frying-pan hung against the wall, and in it, awkwardly fumbling with his one useful hand, he contrived to warm a stew of tinned _chile con carne_ and pilot bread. Fine sand drifted in and settled in a red dust over the food as he ate, and he could feel its grit between his teeth. The bird he had carried in his bosom he found to be a Southwestern tanager. Its pinkish-red plumage shone with a silvery radiance in the lamplight. One of its legs was broken, and one wing had been injured. "I'll take it to Miss Bancroft," he said aloud, "and she'll care for it till it can shift for itself again, poor little devil!" With intense satisfaction Conrad at last sat down to the letter in which he had all day been longing to express his feelings. "I wonder," he thought, "if Dellmey Baxter did it because he don't like the things I say about him. Well, he'll have to get used to it, then, for I'm not going to quit." There was a grim smile on his face as he wrote: "I consider it the square thing to tell you that I am onto the game of your man, José Gonzalez. We had our first set-to this morning, in which he winged me, but I got the best of him. I could have killed him if I had wanted to, but he is such a good cowboy I hated to do him up. I am going to keep him in my employ, but I want you to understand, distinctly, that if he makes another crack at me I shall go to Santa Fe as quick as I can get there and make a Christmas gift of you to the devil before you know what's happening. "Yours truly, "CURTIS CONRAD. "P. S. I am still shouting for Johnny Martinez for Congress. C. C." "There!" he exclaimed, as he sealed the envelope and threw it down contemptuously; "I sure reckon he won't be so anxious for me to turn up my toes with my boots on after he reads that." The pain in Conrad's arm and shoulder had become so keen that he could not sleep. He lay in his bunk listening to the rattling of the door and the rage of the wind against the house, seeking to keep his mind from the stabbing pain long enough to sink into unconsciousness. But no sooner did his eyelids begin to close down heavily than a fresh throb made him start up again wide awake. This irritated him more than did the other suffering, and finally he jumped up angrily, found a copy of Lecky's "History of European Morals," and, with the muttered comment, "This is about what I need to-night," settled himself on an empty cracker box and read the night away. Toward morning he became aware that the wind was abating, and a little later that less sand was drifting into his retreat. Breakfast was eaten and Brown Betty cared for by lamplight and with the first dim rays of morning he set out once more upon the road. The bird was again in his bosom, and the cactus, wrapped in old newspapers, rested at the back of his saddle. The storm had passed, but the air was still full of dust particles through which the sun shone, red and smoky. Curtis knew that these would settle gradually with the passing hours and the sky become as clear as usual. Already he could see the road for several rods in front of him, and that was all he needed to keep it flying under Brown Betty's feet. At the ranch house Mrs. Peters told him that a man had been there looking for work and described his appearance. "Yes; he overtook us at Rock Springs, and I hired him," Conrad said. Then, remembering the account Andy Miller had given of his previous situation, he asked her if the man had said where he came from. "No," she replied; "he didn't say where he'd been working; but he came from toward Golden." The superintendent thought the discrepancy rather curious, but decided it was nothing more than a not unusual cowboy eccentricity of statement. He resumed his journey with no misgivings, and mid-afternoon found him arguing with the physician at Golden that he might just as well start back to the round-up that same night. CHAPTER XII THE FIRST SHOT Alexander Bancroft sat in his private room with Curtis Conrad's return checks before him. They were not many: one in favor of his brother at the University of Michigan, one for a mail order house in Chicago, a small one to a New York publishing concern,--and his eyes fell upon the name of Rutherford Jenkins and the amount,--five hundred dollars. He stared at the slip of paper for a moment, conviction rushing to his mind that his pursuer knew the truth; then he took his revolver from his pocket and examined its chambers. "I may have to do him up myself!" he thought, his lips tightening. But sudden hesitation gripped his heart. Until within a few weeks he had considered Curtis one of his best friends, had liked the young cattleman whole-heartedly, admiring and enjoying his impulsiveness, his geniality, his ardent loyalty to his friends, and his equally ardent hostility to those he disliked. Now the good-fellowship he had been accustomed to feel stopped his hand. "Can it be possible," he asked himself for the hundredth time, "that this eager-hearted, companionable fellow will really carry out his deadly purpose?" He recalled the intensity with which Conrad had spoken of his long quest for revenge, his vehemence toward his enemies, his impetuosity. Again conviction grew strong upon him that, when the man knew, the end would come. The frontier code by which he had lived so long nerved his heart, and he muttered, "He shan't smash things--now! I'll smash him before I'll let him do that!" He swung the revolver into position and took sight. As his eye glanced down the barrel he saw that it was pointing at Lucy's pictured face, smiling down from the top of his desk; his hand shook as he laid down the weapon. There was a knock at the door, and he made sudden pretence of close attention to the papers before him. The door partly opened and he heard Conrad's voice outside. Surety of imminent peril seized Bancroft's mind. The instinct of self-defence sent his hand to his revolver, and he sprang up, pulling the trigger. Curtis rushed in at the report, calling out, "What's the matter, Aleck?" The banker had just time to stay his finger at sight of the friendly face and solicitous manner. "I didn't hurt you, did I, Curt?" he asked anxiously, sinking back in his chair and looking at Conrad's arm, helpless in a sling. The bullet, they found, had nicked the top of the door and buried itself in the ceiling. "I was looking my revolver over when you knocked," Bancroft explained, "and had just been aiming at that spot on the wall. My finger must have pulled the trigger unconsciously. The thing's set to a hair, anyway. I must have it fixed. What's the matter with your arm, Curt?" In the revulsion of feeling that swept over him as he realized that the cattleman was as friendly as ever and that therefore his secret was still safe, he felt genuinely thankful that his bullet had gone wild. Conrad told of his fight with José Gonzalez. "You're getting the truth about it, Aleck," he went on; "but to everybody else I'm saying that I got horned by a steer, knocked over, and my collar bone cracked. I'm convinced it's some of Dell Baxter's work. I reckon I've been saying out loud just what he is too often to please him. But the letter I've sent him will buffalo him quick enough. José's a good cowboy, and I'm going to keep him. But I don't want the boys to know anything about our little scrap. So I'm saying it was a steer on the prod that did it." Bancroft's thoughts were active as he lighted his cigar. That check--it must have been Castleton money, to be handled for Johnny Martinez. Perhaps security might still be compassed without bloodshed. In thankfulness that he had not killed the man who was still his friend he revolted against the purpose of the Mexican, to which he knew in his soul he had given tacit consent. He did not want this cordial, confiding, good fellow struck down--if his own safety could be otherwise secured. "You'd better give the Mexican his time, Curt. He's locoed probably; when you get back you may find he's killed half your men." "Well, if he tries running a-muck in that gang," the superintendent responded cheerfully, "he'll never do anybody else any harm. Anyway, I've settled him for the present; I busted his knife and threw the pieces into the pond. No; he's in Dell's pay; that's all there is to it; and when Dell reads my letter he'll hike to call his man off. I don't expect any more trouble from José." Bancroft made no reply and Conrad went on: "By the way, Aleck, for a full minute yesterday I thought Baxter must be my man--the man I'm after, you know--Delafield. I've found out that he's somebody rich and respectable here in New Mexico, and when I felt that Baxter must be responsible for this attack on me, I lit on him for my meat. But it was too good to be true; as soon as I thought it over I saw that Baxter couldn't be Delafield. But they're two of a kind all right. Both of 'em have got their freight loaded ready to pull out for hell at the drop of a hat. Baxter will have to pull his in less than three jumps of a bucking horse if he doesn't call off his man. And Delafield will be pulling his mighty soon anyway." Bancroft made a gesture of annoyance. "Curt, you talk too easily about killing. You'd make a stranger think you're a bad man of the border, instead of the decent citizen you are. For Heaven's sake, man, why don't you come to your senses, and see what an ass you'll be making of yourself if you try to carry out this fool scheme of revenge that's got hold of you? Why don't you accept his offer to pay back the money as fast as he can? Let him make restitution, and keep a whole skin; perhaps you'll save your own scalp in the bargain." The seeker after vengeance laughed blithely. "Aleck, you've no idea what this thing means to me. Why, man, you talk as if giving up that plan would be no more than changing my coat! You don't know, Aleck--why, to get the drop on Delafield and hold him while I tell him what he is in language that will scald him from head to foot, and then deal out to him the death he deserves--that's the one thing I've lived for all these fifteen years! I'm obliged to you for your advice, Aleck; but I know what I'm about." Bancroft shrank away a little as Curtis talked. His lips tightened as he picked up the revolver and sighted it at a calendar on the wall. After a moment's silence he looked the other full in the eye and said, impressively: "You forget one thing, Curt. If this man Delafield knows what you are doing--and you seem to feel sure he does--he'll be prepared for your attack, and you're not likely to have things your own way. Unless he's a fool or a coward he'll defend himself, even if he has to kill you doing it. And if he has any _sabe_ at all he'll be loaded for you when you get there, and have the drop on you before you can say a word." "Chances of war," Conrad replied serenely. "He's welcome to all he can get. But I'm betting my last dollar, and my scalp in the bargain, that he can't draw as quick as I can, nor shoot as straight. You bet your life, Aleck, when that circus comes off I'll be the star performer." "Well," said Bancroft slowly, "if you won't listen to reason I suppose you'll have to go on, hell-bent, in the gait you've struck--and take the consequences. But you're a fool to do it, and I hate to see you making such a blind ass of yourself." Curtis laughed, undisturbed. "That's all right, Aleck. I don't expect you to get the joy out of this business that I shall." He went over to Bancroft's desk and picked up the revolver, examining its sights. "They're not right, Aleck," he said. "When I get the use of my arm again I'll fix them for you. And you don't use your gun right when you want to take quick aim: you don't swing it up quickly and steadily, as if you were used to it. You ought to practise, Aleck. Out here a man never knows when he may have to defend himself. I've got to stay here several days, the doctor says; and while I'm here I'll show you a few tricks." "All right, if you like," Bancroft replied, adding, as he pocketed his revolver, "I'm not a very good shot and, as you say, out here a man never knows when he may have to defend himself." Conrad, turning to go, lingered awkwardly. "By the way, Aleck," he blurted out, "it has occurred to me that perhaps you are getting tied up with Dell Baxter too tight for comfort. I don't want to seem curious about your affairs, you know, and I haven't got any big pile--you know what my balance is; but whatever I have got you're welcome to, any time, if you want to cut loose from Baxter and it will help any." Bancroft hid a grim smile behind the hand at his moustache as he thought of sundry checks of his own making their way toward Conrad's balance. "Thank you, Curt; it's very kind and thoughtful of you to make the offer, and I appreciate it. But I don't need anything. Baxter and I are in partnership in a number of enterprises, but it's all straight sailing." "That's good, and I'm glad to hear it. I was afraid he'd got you under his thumb. But remember, Aleck, that my small pile is at your disposal any time it will be of use to you." As the young man left the bank he saw Lucy Bancroft turn the corner toward the Mexican quarter and was quickly at her side, relieving her of the little bundle she carried. She was going to Señora Melgares, she explained, who could wash laces and embroideries and all kinds of dainty things beautifully with _amole_ root. She was taking her some of Miss Dent's and her own fineries, and hoped to get her a great deal of work from others. "The poor thing!" said Lucy earnestly, her eyes wide and soft with sympathy. "She is so heartbroken over the affair! You've heard? Mr. Gaines died the other day, and Melgares has been indicted for murder. My father says he'll surely be found guilty and will probably be hanged. The poor señora!" When they reached the little adobe house Lucy asked Curtis to go in with her, saying, "I'm not very sure of my Spanish, and I'd be glad to have you come in and help me out." They found Señora Melgares sitting with her head buried in her arms, her hair dishevelled, and her face, when she raised it, eloquent of grief and despair. But she greeted them with grave and gracious courtesy. Lucy impulsively took her hand and held it in both her own while she presented Señor Conrad. At the name the woman drew her slight figure together with a convulsive movement, her dark face lighting with interest. "Don Curtis? Señor Don Curtis Conrad?" she asked eagerly. "The same, señora," he answered in Spanish, bowing gravely. "The same whose mare--?" she began, her expressive countenance finishing the query. Conrad bowed again. The woman sank down in her chair, her face in her hands, swaying back and forth as she moaned and sobbed. Lucy knelt by her side to comfort her, while Curtis bent over the girlish figure and spoke in a low, changed tone that the girl barely recognized, so different was it from his usual brisk utterance. It set her nerves vibrating in quick, half-conscious conviction of a depth and quality of feeling in harmony with her own. "I am afraid I made a mistake by coming in, Miss Bancroft," he said. "It did not occur to me that she would connect me with her husband's trouble. Won't you please tell her, when she is quieter, that I am very sorry about the whole affair, that I have no feeling against him, and that I'll gladly do for him whatever I can. I think I'd better go now, but I'll wait outside for you, and if I can be of any use you must call me." When Lucy joined him a little later her face showed signs of tears, and as they walked back she was preoccupied and perturbed. She wished to see her father, so Curtis left her at the door of the bank. "Daddy!" Lucy exclaimed as she rushed to his side, her eyes shining and her face aglow. "Oh, daddy, Señora Melgares has just told me the strangest thing! Mr. Conrad was with me, but he went out because she cried so, and he didn't hear what she said. I tried to quiet and comfort her, and finally she told me that her husband had been persuaded and paid to steal Mr. Conrad's horse by a man who said he wanted to get even with him for something. She told me his name--you and Mr. Tillinghurst and Judge Banks were talking about him the other day--Mr. Jenkins--Don Rutherford Jenkins, she called him." Anticipation warmed Bancroft's heart as she spoke. If the story was true it might give him just the hold on Jenkins that he wanted. He made her repeat the details of her conversation with the Mexican woman. "Did you say anything about it to Conrad?" he asked in conclusion. "No, daddy; I thought I ought to tell you about it first." "Quite right, Lucy. You were very prudent. And don't mention it now, to him or to anybody." "No, of course not. But, daddy, won't that make it better for poor José Maria? Mr. Jenkins is the one that ought to be punished--he and Mr. Baxter; and poor ignorant Melgares ought to be let off very easily. Don't you think so, daddy?" One of her hands rested on his shoulder. He took the other in both of his as he smiled at her indulgently. Her news had so heartened him that he hardly noticed her connection of Baxter with the affair. "I don't know about that, daughter. It isn't likely to have any effect, because his indictment is for murder--you know he killed Gaines while resisting arrest--and his motive in stealing the horse has no connection with that crime. I'm glad you told me about it, dear. I'll talk with Melgares myself, and see what can be done. I suppose his wife must be having a hard time. You might give her some money. And ask her," he said as he handed Lucy some bills, "not to speak about this Jenkins matter to any one else. Be sure you impress that upon her. It's a pretty bad case, but you can tell his wife that everything possible will be done for him. Dell Baxter is coming down to undertake his defence; he does it for nothing. So you mustn't think so badly of him hereafter, when you see how willing he is to make what amends he can to the poor fellow." Lucy threw her arms about his neck and kissed his forehead. "Daddy, you're awfully good and kind--the best man in the world! About Mr. Baxter, though--" she paused to toss her head, and a little sparkle shone in her eyes--"well, I'm glad he has the decency to do it, but it's no more than he ought; and before I think much better of him I'll wait to see if he drives any more of the poor Mexicans out of their homes." Bancroft began to plan hopefully. He would see Melgares and get the exact facts. If this story was true it would be just the sword he needed to hang over Jenkins. Evidently he had told Conrad nothing; therefore that check must have been campaign money from Ned Castleton to be used for the benefit of Martinez. Jenkins would not be likely to talk: it would ruin his chance of making money out of it himself. As for Curtis--perhaps, after all, he would not be unreasonable about the offer to make restitution. Another check would reach him soon, with assurance of more to follow speedily. Surely the man was too sensible to cast aside such a start in life as this money would give him, just to carry out a crazy notion that would end in his own ruin. "But if he will go on, he'll have nobody but himself to blame for whatever happens," he thought. "I've given him fair warning." The encouragement he felt turned his thoughts toward Louise Dent. In the intimacy of their daily life since she had been Lucy's visitor he had found her ever more lovable. He began to think, as he looked into her eyes and felt the restrained sweetness of her manner, that when he should be free to speak she would welcome his feeling, and have for it an intoxicating return. But he could say nothing until the settlement of this affair left no further danger of discovery and disgrace. "She must not know--neither she nor Lucy shall know--never--never a word or hint," he thought desperately. True, Louise was not so unsparing in her moral judgments as Lucy; she was older, and, with more knowledge of the world, had more tolerance for the conditions under which men lived and worked. But if all that past, the past that he had believed buried beyond resurrection, should suddenly confront him, she and Lucy would be horrified. They would despise him. The respect, honor, and love for which he hungered would die; if they stayed beside him it would only be for compassion's sake. In the fierce mood that possessed him as he thought of going down again into dishonor he was ready to strike out at anybody's pity. This thing must not be. He had won his way back to position, power, affluence; he held the love and honor of his daughter and of the woman he hoped to make his wife; what he had won he would keep. His lips whitened as he struck the desk with his clenched fist. "The past is dead, and it's got to stay dead," he muttered. "I'll win out yet, by God!" CHAPTER XIII THE SECOND SHOT Four days later the physician gave Conrad dubious permission to return to the round-up. "Well, I may as well say you can go," he surrendered, "since you are determined to go anyway. But don't blame me if your wounds get worse." Most of this time the cattleman spent at the Bancrofts', where Lucy and Miss Dent tried to make an invalid of him, and all three enjoyed the comradeship that straightway sprang up among them. Between Lucy and Curtis there was much bantering gayety, but when alone their talk was sure to flow into serious channels. They had many long conversations, wherein each was deeply interested in everything the other said. They had much music also, Miss Dent playing and the others singing duets. Lucy was very happy. She beamed and sparkled, with glowing eyes and dimpling smiles, and her manner, the whole being of her, expanded into maturer womanliness. Between Miss Dent and Conrad there was from the first a mutual liking, which quickly developed into confidential friendship. On his last day in town, while helping Lucy water the plants in her conservatory, he spoke to her admiringly of Miss Dent. "I'm so glad you like my Dearie!" she responded warmly, looking up at him with a glow of pleasure. "She's the dearest, sweetest woman! And you always feel you can depend on her. If you put your hand out you always know just where you can find Louise Dent, and you know she'll be as firm as a rock. She's been so good to me! And she's always so restful and calm--she has so much poise. But, do you know--" she hesitated as she stopped in front of the cage that held the tanager Curtis had brought for her care. His physician had splinted its broken leg and bound its injured wing, and together they were anxiously watching its recovery. "It's been eating, Mr. Conrad!" she broke off joyously. "Let's give it more seeds and fresh water!" As they ministered to the bird's needs Curtis went on about Miss Dent. "Yes; she seems to have a calm sort of nature, but when I look at her I find myself wondering if that is because she has never been moved very deeply, or because she keeps things hidden deep down. Her eyes are set rather close together, which generally means, you know, an ability to get on the prod if necessary; and sometimes there is a look in them that makes you feel as if she might break out into something unexpected." Lucy was looking up at him with the keenest interest in her face. The southwestern sun had kissed her skin into rich browns and reds, and she carried gracefully her slender girlish figure. Her head, with its covering of short brown curls, always held alertly, gave to her aspect a savor of piquant charm. Curtis looked down into her upturned face and eager eyes with admiration in his own. Under her absorption in the subject of their talk she felt herself thrill with sweet, vague happiness. "Do you know, I've been feeling that very same thing about Dearie," she said in confidential tones. "She seems more restless lately, although I know she's perfectly happy here with us. She has just the same quiet, gentle manner, but it seems as if there might be a volcano under it--not really, you know, but as if there might be if--if--I don't quite know how to say it--if things just got ready for it to be a volcano!" "Do you think anybody would know it," asked Conrad, "even if it was really there?" "I know what you mean--yes, she has wonderful self-control--I never saw anybody who could hide her feelings as she can, and always does. I've been thinking lately that if Dearie were in love--" Lucy hesitated a moment while a deeper glow stained her cheek--"she's just the sort of woman to do anything, anything at all, for the sake of it." "Yes; and not get excited over it, either," added Curtis. When Lucy went to attend to some household duties, Conrad sauntered out to the veranda, where he found Miss Dent with her sewing. He happened to refer to his boyhood; and she asked some questions that led him to speak of his youthful struggles. She was interested, and wanted to know the cause of his father's financial ruin. He hesitated before replying, the matter touched so nearly the secret core of his life and thought. Few, even among his intimates, knew anything about the vengeful purpose that had motived half his life, and he disliked ordinarily to say anything about the cause of his early misfortunes. But the habit of close and friendly speech into which he and Louise had fallen, coupled perhaps with a softening of feeling toward her sex that had been going on within him, moved him to openness. "It won't matter," he thought. "She's such a level-headed woman; and I've told Aleck already." "I don't often speak about it," he said, "but I don't mind telling you, for you are such a good friend of the Bancrofts, and Aleck knows the story. Of course, you'll understand that I don't care to have it discussed generally. My father's disasters all came from his getting caught in a specious financial scheme engineered by one Sumner L. Delafield of Boston." An indrawn breath, sharp and sudden, made him look quickly at his companion. "Have you hurt yourself?" he asked solicitously. "Oh, I jabbed my needle under my thumb nail. Such an awkward thing to do! It gave me a little shock, that's all. Go on, please. What sort of a scheme was it?" He told her briefly the story of his father's ruin and death, and outlined the transactions that led to Delafield's failure. As he spoke his heart waxed hot against the man who had caused the tragedy, as it always did when he thought long upon the subject, and he went on impulsively to tell her of his long-cherished purpose of revenge. She listened with drooped eyelids, and when she spoke, at his first pause, there was a slight quaver in her voice. "You don't mean that you really intend to kill the man?" "I do, that very thing. What's more, it's my notion that killing is too gentle for his deserts. For, of course, my case is only one out of many. And any man who would deliberately bring ruin and death into so many households--don't you think yourself he's worse than any murderer?" She forced herself to raise her eyes and, once she had met his gaze, her own was cool and steady. But if Curtis had not been so absorbed in their discussion he might have seen that her face was paler than usual and her manner nervous, as she replied earnestly: "But you forget, Mr. Conrad, that the man had no intention of doing these things, and that probably he involved himself in as much financial disaster as he did others. I've heard of the case before; I knew some people once who--were concerned in it--who lost money by it--and I've always understood that the failure was due more to Delafield's sanguine temperament and over-confidence in his plans than to any deliberate wrongdoing. Don't you think, Mr. Conrad, that killing is a rather severe punishment for mistakes of judgment?" He answered with the rapid speech and quick gestures he was wont to use when under the stress of strong feeling. "I can't take that lenient view of the case, Miss Dent. My conviction is that he got some money out of the affair, though not as much as he is generally supposed to have taken, and ran away with it. I've studied the case pretty thoroughly, and I've trailed him along from one place to another for years. I'm hot on his tracks now; and he knows it. I've followed him into New Mexico, and I know he's somebody in this Territory, prosperous and respectable. He can't escape me much longer." She had been thinking intently as she studied the expression of his face. "It's not worth while to try argument or persuasion with him; opposition would only make him obstinate," was her conclusion. Her manner was as composed as usual, and only her eyes showed a trace of anxiety as she spoke, slowly and thoughtfully, her gaze searching his countenance: "Well, if you say you are going to take revenge upon him in this savage way I suppose you will do it--if that chin of yours means anything. You haven't asked my opinion, but I'm going to tell you anyway that it seems to me unwise and unjust and most unworthy of you to allow such an idea to become the obsession that this one has. But I want to know how you managed to keep your family together. That was a wonderful thing for a boy of fifteen to do." "Oh, I don't deserve so much credit for it. Of course, I couldn't have done it without help. Our guardian wanted to distribute us children around among the relatives; but I wouldn't have it that way, and begged so hard that at last he gave in. Two of my father's cousins lent money enough to pay off the mortgage on our home, on our guardian's representation that he should be able to save enough out of the wreck to pay it back in time. He did so; and we children kept a roof over our heads. "A cousin of my mother's, a widow without children, offered to live with us and keep house. We rented part of the place and lived in close quarters in what was left. I worked like a Turk at anything and everything that brought in a penny; and so, all together, we had enough to eat and wear, and I was able to keep the girls and Homer in school. I went to night school and sat up reading anything I could get my hands on when I ought to have been in bed. It was hard sledding sometimes, but we pulled through. And I had good friends who saw that I was never out of a job of some sort. "After a while our cousin married again and left us; but by that time my sisters were old enough to take charge of the housekeeping, and we got on very well. Ten years ago they both married, and I said to Homer: 'Let's sell the house and give the money to the girls; you and I can shift for ourselves, and we don't want them to go to their husbands with nothing at all.' The kid was game, and so we sold the place and divided the money between Helen and Jeannette. Then I put Homer in school and struck out for myself. I've sent him to college, and he'll be graduated next year. But he's worked right along, and helped himself a heap. There's sure good stuff in the lad. "This Summer I'm not going to let him work; the rest of the way is clear enough now, and I want him to come down here with me, and learn to rope a steer and bust a bronco and go camping, and have a good out-doors time of it for his last college vacation." As she listened with her eyes fixed upon his face, Miss Dent's attention had been half upon his story and half upon the man behind it, searching out his character through his words. The conviction settled in her mind that his vengeful intention was rooted deep, and that the more he talked of it the more set would he become in his purpose. "I like your story," she said. "It is one of those tales of human effort that make one have more faith in human nature. But the climax you intend to put upon it is--horrible!" He noticed the slight movement of repulsion with which she spoke the word. "But that's your affair," she went on. "Did I understand you--did you say--" In spite of her self-control she was stumbling over the question. She masked her momentary confusion with an absorbed interest in getting her sewing together. "Did you say that Mr. Bancroft knows--that you have told him this story?" "Yes; I told him the outlines of it a little while ago, apropos of a check I had from Delafield. The rascal thinks he can buy me off that way. That shows he's buffaloed. But he'll find out I'm not that sort." "No; I shouldn't think you were. But Lucy--does she know anything about it?" He looked up in surprise. "Why, no; of course not." Bancroft was coming through the gate, bringing Judge Banks with him; and Lucy joined them a moment later. The talk turned on the coming trial of José Maria Melgares, the narrow escape of Pendleton from Melgares' bullet, and the death of Gaines as the result of his own foolhardy horse-play. They spoke of Little Jack Wilder's skill with the revolver, and Conrad reminded Bancroft of their agreement to do some target practice together. "Let's all go out in the back yard now," Lucy exclaimed, "and Miss Dent and I will shoot too! Wouldn't you like it, Dearie? Come on! it will be such fun!" While they were setting up the target Sheriff Tillinghurst came to speak to Judge Banks upon an official matter; and Lucy asked him to stay and help her shoot. "You-all use my gun, Miss Lucy, and then you'll be sure to have good luck," he replied, drawing his revolver from his pocket. It was a small pearl-handled six-shooter, which the ladies admired, and the men jibed at for its daintiness. "That's all right," he answered good-naturedly. "This gun don't stack up much beside a cannon for size, but I can pervade and pester with it a right smart heap if I want to. It's a peach of a shooter, and it don't show in my clothes. I never have anything on me but that, and I've never seen the gun play yet where I got the worst of it. You-all try it, Miss Lucy." Lucy took the revolver, telling him that now she would be his deputy, and, with plentiful instruction from Curtis, placed herself in position and fired. She hit the bull's-eye and won much applause, until she explained that she had fired with both eyes shut and that, if she had made a good shot, it was because she couldn't help it with such a splendid gun as Mr. Tillinghurst's. Miss Dent took careful aim and, without lowering her arm, emptied the remaining chambers, making an excellent score. She, too, won a round of applause, to which she replied calmly, "Oh, I've known how to shoot for years, and when I am in practice I do fairly well." "You two fellows shoot a match," said Tillinghurst to Bancroft and Conrad. "The judge'll be umpire, and each fellow use his own gun at thirty paces." Louise and Lucy stood at one side, where the Sheriff and Judge Banks joined them, leaving Bancroft and Conrad to begin their match. Beneath her calm exterior Miss Dent's thoughts were in a tumult, and fierce resentment against the cattleman was rising in her heart. Had not Aleck suffered enough already? Why should he be hunted down like this when he was willing to make restitution, even after all these years? Oh, cruel! to beat him down again, when he had won success and respect once more! This man was a savage in his implacable desire for revenge. Curtis raised his revolver. With both eyes open and without pausing to take aim, he sent a bullet through the bull's-eye. "Delafield won't have much chance against a man who can do that!" he exclaimed in a triumphant undertone to Bancroft. As the test of skill went on, it developed that the banker excelled if he took time to aim accurately, while he of Socorro Springs was the superior at quick shooting. "It's my specialty in the shooting line," said Curtis. "You'd better practise it, Aleck. It's the thing that counts most if you get into a scrimmage." He handed his hat, a wide-brimmed, gray felt, to Judge Banks, asking him to throw it up, adding, "I'd do it myself if my left arm wasn't in dry dock." He raised his revolver as the hat left the judge's hand; there were three quick reports, and he sprang forward and caught the descending sombrero on the muzzle of his pistol. The three perforations in the crown of the hat were so close together that a silver dollar covered them. "Bravo!" exclaimed the judge. "I don't know but two other men who can do that. Little Jack Wilder never misses the trick, and Emerson Mead, over at Las Plumas, does it as if he were a machine and couldn't miss. If you ever get a grudge against me, Mr. Conrad, I'll engage the undertaker and order my tombstone at once!" Bancroft turned away quickly. He swung his arm upward, fired, and found that his bullet had hardly nicked the outer rim of the target. "Don't pay any attention to your gun," Curtis admonished him. "Keep both eyes open, look at the bull's-eye, and unconsciously you'll aim right at it. If you get into a gun play, where it's a choice between giving up the ghost yourself or getting the other fellow's, you want to fasten your eyes on his most accessible part, point your gun that way, and shoot on the wink. Between the eyes is a good place, for then you can hold him with your own. That's the way I shall fix Delafield," he added, dropping his voice. Cold anger seized upon Bancroft as the picture of that gun muzzle close to his own forehead came vividly into his imagination. Until now Conrad had not mentioned the subject of Delafield to him since the day of his return to town, and the banker's friendly feelings had renewed themselves with the growth of his own confidence and with his desire to compass what he wished without violence. But Curtis had only to speak of his purpose in this cold-blooded manner for the banker to know that he, too, was rapidly becoming as implacable as his pursuer. Judge Banks was talking to Miss Dent about the view and the New Mexican climate, and quoting Wordsworth on "the witchery of the soft blue sky." She was compelling an expression of smiling interest, while her thoughts were with Bancroft and his danger. The desire possessed her to stand near him, to hover about him, as if her mere presence would protect him from peril. The friendly revolver practice between the two men made her sick at heart, and she was waiting with inward impatience for the moment when she could propose returning to the veranda. Lucy and Sheriff Tillinghurst were laughing and talking together in a running game of playful coquetry on her part and admiring badinage on his. "Now, Miss Lucy," he was saying, "if you-all are going to be my deputy, you'll have to learn to shoot with at least one eye open. I can't have my deputy shootin' around promiscuous with both eyes shut. It might be used against me in the campaign." "Oh, I'll keep both eyes open, just as Mr. Conrad says," she exclaimed, taking the Sheriff's revolver from his hand. "Just like this," she went on gayly, pointing the pistol straight at Curtis's face as he came toward them, saying, "Now you must have another chance, Miss Bancroft." Tillinghurst sprang forward as he saw her level the revolver and struck it up with his hand. Her pressure on the trigger had been light, but the contraction of her finger as the Sheriff knocked it upward discharged the weapon. The bullet sang through the air; and she paled and staggered backward, looking wildly from one to the other as she exclaimed: "Oh, I was sure it wasn't loaded!" "A gentleman's gun is always loaded, Miss Lucy," said the Sheriff, mild reproof in his tone. Lucy leaned, trembling, against Miss Dent's supporting arm. "I--I was sure we shot out all the bullets," she stammered, looking wistfully at Conrad. "I'll never, never touch a gun again." "Don't feel so worried, Miss Bancroft," urged Curtis, gently. "You weren't pressing the trigger, and I'd have ducked if you had, for I was watching your hand. I wasn't in the least danger, and you mustn't think about it again. It'll be your turn next, Miss Dent," he added jocosely. "Aleck had his the other day, and sent a bullet into the wall just above my head." "And you still have confidence in us, you reckless man!" Louise exclaimed with a little effort at gayety, but with eyes on the ground. "Perhaps he thinks he'll be in less danger if he teaches you-all how to handle your guns," the Sheriff commented, as Miss Dent led the way back to the house. CHAPTER XIV THREE LETTERS "Hello, Curt! When are you going back to the ranch?" Pendleton, the invalid from the East, accosted Conrad as he emerged from the physician's office, where he had gone for a last dressing of his wounds before returning to the round-up. "Right now, Mr. Pendleton. Anything I can do for you?" "Say, Curt, I've been wondering if I couldn't flirt gravel along with your bunch for a while. I want to take in everything that's going while I'm here. I've never been on a ranch, or seen a round-up, or a steer on the prod; and I'd like to see how things are done. Would a tenderfoot be in your way?" "Not a bit of it! Come right along, Pendy, if you think you can stand it. You'll have to rough it, you know; sleep on the ground with your saddle for a pillow, ride hard, and eat what comes." "Oh, I can stand whatever the rest of you do. I don't fork a horse as well as a cowboy or a circus rider, but I can stick on, and I can get there 'most as soon as anybody--I mighty near got there too soon when we went after Melgares, didn't I?" "All right, Pendleton! If you think you can stand it, come right along with me this morning. I'm going to ride the rest of the day and most of the night; but if that's too much for you you can stop over at the ranch to-night, and catch up with us to-morrow." "I reckon I'll take it all in along with you, and I'll meet you in half an hour in front of the court-house," and Pendleton bustled off. Conrad went after his mare, dropping into Bancroft's office for a last word. The president of the First National Bank was reading his morning's mail. He frowned over a note from Rutherford Jenkins reminding him that the first of the month was approaching, and warning him not to forget the remittance due on that day. He looked at the calendar. No; he could not take time before the first to go to Las Vegas and crack the whip he was preparing over Jenkins's head; he would have to make this payment. Next he opened a letter from Dellmey Baxter: "MY DEAR BANCROFT:--I think you'd better correct young Conrad's curious notion that I had anything to do with José Gonzalez's attack upon him, or with José's going down there. If you don't he might turn his suspicions in some other direction. Of course, there's nothing in it but that greaser's bad temper. But he thinks there is, and he's just hot-headed enough to make it uncomfortable for anybody he happens to suspect. I didn't send José to him and so, naturally, I can't do anything about it, even if the fellow does get angry and act like the devil. "I'm sorry I can't help you in your desire to retire from our Rio Grande valley land business. I'm tied up so that I've got no ready money with which to buy you out. Of course, if you are determined to get out, you might find a purchaser elsewhere. But as a friend I advise you not to sell. There's going to be big money in it, and we can probably launch the enterprise within the next six months. You'll make a great mistake if you quit. If you decide to stay in I'm willing for you to keep on as a silent partner, just as we have done so far." The banker scowled, swearing softly to himself as he read the first paragraph. "Didn't send him, didn't he," he grumbled. "Then who did? I didn't, that's sure. He recommended the fellow as a good cowboy, and Conrad engaged him. I had nothing to do with it." He was silent again as he studied the second part of the letter. A suspicion rose in his mind that Baxter was purposely making it difficult, almost impossible, for him to get out of the land scheme. What was his purpose in so doing? Did the Congressman wish to keep a hold on him to hamper, perhaps even to control, his movements? "I wonder," Bancroft thought, "if Dell is afraid I'll try to cut him out politically before he's ready to step down. I'd like his place well enough if--but that's something out of my reckoning for a long time yet, even if everything goes right." The surmise that Baxter wished to have such a bridle upon him left him uneasy. Well, he would have to let this thing go on as it was. If he tried to sell to any one else knowledge of his connection with it might leak out and reach Lucy's ears. He winced as he thought of her feeling toward Baxter because of this business. And the investment promised well; rich returns might be expected from it soon. Nobody knew of his part in it except Dell, and if he stayed in and kept quiet it was unlikely that anybody else would find it out. That might be the safer plan, after all. Conrad came to the door, and after a few minutes' talk Bancroft said to him, remembering Baxter's injunction, "Well, Curt, I hope you won't find that your crazy Mexican has been trying to kill off all your men." Curtis laughed. "Oh, José will be all right; and he's the best cow-punch I've got on the ranch. Dell Baxter will attend to him." "That's an absurd notion of yours that Baxter had anything to do with it," replied Bancroft, the Congressman's letter still in his mind. "You're not reasonable about Dell. Why should he want you assassinated?" "The only reason I can see is that I've been talking pretty plain about him. But if he doesn't like the kind of things I say he'll have to get used to it, or else reform." "Nonsense, Curt. And even if he does think you're handling the Castleton money against--" Curtis made a gesture of impatience. "I hope you don't take any stock in that talk, Aleck. The Castletons don't care a hang about this campaign, and Dell knows it. They're not putting up a cent, or, if Ned is doing anything for his wife's sake, he's dealing with Johnny Martinez direct." Bancroft looked at him narrowly. "Is that right, Curt? Are you sure of it?" "As sure as I am of anything," the cattleman responded with emphasis. "They've never mentioned the subject to me." After Conrad had gone the banker walked the floor in anxious thought. What, then, did that five-hundred-dollar check mean that Curtis had given to Jenkins? Perhaps he was holding the young man off, saying he was not yet sure of Delafield's identity and needed money to carry on his investigation, intending to give up his secret if he should find that he could bleed Bancroft no longer. That would be like Jenkins, he decided. As soon as he could get away he would go to Las Vegas and see if the fellow could be cowed by the knowledge that had come to him so opportunely. As for Conrad, it would be better to wait until he could learn whether those checks would produce the effect desired. In front of the court-house the ranchman met Tillinghurst and Little Jack Wilder. The Sheriff had a subpoena commanding him to appear as a witness for the State in the Melgares trial, set for June. Curtis remarked, as they talked of the case: "I reckon you'll have Pendleton as a witness; he'll want to take in the whole thing. Have you seen anything of him? He promised to meet me here. He's going back with me; says he wants to take in a round-up and see a steer on the prod. I sure reckon I'll have my hands full if I keep the boys from taking him in." "Let 'em run him, Curt, let 'em run him," said the Sheriff. "He's good-natured, and he'll soon strike their gait. He was never outside of New England before, and he's tryin' mighty hard to be tougher than anybody else on the border. He's been in town three weeks, and he calls everybody by their first names, from Judge Banks down to my Mexican stable-boy. He writes down all the slang he hears every day, sits up nights to study it, and the next day slings it around as free and easy as an old-timer. Is that him comin' yonder? Say, Curt, he'll stampede every cow-brute you've got on the range!" Pendleton, short, stout, and large of girth, had dressed himself for roughing it according to his own idea of custom and comfort. He wore a Mexican straw sombrero tied down over his ears with a red bandanna, a red flannel shirt, a long linen coat, huge spurs, and sheepskin _chaparejos_. "Oh, where did you get that coat?" the three men sang out as he came within hearing distance. Pendleton caught the tails in his finger tips and danced some sidewise steps. "Ain't she a beaut?" he shouted. "I found it in a store down in Dobytown." "Say, Pendy," called the Sheriff, "if you go pervadin' and pesterin' around among Curt's steers in those duds I'll have to send Jack down there to arrest you for breach of the peace." "All right, Tilly! I'm here for my health, but I'm takin' in on the side everything that comes my way!" Conrad found a letter at the ranch addressed to José Gonzalez, in his care, and grinned with satisfaction as he recognized Baxter's handwriting. "He's buffaloed all right and is calling off his man," he thought as he opened with eager curiosity a missive from Baxter for himself: "MY DEAR YOUNG FRIEND:--I assure you that you are barking up the wrong tree when you try to connect me with any attack the Mexican, José Gonzalez, may have made upon you. In fact, it is so much up the wrong tree that I feel pretty sure there isn't any tree there at all! His assault was probably the result of sudden anger. The man has worked for me a good deal, and I know that such is his character. I have some influence with him, and I shall write him at once and give him a lecture on the necessity of controlling his temper. I have had occasion to do this several times in the past, not without effect. I shall tell him that you are a man of your word, and a crack shot, and that if he doesn't keep cool he's likely to die with his boots on. Nobody could blame you, my dear Mr. Conrad, if you should shoot him under such a necessity of self-defence. I take it ill, however, that you should connect me with this greaser's outrageous temper and crazy actions. I assure you again that you are entirely mistaken in your assumption, which, permit me to say, is what might very well be called gratuitous. "I congratulate Johnny Martinez upon having the support of a gentleman so energetic, influential, and enthusiastic as yourself, and I remain, "Yours very cordially, "DELLMEY BAXTER." Conrad laughed aloud over the letter, exclaiming as he finished it, "He's a slick one, he is!" Another letter bore the imprint of Tremper & Townsend, and contained a check for five hundred dollars and a brief note saying that their client, Sumner L. Delafield, wished them to send him this money as a second instalment of the amount due his father's estate, and to add that like sums would follow in rapid succession. Conrad scowled and gnawed his moustache as he read the letter the second time. He was considering whether he had any right to accept the money and continue his quest of vengeance. Delafield evidently meant to buy him off with it and, if he accepted, did he not tacitly accept that condition? "I'll send it back to him," was his first thought, as he reached for a pen. But another idea stayed his hand. The former check he had divided between his brother and sisters, and, as they knew nothing of his scheme of revenge, this also ought to go to them. But Delafield must know upon what terms he accepted the money. With a grim look on his face he wrote to the Boston attorneys: "I have the honor to acknowledge the receipt of a second check for five hundred dollars from your client, Sumner L. Delafield. I am reasonably grateful that an unexpected sense of remorse has led him to loose his purse-strings, even at this late day, and on behalf of my brother and sisters will ask you to send him their thanks. As for myself, you may tell him that I hope the sending of the money has eased his conscience, for it will procure him no other benefit. Every cent of money he sees fit to send me I shall turn over to my father's other children, while I shall find entire satisfaction in following out my revenge. What that is he doubtless knows, for the sending of these checks convinces me that he is moved, not by the honest wish to do what he can toward righting a dastardly wrong, but by the desire to save his own skin. Please tell him, from me, that he cannot buy immunity from my purpose, even though he should send me the whole of the debt three times over." CHAPTER XV VILLAINY UNMASKED Pendleton, bouncing in his saddle as they galloped southward, bent admiring glances upon the erect figure of his companion, whose seat was as steady as if horse and rider had been welded together. "Say, Curt," he finally called out, "how do you do it? I'd give my bad lung if I could ride like you." Conrad gave him some instruction, and Pendleton turned all his attention toward learning how to bring his body into rhythmic accord with the movements of his horse. The cattleman, pounding along in silence, thought with satisfaction of the progress his search for Delafield was making and planned how he should carry it on after the round-up, when he would have more leisure. He would make a list of the men in New Mexico rich and prominent enough to come under suspicion, investigate their records, one by one, and so by elimination discover the person he wanted. Then would come the meeting! His thoughts full of the climax of his search, he rode on in a sort of exaltation, unconsciously humming a song he and Lucy Bancroft had been practising. Presently, through the silence, the sound entered his conscious hearing, and took his thoughts back to the pleasant hour he and she had spent over it. But a vague uneasiness stirred his feelings as the image of Lucy floated past the background of that grisly, dominating purpose. The thought of her persisted; as it clung there, along the edge of his absorption, it brought a sharp and curious suggestion of the maimed bird he had carried in his bosom. He was suddenly conscious of discomfort, as if he had hurt some helpless thing, when his reverie was broken by a series of wild yells from his companion. Pendleton had been lagging behind, but he now came dashing forward, giving vent to his delight because he had so far mastered the art of riding that he no longer bounced all over the horse's back nor fell forward and seized its mane at each change of gait. A spring welled alluringly from a dimple in the hillside. Pendleton dismounted, saying he was thirsty. "Don't drink from that spring, Pendy," Conrad admonished him. "It's alkali, and you'll wish you hadn't." "It looks all right, and it's cool," said the tenderfoot, dipping his hand in the water. "My throat's as hot and dry as that road. What harm will it do?" "Well, pretty soon you'll think you're chewing cotton; and it may make you sick, though this spring isn't strong enough of alkali to do you much harm." "I'll risk it," Pendleton declared, scooping up some water in his hat-brim. "It's wet when it goes down, anyway. And I reckon I might as well take in an alkali spring, too, while I've got the chance. Everything goes!" An hour later he galloped alongside of Conrad, working his jaws and licking his lips. "Say, Curt," he mumbled, "I know a fellow back home who'd give a thousand dollars for such a thirst as I've got!" It was midnight when they passed Rock Springs, where the superintendent had left his outfit. Two hours later, when Brown Betty put out her nose and neighed, an answering whinny came back from beyond the next hill. "That's only Five Cottonwoods," thought Curtis. "It can't be they've got no farther than that!" They gained the top of the hill and below them, in the light of the waning moon, they saw the white top of the chuck-wagon, the dark patch of sleeping cattle patrolled by a single horseman, and the figures of the men sprawled on the ground around the dying coals of their evening fire. "Here we are, Pendy!" said Curtis. "I thought they would have got farther than this, and that we'd have at least two hours more of travel. Now we'll have time for a little sleep before you begin busting those broncs." They stretched themselves on the ground and almost instantly fell asleep. But it was not long before Conrad, rousing suddenly, sprang to his feet, realizing even before he was fairly awake that the cattle were stampeding. From down the hill came a thundering, rushing sound, the noise of hundreds of hoofs pounding the ground. He called his foreman, seized his saddle, and rushed to the bunch of tethered cow-ponies, Peters, Texas Bill, Red Jack, and José Gonzalez close behind. As they dashed after the flying herd Curtis could see in the dim light the figure of the cowboy who had been patrolling the sleeping cattle. He was following the stampede at what his employer thought a leisurely pace. "Who was riding herd?" he yelled to Peters, who replied, "Andy Miller." "Is he trying to drive them farther away?" Conrad muttered angrily, pressing home his spur. The cattle tore wildly down the hill, but at its foot their leaders turned up the course of the dry shallow valley instead of pressing up the other side. The men saw the movement, and by cutting across the hillside gained rapidly upon the fleeing animals. As they passed Andy Miller, Curtis shouted to him that he might return to the camp, as they should not need him. The draw soon began to grow deeper and narrower, and the dense mass of cattle was forced to lessen its pace. Conrad remembered that farther on the valley came to an abrupt end against a steep rise. If the brutes stayed in it a little longer they would not be able to get out, and when they came to the end of this blind alley of the hills they would have to stop. So he and his companions galloped easily along beside the shadowy stream of moving backs with its spray of tossing horns that filled the draw, and presently found the leaders, their heads to the bluff, chewing their cuds as quietly as if they had never been frightened in all their lives. As they rode back to camp behind the staidly moving herd, Conrad asked Peters if he knew what caused the stampede. The foreman did not know, he had been sound asleep when it began. But he went on to tell an excited tale of mysterious accidents that had followed close upon one another ever since the morning of the superintendent's departure. Only the edge of the sand-storm through which he had ridden touched them, though it had kept them in camp all day. Nevertheless, there had been two stampedes, and they had had much trouble getting the brutes together again. Every day since there had been at least one stampede of the herd. He and the others had been kept busy gathering in the flying cattle. This was why they had got no farther than Five Cottonwoods. It seemed as if the devil himself had taken possession of every cow-brute on the range; never in all his years as a cow-puncher had he had such a time. "Don't you know what starts them?" "That's the mischief of it. Nobody ever knows. The darned critters just get up and hike. Some of the boys are gettin' skeery about it, and they're likely to pull their freight if it keeps up. They're tellin' ghost stories now after supper, and Andy Miller has been reelin' off the whoppin'est yarns ever you heard. Between the ghost stories and the way the cow-brutes act the boys are gettin' plumb fidgety, and I'm mighty glad you've got back." "How does Andy get on with the work? Does he _sabe_?" "Yes; he's first rate; the best we've got, except José. But Andy does have main bad luck with the cow-brutes. This makes four times they've stampeded under him." Promise of day was flushing the eastern sky and faintly warming the gray semi-darkness when Pendleton's eyes flew open, to instant conviction of illness. From head to foot he ached with weariness, and he felt wretchedly sick. For a moment he kept quiet, feeling that it would be more comfortable to lie still and die than to try to move. But presently he thought, "I'll never live to die of consumption if I don't get up quick and find my whiskey!" He scrambled to his feet and looked around. Not nearly so many men were stretched on the ground as he had expected to see, and his friend was not in sight. He looked for his saddle-bags, where he kept his flask. Conrad had taken them from the horse when they unsaddled, and Pendleton had not noticed what he did with them. He could not find the bags, everybody left in camp was sound asleep, and Curtis had disappeared. Wrapped in his blanket he was wandering around forlornly, squirming with pain, when he saw some one moving in the group of horses farther down the hill. He started in that direction and saw the man stoop beside Conrad's mare, Brown Betty. "Hello, pard! Where's Curt?" Pendleton called loudly. The man straightened up quickly, and put away a knife. He looked at the curious figure coming toward him, and burst into a loud guffaw. "Gee whillikens, stranger! where'd you drop from?" he shouted back. Pendleton explained, and asked the other to help him find his saddle-bags. They were discovered in the chuck-wagon, and the invalid offered his flask, with a cordial admonition to "drink hearty, pard." The cowboy responded literally, and made several other visits to the saddle-bags before breakfast. By that time he was good-naturedly obstreperous, and had the camp in an uproar with his horse-play and noisy pranks. Conrad asked Peters where Andy got his whiskey. The foreman did not know, and said that this was the first time he had shown any signs of drink. The superintendent went to Pendleton. "Has Andy Miller been taking a pull at your flask?" "The cow-punch that's feeling so happy? Sure, Curt. He helped me find my saddle-bags, and I thought I'd be sociable with him. I told him to drink hearty; and by thunder, Curt! you ought to have seen him. He sure had a worse thirst on him than I had yesterday." "I'll have to ask you not to do it again with any of them. And you'd better let me put your flask in a locked box I have in the chuck-wagon, if you don't carry it in your pocket, or you may not have any left by night." Gonzalez came up with a question, and Conrad remembered the letter he had for him. The Mexican took it with an unconcerned face, and went off behind the chuck-wagon. "I don't need to see the inside of it," thought Curtis; "but I'd like to all the same. Well, he'll be all right now, and I'm glad of it, for I'd hate to have to kill as good a roper as he is." A few minutes later José strolled toward the cook's fire, twisting the letter in his fingers. He was about to thrust it into the coals when Andy Miller jumped at him with a yell, and caught his hand. "Here, boys; José's got a love letter! Let's read it!" he shouted. Gonzalez resisted; Miller bore him down; and they rolled, struggling, over the ground. José's dark face was pale with anger and his teeth were set as he gripped the bit of paper in one fist and pummelled Andy's face with the other. Miller tried to shield himself from the blows with his arms, while he bent his energies to getting possession of the letter. "You're fightin', Andy; don't fergit to punch!" yelled Nosey Ike from the group of cowboys looking on. Miller was the stronger of the two, and almost had the Mexican in his power when Conrad came beside them, saying, "If you want the letter burned, José, give it to me." Gonzalez cast at him one doubtful, desperate look, and threw the twisted paper toward him. The superintendent thrust it in the fire, and he and Peters separated the two men. Gonzalez flashed at him a look of gratitude and walked away without a word. "Andy," said Conrad, "you're making too much trouble this morning. If you want to work with this outfit you've got to keep straight. If you don't want to do that you can pull your freight right now." The man turned away sullenly. "I'm not ready to pull my freight yet," he muttered. The other cowboys were saddling their ponies and making ready to begin the day's work. The bunched cattle, with the red rays of the morning sun warm upon their backs, were quietly grazing a little way down the hillside. Andy Miller started toward his horse, but turned and ran rapidly at the cattle. No one noticed what he was doing until, in a moment more, he was jumping, yelling, and swinging his hat at the edge of the herd. Snorting with sudden surprise and fright, the beasts were away again as though fiends were at their tails. Conrad rushed for his horse, but Peters, already mounted, yelled that they would not need him; and the foreman, with half a dozen others, dashed after the stampede. Andy Miller was coming slowly back, now and then stopping to smite his thigh and laugh. Curtis walked out to meet him. "Andy," he said, "I reckon I don't need you any longer. You can take your time this morning. Here's your money." The cowboy looked up, grinning, and thrust the bills in his pocket. Then, as quickly and lightly as a cat, he sprang upon the superintendent and pulled him down. Conrad, taken completely by surprise, with his left arm in a sling and at something less than his best of strength, for a moment could do nothing but struggle in the other's grasp. Miller was holding him, face downward, across one advanced leg, when Pendleton, still wrapped in his blanket, bustled up to see what was happening. With upraised hand, Miller yelled: "Now, then, you'll get it back, every darn' spank, an' more too! Jenkins ain't big enough to spank you himself, but I can do it for him!" His hand descended, but into an enveloping blanket suddenly thrown over him from behind, muffling head, body, and arms. "I've got him, Curt! Get up, quick, and we'll do him up!" shouted the tenderfoot as he twisted the blanket around Andy's struggling figure. Conrad wrenched himself free and sprang up, his face white. "Let him up, Pendy," he said, drawing his revolver. The other unwound the blanket, and Miller scrambled out, blinking and cursing. "You make tracks out of this camp as fast as you can go," said Curtis, "and don't let me catch you within gunshot of this outfit again! Clear out, this minute, damn you!" Miller walked away in silence toward his staked horse, the two men following him part way down the hill. "He'd better clear out before the boys get back, if he wants to keep a sound neck," said Conrad, his revolver in hand and his eyes on the retreating cowboy. "I understand it all now. And it was a lucky thing, Pendy, that you gave him that whiskey this morning; it got him just drunk enough to show his hand. If it hadn't been for that I might not have caught on till he'd done the Lord knows how much mischief. It's just like that damned skunk, Jenkins, to go at it in this sneaking, underhand way. He's not through with me yet!" They watched while Miller saddled his horse, hung his rope at the saddle-horn, and mounted. Then they turned back toward the camp, but presently, at a whinny from Brown Betty, Curtis faced about. Miller had ridden to where she was standing, a little apart from the other horses, had leaped to the ground, and was making toward her hind-quarters. His body was in profile, and as he stretched out his arm Conrad saw the flash of sunlight upon a knife blade. Instantly his arm swung upward, and there was an answering flash from the muzzle of his revolver. The report boomed across the valley, and Andy's right arm dropped. He rushed toward them, yelling foul names, but halted when he saw the pistol levelled at his breast. "No more tricks, Andy," called the superintendent, "or it'll be through your heart next time. Git, right now!" From up the valley came the shouts of the men. They had turned the cattle and were hurrying them back to camp. Miller cast one quick glance in their direction, and leaped to his saddle. He made a wide detour, the tail of his eye on Conrad's gun, and galloped away on the road over which the outfit had come. The others trooped up where Curtis and Pendleton, at the top of the hill, were watching his lessening figure. "Boys," said the ranchman, "that's the chap that's been stampeding the cattle!" Peters swore a mouth-filling oath and smote his thigh. "He was just on the point of ham-stringing Brown Betty," Curtis went on, his eyes blazing, "and I put a bullet through his arm barely in time to prevent it." A light broke upon Pendleton. "Darn my skin, if that wasn't the trick the critter was up to this morning, when he saw me and stopped!" "Let's go after him, boys!" shouted Peters. The group of riders shot forward, like racers starting at the word, and thundered down the road after the culprit. Conrad looked after them grimly, his eyes flashing blue fire, and Pendleton, wrapped in his blanket again, danced about and yelled, "Go it, boys, go it! I wish I was with you!" For an hour they chased him. He, knowing what his fate would be if he fell into their hands, put spurs to his horse until he brought out its utmost speed. Having so much the start he kept well in the lead, and finally they gave it up and returned to camp. With his left arm still in a sling and his shoulder bandaged, Conrad kept at the head of the round-up, which went on without further accident. He was too busy to think of the pain, except at night, when it often kept him awake. At such times his mind was sure to busy itself, sooner or later, with the trailing of Delafield, reaching out in every direction for some clew to guide his next step. By some trick of subconscious mental action, thoughts of Lucy Bancroft began to intrude upon his mind when it was thus engaged. It pleased him well enough to think of Lucy at other times, of her bright, piquant face, of the positive opinions she was in the habit of pronouncing with that independent little toss of her curly head, and of her dimpling smiles. But it annoyed him that the thought of her should come into conflict with his one absorbing idea. And, just because he had been consciously disturbed by it twice or thrice, association of ideas brought back the image more and more frequently. Once, when he had been vainly wooing sleep for an hour, he caught himself wondering what Lucy would say about the Delafield affair. He muttered an angry oath at himself, and with a mighty effort put both subjects out of his mind. It was not until they reached Pelham, the railway station whence the cattle were to be shipped, that his shoulder became free enough from pain for him to sink into sleep as soon as he lay down; and thereafter his mind forbore its irritating trick. During all that time, although Conrad did not believe he had anything to fear from José Gonzalez, he never left his revolver out of easy reach, and never turned his back upon the Mexican. But Gonzalez kept on his way as calmly and apparently as unconsciously as if he had had no part in that episode beside the pool at Rock Springs. Near the end of the shipping Curtis asked him if he would like steady work at the ranch. The Mexican gave a little astonished start and cast at the superintendent a glance of suspicion. Conrad frowned and his eyes flashed. Then he grinned good-naturedly, showing his strong white teeth under his sunburned moustache. "That's all right, José. I'm not that sort. As long as you behave yourself I'm your friend. If you don't, I've told you what will happen. You've struck my gait in the cow business, and I want to keep you. If you want to stay you can understand right now that you run no risks, unless you make 'em yourself." Gonzalez threw at him a keen glance. "You know I have nothing against you, Don Curtis," he began, hesitating a moment before he went on; "I like to work for you very well, señor, and I will stay." CHAPTER XVI A DOUBLE BLUFF Alexander Bancroft read Conrad's defiant letter, duly forwarded by his Boston attorneys, with a nearer approach to desperation than he had known in years. He had hoped so much from that money; and it had been thrown away! The man was inflexible, and to attempt to turn him from his deadly purpose by peaceful means would be a waste of time. And time was precious, for, now that he and his detective knew so much, one clew that they might discover any day would throw the door wide open. He must be foiled before he had time to make another move. Bancroft laid on his desk the letter he had been reading, feeling to the bottom of his heart that he would be justified in taking any course that would halt the feet of his pursuer. A clerk came to ask his presence in the outer room, and he went out hastily, intending to return at once. But a man with business in which both were interested awaited him, and after a moment's conversation they went to find a third who was concerned in the same matter. They had only just gone when Lucy came in and asked for her father. She looked sweet and dainty in a white gown with a wide white hat tied under her chin, her curls clustering around a face all aglow with warm browns and rich reds. The clerk who pressed forward with pleased alacrity to answer her question was one of her ardent admirers. Mr. Bancroft had just gone out, probably for only a few minutes; wouldn't she wait? It was of no consequence, she said; she only wished to see if he had any mail for her. But she looked disappointed, and the clerk suggested that as he had left his office door unlocked she might go in and wait. She saw a pile of unopened letters on her father's desk and glanced through it, finding two for Miss Dent and one for herself. "I'll just sit here and read mine," she thought, "and maybe daddy will be back by that time." A little gust of wind came through the open window, blowing a sheet of paper from the desk to the floor. Her eye caught the signature as she picked it up. "Curtis Conrad!" she read. "Oh, how like him his writing looks!" she exclaimed, a wave of color surging into her cheeks. "Why, it seems as if I just knew it would be like this! How easy it is to read!" She was looking at the letter, her attention absorbed in the fact that it had come from Conrad's own hand, when Delafield's name stood out from the other words. "Delafield! Sumner L. Delafield! I remember that name. It's the name of the man that ruined his father--why, it's a receipt for that money! How does daddy happen to have it?" Her eyes ran eagerly along the lines. "It's just like him! I'm glad he wouldn't take the money! What a horrid, wicked man that Delafield must be! I wonder how daddy happens to have this letter, when it was written to Tremper & Townsend, in Boston!" Her glance fell on the torn envelope bearing the imprint of the Boston firm, addressed to her father, and thence to their letter beside it. With mind intent upon the bewildering problem her eyes rushed over the brief missive: "As you requested, we deposited your check for five hundred dollars to our account, and forwarded our check for the same amount to Mr. Curtis Conrad. We enclose his letter in receipt, which he evidently wishes sent on to you." Lucy dropped the sheet of paper and sprang to her feet, her mind awhirl with protest. No, no! this could not be meant for her father--he was not Delafield--it was impossible! But--something clutched at her throat, and her head swam. She must go home; she must think out the puzzle. Sudden unwillingness to meet her father seized her. He must not know she had been there, that she had seen anything. She was not yet thinking coherently, only feeling that she had thoughtlessly surprised some secret, which had sprung out at her like a jack-in-the-box, and that she must give no sign of having seen its face. She sped homeward, her brain in a turmoil, and it was not until she had shut herself in her room that she began to think clearly. A troop of recollections, disjointed, half-forgotten bits and ends of things swarmed upon her. The shock had roused her mind to unusual activity, and little things long past, forgotten for years, again came vividly into her memory. So suddenly that it made her catch her breath there flashed upon her the recollection of how once, when she was a tiny child, some one had halted beside her mother and herself in a city street and exclaimed "Mrs. Delafield!" Her mother had hurried on without noticing the salutation, and had satisfied her curiosity afterward by explaining that the person was a stranger who had mistaken her for somebody else. But Lucy had thought the name a pretty one and used it in her play, pretending that she had a little playmate so called. Their wanderings during her childhood came back to her, when they had gone often from one place to another, at first in Canada, afterward always in the West. Much of the time she and her mother were alone, but her father came occasionally to spend with them a few days or weeks. Her devotion to him dated from those early years, when she thought so much about him during his long absences, wished so ardently for his return, and enjoyed his visits with unalloyed delight. With new significance came the recollection of the beginning for them of the name of Bancroft. While she was still a little girl her mother had told her their name would no longer be Brown, but Bancroft, because they had been allowed to change it. She had liked the new name much better, had accepted it with the unquestioning acquiescence of childhood, and the old name had soon become but a dim memory. Like a blow at her heart, because of the conviction it brought, the remembrance rushed upon her of an occasion not long after the change of name. She had wakened in the night and, drowsily floating in and out of sleep, had heard snatches of talk between her parents. Something regarding danger to her father had won her attention. He had replied that it would be quite safe, because only when he visited them would he be known as Bancroft, and that henceforth he would probably be able to spend more time with them. Her mother had feared and questioned, but he had reassured her and insisted that Lucy must be kept more steadily in school and that both mother and daughter must have a settled home. She could not remember all that he said, but meaningful scraps came back which had impressed her because they were concerned with that vague peril which her mother seemed to fear. He had said something about there being "no danger now," "nobody would recognize him," "everybody had forgotten it by this time"; finally, her childish anxiety assured that he was not really in jeopardy, she had sunk back happily into sleep and thought little more about it. After that she and her mother lived part of the time in Denver and part in San Francisco, and her father was with them more than before. Every recollection that emerged from that dubious past strengthened the fear that had gripped her heart with the reading of the letters. One by one she was forced to give up the suppositions with which she tried to account for her father's possession of those letters. With all her strength she fought against the one evident conclusion. But at last the conviction fell upon her with chill certainty that they were on her father's desk because they were meant for him, and that he was the Sumner L. Delafield of that long past, disgraceful affair. With hands clenched against her heart, which was aching with the soreness of bruised flesh, she whispered, "To take the money of all those people, and ruin them; and it killed some--oh, daddy, daddy, it was you who did it!" All the world had suddenly become one great, enveloping pain that wrung her heart anew with every recurring realization that her adored father had been so wicked--to her mind so abominably wicked. It was significant of her youth and inexperience, and also of her moral quality, that she did not attempt to palliate or excuse his offence. He was guilty of wrongdoing, as Dellmey Baxter was guilty, but in a far worse measure, and the fact that he was her father would never temper her condemnation of his sin. In the midst of her anguish she grew conscious that her feeling toward him had changed, and knew that the life had gone out of her old honoring, adoring love. It was as if half her heart had been violently torn away. For the first time sobs shook her, as she moaned, "Daddy, daddy, I loved you so!" Forlorn and anguished, her longing turned back to the dead mother with imperious need of sympathy, understanding, and companionship. Then came the thought that her mother had known this dreadful truth, and yet had stanchly held by him and shared its consequences. The sense of duty arose within her, trembling, apprehensive, but insistent. It seemed almost as if her mother had bequeathed this secret to her keeping that she might the better fill her place beside him with daughterly solicitude. The idea crystallized into whispered words as she tossed back her head and dried her eyes, "My mother stood by him, and so shall I!" He must never even suspect that she knew this horrible thing; she felt instinctively that it would cut him to the heart to learn that she had discovered his secret. For a moment she broke down again and moaned, "Why did I go into his office this morning! I wish I hadn't, I wish I hadn't! And then I wouldn't have had to know!" She quickly put aside this useless repining, to face the grim, painful fact once more. No; he must never guess that she knew he was other than he seemed, and he must never feel any change in her manner toward him. She must hide the secret deep, deep down in her heart, and she must keep their mutual life as it had always been. And there was Dearie--but she must know nothing of it; oh, no, never in the world must Dearie learn the least thing about this trouble! Lucy felt very much alone, quite shut off, in her poignant need, from every one who might give her help, advice, or sympathy. As she sat there, encompassed by her loneliness and pain, her thoughts turned half unconsciously toward Curtis Conrad with instinctive longing for his protecting care and strength. Then she remembered. With a sharp flash that made her wince it came back to her that he meant to have revenge on Delafield; that she had heard him say he was on the man's trail, and would track him down and kill him! For a moment it staggered her, with a fierce new pain that struck through the keen ache in her breast, making her catch her breath in a gasping sob. But all her heart rose in quick denial. A faint smile held her trembling lip for an instant as she thought: "Oh, no; he wouldn't! He wouldn't hurt daddy; and he wouldn't kill anybody! I know he wouldn't!" She almost feared to meet her household; it seemed as if this awful knowledge which had come to her must be writ large upon her countenance. Would it be possible to take up the daily life again as if nothing had happened? A chasm so horrible had riven it, since the morning, that surely it could never be the same again. But when she finally summoned her resolution and went down to take up her daily duties, she found it not so hard as she had feared. That benign routine of daily, commonplace life, with its hourly demands upon thought and feeling and attention, which has saved so many hearts from breaking, met her at the very door of her room. She quickly learned to lean upon it, even to multiply its demands. At the outset it gave her the strength and courage to pass through her ordeal steadfastly; and after the first day it was not so hard. She began to feel pity for her father and a new tenderness as she thought of the years through which he had lived, knowing who he was and what he had done, and dreading always to be found out. But all her pity, tenderness, affection, and the old habit of lovingness that she was resolute to sustain were not always sufficient to overcome the revulsion that sometimes seized her. One of these moments of revolt came to her as they lingered over the breakfast table a few days after her discovery. She made an excuse to attend to something in the kitchen, and hastily left the room. Her father had told them at the table that he was going to Las Vegas that morning. He waited, expecting her to return and go with him to the gate, and wave a last good-bye as he looked back on his way down the hill. She did not reappear, and at last he told Miss Dent that he would have to go or lose his train. Louise watched him from the window with yearning eyes that would not lift themselves from his figure until it disappeared from her view. As he waited at the station Lucy rushed breathlessly to his side. "I was so afraid I should be too late!" she panted as she slipped her hand through his arm, "I ran all the way down the hill." She clung so affectionately to him and looked up into his face with an appeal so wistful that he was touched, thinking only that she was sorrowing over his going away. It was the first time he had been separated from her since she had come to make her home with him. The conductor called, "All aboard!" and he kissed her tenderly, saying, "I'll be back day after to-morrow, little daughter." She went home with that "little daughter" ringing in her ears and her heart. It brought back a wealth of memories of those childish, happy, longed-for times when her father came, so glad to see his "little daughter" that the days were not long enough to hold all the pleasures he wished to give her. It filled her breast with tenderness and a sort of yearning affection, more maternal than filial in quality, and made more ardent her desire to stand by him with perfect loyalty. But the old, joyous love that had been rooted deep in admiration, esteem, and honor no longer stirred within her. She knew that it would never fill her life again with its warmth and gladness, and that now and again she would have to struggle with that same aversion which had sent her that morning to hide herself in her room against his accustomed affectionate farewell. Nevertheless, she was pleased that a returning tide of tenderness, which was almost remorse, had swept over her in time for her to join him at the station. Lucy's breathless rush to overtake him and the appealing tenderness of her manner during their moment together were sweet thoughts in Bancroft's mind as the train bore him northward. Dear little daughter! she grew dearer every day, and so did his pride and happiness in her. He longed to give her all the pleasures that his money could buy, just as he used to fill his pockets for her delight when she was a little girl. Once past these threatening dangers, they should have good times together. All his business enterprises were promising well; it would not be long before money would be plenty. Then, with clear sailing ahead and no ominous clouds, he could ask Louise to marry him. They would have to give up Lucy some time, but not for many a day. She was the sort of girl that is always attractive to men--why, half the young fellows in Golden were already dancing devoted attendance!--but she was very young; he and Louise still had many years in which to enjoy her, to travel with her and show her the world. Once past these threatening dangers, how fair was the world beyond! He would vanquish them yet, by whatever means might come to his hand! Each day's anxiety for the present and its longing for the fair future made his heart more desperate and reckless. He was hopeful that this coming interview with Rutherford Jenkins would make things easier for him in that quarter. Money would always keep Jenkins quiet, but to give up money to a blackmailer was like pouring it down a rat hole; if he kept it up the process was sure to cripple him in time. Jenkins received him with smiling cordiality. "I'm very glad to see you, Mr. Delafield--oh, I beg your pardon!--Mr. Bancroft. I always think of you as--ah, by the other name--and I sometimes forget in speaking." "You'd better not forget again," Bancroft interposed. "And, speaking of forgetting, there is a little matter concerning you that I'm willing to let drop out of my memory. You know, of course, about the case of José Maria Melgares. Doubtless you know, also, how Melgares happened to steal Curtis Conrad's horse; and you could tell to a cent--to a jury, if necessary--how much money was given to Melgares in the rear of the Blue Front saloon to induce him to undertake the theft. I take it, however, that you would not care to have it brought into court, as a conviction on a charge of conspiracy would be sure to follow. I have all the evidence in my possession--quite enough to convict. I got it from Melgares' wife in the first place, and I have since secured his affidavit. But I have stopped her mouth, and his, and nobody else knows anything about it. I am quite willing to forget it myself if you will show equal courtesy concerning--certain other matters." Jenkins grinned and licked his lips. "Really, my dear Mr. Delafield--excuse me--my dear Mr. Bancroft--I don't know what you are driving at! I suppose you mean that Melgares has been saying that I hired him to steal Conrad's horse. The thing is as false as it is absurd. If it were to come into court I should deny it absolutely, exactly as I do now. And the word of Rutherford Jenkins would stand for considerably more with a jury than that of a Mexican horse-thief." "You are probably the only man in the Territory, Mr. Jenkins, who holds that opinion. Unless you take a more reasonable view of the matter I shall feel it my duty to see the district attorney as soon as I get home." "See him, and be damned!" Jenkins broke out. "If you do, Curtis Conrad shall know before the week is out that you are Sumner L. Delafield." Bancroft's eyes fell, but his reply came quickly enough: "Well, and what is that to me?" "I guess you know what it will mean to you," Jenkins answered with a sneer. He did not know himself what it would mean to the banker, but he felt sure that it would answer quite as well to make pretence of knowledge. He watched his antagonist furtively in the momentary silence that followed. "You don't seem to understand the full significance of the attitude you are taking," Bancroft presently went on. "Of course, I do not wish, just now, to have Conrad, or any one else, know all the events of my past life. I have been living an honorable life in this Territory, and you can very well comprehend that I do not wish my reputation and business success smashed--by you or anybody else. That is the only reason why I was willing to enter into an understanding with you. But my affairs are getting in such shape that I can soon snap my fingers at you or any one who tries to disclose my identity. At best, you'll be able to get little more out of me, and I am amazed that you should be willing to risk this trial, with its certain disgrace, conviction, and sentence to the penitentiary, for the sake of the few hundred dollars of--blackmail--let us call it by its right name--that you may be able to extort from me." "I am quite willing to take whatever risk there is," Jenkins interposed, "especially as my counsel could readily bring out the fact that you had tried to--blackmail--let us call it by its right name--to blackmail me before you gave the information. Do as you please about going to the district attorney; I don't care a damn whether you do or not. But, if you do, you'll have to settle with Curt Conrad before the week is out!" Bancroft arose, perceiving acutely that the only course left for him was to make a strong bluff and retreat. "Very well," he said, with an indifference he was far from feeling, "do as you like about that. Only don't delude yourself by supposing that Curt Conrad's knowing about that old affair will mean any more to me than anybody else's knowledge. When you think this proposal of mine over carefully I'm sure you'll change your mind, and I shall expect to hear from you to that effect." CHAPTER XVII SENTENCE OF DEATH As the Spring days passed, in unbroken procession of rosy dawns, cloudless and glowing noons, and gorgeous sunsets, Louise Dent's resentment against Curtis Conrad grew keen and bitter. She saw the lines of worry appearing in Bancroft's face, and surprised now and then in his eyes an anxious abstraction; and in her heart she stormed against the man she supposed to be the sole cause of it all. Dreading his next visit lest she might betray her feeling, she longed to drive him from the house, when he should come, with burning, shaming words. But Bancroft, who knew as much of his intention as she did, was on terms of cordial friendship with him, and she must take her cue from her friend and host. Toward Bancroft himself her heart grew more tenderly solicitous as her womanly instincts divined his feeling toward her. A thousand unconscious touches of tone and manner had already revealed his love, and she surmised that he would not speak because of the imminence of this sore danger. She longed to give him her open sympathy, to counsel with him, to lock hands with him so that they might face the trouble together. Yet she was stopped from word or action by the necessity of seeming to know nothing. The fact of Bancroft's identity had been disclosed to her by his wife, her dear and intimate friend, who, at point of death, had told her, under solemn promise of secrecy, the whole story, that she might the better shield Lucy should disclosure ever threaten. Now, her heart melting with pity, love, and sympathy for her friend, and burning with angry resentment against his foe, she must perforce sit in apparent ignorance of it all, be calm and cheerful toward Bancroft, and smile pleased welcome upon Conrad. That hidden volcano in her breast, whose possibility Lucy and Curtis had half seriously discussed, had become a reality, and the concealment of it demanded all her self-control. The only relief she dared give herself was occasional disapproval of the young cattleman in her talks with Lucy. Louise was surprised and puzzled by the varying moods in which the girl received these criticisms. Sometimes she kept silence or quickly changed the subject. Rarely she tossed her head and joined in the condemnation with an angry sparkle of the eye. Or, again, with flushing cheek, she defended him from Miss Dent's aspersions. Louise decided, with a fond smile, that her vagaries of mood were due to pique at the lack of more constant attentions from Conrad. For the young woman, to her father's and Miss Dent's loving amusement, was proving herself adept in the art of queening it over a court of masculine admirers. What with walks over the _mesa_, rides and picnics up the canyon, music of evenings, and Sunday afternoon calls, Lucy was leading a gay life, and Louise, as her chaperon, a busy one. Being a normal, buoyant-hearted girl, Lucy enjoyed the gayety and the attention and admiration showered upon her in such copious measure for their own sake, and she was glad of them also because, together with her household cares, they kept her too well occupied for sad thoughts. So the days passed until mid-June was at hand and the time come for the trial of José Maria Melgares. Curtis Conrad was in Golden as one of the principal witnesses for the prosecution--his first visit to the town since the Spring round-up. Lucy, glancing frequently down the street, was trying to interest herself in Miss Dent's conversation as they sat together on the veranda. They spoke of the trial, and Lucy said she had seen Mr. Conrad on his way to the court-house when she went down town to market. "I've been disappointed in Mr. Conrad," said Louise; "I don't understand how he can talk so recklessly about people needing to be killed. To me it is very repellent. You know how he speaks about Mr. Baxter." Lucy's head went up. "But Mr. Baxter is a very bad man!" she exclaimed. "He has been responsible for a great deal of suffering. Just think of Melgares and his poor wife! But for Mr. Baxter they might still be living happily on their little ranch. And he's done many other things just as wicked and unjust. Oh, he's a very bad man, and I can't blame Mr. Conrad for feeling that way about him." She broke off, flushing to her brows, then went on more quietly: "But I don't think, Dearie, that Mr. Conrad means half he says when he talks that way; it's just his way of feeling how brave he is." "If he does not mean it, he should not speak so recklessly of serious matters," Louise responded with decision. "He must have a cruel nature, or he would not harbor such ideas." Lucy leaned forward, her face aglow. "Indeed, no, Dearie! Mr. Conrad isn't cruel; he's really very tender-hearted--just think of the way he carried that wounded bird all the way to Golden to have its leg fixed. And one day when we were walking on the _mesa_, he was so distressed because he accidentally stepped on a little horned toad. It's unjust to call him cruel, Dearie!" Her glance darted down the street again, and she saw Curtis nearing her gate. His quick, energetic stride and eager face were like a trumpet call to her youth and her womanhood. Forgetting all but the fact of his presence, she felt her heart leap to meet him with joyful welcome. But instantly came remembrance and reaction, and she greeted him with unusual gravity of manner. Conrad wanted them at the ranch for the Fourth of July. "We are to have a big barbecue and _baile_," he said. "Both the Castletons are coming this year to look things over, and I wrote Ned that if Mrs. Ned was coming with him perhaps it would amuse her if we did something of the sort. The idea seemed to just strike his gait, and he wrote back at once to go ahead and whoop it up for all I'm worth. Mrs. Ned and Mrs. Turner are both coming, and I'm asking a lot of people from all over the Territory. I want you two ladies and Mr. Bancroft to be sure to come out the day before the Fourth and stay at least until the day after, and as much longer as you find convenient. My brother Homer is coming on next week for the rest of the Summer, and he'll be there too." Lucy was delighted, clapped her hands, and declared it would be great fun--of course they would go. Repugnant to the idea but knowing that only one course was seemly, Miss Dent gave smiling acquiescence. As they talked, Curtis telling them of the great wealth of the Castleton brothers, the rivalry of the two ladies, the dash and beauty and vogue of Mrs. Turner, and the Spanish ancestry of Mrs. Ned, Lucy's eyes continually sought his face. Her spirits began to rise, and soon they were gayly tilting at each other after their usual custom, she all smiles and dimples and animation, and he beaming with admiration. They went to the conservatory to see the tanager and presently brought it back with them, telling Miss Dent that they were going to set it free. Lucy stood beside him as they watched it soar away through the sunlight, a flash of silvery pink flame, and it seemed to her that their mutual interest in the little creature had made a bond between them and given her an understanding of his character deeper and truer than any one else could have. Conrad went down the hill, whistling softly a merry little tune, his thoughts dwelling tenderly upon Lucy. He wished her to enjoy the barbecue and _baile_ even more than she expected--it was to be her first experience of that sort--and he began to plan little details that might add to her pleasure. So absorbed was he and so pleasant his thoughts that for a time he quite forgot the Delafield affair. But it came to mind again when Bancroft asked him, as they talked together at the door of the bank, if he had had any more trouble with José Gonzalez. "Oh, no; José's all right. He's the best cowboy I've got and as docile as a yearling. He's agreed to stay right on at the ranch with me. I'm glad to have such a smart, competent fellow to leave under Peters, for after the Fourth I expect to be away a good deal. I'll have some time for myself then and I'm going into this hunt after Delafield for all I'm worth; I don't think it will take me long to run him down now." Bancroft hesitated a moment, then, laying his hand on Conrad's arm he spoke earnestly: "For God's sake, Curt, give up this fool notion of yours. If you don't, you'll never get through alive. No sane man is going to let you get the drop on him, as you seem to think you can. He's undoubtedly watching you right along, ready to put an end to the business as soon as he thinks you're really dangerous. Let him pay you if he will; but stop this foolishness." Conrad laughed heartily and slapped Bancroft's shoulder. "Why, Aleck," said he, "the most satisfaction I've ever had comes out of knowing that I'm so hot on his tracks that I've got him buffaloed. Give it up? Not much! I'm going to lope down that trail at a two-minute gait, and Sumner L. Delafield is mighty soon going to wish he'd never been born." Bancroft turned half away, with a tightening of his lips under his brown moustache. "Very well. I'll not trouble you with any more advice on the subject. But when you meet with disaster, as you undoubtedly will, you must remember that you've got nobody but yourself to blame. How's the trial going?" he asked abruptly. "Pretty fast; the case will go to the jury to-morrow. It won't take them more than ten minutes to reach a verdict. You ought to come in and hear Judge Banks's charge, Aleck. Dan tells me it's sure to be interesting. He says you never can tell whether Banks will deliver an original poem or make up his charge out of quotations from Shakespeare." As the banker went up the hill to his home he remembered that he had heard Rutherford Jenkins was in town. To-morrow he must see the man and try again to induce him to consider the dangers of an indictment for conspiracy. At any rate, he would hold that affidavit of Melgares' up his sleeve, and the time might come when it would be efficacious, even should Jenkins still scoff at it now. Conrad--he had given Conrad another warning, as plain as day, and if the man would rush on recklessly he must take the consequences. José Gonzalez was still at Socorro Springs--an accident could happen--and there was no time to lose! Lucy saw her father coming when he was a block away and, instead of running to the gate to meet him, pretended not to have noticed him, and hastened into the house. Louise Dent remained on the veranda, pushing forward a lounging chair for him as he mounted the steps. She saw that he looked paler and more haggard than usual, and she longed to put her arms about him, as a mother might around a suffering child, and charm away his trouble and wretchedness. In her maiden life the innate mother-longing had found little appeasement; and so, when this youthful love came into her enriched and mellowed heart of middle life, it gathered into itself the repressed yearning of her nature, and the maternal side of it was strong and fierce. She neither condoned nor belittled the sins of the man she loved. For his wrongdoing and the suffering he had caused she felt sorrow, pity, remorse--remorse almost as keen as if she herself had been the guilty one. But her love enfolded him in spite of his sins, and even included them. For she told herself that if he had not been guilty she might never have known him, their paths might never have crossed. In gentle, unobtrusive ways she ministered to his comfort; then, sitting beside him, her calm brow and steady eyes giving no sign of the tumult in her heart, she talked with sympathy and interest, gradually leading his thoughts away from the present into happy plans for the future. With keen satisfaction she saw the weary, desperate look fade from his face and eyes, giving place to one of comfort and content, and the assurance that she had made him forget his troubles, even for a little while, filled her heart with pleasure. Lucy, sitting in her room, heard the murmur of their voices through her open windows. Her high spirits of the hour before were gone, and she sat dejected, her face mournful, and her head hanging like a flower broken on its stem. Presently she slipped down to the conservatory, took the pot of cactus Conrad had given her, ran across the back-yard, and threw it over the fence. Then she joined her father and Louise, seating herself on the arm of his chair and throwing her arm around his neck as she asked with loving concern about his welfare, told him he had not been looking well of late, and that he was working too hard and ought to have a rest. But that evening, after dinner, she rushed across the yard and out of the gate, and gathered up the cactus pot in her arms as if it were some small animal she had hurt. She returned it to its place in the conservatory, pressing her hands around it until its spines brought little drops of blood. "I can't help it!" she exclaimed in a vehement whisper. "I have to like him, and I shan't try any more not to! He wouldn't hurt daddy, I know he wouldn't--because--because he wouldn't--and because--he loves me!" A tiny smile curved her lips as she touched the plant caressingly and presently her whisper went on: "If I could only tell daddy that he needn't be afraid or worried! Oh, I wish I could! But he mustn't guess I know." Her lips ceased moving and she stared unseeingly at the cactus, as her thought slowly took shape: "It's worrying daddy awfully, and I mustn't let it go on any longer. I'll tell Mr. Conrad who Delafield is and he'll stop right then--I know he will. He'll despise us afterward--oh, he won't love me after that!--but--poor daddy! he won't be worried any more." Bancroft and Miss Dent were alike convinced that his pursuer would be ruthless in the fulfilment of revenge. Arguing from their knowledge of men, their experience of the world, and their observation of his character, each had come to the fixed conclusion that no softening of heart or staying of hand could be expected from him when he knew the truth. Lucy, having neither knowledge of men nor experience of the world to guide her, had not reasoned about the matter at all. She had jumped at once to her conclusion, as soon as she knew her father's identity, that he had nothing to fear from Curtis. Her decision was partly due to her own temperament, which she instinctively felt to be somewhat akin to Conrad's, and partly to her knowledge of a side of his character of which Louise knew little and her father still less. It was further strengthened by her intuition that he loved her--something the young man himself had not yet realized. Other than this belief in his love she could have offered no reason for her assurance that he would give over his purpose as soon as he learned to whose door his quest was leading him. But neither her father nor Louise, had it been possible for them to argue with her, could have shaken her conviction. The next day Bancroft, Conrad, and Pendleton went together to the court-house to see the closing scenes of the Melgares trial. The leading men of the town were there, as well as the usual hangers-on of a court-room, and a few women, both Mexican and American, sat in a little railed space at one side. Every seat was filled, and a standing line of late comers fringed the walls. Across the room Bancroft saw Rutherford Jenkins. The crowd was disappointed by the judge's charge to the jury, which was brief, simple, and confined to bare statements of law and fact. So it sat still and waited after the jury had filed out, feeling sure that the deliberation would not be long, and that something interesting might be expected afterward from the judge; for he had the reputation of doing and saying whimsical things. He was a bookish man, who studied his law volumes much, but for relaxation turned often to romance and poetry. He had a knack for making jingles himself, and his pronouncements from the bench, whether he was charging a jury, calling for order, sentencing a prisoner, or making peace between warring attorneys, were as likely as not to be in rhyme of his own improvisation or in aptly applied quotations from the words of the mighty. The jury came back presently with a verdict of murder in the first degree. Judge Banks asked the prisoner if he knew of any reason why the court should not sustain the finding of the jury. Melgares said nothing, and Dellmey Baxter, his counsel, who had made the best fight for the Mexican that he could, shook his head; he had given his services, and cared to take no further trouble. All that now stood between the prisoner and the gallows was a little space of time. The judge looked out of the window into the trembling green depths of the cottonwoods beside the court-house, and for a moment there was silence in the room. He was a slight man, with dreamy blue eyes, and a square, fine face, framed by side-whiskers, short and thin. It was quite like him to be trying to realize, in that brief moment, just how it would seem to have the gallows looming in one's path so short a way ahead. He ordered the prisoner to stand. Sheriff Tillinghurst, his usual smile absent from his kindly face, helped Melgares to his feet. The Mexican's wife, who had been seated beside him, drooped forward, her breast shaken with sobs and her lips moving in whispers of prayer. "José Maria Melgares, you have heard the finding of the jury," began the judge, and waited for the sonorous voice of the court interpreter to send the words rolling in musical Spanish over the room, "and it is now necessary for me to pronounce upon you the sentence of this court. The rains will soon be here, José Maria Melgares, the grass will spring forth, the flowers bloom, and all the plains and hillsides grow green and luxuriant. But you will not be here to see and enjoy their beauty, José Maria Melgares. The rains of Summer, the golden days of October, the storms of Winter, will all alike pass unknown and unheeded over your head. Spring will come again with its new life, and the lambs will frolic beside their mothers and the little calves bleat in the valleys. But your eyes will not see the sights, nor your ears hear the sounds, José Maria Melgares. It will not matter to you that the skies of New Mexico bend blue and beautiful above your head. The stars will march across the midnight heavens, proclaiming that God is good, and that He holds the universe in the hollow of His hand. Day after day the sun will rise in his fiery might and blazon forth upon earth and sky the goodness and the glory of the Almighty. The moon will swim across the violet skies of night, wax from slender crescent to fair white disk, and wane again. But to you, José Maria Melgares, it will all be as nothing. For you, life is a tale that has been told; there is nothing more for you now, José Maria Melgares, save the moral, and even that is no longer of interest to you. For you have been guilty of a heinous crime, José Maria Melgares; you have taken the life of your fellow-man, and therefore your life is forfeit. It is the sentence of this court, José Maria Melgares, that you be hanged by the neck until dead. And may God have mercy upon your soul!" The last melodious syllables of the interpreter's voice resounded through the room, and died in sudden silence. Then the moment's hush was broken by a shriek as Señora Melgares sprang to her feet, stretching her arms out wildly to the judge. "No, no, Señor Judge! It is not right that my husband should die," she cried out in Spanish. "He was made to steal the mare, and the man who hired him to do it and brought all this trouble upon us--he is the one who should die! There he sits over there! Señor Jenkins, Don Rutherford Jenkins! He is the one who made my husband steal the mare, who gave him money to do it, because he had a grudge against Señor Conrad; and he is the one--" Sheriff Tillinghurst, his hand on her shoulder, was urging her to sit down, her husband was ordering her to stop, and there was a sudden hubbub all over the room. The judge rapped on his desk and threatened to have the room cleared. Jenkins sat quite still, glaring wrathfully at Bancroft. Conrad clenched his fist, his blue eyes blazing as he exploded an oath into Pendleton's ear; it was his first intimation that the man from Las Vegas had been behind the attempted theft of his mare. Jenkins was waiting for Bancroft at the door of the bank. "I want to see you at once, in private," he said curtly, and without a word the banker led the way to his office. "A nice trick you played me," Jenkins began, his voice hot and sneering. "I thought of going straight to Conrad; and that's what I ought to have done, to serve you right." "Well, why didn't you?" Bancroft asked, impassively. Jenkins took quick alarm. Had the young ranchman, with his impetuous loyalty, told his friend what had happened in the Albuquerque hotel? But perhaps Bancroft was only bluffing, in which case he himself could bluff as well as another. "I didn't because I thought it would be the square thing to see you first, and find out if you have any explanation to offer of that woman's performance. Unless you can satisfy me you had nothing to do with it, I shall see Conrad and tell him everything he doesn't know about you before I leave town to-night." Bancroft reflected. If Jenkins approached Curtis in that young man's present mood there was ample likelihood that the blackmailer would never trouble him again. Yet there was the chance that he might say in time to save himself the word that would stay Conrad's hand. He dared not take the chance. "I advise you," he said slowly, "if you value a whole skin, not to go near Curt Conrad while he is in the state of mind in which I just left him. As for Señora Melgares, are you crazy enough to suppose I had anything to do with that?" "It's evident, Bancroft, that you put her up to something you were afraid to do yourself. You wanted to put me in a hole, and you got her to do it for you." Bancroft made a gesture of annoyance. "Oh, well, if you've got no more _sabe_ than that--" he began, but went on quietly, "I give you my word of honor--" "The word of honor of Sumner L. Delafield!" Jenkins sneered. The banker's eyes flashed as he made an impulsive start, but he went on with quiet emphasis: "I give you my word of honor that I knew no more than you what the Melgares woman was going to say when she jumped up. You ought to see yourself that it would have been to my advantage to keep this knowledge entirely in my own hands." "Nevertheless," Jenkins replied sullenly, "you could have prevented her outbreak if you'd wanted to; and if there are any legal proceedings started against me because of what she said I expect you and Dell Baxter to stop them at once. And I want you to give me, before I leave this room, a sum of money or a check equal to what I receive on the first of every month. And understand that this has no connection with that payment, which will come on the first of next month, as agreed. It's little enough, after this outrage." Bancroft glared at his companion for a moment; Jenkins sat up with a defiant look and glared back. The banker turned to his desk and wrote the check without a word. "And the woman's charge?" the other asked threateningly, as he took it. "If any action is begun I'll do my best to stop it." Well satisfied with the result, Jenkins hastened down the street, intending to cross over to his hotel at the next bridge and wait in the privacy of his room until train time. As he approached the court-house corner Sheriff Tillinghurst, Little Jack Wilder, Pendleton, and Conrad came out of the building. Curtis saw the hurrying figure, and the light of battle leaped into his eyes. He rushed past the others, and before Jenkins had time to draw his revolver was upon him and had pinioned his arms. Pendleton ran forward, shouting, "Give it to him, Curt! He deserves it!" "Jack," smiled the sheriff, "I reckon this is goin' to be a sure good scrap, but we don't need to see it. We'd better hike." And they disappeared up the side street. Jenkins was vainly struggling to reach his hip pocket. Conrad got him down, set one knee on his chest, plucked forth the gun, and threw it to Pendleton. "Now, you damned skunk," he exclaimed, "you're going to get every lick that's coming to you! I won't dirty powder by using my gun on you, but I'm sure going to set the standard for lickings in this town." And to this day, in the city of Golden, the pummelling that Rutherford Jenkins forthwith received is spoken of as the utmost measure of punishment that a man may take and live. At the end Conrad took the limp body under one arm and carried it to the physician's office. "Here, Doc," he said, "is some work for you. Send the bill to me." CHAPTER XVIII PLOTS AND COUNTERPLOTS Fourth of July was at hand, and Lucy Bancroft made ready for their stay at the Socorro Springs ranch with a resolve in her heart. Some time during their two days' visit she would tell Curtis Conrad the truth about her father. Of course, many people would be there, and the superintendent would be busy, but she expected to see a good deal of him--he was sure to show her much attention--and it would not be hard to find the few minutes of privacy in which to impart the secret. She was quite sure that the knowledge would bring to a harmless end his long quest of vengeance, and that at once he would cease his pursuit of Delafield. But she was equally sure that he would no longer love her or be friendly with her father. "He can't respect either of us after that," she mused. "He'll feel toward us just as he does toward Mr. Baxter; and I can't blame him, for we're worse than Mr. Baxter is." Her heart pleaded eagerly for a little period of grace in which to feel his love and live it, to take delight in his favor and admiration. She need not tell him at the outset. While Lucy was considering and deciding upon her action, on the morning before the Fourth, Mrs. Ned Castleton was saying to her husband in the privacy of the great, empty plain across which they were taking an early gallop: "I know why Lena was so willing to come down here with Turner and us. You'd never guess, Ned." "Of course I couldn't, Francisquita. So you'll have to tell me." "I know I shall have to, for you'd never discover it yourself, until too late to do anything about it. She didn't come because she wanted to see the place,--though she's never been here before, you know,--nor because she thought it would be something unusual to do, nor because she cares any more about Turner's affairs than she did last year, nor even because she wanted to keep track of me, nor because--" "Never mind the didn'ts, Fanny! Let's skip ahead to why she did." "That's just like you, Ned. You never can understand what a flavor it gives to something that really _is_ to consider first all the things that it _isn't_." "Well, you've had the flavor, now you can give me the fact. I've wondered myself why she was so gracious about coming with us." "Yes; wasn't it surprising? It puzzled me so that I couldn't give up thinking about it until I solved the mystery." "And aren't you going to let me into the secret?" "Of course I am, Ned; that's what I'm doing right now! I studied about it on the way here, and I managed to find out a lot of things it wasn't. But I didn't discover what it was till after we reached the ranch." "Well, what did you find out then?" "Why, Ned, I'm telling you just as fast as I can! Although I think I know Lena pretty well, and am quite accustomed to her doing things that nobody else would think of, really, Ned, I was so surprised at this freak that you could have knocked me down with a feather!" Ned Castleton looked caressingly at the slender, graceful figure of his wife, erect upon her horse, and smiled broadly. "Fanny, I'm in that condition right now, from unassuaged curiosity. Please knock me down with a feather and then go on and tell me this deep, dark secret." She tickled his cheek with her quirt. "Why, Ned, I've been telling you all about it for the last five minutes, but you won't understand what I mean. It's all because she's immensely taken with your handsome superintendent, and she's deeply interested in the cattle business because she wants him to explain it to her!" Castleton gave an incredulous laugh. "Nonsense, Francisquita! You are a clever woman, my dear, especially when it comes to divining what your dearly beloved sister-in-law is planning to do year after next. But you two women do get most remarkable notions about each other sometimes." Mrs. Castleton shrugged her shoulders, tapped her horse, and bounded ahead. They raced for a mile before she allowed him to regain his place at her side. "Granting that you're right, Francisquita," he said, "what makes you think so?" "Why, Ned, it's perfectly plain. I've seen Lena pave the way for too many flirtations not to know exactly what she's doing now. And she's preparing to have a perfectly furious affair with Mr. Conrad." Castleton kept discreet silence for some moments and studied the horizon. When he turned again to his wife he asked, "Well, dear, what are you going to do about it?" Francisquita Castleton was half Mexican, and on her mother's side could trace descent through a long line of dons back to a valiant governor and captain-general of the province who had done great deeds nearly two hundred years before. Her heritage had dowered her well with the instinctive coquetry, the supple, unconscious grace, the feminine, artless art that are the birthright of the women of Spanish blood. All of it was in the movement of her arm, the turn of her neck, and the poise of her head as she raised her veil and lifted her face toward her husband. Her voice was as soft as velvet and as caressing as an infant's palm as she exclaimed: "Do anything? I? Why, Ned Castleton, how you surprise me! Why should I interfere with Lena's whims?" Castleton laughed. "Ask me something easy, Fanny! I'm sure I don't know why you should, but I've noticed that Lena's plans sometimes shrivel up like a stuck balloon. Of course, it may be mere chance." "No, Ned; it isn't chance at all. It's only because Lena doesn't plan carefully enough." He took time for reflection. "I say, Francisquita," he presently broke out, "if you're right about this--and I must admit you don't often miss it about Lena--it may be a serious matter." "Of course I'm right, Ned. You'll soon see for yourself just how things are going. You know Lena likes admiration and she likes having her own way and she dearly loves making Turner jealous and she's positively unhappy if every man in sight isn't prancing along in her train. Mr. Conrad is a fine-looking young man, and he made a very good appearance when she saw him in San Francisco last year. I suppose she thought he didn't yield to her fascinations as he should, so she decided to come down here and gather him in. She knows she'll be awfully bored unless she can make her flirtation with him--well--ardent enough to keep her interested. I know enough about Lena to see that she's planning to have an affair that will keep her and Turner and Mr. Conrad simply sizzling as long as we stay." Castleton gave a long, low whistle. "Turner gets more jealous with every flirtation Lena has, and this whim of hers may prove serious. Conrad is the best superintendent this ranch ever had, and we want to keep him. But if Turner gets jealous he'll have to go--and mighty quick, too. And if he doesn't promptly succumb to Lena's fascinations--well, she's just vain enough to carry some story about him to Turner, so that we'd have to let him out for the sake of peace. We can't afford to lose Conrad, Fanny. I'll propose to Turner that we cut our stay short and go the day after the Fourth. We'll have to be here for the barbecue, of course." "Really, Ned, that's just like a man! Don't you know Lena can't be managed that way? She'd suspect at once that I was at the bottom of it and wanted to get her away from here, and then nothing could induce her to go. And you know, Ned, she always winds Turner around her finger as if he were a piece of silk. I can't understand why American wives take so much pleasure in managing their husbands; we Mexican women don't care to do that sort of thing." It was a prim little figure that pronounced the last sentence--save for the coquettish turn of the head and a melting glance of dark eyes that flashed for a moment upon her husband. He bent toward her a lover's face. "But you know how to manage just the same, Francisquita, _mi corazon_. Can't you think of some way to head Lena off and get her away before she does any mischief?" Francisquita turned a contemplative eye upon the forest of crimson-flowered cactus through which they were riding. "Well, I don't know that I can do anything--still, Lena's methods are always so--broad! I suppose I might try, if you'd like me to. It might have some effect if I stepped in right away--you wouldn't mind it, would you, Ned?--and did a little flirting with Mr. Conrad on my own account; not very much, you know; but I could manage to keep him busy about things--oh, you understand!--just make it pleasant for him to be with me. Really, Ned, Lena hasn't much chance if I start even with her; we've tried it before--you remember--I told you all about it at the time--and I think she'll quit right away and want to go home, or somewhere, as soon as she sees what I'm doing." Castleton laughed aloud. "And poor Conrad! What's to become of him in the midst of all these sighs and glances?" She threw him a smiling glance, and broke into a little, low laugh. "Oh, he won't mind! He's no silly! And he doesn't care anything about the ladies, anyway." "But suppose, Fanny," her husband teased, "that he should prefer Lena's methods after all, and cast himself at her feet instead of yours?" She shrugged her shoulders and turned toward him with a smile trembling at the corners of her mouth. "Oh, in that case he would quite deserve to lose his position." "But what about me? Should I deserve to lose him?" She tapped her horse and darted ahead, throwing back a laughing retort: "Of course you would, for not having married a more attractive wife!" Later in the day Mrs. Ned Castleton was busily engaged with Curtis Conrad and his brother Homer in the grove of cottonwoods across the road from the ranch house, showing them where to hang the last of the Japanese lanterns. Many people had already arrived and were scattered through the grove, or were wandering about the corral. Others were in the stockade behind the house, where Red Jack, Nosey Ike, and José Gonzalez were quartering the steer for the barbecue, and Hank Peters and Texas Bill were heaping wood on the fire where it was to be roasted. In the grove long tables had been made of planks and a floor laid for dancing. The lanterns hung in festoons around the platform and depended from the branches of the trees. Conrad saw Bancroft, Lucy, and Miss Dent driving up, and went to meet them. Mrs. Ned Castleton beckoned to her husband. "I'm sure Lena is going to do something perfectly outrageous," she said softly as they went to greet the arrivals, "something that will fairly knock us off our feet. She has looked so indifferent and so innocent all day and has been so sweet to me that I'm expecting a thunder clap every minute. I hope it won't be anything disgraceful." It was one of Mrs. Ned's important occupations, and she considered it her chief duty, for the sake, as she often told her husband, "of preserving at least a shred of the Castleton reputation," to discover the daring whims of her sister-in-law and nip them in the bud before they were ready to blossom upon the world. Francisquita knew also that Mrs. Turner enjoyed saying and doing audacious things, quite as much because they shocked Mrs. Ned as because they gave her a piquant vogue in San Francisco society. "I wonder what it is going to be," she repeated in a whisper to her husband as they came back with Conrad and the Bancroft party and went in search of Mrs. Turner. They found her sitting beside one of the tables, the centre of a group of men. Lucy, looking with interest, saw a large, golden-haired woman in a blue linen gown, that fitted perfectly her well corseted figure, and a blue picture hat, that matched the hue of her eyes. Her complexion of exquisite fairness and delicacy of coloring, and features of perfect regularity and proportion, made Lucy own to herself that she deserved her reputation as "the beautiful Mrs. Castleton." "What are we going to do all the rest of the day?" Mrs. Turner presently said, hiding a little yawn behind diamond-decked fingers. "It isn't three o'clock yet, and it seems as if it ought to be the day after to-morrow. Let's go in the house and play I'm a barber. Mr. Conrad, will you let me shave you?" A thrill of shocked astonishment went through the group. Lucy dropped her eyes and felt her cheeks burn and Miss Dent turned uneasily away. Some of the men looked at one another and grinned; others caught their breath and avoided their neighbors' eyes. Conrad masked a moment's hesitation with a gay laugh. "I would, with pleasure, Mrs. Castleton, if I had time; but just now I'm pretty busy. Here's a lot of fellows with nothing to do, who'll be delighted to help you amuse yourself." Mrs. Castleton glanced up at the men with a confiding smile. "I believe it's really because he's afraid; and he needn't be, for I do it very well--don't I, Ned?" Her brother-in-law gave gallant, if vague, confirmation, and she went on: "And he knows, for I shave him every time he comes to our house. But there's too much wind out here, it would dry the lather too quickly; let's go in the house." She rose, and one of the men hastened to open her sunshade, another picked up her fan, a third her handkerchief, and the statuesque blue figure with its group of satellites left the grove. "What does it mean, Fanny? Is this a new fad?" Ned Castleton asked his wife. "I never heard of it before, and she took my breath away when she told those people she always shaved me." "You backed her up splendidly, Ned; and I think you'd better go in now and let her shave you along with the others." "Fanny! I'd as soon allow her to black my boots!" "But if she wants to, Ned! And I don't think she'd hurt you much, because she's been practising on their butler for a month--so her maid told mine, though I'd forgotten all about it. As Turner's brother I really think you ought to go in and seem to join in the fun, so it won't look quite so bad." "If Lena doesn't care about the looks of it, why should I, or you?" "But you ought to care on Turner's account. It would be dear of you, Ned, if you would go in, for Turner's sake, and lend your countenance to the affair." "My countenance, Francisquita, but not my face. Since you're so anxious, dear, I'll go in and chaperon this shaving party if you'll tell me the real reason why you want me to do it. Is it a bargain?" She leaned toward him with a delighted little chuckle. "Don't you see, Ned, that if you go in and I stay out she'll think that I'm keeping Mr. Conrad out-of-doors, and she will be so angry about it that it will make her nervous, so she will cut their faces dreadfully, and that will make her freak such a failure that she'll have to drop it. Do go along, Ned; for I'm going to keep your manager busy for the next two hours. And, by the way, dear, if you should come out and not see me anywhere, it's likely to be because he's asked me to drive to the post-office with him." She sauntered through the grove toward the pond where a group of people had gathered under a big tree. She knew that Curtis was there, with the Bancrofts. Her cousin Juan--"Johnny"--Martinez was with them, and so was Dellmey Baxter. Dan Tillinghurst leaned against the tree, and beside him were Emerson Mead and his young wife, from Las Plumas. Judge Harlan and Colonel Whittaker, the former with his wife and the latter with his daughter, had also come from Las Plumas, where a political peace of unusual length and stability enabled them to leave town at the same time, and together. Mrs. Castleton came smiling down the hill and joined in the general talk. But in five minutes the assemblage had broken into little groups of two or three, of which she, her cousin, and Conrad made one. She sent Martinez to do some small service for Miss Whittaker, and began to tell Curtis that she feared there were not lanterns enough. Would he come and look at them? As they went back to the grove she suggested that they might get paper bags from the store at White Rock, fill each half full of sand, put a candle in it, and set them in rows wherever there was room for them. She had often seen her native town illuminated in this way on _festa_ nights, and the effect was really very beautiful. He thought it a good idea and asked if she would mind driving over to White Rock with him to help select the best sizes and colors. Five minutes later Lucy watched them driving away. "I saw how Mrs. Castleton was manoeuvring," she thought with an angry throb of the heart. "But it doesn't matter the least bit. I can have quite as good a time with anybody else." Presently she seemed greatly pleased when Homer Conrad asked if she and Miss Dent would like to see the horses. They made the round of the stables, and went to see the angora goats in their enclosure beyond the corral, and the dog kennels, and the chicken yard. They walked across the alfalfa field, and amused themselves in the prairie dog village on the hillside beyond. Lucy was so interested in everything, and said so many bright and pleasant things, and was so vivacious, and looked so pretty with her dimples and her color coming and going and her big brown eyes sparkling, that Homer thought her quite the nicest, jolliest girl he had seen in a long time. He was much like his brother in build, though less sinewy and a trifle fleshier in body; while in manner he was slower and less eager and alert. His eyes showed the same bright blue tint, but their expression was mild and trustful, while his brother's had always a dauntless look, as if challenging the world. His face was of the same general type, but the features were not so strongly marked, although he had the same firm mouth and strong chin. His countenance gave the impression of a character phlegmatic but forceful. That evening Lucy told Miss Dent that she liked Don Homer very much, adding, "And he's been more polite and pleasant to us this afternoon than Mr. Conrad himself." Mrs. Ned Castleton had applied the Spanish title to the younger Conrad to distinguish him from his brother, and the rest had followed her example. Louise was secretly pleased at this dissatisfaction with Curtis, for her aversion to him was so great that she disliked even to see them together. But she reminded the girl that with so many people there he could not pay much attention to special ones. Lucy tossed her head and replied, "He had plenty of time for Mrs. Ned Castleton." Evening came, and with it a huge white moon that poured upon earth and air and sky a flood of silvery white radiance in which the illuminations at the ranch shone with a mellow, golden glow. Mrs. Ned Castleton sat on the edge of the porch, her guitar in her lap, looking with satisfaction at the rows of paper bags, each containing a lighted candle in its bed of sand, set thickly upon the window-sills, the adobe walls, and the tables in the grove. They were not only effective, but they had enabled her to keep Curtis Conrad out of the hands of her sister-in-law the entire afternoon. Mrs. Turner had only just gone across to the grove, in the belief, subtly engendered by Francisquita, that the superintendent was to be found there, where most of the company had gathered and the dancing was about to begin. She knew, however, that he was overseeing the stowing of some cases of beer in the ice house in the back-yard. And she had not forgotten that when he was at their house in San Francisco he had been much pleased by her rendering of Spanish airs on the guitar. "He doesn't need to appear in the grove," she thought, "until Lena has had time to engage several dances." She began to play "La Golondrina," and as the sweetly plaintive notes rose higher, Lucy, looking houseward, saw a tall figure vault the wall around the grass plot and disappear in the shadows of the porch, whence came the strains of Mrs. Ned's guitar. A little later she saw them come across the road together, and at once became deeply interested in the talk of Don Homer, her partner, as they made their way to the dancing floor. Lucy danced twice with him, once with Martinez, and once with Emerson Mead before she made it possible for Curtis to speak with her. She knew he had been hovering near more than once, but she would not see him, and appeared always to be gayly interested with her partner. She gave him only one dance during the evening. But, noting his movements, she had seen with much bitterness of heart that he danced frequently with Mrs. Ned Castleton. She began to wonder, with chill doubt in her breast, if she had deceived herself in thinking he cared for her. She had expected to see so much of him; and yet, except for the first half-hour after their arrival, he seemed to have ignored her. She began to realize that she had depended much on her belief in his love when she resolved to tell him the secret of her father's identity. She still had confidence that her words would turn him from his purpose--but it was going to be a hard thing to do! "Mrs. Ned is just amusing herself," she thought angrily. "She ought to be ashamed--married woman flirting like that! Well--he's not the only one!" And before the evening was over Homer Conrad had neither eyes nor ears for any one but Lucy Bancroft. The house was given over to the ladies for the night. The men had a blanket apiece, and all the wide out-doors in which to couch themselves. Some climbed to the flat adobe roof of the house, or to the brush thatch of the stables, while others declared the ground in the grove good enough for them. It was decided by unanimous outcry that the dancing platform should be turned over to Dellmey Baxter and Johnny Martinez, the opposing candidates for Congress. First they all went trooping, each with his blanket stringing over his shoulder, to the kitchen door, where Conrad and the two Castletons dispensed nightcaps of varied concoction. The women heard them talking, story-telling, laughing, and now and then singing a snatch from some rollicking song. When the last light disappeared from within the house, a group of men began singing "Good-Night, Ladies." A round of vigorous applause from the darkened windows rewarded them, and they went on with "Annie Laurie," "Comin' through the Rye," and "How Can I Bear to Leave Thee." Johnny Martinez sang a Spanish love song in a falsetto voice, and received much applause from within. The men sang their way along the windows, up one side of the long, rambling house, across the front, and down the other side. They climbed to the roof, and serenaded the men who were trying to sleep there, varying the line or two of song accorded to each with much chaffing and guying. When the last straggling half-dozen of singers finally went off to seek their own resting-places in the grove, they marched in single file round and round the dancing floor, where Baxter and Martinez had already stretched themselves, and sang in a solemn croak: "John Brown had one little, two little Indian boys; one went to Congress, the other stayed at home." When peace settled at last over the Socorro Springs ranch house it was near the dawn of another day. CHAPTER XIX THE WORD UNSPOKEN The sun was high in the brilliant blue heavens and blazing hot upon the gray-green plain when the company came together in the grove the next morning to listen to speeches. One or another well-known resident of the Territory was called forth, with applause and cheers, to mount an improvised rostrum, where he complimented the ladies, chaffed the men, told funny stories, submitted to guying from the audience and repaid it in kind, until he was able to turn a joke upon some one else so deftly that he could retreat under cover of the hand-clapping and laughter and the calls for the other man to step up and defend himself. At dinner they spent a jovial hour. Half a dozen cowboys carried the big platters of roasted meat to the tables, where they were flanked by smoking dishes of _frijoles_ and _chile con carne_, platters of bread, and piles of roasted potatoes and hard-boiled eggs. Pails of lemonade and bottles of beer, just brought from the ice house, were scattered down the tables, and steaming pots of coffee and tea passed from hand to hand. Everybody was in the highest spirits; every jest or bit of fun was caught, bandied back and forth, and passed on with new trimmings. As they gathered around the tables, Conrad asked Lucy Bancroft to save a seat for him beside her. She smiled at him without replying; but when Homer presently came and asked for the vacant place she gave him a gracious welcome. Conrad, much occupied with his duties as host, soon saw that his brother was at her side, paying her devoted attention, and that apparently she was quite happy. "It's all right," he thought. "He'll have time to look out for her better than I could, anyway; she seems to be having a good time, and that's the main thing." Yet he was conscious of keen disappointment; he had seen so little of her--much less, he was suddenly aware, than he wished. But he had been very busy. Notwithstanding the planning beforehand, something new had been constantly cropping up and demanding his attention. But Homer had been taking good care of her, and she seemed to be enjoying everything. That evening, after the fireworks, he could surely let things go for a little while, and ask her to walk with him in the moonlight to the top of the hill. At that moment he was passing Mrs. Turner Castleton. With an inviting smile she made room for him beside her. He sat down, poured her a glass of lemonade, and then, noticing that Emerson Mead and his wife were not comfortably seated, went off to look after them. Mrs. Ned, who had seen her sister-in-law's manoeuvre, asked him to go into the house with her to see how the lemons were holding out. When they came out she protested that she was starving, that he must be too, and couldn't they sit right down and have something to eat? The seats she chose were at some distance from Mrs. Turner, though directly in range of her eye. They chanced also to be in plain sight from where Lucy was sitting. She, seeing them dining together on such friendly, jolly terms, was more charming than ever to Homer Conrad. Her pique made the task she had set herself no easier; but she held to her determination, telling herself that, even if Curtis did not show her some attention that afternoon, she would try to see him in the evening. For they were to go home in the morning. After dinner the games began. Cowboys of the ranch and others from small neighboring ranches gave exhibitions of quick roping and throwing and of broncho busting. Curtis Conrad and Emerson Mead had a riding and shooting match. José Gonzalez, dressed in Mexican holiday attire of straw sombrero, braided jacket, and close-fitting trousers, showed his skill as an expert lasso thrower. He made a picturesque figure as he stood in the roadway, striking graceful attitudes and making his rope leap, run, circle, and swirl about him as if it were alive. The visitors crowded to the edge of the grove, watching and admiring. "He's a sure peach at the fancy racket," said Dan Tillinghurst, "but I reckon Emerson Mead can flirt gravel faster than he can when it comes to the real practical business. Say, Emerson," he called, "can't you give us an imitation of the way you slipped out of Antone Colorow's rope and broke his wrists before he had time to draw his noose? I reckon that was a show sure worth seeing." Those who knew the story added their voices, "Yes, Mead; show us how you did it!" Others who had never heard of the incident wanted to know about it; and soon everybody was talking about how a cowboy once tried to rope Emerson Mead. Mrs. Turner Castleton was standing beside Curtis. "Really, Mr. Conrad," she said, "is it true that they ever rope men? And why do the men allow it?" "Sometimes, Mrs. Castleton, when the men who are roped can't help it." With a sudden smile he threw back his head and his eyes flashed. "We'll show you the game," he went on; "José shall try to rope me, and I'll see if I can keep out of his way. Come, José, get your horse, and bring mine, and then do your best." The Mexican stooped to coil his rope. As he rose his glance darted across the faces of the crowd under the trees until it met the eyes of Alexander Bancroft, standing beside Dellmey Baxter, at the end of the long group. Baxter saw the two pairs of eyes meet and hold each other for an instant, and his curiosity was aroused. But he seemed to notice nothing, and saying, "Come, Aleck, let's go and see what they're up to now," he led the way to the upper end of the grove. The two horsemen cantered out into the open and began their manoeuvres. The people crowded along at the edge of the shade, and some of the men stepped out into the sunlight to get a better view. Emerson Mead was much interested and walked out farther than the rest. The snakey rings and lengths of the Mexican's rope were whistling through the air, and the two men were wheeling, stopping, rushing forward, jumping sidewise, in graceful evolutions. The noose circled through the space between them, poised over Conrad's head, and darted downward like some voracious bird of prey. An exclamation ran through the intent crowd, "He's got him! He's got him this time!" But the superintendent jerked his horse to its hind legs, swung it to one side, galloped a little way, and came back laughing. "Good! that was first rate!" Emerson Mead called out. José wound his rope for another trial, and cantered leisurely back and forth, making sudden feints of throwing and watching his employer's movements of evasion. Suddenly he wheeled, charged, and threw the loop from a distance of only a few paces. He had calculated on the other's spurring forward to escape; instead Conrad brought his horse to a standstill, and the noose fell over its ears. A cheer went up from the grove, and Curtis turned to wave his broad-brimmed hat. In the one swift glance he was aware of Lucy, watching so eagerly that she had stepped forward into the sunshine, and of his brother, raising a sunshade over her head. Gonzalez also waved his sombrero to the company, and coiled his rope anew. It darted out like a serpent's tongue, and this time it caught Conrad unawares; he had thought his antagonist would not throw so soon and for the instant was off his guard. The noose fell over his head just as his horse was at mid-bound. He heard it whistle as it dropped past his ears, and as quick as a flash jerked his pony backward to a sudden stop. Apparently José had expected the horse to leap forward, for, as he felt the slacking of the rope, there was a dextrous turn of his wrist, and a dig of his spur that sent his pony dancing to one side. The noose tightened around Curtis's neck. Instinctively he clutched it, and his fingers, caught against his windpipe, ground into his own throat. "The greaser did that on purpose!" exclaimed Emerson Mead in a hard, swift undertone, as his hand gripped the revolver at his waistband. But Gonzalez was already beside Conrad, and lifting the noose from his neck. The American choked and gasped for breath once or twice. "You--you caught me square that time, José," he said. "We are even now, señor," replied the Mexican; "you gave me my life once, and now I give you yours. It would have been only a second more; and it was plainly an accident; nobody would have known. I have paid my debt." The people were cheering. Both men faced toward the grove and waved their hats. "You damned impudent coyote!" said Curtis through his teeth. Then he grinned, and added, "But I like your nerve, though." At the grove side the manager threw his bridle to the Mexican, but turned impulsively and called, "Here, José, wait a minute. I want you to show these people how you can throw the knife." A stride or two took him to José's side. "And I'll be your target, damn you!" he added in an undertone. He walked back where Lucy, Miss Dent, and his brother were standing, humming a stave or two from a comic opera under his breath. Homer noticed that his face was rather pale and that his eyes were blazing, but thought it due to his annoyance at having been roped. Gonzalez came back from the corral, carefully testing with his finger the edge and point of his knife. Conrad, his head held high, a smile on his face and exhilaration in his manner, was telling the company to stand a little to one side, to make sure they were out of the way of the knife. As Gonzalez came up, he stepped in front of the nearest tree, with the Mexican facing him ten or twelve paces distant. Judge Banks called to him to watch out for the knife himself, and he turned a smiling face for an instant as he answered gayly, "Oh, I'm all right!" In the same tone he called, "Start her up, José! And remember, you're to do your level best." José's teeth shone in a gleaming smile as he replied significantly, "I shall, Don Curtis!" He took an alert, graceful posture, one foot set back and head thrust slightly forward. The muscles of his arm were still relaxed as his knife slid along his wrist and nestled into place. Conrad drew himself up tensely and his eyes narrowed as he fixed them upon the Mexican's. For an instant they eyed each other; then, like a flash, José's arm swung back. Not until that moment did any member of the company understand that Curtis was deliberately making himself a target; even then many did not realize the significance of the game with death he had set himself to play. Ned Castleton's face went white, and his voice died in his throat as he tried to call to José to stop. Alexander Bancroft stared with devouring eyes, his breath coming hard. The overmastering desire for freedom and safety was upon him, and he could not take his gaze from the Mexican's poised figure. Louise Dent, beside him, drew one gasping breath and covered her face with her hands. Afterward she knew that she had not done this so much to shut from her eyes the next moment's expected sight as to hide from her soul's vision the glimpse she had caught of the desire springing to life in her own heart. [Illustration: "LIKE A FLASH JOSÉ'S ARM SWUNG BACK, ... AND CURTIS SPRANG LIGHTLY ASIDE AS THE KNIFE STRUCK DEEP INTO THE TREE"] Homer Conrad, sitting beside Lucy, his attention fixed upon some small damage to her fan which he was trying to repair, did not see what was going on until a sudden stiffening of her attitude and a sharp, indrawn breath made him look up. She was leaning forward, with face white and eyes staring and hands clenched against her breast. He followed her gaze and saw the knife flash from José's hand. His heart went sick and he sat powerless to move as his eyes marked the long blade, dark against the sunshine, but with little sparkles on its edge, through what seemed an interminable flight. Then Curtis sprang lightly aside as the knife struck deep into the tree at the level of his throat, pulled the weapon out, waved it at Gonzalez, and called out triumphantly, "Try again, José; and be quicker next time!" Ned Castleton sprang forward, with Turner close behind, and grasped his arm. "Are you crazy, Curt?" he exclaimed. "This is fool's play! We don't want any more of it!" "There's no danger," Conrad replied jauntily. "I knew I could jump quicker than he could throw, and I wanted to prove it to him. There's not a bit of danger; I can do it every time. But if you don't like it we'll have something else. Hello, kid!" he said as Homer rushed up and seized his arm; the young man's face was pale and tears stood in his eyes. "You've no reason to be frightened," Curtis went on easily. "All I had to do was to watch his eyes. If there had been any real danger I wouldn't have tried it." Lucy Bancroft sat quite still for a few moments, her eyes on the ground, but presently she started toward the house, contriving to pass Conrad when there was no one beside him. She touched his arm and he wheeled toward her as if he had felt an electric shock. "It was a most foolish thing to do," she said in a low voice, "but--you are the bravest man I ever saw," and hastened on without giving him time to reply. At night there were fireworks and dancing. After the knife-throwing episode Curtis tried again and again to have speech with Lucy, but whenever he came near she seemed not to see him, and was so interested in conversation with her admirer of the moment that he could find no opportunity. Homer attended her like her own shadow. The hours hurried past, and still, piqued and wilful, she postponed making the opportunity for her revelation. Conrad was master of the fireworks; while he was busy setting off sky-rockets and mines Lucy and Homer called to him that they were going to the top of the hill beyond the alfalfa field to see how the display looked from there. It was the very walk Curtis had intended to ask her to take with him, and he glanced after them, keenly disappointed. But he said to himself that as soon as he could get the fireworks out of the way there would be nothing to demand his attention for the rest of the evening, and then he could surely get a little time with her. Half an hour later he saw her, through a glare of red fire, setting off fire-crackers with his brother and Pendleton. Dan Tillinghurst had just joined them, and she turned to him with a laughing threat, a lighted cracker in her hand. He called to Pendleton, whose pockets were bulging with packs of the crackers, to see fair play and give him weapons of defence. The cool night wind was tossing her brown curls, her bright face was full of animation, and the red light enveloped her in a rosy sheen. He looked at her, his face aglow with admiration, then turned back to the sky-rockets. As he stooped over the box he heard a scream in a girlish voice, followed by the stern command, "Sit down! Sit down!" in Dan Tillinghurst's heavy tones. Springing up, he saw a white heap sinking to the ground amid leaping tongues of flame and the three men stripping off their coats and beating the fire. He rushed forward, taking off his coat as he ran, and in a moment they had whipped the flames down to a ring of charred muslin and flickering sparks. A dozen others had hurried to the spot, but it was Curtis's outstretched hand that Lucy took as he bent anxiously over her, his arm upon which she leaned as she staggered to her feet. She went at once into the house with Miss Dent, and did not reappear that evening. When Louise returned she explained that Lucy had gone to bed, but that, except for the nervous shock, she had suffered no harm. Curtis Conrad went on sending off sky-rockets and Roman candles in the amaze of a new knowledge. That moment of Lucy's peril, brief as it was, had revealed to him the love that, unconsciously to himself, had been bourgeoning in his heart throughout the Spring. So absorbed had he been in his own grim purpose that he had not realized the meaning of his liking for Lucy and his enjoyment of her society. But in the light of the flames by which he had seen her circled her dearness had flashed upon him its real significance. When she leaned upon him as she arose, it had demanded all his self-control to keep from taking her in his arms. His nerves were thrilling yet with the slight pressure of her body upon his arm as she regained her footing. So sudden and forceful was the rush of his emotion that it swept him from his accustomed moorings, and filled heart and mind to the exclusion of every other idea. Lucy--Lucy--Lucy--he said her name over and over in his innermost thought, even while he danced with Mrs. Turner, strolled with Miss Whittaker to the hilltop,--as he had wished to do with Lucy,--talked with Martinez, or listened to Judge Harlan's stories. The thought of her was constantly with him, enveloped in a wonderful tenderness; his memory was incessantly recalling images of her as she looked leaning against this tree, seated beside that table, walking across the road. He hovered around Miss Dent until she, to escape from his attention and his solicitude about Lucy, which intensified the aversion and resentment she already felt, retired to the house early in the evening. But, when all the merrymakers had gone to bed and quiet had settled upon the ranch, Conrad began to feel a violent wrenching of his heart. When he stretched himself upon the roof of the house and gazed into the silvery violet sky his lifelong purpose reasserted itself. For so many years it had been his habit, as he composed himself for sleep, to think over his plans for the pursuit of Delafield and feed his heart with the desire for revenge that he quickly felt its tyranny. For a moment all emotion ceased and his mind stood back, aghast at itself, bewildered. Then the old idea took possession again, and he said to himself, almost with anger, "What business have I to fall in love?" To think of Lucy in connection with his own dark and bloody aims was repellent, and his thoughts turned away in quick reaction. Then came the remembrance of Homer's devotion to her and of how welcome, apparently, had been his attentions. So, for that time at least, Lucy and love were turned out of his heart and his last waking thoughts were of his plan to go to Albuquerque and Santa Fe within a few days, there to run down the clews that promised most. Because of all that had gone on in his mind and heart as he lay on the roof that night Conrad's manner toward Lucy the next morning was graver and more restrained than usual. He was keenly alive to the magic of her presence, but for that he rebuked himself and went near her no oftener than he could help. Lucy tried in vain to find an opportunity for private speech with him. And so the time came for their departure and the fateful words had not been said. "Well," she consoled herself, "he will come to see us in Golden before long, and I will tell him then." As they drove away the house was filled with the bustle of leave-taking. The guests who had come by rail were being driven to the station at White Rock to catch the forenoon train. Others were leaving by horse or carriage for Golden or Randall. As the dust from the last of the departing vehicles rose in thin gray stains against the vivid blue of the sky Ned Castleton called to his wife from the shade of the tree beside the gate. She had been saying good-bye to the Bancrofts and had stopped in the sun beside the adobe wall to play with a horned toad that Gonzalez had caught for her. "Fanny," he said, "I know I haven't got horns, but if you'll come here in the shade I'll prove that I can be just as interesting as that toad." She came, holding the weird little creature on her palm. "Look at him, Ned! Isn't he cunning? He's the dearest thing I ever saw--except you." "Oh, thanks; it's kind of you not to put me in the same class. As a reward I'll tell you some news. Your little scheme for balking Lena's designs on Conrad has succeeded perfectly. Turner has just told me that she has suddenly decided she wants to go to Santa Barbara at once, and they're leaving this afternoon. I told him to go ahead, and I'd stay here a few days longer and finish things up with Curt." "That's just splendid, Ned! We'll have some lovely rides, won't we? And it will be such a rest not to have to keep an eye on Lena. I felt sure last night that she was going to give up the game and pretend she hadn't been playing, because she suddenly lost all interest in the cattle business." "Of course you know, Francisquita, that you have been behaving shamelessly; but I'll forgive you, because you've saved our model superintendent for us." "Ned, you know very well that I didn't do a thing but just help Mr. Conrad make it pleasant for all the people--except, perhaps, Lena. I'm afraid she'd have had a better time if I hadn't been here. But I've been thinking this morning, Ned, that maybe it wasn't necessary for me to help quite as hard as I did. What do you think about it?" "I think I don't know what you're talking about. As the cowboys say, you've flung gravel along the road a little too fast for my gait." "Ned, you're the blindest thing! What could I mean except that Mr. Conrad didn't need to be distracted from Lena, especially as her methods are so broad?" "Well, go on, dear. We'll get there after a while." "Go on! Why, Ned, that's all! Isn't that enough? Why should a man want more than one pretty girl to protect him from the designs of a lady who--well--who wants to shave him? You never needed anybody but me." "True, Fanny! But you always were equal to an army in yourself, and now you are equal to two--which is only another way of saying that you grow more fascinating every day. And now I think you might be gracious enough to tell me what you're talking about." "Why, Ned, I'm afraid Miss Bancroft didn't enjoy it any more than Lena. I wasn't quite sure of it until this morning; but I really think, Ned, that Lena would have been left out in the cold just the same if I hadn't--hadn't helped Mr. Conrad entertain the people quite so much." Castleton laughed. "Oh, I begin to see! You are feeling the pangs of remorse because you've been putting snags in the course of true love. But you needn't worry, dear. Curt isn't the sort of man, if he cares anything about her, to let a little thing like that make any difference." "But he'll be too busy with you to go over to Golden and see her again for a long time, won't he?" "Oh, we can get through this week, I think." "Good! Then we can leave on Saturday, and on Sunday he can gallop over to Golden, and by that time she'll want awfully to see him and she'll be very sorry she flirted so outrageously with Don Homer. And next Fall we'll send them a wedding present, and they'll come to see us on their wedding journey,--she's a dear, sweet girl, Ned, and I like her,--and I'll explain to her why I--why I helped Mr. Conrad make things pleasant at the barbecue, and we'll have a jolly laugh over it. There he is now, Ned! Do go right along and begin your work, so we'll be sure to leave on Saturday." When Conrad bade the Castletons good-bye at the railway station at the end of the week, Francisquita said to him: "When you see that pretty Miss Bancroft again--" here she gave him a significant glance and then demurely lowered her eyes--"please tell her that I hope to see her again, and that if she ever comes to San Francisco she must let me know--you can give her our address. We'd be delighted, Ned and I, to help her have a good time. She's a dear, lovely girl and I'd really like to know her better." Curtis drove home, declaring to himself that Mrs. Ned was one of the most charming women he knew. He would ride over to Golden to-morrow afternoon and deliver her message. He lingered fondly over the image of Lucy's slender figure standing at the top of her veranda steps and smiling upon him a gay and gracious welcome, and a strong desire rose in his heart to know just how glad she really would be to see him. But the recollection of his plans for the ensuing week came crashing through his pleasant thoughts like a runaway horse through a flower garden. For a moment the purpose that held his life in thrall seemed strangely unworthy. But presently he jammed his hat down on his head and, with compressed lips, said savagely to himself: "No; the Delafield affair is my first love, and I'll stay with it." As he thought over his plans and hopes for the immediate future his heart grew hot again with the old indignation over all that ruin and struggle, and the old purpose regained its accustomed vigor. After a little, nevertheless, he decided that he would ride over to the Bancrofts' the next day and deliver Mrs. Castleton's message. It would do no harm for him to see Lucy occasionally, in the friendly way in which they had always met. CHAPTER XX NARROWING THE QUEST That evening, while they sat and smoked on the little porch, Curtis Conrad told Homer of his lifelong quest. It was the younger man's first knowledge of the motive that had been so potent in his brother's life. He listened in silence while his pipe went out, and sat quite still after the other ceased. "Well, Curt," he said at last, with a little tremor in his voice, "this yarn of yours knocks me silly. I can't say I'm pleased with it, at least at first view. It doesn't seem sensible." Curtis laughed good-naturedly. "Very likely, Homer; I didn't expect it to appeal forcibly to a sensible, practical chap like you. I haven't told you before because there was no use bothering your young head with it when the round-up seemed so far away; but I'm mighty near the end of the trail now, and you've come to a man's age and ways of thinking; so I thought it best to tell you. There's a possibility, of course, that I'll get the worst of it when the mix-up does come; and in that case I'd like you to know what it was all about. But I'm not considering that sort of chance as likely to happen." "But what do you expect to gain by it, Curt, and why do you want to kill the man?" Curtis slowly lighted a fresh cigar. "Well, Homer, if you don't see why, it's no use for me to explain." "I know there's a big difference between us temperamentally; but I don't believe that would keep me from appreciating your motive if it had any basis in right or expediency. Good God, Curt, look at the thing sensibly! Suppose you kill the man when you find him. What earthly good will that do you? You'd probably hang for it, or go to the penitentiary for years. And it seems to me the chance is all the other way. Whoever the man is, he must know you're after him; and you'll find him ready and loaded. If you're not killed you're likely to be badly wounded--perhaps lose an eye or a leg--and what can you gain by it? Bless me if I can see any use or sense or right in the whole business." Curtis Conrad rose and walked slowly and with bent head the length of the porch and back, his hand resting for an instant on his brother's shoulder as he passed. He stood regarding abstractedly the lightning that was playing among some low-lying clouds above the Hatchet Mountains, far to the southwest. "One night, soon after father and mother died," he began, in a tone so low that Homer could barely catch his words, "I lay awake almost all night, thinking. You were a little shaver barely out of kilts, the girls were young things with their dresses half way to their knees, and I was only fifteen. I had taken you into bed with me because I was afraid you'd wake up in the night and feel lonesome--and, perhaps, because I didn't want to feel quite so lonesome myself. I made plans for hours about how we could get along and the things I meant to do. You tossed in your sleep, and threw one of your hands against mine. My fingers closed over it, and you gripped one of them fast. Somehow, that grip went to my heart, and I promised myself and you that I would do all I could to make up to you the loss we had suffered. I thought of what father had planned for me; and I knew that I should have to give all that up. As I thought of the man who had robbed us of everything--money, opportunity, father and mother--I trembled with anger. "I had never used an oath until that night. But I sat on the side of my bed, when I couldn't lie still any longer, and clenched my fists and cursed him, mildly at first and under my breath, then aloud and in the reddest language I could think of. As I damned his soul to the hottest corner of hell it seemed to me that he ought to be made to suffer in this life, too, and I said aloud, 'I would like to kill you!' The words sounded so plain that they frightened me. But I said them over again, and the next moment the thought leaped up, 'And I will, too, if I live!' That was how the idea was born in my mind. It struck root and grew, and I've held to it ever since." Homer nodded. "Yes; I can understand how you would hold to a thing you'd made up your mind to do; I'd hold on just the same way. We've both got the bull-dog grip; it's one of the Conrad characteristics. But even a bull-dog can let go when he knows he shouldn't hold on any longer." Curtis smiled grimly. "Not always; sometimes you have to pry his jaws loose. Nevertheless, I could let go if I wanted to. But I don't want to, and I don't propose to. The thing has become part of my life, of me, of my very blood." "Have you been working at it all this time, Curt?" "Oh, of course I couldn't do much while I was a boy except to think and brood over it. But during that time I learned all I could about Delafield, his schemes, and his personality. I read every newspaper I could lay hold of that had anything in it about him; I've got them all yet. But I didn't do much in the way of actually chasing him down until after the girls were married ten years ago. After that I earned and saved more money, and was free to go about as I wanted. Since then I've spent all the time and money I could spare in hunting him. "I had a schoolmate named Littleton who became a detective when he grew up. We were good friends, and when he happened to find out that I was nosing around in my own way he offered to help me. I was to pay him what I could, and he would put in time on this when he had nothing else to do. Between us we tracked Delafield all over the West and into Canada, back and forth, and under nearly a dozen different names. I don't think he got as much money out of his Boston smash as he was charged with taking, but he got a good lot; and he's since made and lost two or three good-sized fortunes. Most of the time he has been a mining expert, and has owned and dealt in mines; the fact that he's stuck pretty close to that business has made it easier to follow him. Once, in Arizona, we lost the trail completely. It was as if the earth had opened and swallowed him; for a while we thought he must be dead. Later we discovered his tracks in Utah, under a new name. Since then there have been several gaps of that sort; but we've always managed to light on him again after a while. "My last knowledge of him is that he is living somewhere in this Territory, a well-to-do and respected citizen, prominent in politics, and a supporter of Dellmey Baxter for Congress. The rest of it will be easy; there'll be a quick chase and an early show-down before there's time for another deal. I've got my eye on two men, both of whom fit that description. They live up North, and I'm going up to Albuquerque and Santa Fe next week to look up their records. If it's either one of them, Delafield will meet his deserts before he's many days older." Silence fell upon them. Curtis leaned against a pillar of the porch and watched the clouds rising higher over the mountains. "It looks as if the rainy season is about to begin at last," he said in a matter-of-fact way. Homer rose and stood with a hand on his shoulder. They looked so much alike in the moonlight that at a little distance it would have been difficult to say which was the younger and which the elder brother. "I don't need to tell you, Curt," he said in a tone rich with earnest feeling, "how grateful I am for all you've done for me, nor how well I know at what cost to yourself you've done it. You've been father and mother and brother and best friend to me all in one. If I ever do anything worth while the credit will be yours quite as much as mine. You know I'm not ungrateful or unappreciative, don't you, Curt? I can understand how this thing has come to obsess you, since you've explained how it took root in your mind before your ethical ideas were settled. But I can't sympathize with you in this search after vengeance, and I can't approve of what you are planning to do. It seems to me you ought to be able to see things straight by this time and shake off your obsession. If you want to find the man and hand him over to the proper authorities--that's all right; I'd help you in that myself; it's right that he should be punished and made to give up what he has to his creditors. But to take revenge into your own hands, Curt, and to take it at the cost of everything desirable for yourself--why, the thing is so mad that it bewilders me to think it's you that's doing it. I wish I could persuade you to give it up." Curtis shook his head emphatically. "You needn't waste your breath, Homer. I rather hoped you'd understand better how I feel about it, and see the whole affair a little more as it looks to me. But you're different; and if you can't, you can't, and that's all there is about it. But it's useless to try to persuade me to give up my plans. A thing that you've thought about and dreamt about and planned and worked for through fifteen years gets to be part of your very blood, my boy, and it's not so easily cast aside." "Well," said Homer, "you are you; and if you've got to do this thing I suppose it can't be helped." He paused, thinking intently. "But when you go North next week--if one of those men proves to be Delafield--you won't--at once--" He stumbled over his words, unable to put his brother's purpose into plain speech. Curtis took up his meaning. "No; not immediately. I've got to come home again first." "Then you'll be back here before you do anything? That's sure, is it, Curt?" asked Homer, relief in his voice. "Yes; sure. I've got some important business that I promised the Castletons I'd attend to the week after, and I'll take no chances till I get that fixed up for them." The next morning there was a promise of rain in the air and the sky. A dome of pale, bright gray, resting on murky supports of cloud, had taken the place of the usual heaven of vivid blue. But the wind, blowing warm and strong from the west, bore little moisture upon its wings, and the air was laden with an electric tingle that stretched and jarred unaccustomed nerves. Hank Peters and José Gonzalez were working in the corral when Curtis Conrad came across from the door of his room to give them some directions. Presently he asked if they or any of the boys had seen anything lately of the gray wolf that had skulked about the neighborhood earlier in the season. Nosey Ike, they said, had seen it only the day before in the second draw on the road toward Golden. "He did?" exclaimed Curtis. "I'm going to Golden to-day, and perhaps I can get a crack at it. I'll be home by six o'clock, Peters, and I want to talk with you to-night about some work at Adobe Springs to-morrow. But to-day's Sunday, boys, and we've come finally where we can stop and take breath once a week. You fellows can do anything you like to-day." Peters thought he'd sleep all day, for he hadn't caught up since the barbecue; but José wanted to visit a Mexican family who had a little ranch beside a spring on the road to Golden. "All right," said the superintendent. "Take whichever one of the ponies you want, but be sure to get back to-night." "Curt," said Homer when they sat down to breakfast, "if you're not going to use Brown Betty to-day, would you mind if I rode her over to Golden? Or wouldn't you like to go with me? I'm going to call at the Bancrofts' to see if Miss Bancroft has recovered from the shock she had the other night." Curtis hesitated a moment as he poured their coffee, his own plan rising before him invitingly. But he remembered how pleased the two young people had seemed to be with each other and recalled his own resolution: "Let the lad have a fair field," he thought. "Brown Betty? Certainly, Homer," was his reply. "I'll see that she's ready for you. I can't go because I must ride down to Adobe Springs to see about some work the boys must do there to-morrow. Give my regards to the Bancrofts. By the way, Mrs. Ned Castleton gave me a message for Miss Bancroft that I'll let you deliver." As Homer mounted for his journey he cast an anxious glance at the wet-looking clouds against which rose the purple-blue, statuesque masses of the Mogollon Mountains, and asked, "Is it going to rain?" "It will sure rain in the mountains," replied his brother, "if it isn't pouring down by the bucketful there already. There may be a shower in Golden, but the creek will get on the rampage anyway, and maybe carry away some of the bridges. We shan't get any here right away, but it's coming, thank God! I tell you, Homer, it's been a cruel thing to see the cattle dying like flies on account of the drouth. For a while last Spring I thought of throwing up this job, I hated so to see the suffering of the poor brutes." For a while all the man in Curtis Conrad clamored in revolt as he galloped southward across the silent, empty plain and thought of Lucy smiling a welcome from her veranda steps--and not upon him. His love called imperiously, demanding that he make trial of its strength. Should he give up the girl he loved without an effort, even though his rival be his brother? The primeval man in him was quick with the desire to take her in his arms and bear her away from all the world. But it was not long until he was saying grimly to himself, "What have I to do with love-making and winning a wife? The Delafield affair is my business, and I'd better stick to it." He pondered over the conversation with his brother on the previous evening, feeling more keenly Homer's condemnation of his purpose. He remembered that every one with whom he had spoken about the matter had sought to dissuade him. Bancroft disapproved, and had begged him many times to desist. Miss Dent called it unworthy of him. Now his brother, upon whose sympathy he had counted, condemned both his feeling and his intention. Nevertheless, he was surely right. It was easy for them to talk, for they had not suffered from the man's crimes, they had not struggled as he had, and they had not spent years in the effort to find Delafield and cast his sins in his face. But still, his cherished purpose had lost a little of its savor. He thought of his journey northward, which he so ardently hoped would consummate his years of effort and desire, and there was not quite the usual pleasure in his mental forecast. He put the thought of Lucy behind him and went over once more that early struggle and the birth of his purpose, brought more vividly to mind by the talk with Homer, and soon the old ideas and intentions recovered their accustomed sway. By the time he galloped homeward in the late afternoon his indignation was once more hot and seething and his mind full of zest for his approaching journey. He found Homer in the corral unsaddling Brown Betty and humming a college tune. "Say, Curt, I think I'll go hunting to-morrow," said the young man as they walked across to the house. "I want to see if I can't get a shot at that gray wolf you've been telling me about. As I was coming home your Mexican cowboy had sighted it not far from the road, in that valley beyond the hill yonder, and was just about to shoot when I had the bad luck to come along and scare the thing away." Curtis looked up with quick interest. "José? What was he doing? Did he shoot?" "He jumped from his hiding-place just as I came along, so suddenly that the mare shied and nearly threw me. He was just ready to shoot--he said the beast was only a little way down the draw--and saw me barely in time to throw up his revolver and send it off at the sky. By that time, of course, the wolf was out of sight. I'm going back there at daybreak to-morrow to see if I can get a crack at it." Just then Gonzalez came riding into the corral, and Curtis moved his chair to the doorway, in front of his brother. "All right, Homer, I wish you would," he said; "it would be just a tenderfoot's luck, you know, if you should get it." He was rolling a cigarette, but keeping one eye on José, who was caring for his horse. "Was there much rain in Golden to-day?" he asked. "Yes; quite a storm, with lots of fireworks; I never saw such lightning or heard such thunder in my life. There must have been a flood farther up in the mountains, for the creek came down that ravine fairly booming, just as you said it would. It swept away one of the bridges and washed out parts of the foundations of two or three houses. But it soon went down again." "Was the bank building injured?" Curtis asked, still following with narrowed eyes the movements of Gonzalez. "It's in a dangerous spot if a really bad flood ever does come down that valley." "The First National? That's Bancroft's bank, isn't it? Yes; it lost some bricks out of the foundation, and the ground was washed away a little. Nothing of consequence." "Well, that has happened several times already; some of these days it will happen once too often. Long ago, I'm told, the street and sidewalk had to be moved to the other side of the houses for a block or two along there. You remember the creek elbows toward the bank. If a great mass of water ever comes down that canyon it will rush straight against the side of the building--and the lives of whoever happens to be inside won't be worth two switches of a cow's tail." "I talked with Mr. Bancroft about that possibility to-day," said Homer, "and he doesn't think the situation is dangerous." "Yes; nobody in Golden believes there's any danger. And they may be right. They say there isn't as much rain now as there used to be, and that cloud-bursts of any consequence are as rare as six-legged calves. It will all depend on the weather." The next morning José Gonzalez was hitching up to drive the men to Adobe Springs when Conrad walked up, leaned carelessly against the wheel, and looked him in the eye. The Mexican returned the gaze unflinchingly but respectfully. "José," said Curtis in a low tone, "you made a mistake about that wolf last night, didn't you? It wasn't the wolf you thought it was when you made ready to shoot, was it?" An amused gleam lighted for an instant José's sombre eyes. "It might have been as you say, Don Curtis," he answered cautiously. "I don't want any might-have-beens; I want to know if you are making war on my brother as well as on me. It's all right about me, but I won't have anything of the sort where he's concerned. I want the truth, José. Is anything of the kind going to happen again?" Gonzalez looked at Conrad squarely as he earnestly replied: "It was a mistake, Don Curtis; I swear to you it was a mistake. Your brother looks much like you, it was your mare, and you had said you would be back from Golden about that hour. I saw it was Don Homer barely in time. After this I shall be more careful." Conrad grinned at the closing sentence, and the Mexican scarcely repressed an answering smile. "Well, I am going away to-day," said Curtis, "to be gone for several days. So it won't be necessary for you to make any mistakes while I'm gone." José looked up in quick alarm. "You are not going to Don Dellmey?" he exclaimed. "He is not the one who wishes your death!" "What do you say, José?" the other demanded, starting forward eagerly. "I swear to you by the Mother of God, Don Curtis," said the Mexican, with voice intense and manner most earnest, "that it is not Señor Baxter who desires your death." "Are you speaking the truth, José?" "I will swear it on the crucifix, Don Curtis!" Conrad gazed at him steadfastly, and the conviction entered his mind that Gonzalez was speaking the truth. A look of puzzled wonder overspread his face. "In the name of God, then, who is it?" he said, half aloud. The Mexican shrugged a shoulder and turned away. "Who can it be?" the manager repeated, to himself, but still loud enough for the other to hear. "It must be Delafield!" he exclaimed. José's ear caught the words, and he listened as his employer went on: "He knows I'm after him, and he's trying to kill me first. If I could only make this _coyote_ greaser tell me who his _patron_ is, I'd know who Delafield is. I'd like to choke it out of you, you son of perdition!" He looked so fiercely at Gonzalez that the Mexican took a threatening step forward. "You needn't worry," Conrad exclaimed contemptuously. "I know you wouldn't tell, even if I choked the life out of you trying to make you peach. It's your _patron_ I'm after." José stooped to hitch the traces, and Curtis broke out impulsively: "I say, José, what makes you do this sort of thing? You're as square as they make 'em in most things; why do you go into this damned rattlesnake business?" Gonzalez looked up with a confiding smile. "The _patron_ wishes it; and why not? If I kill a man he gets me off if he can, and then that is all right. If he can't, I pay for it in prison--and that is fair." "Huh!" grunted the superintendent as he walked away. "So you think you are going to pay for me that way, do you? Well, I guess not!" The same train that carried Conrad northward to Santa Fe carried also a brief and hurried letter to Dellmey Baxter which José Gonzalez had found time to write before he and the rest started for Adobe Springs, mailing it as they passed White Rock station. "You will see Señor Conrad in Santa Fe," the Congressman read in his office the next morning, "but you need not be anxious. I have sworn to him that it is not you who desires his death, and he believes me. I heard him speak to himself, and he said it must be Delafeel who wishes him dead. He said he would like to choke out of me who my _patron_ is, for then he would know who Delafeel is. Don Curtis is a very brave man. I like him much." Baxter chuckled over the closing sentences as he tore the letter into bits. Poking them musingly with a fat forefinger he thought: "It's a sure bet that his _patron_ just now is Aleck Bancroft; and that makes it look as if Aleck might be this mysterious Delafeel--I'll have to find out who Delafeel is and what he's done some time or other; then I sure reckon I'll have a cinch on Aleck that will keep him from trying to step into my shoes as long as I want him to keep out." He looked out of his window into the little tree-filled plaza, cool and green in the morning sunlight, and saw Curtis Conrad walking across it from the hotel on the other side. He took a six-shooter from his pocket, made sure of its cartridges, and replaced it. From a drawer in his desk he took another, examined its chambers, and laid it on his desk, under an open newspaper. A moment later he was rising from his chair with outstretched hand and beaming smile. "Why, how do you do, Mr. Conrad! I'm sure glad to see you. How did you leave things down in old Silverside? That was a high old time we had at the barbecue, wasn't it? Have the Castletons gone yet? A fine figure of a woman is Mrs. Turner Castleton! And I tell you right now it was a great shave she gave me!" The Honorable Dellmey Baxter rubbed his cheek, and chuckled. But his right hand rested on his desk, close beside the newspaper which he had apparently just thrown down. "Mr. Baxter," said Conrad, ignoring the stream of questions and remarks, "some weeks ago I wrote you, saying frankly that I believed you responsible for attempts against my life, made by a Mexican who had come from you to me. I find myself mistaken, and I have come to apologize to you for my suspicions." "That's all right, Curt, that's all right!" Baxter broke in, relief apparent in his countenance. "I'll admit I felt hurt by your insinuations, but as long as you've found out you were wrong and are willing to do me the justice of saying so, it's not worth speaking of again." "Understand," Curtis went on, "that I'm not taking back or apologizing for anything else I've said about you, and I'm still shouting for Johnny Martinez for Congress." "Johnny is to be congratulated for having your support," Baxter rejoined genially; "I wish I could get it away from him. Has that measly greaser made any more attempts on your life, my dear Conrad? You're too good a citizen for the Territory to lose in that way." Curtis smiled carelessly. "I don't think my life is in any danger. No damned greaser will get the chance to stick me in the back when I've got both eyes shut and one foot tucked up in my feathers, if I'm onto his game. I don't care anything about José; it's his _patron_ I'm after." "His _patron_!" exclaimed Baxter in apparent surprise. "You don't mean to say that José's got a _patron_ in that business!" His visitor nodded and the Congressman went on: "You don't say so! I didn't suppose you had an enemy in the Territory. This is interesting! We must get at the bottom of this, Mr. Conrad, for we can't afford to lose you. Have you any idea who's behind the greaser?" Curtis considered a moment. He might get some information from Baxter that would help him; it would do no harm to speak cautiously. "Yes, and no, Mr. Baxter. I know who he used to be, but I don't know who he is now. His name used to be Delafield, back in the States." "Delafield--Delafield," mused Baxter. He had got the conversation where he wanted it. "I don't remember having heard that name in New Mexico." "That hasn't been his name for a good many years. Don't you remember the Delafield affair in Boston, some fifteen years ago--Sumner L. Delafield, who made a big spread in the financial world, defaulted, and ran away?" "Why, of course!" The Congressman brought his fat fist down on the table with a thump. "The Delafield affair! Yes; I remember it, and how Delafield slid out and covered up his tracks completely. And you say he's living in New Mexico now?" "Yes; he's a rich, prominent, and respected citizen of New Mexico. But I haven't discovered which one of 'em, and he doesn't want me to find out. My father lost all he had in the smash." They talked a little longer, and Curtis learned enough about the history of the two men he had in mind to be satisfied that neither of them was the one he sought. After Conrad went away, Baxter leaned back and folded his hands across his waist-coat, his left eyelid drooping and his face beaming with smiles. "Now," he thought, "I've got Aleck Bancroft exactly where he can do me the most good!" CHAPTER XXI THE SILENT DUEL As July sped on Homer Conrad's visits to Golden grew more and more frequent. When Curtis returned from his northern journey, still ignorant of Delafield's identity, Homer was greatly relieved, and tried once more to dissuade his brother. "Anyway, Curt," he urged, "don't do anything more about it now. Let it rest a while, and think about it more coolly and carefully; you'll see how foolish it is if you do that." As Curtis did not mention the subject again, he concluded that his advice had been taken and that there was no reason for immediate anxiety. His mind at rest on that score, he devoted himself more than ever to Lucy Bancroft. He talked of her so much to his brother that Curtis soon saw how complete was his absorption. "I guess they're hitting it off together all right," he concluded. Curtis Conrad tried to accustom himself to the idea of Lucy as his brother's wife. It cost him many a painful twinge, and once the rebellious thought came into his mind, "If it hadn't been for the Delafield affair I might--" But a little shock, as if he had fallen away from some ideal or been guilty of an irreverence, stopped the notion. Now and then, too, he had misgivings as to what Lucy would think of him if she knew. He shrank from the feeling that her condemnation would be as unsparing as his brother's, with more of horror and disgust. For the first time he began to think about what might lie beyond that longed-for meeting with Delafield. One day, musing upon Homer and Lucy, he had a sudden vision of himself as a commiserated kinsman, and smiled grimly as he reflected, "It might be a good thing for them if I got my quietus in the scrimmage." These signs of a change slowly going on within him sometimes came as a flash of feeling, while again the thoughts induced held him for hours. The emotion that had so powerfully rushed over him when he first realized his love for Lucy had jarred his grip upon his purpose; and afterward intimate daily association with his brother and knowledge of the young man's severe disapproval united to move him now and then from his old point of view and to give him brief visitations of more wholesome feeling. If his love for Lucy, so suddenly realized, had met with no check, it alone might have been enough in time to turn him from his plans. A man of his temperament cannot be fired by two enthusiasms at the same time. He must give himself wholly to his absorbing desire. Since at the core Conrad's nature was sound and sweet, it is likely that after a little his love would have overmastered his desire for revenge. But Lucy's flirtation with his brother, induced by pique and disappointment at his constant association with Mrs. Ned Castleton, and Homer's prompt infatuation had led him to believe that the two younger people were in love with each other. Consequently he did his best to restrain his own feelings, and so limited their check upon the older sentiment. Francisquita little knew, or would ever guess, what grave consequences were flowing from her innocent effort to keep her sister-in-law within bounds. But for that the outcome of the Delafield affair would have been "another story." Conrad returned from Santa Fe much disappointed by the failure of the clews that had promised so much. He debated whether it would be worth while to try to compel Gonzalez to disclose the name of his employer should the Mexican attack him again. He was doubtful of the success of such a plan, for he believed José as likely to give up his life as his secret. Nevertheless, he decided it would be worth trying. For several weeks after his return it chanced that whenever he went from home it was with Peters or some of the men, while there was always somebody about the corral and the house. He knew Gonzalez was watching him constantly, awaiting the moment when they should be alone. Toward the end of July he made up his mind to provide the opportunity and bring matters to a focus. On the day he reached this decision his brother returned from Golden looking dejected. "They've quarrelled," was Curtis's inward comment. He said nothing, nor did Homer mention Lucy's name, contrary to his custom of talking much about her after a day in her society. He was also less talkative than usual upon other subjects. During the evening, while Curtis read, Homer sat by the open door and smoked in gloomy silence, listening to the pouring rain and the rolling and echoing thunder. He was wondering, half in lover's anger and half in lover's downheartedness, why Lucy had been so unreasonable that day, and why she had acted as if she did not care whether he came or stayed away. Well, he would not trouble her with his company again very soon. He and Pendleton had been talking about a camping and hunting trip in the Mogollon Mountains, and he would see if they couldn't get up the party and go at once. The next morning a sky of pure, deep, brilliant blue shone over a freshening, greening plain. Homer rose from the breakfast table and walked out into the corral, throwing back his shoulders and breathing deeply of the dry, cool, exhilarating air. It seemed a different world from that of yesterday. There was no hurry about the camping trip, after all. "I think I'll ride over to Golden," he said to his brother, "and see if that storm last night did much damage. It looked black in the mountains when I was coming home in the afternoon, and a bad flood may have come down the ravine." Curtis smiled quizzically. A certain eager masterfulness in the young man's air brought to his mind conviction of the real purport of his brother's errand, and he felt no doubt of its result. "A good idea," he assented. "It was a bad storm and may have done a lot of harm. But I'll have to use Brown Betty myself to-day. You can have your pick of the others." He stood by and called out, "Good luck, old fellow!" as Homer mounted his horse, and laughed and swung his sombrero as the other turned away a blushing face. Curtis gazed after him, a swift vision filling his mind of the look that countenance would wear when he returned to tell him proudly that he had won Lucy's promise to be his wife. "And by that time I'm going to know who Delafield is," he thought, his lips compressed, as he turned quickly into the corral. "José," he called, "I want you to go to Adobe Springs this morning and see if any of the cattle are mired in the overflow from the storm last night. Then deepen the outlet so the water will all be carried away. You'd better start at once. I'll come after you in about half an hour and show you about digging out the outlet." As Gonzalez mounted his horse at the corral gate he looked back and saw Conrad standing beside his mare, making her hunt through his pockets for sugar. "A brave man is Don Curtis," his thoughts ran. "He is so brave it does not seem right that he must die. But--" and he shrugged his shoulders with the air of one who says, "What would you?" When José was well out of sight Conrad started after him, at first at a slower pace than usual. His mind was not upon the expected encounter, with its doubtful issue, nor upon the information, so long and ardently desired, that he hoped to extort from the Mexican. A month previous he would have been intent on that one thing, his thoughts absorbed in it, and his heart on fire with anticipation. Now he dwelt upon the idea of marriage between Lucy and Homer. "The lad's a better man than I," he was thinking. "There's more in him, and ten years from now I shan't be able to stack up alongside of him and make any showing at all--even if I'm not in prison or hanged by the neck until dead long before." He bared his brow, curiously white above the rest of his sunburned face, to the south wind. His lips tightened and his eyes glowed as he looked out over the gray road stretching before him, while his inward vision flashed down the grim and lonely path that led into the future. It was the way he had chosen, the one he had travelled with eager feet for fifteen years, and he must follow it to the end. A few miles farther on that gray track, perhaps just beyond that next hill, the longed-for knowledge was awaiting him. He would force it from Gonzalez, and then--Delafield! The thought fired his heart once more and his eyes blazed with the old indignation as his mind went back to the grief and loss of his early years, to that lonely night of hate and anger when his deadly purpose was born. He touched Brown Betty with his spur, quickening her pace to a smart gallop as he searched the road and plain with ardent eyes. His heart was bounding forward with anticipation, the savor of longed-for vengeance once more strong in his throat. In front of him lay a wide, shallow valley, with steep, storm-torn rims and brows shaggy with mesquite. "I reckon, Betty B.," he said aloud, "it's about time to be looking for José, and this draw seems a likely sort of place for him." He drew his revolver, glanced at its chambers, held it across the pommel in his right hand, and made sure of the handful of cartridges he had put in his pocket on leaving home. Brown Betty cantered across the bottom of the valley and, as she climbed the steep bank on the other side, lifted her head and neighed. From somewhere in the distance came an answering whinny. "It's one of our horses," thought Conrad. At the hilltop he carefully searched the plain; a little way down the road, beside a clump of bushes, he saw a riderless horse. He chuckled. "José's sure hiding out around there somewhere," was his instant conviction. His head was high, his eyes flashing, and his face set in hard lines as he started the mare forward at a brisk trot. His gaze travelled toward the other horse, studying every bunch of mesquite and questioning every clump of amole and yucca that grew between. His eye caught the motion of branches in a tall, spreading thicket of mesquite a hundred yards away, not far from the road. They swayed against the wind for a moment, trembled back and forth, and then bent before the breeze like their fellows. The growth was dense, but behind it he could distinguish the outlines of a darker mass, and an instant later he saw a tiny flash of light reflected from some small, bright object. "That must be the sun on his gun-sight," said Curtis, "and I reckon it's time to prepare for war." Dismounting, he threw the mare's bridle over her neck. "No; she'll follow me," he thought, "and she doesn't need to mix up in the Delafield affair." His eye still on the suspicious clump of bushes, Conrad fastened the mare to an outreaching mesquite limb at the roadside. "This is a better place for you, Brown Betty, nice old girl," he said, reaching back to pat her neck as she nickered after him. His pistol in his hand and his vision holding the dark object behind the feathery green plumes of the mesquite, he went on briskly until he had covered half the distance between them. Then he saw the object move cautiously a little to one side, where the leaves were not so thick. Plainly visible now were the straw sombrero, the dusky face below it, the outline of the body, and the revolver held steadily between the branches. Half a dozen strides more, and he fixed his eyes upon those of Gonzalez, dark and brilliant, gleaming through the scant, fern-like foliage like two coals of brown fire. Conrad's six-shooter pointed straight between them as he walked slowly toward the bush. He knew that José's was levelled at his breast. Revolver cocked and finger at trigger he came on, his eyes holding those of the Mexican. José's pistol hand he disregarded, trusting to his perception of the change, the instant's flash of decision, that would light Gonzalez's face when he pulled the trigger. He knew that, should he stumble or miss his footing and so give advantage, or should any hesitation show in face or eye, that second would the Mexican's bullet fly for his heart. It was Curtis's intention not to hurt José unless the need became imperative. Therefore he did not fire, but came silently on, and Gonzalez stood, silent and still, behind the sheltering bush, each with pistol cocked and held at steady aim, the gaze of each holding insistently that of the other. It was a silent duel of eyes, of wills behind the eyes, of purposes behind the wills, and of temperament behind the purposes. "Will he never shoot?" Conrad asked himself once and again as he approached. "A brave man! A brave man!" was José's thought as he watched that steady advance, secure in his own advantage. Curtis came on with resolute step--fifteen yards, a dozen yards, ten yards. Barely a score of feet separated the muzzles of the two revolvers, and still the blue eyes and the brown stared into each other with dauntless challenge. "Why doesn't he shoot?" thought José. "A brave, bold man! It is a pity to kill him." "A moment more, and I'll have him!" exulted Conrad. Fifteen feet, twelve feet, ten feet--still the space between them lessened, and still the silence was unbroken and their guns at unchanging aim. Another step, and Curtis saw José's eyes waver; another, and heard him draw a little, gasping breath. He saw irresolution flash across the Mexican's face, saw his finger leave the trigger, his right arm tremble, and drop to his side. Conrad felt cold sweat break out over his body and there was a loud buzzing in his ears. Yet neither in face nor eyes was there a sign that he had seen any change. With his gaze still fixed on the other's downcast lids, he moved sidewise around the bush, and stood beside Gonzalez. "Give me your gun, butt first," he commanded in a low, tense voice. José raised his eyes to meet the muzzle of the gun looking blankly between his brows. "You can take it if you like, Don Curtis," he said unsteadily. "I am not going to shoot you. Here it is." "Now," said Curtis, pointing both guns at José's head, "tell me the name of the man who hired you to kill me." The Mexican started in surprise. He shrugged his shoulders, looked at the guns again, shuffled his feet uneasily. "Don Curtis, how can I?" he exclaimed in a reproachful tone. "You should not ask that question. It is not fair." "Neither was it fair for you to try to stick me in the back before I was onto your game. So we're even now, as you told me once before. You've got to tell! I don't want to kill you, José; but, by God! I will, if you don't give up that man's name. I'll give you one minute to think it over; and if you don't speak out then, I'll blow your head off." Gonzalez sent one searching glance into Conrad's set face, and dropped sullen eyes to the ground. He knew there was only one thing to do if he wished to live. For half the minute he stared downward, then looked blankly up at Curtis. "Fifteen seconds more," said the stern voice. His face worked, his lips opened and closed again. Then he seemed to gather himself together for the unwilling effort, and the words fairly rushed from his mouth: "It is your friend, Señor Bancroft." "What!" exclaimed Curtis, in a voice that had sunk back into his throat. Gonzalez repeated his words. Conrad leaned forward, white with anger, and thrust the two revolvers close to the other's face. "José," he said slowly, in hard, sharp tones, "a little while ago a man told me that. I shook him as if he'd been a dog and told him that he lied. I ask you once more, the last time, who is it?" Gonzalez threw back his head, crossed his arms, and looked his antagonist angrily in the eye. "I am not a liar, Don Curtis," he said proudly. "I may kill sometimes, if my _patron_ wishes. But I do not lie." He placed the muzzle of one of the pistols against his heart. "I have told you the truth, Señor Conrad," he went on. "I swear to you, by the Mother of God, that I could not say different if you pulled that trigger now." Conrad trembled and his white face went suddenly crimson. "It is hard to believe," he said; but he lowered the pistols. "I know you are not a liar, José, and you seem to be speaking the truth. You understand, don't you," he added in a tone almost apologetic, "that it is hard for me to believe what you say?" "It is the truth, señor." Curtis put his own pistol away, and looked thoughtfully at the other. "José," he said, "I shall have to think about this thing. In the meantime I'm going to keep your gun." "As you like, Don Curtis," replied Gonzalez, indifferently. "I shall do nothing more. To-morrow I shall ask for my time." Conrad eyed him keenly. "Well, then, here's your gun. Go on to Adobe Springs and do the work, as I told you. To-morrow morning, if you want it, you can have your time." José took the gun, turned the cylinder, and one by one dropped the bullets to the ground. "It is ended, Don Curtis," he said. Mounting his horse, he galloped down the road. CHAPTER XXII REFLECTION AND REACTION Conrad stood still and stared at the Mexican's lessening figure, galloping down the road. Presently he walked across to his mare, stroked her nose, and said softly, "By God! Betty B.!" For some minutes he gazed at her abstractedly, swearing under his breath, and now and then muttering, "Aleck! Aleck Bancroft!" Coherent thought was not yet possible. He felt that José had told him the truth, and yet he could not believe it; between the opposing convictions his mind lay dazed and inactive. He mounted and turned Brown Betty's nose toward home, riding at a foot-pace with his head down and his attention all indrawn. For a mile or two the mare plodded on quietly. At last, resenting the lack of the companionable attentions her master was accustomed to bestow upon her when they rode alone, she snorted several times and switched her tail vigorously, flicking his legs. There was no response. She whinnied softly, waited a little, and tried it again. Still her rider was silent. So she stopped, lifted her head, and neighed loudly. Conrad aroused himself. "What is it, Betty?" he said, looking searchingly around the plain. Nothing was in sight save its usual silent habitants. He dismounted, and examined her anxiously. She nipped him playfully, nickered gently, and poked her nose into his coat pocket. "Betty B., you're a rogue!" he exclaimed, pulling her ear. "You're just lonesome and want me to talk to you! My, but you're spoiled!" He stroked her neck affectionately, then suddenly leaned against her, buried his face in her mane, and a single deep breath that was half a sob shook his body. "Betty!" he muttered, "to find that your best friend is the damnedest villain that ever went unhung!" The little episode with the mare broke up the paralysis that staggering surprise had set upon both thought and feeling. As he mounted again his heart was hot and his mind working rapidly. "The damned villain!" he exclaimed savagely, "to be pretending such friendship with me when he knew what he had done!" He spurred Brown Betty to a gallop. The tyrannous habit of mind engendered by long-wonted thought and desire urged him on to face at once the man who had despoiled his father and deprived him of his birthright. The old anger and hate surged over him, and his pulses beat swift and hard. For a while he forgot the personality of the enemy he had run to earth at last. Through his set teeth came whispered curses of hatred and contempt, and his tongue clung to the shameful epithets he longed to throw in the fellow's face. Not fast enough could he ride to keep pace with his desire. Revenge, so long fed with hope and promise, was calling to be sated. "Faster, Betty, faster!" he called to the mare, spurring her on. But the very violence of his mood presently induced the beginning of reaction. He remembered who it was that he was riding so fast to expose and strike down. "Aleck! Aleck Bancroft!" he murmured, and slowed the mare's racing feet. The tenderness and loyalty of friendship raised still, small voices in his heart. Once again the thing staggered him. It seemed incredible. In the depths of his heart was conviction that José Gonzalez had told him the truth. But could he go to his best friend with such a charge, to taunt, insult, and challenge to death, on the word of a Mexican assassin? The idea repelled him. And he was glad of the misgiving, unwilling to believe that the quest he had followed with such eager determination was leading him to the door of Alexander Bancroft. "I ought--I ought to have confirmation, I suppose," he said to himself, uncertainly. And so, still undecided, feeling that it was truth and yet unwilling to believe, he came to the gate of his own corral. After he had unsaddled and stabled Brown Betty, he went through the kitchen for a drink of water from the big _olla_, wrapped in a wet coffee sack, that stood always in the drying wind and the shade of a tree beside the door. Mrs. Peters came in from the store-room with a panful of potatoes. "Hank had to go to White Rock this morning," she said, "and he brought some mail for you. It's on your desk." Conrad passed through the series of rooms, opening one out of another, to the front. On his desk lay some papers and a single letter. "Littleton!" he exclaimed as he hastily tore it open. He read: "MY DEAR CURT:--I have at last got for you the information we've been searching for so long." His eyes eagerly rushed over the next few lines. "I have satisfied myself that the man we've been trailing all these years is Alexander Bancroft, a banker and prominent man in New Mexico, who lives at Golden,--is that place anywhere near you?--and for a number of years has been considered one of the most solid, upright, and influential citizens of your Territory." The letter dropped from Curtis's fingers and his heart gave a great thump that sent the blood in a crimson wave over his face. "My God, then, it's true!" he said aloud, and sat for a moment gazing at the letter in the same stupefied way he had looked after Gonzalez's retreating figure. A grim smile twisted the corners of his mouth as he read on. "You may know him. Delafield's history as we've got it now makes his case one of those curious romances of detective work whose equal could hardly be found in fiction. We missed long ago the clew that would have led us to success, in those gaps in his trail we never tried to fill, because we came upon his tracks again so easily a little later. While working on another case recently I had occasion to look through an omnibus bill passed years ago by an Arizona legislature. It contained an astonishing ruck of things, and among them was a section authorizing William J. Brown to change his name to Alexander Bancroft. I knew that William J. Brown was one of the names under which Delafield had once traded in mines down there, and that, when we next found him after he had dropped that name, it was as John Smith, when he went down into old Mexico with John Mason Hardy. This name of Bancroft, sandwiched in there, and with such pains to legalize it, when we had found no track of it elsewhere, made me prick up my ears. I looked deeper into the matter and found that he had used this name of Bancroft only when he went to visit his wife and daughter, who lived most of the time in San Francisco or Denver, and were known by that name. When last we had track of the man, before I ran across Rutherford Jenkins, it was, you will remember, as Henry C. Williams, and then we lost all trace of him. That was because he went then on a visit to his wife and daughter in Denver and stayed there for some months. He had made a good clean-up about that time and increased it by some lucky trading on the Denver stock exchange. Then he went to New Mexico, kept the name of Bancroft, engaged in other business as well as mining, and settled down to be a permanent citizen. "I congratulate you upon the successful termination of our long chase. I understand Bancroft is a man of considerable property and I hope you will be able to make him disgorge some of the goods he stole so long ago. I have written this much hurriedly, just to give you an outline of my discoveries at once. But I have all the necessary proofs, and whenever you want to bring the case to trial they are at your service." Conrad folded the letter carefully, and put it in his pocket. He sat quite still, whispering "Aleck! Aleck Bancroft!" Presently his face went red again and starting up he hurried into the corral and threw the saddle again upon Brown Betty. Outside the gate, scarcely looking which way he went, he headed the mare toward Golden and galloped away, across the hills, and into the distance. He never knew just where or how far he rode that day. Afterward he remembered that sometimes he had galloped along a road and sometimes across the trackless plain, that sometimes he had found himself urging Betty to her utmost speed and again had traversed miles at a walk or had stood for a long time stock-still. When he left the house the old idea that had enthralled him so long was clamoring in his heart. That may have been why, unconsciously, he rode at first down the road toward Golden. "It was not enough for him to take all my father had, life as well as money, and to make me drudge through my youth, but now he must set a hired killer upon me to stick me in the back!" So galloped his angry thought as Brown Betty's hoofs sped over the ground toward Bancroft's home. "Why didn't he come out in the open like a man and tell me who he was, and let us fight it out on the square? To send a man to live under my roof, and hire him to rope me, or stick me, or shoot me from ambush! And to pretend to be my good friend all the time! Coward! Thief! Murderer!" Then, somehow, through his seething mind, for the first time came the remembrance of Lucy, and quickly followed the idea that perhaps Bancroft had gone about it in this secret way to save her from all knowledge of his disgraceful past. He checked Brown Betty's gallop to a walk. "He knew I was after him, hot-foot," now ran Curtis's thought, "and he sure had the right to head me off if he could. But he ought to have done it on the square!" He remembered the warnings Bancroft had given him about Gonzalez and about the danger of pursuing Delafield, and chuckled unmirthfully. "I reckon he was squaring himself to his own conscience," he said aloud. Conrad looked about him and saw that he was on the road to Golden. Then came the flashing idea that he was on his way to kill Lucy's father. Instantly his feeling revolted. Whirling the mare's head he struck off across the plain to the eastward and after some miles struck the road to Randall. By that time he was pondering painfully the matter of Lucy and Homer. That evening, without doubt, Homer would come home, proud and happy, and tell him that he and Lucy were engaged. And this would be his wedding present to the girl he loved and the brother he had cared for almost since babyhood--the dead body of her father! Then came pelting back the memory of his own wrongs, and Brown Betty was sent scudding down the road as remembrance and habit again lashed his heart. He turned about and raced back along the road toward Golden, hot with the old memories and sore with the newly discovered duplicity of his friend. "Even if I don't kill him," he thought, "I'll tell him what he is! I'll throw his villainy and his cowardice in his face! I'll tell him he's a sneak and a coward, and to draw if he dares!" His imagination rushed on through the scene and showed him, at the end, Bancroft's bleeding body at his feet. With a shudder he wheeled the mare abruptly, turned from the road, and went galloping across the plain to the south. He began to understand that he could not kill Lucy's father. A sudden bright recollection came to him of how she looked that Spring afternoon when she and Bancroft had stopped at the ranch; how she turned to him in the wind, holding her wide hat down beside her face, and said gayly, "I assure you, Mr. Conrad, the most superior quality of father to be found anywhere in the United States!" And Bancroft seemed as fond of her as she was of him. Yes; there was unusual love and devotion between them. Brown Betty was walking more slowly now; and after a while Curtis realized that she was standing still in the middle of the plain with the road nowhere in sight. And at the same time it was borne in upon him that he did not wish to kill Lucy's father, that the idea had become repugnant to him. He turned to seek the road, saying to himself, "What, then, shall I do?" The wish was still strong within him to make Delafield suffer punishment for his misdeeds, to make him atone by his own suffering for all that Conrad himself had suffered. There was still the law. "Homer said he would help me if I wanted to go at it that way," thought Curtis. That recollection helped his self-justification for a moment, then his thoughts went on: "But of course he wouldn't do anything of the sort now; and he wouldn't want me to, either." It occurred to him that such a course as that would bring to Lucy as much pain as would her father's death. She was so proud of him and believed in him so thoroughly. "It would break her heart if she knew all this about his past," he decided. Homer, too, how deeply hurt he would be to have Lucy's father disgraced and Lucy herself made utterly wretched! "The lad would never forgive me," he muttered. Presently he was telling himself that Lucy must never be made to suffer the shame and unhappiness of such a disclosure. Nor should Homer ever know the truth about Delafield's identity. He must be able to love and respect his wife's father. With a loving smile Conrad recalled some of Lucy's indignant remarks about Baxter's dealings with the Mexicans of the Rio Grande valley, and saw again her winsome look as she tossed her curly head and her brown eyes sparkled. Then quickly came the self-questioning: What would she think of him if she knew the purpose that had been animating him all his life? Whether it was her father he had tracked or another, how horrified she would be if she knew she had made such a man her friend! He blushed crimson, and pricked the mare to a faster pace. The old longing for revenge, the old belief in the rightfulness of his course, the old sense of satisfaction in his purpose--it was all dying hard, but he had come to where he could see it as it looked to others. He began to feel ashamed. Still, it was difficult to give up the feeling that Delafield should be made to suffer some sort of retaliation for the wrongs he had inflicted upon others. Conrad pondered it as he rode aimlessly about, still smarting under the thought of Bancroft's deception during the last few months. He might go to the banker and have it all out by word of mouth. But as he considered that course with cool mind he reached a pretty firm conviction that shots from one or the other, or both, would end the interview. Bancroft was not likely to submit tamely to insult from him. And much shame and sorrow for Lucy and Homer would result. He did not want them to suffer. His head lifted and his lips tightened. "I'll give up the whole thing before I'll let it cloud their happiness," he said aloud. Then he fell to thinking why Bancroft had tried to strike him down secretly. "I reckon he was doing his best to head me off in a way that would save him from disclosure and prevent Lucy from knowing anything about it," he thought. "Well, I can't blame him for wanting to keep it dark, at this stage of the game. But--why didn't he come and tell me, like a man!" Suddenly he began to recall the sort of things about Delafield and his own expectations that he had been accustomed to say to Bancroft, and smiled grimly. "Lord! I think likely I've given him some pretty bad minutes! And I reckon what I said didn't invite his confidence. Good God, what a life the man must have lived all these years! It must have been plain hell since he's known I was on his track and has had to listen to the things I've said!" Compassion for the man he had hounded and, all unknowingly, had so often reviled to his face, began to soften Curtis's heart. He thought of all the years of wandering, the frequent change of name, the ups and downs of fortune, the devious and sometimes crooked ways through which he had traced Delafield, and again he exclaimed aloud: "Good God, what a life! He must all the time have been wanting to get back where he could be settled and respectable! But he didn't dare try it while he was afraid of detection and punishment. And finally he believed he'd got there, I reckon, and was preparing to be happy with his daughter--and then I came along!" Again he mused, for a long time, while the mare took her own pace. At last he lifted his head and said aloud: "I guess he's had his share of punishment after all; and I've been responsible for a lot of it. Sumner L. Delafield, we'll call it quits!" Brown Betty was standing still in the middle of the road. The sun was dropping down the west, toward masses of sparkling, fleecy white clouds that piled the horizon high. Ten miles away he could see the green groves of Socorro Springs and the white glimmer of the buildings. He drew a long breath and looked alertly about. The load he had carried so many years had slipped from his back. No longer had he any desire for revenge, and in his heart glowed compassion rather than hatred for the man he had tracked with such determination. He felt a curious exhilaration as he sat there looking about him, while the mare shifted her weight from one foot to another. "Well, Betty B.," he said, patting her neck, "you and I have had a devil of a time to-day, haven't we, old girl? But we've come through all right, thank God! And nobody is ever going to know a word about it, Betty; so don't you give it away. We're going home now, and you shall have the best supper we can find." At the ranch his first inquiry was for Homer. The young man had returned an hour before. Surprised that he was not in beaming evidence, Curtis went in search of him and found him in his own room, bending over his trunk, his belongings scattered about as if a cyclone had been swirling within the four walls. "Why, Homer," exclaimed Curtis, stopping in astonishment at the door, "what are you doing?" Homer lifted a dismal face. "I'm packing up. I'm going away." "Why, lad, what's the matter? I thought--" Curtis stopped, hesitating and embarrassed. Homer energetically jammed some books into a corner of the trunk, and from its depths took up the unfinished sentence. "Yes; so did I. That is--I hoped. But it wasn't so. She--she says she's never going to leave her father--that he needs her--that she's always going to stay with him." "Yes," said Curtis, lamely; "I know she's very devoted to him." He stopped; Homer went on with his packing. "I--I suppose, lad," the elder brother stumbled on, in kindly tone, "it hurts now, but--you'll get over it after a while." There was silence again while Homer threw a litter of neckties, collars, and handkerchiefs into his trunk. "I'd like you to stay here all Summer with me," Conrad went on presently, "but if you think you'd be more comfortable somewhere else, it's all right. I understand." Homer looked up. "I'm going to Denver. I've got a classmate up there whose father I know will give me a job till college opens next Fall." Curtis walked out into the corral and leaned upon the gate. Would there be a chance for him, then? Likely not, for she had surely shown more favor to his brother than to him. But he would try. His heart rose at the possibility. Yes, he would try. He looked at his brown, sinewy hands and thought of Lucy's little white ones lying in them. "Thank God, they're free from blood!" he said to himself with solemn gladness. Then the crimson dyed his face. Even if Lucy cared for him, which he hardly dared to hope, would she marry a man who had so long guided his life by such purposes as he had cherished? "But I'll tell her," he thought with grim determination, "just how bloody-minded I've been. It will likely spoil my chance--if I have any--but she must first know just what I am. I'll tell her all about it, without giving a hint of who the man is that I've followed. And after that--well, I'll feel that I've been square about it, anyway." The sun was setting, and the whole sky was ablaze with its glory. The fleecy white clouds of two hours before, which had mounted higher and multiplied themselves many times, had become mountains of glowing color, masses of sea-shell tints, wide expanses of pink and pearly gray, hearts and beckoning hands of flame. Curtis gazed at the glowing kaleidoscope of the heavens, feeling its gorgeous beauty mingle with the thankfulness that filled his heart. It was good to be done with all those old ideas and feelings and to have come out of it without ruining anybody else's life. Through the crimson and purple lights and shadows that enveloped the plain he saw Gonzalez galloping up the road, a fine, graceful, centaur-like figure. "José," said Conrad as Gonzalez entered the corral, and his tone struck the Mexican as being unusually gentle, "I know that you spoke the truth to me this morning. But what you told me shall go no further. Mr. Bancroft shall never know that you told me, and neither he nor anybody else shall suffer harm because of it. There is no longer any need of a feud between you and me, and I wish you would stay and work for me. It isn't every day that I can get hold of a cowboy that knows enough to hit the ground with his hat in three throws." José smiled, and shook his head. "No, Don Curtis. I like you much, and you are a very brave man. You are a braver man than I am. But to-morrow I am going back to Santa Fe." "Well, then, if you won't stay I'll give you your time whenever you want it. But, I say, José, why don't you give up this rattlesnake business? You're on the level every other way; and you're too good a fellow to discredit all your race with this sort of work when you could be a first-class cowboy if you wanted to." The Mexican looked at him with a wondering smile, shook his head, and went on into the corral. Conrad strolled to the little porch at his front door, stood there a moment watching the sunset colors; then, with his head in the air, went inside and sat down at his desk. He began a letter to Rutherford Jenkins: "I have found that you told me the truth in that interview we had in your room in the hotel at Albuquerque some months ago. I do not know by what mysterious dispensation of Providence this strange thing happened, but I acknowledge now that it was the truth. I still maintain, however, that my final remark to you on that occasion was absolutely correct. "I suppose you have been using this information about Mr. Bancroft's previous life to blackmail him. I advise you to stop it and to let him alone hereafter. If you don't, I tell you right now that you will surely wish you had. I shall take pains to find out whether or not you heed my warning, and if you don't I promise you that you will soon be able to sympathize with a skunk after a cowboy has thrown at it a can of oil and a blazing stick. "Yours truly, "CURTIS CONRAD." CHAPTER XXIII LOVE TO THE RESCUE A clerk brought the morning mail, and as Alexander Bancroft took the handful of letters, his eye caught the handwriting of Rutherford Jenkins. Apprehension seized him. Had that creature found some new screw he could turn? His hand trembled as he tore open the envelope. For a moment he felt distinct relief when he found nothing more than a demand for additional money. Jenkins reminded him that the first of August was approaching, and added that he was obliged to ask for double the amount he had previously received on the first of the month. The feeling of thankfulness that the letter contained nothing worse passed quickly, as he realized that he would be afraid to refuse the demand, that he would not dare to refuse anything Jenkins might ask. The full weight of his chains was upon him, and he swore between set teeth as he tore the letter angrily into bits and dashed them into the waste-basket. Impotent rebellion was still smouldering in his eyes when a knock came at his door and Dellmey Baxter entered. The Congressman's round, smooth face was beaming and his fat hand grasped Bancroft's with hearty greeting. But the droop of his left eyelid was marked and his gray eyes were cold and hard. They had a prolonged conference about the various enterprises in which they were jointly interested, and about the progress and prospects of Baxter's campaign in the southern part of the Territory, where Bancroft was his chief lieutenant. "I tell you, Aleck, you're handling it fine," said Baxter finally, with friendly enthusiasm. "You're bringing Silverside and the whole south right into line in great shape! I'm free to say, Aleck, that you're doing better for me than I could do for myself. You have a remarkable knack for handling people, and everybody has confidence in you. We've got the party in this Territory where we want it now, and if I decide to quit Congress after another term or two, as it's likely I shall, I'll see to it, Aleck, that you step into my shoes if you want to." He went on to ask what certain of his supporters and his opponents were doing, and presently inquired: "And your young friend Conrad--does he still think I have horns and hoofs? He came to see me in Santa Fe recently, and apologized for having accused me of being at the bottom of that Mexican's attack on him. From what he said to me," the Congressman went on, regarding Bancroft attentively, "I think it's likely the greaser will get the worst of it if he keeps up that racket." The banker moved uneasily, then took cigars from the box on top of his desk. "By the way, Aleck," said Baxter carelessly between whiffs of smoke, "you've been around this Territory considerably and mixed with mining men a good deal." His cold eyes were watching his companion from under their shaggy brows. "Do you remember ever running across a chap named Delafield?" The time had been when Bancroft could hear that name without the quiver of a lash or the tremble of a nerve. But those days of cool self-control and impassive seeming had gone by. For many weeks he had been on the rack of constant apprehension, the nervous strain of conflicting emotions concerning Conrad had been great, and recently the fear of sudden exposure had grown into a secret, abiding terror. He started, dropped his cigar, and his face paled. "Delafield?" he repeated in a low voice. "I do not remember the name--and I have a pretty good memory for names, too." The desire seized him to know whether Baxter was speaking out of knowledge or ignorance. "What about him?" he went on. "Is he supposed to be living here?" "I don't know much about it," Baxter rejoined, "but I believe the people who are trying to locate him make the guess that he is. A party asked me about him not long ago, but I wasn't able to place the name, although it has a familiar sound. I told him it wasn't any use looking for his man under that name--it's too easy to pick up a new one out here for anybody to keep an old one that's got dirty." When the door closed upon the portly figure and cherubic smile of the Congressman, Bancroft sat still and stared dully at the wall. "Dell knows," was the conviction that had gone straight to his wretched heart. "Dell knows. He knows the whole story. And now I've got to do whatever he says." Apprehension leaped quickly forward. If Baxter knew, was the story out? Was it already going from mouth to mouth? Second thought brought reassurance. No; for in that case Baxter would not have so discreetly veiled his hint. But how had he found out? Could Jenkins--no, not likely, for Jenkins was making too good a thing out of it as a secret. Baxter said Conrad had been to see him--then did Curtis know by this time? His heart took quick alarm, and he had a moment of desperation. Then he recalled the young man's repeated declaration that he meant to lose no time in facing Delafield after learning the man's identity. He soon decided that a little time was still left to him before that encounter could take place and--Gonzalez was yet at the ranch. Doubtless Conrad had talked with Baxter about the case, perhaps told him of his own search and asked for information about the men he suspected. Finally, knowing well the Congressman's mental habits, he came to the conclusion that Baxter had put things together and made a shrewd guess. "But he knows, all right," Bancroft owned to himself in impotent anger, "and that means another chain on me." Another obstacle had risen in his path that would have to be overcome, one way or another, before he could reach that longed-for security. A little before, safety had seemed so near, and now it was further away than ever! He should have to fight for it, that was plain--and fight he would, to the last inch, Conrad and Jenkins and Baxter. They had pushed him to the wall, but that should not be the end. He would not let them wreck everything if--no matter now what he might have to do to protect himself. He spent an anxious forenoon, unable to keep his mind off his own troubles and impending dangers, thinking and scheming, trying to work out effective means of defence and counter-attack. When he left the bank for luncheon at home, it was with a lively sense of how restful and pleasing he should find its atmosphere of love, respect, and confidence. He bought a box of candy for Lucy and a magazine for Louise, and hastened up the hill. Never before had home seemed to him so delightful. Lucy was gay of spirit, piquant, rosy of cheek and bright of eye, lovingly solicitous for his comfort. Louise was paler than usual, with a touch of wistfulness in her manner. Lucy explained that she had a bad headache, and they agreed that it was probably due to the day's peculiar atmospheric conditions. It was hot and still; a thin, gray, luminous haze veiled the sky and made the sunshine, usually clear and white, look palely yellow; the air was charged with electricity, whose jangling effect upon the nerves only the soundest could withstand. Louise said she felt it acutely. As always, she was gentle and sympathetic, and Bancroft felt her influence at once. Her presence never failed to soothe, tranquillize, and encourage him. She saw the anxiety in his eyes, and at once divined a new cause for trouble. With renewed alarm and indignation in her heart her thoughts turned to Conrad. Had there been some new development? The fires of love and solicitude for her friend and of hatred for his enemy were burning brightly in her secret thoughts and shone now and then in her eyes. Bancroft caught their glow, and his heart rose to be warmed in it. What a sweet woman she was, how adorable! His arms ached with the longing to enfold her and press her dearness to his breast. But no!--with such dangers thickening about him, he must not think of it. It angered him the more that he must thus repress the feeling which was struggling to make itself understood, which he felt certain she would welcome. For half an hour after luncheon they lingered on the veranda. As if drawn irresistibly by secret cords of feeling, Bancroft and Miss Dent kept constantly near each other; once, when she accidentally touched his hand, his fingers closed quickly upon hers in a moment's warm grasp. After he had gone, Louise walked restlessly up and down, her nerves strung to the highest tension by her love and anxiety for Bancroft and her hatred of Conrad. Her headache grew rapidly worse, and her heart was beating like a trip-hammer. She and Lucy agreed that the electrical condition of the atmosphere had become more trying. The sunshine, too, was more dingily yellowish. They noticed that heavy, dark clouds, like huge, sleeping beasts, were lying behind the summits of the Mogollon Mountains. "My head is throbbing so I can hardly see," said Louise finally, "and I think I'll go to my room, pull down the shades, and lie down for a while. No; thank you, dear, you can't do anything. Just leave me alone for an hour or two in the quiet and the dark." Lucy sat on the veranda with the magazine and the box of candy her father had brought; but one lay unopened in her lap and the other untouched on the table beside her, while her eyes wandered across the tree-embowered streets of the town and far over the plain, where, beyond the horizon, were the green groves of the Socorro Springs ranch. "I've got to do it," she whispered to herself, decision in her wrinkling brow. "There's no other way, and I must. Daddy is looking wretched--I've never seen him look so anxious and disturbed as he does to-day. I've got to do it, right away." She had not seen Curtis Conrad since the barbecue. Daily had she watched for him, hoping always to see him climbing the hill, longing greatly to look upon his face, and feeling that she must reveal her secret and so put an end, as she firmly believed she could, to her father's trouble. But he came not; instead, Homer's visits increased in length and frequency, and she, still hurt and angered by the memory of Curtis's attentions to Mrs. Ned Castleton at the barbecue, recklessly continued her flirtation with Homer, plunging him more and more deeply in love. She did all this without thought of what was going on in Homer's breast, wishing only to dull the pain in her own aching heart. Finally, when she realized what was happening, she changed her demeanor in sudden girl-panic, only to precipitate the young man's proposal, by which she had been both surprised and vexed. She was quite sure, by this time, that Curtis Conrad did not care for her at all, and she had ceased expecting him to come to their house. Yet she never went out upon the veranda without letting her eyes wander wishfully down the street. They were there now, scanning the long, steep hill. But they saw only a little, bare-legged Mexican boy toiling slowly up the grade. No, she decided, only one thing was left for her to do: she would have to write and ask him to come and see her. Her heart rebelled at first, and she unconsciously tossed her head and her eyes flashed. "But it's for daddy," she presently told herself, "and there's no other way. I've got to do it." Of course, it would be a humiliation; but so was the whole hateful business, and what was one little thing more or less? Looking toward the street again she saw that the little Mexican lad was coming to her gate. His baggy, ragged overalls were held by a single strap over his shoulder, and his small, brown face, under his miniature, torn sombrero, was hot and dirty. He peered at her through the palings, and she exclaimed, "Why, it's little Pablo Melgares!" She went down to the gate, saying in Spanish, "Do you want anything, Pablo?" Gravely and silently he gave her a letter he had been carrying in his hat. Although she had seen the handwriting but once before, her heart leaped and a delicious thrill ran through her veins as she read the address. "Is there an answer?" she asked, tremulously. "_Si, señorita_," said the boy. "Then you sit down here on the steps and eat candy until I come back," she said as she poured the contents of her box into the child's sombrero. She ran lightly up the stairs to her room and closed the door before opening the note. It said only: "Will you go to ride with me this afternoon up the canyon? I have something particular I want to say. Please send me word by the boy if I may come up at once." She devoured it with shining eyes, and pressed it to her face, her lips, her heart. Her woman's instinct divined what the "something particular" must be, and she laughed softly and joyously, while the color mounted to her brow. But presently, as she donned her riding habit, her look grew serious and grave. For a few minutes she had forgotten what it was she had to do. "I must tell him," she thought, "and then that will be the end of everything." The brown eyes filled with tears, and she choked back a little sob. "But I've got to do it," she repeated with determination. "He won't love me then, but poor daddy will be safe. And I wouldn't marry him anyway, because I'm not going to marry anybody. I won't let him say anything to me about--about anything; I'll tell him about daddy before he has a chance. But I won't have to tell him right away--when we are coming back, maybe." Her fingers were busy with her collar in front of the mirror. "Dear me, I'm dreadfully tanned! But he told me once he liked the healthy brown skins the girls all get down here. No; I shall not let him have the least idea that I care anything about him; but--" and the smiles and dimples were chasing each other across her face as she started down the stairs. On her way she slipped softly into Miss Dent's darkened room. Louise was awake, and Lucy stood beside her bed, stroking her forehead with affectionate fingers. "Poor Dearie! Can't I do something for you before I go out? Do you think you can sleep? Then you won't mind my going, will you? Mr. Conrad has come to take me to ride. We are going up the canyon. Wasn't it jolly of him to think of it this stupid, yellow afternoon?" "Yes; certainly, dear, I'm glad you're going, and I hope you'll have a delightful ride. Don Homer is always so thoughtful." Lucy was settling her hat in front of the mirror. "Oh, it isn't Don Homer! It's his brother." Miss Dent started up. "Curtis Conrad! You're not going with him!" Lucy looked at her with surprise. "Why, yes, Dearie. Why not?" "Lucy, darling! You must not go!" Louise was sitting up now, her hands at her temples. Lucy bent over her with an arm about her neck. "You surprise me very much, Dearie. I thought you liked him." "Yes; of course. But you must not go with him this afternoon. It will not do." The girl sat down on the bed beside her. "But I've said I would, Dearie, and he's already here, waiting for me with the horses. And I must go, Dearie. It would be awfully rude and horrid to try to get out of it now." Sudden apprehension filled Miss Dent's mind. It was not like Lucy to hold so persistently to anything that was against her wish. Her intense feeling against Curtis Conrad swept over her excited, tingling nerves and filled her mind with the conviction that she must keep Lucy away from him. Things jigged and swam before her eyes, as her thoughts whirled dizzily through her brain. "Lucy, dear child!" she exclaimed, "I wish you would not go. Indeed, you must not go!" Lucy arose, clad in a new womanly dignity that sent a half-realized dismay through the turmoil of Miss Dent's mind. Vaguely, with an aching sense of loss, she felt that Lucy had become a woman who would henceforth direct her life for herself. With her hands holding her throbbing head, through which excruciating pains were darting, Louise strove to steady her thoughts. "I don't understand," said Lucy, gently, "why you speak in this way, or why you wish me to be rude to Mr. Conrad. If there is any good reason why I should not go to ride with him this afternoon, and you will tell me what it is, so that I can judge for myself, I can beg him to excuse me, because you are not well--and--ask him to stay to dinner instead." New alarm seized Miss Dent. In her excitement she tried to rise, only to drop back trembling upon the bed. For the moment her one thought was that this man must be kept out of the house. "Lucy," she pleaded, despair in her voice, "you do not understand. He is not our friend now. He is your father's enemy--and is trying to kill him." She stopped in sudden panic at having said so much, and Lucy started back amazed. "Oh, Dearie--you don't know, do you--and daddy--you don't know about daddy?" Louise looked up, her face white and drawn, astonishment veiling the pain in her eyes. "Lucy, Lucy! Do you know--about your father--and this man--and yet you will go with him?" Lucy's curly head was high as she answered deliberately: "Yes, Dearie! I am going so that I can save daddy from any further trouble. I shall tell Mr. Conrad who daddy is." Miss Dent gasped and her mouth worked for a moment before she could speak. "Oh, child, you don't know what you are doing! I beg of you, Lucy, don't go--don't do it! If you love me, if you love your father, don't tell him! He will kill--" The girl drew herself up proudly. "Indeed, Dearie, you don't know Curtis Conrad as well as I do, if you think he will do the least thing to hurt daddy, after he knows. That's why I'm going to tell him--to save daddy. I love him, Dearie, but I shall not let him know that I do. And I want to hear him say, just once, that he loves me--and then I shall tell him--who I am and who daddy is." She turned half away, then rushed back to throw her arms around her friend's neck. "Darling Dearie, I know I am hurting you! But won't you trust me about this, and love me just the same? I know I am doing the best thing for daddy--and--after to-day, I'm never going to see Curtis Conrad again!" Louise fell back, exhausted, as Lucy kissed her forehead and ran from the room. CHAPTER XXIV THE HEAVENS OPEN Conrad and Lucy rode along a street skirting the brow of the _mesa_ until the houses of the town in the valley below became few and straggling. Down the last roadway cut across the sides of the canyon they descended to the bottom of the ravine. Thence upward it was so narrow that the bed of the creek and the road left only scant margins of rocky soil. In these grew cottonwoods, willows, and a few other trees, whose overarching branches made a green and pleasant vista. The creek wound crookedly down the valley, frequently crossing the road, while here and there the walls of the gulch drew so close together that the track was forced into the bed of the stream. Notwithstanding the recent rains, the water was too shallow to reach above their horses' knees. The way was quite deserted, and after leaving the town they saw no other travellers. A cool, damp wind came down the ravine and Lucy took off her hat and let it toss back her brown curls. They had grown longer since the early Spring, and now clustered in soft rings around her ears and neck. A touch of sadness lingered upon her spirits, because of the distressing scene with Miss Dent. It was the first difference that had ever arisen between them. A poignant longing filled her heart, also, because this was to be her final interview with the man she loved. The painful duty she had set herself filled the background of her consciousness and laid upon her manner an unusual reserve. But these more sombre emotions mingled with the gladness of the knowledge that she was beloved, and all combined to invest her with a new maturity of womanliness, a sweet dignity that sent filtering through Conrad's eager love a sensation of wonder and reverence. It could not be possible that this lovely, this adorable being would receive his homage, would consent to love him! But he would try. She was willing to ride with him, and there was hope in that. And, yes, he would not forget that he must tell her about his unworthy life--he must tell her even before he asked her to marry him. But oh, how beautiful she was, how sweet! Every movement of her head, her arm, her body, every twinkling smile, every fleeting dimple, poured fresh wine into his blood. A torrent of love and admiration was sweeping through him, and from it were constantly breaking off and flowing over their friendly talk little cascades of compliment, of admiring speech, of sentences glowing with hints of his feeling. But Lucy quickly caught the trend of every one and turned it back with laughing retort and merry speech. He could not get within her guard, and every deft turn of her jesting, foiling replies made him only the more eager. He forgot that he was going to make confession, forgot to watch the dark clouds that were rising above the mountain tops, forgot everything but this alluring creature, who grew more alluring every moment, and yet would not let him loose the torrents of loving speech. And Lucy, in the sweet excitement of letting him say a little, and again a little, and then a little more, yet keeping up her guard and never letting him reach the danger point, Lucy also forgot what she had meant to keep constantly in mind. Now and then duty put out a warning hand. But--the exhilaration of the present moment, the precious consciousness of his love, the thrilling pleasure of this Cupid's dance--she could not give it up so quickly. Presently she would tell him. Thus has it been Love's habit, ever since Love came to live in this world, to dance with happy and forgetful foot over volcanoes ready to engulf him in their fires, beneath clouds ready to drown him with their pouring sorrows. No matter what the dangers, when the maid lures and the man pursues, Love knows only his own delight. So went Lucy and Curtis up the beautiful canyon road, thrilling with the happiness that can be but once,--before the first kiss has brushed away the exquisite bloom of love,--forgetting alike the bonds they had put upon themselves and the dangers that lurked in the threatening storm. At last the darkening atmosphere caused Conrad to notice how high the clouds had risen. "I'm afraid there's going to be a bad storm, Miss Bancroft," he said, "and perhaps we'd better turn back. When we started I didn't think it would rain before night, but those clouds are piling up fast and they look as if they meant business. I'm sorry, for a little ways above here there's a beautiful place, where the walls of the canyon spread out and you get a splendid view. I wanted to take you there, and tell you--" It was not so easy after all, to loose the torrents of speech, and for a bare instant he hesitated. It was enough to give Lucy her chance. She shot at him a single sparkling glance, and broke in with, "Oh, I'll race you there!" As she spoke she touched her horse and darted ahead, leaving him alone in the middle of the road at the very beginning of his declaration. The wind blew her curls into a tangled frame for her laughing face as she looked back over her shoulder. He quickly spurred Brown Betty forward, but she had got so much the start that it was some moments before he was again at her side. "You took me by surprise," he said as they slowed their horses at the foot of a steeper incline, "and handicapped me, or you wouldn't have got so far away. When we go back I'll race you all the way down the canyon, if you like." "Agreed!" she laughed. "Wouldn't it be jolly to go at a gallop all the way down the canyon, from the mountains to Golden? But the poor horses!" "I think we'd better turn back, Miss Bancroft. I don't like the look of those clouds. It's going to be a regular deluge, I'm afraid. But first, I want to tell you--" "Oh, my hat! I've dropped it!" she exclaimed. Curtis leaned over easily, picked it up, and hung it on his own pommel. Her eyes were twinkling and the dimples were playing hide-and-seek with a wilful little smile that hovered around her mouth. "So awkward of me," she said apologetically, "and how readily you picked it up! I wish I could do that! Do you know, Mr. Conrad, you've never given me those lessons in the cowboy's art, roping and riding and all that, you promised ever so long ago." "We'll begin them whenever you say the word. After I tell you--" "About that beautiful place? Oh, yes! Can't we go that far? I'd love to see it!" She was bounding ahead again, but he was quickly beside her. A quizzical look was on his face and a touch of mastery in his manner as he leaned toward her and rested his hand upon her horse's neck. "Now, if you try to run away again," he said banteringly, "it's you who will have the handicap!" She gathered up her bridle and with a touch of her quirt wheeled her horse half way around and away from his detaining hand. The whim had seized her to start flying back down the road, "just a little way," she thought, "just to tease him." But as she turned she met a glowing look that checked her impulse. "Lucy!" he was saying, and his voice lingered over her name like a soft and warm caress, "Lucy! I love you. Will you be my wife?" It had come, the question she had meant not to let him ask, and at once it sobered her spirits and brought back the remembrance of what she must tell him. Her head drooped until her brown curls half hid her crimsoning face, and her voice was low and troubled. "Indeed, Mr. Conrad, I can never be any man's wife. My father needs me. I shall never marry, and I shall stay with him as long as he lives." "I know how devoted you are to your father, Lucy--" he stopped, and repeated her name as if he loved the sound of it it--"Lucy, and it is so sweet and beautiful that it makes me love you even more. Tell me, Lucy, do you love me?" The question took her unawares, and he saw her hand tremble. She hesitated for a moment before replying, with dignity: "I have told you I could not marry you. Isn't that enough?" Unconsciously they had again headed their horses toward the mountains and were walking slowly up the canyon. "No, Lucy; it isn't enough!" he exclaimed eagerly. "Something tells me that perhaps you do care a little for me, and if you do I want to know it--I must know it!" "I shall never see you again after to-day. You must be satisfied with that," she replied, tossing her head and turning her face away from his shining and pleading eyes. "How can I be satisfied--" he began, and the wind blew her hair as she turned her head away and showed one little pink-tinted ear nestling among the curls. His gaze devoured it. "How can I," he went on, "when you--when you have such a beautiful ear!" "What difference does it make when we can never see each other again?" Her manner was evasive and her speech hesitating, for she was trying hard to bring herself to the point of telling him the fateful secret. "All the difference in the world! Lucy, sweetheart! Tell me if you care!" He leaned toward her and took her wrist in his hand. [Illustration: "IT HAD COME, THIS QUESTION SHE HAD NOT MEANT TO LET HIM ASK"] "You've no right to ask that question again! I shall say no more than I have said already." She made an effort to release her arm, but he would not relax his firm, though gentle and caressing, grasp. "Lucy, I would never beg for a woman's love, nor ask her to try to care for me, if she didn't love me, of herself. But when the woman I love with all my heart won't deny that she loves me, then I must hear her say in her own sweet voice that she does. Lucy, darling, tell me that you love me!" She was trembling from head to foot, but she drew herself together with fresh determination and held her head up proudly as she answered, looking straight ahead: "I have told you that I shall never marry, and that after to-day I shall never see you again. That must be enough, for I shall say no more." He let go her wrist, and she tapped her horse to a faster pace. She was thinking intently, trying to frame in her mind the best words in which to make her confession. Suddenly, over the top of a steep incline, they came upon a wide and splendid view. The sides of the canyon seemed to melt and flow back, giving far-ranging sight of the sombre purple mountains towering toward heaven and of the hills dwindling down into the plain. "Lucy," he exclaimed, "here is the beautiful place of which I told you. I wanted to bring you here to tell you of my love, because this is the most beautiful spot I know. Lucy, darling, I love you with all my heart, and if you cannot deny that you love me, then it is my right, the right of my love, to hear you say that you do. Never mind about not leaving your father and meaning never to marry. We'll talk about that afterward. Won't you tell me now that you do love me?" Her eyes dropped from the high and wide horizon to her horse's mane. She tried to say, "I do not love you," but her heart rose in rebellion and forbade the untruth. She opened her lips, but no sound came from them. Curtis bent toward her, trying to take her hand, but she drew it away. With all her strength she was contending for her determination against both him and the traitor within her own heart. He leaned nearer, pleading in tones that were half loving command and half loving entreaty, "Lucy! Lucy, love! Look up! Let me see your eyes, your dear, beautiful eyes!" Lucy clasped her hands together hard and bowed her head. He was bending over her, his shoulder touching hers. She heard his voice, soft and rich with love, whispering, "Lucy, darling!" And suddenly, scarcely knowing what she did, she lifted her head and looked into his eyes. Instantly his arms were about her, and he heard her murmuring, "I do love you! Oh, I do love you!" He bent his ardent face to hers, but before their lips met she started away, freeing herself from his encircling arms. "Stop!" she cried, putting out a forbidding hand, as she moved her horse away. "You have made me tell you, against my will, that I love you. Now you must listen while I tell you who I am." There was a suggestion of defiance in the poise of her head and in the flashing of her eyes as they looked squarely into his. "And you must understand," she went on, "that after I tell you this I want you to forget everything that has passed between us this afternoon, just as I shall do. For I am the daughter of Sumner L. Delafield!" In an instant his arms were about her again. "Lucy, dearest, you've told me no news! I've known it since yesterday." She struggled to free herself. "But my father--you hate him--you--you wish to kill him--I heard what you said to him that day at your ranch, last Spring--and afterward I happened to find out who he is." A wave of crimson deepened the color of his sunbrowned face. "All that is dead and buried," he said, "and I am ashamed of it, now. I want you to help me forget that I allowed such base thoughts to master me so long. I'm going to your father this afternoon to tell him that I have forgiven the old debt, and everything else, and to ask him to forgive me. My poor little girl! I never dreamed your dear heart was being worried by that affair!" She let him fold her in his caress, whispering happily, "I knew all the time you wouldn't do it--I knew you wouldn't hurt daddy, or anybody." A loud clap of thunder rolled and echoed over the mountains, and a splash of raindrops fell on their faces. Conrad looked at the dense black clouds and at the gray veil dropping athwart the mountains, and turned to Lucy with alarm in his face. "We must start back at once and ride down that canyon for all we're worth! This storm is going to be a corker, but maybe we can beat the worst of it. I've done wrong to bring you so far--but I can't regret it now, sweetheart!" They started at a gallop down the long canyon road. The patter of big drops that had given them warning quickly increased to a steady, beating downpour that drenched them to the skin. An almost tangible darkness was sifting through the atmosphere. It filled the sky overhead, drifted down the ravine, and seemed to settle, making a thick twilight under the arching trees. Blinding zigzags of lightning slashed the clouds and played through the middle air, and a terrific roar and boom and rattle of thunder kept up in the mountains behind them and echoed back and forth between the walls of the gulch. The creek was already rising, and each time they had to cross it they found its muddy torrent swifter and higher. The road was rocky, and in many places had been made slippery by the rain, and there were frequent steep inclines down which they dared not go at a rapid gait. They had put behind them hardly more than a third of the distance when Conrad, looking backward, saw a cloud of inky blackness settle and drop upon the earth. A deep, booming sound mingled with a deafening clap of thunder. The ground trembled. The horses quivered with fright and darted forward at a faster pace. Lucy saw Curtis's face blench in the half darkness. "What is it?" she asked, glancing backward anxiously. "That was a cloudburst," he answered in a tone that thrilled with comprehension. "It struck back there, just this side of our beautiful spot, and a mountain of water will soon come tearing down behind us. We've got to ride like the wind! Perhaps we can make the first road that crosses the ravine, and you can go up there while I ride on and warn the town." "No! I'll ride on with you." "I can't let you do that," was his swift reply. "Are you frightened, dearest?" "No," she answered in a steady tone; "I'm not frightened at all. And I'm going to ride on with you. It would be easy to die with you, if we must--but I couldn't live without you, now." He bent toward her and touched her arm with loving reverence as they galloped on at the swiftest speed possible. The horses needed neither whip nor spur, but with ears laid back and necks outstretched were fleeing down the dim canyon for their lives. As they bounded up a low bank, where the road crossed the creek bed again, Lucy's horse stumbled, slipped, and fell with his forelegs doubled under him. He gave a scream of pain and terror. Lucy, freeing her foot from the stirrup as he fell, jumped to one side. Curtis checked Brown Betty, leaned over, and grasped the girl around the waist. She helped him with an upward spring, and as he lifted her to the saddle he shifted his own seat to the back, and they galloped on, leaving the crippled horse to his certain fate. Behind them they could hear the booming, rattling roar of the avalanche of water that was sweeping down between the canyon walls. And presently, piercing through even its rumbling tumult and the crashing thunder, they heard the death cry of the horse they had left behind, and knew that he had been engulfed in the mountainous wave that was rushing toward them at a speed they could not hope to equal. Lucy trembled at the sound and nestled her head against Conrad's shoulder. As they neared the first road cutting across the gulch Curtis lowered his head to Lucy's ear: "Sweetheart, we are almost at the first road out. I can put you off and you can run up there and be safe." "No," she whispered back; "don't stop for an instant. Every second will mean many lives. I'm going with you to whatever end there is, and I'm not afraid." Brown Betty's flanks were steaming. The froth from her mouth flecked her neck and legs and body, to be quickly washed off by the drenching rain. Behind them they could hear, coming nearer and nearer, the fateful roar of the rushing waters. The canyon walls opened out, and, looming vaguely in the dim light, they could see the first houses of the town. With full lungs Conrad shouted at the top of his voice: "Run! A cloudburst! A cloudburst is coming! Run for your lives!" They dashed on, and the houses became more frequent. There were lights in the windows, though it was little past mid-afternoon. Curtis, shouting his warning over and over, put the bridle in Lucy's hands and drew his revolver. They were rushing down the main street, through the most thickly built portion of the town. Pointing upward, he added the noise of pistol shots to his clamor. Men and women came to their doors, caught the meaning of his cries, heard the roar of the coming flood, and rushed out and up the side streets, shouting warnings as they ran. "My father--the bank--can we go so far?" asked Lucy breathlessly. "Yes--we'll call him," Conrad assured her, glancing back over his shoulder. Behind them rose a din of shouts and yells and screams of terror, mingling with the peals of thunder and the roar of the waters. The street was full of people running this way and that. And a little farther back, through the dusky light, he saw a brown, foaming wall of water, its crest topping the roofs of the houses, its front a mass of half-engulfed trees and houses and pieces of lumber and arms and legs and bodies of men and animals that boiled up from its foot, tossed and whirled a moment on its breast, and sank into the flood. Curtis ground his teeth together. They were still three blocks from the bank. "We'll never make it," he thought; "but we'll try!" His arm gathered Lucy closer to his breast, his spur touched Brown Betty's heaving flank, and with another loud shout of warning and an encouraging cry to the mare they darted on with a fresh burst of speed. CHAPTER XXV FULFILMENT OF THE LAW Louise Dent sank back upon her pillows as Lucy hurried from the room, too amazed and horrified for speech by the girl's declaration of her love for Curtis Conrad and her determination to reveal to him her father's identity. Ill in body, distracted in mind almost to the point of irresponsibility, her thoughts tossed about and took wild shapes in her fevered brain. The one idea looming constantly before her was that Bancroft was in deadly, imminent peril. Her bitter resentment against Conrad and the hate and anger she had nursed so long in secret distorted all her conception of his character. Now, as her thoughts pounded back and forth through her dizzy, aching head, he seemed to her to be capable of any monstrous deed. He would learn from Lucy the secret of her father's identity, and then nothing would prevent him from rushing forthwith to get his fill of bloody vengeance. She rose and staggered to the window. Dark clouds were overspreading the sky. It would rain soon, they would turn back from their ride, and he would bring her home. Then he would hasten to the bank, and into Aleck's room--and she covered her eyes as if to conceal what her mental vision insisted on seeing. If Aleck only knew that Curtis had learned the truth, if he could be warned in time, he might conceal himself until it would be possible for him to go away. Leave the town he must, and go far, far away, where there would be no fear of discovery. She alone knew his danger. But could she tell him that she was aware of his secret? She shrank from making him suffer that humiliation. Furthermore, could she do it without betraying her own secret, without laying bare the love that burned in her heart? Yet--what mattered the rest if she could save his life and, perhaps, his future? She followed with her eye the line of the canyon. Where were they now? The clouds were black and lowering and a gray veil of rain hid the purple of the distant mountains and spread an advancing blur over their slopes. If she was to save Aleck she must go--at once. Her loud and hurried knocking at the door of Bancroft's private office sent to his heart the quick apprehension to which he had become an easy prey. He sprang to his feet with his hand upon the revolver that of late lay always ready upon his desk. Not only was it a relief to find that it was nobody but Louise, but the very sight of her was so welcome and so easeful to his overwrought and desperate mind that unconsciously he addressed her by her Christian name. Her wild eyes and distraught face alarmed him. "Louise! What is the matter? You have come in all this rain? How wet you are! Has anything happened?" "No; not now; not yet! Wait, let me get my breath--I will tell you. Aleck, how pale you are! Has anything happened to you?" In their excitement neither of them noticed that she also used his Christian name. "No; nothing has happened to me--no more than usual. I am in deep trouble, Louise." "I know, I know," she cried, coming close to him. "I know what it is--I have come to warn you. Curtis Conrad--" "What about him?" Bancroft exclaimed, starting back. "What do you know about him?" "What you know, Aleck--that he means to kill you. He is coming here this very afternoon--he will be here soon--he will kill you. You must hide from him!" He drew back as she spoke, and then turned sharply upon her. "Do you know why? Are you another who knows?" She moved a step aside and dropped her gaze, but her voice was tender and compassionate as she replied, "Yes, Aleck; I know." He looked at her with astonished eyes. "How did you find it out? How long have you known?" "For years," she said softly, stretching her hand impulsively toward him. "Josephine told me when she died, so I could guard Lucy against all knowledge of it. I have kept it as secret as the grave. Nobody has ever had from me any suspicion of the truth. It has made no difference to me, Aleck! I have only respected you the more, because you could begin over again and build up a new name and a new life." He took her hand. It was wet and cold, and he folded it in his, and as she went on drew her closer to his side. He felt the soothing comfort of her words and manner, but his eyes were on the floor as he muttered, "I thought nobody knew; I thought it was hidden so well!" The room had grown dark and darker. Outside, the rain was coming down in gray sheets, and dazzling flashes of lightning flooded the heavens. Peal upon peal of thunder smote their ears. She thought, "They are at home by this time; he will be here soon." Laying her other hand upon Bancroft's arm she hurried on, in broken, pleading speech: "Aleck, you must not stay here! You must hide somewhere, where he cannot find you! Conrad--I came to warn you--he knows, by this time--who you are. He will be here soon." "Conrad! Does he know? Are you sure?" "Yes. They went to ride up the canyon, he and Lucy. She said she was going to tell him. Aleck, you must not stay here! He may come any minute!" He dropped her hand and started back. "Lucy!" he cried, and again, "Lucy! Does she know, too?" He sank into his chair and buried his face in his arms. Louise stood beside him, her hand upon his shoulder, her voice soft with loving compassion. "I don't know how she knew, nor how long she has known. Until this afternoon I had no idea that she, or any one, knew anything about it. But she came to my room and told me that she was going to ride with him, that she loved him, and that she was going to tell him who you are." He made no answer; but she guessed by his troubled breathing with what shame and despair he was struggling. She bent over him, her arm across his shoulder, her cheek upon his hair. Above the pealing, echoing thunder and the rattling boom of some sound which in their absorption they had scarcely noted, there came into the room the sudden din of cries and shouts and pistol shots. "It's Conrad! He's coming!" cried Louise, running to the window, her excited mind still dominated by the single idea. Bancroft grasped the pistol. Looking back, she saw him point it at his own temple. Springing to his side, she seized it with both hands, crying out, "Aleck, don't do that! Don't give up! Give it to me!" His grasp relaxed and she took the weapon from his hand. "Aleck! Bancroft! Aleck!" they heard from outside, in Conrad's voice. More words followed, but through the noise of the shouting and the thunder and that rattling roar, now grown louder and nearer, they could distinguish only, "your life!" A galloping horse rushed near the window, there was a pistol shot without, and an answering shot from within. A shriek pierced the clamor, and Bancroft cried, "That was Lucy's voice!" By a flash of lightning which rent for an instant the gray darkness, they saw the horse wheel into the hill street, and saw Lucy in Conrad's arms. The pistol dropped from Louise's hand as she cried out in a passion of grief, "Oh, Aleck! Our little girl! Have I killed her?" He leaned toward her with compassionate arms. Conrad glanced over his shoulder as he wheeled his mare into the cross street, and saw the towering wall of water at their very heels. Brown Betty was staggering under her burden, but with shout and spur he drove her on up the steep incline. A grinding crash mingled with the roar of the flood, and another backward glance let him see the bank building toppling, collapsing, embosomed in the awful avalanche of water. A great wave rushed after them and swept Brown Betty from her feet. Had the mare been less sturdy of spirit they would have been carried back on its retreating current. But Conrad's persuading, encouraging calls were in her ears and she struck out bravely, swimming against the force of the waves that swirled about them and buffeted her with the debris they carried. But the waters that spread up the cross street soon lost their force, and she regained her footing. Curtis bent over Lucy, saying, "We are safe now, sweetheart!" Blood was dripping over her garments, and she lay white and still upon his arm. At last they reached the door of the Bancroft home, and Curtis carried Lucy, still unconscious, within, and went in search of Miss Dent. But the house was deserted. Alone, he ministered to the girl's needs. He located the injury, and found that a bullet, as to whose source and intention he made his own secret guess, had pierced her arm, but had left merely a flesh wound. Recovered from her swoon, he carried her up-stairs and left her to change her wet clothing while he went in search of blankets. Wrapped in these, with her arm bandaged, he left her in bed while he hastened down the hill, hoping to find news of her father and Miss Dent with which to relieve her anxiety. The rain had ceased and the flood had passed, leaving in its wake the wreck of a ruined town. Where the bank building had stood were tottering walls and a shapeless heap of brick and timbers. Beneath the wreckage, where had been the president's office, they found the bodies of Bancroft and Louise, enfolded in each other's arms. The sky cleared and only in the east did some low-lying clouds, still wet and angry, give any hint of the storm which had swept over the town and left desolation in its track. As Conrad climbed the hill to tell Lucy of her double bereavement, in the tenderest words his love could make possible, he faced the glories of a setting sun whose resplendent pageant filled the sky and touched with its glowing colors the pitiful devastation of the little valley. * * * * * Transcriber's note: Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and intent. 
21240	----	The Lone Ranche A Tale of the Staked Plain By Captain Mayne Reid ________________________________________________________________________ This was quite a hard book to transcribe, and I hope there are not now too many errors remaining. For one thing several of the people of the book speak a very rough version of the language, so that there are many hundreds of "words" appearing in the book, that are not in the dictionary. And the "new" words are not always consistently spelt. There are numerous Spanish or Mexican words used in the book, but I am no scholar in these tongues. I just did my best to get them right. Another problem was that the type used to print the book had been damaged in many places, which meant that it was sometimes very hard to decipher. After much poring there remains only one damaged word in the book, of which I am not certain. As if this were not enough I made the mistake of scanning the book too dark, which meant that in very many cases a full stop following the letters `t' and sometimes `e' had not come correctly through the OCR process; and also any stains on the pages obscured the letters under them. This greatly increased the amount of work needed to transcribe the book. I suppose this is among the very first "cowboy and Indian" books. If you are interested in this genre, here is the book for you. NH ________________________________________________________________________ THE LONE RANCHE A TALE OF THE STAKED PLAIN BY CAPTAIN MAYNE REID CHAPTER ONE. A TALE OF THE STAKED PLAIN. "HATS OFF!" Within the city of Chihuahua, metropolis of the northern provinces of Mexico--for the most part built of mud--standing in the midst of vast barren plains, o'ertopped by bold porphyritic mountains--plains with a population sparse as their timber--in the old city of Chihuahua lies the first scene of our story. Less than twenty thousand people dwell within the walls of this North Mexican metropolis, and in the country surrounding it a like limited number. Once they were thicker on the soil; but the tomahawk of the Comanche and the spear of the Apache have thinned off the descendants of the _Conquistadores_, until country houses stand at wide distances apart, with more than an equal number of ruins between. Yet this same city of Chihuahua challenges weird and wonderful memories. At the mention of its name springs up a host of strange records, the souvenirs of a frontier life altogether different from that wreathed round the history of Anglo-American borderland. It recalls the cowled monk with his cross, and the soldier close following with his sword; the old mission-house, with its church and garrison beside it; the fierce savage lured from a roving life, and changed into a toiling _peon_, afterwards to revolt against a system of slavery that even religion failed to make endurable; the neophyte turning his hand against his priestly instructor, equally his oppressor; revolt followed by a deluge of blood, with ruinous devastation, until the walls of both _mission_ and military _cuartel_ are left tenantless, and the redskin has returned to his roving. Such a history has had the city of Chihuahua and the settlements in its neighbourhood. Nor is the latter portion of it all a chronicle of the olden time. Much of it belongs to modern days; ay, similar scenes are transpiring even now. But a few years ago a stranger entering its gates would have seen nailed overhead, and whisked to and fro by the wind, some scores of objects similar to one another, and resembling tufts of hair, long, trailing, and black, as if taken from the manes or tails of horses. But it came not thence; it was human hair; and the patches of skin that served to keep the bunches together had been stripped from human skulls! They were _scalps_--the scalps of Indians, showing that the Comanche and Apache savages had not had it all their own way. Beside them could be seen other elevated objects of auricle shape, set in rows or circles like a festooning of child peppers strung up for preservation. No doubt their procurement had drawn tears from the eyes of those whose heads had furnished them, for they were human ears! These ghastly souvenirs were the _bounty warrants_ of a band whose deeds have been already chronicled by this same pen. They were the trophies of "Scalp Hunters"--vouchers for the number of Indians they had killed. They were there less than a quarter of a century ago, waving in the dry wind that sweeps over the plains of Chihuahua. For aught the writer knows, they may be there still; or, if not the same, others of like gory record replacing or supplementing them. It is not with the "Scalp Hunters" we have now to do--only with the city of Chihuahua. And not much with it either. A single scene occurring in its streets is all of Chihuahuaense life to be depicted in this tale. It was the spectacle of a religious procession--a thing far from uncommon in Chihuahua or any other Mexican town; on the contrary, so common that at least weekly the like may be witnessed. This was one of the grandest, representing the story of the Crucifixion. Citizens of all classes assisted at the ceremony, the soldiery also taking part in it. The clergy, of course, both secular and regular, were its chief supports and propagators. To them it brought bread, and if not butter-- since there is none in Chihuahua--it added to their incomes and influence, by the sale of leaden crosses, images of the Virgin Mother, and the numerous sisterhood of saints. In the _funcion_ figured the usual Scripture characters:--The Redeemer conducted to the place of Passion; the crucifix, borne on the shoulders of a brawny, brown-skinned Simon; Pilate the oppressor; Judas the betrayer--in short, every prominent personage spoken of as having been present on that occasion when the Son of Man suffered for our sins. There is, or was then, an American hotel in Chihuahua, or at least one conducted in the American fashion, though only a mere _posada_. Among its guests was a gentleman, stranger to the town, as the country. His dress and general appearance bespoke him from the States, and by the same tokens it could be told that he belonged to their southern section. He was in truth a Kentuckian; but so far from representing the type, tall, rough, and stalwart, usually ascribed to the people "Kaintuck," he was a man of medium size, with a build comparable to that of the Belvidere Apollo. He had a figure tersely set, with limbs well knitted; a handsome face and features of amiable cast, at the same time expressing confidence and courage. A costly Guayaquil hat upon his head, and coat to correspond, bespoke him respectable; his _tout ensemble_ proclaimed him a man of leisure; while his air and bearing were unmistakably such as could only belong to a born gentleman. Why he was in Chihuahua, or whence he had come to it, no one seemed to know or care. Enough that he was there, and gazing at the spectacular procession as it filed past the posada. He was regarding it with no eye of wonderment. In all likelihood he had seen such before. He could not have travelled far through Mexico without witnessing some ceremony of a similar kind. Whether interested in this one or no he was soon notified that he was not regarding it in the manner proper or customary to the country. Standing half behind one of the pillars of the hotel porch, he had not thought it necessary to take off his hat. Perhaps placed in a more conspicuous position he would have done this. Frank Hamersley--for such was his name--was not the sort of man to seek notoriety by an exhibition of bravado, and, being a Protestant of a most liberal creed, he would have shrunk from offending the slightest sensibilities of those belonging to an opposite faith--even the most bigoted Roman Catholic of that most bigoted land. That his "Guayaquil" still remained upon his head was due to simple forgetfulness of its being there; it had not occurred to him to uncover. While silently standing with eyes turned towards the procession, he observed scowling looks, and heard low growlings from the crowd as it swayed slowly past. He knew enough to be conscious of what this meant; but he felt at the same time disinclined to humiliate himself by a too facile compliance. A proud American, in the midst of a people he had learned to despise--their idolatrous observances along with them--no wonder he should feel a little defiant and a good deal exasperated. Enough yielding, he thought, to withdraw farther back from behind the pillar, which he did. It was too late. The keen eye of a fanatic had been upon him--one who appeared to have authority for meting out chastisement. An officer, bearded and grandly bedizened, riding at the head of a troop of lancers, quickly wheeled his horse from out of the line of march, and spurred him towards the porch of the posada. In another instant his bared blade was waving over the hatted head of the Kentuckian. "_Gringo! alto su sombrero! Abajo! a sus rodillas_!" ("Off with your hat, greenhorn! Down upon your knees!") were the words that came hissing from the moustached lips of the lancer. As they failed to beget compliance, they were instantly followed by a blow from the blade of his sabre. It was given sideways, but with sufficient sleight and force to send the Guayaquil hat whirling over the pavement, and its wearer reeling against the wall. It was but the stagger of a sudden and unexpected surprise. In another instant the "gringo" had drawn a revolving pistol, and in yet another its bullet would have been through the brain of the swaggering aggressor, but for a third personage, who, rushing from behind, laid hold of the Kentuckian's arm, and restrained the firing. At first it seemed to Hamersley the act of another enemy; but in a moment he knew it to be the behaviour of a friend--at least a pacificator bent upon seeing fair play. "You are wrong, Captain Uraga," interposed he who had intermeddled, addressing himself to the officer. "This gentleman is a stranger in the country, and not acquainted with our customs." "Then it is time the heretico should be taught them, and, at the same time, respect for the Holy Church. But what right, Colonel Miranda, have you to interfere?" "The right, first of humanity, second of hospitality, and third that I am your superior officer." "Bah! You mistake yourself. Remember, senor coronel, you are not in your own district. If it was in Albuquerque, I might take commands from you. This is the city of Chihuahua." "Chihuahua or not, you shall be made answerable for this outrage. Don't imagine that your patron, Santa Anna, is now Dictator, with power to endorse such base conduct as yours. You seem to forget, Captain Uraga, that you carry your commission under a new regime--one that holds itself responsible, not only to fixed laws, but to the code of decency-- responsible also for international courtesy to the great Republic of which, I believe, this gentleman is a citizen." "Bah!" once more exclaimed the bedizened bully. "Preach your _palabras_ to ears that have time to listen to them. I shan't stop the procession for either you or your Yankee protege. So you can both go to the devil." With this benevolent permission the captain of lancers struck the spurs into his horse, and once more placed himself at the head of his troop. The crowd collected by the exciting episode soon scattered away--the sooner that the strange gentleman, along with his generous defender, had disappeared from the portico, having gone inside the inn. The procession was still passing, and its irresistible attractions swept the loiterers along in its current--most of them soon forgetting a scene which, in that land, where "law secures not life," is of too frequent occurrence to be either much thought of or for long remembered. CHAPTER TWO. A FRIEND IN NEED. The young Kentuckian was half frenzied by the insult he had received. The proud blood of his republican citizenship was boiling within his veins. What was he to do? In the agony of his dilemma he put the question to the gentleman who, beyond all doubt, had restrained him from committing manslaughter. The latter was an entire stranger to him--never seen him before. He was a man of less than thirty years of age, wearing a broad-brimmed hat upon his head, a cloth jacket, slashed _calzoneras_, and a red crape scarf around his waist--in short, the _ranchero_ costume of the country. Still, there was a military bearing about him that corresponded to the title by which the lancer captain had addressed him. "Caballero," he said in reply, "if your own safety be of any consequence to you I should advise you to take no further notice of the incident that has arisen, however much it may have exasperated you, as no doubt it has done." "Pardon me, senor; but not for all the world would I follow your advice--not for my life. I am an American--a Kentuckian. We do not take blows without giving something of the same in return. I must have redress." "If you seek it by the law I may as well warn you, you won't have much chance of finding it." "I know that. The law! I did not think of such a thing. I am a gentleman; I suppose this Captain Uraga supposes himself to be the same, and will not refuse to give me the usual satisfaction." "He may refuse, and very likely will, on the plea of your being a stranger--only a barbarian, a _Tejano_ or _gringo_, as he has put it." "I am alone here--what am I to do?" The Kentuckian spoke half in soliloquy, his countenance expressing extreme chagrin. "_Fuez, senor_!" responded the Mexican colonel, "if you're determined on a _desafio_ I think I might arrange it. I feel that I am myself a little compromised by my interference; and if you'll accept of me for your second, I think I can answer for it that Captain Uraga will not dare to deny us." "Colonel Miranda--your name, I believe--need I attempt to express my thanks for so much generosity? I cannot--I could not. You have removed the very difficulty that was in my way; for I am not only a stranger to you, but to every one around. I arrived at Chihuahua but yesterday, and do not know a soul in the place." "Enough; you shall not be disappointed in your duel for the want of a second. As a preliminary, may I ask if you are skilled in the use of the sword?" "Sufficiently to stake my life upon it." "I put the question, because that is the weapon your adversary will be certain to choose. You being the challenger, of course he has the choice; and he will insist upon it, for a reason that may perhaps amuse you. It is that we Mexican gentlemen believe you Americans somewhat _gauche_ in the handling of the rapier, though we know you to be adepts in the use of the pistol. I take Captain Gil Uraga to be as thorough a poltroon as ever wore epaulettes, but he will have to meet you on my account; and he would perhaps have done so anyhow--trusting to the probability of your being a bad swordsman." "In that he may find himself disappointed." "I am glad to hear it; and now it only needs to receive your instructions. I am ready to act." The instructions were given, and within two hours' time Captain Gil Uraga, of the Zacatecas Lancers, was in receipt of a challenge from the Kentuckian--Colonel Miranda being its bearer. With such a voucher the lancer officer could not do otherwise than accept, which he did with cooler confidence for the very reason Miranda had made known. A _Tejano_, was his reflection--what should he know of the sword? And swords were the weapons chosen. Had the captain of Zacatecas Lancers been told that his intended adversary had spent a portion of his life among the Creoles of New Orleans, he would have been less reliant on the chances likely to turn up in his favour. We need not describe the duel, which, if different from other encounters of the kind, was by being on both sides bitter, and of deadly intent. Suffice it to say, that the young Kentuckian displayed a skill in swordsmanship sufficient to disarrange several of Gil Uraga's front teeth, and make an ugly gash in his cheek. He had barely left to him sufficient command of his mouth to cry "Basta!" and so the affair ended. "Senor Hamersley," said the man who had so effectively befriended him, after they had returned from the encounter, and were drinking a bottle of Paso wine in the posada, "may I ask where you intend going when you leave Chihuahua?" "To Santa Fe, in New Mexico; thence to the United States, along with one of the return caravans." "When do you propose starting?" "As to that, I am not tied to time. The train with which I am to cross the plains will not be going for six months to come. I can get to Santa Fe by a month's travel, I suppose?" "Less than that. It is not a question of how soon you may arrive there, but when you leave here. I advise you to start at once. I admit that two days is but a short time to see the sights of even so small a place as Chihuahua. But you have witnessed one of them--enough, I should say. If you take my advice you will let it content you, and kick the Chihuahua-ense dust from your feet before another twenty-four hours have passed over your head." "But why, Colonel Miranda?" "Because so long as you remain here you will be in danger of losing your life. You don't know the character of the man with whom you have crossed swords. I do. Although wearing the uniform of an officer in our army, he is simply a _salteador_. A coward, as I told you, too. He would never have met you if he had thought I would have given him a chance to get out of it. Perhaps he might have been tempted by the hopes of an easy conquest from your supposed want of skill. It would have given him something to boast about among the dames of Chihuahua, for Captain Gil deems himself no little of a lady-killer. You have spoilt his physiognomy for life; and, depend upon it, as long as life lasts, he will neither forget nor forgive that. I shall also come in for a share of his spite, and it behoves both of us to beware of him." "But what can he do to us?" "Caballero, that question shows you have not been very long in this country, and are yet ignorant of its customs. In Mexico we have some callings not congenial to your people. Know that stilettoes can here be purchased cheaply, with the arms of assassins to use them. Do you understand me?" "I do. But how do you counsel me to act?" "As I intend acting myself--take departure from Chihuahua this very day. Our roads are the same as far as Albuquerque, where you will be out of reach of this little danger. I am returning thither from the city of Mexico, where I've had business with the Government. I have an escort; and if you choose to avail yourself of it you'll be welcome to its protection." "Colonel Miranda, again I know not how to thank you. I accept your friendly offer." "Reserve your thanks till I have done you some service beyond the simple duty of a gentleman, who sees another gentleman in a dilemma he had no hand in creating. But enough, senor; we have no time to spend in talking. Even now there may be a couple of poignards preparing for us. Get your things ready at once, as I start two hours before sunset. In this sultry weather we are accustomed to travel in the cool of the evening." "I shall be ready." That same afternoon, two hours before the going down of the sun, a party of horsemen, wearing the uniform of Mexican dragoons of the line, issued from the _garita_ of Chihuahua, and took the northern road leading to Santa Fe, by El Paso del Norte. Colonel Miranda, his ranchero dress changed for the fatigue uniform of a cavalry officer, was at its head, and by his side the stranger, whose cause he had so generously and gallantly espoused. CHAPTER THREE. THE COLONEL COMMANDANT. Six weeks have elapsed since the day of the duel at Chihuahua. Two men are standing on the _azotea_ of a large mansion-like house close to the town of Albuquerque, whose church spire is just visible through the foliage of trees that shade and surround the dwelling. They are Colonel Miranda and the young Kentuckian, who has been for some time his guest; for the hospitality of the generous Mexican had not terminated with the journey from Chihuahua. After three weeks of toilsome travel, including the traverse of the famed "Dead Man's Journey," he was continuing to extend it in his own house and his own district, of which last he was the military commandant, Albuquerque being at the time occupied by a body of troops, stationed there for defence against Indian incursions. The house on whose roof the two men stood was that in which Colonel Miranda had been born--the patrimonial mansion of a large estate that extended along the Rio del Norte, and back towards the Sierra Blanca, into territories almost unknown. Besides being an officer in the Mexican army, the colonel was one of the _ricos_ of the country. The house, as already said, was a large, massive structure, having, like all Mexican dwellings of its class, a terraced roof, or _azotea_. What is also common enough in that country, it was surmounted by a _mirador_, or "belvedere." Standing less than half a mile distant from the soldier's _cuartel_, the commandant found it convenient to make use of it as his headquarters. A small guard in the _saguan_, or covered entrance below, with a sentinel stationed outside the gate in front, indicated this. There was no family inside, wife, woman, or child; for the colonel, still a young man, was a bachelor. Only _peons_ in the field, grooms and other servants around the stables, with domestics in the dwelling-- all, male and female, being Indians of the race known as "Indios mansos"--brown-skinned and obedient. But though at this time there was no living lady to make her soft footsteps heard within the walls of the commandant's dwelling, the portrait of a lovely girl hung against the side of the main _sola_, and on this his American guest had more than once gazed in silent admiration. It showed signs of having been recently painted, which was not strange, since it was the likeness of Colonel Miranda's sister, a few years younger than himself--at the time on a visit to some relatives in a distant part of the Republic. Frank Hamersley's eyes never rested on it without his wishing the original at home. The two gentlemen upon the housetop were leisuring away the time in the indulgence of a cigar, watching the water-fowl that swam and plunged on the bosom of the broad shallow stream, listening to the hoarse croakings of pelicans and the shriller screams of the _guaya_ cranes. It was the hour of evening, when these birds become especially stridulent. "And so you must go to-morrow, Senor Francisco?" said his host, taking the cigaritto from between his teeth, and looking inquiringly into the face of the Kentuckian. "There is no help for it, colonel. The caravan with which I came out will be leaving Santa Fe the day after to-morrow, and there's just time for me to get there. Unless I go along with it, there may be no other opportunity for months to come, and one cannot cross the plains alone." "Well, I suppose I must lose you. I am sorry, and selfishly, too, for, as you see, I am somewhat lonely here. There's not one of my officers, with the exception of our old _medico_, exactly of the sort to be companionable. True, I have enough occupation, as you may have by this time discovered, in looking after our neighbours, the _Indios bravos_, who, knowing the skeleton of a regiment I've got, are growing saucier every day. I only wish I had a score or two of your stalwart trappers, who now and then pay a visit to Albuquerque. Well, my sister will soon be here, and she, brave girl, has plenty of life in her, though she be but young. What a joyous creature she is, wild as a mustang filly fresh caught. I wish, Don Francisco, you could have stayed to make her acquaintance. I am sure you would be delighted with her." If the portrait on the wall was anything of a faithful likeness, Hamersley could not have been otherwise. This was his reflection, though, for certain reasons, he did not in speech declare it. "It is to be hoped we shall meet again, Colonel Miranda," was his ingenious rejoinder. "If I did not have this hope, I should now be parting from you with greater regret. Indeed, I have more than a presentiment we shall meet again; since I've made up my mind on a certain thing." "On what, Don Francisco?" "On returning to New Mexico." "To settle in the country?" "Not exactly that; only for a time--long enough to enable me to dispose of a cargo of merchandise in exchange for a bag of your big Mexican dollars." "Ah! you intend to become one of the prairie merchants, then?" "I do. That intention has been the cause of my visiting your country. I am old enough to think of some calling, and have always had a fancy for the adventurous life of the prairie trader. As I have sufficient means to stock a small caravan for myself, I think now of trying it. My present trip has been merely one of experiment and exploration. I am satisfied with the result, and, if no accident arise, you may see me back on the Del Norte before either of us be twelve months older." "Then, indeed, is there a hope of our meeting again. I am rejoiced at it. But, Senor Don Francisco," continued his host, changing to a serious tone, "a word lest I might forget it--a word of counsel, or warning, I may call it. I have observed that you are too unsuspicious, too regardless of danger. It does not all lie upon the prairies, or among red-skinned savages. There is as much of it here, amid the abodes of our so-called civilisation. When you are travelling through this country bear your late antagonist in mind, and should you at any time meet, beware of him. I have given you some hints about the character of Gil Uraga. I have not told you all. He is worse than you can even imagine. I know him well. Do you see that little house, out yonder on the other side of the river?" Hamersley nodded assent. "In that hovel he was born. His father was what we call a _pelado_--a poor devil, with scarce a coat to his back. Himself the same, but something worse. He has left in his native place a record of crimes well known, with others more than suspected. In short, he is, as I have told you, a robber. No doubt you wonder that such a man should be an officer in our army. That is because you are ignorant of the state of our service--our society as well. It is but the result of constantly recurring changes in our political system. Still you may feel surprise at his holding this commission, with the patriotic party--the pure one-- in power, as it now is. That might be inexplicable even to myself, since I know that he will be traitor to our cause when convenient to him. But I also know the explanation. There is a power, even when the party exercising it is not in the ascendant--an influence that works by sap and secrecy. It is that of our hierarchy. Gil Uraga is one of its tools, since it exactly suits his low instincts and treacherous training. Whenever the day is ripe for a fresh _pronunciamento_ against our liberties--if we are so unfortunate as to have one--he will be amongst the foremost of the traitors. _Carrai_! I can think of him only with disgust and loathing. Would you believe it, senor, that this fellow, now that epaulettes have been set on his shoulders--placed there for some vile service--has the audacity to aspire to the hand of my sister? Adela Miranda standing in bridal robes by the side of Gil Uraga! I would rather see her in her shroud!" Hamersley's bosom heaved up as he listened to the last words, and with emotion almost equalling that which excited his host. He had just been thinking about the portrait upon the wall, and how beautiful the original must be. Now hearing her name coupled with that of the ruffian whose blow he had felt, and whose blood he had spilled, he almost regretted not having ended that duel by killing his adversary outright. "But surely, Colonel Miranda," he said at length, "there could be no danger of such an event as that you speak of?" "Never, so long as I live. But, amigo, as you have learnt, this is a strange land--a country of quick changes. I am here to-day, commanding in this district, with power, I may almost say, over the lives of all around me. To-morrow I may be a fugitive, or dead. If the latter, where is she, my poor sister, going to find the arm that could protect her?" Again the breast of Hamersley heaved in a convulsive manner. Strange as it might appear, the words of his newly-made friend seemed like an appeal to him. And it is just possible some such thought was in the mind of the Mexican colonel. In the strong man by his side he saw the type of a race who can protect; just such an oak as he would wish to see his sister extend her arms tendril-like around, and cling on to for life. Hamersley could not help having vague and varied misgivings; yet among them was one purpose he had already spoken of--a determination to return to Albuquerque. "I am sure to be back here," he said, as if the promise was meant to tranquillise the apprehensions of the colonel. Then, changing to a more careless tone, he added,-- "I cannot come by the spring caravans; there would not be time enough to make my arrangements. But there is a more southern route, lately discovered, that can be travelled at any season. Perhaps I may try that. In any case, I shall write you by the trains leaving the States in the spring, so that you may know when to expect me. And if, Colonel Miranda," he added, after a short reflective pause, in which his countenance assumed a new and graver form of expression, "if any political trouble, such as you speak of, should occur, and you may find it necessary to flee from your own land, I need not tell you that in mine you will find a friend and a home. After what has happened here, you may depend upon the first being true, and the second hospitable, however humble." On that subject there was no further exchange of speech. The two individuals, so oddly as accidentally introduced, flung aside the stumps of their cigars; and, clasping hands, stood regarding one another with the gaze of a sincere, unspeakable friendship. Next morning saw the Kentuckian riding away from Albuquerque towards the capital of New Mexico, an escort of dragoons accompanying him, sent by the Mexican colonel as a protection against marauding Indians. But all along the road, and for months after, he was haunted with the memory of that sweet face seen upon the _sola_ wall; and instead of laughing at himself for having fallen in love with a portrait, he but longed to return, and look upon its original--chafing under an apprehension, with which the parting words of his New Mexican host had painfully inspired him. CHAPTER FOUR. A PRONUNCIAMENTO. A little less than a quarter of a century ago the Navajo Indians were the terror of the New Mexican settlements. It was no uncommon thing for them to charge into the streets of a town, shoot down or spear the citizens, plunder the shops, and seize upon such women as they wanted, carrying these captives to their far-off fastnesses in the land of Navajoa. In the _canon_ de Chelley these savages had their headquarters, with the temple and _estufa_, where the sacred fire of _Moctezuma_ was never permitted to go out; and there, in times past, when Mexico was misruled by the tyrant Santa Anna, might have been seen scores of white women, captives to the Navajo nation, women well born and tenderly brought up, torn from their homes on the Rio del Norte, and forced to become the wives of their red-skinned captors--oftener their concubines and slaves. White children, too, in like manner, growing up among the children of their despoilers; on reaching manhood to forget all the ties of kindred, with the _liens_ of civilised life--in short, to be as much savages as those who had adopted them. At no period was this despoliation more rife than in the time of which we write. It had reached its climax of horrors, day after day recurring, when Colonel Miranda became military commandant of the district of Albuquerque; until not only this town, but Santa Fe, the capital of the province itself, was menaced with destruction by the red marauders. Not alone the Navajoes on the west, but the Apaches on the south, and the Comanches who peopled the plains to the east, made intermittent and frequent forays upon the towns and villages lying along the renowned Rio del Norte. There were no longer any outlying settlements or isolated plantations. The grand _haciendas_, as the humble _ranchos_, were alike lain in ruins. In the walled town alone was there safety for the white inhabitants of Nuevo Mexico, or for those Indians, termed _mansos_, converted to Christianity, and leagued with them in the pursuits of civilisation. And, indeed, not much safety either within towns--even in Albuquerque itself. Imbued with a spirit of patriotism, Colonel Miranda, in taking charge of the district--his native place, as already known--determined on doing his best to protect it from further spoliation; and for this purpose had appealed to the central government to give him an increase to the forces under his command. It came in the shape of a squadron of lancers from Chihuahua, whose garrison only spared them on their being replaced by a troop of like strength, sent on from the capital of the country. It was not very pleasant to the commandant of Albuquerque to see Captain Gil Uraga in command of the subsidy thus granted him. But the lancer officer met him in a friendly manner, professing cordiality, apparently forgetful of their duelling feud, and, at least outwardly, showing the submission due to the difference of their rank. Engaged in frequent affairs with the Indians, and expeditions in pursuit of them, for a while things seemed to go smoothly enough. But as Adela Miranda had now returned home, and was residing with her brother, in the interludes of tranquillity he could not help having some concern for her. He was well aware of Uraga's aspirations; and, though loathing the very sight of the man, he was, nevertheless, compelled to tolerate his companionship to a certain extent, and could not well deny him the _entree_ of his house. At first the subordinate bore himself with becoming meekness. Mock humility it was, and soon so proved itself. For, as the days passed, rumours reached the distant department of New Mexico that the old tyrant Santa Anna was again returning to power. And, in proportion as these gained strength, so increased Gil Uraga's confidence in himself, till at length he assumed an air of effrontery--almost insolence--towards his superior officer; and towards the sister, in the interviews he was permitted with her, a manner significantly corresponding. These were few, and still less frequent, as his brusque behaviour began to manifest itself. Observing it, Colonel Miranda at length came to the determination that the lancer captain should no longer enter into his house--at least, by invitation. Any future relations between them must be in the strict execution of their respective military duties. "Yes, sister," he said, one afternoon, as Adela was buckling on his sword-belt, and helping to equip him for the evening parade, "Uraga must come here no more. I well understand the cause of his contumacious behaviour. The priest party is again getting the ascendency. If they succeed, heaven help poor Mexico. And, I may add, heaven help us!" Drawing the girl to his bosom with a fond affectionate embrace, he gave her a brother's kiss. Then, striding forth, he sprang upon a saddled horse held in waiting, and rode off to parade his troops on the _plaza_ of Albuquerque. A ten minutes' trot brought him into their presence. They were not drawn up in line, or other formation, to receive him. On the contrary, as he approached the _cuartel_, he saw strange sights, and heard sounds corresponding. Everything was in confusion--soldiers rushing to and fro, uttering seditious cries. Among these were "Viva Santa Anna!" "Viva el General Armijo!" "Viva el _Coronel_ Uraga!" Beyond doubt it was a _pronunciamento_. The old regime under which Colonel Miranda held authority was passing away, and a new one about to be initiated. Drawing his sword and putting spur to his horse, he dashed in among the disaffected men. A few of the faithful ran up, and ranged themselves by his side. Then commenced a struggle, with shouting, shooting, sabring, and lance-thrusts. Several fell--some dead, some only disabled; among the last, Colonel Miranda himself, gravely wounded. In ten minutes it was all over; and the commandant of Albuquerque, no longer commanding, lay lodged in the garrison _carcel_; Captain Gil Uraga, now colonel, replacing him as the supreme military officer of the district. While all around ran the rumour that Don Antonio Lopes de Santa Anna was once more master of Mexico; his satellite, Manuel Armijo, again Governor of Santa Fe. CHAPTER FIVE. "WHY COMES HE NOT?" "What delays Valerian? What can be keeping him?" These questions came from Adela Miranda, on the evening of that same day, standing in the door of her brother's house, with eyes bent along the road leading to Albuquerque. Valerian was her brother's baptismal name, and it was about his absence she was anxious. For this she had reasons--more than one. Though still only a young girl, she quite understood the political situation of the Mexican Republic; at all times shifting, of late more critical than usual. In her brother's confidence, she had been kept posted up in all that transpired in the capital, as also the district over which he held military command, and knew the danger of which he was himself apprehensive--every day drawing nigher and nigher. Shortly after his leaving her she had heard shots, with a distant murmur of voices, in the direction of the town. From the _azolea_, to which she had ascended, she could note these noises more distinctly, but fancied them to be salutes, vivas, and cheers. Still, there was nothing much in that. It might be some jubilation of the soldiery at the ordinary evening parade; and, remembering that the day was a _fiesta_, she thought less of it. But, as night drew down, and her brother had not returned, she began to feel some slight apprehension. He had promised to be back for a dinner that was long since due--a repast she had herself prepared, more sumptuous than common on account of the saint's day. This was it that elicited the anxious self-asked interrogatories. After giving utterance to them, she paced backward and forward; now standing in the portal and gazing along the road; now returning to the _sola de comida_, to look upon the table, with cloth spread, wines decantered, fruits and flowers on the epergne--all but the dishes that waited serving till Valerian should show himself. To look on something besides--a portrait that hung upon the wall, underneath her own. It was a small thing--a mere photographic carte-de-visite. But it was the likeness of one who had a large place in her brother's heart, if not in her own. In hers, how could it? It was the photograph of a man she had never seen--Frank Hamersley. He had left it with Colonel Miranda, as a souvenir of their short but friendly intercourse. Did Colonel Miranda's sister regard it in that light? She could not in any other. Still, as she gazed upon it, a thought was passing through her mind somewhat different from a sentiment of simple friendship. Her brother had told her all--the circumstances that led to his acquaintance with Hamersley; of the duel, and in what a knightly manner the Kentuckian had carried himself; adding his own commentaries in a very flattering fashion. This, of itself, had been enough to pique curiosity in a young girl, just escaped from her convent school; but added to the outward semblance of the stranger, by the sun made lustrous--so lustrous inwardly--Adela Miranda was moved by something more than curiosity. As she stood regarding the likeness of Frank Hamersley she felt very much as he had done looking at hers--in love with one only known by portrait and repute. In such there is nothing strange nor new. Many a reader of this tale could speak of a similar experience. While gazing on the carte-de-visite she was roused from the sweet reverie it had called up by hearing footsteps outside. Someone coming in through the _saggan_. "Valerian at last!" The steps sounded as if the man making them were in a hurry. So should her brother be, having so long delayed his return. She glided out to meet him with an interrogatory on her lips. "Valerian?"--this suddenly changing to the exclamation, "_Madre de Dios_! 'Tis not my brother!" It was not, but a man pale and breathless--a _peon_ of the establishment--who, on seeing her, gasped out,-- "Senorita! I bring sad news. There's been a mutiny at the cuartel--a _pronunciamento_. The rebels have had it all their own way, and I am sorry to tell you that the colonel, your brother--" "What of him? Speak! Is he--" "Not killed, _nina_; only wounded, and a prisoner." Adela Miranda did not swoon nor faint. She was not of the nervous kind. Nurtured amid dangers, most of her life accustomed to alarms from Indian incursions, as well as revolutionary risings, she remained calm. She dispatched messengers to the town, secretly, one after another; and, while awaiting their reports, knelt before an image of the Virgin, and prayed. Up till midnight her couriers went, and came. Then one who was more than a messenger--her brother himself! As already reported to her, he was wounded, and came accompanied by the surgeon of the garrison, a friend. They arrived at the house in hot haste, as if pursued. And they were so, as she soon after learnt. There was just time for Colonel Miranda to select the most cherished of his _penates_; pack them on a _recua_ of mules, then mount, and make away. They had scarce cleared the premises when the myrmidons of the new commandant, led by the man himself, rode up and took possession of the place. By this time, and by good luck, the ruffian was intoxicated--so drunk he could scarce comprehend what was passing around him. It seemed like a dream to him to be told that Colonel Miranda had got clear away; a more horrid one to hear that she whom he designed for a victim had escaped from his clutches. When morning dawned, and in soberer mood he listened to the reports of those sent in pursuit--all telling the same tale of non-success--he raved like one in a frenzy of madness. For the escape of the late Commandant of Albuquerque had robbed him of two things--to him the sweetest in life--one, revenge on the man he heartily hated; the other, possession of the woman he passionately loved. CHAPTER SIX. SURROUNDED. A plain of pure sand, glaring red-yellow under the first rays of the rising sun; towards the east and west apparently illimitable, but interrupted northward by a chain of table-topped hills, and along its southern edge by a continuous cliff, rising wall-like to the height of several hundred feet, and trending each way beyond the verge of vision. About half-distance between this prolonged escarpment and the outlying hills six large "Conestoga" waggons, locked tongue and tail together, enclosing a lozenge-shaped or elliptical space--a _corral_--inside which are fifteen men and five horses. Only ten of the men are living; the other five are dead, their bodies lying a-stretch between the wheels of the waggons. Three of the horses have succumbed to the same fate. Outside are many dead mules; several still attached to the protruding poles, that have broken as their bodies fell crashing across them. Fragments of leather straps and cast gearing tell of others that have torn loose, and scoured off from the perilous spot. Inside and all around are traces of a struggle--the ground scored and furrowed by the hoofs of horses, and the booted feet of men, with here and there little rivulets and pools of blood. This, fast filtering into the sand, shows freshly spilled--some of it still smoking. All the signs tell of recent conflict. And so should they, since it is still going on, or only suspended to recommence a new scene of the strife, which promises to be yet more terrible and sanguinary than that already terminated. A tragedy easy of explanation. There is no question about why the waggons have been stopped, or how the men, mules, and horses came to be killed. Distant about three hundred yards upon the sandy plain are other men and horses, to the number of near two hundred. Their half-naked bodies of bronze colour, fantastically marked with devices in chalk-white, charcoal-black, and vermillion red--their buckskin breech-clouts and leggings, with plumes sticking tuft-like above their crowns--all these insignia show them to be Indians. It is a predatory band of the red pirates, who have attacked a travelling party of whites--no new spectacle on the prairies. They have made the first onslaught, which was intended to stampede the caravan, and at once capture it. This was done before daybreak. Foiled in the attempt, they are now laying siege to it, having surrounded it on all sides at a distance just beyond range of the rifles of those besieged. Their line forms the circumference of a circle of which the waggon clump is the centre. It is not very regularly preserved, but ever changing, ever in motion, like some vast constricting serpent that has thrown its body into a grand coil around its victim, to close when ready to give the fatal squeeze. In this case the victim appears to have no hope of escape--no alternative but to succumb. That the men sheltered behind the waggons have not "gone under" at the first onslaught is significative of their character. Of a surety they are not common emigrants, crossing the prairies on their way to a new home. Had they been so, they could not have "corralled" their unwieldy vehicles with such promptitude; for they had started from their night camp, and the attack was made while the train was in motion--advantage being taken of their slow drag through the soft, yielding sand. And had they been but ordinary emigrants they would not have stood so stoutly on the defence, and shown such an array of dead enemies around them. For among the savages outside can be seen at least a score of lifeless forms lying prostrate upon the plain. For the time, there is a suspension of hostilities. The red men, disappointed by the failure of their first charge, have retreated back to a safe distance. The death-dealing bullets of the whites, of which they have had fatal proof, hold them there. But the pause is not likely to be for long, as their gestures indicate. On one side of the circle a body of them clumped together hold counsel. Others gallop around it, bearing orders and instructions that evidently relate to a changed plan of attack. With so much blood before their eyes, and the bodies of their slain comrades, it is not likely they will retire from the ground. In their shouts there is a ring of resolved vengeance, which promises a speedy renewal of the attack. "Who do you think they are?" asks Frank Hamersley, the proprietor of the assaulted caravan. "Are they Comanches, Walt?" "Yis, Kimanch," answers the individual thus addressed; "an' the wust kind o' Kimanch. They're a band o' the cowardly Tenawas. I kin tell by thar bows. Don't ye see that thar's two bends in 'em?" "I do." "Wal, that's the sort o' bow the Tenawas carry--same's the Apash." "The Indians on this route were reported friendly. Why have they attacked us, I wonder?" "Injuns ain't niver friendly--not Tenawas. They've been riled considerably of late by the Texans on the Trinity. Besides, I reck'n I kin guess another reezun. It's owin' to some whites as crossed this way last year. Thar war a scrimmage atween them and the redskins, in the which some squaws got kilt--I mout say murdered. Thar war some Mexikins along wi' the whites, an' it war them that did it. An' now we've got to pay for their cussed crooked conduk." "What's best for us to do?" "Thar's no best, I'm afeerd. I kin see no chance 'cept to fight it out to the bitter eend. Thar's no mercy in them yells--ne'er a morsel o' it." "What do they intend doing next, think you?" "Jest yet 'taint easy to tell. Thar's somethin' on foot among 'em--some darned Injun trick. Clar as I kin see, that big chief wi' the red cross on his ribs, air him they call the Horned Lizard; an' ef it be, thar ain't a cunniner coon on all this contynent. He's sharp enough to contrive some tight trap for us. The dose we've gin the skunks may keep 'em off for a while--not long, I reck'n. Darnation! Thar's five o' our fellows wiped out already. It looks ugly, an' like enuf we've all got to go under." "Don't you think our best way will be to make a dash for it, and try to cut through them. If we stay here they'll starve us out. We haven't water enough in the waggons to give us a drink apiece." "I know all that, an' hev thort o' 't. But you forget about our hosses. Thar's only two left alive--yours and myen. All the rest air shot or stampedoed. Thurfor, but two o' us would stand a chance o' gettin' clar, an' it slim enough." "You are right, Walt; I did not think of that I won't forsake the men, even if assured of my own safety--never!" "Nobody as knows you, Frank Hamersley, need be tolt that." "Boys!" cries out Hamersley, in a voice that can be heard all through the corral; "I needn't tell you that we're in a fix, and a bad one. There's no help for us but to fight it out. And if we must die, let us die together." A response from eight voices coming from different sides--for those watching the movements of the enemy are posted round the enclosure-- tells there is not a craven among them. Though only teamsters, they are truly courageous men--most of them natives of Kentucky and Tennessee. "In any case," continues the owner of the caravan, "we must hold our ground till night. In the darkness there may be some chance of our being able to steal past them." These words have scarce passed the lips of the young prairie merchant, when their effect is counteracted by an exclamation. It comes from Walt Wilder, who has been acting as guide to the party. "Dog-goned!" he cries; "not the shadder o' a chance. They ain't goin' to give us till night. I knewed the Horned Lizard 'ud be after some trick." "What?" inquire several voices. "Look whar that lot's stannin' out yonder. Can't ye guess what they're at, Frank Hamersley?" "No. I only see that they have bows in their hands." "An' arrers, too. Don't you obsarve them wroppin' somethin' round the heads o' the arrers--looks like bits o' rags? Aye, rags it air, sopped in spittles and powder. They're agoin' to set the waggons afire! They air, by God!" CHAPTER SEVEN. FIERY MESSENGERS. The teamsters, each of whom is watching the post assigned to him, despite the danger, already extreme, see fresh cause of alarm in Wilder's words. Some slight hope had hitherto upheld them. Under the protection of the waggons they might sustain a siege, so long as their ammunition lasts; and before it gave out some chance, though they cannot think what, might turn up in their favour. It was a mere reflection founded on probabilities still unscrutinised--the last tenacious struggle before hope gives way to utter and palpable despair. Hamersley's words had for an instant cheered them; for the thought of the Indians setting fire to the waggons had not occurred to any of the party. It was a thing unknown to their experience; and, at such a distance, might be supposed impossible. But, as they now look around them, and note the canvas tilts, and light timbers, dry as chips from long exposure to the hot prairie sun; the piles of dry goods--woollen blankets, cotton, and silk stuffs--intended for the stores of Chihuahua, some of which they have hastily pulled from their places to form protecting barricades--when they see all this, and then the preparations the Indians are engaged in making, no wonder that they feel dismay on Walt Wilder shouting out, "They're agoin' to set the waggons afire!" The announcement, although carrying alarm, conveys no counsel. Even their guide, with a life-long experience on the prairies, is at a loss how they ought to act in this unexpected emergency. In the waggons water there is none--at least not enough to drown out a conflagration such as that threatened; and from the way the assailants are gesturing the traders can predict that ere long, a shower of fiery shafts will be sent into their midst. None of them but have knowledge sufficient to admonish them of what is intended. Even if they had never set foot upon a prairie, their school stories and legends of early life would tell them. They have all read, or heard, of arrows with tinder tied around their barbs, on fire and spitting sparks, or brightly ablaze. If any are ignorant of this sort of missile, or the mode of dispatching it on its mischievous errand, their ignorance is not destined longer to continue. Almost as soon as Wilder has given utterance to the warning words, half a score of the savages can be seen springing to the backs of their horses, each bearing a bow with a bunch of the prepared arrows. And before a single preventive step can be taken by the besieged traders, or any counsel exchanged between them, the pyrotechnic display has commenced. The bowmen gallop in circles around the besieged enclosure, their bodies concealed behind those of their horses--only a leg and an arm seen, or now and then a face for an instant, soon withdrawn. Not exactly in circles but in spiral rings--at each turn drawing closer and nearer, till the true distance is attained for casting the inflammatory shafts. "Stand to your guns, men!" is the hurried command of the guide, backed by a kind of encouragement from the proprietor of the caravan. "Now, boys!" adds the guide, "ye've got to look out for squalls. Keep two an' two of ye thegither. While one brings down the hoss, t' other take care o' the rider as he gits unkivered. Make sure afore ye pull trigger, an' don't waste so much as the snappin' o' a cap. Thar goes the first o' the fire works!" As Wilder speaks, a spark is seen to shoot out from one of the circling cavaliers, which rising rocket-like into the air, comes in parabolic curve towards the corral. It falls short some twenty yards and lies smoking and sputtering in the sand. "They han't got thar range yit," cries the guide; "but this child hez got his--leastwise for that skunk on the clay-bank mustang. So hyar goes to rub him off o' the list o' fire shooters." And simultaneous with the last word is heard the crack of Wilder's rifle. The young prairie merchant by his side, supposing him to have aimed only at the Indian's horse, has raised his own gun, ready to take the rider as soon as uncovered. "No need, Frank," shouts the guide, restraining him. "Walt Wilder don't waste two charges o' powder that way. Keep yur bullet for the karkidge o' the next as comes 'ithin range. Look yonder! I know'd I'd fetch him out o' his stirrups--tight as he's tried to cling to 'em. Thar he goes to grass!" Hamersley, as the others on the same side of the corral, were under the belief that the shot had been a miss; for the Indian at whom it was aimed still stuck to his horse, and was carried for some distance on in curving career. Nor did the animal show any sign of having been hit. But the rider did. While engaged in the effort of sending his arrow, the savage had exposed his face, one arm, and part of the other. Ere he could withdraw them, Walt's bullet had struck the arm that supported him, breaking the bone close to the elbow-joint. He has clung on with the tenacity of a shot squirrel, knowing that to let go will be certain death to him. But, despite all his efforts, the crippled arm fails to sustain him; and, with a despairing cry, he at length tumbles to the ground. Before he can rise to his feet, his body is bored by a leaden messenger from one of the men watching on that side, which lays him lifeless along the sand. No cheer of triumph ascends from among the waggons; the situation of those who defend them is too serious for any idle exhibition. The man who has fired the last shot only hastens to re-load, while the others remain mute and motionless--each on the look-out for a like opportunity. The fall of their comrade has taught the freebooters a lesson, and for a time they make their approach with more caution. But the shouts of those standing spectators in the outer circle stimulate them to fresh efforts, as the slightest show of cowardice would surely cause them to be taunted. Those entrusted with the fiery arrows are all young warriors, chosen for this dangerous service, or volunteers to perform it. The eyes of their chief, and the braves of the tribe, are upon them. They are thirsting for glory, and hold their lives as of little account, in the face of an achievement that will gain them the distinction most coveted by an Indian youth--that which will give him rank as a warrior, and perhaps some day raise him to a chieftaincy. Stimulated by this thought, they soon forget the check caused by the fall of their comrade; and, laying aside caution, ride nearer and nearer, till their arrows, one after another, hurtle through the air, and dropping like a continuous shower of spent rocket-sticks upon the covers of the corralled waggons. Several of them fall to shots from the barricade, but then places are supplied by fresh volunteers from the outer circle; and the sparkling shower is kept up, till a curl of smoke is seen soaring above the white tilts of the waggons, and soon after others at different places and on different sides of the enclosure. As yet the besieged have not seen this. The powder-smoke puffing up from their own guns, discharged in quick repetition, obscures everything in a thick, sulphurous cloud; so that even the white covers of the waggons are scarce distinguishable, much less the spots where it has commenced smoking. Not long, however, till something besides smoke makes itself visible, as also audible. Here and there flames flicker up, with a sharp crackling noise, which continues. The one is not flashes from the guns, nor the other a snapping of percussion-caps. Wilder, with eyes turning to all points, is the first to perceive this. "We're on fire, boys!" he vociferates; "on fire everywhar!" "Great God! yes! What are we to do?" several ask, despairingly. "What air we to do?" shouts the guide, in response. "What kin we do, but fight it out to the death, an' then die! So let us die, not like dogs, but as men--as Americans!" CHAPTER EIGHT. KNIFE, PISTOL, AND HATCHET. The brave words had scarce passed from Walt Wilder's lips when the waggons became enveloped in a cloud of smoke. From all sides it rolled into the corral till those inside could no longer see one another. Still through the obscurity rang their cries of mutual encouragement, repeating the determination so tersely expressed. They knew they had no water by which to extinguish the fast-threatening flames; yet in that moment of emergency they thought of an expedient. There were shovels in the waggons; and laying hold of these, they commenced flinging sand over the places that had caught fire, with the intent to smother the incipient blaze. Left alone, and with time, they might have succeeded. But they were not left alone, for the savages, seeing the advantage they had gained, were now fast closing for a final charge upon the corral, and the implements of industry had to be abandoned. These were thrown despairingly aside; and the besieged, once more grasping their rifles, sprang back into the waggons--each with eager eye searching for an assailant. Though themselves half blinded by the smoke, they could still see the enemy outside; for the Indians, grown confident by the _coup_ they had made, were now riding recklessly near. Quick came the reports of rifles--faster and more frequent than ever; fast as ten men, all practised marksmen, could load and fire. In less than sixty seconds nearly a score of savages dropped to the death-dealing bullets, till the plain appeared strewn with dead bodies. But the crisis had come--the time for a general charge of the whole band; and now the dusky outside ring was seen gradually contracting towards the corral--the savages advancing from all sides, some on foot, others on horseback, all eager to secure the trophy of a scalp. On they came, violently gesticulating, and uttering wild vengeful shouts. With the besieged it was a moment for despair. The waggons were on fire all around them, and in several places flames were beginning to flicker up through the smoke. They no longer thought of making any attempt to extinguish them. They knew it would be idle. Did they think of surrender? No--not a man of them. That would have been equally idle. In the voices of the advancing foe there was not an accent of mercy. Surrender! And be slain afterwards! Before which to be tortured, perhaps dragged at the horse's tail, or set up as a target for the Tenawa sharpshooters to practise at. No! They would have to die anyhow. Better now than then. They were not the men to offer both cheeks to the insulter. They could resign sweet life, but death would be all the sweeter with corpses of Indians lying thickly around them. They would first make a hecatomb of their hated foes, and then fall upon it. That is the sort of death preferred by the prairie man--hunter, trapper, or trader--glorious to him as the cannon-furrowed field to the soldier. That is the sort of death of which Walt Wilder spoke when he said, "Let us die, not like dogs, but as men--as Americans!" By this time the smoke had completely enveloped the waggons, the enclosed space between, and a fringe of some considerable width around them. But a still darker ring was all around--the circle of savage horsemen, who from all sides were galloping up and dismounting to make surer work of the slaughter. The warriors jostled one another as they pressed forward afoot, each thirsting for a scalp. The last throe of the conflict had come. It was no longer to be a duel at a distance--no more a contest between rifle-bullets and barbed arrows; but the close, desperate, hand-to-hand contest of pistol, knife, spear, club, and hatchet. The ten white men--none of them yet _hors de combat_--knew well what was before them. Not one of them blanched or talked of backing. They did not even think of surrender. It would have been too late to sue for mercy, had they been so inclined. But they were not. Attacked without provocation, and treacherously, as they had been, their fury was stronger than their fear; and anger now nerved them to frenzied energy of action. The savages had already closed around the waggons, clustering upon the wheels, some like snakes, wriggling through the spaces left undefended. Rifles ceased to ring; but pistols cracked--repeating pistols, that dealt death at every shot, sending redskin after redskin to the happy hunting grounds. And by the pistol's flash blades were seen gleaming through the smoke--now bright, anon dimmed, and dripping blood. For every white man that fell, at least three red ones went down upon the sand. The unequal contest could not long continue. Scarce ten minutes did it last, and but for the obscuring smoke five would have finished it. This was in favour of the assailed, enabling them to act with advantage against the assailants. Such a quick, wholesale slaughter did the white men make with their revolvers that the savages, surprised and staggered by it, for a moment recoiled, and appeared as if again going to retreat. They did not--they dared not. Their superior numbers--the shame of being defeated by such a handful of foes--the glory of conquest--and, added to it, an angry vengeance now hot in their hearts--all urged them on; and the attack was renewed with greater earnestness than ever. Throughout every scene in the strife Frank Hamersley had comported himself with a courage that made his men feel less fear of death, and less regret to die by his side. Fighting like a lion, he had been here, and there, and everywhere. He had done his full share of slaving. It was all in vain. Though standing in the midst of thick smoke, unseeing and unseen, he knew that most of his faithful men had fallen. He was admonished of this by their less frequent responses to his cries of encouragement, telling him the struggle was close upon its termination. No wonder his fury was fast giving place to despair. But it was no craven fear, nor any thought of escape. His determination not to be taken alive was strong as ever. His hand still firmly clasped his bowie-knife, its blade dripping with the blood of more than one enemy; for into the body of more than one had he plunged it. He clutched it with the determination still farther to kill--to take yet another life before parting with his own. It was hopeless, useless slaughter; but it was sweet. Almost insane with anger, he thought it sweet. Three dusky antagonists lay dead at his feet, and he was rushing across the corral in search of a fourth. A giant figure loomed up before him, looking more gigantic from the magnifying effect of the smoke. It was not that of a savage; it was Walt Wilder. "Dead beat!" hoarsely and hurriedly muttered the guide. "We must go under, Frank. We're boun' to go under, if we don't--" "Don't what, Walt?" "Git away from hyar." "Impossible." "No. Thar's still a chance, I think--for us two anyways. There ain't many o' the others left, an' ef thar war, we can't do 'em any good now. Our stayin' 'ud be no use--no use dyin' along wi' 'em; while ef we get clar, we mout live to revenge 'em. Don't ye see our two horses are still safe? Thar they air, cowerin' clost in agin one o' the waggons. 'Tain't much kit? I admit; still thar's a shadder. Come, Frank, and let's try it." Hamersley hesitated. It was at thought of deserting even the last of his faithful followers, who had sacrificed, or were still sacrificing, their lives in his service. But, as the guide had truly said what good could he do them by staying and getting killed? And he might survive to avenge them! The last reflection would have decided him! But Wilder had not waited for him to determine. While speaking the urgent words, he laid his huge hand upon Hamersley's shoulder and half led, half dragged him in the direction of the horses. "Keep hold o' yur rifle, though it air empty," hurriedly counselled the guide. "If we shed get away, it will be needed. We mout as well go under hyar as be upon the pararira without a gun. Now mount!" Almost mechanically the young Kentuckian climbed upon the back of the horse nearest to him--his own. The guide had not yet mounted his; but, as could be seen through the smoke, was leaning against the wheel of one of the waggons. In an instant after Hamersley perceived that the vehicle was in motion, and could hear a slight grating noise as the tire turned in the sand. The great Conestoga, with its load had yielded to the strength of the Colossus. In another instant he had sprung upon his horse's back and riding close to Hamersley, muttered in his ear, "Now I've opened a crack atween two o' the wehicles. Let's cut out through it. We kin keep in the kiver o' the smoke as far as it'll screen us. You foller, an' see that ye don't lose sight o' me. If we must go under in the eend, let it be out on the open plain, an' not shut up hyar like badgers in a barr'l. Follow me clost, Frank. Now or niver!" Almost mechanically the young Kentuckian yielded obedience; and in ten seconds after the two horsemen had cleared the waggon clump, with the shouting crowd that encircled it and were going at full gallop across the sand-strewn plain. CHAPTER NINE. QUARRELLING OVER SCALPS. Nearly simultaneous with the departure of the two horsemen came the closing scene of the conflict. Indeed it ended on the instant of their riding off. For of their comrades left behind there was not one upon his feet--not one able to fire another shot, or strike another blow. All lay dead, or wounded, among the waggons; some of the dead, as the wounded, clasping the handle of a knife whose blade reeked with blood, or a pistol from whose muzzle the smoke was still oozing. But soon among the whites there were no wounded, for the hovering host, having closed in from all sides, leaped from their horses, swarmed over the barrier between, tomahawking the last that showed signs of life, or thrusting them with their long lances, and pinning them to the sand. Through the body of every white man at least a half-dozen spear-blades were passed, while a like number of savages stood exultingly over, or danced triumphantly around it. And now ensued a scene that might be symbolised only among wild beasts or fiends in the infernal regions. It was a contest for possession of the scalps of those who had fallen--each of the victors claiming one. Some stood with bared blades ready to peel them off, while others held out hands and weapons to prevent it. From the lips of the competitors came shouts and expostulations, while their eyes flashed fire, and their arms rose and fell in furious gesticulations. Amidst their demoniac jargon could be heard a voice louder than all, thundering forth a command. It was to desist from their threatening strife and extinguish the flames that still flared up over the waggons. He who spoke was the one with the red cross upon his breast, its bars of bright vermilion gleaming like fire against the sombre background of his skin. He was the chief of the Tenawa Comanches--the Horned Lizard--as Wilder had justly conjectured. And as their chief he was instantly obeyed. The wranglers, one and all, promptly suspended their disputes; and flinging their weapons aside, at once set to carrying out his orders. Seizing upon the shovels, late dropped from the hands of their now lifeless antagonists, and plying them to better purpose, they soon smothered the flame, and the smoke too, till only a thin drift stole up through the sand thrown thickly over it. Meanwhile a man, in appearance somewhat differing from the rest, was seen moving among them. Indian in garb and guise, savage in his accoutrements, as the colour of his skin, he nevertheless, showed features more resembling races that are civilised. His countenance was of a cast apparently Caucasian, its lineaments unlike those of the American aboriginal; above all, unlike in his having a heavy beard, growing well forward upon his cheeks, and bushing down below the chin. True, that among the Comanche Indians bearded men are occasionally met with--_mestizos_, the descendants of renegade whites. But none paraded as he, who now appeared stalking around the ruined caravan. And there was another individual by his side, who had also hair upon his cheeks, though thinner and more straggling; while the speech passing between the two was not the guttural tongue of the Tenawa Comanches, but pure Mexican Spanish. Both were on foot, having dismounted; he with the heavy beard leading, the other keeping after as if in attendance. The former flitted from one to another of those who lay slain; in turn stooping over each corpse, and scrutinising it--to some giving but a cursory glance, to others more careful examination--then leaving each with an air of disappointment, and a corresponding exclamation. At length, after going the complete round of the dead, he faced towards his satellite, saying,-- "_Por dios_! he don't appear to be among them! What can it mean? There could be no doubt of his intention to accompany the caravan. Here it is, and here we are; but where is he? _Carajo_! If he has escaped me, I shall feel as if I'd had all this trouble for nothing." "Think of the precious plunder," rejoined the other. "These grand _carretas_ are loaded with rich goods. Surely they don't count for nothing." "A fig for the goods! I'd give more for his scalp than all the silks and satins that were ever carried to Santa Fe. Not that I'd care to keep such a trifle. The Horned Lizard will be welcome to it, soon as I see it stripped from his skull. That's what I want to see. But where is it? Where is he? Certainly not among these. There isn't one of them the least like him. Surely it must be his party, spoken of in his letter? No other has been heard of coming by this route. There they lie, all stark and staring--men, mules, and horses--all but him." The smoke has thinned off, only a thin film still wafting about the waggons, whose canvas tilts, now consumed, expose their contents--some of them badly burnt, some but slightly scorched. The freebooters have commenced to drag out boxes and bales, their chief by a stern command having restrained them from returning to take the scalps of the slain. All has been the work of only a few moments--less than ten minutes of time--for it is scarce so much since Wilder and Hamersley, stealing out between the wheels, rode off under cover of the cloud. By this he with the beard, speaking Spanish, has ceased to scrutinise the corpses, and stands facing his inferior, his countenance showing an air of puzzled disappointment, as proclaimed by his repeated speeches. Once again he gives speech to his perplexity, exclaiming: "_Demonios_! I don't understand it. Is it possible that any of them can have got away?" As he puts the question there comes a shout from outside, seeming to answer it. For it is a cry half in lamentation--a sort of wail, altogether unlike the charging war-whoop of the Comanches. Acquainted with their signals, he knows that the one he has heard tells of an enemy trying to escape. Hurrying outside the corral, he sees two mounted men, nearly a mile off, making in the direction of the cliffs. And nearer, a score of other men, in the act of mounting, these being Indians, who have just caught sight of the fugitives, and are starting to pursue. More eager than any, he rushes direct to his horse, and, having reached, bestrides him at a spring. Then, plunging deep the spur, he dashed off across the plain towards the point where the two men are seen making away. Who both may be he knows not, nor of one need he care; but of one he does, feeling sure it is the same for whom he has been searching among the slain. "Not dead yet, but soon shall be!" So mutters he, as with clenched teeth, bridle tight-drawn, and fingers firmly clasping the butt of a double-barrelled pistol, he spurs on after the two horsemen, who, heading straight for the cliff, seem as if they had no chance to escape; for their pursuers are closing after them in a cloud, dark as the dreaded "norther" that sweeps over the Texan desert, with shout symbolising the clangour that accompanies it. CHAPTER TEN. A BRAVE STEED ABANDONED. In making his bold dash, Walt Wilder was not acting without a preconceived plan. He had one. The smoke, with its covering cloud, might be the means of concealment, and ultimate salvation; at all events, it would cover their retreat long enough to give them a start of the pursuers, and then the speed of their horses might possibly be depended upon for the rest. They at first followed this plan, but unfortunately soon found that it would not long avail them. The smoke was not drifting in the right direction. The breeze carried it almost straight towards the line of the cliffs, while their only chance was to strike for the open plain. At the cliffs their flight would be stopped. So far the smoke had favoured them. Thick and stifling in the immediate vicinity of the waggons, it enabled them to slip unobserved through the ruck of savages. Many of these, still mounted, had seen them pass outward, but through the blue film had mistaken them for two of their own men. They perhaps knew nothing of there having been horses inside the corral, and did not expect to see any of their caged enemies attempting to escape in that way. Besides, they were now busy endeavouring to extinguish the fires, all resistance being at an end. As yet there was no sign of pursuit, and the fugitives rode up with the projecting _nimbus_ around them. In the soft sand their horses' hoofs made no noise, and they galloped towards the cliff silent as spectres. On reaching its base, it became necessary for them either to change the direction of their flight, or bring it to a termination. The bluff towered vertically above them, like a wall of rude masonwork. A cat could not have scaled it, much less horse, or man. They did not think of making the attempt. And now, what were they to do? Ride out from the smoke-cloud, or remain under its favouring shelter? In either case they were sure of being discovered and pursued. It would soon clear off, and they would be seen from the waggons. Already it was fast thinning around them; the Indians having nearly extinguished the fires in order to save the treasure, which had no doubt been their chief object for attacking the caravan. Soon there would be no smoke--and then? The pursued men stayed not to reflect further. Delay would only add to their danger; and with this thought urging them on, they wheeled their horses to the left, and headed along the line of the bluff. Six seconds after they were riding in a pure atmosphere, under clear dazzling sunlight. But it gave them no delight. A yell from the savages told them they were seen, and simultaneously with the shout, they perceived a score of horsemen spurring from the crowd, and riding at full speed towards them. They were both splendidly mounted, and might still have had a fair chance of escape; but now another sight met their eyes that once more almost drove them to despair. A promontory of the cliff, stretching far out over the sandy plain, lay directly in their track. Its point was nearer to the pursuers than to them. Before they could reach, and turn it, their retreat would be intercepted. Was there still a chance to escape in the opposite direction? Again suddenly turning, they galloped back as they had come; again entered the belt of smoke; and, riding on through it, reached the clear sunlight beyond. Again a torturing disappointment. Another promontory--twin to the first--jutted out to obstruct them. There was no mystery in the matter. They saw the mistake they had made. In escaping under cover of the cloud they had gone too far, ridden direct into a deep embayment of the cliff! Their pursuers, who had turned promptly as they, once more had the advantage. The outlying point of rocks was nearer to them, and they would be almost certain to arrive at it first. To the fugitives there appeared no alternative but to ride on, and take the chance of hewing their way through the savages surrounding--for certainly they would be surrounded. "Git your knife riddy, Frank!" shouted Wilder, as he dug his heels into his horse's side and put the animal to full speed. "Let's keep close thegither--livin' or dead, let's keep thegither!" Their steeds needed no urging. To an American horse accustomed to the prairies there is no spur like the yell of an Indian; for he knows that along with it usually comes the shock of a bullet, or the sting of a barbed shaft. Both bounded off together, and went over the soft sand, silent, but swift as the wind. In vain. Before they could reach the projecting point, the savages had got up, and were clustering around it. At least a score, with spears couched, bows bent, and clubs brandishing, stood ready to receive them. It was a gauntlet the pursued men might well despair of being able to run. Truly now seemed their retreat cut off, and surely did death appear to stare them in the face. "We must die, Walt," said the young prairie merchant, as he faced despairingly toward his companion. "Maybe not yet," answered Wilder, as with a searching glance, he directed his eye along the facade of the cliff. The red sandstone rose rugged and frowning, full five hundred feet overhead. To the superficial glance it seemed to forbid all chance either of being scaled, or affording concealment. There was not even a boulder below, behind which they might find a momentary shelter from the shafts of the pursuers. For all that, Wilder continued to scan it, as if recalling some old recollection. "This must be the place," he muttered. "It is, by God!" he added more emphatically, at the same time wrenching his horse around, riding sharp off, and calling to his companion to follow him. Hamersley obeyed, and rode after, without knowing what next. But, in another instant, he divined the intent of this sudden change in the tactics of his fellow fugitive. For before riding far his eyes fell upon a dark list, which indicated an opening in the escarpment. It was a mere crack, or chine, scarce so wide as a doorway, and barely large enough to admit a man on horseback; though vertically it traversed the cliff to its top, splitting it from base to summit. "Off o' yur hoss!" cried Wilder, as he pulled up in front of it, at the same time flinging himself from his own. "Drop the bridle, and leave him behint. One o' 'em'll be enough for what I want, an' let that be myen. Poor critter, it air a pity! But it can't be helped. We must hev some kiver to screen us. Quick, Frank, or the skunks will be on to us!" Painful as it was to abandon his brave steed, Hamersley did as directed without knowing why. The last speeches of the guide were somewhat enigmatical, though he presumed they meant an important signification. Slipping down from his saddle, he stood by his horse's side, a noble steed, the best blood of his own State, Kentucky, famed for its fine stock. The animal appeared to know that its master was about to part from it. It turned its head towards him; and, with bent neck, and steaming nostrils, gave utterance to a low neigh that, while proclaiming affection, seemed to say, "Why do you forsake me?" Under other circumstances the Kentuckian would have shed tears. For months he and his horse had been as man and man together in many a long prairie journey--a companionship which unites the traveller to his steed in liens strong as human friendship, almost as lasting, and almost as painful to break. So Frank Hamersley felt, as he flung the bridle back on the animal's withers--still retaining hold of the rein, loth to relinquish it. But there was no alternative. Behind were the shouting pursuers quickly coming on. He could see their brandished spears glancing in the sun glare. They would soon be within reach, thrusting through his body; their barbed blades piercing him between the ribs. No time for sentiment nor dallying now, without the certainty of being slain. He gave one last look at his steed, and then letting go the rein, turned away, as one who, by stern necessity, abandons a friend, fearing reproach for what he does, but without the power to explain it. For a time the abandoned steed kept its place, with glances inquiringly sent after the master who had forsaken it. Then, as the yelling crew came closer behind, it threw up its head, snorted, and tore off with trailing bridle. Hamersley had turned to the guide, now also afoot, but still retaining hold of his horse, which he was conducting towards the crack in the cliff, with all his energies forcing it to follow him; for the animal moved reluctantly, as though suspecting danger inside the darksome cleft. Still urging it on, he shouted back to the Kentuckian, "You go first, Frank! Up into the kanyon, without losin' a second's time. Hyar, take my gun, an' load both, whiles I see to the closin' o' the gap." Seizing both guns in his grasp, Hamersley sprang into the chine, stopping when he got well within its grim jaws. Wilder went after, leading his steed, that still strained back upon the bridle. There was a large stone across the aperture, over which the horse had to straddle. This being above two feet in height, when the animal had got its forelegs over Wilder checked it to a stand. Hitherto following him with forced obedience, it now trembled, and showed a strong determination to go back. There was an expression, in its owner's eye it had never seen before--something that terribly frayed it. But it could not now do this, though ever so inclined. With its ribs close pressing the rocks on each side, it was unable to turn; while the bridle drawn firmly in front hindered it from retiring. Hamersley, busily engaged in loading the rifles, nevertheless found time to glance at Wilder's doings, wondering what he was about. "It air a pity!" soliloquised the latter, repeating his former words in similar tones of commiseration. "F'r all that, the thing must be done. If thar war a rock big enough, or a log, or anythin'. No! thar ain't ne'er another chance to make kiver. So hyar goes for a bit o' butcherin'." As the guide thus delivered himself, Hamersley saw him jerk the bowie knife from his belt, its blade red and still reeking with human gore. In another instant its edge was drawn across the throat of the horse, from which the blood gushed forth in a thick, strong stream, like water from the spout of a pump. The creature made a last desperate effort to get off, but with its forelegs over the rocks and head held down between them, it could not stir from the spot. After a convulsive throe or two, it sank down till its ribs rested upon the straddled stone; and in this attitude it ended its life, the head after a time drooping down, the eyes apparently turned with a last reproachful look upon the master who had murdered it! "It hed to be did; thar war no help for it," said Wilder, as he hurriedly turned towards his companion, adding: "Have you got the guns charged?" Hamersley made answer by handing him back his own rifle. It was loaded and ready. "Darn the stinkin' cowarts!" cried the guide, grasping the gun, and facing towards the plain. "I don't know how it may all eend, but this'll keep 'em off a while, anyhow." As he spoke he threw himself behind the body of the slaughtered steed, which, sustained in an upright position between the counterpart walls, formed a safe barricade against the bullets and arrows of the Indians. These, now riding straight towards the spot, made the rocks resound with exclamations of surprise--shouts that spoke of a delayed, perhaps defeated, vengeance. They took care, however, not to come within range of that long steel-grey tube, that, turning like a telescope on its pivot, commanded a semicircle of at least a hundred yards' radius round the opening in the cliff. Despite all the earnestness of their vengeful anger, the pursuers were now fairly at bay, and for a time could be kept so. Hamersley looked upon it as being but a respite--a mere temporary deliverance from danger, yet to terminate in death. True, they had got into a position where, to all appearance, they could defend themselves as long as their ammunition lasted, or as they could withstand the agony of thirst or the cravings of hunger. How were they to get out again? As well might they have been besieged in a cave, with no chance of sortie or escape. These thoughts he communicated to his companion, as soon as they found time to talk. "Hunger an' thirst ain't nothin' to do wi' it," was Wilder response. "We ain't a goin' to stay hyar not twenty minutes, if this child kin manage it as he intends ter do. You don't s'pose I rushed into this hyar hole like a chased rabbit? No, Frank; I've heern o' this place afore, from some fellers thet, like ourselves, made _cache_ in it from a band o' pursuin' Kimanch. Thar's a way leads out at the back; an' just as soon as we kin throw dust in the eyes o' these yellin' varmints in front, we'll put straight for it. I don't know what sort o' a passage thar is--up the rocks by some kind o' raven, I b'lieve. We must do our best to find it." "But how do you intend to keep them from following us? You speak of throwing dust in their eyes--how, Walt?" "You wait, watch an' see. You won't hev yur patience terrifically tried: for thar ain't much time to spare about it. Thar's another passage up the cliffs, not far off; not a doubt but these Injuns know it; an' ef we don't make haste, they'll git up thar, and come in upon us by the back door, which trick won't do, nohowsomdever. You keep yurself in readiness, and watch what I'm agoin' to do. When you see me scoot up back'ards, follor 'ithout sayin' a word." Hamersley promised compliance, and the guide, still kneeling behind the barricade he had so cruelly constructed, commenced a series of manoeuvres that held his companion in speechless conjecture. He first placed his gun in such a position that the barrel, resting across the hips of the dead horse, projected beyond the tail. In this position he made it fast, by tying the butt with a piece of string to a projecting part of the saddle. He next took the cap from his head--a coonskin it was--and set it so that its upper edge could be seen alongside the pommel, and rising about three inches above the croup. The ruse was an old one, with some new additions and embellishments. "It's all done now," said the guide, turning away from the carcase and crouching to where his comrade awaited him. "Come on, Frank. If they don't diskiver the trick till we've got time to speed up the clift, then thar's still a chance for us. Come on, an' keep close arter me!" Hamersley went, without saying a word. He knew that Wilder, well known and long trusted, had a reason for everything he did. It was not the time to question him, or discuss the prudence of the step he was taking. There might be danger before, but there was death--sure death--behind them. CHAPTER ELEVEN. A DESCENT INTO DARKNESS. In less than a dozen paces from its entrance the chine opened into a wider space, again closing like a pair of callipers. It was a hollow of elliptical shape--resembling an old-fashioned butterboat scooped out of the solid rock, on all sides precipitous, except at its upper end. Here a ravine, sloping down from the summit-level above, would to the geologist at once proclaim the secret of its formation. Not so easily explained might seem the narrow outlet to the open plain. But one skilled in the testimony of the rocks would detect certain ferruginous veins in the sandstone that, refusing to yield to the erosion of the running stream, had stood for countless ages. Neither Walt Wilder nor the young Kentuckian gave thought to such scientific speculations as they retreated through the narrow gap and back into the wider gorge. All they knew or cared for was that a gully at the opposite end was seen to slope upward, promising a path to the plain above. In sixty seconds they were in it, toiling onward and upward amidst a chaos of rocks where no horse could follow--loose boulders that looked as if hurled down from the heavens above or belched upward from the bowels of the earth. The retreat of the fugitives up the ravine, like their dash out of the enclosed corral, was still but a doubtful effort. Neither of them had full confidence of being able eventually to escape. It was like the wounded squirrel clutching at the last tiny twig of a tree, however unable to support it. They were not quite certain that the sloping gorge would give them a path to the upper plain; for Wilder had only a doubtful recollection of what some trapper had told him. But even if it did, the Indians, expert climbers as they were, would soon be after them, close upon their heels. The ruse could not remain long undetected. They had plunged into the chasm as drowning men grasp at the nearest thing afloat--a slender branch or bunch of grass, a straw. As they now ascended the rock-strewn gorge both had their reflections, which, though unspoken, were very similar. And from these came a gleam of hope. If they could but reach the summit-level of the cliff! Their pursuers could, of course, do the same; but not on horseback. It would then be a contest of pedestrian speed. The white men felt confidence in their swiftness of foot; in this respect believing themselves superior to their savage pursuers. They knew that the Comanches were horse Indians--a significant fact. These centaurs of the central plateaux, scarce ever setting foot upon the earth, when afoot are almost as helpless as birds with their wings plucked or pinioned. If they could reach the crest of the cliff, then all might yet be well; and, cheered by this reflection, they rushed up the rock-strewn ravine, now gliding along ledges, now squeezing their bodies between great boulders, or springing from one to the other--in the audacity of their bounds rivalling a brace of bighorns. They had got more than half-way up, when cries came pealing up the glen behind them. Still were they hidden from the eyes of the pursuers. Jutting points of rock and huge masses that lay loose in the bed of the ravine had hitherto concealed them. But for these, bullets and arrows would have already whistled about their ears, and perhaps put an end to their flight. The savages were near enough to send either gun-shot or shaft, and their voices, borne upward on the air, sounded as clear as if they were close at hand. The fugitives, as already said, had reached more than halfway up the slope, and were beginning to congratulate themselves on the prospect of escape. They even thought of the course they should take on arriving at the summit-level, for they knew that there was an open plain above. All at once they were brought to a stop, though not by anything that obstructed their path. On the contrary, it only seemed easier; for there were now two ways open to them instead of one, the ravine at this point forking into two distinct branches. There was a choice of which to take, and it was this that caused them to make a stop, at the same time creating embarrassment. The pause, however, was but for a brief space of time--only long enough to make a hasty reconnoissance. In the promise of an easy ascent there seemed but little difference between the two paths, and the guide soon came to a determination. "It's a toss up atween 'em," he said; "but let's take the one to the right. It looks a little the likest." Of course his fellow-fugitive did not dissent, and they struck into the right-hand ravine; but not until Walt Wilder had plucked the red kerchief from his head, and flung it as far as he could up the left one, where it was left lying in a conspicuous position among the rocks. He did not say why he had thus strangely abandoned the remnant of his head-gear; but his companion, sufficiently experienced in the ways and wiles of prairie life, stood in no need of an explanation. The track they had now taken was of comparatively easy ascent; and it was this, perhaps, that had tempted Wilder to take it. But like most things within the moral and physical world, its easiness proved a delusion. They had not gone twenty paces further up when the sloping chasm terminated. It debouched on a little platform, covered with large loose stones, and there rested after having fallen from the cliff above. But at a single glance they saw that this cliff could not be scaled. They had entered into a trap, out of which there was no chance of escape or retreat without throwing themselves back upon the breasts of their pursuers. The Indians were already ascending the main ravine. By their voices it could be told that they had reached the point where it divided; for there was a momentary suspension of their cries, as with the baying of hounds thrown suddenly off the scent. It would not be for long. They would likely first follow up the chasm where the kerchief had been cast, but, should that also prove a _cul-de-sac_, they would return and try the other. The fugitives saw that it was too late to retrace their steps. They sprang together upon the platform, and commenced searching among the loose rocks, with a faint hope of finding some place of concealment. It was but a despairing sort of search, again like two drowning men who clutch at a straw. All at once an exclamation from the guide called his companion to his side. It was accompanied by a gesture, and followed by words low muttered. "Look hyar, Frank! Look at this hole! Let's git into it!" As Hamersley came close he perceived a dark cavity among the stones, to which Wilder was pointing. It opened vertically downward, and was of an irregular, roundish shape, somewhat resembling the mouth of a well, half-coped with slabs. Dare they enter it? Could they? What depth was it? Wilder took up a pebble and flung it down. They could hear it descending, not at a single drop, but striking and ricochetting from side to side. It was long before it reached the bottom and lay silent. No matter for that. The noise made in its descent told them of projecting points or ledges that might give them a foothold. They lost not a moment of time, but commenced letting themselves down into the funnel-shaped shaft, the guide going first. Slowly and silently they went down--like ghosts through the stage of a theatre--soon disappearing in the gloom below, and leaving upon the rock-strewn platform no trace to show that human foot had ever trodden it. CHAPTER TWELVE. A STORM OF STONES. Fortunately for the fugitives, the cavity into which they had crept was a shaft of but slight diameter, otherwise they could not have gone down without dropping far enough to cause death, for the echoes from the pebbles betokened a vast vertical depth. As it was, the void turned out to be somewhat like that of a stone-built chimney with here and there a point left projecting. It was so narrow, moreover, that they were able to use both hands and knees in the descent, and by this means they accomplished it. They went but slowly, and took care to proceed with caution. They knew that a false step, the slipping of a foot or finger, or the breaking of a fragment that gave hold to their hands, would precipitate them to an unknown depth. They did not go farther than was necessary for quick concealment. There was noise made in their descent, and they knew that the Indians would soon be above, and might hear them. Their only hope lay in their pursuers believing them to have gone by the left hand path to the plain above. In time the Indians would surely explore both branches of the ravine, and if the cunning savages should suspect their presence in the shaft there would be no hope for them. These thoughts decided them to come to a stop as soon as they could find foothold. About thirty feet from the top they found this, on a point of rock or ledge that jutted horizontally. It was broad enough to give both standing room, and as they were now in the midst of amorphous darkness, they took stand upon it. The Indians might at any moment arrive on the platform above. They felt confident they could not be seen, but they might be heard. The slightest sound borne upwards to the ears of the savages might betray them, and, knowing this, they stood still, scarce exchanging a whisper, and almost afraid to breathe. It was not long before they saw that which justified their caution--the plumed head of a savage, with his neck craned over the edge of the aperture, outlined conspicuously against the blue sky above. And soon half a dozen similar silhouettes beside it, while they could hear distinctly the talk that was passing overhead. Wilder had some knowledge of the Comanche tongue, and could make out most of what was being said. Amidst exclamations that spoke of vengeance there were words in a calmer tone--discussion, inquiry, and conjecture. From these it could be understood that the pursuers had separated into two parties, one following on the false track, by the path which the guide had baited for them, the other coming direct up the right and true one. There were bitter exclamations of disappointment and threats of an implacable vengeance; and the fugitives, as they listened, might have reflected how fortunate they had been in discovering that unfathomed hole. But for it they would have already been in the clutches of a cruel enemy. However, they had little time for reflection. The talk overhead at first expressed doubts as to their having descended the shaft, but doubts readily to be set at rest. The eyes of the Indians having failed to inform them, their heads were withdrawn; and soon after a stone came tumbling down the cavity. Something of this kind, Wilder had predicted; for he flattened himself against the wall behind, and stood as "small" as his colossal frame would permit, having cautioned his companion to do the same. The stone passed without striking them, and went crashing on till it struck on the bottom below. Another followed, and another; the third creasing Hamersley on the breast, and tearing a couple of buttons from his coat. This was shaving close--too close to be comfortable. Perhaps the next boulder might rebound from the wall above and strike one or both of them dead. In fear of this result, they commenced groping to ascertain if the ledge offered any better screen from the dangerous shower, which promised to fall for some time longer. Good! Hamersley felt his hand entering a hole that opened horizontally. It proved big enough to admit his body, as also the larger frame of his companion. Both were soon inside it. It was a sort of grotto they had discovered; and, crouching within it, they could laugh to scorn the storm that still came pouring from above; the stones, as they passed close to their faces, hissing and hurtling like aerolites. The rocky rain at length ended. The Indians had evidently come to the conclusion that it was either barren in result, or must have effectually performed the purpose intended by it, and for a short time there was silence above and below. They who were hidden in the shaft might have supposed that their persecutors, satisfied at what they had accomplished, were returning to the plain, and had retired from the spot. Hamersley did think so; but Walt, an old prairie man, more skilled in the Indian character, could not console himself with such a fancy. "Ne'er a bit o' it," he whisperingly said to his companion. "They ain't agoin' to leave us that easy--not if Horned Lizard be amongst 'em. They'll either stay thar till we climb out agin, or try to smoke us. Ye may take my word for it, Frank, thar's some'ut to come yet. Look up! Didn't I tell ye so?" Wilder drew back out of the narrow aperture, through which he had been craning his neck and shoulders in order to get a view of what was passing above. The hole leading into the grotto that held them was barely large enough to admit the body of a man. Hamersley took his place, and, turning his eyes upward, at once saw what his comrade referred to. It was the smoke of a fire, that appeared in the act of being kindled near the edge of the aperture above. The smoke was ascending towards the sky, diagonally drifting across the blue disc outlined by the rim of rock. He had barely time to make the observation when a swishing sound admonished him to draw back his head; then there passed before his face a ruck of falling stalks and faggots. Some of them settled upon the ledge, the rest sweeping on to the bottom of the abyss. In a moment after the shaft was filled with smoke, but not that of an ordinary wood fire. Even this would have been sufficient to stifle them where they were; but the fumes now entering their nostrils were of a kind to cause suffocation almost instantaneously. The faggots set on fire were the stalks of the creosote plant--the _ideodondo_ of the Mexican table lands, well known for its power to cause asphyxia. Walt Wilder recognised it at the first whiff. "It's the stink-weed!" he exclaimed. "That darned stink-weed o' New Mexico! It'll kill us if we can't keep it out. Off wi' your coat, Frank; it are bigger than my hunting skirt. Let's spread it across the hole, an' see if that'll do." His companion obeyed with alacrity, stripping off his coat as quickly as the circumscribed space would permit. Fortunately, it was a garment of the sack specialty, without any split in the tail, and when extended offered a good breadth of surface. It proved sufficient for the purpose, and, before the little grotto had become so filled with smoke as to be absolutely untenable, its entrance was closed by a curtain of broadcloth, held so hermetically over the aperture that even the fumes of Assafoetida could not possibly have found their way inside. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. BURIED ALIVE. For nearly half an hour they kept the coat spread, holding it close around the edges of the aperture with their heads, hands, knees, and elbows. Withal some of the bitter smoke found ingress, torturing their eyes, and half stifling them. They bore it with philosophic fortitude and in profound silence, using their utmost efforts to refrain from sneezing or coughing. They knew that the least noise heard by the Indians above--anything to indicate their presence in the shaft--would ensure their destruction. The fumigation would be continued till the savages were certain of its having had a fatal effect. If they could hold out long enough, even Indian astuteness might be baffled. From what Wilder had heard, their persecutors were in doubt about their having descended into the shaft; and this uncertainty promised to be their salvation. Unless sure that they were taking all this trouble to some purpose, the red men would not dally long over their work. Besides, there was the rich booty to be drawn from the captured waggons, which would attract the Indians back to them, each having an interest in being present at the distribution. Thus reasoned Walt Wilder as they listened to detect a change in the performance, making use of all their ears. Of course they could see nothing, no more than if they had been immured in the darkest cell of an Inquisitorial dungeon. Only by their ears might they make any guess at what was going on. These admonished them that more of the burning brush was being heaved into the hole. Every now and then they could hear it as it went swishing past the door of their curtained chamber, the stalks and sticks rasping against the rocks in their descent. After a time these sounds ceased to be heard; the Indians no doubt thinking that sufficient of the inflammatory matter had been cast in to cause their complete destruction. If inside the cavern, they must by this time be stifled--asphyxiated--dead. So must have reasoned the red-skinned fumigators; for after a while they desisted from their hellish task. But, as if to make assurance doubly sure, before taking departure from the spot, they performed another act indicative of an equally merciless intention. During the short period of silence their victims could not tell what they were about. They only knew, by occasional sounds reaching them from above, that there was some change in the performance; but what it was they could not even shape a conjecture. The interregnum at length ended with a loud rumbling noise, that was itself suddenly terminated by a grand crash, as if a portion of the impending cliff had become detached, and fallen down upon the platform. Then succeeded a silence, unbroken by the slightest sound. No longer was heard either noise or voice--not the murmur of one. It was a silence that resembled death; as if the vindictive savages had one and all met a deserved doom by being crushed under the falling cliff. For some time after hearing this mysterious noise, which had caused the rock to tremble around them, the two men remained motionless within their place of concealment. At length Wilder cautiously and deliberately pushed aside the curtain. At first only a small portion of it--a corner, so as to make sure about the smoke. It still oozed in, but not so voluminously as at first. It had evidently become attenuated, and was growing thinner. It appeared also to be ascending with rapidity, as up the funnel of a chimney having a good draught. For this reason it was carried past the mouth of the grotto without much of it drifting in, and they saw that they could soon safely withdraw the curtain. It was a welcome relaxation from the irksome task that had been so long imposed upon them, and the coat was at length permitted to drop down upon the ledge. Although there were no longer any sounds heard, or other signs to indicate the presence of the Indians, the fugitives did not feel sure of their having gone; and it was some time before they made any attempt to reascend the shaft. Some of the pursuers might still be lurking near, or straying within sight. They had so far escaped death, as if by a miracle, and they were cautious of again tempting fate. They determined that for some time yet they would not venture out upon the ledge, but keep inside the grotto that had given them such well-timed shelter. Some sulky savage, disappointed at not getting their scalps, might take it into his head to return and hurl down into the hole another shower of stones. Such a whim was probable to a prairie Indian. Cautious against all like contingencies, the guide counselled his younger companion to patience, and for a considerable time they remained without stirring out of their obscure chamber. At length, however, perceiving that the tranquillity continued, they no longer deemed it rash to make a reconnoissance; and for this purpose Walt Wilder crawled out upon the ledge and looked upward. A feeling of surprise, mingled with apprehension, at once seized upon him. "Kin it be night?" he asked, whispering the words back into the grotto. "Not yet, I should think?" answered Hamersley. "The fight was begun before daybreak. The day can't all have passed yet. But why do you ask, Walt?" "Because thar's no light comin' from above. Whar's the bit o' blue sky we seed? Thar ain't the breadth o' a hand visible. It can't a be the smoke as hides it. That seems most cleared off. Darned if I can see a steim o' the sky. 'Bove as below, everything's as black as the ten o' spades. What kin it mean?" Without waiting a reply, or staying for his companion to come out upon the ledge, Wilder rose to his feet, and, grasping the projecting points above his head, commenced swarming up the shaft, in a similar manner as that by which he had made the descent. Hamersley, who by this time had crept out of the grotto, stood upon the ledge listening. He could hear his comrade as he scrambled up; the rasping of his feet against the rocks, and his stentorian breathing. At length Walt appeared to have reached the top, when Hamersley heard words that sent a thrill of horror throughout his whole frame. "Oh!" cried the guide, in his surprise, forgetting to subdue the tone of his voice, "they've built us up! Thar's a stone over the mouth o' the hole--shettin' it like a pot lid. A stone--a rock that no mortal ked move. Frank Hamersley, it's all over wi' us; we're buried alive!" CHAPTER FOURTEEN. A SAVAGE SATURNAL. Only for a short while had Wilder's trick held the pursuers in check. Habituated to such wiles, the Indians, at first suspecting it to be one, soon became certain. For, as they scattered to each side of the cleft, the steel tube no longer kept turning towards them, while the coonskin cap remained equally without motion. At length, becoming convinced, and urged on by the Red Cross chief and the bearded savage by his side, they dashed boldly up, and, dismounting, entered the chine over the body of the butchered horse. Only staying to take possession of the relinquished rifle, they continued on up the ravine fast as their feet could carry them. A moment's pause where the red kerchief lay on the rock, suspecting this also a ruse to mislead them as to the track taken by the fugitives. To make certain, they separated into two parties--one going up the gulch, that led left, the other proceeding by that which conducted to the place where the two men had concealed themselves. Arriving upon the little platform, the pursuers at once discovered the cavity, at the same time conjecturing that the pursued had gone into it. Becoming sure of this, they who took the left-hand path rejoined them, these bringing the report that they had ascended to the summit of the cliff, and seen nothing of the two men who were chased. Then the stones were cast in; after them the burning stalks of the _ideodondo_; when, finally, to make destruction sure, the rock was rolled over, closing up the shaft as securely as if the cliff itself had fallen face downward upon the spot. The savages stayed no longer there. All were too eager to return to the waggons to make sure of their share in the captured spoils. One alone remained--he with the bushed beard. After the others were gone he stepped up to the boulder, and, stooping down, placed his ear close to it. He appeared as if trying to catch some sound that might come from the cavity underneath. None came--no noise, even the slightest. Within the shut shaft all was still as death. For death itself must be down there, if there ever was life. For some time he crouched beside the rock, listening. Then rising to his feet, with a smile of satisfaction upon his grim, sinister features, he said, in soliloquy,-- "They're down there, no doubt of it; and dead long before this. One of the two must have been he. Who the other matters not _Carrai_! I'd like to have had a look at him too, and let him see who has given him his quietus. Bah! what does it signify? It's all over now, and I've had my revenge. _Vamos_! I must get back to the waggons, or my friend the Horned Lizard may be taking his pick of the plunder. Luckily these redskins don't know the different values of the goods; so I shall bestow the cotton prints with a liberal hand, keeping the better sorts to myself. And now to assist in the partition of spoils." So saying, he strode away from the rock, and, gliding back down the gulch, climbed over the carcass of the dead horse. Then, finding his own outside, he mounted and rode off to rejoin his red-skinned comrades engaged in sacking the caravan. On reaching it a spectacle was presented to his eyes--frightful, though not to him. For he was a man who had seen similar sights before--one with soul steeped in kindred crime. The waggons had been drawn partially apart, disclosing the space between. The smoke had all ascended or drifted off, and clear sunlight once more shone upon the sand--over the ground lately barricaded by the bodies of those who had so bravely defended it. There were thirteen of them--the party of traders and hunters being in all but fifteen. Of those slain upon the spot there was not one now wearing his hair. Their heads were bare and bloody, the crown of each showing a circular disc of dark crimson colour. The scalping-knife had already completed its work, and the ghastly trophies were seen impaled upon the points of spears-- some of them stuck upright in the sand, others borne triumphantly about by the exulting victors. Their triumph had cost them dear. On the plain outside at least thirty of their own lay extended, stone dead; while here and there a group bending over some recumbent form told of a warrior wounded. By the orders of their chief, some had set about collecting the corpses of their slain comrades, with the intent of interring them. Others, acting without orders, still continued to wreak their savage spite upon the bodies of their white victims, submitting them to further mutilation. They chopped off their heads; then, poising these on the points of spears, tossed them to and fro, all the while shouting in savage glee, laughing with a cacchination that resembled the mirth of a madhouse. Withal, there was stern vengeance in its tones. A resistance, they little expected, causing them such serious loss, had roused their passions to a pitch of the utmost exasperation; and they tried to allay their spiteful anger by expending it on the dead bodies of those who, while living, had so effectually chastised them. These were slashed and hacked with tomahawks, pierced with spears, and arrows, beaten with war clubs, then cut into pieces, to be tied to the tails of their horses, and dragged in gallop to and fro over the ground. For some time this tragical spectacle held play. Then ensued a scene savouring of the ludicrous and grotesque. The waggons were emptied of their contents, while the rich freight, transported to a distance, was spread out upon the plain, and its partition entered upon--all crowding around to receive their share. The distribution was superintended by the Horned Lizard, though he with the beard appeared to act with equal, or even greater, authority. Backed by the second personage, who wore hair on his cheeks, he dictated the apportionment. And as he had said in soliloquy, the cotton prints of gaudy patterns satisfied the cupidity of his red-skinned companions, leaving to himself and his confidential friend the costlier fabrics of silken sheen. Among the traders' stock were knives of common sort--the cheapest cutlery of Sheffield; guns and pistols of the Brummagem brand, with beads, looking glasses, and such-like notions from the New England Boston. All these, delectable in the eyes of the Horned Lizard and his Tenawas, were left to them; while the bearded man, himself selecting, appropriated the silks and satins, the laces and real jewellery that had been designed to deck the rich _doncellas_ of Santa Fe, El Paso, Chihuahua, and Durango. The distribution over, the scene assumed a new aspect. It was now that the ludicrous came prominently into play. Though not much water had been found in the waggons, there was enough fluid of stronger spirit. A barrel of Monongahela whisky was part of the caravan stores left undestroyed. Knowing the white man's firewater but too well, the Indians tapped the cask, and quaffed of its contents. In a short time two-thirds of the band became intoxicated. Some rolled over dead drunk, and lay a-stretch along the sand. Others tottered about, uttering maudlin speeches. Still others of stronger stomach and steader brain kept their feet, as also their senses; only that these became excited, increasing their cupidity. They wanted more than they had got, and would gamble to get it. One had a piece of cotton print, and so had another. Each wished to have both or none. How was it to be decided? By cards? By dice? No. There was a way more congenial to their tastes--more _a propos_ to their habits. It should be done by their horses. They knew the sort of game, for it is not the first time they have played it. The piece of print is unrolled, and at each end tied to a horse's tail. The owners spring to the backs of the animals, then urge them in the opposite directions till the strain comes; at the pluck the web gives way, and he who holds the longer part becomes possessor of the whole. Others, not gamblers, out of sheer devilry and diversion, similarly attach their stuffs, and gallop over the ground with the prints trailing fifty yards behind them. In the frenzied frolic that had seized hold of them they forgot their slain comrades, still unburied. They whoop, shout, and laugh till the cliffs, in wild, unwonted echo, send back the sound of their demoniac mirth. A riot rare as original--a true saturnal of savages. CHAPTER FIFTEEN. A LIVING TOMB. Literally buried alive, as Walt Wilder had said, were he and his companion. They now understood what had caused the strange noise that mystified them--the rumbling followed by a crash. No accidental _debacle_ or falling of a portion of the cliff, as they had been half supposing; but a deed of atrocious design--a huge rock rolled by the united strength of the savages, until it rested over the orifice of the shaft, completely coping and closing it. It may have been done without any certain knowledge of their being inside--only to make things sure. It mattered not to the two men thus cruelly enclosed, for they knew that in any case there was no hope of their being rescued from what they believed to be a living tomb. That it was such neither could doubt. The guide, gifted with herculean strength, had tried to move the stone on discovering how it lay. With his feet firmly planted in the projections below, and his shoulder to the rock above, he had given a heave that would have lifted a loaded waggon from its wheels. The stone did not budge with all this exertion. There was not so much as motion. He might as successfully have made trial to move a mountain from its base. He did not try again. He remembered the rock itself. He had noticed it while they were searching for a place to conceal themselves, and had been struck with its immense size. No one man could have stirred it from its place. It must have taken at least twenty Indians. No matter how many, they had succeeded in their design, and their victims were now helplessly enclosed in the dark catacomb--slowly, despairingly to perish. "All up wi' us, I reck'n," said the guide, as he once more let himself down upon the ledge to communicate the particulars to his companion. Hamersley ascended to see for himself. They could only go one at a time. He examined the edge of the orifice where the rock rested upon it. He could only do so by the touch. Not a ray of light came in on any side, and groping round and round he could detect neither crevice nor void. There were weeds and grass, still warm and smouldering, the _debris_ of what had been set on fire for their fumigation. The rock rested on a bedding of these; hence the exact fit, closing every crack and crevice. On completing his exploration Hamersley returned to his companion below. "Hopeless!" murmured Wilder, despondingly. "No, Walt; I don't think so yet." The Kentuckian, though young, was a man of remarkable intelligence as well as courage. It needed these qualities to be a prairie merchant-- one who commanded a caravan. Wilder knew him to be possessed of them-- in the last of them equalling himself, in the first far exceeding him. "You think thar's a chance for us to get out o' hyar?" he said, interrogatively. "I think there is, and a likely one." "Good! What leads ye to think so, Frank?" "Reach me my bowie. It's behind you there in the cave." Wilder did as requested. "It will depend a good deal upon what sort of rock this is around us. It isn't flint, anyhow. I take it to be either lime or sandstone. If so, we needn't stay here much longer than it would be safe to go out again among those bloodthirsty savages." "How do you mean, Frank? Darn me if I yet understan ye." "It's very simple, Walt. If this cliff rock be only sandstone, or some other substance equally soft, we may cut our way out--under the big stone." "Ah! I didn't think o' thet. Thar's good sense in what ye say." "It has a softish feel," said the Kentuckian, as he drew his hand across one of the projecting points. "I wish I only had two inches of a candle. However, I think I can make my exploration in the dark." There was a short moment of silence, after which was heard a clinking sound, as of a knife blade being repeatedly struck against a stone. It was Hamersley, with his bowie, chipping off a piece from the rock that projected from the side of the shaft. The sound was pleasant to the Kentuckian's ear, for it was not the hard metallic ring given out by quartz or granite. On the contrary, the steel struck against it with a dull, dead echo, and he could feel that the point of the knife easily impinged upon it. "Sandstone," he said; "or something that'll serve our purpose equally as well. Yes, Walt, there's a good chance for us to get out of this ugly prison; so keep up your heart, comrade. It may cost us a couple of days' quarrying. Perhaps all the better for that; the Indians are pretty sure to keep about the waggons for a day or so. They'll find enough there to amuse them. Our work will depend a good deal on what sort of a stone they've rolled over the hole. You remember what size the boulder was?" "'Twas a largish pebble; looked to me at least ten feet every way. It sort o' serprised me how the skunks ked a budged it. I reck'n 'twar on a coggle, an' rolled eezy. It must ha' tuk the hul clanjamfry o' them." "If we only knew the right edge to begin at. For that we must go by guess-work. Well, we mustn't lose time, but set about our stone-cutting at once. Every hour will be taking the strength out of us. I only came down for the bowie to make a beginning. I'll make trial at it first, and then we can take turn and turn about." Provided with his knife, the Kentuckian again climbed up; and soon after the guide heard a crinkling sound, succeeded by the rattling of pieces of rock, as they got detached and came showering down. To save his crown, now uncovered by the loss of both kerchief and cap, he crept back into the alcove that had originally protected them from the stones cast in by the Indians. Along with the splinters something else came past Walt's face, making a soft, rustling sound; it had a smell also that told what it was--the "cussed stink-weed." From the falling fragments, their size and number, he could tell that his comrade was making good way. Walt longed to relieve him at his work, and called up a request to this end; but Hamersley returned a refusal, speaking in a cautious tone, lest his voice might be borne out to the ear of some savage still lingering near. For over an hour Wilder waited below, now and then casting impatient glances upward. They were only mechanical; for, of course, he could see nothing. But they were anxious withal; for the success of his comrade's scheme was yet problematical. With sufficient food and drink to sustain them, they might in time accomplish what they had set about; but wanting these, their strength would soon give way, and then--ah! then-- The guide was still standing on the ledge, pursuing this or a similar train of reflection, when all at once a sight came, not under but above his eyes, which caused him to utter an exclamation of joy. It was the sight of his comrade's face--only that! But this had in it a world of significance. He could hot have seen that face without light. Light had been let into their rock-bound abode, so late buried in the profoundest darkness. It was but a feeble glimmer, that appeared to have found admission through a tiny crevice under the huge copestone; and Hamersley's face, close to it, was seen only in faint shadow--fainter from the film of smoke yet struggling up the shaft. Still was it light--beautiful, cheering light--like some shore-beacon seen by the storm-tossed mariner amid the dangers of a night-shrouded sea. Hamersley had not yet spoken a word to explain what had occurred to cause it. He had suddenly left off chipping the rock, and was at rest, apparently in contemplation of the soft silvery ray that was playing so benignly upon his features. Was it the pleasure of once more beholding what he lately thought he might never see again--the light of day? Was it this alone that was keeping him still and speechless? No, something else; as he told his comrade when he rejoined him soon after on the ledge. "Walt," he said, "I've let daylight in, as you see; but I find it'll take a long time to cut a passage out. It's only the weeds I've been able to get clear of. The big rock runs over at least five feet, and the stone turns out harder than I thought of." These were not cheering words to Walt Wilder. "But," continued Hamersley, his speech changing to a more hopeful tone, "I've noticed something that may serve better still; perhaps save us all the quarrying. I don't know whether I'm right; but we shall soon see." "What hev ye noticed?" was the question put by Wilder. "You see there's still some smoke around us." "Yes, Frank, my eyes tell me that plain enuf. I've nigh nibbed 'em out o' thar sockets." "Well, as soon as I had scooped out the crack that let in the daylight. I noticed that the smoke rushed out as if blasted through a pair of bellows. That shows there's a draught coming up. It can only come from some aperture below, acting as a furnace or the funnel of a chimney. We must try to get down to the bottom, and see if there's such a thing. If there be, who knows but it may be big enough to let us out of our prison, without having to carve our way through the walls, which I feel certain would take us several days. We must try to get down to the bottom." To accede to this request the guide needed no urging, and both--one after the other--at once commenced descending. They found no great difficulty in getting down, any more than they had already experienced, for the shaft continued all the way down nearly the same width, and very similar to what it was above the ledge. Near the bottom, however, it became abruptly wider by the retrocession of the walls. They were now in a dilemma, for they had reached a point where they could go no further without dropping off. It might be ten feet, it might be a hundred--in any case enough to make the peril appalling. Wilder had gone first, and soon bethought himself of a test. He unslung his powder-horn and permitted it to drop from his hand, listening attentively. It made scarce any noise; still he could hear it striking against something soft. It was the brush thrown in by the Indians. This did not seem far below; and the half-burnt stalks would be something to break their fall. "I'll chance it," said Walt, and almost simultaneous with his words was heard the bump of his heavy body alighting on the litter below. "You may jump without fear, Frank. 'Taint over six feet in the clar." Hamersley obeyed, and soon both stood at the bottom of the chimney--on the hearthstone where the stalks of the creosote still smouldered. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. OFF AT LAST! On touching _terra firma_, and finding plenty of space around, they scrambled from off the pile of loose stones and stalks cast down by the Indians, and commenced groping their way about. Again touching the firm surrounding of rock, they groped searchingly along it. They were not long engaged in their game of blind-man's buff, when the necessity of trusting to the touch came abruptly to an end--as if the handkerchief had been suddenly jerked from their eyes. The change was caused by a light streaming in through a side gallery into which they had strayed. It was at first dim and distant, but soon shone upon them with the brilliance of a flambeau. Following the passage through which it guided them, they reached an aperture of irregular roundish shape, about the size, of the cloister window of a convent. They saw at once that it was big enough to allow the passage of their bodies. They saw, too, that it was admitting the sunbeams--admonishing them that it was still far from night. They had brought all their traps down along with them--their knives and pistols, with Hamersley's gun still carefully kept. But they hesitated about going out. There could be no difficulty in their doing so, for there was a ledge less than three feet under the aperture, upon which they could find footing. It was not that which caused them to hesitate, but the fact of again falling into the hands of their implacable enemies. That these were still upon the plain they had evidence. They could hear their yells and whooping, mingled with peals of wild demon-like laughter. It was at the time when the firewater was in the ascendant, and the savages were playing their merry game with the pieces of despoiled cotton goods. There was danger in going out, but there might be more in staying in. The savages might return upon their search, and discover this other entrance to the vault. In that case they would take still greater pains to close it and besiege the two fugitives to the point of starvation. Both were eager to escape from a place they had lately looked upon as a living tomb. Still, they dared not venture out of it. They could not retreat by the plain so long as the Indians were upon it. At night, perhaps, in the darkness, they might. Hamersley suggested this. "No," said Walt, "nor at night eyther. It's moontime, you know; an' them sharp-eyed Injuns niver all goes to sleep thegither. On that sand they'd see us in the moonlight 'most as plain as in the day. Ef we wait at all, we'll hev to stay till they go clar off." Wilder, while speaking, stood close to the aperture, looking cautiously out. At that moment, craning his neck to a greater stretch, so as to command a better view of what lay below, his eye caught sight of an object that elicited an exclamation of surprise. "Darn it," he said, "thar's my old clout lyin' down thar on the rocks." It was the red kerchief he had plucked from his head to put the pursuers on the wrong track. "It's jest where I flinged it," he continued; "I kin recognise the place. That gully, then, must be the one we didn't go up." Walt spoke the truth. The decoy was still in the place where he had set it. The square of soiled and faded cotton had failed to tempt the cupidity of the savages, who knew that in the waggons they had captured were hundreds of such, clean and new, with far richer spoil besides. "S'pose we still try that path, Frank. It may lead us to the top arter all. If they've bin up it they've long ago gone down agin; I kin tell by thar yelpin' around the waggons. They've got holt of our corn afore this; and won't be so sharp in lookin' arter us." "Agreed," said Hamersley. Without further delay the two scrambled out through the aperture, and, creeping along the ledge, once more stood in the hollow of the ravine, at the point of its separation into the forks that had perplexed them in their ascent. Perhaps, after all, they had chosen the right one. At the time of their first flight, had they succeeded in reaching the plain above, they would surely have been seen and pursued; though with superior swiftness of foot they might still have escaped. Once more they faced upward, by the slope of the ravine yet untried. On passing it, Walt laid hold of his "clout," as he called it, and replaced it, turban fashion, on his head. "I can only weesh," he said, "I ked as convenient rekiver my rifle; an', darn me, but I would try, ef it war only thar still. It ain't, I know. Thet air piece is too precious for a Injun to pass by. It's gone back to the waggons." They could now more distinctly hear the shouts of their despoilers; and, as they continued the ascent, the narrow chine in the cliff opened between them and the plain, giving them a glimpse of what was there going on. They could see the savages--some on foot, others on horseback--the latter careering round as if engaged in a tournament. They saw they were roystering, wild with triumph, and maddened with drink--the fire-water they had found in the waggons. "Though they be drunk, we mustn't stay hyar so nigh 'em," muttered Walt. "I allers like to put space atween me and seech as them. They mout get some whimsey into their heads, an' come this ways. They'll take any amount o' trouble to raise ha'r; an' maybe grievin' that they hain't got ourn yit, an' mout think they'd hev another try for it. As the night's bound to be a mooner, we can't git too far from 'em. So let's out o' this quick's we kin." "On, then!" said Hamersley, assenting; and the next moment the two were rapidly ascending the gorge, Wilder leading the way. This time they were more fortunate. The ravine sloped on up to the summit of the cliff, debouching upon a level plain. They reached this without passing any point that could bring them under the eyes of the Indians. They could still hear the shouts of triumph and wild revelry; but as they receded from the crest of the cliff these grew fainter and fainter, until they found themselves fleeing over an open table-land, bounded above by the sky, all round them silent as death--silent as the heart of a desert. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. INTO THE DESERT. The cliff, up which the young prairie merchant and his guide, after their series of hairbreadth escapes, have succeeded in climbing, is the scarped edge of a spur of the famous Llano Estacado, or "Staked Plain," and it is into this sterile tract they are now fleeing. Neither have any definite knowledge of the country before them, or the direction they ought to take. Their only thought is to put space between themselves and the scene of their disaster--enough to secure them against being seen by the eye of any Indian coming after. A glance is sufficient to satisfy them that only by distance can they obtain concealment. Far as the eye can reach the surface appears a perfect level, without shrub or tree. There is not cover enough to give hiding-place to a hare. Although now in full run, and with no appearance of being pursued, they are far from being confident of escaping. They are under an apprehension that some of the savages have ascended to the upper plain, and are still on it, searching for them. If so, these may be encountered at any moment, returning disappointed from the pursuit. The fugitives draw some consolation from the knowledge that the pursuers could not have got their horses up the cliff; and, if there is to be another chapter to the chase, it will be on foot--a contest of pedestrian speed. In a trial of this kind Walt Wilder, at least, has nothing to fear. The Colossus, with his long strides, would be almost a match for the giant with the seven-leagued boots. Their only uneasiness is that the savages may have gone out upon the track they are themselves taking, and, appearing in their front, may head them off, and so intercept their retreat. As there is yet no savage in sight--no sign either of man or animal--their confidence increases; and, after making a mile or so across the plain, they no longer look ahead, but backward. At short intervals the great brown beard of the guide sweeps his left shoulder, as he casts anxious glances behind him. They are all the more anxious on observing--which he now does--that his fellow-fugitive flags in his pace, and shows signs of giving out. With a quick comprehension, and without any questions asked, Wilder understands the reason. In the smoke-cloud that covered their retreat from the corralled waggons--afterwards in the sombre shadow of the chine, and the obscurity of the cave, he had not observed what now, in the bright glare of the sunlight, is too plainly apparent--that the nether garments of his comrade are saturated with blood. Hamersley has scarce noticed it himself, and his attention is now called to it, less from perceiving any acute pain than that he begins to feel faint and feeble. Blood is oozing through the breast of his shirt, running down the legs of his trousers, and on into his boots. And the fountain from which it proceeds is fast disclosing itself by an aching pain in his side, which increases as he strides on. A moment's pause to examine it. When the vest and shirt are opened it is seen that a bullet has passed through his left side, causing only a flesh wound, but cutting an artery in its course. Scratched and torn in several other places, for the time equally painful, he had not yet perceived this more serious injury. It is not mortal, nor likely to prove so. The guide and hunter, like most of his calling, is a rough practical surgeon; and after giving the wound a hurried examination, pronounces it "only a scratch," then urges his companion onward. Again starting, they proceed at the same quick pace; but before they have made another mile the wounded man feels his weakness sensibly overcoming him. Then the rapid run is succeeded by a slow dog-trot, soon decreasing to a walk, at length ending in a dead stop. "I can go no farther, Walt; not if all the devils of hell were at my heels. I've done my best. If they come after you keep on, and leave me." "Niver, Frank Hamersley, niver! Walt Wilder ain't the man to sep'rate from a kumrade, and leave him in a fix that way. If ye must pull up, so do this child. An' I see ye must; thar's no behelp for it." "I cannot go a step farther." "Enuf! But don't let's stan' to be seen miles off. Squat's the word. Down on yer belly, like a toad under a harrer. Thar's jest a resemblance o' kiver, hyar 'mong these tussocks o' buffler-grass; an' this child ain't the most inconspicerousest objeck on the plain. Let's squat on our breast-ribs, an' lay close as pancakes." Whilst speaking he throws himself to the earth, flat on his face. Hamersley, already tottering, drops down by his side; as he does so, leaving the plain, as far as the eye can reach, without salient object to intercept the vision--any more than might be seen on the surface of a sleeping ocean. It is in favour of the fugitives that the day has now well declined. But they do not remain long in their recumbent position before the sun, sinking behind the western horizon, gives them an opportunity of once more getting upon their feet. They do so, glad to escape from a posture whose restraint is exceedingly irksome. They have suffered from the hot atmosphere rising like caloric from the parched plain. But now that the sun had gone down, a cool breeze begins to play over its surface, fanning them to fresh energy. Besides, the night closing over them--the moon not yet up--has removed the necessity for keeping any longer in concealment, and they proceed onward without fear. Hamersley feels as if fresh blood had been infused into his veins; and he is ready to spring to his feet at the same time as his comrade. "Frank! d'ye think ye kin go a little furrer now?" is the interrogatory put by the hunter. "Yes, Walt; miles further," is the response. "I feel as if I could walk across the grandest spread of prairie." "Good!" ejaculates the guide. "I'm glad to hear you talk that way. If we kin but git a wheen o' miles atween us an' them yelpin' savages, we may hev a chance o' salvation yit. The wust o' the thing air, that we don't know which way to go. It's a toss up 'tween 'em. If we turn back torst the Canadyen, we may meet 'em agin, an' right in the teeth. Westart lies the settlement o' the Del Nort; but we mout come on the same Injuns by goin' that direckshun. I'm not sartin they're Tenawas. Southart this Staked Plain hain't no endin' till ye git down to the Grand River below its big bend, an' that ain't to be thort o'. By strikin' east, a little southart, we mout reach the head sources o' the Loozyany Red; an' oncest on a stream o' runnin' water, this child kin generally navigate down it, provided he hev a rifle, powder, an' a bullet or two in his pouch. Thank the Almighty Lord, we've stuck to your gun through the thick an' the thin o't. Ef we hedn't we mout jest as well lie down agin' an' make a die at oncest." "Go which way you please, Walt; you know best. I am ready to follow you; and I think I shall be able." "Wal, at anyhow, we'd best be movin' off from hyar. If ye can't go a great ways under kiver o' the night, I reck'n we kin put enough o' parairia atween us an' these Injuns to make sure agin thar spyin' us in the mornin'. So let's start south-eastart, an' try for the sources o' the Red. Thur's that ole beauty o' the North Star that's been my friend an' guide many's the good time. Thar it is, makin' the handle o' the Plough, or the Great Bar, as I've heern that colleckshin o' stars freekwently called. We've only to keep it on our left, a leetle torst the back o' the shoulder, an' then we're boun' to bring out on some o' the head-forks o' the Red--if we kin only last long enough to reach 'em. Darn it! thar's no danger; an' anyhow, thar's no help for't but try. Come along!" So speaking, the guide started forward--not in full stride, but timing his pace to suit the feeble steps of his disabled comrade. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. A LILLIPUTIAN FOREST. Guiding their course by the stars the fugitives continue on--no longer going in a run, nor even in a very rapid walk. Despite the resolution with which he endeavours to nerve himself, the wounded man is still too weak to make much progress, and he advances but laggingly. His companion does not urge him to quicken his pace. The experienced prairie man knows it will be better to go slowly than get broken down by straining forward too eagerly. There is no sign or sound of Indian, either behind or before them. The stillness of the desert is around them--its silence only interrupted by the "whip-whip" of the night-hawk's wings, and at intervals its soft note answering to the shriller cry of the kid-deer plover that rises screaming before their feet. These, with the constant skirr of the ground-crickets and the prolonged whine of the coyote, are the only sounds that salute them as they glide on--none of which are of a kind to cause alarm. There appears no great reason for making haste now. They have all the night before them, and, ere daylight can discover them, they will be sure to find some place of concealment. The ground is favourable to pedestrianism in the darkness. The surface, hard-baked by the sun, is level as a set flagstone, and in most places so smooth that a carriage could run upon it as on the drive of a park. Well for them it is so. Had the path been a rugged one the wounded man would not go far before giving out. Even as it is, the toil soon begins to tell on his wasted strength. His veins are almost emptied of blood. Nor do they proceed a very great distance before again coming to a halt; though far enough to feel sure that, standing erect, they cannot be descried by any one who may have ascended the cliff at the place where they took departure from it. But they have also reached that which offers them a chance of concealment--in short, a forest. It is a forest not discernible at more than a mile's distance, for the trees that compose it are "shin oaks," the tallest rising to the height of only eighteen inches above the surface of the ground. Eighteen inches is enough to conceal the body of a man lying in a prostrate attitude; and as the Lilliputian trees grow thick as jimson weeds, the cover will be a secure one. Unless the pursuers should stray so close as to tread upon them, there will be no danger of their being seen. Further reflection has by this time satisfied them that the Indians are not upon the upper plain. It is not likely, after the pains they had taken to smoke them in the cave and afterwards shut them up. Besides, the distribution of the spoils would be an attraction sure to draw them back to the waggons, and speedily. Becoming satisfied that there is no longer a likelihood of their being pursued across the plain, Wilder proposes that they again make stop; this time to obtain sleep, which in their anxiety during their previous spell of rest they did not attempt. He makes the proposal out of consideration for his comrade, who for some time, as he can see, has evidently been hard pressed to keep up with him. "We kin lie by till sun-up," says Walt; "an' then, if we see any sign o' pursoot, kin stay hyar till the sun goes down agin. These shin oaks will gie us kiver enuf. Squatted, there'll be no chance o' thar diskiverin' us, unless they stumble right atop o' us." His companion is not in the mood to make objection, and the two lay themselves along the earth. The miniature forest not only gives them the protection of a screen but a soft bed, as the tiny trunks and leaf-laden branches become pressed down beneath their bodies. They remain awake only long enough to give Hamersley's wound such dressing as the circumstances permit, and then both sink into slumber. With the young prairie merchant it is neither deep nor profound. Horrid visions float before his rapt senses--scenes of red carnage--causing him ever and anon to awake with a start, once or twice with a cry that wakes his companion. Otherwise Walt Wilder would have slept as soundly as if reposing on the couch of a log cabin a thousand miles removed from any scene of danger. It is no new thing for him to go to sleep with the yell of savages sounding in his ears. For a period of over twenty years he has daily, as nightly, stretched his huge form along mountain slope or level prairie, and often with far more danger of having his "hair raised" before rising erect again. For ten years he belonged to the "Texas Rangers"--that strange organisation that has existed ever since Stephen Austin first planted his colony in the land of the "Lone Star." If on this night the ex-Ranger is more than usually restless, it is from anxiety about his comrade, coupled with the state of his nervous system, stirred to feverish excitement by the terrible conflict through which they have just passed. Notwithstanding all, he slumbers in long spells, at times snoring like an alligator. At no time does the ex-Ranger stand in need of much sleep, even after the most protracted toil. Six hours is his usual daily or nocturnal dose; and as the grey dawn begins to glimmer over the tops of the shin oaks, he springs to his feet, shakes the dew from his shoulders like a startled stag, and then stoops down to examine the condition of his wounded comrade. "Don't ye git up yit, Frank," he says. "We mustn't start till we hev a clar view all roun', an' be sure there's neery redskin in sight. Then we kin take the sun a leetle on our left side, an' make tracks to the south-eastart. How is't wi' ye?" "I feel weak as water. Still I fancy I can travel a little farther." "Wall, we'll go slow. Ef there's none o' the skunks arter us, we kin take our time. Durn me! I'm still a wonderin' what Injuns they war; I'm a'most sartint thar the Tenawa Kimanch--a band o' the Buffler-eaters an' the wust lot on all the parairia. Many's the fight we rangers used to hev wi' 'em, and many's the one o' 'em this child hev rubbed out. Ef I only hed my rifle hyar--durn the luck hevin' to desart that gun--I ked show you nine nicks on her timmer as stan' for nine Tenawa Kimanch. Ef't be them, we've got to keep well to the southart. Thar range lays most in the Canadyen, or round the head o' Big Wichitu, an' they mout cross a corner o' the Staked Plain on thar way home. Tharfer we must go southart a good bit, and try for the north fork o' the Brazos. Ef we meet Indian thar, they'd be Southern Kimanch--not nigh sech feeroshus varmints as them. Do you know, Frank, I've been hevin' a dream 'bout them Injuns as attacked us?" "A dream! So have I. It is not strange for either of us to dream of them. What was yours, Walt?" "Kewrus enuf mine war, though it warn't all a dreem. I reck'n I war more 'n half awake when I tuk to thinkin' about 'em, an' 'twar somethin' I seed durin' the skrimmage. Didn't you observe nothin' queery?" "Rather say, nothing that was not that way. It was all queer enough, and terrible, too." "That this child will admit wi' full freedom. But I've f't redskin afore in all sorts an' shapes, yet niver seed redskin sech as them." "In what did they differ from other savages? I saw nothing different." "But I did; leastways, I suspeck I did. Didn't you spy 'mong the lot two or three that had ha'r on thar faces?" "Yes; I noticed that. I thought nothing of it. It's common among the Comanches and other tribes of the Mexican territory, many of whom are of mixed breed--from the captive Mexican women they have among them." "The ha'r I seed didn't look like it grew on the face o' a mixed blood." "But there are pure white men among them--outlaws who have run away from civilisation and turned renegades--as also captives they have taken, who become Indianised, as the Mexicans call it. Doubtless it may have been some of these we saw." "Wall, you may be right, Frank. Sartint thar war one I seed wi' a beard 'most as big as my own--only it war black. His hide war black, too, or nigh to it; but ef that skunk wan't white un'erneath a coatin' o' charcoal an' vermilion then Walt Wilder don't know a Kristyun from a heethun. I ain't no use spek'latin' on't now. White, black, yella-belly, or red, they've put us afoot on the parairia, an' kim darned nigh wipin' us out althegither. We've got a fair chance o' goin' un'er yet, eyther from thirst or the famishment o' empty stomaks. I'm hungry enuf already to eat a coyat. Thar's a heavy row afore us, Frank, an' we must strengthen our hearts to hoein' o' it. Wall, the sun's up; an' as thar don't appear to be any obstrukshun, I reck'n we'd best be makin' tracks." Hamersley slowly and somewhat reluctantly rises to his feet. He still feels in poor condition for travelling. But to stay there is to die; and bracing himself to the effort, he steps out side by side with his colossal companion. CHAPTER NINETEEN. THE DEPARTURE OF THE PLUNDERERS. On the day after the capture of the caravan the Indians, having consumed all the whisky found in the waggons, and become comparatively sober, prepared to move off. The captured goods, made up into convenient parcels, were placed upon mules and spare horses. Of both they had plenty, having come prepared for such a sequel to their onslaught upon the traders. The warriors, having given interment to their dead comrades, leaving the scalped and mutilated corpses of the white men to the vultures and wolves, mounted and marched off. Before leaving the scene of their sanguinary exploit, they had drawn the waggons into a close clump and set fire to them, partly from a wanton instinct of destruction, partly from the pleasure of beholding a great bonfire, but also with some thoughts that it might be as well thus to blot out all the traces of a tragedy for which the Americans--of whom even these freebooters felt dread--might some day call them to account. They did not all go together, but separated into two parties on the spot where they had passed the night. They were parties, however, of very unequal size, one of them numbering only four individuals. The other, which constituted the main body of the plunderers, was the band of the Tenawa Comanchey, under their chief, Horned Lizard. These last turned eastward, struck off towards the head waters of the Big Witches, upon which and its tributaries lie their customary roving grounds. The lesser party went off in almost the opposite direction, south-westerly, leaving the Llano Estacado on their left, and journeying on, crossed the Rio Pecos at a point below and outside the farthest frontier settlement of New Mexico towards the prairies. Then, shaping their course nearly due south, they skirted the spurs of the Sierra Blanca, that in this latitude extend eastward almost to the Pecos. On arriving near the place known as Gran Quivira--where once stood a prosperous Spanish town, devoted to gathering gold, now only a ruin, scarcely traceable, and altogether without record--they again changed their course, almost zigzagging back in a north-westerly direction. They were making towards a depression seen in the Sierra Blanca, as if with the intention to cross the mountains toward the valley of the Del Norte. They might have reached the valley without this circumstance, by a trail well known and often travelled. But it appeared as if this was just what they wanted to avoid. One of the men composing this party was he already remarked upon as having a large beard and whiskers. A second was one of those spoken of as more slightly furnished with these appendages, while the other two were beardless. All four were of deep bronze complexion, and to all appearance pure-blooded aboriginals. That the two with hirsute sign spoke to one another in Spanish was no sure evidence of their not being Indians. It was within the limits of New Mexican territory, where there are many Indians who converse in Castilian as an ordinary language. He with the whiskered cheeks--the chief of the quartet, as well as the tallest of them--had not left behind the share of plunder that had been allotted to him. It was still in his train, borne on the backs of seven strong mules, heavily loaded. These formed an _atajo_ or pack-train, guided and driven by the two beardless men of the party, who seemed to understand mule driving as thoroughly as if they had been trained to the calling of the _arriero_; and perhaps so had they been. The other two took no trouble with the pack-animals, but rode on in front, conversing _sans souci_, and in a somewhat jocular vein. The heavily-bearded man was astride a splendid black horse; not a Mexican mustang, like that of his companions, but a large sinewy animal, that showed the breed of Kentucky. And so should he--since he was the same steed Frank Hamersley had been compelled to leave behind in that rapid rush into the crevice of the cliff. "This time, Roblez, we've made a pretty fair haul of it," remarked he who bestrode the black. "What with the silks and laces--to say nothing of this splendid mount between my legs--I think I may say that our time has not been thrown away." "Yours hasn't, anyhow. My share won't be much." "Come, come, _teniente_! don't talk in that way. You should be satisfied with a share proportioned to your rank. Besides, you must remember the man who puts down the stake has the right to draw the winnings. But for me there would have been no spoils to share. Isn't it so?" This truth seeming to produce an impression on Roblez's mind, he made response in the affirmative. "Well, I'm glad you acknowledge it," pursued the rider of the black. "Let there be no disputes between us; for you know, Roblez, we can't afford to quarrel. You shall have a liberal percentage on this lucky venture; I promise it. By the bye, how much do you think the plunder ought to realise?" "Well," responded Roblez, restored to a cheerful humour, "if properly disposed of in El Paso or Chihuahua, the lot ought to fetch from fifteen to twenty thousand dollars. I see some silk-velvet among the stuff that would sell high, if you could get it shown to the rich damsels of Durango or Zacatecas. One thing sure, you've got a good third of the caravan stock." "Ha! ha! More than half of it in value. The Horned lizard went in for bulk. I let him have it to his heart's content. He thinks more of those cheap cotton prints, with their red and green and yellow flowers, than all the silk ever spun since the days of Mother Eve. Ha! ha! ha!" The laugh, in which Roblez heartily joined, was still echoing on the air as the two horsemen entered a pass leading through the mountains. It was the depression in the sierra, seen shortly after parting with the Horned Lizard and his band. It was a pass rugged with rock, and almost trackless, here and there winding about, and sometimes continued through canons or clefts barely wide enough to give way to the mules with the loads upon their backs. For all this the animals of the travellers seemed to journey along it without difficulty, only the American horse showing signs of awkwardness. All the others went as if they had trodden it before. For several hours they kept on through this series of canons and gorges--here and there crossing a transverse ridge that, cutting off a bend, shortened the distance. Just before sunset the party came to a halt; not in the defile itself, but in one of still more rugged aspect, that led laterally into the side of the mountain. In this there was no trace or sign of travel--no appearance of its having been entered by man or animal. Yet the horse ridden by Roblez, and the pack-mules coming after, entered with as free a step as if going into a well-known enclosure. True, the chief of the party, mounted on the Kentucky steed, had gone in before them; though this scarce accounted for their confidence. Up this unknown gorge they rode until they had reached its end. There was no outlet, for it was a _cul-de-sac_--a natural court--such as are often found among the amygdaloidal mountains of Mexico. At its extremity, where it narrowed to a width of about fifty feet, lay a huge boulder of granite that appeared to block up the path; though there was a clear space between it and the cliff rising vertically behind it. The obstruction was only apparent, and did not cause the leading savage of the party to make even a temporary stop. At one side there was an opening large enough to admit the passage of a horse; and into this he rode, Roblez following, and also the mules in a string, one after the other. Behind the boulder was an open space of a few square yards, of extent sufficient to allow room for turning a horse. The savage chief wheeled his steed, and headed him direct for the cliff; not with the design of dashing his brains against the rock, but to force him into a cavern, whose entrance showed its disc in the facade of the precipice, dark and dismal as the door of an Inquisitorial prison. The horse snorted, and shied back; but the ponderous Mexican spur, with its long sharp rowel-points, soon drove him in; whither he was followed by the mustang of Roblez and the mules--the latter going in as unconcernedly as if entering a stable whose stalls were familiar to them. CHAPTER TWENTY. A TRANSFORMATION. It was well on in the afternoon of the following day before the four spoil-laden savages who had sought shelter in the cave again showed themselves outside. Then came they filing forth, one after the other, in the same order as they had entered; but so changed in appearance that no one seeing them come out of the cavern could by any possibility have recognised them as the same men who had the night before gone into it. Even their animals had undergone some transformation. The horses were differently caparisoned; the flat American saddle having been removed from the back of the grand Kentucky steed, and replaced by the deep-tree Mexican _silla_, with its _corona_ of stamped leather and wooden _estribos_. The mules, too, were rigged in a different manner, each having the regular _alpareja_, or pack-saddle, with the broad _apishamores_ breeched upon its hips; while the spoils, no longer in loose, carelessly tied-up bundles, were made up into neat packs, as goods in regular transportation by an _atajo_. The two men who conducted them had altogether a changed appearance. Their skins were still of the same colour--the pure bronze-black of the Indian--but, instead of the eagle's feathers late sticking up above their crowns, both had their heads now covered with simple straw hats; while sleeveless coats of coarse woollen stuff, with stripes running transversely--_tilmas_--shrouded their shoulders, their limbs having free play in white cotton drawers of ample width. A leathern belt, and apron of reddish-coloured sheepskin, tanned, completed the costume of an _arriero_ of the humbler class--the _mozo_, or assistant. But the change in the two other men--the chief and him addressed as Roblez--was of a far more striking kind. They had entered the cave as Indians, warriors of the first rank, plumed, painted, and adorned with all the devices and insignia of savage heraldry. They came out of it as white men, wearing the costume of well-to-do rancheros--or rather that of town traders--broad glazed hats upon their heads, cloth jackets and trousers--the latter having the seats and insides of the legs fended with a lining of stamped leather; boots with heavy spurs upon their feet, crape sashes around the waist, machetes strapped along the flaps of their saddles, and seraphs resting folded over the croup, gave the finishing touch to their travelling equipment. These, with the well appointed _atajo_ of mules, made the party one of peaceful merchants transporting their merchandise from town to town. On coming out of the cave, the leader, looking fresh and bright from his change of toilet and late purification of his skin, glanced up towards the sky, as if to consult the sun as to the hour. At the same time he drew a gold watch from his vest pocket, and looked also at that. "We'll be just in the right time, Roblez," he said. "Six hours yet before sunset. That will get us out into the valley, and in the river road. We're not likely to meet any one after nightfall in these days of Indian alarms. Four more will bring us to Albuquerque, long after the sleepy townsfolk have gone to bed. We've let it go late enough, anyhow, and mustn't delay here any longer. Look well to your mules, _mozos! Vamonos_!" At the word all started together down the gorge, the speaker, as before, leading the way, Roblez next, and the mozos with their laden mules stringing out in the rear. Soon after, they re-entered the mountain defile, and, once more heading north-westward, silently continued on for the valley of the Rio del Norte. Their road, as before, led tortuously through canons and rugged ravines--no road at all, but a mere bridle path, faintly indicated by the previous passage of an occasional wayfarer or the tracks of straying cattle. The sun was just sinking over the far western Cordilleras when the precipitous wall of the Sierra Blanca, opening wider on each side of the defile, disclosed to the spoil-laden party a view of the broad level plain known as the valley of the Del Norte. Soon after, they had descended to it; and in the midst of night, with a starry sky overhead, were traversing the level road upon which the broad wheel-tracks of rude country carts--_carretas_--told of the proximity of settlements. It was a country road, leading out from the foot-hills of the sierra to a crossing of the river, near the village of Tome, where it intersected with the main route of travel running from El Paso in the south through all the riverine towns of New Mexico. Turning northward from Tome, the white robbers, late disguised as Indians, pursued their course towards the town of Albuquerque. Any one meeting them on the road would have mistaken them for a party of traders _en route_ from the Rio Abajo to the capital of Santa Fe. But they went not so far. Albuquerque was the goal of their journey, though on arriving there--which they did a little after midnight--they made no stop in the town, nor any noise to disturb its inhabitants, at that hour asleep. Passing silently through the unpaved streets, they kept on a little farther. A large house or hacienda, tree shaded, and standing outside the suburbs, was the stopping place they were aiming at; and towards this they directed their course. There was a _mirador_ or belvidere upon the roof--the same beside which Colonel Miranda and his American guest, just twelve months before, had stood smoking cigars. As then, there was a guard of soldiers within the covered entrance, with a sentry outside the gate. He was leaning against the postern, his form in the darkness just distinguishable against the grey-white of the wall. "_Quien-viva_?" he hailed as the two horsemen rode up, the hoof-strokes startling him out of a half-drunken doze. "_El Coronel-Commandante_!" responded the tall man in a tone that told of authority. It proved to be countersign sufficient, the speaker's voice being instantly recognised. The sentry, bringing his piece to the salute, permitted the horsemen to pass without further parley, as also the _atajo_ in their train, all entering and disappearing within the dark doorway, just as they had made entrance into the mouth of the mountain cavern. While listening to the hoof-strokes of the animals ringing on the pavement of the _patio_ inside, the sentinel had his reflections and conjectures. He wondered where the colonel-commandant could have been to keep him so long absent from his command, and he had perhaps other conjectures of an equally perplexing nature. They did not much trouble him, however. What mattered it to him how the commandant employed his time, or where it was spent, so long as he got his _sueldo_ and rations? He had them with due regularity, and with this consoling reflection he wrapped his yellow cloak around him, leaned against the wall, and soon after succumbed to the state of semi-watchfulness from which the unexpected event had aroused him. "Carrambo!" exclaimed the Colonel to his subordinate, when, after looking to the stowage of the plunder, the two men sat together in a well-furnished apartment of the hacienda, with a table, decanters, and glasses between them. "It's been a long, tedious tramp, hasn't it? Well, we've not wasted our time, nor had our toil for nothing. Come, _teniente_, fill your glass again, and let us drink to our commercial adventure. Here's that in the disposal of our goods we may be as successful as in their purchase!" Right merrily the lieutenant refilled his glass, and responded to the toast of his superior officer. "I suspect, Roblez," continued the Colonel, "that you have been all the while wondering how I came to know about this caravan whose spoil is to enrich us--its route--the exact time of its arrival, the strength of its defenders--everything? You think our friend the Horned Lizard gave me all this information." "No, I don't; since that could not well be. How was Horned Lizard to know himself--that is, in time to have sent word to you? In truth, _mio Coronel_, I am, as you say, in a quandary about all that. I cannot even guess at the explanation." "This would give it to you, if you could read; but I know you cannot, _mio teniente_; your education has been sadly neglected. Never mind, I shall read it for you." As the colonel was speaking he had taken from the drawer of a cabinet that stood close by a sheet of paper folded in the form of a letter. It was one, though it bore no postmark. For all that, it looked as if it had travelled far--perchance carried by hand. It had in truth come all the way across the prairies. Its superscription was:-- "El Coronel Miranda, Commandante del Distrito Militario de Albuquerque, Nuevo Mexico." Its contents, also in Spanish, translated read thus:-- "My dear Colonel Miranda,--I am about to carry out the promise made to you at our parting. I have my mercantile enterprise in a forward state of readiness for a start over the plains. My caravan will not be a large one, about six or seven waggons with less than a score of men; but the goods I take are valuable in an inverse ratio to their bulk-- designed for the `ricos' of your country. I intend taking departure from the frontier town of Van Buren, in the State of Arkansas, and shall go by a new route lately discovered by one of our prairie traders, that leads part way along the Canadian river, by you called `Rio de la Canada,' and skirting the great plain of the Llano Estacado at its upper end. This southern route makes us more independent of the season, so that I shall be able to travel in the fall. If nothing occur to delay me in the route, I shall reach New Mexico about the middle of November, when I anticipate renewing those relations of a pleasant friendship in which you have been all the giver and I all the receiver. "I send this by one of the spring caravans starting from Independence for Santa Fe, in the hope that it will safely reach you. "I subscribe myself, dear Colonel Miranda,-- "Your grateful friend,-- "Francis Hamersley." "Well, _teniente_," said his Colonel, as he refolded the far-fetched epistle, and returned it to the drawer, "do you comprehend matters any clearer now?" "Clear as the sun that shines over the Llano Estacado," was the reply of the lieutenant, whose admiration for the executive qualities of his superior officer, along with the bumpers he had imbibed, had now exalted his fancy to a poetical elevation. "_Carrai-i! Esta un golpe magnifico_! (It's a splendid stroke!) Worthy of Manuel Armilo himself. Or even the great Santa Anna!" "A still greater stroke than you think it, for it is double--two birds killed with the same stone. Let us again drink to it!" The glasses were once more filled, and once more did the associated bandits toast the nefarious enterprise they had so successfully accomplished. Then Roblez rose to go to the _cuartel_ or barracks, where he had his place of sleeping and abode, bidding _buena noche_ to his colonel. The latter also bethought him of bed, and, taking a lamp from the table, commenced moving towards his _cuarto de camara_. On coming opposite a picture suspended against the _sala_ wall--the portrait of a beautiful girl--he stopped in front, for a moment gazed upon it, and then into a mirror that stood close by. As if there was something in the glass that reflected its shadow into his very soul, the expression of exultant triumph, so lately depicted upon his face, was all at once swept from it, giving place to a look of blank bitterness. "One is gone," he said, in a half-muttered soliloquy; "one part of the stain wiped out--thanks to the Holy Virgin for that. But the other; and she--where, where?" And with these words he staggered on towards his chamber. CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. STRUGGLING AMONG THE SAGES. It is the fourth day after forsaking the couch among the shin oaks, and the two fugitives are still travelling upon the Llano Estacado. They have made little more than sixty miles to the south-eastward, and have not yet struck any of the streams leading out to the lower level of the Texan plain. Their progress has been slow; for the wounded man, instead of recovering strength, has grown feebler. His steps are now unequal and tottering. In addition to the loss of blood, something else has aided to disable him--the fierce cravings of hunger and the yet more insufferable agony of thirst. His companion is similarly afflicted; if not in so great a degree, enough to make him also stagger in his steps. Neither has had any water since the last drop drank amid the waggons, before commencing the fight; and since then a fervent sun shining down upon them, with no food save crickets caught in the plain, an occasional horned frog, and some fruit of the _opuntia_ cactus--the last obtained sparingly. Hunger has made havoc with both, sad and quick. Already at the end of the fourth day their forms are wasted. They are more like spectres than men. And the scene around them is in keeping. The plain, far as the eye can reach, is covered with _artemisia_, whose hoary foliage, in close contact at the tops, displays a continuation of surface like a vast winding-sheet spread over the world. Across this fall the shadows of the two men, proportioned to their respective heights. That of the ex-Ranger extends nearly a mile before him; for the sun is low down, and they have its beams upon their backs. They are facing eastward, in the hope of being able to reach the brow of the Llano where it abuts on the Texan prairies; though in the heart of one of them this hope is nearly dead. Frank Hamersley has but slight hopes that he will ever again see the homes of civilisation, or set foot upon its frontier. Even the ci-devant Ranger inclines to a similar way of thinking. Not far off are other animated beings that seem to rejoice. The shadows of the two men are not the only ones that move over the sunlit face of the artemisia. There, too, are outlined the wings of birds--large birds with sable plumage and red naked necks, whose species both know well. They are _zopilotes_--the vultures of Mexico. A score of such shadows are flitting over the sage--a score of the birds are wheeling in the air above. It is a sight to pain the traveller, even when seen at a distance. Over his own head it may well inspire him with fear. He cannot fail to read in it a forecast of his own fate. The birds are following the two men, as they would a wounded buffalo or stricken deer. They soar and circle above them, at times swooping portentously near. They do not believe them to be spectres. Wasted as their flesh may be, there will still be a banquet upon their bones. Now and then Walt Wilder casts a glance up towards them. He is anxious, though he takes care to hide his anxiety from his comrade. He curses the foul creatures, not in speech--only in heart, and silently. For a time the wearied wayfarers keep on without exchanging a word. Hitherto consolation has come from the side of the ex-Ranger; but he seems to have spent his last effort, and is himself now despairing. In Hamersley's heart hope has been gradually dying out, as his strength gets further exhausted. At length the latter gives way, the former at the same time. "No farther, Walt!" he exclaims, coming to a stop. "I can't go a step further. There is a fire in my throat that chokes me; something grips me within. It is dragging me to the ground." The hunter stops too. He makes no attempt to urge his comrade on. He perceives it would be idle. "Go on yourself," Hamersley adds, gasping out the words. "You have yet strength left, and may reach water. I cannot, but I can die, I'm not afraid to die. Leave me, Walt; leave me!" "Niver!" is the response, in a hoarse, husky voice, but firm, as if it came from a speaking-trumpet. "You will; you must. Why should two lives be sacrificed for one? Yours may still be saved. Take the gun along with you. You may find something. Go, comrade--friend--go!" Again the same response, in a similar tone. "I sayed, when we were in the fight," adds the hunter, "an' aterwards, when gallupin' through the smoke, that livin' or dyin' we'd got to stick thegither. Didn't I say that, Frank Hamersley? I repeat it now. Ef you go unner hyar in the middle o' this sage-brush, Walt Wilder air goin' to wrap his karkiss in a corner o' the same windin' sheet. There ain't much strength remainin' in my arms now, but enuf, I reck'n, to keep them buzzarts off for a good spell yit. They don't pick our bones till I've thinned thar count anyhow. Ef we air to be rubbed out, it'll be by the chokin' o' thirst, and not the gripin' o' hunger. What durned fools we've been, not to a-thinked o' 't afore! but who'd iver think o' eatin' turkey buzzart? Wall, it's die dog or swaller the hatchet; so onpalatable as thar flesh may be, hyar goes to make a meal o' it!" While speaking, he has carried the gun to his shoulder. Simultaneous with his last words comes the crack, quickly followed by the descent of a zopilote among the sages. "Now, Frank," he says, stooping to pick up the dead bird, while the scared flock flies farther away, "let's light a bit o' a fire, an' cook it. Thar's plenty o' sage for the stuffin', an' its own flavour'll do for seasonin' 'stead o' inyuns. I reck'n we kin git some o' it down, by holdin' our noses; an' at all events, it'll keep us alive a leetle longer. Wagh, ef we only hed water!" As if a fresh hope has come suddenly across his mind, he once more raises himself erect to the full stretch of his gigantic stature, and standing thus, gazes eastwardly across the plain. "Thar's a ridge o' hills out that way," he says. "I'd jest spied it when you spoke o' giein out. Whar thar's hills, thar's a likelihood o' streams. Sposin', Frank, you stay hyar, whiles I make tracks torst them. They look like they wa'n't mor'n ten miles off anyhow. I ked easy get back by the mornin'. D'ye think ye kin hold out thet long by swallerin' a bit o' the buzzart?" "I think I could hold out that long as well without it. It's more the thirst that's killing me. I feel as if liquid fire was coursing through my veins. If you believe there be any chance of finding water, go, Walt." "I'll do so; but don't you sturve in the meanwhile. Cook the critter afore lettin' it kim to thet. Ye've got punk, an' may make a fire o' the sage-brush. I don't intend to run the risk o' sturvin' myself; an' as I mayn't find any thin' on the way, I'll jest take one o' these sweet-smellin' chickens along wi' me." He has already re-loaded the rifle; and, once more pointing its muzzle towards the sky, he brings down a second of the zopilotes. "Now," he says, taking up the foul carcase, and slinging it to his belt, "keep up your heart till this chile return to ye. I'm sure o' gettin' back by the mornin'; an' to make sartint 'bout the place, jest you squat unner the shadder o' yon big palmetto--the which I can see far enuff off to find yur wharabouts 'thout any defeequelty." The palmetto spoken of is, in truth, not a "palmetto," though a plant of kindred genus. It is a _yucca_ of a species peculiar to the high table plains of Northern and Central Mexico, with long sword-shaped leaves springing aloe-like from a core in the centre, and radiating in all directions, so as to form a spherical chevaux-de-frize. Its top stands nearly six feet above the surface of the ground, and high over the artemisias; while its dark, rigid spikes, contrasted with the frosted foliage of the sage, render it a conspicuous landmark that can be seen far off over the level plain. Staggering on till he has reached it, Hamersley drops down on its eastern side, where its friendly shadow gives him protection from the sun, fervid, though setting; while that of Walt Wilder is still projected to its full length upon the plain. Saying not another word, with the rifle across his shoulder and the turkey buzzard dangling down his thigh, he takes departure from the spot, striking eastward towards the high land dimly discernible on the horizon. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. A HUNTRESS. "_Vamos_, Lolita! hold up, my pretty pet! Two leagues more, and you shall bury that velvet snout of yours in the soft _gramma_ grass, and cool your heated hoof in a crystal stream. Ay, and you shall have a half peck of pinon nuts for your supper, I promise you. You have done well to-day, but don't let us get belated. At night, as you know, we might be lost on the Llano, and the wicked wolves eat us both up. That would be a sad thing, _mia yegua_. We must not let them have a chance to dispose of us in that manner. _Adelante_!" Lolita is a mustang pony of clear chestnut colour, with white mane and tail; while the person thus apostrophising her is a young girl seated astride upon its back. A beautiful girl, apparently under twenty of age, but with a certain commanding mien that gives her the appearance of being older. Her complexion, though white, has a tinge of that golden brown, or olive, oft observed in the Andalusian race; while scimitar shaped eyebrows, with hair of silken texture, black as the shadows of night, and a dark down on the upper lip, plainly proclaim the Moorish admixture. It is a face of lovely cast and almost Grecian contour, with features of classic regularity; while the absence of obliquity in the orbs of the eye--despite the dusky hue of her akin--forbids the belief in Indian blood. Although in a part of the world where such might be expected, there is, in truth, not a taint of it in her veins. The olivine tint is Hispano Moriscan--a complexion, if not more beautiful, certainly more picturesque than that of the Saxon blonde. With the damask-red dancing out upon her cheeks, her eyes aglow from the equestrian exercise she has been taking, the young girl looks the picture of physical health; while the tranquil expression upon her features tells of mental contentment. Somewhat singular is her costume, as the equipment. As already said, she bestrides her mustang man-fashion, the mode of Mexico; while a light fowling-piece, suspended _en bandouliere_, hangs down behind her back. A woollen seraph of finest wool lies scarf-like across her left shoulder, half concealing a velveteen vest or spencer, close-buttoned over the rounded hemispheres of her bosom. Below, an embroidered skirt--the _enagua_--is continued by a pair of white _calzoncillas_, with fringe falling over her small feet, they are booted and spurred. On her head is a hat of soft vicuna wool, with a band of bullion, a bordering of gold lace around the rim, and a plume of heron's feather curving above the crown. This, with her attitude on horseback, might seem _outre_ in the eyes of a stranger to the customs of her country. The gun and its concomitant accoutrements give her something of a masculine appearance, and at the first glance might cause her to be mistaken for a man--a beardless youth. But the long silken tresses scattered loosely over her shoulders, the finely-cut features, the delicate texture of the skin, the petticoat skirt, the small hand, with slender tapering fingers stretched forward to caress the neck of the mustang mare, are signs of femininity not to be misunderstood. A woman--a huntress; the character clearly proclaimed by a brace of hounds--large dogs of the mastiff bloodhound breed--following at the heels of the horse. And a huntress who has been successful in the chase--as proved by two prong-horn antelopes, with shanks tied together, lying like saddle-bags across the croup. The mustang mare needs no spur beyond the sound of that sweet well-known voice. At the word _adelante_ (forward) she pricks up her ears, gives a wave of her snow-white tail, and breaks into a gentle canter, the hounds loping after in long-stretching trot. For about ten minutes is this pace continued; when a bird flying athwart the course, so close that its wings almost brush Lolita's muzzle, causes her rider to lean back in the saddle and check her suddenly up. The bird is a black vulture--a zopilote. It is not slowly soaring in the usual way, but shooting in a direct line, and swiftly as an arrow sent from the bow. This it is that brings the huntress to a halt; and for a time she remained motionless, her eye following the vulture in its flight. It is seen to join a flock of its fellows, so far off as to look like specks. The young girl can perceive that they are not flying in any particular direction, but swooping in circles, as if over some quarry that lies below. Whatever it is, they do not appear to have yet touched it. All keep aloft, none of them alighting on the ground, though at times stooping down, and skimming close to the tops of the sage-bushes with which the plain is thickly beset. These last prevent the huntress from seeing what lies upon the ground; though she knows there must be something to have attracted the concourse of zopilotes. Evidently she has enough knowledge of the desert to understand its signs, and this is one of a significant character. It not only challenges curiosity, but calls for investigation. "Something gone down yonder, and not yet dead?" she mutters, in interrogative soliloquy. "I wonder what it can be! I never look on those filthy birds without fear. _Santissima_! how they made me shudder that time when they flapped their black wings in my own face! I pity any poor creature threatened by them--even where it but a coyote. It may be that, or an antelope. Nothing else likely to become their prey on this bare plain. Come, Lolita! let us go on and see what they're after. It will take us a little out of our way, and give you some extra work. You won't mind that, my pet? I know you won't." The mare wheels round at a slight pressure upon the rein; and then commenced her canter in the direction of the soaring flock. A mile is passed over, and the birds are brought near; but still the object attracting them cannot be seen. It may be down among the artemisias, or perhaps behind a large yucca, whose dark whorl rises several feet above the sage, and over which the vultures are wheeling. As the rider of Lolita arrives within gun-shot distance of the yucca-tree she checks the mustang to a slower pace--to a walk in short. In the spectacle of death, in the throes and struggles of an expiring creature, even though it be but a dumb brute, there is something that never fails to excite commiseration, mingled with a feeling of awe. This last has come over the young girl, as she draws near the spot where the birds are seen circling. It has not occurred to her that the cause of their presence may be a human being, though it is a remembrance of this kind that now prompts her to ride forward reflectively. For once in her life, with others around her who were near and dear, she has been herself an object of like eager solicitude to a flock of zopilotes. But she has not the slightest suspicion of its being a human creature that causes their gathering now. There, upon the Llano Estacado, so rarely trodden by human feet, and even shunned by almost every species of animal, she could not. As she draws still nearer, a black disc, dimly outlined against the dark green leaves of the yucca, upon scrutiny, betrays the form of a bird, itself a vulture. It is dead, impaled upon the sharp spikes of the plant, as it came there by falling from above. A smile curls upon her lips as she sits regarding it. "So, _yegua_!" she says, bringing the mare to a stand, and half-turning her. "I've been losing my time and you your labour. The abominable birds--it's only one of themselves that has dropped dead, and they're holding a _velorio_ over it." She continues, again facing towards the dead vulture. "Now, I wonder if they are only waking it, or if the wakers are cannibals, and intend making a repast on one of their own kind. That would be a curious fact for our natural historian, Don Prospero. Suppose we stay awhile and see?" For a moment she seems undecided as to staying or going. Only for a moment, when an incident occurs that changes the current of her thoughts from scientific curiosity to something of fear. The bloodhounds that have lagged behind in the scurry across the plain, now close up; and, instead of stopping by the side of Lolita, rush on towards the yucca. It is not the odour of the dead buzzard--strong as that may be--that attracts them; but the scent of what is more congenial to their sanguinary instincts. On arriving at the tree they run round to its opposite side; and then spring growling back, as if something they have encountered there has suddenly brought them to bay. "A wounded bear or wolf!" is the muttered reflection of their mistress. It has scarce passed her lips, when she is made aware of her mistake. Above the continued baying of the dogs she can distinguish the tones of a human voice; and at the same instant, a man's head and arm appear above the spikes of the plant--a hand clutching the hilt of a long-bladed knife! CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. "DOWN, DOGS!" Notwithstanding her apparent _sang-froid_, and the presence of mind she surely possesses, the rider of Lolita is affrighted--far more than the vultures, that have soared higher at her approach. And no wonder that she is affrighted at such a strange apparition--the head of a man, with a dark moustache on his lip, holding in his hand a blade that shows blood upon it! This, too, in such a solitary place! Her first thought is to turn Lolita's head and hurry off from the spot. Then a reflection stays her. The man is evidently alone, and the expression on his countenance is neither that of villainy nor anger. The colour of his skin, with the moustache, bespeak him a white man, and not an Indian. Besides, there is pallor upon his cheeks--a wan, wasted look, that tells of suffering, not sin. All this the quick eye of the huntress takes in at a glance, resolving her how to act. Instead of galloping away she urges the mustang on towards the yucca. When close up to it she flings herself out of the saddle, and, whip in hand, rushes up to the hounds, that are still giving tongue and threatening to spring upon the stranger. "_Abajo, perros! abajo, feos_!" (Down, dogs! down, you ugly brutes!) "_A tierra_!" she continues to scold, giving each a sharp cut that at once reduces them to quiescence, causing them to cower at her feet. "Do you not see the mistake you have made?" she goes on addressing the dogs; "don't you see the caballero is not an Indio? It is well, sir!" she adds, turning to the caballero, "well that your skin is white. Had it been copper-coloured, I'm not certain I could have saved you from getting it torn. My pets are not partial to the American aboriginal." During these somewhat bizarre speeches and the actions that accompany them, Frank Hamersley--for it is he--stands staring in silent wonder. What sees he before him? Two huge, fierce-looking dogs, a horse oddly caparisoned, a young girl, scarce a woman, strangely and picturesquely garbed. What has he heard? First, the loud baying of two bloodhounds, threatening to tear him to pieces; then a voice, sweet and musical as the warbling of a bird! Is it all a dream? Dreaming he had been, when aroused by the growling of the dogs. But that was a horrid vision. What he now sees is the very reverse. Demons had been assaulting him in his sleep. Now there is an angel before his eyes. The young girl has ceased speaking; and as the vertigo, caused by his sudden uprising, has cleared away from his brain, he begins to believe in the reality of the objects around him. The shock of surprise has imparted a momentary strength that soon passes; and his feebleness once more returning, he would fall back to the earth did he not clutch hold of the yucca, whose stiff blades sustain him. "_Valga me Dios_!" exclaims the girl, now more clearly perceiving his condition. "_Ay de mi_!" she repeats in a compassionate tone, "you are suffering, sir? Is it hunger? Is it thirst? You have been lost upon the Llano Estacado?" "Hunger, thirst--both, senorita," he answers, speaking for the first time. "For days I have not tasted either food or drink." "_Virgen santissima_! is that so?" As she says this she returns to her horse; and, jerking a little wallet from the saddle, along, with a suspended gourd, again advances towards him. "Here, senor!" she says, plunging her hand into the bag and bringing forth some cold _tortillas_, "this is all I have; I've been the whole day from home, and the rest I've eaten. Take the water first; no doubt you need that most. I remember how I suffered myself. Mix some of this with it. Trust me, it will restore your strength." While speaking she hands him the gourd, which, by its weight, contains over a pint; and then from another and smaller one she pours some liquid first into the water and then over the tortillas. It is vinegar, in which there is an infusion of _chile Colorado_. "Am I not robbing you?" inquires Hamersley, as he casts a significant glance over the wide, sterile plain. "No, no! I am not in need, besides I have no great way to go to where I can get a fresh supply. Drink, senor, drink it all." In ten seconds after the calabash is empty. "Now eat the tortillas. 'Tis but poor fare, but the _chili vinagre_ will be sure to strengthen you. We who dwell in the desert know that." Her words proved true, for after swallowing a few morsels of the bread she has besprinkled, the famished man feels as if some restorative medicine had been administered to him. "Do you think you are able to ride?" she asks. "I can walk--though, perhaps, not very far." "If you can ride there is no need for your walking. You can mount my mare; I shall go afoot. It is not very far--only six miles." "But," protests he, "I must not leave this spot." "Indeed!" she exclaims, turning upon her _protege_ a look of surprise. "For what reason, senor? To stay here would be to perish. You have no companions to care for you?" "I have companions--at least, one. That is why I must remain. Whether he may return to assist me I know not. He has gone off in search of water. In any case, he will be certain to seek for me." "But why should you stay for him?" "Need you ask, senorita? He is my comrade, true and faithful. He has been the sharer of my dangers--of late no common ones. If he were to come back and find me gone--" "What need that signify, caballero? He will know where to come after you." "How should he know?" "Oh, that will be easy enough. Leave it to me. Are you sure he will find his way back to this place?" "Quite sure. This tree will guide him. He arranged it so before leaving." "In that case, there's not any reason for your remaining. On the contrary. I can see that you need a better bed than sleeping among these sage-plants. I know one who will give it. Come with me, caballero? By the time your comrade can get back there'll be one here to meet him. Lest he should arrive before the messenger I shall send, this will save him from going astray." While speaking she draws forth a small slip of paper from a pouch carried _a la chatelaine_; along with it a pencil. She is about to write, when a thought restrains her. "Does your comrade understand Spanish?" she asks. "Only a word or two. He speaks English, or, as we call it, American." "Can he read?" "Indifferently. Enough, I suppose, for--" "Senor," she says, interrupting him, "I need not ask if you can write. Take this, and put it in your own language. Say you are gone south, due south, to a distance of about six miles. Tell your friend to stay here till some one comes to meet and conduct him to where you'll be found." Hamersley perceives the rationality of these instructions. There is no reason why he should not do as desired, and go at once with her who gives them. By staying some mischance might still happen, and he may never see his fair rescuer again. Who can tell what may arise in the midst of that mysterious desert? By going he will the sooner be able to send succour to his comrade. He hesitates no longer, but writes upon the piece of paper--in large, carefully-inscribed letters, so that the _ci-devant_ Ranger need have no difficulty in deciphering them:-- "Saved by an Angel.--Strike due south. Six miles from this you will find me. There is a horse, and you can take up his tracks. If you stay here for a time, one will come and guide you." The huntress takes the paper from his hand, and glances at the writing, as if out of curiosity to read the script of a language unknown to her. But something like a smile playing around her lips might lead one to believe she has divined the meaning of at least the initial sentence. She makes no remark, but stepping towards the yucca and reaching up, impales the piece of paper on one of its topmost spikes. "Now, caballero," she says, "you mount my mare. See, she stands ready for you." Hamersley again protests, saying he can walk well enough. But his tottering steps contradict him, and he urges his objections in vain. The young girl appealingly persists, until at length the gallantry of the Kentuckian gives way, and he climbs reluctantly into the saddle. "Now, Lolita!" cries her mistress, "see that your step is sure, or you shan't have the pinons I promised you. _Adelante! Nos vamos, senor_!" So saying, she strikes off through the sage, the mustang stepping by her side, and the two great hounds, like a rear guard, bringing up behind. CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. FOES OR FRIENDS? Mounted on the mustang mare, Frank Hamersley pursues his way, wondering at his strange guide. So lovely a being encountered in such an out-of-the-way corner of the world--in the midst of a treeless, waterless desert, over a hundred miles from the nearest civilised settlement! Who is she? Where has she come from? Whither is she conducting him? To the last question he will soon have an answer; for as they advance she now and then speaks words of encouragement, telling him they are soon to reach a place of rest. "Yonder!" she at length exclaims, pointing to two mound-shaped elevations that rise twin-like above the level of the plain. "Between those runs our road. Once there, we shall not have much farther to go; the rancho will be in sight." The young prairie merchant makes no reply. He only thinks how strange it all is--the beautiful being by his side--her dash--her wonderful knowledge exhibited with such an air of _naivete_--her generous behaviour--the picturesqueness of her dress--her hunter equipment--the great dogs trotting at her heels--the dead game on the croup behind--the animal he bestrides--all are before his mind and mingling in his thoughts like the unreal phantasmagoria of a dream. And not any more like reality is the scene disclosed to his view when, after passing around the nearest of the twin mound-shaped hills, and entering a gate-like gorge that opens between them, he sees before him and below--hundreds of feet below--a valley of elliptical form like a vast basin scooped out of the plain. But for its oval shape he might deem it the crater of some extinct volcano. But then, where is the lava that should have been projected from it? With the exception of the two hillocks on each hand, all the country around, far as the eye can reach, is level as the bosom of a placid lake. And otherwise unlike a volcanic crater is the concavity itself. No gloom down there, no black scoriae, no returning streams of lava, nor _debris_ of pumice-stone; but, on the contrary, a smiling vegetation--trees with foliage of different shades, among which can be distinguished the dark-green frondage of the live-oak and pecan, the more brilliant verdure of cottonwoods, and the flower-loaded branches of the wild China-tree. In their midst a glassy disc that speaks of standing water, with here and there a fleck of white, which tells of a stream with foaming cascades and cataracts. Near the lakelet, in the centre, a tiny column of blue smoke ascends over the tree-tops. This indicates the presence of a dwelling; and as they advance a little further into the gorge, the house itself can be descried. In contrast with the dreary plain over which he has been so long toiling, to Hamersley the valley appears a paradise--worthy home of the Peri who is conducting him down to it. It resembles a landscape painted upon the concave sides of an immense oval-shaped dish, with the cloudless sky, like a vast cover of blue glass, arching over it. The scene seems scarcely real, and once more the young prairie merchant begins to doubt the evidence of his senses. After all, is it only a vision of his brain, distempered by the long strain upon his intellect, and the agony he has been enduring? Or is it but the _mirage_ of the desert, that has so oft already deceived him? His doubts are dissipated by the sweet voice sounding once more in his ears. "_Mira, caballero_! you see where you are going now? It is not far; you will need to keep a firm seat in the saddle for the next hundred yards or so. There is a steep descent and a narrow pathway. Take good hold with your knees, and trust yourself to the mare. She knows the way well, and will bear you in safety. Won't you, Lolita? You will, my pet!" At this the mustang gives a soft whimper, as if answering the interrogatory. "I shall myself go before," the girl continues. "So let loose the rein, and leave Lolita to take her own way." After giving this injunction, she turns abruptly to the right, where a path almost perpendicular leads down a ledge, traversing the facade of the cliff. Close followed by the mustang, she advances fearlessly along it. Certainly a most dangerous descent, even for one afoot; and if left to his own will, Hamersley might decline attempting it on horseback. But he has no choice now, for before he can make either expostulation or protest, Lolita has struck along the path, and continues with hind-quarters high in air and neck extended in the opposite direction, as though standing upon her head! To her rider there is no alternative but do as he has been directed--stick close to the saddle. This he manages by throwing his feet forward and laying his back flat along the croup, till his shoulders come between the crossed shanks of the prong-horns. In this position he remains, without saying a word, or even daring to look below, till he at length finds himself moving forward with face upturned to the sky, thus discovering that the animal he bestrides is once more going along level ground. Again he hears the voice of Lolita's mistress, saying, "Now, senor, you can sit upright; the danger is past. You have behaved well, _yegua-- yeguita_!" she adds, patting the mare upon the neck; "you shall have the promised pinons--a whole _cuartilla_ of them." Once more stepping to the front, she strikes off among the trees, along a path which still inclines downward, though now in gentler slope. Hamersley's brain is in a whirl. The strange scenes, things, thoughts, and fancies are weaving weird spells around him; and once more he begins to think that his senses have either forsaken or are forsaking him. This time it is really so, for the long-protracted suffering--the waste of blood and loss of strength--only spasmodically resuscitated by the excitement of the strange encounter--is now being succeeded by a fever of the brain, that is gradually depriving him of his reason. He has a consciousness of riding on for some distance farther--under trees, whose leafy boughs form an arcade over his head, shutting out the sun. Soon after, all becomes suddenly luminous, as the mustang bears him out into a clearing, with what appears a log-cabin in the centre. He sees or fancies the forms of several men standing by its door; and as the mare comes to a stop in their midst his fair conductor is heard excitedly exclaiming,-- "_Hermano_! take hold of him! _Alerte! Alerte_!" At this one of the men springs towards him; whether to be kind, or to kill, he cannot tell. For before a hand is laid on him the strange tableau fades from his sight; and death, with all its dark obliviousness, seems to take possession of his soul. CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. "SAVED BY AN ANGEL!" The shadow of Walt Wilder is again projected over the Staked Plain, as before, to a gigantic length. But this time westwardly, from a sun that is rising instead of setting. It is the morning after he parted with his disabled companion; and he is now making back towards the spot where he had left the latter, the sun's disc just appearing above the horizon, and shining straight upon his back. Its rays illumine an object not seen before, which lends to Walt's shadow a shape weird and fantastic. It is that of a giant, with something sticking out on each side of his head that resembles a pair of horns, or as if his neck was embraced by an ox-yoke, the tines tending diagonally outwards. On looking at Walt himself the singularity is at once understood. The carcase of a deer lies transversely across his back, the legs of the animal being fastened together so as to form a sling, through which he has thrust his head, leaving the long slender shanks, like the ends of the letter X, projecting at each side and high above his shoulders. Despite the load thus borne by him, the step of the ex-Ranger is no longer that of a man either despairing or fatigued. On the contrary, it is light and elastic; while his countenance shows bright and joyous as the beams of the ascending sun. His very shadow seems to flit over the frosted foliage of the artemisias as lightly as the figure of a gossamer-robed belle gliding across the waxed floor of a ball-room. Walt Wilder no longer hungers or thirsts. Though the carcase on his back is still unskinned, a huge collop cut out of one of its hind-quarters tells how he has satisfied the first craving; while the gurgle of water, heard inside the canteen slung under his arm, proclaims that the second has also been appeased. He is now hastening on to the relief of his comrade, happy in the thought of being able soon to relieve him also from his sufferings. Striding lightly among the sage-bushes, and looking ahead for the landmark that should guide him, he at length catches sight of it. The palmilla, standing like a huge porcupine upon the plain, cannot be mistaken; and he descries it at more than a mile's distance, the shadow of his own head already flickering among its bayonet-like blades. Just then something else comes under his eyes, which at once changes the expression upon his countenance. From gay it grows grave, serious, apprehensive. A flock of buzzards, seemingly scared by his shadow, have suddenly flapped up from among the sage-plants, and are now soaring around, close to the spikes of the palmilla. They have evidently been down _upon the earth_. And what have they been doing there? It is this question, mentally put by Walt Wilder, that has caused the quick change in his countenance--the result of a painful conjecture. "Marciful heavens!" he exclaims, suddenly making halt, the gun almost dropping from his grasp. "Kin it be possyble? Frank Hamersley gone under! Them buzzards! They've been upon the groun' to a sartinty. Darnashin! what ked they a been doin' down thar? Right by the bunch o' palmetto, jest whar I left him. An' no sign o' himself to be seen? Marciful heavens! kin it be possyble they've been--?" Interrupting himself, he remains motionless, apparently paralysed by apprehension, mechanically scanning the palmilla, as though from it he expected an answer to his interrogatory. "It air possyble," he continues after a time, "too possyble--too likesome. He war well-nigh done up, poor young fellur; an' no wonder. Whar is he now? He must be down by the side o' the bush--down an' dead. Ef he war alive, he'd be lookin' out for me. He's gone under; an' this deer-meat, this water, purcured to no purpiss. I mout as well fling both away; they'll reach him too late." Once more resuming his forward stride, he advanced towards the dark mass above which the vultures are soaring. His shadow, still by a long distance preceding him, has frightened the birds higher up into the air, but they show no signs of going altogether away. On the contrary, they keep circling around, as if they had already commenced a repast, and, driven off, intend returning to it. On what have they been banqueting? On the body of his comrade? What else can be there? Thus questioning himself, the ex-Ranger advances, his heart still aching with apprehension. Suddenly his eye alights on the piece of paper impaled upon the topmost spike of the palmilla. The sight gives him relief, but only for an instant; his conjectures again leading him astray. "Poor young fellur!" is his half-spoken reflection; "he's wrote somethin' to tell how he died--mayhap somethin' for me to carry back to the dear 'uns he's left behind in ole Kaintuck. Wall, that thing shall sartinly be done ef ever this chile gets to the States agin. Darnashin! only to think how near I war to savin' him; a whole doe deer, an' water enough to a drownded him! It'll be useless venison now, I shan't care no more to put tooth into it myself. Frank Hamersley gone dead--the man o' all others I'd 'a died to keep alive. I'd jest as soon lie down an' stop breathin' by the side o' him." While speaking he moves on towards the palmilla. A few strides bring him so near the tree that he can see the ground surface about its base. There is something black among the stems of the sage-bushes. It is not the dead body of a man, but a buzzard, which he knows to be that he had shot before starting off. The sight of it causes him again to make stop. It looks draggled and torn, as if partially dismembered. "Kin he hev been eatin' it? Or war it themselves, the cussed kannybals? Poor Frank, I reck'n I'll find him on t'other side, his body mangled in the same way. Darn it, 't air kewrous, too. 'Twar on this side he laid down to git shade from the sun. I seed him squat whiles I war walkin' away. The sun ain't hot enuf yit to a druv him to westward o' the bush, though thar for sartin he must be. What's the use o' my stannin' shilly-shally hyar? I may as well face the sight at oncest, ugly as I know it'll prove. Hyar goes." Steeling himself for the terrible spectacle, which he believes to be certainly awaiting him, he once more advances towards the tree. A dozen strides bring him up, and less than half a dozen more carry him around it. No body, living or dead--no remains of man, mutilated or otherwise! For some time Wilder stands in speechless surprise, his glances going all around. But no human figure is seen, either by the palmilla or among the sage-bushes beside it. Can the wounded man have crawled away? But no; why should he? Still, to make sure, the ex-Ranger shouts out, calling Hamersley by name. He gets no response. Alone he hears the echo of his own voice, mingling with the hoarse croaking of the vultures, scared by his shouts. His hunter habits now counsel him to a different course of action. His comrade cannot be dead, else the corpse would be there. The vultures could not have eaten up both body and bones. There is no skeleton, no remains. His fellow fugitive has gone off or been taken. Whither? While asking the question Wilder sets about the right way to answer it. As a skilled tracker he begins by examining the signs that should put him on the trace of his missing companion. At a glance he perceives the prints of a horse's hoof, and sees they are those of one unshod. This bodes ill, for the naked-hoofed horse betokens a savage rider--an Indian. Still, it may not be; and he proceeds to a more careful scrutiny of the tracks. In a short time he is able to tell that but one horse has been there, and presumably but one rider, which promises better. And while shaping conjectures as to who it could have been his eye ascends to the piece of paper impaled upon the spike, which he has for a time forgotten. This promises still better. It may clear up everything. Hoping it will, he strides towards and takes hold of it. Lifting it carefully from the leaf, he spreads it out. He sees some writing in pencil, which he prepares to read. At first sight he supposed it might be a dying record. Now he believes it may be something else. His hands tremble, and his huge frame is convulsed as he holds the paper to his eyes. With a thrill of joy he recognises the handwriting of Hamersley, which he knows. He is not much of a scholar; still, he can read, and at a glance makes out the first four words, full of pleasant meaning: "_Saved by an Angel_!" He reads no farther, till after giving utterance to a "hurrah!" that might have been heard many miles over the Staked Plain. Then, more tranquillised, he continues deciphering the chirography of his companion to the end; when a second shout terminates the effort. "Saved by a angel!" he says, muttering to himself. "A angel on the Staked Plain! Whar can the critter hev come from? No matter whar. Thar's been one hyar, for sartin. Darn me ef I don't smell the sweet o' her pettikotes now! This piece o' paper--'t ain't Frank's. I knows he hedn't a scrap about him. No. Thar's the scent o' a woman on it, sure; an' whar thar's a woman Frank Hamersley ain't likely to be let die o' sturvashun. He air too good-lookin' for that. Wall I reck'n it's all right an' thar ain't no more need for me to hurry. T'war rayther a scant breakfast I've hed, an' hain't gin this chile's in'ards saterfacshun. I'll jest chaw another griskin o' the deer-meat to strengthen me for this six-mile tramp southard." In less than five minutes after, the smoke from a sage-stalk fire was seen ascending from beside the palmilla, and in its blaze, quickly kindled, a huge piece of venison, cut from the fat flanks of the doe, weighing at least four pounds, spitted upon one of the stiff blades of the plant, was rapidly turning from blood red to burnt brown. As circumstances had ofttimes compelled the ex-Ranger to eat his deer-meat underdone, the habit had become his _gout_; and it was, therefore, not long before the griskin was removed from the spit. Nor much longer till it ceased to be a griskin--having altogether disappeared from his fingers, followed by a gurgling sound, as half the contents of the canteen went washing it down his throat. "Now!" he said, springing to his feet, after he had completed his Homeric repast, "this chile feels strong enuf to face the devil hisself, an' tharfor he needn't be backward 'bout the encounterin' o' a angel. So hyar goes to find out Frank Hamersley, an' how _he's_ farin'. Anyhow, I'll take the deer along in case thar mout be a scarcity o' eetables, though I reck'n thar's no fear o' that. Whar a angel makes dwelling-place thar oughter be a full crib, though it may be ambrosyer or mannar, or some o' them fixin's as a purairy man's stummick ain't used to. Anyways, a bit o' doe-deer meat won't do no harum. So, Walt Wilder, ole coon, let's you an' me set our faces southart, an' see what's to turn up at the tarminashun o' six miles' trampin'." Once more shouldering the carcase, he strides off towards the south, guiding himself by the sun, but more by the hoof-marks of the mustang. These, though scarce distinguishable, under the over-shadowing sage-plants, are descried with little difficulty by the experienced eye of the Ranger. On goes he, now and then muttering to himself conjectures as to what sort of a personage has appropriated and carried off his comrade. But, with all his jocular soliloquising, he feels certain the _angel_ will turn out to be a _woman_. CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. FALLEN AMONG FRIENDS. If, before losing consciousness, Hamersley had a thought that he had fallen into the hands of enemies, never in all his life could he have been more mistaken, for those now around him, by their words and gestures, prove the very reverse. Six personages compose the group-- four men and a girl; the sixth, she, the huntress, who has conducted him to the house. The girl is a brown-skinned Indian, evidently a domestic; and so also two of the four men. The other two are white, and of pronouncedly Spanish features. One is an oldish man, greyheaded, thin-faced, and wearing spectacles. In a great city he would be taken for a _savant_, though difficult to tell what he may be, seen in the Llano Estacado surrounded by a desert. In the same place, the other and younger man is equally an enigma, for his bearing proclaims him both gentleman and soldier, while the coat on his back shows the undress uniform of an officer of more than medium rank. It is he who answers to the apostrophe, "Hermano!" springing forward at the word, and obeying the command of his sister--for such is she whom Hamersley has accompanied to the spot. Throwing out his arms, and receiving the wounded man as he falls insensible from the saddle, the obedient brother for a moment stands aghast, for in the face of him unconscious he recognises an old friend-- one he might no more expect to see there than to behold him falling from the sky. He can have no explanation from the man held in his arms. The latter has fainted--is dying--perhaps already dead. He does not seek it, only turns to him who wears the spectacles, saying,-- "Doctor, is he, indeed, dead? See if it be so. Let everything be done to save him." He thus addressed takes hold of Hamersley's pulse, and, after a moment or two, pronounces upon it. It beats; it indicates extreme weakness, but not absolute danger of death. Then the wounded man is carried inside--tenderly borne, as if he, too, were a brother--laid upon a couch, and looked after with all the skill the grey-haired _medico_ can command, with all the assiduity of her who has brought him to the house, and him she calls "Hermano." As soon as the stranger has been disposed of, between these two there is a dialogue--the brother seeking explanations from the sister, though first imparting information to her. He knows the man she has saved; telling her how and where their acquaintance was made. Few words suffice, for already is the story known to her. In return, she too gives relation of what has happened--how, after her chase upon the plain, coming back successful, she saw the zopilotes, and was by them attracted out of her way; narrating all the rest already told. And now nothing more can be known. The man still lives--thank Heaven for that!--but lies on the couch unconscious of all around him. Not quiet, for he is turning about, with quick-beating pulse, and brain in a condition of delirium. For a night and a part of a day they keep by his bedside--all three, sister, brother, and doctor, grouped there, or going and coming. They know who the wounded man is, though ignorant of how he came by his wounds, or what strange chance left him stranded on the Staked Plain. They have no hope of knowing until he may regain consciousness and recover. And of this the doctor has some doubt; when asked, shaking his head ominously, till the spectacles get loosened upon his nose. But, though the prognosis remain uncertain, the diagnosis is learnt in a manner unexpected. Before noon of the next day the hounds are heard baying outside; and the watchers by the sick-bed, summoned forth, see one approaching--a personage whose appearance causes them surprise. Any one seen there would do the same, since for months no stranger had come near them. Strange, indeed, if one had, for they are more than a hundred miles from any civilised settlement, in the very heart and centre of a desert. What they see now is a man of colossal form and gigantic stature, with bearded face and formidable aspect, rendered somewhat grotesque by a deer's carcase carried over his shoulders, the shanks of the animal rising crossways over his crown. They are not dismayed by the uncouth apparition. She who has brought Hamersley to the house guesses it to be the comrade of whom he spoke-- describing him as "true and faithful." And, without reflecting further, she glides out, grasps the great hunter by the hand, and conducts him to the bedside of his unconscious companion. Looking at her as she leads him, Walt Wilder mutters to himself,-- "Saved by a _angel_! I knowed it would turn out a _woman_, and this is one for sartin." CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE LONE RANCHE. A singular habitation was that into which Frank Hamersley, and after him Walt Wilder, had found their way. Architecturally of the rudest description--a kind among Mexicans especially styled _jacal_, or more generally _rancho_, the latter designation Anglicised or Americanised into ranche. The _rancho_, when of limited dimensions, is termed _ranchito_, and may be seen with walls of different materials, according to the district or country. In the hot low lands (_tierras calientes_) it is usually built of bamboos, with a thatching of palm-leaf; higher up, on the table lands (_tierras templadas_) it is a structure of mud bricks unburnt (adobe's); while still higher, upon the slopes of the forest-clad sierras, it assumes the orthodox shape of a log cabin, though in many respects differing from that of the States. The one which gave shelter to the fugitives differed from all these, having walls of split slabs, set stockade fashion, and thatched with a sedge of _tule_, taken from a little lake that lay near. It had three rooms and a kitchen, with some sheds at the back--one a stable appropriated to the mustang mare, another to some mules, and a third occupied by two men of the class of "peons"--the male domestics of the establishment. All, with the house itself, structures of the rudest kind, unlike as possible to the dwelling-place of a lady, to say nought of an _angel_. This thought occurs to Wilder as he enters under its roof. But he has no time to dwell upon it. His wounded comrade is inside, to whom he is conducted. He finds the latter still alive--thank God for that!--but unconscious of all that is passing around. To the kindly words spoken in apostrophe he makes no reply, or only in speeches incoherent. His skin is hot, his lips parched, his pulse throbbing at ninety to the minute. He is in the throes of a raging fever, which affects his brain as his blood. The stalwart hunter sits down by his side, and stays there, tenderly nursing him. It glads him to observe there are others solicitous as himself--to find that he and Hamersley have fallen among friends. Though also surprising him, as does the sort of people he sees around. First, there is a lady, easily recognised as the _angel_; then a man of military aspect, who addresses her as "Hermanita," unquestionably a gentleman with a second and older man wearing spectacles, by both spoken of as "el medico." Strange inhabitants for a hovel, as that this should be in such an odd situation--hundreds of miles beyond the borders of civilisation, as Walt well knows. No wonder at his wondering, above all when he discovers that his comrade is already known to them--to the younger of the two men, who is their host. This, however, is soon explained. Walt was already aware that the young prairie trader had made a former trip to New Mexico, when and where, as he is now told, the acquaintance commenced, along with some other particulars, to satisfy him for the time. In return for this confidence he gives a detailed account of the caravan and its mischances--of the great final misfortune, which explains to them why its owner and himself had been forced to take to the Staked Plain, and were there wandering about, helpless fugitives. To his narrative all three eagerly listen. But when he enlarges on the bravery of his young comrade, lying unconscious beside them, one bends upon the latter eyes that express an interest amounting to admiration. It is the "angel." In the days that succeed she becomes Walt's fellow-watcher by the bedside of the sufferer; and often again does he observe similar glances given to their common patient. Rough backwoodsman though he be, he can tell them to be looks of love. He thinks less about them because he has himself found something of like kind stealing over his thoughts. All his cares are not given to his invalided comrade; for in the hut is a fourth individual, whose habitual place is the _cocina_, coming and going, as occasion calls. A little brown-skinned beauty, half Spanish, half Pueblo Indian, whose black eyes have burnt a hole through his buckskin hunting-shirt, and set fire to his heart. Though but little more than half his height, in less than a week after making her acquaintance she has become his master, as much as if their stature were reversed. Walt does not want her for his mistress. No; the hunter is too noble, too honourable, for that His glance following her as she flits about the room, taking in her dainty shape, and the expression of her pretty face, always wreathed in smiles, he has but one single-hearted desire, to which he gives muttered expression, saying,-- "Thet's jest the kind o' gurl a fellow ked freeze to. I ne'er seed a apple dumplin' as looked sweeter or more temptin'; an' if she's agreeable, we two air born to be bone o' one bone, and flesh o' one flesh!" CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT. A SWEET AWAKENING. For many days the young Kentuckian remains unconscious of all that is passing around. Fortunately for him, he has fallen into the right hands; for the old gentleman in spectacles is in reality a medical man-- a skilled surgeon as well as a physician, and devotes all his time and skill to restoring his patient to health. Soon the wound shows signs of healing, and, along with it, the fever begins gradually to abate. The brain at length relieved, reason resumes its sway. Hamersley becomes conscious that he still lives, on hearing voices. They are of men. Two are engaged in a dialogue, which appears to be carried on with some difficulty, as one is speaking English, which the other but slightly understands. Neither is the English of the first speaker of a very correct kind, nor is his voice at all euphonious. For all that, it sounds in Hamersley's ears sweet as the most seraphic music, since in its tones he recognises the voice of Walt Wilder. A joyous throb thrills through his heart on discovering that his comrade has rejoined him. After their parting upon the plain he had his fears they might never come together again. Walt is not within sight, for the conversation is carried on outside the room. The invalid sees that he is in a room, a small one, of which the walls are wood, roughly-hewn slabs, with furniture fashioned in a style corresponding. He is lying upon a _catre_, or camp bedstead, rendered soft by a mattress of bearskins, while a _serape_ of bright-coloured pattern is spread over him, serving both for blanket and counterpane. In the apartment is a table of the rudest construction, with two or three chairs, evidently from the hand of the same unskilful workman, their seats being simply hides with the hair on. On the table is a cup with a spoon in it, and two or three small bottles, that have the look of containing medicines. All these objects come under his eyes at the first dim glance; but as his vision grows clearer, and he feels strength enough to raise his head from the pillow, other articles are disclosed to view, in strange contrast with the chattels first observed. Against the wall hang several articles of female apparel--all of a costly kind. They are of silk and silk-velvet, richly brocaded; while on a second table, slab like the first, he can distinguish bijouterie, with other trifles usually belonging to a lady's toilet. These lie in front of a small mirror set in a frame which appears to be silver; while above is suspended a guitar, of the kind known as _bandolon_. The sick man sees all these things with a half-bewildered gaze, for his senses are still far from clear. The costly articles of apparel and adornment would be appropriate in a lady's boudoir or bed chamber. But they appear strange, even grotesque, in juxtaposition with the roughly-hewn timbers of what is evidently a humble cottage--a log cabin! Of course he connects them with her, that singular being who has succoured, and perhaps saved his life. He can have no other conjecture. He remembers seeing a house as they approached its outside. It must be that he is now in; though, from the last conscious thought, as he felt himself swooning in the saddle, all has been as blank as if he had been lying lifeless in a tomb. Even yet it might appear as a dream but for the voice of Walt Wilder, who, outside, seems labouring hard to make himself intelligible to some personage with whom he is conversing. Hamersley is about to utter a cry that will summon his comrade to his side, when he perceives that the voices are becoming fainter, as if the two speakers had gone outside the house and were walking away from it. Feeling too weak even for the slightest exertion, he remains silent, taking it for granted they will soon return. It is broad daylight, the sun glancing in through an aperture in the wall that serves for a window. It has neither frame nor glass, and along with the bright beams there drifts in a cool breeze laden with the delicious fragrance of flowers, among which he can distinguish the aromatic perfume of the wild China tree. There are voices of birds mingling their music with the sough of falling water--sounds very different from those of the desert through which he has of late been straying. He lies thinking of the beautiful being who brought him thither, shaping conjectures in regard to the strangeness of the situation. He has no idea how long he may have been unconscious; nor has the whole time been like death--unless death have its dreams. For he has had dreams, all with a fair form and lovely face flitting and figuring in them. It is the wild huntress. He has a fancy that the face seemed familiar to him; or, if not familiar, one he has looked upon before. He endeavours to recall all those he had met in Mexico during his sojourn there; for if encountered anywhere, it must have been there. His female acquaintances had been but few in that foreign land. He can remember every one of them. She is not of their number. If he has ever seen her before their encounter on the Staked Plain, it must have been while passing along the street of some Mexican city. And this could scarcely be, in his silent reflection; for such a woman once seen--even but for a moment--could never be forgotten. He lies pondering on all that has passed--on all he can now recall. Walt had got back, then, to the place where they parted. He must have found food and water, though it matters now no more. Enough that he has got back, and both are in an asylum of safety, under friendly protection. This is evident from the surroundings. Still feeble as a child, the effort of thought very soon fatigues him; and this, with the narcotic influence of the flower perfume, the songs of the birds, and the soothing monotone of the waters, produces a drowsiness that terminates in a profound slumber. This time he sleeps without dreaming. How long he cannot tell; but once more he is awakened by voices. As before, two persons are engaged in conversation. But far different from those already heard. The bird-music still swelling in through the window is less sweet than the tones that now salute his ear. As before, the speakers are invisible, outside the room. But he can perceive that they are close to the door, and the first words heard admonish him of their design to enter. "Now, Conchita! Go get the wine, and bring it along with you. The doctor left directions for it to be given him at this hour." "I have it here, senorita." "_Vaya_! you have forgotten the glass. You would not have him drink out of the bottle?" "_Ay Dios_! and so I have," responds Conchita, apparently gliding off to possess herself of the required article, with which she soon returns. "Ish!" cautions the other voice; "if he be still asleep, we must not wake him. Don Prospero said that. Step lightly, _muchacha_!" Hamersley is awake, with eyes wide open, and consciousness quite restored. But at this moment something--an instinct of dissembling-- causes him to counterfeit sleep; and he lies still, with shut eyelids. He can hear the door turning upon its hinges of raw hide, then the soft rustle of robes, while he is sensible of that inexpressible something that denotes the gentle presence of woman. "Yes, he is asleep," says the first speaker, "and for the world we may not disturb him. The doctor was particular about that, and we must do exactly as he said. You know, Conchita, this gentleman has been in great danger. Thanks to the good Virgin, he'll get over it. Don Prospero assures us he will." "What a pity if he should not! Oh, senorita, isn't he--" "Isn't he what?" "Handsome--beautiful! He looks like a picture I've seen in the church; an angel--only that the angel had wings, and no mustachios." "Pif, girl; don't speak in that silly way, or I shall be angry with you. _Vayate_! you may take away the wine. We can come again when he awakes. _Guardate_! Tread lightly." Again there is the rustling of a dress; but this time as if only one of the two were moving off. The other seems still to linger by the side of the couch. The invalid queries which of the two it is. There is an electricity that tells him; and, for an instant, he thinks of opening his eyes, and proclaiming consciousness of what has been passing. A thought restrains him--delicacy. The lady will know that he has been awake all the while, and overheard the conversation. It has been in Spanish, but she is aware that he understands this, for he has no doubt that the "senorita" is she who has saved him. He remains without moving, without unclosing his eyelids. But his ears are open, and he hears a speech pleasanter than any yet spoken. It is in the shape of a soliloquy--a few words softly murmured. They are, "_Ay de mil_ 'Tis true what Conchita says, and as Valerian told me. _He is, indeed, handsome--beautiful_!" More than ever Hamersley endeavours to counterfeit sleep, but he can resist no longer. Involuntarily his eyes fly open, and, with head upraised, he turns towards the speaker. He sees what he has been expecting, what he beheld in fancy throughout his long, delirious dream--the fair form and beautiful face that so much interested him, even in that hour when life seemed to be forsaking him. It is the angel of the desert, no longer in huntress garb, but dressed as a lady. There is a red tinge upon her cheek, that appears to have flushed up suddenly, as if suspecting her soliloquy has been heard. The words have but parted from her lips, and the thought is yet thrilling in her heart. Can he have heard it? He shows no sign. She approaches the couch with a look of solicitude, mingled with interrogation. A hand is held out to her, and a word or two spoken to say she is recognised. Her eyes sparkle with joy, as she perceives in those of the invalid that reason is once more seated on its throne. "I am so happy," she murmurs, "we are all so happy, to know you are out of danger. Don Prospero says so. You will now get well in a short time. But I forget; we were to give you something as soon as you should awake. It is only some wine. Conchita, come hither!" A young girl is seen stepping into the chamber. A glance would tell her to be the maid, if the overheard conversation had not already declared it. A little brown-skinned damsel, scarce five feet in height, with raven hair hanging in double plait down her back, and black eyes that sparkle like those of a basilisk. Provident Conchila has brought the bottle and glass with her, and a portion of the famed grape juice of El Paso is administered to the invalid. "How good and kind you've all been!" he says, as his head once more settles down upon the pillow. "And you especially, senorita. If I mistake not, I'm indebted to you for the saving of my life." "Do not speak of that," she rejoins; "I've shown you no kindness in particular. You would not have one leave a fellow creature to perish?" "Ah! but for you I should now have been in another world." "No, indeed. There you are mistaken. If I had never come near you, you'd have been saved all the same. I have good news for you. Your comrade is safe, and here. He returned to your trysting-place, with both food and drink; so, as you see, I have no merit in having rescued you. But I must not talk longer. Don Prospero has given instructions for you to be kept quiet. I shall bring the doctor at once. Now that you are awake it is necessary he should see you." Without waiting for a reply, she glides out of the room, Conchita having gone before. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. DON VALERIAN. Hamersley lies pondering on what he has seen and heard, more especially on what he has overheard--that sweet soliloquy. Few men are insensible to flattery. And flattery from fair lips! He must be indeed near death whose heart-pulsations it does not affect. But Don Prospero! Who is he? Is he the owner of the voice heard in dialogue with Walt Wilder? May he be the owner of all? This thought troubles the Kentuckian. Approaching footsteps put a stop to his conjectures. There are voices outside, one of them the same late sounding so sweetly in his ears. The other is a man's, but not his who was conversing with Wilder. Nor is it that of the ex-Ranger himself. It is Don Prospero, who soon after enters the room, the lady leading the way. A man of nigh sixty years of age, spare form and face, hair grizzled, cheeks wrinkled; withal hale and hearty, as can be told by the pleasant sparkle of his eye. Dressed in a semi-military suit, of a subdued tint, and facings that tell of the medical staff. At a glance there is no danger in Don Prospero. The invalid feels easier, and breathes freely. "Glad to see you looking so well," says Don Prospero, taking hold of his patient's wrist and trying the pulse. "Ah! much more regular; it will be all right now. Keep quiet, and we shall soon get you on your feet again. Come, senor! A little more of this grape-juice will do you no harm. Nothing like our New Mexican wine for bringing back a sick man to his appetite. After that, we shall give you some wild-turkey broth and a bone to pick. In a day or two you'll be able to eat anything." Other personages are now approaching the chamber. The lady glides out, calling,-- "Valerian!" "Who is Valerian?" feebly interrogates the invalid. Once more the name of a man is making him unhappy. "Don Valerian!" responds the doctor, in a tone that tells of respect for the individual so designated; "you shall see, senor. You are about to make his acquaintance. No; I am wrong about that. I forgot. You cannot now." "Cannot! Why?" "Because you have made it already. _Mira_! He is there!" This as a tall, elegant man, under thirty years of age, steps inside the chamber, while a still taller form appears in the doorway, almost filling up the space between the posts. The latter is Walt Wilder, but the former--who is he? Don Valerian, of course! "Colonel Miranda!" exclaims Hamersley, starting up on his couch. He has already dismissed all suspicious fears of Don Prospero; and now he no longer dreads Valerian. "Colonel Miranda, is it you?" "It is, _mio amigo_, myself, as you see. And I need not tell you how glad I am to meet you again. So unexpected in this queer quarter, where I little hoped to have the pleasure of entertaining an old friend. Our worthy doctor here informs us you will soon get strong again, and become more of a tax on my hospitality than you have yet been. No doubt, after your illness, you'll have the appetite of an ostrich. Well, in one way, that will be fortunate, since we are living, as you may see, in a somewhat Homeric fashion. _Carrambo_! you will be deeming my manners quite as rude as the roughest of Homer's heroes. I am forgetting to introduce you to one of whom you've heard me speak. Though it don't so much signify, since the lady has made your acquaintance already. Permit me to present my dear Adela." It is the beautiful huntress who steps forward to be introduced, now looking more beautiful than ever. To Hamersley all is explained by her presence. He remembers the portrait upon the wall, which accounts for his fancy of having seen her face before. He sees it now; his wonder giving way to an intense, ardent admiration. Soon, the young lady retiring, his curiosity comes back, and he asks his host for an explanation. How came Colonel Miranda there, and why? By what sinister combination of circumstances has the military commandant of Albuquerque made his home in the midst of a howling wilderness, for such is the Llano Estacado? Despite the smiling oasis immediately surrounding it, it cannot have been choice. No. Chance, or rather mischance, must have led to this change in the affairs of his New Mexican acquaintance. More than an acquaintance--a friend who stood by him in the hour of danger, first courageously protecting, then nobly volunteering to act as his second in a duel; afterwards taking him on to his home and showing him hospitality, kind as was ever extended to a stranger in a strange land. No wonder Frank Hamersley holds him dear. Dearer now, after seeing his sister _in propria persona_--she whose portrait had so much impressed his fancy--the impression now deepened by the thought that to her he has been indebted for his life. Naturally enough, the young Kentuckian is desirous of knowing all, and is anxious about the fortunes of his Mexican friend, that for the time seem adverse. "No," is Colonel Miranda's response to his appeal. "Not now, Senor Don Francisco. Our good doctor here places an embargo on any further conversation for the present. The tale I have to tell might too much excite you. Therefore let it rest untold till you are stronger and more able to hear it rehearsed. Now, _amigo_, we must leave you alone, or rather, I should say, in the best of good company, for such has your worthy comrade, the Senor Wilder, proved himself to be. No doubt you'll be anxious to have a word with one who, while your life was in danger, would have sacrificed his own to save it. Don Prospero permits him to remain with you and give such explanations as you may need. The rest of us are to retire. _Hasta luega_." So saying, Miranda steps out of the room. "Keep perfectly quiet," adds the ex-army surgeon, preparing to follow. "Don't excite yourself by any act or thought that may cause a return of the fever. For in that lies your greatest danger. Feel confident, _caballero_, that you're in the company of friends. Don Gaulterio here will be able to convince you of that. Ah! senor, you've a nurse who feels a great interest in seeing you restored to health." Pronouncing these last words in undertone and with an accent of innuendo, accompanied by a smile which the invalid pleasantly interprets, Don Prospero also retires, leaving his patient alone with his old caravan guide. Drawing one of the chairs up to the side of the bed, the ex-Ranger sits down upon it, saying,-- "Wal, Frank, ain't it wonderful? That we shed both be hyar, neested snug an' comfortable as two doons in the heart of a hollow tree, arter all the dangersome scrapes we've been passin' through. Gheehorum! To think o' thar bein' sech a sweet furtile place lyin' plum centre in the innermost recesses o' the Staked Plain, whar we purairey men allers believed thar wun't nothin' 'ceptin' dry desert an' stinkin' sage-bush. Instead, hyar's a sort o' puradise aroun' us, sech as I used read o' when I war a youngster in the big Book. Thar's the difference, that in the Gardin o' Eeden thar's but one woman spoken of; hyar thar's two, one o' which you yurself hev called a angel, an' ye hain't sayed anythin' beyont the downright truth. She air a angel, if iver thar was sech on airth. Now, not detractin' anythin' from her merits, thar's another near hand--somewhat of a smaller sort, though jest as much, an' a little bit more, to my likin'. Ye won't mind my declarin' things that way. As they say in Mexican Spanish, _cadder uner a soo gooster_ (cada una a su gusto), every one to his own way o' thinkin', so my belief air that in this. Gardin o' Eeden thar air two Eves, one o' which, not countin' to be the mother o' all men, will yit, supposin' this chile to hev his way, be the mother o' a large family o' young Wilders." While Hamersley is still smiling at the grotesque prognostication, the ex-Ranger, seizing hold of his hand, continues,-- "I'm so glad you're a goin' to rekiver. Leavin' out the angels we love, ther'll be some chance to git square wi' the devils we've sech reezun to hate. We may yit make them pay dear for the bloody deed they've done in the murderin' o' our innercent companyuns." "Amen to that," mutters Hamersley, returning the squeeze of his comrade's hand with like determined pressure. "Sure as I live, it shall be so." CHAPTER THIRTY. THE RAIDERS RETURNING. An Indian bivouac. It is upon a creek called "Pecan," a confluent of the Little Witchita river, which heads about a hundred miles from the eastern edge of the Llano Estacado. There are no tents in the encampment; only here and there a blanket or buffalo robe extended horizontally upon upright poles--branches cut from the surrounding trees. The umbrageous canopy of the pecans protects the encamped warriors from the fervid rays of a noonday sun, striking vertically down. That they are on the maraud is evidenced by the absence of tents. A peaceful party, in its ordinary nomadic passage across the prairies, would have lodges along with it--grand conical structures of painted buffalo skins--with squaws to set them up, and dogs or ponies to transport them when struck for another move. In this encampment on the Pecan are neither squaws, dogs, nor ponies; only men, naked to the breech clout, their bodies brightly painted from hip to head, chequered like a hatchment, or the jacket of a stage harlequin, with its fantastic devices, some ludicrous, others grotesque; still others of aspect terrible--showing a death's-head and cross-bones. A prairie man on seeing them would at once say, "Indians on the war trail!" It does not need prairie experience to tell they are returning upon it. If there are no ponies or dogs beside them, there are other animals in abundance--horses, mules, and horned cattle. Horses and mules of American breed, and cattle whose ancestral stock has come from Tennessee or Kentucky along with the early colonists of Texas. And though there are no squaws or papooses in the encampment, there are women and children that are white. A group comprising both can be seen near its centre. It does not need the dishevelled hair and torn dresses to show they are captives; nor yet the half-dozen savages, spear-armed, keeping guard over them. Their drooping heads, woeful and wan countenances, are too sure signs of their melancholy situation. What are these captives, and who their captors? Two questions easily answered. In a general way, the picture explains itself. The captives are the wives and children, with sisters and grown-up daughters among them, of Texan colonists. They are from a settlement too near the frontier to secure itself against Indian attack. The captors are a party of Comanches, with whom the reader has already made acquaintance; for they are no other than the sub-tribe of Tenawas, of whom the Horned Lizard is leader. The time is two weeks subsequent to the attack on Hamersley's train; and, judging by the spectacle now presented, we may conclude that the Tenawa chief has not spent the interval in idleness. Nearly three hundred miles lie between the place where the caravan was destroyed and the site of the plundered settlement, whose spoils are now seen in the possession of the savages. Such quick work requires explanation. It is at variance with the customs and inclinations of the prairie freebooter, who, having acquired a booty, rarely strikes for another till the proceeds of the first be squandered. He resembles the anaconda, which, having gorged itself, lies torpid till the craving of a fresh appetite stirs it to renewed activity. Thus would it have been with the Tenawa chief and his band, but for a circumstance of a somewhat unusual kind. As is known, the attack on the prairie traders was not so much an affair of the Horned Lizard as his confederate, the military commandant of Albuquerque. The summons had come to him unexpected, and after he had planned his descent on the Texas settlement. Sanguinary as the first affair was, it had been short, leaving him time to carry out his original design, almost equally tragical in its execution. Here and there, a spear standing up, with a tuft of light-coloured hair, blood-clotted upon its blade, is proof of this. Quite as successful, too. The large drove of horses and horned cattle, to say nothing of that crowd of despairing captives, proves the proceeds of the later maraud worth as much, or perhaps more, than what had been taken from the traders' waggons. Horned Lizard is jubilant; so, also, every warrior of his band. In loss their late foray has cost them comparatively little--only one or two of their number, killed by the settlers while defending themselves. It makes up for the severe chastisement sustained in their onslaught upon the caravan. And, since the number of their tribe is reduced, there are now the fewer to share with, so that the calicoes of Lowell, the gaudy prints of Manchester, with stripes, shroudings, and scarlet cloth to bedeck their bodies, hand mirrors in which to admire themselves, horses to ride upon, mules to carry their tents, and cattle to eat--with white women to be their concubines, and white children their attendants--all these fine things in full possession have put the savages in high spirits--almost maddened them with delight. A new era has dawned upon the tribe of which Horned Lizard is head. Hitherto it has been a somewhat starving community, its range lying amid sterile tracts, on the upper tributaries of the Red River and Canadian. Now, before it is a plentiful future--a time of feasting and revelry, such as rarely occurs to a robber band, whether amidst the forest-clad mountains of Italy, or on the treeless steppes of America. The Tenawa chief is both joyous and triumphant. So, too, his second in command, whose skin, with the paint cleansed from it, would show nearly white. For he is a Mexican by birth; when a boy made prisoner by the Comanches, and long since matriculated into the mysteries of the redman's life--its cunning, as its cruelties. Now a man, he is one of the chiefs of the tribe, in authority only less than the Horned Lizard himself, but equal to the latter in all the cruel instincts that distinguish the savage. "El Barbato" he is called, from having a beard, though this he keeps clean shaven, the better to assimilate himself to his beardless companions; while, with painted face and hair black as their own, he looks as Indian as any of them. But he has not forgotten his native tongue, and this makes him useful to those who have adopted him, especially when raiding in the Republic of Mexico. It was through him the Tenawa chief was first brought to communicate with the military robber, Uraga. The Indian bivouac is down in the creek bottom in a little valley, on both sides flanked by precipitous cliffs. Above and below these approach each other, so near as to leave only a narrow path along the edge of the stream. The savages are resting after a long, rapid march, encumbered with their spoils and captives. Some have lain down to sleep, their nude bodies stretched along the sward, resembling bronze statues tumbled from their pedestals. Others squat around fires, roasting collops from cattle they have killed, or eating them half raw. A few stand or saunter by the side of the captives, upon these casting covetous glances, as if they only waited for the opportunity to appropriate them. The women are all young; some of them scarce grown girls, and some very beautiful. A heart-harrowing sight it would be for their fathers, brothers, husbands and sweethearts, could they but witness it. These may not be far off. Some suspicion of this has carried the Horned Lizard and El Barbato up to the crest of the cliff. They have been summoned thither by a sign, which the traveller on the prairies of Texas or the table plains of Mexico never sees without stopping to scrutinise and shape conjecture about its cause. Before entering the canon through which runs Pecan Creek, the Tenawa chief had observed a flock of turkey-buzzards circling about in the air. Not the one accompanying him and his marauders on their march, as is the wont of these predatory birds. But another quite separate gang, seen at a distance behind, apparently above the path along which he and his freebooters had lately passed. As the Comanche well knows, a sign too significant to be treated lightly or with negligence. And so, too, his second in command. Therefore have they climbed the cliff to obtain a better view of the birds--those flying afar--and, if possible, draw a correct conclusion as to the cause of their being there. On reaching the summit they again see them, though so far off as to be barely visible--black specks against the blue canopy of the sky. Still near enough to show a large number circling about over some object that appears stationary. This last observation seems satisfactory to the Tenawa chief, who, turning to his fellow-freebooter, shouts out,-- "Nothing to fear. Don't you remember, Barbato, one of our horses gave out there, and was left? It's over him the zopilotes are swooping. He's not dead yet; that's why they don't go down." "It may be," rejoins the renegade. "Still I don't like the look of it. Over a dead horse they'd hardly soar so high. True, they keep in one place. If it were Texans pursuing us they'd be moving onward--coming nearer and nearer. They're not. It must be, as you say, the horse. I don't think the people of the settlement we struck would be strong enough to come after us--at least not so soon. They may in time, after they've got up a gathering of their Rangers. That isn't likely to be till we've got safe beyond their reach. They won't gain much by a march to the Witchita mountains. _Por cierte_! the zopilotes out yonder are over something; but, as they're not moving on, most likely it's the horse." Again the Horned Lizard gives a grunt, expressing satisfaction; after which the two scramble back down the cliff, to seek that repose which fighting and forced marching make necessary to man, be he savage or civilised. CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. PURSUERS ON THE PATH. Despite common belief, the instinct of the Indian is not always sure, nor his intellect unerring. An instance of the contrary is afforded by the behaviour of the Tenawa chief and his subordinate Barbato. About the buzzards both have been mistaken. The second flock seen by them is not hovering over a horse, but above an encampment of horsemen. Not correctly an encampment, but a halt _en bivouac_--where men have thrown themselves from their saddles, to snatch a hurried repast, and take quick consultation about continuing on. They are all men, not a woman or child among them, bearded men with white skins, and wearing the garb of civilisation. This not of the most fashionable kind or cut, nor are they all in the exact drew of civilised life. For many of them wear buckskin hunting shirts, fringed leggings, and moccasins; more a costume peculiar to the savage. Besides these there are some in blanket-coats of red, green, and blue; all sweat-stained and dust-tarnished, till the colours nearly correspond. Others in Kentucky jeans, or copper-coloured homespun. Still others in sky-blue _cottonade_, product of the hand-mills of Attakapas. Boots, shoes, and brogans fabricated out of all kinds of leather; even that from the corrugated skin of the illigator. Hats of every shape, fashion, size, and material--straw, chip, Panama, wool, felt, silk, and beaver. In one respect they are all nearly alike--in their armour and accoutrements. All are belted, pouched, and powder-horned. Each carries a bowie-knife and a revolving pistol--some two--and none are without a rifle. Besides this uniformity there are other points of resemblance--extending to a certain number. It is noticeable in their guns, which are jagers of the US army-brand. Equally apparent is the caparison of their horses; these carrying cavalry saddles, with peaks and cantles brass mounted. Among the men to whom these appertain there is a sort of half-military discipline, indicated by some slight deference shown to two or three, who appear to act with the authority of officers. It is, in fact, a troop--or, as by themselves styled, a "company"--of Texan Rangers. About one-half the band belongs to this organisation. The others are the people of the plundered settlement--the fathers, brothers, and husbands, whom the Horned Lizard and his red robbers have bereft of daughters, sisters, and wives. They are in pursuit of the despoilers; a chase commenced as soon as they could collect sufficient force to give it a chance of success. Luckily, a troop of Rangers, scouting in the neighbourhood, came opportunely along, just in time to join them. Soldiers and settlers united, they are now on the trail of the Tenawas, and have only halted to breathe and water their horses, eat some food themselves, and then on. Not strange their hot haste--men whose homes have been made desolate, their kindred carried into captivity. Each has his own painful reflections. In that hour, at that very moment, his beloved wife, his delicate daughter, his fair sister, or sweetheart, may be struggling in the embrace of a brawny savage. No wonder that to them every hour seems a day, every minute an hour. Though with a different motive, not much less impatient are their associates in the pursuit--the Rangers. It chances to be a company especially rabid for defence against the incursions of the Tenawa tribe; and more than once baffled by these cunning red-skins, they are anxious to make up for past disappointment. Twice before have they followed the retreating trail of these same savages, on both occasions returning foiled and empty-handed. And, now that they are again on it, with surer signs to guide them, the young men of the corps are mad to come up with the red marauders, while the elder ones are almost equally excited. Both resemble hounds in a hunt where the scent is hot--the young dogs dashing forward without check, the old ones alike eager, but moving with more circumspection. Between them and the settlers there is the same earnestness of purpose, though stimulated by resentment altogether different. The latter only think of rescuing their dear ones, while the former are stirred by soldier pride and the instinctive antagonism which a Texan Ranger feels for a Tenawa. Many of them have old scores to settle with the Horned Lizard, and more than one longs to send a bullet through his heart. But, despite the general reckless impatience to proceed, there are some who counsel caution. Chief among those is a man named Cully, a thin wiry sexagenarian, who looks as if he had been at least half a century upon the prairies. All over buckskin, fitting tight to his body, without tag or tail, he is not one of the enrolled Rangers, though engaged to act as their guide. In this capacity he exercises an influence over the pursuers almost equalling that of their leader, the Ranger captain, who, with a group gathered around, is now questioning the guide as to the next move to be made. "They can't be very far off now," replies Cully, in answer to the captain's interrogatory. "All the signs show they passed this hyar point a good hour arter sun-up. The dew war off the grass as they druv over it, else the blades 'ud a been pressed flatter down. Besides, there's the dead hoss they've left ahint. Ye see some o' 'em's cut out his tongue an' tuk it along for a tit-bit at thar next campin' place. Now, as the blood that kim out o' the animal's mouth ain't been long cruddled up, thet shows to a sartinty they can't be far forrad. I reck'n I know the adzact spot whar they're squatted." "Where?" "Peecawn creek. There they'll get good water for thar stock, an' the shade o' trees to rest unner; the which last they'll take to in this hottish spell o' sun." "If they're upon the Pecan," puts in a third speaker, a tall, lathy individual, in a green blanket coat, badly faded, "and anywhere near its mouth, we can't be more than five miles from them. I know this part of the country well. I passed through it last year along with the Santa Fe expedition." "Only five miles!" exclaims another man, whose dress bespeaks a planter of respectability, while his woe-begone countenance proclaims him to be one of the bereaved. "Oh, gentlemen I surely our horses are now rested enough. Let us ride forward and fall upon them at once!" "We'd be durned foolish to do so," responded Cully. "Thet, Mr Wilton, 'ud be jest the way to defeet all our plans an' purpisses. They'd see us long afore we ked git sight o' them, an' maybe in time to run off all the stolen hosses an' cattle, but sartinly the keptyves." "What's your way, Cully?" interrogates a lieutenant of the Rangers. "My way air to wait till the sun go down, then steal torst 'm. Thar boun' to hev fires, an' thet'll guide us right into thar camp. Ef it's in the Peecawn bottom, as I'm pretty sure it air, we kin surround 'em eesy. Thar's bluffs a-both sides, an' we kin divide inter two lots--one slippin' roun' an' comin' from up the creek, while t'other approaches 'em from below. In thet way we'll make sure o' keepin' 'em from runnin' off the weemen; beside it'll gie us the more likelier chance to make a good count o' the redskin sculps." "What do you say, boys?" asks the Ranger captain, addressing himself more especially to the men composing his command. "Cully's right," is the response from a majority of voices. "Then we must stay here till night. If we go forward now, they may see us before we get within shooting distance. So you think, Cully, you can take up the trail at night, supposing it to be a dark one?" "Pish!" retorts the old prairie-man, with a disdainful toss of his head. "Take up the trail o' a Tenawa Injun? I'd do that in the darkest night as iver shet down over a prairie. The skunks! I ked smell the place they'd passed over." There is no further discussion. Cully's opinion is all-powerful, and determines the course to be pursued. The halt intended to be temporary, is to continue till near sunset, despite expostulations, almost prayerful appeals, from those who have left desolate homes behind, and who burn with impatience to ride forward and rescue their captive kindred. CHAPTER THIRTY TWO. THE SAVAGES SURPRISED. Throughout the afternoon hours both parties remained stationary; the pursued indulging in a siesta, which days of rough riding and raiding, with nights of watchfulness, have made necessary; the pursuers, on their part, wearied as well, but unable to sleep so long as their vengeance remains unappeased, and such dread danger hangs over the heads of those near and dear to them. Above the bivouacs the black vultures spread their shadowy wings, soaring and circling, each "gang" over the cohort it has been all day accompanying. Every now and then between the two "gangs" one is seen coming and going, like so many mutual messengers passing between; for, although the flocks are far apart, they can see one another, and each is aware, by instinct clearer than human ken, what the other is after. It is not the first time for them to follow two such parties travelling across the Texan prairie. Nor will it be the first for them to unite in the air as the two troops come into collision on the earth. Often have these birds, poised in the blue ether, looked down upon red carnage like that now impending. Their instincts--let us call them so, for the sake of keeping peace with the naturalists of the closet--then admonish them what is likely to ensue. For if not reason, they have at least recollection; and as their eyes rest upon men with dusky skins, and others dimly white, they know that between such is a terrible antagonism, oft accruing to their own interest. Many a time has it given them a meal. Strange if they should not remember it! They do. Though tranquilly soaring on high--each bird with outstretched neck and eye bent, in hungry concupiscence, looks below on the forms moving or at rest, saying to itself, "Ere long these vermin will furnish a rich repast." So sure are they of this--the birds of both flocks-- that, although the sun is nigh setting, instead of betaking themselves to their roosts, as is their wont, they stay, each by its own pet party. Those accompanying the pursuers still fly about in the air. They can tell that these do not intend to remain much longer on that spot. For they have kindled no fires, nor taken other steps that indicate an encampment for the night. Different with those that soar over the halting-place of the pursued. As night approaches they draw in their spread wings and settle down to roost; some upon trees, others on the ledges of rock, still others on the summits of the cliffs that overhang the camping place of the Indians. The blazing fires, with meat on spits sputtering over them; the arms abandoned, spears stuck in the ground, with shields suspended; the noise and revelry around--all proclaim the resolve of the savages to stay there till morning. An intention which, despite their apparent stolidity--in contradiction to the ideas of the closet naturalist and his theory of animal instinct--the vultures clearly comprehend. About the behaviour of the birds the marauders take no note. They are used to seeing turkey-buzzards around--better known to them by the name "zopilotes." For long ere the Anglo-American colonists came in contact with the Comanche Indians a Spano-Mexican vocabulary had penetrated to the remotest of these tribes. No new thing for the Tenawas to see the predatory birds swooping above them all day and staying near them all night. Not stranger than a wolf keeping close to the sheepfold, or a hungry dog skulking around shambles. As night draws near, and the purple twilight steals over the great Texan plain, the party of chasing pursuers is relieved from a stay by all deemed so irksome. Remounting their horses, they leave the scene of their reluctant halt, and continue the pursuit silently, as if moving in funeral march. The only sounds heard are the dull thumping of their horses' hoofs upon the soft prairie turf; now and then a clink, as one strikes against a stone; the occasional tinkle of a canteen as it comes in contact with saddle mounting or pistol butt; the champing of bits, with the breathing of horses and men. These last talk in low tones, in mutterings not much louder than whispers. In pursuit of their savage foe, the well-trained Rangers habitually proceed thus, and have cautioned the settlers to the same. Though these need no compulsion to keep silent; their hearts are too sore for speech; their anguish, in its terrible intensity, seeks for no expression, till they stand face to face with the red ruffians who have caused, and are still causing, it. The night darkens down, becoming so obscure that each horseman can barely distinguish the form of him riding ahead. Some regret this, thinking they may get strayed. Not so Cully. On the contrary, the guide is glad, for he feels confident in his conjecture that the pursued will be found in Pecan Creek, and a dark night will favour the scheme of attack he has conceived and spoken of. Counselled by him, the Ranger captain shares his confidence, and they proceed direct towards the point where the tributary stream unites with the main river--the little Witchita, along whose banks they have been all that day tracking. Not but that Cully could take up the Indian trail. Despite the obscurity he could do that, though not, as he jestingly declared, by the smell. There are other indices that would enable him, known but to men who have spent a lifetime upon the prairies. He does not need them now, sure he will find the savages, as he said, "squatted on the Peecawn." And, sure enough, when the pursuers, at length at the creek's mouth, enter the canon through which it disembogues its crystal water into the grander and more turbid stream, they discovered certain traces of the pursued having passed along its banks. Another mile of travelling, the same silence observed, with caution increased, and there is no longer a doubt about the truth of Cully's conjecture. Noises are heard ahead, sounds disturbing the stillness of the night air that are not those of the uninhabited prairie. There is the lowing of cattle, in long monotonous moans, like when being driven to slaughter, with, at intervals, the shriller neigh of a horse, as if uneasy at being away from his stable. On hearing these sounds, the Ranger captain, acting by the advice of the guide, orders a halt. Then the pursuing party is separated into two distinct troops. One, led by Cully, ascends the cliff by a lateral ravine, and pursues its way along the upper table-land. The other, under the command of the captain, is to remain below until a certain time has elapsed, its length stipulated between the two leaders before parting. When it has passed, the second division moves forward up the creek, again halting as a light shines through the trees, which, from its reddish colour, they know to be the glare of log fires. They need not this to tell them they are close to an encampment--that of the savages they have been pursuing. They can hear their barbarous jargon, mingled with shouts and laughter like that of demons in the midst of some fiendish frolic. They only stay for a signal the guide arranged to give as soon as he has got round to attack on the opposite side. The first shot heard, and they will dash forward to the fires. Seated in their saddles, with reins tight drawn, and heels ready to drive home the spur--with glances bent greedily at the gleaming lights, and ears keenly alert to catch every sound--the hearts of some trembling with fear, others throbbing with hope, still others thrilling with the thought of vengeance--they wait for the crack that is to be the signal-- wait and listen, with difficulty restraining themselves. It comes at length. Up the glen peals a loud report, quickly followed by another, both from a double-barrelled gun. This was the signal for attack, arranged by Cully. Soon as hearing it, the reins are slackened, the spurs sent home, and, with a shout making the rocks ring, and the trees reverberate its echoes, they gallop straight towards the Indian encampment, and in a moment are in its midst. They meet little resistance--scarce any. Too far from the settlements to fear pursuit--in full confidence they have not been followed, the red robbers have been abandoning themselves to pleasure, spending the night in a grand gluttonous feast, furnished by the captured kine. Engrossed with sensual joys, they have neglected guard; and, in the midst of their festivities, they are suddenly set upon from all sides; the sharp cracking of rifles, with the quick detonation of repeating pistols, soon silences their cacchinations, scattering them like chaff. After the first fusillade, there is but little left of them. Those not instantly shot down retreat in the darkness, skulking of! among the pecan trees. It is altogether an affair of firearms: and for once the bowie--the Texan's trusted weapon--has no part in the fray. The first rays of next morning's sun throw light upon a sanguinary scene--a tableau terrible, though not regrettable. On the contrary, it discloses a sight which, but for the red surroundings, might give gladness. Fathers, half frantic with joy, are kissing children they never expected to see again; brothers clasping the hands of sisters late deemed lost for ever; husbands, nigh broken-hearted, once more happy, holding their wives in fond, affectionate embrace. Near by, things strangely contrasting--corpses strewn over the ground, stark and bleeding, but not yet stiff, all of coppery complexion, but bedaubed with paint of many diverse colours. All surely savages. A fearful spectacle, but one too often witnessed on the far frontier land of Texas. CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. A FORCED CONFESSION. The party of Texans has made what prairie men call a "coup." On counting the corpses of their slain enemies they find that at least one-half of the Tenawa warriors have fallen, including their chief. They can make an approximate estimate of the number that was opposed to them by the signs visible around the camp, as also upon the trail they have been for several days following. Those who escaped have got off, some on their horses, hastily caught and mounted; others afoot, by taking to the timber. They were not pursued, as it was still dark night when the action ended, and by daylight these wild centaurs, well acquainted with the country, will have scattered far and wide, beyond all likelihood of being again encountered. The settlers are satisfied at having recovered their relatives, as also their stolen stock. As to the Rangers, enough has been accomplished to slake their revengeful thirst--for the time. These last, however, have not come off unscathed; for the Comanches, well armed with guns, bows, and lances, did not die unresistingly. In Texas Indians rarely do, and never when they engage in a fight with Rangers. Between them and these border _guerrilleros_--in one sense almost as much savages as themselves--war is an understood game--to the bitter end, with no quarter either asked or given. The Rangers count three of their number killed and about twice as many wounded--enough, considering the advantage they had in their unwarned attack upon enemies who for once proved unwatchful. When the conflict has finally come to a close, and daylight makes manifest the result, the victors take possession of the spoil--most of it their own property. The horses that strayed or stampeded during the fight are again collected into a drove--those of the Indians being united to it. This done, only a short stay is intended--just long enough to bury the bodies of the three Rangers who have been killed, get stretchers prepared for such of the wounded as are unable to sit in the saddle, and make other preparations for return towards the settlements. They do not hasten their departure through any apprehension of a counter-attack on the side of the Comanches. Fifty Texan Rangers--and there are this number of them--have no fear on any part of the plains, so long as they are mounted on good horses, carry rifles in their hands, bowie-knives and pistols in their belts, with a sufficient supply of powder in their flasks, and bullets in their pouches. With all these items they are amply provided; and were there now any necessity for continuing the pursuit, or the prospect of striking another coup, they would go on, even though the chase should conduct them into the defiles of the Rocky Mountains. To pursue and slay the savage is their vocation, their duty, their pastime and pleasure. But the settlers are desirous of a speedy return to their homes, that they may relieve the anxiety of other dear ones, who there await them. They long to impart the glad tidings they will take with them. While the preparations for departure are going on, Cully--who, with several others, has been collecting the arms and accoutrements of their slain enemies--gives utterance to a cry that brings a crowd of his comrades around him. "What is it, Nat?" inquires the Ranger captain. "Look hyar, cap! D'ye see this gun?" "Yes; a hunter's rifle. Whose is it?" "That's jess the questyin; though thar ain't no questyin about it. Boys, do any o' ye recognise this hyar shootin' iron?" One after another the Rangers step up, and look at the rifle. "I do," says one. "And I," adds another. And a third, and fourth, make the same affirmation, all speaking in tones of surprise. "Walt Wilder's gun," continues Cully, "sure an' sartin. I know it, an oughter know it. See them two letters in the stock thar--`WW.' Old Nat Cully hez good reezun to recconise them, since 'twas hisself that cut 'em. I did it for Walt two yeern ago, when we war scoutin' on the Collyrado. It's his weepun, an' no mistake." "Where did you find it?" inquires the captain. "I've jess tuk it out o' the claws o' the ugliest Injun as ever made trail on a puraira--that beauty thar, whose karkidge the buzzards won't be likely to tech." While speaking Cully points to a corpse. It is that of the Tenawa chief, already identified among the slain. "He must a' hed it in his clutch when suddenly shot down," pursues the guide. "An' whar did he git it? Boys, our ole kummerade's wiped out for sartin. I know how Walt loved that thar piece. He w'udn't a parted wi' it unless along wi' his life." This is the conviction of several others acquainted with Wilder. It is the company of Rangers to which he formerly belonged. "Thar's been foul play somewhar," continues Cully. "Walt went back to the States--to Kaintuck, ef this chile ain't mistook. But 'tain't likely he stayed thar; he kedn't keep long off o' the purairas. I tell ye, boys, these hyar Injens hev been makin' mischief somewhar'. Look thar, look at them leggin's! Thar's no eend o' white sculps on' 'em, an' fresh tuk, too!" The eyes of all turned towards these terrible trophies that in gory garniture fringe the buck-skin leg-wear of the savages. Cully, with several others who knew Wilder well, proceed to examine them, in full expectation of finding among them the skin of their old comrade's head. There are twelve scalps, all of white men, with others that are Indian, and not a few that exhibit the equally black, but shorter crop of the Mexican. Those that are indubitably of white men show signs of having been recently taken, but none of them can be identified as the scalp of Walt Wilder. There is some relief in this, for his old comrades love. Walt. Still, there is the damning evidence of the gun, which Cully declares could only have been taken from him along with his life. How has it got into the hands of the Horned Lizard? "I reckon we can settle that," says the Captain of the Rangers. "The renegade ought to know something about it." This speech refers to Barbato, who has been taken prisoner, and about whose disposal they have already commenced to deliberate. His beard betrayed him as a renegade; and, the paint having been partially wiped from his skin, all perceive that he is a white man--a Mexican. Some are for shooting him on the spot, others propose hanging, while only a few of the more humane advocate taking him on to the settlements and there giving him a trial. He will have to die anyhow--that is pretty sure; for not only as a Mexican is he their enemy, but now doubly so from being found in league with their most detested foes, the Tenawa Comanches. The wretch is lying on the ground near by, shaking with fear, in spite of the fastenings in which he is tightly held. He knows he is in dire danger, and has only so far escaped through having surrendered to a settler instead of to one of the Rangers. "Let's gie him a chance o' his life; ef he'll tell all about it," counsels Cully. "What d'ye say, cap?" "I agree to that," responds the Ranger captain. "He don't appear to be worth shooting; though it may be as well to take him on to the settlements, and shut him up in prison. The promise of pardon may get out of him all he knows; if not, the other will. He's not an Indian, and a bit of rope looped round his neck will, no doubt, loosen his tongue. Suppose we try boys?" The "boys" are unanimous in their assent, and the renegade is at once brought up for examination. The man in the green blanket coat, who, as a Santa Fe expeditioner, has spent over twelve months in Mexican prisons, is appointed examiner. He has been long enough among the "yellerbellies" to have learnt their language. The renegade is for a time reticent, and his statements are contradictory. No wonder he declines to tell what has occurred, so compromising to himself! But when the _lariat_ is at length noosed around his neck, the loose end of it thrown over the limb of a pecan tree--the other conditions being clearly expounded to him--he sees that things can be no worse; and, seeing this, makes confession--full, if not free. He discloses everything--the attack and capture of the caravan, with the slaughter of the white men who accompanied it; he tells of the retreat of two of them to the cliff, one of whom, by the description, can be none other than Walt Wilder. When he at length comes to describe the horrible mode in which their old comrade has perished, the Rangers are almost frenzied with rage, and it is with difficulty some of them can be withheld from breaking their given word, and tearing him limb from limb. He makes appeal to them for mercy, stating that he himself had no part in that transaction; that, although they have found him among the Indians, he was only as their prisoner; and forced to fight along with them. This is evidently untrue; but, false or true, it has the effect of pacifying his judges, so far, that the _lariat_ is left loose around his neck. Further examination, and cross-examination, elicit other facts about the captured caravan--in short, everything, except the secret alliance between the Mexican officer and the Tenawa chief. Not thinking of this--in truth, having no suspicion of it--his examiners do not put any questions about it; and, for himself, the wretch sees no reason to declare it, but the contrary. He indulges in the hope of one day returning to the Del Norte, and renewing his relations with Colonel Gil Uraga. "Comrades!" cries the Ranger captain, addressing himself to his men, as soon as the examination is concluded, "you all of you loved Walt Wilder--all who knew him?" "We did! we did!" is the response feelingly spoken. "So did I. Well, he's dead, beyond a doubt. It's nearly a month ago, and he could not last so long, shut up in that cave. His bones will be there, with those of the other poor fellow, whoever he was, that went in with him. It's dreadful to think of it! Now, from what this scoundrel says, it can't be so very far from here. And, as we can make him guide us to the place, I propose we go there, get the remains of our old comrade, and give them Christian burial." With the Texan Rangers obedience to duty is less a thing of command than request; and this is a request of such nature as to receive instant and unanimous assent "Let us go!" is the universal response. "We needn't all make this journey," continues the captain. "There's no need for any more than our own boys, the Rangers, and such of the settlers as may choose to go with us. The rest, who have to look after the women, and some for driving back the stock, can make their way home at once. I reckon we've left the track pretty clear of Indians, and they'll be in no further danger from them." Without further discussion, this arrangement is decided upon; and the two parties commence making the preparations suitable to their respective plans. In less than half an hour after they separate; the settlers, with the women, children, and cattle, wending their way eastward; while the Rangers, guided by the renegade, ride off in the opposite direction-- toward the Llano Estacado. CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR. A PROPOSAL BY PROXY. Day by day Hamersley grows stronger, and is able to be abroad. Soon after Wilder, plucking him by the sleeve, makes request to have his company at some distance from the dwelling. Hamersley accedes to the request, though not without some surprise. In the demeanour of his comrade there is an air of mystery. As this is unusual with the ex-Ranger, he has evidently something of importance to communicate. Not until they have got well out of sight of the house, and beyond the earshot of anyone inside or around it, does Walt say a word. And then only after they have come to a stop in the heart of a cotton-wood copse, where a prostrate trunk offers them the accommodation of a seat. Sitting down upon it, and making sign to Hamersley, still with the same mysterious air, to do likewise, the backwoodsman at length begins to unburden himself. "Frank," says he, "I've brought ye out hyar to hev a little spell o' talk, on a subjeck as consarns this coon consid'able." "What subject, Walt?" "Wal, it's about a wumman." "A woman! Why, Walt Wilder, I should have supposed that would be the farthest thing from your thoughts, especially a such a time and in such a place as this." "True it shed, as ye say. For all that, ef this chile don't misunnerstan' the sign, a wumman ain't the furrest thing from yur thoughts, at the same time an' place." The significance of the observation causes the colour to start to the cheeks of the young prairie merchant, late so pale. He stammers out an evasive rejoinder,-- "Well, Walt; you wish to have a talk with me. I'm ready to hear what you have to say. Go on! I'm listening." "Wal, Frank, I'm in a sort o' a quandary wi' a critter as wears pettikotes, an' I want a word o' advice from ye. You're more practised in thar ways than me. Though a good score o' year older than yurself, I hain't hed much to do wi' weemen, 'ceptin' Injun squaws an' now an' agin a yeller gurl down by San Antone. But them scrapes wan't nothin' like thet Walt Wilder heve got inter now." "A scrape! What sort of a scrape? I hope you haven't--" "Ye needn't talk o' hope, Frank Hamersley. The thing air past hopin', an' past prayin' for. Ef this chile know anythin' o' the signs o' love, he has goed a good ways along its trail. Yis, sir-ee; too fur to think o' takin' the backtrack." "On that trail, indeed?" "Thet same; whar Cyubit sots his little feet, 'ithout neer a moccasin on 'em. Yis, kummerade, Walt Wilder, for oncest in in his kureer, air in a difeequelty; an' thet difeequelty air bein' fool enuf to fall in love-- the which he hez dun, sure, sartin." Hamersley gives a shrug of surprise, accompanied with a slight glance of indignation. Walt Wilder in love! With whom can it be? As he can himself think of only one woman worth falling in love with, either in that solitary spot, or elsewhere on earth, it is but natural his thoughts should turn to her. Only for an instant, however. The idea of having the rough Ranger for a rival is preposterous. Walt, pursuing the theme, soon convinces him he has no such lofty aspirations. "Beyond a doubt, she's been an' goed an' dud it--that air garl Concheeter. Them shining eyes o' her'n hev shot clar through this chile's huntin' shirt, till thar's no peace left inside o' it. I hain't slep a soun' wink for mor'en a week o' nights; all the time dreemin' o' the gurl, as ef she war a angel a hoverin' 'bout my head. Now, Frank, what am I ter do? That's why I've axed ye to kum out hyar, and enter into this confaberlation." "Well, Walt, you shall be welcome to my advice. As to what you should do, that's clear enough; but what you may or can do will depend a good deal on what Miss Conchita says. Have you spoken to her upon the subject?" "Thar hain't yit been much talk atween us--i'deed not any, I mout say. Ye know I can't parley thar lingo. But I've approached her wi' as much skill as I iver did bear or buffler. An', if signs signerfy anythin', she ain't bad skeeart about it. Contrarywise, Frank. If I ain't terribly mistuk, she shows as ef she'd be powerful willin' to hev me." "If she be so disposed there can't be much difficulty in the matter. You mean to marry her, I presume?" "In coorse I duz--that for sartin'. The feelin's I hev torst that gurl air diffrent to them as one hez for Injun squaws, or the queeries I've danced wi' in the fandangoes o' San Antone. Ef she'll agree to be myen, I meen nothin' short o' the hon'rable saramony o' marridge--same as atween man an' wife. What do ye think o't?" "I think, Walt, you might do worse than get married. You're old enough to become a Benedict, and Conchita appears to be just the sort of girl that would suit you. I've heard it said that these Mexican women make the best of wives--when married to Americans." Hamersley smiles, as though this thought were pleasant to him. "There are several things," he continues, "that it will be necessary for you to arrange before you can bring about the event you're aiming at. First, you must get the girl's consent: and, I should think, also that of her master and mistress. They are, as it were, her guardians, and, to a certain extent, responsible for her being properly bestowed. Last of all, you'll require the sanction of the Church. This, indeed, may be your greatest difficulty. To make you and your sweetheart one, a priest, or Protestant clergyman, will be needed; and neither can be had very conveniently here, in the centre of the Staked Plain." "Durn both sorts!" exclaims the ex-Ranger in a tone of chagrin. "Ef't warn't for the need o' 'em jest now, I say the Staked Plain air better 'ithout 'em, as wu'd anywars else. Why can't she an' me be tied thegither 'ithout any sech senseless saramony? Walt Wilder wants no mumblin' o' prayers at splicin' him to the gurl he's choosed for his partner. An' why shed thar be, supposin' we both gie our mutooal promises one to the tother?" "True. But that would not be marriage such as would lawfully and legally make you man and wife." "Doggone the lawfulness or legullity o' it! Priest or no priest, I want Concheteter for my squaw; an' I've made up my mind to hev her. Say, Frank! Don't ye think the old doc ked do it? He air a sort o' professional." "No, no; the doctor would be of no use in that capacity. It's his business to unite broken bones, not hands and hearts. But, Walt, if you are really resolved on the thing, there will, no doubt, be an opportunity to carry out your intention in a correct and legitimate manner. You must be patient, however, and wait till you come across either a priest or a Protestant clergyman." "Doggoned ef I care which," is the rejoinder of the giant. "Eyther'll do; an' one o' 'em 'ud be more nor surficient, ef 't war left ter Walt Wilder. But, hark'ee, Frank!" he continues, his face assuming an astute expression, "I'd like to be sure 'bout the thing now--that is, to get the gurl's way o' thinking on 't. Fact is, I've made up my mind to be sure, so as thar may be no slips or back kicks." "Sure, how?" "By procurin' her promise; getting betrothed, as they call it." "There can be no harm in that. Certainly not." "Wal, I'm gled you think so; for I've sot my traps for the thing, an' baited 'em too. Thet air's part o' my reezun for askin' ye out hyar. She's gin me the promise o' a meetin' 'mong these cotton woods, an' may kum at any minnit. Soon's she does, I'm agoin' to perpose to her; an' I want to do it in reg'lar, straightforrard way. As I can't palaver Spanish, an' you kin, I know'd ye wudn't mind transleetin' atween us. Ye won't, will ye?" "I shall do that with the greatest pleasure, if you wish it. But don't you think, Walt, you might learn what you want to know without any interpreter? Conchita may not like my interference in an affair of such a delicate nature. Love's language is said to be universal, and by it you should understand one another." "So fur's thet's consarned, I reck'n we do. But she, bein' a Mexikin, may hev queery ideas about it; an' I want her promise guv in tarms from which thar'll be no takin' the back track; same's I meen to give myen." "All right, old fellow. I'll see you get such a promise, or none." "Thet's satisfactory, Frank. Now, as this chile air agoin' to put the thing stiff an' strong, do you transleet it in the same sort." "Trust me, it shall be done--_verbatim et literatim_." "Thet's the way!" joyfully exclaims Walt; thinking that the _verbatim et literatim_--of the meaning of which he has not the slightest conception--will be just the thing to clinch his bargain with Conchita. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The singular contract between the prairie merchant and his _ci-devant_ guide has just reached conclusion as a rustling is heard among the branches of the cottonwoods, accompanied by a soft footstep. Looking around, they see Conchita threading her way through the grove. Her steps, cautious and stealthy, would tell of an "appointment," even were this not already known to them. Her whole bearing is that of one on the way to meet a lover; and the sight of Walt Wilder, who now rises erect to receive her, proclaims him to be the man. It might appear strange that she does not shy back, on seeing him in company with another man. She neither starts nor shows any shyness; evidence that the presence of the third party is a thing understood and pre-arranged. She advances without show of timidity; and, curtseying to the "Senor Francisco," as she styles Hamersley, takes seat upon the log from which he has arisen; Walt laying hold of her hand and gallantly conducting her to it. There is a short interregnum of silence. This Conchita's sweetheart endeavours to fill up with a series of gestures that might appear uncouth but for the solemnity of the occasion. So considered, they may be deemed graceful, even dignified. Perhaps not thinking them so himself, Walt soon seeks relief by turning to his interpreter, and making appeal to him as follows-- "Doggone it, Frank! Ye see I don't know how to talk to her, so you do the palaverin. Tell her right off, what I want. Say I hain't got much money, but a pair o' arems strong enuf to purtect her, thro' thick an' thro' thin, agin the dangers o' the mountain an' the puraira, grizzly bars, Injuns, an' all. She sees this chile hev got a big body; ye kin say to her thet his heart ain't no great ways out o' correspondence wi' his karkidge. Then tell her in the eend, thet his body an' his hands an' heart--all air offered to her; an' if she'll except 'em they shall be hern, now, evermore, an' to the death--so help me God!" As the hunter completes his proposal thus ludicrously, though emphatically pronounced, he brings his huge hand down upon his brawny breast with a slap like the crack of a cricket bat. Whatever meaning the girl may make out of his words, she can have had no doubt about their earnestness or sincerity, judging by the gestures that accompany them. Hamersley can scarce restrain his inclination to laugh; but with an effort he subdues it, and faithfully, though not very literally, translates the proposal into Spanish. When, as Walt supposes, he has finished, the ex-Ranger rises to his feet and stands awaiting the answer, his huge frame trembling like the leaf of an aspen. He continues to shake all the while Conchita's response is being delivered; though her first words would assure, and set his nerves at rest, could he but understand them. But he knows not his fate, till it has passed through the tedious transference from one language to another--from Spanish to his own native tongue. "Tell him," is the response of Conchita, given without sign of insincerity, "tell him that I love him as much as he can me. That I loved him from the first moment of our meeting, and shall love him to the end of my life. In reply to his honourable proposal, say to him yes. I am willing to become his wife." When the answer is translated to Walt, he bounds at least three feet into the air, with a shout of triumph such as he might give over the fall of an Indian foe. Then, advancing towards the girl, he flings his great arms around her, lifts her from the ground as if she were a child's doll; presses her to his broad, throbbing breast, and imprints a kiss upon her lips--the concussion of which can be heard far beyond the borders of the cottonwood copse. CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE. A DANGEROUS EAVESDROPPER. However successful in his suit with Conchita, Walt Wilder is not without a rival. Hamersley has reason to suspect this soon after separating from the lovers, which he does, leaving them to themselves. It has occurred to him, that the presence of more than two on that spot can be no longer desirable. His part has been performed, and he withdraws without saying a word. There is a third man, notwithstanding--a spectator--whose breast is stirred with terrible emotion. As the Kentuckian passes out through the copse, he catches sight of a figure crouching behind the trunk of a tree--apparently that of a man. Twilight is now on, and beneath the leafy branches reigns an obscurity almost equalling night. What he sees may be some straying animal, or perhaps it is only fancy. His thoughts are engrossed with that which carries him on towards the house. There one will be awaiting him, in whose refined presence he will soon forget the uncouth spectacle of courtship at which he has been assisting. But the form he has observed cowering under the shadow of the cotton-woods was no fancy, nor four-footed creature, but a human being, a man--in short, Manuel the Indian. Manuel is mad in love with the little mestiza, who, with Spanish blood in her veins, is, nevertheless, maternally of his own race--that of the _Indios mansos_, or "tame Indians," of New Mexico--so called in contradistinction to the _Indios bravos_, the savages who, from the conquest till this day, have never submitted themselves to Spanish rule. Though Christianised, after a fashion, by the Franciscans, with others of the missionary fathers--living in walled towns, each with its _capilla_ or church, and cultivating the lands around, many of these so-called Christian Indians still continue to practice Pagan rites, more or less openly. In some of their villages, it is said, the _estafa_, or sacred fire, is kept burning, and has never been permitted to go out since the time of Montezuma, from whom and his people they believe themselves descended. They are undoubtedly of Aztec race, and sun-worshippers, as were the subjects of the unfortunate Emperor of Tenochtitlas. Travellers who have visited their more remote "pueblos" have witnessed something of this sun-worship, seeing them ascend to the flat roofs of their singularly constructed houses, and there stand in fixed attitude, devoutly gazing at the sun as it ascends over the eastern horizon. Notwithstanding the epithet "tame," which their Spanish conquerors have applied to them, they are still more than half wild; and, upon occasions, the savage instinct shows itself in deeds of cruelty and blood. This very instinct has been kindled in the heart of Manuel. It was not devotion to Don Valerian Miranda that moved him to follow the fortunes of his master into exile; his love for Conchita accounts for his presence there. And he loves her with an ardour and singleness of passion such as often burns in the breasts of his people. The girl has given him no encouragement, rather the reverse. For all that, he has pursued her with zealous solicitation, regardless of rebuffs and apparently unconscious of her scorn. Hitherto he has had no rival, which has hindered him from despairing. Conchita is still young, in her earliest teens, having just turned twelve. But even at this age a New Mexican maiden is deemed old enough for matrimony; and Manuel, to do justice to him, has eyes upon her with this honest intent. For months he had made up his mind to have her for his wife--long before their forced flight into the Llano Estacado. And now that they are in the desert, with no competitor near--for Chico does not count as one--he has fancied the time come for the consummation of his hopes. But just when the fair fruit seems ripe for plucking, like the fox in the fable, he discovers it is beyond his reach. What is worse still, another, taller than he, and who can reach higher, is likely to gather it. Ever since the arrival of Walt Wilder in the valley he has been watching the movements of the latter. Not without observing that between the great Texan hunter and the little Mexican _muchacha_ there has sprung up an attachment of a suspicious nature. He has not heard them express it in speech, for in this way they cannot communicate with one another; but certain looks and gestures exchanged, unintelligible to others, have been easily interpreted by the Indian as the signs of a secret and mutual understanding between them. They have driven the poor peon well nigh distracted with jealousy--felt all the keener from its being his first experience of it, all the angrier from consciousness of his own honest love--while he believes that of the intruder to have a different intent. As the days and hours pass he observes new incidents to sharpen his suspicions and strengthen his jealous ire. In fine, he arrives at the conclusion that Conchita--long loved by him, long vainly solicited--has surrendered her heart to the gigantic Texan, who like a sinister shadow, a ghoul, a very ogre, has chanced across the sunlight of his path. Under the circumstances, what is he to do? He is powerful in passion, but weak in physical strength. Compared with his rival, he is nought. In a conflict the Texan would crush him, squeeze the breath out of his body, as a grizzly bear would that of a prairie squirrel or ground gopher. He does not show open antagonism--does not think of it. He knows it would but end in his ruin--his utter annihilation. Still, he is not despairing. With the instincts peculiar to his race, he contemplates revenge. All his idle hours are spent brooding over plans to frustrate the designs of his rival--in short, to put him out of the way altogether. More than once has a thought of poison passed through his mind as the surest way of effecting his fiendish purpose, as also the safest; and upon this mode of killing the Texan he has at length determined. That very day he has been engaged in making ready for the deed-- preparing the potion. Certain plants he has found growing in the valley, well known among his people as poisonous, will furnish him with the means of death--a slow, lingering death, therefore all the surer to avert suspicion from the hand that has dealt it. To all appearance, Walt Wilder is doomed. He has escaped the spears, arrows, and tomahawks of the Tenawa savages to fall a victim to a destroyer, stealthy, subtle, unseen. And is the noble Texan--guide, ranger, and hunter--thus sadly to succumb? No. Fate has not decreed his death by such insidious means. A circumstance, apparently accidental, steps in to save him. On this very day, when the poison it being prepared for him, the poisoner receives a summons that for the time at least, will frustrate his foul plans. His master commands him to make ready for a journey. It is an errand similar to that he has been several times sent upon before. He is to proceed to the settlements on the Rio Grande, where Don Valerian has friends with whom, in his exile, he keeps up secret correspondence, Manuel acting as messenger. Thence the trusted peon is to bring back, as oft before, despatches, news, provisions--the last now more than ever needed, on account of the stranger guests so unexpectedly thrown upon his hospitality. Manuel is to commence his journey on the following day at the earliest hour of dawn. There will be no chance for him now to carry out his nefarious design. It must remain uncompleted till his return. While chafing at the disappointment, he sees Conchita stealing out from the house and entering the cotton-wood grove. He follows her with a caution equalling her own, but from a far different cause. Crouching on through the trees, he takes stand behind a trunk, and, concealed by it, becomes spectator of all that passes. He is at first surprised at seeing three where he expected only two. Pleased also; for it gives him hope the girl's errand may not be the keeping of a love appointment. But as the triangular conference proceeds; above all, when it arrives at its conclusion, and he sees the Texan raise Conchita in his arms, giving her that kiss, the echo of which is distinctly audible to him, his blood boils, and with difficulty does he restrain himself from rushing up to the spot, and taking the lives of all three, or ending his own if he fail. For a time he stands erect, with his _machete_ drawn from its sheath, his eyes flashing with the fires of jealous vengeance. Fortunately for those upon whom they are bent, an instinct of self-preservation stays him. His hand is ready, but his heart fails him. Terrible as is his anger, it is yet controlled by fear. He will wait for a more favourable time and surer opportunity. A safer means, too--this more than aught else restraining him. While still in intense agitation, he sees Hamersley depart, leaving the other two to themselves. And now, as other kisses are exchanged between the lovers, his jealous fury becomes freshly excited, and for the second time he is half resolved to rush forward and kill--kill. But again his fears gain the ascendency, and his hand refuses to obey the dictates of his angry heart. With the bare blade held tremblingly, he continues spectator of that scene which fills his breast with blackest, bitterest emotion. He has not the courage to interrupt it. Calculating the chances, he perceives they are against him. Should he succeed in killing the Texan, with Conchita standing by and bearing witness to the deed, would be to forfeit his own life. He could find it in his heart to kill her too; but that would lead to the same result. Failing in his first blow, the great hunter would have him under his heel, to be crushed as a crawling reptile. Thus cogitating, he sticks to his place of concealment, and overlooks the love scene to its termination; then permits the lovers to depart in peace--the woman he so wildly loves, the man he so madly hates. After they have gone out of the grove, he advances towards the log upon which they were seated. Himself taking seat on it, he there ponders upon a plan of vengeance surer and safer than the assassin's steel. It is no longer his intent to employ poison. A new idea has entered his brain--has been in it ever since receiving notice of the journey on which he is about to set forth; in truth, suggested by this. A scheme quite as efficient as poisoning, but also having a purpose far more comprehensive, for it includes others besides his rival the Ranger. Of late neglectful of his duties, Colonel Miranda has severely chided him, thus kindling the hereditary antipathy of his race towards the white man. His master is to be among the victims--in short, all of them, his fellow-servant, Chico, excepted. Should the diabolical plan prove a success, not one of them can escape ruin, and most of them may meet death. CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. A TALE OF PERIL. Thanks to the skill of Don Prospero, exerted with kind assiduity, Hamersley's wounds are soon healed, his strength completely restored. Doubtless the tender nursing of the "angel" has something to do with his rapid recovery, while her presence, cheerful as gentle, does much to remove the gloom from his spirits, caused by the terrible disaster he had sustained. Long before reaching convalescence he has ceased to lament the loss of his property, and only sorrows as he reflects on the fate of his brave followers, whose lives were sacrificed in the effort to preserve it. Happily, however, as time passes the retrospect of the red carnage loses something of its sanguinary hue, its too vivid tints becoming gradually obscured in the oblivion of the past with the singular surroundings of the present. Amid these his spirit yields itself to pleasanter reflections. How could it be otherwise? Still, with restored strength, his curiosity has been increasing, till it has reached a point of keenness requiring to be satisfied. He wonders at all around him, especially the strange circumstance of finding his old friend and duelling second in such an out-of-the-way place. As yet, Miranda has only given him a hint, though one pretty much explaining all. There has been a revolution; and they are refugees. But the young Kentuckian is curious to learn the details, about which, for some reason, the Mexican has hitherto preserved silence. His reticence has been due to an injunction of the doctor, who, still under some anxiety about the recovery of his patient, forbade imparting to him particulars that might have an injurious effect on his nervous system, sadly debilitated by the shock it has received. Don Prospero is an acute observer. He perceives the growing interest which Hamersley takes in the sister of his host. He knows the story of the Chihuahua duel; and thinks that the other story--that of the disastrous revolution--told in detail, might retard the convalescence of his patient. Counselled by him, Colonel Miranda has refrained from communicating it. Ignorant of the cause, Hamersley is all the more eager to learn it. Still, his curiosity does not impel him to importunate inquiry. In the companionship of such kind friends he can afford to be patient. Walt Wilder has no curiosity of any kind. His thoughts have become centred, his whole soul wrapped up in Conchita. The heart of the colossal hunter has received a shock such as it never had before; for, as he declared himself, he is in love for the first time in his life. Not but that he has made love before, after a fashion. For he has shared his tent with more than one Indian squaw, drank and danced with those nondescript damsels who now and then find their way to the forts of the fur-traders scattered among the Rocky Mountains and along the border-land of the prairies. To all this he has confessed. But these have been only interludes, "trifling love scrapes." His present affair with the little mestiza is different. Her sparkling black eyes pierced deeper and more direct--"straight plum-centre to his heart," as, in professional jargon, he described it. The invalid is at length convalescent; the doctor removes the seal of injunction placed upon the lips of Colonel Miranda, and the latter fulfils his promise made to give a narrative of the events which have led to their residence in that remote and solitary spot. The two seated together sipping Paseno wine and smoking cigars, the Mexican commences his tale. "We are refugees, as I've already stated, and came here to save our heads. At least, there was danger of my losing mine--or, rather, the certainty of it--had we not succeeded in making our escape from Albuquerque. The word _pronunciamento_ explains all. A revolt of the troops under my command, with a name, that of the leader, will give you a key to the whole affair." "Uraga!" exclaims Hamersley, the word coming mechanically from his red lips; while a cloud passes over his brow, and a red flush flecks the pallor on his cheeks. "Captain Uraga! 'Twas he?" "It was." "The scoundrel! I thought so." "Not Captain Uraga now, but Colonel; for the reward of his treason reached him simultaneously with its success, and the traitor is now in command of the district from which I have been, deposed. Not only that, but, as I have heard, he has appropriated my house--the same where, twelve months ago, I had the pleasure of showing you some hospitality. Contrasting it with our present humble abode, you will see, senor, that my family affairs have not prospered, any more than my political fortunes. But to the narration. "Not long after you left us I made application to the Government for an increase to the mounted force at my disposal. This had become necessary for due protection of the district from our warlike neighbours in the west--the Navajoes. They had made several raids upon the river settlements, and carried off goods, cattle, and a number of captives. The force I had made requisition for was obtained; but not the right men, or at least the officers I should have chosen to command it. A troop of light cavalry was sent me--Lancers. You may imagine my chagrin, not to say disgust, when I saw Captain Gil Uraga at its head. Marching into the town of Albuquerque, he reported himself for duty. "I need not tell you how unpleasant it was for me to have such a fellow for subordinate. In addition to our Chihuahua duel, there were many reasons for my having an aversion to him--one, and not the least, that which I have already hinted to you--his pretensions to be the suitor of my sister." Hamersley writhes as he listens, the red spot on his cheek spreading and flushing redder. Miranda proceeds-- "He continued his ill-received attentions whenever chance gave him an opportunity. It was not often. I took care of that; though, but for precautions and my authority as his superior officer, his advances would, no doubt, have been bolder--in short, persecutions. I knew that to my sister, as to myself, his presence was disagreeable, but there was no help for it. I could not have him removed. In all matters of military duty he took care to act so that there should be no pretext for a charge against him. Besides, I soon found that he was in favour with one of the Government dignitaries. Though I did not then know why, I learnt it afterwards; and why he, of all others, had been sent to Albuquerque. The _sap_ had commenced for a new revolution, and he was one of its secret fomenters. He had been chosen by the _parti pretre_ as a fitting agent to act in that district, of which, like myself, he was a native. "Having no suspicion of this, I only thought of him in regard to his impertinent solicitation of my sister; and against this I could restrain him. He was polite; obsequiously so, and cautiously guarded in his gallantries; so that I had no cause for resorting to the _desafio_. I could only wait and watch. "The vigil was not a protracted one; though, alas! it ended differently from what I expected. About two months after his coming under my command, the late _grito_ was proclaimed all over Mexico. One morning as I went down to the military quarters I found confusion and disturbance. The soldiers were under arms, many of them drunk, and vociferating `_Viva Santa Anna! Viva el Coronel Uraga_!' Hearing this, I at once comprehended all. It was a _pronunciamento_. I drew my sword, thinking to stem the tide of treason; and called around me such of my followers as were still faithful. It was too late. The poison had spread throughout the whole command. My adherents were soon overpowered, several of them killed; myself wounded, dragged to the _carcel_, and there locked up. The wonder is that I was not executed on the spot; since I know Gil Uraga thirsted for my life. He was only restrained, however, by a bit of caution; for, although I was not put to death on that day, he intended I should never see the sun rise upon another. In this he was disappointed, and I escaped. "I know you will be impatient to learn how," resumes the refugee, after rolling and igniting a fresh cigarrito. "It is somewhat of an incident, and might serve the writer of a romance. I owe my life, my liberty, and, what is more, my sister's safety, to our good friend Don Prospero. In his capacity of military surgeon he was not compromised like the rest of us; and after the revolt in the cuartel he was left free to follow his vocation. While seeking permission to dress the wound I had received, chance conducted him to a place where he could overhear a conversation that was being carried on between Uraga and one of his lieutenants--a ruffian named Roblez, fit associate for his superior. They were in high glee over what had happened, carousing, and in their cups not very cautious of what they said. Don Prospero heard enough to make him acquainted with their scheme, so diabolical you will scarcely give credence to it. I was to be made away with in the night--carried up to the mountains, and there murdered! With no traces left, it would be supposed that I had made my escape from the prison. And the good doctor heard other designs equally atrocious. What the demons afterwards intended doing when my sister should be left unprotected--" Something like a groan escapes from the listener's lips, while his fingers move nervously, as if clutching at a weapon. "Devoted to me, Don Prospero at once resolved upon a course of action. There was not a moment to be lost. He obtained permission to attend me professionally in the prison. It was a cheap grace on Uraga's part, considering his ulterior design. An attendant, a sort of hospital assistant, was allowed to accompany the doctor to the cell, carrying his lints, drugs, and instruments. Fortunately, I had not been quite stripped by the ruffians who had imprisoned me, and in my own purse, along with that of Don Prospero, was a considerable sum of gold--enough for tempting the attendant to change clothes and places with me. He was the more ready to do so, relying upon a story he intended to tell--that we had overpowered and compelled him. Poor fellow! As we afterwards learnt, it did not save him. He was shot the next morning to appease the chagrin of Uraga, furious at our escape. We cannot help feeling regret for his fate; but, under the circumstances, what else could have been done? "We stepped forth from the _carcel_, the doctor leading the way, and I, his assistant, bearing the paraphernalia after him. We passed out of the barracks unchallenged. Fortunately, the night was a dark one, and the guards were given to carousing. The sentries were all intoxicated. "By stealth, and in silence, we hastened on to my house, where I found Adela, as you may suppose, in a state of agonised distress. But there was no time for words--not even of explanation. With two of my servants whom I could trust, we hastily collected some of our animals--horses and pack-mules. The latter we loaded with such things as we could think of as being requisite for a journey. We intended it to be a long one--all the way across the great prairies. I knew there would be no safety for us within the limits of New Mexico; and I remembered what you had said but a few months before--your kind proffer of hospitality, should it ever be my fate to seek refuge in your country. And to seek it we set forth, leaving my house untenanted, or only in charge of the remaining domestics, from whom gold had gained a promise not to betray us. The doctor, Adela and myself, the two peons who had volunteered to accompany us, with the girl, Conchita, composed our travelling party. I knew we dared not take the route usually travelled. We should be followed by hostile pursuers and forced back, perhaps slain upon the spot. I at least would have had a short shrift. Knowing this, we made direct for the mountains, with whose passes I was familiar, having traversed them in pursuit of the savages. "We passed safely through the Sierra, and kept on towards the Rio Pecos. Beyond this river all was unknown to us. We only knew that there lay the Llano Estacado, invested with mysterious terrors--the theme of our childhood's fears--a vast stretch of desert, uninhabited, or only by savages seeking scalps, by wild beasts ravening for blood, by hideous reptiles--serpents breathing poison. But what were all these dangers to that we were leaving behind? Nothing, and this thought inspired us to proceed. "We crossed the Pecos and entered upon the sterile plain. We knew not how far it extended; only that on the other side lay a fertile country through which we might penetrate to the frontier settlements of your great free nation. This was the beacon of our hopes, the goal of safety. "We travelled in an easterly course; but there were days when the sun was obscured by clouds; and then, unguided, we had either to remain at rest or run the chance of getting strayed. "We toiled on, growing weak for want of food, and suffering terribly from thirst. No water was to be found anywhere--not a drop. "Our animals suffered as ourselves. Staggering under the weight of their loads, one by one they gave out, dropping down upon the desert plain. Only one held out bravely to the last--the mustang mare that brought you to our present abode. Yes, Lolita survived to carry my dear sister, as if she understood the value we all placed upon her precious burden. The others gave out--first the horses ridden by Don Prospero and myself, then the pack-mules. Fortunately, these fell near the spot where we at length found relief--near enough for their loads, and two of themselves, to be afterwards recovered. "One day, as we toiled on afoot, in the hourly expectation of death, we came in sight of this fair spot. It appeared to us a Paradise, as you say it did to yourself. Under our eyes were green trees and the gleam of crystal streams; in our ears the songs of birds we had never expected to hear again. Chance had brought us direct to the path, the only one by which the valley can be reached from the upper plain. Inspirited by the fair spectacle below, we gained strength enough to descend. We drank of the sweet water, and procured food from the branches of the trees that shaded it. It was the season when fruits and berries were abundant. Afterwards we discovered game, and were successful in capturing it. "Soon with restored strength we were able to go back, and recover the paraphernalia we had left upon the plain, along with two of the mules that, after resting, had regained their feet, and could stagger on a little farther. "At first we only thought of making this a temporary resting-place; though there seemed but slight hope of being able to continue our journey. But as the days passed, and we were left undisturbed, we began to realise the fact that we had found an asylum, safe as pleasant. "It was not likely that anyone would discover the track we had taken in our flight. Even the resentment of Uraga would scarce pursue us across the Staked Plain. In any case, there was no help for it but to remain in the valley, as we had not animals enough to carry us on. Our only alternative was to go back to the Del Norte--a thing not to be thought of. We resolved, therefore, on staying, at least for a time. I had conceived a plan for communicating with my friends in New Mexico, and am not without hope that sooner or later we may get tidings that will make it safe for as to return. In our country, as you know, there is nothing permanent; and we have hopes ere long to see the Liberal party once more in the ascendant. "Our resolution to remain here becoming fixed we sot about making our situation as comfortable as circumstances would permit. We erected this humble tenement whose roof now shelters us. We turned fishermen and hunters; in the last my sister proving more accomplished than any of us--a real huntress, as you have seen. We have enjoyed the life amazingly; more especially our worthy _medico_, who is an enthusiastic naturalist, and here finds a rare opportunity of gratifying his scientific tastes. For subsistence we have not had to depend altogether upon the chase. Manuel, one of our peons, an old muleteer, makes an occasional trip to Albuquerque, the route of which he has good reason to remember. I send him with messages, and to purchase provisions. He is cautious to make his approaches under cover of night, and do his marketing with circumspection. With our gold, not yet all gone, he is enabled to bring back such commodities as we stand in need of; while a friend, entrusted with the secret of our hiding-place, keeps us informed of the _novedades_. Now you know all." CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN. THE INTERCEPTED LETTER. Colonel Miranda, having told the tale of his perilous escape, for a time remains silent and reflective. So does his listener. Both are thinking on the same subject--the villainy of Gil Uraga. Hamersley first breaks silence, asking the question,-- "Did you get my letter?" "What letter?" "I wrote you only one. Now I think of it, you could not have received it. No. By the time it would reach Albuquerque, you must have been gone from there." "I got no letter from you, Don Francisco. You say you sent one. What was the nature of its contents?" "Nothing of any importance. Merely to say that I was coming back to New Mexico, and hoped to find you in good health." "Did it particularise the time you expected to reach Albuquerque?" "Yes; as far as I could fix that, if I remember rightly, it did." "And the route you were to take?" "That too. When I wrote the letter I intended to make trial of a new trail lately discovered--up the Canadian, and touching the northern end of the Staked Plain. I did make trial of it, alas! with lamentable result. But why do you ask these questions, Colonel Miranda?" The colonel does not make immediate answer. He appears more meditative than ever, as though some question has come before his mind calling for deliberate examination. While he is thus occupied the ex-Ranger enters the room and sits down beside them. Walt is welcome. Indeed, Don Valerian had already designed calling him into their counsel. For an idea has occurred to the Mexican Colonel requiring the joint consideration of all three. Turning to the other two, he says,-- "I've been thinking a good deal about the attack on your caravan. The more I reflect on it the more I am led to believe that some of the Indians who plundered you were painted." "They were all painted," is the reply of the young prairie merchant. "True, Don Francisco; but that isn't what I mean." "I reckon I knows what ye mean," interposes the ex-Ranger, rising excitedly from his chair on hearing the Mexican's remark. "It's been my own suspeeshun all along. You know what I tolt ye, Frank?" Hamersley looks interrogatively at his old comrade. "Did I not say," continues Wilder, "that I seed two men 'mong the Injuns wi' ha'r upon thar faces? They wa'n't Injuns; they war whites. A'n't that what ye mean, Kurnel Meoranda?" "_Precisamente_!" is the colonel's reply. The other two wait for him to continue on with the explanation Wilder has already surmised. Even the young prairie merchant--less experienced in Mexican ways and wickedness, in infamy so incredible--begins to have a glimmering of the truth. Seemingly weighing his words, Miranda proceeds,-- "No doubt it was a band of Comanche Indians that destroyed your caravan and killed your comrades. But I have as little doubt of there being white men among them--one at least, and that one he who planned and instigated the deed." "Who, Colonel Miranda?" is the quick interrogatory of the Kentuckian, while with flashing eyes and lips apart he breathlessly awaits the answer. For all, he does not much need it; the name to be pronounced is on the tip of his own tongue. It is again "Gil Uraga!" "Yes," replies the Mexican, with added emphasis. "He is, undoubtedly, the robber who despoiled you. Though done in the guise of an Indian onslaught, with real Indians as his assistants, he has been their instructor--their leader. I see it all now clear as sunlight. He got your letter, which you say was addressed to me as colonel commanding at Albuquerque. As a matter of course, he opened it. It told him when and where to meet you; your strength, and the value of your cargo. The last has not been needed as an incentive for him to assail you, Don Francisco. The mark you made upon his cheek was sufficient. Didn't I tell you at the time he would move heaven and earth to have revenge on you--on both of us? He has succeeded; behold his success. I a refugee, robbed of everything; you plundered the same; both ruined men!" "Not yet!" cries the Kentuckian, starting to his feet. "Not ruined yet, Colonel Miranda. If the thing be as you say, I shall seek a second interview with this scoundrel--this fiend; seek till I obtain it. And then--" "Hyur's one," interrupts the ex-Ranger, unfolding his gigantic form with unusual rapidity, "who'll take part in that sarch. Yis, Frank, this chile's willin' to go wi' ye to the heart o' Mexiko, plum centre; to the halls o' the Montyzoomas; reddy to start this minnit." "If," resumes Hamersley, his coolness contrasting with the excited air of his comrade, now roused to a terrible indignation, "if, Colonel Miranda, it turns out as you conjecture, that Gil Uraga has taken part in the destruction of my waggon-train, or even been instrumental in causing it, I shall leave no stone unturned to obtain justice." "Justice!" exclaims the ex-Ranger, with a deprecatory toss of the head. "In case o' this kind we want somethin' beside. To think o' thirteen innercent men attacked without word o' warnin', shot down, stabbed, slaughtered, and sculped! Think o' that; an' don't talk tamely o' justice; let's shout loudly for revenge!" CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT. THE LAND OF THE "LEX TALIONIS." During the quarter of a century preceding the annexation of New Mexico to the United States, that distant province of the Mexican Republic, like all the rest of the country, was the scene of constantly recurring revolutions. Every discontented captain, colonel, or general who chanced to be in command of a district, there held sway as a dictator; so demeaning himself that martial and military rule had become established as the living law of the land. The civic authorities rarely possessed more than the semblance of power; and where they did it was wielded in the most flagitious manner. Arbitrary arts were constantly committed, under the pretext of patriotism or duty. No man's life was safe who fell under the displeasure of the ruling military chieftain; and woman's honour was held in equally slight respect. In the northern frontier provinces of the republic this irresponsible power of the soldiery was peculiarly despotic and harassing. There, two causes contributed to establish and keep it in the ascendency. One of these was the revolutionary condition of the country, which, as elsewhere, had become chronic. The contest between the party of the priests and that of the true patriots, begun in the first days of Mexico's independence, has been continued ever since; now one, now the other, in the ascendant. The monstrous usurpation of Maximilian, supported by Napoleon the Third, and backed by a soldier whom all Mexicans term the "Bandit Bazaine," was solely due to the hierarchy; while Mexico owes its existing Republican government to the patriot party--happily, for the time, triumphant. The province of New Mexico, notwithstanding its remoteness from the nation's capital, was always affected by, and followed, its political fortunes. When the _parti pretre_ was in power at the capital, its adherents became the rulers in the distant States for the time being; and when the Patriots, or Liberals, gained the upper hand this _role_ was reversed. It is but just to say that, whenever the latter were the "ins," things for the time went well. Corruption, though not cured, was to some extent checked; and good government would begin to extend itself over the land. But such could only last for a brief period. The monarchical, dictatorial, or imperial party--by whatever name it may be known--was always the party of the Church; and this, owning three-fourths of the real estate, both in town and country, backed by ancient ecclesiastical privileges, and armed with another powerful engine--the gross superstition it had been instrumental in fostering-- was always able to control events; so that no Government, not despotic, could stand against it for any great length of time. For all, freedom at intervals triumphed, and the priests became the "outs;" but ever potent, and always active, they would soon get up a new "grito" to bring about a revolutionary change in the Government. Sanguinary scenes would be enacted--hangings, shooting, garrottings--all the horrors of civil war that accompany the bitterest of all spite, the ecclesiastical. In such an uncertain state of things it was but natural that the _militarios_ should feel themselves masters of the situation, and act accordingly. In the northern districts they had yet another pretext for their unrestrained exercise of power--in none more than New Mexico. This remote province, lying like an oasis in the midst of uninhabited wilds, was surrounded on all sides by tribes of hostile Indians. There were the Navajoes and Apaches on its west, the Comanche and other Apache bands on the south and east, the Utahs on its north, and various smaller tribes distributed around it. They were all more or less hostile at one time or another: now on terms of an intermittent peace, secured by a "palaver" and treaty; this anon to be broken by some act of bad faith, leaving their "braves" at liberty once more to betake themselves to the war-path. Of course this condition of things gave the soldiery a fine opportunity to maintain their ascendency over the peaceful citizens. Rabble as these soldiers were, and poltroons as they generally proved themselves in every encounter with the Indians, they were accustomed to boast of being the country's protectors, for this "protection" assumed a sort of right to despoil it at their pleasure. Some few years preceding the American-Mexican war--which, as well known, gave New Mexico to the United States--these belligerent swaggerers were in the zenith of their arbitrary rule. Their special pet and protector, Santa Anna, was in for a new spell of power, making him absolute dictator of Mexico and disposer of the destinies of its people. At the same time, one of his most servile tools and successful imitators was at the head of the Provincial Government, having Santa Fe for its capital. This man was Manuel Armijo, whose character may be ascertained, by those curious to study it, from reading the chronicles of the times, especially the records of the prairie merchants, known as the "Santa Fe traders." It will there be learnt that this provincial despot was guilty of every act that could disgrace humanity; and that not only did he oppress his fellow-citizens with the soldiery placed at his disposal to protect them from Indian enemies, but was actually in secret league with the savages themselves to aid him in his mulcts and murders! Whatever his eye coveted he was sure to obtain, by fair means or foul-- by open pillage or secret theft--not unfrequently accompanied by assassination. And as with the despot himself, so with his subordinates--each in his own town or district wielding irresponsible power; all leading lives in imitation of the provincial chieftain, as he of him--the great prototype and patron of all--who held dictatorial sway in the capital of the country, Don Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna. A knowledge of this abnormal and changeable condition of Mexican affairs will, in some measure, explain why Colonel Miranda so suddenly ceased to be commandant of Albuquerque. Santa Anna's new accession to power brought in the _Padres_, turning out the _Patriotas_, many of the latter suffering death for their patriotism, while the adherents of the former received promotion for their support. Staunchest among these was the captain of Lancers, Gil Uraga, promoted to be colonel as also commandant of the district from which its deposed chief so narrowly escaped with his life. And now this revolutionary usurper is in full authority, his acts imitating his master, Armijo, like him in secret league with the savages, even consorting with the red pirates of the plains, taking part in their murderous marauds, and sharing their plunder. CHAPTER THIRTY NINE. PROSPEROUS, BUT NOT HAPPY. Despite his rapid military promotion and the ill-gotten wealth he has acquired, Colonel Gil Uraga is anything but a happy man. Only at such times as he is engaged in some stirring affair of duty or devilry, or when under the influence of drink, is he otherwise than wretched. To drinking he has taken habitually, almost continually. It is not to drown conscience; he has none. The canker-worm that consumes him is not remorse, but disappointment in a love affair, coupled with a thirst for vengeance. There are moments when he is truly miserable, his misery reaching its keenest whenever he either looks into his mirror or stands before a portrait that hangs against the wall of the _sala_. It is a likeness of Adela Miranda; for he has taken possession of the house of his predecessor, with all its furniture and pictures, left in their hasty retreat, the young lady's portrait as the rest. The Lancer colonel loves Adela Miranda; and though his love be of a coarse, brutal nature, it is strong and intense as that the noblest man may feel. In earlier days he believed there was a chance of his obtaining her hand. Humble birth is no bar in Mexico--land of revolutions--where the sergeant or common soldier of to-day may be a lieutenant, captain, or colonel to-morrow. His hopes had been a stimulant to his military aspirations; perchance one of the causes that first led him into crime. He believed that wealth might bridge over the social distinction between himself and her, and in this belief he cared not how it should be acquired. For the rest he was not ill-looking, rather handsome, and fairly accomplished. Like most Mexican _militarios_, he could boast of his _bonnes fortunes_, which he often did. These have become more rare since receiving the sword-thrust from his American adversary in the duel at Chihuahua, which not only cost him three front teeth, but a hideous scar across the cheek. The teeth have been replaced, but the scar cannot be effaced; it remains a frightful cicatrix. Even his whiskers, let grow to their extremest outcrop, will not all conceal it; it is too far forward upon the face. It was after this unfortunate affair that he made proposal to Adela Miranda. And now he cannot help thinking it had something to do with her abrupt and disdainful rejection of him, though the young lady's little concealed disgust, coupled with her brother's indignation, had no reference to the physical deformity. But for his blind passion he might have perceived this. Fancying it so, however, it is not strange that he goes half frantic, and can be heard giving utterance to fearful oaths every time he glances in his looking-glass. After returning from his secret expedition of murder and pillage, he can gaze with more equanimity into the glass. From the man who caused the disfiguration of his visage he has exacted a terrible retribution. His adversary in the Chihuahua duel is now no more. He has met with a fate sufficient to satisfy the most implacable vengeance; and often, both sober and in his cups, does Gil Uraga break out into peals of laughter, like the glee of a demon, as he reflects on the torture, prolonged and horrible, his hated enemy must have endured before life became extinct! But even all this does not appease his malevolent spirit. A portion of his vengeance is yet unappeased--that due to him who was second in the duel. And if it could be satisfied by the death of Miranda himself, then there would still be the other thought to torture him--his thwarted love scheme. The chagrin he suffers from this is stronger than his thirst for vengeance. He is seated in the sala of Miranda's house, which he occupies as his official headquarters. He is alone, his only companion being the bottle that stands upon a table beside him--this and a cigar burning between his lips. It is not wine he is drinking, but the whisky of Tequila, distilled from the wild maguey. Wine is too weak to calm his perturbed spirit, as he sits surveying the portrait upon the wall. His eyes have been on it several times; each time, as he takes them off, drinking a fresh glass of the mezcal and igniting another cigar. What signifies all his success in villainy? What is life worth without her? He would plunder a church to obtain possession of her--murder his dearest friend to get from Adela Miranda one approving smile. Such are his coarse thoughts as he sits soliloquising, shaping conjectures about the banished commandant and his sister. Where can they have gone to? In all probability to the United States-- that asylum of rebels and refugees. In the territory of New Mexico they cannot have stayed. His spies have searched every nook and corner of it, their zeal secured by the promise of large rewards. He has dispatched secret emissaries to the Rio Abajo, and on to the _Provincias Internas_. But no word of Miranda anywhere--no trace can be found either of him or his sister. "_Chingara_!" As if this exclamatory phrase, sent hissing through his teeth--too foul to bear translation--were the name of a man, one at this moment appears in the doorway, who, after a gesture of permission to enter, steps inside the room. He is an officer in full uniform--one whom we have met before, though not in military costume. It is Lieutenant Roblez, Uraga's adjutant, as also his confederate in crime. "I'm glad you've come, _ayudante_," says the Colonel, motioning the new-comer to a seat. "I'm feeling a little bit lonely, and I want some one to cheer me. You, Roblez, are just the man for that; you've got such a faculty for conversation." This is ironical; for Roblez is as silent as an owl. "Sit down and give me your cheerful company," the Colonel adds. "Have a cigar and a _copita_ of this capital stuff; it's the best that Tequila produces." "I've brought other company that may be more cheerful than mine," returns the adjutant, still keeping his feet. "Ah! some of our fellows from the cuartel? Bring them in." "It is not any of the officers, Colonel. There's only one man, and he's a civilian. "Civilian or soldier, you're free to introduce him. I hope," he adds, in an undertone, "it's one of the _ricos_ of the neighbourhood, who won't mind taking an _albur_ at _monte_ or a throw of the dice. I'm just in the vein for a bit of play." "He I'm going to introduce don't look much like a _rico_. From what I can see of him in the darkness, I should say that the blanket upon his shoulders and his sheepskin smallclothes--somewhat dilapidated by the way--are about all the property he possesses." "He's a stranger to you, then?" "As much as to yourself, as you'll say after seeing him--perhaps more." "What sort of man is he?" "For that matter, he can hardly be described as a man. At least, he's not one of the _gent-de-razon_. He's only an Indian." "Ha! Comanche?" As he utters this interrogatory, Colonel Gil Uraga gives a slight start, and looks a little uneasy. His relations with men of the Indian race are of a delicate nature; and, although keen to cultivate their acquaintance whenever occasion requires it, he prefers keeping all Indians at a distance--more especially Comanches, when he has no particular need of their services. The thought has flashed across his mind that the man waiting to be ushered into his presence may be a messenger from the Horned Lizard; and with the Tenawa chief he desires no further dealings--at least for a time. Therefore, the belief of its being an emissary from his red-skinned confederate somewhat discomposes him. The reply of his subordinate, however, reassures him. "No, colonel, he's not a Comanche; bears no resemblance to one, only in the colour of his skin. He appears to be a Pueblo; and from his tattered costume, I take him to be some poor labourer." "But what does he want with me?" "That, colonel, I cannot say; only that he has expressed a very urgent desire to speak with you. I fancy he has something to communicate, which might be important for you to hear; else I should not have taken the liberty to bring him here." "You have him at hand?" "I have. He is outside in the _patio_. Shall I usher him in?" "By all means; there can be no harm in hearing what the fellow has to say. It may be about some threatened invasion of the savages; and as protectors of the people, you, ayudante, know it's our duty to do whatever we can for warding off such a catastrophe." The colonel laughs at his sorry jest; the adjutant expressing his appreciation of it in a shrug of the shoulders, accompanied by a grim smile. "Bring the brute in!" is the command that followed, succeeded by the injunction. "Stay outside in the court till I send for or call you. The fellow may have something to say intended for only one pair of ears. Take a glass of the _mezcal_, light cigarrito, and amuse yourself as you best may." The adjutant obeys the first two of these directions; then, stepping out of the _sala_, leaves his superior officer alone. Uraga glances around to assure himself that there are weapons within reach. With a conscience like his, a soul charged with crime, no wonder. His sabre rests against the wall close to his hand, while a pair of dragoon pistols, both loaded, lie upon the table. Satisfied with the proximity of these weapons, he sits upright in his chair and tranquilly awaits the entrance of the Indian. CHAPTER FORTY. A CONFIDENCE WELL REWARDED. Only a short interval, a score of seconds elapses, when the door, once more opening, admits the expected visitor. The adjutant, after ushering him into the room, withdraws, and commences pacing to and fro in the patio. Colonel Gil Uraga feels very much inclined to laugh as he contemplates the new-comer, and reflects on the precautions he has taken. A poor devil of an Indian _peon_, in coarse woollen _tilma_, tanned sheepskin trousers reaching only to the knee, bare legs below, _guaraches_ upon his feet, and a straw hat upon his head; his long black hail hanging unkempt over his shoulders; his mien humble and looks downcast, like all of his tribe. Yet it might be seen that, on occasion, his eyes could flash forth a light, indicative of danger--a fierce, fiery light, such as may have shone in the orbs of his ancestors when they rallied around Guatimozin, and with clubs and stakes beat back the spears and swords of their Spanish invaders. At the entrance of this humble personage, into the splendidly furnished apartment, his first act is to pull off his tattered straw hat, and make lowly obeisance to the gorgeously attired officer he sees sitting behind the table. Up to this time Uraga has presumed him to be a perfect stranger, but when the broad brim of the sombrero no longer casts its shade over his face, and his eyelids become elevated through increasing confidence, the colonel starts to his feet with an exclamatory speech that tells of recognition. "_Carrambo_! You are Manuel--mule driver for Don Valerian Miranda?" "_Si, Senor; a servido de V_ (Yes, Sir; at your Excellency's service)," is the reply meekly spoken, and accompanied with a second sweep of the straw hat--as gracefully as if given by a Chesterfield. At sight of this old acquaintance, a world of thought rushes crowding through the brain of Gil Uraga--conjectures, mingled with pleasant anticipations. For it comes back to his memory, that at the time of Colonel Miranda's escape, some of his domestics went off with him, and he remembers that Manuel was one of them. In the Indian bending so respectfully before him he sees, or fancies, the first link of a chain that may enable him to trace the fugitives. Manuel should know something about their whereabouts? And the _ci devant_ mule driver is now in his power for any purpose--be it life or death. There is that in the air and attitude of the Indian which tells him there will be no need to resort to compulsory measures. The information he desires can be obtained without, and he determines to seek it by adopting the opposite course. "My poor fellow," he says, "you look distressed--as if you had just come from off a toilsome journey. Here, take a taste of something to recuperate your strength; then you can let me know what you've got to say. I presume you've some communication to make to me, as the military commandant of the district. Night or day, I am always ready to give a hearing to those who bring information that concerns the welfare of the State." While speaking the colonel has poured out a glass of the distilled mezcal juice. This the peon takes from his hand, and, nothing loth, spills the liquor between his two rows of white glittering teeth. Upon his stomach, late unused to it, the fiery spirit produce! an effect almost instantaneous; and the moment after he becomes freely communicative--if not so disposed before. But he has been; therefore the disclosures that follow are less due to the alcohol than to a passion every whit as inflammatory. He is acting under the stimulus of a revenge, terrible and long restrained. "I've missed you from about here, Manuel," says the colonel, in kindly tones, making his approaches with skill. "Where have you been all this while, my good man?" "With my master," is the peon's reply. "Ah, indeed! I thought your master had gone clear out of the country?" "Out of the settled part of it only, senor." "Oh! he is still, then, within Mexican territory! I am glad to hear that. I was very sorry to think we'd lost such a good citizen and patriot as Don Valerian Miranda. True, he and I differ in our views as regards government; but that's nothing, you know, Manuel. Men may be bitter political enemies, yet very good friends. By-the-way, where is the colonel now?" Despite his apparent stolidity, the Indian is not so stupid as to be misled by talk like this. With a full knowledge of the situation-- forced upon him by various events--the badinage of the brilliant _militario_ does not for a moment blind him. Circumstances have given him enough insight into Uraga's character and position to know that the tatter's motives should somewhat resemble his own. He has long been aware that the Lancer colonel is in love with his young mistress, as much as he himself with her maid. Without this knowledge he might not have been there--at least, not with so confident an expectation of success in the design that has brought him hither. For design he has, deep, deadly, and traitorous. Despite the influence of the aguardiente, fast loosening his tongue, he is yet somewhat cautious in his communications; and not until Uraga repeats the question does he make answer to it. Then comes the response, slowly and reluctantly, as if from one of his long-suffering race, who has discovered a mine of precious metal, and is being put to the torture to "denounce" it. "Senor coronel," he says, "how much will your excellency give to know where my master now is? I have heard that there's a large bounty offered for Don Valerian's head." "That is an affair that concerns the State. For myself, I've nothing personally to do with it. Still, as an officer of the Government, it is my duty to take what steps I can towards making your master a prisoner. I think I may promise a good reward to anyone who, by giving information, would enable me to arrest a fugitive rebel and bring him before the bar of justice. Can you do that?" "Well, your excellency, that will depend. I'm only a poor man, and need money to live upon. Don Valerian is my master, and if anything were to happen to him I should lose my situation. What am I to do?" "Oh, you'd easily get another, and better. A man of your strength-- By the way, talking of strength, my good Manuel, you don't seem to have quite recovered from your journey, which must have been long and fatiguing. Take another _copita_; you're in need of it; 'twill do you good." Pressure of this sort put upon an Indian, be he _bravo_ or _manso_, is rarely resisted. Nor is it in Manuel's case. He readily yields to it, and tosses off another glass of the aguardiente. Before the strong alcohol can have fairly filtered down into his stomach its fumes ascend to his skull. The cowed, cautious manner--a marked characteristic of his race--now forsakes him; the check-strings of his tongue become relaxed, and, with nothing before his mind save his scheme of vengeance, and that of securing Conchita, he betrays the whole secret of Colonel Miranda's escape--the story of his retreat across the Staked Plain, and his residence in the lone valley. When he further informs Uraga about the two guests who have strayed to this solitary spot, and, despite his maudlin talk, minutely describes the men, his listener utters a loud cry, accompanied by a gesture of such violence as to overturn the table, sending bottle and glasses over the floor. He does not stay to see the damage righted, but with a shout that reverberates throughout the whole house, summons his adjutant, and also the corporal of his guard. "_Cabo_!" he cries, addressing himself to the latter in a tone at once vociferous and commanding; "take this man to the guard-house! And see you keep him there, so that he may be forthcoming when wanted. Take heed to hold him safe. If he be missing, you shall be shot ten minutes after I receive the report of it. You have the word of Gil Uraga for that." From the way the corporal makes prisoner the surprised peon, almost throttling him, it is evident he does not intend running any risk of being shot for letting the latter escape. The Indian appears suddenly sobered by the rough treatment he is receiving. But he is too much astonished to find speech for protest. Mute, and without offering the slightest resistance, he is dragged out through the open doorway, to all appearance more dead than alive. "Come, Roblez!" hails his superior officer, as soon as the door has closed behind the guard corporal and his captive, "Drink with me! Drink! First to revenge! I haven't had it yet, as I'd thought; that has all to be gone over again. But it's sure now--surer than ever. After, we shall drink to success in love. Mine is not hopeless, yet. Lost! she is found again--found! Ah, my darling Adela!" he exclaims, staggering towards the portrait, and in tipsy glee contemplating it, "you thought to escape me; but no. No one can get away from Gil Uraga-- friend, sweetheart, or enemy. You shall yet be enfolded in these arms; if not as my wife, my--_margarita_!" CHAPTER FORTY ONE. AN EARTHLY PARADISE. "Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place, With one fair spirit for my monitor! That I might all forget the human race, And, hating no one, love but only her. Ye elements, in whose ennobling stir I feel myself exalted, can ye not Accord me such a being? Do I err In deeming such inhabit many a spot-- Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot." Oft during his sojourn in the sequestered valley do these lines occur to the young prairie merchant. And vividly; for, in very truth, he has realised the aspiration of the poet. But, though dwelling in a desert, far different is the scene habitually before his eyes. From the front of the humble chalet that has so opportunely afforded him a shelter, seated under the spreading branches of a pecan-tree, he can look on a landscape lovely as ever opened to the eyes of man--almost as that closed against our first parents when expelled from Paradise. Above he beholds a sapphire sky, scarce ever shadowed by a cloud; a sun whose fierce, fervid beams become softened as they fall amid the foliage of evergreen oaks; among clustering groves that show all the varied tints of verdure, disporting upon green glassy glades, and glinting into arbours overshadowed by the sassafras laurel, the Osage orange, and the wild China-tree, laced together by a trellis of grape vines. A lake in the centre of this luxurious vegetation, placid as sleep itself, only stirred by the webbed feet of waterfowl, or the wings of dipping swallows, with above and below a brawling rivulet, here and there showing cascades like the tails of white horses, or the skirts of ballroom belles floating through waltz or gallopade. In correspondence with these fair sights are the sounds heard. By day the cooing of doves, the soft tones of the golden oriole, and the lively chatter of the red cardinal; by night the booming note of the bull-bat, the sonorous call of the trumpeter swan, and that lay far excelling all--the clear song of the polyglot thrush, the famed mocking-bird of America. No wonder the invalid, recovering from his illness, after the long dark spell that has obscured his intellect, wrapping his soul, as it were, in a shroud--no wonder he fancies the scene to be a sort of Paradise, worthy of being inhabited by Peris. One is there he deems fair as Houri or Peri, unsurpassed by any ideal of Hindoo or Persian fable--Adela Miranda. In her he beholds beauty of a type striking as rare; not common anywhere, and only seen among women in whose veins courses the blue blood of Andalusia--a beauty perhaps not in accordance with the standard of taste acknowledged in the icy northland. The _vigolite_ upon her upper lip might look a little bizarre in an assemblage of Saxon dames, just as her sprightly spirit would offend the sentiment of a strait-laced Puritanism. It has no such effect upon Frank Hamersley. The child of a land above all others free from conventionalism, with a nature attuned to the picturesque, these peculiarities, while piquing his fancy, have fixed his admiration. Long before leaving his sick couch there has been but one world for him--that where dwells Adela Miranda; but one being in it--herself. Surely it was decreed by fate that these two should love one another! Surely for them was there a marriage in heaven! Else why brought together in such a strange place and by such a singular chain of circumstances? For himself, Hamersley thinks of this--builds hopes upon it deeming it an omen. Another often occurs to him, also looking like fate. He remembers that portrait on the wall at Albuquerque, and how it had predisposed him in favour of the original. The features of Spano-Mexican type--so unlike those he had been accustomed to in his own country--had vividly impressed him. Gazing upon it he had almost felt love for the likeness. Then the description of the young girl given by her brother, with the incidents that led to friendly relations between him and Colonel Miranda, all had contributed to sow the seed of a tender sentiment in the heart of the young Kentuckian. It had not died out. Neither time nor absence had obliterated it. Far off--even when occupied with the pressing claims of business--that portrait-face had often appeared upon the retina of his memory, and often also in the visions of dreamland. Now that he has looked upon it in reality--sees it in all its blazing beauty, surrounded by scenes picturesque as its own expression, amid incidents romantic as his fancy could conjure up--now that he knows it as the face of her who has saved his life, is it any wonder the slight, tender sentiment first kindled by the painted picture should become stronger at the sight of the living original? It has done this--become a passion that pervade his soul, filling his whole heart. All the more from its being the first he has ever felt-- the first love of his life. And for this also all the more does he tremble as he thinks of the possibility of its being unreciprocated. He has been calculating the chances in his favour every hour since consciousness returned to him. And from some words heard in that very hour has he derived greater pleasure, and draws more hope than from aught that has occurred since. Constantly does he recall that soliloquy, speech spoken under the impression that it did not reach his ears. There has been nothing afterwards--neither word nor deed--to give him proof he is beloved. The lady has been a tender nurse--a hostess apparently solicitous for the happiness of her guest--nothing more. Were the words she had so thoughtlessly spoken unfelt, and without any particular meaning? Or was the speech but an allusion, born from the still lingering distemper of his brain? He yearns to know the truth. Every hour that he remains ignorant of it, he is in torture equalling that of Tantalus. Yet he fears to ask, lest in the answer he may have a painful revelation. He almost envies Walt Wilder his commonplace love, its easy conquest, and somewhat grotesque declaration. He wishes he could propose with like freedom, and receive a similar response. His comrade's success should embolden him; but does not. There is no parallelism between the parties. Thus he delays seeking the knowledge he most desires to possess, through fear it may afflict him. Not from any lack of opportunity. Since almost all the time is he left alone with her he so worships. Nothing stands in his way--no zealous watchfulness of a brother. Don Valerian neglects every step of fraternal duty--if to take such ever occurred to him. His time is fully occupied in roving around the valley, or making more distant excursions, in the companionship of the _ci-devant_ Ranger, who narrates to him a strange chapter in the life-lore of the prairies. When Walt chances to be indoors, he has companion of his own, which hinder him from too frequently intruding upon his comrade. Enough for him the company of Conchita. Hamersley has equally as little to dread the intrusion of Don Prospero. Absorbed in his favourite study of Nature, the ex-army surgeon passes most of his hours in communion with her. More than half the day is he out of doors, chasing lizards into their crevices among the rocks, impaling insects on the spikes of the wild maguey plant, or plucking such flowers as seem new to the classified list of the botanist. In these tranquil pursuits he is perhaps happier than all around--even those whose hearts throb with that supreme passion, full of sweetness, but too often bringing bitterness. So ever near the shrine of his adoration, having it all to himself, Hamersley worships on, but in silence. CHAPTER FORTY TWO. A DANGEROUS DESIGN. At length the day, the hour, is at hand when the young Kentuckian purposes taking departure. He does not anticipate this with pleasure. On the contrary, the prospect gives him pain. In that sequestered spot he could linger long--for ever, if Adela Miranda were to be with him. He is leaving it with reluctance, and would stay longer now, but that he is stirred by a sense of duty. He has to seek justice for the assassination of his teamsters, and, if possible, punish their assassins. To obtain this he intends going on to the Del Norte--if need be, to Albuquerque itself. The information given by the ex-commandant, with all the suspicious circumstances attending, have determined him how to act. He intends calling Uraga to account; but not by the honourable action of a duel, but in a court of justice, if such can be found in New Mexico. "If it turns out as we have been conjecturing," he says, in conversation with Miranda, "I shall seek the scoundrel in his own stronghold. If he be not there, I shall follow him elsewhere--ay, all over Mexico." "Hyar's one'll be wi' ye in that chase," cries the ex-Ranger, coming up at the moment. "Yis, Frank, go wi' ye to the heart o' Mexiko, plum centre; to the halls o' the Montezoomas, if ye like, enywhar to be in at the death o' a skunk like that." "Surely, Colonel Miranda," continues Hamersley, gratified, though not carried away by his old comrade's enthusiastic offer of assistance, "surely there is law in your land sufficient to give redress for such an outrage as that." "My dear Don Francisco," replies the Mexican, tranquilly twirling a cigarrito between his fingers, "there is law for those who have the power and money to obtain it. In New Mexico, as you must yourself know, might makes right; and never more than at this present time. Don Manuel Armijo is once more the governor of my unfortunate fatherland. When I tell you that he rose to his present position by just such a crime as that we've been speaking of, you may then understand the sort of law administered under his rule. Manuel Armijo was a shepherd, employed on one occasion to drive a flock of thirty thousand sheep--the property of his employer, the Senor Chavez--to the market Chihuahua. While crossing the Jornado del Muerte, he and one or two confederates, whom he had put up to his plan, disguised themselves as Apache Indians, attacked their fellow sheep-drivers, murdered them, and made themselves masters of the flock. Then pulling the plumes from their heads, and washing the paint off their faces, they drove their muttons to a different market, sold them, and returned to Chavez to tell a tale of Indian spoliation, and how they themselves had just escaped with their scalps. This is the true history of General Don Manuel Armijo, Governor of New Mexico; at least that of his first beginnings. With such and many similar deeds since, is it likely he would look with any other than a lenient eye on the doings of Gil Urago, his imitator? No, senor, not even if you could prove the present commandant of Albuquerque, in full, open court, to have been the individual who robbed yourself and murdered your men." "I shall try, for all that," rejoins Hamersley, his heart wrung with sorrow at the remembrance of his slaughtered comrades, and bursting with the bitter thought of justice thus likely to be obstructed. "Don't suppose Colonel Miranda, that I intend resting my cause on the clemency of Don Manuel Armijo, or any chance of right to be expected at his hands. There's a wide stretch of desert between the United States and Mexico, but not wide enough to hinder the American eagle from flapping its wings across, and giving protection to all who have a right to claim it, even to a poor prairie trader. A thousand thanks, Colonel Miranda. I owe you that for twice saving my life, and now for setting me on the track of him who has twice endangered it. No use your trying to dissuade me. I shall go in search of this _forban_ direct to the valley of the Del Norte. Don't fear that I shall fail in obtaining justice, whatever Don Manuel Armijo may do to defeat it." "Well, if you are determined I shall not hold out against you. Only I fear your errand may be fruitless, if not worse. The two mules are at your service, and you can leave them at a place I shall indicate. When Manuel returns I shall send him to bring them back." "Possibly I may bring them myself. I do not intend making stay in New Mexico; only long enough to communicate with the American Consul at Santa Fe, and take some preliminary steps for the end in view. Then I shall return to the--States to lay the whole affair before our Government." "And you think of coming this way?" "Walt, here, has been making explorations down the stream that runs through this valley; he has no doubt about its being one of the heads of the Red River of Louisiana, if not the Texan Brazos. By keeping down it we can reach the frontier settlements of Texas, then on to the States." "I'm glad you intend returning this way. It will give us the pleasure of soon again seeing you." "Colonel Miranda," rejoins Hamersley, in a tone that tells of something on his mind, a proposition he would make to his host, and feels delicacy in declaring it, "in coming back by the Llano Estacado I have another object in view besides the idea of a direct route." "What other object, _amago mio_?" "The hope of inducing you to accompany me to the States--you and yours." "Senor Don Francisco, 'tis exceedingly kind of you. But the period of our banishment may not be long. I've had late news from our friends, telling me things are taking a turn and the political wheel must soon make another revolution, the present party going below. Then I get back to my country, returning triumphant. Meanwhile we are happy enough here, and I think safe." "In the last I disagree with you. I'm sorry to say, but have reasons. Now that I know the real character of this ruffian Uraga--his deeds actually done, and others we suspect--he's just the man who'll leave no stone unturned to discover your hiding place. He has more than one motive for doing so, but one that will move him to follow you here into the desert--aye, to the uttermost end of the earth!" The motive in the speaker's mind is Uraga's desire to possess Adela. After a pause, this though: passing him, he adds,-- "No, Don Valerian, you are not safe here." Then, continuing,-- "How know you that your servant Manuel has not been recognised while executing some of those errands on which you've sent him; or that the man himself may not turn traitor? I confess, from what I've seen of the fellow, he has not favourably impressed me." The words make an impression upon Miranda anything but pleasant. It is not the first time for him to have the thought suggested by them. More than once has he entertained suspicions about the peon's fidelity. It is possible the man might prove traitor; if not then, at some future time--aye, and probable, too, considering the reward offered for the exile's head. Miranda, knowing and now thinking of it, admits the justice of his friend's fear. More; he sees cause for raising alarm. So does Don Prospero, who, at the moment coming up, takes part in the conference. It ends in the refugees resolving to stay in the valley till Hamersley and Walt can return to them; then to forsake that asylum, no longer deemed safe, and retire to one certainly so--the land over which waves a flag powerful to protect its citizens and give the same to their friends--the Star-spangled Banner. CHAPTER FORTY THREE. THE LAST APPEAL. "I have news for you, _nina_." It is Colonel Miranda speaking to his sister, shortly after the conversation reported. "What news, Valerian?" "Well, there are two sorts of them." "Both good, I hope." "Not altogether; one will be pleasant to you, the other, perhaps, a little painful." "In that case they should neutralise one another; anyhow, let me hear them." "I shall tell the pleasant ones first. We shall soon have an opportunity of leaving this lonely place." "Do you call that good news? I rather think it the reverse. What will the bad be?" "But, dear Adela, our life here, away from all society, has been a harsh experience--to you a terrible one." "In that, _hermano mio_, you're mistaken. You know I don't care a straw for what the world calls society--never did. I prefer being free from its stupid restraints and silly conventionalities. Give me Nature for my companion--ay, in her wildest scenes and most surly moods." "Surely you've had both to a surfeit." "Nothing of the kind; I'm not tired of Nature yet. I have never been happier than in this wilderness home. How different from my convent school--my prison, I should rather call it! Oh, it is charming! and if I were to have my way, it should never come to an end. But why do you talk of leaving this place? Do you suppose the troubles are over, and we can return safely? I don't wish to go there, brother. After what has happened, I hate New Mexico, and would prefer staying in the Llano Estacado." "I have no thought of going back to New Mexico." "Where, then, brother?" "In the very opposite direction--to the United States. Don Francisco advises me to do so; and I have yielded to his counsel." Adela seems less disposed to offer opposition. She no longer protests against the change of residence. "Dear sister," he continues, "we cannot do better. There seems little hope of our unfortunate country getting rid of her tyrants--at least, for some time to come. When the day again arrives for our patriots to pronounce, I shall know it in time to be with them. Now, we should only think of our safety. Although I don't wish to alarm you, I've never felt it quite safe here. Who knows, but that Uraga may yet discover our hiding-place? He has his scouts searching in all directions. Every time Manuel makes a visit to the settlements, I have fear of his being followed back. Therefore, I think it will be wiser for us to carry out our original design, and go on to the American States." "Do you intend accompanying Don Francisco?" She listens eagerly for an answer. "Yes; but not now. It will be some time before he can return to us." "He is going home first, and will then come back?" "Not home--not to his home." "Where, then?" "That is the news I thought might be painful. He has resolved upon going on to our country for reasons already known to you. We suspect Uraga of having been at the head of the red robbers who have plundered him and killed his people. He is determined to find out and punish the perpetrators of that foul deed. It will be difficult; nay, more, there will be danger in his attempting it--I've told him so." "Dear brother, try to dissuade him!" If Hamersley could but hear the earnest tone in which the appeal is spoken it would give him gratification. "I have tried, but to no purpose. It is not the loss of his property-- he is generous, and does not regard it. His motive is a nobler, a holier one. His comrades have been murdered; he says he will seek the assassins and obtain redress, even at the risk of sacrificing his own life." "A hero! Who could not help loving him?" Adela does not say this aloud, nor to her brother. It is a thought, silent within the secret recesses of her own heart. "If you wish," continues the colonel, "I will see him, and again try to turn him from this reckless course; though I know there is little hope. Stay! a thought strikes me, sister. Suppose you speak to him. A woman's words are more likely to be listened to; and I know that yours will have great weight with him. He looks upon you as the saviour of his life, and may yield to your request." "If you think so, Valerian--" "I do. I see him coming this way. Remain where you are. I shall send him in to you." With a heart heaving and surging, Hamersley stands in the presence of her, the sole cause of its tumultuous excitement. For he has been summoned thither in a manner that somewhat surprises him. "Don Francisco, my sister wishes a word with you," is the speech of Colonel Miranda, an invitation promptly responded to. What is to be the import of his interview, unexpected, unsought, apparently commanded? He asks himself this question as he proceeds towards the place where she stands waiting to receive him. Coming up to her, he says,-- "Senorita, your brother has told me you wish to speak with me?" "I do," she replies, without quail in her look or quiver in her voice. In returning her glance Hamersley feels as if his case is hopeless. That very day he had thought of proposing to her. It almost passes from his mind. So cool, she cannot care for him. He remains silent, leaving her to proceed. "Senor, it is about your going to the Rio del Norte. My brother tells me such is your intention. We wish you not to go, Don Francisco. There is danger in your doing it." "It is my duty." "In what respect? Explain yourself!" "My brave comrades have been slain--assassinated. I have reason to believe that in the town of Albuquerque I may discover their assassins-- at all events their chief, and perhaps bring him to justice. I intend trying, if it costs me my life." "Do you reflect what your life is worth?" "To me not much." "It may be to others. You have at home a mother, brothers, and sisters. Perhaps one dearer?" "No--not at home." "Elsewhere, then?" He is silent under this searching inquisition. "Do you think that danger to your life would be unhappiness to her's-- your death her life's misery?" "My dishonour should be more, as it would to myself. It is not vengeance I seek against those who have murdered my men, only to bring them to justice. I must do that, or else proclaim myself a poltroon--I feel myself one--a self-accusation that would give me a life-long remorse. No, Senorita Adela. It is kind of you to take an interest in my safety. I already owe you my life; but I cannot permit you to save it again, at the sacrifice of honour, of duty, of humanity." Hamersley fancies himself being coldly judged and counselled with indifference. Could he know the warm, wild admiration struggling in the breast of her who counsels him, he would make rejoinder in different fashion. Soon after he talks in an altered tone, and with changed understanding. So also does she, hitherto so difficult of comprehension. "Go!" she cries. "Go and get redress of your wrongs, justice for your fallen comrades; and if you can, the punishment of their assassins. But remember! if it brings death to you, there is one who will not care to live after." "Who?" he asks, springing forward, with heart on fire and eyes aflame. "Who?" He scarce needs to put the question. It is already answered by the emphasis on her last words. But it is again replied to, this time in a more tranquil tone; the long, dark lashes of the speaker veiling her eyes as she pronounces her own name,-- "_Adela Miranda_!" From poverty to riches, from a dungeon to bright daylight, from the agonising struggle of drowning to that confident feeling when the feet stand firm upon terra firma--all these are sensations of a pleasantly-exciting kind. They are dull in comparison with that delirious joy, the lot of the despairing lover on finding that his despair has been all a fancy, and that his passion is reciprocated. Such a joy thrills through Hamersley's breast as he hears the name pronounced. It is like a cabalistic speech, throwing open to him the portals of Paradise. CHAPTER FORTY FOUR. A MYSTERIOUS MESSAGE. As is known, Hamersley's suspicions about the treachery of the peon are not without cause. On the contrary, they might seem second-sight. For, almost at the moment he is communicating them to Colonel Miranda, the native is telling his tale to Uraga. Nor does the latter lose much time in acting upon the information gained--only that short interlude given to exultation as he stepped up to the portrait of Adela Miranda, and stood triumphantly regarding the likeness of her he now looks upon as sure to be his. He has no hope to get possession of her by fair means; foul are alone in his thoughts. After delivering his half-frenzied apostrophe to the painted image, he returns to the table, beside which Roblez has already taken a seat. They re-fill their glasses, and drink the toasts specified, with a ceremony in strange contrast to the hellish glee sparkling in the eyes of the Lancer-Colonel. His countenance beams with triumph, such as might be shown by Satan over the ruin of innocence. For he now feels sure of his victims--alike that of his love as well as those of his revenge. Not long does he remain over his cups in the company of his subordinate. He has an important matter upon his mind which calls for reflection--in silence and by himself. Though often admitting his adjutant to a share in his criminal schemes, the participation is only in their profits and the act of execution. Despotic even in his villainies, he keeps the planning to himself, for he has secrets even Roblez must not know. And now an idea has dawned upon his mind, a purpose he does not care to communicate to the subaltern till such time as may be necessary or seem fit to him. Not that he dreads treachery on the part of his fellow freebooter. They are mutually compromised, and long have been; too much to tell tales about one another. Besides, Roblez, though a man of undoubted courage, of the coarse, animal kind, has, neverthless, a certain moral dread of his commanding officer, and fears to offend him. He knows Gil Uraga to be one whose hostility, once provoked, will stop short at nothing, leave no means untried to take retribution--this of a terrible kind. Hence a control which the colonel holds over him beyond that drawn from his superior military rank. Hence, also, his receiving but a small share in the proceeds of their various robberies, and his being satisfied with this, or, at all events, seeming so. On his side, Uraga has several motives for not letting his subordinate into the knowledge of all his complicated schemes; among them one springing from a moral peculiarity. He is of a strangely-constituted nature, secretive to the last degree--a quality or habit in which he prides himself. It is his delight to practice it whenever the opportunity offers; just as the thief and detective officer take pleasure in their respective callings beyond the mere prize to be derived from their exercise. The intelligence just received from the traitorous mule-driver, unexpected as pleasing, has opened to him the prospect of a grand success. It may enable him to strike a _coup_ covering all--alike giving gratification to his love, as his hate. But the blow must needs be dealt deftly. There are circumstances to be considered and precautions taken, not only to prevent its failing, but secure against a publicity that might cause scandal to himself, to say naught of consequent danger. And it must be struck soon--at once. It is too ticklish a matter to admit of delay, either in the design or execution. Already has the matter flitted before his mind in its general outlines; almost soon as receiving the report of the peon. It is only the details that remain for consideration; and these he intends considering alone, without any aid from his adjutant. As time is an object, he speedily terminates his carousal with the subaltern; who, dismissed, returns to the military _cuartel_. Soon as he is gone the colonel again seats himself, and lighting a fresh cigar, continues smoking. For several minutes he remains silent, his eyes turned upwards, and his features set in a smile. One might fancy him but watching the smoke of his cigar as it rises in spiral wreaths to the ceiling. He is occupied with no such innocent amusement. On the contrary, his grim smile betokens meditation deep and devilish. He is mentally working out a problem, a nefarious scheme, which will ere long bear evil fruit. As the cigar grows shorter he seems to draw nearer to his conclusions. And when at length there is only the stump between his teeth, he spits it out; and, taking a hand-bell from the table, rings until a domestic appears in the doorway in answer to the summons. "Call in the guard-corporal!" is the order received by the servant, who withdraws without saying a word. Soon the soldier shows himself, saluting as he enters the door. "_Cabo_! Bring your prisoner before me." The corporal retires, and shortly after returns, having the Indian in charge. He is commanded to leave the latter, and himself remain waiting without. Directed also to close the door; which he does on getting outside. Thus closeted with the peon--still wondering why he has been made a prisoner--Uraga submits him to a process of examination, which elicits from the scared creature everything he seeds to know. Among the rest, he makes himself acquainted with the situation of the valley, where the exiles have found temporary asylum; the direction, distance, and means of access to it--in short, its complete topography. With all the Indian is familiar, can correctly describe it, and does so. In that imposing presence he dare not attempt deception, even if inclined. But he is not. Between questioner and questioned the aim and end are similar, if not the same. Besides, the peon's blood has again been warmed up, and his tongue set loose, by a fresh infusion of aguardiente--so that his confessions are full as free. He tells about the life led by the Mexican refugees, as also their American guests--all he knows, and this is nearly everything. For trusted, unsuspected, he has had every opportunity to learn. The only thing concealed by him is his own love affair with Conchita and its disastrous ending, through the intrusion of the Texan Ranger. This, if told, would give his listener slight concern, alongside the grave impressions made upon him by another affair; some particulars of which the peon communicates. These points refer to tender relations existing between the young prairie trader and Adela Miranda, almost proving their existence. Confirmed or not, on hearing of them Gil Uraga receives a shock which sends the blood rushing in quick current through his veins; while upon his countenance comes an expression of such bitter malignity, that the traitor, in fear for his own safety, repents having told him. But Uraga has no spite against him--no motive for having it. On the contrary, he intends rewarding him, after he gets out of him certain other services for which he is to be retained. When his cross-questioning is at length brought to a close, he is once more committed to the charge of the guard-corporal, with orders to be returned to the prison. At the same time a hint is given him that his incarceration is only precautionary, with a promise it will not be for long. Immediately after his removal, Uraga seats himself before an escritoire, which stands on one side of the room. Laying open the lid, he spreads a sheet of paper upon it, and commences to write what appears an epistle. Whatever it is, the composition occupies some considerable time. Occasionally he stops using the pen, as though pondering what to put down. When it is at length completed, apparently to his satisfaction, he folds the sheet, thrusts a stick of wax into the flame of a candle, and seals the document, but without using any seal-stamp. A small silver coin taken from his pocket makes the necessary impression. There does not appear to be any name appended to the epistle, if one it is; and the superscription shows only two words, without any address. The words are "El Barbato." Again ringing the bell, the same servant answers it. "Go to the stables," commands his master, "or the corral, or wherever he may be, and tell Pedrillo I want him. Be quick about it!" The man bows and disappears. "It will take them--how many days to reach the Tenawas' town, and how many back to the Pecos?" soliloquises Uraga, pacing the floor, as he makes his calculations. "Three, four, five. No matter. If before them we can wait till they come. Pedrillo!" Pedrillo has put in an appearance. He is an Indian of the tame sort, not greatly differing from the man Manuel, with a countenance quite as forbidding. But we have seen Pedrillo before; since he was one of the two muleteers who conducted the _atajo_ transporting the spoil from the caravan of the prairie traders. "Pedrillo," directs the Colonel, "catch a couple of the best roadsters in the corral--one for yourself, the other for Jose. Have them saddled, and get yourselves ready for a journey of two weeks, or so. Make all haste with your preparations. When ready, come here, and report yourself." The muleteer disappears, and Uraga continues to pace the floor, apparently yet busied with a mental measurement of time and distance. At intervals he stops before the portrait on the wall, and for a second or two gazes at it. This seems to increase his impatience for the man's reappearance. He has not a great while to wait. The scrip and staff of a New Mexican traveller of Pedrillo's kind is of no great bulk or complexity. It takes but a short time to prepare it. A few _tortillas_ and _frijoles_, a head or two of _chile Colorado_, half a dozen onions, and a bunch of _tasojo_--jerked beef. Having collected these comestibles, and filled his _xuaje_, or water gourd, Pedrillo reports himself ready for the road, or trail, or whatever sort of path, and on whatever errand, it may please his master to despatch him. "You will go straight to the Tenawa town--Horned Lizard's--on the south branch of the Goo-al-pah. You can find your way to the place, Pedrillo. You've been there before?" The Indian nods an affirmative. "Take this." Here Uraga hands him the sealed paper. "See you show it to no one you may chance to meet passing out from the settlements. Give it to Barbato, or hand it to the Horned Lizard himself. He'll know who it's for. You are to ride night and day, as fast as the animals can carry you. When you've delivered it you needn't wait, but come back-- not here, but to the Alamo. You know the place--where we met the Tenawas some weeks ago. You will find me there. _Vaya_!" On receiving these instructions Pedrillo vanishes from, the room; a strange sinister glance in his oblique Indian eyes telling that he knows himself to be once more--what he has often been--an emissary of evil. Uraga takes another turn across the floor, then, seating himself by the table, seeks rest for his passion-tossed soul by drinking deep of the _mescal_ of Tequila. CHAPTER FORTY FIVE. THE STAKED PLAIN. The elevated table-land known as Llano Estacado is in length over three hundred miles, with an average width of sixty or seventy. It extends longitudinally between the former Spanish provinces of New Mexico and Texas; their respective capitals, Santa Fe and San Antonia de Bejar, being on the opposite side of it. In the days of vice-royal rule, a military road ran across it, connecting the two provincial centres, and mule trains of traders passed to and fro between. As this road was only a trail, often obliterated by the drifting sands of the desert, tall stakes were set up at intervals to indicate the route. Hence the name "Llano Estacado"--literally, Staked Plain. In those days Spain was a strong, enterprising nation, and her Mexican colonists could travel over most parts of their vast territory without fear of being assaulted by the savages. At a later period, when Spanish power began to decline, all this became changed. Cities fell to ruin, settlements were deserted, mission establishments abandoned, and in the provinces of Northern Mexico white travellers had to be cautious in keeping to the most frequented roads, in some districts not daring even to venture beyond the walls of their haciendas or towns. Many of these were fortified against Indian attack, and are so to this day. Under these circumstances the old Spanish trail across the Staked Plain fell into disuse; its landmarks became lost, and of late years only expeditions of the United States army have traversed it for purposes of exploration. In physical aspect it bears resemblance to the table lands of Abyssinia and Southern Arabia, and at its northern end many outlying spurs and detached _mesas_ remind the traveller of the Abyssinian hills--known as _ambas_. A portion of this singular territory belongs to the great gypsum formation of the south-western prairies, perhaps the largest in the world; while a highly-coloured sandstone of various vivid hues, often ferruginous, forms a conspicuous feature in its cliffs. Along its eastern edge these present to the lower champaign of Texas a precipitous escarpment several hundred feet sheer, in long stretches, tending with an unbroken facade, in other places showing ragged, where cleft by canons, through which rush torrents, the heads of numerous Texan streams. Its surface is, for the most part, a dead horizontal level, sterile as the Sahara itself, in places smooth and hard as a macadamised road. Towards its southern end there is a group of _medanos_ (sandhills), covering a tract of several hundred square miles, the sand ever drifting about, as with _dunes_ on the seashore. High up among their summits is a lakelet of pure drinking water, though not a drop can be found upon the plateau itself for scores of miles around. Sedge and lilies grow by this tarn so singularly situated. Here and there the plain is indented by deep fissures (_barrancas_), apparently the work of water. Often the traveller comes upon them without sign or warning of their proximity, till, standing on the edge of a precipitous escarpment, he sees yawning below a chasm sunk several hundred feet into the earth. In its bed may be loose boulders piled in chaotic confusion, as if cast there by the hands of Titans; also trunks of trees in a fossilised state such as those observed by Darwin on the eastern declivity of the Chilian Andres. Nearly all the streams that head in the Staked Plain cut deep channels in their way to the outer world. These are often impassable, either transversely or along their course. Sometimes, however, their beds are worn out into little valleys, or "coves," in which a luxuriant vegetation finds shelter and congenial soil. There flourish the pecan, the hackberry, the black walnut, the wild china, with evergreen oaks, plums, and clustering grapevines; while in the sterile plain above are only seen those forms of the botanical world that truly indicate the desert--various species of cactaceae, agaves, and yuccas--the palmilla and lechuguilla, dwarf-cedars, and mezquites, artemisia, and the strong-smelling larrea, or "creosote plant." Animals are rare upon the Llano Estacado, although the prong-horn antelope--true denizen of the desert--is there found, as also its enemy, the Mexican jackal, or coyote. To the rattlesnake and horned lizard (_agama_) it is a congenial home; and the singular snake-bird (_paisano_) may frequently be seen running over the arid waste, or skulking through the tortuous stems of the nopals. In the canons of the stream the grizzly bear makes his haunt, and in times not long gone by it was ascended and traversed by the unwieldy buffalo. The wild horse (_musteno_) still occasionally courses across it. Of all the living things it is least frequented by man. Even the Indian rarely strays into its solitudes; and the white man, when necessitated to enter them, does so with fear and trembling, for he knows there is danger. This is chiefly due to the absence of water; but there is also the chance of going astray--getting lost in the absence of landmarks. To be astray in a wilderness of any kind is a perilous predicament for the traveller--in one without water it is death. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ After their affair with the Tenawas, the Texan Rangers directed their course towards the Llano Estacado. On starting, it was their intention to strike north, and get upon the main stream of the Canadian, then follow it up to the place where the prairie traders met their murderous doom. From the country of the Tenawa Comanches this would be the correct route, and was the same taken by these freebooters returning with the spoils of the caravan. But from the mouth of the Pecan Creek is one more direct, leading across a spur of the plateau itself, instead of turning its north-eastern extremity. It was not known to the Rangers, though Cully remembered having heard something about it. But the Mexican renegade declared himself familiar with, and counselled taking it. There had been hesitation before acceding to his counsel. Of course, they could have no confidence in such a man, but rather suspicion of all he said or did. In guiding them across the Staked Plain he might have some sinister purpose--perhaps lead them into a trap. After all, how could he? The tribe of savages with which he had been consorting was now so terribly chastised, so effectually crushed, it was not probable--scarce possible--they would be encountered again. Certainly not for a season. For weeks there would be weeping and wailing in the tents of the Tenawas. If the renegade had any hope of being rescued from his present captivity, it could not be by them. He might have some thought of escape, taking the Rangers by the route he proposed to them. On this score they had no apprehension--not the slightest. Suspicious, they would keep close watch upon him; shoot him down like a dog at the first sign of his attempting to deceive them. And, as Cully remembered having heard of this trail over the Staked Plain, it was most probable the Mexican had no other object than to bring them to the end of their journey in the shortest time and straightest course. All knew it would be a near cut, and this decided them in its favour. After parting from Pecan Creek, with their faces set westward, they had a journey before them anything but easy or pleasant. On the contrary, one of the most difficult and irksome. For it lay across a sterile tract--the great gypsum bed of North-western Texas, on which abut the bluffs of the Llano Estacado. Mile after mile, league after league; no "land in sight," to use a prairie-man's phrase--nothing but level plain, smooth as a sleeping sea; but, unlike the last, without water--not a sheet to cheer their eyes, not a drop to quench the thirst, almost choking them. Only its resemblance, seen in the white mist always moving over these arid plains--the deluding, tantalising mirage. Lakes lay before them, their shores garlanded by green trees, their bosoms enamelled with islets smiling in all the verdure of spring--always before them, ever receding; the trees, as the water, never to be reached! Water they do arrive at more than once--streams rushing in full flow across the barren waste. At sight they ride towards them rapidly. Their horses need not to be spurred. The animals suffer as themselves, and rush on with outstretched necks, eager to assuage their thirst. They dip their muzzles, plunge in their heads till half-buried, only to draw out again and toss them aloft with snorts of disappointment shaking the water like spray from their nostrils. It is salt! For days they have been thus journeying. They are wearied, worn down by fatigue, hungry; but more than all, tortured by the terrible thirst-- their horses as themselves. The animals have become reduced in flesh and strength; they look like skeletons staggering on, scarce able to carry their riders. Where is the Mexican conducting them? He has brought them into a desert. Is the journey to end in their death? It looks like enough. Some counsel killing him, and returning on their tracks. Not all; only a minority. The majority cry "Onward!" with a thought beyond present suffering. They must find the bones of Walt Wilder and bury them! Brave men, true men, these Texan Rangers! Rough in outward appearance, often rude in behaviour, they have hearts gentle as children. Of all friends the most faithful, whether it be affection or pure _camaraderie_. In this case a comrade has been killed--cruelly murdered, and in a strange manner. Its very strangeness has maddened them the more, while sharpening their desire to have a last look at his remains, and give them Christian burial. Only the fainthearted talk of retreating; the others do not think of it, and these are more than the majority. On, therefore, they ride across treeless, grassless tracks; along the banks of streams, of whose bitter, saline waters they cannot drink, but tantalising themselves and their animals. On, on! Their perseverance is at length rewarded. Before their eyes looms up a line of elevated land, apparently the profile of a mountain. But no; it cannot be that. Trending horizontally, without curvature, against the sky, they know it is not a mountain, but a mesa--a table-land. It is the Llano Estacado. Drawing nearer, they get under the shadow of its beetling bluffs. They see that these are rugged, with promontories projecting far out over the plain, forming what Spanish Americans, in their expressive phraseology, call _ceja_. Into an embayment between two of the out-stretching spurs Barbato conducts them. Joyously they ride into it, like ships long storm-tossed entering a haven of safety; for at the inner end of the concavity there is a cleft in the precipitous wall, reaching from base to summit, out of which issues a stream whose waters are sweet! It is a branch of the Brazos River, along whose banks they have been some time travelling, lower down finding its waters bitter as gall. That was in its course through the selenite. Now they have reached the sandstone it is clear as crystal, and to them sweeter than champagne. "Up it lies our way," says the renegade guide, pointing to the portals of the canon through which the stream debouched from the table to the lower plain. But for that night the Rangers care hot to travel further. There is no call for haste. They are _en route_ to bury the bones of a dead man, not to rescue one still living. CHAPTER FORTY SIX. A BRILLIANT BAND. Just as the Texan Rangers are approaching the Staked Plain on its eastern edge, another body of horsemen, about their equal in number, ascends to the same plateau, coming from the very opposite direction-- the west. Only in point of numbers, and that both are on horseback, is there any similitude between the two troops. Individually they are unlike as human beings could be; for most of those composing the Texan party are great, strapping fellows, fair-haired, and of bright complexions; whereas they coming in the counter direction are all, or nearly all, small men, with black hair and sallow visage--many of them dark as Indians. Between the horses of the two troops there is a proportionate disparity in size; the Texans bestriding animals of nearly sixteen hands in height, while they approaching from the west are mounted on Mexican mustangs, few over fourteen. One alone at their head, evidently their leader, rides a large American horse. In point of discipline the second troop shows superiority. It is a military organisation _pur sang_, and marches in regular formation, while the men composing it are armed and uniformed alike. Their uniform is that of Mexican lancers, very similar to the French, their arms the same. And just such are they; the lancers of Colonel Uraga, himself at their head. Having crossed the Rio Pecos bottom, and climbed up the bluffs to the higher bench of the Llano Estacado, they strike out over the sterile plain. As it is early morning, and the air is chilly, they wear their ample cavalry cloaks of bright yellow cloth. These falling back over the flanks of their horses, with their square lancer caps, plumed, and overtopped by the points of the pennoned lances, give them an imposing martial appearance. Though it is but a detachment of not over fifty men--a single troop--riding by twos, the files stretch afar in shining array, its sheen all the more brilliant from contrast with the sombre sterility of the desert. A warlike sight, and worthy of admiration, if one knew it to be an expedition directed against the red pirates of the plains, _en route_ to chastise them for their many crimes--a long list of cruel atrocities committed upon the defenceless citizens of Chihuahua and New Mexico. But knowing it is not this--cognisant of its true purpose--the impression made is altogether different. Instead of admiration it is disgust; and, in place of sending up a prayer for its success, the spectator would feel apprehension, or earnestly desire its failure. Its purpose is anything but praiseworthy. On the contrary, sinister, as may be learnt by listening to the conversation of the two who ride at the head of the detachment, some paces in advance of the first file. They are its chief and his confidential second, the ruffian Roblez. Uraga is speaking. "Won't our worthy friend Miranda be surprised when he sees us riding up to the door of his _jacal_, with these fifty fellows behind us? And the old doctor, Don Prospero? I can fancy his quizzical look through those great goggle spectacles he used to wear. I suppose they are still on his nose; but they'll fly off as soon as he sees the pennons of our lances." "Ha! ha! ha! That will be a comical sight, colonel. But do you think Miranda will make any resistance?" "Not likely. I only wish he would." "Why do you wish that?" "_Ayadante_! you ask a stupid question. You ought to have a clearer comprehension in the brisk, bright atmosphere of this upland plain. It should make your brain more active." "Well, _Coronel mio_, you're the first man I ever saw on the way to make a prisoner who desired to meet resistance. _Carrambia_! I can't understand that." "I don't desire to make any prisoner--at least, not Don Valerian Miranda. For the old doctor, I shan't much care one way or the other. Living or dead, he can't do any great harm. Miranda I'd rather take dead." "Ah! now I think I comprehend you." "If he show the slightest resistance--raise but a hand--I shall have him that way." "Why can't you anyhow? Surely you can deal with him as you think proper--a refugee, a rebel?" "There you again show your want of sense. You've got a thick skull, _teniente_; and would be a bad counsellor in any case requiring skilful management. This is one of the kind, and needs the most delicate manipulation." "How so?" "For several reasons. Remember, Roblez, we're not now acting with the Horned Lizard and his painted freebooters. Our fellows here have eyes in their heads, and tongues behind their teeth. They might wag the latter to our disadvantage if we allowed the former to see anything not exactly on the square. And if we were to shoot or cut down Miranda, he not resisting, that would be a scandal I might have difficulty in suppressing. It would spread surely, go over the country, get to the ears of the Central Government, and return to New Mexico with a weight that might overwhelm me. Besides, _amigo mio_, it would spoil my plan in several respects--notably, that with the nina and others too numerous to mention. Of course, we'll kill him if we can, with fair pretext for doing so. But unless he show fight, we must take him alive, his guests along with him. I hope he will." "I think it likely you'll have your hopes. The two Americanos are not men to submit tamely. Remember how they fought at the attack on their waggon-train, and how they got off afterwards. They're a rough couple, and likely to give us anything but a smooth reception." "The rougher the better. That would be just as wanted, and we'll settle everything at once. If otherwise, I have my plan fixed and complete." "What is it, colonel?" "Not now. I'll tell you in the proper time. First to make experiment of what's immediately before us. If it succeed, we shall return this way with only women as our prisoners. If it fail, we'll have men--four of them. A word in your ear to content you for the while. Not one of the four will ever enter the prison of Albuquerque." "You intend sending them to some other?" "I do." "Where?" "A gaol from which there can be no escape--need I name it?" "You need not. There's but one will answer your description--the grave." With this solemn conjecture the _sotto voce_ conversation comes to a close, the ruffians riding at the head of their troop, far extending after, its files resembling the vertebrae of some grand glittering serpent on its way to seize a victim, the two in front fair types of its protruding poisonous fangs. CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN. A COMING CLOUD. Between lovers, those who truly love, the parting is ever painful Frank Hamersley, taking leave of Adela Miranda, feels this as does Walt Wilder separating from Conchita. There may be a difference in degree, in the intensity of their respective passions; perhaps also something in its character. Still the sentiment is the same. Both suffer at the thought of separation, feel it keenly. All the more as they reflect on what is before them--a prospect anything but cheerful. Clouds in the sky; many chances they may never see their loved ones again. No wonder they turn towards the Del Norte with gloom in their glances and dark forebodings in their breasts. Men of less loyal hearts, less prone to the promptings of humanity, would trifle and stay; spend longer time in a dalliance so surely agreeable, so truly delightful. Not so the young Kentuckian and his older companion, the Texan. Though the love of woman is enthroned in their hearts, each has kept a corner sacred to a sentiment almost as strong, and perhaps purer. The blood of their slaughtered comrades cries from the ground, from the sand through which they saw it filtering away. They cannot find peace without responding to its appeal; and for this even the fruition of their love is to be delayed. To seek retribution they must journey on to the settlements of the Del Norte; not sure of success on arrival there, but more likely to meet failure-- perhaps imprisonment. In this there would be nothing new or strange. They would not be the first Americans to suffer incarceration without cause in a New Mexican _calabozo_, and lie there for long years without trial. Once more Miranda represents the danger they are about to undergo. It does not daunt them. "No matter," is the reckless response. "Whatever be the consequences, go we will. We must." Thus determined to start off, after exchanging tender adieus with those left behind--two of them in tears. According to promise, Miranda has placed his mules at their disposal, and on these they are mounted. He has, moreover, furnished them with spare dresses from his wardrobe--costumes of his native country, which will enable them to travel through it without attracting attention. Starting at sunrise, it is still early morning when they reach the upper plain through the ravine between the two twin mountains. So far Colonel Miranda accompanies them, as also Don Prospero. There parting, the refugees return to the ranche, while the travellers strike out over the treeless waste, which spreads before their faces to the very verge of vision. They have no landmark to guide them, neither rock nor tree; but the sky is without a cloud, and there is a sun in it gleaming like a globe of fire. To the experienced prairie man this is sufficient for telling every point of the compass, and they but want one. Their course is due west till they strike the Pecos; then along its bank to the crossing, thence west again through the Sierras, and on to Santa Fe. Keeping the sun slightly on the left shoulder, they journey till near noon, when a dark object, seen a little to the right, attracts them. Not to surprise, for they well know what it is--a grove. They can tell, too, that the trees composing it are oaks, of the species known as black-jack. Notwithstanding their stunted growth, the black-jacks are umbrageous, and give good shade. Though the sun has not yet reached meridian, its rays are of meridian heat, and strike down with fiery fervour on the surface of the parched plain. This determines them to seek the shelter of the grove, and there make their noontide halt. It is a little but of their way; but, far as they can see ahead, no other spot offers a chance of protection against the burning beams. The grove is a mere copse, covering scarce half an acre, and the topmost branches rise but a few feet above their heads. Still is there shade, both for them and their animals; and cover, should they require to conceal themselves--the last a fortunate circumstance, as is soon proved. Equally fortunate their not having need to kindle a fire. In their haversacks they carry provisions already cooked. Dismounting, they lead their males in among the trees, and there make them secure by looping the bridles to a branch. Then, laying themselves along the earth, they eat their midday meal, pull out their pipes, and follow it with a smoke. With little thought, they are burning the last bit of tobacco which remained to the refugees. At parting, their generous host, to comfort them on their journey, presented them with the ultimate ounce of his stock; with true Spanish politeness saying nothing of this. As they lie watching the blue film curling up among the branches of the black-jacks, as little do they reflect how fortunate for them it is not the smoke of a fire, nor visible at any great distance. Were it so, there would not be much likelihood of their ever reaching the Del Norte or leaving the Llano Estacado alive. Not dreaming of danger in that desolate place--at least none caused by human kind--they remain tranquilly pulling at their pipes, now conversing of the past, anon speculating about their plans for the future. Three or four hours elapse; the sun having crossed the meridian, begins to stoop lower. Its rays fall less fervently, and they think of continuing their journey. They have "unhitched" the mules, led them out to the edge of the copse, and are standing by the stirrup, ready to remount, when an object catches the quick eye of the ex-Ranger, causing him to utter a sharp ejaculation. Something seen west, the way they want to go. Pointing it out to Hamersley, the two stand observing. No great scrutiny needed to tell them 'tis a cloud of dust, although in breadth not bigger than a blanket. But while they are regarding it it gradually spreads out, at the same time showing higher above the surface of the plain. It may be a swirl of the wind acting on the dry sand of the desert--the first commencement of a regular whirlwind--a thing common on the table lands of New Mexico. But it has not the round pillar-like form of the _molino_, nor do they believe it to be one. Both are too well acquainted with this phenomenon to be deceived by its counterfeit. If they had any doubts, as they stand gazing these are resolved. The cloud presents a dense dark head, with a nucleus of something more solid than dust. And while guessing at the true character of this opaque central part, a circumstance occurs disclosing it. A puff of wind striking the dust causes it to swirl sideways, showing underneath a body of mounted men. Men, too, in military array, marching in double file, armed, uniformed, with lances borne erect, their blades glinting in the sun. "Sogers!" exclaims the ex-Ranger. CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT. DREAD CONJECTURES. It is Wilder who so emphatically proclaims the character of the cavalcade. He has no need, Hamersley having already made it out himself. "Yes; they are soldiers," he rejoins, mechanically, adding, "Mexican, as a matter of course. None of our troops ever stray this fair west. 'Tis out of United States territory. The Texans claim it. But those are not Texans: they are uniformed, and carry lances. Your old friends, the Rangers, don't affect that sort of thing." "No," responds Wilder, with a contemptuous toss of the head, "I shedn't think they did. We niver tuk to them long sticks; 'bout as much use as bean-poles. In coorse they're Mexikins, _lanzeeros_." "What can they be doing out here? There are no Indians on the Staked Plain. If there were, such a small party as that, taking it to be Mexican, would not be likely to venture after them." "Maybe it's only a advance guard, and thar's a bigger body behint. We shell soon see, as they're ridin' deerect this way. By the 'Tarnal, 'twon't do to let 'em sight us; leastwise, not till we've seen more o' them, an' know what sort they air. White men tho' they call themselves, I'd a'most as soon meet Injuns. They'd be sure to take us for Texans; and 'bout me there'd be no mistake in that. But they'd treet you the same, an' thar treetment ain't like to be civil. Pull yur mule well back among the bushes. Let's blind the brutes, or they may take it into their heads to squeal." The hybrids are led back into the grove, tied, and _zapadoed_--the last operation performed by passing a blanket, mask fashion, over their eyes. This done, the two men return to the edge of the copse, keeping themselves screened behind the outstanding trees. In their absence the moving cohort has drawn nearer, and still advances. But slowly, and, as when first sighted, enveloped in a cloud of dust. Only now and then, as the wind wafts this aside, can be distinguished the forms of the individuals composing it. Then but for an instant, the dust again drifting around them. Still the _nimbus_ draws nigher, and is gradually approaching the spot where the travellers had concealed themselves. At first only surprised at seeing soldiers on the Staked Plain, they soon become seriously alarmed. The troop is advancing towards the black-jack grove, apparently intending it for a place of bivouac; if so, there will be no chance for them to escape observation. The soldiers will scatter about, and penetrate every part of the copse. Equally idle to attempt flight on their slow-footed animals, pursued by over two score of cavalry horses. They can see no alternative but surrender, submit to be made prisoners, and receive such treatment as their captors may think fit to extend to them. While thus despairingly reflecting, they take note of something that restores their disturbed equanimity. It is the direction in which the Mexicans are marching. The cloud moving in slow, stately progress does not approach any nearer to the copse. Evidently the horsemen do not design halting there, but will ride past, leaving it on their left. They are, in truth, passing along the same path from which the travellers have late deflected; only in the counter direction. Now, for the first time, a suspicion occurs to Hamersley, shared by the Texan, giving both far greater uneasiness than if the soldiers were heading direct towards them. It is further intensified as a fresh spurt of the desert wind sweeps the dust away, displaying in clear light the line of marching horsemen. No question as to their character now. There they are, with their square-peaked corded caps, and plumes of horsehair; their pennoned spears sloped over their shoulders; their yellow cloaks folded and strapped over the cantles of their saddles; sabres lying along thighs, clinking against spurs and stirrups--all the picturesque panoply of lancers. It is not this that strikes dismay into the minds of those who are spectators, for it is now struck into their heart of hearts. On one figure of the cavalcade the eyes of both become fixed; he who rides at its head. Their attention had been first attracted to his horse, Wilder gasping out, soon as he set eyes on the animal, "Look yonner, Frank!" "At what?" "The fellur ridin' foremost. D'ye see the anymal he's on? It's the same we war obleeged to abandon on takin' to the rocks." "By heavens! my horse!" "Yurs, to a sartinty." "And his rider! The man I fought with at Chihuahua, the ruffian Uraga!" On recognising his antagonist in the duel, the Kentuckian gives out a groan. The Texan, too. For on both the truth flashes in all its fulness--all its terrible reality. It is not the possession of Hamersley's horse, identifying its rider with the destroyers of the caravan. That is nothing new, and scarce surprises them. What pains--agonises them--is the direction in which the soldiers are proceeding. They can have no doubt as to the purpose of the military march, or the point to which it is tending. "Yes," says Walt, "they're strikin' straight fur the valley, goin' 'ithout guess-work, too. Thar's a guide along, an' thar's been a treetur." "Who do you think?" "That Injun, Manoel. Ye remember he went on a errand 'bout a week ago, to fetch them some things that war needed. Instead, he's made diskivery o' the hidin' place o' his master, and sold that master's head. That's what he's did, sure." "It is," mutters Hamersley, in a tone that tells of affliction too deep for speech. Before his mind is a fearful forecast. Don Valerian a prisoner to Uraga and his ruffians--Don Prospero, too; both to be dragged back to Albuquerque and cast into a military prison. Perhaps worse still--tried by court-martial soon as captured, and shot as soon as tried. Nor is this the direst of his previsions. There is one darker--Adela in the company of a ribald crew, surrounded by the brutal soldiery, powerless, unprotected--she his own dear one, now his betrothed! Overcome by his emotions he remains for some time silent, scarce heeding the remarks of his comrade. One, however, restores his attention. "I tolt ye so," says Walt. "See! yonner's the skunk himself astride o' a mule at the tail o' the gang." Hamersley directs his eyes to the rear of the outstretched rank. There, sure enough, is a man on muleback, dressed differently from the troopers. The coarse woollen tilma, and straw hat, he remembers as having been worn by one of Mirander's male domestics. He does not identify the man. But Walt's recollection of his rival is clearer, and he has no doubt that he on the mule is Manuel. Nor, for that matter, has Hamersley. The peon's presence is something to assist in the explanation. It clears up everything. Hamersley breathes hard as the dark shadows sweep through his soul. For a long time absorbed in thought, he utters scarce an ejaculation. Only after the lancer troop has passed, its rearmost files just clearing the alignment of the copse, he gasps out, in a voice husky as that of one in the act of being strangled,-- "They're going straight for the place. O God!" "Yes," rejoins the ex-Ranger, in a tone like despondent, "Thar boun' thar for sartint. The darned creetur's been tempted by the blood-money set on Kumel Miranda's head, an' air too like to git it. They'll grup him, sure; an's like as not gie him the garota. Poor gentleman! He air the noblest Mexikin I iver sot eyes on, an' desarves a better fate. As for the ole doc, he may get off arter sarvin' a spell in prison, an' the saynorita--" A groan from Hamersley interrupts the remark. His comrade, perceiving how much he is pained, modifies what he meant to say. "Thar's no need to be so much afeard o' what may happen to her. She ain't goin' to be rubbed out, anyhow; an' if she hasn't no brother to purtect her, I reckon she's got a frien' in you, Frank. An' hyar's another o' the same, as they say in the Psalms o' Davit." Walt's words have a hopeful sound. Hamersley is cheered by them, but replies not. He only presses the hand of his comrade in silent and grateful grasp. "Yis," continues the ex-Ranger with increased emphasis, "I'd lay down my life to save that young lady from harum, as I know you'd lay down yourn. An' thet air to say nothin' o' my own gurl. This chile ain't niver been much guv to runnin' arter white wheemen, an' war gen'rally content to put up wi' a squaw. But sech as them! As for yourn, I don't wonder yur heart beats like a chased rabbit's; myen air doin' the same for Concheeter. Wal, niver fear! Ef thar's a hair o' eyther o' thar heads teched, you'll hear the crack o' Walt Wilder's rifle, and see its bullet go into the breast o' him as harms 'em. I don't care who or what he air, or whar he be. Nor I don't care a durn--not the valley of a dried buffler-chip--what may come arter--hangin', garrotin', or shootin'. At all risks, them two sweet creeturs air bound to be protected from harum; an ef it comes, they shall be reevenged. I swar that, by the Eturnal!" "I join you in the oath," pronounces Hamersley, with emphatic fervour, once more exchanging a hand-squeeze with his companion. "Yes, Walt; the brave Miranda may be sacrificed--I fear it must be so. But for his sister, there is still a hope that we may save her; and surely heaven will help us. If not, I shall be ready to die. Ah! death would be easier to bear than the loss of Adela!" "An' for this chile the same, rayther than he shed lose Concheeter." CHAPTER FORTY NINE. A CAUTIOUS COMMANDER. No need saying that the cavalcade seen passing the copse is the lancer troop of Colonel Uraga. Some thirty hours before, they ascended to the Staked Plain, and are now nearly across it. Guided by the traitor, they had no need to grope their way, and have made quick time. In a few hours more they will pounce upon the prey for which they have swooped so far. The two men concealed in the grove expect them to ride on without stopping, till out of sight. Instead, they see them draw up at a few miles distance, though all remain mounted. Two separate from the rest keep on a couple of hundred yards ahead, then also halt. These are Uraga himself, with his adjutant Roblez. 'Tis only a temporary pause to exchange counsel about the plan of proceeding--as a falcon expands itself in the air before its last flight towards the quarry it has selected. Before separating from his followers, Uraga has summoned to his side the youngest commissioned officer of the troop, saying,-- "Alferes! go back to that Indian! Send the brute on to the front here." Manuel is the individual thus coarsely indicated. Told that he is wanted, the peon spurs his mule forward, and places himself by the side of the commanding officer, who has meanwhile dismounted. In the countenance of the Indian there is an expression of conscious guilt, such as may appear in that of one not hardened by habitual crime. There is even something like compunction for what he is about to do, with remorse for what he has already done. Now that he is drawing near the scene, where those betrayed by him must suffer, his reflections are anything but pleasant. Rather are they tinged with regret. Don Valerian Miranda has been an indulgent master to him, and the Dona Adela a kind mistress. On both he is bringing destruction. And what is to be his reward? From the time of his betraying them, the moment he parted with the secret of their hiding-place, he has lost control of it. He is no longer treated with the slightest respect. On the contrary, he to whom he communicated it behaves to him as conqueror to conquered, master to slave, forcing him forward with sword pointed at his breast, or pistol aimed at his head. If a guide, he is no longer looked upon as a voluntary one. Nor would he be this, but for a thought that inspires, while keeping him true to his treasonous intent. When he thinks of Conchita--of that scene in the cotton-wood grove--of the Texan kissing her--holding her in his fond embrace--when the Indian recalls all this, torturing his soul afresh, then no more remorse, not a spark of regret, not a ray of repentance! No; perish the dueno--the duena too! Let die the good doctor, if need be--all whom his vengeance has devoted! "Sirrah! are those the two peaks you spoke of?" It is Uraga who puts this interrogatory, pointing to a pair of twin summits seen rising above the horizon to eastward. "_Si Senor Coronel_; they are the same." "And you say the path leads down between them?" "Goes down through a gulch, after keeping round the cliff." "And there's no other by which the valley may be entered?" "Your excellency, I did not say that. There is another entrance, but not from the upper plain here. A stream runs through, and cuts it way out beyond. Following its channel through the _canon_, the place can be reached from below; but not after it's been raining. Then the flood fills its bed, and there's no path along the edge. As it hasn't rained lately, the banks will be above water." "And anyone could pass out below?" "They could, Senor Coronel." "We require to observe caution, Roblez," says Uraga, addressing himself to the adjutant; "else we may have made our long journey for nothing. 'Twill never do to enter the cage and find the birds flown. How far is it to the point where the river runs below?" The question is put to the peon. "_Cinco leguas, Senor_; not less. It's a long way to get round, after going down the cliff." "Five leagues there, and five back up the canon of the stream--quite a day's journey. If we send a detachment round 'twill take all of that. Shall we do it?" "I don't think there's the slightest need for wasting so much time," counsels the adjutant. "But the Indian says any one going down the defile between those hills can be seen from the house. Supposing they should see us, and retreat by the opening below?" "No need to let them see us. We can stay above till night, then descend in the darkness. As they're not likely to be expecting visitors, there should be no great difficulty in approaching this grand mansion unannounced. Let us make our call after the hour of midnight, when, doubtless, the fair Adela will be dreaming of--" "Enough!" exclaims Uraga, a cloud suddenly coming over his countenance, as if the words of his subordinate recalled some unpleasant souvenir. "We shall do as you say, _ayadante_. Give orders for the men to dismount. We shall halt here till sunset. Meanwhile, see that this copper-skin is closely kept. To make safe, you may as well clap the manacles on him." In obedience, Roblez takes the Indian back to the halted troop, directs him to be shackled; then gives the order for dismounting. But not for a night camp, only for a temporary bivouac; and this without fires, or even unsaddling of the horses. The troopers are to stay by the stirrup, ready at any moment to remount. There stay they; no longer in formation, but, as commanded, silent and motionless; only such stir as is made by snatching a morsel from their haversacks or smoking their corn-husk cigarritos. Thus till near sundown, when, remounting, they move on. CHAPTER FIFTY. STALKING THE STALKER! The spot upon which the lancer troop had halted was less than a league from the grove that gave shelter to the two Americans. In the translucent atmosphere of the tableland it looked scarce a mile. The individual forms of troopers could be distinguished, and the two who had taken themselves apart. The taller of these was easily identified as the commanding officer of the troop. "If they'd only keep thar till arter sundown," mutters Wilder, "especially him on yur hoss, I ked settle the hul bizness. This hyar gun the doc presented to me air 'bout as good a shootin'-iron as I'd care to shet my claws on, an 'most equal to my own ole rifle. I've gin it all sorts o' trials, tharfor I know it's good for plum center at a hundred an' fifty paces. Ef yonner two squattin' out from the rest 'ill jest stay thur till the shades o' night gie me a chance o' stealin' clost enuf, thar's one o' 'em will never see daylight again." "Ah!" exclaimed Hamersley, with a sigh of despair, and yet half hopeful, "if they would but remain there till night, we might still head them into the valley, time enough to get our friends away." "Don't you have any sech hopes, Frank; thar's no chance o' that I kin see what the party air arter. They've made up thar mind not to 'tempt goin' inter the gully till they hev a trifle o' shadder aroun' them. They think that ef they're seen afore they git up to the house their victims might 'scape 'em. Tharfor they purpiss approachin' the shanty unobserved, and makin' a surround o' it. That's thar game. Cunnin' o' them, too, for Mexikins." "Yes, that is what they intend doing--no doubt of it. Oh, heavens! only to think we are so near, and yet cannot give Miranda a word of warning!" "Can't be helped. We must put our trust in Him as hes an eye on all o' us--same over these desert purairas an' mountains as whar people are livin' in large cities. Sartin we must trust to Him an' let things slide a bit, jest as He may direct 'em. To go out of our kiver now 'ud be the same as steppin' inter the heart o' a forest fire. Them sogers air mounted on swift horses, an' 'ud ketch up wi these slow critturs o' mules in the shakin' o' goat's tail. Thurfor, let's lie by till night. Tain't fur off now. Then, ef we see any chance to steal down inter the valley, we'll take edvantage o' it." Hamersley can make no objection to the plan proposed. He sees no alternative but accede to it. So they remain watching the halted troop, regarding every movement with keen scrutiny. For several hours are they thus occupied, until the sun begins to throw elongated shadows over the plain. Within half an hour of its setting the Mexicans again mount their horses and move onwards. "Jest as I supposed they'd do," said Walt. "Thar's still all o' ten miles atween them and the place. They've mezyured the time it'll take 'em to git thur--an hour or so arter sundown. Thar ain't the shadder o' a chance for us to steal ahead o' 'em. We must stay in this kiver till they're clar out o' sight." And they do stay in it until the receding horsemen, who present the appearance of giants under the magnifying twilight mist, gradually grow less, and at length fade from view under the thickening darkness. Not another moment do Hamersley and the hunter remain within the grove, but springing to their saddles, push on after the troop. Night soon descending, with scarce ten minutes of twilight, covers the plain with a complete obscurity, as if a shroud of crape had been suddenly thrown over it. There is no moon, not even stars, in the sky; and the twin _buttes_, that form the portals of the pass, are no longer discerned. But the ex-Ranger needs neither moon, nor stars, nor mountain peaks to guide him for such a short distance. Taking his bearings before starting from the black-jack copse, he rides on in a course straight as the direction of a bullet from his own rifle, until the two mounds loom up, their silhouettes seen against the leaden sky. "We mustn't go any furrer, Frank," he says, suddenly pulling up his mule; "leastwise, not a-straddle o' these hyar conspikerous critters. Whether the sogers hev goed down inter the valley or no, they're sartin to hev left some o' the party ahind, by way o' keepin' century. Let's picket the animals out hyar, an' creep forrad afut. That'll gie us a chance o' seeing in, 'ithout bein' seen." The mules being disposed of as Walt had suggested, the two continue their advance. First walking erect, then in bent attitude, then crouching still lower, then as quadrupeds on all-fours, and at length, crawling like reptiles, they make their approach to the pass that leads down into the valley. They do not enter it; they dare not. Before getting within the gape of its gloomy portals they hear voices issuing therefrom. They can see tiny sparks of fire glowing at the lips of ignited cigars. From this they can tell that there are sentries there--a line of them across the ravine, guarding it from side to side. "It ain't no use tryin', Frank," whispers Wilder; "ne'er a chance o' our settin' through. They're stannin' thick all over the ground. I kin see by thar seegars. Don't ye hear them palaverin? A black snake kedn't crawl through among 'em 'ithout bein' obsarved." "What are we to do?" asks Hamersley, in a despairing tone. "We kin do nothin' now, 'ceptin' go back an' git our mules. We must move them out o' the way afore sun-up. 'Taint no matter o' use our squattin' hyar. No doubt o' what's been done. The main body's goed below; them we see's only a party left to guard the gap. Guess it's all over wi' the poor critters in the cabin, or will be afore we kin do anythin' to help 'em. Ef they ain't kilt, they're captered by this time." Hamersley can scarce restrain himself from uttering an audible groan. Only the evident danger keeps him silent. "I say agin, Frank, 'tair no use our stayin' hyar. Anythin' we kin do must be did elsewhar. Let's go back for our mules, fetch 'em away, an' see ef we kin clomb up one o' these hyar hills. Thar's a good skirtin' o' kiver on thar tops. Ef the anymals can't be tuk up, we kin leave them in some gulch, an' go on to the summut ourselves. Thar we may command a view o' all that passes. The sogers'll be sartin to kum past in the mornin', bringin' thar prisoners. Then we'll see who's along wi' 'em, and kin foller thar trail." "Walt, I'm willing to do as you direct. I feel as if I'd lost all hope, and could give way to downright despair." "Deespair be durned! Thar's allers a hope while thar's a bit o' breth in the body. Keep up yur heart, man! Think o' how we war 'mong them wagguns. That oughter strengthen yur gizzern. Niver say die till yur dead, and the crowner are holdin' his 'quest over yur karkidge. Thet's the doctryne o' Walt Wilder." As if to give illustrative proof of it, he catches hold of his comrade's sleeve; with a pluck turns him around, and leads him back to the place where they had parted from the mules. These are released from their pickets, then led silently, and in a circuitous direction, towards the base of one of the buttes. Its sides appear too steep for even a mule to scale them; but a boulder-strewed ravine offers a suitable place for secreting the animals. There they are left, their lariats affording sufficient length to make them fast to the rocks, while a _tapado_ of the saddle-blankets secures them against binneying. Having thus disposed of the animals, the two men scramble on up the ravine, reach the summit of the hill, and sit down among the cedar-scrub that crowns it, determined to remain there and await the "development of events." CHAPTER FIFTY ONE. APPROACHING THE PREY. Were we gifted with clairvoyance, it might at times spare us much misery, thought at other times it would make it. Perhaps 'tis better we are as we are. Were Frank Hamersley and Walt Wilder, keeping watch on the summit of the mound, possessed of second sight, they would not think of remaining there throughout all the night--not for an hour--nay, not so much as a minute, for they would be aware that within less than ten miles of them is a party of men with friendly hearts and strong arms, both at their disposal for the very purpose they now need such. Enough of them to strike Uraga's lancers and scatter them like chaff. And could the man commanding these but peep over the precipitous escarpment of the Llano Estacado and see those stalwart Texans bivouacked below, he would descend into the valley with less deliberation, and make greater haste to retire out of it. He and his know nothing of the formidable foes so near, any more than Hamersley and Wilder suspect the proximity of such powerful friends. Both are alike unconscious that the Texans are encamped within ten miles. Yet they are; for the gorge at whose mouth they have halted is the outlet of the valley stream, where it debouches upon the Texan plain. Without thought of being interfered with, the former proceed upon their ruthless expedition; while the latter have no alternative but await its issue. They do so with spirits impatiently chafing, and hearts sorely agonised. Both are alike apprehensive for what next day's sun will show them-- perchance a dread spectacle. Neither shuts eye in sleep. With nerves excited and bosoms agitated they lie awake, counting the hours, the minutes; now and then questioning the stars as to the time. They converse but little, and only in whispers. The night is profoundly still. The slightest sound, a word uttered above their breath, might betray them. They can distinctly hear the talk of the lancers left below. Hamersley, who understands their tongue, can make out their conversation. It is for the most part ribald and blasphemous, boasts of their _bonnes fortunes_ with the damsels of the Del Norte, commingled with curses at this ill-starred expedition that for a time separates them from their sweethearts. Among them appears a gleam greater than the ignited tips of their cigarittos. 'Tis the light of a candle which they have stuck up over a serape spread along the earth. Several are seen clustering around it; while their conversation tells that they are relieving the dull hours with a little diversion. They are engaged in gambling, and ever and anon the cries, "_Soto en la puerta_!" "_Cavallo mozo_!" ascending in increased monotone, proclaim it to be the never-ending national game of monte. Meanwhile Uraga, with the larger body of the lancers, has got down into the glen, and is making way towards the point aimed at. He proceeds slowly and with caution. This for two distinct reasons--the sloping path is difficult even by day, at night requiring all the skill of experienced riders to descend it. Still with the traitor at their head, who knows every step, they gradually crawl down the cliff, single file, again forming "by twos" as they reach the more practicable causeway below. Along this they continue to advance in silence and like caution. Neither the lancer colonel nor his lieutenant has forgotten the terrible havoc made among the Tenawas by the two men who survived that fearful affray, and whom they may expect once more to meet. They know that both have guns--the traitor has told them so--and that, as before, they will make use of them. Therefore Uraga intends approaching stealthily, and taking them by surprise. Otherwise he may himself be the first to fall--a fate he does not wish to contemplate. But there can be no danger, he fancies as he rides forward. It is now the mid-hour of night, a little later, and the party to be surprised will be in their beds. If all goes well he may seize them asleep. So far everything seems favourable. No sound comes from the direction of the lonely dwelling, not even the bark of a watch dog. The only noises that interrupt the stillness of the night are the lugubrious cry of the coyote and the wailing note of the whip-poor-will; these, at intervals blending with the sweeter strain of the tzenzontle--the Mexican nightingale--intermittently silenced as the marching troop passes near the spot where it is perched. Once more, before coming in sight of the solitary jacal, Uraga commands a halt. This time to reconnoitre, not to rest or stay. The troopers sit in their saddles, with reins ready to be drawn; like a flock of vultures about to unfold their wings for the last swoop upon their victims--to clutch, tear, kill, do with them as they may wish! CHAPTER FIFTY TWO. A BLOODLESS CAPTURE. A house from which agreeable guests have just taken departure is rarely cheerful. The reverse, if these have been very agreeable--especially on the first evening after. The rude sheiling which gives shelter to the refugees is no exception. Everyone under its roof is afflicted with low spirits, some of them sad--two particularly so. Thus has it been since the early hour of daybreak, when the guests regretted spoke the parting speech. In the ears of Adela Miranda, all day long, has been ringing that painful word, "Adios!" while thoughts about him who uttered it have been agitating her bosom. Not that she has any fear of his fealty, or that he will prove traitor to his troth now plighted. On the contrary, she can confide in him for that, and does--fully, trustingly. Her fears are from a far different cause; the danger he is about to dare. Conchita, in like manner, though in less degree, has her apprehensions. The great Colossus who has captured her heart, and been promised her hand, may never return to claim it. But, unacquainted with the risk he is going to run, the little mestiza has less to alarm her, and only contemplates her lover's absence, with that sense of uncertainty common to all who live in a land where every day has its dangers. Colonel Miranda is discomforted too. Never before since his arrival in the valley have his apprehensions been so keen. Hamersley's words, directing suspicion to the peon, Manuel, have excited them. All the more from his having entertained something of this before. And now still more, that his messenger is three days overdue from the errand on which he has sent him. At noon he and Don Prospero again ascend to the summit of the pass, and scan the table plain above--to observe nothing upon it, either westwardly or in any other direction. And all the afternoon has one or the other been standing near the door of the jacal, with a lorgnette levelled up the ravine through which the valley is entered from above. Only as the shades of night close over them do they desist from this vigil, proving fruitless. Added to the idea of danger, they have another reason for desiring the speedy return of the messenger. Certain little luxuries he is expected to bring--among the rest a skin or two of wine and a few boxes of cigars. For neither the colonel himself nor the ex-army surgeon are anchorites, however much they have of late been compelled to the habit. Above all, they need tobacco, their stock being out; the last ounce given to their late guests on leaving. These are minor matters, but yet add to the cheerlessness of the time after the strangers have gone. Not less at night, when more than ever one feels a craving for the nicotian weed, to consume it in some way-- pipe, cigar, or cigaritto. As the circle of three assemble in their little sitting-room, after a frugal supper, tobacco is the Colonel's chief care, and becomes the first topic of conversation. "Carramba!" he explains, as if some new idea had entered his head, "I couldn't have believed in a man suffering so much from such a trifling cause." "What are you referring to?" interrogates the doctor. "The thing you're thinking of at this moment, _amigo mio_. I'll make a wager it's the same." "As you know, colonel, I never bet." "Nor I upon a certainty, as in this case it would be. I know what your mind's bent upon--tobacco." "I confess it, colonel. I want a smoke, bad as ever I did in my life." "Sol." "But why don't you both have it, then?" It is Adela who thus innocently interrogates. "For the best of all reasons," rejoins her brother. "We haven't the wherewith." "What! no cigarittos? I saw some yesterday on one of the shelves." "But not to day. At this moment there isn't a pinch of tobacco within twenty miles of where we sit, unless our late guests have made a very short day's march. I gave them the last I had to comfort them on the journey." "Yes, senorita," adds the doctor, "and something quite as bad, if not worse. Our bottles are empty. The wine is out as well as the weed." "In that," interrupts the Colonel, "I'm happy to say you're mistaken. It's not so bad as you think, doctor. True, the pigskin has collapsed; for the throat of the huge Texan was as difficult to saturate as the most parched spot on the Staked Plain. Finding it so, I took occasion to abstract a good large gourd, and set it surreptitiously aside. I did that to meet emergencies. As one seems to have arisen, I think the hidden treasure may now be produced." Saying this, the colonel steps out of the room, soon returning with a large calabash bottle. Conchita is summoned, and directed to bring drinking cups, which she does. Miranda, pouring out the wine says,-- "This will cheer us; and, in truth, we all need cheering. I fancy there's enough to last us till Manuel makes his reappearance with a fresh supply. Strange his not having returned. He's had time to do all his bargainings and been back three days ago. I hoped to see him home before our friends took departure, so that I could better have provided them for their journey. They'll stand a fair chance of being famished." "No fear of that," puts in Don Prospero. "Why do you say so, doctor?" "Because of the rifle I gave to Senor Gualtero. With it he will be able to keep both provisioned. 'Tis marvellous how he can manage it. He has killed bits of birds without spoiling their skins or even ruffling a feather. I'm indebted to him for some of my best specimens. So long as he carries a gun, with ammunition to load it, you need have no fear he or his companion will perish from hunger, even on the Llano Estacado." "About that," rejoins Miranda, "I think we need have no uneasiness. Beyond lies the thing to be apprehended--not on the desert, but amid cultivated fields, in the streets of towns, in the midst of so-called civilisation. There will be their real danger." For some time the three are silent, their reflections assuming a sombre hue, called forth by the colonel's words. But the doctor, habitually light-hearted, soon recovers, and makes an effort to imbue the others with cheerfulness like his own. "Senorita," he says, addressing himself to Adela, "your guitar, hanging there against the wall, seems straining its strings as if they longed for the touch of your fair fingers. You've been singing every night for the last month, delighting us all I hope you won't be silent now that your audience is reduced, but will think it all the more reason for bestowing your favours on the few that remain." To the gallant speech of pure Castilian idiom, the young lady answers with a smile expressing assent, at the same time taking hold of her guitar. As she reseats herself, and commences tuning the instrument, a string snaps. It seems an evil omen; and so all three regard it, though without knowing why. It is because, like the strings of the instrument, their hearts are out of tune, or rather attuned to a presentiment which oppresses them. The broken string is soon remedied by a knot; this easily done. Not so easy to restore the tranquillity of thought disturbed by its breaking. No more does the melancholy song which succeeds. Even to that far land has travelled the strain of the "Exile of Erin." Its appropriateness to their own circumstances suggesting itself to the Mexican maiden, she sings-- Sad is my fate, said the heart-broken stranger, The wild deer and wolf to the covert can flee, But I have no refuge from famine and danger, A home and a country remain not to me. "Dear Adela!" interrupts Miranda. "That song is too sad. We're already afflicted with its spirit. Change it for one more cheerful. Give us a lay of the Alhambra--a battle-song of the Cid or the Campeador-- something patriotic and stirring." Obedient to her brother's request, the young girl changes tune and song, now pouring forth one of those inimitable lays for which the language of Cervantes is celebrated. Despite all, the heaviness of heart remains, pressing upon those who listen as on her who sings. Adela's voice appears to have lost its accustomed sweetness, while the strings of her guitar seem equally out of tune. All at once, while in the middle of her song, the two bloodhounds, that have been lying on the floor at her feet, start from their recumbent position, simultaneously giving utterance to a growl, and together rush out through the open door. The singing is instantly brought to an end; while Don Valerian and the doctor rise hastily from their chairs. The bark of watch-dog outside some quiet farmhouse, amidst the homes of civilisation, can give no idea of the startling effect which the same sound calls forth on the far Indian frontier--nothing like the alarm felt by the dwellers in that lone ranche. To add to it, they hear a hoof striking on the stones outside--that of either horse or mule. It cannot be Lolita's; the mustang mare is securely stalled, and the hoof-stroke comes not from the stable. There are no other animals. Their late guests have taken away the two saddle mules, while the _mulas de carga_ are with the messenger, Manuel. "It's he come back!" exclaims the doctor. "We ought to be rejoiced instead of scared. Come, Don Valerian! we shall have our smoke yet before going to bed." "It's not Manuel," answers Miranda. "The dogs would have known him before this. Hear how they keep on baying! Ha! what's that? Chico's voice! Somebody has caught hold of him!" A cry from the peon outside, succeeded by expostulations, as if he was struggling to escape--his voice commingled with shrill screams from Conchita--are sounds almost simultaneous. Don Valerian strides back into the room and lays hold of his sword, the doctor clutching at the first weapon that presents itself. But weapons are of no avail where there are not enough hands to wield them. Into the cabin lead two entrance doors--one front, the other back--and into both is seen pouring a stream of armed men, soldiers in uniform. Before Miranda can disengage his sword from its scabbard, a perfect _chevaux-de-frise_ of lance-points are within six inches of his breast, while the doctor is similarly menaced. Both perceive that resistance will be idle. It can only end in their instant impalement. "Surrender, rebels!" cries a voice rising above the din. "Drop your weapons, and at once, if you wish your lives spared! Soldiers, disarm them!" Miranda recognises the voice. Perhaps, had he done so sooner, he would have held on to his sword, and taken the chances of a more protracted and desperate resistance. It is too late. As the weapon is wrested from his grasp, he sees standing before him the man of all others he has most reason to fear-- Gil Uraga! CHAPTER FIFTY THREE. A SLEEPLESS NIGHT. All night long Hamersley and the hunter remain upon the summit of the mound. It is a night of dread anxiety, seeming to them an age. They think not of taking sleep--they could not. There is that in their minds that would keep them wakeful if they had not slept for a week. Time passing does not lessen their suspense. On the contrary, it grows keener, becoming an agony almost unendurable. To escape from it, Hamersley half forms the resolution to descend the hill and endeavour to steal past the sentinels. If discovered, to attack them boldly, and attempt cutting a way through; then on into the valley, and take such chances as may turn up for the rescue of the refugees. Putting it to his companion, the latter at once offers opposing counsel. It would be more than rashness--sheer madness. At least a dozen soldiers have been left on picket at the summit of the pass. Standing or sitting, they are scattered all over the ground. It would be impossible for anyone going down the gorge to get past them unperceived; and for two men to attack twelve, however courageous the former and cowardly the latter, the odds would be too great. "I wouldn't mind it for all that," says Walt, concluding his response to the rash proposal, "ef thar war nothin' more to be did beyont. But thar is. Even war we to cut clar through, kill every skunk o' 'em, our work 'ud be only begun. Thar's two score to meet us below. What ked we do wi' 'em? No, Frank; we mout tackle these twelve wi' some sort o' chance, but two agin forty! It's too ugly a odds. No doubt we ked drop a good grist o' 'em afore goin' under, but in the eend they'd git the better o' us--kill us to a sartinty." "It's killing me to stay here. Only to think what the ruffians may be doing at this moment! Adela--" "Don't gie yur mind to thinkin' o' things now. Keep your thoughts for what we may do arterward. Yur Adela ain't goin' to be ate up that quick, nor yet my Concheeter. They'll be tuk away 'long wi' t'others as prisoners. We kin foller, and trust to some chance o' bein' able to git 'em out o' the clutches o' the scoundrels." Swayed by his comrade's counsel, somewhat tranquillised by it, Hamersley resigns himself to stay as they are. Calmer reflection convinces him there is no help for it. The alternative, for an instant entertained, would be to rush recklessly on death, going into its very jaws. They lie along the ground listening, now and then standing up and peering through the branches at the sentries below. For a long while they hear nothing save the calls of the card-players, thickly interlarded with _carajoz, chingaras_, and other blasphemous expressions. But just after the hour of midnight other sounds reach their ears, which absorb all their attention, taking it away from the gamesters. Up out of the valley, borne upon the buoyant atmosphere, comes the baying of bloodhounds. In echo it reverberates along the facade of the cliff, for a time keeping continuous. Soon after a human voice, quickly followed by a second; these not echoes or repetitions of the same; for one is the coarse guttural cry of a man, the other a scream in the shrill treble of of a woman. The first is the shout of surprise uttered by Chico, the second the shriek of alarm sent forth by Conchita. With hearts audibly beating, the listeners bend their ears to catch what may come next, both conjecturing the import of the sounds that have already reached them, and this with instinctive correctness. Walt is the first to give speech to his interpretation of it. "They're at the shanty now," he says, in a whisper. "The two houn's guv tongue on hearin' 'em approach. That fust shout war from the Injun Cheeko; and the t'other air hern--my gurl's. Durnation! if they hurt but a he'r o' her head--Wagh! what's the use o' my threetenin'?" As if seeing his impotence, the hunter suddenly ceases speech, again setting himself to listen. Hamersley, without heeding him, is already in this attitude. And now out of the valley arise other sounds, not all of them loud. The stream, here and there falling in cataracts, does something to deaden them. Only now and then there is the neigh of a horse, and intermittently the bark of one of the bloodhounds, as if these animals had yielded, but yet remain hostile to the intruders. They hear human voices, too, but no shout following that of Chico, and no scream save the one sent up by Conchita. There is loud talk, a confusion of speakers, but no report of firearms. This last is tranquillising. A shot at that moment heard by Hamersley would give him more uneasiness than if the gun were aimed at himself. "Thank God!" he gasps out, after a long spell of listening, "Miranda has made no resistance. He's seen it would be no use, and has quietly surrendered. I suppose it's all over now, and they are captives." "Wal, better thet than they shed be corpses," is the consolatory reflection of the hunter. "So long as thar's breath left in thar bodies we kin hev hope, as I sayed arready. Let's keep up our hearts by thinkin' o' the fix we war in atween the wagguns, an' arterwards thet scrape in the cave. We kim clar out o' both in a way we mout call mirakelous, an' we may yit git them clar in someat the same fashion. 'Slong's I've got my claws roun' the stock o' a good gun, wi' plenty o' powder and lead, I ain't a-goin' to deespar. We've both got that, tharfor niver say die!" The hunter's quaint speech is encouraging; but for all, it does not hinder him and his comrade from soon after returning to a condition of despondency, if not actual despair. A feeling which holds possession of them till the rising of the sun, and on till it reaches meridian. When the day breaks, with eyes anxiously scrutinising, they look down into the valley. A mist hangs over the stream, caused by the spray of its cataracts. Lifting at length, there is displayed a scene not very different from what they have been expecting. Around the ranche they see horses picketed and soldiers moving among them or standing in groups apart; in short, a picture of military life in "country quarters." Their point of view is too far off to identify individual forms or note the exact action carried on. This last, left to conjecture, is filled up by fancies of the most painful kind. For long hours are they constrained to endure them--up to that of noon. Then, the notes of a bugle, rising clear above the hissing of the cascades, foretell a change in the spectacle. It is the call, "Boots and saddles!" The soldiers are seen caparisoning their horses and standing by the stirrup. Another blast gives the order to "Mount!" Soon after, the "Forward!" Then the troop files off from the front of the jacal, disappearing under the trees like a gigantic glittering serpent. The white drapery of a woman's dress is seen fluttering at its head, as if the reptile had seized upon some tender prey--a dove from the cote--and was bearing it off to its slimy lair. For another half-hour the two men on the mound wait with nervous impatience. It requires this time to make the ascent from the centre of the valley to the upper plain. After entering among the trees, the soldiers and their captives are out of sight; but the clattering of their horses' hoofs can be heard as they strike upon the rock-strewn path. Once or twice a trumpet sound proclaims their movements upon the march. At length the head of the troop appears, the leading files following one after the other along the narrow ledge. As they approach the summit of the pass the track widens, admitting a formation "by twos." At the trumpet call they change to this, a single horseman riding at their head. He is now near enough for his features to be distinguished, and Hamersley's heart strikes fiercely against his ribs as he recognises them. If he had any doubt before, it is set at rest now. He sees Gil Uraga, certain of his being the man who caused the destruction of his caravan. His own horse, ridden by the robber, is proof conclusive of the crime. He takes note that the lancer colonel is dressed in splendid style, very different from the dust-stained cavalier who the day before passed over the desert plain. Now he appears in a gorgeous laced uniform, with lancer cap and plume, gold cords and aiguillettes dangling adown his breast; for he has this morning made his toilet with care, in consideration of the company in which he intends travelling. Neither Hamersley nor the hunter hold their eyes long upon him; they are both looking for another individual--each his own. These soon make their appearance, their white dresses distinguishable amid the darker uniforms. During the march their position has been changed. They are now near the centre of the troop, the young lady upon her own mare Lolita, while the Indian damsel is mounted on a mule. They are free, both hand and limb, but a file in front, with another behind, have charge of them. Farther rearward is another group, more resembling captives. This is composed of three men upon mules, fast bound to saddle and stirrup, two of them having their arms pinioned behind their backs. Their animals are led each by a trooper who rides before. The two about whose security such precaution has been taken are Don Valerian and the doctor, the third, with his arms free, is Chico. His fellow-servant Manuel, also on mule-back, is following not far behind, but in his attitude or demeanour there is nothing to tell of the captive. If at times he looks gloomy, it is when he reflects upon his black treason and infamous ingratitude. Perhaps he has repented, or deems the prospect not so cheerful as expected. After all, what will be his reward? He has ruined his master and many others beside, but this will not win him the love of Conchita. The spectators feel somewhat relieved as Colonel Miranda comes in sight. Still more as the march brings him nearer, and it can be seen that he sits his horse with no sign of having received any injury; and neither has Don Prospero. The elaborate fastenings are of themselves evidences that no hurt has happened to them. It has been a capture without resistance, as their friends hoped it would, their fears having been of a conflict to end in the death of the exiles. One by one, and two by two, the troops come filing on, till the leader is opposite the spot where the two spectators stand crouching among the trees. These are dwarf cedars, and give the best cover for concealment. Thoroughly screened by their thickly-set boughs and dense dark foliage, Hamersley and the hunter command a clear view of everything below. The distance to the summit of the pass is about two hundred yards in a slanting direction. As the lancer colonel approaches the spot where the picket is posted, he halts and gives an order. It is for the guard to fall in along with the rest of the troop. At this moment a similar thought is in the minds of the two men whose eyes are upon him from above. Wilder is the first to give expression to it. He does so in an undertone,-- "Ef we ked trust the carry o' our rifles, Frank." "I was thinking of it," is the rejoinder, equally earnest. "We can't I'm afraid it's too far." "I weesh I only had my old gun; she'd a sent a bullet furrer than that. A blue pill inter his stomach 'ud simplerfy matters consid'rable. 'Tall events it 'ud git your gurl out o' danger, and mayhap all on 'em. I b'lieve the hul clanjamfery o' them spangled jay birds 'ud run at hearin' a shot. Then we ked gie 'em a second, and load an' fire half a dozen times afore they could mount up hyar--if they'd dar to try it. Ah! it's too fur. The distance in these hyar high purairas is desprit deceivin'. Durned pity we kedn't do it. I fear we can't." "If we should miss, then--" "Things 'ud only be wuss. I reck'n we'd better let'm slide now, and foller arter. Thar boun' straight for the Del Norte; but whether or no, we kin eesy pick up thar trail." Hamersley still hesitates, his fingers alternately tightening on his gun, and then relaxing. His thoughts are flowing in a quick current-- too quick for cool deliberation. He knows he can trust his own aim, as well as that of his comrade. But the distance is doubtful, and the shots might fall short. Then it would be certain death to them; for the situation is such that there could be no chance to escape, with fifty horsemen to pursue, themselves mounted upon mules, and therewith be reached without difficulty. They might defend themselves on the mound, but not for long. Two against fifty, they would soon be overpowered. After all, it will be better to let the troop pass on. So counsels the ex-Ranger, pointing out that the prisoners will be carried on to New Mexico--to Albuquerque, of course. He and his comrade are Americans, and not proscribed there. They can follow without fear. Some better opportunity may arise for rescuing the captives. Their prison may offer this; and from what they have heard of such places it is probable enough. A golden key is good for opening the door of any gaol in Mexico. Only one thought hinders Hamersley from at once giving way to this reasoning--the thought of his betrothed being in such company--under such an escort, worse than unprotected! Once more he scans the distance that separates him from the soldiers, his gun tightly grasped. Could their colonel but suspect his proximity at that moment, and what is passing through his mind, he would sit with little confidence in his saddle, bearing himself less pompously. Caution, backed by the ex-Ranger's counsel, asserts its sway, and the Kentuckian relaxes his grasp on the gun, dropping its butt to the ground. The last files, having cleared the gap, are formed into a more compact order; when, the bugle again sounding "Forward," the march is resumed, the troop striking off over the plain in the direction whence it came. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. A MAN AND A MULE. Carefully as ever, Hamersley and the Texan keep to their place of concealment. They dare not do otherwise. The slope by which they ascended is treeless, the cedars only growing upon the summit. The gorge, too, by which they went up, and at the bottom of which their mules were left, debouches westwardly on the plain--the direction in which the lancers have ridden off. Any of these chancing to look back would be sure to catch sight of them if they show themselves outside the sheltering scrub. They have their apprehensions about their animals. It is a wonder these have not been seen by the soldiers. Although standing amid large boulders, a portion of the bodies of both are visible from the place mentioned. Fortunately for their owners, their colour closely resembled the rocks, and for which the troopers may have mistaken them. More probably, in their impatience to proceed upon the return route, none of them turn their eyes in that direction. An equally fortunate circumstance is the fact of the mules being muffled. Otherwise they might make themselves heard. Not a sound, either snort or hinney, escape them; not so much as the stamping of a hoof. They stand patient and silent, as if they themselves had fear of the men who are foes to their masters. For a full hour after the lancers have left these stay crouching behind the cedars. Even an hour does not take the troop out of sight. Cumbered with their captives, they march at slow, measured pace--a walk. Moreover, the pellucid atmosphere of the Staked Plain makes objects visible at double the ordinary distance. They are yet but five miles from the buttes, and, looking back, could see a man at their base, more surely one mounted. The two who are on the summit allow quite twenty minutes more to elapse before they think of leaving it. Then, deeming it safe, they prepare to descend. Still they are in no haste. Their intention is to follow the cavalcade, but by no means to overtake it. Nor do they care to keep it in sight, but the contrary, since that might beget danger to themselves. They anticipate no difficulty in taking up the trail of a troop like that Walt confidently declares he could do so were he blindfolded as their mules, adding, in characteristic phraseology, "I ked track the skunks by thar smell." Saying this he proposes a "bit o' brakwist," a proposition his comrade assents to with eagerness. They have not eaten since dinner of the day before, their provisions having been left below, and the sharp morning air has given additional edge to their appetites. This at length draws them down to their mules. Taking off the _tapados_ to relieve the poor animals, who have somewhat suffered from being so scurvily treated, they snatch a hasty repast from their haversacks, then light their pipes for a smoke preparatory to setting forth. It is not yet time, for the soldiers are still in sight. They will wait till the last lance pennon sinks below the horizon. Whilst smoking, with eyes bent upon the receding troop, a sound salutes their ears, causing both to start. Fortunately they draw back behind one of the boulders, and there remain listening. What they heard was certainly a hoofstroke, whether of horse or mule--not of either of their own; these are by their sides, while the sound that has startled them appears to proceed from the other side of the mound, as if from the summit of the pass leading up out of the valley. They hear it again. Surely it is in the gorge that goes down, or at the head of it. Their conjecture is that one of the lancers has lagged behind, and is now _en route_ to overtake the troop. If it be thus what course are they to pursue? He may look back and see themselves or their animals, then gallop on and report to his comrades. 'Twould be a sinister episode, and they must take steps to prevent it. They do so by hastily restoring the _tapados_ and leading the mules into a _cul-de-sac_, where they will be safe from observation. Again they hear the sound, still resembling a hoofstroke, but not of an animal making way over the ground in walk, trot, or gallop, but as one that refused to advance, and was jibbing. Between them and it there seems great space, a projecting spur of the butte from which they have just descended. By climbing the ridge for a score of yards or so they can see into the gorge that goes down to the valley. As the trampling still appears steadfast to the same point, their alarm gives place to curiosity, then impatience. Yielding to this, they scramble up the ridge that screens the kicking animal from their view. Craning their heads over its crest, they see that which, instead of causing further fear, rather gives them joy. Just under their eyes, in the gap of the gorge, a man is struggling with a mule. It is a contest of very common occurrence. The animal is saddled, and the man is making attempts to get his leg over the saddle. The hybrid is restive, and will not permit him to put foot in the stirrup. Ever as he approaches it shies back, rearing and pitching to the full length and stretch of the bridle-rein. Soon as seeing him, they upon the ridge recognise the man thus vexatiously engaged. He is the peon Manuel. "The durned scoundrel," hissed Walt, through clenched teeth. "What's kep him ahint, I wonder?" Hamersley responds not--he, too, conjecturing. "By Jehorum!" continues the hunter, "it looks like he'd stayed back apurpose. Thar ked been nothin' to hinder him to go on 'long wi' the rest. The questyun air what he's stayed for. Some trick o' trezun, same as he's did afore." "Something of the kind, I think," rejoins Hamersley, still considering. "Wal, he's wantin' to get on bad enuf now, if the mule 'ud only let him. Say, Frank, shell I put a payriud to their conflict by sendin' a bit o' lead that way, I kin rub the varmint out by jest pressin' my finger on this trigger." "Do you mean the man or the mule?" "The man, in coorse. For what shed I shoot the harmless critter that's been carryin' him? Say the word, an' I'll send him to kingdom come in the twinklin' o' a goat's tail. I've got sight on him. Shall I draw the trigger?" "For your life, don't look yonder! They're not yet out of sight. They might see the smoke, perhaps hear the crack. Comrade, you're taking leave of your senses!" "Contemplatin' that ugly anymal below air enough to make me. It a'most druv me out o' my mind to think o' his black ungratefulness. Now, seein' hisself through the sight of a rifle 'ithin good shootin' distance, shurely ye don't intend we shud let him go!" "Certainly not. That would be ruin to ourselves. We must either kill or capture him. But it must be done without noise, or at least without firing a shot. They're not far enough off yet." "How d'ye devise, then?" "Let's back to our mules, mount, and get round the ledge. We must head him before he gets out of the gap. Come on!" Both scramble back down the slope quicker than they ascended it, knowing there is good reason for haste--the best for their lives--every thing may depend on capturing the peon. Should he see them, and get away, it will be worse both for them and their dear ones. In two minutes the mules are again unmuffled and mounted. In two more they are entering the gap from outside, their masters on their backs. These, spurring the animals to speed, enter the gorge, their eyes everywhere. They reach the spot where the peon was so late seen, striving to get into his saddle. They see the turf torn up by the hybrid's hoofs, but no man, no mule. CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE. A LAGGER LAGGED. The surprise of the two men is but momentary; for there can be no mystery about the peon's disappearance. He has simply gone down the ravine, and back into the valley. Is he on return to the house, which they know is now untenanted, and, if so, with what intent? Has he become so attached to the place as to intend prolonging his sojourn there? or has something arisen to make him discontented with the company he has been keeping, and so determined to get quit of it by hanging behind? Something of this sort was on their minds as they last saw him over the crest of the ridge. While in conflict with his mule, he was ever and anon turning his eyes towards the point where the soldiers must have been last seen by him; for from the gap in which he was these were no longer visible. Both Hamersley and Wilder had noticed an uneasy air about him at the time, attributing it to his vexation at being delayed by the obstinacy of the animal and the fear of being left behind. Now that he had mounted and taken the back-track, the cause must be different. "Thar's somethin' queery in what the coyoats doin'," is Walt's half-soliloquised observation; adding, "Though what he's arter tain't so eezy to tell. He must be tired o' their kumpany, and want to get shet o' it. He'll be supposin' they ain't likely to kum back arter him; an' I reck'n they won't, seein' they've got all out o' him they need care for. Still, what ked he do stayin' hyar by himself?" Walt is still ignorant of the peon's partiality for his own sweetheart. He has had a suspicion of something, but not the deep, dire passion that burns in the Indian's heart. Aware of this, he would not dwell on the probability of the man having any intention, any more than himself, remain behind now that Conchita is gone. "Arter all," he continues, still speaking in half soliloquy, "I don't think stayin's his game. There's somethin' else at the bottom on't." "Can Uraga have sent him back on any errand?" "No, that ain't it eyther. More like he's good on a errand o' his own. I reckon I ken guess it now. The traitur intends turnin' thief as well--doin' a leetle bit o' stealin' along wi' his treason. Ye remember, Frank, thar war a goodish grit o' valleyables in the shanty-- the saynorita's jeweltry an' the like. Jest possyble, in the skrimmage, whiles they war making capter o' thar prisoners, this ugly varmint tuk devantage o' the confusion to secret a whun o' thar gimcracks, an's now goed back arter 'em." "It seems probable enough. Still, he might have some other errand, and may not go on as far as the house. In which case, we may look for his return this way at any moment. It will never do for us to start upon their trail, leaving him coming in our rear. He would see us, and in the night might slip past and give them warning they were followed." "All that air true. We must grup him now." "Should we go down after him, or stay here till he comes up?" "Neythur o' the two ways'll do. He moutn't kum along no time. If he's got plunder he won't try to overtake the sogers, but wait till they're well out o' his way. He knows the road to the Del Norte, and kin travel it by hisself." "Then we should go down after him." "Only one o' us. If we both purceed to the shanty there's be a chance o' passin' him on the way. He mout be in the timmer, an', seein' us, put back out hyar, an' so head us. There'd no need o' both for the capterin' sech a critter as that. I'll fetch him on his marrowbones by jest raisin' this rifle. Tharfor, s'pose you stay hyar an' guard this gap, while I go arter an' grup him. I'm a'most sartin he'll be at the shanty. Anyhow, he's in the trap, and can't get out till he's hed my claws roun' the scruff o' his neck an' my thumb on his thropple." "Don't kill him if you can help it. True he deserves to die; but we may want a word with him first. He may give information that will afterwards prove useful to us." "Don't be afeared, Frank. I shan't hurt a har o' his head, unless he reesists, then I must kripple him a bit. But he ain't like to show fight, such a coyoat as he!" "All right, Walt. I'll wait for you." "You won't hev long. Ye'd better take kiver back o' them big stones to make sure o' not bein' seen by him, shed he by any chance slip past me. An' keep yur ears open. Soon as I've treed him I'll gie a whistle or two. When ye hear that ye can kim down." After delivering this chapter of suggestions and injunctions, the ex-Ranger heads his mule down the pass, and is soon lost to his comrade's sight as he turns off along the ledge of the cliff. Hamersley, himself inclined to caution, follows the direction last given, and rides back behind one of the boulders. Keeping in the saddle, he sits in silent meditation. Sad thoughts alone occupy his mind. His prospects are gloomy indeed; his forecast of the future dark and doubtful. He has but little hope of being able to benefit Don Valerian Miranda, and cannot be sure of rescueing his sister--his own betrothed--in time to avert that terrible catastrophe which he knows to be impending over her. He does not give it a name--he scarce dares let it take shape in his thoughts. Nearly half-an-hour is spent in this painful reverie. He is aroused from it by a sound which ascends out of the valley. With a start of joy he recognises the signal his comrade promised to send him. The whistle is heard in three distinct "wheeps," rising clear above the hoarser sibillations of the cascades. From the direction he can tell it comes from the neighbourhood of the house; but, without waiting to reflect whither, he spurs his mule out, and rides down the pass as rapidly as possible. On reaching the level below he urges the animal to a gallop, and soon arrives at the ranche. There, as expected, he finds his companion, with the peon a captive. The two, with their mules, form a tableau in front of the untenanted dwelling. The ex-Ranger is standing in harangue attitude, slightly bent forward, his body propped by his rifle, the butt of which rests upon the ground. At his feet is the Indian, lying prostrate, his ankles lashed together with a piece of cowhide rope, his wrists similarly secured. "I ked catched him a leetle sooner," says Walt to his comrade, coming up, "but I war kewrious to find out what he war arter, an' waited to watch him. That's the explication o' it." He points to a large bag lying near, with its contents half poured out-- a varied collection of articles of bijouterie and virtu, resembling a cornucopia; spilling its fruits. Hamersley recognises them as part of the _penates_ of his late host. "Stolen goods," continues Walt, "that's what they air. An' stole from a master he's basely betrayed, may be to death. A mistress, besides, that's been too kind to him. Darnation! that's a tortiss-shell comb as belonged to my Concheeter, an' a pair o' slippers I ken swar wur here. What shed we do to him?" "What I intended," responds Hamersley, assuming a curious air; "first make him confess--tell all he knows. When we've got his story out of him we can settle that next." The confession is not very difficult to extract. With Wilder's bowie-knife gleaming before his eyes, its blade within six inches of his breast, the wretch reveals all that has passed since the moment of his first meditating treason. He even makes declaration of the motive, knowing the nobility of the men who threatened him, and thinking by this means to obtain pardon. To strengthen his chances he goes still farther, turning traitor against him to whom he had sold himself--Uraga. He has overheard a conversation between the Mexican colonel and his adjutant, Lieutenant Roblez. It was to the effect that they do not intend taking their prisoners all the way back to Albuquerque. How they mean to dispose of them the peon does not know. He had but half heard the dialogue relating to Don Valerian and the doctor. The female prisoners! Can he tell anything of what is intended with them? Though not in these terms, the question is asked with this earnestness. The peon is unable to answer it. He does not think they are prisoners-- certainly not Conchita. She is only being taken back along with her mistress. About the senorita, his mistress, he heard some words pass between Uraga and Roblez, but without comprehending their signification. In his own heart Hamersley can supply it--does so with dark, dire misgivings. CHAPTER FIFTY SIX. "THE NORTE." Westward, across the Liana Estacado, Uraga and his lancers continue on their return march. The troop, going by twos, is again drawn out in an elongated line, the arms and accoutrements of the soldiers glancing in the sun, while the breeze floats back the pennons of their lances. The men prisoners are a few files from the rear, a file on each flank guarding them. The women are at the head, alongside the guide and sub-lieutenant, who has charge of the troop. For reasons of his own the lancer colonel does not intrude his company on the captives. He intends doing so in his own time. It has not yet come. Nor does he take any part in directing the march of the men. That duty has been entrusted to the _alferez_; he and Roblez riding several hundred paces in advance of the troop. He has thus isolated himself for the purpose of holding conversation with his adjutant, unembarrassed by any apprehension of being overheard. "Well, _ayadante_," he begins, as soon as they are safe beyond earshot, "what's your opinion of things now?" "I think we've done the thing neatly, though not exactly the way you wanted it." "Anything but that. Still, I don't despair of getting everything straight in due time. The man Manuel has learnt from his fellow-servant that our American friends have gone on to the settlements of the Del Norte. Strange if we can't find them there; and stranger still if, when found, I don't bring them to book at last. _Caraja_! Neither of the two will ever leave New Mexico alive." "What about these two--our Mexican friends?" "For them a fate the very reverse. Neither shall ever reach it alive." "You intend taking them there dead, do you?" "Neither living nor dead. I don't intend taking them there at all." "You think of leaving them by the way?" "More than think; I've determined upon it." "But surely you don't mean to kill them in cold blood?" "I won't harm a hair of their heads--neither I, nor you, nor any of my soldiers. For all that, they shall die." "Colonel, your speech is somewhat enigmatical. I don't comprehend it." "In due time you will. Have patience for four days more--it may be less. Then you will have the key to the enigma. Then Don Valerian Miranda and the old rascal Don Prospero shall cease to trouble the dreams of Gil Uraga." "And you are really determined on Miranda's death?" "A silly question for a man who knows me as you. Of course I am." "Well, for my part, I don't care much one way or the other, only I can't see what benefit it will be to you. He's not such a bad sort of a fellow, and has got the name of being a courageous soldier." "You're growing wonderfully sentimental, _ayadante_. The tender glances of the senorita seem to have softened you." "Not likely," rejoins the adjutant with a grim smile. "The eyes that could make impression upon the heart of Gaspar Roblez don't exist in the head of woman. If I have any weaknesses in the feminine way, it's for the goddess Fortuna. So long as I can get a pack of playing cards, with some rich _gringo_ to face me in the game, I'll leave petticoats alone." In turn the colonel smiles. He knows the idiosyncracy of his confederate in crime. Rather a strange one for a man who has committed many robberies, and more than once imbued his hands in blood. Cards, dice and drink are his passions, his habitual pleasure. Of love he seems incapable, and does not surrender himself to its lure, though there has been a chapter of it in his life's history, of which Uraga is aware, having an unfortunate termination, sealing his heart against the sex to contempt, almost hatred. Partially to this might be traced the fact of his having fallen into evil courses, and, like his colonel, become a robber. But, unlike the latter, he is not all bad. As in the case of Conrad, linked to a thousand crimes, one virtue is left to him-- courage. Something like a second remains in his admiration of the same quality in others. This it is that leads him to put in a word for Colonel Miranda, whose bravery is known far and wide throughout the Mexican army. Continuing to plead for him, he says-- "I don't see why you should trouble yourself to turn States' executioner. When we get to Santa Fe our prisoners can be tried by court-martial. No doubt they'll be condemned and shot." "Very great doubt of it, _ayadante_. That might have done when we first turned their party out. But of late, things are somewhat changed. In the hills of the Moctezumas matters are again getting complicated, and just now our worthy chief, El Cojo, will scarce dare to sign a sentence of death, especially where the party to be _passado por les armes_ is a man of note like Don Valerian Miranda." "He must die?" "_Teniente_! Turn your head round and look me straight in the face." "I am doing so, colonel. Why do you wish me?" "You see that scar on my cheek?" "Certainly I do." "Don Valerian Miranda did not give the wound that's left it, but he was partly the cause of my receiving it. But for him the duel would have ended differently. It's now twelve months gone since I got that gash, at the same time losing three of my teeth. Ever since the spot has felt aflame as if hell's fire were burning a hole through my cheek. It can only be extinguished by the blood of those who kindled it. Miranda is one of them. You've asked the question, `Must he die?' Looking at this ugly scar, and into the eye above it, I fancy you will not think it necessary to repeat the question." "But how is it to be done without scandal? As you yourself have said, it won't do for us to murder the man outright. We may be held to account--possibly ourselves called before a court-martial. Had he made resistance, and given us a pretext--" "My dear _ayadante_, don't trouble yourself about pretexts. I have a plan which will serve equally as well--my particular purpose, much better. As I've promised, you shall know it in good time--participate in its execution. But, come, we've been discoursing serious matters till I'm sick of them. Let's talk of something lighter and pleasanter-- say, woman. What think you of my charmer?" "The Dona Adela?" "Of course. Could any other charm me? Even you, with your heart of flint, should feel sparks struck out of it at the sight of her." "Certainly she's the most beautiful captive I've ever assisted at the taking of." "Captive!" mutters Uraga, in soliloquy. "I wish she were, in a sense different." Then, with a frown upon his face, continuing,-- "What matters it! When he is out of the way, I shall have it all my own way. Woo her as Tarquin did Lucretia, and she will yield not as the Roman matron, but as a Mexican woman--give her consent when she can no longer withhold it. What is it, _cabo_?" The interrogatory is addressed to a corporal who has ridden alongside, and halts, saluting him. "Colonel, the _alferez_ sends me to report that the Indian is no longer with us." "What! the man Manuel?" "The same, colonel." "Halt!" commands Uraga, shouting aloud to the troop, which instantly comes to a stand. "What's this I hear, _alferez_?" he asks, riding back, and speaking to the sub-lieutenant. "Colonel, we miss the fellow who guided us. He must have dropped behind as we came out of the gorge. He was with us on leaving the house, and along the valley road." "It don't much signify," says Uraga, in an undertone to Roblez; "we've got all out of him we need care for. Still, it may be better to bring him along. No doubt he slipped off to settle some affair of his own-- some pilferings, I presume; and will be found at the ranche. _Cabo_! take a file of men, go back to the valley, and bring the loiterer along with you. As I intend marching slowly, you'll easily overtake us at our night camp." The corporal, singling out the file as directed, rides back towards the buttes, still in sight, while the troop continues its uninterrupted march. Uraga and Roblez again go in advance, the former making further disclosure of his plans to his _particeps criminis_. Their confidential dialogue has lasted about an hour, when another of the lancers riding up again interrupts it. He is a grizzled old veteran, who has once been a _cibolero_, and seen life upon the plains. "What is it, Hernandez?" demands the colonel. "_Senor coronel_," says the man, pointing to a little speck in the sky, that has just shown itself above the north-eastern horizon, "do you see yonder cloud?" "Cloud! I see no cloud, unless you mean that spot on the horizon, scarce so large as the crown of my hat Is it that you mean?" "It is, colonel. And small as it seems, there may come trouble from it. It don't look much now, but in ten minutes time it will be big enough to spread all over the sky, and over us too." "You think so? Why, what is it, Hernandez? El Norte?" "I'm sure of it. _Carramba_! I've seen it too often. Trust me, colonel, we're going to have a storm." "In that case we'd better bring to a halt and get under shelter. I see nothing here that would screen a cat, save yonder clump of dwarf oaks. In a way it'll keep the blast off us, and, as we may as well stay under it for the night, it will furnish fuel for our fires. Ride back to the troop. Tell the _alferez_ to bring on the men to yonder grove, and quickly. Let the tents be pitched there. _Vaya_!" The _ci-devant_ cibolero does as directed, going at a gallop; while the colonel and his adjutant trot on to the clump of blackjacks, standing some three hundred paces out of the line of march. It was the same copse that gave shade and concealment to Frank Hamersley and Walt Wilder on the day preceding. On arriving at its edge, which they do before their followers, Uraga and Roblez see the tracks of the two mules. Not without surprise, and they exchange some words regarding them. But the fast-darkening sky drives the subject out of their thoughts, and they occupy themselves in choosing a spot for pitching the tents. Of these there are too--one which Urago owns, the other, found in the ranche, an old marquee Miranda had carried with him in his flight. This has been brought along for the accommodation of his sister, whom Uraga has reason to treat tenderly. Both tents are soon set up in the shelter of the black-jacks; the marquee, as ordered by Uraga, occupied by the female captives. The lancers, having hastily dismounted, picket their horses and make other preparations for the storm, predicted by the ex-cibolero as something terrific. Before long they see his prediction verified to the spirit and the letter. The sky, hitherto shining like a sapphire and blue as a turquoise, becomes changed to the sombre hue of lead; then darker, as if night had suddenly descended over the sterile plain. The atmosphere, but a moment before unpleasantly hot, is now cold as winter; the thermometer is less than twenty minutes falling over forty degrees--almost to freezing point! It is not night which causes the darkness, nor winter the cold. Both come from an atmospheric phenomenon peculiar to the table-lands of Texas, and far more feared by the traveller. It is that called by Mexicans and styled by the ex-cibolero _El Norte_; by Texans known as "The Norther." Alike dreaded by both. CHAPTER FIFTY SEVEN. A CUMBERSOME CAPTIVE. Having made prisoner of the peon, and drawn out of him all he is able to tell, his captors have a difficulty in deciding what to do with him. It will hamper them to take him along. Still they cannot leave him behind; and the young Kentuckian is not cruel enough to kill him, though convinced of his deserving death. If left to himself, Walt might settle the question quickly. Indignant at the Indian's treason, he has now a new reason to dislike him--as a rival. With the ex-Ranger this last weighs little. He is sure of having the affections of Conchita. He has her heart, with the promise of her hand, and in his own confiding simplicity has no fear of failure in that sense--not a pang of jealousy. The idea of having for a rival the abject creature at his feet, whom he could crush out of existence with the heel of his horseskin boot, is too ridiculous for him to entertain. He can laugh it to scorn. Not for that would he now put an end to the man's life, but solely from a sense of outraged justice, with the rough-and-ready retribution to which, as a Texan Ranger, he has been accustomed. His comrade, less prone to acts of high-handed punishment, restrains him; and the two stand considering what they are to do with their prisoner, now proving so inconvenient. While still undecided a sound reaches their ears causing them to start and turn pale. It is the trampling of horses; there can be no mistaking it for aught else. And many of them; not two or three, or half a dozen, but a whole troop. Uraga and his lancers have re-entered the valley! They are riding up to the ranche! What but this can it be? No other party of horsemen could be expected in that place. And no other thought have the two men hearing the hoof strokes. They are sure it is the soldiers returning. Instinctively they retreat into the house, without taking their prisoner along with them. Tied, he cannot stir from the spot. If he could it would make little difference now. Their determination is to defend themselves, if need be, to the death; and the hut, with its stout timber walls, is the best place they can think of. It has two doors, opening front and back, both of heavy slabs--split trunks of the palmilla. They have been constructed strongly and to shut close, for the nights are sometimes chilly, and grizzly bears stray around the ranche. Hastily shutting to the doors and barring them they take stand, each at a window, of which there are also two, both being in front. They are mere apertures in the log wall, and of limited dimensions, but on this account all the better for their purpose, being large enough to serve as loopholes through which they can deliver their fire. The position is not unfavourable for defence. The cabin stands close to a cliff, with but passage way behind. In front the ground is open, a sort of natural lawn leading down to the lake; only here and there a tree diversifies its smooth surface. Across this anyone approaching must come, whether they have entered the valley from above or below. On each flank the facade of the precipice projects outward, so that the abutting points can be seen from either of the windows; and, as they are both within rifle range, an assailant attempting to turn the cabin so as to enter from the back would be exposed to the enfilading fire of those inside. For security against a surround, the spot could not have been better chosen, and with anything like a fair proportion between besiegers and besieged the former would fail. Under the circumstances, however, there is not likely to be this, and for the two men to attempt defending themselves would seem the certain sealing of their doom. What chance for them to hold the hut against a force of fifty armed men--soldiers--for if the whole of the troop is returning there is this number? It may be not all have re-entered the valley--only a party sent back to bring on the pilferer, who has been missed upon the march. In that case there will be some chance of withstanding their attack. At all hazards it is to be withstood. What else can the two men do? Surrender, and become the prisoner of Uraga? Never! They know the relentless ruffian too well, and with too good reason. After their experience of him they need expect no mercy. The man who could leave them buried alive to die a lingering death in the gloomy recesses of a cavern, would be cruel enough not only to kill but torture them. They have to "go under," anyhow, as the prairie hunter expresses it, adding, "Ef we must die let's do so, killin' them as kills us. I'm good for half a score o' them leetle minikin Mexikins, an' I reck'n you, Frank, kin wipe out as many. We'll make it a bloody bizness for them afore the last breath leeves our bodies. Air you all churged an' riddy?" "I am," is the response of the Kentuckian, in stern, solemn tones, showing that he, as the Texan, has made up his mind to "die killing." Says the latter, "They'll come out through the trees yonder, where the path runs in. Let's take the fust as shows, an' drop him dead. Gie me the chance, Frank. I'm dyin' to try the doctor's gun." "By all means do so." "You fetch the second out o' his saddle, if a second show. That'll gie the others a scare, an' keep 'em back a bit, so's we'll hev good time to get loaded agin." All this--both speech and action--has not occupied over two minutes of time. The rush inside the cabin, the closing of the doors, and taking stand at the windows, have been done in that haste with which men retreat from a tiger or flee before a prairie fire. And now, having taken all the precautions possible, the two men wait behind the walls, gun in hand, prepared for the approach of the assailants--themselves so sheltered by the obscurity inside as not to be seen from without. As yet no enemy has made appearance. No living thing is seen outside, save the lump of copper-coloured humanity prostrate on the sward, beside the bag and swag he has been hindered from taking away. Still the shod hoofs are heard striking against stones, the click sounding clearer and nearer. They inside the _jacal_ listen with bated breath, but hearts beating audibly. Hearts filled with anxiety. How could it be else? In another minute they may expect to engage in a life-and-death conflict-- for themselves too likely a death one. Something more than anxiety stirs within them. Something of apprehension, perhaps actual fear. If so, not strange; fear, under the circumstances, excusable, even in the hearts of heroes. Stranger were it otherwise. Whatever their emotions at the moment, they experience a sudden change, succeeded by a series. The first is surprise. While listening to the hoof strokes of the horses, all at once it appears to them that these are not coming down the valley, but up it from below. Is it a sonorous deception, caused by the sough of the cascade or reverberation from the rocks? More intently they bend their ears, more carefully note the quarter whence proceeds the sound. Soon to answer the above question, each to himself, in the negative. Unquestionably it comes from below. They have recovered from this, their first surprise, before a second seizes upon them. Mingling with the horses' tramp they hear voices of men. So much they might expect; but not such voices. For amidst the speeches exchanged arise roars of laughter, not such as could come from the slender gullets of puny Mexicans, nor men of the Spanish race. Nor does it resemble the savage cachinnation of the Comanche Indians. Its rough aspirate, and rude, but hearty, tone could only proceed from Celtic or Anglo-Saxon throats. While still wondering at the sound ringing in their ears, a sight comes before their eyes which but lessens their surprise by changing it into gladness. Out of the trees at the lower end of the lake a horseman is seen riding--after him a second. Both so unlike Uraga or any of his lancers, so different from what they would deem enemies, that the rifles of Hamersley and the hunter, instead of being aimed to deliver their fire, are dropped, butts to the ground. Before clearing the skirt of timber, the two horsemen make halt--only for an instant, as if to reconnoitre. They appear surprised at seeing the hut, and not less at sight of a man lying along the ground in front of it. For they are near enough to perceive that he is tied hand and foot, and to note the spilled paraphernalia beside him. As they are men not easily to be daunted, the tableau, though it somewhat mystifies, does not affright or drive them back. Instead, they advance without the slightest show of fear. And behind the two first showing themselves follow two others, and two more, till fifty have filed out of the timber, and ride across the clear ground, heading direct for the house. Clad in rough coats of sombre hue, jeans, blanket, and buckskin, not a few of them ragged, with hats of all shapes and styles; carrying rifles in their hands, with revolving pistols and bowie-knives in their belts, there could be no mistaking them for the gaudily-bedizened troop whose horses at sunrise of that same day trampled over the same turf. To the spectators no two cohorts could present a _coup d'oeil_ more dissimilar. Though about equal in numbers, the two bodies of men were unlike in everything else--arms, dresses, accoutrements; even their horses having but slight resemblance. The horsemen late upon the spot would seem dwarfs beside those now occupying it, who in comparison might be accounted giants. Whatever the impression made upon the young prairie merchant by the sight of the newly-arrived troop, its effect upon the ex-Ranger might be compared to a shock of electricity, or the result that succeeds the inspiration of laughing-gas. Long before the first files have reached the centre of the cleared space he has sprung to the door, pulled the bar back, slammed open the slabs, almost smashing them apart, and rushed out; when outside sending forth a shout that causes every rock to re-echo it to the remotest corner of the valley. It is a grand cry of gladness like a clap of thunder, with its lightning flash bursting forth from the cloud in which in has been pent up. After it some words spoken more coherently give the key to its jubilant tone. "Texas Rangers! Ye've jest come in time. Thank the Lord!" CHAPTER FIFTY EIGHT. OLD ACQUAINTANCES. Not necessary to say that the horsemen riding up to the ranche are Captain Haynes and his company of Rangers. They have come up the canon guided by Barbato. Even more than they is the renegade surprised at seeing a house in that solitary spot. It was not there on his last passing through the valley in company with his red-skinned confederates, the Tenawas, which he did some twelve months before. Equally astonished is he to see Walt Wilder spring out from the door, though he hails the sight with a far different feeling. At the first glance he recognises the gigantic individual who so heroically defended the waggon-train, and the other behind--for Hamersley has also come forth--as the second man who retreated along with him. Surely they are the two who were entombed! The unexpected appearance produces on the Mexican an effect almost comical, though not to him. On the contrary, he stands appalled, under the influence of a dark superstitious terror, his only movement being to repeatedly make the sign of the Cross, all the while muttering Ave Marias. Under other circumstances his ludicrous behaviour would have elicited laughter from the Rangers--peals of it. But their eyes are not on him, all being turned to the two men who have issued out of the cabin and are coming on towards the spot where they have pulled up. Several of them have already recognised their old comrade, and in hurried speech communicate the fact to the others. "Walt Wilder!" are the words that leap from a dozen pairs of lips, while they, pronouncing the name with glances aghast, look as if a spectre had suddenly appeared to them. An apparition, however, that is welcome; altogether different to the impression it has produced upon their guide. Meanwhile, Wilder advances to meet them; as he comes on, keeping up a fire of exclamatory phrases, addressed to Hamersley, who is close behind. "Air this chile awake, or only dreaming? Look thar, Frank! That's Ned Haynes, my old captin'. An' thar's Nat Cully, an' Jim Buckland. Durn it, thar's the hul strenth o' the kumpany." Walt is now close to their horses' heads, and the rangers, assured it is himself and not his ghost, are still stricken with surprise. Some of them turn towards the Mexican for explanation. They suppose him to have lied in his story about their old comrade having been closed up in a cave, though with what motive they cannot guess. The man's appearance does not make things any clearer. He still stands affrighted, trembling, and repeating his Paternosters. But now in changed tone, for his fear is no longer of the supernatural. Reason reasserting itself, he has given up the idea of disembodied spirits, convinced that the two figures coming forward are real flesh and blood; the same whose blood he assisted in spilling, and whose flesh he lately believed to be decaying in the obscurity of a cave. He stands appalled as ever; no more with unearthly awe, but the fear of an earthly retribution--a terrible one, which he is conscious of having provoked by the cruel crime in which he participated. Whatever his fears and reflections they are not for the time intruded upon. The rangers, after giving a glance to him, turn to the two men who are now at their horses' heads; and, springing from their saddles, cluster around them with questions upon their tongues and eager expectations in their eyes. The captain and Cully are the two first who interrogate. "Can we be sure it's you, Walt?" is the interrogatory put by his old officer. "Is it yourself?" "Darn me ef I know, cap. Jess now I ain't sure o' anythin', arter what's passed. Specially meetin' you wi' the rest o' the boys. Say, cap, what's fetched ye out hyar?" "You." "Me!" "Yes; we came to bury you." "Yis, hoss," adds Cully, confirming the captain's statement. "We're on the way to gie burial to your bones, not expecting to find so much flesh on 'em. For that purpiss we've come express all the way from Peecawn Crik. An' as I know'd you had a kindly feelin' for yur ole shootin'- iron, I've brought that along to lay it in the grave aside o' ye." While speaking, Cully slips out of his saddle and gives his old comrade a true prairie embrace, at the same time handing him his gun. Neither the words nor the weapon makes things any clearer to Walt, but rather add to their complication. With increased astonishment he cries out,-- "Geehorum! Am I myself, or somebody else? Is't a dream, or not? That's my ole shootin' stick, sartin. I left it over my hoss, arter cuttin' the poor critter's throat. Maybe you've got him too? I shedn't now be surprised at anythin'. Come, Nat; don't stan' shilly-shallyin', but tell me all about it. Whar did ye git the gun?" "On Peecawn Crik. Thar we kim acrost a party o' Tenawa Kimanch, unner a chief they call Horned Lizart, o' the whom ye've heern. He han't no name now, seein' he's rubbed out, wi' the majority of his band. We did that. The skrimmage tuk place on the crik, whar we foun' them camped. It didn't last long; an' arter 'twere eended, lookin' about among thar bodies, we foun' thar beauty o' a chief wi' this gun upon his parson, tight clutched in the death-grup. Soon's seeing it I know'd 'twar yourn; an' in coorse surspected ye'd had some mischance. Still, the gun kedn't gie us any informashun o' how you'd parted wi' it. By good luck, 'mong the Injuns we'd captered a Mexikin rennygade--thet thing ye see out thar. He war joined in Horned Lizart's lot, an' he'd been wi' 'em some time. So we put a loose larzette roun' his thrapple, an' on the promise o' its bein' tightened, he tolt us the hul story; how they hed attackted an' skuttled a carryvan, an' all 'bout entoomin' you an' a kimrade--this young fellur, I take it--who war wi' ye. Our bizness out hyar war to look up yur bones an' gie 'em a more Christyun kind o' beril. We were goin' for that cave, the rennygade guidin' us. He said he ked take us a near cut up the gully through which we've just come-- arter ascendin' one o' the heads o' the Loosyvana Rod. Near cut! Doggone it, he's been righter than I reck'n he thort o'. Stead o' your bones thar's yur body, wi' as much beef on't as ever. Now I've told our story, we want yourn, the which appears to be a darned deal more o' a unexplainable mistry than ourn. So open yur head, ole hoss, and let's have it." Brief and graphic as is Cully's narrative, it takes Walt still less time to put his former associates in possession of what has happened to himself and Hamersley, whom he introduces to them as the companion of his perilous adventures--the second of the two believed to have been buried alive! CHAPTER FIFTY NINE. MUTUAL EXPLANATIONS. The arrival of the Rangers at that particular time is certainly a contingency of the strangest kind. Ten minutes later, and they would have found the jacal deserted; for Hamersley and Wilder had made up their minds to set off, taking the traitor along with them. The Texans would have discovered signs to tell of the place having been recently occupied by a large body of men, and from the tracks of shod horses these skilled trailers would have known the riders were not Indians. Still, they would have made delay around the ranche and encamped in the valley for that night. This had been their intention, their horses being jaded and themselves wearied making their way up the canon. Though but ten miles in a direct line, it was well nigh twenty by the winding of the stream--a good, even difficult, day's journey. On going out above they would have seen the trail of Uraga's party, and known it to be made by Mexican soldiers. But, though these were their sworn foemen, they might not have been tempted to follow them. The start of several hours, their own animals in poor condition, the likelihood of a larger force of the enemy being near--all this would have weighed with them, and they would have continued on to the cave whither the renegade was guiding them--a direction altogether different. A very singular coincidence, then, their coming up at that exact instant. It seemed the hand of Providence opportunely extended; and in this light Hamersley looked upon it, as also the ex-Ranger. Briefly as may be they make known to the new-comers all that had transpired, or as much as for the time needs to be told. Then appeal to them for assistance. By the Texans their cause is instantly espoused--unanimously, without one dissenting voice. On the contrary, all are uttered with an energy and warmth that give Hamersley a world of hope. Here are friends, whose enemies are his own. And they are in strength sufficient to pursue Uraga's troop and destroy it. They may overtake it that very night; if not, on the morrow. And if not then, they will pursue it to the borders of New Mexico--to the banks of the Del Norte itself. His heart is no more depressed. The chance of rescuing his friends from death and saving his betrothed from dishonour is no longer hopeless. There is now a probability--almost a certainty--of its success. Backed by Wilder, he proposes instant pursuit. To the Texans the proposal is like an invitation to a ball or frontier fandango. Excitement is the breath of their life, and a fight with Mexicans their joy; a pursuit of these their supremest delight. Such as this, moreover, having for its object not only the defeat of a hated foe, but the recovery of captives, beautiful women, as their old comrade Walt enthusiastically describes them, is the very thing to rouse the Rangers to energetic action, rekindling in their hearts the spirit of frontier chivalry--the same which led them to become Rangers. Notwithstanding their wild enthusiasm they do not proceed rashly. Haynes, their captain, is an old "Indian fighter," one of the most experienced chiefs of that Texan border warfare, so long continued. Checking their impatience to pursue at once, he counsels prudence and deliberate action. Cully also recommends this course. "But why should we lose a moment?" inquires the hot-blooded Kentuckian, chafing at the delay; "they cannot yet be more than ten miles off. We may overtake them before sunset." "That's just what we mustn't do," rejoins the Ranger chief. "Suppose they get sight of us before we're near? On the naked plain, you say it is, they'd be sure to do that. What then? Their horses, I take it, are fresh, compared with ours. They might gallop off and leave us gazing after them like so many April fools. They'd have time, too, to take their prisoners along with them." This last speech makes an impression upon all. Even Hamersley no longer offers opposition. "Let the sun go down," continues the Texan captain; "that's just what we want. Since they're bound due west I reckon we can easily keep on their trail, clear night or dark one. Here's Nat Cully can do that; and if our friend Walt hasn't lost his old skill he can be trusted for the same." The Ranger and ex-Ranger, both standing by, remain modestly silent. "Our plan will be," pursues Haynes, "to approach their camp under cover of night, surround, and so make certain of them. They'll have a camp; and these Mexican soldiers are such greenhorns, they're sure to keep big fires burning, if it is only to give them light for their card-playing. The blaze'll guide us to their squatting-ground, wherever they may make it." The captain's scheme seems so rational that no one opposes it. Walt Wilder in words signifies assent to it, and Hamersley, with, some reluctance, is at length constrained to do the same. It is resolved to remain two hours longer in the valley, and then start for the upper plain. That will give time to recruit their horses on the nutritious _gramma_ grass, as themselves on the game they have killed before entering the canon. This hangs plentifully over the horns of their saddles, in the shape of wild turkeys, haunches of venison, and pieces of bear meat. The fire on the cabin hearth and those kindled by the soldiers outside are still smouldering. They are quickly replenished, and the abandoned cooking utensils once more called into use. But pointed saplings, and the iron ramrods of their rifles--the Ranger's ordinary spit--are in greater demand, and broiling is the style of _cuisine_ most resorted to. The turkeys are plucked and singed, the venison and bear meat cut into collops, and soon two score pieces are sputtering in the flames of half-a-dozen bivouac fires, while the horses, unbridled, are led out upon their lariats, and given to the grass. CHAPTER SIXTY. CROSS-QUESTIONING. While the Rangers are preparing for their Homeric repast, a group gathered in front of the jacal is occupied with an affair altogether different. The individuals most conspicuous in it are the Texan captain, the guide Cully, Walt Wilder, and the young Kentuckian, though several besides take part in the conference. Two others are concerned in it, though not forming figures in the group. They are some paces apart, lying on the grass, both bound. These are the traitor Manuel and the renegade Barbato. Both Indian and Mexican appear terribly cowed and crestfallen, for both feel themselves in what Cully or Walt Wilder would call a "bad fix." They are, in truth, in a dangerous predicament; for, now that Walt and the Kentuckian have turned up alive, what with the story they have to tell, added to that already known to the Rangers--comparing notes between the two parties--new light is let in, floods of it, falling upon spots hitherto dark, and clearing up points confused and obscure. The two culprits are again cross-examined, and, with pistols held to their heads, forced to still further confession. The peon repeats what he has already told, without adding much, not having much to add. With the renegade it is different. He has kept much back concerning the part played by Uraga and his lieutenant in the affair of the destroyed waggon train. But with Hamersley, who speaks his own native tongue, now cross-questioning him, and Walt Wilder to extract his testimony by the persuasive influence of a knife-blade glistening in his eyes, he goes further, and admits the unnatural confederation that existed between the white and red robbers--the Mexican colonel and Comanche chief. In short, to save his life, he makes a much cleaner breast of it than before, this time only keeping back his own special guiltiness in being their willing go-between. While he is repeating his confession, all the other Rangers gather around the group to listen to him. They stand silent, with bated breath and brows contracted. When at length they become possessed of the tale in all its diabolical atrocity, all its completeness, their anger, already excited, become almost ungovernable; and it is as much as their captain can do to restrain them from at once starting in pursuit. Some fling their spits in the fire with the meat upon them still untouched; others drop the pieces roasted and partly eaten; most demanding to be led on. The counsels of the more prudent prevail; and again tranquillised, they recover the morsels of meat and continue their repast. Not long, till they have reason to regret the delay and deem the prudence misplaced. Though this arises not from any mistake on the part of their counsellors, but from a circumstance entirely accidental. While they are still in the midst of their meal, the sky, all day long of cerulean clearness, becomes suddenly clouded. Not as this term is understood in the ordinary sense, but absolutely black, as if the sun were instantly eclipsed, or had dropped altogether out of the firmament. Scarce ten minutes after its commencement the obscurity has reached completeness--that of a total solar eclipse or as in a starless night. Though troubled at the change, none of the Rangers are dismayed by it, or even surprised. The old prairie men are the least astonished, since they know what it means. At the first portentous sign Cully is heard crying out,-- "A hurricane!--A norther!" Wat Wilder has observed it at the same time, and confirms the prognostic. This is before any of the others have noticed aught peculiar in the aspect of the sky, and when there is just the selvedge of a cloud seen above the cliff. All Texans understand the significance of the word "norther"--a storm or tornado, usually preceded by a hot, stifling atmosphere, with drifting dust, accompanied by sheet or forked lightning and claps of terrific thunder, followed by wind and rain, sometimes hail or sleet, as if the sluices of heaven were drawn open, ending in a continued blast of more regular direction, but chill as though coming direct from the Arctic regions. In less than ten minutes after its first sign, the tempest is around them. Down into the valley pours the dust, swept from the surface of the upper plain, along with it the leaves and stalks of the wild wormwood, with other weeds of the desert. Simultaneously the wind, at first in low sighs, like the sound of a distant sea; then roaring against the rocks, and swooping down among the trees, whose branches go crashing before its blast. Then succeed lightning, thunder, and rain-- the last falling, not in drops, but in sheets, as if spilled from a spout. For shelter the Rangers rush inside the ranche, leaving their horses to take care of themselves. The latter stand cowering under the trees, neighing with affright--the mules among them giving vent to their plaintive hinney. There are dogs, too, that howl and bark, with other sounds that come from farther off--from the wild denizens of the wilderness; cries of the cougar in contralto, wolf-barkings in mezzo-soprano, screaming of eagles in shrill treble, snorting of bears in basso, and hooting of scared owls in lugubrious tone, to be likened only to the wailing of agonised spirits in Purgatory. Crowded within the hut, so thickly as to have scarce standing room, the Rangers wait for the calming of the tempest. They submit with greater resignation, knowing it will not long continue. It is far from being their first experience of a "norther." The only thought that troubles them is the delay--being hindered from setting forth on the pursuit. True, the party to be pursued will be stayed by the same obstruction. The soldiers will have to halt during the continuance of the storm, so that the distance between will remain the same. But then their tracks will be obliterated--every vestige of them. The wind, the rain, and dust will do this. How is their trail to be taken up? "That will be easy enough," says one, whose self-esteem is greater than his prairie experience. He adds: "As they're going due west, we can't make any mistake by steering the same way." "How little he knows about it!" is the muttered remark exchanged between Wilder and Cully. For they know that the deflection of a single point upon the prairies--above all, upon the Staked Plain--will leave the traveller, like a ship at sea without chart or compass, to steer by guesswork, or go drifting at sheer chance. To most, the consoling thought is that the Mexicans will halt near, and stay till the storm is over. They have some baggage--a tent or two, with other camp equipage. This is learnt from the Indian; and Hamersley, as also Wilder, have themselves made note of it. To the returning soldiers there can be no great reason for haste, and they will not likely resume their march till the sky is quite clear. Therefore they will gain nothing in distance. Satisfied by such assurance given by the sager ones of the party, the Rangers remain inside the hut, on the roof of which the rain dashes down, without experiencing any keen pangs of impatience. Some of them even jest--their jokes having allusion to the close quarters in which they are packed, and other like trifles incidental to the situation. Walt Wilder for a while gives way to this humour. Whatever may be the danger of Don Valerian and the others, he does not believe his sweetheart much exposed. The little brown-skinned damsel is not in the proscribed list; and the ex-Ranger, strong in the confidence of having her heart, with the promise of her hand, has less reason to be apprehensive about the consequences. Besides, he is now in the midst of his former associates, and the exchange of new histories and old reminiscences is sufficient to fill up the time, and keep him from yielding to impatient longing. Of all Hamersley alone is unhappy. Despite the assurances spoken, the hopes felt, there is yet apprehension for the future. The position, however, is endurable, and only passes this point as a thought comes into his mind--a memory that flashes across his brain, as if a bullet had struck him between the temples. It causes him to spring suddenly to his feet, for he has been seated, at the same time wringing from him a cry of peculiar signification. "What is it, Mr Hamersley?" asks the Ranger Captain, who is close by his side. "My God!" exclaims the Kentuckian. "I'd forgotten. We must be off at once, or we shall be too late--too late!" Saying this, he makes a dash for the door, hurtling his way through the crowd close standing between. The Rangers regard him with glances of astonishment, and doubts about his sanity. Some of them actually think he has gone mad! One alone understands him--Walt Wilder; though he, too, seems demented. With like incoherent speech and frantic gesture, he follows Hamersley to the door. Both rush outside; as they do so calling back, "Come on! come on!" CHAPTER SIXTY ONE. INTO THE STORM. Lightning flashes, thunder rolls, wind bellows, and rain pours down in sheets, as if from sluices; for the storm is still raging as furiously as ever. Into it have rushed the two, regardless of all. The Texans are astounded--for a time some of them still believing both men mad. But soon it is seen they are acting with method, making straight for the horses, while shouting and gesticulating for the Rangers to come after. These do not need either the shouts or signs to be repeated. Walt's old comrades know he must have reason, and, disregarding the tempest, they strike out after. Their example is electric, and in ten seconds the jacal is empty. In ten more they are among their horses, drawing in the trail-ropes and bridling them. Before they can get into their saddles they are made aware of what it is all about. Hamersley and Walt, already mounted and waiting, make known to the Ranger captain the cause of their hurried action, apparently so eccentric. A few words suffice. "The way out," says the Kentuckian, "is up yonder ravine, along the bed of the stream that runs through. When it rains as it's doing now, then the water suddenly rises and fills up the channel, leaving no room, no road. If we don't get out quick we may be kept here for days." "Yis, boys!" adds Wilder, "we've got to climb the stairs right smart, rain or shine, storm or no storm. Hyar's one off for the upper storey, fast as his critter kin carry him." While speaking, he jobs his heels against the ribs of his horse--for he is now mounted on one, as also Hamersley--supernumeraries of the Texan troop. Then, dashing off, with the Kentuckian by his side, they are soon under the trees and out of sight. Not of the Rangers, who, themselves now in the saddle, spur after in straggling line, riding at top speed. Once again the place is deserted, for, despite their precipitate leave-taking, the Texans have carried the prisoners along with them. No living thing remains by the abandoned dwelling. The only sign of human occupation is the smoke that ascends through its kitchen chimney, and from the camp fires outside, these gradually getting extinguished by the downpour. Still the lightning flashes, the thunder rolls, the wind bellows, and the rain pours down as from dishes. But not to deter the Texans, who, drenched to their shirts, continue to ride rapidly on up the valley road. There is in reality no road, only a trail made by wild animals, occasionally trodden by the domesticated ones belonging to Colonel Miranda; later still by Uraga's lancers. Soaked by the rain, it has become a bed of mud, into which the horses of the Rangers sink to their saddle girths, greatly impeding their progress. Whip and spur as they may, they make but slow time. The animals baulk, plunge, stumble, some going headforemost into the mire, others striking their shoulders against the thick-standing trees, doing damage to themselves and their riders. For with the norther still clouding the sky, it is almost dark as night. Other dangers assail them from falling trees. Some go down bodily before the blast, while from others great branches are broken off by the wind, and strike crashing across the path. One comes near crushing half a dozen horsemen under its broad, spreading avalanche of boughs. Notwithstanding all, they struggle on fearlessly, and fast as they can, Hamersley and Wilder at their head, Haynes, Cully, and the best mounted of the troop close following. Walt and the Kentuckian well know the way. Otherwise, in the buffeting of that terrible storm, they might fail to find it. They succeed in keeping it, on to the head of the valley, where the stream comes in between the cliffs. A tiny runlet as they last looked upon it--a mere brook, pellucid and sparkling as the sand on its bed. Now it is a torrent, deep, red and roaring; only white on its surface, where the froth sweeps on, clouting the cliffs on each side. Against these it has risen quite six feet, and still creeps upward. It has filled the channel from side to side, leaving not an inch of roadway between the river and rock. To wade it would be impossible; to attempt swimming it destruction. The staunchest steed could not stem its surges. Even the huge river-horse of Africa would be swept off his feet and tossed to the surface like one of its froth-flakes. Arriving on its edge, Hamersley sees this at a glance. As he checks up his horse, the exclamation that leaps from his lips more resembles the anguished cry of a man struggling in the torrent than one seated safely in a saddle on its bank. After it, he gives utterance to two words in sad despairing tone, twice repeated,-- "Too late--too late!" Again repeated by Walt Wilder, and twenty times again by a score of the Rangers who have ridden up, and reined their horses crowdingly behind. There is no response save echo from the rocks, scarce audible through the hoarse sough of the swollen surging stream, that rolls relentlessly by, seeming to say, as in scorn, "Ford me! swim across me if you can!" CHAPTER SIXTY TWO. A SHORT SHRIFT. Difficult--indeed, impossible--for pen to describe the scene consequent upon the arrival of the Rangers by the banks of the swollen stream, and finding it unfordable. Imagine a man who has secured passage by a ship bound for some far-off foreign land, and delayed by some trifling affair, comes upon the pier to see the hawser cast off, the plank drawn ashore, the sails spread, himself left hopelessly behind! His chagrin might be equal to that felt by the Texans, but slight compared with what harrows the hearts of Hamersley and Walt Wilder. To symbolise theirs, it must be a man missing his ship homeward bound, with sweetheart, wife, child awaiting him at the end of the voyage, and in a port from which vessels take departure but "few and far between." These two, better than any of the Texans, understand the obstruction that has arisen, in the same proportion as they are aggrieved by it. Too well do they comprehend its fatal import. Not hours, but whole days, may elapse before the flood subsides, the stream can be forded, the ravine ascended, and the pursuit continued. Hours--days! A single day--an hour--may seal the fate of those dear to them. The hearts of both are sad, their bosoms racked with anguish, as they sit in their saddles with eyes bent on the turbid stream, which cruelly forbids fording it. In different degree and from a different cause the Texans also suffer. Some only disappointment, but others real chagrin. These last men, whose lives have been spent fighting their Mexican foemen, hating them from the bottom of their hearts. They are those who knew the unfortunate Fanning and the lamented Bowie, who gave his name to their knives; some of themselves having escaped from the red massacre of Goliad and the savage butchery of the Alamo. Ever since they have been practising the _lex talionis_--seeking retaliation, and oft-times finding it. Perhaps too often wreaking their vengeance on victims that might be innocent. Now that guilty ones--real Mexican soldiers in uniform, such as ruthlessly speared and shot down their countrymen at Goliad and San Antonio--now that a whole troop of these have but the hour before been within reach--almost striking distance--it is afflicting, maddening, to think they may escape. And the more reflecting on the reason, so slight and accidental--a shower of rain swelling a tiny stream. For all this, staying their pursuit as effectively as if a sea of fire separated them from the foe, so despised and detested. The lightning still flashes, the thunder rolls, the wind bellows, and the rain pours down. No use staying any longer by the side of the swollen stream, to be tantalised by its rapid, rushing current, and mocked by its foam-flakes dancing merrily along. Rather return to the forsaken ranche, and avail themselves of such shelter as it may afford. In short, there seems no alternative; and, yielding to the necessity, they rein round, and commence the backward march, every eye glancing gloomily, every brow overcast. They are all disappointed, most of them surly as bears that had been shot in the head, and have scratched the place to a sore. They are just in the humour to kill anyone, or anything, that should chance in their way. But there is no one, and nothing; and, in the absence of an object to spend their spite upon, some counsel wreaking it on their captives--the traitor and renegade. Never during life were these two men nearer their end. To all appearance, in ten minutes more both will be dangling at the end of a rope suspended from a limb of a tree. They are saved by a circumstance for them at least lucky, if unfortunate for some others. Just as a half-score of the Rangers have clumped together under a spreading pecan-tree, intending to hang them upon one of its branches, a horse is heard to neigh. Not one of their own, but an animal some way off the track, amid the trees. The hail is at once responded to by the steeds they are bestriding; and is promptly re-answered, not by one horse, but three neighing simultaneously. A strange thing this, that calls for explanation. What horses can be there, save their own? And none of the Rangers have ridden in the direction whence the "whighering" proceeds. A dozen of them do so now; before they have gone far, finding three horses standing under the shadow of a large live oak, with three men mounted on their backs, who endeavour to keep concealed behind its broad buttressed trunk. In vain. Guided by the repeated neighing and continuous tramp of their horses, the Rangers ride up, close around, and capture them. Led out into the light, the Texans see before them three men in soldier garb--the uniform of Mexican lancers. It is the corporal squad sent back by Uraga to bring on the truant traitor. Of their errand the Rangers know nought, and nothing care. Enough that three of their hated foemen are in their hands, their hostility intensified by the events of the hour. No more fuel is needed to fire them up. Their vengeance demands a victim, and three have offered ready to hand. As they ride back to the road, they leave behind them a tableau, telling of a spectacle just passed--one having a frightful finale. From a large limb of the live oak, extending horizontally, hang three men, the Mexican lancers. They are suspended by the neck, dangling, dead! CHAPTER SIXTY THREE. A SPLIT TRAIL. The Texans ride on to the ranche. They still chafe at being thwarted of a vengeance; by every man of them keenly felt, after learning the criminality of the Lancer Colonel. Such unheard of atrocity could not help kindling within their breasts indignation of the deepest kind. The three soldiers strung up to the trees have been its victims. But this episode, instead of appeasing the executioners, has only roused them, as tigers who have tasted blood hindered from banqueting on flesh. They quite comprehend the position in which the norther has placed them. On the way Hamersley and Wilder, most discomforted of all, have made them aware of it. The swollen stream will prevent egress from the valley till it subsides. There is no outlet save above and below, and both these are now effectually closed, shutting them up as in a strong-walled prison. On each side the precipice is unscalable. Even if men might ascend, horses could not be taken along; and on such a chase it would be hopeless for them to set out afoot. But men could not go up the cliff. "A cat kedn't climb it," says Walt, who during his sojourn in the valley has explored every inch of it. "We've got to stay hyar till the flood falls. I reckon no one kin be sorrier to say so than this chile. But thar's no help for 't." "Till the flood falls? When will that be?" No one can answer this, not even Wilder himself. And with clouded brows, sullen, dispirited, they return to the jacal. Two days they stay there, chafing with angry impatience. In their anger they are ready for the most perilous enterprise. But, although bitterly cursing the sinister chance that hinders pursuit, deeming each hour a day, they can do nought save wait till the swollen stream subsides. They watch it with eager solicitude, constantly going to the bank to examine it, as the captain of a ship consults his weather-glass to take steps for the safety of his vessel. All the time one or another is riding to, or returning from, the head of the valley, to bring back report of how the subsidence progresses. And long ere the stream has returned to its regular channel, they plunge their horses into it, breasting a current that almost sweeps them off their feet. But the Texan horses are strong, as their riders are skilful; the obstacle is surmounted, and the Rangers at length escape from their prolonged and irksome imprisonment. It is mid-day, as filing up the pass, they reach the higher level of the Llano. Not many moments do they remain there; only long enough for the rear files to get out of the gorge, when those in front move forward across the plain, guided by the two best trackers in Texas, Nat Cully and Walt Wilder. At first there is no following of a trail, since there is none visible. Wind, rain, and drifted dust have obliterated every mark made by the returning soldiers. Not a sign is left to show the pursuers the path Uraga's troop has taken. They know it should be westward, and strike out without waiting to look for tracks. For the first ten or twelve miles they ride at a rapid rate, often going in a gallop. Their horses, rested and fresh, enable them to do so. They are only stayed in their pace by the necessity of keeping a straight course--not so easy upon a treeless plain, when the sun is not visible in the sky. Unluckily for them, the day is cloudy, which renders it more difficult. Still, with the twin buttes behind--so long as these are in sight they keep their course with certainty; then, as their summits sink below the level of the plain, another landmark looms up ahead, well known by Walt Wilder and Hamersley. It is the black-jack grove where, two days before, they made their midday meal. The Rangers ride towards it, with the intention also to make a short halt there and snatch a scrap from their haversacks. When upon its edge, before entering among the trees, they see that which decides them to stay even less time than intended--the hoof-prints of half a hundred horses! Going inside the copse, they observe other signs that speak of an encampment. Reading these with care, they can tell that it has not long been broken up. The ashes of the bivouac fires are scarce cold, while the hoof-marks of the horses show fresh on the desert dust, for the time converted into mud. Wilder and Cully declare that but one day can have passed since the lancers parted from the spot; for there is no question as to who have been bivouacking among the black-jacks. A day--only a day! It will take full five before the soldiers can cross the Sierras and enter the valley of the Del Norte. There may still be a chance of overtaking them. All the likelier, since, cumbered with their captives, and not knowing they are pursued, they may be proceeding at a leisurely pace. Cheered by this hope, and freshly stimulated, the Texans do not even dismount, but, spurring forth upon the plain, again ride rapidly on, munching a mouthful as they go. They are no longer delayed by any doubt as to course. The trail of the lancer troop is now easily discernible, made since the storm passed over. Any one of the Rangers could follow it in a fast gallop. At this pace they all go, only at intervals drawing in to a walk, to breathe their blown steeds for a fresh spurt. Even after night has descended they continue on, a clear moonlight enabling them to lift the trail. As next morning's sun breaks over the Llano Estacado they descend its western slope into the valley of the Rio Pecos. Traversing its bottom, of no great breadth, they reach the crossing of the old Spanish trail, from Santa Fe to San Antonio de Bejar. Fording the stream, on its western bank, they discover signs which cause them to come to a halt, for some time perplexing them. Nothing more than the tracks of the troop they have been all the while pursuing, which entered the river on its left side. Now on its right they are seen the same, up the sloping causeway of the bank. But on reaching the bottom, a little aback from the water's edge, the trail splits into two distinct ramifications, one continuing westward towards the Sierras, the other turning north along the stream. The first shows the hoof-marks of nigh forty horses, the second only ten or twelve. Unquestionably the Mexican colonel had here divided his troop, the main body proceeding due west, the detachment striking up stream. The route taken by this last would be the old Spanish road for Santa Fe, the first party proceeding on to Albuquerque. For a time the pursuing Texans are at fault, as foxhounds by a fence, over which Reynard has doubled back to mislead them. They have halted at the bifurcation of the trails, and sit in their saddles, considering which of the two they should take. Not all remain mounted. Cully and Wilder have flung themselves to the ground, and, in bent attitudes, with eyes close to the surface, are scanning the hoof-marks of the Mexican horses. The others debate which of the two troops they ought to take after, or whether they should themselves separate and pursue both. This course is opposed by a majority, and it is at length almost decided to continue on after the main body, which, naturally enough, they suppose to have Uraga at its head, with the captives in keeping. In the midst of their deliberations a shout calls the attention of all, concentrating it on Walt Wilder. For it is he who has uttered the cry. The ex-Ranger is seen upon his knees, his great body bent forward, with his chin almost touching the ground. His eyes are upon the hoof-marks of a horse--one of those that went off with the smaller detachment along the river's bank. That he has identified the track is evident from the speech succeeding his ejaculation. "Yur hoss, Hamersley! Hyar's his futprint, sure. An', as he's rud by Urager, the scoundrel's goed this way to a sartinty. Eqwally sartin, he's tuk the captives along wi' him." On hearing their old comrade declare his prognosis, the Rangers wheel their horses and ride towards him. Before reaching the spot where he is still prospecting, they see him give a sudden spring forward, like a frog leaping over meadow sward, then pause again, scrutinising a track. A second examination, similar to the first, tells of another discovery. In like manner explained, by his speech close following,-- "An' hyar's the track o' the mare--the yeller mustang as war rid by the saynorita. An', durn me, that's the hoof-mark o' the mule as carried my Concheter. Capting Haynes! Kumrades! No use botherin' 'bout hyar any longer. Them we want to kum up wi' are goed north 'long this trail as leads by the river bank." Not another word is needed. The Rangers, keen of apprehension and quick to arrive at conclusions, at once perceive the justness of those come to by their old comrade. They make no opposition to his proposal to proceed after the smaller party. Instead, all signify assent; and in ten seconds after they are strung out into a long line, going at a gallop, their horses' heads turned northward up the right bank of the Rio Pecos. CHAPTER SIXTY FOUR. A SYLVAN SCENE. Perhaps no river on all the North American continent is marked with interest more romantic than that which attaches to the Rio Grande of Mexico. On its banks has been enacted many a tragic scene--many an episode of Indian and border war--from the day when the companions of Cortez first unfurled Spain's _pabellon_ till the Lone Star flag of Texas, and later still the banner of the Stars and Stripes, became mirrored on its waves. Heading in the far-famed "parks" of the Rocky Mountains, under the name of Rio Bravo del Norte, it runs in a due southerly direction between the two main ranges of the Mexican "Sierre Madre;" then, breaking through the Eastern Cordillera, it bends abruptly, continuing on in a south-easterly course till it espouses ocean in the great Mexican Gulf. Only its lower portion is known as the "Rio Grande;" above it is the "Bravo del Norte." The Pecos is its principal tributary, which, after running through several degrees of latitude parallel to the main stream, at length unites with it below the great bend. In many respects the Pecos is itself a peculiar river. For many hundred miles it courses through a wilderness rarely traversed by man, more rarely by men claiming to be civilised. Its banks are only trodden by the savage, and by him but when going to or returning from a raid. For this turbid stream is a true river of the desert, having on its left side the sterile tract of the Llano Estacado, on its right dry table plains that lead up to the Sierras, forming the "divide" between its waters and those of the Bravo del Norte. On the side of the Staked Plain the Pecos receives but few affluents, and these of insignificant character. From the Sierras, however, several streams run into it through channels deeply cut into the plain, their beds being often hundreds of feet below its level. While the plateau above is often arid and treeless, the bottom lands of these tributaries show a rich luxuriant vegetation, here and there expanding into park-like meadows, with groves and copses interspersed. On the edge of one of these affluents, known as the _Arroyo Alamo_ (Anglice "Cottonwood Creek"), two tents are seen standing--one a square marquee, the other a "single pole," of the ordinary conical shape. Near by a half score of soldiers are grouped around a bivouac fire, some broiling bits of meat on sapling spits, others smoking corn-husk cigarettes, all gaily chatting. One is some fifty paces apart, under a spreading tree, keeping guard over two prisoners, who, with legs lashed and hands pinioned, lie prostrate upon the ground. As the soldiers are in the uniform of Mexican lancers, it is needless to say they belong to the troop of Colonel Uraga. Superfluous to add that the two prisoners under the tree are Don Valerian Miranda and the doctor. Uraga himself is not visible, nor his adjutant, Roblez. They are inside the conical hut, the square one being occupied by Adela and her maid. After crossing the Pecos, Uraga separated his troop into two parties. For some time he has sent the main body, under command of his alferez, direct to Albuquerque, himself and the adjutant turning north with the captives and a few files as escort and guard. Having kept along the bank of the Pecos till reaching the Alamo, he turned up the creek, and is now _en bivouac_ in its bottom, some ten miles above the confluence of the streams. A pretty spot has he selected for the site of his encampment. A verdant mead, dotted with groves of leafy _alamo_ trees, that reflect their shadows upon crystal runlets silently coursing beneath, suddenly flashing into the open light like a band of silver lace as it bisects a glade green with _gramma_ grass. A landscape not all woodland or meadow, but having also a mountain aspect, for the basaltic cliffs that on both sides bound the valley bottom rise hundreds of feet high, standing scarce two hundred yards apart, grimly frowning at each other, like giant warriors about to begin battle, while the tall stems of the _pitahaya_ projecting above might be likened to poised spears. It is a scene at once soft and sublime--an Eden of angels beset by a serried phalanx of fiends; below, sweetly smiling; above, darkly frowning and weirdly picturesque. A wilderness, with all its charms, uninhabited; no house in sight; no domestic hearth or chimney towering over it; no smoke, save that curling aloft from the fire lately kindled in the soldiers' camp. Beasts and birds are its only habitual denizens; its groves the chosen perching place of sweet songsters; its openings the range of the prong-horn antelope and black-tailed deer; while soaring above, or seated on prominent points of the precipice, may be seen the _caracara_, the buzzard, and bald-headed eagle. Uraga has pitched his tents in an open glade of about ten acres in superficial extent, and nearly circular in shape, lying within the embrace of an umbrageous wood, the trees being mostly cotton woods of large dimensions. Through its midst the streamlet meanders above, issuing out of the timber, and below again entering it. On one side the bluffs are visible, rising darkly above the tree-tops, and in the concavity underneath stand the tents, close to the timber edge, though a hundred paces apart from each other. The troop horses, secured by their trail-ropes, are browsing by the bank of the stream; and above, perched upon the summit of the cliff, a flock of black vultures sun themselves with out-spread wings, now and then uttering an ominous croak as they crane their necks to scan what is passing underneath. Had Uraga been influenced by a sense of sylvan beauty, he could not have chosen a spot more suitable for his camping-place. Scenic effect has nought to do with his halting there. On the contrary, he has turned up the Alamo, and is bivouacking on its bank, for a purpose so atrocious that no one would give credit to it unacquainted with the military life of Mexico in the days of the Dictator Don Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna. This purpose is declared in a dialogue between the lancer colonel and his lieutenant, occurring inside the conical tent shortly after its being set up. But before shadowing the bright scene we have painted by thoughts of the dark scheme so disclosed, let us seek society of a gentler kind. We shall find it in the marquee set apart for Adela Miranda and her maid. It scarce needs to say that a change is observable in the appearance of the lady. Her dress is travel-stained, bedraggled by dust and rain; her hair, escaped from its coif, hangs dishevelled; her cheeks show the lily where but roses have hitherto bloomed. She is sad, drooping, despondent. The Indian damsel seems to suffer less from her captivity, having less to afflict her--no dread of that terrible calamity which, like an incubus, broods upon the mind of her mistress. In the conversation passing between them Conchita is the comforter. "Don't grieve so, senorita," she says, "I'm sure it will be all right yet. Something whispers me it will. It may be the good Virgin--bless her! I heard one of the soldiers say they're taking us to Santa Fe, and that Don Valerian will be tried by a court martial--I think that's what he called it. Well, what of it? You know well he hasn't done anything for which they can condemn him to death--unless they downright assassinate him. They dare not do that, tyrants as they are." At the words "assassinate him," the young lady gives a start. It is just that which is making her so sad. Too well she knows the man into whose hands they have unfortunately fallen. She remembers his design, once nigh succeeding, only frustrated by that hurried flight from their home. Is it likely the fiend will be contented to take her brother back and trust to the decision of a legal tribunal, civil or military? She cannot believe it; but shudders as she reflects upon what is before them. "Besides," pursues Conchita, in her consolatory strain, "your gallant Francisco and my big, brave Gualtero have gone before us. They'll be in Albuquerque when we get there, and will be sure to hear of our arrival. Trust them for doing something to save Don Valerian." "No, no," despondingly answers Adela, "they can do nothing for my brother. That is beyond their power, even if he should ever reach there. I fear he never will--perhaps, none of us." "_Santissima_! What do you mean, senorita? Surely these men will not murder us on the way?" "They are capable of doing that--anything. Ah! Conchita, you do not know them. I am in as much danger as my brother, for I shall choose death rather than--" She forbears speaking the word that would explain her terrible apprehension. Without waiting for it, Conchita rejoins-- "If they kill you, they may do the same with me. Dear _duena_, I'm ready to die with you." The _duena_, deeply affected by this proffer of devotion, flings her white arms around the neck of her brown-skinned maid, and imprints upon her brow a kiss, speaking heartfelt gratitude. For a time the two remain enlocked in each other's arms, murmuring words of mutual consolation. Love levels all ranks, but not more than misery--perhaps not so much. In the hour of despair there is no difference between prince and peasant, between the high-born dame and the lowly damsel accustomed to serve her caprices and wait upon her wishes. Adela Miranda has in her veins the purest _sangre azul_ of Andalusia. Her ancestors came to New Spain among the proud _conquistadores_; while those of Conchita, at least on the mother's side, were of the race conquered, outraged, and humiliated. No thought of ancestral hostility, no pride of high lineage on one side, or shame of low birth on the other, as the two girls stand inside the tent with arms entwined, endeavouring to cheer one another. Under the dread of a common danger, the white _doncella_ and the dusky damsel forget the difference in the colour of their skins; and for the first time feel themselves sisters in the true sisterhood of humanity. CHAPTER SIXTY FIVE. TWO SCOUNDRELS IN COUNCIL. Simultaneous with the scene in the square marquee a dialogue is taking place within the conical tent, the speakers being Uraga and Roblez. The colonel is reclining on a bearskin, spread over the thick sward of grass, which forms a soft couch underneath. The lieutenant sits on a camp-stool beside. Both are smoking; while from a canteen and two cups, resting upon the top of a bullock trunk, comes a perfume which tells they have also been indulging in a drink. Uraga is thoughtful and silent; Roblez patiently waiting for him to speak. The adjutant has but late entered the tent and delivered his report about the pitching of the camp, the arrangements of which he has been superintending. "You've stationed a look-out as I directed?" the Colonel inquires, after a long silence. "I have." "I hope you've placed him so that he can command a good view of the valley below?" "He's on a spur of the cliff, and can see full five miles down stream. May I ask, colonel, whom we may expect to come that way? Not pursuers, I take it?" Uraga does not make immediate reply. There is evidently something in his thoughts he hesitates to communicate to his subordinate. The answer he at length vouchsafes is evasive. "Whom may we expect? You forget those fellows left behind on the Llano. The corporal and two men, whether they've found the Indian or not, will make all haste after us. Fear of falling in with some party of Apaches will stimulate their speed. I wonder why they haven't got up long ago. Something strange about that." "No doubt the storm has detained them." "Do you think it's been that, ayadante?" "I can't think of anything else, colonel. Anyhow, they wouldn't be likely to come here, but go on straight to Albuquerque. The corporal is a skilled _rastrero_, and, reaching the place where the troop separated, he'd be pretty sure to follow the trail of the larger party. All the more from his knowing it the safer one, so far as savages are concerned." "I hope he has done so. We don't want him here." Saying this, Uraga resumes his thoughtful attitude and silently puffs away at his cigar, apparently watching the smoke as it curls up and spreads against the canvas. Roblez, who appeared anxious about something, after a time again essays speech. He puts the interrogatory,-- "How long are we to remain here?" "That will depend on--" Uraga does not complete the response--at least not till after taking several whiffs at his weed. "On what?" asks the impatient subordinate. "Many matters--circumstances, events, coincidences." "May I know what they are. You promised to tell me, colonel." "I did--in time. It has not yet come. One thing I may now make known. When we leave this camping-place we shall take no prisoners along with us." "You intend setting them free?" The question is asked, not with any idea that this is Uraga's design, but to draw out the explanation. "Free of all cares in this world, whatever may be their troubles in the next." "They are to die, then?" "They are to die." "You mean only the men--Don Valerian and the doctor?" "What a ruffian you are, Roblez! By your question you must take me for the same--a sanguinary savage. I'm not so bloodthirsty as to think of killing women, much less one so sweet as the Senorita Miranda. Men don't desire the deaths of their own wives--at least, not till after the honeymoon. The Dona Adela is to be mine--shall, and must!" "I am aware that is your wish, and as things stand you have a fair chance of obtaining it. You can have her without spilling her brother's blood. Excuse me, colonel, but I can see no reason why he should not be let live, at least till we take him to Santa Fe, There a prison will hold him safe, and a court-martial can be called, which, with the spirit just now abroad, will condemn him in one day, and execute him on the morning of the next. That would keep you clear from all suspicion of over-haste, which may attach to you if you take the thing into your own hands here." "Bah! you talk like a child, teniente! The security of a prison in New Mexico, or the chances of a prisoner being condemned, far less executed, are things merely imaginary. All the more now that there's some probability of a change in the political sky. Clouds have shown themselves on the horizon at the capital--talk that our good friend Gameleg is going out again. Before the storm comes I for one intend making myself secure. As the husband of Adela Miranda, owning all that belongs to her brother, and which will be hers after his death, I shall care but little who presides in the Halls of the Moctezumas. Priest-party or patriots, 'twill be all the same to me." "Why not become her husband and let the brother live?" "Why? Because that cannot be." "I don't see any reason against it. Both are in your power. You may easily make terms." Uraga, impressed with the observation, remains for a while silent, considering. To aid reflection he smokes harder than ever. Resuming speech, he asks,-- "How do you counsel?" "As I've said, colonel. Make terms with Miranda. Knowing his life to be in your hands, he will listen to reason. Extract from him a promise--an oath, if need be--that he will consent to his sister becoming your wife; at the same time settling a portion of his property on the newly married pair. It's big enough to afford all of you a handsome income. That's what I would do." "He might promise you here. What security against breaking his word when we get to Albuquerque?" "No need waiting for Albuquerque to give him the chance. You seem to forget that there are churches between, and priests not over-scrupulous. For instance, the cure of Anton Chico, and his reverence who saves souls in the pueblita of La Mora. Either one will make man and wife of you and the Senorita Adela without asking question beyond whether you can produce coin sufficient to pay the marriage fees. Disbursing freely, you may ensure the ceremonial in spite of all protest, if any should arise. There can be none." Uraga lights a fresh cigar, and continues smoking, reflecting. The counsel of his subaltern has made an impression on him--put the thing in a new light. After all, what harm in letting Miranda live? Enough of revenge compelling him to consent that his sister shall be the wife of one she has scornfully rejected. If he refuse--if both do so--what then? The interrogatory is addressed to Roblez. "Your position," answers the adjutant, "will be no worse than now. You can still carry out the design you've hinted at without doing me the honour to entrust it to me. Certainly no harm can arise from trying my plan first. In ten minutes you may ascertain the result." "I shall try it," exclaims Uraga, springing to his feet and facing towards the entrance of the tent. "You're right, Roblez. It's a second string to the bow I had a thought about. If it snap, let it. But if it do, before long--aye, before to-morrow's sun shines into our camp--the proud beauty may find herself brotherless, her sole chance of protection being the arms of Gil Uraga." Saying this, he pitches away the stump of his cigar, and strides forth from the tent, determined to extract from Adela Miranda a promise of betrothal, or in lieu of it decree her brother's death. CHAPTER SIXTY SIX. A BROTHER SORELY TEMPTED. After stepping forth from the tent Uraga pauses to reflect. The course counselled by Roblez seems reasonable enough. If he can but force the girl's consent, it will not be difficult to get it sealed. There are priests in the frontier pueblitas who will be obedient to a power superior to the Church--even in Mexico, that Paradise of padres. Gold will outweigh any scruples about the performance of the marriage ceremony, however suspicion! the circumstances under which the intending bride and bridegroom may prevent themselves at the altar. The lancer colonel is well aware of this. But there are other points to be considered before he can proceed farther with the affair. His escort must not know too much. There are ten of them, all thorough cut-throats, and, as such, having a fellow-feeling for their commanding officer. Not one of them but has committed crime, and more than one stained his soul with murder. Nothing strange for Mexican soldiers under the regime of Santa Anna. Not rare even among their officers. On parting with the main body Uraga selected his escort with an eye to sinister contingencies. They are the sort to assist in any deed of blood. If ordered to shoot or hang the captives they would obey with the eagerness of bloodhounds let loose from the leash, rather relishing it as cruel sport. For all, he does not desire to entrust them with the secret of his present scheme. They must not overhear the conversation which he intends holding with his captives; and to prevent this a plan easily suggests itself. "Holla!" he hails a trooper with chevroned sleeves, in authority over the others. "Step this way, _sergente_." The sergeant advances, and saluting, awaits further speech from the colonel. "Order boots and saddles!" directs the latter. The order is issued; and the soldiers soon stand by their stirrups ready to mount, wondering what duty they are so unexpectedly to be sent upon. "To horse!" commands the Colonel, vicariously through his non-commissioned officer. "Ride up the creek, and find if there is a pass leading out above. Take all the men with you; only leave Galvez to keep guard over the prisoners." The sergeant, having received these instructions, once more salutes. Then, returning to the group of lancers, at some distance off, gives the word "Mount!" The troopers, vaulting into their saddles, ride away from the ground, Galvez alone staying behind, who, being a "familiar" with his colonel, and more than once his participator in crimes of deepest dye, can be trusted to overhear anything. The movement has not escaped the observation of the two men lying tied under the tree. They cannot divine its meaning, but neither do they augur well of it. Still worse, when Uraga, calling to Galvez to come to him, mutters some words in his ear. Their apprehensions are increased when the sentry returns to them, and, unfastening the cord from the doctor's ankles, raises him upon his feet, as if to remove him from the spot. On being asked what it is for, Galvez does not condescend to give an answer, except to say in a gruff voice that he has orders to separate them. Taking hold of the doctor's arm, he conducts him to a distance of several hundred yards, and, once more laying him along the ground, stands over him as before in the attitude of a sentry. The action is suspicious, awe-inspiring--not more to Don Prospero than Miranda himself. The latter is not left long to meditate upon it. Almost instantly he sees the place of his friend occupied by his enemy. Gil Uraga stands beside him. There is an interval of silence, with only an interchange of glances; Don Valerian's defiant, Uraga's triumphant. But the expression of triumph on the part of the latter appears held in check, as if to wait some development that may either heighten or curb its display. Uraga breaks silence--the first speech vouchsafed to his former commanding officer since making him a prisoner. "Senor Miranda," he says, "you will no doubt be wondering why I have ordered your fellow-captive to be taken apart from you. It will be explained by my saying that I have words for you I don't wish overheard by anyone--not even by your dear friend, Don Prospero." "What words, Gil Uraga?" "A proposal I have to make." Miranda remains silent, awaiting it. "Let me first make known," continues the ruffian, "though doubtless you know it already, that your life is in my power. If I put a pistol to your head and blow out your brains there will be no calling me to account. If there was any danger of that, I could avoid it by giving you the benefit of a court-martial. Your life is forfeit to the state; and our military laws, as you are aware, can be stretched just now sufficiently to meet your case." "I am aware of it," rejoins Miranda, his patriotic spirit roused by the reflection; "I know the despotism that now rules my unfortunate country. It can do anything, without respect for either laws or constitution." "Just so," assents Uraga; "and for this reason I approach you with my proposal." "Speak it, then. Proceed, sir, and don't multiply words. You need not fear of their effect. I am your prisoner, and powerless." "Since you command me to avoid circumlocution, I shall obey you to the letter. My proposal is that, in exchange for your life--which I have the power to take, as also to save--you will give me your sister." Miranda writhes till the cords fastening his wrists almost cut through the skin. Withal, he is silent; his passion too intense to permit of speech. "Don't mistake me, Don Valerian Miranda," pursues his tormentor, in a tone intended to be soothing. "When I ask you to give me your sister I mean it in an honourable sense. I wish her for my wife; and to save your life she will consent to become so, if you only use your influence to that end. She will not be a faithful sister if she do not. I need not tell you that I love her; you know that already. Accept the conditions I offer, and all will be well. I can even promise you the clemency of the State; for my influence in high places is somewhat different from what it was when you knew me as your subordinate. It will enable me to obtain free pardon for you." Miranda still remains silent--long enough to rouse the impatience of him who dictates, and tempt the alternative threat already shaping itself on his tongue. "Refuse," he continues, his brow suddenly clouding, while a light of sinister significance flashes from his eyes, "Refuse me, and you see not another sun. By that now shining you may take your last look of the earth; for this night will certainly be your last on it alive. Observe those vultures on the cliff! They are whetting their beaks, as if they expected a banquet. They shall have one, on your body, if you reject the terms I've offered. Accept them, Don Valerian Miranda; or before to-morrow's sun reaches meridian the birds will be feeding upon your flesh, and the wild beasts quarrelling over your bones. Answer me, and without prevarication. I demand plain speech, yes or no." "No!" is the monosyllable shouted, almost shrieked, by him so menaced. "No!" he repeats; "never shall I consent to that. I am in your power, Gil Uraga. Put your pistol to my head, blow out my brains, as you say you can do with impunity. Kill me any way you wish, even torture. It could not be more painful than to see you the husband of my sister, either by my consent or her own. You cannot force mine upon such disgraceful conditions, nor yet gain her's. My noble Adela! She would rather see me die, and die along with me." "Ha! ha!" responded Uraga, in a peal of mocking laughter, mingled with a whine of chagrin, "we shall see about that. Perhaps the senorita may not treat my offer quite so slightingly as yourself. Women are not so superbly stupid. They have a keener comprehension of their own interests. Your sister may better appreciate the honour I am intending her. If not, Heaven help her and you! She will soon be without a brother. Adios, Don Valerian! I go to pour speech into softer ears. For your own sake, hope--pray--that my proposal may be more favourably received." Saying this, Uraga turns upon his heel and abruptly walks away, leaving behind his captive with hands tied and heart in a tumult of anguished emotion. CHAPTER SIXTY SEVEN. A SISTER SORELY TRIED. The marquee occupied by Adela Miranda and her maid is not visible from the spot where her brother lies bound. The other tent is between, with some shrubbery further concealing it. But from the tenour of his last speech, Don Valerian knows that Uraga has gone thither, as also his object. Chagrined by the denial he has received from the brother, roused to recklessness, he resolves on having an answer from the sister, point-blank, upon the instant. With slight ceremony he enters her tent. Once inside, he mutters a request, more like a command, for Conchita to withdraw. He does this with as much grace as the excited state of his feelings permits, excusing himself on the plea that he wishes a word with the senorita-- one he is sure she would not wish to be heard by other ears than her own. Aroused from a despondent attitude, the young lady looks up, her large round eyes expressing surprise, anger, apprehension, awe. The mestiza glances towards her mistress for instructions. The latter hesitates to give them. Only for an instant. It can serve no purpose to gainsay the wishes of one who has full power to enforce them, and whose demeanour shows him determined on doing so. "You can go, Conchita," says her mistress; "I will call you when you are wanted." The girl moves off with evident reluctance, but stops not far from the tent. "Now, Don Gil Uraga," demands the lady, on being left alone with the intruder, "what have you to say to me that should not be overheard?" "Come, senorita! I pray you will not commence so brusquely. I approach you as a friend, though for some time I may have appeared in the character of an enemy. I hope, however, you'll give me credit for good intentions. I'm sure you will when you know how much I'm distressed by the position I'm placed in. It grieves me that my instructions compel such harsh measures towards my two prisoners: but, in truth, I can say no discretion has been left me. I act under an order from headquarters." "Senor," she rejoins, casting upon him a look of scornful incredulity, "you have said all this before. I suppose you had something else to speak of." "And so I have, senorita. Something of a nature so unpleasant I hesitate to tell it, fearing it may sadly shock you." "You need not. After what has passed I am not likely to be nervous." Despite her natural courage, and an effort to appear calm, she trembles, as also her voice. There is an expression on the face of the man that bodes sinister risings--some terrible disclosure. The suspense is too painful to be borne; and in a tone more firm and defiant she demands the promised communication. "Dona Adela Miranda," he rejoins, speaking in a grave, measured voice, like a doctor delivering a prognosis of death, "it has been my duty to make your brother a prisoner--a painful one, as I have said. But, alas! the part I've already performed is nothing compared with that now required of me. You say you are prepared for a shock. What I'm going to say will cause you one." She no longer attempts to conceal alarm. It is now discernible in her large, wondering eyes. "Say it!" The words drop mechanically from her lips, drawn forth by the intensity of her apprehension. "You are soon to be without a brother!" "What mean you, senor?" "Don Valerian dies within the hour." "You are jesting, sir. My brother has not been sick? He is not wounded? Why should he die?" She speaks hurriedly, and with an incredulous stare at Uraga; while at the same time her heaving, palpitating bosom shows she too truly believes what he said. "Don Valerian is not sick," continues the unfeeling wretch, "nor yet has he received any wound. For all this, in less than an hour he must die. It is decreed." "_Madre de Dios_! You are mocking me. His death decreed! By whom?" "Not by me, I assure you. The military authorities of the country have been his judges, and condemned him long ago, as also Don Prospero. It only needed their capture to have the sentence carried out. This disagreeable duty has been entrusted to me. My orders at starting were to have both shot on the instant of making them captives. For your sake, senorita, I've so far disobeyed the rigorous command--an act which may cost me my commission. Yes, Dona Adela, for your sake." The tale is preposterous, and might seem to her who hears it a lie, but for her knowledge of many similar occurrences in the history of her native land, "Cosas de Mexico." Besides, her own and her brother's experience render it but too probable. "_Dios de mi alma_!" she cries out in the anguish of conviction, "can this be true?" "It is true." "Colonel Uraga, you will not carry out this cruel sentence! It is not an execution--it is an assassination! You will not stain your soul with murder?" "I must obey orders." "My poor brother! Have mercy! You can save him?" "I can." "You will? You will?" "I will!" The emphasis with which these two words are pronounced brings a flush of gratefulness over her face, and she makes a forward movement as if to thank him by a pressure of the hand. She might have given it but for the cast upon his features, telling his consent not yet obtained, nor his speech finished. There is more to come--two other words. They are-- "Upon conditions!" They check her bursting gratitude. Conditions! She knows not what they may be. But she knows the character of Gil Uraga, and can predict they will be hard. "Name them!" she demands. "If it be money, I'm ready to give it. Though my brother's property is taken from him, as we've heard, not so mine. I have wealth--houses, lands. Take all, but save Valerian's life." "You can save it without expending a single _claco_; only by giving a grace." "What mean you, senor?" "To explain my meaning I'll repeat what I've said. Your brother's head is forfeit. It can be saved by a hand." "Still I do not understand you. A hand?" "Yes, your hand." "How?" "Grasped in mine--united with it in holy wedlock. That is all I ask." She starts as if a serpent had stung her, for she now comprehends all. "All I ask," he continues in a strain of fervid passion, "I who love you with my whole soul; who have loved you for long hopeless years--aye, senorita, ever since you were a schoolgirl; myself a rough, wild youth, the son of a ranchero, who dared only gaze at you from a distance. I am a peasant no longer, but one who has wealth; upon whom the State has bestowed power to command; made me worthy to choose a wife from among the proudest in our land--even to wed with the Dona Adela Miranda, who beholds him at her feet!" While speaking he has knelt before her, and remains upon his knees awaiting her response. She makes none. She stands as if petrified, deprived of the power of speech. Her silence gives him hope. "Dona Adela," he continues in an appealing tone, as if to strengthen the chances of an affirmative answer, "I will do everything to make you happy--everything a husband can. And remember your brother's life! I am risking my own to save it. I have just spoken to him on the subject. He does not object; on the contrary, has given consent to you being mine." "You say so?" she inquires, with a look of incredulity. "I do not believe it--will not, without hearing it from his own lips." While speaking, she springs past the kneeling suppliant, and, before he can get upon his legs or stretch forth a hand to detain her, she has glided out of the tent, and makes for the place where she supposes the prisoners to be kept. Starting to his feet, Uraga rushes after. His intent is to overtake and bring her back, even if he have to carry her. He is too late. Before he can come up with her she has reached the spot where her brother lies bound, and kneels beside him with arms embracing, her lips pressing his brow, his cheeks moistened by her tears. CHAPTER SIXTY EIGHT. A TERRIBLE INTENTION. Not for long does the scene of agonised affection remain uninterrupted. In a few seconds it is intruded on by him who is causing its agony. Uraga, hastening after, has reached the spot and stands contemplating it. A spectacle to melt a heart of stone, it has no softening effect on his. His brow his black with rage, his eyes shining like coals of fire. His first impulse is to call Galvez and order him to drag brother and sister apart. His next to do this himself. He is about seizing Adela's wrist, when a thought restrains him. No melting or impulse of humanity. There is not a spark of it in his bosom. Only a hope, suddenly conceived, that with the two now together he may repeat his proposal with a better chance of its being entertained. From the expression upon their countenances he can see that in the interval before his coming up words have passed between them--few and hastily spoken, but enough for each to have been told what he has been saying to the other. It does not daunt; on the contrary, but determines him to renew his offer, and, if necessary, reiterate his threats. There is no one within earshot for whom he need care. Galvez has taken Don Prospero far apart. Roblez is inside the tent, though he thinks not of him; while the Indian damsel, who stands trembling by, is not worth a thought. Besides, he is now more than ever regardless of the result. "Don Valerian Miranda!" he exclaims, recovering breath after his chase across the camp-ground. "I take it your sister has told you what has passed between us. If not, I shall tell you myself." "My sister has communicated all--even the falsehood by which you've sought to fortify your infamous proposal." "_Carramba_!" exclaims Uraga, upon whose cheeks there is no blush of shame for the deception practised. "Does the offer to save your life, at risk of my own--to rescue you from a felon's death--does that deserve the harsh epithet with which you are pleased to qualify it? Come, senor, you are wronging me while trifling with your own interests. I have been honest, and declared all. I love the Dona Adela, as you've known, long. What do I ask? Only that she shall become my wife, and, by so doing, save the life of her brother. As your brother-in-law it will be my duty, my interest, my pleasure, to protect you." "That you shall never be!" firmly rejoins Miranda. "No, never!" he adds, with kindling fervour, "never, on such conditions!" "Does the senorita pronounce with the same determination?" asks Uraga, riveting his eyes on Adela. It is a terrible ordeal for the girl. Her brother lying bound by her side, his death about to be decreed, his end near as if the executioner were standing over him--for in this light does Uraga appear. Called upon to save his life by promising to become the wife of this man-- hideous in her eyes as the hangman himself; knowing, or believing, that if she does not, in another hour she may be gazing upon a blood-stained corpse--the dead body of her own brother! No wonder she trembles from head to foot, and hesitates to endorse the negative he has so emphatically pronounced. Don Valerian notes her indecision, and, firmly as before, repeats the words,-- "No--never!" adding, "Dear sister, think not of me. Do not fear or falter; I shall not. I would rather die a hundred deaths than see you the wife of such a ruffian. Let me die first!" "_Chingara_!" hisses the man thus boldly defied, using the vilest exclamation known to the Spanish tongue. "Then you shall die first. And, after you're dead, she shall still be my wife, or something you may not like so well--my _Margarita_!" The infamous meaning conveyed by this word, well understood by Miranda, causes him to start half-upright, at the same time wrenching at the rope around his wrists. The perspiration forced from him by the agony of the hour has moistened the raw-hide thong to stretching. It yields to the convulsive effort, leaving his hands released. With a quick lurch forward he clutches at the sword dangling by Uraga's side. Its hilt is in his grasp, and in an instant he has drawn the blade from its scabbard! Seeing himself thus suddenly disarmed, the Lancer Colonel springs back shouting loudly for help. Miranda, his ankles bound, is at first unable to follow, but with the sword-blade he quickly cut the thongs, and is on his feet--free! In another instant he is chasing Uraga across the camp-ground, the latter running like a scared hound. Before he can be overtaken, the trampling of hoofs resound upon the grassy turf, and the returned lancers, with Roblez and the sentry, close around the prisoner. Don Valerian sees himself encircled by a _chevaux de frise_ of lances, with cocked carbines behind. There is no chance of escape, no alternative but surrender. After that-- He does not stop to reflect. A wild thought flashes across his brain--a terrible determination. To carry it out only needs the consent of his sister. She had rushed between their horses and stands by his side, with arms outstretched to protect him. "Adela!" he says, looking intently into her eyes, "dear sister, let us die together!" She sees the sword resolutely held in his grasp. She cannot mistake the appeal. "Yes; let us, Valerian!" comes the quick response, with a look of despairing resignation, followed by the muttered speech of "Mother of God, take us both to thy bosom! To thee we commit our souls!" He raises the blade, its point towards his sister--in another moment to be buried in her bosom, and afterwards in his own! The sacrifice is not permitted, though the soldiers have no hand in hindering it. Dismayed or careless, they sit in their saddles without thought of interfering. But between their files rushes a form in whose heart is more of humanity. The intruder is Conchita--opportune to an instant. Two seconds more, and the fratricidal sword would have bereft her of a mistress and a master, both alike beloved. Both are saved by her interference; for grasping the upraised arm, she restrains it from the thrust. Roblez, close following, assists her, while several of the lancers, now dismounted, fling themselves upon Miranda and disarm him. The intending sororicide and suicide is restored to his fastenings; his sister taken back to her tent; a trooper detailed to stand sentry beside and frustrate any attempt at a second escapade. CHAPTER SIXTY NINE. AN INTERCEPTED DISPATCH. While the thrilling incident described is occurring in Uraga's camp, the Rangers, _en route_ along the banks of the Pecos, are making all the haste in their power to reach it, Hamersley and Wilder every now and then saying some word to urge them on. In pursuit of such an enemy the Texans need no pressing. 'Tis only the irrestrainable impatience of the two whose souls are tortured by the apprehension of danger hovering over the heads of those dear to them. There is no difficulty in lifting the trail of the soldiers. Their horses are shod, and the late storm, with its torrent of rain, has saturated the earth, obliterating all old hoof-marks, so that those later made are not only distinct but conspicuous. So clear, that the craft of Cully and Wilder is not called into requisition. Every Ranger riding along the trail can take it up as fast as his horse is able to carry him. All see that Uraga has taken no pains to blind the track of his party. Why should he? He can have no suspicion of being pursued; certainly not by such pursuers. Along the trail, then, they ride rapidly; gratified to observe that it grows fresher as they advance for they are travelling thrice as fast as the men who made it. All at once they come to a halt--summoned to this by a sight which never fails to bring the most hurried traveller to a stand. They see before them the dead body of a man! It is lying on a sand-spit, which projects into the river. Upon this it has evidently been washed by the waters, now subsiding after the freshet, due to the late tornado. Beside it shows the carcase of a mule, deposited in similar manner. Both are conspicuous to the Rangers as they ride abreast of the spit; but their attention has been called to them long before by a flock of buzzards, some hovering above, others alighting upon the sandbank. Six or seven of the Texans, heading their horses down the sloping bank, ride towards the "sign"--so sad, yet terribly attractive. It would tempt scrutiny anywhere; but in the prairie wilderness, in that dangerous desert, it may be the means of guiding to a path of safety, or warding from one that is perilous. While those who have detached themselves proceed out upon the sand-bar, the main body remains upon the high bank, awaiting their return. The dead man proves to be an Indian, though not of the _bravos_, or savage tribes. Wearing a striped woollen _talma_, with coarse cotton shirt underneath, wide sheep-skin breeches, ex tending only a little below the knee, and rude raw-hide sandals upon his feet, he is evidently one of the Christianised aboriginals. There are no marks of violence on his body, nor yet on the carcase of the mule. The case is clear at a glance. It is one of drowning; and the swollen stream, still foaming past, is evidence eloquent of how it happened. On the man's body there are no signs of rifling or robbery. His pockets, when turned inside out, yield such contents as might be expected on the person of an _Indio manso_. Only one thing, which, in the eyes of the examinators, appears out of place; a sheet of paper folded in the form of a letter, and sealed as such. It is saturated with water, stained to the hue of the still turbid stream. But the superscription can be read, "Por Barbato." So much Cully and Wilder, who assist at the examination, can make out for themselves. But on breaking open the seal, and endeavouring to decipher what is written inside, both are at fault, as also the others along with them. The letter is in a language that is a sealed book to all. It is in Spanish. Without staying to attempt translating it, they return to the river's bank, taking the piece of paper along, for the superscription has touched a tender point, and given rise to strange suspicions. Walt carries the wet letter, which, soon as rejoining their comrades, he places in the hands of Hamersley. The latter, translating, reads aloud: "Senor Barbato,--As soon as you receive this, communicate its contents to the chief. Tell him to meet me on the Arroyo de Alamo--same place as before--and that he is to bring with him twenty or thirty of his painted devils. The lesser number will be enough, as it's not an affair of fighting. Come yourself with them. You will find me encamped with a small party--some female and two male captives. No matter about the women. It's the men you have to deal with; and this is what you are to do. Charge upon our camp the moment you get sight of it; make your redskins shout like fiends, and ride forward, brandishing their spears. You won't meet resistance, nor find any one on the ground when you've got there, only our two prisoners, who will be fast bound, and so cannot flee with us. What's to be done with them, amigo mio, is the important part--in fact, the whole play. Tell the chief they are to be speared upon the spot, thrust through as soon as you get up to them. See to this yourself, lest there be any mischance; and I'll take care you shall have your reward." Made acquainted with the contents of this vile epistle, the rage of the Rangers, already sufficiently aroused, breaks from all bounds, and, for a while, seeks vent in fearful curses and asseverations. Though there is no name appended to the diabolical chapter of instructions, they have no doubt as to who has dictated it. Circumstances, present and antecedent, point to the man of whom they are in pursuit--Gil Uraga. And he to whom the epistle is superscribed, "Por Barbato." A wild cry ascends simultaneously from the whole troop as they face round towards the renegade, who is still with them, and their prisoner. The wretch turns pale, as if all the blood of his body were abruptly drawn out. Without comprehending the exact import of that cry, he can read in fifty pairs of eyes glaring angrily on him that his last hour has come. The Rangers can have no doubt as to whom the letter has been addressed, as they can also tell why it has miscarried. For the renegade has already disclosed his name, not thinking it would thus strangely turn up to condemn him to death. Yes--to death; for, although promised life, with only the punishment of a prison, these conditions related to another criminality, and were granted without the full knowledge of his guilt--of connivance at a crime unparalleled for atrocity. His judges feel absolved from every stipulation of pardon or mercy; and, summoning to the judgment seat the quick, stem decreer--Lynch--in less than five minutes after the trembling wretch is launched into eternity! There is reason for this haste. They know that the letter has miscarried; but he who could dictate such a damnable epistle is a wild beast at large, who cannot be too soon destroyed. Leaving the body of Barbato to be devoured by wolves and vultures, they spur on along the Pecos, only drawing bridle to breathe their horses as the trail turns up at the bottom of a confluent creek--the Arroyo de Alamo. CHAPTER SEVENTY. A SCHEME OF ATROCITY. Discomfited--chagrined by his discomfiture--burning with shame at the pitiful spectacle he has afforded to his followers--Uraga returns within his tent like an enraged tiger. Not as one robbed of its prey--he is still sure of this as ever; for he has other strings to his bow, and the weak one just snapped scarce signifies. But for having employed it to no purpose he now turns upon Roblez, who counselled the course that has ended so disastrously. The adjutant is a safe target on which to expend the arrows of his spleen, and to soothe his perturbed spirit he gives vent to it. In time, however, he gets somewhat reconciled; the sooner by gulping down two or three glasses of Catalan brandy. Along with the liquor, smoking, as if angry at his cigar, and consuming it through sheer spite, Roblez endeavours to soothe him by consolative speech. "What matters it, after all!" puts in the confederate. "It may be that everything has been for the best. I was wrong, no doubt, in advising as I did. Still, as you see, it's gained us some advantage." "Advantage! To me the very reverse. Only to think of being chased about my own camp by a man who is my prisoner! And before the eyes of everybody! A pretty story for our troopers to tell when they get back to Albuquerque! I, Colonel commanding, will be the jest of the _cuartel_!" "Nothing of the kind, colonel! There is nothing to jest about. Your prisoner chanced to possess himself of your sword--a thing no one could have anticipated. He did it adroitly, but then you were at the time unsuspecting. Disarmed, what else could you do but retreat from a man, armed, desperate, determined on taking your life. I'd like to see anyone who'd have acted otherwise. Under the circumstances only an insane man would keep his ground. The episode has been awkward, I admit. But it's all nonsense--excuse me for saying so--your being sensitive about that part of it. And for the rest, I say again, it's given us an advantage; in short, the very one you wanted, if I understand your intentions aright." "In what way?" "Well, you desired a pretext, didn't you?" "To do what?" "Court-martial your prisoners, condemn, and execute them. The attempt on your life will cover all this, so that the keenest scandal-monger may not open his lips. It will be perfectly _en regie_ for you to hang or shoot Don Valerian Miranda--and, if you like, the doctor, too--after ten minutes' deliberation over a drum's head. I'm ready to organise the court according to your directions." To this proposal Uraga replies with a significant smile, saying: "Your idea is not a bad one; but I chance to have a better. Much as I hate Miranda and wish him out of the way, I don't desire to imbrue my hands in his blood; don't intend to, as I've already hinted to you." Roblez turns upon his superior officer a look of incredulous _surprise, interrogating_,-- "You mean to take him back, and let him be tried in the regular way?" "I mean nothing of the kind." "I thought it strange, after your telling me he would never leave this place alive." "I tell you so still." "Colonel! you take pleasure in mystifying me. If you're not going to try your prisoners by court-martial, in what way are your words to be made good? Surely you don't intend to have them shot without form of trial?" "I've said I won't imbrue my hands in their blood." "True, you've said that more than once, but without making things any clearer to me. You spoke of some plan. Perhaps I may now hear it?" "You shall. But first fill me out another _capita_ of the Catalan. That affair has made me thirsty as a sponge." The adjutant, acting as Ganymede, pours out the liquor and hands the cup to his colonel, which the latter quaffs off. Then, lighting a fresh cigar, he proceeds with the promised explanation. "I spoke of events, incidents, and coincidences--didn't I, _ayadante_?" "You did, Colonel." "Well, suppose I clump them altogether, and give you the story in a simple narrative--a monologue? I know, friend Roblez, you're not a man greatly given to speech; so it will save you the necessity of opening your lips till I've got through." Roblez, usually taciturn, nods assent. "Before coming out here," continues the Colonel, "I'd taken some steps. When you've heard what they are I fancy you'll give me credit for strategy, or cunning, if you prefer so calling it. I told you I should take no prisoners back, and that Don Valerian and the doctor are to die. They will go to their graves without causing scandal to any of us. To avoid it I've engaged an executioner, who will do the job without any direct orders from me." "Who?" asks the adjutant, forgetting his promise to be silent. "Don't interrupt!" The subordinate resumes silence. "I think," continues Uraga, in a tone of serio-comicality, "you have heard of a copper-coloured gentleman called `Horned Lizard.' If I mistake not, you have the honour of his acquaintance. And, unless I'm astray in my reckoning, you'll have the pleasure of seeing him here this evening, or at an early hour to-morrow morning. He will make his appearance in somewhat eccentric fashion. No doubt, he'll come into our camp at a charging gallop, with some fifty or a hundred of his painted warriors behind him. And I shouldn't wonder if they should spit some of our gay lancers on the points of their spears. That will depend on whether these _valientes_ be foolish enough to make resistance. I don't think they will. More likely we shall see them gallop off at the first whoop of the Indian assailants. You and I, Roblez, will have to do the same; but, as gallant gentlemen, we must take the women along with us. To abandon them to the mercy of the savages, without making an effort to save them, were absolute poltroonery, and would never bear reporting in the settlements. Therefore, we must do our best to take the ladies along. Of course, we can't be blamed for not being able to save our male prisoners. Their fate, I fear, will be for each to get half a dozen Comanche spears thrust through his body, or it may be a dozen. It's sad to think of it, but such misfortunes cannot always be avoided. They are but the ordinary incidents of frontier life. Now, _senor ayadante_, do you comprehend my scheme?" "Since I am at length permitted to speak, I may say I do--at least, I have an obscure comprehension of it. Fairly interpreted, I take it to mean this. You have arranged with the Horned Lizard to make a counterfeit attack upon our camp--to shoot down or spear our poor devils of soldiers, if need be?" "Not the slightest need of his doing that, nor any likelihood of his being able to do it. They'll run like good fellows at the first yell of the Indians. Have no apprehensions about them." "In any case, the Horned Lizard is to settle the question with our captives, and take the responsibility off our hands. If I understand aright, that is the programme." "It is." CHAPTER SEVENTY ONE. A BOOTLESS JOURNEY. Having returned to his original design--the scheme of atrocity so coolly and jestingly declared, Uraga takes steps towards its execution. The first is, to order his own horse, or rather that of Hamersley, to be saddled, bridled, and tied behind his own tent. The same for that ridden by Roblez. Also the mustang mare which belongs to Adela Miranda--her own "Lolita"--and the mule set apart for the _mestiza_. The troop horses already caparisoned are to remain so. Ignorant of their object, the troopers wonder at these precautions, though not so much as might be expected. They are accustomed to receive mysterious commands, and obey them without cavil or question. Not one of the ten but would cut a throat at Gil Uraga's bidding, without asking the reason why. The picket placed on a spin of the cliff has orders to signal if any one is seen coming up the creek. If Indians appear he is to gallop into the camp, and report in person. The alarm thus started will easily be fostered into a stampede, and at the onslaught of the savages the lancers will rush to their horses and ride off without offering resistance. In the _sauve qui peut_ none of them will give a thought to the two prisoners lying tied under the tree. These are to be left behind to the tender mercies of the Tenawa chief. It will be an act of gallantry to save the female captives by carrying them off. This Uraga reserves for himself, assisted by Roblez. Such is his scheme of vicarious assassination; in the atrocity of conception unequalled, almost incredible. He has no anxiety as to its success. For himself he is more than ever determined; while Roblez, restrained by the fiasco following his advice, no longer offers opposition. Uraga has no fear the Tenawa chief will fail him. He has never done so before, and will not now. The new proposal, which the colonel supposes to have reached the hands of Horned Lizard in that letter carried by Pedrillo, will be eagerly accepted. Barbato will bring the chief with his cut-throats to the Arroyo de Alamo, sure as there is a sun in the sky. It is but a question of time. They may come up at any hour--any minute; and having arranged all preliminaries, Uraga remains in his tent to await the cue for action. He little dreams at the moment he is thus expecting his red-skinned confederate, that the latter, along with the best braves of his band, has gone to the happy hunting grounds, while his go-between, Barbato, is in safe keeping elsewhere. As the hours pass, and no one is reported as approaching, he becomes impatient; for the time has long elapsed since the Tenawa chief should have been upon the spot. Chafing, he strides forth from the tent, and proceeds towards the place where the look-out has been stationed. Reaching it, he reconnoitres for himself, with a telescope he has taken along, to get a better view down the valley. At first, levelling the glass, no one can be seen. In the reach of open ground, dotted here and there with groves, there are deer browsing, and a grizzly bear is seen crossing between the cliffs, but no shape that resembles a human being. He is about lowering the telescope when a new form comes into its field of view--a horseman riding up the creek. No the animal is a mule. No matter the rider is a man. Keenly scrutinising, he perceives it is an Indian, though not one of the wild sort. His garb betokens him of the tamed. Another glance through the glass and his individuality declares itself, Uraga recognising him as one of the messengers sent to the Tenawas' town. Not the principal, Pedrillo, but he of secondary importance, Jose. "Returning alone!" mutters the Mexican to himself. "What does that mean? Where can Pedrillo be? What keeps him behind, I wonder?" He continues wondering and conjecturing till Jose has ridden up to the spot, when, perceiving his master, the latter dismounts and approaches him. In the messenger's countenance there is an expression of disappointment, and something more. It tells a tale of woe, with reluctance to disclose it. "Where is Pedrillo?" is the first question asked in anxious impatience. "Oh, _senor coronel_!" replies Jose, hat in hand, and trembling in every joint. "Pedrillo! _Pobre Pedrillito_!" "Well! Poor Pedrillito--what of him? Has anything happened to him?" "Yes, your excellency, a terrible mischance I fear to tell it you." "Tell it, sirrah, and at once! Out with it, whatever it is!" "Alas, Pedrillo is gone!" "Gone--whither?" "Down the river." "What river?" "The Pecos." "Gone down the Pecos? On what errand?" inquired the colonel, in surprise. "On no errand, your excellency." "Then what's taken him down the Pecos? Why went he?" "_Senor coronel_, he has not gone of his own will. It is only his dead body that went; it was carried down by the flood." "Drowned? Pedrillo drowned?" "_Ay de mi_! 'Tis true, as I tell you--too true, _pobrecito_." "How did this happen, Jose?" "We were crossing at the ford, senor. The waters were up from a _norte_ that's just passed over the plains. The river was deep and running rapid, like a torrent, Pedrillo's _macho_ stumbled, and was swept off. It was as much as mine could do to keep its legs. I think he must have got his feet stuck in the stirrups, for I could see him struggling alongside the mule till both went under. When they came to the surface both were drowned--dead. They floated on without making a motion, except what the current gave them as their bodies were tossed about by it. As I could do nothing there, I hastened here to tell you what happened. _Pobre Pedrillito_!" The cloud already darkening Uraga's brow grows darker as he listens to the explanation. It has nothing to do with the death of Pedrillo, or compassion for his fate--upon which he scarce spends a thought--but whether there has been a miscarriage of that message of which the drowned man was the bearer. His next interrogatory, quickly put, is to get satisfied on this head. "You reached the Tenawa town?" "We did, _senor coronel_." "Pedrillo carried a message to the Horned Lizard, with a letter for Barbato. You know that, I suppose?" "He told me so." "Well, you saw him deliver the letter to Barbato?" "He did not deliver it to Barbato." "To the chief, then?" "To neither, your Excellency. He could not." "Could not! Why?" "They ere not there to receive it. They are no longer in this world-- neither the Horned Lizard nor Barbato. Senor Coronel, the Tenawas have met with a great misfortune. They've had a fight with a party of Tejanos. The chief is killed, Barbato is killed, and nearly half of their braves. When Pedrillo and I reached the town we found the tribe in mourning, the women all painted black, with their hair cut off; the men who had escaped the slaughter cowed, and keeping concealed within their lodges." A wild exclamation leaps from the lips of Uraga as he listens to these disclosures, his brow becoming blacker than ever. "But, Pedrillo," he inquires, after a pause; "what did he say to them? You know the import of his message. Did he communicate it to the survivors?" "He did, your Excellency. They could not read your letter, but he told them what it was about. They were to meet you here, he said. But they refused to come. They were in too great distress about the death of their chief, and the chastisement they had received. They were in fear that the Tejanos would pursue them to their town; and were making preparations to flee from it when Pedrillo and myself came away. _Pobre Pedrillito_!" Uraga no longer stays listening to the mock humanity of his whining messenger. No more does he think of the drowned Pedrillo. His thoughts are now given to a new design. Murder by proxy has failed. For all that, it must still be done. To take counsel with his adjutant about the best mode of proceeding, he hastens back to the camp; plunges into his tent; and there becomes closeted--the lieutenant along with him. CHAPTER SEVENTY TWO. A MOCK COURT-MARTIAL. For the disaster that was overtaken the Tenawa chief and his warriors, Gil Uraga does not care a jot. True, by the death of Horned Lizard he has lost an ally who, on some future scheme of murder, might have been used to advantage; while Barbato, whose life he believes also taken, can no more do him service as agent in his intercourse with the red pirates of the prairie. It matters not much now. As military commander of a district he has attained power, enabling him to dispense with any left-handed assistance; and of late more than once has wished himself rid of such suspicious auxiliaries. Therefore, but for the frustration of his present plans, he would rather rejoice than grieve over the tidings brought by the returned emissary. His suit scorned, his scheme of assassination thwarted, he is as much as ever determined on the death of the two prisoners. In the first moments of his anger, after hearing Jose's tale, he felt half inclined to rush upon Miranda, sword in hand, and settle the matter at once. But, while returning to the camp-ground, calmer reflections arose, restraining him from the dastardly act, and deciding him to carry out the other alternative, already conceived, but kept back as a _dernier ressort_. "Sit down, _camarado_!" he says, addressing the adjutant on entering. "We must hold a court-martial, and that is too serious a ceremonial to be gone through without the customary forms. The members of the court should be seated." The grim smile which accompanies his words shows that he means them in jest only as regards the manner of proceeding. For the earnestness of his intention there is that in his eyes--a fierce, lurid light, which Roblez can read. In rejoinder the adjutant asks,-- "You are still resolved upon the death of the prisoners?" "Still resolved! Carramba! An idle question, after what has occurred! They die within the hour. We shall try, condemn, and then have them shot." "I thought you had arranged it in a different way?" "So I had. But circumstances alter cases. There's many a slip 'twixt cup and lip, and I've just heard of one. The Horned Lizard has failed me." "How so, colonel?" "You see that Indian outside. He's one of my muleteers I'd sent as a messenger to the Tenawa town. He returns to tell me there's no Horned Lizard in existence, and only a remnant of his tribe. Himself, with the best of his braves, has gone to the happy hunting grounds; not voluntarily, but sent thither by a party of Tejanos who fell foul of them on a foray." "That's a strange tale," rejoins Roblez, adding, "And Barbato?" "Dead, too--gone with his red-skinned associates." "Certainly a singular occurrence--quite a coincidence." "A coincidence that leaves me in an awkward predicament, without my expected executioners. Well, we must supply their places by substituting our own cut-throats." "You'll find them willing, colonel. The little interlude of Miranda getting loose, and making to run you through, has been all in your favour. It affords sufficient pretext for court-martialling and condemning both prisoners to be shot I've heard the men say so, and they expect it." "They shall not be disappointed, nor have long to wait. The court has finished its sitting, and given its verdict. Without dissenting voice, the prisoners are condemned to death. So much for the sentence. Now to carry it into execution." "How is the thing to be done?" "Call in the sergeant. With him I shall arrange that. And when you're out, go among the men and say a word to prepare them for the measure. You may tell them we've been trying the prisoners, and the result arrived at." The adjutant steps out of the tent; and while Uraga is swallowing another cup of Catalan to fortify him for his fearful purpose, the sergeant enters. "_Sergente_! there's some business to be done of a delicate nature, and you must take direction of it." The Serjeant salutes, and stands awaiting the explanation. The colonel continues:-- "We intend taking our prisoners no farther--the men, I mean. With the women we have nothing to do--as prisoners. After what you saw, we deem it necessary that Don Valerian Miranda should die; and also the other, who is equally incriminated as a traitor to the State--a rebel, an old conspirator, well known. Lieutenant Roblez and I have held a court, and decreed their death. So order the men to load their carbines, and make ready to carry out the sentence." The sergeant simply nods assent, and, again saluting, is about to retire, when Uraga stays him with a second speech. "Let all take part in the firing except Galvez. Post him as sentry over the square tent. Direct him to stand by its entrance and see that the flap is kept down. Under no circumstances is he to let either of its occupants out. It's not a spectacle for women--above all, one of them. Never mind; we can't help that I'm sorry myself, but duty demands this rigorous measure. Now go. First give Galvez his orders; then to the men and get them ready. Make no more noise than is necessary. Let your lancers be drawn up in line; afoot, of course, and single file." "Where am I to place the prisoners, colonel?" "Ah! true; I did not think of that." Uraga steps to the entrance of the tent, and, looking forth, takes a survey of the camp-ground. His eyes seek the spot occupied by the prisoners. They are both again together, under the same tree where first placed, a sentry keeping guard over them. The tree is a cottonwood, with smooth stem and large limbs extending horizontally. Another is near, so similar as to seem a twin; both being a little out from the thick timber, which forms a dark background behind them. After regarding them a moment, scanning them as a lumberman would a log intended for a saw-mill, Uraga directs. "Raise the prisoners upright, and tie one to each of those two trees. Set their backs to the trunk. They've both been army men, and we won't disgrace the cloth by shooting them from behind. That's grace enough for rebels." The sergeant, saluting, is again about to go, only staying to catch some final words of direction. They are-- "In ten minutes I shall expect you to have everything ready. When you've got the stage set I shall myself appear upon it as an actor--the Star of this pretty play!" And with a hoarse laugh at his horrid jest, the ruffian retires within his tent. CHAPTER SEVENTY THREE. THE HAND OF GOD. The sun is descending towards the crest of the Cordillera, his rays becoming encrimsoned as twilight approaches. They fall like streams of blood between the bluffs enclosing the valley of the Arroyo de Alamo, their tint in unison with a tragedy there about to be enacted--in itself strangely out of correspondence with the soft, tranquil scene. The stage is the encampment of Uraga and his detachment of lancers, now set for the terrible spectacle soon to take place. The two tents are still standing as pitched, several paces apart. At the entrance of the square one, with its flap drawn close and tied, a soldier keeps sentry; that of conical shape being unguarded. Rearward, by the wood edge, are three horses and a mule, all four under saddle, with bridles on; these attached to the branches of a tree. There is no providence in this, but rather neglect. Since the purpose for which they were caparisoned has proved abortive, they remain so only from having been forgotten. The other troop-horses have been stripped, and, scattered over the mead, are browsing at the length of their lariats. It is in the positions and attitudes of the men that a spectator might read preparation; and of a kind from which he could not fail to deduce the sequence of a sanguinary drama. Not one accompanied by much noise, but rather solemn and silent; only a few words firmly spoken, to be followed by a volley; in short, a military execution, or, as it might be more properly designated, a military murder. The victims devoted are seen near the edge of the open ground--its lower edge regarding the direction of the stream. They are in erect attitude, each with his back to the trunk of a tree, to which with raw-hide ropes they are securely lashed. No need telling who they are. The reader knows them to be the prisoners lately lying prostrate near the same place. In their front, and scarce ten paces distant, the lancers are drawn up in line and single file. There are ten of them, the tenth a little retired to the right, showing chevrons on his sleeve. He is the sergeant in immediate command of the firing party. Farther rearward, and close by the conical tent, and two in the uniform of officers, Uraga and his adjutant. The former is himself about to pronounce the word of command, the relentless expression upon his face, blent with a grim smile that overspreads it, leading to believe that the act of diabolical cruelty gives him gratification. Above, upon the cliff's brow, the black vultures also show signs of satisfaction. With necks craned and awry, the better to look below, they see preparations which instinct or experience has taught them to understand. Blood is about to be spilled; there will be flesh to afford them a feast. There is now perfect silence, after a scene which preceded; once more Uraga having made overtures to Miranda, with promise of life under the same scandalous conditions; as before, to receive the response, firmly spoken,-- "No--never!" The patriot soldier prefers death to dishonour. His choice taken, he quails not. Tied to the trunk of the tree, he stands facing his executioners without show of fear. If his cheeks be blanched, and his bosom throbbing with tumultuous emotion, 'tis not at sight of the firing party, or the guns held loaded in their hands. Far other are his fears, none of them for himself, but all for his dear sister--Adela. No need to dwell upon or describe them. They may be imagined. And Don Prospero, brave and defiant too. He stands backed by the tree, his eyes showing calm courage, his long silvered beard touching his breast, not drooping or despairingly, but like one resigned to his fate, and still firm in the faith that has led to it--a second Wickliffe at the stake. The moment has arrived when the stillness becomes profound, like the calm which precedes the first burst of a thunderstorm. The vultures above, the horses and men below, are all alike silent. The birds, gazing intently, have ceased their harsh croaking; the quadrupeds, as if startled by the very silence, forsaking the sweet grass, have tossed their heads aloft, and so hold them. While the men, hitherto speaking in whispers, no more converse, but stand mute and motionless. They are going to deal death to two of their fellow-creatures; and there is not one among them who does not know it is a death undeserved--that he is about to commit murder! For all this, not one has a thought of staying his hand. Along the whole line there is no heart amenable to mercy, no breast throbbing with humanity. All have been in a like position before--drawn up to fire upon prisoners, their countrymen. The patriots of their country, too; for the followers of Gil Uraga are all of them picked adherents of the _parti preter_. "_Sergente_!" asks Uraga, on coming forth from his tent, "is everything ready?" "All ready," is the prompt reply. "Attention!" commands the Colonel, stepping a pace or two forward, and speaking in a low tone, though loud enough to be heard by the lancers. "Make ready!" The carbines are raised to the ready. "Take aim!" The guns are brought to the level, their bronzed barrels glistening under the rays of the setting sun, with muzzles pointed at the prisoners. They who grasp them but wait for the word "Fire!" It is forming itself on Gil Uraga's lips. But before he can speak there comes a volley, filling the valley with sound, and the space around the prisoners with smoke. The reports of more than forty pieces speak almost simultaneously, none of them with the dull detonation of cavalry carbines, but the sharper ring of the rifle! While the last crack is still reverberating from the rocks, Uraga sees his line of lancers prostrate along the sward; their guns, escaped from their grasp, scattered beside them, still undischarged! CHAPTER SEVENTY FOUR. "SAUVE QUI PEUT." At sight of his soldiers cut down like ripe corn before the reaper, Uraga stands in stupefied amaze; his adjutant the same. Both are alike under the spell of a superstitious terror. For the blow, so sudden and sweeping, seems given by God's own hand. They might fancy it a _coup d'eclair_. But the jets of fire shooting forth from the forest edge, through a cloud of sulphurous smoke, are not flashes of lightning; nor the rattle that accompanies them the rolling of thunder, but the reports of firearms discharged in rapid succession. While in shouts following the shots there is no accent of Heaven; on the contrary, the cries are human, in the voices of men intoned to a terrible vengeance. Though every one of the firing party has fallen, sergeant as well as rank and file, the two officers are still untouched. So far they have been saved by the interposition of the formed line. But straggling shots succeed, and bullets are whizzing past their ears. These, quickening their instincts, rouse them from their stupefaction; and both, turning from the direction of the danger, looked to the other side for safety. At first wildly and uncertain, for they are still under a weird impression, with senses half bewildered. Neither has a knowledge of the enemy that has made such havoc among their men; only an instinct or intuition that the blow has been struck by those terrible _Tejanos_, for the shots heard were the cracks of rifles, and the shouts, still continued, are not Indian yells nor Mexican vivas, but the rough hurrahs of the Anglo-Saxon. While standing in hesitancy, they hear a voice raised above the rest-- one which both recognise. Well do they remember it, pealing among the waggons on that day of real ruthless carnage. Glancing back over their shoulders, they see him who sends it forth--the giant guide of the caravan. He has just broken from the timber's edge, and in vigorous bounds is advancing towards them. Another is by his side, also recognised. With trembling frame, and heart chilled by fear, Uraga identifies his adversary in the duel at Chihuahua. Neither he nor his subordinate remains a moment longer on the ground. No thought now of carrying off their female captives, no time to think of them. Enough, and they will be fortunate, if they can themselves escape. Better for both to perish there by the sides of their slain comrades. But they know not this, and only yield to the common instinct of cowardice, forcing them to flee. Fortune seems to favour them. For animals fully caparisoned stand behind the conical tent. They are these that were in readiness for a flight of far different kind, since unthought of--altogether forgotten. Good luck their being saddled and bridled now. So think Uraga and Roblez as they rush towards them. So thinks Galvez, who is also making to mount one. The sentry has forsaken his post, leaving the marquee unguarded. When a lover no longer cares for his sweetheart, why should he for a captive. And in the _sauve-qui-peut_ scramble there is rarely a regard for rank, the colonel counting for no more than the corporal. Obedient to this levelling instinct, Galvez, who has arrived first on the ground, selects the best steed of the three--this being the horse of Hamersley. Grasping the bridle, and jerking it from the branch, he springs upon the animal's back and starts to ride off. Almost as soon the two officers get astride, Roblez on his own charger, the mustang mare being left to Uraga. From her mistress he must part thus unceremoniously, covered with ignominious shame! The thought is torture, and for a time stays him. A dire, damnable purpose flashes across his brain, and for an instant holds possession of his heart. It is to dismount, make for the marquee, enter it, and kill Adela Miranda--thrust her through with his sword. Fortunately for her, the coward's heart fails him. He will not have time to do the murder and remount his horse. The Rangers are already in the open ground and rushing towards him, Wilder and Hamersley at their head. In a minute more they will be around him. He hesitates no longer, but, smothering his chagrin and swallowing his unappeased vengeance, puts whip and spur to the mustang mare, going off as fast as she can carry him. CHAPTER SEVENTY FIVE. DIVIDED BY DUTY. But for a half-score men lying dead along the earth, their warm blood welling from wounds where bullets have passed through their bodies, the gory drops here and there like dew bedecking the blades of grass, or in fuller stream settling down into the sand--but for this, the too real evidence of death, one who entered the camp of Uraga as the Mexican Colonel is riding out of it might fancy himself spectator of a pantomime during the scene of transformation. In the stage spectacle, not quicker or more contrasting could be the change. The gaily-apparelled lancers, with their plumes, pennons, and tassels, representing the sprites and sylphides of the pantomime, are succeeded by men who look real life. Big bearded men, habited in homespun; some wearing buckskin, others blanket coats; all carrying guns, bowie-knives, and pistols; the first smoking at the muzzles, as freshly fired, the last held in hand, ready to be discharged as soon as somebody worth shooting at shows himself. Entering the open ground ahead of the others, Hamersley and Wilder glance around in search of this somebody, both thinking of the same. They see stretched along the sward ten soldiers dead as herrings on a string, but among them no one wearing the uniform of an officer-- certainly not him they are after. Their first glance is unrewarded, but their second gives all they seek. Behind a tent, and partially screened by the trees, three men are in the act of mounting three horses. One is already in the saddle and moving away, the other two have just set foot in the stirrup. The roan mounted is unknown to the pursuers; but his animal is recognised by them. It is Hamersley's own horse! Of the other two but one is identified, and him only by Hamersley. He sees Gil Uraga. A cry from the Kentuckian expresses disappointment. For on the instant after sighting the Mexican officers the latter have leaped into their saddles and gone off at a full gallop. A rifle shet might yet reach them; but the guns of both Kentuckian and Texan are empty. Their revolvers are loaded to no purpose. The retreating horsemen are beyond pistol range! Sure of this, they do not think of firing. And afoot, as all the Rangers are--having left the horses behind to steal forward--they feel helpless to pursue for the present. While hesitating, a circumstance occurs giving Hamersley a hope. The man who has mounted his horse finds a difficulty in managing him. As a Mexican he sits the saddle to perfection, but cannot make the animal go the way he wants. From behind the horse has heard neighing, which he knows to come from the steeds of his own race, and, knowing this, has resolved to rub noses with them. In vain Galvez kicks against his ribs, beats him about the head, and makes frantic efforts to urge him on. He but rears in the opposite direction, backing so far as to bring his rider within reach of the revolver held in the hands of Hamersley. Its crack rings clear--not needing to be repeated or the cylinder turned. At the first explosion the soldier is seen to spring from the saddle, dropping dead without kick or cry, while the steed, disembarrassed, sheers round and comes trotting towards the place whence the shot proceeded. In a moment more its real master has hold of the bridle-rein, his shout of joy answered by a whimper of recognition. Seeing how matters stand, the Rangers hasten back to get possession of their horses; others make for those of the fallen lancers, that now in affright are rearing and straining at the end of their trail-ropes in a vain endeavour to break loose. For neither can Hamersley wait. It will take time, which his impatience--his burning thirst for vengeance--cannot brook. He is thinking of his slain comrades, whose bones lie unburied on the sands of the Canadian; also of the outrage so near being perpetrated, so opportunely interrupted. But one thought stays him--Adela. Where is she? Is she safe? He turns towards the marquee late guarded by Galvez. A very different individual is now seen at its entrance. Walt Wilder, with bowie-knife bared, its blade cutting the cords that kept the tent closed. In an instant they are severed, the flap flies open, and two female forms rush forth. In another instant one of them is lying along Hamersley's breast, the other in the embrace of Wilder. Kisses and words are exchanged. Only a few of the latter, till Hamersley, withdrawing himself from the arms that softly entwine him, tells of his intention to part. "For what purpose?" is the interrogatory, asked in tremulous accents, and with eyes that speak painful surprise. "To redress my wrongs and yours, Adela," is the response firmly spoken. "_Santissima_!" she exclaims, seeing her lover prepare to spring into the saddle. "Francisco! Stay with me. Do not again seek danger. The wretch is not worthy of your vengeance." "'Tis not vengeance, but justice. 'Tis my duty to chastise this crime-- the greatest on earth. Something whispers me 'tis a destiny, and I shall succeed. Dearest Adela, do not stay me. There is no danger. I shall be back soon, bringing Uraga's sword, perhaps himself, along with me." "Thar's odds again ye, Frank," interposes Wilder. "Two to one. If I foller afoot I mayn't be up in time. An' the boys that's gone arter thar critters, they'll be too late." "Never mind the odds! I'll make it up with the five shots still in my revolver. See, dearest, your brother is coming this way. Go meet and tell him I shall soon return with a prisoner to be exchanged for him. Another kiss! _Adios! hasta luego_!" Tearing himself from arms so reluctant to release him, he bounds upon the back of his horse and spurs off, soon disappearing among the trees. Scarce is he out of sight when another quadruped is seen galloping after--not a horse, but a hybrid. Walt Wilder has espied the saddled mule hitched up behind the tent--that intended for Conchita. It is now ridden by the ex-Ranger, who, prodding it with the point of his bowie, puts it to its best speed. And soon after go other horsemen--the Texans who have recovered their steeds, with some who have caught those of the troopers, rapidly bridled and mounted them bare-back. They who stay behind become spectators of a scene strange and tender. Two male prisoners unexpectedly rescued--snatched, as it were, from the jaws of death--two female captives alike saved from dishonour. A brother embracing his sister, whose noble affection but the moment before prompted her to share with him the first sooner than submit to the last. CHAPTER SEVENTY SIX. THE CHASE. Hamersley has his horse fairly astretch ere the fugitives, though out of sight, are many hundred yards ahead; for the scenes and speeches recorded occupied but a few seconds of time. He is confident of being able to overtake them. He knows his Kentucky charger is more than a match for any Mexican horse, and will soon bring him up with Uraga and the other officer. If they should separate he will follow the former. As he rides on he sees they cannot go far apart. There is a sheer precipice on each side--the bluffs that bound the creek bottom. These will keep the pursued men together, and he will have both to deal with. The ground is such that they cannot possibly escape him except by superior speed. He can see the cliffs on each side to their bases. There is not enough underwood for a horseman to hide in. He hastens on, therefore, supposing them still before him. In ten minutes more he is sure of it--they are in sight! The timber through which the chase has hitherto led abruptly terminates, a long grassy mead of over a mile in length lying beyond; and beyond it the trees again obstruct the vista up the valley. The retreating horsemen have entered upon this open tract, but not got far over it, when Hamersley spurs his horse out of the timber tract, and pursuer and pursued are in sight of other. It is now a tail-on-end chase, all three horses going at the greatest speed to which their riders can press them. It is evident that the large American horse is rapidly gaining upon the Mexican mustangs, and, if no accident occur, will soon be alongside them. Hamersley perceives this, and, casting a glance ahead, calculates the distance to where the timber again commences. To overtake them before they can reach it is the thought uppermost in his mind. Once among the tree-trunks they can go as fast as he, for there the superior fleetness of his horse will not avail. Besides, there may be a thick underwood, giving them a chance of concealment. He must come up with them before they can reach the cover, and to this end he once more urges his animal both with spur and speech. At this moment Roblez looking back, perceives there is but one man in chase of them. A long stretch of open plain in his rear, and no other pursuer upon it. Brigand though he be, the adjutant possesses real courage. And there are two of them, in full health and strength, both armed with sabres, himself carrying a pair of dragoon pistols in his holsters. Those belonging to Uraga are nearer to the hand of Hamersley--having been left upon the saddle which the colonel, in his hasty retreat, had been hindered from occupying. "_Carajo_!" exclaims Roblez, "there's but one of them after us. The others haven't had time to get mounted, and won't be up for a while. It's some rash fool who's got your horse under him. Let's turn upon him, colonel." The coward thus appealed to cannot refuse compliance. In an instant the two wheel round, and, with blades bared, await the approach of the pursuer. In a dozen more strides of his horse Hamersley is on the ground. Uraga now recognises his antagonist in the Chihuahua duel--the man he hates above all others on earth. This, hatred, intense as it is, does not supply him with courage. In the eye of the pursuer coming on, when close up, Uraga reads a terrible expression--that of the avenger! Something whispers him his hour has come, and with shrinking heart and palsied arm he awaits the encounter. As said, the two Mexican officers carry swords, cavalry sabres. Against these the Kentuckian has no weapon for parrying or defence. He is but ill-armed for the unequal strife, having only a Colt's revolver with one chamber empty, and, as a _dernier ressort_, the single-barrelled pistols in the holsters. Quickly perceiving his disadvantage, he checks up before coming too close, and with his revolver takes aim, and fires at the nearest of his antagonists, who is Roblez. The shot tells, tumbling the lancer lieutenant out of his saddle, and making more equal the chances of the strife. But there is no more fighting, nor the show of it, for Uraga, on seeing his comrade fall, and once more catching sight of that avenging glance that glares at him as if from the eyes of Nemesis, wrenches the mustang round, and rides off in wild retreat; his sword, held loosely, likely to drop from his grasp. Soon it does drop, for Hamersley, following in close pursuit, delivers a second shot from the revolver. The bullet hits the extended sword arm; the naked blade whirls out, and falls with a ring upon the meadow turf. Uraga rides on without looking back. He has not even courage to turn his face towards his antagonist. He thinks only of reaching the timber, in a despairing hope he may there find shelter and safety. It is not his destiny to reach it; the pursuer is too close upon his heels. The head of Hamersley's horse is swept by the mustang's tail, its long, white hair spread comet-like behind. Once more the revolver is raised, its muzzle pointed at the retreating coward. The pressing of its trigger would send a bullet into his back. It is not pressed. As if from mercy or mere caprice Hamersley suddenly transfers the pistol to his left hand. Then, forcing his horse to a long leap forward, he lays hold of Uraga with his right. Grasping the Mexican by the sword-belt and jerking him out of the saddle, he dashes him down to the earth. Then reining up, with the revolver once more in his right hand, he cries out-- "Lie still, you ruffian! Don't move an inch! I have four shots to spare, and if you attempt to stir, one of them will quiet you." The admonition is not needed. Uraga, stunned by the shock for a time, makes no movement. He is insensible. Before he comes to himself the Rangers have ridden up, with Walt Wilder at their head. They proceed to make prisoners of the two men, neither of whom has been killed in the encounter. Better for both if they had. For they are now in the hands of men who will surely doom them to a death less easy thar that they had escaped. Their fate is inevitable. CHAPTER SEVENTY SEVEN. THE CAMP TRANSFORMED. Another sun rises over the Llano Estacado, his beams gilding with ruddy glow the brown basaltic cliffs that enclose the valley of the Arroyo de Alamo. On projecting points of these, above the spot chosen by Uraga for his camp, the black vultures are still perched. Though 'tis not their usual roosting-place, they have remained there all night, now and then giving utterance to their hoarse, guttural croaks, when some howling, predatory quadruped--coyote or puma--approaching too near, has startled them from their dozing slumbers. As the first rays of the sun rouse them to activity, their movements tell why they have stayed. No longer at rest, or only at intervals, they flit from rock to rock, and across the valley from cliff to cliff, at times swooping so low that their wings almost touch the topmost twigs of the trees growing upon the banks of the stream. All the while with necks astretch, and eyes glaring in hungry concupiscence. For below they perceive the materials of a repast--a grand, gluttonous feast--no longer in doubtful expectation, but now surely provided for them. Ten men lie prostrate upon the sward; not asleep, as the vultures well know--nor yet reclining to rest themselves. Their attitudes are evidence against this. They lie with bodies bent and limbs stiff, some of them contorted to unnatural postures. Besides, on the grass-blades around are drops and gouts of blood, grown black during the night, looking as if it had rained ink; while little pools of the same are here and there seen, dull crimson and coagulated. From these sanguinary symbols the vultures are well aware that the recumbent forms are neither asleep nor reposing. Every bird knows that every man of them is dead; and, though still clad in the uniform of soldiers, with all the gay insignia of lancers, they are but clay-cold corpses. It is the firing party, still lying as it fell; not a figure disturbed, not a coat stripped off nor pocket rifled; no strap, plume, or pennon displaced since the moment when all dropped dead almost simultaneously at the detonation of the Rangers' rifles. Except the tents, which are still set as before, this cluster of corpses is the only thing seeming unchanged since yesterday's sun went down. For it was after sunset when the pursuers returned, bringing their prisoners along with them. As on yesterday, two captives are seen under the same tree, where late lay Don Valerian and the doctor. But different men, with quite another style of sentry standing over them. The latter, a rough-garbed, big-bearded Texan, full six feet in height, shouldering a gun whose butt, when rested on the ground, places the muzzle within an inch of his chin. No need to say who are the two he is guarding. At his feet Uraga lies, crestfallen, with a craven look upon his face, like a fox in the trap; his splendid habiliments torn, mud-bedaubed, bedraggled. Besides him his adjutant, Roblez--his confederate in many a crime--also showing signs of having received rough treatment, but not without resenting it. His aspect is that of a tiger encaged, chafing at the torture, regardless of what may be the end. On the camp ground are seen some sixty horses with half-a-dozen mules. About fifty of the former are under saddle and bridle, as if soon to be mounted. The others have lariats around their necks, intended to be led. A few men--those of inferior standing--look after the animals; while the larger number is gathered into a group near the centre of the camp ground. Their air, attitudes, earnest speech, and excited gesticulations tell they are taking counsel on some matter of serious import. Walt Wilder is among them, Hamersley being absent. The latter is inside the square tent, in pleasanter companionship. He is seated upon a _catre_, Adela by his side, her hand clasping his. This without any bashfulness or reserve at her brother being present. Which he is, along with the dear old doctor, both now released from their bonds. It is a tableau of true love, wreathed with fraternal affection. With devotion also, of an humbler kind, Conchita is passing out and in, rejoicing in a general way. She pays no attention to a peon who lies tied behind the tent--Jose; and gives only scorn to another seen fast bound beside him--Manuel. Notwithstanding her knowledge that this man is madly in love with her-- for she now also knows how much he has been a traitor--her thoughts, as her eyes, are upon one more true--on her grand, gallant _Tejano_! She is proud to observe the distinguished part he plays among his _compaisanos_. For, in truth, Walt is doing this. Standing a half head taller than any of the Rangers around him, he is alike leader in their deliberations, those the most serious in which men can be engaged. No question of life and death. It has been, but is no longer. The latter has been unanimously decreed, the verdict declared, the sentence pronounced. Their talk now only relates to the manner of execution. The Ranger Captain, who presides, puts the interrogatory thus: "Well, boys, what are we to do with them? Shoot or hang?" "Hang!" is the response from more than a majority of voices. "Shootin' is too clean a death for scoundrels sech as them," is the commentary of a voice recognisable as that of Nat Cully. "They ought to be scalped, skinned, an' quartered," adds a man disposed to severer punishment. "Yes!" affirms another of the like inclining. "A bit of torture wouldn't be more than the rascals deserve." "Come, comrades!" cries the Ranger Captain. "Remember, we are Texans, and not savages like those we're about to punish. Sufficient to send them out of the world without acting inhumanly. You all declare for hanging?" "All!" "Enough! Where shall we string them up?" "Yonner's a pick spot," responds Wilder, pointing out the two trees to which Don Valerian and the doctor had been lately lashed. "They kin each hev a branch separate, so's not to crowd one the t'other in makin' tracks to etarnity." "Jest the place!" endorses Cully. "Kedn't be a better gallis if the sheriff o' Pike County, Massoury, had rigged it up hisself. We'll gie 'em a tree apiece, as they war about to do wi' thar innocent prisoners. Takin' their places'll be turn an' turn about. That's fair, I reckin." "Boys!" cries Walt, "look out a cupple o' layvettes, an' fetch 'em this way." Several start towards the horse-drove, and soon return with the trail-ropes. Then all proceed towards the two trees. Each chances to have a large limb extending horizontally outward from the trunk. Over each a tazo is flung, one end left loose, the other remaining in the hand of him who pitched it. Before flinging them the rope has been passed through the iron ring with which all lariats are provided, thus furnishing a ready-made running noose. "Who's to haul up?" asks the Ranger Captain; adding, "Boys! 'Taint a nice business, I know; but I suppose there's some of you willing to undertake it." Some of them! Forty voices, nearly all present, are heard crying out with one accord-- "I'm willing!" In fact, every man upon the ground seems eager to take part in a duty which, under other circumstances, would be not only disagreeable, but disgusting to them. Rough, rude men as most of the Rangers are, little prone to delicate sentimentalism, they are, nevertheless, true to the ordinary instincts of humanity. Accustomed to seeing blood spilled, and not squeamish about spilling it if it be that of a red-skinned foe, it is different when the complexion is white. In the present case they have no scruples on the score of colour. What has been told them about their two prisoners--the atrocities these have committed--puts all this aside. The tale has made a profound impression upon their minds; and, beyond any motive of mere revenge, they are stirred by a sense of just retribution. Every man of them feels as if it were his sacred duty to deal out justice, and administer the punishment of death to criminals so surely deserving it. CHAPTER SEVENTY EIGHT. A LIVING SCAFFOLD. Captain Haynes, seeing there will be no difficulty in obtaining executioners, deems everything settled, and is about ordering the prisoners to be brought up. Being a man of humane feelings, with susceptibilities that make him somewhat averse to performing the part of sheriff, it occurs to him that he can avoid the disagreeable duty by appointing a deputy. For this he selects Walt Wilder, who in turn chooses Nat Cully to assist him. The two assume superintendence of the ceremony, and the Ranger Captain retires from the ground. After communing for some seconds between themselves, and in _sotto voce_, as if arranging the mode of execution, Walt faces round to the assembled Texans, saying-- "Wal, boys, thar 'pears to be no stint o' hangmen among ye. This chile niver seed so many o' the Jack Ketch kind since he fust set foot on the soil o' Texas. Maybe it's the smell o' these Mexikins makes ye so savagerous." Walt's quaint speech elicits a general laugh, but suppressed. The scene is too solemn for an ebullition of boisterous mirth. The ex-Ranger continues-- "I see you'll want to have a pull at these ropes. But I reckon we'll have to disapp'int ye. The things we're agoin' to swing up don't desarve hoistin' to etarnity by free-born citizens o' the Lone Star State. 'Twould be a burnin' shame for any Texan to do the hangin' o' sech skunks as they." "What do you mean, Walt?" one asks. "Somebody must hoist them up!" "'Taint at all necessary. They kin be strung 'ithout e'er a hand techin' trail-rope." "How?" inquire several voices. "Wal, thar's a way Nat Cully an' me hev been speaking o'. I've heern o' them Mexikins practisin' themselves on thar Injun prisoners for sport. We'll gie' 'em a dose o' their own medicine. Some o' you fellows go an' fetch a kupple o' pack mules. Ye may take the saddles off--they won't be needed." Half-a-dozen of the Rangers rush out, and return leading two mules, having hastily stripped off their alparejas. "Now!" cries Walt, "conduct hyar the kriminals!" A party proceeds to the spot where the two prisoners lie; and taking hold, raise them to an erect attitude. Then, half carrying, half dragging, bring them under the branches designed for their gallows-tree. With their splendid uniforms torn, mud-bedaubed, and stained with spots of blood, they present a sorry spectacle. They resemble wounded wolves, taken in a trap; nevertheless, bearing their misfortune in a far different manner. Roblez looks the large, grey wolf--savage, reckless, unyielding; Uraga, the coyote--cowed, crestfallen, shivering; in fear of what may follow. For a time neither speaks a word nor makes an appeal for mercy. They seem to know it would be idle. Regarding the faces around, they may well think so. There is not one but has "death" plainly stamped upon it, as if the word itself were upon every lip. There is an interval of profound silence, only broken by the croak of the buzzards and the swish of their spread wings. The bodies of the dead lancers lie neglected; and, the Rangers now further off, the birds go nearer them. Wolves, too, begin to show themselves by the edge of the underwood--from the stillness thinking the time arrived to commence their ravenous repast. It has but come to increase the quantity of food soon to be spread before them. "Take off thar leg fastenin's!" commands Wilder, pointing to the prisoners. In a trice the lashings are loosed from their ankles, and only the ropes remain confining their wrists--these drawn behind their backs, and there made fast. "Mount 'em on the mules!" As the other order, this is instantly executed; and the two prisoners are set astride on the hybrids, each held by a man at its head. "Now fix the snares roun' thar thrapples. Make the other eends fast by giein' them a wheen o' turn over them branches above. See as ye draw 'em tight 'ithout streetchin'." Walt's orders are carried out quickly, and to the letter, for the men executing them now comprehend what is meant. They also, too well, who are seated upon the backs of the mules. It is an old trick of their own. They know they are upon a scaffold--a living scaffold--with a halter and running noose around their necks. "Now, Nat!" says Walt, in undertone to Cully. "I guess we may spring the trap? Git your knife riddy." "It's hyar." "You take the critter to the left. I'll look arter that on the right." The latter is bestridden by Uraga. With Walt's ideas of duty are mingled memories that prompt to revenge. He remembers his comrades slaughtered upon the sands of the Canadian, himself left buried alive. With a feeling almost jubilant--natural, considering the circumstances, scarce reprehensible--he takes his stand by the side of the mule which carries Colonel Uraga. At the same time Cully places himself beside that bestridden by Roblez. Both have their bowie-knives in hand, the blades bare. One regarding them, a stranger to their intent, might think they meant slaughtering either the mules or the men on their backs. They have no such thought, but a design altogether different, as declared by Wilder's words--the last spoken by him before the act of execution. "When I gie the signal, Nat, prod yur critter sharp, an' sweep the support from unner them. They've been thegither in this world in the doin' o' many a rascally deed. Let's send 'em thegither inter the next." "All right, ole hoss! I'll be riddy," is the laconic rejoinder of Cully. After it another interval of silence, resembling that which usually precedes the falling of the gallows drop. So profound, that the chirp of a tree cricket, even the rustling of a leaf, would seem a loud noise. So ominous, that the vultures perched upon the summit of the cliff crane out their necks to inquire the cause. The stillness is interrupted by a shout; not the signal promised by Wilder, but a cry coming from the lips of Uraga. In the last hour of anguish his craven heart has given way, and he makes a piteous appeal for mercy. Not to those near him, knowing it would scarce be listened to; but to the man he has much wronged, calling out his name, "Colonel Miranda." On hearing it Don Valerian rushes forth from the tent, his sister by his side, Hamersley with the doctor behind. All stand in front regarding the strange spectacle, of which they have been unconscious, seemingly prepared for them. There can be no mistaking its import. The _mise en scene_ explains it, showing the stage set for an execution. If they have a thought of interfering it is too late. While they stand in suspense, a shout reaches them, followed by explanatory words. They are in the voice of Walt Wilder, who has said-- "Death to the scoundrels! Now, Nat, move your mule forrard!" At the same instant he and Cully are seen leaning towards the two mules, which bound simultaneously forward, as if stung by hornets or bitten by gadflys. But neither brings its rider along. The latter--both of them--stay behind; not naturally, as dismounted and thrown to the earth; but, like the cradle of Mahomet, suspended between earth and heaven. CHAPTER SEVENTY NINE. AFTER THE EXECUTION. It is mid-day over the Arroyo de Alamo. The same sun whose early morning rays fell around the deliberating lynchers, at a later hour lighting up a spectacle of execution, has mounted to the meridian, and now glares down upon a spectacle still sanguinary, though with tableaux changed. The camp is deserted. There are no tents, no Texans, no horses, nor yet any mules. All have disappeared from the place. True, Uraga and his lancers are still there--in body, not in spirit. Their souls have gone, no one may know whither. Only their clay-cold forms remain, us left by the Rangers--the common soldiers lying upon the grass, the two officers swinging side by side, from the trees, with broken necks, drooping heads, and limbs dangling down--all alike corpses. Not for long do they stay unchanged--untouched. Scarce has the last hoof-stroke of the Texan horses died away down the valley, when the buzzards forsake their perch upon the bluff, and swoop down to the creek bottom. Simultaneously the wolves--grand grey and coyote--come sneaking out from the thicket's edge; at first cautiously, soon with bolder front, approaching the abandoned bodies. To the bark of the coyote, the bay of the bigger wolf, and the buzzard's hoarse croak, a _caracara_ adds its shrill note; the fiend-like chorus further strengthened by the scream of the white-headed eagle--for all the world like the filing of a frame saw, and not unlike the wild, unmeaning laughter of a madman. Both the predatory birds and the ravening beasts, with instincts in accord, gather around the quarry killed for them. There is a grand feast--a banquet for all; and they have no need to quarrel over it. But they do--the birds having to stand back till the beasts have eaten their fill. The puma, or panther, takes precedence--the so-called lion of America. A sorry brute to bear the name belonging to the king of quadrupeds. Still, on the Llano Estacado, lord of all, save when confronted by the grizzly bear--then he becomes a cat. As no grizzly has yet come upon the ground, and only two panthers, the wolves have it almost their own way, and only the vultures and eagles have to hold back. But for the birds there is a side dish on which they may whet their appetites, beyond reach of the beasts. To their share fall the two suspended from the trees; and, driven off from the others, they attack these with beak and talon, flapping around, settling upon the branches above, on the shoulders of the corpses, thick as honey-bees upon a branch, pecking out eyes, tearing at flesh, mutilating man--God's image--in every conceivable mode. No; there is one left, peculiar to man himself. Strange, at this crisis, he should appear to give exhibition of it. By pure chance--a sheer contingency--though not less deserving record. The beasts and birds while engaged in devouring the dead bodies are interrupted and scared away from their filthy repast, retreating suddenly from the ground at sight of their masters--men, who unexpectedly appear upon it. These are not the Rangers returning, but a band of Jicarilla Apaches-- young braves out on a roving excursion. They have come down the creek, making for the Pecos, and so chanced to stray into the deserted camp. Surprised at the spectacle there presented to their eyes, they are not the less delighted. More than a dozen dead men, with scalps untaken! They can see there has been a fight, but do not stay to think who have been the victors. Their thoughts are turned towards the vanquished, their eyes resting on heads that still carry their covering of hair. In a trice their blades are bare, and it is cut off--the skin along with it--to the skull of the last lancer! Neither does Uraga nor his lieutenant escape the scalping-knife. Before the savages part from the spot, the crowns of both show crimson, while the scalps stripped off appear as trophies on the points of two Apache spears. Not long do the Indians dally on the ghastly ground. Soon forsaking it, they continue on down the creek. Not in pursuit of the party which has so opportunely furnished them with spear-pennons and fringes for their leggings. The testimony of so many dead men, with the tracks of so many horses--horses with large hoofs, evidently not ridden by Mexicans, whom they contemn, but Texans they terribly fear; these evidences make the Apaches cautious, and, keeping on towards the Pecos, they go not as pursuers, but men trying to shun the party that has passed before. In this they are successful. They never sight the returning Texans, nor these them. The Rangers go down the river; the savages up stream. Of all Apaches, of all Indians, the Jicarillas are the most contemptible cowards. Dastards to the last degree, the young "braves" who mutilated the slain lancers will return to their tribe to tell of scalps fairly taken in fight! And while they are boasting, the wolves, eagles, and vultures will be back among the dead bodies, strip them of their flesh, and leave nought but their bones to bleach white; in time to become dust, and mingle with the earth on which they once moved in all the pride of manhood and panoply of war! CHAPTER EIGHTY. TRANQUIL SCENES. The last act of our drama is recorded, the last sanguinary scene. All red enough, the reader will say, while the keenly susceptible one may deem them too red. Alas! the writer is not answerable for this. He but depicts life as it exists on the borderland between Mexico and Texas. Those who doubt its reality, and would deem him drawing upon imagination, should read the Texan newspapers of that time, or those of this very day. In either he will find recorded occurrences as strange, incidents as improbable, episodes as romantic, and tragedies of hue sanguinary as any recorded in this mere romance. Not always with such a satisfactory termination. Fortunately for our tale and its readers, Nemesis, in dealing out death and meting vengeance, has necessarily allied herself with Justice. The fallen deserved their fate--all, save the teamsters of the caravan, and those Texans who on Pecan Creek succumbed to the Comanche spears. These victims, like stage supernumeraries, living nameless and dying unknown, though their fate may stir our sympathy it does not appeal to the painful depths of sorrow. More easily can it be borne, reflecting on the brighter fate of the survivors. It can give no painful sensation to tell that Colonel Miranda and his sister accompanied Frank Hamersley on his return to the States, Don Prospero and the New Mexican damsel, Conchita, being of the party, which had for escort across the plains Captain Haynes and his company of Texan Rangers, their old comrade, Walt Wilder, travelling along, and, with Nat Cully, narrating around their nightly camp fires many a strange "scrape" of the mountains and prairies. Two subsequent scenes alone seem worthy of record, both fairly deserving it. The first occurs in a little country church in the celebrated "Blue Grass district" of Kentucky. Within its walls have assembled some scores of the very bluest blood of this blue grass country--stalwart, handsome men, alongside a like number of lovely women. They are assisting at a marriage ceremony, not an uncommon occurrence in a church. But in the Kentuckian place of worship--a little rural edifice, far away from any town--it is something unusual to see three couples standing before the altar. In the present case there is this number, none of the pairs strangers to the other two, but all three, by mutual agreement and understanding, to take Hymen's oath at the same time. Foremost and first to put the ring on his bride's finger is Frank Hamersley. She who holds out her hand to receive it is Adela Miranda. Of the couple coming next, the bridegroom is known to the reader. A handsome man, of dark complexion and pure Spanish features, remarked by the spectators as having resemblance to those of Hamersley's new-made bride. Not strange, he being her brother. But who is the lady, the tall, fair girl consenting to make Don Valerian happy, so like Hamersley himself. No one asks this question, all present knowing she is his sister. A fair exchange between the brothers of the bride; each equally quick to fall in love with the sister of the other. On the sterile Llano Estacado it took scarce a minute for the dark Mexican maiden to subdue the heart of Hamersley. Almost as soon, in the fertile State of Kentucky, has his bright-skinned, blonde-haired sister made conquest of the Mexican Colonel. The third pair that presents itself to be made man and wife--who are they? The bridegroom stands six feet two in his boots; the bride, in her satin slippers, far under five. Without thinking of the disproportion in their stature, the reader will recognise Walt Wilder and Conchita. As the ex-Ranger puts the ring on the finger of his blushing bride, he accompanies the act with certain ludicrous protestations of fidelity not to be found in the printed ritual of the Church. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Another scene ends our tale; a simple episode of every-day life; but life in a strange land, remote from the ordinary centres of civilisation. It occurs in New Mexico, in itself a sort of oasis in the great middle desert of North America. Locally, the scene takes place near Albuquerque, on the azotea of a handsome house, which commands a view of the town. It is the mansion once belonging to Don Valerian Miranda. That its former master has retained possession of it is evident from the fact of his being again on its roof, tranquilly smoking a cigaretto; while near by him is his sister. Though one dearer stands between--his wife. Adela is not distressed by her brother's preference for the new mistress of the mansion. She has a mansion of her own, independent. Though far off, its master, Frank Hamersley, is near. Near, also, in the court-yard below is Walt Wilder, in his grotesque way playing Benedict to Conchita. While up and down moves the doctor, sharing the general joy. Outside, upon the plain, the white tilts of twenty waggons, with the smoke of camp-fires rising over them, tell of a trader's caravan. It is Hamersley's--late arrived--_en route_ for the Rio Abajo and El Paso del Norte. Its teamsters take their siesta, reposing in full confidence. No fear of Indian attacks now, nor impost exactions from the tyrant Governor of New Mexico, Don Manuel Armijo! A war has swept the land; a new flag floats over it. Seen streaming above the towers of Albuquerque, it promises security to all. For it is the banner of the "Stars and Stripes!" 
21368	----	The Silver Canyon, A Tale of the Western Plains, by George Manville Fenn. ________________________________________________________________________ This book is by an author who revels in putting his heroes into tense and dangerous situations, and never more so than in the Western plains of North America in the middle of the nineteenth century. The Indians were armed with rifles, and had immense prowess at creeping up unseen upon their enemies. In addition there are rattlesnakes, bears, and other nasty things. The young hero, Bart for short, is out there with his uncle, seeking for a new life. And they all but got the next life out of it! After enduring these and other privations, they find a massive rocky eminence, which they find to have a good lode of silver in it, one which had been mined before, perhaps thousands of years before. It is also fairly difficult to get up to the summit of this great hill, which makes it easier to defend, but when you do get up there you find a large area of good grazing for their cattle and horses. So they make their home there, but of course the Indian attacks continue right up to almost the end of the book. Though the mine had been worked before there was still plenty of good ore in it, so they start to mine it commercially. Eventually a railway is made up to the mine, thousands of workers settle there, and our heroes are heard bemoaning that their way of life is no longer as dangerous and thrilling as once it was. They'll just have to put up with the boredom, I'd say. ________________________________________________________________________ THE SILVER CANYON, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN. CHAPTER ONE. HOW THEY DECIDED TO RUN THE RISK. "Well, Joses," said Dr Lascelles, "if you feel afraid, you had better go back to the city." There was a dead silence here, and the little party grouped about between a small umbrella-shaped tent and the dying embers of the fire, at which a meal of savoury antelope steaks had lately been cooked, carefully avoided glancing one at the other. Just inside the entrance of the tent, a pretty, slightly-made girl of about seventeen was seated, busily plying her needle in the repair of some rents in a pair of ornamented loose leather leggings that had evidently been making acquaintance with some of the thorns of the rugged land. She was very simply dressed, and, though wearing the high comb and depending veil of a Spanish woman, her complexion, tanned is it was, and features, suggested that she was English, as did also the speech of the fine athletic middle-aged man who had just been speaking. His appearance, too, was decidedly Spanish, for he wore the short jacket with embroidered sleeves, tight trousers--made very wide about the leg and ankle-sash, and broad sombrero of the Mexican-Spanish inhabitant of the south-western regions of the great American continent. The man addressed was a swarthy-looking half-breed, who lay upon the parched earth, his brow rugged, his eyes half-closed, and lips pouted out in a surly, resentful way, as if he were just about to speak and say something nasty. Three more men of a similar type were lying beside and behind, all smoking cigarettes, which from time to time they softly rolled up and lighted with a brand at the fire, as they seemed to listen to the conversation going on between the bronzed Englishman and him who had been addressed as Joses. They were all half-breeds, and boasted of their English blood, but always omitted to say anything about the Indian fluid that coursed through their veins; while they followed neither the fashion of Englishman nor Indian in costume, but, like the first speaker, were dressed as Spaniards, each also wearing a handkerchief of bright colour tied round his head and beneath his soft hat, just as if a wound had been received, with a long showy blanket depending from the shoulder, and upon which they now half lay. There was another present, however, also an anxious watcher of the scene, and that was a well-built youth of about the same age as the girl. For the last five minutes he had been busily cleaning his rifle and oiling the lock; and this task done, he let the weapon rest with its butt upon the rocky earth, its sling-strap hanging loose, and its muzzle lying in his hand as he leaned against a rock and looked sharply from face to face, waiting to hear the result of the conversation. His appearance was different to that of his companions, for he wore a closely fitting tunic and loose breeches of what at the first glance seemed to be dark tan-coloured velvet, but a second look showed to be very soft, well-prepared deerskin; stout gaiters of a hard leather protected his legs; a belt, looped so as to form a cartridge-holder, and a natty little felt hat, completed his costume. Like the half-breeds, he wore a formidable knife in his belt, while on their part each had near him a rifle. "Well," said the speaker, after a long pause, "you do not speak; I say, are you afraid?" "I dunno, master," said the man addressed. "I don't feel afraid now, but if a lot of Injuns come whooping and swooping down upon us full gallop, I dessay I should feel a bit queer." There was a growl of acquiescence here from the other men, and the first speaker went on. "Well," he said, "let us understand our position at once. I would rather go on alone than with men I could not trust." "Always did trust us, master," said the man surlily. "Allays," said the one nearest to him, a swarthier, more surly, and fiercer-looking fellow than his companion. "I always did, Joses; I always did, Juan; and you too, Harry and Sam," said the first speaker. "I was always proud of the way in which my ranche was protected and my cattle cared for." "We could not help the Injuns stampeding the lot, master, time after time." "And ruining me at last, my lads? No; it was no fault of yours. I suppose it was my own." "No, master, it was setting up so close to the hunting-grounds, and the Injun being so near." "Ah well, we need not consider how all that came to pass, my lads: we know they ruined me." "And you never killed one o' them for it, master," growled Joses. "Nor wished to, my lad. They did not take our lives." "But they would if they could have broken in and burnt us out, master," growled Joses. "Perhaps so; well, let us understand one another. Are you afraid?" "Suppose we all are, master," said the man. "And you want to go back?" "No, not one of us, master." Here there was a growl of satisfaction. "But you object to going forward, my men?" "Well, you see it's like this, master: the boys here all want to work for you, and young Master Bart, and Miss Maude there; but they think you ought to go where it's safe-like, and not where we're 'most sure to be tortured and scalped. There's lots o' places where the whites are in plenty." "And where every gully and mountain has been ransacked for metals, my lad. I want to go where white men have never been before, and search the mountains there." "For gold and silver and that sort of thing, master?" "Yes, my lads." "All right, master; then we suppose you must go." "And you will go back because it is dangerous?" "I never said such a word, master. I only said it warn't safe." "And for answer to that, Joses, I say that, danger or no danger, I must try and make up for my past losses by some good venture in one of these unknown regions. Now then, have you made up your minds? If not, make them up quickly, and let me know what you mean to do." Joses did not turn round to his companions, whose spokesman he was, but said quietly, as he rolled up a fresh cigarette: "Mind's made up, master." "And you will go back?" "Yes, master." "All of you?" "All of us, master," said Joses slowly. "When you do," he added after a pause. "I knew he would say that, sir," cried the youth who had been looking on and listening attentively; "I knew Joses would not leave us, nor any of the others." "Stop a moment," interposed the first speaker. "What about your companions, my lad?" "What, them?" said Joses quietly. "Why, they do as I do." "Are you sure?" "Course I am, master. They told me what to do." "Then thank you, my lad. I felt and knew I could trust you. Believe me, I will take you into no greater danger than I can help; but we must be a little venturesome in penetrating into new lands, and the Indians may not prove our enemies after all." "Ha, ha, ha! Haw, haw, haw, haw!" laughed Joses hoarsely. "You wait and see, master. They stampeded your cattle when you had any. Now look out or they'll stampede you." "Well, we'll risk it," said the other. "Now let's be ready for any danger that comes. Saddle the horses, and tether them close to the waggon. I will have the first watch to-night; you take the second, Joses; and you, Bart, take the third. Get to sleep early, my lads, for I want to be off before sunrise in the morning." The men nodded their willingness to obey orders, and soon after all were hushed in sleep, the ever-wakeful stars only looking down upon one erect figure, and that was the form of Dr Lascelles, as he stood near the faintly glowing fire, leaning upon his rifle, and listening intently for the faintest sound of danger that might be on its way to work them harm. CHAPTER TWO. WHAT WENT BEFORE. As Dr Lascelles stood watching there, his thoughts naturally went back to the events of the past day, the sixth since they had bidden good-bye to civilisation and started upon their expedition. He thought of the remonstrance offered by his men to their proceeding farther; then of the satisfactory way in which the difficulty had been settled; and later on of the troubles brought up by his man's remarks. He recalled the weary years he had spent upon his cattle farm, in which he had invested after the death of his wife in England; how he had come out to New Mexico, and settled down to form a cattle-breeding establishment with his young daughter Maude for companion. Then he thought of how everything had gone wrong, not only with him, but with his neighbours, one of the nearest being killed by an onslaught of a savage tribe of Indians, the news being brought to him by the son of the slaughtered man. The result had been that the Doctor had determined to flee at once; but the day was put off, and as no more troubles presented themselves just then, he once more settled down. Young Bart became by degrees almost as it were a son, and the fight was continued till herd after herd had been swept away by the Indians; and at last Dr Lascelles, the clever physician who had wearied of England and his practice after his terrible loss, and who had come out to the West to seek rest and make money for his child, found himself a beggar, and obliged to begin life again. Earlier in life he had been a great lover of geology, and was something of a metallurgist; and though he had of late devoted himself to the wild, rough life of a western cattle farmer, he had now and then spent a few hours in exploring the mountainous parts of the country near: so that when he had once more to look the world in the face, and decide whether he should settle down as some more successful cattle-breeder's man, the idea occurred to him that his knowledge of geology might prove useful in this painful strait. He jumped at the idea. Of course: why not? Scores of men had made discoveries of gold, silver, and other valuable metals, and the result had been fortune. Why should not he do something of the kind? He mentioned the idea to young Bartholomew Woodlaw, who jumped at the prospect, but looked grave directly after. "I should like it, Mr Lascelles," he said, "but there is Maude." "What of her?" said the Doctor. "How could we take her into the wilds?" "It would be safer to take her into the deserts and mountains, than to leave her here," said the Doctor bitterly. "I should at least always have her under my eye." He went out and told his men, who were hanging about the old ranche although there was no work for them to do. One minute they were looking dull and gloomy, the next they were waving their hats and blankets in the air, and the result of it all was that in less than a month Dr Lascelles had well stored a waggon with the wreck of his fortune, purchased a small tent for his daughter's use, and, all well-armed, the little party had started off into the wilds of New Mexico, bound for the mountain region, where the Doctor hoped to make some discovery of mineral treasure sufficient to recompense him for all his risk, as well as for the losses of the past. They were, then, six days out when there was what had seemed to be a sort of mutiny among his men--a trouble that he was in the act of quelling when we made his acquaintance in the last chapter--though, as we have seen, it proved to be no mutiny at all, but merely a remonstrance on the part of the rough, honest fellows who had decided to share his fortunes, against running into what they esteemed to be unnecessary risks. Joses and his three fellows were about as brigandish and wild-looking a set of half savages as a traveller could light upon in a day's journey even in these uncivilised parts. In fact, no stranger would have been ready to trust his life or property in their keeping, if he could have gone farther. If he had, though, he would most probably have fared worse; for it is not always your pleasantest outside that proves to hide the best within. These few lines, then, will place the reader _au courant_, as the French say, with the reason of the discussion at the beginning of the last chapter, and show him as well why it was that Dr Lascelles, Bart Woodlaw, and Maud Lascelles were out there in the desert with such rough companions. This being then the case, we will at once proceed to deal with their adventurous career. CHAPTER THREE. THE FIRST APACHES. Evening was closing in, and the ruddy, horizontal rays of the sun were casting long grotesque shadows of the tall-branched plants of the cactus family that stood up, some like great fleshy leaves, rudely stuck one upon the other, and some like strangely rugged and prickly fluted columns, a body of Indians, about a hundred strong, rode over the plain towards the rocks where Dr Lascelles and his little party were encamped. The appearance of the Indians denoted that they were on the war-path. Each wore a rude tiara of feathers around his head, beneath which hung wild his long black hair; and saving their fringed and ornamented leggings, the men rode for the most part naked, and with their breasts and arms painted in a coarse and extravagant style. Some had a rude representation of a Death's head and bones in the centre of the chest; others were streaked and spotted; while again others wore a livery of a curiously mottled fashion, that seemed to resemble the markings of a tortoise, but was intended to imitate the changing aspect of a snake. All were fully armed, some carrying rifles, others bows and arrows, while a few bore spears, from the top of whose shafts below the blades hung tufts of feathers. Saddles they had none, but each sturdy, well-built Indian pony was girt with its rider's blanket or buffalo robe, folded into a pad, and secured tightly with a broad band of raw hide. Bits and bridles too, of the regular fashion, were wanting, the swift pony having a halter of horse-hair hitched round its lower jaw, this being sufficient to enable the rider to guide the docile little animal where he pleased; while for tethering purposes, during a halt, there was a stout long peg, and the rider's plaited hide lariat or lasso, ready for a variety of uses in the time of need. The rugged nature of the ground separated the party of Indians from the Doctor's little camp, so that the approach of the war party was quite unobserved, and apparently, from their movements, they were equally unaware of the presence of a camp of the hated whites so near at hand. They were very quiet, riding slowly and in regular order, as if moved by one impulse; and when the foremost men halted, all drew rein by some tolerably verdant patches of the plain, blankets and robes were unstrapped, the horses allowed to graze, and in an incredibly short time the band had half a dozen fires burning of wood that had been hastily collected, and they were ravenously devouring the strips of dried buffalo meat that had been hanging all day in the hot sun, to be peppered with dust from the plain, and flavoured by emanations from the horse against whose flank it had been beaten. This, however, did not trouble the savages, whom one learned in the lore of the plains would have immediately set down as belonging to a powerful tribe of horse Indians--the Apaches, well-known for their prowess in war and their skill as wild-horsemen of the plains. They feasted on, like men whose appetites had become furious from long fasting, until at last they had satisfied their hunger, and the evening shadows were making the great plants of cactus stand up, weird and strange, against the fast-darkening evening sky; then, while the embers of the fire grew more ruddy and bright, each Indian, save those deputed to look after the horses and keep on the watch for danger, drew his blanket or buffalo robe over his naked shoulders, filled and lit his long pipe, and began silently and thoughtfully to smoke. Meanwhile, in utter unconsciousness of the nearness of danger, Dr Lascelles continued his watch thus far into the night. From time to time he examined the tethering of the horses, and glanced inside the tent to stand and listen to the regular low breathing of his child, and then walk to where, rolled in his blanket, Bart Woodlaw lay sleeping in full confidence that a good watch was being kept over the camp as he slept. Then the Doctor tried to pierce the gloom around. Away towards the open plains it was clear and transparent, but towards the rocks that stretched there on one side all seemed black. Not a sound fell upon his ear, and so great was the stillness that the dull crackle of a piece of smouldering wood sounded painfully loud and strange. At last the time had come for arousing some one to take his place, and walking, after a few moments' thought, to where Bart lay, he bent down and touched him lightly on the arm. In an instant, rifle in hand, the lad was upon his feet. "Is there danger?" he said in a low, quiet whisper. "I hope not, Bart," said the Doctor quietly, "everything is perfectly still. I shall lie down in front of the tent; wake me if you hear a sound." The lad nodded, and then stood trying to shake off the drowsiness that still remained after his deep sleep while he watched the Doctor's figure grow indistinct as he walked towards the dimly seen tent. He could just make out that the Doctor bent down, and then he seemed to disappear. Bart Woodlaw remained motionless for a few moments, and then, as he more fully realised his duties, he walked slowly to where the horses were tethered, patted each in turn, the gentle animals responding with a low sigh as they pressed their heads closely to the caressing hand. Satisfied that the tethering ropes were safe, and dreading no hostile visit that might result in a stampede, the guardian of the little camp walked slowly to where the fire emitted a faint glow; and, feeling chilly, he was about to throw on more wood, when it occurred to him that if he did so, the fire would show out plainly for a distance of many miles, and that it would serve as a sign to invite enemies if any were within eyeshot, so he preferred to suffer from the cold, and, drawing his blanket round him, he left the fire to go out. Bart had been watching the stars for about an hour, staring at the distant plain, and trying to make out what was the real shape of a pile of rock that sheltered them on the north, and which seemed to stand out peculiarly clear against the dark sky, when, turning sharply, he brought his rifle to the ready, and stood, with beating heart, staring at a tall dark figure that remained motionless about a dozen yards away. It was so dark that he could make out nothing more, only that it was a man, and that he did not move. The position was so new, and it was so startling to be out there in the wilds alone as it were--for the others were asleep--and then to turn round suddenly and become aware of the fact that a tall dark figure was standing where there was nothing only a few minutes before, that in spite of a strong effort to master himself, Bart Woodlaw felt alarmed in no slight degree. His first idea was that this must be an enemy, and that he ought to fire. If an enemy, it must be an Indian; but then it did not look like an Indian; and Bart knew that it was his duty to walk boldly up to the figure, and see what the danger was; and in this spirit he took one step forward, and then stopped,--for it was not an easy thing to do. The night seemed to have grown blacker, but there was the dark figure all the same, and it seemed to stand out more plainly than before, but it did not move, and this gave it an uncanny aspect that sent something of a chill through the watcher's frame. At last he mastered himself, and, with rifle held ready, walked boldly towards the figure, believing that it was some specimen of the fleshy growth of the region to which the darkness had added a weirdness all its own. No. It was a man undoubtedly, and as, nerving himself more and more, Bart walked close up, the figure turned, and said slowly:-- "I can't quite make that out, Master Bart." "You, Joses!" exclaimed Bart, whose heart seemed to give a bound of delight. "Yes, sir; I thought I'd get up and watch for a bit; and just as I looked round before coming to you, that rock took my fancy." "Yes, it does look quaint and strange," said Bart; "I had been watching it." "Yes, but why do it look quaint and strange?" said Joses in a low, quiet whisper, speaking as if a dozen savages were at his elbow. "Because we can see it against the sky," replied Bart, who felt half amused at the importance placed by his companion upon such a trifle. "And why can you see it against the sky?" said Joses again. "Strikes me there's a fire over yonder." Bart was about to exclaim, "What nonsense!" but he recalled the times when out hunting up stray cattle Joses had displayed a perception that had seemed almost marvellous, and so he held his tongue. "I'll take a turn out yonder, my lad," he said quietly; "I won't be very long." "Shall I wake up the Doctor?" "No, not yet. Let him get a good rest," replied Joses. "Perhaps it's nothing to mind; but coming out here we must be always ready to find danger, and danger must be ready to find us on the look-out." "I'll go with you," said Bart eagerly. "No, that won't do," said the rough fellow sturdily. "You've got to keep watch like they tell me the sailors do out at sea. Who's to take care of the camp if you go away?" "I'll stay then," said Bart, with a sigh of dissatisfaction, and the next minute he was alone. For Joses had thrown down his blanket, and laid his rifle upon it carefully, while over the lock he had placed his broad Spanish hat to keep off the moisture of the night air. Then he had gone silently off at a trot over the short and scrubby growth near at hand. One moment he was near; the next he had grown as it were misty in the darkness, and disappeared, leaving Bart, fretting at the inaction, and thinking that the task of doing duty in watching as sentry was the hardest he had been called upon to perform. Meanwhile the rough cattle driver and plainsman had continued his trot till the broken nature of the ground compelled him to proceed cautiously, threading his way in and out amongst the masses of rock, and forcing him to make a considerable _detour_ before he passed the ridge of stones. His first act was to drop down on hands and knees; his next to lie flat, and drag himself slowly forward a couple of hundred yards, and then stop. It was quite time that he had, for on either hand, as well as in front, lay groups of Indians, while just beyond he could distinguish the horses calmly cropping the grass and other herbage near. So still was it, and so closely had he approached, that every mouthful seized by the horses sounded quite plainly upon his ear, while more than once came the mutterings of some heavy sleeper, with an occasional hasty movement on the part of some one who was restless. Joses had found out all he wanted, and the next thing was to get back and give the alarm. But as is often the case in such matters, it was easier to come than to return. It had to be done though, for the position of those in the little camp was one full of peril, and turning softly, he had begun his retrograde movement, when a figure he had not seen suddenly uttered an impatient "ugh!" and started to his feet. Joses' hand went to his belt and grasped his knife, but that was all. It was not the time for taking to headlong flight, an act which would have brought the whole band whooping and yelling at his heels. Fortunately for the spy in the Indian camp, the night was darker now, a thin veil of cloud having swept over the stars, otherwise the fate of Dr Lascelles' expedition would have been sealed. As it was, the Indian kicked the form beside him heavily with his moccasined foot, and then walked slowly away in the direction of the horses. Some men would have continued their retreat at once, perhaps hurriedly, but Joses was too old a campaigner for such an act. As he lay there, with his face buried deeply in the short herbage, he thought to himself that most probably the waking up of the Indian who had just gone, the kick, and the striding away, would have aroused some of the others, and in this belief he lay perfectly still for quite ten minutes. Then feeling satisfied that he might continue his retreat, he was drawing himself together for a fresh start, when a man on his right leaped to his feet; another did the same, and after talking together for a few moments they too went off in the direction of the horses. This decided Joses upon a fresh wait, which he kept up, till feeling that, safe or unsafe, he must make the venture, he once more started, crawling slowly along without making a sound, till he felt it safe to rise to his hands and knees, when he got over the ground far more swiftly, ending by springing to his feet, and listening intently for a few moments, when there was the faint neigh of a horse from the Indian camp. "If one of ours hears that," muttered Joses, "he'll answer, and the Indians will be down upon us before we know where we are." CHAPTER FOUR. THE NIGHT ALARM. Bart Woodlaw had not been keeping his renewed watch long before he heard a step behind him, and, turning sharply, found himself face to face with Dr Lascelles. "Well, my boy," he said, "is all right?" "I think so, sir. Did you hear anything?" "No, my boy, I woke up and just came to see how matters were going. Any alarm?" "Yes, sir, and no, sir," replied Bart. "What do you mean?" exclaimed the Doctor sharply. "Only that Joses woke up, sir, and I found him watching that mass of rock which you can see out yonder. That one sir--or--no!--I can't see it now." "Why?" said the Doctor, in a quick low decisive tone; "is it darker now?" "Very little, sir; but perhaps Joses was right: he said he thought there must be a fire out there to make it stand out so clearly, and--" "Well? speak, my boy! Be quick!" "Perhaps he was right, sir, for I cannot see the rock there at all." "Where is Joses? Why did he not go and see?" exclaimed the Doctor sharply. "He has been gone nearly an hour, sir, and I was expecting him back when you came." "That's right! But which way? Joses must feel that there is danger, or he would not have left the camp like this." Bart pointed in the direction taken by their follower, and the Doctor took a few hasty strides forward, as if to follow, but he came back directly. "No. It would be folly," he said; "I should not find him out in this wild. Depend upon it, Bart, that was an Indian fire and camp out beyond the ridge yonder, and he suspected it. These old plainsmen read every sign of earth and sky, and we must learn to do the same, boy, for it may mean the saving of our lives." "I'll try," said Bart earnestly. "I can follow trail a little now." "Yes, and your eyes are wonderfully keen," replied the Doctor. "You have all the acute sense of one of these hunters, but you want the power of applying what you see, and learning its meaning." Bart was about to reply, but the Doctor began walking up and down impatiently, for being more used than his ward in the ways of the plains, he could not help feeling sure that there was danger, and this idea grew upon him to such an extent that at last he roused the men from their sleep, bidding them silently get the horses ready for an immediate start, should it be necessary; and while this was going on, he went into the tent. "Maude--my child--quick!" he said quietly. "Don't be alarmed, but wake up, and be ready for a long ride before dawn." Maude was well accustomed to obey promptly all her father's orders, and so used to the emergencies and perils of frontier life that she said nothing, but rapidly prepared for their start, and in a few minutes she was ready, with all her little travelling possessions in the saddle-bags and valise that were strapped to her horse. Just as the Doctor had seen that all was nearly ready, and that scarcely anything more remained to be done than to strike the little tent, Joses came running up. "Well! what news?" said the Doctor, hurriedly. "Injun--hundreds--mile away," said the plainsman in quick, sharp tones. "Hah! good!" he added, as he saw the preparations that had been made. "Bart, see to Maude's horse. Down with the tent, Joses; Harry, help him. You, Juan and Sam, see to the horses." Every order was obeyed with the promptitude displayed in men accustomed to a life on the plains, and in a very few minutes the tent was down, rolled up, and on the side of the waggon, the steeds were ready, and all mounting save Juan, who took his place in front of the waggon to drive its two horses, Dr Lascelles gave the word. Joses went to the front to act as pioneer, and pick a way unencumbered with stones, so that the waggon might go on in safety, and the camp was left behind. Everything depended now upon silence. A shrill neigh from a mare would have betrayed them; even the louder rattle of the waggon wheels might have had that result, and brought upon them the marauding party, with a result that the Doctor shuddered to contemplate. There were moments when, in the face of such a danger, he felt disposed to make his way back to civilisation, dreading now to take his child out with him into the wilderness. But there was something so tempting in the freedom of the life; he felt so sanguine of turning his knowledge of metallurgy to some account; and what was more, it seemed so cowardly to turn back now, that he decided to go forward and risk all. "We always have our rifles," he said softly to himself, "and if we can use them well, we may force the Indians to respect us if they will not treat us as friends." And all this while the waggon jolted on over the rough ground or rolled smoothly over the flat plain, crushing down the thick buffalo-grass, or smashing some succulent, thorny cactus with a peculiar whishing sound that seemed to penetrate far through the silence of the night. They were journeying nearly due north, and so far they had got on quite a couple of miles without a horse uttering its shrill neigh, and it was possible that by now, silent as was the night, their cry might not reach the keen ears of their enemies, but all the same, the party proceeded as cautiously as possible, and beyond an order now and then given in a low voice, there was not a word uttered. It was hard work, too, for, proceeding as they were in comparative darkness, every now and then a horse would place its hoof in the burrow of some animal, and nearly fall headlong. Then, too, in spite of all care and pioneering, awheel of the waggon would sink into some hollow or be brought heavily against the side of a rock. Sometimes they had to alter their direction to avoid heavily-rising ground, and these obstacles became so many, that towards morning they came to a halt, regularly puzzled, and not knowing whether they were journeying away from or towards their enemies. "I have completely lost count, Bart," said the Doctor. "And if you had not," replied Bart, "we could not have gone on with the waggon, for we are right amongst the rocks, quite a mountain-side." "Let's wait for daylight then," said the Doctor peevishly. "I begin to think we have done very wrong in bringing a waggon. Better have trusted to horses." He sighed, though, directly afterwards, and was ready to alter his words, but he refrained, though he knew that it would have been impossible to have brought Maude if they had trusted to horses alone. A couple of dreary hours ensued, during which they could do nothing but wait for daybreak, which, when it came at last, seemed cold and blank and dreary, giving a strange aspect to that part of the country where they were, though their vision was narrowed by the hills on all sides save one, that by which they had entered as it were into what was quite a horse-shoe. Joses and Bart started as soon as it was sufficiently light, rifle in hand, to try and make out their whereabouts, for they were now beyond the region familiar to both in their long rides from ranche to ranche in quest of cattle. They paused, though, for a minute or two to gain a sort of idea as to the best course to pursue, and then satisfied that there was no immediate danger, unless the Indians should have happened to strike upon their trail, they began to climb the steep rocky hill before them. "Which way do you think the Indians were going, Joses?" said Bart, as they toiled on, with the east beginning to blush of a vivid red. "Way they could find people to rob and plunder and carry off," said Joses gruffly, for he was weary and wanted his breakfast. "Do you think they will strike our trail?" "If they come across it, my lad--if they come across it." "And if they do?" "If they do, they'll follow it right to the end, and then that'll be the end of us." "If we don't beat them off," said Bart merrily. "Beat them off! Hark at him!" said Joses. "Why, what a boy it is. He talks of beating off a whole tribe of Indians as if they were so many Jack rabbits." "Well, we are Englishmen," said Bart proudly. "Yes, we are _Englishmen_," said Joses, winking to himself and laying just a little emphasis upon the men; "but we can't do impossibilities if we bes English." "Joses, you're a regular old croaker, and always make the worst of things instead of the best." "So would you if you was hungry as I am, my lad. I felt just now as if I could set to and eat one o' them alligators that paddles about in the lagoons, whacking the fishes in the shallows with their tails till they're silly, and then shovelling of them up with their great jaws." "Well, for my part, Joses, I'd rather do as the alligators do to the fish." "What, whack 'em with their tails? Why, you ain't got no tail, Master Bart." "No, no! Eat the fish." "Oh, ah! yes. I could eat a mess o' fish myself, nicely grilled on some bits o' wood, and yah! mind! look out!" Joses uttered these words with quite a yell as, dropping his rifle, he stooped, picked up a lump of rock from among the many that lay about on the loose stony hill slope they were climbing, and hurled it with such unerring aim, and with so much force, that the hideous grey reptile they had disturbed, seeking to warm itself in the first sunbeams, and which had raised its ugly head threateningly, and begun to creep away with a low, strange rattling noise, was struck about the middle of its back, and now lay writhing miserably amidst the stones. "I don't like killing things without they're good to eat," said Joses, picking up another stone, and seeking for an opportunity to crush the serpent's head--"Ah, don't go too near, boy; he could sting as bad as ever if he got a chance!" "I don't think he'd bite now," said Bart. "Ah, wouldn't he! Don't you try him, my boy. They're the viciousest things as ever was made. And, as I was saying, I don't--there, that's about done for him," he muttered, as he dropped the piece of rock he held right upon the rattlesnake's head, crushing it, and then taking hold of the tail, and drawing the reptile out to its full length--"as I was a-saying, Master Bart, I don't like killing things as arn't good to eat; but if you'll put all the rattlesnakes' heads together ready for me, I'll drop stones on 'em till they're quite dead." "What a fine one, Joses!" said Bart, gazing curiously at the venomous beast. "Six foot six and a half," said Joses, scanning the serpent. "That's his length to an 'alf inch." "Is it? Well, come along; we are wasting time, but do you think rattlesnakes are as dangerous as people say?" "Dangerous! I should think they are," replied Joses, as he shouldered his rifle; and they tramped rapidly on to make up for the minutes lost in killing the reptile. "You'd say so, too, if you was ever bit by one. I was once." "You were?" "I just was, my lad, through a hole in my leggings; and I never could understand how it was that that long, thin, twining, scaly beggar should have enough brains in her little flat head to know that it was the surest place to touch me right through that hole." "It was strange," said Bart. "How was it?" "Well, that's what I never could quite tell, Master Bart, for that bite, and what came after, seemed to make me quite silly like, and as if it took all the memory out of me. All I can recollect about it is that I was with--let me see! who was it? Ah! I remember now: our Sam; and we'd sat down one hot day on the side of a bit of a hill, just to rest and have one smoke. Then we got up to go, and, though we ought to have been aware of it, we warn't, there was plenty of snakes about I was just saying to Sam, as we saw one gliding away, that I didn't believe as they could sting as people said they could, when I suppose I kicked again' one as was lying asleep, and before I knew it a'most there was a sharp grab, and a pinch at my leg, with a kind of pricking feeling; and as I gave a sort of a jump, I see a long bit of snake just going into a hole under some stones, and he gave a rattle as he went. "`Did he bite you?' says Sam. "`Oh, just a bit of a pinch,' I says. `Not much. It won't hurt me.' "`You're such a tough un,' says Sam, by way of pleasing me, and being a bit pleased, I very stupidly said,--`yes, I am, old fellow, regular tough un,' and we tramped on, for I'd made up my mind that I wouldn't take no more notice of it than I would of the sting of a fly." "Keep a good look-out all round, Joses," said Bart, interrupting him. "That's what I am doing, Master Bart, with both eyes at once. I won't let nothing slip." In fact, as they walked on, Joses' eyes were eagerly watching on either side, nothing escaping his keen sight; for frontier life had made him, like the savages, always expecting danger at every turn. "Well, as I was a saying," he continued, "the bite bothered me, but I wasn't going to let Sam see that I minded the least bit in the world, but all at once it seemed to me as if I was full of little strings that ran from all over my body down into one leg, and that something had hold of one end of 'em, and kept giving 'em little pulls and jerks. Then I looked at Sam to see if he'd touched me, and his head seemed to have swelled 'bout twice as big as it ought to be, and his eyes looked wild and strange. "`What's matter, mate?' I says to him, and there was such a ding in my ears that when I spoke to him, Master Bart, my voice seemed to come from somewhere else very far off, and to sound just like a whisper. "`What's the matter with you?' he says, and taking hold of me, he gave me a shake. `Here, come on,' he says. `You must run.' "And then he tried to make me run, and I s'pose I did part of the time, but everything kept getting thick and cloudy, and I didn't know a bit where I was going nor what was the matter till, all at once like, I was lying down somewhere, and the master was pouring something down my throat. Then I felt him seeming to scratch my leg as if he was trying to make it bleed, and then I didn't know any more about it till I found I was being walked up and down, and every now and then some one give me a drink of water as I thought, till the master told me afterwards that it was whisky. Then I went to sleep and dropped down, and they picked me up and made me walk again, and then I was asleep once more, and that's all. Ah, they bite fine and sharp, Master Bart, and I don't want any more of it, and so I tell you." By this time they had pretty well reached the summit of the rocky hill they had been climbing, and obeying a sign from his companion, Bart followed his example, dropping down and crawling forward. "I 'spect we shall find we look right over the flat from here," whispered Joses, sinking his voice for no apparent reason, save the caution engendered by years of risky life with neighbours at hand always ready to shed blood. "And we should be easily seen from a distance, I suppose?" responded Bart. "That's so, Master Bart. The Injun can see four times as far as we can, they say, though I don't quite believe it." "It must be a clever Indian who could see farther than you can, Joses," said Bart quietly. "Oh, I don't know," said the other, with a quiet chuckle; "I can see pretty far when it's clear. Look out." Bart started aside, for he had disturbed another rattlesnake, which glided slowly away as if resenting the intrusion, and hesitating as to whether it should attack. "You mustn't creep about here with your eyes shut," said Joses quietly. "It isn't safe, my lad,--not safe at all. Now you rest there behind that stone. We're close up to the top. Let me go the rest of the way, and see how things are down below." Bart obeyed on the instant, and lay resting his chin upon his arms, watching Joses as he crept up the rest of the slope to where a few rough stones lay about on the summit of the hill, amongst which he glided and then disappeared. Bart then turned his gaze backward, to look down into the Horse-shoe Valley he had quitted, thinking of his breakfast, and how glad he should be to return with the news that all was well, so that a fire might be lighted and a pleasant, refreshing meal be prepared. But the curve of the hill shut the waggon and those with it from view, so that he glanced round him to see what there was worthy of notice. This was soon done. Masses of stone, with a few grey-looking plants growing amidst the arid cracks, a little scattered dry grass in patches, and a few bushy-looking shrubs of a dull sagey green; that was all. There were plenty of stones near, one of which looked like a safe shelter for serpent or lizard; and some horny-looking beetles were busily crawling about. Above all the blue sky, with the sun now well over the horizon, but not visible from where Bart lay, and having exhausted all the things worthy of notice, he was beginning to wonder how long Joses would be, when there was a sharp sound close at hand, as if a stone had fallen among some more. Then there was another, and this was followed by a low chirping noise like that of a grasshopper. Bart responded to this with a very bad imitation of the sound, and, crawling from his shelter, he followed the course taken by his companion as exactly as he could, trying to track him by the dislodged stones and marks made on the few patches of grass where he had passed through. But, with a shrug of the shoulders, Bart was obliged to own that his powers of following a trail were very small. Not that they were wanted here, for at the end of five minutes he could make out the long bony body of Joses lying beside one of the smaller masses of stone that jagged the summit of the hill. Joses was looking in his direction, and just raising one hand slightly, signed to him to come near. There seemed to be no reason why Bart should not jump up and run to his side, but he was learning caution in a very arduous school, and carefully trailing his rifle, he crept the rest of the way to where the great stones lay; and as soon as he was beside his companion, he found, as he expected, that from this point the eye could range for miles and miles over widespreading plains; and so clear and bright was the morning air that objects of quite a small nature were visible miles away. "Well!" said Joses gruffly, for he had volunteered no information, "see anything?" "No," said Bart, gazing watchfully round; "no, I can see nothing. Can you?" "I can see you; that's enough for me," was the reply. "I'm not going to tell when you ought to be able to see for yourself." "But I can see nothing," said Bart, gazing eagerly in every direction. "Tell me what you have made out." "Why should I tell you, when there's a chance of giving you a lesson in craft, my lad,--in craft." "But really there seems to be nothing, Joses." "And he calls his--eyes," growled the frontier man. "Why, I could polish up a couple o' pebbles out of the nearest river and make 'em see as well as you do, Master Bart." "Nonsense!" cried the latter. "I'm straining hard over the plain. Which way am I to look?" "Ah, I'm not going to tell you." "But we are losing time," cried Bart. "Is there any danger?" "Yes, lots." "Where?" "Everywhere." "But can you see immediate danger?" cried Bart impatiently. "Yes; see it as plain as plain." "But where? No; don't tell me. I see it," cried Bart excitedly. "Not you, young master! where?" "Right away off from your right shoulder, like a little train of ants crawling over a brown path. I can see: there are men and horses. Is it a waggon-train? No, I am sure now. Miles away. They are Indians." "Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Joses. "That's better. That's a good lesson before breakfast, and without a spy-glass. I shall make a man of you yet, Master Bart." "Which way are they going?" "Nay, I shan't tell you, my lad. That's for you to find out." "Well, I will directly," said Bart, shading his eyes. "Where are we now? Oh, I see. Now I know. No; I don't, they move so slowly. Yes, I can see. They are going towards the north, Joses." "Nor'-west, my lad," said the frontier man; "but that was a pretty good hit you made. Now what was the good of my telling you all that, and letting you be a baby when I want to see you a man." "We've lost ever so much time, Joses." "Nay, we have not, my lad; we've gained time, and your eyes have had such a eddication this morning as can't be beat." "Well, let's get back now. I suppose we may get up and walk." "Walk! what, do you want to have the Injuns back on us?" "They could not see us here." "Not see us! Do you suppose they're not sharper than that. Nay, my lad, when the Injuns come down upon us let's have it by accident. Don't let's bring 'em down upon us because we have been foolish." Bart could not help thinking that there was an excess of care upon his companion's side, and said so. "When you know the Injuns as well as I do, my lad, you won't think it possible to be too particular. But look here--you can see the Injuns out there, can't you?" "Yes, but they look like ants or flies." "I don't care what they look like. I only say you can see them, can't you?" "Yes." "And you know Injuns' eyes and ears are sharper than ours?" "Not than yours." "Well, I know that they are sharper than yours, Master Bart," said Joses, with a chuckle; "and now look here--if you can see them out there against the dry brown plain miles away, don't you think they could see us stuck up against the sky here in the bright morning sunshine, all this height above the ground?" "Well, perhaps they could, if they were looking," said Bart rather sulkily. "And they are looking this way. They always are looking this way and every way, so don't you think they are not. Now let's go down." He set the example of how they should go down, by crawling back for some distance till he was below the ridge and beyond sight from the plain, Bart carefully following his example till he rose, when they started down the hill at as quick a trot as the rugged nature of the ground would permit, and soon after reached the waggon, which the Doctor had drawn into a position which hid it from the view of any one coming up from the entrance of the valley, and also placed it where, in time of peril, they might hold their own by means of their rifles, and keep an enemy at bay even if they did not beat him off. CHAPTER FIVE. "SURROUNDED BY INDIANS." A good breakfast and a few hours' rest seemed to put a different aspect upon the face of affairs; the day was glorious, and though the region they were in was arid and wanting in water, there was plenty to interest any one travelling on an expedition of research. A good look-out was kept for Indians, but the party seemed to have gone right away, and to give them ample time to get to a greater distance, Dr Lascelles determined, if he could find a spring anywhere at hand, to stay where they were for a couple of days. "You see, Bart," he said, as they hunted about amongst the craggiest part of the amphitheatre where fortune or misfortune had led them, "it does not much matter where we go, so long as it is into a region where Europeans have not penetrated before. Many of these hills are teeming with mineral treasures, and we must come upon some of Nature's wasting store if we persevere." "Then we might find metals here, sir?" said Bart eagerly. "As likely here as anywhere else. These rocks are partly quartz, and at any time we may come upon some of the stone veined with gold, or stumble upon a place where silver lies in blocks." "I hope," laughed Bart, "when we do, I may stumble right over one of the blocks and so be sure of examining it. I think I should know silver if I found it." "I am not so sure," said the Doctor. "You've led a life of a kind that has not made you very likely to understand minerals, but I daresay we shall both know a little more about them before we have done--that is," he added with a sigh, "if the Indians will leave us alone." "We must give them the slip, sir," said Bart, laughing. "Perhaps we may, my boy; but we have another difficulty to contend with." "What's that, sir; the distance?" "No, Bart; I'm uneasy about the men. I'm afraid they will strike sooner or later, and insist upon going back." "I'm not, sir," replied Bart. "I will answer for Joses, and he has only to say he means to go forward, and the others then will keep by his side. Mind that snake, sir." The Doctor raised his rifle to fire, but refrained, lest the report should be heard, and drawing back, the rattlesnake did the same; then they continued their journey, the Doctor examining the rocks attentively as he went on, but seeing nothing worthy of notice. "We must be well on our guard against these reptiles, Bart; that is the first I have seen, and they may prove numerous." "They are numerous," said Bart; and he told of the number he had seen upon the slope above them. "That settles me upon going forward this evening," said the Doctor, "for water seems to be very scarce. We must try and strike the river higher up, and follow its course. We shall then have plenty of water always within reach, and find wood and trees and hiding-places." "But I thought you wanted to get into a mountainous part, sir, where precious minerals would be found," said Bart. "Exactly, my dear boy, and that is just the place we shall reach if we persevere, for it is up in these rocky fastnesses, where the rivers have their sources, and sometimes their beds are sprinkled with the specks and also with pieces of gold that have been washed out of the sides of the mighty hills." They went on thoughtfully for a time, the Doctor giving a chip here and a chip there as he passed masses of rock, but nothing rewarded him, and their walk was so uneventful that they saw nothing more than another rattlesnake, the valley being so solitary and deserted that, with the exception of a large hawk, they did not even see a bird. They, however, found a tiny spring of water which trickled down among the rocks, and finally formed a little pool, ample for supplying their horses with water, and this discovery made the Doctor propose a return. "I don't like leaving Maude for long," he said. "Joses will watch over her, sir, as safely as you would yourself. You saved his life once he told me." "He told you that!" exclaimed the Doctor. "Yes, sir, when the rattlesnake bit him, and I don't think he would ever be ungrateful, though I think he feels hurt that you do not place more trust in him." "Well, let him prove himself well worthy of my trust," said the Doctor, bluntly. "I have not found him so ready as he should be in helping me with my plans." Here the Doctor became very silent and reserved, and though Bart asked him several questions, and tried to get him into conversation, he hardly spoke, but seemed moody and thoughtful till they were close upon the little camp. This was hidden from them till they were almost there, for the upper end of the Horse-shoe Valley was extremely rugged, and their way lay in and out among heavy blocks of stone that seemed as if they had been hurled down from the mountain-side. When they were just about to turn into the narrow opening where the waggon lay and the horses were tethered, the Doctor stooped down to examine some fragments that lay loose about their feet, and the consequence was that Bart went on alone. He was just about to give a peculiar whistle, one used commonly by himself and the men when they wished to signal their whereabouts, when he stopped short, half hidden by the rocks, raised his rifle to his shoulder, and stood ready to fire, while his face, tanned as it was by the sun, turned of a sickly hue. For a moment he was about to fire. Then he felt that he must rush forward and save Maude. The next moment calmer reflection told him that such help and strength as he could command would be needed, and, slipping back out of sight, he ran to where he had left the Doctor. He found him sitting down examining by means of a little magnifying-glass one of the fragments of rock that he had chipped off, while his rifle lay across his knee. He seemed so calm and content that in those moments of emergency Bart almost shrank from speaking, knowing, as he did, how terrible would be the effect of his words. Just then the Doctor looked up, saw his strange gaze, and dropping the fragments, he leaped to his feet. "What is it?" he cried; "what is wrong?" and as he spoke the lock of his double rifle gave forth two ominous clicks twice over. "They have come round while we have been away," whispered Bart hoarsely. "They? Who? Our men?" "No," panted Bart; "the camp is surrounded by Indians." CHAPTER SIX. A SURGICAL OPERATION. Dr Lascelles' first movement was to run forward to the help of his child, Bart being close behind. Then with the knowledge that where there is terrible odds against which to fight, guile and skill are necessary, he paused for a moment, with the intention of trying to find cover from whence he could make deadly use of his rifle. But with the knowledge that Maude must be in the hands of the Indians, whose savage nature he too well knew, his fatherly instinct admitted of no pause for strategy, and dashing forward, he ran swiftly towards the waggon, with Bart close upon his heels. The full extent of their peril was at once apparent, no less than twelve mounted Indians being at the head of the little valley in a group, every man in full war-paint, and with his rifle across his knees as he sat upon his sturdy Indian pony. Facing them were Maude, Joses, Juan, and the other two men, who had apparently been taken by surprise, and who, rifle in hand, seemed to be parleying with the enemy. The sight of the reinforcement in the shape of Bart, and Dr Lascelles made the Indians utter a loud "Ugh!" and for a moment they seemed disposed to assume the offensive, but to Bart's surprise they only urged their ponies forward a few yards, and then stopped. "Get behind the waggon, quick, my child," panted the Doctor, as Bart rushed up to his old companion's side. "They came down upon us all at once, master," said Joses. "They didn't come along the trail." "Show a bold front," exclaimed the Doctor; "we may beat them off." To his surprise, however, the Indians did not seem to mean fighting, one of them, who appeared to be the chief, riding forward a few yards, and saying something in his own language. "What does he say?" said the Doctor, impatiently. "I can't make him out," replied Joses. "His is a strange tongue to me." "He is hurt," exclaimed Bart. "He is wounded in the arm. I think he is asking for something." It certainly had that appearance, for the Indian was holding rifle and reins in his left hand, while the right arm hung helplessly by his side. It was like weakening his own little force to do such a thing, knowing as he did how treacherous the Indian could be, but this was no time for hesitating, and as it seemed to be as Bart had intimated, the Doctor risked this being a manoeuvre on the part of the Indian chief, and holding his rifle ready, he stepped boldly forward to where the dusky warrior sat calm and motionless upon his horse. Upon going close up there was no longer any room for doubt. The chief's arm was roughly bandaged, and the coarse cloth seemed to be eating into the terribly swollen flesh. That was enough. All the Doctor's old instincts came at once to the front, and he took the injured limb in his hand. He must have caused the Indian intense pain, but the fine bronzed-looking fellow, who had features of a keen aquiline type, did not move a muscle, while, as the Doctor laid his rifle up against a rock, the little mounted band uttered in chorus a sort of grunt of approval. "It is peace, Bart," said the Doctor. "Maude, my child, get a bowl of clean water, towels, and some bandages. Bart, get out my surgical case." As he spoke, he motioned to the chief to dismount, which he did, throwing himself lightly from his pony, not, as a European would, on the left side of the horse, but on the right, the well-trained animal standing motionless, and bending down its head to crop the nearest herbage. "Throw a blanket down upon that sage-brush, Joses," continued the Doctor; and this being done, the latter pointed to it, making signs that the chief should sit down. He did not stir for a few moments, but gazed searchingly round at the group, till he saw Maude come forward with a tin bowl of clean water and the bandages, followed by Bart, who had in his hand a little surgical case. Then he took a few steps forward, and seated himself, laying his rifle down amongst the short shrubby growth, while Juan, Sam, and Harry on the one side, the mounted Indians upon the other, looked curiously on. Once there was a low murmur among the latter, as the Doctor drew a keen, long knife from its sheath at his belt; but the chief did not wince, and all were once more still. "He has been badly hurt in a fight," said the Doctor, "and the rough surgery of his tribe or his medicine-man does not act." "That's it, master," said Joses, who was standing close by with rifle ready in case of treachery. "His medicine-man couldn't tackle that, and they think all white men are good doctors. It means peace, master." He pointed behind the Doctor as he spoke, and it was plain enough that at all events for the present the Indians meant no harm, for two trotted back, one to turn up a narrow rift that the little exploring party had passed unnoticed in the night, the other to go right on towards the entrance of the rough Horse-shoe. "That means scouting, does it not?" said Bart. "I think so," replied the Doctor. "Yes; these Indians are friendly, but we must be on our guard. Don't show that we are suspicious though. Help me as I dress this arm. Maude, my child, you had better go into the waggon." "I am not afraid, father," she said, quietly. "Stay, then," he said. "You can be of use, perhaps." He spoke like this, for, in their rough frontier life, the girl had had more than one experience of surgery. Men had been wounded in fights with the Indians; others had suffered from falls and tramplings from horses, while on more than one occasion the Doctor had had to deal with terrible injuries, the results of gorings from fierce bulls. For it is a strange but well-known fact in those parts, that the domestic cattle that run wild from the various corrals or enclosures, and take to the plains, are ten times more dangerous than the fiercest bison or buffalo, as they are commonly called, that roam the wilds. Meanwhile the rest of the band leaped lightly down from their ponies, and paying not the slightest heed to the white party, proceeded to gather wood and brush to make themselves a fire, some unpacking buffalo meat, and one bringing forward a portion of a prong-horn antelope. The Doctor was now busily examining his patient's arm, cutting away the rough bandages, and laying bare a terrible injury. He was not long in seeing its extent, and he knew that if some necessary steps were not taken at once, mortification of the limb would set in, and the result would be death. The Indian's eyes glittered as he keenly watched the Doctor's face. He evidently knew the worst, and it was this which had made him seek white help, though of course he was not aware how fortunate he had been in his haphazard choice. He must have been suffering intense pain, but not a nerve quivered, not a muscle moved, while, deeply interested, Joses came closer, rested his arms upon the top of his rifle, and looked down. "Why, he's got an arrow run right up his arm all along by the bone, master," exclaimed the frontier man; "and he has been trying to pull it out, and it's broken in." "Right, Joses," said the Doctor, quietly; "and worse than that, the head of the arrow is fixed in the bone." "Ah, I couldn't tell that," said Joses, coolly. "I wish I could speak his dialect," continued the Doctor. "I shall have to operate severely if his arm is to be saved, and I don't want him or his men to pay me my fee with a crack from a tomahawk." "Don't you be afraid of that, master. He won't wince, nor say a word. You may do what you like with him. Injuns is a bad lot, but they've got wonderful pluck over pain." "This fellow has, at all events," said the Doctor. "Maude, my child, I think you had better go." "If you wish it, father, I will," she replied simply; "but I could help you, and I should not be in the least afraid." "Good," said the Doctor, laconically, as he lowered the injured arm after bathing it free from the macerated leaves and bark with which it had been bound up. Then with the Indian's glittering eyes following every movement, he took from his leather case of surgical instruments, all still wonderfully bright and kept in a most perfect state, a curious-looking pair of forceps with rough handles, and a couple of short-bladed, very keen knives. "Hah!" said Joses, with a loud expiration of his breath, "them's like the pinchers a doctor chap once used to pull out a big aching tooth of mine, and he nearly pulled my head off as well." "No; they were different to these, Joses," said the Doctor, quietly, as he took up a knife. "Feel faint, Bart?" The lad blushed now. He had been turning pale. "Well, I did feel a little sick, sir. It was the sight of that knife. It has all gone now." "That's right, my boy. Always try and master such feelings as these. Now I must try and make him understand what I want to do. Give me that piece of stick, Bart, it will do to imitate the arrow." Bart handed the piece of wood, which the Doctor shortened, and then, suiting the action to his words, he spoke to the chief: "The arrow entered here," he said, pointing to a wound a little above the Indian's wrist, "and pierced right up through the muscles, to bury itself in the bone just here." As he spoke, he pushed the stick up outside the arm along the course that the arrow had taken, and holding the end about where he considered the head of the arrow to be. For answer the Indian gave two sharp nods, and said something in his own tongue which no one understood. "Then," continued the Doctor, "you, or somebody else, in trying to extract the arrow, have broken it off, and it is here in the arm, at least six inches and the head." As he spoke, he now broke the stick in two, throwing away part, and holding the remainder up against the Indian's wounded arm. Again the chief nodded, and this time he smiled. "Well, we understand one another so far," said the Doctor, "and he sees that I know what's the matter. Now then, am I to try and cure it? What would you like me to do?" He pointed to the arm as he spoke, and then to himself, and the Indian took the Doctor's hand, directed it to the knife, and then, pointing to his arm, drew a line from the mouth of the wound right up to his elbow, making signs that the Doctor should make one great gash, and take the arrow out. "All right, my friend, but that is not quite the right way," said the Doctor. "You trust me then to do my best for you?" He took up one of the short-bladed knives as he spoke, and pointed to the arm. The Indian smiled and nodded, his face the next moment becoming stern and fixed as if he were in terrible pain, and needed all his fortitude to bear it. "Going to cut it out, master?" said Joses, roughly. "Yes." "Let's give the poor beggar a comforter then," continued Joses. "If he scalps us afterwards along with his copper crew, why, he does, but let's show him white men are gentlemen." "What are you going to do?" said the Doctor, wonderingly. "Show you directly," growled Joses, who leisurely filled a short, home-made wooden pipe with tobacco, lit it at the Indian's fire, which was now crackling merrily, and returned to offer it to the chief, who took it with a short nod and a grunt, and began to smoke rapidly. "That'll take a bit o' the edge off it," growled Joses. "Shall I hold his arm?" "No; Bart, will do that," said the Doctor, rolling up his sleeves and placing water, bandages, and forceps ready. "Humph! he cannot bend his arm. Hold it like that, Bart--firmly, my lad, and don't flinch. I won't cut you." "I'll be quite firm, sir," said Bart, quietly; and the Doctor raised his knife. As he did so, he glanced at where nine Indians were seated round the fire, expecting to see that they would be interested in what was taking place; but, on the contrary, they were to a man fully occupied in roasting their dried meat and the portions of the antelope that they had cut up. The operation on the chief did not interest them in the least, or if it did, they were too stoical to show it. The Doctor then glanced at his savage patient, and laying one hand upon the dreadfully swollen limb, he received a nod of encouragement, for there was no sign of quailing in the chief's eyes; but as the Doctor approached the point of the knife to a spot terribly discoloured, just below the elbow, the Indian made a sound full of remonstrance, and pointing to the wound above the wrist, signed to his attendant that he should slit the arm right up. "No, no," said the Doctor, smiling. "I'm not going to make a terrible wound like that. Leave it to me." He patted the chief on the shoulder as he spoke, and once more the Indian subsided into a state of stolidity, as if there were nothing the matter and he was not in the slightest pain. Here I pause for a few moments as I say--Shall I describe what the Doctor did to save the Indian's life, or shall I hold my hand? I think I will go on, for there should be nothing objectionable in a few words describing the work of a man connected with one of the noblest professions under the sun. There was no hesitation. With one quick, firm cut, the Doctor divided the flesh, piercing deep down, and as he cut his knife gave a sharp grate. "Right on the arrowhead, Bart," he said quietly; and, withdrawing his knife, he thrust a pair of sharp forceps into the wound, and seemed as if he were going to drag out the arrow, but it was only to divide the shaft. This he seized with the other forceps, and drew out of the bleeding opening--a piece nearly five inches long, which came away easily enough. Then, without a moment's hesitation, he sponged the cut for a while, and directly after, guiding them with the index finger of his left hand, he thrust the forceps once more into the wound. There was a slight grating noise once again, a noise that Bart, as he manfully held the arm, seemed to feel go right through every nerve with a peculiar thrill. Then it was evident that the Doctor had fast hold of the arrowhead and he drew hard to take it out. "I thought so," he said, "it is driven firmly into the bone." As he spoke, he worked his forceps slightly to and fro, to loosen the arrowhead, and then, bearing firmly upon it, drew it out--an ugly, keen piece of nastily barbed iron, with a scrap of the shaft and some deer sinew attached. The Doctor examined it attentively to see that everything had come away, and uttered a sigh of satisfaction, while the only sign the Indian gave was to draw a long, deep breath. "There, Mr Tomahawk," said the Doctor, smiling, as he held the arm over the bowl, and bathed the injury tenderly with fresh relays of water, till it nearly ceased bleeding; "that's better than making a cut all along your arm, and I'll be bound to say it feels easier already." The Indian did not move or speak, but sat there smoking patiently till the deep cut was sewn up, padded with lint, and bound, and the wound above the wrist, where the arrow had entered, was also dressed and bound up carefully. "There: now your arm will heal," said the Doctor, as he contrived a sling, and placed the injured limb at rest. "A man with such a fine healthy physique will not suffer much, I'll be bound. Hah, it's quite a treat to do some of the old work again." The chief waited patiently until the Doctor had finished. Then rising, he stood for a few moments with knitted brows, perfectly motionless; and the frontier man, seeing what was the matter, seemed to be about to proffer his arm, but the Indian paid no heed to him, merely gazing straight before him till the feeling of faintness had passed away, when he stooped and picked up the piece of arrow shaft and the head, walked with them to where his followers were sitting, and held them out for them to see. Then they were passed round with a series of grunts, duly examined, and finally found a resting-place in a little beaver-skin bag at the chiefs girdle, along with his paints and one or two pieces of so-called "medicine" or charms. Meanwhile the Doctor was busy putting away his instruments, feeling greatly relieved that the encounter with the Indians had been of so friendly a nature. At the end of a few minutes the chief came back with the large buffalo robe that had been strapped to the back of his pony, spread it before the Doctor, placed on it his rifle, tomahawk, knife, and pouch, and signed to him that they were his as a present. "He means that it is all he has to give you, sir," said Bart, who seemed to understand the chief's ways quicker than his guardian, and who eagerly set himself to interpret. "Yes, that seems to be his meaning," replied the Doctor. "Well, let's see if we can't make him our friend." Saying which the Doctor stooped down, picked up the knife and hatchet and placed them in the chiefs belt, his rifle in the hollow of his arm, and finally his buffalo robe over his shoulders, ending by giving him his hand smilingly, and saying the one word _friend_, _friend_, two or three times over. The chief made no reply, but gravely stalked back to his followers, as if affronted at the refusal of his gift, and the day passed with him lying down quietly smoking in the sage-brush, while the occupants of the Doctor's little camp went uneasily about their various tasks, ending by dividing the night into watches, lest their savage neighbours should take it into their heads to depart suddenly with the white man's horses--a favourite practice with Indians, and one that in this case would have been destructive of the expedition. CHAPTER SEVEN. ANOTHER ALARM. To the surprise and satisfaction of Bart, all was well in the camp at daybreak when he looked round; the horses were grazing contentedly at the end of their tether ropes, and the Indians were just stirring, and raking together the fire that had been smouldering all the night. Breakfast was prepared, and they were about to partake thereof, when the Doctor took counsel with Joses as to what was best to be done. "Do you think they will molest us now?" he asked. "No, master, I don't think so, but there's no knowing how to take an Indian. I should be very careful about the horses though, for a good horse is more than an Indian can resist." "I have thought the same; and it seems to me that we had better stay here until this party has gone, for I don't want them to be following us from place to place." "There's a band of 'em somewhere not far away," said Joses, "depend upon it, so p'r'aps it will be best to wait till we see which way they go, and then go totherwise." Soon after breakfast the chief came up to the waggon and held out his arm to be examined, smiling gravely, and looking his satisfaction, as it was very plain that a great deal of the swelling had subsided. This went on for some days, during which the Indians seemed perfectly content with their quarters, they having found a better supply of water; and to show their friendliness, they made foraging expeditions, and brought in game which they shared in a very liberal way. This was all very well, but still it was not pleasant to have them as neighbours, and several times over the Doctor made up his mind to start and continue his expedition, and this he would have done but for the fact of his being sure that their savage friends, for this they now seemed to be, would follow them. At the end of ten days the chief's arm had wonderfully altered, and with it his whole demeanour, the healthy, active life he led conducing largely towards the cure. But he was always quiet and reserved, making no advances, and always keeping aloof with his watchful little band. "We are wasting time horribly," said the Doctor, one morning. "We'll start at once." "Why not wait till night and steal off?" said Maude. "Because we could not hide our trail," said Bart. "The Indians could follow us. I think it will be best to let them see we don't mind them, and go away boldly." "That's what I mean to do," said the Doctor, and directly they had ended their meal, the few arrangements necessary were made, and after going and shaking hands all round with the stolid Indians, the horses were mounted, the waggon set in motion, and they rode back along the valley. Passing the Indian camp, they arrived at the opening through which, bearing off to the west, the Indians reached the plains, and for hours kept on winding in and out amongst the hills. It was after sundown that the Doctor called a halt in the wild rocky part that they had reached, a short rest in the very heat of the day being the only break which they had had in their journey. In fact, as darkness would soon be upon them, it would have been madness to proceed farther, the country having become so broken and wild that it would have been next to impossible to proceed without wrecking the waggon. Their usual precautions were taken as soon as a satisfactory nook was found with a fair supply of water, and soon after sunrise next morning, all having been well during the night, the Doctor and Bart started for a look round while breakfast was being prepared, Bart taking his rifle, as there was always the necessity for supplying the wants of the camp. "I wonder whether we shall see any more of the Indians," said Bart, as they climbed up amongst the rocks to what looked almost like a gateway formed by a couple of boldly scarped masses, in whose strata lines various plants and shrubs maintained a precarious existence. "I wonder they have not followed us before now," replied the Doctor. "Mind how you come. Can you climb it?" For answer, Bart leaped up to where the Doctor had clambered as easily as a mountain sheep, and after a little farther effort they reached the gate-like place, to find that it gave them a view right out on to the partly-wooded country beyond. For they had left the level, changeless plain on the other side of the rocks, and the sight of a fresh character of country was sufficient to make the Doctor eagerly take the little telescope he carried in a sling, and begin to sweep the horizon. As he did so, he let fall words about the beauty of the country. "Splendid grazing land," he said, "well-watered. We must have a stay here." Then lowering his glass, so as to take the landscape closer in, he uttered an ejaculation of astonishment. "Why, Bart," he said, "I'm afraid here are the Indians Joses saw that night." "Let me look, sir," cried Bart, stretching out his hand for the glass, but only to exclaim, "I can see them plainly enough without. Why, they cannot be much more than a mile away." "And they seem to be journeying in our direction," replied the Doctor. "Let's get back quickly, and try if we cannot find another hiding-place for the waggon." Hurrying back, Bart started the idea that these might be the main body of their friendly Indians. "So much the better for us, Master Bart, but I'm afraid that we shall not be so lucky again." "I half fancied I saw our chief amongst them," said Bart, giving vent to his sanguine feelings. "More than half fancy, Bart," replied the Doctor, "for there he sits upon his horse." He pointed with his glass, and, to Bart's astonishment, there in the little wilderness of rocks that they had made their halting-place for the night, was the chief with his eleven followers who were already tethering their horses, and making arrangements to take up their quarters close by them as of old. "Do you think they mean to continue friendly?" asked Bart uneasily, for he could not help thinking how thoroughly they were at the mercy of the Indians if they proved hostile. "I cannot say," replied the Doctor. "But look here, Bart, take the chief with you up to the gap, and show him the party beyond. His men may not have seen them, and we shall learn perhaps whether they are friends or foes." On reaching the waggon, as no attempt was made by the Indians to join them or resume intercourse, Bart went straight up to the chief, and made signs to him to follow, which he proceeded to do upon his horse, but upon Bart, pointing upwards to the rocky ascent, he leaped off lightly, and the youth noticed that he was beginning to make use of his injured arm. In a very short time they had climbed to the opening between the rocks, where, upon seeing that there was open country beyond, the Indian at once crouched and approached cautiously, dropping flat upon the earth next moment, and crawling over the ground with a rapidity that astonished his companion, who was watching his face directly after, to try and read therefrom whether he belonged to the band of Indians in the open park in the land beyond. To Bart's surprise, the chief drew back quickly, his face changed, and his whole figure seemed to be full of excitement. He said a few words rapidly, and then, seeing that he was not understood, he began to make signs, pointing first to the opening out into the plain, and then taking out his knife, and striking with it fiercely. Then he pointed once more to the opening, and to his wounded arm, going through the motions of one drawing a bow. "Friends, friends, friends," he then said in a hoarse whisper, repeating the Doctor's word, and then shaking his head and spitting angrily upon the ground, and striking with his knife. He then signed to Bart, to follow, and ran down the steep slope just as one of his followers cantered hastily up. Both had the same news to tell in the little camp, and though the Doctor could not comprehend the Indian chief's dialect, his motions were significant enough, as he rapidly touched the barrels of his followers' rifles, and then those of the white party, repeating the word, "Friends." The next moment he had given orders which sent a couple of his men up the rocks, to play the part of scouts, while he hurriedly scanned their position, and chose a sheltered place, a couple of hundred yards back, where there was ample room for the horses and waggon, which were quietly taken there, the rocks and masses of stone around affording shelter and cover in case of attack. "There's no doubt about their being friends now, Bart," said the Doctor; "we must trust them for the future, but I pray Heaven that we may not be about to engage in shedding blood." "We won't hurt nobody, master," said Joses, carefully examining his rifle, "so long as they leave us alone; but if they don't, I'm afraid I shall make holes through some of them that you wouldn't be able to cure." Just then the Indian held up his hand to command silence, and directly after he pointed here and there to places that would command good views of approaching foes, while he angrily pointed to Maude, signing that she should crouch down closely behind some sheltering rocks. The Doctor yielded to his wishes, and then, in perfect silence, they waited for the coming of the Indian band, which if the trail were noted, they knew could not be long delayed. If Bart had felt any doubt before of these Indians with them being friendly, it was swept away now by the thorough earnestness with which they joined in the defence of their little stronghold. On either side of him were the stern-looking warriors, rifle in hand, watchful of eye and quick of ear, each listening attentively for danger while waiting for warnings from the scouts who had been sent out. As Bart thought over their position and its dangers, he grew troubled at heart about Maude, the sister and companion as she had always seemed to him, and somehow, much as he looked up to Dr Lascelles, who seemed to him the very height of knowledge, strength, and skill, it filled his mind with forebodings of the future as he wondered how they were to continue their expedition to the end without happening upon some terrible calamity. "Maude ought to have been left with friends, or sent to the city. It seems to me like madness to have brought her here." Just then Dr Lascelles crept up cautiously behind him, making him start and turn scarlet as a hand was laid upon his shoulder; for it seemed to him as if the Doctor had been able to read his thoughts. "Why, Bart," he said, smiling, "you look as red as fire; you ought to look as pale as milk. Do you want to begin the fight?" "No," said Bart, sturdily; "I hope we shan't have to fight at all, for it seems very horrid to have to shoot at a man." "Ever so much more horrid for a man to shoot at you," said Joses in a hoarse whisper as he crawled up behind them. "I'd sooner shoot twelve, than twelve should shoot me." "Why have you left your post?" said the Doctor, looking at him sternly. "Came to say, master, that I think young miss aren't safe. She will keep showing herself, and watching to see if you are all right, and that'll make the Indians, if they come, all aim at her." "You are right, Joses," said the Doctor, hastily; and he went softly back to the waggon, while Joses went on in a grumbling whisper: "I don't know what he wanted to bring her for. Course we all like her, Master Bart, but it scares me when I think of what it might lead to if we get hard pressed some of these days." "Don't croak, Joses," whispered Bart; and then they were both silent and remained watching, for the chief held up his hand, pointing towards the rocks beyond, which they knew that their enemies were passing, and whose tops they scanned lest at any moment some of the painted warriors might appear searching the valley with their keen dark eyes. The hours passed, and the rocks around them grew painfully heated by the ardent rays that beat down upon them. Not a breath of air reached the corner where such anxious guard was kept; and to add to the discomfort of the watchers, a terrible thirst attacked them. Bart's lips seemed cracking and his throat parched and burning, but this was all borne in fortitude; and as he saw the Indians on either side of him, bearing the inconveniences without a murmur, he forebore to complain. Towards mid-day, when the heat was tremendous, and Bart was wondering why the chief or Dr Lascelles did not make some movement to see whether the strange Indians had gone, and at the same time was ready to declare to himself that the men sent out as scouts must have gone to sleep, he felt a couple of hands placed upon his shoulders from behind, pressing him down, and then a long brown sinewy arm was thrust forward, with the hand pointing to the edge of the ridge a quarter of a mile away. Dr Lascelles had not returned, and Joses had some time before crept back to his own post, so that Bart was alone amongst their Indian friends. He knew at once whose was the pointing arm, and following the indicated direction, he saw plainly enough first the head and shoulders of an Indian come into sight, then there was apparently a scramble and a leap, and he could see that the man was mounted. And then followed another and another, till there was a group of half a dozen mounted men, who had ridden up some ravine to the top from the plain beyond, and who were now searching and scanning the valley where the Doctor's encampment lay. Now was the crucial time. The neigh of a horse, the sight of an uncautiously exposed head or hand, would have been sufficient to betray their whereabouts, and sooner or later the attack would have come. But now it was that the clever strategy of the chief was seen, for he had chosen their retreat not merely for its strength, but for its concealment. Bart glanced back towards the waggon, and wondered how it was that this prominent object had not been seen. Fortunately, however, its tilt was of the colour of the surrounding rocks, and it was pretty well hidden behind some projecting masses. For quite a quarter of an hour this group of mounted Indians remained full in view, and all the time Bart's sensations were that he must be seen as plainly as he could see his foes; but at last he saw them slowly disappear one by one over the other side of the ridge; and as soon as the last had gone the chief uttered a deep "Ugh!" There was danger though yet, and he would not let a man stir till quite half an hour later, when his two scouts came in quickly, and said a few words in a low guttural tone. "I should be for learning the language of these men if we were to stay with them, Bart," said the Doctor; "but they may leave us at any time, and the next party we meet may talk a different dialect." The chief's acts were sufficient now to satisfy them that the present danger had passed, and soon after he and his men mounted and rode off without a word. CHAPTER EIGHT. ROUGH CUSTOMERS. There was nothing to tempt a stay where they were, so taking advantage of their being once more alone, a fresh start was made along the most open course that presented itself, and some miles were placed between them and the last camp before a halt was made for the night. "We shan't do no good, Master Bart," said Joses, as they two kept watch for the first part of the night. "The master thinks we shall, but I don't, and Juan don't, and Sam and Harry don't." "But why not?" "Why not, Master Bart? How can you 'spect it, when you've got a young woman and a waggon and a tent along with you. Them's all three things as stop you from getting over the ground. I don't call this an exploring party; I call it just a-going out a-pleasuring when it's all pain." "You always would grumble, Joses; no matter where we were, or what we were doing, you would have your grumble. I suppose it does you good." "Why, of course it does," said Joses, with a low chuckling laugh. "If I wasn't to grumble, that would all be in my mind making me sour, so I gets rid of it as soon as I can." That night passed without adventure, and, starting at daybreak the next morning, they found a fine open stretch of plain before them, beyond which, blue and purple in the distance, rose the mountains, and these were looked upon as their temporary destination, for Dr Lascelles was of opinion that here he might discover something to reward his toils. The day was so hot and the journey so arduous, that upon getting to the farther side of the plain, with the ground growing terribly broken and rugged as they approached the mountain slopes, a suitable spot was selected, and the country being apparently quite free from danger, the tent was set up, and the quarters made snug for two or three days' rest, so that the Doctor might make a good search about the mountain chasms and ravines, and see if there were any prospect of success. The place reached was very rugged, but it had an indescribable charm from the varied tints of the rocks and the clumps of bushes, with here and there a low scrubby tree, some of which proved to be laden with wild plums. "Why, those are wild grapes too, are they not?" said Bart, pointing to some clustering vines which hung over the rocks laden with purpling berries. "That they be," said Joses; "and as sour as sour, I'll bet. But I say, Master Bart, hear that?" "What! that piping noise?" replied Bart. "I was wondering what it could be." "I'll tell you, lad," said Joses, chuckling. "That's young wild turkeys calling to one another, and if we don't have a few to roast it shan't be our fault." The Doctor was told of the find, and after all had been made snug, it was resolved to take guns and rifles, and search for something likely to prove an agreeable change. "For we may as well enjoy ourselves, Bart, and supply Madam Maude here with a few good things for our pic-nic pot." The heat of the evening and the exertion of the long day's journey made the party rather reluctant to stir after their meal, but at last guns were taken, and in the hope of securing a few of the wild turkeys, a start was made; but after a stroll in different directions, Joses began to shake his head, and to say that it would be no use till daybreak, for the turkeys had gone to roost. Walking, too, was difficult, and there were so many thorns, that, out of kindness to his child, the Doctor proposed that they should return to the tent; signals were made to the men at a distance, and thoroughly enjoying the cool, delicious air of approaching eve, they had nearly reached the tent, when about a hundred yards of the roughest ground had to be traversed--a part that seemed as if giants had been hurling down huge masses of the mountain to form a new chaos, among whose mighty boulders, awkward thorns, huge prickly cacti, and wild plums, grew in profusion. "What a place to turn into a wild garden, Bart!" said the Doctor, suddenly. "I had been thinking so," cried Maude, eagerly. "What a place to build a house!" "And feed cattle, eh?" said the Doctor. "Very pretty to look at, my child, but I'm afraid that unless we could live by our guns, we should starve." "Hough--hough--hough!" came from beyond a rugged piece of rock. "O father!" cried Maude, clinging to his arm. "Don't hold me, child," he said fiercely, "leave my arm free;" and starting forward, gun in hand, he made for the place from whence the hideous half-roaring, half-grunting noise had came. Before he had gone a dozen steps the sound was repeated, but away to their right. Then came the sharp reports of two guns, and, evidently seeing something hidden from her father and Bart, Maude sprang forward while they followed. "Don't go, Missy, don't go," shouted Juan, and his cry was echoed by Harry; but she did not seem to hear them, and was the first to arrive at where a huge bear lay upon its flank, feebly clawing at the rock with fore and hind paw, it having received a couple of shots in vital parts. "Pray keep back, Maude," cried Bart, running to her side. "I wanted to see it," she said with an eager glance around at her father, who came up rapidly. "What is it?" "It's the cub half grown of a grizzly bear," said Dr Lascelles, speaking excitedly now. "Back, girl, to the tent; the mother must be close at hand." "On, forward; she's gone round to the right," shouted the men behind, who had been trying to get on by another way, but were stopped by the rocks. "Back, girl!" said the Doctor again. "Forward all of you, steadily, and make every shot tell. Where is Joses?" Just then the deep hoarse grunting roar came again from a hollow down beyond them, and directly after, as they all hurried forward, each man ready to fire at the first chance, they heard a shot, and directly after came in sight of Joses, with his double rifle to his shoulder taking aim at a monstrous bear that, apparently half disabled by his last shot, was drawing itself up on a great shelving block of stone, and open mouthed and with blood and slaver running from its glistening ivory fangs, was just turning upon him to make a dash and strike him down. Just then a second shot rang out, and the bear rolled over, but sprang to its feet again with a terrific roar, and dashed at her assailant. It was impossible to fire now, lest Joses should be hit; and though he turned and fled, he was too late, for the bear, in spite of its huge, ox-like size, sprang upon him, striking him down, and stood over him. But now was the time, and the Doctor's and Bart's rifles both rang out, the latter going down on one knee to take careful aim; and as the smoke cleared away the bear was gone. "She's made for those rocks yonder," cried Juan, excitedly. "We'll have her now, master. She didn't seem hurt a bit." "Be careful," cried the Doctor. "Maude, help poor Joses. Go forward, Bart, but mind. She may be fatally wounded now." Bart was for staying to help the man who had so often been his companion, but his orders were to go on; he knew that Joses could not be in better hands; and there was the inducement to slay his slayer to urge him forward as he ran with his rifle at the trail over the rocks, and was guided by the savage growling he could hear amidst some bushes to where the monster was at bay. It was fast approaching the moment when all would be in gloom, and Bart knew that it would be impossible for them to camp where they were with a wounded grizzly anywhere near at hand. Slain the monster must be, and at once; but though the growling was plain enough, the bear was not visible, and ammunition is too costly out in the desert for a single charge to be wasted by a foolish shot. Juan, Harry, and Sam were all in position, ready to fire, but still the animal did not show itself, so they went closer to the thicket, and threw in heavy stones, but without the least effect, till Juan suddenly exclaimed that he would go right in and drive the brute out. Bart forbade this, however, and the man contented himself with going a little closer, and throwing a heavy block in a part where they had not thrown before. A savage grunt was the result, and judging where the grizzly lay, Juan, without waiting for counsel, raised his rifle and fired, dropping his weapon and running for his life the next moment, for the shot was succeeded by a savage yell, and the monster came crashing out in a headlong charge, giving Juan no cause for flight, since his butt made straight for Bart, open mouthed, fiery-eyed, and panting for revenge. Bart's first instinct was to turn and run, his second to stand his ground and fire right at the monster, taking deadly aim. But in moments of peril like his there is little time for the exercise of judgment, and ere he could raise his rifle to his shoulder and take careful aim the bear was upon him, rising up on its hind legs, not to hug him, as is generally supposed to be the habits of these beasts, but to strike at him right and left with its hideously armed paws. Bart did not know how it happened, but as the beast towered up in its huge proportions, he fired rapidly both barrels of his piece, one loaded with heavy shot for the turkeys, the other with ball, right into the monster's chest. As he fired Bart leaped back, and it was well that he did so, for the grizzly fell forward with a heavy thud, almost where he had been standing, clawed at the rocks and stones for a few moments, and then lay perfectly still--dead. CHAPTER NINE. FIRST SEARCHES FOR GOLD. The three men uttered a loud cheer, and ran and leaped upon their fallen enemy, but Bart ran back, loading his piece as he went, to where he had left the Doctor with poor Joses. Bart felt his heart beat heavily, and there was a strange, choking feeling of pain at his throat as he thought of rough, surly-spoken Joses, the man who had been his guide and companion in many a hunt and search for the straying cattle; and now it seemed to him that he was to lose one who he felt had been a friend. "Is he--" Bart panted out this much, and then stopped in amazement, for, as he turned the corner of some rocks that lay between him and the tent, instead of addressing the Doctor, he found himself face to face with Joses, who, according to Bart's ideas, should have been lying upon the stones, hideously clawed from shoulder to heel by the monster's terrible hooks. On the contrary, the rough fellow was sitting up, with his back close to a great block of stone, his rifle across his knees, and both hands busy rolling up a little cigarette. "Why, Joses," panted Bart, "I thought--" "As I was killed? Well, I ain't," said Joses, roughly. "But the bear--she struck you down--I saw her claw you." "You see her strike me down," growled Joses; "but she didn't claw me, my lad. She didn't hit out far enough, but she's tore every rag off my back right into ribbons, and I'm waiting here till the Doctor brings me something else and my blanket to wear." "O Joses, I am glad," cried Bart, hoarsely; and his voice was full of emotion as he spoke, while he caught the rough fellow's hands in his. "Don't spoil a fellow's cigarette," growled Joses roughly, but his eyes showed the pleasure he felt. "I say are you glad, though?" "Glad?" cried Bart, "indeed, indeed I am." "That's right, Master Bart. That's right. It would have been awkward if I'd been killed." "Oh, don't talk about it," cried Bart, shuddering. "Why not, my lad? It would though. They'd have had no end of a job to dig down in this stony ground. But you've killed the bear among you?" "Yes; she's dead enough." "That's well. Who fired the shot as finished her? Don't say you let Juan or Sam, or I won't forgive you." "I fired the last, and brought her down," said Bart quietly enough. "That's right," said Joses, "that's right; you ought to be a good shot now." "But are you not hurt at all?" asked Bart. "Well, I can't say as I arn't hurt," replied Joses, "because she knocked all the wind out of me as she sent me down so quickly, and she scratched a few bits of skin off as well as my clothes, but that don't matter: skin grows again, clothes don't. Humph, here comes the Doctor with the things." "A narrow escape for him, Bart. But how about the grizzly?" "Dead, sir, quite dead," replied Bart. "Are we likely to see Mr Grizzly as well?" "No, I think not, my boy. Mother and cubs generally go together." "Now, Joses, let me dress your back." "No, thank ye, master, I can dress myself, bless you." "No, no, I mean apply some of this dressing to those terrible scratches." "Oh, if that's what you mean, master, go on. Wouldn't they be just as well without?" "No, no; turn round, man." Joses obeyed, and Bart shuddered as he saw the scores made by the monster's hideous claws, though Joses took it all quietly enough, and after the dressing threw his blanket over his shoulders, to walk with his master and Bart, to have a look at the grizzly lying there in the gathering shades of night. It was a monster indeed, being quite nine feet long, and massive in proportion, while its great sharp curved claws were some of them nearly six inches from point to insertion in the shaggy toes. Such a skin was too precious as a trophy to be left, and before daylight next morning, Juan, Harry, and Sam were at work stripping it off, Bart, when he came soon after, finding them well on with their task, Joses being seated upon a fragment of rock contentedly smoking his cigarette and giving instructions, he being an adept at such matters, having stripped off hundreds if not thousands of hides in his day, from bison cattle and bear down to panther and skunk. "I ain't helping, Master Bart," he said apologetically, "being a bit stiff this morning." "Which is a blessing as it ain't worse," said Harry; "for you might have been much worse, you know." "You mind your own business," growled Joses. "You're whipping off great bits o' flesh there and leaving 'em on the skin." "Well, see how hard it is when it's cold," grumbled Harry; and then to Juan, "I shan't take no notice of him. You see he's a bit sore." Harry was quite right, poor Joses being so sore that for some days he could not mount his horse, and spent his time in drying the two bear-skins in the sun, and dressing them on the fleshy side, till they were quite soft and made capital mats for the waggon. One morning, however, he expressed himself as being all right, and whatever pains he felt, he would not show the slightest sign, but mounted his horse, and would have gone forward, only the Doctor decided to spend another day where they were, so as to more fully examine the rocks, for he fancied that he had discovered a metallic deposit in one spot on the previous night. It was settled, then, that the horses should go on grazing in the little meadow-like spot beside a tiny stream close by the waggon, and that the Doctor, Juan, Joses, and Bart should explore the ravine where the Doctor thought he had found traces of gold, while Sam and Harry kept watch by the camp. For days past the neighbourhood had been well hunted over, and with the exception of a snake or two, no noxious or dangerous creature had been seen; the Indians seemed to have gone right away, and under the circumstances, all was considered safe. Explorations had shown them that the place they were in rose like, as it were, a peninsula of rocks from amidst a sea of verdure. This peninsula formed quite a clump some miles round, and doubtless it had been chosen as a convenient place by the bear, being only connected with the mountain slope by a narrow neck of _debris_ from the higher ground. As the party went on, the Doctor told Bart, that his intention was to journey along by the side of the mountain till he found some valley or canyon, up which they could take the waggon, and then search the rocks as they went on whenever the land looked promising. Upon this occasion, after a few hours' walk, the Doctor halted by the bed of a tiny stream, and after searching about in the sands for a time he hit upon a likely place, took a small portion of the sand in a shallow tin bowl, and began to wash it, changing the water over and over again, and throwing away the lighter sand, till nothing was left but a small portion of coarser fragments, and upon these being turned out in the bright sunshine and examined, there were certainly a few specks of gold to be seen, but so minute that the Doctor threw them away with a sigh. "We must have something more promising than that," he said. "Now I think, Bart, you had better go along that ridge of broken rock close up to the hills, and walk eastward for a few miles to explore. I will go with Juan to the west. Perhaps we shall find a likely place for going right up into the mountains. We'll meet here again at say two hours before sundown. Keep a sharp look-out." They parted, and for the next two hours Bart and Joses journeyed along under what was for the most part a wall of rock fringed at the top with verdure, and broken up into chasms and crevices which were filled with plants of familiar or strange growths. Sometimes they started a serpent, and once they came upon a little herd of antelopes, but they were not in search of game, and they let the agile creatures go unmolested. The heat was growing terrific beneath the sheltered rock-wall, and at last, weakened by his encounter with the bear Joses began to show signs of distress. "I'd give something for a good drink of water," he said. "I've been longing this hour past, and I can't understand how it is that we haven't come upon a stream running out into the plain. There arn't been no chance of the waggon going up into the mountains this way." "Shall we turn back?" "Turn back? No! not if we have to go right round the whole world," growled Joses. "Come along, my lad, we'll find a spring somewheres." For another hour they tramped on almost in silence, and then all at once came a musical, plashing sound that made Joses draw himself up erect and say with a smile: "There's always water if you go on long enough, my lad. That there's a fall." And so it proved to be, and one of extreme beauty, for a couple of hundred yards farther they came upon a nook in the rough wall, where the water of a small stream poured swiftly down, all foam and flash and sparkle, and yet in so close and compact a body that, pulling a cow-horn from his pocket, Joses could walk closely up and catch the pure cold fluid as it fell. "There, Master Bart," he said, filling and rinsing out the horn two or three times, "there you are. Drink, my lad, for you want it bad, as I can see." "No, you drink first, Joses," said the lad; but the rough frontier man refused, and it was not until Bart had emptied the horn of what seemed to be the most delicious water he had ever tasted, that Joses would fill and drink. When he did begin, however, it seemed as if he would never leave off, for he kept on pouring down horn after horn, and smacking his lips with satisfaction. "Ah, my lad!" he exclaimed at last, "I've drunk everything in my time, whiskey, and _aguardiente_, and grape wine, and molasses rum, but there isn't one of 'em as comes up anywhere like a horn of sparkling water like that when you are parched and burnt up with thirst." "It is delicious, Joses," said Bart; "but now had we not better go back?" "Yes, if we mean to be to our time; but suppose we go a little lower down there into the plain, and try if there's anything like what the master's hunting for in the sands." They went down for about a quarter of a mile to where there was a smooth sandy reach, and a cup being produced, they set to and washed several lots of sand, in each case finding a few specks but nothing more, and at last they gave it up, when Joses pointed to some footprints in the soil, where there was evidently a drinking-place made by deer. "What are those?" said Bart, "panthers?" "Painters they are, my lad, and I daresay we could shoot one if we had time. Make a splendid skin for little Miss. I dessay we could find a skunk or two hereabouts. Eh! nasty? Well, they are, but their fur's lovely." They saw neither panther nor skunk, though footprints, evidently made the previous night, were plentiful about the stream; and now, as time was getting on, they sturdily set themselves to their backward journey, Joses praising the water nearly all the way, when he was not telling of some encounter he had had with Indian or savage beast in his earlier days. "Do you think we shall see any more of the Indians, Joses?" said Bart at last. "What, Old Arrow--in--the--arm!" "Yes." "Sure to," said Joses. "He's a good fellow that is. 'Taint an Indian's natur to show he's fond of you, but that chap would fight for the master to the last." "It seemed like it the other day, but it was very strange that he should go off as he did." "Not it, my lad. He's gone to watch them Injuns, safe." "Then he will think us ungrateful for going away." "Not he. Depend upon it, he'll turn up one of these days just when we don't expect it, and sit down just as if nothing had happened." "But will he find our trail over such stony ground?" "Find it? Ah! of course he will, and before you know where you are." They trudged on in silence now, for both were growing tired, but just about the time appointed they came within sight of their starting-place, the Doctor meeting them a few minutes later. "What luck?" he asked. "Nothing but a glorious spring of water, and a stream with some specks of gold in the washing." "I have done little better, Bart, but there is a valley yonder that leads up into the mountains, and with care I think we can get the waggon along without much difficulty." CHAPTER TEN. A SURE-FOOTED BEAST. An early start was made next morning, and following the course mapped out by the Doctor, they soon reached an opening in the hills, up which they turned, to find in the hollow a thread-like stream and that, as they proceeded, the mountains began to open out before them higher and higher, till they seemed to close in the horizon like clouds of delicate amethystine blue. Every now and then the travelling was so bad that it seemed as if they must return, but somehow the waggon and horses were got over the obstacles, and a short level cheered them on to fresh exertions, while, as they slowly climbed higher and higher, there was the satisfaction of knowing that there was less likelihood of molestation from Indians, the dangerous tribes of the plains, Comanches and Apaches, rarely taking their horses up amongst the rugged portions of the hills. Maude, in her girlish freshness of heart, was delighted with the variety of scenery, while to Bart all was excitement. Even the labour to extricate the waggon from some rift, or to help to drag it up some tremendous slope, was enjoyable. Then there were little excursions to make down moist ravines, where an antelope might be bagged for the larder; or up to some dry-looking flat, shut in by the hills, where grouse might be put up amongst the sage-brush and other thin growth, for six hard-working men out in these brisk latitudes consume a great deal of food, and the stores in the waggon had to be saved as much a possible. One way and the other the larder was kept well supplied, and while Dr Lascelles on the one hand talked eagerly of the precious metal he hoped to discover, Joses was always ready with promises of endless sport. "Why, by an' by, Master Bart," he said one day as they journeyed slowly on, "we shall come to rivers so full of salmon that all you've got to do is to pull 'em out." "If you can catch them," said Bart, laughing. "Catch 'em, my boy? Why, they don't want no catching. I've known 'em come up some rivers so quick and fast that when they got up to the shallows they shoved one another out on to the sides high and dry, and all you'd got to do was to catch 'em and eat 'em." "Let's see, that's what the Doctor calls a traveller's tale, Joses." "Yes; this traveller's tale," said Bart's companion gruffly. "You needn't believe it without you like, but it's true all the same." "Well, I'll try and believe it," said Bart, laughing, "but I didn't know salmon were so stupid as that." "Stupid! they aren't stupid, my lad," replied Joses sharply. "Suppose you and millions of people behind you were walking along a narrow bit o' land with a river on each side of you, and everybody was pushing on from behind to get up to the end of the bit of land, where there wasn't room for you all, and suppose you and hundreds more got pushed into the water on one side or on the other, that wouldn't be because you were so very stupid, would it?" "No," said Bart, "that would be because I couldn't help it." "Well, it's just the same with the salmon, my lad. Millions of 'em come up from out of the sea at spawning time, and they swim up and up till the rivers get narrower and shallower, and all those behind keep pushing the first ones on till thousands die on the banks, and get eaten by the wolves and _coyotes_ that come down then to the banks along with eagles and hawks and birds like them." "I beg your pardon, Joses, for not believing you," said Bart, earnestly. "I see now." "Oh, it's all right enough," said the rough fellow bluntly. "I shouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it, and of course it's only up the little shallow streams that shoot off from the others." This conversation took place some days after they had been in the mountains, gradually climbing higher, and getting glorious views at times, of hill and distant plain. Bart and Joses were out "after the pot," as the latter called it, and on this occasion they had been very unfortunate. "I tell you what it is," said Joses at last, "we shall have to go lower down. The master won't never find no gold and silver up here, and food'll get scarcer and scarcer, unless we can come upon a flock of sheep." "A flock of sheep up here!" said Bart incredulously. "I didn't say salmon, I said sheep," grunted Joses. "Now, say you don't believe there is sheep up here." "You tell me there are sheep up here," said Bart, "and I will believe you." "I don't say there are; I only hope there are," said Joses; "for if we could get one or two o' them in good condition, they're the best eating of anything as goes on four legs." "But not our sort of sheep?" "No, of course not. Mountain sheep, my lad, with great horns twisted round so long and thick you get wondering how the sheep can carry 'em, and--there, look!" He caught Bart by the shoulder, and pointed to a tremendous slope, a quarter of a mile away, where, in the clear pure air, the lad could see a flock of about twenty sheep evidently watching them. "They're the shyest, artfullest things as ever was," whispered Joses. "Down softly, and let's back away; we must circumvent them, and get behind 'em for a shot." "Too late," said Bart; and he was right, for suddenly the whole herd went off at a tremendous pace along a slope that seemed to be quite a precipice, and the next moment they were gone. "That's up for to-day," said Joses, shouldering his rifle. "We may go back and try and pick up a bird or two. To-morrow we'll come strong, and p'r'aps get a shot at the sheep, as we know they are here." They were fortunate enough to shoot a few grouse on their way back, and next morning at daybreak, Bart and the four men started after the sheep, the Doctor preferring to stay by the waggon and examine some of the rocks. As the party climbed upwards towards the slope where the sheep had been seen on the previous day, Joses was full of stories about the shy nature of these animals. "They'll lead you right away into the wildest places," he said, "and then, when you think you've got them, they go over some steep cut, and you never see 'em again. Some people say they jump head first down on to the rocks, and lets themselves fall on their horns, which is made big on purpose, and then bounces up again, but I don't believe it, for if they did, they'd break their necks. All the same, though, they do jump down some wonderful steep places and run up others that look like walls. Here, what's Sam making signals for! Go softly." They crept up to their companion, and found that he had sighted a flock of eleven sheep on a slope quite a couple of miles away, and but for the assurance of Joses that it was all right, and that they were sheep, Bart would have said it was a patch of a light colour on the mountain. As they approached cautiously, however, trying to stalk the timid creatures, Bart found that his men were right, and they spent the next two hours in cautious approach, till they saw that the sheep took alarm and rushed up to the top of the slope, disappeared for a moment, and then came back, to stand staring down at their advancing enemies. "It's all right," exclaimed Joses, "we can get the lot if we like, for they can't get away. Yonder's a regular dip down where they can't jump. Keep your rifles ready, my boys, and we'll shoot two. That'll be enough." As they spread out and slowly advanced, the sheep ran back out of sight, but came back again, proving Joses' words, that there was a precipice beyond them and their enemies in front. Four times over, as the hunting party advanced, did the sheep perform this evolution, but the last time they did not come back into sight. "They're away hiding down among the bushes," said Joses. "Be ready. Now then close in. You keep in the middle here, Master Bart, and have the first shot. Pick a good fat one." "Yes," panted Bart, who was out of breath with the climbing, and to rest him Joses called a halt, keeping a sharp look-out the while to left and right, so that the sheep might not elude them. At the end of a few minutes they toiled up the slope once more, Joses uttering a few words of warning to his young companion. "Don't rush when you get to the top, for it slopes down there with a big wall going right down beyond, and you mightn't be able to stop yourself. Keep cool, we shall see them together directly." But they did not see the sheep cowering together as they expected, for though the top of the mountain was just as Joses had described, sloping down after they had passed the summit and then going down abruptly in an awful precipice, no sheep were to be seen, and after making sure that none were hidden, the men passed on cautiously to the edge, Bart being a little way behind, forcing his way through some thick bushes. Just then a cry from Joses made him hurry to the edge, but he was too late to see what three of them witnessed, and that was the leap of a magnificent ram, which had been standing upon a ledge ten feet below them, and which, as soon as it heard the bushes above its head parted, made a tremendous spring as if into space, but landed on another ledge, fifty feet below, to take off once more for another leap right out of sight. "We must go back and round into the valley," said Juan. "We shall find them all with their necks broken." "You'll be clever if you do," said Joses, in a savage growl. "They've gone on jumping down like that right to the bottom, Master Bart, and--" "Is that the flock?" said Bart, pointing to where a similar wall of rock rose up from what seemed to be part of a great canyon. "That's them," said Joses, counting, "eight, nine, ten, eleven, and all as fresh as if they'd never made a jump. There, I'll believe anything of 'em after that." "Why, it makes one shudder to look down," said Bart, shrinking back. "Shudder!" said Joses, "why, I'd have starved a hundred times before I'd have made a jump like that. No mutton for dinner to-day, boys. Let's get some birds." And very disconsolately and birdless, they made their way back to the camp. CHAPTER ELEVEN. BEARS AND FOR BEARS. Bart was sufficiently observing to notice, even amidst the many calls he had upon his attention, that Dr Lascelles grew more and more absorbed and dreamy every day. When they first started he was always on the alert about the management of the expedition, the proportioning of the supplies and matters of that kind; but as he found in a short time that Bart devoted himself eagerly to everything connected with the successful carrying out of their progress, that Joses was sternly exacting over the other men, and that Maude took ample care of the stores, he very soon ceased troubling himself about anything but the main object which he had in view. Hence it was then that he used to sling a sort of game-bag over his shoulder directly after the early morning meal, place a sharp, wedge-like hammer in his belt, shoulder his double rifle, and go off "rock-chipping," as Joses called it. "I don't see what's the good of his loading one barrel with shot, Master Bart, for he never brings in no game; and as for the stones--well, I haven't seen a single likely bit yet." "Do you think he ever will hit upon a good mine of gold or silver, Joses?" said Bart, as they were out hunting one day. "Well, Master Bart, you know what sort of a fellow I am. If I'd got five hundred cows, I should never reckon as they'd have five hundred calves next year, but just calculate as they wouldn't have one. Then all that come would be so many to the good. Looking at it fairly, I don't want to dishearten you, my lad, but speaking from sperience, I should say he wouldn't." "And this will all be labour in vain, Joses?" "Nay, I don't say that, Master Bart. He might find a big vein of gold or silver; but I never knew a man yet who went out in the mountains looking for one as did." "But up northward there, men have discovered mines and made themselves enormously rich." "To be sure they have, my lad, but not by going and looking for the gold or silver. It was always found by accident like, and you and me is much more like to come upon a big lead where we're trying after sheep or deer than he is with all his regular trying." "You think there are mineral riches up in the mountains then?" "Think, Master Bart! Oh, I'm sure of it. But where is it to be found? P'r'aps we're walking over it now, but there's no means of telling." "No," said Bart thoughtfully, "for everything about is so vast." "That's about it, my lad, and all the harm I wish master is that he may find as much as he wants." "I wish he may, Joses," said Bart, "or that I could find a mine for him and Miss Maude." "Well, my lad, we'll keep our eyes open while we are out, only we have so many other things to push, and want to push on farther so as to get among better pasture for the horses. They don't look in such good condition as they did." There was good reason for this remark, their halting-places during the past few days having been in very sterile spots, where the tall forbidding rocks were relieved by very little that was green, and patches of grass were few. But these were the regions most affected by the Doctor, who believed that they were the most likely ones for discovering treasure belonging to nature's great storehouse, untouched as yet by man. In these barren wilds he would tramp about, now climbing to the top of some chine, now letting himself down into some gloomy forbidding ravine, but always without success, there being nothing to tempt him to say, "Here is the beginning of a very wealthy mine." Every time they journeyed on the toil became greater, for they were in most inaccessible parts of the mountain range, and they knew by the coolness of the air that they must now be far above the plains. Bart and Joses worked hard to supply the larder, the principal food they obtained being the sage grouse and dusky grouse, which birds they found to be pretty plentiful high up in the mountains wherever there was a flat or a slope with plenty of cover; but just as they were getting terribly tired of the sameness of this diet, Bart made one morning a lucky find. They had reached a fresh halting-place after sundown on the previous night--one that was extremely attractive from the variety of the high ground, the depths of the chasms around, and the beauty of the cedars that spread their flat, frond-like branches over the mountain-sides, which were diversified by the presence of endless dense thickets. "It looks like a deer country," Joses had said as they were tethering the horses amongst some magnificent grass. These words had haunted Bart the night through, and hence, at the first sight of morning on the peaks up far above where they were, he had taken his rifle and gone off to see what he could find. Three hours' tramp produced nothing but a glimpse of some mountain sheep far away and at a very great height. He was too weary and hungry to think of following them, and was reluctantly making for the camp, when all at once a magnificent deer sprang up from amongst a thicket of young pines, and bounded off at an astounding rate. It seemed madness to fire, but, aiming well in front, Bart drew trigger, and then leaped aside to get free of the smoke. As he did so, he just caught a glimpse of the deer as it bounded up a steep slope and the next moment it was gone. Bart felt that he had not hit it, but curiosity prompted him to follow in the animal's track, in the hope of getting a second shot, and as he proceeded, he could not help wishing for the muscular strength of these deer, for the ground, full of rifts and chasms, over which he toiled painfully in a regular climb, the deer had bounded over at full speed. It took him some time to get to the spot where he had last seen the deer, when, to his intense surprise and delight, he found traces of blood upon the stones, and upon climbing higher, he found his way blocked by a chasm. Feeling sure that the animal would have cleared this at a bound, he lowered himself down by holding on by a young pine which bent beneath his weight. Then he slipped for a few feet, made a leap, and came down amongst some bushes, where, lying perfectly dead, was the most beautiful deer he had ever seen. Unfortunately hunger and the knowledge that others are hungry interfere with romantic admiration, and after feasting his eyes, Bart began to feast his imagination on the delight of those in the camp with the prospect of venison steaks. So, in regular hunter's fashion, he proceeded to partially skin and dress the deer, cutting off sufficient for their meal, and leaving the other parts to be fetched by the men. There were rejoicings in camp that morning, and soon after breakfast Bart started off once more, taking with him Joses, Juan, and Sam, all of whom were exceedingly willing to become the bearers of the meat in which they stood in such great need. The Doctor had gone off in another direction, taking with him Maude as his companion, and after the little party had returned to the camp, Bart was standing thoughtfully gazing at a magnificent eminence, clothed almost to the top with cedars, while in its rifts and ravines were dark-foliaged pines. "I wonder whether we should find anything up there, Joses," said Bart. "Not much," said the frontier man. "There'd be deer, I daresay, if the sound of your rifle and the coming of the sheep hadn't sent them away." "Why should the sheep send them away?" asked Bart. "I don't know why they should," said Joses; "all I know is that they do. You never find black-tailed deer like you shot and mountain sheep living together as neighbours. It arn't their nature." "Well, what do you say to taking our rifles and exploring?" "Don't mind," said Joses, looking round. "Horses are all right, and there's no fear of being overhauled by Injuns up here, so let's go and take Sam with us, but you won't get no more deer." "Well, we don't want any for a day or two. But why shouldn't I get another?" "Because they lie close in the thickest part of the cover in the middle of the day, and you might pretty well tread upon them before they'd move." They started directly after, and for about two hours did nothing but climb up amidst cedar and pine forest. Sometimes amongst the trunks of big trees, sometimes down in gashes or gullies in the mountain-side, which were full of younger growths, as if the rich soil and pine seeds had been swept there by the storms and then taken root. "I tell you what it is, Master Bart," said Joses, suddenly coming to a halt, to roll up and light his _cigarito_, a practice he never gave up, "it strikes me that we've nearly got to the end of it." "End of what?" asked Bart. "This clump of hills. You see if when we get to the top here, it don't all go down full swoop like a house wall right bang to the plain." "What, like the place where the mountain sheep went down?" "That's it, my lad, only without any go up on the other side. It strikes me that we shall find it all plain on this side, and that if we can't find a break in the wall with a regular gulch, we shall have to go back with our horses and waggon and try some other way." "Well, come along and let's see," said Bart; and once more they climbed on for quite half-an-hour, when they emerged from the trees on to a rugged piece of open rocky plain, with scattered pines gnarled and twisted and swept bare by the mighty winds, and as far as eye could reach nothing but one vast, well-watered plain. "Told you so," said Joses; "now we shall either have to keep up here in the mountain or go down among the Injuns again, just as the master likes." "Let's come and sit down near the edge here and rest," said Bart, who was fascinated by the beauty of the scene, and, going right out upon a jutting promontory of stone, they could look to right and left at the great wall of rock that spread as far as they could see. In places it seemed to go sheer down to the plain, in others it was broken into ledges by slips and falls of rock; but everywhere it seemed to shut the great plain in from the west, and Bart fully realised that they would have to find some great rift or gulch by which to descend, if their journey was to be continued in this direction. "How far is it down to the plain?" said Bart, after he had been feasting his eyes for some time. "Four to five thousand feet," said Joses. "Can't tell for certain. Chap would fall a long way before he found bottom, and then he'd bounce off, and go on again and again. I don't think the mountain sheep would jump here." As they sat resting and inhaling the fresh breeze that blew over the widespreading plain, Bart could not help noticing the remains of a grand old pine that had once grown right at the edge of the stupendous precipice, but had gradually been storm-beaten and split in its old age till the trunk and a few jagged branches only remained. One of these projected from its stunted trunk close down by the roots, and seemed thrust out at right angles over the precipice in a way that somehow seemed to tempt Bart. He turned his eyes from it again and again, but that branch fascinated him, and he found himself considering how dangerous it would be, and yet how delightful, to climb right out on that branch till it bent and bent, and would bear him no further, and then sitting astride, dance up and down in mid air, right over the awful depths below. So strange was the attraction that Bart found his hands wet with perspiration, and a peculiar feeling of horror attacked him; but what was more strange, the desire to risk his life kept growing upon him, and as he afterwards told himself, he would no doubt have made the mad venture if something had not happened to take his attention. Joses was leaning back with half-closed eyes, enjoying his _cigarito_, and Bart was half rising to his knees to go back and round to where the branch projected, just to try it, he told himself, when they heard a shout away to the left, and that shout acted like magic upon Bart. "Why, that's Sam," he said, drawing a breath full of relief, just as if he had awakened from some terrible nightmare. "I'd 'bout forgotten him," said Joses lazily. "Ahoy! Oho!--eh!" he shouted back. Then there was another shout and a rustling of bushes, a grunting noise, and Bart seized his rifle. "He has found game," he said. Then he nearly let fall his piece, and knelt there as if turned to stone, for, to his horror, he suddenly saw Sam down upon his hands and knees crawling straight out on the great gnarled branch that overhung the precipice, keeping to this mode of progression for a time, and then letting his legs go down one on each side of the branch, and hitching himself along, yelling lustily the while for help. "He has gone mad," cried Bart, and as he spoke he thought of his own sensations a few minutes before, and how he had felt tempted to do this very thing. "No, he arn't," said Joses, throwing the remains of his _cigarito_ over the precipice, and lifting his rifle; "he's got bears after him." Almost as he spoke the great rough furry body of an enormous black bear came into sight, and without a moment's hesitation walked right out along the branch after the man. "There's another," cried Bart, "shoot, Joses, shoot. I dare not." It seemed that Joses dare not either, or else the excitement paralysed him, for he only remained like Bart, staring stupidly at the unwonted scene before them as a second bear followed the first, which, in spite of Sam's efforts to get into safety, had overtaken him, crept right upon him, and throwing its forepaws round him and the branches as well, hugged him fast, while the second came close up and stood there growling and grunting and patting at its companion, who, fortunately for Sam, was driving the claws at the ends of its paws deeply into the gnarled branch. "If I don't fire they'll kill him," muttered Joses, as the huge branch visibly bent with the weight of the three bodies now upon it. "If I kill him instead it would be a mercy, so here goes." He raised his rifle, took careful aim, and was about to draw the trigger, but forbore, as just then the report of Bart's piece rang out, and the second bear raised itself up on its hind legs, while the foremost backed a couple of feet, and stood growling savagely with its head turned towards where it could see the smoke. That was Bart's opportunity, and throwing himself upon his breast, and steadying his rifle upon a piece of rock, he fired again, making the foremost bear utter a savage growl and begin tearing furiously at its flank. Then Joses' rifle spoke, and the first bear reared up and fell over backwards, a second shot striking the hindmost full in the head, and one after the other the two monsters fell headlong, the first seeming to dive down, making a swimming motion with its massive paws, the second turning over back downwards. They both struck the rock about fifty feet below the branch, and this seemed to make them glance off and fly through the air at a fearful rate, spinning over and over till they struck again at an enormous distance below, and then plunged out of sight, leaving Bart sick with horror to gaze upon the unfortunate Sam. CHAPTER TWELVE. SAM GETS A FRIGHT. Bart was brought to his senses by Joses, who exclaimed sharply: "Load, my lad, load; you never know when you may want your piece." Bart obeyed mechanically as Joses shouted: "Now then, how long are you going to sit there?" Sam, who was seated astride the gnarled old limb, holding on tightly with both hands, turned his head slightly and then turned it back, staring straight down into the awful depths, as if fascinated by the scene below. "Here, hi! Don't sit staring there," cried Joses. "Get back, man." Sam shook his head and seemed to cling the more tightly. "Are you hurt, Sam?" cried Bart. Sam shook his head. "Why don't you speak?" roared Joses, angrily. "Did the beasts claw you?" Sam shook his head, but otherwise he remained motionless, and Bart and Joses went round to where the tree clung to the rocky soil, and stood gazing out at their companion and within some fifteen feet of where he clung. "What's the matter, Sam; why don't you come back?" asked Bart. The man responded with a low groan. "He must be badly hurt, Joses," exclaimed Bart. "What are we to do?" "Wait a moment till I think," said Joses. "He's hurt in his head, that's what's the matter with him." "By the bears' claws?" "No, my lad, they didn't hurt him. He's frit." "Frightened?" said Bart. "Yes! He's lost his nerve, and daren't move." "Let's say a few encouraging words to him." "You may say thousands, and they won't do no good," said Joses. "He's got the fright and badly too." "But the bears are gone?" "Ay, that they are, my lad; but the fall's there, and that's what he's afraid of. I've seen men look like that before now, when climbing up mountains." "But it would be so easy to get back, Joses. I could do it directly." "So could he if he hadn't lost his nerve. Now what's to be done?" "Shall I creep out to him?" said Bart eagerly. "What, you? what good would it do? You don't think you could carry him back like a baby?" "No," said Bart, "but I might help him." "You couldn't help him a bit," growled Joses, "nor more could I. All the good you could do would be to make him clutch you and then down both would go at once, and what's the use of that." "If we had brought a lasso with us." "Well, if we had," said Joses, "and could fasten it round him, I don't believe we could haul him off, for he'd only cling all the tighter, and perhaps drag us over the side." "What is to be done then?" said Bart. "Here, Sam, make an effort, my lad. Creep back; it's as easy as can be. Don't be afraid. Here, I will come to you." He threw down his gun, and before Joses could stop him, he climbed out to the projecting limb, and letting his legs go down on either side, worked himself along till he was close behind Sam, whom he slapped on the back. "There," cried Bart. "It's easy enough. Don't think of how deep down it is. Now I'm going back. You do the same. Come along." As he spoke and said encouraging things to Sam, Bart felt himself impelled to gaze down into the depths beneath him, and as he did so, the dashing bravery that had impelled him to risk his life that he might encourage his follower to creep back, all seemed to forsake him, a cold perspiration broke out on face and limbs, accompanied by a horrible paralysing sense of fear, and in an instant he was suffering from the same loss of nerve as the man whom he wished to help. Bart's hands clutched at the rough branch, and he strove to drive his finger nails into the bark in a spasmodic effort to save himself from death. He was going to fall. He knew that he was. Nothing could save him--nothing, and in imagination he saw himself lose his hold of the branch, slip sidewise, and go down headlong as the bears had fallen, to strike against the rocks, glance off, and then plunge down, down, swifter and swifter into space. The sensation was fearful, and for the time being he could make no effort to master it. One overwhelming sense of terror had seized upon him, and this regularly froze all action till he now crouched as helpless and unnerved as the poor fellow before him who never even turned his head, but clung to the branch as if insensible to everything but the horrors of his position. Joses shouted to him, and said something again and again, but Bart only heard an indistinct murmur as he stared straight down at the tops of the pines and other trees half a mile below him; and then came a dreamy, wondering feeling, as to how much pain he should feel when he fell; how long he would be going down all that distance; whether he should have to fall on the tops of the pine-trees, or amongst the rough ravines of rock. And so on, thought after thought of this kind, till all at once, as if out of a dream, a voice seemed to say to him: "Well, I shouldn't have thought, Master Bart, as I'd taught all these years, was such a coward!" The words stung him, and seemed to bring him back to himself. Coward! what would Maude think of him for being such a coward? Not that it would much matter if he fell down there and were smashed to death. What would the Doctor, who had given him so many lessons on presence of mind, coolness in danger, and the like? And here was he completely given up to the horror of his position, making no effort when it was perhaps no harder to get back than it had been to get forward. "I won't think of the depth," said Bart, setting his teeth, and, raising himself upright, he hitched himself a few inches back. Then the feeling of danger came upon him once more, and was mastering him again rapidly, when the great rough voice of old Joses rang out loudly in a half-mocking, half-angry tone: "And I thought him such a brave un too." "And so I will be," muttered Bart, as he made a fresh effort to recover from his feeling of panic; and as he did so, he hitched himself along the branch towards the main trunk with his back half turned, threw one leg over so that he was in a sitting position, and the next minute he was standing beside Joses, with his heart beating furiously, and a feeling of wonderment coming over him as to why it was that he had been so frightened over such a trifling matter. "That's better, my lad," said Joses quietly; and as Bart gazed on the rough fellow's face, expecting revilings and reproaches at his cowardice, he saw that the man's bronzed and swarthy features looked dirty and mottled, his eyes staring, and that he was dripping with perspiration. Just then Joses gripped him by the shoulder in a way that would have made him wince, only he did not want to show the white feather again, and he stood firm as his companion said: "'Taint no use to talk like that to him. It won't touch him, Master Bart. It's very horrid when that lays hold of you, and you can't help it." "No," said Bart, feeling relieved, "I could not help it." "Course you couldn't, my lad. But now we must get old Sam back, or he'll hang there till he faints, and then drop." "O Joses!" cried Bart. "I only wish we could get a bear on the bough beyond him there. That would make him scuffle back." "Frighten him back?" said Bart. "Yes; one fright would be bigger than the other, and make him come," said Joses. "Do you think that if we frightened him, he would try to get back then?" whispered Bart. "I'm sure of it," said Joses. "Do as I do then," said Bart, as he picked up his rifle. Then speaking loudly he exclaimed: "Joses; we must not leave the poor fellow there to die of hunger. He can't get back, so let's put him out of his misery at once. Where shall I aim at? His heart?" "No, no, Master Bart; his head. Send a bullet right through his skull, and it'll be all over at once. You fire first." Without a moment's hesitation, Bart rested the barrel of his rifle against the trunk, took careful aim, and fired so that the bullet whistled pretty closely by Sam's ear. The man started and shuddered, seeming as if he were going to sit up, but he relapsed into the former position. "I think I can do it, Master Bart, this time," said Joses; and laying his piece in a notch formed by the bark, he took careful aim, and fired, his bullet going through Sam's hat, and carrying it off to go fluttering down into the abyss. This time Sam did not move, and Bart gazed at Joses in despair. "He's too artful, Master Bart," whispered the latter: "he knows we are only doing it to frighten him. I don't know how to appeal to his feelings, unless I was to say, `here's your old wife a-coming, Sam,' for he run away from her ten years ago. But it wouldn't be no good. He wouldn't believe it." Bart hesitated for a few moments as he reloaded his rifle, and then he shouted to Sam: "Now, no nonsense, Sam. You must get back." The man paid no heed to him, and Bart turned to Joses to say loudly: "We can't leave him here like this. He must climb back or fall, so if he won't climb back the sooner he is out of his misery the better." "That's a true word," said Joses. "Give me your axe then," said Bart, and Joses drew it from his belt, when Bart took it, and after moistening his hands, drove it into the branch just where it touched the tree, making a deep incision, and then drove it in again, when a white, wedge-shaped chip flew out, for the boy had been early in life taught the use of the axe. Then cutting rapidly and well, he sent the chips flying, while every stroke sent a quiver along the great branch. Still Sam clung to the spot where he had been from the first, and made no effort to move; and at last, when he was half-way through the branch, Bart stopped short in despair, for the pretence of cutting it off had not the slightest effect upon Sam. "Tired, Master Bart?" cried Joses just then; and snatching away the axe, he began to apply it with tremendous effect, the chips flying over the precipice, and a great yawning opening appearing in the upper part of the branch. "Don't cut any farther, Joses," whispered Bart; "it will give way." "I shall cut till it begins to, Master Bart," replied the man; and as he spoke he went on making the chips fly, but still without effect, for Sam did not move. "I shall have to give up directly, my lad," whispered Joses, with a peculiar look; "but I'll have one more chop." He raised the axe, and delivered another sharp blow, when there was a loud crack as if half a dozen rifles had gone off at once, and almost before the fact could be realised the branch went down, to remain hanging only by a few tough portions of its under part. Bart and Joses looked over the precipice aghast at what they had done, and gazed down at Sam's wild face, as, with his legs dislodged from their position, he seemed to have been turned right over, and to be clinging solely in a death grip with his arms. Then, with cat-like alacrity, he seemed to wrench himself round, holding on to the lower part of the bough with his legs; and the next moment he was climbing steadily up, with the bough swinging to and fro beneath his weight. It was a question now of the toughness of the fibres by which the bough hung; and the stress upon the minds of the watchers was terrible, as they crouched there, gazing over the edge of the awful precipice, momentarily expecting to see branch and man go headlong down as the bears had fallen before them. But Sam climbed steadily up during what seemed to be a long time, but which was only a few moments, reaching at last the jagged points where the branch was broken, when there came an ominous crack, and Sam paused, as if irresolute. "Keep it up," panted Bart, and his words seemed to electrify the man, who made one or two more clutches at the branch, and then he was in safety beside his companions, staring stupidly from one to the other. "I didn't think I was going to get back," he said at last. "It was you cutting the branch did it. I shouldn't have moved else." There was no show of resentment--no annoyance at having been treated in this terrible manner. Sam only seemed very thankful for his escape, and trotting off to where he had dropped his rifle when pursued by the bears, he rejoined his companions, and proceeded with them back towards the camp; for they had not the least idea where to find a way down into the plain, even if they had entertained any desire to try and get the skins and some steaks off the bears. As they journeyed on, Sam related how he had suddenly come upon one of the bears feeding upon the fruit of a clump of bushes, and as the animal seemed tame and little disposed to fly from him he had refrained from firing, but had picked up a lump of rock and thrown it at the beast. The stone hit its mark, and uttering a loud grunting yell, the bear charged its assailant, Sam to his horror finding that the cry had brought a second enemy into the field, when he dropped his rifle, fled for his life, and took refuge from the following danger in the way and with the result that we have seen. CHAPTER THIRTEEN. BLACK BOY AMUSES HIMSELF. Upon learning the fact that they had so nearly crossed the ridge of mountains, the Doctor resolved next day to proceed as far as the point where the adventure with the bears had taken place, and there endeavour, by the aid of his glass, to determine which direction to take: whether to find a ravine by which they might descend into the plain, or whether it would be better to remain amongst these mountains, and here continue his search. The place was reached in due time, and for the time being there seemed to be no chance of getting down into the plain, either to search for the bears or to pursue their course in that direction. The Doctor examined the slopes and ravines, plunged down into the most sheltered chasms, and chipped at the fragments of rock, but no sign of silver rewarded the search, and their journey would have been useless but for the fact that, as they were making a circuit, Joses suddenly arrested them, for he had caught a glimpse of a little flock of mountain sheep, and these he and Bart immediately set themselves to try and stalk. It was no easy task, for the little group were upon a broad shelf high above them, and in a position that gave them an excellent opportunity for seeing approaching danger. But this time, after taking a long circuit, the hunters were rewarded by finding themselves well within shot, and only separated from the timid beasts by some rugged masses of rock. These they cautiously approached, crawling upon hands and knees, when, after glancing from one to the other by way of signal, Bart and Joses fired exactly together, with the result that a splendid young ram made a bound into the air and rolled over the edge of the shelf, falling crashing down amongst the bushes and loose stones, to land at last but a very short distance from where the Doctor was awaiting his companions' return. The most remarkable part of the little hunt, though, was the action of the rest of the flock, which went off with headlong speed to the end of the shelf of the mountain, where they seemed to charge the perpendicular face of the rock and run up it like so many enlarged beetles, to disappear directly after over the edge of the cliff upon which they had climbed. "At last!" panted Bart eagerly. "We shall have something good in the larder to-day instead of running short." "Just you wait till you've tasted it," said Joses, as he came up, drew his knife, and he and Sam rapidly dressed the sheep, getting rid of the useless parts, and dividing it so that each might have a share of the load back to camp, where Joses' words proved true, the various joints being declared to be more delicious than any meat the eaters had tasted yet. In these thorough solitudes amongst the hills the practice of keeping watch had not been so strictly attended to as during the journeying in the plains, for the horse--Indians seldom visited these rugged places,-- in fact, none but the searchers after mineral treasures were likely to come into these toilsome regions. Hence it was then that the next night the party were so wanting in vigilance. Harry had been appointed to the latter half of the night, and after diligently keeping guard through the earlier hours, Joses awakened his successor, and fully trusting in his carrying out his duties, went and lay down in his blanket, and in a few seconds was fast asleep. That morning at sunrise, after a delicious night's rest, Bart rose to have a look round before breakfast, when to his horror he saw that the camp was apparently in the hands of the Indians, who had been allowed by the negligent sentinel to approach while those who would have defended it slept. Bart's first movement was to seize his gun, his next to arouse the Doctor. Then he stopped short, sorry for what he had done, for just then, free from all sling and stiffness in his wounded arm, their old friend the chief came striding across the open space before the waggon, and upon seeing Bart held out his hands in token of friendship. Bart shook hands with him, and as he glanced round he could see that the faces of those around were all familiar except one, whom the chief had beckoned to approach, which the strange Indian did with a stately air, when a short conversation between them and the chief took place, after which the new-comer turned to Bart, and said in very fair English: "The great chief Beaver-with-the-Sharp-Teeth bids me tell you that he has been back to his people to fetch one of his warriors who can speak the tongue of the pale-faced people, and I am that warrior. The great chief Beaver-with-the-Sharp-Teeth says it is peace, and he comes to see his friends and the great medicine-man, who brought him back to life when wounded by the poisonous arrows of the Indian dogs of the plains." "We are very glad to see Beaver-with-the-Sharp-Teeth again," cried Bart heartily, "and delighted to find he has brought a great warrior who can speak our language." "So that it flows soft and sweet," said a hoarse voice, and Joses stood up. "How are you, chief?" The hearty, friendly look and extended hand needed no interpretation, and the greeting between them was warm enough to bring smiles into the faces of all the Indians, who had no scruple soon afterwards about finishing the mountain mutton. After the breakfast Bart and the Doctor learned that the chief Beaver, as it was settled to call him, had been off really on purpose to get an interpreter, knowing that he could find the trail of his friends again; and this he had done, following them right into the mountains, and coming upon them as we have seen. Conversation was easy now, and Bart learned that their friends had had a severe fight in the plains a short time before the first meeting, and that the Beaver had felt sure that he would die of his wound, and be left in the wilderness the same as they had left fifteen of their number, the odds against them having been terribly great. Later on came questions, the Beaver being anxious to know why the Doctor's party were there. "You have not come upon the war-path," the Beaver said, "for you are weak in number, and you have brought a woman. Why are you here?" Then the Doctor explained his object--to find a vein of either gold or silver somewhere in the mountains; and as soon as it was all interpreted, the chief laughed outright. "He does not set much store by the precious metals, Bart," said the Doctor, "and when I see the simplicity of their ways, it almost makes me ashamed of our own." Just then the Beaver talked earnestly for a few moments with the warrior who interpreted, and returned to the Doctor. "The Beaver-with-the-Sharp-Teeth says you gave him life when all was growing black, and he thought to see his people never more; and now he says that he rejoices that he can take his brother across the plains to where a great river runs deep down by the side of a mighty mountain, where there is silver in greater quantities than can be carried away." "Does the chief know of such a place?" cried the Doctor, excitedly. "Yes; he and I have seen it often," said the Indian. "And will he take me there?" "Yes; the Beaver will take his brother there, and give it all into his hands." "At last!" cried the Doctor excitedly. Then in a low voice, "Suppose it should not prove to be silver after all?" "I know it is silver," said the Indian, quietly. "Look," he cried, taking a clumsily-made ring from his medicine-bag. "That came from there, so did the ring upon the lariat of the chief." "Ask him when he will take me there!" cried the Doctor. "He says now," replied the Indian, smiling at the Doctor's eagerness and excitement. "It is a long way, and the plains are hot, and there is little water; but we can hunt as we go, and all will be well." "You know the way from here down into the plain?" said the Doctor. "It is a long way, is it not?" The Indian smiled. "It is a very short journey," he said. "I know the way." In effect they started as soon as the camp was struck, and the Beaver, leading the way, took them down a deep gulch, of whose existence they were unaware, by which they made an easy descent into the plain, and into which they passed with such good effect that at sunset the bold bluff where the adventure with the bears had taken place stood up in the distance, with the steep wall falling away on either side, looking diminutive in the distance, and very different to what it really was. They had had a rapid progress over a long range of perfectly level plain, the horses, after the toils in the mountains, seeming quite excited at having grass beneath their feet; and hence it was that when they were camping for the night, and Bart's beautiful cob with long mane and tail had been divested of saddle and bridle, and after being watered was about to be secured by its lariat to the tether-peg, the excitable little creature, that had been till now all docility and tractableness, suddenly uttered a shrill neigh, pranced, reared up, and before Bart could seize it by the mane, went off across the plain like the wind. The loss of such a beast would have been irreparable, and the Doctor and Joses ran to untether their horses to join pursuit, but before they could reach them, the Beaver and half a dozen of his men were after the cob at full speed, loosing their lariats as they rode and holding them over their heads ready to use as lassoes as soon as they could get within reach of the fugitive. No easy task this, for as, dolefully enough, Bart looked on from the waggon, he could see his little horse keeping a long distance ahead, while now the Indians seemed to be making to the left to try and cut the restive little creature off, as he made for a wild-looking part of the plain about a couple of miles away. Bart was helpless, for there was no horse of their own left that was of the slightest use for pursuit of his swift little cob, and all he could do was to stare after those engaged in the pursuit in a hopeless way as the truant galloped on at full speed, swishing its tail, tossing its head, and apparently revelling in its newly-found liberty. All at once Bart became aware of the fact that one of the Indians had been for some minutes watching him attentively, and the man had uttered a low guttural laugh as if he were enjoying the youth's misfortune. "I wonder how he would like it," thought Bart, as he darted an indignant look at the Indian, who sat upon his swift pony like a group cut in bronze. "He might just as well have gone after Black Boy, for his pony looks as if it could go." Just then the Indian threw himself lightly from his nag and drew near to Bart, with the horse-hair rein in his hand. Then he made signs to the young fellow to mount. "Do you mean that you will lend me the pony to go after my own?" said Bart eagerly. The Indian did not understand his words, but evidently realised their meaning, for he smiled and nodded, and placed the rein in Bart's hand, when he leaped into the saddle, or rather into the apology for a saddle, for it was only a piece of bison hide held on by a bandage, while a sort of knob or peg was in the place of the pommel, a contrivance invented by the Indians to hold on by when attacking a dangerous enemy, so as to lie as it were alongside of their horse, and fire or shoot arrows beneath its neck, their bodies being in this way thoroughly protected by their horses. The Indian smiled and drew back when Bart touched the pony with his heel, the result being that, instead of going off at a gallop, the little restive beast reared up, pawing at the air with its hoofs, and nearly falling backwards upon its rider. The Indian looked on intently as if ready to leap forward and seize the bridle should Bart be dismounted. But the lad kept his seat, and the pony went on all fours again, but only to begin kicking furiously, to dislodge the strange white-faced being upon its back. It was like an insult to an animal that had been accustomed to carry true-blooded Indians all its life, dressed in skins ornamented with feathers and neatly painted up for special occasions, to have a pale-faced, undersized human animal in strange clothes mounted upon it; and the proper thing seemed to be to kick him off as soon as it could. These seemed to be the ideas of the Indian pony as exemplified by its acts; but the wildest of animals of the horse family cannot always do as they please, and it was evidently with something like astonishment that the little steed found Bart, still fixed firmly upon its back instead of flying over its head or slipping off backwards over the tail. This being so, the pony began to what is called "buck," that is to say, instead of letting its back remain in an agreeable hollow curve, one which seems to have been made by nature on purpose to hold a human being, it curved its spine in the opposite direction, arching it as a cat would, but of course in a modified way, and then began leaping up from the earth in a series of buck jumps, all four hoofs from the ground at once. Still, in spite of this being the most difficult form of horse trouble to master, Bart kept his seat. He was jerked about a great deal, but he had been long used to riding restive horses, and he sat there as coolly as if in a chair. Then the Indian pony uttered a few shrill snorts and squeaks, throwing up its head, and finally turning round, first on one side then upon the other, it tried to bite its rider's legs--attacks which Bart met by a series of sharp blows, given with the lariat that was coiled by the horse's neck. These pranks went on for a few minutes, the Indian looking smilingly on the while, till, seeing that Bart was not to be dislodged, the pony began to back and finally lay down. This of course dismounted the rider, and with a snort of triumph the pony sprang to its feet again, evidently meaning to bound off after Black Boy and enjoy a turn of freedom. The pony had reckoned without its rider, for Bart was too old at such matters to leave his grasp of the rein, and the Indian cob's first knowledge of its mistake was given by a sharp check to its under jaw, round which the horse-hair rope was twitched, the next by finding its rider back in his old place where he had leaped as lightly as could be. The Indian gave an approving grunt, and uttering what was quite a sigh, the pony resigned itself to its fate, and obeying the touch of Bart's heel, went off at a fine springing gallop. It was a long chase and an arduous one, for Black Boy seemed to laugh to scorn all attempts at capture--of course these were horse-laughs--and led his pursuers a tremendous run; and had it not been for his master, late as he was in the field, the cob would not have been captured that night. As it was, Bart went off at speed, setting at defiance prairie-dogs' burrows, and other holes that might be in his way, and at last he contrived to cut off a corner so as to get nearer to his nag, when, taking the rein beneath his leg, he placed both hands to his mouth and uttered a long shrill cry. It acted like magic upon Black Boy, who recognised it directly as his master's call, and having had his frolic, he trotted slowly towards where Bart cantered on, suffered himself to be caught, and the party returned in triumph, none the worse, save the tiring, for the adventure. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. THE SILVER CANYON. A week's arduous journey over a sterile stretch of country, where water was very scarce and where game was hard to approach, brought them at last in reach of what looked to be a curiously formed mountain far away in the middle of an apparently boundless plain. Then it struck Bart that it could not be a mountain, for its sides were perpendicular, and its top at a distance seemed to be perfectly flat, and long discussions arose between him and the Doctor as to the peculiarity of the strange eminence standing up so prominently right in the middle of the plain. While they were discussing the subject, the Beaver and his English-speaking follower came to their side, and pointing to the mountain, gave them to understand that this was their destination. "But is there silver there?" said the Doctor eagerly, when the Indian smiled and said quietly, "Wait and see." The mountain on being first seen appeared to be at quite a short distance, but at the end of their first day's journey they seemed to have got no nearer, while after another day, though it had assumed more prominent proportions, they were still at some distance, and it was not until the third morning that the little party stood on the reedy shores of a long narrow winding lake, one end of which they had to skirt before they could ride up to the foot of the flat-topped mountain which looked as if it had been suddenly thrust by some wondrous volcanic action right from the plain to form what appeared to be a huge castle, some seven or eight hundred feet high, and with no ravine or rift in the wall by which it could be approached. All Bart's questions were met by the one sole answer from the Indian, "Wait and see;" and in this spirit the savages guided them along beneath the towering ramparts of the mountain, whose scarped sides even a mountain sheep could not have climbed, till towards evening rein was drawn close under the mighty rocks, fragments of which had fallen here and there, loosened by time or cut loose by the shafts of storms to lie crumbling about its feet. There seemed to be no reason for halting there, save that there was a little spring of water trickling down from the rocks, while a short distance in front what seemed to be a wide crack appeared in the plain, zigzagging here and there, one end going off into the distance, the other appearing to pass round close by the mountain; and as soon as they were dismounted and the horses tethered, the Beaver signed to Bart and the Doctor to accompany him, while the interpreter followed close behind. It was a glorious evening, and after the heat of the day, the soft, cool breeze that swept over the plain was refreshing in the extreme; but all the same Bart felt very hungry, and his thoughts were more upon some carefully picked sage grouse that Joses and Maude were roasting than upon the search for silver; but the Doctor was excited, for he felt that most likely this would prove to be the goal of their long journey. His great fear was that the Indians in their ignorance might have taken some white shining stone or mica for the precious metal. The crack in the plain seemed to grow wider as they approached, but the Indians suddenly led them off to the right, close under the towering flank of the mountain, and between it and a mass of rock that might have been split from it at some early stage in the world's life. This mass was some forty or fifty feet high, and between it and the parent mountain there was a narrow rift, so narrow in fact that they had to proceed in single file for about a hundred yards, winding in and out till, reaching the end, the Indians stood upon a broad kind of shelf of rock in silence as the Doctor and Bart involuntarily uttered a cry of surprise. For there was the crack in the plain below their feet, and they were standing upon its very verge where it came in close to the mountain, whose top was some seven hundred feet above their heads, while here its perpendicular side went down for fully another thousand to where, in the solemn dark depths of the vast canyon or crack in the rocky crust of the earth, a great rushing river ran, its roar rising to where they stood in a strangely weird monotone, like low echoing thunder. The reflections in the evening sky lighted up the vast rift for a while, and Bart forgot his hunger in the contemplation of this strange freak of nature, of a river running below in a channel whose walls were perfectly perpendicular and against which in places the rapid stream seemed to beat and eddy and swirl, while in other parts there were long stretches of pebbly and rocky shore. For as far as Bart could judge, the walls seemed to be about four hundred feet apart, though in the fading evening light it was hard to tell anything for certain. A more stupendous work of nature had never met Bart's eye, and his first thoughts were natural enough--How should he manage to get to the top of that flat mountain?--How should he be able to lower himself down into the mysterious shades of that vast canyon, and wander amongst the wonders that must for certain be hidden there? Just then the Beaver spoke. He had evidently been taking lessons from the interpreter, as, smiling loftily and half in pity at the eagerness of men who could care for such a trifle as white ore when they had horses and rifles, he pointed up at the perpendicular face of the mountain and then downward at the wall of the canyon, and said:-- "Silver--silver. Beaver give his brother. Medicine-man." "He means there is silver here, sir, and he gives it to you," said Bart eagerly. "Yes. Give. Silver," said the chief, nodding his head, and holding out his hand, which the Doctor grasped, Bart doing the same by the other. "I am very grateful," said the Doctor at last, while his eyes kept wandering about, "but I see none." "Silver--silver," said the chief again, as he looked up and then down, ending by addressing some words in the Indian dialect to the interpreter, who pointed in the direction of the camp. "The Beaver-with-Sharp-Teeth says, let us eat," he said. This brought back Bart's hunger so vividly to his recollection that he laughed merrily and turned to go. "Yes," he said, "let us eat by all means. Shall we come in the morning and examine this place, sir?" "Yes, Bart, we will," said the Doctor, as they turned back; "but I'm afraid we shall be disappointed. What was that?" "An Indian," said Bart. "I saw him glide amongst the rocks. Was it an enemy?" "No; impossible, I should say," replied the Doctor. "One of our own party. Our friends here would have seen him if he had been an enemy, long before we should." "And so you think there is no silver here, sir?" said Bart. "I can't tell yet, my boy. There may be, but these men know so little about such things that I cannot help feeling doubtful. However, we shall see, and if I am disappointed I shall know what to do." "Try again, sir?" said Bart. "Try again, my boy, for there is ample store in the mountains if we can find it." "Yes," he said, as they walked back, "this is going to be a disappointment." He picked up a piece of rock as he went along between the rocks; "this stone does not look like silver-bearing stratum. But we'll wait till the morning, Bart, and see." CHAPTER FIFTEEN. DANGEROUS NEIGHBOURS. Upon reaching the waggon it was to find Joses smiling and sniffing as he stood on the leeward side of the fire, so as to get the full benefit of the odour of the well-done sage grouse which looked juicy brown, and delicious enough to tempt the most ascetic of individuals, while Maude laughed merrily to see the eager glances Bart kept directing at the iron rod upon which the birds had been spitted and hung before the fire. "Don't you wish we had a nice new loaf or two, Bart?" she said, looking very serious, and as if disappointed that this was not the case. "Oh, don't talk about it," cried Bart. "I won't," said Maude, trying to appear serious. "It makes you look like a wolf, Bart." "And that's just how I feel," he cried--"horribly like one." Half an hour later he owned that he felt more like a reasonable being, for not only had he had a fair portion of the delicate sage grouse, but found to his delight that there was an ample supply of cakes freshly made and baked in the ashes while he had been with the Doctor exploring. Bart took one turn round their little camp before lying down to sleep, and by the wonderfully dark, star-encrusted sky, the great flat-topped mountain looked curiously black, and as if it leaned over towards where they were encamped, and might at any moment topple down and crush them. So strange was this appearance, and so thoroughly real, that it was a long time before Bart could satisfy himself that it was only the shadow that impressed him in so peculiar a way. Once he had been about to call the attention of the Doctor to the fact, but fortunately, as he thought, he refrained. "He lay down directly," said Bart to himself as he walked on, and then he stopped short, startled, for just before him in the solemn stillness of the great plain, and just outside the shadow cast by the mountain, he saw what appeared to be an enormously tall, dark figure coming towards him in perfect silence, and seeming as if it glided over the sandy earth. Bart's heart seemed to stand still. His mouth felt dry. His breath came thick and short. He could not run, for his feet appeared to be fixed to the ground, and all he felt able to do was to wait while the figure came nearer and nearer, through the transparent darkness, till it was close upon him, and said in a low voice that made the youth start from his lethargy, unchaining as it did his faculties, and giving him the power to move: "Hallo, Bart! I thought you were asleep." "I thought you were, sir," said Bart. "Well, I'm going to lie down now, my boy, but I've been walking in a silver dream. Better get back." He said no more, but walked straight to the little camp, while, pondering upon the intent manner in which his guardian seemed to give himself up to this dream of discovering silver, Bart began to make a circuit of the camp, finding to his satisfaction that the Beaver had posted four men as sentinels, Joses telling his young leader afterwards when he lay down that the chief had refused to allow either of the white men to go on duty that night. "You think he is to be trusted, don't you, Joses?" asked Bart sleepily. "Trusted? Oh yes, he's to be trusted, my lad. Injuns are as bad as can be, but some of 'em's got good pyntes, and this one, though he might have scalped the lot of us once upon a time, became our friend as soon as the Doctor cured his arm. And it was a cure too, for now it's as strong and well as ever. I tell you what, Master Bart." No answer. "I tell you what, Master Bart." No answer. "I say, young one, are you asleep?" No reply. "Well, he has dropped off sudden," growled Joses. "I suppose I must tell him what another time." Having made up his mind to this, the sturdy fellow gave himself a bit of a twist in his blanket, laid his head upon his arm, and in a few seconds was as fast asleep as Bart. The latter slept soundly all but once in the night, when it seemed to him that he had heard a strange, wild cry, and, starting up on his elbow, he listened attentively for some moments, but the cry was not repeated, and feeling that it must have been in his dreams that he had heard the sound, he lay down again and slept till dawn, when he sprang up, left every one asleep, and stole off, rifle in hand, to see if he could get a shot at a deer anywhere about the mountain, and also to have a look down into the tremendous canyon about whose depths and whose rushing stream he seemed to have been dreaming all the night. He recollected well enough the way they had gone on the previous evening, and as he stepped swiftly forward, there, at the bottom of the narrow rift between the mass of fallen rock and the mountain, was the pale lemon-tinted horizon, with a few streaks above it flecking the early morning sky and telling of the coming day. "The canyon will look glorious when the sun is up," said Bart to himself; "but I don't see any game about, and--oh!--" _Click_--_click_--_click_--_click_ went the locks of his double rifle as he came suddenly upon a sight which seemed to freeze his blood, forcing him to stand still and gaze wildly upon what was before him. Then the thought of self-preservation stepped in, and as if from the lessons taught of the Indians, he sprang to shelter, sheltering himself behind a block of stone, his rifle ready, and covering every spot in turn that seemed likely to contain the cruel enemy that had done this deed. For there before him--but flat upon his back, his arms outstretched, his long lance beneath him--lay one of the friendly Indians, while his companion lay half raised upon his side, as if he had dragged himself a short distance so as to recline with his head upon a piece of rock. His spear was across his legs, and it was very evident that he had been like this for some time after receiving his death wound. For both were dead, the morning light plainly showing that in their hideous glassy eyes, without the terrible witness of the pool of blood that had trickled from their gaping wounds. Bart shuddered and felt as if a hand of ice were grasping his heart. Then a fierce feeling of rage came over him, and his eyes flashed as he looked round for the treacherous enemies who had done this deed. He looked in vain, and at last he stole cautiously out of his lurking-place; then forgot his caution, and ran to where the Indians lay, forgetting, in his eagerness to help them, the horrors of the scene. But he could do nothing, for as he laid his hand upon the breast of each in turn, it was to find that their hearts had ceased to beat, and they were already cold. Racing back to the camp, he spread his news, and the Beaver and his little following ran off to see for themselves the truth of his story, after which they mounted, and started to find the trail of the treacherous murderers of their companions, while during their absence the Doctor examined the two slaughtered Indians, and gave it as his opinion that they had both been treacherously stabbed from behind. It was past mid-day before the Beaver returned to announce that there had only been two Indians lurking about their camp. "And did you overtake them?" said Bart. The chief smiled in a curious, grim way, and pointed to a couple of scalps that hung at the belts of two of his warriors. "They were on foot. We were mounted," he said quietly. "They deserved to die. We had not injured them, or stolen their wives or horses. They deserved to die." This was unanswerable, and no one spoke, the Indians going off to bury their dead companions, which they did simply by finding a suitable crevice in the depths of the ravine near which they had been slain, laying them in side by side, with their medicine-bags hung from their necks, their weapons ready to their hands, and their buffalo robes about them, all ready for their use in the happy hunting-grounds. This done they were covered first with bushes, and then with stones, and the Indians returned to camp. CHAPTER SIXTEEN. IN NATURE'S STOREHOUSE. All this seemed to add terribly to the sense of insecurity felt by the Doctor, and Joses was not slow to speak out. "We may have a mob of horse-Injun down upon us at any moment," he growled. "I don't think we're very safe." "Joses is right," said the Doctor; "we must see if there is a rich deposit of silver here, and then, if all seems well, we must return, and get together a force of recruits so as to be strong enough to resist the Indians, should they be so ill advised as to attack us, and ready to work the mines." "'Aven't seen no mines yet," growled Joses. The Doctor coughed with a look of vexation upon his countenance, and, beckoning to the chief, he took his rifle. Bart rose, and leaving Joses in charge of the camp, they started for the edge of the canyon. There was no likelihood of enemies being about the place after the event of the morning; but to the little party every shrub and bush, every stone, seemed to suggest a lurking-place for a treacherous enemy. Still they pressed on, the chief taking them, for some unknown reason, in the opposite route along beneath the perpendicular walls of the mountain, which here ran straight up from the plain. They went by a rugged patch of broken rock, and by what seemed to be a great post stuck up there by human hands, but which proved, on a nearer approach, to be the remains of a moderate-sized tree that had been struck by lightning, the whole of the upper portion having been charred away, leaving only some ten feet standing up out of the ground. A short distance farther on, as they were close in by the steep wall of rock, they came to a slight projection, as if a huge piece had slipped down from above, and turning sharply round this, the Beaver pointed to a narrow rift just wide enough to allow of the passage of one man at a time. He signed to the Doctor to enter, and climbing over a few rough stones, the latter passed in and out of sight. "Bart! quick, my boy! quick!" he said directly after, and the lad sprang in to help him, as he thought, in some perilous adventure, but only to stop short and stare at the long sloping narrow passage fringed with prickly cactus plants, which slope ran evidently up the side of the mountain. "Why, it's the way up to the top," cried Bart. "I wonder who made it." "Dame Nature, I should say, my boy," said the Doctor. "We must explore this. Why, what a natural fortification! One man could hold this passage against hundreds." Just then the chief appeared below them, for they had climbed up a few yards, and signed to them to come down. The Doctor hesitated, and then descended. "Let's see what he has to show, Bart. I have seen no silver yet." They followed the Beaver down, and he led them straight back, past the camp, through the narrow ravine, once more to the shelf of rock overlooking the canyon, and now, in the full glow of the sunny afternoon, they were able to realise the grandeur of the scene where the river ran swiftly down below, fully a thousand feet, in a bed of its own, shut out from the upper world by the perpendicular walls of rock. At the first glance it seemed that it would be impossible to descend, but on farther examination there seemed in places to be rifts and crevices and shelves, dotted with trees and plants of the richest growth, where it might be likely that skilful climbers could make a way down. From where they stood the river looked enchanting, for while all up in the plain was arid and grey, and the trees and shrubs that grew there seemed parched and dry, and of a sickly green, all below was of the richest verdant hues, and lovely groves of woodland were interspersed with soft patches of waving grass that flourished where stormy winds never reached, and moisture and heat were abundant. Still this paradise-like river was not without signs of trouble visiting it at times, and these remained in huge up-torn trees, dead branches, and jagged rocks, splintered and riven, that dotted the patches of plain from the shores of the river to the perpendicular walls of the canyon. Bart needed no telling that these were the traces of floods, when, instead of the bright silver rushing river, the waters came down from the mountains hundreds of miles to the north, and the great canyon was filled to its walls with a huge seething yellow flow, and in imagination he thought of what the smiling emerald valley would be after such a visitation. But he had little time for thought, the chief making signs to the Doctor to follow him, first laying down his rifle and signing to the Doctor to do the same. Dr Lascelles hesitated for a moment, and then did as the chief wished, when the Beaver went on for a few yards to where the shelf of rock seemed to end, and there was nothing but a sheer fall of a thousand feet down to the stones and herbage at the bottom of the canyon, while above towered up the mountain which seemed like a Titanic bastion round which the river curved. Without a moment's hesitation the chief turned his face to them, lowered himself over the edge of the shelf down and down till only his hands remained visible. Then he drew himself up till his face was above the rock, and made a sign to the Doctor to come on. "I dare not go, Bart," said the Doctor, whose face was covered with dew. "Would you be afraid to follow him, my boy?" "I should be afraid, sir," replied Bart laying down his rifle, "but I'll go." "No, no, I will not be such a coward," cried the Doctor; and going boldly to the edge, he refrained from looking over, but turned and lowered himself down, passing out of Bart's sight; and when the latter crept to the edge and looked down, he could see a narrow ledge below with climbing plants and luxuriant shrubs, but no sight of the Doctor or his guide. Bart remained motionless--horror-stricken as the thought came upon him that they might have slipped and gone headlong into the chasm below; but on glancing back he saw one of the Indians who was of the party smiling, and evidently quite satisfied that nothing was wrong. This being so, Bart remained gazing down into the canyon, listening intently, and wondering whither the pair could have gone. It was a most wonderful sight to look down at that lovely silver river that flashed and sparkled and danced in the sunshine. In places where there were deep, calm pools it looked intensely blue, as it reflected the pure sky, while other portions seemed one gorgeous, dazzling damascene of molten metal, upon which Bart could hardly gaze. Then there was the wonderful variety of the tints that adorned the shrubs and creepers that were growing luxuriantly wherever they could obtain a hold. There were moments when Bart fancied that he could see the salmon plash in the river, but he could make out the birds in the depths below as they floated and skimmed about from shore to shore, and over the tops of the trees that looked like shrubs from where he crouched. Just then, as he was forgetting the absence of the Doctor in an intense desire to explore the wonders of the canyon, to shoot in the patches of forest, to fish in the river, and find he knew not what in those wondrous solitudes where man had probably never yet trod, he heard a call, and, brought back to himself from his visionary expedition, he shouted a reply. "The Beaver's coming to you, Bart. Lower yourself down, my boy, and come." These--the Doctor's words--sounded close at hand, but the speaker was invisible. "All right; I'll come," cried Bart; and as he spoke a feeling of shrinking came over him, and he felt ready to draw back. But calling upon himself, he went closer to the edge, trying to look under, and the next moment there was the head of the Beaver just below, gazing up at him with a half-mocking smile upon his face. "You think I'm afraid," said Bart, looking down at him, "but I can't help that. I'll come all the same;" and swiftly turning, he lowered himself down till his body was hanging as it were in space, and only his chest and elbows were on the shelf. Then for a moment he seemed to hesitate, but he mastered the shrinking directly after, and lowered himself more and more till he hung at the extremity of his hands, vainly seeking for a foothold. "Are you there, Beaver?" he shouted, and he felt his waist seized and his sides pinioned by two strong hands, his own parted company from the shelf, and he seemed to fall a terrible distance, but it was only a couple of feet, and he found himself standing upon the solid rock, with the shelf jutting out above his head, and plenty of room to peer about amongst the clustering bushes that had here made themselves a home. The chief smiled at his startled look, and pointing to the left, Bart glanced sidewise at where the precipice went down, and then walked onward cautiously along a rugged shelf not much unlike the one from which he had descended, save that it was densely covered with shrubby growth. This shelf suddenly ended in a rift like a huge crevice in the face of the mountain, but there was a broad crack before it, and this it was necessary to leap before entering the rift. Bart stopped short, gazing down into what seemed an awful abyss, but the Beaver passed him lightly, as if there were no danger whatever, and lightly leaped across to some rough pieces of rock. The distance was nothing, but the depths below made it seem an awful leap, till Bart felt that the Doctor must have gone over it before him, and without further hesitation he bounded across and stood beside the chief, who led the way farther into the rift to where, some fifty feet from the entrance, the Doctor was standing, hammer in hand, gazing intently at the newly chipped rock and the fragments that lay around. "At last, Bart!" he cried joyously. "What! Is it a vein?" said Bart, eagerly. "A vein, boy? It is a mountain of silver--a valley of silver. Here are great threads of the precious metal, and masses of ore as well. It seems as if it ran right down the sides of the canyon, and from what the Indian appears to know, it does, Bart, I never expected to make such a find as this." As he spoke, he handed pieces of the rock to Bart, who found that in some there were angular pieces of what seemed to be native silver, while others were full of threads and veins, or appeared as pieces of dull metalliferous stone. "It is a huge fortune--wealth untold, Bart," said the Doctor. "Is it, sir?" said Bart coolly, for he could not feel the same rapture as the Doctor. "Is it, boy? Yes! enormous wealth." "But how are we to carry it away, sir?" asked Bart dryly. "Carry it away! Why, do you not understand that this mine will want working, and that we must have a large number of men here? But no; you cannot conceive the greatness of this find." As he spoke, the Doctor hurried to the mouth of the rift, and then cautiously lowered himself into the chasm, over which Bart had leaped, clinging to the stout stems of the various shrubs. For a few moments Bart hesitated. Then he followed till they were both quite a hundred feet below the shelf, and the part of the rift they had first entered, and were able to creep right out till they were level with the side of the canyon, and able to look down to the river. But the Doctor did not care to look down upon the river, for tearing away some of the thick growth from the rock, he cast it behind him, so that it fell far out into the canyon. Then two or three pieces of rock followed, and somehow Bart felt more interested in their fall than in the search for silver, listening in the hope of hearing them crash down deep in the great stream. "Yes; as I thought," cried the Doctor, excitedly, "the vein or mass runs right down the side of this vast canyon, Bart--the Silver Canyon, we must call it. But come, let's get back. I must tell my child. Such a discovery was never made before. Discovery, do I say! Why, these poor ignorant Indians must have known of it for years, perhaps for generations, and beyond working up a few pieces to make themselves rings for their horses' lariats, or to secure their saddles, they have left is as it is." As he spoke, he was already climbing up towards the shelf, his excitement in his tremendous find making him forget the risks he kept running, for to one in cool blood, the face of the rock, the insecurity of the shrubs to which he clung, and the many times that silver-veined stones gave way beneath his feet, were very terrible, and Bart drew his breath hard, climbing slowly after his companion till at last they stood once more upon the shelf. And all this time the Beaver was looking calmly on, following each movement, helping his white friends to climb where it was necessary, and seeming half amused at the Doctor's intense eagerness. In fact, Bart fancied that at times he looked rather contemptuously on at the Doctor's delight with what he found, for it was so much whitey-grey metallic stone to him, and as nothing beside the possession of a fine swift pony, or an ample supply of powder and lead. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. UNTRUSTWORTHY SENTINELS. They soon reached the little camp, where the Doctor eagerly communicated his news to his child, and then taking Joses aside he repeated it to him. "Well, that's right, master. I'm glad, of course; and I hope it'll make you rich, for you want it bad enough after so many years of loss with your cattle." "It has made me rich--I am rich, Joses!" cried the Doctor, excitedly. "That's good, master," said the man, coolly. "And now what's going to be done? Are we to carry the mountain back to the old ranche?" The Doctor frowned. "We shall have to return at once, Joses, to organise a regular mining party. We must have plenty of well-armed men, and tools, and machinery to work this great find. We must go back at once." "Now, master?" "No, no, perhaps not for a week, my man," said the Doctor, whose nervous excitement seemed to increase. "I must thoroughly investigate the extent of the silver deposit, descend into the canyon, and ascend the mountain. Then we must settle where our new town is to be." "Ah, we're going to have a new town, are we, master?" "To be sure! Of course! How could the mining adventure be carried on without?" Joses shook his head. "P'r'aps we shall stay here a week then, master?" he said at last. "Yes; perhaps a fortnight." "Then if you don't mind, master, I think we'll move camp to that little patch of rocks close by that old blasted tree that stands up like a post. I've been thinking it will be a better place; and if you'll give the word, I'll put the little keg of powder in a hole somewhere. I don't think it's quite right to have it so near our fire every day." "Do what you think best, Joses," said the Doctor, eagerly. "Yes; I should bury the powder under the rocks somewhere, so that we can easily get it again. But why do you want to move the camp?" "Because that's a better place, with plenty of rocks for cover if the Injuns should come and look us up." "Let us change, then," said the Doctor, abstractedly; and that afternoon they shifted to the cluster of rocks near the blasted tree, close under the shelter of the tall wall-like mountain-side. Rocks were cleared from a centre and piled round; the waggon was well secured; a good place found for the horses; and lastly, Joses lit his cigarette, and then took the keg of gunpowder, carried it to a convenient spot near the withered tree, and buried it beneath some loose stones. The Beaver smiled at the preparations, and displayed his knowledge of English after a short conversation with the interpreter by exclaiming: "Good--good--good--very good!" A hasty meal was snatched, and then the Doctor went off again alone, while the Beaver signed to Bart to follow him, and then took him past the narrow opening that led to the way up the mountain, and showed him a second opening, through which they passed, to find within a good open cavernous hollow at the foot of the mountain wall, shut in by huge masses of rock. "Why, our horses would be safe here, even if we were attacked," exclaimed Bart. "Horses," said the Beaver, nodding. "Yes; horses." There was no mistaking the value of such a place, for there was secure shelter for at least a hundred horses, and the entrance properly secured--an entrance so narrow that there was only room for one animal to pass through--storm or attack from the hostile Indians could have been set at defiance. "Supposing a town to be built here somewhere up the mountain, this great enclosure would be invaluable," said Bart, and, hurrying back, he fetched Joses to inspect the place. "Ah, that's not bad," said the rough frontier man. "Why, Master Bart, what a cattle corral that would make! Block the mouth up well, they'd be clever Injuns who got anything away. Let's put the horses in here at once." "Do you think it is necessary, Joses?" said Bart. "It's always necessary to be safe out in the plain, my lad," replied Joses. "How do we know that the Injuns won't come to-night to look after the men they've lost? Same time, how do we know they will? All the same, though, you can never be too safe. Let's get the horses inside, my lad, as we have such a place, and I half wish now we'd gone up the mountain somewhere to make our camp. You never know when danger may come." "Horses in there," said Bart to the Beaver, and he pointed to the entrance. The chief nodded, and seemed to have understood them all along by their looks and ways, so that when the horses belonging to the English party were driven in that evening he had those of his own followers driven in as well, and it was settled that Joses was to be the watchman that night. It was quite sundown when the Doctor returned, this time with Maude, whom he had taken to be an eye-witness of his good fortune. Bart went to meet them, and that glorious, glowing evening they sat in their little camp, revelling in the soft pure air, which seemed full of exhilaration, and the lad could not help recalling afterwards what a thoroughly satisfied, happy look there was in his guardian's countenance as he sat there reckoning up the value of his grand discovery, and making his plans for the future. Then came a very unpleasant episode, one which Bart hid from the Doctor, for he would not trouble him with bad news upon a night like that; but all the same it caused the lad intense annoyance, and he went off to where Joses was smoking his _cigarito_ and staring at the stars. "Tipsy! drunk!" he exclaimed. "What! Sam and Juan? Where could they get the stuff?" "They must have crept under the waggon, and broken a hole through, for the brandy lay there treasured up in case of illness." "I'll thrash 'em both till they can't crawl!" cried Joses, wrathfully. "I didn't think it of them. It's no good though to do it to-night when they can't understand. Let them sleep it off to-night, my boy, and to-morrow morning we'll show the Beaver and his men what we do to thieves who steal liquor to get drunk. I wouldn't have thought it of them." "What shall you do to them, Joses?" said Bart. "Tie them up to that old post of a tree, my boy, and give them a taste of horse-hair lariat on the bare back. That's what I'll do to them. They're under me, they are, and I'm answerable to the master. But there, don't say no more; it makes me mad, Master Bart. Go back now, and let them sleep it out. I'm glad I moved that powder." "So am I, Joses," said Bart; and after a few more, words he returned to the little camp, to find the two offenders fast asleep. Bart was very weary when he lay down, after glancing round to see that all proper precautions had been taken; and it seemed to him that he could not have been asleep five minutes when he felt a hand laid upon his mouth, and another grasp his shoulder, while on looking up, there, between him and the star-encrusted sky, was a dark Indian face. For a moment he thought of resistance. The next he had seen whose was the face, and obeying a sign to be silent, he listened while the Beaver bent lower, and said in good English, "Enemy. Indians coming." Bart rose on the instant, and roused the Doctor, who immediately awakened Maude, and obeying the signs of the Indian, they followed him into the shadow of the mountain, for the Beaver shook his head fiercely at the idea of attempting to defend the little camp. It all took place in a few hurried moments, and almost before they were half-way to their goal there was a fierce yell, the rush of trampling horses, and a dark shadowy body was seen to swoop down upon the camp. While before, in his excitement, Bart could realise his position, he found himself with the Doctor and Maude beyond the narrow entrance, and on the slope that seemed to lead up into the mountains. As soon as Maude was in safety, Bart and the Doctor returned to the entrance, to find it well guarded by the Indians; and if the place were discovered or known to the enemy, it was very plain that they could be easily kept at bay if anything like a determined defence were made, and there was no fear of that. Then came a sort of muster or examination of their little force, which, to Bart's agony, resulted in the discovery that while all the Indians were present, and Harry was by their side, Joses, Sam, and Juan were away. In his excitement, Bart did not realise why this was. Now he recalled that when he lay down to sleep the two offenders had been snoring stertorously, and it was evident that they were helplessly stupefied when the Indians came, and were taken. But Joses? Of course he was at his post, and the question now was, would he remain undiscovered, or would the Indians find the hiding-place of the horses, and after killing Joses sweep them all away? It was a terrible thought, for to be left alone in that vast plain without horses seemed too hard to be borne. At the first blush it made Bart shudder, and it was quite in despair that with cocked rifle he waited for morning light, which seemed as if it would never come. Bart's thoughts were many, and frequent were the whispered conversations with the Doctor, as to whether the Indians would not find the _cache_ of the horses as soon as it was daylight by their trail, though to this he had answered that the ground all around was so marked by horses' hoofs that it was not likely that any definite track would be made out. Then moment by moment they expected their own hiding-place to be known, and that they would be engaged fighting for their lives with their relentless foes; but the hours wore on, and though they could hear the buzz of many voices, and sometimes dark shadowy forms could be made out away on the plain, the fugitives were in dense shadow, and remained unmolested till the break of day. By this time Bart had given Maude such comforting intelligence as he could, bidding her be hopeful, for that these Indians must be strangers to the place, or they would have known of the way up the mountain, and searched it at once. "But if they found it in the morning, Bart," she said, "what then?" "What then?" said Bart, with a coolness he did not feel. "Why, then we shall have to kill all the poor wretches--that's all." Maude shuddered, and Bart returned to where the Beaver was at the opening, watching the place where the enemy had been plundering the waggon, and had afterwards stirred up the camp fire and were seated round. "Joses was glad that he had put away the powder," thought Bart, as he saw the glare of the fire. "I begin to wish it had been left." CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. TWO HORRORS. Morning at last, and from their hiding-place the fugitives could see that the Indians were in great numbers, and whilst some were with their horses, others were gathered together in a crowd about the post-like tree-trunk half-way between the gate of the mountains, as Bart called it, and the camp. The greatest caution was needed to keep themselves from the keen sight of the Indians, who had apparently seen nothing of the horses' trail; and as far as Bart could tell, Joses was so far safe. Still it was like this:--If the Indians should begin to examine the face of the rock, they must find both entries, and then it was a question of brave defence, though it seemed impossible but that numbers must gain the mastery in the end. "Poor Joses!" thought Bart, and the tears rose to his eyes. "I'd give anything to be by his side, to fight with him and defend the horses." Then he began to wonder how many charges of powder he would have, and how long he could hold out. "A good many will fall before they do master him," thought Bart, "if he's not captured already. I wonder whether they have hurt Juan and Sam." Just then the crowd about the post fell back, and the Doctor put his glass to his eye, and then uttered a cry of horror. He glanced round directly to see if Maude had heard him, but she, poor girl, had fallen fast asleep in the niche where they had placed her, to be out of reach of bullets should firing begin. "What is it, sir?" cried Bart. "Ah, I see. How horrible! The wretches! May I begin to shoot?" "You could do no good, and so would only bring the foe down upon my child," said the Doctor sternly. "But it is Juan, is it not?" cried Bart, excitedly. "Yes," said the Doctor, using the glass, "and Sam. They have stripped the poor fellows almost entirely, and painted Death's heads and cross-bones upon their hearts." "Oh yes," cried Bart, in agony, "I can see;" and he looked with horror upon the scene, for there, evidently already half dead, their breasts scored with knives, and their ankles bound, Juan and Sam were suspended by means of a lariat, bound tightly to their wrists, and securely twisted round the upper part of the old blasted tree. The poor fellows' hats and a portion of their clothes lay close by them, and as they hung there, inert and helpless, Bart, and his companion saw the cruel, vindictive Indians draw off to a short distance, and joining up into a close body, they began to fire at their prisoners, treating them as marks on which to try their skill with the rifle. The sensation of horror this scene caused was indescribable, and Bart turned to the Doctor with a look of agony in his eyes. "Quick!" he said; "let us run out and save them. Oh, what monsters! They cannot be men." The Indian who acted as interpreter spoke rapidly to the chief, who replied, and then the Indian turned to the Doctor and Bart. "The Beaver-with-Sharp-Teeth says if we want to go out to fight, they are so many we should all be killed. We must not go." "He is right, Bart," said the Doctor, hoarsely. "I am willing enough to fight, but the presence of Maude seems to unman me. I dare not attempt anything that would risk her life." "But it is so horrible," cried Bart, peering out of his hiding-place excitedly, but only to feel the Beaver's hand upon his shoulder, forcing him down into his old niche. "Indian dog see," whispered the Beaver, who was rapidly picking up English words and joining them together. The sharp report of rifle after rifle was heard now, and after every shot there was a guttural yell of satisfaction. "They will kill them, sir," panted Bart, who seemed as if he could hardly bear to listen to what was going on. "They must have been dead, poor fellows, when they were hung up there, Bart. I would that we dared attack the monsters." "Can you see any sign of Joses, sir?" asked Bart. "No, my boy; no sign of him, poor fellow! Heaven grant that he be not seen." All this time the Indians were rapidly loading and firing at the two unfortunate men, and, to Bart's horror, he could hear bullet after bullet strike them, the others hitting the rocky face of the mountain with a sharp pat, and in the interval of silence that followed those in hiding could hear some of the bullets afterwards fall. Every time the savages thought they had hit their white prisoners they uttered a yell of triumph, and Dr Lascelles knew that this terrible scene was only the prologue to one of a far more hideous nature, when, with a fiendish cruelty peculiar to their nature, they would fall upon their victims with their knives, to flay off their scalps and beards, leaving the terribly mutilated bodies to the birds and beasts of the plains. "I could hit several of them, I'm sure," panted Bart, eagerly. "Pray, sir, let's fire upon them, and kill some of the wretches. I never felt like this before, but now it seems as if I must do something to punish those horrible fiends." "We could all fire and bring down some of them, Bart," whispered the Doctor; "but there are fully a hundred there, my boy, and we must be the losers in the end. They would never leave till they had killed us every one." Bart hung his head, and stood there resting upon his rifle, wishing that his ears could be deaf to the hideous yelling and firing that kept going on, as the Indians went on with their puerile sport of wreaking their empty vengeance upon the bodies of the two men whom they had slain. Twenty times over the Doctor raised his rifle, and as often let it fall, as he knew what the consequences of his firing would be, while, when encouraged by this act on the part of his elder, Bart did likewise, it was for the Beaver to press the barrel down with his brown hand, shaking his head and smiling gravely the while. "The Beaver-with-Sharp-Teeth," said the interpreter, "says that the young chief must wait till the Indian dogs are not so many; then he shall kill all he will, and take all their scalps." "Ugh!" shuddered Bart, "as if I wanted to take scalps! I could feel pleased though if they killed and took the scalps of all these wretches. No, I don't want that," he muttered, "but it is very horrible, and it nearly drives me mad to see the cruel monsters shooting at our two poor men. How they can--" "Good heavens!" ejaculated the Doctor; "what's that?" They were all gazing intently at the great post where the firing was going on, and beyond it at the group of Indians calmly loading and firing, with a soft film of smoke floating away above their heads, when all at once, just in their midst, there was a vivid flash of light, and the air seemed to be full of blocks of stone, which were driven up with a dense cloud of smoke. Then there was a deafening report, which echoed back from the side of the mountain; a trembling of the ground, as if there had been an earthquake; the great pieces of stone fell here and there; and then, as the smoke spread, a few Indians could be seen rushing hard towards where their companions were gathered with their horses, while about the spot where the earth had seemed to vomit forth flame, rocks and stones were piled-up in hideous confusion, mingled with quite a score of the bodies of Indians. There was no hesitation on the part of the survivors. The Great Spirit had spoken to them in his displeasure, and those who had not been smitten seized their horses, those which had no riders now kept with them, and the whole band went off over the plain at full speed; while no sooner were they well away upon the plain, than the Beaver and his party laid their rifles aside, and dashed out, knife and hatchet in hand, killing two or three injured men before the Doctor could interfere, as he and Bart ran out, followed by Harry. It was a hideous sight, and perhaps it was a merciful act the killing of the wretches by the Beaver and his men, for they were horribly injured by the explosion, while others had arms and legs blown off. Some were crushed by the falling stones, others had been killed outright at first; and as soon as he had seen but a portion of the horrors, the Doctor sent Bart back to bid Maude be in no wise alarmed, for the enemy were gone, but she must not leave the place where she was hiding for a while. Bart found her looking white and trembling with dread, but a few words satisfied her, and the lad ran back, to pass the horrible mass of piled-up stones and human beings with a shudder, as he ran on and joined the Doctor and Joses, who was standing outside his hiding-place, perfectly unharmed, and leaning upon his rifle. Bart was about to burst forth into a long string of congratulations, but somehow they all failed upon his lips. He tried to speak, but he choked and found it impossible. All he could do for a few moments was to catch the great rough hands of Joses in his, and stand shaking them with all his might. Joses did not reply; he only looked a little less grim than usual as he returned Bart's grip with interest. "Why, you thought the Injun had got me, did you, Master Bart? You thought the Injun had got me. Well, they hadn't this time, you see, but I 'spected they'd find me out every moment. I meant to fight it out though till all my powder was gone, and then I meant to back the horses at the Injun, and make them kick as long as I could, for of course you wouldn't have been able to come." "I am glad you are safe, Joses," cried Bart, at last. "It is almost like a miracle that they didn't find you, and that the explosion took place. It must have been our keg of powder, Joses, that you hid under the stones." "Think so, Master Bart?" said Joses, as if deeply astonished. "Yes," cried Bart, "it must have been that." "Yes," said the Doctor. "The wretches must have dropped a burning wad, or something of that kind." "But it was very horrible," cried Bart. "Yes, horrible," assented the Doctor. "But it saved all us as was left, Master," said Joses, gruffly. "They'd have found us out else, and served us the same as they did poor old Sam and old Juan. What beasts Injun is." "Yes, it saved our lives, Joses, and it was as it were a miracle. But there, don't let's talk about it. We must take steps to bury those poor creatures, and that before my child comes out. Do you think the enemy will come back?" he continued, turning to the interpreter. "The Beaver-with-Sharp-Teeth says no: not for days," was the reply; and, willingly enough, the Indians helped their white friends to enlarge the hole ploughed out by the explosion of the powder keg, which was easily done by picking out a few pieces of rock, when there was ample room for the dead, who, after some hour or two's toil, were buried beneath the stones. The remains of the two poor fellows, Juan and Sam, were buried more carefully, with a few simple rites, and then, saddened and weary, the Doctor turned to seek Maude. Bart was about to follow him, when Joses took him by the sleeve. "I wouldn't say anything to the master, but I must tell you." "Tell me what?" "About the explosion, Master Bart." "Well, I saw it," said Bart. "Yes, but you didn't see how it happened." "I thought we had decided that." "Well, you thought so, but you wasn't right, and I didn't care to brag about it; but I did it, Master Bart." "You fired that powder, and blew all those poor wretches to eternity!" cried Bart, in horror. "Now don't you get a looking like that, Master Bart. Why, of course I did it. Where's the harm? They killed my two poor fellows, and they'd have killed all of us, and set us up to shoot at if they'd had the chance." "Well, Joses, I suppose you are right," said Bart, "but it seems very horrible." "Deal more horrible if they'd killed Miss Maude." "Oh, hush! Joses," cried Bart excitedly, "Tell me, though, how did you manage it." "Well, you see, Master Bart, it was like this. I stood looking on at their devilry till I felt as if I couldn't bear it no longer, and then all at once I recollected the powder, and I thought that if I could put a bullet through the keg it would blow it up, and them too." "And did you, Joses?" "Well, I did, Master Bart, but it took me a long while for it. I knew exactly where it was, but I couldn't see it for the crowd of fellows round, and I daren't shoot unless I was sure, or else I should have brought them on to me like a shot." "Of course, of course, Joses," cried Bart, who was deeply interested. "Well, Master Bart, I had to wait till I thought I should never get a chance, and then they opened right out, and I could see the exact spot where to send my bullet, when I trembled so that I daren't pull trigger, and when I could they all crowded up again." "But they gave you another chance, Joses?" cried Bart excitedly. "To be sure they did, my lad, at last, and that time it was only after a deal of dodging about that there was any chance, and, laying my rifle on the rock, I drew trigger, saw the stones, flash as the bullet struck, just, too, when they were all cheering, the beasts, at what they'd done to those two poor fellows." "And then there was the awful flash and roar, Joses?" "Yes, Master Bart, and the Injuns never knew what was the matter, and that's all." "All, Joses?" "Yes, Master Bart, and wasn't it enough? But you'd better not tell the master; he might say he didn't object to an Injun or two killed in self-defence, but that this was wholesale." Bart promised to keep the matter a secret, and he went about for the rest of the day pondering upon the skill of Joses with the rifle, and what confidence he must have had in his power to hit the keg hidden under the stones to run such a risk, for, as he said, a miss would have brought down the Indians upon him, and so Bart said once more. "Yes, Master Bart; but then, you see, I didn't miss, and we've got rid of some of the enemy and scared the rest away." CHAPTER NINETEEN. BEATING UP FOR RECRUITS. The cause of the explosion remained a secret between Bart and Joses, and in the busy times that followed there was but little opportunity for dwelling upon the trouble. The Doctor was full of the discovery and the necessity for taking steps to utilise its value, for now they were almost helpless--the greater part of their ammunition was gone; their force was weakened by the loss of two men; and, worst of all, it was terribly insecure, for at any moment the Indians might get over their fright, and come back to bury their dead. If this were so, they would find that the task had already been done, and then they would search for and find the occupants of the camp. This being so, the Doctor suddenly grew calm. "I've made my plans," he said, quietly. "Yes?" exclaimed Maude and Bart, in a breath. "We must go straight back to our starting-place, and then on to Lerisco, and there I must get the proper authorisations from the government, and afterwards organise a large expedition of people, and bring them here at once." He had hardly made this announcement when the Beaver came slowly up to stand with his follower the interpreter behind, and looking as if he wished to say something in particular. The Doctor rose, and pointed to a place where his visitor could sit down, but the chief declined. "Enemy," he said sharply. "Indian dogs." Then he turned round quickly to the interpreter. "The Beaver-with-Sharp-Teeth says the Apaches will be back to-night to see why the earth opened and killed their friends." "Indeed! So soon?" said the Doctor. "The chief says we must go from here till the Indian dogs have been. Then we can come back." "That settles it, Bart," exclaimed the Doctor. "We'll start at once." The preparations needed were few, and an hour later they were retreating quickly across the plain, the coming darkness being close at hand to veil their movements, so that when they halted to rest in the morning they were a long distance on their way, and sheltered by a patch of forest trees that looked like the remains of some tract of woodland that had once spread over the plain. It was deemed wise to wait till evening, and taking it in turns, they watched and slept till nearly sundown. The Beaver had had the last watch, and he announced that he had seen a large body of Apaches going in the direction of the canyon, but at so great a distance off across the plain that there was no need for alarm. They started soon afterwards, and after a very uneventful but tedious journey, they reached the spot where they had first encountered the Beaver and his followers. Here the Indians came to a halt: they did not care to go farther towards the home of the white man, but readily entered into a compact to keep watch near the Silver Canyon, and return two moons hence to meet the Doctor and his expeditionary party, when they were once more on their way across the plains. The journey seemed strange without the company of the chief and his men, and during many of their halts but little rest was had on account of the necessity for watchfulness. The rest of the distance was, however, got over in safety, and they rode at last into the town of Lerisco, where their expedition having got wind soon after they had started, their return was looked upon as of people from the dead. For here the Doctor encountered several old friends and neighbours from their ranches, fifteen or even twenty miles from the town, and they were all ready with stories of their misfortunes, the raids they had had to endure from the unfriendly Indians; and the Doctor returned to his temporary lodgings that night satisfied that he had only to name his discovery to gain a following of as many enterprising spirits as he wished to command. There was a good deal to do, for the Doctor felt that it would not be very satisfactory to get his discovery in full working order, and then have it claimed by the United States Government, or that of the Republic then in power in those parts. He soon satisfied himself, however, of the right course to pursue, had two or three interviews with the governor, obtained a concession of the right to work the mine in consideration of a certain percentage of silver being paid to the government; and this being all duly signed and sealed, he came away light-hearted and eager to begin. His first care was to make arrangements for the staying of Maude in some place of safety, and he smiled to himself as he realised how easy this would be now that he was the owner of a great silver mine. It was simplicity itself. No sooner did Don Ramon the governor comprehend what was required than an invitation came from his lady, a pleasant-looking Spanish-Mexican dame, who took at once to the motherless girl, and thus the difficulty was got over, both the governor and his wife declaring that Maude should make that her home. Then the Doctor rode out to three or four ranches in the neighbourhood, and laid his plan before their owners, offering them such terms of participation that they jumped at the proposals; and the result was that in a very short time no less than six ranches had been closed, the female occupants settled in the town, and their owners, with their waggons, cattle, mules, horses, and an ample supply of stores, were preparing for their journey across the forest to the Silver Canyon. There was a wonderfully attractive sound in that title--The Silver Canyon, and it acted like magic on the men of English blood, who, though they had taken to the dress, and were burned by the sun almost to the complexion of the Spanish-Americans amongst whom they dwelt, had still all the enterprise and love of adventure of their people, and were ready enough to go. Not so the Mexicans. There was a rich silver mine out in the plains? Well, let it be there; they could enjoy life without it, and they were not going to rob themselves of the comfort of basking in the sun and idling and sauntering in the evenings. Besides, there were the Indians, and they might have to fight, a duty they left to the little army kept up by the republic. The lancers had been raised on purpose to combat with the Indians. Let them do it. They, the Mexican gentlemen, preferred their _cigaritos_, and to see a bolero danced to a couple of twanging guitars. The Englishmen laughed at the want of enterprise by the "greasers," as they contemptuously called the people, and hugged themselves as they thought of what wealth there was in store for them. One evening, however, Bart, who was rather depressed at the idea of going without his old companion Maude, although at the same time he could not help feeling pleased at the prospect of her remaining in safety, was returning to his lodgings, which he shared with Joses, when he overtook a couple of the English cattle-breeders, old neighbours of the Doctor, who were loudly talking about the venture. "I shouldn't be a bit surprised," said one, "if this all turns out to be a fraud." "Oh no, I think it's all right." "But there have been so many cheats of this kind." "True, so there have," said the other. "And if the Doctor has got us together to take us right out there for the sake of his own ends?" "Well, I shouldn't care to be him," said the other, "if it proves to be like that." They turned down a side lane, and Bart heard no more, but this was enough to prove to him that the Doctor's would be no bed of roses if everything did not turn out to be as good as was expected. He reported this to the Doctor, who only smiled, and hurried on his preparations. Money was easily forthcoming as soon as it was known that the government favoured the undertaking; and at last, with plenty of rough mining implements, blasting powder, and stores of all kinds, the Doctor's expedition started at daybreak one morning, in ample time to keep the appointment with the Beaver. "I say, Master Bart," said Joses, as he sat upon his strong horse side by side with Bart, watching their train go slowly by, "I think we can laugh at the Apaches now, my lad; while, when the Sharp-Toothed Beaver joins us with his dark-skinned fighting men, we can give the rascals such a hunting as shall send 'em north amongst the Yankees with fleas in their ears." "It's grand!" cried Bart, rousing himself up, for he had been feeling rather low-spirited at parting from Maude, and it had made him worse to see the poor girl's misery when she had clung to her father and said the last good-byes. Still there was the fact that the governor and his lady were excellent people, and the poor girl would soon brighten up. And there sat Bart, on his eager little horse, Black Boy, which kept on champing its bit and snorting and pawing the ground, shaking its head, and longing, after weeks of abstinence, to be once more off and away on a long-stretching gallop across the plains. There were men mounted on horses, men on mules, greasers driving cattle or the baggage mules, some in charge of the waggons, and all well-armed, eager and excited, as they filed by, a crowd of swarthy, poncho-wearing idlers watching them with an aspect of good-humoured contempt and pity on their faces, as if saying to themselves, "Poor fools! what a lot of labour and trouble they are going through to get silver and become rich, while we can be so much more happy and comfortable in our idleness and dirt and rags!" A couple of miles outside the town the mob of idlers to the last man had dropped off, and, bright and excited, the Doctor rode up in the cheery morning sunshine. "I'm going to ride forward, Bart," he cried, "so as to lead the van and show the line of march. You keep about the middle, and mind there's no straggling off to right or left. You, Joses, take the rear, and stand no tricks from stragglers. Every man is to keep to his place and do his duty. Strict discipline is to be the order of the day, and unless we keep up our rigid training we shall be in no condition to encounter the Indians when they come." "What are these coming after us?" cried Bart, looking back at a cloud of dust. "Lancers," said Joses. "Surely there is no trouble with the governor now," exclaimed the Doctor, excitedly, as a squadron of admirably mounted cavalry, with black-yellow pennons to their lances, came up at a canter, their leader riding straight up to the Doctor. "Don Ramon sends me to see you well on the road, Don Lascelles," he cried. "We are to set you well upon your journey." As he spoke, he turned and raised his hand, with the result that the next in command rode forward with a troop of the body of cavalry, to take the lead till they had reached the first halting-place, where the lancers said farewell, and parted from the adventurers, both parties cheering loudly when the soldiery rode slowly back towards Lerisco, while the waggon-train continued its long, slow journey towards the mountains. CHAPTER TWENTY. THE THIRSTY DESERT. The journey was without adventure. Signs of Indians were seen, and this made those of the train more watchful, but there was no encounter with the red men of the desert, till an alarm was spread one morning of a party of about twenty well-mounted Indians being seen approaching the camp, just as it was being broken up for a farther advance towards the mountains. The alarm spread; men seized their rifles, and they were preparing to fire upon the swiftly approaching troop, when Bart and Joses set spur to their horses, and went off at full gallop, apparently to encounter the enemy. But they had not been deceived. Even at a distance Bart knew his friend the Beaver at a glance, and the would-be defenders of the camp saw the meeting, and the hearty handshaking that took place. This was a relief, and the men of the expedition gazed curiously at the bronzed, well-armed horsemen of the plains, who sat their wiry, swift little steeds as if they were part and parcel of themselves, when they rode up to exchange greetings with the Doctor. From that hour the Beaver's followers took the place of the lancers, leading the van and closing up the rear, as well as constantly hovering along the sides of the long waggon-train, which they guarded watchfully as if it were their own particular charge. The Doctor placed implicit reliance in the chief, who guided them by a longer route, but which proved to be one which took them round the base of the two mountainous ridges they had to pass, and thus saved the adventurers a long and arduous amount of toil with the waggons in the rugged ground. At last, when they were well in sight of the flat-topped mountain, and the Doctor was constantly reining in his horse to sweep the horizon with his glass in search of the Apaches, the chief rode up to say that he and his men were about to advance on a scouting expedition to sweep the country between them and the canyon, while the train was to press on, always keeping a watchful look-out until their Indian escort returned. The Beaver and his men scoured off like the wind, and were soon lost to view, while that night and the next day the long train moved slowly over the plain to avoid the dense clumps of prickly cactus and agaves, suffering terribly from thirst, for what had been verdant when Bart was there last was now one vast expanse of dust, which rose thickly in clouds at the tramp of horse or mule. The want of water was beginning to be severely felt; and as they went sluggishly on, towards the second evening horses and mules with drooping heads, and the cattle lowing piteously, Bart, as he kept cantering from place to place to say a few encouraging words, knew that he could hold out no hope of water being reached till well on in the next day, and he would have urged a halt for rest, only that the Doctor was eager for them to get as well on their way as possible. Night at last, a wretched, weary night of intense heat, and man and beast suffering horribly from thirst. The clouds had gathered during the night, and the thunder rolled in the distance, while vivid flashes of lightning illumined the plains, but no rain fell, and when morning broke, after the most painful time Bart had ever passed, he found the Doctor looking ghastly, his eyes bloodshot, his lips cracked, and that even hardy Joses was suffering to as great an extent. The people were almost in a state of mutiny, and ready to ask the Doctor if he had dragged them to this terrible blinding waste to perish from thirst; while it was evident that if water was not soon reached half the beasts must fall down by the way. As it was, numbers of the poor animals were bleeding from the mouth and nostrils from the pricks received as they eagerly champed the various plants of the cactus family. "Let us push on," said the Doctor; "everything depends upon our getting on to that shallow lake, for there is no water in the way;" but with every desire to push on, the task became more laborious every hour,--the cattle were constantly striving to stray off to right or left in search of something to quench their maddening thirst, while, go where he would, the Doctor was met by fierce, angry looks and muttered threats. It would have been easy enough for the men to ride on to find water, but there was always the fear that if they did, the Indians would select just that moment for marching down and driving off their cattle and plundering the waggons. Such an attack would have been ruin, perhaps death to all, so there was nothing for it but to ride sullenly on in company with the now plodding cattle, hour after hour. "Why don't the Beaver come back, Joses?" cried Bart, pettishly. "If he were here, his men could take care of the cattle and waggons, while we went on for water. The lake can't be many miles ahead." "A good ways yet," said Joses. "That mountain looks close when it's miles away. Beaver's watching the Injuns somewheres, or he'd have been back before now. Say, Master Bart, I'm glad we haven't got much farther to go. If we had, we shouldn't do it." "I'm afraid not," replied Bart, and then they both had to join in the task of driving back the suffering cattle into the main body, for they would keep straying away. And so the journey went on all that day through the blinding, choking dust and scorching heat, which seemed to blister and sting till it was almost unbearable. "Keep it up, my lads," Bart kept on saying. "There's water ahead. Not much farther now." "That mountain gets farther away," said one of the newcomers. "I don't believe we shall ever get there." This was a specimen of the incessant complaining of the people, whom the heat and thirst seemed to rob of every scrap of patience and endurance that they might have originally possessed. But somehow, in spite of all their troubles, the day wore on, and Bart kept hopefully looking out for a glimpse of the water ahead. They ought to have reached it long before, but the pace of the weary oxen had been most painfully slow. Then the wind, what little there was, had been behind them, seeming as out of the mouth of some furnace, and bringing back upon them the finely pulverised dust that the cattle raised. At last, towards evening, the sky began again to cloud over, and the mountain that had appeared distant seemed, by the change in the atmosphere, to be brought nearer to them. Almost by magic, too, the wind fell. There was a perfect calm, and then it began to blow from the opposite quarter, at first in soft puffs, then as a steady, refreshing breeze, and instantly there was a commotion in the camp,--the cattle set off at a lumbering gallop; the mules, heedless of their burdens, followed suit; the horses snorted and strained at their bridles, and Joses galloped about, shouting to the teamsters in charge of the waggons, who were striving with all their might to restrain their horses. "Let them go, my lads; unhitch and let them go, or they'll have the waggons over." "Stampede! stampede!" some of the men kept shouting, and all at once it seemed that the whole of the quadrupeds were in motion; for, acting upon Joses' orders, the teams were unhitched, and away the whole body swept in a thundering gallop onward towards the mountain, leaving the waggons solitary in the dusty plain. Every now and then a mule freed itself of its pack, and began kicking and squealing in delight at its freedom, while the cattle tossed their horns and went on in headlong gallop. For once the wind had turned, the poor suffering beasts had sniffed the soft moist air that had passed over the shallow lake, and their unerring instinct set them off in search of relief. There was no pause, and all the mounted men could do was to let their horses keep pace with the mules and cattle, only guiding them clear of the thickest part of the drove. And so they thundered on till the dusty plain was left behind, and green rank herbage and thickly growing water-plants reached, through which the cattle rushed to the shallow water at the edge of the lake. But still they did not stop to drink, but rushed on and on, plashing as they went, till they were in right up to their flanks. Then, and then only, did they begin to drink, snorting and breathing hard, and drawing in the pure fresh water. Some bellowed with pleasure as they seemed to satisfy their raging thirst; others began to swim or waded out till their nostrils only were above the surface; while the mules, as soon as they had drunk their fill, started to squeal and kick and splash to the endangerment of their loads. The horses behaved the most soberly, contenting themselves with wading in to a respectable distance, and then drinking when the water was undisturbed and pure, as did their masters; the Doctor, Joses, and Bart bending down and filling the little metal cups they carried again and again. It was growing dark as they turned from the shallow water of the lake, the mules following the horses placidly enough, and the lumbering cattle contentedly obeying the call of their masters, and settling themselves down directly to crop the rich rank grasses upon the marshy shores. A short consultation was held now, and the question arose whether they had been observed by Indians, who might come down and try to stampede the cattle. The matter was settled by one-half the men staying to guard them, while the other half went back to fetch up the waggons, the mule-drivers having plenty to do in collecting the burdens that had been kicked off, but which the mules submitted patiently enough to have replaced. Still it was long on towards midnight before the waggons had all been drawn up to the shores of the lake, whose soft moist grasses seemed like paradise to the weary travellers over the desolate, dusty plains; and no sooner had Bart tethered Black Boy, and seen him contentedly cropping the grass, than, forgetful of Indians, hunger, everything but the fact that he was wearied out, he threw himself down, and in less than a minute he was fast asleep. CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. TAKING FULL POSSESSION. Waking with the bright sun shining over the waters of the lake, the cattle quietly browsing, and the well-watered horses enjoying a thoroughly good feed, the troubles of the journey over the dreary plain were pretty well forgotten, and as fires were lit and meals prepared, there were bright faces around ready to give the Doctor a genial "good morning." Soon after those on the look-out, while the rest made a hearty meal to prepare them for the toil of the day, announced Indians, and arms were seized, while men stood ready to run to their horses and to protect their cattle. But there was no need for alarm, the new-comers being the Beaver and his followers, who stated that they had come upon signs of Indians, and found that they had been by the mountain within the past day or two. But they had followed the trail, and found that their enemies had gone due north, following the course of the Great Canyon, and it was probable that they had finished their raid into these southern parts, and would not return. "If they do," said the Beaver, with contemptuous indifference, "our young men shall kill them all. Their horses will be useful. They are no good to live, for they are thieves and murderers without mercy." The rest of the journey was soon achieved, and the waggons drawn up in regular order close beside the mountain, while, after due inspection of the cavernous place where Joses had remained concealed with the horses, it was decided as a first step to construct with rocks a semi-circular wall, whose two ends should rest against the perpendicular mountain-side, and this would serve as a corral for the cattle, and also act as a place of retreat for a certain number to protect them, the horses being kept in Joses' Hole, as Bart christened the place. There was plenty of willing labour now that the goal had been reached, and a few of the principals had been with the Doctor to inspect the vein of silver, from which they came back enthusiastic to a degree. Leaving the greater part busy over the task of forming the cattle corral or enclosure, the Doctor called upon Bart and Joses, with three or four of his leading followers, to make the ascent of the mountain, and to this end a mysterious-looking pole was brought from the Doctor's waggon, and given to one of the men to carry. A pick and some ropes and pegs were handed to Joses, Bart received a bag, and thus accoutred they started. "Where are we going?" said one of the party, as he saw that they were walking straight for the perpendicular wall. "Up to the top of the mountain," replied the Doctor. "Have you ever been up?" the man asked, staring at him wonderingly. "No; but I believe the ascent will be pretty easy, and I have a reason for going." "Is he mad?" whispered the man to Bart. "Why, nothing but a fly could climb up there." "Mad? No," replied Bart, smiling. "Wait a bit, and you'll see." "Well, I wouldn't have believed there was a way through here!" said the man, slapping his leg, and laughing heartily, as they reached the narrow slit, crept through, and then stood with the long slope above them ready for the ascent. "It seems as if nature had done it all in the most cunning way, so as to make a hiding-place." "And a stronghold and fort for us," said Bart. "I think when once we get this place in order, we may set at defiance all the Indians of the plains." "If they don't starve us out, or stop our supply of water," said Joses, gruffly. "Man must eat and drink." By this time the Doctor was leading the way up the long rugged slope, that seemed as if it had been carved by water constantly rushing down, though now it was perfectly dry. It was not above ten feet wide, and the walls were in places almost perpendicular. It was a toilsome ascent, for at varying intervals great blocks of stone barred the path, with here and there corresponding rifts; but a little labour enabled the party to surmount these, and they climbed on till all at once the path took a new direction, going back as it were upon itself, but always upward at a sufficiently stiff angle, so as to form a zigzag right up the face of the mountain. "It is one of the wonders of the world," exclaimed the Doctor, enthusiastically. "It's a precious steep one, then," grumbled Joses. "I can hardly understand it yet," continued the Doctor, "unless there has been a tremendous spring of water up on high here. It seems almost impossible for this path to be natural." "Do you think it was made by men, sir?" said Bart. "It may have been, but it seems hardly possible. Some great nation may have lived here once upon a time, but even then this does not look like the work of man. But let us go on." It was quite a long journey to where the path turned again, and then they rested, and sat down to enjoy the sweet pure breeze, and gaze right out over the vast plain, which presented a wondrous panorama even from where they were, though a far grander view awaited them from the top, which they at last set off to reach. There were the same difficulties in the way; huge blocks of stone, over which they had to climb; rifts that they had to leap, and various natural ruggednesses of this kind, to seem in opposition to the theory that the zigzag way was the work of hands, while at every halting-place the same thought was exchanged by Bart and the Doctor--"What a fortress! We might defend it against all attacks!" But the Doctor had one other thought, and that was, how high did the silver lode come up into the mountain, and would they be able to commence the mining up there? "At all events, Bart," he said, "up here will be our stores and treasure-houses. Nothing can be more safe than this." At last, after a breathless ascent, Bart, who was in advance, sprang upon the top, and uttered a loud cheer, but only to stop short as he gazed round in wonder at the comparatively level surface of the mountain, and the marvellous extent of the view around. Whether there was silver, or whether there was none, did not seem to occur to him: all he wanted was to explore the many wide acres of surface, to creep down into the rifts, to cautiously walk along at the very edge of this tremendous precipice, which went sharply down without protection of any natural parapet of rock. Above all, he wanted to get over to the farther side, and, going to the edge, gaze right into the glorious canyon with the rugged sides, and try from this enormous height to trace its course to right and left as it meandered through the plain. "What a place to live in!" thought Bart, for there were grass, flowers, bushes, stunted trees, and cactuses, similar to those below them on the plain. In fact, it seemed to Bart as if this was a piece--almost roughly rounded--of the plain that had been left when the rest sank down several hundred feet, or else that this portion had been thrust right up to stand there, bold and bluff, ready to defy the fury of any storms that might blow. The Doctor led the way half round, till he found what he considered a suitable spot near the edge on the northern side of the mountain; and there being no need to fear the Indians any longer, he set Joses to work with the pick to clear out a narrow rift, into which the pole they had brought was lowered, and wedged up perpendicularly with fragments of rock, one of which Bart saw was almost a mass of pure silver; then staves were set against the bottom, and bound there for strength; then guy ropes added, and secured to well-driven-down pegs; and lastly, as a defiance to the Indians, and a declaration of the place being owned by the government, under whose consent they had formed the expedition, the national flag was run up, amidst hearty cheers, and its folds blew out strongly in the breeze. "Now," said the Doctor, "we are under the protection of the flag, and can do as we please." "Don't see as the flag will be much protection," growled Joses; "but it'll bring the Injun down on us before long." The Doctor did not hear these words, for he was beginning to explore the top of the mountain, and making plans for converting the place into a stronghold. Bart heard them, however, and turned to the grumbler. "Do you think the Indians will notice the flag, Joses?" he said. "Do I think the Injuns will notice it, Master Bart? Why, they can't help noticing it. Isn't it flap, flap, flapping there, and asking them to come as hard as it can. Why, they'll see that bit o' rag miles and miles away, and be swooping down almost before we know where we are. Mark my words if they'll not. We shall have to sleep with one eye open and the other not shut, Master Bart, that's what we shall have to do." "Well, we shall be strong enough now to meet any number," said Bart. "Yes, if they don't catch us just as we are least expecting it. Dessay the Doctor knows best, but we shall never get much of that silver home on account of the Apaches." "Oh yes, we shall, Joses," said Bart, merrily. "Wait a bit, and you will see that the Indians can be beaten off as easily as possible, and they'll soon be afraid to attack us when they find how strong we are. Perhaps they'll be glad to make friends. Now, come and have a look round." Joses obeyed his young leader, shouldering his rifle, and following him in a surly, ill-used sort of way, resenting everything that was introduced to his notice as being poor and unsatisfactory. "Glad to see trees up here, Master Bart," he said, as the lad made a remark, by a patch whose verdure was a pleasant relief to the eye after the glare from the bare rock. "I don't call them scrubs of things trees. Why, a good puff of wind would blow them off here and down into the plain." "Then why hasn't a good puff of wind blown them off and down into the plain?" said Bart. "Why haven't they been blown off--why haven't they been blown off, Master Bart? Well, I suppose because the wind hasn't blowed hard enough." Bart laughed, and they went on along the edge of the tremendous cliff till they came above the canyon, down into which Bart, never seemed weary of gazing. For the place had quite a fascination for him, with its swift, sparkling river, beautiful wooded islands, and green and varied shores. The sides of the place, too, were so wondrously picturesque; here were weather-stained rocks of fifty different tints; there covered with lovely creepers, hanging in festoons or clinging close to the stony crevices that veined the rocky face in every direction. The shelves and ledges and mossy nooks were innumerable, and every one, even at that great height, wore a tempting look that drew the lad towards it, and made him itch to begin the exploration. "What a lovely river, Joses!" he cried. "Lovely? Why, it's one o' those sand rivers. Don't you ever go into it if we get down there; you'd be sucked into the quicksands before you knew where you were. I don't think much of this place, Master Bart." "I do," cried the lad, stooping to pick up a rough fragment of stone, and then, as it was long and thin, breaking it against the edge of a piece of rock, when the newly-fractured end shone brightly in the sun with a metallic sheen. "Why, there is plenty of silver up here, Joses," he said, examining the stone intently. "This is silver, is it not?" Joses took the piece of stone in an ill-used way, examined it carefully, and with a sour expression of countenance, as if he were grieved to own the truth, and finally jerked it away from him so that it might fall into the canyon. "Yes," he growled; "that's silver ore, but it's very poor." "Poor, Joses?" "Yes; horrid poor. There wasn't above half of that silver; all the rest was stone. I like to see it in great solid lumps that don't want any melting. That's what I call silver. Don't think much of this." "Well, it's a grand view, at all events, Joses," said Bart. "It's a big view, and you can see far enough for anything," he growled. "You can see so far that you can't see any farther; but I don't see no good in that. What's the good of a view that goes so far you can't see it? Just as well have no view at all." "Why, you are never satisfied, Joses," laughed Bart. "Never satisfied! Well, I don't see nothing in this to satisfy a man. You can't eat and drink a view, and it won't keep Injun off from you. Pshaw! views are about no good at all." "Bart!" It was the Doctor calling, and on the lad running to him it was to find that he was standing by a great chasm running down far into the body of the mountain, with rough shelving slopes by which it was possible to descend, though the task looked risky except to any one of the firmest nerve. "Look down there, Bart," said the Doctor, rather excitedly; "what do you make of it?" Bart took a step nearer so as to get a clearer view of the rent, rugged pit, at one side of which was a narrow, jagged slit where the sunshine came through, illumining what would otherwise have been gloomy in the extreme. How far the chasm descended it was impossible to see from its irregularity, the sides projecting in great buttresses here and there, all of grey rock, while what had seemed to be the softer portions had probably crumbled away. Here and there, though, glimpses could be obtained of what looked like profound depths where all was black and still. "What should you think this place must have been?" said the Doctor, as if eager to hear the lad's opinion. "Wait a minute, sir," replied Bart, loosening a great fragment of rock, which with some difficulty he pushed to the edge, and then, placing his foot to it, thrust it over, and then bent forward to hear it fall. The distance before it struck was not great, for there was a huge mass of rock projecting some fifty feet below upon which the stone fell, glanced off, and struck against the opposite side, with the effect that it was again thrown back far down out of sight; but the noise it made was loud enough, and as Bart listened he heard it strike heavily six times, then there was a dead silence for quite a minute, and it seemed that the last stroke was when it reached the bottom. Bart was just about turning to speak to the Doctor when there came hissing up a horrible echoing, weird sound, like a magnified splash, and they knew that far down at an immense depth the great stone had fallen into water. "Ugh!" ejaculated Bart, involuntarily imitating the Indians. "What a hole! Why, it must be ten times as deep as this place is high. I shouldn't care about going down." "Horrible indeed, Bart; but what should you think? Is this place natural or dug out?" "Natural, I should say, sir," replied Bart. "Nobody could dig down to such a depth as that." "Yes, natural," said the Doctor, carefully scanning the sides of the place with a small glass. "Originally natural, but this place has been worked." "Worked? What, dug out?" said Bart. "Why, what for--to get water?" "No," said the Doctor, quietly; "to get silver. This has been a great mine." "But who would have dug it?" said Bart, eagerly. "The Indians would not." "The people who roughly made the zigzag way up to the top here, my boy." "But what people would they be, sir? The Spaniards?" "No, Bart. I should say this was dug by people who lived long before the Spaniards, perhaps thousands of years. It might have been done by the ancient peoples of Mexico or those who built the great temples of Central America and Yucatan--those places so old that there is no tradition of the time when they were made. One thing is evident, that we have come upon a silver region that was known to the ancients." "Well, I am disappointed," cried Bart. "I thought, sir, that we had made quite a new find." "So did I at first, Bart," replied the Doctor; "but at any rate, save to obtain a few scraps, the place has not been touched, I should say, for centuries; and even if this mine has been pretty nearly exhausted, there is ample down below there in the canyon, while this mount must be our fortress and our place for furnaces and stores." They descended cautiously for about a couple of hundred feet, sufficiently far for the Doctor to chip a little at the walls, and find in one or two places veins that ran right into the solid mountain, and quite sufficient to give ample employment to all the men without touching the great lode in the crack of the canyon side; and this being so, they climbed back to meet Joses, who had been just about to descend after them. "You'll both be killing of yourselves before you're done, master," he said, roughly. "No man ought to go down a place like that without a rope round his waist well held at the end." "Well, it would have been safer," said the Doctor, smiling. "Safer? Yes," growled Joses; "send down a greaser next time. There's plenty of them, and they aren't much consequence. We could spare a few." The Doctor smiled, and after continuing their journey round the edge of the old mine, they made their way to the zigzag descent, whose great regularity of contrivance plainly enough indicated that human hands had had something to do with it; while probably, when it was in use in the ancient ages, when some powerful nation had rule in the land, it might have been made easy of access by means of logs and balks of wood laid over the rifts from side to side. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. PREPARATIONS FOR SAFETY. The descent was almost more arduous than the ascent, but there was no danger save such as might result from a slip or wrench through placing a foot in one of the awkward cracks, and once more down in the plain, where the camp was as busy as an ant hill, the Doctor called the principal Englishmen about his waggon, and formed a sort of council, as he proceeded to lay his plans before them. The first was--as they were ready to defy the Indians, and to fight for their position there, to make the mountain their fortress, and in spite of the laborious nature of the ascent, it was determined that the tents should be set up on the top, while further steps were taken to enlarge the interior of the opening as soon as the narrow entrance was passed, so as to allow of a party of men standing ready to defend the way against Indians who might force themselves in. This was decided on at once, and men told off to do the work. Then it was proposed to build three or four stout walls across the sloping path, all but just room enough for a man to glide by. These would be admirable means of defence to fight behind, if the enemy forced their way in past the first entry, and with these and a larger and stronger barrier at the top of the slope by the first turn, it was considered by the Doctor that with ordinary bravery the place would be impregnable. So far so good; but then there were the horses and cattle, the former in the cavern-like stable, the latter in their stonewalled corral or enclosure. Here was a difficulty, for now, however strong their defence might be, they were isolated, and it would be awkward in case of attack to have two small parties of men detailed for the guarding of these places, which the Indians would be sure to attack in force, in place of throwing their lives away against the well-defended mountain path. "Couldn't we contrive a gallery along the face of the mountain, right along above the ravine and the stables, sir?" said Bart. "I think some stones might be loosened out, and a broad ledge made, too high for the Indians to climb up, and with a good wall of stones along the edge we could easily defend the horses." "A good idea, Bart, if it can be carried out," said the Doctor. "Let's go and see!" Inspection proved that this could easily be done so as to protect the horses, but not the corral, unless its position were altered and it were placed close alongside of the cavern stable. After so much trouble had been taken in rearing this wall it seemed a great pity, but the men willingly set to work, while some loosened stones from above, and levered them down with bars, these fallen stones coming in handy for building up the wall. Fineness of finish was not counted; nothing but a strong barrier which the cattle could not leap or throw down, if an attempt was made to scare them into a stampede, was all that was required, and so in a few days not only was this new corral strongly constructed, and the ledge projected fifty feet above it in the side of the mountain had been excavated, and edged with a strong wall of rock. There was but little room, only advantage was taken of holes in the rock, which were enlarged here and there so as to form a kind of rifle-pit, in which there was plenty of space for a man to creep and kneel down to load and fire at any enemy who should have determined to carry off the cattle. In fine, they had at last a strong place of defence, only to be reached from a spot about a hundred feet up the sloping way to the summit of the mountain; and the road to and from the bastion, as the Doctor called it, was quite free from observation in the plain, if the defenders crept along on hands and knees. Beneath the entrance to this narrow gallery a very strong wall was built nearly across the slope; and at Bart's suggestion a couple of huge stones were loosened in the wall just above, and a couple of crowbars were left there ready to lower these still further, so that they would slip down into the narrow opening left in case of emergency, and thus completely keep the Indians out. All these matters took a great deal of time, but the knowledge of the danger from the prowling bands of Indians always on the war-path on the plains, and also that of the large treasure in silver that was within their reach, made the men work like slaves. Water had been found in a spring right at the top of the mountain, and after contriving a basin in the rock that it should fill, it was provided with an outlet, and literally led along a channel of silver down to where it could trickle along a rift, and then down by the side of the sloping paths to a rock basin dug and blasted out close to the entrance in the plain. This was a good arrangement, for the water was deliciously pure, and gave an ample supply to the camp, and even to the cattle when necessary, a second overflow carrying the fount within the corral, where a drinking-place was made, so that they were thus independent of the lake upon the plain, or the necessity for contriving a way down to the river in the canyon. Attention had then to be given to the food supply, and this matter was mentioned to the Beaver. For Bart had suggested that no doubt the Indians would find buffalo for them, instead of passing their time playing the part of mountain scouts and herdsmen when the cattle were driven to feed down in the rich pastures by the lake. CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. OFF ON A HUNT. The Beaver did not often smile, but when Bart tried to explain his wishes to him that he should lead a little party out into the plains to shoot buffalo for the party, his stolid, warlike countenance began slowly to expand; there was a twinkle here and a crease there; his solemn, watchful eyes sparkled; then they flashed, and at last a look of joy overspread his countenance, and he said a few words eagerly to the interpreter. "The Beaver-with-Sharp-Teeth," began the latter slowly, "says that it is good, and that we will go and hunt bison, for it is men's work, while minding the grazing cattle here is only fit for squaws." The Indians immediately began their preparations, which were marked by their brevity. Rifles and ammunition were examined, girths were tightened, and small portions of dried meat tied to the pad saddles ready for use if required, though it was hoped that a sufficiency of fresh meat would soon be obtained. Then it was reported to Dr Lascelles that all was ready. At that moment it seemed as if there were two boys in the camp, and that these two were sun-blackened, toil-roughened Joses, and Bart. For these two could not conceal their eagerness to be of the hunting party, and every now and then Joses kept stealing a quick, animal-like glance at Bart, while the latter kept glancing as sharply at the frontiersman. Neither spoke, but their looks said as plainly as could be: "What a shame it will be if he goes, and I have to stay in camp." The Indians had mounted, and were sitting like so many bronze statues, waiting for the Doctor's permission to go; for military precision and discipline had of late been introduced, and regular guards and watches kept, much to the disgust of some of the Englishmen, who did not scruple to say that it was quite unnecessary. Meanwhile the Doctor seemed to have been seized with a thoughtful fit, and stood there musing, as if he were making some plan as to the future. Bart kept on trying to catch his eye, but in vain. Then he glanced towards where the Beaver was seated upon his horse, with his keen black eyes fixed upon the youth, and his look seemed to Bart to say: "Are not you coming?" "I don't like to ask leave to go," thought Bart; "but oh, if I could only have permission! What a gallop! To be at the back of a drove of bison as they go thundering over the plain! It will be horrible if I have to stay." He looked towards where Joses stood frowning heavily, and still the Doctor gave no orders. He seemed regularly absorbed in his thoughts. The Beaver was growing impatient, and his men were having hard work to quiet their fiery little steeds, which kept on snorting and pawing up the sand, giving a rear up by way of change, or a playful bite at some companion, which responded with a squeal or a kick. At last Joses began making signs to Bart that he should come over to his side, but the lad did not see them, for his eyes were fixed upon the Doctor, who at last seemed to start out of his musing fit. "Ah!" he said; "yes, you men had better go. Tell them, Bart, to drive the bison as near camp as they can before they kill them. It will save so much trouble." "Yes, sir," replied Bart, drawing in his breath in a way that sounded like a sigh. "Any other orders?" "No, my boy, no. Or, stop; they ought to have an Englishman with them perhaps. Better let Harry go; we can spare him. Or, stay, send Joses." The frontiersman uttered a snort, and was about turning to go to the spot where his horse was tethered, when he stopped short, to stand staring at Bart, with a look full of commiseration, and Bart read it truly--"I'll stop, my lad, if you can get leave to go instead." Then came fresh words from the Doctor's lips--words that sent the blood galloping through Bart's veins, and made his nerves thrill and his eyes flash with delight. "I suppose you would not care to go upon such a rough expedition as this, Bart?" the Doctor said. "Oh, but I should, sir," the lad exclaimed. "I'd give anything to go-- if you could spare me," he added. The Doctor looked at him in a half-thoughtful, half-hesitating way, and remained silent for a time, while Bart felt upon the tiptoe of expectation, and in a horrible state of dread lest his guardian should alter his mind. "Better stop, Bart," he said at last. "Bison-hunting is very difficult and dangerous work. You might be run or trampled down, or tossed, or goodness knows what beside." "I'd take the greatest care to be out of danger, sir," said Bart, deprecatingly. "By running into it at every turn, eh, my boy?" said the Doctor, good-humouredly. "Then I'll ask the opinion of Joses, and see what he says. Here, Joses!" The frontiersman came up at a trot, and then stood leaning upon his rifle. "What do you think?" asked the Doctor. "Would it be safe to allow Bart here to go with you after the bison?" "You mean buffler, don't you?" said Joses, in a low, growling tone. "No; I mean bison," replied the Doctor, sharply. "You people call them buffalo. I say, do you think it safe for him to go with you?" "Safe? Course it is," growled Joses. "We shall want him too. He's so light, and his Black Boy is so swift, that the hunting party will get on better and cut out more buffalo meat if he comes." "Well, then, according to that, Bart," said the Doctor, good-humouredly, "I suppose I must let you go." "If you please, sir," said Bart, quietly; and then, with a gush of boyish enthusiasm, "I'd give anything to go, sir--I would indeed." "Then I suppose you must go, Bart. Be off!" The lad rushed off, followed by Joses, who seemed quite as much excited and as overjoyed, for he kept on slapping Bart upon the shoulder, and giving vent to little "hoorays" and "whoops", and other inhuman cries, indicative of his delight; while no sooner did the Beaver realise that Joses and Bart would be of the party than he began to talk quickly to the interpreter, then to his followers, and at last sat there motionless, in dignified silence, waiting for what was to come. Stolid Indian as he was, though, he could not keep it up, but dashed his heels into his pony's ribs after a few moments, and cantered to where Joses and Bart were making their preparations, and, leaping to the ground, he eagerly proffered his services. They were not needed, and he stood looking on, talking eagerly in his own language, putting in an English word wherever he could think of one, or fancied that it would fit, till all seemed ready, and Bart stood patting his little arch-necked black cob, after slinging his rifle over his shoulder. Just then the Doctor waved his hand as a signal to him of farewell, and reading it also as a sign that they might set off, Bart leaped into his saddle, Joses followed suit, and saying something to his pony which started it off, the Beaver seemed to swing himself out into a horizontal position over his steed's back, and then dropped into his place, and they all then cantered up to where the rest of the Indians were impatiently waiting. "All ready?" cried Bart. "Ready we are, Master Bart," growled Joses. "Off, then," cried Bart, waving his hand, when, amidst a ringing cheer from the little crowd of lookers-on, the bison-hunters went off at full speed over the sandy plain, making for the left of the lake; and as Bart turned in his saddle to gaze back, the camp, with its round-topped waggons, the flat mountain, and the faintly shown track up to its summit, looked like some beautiful panorama, above which the great flag blew out in the brisk breeze, and flapped and waved its folds merrily as if flaunting defiance to every Indian on the plain. But as Bart gazed up at the flag, he could not help thinking what a mere scrap of coloured cloth it was, and what a very little the Indians would think of it if they determined to come down and attack the camp in their might. CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. HINTS ON BISON-HUNTING. "Ease off a bit, Master Bart," cried Joses, after they had all been riding at full gallop for a couple of miles over the plains. "Whoo-- hoop, my Injun friends! Whoo--hoop!" "Whoo-hoop! whoo-hoop! whoo-hoop!" yelled back the Indians, excitedly; and taking it as an incentive to renewed exertion, they pressed the flanks of their horses, which responded freely, and they swept on more swiftly still. "Tell Beaver to stop a bit," cried Joses; "you're nighest to him, my lad." And Bart was about to shout some words to the chief, who was on his other side, riding with eyes flashing with excitement, and every nerve on the throb, thoroughly enjoying the wild race after so long a time of inaction in the camp. And it was not only the riders who enjoyed the racing; the horses seemed to revel in it, all tossing their massive manes and snorting loudly with delight, while swift as they went they were always so well-prepared that they would try to kick each other whenever two were in anything like close proximity. Bart shouted to the Beaver to check his pace, but he was misunderstood, and the party swept on, whooping with delight, for all the world like a pack of excited schoolboys just let loose for a holiday. "We shall have our nags regularly blown, my lad," panted Joses;--"and then if we come upon unfriendly Injuns it'll be the worse for us. Let's you and me draw rein, then they'll stop." A pause in the mad gallop came without the inciting of Bart and his follower, for all at once one of the Indians' horses planted his hoof in a gopher hole, cunningly contrived by the rat-like creature just in the open part of the plain; and unable to recover itself or check its headlong speed, the horse turned a complete somersault, throwing his rider right over his head quite twenty feet away, and as the rest drew rein and gathered round, it seemed for the time as if both pony and rider were killed. Bart leaped down to go to the poor fellow's help, but just as the lad reached him, the Indian, who had been lying flat upon his back, suddenly sat up, shook his head, and stared round in bewilderment. The next moment he had caught sight of his steed, and leaped to his feet to run and catch the rein just as the pony was struggling up. As the pony regained its feet the Indian leaped upon its back, while the sturdy little animal gave itself a shake that seemed to be like one gigantic quiver, beginning at its broad inflated nostrils, and ending with the rugged strands of its great thick uncombed tail. Just then the Beaver uttered a yell, and away the whole party swept again, the Indian who had fallen seeming in no wise the worse for his encounter with the sandy earth. "That's where the Indian gets the better of the white man, Master Bart. A fall like that would have about knocked all the life out of me. It's my belief them Injuns likes it, and so you see they can bear so much that they grow hard to clear away; and in spite of our being so much more knowing, they're often too much for us." "But had we not better pull up, Joses?" cried Bart, for they were tearing along over the plain once more at a tremendous gallop. "It's no use to try, my lad; the horses won't stop and leave them others galloping on. You may train horses as much as you like, but there's a lot of nature left in them, and that you can't eddicate out." "What do you mean?" panted Bart, for it was hard work riding so fast. "What do I mean, my boy? why, that horses is used to going in big droves together, and this puts 'em in mind of it, and they like it. You try and pull Black Boy in. There, I told you so. See how he gnaws at his bit and pulls. There's no stopping him, my lad, no more than there is mine. Let 'em go, my lad. Perhaps we mayn't meet any one we don't want to meet after all." Hardly had he spoken before the Beaver raised his arm, and his followers pulled up as if by magic, forming in quite a small circle close to him, with their horses' heads almost touching him. The Beaver signed to Bart and Joses to approach, and room was made for them to join in the little council which was to be held, and the result was that being now well out in the plains far north of where they had originally travelled to reach the mountain, they now headed off to the west, the Indians separating, and opening out more and more so as to cover wider ground with their keen eyes, while every little eminence was climbed so that the horizon could be swept in search of bison. "Do you think we shall meet with any, Joses?" asked Bart. "What, buffler, my lad? Well, I hope so. There's never no knowing, for they're queer beasts, and there's hundreds here to-day, and to-morrow you may ride miles and miles, and not see a hoof. Why, I've known times when I've come upon a drove that was miles long." "Miles, Joses?" "Yes, Master Bart, miles long. Bulls, and cows, and calves, of all kinds, from little bits o' things, right up to some as was nearly as big as their fathers and mothers, only not so rough and fat; and they'd go on over the plain in little bands. If you was looking at 'em from far off, it seemed like one great long drove that there was no counting, but when you rode nearer to see, you found that what you took for one big drove was only made up of hundreds of other droves--big families like of fathers, and mothers, and children, which always kept themselves to themselves and didn't mix with the others. Then all along outside the flanks of the great drove of droves you'd see the wolves hanging about, half-starved, fierce-looking vermin, licking their bare chops, and waiting their chance to get something to eat." "But wolves wouldn't attack the great bison, would they?" asked Bart. "Only when they're about helpless--wounded or old, you know, then they will. What they wolves is waiting for is for the young calves--little, helpless sort of things that are always being left behind as the great drove goes feeding on over the plains; and if you watch a drove, you'll every now and then find a calf lying down, and its mother trying to coax it to get up and follow the others, while the old cow keeps mooing and making no end of a noise, and cocking up her tail, and making little sets of charges at the wolves to drive them back whenever they get too near. Ah, it's a rum sight to see the lank, fierce, hungry beasts licking their chops, and thinking every now and then that they've got the calf, for the old mother keeps going off a little way to try and make the stupid cow baby get up and follow. Then the wolves make a rush, and so does the buffalo, and away go the hungry beggars, for a wolf is about as cowardly a thing as ever run on four legs, that he is." "I should like to see a sight like that, Joses," said Bart; "how I would shoot at the wolves!" "What for?" said Joses. "What for? Why, because they must be such cowardly, cruel beasts, to try and kill the calves." "So are we cowardly, cruel beasts, then," said Joses, philosophically. "Wolves want to live same as humans, and it's all their nature. If they didn't kill and keep down the buffler, the country would be all buffler, and there wouldn't be room for a man to walk. It's all right, I tell you; wolves kills buffler for food, and so do we. Why, you never thought, praps, how bufflers fill up the country in some parts. I've seen droves of 'em miles upon miles long, and if it wasn't for the wolves and the Injun, as I said afore, there wouldn't be room for anything else." "Are there so many as you say, Joses?" asked Bart. "Not now, my lad. There used to be, but they've been killed down a deal. You see the Injun lives on 'em a'most. He cuts up and dries the beef, and he makes himself buffler robes of the skins, and very nice warm things they are in cold parts up in the mountains. I don't know what the Injun would do if it wasn't for the buffler. He'd starve. Not as that would be so very much consequence, as far as some tribes goes-- Comanches and Apaches, and them sort as lives by killing and murdering every one they sees. Halloa! what's that mean?" He pulled up, and shaded his eyes with his hand, to gaze at where one of the Indians was evidently making some sign with his spear as he sat in a peculiar way, right on their extreme left, upon an eminence in the plain. Bart looked eagerly on, so as to try and learn what this signal meant. "Oh, I know," said Joses directly, as he saw the Beaver make his horse circle round. "He can see a herd far out on the plain, and the Beaver has just signalled him back; so ride on, my lad, and we may perhaps come across a big run of the rough ones before the day is out." CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. BART'S FIRST BISON. Joses was wrong, for no sign was seen of buffalo that day, and so the next morning, after a very primitive kind of camp out in the wilderness, the Beaver took them in quite a different direction, parallel to the camp, so as to be within range, for distance had to be remembered in providing meat for so large a company. It was what Joses called ticklish work. "You must keep your eyes well skinned, Master Bart," he said, with a grim smile, as they left the plain for an undulating country, full of depressions, most of which contained water, and whose gentle hills were covered with succulent buffalo-grass. "If you don't, my lad, you may find yourself dropping down on to a herd of Apaches instead of buffaloes; and I can tell you, young fellow, that a buck Injun's a deal worse thing to deal with than a bull buffler. You must keep a sharp look-out." "I'll do the best I can, Joses, you may be sure; but suppose I should come upon an Indian party--what am I to do?" "Do, my lad? Why, make tracks as sharp as ever you can to your friends--that is, if you are alone." "But if I can't get away, and they shoot at me?" "Well, what do you mean?" said Joses, dryly. "I mean what am I to do if I am in close quarters, and feel that they will kill me?" "Oh," said Joses, grimly, "I should pull up short, and go up to them and give them my hatchet, and rifle, and knife, and say to 'em that you hope they won't be so wicked as to kill you, for you are very fond of Injun, and think 'em very nice; and then you'll see they'll be as pleased as pleased, and they'll make such a fuss over you." "Do you mean that, Joses?" "Mean it, my lad? to be sure I do. A friend of mine did so, just as I've told you, for he was afraid to fight." "And did the Indians make a fuss over him?" asked Bart. "To be sure they did, my lad; they took his weppuns, and then they set him on his knees, and pulled all the hair off his head to make an ornament for one of their belts, and then, because he hollered out and didn't like it, they took their lariats and tethering pegs, and after fixing the pegs in the ground, they put a rope round each of his ankles and his wrists, and spread-eagled him out tight, and then they lit a fire to warm themselves, for it was a very cold day." "What!" cried Bart, looking aghast at his companion, who was evidently bantering him. "Oh no, not to roast him," said Joses, laughing; "they didn't mean that. They lit the fire on purpose to warm themselves; and where do you think they lit it?" "In a hole in the ground," said Bart. "No, my boy; they lit it on that poor fellow's chest, and kept it burning there fiercely, and sat round it and warmed themselves; and the more that poor wretch shrieked for mercy, the more they laughed." "Joses, it's too horrid to believe," cried Bart. "Well, it does sound too horrid; don't it, eh? But it's the simple, honest truth, my boy, for some of they Injuns is regular demons, and stop at nothing. They do any mortal thing under the sun to a white." "Then you would not surrender?" said Bart. "Surrender? What! to an Indian? Not till I hadn't got a bit o' life in my body, my lad. Not before." "But would you have me turn upon them and shoot them, Joses?" said the lad, with all a boy's horror of shedding blood. "Bart, my lad," said Joses, holding out his rough hand, which the boy readily grasped, "if you ask me for a bit of advice, as one who knows pretty well what unfriendly Injun is, I'll give it to you." "I do ask it, Joses, for it horrifies me to think of trying to take a man's life." "Of course it does, my lad; so it used to me. But here's my bit of advice for you:--Whenever you meet Injun, don't trust 'em till they're proved to be of the right grit. Don't hurt a hair of any one of their heads, and always be honest in dealing with them. But if it comes to fighting, and you see they mean your life, fight for it like a man. Show 'em that an English boy has got a man's heart, only it's young, and not full growed. Never give up, for recklect that if the Injuns get hold of you it means death--horrible death--while if you fight you may beat 'em, and if you don't it's only death all the same." "But it seems so dreadful to shoot at a man, knowing that you may kill him." "So it does, my lad, but it's ever so much more dreadful for them to shoot at you. They've only got to leave you alone and it's all right." Just then the Beaver came cantering up to them, gently lying right down upon his horse. "Jump off, Master Bart," cried Joses; "there's buffler in sight, and we don't want to scare 'em." Setting the example, he slid from his horse, and stood behind it, Bart imitating his acts, and they waited there till the Beaver came up, and pointed towards an opening in the distance, where, for the moment, Bart could see nothing; but watching attentively, he soon made out what seemed to be a dark patch moving slowly towards them. "Are those bison?" he whispered to Joses; though the objects at which he gazed were miles away. "No, they aren't," growled Joses; "them's buffler, and they're a feeding steadily on in this way, so that we shall be able to get a good few, I hope, and p'r'aps drive two or three a long way on towards the camp, so as to save carrying them there." "May we ride up to them now?" cried Bart. "I ain't going to have anything to do with the hunt," cried Joses, grimly. "Let the Beaver do it all; he's used to it. I haven't had anything to do with buffler-hunting for a many years." "Are the bulls very dangerous?" said Bart then. "I mean may I ride pretty close up to one without getting gored?" "They ain't half so dangerous as our own bulls used to be down at the ranche, my lad, and not a quarter so dangerous as them that have taken to a wild life after jumping out of the corral." By this time the Beaver had signalled his followers to approach, and after giving them some instructions, they all rode off together into a bit of a valley, the Beaver and his English companions following them, so that in a few minutes they were out of sight of the approaching herd of buffalo, which came steadily on in profound ignorance of there being enemies in their neighbourhood. The country was admirably adapted for a hunt, the ground being unencumbered by anything larger than a scrubby kind of brush, while its many shallow valleys gave the hunters ample opportunity for riding unseen until they had reached a favourable situation for their onslaught. The Beaver was evidently a thorough expert in such a hunt as this, for he kept on dismounting and making observations, directing his followers here and there, and often approaching pretty near, making retrograde movements, so as to bring them forward again in a more satisfactory position. His last arrangement was to place his following in couples about a hundred yards apart, parallel with the line of march of the herd, which was still invisible to Bart, though on the other side of the ridge in whose valley he sheltered he could hear a strange snorting noise every now and then, and a low angry bellow. "We're to wait his signal, Master Bart, and then ride up the slope here, and go right at the buffler. Don't be afraid, my lad, but pick out the one you mean to have, and then stick to him till you've brought him down with a bullet right through his shoulder." "I'll try not to be afraid, Joses," said Bart; "but I can't help feeling a bit excited." "You wouldn't be good for much if you didn't, my boy," said the frontiersman. "Now then, be ready. Is your rifle all right?" "Yes." "Mind then: ride close up to your bull, and as he gallops off you gallop too, till you reach out with your rifle in one hand and fire." "But am I to ride right up to the herd, Joses?" "To be sure you are, my boy. Don't you be afraid, I tell you. It's only getting over it the first time. Just you touch Black Boy with your heels, and he'll take you right in between a couple of the bulls, so that you can almost reach them on each side. Then you'll find they'll begin to edge off on both sides, and get farther and farther away, when, as I told you before, you must stick to one till you've got him down." "Poor brute!" said Bart, gently. "Poor stuff!" cried Joses. "We must have meat, mustn't we? You wouldn't say poor salmon or poor sheep because it had to be killed. Look out. Here we go." For the Beaver had made a quick signal, and in a moment the hunting party began to ascend the slope leading to the ridge, beyond which Bart knew that the bison were feeding, and most probably in a similar depression to the one in which the horsemen had been hidden. "Look out for yourself," said Joses, raising his rifle; and nerving himself for the encounter, and wondering whether he really was afraid or no, Bart pressed his little cob's sides with his heels, making it increase its pace, while he, the rider, determined to dash boldly into the herd just as he had been told. At that moment Bart's courage had a severe trial, for it seemed as if by magic that a huge bull suddenly appeared before him, the monster having trotted heavily to the top of the ridge, exactly opposite to Bart, and, not ten yards apart, the latter and the bull stopped short to gaze at each other. "What a monster!" thought Bart, bringing his rifle to bear upon the massive head, with the tremendous shoulders covered with long coarse shaggy hair, while the short curved horns and great glowing eyes gave the bull so ferocious an aspect that upon first acquaintance it was quite excusable that Bart's heart should quail and his hands tremble as he took aim, for the animal did not move. Just then Bart remembered that Joses had warned him not to fire at the front of a bison. "He'd carry away half-a-dozen balls, my lad, and only die miserably afterwards in the plain. What you've got to do is to put a bullet in a good place and bring him down at once. That's good hunting. It saves powder and lead, makes sure of the meat, and don't hurt the buffler half so much." So Bart did not fire, but sat there staring up at the bull, and the bull stood above him pawing the ground, snorting furiously, and preparing himself for a charge. Truth must be told. If Bart had been left to himself on this his first meeting with a bison, especially as the beast looked so threatening, he would have turned and fled. But as it happened, he was not left to himself, for Black Boy did not share his rider's tremor. He stood gazing warily up at the bull for a few moments, and then, having apparently made up his mind that there was not much cause for alarm, and that the bison was a good deal of a big bully without a great deal of bravery under his shaggy hide, he began to move slowly up the slope, taking his master with him, to Bart's horror and consternation. "He'll charge at and roll us over and over down the slope," thought Bart, as he freed his feet from the stirrups, ready to leap off and avoid being crushed beneath his nag. Nine yards--eight yards--six yards--closer and closer, and the bison did not charge. Then so near that the monster's eyes seemed to flame, and still nearer and nearer, with the great animal tossing its head, and making believe to lower it and tear up the earth with one horn. "If he don't run we must," thought Bart, at last, as Black Boy slowly and cautiously took him up to within a yard of the shaggy beast, whose bovine breath Bart could smell now as he tossed his head. Then, all at once, the great fellow wheeled round and thundered down the slope, while, as if enjoying the discomfiture, Black Boy made a bound, cleared the ridge, and descended the other slope at full gallop close to the bison's heels. All Bart's fear went in the breeze that swept by him. He felt ready to shout with excitement, for the valley before him seemed to be alive with bison, all going along at a heavy lumbering gallop, with Joses and the Indians in full pursuit, and all as much excited as he. His instructions were to ride right in between two of the bison, single out one of them, and to keep to him till he dropped; and Bart saw nothing but the huge drove on ahead, with the monstrous bull whose acquaintance he had made thundering on between him and the main body. "I must keep to him," thought Bart; "and I will, till I have shot him down." "If I can," he added a few minutes later, as he kept on in the exciting chase. How long it lasted he could not tell, nor how far they went. All he knew was that after a long ride the bull nearly reached the main body; and once mingled with them, Bart felt that he must lose him. But this did not prove to be the case, for Black Boy had had too good a training with cattle-driving. He had been a bit astonished at the shaggy hair about the bison's front, but it did not trouble him much; and without being called upon by spur or blow, no sooner did the bison plunge into the ranks of his fellows as they thundered on, than the gallant little horse made three or four bounds, and rushed close up to his haunch, touching him and the bison on his left, with the result that both of the shaggy monsters edged off a little, giving way so that Bart was carried right in between them, and, as Joses had suggested, there was one moment when he could literally have kicked the animals on either side of his little horse. That only lasted for a moment, though; for both of the bison began to edge away, with the result that the opening grew wider and wider, while, remembering enough of his lesson, Bart kept close to the bull's flank, Black Boy never flinching for a moment; and at last the drove had scattered, so that the young hunter found himself almost all alone on the plain, going at full speed beside his shaggy quarry, the rest of the herd having left him to his fate. And now the bull began to grow daring, making short rushes at horse and rider, but they were of so clumsy a nature that Black Boy easily avoided them, closing in again in the most pertinacious manner upon the bull's flanks as soon as the charge was ended. All at once Bart remembered that there was something else to be done, and that he was not to go on riding beside the bison, but to try and shoot it. Easier said than done, going at full gallop, but he brought his rifle to bear, and tried to get a good aim, but could not; for it seemed as if the muzzle were either jerked up towards the sky or depressed towards the ground. He tried again and again, but could not make sure of a shot, so, checking his steed a little, he allowed the bison to get a few yards ahead, and then galloped forward till he was well on the right side, where he could rest the rifle upon his horse's withers, and, waiting his time, get a good shot. It might have been fired into the earth for all the effect it had, save to produce an angry charge, and it was the same with a couple more shots. Then, all at once, as Bart was re-loading, the poor brute suddenly stood still, panting heavily, made an effort to charge the little horse, stopped, ploughed up the ground with its right horn, and then shivered and fell over upon its flank--dead. Bart leaped from his horse in his excitement, and, running to the bison, jumped upon its shaggy shoulder, took off his cap, waved it above his head, and uttered a loud cheer. Then he looked round for some one to echo his cry, and he saw a widespread stretch of undulating prairie land, with some tufts of bush here, some tall grass there, and beneath his feet the huge game beast that he had fairly run down and shot, while close beside him Black Boy was recompensing himself for his long run by munching the coarse brown grass. And that was all. CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. ALONE IN THE PLAINS. Where were the hundreds of buffalo that had been thundering over the plain? Where was Joses? Where were the Indians? These were the questions Bart asked as he gazed round him in dismay. For the excitement of his gallop was over now, and, though they wanted meat so badly, he felt half sorry that he had shot the poor beast that lay stiffening by his side for he had leaped down, and had, as if by instinct, taken hold of Black Boy's rein, lest he should suddenly take it into his head to gallop off and leave his master in the solitude by himself. For a few minutes there was something novel and strange in the sensation of being the only human being in that vast circle whose circumference was the horizon, seen from his own centre. Then it began to be astonishing, and Bart wondered why he could not see either hunters or buffaloes. Lastly, it began to be painful, and to be mingled with a curious sensation of dread. He realised that he was alone in that vast plain-- that he had galloped on for a long while without noticing in which direction he had gone, and then, half-stunned and wondering as he fully realised the fact that he was lost, he mounted his horse and sat thinking. He did not think much, for there was a singular, stupefied feeling in his head for a time. But this passed off, and was succeeded by a bewildering rush of thought--what was to become of him if he were left here like this--alone--without a friend--hopeless of being found? This wild race of fancies was horrible while it endured, and Bart pressed the cold barrel of his rifle to his forehead in the hope of finding relief, but it gave none. The relief came from his own effort as he tried to pull himself together, laughing at his own cowardice, and ridiculing his fears. "What a pretty sort of a hunter I shall make!" he said aloud, "to be afraid of being left alone for a few minutes in broad daylight, with the sun shining down upon my head, and plenty of beef to eat if I like to light myself a fire." It was ridiculous, he told himself, and that he ought to feel ashamed; for he was ignorant of the fact that even old plainsmen and practised hunters may lose their nerve at such a time, and suffer so from the horror of believing themselves lost that some even become insane. Fortunately, perhaps, Bart did not know this, and he bantered himself until he grew cooler, when he began to calculate on what was the proper thing to do. "Let me see," he said; "they are sure to begin looking for me as soon as I am missed. What shall I do? Fire my rifle--make a fire--ride off to try and find them?" He sat upon his horse thinking. If he fired his rifle or made a fire, he might bring down Indians upon him, and that would be worse than being lost, so he determined to wait patiently until he was able to see some of his party; and no sooner had he come to this determination than he cheered up, for he recollected directly that the Beaver, or some one or other of his men, would be sure to find him by his trail, even though it had been amongst the trampling hoof-marks of the bison. The prints of a well-shod horse would be unmistakable, and with this thought he grew more patient, and waited on. It was towards evening, though, before he had the reward of his patience in seeing the figure of a mounted Indian in the distance; and even then it gave no comfort, for he felt sure that it might be an enemy, for it appeared to be in the very opposite direction from that which he had come. Bart's first idea was to go off at a gallop, only he did not know where to go, and after all, this might be a friend. Then another appeared, and another; and dismounting, and turning his horse and the bison into bulwarks, Bart stood with his rifle resting, ready for a shot, should these Indians prove to be enemies, and patiently waited them as they came on. This they did so quickly and full of confidence that there was soon no doubt as to who they were, and Bart at last mounted again, and rode forward to meet them. The Indians came on, waving their rifles above their heads, and no sooner did they catch sight of the prize the lad had shot than they gave a yell of delight; and then, forgetting their customary stolidity, they began to chatter to him volubly in their own tongue, as they flung themselves from their horses and began to skin the bison as it lay. Bart could not help thinking how thoroughly at home these men seemed in the wilds. A short time before he had been in misery and despair because he felt that he was lost. Here were these Indians perfectly at their ease, and ready to set to work and prepare for a stay if needs be, for nothing troubled them--the immensity and solitude had no terrors for their untutored minds. They had not been at work above an hour before a couple more Indians came into sight, and soon after, to his great delight, Bart recognised Joses and the Beaver coming slowly over a ridge in the distance, and he cantered off to meet them at once. "Thought we lost you, Master Bart," cried Joses, with a grim smile. "Well, how many bufflers did you shoot?" "Only one," replied Bart, "but it was a very big fellow." "Calf?" asked Joses, laughing. "No; that great bull that came over the ridge." "You don't mean to say you ran him down, lad, and shot him, do you?" cried Joses, excitedly. "There he lies, and the Indians are cutting him up," said Bart quietly. Joses pressed his horse's sides with his heels, and went off at a gallop to inspect Bart's prize, coming back in a few minutes smiling all over his face. "He's a fine one, my lad. He's a fine one, Master Bart--finest shot to-day. I tell you what, my lad, if I'd shot that great bull I should have thought myself a lucky man." As he spoke he pointed to the spot, and the Beaver cantered off to have his look, and he now came back ready to nod and say a few commendatory words to the young hunter, whom they considered to have well won his spurs. The result of this first encounter with the bison was that nine were slain, and for many hours to come the party were busy cutting up the meat into strips, which were hung in the sun to dry. Then four of the Indians went slowly off towards the miners' camp at the mountain, their horses laden with the strips of meat, their instructions being to come back with a couple of waggons, which Joses believed they would be able to fill next day. "How far do you think we are from the camp?" asked Bart. "'Bout fifteen miles or so, no more," replied Joses. "You see the run after the bison led us down towards it, so that there isn't so far to go." "Why, I fancied that we were miles upon miles away," cried Bart; "regularly lost in the wilderness." "Instead of being close at home, eh, lad? Well, we shall have to camp somewhere out here to-night, so we may as well pick out a good place." "But where are the other Indians?" asked Bart. "Cutting up the buffler we killed," replied Joses. "Faraway?" "Oh, no; mile or so. We've done pretty well, my lad, for the first day, only we want such a lot to fill so many mouths." A suitable place was selected for the camp, down in a well-sheltered hollow, where a fire was lit, and some bison-meat placed upon sticks to roast. The missing Indians seemed to be attracted by the odour, for just as it was done they all came straight up to camp ready to make a hearty meal, in which their white companions were in no wise behind hand. "Not bad stuff," said Joses, after a long space, during which he had been too busy to speak. "I never ate anything so delicious," replied Bart, who, upon his side, was beginning to feel as if he had had enough. "Ah, there's worse things than roast buffler hump," said Joses; "and now, my lad, if I was you I'd take as big and as long a sleep as I could, for we must be off again before daylight after the herd." "Shall we catch up to them again, Joses?" asked Bart. "Catch up to 'em? why, of course, they haven't gone far." A quarter of an hour later Bart was fast asleep, dreaming that he was hunting a bull bison ten times as big as the one he had that afternoon shot, and that after hunting it for hours it suddenly turned round and began to hunt him, till he became so tired that he lay down and went off fast asleep, when, to his great disgust, when he was so weary, Joses came and began to shake him by the shoulder, saying: "Come, Master Bart, lad, wake up. The buffer's been coming close in to camp during the night." CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. MORE FOOD FOR THE CAMP. For it was nearly day, and Bart jumped up, astonished that he could have slept so long--that is to say, nearly since sundown on the previous evening. A good fire was burning, and buffalo steaks were sizzling and spurting ready for their repast, while the horses were all standing together beneath a little bold bluff of land left sharp and clear by the action of a stream that doubtless flowed swiftly enough in flood time, but was now merely a thread of water. The party were settling down to their meal, for which, in spite of the previous evening's performance, Bart felt quite ready, when the horses suddenly began to snort and show a disposition to make a stampede, for there was a rushing noise as of thunder somewhere on ahead, and as the Indians rushed to their horses' heads, and he made for Black Boy, thinking that there must be a flood rolling down from the hills, he caught a glimpse of what was amiss. For, as Bart stood up, he could see over the edge of the scarped bank beneath which they had made their fire, that the plain was literally alive with bison, which, in some mad insensate fit of dread, were in headlong flight, and their course would bring them right over the spot where the party was encamped. The Beaver saw it, and, prompt in action, he made his plans:--Signing to several to come to his side, while the rest held the horses, he leaped upon the edge of the stream bed just as the bison were within a hundred yards, and Bart and Joses followed him. Then altogether, as the huge herd was about to sweep over them, they uttered a tremendous shout, and all fired together right in the centre of the charging herd. Bart set his teeth, feeling sure that he would be run down and trampled to death; but the effect of the sudden and bold attack was to make the herd separate. It was but a mere trifle, for the bison were so packed together that their movements were to a great extent governed by those behind; but still they did deviate a little, those of the front rank swerving in two bodies to right and left, and that saved the little party. Bart had a sort of confused idea of being almost crushed by shaggy quarters, of being in the midst of a sea of tossing horns and dark hair, with lurid eyes glaring at him; then the drove was sweeping on--some leaping down into the stream bed and climbing up the opposite side, others literally tumbling down headlong, to be trampled upon by those which followed; and then the rushing noise began to die away, for the herd had swept on, and the traces they had left were the trampled ground and a couple of their number shot dead by the discharge of rifles, and lying in the river bed, while another had fallen a few hundred yards farther on in the track of the flight. Fortunately the horses had been held so closely up to the bluff that they had escaped, though several of the bison had been forced by their companions to the edge, and had taken the leap, some ten feet, into the river bed below. It had been a hard task, though, to hold the horses--the poor creatures shivering with dread, and fighting hard to get free. The worst part of the adventure revealed itself to Bart a few moments later when he turned to look for Joses, whom he found rubbing his head woefully beside the traces of their fire, over which the bison had gone in enormous numbers, with the result that the embers had been scattered, and every scrap of the delicious, freshly-roasted, well-browned meat trampled into the sand. "Never mind, Joses," cried Bart, bursting out laughing; "there's plenty more meat cut up." "Plenty more," growled Joses; "and that all so nicely done. Oh, the wilful, wasteful beasts! As if there wasn't room enough anywhere else on the plain without their coming right over us!" "What does the Beaver mean?" said Bart just then. "Mean? Yes; I might have known as much. He thinks there's Injun somewhere; that they have been hunting the buffler and made 'em stampede. We shall have to be off, my lad. No breakfast this morning." It was as Joses said. The Beaver was of opinion that enemies must be near at hand, so he sent out scouts to feel for the danger, and no fire could be lighted lest it should betray their whereabouts to a watchful foe. A long period of crouching down in the stream bed ensued, and as Bart waited he could not help thinking that their hiding-place in the plain was, as it were, a beginning of a canyon like that by the mountain, and might, in the course of thousands of years, be cut down by the action of flowing water till it was as wide and deep. At last first one and then another scout came in, unable to find a trace of enemies; and thus encouraged, a fire was once more made and meat cooked, while the three bison slain that morning were skinned and their better portions cut away. The sun was streaming down with all its might as they once more went off over the plain in search of the herd; and this search was soon rewarded, the party separating, leaving Bart, and Joses together to ride after a smaller herd about a mile to their left. As they rode nearer, to Bart's great surprise, the herd did not take flight, but huddled together, with a number of bulls facing outwards, presenting their horns to their enemies, tossing and shaking their shaggy heads, and pawing up the ground. "Why don't they rush off, Joses?" asked Bart. "Got cows and calves inside there, my boy," replied the frontiersman. "They can't go fast, so the bulls have stopped to take care of them." "Then it would be a shame to shoot them," cried Bart. "Why, they are braver than I thought for." "Not they," laughed Joses. "Not much pluck in a bison, my lad, that I ever see. Why, you might walk straight up to them if you liked, and they'd never charge you." "I shouldn't like to try them," said Bart, laughing. "Why not, my lad?" "Why not? Do you suppose I want to be trampled down and tossed?" "Look here, Master Bart. You'll trust me, won't you?" "Yes, Joses." "You know I wouldn't send you into danger, don't you?" "Of course, Joses." "Then look here, my lad. I'm going to give you a lesson, if you'll learn it." "A lesson in what?" asked Bart. "In buffler, my lad." "Very well, go on; I'm listening. I want to learn all I can about them," replied Bart, as he kept on closely watching the great, fierce, fiery-eyed bison bulls, as they stamped and snorted and pawed the ground, and kept making feints of dashing at their approaching enemies, who rode towards them at a good pace. "I don't want you to listen, my lad," said Joses; "I want you to get down and walk right up to the buffler bulls there, and try and lay hold of their horns." "Walk up to them?" cried Bart. "Why, I was just thinking that if we don't turn and gallop off, they'll trample us down." "Not they, my lad," replied Joses. "I know 'em better than that." "Why, they rushed right over us at the camp." "Yes, because they were on the stampede, and couldn't stop themselves. If they had seen us sooner they'd have gone off to the right, or left. As for those in front, if they charge, it will be away from where they can see a man." "But if I got down and walked towards them, the bulls would come at me," cried Bart. "Not they, I tell you, my lad; and I should like to see you show your pluck by getting down and walking up to them. It would be about the best lesson in buffler you ever had." "But they might charge me, Joses," said Bart, uneasily. "Did I tell you right about 'em before," said Joses, "or did I tell you wrong, my lad?" "You told me right; but you might be wrong about them here." "You let me alone for that," replied Joses, gruffly. "I know what I'm saying. Now, then, will you get down and walk up to 'em, or must I?" "If you'll tell me that I may do such a thing, I'll go up to them," said Bart, slowly. "Then I do tell you, my lad, and wouldn't send you if it wasn't safe. You ought to know that. Now, then, will you go?" For answer Bart slipped off his horse and cocked his rifle. "Don't shoot till they're turning round, my lad," said Joses; "and then give it to that big young bull in the middle there. He's a fine one, and we must have meat for the camp." "But it seems a pity; he looks such a brave fellow," said Bart. "Never mind; shoot him. All the other bulls will be precious glad, for he's the tyrant of the herd, and leads them a pretty life. Now then, on you go." They were now some sixty yards from the herd, and no sooner did Bart take a step forward than Joses leaped lightly from his horse, and rested his rifle over the saddle ready for a sure shot when he should see his chance. Bart tried to put on a bold front, but he felt very nervous, and walked cautiously towards the herd, where ten or a dozen bulls faced him, and now seemed to be furious, snorting and stamping with rage. But he walked on, gaining courage as he went, but ere he had gone half-a-dozen steps six of the bulls made a headlong charge at him, and Bart stood still, ready to fire. "How stupid I was," he said to himself. "They'll go right over me;" and with his heart beating heavily he felt that he must turn and run. "Go on, my lad, go on," shouted Joses, encouragingly; and in spite of himself, and as if bound to obey orders, the lad took a step forward again, when, to his utter amazement, the bison bulls, now not twenty yards away, stopped short, shook their heads at him, made some impotent tosses in the air, pawed up a little grass, and then turned altogether, and trotted back to take up their old position in front of the herd. "Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Joses, behind him. "What did I tell you? Go on, my lad. You've got more heart than a bison." This emboldened Bart, who went steadily on, reducing the distance between him and the herd; and it was a curious sensation that which came upon the lad as he walked nearer and nearer to the furious-looking beasts. Then his heart gave a tremendous throb, and seemed to stand still, for, without warning, and moved as if by one impulse, the bison charged again, but this time not half the distance; and as Bart did not run from them, they evidently thought that some one ought to flee, so they galloped back. Bart was encouraged now, and began to feel plenty of contempt for the monsters, and walking more swiftly, the beasts charged twice more, the last time only about the length of their bodies, and this was when Bart was so near that he could almost feel their hot moist breath. This was the last charge, for as they turned the leading bull evidently communicated his opinion that the young visitor was a stupid kind of being, whom it was impossible to frighten, and the whole herd set off at a lumbering gallop, but as they did so two rifle-shots rang out, and two bulls hung back a little, evidently wounded. Joses led up Bart's horse as the lad reloaded, and put the rein in his hand. "There, off after your own bull, my lad. It was bravely done. I'm off after mine." Then they separated, and after a short, gallop Bart reached his quarry, and better able now to manage his task, he rode up on its right side, and a well-placed bullet tumbled the monstrous creature over on the plain dead. Joses had to give two shots before he disabled his own bison, but the run was very short; and when Bart and he looked round they were not above a couple of hundred yards apart, and the Beaver and a couple of Indians were cantering towards them. That evening their messengers returned with a couple of the white men and two waggons, which were taken in triumph next morning to the camp, heavily laden with bison-meat; and as they came near the mountain, Bart drew rein to stay and watch the curious sight before him, for, evidently in pursuance of the Doctor's idea to make the top of the mountain the stronghold of the silver adventurers, there was quite a crowd of the people toiling up the path up the mountain, all laden with packages and the various stores that had been brought for the adventure. "Been pretty busy since we've been gone, Master Bart," said Joses, grimly. "Won't they come scuffling down again when they know there's meat ready for sharing out." But Joses was wrong, for the meat was not shared out down in the plain, but a second relay of busy hands were set to work to carry the store of fresh food right up the mountain-side to a tent that had already been pitched on the level top, while as soon as the waggons were emptied they were drawn up in rank along with the others close beneath the wall-like rock. CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT. DOWN IN THE SILVER CANYON. The Doctor had not lost any time. Tents had been set up, and men were busy raising sheds of rough stone which were to be roofed over with poles. But at the same time, he had had men toiling away in opening up a rift that promised to yield silver pretty bounteously, for the ancient mine seemed hardly a likely place now, being dangerous, and the principal parts that were easy of access apparently pretty well worked out. This was something of a disappointment, but a trifling one, for the mountain teemed with silver, and then there was the canyon to explore. This the Doctor proposed to examine on the day following Bart's return, for the services of the chief would be required to find a way down unless the descent was to be made by ropes. The Beaver and his interpreter were brought to the Doctor's tent, and the matter being explained, the Indian smiled, and expressed his willingness to show them at once; so a few preparations having been made, and some provisions packed in case that the journey should prove long, Bart, the Doctor, Joses, and the interpreter started, leaving the Beaver in front to lead the way. He started off in a line parallel to the canyon, as it seemed to Bart, and made for a patch of good-sized trees about half a mile from the mountain, and upon reaching this they found that the great river chasm had curved round, so that it was not above a hundred yards away, and Bart began to think that perhaps it would not prove to be so precipitous there. The Beaver, seeing his eagerness, smiled and nodded, and thrusting the bushes aside, he entered the patch of dense forest, which was apparently about half a mile in length, running with a breadth of half that distance along the edge of the canyon. The interpreter followed, and after a few minutes they returned to say that no progress could be made in that direction, so they re-entered the forest some fifty yards lower, and where it looked less promising than before. The chief, however, seemed to be satisfied, and drawing his knife, he hacked and chopped at the projecting vines and thorns so as to clear a way for those who followed; till after winding in and out for some time, he came at length to what seemed little more than a crack in the ground about a yard wide, and pretty well choked up with various kinds of growth. At the first glance it seemed impossible for any one to descend into this rift, but the interpreter showed them that it was possible by leaping down, and directly after there was a loud, rattling noise, and an extremely large rattlesnake glided out of the rift on to the level ground. It was making its escape, when a sharp blow from the chief's knife divided it nearly in two, and he finished his task by crushing its head with the butt of his rifle. "We must be on the look-out, Bart," said the Doctor, "if these reptiles are in any quantity;" and as the Beaver leaped down he followed, then came Bart, and Joses closed up the rear. "I shall get all the sarpents," he grumbled. "You people will disturb them all, and they'll do their stinging upon me." Then the descent became so toilsome that conversation ceased, and nothing was heard but the crackling of twigs, the breaking off of branches, and the sharp, rustling noise that followed as the travellers forced their way through the bushes. This lasted for about fifty yards, and then the descent became very rapid, and the trees larger and less crowded together. The rift widened, too, at times, but only to contract again; and then its sides so nearly approached that their path became terribly obscure, and without so energetic a guide as they possessed it would have required a stout-hearted man to proceed. Every here and there they had to slide down the rock perhaps forty or fifty feet; then there would be a careful picking of the way over some rugged stones, and then another slide down for a while. Once or twice it seemed as if they had come to a full stop, the rift being closed up by fallen masses of earth and stones; but the Beaver mounted these boldly, as if he knew of their existence, and lowered himself gently down the other side, waiting to help the Doctor, for Bart laughingly declined, preferring as he did to leap from stone to stone, and swing himself over cracks that seemed almost impassable. "This is nature's work, Bart," the Doctor said, as he paused to wipe his streaming face. "No former inhabitants ever made this. It is an earthquake-split, I should say." "But it might be easily made into a good path, sir," replied Bart. "It might be made, Bart, but not easily, and it would require a great deal of engineering to do it. How dark it grows! You see nothing hardly can grow down here except these mosses and little fungi." "Is it much farther, sir?" cried Bart. "What! are you tired, my lad?" "No, sir; not I. Only it seems as if we must be near the bottom of the canyon." "No, not yet," said the Beaver in good English, and both the Doctor and Bart smiled, while the chief seemed pleased at his advance in the English tongue being noticed. "Long down--long down," he said in continuation. "The Beaver-with-Sharp-Teeth tells the English chief and the little boy English chief that it is far yet to the bottom of the way to the rushing river of the mountain," said the interpreter, and the chief frowned at him angrily, while Bart felt as if he should like to kick him for calling him a "little boy English chief;" but the stoical Indian calmly and indifferently allowed the angry looks he received to pass, and followed the party down as they laboriously stepped from stone to stone. "There's a pretty good flush o' water here in rainy times, master," shouted Joses. "See how all the earth has been washed out. Shouldn't wonder if you found gold here." "I ought to have thought of that, Joses," replied the Doctor, as he proceeded to examine the crevices of the rock over which he was walking as well as he could for the gloom and obscurity of the place, and at the end of five minutes he uttered a cry of joy. "Here it is!" he exclaimed, holding up two or three rounded nodules of metal. "No; I am wrong," he said. "This light deceives me; it is silver." To his surprise, the Beaver took them from his hand with a gesture of contempt, and threw the pieces away, though they would have purchased him a new blanket or an ample supply of ammunition at Lerisco or any other southern town. "Wait," he said, airing his English once more. "Plenty! plenty!" and he pointed down towards the lower part of the narrow crevice or crack in the rock along which they were passing. "Go on, then," said the Doctor; and once more they continued their descent, which grew more difficult moment by moment, and more dark, and wild, and strange. For now the rock towered up on either side to a tremendous height, and the daylight only appeared as a narrow streak of sky, dappled with dark spots where the trees hung over the rift. Then the sky was shut out altogether, and they went on with their descent in the midst of a curious gloom that reminded Bart of the hour just when the first streaks of dawn are beginning to appear in the morning sky. This went on for what seemed to be some time, the descent growing steeper and more difficult; but at last there came a pleasant rushing sound, which Bart knew must be that of the river. Then there was the loud song of a bird, which floated up from far below, and then all at once a pale light appeared on the side of the rocks, which were now so near together that the sides in places nearly touched above their heads. Five minutes' more arduous descent, and there was glistening wet moss on the rock, and the light was stronger, while the next minute the pure, clear light of day flashed up from an opening that seemed almost at their feet--an opening that was almost carpeted with verdant green, upon which, after dropping from a rock some ten feet high, they stood, pausing beneath an arch of interweaving boughs that almost hid the entrance to the rift, and there they stood, almost enraptured by the beauty of the scene. For the bottom of the canyon had been reached, and its mighty verdure-decked, rocky walls rose up sheer above their heads, appearing to narrow towards the top, though this was an optical delusion. All was bright and glorious in the sunshine. The trees and shrubs were of a vivid green, the grass was brilliant with flowers; and running in serpentine waves through the middle of the lovely prairie that softly sloped down to it on either side, and whose sedges and clumps of trees dipped their tips in its sparkling waters, ran the river, dancing and foaming here over its rocky bed, there swirling round and forming deep pools, while in its clear waters as they approached Bart could see the glancing scales of innumerable fish on its sun-illumined shallows. Hot and weary with their descent, the first act of all present was to dip their cups into the pure clear water, and then, as soon as their feverish thirst was allayed, the Doctor proceeded to test the sand of the river to see if it contained gold, while Bart, after wondering why a man who had discovered a silver mine of immense wealth could not be satisfied, went wandering off along the edge of the river, longing for some means of capturing the fish, whose silver scales flashed in the sunshine whenever they glided sidewise over some shallow ridge of yellow sand that would not allow of their swimming in the ordinary way. Sometimes he was able to leap from rock to rock that stood out of the river bed, and formed a series of barriers, around which the swift stream fretted and boiled, rushing between them in a series of cascades; and wherever one of these masses of water-worn stone lay in the midst of the rapid stream, Bart found that there was always a deep still transparent pool behind; and he had only to approach softly, and bend down or lie upon his chest, with his head beyond the edge, to see that this pool was the home of some splendid fish, a very tyrant ready to pounce upon everything that was swept into the still water. "I wish we were not bothering about gold and silver," thought Bart, as after feasting his eyes upon the fish he turned to gaze upon the beauties of the drooping trees, and spire-shaped pines that grew as regular in shape as if they had been cast in the same mould; while, above all, the gloriously coloured walls of the canyon excited his wonder, and made him long to scale them, climbing into the many apparently inaccessible places, and hunting for fruit, and flower, and bird. Bart had rambled down the river, so rapt in the beauties around him that he forgot all about the Doctor and his search for the precious metals. All at once, as he was seated out upon a mass of stone by the river side, it struck him that, though he had watched the fish a good deal, it would be very pleasant to wade across a shallow to where a reef of rocks stood out of the water, so placed that as soon as he reached them he could leap from one to the other, and settle himself down almost in the very middle of the river; and when there he determined to wait his chance and see if he could not shoot two or three of the largest trout for their meal that night. The plan was no sooner thought of than Bart proceeded to put it in execution. He waded the shallow pretty easily, though he could not help wondering at the manner in which his feet sank down into the soft sand, which seemed to let them in right up to the knees at once, and then to close so tightly round them that, to use his own words, he seemed to have been thrusting his legs into leaden boots. However, he dragged them out, reached the first rock of the barrier or reef, and stood for a few minutes enjoying the beauty of the scene, while the stream rushed by on either side with tremendous force. The next stone was a good five feet away, with a deep glassy flood rushing around. Bart leaped over it, landed safely, and found the next rock quite six feet distant, and a good deal higher than the one he was upon. He paused for a moment or two to think what would be the consequences if he did not reach this stone, and judged that it meant a good ducking and a bit of a swim to one of the shallows below. "But I should get my rifle and cartridges wet," he said aloud, "and that would never do. Shall I? Shan't I?" Bart's answer was to gather himself up and leap, with the result that he just reached the edge of the rock, and throwing himself forward managed to hold on, and then scramble up in safety. Going back's easy enough, thought Bart, as he prepared to bound to the next rock, a long mass, like the back of some monstrous alligator just rising above the flood. Along this he walked seven or eight yards, jumped from block to block of a dozen more rugged pieces, and then bounded upon a roughly semi-circular piece that ended the ridge like a bastion, beyond which the water ran deep and swift, with many an eddy and mighty curl. "This is grand!" cried Bart, whose eyes flashed with pleasure; and settling himself down in a comfortable position, he laid his rifle across his knees with the intention of watching the fish in a shallow just above him, but only to forget all about them directly after, as he sat enjoying the beauties of the scene, and wished that his sisterly companion Maude were there to see how wonderfully grand their mother Nature could be. "If there were no Indians," thought Bart, "and a good large town close by, what a lovely place this would be for a house. I could find a splendid spot; and then one could hunt on the plains, and shoot and fish, and the Doctor could find silver and gold, and--good gracious! What's that?" CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. A NARROW ESCAPE. Bart laid down his rifle as he uttered this very feminine exclamation, and shading his eyes, gazed before him up the river. For as he had been dreamily gazing before him at the shallow where the water ran over a bed of the purest sand for about a hundred yards, it seemed to him that he had seen a dark something roll over, and then for a moment a hand appeared above the water, or else it was the ragged leaf of some great water-plant washed out from its place of growth in the bank. "It looks like--it must be--it is!" cried Bart. "Somebody has fallen in, and is drowning." As he thought this a chill feeling of horror seemed to rob him of the power of motion. And now, as he gazed at the glittering water with starting eyes, he knew that there was no mistake--it was no fancy, for their was a body being rolled over and over by the stream, now catching, now sweeping along swiftly, and nearer and nearer to where the lad crouched. The water before him was shallow enough, and all clear sand, so without hesitation Bart lowered himself down from the rock, stepped on to the sand with the water now to his knees, and was then about to wade towards the body, when he turned sharply and clutched the rough surface of the rock, clinging tightly, and after a brief struggle managed to clamber back panting, and with the perspiration in great drops upon his brow. He knew now what he had only partly realised before, and that was the fact that these beautiful, smooth sands, over which the swift current pleasantly glided, were quicksands of the most deadly kind, and that if he had not struggled back there would have been no chance of escape. Another step would have been fatal, and he must have gone down, for no swimming could avail in such a strait. But Bart, in spite of the shock of his narrow escape, had not forgotten the object for which he had lowered himself from the rock, and gazing eagerly towards the shallows, he saw that it was just being swept off then into the deep water that rushed round the buttress upon which he stood. It was the work of moments. Reaching out as far as he could, he just managed to grip the clinging garment of the object sweeping by, and as he grasped it tightly, so great was the power of the water, that he felt a sudden snatch that threatened to tear the prize from his hand. But Bart held on fiercely, and before he could fully comprehend his position he found that he had overbalanced himself, and the next moment he had gone under with a sullen plunge. Bart was a good swimmer, and though encumbered with his clothes, he felt no fear of reaching the bank somewhere lower down; and, confident in this respect, he looked round as he rose to the surface for the body of him he had tried to save, for as he struck the water he had loosened his hold. There was just a glimmer of something below the surface, and taking a couple of sturdy strokes, Bart reached it before it sank lower, caught hold, and then guiding his burden, struck out for the shore. The rocks from which he had come were already a hundred yards above them, the stream sweeping them down with incredible swiftness, and Bart knew that it would be folly to do more than go with it, striving gently the while to guide his course towards some projecting rocks upon the bank. There was the possibility, too, of finding some eddy which might lead him shoreward; and after fighting hard to get a hold upon a piece of smooth stone that promised well, but from which he literally seemed to be plucked by the rushing water, Bart found himself in a deep, still pool, round which he was swept twice, and, to his horror, nearer each time towards the centre, where, with an agonising pang, he felt that he might be sucked down. Dreading this, he made a desperate effort, and once more reached the very edge of the great, calm, swirling pool just as the bushes on the bank were parted with a loud rush, and the Beaver literally bounded into the water, to render such help that when, faint and exhausted, they all reached a shallow, rocky portion of the stream a quarter of a mile below where Bart had made his plunge, the chief was ready to lift out the object the lad had tried to save, and then hold out his hand and help the lad ashore. The next minute they were striving all they knew to try and resuscitate him whom Bart had nearly lost his life in trying to save, the interpreter joining them to lend his help; and as they worked, trying the plan adopted by the Indians in such a case, the new-comer told Bart how the accident had occurred. His words amounted to the statement that while the speaker and the chief had been collecting sticks for a fire to roast a salmon they had speared with a sharp, forked stick, they had seen the Doctor busily rinsing the sand in a shallow pool of the rocks, well out, where the stream ran fast. They had not anticipated danger, and were busy over their preparations, when looking up all at once, they found the Doctor was gone. Even then they did not think there was anything wrong, believing that while they were busy their leader had gone to some other part among the rocks, till, happening to glance down the stream some minutes later, the Beaver's quick eyes had caught sight of the bright tin bowl which the Doctor had been using to rinse the sand in his hunt for gold, floating on the surface a hundred yards below, and slowly sailing round and round in an eddy. This started them in search of the drowning man, with the result that they reached Bart in time to save both. For after a long and arduous task the Doctor began to show signs of returning life, and at last opened his eyes and stared about him like one who had just awakened from a dream. "What--what has happened?" he asked. "Did--did I slip from the rocks, or have I been asleep?" He shuddered, and struggled into a sitting position, then thoroughly comprehending after a few minutes what had passed: "Who saved me?" he asked quickly. The Beaver seemed to understand the drift of the question, for he pointed with a smile to Bart. "You?" exclaimed the Doctor. "Oh, I did nothing," said Bart modestly. "I saw you floating down towards me, and tried to pull you on a rock; instead of doing which, you pulled me in, and we swam down together till I got near the shore, and then I could do no more. It was the Beaver there who saved us." The Doctor rose and grasped the chief's hand, wringing it warmly. "Where's Joses?" he said sharply. No one knew. "Let us go back," said the Doctor; "perhaps we shall meet him higher up;" and looking faint and utterly exhausted, he followed the two Indians as they chose the most easy part of the valley for walking, the Doctor's words proving to be right, for they came upon Joses toiling down towards the passage leading to the plain with six heavy fish hanging from a tough wand thrust through their gills. They reached the chimney, as Bart christened it, just about the same time as Joses, who stared as he caught sight of the saturated clothes. "What! been in after the fish?" he said with a chuckle. "I got mine, master, without being wet." "We've had a narrow escape from drowning, Joses," said the Doctor, hoarsely. "That's bad, master, that's bad," cried Joses. "It all comes o' my going away and leaving you and Master Bart, there; but I thought a few o' these salmon chaps would be good eating, so I went and snared 'em out with a bit o' wire and a pole." "I shall soon be better, Joses," replied the Doctor. "The accident would have happened all the same whether you had been there or no. Let us get back to the camp." "Are we going to leave them beautiful fish the Beaver and old Speechworks here have caught and cooked?" asked Joses, regretfully. "No," said the Doctor, sinking down upon a stone, "let us rest and eat them. We shall not hurt out here in this bright sunshine, Bart, and we'll wring some of the water out of our clothes, and have less weight to carry." This speech gave the greatest of satisfaction, for the party were ravenously hungry, and the halt was not long enough to do any one hurt, for the broiled salmon was rapidly eaten. Then they started, and after a rather toilsome climb, ascended once more to the level of the plain, and reaching the waggons learned that all was well, before proceeding to the Doctor's quarters in his tent at the top of the mountain. CHAPTER THIRTY. THE BEAVER SNIFFS DANGER. "There's something wrong, Master Bart," said Joses that evening, as Bart, rejoicing in the luxury of well-dried clothes, sat enjoying the beauty of the setting sun, and thinking of the glories of the canyon, longing to go down again and spend a day spearing trout and salmon for the benefit of the camp. "Wrong, Joses!" cried Bart, leaping up. "What's wrong?" "Dunno," said Joses, gruffly, "and not knowing, can't say." "Have you seen anything, then?" "No." "Have you heard of anything?" "No." "Has anybody brought bad news?" "No." "Then what is it?" cried Bart. "Why don't you speak." "'Cause I've nothing to say, only that I'm sure there's something wrong." "But why are you sure?" "Because the Beaver's so busy." "What is he doing?" "All sorts of things. He hasn't said anything, but I can see by his way that he sniffs danger somewhere. He's getting all the horses into the cavern stable, and making his men drive all the cattle into the corral, and that means there's something wrong as sure as can be. Injun smells danger long before it comes. There's no deceiving them." "Let's go and see him, Joses," cried Bart; and, shouldering their rifles, they walked past the drawn-up rows of empty waggons, whose stores were all high up on the mountain. As they reached the entrance to the corral the Indians had driven in the last pair of oxen, while the horses and mules were already in their hiding-place. "Did the Doctor order this?" asked Bart. "Not he, sir: he's busy up above looking at the silver they dug out while we were down in the canyon. It's all the Beaver's doing, Master Bart, and you may take it for granted there's good cause for it all." "Ah, Beaver," said Bart, as the chief came out of the corral, "why is this?" "Indian dog. Apache," said the chief, pointing out towards the plain. Bart turned sharply round and gazed in the indicated direction, but he could see nothing, neither could Joses. The Beaver smiled with a look of superior wisdom. "The Beaver-with-Sharp-Teeth," said the interpreter, coming up, "hears the Indian dog, the enemies of his race, on the wind; and he will not stampede the horses and cattle, but leave the bones of his young men upon the plain." "But where are the Apaches?" cried Bart. "Oh, he means, Joses, that they are out upon the plain, and that it is wise to be ready for them." "Yes; he means that they are out upon the plain, and that they are coming to-night, my lad," said Joses. Then, turning to the chief, he patted the lock of his rifle meaningly, and the chief nodded, and said, "Yes." "Come," he said directly after, and he led the frontiersman and Bart to the entrance of the stable, where his followers were putting the last stones in position. Then he took them to the corral, which was also thoroughly well secured with huge stones; and the Indians now took up their rifles, and resuming their ordinary sombre manner, stood staring indifferently about them. Just then there was a loud hail, and turning quickly round, Bart saw the Doctor waving his hand to them to join him. "Indians are on the plains," exclaimed the Doctor. "I saw them from the top of the castle,"--he had taken to calling the mountain rock "the castle,"--"with the glass. They are many miles away, but they may be enemies, and we must be prepared. Get the horses secured, Joses; and you, interpreter, ask the Beaver to see to the cattle." "All safely shut in, sir," said Bart, showing his teeth; "the Beaver felt that there was danger an hour ago, and everything has been done." "Capital!" cried the Doctor; "but how could he tell?" "That's the mystery," replied Bart, "but he said there were Indian dogs away yonder on the plains." "Indian dog, Apache," said the Beaver, scowling, and pointing towards the plain. "Yes, that's where they are," said the Doctor, nodding; "he is quite right, and this being so, we must get up into our castle and man the walls. Let me see first if all is safe." He walked to both entrances, and satisfied himself, saying: "Yes; they could not be better, but, of course, all depends upon our covering them from above with our rifles, for the Apaches could pull those rocks down as easily as we put them there. Now then, let us go up; the waggons are fortunately empty enough." The Doctor led the way, pausing, however, to mount a waggon and take a good look-out into the plain, which he swept with his glass, but only to close it with a look of surprise. "I can see nothing from here," he said, "but we may as well be safe;" and entering the slit in the rock they called the gateway, he drew aside for the last few "greasers," who had been tending the cattle, to mount before him; then Joses, Bart, the Beaver, and his followers came in. The strong stones kept for the purpose were hauled into place, and the entry thoroughly blocked, after which the various points of defence were manned, the Doctor, with several of the Englishmen, taking the passage and the gate, while the Beaver, with Joses, Bart and the Indians, were sent to man the ramparts, as the Doctor laughingly called them; that is to say, the ingeniously contrived gallery that overlooked the stable cavern and the great corral. "You must not spare your powder if the cattle are in danger," said the Doctor for his last orders. "I don't want to shed blood, but these savages must have another severe lesson if they mean to annoy us. All I ask is to be let alone." Bart led the way, and soon after was ensconced in his rifle-pit, with Joses on one side and the Beaver on the other, the rest of the party being carefully arranged. Then the Doctor spread the alarm up above, and the men armed and manned the zigzag way, but all out of sight; and at last, just as it was growing dark, the great plain fortress looked as silent as if there was not a man anywhere upon its heights, and yet in their various hiding-places there were scores, each with his deadly rifle ready to send a return bullet for every one fired by an enemy. "No firing unless absolutely necessary," was the Doctor's whispered order; and then all was silent while they waited to see if any enemy would really come. They were not long kept in doubt, for just as the heavens had assumed that peculiar rich grey tint that precedes darkness, and a soft white mist was rising from the depths of the canyon, there was seen, as if arising from out of the plain itself, a dark body moving rapidly, and this soon developed itself into a strong band of Indians, all well-mounted in their half-naked war costume, their heads decked with feathers, and each armed with rifle and spear. They were in their war-paint, but still they might be disposed to be friendly; and the Doctor was willing to believe it till he saw through his glass that they wore the skull and cross-bones painted in white upon their broad, brown chests, and he knew that they were of the same tribe as had visited them before, and gone off after so severe a lesson. Still he hoped that they might be friendly, and he was determined that they should not be fired upon without good reason. A few minutes later he changed his opinion, for, evidently well-drilled by their chief, the Indians charged towards where the tilted waggons were drawn up in the shade of the rock, riding with as much precision as a well-drilled body of cavalry. Then, at a sign, they drew rein in a couple of ranks, about fifty yards from the waggons, and presenting their rifles, without word of warning, fired a volley. Another volley followed, and another, the thick smoke rising on the evening air, and then, apparently surprised at there being no replying shot, about twenty galloped up with lowered spears, thrust two or three times through the canvas tilts, and galloped back, the whole band sweeping off the next moment as swiftly and as silently as they came, gradually becoming fainter and more shadowy, and then quite disappearing from the watchers' sight. "They're gone, then?" whispered Bart, drawing a breath of relief. "Yes; they're a bit scared by the silence," said Joses; "but they'll come back again." "When?" said Bart. "Sneaking about in the dark, to stampede the horses and cattle, as soon as ever they know where they are, my boy." "Yes--come back," said the Beaver in a low tone, and he whispered then to the interpreter. "Apache dogs will come back in the night when the moon is up," said the interpreter. "They will steal up to the camp like wolves, and die like dogs and wolves, for they shall not have the horses and oxen." And just then the Beaver, who seemed to comprehend his follower's English, said softly: "It is good." CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. IN THE WATCHES OF THE NIGHT. The hours went by, but no sound or sign came from the plain; the stars started out bright and clear, and in the east there was a faint, lambent light that told of the coming of the moon ere long, but still all seemed silent in the desert. The Englishmen of the party seemed to grow weary, and began talking so loudly that the Doctor sent sternly-worded messages to them to be silent; and once more all was still, save when some one fidgeted about to change his position. "Why can't they keep still?" growled Joses, softly, as he lay perfectly motionless, listening to every sound. "They don't understand how a man's life--ah, all our lives--may depend on their being still. Look at them Injuns. They never move." Joses was quite right. Each Indian had taken his place where appointed, and had not moved since, saving to settle down into a part of the rock. The swarthy, muscular fellows might have been part of the stone for any sign they gave of life. At last the moon rose slowly above the edge of the vast plain, sending a flood of light to bring into prominence every bush and tree, striking on the face of the mountain, and casting its shadow right away over the plain. From where Bart crouched he could not see the moon, for he and his companions were behind rocks, but there was the heavy shadow of the mountain stretching to an enormous distance; and as he watched it, and saw how boldly it was cut, and how striking was the difference between the illumined portions of the plain and those where the shadow fell, he could not help thinking how easily the Indians might creep right up to them and make a bold assault, and this idea he whispered to Joses. "'Taint much in their way, my lad," he whispered. "Injun don't care about night-fighting, it's too risky for them. They don't mind a sneak up--just a few of them to scare the horses and cattle and make 'em stampede, and they don't mind doing a bit o' spy of the enemy's camp in the dark; but it isn't often they'll fight at night." "But you expect them to come, don't you?" "I don't," said Joses; "but the Beaver does, and I give in. He knows best about it, having been so much more among the Injun than I have, and being Injun himself. I daresay they will come, but they won't stampede our horses, I'm thinking, and they won't get the cattle. They may get to know where the ways are into the corral and the horse 'closure, and perhaps find out the path up to the castle, as the master calls it." "But they couldn't unless they came close up, Joses." "Well, what's to hinder 'em from coming close up? They'll crawl through the grass, and from stone to stone in the dark there, and who's to see 'em? My eyes are sharp enough, but I don't know as I should see them coming. Let's ask the Beaver what he says." "The Beaver-with-Sharp-Teeth has heard all you said," whispered the interpreter, "and he says that the Apaches will come before long to find the way into the camp, and then they will go away again if they do not die." A curious silence seemed to fall after this, and Bart felt, as he crouched there watching the plains, that something very terrible was going to happen ere long. At another time he would have been drowsy, but now sleep was the last thing of which he thought, all his nerves being overwrought; and as his eyes swept the wide flat plain, he kept on fancying that sooner or later he would see the Apaches coming up to them with the slow, silent approach of so many shadows. And now it suddenly struck Bart that the shadow of the mountain was shorter than when the moon first rose, and that its edges were more boldly defined, and by this he knew, of course, that the moon was getting higher. At the same time though, soft fleecy clouds began to hide the stars, and at times the shadow of the mountain was blotted out, for the moon was from time to time obscured, and the peculiar indistinctness of the earth seemed to Bart as exactly suited for an enemy's approach. A slight movement at his side told him that this was the Indians' idea as well, and that to a man they were eagerly scanning the plain and the rugged patches of rock beneath. Every here and there the fallen masses were piled-up into buttresses, and it was amongst these that, after failing to keep his attention upon the misty plain, Bart let his gaze wander till at last he became convinced that he could see some dark patch in slow motion, and it was long enough before he could satisfy himself that it was only a stone. He was deceived in this way so often--the various little prominences below him seeming to waver and move, and assume form in accordance with his ideas--that he grew tired of watching, feeling sure at last that there would be nothing to trouble them that night, when suddenly a soft firm hand glided gently and silently as a snake to his wrist, took firm hold of it and pressed it, before rising and pointing down below them into the plain. Bart followed the direction of the pointing hand, but he could see nothing, and he was about to say so, when gradually sweeping past, a few light clouds must have left the moon partially clear, and with the sudden access of light, Bart could make out two somethings close beside the piled-up rocks, and for some moments he could not be sure that they were men prostrated on their chests crawling towards the entrance to the cattle corral, for they seemed to assimilate with the colour of the earth; and though he strained his eyes, not a trace of motion could he detect. By degrees though it seemed to him that one of the figures was a man, the other some shaggy kind of crouching beast, till his eyes grew more educated, and he decided that one was an Indian naked to the waist, while the other was wearing his buffalo robe as an additional means of protection. Bart watched them attentively, and still the figures did not move. At last, however, he saw that they had changed their position, creeping closer to the piled-up rocks, and at last, evidently encouraged by the fact that when the firing took place that evening there was no response, the two savages suddenly rose erect, and went to the piled-up stones that blocked the corral entry. "How did they know the cattle were there?" said Bart, putting his lips close by Joses' ear. "Nose!" whispered back the frontiersman, laconically. "But how could they tell that this was the entrance?" whispered Bart again. "Eyes!" replied Joses; and he then laid his hand upon Bart's lips, as a sign that he must refrain from speaking any more. Bart rather chafed at this, and he was growing excited as well, for it troubled him that Joses and the Beaver should have let these two spies go right up to such a treasure as the cattle corral unchallenged; and though he would not have thought of firing at the savages, he could not help thinking that something ought to be done--what he could not say-- for the low grating noise he now heard was certainly the Indians moving one of the blocks of stone that had so carefully been placed there that afternoon. "They're opening the corral, my lad," said Joses just then, in a hoarse whisper; "and if we don't stop 'em we shall be having 'em drive the whole lot of bullocks and cows right away into the plains, and never see a hoof again." "What's to be done, then?" whispered Bart, whose face was covered with a cold dew, while his cheeks were at fever heat. "Well, my lad, they seem to have found out the way easy enough by crawling over the cattle trail, and it's a very unpleasant thing to do, but I suppose we shall either have to be robbed, or else we must stop 'em; so as the Doctor won't like all our cattle to go, I'm going to stop 'em." "It's very horrible," whispered Bart. "Horrid, my lad; so's having your cattle and horses stole, for if they get one they're bound to have t'other; so is being starved to death; and the worsest of all is being scalped, and that's sure to come if we let them brutes go." "But it is so horrible to shoot them, Joses," panted Bart. "'Tis, my lad, so don't you do it. Leave it to us. Hah! that's a big stone down, and the cattle's beginning to fidget. Now, Beaver, what do you say?" The Beaver answered with his rifle, which gave a sharp report, just as the moon shone out a little more clearly. "Hit!" said Joses, laconically, as they saw quite plainly the two Indians start back from the rocks right out into the clear moonlight, one of them uttering a fierce, hoarse yell, and staggering as if about to fall, when the other sprang forward and caught him by the chest, holding him up, and, as it was plain to see, forming of the body of his wounded companion a shield to protect himself from the bullets of their unseen assailants. "They must not go away and tell tales," muttered Joses, as he took aim; but just then the interpreter's rifle rang out, and the half-nude Indian turned partly round, so that they could see in white paint upon his breast, seeming to gleam horribly in the moonlight, the ghastly skull and cross-bones that seemed to have been adopted as the badge of the tribe. Then he fell back into the arms of his friend, who clasped his arms round him, and backed slowly, keeping the wounded man's face to the firing party, while, as if mechanically, the injured savage kept step. _Crack_ went the Beaver's rifle again, and there was a dull thud telling of a hit, but still the two Indians retreated slowly. _Crack_! went Joses' rifle, and he uttered a low growl. "I'll swear I hit him, but I dunno whether it touched the t'other one--a cowardly skunk, to sneak behind his fellow like that." _Crack_--_crack_--_crack_--_crack_! four rifles uttered their reports, which seemed to reverberate from the face of the mountain; and as the smoke rose slowly, and Bart could gaze at the moonlit plain, and try to read the meaning of the fierce yell of defiance that he had heard arise, he saw that the first Indian lay upon his back with the moon shining upon his ghastly, painted breast, while his companion was rapidly disappearing as he ran swiftly over the plain. The Beaver's rifle rang out again, and he started up into a kneeling position, gazing after the object at which he had fired, while his fingers mechanically reloaded his piece. Then he uttered a low guttural cry of anger, and sank down into his former position. "Missed him, Beaver," said Joses, quietly. "No," was the sharp retort. "He was hit, but he will escape to his dogs of people." This was a tremendous speech for the chief, who, however, seemed to be acquiring the English tongue with remarkable rapidity, the fact being that he had long known a great deal of English, but had been too proud to make use of it till he could speak sufficiently well to make himself understood with ease, and therefore he had brought up the interpreter as a medium between him and his English friends. They watched through the rest of the night, after communicating to the Doctor the reason for the firing, but there was no fresh alarm. The moon rose higher, and shed a clear effulgence that seemed to make the plain as light as day, while the shadow of the mountain appeared to become black, and the ravines and cracks in its sides to be so many dense marks cut in solid silver. Daylight at last, with the silvery moon growing pale and the stars fading out. First a heavy grey, then a silvery light, then soft, roseate tints, followed by orange flecks far up in the east, and then one glorious, golden blaze to herald the sun, as the great orb slowly seemed to roll up over the edge of the plain, and bring with it life, and light, and hope. "Hurrah!" shouted Bart, as he rose from his cramped position in the rifle-pit. "Oh, Joses! my back! my legs! Ah, ah! Oh my! Do rub me! I'm so stiff I can hardly move." "That'll soon go off, my lad. There, I suppose most of us may go off duty now, for I can't see any Injun out on the plains." "Yes: hundreds!" said the Beaver, who had been shading his eyes and gazing attentively over the sunlit expanse of rocky landscape dotted with trees. "Where, Beaver?" said Joses. For answer the chief pointed right away, and both Joses and Bart tried to make out what he meant, but in vain. "Your eyes are younger than mine, Bart," said Joses at last, gruffly. "I can't see nothing--can you?" "No, Joses," replied Bart. "I can see nothing but trees." The Beaver smiled. "Ah, it's all very well for you to laugh," said Joses, bluntly, "but you've got eyes that see round corners of hills, and through clumps of wood and bits of mountain. I never saw such eyes in my life." "My eyes will do," said the Beaver, quietly. "The Apaches are over yonder. They will be on the watch to carry off the cattle or to kill us if they can." "Yes, that's it," said Joses; "if they can." Without another word, the Beaver and half-a-dozen of his followers went down the slope, and climbed the stone gateway, to leap into the plain, where, without a word of instruction, they bore off the body of the fallen Indian, and buried it down in the rift where the other two had been laid, after which they returned to partake of the morning meal that had been prepared--fires being lit in various crevices and chasms off the zigzag way; and this meal being partaken of in the bright morning sunshine, seemed to make the dangers of the night appear trifling, and the spirits of the people rose. In fact, there was no time for despondency. Every man knew when he came out to adventure for silver that he would have to run the risk of encounters with the Indians, and nothing could be more satisfactory than their position. For they had a stronghold where they could set half the Indian nations at defiance, while the savages could not hinder their mining operations, which could be continued on the mountain if they were invested, and at the edge of the canyon or down below, where there was nothing to fear. The greatest danger was with respect to the cattle, which had to be drawn out to pasture along near the side of the lake, and this was done at once, every available man mounting his horse and forming guard, so as to protect the cattle and pasture his horse at the same time. This was carried on for some days, and a careful watch was kept out towards the plain; but though bodies of Indians were seen manoeuvring in the distance, none approached the mountain, whose flag waved out defiance; and as night after night passed without alarm, there were some of the party sanguine enough to say that the Indians had had their lesson and would come no more. "What do you say to that, Beaver?" said Joses, laying his hand upon the chiefs shoulder, and looking him in the face. "Indian dog of Apache never forgives," he replied quietly. "They may come to-day--to-morrow--next moon. Who can tell when the Apache will come and strike? But he will come." "There, Master Bart, hear that!" said Joses. "How about going down into the canyon to spear salmon now?" "The young chief, Bart, can go and spear salmon in the river," said the Beaver, whose face lit up at the prospect of engaging in something more exciting than watching cattle and taking care that they did not stray too far. "The Beaver and his young men will take care the Apaches do not come without warning." CHAPTER THIRTY TWO. SPEARING SALMON UNDER DIFFICULTIES. The undertaking of the chief was considered sufficient, and as a change of food would be very acceptable to the little mining colony, the Doctor made no difficulty about the matter, so the Beaver sent out scouts into the plain to give the earliest notice of the appearance of danger, and to supplement this, the Doctor posted Harry, their English follower, in the best position on the mountain, with the powerful glass, so that he might well sweep the plain, and give an earlier notice of the enemy's coming than even the Indians could supply. The Beaver looked very hard at the telescope, and said that it was very great medicine, evidently feeling for it a high degree of respect. Then certain other arrangements having been made, including the choice of half-a-dozen of the Mexican greasers to carry the salmon that Bart said laughingly they had not yet caught, the fishing party, which included Bart, Joses, the Beaver, the interpreter, and six more Indians, all started for the patch of forest. They were all well-armed, and, in addition to their weapons, the Indians had contrived some ingeniously formed three-pronged spears, keen as lancets, and well barbed, ready for use in the war against the fish. The deep rift leading down to the canyon was soon found, and this time Bart approached cautiously, lest there should be another of the rattle-tailed snakes lurking in a crevice of the rock; but this time they had nothing of the kind to encounter. A magnificent deer, though, sprang from a dense thicket, and Bart's rifle, like that of Joses, was at his shoulder on the instant. "No, no!" cried the Beaver, eagerly; and they lowered the pieces. "Ah!" cried Bart, in a disappointed tone, "I had, just got a good sight of him. I know I should not have missed." "The Beaver's right, Master Bart," said Joses, quietly. "If we fired, the sound might travel to the Apaches, and bring 'em down upon us. Best not, my lad. We'll get the salmon without our guns." They entered the "chimney," and, acquainted now with its peculiarities, the party descended much more quickly than on the previous occasion. The way was clearer, too, the vines and tangled growth having been cleared at the first descent, when pieces of rock were removed, and others placed in clefts and cracks to facilitate the walking, so that, following the same plan again, there was a possibility of the slope becoming in time quite an easy means of communication between the canyon and the plain. They reached the bottom in safety, and probably to make sure that there should be no such accident as that to the Doctor occur unseen, the chief took the precaution of planting the party on rocks out in the stream well in view one of the other, and just where the fish would pass. He then set a couple of his men to watch for danger, and the spearing began. "Now, Master Bart," said Joses, "sling your rifle as I do, and let's see what you can do in spearing salmon." "Hadn't we better leave our rifles ashore there, under the trees?" replied Bart. "Yes, my lad, if you want to be taken at a disadvantage. Why, Master Bart, I should as soon think of leaving an arm or a leg ashore as my rifle. No, my lad, there's no peace times out here; so no matter how inconvenient it may be, sling your piece, and be always prepared for the worst." "Oh, all right, Joses," replied Bart, pettishly, and he slung his rifle. "Oh, it's of no use for you to be huffy, my lad," growled Joses. "You never know when danger's coming. I knowed a young fellow once up in the great north plains. He'd been across the Alkali Desert in a bad time, and had been choked with the heated dust and worried with the nasty salty stuff that had filled his eyes and ears, so that when he got to a branch of one of the rivers up there that was bubbling over rocks and stones just as this may be, and--ah, stoopid! Missed him!" cried Joses, after making a tremendous stab at a salmon. "Well, Joses?" Well! no, it wasn't well. He thought he must have a good swim, and so he took off his clothes, laid his rifle up against the trunk of a big pine-tree, and in he went, and began splashing about in the beautiful cool clear water, which seemed to soften his skin, and melt off quite a nasty salt crust that had made him itchy and almost mad for days. Well, this was so good that he swam farther and farther, till he swam right across to where the stream ran fast right under the steep rock, not so big as this, but still so big and steep that a man could not have climbed up it at the best of times, and--"Got him, my lad?" he exclaimed, as he saw Bart make a vigorous thrust with his spear. "Yes, I have him," cried Bart, excitedly, as he struggled with the vigorous fish, a large one of fourteen or fifteen pounds' weight, one which he successfully drew upon the rocks, and after gloating over its silvery beauty, carried to the shore, returning just in time to see Joses strike down his fish-spear, and drag out a fish a little larger than the first one caught. "That's a fine one, Master Bart," growled Joses, as he set off to step from stone to stone to the bank, while Bart, eager and excited, stood with poised spear, gazing intently down into the clear depths for the next beauty that should come within his reach. Just then one came up stream, saw the danger impending, and went off like a flash through the water, turning slightly on his side and showing his great silvery scales. "Too late for him, Joses," cried Bart. "Ah, you must be sharp with them, my lad, I can tell you," cried his companion. "Well, as I was telling of you, the rock on the opposite side of the river rose up like a wall, and there was just a shelf of stone big enough for a man to land on before he tried to swim back. Those stones, too, were right in the sunshine, and the wall behind them was just the same, and they'd be nice and warm." "How do you know, Joses?" "How do I know? because I've swum across that river often, and it's very cold--so cold that you're glad to get out and have a good warm on the rocks before you try to swim back. Got him again?" "Yes," replied Bart, who had made a successful thrust. "Only a small one though." "Not so bad, my lad; not so bad. He's a good eight or nine pounds. Well, as I was telling you, this young man got out on the bit of a shelf, and was warming himself, when his eyes nearly jumped out of his head, for he saw half-a-dozen Injuns come from among the pine-trees, and one of them, when he saw that young man there, ran loping towards where the gun stood, caught it up, and took a quick aim at him. Now, then-- Ah, I've got you this time," cried Joses, spearing the largest fish yet caught, dragging it out of the water, and taking it ashore. "Fine one, Joses?" cried Bart. "Yes; he's a pretty good one. Ah, you missed him again. It wants a sharp poke, my lad. Well, now then," he added, as Bart, recovered himself after an ineffectual thrust, "what ought that young man to have done, Master Bart?" "Taken a header into the river, dived, and swum for his life." "Right, boy; but he was so scared and surprised that he sat there staring at the Injun, and gave him a chance to fire at him, being so near that the shot whistled by his ear and flattened on the rock behind, and fell on the shelf where he was sitting." "That woke him up, I suppose?" said Bart. "It just did, my lad; and before the Indians knew where he was, he went plop into the river and disappeared, and the Injun ran down to catch him as he came up again." "And," said Bart, quickly, "they didn't catch sight of his head when he came above the water, because he swam up with the eddy into a dark pool among some rocks, and squatted there, with only his nose above the water, till they thought he was drowned, and went, and then he crept out." "Why, how did you know?" growled Joses. "Because you've told me half-a-dozen times before. I recollect now," said Bart, "only you began it in a different way, so that I thought it was a new story; and you were that young man, Joses." "Course I was," growled the other; "but hang me if I tell you a story again." "Never mind, Joses; here's another," cried Bart, laughing. "And here's a bigger one, Master Bart," said Joses, chuckling. "What splendid sport!" cried Bart, as he followed Joses ashore with his prize, and added it to the silvery heap. "Ay, it ain't amiss. We shall give them a reg'lar treat in the camp, that we shall." "Look, Joses, the Beaver's got a monster. He has let it go. What's he bounding ashore for like that?" "Quick, Master Bart--danger!" cried Joses, excitedly, as a warning cry rang along the river. "Look out! This way!" "What's the danger?" cried Bart, leaping ashore and un-slinging his rifle. "Injun, my lad; don't you see 'em? they're coming down the canyon. This way. Never mind the fish; make straight for the chimney. We can hold that again 'em anyhow." _Crack_--_crack_! went a couple of rifles from some distance up the river, and the bullets cut the boughs of the trees above their heads. Bart's immediate idea was to sink down amongst the herbage for cover and return the shot, but the Beaver made a rush at him, shouting, "No, no, no!" and taking his place, began to return the fire of the approaching Indians, bidding Bart escape. "I don't like leaving all that fish after all, Master Bart," said Joses; "they'd be so uncommon good up yonder. Go it, you skunks! fire away, and waste your powder! Yah! What bad shots your savages are! I don't believe they could hit our mountain upstairs there! Hadn't we better stop and drive them back, Beaver, and let the greasers carry away the fish?" _Crack_--_crack_--_crack_! rattled the rifles; and as the faint puffs of smoke could be seen rising above the bushes and rocks high up the canyon, the sounds of the firing echoed to and from the rocky sides till they died away in the distance, and it seemed at last, as the firing grew a little hotter, and was replied to briskly by Joses and the Indians, that fifty or sixty people were firing on either side. The attack was so fairly responded to that the Apaches were checked for the time, and Joses raised himself from the place he had made his rifle-pit, and called to the Mexican greasers to run and pick up the fish, while he and the Indians covered them; but though he called several times, not one responded. "What's come of all them chaps, Master Bart?" he cried. "I think they all got to the chimney, and began to climb up," replied Bart. "Just like 'em," growled Joses. "My word, what a brave set o' fellows they are! I don't wonder at the Injun looking down upon 'em and making faces, as if they was an inferior kind of beast. Ah, would you?" Joses lowered himself down again, for a bullet had whizzed by in unpleasant proximity to his head. "Are you hurt, Joses?" cried Bart, half rising to join him. "Keep down, will you, Master Bart! Hurt me? No. They might hit you. I say, have you fired yet?" "Yes, three times," replied Bart; "but I fired over their heads to frighten them." "Hark at that!" cried Joses; "just as if that would frighten an Injun. It would make him laugh and come close, because you were such a bad shot. It does more harm than good, my lad." _Crack_! Joses' rifle uttered its sharp report just then, and the firing ceased from a spot whence shot after shot had been coming with the greatest regularity, and the rough fellow turned grimly to his young companion. "I don't like telling you to do it, Master Bart, because you're such a young one, and it seems, of course, shocking to say shoot men. But then you see these ain't hardly like men; they're more like rattlesnakes. We haven't done them no harm, and we don't want to do them no harm, but all the same they will come and they'll kill the lot of us if they can; so the time has come when you must help us, for you're a good shot, my lad, and every bullet you put into the Injun means one more chance for us to save our scalps, and help the Doctor with his plans." "Must I fire _at_ them then, Joses?" said Bart, sadly. "Yes, my lad, you must. They're five or six times as many as we are, and they're coming slowly on, creeping from bush to bush, so as to get a closer shot at us. There, I tell you what you do; fire at their chests, aim right at the painted skull they have there. That'll knock 'em down and stop 'em, and it'll comfort you to think that they may get better again." "Don't talk foolery, Joses," cried Bart, angrily, "Do you think I'm a child?" Joses chuckled, and took aim at a bush that stood above a clump of rocks, one from which another Indian was firing regularly; but just then the Beaver's rifle sent forth its bullet, and Bart saw an Indian spring up on to the rocks, utter a fierce yell, shake his rifle in the air, and then fall headlong into the river. "Saved my charge," said Joses, grimly. "There, I won't fool about with you, Master Bart, but tell you the plain truth. It's struggle for life out here; kill or be killed; and you must fight for yourself and your friends like a man. For it isn't only to serve yourself, lad, but others. It's stand by one another out here, man by man, and make enemies feel that you are strong, or else make up your mind to go under the grass." Bart sighed and shuddered, for he more than once realised the truth of what his companion said. But he hesitated no longer, for these savages were as dangerous as the rattlesnakes of the plains, and he felt that however painful to his feelings, however dreadful to have to shed human blood, the time had come when he must either stand by his friends like a man, or slink off like a cur. Bart accepted the stern necessity, and watching the approach of the Indians, determined only to fire when he saw pressing need. The consequence was that a couple of minutes later he saw an Indian dart from some bushes, and run a dozen yards to a rock by the edge of the swift river, disappear behind it, and then suddenly his head and shoulders appeared full in Bart's view; the Indian took quick aim, and as the smoke rose from his rifle the Beaver uttered a low hissing sound, and Bart knew that he was hit. Not seriously apparently, for there was a shot from his hiding-place directly after, and then Bart saw the Indian slowly draw himself up into position again, partly over the top of the rock, from whence he was evidently this time taking a long and careful aim at the brave chief, who was risking his life for the sake of his English friends. Bart hesitated no longer. Joses had said that he was a good shot. He was, and a quick one; and never was his prowess more needed than at that moment, when, with trembling hands, he brought his rifle to bear upon the shoulders of the savage. Then for a moment his muscles felt like iron; he drew the trigger, and almost simultaneously the rifle of the savage rang out. Then, as the smoke cleared away, Bart saw him standing erect upon the rock, clutching at vacancy, before falling backwards into the river with a tremendous splash; and as Bart reloaded, his eyes involuntarily turned towards the rushing stream, and he saw the inanimate body swept swiftly by. "What have I done!" he gasped, as the cold sweat broke out upon his brow. "Horrible! What a deed to do!" and his eyes seemed fixed upon the river in the vain expectation of seeing the wretched savage come into sight again. Just then he felt a touch upon his arm, and turning sharply found himself face to face with the Beaver, whose shoulder was scored by a bullet wound, from which the blood trickled slowly down over his chest. As Bart faced him he smiled, and grasped the lad's hand, pressing it between both of his. "Saved Beaver's life," he said, softly. "Beaver never forgets. Bart is brave chief." Bart felt better now, and he had no time for farther thought, the peril in which they were suddenly appearing too great. For the Beaver pointed back to where the chimney offered the way of escape. "Time to go," the Beaver said. "Come." And, setting the example, he began to creep from cover to cover, after uttering a low cry, to which his followers responded by imitating their leader's actions. "Keep down low, Master Bart," whispered Joses. "That's the way. The chimney's only about three hundred yards back. We shall soon be there, and then we can laugh at these chaps once we get a good start up. We must leave the fish though, worse luck. There won't be so many of 'em to eat it though as there was at first. Hallo! How's that?" The reason for his exclamation was a shot that whizzed by him--one fired from a long way down the canyon in the way they were retreating, and, to Bart's horror, a second and a third followed from the same direction, with the effect that the savages who had attacked first gave a triumphant yell, and began firing quicker than before. "Taken between two fires, Master Bart," said Joses, coolly; "and if we don't look out they'll be up to the chimney before we can get there, and then--" "We must sell our lives as dearly as we can, Joses," cried Bart. "Good, lad--good, lad!" replied Joses, taking deadly aim at one of the Indians up the river, and firing; "but my life ain't for sale. I want it for some time to come." "That's right; keep up the retreat. Well done, Beaver!" This was an account of the action of the chief, who, calling upon three of his men to follow him, dashed down stream towards the chimney, regardless of risk, so as to hold the rear enemies in check, while Bart, Joses, and the other three Indians did the same by the party up stream, who, however, were rapidly approaching now. "I want to know how those beggars managed to get down into the canyon behind us," growled Joses, as he kept on steadily firing whenever he had a chance. "They must have gone down somewhere many miles away. I say, you mustn't lose a chance, my lad. Now then; back behind those rocks. Let's run together." _Crack_--_crack_--_crack_! went the Indians' rifles, and as the echoes ran down the canyon, they yelled fiercely and pressed on, the Beaver's men yelling back a defiance, and giving them shot for shot, one of which took deadly effect. There was a fierce yelling from down below as the savages pressed upwards, and the perils of the whole party were rapidly increasing. "Didn't touch you, did they, Master Bart?" cried Joses from his hiding-place. "No." "Keep cool, then. Now, Injuns! Another run for it--quick!" A dash was made after the Beaver to a fresh patch of cover, and the firing from above and below became so fierce that the position grew one of dire extremity. "Look out, my lads!" cried the frontiersman; "they're getting together for a rush. You must each bring down your man." There was no mistaking the plan of the Indians now, and Bart could see them clustering into some bushes just at the foot of the mountain where it ran perpendicularly down, forming part of the canyon wall. They seemed to be quite thirty strong, and a bold rush must have meant death to the little party, unless they could reach the chimney; and apparently the savages coming up from below had advanced so far that the Beaver had not been able to seize that stronger point. "Keep cool, Master Bart. We must stand fast, and give 'em such a sharp fire as may check them. As soon as we've fired, you make a run for it, my lad, straight for the chimney. Never mind anybody else, but risk the firing, and run in and climb up as fast as you can." "And what about you, Joses?" asked Bart. "I'll stop and cover your retreat, my lad; and if we don't meet again, tell the Doctor I did my best; and now God bless you! good-bye. Be ready to fire." "I'm ready, Joses, and I shan't go," replied Bart firmly. "You won't go? But I order you to go, you young dog!" cried Joses, fiercely. "Well, of all the--look out, Beaver! Fire, Master Bart! Here they come!" Quite a volley rang out as some five-and-twenty Indians came leaping forward, yelling like demons, and dashing down upon the little party. Two of this number fell, but this did not check them, and they were within fifty yards of Bart, who was rapidly re-charging, when Joses roared out: "Knives--knives out! Don't run!" The bravery of the Indians, of Joses, and Bart would have gone as nothing at such a time as this, for they were so terribly outnumbered that all they could have done would have been to sell their lives as dearly as they could. In fact, their fates seemed to be sealed, when help came in a very unexpected way, and turned the tide of affairs. The savage Apaches had reduced the distance to thirty yards now, and Bart felt quite dizzy with excitement as he fired his piece and brought down one of the enemy, whose ghastly, painted breasts seemed to add to the horror of the situation. Another moment or two, and then he knew that the struggle would come, and dropping his rifle, he wrenched his knife from its light sheath, when suddenly there was a fierce volley from on high--a fire that took the Indians in the rear. Six fell, and the rest, stunned by this terrible attack from a fresh quarter, turned on the instant, and fled up the canyon, followed by a parting fire from which a couple more fell. "Hurray!" shouted Joses; "now for the chimney. Come, Master Bart! Now, Beaver--now's your time!" They ran from cover to cover, meeting shot after shot from below, and in a minute were close up with the Beaver and his three men, who were hard pressed by the advancing party. "Now, Beaver," cried Joses, finishing the re-loading of his piece, "what do you say to a bold rash forward--right to the mouth of the chimney?" "Yes," said the chief; "shoot much first." "Good," cried Joses. "Now, Master Bart, fire three or four times wherever there's a chance, and then re-load and forward." These orders were carried out with so good an effect that the Apaches below were for the moment checked, and seemed staggered by this accession of strength, giving the little party an opportunity to make their bold advance, running from bush to bush and from rock to rock until they were well up to the mouth of the chimney, but now in terribly close quarters with their enemies, who held their fire, expecting that the advance would be continued right on to a hand-to-hand encounter. Then there was a pause and a dead silence, during which, in obedience to signs made by the Beaver, first one and then another crept behind the bushes to the mouth of the chimney, entered it, and began to ascend. There was a bit of a fight between Bart and Joses as to which should be first, with the result that the latter went first, then Bart followed, and the Beaver came last. So close was it, though, that as they climbed up the steep narrow rocky slope there was a fierce yell and a rush, and they saw the light slightly obscured as the Apaches dashed by the entrance in a fierce charge, meant to overwhelm them. Directly after the canyon seemed to be filled with yells of disappointment and rage, as the Apaches found that their intended victims had eluded them just as they had vowed their destruction. This gave a minute's grace, sufficient for the fugitives to get some little distance up the narrow rock passage, the Beaver and Bart pausing by the top of the steepest piece of rock about a hundred feet above the entrance, which, overshadowed as it was by trees, had a beautifully peaceful appearance as seen against the broad light of day. All at once there was a loud yell, betokening the fact that the entrance to the chimney had been seen, and directly after a couple of Indians leaped in and began to climb. Bart's and the Beaver's rifles seemed to make but one report, when the narrow chasm was filled with the vapour of exploded gunpowder, and the two Indians fell back. "Climb," whispered the Beaver; and Bart led the way, the chief keeping close behind him, till they were on the heels of the rest of the party, who had halted to see if they could be of use. The entry was now hidden, and they stopped to listen, just as the successive reports of three rifles came echoing up in company with the curious pattering noise made by the bullets, which seemed as if they glanced here and there against the stones, sending fragments rattling down, but doing no farther harm, for the fugitives were not in the line of the shooters' sight. The retreat went on, with the Beaver and Joses taking it in turn to remain behind at a corner of the rift or some barrier of rock to keep the Apaches in check, for they kept coming fiercely on. Now and then they were checked by a shot, but in that dark narrow pass there was but little opportunity for firing, and the chief thing aimed at was retreat. The top was reached at last, and as they neared it, to Bart's great delight, he found that there was a strong party there, headed by the Doctor, who had heard the firing, and came to his followers' relief. The main thing to decide now was how to hold the Apaches in check while a retreat was made to the mountain, where all was right, the horses and cattle being in their strong places, and every one on the alert. The Beaver decided the matter by undertaking, with one of his men, to keep the Apaches from getting to the top till their friends had reached the rock, where they were to be ready to cover his retreat. The Doctor made a little demur at first, but the chief insisted, and after an attempt on the part of the Apaches at fighting their way up had been met by a sharp volley, the whole party, saving the Beaver and one follower, retreated to the rock fortress, where they speedily manned all the points of defence, and waited eagerly for the coming of the chief. But to Bart's horror he did not come, while simultaneously there was a shout from the Doctor and another from Joses, the one giving warning that a very strong body of mounted men was appearing over the plains, the other that the savages from the canyon had fought their way up the chimney, and were coming on to the attack. CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. MOURNING LOST FRIENDS. The failure of the Beaver and his follower to put in an appearance made Bart's heart sink down like lead, while Joses turned to him with a dull look of misery in his eye. "It's bad, Master Bart," he said; "it's very bad. I hates all Indians as hard as ever I can hate 'em, but somehow the Beaver and me seemed to get on well together, and if I'd knowed what was going to happen, it isn't me as would have come away and left him in the lurch." "No, Joses, neither would I," said Bart, bitterly. "But do you think--" "Do I think he has escaped, my lad?" said Joses, sadly, for Bart could not finish his speech; "no, I don't. The savage creatures came upon him sudden, or they knocked him over with a bullet, and he has died like an Indian warrior should." "No," said a sharp voice behind them; and the interpreter stood there with flashing eyes gazing angrily at the speakers. "No," he cried again, "the Beaver-with-Sharp-Teeth is too strong for the miserable Apache. He will come back. They could not kill a warrior like that." "Well, I hope you're right, Mr Interpreter," growled Joses. "I hope you are right, but I shall not believe it till I see him come." There was no time for further conversation, the approach of the enemies being imminent. On the one side, far out on the plain, were scattered bodies of the Apaches, evidently in full war-paint, riding about in some kind of evolution; and, as the Doctor could see with his glass, for the most part armed with spears. Some of the men bore the strong short bow that had been in use among them from time immemorial, and these could be made out by the thick quiver they had slung over their backs. But, generally speaking, each Indian carried a good serviceable rifle, pieces of which they could make deadly use. At present there seemed to be no intention of making an immediate attack, the Indians keeping well out in the plain beyond the reach of rifle-ball, though every now and then they gathered together, and as if at the word of command, swept over the ground like a whirlwind, and seemed bent upon charging right up to the mountain. This, however, they did not do, but turned off each time and rode back into the plain. "Why do they do that, Joses?" said Bart, eagerly. "To see all they can of our defences, my lad. They'll come on foot at last like the others are doing, though I don't think they'll manage a very great deal this time." For the party from the canyon, now swollen to nearly fifty men, were slowly approaching from the direction of the chimney, and making use of every tuft, and bush, and rock, affording Bart a fine view from the gallery of the clever and cunning means an Indian will adopt to get within shot of an enemy. They had crept on and on till they were so near that from the hiding-place in the gallery which protected the cattle Joses could have shot them one by one as they came along, the men being quite ignorant of the existence of such a defence, as nothing was visible from the face of the rock. "I shan't fire so long as they don't touch the horses or the cattle," said Joses, "though perhaps I ought to, seeing how they have killed our best friend. Somehow, though, I don't feel to like shooting a man behind his back as it were. If they were firing away at us the thing would be different. I could fire them it back again then pretty sharply, I can tell you!" Joses soon had occasion to use his rifle, for, finding themselves unmolested, the Indians took advantage of every bit of cover they could find; and when this ceased, and there was nothing before them but a patch of open plain, they suddenly darted forward right up to the cattle corral, the tracks of the animals going to and fro plainly telling them the entrance, as the odour did the men who had crept up by night. Reaching this, they made a bold effort to get an opening big enough for the cattle to be driven out; but without waiting for orders, the Indians in the rock gallery opened fire, and Joses and Bart caught the infection, the latter feeling a fierce kind of desire to avenge his friend the Beaver. The rifle-shots acted like magic, sending the Apaches back to cover, where they began to return the fire briskly enough, though they did no more harm than to flatten their bullets, some of which dropped harmlessly into the rifle-pits, and were coolly appropriated by the Beaver's followers for melting down anew. "Don't shoot, my lads," said Joses before long; "it is only wasting ammunition. They are too well under cover. Let them fire away as long as they like, and you can pick up the lead as soon as they are gone." The interpreter told his fellows Joses' words, and they ceased firing without a moment's hesitation, and crouched there with their white friends, listening to the loud crack of the Apaches' rifles, and the almost simultaneous _fat_! of the bullet against the rock. Not a man in the gallery was injured in the slightest degree, while, as soon as he had got over a sort of nervous feeling that was the result of being shot at without the excitement of being able to return the fire, Bart lay watching the actions of the Apaches, and the senseless way in which they kept on firing at the spots where they fancied that their enemies might be. The cover they had made for was partly scrubby brush and partly masses of stone lying singly in the plain, and it was curious to watch an Indian making his attack. First the barrel of his rifle would be protruded over some rugged part of the stone, then very slowly a feather or two would appear, and then, if the spot was very closely watched, a narrow patch of brown forehead and a glancing eye could be seen. Then where the eye had appeared was shut out by the puff of white smoke that suddenly spirted into the air; and as it lifted, grew thin, and died away, Bart could see that the barrel of the rifle had gone, and its owner was no doubt lying flat down behind the piece of rock, which looked as if no Indian had been near it for years. Five minutes later the muzzle of the rifle would slowly appear from quite a different part, and so low down that it was evident the Apache was lying almost upon his face. This time perhaps Bart would note that all at once a little patch of dry grass would appear, growing up as it were in a second, as the Indian balanced it upon the barrel of his piece, making it effectually screen his face, while it was thin and open enough for him to take aim at the place from whence he had seen flashes of fire come. Bart saw a score of such tricks as this, and how a patch of sage-brush, that looked as if it would not hide a prairie dog began to send out flashes of fire and puffs of smoke, telling plainly enough that there was an Indian safely ensconced therein. The Apaches' attitudes, too, excited his wonder, for they fired face downwards, lying on their sides or their backs, and always from places where there had been no enemy a minute before; while, when he was weary of watching these dismounted men at their ineffective toil, there were their friends out in the plain, who kept on swooping down after leaving their spears stuck in the earth a mile away. They would gallop to within easy range, and then turning their horses' heads, canter along parallel with the mountain, throw themselves sidewise on the flank of their horse farthest from the place attacked, take aim and fire beneath the animal's neck, their own bodies being completely hidden by the horse. It is almost needless to say that the shots they fired never did any harm, the position, the bad aim, and the motion of the horse being sufficient to send the bullets flying in the wildest way, either into the plain or high up somewhere on the face of the rock. All at once this desultory, almost unresisted attack came to an end, as a fresh body of Indians cantered up; many of the latter leading horses, to which the attacking party from the canyon now made their way; and just at sundown the whole body galloped off, without so much as giving the beleaguered ones a farewell shot. Bart watched them go off in excellent order right away out into the plain, the orange rays of the setting sun seeming to turn the half-nude figures into living bronze. Then the desert began to grow dim, the sky to darken, a few stars to peep out in the pale grey arch, and after a party had been deputed to keep watch, this intermission in the attack was seized upon as the time for making a hearty meal, the sentries not being forgotten. "And now, Bart," said the Doctor, "I shall keep the gate myself to-night with half a dozen men. I should like you and Joses to watch in the gallery once more with the Beaver's men. These Apaches will be back again to-night to try and drive off the capital prize, if they could get it, of our cattle." "Very good, sir," said Bart, cheerily; "I'll watch." "So will I," growled Joses. "I wish you had the Beaver to help you. Poor fellow!" said the Doctor, sadly; "his was a wonderful eye. The interpreter will become chief now, I suppose." "Perhaps so, sir," said Bart; "but he says that the Beaver is not dead, but will come back." "I would he spoke the truth," said the Doctor, sadly. "The poor fellow died that we might be saved, like a hero. But there, we have no time for repining. Let us get well into our places before dark. Joses, can you be a true prophet?" he added. "What about, master?" said the frontiersman. "And tell me when I may be allowed to mine my silver in peace?" "No, master, I'm not prophet enough for that. If you killed off all these Injun, you might do it for a time, but 'fore long a fresh lot would have sprung up, and things would be as bad as ever. Seems to me finding silver's as bad as keeping cattle. Come along, Master Bart. I wish we had some of them salmon we speared." "Never mind the salmon," said Bart, smiling; "we escaped with our lives;" and leading the way, they were soon ensconced in their places, watching the darkness creep over the plain like a thick veil, while the great clusters of stars came out and shone through the clear air till the sky was like frosted gold. "Do you think the Apaches will come again to-night?" said Bart, after an hour's silence. "Can't say, my lad. No, I should say. Yes, I should say," he whispered back; "and there they are." As he spoke, he levelled his rifle at the first of two dusky figures that had appeared out in the plain, rising as it were out of the earth; but before he could fire, there was a hand laid upon his shoulder, and another raised the barrel of his piece. "Treachery!" shouted Joses. "Bart, Master Bart, quick--help!" There was a fierce struggle for a few moments, and then Joses loosened his hold and uttered an exclamation full of vexed impatience. "It's all right, Master Bart," he cried. "Here, give us your hand, old Speak English," he added, clapping the interpreter on the shoulder, "it's of no use for us English to think of seeing like you, Injun." "What does all this mean, Joses?" whispered Bart, excitedly, for it seemed marvellous that two Indians should be allowed to come up to their stronghold unmolested. "Why, don't you see, my lad," cried Joses, "Beaver and his chap arn't dead after all. There they are down yonder; that's them." Bart leaped up, and forgetful of the proximity of enemies, waved his cap and shouted: "Beaver, ahoy! hurrah!" The two Indians responded with a cheery whoop, and ran up to the rocks, while Bart communicated the news to the Doctor and his fellow-guardians of the gate, where the lad pushed himself to the front, so as to be the first to welcome the chief back to their stronghold--a welcome the more warm after the belief that had been current since his non-return. The Doctor's grasp was so friendly that the chief seemed almost moved, and nodding quietly in his dignified way, he seated himself in silence to partake of the refreshments pressed upon him by his friends. "The Apache dogs must live longer and learn more before they can teach the Beaver-with-Sharp-Teeth," said the interpreter scornfully to Joses. "I'm very glad of it," said the latter, heartily. "I hate Injun, but somehow I don't hate the Beaver and you, old Speak English, half--no, not a quarter--so much as I do some of 'em. I say, how could you tell in the dark that it was the Beaver?" "Speak English has eyes," said the Indian, accepting the nickname Joses gave him without a moment's hesitation. "Speak English uses his eyes. They see in the dark, like a puma or panther, as much as yours see in the sunshine." "Well, I suppose they do," said Joses, with a sigh. "I used to think, too, that I could see pretty well." They were back now in the gallery, keeping a steady watch out towards the plain, Bart being with them, and all were most anxiously waiting till the Beaver and his companion should come; for they were steadily endeavouring to make up for a very long fast to an extent that would astound an Englishman who saw a half-starved Indian eating for the first time. Joses and Bart made no scruple about expressing their wonder as to how it was that the Beaver had managed to escape; but the interpreter and his fellows hazarded no conjecture whatever. They took it for granted that their clever chief would be sure to outwit the Apaches, and so it had proved. At last the Beaver came gliding softly into their midst, taking his place in the watch as if nothing whatever had happened; and in reply to Bart's eager inquiries, he first of all raised himself up and took a long and searching survey of the plain. This done, he drew the interpreter's attention to something that had attracted his own notice, and seemed to ask his opinion. Then the Indian changed his position, and sheltering his eyes from the starlight, also took a long searching look, ending by subsiding into his place with a long, low ejaculation that ended like a sigh. "That means it is all right," whispered Joses. "Yes; all right," said the Beaver, turning his dark face toward them, and showing his white teeth, as if pleased at being able to comprehend their speech. "Then now tell us, Beaver, how it was you managed to get away." Without following the chief's halting delivery of his adventures in English, it is sufficient to say that he and his follower kept the Apaches back as they made attempt after attempt to ascend the chimney, shooting several, and so maddening the rest that they forgot their usual cautious methods of approach, and at last gathered together, evidently meaning to make a headlong rush. This, the Beaver knew, meant that he and his man must be overpowered or shot down before they could reach the pathway of the natural fort, so cunning was brought to bear to give them time. He knew that the Apaches would be sure to spend some few minutes in firing, partly to distract their enemies and partly to give them the cover of abundant smoke for their approach before they made their final rush; and taking off his feather head-gear, he secured it with a couple of stones so near the top of the rock which sheltered him and his companion that the eagle plumes could be seen by the Apaches as they gathered below. His companion did the same, and as soon as this was done, they broke away from their hiding-place, and ran a few yards over the soft, sandy soil at the edge of the patch of forest, to some rocks, making deep impressions with their moccasins. Then, taking a few bounds along the hard rock, they found a suitable place, and there the Beaver bent down, his follower leaped upon his shoulders, and he walked quickly backward into the forest. "And so made only one trail!" cried Bart, excitedly. "And that one coming from the trees if the Apaches should find it," said Joses, grinning. "Well, you are a clever one, Beaver, and no mistake." To put the chiefs words in plain English: "We had only just got into cover when we heard the firing begin very sharply, and knowing that there was not a moment to lose, we backed slowly in among the trees till it grew stony, and our moccasins made no sign, and then my young man stepped down, and we crept from cover to cover, stopping to listen to the yelling and howling of the dogs, when they found only our feathers; and then we seemed to see them as they rushed off over the plain, meaning to catch us before we were in safety. But the dogs are like blind puppies. They have no sense. They could not find our trail. They never knew that we were behind them in the forest; and there we hid, making ourselves a strong place on the edge of the canyon, where we could wait until they had gone; and when at last they had gone, and all was safe, we came on, and we are here." "They wouldn't have escaped you like that, would they, Beaver?" said Bart, after shaking hands once more warmly, and telling him how glad he was to see him back. "Escaped me?" said the Beaver, scornfully; "there is not one of my young men who would have been trifled with like that." This he said in the Indian tongue, and there was a chorus of assenting ejaculations. "But the Apaches are blind dogs, and children," he went on, speaking with bitter contempt. "They fight because they are so many that one encourages the other, but they are not brave, and they are not warriors. The young men of the Beaver-with-Sharp-Teeth are all warriors, and laugh at the Apaches, for it takes fifty of them to fight one of my braves." He held up his hand to command silence after this, and then pointed out into the plain. "Can you see anything, Joses?" whispered Bart. "Not a sign of anything but dry buffler grass and sage-brush. No; it's of no use, Master Bart, I've only got four-mile eyes, and these Injun have got ten-mile eyes. Natur's made 'em so, and it's of no use to fight again it. 'Tis their natur to, and it arn't our natur to, so all we can do is to use good medicine." "Why, you don't think that physic would do our eyes any good, do you, Joses?" whispered Bart. "Physic, no! I said medicine," chuckled Joses. "Well, what's the difference?" replied Bart. "Difference enough. I meant Injun's medicine, as they call it. Didn't the Beaver say that the master's glass was all good medicine? He thought it was a sort of conjuring trick like their medicine-men do when they are making rain come, or are driving out spirits, as they call it. No; we can't help our eyes being queer, my lad, but we can use medicine spy-glasses, and see farther than the Injun. Hold your tongue; he's making signs." For the Beaver had held up his hand again to command silence. Then he drew Bart towards him, and pointed outwards. "Apache dogs," he whispered. "Young chief Bart, see?" "No," replied the lad, after gazing intently for some time; and then, without a word, he glided off along the narrow, rocky, well-sheltered path, and made his way to the Doctor, who, with his men, was upon the _qui vive_. "Well, Bart, what is it?" he said, eagerly. "The Beaver can see Apaches on the plain." "A night attack, eh?" said the Doctor. "Well, we shall be ready for them. Why have you come--to give us warning?" "I came first for the glass," replied Bart. "I'll send you notice if they appear likely to attack, sir." "Then I hope you will not have to send the notice, my lad," said the Doctor, "for I don't like fighting in the dark." As he spoke he handed the glass, and Bart returned to the gallery. "Are they still there?" he whispered. "Yes; Apache dogs," was the reply. "Good medicine." "They won't find it so," growled Joses, "if they come close up here, for my rifle has got to be hungry again. I'm 'bout tired of not being left peaceable and alone, and my rifle's like me--it means to bite." As he crouched there muttering and thinking of the narrow escapes they had had, Bart carefully focussed the glass, no easy task in the deep gloom that surrounded them; and after several tries he saw something which made him utter an ejaculation full of wonder. "What is it, my lad?" whispered Joses. "The young chief sees the Apache dogs?" said the interpreter. "Yes," exclaimed Bart; "the plain swarms with them." "Then they're gathering for a big attack in the morning," said Joses. "Are they mounted?" "Yes, all of them. I can just make them out crossing the plain." "Well, their horses are only good to run away on," growled Joses; "they can't ride up this mountain. Let me have a look, my lad." Bart handed the glass, and Joses took a long, eager look through, at the gathering of Apache warriors. "I tell you what," he said, "we shall have to look out or they'll drive off every head of cattle and every leg of horse. They're as cunning as cunning, I don't care what any one says, and some of these days we shall open our eyes and find ourselves in a pretty mess." "The Apache dogs shall not have the horses," said the Beaver fiercely. "That's right; don't let 'em have them," cried Joses. "I don't want 'em to go; but here's one thing I should like answered--How are we going to find 'em in pasture with all these wild beasts hanging about, ready to swoop down and make a stampede of it, and drive them off?" "The Beaver's young men will drive the horses and cattle out," said the Beaver, in tones of quiet confidence, "and bring them back again quite safe." "If you can do that," said Joses, "perhaps we can hold out; but it don't seem likely that we shall get much salmon from down in the canyon yonder, which is a pity, for I've took to quite longing for a bit of that; and if the Apache don't take care, I shall have some yet." CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR. HARD PRESSED. Day broke, and the sun rose, displaying a sight that disheartened many of the occupants of the rock; for far out on the plain, and well beyond the reach of rifle-bullets, there was troop after troop of Indian warriors riding gently here and there, as if to exercise their horses, but doubtless in pursuance of some settled plan. The Doctor inspected them carefully through his glass, to try and estimate their numbers, and he quite came to the conclusion that they intended to invest the rock fortress, and if they could make no impression in one way, to try and starve out its occupants. "We must make sure, once for all, Bart, that we have no weak points--no spot by which these Indian wretches can ascend and take us in the rear. Suppose you take the Beaver and two of his men with you, ascend the mountain, and make a careful inspection." "But that would hardly be so satisfactory, sir, as if we went all round the base first to make sure that there is no way up from the plain." "No, I know that," replied the Doctor; "but that is too dangerous a task." "I'm beginning to like dangerous tasks now, sir," said Bart; "they are so exciting." "Well, go then," said the Doctor; "but you must be mounted, or you will have no chance of retreat; and of course you will all keep a sharp look-out in case the Indians swoop down." Bart promised, and went at once to the Beaver and Joses. "I'm to come too, ain't I?" said the latter. "No, you are to help keep guard," was the reply; and very sulkily Joses resumed his place, while the Beaver descended with Bart and four of his men to enter the rock stable and obtain their horses, the rest having to remain fasting while their companions were mounted and ridden out; the Indian ponies in particular resenting the indignity of being shut up again behind the stones by turning round and kicking vehemently. The Apaches were so far distant that Bart was in hopes that they would not see the reconnaissance that was being made, as he rode out at the head of his little Indian party, after fully explaining to the Beaver that which they were to do. His first step was to inspect the part of the mountain on the side that was nearest to the chimney, and the chasm into which they had descended to see the silver on their first coming. This was the shortest portion by far, and it had the advantage of a good deal of cover in the shape of detached rocks, which sheltered them from the eyes of those upon the plain; but all the same, the Beaver posted two of his men as scouts in good places for observing the movements of the foe and giving warning should they approach; the plan being to take refuge beneath the gallery, where they would be covered by the rifles of Joses and their friends. It was not at all a difficult task to satisfy the most exacting that ascent from the plain anywhere from the gallery to the precipice at the edge of the canyon was utterly impossible; and after carefully examining every crack and rift that ran upwards, the little party cantered back, said a few words to Joses, and then prepared for their more risky task, that of examining the mountain round by its northern and more open side, for there was no cover here, and their path would be more fully in view of any watchful eye upon the plain. They drew up by the gateway, and had a few minutes' conversation with the Doctor, who said at parting: "You can soon satisfy yourself, Bart; but give a good look up as you come back, in case you may have missed anything in going." "I'll be careful," said Bart eagerly. "Mind that scouts are left. I should leave at least three at different points on the road. They can give you warning at once. Then gallop back as if you were in a race. We shall be ready to cover you with our rifles if they come on. Now lose no time. Go!" Bart touched Black Boy with his heels, and went off at a canter, but checked his speed instantly, so that he might the more easily gaze up at the mountain-side, while, thoroughly intent upon his task, the Beaver left scouts at intervals, each man backing close in to the rock, and sitting there like a statue watching the plain. No Indians were in sight as far as Bart could see, and he rode slowly on, inspecting every opening in the face of the mountain, and so intent upon his task that he left the care of his person to the chief, whose watchful eyes were everywhere, now pointing out rifts in the rock, now searching the plain. It was a much longer distance, and the importance of the task and its risk gave a piquancy to the ride that made the blood dance through Bart's veins. He could not help a little shudder running through him from time to time, though it was almost more of a thrill, and he could not have told, had he been asked, whether it was a thrill of dread or of pleasure. Perhaps there may have been more of the former, for he kept glancing over his right shoulder from time to time to see if a body of Indians might be sweeping at full gallop over the plain. Half the distance was ridden over, and this gave confidence to the adventurer, who rode more steadily on, and spared no pains to make sure of there being no possibility of the Indians reaching the top from that side. On went Bart, and three-fourths of the way were passed with nothing overhead but towering perpendicular rocks, impossible for anything but a fly to scale. The Indians had been left one after the other as scouting sentries, and at last, when no one was in company with the young adventurer but the Beaver, the edge of the canyon on this side was well in sight, and only a few hundred yards of the rock remained to be inspected. "We will do this, at all events," said Bart, pressing his cob's sides with his heels; and he cantered on, for the face of the mountain was now so perpendicular and smooth that there was no difficulty in determining its safety at a glance. Only about three hundred yards more and then there was the canyon, presenting a barrier of rock so steep, as well as so much higher, that there was nothing to fear on that side. Only these three hundred yards to examine, and the dangerous enterprise was almost as good as done, for every step taken by the horses then would be one nearer to safety. Bart had ridden on, leaving the Beaver, who had drawn rein, looking back at the plain, when suddenly there was a warning cry, and the lad looked over his shoulder to see the Beaver signalling to him. "A minute won't make much difference," thought Bart excitedly, and instead of turning, he pressed his horse's flanks and galloped on to finish his task, rejoicing in the fact as he reached the canyon edge that he had seen every yard of the mountain-side, and that it was even more perpendicular than near the gateway. "Now for back at a gallop," said Bart, who was thrilling with excitement; and turning his steed right on the very edge of the canyon, he prepared to start back, when, to his horror, he saw a party of dismounted Indians rise up as it were from the canyon about a hundred yards away, the place evidently where they had made their way down on the occasion of the attack during the salmon-fishing. With a fierce yell they made for the young horseman, but as Black Boy bounded forward they stopped short. A score of bullets came whizzing about Bart's ears, and as the reports of the pieces echoed from the face of the mountain, the cob reared right up and fell over backwards, Bart saving himself by a nimble spring on one side, and fortunately retaining his hold of the bridle as the cob scrambled up. Just then, as the Indians came yelling on, and Bart in his confusion felt that he must either use rifle or knife, he could not tell which, there was a rush of hoofs, a quick check, and a hand gripped him by the collar. For a moment he turned to defend himself, but as he did so he saw that it was a friend, and his hand closed upon the Indian pony's mane, for it was the Beaver come to his help; and spurring hard, he cantered off with Bart, half running, half lifted at every plunge as the pony made towards where their first friend was waiting rifle in hand. "Let me try--draw him in," panted Bart, gripping his own pony's mane hard as it raced on close beside the Beaver's; and with a hand upon each, he gave a bound and a swing and landed in his saddle, just as the Apaches halted to fire another volley. Black Boy did not rear up this time, and Bart now saw the reason of the last evolution, feeling thankful that the poor beast had not been more badly hit. His hurt was painful enough, no doubt, the rifle-ball having cut one of his ears right through, making it bleed profusely. But there was no time to think of the pony's hurts while bullets were whistling about them from behind; and now Bart could see the cause of the Beaver's alarm signal, and bitterly regretted that he had not responded and turned at once, the few minutes he had spent in continuing his inspection having been a waste of time sufficient to place all of them in deadly peril. For there far out on the plain was a very large body of the Apaches coming on at full gallop, having evidently espied them at last, and they were riding now so as to cut them off from their friends, and drive them back into the corner formed by the mountain and the canyon, a spot where escape would have been impossible even without the presence of a second hostile party of Indians to make assurance doubly sure. "Ride! ride!" the Beaver said hoarsely; and in his excitement his English was wonderfully clear and good. "Don't mind the dogs behind; they cannot hit us as we go." All the same, though, as Bart listened to their yells and the reports of their rifles, he shuddered, and thought of the consequences of one bullet taking effect on horse or man. Every moment, though, as they rode on, the cries of the Apaches behind sounded more faint, but the danger in front grew more deadly. They picked up first one Indian of their party, and then another, the brave fellows sitting motionless in their saddles like groups cut in bronze, waiting for their chief to join them, even though the great body of enemies was tearing down towards them over the plain. Then as the Beaver reached them, a guttural cry of satisfaction left their lips, and they galloped on behind their leader without so much as giving a look at the dismounted Indians who still came running on. A tremendous race! Well it was that the little horses had been well fed and also well-rested for some time past, or they would never have been able to keep on at such a headlong speed, tearing up the earth at every bound, and spurning it behind them as they snorted and shook their great straggling manes, determined apparently to win in this race for life or death, and save their riders from the peril in which they were placed. Another Indian of their scouts reached, and their party increased to five, while two more were ahead waiting patiently for them to come. The wind whistled by their ears; the ponies seemed to have become part of them, and every nerve was now strained to the utmost; but Bart began to despair, the Apaches were getting to be so near. They were well-mounted, too, and it was such a distance yet before the gateway could be reached, where the first prospect of a few friendly shots could be expected to help them to escape from a horrible death. Mercy, Bart knew, there would certainly be none, and in spite of all their efforts, it seemed as if they must lose the race. How far away the next sentry seemed! Try how they would, he seemed to be no nearer, and in very few minutes more Bart knew that the Indians would be right upon them. Involuntarily he cocked his rifle and threw it to the left as if getting ready to fire, but the Beaver uttered an angry cry. "No, no; ride, ride," he said; and Bart felt that he was right, for to fire at that vast body would have been madness. What good would it do him to bring down one or even a dozen among the hundreds coming on, all thirsting for their blood? In response Bart gripped his pony more tightly, rising slightly in the stirrups, and the next moment they were passing their scout like a flash, and he had wheeled his pony and was after them. One more scout to reach, and then a race of a few hundred yards, and rifles would begin to play upon their pursuers; but would they ever reach that next scout? It seemed impossible; but the ponies tore on, and Bart began in his excitement to wonder what would be done if one should stumble and fall. Would the others stop and defend him, or would they gallop away to save their own lives? Then he asked himself what he would do if the Beaver were to go down, and he hoped that he would be brave enough to try and save so good a man. Just then a rifle-shot rang out in their front. It was fired by the scout they were racing to join. It was a long shot, but effective, for an Apache pony fell headlong down, and a couple more went over it, causing a slight diversion in their favour--so much, trifling as it was, that the Beaver and his party gained a few yards, and instead of galloping right down upon them, the Apaches began to edge off a little in the same direction as that in which the fugitives were rushing. And still they tore on, while at last the Apaches edged off more and more, till they were racing on about a hundred yards to their left, afraid to close in lest their prey should get too far ahead; and they were all tearing on in this fashion when the last scout was reached, already in motion to retreat now and lose no time, setting spurs to his pony as the Beaver passed, and then came the final gallop to the gateway for life or death. For now came the question--would the firing of their friends check the Apaches, or would they press on in deadly strife to the bitter end? "Ride close up to the rock below Joses," shouted the Beaver; "then jump off on the right side of your horse, turn and fire;" and with these words, spoken in broken English, ringing in his ears, Bart felt his spirits rise, and uttering a cheer full of excitement, he rose in his stirrups and galloped on. The endurance of the little horses was wonderful, but all the same the peril was of a terrible nature; for the ground which they were forced to take close in under the perpendicular mountain walls was strewn with blocks of stone, some of a large size, that had to be skirted, while those of a smaller size were leaped by the hardy little animals, and Bart felt that the slightest swerve or a fall meant death of the most horrible kind. Twice over his cob hesitated at a monstrous piece of rock. And each time Bart nearly lost his seat; but he recovered it and raced on. Faster and faster they swept along, the Indian followers of the Beaver urging their horses on by voice and action, while the yells of the Apaches acted like so many goads to the frightened beasts. Would they hear them on the rocks? Would Joses be ready? Would the Doctor give their enemies a salutation? Would they never reach the gateway? These and a dozen other such questions passed like lightning through Bart's brain in those moments of excitement; for the rocky gateway, that had seemed so near to the first scout when they set out that morning and cantered off, now appeared at an interminable distance, and as if it would never be reached; while the Apaches, as if dreading that their prey might escape, were now redoubling their efforts, as Bart could see when he glanced over his left shoulder. But on the little band of fugitives swept, so close together that their horses almost touched; and, unless some unforeseen accident occurred--a slip, a stumble, or a fatal shot--they would soon be in comparative safety. The Beaver saw this, and, forgetting his ordinary calm, he rose in his stirrups, half turned and shook his rifle at the great body of Apaches, yelling defiantly the while, and drawing a storm of vengeful cries from the pursuers that rose loud above the thunder of the horses' hoofs. Another two hundred yards, and the gateway would be reached, but it seemed as if that short distance would never be passed; while now the Apaches, taking advantage of the fact that their prey was compelled to swerve to the left, began to close in, bringing themselves in such close proximity that Bart could see the fierce, vindictive faces, the flashing eyes, and eager clutching hands, ready to torture them should they not escape. Another fierce race for the last hundred yards, with the Apaches closing in more and more, and the fate of the fugitives seemed sealed, when, just as the enemy gave a fierce yell of triumph, rising in their stirrups to lash their panting little steeds into an accelerated pace, the rock suddenly seemed to flash, and a sharp sputtering fire to dart from the zigzag path. Some of the pursuing horses and their riders fell, others leaped or stumbled over them; and as Bart and his companions drew rein close in beneath the gallery, forming a breastwork of their blown horses, and began firing with such steadiness as their excitement would allow, a regular volley flashed from above their heads, and Joses and his companions followed it up with a triumphant shout. The effect was marvellous,--the great body of Apaches turning as upon a pivot, and sweeping off at full gallop over the plain, leaving their dead and wounded behind, and pursued by many a deadly shot. This was the result of their surprise, however; for before they had gone far, they turned and charged down again, yelling furiously. "Don't fire till they're close in, Master Bart," Joses shouted from above; "they've come back for their wounded. Give 'em some more to take." Joses was right, for the charge was not pushed home, the savages galloping only sufficiently near to come to the help of their friends; and doubtless they would have carried off their dead, but they encountered so fierce a fire from the rock that they were glad to retreat, leaving several of their number motionless upon the plain. Then they rode on right away, and Bart threw himself down, completely overcome, to lie there panting and exhausted, till the Doctor and Joses came and led him up, the Beaver and his followers staying behind to safely enclose the cavern stable with stones, after they had placed their own ponies and Black Boy within. CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE. HOW JOSES FED THE CATTLE. The Apaches seemed to have had so severe a lesson that they kept right away in the plain for the rest of the day; and as it appeared to be safe, the Indians went out with the Beaver to hide the ghastly relics of the attack, returning afterwards to the Doctor to sit in council upon a very important point, and that was what they were to do about the cattle and horses. This was a terrible question; for while the occupants of the rock fortress could very well manage to hold out for a considerable time if they were beleaguered, having an ample store of meal and dried meat, with an abundant supply of water, the horses and cattle must have food, and to have driven them out to the lake grazing-grounds meant to a certainty that either there must be a severe battle to save them or the Apaches would sweep them off. "The Beaver and his men will watch and fight for the cattle," said the chief, quietly. "I know that, my brave fellow; but if they were yours, would you let them go out to graze?" said the Doctor. "No," replied the chief, smiling; "because the Apache dogs would carry all away." "Well," said the Doctor, "we must not risk it. Let us go out and cut as much grass as we can to-day, for the poor brutes are in great distress." The chief nodded, and said that it was good; and while strict watch was kept from the rock, three parts of the men were hurried down to the nearest point where there was an abundance of buffalo-grass really in a state of naturally-made hay, and bundles of this were cut and carried to the starving cattle. It was a terribly arduous job in the hot sun; and it made the Doctor think that if matters went on in this way, the silver procured from the mine would be very dearly bought. Even with all their efforts there was but a very scanty supply obtained, and of that Joses declared the mules got by far the best share, biting and kicking at the horses whenever they approached, and driving the more timid quite away. Strict watch was kept that night, but no Apaches came, and as soon as it was light the next morning the horizon was swept in the hope of finding that they were gone; but no such good fortune attended the silver-miners, and instead, to the Doctor's chagrin, of their being able to continue their toil of obtaining the precious metal, it was thought advisable to go out and cut more fodder for the starving beasts. The next day came, and no Apaches were visible. "We can drive the cattle out to-day, Beaver," said the Doctor; "the enemy are gone." "The Apache dogs are only hiding," replied the chief, "and will ride down as soon as the cattle are feeding by the lake." The Doctor uttered an impatient ejaculation and turned to Joses. "What do you say?" he asked. "Beaver's right, master." "Well, perhaps he is; but we can't go on like this," cried the Doctor, impatiently. "No silver can be dug if the men are to be always cutting grass. Here! you and Harry and a dozen greasers, drive out half the cattle to feed. Bart, you take the glass, and keep watch from high up the path. The signal of danger directly you see the Indians is the firing of your piece. If you hear that fired, Joses, you are to drive in the cattle directly, and we will cover your return." "Good!" said Joses; and without a word he summoned Harry and a dozen men, going off directly after through the gateway to the corral, saying to Bart, as he went, "Of course, I do as master tells me, but you keep a sharp look-out, Master Bart, or we shan't get them bullocks and cows back." Bart promised, and took his station, rifle across his knee and glass in hand, to look out for danger, while before he had been there long the Beaver came and sat beside him, making Bart hurriedly apologise for the risk he had caused on the day of their adventure, he never having been alone since with the chief. "Master Bart, brave young chief," was all the Indian said; and then he sat silently gazing out over the plain, while no sooner were the cattle released than they set off lowing towards the pastures at a long lumbering gallop, Joses and his followers having hard work to keep up with them, for they needed no driving. In less than half an hour they were all munching away contentedly enough, with Joses and his men on the far side to keep the drove from going too far out towards the plain, and then all at once the Beaver started up, pointing right away. "Apache dogs!" he shouted. Bart brought the glass to bear, and saw that the chief was right. In an instant he had cocked and fired his piece, giving the alarm, when the garrison ran to their places ready to cover the coming in of the cattle-drivers and their herd, Bart, seeing that Joses had taken the alarm, and with his men was trying to drive the feeding animals back. But the Doctor had not calculated upon hunger and bovine obstinacy. The poor brutes after much fasting were where they could eat their fill, and though Joses and his men drove them from one place, they blundered back to another, lowing, bellowing, and getting more and more excited, but never a step nearer to their corral. And all this while the Apaches were coming on at full speed, sweeping over the level plain like a cloud. The Doctor grew frantic. "Quick!" he cried; "we must go out to help Joses and his men. No, it would be madness. Good heavens! what a mistake!" "Let me go with the Beaver and his men to his help," cried Bart excitedly. "My dear Bart, the Indians will be upon them before you could reach the horses, let alone saddle and bridle and mount." "It is true," said the Beaver, sternly. "Chief Joses must fight the Apache dogs himself." Bart knew they could do nothing, and just then he saw that the Mexican greasers had left the cattle, and were coming at full speed as hard as they could run towards the shelter of the rock. "The cattle must go," cried the Doctor, bitterly. "It is my fault. Why does not Joses leave them? Harry is running with the others." "Because poor Joses is too brave a fellow," cried Bart in despair. "I must go to his help; I must indeed," he cried piteously. "Young chief Bart must stay," said the Beaver, sternly, as he seized the lad's arm. "He would be killed. Let chief Joses be. He is wise, and can laugh at the Apache dogs." It was an exciting scene, the Mexican labourers fleeing over the plain, the cattle calmly resuming their grazing, and the cloud of Indian horsemen tearing along like a whirlwind. The occupants of the rock were helpless, and the loss of the cattle was forgotten in the peril of Joses, though murmurs long and deep were uttered by the Englishmen against him who had sent them out to graze. In spite, too, of the terrible loss, there was something interesting and wonderfully exciting in the way in which the Apaches charged down with lowered lances, the cattle calmly grazing till they were near; then lifting up their heads in wonder, and as the Indians swooped round, they wheeled about, and went off at a gallop, but only to be cleverly headed and driven back; and then with the Apaches behind, and forming a crescent which partly enclosed the lumbering beasts, they were driven off at full speed fight away towards the plain, gradually disappearing from their owners' eyes. "Only half as many to feed," said the Doctor, bitterly. "Poor Joses!" groaned Bart with a piteous sigh. "Chief Joses coming," said the Beaver pointing; and to the delight of all they could see Joses in the distance, his rifle shouldered, marching quietly towards them, and evidently making himself a cigarette as he came. Half an hour later he was in their midst. "Couldn't save the obstinate beasts, master," he said quietly; "they were worse than buffler." "But how did you manage to escape?" cried the Doctor and Bart in a breath. "Oh! when I see it was all over, I just crept under a bush, and waited till the Indian dogs had gone." "Chief Joses too wise for Apache dog," said the Beaver, with a calm smile. "Beaver-with-Sharp-Teeth told young chief Bart so." "Yes," said Bart; "and I can't tell you how glad I am." "Just about as glad as I am, Master Bart," said Joses, gruffly. "I did my best, master, and I couldn't do no more." "I know, Joses," replied the Doctor. "It was my fault; and the greasers ran away?" "Lord, master, if we'd had five hundred thousand greasers there it would have been all the same. Nothing but a troop of horse would have brought the obstinate cattle back to their corral. You won't send out no more?" "No, Joses, not a hoof," said the Doctor, gloomily; and he went to his tent on the top of the mountain to ponder upon the gloomy state of their affairs. CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. ANOTHER FRIEND COMES BACK. Watch was set that night as usual, but it came on so pitchy dark that nothing could be made out distinctly a yard away. Bart was with the Beaver and Joses in their old place in the gallery, fortunately well-sheltered by the rock overhead, for the rain came down in torrents, and gurgled loudly as it rushed in and out of the crevices of the rock, finding its way to the plains. "How uneasy the cattle seem!" said Bart once, as they could be heard lowing down below in the darkness. "'Nough to make 'em," said Joses, with a chuckle; "they'll have got wet through to-night, and I daresay there'll be water enough in the stable for the horses to nearly swim." "What a night for the Apaches!" said Bart after a pause, as they crouched there listening to the hiss and roar of the falling waters. "Suppose they were to come; we would never see them." "But they wouldn't in a night like this," replied Joses. "Would they, Beaver?" "Beaver don't know. Beaver think much," replied the chief. "He and his men would come if they wanted their enemies' horses; but perhaps the Apaches are dogs and cowards, and would fear the rain." Towards morning the rain ceased, and with the rising sun the clouds cleared away, the sun shining out brilliantly; and as the Beaver strained over the stones to get a good look into the corral, he uttered a hoarse cry. "What's wrong?" cried Bart and Joses, starting up from their wearying cramped position. "Cattle gone!" cried the Beaver; and a moment later, "Horses are gone!" It was too true; for, taking advantage of the darkness and the heavy rain, the Apaches had sent in a party of their cleverest warriors, who had quietly removed the barriers of rock, and the cattle had followed their natural instinct, and gone quietly out to the last hoof, the horses the same, making their way down to the pastures, where, at the first breaking of day, there was a strong band of mounted men ready to drive them right away into the plain, where the Beaver pointed them out miles away, moving slowly in the bright sunshiny morning. The alarm was given, but nothing could be done, and the Doctor looked with dismay at the lowering faces of the men who had agreed to follow his fortunes out there into the wilderness. "You never said that we should meet with enemies like this," said one man, threateningly. "You said you'd bring us where silver was in plenty, that was all." "And have I not?" cried the Doctor, sharply. "There, now, get to your work; we have plenty of food and water, and we are relieved of the care of our horses and cattle. The Apaches will not interfere with us perhaps now, and when they have gone, we must communicate with Lerisco, and get more cattle. Have we not silver enough to buy all the cattle in the province?" This quieted the complainers, and they went quietly to their tasks, getting out the ore in large quantities, though it was, of course, impossible to touch the vein in the canyon. That had to be reserved for more peaceful times. It almost seemed as if the Doctor was right, and that the Apaches would go away contented now; but when Bart asked the Beaver for his opinion, he only laughed grimly. "As long as we are here they will come," he said. "They will never stay away." "That's pleasant, Joses," said Bart; and then he began to bemoan the loss of his little favourite, Black Boy. "Ah! it's a bad job, my lad," said Joses, philosophically; "but when you go out into the wilderness, you never know what's coming. For my part, I don't think I should ever take to silver-getting as a trade." It was a serious matter this loss of the horses and cattle, but somehow the Indians seemed to bear it better than the whites. Whatever they felt they kept to themselves, stolidly bearing their trouble, while the Englishmen and Mexicans never ceased to murmur and complain. "How is it, Joses?" asked Bart one day, as they two were keeping guard by the gate. "One would think that the Indians would feel it more than any one else." "Well, yes, my lad, one would think so; but don't you see how it is? An Indian takes these things coolly, for this reason; his horse is stolen to-day, to-morrow his turn will come, and he'll carry off perhaps a dozen horses belonging to some one else." Their task was easy, for the Apaches seemed to have forsaken them in spite of the Beaver's prophecy, and several days went by in peace, not a sign being discovered of the enemy. The little colony worked hard at getting silver, and this proved to be so remunerative, that there was no more murmuring about the loss of the cattle and horses; but all the same, Bart saw that the Doctor went about in a very moody spirit, for he knew that matters could not go on as they were. Before long they must have fresh stores, and it was absolutely necessary for communications to be opened up with Lerisco if they were to exist at the mountain. "I don't know what is to be done, Bart," the Doctor said one day. "I cannot ask the Indians to go without horses, and if a message is not conveyed to the governor asking him for help, the time will come, and is not far distant, when we shall be in a state of open revolution, because the men will be starving." "Not so bad as that, sir," cried Bart. "Yes, my dear boy, it is as bad as that I begin to repent of coming upon this silver expedition, for I am very helpless here with these wretched savages to mar all my plans." It was the very next morning that, after being on guard at the gate all night, Bart was thinking of the times when, for the sake of protecting the cattle, they had kept guard in the gallery over the corral and by the cavern stable, when, out in the bright sunshine at the foot of the mountain, he saw a sight which made him rub his eyes and ask himself whether he was dreaming. For there, calmly cropping what herbage he could find, was his old favourite who had carried him so often and so well--Black Boy. "He must have escaped," cried Bart excitedly, "or else it is a trap to get us to go out, and the Indians are waiting for us." With this idea in his mind he called Joses and the Beaver, showing them the little horse, and they both agreeing that it was no trap or plan on the Indians' part, Bart eagerly ran out and called the docile little steed, which came trotting up and laid its soft muzzle in his hand. "If he could only have coaxed the others into coming with him," said Bart, "we should have been all right;" and leading his favourite up to the gateway, he coaxed it to enter and climb carefully up over the rugged stones till it was well in a state of safety, for he felt that he dared not risk leaving it outside. It was almost absurd to see the curious way in which the little horse placed one foot before another, pawing at the road to make sure of its being safe before he trusted it and planted it firmly down, and so on with the others; but Bart's word seemed to give him confidence, and step by step he climbed up till he was in the spot where his master intended him to stay, when he gave a loud snort as if of relief, and stood perfectly still while he was haltered to a peg. CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN. A WILD NIGHT-RIDE. "Yes, Bart," said the Doctor, "we have a horse now for a messenger, but I dare not send you; and if you lent Black Boy to the Beaver and sent him, I am sure the governor would never respond to my appeal for help. I should be doubtful even if I sent Joses." "Black Boy would not let Joses mount him, sir," replied Bart; "he never would." "I dare not send you," said the Doctor again. "Why not, sir? I could find my way," replied Bart excitedly. "Trust me, and I will go and tell the governor such a tale that you will see he will send us a squadron or two of lancers, and horses and cattle for our help." "I do not like sending you, Bart," said the Doctor again, shaking his head. "No, we will wait and see how matters turn out." The silver-mining went on merrily, and universal satisfaction was felt by the people, who were too busy to think of the rate at which provisions were failing; but the Doctor thought of it deeply, and he knew that help must be sent for if they were to exist. They had made two or three excursions into the canyon and brought up large quantities of salmon, and what was dearer to the hearts of all, large pieces of virgin silver; and after the last excursion it had been determined to risk the coming of the Indians, and work the rich deposits of silver below, when, the very next morning at daybreak, the Beaver announced the coming of the Apaches. "And now," he said quietly to Bart and Joses, "the Beaver's young men will get back many horses." "Yes, I thought that," said Joses, "and I'm willing; but take care of yourselves, my lads; there is danger in the task." The Beaver nodded and smiled and went his way, while Bart joined the Doctor, who was eagerly watching the coming savages as they rode slowly across the distant plains. "Bart," he said at last, shutting up his glass, "you are very young." Bart nodded. "But I find myself compelled to send you on a very dangerous errand." "To ride on to Lerisco, sir?" said Bart promptly. "I'm ready, sir; when shall I go?" "Not so fast," said the Doctor, smiling at the lad's bravery and eagerness. "You must make some preparations first." "Oh, that will soon be done, sir; a few pieces of dried bison-meat and a bag of meal, and I shall be ready." "I was thinking," said the Doctor, "that I ought to have sent you off before the Indians came, but I have since thought that it is better as it is, for we know now where our enemies are. If I had sent you yesterday, you might have ridden right into their midst." "That's true, sir. But when shall I go?" "If I send you, Bart, it must be to-night, with a letter for the governor, one which, I am sure, he will respond to, when he hears from you of the enormous wealth of the canyon and the mine. Now go and consult with the Beaver as to the track you had better follow so as to avoid the Indians. I must take a few precautions against attack, for they seem to be coming straight on, and I sadly fear that they mean to invest us now." Bart found the Beaver, who was watching his natural foes, the Apaches, along with Joses, as they talked together in a low tone. "I am going to ride back to Lerisco for help," said Bart suddenly. "You are, my lad?" cried Joses. "I shall go too." "But you have no horse, Joses," said Bart smiling, and the rough fellow smote himself heavily on the chest. "It is good," said the Beaver in his calm way. "My young men would like to ride with you, but it cannot be." "Tell me, Beaver, how I had better go so as to escape the Apaches." "The young chief must ride out as soon as it is dark, and go straight for the lake, and round its end, then straight away. The Apache dogs will not see him; if they do, they will not catch him in the dark. Ugh!" he ejaculated with a look of contempt, "the Apache dogs are no match for the young chief." Bart could not help feeling very strangely excited as the evening approached, the more especially that the Apaches had come close on several hundred strong, and they could see them from the rock lead their horses down into the lake for water, and then remount them again, while a couple of small parties remained on foot, and it seemed possible that they intended to make an attack upon the fortress, for they were all well-armed. "I shouldn't wonder if we have a bad storm to-night, Master Bart," said Joses, as the sun set in a band of curious coppery-coloured clouds, while others began to form rapidly all over the face of the heavens, with a strangely weird effect. "You won't go if the weather's bad, I s'pose, my lad?" "Indeed but I shall," said Bart excitedly. "If I am to go, I shall go." The Doctor came up then and seemed torn by two opinions, speaking out frankly to the lad upon the point. "I don't want to send you, Bart, and yet I do," he said, rather excitedly. "It seems an act of cruelty to send you forth on such a mission, but it is my only hope." "I'll go, sir," cried Bart, earnestly. "I'll go for your sake and Maude's." "Thank you, my brave lad," cried the Doctor with emotion, "but it is going to be a terrible night." "The safer for our purpose, sir," replied Bart. "There, sir, I won't tell a lie, and say I do not feel timid, because I do; but I mean to mount and ride off boldly, and you'll see I'll bring back plenty of help, and as quickly as I can." "But wait another night, my lad; it will be finer perhaps. There is no moon, and if it clouds over, you will never find your way to the lake." "Black Boy will, sir, I know," said Bart laughing. "I am keeping him without water on purpose." "A clever idea, Bart," said the Doctor. "Yes, sir," said Bart, "but it is not mine. It was the Beaver's notion. Those dismounted Indians are coming right in, sir, I think," he said. "Yes, without doubt, Bart," exclaimed the Doctor, watching them. "Yes, they mean to get somewhere close up. There will be an attack to-night." "Then I shall gallop away from it," said Bart laughing, "for I am afraid of fighting." Two hours later, Black Boy, already saddled and bridled, a good blanket rolled up on his saddle-bow, and a bag of meal and some dried bison-flesh attached to his pad behind, was led down the rugged way to the gate, which had been opened out ready. Joses and the Indians were on either side ready with their rifles as the lad mounted in the outer darkness and silence; a few farewell words were uttered, and he made his plans as to the direction in which he meant to ride, which was pretty close in to the side of the mountain for about a quarter of a mile, and then away at right angles for the end of the lake. "Good-bye, my boy, and God be with you," whispered the Doctor, pressing one hand. "Take care of yourself, dear lad," whispered Joses, pressing the other, and then giving way to the chief, who bent forward, saying, in his low, grave voice-- "The Beaver-with-Sharp-Teeth would like to ride beside the brave young chief, but the Great Spirit says it must not be. Go; you can laugh at the Apache dogs." Bart could not answer, but pressed his steed's sides, and the brave little animal would have gone off through the intense darkness at a gallop; but this was not what Bart wished, and checking him, Black Boy ambled over the soft ground, avoiding the rocks and tall prickly cacti with wonderful skill, while Bart sat there, his ears attent and nostrils distended, listening for the slightest sound of danger, as the Indians might be swarming round him for aught he knew; and as he thought it possible that one of the dismounted bodies might be creeping up towards the gateway close beneath the rocks, he found himself hoping that the party had gone in and were blocking up the entrance well with stones. The darkness was terrible, and still there was a strange lurid aspect above him, showing dimly the edge of the top of the mountain. That there was going to be a storm he felt sure--everything was so still, the heat was so great, and the strange oppression of the air foretold its coming; but he hoped to be far on his way and beyond the Indians ere it came, for the flashes of lightning might betray him to the watchful eyes of the enemy, and then he knew it meant a ride for life, as it would not take the Apaches long to mount. All at once, as he was riding cautiously along, his rifle slung behind him, and his head bent forward to peer into the darkness, there was a sharp flash, and what seemed to be a great star of fire struck the rock, shedding a brilliant light which revealed all around for a short distance, as if a light had suddenly appeared from an opening in the mountain; and then, close in beneath where the electric bolt had struck, he could see a knot of about a dozen Indians, who uttered a tremendous yell as they caught sight of him, making Black Boy tear off at full speed, while the next moment there was a deafening crash, and it seemed to Bart that a huge mass of the mountain-side had fallen crumbling down. That one flash which struck the mountain seemed as if it had been the signal for the elements to commence their strife, for directly after the heavens were in a blaze. Forked lightning darted here and there; the dense clouds opened and shut, as if to reveal the wondrously vivid glories beyond, and the thunder kept up a series of deafening peals that nearly drove the little steed frantic. As to his direction, Bart was ignorant. All he knew was that he ought to have ridden some distance farther before turning off, but that awful flash had made the cob turn and bound away at once; and as far as the rider could make out, they were going straight for the lake with the dismounted Indians running and yelling madly behind. At least that was what he fancied, for, as he listened, all he could hear was the deafening roar of the thunder, and the sharp crackling sound of the lightning as it descended in rugged streaks, or ran along the ground, one flash showing him the lake right ahead, and enabling him to turn a little off to the left, so as to pass its end. He knew now that the pealing thunder would effectually prevent the Indians from hearing him, but the lightning was a terrible danger when it lit up the plains; and as he peered ahead, he fully expected to see a body of horsemen riding to cut him off. But no; he went on through the storm at a good swinging gallop, having his steed well now in hand, a few pats on its arching neck and some encouraging words chasing away its dread of the lightning, which grew more vivid and the thunder more awful as he rode on. After a time he heard a low rushing, murmuring sound in the intervals when the thunder was not bellowing, so that it seemed to rock the very foundations of the earth. It was a strange low murmur, that sounded like the galloping of horsemen at a great distance; and hearing this, Bart went off at a stretching gallop, crashing through bushes and tall fleshy plants, some of which pierced the stout leggings that he wore, giving him painful thrusts from their thorns, till, all at once, the rushing sound as of horsemen ceased, and he realised the fact that it was the noise of a storm of rain sweeping across the plain, borne upon the wind to fall almost in sheets of water, though he passed quite upon its outskirts, and felt only a few heavy pattering drops. He had passed the end of the lake in safety, and was beginning to be hopeful that he would escape the Indians altogether, but still he could not understand how it was that the little dismounted body of men had not spread the alarm, for he knew that they must have seen him, the ball of light that struck the rock having lit up everything, and he knew that he seemed to be standing out in the middle of a regular glare of light; but after the deafening crash that followed he had heard no more--no distant shouts--no war-whoop. They would be sure to communicate with their nearest scouts, and their bodies of mounted men would have begun to scour the plain in spite of the storm; for he could not think that the Apaches, who were constantly exposed to the warfare of the elements, would be too much alarmed to attempt the pursuit. "They would not be more cowardly than I am," he said with a half laugh, as he galloped on, with Black Boy going easily, and with a long swinging stride that carried him well over the plain, but whether into safety or danger he could not tell. All he knew was that chance must to a great extent direct his steps, and so he galloped on with the rain left behind and a soft sweet breeze playing upon his face, the oppression of the storm seeming to pass away, while it was plain enough that the thunder and lightning were momentarily growing more distant, as if he were riding right out of it towards where the air and sky were clearer. Before long, he felt sure, the stars would be out, and he could see his way, instead of galloping on in this reckless chance manner, leaving everything to his horse. "I can't quite understand it," said Bart; "there must have been some mistake. Of course, I see now. I was riding straight along under the mountain-side when Black Boy swerved almost right round and went off in another direction: that and the darkness threw them off the track, but they will be sure to strike my trail in the morning. Black Boy's hoof-prints will be plain enough in the soft earth where the rain has not washed them away, and they'll come on after me like a pack of hungry wolves. How I wish I knew whether I was going right! It would be so valuable now to get right away before morning." Bart was getting well ahead, but not in the best direction. He had, however, no occasion to fear present pursuit, for the knot of dismounted Indians whom he had seen close under the rock when the lightning fell lay crushed and mangled amongst a pile of shattered rocks which the electric discharge had sent thundering down, while as Bart was cantering on, full of surmises, where not a drop of rain was falling, the storm seemed to have chosen the mountain as its gathering point, around which the lightning was playing, the thunder crashing, and the water streaming down, so that in places regular cascades swept over the sides of the rock, and tore away like little rivers over the plain. For the time being, then, Bart had nothing to fear from these unfortunate Apaches; but, as the storm lulled, and another little body of dismounted Indians crept cautiously up to the fallen rocks, their object being to surprise the guards at the gateway, they learned from one of their dying friends of the appearance of the young chief upon his little black horse, and that he had gone right off over the plain. The sequel to this was that the dead and dying soon were borne away, and a party was formed at daybreak to take steps that would have made Bart had he known, feel terribly uncomfortable, instead of growing hour by hour more confident and at his ease. CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT. HUNTED BY INDIANS. There's something wonderfully inspiriting in sunshine--something that makes the heart leap and the blood course through the veins, raising the spirits, and sending trouble along with darkness far away into the background. As the sun rose, flooding the wild plains with heat, and Bart drew rein and looked about after his long night-ride to see that there was hardly a cloud in sight, and, better still, no sign of Indians, he uttered a cry of joy, and bent down and smoothed and patted his brave little steed, which had carried him so far and so well. Then he had a good look round, to see if he could make out his position, and, after a while, came to the conclusion that he was not so very far out of his way, and that by turning off a little more to the west he would soon be in the direct route. In patting and making much of Black Boy, Bart found that the little horse was dripping with perspiration, many, many miles running having been got over in the night; and if the journey was to be satisfactorily performed, he knew that there must be some time for rest. With this idea, then, Bart turned a little to the east, and rode straight for a clump of trees about a couple of miles away, a spot that promised ample herbage and shade, perhaps water, while, unseen, he could keep a good look-out over the open plain. The patch Bart reached was only of a few acres in extent, and it offered more than he had bargained for, there being a pleasantly clear pool of water in an open spot, while the grass was so tempting that he had hardly time to remove Black Boy's bit, so eager was he to begin. He was soon tethered to a stout sapling, however, feeding away to his heart's content, while, pretty well wearied out by his long night-ride, Bart sat down beneath a tree where he could have a good view of the plain over which he had ridden, and began to refresh himself, after a good draught of pure cool water, with one of the long dry strips of bison-meat that formed his store. Nature will have her own way. Take away from her the night's rest that she has ordained for man's use and refreshment, and she is sure to try and get it back. And so it was here; for as Bart sat munching there in the delicious restfulness of his position, with the soft warm breeze just playing through the leaves, the golden sunshine raining down amongst the leaves and branches in dazzling streams, while the pleasant whirr and hum of insects was mingled with the gentle _crop, crop, crop_ of Black Boy's teeth as he feasted on the succulent growth around, all tended to produce drowsiness, and in a short time he found himself nodding. Then he roused himself very angrily, telling himself that he must watch; and he swept the plain with his eyes. But, directly after, as he thought that he must hurry on, as it was a case of life and death, he was obliged to own that the more haste he exercised the less speed there would be, for his horse could not do the journey without food and rest. That word rest seemed to have a strange effect upon him, and he repeated it two or three times over, his hand dropping wearily at his side as he did so, and his eyes half closing while he listened to the pleasant hum of the insects all around. Then he started into wakefulness again, determined to watch and wait until a better time for sleep; but as he came to this determination, the sound of the insects, the soft cropping and munching noise made by Black Boy, and the pleasant breath of the morning as it came through the trees, were too sweet to be resisted, and before poor Bart could realise the fact that he was ready to doze, he was fast asleep with his head upon his breast. The sun grew higher and hotter, and Black Boy, who did not seem to require sleep, cropped away at the grass till he had finished all that was good within his reach, after which he made a dessert of green leaves and twigs, and then, having eaten as much as he possibly could, he stood at the end of his tether, with his head hanging down as if thinking about the past night's storm or some other object of interest, ending by propping his legs out a little farther, and, imitating his master, going off fast asleep. Then the sun grew higher still, and reached the highest point before beginning to descend, and then down, down, down, all through the hot afternoon, till its light began to grow softer and more mellow, and the shadows cast by the tree-trunks went out in a different direction to that which they had taken when Bart dropped asleep. All at once he awoke in a fright, for something hard was thumping and pawing at his chest, and on looking up, there was Black Boy right over him, scraping and pawing at him as if impatient to go on. "Why, I must have been asleep," cried Bart, catching at the horse's head-stall and thrusting him away. "Gently, old boy; your hoofs are not very soft. You hurt." He raised himself up, stretching the while. "How tiresome to sleep like that!" he muttered. "Why, I had not finished my breakfast, and--" Bart said no more, but stood there motionless staring straight before him, where the plain was now ruddy and glowing with the rays of the evening sun. For there, about a mile away, he could see a body of some twenty or thirty Indians coming over the plain at an easy rate, guided evidently by one on foot who ran before them with bended head, and Bart knew as well as if he had heard the words shouted in his ear that they were following him by his trail. There was not a moment to lose, and with trembling hands he secured the buckles of his saddle-girths, and strapped on the various little articles that formed his luggage, slung his rifle, and then leading the cob to the other side of the patch of woodland, where he would be out of sight of the Indians, he mounted, marked a spot on the horizon which would keep him in a direct line and the woodland clump as long as possible between him and his enemies, and rode swiftly off. The inclination was upon him to gaze back, but he knew in doing so he might swerve from the bee-line he had marked out, and he resisted the temptation, riding on as swiftly as his cob could go, and wondering all the while why it was that he had not been seen. If he had been with the Apaches he would have ceased to wonder, for while Bart was galloping off on the other side, his well-rested and refreshed horse going faster and faster each minute as he got into swing, the Indians began to slacken their pace. There was no doubt about the trail, they knew: it led straight into the patch of woodland; and as this afforded ample cover, they might at any moment find themselves the objects of some able rifle-firing; and as they had suffered a good deal lately in their ranks, they were extra cautious. The trail showed that only one fugitive was on the way, him of whom their dying comrade had spoken; but then the fugitive had made straight for this clump of trees, and how were they to know but that he expected to meet friends there, whose first volley would empty half the saddles of the little troop? Indians can be brave at times, but for the most part they are cowardly and extremely cautious. Naturally enough an Indian, no matter to what tribe he belongs, has a great objection to being shot at, and a greater objection to being hit. So instead of riding boldly up, and finding out that Bart had just galloped away, the Apaches approached by means of three or four dismounted men, who crept slowly from clump of brush to patch of long grass, and so on and on, till first one and then another reached the edge of the woody place, where they rested for a time, eagerly scanning each leaf and tree-trunk for an enemy at whom to fire, or who would fire at them. Then they crept on a little farther, and found Bart's halting-place and the feeding-ground of the horse. Then they came by degrees upon his trail through the wood, all very fresh, and still they went on cautiously, and like men to whom a false step meant a fatal bullet-wound, while all the time their companions sat there upon the plain, keen and watchful, ready for action at a moment's notice, and waiting the signal to come on. At last this came, for the advanced dismounted scouts had traced the trail to the farther edge of the wood, and seen even the deep impression made by Bart's foot as he sprang upon his steed. Then the mounted Apaches came on at a great rate, dashed through the wood and came up to their friends, who triumphantly pointed to the emerging trail, and on they all went once more, one man only remaining dismounted to lead the party, while the rest followed close behind. This little piece of caution had given poor Bart two hours' start, and when the Indians came out of the wood, he had been a long time out of sight; but there was his plainly marked trail, and that they could follow, and meant to follow to the end. CHAPTER THIRTY NINE. THE END OF THE RACE. Bart had the advantage of his enemies in this, that as long as he could keep well out of sight across the plains, he could go on as fast as his horse could gallop, while they had to cautiously track his every step. Then, too, when he came to dry, rocky, or stony portions, he took advantage thereof, for he knew that his horse's hoof-prints would be indistinct, and sometimes disappear altogether. These portions of the trail gave the Apaches endless difficulty, but they kept on tracking him step by step, and one slip on the lad's part would have been fatal. Fortune favoured him, though, and he pressed on, hitting the backward route pretty accurately, and recognising the various mountains and hills they had passed under the Beaver's guidance; and every stride taken by the untiring little horse had its effect upon the lad, for it was one nearer to safety. Still it was a terrible ride, for it was only after traversing some stony plain or patch of rock that he dared draw rein and take a few hours' rest, while his steed fed and recruited its energies as well. He would lie down merely meaning to rest, and then drop off fast asleep, to awake in an agony of dread, tighten his saddle-girths, and go on again at speed, gazing fearfully behind him, expecting to see the Apaches ready to spring upon him and end his career. But they were still, though he knew it not, far behind. All the same, though, they kept up their untiring tracking of the trail day after day till it was too dark to see, and the moment it was light enough to distinguish a footprint they were after him again. Such a pertinacious quest could apparently have but one result--that of the quarry of these wolves being hunted down at last. The days glided by, and Bart's store of provisions held out, for he could hardly eat, only drink with avidity whenever he reached water. The terrible strain had made his face thin and haggard, his eyes bloodshot, and his hands trembled as he grasped the rein--not from fear, but from nervous excitement consequent upon the little sleep he obtained, his want of regular food, and the feeling of certainty that he was being dogged by his untiring foes. Sometimes to rest himself--a strange kind of rest, it may be said, and yet it did give him great relief--he would spring from Black Boy's back, and walk by his side as he toiled up some rough slope, talking to him and encouraging him with pats of the hand, when the willing little creature strove again with all its might on being mounted; in fact, instead of having to whip and spur, Bart found more occasion to hold in his patient little steed. And so the time went on, till it was as in a dream that Bart recognised the various halting-places they had stayed at in the journey out, while the distance seemed to have become indefinitely prolonged. All the while, too, there was that terrible nightmare-like dread haunting him that the enemy were close behind, and scores of times some deer or other animal was magnified into a mounted Indian in full war-paint ready to bound upon his prey. It was a terrible journey--terrible in its loneliness as well as in its real and imaginary dangers; for there was a good deal of fancied dread towards the latter part of the time, when Bart had reached a point where the Apaches gave up their chase, civilisation being too near at hand for them to venture farther. On two occasions, though, the lad was in deadly peril; once when, growing impatient, the Apaches, in hunting fashion, had made a cast or two to recover the trail they had lost, galloping on some miles, and taking it up again pretty close to where Bart had been resting again somewhat too long for safety, though far from being long enough to recoup the losses he had sustained. The next time was under similar circumstances, the Apaches picking up the sign of his having passed over the plain close beside a patch of rising ground, where he had been tempted into shooting a prong-horn antelope, lighting a fire, and making a hearty meal, of which he stood sadly in need. The meal ended, a feeling of drowsiness came over the feaster, and this time Bart did not yield to it, for he felt that he must place many more miles behind him before it grew dark; so, rolling up the horse-hair lariat by which Black Boy had been tethered, once again he tightened the girths, and was just giving his final look round before mounting, congratulating himself with the thought that he had enough good roasted venison to last him for a couple more days, when his horse pricked his ears and uttered an impatient snort. Just at the same moment there was the heavy thud, thud, thud, of horses' hoofs, and, without stopping to look, Bart swung himself up on his horse's back and urged him forward with hand, heel, and voice. The plain before him was as level as a meadow, not a stone being in sight for miles, so that unless the cob should put his foot in some burrow, there was nothing to hinder his racing off and escaping by sheer speed. There was this advantage too: Black Boy had been having a good rest and feed, while the pursuers had doubtless been making a long effort to overtake him. The Apaches set up a furious yell as they caught sight of their prey, and urged on their horses, drawing so near before Bart could get anything like a good speed on, that they were not more than fifty yards behind, and thundering along as fast as they could urge their ponies. This went on for half a mile, Bart feeling as if his heart was in his mouth, and that the chances of escape were all over; but somehow, in spite of the terrible peril he was in, he thought more about the Doctor and the fate of his expedition than he did of his own. For it seemed so terrible that his old friend and guardian--one who had behaved to him almost as a father should be waiting there day after day expecting help in vain, and perhaps thinking that his messenger had failed to do his duty. "No, he won't, nor Joses neither, think that of me," muttered Bart. "I wish the Beaver were here to cheer one up a bit, as he did that other time when these bloodthirsty demons were after us." "How their ponies can go!" he panted, as he turned his head to gaze back at the fierce savages, who tore along with feathers and long hair streaming behind them, as wild and rugged as the manes and tails of their ponies. As they saw him look round, the Apaches uttered a tremendous yell, intended to intimidate him. It was just as he had begun to fancy that Black Boy was flagging, and that, though no faster, the Indians' ponies were harder and more enduring; but, at the sound of that yell and the following shouts of the insatiate demons who tore on in his wake, the little black cob gathered itself together, gave three or four tremendous bounds, stretched out racing fashion, and went away at a speed that astonished his rider as much as it did the savages, who began to fire at them now, bullet after bullet whizzing by as they continued their headlong flight. The sound of the firing, too, had its effect on Black Boy, whose ear was still sore from the effect of the bullet that had passed through it, and he tore away more furiously than ever, till, finding that the Indians were losing ground, Bart eased up a little, but only to let the cob go again, for he was fretting at being held in, and two or three times a bullet came in pretty close proximity to their heads. When night fell, the Apaches were on the other side of a long low ridge, down whose near slope the cob had come at a tremendous rate; and now that the Indians would not be able to follow him for some hours to come either by sight or trail, Bart altered his course, feeling sure that he could save ground by going to the right instead of to the left of the mountain-clump before him; and for the next few hours he breathed more freely, though he dared not stop to rest. The next day he saw nothing of his pursuers, and the next they were pursuers no longer, but Bart knew it not, flying still for his life, though he was now in the region that would be swept by the lancers of the Government. He did not draw rein till the light-coloured houses of the town were well within sight, and then he was too much excited to do more than ease up into a canter, for his nerves were all on the strain, his cheeks sunken, and his eyes starting and dull from exhaustion. But there was the town at last, looking indistinct, though, and misty. All seemed to be like a dream now, and the crowd of swarthy, ragged Mexicans in their blankets, sombreros, and rugs were all part of his dream, too, as with his last effort he thrust his hand into his breast, and took out the letter of which he was the bearer. Then it seemed to him that, as he cantered through the crowd, with his cob throwing up the dust of the plaza, it was some one else who waved a letter over his head, shouting, "The governor! the governor!" to the swarthy staring mob; and, lastly, that it was somebody else who, worn out with exhaustion now that the task was done, felt as if everything had gone from him, every nerve and fibre had become relaxed, and fell heavily from the cob he rode into the dust. CHAPTER FORTY. BART TRIES CIVILISATION FOR A CHANGE. For some hours all was blank to the brave young fellow, and then he seemed to struggle back into half-consciousness sufficient to enable him to drink from a glass held to his lips, and then once more all was blank for many hours. When Bart awoke from the long sleep, it was to find Maude seated by his bedside looking very anxious and pale; and as soon as she saw his eyes open, she rose and glided from the room, when in a few minutes the governor and a tall quiet-looking fair-haired man, whom Bart had never before seen, entered the apartment. "Ah! my young friend," exclaimed the governor, "how are you now?" "Did you get the letter?" cried Bart excitedly. "Yes; and I have given orders for a strong relief party to be mustered ready for going to our friend's help," replied the governor, "but we must get you strong first." "I am strong enough, sir," cried Bart, sitting up. "I will guide them to the place. We must start at once." "Really, my young friend," said the governor, "I don't think you could manage to sit a horse just yet." "Indeed I can, sir," cried Bart. "I was only tired out, and hungry and sleepy. The Apaches have been hard upon my trail ever since I started a week--ten days--I'm afraid I don't know how many days ago." "Here! you must not get excited," said the tall pale man, taking Bart's hand and feeling his pulse, and then laying his hand upon his forehead. "Are you a doctor?" said Bart eagerly. "Yes," said the governor, "this is Doctor Maclane." "Yes, I am Doctor Maclane," said the tall fair man; "and Miss Maude, yonder, said I was to be sure and cure you." "But I'm not ill," cried Bart, flushing. "No," said Doctor Maclane, "you are not ill. No fever, my lad, nothing but exhaustion." "I'll tell you what to prescribe for that," cried Bart excitedly. "Well, tell me," said the Doctor, smiling. "The same as Doctor Lascelles does, and used to when Joses and he and I had been hunting up cattle and were overdone." "Well, what did he prescribe?" said Doctor Maclane. "Plenty of the strongest soup that could be made," said Bart. "And now, please sir, when may we start--to-night?" "No, no--impossible." "But the Doctor is surrounded by enemies, sir, and hard pushed; every hour will be like so much suffering to him till he is relieved." "To-morrow night, my lad, is the very earliest time we can be ready. The men could set out at once, but we must have store waggons prepared, and a sufficiency of things to enable the Doctor to hold his own when these savage beasts have been tamed down. They do not deserve to be called men." "But you will lose no time, sir?" cried Bart. "Not a minute, my lad; and so you had better eat and sleep all you can till we are quite ready to start." "But you will not let them go without me, sir?" cried Bart imploringly. "Not likely, my lad, that I should send my men out into the desert without a guide. There! I think he may get up, Doctor, eh?" "Get up! yes," said the Doctor, laughing. "He has a constitution like a horse. Feed well and sleep well, my lad, and lie down a good deal in one of the waggons on your way back." "Oh, no, sir, I must ride." "No, my lad, you must do as the Doctor advises you," said the governor, sternly. "Besides, your horse will want all the rest it can have after so terrible a ride as you seem to have had." "Yes, sir," said Bart, who saw how much reason there was in the advice, "I will do what you wish." "That's right, my lad," said the governor. "Now then we will leave you, and you may dress and join us in the next room, where Donna Maude is, like me, very anxious to learn all about the Doctor's adventures and your own. You can tell us and rest as well." Bart was not long in dressing, and as he did so, he began to realise how terribly worn and travel-stained his rough hunting costume had become. It was a subject that he had never thought of out in the plains, for what did dress matter so long as it was a stout covering that would protect his body from the thorns? But now that he was to appear before the governor's lady and Maude, he felt a curious kind of shame that made him at last sit down in a chair, asking himself whether he had not better go off and hide somewhere--anywhere, so as to be out of his present quandary. Sitting down in a chair too! How strange it seemed! He had not seated himself in a chair now for a very, very long time, and it seemed almost tiresome and awkward; but all the same it did nothing to help him out of his dilemma. "Whatever shall I do?" thought Bart. "And how wretched it is for me to be waiting here when the Doctor is perhaps in a terrible state, expecting help!" "He is in safety, though," he mused the next minute, "for nothing but neglect would make the place unsafe. How glad I am that I ran that risk, and went all round to make sure that there was no other way up to the mountain-top!" Just then there was a soft tapping at the door, and a voice said-- "Are you ready to come, Bart? The governor is waiting." "Yes--no, yes--no," cried Bart, in confusion, as he ran and opened the door. "I cannot come, Maude. Tell them I cannot come." "You cannot come!" she cried, wonderingly. "And why not, pray?" "Why not! Just look at my miserable clothes. I'm only fit to go and have dinner with the greasers." Maude laughed and took hold of his hand. "You don't know what our friends are like," she said, merrily. "They know how bravely you rode over the plains with dear father's message, and they don't expect you to be dressed in velvet and silver like a Mexican Don. Come along, sir, at once." "Must I?" said Bart, shrinkingly. "Must you! Why, of course, you foolish fellow! What does it matter about your clothes?" Bart thought that it mattered a great deal, but he said no more, only ruefully followed Maude into the next room, where he met with so pleasantly cordial a reception that he forgot all his troubles about garments, and thoroughly enjoyed the meal spread before him whenever he could drag his mind away from thoughts of the Doctor in the desert waiting for help. Then he had to relate all his adventures to the governor's lady, who, being childless, seemed to have made Maude fill the vacancy in her affections. And so the time faded away, there being so much in Bart's modest narrative of his adventures that evening arrived before he could believe the fact, and this was succeeded by so long and deep a sleep, that it was several hours after sunrise before the lad awoke, feeling grieved and ashamed that he should have slept so calmly there while his friends were in such distress. Springing from his couch, and having a good bath, he found to his great delight that all the weary stiffness had passed away, that he was bright and vigorous as ever, and ready to spring upon his horse at any time. This made him think of Black Boy, to whose stable he hurried, the brave little animal greeting him with a snort that sounded full of welcome, while he rattled and tugged at his halter, and seemed eager to get out once more into the open. The cob had been well groomed and fed, and to his master's great joy seemed to be no worse than when he started for his long journey to Lerisco. In fact, when Bart began to examine him attentively, so far from being exhausted or strained, the cob was full of play, pawing gently at his master and playfully pretending to bite, neighing loudly his disgust afterwards when he turned to leave the stables. "There! be patient, old lad," he said, turning back to pat the little nag's glossy arched neck once more; "I'll soon be back. Eat away and rest, for you've got another long journey before you." Whither Black Boy understood his master's words or not, it is impossible to say. What! Is it ridiculous to suppose such a thing? Perhaps so, most worthy disputant; but you cannot prove that the nag did not understand. At all events, he thrust his velvety nose into the Indian-corn that had been placed for his meal, and went on contentedly crunching up the flinty grain, while Bart hurried away now to see how the preparations for starting were going on; for he felt, he could not explain why, neglectful of his friend's interests. To his great delight, he found that great progress had been made: a dozen waggons had been filled with stores, thirty horses had been provided with drivers and caretakers, and a troop of fifty lancers, with their baggage-waggons and an ample supply of ammunition, were being prepared for their march, their captain carefully inspecting his men's accoutrements the while. A finer body of bronzed and active men it would have been impossible to select. Every one was armed with a short heavy bore rifle, a keen sabre, and a long sharply pointed lance; while their horses were the very perfection of chargers, swift, full of bone and sinew, and looking as if, could their riders but get a chance, four times the number of Indians would go down before them like dry reeds in a furious gale. "Are you only going to take fifty?" said Bart to the captain. "That's all, my lad," was the reply. "Is it not enough?" "There must have been five hundred Indians before the camp," replied Bart. "Well, that's only ten times as many," said the captain laughingly, "Fifty are more than enough for such an attack, for we have discipline on our side, while they are only a mob. Don't you be afraid, my boy. I daresay we shall prove too many for them." "I am not afraid," said Bart, stoutly; "but I don't want to see your party overwhelmed." "And you shall not see it overwhelmed, my boy," replied the captain. "Do you see this sabre?" "Yes," said Bart, gazing with interest at the keen weapon the officer held out for his inspection. "It looks very sharp." "Well," said the captain, smiling, "experience has taught that this is a more dangerous weapon than the great heavy two-handed swords men used to wield. Do you know why?" "Oh! yes," cried Bart; "while a man was swinging round a great two-handed sword, you could jump in and cut him down, or run him through with that." "Exactly," said the captain, "and that's why I only take fifty men with me into the desert instead of two hundred. My troop of fifty represent this keen sharp sword, with which blade I can strike and thrust at the Indians again and again, when a larger one would be awkward and slow. Do you see?" "Ye-e-es!" said Bart, hesitating. "You forget, my boy, how difficult it is to carry stores over the plain. All these waggons have to go as it is, and my experience teaches me that the lighter an attacking party is the better, especially when it has to deal with Indians." "And have these men ever fought with Indians?" "A dozen--a score of times," replied the captain. "Ah! here is our friend the governor. Why, he is dressed up as if he meant to ride part of the way with us." "Ah! captain! Well, my young Indian runner," said the governor, laughing, "are you ready for another skirmish?" "Yes, sir, I'm ready now," said Bart promptly. "I can saddle up in five minutes." "I shall be ready at sunset," said the captain. "My men are ready now." "I've made up my mind to go with you," said the governor. "You, sir?" cried Bart. "Yes, my lad. I want to see the silver canyon and your mountain fortress. And besides, it seems to me that a brush with the Indians will do me good. I want them to have a severe lesson, for they are getting more daring in their encroachments every day. Can you make room for me?" The captain expressed his delight, and Bart's eyes flashed as he felt that it was one more well-armed, active, fighting man; and when evening came, after an affectionate farewell, and amidst plenty of cheers from the swarthy mob of idlers, the well-mounted little party rode out along the road leading to the plains, with the lancers' accoutrements jingling, their lance-points gilded by the setting sun, and their black-and-yellow pennons fluttering in the pleasant evening breeze. "At last," said Bart to himself, as he reined up and drew aside to see the gallant little array pass. "Oh! if we can only get one good chance at the cowardly demons! They won't hunt me now." And in imagination he saw himself riding in the line of horsemen, going at full speed for a body of bloodthirsty Indians, and driving them helter-skelter like chaff before a storm. CHAPTER FORTY ONE. THE LANCERS' LESSONS. With Bart for a guide, the relief party made good progress, but they were, of course, kept back a great deal by the waggons, well horsed as they were. Alone the lancer troop could have gone rapidly over the ground, but the sight of hovering knots of Apaches appearing to right and left and in their rear, told that they were well watched, and that if the baggage was left for a few hours, a descent would be certain to follow. In fact, several attempts were made as they got farther out into the plains to lure the lancers away from their stores, but Captain Miguel was too well versed in plain-fighting to be led astray. "No," he said, "I have been bitten once. They'd get us miles away feigning attacks and leading us on, and at last, when we made ready for a charge, they'd break up and gallop in all directions, while, when we came back, tired out and savage, the waggons would have been rifled and their guards all slain. I think we'll get our stores safe at the silver canyon fort, and then, if the Apaches will show fight, why, we shall be there." The days glided on, with plenty of alarms, for, from being harassed by the presence of about a dozen Indians, these increased and grew till there would be nearly a hundred hovering around and constantly on the watch to cut off any stragglers from the little camp. They never succeeded, however, for the captain was too watchful. He never attempted any charges; but when the savages grew too daring, he gave a few short sharp orders, and half a dozen of the best marksmen dismounted and made such practice with their short rifles, that pony after pony went galloping riderless over the plain. This checked the enemy, but after a few hours they would come on again, and it seemed as if messengers were sent far and wide, for the Indians grew in numbers, till at the time when half the distance was covered, it seemed as if at least four hundred were always hovering around in bands of twenty or forty, making dashes down as if they meant to ride through the camp or cut the body of lancers in two. For they would come on yelling and uttering derisive cries till pretty close, and then wheel round like a flock of birds and gallop off again into the plain. "I'm saving it all up for them," said Captain Miguel, laughingly, as a low murmur of impatience under so much insult ran through his men. "Wait a bit, and they will not find us such cowards as they think." "I should like your lancers to make one dash at them though, captain," said Bart one evening when, evidently growing more confident as their numbers increased, the Apaches had been more daring than usual, swooping down, riding round and round as if a ring of riderless horses were circling about the camp, for the savages hung along their horses so that only a leg and arm would be visible, while they kept up a desultory fire from beneath their horses' necks. "Bah! let the miserable mosquitoes be," said the captain, contemptuously. "We have not much farther to go, I suppose." "I hope to show you the mountain to-morrow," replied Bart. "Then they can wait for their chastisement for another day or two. Come now, my excitable young friend, you think I have been rather quiet and tame with these wretches, don't you?" Bart's face grew scarlet. "Well, sir, yes, I do," he said, frankly. "Well spoken," said the governor, clapping him on the shoulder. "Yes," said Captain Miguel, "well spoken; but you are wrong, my boy. I have longed for days past to lead my men in a good dashing charge, and drive these savage animals back to their dens; but I am a soldier in command, and I have to think of my men as well as my own feelings. These fifty men are to me worth all the Indian nations, and I cannot spare one life, no, not one drop of blood, unless it is to give these creatures such a blow as will cow them and teach them to respect a civilised people, who ask nothing of them but to be left alone. Wait a little longer, my lad; the time has not yet come." That night strong outposts were formed, for the Indians were about in great force; but no attack was made, and at daybreak, on a lovely morning, they were once more in motion, while, to Bart's great surprise, though he swept the plain in every direction, not an Indian was to be seen. "What does that mean, think you?" said the governor, smiling. "An ambush," replied Bart. "They are waiting for us somewhere." "Right," exclaimed the Captain, carefully inspecting the plain; "but there is little chance of ambush here, the ground is too open, unless they await us on the other side of that rolling range of hills. You are right though, my lad; it is to take effect later on. This is to lull us into security; they have not gone far." A couple of hours brought them to the foot of the low ridge, when scouts were sent forward; but they signalled with their lances that the coast was clear, and the party rode on till the top was reached, and spurring a little in advance of the troop in company with the captain and the governor, Bart reined up and pointed right away over the gleaming lake to where the mountain stood up like some huge keep built in the middle of the plain. "There is the rock fortress," he cried. "And where is the silver canyon?" said the governor, looking eagerly over the plain. "Running east and west, sir, quite out of sight till you are at its edge, and passing close behind the mountain yonder." "Forward, then," cried the captain; "we must be there to-night. Keep up well with the waggons, and--halt! Yes, I expected so; there are our friends away there in the distance. They will be down upon us before long, like so many swarms of bees." The greatest caution was now observed, and they rode steadily on for a few miles farther, when Bart joyfully pointed out that the occupants of the rock fortress were still safe. "How can you tell that?" said the governor, eagerly. "By the flag, sir," said Bart. "There it is out upon the extreme right of the mountain. If the Indians had got the better of the Doctor's party, they would have torn it down." "Or perhaps kept it up as a lure to entrap us," said the captain, smiling; "but I think you are right about that." "What a splendid position for a city!" exclaimed the Governor, as they rode on towards where the waters of the lake gleamed brightly in the sun. "Yes; a great town might be placed there," said the captain, thoughtfully; "but you would want some large barracks and a little army," he added with a smile, "to keep our friends there at a distance." For, as they neared the mountain, it seemed ominously like a certainty that the savages now meant to make a tremendous onslaught upon the band, for they were steadily coming on in large numbers, as if to meet the new-comers before they could form a junction with the holders of the rock. "I don't want to fight them if I can help it," said Captain Miguel, scanning the approaching Indians carefully as they advanced--"not until the waggons are in safety. If we do have to charge them, you drivers are all to make for the rock, so as to get under the cover of our friends' fire. That is, if it comes to a serious attack, but I do not think it will." The watchfulness and care now exercised by their leader showed how well worthy he was of being placed in such a position, and the men, even to the governor, obeyed him without a word, though at times his orders seemed to run in opposition to their own ideas. For he seemed to be almost skirmishing from the Indians, instead of making a bold stand, and the result was that when, after a couple of hours, they came on in strength, their insolence increased with the seeming timidity of the relieving force. "You underrated the numbers, young gentleman," said Captain Miguel at last, when the Apaches were in full force. "You said five hundred. I should say there are quite six, and as fine a body of well-mounted warriors as I have seen upon the plains." "Well, Miguel," said the governor, "it seems to me that, unless you attack them, we shall all be swept into the lake." "I don't think you will, sir," replied the captain, calmly; "they are only bragging now, many as they are; they do not mean to attack us yet." Captain Miguel was right, for though the Apaches came yelling on, threatening first one flank and then the other, their object was only to goad the lancers into a charge before which they would have scattered, and then gone on leading the troops away. But the captain was not to be tricked in that manner; and calmly ignoring the badly aimed rifle-bullets, he made Bart lead, and getting the waggon-horses into a sharp trot, they made straight now for the fortress-gate. "Steady, steady!" shouted the captain; "no stampeding. Every man in his place, and ready to turn when I cry Halt!--to fire, if needs be. Steady there!" His words were needed, for once set in motion like this, and seeing safety so near, the waggon-drivers were eager to push on faster, and made gaps in the waggon-train; but they were checked by the lancers, who rode on either side, till at last faces began to appear on the various ledges and the zigzag path up the mountain, and a loud cheer was heard, telling that all was right. Then came the fierce yelling of the Indians, who suddenly awoke to the fact that they had put off their attack too long, and that the waggon-train would escape them if they delayed much more. Captain Miguel read the signs of their movements as if they were part of an open book, and with a cry of satisfaction he shouted out, "At last!" Then to the waggon-drivers, "Forward there, forward, and wheel to your right under the rock. Then behind your waggons and horses for an earth-work, and fire when it is necessary. You, my lad, see to that, and get your friends to help." This was shouted amidst the tramp of horses and the rattle and bumping of the waggons, while the Indians were coming on in force not half a mile away. "Steady, steady!" shouted the captain, and then, almost imperceptibly, he drew his men away from the sides of the waggon-train, which passed thundering on towards the rock, while the lancers, as if by magic, formed into a compact body, and cantered off by fours towards the canyon. "They've run; they've left us," yelled some of the drivers, in their Spanish patois. "Forward, or we shall be killed." But they were wrong; for all at once the little body of lancers swung round and formed into a line, which came back over the same ground like a wall, that kept on increasing in speed till the horses literally raced over the level plain. The Indians were at full gallop now, coming on like a cloud of horse, yelling furiously as they stood up in their stirrups and waved their lances, their course being such that the lancers would strike them, if they charged home, at an angle. All at once there was a fluttering of pennons, and the lances of the little Mexican force dropped from the perpendicular to the level, the spear-points glistening like lightning in the evening sun. This evolution startled the Apaches, some of whom began to draw rein, others rode over them, and the great cloud of horsemen began to exhibit signs of confusion. Some, however, charged on towards the waggons, and thus escaped the impact, as, with a hearty cheer and their horses at racing pace, the lancers dashed at, into, and over the swarm of Indians, driving their way right through, and seeming to take flight on the other side as if meaning to go right away. Their course was strewed with Apaches and their ponies, but not a Mexican was left behind; and then, before the savages could recover from their astonishment, the gallant little band had wheeled round, and were coming back, trot--canter--gallop, once more at racing speed. There was another tremendous impact, for there were so many of the savages that they could not avoid the charge, and once more the lancers rode right through them, leaving the ground strewn with dead and wounded men and ponies. Their riderless steeds added to the confusion, while no sooner were the lancers clear, and forming up once more a couple of hundred yards away, than a tremendous fire was opened from the rock fortress and the waggon-train, making men fall fast. The lancers were soon in motion once more for their third charge, but this was only a feint, for the firing would have been fatal to friend as well as foe, there being no one to signal a stay. Still the Apaches did not know this, and having had two experiences--their first--of the charge of a body of heavily mounted, well-disciplined men, they were satisfied, and as the lancers began to canter, were in full flight over the plain, men and ponies dropping beneath the fire and from previously received lance-wounds, while the ground for a broad space was literally spotted with the injured and the dead. "Oh, if I could have been with you!" cried Bart, riding up to the captain rifle in hand. "Let soldiers do soldiers' work, my young friend," said the captain, bluntly. "You are excited now; perhaps you will think differently another time." CHAPTER FORTY TWO. THE SILVER CITY IN THE PLAINS. Bart did think differently when he cooled down, and, after a warm greeting from the Doctor, who praised his bravery and thanked him for bringing help, saw the dreary business of burying the fallen in those fierce charges; for he shuddered and thought of the horrors of such an occupation, even when the fights were in thorough self-defence. Joses was full of excitement, and kept on shaking hands with the Beaver instead of with Bart. "I knew he'd do it. I knew he'd do it," he kept on saying. "There arn't a braver lad nowhere, that I will say." There was but little time for talking and congratulations, however, for the waggons had to be unloaded and camp formed for the lancers and Mexicans, the former being out in the plains driving in the Indian ponies that had not gone off with the Apaches, the result being that thirty were enclosed in the corral before dark, being some little compensation for the former loss. Bart learned that night, when the captain and the governor were the guests of the Doctor, that beyond occasional alarms but little had gone on during his absence. The Indians had been there all the time, and his friends had always been in full expectation of an attack, night or day, but none had come. The most serious threatening had been on the night when Bart set off, but the terrible storm had evidently stopped it, and the Doctor related how the rock had been struck by lightning, a large portion shattered, and the bodies of several Indians found there the next morning. There was good watch set that night, not that there was much likelihood of the Indians returning, but to make sure; and then many hours were spent in rejoicing, for several of the adventurers had been giving way to despair, feeling that they had done wrong in coming, and were asking in dismay what was to become of them when the stores were exhausted. "We can't eat silver," they had reproachfully said to the Doctor; and when he had reminded them how he had sent for help, they laughed him to scorn. All murmurers were now silenced, and, light-hearted and joyous, the future of the silver canyon became the principal topic of conversation with all. The next morning, as it was found that the Indians were still hovering about, Captain Miguel showed himself ready for any emergency. The Beaver and his men were at once mounted on the pick of the Indian ponies, and a start was made to meet the enemy. So well was this expedition carried out, that, after a good deal of feinting and manoeuvring, the captain was enabled to charge home once more, scattering the Indians like chaff, and this time pursuing them to their temporary camp, with the result that the Apaches, thoroughly cowed by the attacks of these horsemen, who fought altogether like one man, continued their flight, and the whole of the horses and cattle, with many Indian ponies as well, were taken and driven back in triumph to the corral by the rocks. This encounter with the Indians proved most effectual, for the portion of the nation to which they belonged had never before encountered disciplined troops; and so stern was the lesson they received, that, though predatory parties were seen from time to time, it was quite a year before any other serious encounter took place. In the meantime, the governor had been so impressed with the value of the Doctor's discovery, that, without interfering in the slightest degree with his prospects, communications were at once opened up with Lerisco; more people were invited to come out, smelting furnaces were erected, the silver purified, and in less than six months a regular traffic had been established across the plains, over which mules laden with the precious metal, escorted by troops, were constantly going, and returning with stores for use in the mining town. A town began to spring up rapidly, with warehouses and stores; for the mountain was no longer standing in solitary silence in the middle of the great plain. The hum of industry was ever to be heard; the picks of the miners were constantly at work; the great stamps that had been erected loudly pounded up the ore; and the nights that had been dark and lonely out there in the plains were now illumined, and watched with wonder by the roving Apaches, when the great silver furnaces glowed and roared as the precious metal was heated in the crucibles before being poured into the ingot-making moulds. The growth of the place was marvellous, the canyon proving to be so rich in the finest kinds of silver, that the ore had but to be roughly torn out of the great rift that was first shown by the chief, and the profits were so enormous that Doctor Lascelles became as great a man in his way as the governor, while Bart, as his head officer and superintendent of the mine, had rule over quite a host. Houses rose rapidly, many of them being of a most substantial kind, and in addition a large barrack was built for the accommodation of fifty men, who worked as miners, but had certain privileges besides for forming the troop of well-mounted lancers, whose duty it was to protect the mining town and the silver canyon from predatory bands of Apaches. These lancers were raised and drilled by Captain Miguel, Bart being appointed their leader when he had grown to years of discretion--that is to say, of greater discretion than of old, and that was soon after Doctor Lascelles had said to him one day: "Well, yes, Bart; you always have seemed to be like my son. I think it will be as well;" and, as a matter of course, that conversation related to Bart's marriage with Maude. But, in spite of his prosperity and the constant demand for his services in connection with the mines and the increase of the town, Bart never forgot his delight in a ramble in the wilds; and whenever time allowed, and the Beaver and some of his followers had come in from some hunting expedition, there was just a hint to Joses, when before daybreak next morning a start was made either to hunt bison and prong-horn, the black-tailed deer in the woods at the foot of the mountain, or to fish in some part of the canyon. Unfortunately, though, the sparkling river became spoiled by degrees, owing to the enormous quantities of mine-refuse that ran in, poisoning the fish, and preventing them from coming anywhere near the mountain. Still there were plenty to be had by those daring enough to risk an encounter with the Indians, and many were the excursions Bart enjoyed with Joses and the Beaver, both remaining his attached followers, though the latter used to look sadly at the change that had come over the land. And truly it was a wondrous change; for, as years passed on, the town grew enormously--works sprang up with towering chimneys and furnaces, the former ever belching out their smoke; while of such importance did Silver Canyon City grow, and so great was the traffic, that mules and waggons could no longer do the work. The result is easy to guess. There was a vast range of rolling plain to cross, a few deviations enabling the engineer, who surveyed the country with Apaches watching him, to avoid the mountains; and this being done, and capital abundant, a railway soon crept, like a sinuous serpent, from Lerisco to the mountain foot, along which panted and raced the heavily laden trains. The Apaches scouted, and there was some little trouble with them at first, but they were punished pretty severely, though they took no lesson so deeply to heart as the one read their chief upon seeing the first train run along the rails. Poor wretch! he had not much more sense than a bison; for he galloped his little pony right on to the line, and pressed forward to meet the engine after firing his rifle--he rode no more! "Well, I dare say it's all right, Master Bart," said Joses one day; "everybody's getting rich and happy, and all the rest of it; but somehow I liked the good old times." "Why, Joses?" said Bart. "Because, you see, Master Bart, we seem to be so horrid safe now." "Safe, Joses?" "Yes, Master Bart," grumbled the old fellow; "there arn't no risks, no keeping watch o' nights, no feeling as it arn't likely that you'll ever see another morning, and it isn't exciting enough for me." But then the Beaver came up with some news that made Joses' eyes sparkle. "There's buffalo out on the far plain, captain," he said; "and I've seen sign of mountain sheep three days' journey up the canyon. Will the young chief Bart go?" "That I will, Beaver," cried Bart. "To-morrow at daybreak." "No; to-night," said the Beaver. "That's the way," growled Joses. "Say yes, Master Bart." Bart did say yes, as he generally would upon hearing such news as this-- these excursions carrying him back to the old adventurous days, when, quite a lad, he joined in a hunt to find provision for the little camp. Then Black Boy would be saddled, for the sturdy little cob never seemed to grow old, except that there were a few grey hairs in his black coat; provisions were prepared, ammunition packed, good-byes said, and for a few days Bart and his friends would be off into the wilderness, away from the bustle and toil always in progress now at the silver canyon. THE END. 
23268	----	The Scalp Hunters, A Romance of Northern Mexico, by Captain Mayne Reid. ________________________________________________________________________ This is very much in the cowboys and Indians genre, and there can be no doubt that the author knew exactly what he was writing about, and had lived through similar experiences. It was quite a hard book to transcribe, though the copy used was nice and clean, because of the very large number of Mexican-Spanish words and phrases. There was also a great deal of speech by people whose grammar and words were supposed to indicate a lower education. Hence it was not at all easy to present the book as the author would have liked, but we think that at last we have got it just about right. On writing this book Reid had the general public in mind. It was one of his first. It was not until later that he adopted a more peaceful style and wrote for a boy readership, saying that in those books there was not a single passage that a boy could not read aloud to his mother or his sister. This book falls just outside that scope. ________________________________________________________________________ THE SCALP HUNTERS, A ROMANCE OF NORTHERN MEXICO, BY CAPTAIN MAYNE REID. CHAPTER ONE. THE WILD WEST. Unroll the world's map, and look upon the great northern continent of America. Away to the wild west, away toward the setting sun, away beyond many a far meridian, let your eyes wander. Rest them where golden rivers rise among peaks that carry the eternal snow. Rest them there. You are looking upon a land whose features are un-furrowed by human hands, still bearing the marks of the Almighty mould, as upon the morning of creation; a region whose every object wears the impress of God's image. His ambient spirit lives in the silent grandeur of its mountains, and speaks in the roar of its mighty rivers: a region redolent of romance, rich in the reality of adventure. Follow me, with the eye of your mind, through scenes of wild beauty, of savage sublimity. I stand in an open plain. I turn my face to the north, to the south, to the east, and to the west; and on all sides behold the blue circle of the heavens girdling around me. Nor rock, nor tree, breaks the ring of the horizon. What covers the broad expanse between? Wood? water? grass? No; flowers. As far as my eye can range, it rests only on flowers, on beautiful flowers! I am looking as on a tinted map, an enamelled picture brilliant with every hue of the prism. Yonder is golden yellow, where the helianthus turns her dial-like face to the sun. Yonder, scarlet, where the malva erects its red banner. Here is a parterre of the purple monarda, there the euphorbia sheds its silver leaf. Yonder the orange predominates in the showy flowers of the asclepia; and beyond, the eye roams over the pink blossoms of the cleome. The breeze stirs them. Millions of corollas are waving their gaudy standards. The tall stalks of the helianthus bend and rise in long undulations, like billows on a golden sea. They are at rest again. The air is filled with odours sweet as the perfumes of Araby or Ind. Myriads of insects flap their gay wings: flowers of themselves. The bee-birds skirr around, glancing like stray sunbeams; or, poised on whirring wings, drink from the nectared cups; and the wild bee, with laden limbs, clings among the honeyed pistils, or leaves for his far hive with a song of joy. Who planted these flowers? Who hath woven them into these pictured parterres? Nature. It is her richest mantle, richer in its hues than the scarfs of Cashmere. This is the "weed prairie." It is misnamed. It is "the garden of God." The scene is changed. I am in a plain as before, with the unbroken horizon circling around me. What do I behold? Flowers? No; there is not a flower in sight, but one vast expanse of living verdure. From north to south, from east to west, stretches the prairie meadow, green as an emerald, and smooth as the surface of a sleeping lake. The wind is upon its bosom, sweeping the silken blades. They are in motion; and the verdure is dappled into lighter and darker shades, as the shadows of summer clouds flitting across the sun. The eye wanders without resistance. Perchance it encounters the dark hirsute forms of the buffalo, or traces the tiny outlines of the antelope. Perchance it follows, in pleased wonder, the far-wild gallop of a snow-white steed. This is the "grass prairie," the boundless pasture of the bison. The scene changes. The earth is no longer level, but treeless and verdant as ever. Its surface exhibits a succession of parallel undulations, here and there swelling into smooth round hills. It is covered with a soft turf of brilliant greenness. These undulations remind one of the ocean after a mighty storm, when the crisped foam has died upon the waves, and the big swell comes bowling in. They look as though they had once been such waves, that by an omnipotent mandate had been transformed to earth and suddenly stood still. This is the "rolling prairie." Again the scene changes. I am among greenswards and bright flowers; but the view is broken by groves and clumps of copse-wood. The frondage is varied, its tints are vivid, its outlines soft and graceful. As I move forward, new landscapes open up continuously: views park-like and picturesque. Gangs of buffalo, herds of antelope, and droves of wild horses, mottle the far vistas. Turkeys run into the coppice, and pheasants whirr up from the path. Where are the owners of these lands, of these flocks and fowls? Where are the houses, the palaces, that should appertain to these lordly parks? I look forward, expecting to see the turrets of tall mansions spring up over the groves. But no. For hundreds of miles around no chimney sends forth its smoke. Although with a cultivated aspect, this region is only trodden by the moccasined foot of the hunter, and his enemy, the Red Indian. These are the _mottes_--the "islands" of the prairie sea. I am in the deep forest. It is night, and the log fire throws out its vermilion glare, painting the objects that surround our bivouac. Huge trunks stand thickly around us; and massive limbs, grey and giant-like, stretch out and over. I notice the bark. It is cracked, and clings in broad scales crisping outward. Long snake-like parasites creep from tree to tree, coiling the trunks as though they were serpents, and would crush them! There are no leaves overhead. They have ripened and fallen; but the white Spanish moss, festooned along the branches, hangs weeping down like the drapery of a deathbed. Prostrate trunks, yards in diameter and half-decayed, lie along the ground. Their ends exhibit vast cavities where the porcupine and opossum have taken shelter from the cold. My comrades, wrapped in their blankets, and stretched upon the dead leaves, have gone to sleep. They lie with their feet to the fire, and their heads resting in the hollow of their saddles. The horses, standing around a tree, and tied to its lower branches, seem also to sleep. I am awake and listening. The wind is high up, whistling among the twigs and causing the long white streamers to oscillate. It utters a wild and melancholy music. There are few other sounds, for it is winter, and the tree-frog and cicada are silent. I hear the crackling knots in the fire, the rustling of dry leaves swirled up by a stray gust, the "coo-whoo-a" of the white owl, the bark of the raccoon, and, at intervals, the dismal howling of wolves. These are the nocturnal voices of the winter forest. They are savage sounds; yet there is a chord in my bosom that vibrates under their influence, and my spirit is tinged with romance as I lie and listen. The forest in autumn; still bearing its full frondage. The leaves resemble flowers, so bright are their hues. They are red and yellow, and golden and brown. The woods are warm and glorious now, and the birds flutter among the laden branches. The eye wanders delighted down long vistas and over sunlit glades. It is caught by the flashing of gaudy plumage, the golden green of the paroquet, the blue of the jay, and the orange wing of the oriole. The red-bird flutters lower down in the coppice of green pawpaws, or amidst the amber leaflets of the beechen thicket. Hundreds of tiny wings flit through the openings, twinkling in the sun like the glancing of gems. The air is filled with music: sweet sounds of love. The bark of the squirrel, the cooing of mated doves, the "rat-ta-ta" of the pecker, and the constant and measured chirrup of the cicada, are all ringing together. High up, on a topmost twig, the mocking-bird pours forth his mimic note, as though he would shame all other songsters into silence. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I am in a country of brown barren earth and broken outlines. There are rocks and clefts and patches of sterile soil. Strange vegetable forms grow in the clefts and hang over the rocks. Others are spheroidal in shape, resting upon the surface of the parched earth. Others rise vertically to a great height, like carved and fluted columns. Some throw out branches, crooked, shaggy branches, with hirsute oval leaves. Yet there is a homogeneousness about all these vegetable forms, in their colour, in their fruit and flowers, that proclaims them of one family. They are cacti. It is a forest of the Mexican nopal. Another singular plant is here. It throws out long, thorny leaves that curve downward. It is the agave, the far-famed mezcal-plant of Mexico. Here and there, mingling with the cacti, are trees of acacia and mezquite, the denizens of the desert-land. No bright object relieves the eye; no bird pours its melody into the ear. The lonely owl flaps away into the impassable thicket, the rattlesnake glides under its scanty shade, and the coyote skulks through its silent glades. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I have climbed mountain after mountain, and still I behold peaks soaring far above, crowned with the snow that never melts. I stand upon beetling cliffs, and look into chasms that yawn beneath, sleeping in the silence of desolation. Great fragments have fallen into them, and lie piled one upon another. Others hang threatening over, as if waiting for some concussion of the atmosphere to hurl them from their balance. Dark precipices frown me into fear, and my head reels with a dizzy faintness. I hold by the pine-tree shaft, or the angle of the firmer rock. Above, and below, and around me, are mountains piled on mountains in chaotic confusion. Some are bald and bleak; others exhibit traces of vegetation in the dark needles of the pine and cedar, whose stunted forms half-grow, half-hang from the cliffs. Here, a cone-shaped peak soars up till it is lost in snow and clouds. There, a ridge elevates its sharp outline against the sky; while along its side, lie huge boulders of granite, as though they had been hurled from the hands of Titan giants! A fearful monster, the grizzly bear, drags his body along the high ridges; the carcajou squats upon the projecting rock, waiting the elk that must pass to the water below; and the bighorn bounds from crag to crag in search of his shy mate. Along the pine branch the bald buzzard whets his filthy beak; and the war-eagle, soaring over all, cuts sharply against the blue field of the heavens. These are the Rocky Mountains, the American Andes, the colossal vertebras of the continent! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Such are the aspects of the wild west; such is the scenery of our drama. Let us raise the curtain, and bring on the characters. CHAPTER TWO. THE PRAIRIE MERCHANTS. "New Orleans, _April 3rd_, 18-- "Dear Saint Vrain--Our young friend, Monsieur Henry Haller, goes to Saint Louis in `search of the picturesque.' See that he be put through a `regular course of sprouts.' "Yours,-- "Luis Walton. "Charles Saint Vrain, Esquire, Planters' Hotel, Saint Louis." With this laconic epistle in my waistcoat pocket, I debarked at Saint Louis on the 10th of April, and drove to the "Planters'." After getting my baggage stowed and my horse (a favourite I had brought with me) stabled, I put on a clean shirt, and, descending to the office, inquired for Monsieur Saint Vrain. He was not there. He had gone up the Missouri river several days before. This was a disappointment, as I had brought no other introduction to Saint Louis. But I endeavoured to wait with patience the return of Monsieur Saint Vrain. He was expected back in less than a week. Day after day I mounted my horse, I rode up to the "Mounds" and out upon the prairies. I lounged about the hotel, and smoked my cigar in its fine piazza. I drank sherry cobblers in the saloon, and read the journals in the reading-room. With these and such like occupations, I killed time for three whole days. There was a party of gentlemen stopping at the hotel, who seemed to know each other well. I might call them a clique; but that is not a good word, and does not express what I mean. They appeared rather a band of friendly, jovial fellows. They strolled together through the streets, and sat side by side at the table-d'hote, where they usually remained long after the regular diners had retired. I noticed that they drank the most expensive wines, and smoked the finest cigars the house afforded. My attention was attracted to these men. I was struck with their peculiar bearing; their erect, Indian-like carriage in the streets, combined with a boyish gaiety, so characteristic of the western American. They dressed nearly alike: in fine black cloth, white linen, satin waistcoats, and diamond pins. They wore the whisker full, but smoothly trimmed; and several of them sported moustaches. Their hair fell curling over their shoulders; and most of them wore their collars turned down, displaying healthy-looking, sun-tanned throats. I was struck with a resemblance in their physiognomy. Their faces did not resemble each other; but there was an unmistakable similarity in the expression of the eye; no doubt, the mark that had been made by like occupations and experience. Were they sportsmen? No: the sportsman's hands are whiter; there is more jewellery on his fingers; his waistcoat is of a gayer pattern, and altogether his dress will be more gaudy and super-elegant. Moreover, the sportsman lacks that air of free-and-easy confidence. He dares not assume it. He may live in the hotel, but he must be quiet and unobtrusive. The sportsman is a bird of prey; hence, like all birds of prey, his habits are silent and solitary. They are not of his profession. "Who are these gentlemen?" I inquired from a person who sat by me, indicating to him the men of whom I have spoken. "The prairie men." "The prairie men!" "Yes; the Santa Fe traders." "Traders!" I echoed, in some surprise, not being able to connect such "elegants" with any ideas of trade or the prairies. "Yes," continued my informant. "That large, fine-looking man in the middle is Bent--Bill Bent, as he is called. The gentleman on his right is young Sublette; the other, standing on his left, is one of the Choteaus; and that is the sober Jerry Folger." "These, then, are the celebrated prairie merchants?" "Precisely so." I sat eyeing them with increased curiosity. I observed that they were looking at me, and that I was the subject of their conversation. Presently, one of them, a dashing-like young fellow, parted from the group, and walked up to me. "Were you inquiring for Monsieur Saint Vrain?" he asked. "I was." "Charles?" "Yes, that is the name." "I am--" I pulled out my note of introduction, and banded it to the gentleman, who glanced over its contents. "My dear friend," said he, grasping me cordially, "very sorry I have not been here. I came down the river this morning. How stupid of Walton not to superscribe to Bill Bent! How long have you been up?" "Three days. I arrived on the 10th." "You are lost. Come, let me make you acquainted. Here, Bent! Bill! Jerry!" And the next moment I had shaken hands with one and all of the traders, of which fraternity I found that my new friend, Saint Vrain, was a member. "First gong that?" asked one, as the loud scream of a gong came through the gallery. "Yes," replied Bent, consulting his watch. "Just time to `licker.' Come along!" Bent moved towards the saloon, and we all followed, _nemine dissentiente_. The spring season was setting in, and the young mint had sprouted--a botanical fact with which my new acquaintances appeared to be familiar, as one and all of them ordered a mint julep. This beverage, in the mixing and drinking, occupied our time until the second scream of the gong summoned us to dinner. "Sit with us, Mr Haller," said Bent; "I am sorry we didn't know you sooner. You have been lonely." And so saying, he led the way into the dining-room, followed by his companions and myself. I need not describe a dinner at the "Planters'," with its venison steaks, its buffalo tongues, its prairie chickens, and its delicious frog fixings from the Illinois "bottom." No; I would not describe the dinner, and what followed I am afraid I could not. We sat until we had the table to ourselves. Then the cloth was removed, and we commenced smoking regalias and drinking madeira at twelve dollars a bottle! This was ordered in by someone, not in single bottles, but by the half-dozen. I remembered thus far well enough; and that, whenever I took up a wine-card, or a pencil, these articles were snatched out of my fingers. I remember listening to stories of wild adventures among the Pawnees, and the Comanches, and the Blackfeet, until I was filled with interest, and became enthusiastic about prairie life. Then someone asked me, would I not like to join them in "a trip"? Upon this I made a speech, and proposed to accompany my new acquaintances on their next expedition: and then Saint Vrain said I was just the man for their life; and this pleased me highly. Then someone sang a Spanish song, with a guitar, I think, and someone else danced an Indian war-dance; and then we all rose to our feet, and chorused the "Star-spangled Banner"; and I remember nothing else after this, until next morning, when I remember well that I awoke with a splitting headache. I had hardly time to reflect on my previous night's folly, when the door opened, and Saint Vrain, with half a dozen of my table companions, rushed into the room. They were followed by a waiter, who carried several large glasses topped with ice, and filled with a pale amber-coloured liquid. "A sherry cobbler, Mr Haller," cried one; "best thing in the world for you: drain it, my boy. It'll cool you in a squirrel's jump." I drank off the refreshing beverage as desired. "Now, my dear friend," said Saint Vrain, "you feel a hundred per cent, better! But, tell me, were you in earnest when you spoke of going with us across the plains? We start in a week; I shall be sorry to part with you so soon." "But I was in earnest. I am going with you, if you will only show me how I am to set about it." "Nothing easier: buy yourself a horse." "I have got one." "Then a few coarse articles of dress, a rifle, a pair of pistols, a--" "Stop, stop! I have all these things. That is not what I would be at, but this: You, gentlemen, carry goods to Santa Fe. You double or treble your money on them. Now, I have ten thousand dollars in a bank here. What should hinder me to combine profit with pleasure, and invest it as you do?" "Nothing; nothing! A good idea," answered several. "Well, then, if any of you will have the goodness to go with me, and show me what sort of merchandise I am to lay in for the Santa Fe market, I will pay his wine bill at dinner, and that's no small commission, I think." The prairie men laughed loudly, declaring they would all go a-shopping with me; and, after breakfast, we started in a body, arm-in-arm. Before dinner I had invested nearly all my disposable funds in printed calicoes, long knives, and looking-glasses, leaving just money enough to purchase mule-waggons and hire teamsters at Independence, our point of departure for the plains. A few days after, with my new companions, I was steaming up the Missouri, on our way to the trackless prairies of the "Far West." CHAPTER THREE. THE PRAIRIE FEVER. After a week spent in Independence buying mules and waggons, we took the route over the plains. There were a hundred waggons in the caravan, and nearly twice that number of teamsters and attendants. Two of the capacious vehicles contained all my "plunder;" and, to manage them, I had hired a couple of lathy, long-haired Missourians. I had also engaged a Canadian voyageur named Gode, as a sort of attendant or compagnon. Where are the glossy gentlemen of the Planters' Hotel? One would suppose they had been left behind, as here are none but men in hunting-shirts and slouch hats. Yes; but under these hats we recognise their faces, and in these rude shirts we have the same jovial fellows as ever. The silky black and the diamonds have disappeared, for now the traders flourish under the prairie costume. I will endeavour to give an idea of the appearance of my companions by describing my own; for I am tricked out very much like themselves. I wear a hunting-shirt of dressed deerskin. It is a garment more after the style of an ancient tunic than anything I can think of. It is of a light yellow colour, beautifully stitched and embroidered; and the cape, for it has a short cape, is fringed by tags cut out of the leather itself. The skirt is also bordered by a similar fringe, and hangs full and low. A pair of "savers" of scarlet cloth cover my limbs to the thigh; and under these are strong jean pantaloons, heavy boots, and big brass spurs. A coloured cotton shirt, a blue neck-tie, and a broad-brimmed Guayaquil hat, complete the articles of my everyday dress. Behind me, on the cantle of my saddle, may be observed a bright red object folded into a cylindrical form. That is my "Mackinaw," a great favourite, for it makes my bed by night and my greatcoat on other occasions. There is a small slit in the middle of it, through which I thrust my head in cold or rainy weather; and I am thus covered to the ankles. As I have said, my _compagnons de voyage_ are similarly attired. There may be a difference of colour in the blanket or the leggings, or the shirt may be of other materials; but that I have described may be taken as a character dress. We are all somewhat similarly armed and equipped. For my part, I may say that I am "armed to the teeth." In my holsters I carry a pair of Colt's large-sized revolvers, six shots each. In my belt is another pair of the small size, with five shots each. In addition, I have a light rifle, making in all twenty-three shots, which I have learned to deliver in as many seconds of time. Failing with all these, I carry in my belt a long shining blade known as a "bowie knife." This last is my hunting knife, my dining knife, and, in short, my knife of all work. For accoutrements I have a pouch and a flask, both slung under the right arm. I have also a large gourd canteen and haversack for my rations. So have all my companions. But we are differently mounted. Some ride saddle mules, others bestride mustangs, while a few have brought their favourite American horses. I am of this number. I ride a dark-brown stallion, with black legs, and muzzle like the withered fern. He is half-Arab, and of perfect proportions. He is called Moro, a Spanish name given him by the Louisiana planter from whom I bought him, but why I do not know. I have retained the name, and he answers to it readily. He is strong, fleet, and beautiful. Many of my friends fancy him on the route, and offer large prices for him; but these do not tempt me, for my Moro serves me well. Every day I grow more and more attached to him. My dog Alp, a Saint Bernard that I bought from a Swiss _emigre_ in Saint Louis, hardly comes in for a tithe of my affections. I find on referring to my note-book that for weeks we travelled over the prairies without any incident of unusual interest. To me the scenery was interest enough; and I do not remember a more striking picture than to see the long caravan of waggons, "the prairie ships," deployed over the plain, or crawling slowly up some gentle slope, their white tilts contrasting beautifully with the deep green of the earth. At night, too, the camp, with its corralled waggons, and horses picketed around, was equally a picture. The scenery was altogether new to me, and imbued me with impressions of a peculiar character. The streams were fringed with tall groves of cottonwood trees, whose column-like stems supported a thick frondage of silvery leaves. These groves meeting at different points, walled in the view, so dividing the prairies from one another, that we seemed to travel through vast fields fenced by colossal hedges. We crossed many rivers, fording some, and floating our waggons over others that were deeper and wider. Occasionally we saw deer and antelope, and our hunters shot a few of these; but we had not yet reached the range of the buffalo. Once we stopped a day to recruit in a wooded bottom, where the grass was plentiful and the water pure. Now and then, too, we were halted to mend a broken tongue or an axle, or help a "stalled" waggon from its miry bed. I had very little trouble with my particular division of the caravan. My Missourians turned out to be a pair of staunch hands, who could assist one another without making a desperate affair of every slight accident. The grass had sprung up, and our mules and oxen, instead of thinning down, every day grew fatter upon it. Moro, therefore, came in for a better share of the maize that I had brought in my waggons, and which kept my favourite in fine travelling condition. As we approached the Arkansas, we saw mounted Indians disappearing over the swells. They were Pawnees; and for several days clouds of these dusky warriors hung upon the skirts of the caravan. But they knew our strength, and kept at a wary distance from our long rifles. To me every day brought something new, either in the incidents of the "voyage" or the features of the landscape. Gode, who has been by turns a voyageur, a hunter, a trapper, and a _coureur du bois_, in our private dialogues had given me an insight into many an item of prairie-craft, thus enabling me to cut quite a respectable figure among my new comrades. Saint Vrain, too, whose frank, generous manner had already won my confidence, spared no pains to make the trip agreeable to me. What with gallops by day and the wilder tales by the night watch-fires, I became intoxicated with the romance of my new life. I had caught the "prairie-fever!" So my companions told me, laughing. I did not understand them then. I knew what they meant afterwards. The prairie fever! Yes. I was just then in process of being inoculated by that strange disease. It grew upon me apace. The dreams of home began to die within me; and with these the illusory ideas of many a young and foolish ambition. My strength increased, both physically and intellectually. I experienced a buoyancy of spirits and a vigour of body I had never known before. I felt a pleasure in action. My blood seemed to rush warmer and swifter through my veins, and I fancied that my eyes reached to a more distant vision. I could look boldly upon the sun without quivering in my glance. Had I imbibed a portion of the divine essence that lives, and moves, and has its being in those vast solitudes? Who can answer this? CHAPTER FOUR. A RIDE UPON A BUFFALO BULL. We had been out about two weeks when we struck the Arkansas "bend," about six miles below the Plum Buttes. Here our waggons corralled and camped. So far we had seen but little of the buffalo; only a stray bull, or, at most, two or three together, and these shy. It was now the running season, but none of the great droves, love-maddened, had crossed us. "Yonder!" cried Saint Vrain; "fresh hump for supper!" We looked north-west, as indicated by our friend. Along the escarpment of a low table, five dark objects broke the line of the horizon. A glance was enough: they were buffaloes. As Saint Vrain spoke, we were about slipping off our saddles. Back went the girth buckles with a sneck, down came the stirrups, up went we, and off in the "twinkling of a goat's eye." Half a score or so started; some, like myself, for the sport; while others, old hunters, had the "meat" in their eye. We had made but a short day's march; our horses were still fresh, and in three times as many minutes, the three miles that lay between us and the game were reduced to one. Here, however, we were winded. Some of the party, like myself, green upon the prairies, disregarding advice, had ridden straight ahead; and the bulls snuffed us on the wind. When within a mile, one of them threw up his shaggy front, snorted, struck the ground with his hoof, rolled over, rose up again, and dashed off at full speed, followed by his four companions. It remained to us now either to abandon the chase or put our horses to their mettle and catch up. The latter course was adopted, and we galloped forward. All at once we found ourselves riding up to what appeared to be a clay wall, six feet high. It was a stair between two tables, and ran right and left as far as the eye could reach, without the semblance of a gap. This was an obstacle that caused us to rein up and reflect. Some wheeled their horses, and commenced riding back, while half a dozen of us, better mounted, among whom were Saint Vrain and my voyageur Gode, not wishing to give up the chase so easily, put to the spur, and cleared the scarp. From this point it caused us a five miles' gallop, and our horses a white sweat, to come up with the hindmost, a young cow, which fell, bored by a bullet from every rifle in the party. As the others had gained some distance ahead, and we had meat enough for all, we reined up, and, dismounting, set about "removing the hair." This operation was a short one under the skilful knives of the hunters. We had now leisure to look back, and calculate the distance we had ridden from camp. "Eight miles, every inch!" cried one. "We're close to the trail," said Saint Vrain, pointing to some old waggon tracks that marked the route of the Santa Fe traders. "Well?" "If we ride into camp, we shall have to ride back in the morning. It will be sixteen extra miles for our cattle." "True." "Let us stay here, then. Here's water and grass. There's buffalo meat; and yonder's a waggon load of `chips.' We have our blankets; what more do we want?" "I say, camp where we are." "And I." "And I." In a minute the girth buckles flew open, our saddles were lifted off, and our panting horses were cropping the curly bunches of the prairie grass, within the circles of their _cabriestos_. A crystal rivulet, the arroyo of the Spaniards, stole away southward to the Arkansas. On the bank of this rivulet, and under one of its bluffs, we chose a spot for our bivouac. The _bois de vache_ was collected, a fire was kindled, and hump steaks, spitted on sticks, were soon sputtering in the blaze. Luckily, Saint Vrain and I had our flasks along; and as each of them contained a pint of pure Cognac, we managed to make a tolerable supper. The old hunters had their pipes and tobacco, my friend and I our cigars, and we sat round the ashes till a late hour, smoking and listening to wild tales of mountain adventure. At length the watch was told off, the lariats were shortened, the picket-pins driven home, and my comrades, rolling themselves up in their blankets, rested their heads in the hollow of their saddles, and went to sleep. There was a man named Hibbets in our party, who, from his habits of somnolency, had earned the sobriquet of "Sleepy-head." For this reason the first watch had been assigned to him, being the least dangerous, as Indians seldom made their attacks until the hour of soundest sleep--that before daybreak. Hibbets had climbed to his post, the top of the bluff, where he could command a view of the surrounding prairie. Before night had set in, I had noticed a very beautiful spot on the bank of the arroyo, about two hundred yards from where my comrades lay. A sudden fancy came into my head to sleep there; and taking up my rifle, robe, and blanket, at the same time calling to "Sleepy-head" to awake me in case of alarm, I proceeded thither. The ground, shelving gradually down to the arroyo, was covered with soft buffalo grass, thick and dry--as good a bed as was ever pressed by sleepy mortal. On this I spread my robe, and, folding my blanket around me, lay down, cigar in mouth, to smoke myself asleep. It was a lovely moonlight, so clear that I could easily distinguish the colours of the prairie flowers--the silver euphorbias, the golden sunflowers, and the scarlet malvas, that fringed the banks of the arroyo at my feet. There was an enchanting stillness in the air, broken only by an occasional whine from the prairie wolf, the distant snoring of my companions, and the "crop, crop" of our horses shortening the crisp grass. I lay a good while awake, until my cigar burnt up to my lips (we smoke them close on the prairies); then, spitting out the stump, I turned over on my side, and was soon in the land of dreams. I could not have been asleep many minutes when I felt sensible of a strange noise, like distant thunder, or the roaring of a waterfall. The ground seemed to tremble beneath me. "We are going to have a dash of a thunder-shower," thought I, still half-dreaming, half-sensible to impressions from without; and I drew the folds of my blanket closer around me, and again slept. I was awakened by a noise like thunder--indeed, like the trampling of a thousand hoofs, and the lowing of a thousand oxen! The earth echoed and trembled. I could hear the shouts of my comrades; the voices of Saint Vrain and Gode, the latter calling out-- "Sacr-r-re! monsieur; prenez garde des buffles!" I saw that they had drawn the horses, and were hurrying them under the bluff. I sprang to my feet, flinging aside my blanket. A fearful spectacle was before me. Away to the west, as far as the eye could reach, the prairie seemed in motion. Black waves rolled over its undulating outlines, as though some burning mountain were pouring down its lava upon the plains. A thousand bright spots flashed and flitted along the moving surface like jets of fire. The ground shook, men shouted, horses reared upon their ropes, neighing wildly. My dog barked, and bowled, running around me! For a moment I thought I was dreaming; but no, the scene was too real to be mistaken for a vision. I saw the border of a black wave within ten paces of me, and still approaching! Then, and not till then, did I recognise the shaggy crests and glaring eyeballs of the buffalo! "Oh, God; I am in their track. I shall be trampled to death!" It was too late to attempt an escape by running. I seized my rifle and fired at the foremost of the band. The effect of my shot was not perceptible. The water of the arroyo was dashed in my face. A huge bull, ahead of the rest, furious and snorting, plunged through the stream and up the slope. I was lifted and tossed high into the air. I was thrown rearwards, and fell upon a moving mass. I did not feel hurt or stunned. I felt myself carried onward upon the backs of several animals, that, in the dense drove, ran close together. These, frightened at their strange burden, bellowed loudly, and dashed on to the front. A sudden thought struck me, and, fixing on that which was most under me, I dropped my legs astride of him, embracing his hump, and clutching the long woolly hair that grew upon his neck. The animal "routed" with extreme terror, and, plunging forward, soon headed the band. This was exactly what I wanted; and on we went over the prairie, the bull running at top speed, believing, no doubt, that he had a panther or a catamount between his shoulders. I had no desire to disabuse him of this belief, and, lest he should deem me altogether harmless, and come to a halt, I slipped out my bowie, which happened to be handy, and pricked him up whenever he showed symptoms of lagging. At every fresh touch of the spur he roared out, and ran forward at a redoubled pace. My danger was still extreme. The drove was coming on behind with the front of nearly a mile. I could not have cleared it had the bull stopped and left me on the prairie. Nothwithstanding the peril I was in, I could not resist laughing at my ludicrous situation. I felt as one does when looking at a good comedy. We struck through a village of prairie dogs. Here I fancied the animal was about to turn and run back. This brought my mirth to a sudden pause; but the buffalo usually runs in a bee-line, and fortunately mine made no exception to the law. On he went, sinking to the knees, kicking the dust from the conical hills, snorting and bellowing with rage and terror. The Plum Buttes were directly in the line or our course. I had seen this from the start, and knew that if I could reach them I would be safe. They were nearly three miles from the bluff where we had bivouacked, but in my ride I fancied them ten. A small one rose over the prairie, several hundred yards nearer than the main heights. Towards this I pricked the foaming bull in a last stretch, and he brought me cleverly within a hundred yards of its base. It was now time to take leave of my dusky companion. I could have slaughtered him as I leaned over his back. My knife rested upon the most vulnerable part of his huge body. No! I could not have slain that buffalo for the Koh-i-noor. Untwisting my fingers from his thick fleece, I slipped down over his tail, and without as much as saying "Goodnight!" ran with all my speed towards the knoll. I climbed up; and sitting down upon a loose boulder of rock, looked over the prairie. The moon was still shining brightly. My late companion had halted not far from where I had left him, and stood glaring back with an air of extreme bewilderment. There was something so comical in the sight that I yelled with laughter as I sat securely on my perch. I looked to the south-west. As far as the eye could see, the prairie was black, and moving. The living wave came rolling onward and toward me; but I could now observe it in safety. The myriads of glancing eyes, sparkling like phosphoric gleams, no longer flashed terror. The drove was still half a mile distant. I thought I saw quick gleams, and heard the report of firearms away over its left border; but I could not be certain. I had begun to think of the fate of my comrades, and this gave me hopes that they were safe. The buffaloes approached the butte on which I was seated; and, perceiving the obstacle, suddenly forked into two great belts, and swept right and left around it. What struck me at this moment as curious was, that my bull, my particular bull, instead of waiting till his comrades had come up, and falling in among the foremost, suddenly tossed up his head, and galloped off as if a pack of wolves had been after him. He ran towards the outside of the band. When he had reached a point that placed him fairly beyond the flank, I could see him closing in, and moving on with the rest. This strange tactic of my late companion puzzled me at the time, but I afterwards learned that it was sound strategy on his part. Had he remained where I had parted with him, the foremost bulls coming up would have mistaken him for an individual of some other tribe, and would certainly have gored him to death. I sat upon the rock for nearly two hours, silently watching the sable stream as it poured past. I was on an island in the midst of a black and glittering sea. At one time I fancied I was moving, that the butte was sailing onward, and the buffaloes were standing still. My head swam with dizziness, and I leaped to my feet to drive away the strange illusion. The torrent rolled onward, and at length the hindmost went straggling past. I descended from the knoll, and commenced groping my way over the black, trodden earth. What was lately a green sward now presented the aspect of ground freshly ploughed, and trampled by droves of oxen. A number of white animals, resembling a flock of sheep, passed near me. They were wolves hanging upon the skirts of the herd. I pushed on, keeping to the southward. At length I heard voices; and, in the clear moonlight, could see several horsemen galloping in circles over the plain. I shouted "Hollo!" A voice answered mine, and one of the horsemen came galloping up; it was Saint Vrain. "Why, bless me, Haller!" cried he, reining up, and bending from his saddle to get a better view of me, "is it you or your ghost? As I sit here, it's the man himself, and alive!" "Never in better condition," I replied. "But where did you come from? the clouds? the sky? where?" And his questions were echoed by the others, who at this moment were shaking me by the hand, as if they had not seen me for a twelvemonth. Gode seemed to be the most perplexed man of the party. "Mon Dieu! run over; tramp by von million buffles, et ne pas mort! 'Cr-r-re matin!" "We were hunting for your body, or rather, the fragments of it," said Saint Vrain. "We had searched every foot of the prairie for a mile round, and had almost come to the conclusion that the fierce brutes had eaten you up." "Eat monsieur up! No! tre million buffles no him eat. Mon Dieu! Ha, Sleep-head!" This exclamation of the Canadian was addressed to Hibbets, who had failed to warn my comrades of where I lay, and thus placed me in such a dangerous predicament. "We saw you tossed in the air," continued Saint Vrain, "and fall right into the thick of them. Then, of course, we gave you up. But how, in Heaven's name, have you got clear?" I related my adventure to my wondering comrades. "Par Dieu!" cried Gode, "un garcon tres bizarre: une aventure tres merveilleuse!" From that hour I was looked upon as a "captain" on the prairies. My comrades had made good work of it, as a dozen dark objects that lay upon the plain testified. They had found my rifle and blankets, the latter trodden into the earth. Saint Vrain had still a few drops in his flask; and after swallowing these, and again placing the guard, we returned to our prairie couches and slept out the night. CHAPTER FIVE. IN A BAD FIX. A few days afterwards, another adventure befell me; and I began to think that I was destined to become a hero among the "mountain men." A small party of the traders, myself among the number, had pushed forward ahead of the caravan. Our object was to arrive at Santa Fe a day or two before the waggons, in order to have everything arranged with the Governor for their entrance into that capital. We took the route by the Cimmaron. Our road, for a hundred miles or so, lay through a barren desert, without game, and almost without water. The buffalo had already disappeared, and deer were equally scarce. We had to content ourselves with the dried meat which we had brought from the settlements. We were in the deserts of the artemisia. Now and then we could see a stray antelope bounding away before us, but keeping far out of range. They, too, seemed to be unusually shy. On the third day after leaving the caravan, as we were riding near the Cimmaron, I thought I observed a pronged head disappearing behind a swell in the prairie. My companions were sceptical, and none of them would go with me; so, wheeling out of the trail, I started alone. One of the men, for Gode was behind, kept charge of my dog, as I did not choose to take him with me, lest he might alarm the antelopes. My horse was fresh and willing; and whether successful or not, I knew that I could easily overtake the party by camping-time. I struck directly towards the spot where I had seen the object. It appeared to be only half a mile or so from the trail. It proved more distant--a common illusion in the crystal atmosphere of these upland regions. A curiously-formed ridge, a _couteau des prairies_ on a small scale, traversed the plain from east to west. A thicket of cactus covered part of its summit. Towards this thicket I directed myself. I dismounted at the bottom of the slope, and leading my horse silently up among the cacti plants, tied him to one of their branches. I then crept cautiously through the thorny leaves towards the point where I fancied I had seen the game. To my joy, not one antelope, but a brace of those beautiful animals were quietly grazing beyond; but, alas! too far off for the range of my rifle. They were fully three hundred yards distant, upon a smooth, grassy slope. There was not even a sage bush to cover me, should I attempt to approach them. What was to be done? I lay for several minutes, thinking over the different tricks known in hunter-craft for taking the antelope. Should I imitate their call? Should I hoist my handkerchief, and try to lure them up? I saw that they were too shy; for, at short intervals, they threw up their graceful heads and looked inquiringly around them. I remembered the red blanket on my saddle. I could display this upon the cactus bushes; perhaps it would attract them. I had no alternative, and was turning to go back for the blanket, when, all at once, my eye rested upon a clay-coloured line running across the prairie beyond where the animals were feeding. It was a break in the surface of the plain, a buffalo road, or the channel of an arroyo; in either case the very cover I wanted, for the animals were not a hundred yards from it, and were getting still nearer to it as they fed. Creeping back out of the thicket, I ran along the side of the slope towards a point where I had noticed that the ridge was depressed to the prairie level. Here, to my surprise, I found myself on the banks of a broad arroyo, whose water, clear and shallow, ran slowly over a bed of sand and gypsum. The banks were low, not over three feet above the surface of the water, except where the ridge impinged upon the stream. Here there was a high bluff; and, hurrying round its base, I entered the channel, and commenced wading upward. As I had anticipated, I soon came to a bend where the stream, after running parallel to the ridge, swept round and canoned through it. At this place I stopped, and looked cautiously over the bank. The antelopes had approached within less than rifle range of the arroyo; but they were yet far above my position. They were still quietly feeding and unconscious of danger. I again bent down and waded on. It was a difficult task proceeding in this way. The bed of the creek was soft and yielding, and I was compelled to tread slowly and silently lest I should alarm the game; but I was cheered in my exertions by the prospect of fresh venison for my supper. After a weary drag of several hundred yards, I came opposite to a small clump of wormwood bushes growing out of the bank. "I may be high enough," thought I; "these will serve for cover." I raised my body gradually until I could see through the leaves. I was in the right spot. I brought my rifle to a level, sighted for the heart of the buck, and fired. The animal leaped from the ground, and fell back lifeless. I was about to rush forward and secure my prize, when I observed the doe, instead of running off as I had expected, go up to her fallen partner and press her tapering nose to his body. She was not more than twenty yards from me; and I could plainly see that her look was one of inquiry and bewilderment. All at once she seemed to comprehend the fatal truth; and throwing back her head, commenced uttering the most piteous cries, at the same time running in circles around the body. I stood wavering between two minds. My first impulse had been to reload and kill the doe; but her plaintive voice entered my heart, disarming me of all hostile intentions. Had I dreamt of witnessing this painful spectacle, I should not have left the trail. But the mischief was now done. "I have worse than killed her," thought I; "it will be better to despatch her at once." Actuated by these principles of a common, but to her fatal, humanity, I rested the butt of my rifle and reloaded. With a faltering hand I again levelled the piece and fired. My nerves were steady enough to do the work. When the smoke floated aside, I could see the little creature bleeding upon the grass, her head resting against the body of her murdered mate. I shouldered my rifle, and was about to move forward, when to my astonishment, I found that I was caught by the feet. I was held firmly, as if my legs had been screwed in a vice! I made an effort to extricate myself; another, more violent, and equally unsuccessful; and, with a third, I lost my balance, and fell back upon the water. Half-suffocated, I regained my upright position, but only to find that I was held as fast as ever. Again I struggled to free my limbs. I could neither move them backward nor forward, to the right nor to the left; and I became sensible that I was gradually going down. Then the fearful truth flashed upon me: I was sinking in a quicksand. A feeling of horror came over me. I renewed my efforts with the energy of desperation. I leant to one side, then to the other, almost wrenching my knees from their sockets. My feet remained fast as ever. I could not move them an inch. The soft, clinging sand already overtopped my horseskin boots, wedging them around my ankles, so that I was unable to draw them off; and I could feel that I was still sinking, slowly but surely, as though some subterranean monster were leisurely dragging me down! This very thought caused me a fresh thrill of horror, and I called aloud for help. To whom? There was no one within miles of me--no living thing. Yes! the neigh of my horse answered me from the hill, mocking my despair. I bent forward as well as my constrained position would permit, and, with frenzied fingers, commenced tearing up the sand. I could barely reach the surface; and the little hollow I was able to make filled up almost as soon as it had been formed. A thought occurred to me. My rifle might support me, placed horizontally. I looked around for it. It was not to be seen. It had sunk beneath the sand. Could I throw my body flat, and prevent myself from sinking deeper? No. The water was two feet in depth. I should drown at once. This last last hope left me as soon as formed. I could think of no plan to save myself. I could make no further effort. A strange stupor seized upon me. My very thoughts became paralysed. I knew that I was going mad. For a moment I was mad! After an interval my senses returned. I made an effort to rouse my mind from its paralysis, in order that I might meet death, which I now believed to be certain, as a man should. I stood erect. My eyes had sunk to the prairie level, and rested upon the still bleeding victims of my cruelty. My heart smote me at the sight. Was I suffering a retribution of God? With humble and penitent thoughts I turned my face to heaven, almost dreading that some sign of omnipotent anger would scowl upon me from above. But no! The sun was shining as brightly as ever, and the blue canopy of the world was without a cloud. I gazed upward, and prayed with an earnestness known only to the hearts of men in positions of peril like mine. As I continued to look up, an object attracted my attention. Against the sky I distinguished the outlines of a large bird. I knew it to be the obscene bird of the plains, the buzzard vulture. Whence had it come? Who knows? Far beyond the reach of human eye it had seen or scented the slaughtered antelopes, and on broad, silent wing was now descending to the feast of death. Presently another, and another, and many others, mottled the blue field of the heavens, curving and wheeling silently earthward. Then the foremost swooped down upon the bank, and after gazing around for a moment, flapped off towards its prey. In a few seconds the prairie was black with filthy birds, which clambered over the dead antelopes, and beat their wings against each other, while they tore out the eyes of the quarry with their fetid beaks. And now came gaunt wolves, sneaking and hungry, stealing out of the cactus thicket, and loping, coward-like, over the green swells of the prairie. These, after a battle, drove away the vultures, and tore up the prey, all the while growling and snapping vengefully at each other. "Thank Heaven! I shall at least be saved from this!" I was soon relieved from the sight. My eyes had sunk below the level of the bank. I had looked my last on the fair green earth. I could now see only the clayey walls that contained the river, and the water that ran unheeding by me. Once more I fixed my gaze upon the sky, and with prayerful heart endeavoured to resign myself to my fate. In spite of my efforts to be calm, the memories of earthly pleasures, and friends, and home came over me, causing me at intervals to break into wild paroxysms, and make fresh, though fruitless, struggles. Again I was attracted by the neighing of my horse. A thought entered my mind, filling me with fresh hopes. "Perhaps my horse--" I lost not a moment. I raised my voice to its highest pitch, and called the animal by name. I knew that he would come at my call. I had tied him but slightly. The cactus limb would snap off. I called again, repeating words that were well known to him. I listened with a bounding heart. For a moment there was silence. Then I heard the quick sounds of his hoofs, as though the animal were rearing and struggling to free himself. Then I could distinguish the stroke of his heels in a measured and regular gallop. Nearer came the sounds; nearer and clearer, until the gallant brute appeared upon the bank above me. There he halted, and, flinging back his tossed mane, uttered a shrill neigh. He was bewildered, and looked to every side, snorting loudly. I knew that, having once seen me, he would not stop until he had pressed his nose against my cheek, for this was his usual custom. Holding out my hands, I again uttered the magic words. Now glancing downward, he perceived me, and stretching himself, sprang out into the channel. The next moment I held him by the bridle. There was no time to be lost. I was still going down; and my armpits were fast nearing the surface of the quicksand. I caught the lariat, and, passing it under the saddle-girths, fastened it in a tight, firm knot. I then looped the trailing end, making it secure around my body. I had left enough of the rope, between the bit-ring and the girths, to enable me to check and guide the animal, in case the drag upon my body should be too painful. All this while the dumb brute seemed to comprehend what I was about. He knew, too, the nature of the ground on which he stood, for during the operation he kept lifting his feet alternately to prevent himself from sinking. My arrangements were at length completed; and with a feeling of terrible anxiety I gave my horse the signal to move forward. Instead of going off with a start, the intelligent animal stepped away slowly, as though he understood my situation. The lariat tightened, I felt my body moving, and the next moment experienced a wild delight, a feeling I cannot describe, as I found myself dragged out of the sand! I sprang to my feet with a shout of joy. I rushed up to my steed, and throwing my arms around his neck, kissed him. He answered my embrace with a low whimper, that told me I was understood. I looked for my rifle. Fortunately, it had not sunk deeply, and I soon found it. My boots were behind me, but I stayed not to look for them, being smitten with a wholesome dread of the place where I had left them. It was sundown before I reached camp, where I was met by the inquiries of my wondering companions. "Did you come across the `goats'?" "Where's your boots?" "Whether have you been hunting or fishing?" I answered all these questions by relating my adventures; and that night I was again the hero of the camp-fire. CHAPTER SIX. SANTA FE. After a week's climbing through the Rocky Mountains, we descended into the Valley of the Del Norte, and arrived at the capital of New Mexico, the far-famed Santa Fe. Next day the caravan itself came in, for we had lost time on the southern route; and the waggons, travelling by the Raton Pass, had made a good journey of it. We had no difficulty about their entrance into the country, with the proviso that we paid five hundred dollars of "Alcavala" tax upon each waggon. This was a greater extortion than usual; but the traders were compelled to accept the impost. Santa Fe is the entrepot of the province, and the chief seat of its trade. On reaching it we halted, camping without the walls. Saint Vrain, several other _proprietaires_, and myself, took up our quarters at the Fonda, where we endeavoured, by means of the sparkling vintage of El Paso, to make ourselves oblivious of the hardships we had endured in the passage of the plains. The night of our arrival was given to feasting and making merry. Next morning I was awakened by the voice of my man Gode, who appeared to be in high spirits, singing a snatch of a Canadian boat-song. "Ah, monsieur!" cried he, seeing me awake, "to-night--aujourd'hui--une grande fonction--one bal--vat le Mexicain he call fandango. Tres bien, monsieur. You vill sure have grand plaisir to see un fandango Mexicain?" "Not I, Gode. My countrymen are not so fond of dancing as yours." "C'est vrai, monsieur; but von fandango is tres curieux. You sall see ver many sort of de pas. Bolero, et valse, wis de Coona, and ver many more pas, all mix up in von puchero. Allons! monsieur, you vill see ver many pretty girl, avec les yeux tres noir, and ver short--ah! ver short--vat you call em in Americaine?" "I do not know what you allude to." "Cela! Zis, monsieur," holding out the skirt of his hunting-shirt; "par Dieu! now I have him--petticoes; ver short petticoes. Ah! you sall see vat you sall see en un fandango Mexicaine. "`Las ninas de Durango Commigo bailandas, Al cielo saltandas, En el fandango--en el fan-dang--o.' "Ah! here comes Monsieur Saint Vrain. Ecoutez! He never go to fandango. Sacre! how monsieur dance! like un maitre de ballet. Mais he be de sangre--blood Francais. Ecoutez! "`Al cielo saltandas, En el fandango--en el fan-dang--.'" "Ha! Gode!" "Monsieur?" "Trot over to the cantina, and beg, borrow, buy, or steal, a bottle of the best Paso." "Sall I try steal 'im, Monsieur Saint Vrain?" inquired Gode, with a knowing grin. "No, you old Canadian thief! Pay for it. There's the money. Best Paso, do you hear?--cool and sparkling. Now, voya! Bon jour, my bold rider of buffalo bulls I still abed, I see." "My head aches as if it would split." "Ha, ha, ha! so does mine; but Gode's gone for medicine. Hair of the dog good for the bite. Come, jump up!" "Wait till I get a dose of your medicine." "True; you will feel better then. I say, city life don't agree with us, eh?" "You call this a city, do you?" "Ay, so it is styled in these parts: `la ciudad de Santa Fe;' the famous city of Santa Fe; the capital of Nuevo Mexico; the metropolis of all prairiedom; the paradise of traders, trappers, and thieves!" "And this is the progress of three hundred years! Why, these people have hardly passed the first stages of civilisation." "Rather say they are passing the last stages of it. Here, on this fair oasis, you will find painting, poetry, dancing, theatres, and music, fetes and fireworks, with all the little amorous arts that characterise a nation's decline. You will meet with numerous Don Quixotes, _soi-disant_ knights-errant, Romeos without the heart, and ruffians without the courage. You will meet with many things before you encounter either virtue or honesty. Hola! muchacho!" "Que es, senor?" "Hay cafe?" "Si, senor." "Bring us a couple of tazas, then--dos tazas, do you hear? and quick-- aprisa! aprisa!" "Si, senor." "Ah! here comes le voyageur Canadien. So, old Nor'-west! you've brought the wine?" "Vin delicieux, Monsieur Saint Vrain! equal to ze vintage Francais." "He is right, Haller! Tsap--tsap! delicious you may say, good Gode. Tsap--tsap! Come, drink! it'll make you feel as strong as a buffalo. See! it seethes like a soda spring! like `Fontaine-qui-bouille'; eh, Gode?" "Oui, monsieur; ver like Fontaine-qui-bouille. Oui." "Drink, man, drink! Don't fear it: it's the pure juice. Smell the flavour; taste the bouquet. What wine the Yankees will one day squeeze out of these New Mexican grapes!" "Why? Do you think the Yankees have an eye to this quarter?" "Think! I know it; and why not? What use are these manikins in creation? Only to cumber the earth. Well, mozo, you have brought the coffee?" "Ya, esta, senor." "Here! try some of this; it will help to set you on your feet. They can make coffee, and no mistake. It takes a Spaniard to do that." "What is this fandango Gode has been telling me about?" "Ah! true. We are to have a famous one to-night. You'll go, of course?" "Out of curiosity." "Very well, you will have your curiosity gratified. The blustering old grampus of a Governor is to honour the ball with his presence; and it is said, his pretty senora; that I don't believe." "Why not?" "He's too much afraid lest one of these wild Americanos might whip her off on the cantle of his saddle. Such things have been done in this very valley. By Saint Mary! she is good-looking," continued Saint Vrain, in a half-soliloquy, "and I knew a man--the cursed old tyrant! only think of it!" "Of what?" "The way he has bled us. Five hundred dollars a waggon, and a hundred of them at that; in all, fifty thousand dollars!" "But will he pocket all this? Will not the Government--?" "Government! no, every cent of it. He is the Government here; and, with the help of this instalment, he will rule these miserable wretches with an iron rod." "And yet they hate him, do they not?" "Him and his. And they have reason." "It is strange they do not rebel." "They have at times; but what can they do? Like all true tyrants, he has divided them, and makes them spend their heart's hatred on one another." "But he seems not to have a very large army; no bodyguard--" "Bodyguard!" cried Saint Vrain, interrupting me; "look out! there's his bodyguard!" "Indios bravos! les Navajoes!" exclaimed Gode, at the same instant. I looked forth into the street. Half a dozen tall savages, wrapped in striped serapes, were passing. Their wild, hungry looks, and slow, proud walk at once distinguished them from "Indios manzos," the water-drawing, wood-hewing pueblos. "Are they Navajoes?" I asked. "Oui, monsieur, oui!" replied Gode, apparently with some excitement. "Navajoes!" "There's no mistaking them," added Saint Vrain. "But the Navajoes are the notorious enemies of the New Mexicans! How come they to be here? Prisoners?" "Do they look like prisoners?" They certainly showed no signs of captivity in either look or gesture. They strode proudly up the street, occasionally glancing at the passers with an air of savage and lordly contempt. "Why, then, are they here? Their country lies far to the west." "That is one of the secrets of Nuevo Mexico, about which I will enlighten you some other time. They are now protected by a treaty of peace, which is only binding upon them so long as it may suit their convenience to recognise it. At present they are as free here as you or I; indeed, more so, when it comes to that. I wouldn't wonder it we were to meet them at the fandango to-night." "I have heard that the Navajoes are cannibals." "It is true. Look at them this minute! See how they gloat upon that chubby little fellow, who seems instinctively to fear them. Lucky for the urchin it's broad daylight, or he might get chucked under one of those striped blankets." "Are you in earnest, Saint Vrain?" "By my word, I am not jesting! If I mistake not, Gode's experience will confirm what I have said. Eh, voyageur?" "C'est vrai, monsieur. I vas prisonnier in le nation; not Navagh, but l'Apache--moch de same--pour tree mons. I have les sauvages seen manger--eat--one--deux--tree--tree enfants rotis, like hump rib of de buffles. C'est vrai, messieurs, c'est vrai." "It is quite true; both Apaches and Navajoes carry off children from the valley, here, in their grand forays; and it is said by those who should know, that most of them are used in that way. Whether as a sacrifice to the fiery god Quetzalcoatl, or whether from a fondness lor human flesh, no one has yet been able to determine. In fact, with all their propinquity to this place, there is little known about them. Few who have visited their towns have had Gode's luck to get away again. No man of these parts ever ventures across the western Sierras." "And how came you, Monsieur Gode, to save your scalp?" "Pourquoi, monsieur, je n'ai pas. I not haves scalp-lock: vat de trappare Yankee call `har,' mon scalp-lock is fabrique of von barbier de Saint Louis. Voila monsieur!" So saying, the Canadian lifted his cap, and along with it what I had, up to this time, looked upon as a beautiful curling head of hair, but which now proved to be only a wig! "Now, messieurs!" cried he, in good humour, "how les sauvages my scalp take? Indien no have cash hold. Sacr-r-r!" Saint Vrain and I were unable to restrain our laughter at the altered and comical appearance of the Canadian. "Come, Gode! the least you can do after that is to take a drink. Here, help yourself!" "Tres-oblige, Monsieur Saint Vrain. Je vous remercie." And the ever-thirsty voyageur quaffed off the nectar of El Paso, like so much fresh milk. "Come, Haller! we must to the waggons. Business first, then pleasure; such as we may find here among these brick stacks. But we'll have some fun in Chihuahua." "And you think we shall go there?" "Certainly. They do not want the fourth part of our stuff here. We must carry it on to the head market. To the camp! Allons!" CHAPTER SEVEN. THE FANDANGO. In the evening I sat in my room waiting for Saint Vrain. His voice reached me from without-- "`Las ninas de Durango Commigo bailandas, Al cielo--!' "Ha! Are you ready, my bold rider?" "Not quite. Sit down a minute and wait." "Hurry, then! the dancing's begun. I have just come that way. What! that your ball-dress? Ha! ha! ha!" screamed Saint Vrain, seeing me unpack a blue coat and a pair of dark pantaloons, in a tolerable state of preservation. "Why, yes," replied I, looking up; "what fault do you find? But is that your ball-dress?" No change had taken place in the ordinary raiment of my friend. The fringed hunting-shirt and leggings, the belt, the bowie, and the pistols, were all before me. "Yes, my dandy; this is my ball-dress: it ain't anything shorter; and if you'll take my advice, you'll wear what you have got on your back. How will your long-tailed blue look, with a broad belt and bowie strapped round the skirts? Ha! ha! ha!" "But why take either belt or bowie? You are surely not going into a ball-room with your pistols in that fashion?" "And how else should I carry them? In my hands?" "Leave them here." "Ha! ha! that would be a green trick. No, no. Once bit, twice shy. You don't catch this 'coon going into any fandango in Santa Fe without his six-shooters. Come, keep on that shirt; let your leggings sweat where they are, and buckle this about you. That's the _costume du bal_ in these parts." "If you assure me that my dress will be _comme il faut_, I'm agreed." "It won't be with the long-tailed blue, I promise you." The long-tailed blue was restored forthwith to its nook in my portmanteau. Saint Vrain was right. On arriving at the room, a large sala in the neighbourhood of the Plaza, we found it filled with hunters, trappers, traders, and teamsters, all swaggering about in their usual mountain rig. Mixed among them were some two or three score of the natives, with an equal number of senoritas, all of whom, by their style of dress, I recognise as poblanas, or persons of the lower class,--the only class, in fact, to be met with in Santa Fe. As we entered, most of the men had thrown aside their serapes for the dance, and appeared in all the finery of embroidered velvet, stamped leather, and shining "castletops." The women looked not less picturesque in their bright naguas, snowy chemisettes, and small satin slippers. Some of them flounced it in polka jackets; for even to that remote region the famous dance had found its way. "Have you heard of the electric telegraph?" "No, senor." "Can you tell me what a railroad is?" "Quien sabe?" "La polka?" "Ah! senor, la polka, la polka! cosa buenita, tan graciosa! vaya!" The ball-room was a long, oblong sala with a banquette running all round it. Upon this the dancers seated themselves, drew out their husk cigarettes, chatted, and smoked, during the intervals of the dance. In one corner half a dozen sons of Orpheus twanged away upon harp, guitar, and bandolin; occasionally helping out the music with a shrill half-Indian chant. In another angle of the apartment, puros, and Taos whisky were dealt out to the thirsty mountaineers, who made the sala ring with their wild ejaculations. There were scenes like the following:-- "Hyar, my little muchacha! vamos, vamos, ter dance! Mucho bueno! Mucho bueno? Will ye?" This is from a great rough fellow of six feet and over, addressed to a trim little poblana. "Mucho bueno, Senor Americano!" replies the lady. "Hooraw for you! Come along! Let's licker fust! You're the gal for my beaver. What'll yer drink? Agwardent or vino?" "Copitita de vino, senor." (A small glass of wine, sir.) "Hyar, yer darned greaser! Set out yer vino in a squ'll's jump! Now, my little un', hyar's luck, and a good husband!" "Gracias, Senor Americano!" "What! you understand that? You intende, do yer?" "Si, senor!" "Hooraw, then! Look hyar, little 'un, kin yer go the b'ar dance?" "No entiende." "Yer don't understan' it! Hyar it is; thisa-way;" and the clumsy hunter began to show off before his partner, in an imitation of the grizzly bear. "Hollo, Bill!" cries a comrade, "yer'll be trapped if yer don't look sharp." "I'm dog-gone, Jim, if I don't feel queery about hyar," replies the hunter, spreading his great paw over the region of the heart. "Don't be skeert, man; it's a nice gal, anyways." "Hooray for old Missouri!" shouts a teamster. "Come, boys! Let's show these yer greasers a Virginny break-down. `Cl'ar the kitchen, old folks, young folks.'" "Go it hoe and toe! `Old Virginny nebir tire!'" "Viva el Gobernador! Viva Armijo! Viva! viva!" An arrival at this moment caused a sensation in the room. A stout, fat, priest-like man entered, accompanied by several others, it was the Governor and his suite, with a number of well-dressed citizens, who were no doubt the elite of New Mexican society. Some of the new-comers were militaires, dressed in gaudy and foolish-looking uniforms that were soon seen spinning round the room in the mazes of the waltz. "Where is the Senora Armijo?" I whispered to Saint Vrain. "I told you as much. She! she won't be out. Stay here; I am going for a short while. Help yourself to a partner, and see some tun. I will be back presently. _Au revoir_!" Without any further explanation, Saint Vrain squeezed himself through the crowd and disappeared. I had been seated on the banquette since entering the sala, Saint Vrain beside me, in a retired corner of the room. A man of peculiar appearance occupied the seat next to Saint Vrain, but farther into the shadow of a piece of furniture. I had noticed this man as we entered, and noticed, too, that Saint Vrain spoke to him; but I was not introduced, and the interposition of my friend prevented me from making any further observation of him until the latter had retired. We were now side by side; and I commenced a sort of angular reconnaissance of a face and figure that had somewhat strangely arrested my attention. He was not an American; that was evident from his dress; and yet the face was not Mexican. Its outlines were too bold for a Spanish face, though the complexion, from tan and exposure, was brown and swarth. His face was clean-shaven except his chin, which carried a pointed, darkish beard. The eye, if I saw it aright under the shadow of a slouched brim, was blue and mild; the hair brown and wavy, with here and there a strand of silver. These were not Spanish characteristics, much less Hispano-American; and I should have at once placed my neighbour elsewhere, but that his dress puzzled me. It was purely a Mexican costume, and consisted of a purple manga, with dark velvet embroidery around the vent and along the borders. As this garment covered the greater part of his person, I could only see that underneath was a pair of green velveteen calzoneros, with yellow buttons, and snow-white calzoncillos puffing out along the seams. The bottoms of the calzoneros were trimmed with stamped black leather; and under these were yellow boots, with a heavy steel spur upon the heel of each. The broad peaked strap that confined the spur, passing over the foot, gave to it that peculiar contour that we observe in the pictures of armed knights of the olden time. He wore a black, broad-brimmed sombrero, girdled by a thick band of gold bullion. A pair of tags of the same material stuck out from the sides: the fashion of the country. The man kept his sombrero slouched towards the light, as I thought or suspected, for the concealment of his face. And vet it was not an ill-favoured one. On the contrary, it was open and pleasing; no doubt had been handsome beforetime, and whatever caused its melancholy expression had lined and clouded it. It was this expression that had struck me on first seeing the man. Whilst I was making these observations, eyeing him cross-wise all the while, I discovered that he was eyeing me in a similar manner, and with an interest apparently equal to my own. This caused us to face round to each other, when the stranger drew from under his manga a small beaded cigarero, and, gracefully holding it out to me, said-- "Quiere a fumar, caballero?" (Would you smoke, sir?) "Thank you, yes," I replied in Spanish, at the same time taking a cigar from the case. We had hardly lit our cigarettes when the man again turned to me with the unexpected question-- "Will you sell your horse?" "No." "Not for a good price?" "Not for any price." "I would give five hundred dollars for him." "I would not part with him for twice the amount." "I will give twice the amount." "I have become attached to him: money is no object." "I am sorry to hear it. I have travelled two hundred miles to buy that horse." I looked at my new acquaintance with astonishment, involuntarily repeating his last words. "You must have followed us from the Arkansas, then?" "No, I came from the Rio Abajo." "The Rio Abajo! You mean from down the Del Norte?" "Yes." "Then, my dear sir, it is a mistake. You think you are talking to somebody else, and bidding for some other horse." "Oh, no! He is yours. A black stallion with red nose and long full tail, half-bred Arabian. There is a small mark over the left eye." This was certainly the description of Moro; and I began to feel a sort of superstitious awe in regard to my mysterious neighbour. "True," replied I; "that is all correct; but I bought that stallion many months ago from a Louisiana planter. If you have just arrived from two hundred miles down the Rio Grande, how, may I ask, could you have known anything about me or my horse?" "Dispensadme, caballero! I did not mean that. I came from below to meet the caravan, for the purpose of buying an American horse. Yours is the only one in the caballada I would buy, and, it seems, the only one that is not for sale!" "I am sorry for that; but I have tested the qualities of this animal. We have become friends. No common motive would induce me to part with him." "Ah, senor! it is not a common motive that makes me so eager to purchase him. If you knew that, perhaps--" he hesitated a moment; "but no, no, no!" and after muttering some half-coherent words, among which I could recognise the "Buenos noches, caballero!" the stranger rose up with the same mysterious air that had all along characterised him, and left me. I could hear the tinkling of the small bells upon the rowels of his spurs, as he slowly warped himself through the gay crowd, and disappeared into the night. The vacated seat was soon occupied by a dusky manola, whose bright nagua, embroidered chemisette, brown ankles, and small blue slippers, drew my attention. This was all I could see of her, except the occasional flash of a very black eye through the loophole of the rebozo tapado. By degrees, the rebozo became more generous, the loophole expanded, and the outlines of a very pretty and very malicious little face were displayed before me. The end of the scarf was adroitly removed from the left shoulder; and a nude, plump arm, ending in a bunch of small jewelled fingers, hung carelessly down. I am tolerably bashful; but at the sight of this tempting partner, I could hold in no longer, and bending towards her, I said in my best Spanish, "Do me the favour, miss, to waltz with me." The wicked little manola first held down her head and blushed; then, raising the long fringes of her eyes, looked up again, and wits a voice as sweet as that of a canary-bird, replied-- "Con gusto, senor." (With pleasure, sir.) "Nos vamos!" cried I, elated with my triumph; and pairing off with my brilliant partner, we were soon whirling about in the mazy. We returned to our seats again, and after refreshing with a glass of Albuquerque, a sponge-cake, and a husk cigarette, again took the floor. This pleasurable programme we repeated some half-dozen times, only varying the dance from waltz to polka, for my manola danced the polka as if she had been a born Bohemian. On one of my fingers was a fifty-dollar diamond, which my partner seemed to think was _muy buenito_. As her igneous eyes softened my heart, and the champagne was producing a similar effect upon my head, I began to speculate on the propriety of transferring the diamond from the smallest of my fingers to the largest of hers, which it would, no doubt, have fitted exactly. All at once I became conscious of being under the surveillance of a large and very fierce-looking lepero, a regular pelado, who followed us with his eyes, and sometimes _in persona_, to every part of the room. The expression of his swarth face was a mixture of jealousy and vengeance, which my partner noticed, but, as I thought, took no pains to soften down. "Who is he?" I whispered, as the man swung past us in his chequered serape. "Esta mi marido, senor," (It is my husband, sir), was the cool reply. I pushed the ring close up to the root of my finger, shutting my hand upon it tight as a vice. "Vamos a tomar otra copita!" (Let us take another glass of wine!) said I, resolving to bid my pretty poblana, as soon as possible, a good-night. The Taos whisky had by this time produced its effect upon the dancers. The trappers and teamsters had become noisy and riotous. The leperos, who now half-filled the room, stimulated by wine, jealousy, old hatreds, and the dance, began to look more savage and sulky. The fringed hunting-shirts and brown homespun frocks found favour with the dark-eyed majas of Mexico, partly out of a respect for, and a fear of, courage, which is often at the bottom of a love like theirs. Although the trading caravans supplied almost all the commerce of Santa Fe, and it was clearly the interest of its inhabitants to be on good terms with the traders, the two races, Anglo-American and Hispano-Indian, hated each other thoroughly; and that hate was now displaying itself on one side in bullying contempt, on the other in muttered _carrajos_ and fierce looks of vengeance. I was still chatting with my lively partner. We were seated on the banquette where I had introduced myself. On looking casually up, a bright object met my eyes. It appeared to be a naked knife in the hands of _su marido_ who was just then lowering over us like the shadow of an evil spirit. I was favoured with only a slight glimpse of this dangerous meteor, and had made up my mind to "'ware steel," when someone plucked me by the sleeve, and turning, I beheld my quondam acquaintance of the purple magna. "Dispensadme, senor," said he, nodding graciously, "I have just learned that the caravan is going on to Chihuahua." "True, there is no market here for our goods." "You go on then, of course?" "Certainly, I must." "Will you return this way, senor?" "It is very likely; I have no other intention at present." "Perhaps then you might be willing to part with your horse? You will find many as good in the great valley of the Mississippi." "Neither is likely." "But, senor, should you be inclined to do so, will you promise me the refusal of him?" "Oh! that I will promise you, with all my heart." Our conversation was here interrupted by a huge, gaunt, half-drunken Missourian, who, tramping rudely upon the stranger's toes, vociferated-- "Ye--up, old greaser! gi' mi a char." "Y porque?" (And why?) demanded the Mexican, drawing in his feet, and looking up with astonished indignation. "I'm tired jumpin'. I want a seat, that's it, old hoss." There was something so bullying and brutal in the conduct of this man, that I felt called upon to interfere. "Come!" said I, addressing him, "you have no right to deprive this gentleman of his seat, much less in such a fashion." "Eh, mister? who asked you to open yer head? Ye--up, I say!" and at the word, he seized the Mexican by the corner of his manga, as if to drag him from his seat. Before I had time to reply to this rude speech and gesture, the stranger leaped to his feet, and with a well-planted blow felled the bully upon the floor. This seemed to act as a signal for bringing several other quarrels to a climax. There was a rush through all parts of the sala, drunken shouts mingled with yells of vengeance, knives glanced from their sheaths, women screamed, pistols flashed and cracked, filling the rooms with smoke and dust. The lights went out, fierce struggles could be heard in the darkness, the fall of heavy bodies amidst groans and curses, and for five minutes these were the only sounds. Having no cause to be particularly _angry_ with anybody, I stood where I had risen, without using either knife or pistol, my frightened _maja_ all the while holding me by the hand. A painful sensation near my left shoulder caused me suddenly to drop my partner; and with that unaccountable weakness consequent upon the reception of a wound, I felt myself staggering towards the banquette. Here I dropped into a sitting posture, and remained till the struggle was over, conscious all the while that a stream of blood was oozing down my back, and saturating my undergarments. I sat thus till the struggle had ended. A light was brought, and I could distinguish a number of men in hunting-shirts moving to-and-fro with violent gesticulations. Some of them were advocating the justice of the "spree," as they termed it; while others, the more respectable of the traders, were denouncing it. The leperos with the women, had all disappeared, and I could perceive that the Americanos had carried the day. Several dark objects lay along the floor: they were bodies of men dead or dying! One was an American, the Missourian who had been the immediate cause of the fracas; the others were pelodos. I could see nothing of my late acquaintance. My fandanguera, too--_con su marido_-- had disappeared; and on glancing at my left hand, I came to the conclusion that so also had my diamond ring! "Saint Vrain! Saint Vrain!" I called, seeing the figure of my friend enter at the door. "Where are you, H., old boy. How is it with you? all right, eh?" "Not quite, I tear." "Good heavens! what's this? why, you're stabbed in the hump ribs! Not bad, I hope. Off with your shirt and let's see." "First, let us to my room." "Come, then, my dear boy, lean on me--so, so!" The fandango was over. CHAPTER EIGHT. SEGUIN THE SCALP-HUNTER. I have had the pleasure of being wounded in the field of battle. I say pleasure. Under certain circumstances, wounds are luxuries. How different were the feelings I experienced while smarting under wounds that came by the steel of the assassin! My earliest anxiety was about the depth of my wound. Was it mortal? This is generally the first question a man puts to himself, after discovering that he has been shot or stabbed. A wounded man cannot always answer it either. One's life-blood may be spurting from an artery at each palpitation, while the actual pain felt is not worth the pricking of a pin. On reaching the Fonda, I sank exhausted on my bed. Saint Vrain split my hunting-shirt from cape to skirt, and commenced examining my wound. I could not see my friend's face as he stood behind me, and I waited with impatience. "Is it deep?" I asked. "Not deep as a draw-well, nor wide as a waggon-track," was the reply. "You're quite safe, old fellow; thank God, and not the man who handled that knife, for the fellow plainly intended to do for you. It is the cut of a Spanish knife, and a devilish gash it is. Haller, it was a close shave. One inch more, and the spine, my boy! but you're safe, I say. Here, Gode! that sponge!" "Sacre!" muttered Gode, with true Gallic aspirate, as he handed the wet rag. I felt the cold application. Then a bunch of soft raw cotton, the best dressing it could have, was laid over the wound, and fastened by strips. The most skilful surgeon could have done no more. "Close as a clamp," added Saint Vrain, as he fastened the last pin, and placed me in the easiest position. "But what started the row? and how came you to cut such a figure in it? I was out, thank God!" "Did you observe a strange-looking man?" "What! with the purple manga?" "Yes." "He sat beside us?" "Yes." "Ha! No wonder you say a strange-looking man; stranger than he looks, too. I saw him, I know him, and perhaps not another in the room could say that. Ay, there was another," continued Saint Vrain, with a peculiar smile; "but what could have brought him there is that which puzzles me. Armijo could not have seen him: but go on." I related to Saint Vrain the whole of my conversation with the stranger, and the incidents that led to the breaking up of the fandango. "It is odd--very odd! What could he want with your horse? Two hundred miles, and offers a thousand dollars!" "Capitaine!" (Gode had called me captain ever since the ride upon the buffalo), "if monsieur come two hunred mile, and vill pay un mille thousan dollar, he Moro like ver, ver moch. Un grand passion pour le cheval. Pourquoi: vy he no like him ver sheep? vy he no steal 'im?" I started at the suggestion, and looked towards Saint Vrain. "Vith permiss of le capitaine, I vill le cheval cache," continued the Canadian, moving towards the door. "You need not trouble yourself, old Nor'-west, as far as that gentleman is concerned. He'll not steal your horse; though that's no reason why you should not fulfil your intention, and `cache' the animal. There are thieves enough in Santa Fe to steal the horses of a whole regiment. You had better fasten him by the door here." Gode passed to the door and disappeared. "Who is he?" I asked, "this man about whom there seems to be so much that is mysterious?" "Ah! if you knew. I will tell you some queer passages by and by, but not to-night. You have no need of excitement. That is the famous Seguin--the Scalp-hunter." "The Scalp-hunter!" "Ay! you have heard of him, no doubt; at least you would, had you been much among the mountains." "I have. The ruffian! the wholesale butcher of innocent--" A dark waif danced against the wall: it was the shadow of a man. I looked up. Seguin was before me! Saint Vrain on seeing him enter had turned away, and stood looking out of the window. I was on the point of changing my tirade into the apostrophic form, and at the same time ordering the man out of my sight, when something in his look influenced me to remain silent. I could not tell whether he had heard or understood to whom my abusive epithets had been applied; but there was nothing in his manner that betrayed his having done so. I observed only the same look that had at first attracted me--the same expression of deep melancholy. Could this man be the hardened and heartless villain I had heard of, the author of so many atrocities? "Sir," said he, seeing that I remained silent, "I deeply regret what has happened to you. I was the involuntary cause of your mishap. Is your wound a severe one?" "It is not," I replied, with a dryness of manner that seemed somewhat to disconcert him. "I am glad of that," he continued, after a pause. "I came to thank you for your generous interference. I leave Santa Fe in ten minutes. I must bid you farewell." He held forth his hand. I muttered the word "farewell," but without offering to exchange the salutation. The stories of cruel atrocity connected with the name of this man came into my mind at the moment, and I felt a loathing for him. His arm remained in its outstretched position, while a strange expression began to steal over his countenance, as he saw that I hesitated. "I cannot take your hand," I said at length. "And why?" he asked, in a mild tone. "Why? It is red, red! Away, sir, away!" He fixed his eyes upon me with a sorrowful look. There was not a spark of anger in them. He drew his hand within the folds of his manga, and uttering a deep sigh, turned and walked slowly out of the room. Saint Vrain, who had wheeled round at the close of this scene, strode forward to the door, and stood looking after him. I could see the Mexican, from where I lay, as he crossed the quadrangular patio. He had shrugged himself closely in his manga, and was moving off in an attitude that betokened the deepest dejection. In a moment he was out of sight, having passed through the saguan, and into the street. "There is something truly mysterious about that man. Tell me, Saint Vrain--" "Hush-sh! look yonder!" interrupted my friend, pointing through the open door. I looked out into the moonlight. Three human forms were moving along the wall, towards the entrance of the patio. Their height, their peculiar attitudes, and the stealthy silence of their steps, convinced me they were Indians. The next moment they were lost under the dark shadows of the saguan. "Who are they?" I inquired. "Worse enemies to poor Seguin than you would be, if you knew him better. I pity him if these hungry hawks overtake him in the dark. But no; he's worth warning, and a hand to help him, if need be. He shall have it. Keep cool, Harry! I will be back in a jiffy." So saying, Saint Vrain left me; and the moment after I could see his light form passing hastily out of the gate. I lay reflecting on the strangeness of the incidents that seemed to be occurring around me. I was not without some painful reflections. I had wounded the feelings of one who had not injured me, and for whom my friend evidently entertained a high respect. A shod hoof sounded upon the stones outside; it was Gode with my horse; and the next moment I heard him hammering the picket-pin into the pavement. Shortly after, Saint Vrain himself returned. "Well," I inquired, "what happened you?" "Nothing much. That's a weasel that never sleeps. He had mounted his horse before they came up with him, and was very soon out of their reach." "But may they not follow him on horseback?" "That is not likely. He has comrades not far from here, I warrant you. Armijo--and it was he sent those villains on his track--has no force that dare follow him when he gets upon the wild hills. No fear for him once he has cleared the houses." "But, my dear Saint Vrain, tell me what you know of this singular man. I am wound up to a pitch of curiosity." "Not to-night, Harry; not to-night. I do not wish to cause you further excitement; besides, I have reason to leave you now. To-morrow, then. Good-night! Good-night!" And so saying, my mercurial friend left me to Gode and a night of restlessness. CHAPTER NINE. LEFT BEHIND. On the third day after the fandango, it is announced that the caravan will move onward to Chihuahua. The day arrives, and I am unable to travel with it. My surgeon, a wretched leech of a Mexican, assures me that it will be certain death to attempt the journey. For want of any opposing evidence, I am constrained to believe him. I have no alternative but to adopt the joyless resolve to remain in Santa Fe until the return of the traders. Chafing on a feverish bed, I take leave of my late companions. We part with many regrets; but, above all, I am pained at bidding adieu to Saint Vrain, whose light-hearted companionship has been my solace through three days of suffering. He has proved my friend; and has undertaken to take charge of my waggons, and dispose of my goods in the market of Chihuahua. "Do not fret, man," says he, taking leave. "Kill time with the champagne of El Paso. We will be back in a squirrel's jump; and, trust me, I will bring you a mule-load of Mexican shiners. God bless you! Good-bye!" I can sit up in my bed and, from the open window, see the white tilts of the waggons, as the train rolls over a neighbouring hill. I hear the cracking whips and the deep-toned "wo-ha" of the teamsters; I see the traders mount and gallop after; and I turn upon my couch with a feeling of loneliness and desertion. For days I lay tossing and fretting, despite the consolatory influence of the champagne, and the rude but kindly attentions of my voyageur valet. I rise at length, dress myself, and sit in my ventana. I have a good view of the plaza and the adjacent streets, with their rows of brown adobe houses, and dusty ways between. I gaze, hour after hour, on what is passing without. The scene is not without novelty as well as variety. Swarthy, ill-favoured faces appear behind the folds of dingy rebozos. Fierce glances lower under the slouch of broad sombreros. Poplanas with short skirts and slippered feet pass my window; and groups of "tame" Indians, pueblos, crowd in from the neighbouring rancherias, belabouring their donkeys as they go. These bring baskets of fruit and vegetables. They squat down upon the dusty plaza, behind piles of prickly pears, or pyramids of tomatoes and chile. The women, light-hearted hucksters, laugh and sing and chatter continuously. The tortillera, kneeling by her metate, bruises the boiled maize, claps it into thin flakes, flings it on the heated stone, and then cries, "Tortillas! tortillas calientes!" The cocinera stirs the peppery stew of chile Colorado, lifts the red liquid in her wooden ladle, and invites her customers by the expressions: "Chile bueno! excellente!" "Carbon! carbon!" cries the charcoal-burner. "Agua! agua limpia!" shouts the aguadord. "Pan fino, pan bianco!" screams the baker; and other cries from the vendors of atole, huevos, and leche, are uttered in shrill, discordant voices. Such are the voices of a Mexican plaza. They are at first interesting. They become monotonous, then disagreeable; until at length I am tortured, and listen to them with a feverish excitement. After a few days I am able to walk, and go out with my faithful Gode. We stroll through the town. It reminds me of an extensive brick-field before the kilns have been set on fire. We encounter the same brown adobes everywhere; the same villainous-looking leperos lounging at the corners; the same bare-legged, slippered wenches; the same strings of belaboured donkeys; the same shrill and detestable cries. We pass by a ruinous-looking house in a remote quarter. Our ears are saluted by voices from within. We hear shouts of "Mueran los Yankies! Abajo los Americanos!" No doubt the pelado to whom I was indebted for my wound is among the ruffians who crowd into the windows; but I know the lawlessness of the place too well to apply for justice. We hear the same shouts in another street; again in the plaza; and Gode and I re-enter the Fonda with a conviction that our appearance in public might be attended with danger. We resolve, therefore, to keep within doors. In all my life I never suffered ennui as when cooped up in this semi-barbarous town, and almost confined within the walls of its filthy Fonda. I felt it the more that I had so lately enjoyed the company of such free, jovial spirits, and I could fancy them in their bivouacs on the banks of the Del Norte, carousing, laughing, or listening to some wild mountain story. Gode shared my feelings, and became as desponding as myself. The light humour of the voyageur disappeared. The song of the Canadian boatman was heard no longer; but, in its place, the "sacre" and English exclamations were spluttered plentifully, and hurled at everything Mexican. I resolved at length to put an end to our sufferings. "This life will never do, Gode," said I, addressing my compagnon. "Ah! monsieur, nevare! nevare it vill do. Ah! ver doll. It is like von assemblee of le Quaker." "I am determined to endure it no longer." "But what can monsieur do? How, capitaine?" "By leaving this accursed place, and that to-morrow." "But is monsieur fort? strongs beau-coup? strongs to ride?" "I will risk it, Gode. If I break down, there are other towns on the river where we can halt. Anywhere better than here." "C'est vrai, capitaine. Beautiful village down the river. Albuquerque; Tome: ver many village. Mon Dieu! all better, Santa Fe is one camp of tief. Ver good for us go, monsieur; ver good." "Good or not, Gode, I am going. So make your preparations to-night, for I will leave in the morning before sunrise." "It will be von grand plaisir to makes ready." And the Canadian ran from the room, snapping his fingers with delight. I had made up my mind to leave Santa Fe at any rate. Should my strength, yet but half restored, hold out, I would follow, and if possible overtake the caravan. I knew it could make but short journeys over the deep sand roads of the Del Norte. Should I not succeed in coming up with it, I could halt in Albuquerque or El Paso, either of which would offer me a residence at least as agreeable as the one I was leaving. My surgeon endeavoured to dissuade me from setting out. He represented that I was in a most critical condition, my wound far from being cicatrised. He set forth in most eloquent terms the dangers of fever, of gangrene, of haemorrhage. He saw I was obstinate, and concluded his monitions by presenting his bill. It amounted to the modest sum of one hundred dollars! It was an extortion. What could I do? I stormed and protested. The Mexican threatened me with "Governor's" justice. Gode swore in French, Spanish, English, and Indian. It was all to no purpose. I saw that the bill would have to be paid, and I paid it, though with indifferent grace. The leech disappeared, and the landlord came next. He, like the former, made earnest entreaty to prevent me from setting forth. He offered a variety of reasons to detain me. "Do not go; for your life, senor, do not!" "And why, good Jose?" I inquired. "Oh, senor, los Indios bravos! los Navajoes! carambo!" "But I am not going into the Indian country. I travel down the river, through the towns of New Mexico." "Ah! senor! the towns! no hay seguridad. No, no; there is safety nowhere from the Navajo. Hay novedades: news this very day. Polvidera; pobre polvidera! It was attacked on Sunday last. On Sunday, senor, when they were all en la misa. Pues, senor, the robbers surrounded the church; and oh, carambo! they dragged out the poor people--men, women and children! Pues, senor; they kill the men: and the women: Dios de mi alma!" "Well, and the women?" "Oh, senor! they are all gone; they were carried to the mountains by the savages. Pobres mugeres!" "It is a sad story, truly; but the Indians, I understand, only make these forays at long intervals. I am not likely to meet with them now. At all events, Jose, I have made up my mind to run the risk." "But, senor," continued Jose, lowering his voice to a confidential tone, "there are other ladrones besides the Indians: white ones, muchos, muchissimos! Ay, indeed, mi amo, white robbers; blancos, blancos y muy feos, carrai!" And Jose closed his fingers as if clutching some imaginary object. This appeal to my fears was in vain. I answered it by pointing to my revolvers and rifle, and to the well-filled belt of my henchman Gode. When the Mexican Boniface saw that I was determined to rob him of all the guests he had in his house, he retired sullenly, and shortly after returned with his bill. Like that of the medico, it was out of all proportion; but I could not help myself, and paid it. By grey dawn I was in my saddle; and, followed by Gode and a couple of heavily packed mules, I rode out of the ill-favoured town, and took the road for the Rio Abajo. CHAPTER TEN. THE DEL NORTE. For days we journey down the Del Norte. We pass through numerous villages, many of them types of Santa Fe. We cross the zequias and irrigating canals, and pass along fields of bright green maize plants. We see vineyards and grand haciendas. These appear richer and more prosperous as we approach the southern part of the province, the Rio Abajo. In the distance, both east and west, we descry dark mountains rolled up against the sky. These are the twin ranges of the Rocky Mountains. Long spurs trend towards the river, and in places appear to close up the valley. They add to the expression of many a beautiful landscape that opens before us as we move onward. We see picturesque costumes in the villages and along the highways: men dressed in the chequered serape or the striped blankets of the Navajoes; conical sombreros with broad brims; calzoneros of velveteen, with their rows of shining "castletops" and fastened at the waist by the jaunty sash. We see mangas and tilmas, and men wearing the sandal, as in Eastern lands. On the women we observe the graceful rebozo, the short nagua, and the embroidered chemisette. We see rude implements of husbandry: the creaking carreta, with its block wheels; the primitive plough of the forking tree-branch, scarcely scoring the soil; the horn-yoked oxen; the goad; the clumsy hoe in the hands of the peon serf: these are all objects that are new and curious to our eyes, and that indicate the lowest order of agricultural knowledge. Along the roads we meet numerous atajos, in charge of their arrieros. We observe the mules, small, smooth, light-limbed, and vicious. We glance at the heavy alparejas and bright worsted apishamores. We notice the tight wiry mustangs, ridden by the arrieros; the high-peaked saddles and hair bridles; the swarth faces and pointed beards of the riders; the huge spurs that tinkle at every step; the exclamations, "Hola, mula! malraya! vaya!" We notice all these, and they tell us we are journeying in the land of the Hispano-American. Under other circumstances these objects would have interested me. At that time, they appeared to me like the pictures of a panorama, or the changing scenes of a continuous dream. As such have they left their impressions on my memory. I was under the incipient delirium of fever. It was as yet only incipient; nevertheless, it distorted the images around me, and rendered their impressions unnatural and wearisome. My wound began to pain me afresh, and the hot sun, and the dust, and the thirst, with the miserable accommodations of New Mexican posadas, vexed me to an excess of endurance. On the fifth day after leaving Santa Fe, we entered the wretched little pueblo of Parida. It was my intention to have remained there all night, but it proved a ruffian sort of place, with meagre chances of comfort, and I moved on to Socorro. This is the last inhabited spot in New Mexico, as you approach the terrible desert, the Jornada del Muerte. Gode had never made the journey, and at Parida I had obtained one thing that we stood in need of, a guide. He had volunteered; and as I learnt that it would be no easy task to procure one at Socorro, I was fain to take him along. He was a coarse, shaggy-looking customer, and I did not at all like his appearance; but I found, on reaching Socorro, that what I had heard was correct. No guide could be hired on any terms, so great was their dread of the Jornada and its occasional denizens, the Apaches. Socorro was alive with Indian rumours, "novedades." The Indians had fallen upon an atajo near the crossing of Fra Cristobal, and murdered the arrieros to a man. The village was full of consternation at the news. The people dreaded an attack, and thought me mad, when I made known my intention of crossing the Jornada. I began to fear they would frighten my guide from his engagement, but the fellow stood out staunchly, still expressing his willingness to accompany us. Without the prospect of meeting the Apache savages, I was but ill prepared for the Jornada. The pain of my wound had increased, and I was fatigued and burning with fever. But the caravan had passed through Socorro only three days before, and I was in hopes of overtaking my old companions before they could leave El Paso. This determined me to proceed in the morning, and I made arrangements for an early start. Gode and I were awake before dawn. My attendant went out to summon the guide and saddle our animals. I remained in the house, making preparations for a cup of coffee before starting. I was assisted by the landlord of the posada, who had risen, and was stalking about in his serape. While thus engaged I was startled by the voice of Gode calling from without, "Von maitre! von maitre! the rascal have him run vay!" "What do you mean? Who has run away?" "Oh, monsieur! la Mexicaine, with von mule, has robb, and run vay. Allons, monsieur, allons!" I followed the Canadian to the stable with a feeling of anxiety. My horse--but no--thank Heaven, he was there! One of the mules, the macho, was gone. It was the one which the guide had ridden from Parida. "Perhaps he is not off yet," I suggested. "He may still be in the town." We sent and went in all directions to find him, but to no purpose. We were relieved at length from all doubts by the arrival of some early market men, who had met such a man as our guide far up the river, and riding a mule at full gallop. What should we do? Follow him to Parida? No; that would be a journey for nothing. I knew that he would not be fool enough to go that way. Even if he did, it would have been a fool's errand to seek for justice there, so I determined on leaving it over until the return of the traders would enable me to find the thief, and demand his punishment from the authorities. My regrets at the loss of my macho were not unmixed with a sort of gratitude to the fellow when I laid my hand upon the nose of my whimpering charger. What hindered him from taking the horse instead of the mule? It is a question I have never been able to answer to this day. I can only account for the fellow's preference for the mule on the score of downright honesty, or the most perverse stupidity. I made overtures for another guide. I applied to the Boniface of Socorro, but without success. He knew no mozo who would undertake the journey. "Los Apaches! los Apaches!" I appealed to the peons and loiterers of the plaza. "Los Apaches!" Wherever I went, I was answered with "Los Apaches," and a shake of the forefinger in front of the nose--a negative sign over all Mexico. "It is plain, Gode, we can get no guide. We must try this Jornada without one. What say you, voyageur?" "I am agree, mon maitre; allons!" And, followed by my faithful compagnon, with our remaining pack-mule, I took the road that leads to the desert. That night we slept among the ruins of Valverde; and the next morning, after an early start, embarked upon the "Journey of Death." CHAPTER ELEVEN. THE "JOURNEY OF DEATH." In two hours we reached the crossing at Fra Cristobal. Here the road parts from the river, and strikes into the waterless desert. We plunge through the shallow ford, coming out on the eastern bank. We fill our "xuages" with care, and give our animals as much as they will drink. After a short halt to refresh ourselves, we ride onward. We have not travelled far before we recognise the appropriate name of this terrible journey. Scattered along the path we see the bones of many animals. There are human bones too! That white spheroidal mass, with its grinning rows and serrated sutures, that is a human skull. It lies beside the skeleton of a horse. Horse and rider have fallen together. The wolves have stripped them at the same time. They have dropped down on their thirsty track, and perished in despair, although water, had they known it, was within reach of another effort! We see the skeleton of a mule, with the alpareja still buckled around it, and an old blanket, flapped and tossed by many a whistling wind. Other objects, that have been brought there by human aid, strike the eye as we proceed. A bruised canteen, the fragments of a glass bottle, an old hat, a piece of saddle-cloth, a stirrup red with rust, a broken strap, with many like symbols, are strewn along our path, speaking a melancholy language. We are still only on the border of the desert. We are fresh. How when we have travelled over and neared the opposite side? Shall we leave such souvenirs? We are filled with painful forebodings, as we look across the arid waste that stretches indefinitely before us. We do not dread the Apache. Nature herself is the enemy we fear. Taking the waggon-tracks for our guide, we creep on. We grow silent, as if we were dumb. The mountains of Cristobal sink behind us, and we are almost "out of sight of land." We can see the ridges of the Sierra Blanca away to the eastward; but before us, to the south, the eye encounters no mark or limit. We push forward without guide or any object to indicate our course. We are soon in the midst of bewilderment. A scene of seeming enchantment springs up around us. Vast towers of sand, borne up by the whirlblast, rise vertically to the sky. They move to and fro over the plain. They are yellow and luminous. The sun glistens among their floating crystals. They move slowly, but they are approaching us. I behold them with feelings of awe. I have heard of travellers lifted in their whirling vortex, and dashed back again from fearful heights. The pack-mule, frightened at the phenomenon, breaks the lasso and scampers away among the ridges. Gode has galloped in pursuit. I am alone. Nine or ten gigantic columns now appear, stalking over the plain and circling gradually around me. There is something unearthly in the sight. They resemble creatures of a phantom world. They seem endowed with demon life. Two of them approach each other. There is a short, ghastly struggle that ends in their mutual destruction. The sand is precipitated to the earth, and the dust floats off in dun, shapeless masses. Several have shut me within a space, and are slowly closing upon me. My dog howls and barks. The horse cowers with affright, and shivers between my thighs, uttering terrified expressions. My brain reels. Strange objects appear. The fever is upon me! The laden currents clash in their wild torsion. I am twisted around and torn from my saddle. My eyes, mouth, and ears are filled with dust. Sand, stones, and branches strike me spitefully in the face; and I am flung with violence to the earth! I lay for a moment where I had fallen, half-buried and blind. I was neither stunned nor hurt; and I began to grope around me, for as yet I could see nothing. My eyes were full of sand, and pained me exceedingly. Throwing out my arms, I felt for my horse; I called him by name. A low whimper answered me. I staggered towards the spot, and laid my hands upon him; he was down upon his flank. I seized the bridle, and he sprang up; but I could feel that he was shivering like an aspen. I stood by his head for nearly half an hour, rubbing the dust from my eyes; and waiting until the simoom might settle away. At length the atmosphere grew clearer, and I could see the sky; but the sand still drifted along the ridges, and I could not distinguish the surface of the plain. There were no signs of Gode. I mounted and commenced riding over the plain in search of my comrade. I had no idea of what direction he had taken. I made a circuit of a mile or so, still calling his name as I went. I received no reply, and could see no traces upon the ground. I rode for an hour, galloping from ridge to ridge, but still without meeting any signs of my comrade or the mules. I pulled up in despair. I had shouted until I was faint and hoarse. I could search no longer. I was thirsty, and would drink. O God! my "xuages" are broken! The pack-mule has carried off the water-skin. The crushed calabash still hung upon its thong; but the last drops it had contained were trickling down the flanks of my horse. I knew that I might be fifty miles from water! You cannot understand the fearfulness of this situation. You live in a northern zone, in a land of pools and streams and limpid springs. How unlike the denizen of the desert, the voyageur of the prairie sea! Water is his chief care, his ever-present solicitude; water the divinity he worships. Without water, even in the midst of plenty, plenty of food, he must die. In the wild western desert it is the thirst that kills. No wonder I was filled with despair. I believed myself to be about the middle of the Jornada. I knew that I could never reach the other side without water. The yearning had already begun. My throat and tongue felt shrivelled and parched. I had lost all knowledge of the course I should take. The mountains, hitherto my guide, seemed to trend in every direction. Their numerous spurs puzzled me. I remembered hearing of a spring, the Ojo del Muerto, that was said to lie westward of the trail. Sometimes there was water in the spring. On other occasions travellers had reached it only to find the fountain dried up, and leave their bones upon its banks. So ran the tales in Socorro. I headed my horse westward. I would seek the spring, and, should I fail to find it, push on to the river. This was turning out of my course; but I must reach the water and save my life. I sat in my saddle, faint and choking, leaving my animal to go at will. I had lost the energy to guide him. He went many miles westward, for the sun told me the course. I was suddenly roused from my stupor. A glad sight was before me. A lake!--a lake shining like crystal. Was I certain I saw it? Could it be the mirage? No. Its outlines were too sharply defined. It had not that filmy, whitish appearance which distinguishes the latter phenomenon. No. It was not the mirage. It was water! I involuntarily pressed the spur against the side of my horse; but he needed not that. He had already eyed the water, and sprang forward, inspirited with new energy. The next moment he was in it up to his flanks. I flung myself from the saddle with a plunge. I was about to lift the water in my concave palms, when the actions of my horse attracted me. Instead of drinking greedily, he stood tossing his head with snorts of disappointment. My dog, too, refused to lap, and ran along the shore whining and howling. I knew what this meant; but, with that common obstinacy which refuses all testimony but the evidence of the senses, I lifted some drops in my hand, and applied them to my lips. They were briny and burning. I might have known this before reaching the lake, for I had ridden through a salt incrustation that surrounded it like a belt of snow. But my brain was fevered; my reason had left me. It was of no use remaining where I was. I climbed back into my saddle, and rode along the shore, over fields of snow-white salt. Here and there my horse's hoof rang against bleaching bones of animals, the remains of many a victim. Well was this lake named the Laguna del Muerto--the "Lake of Death!" Reaching its southern point, I again headed westward, in hopes of striking the river. From this time until a later period, when I found myself in a far different scene, I have no distinct memories. I remember dismounting on a high bank. I must have travelled unconsciously for hours before, for the sun was low down on the horizon as I alighted. It was a very high bank--a precipice--and below me I saw a beautiful river sweeping onward through groves of emerald greenness. I thought there were many birds fluttering in the groves, and their voices rang in delicious melody. There was fragrance on the air, and the scene below me seemed an Elysium. I thought that around where I stood all was bleak, and barren, and parched with intolerable heat. I was tortured with a slakeless thirst that grew fiercer as I gazed on the flowing water. These were real incidents. All this was true. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I must drink. I must to the river. It is cool, sweet water. Oh! I must drink. What! A horrid cliff! No; I will not go down there. I can descend more easily here. Who are these forms? Who are you, sir? Ah! it is you, my brave Moro; and you, Alp. Come! come! Follow me! Down; down to the river! Ah! again that accursed cliff! Look at the beautiful water! It smiles. It ripples on, on, on! Let us drink. No, not yet; we cannot yet. We must go farther. Ugh! Such a height to leap from! But we must drink, one and all. Come, Gode! Come, Moro, old friend! Alp, come on! We shall reach it; we shall drink. Who is Tantalus? Ha! ha! Not I; not I! Stand back, fiends! Do not push me over! Back! Back, I say! Oh! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Part of all this was a reality; part was a dream, a dream that bore some resemblance to the horrors of a first intoxication. CHAPTER TWELVE. ZOE. I lay tracing the figures upon the curtains. They were scenes of the olden time--mailed knights, helmed and mounted, dashing at each other with couched lances, or tumbling from their horses, pierced by the spear. Other scenes there were: noble dames, sitting on Flemish palfreys, and watching the flight of the merlin hawk. There were pages in waiting, and dogs of curious and extinct breeds held in the leash. Perhaps these never existed except in the dreams of some old-fashioned artist; but my eye followed their strange shapes with a sort of half-idiotic wonder. Metallic rods upheld the curtains; rods that shone brightly, and curved upwards, forming a canopy. My eyes ran along these rods, scanning their configuration, and admiring, as a child admires, the regularity of their curves. I was not in my own land. These things were strange to me. "Yet," thought I, "I have seen something like them before, but where? Oh! this I know, with its broad stripes and silken texture; it is a Navajo blanket! Where was I last? In New Mexico? Yes. Now I remember: the Jornada! but how came I? "Can I untwist this? It is close woven; it is wool, fine wool. No, I cannot separate a thread from-- "My fingers! how white and thin they are! and my nails, blue, and long as the talons of a bird! I have a beard! I feel it on my chin. What gave me a beard? I never wear it; I will shave it off--ha! my moustache!" I was wearied, and slept again. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Once more my eyes were tracing the figures upon the curtains: the knights and dames, the hounds, hawks, and horses. But my brain had become clearer, and music was flowing into it. I lay silent, and listened. The voice was a female's. It was soft and finely modulated. Someone played upon a stringed instrument. I recognised the tones of the Spanish harp, but the song was French, a song of Normandy; and the words were in the language of that romantic land. I wondered at this, for my consciousness of late events was returning; and I knew that I was far from France. The light was streaming over my couch; and, turning my face to the front, I saw that the curtains were drawn aside. I was in a large room, oddly but elegantly furnished. Human figures were before me, seated and standing. After looking steadily for a while, my vision became more distinct and reliable; and I saw that there were but three persons in the room, a man and two females. I remained silent, not certain but that the scene before me was only some new phase of my dream. My eyes wandered from one of the living figures to another, without attracting the attention of any of them. They were all in different attitudes, and occupied differently. Nearest me was a woman of middle age, seated upon a low ottoman. The harp I had heard was before her, and she continued to play. She must have been, I thought, when young, a woman of extreme beauty. She was still beautiful in a certain sense. The noble features were there, though I could perceive that they had been scathed by more than ordinary suffering of the mind. She was a Frenchwoman: an ethnologist could have told that at a glance. Those lines, the characteristics of her highly gifted race, were easily traceable. I thought there was a time when that face had witched many a heart with its smiles. There were no smiles on it now, but a deep yet intellectual expression of melancholy. This I perceived, too, in her voice, in her song, in every note that vibrated from the strings of the instrument. My eye wandered farther. A man of more than middle age stood by the table, near the centre of the room. His face was turned towards me, and his nationality was as easily determined as that of the lady. The high, florid cheeks, the broad front, the prominent chin, the small green cap with its long peak and conical crown, the blue spectacles, were all characteristics. He was a German. His occupation was also characteristic of his nationality. Before him were strewed over the table, and upon the floor, the objects of his study--plants and shrubs of various species. He was busy with these, classifying and carefully laying them out between the leaves of his portfolio. It was evident that the old man was a botanist. A glance to the right, and the naturalist and his labours were no longer regarded. I was looking upon the loveliest object that ever came before my eyes, and my heart bounded within me, as I strained forward in the intensity of its admiration. Yet it was not a woman that held my gaze captive, but a child--a girl--a maid--standing upon the threshold of womanhood, ready to cross it at the first summons of Love! My eyes, delighted, revelled along the graceful curves that outlined the beautiful being before me. I thought I had seen the face somewhere. I had, but a moment before, while looking upon that of the elder lady. They were the same face--using a figure of speech--the type transmitted from mother to daughter: the same high front and facial angle, the same outline of the nose, straight as a ray of light, with the delicate spiral-like curve of the nostril which meets you in the Greek medallion. Their hair, too, was alike in colour, golden; though, in that of the mother, the gold showed an enamel of silver. I will desist and spare details, which to you may be of little interest. In return, do me the favour to believe, that the being who impressed me then and for ever was beautiful, was lovely. "Ah! it wod be ver moch kindness if madame and ma'm'selle wod play la Marseillaise, la grande Marseillaise. What say mein liebe fraulein!" "Zoe, Zoe! take thy bandolin. Yes, doctor, we will play it for you with pleasure. You like the music. So do we. Come, Zoe!" The young girl, who, up to this time, had been watching intently the labours of the naturalist, glided to a remote corner of the room, and taking up an instrument resembling the guitar, returned and seated herself by her mother. The bandolin was soon placed in concert with the harp, and the strings of both vibrated to the thrilling notes of the Marseillaise. There was something exceedingly graceful in the performance. The instrumentation, as I thought, was perfect; and the voices of the players accompanied it in a sweet and spirited harmony. As I gazed upon the girl Zoe, her features animated by the thrilling thoughts of the anthem, her whole countenance radiant with light, she seemed some immortal being--a young goddess of liberty calling her children "to arms!" The botanist had desisted from his labours, and stood listening with delighted attention. At each return of the thrilling invocation, "Aux armes, citoyens!" the old man snapped his fingers, and beat the floor with his feet, marking the time of the music. He was filled with the same spirit which at that time, over all Europe, was gathering to its crisis. "Where am I? French faces, French music, French voices, and the conversation in French!" for the botanist addressed the females in that language, though with a strong Rhenish patois, that confirmed my first impressions of his nationality. "Where am I?" My eye ran around the room in search of an answer. I could recognise the furniture: the cross-legged Campeachy chairs, a rebozo, the palm-leaf petate. "Ha, Alp!" The dog lay stretched along the mattress near my couch, and sleeping. "Alp! Alp!" "Oh, mamma! mamma! ecoutez! the stranger calls." The dog sprang to his feet, and throwing his fore paws upon the bed, stretched his nose towards me with a joyous whimpering. I reached out my hand and patted him, at the same time giving utterance to some expressions of endearment. "Oh, mamma! mamma! he knows him. Voila." The lady rose hastily, and approached the bed. The German seized me by the wrist, pushing back the Saint Bernard, which was bounding to spring upward. "Mon Dieu! he is well. His eyes, doctor. How changed!" "Ya, ya; moch better; ver moch better. Hush! away, tog! Keep away, mine goot tog!" "Who? where? Tell me, where am I? Who are you?" "Do not fear! we are friends: you have been ill!" "Yes, yes! we are friends: you have been ill, sir. Do not fear us; we will watch you. This is the good doctor. This is mamma, and I am--" "An angel from heaven, beautiful Zoe!" The child looked at me with an expression of wonder, and blushed as she said-- "Hear, mamma! He knows my name!" It was the first compliment she had ever received from the lips of love. "It is goot, madame! he is ver moch relieft; he ver soon get over now. Keep away, mine goot Alp! Your master he get well: goot tog, down!" "Perhaps, doctor, we should leave him. The noise--" "No, no! if you please, stay with me. The music; will you play again?" "Yes, the music is ver goot; ver goot for te pain." "Oh, mamma! let us play, then." Both mother and daughter took up their instruments, and again commenced playing. I listened to the sweet strains, watching the fair musicians a long while. My eyes at length became heavy, and the realities before me changed into the soft outlines of a dream. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ My dream was broken by the abrupt cessation of the music. I thought I heard, through my sleep, the opening of a door. When I looked to the spot lately occupied by the musicians, I saw that they were gone. The bandolin had been thrown down upon the ottoman, where it lay, but "she" was not there. I could not, from my position, see the whole of the apartment; but I knew that someone had entered at the outer door, I heard expressions of welcome and endearment, a rustling of dresses, the words "Papa!" "My little Zoe"; the latter uttered in the voice of a man. Then followed some explanations in a lower tone, which I could not hear. A few minutes elapsed, and I lay silent and listening. Presently there were footsteps in the hall. A boot, with its jingling rowels, struck upon the tiled floor. The footsteps entered the room, and approached the bed. I started, as I looked up. The Scalp-hunter was before me! CHAPTER THIRTEEN. SEGUIN. "You are better; you will soon be well again. I am glad to see that you recover." He said this without offering his hand. "I am indebted to you for my life. Is it not so?" It is strange that I felt convinced of this the moment that I set my eyes upon the man. I think such an idea crossed my mind before, after awaking from my long dream. Had I encountered him in my struggles for water, or had I dreamed it? "Oh yes!" answered he, with a smile, "but you will remember that I had something to do with your being exposed to the risk of losing it." "Will you take this hand? Will you forgive me?" After all, there is something selfish even in gratitude. How strangely had it changed my feelings towards this man! I was begging the hand which, but a few days before, in the pride of my morality, I had spurned from me as a loathsome thing. But there were other thoughts that influenced me. The man before me was the husband of the lady; was the father of Zoe. His character, his horrid calling, were forgotten; and the next moment our hands were joined in the embrace of friendship. "I have nothing to forgive. I honour the sentiment that induced you to act as you did. This declaration may seem strange to you. From what you knew of me, you acted rightly; but there may be a time, sir, when you will know me better: when the deeds which you abhor may seem not only pardonable, but justifiable. Enough of this at present. The object of my being now at your bedside is to request that what you do know of me be not uttered here." His voice sank to a whisper as he said this, pointing at the same time towards the door of the room. "But how," I asked, wishing to draw his attention from this unpleasant theme, "how came I into this house? It is yours, I perceive. How came I here? Where did you find me?" "In no very safe position," answered he, with a smile. "I can scarcely claim the merit of saving you. Your noble horse you may thank for that." "Ah, my horse! my brave Moro! I have lost him." "Your horse is standing at the maize-trough, not ten paces from where you lie. I think you will find him in somewhat better condition than when you last saw him. Your mules are without. Your packs are safe. You will find them here," and he pointed to the foot of the bed. "And--" "Gode you would ask for," said he, interrupting me. "Do not be uneasy on his account. He, too, is in safety. He is absent just now, but will soon return." "How can I thank you? This is good news indeed. My brave Moro! and Alp here! But how? you say my horse saved me. He has done so before: how can this be?" "Simply thus: we found you many miles from this place, on a cliff that overlooks the Del Norte. You were hanging over on your lasso, that by a lucky accident had become entangled around your body. One end of it was knotted to the bit-ring, and the noble animal, thrown back upon his haunches, sustained your weight upon his neck!" "Noble Moro! what a terrible situation!" "Ay, you may say that! Had you fallen from it, you would have passed through a thousand feet of air before striking the rocks below. It was indeed a fearful situation." "I must have staggered over in my search for water." "In your delirium you walked over. You would have done so a second time had we not prevented you. When we drew you up on the cliff, you struggled hard to get back. You saw the water below, but not the precipice. Thirst is a terrible thing--an insanity of itself." "I remember something of all this. I thought it had been a dream." "Do not trouble your brain with these things. The doctor here admonishes me to leave you. I have an object, as I have said," (here a sad expression passed over the countenance of the speaker), "else I should not have paid you this visit. I have not many moments to spare. To-night I must be far hence. In a few days I shall return. Meanwhile, compose yourself, and get well. The doctor here will see that you want for nothing. My wife and daughter will nurse you." "Thanks! thanks!" "You will do well to remain where you are until your friends return from Chihuahua. They must pass not far from this place, and I will warn you when they are near. You are a student. There are books here in different languages. Amuse yourself. They will give you music. Monsieur, adieu!" "Stay, sir, one moment! You seem to have taken a strange fancy to my horse?" "Ah! monsieur, it was no fancy; but I will explain that at some other time. Perhaps the necessity no longer exists." "Take him, if you will. Another will serve my purpose." "No, monsieur. Do you think I could rob you of what you esteem so highly, and with such just reason, too? No, no! Keep the good Moro. I do not wonder at your attachment to the noble brute." "You say that you have a long journey to-night. Then take him for the time." "That offer I will freely accept, for indeed my own horse is somewhat jaded. I have been two days in the saddle. Well, adieu!" Seguin pressed my hand and walked away. I heard the "chinck, chinck" of his spurs as he crossed the apartment, and the next moment the door closed behind him. I was alone, and lay listening to every sound that reached me from without. In about half an hour after he had left me, I heard the hoof-strokes of a horse, and saw the shadow of a horseman passing outside the window. He had departed on his journey, doubtless on the performance of some red duty connected with his fearful avocation! I lay for a while harassed in mind, thinking of this strange man. Then sweet voices interrupted my meditations; before me appeared lovely faces, and the Scalp-hunter was forgotten. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. LOVE. I would compress the history of the ten days following into as many words. I would not weary you with the details of my love--a love that in the space of a few hours became a passion deep and ardent. I was young at the time; at just such an age as to be impressed by the romantic incidents that surrounded me, and had thrown this beautiful being in my way; at that age when the heart, unguarded by cold calculations of the future, yields unresistingly to the electrical impressions of love. I say electrical. I believe that at this age the sympathies that spring up between heart and heart are purely of this nature. At a later period of life that power is dissipated and divided. Reason rules it. We become conscious of the capability of transferring our affections, for they have already broken faith; and we lose that sweet confidence that comforted the loves of our youth. We are either imperious or jealous, as the advantages appear in our favour or against us. A gross alloy enters into the love of our middle life, sadly detracting from the divinity of its character. I might call that which I then felt my first real passion. I thought I had loved before, but no, it was only a dream; the dream of the village schoolboy, who saw heaven in the bright eyes of his coy class-mate; or perhaps at the family picnic, in some romantic dell, had tasted the rosy cheek of his pretty cousin. I grew strong, and with a rapidity that surprised the skilful man of herbs. Love fed and nourished the fire of life. The will often effects the deed, and say as you may, volition has its power upon the body. The wish to be well, to live, an object to live for, are often the speediest restoratives. They were mine. I grew stronger, and rose from my couch. A glance at the mirror told me that my colour was returning. Instinct teaches the bird while wooing his mate to plume his pinions to their highest gloss; and a similar feeling now rendered me solicitous about my toilet. My portmanteau was ransacked, my razors were drawn forth, the beard disappeared from my chin, and my moustache was trimmed to its wonted dimensions. I confess all this. The world had told me I was not ill-looking, and I believed what it said. I am mortal in my vanities. Are not you? There was a guitar in the house. I had learnt in my college days to touch the strings, and its music delighted both Zoe and her mother. I sang to them the songs of my own land--songs of love; and with a throbbing heart watched whether the burning words produced any impression upon her. More than once I have laid aside the instrument with feelings of disappointment. From day to day, strange reflections passed through my mind. Could it be that she was too young to understand the import of the word love? too young to be inspired with a passion? She was but twelve years of age, but then she was the child of a sunny clime; and I had often seen at that age, under the warm sky of Mexico, the wedded bride, the fond mother. Day after day we were together alone. The botanist was busy with his studies, and the silent mother occupied with the duties of her household. Love is not blind. It may be to all the world beside; but to its own object it is as watchful as Argus. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I was skilled in the use of the crayon, and I amused my companion by sketches upon scraps of paper and the blank leaves of her music. Many of these were the figures of females, in different attitudes and costumes. In one respect they resembled each other: their faces were alike. The child, without divining the cause, had noticed this peculiarity in the drawings. "Why is it?" she asked one day, as we sat together. "These ladies are all in different costumes, of different nations; are they not? and yet there is a resemblance in their faces! They have all the same features; indeed, exactly the same, I think." "It is your face, Zoe; I can sketch no other." She raised her large eyes, and bent them upon me with an expression of innocent wonder. Was she blushing? No! "Is that like me?" "It is, as nearly as I can make it." "And why do you not sketch other faces?" "Why! because I--Zoe, I fear you would not understand me." "Oh, Enrique; do you think me so bad a scholar? Do I not understand all that you tell me of the far countries where you have been? Surely I may comprehend this as well." "I will tell you, then, Zoe." I bent forward, with a burning heart and trembling voice. "It is because your face is ever before me; I can paint no other. It is, that--I love you, Zoe!" "Oh! is that the reason? And when you love one, her face is always before you, whether she herself be present or no? Is it not so?" "It is so," I replied, with a painful feeling of disappointment. "And is that love, Enrique?" "It is." "Then must I love you; for, wherever I may be, I can see your face: how plainly before me! If I could use this pencil as you do, I am sure I could paint it, though you were not near me! What then? Do you think I love you, Enrique?" No pen could trace my feelings at that moment. We were seated; and the sheet on which were the sketches was held jointly between us. My hand wandered over its surface, until the unresisting fingers of my companion were clasped in mine. A wilder emotion followed the electric touch: the paper fell upon the floor; and with a proud but trembling heart I drew the yielding form to mine! CHAPTER FIFTEEN. LIGHT AND SHADE. The house we inhabited stood in a quadrangular inclosure that sloped down to the banks of the river, the Del Norte. This inclosure was a garden or shrubbery, guarded on all sides by high, thick walls of adobe. Along the summit of these walls had been planted rows of the cactus, that threw out huge, thorny limbs, forming an impassable chevaux-de-frise. There was but one entrance to the house and garden, through a strong wicket gate, which I had noticed was always shut and barred. I had no desire to go abroad. The garden, a large one, hitherto had formed the limit of my walk; and through this I often rambled with Zoe and her mother, but oftener with Zoe alone. There were many objects of interest about the place. It was a ruin; and the house itself bore evidences of better times. It was a large building in the Moro-Spanish style, with flat roof (azotea), and notched parapet running along the front. Here and there the little stone turrets of this parapet had fallen off, showing evidence of neglect and decay. The walls of the garden impinged upon the river, and there ended; for the bank was steep and vertical, and the deep, still water that ran under it formed a sufficient protection on that side. A thick grove of cotton-woods fringed the bank of the river, and under their shade had been erected a number of seats of japanned mason-work, in a style peculiar to Spanish countries. There were steps cut in the face of the bank, overhung with drooping shrubs, and leading to the water's edge. I had noticed a small skiff moored under the willows, where these steps went down to the water. From this point only could you see beyond the limits of the inclosure. The view was magnificent, and commanded the windings of the Del Norte for a distance of miles. Evening after evening we sought the grove of cotton-woods, and, seated upon one of the benches, together watched the glowing sunset. At this time of the day we were ever alone, I and my little companion. One evening, as usual, we sat under the solemn shadow of the grove. We had brought with us the guitar and bandolin; but, after a few notes had been struck, the music was forgotten, and the instruments lay upon the grass at our feet. We loved to listen to the music of our own voices. We preferred the utterance of our own thoughts to the sentiments of any song, however sweet. There was music enough around us; the hum of the wild bee as it bade farewell to the closing corolla; the whoop of the gruya in the distant sedge; and the soft cooing of the doves as they sat in pairs upon the adjacent branches, like us whispering their mutual loves. Autumn had now painted the woods, and the frondage was of every hue. The shadows of the tall trees dappled the surface of the water, as the stream rolled silently on. The sun was far down, and the spire of El Paso gleamed like a golden star under the parting kiss of his beams. Our eyes wandered, and rested upon the glittering vane. "The church!" half soliloquised my companion; "I hardly know what it is like, it is so long since I saw it." "How long?" "Oh, many, many years; I was very young then." "And you have not been beyond these walls since then?" "Oh yes! Papa has taken us down the river in the boat, mamma and myself, often, but not lately." "And have you no wish to go abroad through these gay woods?" "I do not desire it; I am contented here." "And will you always be contented here?" "And why not, Enrique? When you are near me, why should I not be happy?" "But when--" A dark shadow seemed to cross her thoughts. Benighted with love, she had never reflected upon the probability of my leaving her, nor indeed had I. Her cheeks became suddenly pale; and I could see the agony gathering in her eyes, as she fixed them upon me. But the words were out-- "When I must leave you?" She threw herself on my breast, with a short, sharp scream, as though she had been stung to the heart, and in an impassioned voice cried aloud-- "Oh! my God, my God! leave me! leave me! Oh! you will not leave me? You who have taught me to love! Oh! Enrique, why did you tell me that you loved me? Why did you teach me to love?" "Zoe!" "Enrique, Enrique! say you will not leave me!" "Never! Zoe! I swear it; never, never!" I fancied at this moment I heard the stroke of an oar; but the wild tumult of my feelings prevented me from rising to look over the bank. I was raising my head when an object, appearing above the bank, caught my eye. It was a black sombrero with its golden band. I knew the wearer at a glance: Seguin! In a moment, he was beside us. "Papa!" exclaimed Zoe, rising up and reaching forward to embrace him. The father put her to one side, at the same time tightly grasping her hand in his. For a moment he remained silent, bending his eyes upon me with an expression I cannot depict. There was in it a mixture of reproach, sorrow, and indignation. I had risen to confront him, but I quailed under that singular glance, and stood abashed and silent. "And this is the way you have thanked me for saving your life? A brave return, good sir; what think you?" I made no reply. "Sir!" continued he, in a voice trembling with emotion, "you have deeply wronged me." "I know it not; I have not wronged you." "What call you this? Trifling with my child!" "Trifling!" I exclaimed, roused to boldness by the accusation. "Ay, trifling! Have you not won her affections?" "I won them fairly." "Pshaw, sir! This is a child, not a woman. Won them fairly! What can she know of love?" "Papa! I do know love. I have felt it for many days. Do not be angry with Enrique, for I love him; oh, papa! in my heart I love him!" He turned to her with a look of astonishment. "Hear this!" he exclaimed. "Oh, heavens! my child, my child!" His voice stung me, for it was full of sorrow. "Listen, sir!" I cried, placing myself directly before him. "I have won the affections of your daughter. I have given mine in return. I am her equal in rank, as she is mine. What crime, then, have I committed? Wherein have I wronged you?" He looked at me for some moments without making any reply. "You would marry her, then?" he said, at length, with an evident change in his manner. "Had I permitted our love thus far, without that intention, I should have merited your reproaches. I should have been `trifling,' as you have said." "Marry me!" exclaimed Zoe, with a look of bewilderment. "Listen! Poor child! she knows not the meaning of the word!" "Ay, lovely Zoe! I will; else my heart, like yours, shall be wrecked for ever! Oh, sir!" "Come, sir, enough of this. You have won her from herself; you have yet to win her from me. I will sound the depth of your affection. I will put you to the proof." "Put me to any proof!" "We shall see; come! let us in. Here, Zoe!" And, taking her by the hand, he led her towards the house. I followed close behind. As we passed through a clump of wild orange trees, the path narrowed; and the father, letting go her hand, walked on ahead. Zoe was between us; and as we reached the middle of the grove, she turned suddenly, and laying her hand upon mine, whispered in a trembling voice, "Enrique, tell me, what is `to marry'?" "Dearest Zoe! not now: it is too difficult to explain; another time, I--" "Come, Zoe! your hand, child!" "Papa, I am coming!" CHAPTER SIXTEEN. AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. I was alone with my host in the apartment I had hitherto occupied. The females had retired to another part of the house; and I noticed that Seguin, on entering, had looked to the door, turning the bolt. What terrible proof was he going to exact of my faith, of my love? Was he about to take my life, or bind me by some fearful oath, this man of cruel deeds? Dark suspicions shot across my mind, and I sat silent, but not without emotions of fear. A bottle of wine was placed between us, and Seguin, pouring out two glasses, asked me to drink. This courtesy assured me. "But how if the wine be poi--?" He swallowed his own glass before the thought had fairly shaped itself. "I am wronging him," thought I. "This man, with all, is incapable of an act of treachery like that." I drank up the wine. It made me feel more composed and tranquil. After a moment's silence he opened the conversation with the abrupt interrogatory, "What do you know of me?" "Your name and calling; nothing more." "More than is guessed at here;" and he pointed significantly to the door. "Who told you thus much of me?" "A friend, whom you saw at Santa Fe." "Ah! Saint Vrain; a brave, bold man. I met him once in Chihuahua. Did he tell you no more of me than this?" "No. He promised to enter into particulars concerning you, but the subject was forgotten, the caravan moved on, and we were separated." "You heard, then, that I was Seguin the Scalp-hunter? That I was employed by the citizens of El Paso to hunt the Apache and Navajo, and that I was paid a stated sum for every Indian scalp I could hang upon their gates? You heard all this?" "I did." "It is true." I remained silent. "Now, sir," he continued, after a pause, "would you marry my daughter, the child of a wholesale murderer?" "Your crimes are not hers. She is innocent even of the knowledge of them, as you have said. You may be a demon; she is an angel." There was a sad expression on his countenance as I said this. "Crimes! demon!" he muttered, half in soliloquy. "Ay, you may well think this; so judges the world. You have heard the stories of the mountain men in all their red exaggeration. You have heard that, during a treaty, I invited a village of the Apaches to a banquet, and poisoned the viands--poisoned the guests, man, woman, and child, and then scalped them! You have heard that I induced to pull upon the drag rope of a cannon two hundred savages, who know not its use; and then fired the piece, loaded with grape, mowing down the row of unsuspecting wretches! These, and other inhuman acts, you have no doubt heard of?" "It is true. I have heard these stories among the mountain hunters; but I knew not whether to believe them." "Monsieur, they are false; all false and unfounded." "I am glad to hear you say this. I could not now believe you capable of such barbarities." "And yet, if they were true in all their horrid details, they would fall far short of the cruelties that have been dealt out by the savage foe to the inhabitants of this defenceless frontier. If you knew the history of this land for the last ten years; its massacres and its murders; its tears and its burnings; its spoliations; whole provinces depopulated; villages given to the flames; men butchered on their own hearths; women, beautiful women, carried into captivity by the desert robber! Oh, God! and I too have shared wrongs that will acquit me in your eyes, perhaps in the eyes of Heaven!" The speaker buried his face in his hands, and leant forward upon the table. He was evidently suffering from some painful recollection. After a moment he resumed--"I would have you listen to a short history of my life." I signified my assent; and after filling and drinking another glass of wine, he proceeded. "I am not a Frenchman, as men suppose. I am a Creole, a native of New Orleans. My parents were refugees from Saint Domingo, where, after the black revolution, the bulk of their fortune was confiscated by the bloody Christophe. "I was educated for a civil engineer; and, in this capacity, I was brought out to the mines of Mexico, by the owner of one of them, who knew my father. I was young at the time, and I spent several years employed in the mines of Zacatecas and San Luis Potosi. "I had saved some money out of my pay, and I began to think of opening upon my own account. "Rumours had long been current that rich veins of gold existed upon the Gila and its tributaries. The washings had been seen and gathered in these rivers; and the mother of gold, the milky quartz rock, cropped out everywhere in the desert mountains of this wild region. "I started for this country with a select party; and, after traversing it for weeks, in the Mimbres mountains, near the head waters of the Gila, I found the precious ore in its bed. I established a mine, and in five years was a rich man. "I remembered the companion of my youth, the gentle, the beautiful cousin who had shared my confidence, and inspired me with my first passion. With me it was first and last; it was not, as is often the case under similar circumstances, a transient thing. Through all my wanderings I had remembered and loved her. Had she been as true to me? "I determined to assure myself; and leaving my affairs in the hands of my mayoral, I set out for my native city. "Adele had been true; and I returned, bringing her with me. "I built a house in Valverde, the nearest inhabited district to my mine. "Valverde was then a thriving place; it is now a ruin, which you may have seen in your journey down. "In this place we lived for years, in the enjoyment of wealth and happiness. I look back upon those days as so many ages of bliss. Our love was mutual and ardent; and we were blessed with two children, both girls. The youngest resembled her mother; the other, I have been told, was more like myself. We doted, I fear, too much on these pledges. We were too happy in their possession. "At this time a new Governor was sent to Santa Fe, a man who, by his wantonness and tyranny, has since then ruined the province. There has been no act too vile, no crime too dark, for this human monster. "He offered fair enough at first, and was feasted in the houses of the ricos through the valley. As I was classed among these, I was honoured with his visits, and frequently. He resided principally at Albuquerque; and grand fetes were given at his palace, to which my wife and I were invited as special guests. He in return often came to our house in Valverde, under pretence of visiting the different parts of the province. "I discovered, at length, that his visits were solely intended for my wife, to whom he had paid some flattering attentions. "I will not dwell on the beauty of Adele, at this time. You may imagine that for yourself; and, monsieur, you may assist your imagination by allowing it to dwell on those graces you appear to have discovered in her daughter, for the little Zoe is a type of what her mother was. "At the time I speak of she was still in the bloom of her beauty. The fame of that beauty was on every tongue, and had piqued the vanity of the wanton tyrant. For this reason I became the object of his friendly assiduities. "I had divined this; but confiding in the virtue of my wife, I took no notice of his conduct. No overt act of insult as yet claimed my attention. "Returning on one occasion from a long absence at the mines, Adele informed me what, through delicacy, she had hitherto concealed--of insults received from his excellency at various times, but particularly in a visit he had paid her during my absence. "This was enough for Creole blood. I repaired to Albuquerque; and on the public plaza, in presence of the multitude, I chastised the insulter. "I was seized and thrown into a prison, where I lay for several weeks. When I was freed, and sought my home again, it was plundered and desolate. The wild Navajo had been there; my household gods were scattered and broken, and my child, oh, God! my little Adele, was carried captive to the mountains!" "And your wife? your other child?" I inquired, eager to know the rest. "They had escaped. In the terrible conflict--for my poor peons battled bravely--my wife, with Zoe in her arms, had rushed out and hidden in a cave that was in the garden. I found them in the ranche of a vaquero in the woods, whither they had wandered." "And your daughter Adele--have you heard aught of her since?" "Yes, yes, I will come to that in a moment. "My mine, at the same time, was plundered and destroyed; many of the workmen were slaughtered before they could escape; and the work itself, with my fortune, became a ruin. "With some of the miners, who had fled, and others of Valverde, who, like me, had suffered, I organised a band, and followed the savage foe; but our pursuit was vain, and we turned back, many of us broken in health and heart. "Oh, monsieur, you cannot know what it is to have thus lost a favourite child! you cannot understand the agony of the bereaved father!" The speaker pressed his head between his hands, and remained for a moment silent. His countenance bore the indications of heartrending sorrow. "My story will soon be told--up to the present time. Who knows the end? "For years I hung upon the frontiers of the Indian country, hunting for my child. I was aided by a small band, most of them unfortunates like myself, who had lost wife or daughter in a similar manner. But our means became exhausted, and despair wore us out. The sympathies of my companions grew old and cold. One after another gave up. The Governor of New Mexico offered us no aid. On the contrary, it was suspected then--it is now known--that the Governor himself was in secret league with the Navajo chiefs. He had engaged to leave them unmolested; while they, on their side, promised to plunder only his enemies! "On learning this terrible secret, I saw the hand that had dealt me the blow. Stung by the disgrace I had put upon him, as well as by my wife's scorn, the villain was not slow to avenge himself. "Since then his life has been twice in my power, but the taking of it would, most probably, have forfeited my own, and I had objects for which to live. I may yet find a reckoning day for him. "I have said that my band melted away. Sick at heart, and conscious of danger in New Mexico, I left the province, and crossed the Jornada to El Paso. Here for a while I lived, grieving for my lost child. "I was not long inactive. The frequent forays made by the Apaches into Sonora and Chihuahua had rendered the government more energetic in the defence of the frontier. The presidios were repaired and garrisoned with more efficient troops, and a band of rangers organised, whose pay was proportioned to the number of scalps they might send back to the settlements. "I was offered the command of this strange guerilla; and in the hope that I might yet recover my child, I accepted it--I became a scalp-hunter. "It was a terrible commission; and had revenge alone been my object, it would long since have been gratified. Many a deed of blood have we enacted; many a scene of retaliatory vengeance have we passed through. "I knew that my captive daughter was in the hands of the Navajoes. I had heard so at various times from prisoners whom I had taken; but I was always crippled for want of strength in men and means. Revolution after revolution kept the states in poverty and civil warfare, and our interests were neglected or forgotten. With all my exertions, I could never raise a force sufficient to penetrate that desert country north of the Gila, in which lie the towns of the savage Navajoes." "And you think--" "Patience! I shall soon finish. My band is now stronger than ever. I have received certain information, by one just escaped from a captivity among the Navajoes, that the warriors of both tribes are about to proceed southward. They are mustering all their strength, with the intention of making a grand foray; even, as we have heard, to the gates of Durango. It is my design, then, to enter their country while they are absent, and search for my daughter." "And you think she still lives?" "I know it. The same man who brought me this news, and who, poor fellow, has left his scalp and ears behind him, saw her often. She is grown up, and is, he says, a sort of queen among them, possessed of strange powers and privileges. Yes, she still lives; and if it be my fortune to recover her, then will this tragic scene be at an end. I will go far hence." I had listened with deep attention to the strange recital. All the disgust with which my previous knowledge of this man's character had inspired me vanished from my mind, and I felt for him compassion--ay, admiration. He had suffered much. Suffering atones for crime, and in my sight he was justified. Perhaps I was too lenient in my judgment. It was natural I should be so. When the revelation was ended, I was filled with emotions of pleasure. I felt a vivid joy to know that she was not the offspring of the demon I had deemed him. He seemed to divine my thoughts; for there was a smile of satisfaction, I might say triumph, on his countenance, as he leaned across the table to refill the wine. "Monsieur, my story must have wearied you. Drink!" There was a moment's silence as we emptied the glasses. "And now, sir, you know the father of your betrothed, at least somewhat better than before. Are you still in the mind to marry her?" "Oh, sir! she is now, more than ever, to me a sacred object." "But you must win her, as I have said, from me." "Then, sir, tell me how. I am ready for any sacrifice that may be within my power to make." "You must help me to recover her sister." "Willingly." "You must go with me to the desert." "I will." "Enough. We start to-morrow." And he rose, and began to pace the room. "At an early hour?" I inquired, half fearing that I was about to be denied an interview with her whom I now more than ever longed to embrace. "By daybreak," he replied, not seeming to heed my anxious manner. "I must look to my horse and arms," said I, rising, and going towards the door, in hopes of meeting her without. "They have been attended to; Gode is there. Come, boy! She is not in the hall. Stay where you are. I will get the arms you want. Adele! Zoe! Oh, doctor, you are returned with your weeds! It is well. We journey to-morrow. Adele, some coffee, love! and then let us have some music. Your guest leaves you to-morrow." The bright form rushed between us with a scream. "No, no, no, no!" she exclaimed, turning from one to the other, with the wild appeal of a passionate heart. "Come, little dove!" said the father, taking her by the hands; "do not be so easily fluttered. It is but for a short time. He will return again." "How long, papa? How long, Enrique?" "But a very short while. It will be longer to me than to you, Zoe." "Oh! no, no; an hour will be a long time. How many hours do you think, Enrique?" "Oh! we shall be gone days, I fear." "Days! Oh, papa! Oh, Enrique! Days!" "Come, little chit; they will soon pass. Go! Help your mamma to make the coffee." "Oh, papa! Days; long days. They will not soon pass when I am alone." "But you will not be alone. Your mamma will be with you." "Ah!" And with a sigh, and an air of abstraction, she departed to obey the command of her father. As she passed out at the door, she again sighed audibly. The doctor was a silent and wondering spectator of this last scene; and as her figure vanished into the hall, I could hear him muttering to himself-- "Oh ja! Poor leetle fraulein! I thought as mosh." CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. UP THE DEL NORTE. I will not distress you with a parting scene. We were in our saddles before the stars had died out, and riding along the sandy road. At a short distance from the house the path angled, striking into thick, heavy timber. Here I checked my horse, allowing my companions to pass, and, standing in the stirrup, looked back. My eyes wandered along the old grey walls, and sought the azotea. Upon the very edge of the parapet, outlined against the pale light of the aurora, was the object I looked for. I could not distinguish the features, but I easily recognised the oval curvings of the figure, cut like a dark medallion against the sky. She was standing near one of the yucca palm trees that grew up from the azotea. Her hand rested upon its trunk, and she bent forward, straining her gaze into the darkness below. Perhaps she saw the waving of a kerchief; perhaps she heard her name, and echoed the parting prayer that was sent back to her on the still breath of the morning. If so, her voice was drowned by the tread of my chafing horse, that, wheeling suddenly, bore me off into the sombre shadows of the forest. I rode forward, turning at intervals to catch a glimpse of those lovely outlines, but from no other point was the house visible. It lay buried in the dark, majestic woods. I could only see the long bayonets of the picturesque palmillas; and our road now descending among hills, these too were soon hidden from my view. Dropping the bridle, and leaving my horse to go at will, I fell into a train of thoughts at once pleasant and painful. I knew that I had inspired this young creature with a passion deep and ardent as my own, perhaps more vital; for my heart had passed through other affections, while hers had never throbbed with any save the subdued solicitudes of a graceful childhood. She had never known emotion. Love was her first strong feeling, her first passion. Would it not, thus enthroned, reign over all other thoughts in her heart's kingdom? She, too, so formed for love; so like its mythic goddess! These reflections were pleasant. But the picture darkened as I turned from looking back for the last time, and something whispered me, some demon it was, "You may never see her more!" The suggestion, even in this hypothetical form, was enough to fill my mind with dark forebodings, and I began to cast my thoughts upon the future. I was going upon no party of pleasure, from which I might return at a fixed hour. Dangers were before me, the dangers of the desert; and I knew that these were of no ordinary character. In our plans of the previous night, Seguin had not concealed the perils of our expedition. These he had detailed before exacting my final promise to accompany him. Weeks before, I would not have regarded them--they would only have lured me on to meet them; now my feelings were different, for I believed that in my life there was another's. What, then, if the demon had whispered truly? I might never see her more! It was a painful thought; and I rode on, bent in the saddle, under the influence of its bitterness. But I was once more upon the back of my favourite Moro, who seemed to "know his rider"; and as his elastic body heaved beneath me, my spirit answered his, and began to resume its wonted buoyancy. After a while I took up the reins, and shortening them in my hands, spurred on after my companions. Our road lay up the river, crossing the shallow ford at intervals, and winding through the bottom-lands, that were heavily timbered. The path was difficult on account of the thick underwood; and although the trees had once been blazed for a road, there were no signs of late travel upon it, with the exception of a few solitary horse-tracks. The country appeared wild and uninhabited. This was evident from the frequency with which deer and antelope swept across our path, or sprang out of the underwood close to our horses' heads. Here and there our path trended away from the river, crossing its numerous loops. Several times we passed large tracts where the heavy timber had been felled, and clearings had existed. But this must have been long ago, for the land that had been furrowed by the plough was now covered with tangled and almost impenetrable thickets. A few broken and decaying logs, or crumbling walls of the adobe were all that remained to attest where the settlers' rancho had stood. We passed a ruined church with its old turrets dropping by piecemeal. Piles of adobe lay around covering the ground for acres. A thriving village had stood there. Where was it now? Where were the busy gossips? A wild-cat sprang over the briar-laced walls, and made off into the forest. An owl flew sluggishly up from the crumbling cupola, and hovered around our heads, uttering its doleful "woo-hoo-a," that rendered the desolation of the scene more impressive. As we rode through the ruin, a dead stillness surrounded us, broken only by the hooting of the night-bird, and the "cranch-cranch" of our horses' feet upon the fragments of pottery that covered the deserted streets. But where were they who had once made these walls echo with their voices? Who had knelt under the sacred shadow of that once hallowed pile? They were gone; but where? and when? and why? I put these questions to Seguin, and was answered thus briefly-- "The Indians." The savage it was, with his red spear and scalping-knife, his bow and his battle-axe, his brand and his poisoned arrows. "The Navajoes?" I inquired. "Navajo and Apache." "But do they come no more to this place?" A feeling of anxiety had suddenly entered my mind. I thought of our proximity to the mansion we had left. I thought of its unguarded walls. I waited with some impatience for an answer. "No more," was the brief reply. "And why?" I inquired. "This is our territory," he answered, significantly. "You are now, monsieur, in a country where live strange fellows; you shall see. Woe to the Apache or Navajo who may stray into these woods!" As we rode forward, the country became more open, and we caught a glimpse of high bluffs trending north and south on both sides of the river. These bluffs converged till the river channel appeared to be completely barred up by a mountain. This was only an appearance. On riding farther, we found ourselves entering one of those fearful gaps, canons, as they are called, so often met with in the table-lands of tropical America. Through this the river foamed between two vast cliffs, a thousand feet in height, whose profiles, as you approached them, suggested the idea of angry giants, separated by some almighty hand, and thus left frowning at each other. It was with a feeling of awe that one looked up the face of these stupendous cliffs, and I felt a shuddering sensation as I neared the mighty gate between them. "Do you see that point?" asked Seguin, indicating a rock that jutted out from the highest ledge of the chasm. I signified in the affirmative, for the question was addressed to myself. "That is the leap you were so desirous of taking. We found you dangling against yonder rock." "Good God!" I ejaculated, as my eyes rested upon the dizzy eminence. My brain grew giddy as I sat in my saddle gazing upward, and I was fain to ride onward. "But for your noble horse," continued my companion, "the doctor here would have been stopping about this time to hypothecate upon your bones. Ho, Moro! beautiful Moro!" "Oh, mein Gott! Ya, ya!" assented the botanist, looking up against the precipice, apparently with a feeling of awe such as I felt myself. Seguin had ridden alongside me, and was patting my horse on the neck with expressions of admiration. "But why?" I asked, the remembrance of our first interview now occurring to me, "why were you so eager to possess him?" "A fancy." "Can I not understand it? I think you said then that I could not?" "Oh, yes! Quite easily, monsieur. I intended to steal my own daughter, and I wanted, for that purpose, to have the aid of your horse." "But how?" "It was before I had heard the news of this intended expedition of our enemy. As I had no hopes of obtaining her otherwise, it was my design to have entered their country alone, or with a tried comrade, and by stratagem to have carried her off. Their horses are swift, yet far inferior to the Arab, as you may have an opportunity of seeing. With such an animal as that, I would have been comparatively safe, unless hemmed in or surrounded, and even then I might have got off with a few scratches, I intended to have disguised myself, and entered the town as one of their own warriors. I have long been master of their language." "It would have been a perilous enterprise." "True! It was a _dernier ressort_, and only adopted because all other efforts had failed; after years of yearning, deep craving of the heart. I might have perished. It was a rash thought, but I, at that time, entertained it fully." "I hope we shall succeed now." "I have high hopes. It seems as if some overruling providence were now acting in my favour. This absence of her captors; and, besides, my band has been most opportunely strengthened by the arrival of a number of trappers from the eastern plains. The beaver-skins have fallen, according to their phraseology, to a `plew a plug,' and they find `red-skin' pays better. Ah! I hope this will soon be over." And he sighed deeply as he uttered the last words. We were now at the entrance of the gorge, and a shady clump of cotton-woods invited us to rest. "Let us noon here," said Seguin. We dismounted, and ran our animals out on their trail-ropes to feed. Then seating ourselves on the soft grass, we drew forth the viands that had been prepared for our journey. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. GEOGRAPHY AND GEOLOGY. We rested above an hour in the cool shade, while our horses refreshed themselves on the "grama" that grew luxuriantly around. We conversed about the singular region in which we were travelling; singular in its geography, its geology, its botany, and its history; singular in all respects. I am a traveller, as I might say, by profession. I felt an interest in learning something of the wild countries that stretched for hundreds of miles around us; and I knew there was no man living so capable of being my informant as he with whom I then conversed. My journey down the river had made me but little acquainted with its features. At that time, as I have already related, there was fever upon me; and my memory of objects was as though I had encountered them in some distorted dream. My brain was now clear; and the scenes through which we were passing-- here soft and south-like, there wild, barren, and picturesque--forcibly impressed my imagination. The knowledge, too, that parts of this region had once been inhabited by the followers of Cortez, as many a ruin testified; that it had been surrendered back to its ancient and savage lords, and the inference that this surrender had been brought about by the enactment of many a tragic scene, induced a train of romantic thought, which yearned for gratification in an acquaintance with the realities that gave rise to it. Seguin was communicative. His spirits were high. His hopes were buoyant. The prospect of again embracing his long-lost child imbued him, as it were, with new life. He had not, he said, felt so happy for many years. "It is true," said he, in answer to a question I had put, "there is little known of this whole region, beyond the boundaries of the Mexican settlements. They who once had the opportunity of recording its geographical features have left the task undone. They were too busy in the search for gold; and their weak descendants, as you see, are too busy in robbing one another to care for aught else. They know nothing of the country beyond their own borders; and these are every day contracting upon them. All they know of it is the fact that thence come their enemies, whom they dread, as children do ghosts or wolves." "We are now," continued Seguin, "near the centre of the continent, in the very heart of the American Sahara." "But," said I, interrupting him, "we cannot be more than a day's ride south of New Mexico. That is not a desert; it is a cultivated country." "New Mexico is an oasis, nothing more. The desert is around it for hundreds of miles; nay, in some directions you may travel a thousand miles from the Del Norte without seeing one fertile spot. New Mexico is an oasis which owes its existence to the irrigating waters of the Del Norte. It is the only settlement of white men from the frontiers of the Mississippi to the shores of the Pacific in California. You approached it by a desert, did you not?" "Yes; as we ascended from the Mississippi towards the Rocky Mountains the country became gradually more sterile. For the last three hundred miles or so we could scarcely find grass or water for the sustenance of our animals. But is it thus north and south of the route we travelled?" "North and south for more than a thousand miles, from the plains of Texas to the lakes of Canada, along the whole base of the Rocky Mountains, and half-way to the settlements on the Mississippi, it is a treeless, herbless land." "To the west of the mountains?" "Fifteen hundred miles of desert; that is its length, by at least half as many miles of breadth. The country to the west is of a different character. It is more broken in its outlines, more mountainous, and if possible more sterile in its aspect. The volcanic fires have been more active there; and though that may have been thousands of years ago, the igneous rocks in many places look as if freshly upheaved. No vegetation, no climatic action has sensibly changed the hues of the lava and scoriae that in some places cover the plains for miles. I say no climatic action, for there is but little of that in this central region." "I do not understand you." "What I mean is, that there is but little atmospheric change. It is but one uniform drought; it is seldom tempestuous or rainy. I know some districts where a drop of rain has not fallen for years." "And can you account for that phenomenon?" "I have my theory. It may not satisfy the learned meteorologist, but I will offer it to you." I listened with attention, for I knew that my companion was a man of science, as of experience and observation, and subjects of the character of those about which we conversed had always possessed great interest for me. He continued-- "There can be no rain without vapour in the air. There can be no vapour in the air without water on the earth below to produce it. Here there is no great body of water. "Nor can there be. The whole region of the desert is upheaved--an elevated table-land. We are now nearly six thousand feet above sea level. Hence its springs are few; and by hydraulic law must be fed by its own waters, or those of some region still more elevated, which does not exist on the continent. "Could I create vast seas in this region, walled in by the lofty mountains that traverse it--and such seas existed coeval with its formation; could I create those seas without giving them an outlet, not even allowing the smallest rill to drain them, in process of time they would empty themselves into the ocean, and leave everything as it now is, a desert." "But how? by evaporation?" "On the contrary, the absence of evaporation would be the cause of their drainage. I believe it has been so already." "I cannot understand that." "It is simply thus: this region possesses, as we have said, great elevation; consequently a cool atmosphere, and a much less evaporating power than that which draws up the water of the ocean. Now, there would be an interchange of vapour between the ocean and these elevated seas, by means of winds and currents; for it is only by that means that any water can reach this interior plateau. That interchange would result in favour of the inland seas, by reason of their less evaporation, as well as from other causes. We have not time, or I could demonstrate such a result. I beg you will admit it, then, and reason it out at your leisure." "I perceive the truth; I perceive it at once." "What follows, then? These seas would gradually fill up to overflowing. The first little rivulet that trickled forth from their lipping fulness would be the signal of their destruction. It would cut its channel over the ridge of the lofty mountain, tiny at first, but deepening and widening with each successive shower, until, after many years--ages, centuries, cycles perhaps--a great gap such as this," (here Seguin pointed to the canon), "and the dry plain behind it, would alone exist to puzzle the geologist." "And you think that the plains lying among the Andes and the Rocky Mountains are the dry beds of seas?" "I doubt it not; seas formed after the upheaval of the ridges that barred them in, formed by rains from the ocean, at first shallow, then deepening, until they had risen to the level of their mountain barriers; and, as I have described, cut their way back again to the ocean." "But does not one of these seas still exist?" "The Great Salt Lake? It does. It lies north-west of us. Not only one, but a system of lakes, springs, and rivers, both salt and fresh; and these have no outlet to the ocean. They are barred in by highlands and mountains, of themselves forming a complete geographical system." "Does not that destroy your theory?" "No. The basin in which this phenomenon exists is on a lower level than most of the desert plateaux. Its evaporating power is equal to the influx of its own rivers, and consequently neutralises their effect; that is to say, in its exchange of vapour with the ocean, it gives as much as it receives. This arises, not so much from its low elevation as from the peculiar dip of the mountains that guide the waters into its bosom. Place it in a colder position, _ceteris paribus_, and in time it would cut the canal for its own drainage. So with the Caspian Sea, the Aral, and the Dead Sea. No, my friend, the existence of the Salt Lake supports my theory. Around its shores lies a fertile country, fertile from the quick returns of its own waters moistening it with rain. It exists only to a limited extent, and cannot influence the whole region of the desert, which lies parched and sterile, on account of its great distance from the ocean." "But does not the vapour rising from the ocean float over the desert?" "It does, as I have said, to some extent, else there would be no rain here. Sometimes by extraordinary causes, such as high winds, it is carried into the heart of the continent in large masses. Then we have storms, and fearful ones too. But, generally, it is only the skirt of a cloud, so to speak, that reaches thus far; and that, combined with the proper evaporation of the region itself, that is, from its own springs and rivers, yields all the rain that falls upon it. Great bodies of vapour, rising from the Pacific and drifting eastward, first impinge upon the coast range, and there deposit their waters; or perhaps they are more highly-heated, and soaring above the tops of these mountains, travel farther. They will be intercepted a hundred miles farther on by the loftier ridges of the Sierra Nevada, and carried back, as it were, captive, to the ocean by the streams of the Sacramento and San Joaquim. It is only the skirt of these clouds, as I have termed it, that, soaring still higher, and escaping the attractive influence of the Nevada, floats on, and falls into the desert region. What then? No sooner has it fallen than it hurries back to the sea by the Gila and Colorado, to rise again and fertilise the slopes of the Nevada; while the fragment of some other cloud drifts its scanty supply over the arid uplands of the interior, to be spent in rain or snow upon the peaks of the Rocky Mountains. Hence the source of the rivers running east and west, and hence the oases, such as the parks that lie among these mountains. Hence the fertile valleys upon the Del Norte, and other streams that thinly meander through this central land. "Vapour-clouds from the Atlantic undergo a similar detention in crossing the Alleghany range; or, cooling, after having circled a great distance round the globe, descend into the valleys of the Ohio and Mississippi. From all sides of this great continent, as you approach its centre, fertility declines, and only from the want of water. The soil in many places where there is scarcely a blade of grass to be seen, possesses all the elements of vegetation. So the doctor will tell you; he has analysed it." "Ya, ya! dat ish true," quietly affirmed the doctor. "There are many oases," continued Seguin; "and where water can be used to irrigate the soil, luxuriant vegetation is the consequence. You have observed this, no doubt, in travelling down the river; and such was the case in the old Spanish settlements on the Gila." "But why were these abandoned?" I inquired, never having heard any reason assigned for the desertion of these once flourishing colonies. "Why!" echoed Seguin, with a peculiar energy; "why! Unless some other race than the Iberian take possession of these lands, the Apache, the Navajo, and the Comanche, the conquered of Cortez and his conquerors, will yet drive the descendants of those very conquerors from the soil of Mexico. Look at Sonora and Chihuahua, half-depopulated! Look at New Mexico; its citizens living by suffrance: living, as it were, to till the land and feed the flocks for the support of their own enemies, who levy their blackmail by the year! But, come; the sun tells us we must on. Come! "Mount! we can go through," continued he. "There has been no rain lately, and the water is low, otherwise we should have fifteen miles of a ride over the mountain yonder. Keep close to the rocks! Follow me!" And with this admonition he entered the canon, followed by myself, Gode, and the doctor. CHAPTER NINETEEN. THE SCALP-HUNTERS. It was still early in the evening when we reached the camp--the camp of the scalp-hunters. Our arrival was scarcely noticed. A single glance at us, as we rode in amongst the men was all the recognition we received. No one rose from his seat or ceased his occupation. We were left to unsaddle our horses and dispose of them as best we might. I was wearied with the ride, having been so long unused to the saddle. I threw my blanket on the ground, and sat down, resting my back against the stump of a tree. I could have slept, but the strangeness of everything around me excited my imagination, and, with feelings of curiosity, I looked and listened. I should call the pencil to my aid to give you an idea of the scene, and that would but faintly illustrate it. A wilder and more picturesque _coup-d'oeil_ never impressed human vision. It reminded me of pictures I had seen representing the bivouacs of brigands under the dark pines of the Abruzzi. I paint from a recollection that looks back over many years of adventurous life. I can give only the more salient points of the picture. The _petite detail_ is forgotten, although at that time the minutest objects were things new and strange to my eye, and each of them for a while fixed my attention. I afterwards grew familiar with them; and hence they are now in my memory, as a multitude of other things, indistinct from their very distinctness. The camp was in a bend of the Del Norte, in a glade surrounded by tall cotton-woods, whose smooth trunks rose vertically out of a thick underwood of palmettoes and Spanish bayonet. A few tattered tents stood in the open ground; and there were skin lodges after the Indian fashion. But most of the hunters had made their shelter with a buffalo-robe stretched upon four upright poles. There were "lairs" among the underwood, constructed of branches, and thatched with the palmated leaves of the yucca, or with reeds brought from the adjacent river. There were paths leading out in different directions, marked by openings in the foliage. Through one of these a green meadow was visible. Mules and mustangs, picketed on long trail-ropes, were clustered over it. Through the camp were seen the saddles, bridles, and packs, resting upon stumps or hanging from the branches. Guns leaned against the trees, and rusted sabres hung suspended over the tents and lodges. Articles of camp furniture, such as pans, kettles, and axes, littered the ground in every direction. Log fires were burning. Around them sat clusters of men. They were not seeking warmth, for it was not cold. They were roasting ribs of venison, or smoking odd-fashioned pipes. Some were scouring their arms and accoutrements. The accents of many languages fell upon my ear. I heard snatches of French, Spanish, English, and Indian. The exclamations were in character with the appearance of those who uttered them. "Hollo, Dick! hang it, old hoss, what are ye 'bout?" "Carambo!" "By the 'tarnal airthquake!" "Vaya! hombre, vaya!" "Carrajo!" "By Gosh!" "Santisima Maria!" "Sacr-r-re!" It seemed as if the different nations had sent representatives to contest the supremacy of their shibboleths. I was struck with three groups. A particular language prevailed in each; and there was a homogeneousness about the costumes of the men composing each. That nearest me conversed in the Spanish language. They were Mexicans. I will describe the dress of one, as I remember it. Calzoneros of green velvet. These are cut after the fashion of sailor-trousers, short waist, tight round the hips, and wide at the bottoms, where they are strengthened by black leather stamped and stitched ornamentally. The outer seams are split from hip to thigh, slashed with braid, and set with rows of silver "castletops." These seams are open, for the evening is warm, and underneath appear the calzoncillos of white muslin, hanging in white folds around the ankles. The boot is of calf-skin, tanned, but not blackened. It is reddish, rounded at the toe, and carries a spur at least a pound in weight, with a rowel three inches in diameter! The spur is curiously fashioned and fastened to the boot by straps of stamped leather. Little bells, campanulas, hang from the teeth of the rowels, and tinkle at the slightest motion of the foot! Look upward. The calzoneros are not braced, but fastened at the waist by a silken sash or scarf. It is scarlet. It is passed several times round the body, and made fast behind, where the fringed ends hang gracefully over the left hip. There is no waistcoat. A jacket of dark cloth embroidered and tightly fitting, short behind, _a la Grecque_, leaving the shirt to puff out over the scarf. The shirt itself, with its broad collar and flowered front, exhibits the triumphant skill of some dark-eyed poblana. Over all this is the broad-brimmed, shadowy sombrero; a heavy hat of black glaze, with its thick band of silver bullion. There are tags of the same metal stuck in the sides, giving it an appearance altogether unique. Over one shoulder is hanging, half-folded, the picturesque serape. A belt and pouch, an escopette upon which the hand is resting, a waist-belt with a pair of small pistols stuck under it, a long Spanish knife suspended obliquely across the left hip, complete the _tout ensemble_ of him whom I have chosen to describe. It may answer as a characteristic of the dress of many of his companions, those of the group that was nearest me. There was variety in their habiliments, yet the national costume of Mexico was traceable in all. Some wore leather calzoneros, with a spencer or jerkin of the same material, close both at front and behind. Some carried, instead of the pictured serape, the blanket of the Navajoes, with its broad black stripes. Suspended from the shoulders of others hung the beautiful and graceful manga. Some were moccasined; while a few of the inferior men wore the simple guarache, the sandal of the Aztecs. The countenances of these men were swarth and savage-looking, their hair long, straight, and black as the wing of a crow; while both beard and moustache grew wildly over their faces. Fierce dark eyes gleamed under the broad brims of their hats. Few of them were men of high stature; yet there was a litheness in their bodies that showed them to be capable of great activity. Their frames were well knit, and inured to fatigues and hardships. They were all, or nearly all, natives of the Mexican border, frontier men, who had often closed in deadly fight with the Indian foe. They were ciboleros, vaqueros, rancheros, monteros; men who in their frequent association with the mountain men, the Gallic and Saxon hunters from the eastern plains, had acquired a degree of daring which by no means belongs to their own race. They were the chivalry of the Mexican frontier. They smoked cigaritas, rolling them between their fingers in husks of maize. They played monte on their spread blankets, staking their tobacco. They cursed, and cried "Carrajo!" when they lost, and thanks to the "Santisima Virgin" when the cards were pulled out in their favour! Their language was a Spanish patois; their voices were sharp and disagreeable. At a short distance from these was the second group that attracted my attention. The individuals composing this were altogether different from the former. They were different in every essential point: in voice, dress, language, and physiognomy. Theirs was the Anglo-American face, at a glance. These were the trappers, the prairie hunters, the mountain men. Let us again choose a type that may answer for a description of all. He stands leaning on his long straight rifle, looking into the fire. He is six feet in his moccasins, and of a build that suggests the idea of strength and Saxon ancestry. His arms are like young oaks, and his hand, grasping the muzzle of his gun, is large, fleshless, and muscular. His cheek is broad and firm. It is partially covered by a bushy whisker that meets over the chin and fringes all around the lips. It is neither fair nor dark, but of a dull-brown colour, lighter around the mouth, where it has been bleached by the sun, "ambeer," and water. The eye is grey, or bluish grey, small, and slightly crowed at the corner. It is well set, and rarely wanders. It seems to look into you rather than at you. The hair is brown and of a medium length (cut, no doubt, on his last visit to the trading post, or the settlements); and the complexion, although dark as that of a mulatto, is only so from tan. It was once fair: a blonde. The countenance is not unprepossessing. It might be styled handsome. Its whole expression is bold, but good-humoured and generous. The dress of the individual described is of home manufacture; that is, of his home, the prairie and the wild mountain park, where the material has been bought by a bullet from his rifle. It is the work of his own hands, unless indeed he may be one who has shared his cabin with some Indian--Sioux, Crow, or Cheyenne. It consists of a hunting-shirt of dressed deer-skin, smoked to the softness of a glove; leggings, reaching to the waist, and moccasins of the same material; the latter soled with the parfleche of the buffalo. The shirt is belted at the waist, but open at the breast and throat, where it falls back into a graceful cape just covering the shoulders. Underneath is seen the undershirt, of finer material, the dressed skin of the antelope, or the fawn of the fallow-deer. On his head is a raccoon cap, with the face of the animal looking to the front, while the barred tail hangs like a plume drooping down to his left shoulder. His accoutrements are, a bullet-pouch made from the undressed skin of the mountain cat, and a huge crescent-shaped horn, upon which he has carved many a strange souvenir. His arms consist of a long knife, a bowie, and a heavy pistol, carefully secured by a holster to the leathern belt around his waist. Add to this a rifle nearly five feet long, taking ninety to the pound, and so straight that the line of the barrel scarcely deflects from that of the butt. But little attention has been paid to ornament in either his dress, arms, or equipments; and yet there is a gracefulness in the hang of his tunic-like shirt; a stylishness about the fringing of the cape and leggings; and a jauntiness in the set of that coon-skin cap that shows the wearer to be not altogether unmindful of his personal appearance. A small pouch or case, neatly embroidered with stained porcupine quills, hangs upon his breast. At intervals he contemplates this with a pleased and complacent look. It is his pipe-holder: a love-token from some dark-eyed, dark-haired damsel, no doubt, like himself a denizen of the wild wilderness. Such is the _tout ensemble_ of a mountain trapper. There were many around him whom I have described almost similarly attired and equipped. Some wore slouch hats of greyish felt, and some catskin caps. Some had hunting-shirts bleached to a brighter hue, and broidered with gayer colours. Others looked more tattered and patched, and smoky; yet in the costume of all there was enough of character to enable you to class them. There was no possibility of mistaking the regular mountain man. The third group that attracted my attention was at a greater distance from the spot I occupied. I was filled with curiosity, not to say astonishment, on perceiving that they were Indians. "Can they be prisoners?" thought I. "No; they are not bound. There are no signs of captivity either in their looks or gestures, and yet they are Indians. Can they belong to the band, fighting against--?" As I sat conjecturing, a hunter passed near me. "Who are these Indians?" I asked, indicating the group. "Delawares; some Shawnees." These, then, were the celebrated Delawares, descendants of that great tribe who, on the Atlantic shores, first gave battle to the pale-faced invader. Theirs had been a wonderful history. War their school, war their worship, war their pastime, war their profession. They are now but a remnant. Their story will soon be ended. I rose up, and approached them with a feeling of interest. Some of them were sitting around the fire, smoking out of curiously-carved pipes of the red claystone. Others strode back and forth with that majestic gait for which the forest Indian has been so much celebrated. There was a silence among them that contrasted strangely with the jabbering kept up by their Mexican allies. An occasional question put in a deep-toned, sonorous voice, a short but emphatic reply, a guttural grunt, a dignified nod, a gesture with the hand; and thus they conversed, as they filled their pipe-bowls with the kini-kin-ik, and passed the valued instruments from one to another. I stood gazing upon these stoical sons of the forest with emotions stronger than curiosity, as one contemplates for the first time an object of which he has heard and read strange accounts. The history of their wars and their wanderings were fresh in my memory. Before me were the actors themselves, or types of them, in all their truthful reality, in all their wild picturesqueness. These were the men who, driven from their homes by the Atlantic border, yielded only to fate--to the destiny of their race. Crossing the Appalachian range, they had fought their way from home to home, down the steep sides of the Alleghany, along the wooded banks of the Ohio, into the heart of the "Bloody Ground." Still the pale-face followed on their track, and drove them onward, onward towards the setting sun. Red wars, Punic faith, broken treaties, year after year, thinned their ranks. Still, disdaining to live near their white conquerors, they pushed on, fighting their way through tribes of their own race and colour thrice their numbers! The forks of the Osage became their latest resting-place. Here the usurper promised to guarantee them a home, to be theirs to all time. The concession came too late. War and wandering had grown to be part of their natures; and with a scornful pride they disdained the peaceful tillage of the soil. The remnant of their tribe was collected on the Osage, but in one season it had disappeared. The braves and young men wandered away, leaving only the old, the women, and the worthless in their allotted home. Where have they gone? Where are they now? He who would find the Delawares must seek them on the broad prairies, in the mountain parks, in the haunts of the bear and the beaver, the big-horn and the buffalo. There he may find them, in scattered bands, leagued with their ancient enemies the whites, or alone, trapping, hunting, fighting the Yuta or Rapaho, the Crow or Cheyenne, the Navajo and the Apache. I stood gazing upon the group with feelings of profound interest, upon their features and their picturesque habiliments. Though no two of them were dressed exactly alike, there was a similarity about the dress of all. Most of them wore hunting-shirts, not made of deer-skin like those of the whites, but of calico, printed in bright patterns. This dress, handsomely fashioned and fringed, under the accoutrements of the Indian warrior, presented a striking appearance. But that which chiefly distinguished the costumes of both the Delaware and Shawano from that of their white allies was the head-dress. This was, in fact, a turban, formed by binding the head with a scarf or kerchief of a brilliant colour, such as may be seen on the dark Creoles of Hayti. In the group before me no two of these turbans were alike, yet they were all of a similar character. The finest were those made by the chequered kerchiefs of Madras. Plumes surmounted them of coloured feathers from the wing of the war-eagle, or the blue plumage of the gruya. For the rest of their costume they wore deer-skin leggings and moccasins, nearly similar to those of the trappers. The leggings of some were ornamented by scalp-locks along the outer seam, exhibiting a dark history of the wearer's prowess. I noticed that their moccasins were peculiar, differing altogether from those worn by the Indians of the prairies. They were seamed up the fronts, without braiding or ornament, and gathered into a double row of plaits. The arms and equipments of these warrior men were like those of the white hunters. They have long since discarded the bow; and in the management of the rifle most of them can "draw a bead" and hit "plumb centre" with any of their mountain associates. In addition to the firelock and knife, I noticed that they still carried the ancient weapon of their race, the fearful tomahawk. I have described three characteristic groups that struck me on glancing over the camp ground. There were individuals belonging to neither, and others partaking of the character of one or all. There were Frenchmen, Canadian voyageurs, strays of the north-west company, wearing white capotes, and chatting, dancing, and singing their boat-songs with all the _esprit_ of their race. There were pueblos, Indios manzos, clad in their ungraceful tilmas, and rather serving than associating with those around them. There were mulattoes, too, and negroes of a jetty blackness from the plantations of Louisiana, who had exchanged for this free, roving life the twisted "cow-skin" of the overseer. There were tattered uniforms showing the deserters who had wandered from some frontier post into this remote region. There were Kanakas from the Sandwich Isles, who had crossed the deserts from California. There were men apparently of every hue and clime and tongue here assembled, drawn together by the accidents of life, by the instinct of adventure--all more or less strange individuals of the strangest band it has ever been my lot to witness: the band of the Scalp-Hunters! CHAPTER TWENTY. SHARP-SHOOTING. I had returned to my blanket, and was about to stretch myself upon it, when the whoop of a gruya drew my attention. Looking up, I saw one of these birds flying towards the camp. It was coming through a break in the trees that opened from the river. It flew low, and tempted a shot with its broad wings, and slow, lazy flight. A report rang upon the air. One of the Mexicans had fired his escopette; but the bird flew on, plying its wings with more energy, as if to bear itself out of reach. There was a laugh from the trappers, and a voice cried out-- "Yur fool! D'yur think 'ee kud hit a spread blanket wi' that beetle-shaped blunderbox? Pish!" I turned to see who had delivered this odd speech. Two men were poising their rifles, bringing them to bear upon the bird. One was the young hunter whom I have described. The other was an Indian whom I had not seen before. The cracks were simultaneous; and the crane, dropping its long neck, came whirling down among the trees, where it caught upon a high branch, and remained. From their position neither party knew that the other had fired. A tent was between them, and the two reports had seemed as one. A trapper cried out-- "Well done, Garey! Lord help the thing that's afore old Killbar's muzzle when you squints through her hind-sights." The Indian just then stepped round the tent. Hearing this side speech, and perceiving the smoke still oozing from the muzzle of the young hunter's gun, he turned to the latter with the interrogation-- "Did you fire, sir?" This was said in well-accentuated and most un-Indianlike English, which would have drawn my attention to the man had not his singularly-imposing appearance riveted me already. "Who is he?" I inquired from one near me. "Don't know; fresh arriv'," was the short answer. "Do you mean that he is a stranger here?" "Just so. He kumb in thar a while agone. Don't b'lieve anybody knows him. I guess the captain does; I seed them shake hands." I looked at the Indian with increasing interest. He seemed a man of about thirty years of age, and not much under seven feet in height. He was proportioned like an Apollo, and, on this account, appeared smaller than he actually was. His features were of the Roman type; and his fine forehead, his aquiline nose and broad jawbone, gave him the appearance of talent, as well as firmness and energy. He was dressed in a hunting-shirt, leggings, and moccasins; but all these differed from anything worn either by the hunters or their Indian allies. The shirt itself was made out of the dressed hide of the red deer, but differently prepared from that used by the trappers. It was bleached almost to the whiteness of a kid glove. The breast, unlike theirs, was close, and beautifully embroidered with stained porcupine quills. The sleeves were similarly ornamented; and the cape and skirts were trimmed with the soft, snow-white fur of the ermine. A row of entire skins of that animal hung from the skirt border, forming a fringe both graceful and costly. But the most singular feature about this man was his hair. It fell loosely over his shoulders, and swept the ground as he walked! It could not have been less than seven feet in length. It was black, glossy, and luxuriant, and reminded me of the tails of those great Flemish horses I had seen in the funeral carriages of London. He wore upon his head the war-eagle bonnet, with its full circle of plumes: the finest triumph of savage taste. This magnificent head-dress added to the majesty of his appearance. A white buffalo robe hung from his shoulders, with all the graceful draping of a toga. Its silky fur corresponded to the colour of his dress, and contrasted strikingly with his own dark tresses. There were other ornaments about his person. His arms and accoutrements were shining with metallic brightness, and the stock and butt of his rifle were richly inlaid with silver. I have been thus minute in my description, as the first appearance of this man impressed me with a picture that can never be effaced from my memory. He was the _beau ideal_ of a picturesque and romantic savage; and yet there was nothing savage either in his speech or bearing. On the contrary, the interrogation which he had just addressed to the trapper was put in the politest manner. The reply was not so courteous. "Did I fire! Didn't ye hear a crack? Didn't ye see the thing fall? Look yonder!" Garey, as he spoke, pointed up to the bird. "We must have fired simultaneously." As the Indian said this he appealed to his gun, which was still smoking at the muzzle. "Look hyar, Injun! whether we fired symultainyously, or extraneously, or cattawampously, ain't the flappin' o' a beaver's tail to me; but I tuk sight on that bird; I hut that bird; and 'twar my bullet brought the thing down." "I think I must have hit it too," replied the Indian, modestly. "That's like, with that ar' spangled gimcrack!" said Garey, looking disdainfully at the other's gun, and then proudly at his own brown weather-beaten piece, which he had just wiped, and was about to reload. "Gimcrack or no," answered the Indian, "she sends a bullet straighter and farther than any piece I have hitherto met with. I'll warrant she has sent hers through the body of the crane." "Look hyar, mister--for I s'pose we must call a gentleman `mister' who speaks so fine an' looks so fine, tho' he be's an Injun--it's mighty easy to settle who hut the bird. That thing's a fifty or tharabouts; Killbar's a ninety. 'Taint hard to tell which has plugged the varmint. We'll soon see;" and, so saying, the hunter stepped off towards the tree on which hung the gruya, high up. "How are you to get it down?" cried one of the men, who had stepped forward to witness the settlement of this curious dispute. There was no reply, for everyone saw that Garey was poising his rifle for a shot. The crack followed; and the branch, shivered by his bullet, bent downward under the weight of the gruya. But the bird, caught in a double fork, still stuck fast on the broken limb. A murmur of approbation followed the shot. These were men not accustomed to hurrah loudly at a trivial incident. The Indian now approached, having reloaded his piece. Taking aim, he struck the branch at the shattered point, cutting it clean from the tree! The bird fell to the ground, amidst expressions of applause from the spectators, but chiefly from the Mexican and Indian hunters. It was at once picked up and examined. Two bullets had passed through its body. Either would have killed it. A shadow of unpleasant feeling was visible on the face of the young trapper. In the presence of so many hunters of every nation, to be thus equalled, beaten in the in of his favourite weapon, and by an "Injun"; still worse by one of "them ar' gingerbread guns!" The mountain men have no faith in an ornamented stock, or a big bore. Spangled rifles, they say, are like spangled razors, made for selling to greenhorns. It was evident, however, that the strange Indian's rifle had been made to shoot as well. It required all the strength of nerve which the trapper possessed to conceal his chagrin. Without saying a word, he commenced wiping out his gun with that stoical calmness peculiar to men of his calling. I observed that he proceeded to load with more than usual care. It was evident that he would not rest satisfied with the trial already made, but would either beat the "Injun," or be himself "whipped into shucks." So he declared in a muttered speech to his comrades. His piece was soon loaded; and, swinging her to the hunter's carry, he turned to the crowd, now collected from all parts of the camp. "Thar's one kind o' shootin'," said he, "that's jest as easy as fallin' off a log. Any man kin do it as kin look straight through hind-sights. But then thar's another kind that ain't so easy; it needs narve." Here the trapper paused, and looked towards the Indian, who was also reloading. "Look hyar, stranger!" continued he, addressing the latter, "have ye got a cummarade on the ground as knows yer shooting?" The Indian after a moment's hesitation, answered, "Yes." "Kin your cummarade depend on yer shot?" "Oh! I think so. Why do you wish to know that?" "Why, I'm a-going to show ye a shot we sometimes practise at Bent's Fort, jest to tickle the greenhorns. 'Tain't much of a shot nayther; but it tries the narves a little I reckon. Hoy! Rube!" "What doo 'ee want?" This was spoken in an energetic and angry-like voice, that turned all eyes to the quarter whence it proceeded. At the first glance, there seemed to be no one in that direction. In looking more carefully among the logs and stumps, an individual was discovered seated by one of the fires. It would have been difficult to tell that it was a human body, had not the arms at the moment been in motion. The back was turned toward the crowd, and the head had disappeared, sunk forward over the fire. The object, from where we were standing, looked more like the stump of a cotton-wood, dressed in dirt-coloured buckskin, than the body of a human being. On getting nearer, and round to the front of it, it was seen to be a man, though a very curious one, holding a long rib of deer-meat in both hands, which he was polishing with a very poor set of teeth. The whole appearance of this individual was odd and striking. His dress, if dress it could be called, was simple as it was savage. It consisted of what might have once been a hunting-shirt, but which now looked more like a leathern bag with the bottom ripped open, and the sleeves sewed into the sides. It was of a dirty-brown colour, wrinkled at the hollow of the arms, patched round the armpits, and greasy all over; it was fairly caked with dirt! There was no attempt at either ornament or fringe. There had been a cape, but this had evidently been drawn upon from time to time, for patches and other uses, until scarcely a vestige of it remained. The leggings and moccasins were on a par with the shirt, and seemed to have been manufactured out of the same hide. They, too, were dirt-brown, patched, wrinkled, and greasy. They did not meet each other, but left a piece of the ankle bare, and that also was dirt-brown, like the buck-skin. There was no undershirt, waistcoat, or other garment to be seen, with the exception of a close-fitting cap, which had once been cat-skin, but the hair was all worn off it, leaving a greasy, leathery-looking surface, that corresponded well with the other parts of the dress. Cap, shirt, leggings, and moccasins looked as if they had never been stripped off since the day they were first tried on, and that might have been many a year ago. The shirt was open, displaying the naked breast and throat, and these, as well as the face, hands, and ankles, had been tanned by the sun, and smoked by the fire, to the hue of rusty copper. The whole man, clothes and all, looked as if he had been smoked on purpose! His face bespoke a man of sixty. The features were sharp and somewhat aquiline; and the small eye was dark, quick, and piercing. His hair was black and cut short. His complexion had been naturally brunette, though there was nothing of the Frenchman or Spaniard on his physiognomy. He was more likely of the black Saxon breed. As I looked at this man (for I had walked towards him, prompted by some instinct of curiosity), I began to fancy that there was a strangeness about him, independent of the oddness of his attire. There seemed to be something peculiar about his head, something wanting. What was it? I was not long in conjecture. When fairly in front of him, I saw what was wanting. It was his ears! This discovery impressed me with a feeling akin to awe. There is something awful in a man without ears. It suggests some horrid drama, some terrible scene of cruel vengeance. It suggests the idea of crime committed and punishment inflicted. These thoughts were wandering through my mind, when all at once I remembered a remark which Seguin had made on the previous night. This, then, thought I, is the person of whom he spoke. My mind was satisfied. After making answer as above, the old fellow sat for some time with his head between his knees, chewing, mumbling, and growling, like a lean old wolf, angry at being disturbed in his meal. "Come hyar, Rube! I want ye a bit," continued Garey, in a tone of half entreaty. "And so 'ee will want me a bit; this child don't move a peg till he has cleaned this hyur rib; he don't, now!" "Dog-gone it, man! make haste, then!" and the impatient trapper dropped the butt of his rifle to the ground, and stood waiting in sullen silence. After chewing, and mumbling, and growling a few minutes longer, old Rube, for that was the name by which the leathery sinner was known, slowly erected his lean carcass; and came walking up to the crowd. "What do 'ee want, Billee?" he inquired, going up to the trapper. "I want ye to hold this," answered Garey, offering him a round white shell, about the size of a watch, a species of which there were many strewed over the ground. "It's a bet, boyee?" "No, it is not." "Ain't wastin' yur powder, ar yur?" "I've been beat shootin'," replied the trapper, in an undertone, "by that 'ar Injun." The old man looked over to where the strange Indian was standing erect and majestic, in all the pride of his plumage. There was no appearance of triumph or swagger about him, as he stood leaning on his rifle, in an attitude at once calm and dignified. It was plain, from the way old Rube surveyed him, that he had seen him before, though not in that camp. After passing his eyes over him from head to foot, and there resting them a moment, a low murmur escaped his lips, which ended abruptly in the word "Coco." "A Coco, do ye think?" inquired the other, with an apparent interest. "Are 'ee blind, Billee? Don't 'ee see his moccasin?" "Yes, you're right, but I was in thar nation two years ago. I seed no such man as that." "He w'an't there." "Whar, then?" "Whur thur's no great show o' redskins. He may shoot well; he did oncest on a time: plumb centre." "You knew him, did ye?" "O-ee-es. Oncest. Putty squaw: hansum gal. Whur do 'ee want me to go?" I thought that Garey seemed inclined to carry the conversation further. There was an evident interest in his manner when the other mentioned the "squaw." Perhaps he had some tender recollection; but seeing the other preparing to start off, he pointed to an open glade that stretched eastward, and simply answered, "Sixty." "Take care o' my claws, d'yur hear! Them Injuns has made 'em scarce; this child can't spare another." The old trapper said this with a flourish of his right hand. I noticed that the little finger had been chopped off! "Never fear, old hoss!" was the reply; and at this, the smoky carcase moved away with a slow and regular pace, that showed he was measuring the yards. When he had stepped the sixtieth yard, he faced about, and stood erect, placing his heels together. He then extended his right arm, raising it until his hand was on a level with his shoulder, and holding the shell in his fingers, flat side to the front, shouted back-- "Now, Billee, shoot, and be hanged to yur!" The shell was slightly concave, the concavity turned to the front. The thumb and finger reached half round the circumference, so that a part of the edge was hidden; and the surface turned towards the marksman was not larger than the dial of a common watch. This was a fearful sight. It is one not so common among the mountain men as travellers would have you believe. The feat proves the marksman's skill; first, if successful, by showing the strength and steadiness of his nerves; secondly, by the confidence which the other reposes in it, thus declared by stronger testimony than any oath. In any case the feat of holding the mark is at least equal to that of hitting it. There are many hunters willing to risk taking the shot, but few who care to hold the shell. It was a fearful sight, and my nerves tingled as I looked on. Many others felt as I. No one interfered. There were few present who would have dared, even had these two men been making preparations to fire at each other. Both were "men of mark" among their comrades: trappers of the first class. Garey, drawing a long breath, planted himself firmly, the heel of his left foot opposite to, and some inches in advance of, the hollow of his right. Then, jerking up his gun, and throwing the barrel across his left palm, he cried out to his comrade-- "Steady, ole bone an' sinyer! hyar's at ye!" The words were scarcely out when the gun was levelled. There was a moment's death-like silence, all eyes looking to the mark. Then came the crack, and the shell was seen to fly, shivered into fifty fragments! There was a cheer from the crowd. Old Rube stopped to pick up one of the pieces, and after examining it for a moment, shouted in a loud voice;-- "Plumb centre, by--!" The young trapper had, in effect, hit the mark in the very centre, as the blue stain of the bullet testified. CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. A FEAT A LA TELL. All eyes were turned upon the strange Indian. During the scene described he has stood silent, and calmly looking on. His eye now wanders over the ground, apparently in search of an object. A small convolvulus, known as the prairie gourd, is lying at his feet. It is globe-shaped, about the size of an orange, and not unlike one in colour. He stoops and takes it up. He seems to examine it with great care, balancing it upon his hand, as though he were calculating its weight. What does he intend to do with this? Will he fling it up, and send his bullet through it in the air? What else? His motions are watched in silence. Nearly all the scalp-hunters, sixty or seventy, are on the ground. Seguin only, with the doctor and a few men, is engaged some distance off, pitching a tent. Garey stands upon one side, slightly elated with his triumph, but not without feelings of apprehension that he may yet be beaten. Old Rube has gone back to the fire, and is roasting another rib. The gourd seems to satisfy the Indian, for whatever purpose he intends it. A long piece of bone, the thigh joint of the war-eagle, hangs suspended over his breast. It is curiously carved, and pierced with holes like a musical instrument. It is one. He places this to his lips, covering the holes, with his fingers. He sounds three notes, oddly inflected, but loud and sharp. He drops the instrument again, and stands looking eastward into the woods. The eyes of all present are bent in the same direction. The hunters, influenced by a mysterious curiosity, remain silent, or speak only in low mutterings. Like an echo, the three notes are answered by a similar signal! It is evident that the Indian has a comrade in the woods, yet not one of the band seems to know aught of him or his comrade. Yes, one does. It is Rube. "Look'ee hyur, boyees!" cries he, squinting over his shoulders; "I'll stake this rib against a griskin o' poor bull that 'ee'll see the puttiest gal as 'ee ever set yur eyes on." There is no reply; we are gazing too intently for the expected arrival. A rustling is heard, as of someone parting the bushes, the tread of a light foot, the snapping of twigs. A bright object appears among the leaves. Someone is coming through the underwood. It is a woman. It is an Indian girl, attired in a singular and picturesque costume. She steps out of the bushes, and comes boldly towards the crowd. All eyes are turned upon her with looks of wonder and admiration. We scan her face and figure and her striking attire. She is dressed not unlike the Indian himself, and there is resemblance in other respects. The tunic worn by the girl is of finer materials; of fawn-skin. It is richly trimmed, and worked with split quills, stained to a variety of bright colours. It hangs to the middle of the thighs, ending in a fringe-work of shells, that tinkle as she moves. Her limbs are wrapped in leggings of scarlet cloth, fringed like the tunic, and reaching to the ankles where they meet the flaps of her moccasins. These last are white, embroidered with stained quills, and fitting closely to her small feet. A belt of wampum closes the tunic on her waist, exhibiting the globular developments of a full-grown bosom and the undulating outlines of a womanly person. Her headdress is similar to that worn by her companion, but smaller and lighter; and her hair, like his, hangs loosely down, reaching almost to the ground! Her neck, throat, and part of her bosom are nude, and clustered over with bead-strings of various colours. The expression of her countenance is high and noble. Her eye is oblique. The lips meet with a double curve, and the throat is full and rounded. Her complexion is Indian; but a crimson hue, struggling through the brown upon her cheek, gives that pictured expression to her countenance which may be observed in the quadroon of the West Indies. She is a girl, though full-grown and boldly developed: a type of health and savage beauty. As she approaches, the men murmur their admiration. There are hearts beating under hunting-shirts that rarely deign to dream of the charms of woman. I am struck at this moment with the appearance of the young trapper Garey. His face has fallen, the blood has forsaken his cheeks, his lips are white and compressed, and dark rings have formed round his eyes. They express anger, but there is still another meaning in them. Is it jealousy? Yes! He has stepped behind one of his comrades, as if he did not wish to be seen. One hand is playing involuntarily with the handle of his knife. The other grasps the barrel of his gun, as though he would crush it between his fingers! The girl comes up. The Indian hands her the gourd, muttering some words in an unknown tongue--unknown, at least, to me. She takes it without making any reply, and walks off towards the spot where Rube had stood, which has been pointed out to her by her companion. She reaches the tree, and halts in front of it, facing round as the trapper had done. There was something so dramatic, so theatrical, in the whole proceeding, that up to the present time we had all stood waiting for the _denouement_ in silence. Now we knew what it was to be, and the men began to talk. "He's a-goin' to shoot the gourd from the hand of the gal," suggested a hunter. "No great shot, after all," added another; and indeed this was the silent opinion of most on the ground. "Wagh! it don't beat Garey if he diz hit it," exclaimed a third. What was our amazement at seeing the girl fling off her plumed bonnet, place the gourd upon her head, fold her arms over her bosom, and standing fronting us as calm and immobile as if she had been carved upon the tree! There was a murmur in the crowd. The Indian was raising his rifle to take aim, when a man rushed forward to prevent him. It was Garey! "No, yer don't! No!" cried he, clutching the levelled rifle; "she's deceived me, that's plain, but I won't see the gal that once loved me, or said she did, in the trap that a-way. No! Bill Garey ain't a-goin' to stand by and see it." "What is this?" shouted the Indian, in a voice of thunder. "Who dares to interrupt me?" "I dares," replied Garey. "She's yourn now, I suppose. You may take her whar ye like; and take this too," continued he, tearing off the embroidered pipe-case, and flinging it at the Indian's feet; "but ye're not a-goin' to shoot her down whiles I stand by." "By what right do you interrupt me? My sister is not afraid, and--" "Your sister!" "Yes, my sister." "And is yon gal your sister?" eagerly inquired Garey, his manner and the expression of his countenance all at once changing. "She is. I have said she is." "And are you El Sol?" "I am." "I ask your pardon; but--" "I pardon you. Let me proceed!" "Oh, sir, do not. No! no! She is your sister, and I know you have the right, but thar's no needcessity. I have heerd of your shootin'. I give in; you kin beat me. For God's sake, do not risk it; as you care for her, do not!" "There is no risk. I will show you." "No, no! If you must, then, let me! I will hold it. Oh, let me!" stammered the hunter, in tones of entreaty. "Hollo, Billee! What's the dratted rumpus?" cried Rube, coming up. "Hang it, man! let's see the shot. I've heern o' it afore. Don't be skeert, ye fool! he'll do it like a breeze; he will!" And as the old trapper said this he caught his comrade by the arm, and swung him round out of the Indian's way. The girl, during all this, had stood still, seemingly not knowing the cause of the interruption. Garey's back was turned to her, and the distance, with two years of separation, doubtless prevented her from recognising him. Before Garey could turn to interpose himself, the rifle was at the Indian's shoulder and levelled. His finger was on the trigger, and his eyes glanced through the sights. It was too late to interfere. Any attempt at that might bring about the dreaded result. The hunter, as he turned, saw this, and halting in his tracks, stood straining and silent. It was a moment of terrible suspense to all of us--a moment of intense emotion. The silence was profound. Every breath seemed suspended; every eye was fixed on the yellow object, not larger, I have said, than an orange. Oh, God! will the shot never come? It came. The flash, the crack, the stream of fire, the wild hurrah, the forward rush, were all simultaneous things. We saw the shivered globe fly off. The girl was still upon her feet; she was safe! I ran with the rest. The smoke for a moment blinded me. I heard the shrill notes of the Indian whistle. I looked before me. The girl had disappeared. We ran to the spot where she had stood. We heard a rustling in the underwood, a departing footstep. We knew it was she; but guided by an instinct of delicacy, and a knowledge that it would be contrary to the wish of her brother, no one followed her. We found the fragments of the calabash strewed over the ground. We found the leaden mark upon them. The bullet itself was buried in the bark of the tree, and one of the hunters commenced digging it out with the point of his bowie. When we turned to go back we saw that the Indian had walked away, and now stood chatting easily and familiarly with Seguin. As we re-entered the camp-ground I observed Garey stoop and pick up a shining object. It was the _gage d'amour_, which he carefully readjusted around his neck in its wonted position. From his look and the manner in which he handled it, it was plain that he now regarded that souvenir with more reverence than ever. CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. A FEAT A LA TAIL. I had fallen into a sort of reverie. My mind was occupied with the incidents I had just witnessed, when a voice, which I recognised as that of old Rube, roused me from my abstraction. "Look'ee hyur, boyees! Tain't of'n as ole Rube wastes lead, but I'll beat that Injun's shot, or 'ee may cut my ears off." A loud laugh hailed this allusion of the trapper to his ears, which, as we have observed, were already gone; and so closely had they been trimmed that nothing remained for either knife or shears to accomplish. "How will you do it, Rube?" cried one of the hunters; "shoot the mark off a yer own head?" "I'll let 'ee see if 'ee wait," replied Rube, stalking up to a tree, and taking from its rest a long, heavy rifle, which he proceeded to wipe out with care. The attention of all was now turned to the manoeuvres of the old trapper. Conjecture was busy as to his designs. What feat could he perform that would eclipse the one just witnessed? No one could guess. "I'll beat it," continued he, muttering, as he loaded his piece, "or 'ee may chop the little finger off ole Rube's right paw." Another peal of laughter followed, as all perceived that this was the finger that was wanting. "'Ee--es," continued he, looking at the faces that were around him, "'ee may scalp me if I don't." This last remark elicited fresh roars of laughter; for although the cat-skin was closely drawn upon his head, all present knew that old Rube was minus his scalp. "But how are ye goin' to do it? Tell us that, old hoss!" "'Ee see this, do 'ee?" asked the trapper, holding out a small fruit of the cactus pitahaya, which he had just plucked and cleaned of its spikelets. "Ay, ay," cried several voices, in reply. "'Ee do, do 'ee? Wal; 'ee see 'tain't half as big as the Injun's squash. 'Ee see that, do 'ee?" "Oh, sartinly! Any fool can see that." "Wal; s'pose I plug it at sixty, plump centre?" "Wagh!" cried several, with shrugs of disappointment. "Stick it on a pole, and any o' us can do that," said the principal speaker. "Here's Barney could knock it off wid his owld musket. Couldn't you, Barney?" "In truth, an' I could thry," answered a very small man, leaning upon a musket, and who was dressed in a tattered uniform that had once been sky-blue. I had already noticed this individual with some curiosity, partly struck with his peculiar costume, but more particularly on account of the redness of his hair, which was the reddest I had ever seen. It bore the marks of a severe barrack discipline--that is, it had been shaved, and was now growing out of his little round head short and thick, and coarse in the grain, and of the colour of a scraped carrot. There was no possibility of mistaking Barney's nationality. In trapper phrase, any fool could have told that. What had brought such an individual to such a place? I asked this question, and was soon enlightened. He had been a soldier in a frontier post, one of Uncle Sam's "Sky-blues." He had got tired of pork and pipe-clay, accompanied with a too liberal allowance of the hide. In a word, Barney was a deserter. What his name was, I know not, but he went under the appellation of O'Cork--Barney O'Cork. A laugh greeted his answer to the hunter's question. "Any o' us," continued the speaker, "could plug the persimmon that a way. But thar's a mighty heap o' diff'rence when you squints thro' hind-sights at a girl like yon." "Ye're right, Dick," said another hunter; "it makes a fellow feel queery about the jeints." "Holy vistment! An' wasn't she a raal beauty?" exclaimed the little Irishman, with an earnestness in his manner that set the trappers roaring again. "Pish!" cried Rube, who had now finished loading, "yur a set o' channering fools; that's what 'ee ur. Who palavered about a post? I've got an ole squaw as well's the Injun. She'll hold the thing for this child--she will." "Squaw! You a squaw?" "Yes, hoss; I has a squaw I wudn't swop for two o' his'n. I'll make tracks an' fetch the old 'oman. Shet up yur heads, an' wait, will ye?" So saying, the smoky old sinner shouldered his rifle, and walked off into the woods. I, in common with others, late comers, who were strangers to Rube, began to think that he had an "old 'oman." There were no females to be seen about the encampment, but perhaps she was hid away in the woods. The trappers, however, who knew him, seemed to understand that the old fellow had some trick in his brain; and that, it appeared, was no new thing for him. We were not kept long in suspense. In a few minutes Rube was seen returning, and by his side the "old 'oman," in the shape of a long, lank, bare-ribbed, high-boned mustang, that turned out on close inspection to be a mare! This, then, was Rube's squaw, and she was not at all unlike him, excepting the ears. She was long-eared, in common with all her race: the same as that upon which Quixote charged the windmill. The long ears caused her to look mulish, but it was only in appearance; she was a pure mustang when you examined her attentively. She seemed to have been at an earlier period of that dun-yellowish colour known as "clay-bank," a common colour among Mexican horses; but time and scars had somewhat metamorphosed her, and grey hairs predominated all over, particularly about the head and neck. These parts were covered with a dirty grizzle of mixed hues. She was badly wind-broken; and at stated intervals of several minutes each, her back, from the spasmodic action of the lungs, heaved up with a jerk, as though she were trying to kick with her hind legs, and couldn't. She was as thin as a rail, and carried her head below the level of her shoulders; but there was something in the twinkle of her solitary eye (for she had but one), that told you she had no intention of giving up for a long time to come. She was evidently game to the backbone. Such was the "old 'oman" Rube had promised to fetch; and she was greeted by a loud laugh as he led her up. "Now, look'ee hyur, boyees," said he, halting in front of the crowd. "Ee may larf, an' gabble, an' grin till yur sick in the guts--yur may! but this child's a-gwine to take the shine out o' that Injun's shot--he is, or bust a-tryin'." Several of the bystanders remarked that that was likely enough, and that they only waited to see in what manner it was to be done. No one who knew him doubted old Rube to be, as in fact he was, one of the very best marksmen in the mountains--fully equal, perhaps, to the Indian; but it was the style and circumstances which had given such _eclat_ to the shot of the latter. It was not every day that a beautiful girl could be found to stand fire as the squaw had done; and it was not every hunter who would have ventured to fire at a mark so placed. The strength of the feat lay in its newness and peculiarity. The hunters had often fired at the mark held in one another's hands. There were few who would like to carry it on their head. How, then, was Rube to "take the shine out o' that Injun's shot"? This was the question that each was asking the other, and which was at length put directly to Rube himself. "Shet up your meat-traps," answered he, "an I'll show 'ee. In the fust place, then, 'ee all see that this hyur prickly ain't more'n hef size o' the squash?" "Yes, sartainly," answered several voices. "That wur one sukumstance in his favour. Wa'nt it?" "It wur! it wur!" "Wal, hyur's another. The Injun, 'ee see, shot his mark off o' the head. Now, this child's a-gwine to knock his'n off o' the tail. Kud yur Injun do that? Eh, boyees?" "No, no!" "Do that beat him, or do it not, then?" "It beats him!" "It does!" "Far better!" "Hooray!" vociferated several voices, amidst yells of laughter. No one dissented, as the hunters, pleased with the joke, were anxious to see it carried through. Rube did not detain them long. Leaving his rifle in the hands of his friend Garey, he led the old mare up towards the spot that had been occupied by the Indian girl. Reaching this, he halted. We all expected to see him turn the animal with her side towards us, thus leaving her body out of range. It soon became evident that this was not the old fellow's intention. It would have spoiled the look of the thing, had he done so; and that idea was no doubt running in his mind. Choosing a place where the ground chanced to be slightly hollowed out, he led the mustang forward, until her fore feet rested in the hollow. The tail was thus thrown above the body. Having squared her hips to the camp, he whispered something at her head; and going round to the hind quarters, adjusted the pear upon the highest curve of the stump. He then came walking back. Would the mare stand? No fear of that. She had been trained to stand in one place for a longer period than was now required of her. The appearance which the old mare exhibited, nothing visible but her hind legs and buttocks, for the mules had stripped her tail of the hair, had by this time wound the spectators up to the risible point, and most of them were yelling. "Stop yur giggle-goggle, wull yur!" said Rube, clutching his rifle, and taking his stand. The laughter was held in, no one wishing to disturb the shot. "Now, old Tar-guts, don't waste your fodder!" muttered the trapper, addressing his gun, which the next moment was raised and levelled. No one doubted but that Rube would hit the object at which he was aiming. It was a shot frequently made by western riflemen; that is, a mark of the same size at sixty yards. And no doubt Rube would have done it; but just at the moment of his pulling trigger the mare's back heaved up in one of its periodic jerks, and the pitahaya fell to the ground. But the ball had sped; and grazing the animal's shoulder, passed through one of her ears! The direction of the bullet was not known until afterwards, but its effect was visible at once; for the mare, stung in her tenderest part, uttered a sort of human-like scream, and wheeling about, came leaping into camp, kicking over everything that happened to lie in her way. The yells and loud laughing of the trappers, the odd ejaculations of the Indians, the "vayas" and "vivas" of the Mexicans, the wild oaths of old Rube himself, all formed a medley of sounds that fell strangely upon the ear, and to give an idea of which is beyond the art of my pen. CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. THE PROGRAMME. Shortly after, I was wandering out to the caballada to look after my horse, when the sound of a bugle fell upon my ear. It was the signal for the men to assemble, and I turned back towards the camp. As I re-entered it, Seguin was standing near his tent, with the bugle still in his hand. The hunters were gathering around him. They were soon all assembled, and stood in groups, waiting for the chief to speak. "Comrades!" said Seguin, "to-morrow we break up this camp for an expedition against the enemy. I have brought you together that you may know my plans and lend me your advice." A murmur of applause followed this announcement. The breaking up of a camp is always joyous news to men whose trade is war. It seemed to have a like effect upon this motley group of guerilleros. The chief continued-- "It is not likely that you will have much fighting. Our dangers will be those of the desert; but we will endeavour to provide against them in the best manner possible. "I have learned, from a reliable source, that our enemies are at this very time about starting upon a grand expedition to plunder the towns of Sonora and Chihuahua. "It is their intention, if not met by the Government troops, to extend their foray to Durango itself. Both tribes have combined in this movement; and it is believed that all the warriors will proceed southward, leaving their country unprotected behind them. "It is my intention then, as soon as I can ascertain that they have gone out, to enter their territory, and pierce to the main town of the Navajoes." "Bravo!" "Hooray!" "Bueno!" "Tres bien!" "Good as wheat!" and numerous other exclamations, hailed this declaration. "Some of you know my object in making this expedition. Others do not. I will declare it to you all. It is, then, to--" "Git a grist of scalps; what else?" cried a rough, brutal-looking fellow, interrupting the chief. "No, Kirker!" replied Seguin, bending his eye upon the man, with an expression of anger. "It is not that. We expect to meet only women. On his peril let no man touch a hair upon the head of an Indian woman. I shall pay for no scalps of women or children." "Where, then, will be your profits? We cannot bring them prisoners? We'll have enough to do to get back ourselves, I reckon, across them deserts." These questions seemed to express the feelings of others of the band, who muttered their assent. "You shall lose nothing. Whatever prisoners you take shall be counted on the ground, and every man shall be paid according to his number. When we return I will make that good." "Oh! that's fair enough, captain," cried several voices. "Let it be understood, then, no women nor children. The plunder you shall have, it is yours by our laws, but no blood that can be spared. There is enough on our hands already. Do you all bind yourselves to this?" "Yes, yes!" "Si!" "Oui, oui!" "Ya, ya!" "All!" "Todos, todos!" cried a multitude of voices, each man answering in his own language. "Let those who do not agree to it speak." A profound silence followed this proposal. All had bound themselves to the wishes of their leader. "I am glad that you are unanimous. I will now state my purpose fully. It is but just you should know it." "Ay, let us know that," muttered Kirker, "if tain't to raise har we're goin'." "We go, then, to seek for our friends and relatives, who for years have been captives to our savage enemy. There are many among us who have lost kindred, wives, sisters, and daughters." A murmur of assent, uttered chiefly by men in Mexican costume, testified to the truth of this statement. "I myself," continued Seguin, and his voice slightly trembled as he spoke, "am among that number. Years, long years ago, I was robbed of my child by the Navajoes. I have lately learned that she is still alive, and at their head town with many other white captives. We go, then, to release and restore them to their friends and homes." A shout of approbation broke from the crowd, mingled with exclamations of "Bravo!" "We'll fetch them back!" "Vive le capitaine!" "Viva el gefe!" When silence was restored, Seguin continued-- "You know our purpose. You have approved it. I will now make known to you the plan I had designed for accomplishing it, and listen to your advice." Here the chief paused a moment, while the men remained silent and waiting. "There are three passes," continued he at length, "by which we might enter the Indian country from this side. There is, first, the route of the Western Puerco. That would lead us direct to the Navajo towns." "And why not take that way?" asked one of the hunters, a Mexican. "I know the route well, as far as the Pecos towns." "Because we could not pass the Pecos towns without being seen by Navajo spies. There are always some of them there. Nay, more," continued Seguin, with a look that expressed a hidden meaning, "we could not get far up the Del Norte itself before the Navajoes would be warned of our approach. We have enemies nearer home." "Carrai! that is true," said a hunter, speaking in Spanish. "Should they get word of our coming, even though the warriors had gone southward, you can see that we would have a journey for nothing." "True, true!" shouted several voices. "For the same reason, we cannot take the pass of Polvidera. Besides, at this season, there is but little prospect of game on either of these routes. We are not prepared for an expedition with our present supply. We must pass through a game-country before we can enter on the desert." "That is true, captain; but there is as little game to be met if we go by the old mine. What other road, then, can we take?" "There is still another route better than all, I think. We will strike southward, and then west across the Llanos to the old mission. From thence we can go north into the Apache country." "Yes, yes; that is the best way, captain." "We will have a longer journey, but with advantages. We will find the wild cattle or the buffaloes upon the Llanos. Moreover, we will make sure of our time, as we can `cache' in the Pinon Hills that overlook the Apache war-trail, and see our enemies pass out. When they have gone south, we can cross the Gila, and keep up the Azul or Prieto. Having accomplished the object of our expedition, we may then return homeward by the nearest route." "Bravo!" "Viva!" "That's jest right, captain!" "That's clarly our best plan!" were a few among the many forms by which the hunters testified their approval of the programme. There was no dissenting voice. The word "Prieto" struck like music upon their ears. That was a magic word: the name of the far-famed river on whose waters the trapper legends had long placed the El Dorado, "the mountain of gold." Many a story of this celebrated region had been told at the hunters' camp-fire, all agreeing in one point: that there the gold lay in "lumps" upon the surface of the ground, and filled the rivers with its shining grains. Often had the trappers talked of an expedition to this unknown land; and small parties were said to have actually entered it, but none of these adventurers had ever been known to return. The hunters saw now, for the first time, the prospect of penetrating this region with safety, and their minds were filled with fancies wild and romantic. Not a few of them had joined Seguin's band in hopes that some day this very expedition might be undertaken, and the "golden mountain" reached. What, then, were their feelings when Seguin declared his purpose of travelling by the Prieto! At the mention of it a buzz of peculiar meaning ran through the crowd, and the men turned to each other with looks of satisfaction. "To-morrow, then, we shall march," added the chief. "Go now and make your preparations; we start by daybreak." As Seguin ceased speaking, the hunters departed, each to look after his "traps and possibles"; a duty soon performed, as these rude rangers were but little encumbered with camp equipage. I sat down upon a log, watching for some time the movements of my wild companions, and listening to their rude and Babel-like converse. At length arrived sunset, or night, for they are almost synonymous in these latitudes. Fresh logs were flung upon the fires, till they blazed up. The men sat around them, cooking, eating, smoking, talking loudly, and laughing at stories that illustrated their own wild habits. The red light fell upon fierce, dark faces, now fiercer and more swarthy under the glare of the burning cotton-wood. By its light the savage expression was strengthened on every countenance. Beards looked darker, and teeth gleamed whiter through them. Eyes appeared more sunken, and their glances more brilliant and fiend-like. Picturesque costumes met the eye: turbans, Spanish hats, plumes, and mottled garments; escopettes and rifles leaning against the trees; saddles, high-peaked, resting upon logs and stumps; bridles hanging from the branches overhead; strings of jerked meat drooping in festoons in front of the tents, and haunches of venison still smoking and dripping their half-coagulated drops! The vermilion smeared on the foreheads of the Indian warriors gleamed in the night light as though it were blood. It was a picture at once savage and warlike--warlike, but with an aspect of ferocity at which the sensitive heart drew back. It was a picture such as may be seen only in a bivouac of guerilleros, of brigands, of man-hunters. CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. EL SOL AND LA LUNA. "Come," said Seguin, touching me on the arm, "our supper is ready; I see the doctor beckoning us." I was not slow to answer the call, for the cool air of the evening had sharpened my appetite. We approached the tent, in front of which was a fire. Over this, the doctor, assisted by Gode and a pueblo peon, was just giving the finishing touch to a savoury supper. Part of it had already been carried inside the tent. We followed it, and took our seats upon saddles, blankets, and packs. "Why, doctor," said Seguin, "you have proved yourself a perfect _maitre de cuisine_ to-night. This is a supper for a Lucullus." "Ach! mein captain, ich have goet help; Meinherr Gode assist me most wonderful." "Well, Mr Haller and I will do full justice to your dishes. Let us to them at once!" "Oui, oui! bien, Monsieur Capitaine," said Gode, hurrying in with a multitude of viands. The "Canadien" was always in his element when there was plenty to cook and eat. We were soon engaged on fresh steaks (of wild cows), roasted ribs of venison, dried buffalo tongues, tortillas, and coffee. The coffee and tortillas were the labours of the pueblo, in the preparation of which viands he was Gode's master. But Gode had a choice dish, _un petit morceau_, in reserve, which he brought forth with a triumphant flourish. "Voici, messieurs?" cried he, setting it before us. "What is it, Gode?" "Une fricassee, monsieur." "Of what?" "Les frog; what de Yankee call boo-frog!" "A fricassee of bull-frogs!" "Oui, oui, mon maitre. Voulez vous?" "No, thank you!" "I will trouble you, Monsieur Gode," said Seguin. "Ich, ich, mein Gode; frocks ver goot;" and the doctor held out his platter to be helped. Gode, in wandering by the river, had encountered a pond of giant frogs, and the fricassee was the result. I had not then overcome my national antipathy to the victims of Saint Patrick's curse; and, to the voyageur's astonishment, I refused to share the dainty. During our supper conversation I gathered some facts of the doctor's history, which, with what I had already learned, rendered the old man an object of extreme interest to me. Up to this time, I had wondered what such a character could be doing in such company as that of the Scalp-hunters. I now learned a few details that explained all. His name was Reichter--Friedrich Reichter. He was a Strasburgher, and in the city of bells had been a medical practitioner of some repute. The love of science, but particularly of his favourite branch, botany, had lured him away from his Rhenish home. He had wandered to the United States, then to the Far West, to classify the flora of that remote region. He had spent several years in the great valley of the Mississippi; and, falling in with one of the Saint Louis caravans, had crossed the prairies to the oasis of New Mexico. In his scientific wanderings along the Del Norte he had met with the Scalp-hunters, and, attracted by the opportunity thus afforded him of penetrating into regions hitherto unexplored by the devotees of science, he had offered to accompany the band. This offer was gladly accepted on account of his services as their medico; and for two years he had been with them, sharing their hardships and dangers. Many a scene of peril had he passed through, many a privation had he undergone, prompted by a love of his favourite study, and perhaps, too, by the dreams of future triumph, when he would one day spread his strange flora before the _savants_ of Europe. Poor Reichter! Poor Friedrich Reichter! yours was the dream of a dream; it never became a reality! Our supper was at length finished, and washed down with a bottle of Paso wine. There was plenty of this, as well as Taos whisky in the encampment; and the roars of laughter that reached us from without proved that the hunters were imbibing freely of the latter. The doctor drew out his great meerschaum, Gode filled a red claystone, while Seguin and I lit our husk cigarettes. "But tell me," said I, addressing Seguin, "who is the Indian?--he who performed the wild feat of shooting the--" "Ah! El Sol; he is a Coco." "A Coco?" "Yes; of the Maricopa tribe." "But that makes me no wiser than before. I knew that much already." "You knew it? Who told you?" "I heard old Rube mention the fact to his comrade Garey." "Ay, true; he should know him." Seguin remained silent. "Well?" continued I, wishing to learn more. "Who are the Maricopas? I have never heard of them." "It is a tribe but little known, a nation of singular men. They are foes of the Apache and Navajo; their country lies down the Gila. They came originally from the Pacific, from the shores of the Californian Sea." "But this man is educated, or seems so. He speaks English and French as well as you or I. He appears to be talented, intelligent, polite--in short, a gentleman." "He is all you have said." "I cannot understand this." "I will explain to you, my friend. That man was educated at one of the most celebrated universities in Europe. He has travelled farther and through more countries, perhaps, than either of us." "But how did he accomplish all this? An Indian!" "By the aid of that which has often enabled very little men (though El Sol is not one of those) to achieve very great deeds, or at least to get the credit of having done so. By gold." "Gold! and where got he the gold? I have been told that there is very little of it in the hands of Indians. The white men have robbed them of all they once had." "That is in general a truth; and true of the Maricopas. There was a time when they possessed gold in large quantities, and pearls too, gathered from the depths of the Vermilion Sea. It is gone. The Jesuit padres could tell whither." "But this man? El Sol?" "He is a chief. He has not lost all his gold. He still holds enough to serve him, and it is not likely that the padres will coax it from him for either beads or vermilion. No; he has seen the world, and has learnt the all-pervading value of that shining metal." "But his sister?--is she, too, educated?" "No. Poor Luna is still a savage; but he instructs her in many things. He has been absent for several years. He has returned but lately to his tribe." "Their names are strange: `The Sun,' `The Moon'!" "They were given by the Spaniards of Sonora; but they are only translations or synonyms of their Indian appellations. That is common upon the frontier." "Why are they here?" I put this question with hesitation, as I knew there might be some peculiar history connected with the answer. "Partly," replied Seguin, "from gratitude, I believe, to myself. I rescued El Sol when a boy out of the hands of the Navajoes. Perhaps there is still another reason. But come," continued he, apparently wishing to give a turn to the conversation, "you shall know our Indian friends. You are to be companions for a time. He is a scholar, and will interest you. Take care of your heart with the gentle Luna. Vincente, go to the tent of the Coco chief. Ask him to come and drink a cup of Paso wine. Tell him to bring his sister with him." The servant hurried away through the camp. While he was gone, we conversed about the feat which the Coco had performed with his rifle. "I never knew him to fire," remarked Seguin, "without hitting his mark. There is something mysterious about that. His aim is unerring; and it seems to be on his part an act of pure volition. There may be some guiding principle in the mind, independent of either strength of nerve or sharpness of sight. He and another are the only persons I ever knew to possess this singular power." The last part of this speech was uttered in a half soliloquy; and Seguin, after delivering it, remained for some moments silent and abstracted. Before the conversation was resumed, El Sol and his sister entered the tent, and Seguin introduced us to each other. In a few moments we were engaged, El Sol, the doctor, Seguin, and myself, in an animated conversation. The subject was not horses, nor guns, nor scalps, nor war, nor blood, nor aught connected with the horrid calling of that camp. We were discussing a point in the pacific science of botany: the relationship of the different forms of the cactus family. I had studied the science, and I felt that my knowledge of it was inferior to that of any of my three companions. I was struck with it then, and more when I reflected on it afterwards; the fact of such a conversation, the time, the place, and the men who carried it on. For nearly two hours we sat smoking and talking on like subjects. While we were thus engaged I observed upon the canvas the shadow of a man. Looking forth, as my position enabled me without rising, I recognised in the light that streamed out of the tent a hunting-shirt, with a worked pipe-holder hanging over the breast. La Luna sat near her brother, sewing "parfleche" soles upon a pair of moccasins. I noticed that she had an abstracted air, and at short intervals glanced out from the opening of the tent. While we were engrossed with our discussion she rose silently, though not with any appearance of stealth, and went out. After a while she returned. I could read the love-light in her eye as she resumed her occupation. El Sol and his sister at length left us, and shortly after Seguin, the doctor, and I rolled ourselves in our serapes, and lay down to sleep. CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. THE WAR-TRAIL. The band was mounted by the earliest dawn, and as the notes of the bugle died away our horses plashed through the river, crossing to the other side. We soon debouched from the timber bottom, coming out upon sandy plains that stretched westward to the Mibres Mountains. We rode over these plains in a southerly direction, climbing long ridges of sand that traversed them from east to west. The drift lay in deep furrows, and our horses sank above the fetlocks as we journeyed. We were crossing the western section of the Jornada. We travelled in Indian file. Habit has formed this disposition among Indians and hunters on the march. The tangled paths of the forest, and the narrow defiles of the mountains admit of no other. Even when passing a plain, our cavalcade was strung out for a quarter of a mile. The atajo followed in charge of the arrieros. For the first day of our march we kept on without nooning. There was neither grass nor water on the route; and a halt under the hot sun would not have refreshed us. Early in the afternoon a dark line became visible, stretching across the plain. As we drew nearer, a green wall rose before us, and we distinguished the groves of cotton-wood. The hunters knew it to be the timber on the Paloma. We were soon passing under the shade of its quivering canopy, and reaching the banks of a clear stream, we halted for the night. Our camp was formed without either tents or lodges. Those used on the Del Norte had been left behind in "cache." An expedition like ours could not be cumbered with camp baggage. Each man's blanket was his house, his bed, and his cloak. Fires were kindled, and ribs roasted; and fatigued with our journey (the first day's ride has always this effect), we were soon wrapped in our blankets and sleeping soundly. We were summoned next morning by the call of the bugle sounding reveille. The band partook somewhat of a military organisation, and everyone understood the signals of light cavalry. Our breakfast was soon cooked and eaten; our horses were drawn from their pickets, saddled, and mounted; and at another signal we moved forward on the route. The incidents of our first journey were repeated, with but little variety, for several days in succession. We travelled through a desert country, here and there covered with wild sage and mezquite. We passed on our route clumps of cacti, and thickets of creosote bushes, that emitted their foul odours as we crushed through them. On the fourth evening we camped at a spring, the Ojo de Vaca, lying on the eastern borders of the Llanos. Over the western section of this great prairie passes the Apache war-trail, running southward into Sonora. Near the trail, and overlooking it, a high mountain rises out of the plain. It is the Pinon. It was our design to reach this mountain, and "cacher" among the rocks, near a well-known spring, until our enemies should pass; but to effect this we would have to cross the war-trail, and our own tracks would betray us. Here was a difficulty which had not occurred to Seguin. There was no other point except the Pinon from which we could certainly see the enemy on their route and be ourselves hidden. This mountain, then, must be reached; and how were we to effect it without crossing the trail? After our arrival at Ojo de Vaca, Seguin drew the men together to deliberate on this matter. "Let us spread," said a hunter, "and keep wide over the paraira, till we've got clar past the Apash trail. They won't notice a single track hyar and thyar, I reckin." "Ay, but they will, though," rejoined another. "Do ye think an Injun's a-goin' to pass a shod horse track 'ithout follerin' it up? No, siree!" "We kin muffle the hoofs, as far as that goes," suggested the first speaker. "Wagh! That ud only make it worse. I tried that dodge once afore, an' nearly lost my har for it. He's a blind Injun kin be fooled that away. 'Twon't do nohow." "They're not going to be so partickler when they're on the war-trail, I warrant ye. I don't see why it shouldn't do well enough." Most of the hunters agreed with the former speaker. The Indians would not fail to notice so many muffled tracks, and suspect there was something in the wind. The idea of "muffling" was therefore abandoned. What next? The trapper Rube, who up to this time had said nothing, now drew the attention of all by abruptly exclaiming, "Pish!" "Well! what have you to say, old hoss?" inquired one of the hunters. "Thet yur a set o' fools, one and all o' ee. I kud take the full o' that paraira o' hosses acrosst the 'Pash trail, 'ithout making a sign that any Injun's a-gwine to foller, particularly an Injun on the war-beat as them is now." "How?" asked Seguin. "I'll tell yur how, cap, ev yur'll tell me what 'ee wants to cross the trail for." "Why, to conceal ourselves in the Pinon range; what else?" "An' how are 'ee gwine to `cacher' in the Peenyun 'ithout water?" "There is a spring on the side of it, at the foot of the mountain." "That's true as Scripter. I knows that; but at that very spring the Injuns 'll cool their lappers as they go down south'ard. How are 'ee gwine to get at it with this cavayard 'ithout makin' sign? This child don't see that very clur." "You are right, Rube. We cannot touch the Pinon spring without leaving our marks too plainly; and it is the very place where the war-party may make a halt." "I sees no confoundered use in the hul on us crossin' the paraira now. We kan't hunt buffler till they've passed, anyways. So it's this child's idee that a dozen o' us 'll be enough to `cacher' in the Peenyun, and watch for the niggurs a-goin' south. A dozen mout do it safe enough, but not the hul cavayard." "And would you have the rest to remain here?" "Not hyur. Let 'em go north'ard from hyur, and then strike west through the Musquite Hills. Thur's a crick runs thur, about twenty mile or so this side the trail. They can git water and grass, and `cacher' thur till we sends for 'em." "But why not remain by this spring, where we have both in plenty?" "Cap'n, jest because some o' the Injun party may take a notion in thur heads to kum this way themselves. I reckin we had better make blind tracks before leavin' hyur." The force of Rube's reasoning was apparent to all, and to none more than Seguin himself. It was resolved to follow his advice at once. The vidette party was told off; and the rest of the band, with the atajo, after blinding the tracks around the spring, struck off in a north-westerly direction. They were to travel on to the Mezquite Hills, that lay some ten or twelve miles to the north-west of the spring. There they were to "cacher" by a stream well known to several of them, and wait until warned to join us. The vidette party, of whom I was one, moved westward across the prairie. Rube, Garey, El Sol, and his sister, with Sanchez, a _ci-devant_ bull-fighter, and half a dozen others, composed the party. Seguin himself was our head and guide. Before leaving the Ojo de Vaca we had stripped the shoes off the horses, filling the nail-holes with clay, so that their tracks would be taken for those of wild mustangs. Such were the precautions of men who knew that their lives might be the forfeit of a single footprint. As we approached the point where the war-trail intersected the prairie, we separated and deployed to distances of half a mile each. In this manner we rode forward to the Pinon mountain, where we came together again, and turned northward along the foot of the range. It was sundown when we reached the spring, having ridden all day across the plain. We descried it, as we approached, close in to the mountain foot, and marked by a grove of cotton-woods and willows. We did not take our horses near the water; but, having reached a defile in the mountain, we rode into it, and "cached" them in a thicket of nut-pine. In this thicket we spent the night. With the first light of morning we made a reconnaissance of our cache. In front of us was a low ridge covered with loose rocks and straggling trees of the nut-pine. This ridge separated the defile from the plain; and from its top, screened by a thicket of the pines, we commanded a view of the water as well as the trail, and the Llanos stretching away to the north, south, and east. It was just the sort of hiding-place we required for our object. In the morning it became necessary to descend for water. For this purpose we had provided ourselves with a mule-bucket and extra xuages. We visited the spring, and filled our vessels, taking care to leave no traces of out footsteps in the mud. We kept constant watch during the first day, but no Indians appeared. Deer and antelopes, with a small gang of buffaloes, came to the spring-branch to drink, and then roamed off again over the green meadows. It was a tempting sight, for we could easily have crept within shot, but we dared not touch them. We knew that the Indian dogs would scent their slaughter. In the evening we went again for water, making the journey twice, as our animals began to suffer from thirst. We adopted the same precautions as before. Next day we again watched the horizon to the north with eager eyes. Seguin had a small pocket-glass, and we could see the prairie with it for a distance of nearly thirty miles; but as yet no enemy could be descried. The third day passed with a like result; and we began to fear that the warriors had taken some other trail. Another circumstance rendered us uneasy. We had eaten nearly the whole of our provisions, and were now chewing the raw nuts of the pinon. We dared not kindle a fire to roast them. Indians can read the smoke at a great distance. The fourth day arrived and still no sign on the horizon to the north. Our tasajo was all eaten, and we began to hunger. The nuts did not satisfy us. The game was in plenty at the spring, and mottling the grassy plain. One proposed to lie among the willows and shoot an antelope or a black-tailed deer, of which there were troops in the neighbourhood. "We dare not," said Seguin; "their dogs would find the blood. It might betray us." "I can procure one without letting a drop," rejoined a Mexican hunter. "How?" inquired several in a breath. The man pointed to his lasso. "But your tracks; you would make deep footmarks in the struggle?" "We can blind them, captain," rejoined the man. "You may try, then," assented the chief. The Mexican unfastened the lasso from his saddle, and, taking a companion, proceeded to the spring. They crept in among the willows, and lay in wait. We watched them from the ridge. They had not remained more than a quarter of an hour when a herd of antelopes was seen approaching from the plain. These walked directly for the spring, one following the other in Indian file. They were soon close in to the willows where the hunters had concealed themselves. Here they suddenly halted, throwing up their heads and snuffing the air. They had scented danger, but it was too late for the foremost to turn and lope off. "Yonder goes the lasso!" cried one. We saw the noose flying in the air and settling over his head. The herd suddenly wheeled, but the loop was around the neck of their leader; and after three or four skips, he sprang up, and falling upon his back, lay motionless. The hunter came out from the willows, and, taking up the animal, now choked dead, carried him towards the entrance of the defile. His companion followed, blinding the tracks of both. In a few minutes they had reached us. The antelope was skinned, and eaten raw, in the blood! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Our horses grow thin with hunger and thirst. We fear to go too often to the water, though we become less cautious as the hours pass. Two more antelopes are lassoed by the expert hunter. The night of the fourth day is clear moonlight. The Indians often march by moonlight, particularly when on the war-trail. We keep our vidette stationed during the night as in the day. On this night we look out with more hopes than usual. It is such a lovely night! a full moon, clear and calm. We are not disappointed. Near midnight the vidette awakes us. There are dark forms on the sky away to the north. It may be buffaloes, but we see that they are approaching. We stand, one and all, straining our eyes through the white air, and away over the silvery sward. There are glancing objects: arms it must be. "Horses! horsemen! They are Indians!" "Oh, God! comrades, we are mad! Our horses: they may neigh!" We bound after our leader down the hill, over the rocks, and through the trees. We run for the thicket where our animals are tied. We may be too late, for horses can hear each other miles off; and the slightest concussion vibrates afar through the elastic atmosphere of these high plateaux. We reach the caballada. What is Seguin doing? He has torn the blanket from under his saddle, and is muffling the head of his horse! We follow his example, without exchanging a word, for we know this is the only plan to pursue. In a few minutes we feel secure again, and return to our watch-station on the height. We had shaved our time closely; for, on reaching the hill-top, we could hear the exclamations of Indians, the "thump, thump" of hoofs on the hard plain, and an occasional neigh, as their horses scented the water. The foremost were advancing to the spring; and we could see the long line of mounted men stretching in their deploying to the far horizon. Closer they came, and we could distinguish the pennons and glittering points of their spears. We could see their half-naked bodies gleaming in the clear moonlight. In a short time the foremost of them had ridden up to the bushes, halting as they came, and giving their animals to drink. Then one by one they wheeled out of the water, and trotting a short distance over the prairie, flung themselves to the ground, and commenced unharnessing their horses. It was evidently their intention to camp for the night. For nearly an hour they came filing forward, until two thousand warriors, with their horses, dotted the plain below us. We stood observing their movements. We had no fear of being seen ourselves. We were lying with our bodies behind the rocks, and our faces partially screened by the foliage of the pinon trees. We could see and hear with distinctness all that was passing, for the savages were not over three hundred yards from our position. They proceed to picket their horses in a wide circle, far out on the plain. There the grama grass is longer and more luxuriant than in the immediate neighbourhood of the spring. They strip the animals, and bring away their horse-furniture, consisting of hair bridles, buffalo robes, and skins of the grizzly bear. Few have saddles. Indians do not generally use them on a war expedition. Each man strikes his spear into the ground, and rests against it his shield, bow, and quiver. He places his robe or skin beside it. That is his tent and bed. The spears are soon aligned upon the prairie, forming a front of several hundred yards; and thus they have pitched their camp with a quickness and regularity far outstripping the Chasseurs of Vincennes. They are encamped in two parties. There are two bands, the Apache and Navajo. The latter is much the smaller, and rests farther off from our position. We hear them cutting and chopping with their tomahawks among the thickets at the foot of the mountain. We can see them carrying faggots out upon the plain, piling them together, and setting them on fire. Many fires are soon blazing brightly. The savages squat around them, cooking their suppers. We can see the paint glittering on their faces and naked breasts. They are of many hues. Some are red, as though they were smeared with blood. Some appear of a jetty blackness. Some black on one side of the face, and red or white on the other. Some are mottled like hounds, and some striped and chequered. Their cheeks and breasts are tattooed with the forms of animals: wolves, panthers, bears, buffaloes, and other hideous devices, plainly discernible under the blaze of the pine-wood fires. Some have a red hand painted on their bosoms, and not a few exhibit as their device the death's head and cross-bones! All these are their coats of arms, symbolical of the "medicine" of the wearer; adopted, no doubt, from like silly fancies to those which put the crest upon the carriage, on the lackey's button, or the brass seal stamp of the merchant's clerk. There is vanity in the wilderness. In savage as in civilised life there is a "snobdom." What do we see? Bright helmets, brazen and steel, with nodding plumes of the ostrich! These upon savages! Whence came these? From the cuirassiers of Chihuahua. Poor devils! They were roughly handled upon one occasion by these savage lancers. We see the red meat spluttering over the fires upon spits of willow rods. We see the Indians fling the pinon nuts into the cinders, and then draw them forth again, parched and smoking. We see them light their claystone pipes, and send forth clouds of blue vapour. We see them gesticulate as they relate their red adventures to one another. We hear them shout, and chatter, and laugh like mountebanks. How unlike the forest Indian! For two hours we watch their movements, and listen to their voices. Then the horse-guard is detailed, and marches off to the caballada; and the Indians, one after another, spread their skins, roll themselves in their blankets, and sleep. The fires cease to blaze; but by the moonlight we can distinguish the prostrate bodies of the savages. White objects are moving among them. They are dogs prowling after the _debris_ of their supper. These run from point to point, snarling at one another, and barking at the coyotes that sneak around the skirts of the camp. Out upon the prairie the horses are still awake and busy. We can hear them stamping their hoofs and cropping the rich pasture. Erect forms are seen standing at intervals along the line. These are the guards of the caballada. CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. THREE DAYS IN THE TRAP. Our attention was now turned to our own situation. Dangers and difficulties suddenly presented themselves to our minds. "What if they should stay here to hunt?" The thought seemed to occur to all of us at the same instant, and we faced each other with looks of apprehension and dismay. "It is not improbable," said Seguin, in a low and emphatic voice. "It is plain they have no supply of meat, and how are they to pass to the south without it? They must hunt here or elsewhere. Why not here?" "If so, we're in a nice trap!" interrupted a hunter, pointing first to the embouchure of the defile and then to the mountain. "How are we to get out? I'd like to know that." Our eyes followed the direction indicated by the speaker. In front of the ravine in which we were, extended the line of the Indian camp, not a hundred yards distant from the rocks that lay around its entrance. There was an Indian sentinel still nearer; but it would be impossible to pass out, even were he asleep, without encountering the dogs that prowled in numbers around the camp. Behind us, the mountain rose vertically like a wall. It was plainly impassable. We were fairly "in the trap." "Carrai!" exclaimed one of the men, "we will die of hunger and thirst if they stay to hunt!" "We may die sooner," rejoined another, "if they take a notion in their heads to wander up the gully." This was not improbable, though it was but little likely. The ravine was a sort of _cul de sac_, that entered the mountain in a slanting direction, and ended at the bottom of the cliff. There was no object to attract our enemies into it, unless indeed they might come up in search of pinon nuts. Some of their dogs, too, might wander up, hunting for food, or attracted by the scent of our horses. These were probabilities, and we trembled as each of them was suggested. "If they do not find us," said Seguin, encouragingly, "we may live for a day or two on the pinons. When these fail us, one of our horses must be killed. How much water have we?" "Thank our luck, captain, the gourds are nearly full." "But our poor animals must suffer." "There is no danger of thirst," said El Sol, looking downward, "while these last;" and he struck with his foot a large round mass that grew among the rocks. It was the spheroidal cactus. "See!" continued he, "there are hundreds of them!" All present knew the meaning of this, and regarded the cacti with a murmur of satisfaction. "Comrades!" said Seguin, "it is of no use to weary ourselves. Let those sleep who can. One can keep watch yonder while another stays up here. Go, Sanchez!" and the chief pointed down the ravine to a spot that commanded a view of its mouth. The sentinel walked off, and took his stand in silence. The rest of us descended, and after looking to the muffling of our horses, returned to the station of the vidette upon the hill. Here we rolled ourselves in our blankets, and, lying down among the rocks, slept out the night. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ We were awake before dawn, and peering through the leaves with feelings of keen solicitude. There is no movement in the Indian camp. It is a bad indication. Had they intended to travel on, they would have been stirring before this. They are always on the route before daybreak. These signs strengthen our feelings of apprehension. The grey light begins to spread over the prairie. There is a white band along the eastern sky. There are noises in the camp. There are voices. Dark forms move about among the upright spears. Tall savages stride over the plain. Their robes of skins are wrapped around their shoulders to protect them from the raw air of the morning. They carry faggots. They are rekindling the fires! Our men talk in whispers, as we lie straining our eyes to catch every movement. "It's plain they intend to make a stay of it." "Ay! we're in for it, that's sartin! Wagh! I wonder how long thar a-goin' to squat hyar, any how." "Three days at the least: may be four or five." "Great gollies! we'll be froze in half the time." "What would they be doin' here so long? I warrant ye they'll clar out as soon as they can." "So they will; but how can they in less time?" "They can get all the meat they want in a day. See! yonder's buffalo a plenty; look! away yonder!" and the speaker points to several black objects outlined against the brightening sky. It is a herd of buffaloes. "That's true enough. In half a day I warrant they kin get all the meat they want: but how are they a-goin' to jirk it in less than three? That's what I want to know." "Es verdad!" says one of the Mexicans, a cibolero; "tres dias, al menos!" (It is true--three days, at the least!) "Ay, hombre! an' with a smart chance o' sunshine at that, I guess." This conversation is carried on by two or three of the men in a low tone, but loud enough for the rest of us to overhear it. It reveals a new phase of our dilemma on which we have not before reflected. Should the Indians stay to "jerk" their meat, we will be in extreme danger from thirst, as well as of being discovered in our cache. We know that the process of jerking buffalo beef takes three days, and that with a hot sun, as the hunter has intimated. This, with the first day required for hunting, will keep us four days in the ravine! The prospect is appalling. We feel that death or the extreme torture of thirst is before us. We have no fear of hunger. Our horses are in the grove, and our knives in our belts. We can, live for weeks upon them; but will the cacti assuage the thirst of men and horses for a period of three or four days? This is a question no one can answer. It has often relieved the hunter for a short period, enabling him to crawl on to the water; but for days! The trial will soon commence. The day has fairly broken. The Indians spring to their feet. About one-half of them draw the pickets of their horses, and lead them to the water. They adjust their bridles, pluck up their spears, snatch their bows, shoulder their quivers, and leap on horseback. After a short consultation they gallop off to the eastward. In half an hour's time, we can see them running the buffalo far out upon the prairie: piercing them with their arrows, and impaling them on their long lances. Those who have remained behind lead their horses down to the spring-branch, and back again to the grass. Now they chop down young trees, and carry faggots to the fires. See! they are driving long stakes into the ground, and stretching ropes from one to the other. For what purpose? We know too well. "Ha! look yonder!" mutters one of the hunters, as this is first noticed; "yonder goes the jerking-line! Now we're caged in airnest, I reckin." "Por todos santos, es verdad!" "Carambo! carrajo! chingaro!" growls the cibolero, who well knows the meaning of those stakes and lines. We watch with a fearful interest the movements of the savages. We have now no longer any doubt of their intention to remain for several days. The stakes are soon erected, running for a hundred yards or more along the front of the encampment. The savages await the return of their hunters. Some mount and scour off toward the scene of the buffalo battue, still going on, far out upon the plain. We peer through the leaves with great caution, for the day is bright, and the eyes of our enemies are quick, and scan every object. We speak only in whispers, though our voices could not be heard if we conversed a little louder, but fear makes us fancy that they might. We are all concealed except our eyes. These glance through small loopholes in the foliage. The Indian hunters have been gone about two hours. We now see them returning over the prairie in straggling parties. They ride slowly back. Each brings his load before him on the withers of his horse. They have large masses of red flesh, freshly skinned and smoking. Some carry the sides and quarters; others the hump-ribs, the tongue, the heart, and liver--the _petits morceaux_--wrapped up in the skins of the slaughtered animals. They arrive in camp, and fling their loads to the ground. Now begins a scene of noise and confusion. The savages run to and fro, whooping, chattering, laughing, and dancing. They draw their long scalping-knives, and hew off broad steaks. They spit them over the blazing fires. They cut out the hump-ribs. They tear off the white fat, and stuff the boudins. They split the brown liver, eating it raw! They break the shanks with their tomahawks, and delve out the savoury marrow; and, through all these operations, they whoop, and chatter, and laugh, and dance over the ground like so many madmen. This scene lasts for more than an hour. Fresh parties of hunters mount and ride off. Those who remain cut the meat into long thin strips, and hang it over the lines already prepared for this purpose. It is thus left to be baked by the sun into "tasajo." We know part of what is before us. It is a fearful prospect; but men like those who compose the band of Seguin do not despond while the shadow of a hope remains. It is a barren spot indeed, where they cannot find resources. "We needn't holler till we're hurt," says one of the hunters. "If yer call an empty belly a hurt," rejoins another, "I've got it already. I kud jest eat a raw jackass 'ithout skinnin' him." "Come, fellers!" cries a third, "let's gramble for a meal o' these peenyuns." Following this suggestion, we commence searching for the nuts of the pine. We find to our dismay that there is but a limited supply of this precious food; not enough either on the trees or the ground to sustain us for two days. "By gosh!" exclaims one, "we'll have to draw for our critters." "Well, and if we have to--time enough yet a bit, I guess. We'll bite our claws a while first." The water is distributed in a small cup. There is still a little left in the xuages; but our poor horses suffer. "Let us look to them," says Seguin; and, drawing his knife, he commences skinning one of the cacti. We follow his example. We carefully pare off the volutes and spikelets. A cool, gummy liquid exudes from the opened vessels. We break the short stems, and lifting the green, globe-like masses, carry them to the thicket, and place them before our animals. These seize the succulent plants greedily, crunch them between their teeth, and swallow both sap and fibres. It is food and drink to them. Thank Heaven! we may yet save them! This act is repeated several times, until they have had enough. We keep two videttes constantly on the look-out--one upon the hill, the other commanding the mouth of the defile. The rest of us go through the ravine, along the sides of the ridge, in search of the cones of the pinon. Thus our first day is spent. The Indian hunters keep coming into their camp until a late hour, bringing with them their burdens of buffalo flesh. Fires blaze over the ground, and the savages sit around them, cooking and eating, nearly all the night. On the following day they do not rouse themselves until a late hour. It is a day of lassitude and idleness; for the meat is hanging over the strings, and they can only wait upon it. They lounge around the camp, mending their bridles and lassos, or looking to their weapons; they lead their horses to the water, and then picket them on fresh ground; they cut large pieces of meat, and broil them over the fires. Hundreds of them are at all times engaged in this last occupation. They seem to eat continually. Their dogs are busy, too, growling over the knife-stripped bones. They are not likely to leave their feast; they will not stray up the ravine while it lasts. In this thought we find consolation. The sun is hot all the second day, and scorches us in the dry defile. It adds to our thirst; but we do not regret, this so much, knowing it will hasten the departure of the savages. Towards evening, the tasajo begins to look brown and shrivelled. Another such day and it will be ready for packing. Our water is out, and we chew the succulent slices of the cactus. These relieve our thirst without quenching it. Our appetite of hunger is growing stronger. We have eaten all the pinons, and nothing remains but to slaughter one of our horses. "Let us hold out till to-morrow," suggests one. "Give the poor brutes a chance. Who knows but what they may flit in the morning?" This proposition is voted in the affirmative. No hunter cares to risk losing his horse, especially when out upon the prairies. Gnawed by hunger, we lie waiting for the third day. The morning breaks at last, and we crawl forward as usual, to watch the movements of the camp. The savages sleep late, as on yesterday; but they arouse themselves at length, and after watering their animals, commence cooking. We see the crimson streaks and the juicy ribs smoking over the fires, and the savoury odours are wafted to us on the breeze. Our appetites are whetted to a painful keenness. We can endure no longer. A horse must die! Whose? Mountain law will soon decide. Eleven white pebbles and a black one are thrown into the water-bucket, and one by one we are blinded and led forward. I tremble as I place my hand in the vessel. It is like throwing the die for my own life. "Thank Heaven! my Moro is safe!" One of the Mexicans has drawn the black. "Thar's luck in that!" exclaims a hunter. "Good fat mustang better than poor bull any day!" The devoted horse is in fact a well-conditioned animal; and placing our videttes again, we proceed to the thicket to slaughter him. We set about it with great caution. We tie him to a tree, and hopple his fore and hind feet, lest he may struggle. We propose bleeding him to death. The cibolero has unsheathed his long knife, while a man stands by, holding the bucket to catch the precious fluid: the blood. Some have cups in their hands, ready to drink it as it flows! We were startled by an unusual sound. We look through the leaves. A large grey animal is standing by the edge of the thicket, gazing in at us. It is wolfish-looking. Is it a wolf? No. It is an Indian dog! The knife is stayed; each man draws his own. We approach the animal, and endeavour to coax it nearer. But no; it suspects our intentions, utters a low growl, and runs away down the defile. We follow it with our eyes. The owner of the doomed horse is the vidette. The dog must pass him to get out, and he stands with his long lance ready to receive it. The animal sees himself intercepted, turns and runs back, and again turning, makes a desperate rush to pass the vidette. As he nears the latter, he utters a loud howl. The next moment he is impaled upon the lance! Several of us rush up the hill to ascertain if the howling has attracted the attention of the savages. There is no unusual movement among them; they have not heard it. The dog is divided and devoured before his quivering flesh has time to grow cold! The horse is reprieved. Again we feed our animals on the cooling cactus. This occupies us for some time. When we return to the hill a glad sight is before us. We see the warriors seated around their fires, renewing the paint upon their bodies. We know the meaning of this. The tasajo is nearly black. Thanks to the hot sun, it will soon be ready for packing! Some of the Indians are engaged in poisoning the points of their arrows. All these signs inspire us with fresh courage. They will soon march; if not to-night, by daybreak on the morrow. We lie congratulating ourselves, and watching every movement of their camp. Our hopes continue rising as the day falls. Ha! there is an unusual stir. Some order has been issued. "Voila!" "Mira! mira!" "See!" "Look, look!" are the half-whispered ejaculations that break from the hunters as this is observed. "By the livin' catamount, thar a-going to mizzle!" We see the savages pull down the tasajo and tie it in bunches. Then every man runs out for his horse; the pickets are drawn; the animals are led in and watered; they are bridled; the robes are thrown over them and girthed. The warriors pluck up their lances, sling their quivers, seize their shields and bows, and leap lightly upon horseback. The next moment they form with the rapidity of thought, and wheeling in their tracks, ride off in single file, heading to the southward. The larger band has passed. The smaller, the Navajoes, follow in the same trail. No! The latter has suddenly filed to the left, and is crossing the prairie towards the east, towards the spring of the Ojo de Vaca. CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. THE DIGGERS. Our first impulse was to rush down the ravine, satisfy our thirst at the spring, and our hunger on the half-polished bones that were strewed over the prairie. Prudence, however, restrained us. "Wait till they're clar gone," said Garey. "They'll be out o' sight in three skips o' a goat." "Yes! stay where we are a bit," added another; "some of them may ride back; something may be forgotten." This was not improbable; and in spite of the promptings of our appetites, we resolved to remain a while longer in the defile. We descended straightway into the thicket to make preparations for moving--to saddle our horses and take off their mufflings, which by this time had nearly blinded them. Poor brutes! they seemed to know that relief was at hand. While we were engaged in these operations, our vidette was kept at the top of the hill to watch both bands, and warn us when their heads should sink to the prairie level. "I wonder why the Navajoes have gone by the Ojo de Vaca," remarked our chief, with an apparent anxiety in his manner. "It is well our comrades did not remain there." "They'll be tired o' waitin' on us, whar they are," rejoined Garey, "unless blacktails is plentier among them Musquites than I think for." "Vaya!" exclaimed Sanchez; "they may thank the Santisima they were not in our company! I'm spent to a skeleton. Mira! carrai!" Our horses were at length bridled and saddled, and our lassoes coiled up. Still the vidette had not warned us. We grew every moment more impatient. "Come!" cried one; "hang it! they're far enough now. They're not a-goin' to be gapin' back all the way. They're looking ahead, I'm bound. Golly! thar's fine shines afore them." We could resist no longer. We called out to the vidette. He could just see the heads of the hindmost. "That will do," cried Seguin; "come, take your horses!" The men obeyed with alacrity, and we all moved down the ravine, leading our animals. We pressed forward to the opening. A young man, the pueblo servant of Seguin, was ahead of the rest. He was impatient to reach the water. He had gained the mouth of the defile, when we saw him fall back with frightening looks, dragging at his horse and exclaiming-- "Mi amo! mi amo! to davia son!" (Master, master! they are here yet!) "Who?" inquired Seguin, running forward in haste. "The Indians, master; the Indians!" "You are mad! Where did you see them?" "In the camp, master. Look yonder!" I pressed forward with Seguin to the rocks that lay along the entrance of the defile. We looked cautiously over. A singular sight met our eyes. The camp-ground was lying as the Indians had left it. The stakes were still standing; the shaggy hides of the buffaloes, and pile of their bones, were strewn upon the plain; hundreds of coyotes were loping back and forward, snarling at one another, or pursuing one of their number which had picked up a nicer morsel than his companions. The fires were still smouldering, and the wolves galloped through the ashes, raising them in yellow clouds. But there was a sight stranger than all this, a startling sight to me. Five or six forms, almost human, were moving about among the fires, collecting the debris of skins and bones, and quarrelling with the wolves that barked round them in troops. Five or six others, similar forms were seated around a pile of burning wood, silently gnawing at half roasted ribs. Can they be--yes, they are human beings! I was for a moment awe-struck as I gazed at the shrivelled and dwarfish bodies, the long, ape-like arms, and huge disproportioned heads, from which fell their hair in snaky tangles, black and matted. But one or two appeared to have any article of dress, and that was a ragged breech-clout. The others were naked as the wild beasts around them, naked from head to foot! It was a horrid sight to look upon these fiend-like dwarfs squatted around the fires, holding up half-naked bones in their long, wrinkled arms, and tearing off the flesh with their glistening teeth. It was a horrid sight, indeed; and it was some moments before I could recover sufficiently from my amazement to inquire who or what they were. I did so at length. "Los Yamparicos," answered the cibolero. "Who?" I asked again. "Los Indios Yamparicos, senor." "The Diggers, the Diggers," said a hunter, thinking that would better explain the strange apparitions. "Yes, they are Digger Indians," added Seguin. "Come on; we have nothing to fear from them." "But we have somethin' to git from them," rejoined one of the hunters, with a significant look. "Digger plew good as any other; worth jest as much as 'Pash chief." "No one must fire," said Seguin, in a firm tone. "It is too soon yet; look yonder!" and he pointed over the plain, where two or three glancing objects, the helmets of the retreating warriors, could still be seen above the grass. "How are we goin' to get them, then, captain?" inquired the hunter. "They'll beat us to the rocks; they kin run like scared dogs." "Better let them go, poor devils!" said Seguin, seemingly unwilling that blood should be spilled so wantonly. "No, captain," rejoined the same speaker, "we won't fire, but we'll git them, if we kin, 'ithout it. Boys, follow me down this way." And the man was about guiding his horse in among the loose rocks, so as to pass unperceived between the dwarfs and the mountain. But the brutal fellow was frustrated in his design; for at that moment El Sol and his sister appeared in the opening, and their brilliant habiliments caught the eyes of the Diggers. Like startled deer they sprang to their feet, and ran, or rather flew, toward the foot of the mountain. The hunters galloped to intercept them, but they were too late. Before they could come up, the Diggers had dived into the crevices of the rocks, or were seen climbing like chamois along the cliffs, far out of reach. One of the hunters only--Sanchez--succeeded in making a capture. His victim had reached a high ledge, and was scrambling along it, when the lasso of the bull-fighter settled round his neck. The next moment he was plucked out into the air, and fell with a "cranch" upon the rocks! I rode forward to look at him. He was dead. He had been crushed by the fall; in fact, mangled to a shapeless mass, and exhibited a most loathsome and hideous sight. The unfeeling hunter recked not of this. With a coarse jest he stooped over the body; and severing the scalp, stuck it, reeking and bloody, behind the waist of his calzoneros! CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT. DACOMA. We all now hurried forward to the spring, and, dismounting, turned our horses' heads to the water, leaving them to drink at will. We had no fear of their running away. Our own thirst required slaking as much as theirs; and, crowding into the branch, we poured the cold water down our throats in cupfuls. We felt as though we should never be surfeited; but another appetite, equally strong, lured us away from the spring; and we ran over the camp-ground in search of the means to gratify it. We scattered the coyotes and white wolves with our shouts, and drove them with missiles from the ground. We were about stooping to pick up the dust-covered morsels, when a strange exclamation from one of the hunters caused us to look hastily round. "Malaray, camarados; mira el arco!" The Mexican who uttered these words stood pointing to an object that lay upon the ground at his feet. We ran up to ascertain what it was. "Caspita!" again ejaculated the man. "It is a white bow!" "A white bow, by gosh!" echoed Garey. "A white bow!" shouted several others, eyeing the object with looks of astonishment and alarm. "That belonged to a big warrior, I'll sartify," said Garey. "Ay," added another, "an' one that'll ride back for it as soon as-- holies! look yonder! he's coming by--!" Our eyes rolled over the prairie together, eastward, as the speaker pointed. An object was just visible low down on the horizon, like a moving blazing star. It was not that. At a glance we all knew what it was. It was a helmet, flashing under the sunbeam, as it rose and fell to the measured gallop of a horse. "To the willows, men! to the willows!" shouted Seguin. "Drop the bow! Leave it where it was. To your horses! Lead them! Crouch! crouch!" We all ran to our horses, and, seizing the bridles, half-led, half-dragged them within the willow thicket. We leaped into our saddles, so as to be ready for any emergency, and sat peering through the leaves that screened us. "Shall we fire as he comes up, captain?" asked one of the men. "No." "We kin take him nicely, just as he stoops for the bow." "No; not for your lives!" "What then, captain?" "Let him take it, and go," was Seguin's reply. "Why, captain? what's that for?" "Fools! do you not see that the whole tribe would be back upon our trail before midnight? Are you mad? Let him go. He may not notice our tracks, as our horses are not shod. If so, let him go as he came, I tell you." "But how, captain, if he squints yonder-away?" Garey, as he said this, pointed to the rocks at the foot of the mountain. "Sac-r-r-re! the Digger!" exclaimed Seguin, his countenance changing expression. The body lay on a conspicuous point, on its face, the crimson skull turned upward and outward, so that it could hardly fail to attract the eye of anyone coming in from the plain. Several coyotes had already climbed up on the slab where it lay, and were smelling around it, seemingly not caring to touch the hideous morsel. "He's bound to see it, captain," added the hunter. "If so, we must take him with the lance, the lasso, or alive. No gun must be fired. They might still hear it, and would be on us before we could get round the mountain. No! sling your guns! Let those who have lances and lassoes get them in readiness." "When would you have us make the dash, captain?" "Leave that to me. Perhaps he may dismount for the bow; or, if not, he may ride into the spring to water his horse, then we can surround him. If he see the Digger's body, he may pass up to examine it more closely. In that case we can intercept him without difficulty. Be patient! I shall give you the signal." During all this time, the Navajo was coming up at a regular gallop. As the dialogue ended, he had got within about three hundred yards of the spring, and still pressed forward without slackening his pace. We kept our gaze fixed upon him in breathless silence, eyeing both man and horse. It was a splendid sight. The horse was a large, coal-black mustang, with fiery eyes and red, open nostrils. He was foaming at the mouth, and the white flakes had clouted his throat, counter, and shoulders. He was wet all over, and glittered as he moved with the play of his proud flanks. The rider was naked from the waist up, excepting his helmet and plumes, and some ornaments that glistened on his neck, bosom and wrists. A tunic-like skirt, bright and embroidered, covered his hips and thighs. Below the knee his legs were naked, ending in a buskined moccasin, that fitted tightly round the ankle. Unlike the Apaches, there was no paint upon his body, and his bronze complexion shone with the hue of health. His features were noble and warlike, his eye bold and piercing, and his long black hair swept away behind him, mingling with the tail of his horse. He rode upon a Spanish saddle with his lance poised on the stirrup, and resting lightly against his right arm. His left was thrust through the strap of a white shield, and a quiver with its feathered shafts peeped over his shoulder. His bow was before him. It was a splendid sight, both horse and rider, as they rose together over the green swells of the prairie; a picture more like that of some Homeric hero than a savage of the wild west. "Wagh!" exclaimed one of the hunters in an undertone; "how they glitter! Look at that 'ar headpiece! It's fairly a-blazin'!" "Ay," rejoined Garey, "we may thank the piece o' brass. We'd have been in as ugly a fix as he's in now if we hadn't sighted it in time. What!" continued the trapper, his voice rising into earnestness; "Dacoma, by the Etarnal! The second chief of the Navajoes!" I turned toward Seguin to witness the effect of this announcement. The Maricopa was leaning over to him, muttering some words in an unknown tongue, and gesticulating with energy. I recognised the name "Dacoma," and there was an expression of fierce hatred in the chief's countenance as he pointed to the advancing horseman. "Well, then," answered Seguin, apparently assenting to the wishes of the other, "he shall not escape, whether he sees it or no. But do not use your gun; they are not ten miles off, yonder behind the swell. We can easily surround him. If not, I can overtake him on this horse, and here's another." As Seguin uttered the last speech he pointed to Moro. "Silence!" he continued, lowering his voice. "Hish-sh!" The silence became death-like. Each man sat pressing his horse with his knees, as if thus to hold him at rest. The Navajo had now reached the border of the deserted camp; and inclining to the left, he galloped down the line, scattering the wolves as he went. He sat leaning to one side, his gaze searching the ground. When nearly opposite to our ambush, he descried the object of his search, and sliding his feet out of the stirrup, guided his horse so as to shave closely past it. Then, without reining in, or even slacking his pace, he bent over until his plume swept the earth, and picking up the bow, swung himself back into the saddle. "Beautiful!" exclaimed the bull-fighter. "By gosh! it's a pity to kill him," muttered a hunter; and a low murmur of admiration was heard among the men. After a few more springs, the Indian suddenly wheeled, and was about to gallop back, when his eye was caught by the ensanguined object upon the rock. He reined in with a jerk, until the hips of his horse almost rested upon the prairie, and sat gazing upon the body with a look of surprise. "Beautiful!" again exclaimed Sanchez; "carambo, beautiful!" It was, in effect, as fine a picture as ever the eye looked upon. The horse with his tail scattered upon the ground, with crest erect and breathing nostril, quivering under the impulse of his masterly rider; the rider himself, with his glancing helmet and waving plumes, his bronze complexion, his firm and graceful seat, and his eye fixed in the gaze of wonder. It was, as Sanchez had said, a beautiful picture--a living statue; and all of us were filled with admiration as we looked upon it. Not one of the party, with perhaps an exception, should have liked to fire the shot that would have tumbled it from its pedestal. Horse and man remained in this attitude for some moments. Then the expression of the rider's countenance suddenly changed. His eye wandered with an inquiring and somewhat terrified look. It rested upon the water, still muddy with the trampling of our horses. One glance was sufficient; and, with a quick, strong jerk upon the bridle, the savage horseman wheeled, and struck out for the prairie. Our charging signal had been given at the same instant; and springing forward, we shot out of the copse-wood in a body. We had to cross the rivulet. Seguin was some paces in advance as we rode forward to it. I saw his horse suddenly baulk, stumble over the bank, and roll headlong into the water! The rest of us went splashing through. I did not stop to look back. I knew that now the taking of the Indian was life or death to all of us; and I struck my spur deeply, and strained forward in the pursuit. For some time we all rode together in a dense clump. When fairly out on the plain, we saw the Indian ahead of us about a dozen lengths of his horse, and one and all felt with dismay that he was keeping his distance, if not actually increasing it. We had forgotten the condition of our animals. They were faint with hunger, and stiff from standing so long in the ravine. Moreover, they had just drunk to a surfeit. I soon found that I was forging ahead of my companions. The superior swiftness of Moro gave me the advantage. El Sol was still before me. I saw him circling his lasso; I saw him launch it, and suddenly jerk up; I saw the loop sliding over the hips of the flying mustang. He had missed his aim. He was recoiling the rope as I shot past him, and I noticed his look of chagrin and disappointment. My Arab had now warmed to the chase, and I was soon far ahead of my comrades. I perceived, too, that I was closing upon the Navajo. Every spring brought me nearer, until there were not a dozen lengths between us. I knew not how to act. I held my rifle in my hands, and could have shot the Indian in the back; but I remembered the injunction of Seguin, and we were now closer to the enemy than ever. I did not know but that we might be in sight of them. I dared not fire. I was still undecided whether to use my knife or endeavour to unhorse the Indian with my clubbed rifle, when he glanced over his shoulder and saw that I was alone. Suddenly he wheeled, and throwing his lance to a charge, came galloping back. His horse seemed to work without the rein, obedient to his voice and the touch of his knees. I had just time to throw up my rifle and parry the charge, which was a right point. I did not parry it successfully. The blade grazed my arm, tearing my flesh. The barrel of my rifle caught in the sling of the lance, and the piece was whipped out of my hands. The wound, the shock, and the loss of my weapon, had discomposed me in the manage of my horse, and it was some time before I could gain the bridle to turn him. My antagonist had wheeled sooner, as I knew by the "hist" of an arrow that scattered the curls over my right ear. As I faced him again, another was on the string, and the next moment it was sticking through my left arm. I was now angry; and, drawing a pistol from the holster, I cocked it, and galloped forward. I knew it was the only chance for my life. The Indian, at the same time, dropped his bow, and, bringing his lance to the charge, spurred on to meet me. I was determined not to fire until near and sure of hitting. We closed at full gallop. Our horses almost touched. I levelled and pulled trigger. The cap snapped upon my pistol! The lance-blade glittered in my eyes; its point was at my breast. Something struck me sharply in the face. It was the ring-loop of a lasso. I saw it settle over the shoulders of the Indian, falling to his elbows. It tightened as it fell. There was a wild yell, a quick jerk of my antagonist's body, the lance flew from his hands, and the next moment he was plucked out of his saddle, and lying helpless upon the prairie. His horse met mine with a concussion that sent both of them to the earth. We rolled and scrambled about, and rose again. When I came to my feet, El Sol was standing over the Navajo, with his knife drawn, and his lasso looped around the arms of his captive. "The horse! the horse! secure the horse!" shouted Seguin, as he galloped up; and the crowd dashed past me in pursuit of the mustang, which, with trailing bridle, was scouring over the prairie. In a few minutes the animal was lassoed, and led back to the spot so near being made sacred with my grave. CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. A DINNER WITH TWO DISHES. El Sol, I have said, was standing over the prostrate Indian. His countenance indicated the blending of two emotions, hate and triumph. His sister at this moment galloped up, and, leaping from her horse, advanced rapidly forward. "Behold!" said he, pointing to the Navajo chief; "behold the murderer of our mother!" The girl uttered a short, sharp exclamation; and, drawing a knife, rushed upon the captive. "No, Luna!" cried El Sol, putting her aside; "no; we are not assassins. That is not revenge. He shall not yet die. We will show him alive to the squaws of the Maricopa. They shall dance the mamanchic over this great chief--this warrior captured without a wound!" El Sol uttered these words in a contemptuous tone. The effect was visible on the Navajo. "Dog of a Coco!" cried he, making an involuntary struggle to free himself; "dog of a Coco! leagued with the pale robbers. Dog!" "Ha! you remember me, Dacoma? It is well--" "Dog!" again ejaculated the Navajo, interrupting him; and the words hissed through his teeth, while his eyes glared with an expression of the fiercest malignity. "He! he!" cried Rube, at this moment galloping up; "he! he! that Injun's as savagerous as a meat axe. Lamm him! Warm his collops wi' the bull rope; he's warmed my old mar. Nick syrup him!" "Let us look to your wound, Monsieur Haller," said Seguin, alighting from his horse, and approaching me, as I thought, with an uneasiness of manner. "How is it? through the flesh? You are safe enough; if, indeed, the arrow has not been poisoned. I tear--El Sol! here! quick, my friend! tell me if this point has been dipped." "Let us first take it out," replied the Maricopa, coming up; "we shall lose no time by that." The arrow was sticking through my forearm. The barb had pierced through the flesh, until about half of the shaft appeared on the opposite side. El Sol caught the feather end in both his hands, and snapped it at the lapping. He then took hold of the barb and drew it gently out of the wound. "Let it bleed," said he, "till I have examined the point. It does not look like a war-shaft; but the Navajoes use a very subtle poison. Fortunately I possess the means of detecting it, as well as its antidote." As he said this, he took from his pouch a tuft of raw cotton. With this he rubbed the blood lightly from the blade. He then drew forth a small stone phial, and, pouring a few drops of liquid upon the metal, watched the result. I waited with no slight feeling of uneasiness. Seguin, too, appeared anxious; and as I knew that he must have oftentimes witnessed the effect of a poisoned arrow, I did not feel very comfortable, seeing him watch the assaying process with so much apparent anxiety. I knew there was danger where he dreaded it. "Monsieur Haller," said El Sol, at length, "you are in luck this time. I think I may call it luck, for your antagonist has surely some in his quiver not quite so harmless as this one. "Let me see," he added; and, stepping up to the Navajo, he drew another arrow from the quiver that still remained slung upon the Indian's back. After subjecting the blade to a similar test, he exclaimed-- "I told you so. Look at this, green as a plantain! He fired two: where is the other? Comrades, help me to find it. Such a tell-tale as that must not be left behind us." Several of the men leaped from their horses, and searched for the shaft that had been shot first. I pointed out the direction and probable distance as near as I could, and in a few moments it was picked up. El Sol took it, and poured a few drops of his liquid on the blade. It turned green like the other. "You may thank your saints, Monsieur Haller," said the Coco, "it was not this one made that hole in your arm, else it would have taken all the skill of Doctor Reichter and myself to have saved you. But what's this? Another wound! Ha! He touched you as he made his right point. Let me look at it." "I think it is only a scratch." "This is a strange climate, Monsieur Haller. I have seen scratches become mortal wounds when not sufficiently valued. Luna! Some cotton, sis! I shall endeavour to dress yours so that you need not fear that result. You deserve that much at my hands. But for you, sir, he would have escaped me." "But for you, sir, he would have killed me." "Well," replied the Coco, with a smile, "it is possible you would not have come off so well. Your weapon played you false. It is hardly just to expect a man to parry a lance-point with a clubbed rifle, though it was beautifully done. I do not wonder that you pulled trigger in the second joust. I intended doing so myself, had the lasso failed me again. But we are in luck both ways. You must sling this arm for a day or two. Luna! that scarf of yours." "No!" said I, as the girl proceeded to unfasten a beautiful scarf which she wore around her waist; "you shall not: I will find something else." "Here, mister; if this will do," interposed the young trapper Garey, "you are heartily welcome to it." As Garey said this, he pulled a coloured handkerchief out of the breast of his hunting-shirt, and held it forth. "You are very kind; thank you!" I replied, although I knew on whose account the kerchief was given; "you will be pleased to accept this in return." And I offered him one of my small revolvers--a weapon that, at that time and in that place, was worth its weight in pearls. The mountain man knew this, and very gratefully accepted the proffered gift; but much as he might have prized it, I saw that he was still more gratified with a simple smile that he received from another quarter, and I felt certain that the scarf would soon change owners, at any rate. I watched the countenance of El Sol to see if he had noticed or approved of this little by-play. I could perceive no unusual emotion upon it. He was busy with my wounds, which he dressed in a manner that would have done credit to a member of the R.C.S. "Now," said he, when he had finished, "you will be ready for as much more fighting in a couple of days at the furthest. You have a bad bridle-arm, Monsieur Haller, but the best horse I ever saw. I do not wonder at your refusing to sell him." Most of the conversation had been carried on in English; and it was spoken by the Coco chief with an accent and emphasis, to my ear, as good as I had ever heard. He spoke French, too, like a Parisian; and it was in this language that he usually conversed with Seguin. I wondered at all this. The men had remounted, with the intention of returning to the camp. Extreme hunger was now prompting us, and we commenced riding back to partake of the repast so unceremoniously interrupted. At a short distance from the camp we dismounted, and, picketing our horses upon the grass, walked forward to search for the stray steaks and ribs we had lately seen in plenty. A new chagrin awaited us; not a morsel of flesh remained! The coyotes had taken advantage of our absence, and we could see nothing around us but naked bones. The thighs and ribs of the buffaloes had been polished as if scraped with a knife. Even the hideous carcass of the Digger had become a shining skeleton! "Wagh!" exclaimed one of the hunters; "wolf now or nothing: hyar goes!" and the man levelled his rifle. "Hold!" exclaimed Seguin, seeing the act. "Are you mad, sir?" "I reckon not, capt'n," replied the hunter, doggedly bringing down his piece. "We must eat, I s'pose. I see nothin' but them about; an' how are we goin' to get them 'ithout shootin'?" Seguin made no reply, except by pointing to the bow which El Sol was making ready. "Eh-ho!" added the hunter; "yer right, capt'n. I asks pardon. I had forgot that piece o' bone." The Coco took an arrow from the quiver, and tried the head with the assaying liquid. It proved to be a hunting-shaft; and, adjusting it to the string, he sent it through the body of a white wolf, killing it instantly. He took up the shaft again, and wiping the feather, shot another, and another, until the bodies of five or six of these animals lay stretched upon the ground. "Kill a coyote when ye're about it," shouted one of the hunters; "gentlemen like we oughter have leastwise two courses to our dinner." The men laughed at this rough sally; and El Sol, smiling, again picked up the arrow, and sent it whizzing through the body of one of the coyotes. "I think that will be enough for one meal, at all events," said El Sol, recovering the arrow, and putting it back into the quiver. "Ay!" replied the wit; "if we wants more we kin go back to the larder agin. It's a kind o' meat that eats better fresh, anyhow." "Well, it diz, hoss. Wagh! I'm in for a griskin o' the white. Hyar goes!" The hunters, laughing at the humour of their comrades, drew their shining knives, and set about skinning the wolves. The adroitness with which this operation was performed showed that it was by no means new to them. In a short time the animals were stripped of their hides and quarters; and each man, taking his quarter, commenced roasting it over the fire. "Fellers! what d'ye call this anyhow? Beef or mutton?" asked one, as they began to eat. "Wolf-mutton, I reckin," was the reply. "It's dog-gone good eatin', I say; peels off as tender as squ'll." "It's some'ut like goat, ain't it?" "Mine tastes more like dog to me." "It ain't bad at all; better than poor bull any day." "I'd like it a heap better if I war sure the thing hadn't been up to yon varmint on the rocks." And the man who said this pointed to the skeleton of the Digger. The idea was horrible, and under other circumstances would have acted as a sufficient emetic. "Wagh!" exclaimed a hunter; "ye've most taken away my stammuck. I was a-goin' to try the coyoat afore ye spoke. I won't now, for I seed them smellin' about him afore we rid off." "I say, old case, you don't mind it, do ye?" This was addressed to Rube, who was busy on his rib and made no reply. "He? not he," said another, answering for him. "Rube's ate a heap o' queery tit-bits in his time. Hain't ye, Rube?" "Ay, an' afore yur be as long in the mountains as this child, 'ee'll be glad to get yur teeth over wuss chawin's than wolf-meat; see if 'ee don't, young fellur." "Man-meat, I reckin?" "Ay, that's what Rube means." "Boyees!" said Rube, not heeding the remark, and apparently in good humour, now that he was satisfying his appetite, "what's the nassiest thing, leavin' out man-meat, any o' 'ees iver chawed?" "Woman-meat, I reckin." "'Ee chuckle-headed fool! yur needn't be so peert now, showin' yur smartness when 'tain't called for nohow." "Wal, leaving out man-meat, as you say," remarked one of the hunters, in answer to Rube's question, "a muss-rat's the meanest thing I ever set teeth on." "I've chawed sage-hare--raw at that," said a second, "an' I don't want to eat anything that's bitterer." "Owl's no great eatin'," added a third. "I've ate skunk," continued a fourth; "an' I've ate sweeter meat in my time." "Carrajo!" exclaimed a Mexican, "what do you think of monkey? I have dined upon that down south many's the time." "Wal, I guess monkey's but tough chawin's; but I've sharpened my teeth on dry buffler hide, and it wa'n't as tender as it mout 'a been." "This child," said Rube, after the rest had given in their experience, "leavin' monkey to the beside, have ate all them critturs as has been named yet. Monkey he hain't, bein' as thur's none o' 'em in these parts. It may be tough, or it mayn't; it may be bitter, an' it mayn't, for what I knows to the contrairywise; but, oncest on a time, this niggur chawed a varmint that wa'n't much sweeter, if it wur as sweet." "What was it, Rube?" "What was it?" asked several in a breath, curious to know what the old trapper could have eaten more unpalatable than the viands already named. "'Twur turkey-buzzart, then; that's what it wur." "Turkey-buzzard!" echoed everyone. "'Twa'n't any thin' else." "Wagh? that was a stinkin' pill, an' no mistake." "That beats me all hollow." "And when did ye eat the buzzard, old boy?" asked one, suspecting that there might be a story connected with this feat of the earless trapper. "Ay! tell us that, Rube; tell us!" cried several. "Wal," commenced Rube, after a moment's silence, "'twur about six yeern ago, I wur set afoot on the Arkansaw, by the Rapahoes, leastwise two hunder mile below the Big Timmer. The cussed skunks tuk hoss, beaver, an' all. He! he!" continued the speaker with a chuckle; "he! he! they mout 'a did as well an' let ole Rube alone." "I reckon that, too," remarked a hunter. "'Tain't like they made much out o' that speckelashun. Well--about the buzzard?" "'Ee see, I wur cleaned out, an' left with jest a pair o' leggins, better than two hunder miles from anywhur. Bent's wur the nearest; an' I tuk up the river in that direkshun. "I never seed varmint o' all kinds as shy. They wudn't 'a been if I'd 'a had my traps; but there wa'n't a critter, from the minners in the waters to the bufflers on the paraira, that didn't look like they knowed how this niggur were fixed. I kud git nuthin' for two days but lizard, an' scarce at that." "Lizard's but poor eatin'," remarked one. "'Ee may say that. This hyur thigh jeint's fat cow to it--it are." And Rube, as he said this, made a fresh attack upon the wolf-mutton. "I chawed up the ole leggins, till I wur as naked as Chimley Rock." "Gollies! was it winter?" "No. 'Twur calf-time, an' warm enuf for that matter. I didn't mind the want o' the buckskin that a way, but I kud 'a eat more o' it. "The third day I struck a town o' sand-rats. This niggur's har wur longer then than it ur now. I made snares o' it, an' trapped a lot o' the rats; but they grew shy too, cuss 'em! an' I had to quit that speck'lashun. This wur the third day from the time I'd been set down, an' I wur getting nasty weak on it. I 'gin to think that the time wur come for this child to go under. "'Twur a leetle arter sun-up, an' I wur sittin' on the bank, when I seed somethin' queery floatin' a-down the river. When I kim closer, I seed it wur the karkidge o' a buffler--calf at that--an' a couple o' buzzarts floppin' about on the thing, pickin' its peepers out. 'Twur far out, an' the water deep; but I'd made up my mind to fetch it ashore. I wa'n't long in strippin', I reckin." Here the hunters interrupted Rube's story with a laugh. "I tuk the water, an' swam out. I kud smell the thing afore I wur half-way, an' when I got near it, the birds mizzled. I wur soon clost up, an' seed at a glimp that the calf wur as rotten as punk." "What a pity!" exclaimed one of the hunters. "I wa'n't a-gwine to have my swim for nuthin'; so I tuk the tail in my teeth, an' swam back for the shore. I hadn't made three strokes till the tail pulled out! "I then swum round ahint the karkidge, an' pushed it afore me till I got it landed high an' dry upon a sandbar. 'Twur like to fall to pieces, when I pulled it out o' the water. 'Twa'n't eatable nohow!" Here Rube took a fresh mouthful of the wolf-mutton, and remained silent until he had masticated it. The men had become interested in the story, and waited with impatience. At length he proceeded-- "I seed the buzzarts still flyin' about, an' fresh ones a-comin'. I tuk a idee that I mout git my claws upon some o' 'em. So I lay down clost up agin the calf, an' played 'possum. "I wa'n't long that a way when the birds begun to light on the sandbar, an' a big cock kim floppin' up to the karkidge. Afore he kud flop up agin, I grupped him by the legs." "Hooraw! well done, by gollies!" "The cussed thing wur nearly as stinkin' as t'other, but it wur die dog--buzzart or calf--so I skinned the buzzart." "And ate it?" inquired an impatient listener. "No-o," slowly drawled Rube, apparently "miffed" at being thus interrupted. "It ate me." The laugh that followed this retort restored the old trapper to good humour again. "Did you go it raw, Rube?" asked one of the hunters. "How could he do otherwise? He hadn't a spark o' fire, an' nothing to make one out of." "Yur'n etarnal fool!" exclaimed Rube, turning savagely on the last speaker. "I kud make a fire if thur wa'n't a spark anywhar!" A yell of laughter followed this speech, and it was some minutes before the trapper recovered his temper sufficiently to resume his narration. "The rest o' the birds," continued he at length, "seein' the ole cock rubbed out, grew shy, and kep away on t'other side o' the river. 'Twa'n't no use tryin' that dodge over agin. Jest then I spied a coyoat comin' lopin' down the bank, an' another follerin' upon his heels, an' two or three more on the same trail. I know'd it wud be no joke gruppin' one o' them by the leg, but I made up my mind to try it; an' I lay down jest as afore, close up to the calf. 'Twur no go. The cunnin' things seed the float stick, an' kep clur o' the karkidge. I wur a-gwine to cacher under some bush that wur by, an' I begun to carry it up, when all of a suddint I tuk a fresh idee in my head. I seed thur wur drift-wood a plenty on the bank, so I fotched it up, an' built a pen-trap roun' about the calf. In the twinklin' o' a goat's eye I had six varmints in the trap." "Hooraw! Ye war safe then, old hoss." "I tuk a lot o' stones, an' then clomb up on the pen, an' killed the hul kit on 'em. Lord, boyees! 'ee never seed sich a snappin', and snarlin', and jumpin', an' yowltin', as when I peppered them donicks down on 'em. He! he! he! Ho! ho! hoo!" And the smoky old sinner chuckled with delight at the remembrance of his adventure. "You reached Bent's then safe enough, I reckin?" "'Ee--es. I skinned the critters wi' a sharp stone, an' made me a sort o' shirt an' leggins. This niggur had no mind, comin' in naked, to gi' them thur joke at the Fort. I packed enough of the wolf-meat to last me up, an' I got there in less'n a week. Bill wur thur himself, an' 'ee all know Bill Bent. He know'd me. I wa'n't in the Fort a half an hour till I were spick-span in new buckskins, wi' a new rifle; an' that rifle wur Tar-guts, now afore ye." "Ha! you got Tear-guts thar then?" "I got Tar-guts thur then, an' a gun she ur. He! he! he! 'Twa'n't long arter I got her till I tried her. He! he! he! Ho! ho! hoo!" And the old trapper went off into another fit of chuckling. "What are ye laughin' at now, Rube?" asked one of his comrades. "He! he! he! What am I larfin' at? He! he! he! Ho! ho! That ur the crisp o' the joke. He! he! he! What am I larfin' at?" "Yes; tell us, man!" "It are this then I'm larfin' at," replied Rube, sobering down a little, "I wa'n't at Bent's three days when who do 'ee think shed kum to the Fort?" "Who? Maybe the Rapahoes!" "Them same Injuns; an' the very niggurs as set me afoot. They kum to the Fort to trade wi' Bill, an' thur I sees both my old mar an' rifle!" "You got them back then?" "That wur likely. Thur wur a sight o' mountainy men thur, at the time, that wa'n't the fellurs to see this child put down on the parairar for nuthin'. Yander's the critter!" and Rube pointed to the old mare. "The rifle I gin to Bill, an' kep Tar-guts instead, seeing she wur a better gun." "So you got square with the Rapahoes?" "That, young fellur, justs rests on what 'ee 'ud call squar. Do 'ee see these hyur nicks: them standin' sep'rate?" And the trapper pointed to a row of small notches cut in the stock of his rifle. "Ay, ay!" cried several men in reply. "Thur's five o' 'em, ain't thur?" "One, two, three; yes, five." "Them's Rapahoes!" Rube's story was ended. CHAPTER THIRTY. BLINDING THE PURSUER. By this time the men had finished eating, and now began to gather around Seguin, for the purpose of deliberating on what course we should pursue. One had already been sent up to the rocks to act as a vidette, and warn us in case any of the Indians should be descried upon the prairie. We all felt that we were still in a dilemma. The Navajo was our captive, and his men would come to seek for him. He was too important a personage (second chief of the nation) to be abandoned without a search, and his own followers, nearly half of the tribe, would certainly be back to the spring. Not finding him there, should they not discover our tracks, they would return upon the war-trail to their country. This, we all saw, would render our expedition impracticable, as Dacoma's band alone outnumbered us; and should we meet them in their mountain fastnesses, we should have no chance of escape. For some time Seguin remained silent, with his eyes fixed on the ground. He was evidently tracing out in his mind some plan of action. None of the hunters chose to interrupt him. "Comrades!" said he at length, "this is an unfortunate _coup_, but it could not be avoided. It is well it is no worse. As it is, we must alter our plans. They will be sure to return on his track, and follow their own trail back to the Navajo towns. What then? Our band cannot either come on to the Pinon or cross the war-trail at any point. They would discover our tracks to a certainty." "Why, can't we go straight up to whar the rest's cached, and then take round by the old mine? That won't interfere with the war-trail nohow." This was proposed by one of the hunters. "Vaya!" rejoined a Mexican; "we should meet the Navajoes just when we had got to their town! Carrai! that would never do, amigo. There wouldn't many, of us get back again. Santisima! No." "We ain't obleeged to meet them," argued the first speaker. "They're not a-goin' to stop at thur town when they find the nigger hain't been back." "It is true," said Seguin, "they will not remain there. They will doubtless return on the war-trail again; but I know the country by the mine." "So do I! So do I!" cried several voices. "There is no game," continued Seguin. "We have no provisions; it is therefore impossible for us to go that way." "We couldn't go it, nohow." "We should starve before we had got through the Mimbres." "Thar's no water that way." "No, by gosh! not enough to make a drink for a sand-rat." "We must take our chances, then," said Seguin. Here he paused thoughtfully, and with a gloomy expression of countenance. "We must cross the trail," he continued, "and go by the Prieto, or abandon the expedition." The word "Prieto," in opposition to the phrase "abandon the expedition," put the hunters to their wits' end for invention, and plan after plan was proposed; all, however, ending in the probability--in fact, certainty--that if adopted, our trail would be discovered by the enemy, and followed up before we could escape back to the Del Norte. They were, therefore, one after another rejected. During all this discussion, old Rube had not said a word. The earless trapper was sitting upon the prairie, squat on his hams, tracing out some lines with his bow, and apparently laying out the plan of a fortification. "What are ye doin', old hoss?" inquired one of his comrades. "My hearin' ain't as good as 'twur afore I kim into this cussed country; but I thought I heerd some o' 'ees say, jest now, we cudn't cross the 'Pash trail 'ithout bein' followed in two days. That's a dod-rotted lie. It are." "How are ye goin' to prove it, hoss?" "Chut, man! yur tongue wags like a beaver's tail in flood-time." "Can you suggest any way in which it can be done, Rube? I confess I see none." As Seguin made this appeal, all eyes were turned upon the trapper. "Why, cap, I kin surgest my own notion o' the thing. It may be right, an' it mayn't be right; but if it wur follered out, there'll be neither 'Pash nor Navagh that'll smell where we go for a week. If they diz, 'ee may cut my ears off." This was a favourite joke with Rube, and the hunters only laughed. Seguin himself could not restrain a smile, as he requested the speaker to proceed. "Fust an' fo'most, then," said Rube, "thur not a-gwine to come arter that nigger in less than two days." "How can you tell that?" "This way: 'Ee see he's only second chief, an' they kin go on well enough 'ithout him. But that ain't it. The Injun forgot his bow; white at that. Now 'ee all knows as well as this child, that that's a big disgrace in the eyes o' Injuns." "You're right about that, hoss," remarked one. "Wal, so the ole 'coon thinks. Now, 'ee see, it's as plain as Pike's Peak that he kim away back 'ithout tellin' any o' the rest a syllabub about it. He'd not let 'em know if he kud help it." "That is not improbable," said Seguin. "Proceed, Rube!" "More'n that," continued the trapper, "I'll stake high thet he ordered them not to foller him, afeerd thet some on 'em mout see what he kim for. If he'd a-thought they knew or suspected, he'd 'a sent some other, an' not kum himself; that's what he'd 'a done." This was all probable enough; and with the knowledge which the scalp-hunters possessed of the Navajo character, they one and all believed it to be so. "I'm sartin they'll kum back," continued Rube; "that ur, his half o' the tribe, anyways; but it'll be three days clur, an' well up till another, afore they drinks Peenyun water." "But they would strike our trail the day after." "If we were green fools enough to let 'em, they wud." "How can we prevent that?" asked Seguin. "Easy as fallin' off a log." "How? how?" inquired several at once. "By puttin' them on another scent, do 'ee see?" "Yes! but in what way can we effect that?" inquired Seguin. "Why, cap, yur tumble has surely dumfoundered ye. I wud think less o' these other dummies not seein' at a glimp how we kin do it." "I confess, Rube," replied Seguin, with a smile, "I do not perceive how we can mislead them." "Wal, then," continued the trapper, with a chuckle of satisfaction at his own superior prairie-craft, "this child's a-gwyne to tell 'ee how 'ee kin put them on a different track." "Hooraw for you, old hoss!" "'Ee see a quiver on that Injun's back?" "Ay, ay!" cried several voices. "It's full o' arrows, or pretty near it, I reckin." "It is. Well?" "Wal, then, let some o' us ride the Injun's mustang: any other critter thet's got the same track 'll do; away down the 'Pash trail, an' stick them things pointin' south'art; an' if the Navagh don't travel that a way till they comes up with the 'Pashes, 'ee may have this child's har for a plug o' the wust Kaintucky terbaccer." "Viva!" "He's right, he's right!" "Hooraw for old Rube!" and various exclamations, were uttered by the hunters. "'Tain't needcessary for them to know why he shud 'a tuk that track. They'll know his arrows; that's enuf. By the time they gits back, with their fingers in thur meat-traps, we'll hev start enough to carry us to Hackensack." "Ay, that we will, by gollies!" "The band," continued Rube, "needn't come to the Peenyun spring no howsomever. They kin cross the war-trail higher up to to'rst the Heely, an' meet us on t'other side o' the mountain, whur thur's a grist o' game, both cattle an' buffler. A plenty o' both on the ole mission lands, I'll be boun'. We'd hev to go thur anyways. Thur's no hopes o' meetin' the buffler this side, arter the splurry them Injuns has gin them." "That is true enough," said Seguin. "We must go round the mountain before we can expect to fall in with the buffalo. The Indian hunt has chased them clean off from the Llanos. Come, then! Let us set about our work at once. We have yet two hours before sunset. What would you do first, Rube? You have given the plan: I will trust to you for the details." "Why, in my opeenyun, cap, the fust thing to be did are to send a man as straight as he can gallip to whur the band's cached. Let him fotch them acrost the trail." "Where should they cross, do you think?" "About twenty mile north o' hyur thur's a dry ridge, an' a good grist o' loose donicks. If they cross as they oughter, they needn't make much sign. I kud take a train o' Bent's waggons over, that 'ud puzzle deaf Smith to foller 'em. I kud." "I will send a man off instantly. Here, Sanchez! you have a good horse, and know the ground. It is not over twenty miles to where they are cached. Bring them along the ridge, and with caution, as you have heard. You will find us around the north point of the mountain. You can travel all night, and be up with us early in the morning. Away!" The torero, without making any answer, drew his horse from the picket, leaped into the saddle, and rode off at a gallop towards the north-west. "It is fortunate," said Seguin, looking after him for some moments, "that they have trampled the ground about here, else the tracks made in our last encounter would certainly have told tales upon us." "Thur's no danger about that," rejoined Rube; "but when we rides from hyur, cap'n, we mustn't foller their trail. They'd soon sight our back tracks. We had best keep up yander among the loose donicks." Rube pointed to the shingle that stretched north and south along the foot of the mountain. "Yes, that shall be our course. We can leave this without leaving any tracks. What next?" "The next idee ur, to get rid o' yon piece o' machin'ry," and the trapper, as he spoke, nodded in the direction of the skeleton. "True! I had forgotten it. What shall we do with it?" "Bury it," advised one. "Wagh! no. Burn it!" cried another. "Ay, that's best," said a third. The latter suggestion was adopted. The skeleton was brought down; the stains of the blood were carefully rubbed from the rocks; the skull was shivered with a tomahawk, and the joints were broken in pieces. The whole mass was then flung upon the fire, and pounded down among numerous bones of the buffalo, already simmering in the cinders. An anatomist only could have detected the presence of a human skeleton. "Now, Rube; the arrows?" "If 'ee'll leave that to me an' Bill Garey, I think them two niggurs kin fix 'em so as to bamfoozle any Injuns thur is in these parts. We'll hev to go three mile or tharabout; but we'll git back by the time 'ee hev filled yur gourds, an' got yur traps ready for skeetin'." "Very well! take the arrows." "Four's gobs for us," said Rube, taking that number from the quiver. "Keep the rest. 'Ee'll want more wolf-meat afore we start. Thur's not a tail o' anythin' else till we git clur roun' the mountain yander. Billee! throw your ugly props over that Navagh mustang. Putty hoss too; but I wudn't giv my old mar for a hul cavayard o' him. Gi's a sprig o' the black feather." Here the old trapper drew one of the ostrich feathers out of the helmet of the Navajo chief, and continued-- "Boyees! take care o' the ole mar till I kum back, an don't let her stampede, do 'ee hear. I wants a blanket. Don't all speak at oncest!" "Here, Rube, here!" cried several, holding out their blankets. "E'er a one 'll do. We needs three: Bill's an' mine an' another'n. Hyur, Billee! take these afore ye. Now ride down the 'Pash trail three hunred yards, or tharabout, an' then pull up. Don't take the beaten pad, but keep alongside, an' make big tracks. Gallop!" The young hunter laid his quirt to the flanks of the mustang, and started at full gallop along the Apache trail. When he had ridden a distance of three hundred yards or so, he halted to wait for further directions from his comrade. Old Rube, at the same time, took an arrow; and, fastening a piece of ostrich feather to the barb, adjusted it on one of the upright poles which the Indians had left standing on the camp-ground. It was placed in such a manner that the head pointed southward in the direction of the Apache trail, and was so conspicuous with the black feather that no one coming in from the Llanos could fail to see it. This done, he followed his companion on foot, keeping wide out from the trail, and making his tracks with great caution. On coming up with Garey, he stuck a second arrow in the ground: its point also inclined to the south, and so that it could be seen from the former one. Garey then galloped forward, keeping on the trail, while Rube struck out again to the open prairie, and advanced in a line parallel to it. Having ridden a distance of two or three miles, Garey slackened his pace, and put the mustang to a slow walk. A little farther on he again halted, and held his horse at rest, in the beaten path. Rube now came up, and spread the three blankets lengthwise along the ground, and leading westward from the trail. Garey dismounted, and led the animal gently on the blankets. As its feet rested on two at a time, each, as it became the rearmost, was taken up, and spread again in front; and this was repeated until they had got the mustang some fifty lengths of himself out into the prairie. The movement was executed with an adroitness equal to that which characterised the feat of Sir Walter Raleigh. Garey now took up the blankets, and, remounting, commenced riding slowly back by the foot of the mountain; while Rube returned to the trail, and placed a third arrow at the point where the mustang had parted from it. He then proceeded south as before. One more was yet needed to make doubly sure. When he had gone about half a mile, we saw him stoop over the trail, rise up again, cross toward the mountain foot, and follow the path taken by his companion. The work was done; the finger-posts were set; the ruse was complete! El Sol, meanwhile, had been busy. Several wolves were killed and skinned, and the meat was packed in their skins. The gourds were filled, our captive was tied on a mule, and we stood waiting the return of the trappers. Seguin had resolved to leave two men at the spring as videttes. They were to keep their horses by the rocks, and supply them with the mule-bucket, so as to make no fresh tracks at the water. One was to remain constantly on an eminence, and watch the prairie with the glass. They could thus descry the returning Navajoes in time to escape unobserved themselves along the foot of the mountain. They were then to halt at a place ten miles to the north, where they could still have a view of the plain. There they were to remain until they had ascertained what direction the Indians should take after leaving the spring, when they were to hurry forward and join the band with their tidings. All these arrangements having been completed as Rube and Garey came up, we mounted our horses and rode by a circuitous route for the mountain foot. When close in, we found the path strewed with loose cut-rock, upon which the hoofs of our animals left no track. Over this we rode forward, heading to the north, and keeping in a line nearly parallel to the "war-trail." CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. A BUFFALO "SURROUND." A march of twenty miles brought us to the place where we expected to be joined by the band. We found a small stream heading in the Pinon Range, and running westward to the San Pedro. It was fringed with cotton-trees and willows, and with grass in abundance for our horses. Here we encamped, kindled a fire in the thicket, cooked our wolf-mutton, ate it, and went to sleep. The band came up in the morning, having travelled all night. Their provisions were spent as well as ours, and instead of resting our wearied animals, we pushed on through a pass in the sierra in hopes of finding game on the other side. About noon we debouched through the mountain pass into a country of openings--small prairies, bounded by jungly forests, and interspersed with timber islands. These prairies were covered with tall grass, and buffalo signs appeared as we rode into them. We saw their "roads," "chips," and "wallows." We saw, moreover, the _bois de vache_ of the wild cattle. We would soon meet with one or the other. We were still on the stream by which we had camped the night before, and we made a noon halt to refresh our animals. The full-grown forms of the cacti were around us, bearing red and yellow fruit in abundance. We plucked the pears of the pitahaya, and ate them greedily; we found service-berries, yampo, and roots of the "pomme blanche." We dined on fruits and vegetables of various sorts, indigenous only to this wild region. But the stomachs of the hunters longed for their favourite food, the hump ribs and boudins of the buffalo; and after a halt of two hours, we moved forward through the openings. We had ridden about an hour among chapparal, when Rube, who was some paces in advance, acting as guide, turned in his saddle and pointed downward. "What's there, Rube?" asked Seguin, in a low voice. "Fresh track, cap'n; buffler!" "What number; can you guess?" "A gang o' fifty or tharabout. They've tuk through the thicket yander-away. I kin sight the sky. Thur's clur ground not fur from us; and I'd stak a plew thur in it. I think it's a small parairia, cap." "Halt here, men!" said Seguin; "halt and keep silent. Ride forward, Rube. Come, Monsieur Haller, you're fond of hunting; come along with us!" I followed the guide and Seguin through the bushes; like them, riding slowly and silently. In a few minutes we reached the edge of a prairie covered with long grass. Peering cautiously through the leaves of the prosopis, we had a full view of the open ground. The buffaloes were on the plain! It was, as Rube had rightly conjectured, a small prairie about a mile and a half in width, closed in on all sides by a thick chapparal. Near the centre was a motte of heavy timber, growing up from a leafy underwood. A spur of willows running out from the timber indicated the presence of water. "Thur's a spring yander," muttered Rube. "They've jest been a-coolin' their noses at it." This was evident enough, for some of the animals were at the moment walking out of the willows; and we could see the wet clay glistening upon their flanks, and the saliva glancing down from their jaws. "How will we get at them, Rube?" asked Seguin; "can we approach them, do you think?" "I doubt not, cap. The grass 'ud hardly kiver us, an thur a-gwine out o' range o' the bushes." "How then? We cannot run them; there's not room. They would be into the thicket at the first dash. We would lose every hoof of them." "Sartin as Scripter." "What is to be done?" "This niggur sees but one other plan as kin be used jest at this time." "What is it?" "Surround." "Right; if we can do that. How is the wind?" "Dead as an Injun wi' his head cut off," replied the trapper, taking a small feather out of his cap and tossing it in the air. "See, cap, it falls plump!" "It does, truly." "We kin easily git roun' them bufflers afore they wind us; an' we hev men enough to make a picket fence about them. We can hardly set about it too soon, cap. Thur a movin' torst the edge yander." "Let us divide the men, then," said Seguin, turning his horse; "you can guide one-half of them to their stands. I will go with the other. Monsieur Haller, you had better remain where you are. It is as good a stand as you can get. Have patience. It may be an hour before all are placed. When you hear the bugle, you may gallop forward and do your best. If we succeed, you shall have sport and a good supper, which I suppose you feel the need of by this time." So saying, Seguin left me, and rode back to the men, followed by old Rube. It was their purpose to separate the band into two parties, each taking an opposite direction, and to drop men here and there at regular intervals around the prairie. They would keep in the thicket while on the march, and only discover themselves at a given signal. In this way, should the buffaloes allow time for the execution of the movement, we should be almost certain of securing the whole gang. As soon as Seguin had left me, I looked to my rifle and pistols, putting on a fresh set of caps. After that, having nothing else to occupy me, I remained seated in my saddle, eyeing the animals as they fed unconscious of danger. I was full of anxiety lest some clumsy fellow might discover himself too soon, and thus spoil our anticipated sport. After a while I could see the birds flying up from the thicket, and the screaming of the blue jay indicated to me the progress of the "surround." Now and then, an old bull, on the skirts of the herd, would toss up his shaggy mane, snuff the wind, and strike the ground fiercely with his hoof, evidently labouring under a suspicion that all was not right. The others did not seem to heed these demonstrations, but kept on quietly cropping the luxuriant grama. I was thinking how nicely we were going to have them in the trap, when an object caught my eye, just emerging from the motte. It was a buffalo calf, and I saw that it was proceeding to join the gang. I thought it somewhat strange that it should be separated from the rest, for the calves, trained by their mothers to know the wolf, usually keep up with the herd. "It has stayed behind at the spring," thought I. "Perhaps the others pushed it from the water, and it could not drink until they were gone." I fancied that it moved clumsily, as if wounded; but it was passing through the long grass, and I could not get a good view of it. There was a pack of coyotes (there always is) sneaking after the herd. These, perceiving the calf, as it came out of the timber, made an instant and simultaneous attack upon it. I could see them skipping around it, and fancied I could hear their fierce snarling; but the calf appeared to fight its way through the thick of them; and after a short while, I saw it close in to its companions, where I lost sight of it among the others. "A game young bull," soliloquised I, and again I ran my eye around the skirting of the chapparal to watch how the hunters were getting forward with the "surround." I could perceive the flashing of brilliant wings over the bramble, and hear the shrill voices of the jay-birds. Judging by these, I concluded that the men were moving slowly enough. It was half an hour since Seguin had left me, and I could perceive that they were not half-way round as yet. I began to make calculations as to how long I would have to wait, soliloquising as follows:-- "Diameter of the prairie, a mile and a half. It is a circle three times that: four miles and a half. Phew! I shall not hear the signal in much less than an hour. I must be patient then, and--what! The brutes are lying down! Good! There is no danger now of their making off. We shall have rare sport! One, two, three, six of them down! It must be the heat and the water. They have drunk too much. There goes another. Lucky devils! They have nothing else to do but eat and sleep, while I-- no! eight down! Well! I hope soon to eat, too. What an odd way they have of coming to the ground! How different from anything of the bovine tribe I have yet observed! I have never seen buffaloes quieting down before. One would think they were falling as if shot! Two more alongside the rest! They will soon be all upon the turf. So much the better. We can gallop up before they get to their feet again. Oh, that I could hear that horn!" And thus I went on rambling from thought to thought, and listening for the signal, although I knew that it could not be given for some time yet. The buffaloes kept moving slowly onward, browsing as they went, and continuing to lie down one after another. I thought it strange, their stretching themselves thus successively; but I had observed farm cattle do the same, and I was at that time but little acquainted with the habits of the buffalo. Some of them appeared to toss about on the ground and kick violently. I had heard of a peculiarity of these animals termed "wallowing." "They are at it," thought I. I wished much to have a clearer view of this curious exercise, but the high grass prevented me. I could only see their shaggy shoulders, and occasionally their hoofs kicking up over the sward. I watched their movements with great interest, now feeling secure that the "surround" would be complete before they would think of rising. At length the last one of the gang followed the example of his companions, and dropped over. They were all now upon their sides, half-buried in the bunch grass. I thought I noticed the calf still upon its feet; but at that moment the bugle sounded, and a simultaneous cheer broke from all sides of the prairie. I pressed the spur to my horse's flank, and dashed out into the open plain. Fifty others had done the same, yelling as they shot out of the thicket. With my reins resting on my left fingers, and my rifle thrown crosswise, I galloped forward, filled with the wild excitement that such an adventure imparts. I was cocked and ready, resolved upon having the first shot. It was but a short distance from where I had started to the nearest buffalo. I was soon within range, my horse flying like an arrow. "Is the animal asleep? I am within ten paces of him, and still he stirs not! I will fire at him as he lies." I raised my rifle, levelled it, and was about to pull the trigger, when something red gleamed before my eyes. It was blood! I lowered the piece with a feeling of terror, and commenced dragging upon the rein; but, before I could pull up, I was carried into the midst of the prostrate herd. Here my horse suddenly stopped, and I sat in my saddle as if spell-bound. I was under the influence of a superstitious awe. Blood was before me and around me. Turn which way I would, my eye rested upon blood! My comrades closed in, yelling as they came; but their yelling suddenly ceased, and one by one reined up, as I had done, with looks of consternation and wonder. It was not strange, at such a sight. Before us lay the bodies of the buffaloes. They were all dead, or quivering in the last throes. Each bad a wound above the brisket, and from this the red stream gurled out, and trickled down their still panting sides. Blood welled from their mouths and out of their nostrils. Pools of it were filtering through the prairie turf; and clotted gouts, flung out by the struggling hoof, sprinkled the grass around them! "Oh, heavens! what could it mean?" "Wagh! Santisima! Sacre Dieu!" were the exclamations of the hunters. "Surely no mortal hand has done this?" "It wa'n't nuthin' else," cried a well-known voice, "ef yur call an Injun a mortal. 'Twur a red-skin, and this child--look 'ee-e!" I heard the click of a rifle along with this abrupt exclamation. I turned suddenly. Rube was in the act of levelling his piece. My eye involuntarily followed the direction of the barrel. There was an object moving in the long grass. "A buffalo that still kicks," thought I, as I saw the mass of dark-brown hair; "he is going to finish him; it is the calf!" I had scarcely made the observation when the animal reared up on its hind legs, uttering a wild human scream; the shaggy hide was flung off; and a naked savage appeared, holding out his arms in an attitude of supplication. I could not have saved him. The rifle had cracked, the ball had sped. I saw it piercing his brown breast, as a drop of sleet strikes upon the pane of glass; the red spout gushed forth, and the victim fell forward upon the body of one of the animals. "Wagh! Rube!" exclaimed one of the men; "why didn't ye give him time to skin the meat? He mout as well 'a done that when he war about it;" and the man laughed at his savage jest. "Look 'ee hyur, boyees!" said Rube, pointing to the motte; "if 'ee look sharp, yur mout scare up another calf yander away! I'm a-gwine to see arter this Injun's har; I am." The hunters, at the suggestion, galloped off to surround the motte. I felt a degree of irresolution and disgust at this cool shedding of blood. I drew my rein almost involuntarily, and moved forward to the spot where the savage had fallen. He lay back uppermost. He was naked to the breech-clout. There was the debouchure of a bullet below the left shoulder, and the black-red stream was trickling down his ribs. The limbs still quivered, but it was in the last spasms of parting life. The hide in which he had disguised himself lay piled up where it had been flung. Beside it were a bow and several arrows. The latter were crimsoned to the notch, the feathers steeped in blood and clinging to the shafts. They had pierced the huge bodies of the animals, passing through and through. Each arrow had taken many lives! The old trapper rode up to the corpse, and leisurely dismounted from his mare. "Fifty dollar a plew!" he muttered, unsheathing his knife and stooping over the body. "It's more'n I got for my own. It beats beaver all hollow. Cuss beaver, say this child. Plew a plug--ain't worth trappin' if the varmint wur as thick as grass-jumpers in calf-time. 'Ee up, niggur," he continued, grasping the long hair of the savage, and holding the face upward; "let's get a squint of your phisog. Hooraw! Coyote 'Pash! Hooraw!" And a gleam of triumph lit up the countenance of the old man as he uttered these wild exclamations. "Apash, is he?" asked one of the hunters, who had remained near the spot. "That he are, Coyote 'Pash, the very niggurs that bobtailed this child's ears. I kin swar to thur ugly picters anywhur I get my peepers upon 'em. Wouwough--ole woofy! got 'ee at last, has he! Yur a beauty, an' no mistake." So saying, he gathered the long crown locks in his left hand, and with two slashes of his knife, held quarte and tierce, he cut a circle around the top of the head, as perfect as if it had been traced by compasses. He then took a turn of the hair over his wrist, giving it a quick jerk outward. At the same instant, the keen blade passed under the skin, and the scalp was taken! "Counts six," he continued, muttering to himself while placing the scalp in his belt; "six at fifty--three hunder shiners for 'Pash har; cuss beaver trappin'! says I." Having secured the bleeding trophy, he wiped his knife upon the hair of one of the buffaloes, and proceeded to cut a small notch in the woodwork of his gun, alongside five others that had been carved there already. These six notches stood for Apaches only; for as my eye wandered along the outlines of the piece, I saw that there were many other columns in that terrible register! CHAPTER THIRTY TWO. ANOTHER "COUP." A shot ringing in my ears caused me to withdraw my attention from the proceedings of the earless trapper. As I turned I saw a blue cloud floating away over the prairie, but I could not tell at what the shot had been fired. Thirty or forty of the hunters had surrounded the motte, and, halted, were sitting in their saddles in a kind of irregular circle. They were still at some distance from the timber, as if keeping out of arrow-range. They held their guns crosswise, and were shouting to one another. It was improbable that the savage was alone; doubtless there were some of his companions in the thicket. There could not be many, however, for the underwood was not large enough to conceal more than a dozen bodies, and the keen eyes of the hunters were piercing it in every direction. They reminded me of so many huntsmen in a gorse waiting the game to be sprung; but here, the game was human. It was a terrible spectacle. I looked towards Seguin, thinking that he might interfere to prevent the barbarous battue. He noticed my inquiring glance, and turned his face from me. I fancied that he felt ashamed of the work in which his followers were engaged; but the killing, or capture, of whatever Indians might be in the motte had now become a necessary measure, and I knew that any remonstrance of mine would be disregarded. As for the men themselves, they would have laughed at it. This was their pastime, their profession, and I am certain that, at that moment, their feelings were not very different from those which would have actuated them had they been driving a bear from his den. They were, perhaps, a trifle more intense; certainly not more inclined towards mercy. I reined up my horse, and awaited with painful emotions the _denouement_ of this savage drama. "Vaya, Irlandes! What did you see?" inquired one of the Mexicans, appealing to Barney. I saw by this that it was the Irishman who had fired the shot. "A rid-skin, by japers!" replied the latter. "Warn't it yer own shadder ye sighted in the water?" cried a hunter, jeeringly. "Maybe it was the divil, Barney?" "In trath, frinds, I saw a somethin' that looked mighty like him, and I kilt it too." "Ha! ha! Barney has killed the devil. Ha! ha!" "Wagh!" exclaimed a trapper, spurring his horse toward the thicket; "the fool saw nothin'. I'll chance it, anyhow." "Stop, comrade!" cried the hunter Garey; "let's take a safer plan. Redhead's right. Thar's Injuns in them bushes, whether he seen it or not; that skunk warn't by himself, I reckin; try this a way!" The young trapper dismounted, and turned his horse broadside to the bushes. Keeping on the outside, he commenced walking the animal in a spiral ring that gradually closed in upon the clump. In this way his body was screened; and his head only could be seen above the pommel of his saddle, over which he rested his rifle, cocked and ready. Several others, observing this movement on the part of Garey, dismounted, and followed his example. A deep silence prevailed as they narrowed the diameters of their circling courses. In a short time they were close in to the motte, yet still no arrow whizzed out. Was there no one there? So it seemed; and the men pushed fearlessly into the thicket. I watched all this with excited feelings. I began to hope there was no one in the bushes. I listened to every sound; I heard the snapping of the twigs and the muttering of the men. There was a moment's silence as they pushed eagerly forward. Then I heard a sudden exclamation, and a voice calling out-- "Dead red-skin! Hurrah for Barney!" "Barney's bullet through him, by the holies!" cried another. "Hollo, old sky-blue! Come hyar and see what ye've done!" The rest of the hunters, along with the _ci-devant_ soldier, now rode forward to the copse. I moved slowly after. On coming up, I saw them dragging the body of an Indian into the open ground: a naked savage, like the other. He was dead, and they were preparing to scalp him. "Come now, Barney!" cried one of the men in a joking manner, "the har's your'n. Why don't ye off wid it, man?" "It's moine, dev yez say?" asked Barney, appealing to the speaker. "Sartinly; you killed him. It's your'n by right." "An' it is raaly worth fifty dollars?" "Good as wheat for that." "Would yez be so frindly, thin, as to cut it aff for me?" "Oh! sartinly, wid all the plizyer of life," replied the hunter, imitating Barney's accent, at the same time severing the scalp, and handing it to him. Barney took the hideous trophy, and I fancy that he did not feel very proud of it. Poor Celt! he may have been guilty of many a breach in the laws of garrison discipline, but it was evident that this was his first lesson in the letting of human blood. The hunters now dismounted, and commenced trampling the thicket through and through. The search was most minute, for there was still a mystery. An extra bow--that is to say, a third--had been found, with its quiver of arrows. Where was the owner? Could he have escaped from the thicket while the men were engaged around the fallen buffaloes? He might, though it was barely probable; but the hunters knew that these savages run more like wild animals, like hares, than human beings, and he might have escaped to the chapparal. "If that Injun has got clar," said Garey, "we've no time to lose in skinnin' them bufflers. Thar's plenty o' his tribe not twenty miles from hyar, I calc'late." "Look down among the willows there!" cried the voice of the chief; "close down to the water." There was a pool. It was turbid and trampled around the edges with buffalo tracks. On one side it was deep. Here willows dropped over and hung into the water. Several men pressed into this side, and commenced sounding the bottom with their lances and the butts of their rifles. Old Rube had come up among the rest, and was drawing the stopper of his powder-horn with his teeth, apparently with the intention of reloading. His small dark eyes were scintillating every way at once: above, around him, and into the water. A sudden thought seemed to enter his head. I saw him push back the plug, grasp the Irishman, who was nearest him, by the arm, and mutter, in a low and hurried voice, "Paddy! Barney! gi' us yur gun; quick, man, quick!" Barney, at this earnest solicitation, immediately surrendered his piece, taking the empty rifle that was thrust into his hand by the trapper. Rube eagerly grasped the musket, and stood for a moment as if he was about to fire at some object in the pond. Suddenly he jerked his body round, and, poising the gun upward, fired into the thick foliage. A shrill scream followed; a heavy body came crashing through the branches, and struck the ground at my feet. Warm drops sparkled into my eyes, causing me to wince. It was blood! I was blinded with it; I rubbed my eyes to clear them. I heard men rushing from all parts of the thicket. When I could see again, a naked savage was just disappearing through the leaves. "Missed him!" cried the trapper. "Away wi' yur sodger gun!" he added, flinging down the musket, and rushing after the savage with his drawn knife. I followed among the rest. I heard several shots as we scrambled through the brushwood. When I had got to the outer edge I could see the Indian still on his feet, and running with the speed of an antelope. He did not keep in a direct line, but zigzag, leaping from side to side, in order to baffle the aim of his pursuers, whose rifles were all the time ringing behind him. As yet none of their bullets had taken effect, at least so as to cripple him. There was a streak of blood visible on his brown body, but the wound, wherever it was did not seem to hinder him in his flight. I thought there could be no chance of his escape, and I had no intention of emptying my gun at such a mark. I remained, therefore, among the bushes, screening myself behind the leaves and watching the chase. Some of the hunters continued to follow him on foot, while the more cunning ones rushed back for their horses. These happened to be all on the opposite side of the thicket, with one exception, and that was the mare of the trapper Rube. She was browsing where Rube had dismounted, out among the slaughtered buffaloes, and directly in the line of the chase. As the savage approached her, a sudden thought seemed to strike him, and diverging slightly from his course, he plucked up the picket-pin, coiled the lasso with the dexterity of a gaucho, and sprang upon the animal's back. It was a well-conceived idea, but unfortunate for the Indian. He had scarcely touched the saddle when a peculiar shout was heard above all other sounds. It was a call uttered in the voice of the earless trapper. The mustang recognised it; and instead of running forward, obedient to the guidance of her rider, she wheeled suddenly and came galloping back. At this moment a shot fired at the savage scorched her hip, and, setting back her ears, she commenced squealing and kicking so violently that all her feet seemed to be in the air at the same time. The Indian now endeavoured to fling himself from the saddle; but the alternate plunging of the fore and hind quarters kept him for some moments tossing in a sort of balance. He was at length pitched outward, and fell to the ground upon his back. Before he could recover himself a Mexican had ridden up, and with his long lance pinned him to the earth. A scene followed in which Rube played the principal character; in fact, had "the stage to himself." "Sodger guns" were sent to perdition; and as the old trapper was angry about the wound which his mare had received, "crook-eyed greenhorns" came in for a share of his anathemas. The mustang, however, had sustained no serious damage; and after this was ascertained, the emphatic ebullitions of her master's anger subsided into a low growling, and then ceased altogether. As there appeared no sign that there were other savages in the neighbourhood, the next concern of the hunters was to satisfy their hunger. Fires were soon kindled, and a plenteous repast of buffalo meat produced the desired effect. After the meal was ended, a consultation was held. It was agreed that we should move forward to the old mission, which was known to be not over ten miles distant. We could there defend ourselves in case of an attack from the tribe of Coyoteros, to which the three savages belonged. It was feared by all that these might strike our trail, and come up with us before we could take our departure from the ruin. The buffaloes were speedily skinned and packed, and taking a westerly course, we journeyed on to the mission. CHAPTER THIRTY THREE. A BITTER TRAP. We reached the ruin a little after sunset. We frightened the owl and the wolf, and made our bivouac among the crumbling walls. Our horses were picketed upon the deserted lawns, and in the long-neglected orchards, where the ripe fruit was raining down its ungathered showers. Fires were kindled, lighting the grey pile with their cheerful blazing; and joints of meat were taken out of the hide-packs and roasted for supper. There was water in abundance. A branch of the San Pedro swept past the walls of the mission. There were yams in the spoliated gardens; there were grapes, and pomegranates, and quinces, and melons, and pears, and peaches, and apples; and with all these was our repast garnished. It was soon over, and videttes were thrown out on the tracks that led to the ruin. The men were weak and weary with their late fasting, and in a short while stretched themselves by their saddles and slept. So much for our first night at the mission of San Pedro. We were to remain for three days, or until the buffalo meat should be dried for packing. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ They were irksome days to me. Idleness displayed the bad qualities of my half-savage associates. The ribald jest and fearful oath rang continually in my ears, until I was fain to wander off to the woods with the old botanist, who, during these three days, revelled in the happy excitement of discovery. I found companionship also in the Maricopa. This strange man had studied science deeply, and was conversant with almost every noted author. He was reserved only when I wished him to talk of himself. Seguin during these days was taciturn and lonely. He took but little heed of what was going on around him. He seemed to be suffering from impatience, as every now and then he paid a visit to the tasajo. He passed many hours upon the adjacent heights, looking anxiously towards the east: that point whence our spies would come in from the Pinon. There was an azotea on the ruin. I was in the habit of seeking this place at evening after the sun had grown less fervid. It afforded a fine prospect of the valley; but its chief attraction to me lay in the retirement I could there obtain. The hunters rarely climbed up to it, and their wild and licenced converse was unheard for the time. I used to spread my blanket among the crumbling parapets, and stretched upon it, deliver myself up to the sweet retrospect, or to still sweeter dreams that my fancy outlined upon the future. There was one object on my memory: upon that object only did my hopes dwell. I need not make this declaration; at least to those who have truly loved. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ In the programme placed before me by Seguin, I had not bargained for such wanton cruelties as I was now compelled to witness. It was not the time to look back, but forward, and perhaps, over other scenes of blood and brutality, to that happier hour, when I should have redeemed my promise, and won the prize, beautiful Zoe. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ My reverie was interrupted. I heard voices and footsteps; they were approaching the spot where I lay. I could see that there were two men engaged in an earnest conversation. They did not notice me, as I was behind some fragments of the broken parapet, and in the shadow. As they drew nearer, I recognised the patois of my Canadian follower, and that of his companion was not to be mistaken. The brogue was Barney's, beyond a doubt. These worthies, I had lately noticed, had become "as thick as two thieves," and were much in each other's company. Some act of kindness had endeared the "infantry" to his more astute and experienced associate, who had taken him under his patronage and protection. I was vexed at the intrusion; but prompted by some impulse of curiosity, I lay still and listened. Barney was speaking as they approached. "In trath, Misther Gowdey, an' it's meself 'ud go far this blissed night for a dhrap o' the crayter. I noticed the little kig afore; but divil resave me av I thought it was anythin' barrin' cowld water. Vistment! only think o' the owld Dutch sinner bringin' a whole kig wid 'im, an' keepin' it all to himself. Yez are sure now it's the stuff?" "Oui! oui! C'est liqueur! aguardiente." "Agwardenty, ye say, div ye?" "Oui! c'est vrai, Monsieur Barney. I have him smell, ver many time. It is of stink tres fort: strong! good!" "But why cudn't ye stale it yerself? Yez know exactly where the doctor keeps it, an' ye might get at it a hape handier than I can." "Pourquoi, Barney? pecause, mon ami, I help pack les possibles of Monsieur le docteur. Pardieu! he would me suspect." "I don't see the raison clear. He may suspect ye at all evints. How thin?" "Ah! then, n'importe. I sall make von grand swear. No! I sall have ver clear conscience then." "Be the powers! we must get the licker anyhow; av you won't, Misther Gowdey, I will; that's said, isn't it?" "Oui! Tres bien!" "Well, thin, now or niver's the time. The ould fellow's just walked out, for I saw him meself. This is a nate place to drink it in. Come an' show me where he keeps it; and, by Saint Patrick! I'm yer man to hook it." "Tres bien! allons! Monsieur Barney, allons!" Unintelligible as this conversation may appear, I understood every word of it. The naturalist had brought among his packs a small keg of aguardiente, mezcal spirits, for the purpose of preserving any new species of the lizard or snake tribe he should chance to fall in with. What I heard, then, was neither more or less than a plot to steal the keg and its contents! My first impulse was to leap up and stop them in their design, as well as administer a salutary rebuke to my voyageur and his red-haired companion; but a moment's reflection convinced me that they could be better punished in another way. I would leave them to punish themselves. I remembered that some days previous to our reaching the Ojo de Vaca, the doctor had captured a snake of the adder kind, two or three species of lizards, and a hideous-looking animal, called, in hunter phraseology, the horned frog: the _agama cornuta_ of Texas and Mexico. These he had immersed in the spirit for preservation. I had observed him do so, and it was evident that neither my Frenchman nor the Irishman had any idea of this. I adopted the resolution, therefore, to let them drink a full bumper of the "pickle" before I should interfere. Knowing that they would soon return, I remained where I was. I had not long to wait upon them. In a few minutes they came up, Barney carrying what I knew to be the devoted keg. They sat down close to where I lay, and prising out the bung, filled the liquor into their tin cups, and commenced imbibing. A drouthier pair of mortals could not have been found anywhere; and at the first draught, each emptied his cup to the bottom! "It has a quare taste, hasn't it?" said Barney, after he had taken the vessel from his lips. "Oui! c'est vrai, monsieur!" "What dev ye think it is?" "Je ne sais quoi. It smells like one--one--" "Is it fish, ye mane?" "Oui! like one feesh: un bouquet tres bizarre Fichtro!" "I suppose it's something that the Mexicans have drapped in to give the agwardenty a flayver. It's mighty strong anyhow. It's nothing the worse av that; but it 'ud be sorry drinkin' alongside a nate dimmyjan of Irish patyeen. Och! mother av Moses! but that's the raal bayvaridge!" Here the Irishman shook his head to express with more emphasis his admiration of the native whisky. "Well, Misther Gowdey," continued he, "whisky's whisky at any rate; and if we can't get the butther, it's no raison we should refuse the brid; so I'll thank ye for another small thrifle out of the kig," and the speaker held out his tin vessel to be replenished. Gode lifted the keg, and emptied more of its contents into their cups. "Mon Dieu! what is dis in my cops?" exclaimed he, after a draught. "Fwhat is it? Let me see. That! Be me sowl! that's a quare-looking crayter anyhow." "Sac-r-r-re! it is von Texan! von fr-r-og! Dat is de feesh we smell stink. Owah--ah--ah!" "Oh! holy mother! if here isn't another in moine! By jabers! it's a scorpion lizard! Hoach--wach--wach!" "Ow--ah--ah--ack--ack! Mon Dieu! Oach--ach--! Sac-r! O--ach--ach-- o--oa--a--ach!" "Tare-an-ages! He--ach! the owld doctor has--oach--ack--ack! Blessed Vargin! Ha--he--hoh--ack! Poison! poison!" And the brace of revellers went staggering over the azotea, delivering their stomachs, and ejaculating in extreme terror as the thought struck them that there might be poison in the pickle. I had risen to my feet, and was enjoying the joke in loud laughter. This and the exclamations of the men brought a crowd of hunters up to the roof, who, as soon as they perceived what had happened, joined in, and made the ruin ring with their wild peals. The doctor, who had come up among the rest, was not so well satisfied with the occurrence. After a short search, however, the lizards were found and returned to the keg, which still contained enough of the spirit for his purposes. It was not likely to be disturbed again, even by the thirstiest hunter in the band. CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR. THE PHANTOM CITY. On the morning of the fourth day our spies came in, and reported that the Navajoes had taken the southern trail. They had returned to the spring on the second day after our leaving it, and thence had followed the guiding of the arrows. It was Dacoma's band, in all about three hundred warriors. Nothing remained for us now but to pack up as quickly as possible, and pursue our march to the north. In an hour we were in our saddles, and following the rocky banks of the San Pedro. A long day's journey brought us to the desolate valley of the Gila, upon whose waters we encamped for the night. We slept near the celebrated ruins, the second resting-place of the migrating Aztecs. With the exception of the botanist, the Coco chief, myself, and perhaps Seguin, no one in the band seemed to trouble himself about these interesting antiquities. The sign of grizzly bears, that was discovered upon the mud bottom, gave the hunters far more concern than the broken pottery and its painted hieroglyphics. Two of these animals were discovered near the camp, and a fierce battle ensued, in which one of the Mexicans nearly lost his life, escaping only after most of the skin had been clawed from his head and neck. The bears themselves were killed, and made part of our suppers. Our next day's march lay up the Gila, to the mouth of the San Carlos river, where we again halted for the night. The San Carlos runs in from the north; and Seguin had resolved to travel up this stream for a hundred miles or so, and afterwards strike eastward to the country of the Navajoes. When this determination was made known, a spirit of discontent showed itself among the men, and mutinous whisperings were heard on all sides. Shortly after we halted, however, several of them strayed up the banks of the stream, and gathered some grains of gold out of its bed. Indications of the precious metal, the quixa, known among the Mexicans as the "gold mother," were also found among the rocks. There were miners in the band, who knew it well, and this served to satisfy them. There was no more talk of keeping on to the Prieto. Perhaps the San Carlos might prove equally rich. Rumour had also given it the title of a "golden river"; at all events, the expedition must cross the head waters of the Prieto in its journey eastward; and this prospect had the effect of quieting the mutineers, at least for the time. There was another influence: the character of Seguin. There was no single individual in the band who cared to cross him on slight grounds. They knew him too well for that; and though few of these men set high value on their lives, when they believe themselves, according to "mountain law," in the right, yet they knew that to delay the expedition for the purpose of gathering gold was neither according to their compact with him nor agreeable to his wishes. Not a few of the band, moreover, were actuated by motives similar to those felt by Seguin himself, and these were equally desirous of pushing on to the Navajo towns. Still another consideration had its influence upon the majority. The party of Dacoma would be on our track as soon as they had returned from the Apache trail. We had, therefore, no time to waste in gold-hunting, and the simplest of the scalp-hunters knew this. By daybreak we were again on the march, and riding up the banks of the San Carlos. We had now entered the great desert which stretches northward from the Gila away to the head waters of the Colorado. We entered it without a guide, for not one of the band had ever traversed these unknown regions. Even Rube knew nothing about this part of the country. We were without compass, too, but this we heeded not. There were few in the band who could not point to the north or the south within the variation of a degree: few of them but could, night or day, tell by the heavens within ten minutes of the true time. Give them but a clear sky, with the signs of the trees and rocks, and they needed neither compass nor chronometer. A life spent beneath the blue heavens of the prairie uplands and the mountain parks, where a roof rarely obstructed their view of the azure vaults, had made astronomers of these reckless rovers. Of such accomplishments was their education, drawn from many a perilous experience. To me their knowledge of such things seemed instinct. But we had a guide as to our direction, unerring as the magnetic needle: we were traversing the region of the "polar plant," the planes of whose leaves, at almost every step, pointed out our meridian. It grew upon our track, and was crushed under the hoofs of our horses as we rode onward. We travelled northward through a country of strange-looking mountains, whose tops shot heavenward in fantastic forms and groupings. At one time we saw semi-globular shapes like the domes of churches; at another, Gothic turrets rose before us; and the next opening brought in view sharp needle-pointed peaks, shooting upward into the blue sky. We saw columnar forms supporting others that lay horizontally: vast boulders of trap-rock, suggesting the idea of some antediluvian ruin, some temple of gigantic Druids! Along with singularity of formation was the most brilliant colouring. There were stratified rocks, red, white, green, and yellow, as vivid in their hues as if freshly touched from the palette of the painter. No smoke had tarnished them since they had been flung up from their subterranean beds. No cloud draped their naked outlines. It was not a land of clouds, for as we journeyed amongst them we saw not a speck in the heavens; nothing above us but the blue and limitless ether. I remembered the remarks of Seguin. There was something inspiriting in the sight of these bright mountains; something life-like, that prevented us from feeling the extreme and real desolation by which we were surrounded. At times we could not help fancying that we were in a thickly-populated country--a country of vast wealth and civilisation, as appeared from its architectural grandeur. Yet in reality we were journeying through the wildest of earth's dominions, where no human foot ever trod excepting such as wear the moccasin; the region of the "wolf" Apache and the wretched Yamparico. We travelled up the banks of the river, and here and there, at our halting-places, searching for the shining metal. It could be found only in small quantities, and the hunters began to talk loudly of the Prieto. There, according to them, the yellow gold lay in lumps. On the fourth day after leaving the Gila, we came to a place where the San Carlos canoned through a high sierra. Here we halted for the night. When morning came, we found we could follow the river no farther without climbing over the mountain; and Seguin announced his intention of leaving it and striking eastward. The hunters responded to this declaration with a joyous hurrah. The golden vision was again before them. We remained at the San Carlos until after the noon heat, recruiting our horses by the stream; then mounting, we rode forward into the plain. It was our intention to travel all night, or until we reached water, as we knew that without this, halting would be useless. We had not ridden far until we saw that a fearful Jornada was before us--one of those dreaded stretches without grass, wood, or water. Ahead of us we could see a low range of mountains, trending from north to south, and beyond these, another range still higher than the first. On the farther range there were snowy summits. We saw that they were distinct chains, and that the more distant was of great elevation. This we knew from the appearance upon its peaks of the eternal snow. We knew, moreover, that at the foot of the snowy range we should find water, perhaps the river we were in search of; but the distance was immense. If we did not find it at the nearer sierra, we should have an adventure: the danger of perishing from thirst. Such was the prospect. We rode on over the arid soil; over plains of lava and cut-rock that wounded the hoofs of our horses, laming many. There was no vegetation around us except the sickly green of the artemisia, or the fetid foliage of the creosote plant. There was no living thing to be seen save the brown and hideous lizard, the rattlesnake, and the desert crickets that crawled in myriads along the parched ground, and were crunched under the hoofs of our animals. "Water!" was the word that began to be uttered in several languages. "Water!" cried the choking trapper. "L'eau!" ejaculated the Canadian. "Agua! agua!" shouted the Mexican. We were not twenty miles from the San Carlos before our gourd canteens were as dry as a shingle. The dust of the plains and the hot atmosphere had created unusual thirst, and we had soon emptied them. We had started late in the afternoon. At sundown the mountains ahead of us did not seem a single mile nearer. We travelled all night, and when the sun rose again we were still a good distance from them. Such is the illusory character of this elevated and crystal atmosphere. The men mumbled as they talked. They held in their mouths leaden bullets and pebbles of obsidian, which they chewed with a desperate fierceness. It was some time after sunrise when we arrived at the mountain foot. To our consternation no water could be found! The mountains were a range of dry rocks, so parched-like and barren that even the creosote bush could not find nourishment along their sides. They were as naked of vegetation as when the volcanic fires first heaved them into the light. Parties scattered in all directions, and went up the ravines; but after a long while spent in fruitless wandering, we abandoned the search in despair. There was a pass that appeared to lead through the range; and entering this, we rode forward in silence and with gloomy thoughts. We soon debouched on the other side, when a scene of singular character burst upon our view. A plain lay before us, hemmed in on all sides by high mountains. On its farther edge was the snowy ridge, with stupendous cliffs rising vertically from the plain, towering thousands of feet in height. Dark rocks seemed piled upon each other, higher and higher, until they became buried under robes of the spotless snow. But that which appeared most singular was the surface of the plain. It was covered with a mantle of virgin whiteness, apparently of snow; and yet the more elevated spot from which we viewed it was naked, with a hot sun shining upon it. What we saw in the valley, then, could not be snow. As I gazed over the monotonous surface of this plain, and then looked upon the chaotic mountains that walled it in, my mind became impressed with ideas of coldness and desolation. It seemed as if everything was dead around us, and Nature was laid out in her winding-sheet. I saw that my companions experienced similar feelings, but no one spoke; and we commenced riding down the pass that led into this singular valley. As far as we could see, there was no prospect of water on the plain; but what else could we do than cross it? On its most distant border, along the base of the snowy mountains, we thought we could distinguish a black line, like that of timber, and for this point we directed our march. On reaching the plain, what had appeared like snow proved to be soda. A deep incrustation of this lay upon the ground, enough to satisfy the wants of the whole human race; yet there it lay, and no hand had ever stooped to gather it. Three or four rocky buttes were in our way, near the debouchure of the pass. As we rounded them, getting farther out into the plain, a wide gap began to unfold itself, opening through the mountains beyond. Through this gap the sun's rays were streaming in, throwing a band of yellow light across one end of the valley. In this the crystals of the soda, stirred up by the breeze, appeared floating in myriads. As we descended, I observed that objects began to assume a very different aspect from what they had exhibited from above. As if by enchantment, the cold snowy surface all at once disappeared. Green fields lay before us, and tall trees sprang up, covered with a thick and verdant frondage! "Cotton-woods!" cried a hunter, as his eye rested on these still distant groves. "Tall saplins at that--wagh!" ejaculated another. "Water thar, fellers, I reckin!" remarked a third. "Yes, siree! Yer don't see such sprouts as them growin' out o' a dry paraira. Look! Hollo!" "By gollies, yonder's a house!" "A house? One, two, three! A house? Thar's a whole town, if thar's a single shanty. Gee! Jim, look yonder! Wagh!" I was riding in front with Seguin, the rest of the band strung out behind us. I had been for some time gazing upon the ground, in a sort of abstraction, looking: at the snow-white efflorescence, and listening to the crunching of my horse's hoofs through its icy incrustation. These exclamatory phrases caused me to raise my eyes. The sight that met them was one that made me rein up with a sudden jerk. Seguin had done the same, and I saw that the whole band had halted with a similar impulse. We had just cleared one of the buttes that had hitherto obstructed our view of the great gap. This was now directly in front of us; and along its base, on the southern side, rose the walls and battlements of a city--a vast city, judging from its distance and the colossal appearance of its architecture. We could trace the columns of temples, and doors, and gates, and windows, and balconies, and parapets, and spires. There were many towers rising high over the roofs, and in the middle was a temple-like structure, with its massive dome towering far above all the others. I looked upon this sudden apparition with a feeling of incredulity. It was a dream, an imagination, a mirage. Ha! it was the mirage! No! The mirage could not effect such a complete picture. There were the roofs, and chimneys, and walls, and windows. There were the parapets of fortified houses, with their regular notches and embrasures. It was a reality. It was a city! Was it the Cibolo of the Spanish padre? Was it that city of golden gates and burnished towers? After all, was the story of the wandering priest true? Who had proved it a fable? Who had ever penetrated this region, the very country in which the ecclesiastic represented the golden city of Cibolo to exist? I saw that Seguin was puzzled, dismayed, as well as myself. He knew nothing of this land. He had never witnessed a mirage like that. For some time we sat in our saddles, influenced by strange emotions. Shall we go forward? Yes! We must reach water. We are dying of thirst; and, impelled by this, we spur onward. We had ridden only a few paces farther when the hunters uttered a sudden and simultaneous cry. A new object--an object of terror--was before us. Along the mountain foot appeared a string of dark forms. They were mounted men! We dragged our horses to their haunches, our whole line halting as one man. "Injuns!" was the exclamation of several. "Indians they must be," muttered Seguin. "There are no others here. Indians! No! There never were such as them. See! they are not men! Look! their huge horses, their long guns; they are giants! By Heaven!" continued he, after a moment's pause, "they are bodiless! They are phantoms!" There were exclamations of terror from the hunters behind. Were these the inhabitants of the city? There was a striking proportion in the colossal size of the horses and the horsemen. For a moment I was awe-struck like the rest. Only a moment. A sudden memory flashed upon me. I thought of the Hartz Mountains and their demons. I knew that the phenomenon before us could be no other; an optical delusion; a creation of the mirage. I raised my hand above my head. The foremost of the giants imitated the motion. I put spurs to my horse and galloped forward. So did he, as if to meet me. After a few springs I had passed the refracting angle, and, like a thought, the shadowy giants vanished into the air. The men had ridden forward after me, and having also passed the angle of refraction saw no more of the phantom host. The city, too, had disappeared; but we could trace the outlines of many a singular formation in the trap-rock strata that traversed the edge of the valley. The tall groves were no longer to be seen; but a low belt of green willows, real willows, could be distinguished along the foot of the mountain within the gap. Under their foliage there was something that sparkled in the sun like sheets of silver. It was water! It was a branch of the Prieto. Our horses neighed at the sight; and, shortly after, we had alighted upon its banks, and were kneeling before the sweet spirit of the stream. CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE. THE MOUNTAIN OF GOLD. After so fatiguing a march, it was necessary to make a longer halt than usual. We stayed by the arroyo all that day and the following night. But the hunters longed to drink from the Prieto itself; and the next morning we drew our pickets, and rode in the direction of that river. By noon we were upon its banks. A singular stream it was, running through a region of bleak, barren, and desolate mountains. Through these the stream had forged its way by numerous canons, and rushed along a channel at most places inaccessible. It was a black and gloomy river. Where were its sands of gold? After riding for some distance along its banks, we halted at a point where its bed could be reached. The hunters, disregarding all else, clambered eagerly over the steep bluffs, and descended to the water. They hardly stayed to drink. They crawled through narrow interstices, between detached masses of rock that had fallen from above. They lifted the mud in their hands, and washed it in their cups; they hammered the quartz rock with their tomahawks, and pounded it between great stones. Not a particle of the precious metal could be found. They must either have struck the river too high up, or else the El Dorado lay still farther to the north. Wet, weary, angry, uttering oaths and expressions of disappointment, they obeyed the signal to march forward. We rode up the stream, halting for the night at another place where the water was accessible to our animals. Here the hunters again searched for gold, and again found it not. Mutinous murmurs were now spoken aloud. "The gold country lay below them; they had no doubt of it. The chief took them by the San Carlos on purpose to disappoint them. He knew this would prevent delay. He cared not for them. His own ends were all he wanted to accomplish. They might go back as poor as they had come, for aught he cared. They would never have so good a chance again." Such were their mutterings, embellished with many an oath. Seguin either heard not or did not heed them. He was one of those characters who can patiently bear until a proper cue for action may offer itself. He was fiery by nature, like all Creoles; but time and trials had tempered him to that calmness and coolness that befitted the leader of such a band. When roused to action, he became what is styled in western phraseology a "dangerous man"; and the scalp-hunters knew it. He heeded not their murmurings. Long before daybreak, we were once more in our saddles, and moving onward, still up the Prieto. We had observed fires at a distance during the night, and we knew that they were at the villages of the "Club" Apache. We wished to pass their country without being seen; and it was our intention, when daylight appeared, to "cacher" among the rocks until the following night. As dawn advanced, we halted in a concealed ravine, whilst several of us climbed the hill to reconnoitre. We could see the smoke rising over the distant villages; but we had passed them in the darkness, and instead of remaining in cache, we continued on through a wide plain covered with sage and cactus plants. Mountains towered up on every side of us as we advanced. They rose directly from the plains, exhibiting the fantastic shapes which characterise them in those regions. Their stupendous precipices overlooked the bleak, barren tables frowning upon them in sublime silence. The plains themselves ran into the very bases of these, cliffs. Water had surely washed them. These plateaux had once been the bed of an ancient ocean. I remembered Seguin's theory of the inland seas. Shortly after sunrise, the trail we were following led us to an Indian crossing. Here we forded the stream with the intention of leaving it and heading eastward. We halted our horses in the water, permitting them to drink freely. Some of the hunters, moving ahead of the rest, had climbed the high banks. We were attracted by their unusual exclamations. On looking upward, we perceived several of them standing on the top of a hill, and pointing to the north in an earnest and excited manner. Could it be Indians? "What is it?" shouted Seguin, as we pushed forward. "A gold mountain! a gold mountain!" was the reply. We spurred our horses hurriedly up the hill. On reaching its top, a strange sight met our gaze. Away to the north, and as far as the eye could see, an object glistened in the sun. It was a mountain, and along its sides, from base to summit, the rocks glittered with the bright semblance of gold! A thousand jets danced in the sunbeams, dazzling the eye as it looked upon them. Was it a mountain of gold? The men were in a frenzy of delight. This was the mountain so often discussed over the bivouac fires. Who of them had not heard of it, whether credulous or not? It was no fable, then. There it was before them, in all its burning splendour. I turned to look at Seguin. His brow was bent. There was the expression of anxiety on his countenance. He understood the illusion; so did the Maricopa; so did Reichter. I knew it too. At a glance I had recognised the sparkling scales of the selenite. Seguin saw that there was a difficulty before us. This dazzling hallucination lay far out of our course; but it was evident that neither commands nor persuasion would be heeded now. The men were resolved upon reaching it. Some of them had already turned their horses' heads and were moving in that direction. Seguin ordered them back. A stormy altercation ensued; in short, a mutiny. In vain Seguin urged the necessity of our hastening forward to the town. In vain he represented the danger we were in of being overtaken by Dacoma's party, who by this time were upon our trail. In vain the Coco chief, the doctor, and myself, assured our uneducated companions that what they saw was but the glancing surface of a worthless rock. The men were obstinate. The sight, operating upon long-cherished hopes, had intoxicated them. They had lost all reason. They were mad. "On, then!" cried Seguin, making a desperate effort to restrain his passion. "On, madmen, and satisfy yourselves--our lives may answer for your folly!" and, so saying, he turned his horse, and headed him for the shining beacon. The men rode after, uttering loud and joyful acclamations. At the end of a long day's ride we reached the base of the mountain. The hunters leaped from their horses, and clambered up to the glittering rocks. They reached them. They broke them with their tomahawks and pistol-butts, and cleft them with their knives. They tore off the plates of mica and glassy selenite. They flung them at their feet, abashed and mortified; and, one after another, came back to the plain with looks of disappointment and chagrin. Not one of them said a word, as they climbed into their saddles, and rode sullenly after the chief. We had lost a day by this bootless journey; but our consolation lay in the belief that our Indian pursuers, following upon our trail, would make the same detour. Our course now lay to the south-west; but finding a spring not far from the foot of the mountain, we remained by it for the night. After another day's march in a south-easterly course, Rube recognised the profiles of the mountains. We were nearing the great town of the Navajoes. That night we encamped on a running water, a branch of the Prieto that headed to the eastward. A vast chasm between two cliffs marked the course of the stream above us. The guide pointed into the gap, as we rode forward to our halting-place. "What is it, Rube?" inquired Seguin. "'Ee see that gully ahead o' us?" "Yes; what of it?" "The town's thur." CHAPTER THIRTY SIX. NAVAJOA. It was near evening of the next day when we arrived at the foot of the sierra, at the debouchure of the canon. We could not follow the stream any farther, as there was no path by the channel. It would be necessary to pass over the ridge that formed the southern jaw of the chasm. There was a plain trail among scrubby pines; and, following our guide, we commenced riding up the mountain. After ascending for an hour or so, by a fearful road along the very brink of the precipice, we climbed the crest of the ridge, and looked eastward. We had reached the goal of our journey. The town of the Navajoes was before us. "Voila!" "Mira el pueblo!" "Thar's the town!" "Hurrah!" were the exclamations that broke from the hunters. "Oh, God! at last it is!" muttered Seguin, with a singular expression of countenance. "Oh, God be praised! Halt, comrades! halt!" Our reins were tightened, and we sat on our weary horses looking over the plain. A magnificent panorama, magnificent under any circumstances, lay before us; but its interest was heightened by the peculiar circumstances under which we viewed it. We are at the western extremity of an oblong valley, looking up it lengthwise. It is not a valley, though so called in the language of Spanish America, but a plain walled in on all sides by mountains. It is elliptical in form, the diameter of its foci being ten or twelve miles in length. Its shortest diameter is five or six miles. It has the surface of a green meadow, and its perfect level is unbroken by brake, bush, or hillock. It looks like some quiet lake transformed into an emerald. It is bisected by a line of silvery brightness that curves gracefully through its whole extent, marking the windings of a crystal stream. But the mountains! What wild-looking mountains, particularly those on the north side of the valley! They are granite upheaved. Nature must have warred at the birth of these; the very sight of them suggests the throes of a troubled planet. Huge rocks hang over, only half resting upon fearful precipices; vast boulders that seem as though the touch of a feather would cause them to topple down. Grim chasms open into deep, dark defiles, that lie silent, and solemn, and frowning. Here and there, stunted trees, the cedar and pinon, hang horizontally out, clinging along the cliffs. The unsightly limbs of the cactus, and the gloomy foliage of the creosote bush, grow together in seams of the rocks, heightening their character of ruggedness and gloom. Such is the southern barrier of the valley. Look upon the northern sierra! Here is a contrast, a new geology. Not a rock of granite meets the eye; but there are others piled as high, and glistening with the whiteness of snow. These are mountains of the milky quartz. They exhibit a variety of peaks, naked and shining; crags that hang over deep, treeless ravines, and needle-shaped summits aspiring to the sky. They too have their vegetation, a vegetation that suggests ideas of the desert and desolation. The two sierras appear to converge at the eastern end of the valley. We are upon a transverse ridge that shuts it in upon the west, and from this point we view the picture. Where the valley ends eastwardly, we perceive a dark background lying up against the mountains. We know it is a pine-forest, but we are at too great a distance to distinguish the trees. Out of this forest the stream appears to issue; and upon its banks, near the border of the woods, we perceive a collection of strange pyramidal structures. They are houses. It is the town of Navajoa! Our eyes were directed upon it with eager gaze. We could trace the outlines of the houses, though they stood nearly ten miles distant. They suggested images of a strange architecture. There were some standing apart from the rest, with terraced roofs, and we could see there were banners waving over them. One, larger than the rest, presented the appearance of a temple. It was out on the open plain, and by the glass we could detect numerous forms clustered upon its top--the forms of human beings. There were others upon the roofs and parapets of the smaller houses; and many more moving upon the plain nearer us, driving before them flocks of animals, mules, and mustangs. Some were down upon the banks of the river, and others we could see plunging about in the water. Several droves of horses, whose mottled flanks showed their breed, were quietly browsing on the open prairie. Flocks of wild swans, geese, and gruyas winged their way up and down the meandering current of the stream. The sun was setting. The mountains were tinged with an amber-coloured light; and the quartzose crystals sparkled on the peaks of the southern sierra. It was a scene of silent beauty. How long, thought I, ere its silence would be broken by the sounds of ravage and ruin! We remained for some time gazing up the valley, without anyone uttering his thoughts. It was the silence that precedes resolve. In the minds of my companions there were varied emotions at play, varied in kind as they differed in intensity. Some were holy. Men sat straining their eyes over the long reach of meadow, thinking, or fancying, that in the distance they might distinguish a loved object--a wife, a sister, a daughter, or perhaps the object of a still dearer and deeper affection. No; the last could not be. None could have been more deeply affected than he who was seeking for his child. A father's love was the strongest passion there. Alas! there were other emotions in the bosoms of those around me, passions dark and sinful. Fierce looks were bent upon the town. Some of these betokened fierce feelings of revenge; others indicated the desire of plunder; and others still spoke, fiend-like, of murder! There had been mutterings of this from day to day as we journeyed. Men disappointed in their golden dreams had been heard to talk about the price of scalps! By a command from Seguin the hunters drew back among the trees, and entered into a hurried council. How was the town to be taken? We could not approach it in the open light. The inhabitants would see us before we could ride up, and make their escape to the forest beyond. This would defeat the whole purpose of our expedition. Could not a party get round to the eastern end of the valley and prevent this? Not through the plain itself, for the mountains rested upon its surface, without either foothills or paths along their sides. In some places vast cliffs rose to the height of a thousand feet, stepping directly upon the level plain. This idea was given up. Could we not turn the southern sierra, and come in through the forest itself? This would bring us close to the houses under cover. The guide was questioned, and answered in the affirmative. But that could only be accomplished by making a detour of nearly fifty miles. We had no time for such a journey, and the thought was abandoned. The town, then, must be approached in the night. This was the only plan practicable; at least, the most likely to succeed. It was adopted. It was not Seguin's intention to make a night attack, but only to surround the buildings, keeping at some distance out, and remain in ambush till the morning. All retreat would thus be cut off, and we should make sure of taking our captives under the light of day. The men threw themselves to the ground, and, holding their bridles, waited the going down of the sun. CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN. THE NIGHT AMBUSCADE. A short hour passes. The bright orb sinks behind us, and the quartz rock saddens into a sombre hue. The straggling rays of twilight hover but a moment over the chalky cliffs, and then vanish away. It is night. Descending the hills in a long string, we arrive upon the plain. We turn to the left, and keep round the mountain foot. The rocks guide us. We proceed with caution, and exchange our words only in whispers. We crawl around and among loose boulders that have fallen from above. We turn many spurs that shoot out into the plain. Occasionally we halt and hold council. After a journey of ten or twelve miles, we find ourselves opposite the Indian town. We are not over a mile from it. We can see the fires burning on the plain, and hear the voices of those who move around them. At this point the band is divided. A small party remains making its cache in a defile among the rocks. These guard the captive chief and the antajo of mules. The rest move forward, guided by Rube, who carries them round the edge of the forest, here and there dropping a picket of several men as he proceeds. These parties conceal themselves at their respective stations, remain silent, and wait for the signal from the bugle, which is to be given at the hour of daybreak. The night passes slowly and silently. The fires one by one go out, until the plain is wrapt in the gloom of a moonless midnight. Dark clouds travel over the sky, portending rain: a rare phenomenon in these regions. The swan utters its wild note, the gruya whoops over the stream, and the wolf howls upon the skirts of the sleeping village. The voice of the bull-bat wails through the air. You hear the "flap, flap" of his long wings as he dashes down among the cocuyos. You hear the hoof-stroke on the hard plain, the "crop" of the browsing steed, and the tinkling of the bit-ring, for the horses eat bridled. At intervals, a drowsy hunter mutters through his sleep, battling in dreams with some terrible foe. Thus goes the night. These are its voices. They cease as daybreak approaches. The wolf howls no longer; the swan and the blue crane are silent; the night-hawk has filled his ravenous maw, and perches on the mountain pine; the fire-flies disappear, chased by the colder hours; and the horses, having eaten what grew within their reach, stand in lounging attitudes, asleep. A grey light begins to steal into the valley. It flickers along the white cliffs of the quartz mountain. It brings with it a raw, cold air that awakens the hunters. One by one they arouse themselves. They shiver as they stand up, and carry their blankets wrapped about their shoulders. They feel weary, and look pale and haggard. The grey dawn lends a ghastly hue to their dusty beards and unwashed faces. After a short while they coil up their trail-ropes and fasten them to the rings. They look to their flints and priming, and tighten the buckles of their belts. They draw forth from their haversacks pieces of dry tasajo, eating it raw. They stand by their horses, ready to mount. It is not yet time. The light is gathering into the valley. The blue mist that hung over the river during the night is rising upward. We can see the town. We can trace the odd outlines of the houses. What strange structures they are! Some of them are higher than others: one, two, four stories in height. They are each in form like a pyramid without its apex. Each upper story is smaller than that below it, the roofs of the lower ones serving as terraces for those above. They are of a whitish yellow, the colour of the clay out of which they are built. They are without windows, but doors lead into each story from the outside; and ladders stretch from terrace to terrace, leaning against the walls. On the tops of some there are poles carrying bannerets. These are the residences of the principal war-chiefs and great warriors of the nation. We can see the temple distinctly. It is like the houses in shape, but higher and of larger dimensions. There is a tall shaft rising out of its roof, and a banner with a strange device floating at its peak. Near the houses we see corrals filled with mules and mustangs, the live-stock of the village. The light grows stronger. Forms appear upon the roofs and move along the terraces. They are human forms enveloped in hanging garments, robe-like and striped. We recognise the Navajo blanket, with its alternate bands of black and white. With the glass we can see these forms more distinctly; we can tell their sex. Their hair hangs loosely upon their shoulders, and far down their backs. Most of them are females, girls and women. There are many children, too. There are men, white-haired and old. A few other men appear, but they are not warriors. The warriors are absent. They come down the ladders, descending from terrace to terrace. They go out upon the plain, and rekindle the fires. Some carry earthen vessels, ollas, upon their heads, and pass down to the river. They go in for water. These are nearly naked. We can see their brown bodies and uncovered breasts. They are slaves. See! the old men are climbing to the top of the temple. They are followed by women and children, some in white, others in bright-coloured costumes. These are girls and young lads, the children of the chiefs. Over a hundred have climbed up. They have reached the highest root. There is an altar near the staff. A smoke rolls up--a blaze: they have kindled a fire upon the altar. Listen! the chant of voices, and the beat of an Indian drum! The sounds cease, and they all stand motionless and apparently silent, facing to the east. "What does it mean?" "They are waiting for the sun to appear. These people worship him." The hunters, interested and curious, strain their eyes, watching the ceremony. The topmost pinnacle of the quartz mountain is on fire. It is the first flash of the sun! The peak is yellowing downward. Other points catch the brilliant beams. They have struck the faces of the devotees. See! there are white faces! One--two--many white faces, both of women and girls. "Oh, God! grant that it may be!" cries Seguin, hurriedly putting up the glass, and raising the bugle to his lips. A few wild notes peal over the valley. The horsemen hear the signal. They debouche from the woods and the defiles of the mountains. They gallop over the plain, deploying as they go. In a few minutes we have formed the arc of a circle, concave to the town. Our horses' heads are turned inwards, and we ride forward, closing upon the walls. We have left the atajo in the defile; the captive chief, too, guarded by a few of the men. The notes of the bugle have summoned the attention of the inhabitants. They stand for a while in amazement, and without motion. They behold the deploying of the line. They see the horsemen ride inward. Could it be a mock surprise of some friendly tribe? No. That strange voice, the bugle, is new to Indian ears; yet some of them have heard it before. They know it to be the war-trumpet of the pale-faces! For awhile their consternation hinders them from action. They stand looking on until we are near. Then they behold pale-faces, strange armour, and horses singularly caparisoned. It is the white enemy! They run from point to point, from street to street. Those who carry water dash down their ollas, and rush screaming to the houses. They climb to the roofs, drawing the ladders after them. Shouts are exchanged, and exclamations uttered in the voices of men, women, and children. Terror is on every face; terror displays itself in every movement. Meanwhile our line has approached, until we are within two hundred yards of the walls. We halt for a moment. Twenty men are left as an outer guard. The rest of us, thrown into a body, ride forward, following our leader. CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT. ADELE. We direct ourselves to the great building, and, surrounding it, again halt. The old men are still upon the roof, standing along the parapet. They are frightened, and tremble like children. "Do not fear; we are friends!" cried Seguin, speaking in a strange language, and making signs to them. His voice is not heard amidst the shrieks and shouting that still continue. The words are repeated, and the sign given in a more emphatic manner. The old men crowd along the edge of the parapet. There is one among them who differs from the rest. His snow-white hair reaches below his waist. There are bright ornaments hanging from, his ears and over his breast. He is attired in white robes. He appears to be a chief; for the rest obey him. He makes a signal with his hands, and the screaming subsides. He stands forward on the parapet, as if to speak to us. "Amigos, amigos!" (friends!) cries he, speaking in Spanish. "Yes, yes; we are friends," replies Seguin, in the same language. "Do not fear us! We came not to harm you." "Why harm us? We are at peace with the white pueblos to the east. We are the children of Montezuma; we are Navajoes. What want you with us?" "We come for our relatives, your white captives. They are our wives and daughters." "White captives! You mistake us. We have no captives. Those you seek are among the nations of the Apache, away far to the south." "No; they are with you," replies Seguin. "I have certain information that they are here. Delay us not, then! We have come a far journey for them, and will not go without them." The old man turns to his companions. They converse in a low voice, and exchange signs. Again he faces round to Seguin. "Believe me, senor chief," says he, speaking with emphasis, "you have been wrongly informed. We have no white captives." "Pish! 'Ee dod-rotted ole liar!" cries Rube, pushing out of the crowd, and raising his cat-skin cap as he speaks. "'Ee know this child, do 'ee?" The skinless head is discovered to the gaze of the Indians. A murmur, indicative of alarm, is heard among them. The white-haired chief seems disconcerted. He knows the history of that scalp! A murmur, too, runs through the ranks of the hunters. They had seen white faces as they rode up. The lie exasperates them, and the ominous click of rifles being cocked is heard on all sides. "You have spoken falsely, old man," cries Seguin. "We know you have white captives. Bring them forth, then, if you would save your own lives!" "Quick!" shouts Garey, raising his rifle in a threatening manner; "quick! or I'll dye the flax on yer old skull." "Patience, amigo! you shall see our white people; but they are not captives. They are our daughters, the children of Montezuma." The Indian descends to the third story of the temple. He enters a door, and presently returns, bringing with him five females dressed in the Navajo costume. They are women and girls, and, as anyone could tell at a glance, of the Hispano-Mexican race. But there are those present who know them still better. Three of them are recognised by as many hunters, and recognise them in turn. The girls rush out to the parapet, stretch forth their arms, and utter exclamations of joy. The hunters call to them-- "Pepe!" "Rafaela!" "Jesusita!" coupling their names with expressions of endearment. They shout to them to come down, pointing to the ladders. "Bajan, ninas, bajan! aprisa, aprisa!" (Come down, dear girls! quickly, quickly!) The ladders rest upon the upper terraces. The girls cannot move them. Their late masters stand beside them, frowning and silent. "Lay holt thar!" cries Garey, again threatening with his piece; "lay holt, and help the gals down, or I'll fetch some o' yerselves a-tumblin' over!" "Lay holt! lay holt!" shouted several others in a breath. The Indians place the ladders. The girls descend, and the next moment leap into the arms of their friends. Two of them remain above; only three have come down. Seguin has dismounted, and passes these three with a glance. None of them is the object of his solicitude! He rushes up the ladder, followed by several of the men. He springs from terrace to terrace, up to the third. He presses forward to the spot where stand the two captive girls. His looks are wild, and his manner that of one frantic. They shrink back at his approach, mistaking his intentions. They scream with terror! He pierces them with his look. The instincts of the father are busy: they are baffled. One of the females is old, too old; the other is slave-like and coarse. "Mon Dieu! it cannot be!" he exclaims, with a sigh. "There was a mark; but no, no, no! it cannot be!" He leans forward, seizing the girl, though not ungently, by the wrist. Her sleeve is torn open, and the arm laid bare to the shoulder. "No, no!" he again exclaims; "it is not there. It is not she." He turns from them. He rushes forward to the old Indian, who falls back frightened at the glare of his fiery eye. "These are not all!" cries he, in a voice of thunder; "there are others. Bring them forth, old man, or I will hurl you to the earth!" "There are no other white squaws," replied the Indian, with a sullen and determined air. "A lie! a lie! your life shall answer. Here! confront him, Rube!" "'Ee dratted old skunk! That white har o' yourn ain't a-gwine to stay thur much longer ev you don't bring her out. Whur is she? the young queen?" "Al sur," and the Indian points to the south. "Oh! mon Dieu! mon Dieu!" cries Seguin, in his native tongue, and with an accentuation that expresses his complete wretchedness. "Don't believe him, cap! I've seed a heap o' Injun in my time; an' a lyiner old varmint than this'n I never seed yet. Ye heerd him jest now 'bout the other gals?" "Yes, true; he lied directly; but she--she might have gone--" "Not a bit o' it. Lyin's his trade. He's thur great medicine, an' humbugs the hul kit o' them. The gal is what they call Mystery Queen. She knows a heap, an' helps ole whitey hyur in his tricks an' sacrifiches. He don't want to lose her. She's hyur somewhur, I'll be boun'; but she ur cached: that's sartin." "Men!" cries Seguin, rushing forward to the parapet, "take ladders! Search every house! Bring all forth, old and young. Bring them to the open plain. Leave not a corner unsearched. Bring me my child!" The hunters rush for the ladders. They seize those of the great building, and soon possess themselves of others. They run from house to house, and drag out the screaming inmates. There are Indian men in some of the houses--lagging braves, boys, and "dandies." Some of these resist. They are slaughtered, scalped, and flung over the parapets. Crowds arrive, guarded, in front of the temple: girls and women of all ages. Seguin's eye is busy; his heart is yearning. At the arrival of each new group, he scans their faces. In vain! Many of them are young and pretty, but brown as the fallen leaf. She is not yet brought up. I see the three captive Mexicans standing with their friends. They should know where she may be found. "Question them," I whisper to the chief. "Ha! you are right. I did not think of that. Come, come!" We run together down the ladders, and approach the delivered captives. Seguin hurriedly describes the object of his search. "It must be the Mystery Queen," says one. "Yes, yes!" cries Seguin, in trembling anxiety; "it is; she is the Mystery Queen." "She is in the town, then," adds another. "Where? where?" ejaculates the halt-frantic father. "Where? where?" echo the girls, questioning one another. "I saw her this morning, a short time ago, just before you came up." "I saw him hurry her off," adds a second, pointing upward to the old Indian. "He has hidden her." "Caval!" cries another, "perhaps in the estufa!" "The estufa! what is it?" "Where the sacred fire burns; where he makes his medicine." "Where is it? lead me to it!" "Ay de mi! we know not the way. It is a sacred place where they burn people! Ay de mi!" "But, senor, it is in this temple; somewhere under the ground. He knows. None but he is permitted to enter it. Carrai! The estufa is a fearful place. So say the people." An indefinite idea that his daughter may be in danger crosses the mind of Seguin. Perhaps she is dead already, or dying by some horrid means. He is struck, so are we, with the expression of sullen malice that displays itself upon the countenance of the medicine chief. It is altogether an Indian expression--that of dogged determination to die rather than yield what he has made up his mind to keep. It is a look of demoniac cunning, characteristic of men of his peculiar calling among the tribes. Haunted by this thought, Seguin runs to the ladder, and again springs upward to the root, followed by several of the band. He rushes upon the lying priest, clutching him by the long hair. "Lead me to her!" he cries, in a voice of thunder; "lead me to this queen, this Mystery Queen! She is my daughter." "Your daughter! the Mystery Queen!" replies the Indian, trembling with fear for his life, yet still resisting the appeal. "No, white man; she is not. The queen is ours. She is the daughter of the Sun. She is the child of a Navajo chief." "Tempt me no longer, old man! No longer, I say. Look forth! If a hair of her head has been harmed, all these shall suffer. I will not leave a living thing in your town. Lead on! Bring me to the estufa!" "To the estufa! to the estufa!" shout several voices. Strong hands grasp the garments of the Indian, and are twined into his loose hair. Knives, already red and reeking, are brandished before his eyes. He is forced from the roof, and hurried down the ladders. He ceases to resist, for he sees that resistance is death; and half-dragged, half-leading, he conducts them to the ground-floor of the building. He enters by a passage covered with the shaggy hides of the buffalo. Seguin follows, keeping his eye and hand upon him. We crowd after, close upon the heels of both. We pass through dark ways, descending, as we go, through an intricate labyrinth. We arrive in a large room, dimly lighted. Ghastly images are before us and around us, the mystic symbols of a horrid religion! The walls are hung with hideous shapes and skins of wild beasts. We can see the fierce visages of the grizzly bear, of the white buffalo, of the carcajou, of the panther, and the ravenous wolf. We can recognise the horns and frontlets of the elk, the cimmaron, and the grim bison. Here and there are idol figures, of grotesque and monster forms, carved from wood and the red claystone of the desert. A lamp is flickering with a feeble glare; and on a brazero, near the centre of the room, burns a small bluish flame. It is the sacred fire-- the fire that for centuries has blazed to the god Quetzalcoatl! We do not stay to examine these objects. The fumes of the charcoal almost suffocate us. We run in every direction, overturning the idols and dragging down the sacred skins. There are huge serpents gliding over the floor, and hissing around our feet. They have been disturbed and frightened by the unwonted intrusion. We, too, are frightened, for we hear the dreaded rattle of the crotalus! The men leap from the ground, and strike at them with the butts of their rifles. They crush many of them on the stone pavement. There are shouts and confusion. We suffer from the exhalations of the charcoal. We shall be stifled. Where is Seguin? Where has he gone? Hark! There are screams! It is a female voice! There are voices of men, too! We rush towards the spot where they are heard. We dash aside the walls of pendant skins. We see the chief. He has a female in his arms--a girl, a beautiful girl, robed in gold and bright plumes. She is screaming as we enter, and struggling to escape him. He holds her firmly, and has torn open the fawn-skin sleeve of her tunic. He is gazing on her left arm, which is bared to the bosom! "It is she! it is she!" he cries, in a voice trembling with emotion. "Oh, God! it is she! Adele! Adele! do you not know me? Me--your father?" Her screams continue. She pushes him off, stretching out her arms to the Indian, and calling upon him to protect her! The father entreats her in wild and pathetic words. She heeds him not. She turns her face from him, and crouches down, hugging the knees of the priest! "She knows me not! Oh, God! my child! my child!" Again Seguin speaks in the Indian tongue, and with imploring accents-- "Adele! Adele! I am your father!" "You! Who are you? The white men; our foes! Touch me not! Away, white men! away!" "Dear, dearest Adele! do not repel me--me, your father! You remember--" "My father! My father was a great chief. He is dead. This is my father now. The Sun is my father. I am a daughter of Montezuma! I am a queen of the Navajoes!" As she utters these words, a change seems to come over her spirit. She crouches no longer. She rises to her feet. Her screaming has ended, and she stands in an attitude of pride and indignation. "Oh, Adele!" continues Seguin, more earnest than ever, "look at me! look! Do you not remember? Look in my face! Oh, Heaven! Here, see! Here is your mother, Adele! See! this is her picture: your angel mother. Look at it! Look, oh, Adele!" Seguin, while he is speaking, draws a miniature from his bosom, and holds it before the eyes of the girl. It arrests her attention. She looks upon it, but without any signs of recognition. It is to her only a curious object. She seems struck with his manner, frantic but intreating. She seems to regard him with wonder. Still she repels him. It is evident she knows him not. She has lost every recollection of him and his. She has forgotten the language of her childhood; she has forgotten her father, her mother: she has forgotten all! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I could not restrain my tears as I looked upon the face of my friend, for I had grown to consider him such. Like one who has received a mortal wound, yet still lives, he stood in the centre of the group, silent and crushed. His head had fallen upon his breast, his cheek was blanched and bloodless; and his eye wandered with an expression of imbecility painful to behold. I could imagine the terrible conflict that was raging within. He made no further efforts to intreat the girl. He no longer offered to approach her; but stood for some moments in the same attitude without speaking a word. "Bring her away!" he muttered, at length, in a voice husky and broken; "bring her away! Perhaps, in God's mercy, she may yet remember." CHAPTER THIRTY NINE. THE WHITE SCALP. We repassed the horrid chamber, and emerged upon the lowermost terrace of the temple. As I walked forward to the parapet, there was a scene below that filled me with apprehension. A cloud seemed to fall over my heart. In front of the temple were the women of the village--girls, women, and children; in all, about two hundred. They were variously attired: some were wrapped in their striped blankets; some wore tilmas, and tunics of embroidered fawn-skin, plumed and painted with dyes of vivid colour; some were dressed in the garb of civilised life--in rich satins, that had been worn by the dames of the Del Norte; in flounces that had fluttered in the dance around the ankles of some gay maja. Not a few in the crowd were entirely nude. They were all Indians, but of lighter and darker shades; differing in colour as in expression of face. Some were old, wrinkled, and coarse; but there were many of them young, noble-like, and altogether beautiful. They were grouped together in various attitudes. They had ceased their screaming, but murmured among themselves in low and plaintive exclamations. As I looked, I saw blood running from their ears! It had dappled their throats and spurted over their garments. A glance satisfied me as to the cause of this. They had been rudely robbed of their golden hangings. Near and around them stood the scalp-hunters, in groups and afoot. They were talking in whispers and low mutterings. There were objects about their persons that attracted my eye. Curious articles of ornament or use peeped out from their pouches and haversacks--bead-strings and pieces of shining metal--gold it was--hung around their necks and over their breasts. These were the plundered bijouterie of the savage maidens. There were other objects upon which my eye rested with feelings of deeper pain. Stuck behind the belts of many were scalps, fresh and reeking. Their knife-hilts and fingers were red; there was blood upon their hands; there was gloom in their glances. The picture was appalling; and, adding to its awful impression, black clouds were at the moment rolling over the valley, and swathing the mountains in their opaque masses. The lightning jetted from peak to peak, followed by short claps of close and deafening thunder. "Bring up the atajo!" shouted Seguin, as he descended the ladder with his daughter. A signal was given; and shortly after the mules, in charge of the arrieros, came stringing across the plain. "Collect all the dry meat that can be found. Let it be packed as speedily as possible." In front of most of the houses there were strings of tasajo hanging against the walls. There were also dried fruits and vegetables, chile, roots of the kamas, and skin-bags filled with pinons and choke-berries. The meat was soon brought together, and several of the men assisted the arrieros in packing it. "There will be barely enough," said Seguin. "Here, Rube," continued he, calling to the old trapper; "pick out your prisoners. Twenty will be as many as we can take. You know them: chose those most likely to tempt an exchange." So saying, the chief turned off towards the atajo, leading his daughter with the intention of mounting her on one of the mules. Rube proceeded to obey the orders given him. In a short time he had collected a number of unresisting captives, and had put them aside from the rest. They were principally girls and young lads, whose dress and features bespoke them of the noblesse of the nation, the children of chiefs and warriors. This movement was not regarded in silence. The men had drawn together, and commenced talking in loud and mutinous language. "Wagh!" exclaimed Kirker, a fellow of brutal aspect; "thar are wives apiece, boys: why not every man help himself? Why not?" "Kirker's right," Rejoined another; "and I've made up my mind to have one, or bust." "But how are ye goin' to feed 'em on the road? We ha'n't meat if we take one apiece." "Meat be hanged!" ejaculated the second speaker; "we kin reach the Del Norte in four days or less. What do we want with so much meat?" "There's meat a-plenty," rejoined Kirker. "That's all the captain's palaver. If it runs out we kin drop the weemen, and take what o' them's handiest to carry." This was said with a significant gesture, and a ferocity of expression revolting to behold. "Now, boys! what say ye?" "I freeze to Kirker." "And I." "And I." "I'm not goin' to advise anybody," added the brute. "Ye may all do as ye please about it; but this niggur's not a-goin' to starve in the midst o' plenty." "Right, comrade! right, I say." "Wal. First spoke first pick, I reckin. That's mountain law; so, old gal, I cottons to you. Come along, will yer?" Saying this, he seized one of the Indians, a large, fine-looking woman, roughly by the wrist, and commenced dragging her towards the atajo. The woman screamed and resisted, frightened, not at what had been said, for she did not understand it, but terrified by the ruffian expression that was plainly legible in the countenance of the man. "Shut up yer meat-trap, will ye?" cried he, still pulling her towards the mules; "I'm not goin' to eat ye. Wagh! Don't be so skeert. Come! mount hyar. Gee yup!" And with this exclamation he lifted the woman upon one of the mules. "If ye don't sit still, I'll tie ye; mind that!" and he held up the lasso, making signs of his determination. A horrid scene now ensued. A number of the scalp-hunters followed the example of their ruffian comrade. Each one chose the girl or woman he had fancied, and commenced hurrying her off to the atajo. The women shrieked. The men shouted and swore. Several scrambled for the same prize--a girl more beautiful than her companions. A quarrel was the consequence. Oaths and ejaculations rang out; knives were drawn and pistols cocked. "Toss up for her!" cried one. "Ay, that's fair; toss up! toss up!" shouted several. The hint was adopted; the lots were cast; and the savage belle became the property of the winner. In the space of a few minutes nearly every mule in the atajo carried an Indian damsel. Some of the hunters had taken no part in this Sabine proceeding. Some disapproved of it (for all were not bad) from motives of humanity. Others did not care for being "hampered with a squaw," but stood apart, savagely laughing at the scene. During all this time Seguin was on the other side of the building with his daughter. He had mounted her upon one of the mules, and covered her shoulders with his serape. He was making such preparations for her journey as the tender solicitudes of the father suggested. The noise at length attracted him; and, leaving her in charge of his servants, he hurried round to the front. "Comrades!" cried he, glancing at the mounted captives, and comprehending all that had occurred, "there are too many here. Are these whom you have chosen?" This question was directed to the trapper Rube. "No," replied the latter, "them's 'em," and he pointed to the party he had picked out. "Dismount these, then, and place those you have selected upon the mules. We have a desert to cross, and it will be as much as we can do to pass it with that number." And without appearing to notice the scowling looks of his followers, he proceeded, in company with Rube and several others, to execute the command he had given. The indignation of the hunters now showed itself in open mutiny. Fierce looks were exchanged, and threats uttered aloud. "By Heaven!" cried one, "I'll have my gal along, or her scalp." "Vaya!" exclaimed another, in Spanish; "why take any of them? They're not worth the trouble, after all. There's not one of them worth the price of her own hair." "Take the har then, and leave the niggurs!" suggested a third. "I say so too." "And I." "I vote with you, hoss." "Comrades!" said Seguin, turning to the mutineers, and speaking in a tone of extreme mildness, "remember your promise. Count the prisoners, as we agreed. I will answer for the payment of all." "Can ye pay for them now?" asked a voice. "You know that that would be impossible." "Pay for them now! Pay for them now!" shouted several. "Cash or scalps, says I." "Carrajo! where is the captain to get the money when we reach El Paso more than here? He's neither a Jew nor a banker; and it's news to me if he's grown so rich. Where, then, is all the money to some from?" "Not from the Cabildo, unless the scalps are forthcoming; I'll warrant that." "True, Jose! They'll give no money to him, more than to us; and we can get it ourselves if we show the skins for it. That we can." "Wagh! what cares he for us, now that he has got what he wanted?" "Not a niggur's scalp. He wouldn't let us go by the Prieto, when we kud 'a gathered the shining stuff in chunks." "Now he wants us to throw away this chance too. We'd be green fools to do it, I say." It struck me at this moment that I might interfere, with success. Money seemed to be what the mutineers wanted; at least it was their alleged grievance; and rather than witness the fearful drama which appeared to be on the eve of enactment, I would have sacrificed my fortune. "Men!" cried I, speaking so that I could be heard above the din, "if you deem my word worth listening to, it is this: I have sent a cargo to Chihuahua with the last caravan. By the time we get back to El Paso the traders will have returned, and I shall be placed in possession of funds double what you demand. If you will accept my promise, I shall see that you be paid." "Wagh! that talk's all very well, but what do we know of you or yer cargo?" "Vaya! A bird in the hand's worth two in the bush." "He's a trader. Who's goin' to take his word?" "Rot his cargo! Scalps or cash, cash or scalps! that's this niggur's advice; an' if ye don't take it, boys, ye may leave it! but it's all the pay ye'll ever crook yer claws on." The men had tasted blood, and like the tiger, they thirsted for more. There were glaring eyes on all sides, and the countenances of some exhibited an animal ferociousness hideous to look upon. The half-robber discipline that hitherto ruled in the band seemed to have completely departed, and the authority of the chief to be set at defiance. On the other side stood the females, clinging and huddling together. They could not understand the mutinous language, but they saw threatening attitudes and angry faces. They saw knives drawn, and heard the cocking of guns and pistols. They knew there was danger, and they crouched together, whimpering with fear. Up to this moment Seguin had stood giving directions for the mounting of his captives. His manner was strangely abstracted, as it had been ever since the scene of meeting with his daughter. That greater care, gnawing at his heart, seemed to render him insensible to what was passing. He was not so. As Kirker ended (for he was the last speaker) a change came over Sequin's manner, quick as a flash of lightning. Suddenly rousing himself from his attitude of indifference, he stepped forward in front of the mutineers. "Dare!" shouted he, in a voice of thunder, "dare to dishonour your oaths! By heavens! the first man who raises knife or rifle shall die on the instant!" There was a pause, and a moment of deep silence. "I had made a vow," continued he, "that should it please God to restore me my child, this hand should be stained with no more blood. Let any man force me to break that vow, and, by Heaven, his blood shall be the first to stain it!" A vengeful murmur ran through the crowd, but no one replied. "You are but a cowardly brute, with all your bluster," he continued, turning round to Kirker, and looking him in the eye. "Up with that knife! quick! or I will send this bullet through your ruffian heart!" Seguin had drawn his pistol, and stood in an attitude that told he would execute the threat. His form seemed to have grown larger; his eye dilated, flashing as it rolled, and the man shrank before its glance. He saw death in it if he disobeyed, and with a surly murmur he fumbled mechanically at his belt, and thrust the blade back into its sheath. But the mutiny was not yet quelled. These were men not so easily conquered. Fierce exclamations still continued, and the mutineers again began to encourage one another with shouts. I had thrown myself alongside the chief, with my revolvers cocked and ready, resolved to stand by him to the death. Several others had done the same, among whom were Rube, Garey, Sanchez the bull-fighter, and the Maricopa. The opposing parties were nearly equal, and a fearful conflict would have followed had we fought; but at this moment an object appeared that stifled the resentment of all. It was the common enemy! Away on the western border of the valley we could see dark objects, hundreds of them, coming over the plain. They were still at a great distance, but the practised eyes of the hunters knew them at a glance. They were horsemen; they were Indians; they were our pursuers, the Navajoes! They were riding at full gallop, and strung over the prairie like hounds upon a run. In a twinkling they would be on us. "Yonder!" cried Seguin, "yonder are scalps enough to satisfy you; but let us see to our own. Come! to your horses! On with the atajo! I will keep my word with you at the pass. Mount! my brave fellows, mount!" The last speech was uttered in a tone of reconciliation; but it needed not that to quicken the movements of the hunters. They knew too well their own danger. They could have sustained the attack among the houses, but it would only have been until the return of the main tribe, when they knew that every life would be taken. To make a stand at the town would be madness, and was not thought of. In a moment we were in our saddles; and the atajo, strung out with the captives and provisions, was hurrying off toward the woods. We purposed passing the defile that opened eastward, as our retreat by the other route was now cut off by the advancing horsemen. Seguin had thrown himself at the head, leading the mule upon which his daughter was mounted. The rest followed, straggling over the plain without rank or order. I was among the last to leave the town. I had lingered behind purposely, fearing some outrage, and determined, if possible, to prevent it. "At length," thought I, "they have all gone!" and putting spurs to my horse, I galloped after. When I had ridden about a hundred yards from the walls, a loud yell rang behind me; and, reining in my horse, I turned in the saddle and looked back. Another yell, wild and savage, directed me to the point whence the former had come. On the highest roof of the temple two men were struggling. I knew them at a glance; and I knew, too, it was a death-struggle. One was the medicine chief, as I could tell by the flowing, white hair. The scanty skirt and leggings, the naked ankles, the close-fitting skull-cap, enabled me easily to distinguish his antagonist. It was the earless trapper! The conflict was a short one. I had not seen the beginning of it, but I soon witnessed the denouement. As I turned, the trapper had forced his adversary against the parapet, and with his long, muscular arm was bending him over its edge. In the other hand, uplifted, he brandished his knife! I saw a quick flash as the blade was plunged; a red gush spurted over the garments of the Indian; his arms dropped, his body doubled over the wall, balanced a moment, and then fell with a dull, sodden sound upon the terrace below! The same wild whoop again rang in my ears, and the hunter disappeared from the root. I turned to ride on. I knew it was the settling of some old account, the winding up of some terrible revenge. The clattering of hoofs sounded behind me, and a horseman rode up alongside. I knew, without turning my head, that it was the trapper. "Fair swop, they say, ain't no stealin'. Putty har, too, it ur. Wagh! It won't neyther match nor patch mine; but it makes one's feelin's easier." Puzzled at this speech, I turned to ascertain its meaning. I was answered by the sight that met my eye. An object was hanging from the old man's belt, like a streak of snow-white flax. But it was not that. It was hair. It was a scalp! There were drops of blood struggling down the silvery strands as they shook, and across them, near the middle, was a broad red band. It was the track of the trapper's knife where he had wiped it! CHAPTER FORTY. THE FIGHT IN THE PASS. We entered the woods, and followed the Indian trail up stream. We hurried forward as fast as the atajo could be driven. A scramble of five miles brought us to the eastern end of the valley. Here the sierras impinged upon the river, forming a canon. It was a grim gap, similar to that we had passed on entering from the west, but still more fearful in its features. Unlike the former, there was no road over the mountains on either side. The valley was headed in by precipitous cliffs, and the trail lay through the canon, up the bed of the stream. The latter was shallow. During freshets it became a torrent; and then the valley was inaccessible from the east, but that was a rare occurrence in these rainless regions. We entered the canon without halting, and galloped over the detritus, and round huge boulders that lay in its bed. Far above us rose the frowning cliffs, thousands of feet overhead. Great rocks scarped out, abutting over the stream; shaggy pines hung top downward, clinging in their seams; shapeless bunches of cacti and mezcals crawled along the cliffs, their picturesque but gloomy foliage adding to the wildness of the scene. It was dark within the pass, from the shadow of the jutting masses; but now darker than usual, for black storm-clouds were swathing the cliffs overhead. Through these, at short intervals, the lightning forked and flashed, glancing in the water at our feet. The thunder, in quick, sharp percussions, broke over the ravine; but as yet it rained not. We plunged hurriedly through the shallow stream, following the guide. There were places not without danger, where the water swept around angles of the cliff with an impetuosity that almost lifted our horses from their feet; but we had no choice, and we scrambled on, urging our animals with voice and spur. After riding for a distance of several hundred yards, we reached the head of the canon and climbed out on the bank. "Now, cap'n," cried the guide, reining up, and pointing to the entrance, "hyur's yur place to make stand. We kin keep them back till thur sick i' the guts; that's what we kin do." "You are sure there is no pass that leads out but this one?" "Ne'er a crack that a cat kud get out at; that ur, 'ceptin' they go back by the other eend; an' that'll take them a round-about o' two days, I reckin." "We will defend this, then. Dismount, men! Throw yourselves behind the rocks!" "If 'ee take my advice, cap, I'd let the mules and weemen keep for'ard, with a lot o' the men to look arter 'em; them that's ridin' the meanest critters. It'll be nose an' tail when we do go; and if they starts now, yur see wa kin easy catch up with 'em t'other side o' the parairar." "You are right, Rube! We cannot stay long here. Our provisions will give out. They must move ahead. Is that mountain near the line of our course, think you?" As Seguin spoke, he pointed to a snow-crowned peak that towered over the plain, far off to the eastward. "The trail we oughter take for the ole mine passes clost by it, cap'n. To the south'art o' yon snowy, thur's a pass; it's the way I got clur myself." "Very well; the party can take the mountain for their guide. I will despatch them at once." About twenty men, who rode the poorest horses, were selected from the band. These, guarding the atajo and captives, immediately set out and rode off in the direction of the snowy mountain. El Sol went with this party, in charge of Dacoma and the daughter of our chief. The rest of us prepared to defend the pass. Our horses were tied in a defile; and we took our stands where we could command the embouchure of the canon with our rifles. We waited in silence for the approaching foe. As yet no war-whoop had reached us; but we knew that our pursuers could not be far off; and we knelt behind the rocks, straining our eyes down the dark ravine. It is difficult to give an idea of our position by the pen. The ground we had selected as the point of defence was unique in its formation, and not easily described; yet it is necessary you should know something of its peculiar character in order to comprehend what followed. The stream, after meandering over a shallow, shingly channel, entered the canon through a vast gate-like gap, between two giant portals. One of these was the abrupt ending of the granite ridge, the other a detached mass of stratified rock. Below this gate the channel widened for a hundred yards or so, where its bed was covered with loose boulders and logs of drift timber. Still farther down, the cliffs approached each other, so near that only two horsemen could ride between them abreast; and beyond this the channel again widened, and the bed of the stream was filled with rocks, huge fragments that had fallen from the mountain. The place we occupied was among the rocks and drift, within the canon, and below the great gap which formed its mouth. We had chosen the position from necessity, at at this point the bank shelved out and offered a way to the open country, by which our pursuers could outflank us, should we allow them to get so far up. It was necessary, therefore, to prevent this; and we placed ourselves to defend the lower or second narrowing of the channel. We knew that below that point beetling cliffs walled in the stream on both sides, so that it would be impossible for them to ascend out of its bed. If we could restrain them from making a rush at the shelving bank, we would have them penned up from any farther advance. They could only flank our position by returning to the valley, and going about by the western end, a distance of fifty miles at the least. At all events, we should hold them in check until the atajo had got a long start; and then, trusting to our horses, we intended to follow it in the night. We knew that in the end we should have to abandon the defence, as the want of provisions would not allow us to hold out for any length of time. At the command of our leader we had thrown ourselves among the rocks. The thunder was now pealing over our heads, and reverberating through the canon. Black clouds rolled along the cliffs, split and torn by brilliant jets. Big drops, still falling thinly, slapped down upon the stones. As Seguin had told me, rain, thunder, and lightning are rare phenomena in these regions; but when they do occur, it is with that violence which characterises the storms of the tropics. The elements, escaping from their wonted continence, rage in fiercer war. The long-gathering electricity, suddenly displaced from its equilibrium, seems to revel in havoc, rending asunder the harmonies of nature. The eye of the geognosist, in scanning the features of this plateau land, could not be mistaken in the character of its atmosphere. The dread canons, the deep barrancas, the broken banks of streams, and the clay-cut channels of the arroyos, all testified that we were in a land of sudden floods. Away to the east, towards the head waters of the river, we could see that the storm was raging in its full fury. The mountains in that direction were no longer visible. Thick rain-clouds were descending upon them, and we could hear the sough of the falling water. We knew that it would soon be upon us. "What's keepin' them anyhow?" inquired a voice. Our pursuers had time to have been up. The delay was unexpected. "The Lord only knows!" answered another. "I s'pose thar puttin' on a fresh coat o' paint at the town." "They'll get their paint washed off, I reckin. Look to yer primin', hosses! that's my advice." "By gosh! it's a-goin' to come down in spouts." "That's the game, boyees! hooray for that!" cried old Rube. "Why? Do you want to git soaked, old case?" "That's adzactly what this child wants." "Well, it's more 'n I do. I'd like to know what ye want to git wet for. Do ye wish to put your old carcass into an agey?" "If it rains two hours, do 'ee see," continued Rube, without paying attention to the last interrogatory, "we needn't stay hyur, do 'ee see?" "Why not, Rube?" inquired Seguin, with interest. "Why, cap," replied the guide, "I've seed a skift o' a shower make this hyur crick that 'ee wudn't care to wade it. Hooray! it ur a-comin', sure enuf! Hooray!" As the trapper uttered these exclamations, a vast black cloud came rolling down from the east, until its giant winds canopied the defile. It was filled with rumbling thunder, breaking at intervals into louder percussions, as the red bolts passed hissing through it. From this cloud the rain fell, not in drops, but, as the hunter had predicted, in "spouts." The men, hastily throwing the skirts of their hunting shirts over their gun-locks, remained silent under the pelting of the storm. Another sound, heard between the peals, now called our attention. It resembled the continuous noise of a train of waggons passing along a gravelly road. It was the sound of hoof-strokes on the shingly bed of the canon. It was the horse-tread of the approaching Navajoes! Suddenly it ceased. They had halted. For what purpose? Perhaps to reconnoitre. This conjecture proved to be correct; for in a few moments a small red object appeared over a distant rock. It was the forehead of an Indian with its vermilion paint. It was too distant for the range of a rifle, and the hunters watched it without moving. Soon another appeared, and another, and then a number of dark forms were seen lurking from rock to rock, as they advanced up the canon. Our pursuers had dismounted, and were approaching us on foot. Our faces were concealed by the "wrack" that covered the stones; and the Indians had not yet discovered us. They were evidently in doubt as to whether we had gone on, and this was their vanguard making the necessary reconnaissance. In a short time the foremost, by starts and runs, had got close up to the narrow part of the canon. There was a boulder below this point, and the upper part of the Indian's head showed itself for an instant over the rock. At the same instant half a dozen rifles cracked; the head disappeared; and, the moment after, an object was seen down upon the pebbles, at the base of the boulder. It was the brown arm of the savage, lying palm upward. We knew that the leaden messengers had done their work. The pursuers, though at the expense of one of their number, had now ascertained the fact of our presence, as well as our position; and the advanced party were seen retreating as they had approached. The men who had fired reloaded their pieces, and, kneeling down as before, watched with sharp eyes and cocked rifles. It was a long time before we heard anything more of the enemy; but we knew that they were deliberating on some plan of attack. There was but one way by which they could defeat us: by charging up the canon, and fighting us hand-to-hand. By an attack of this kind their main loss would be in the first volley. They might ride upon us before we could reload; and, far outnumbering us, would soon decide the day with their long lances. We knew all this; but we knew, too, that a first volley, when well delivered, invariably staggers an Indian charge, and we relied on such a hope for our safety. We had arranged to fire by platoons, and thus have the advantage of a second discharge, should the Indians not retreat at the first. For nearly an hour the hunters crouched under the drenching rain, looking only to keep dry the locks of their pieces. The water, in muddy rivulets, began to trickle through the shingle, and eddying around the rocks, covered the wide channel in which we now stood, ankle-deep. Both above and below us, the stream, gathered up by the narrowing of the channel, was running with considerable velocity. The sun had set, at least it seemed so, in the dismal ravine where we were. We were growing impatient for the appearance of our enemy. "Perhaps they have gone round," suggested one. "No; thar a-waitin' till night. They'll try it then." "Let 'em wait, then," muttered Rube, "ef thur green enuf. A half an hour more'll do; or this child don't understan' weather signs." "Hist! hist!" cried several voices together. "See; they are coming!" All eyes were bent down the pass. A crowd of dark objects appeared in the distance, filling up the bed of the stream. They were the Indians, and on horseback. We knew from this that they were about to make a dash. Their movements, too, confirmed it. They had formed two deep, and held their bows ready to deliver a flight of arrows as they galloped up. "Look out, boyees!" cried Rube; "thur a-comin' now in airnest. Look to yur sights, and give 'em gos; do 'ee hear?" As the trapper spoke, two hundred voices broke into a simultaneous yell. It was the war-cry of the Navajoes! As its vengeful notes rang upon the canon, they were answered by loud cheers from the hunters, mingled with the wild whoops of their Delaware and Shawano allies. The Indians halted for a moment beyond the narrowing of the canon, until those who were rearmost should close up. Then, uttering another cry, they dashed forward into the gap. So sudden was their charge that several of them had got fairly through before a shot was fired. Then came the reports of the guns; the crack-- crack--crack of rifles; the louder detonations of the Spanish pieces, mingled with the whizzing sound of Indian arrows. Shouts of encouragement and defiance were given on both sides; and groans were heard, as the grooved bullet or the poisoned barb tore up the yielding flesh. Several of the Indians had fallen at the first volley. A number had ridden forward to the spot of our ambush, and fired their arrows in our faces. But our rifles had not all been emptied; and these daring savages were seen to drop from their saddles at the straggling and successive reports. The main body wheeled behind the rocks, and were now forming for a second charge. This was the moment of danger. Our guns were idle, and we could not prevent them from passing the gap, and getting through to the open country. I saw Seguin draw his pistol, and rush forward, calling upon those who were similarly armed to follow his example. We ran after our leader down to the very jaws of the canon, and stood waiting the charge. It was soon to come; for the enemy, exasperated by many circumstances, were determined on our destruction, cost what it might. Again we heard their fierce war-cry, and amidst its wild echoes the savages came galloping into the gap. "Now's yur time," cried a voice; "fire! Hooray!" The cracks of fifty pistols were almost simultaneous. The foremost horses reared up and fell back, kicking and sprawling in the gap. They fell, as it were, in a body, completely choking up the channel. Those who came on behind urged their animals forward. Some stumbled on the heap of fallen bodies. Their horses rose and fell again, trampling both dead and living among their feet. Some struggled over and fought us with their lances. We struck back with our clubbed guns, and closed upon them with our knives and tomahawks. The stream rose and foamed against the rocks, pent back by the prostrate animals. We fought thigh-deep in the gathering flood. The thunder roared overhead, and the lightning flashed in our faces, as though the elements took part in the conflict! The yelling continued wild and vengeful as ever. The hunters answered it with fierce shouts. Oaths flew from foaming lips, and men grappled in the embrace that ended only in death! And now the water, gathered into a deep dam, lifted the bodies of the animals that had hitherto obstructed it, and swept them out of the gap. The whole force of the enemy would be upon us. Good heavens! they are crowding up, and our guns are empty! At this moment a new sound echoed in our ears. It was not the shouts of men, nor the detonation of guns, nor the pealing of the thunder. It was the hoarse roaring: of the torrent! A warning cry was heard behind us. A voice called out: "Run for your lives! To the bank! to the bank!" I turned, and beheld my companions rushing for the slope, uttering words of terror and caution. At the same instant my eye became fixed upon an approaching object. Not twenty yards above where I stood, and just entering the canon, came a brown and foaming mass. It was water, bearing on its crested front huge logs of drift and the torn branches of trees. It seemed as though the sluice of some great dam had been suddenly carried away, and this was the first gush of the escaping flood! As I looked it struck the portals of the canon with a concussion like thunder, and then, rearing back, piled up to a height of twenty feet. The next moment it came surging through the gap. I heard their terrified cry as the Indians wheeled their horses and fled. I ran for the bank, followed by my companions. I was impeded by the water, which already reached to my thighs; but with desperate energy I plunged and weltered through it, till I had gained a point of safety. I had hardly climbed out when the torrent rolled past with a hissing, seething sound. I stood to observe it. From where I was I could see down the ravine for a long reach. The Indians were already in full gallop, and I saw the tails of their hindmost horses just disappearing round the rocks. The bodies of the dead and wounded were still lying in the channel. There were hunters as well as Indians. The wounded screamed as they saw the coming flood. Those who had been our comrades called to us for help; we could do nothing to save them. Their cries had hardly reached us when they were lifted upon the crest of the whirling current, like so many feathers, and carried off with the velocity of projectiles! "Thar's three good fellows gone under! Wagh!" "Who are they?" asked Seguin, and the men turned round with inquiring looks. "Thar's one Delaware, and big Jim Harris, and--" "Who is the third man that's missing? Can anyone tell?" "I think, captain, it's Kirker." "It is Kirker, by the 'tarnal! I seed him down. Wagh! They'll lift his har to a sartinty." "Ay, they'll fish him out below. That's a sure case." "They'll fish out a good haul o' thur own, I reckin. It'll be a tight race, anyhow. I've heern o' a horse runnin' agin a thunder shower; but them niggurs 'll make good time, if thur tails ain't wet afore they git t'other eend--they will." As the trapper spoke, the floating and still struggling bodies of his comrades were carried to a bend in the canon, and whirled out of sight. The channel was now filled with the foaming yellow flood that frothed against the rocks as it forged onward. Our danger was over for the time. The canon had become impassable; and, after gazing for a while upon the torrent, most of us with feelings of awe, we turned away, and walked toward the spot where we had left our horses. CHAPTER FORTY ONE. THE BARRANCA. We staked our horses upon the open plain, and, returning to the thicket, cut down wood and kindled fires. We felt secure. Our pursuers, even had they escaped back to the valley, could not now reach us, except by turning the mountains or waiting for the falling of the flood. We knew that that would be as sudden as its rise, should the rain cease; but the storm still raged with unabated fury. We could soon overtake the atajo; but we determined to remain for some time at the canon, until men and horses had refreshed themselves by eating. Both were in need of food, as the hurried events of the preceding days had given no opportunity for a regular bivouac. The fires were soon blazing under shelter of the overhanging rocks; and the dried meat was broiled for our suppers, and eaten with sufficient relish. Supper ended, we sat, with smoking garments, around the red embers. Several of the men had received wounds. These were rudely dressed by their comrades, the doctor having gone forward with the atajo. We remained for several hours by the canon. The tempest still played around us, and the water rose higher and higher. This was exactly what we wished for; and we had the satisfaction of seeing the flood increase to such a height that, as Rube assured us, it could not subside for hours. It was then resolved that we should continue our journey. It was near midnight when we drew our pickets and rode off. The rain had partially blinded the trail made by El Sol and his party, but the men who now followed it were not much used to guide-posts, and Rube, acting as leader, lifted it at a trot. At intervals the flashes of lightning showed the mule tracks in the mud, and the white peak that beckoned us in the distance. We travelled all night. An hour after sunrise we overtook the atajo, near the base of the snow mountain. We halted in the mountain pass; and, after a short while spent in cooking and eating breakfast, continued our journey across the sierra. The road led through a dry ravine, into an open plain that stretched east and south beyond the reach of our vision. It was a desert. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I will not detail the events that occurred to us in the passage of that terrible jornada. They were similar to those we experienced in the deserts to the west. We suffered from thirst, making one stretch of sixty miles without water. We passed over sage-covered plains, without a living object to break the death-like monotony that extended around us. We cooked our meals over the blaze of the artemisia. But our provisions gave out; and the pack mules, one by one, fell under the knives of the hungry hunters. By night we camped without fires; we dared not kindle them; for though, as yet, no pursuers had appeared, we knew they must be on our trail. We had travelled with such speed that they had not been able to come up with us. For three days we headed towards the south-east. On the evening of the third we descried the Mimbres Mountains towering up on the eastern border of the desert. The peaks of these were well known to the hunters, and became our guides as we journeyed on. We approached the Mimbres in a diagonal direction, as it was our purpose to pass through the sierra by the route of the old mine, once the prosperous property of our chief. To him every feature of the landscape was a familiar object. I observed that his spirits rose as we proceeded onward. At sundown we reached the head of the Barranca del Oro, a vast cleft that traversed the plain leading down to the deserted mine. This chasm, like a fissure caused by some terrible earthquake, extended for a distance of twenty miles. On either side was a trail; for on both the table-plain ran in horizontally to the very lips of the abyss. About midway to the mine, on the left brow, the guide knew of a spring, and we proceeded towards this with the intention of camping by the water. We dragged wearily along. It was near midnight when we arrived at the spring. Our horses were unsaddled and staked on the open plain. Here Seguin had resolved that we should rest longer than usual. A feeling of security had come over him as he approached these well-remembered scenes. There was a thicket of young cotton-trees and willows fringing the spring, and in the heart of this a fire was kindled. Another mule was sacrificed to the manes of hunger; and the hunters, after devouring the tough steaks, flung themselves upon the ground and slept. The horse-guard only, out by the caballada, stood leaning upon his rifle, silent and watchful. Resting my head in the hollow of my saddle, I lay down by the fire. Seguin was near me with his daughter. The Mexican girls and the Indian captives lay clustered over the ground, wrapped in their tilmas and striped blankets. They were all asleep, or seemed so. I was as wearied as the rest, but my thoughts kept me awake. My mind was busy with the bright future. "Soon," thought I, "shall I escape from these horrid scenes; soon shall I breathe a purer atmosphere in the sweet companionship of my beloved Zoe. Beautiful Zoe! before two days have passed I shall again be with you, press your impassioned lips, call you my loved: my own! Again shall we wander through the silent garden by the river groves; again shall we sit upon the moss-grown seats in the still evening hours; again shall we utter those wild words that caused our hearts to vibrate with mutual happiness! Zoe, pure and innocent as the angels." The child-like simplicity of that question, "Enrique, what is to marry?" Ah! sweet Zoe! you shall soon learn. Ere long I shall teach you. Ere long wilt thou be mine; for ever mine! "Zoe! Zoe! are you awake? Do you lie sleepless on your soft couch? or am I present in your dreams? Do you long for my return, as I to hasten it? Oh, that the night were past! I cannot wait for rest. I could ride on sleepless--tireless--on--on!" My eye rested upon the features of Adele, upturned and shining in the blaze of the fire. I traced the outlines of her sister's face: the high, noble front, the arched eyebrow, and the curving nostril. But the brightness of complexion was not there; the smile of angelic innocence was not there. The hair was dark, the skin browned; and there was a wildness in the expression of the eye, stamped, no doubt, by the experience of many a savage scene. Still was she beautiful, but it was beauty of a far less spiritual order than that of my betrothed. Her bosom rose and fell in short, irregular pulsations. Once or twice, while I was gazing, she half awoke, and muttered some words in the Indian tongue. Her sleep was troubled and broken. During the journey, Seguin had waited upon her with all the tender solicitude of a father; but she had received his attentions with indifference, or at most regarded them with a cold thankfulness. It was difficult to analyse the feelings that actuated her. Most of the time she remained silent and sullen. The father endeavoured, once or twice, to resuscitate the memories of her childhood, but without success; and with sorrow at his heart he had each time relinquished the attempt. I thought he was asleep. I was mistaken. On looking more attentively in his face, I saw that he was regarding her with deep interest, and listening to the broken phrases that fell from her lips. There was a picture of sorrow and anxiety in his look that touched me to the heart. As I watched him, the girl murmured some words, to me unintelligible, but among them I recognised the name "Dacoma." I saw that Seguin started as he heard it. "Poor child!" said he, seeing that I was awake; "she is dreaming, and a troubled dream it is. I have half a mind to wake her out of it." "She needs rest," I replied. "Ay, if that be rest. Listen! again `Dacoma.'" "It is the name of the captive chief." "Ay; they were to have been married according to their laws." "But how did you learn this?" "From Rube: he heard it while he was a prisoner at the town." "And did she love him, do you think?" "No. It appears not. She had been adopted as the daughter of the medicine chief, and Dacoma claimed her for a wife. On certain conditions she was to have been given to him; but she feared, not loved him, as her words now testify. Poor child! a wayward fate has been hers." "In two journeys more her sufferings will be over. She will be restored to her home, to her mother." "Ah! if she should remain thus it will break the heart of my poor Adele." "Fear not, my friend. Time will restore her memory. I think I have heard of a parallel circumstance among the frontier settlements of the Mississippi." "Oh! true, there have been many. We will hope for the best." "Once in her home the objects that surrounded her in her younger days may strike a chord in her recollection. She may yet remember all. May she not?" "Hope! Hope!" "At all events, the companionship of her mother and sister will soon win her from the thoughts of savage life. Fear not! She will be your daughter again." I urged these ideas for the purpose of giving consolation. Seguin made no reply; but I saw that the painful and anxious expression still remained clouding his features. My own heart was not without its heaviness. A dark foreboding began to creep into it from some undefined cause. Were his thoughts in communion with mine? "How long," I asked, "before we can reach your house on the Del Norte?" I scarce knew why I was prompted to put this question. Some fear that we were still in peril from the pursuing foe? "The day after to-morrow," he replied, "by the evening. Heaven grant we may find them safe!" I started as the words issued from his lips. They had brought pain in an instant. This was the true cause of my undefined forebodings. "You have fears?" I inquired, hastily. "I have." "Of what? of whom?" "The Navajoes." "The Navajoes!" "Yes. My mind has not been easy since I saw them go eastward from the Pinon. I cannot understand why they did so, unless they meditated an attack on some settlements that lie on the old Llanos' trail. If not that, my fears are that they have made a descent on the valley of El Paso, perhaps on the town itself. One thing may have prevented them from attacking the town: the separation of Dacoma's party, which would leave them too weak for that; but still the more danger to the small settlements both north and south of it." The uneasiness I had hitherto felt arose from an expression which Seguin had dropped at the Pinon spring. My mind had dwelt upon it, from time to time, during our desert journeyings; but as he did not speak of it afterwards, I thought that he had not attached so much importance to it. I had reasoned wrongly. "It is just probable," continued the chief, "that the Passenos may defend themselves. They have done so heretofore with more spirit than any of the other settlements, and hence their long exemption from being plundered. Partly that, and partly because our band has protected their neighbourhood for a length of time, which the savages well know. It is to be hoped that the fear of meeting with us will prevent them from coming into the Jornada north of the town. If so, ours have escaped." "God grant," I faltered, "that it may be thus!" "Let us sleep," added Seguin. "Perhaps our apprehensions are idle, and they can benefit nothing. To-morrow we shall march forward without halt, if our animals can bear it. Go to rest, my friend; you have not much time." So saying, he laid his head in his saddle, and composed himself to sleep. In a short while, as if by an act of volition, he appeared to be in a profound slumber. With me it was different. Sleep was banished from my eyes, and I tossed about, with a throbbing pulse and a brain filled with fearful fancies. The very reaction from the bright dreams in which I had just been indulging rendered my apprehensions painfully active. I began to imagine scenes that might be enacting at that very moment: my betrothed struggling in the arms of some savage; for these southern Indians, I knew, possessed none of the chivalrous delicacy that characterise the red men of the "forest." I fancied her carried into a rude captivity; becoming the squaw of some brutal brave; and with the agony of the thought I rose to my feet and rushed out upon the prairie. Half-frantic, I wandered, not heeding whither I went. I must have walked for hours, but I took no note of the time. I strayed back upon the edge of the barranca. The moon was shining brightly, but the grim chasm, yawning away into the earth at my feet, lay buried in silence and darkness. My eye could not pierce its fathomless gloom. I saw the camp and the caballada far above me on the bank; but my strength was exhausted, and, giving way to my weariness, I sank down upon the very brink of the abyss. The keen torture that had hitherto sustained me was followed by a feeling of utter lassitude. Sleep conquered agony, and I slept. CHAPTER FORTY TWO. THE FOE. I must have slept an hour or more. Had my dreams been realities, they would have filled the measure of an age. At length the raw air of the morning chilled and awoke me. The moon had gone down, for I remembered that she was close to the horizon when I last saw her. Still it was far from being dark, for I could see to a considerable distance through the fog. "Perhaps the day is breaking," thought I, and I turned my face to the east. It was as I had guessed: the eastern sky was streaked with light; it was morning. I knew it was the intention of Seguin to start early, and I was about summoning resolution to raise myself when voices broke on my ear. There were short, exclamatory phrases, and hoof-strokes upon the prairie turf. "They are up, and preparing to start." With this thought, I leaped to my feet, and commenced hurrying towards the camp. I had not walked ten paces when I became conscious that the voices were behind me! I stopped and listened. Yes; beyond a doubt I was going from them. "I have mistaken the way to the camp!" and I stepped forward to the edge of the barranca for the purpose of assuring myself. What was my astonishment to find that I had been going in the right direction, and that the sounds were coming from the opposite quarter. My first thought was that the band had passed me, and were moving on the route. "But no; Seguin would not. Oh! he has sent of a party to search for me: it is they." I called out "Hollo!" to let them know where I was. There was no answer; and I shouted again, louder than before. All at once the sounds ceased. I knew the horsemen were listening, and I called once more at the top of my voice. There was a moment's silence! Then I could hear a muttering of many voices and the trampling of horses as they galloped towards me. I wondered that none of them had yet answered my signal; but my wonder was changed into consternation when I perceived that the approaching party were on the other side of the barranca! Before I could recover from my surprise, they were opposite me and reining up on the bank of the chasm. They were still three hundred yards distant, the width of the gulf; but I could see them plainly through the thin and filmy fog. There appeared in all about a hundred horsemen; and their long spears, their plumed heads, and half-naked bodies, told me at a glance they were Indians! I stayed to inquire no further, but ran with all my speed for the camp. I could see the horsemen on the opposite cliff keeping pace with me at a slow gallop. On reaching the spring I found the hunters in surprise, and vaulting into their saddles. Seguin and a few others had gone out on the extreme edge, and were looking over. They had not thought of an immediate retreat, as the enemy, having the advantage of the light, had already discovered the strength of our party. Though only a distance of three hundred yards separated the hostile bands, twenty miles would have to be passed before they could meet in battle. On this account Seguin and the hunters felt secure for the time; and it was hastily resolved to remain where we were, until we had examined who and what were our opponents. They had halted on the opposite bank, and sat in their saddles, gazing across. They seemed puzzled at our appearance. It was still too dark for them to distinguish our complexions. Soon, however, it grew clearer; our peculiar dress and equipments were recognised; and a wild yell, the Navajo war-cry, came pealing over the abyss! "It's Dacoma's party!" cried a voice, "they have taken the wrong side o' the gully." "No," exclaimed another, "thar's too few o' them for Dacoma's men. Thar ain't over a hundred." "Maybe the flood tuk the rest," suggested the first speaker. "Wagh! how could they 'a missed our trail, that's as plain as a waggon track? 'Tain't them nohow." "Who then? It's Navagh. I kud tell thar yelp if I wur sleepin'." "Them's head chief's niggurs," said Rube, at this moment riding forward. "Looke! yonder's the old skunk hisself, on the spotted hoss!" "You think it is they, Rube?" inquired Seguin. "Sure as shootin', cap." "But where are the rest of his band? These are not all." "They ain't far off, I'll be boun'. Hish-sh! I hear them a-comin'." "Yonder's a crowd! Look, boys! look!" Through the fog, now floating away, a dark body of mounted men were seen coming up the opposite side. They advanced with shouts and ejaculations, as though they were driving cattle. It was so. As the fog rose up, we could see a drove of horses, horned cattle, and sheep, covering the plain to a great distance. Behind these rode mounted Indians, who galloped to and fro, goading the animals with their spears, and pushing them forward. "Lord, what a plunder!" exclaimed one of the hunters. "Ay, them's the fellows have made something by thar expedition. We are comin' back empty as we went. Wagh!" I had been engaged in saddling my horse, and at this moment came forward. It was not upon the Indians that my eye rested, nor upon the plundered cattle. Another object attracted my gaze, and sent the blood curdling to my heart. Away in the rear of the advancing drove I saw a small party, distinct from the rest. Their light dresses fluttering in the wind told me that they were not Indians. They were women; they were captives! There appeared to be about twenty in all; but my feelings were such that I took little heed of their number. I saw that they were mounted, and that each was guarded by an Indian, who rode by her side. With a palpitating heart I passed my eye over the group from one to the other; but the distance was too great to distinguish the features of any of them. I turned towards the chief. He was standing with the glass to his eye. I saw him start; his cheek suddenly blanched; his lips quivered convulsively, and the instrument fell from his fingers to the ground! With a wild look he staggered back, crying out-- "Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! Oh, God! Thou hast stricken me now!" I snatched up the telescope to assure myself. But it needed not that. As I was raising it, an object running along the opposite side caught my eye. It was the dog Alp! I levelled the glass, and the next moment was gazing through it on the face of my betrothed! So close did she seem that I could hardly restrain myself from calling to her. I could distinguish her pale, beautiful features. Her cheek was wan with weeping, and her rich golden hair hung dishevelled from her shoulders, reaching to the withers of her horse. She was covered with a serape, and a young Indian rode beside her, mounted upon a showy horse, and dressed in the habiliments of a Mexican hussar! I looked at none of the others, though a glance showed me her mother in the string of captives that came after. The drove of horses and cattle soon passed up, and the females with their guards arrived opposite us. The captives were left back on the prairie, while the warriors rode forward to where their comrades had halted by the brow of the barranca. It was now bright day; the fog had cleared away, and across the impassable gulf the hostile bands stood gazing at each other! CHAPTER FORTY THREE. NEW MISERY. It was a most singular rencontre. Here were two parties of men, heart-foes to one another, each returning from the country of the other, loaded with plunder and carrying a train of captives! They had met midway, and stood within musket range, gazing at each other with feelings of the most bitter hostility, and yet a conflict was as impossible as though twenty miles of the earth's surface lay between them. On one side were the Navajoes, with consternation in their looks, for the warriors had recognised their children. On the other stood the scalp-hunters, not a few of whom, in the captive train of their enemies, could distinguish the features of a wife, a sister, or a daughter. Each gazed upon the other with hostile hearts and glances of revenge. Had they met thus on the open prairie they would have fought to the death. It seemed as though the hand of God had interposed to prevent the ruthless shedding of blood, which, but for the gulf that lay between these foemen, would certainly have ensued. I cannot describe how I felt at the moment. I remember that, all at once, I was inspired with a new vigour both of mind and body. Hitherto I had been little more than a passive spectator of the events of our expedition. I had been acting without any stimulating heart-motive; now I had one that roused me to, a desperate energy. A thought occurred to me, and I ran up to communicate it. Seguin was beginning to recover from the terrible blow. The men had learnt the cause of his strange behaviour, and stood around him, some of them endeavouring to console him. Few of them knew aught of the family affairs of their chief, but they had heard of his earlier misfortunes: the loss of his mine, the ruin of his property, the captivity of his child. Now, when it became known that among the prisoners of the enemy were his wife and daughter, even the rude hearts of the hunters were touched with pity at his more than common sufferings. Compassionate exclamations were heard from them, mingled with expressions of their determination to restore the captives or die in the attempt. It was with the intention of exciting such a feeling that I had come forward. It was my design, out of my small stock of world's wealth, to set a premium on devotedness and valour, but I saw that nobler motives had anticipated me, and I remained silent. Seguin seemed pleased at the loyalty of his comrades, and began to exhibit his wonted energy. Hope again had possession of him. The men clustered round him to offer their advice and listen to his directions. "We can fight them, capt'n, even-handed," said the trapper Garey. "Thar ain't over two hundred." "Jest a hundred and ninety-six," interposed a hunter, "without the weemen. I've counted them; that's thar number." "Wal," continued Garey, "thar's some difference atween us in point o' pluck, I reckin; and what's wantin' in number we'll make up wi' our rifles. I never valleys two to one wi' Injuns, an' a trifle throw'd in, if ye like." "Look at the ground, Bill! It's all plain. Whar would we be after a volley? They'd have the advantage wi' their bows and lances. Wagh! they could spear us to pieces thar!" "I didn't say we could take them on the paraira. We kin foller them till they're in the mountains, an' git them among the rocks. That's what I advise." "Ay. They can't run away from us with that drove. That's sartin." "They have no notion of running away. They will most likely attack us." "That's jest what we want," said Garey. "We kin go yonder, and fight them till they've had a bellyful." The trapper, as he spoke, pointed to the foot of the Mimbres, that lay about ten miles off to the eastward. "Maybe they'll wait till more comes up. There's more of head chief's party than these; there were nearly four hundred when they passed the Pinon." "Rube, where can the rest of them be?" demanded Seguin; "I can see down to the mine, and they are not upon the plain." "Ain't a-gwine to be, cap. Some luck in that, I reckin. The ole fool has sent a party by t'other trail. On the wrong scent--them is." "Why do you think they have gone by the other trail?" "Why, cap, it stans for raison. If they wur a-comin' ahint, some o' them niggurs on t'other side wud 'a gone back afore this to hurry 'em up, do 'ee see? Thur hain't gone ne'er a one, as I seed." "You are right, Rube," replied Seguin, encouraged by the probability of what the other had asserted. "What do you advise us?" continued he, appealing to the old trapper, whose counsel he was in the habit of seeking in all cases of similar difficulty. "Wal, cap, it's a twistified piece o' business as it stans; an' I hain't figured it out to my satersfaction jest yet. If 'ee'll gi' me a kupple o' minutes, I'll answer ye to the best o' my possibilities." "Very well; we will wait for you. Men! look to your arms, and see that they are all in readiness." During this consultation, which had occupied but a few seconds of time, we could see that the enemy was similarly employed on the other side. They had drawn around their chief, and from their gesticulations it was plain they were deliberating how they should act. Our appearance, with the children of their principal men as captives, had filled them with consternation at what they saw, and apprehensions of a fearful kind for what they saw not. Returning from a successful foray, laden with spoil, and big with the prospect of feasting and triumph, they suddenly perceived themselves out-generalled at their own game. They knew we had been to their town. They conjectured that we had plundered and burnt their houses, and massacred their women and children. They fancied no less; for this was the very work in which they had themselves been engaged, and their judgment was drawn from their own conduct. They saw, moreover, that we were a large party, able to defend what we had taken, at least against them; for they knew well that with their firearms the scalp-hunters were an over-match for them, when there was anything like an equality of numbers. With these ideas, then, it required deliberation on their part, as well as with us; and we knew that it would be some time before they would act. They, too, were in a dilemma. The hunters obeyed the injunctions of Seguin, and remained silent, waiting upon Rube to deliver his advice. The old trapper stood apart, half-resting upon his rifle, which he clutched with both hands near the muzzle. He had taken out the "stopper," and was looking into the barrel, as if he were consulting some oracular spirit that he kept bottled up within it. It was one of Rube's peculiar "ways," and those who knew this were seen to smile as they watched him. After a few minutes spent in this silent entreaty, the oracle seemed to have sent forth its response; and Rube, returning the stopper to its place, came walking forward to the chief. "Billee's right, cap. If them Injuns must be fit, it's got to be did whur thur's rocks or timmer. They'd whip us to shucks on the paraira. That's settled. Wal, thur's two things: they'll eyther come at us; if so be, yander's our ground," (here the speaker pointed to a spur of the Mimbres); "or we'll be obleeged to foller them. If so be, we can do it as easy as fallin' off a log. They ain't over leg-free." "But how should we do for provisions, in that case? We could never cross the desert without them." "Why, cap, thur's no diffeeculty 'bout that. Wi' the parairas as dry as they are, I kud stampede that hul cavayard as easy as a gang o' bufflers; and we'd come in for a share o' them, I reckin. Thur's a wus thing than that, this child smells." "What?" "I'm afeerd we mout fall in wi' Dacoma's niggurs on the back track; that's what I'm afeerd on." "True; it is most probable." "It ur, unless they got overtuk in the kenyon; an I don't think it. They understan' that crik too well." The probability of Dacoma's band soon joining those of the head chief was apparent to all, and cast a shadow of despondency over every face. They were, no doubt, still in pursuit of us, and would soon arrive on the ground. "Now, cap," continued the trapper, "I've gi'n ye my notion o' things, if so be we're boun' to fight; but I have my behopes we kin get back the weemen 'ithout wastin' our gun-fodder." "How? how?" eagerly inquired the chief and others. "Why, jest this a-way," replied the trapper, almost irritating me with the prolixity of his style. "'Ee see them Injuns on t'other side o' the gulley?" "Yes, yes," hastily replied Seguin. "Wal; 'ee see these hyur?" and the speaker pointed to our captives. "Yes, yes!" "Wal; 'ee see them over yander, though thur hides be a coppery colour, has feelin's for thur childer like white Christyuns. They eat 'em by times, that's true; but thur's a releegius raison for that, not many hyur understands, I reckin." "And what would you have us do?" "Why, jest heist a bit o' a white rag an' offer to swop pris'ners. They'll understan' it, and come to tarms, I'll be boun'. That putty leetle gal with the long har's head chief's darter, an' the rest belongs to main men o' the tribe: I picked 'em for that. Besides, thur's Dacoma an' the young queen. They'll bite thur nails off about them. 'Ee kin give up the chief, and trade them out o' the queen best way ye kin." "I will follow your advice," cried Seguin, his eye brightening with the anticipation of a happy result. "Thur's no time to be wasted, then, cap; if Dacoma's men makes thur appearance, all I've been a-sayin' won't be worth the skin o' a sand-rat." "Not a moment shall be lost;" and Seguin gave orders to make ready the flag of peace. "It 'ud be better, cap, fust to gi' them a good sight o' what we've got. They hain't seed Dacoma yet, nor the queen. Thur in the bushes." "Right!" answered Seguin. "Comrades! bring forward the captives to the edge of the barranca. Bring the Navajo chief. Bring the--my daughter!" The men hurried to obey the command; and in a few minutes the captive children, with Dacoma and the Mystery Queen, were led forward to the very brink of the chasm. The serapes that had shrouded them were removed, and they stood exposed in their usual costumes before the eyes of the Indians. Dacoma still wore his helmet, and the queen was conspicuous in the rich, plume-embroidered tunic. They were at once recognised! A cry of singular import burst from the Navajoes as they beheld these new proofs of their discomfiture. The warriors unslung their lances, and thrust them into the earth with impotent indignation. Some of them drew scalps from their belts, stuck them on the points of their spears, and shook them at us over the brow of the abyss. They believed that Dacoma's band had been destroyed, as well as their women and children; and they threatened us with shouts and gestures. In the midst of all this, we noticed a movement among the more staid warriors. A consultation was going on. It ended. A party were seen to gallop toward the captive women, who had been left far back upon the plain. "Great heavens!" cried I, struck with a horrid idea, "they are going to butcher them! Quick with the flag!" But before the banner could be attached to its staff, the Mexican women were dismounted, their rebozos pulled off, and they were led forward to the precipice. It was only meant for a counter-vaunt, the retaliation of a pang for it was evident the savages knew that among their captives were the wife and daughter of our chief. These were placed conspicuously in front, upon the very brow of the barranca. CHAPTER FORTY FOUR. THE FLAG OF TRUCE. They might have spared themselves the pains. That agony was already felt; but, indeed, a scene followed--that caused us to suffer afresh. Up to this moment we had not been recognised by those near and dear to us. The distance had been too great for the naked eye, and our browned faces and travel-stained habiliments were of themselves a disguise. But the instincts of love are quick and keen, and the eyes of my betrothed were upon me. I saw her start forward; I heard the agonised scream; a pair of snow-white arms were extended, and she sank, fainting, upon the cliff. At the same instant Madame Seguin had recognised the chief, and had called him by name. Seguin shouted to her in reply, and cautioned her in tones of intreaty to remain patient and silent. Several of the other females, all young and handsome, had recognised their lovers and brothers, and a scene followed that was painful to witness. But my eyes were fixed upon her I saw that she recovered from her swoon. I saw the savage in hussar trappings dismount, and, lifting her in his arms, carry her back upon the prairie. I followed them with impotent gaze. I saw that he was paying her kind attentions; and I almost thanked him, though I knew it was but the selfish gallantry of the lover. In a short while she rose to her feet again, and rushed back toward the barranca. I heard my name uttered across the ravine. Hers was echoed back; but at the moment both mother and daughter were surrounded by their guards, and carried back. Meanwhile, the white flag had been got ready, and Seguin, holding it aloft, stood out in front. We remained silent, watching with eager glances for the answer. There was a movement among the clustered Indians. We heard their voices in earnest talk, and saw that something was going on in their midst. Presently, a tall, fine-looking man came out from the crowd, holding an object in his left hand of a white colour. It was a bleached fawn-skin. In his right hand he carried a lance. We saw him place the fawn-skin on the blade of the lance, and stand forward holding it aloft. Our signal of peace was answered. "Silence, men!" cried Seguin, speaking to the hunters; and then, raising his voice, he called aloud in the Indian language-- "Navajoes! you know whom we are. We have passed through your country, and visited your head town. Our object was to search for our dear relatives, who we knew were captives in your land. Some we have recovered, but there are many others we could not find. That these might be restored to us in time, we have taken hostages, as you see. We might have brought away many more, but these we considered enough. We have not burned your town; we have not harmed your wives, your daughters, nor your children. With the exception of these, our prisoners, you will find all as you left them." A murmur ran through the ranks of the Indians. It was a murmur of satisfaction. They had been under the full belief that their town was destroyed and their women massacred; and the words of Seguin, therefore produced a singular effect. We could hear joyful exclamations and phrases interchanged among the warriors. Silence was again restored, and Seguin continued-- "We see that you have been in our country. You have made captives as well as we. You are red men. Red men can feel for their kindred as well as white men. We know this; and for that reason have I raised the banner of peace, that each may restore to the other his own. It will please the Great Spirit, and will give satisfaction to both of us; for that which you hold is of most value to us, and that which we have is dear only to you. Navajoes! I have spoken. I await your answer." When Seguin had ended, the warriors gathered around the head chief, and we could see that an earnest debate was going on amongst them. It was plain there were dissenting voices; but the debate was soon over, and the head chief, stepping forward, gave some instructions to the man who held the flag. The latter in a loud voice replied to Seguin's speech as follows-- "White chief! you have spoken well, and your words have been weighed by our warriors. You ask nothing more than what is just and fair. It would please the Great Spirit and satisfy us to exchange our captives; but how can we tell that your words are true? You say that you have not burned our town nor harmed our women and children. How can we know that this is true? Our town is far off; so are our women, if they be still alive. We cannot ask them. We have only your word. It is not enough." Seguin had already anticipated this difficulty, and had ordered one of our captives, an intelligent lad, to be brought forward. The boy at this moment appeared by his side. "Question him!" shouted he, pointing to the captive lad. "And why may we not question our brother, the chief Dacoma? The lad is young. He may not understand us. The chief could assure us better." "Dacoma was not with us at the town. He knows not what was done there." "Let Dacoma answer that." "Brother!" replied Seguin, "you are wrongly suspicious, but you shall have his answer," and he addressed some words to the Navajo chief, who sat near him upon the ground. The question was then put directly to Dacoma by the speaker on the other side. The proud Indian, who seemed exasperated with the humiliating situation in which he was placed, with an angry wave of his hand and a short ejaculation, answered in the negative. "Now, brother," proceeded Seguin, "you see I have spoken truly. Ask the lad what you first proposed." The boy was then interrogated as to whether we had burnt the town or harmed the women and children. To these two questions he also returned a negative answer. "Well, brother," said Seguin, "are you satisfied?" For a long time there was no reply. The warriors were again gathered in council, and gesticulating with earnestness and energy. We could see that there was a party opposed to pacific measures, who were evidently counselling, the others to try the fortunes of a battle. These were the younger braves; and I observed that he in the hussar costume, who, as Rube informed us, was the son of the head chief, appeared to be the leader of this party. Had not the head chief been so deeply interested in the result, the counsels of these might have carried; for the warriors well knew the scorn that would await them among neighbouring tribes should they return without captives. Besides, there were numbers who felt another sort of interest in detaining them. They had looked upon the daughters of the Del Norte, and "saw that they were fair." But the counsels of the older men at length prevailed, and the spokesman replied-- "The Navajo warriors have considered what they have heard. They believe that the white chief has spoken the truth, and they agree to exchange their prisoners. That this may be done in a proper and becoming manner, they propose that twenty warriors be chosen on each side; that these warriors shall lay down their arms on the prairie in presence of all; that they shall then conduct their captives to the crossing of the barranca by the mine, and there settle the terms of their exchange; that all the others on both sides shall remain where they now are, until the unarmed warriors have got back with the exchanged prisoners; that the white banners shall then be struck, and both sides be freed from the treaty. These are the words of the Navajo warriors." It was some time before Seguin could reply to this proposal. It seemed fair enough; but yet there was a manner about it that led us to suspect some design, and we paused a moment to consider it. The concluding terms intimated an intention on the part of the enemy of making an attempt to retake their captives; but we cared little for this, provided we could once get them on our side of the barranca. It was very proper that the prisoners should be conducted to the place of exchange by unarmed men, and twenty was a proper number; but Seguin well knew how the Navajoes would interpret the word "unarmed"; and several of the hunters were cautioned in an undertone to "stray" into the bushes, and conceal their knives and pistols under the flaps of their hunting-shirts. We thought that we observed a similar manoeuvre going on upon the opposite bank with the tomahawks of our adversaries. We could make but little objection to the terms proposed; and as Seguin knew that time saved was an important object, he hastened to accept them. As soon as this was announced to the Navajoes, twenty men--already chosen, no doubt--stepped out into the open prairie, and striking their lances into the ground, rested against them their bows, quivers, and shields. We saw no tomahawks, and we knew that every Navajo carries this weapon. They all had the means of concealing them about their persons; for most of them were dressed in the garb of civilised life, in the plundered habiliments of the rancho and hacienda. We cared little, as we, too, were sufficiently armed. We saw that the party selected were men of powerful strength; in fact, they were the picked warriors of the tribe. Ours were similarly chosen. Among them were El Sol and Garey, Rube, and the bull-fighter Sanchez. Seguin and I were of the number. Most of the trappers, with a few Delaware Indians, completed the complement. The twenty were soon selected; and, stepping out on the open ground, as the Navajoes had done, we piled our rifles in the presence of the enemy. Our captives were then mounted and made ready for starting. The queen and the Mexican girls were brought forward among the rest. This last was a piece of strategy on the part of Seguin. He knew that we had captives enough to exchange one for one, without these; but he saw, as we all did, that to leave the queen behind would interrupt the negotiation, and perhaps put an end to it altogether. He had resolved, therefore, on taking her along, trusting that he could better negotiate for her on the ground. Failing this, there would be but one appeal--to arms; and he knew that our party was well prepared for that alternative. Both sides were at length ready, and, at a signal, commenced riding down the barranca, in the direction of the mine. The rest of the two bands remained eyeing each other across the gulf, with glances of mistrust and hatred. Neither party could move without the other seeing it; for the plains in which they were, though on opposite sides of the barranca, were but segments of the same horizontal plateau. A horseman proceeding from either party could have been seen by the others to a distance of many miles. The flags of truce were still waving, their spears stuck into the ground; but each of the hostile bands held their horses saddled and bridled, ready to mount at the first movement of the other. CHAPTER FORTY FIVE. A VEXED TREATY. Within the barranca was the mine. The shafts, rude diggings, pierced the cliffs on both sides, like so many caves. The bottom between the cliffs was bisected by a rivulet that murmured among loose rocks. On the banks of this rivulet stood the old smelting-houses and ruined ranches of the miners. Most of them were roofless and crumbling to decay. The ground about them was shaggy and choked up. There were briars, mezcal plants, and cacti--all luxuriant, hirsute, and thorny. Approaching this point, the road on each side of the barranca suddenly dips, the trails converging downward, and meeting among the ruins. When in view of these, both parties halted and signalled each other across the ravine. After a short parley, it was proposed by the Navajoes that the captives and horses should remain on the top of the hill, each train to be guarded by two men. The rest, eighteen on each side, should descend to the bottom of the barranca, meet among the houses, and, having smoked the calumet, arrange the terms of the exchange. Neither Seguin nor I liked this proposal. We saw that, in the event of a rupture in the negotiation (a thing we more than half anticipated), even should our party overpower the other, we could gain nothing. Before we could reach the Navajo captives, up the steep hill, the two guards would hurry them off; or (we dreaded to think of it) butcher them on the ground! It was a fearful thought, but there was nothing improbable in it. We knew, moreover, that smoking the peace-pipe would be another waste of time; and we were on thorns about the approach of Dacoma's party. But the proposal had come from the enemy, and they were obstinate. We could urge no objections to it without betraying our designs; and we were compelled, though loth, to accept it. We dismounted, leaving our horses in charge of the guard, and descending into the ravine, stood face to face with the warriors of Navajo. They were eighteen picked men; tall, broad-shouldered, and muscular. The expression of their faces was savage, subtle, and grim. There was not a smile to be seen, and the lip that at that moment had betrayed one would have lied. There was hate in their hearts and vengeance in their looks. For a moment both parties stood scanning each other in silence. These were no common foes; it was no common hostility that for years had nerved them against each other; and it was no common cause that had now, for the first time, brought them face to face without arms in their hands. A mutual want had forced them to their present attitude of peace, though it was more like a truce between the lion and tiger which have met in an avenue of the jungly forest, and stand eyeing one another. Though by agreement without arms, both were sufficiently armed, and they knew that of each other. The handles of tomahawks, the hafts of knives, and the shining butts of pistols, peeped carelessly out from the dresses both of hunters and Indians. There was little effort made to conceal these dangerous toys, and they were on all sides visible. At length our mutual reconnaissance came to a period, and we proceeded to business. There happened to be no breadth of ground clear of weeds and thorny rubbish, where we could seat ourselves lor the "smoke." Seguin pointed to one of the houses, an adobe structure in a tolerable state of preservation, and several entered to examine it. The building had been used as a smelting-house, and broken trucks and other implements were lying over the floor. There was but one apartment, not a large one either, and near its centre stood a brazero covered with cold slag and ashes. Two men were appointed to kindle a fire upon the brazero, and the rest, entering, took their seats upon the trucks and masses of quartz rock ore that lay around the room! As I was about seating myself, an object leaped against me from behind, uttering a low whine that ended in a bark. I turned, and beheld the dog Alp. The animal, frenzied with delight, rushed upon me repeatedly; and it was some time before I could quiet him and take my place. At length we all were seated upon opposite sides of the fire, each party forming the arc of a circle, concave to the other. There was a heavy door still hanging upon its hinge; and as there were no windows in the house, this was suffered to remain open. It opened to the inside. The fire was soon kindled, and the clay-stone calumet filled with "kini-kinik." It was then lighted, and passed from mouth to mouth in profound silence. We noticed that each of the Indians, contrary to their usual custom of taking a whiff or two, smoked long and slowly. We knew it was a ruse to protract the ceremony and gain time; while we--I answer for Seguin and myself--were chafing at the delay. When the pipe came round to the hunters, it passed in quicker time. The unsocial smoke was at length ended, and the negotiation began. At the very commencement of the "talk," I saw that we were going to have a difficulty. The Navajoes, particularly the younger warriors, assumed a bullying and exacting attitude that the hunters were not likely to brook; nor would they have submitted to it for a moment but for the peculiar position in which their chief was placed. For his sake they held in as well as they could; but the tinder was apparent, and would not bear many sparks before it blazed up. The first question was in relation to the number of the prisoners. The enemy had nineteen, while we, without including the queen or the Mexican girls, numbered twenty-one. This was in our favour; but, to our surprise, the Indians insisted that their captives were grown women, that most of ours were children, and that two of the latter should be exchanged for one of the former! To this absurdity Seguin replied that we could not agree; but, as he did not wish to keep any of their prisoners, he would exchange the twenty-one for the nineteen. "Twenty-one!" exclaimed a brave; "why, you have twenty-seven. We counted them on the bank." "Six of those you counted are our own people. They are whites and Mexicans." "Six whites!" retorted the savage; "there are but five. Who is the sixth?" "Perhaps it is our queen; she is light in colour. Perhaps the pale chief has mistaken her for a white!" "Ha! ha! ha!" roared the savages, in a taunting laugh. "Our queen a white! Ha! ha! ha!" "Your queen," said Seguin, in a solemn voice; "your queen, as you call her, is my daughter." "Ha! ha! ha!" again howled they, in scornful chorus; "your daughter! Ha! ha! ha!" and the room rang with their demoniac laughter. "Yes!" repeated he, in a loud but faltering voice, for he now saw the turn that things were taking. "Yes, she is my daughter." "How can that be?" demanded one of the braves, an orator of the tribe. "You have a daughter among our captives; we know that. She is white as the snow upon the mountain-top. Her hair is yellow as the gold upon these armlets. The queen is dark in complexion; among our tribes there are many as light as she, and her hair is like the wing of the black vulture. How is that? Our children are like one another. Are not yours the same? If the queen be your daughter, then the golden-haired maiden is not. You cannot be the father of both. But no!" continued the subtle savage, elevating his voice, "the queen is not your daughter. She is of our race--a child of Montezuma--a queen of the Navajoes!" "The queen must be returned to us!" exclaimed several braves; "she is ours; we must have her!" In vain Seguin reiterated his paternal claim. In vain he detailed the time and circumstances of her capture by the Navajoes themselves. The braves again cried out-- "She is our queen; we must have her!" Seguin, in an eloquent speech, appealed to the feelings of the old chief, whose daughter was in similar circumstances; but it was evident that the latter lacked the power, if he had the will, to stay the storm that was rising. The younger warriors answered with shouts of derision, one of them crying out that "the white chief was raving." They continued for some time to gesticulate, at intervals declaring loudly that on no terms would they agree to an exchange unless the queen were given up. It was evident that some mysterious tie bound them to such extreme loyalty. Even the exchange of Dacoma was less desired by them. Their demands were urged in so insulting a manner that we felt satisfied it was their intention, in the end, to bring us to a fight. The rifles, so much dreaded by them, were absent; and they felt certain of obtaining a victory over us. The hunters were equally willing to be at it, and equally sure of a conquest. They only waited the signal from their leader. A signal was given; but, to their surprise and chagrin, it was one of peace! Seguin, turning to them and looking down--for he was upon his feet-- cautioned them in a low voice to be patient and silent. Then covering his eyes with his hand, he stood for some moments in an attitude of meditation. The hunters had full confidence in the talents as well as bravery of their chief. They knew that he was devising some plan of action, and they patiently awaited the result. On the other side, the Indians showed no signs of impatience. They cared not how much time was consumed, for they hoped that by this time Dacoma's party would be on their trail. They sat still, exchanging their thoughts in grunts and short phrases, while many of them filled up the intervals with laughter. They felt quite easy, and seemed not in the least to dread the alternative of a fight with us. Indeed, to look at both parties, one should have said that, man to man, we would have been no match for them. They were all, with one or two exceptions, men of six feet--most of them over it--in height; while many of the hunters were small-bodied men. But among these there was not one "white feather." The Navajoes knew that they themselves were well armed for close conflict. They knew, too, that we were armed. Ha! they little dreamt how we were armed. They saw that the hunters carried knives and pistols; but they thought that, after the first volley, uncertain and ill-directed, the knives would be no match for their terrible tomahawks. They knew not that from the belts of several of us--El Sol, Seguin, Garey, and myself--hung a fearful weapon, the most fearful of all others in close combat: the Colt revolver. It was then but a new patent, and no Navajo had ever heard its continuous and death-dealing detonations. "Brothers!" said Seguin, again placing himself in an attitude to speak, "you deny that I am the father of the girl. Two of your captives, whom you know to be my wife and daughter, are her mother and sister. This you deny. If you be sincere, then, you cannot object to the proposal I am about to make. Let them be brought before us; let her be brought. If she fail to recognise and acknowledge her kindred, then shall I yield my claim, and the maiden be free to return with the warriors of Navajo." The hunters heard this proposition with surprise. They knew that Seguin's efforts to awaken any recollection of himself in the mind of the girl had been unsuccessful. What likelihood was there that she would remember her mother? But Seguin himself had little hope of this, and a moment's reflection convinced us that his proposal was based upon some hidden idea. He saw that the exchange of the queen was a _sine qua non_ with the Indians; and without this being granted, the negotiations would terminate abruptly, leaving his wife and younger daughter still in the hands of our enemies. He reflected on the harsh lot which would await them in their captivity, while she returned but to receive homage and kindness. They must be saved at every sacrifice; she must be yielded up to redeem them. But Seguin had still another design. It was a strategic manoeuvre, a desperate and _dernier ressort_ on his part. It was this: he saw that, if he could once get the captives, his wife and daughter, down among the houses, there would be a possibility, in the event of a fight, of carrying them off. The queen, too, might thus be rescued as well. It was the alternative suggested by despair. In a hurried whisper he communicated this to those of his comrades nearest him, in order to insure their prudence and patience. As soon as the proposal was made, the Navajoes rose from their seats, and clustered together in a corner of the room to deliberate. They spoke in low tones. We could not, of course, understand what was said; but from the expression of their faces, and their gesticulations, we could tell that they seemed disposed to accept it. They knew that the queen had not recognised Seguin as her father. They had watched her closely as she rode down the opposite side of the barranca; in fact, conversed by signals with her, before we could interfere to prevent it. No doubt she had informed them of what happened at the canon with Dacoma's warriors, and the probability of their approach. They had little fear, then, that she would remember her mother. Her long absence, her age when made captive, her after-life, and the more than kind treatment she had received at their hands, had long since blotted out every recollection of her childhood and its associations. The subtle savages well knew this; and at length, after a discussion which lasted for nearly an hour, they resumed their seats, and signified their assent to the proposal. Two men, one from each party, were now sent for the three captives, and we sat waiting their arrival. In a short time they were led in. I find a difficulty in describing the scene that followed. The meeting of Seguin with his wife and daughter; my own short embrace and hurried kiss; the sobs and swooning of my betrothed; the mother's recognition of her long-lost child; the anguish that ensued as her yearning heart made its appeals in vain; the half-indignant, half-pitying looks of the hunters; the triumphant gestures and ejaculations of the Indians: all formed points in a picture that lives with painful vividness in my memory, though I am not sufficiently master of the author's art to paint it. In a few minutes the captives were led out of the house, guarded by two men, while the rest of us remained to complete the negotiation. CHAPTER FORTY SIX. A CONFLICT WITH CLOSED DOORS. The occurrence did not improve the temper of either party, particularly that of the hunters. The Indians were triumphant, but not a whit the less inclined to obstinacy and exaction. They now returned to their former offer. For those of our captives that were woman-grown they would exchange one for one, and for their chief Dacoma they offered to give two; for the rest they insisted on receiving two for one. By this arrangement, we could ransom only about twelve of the Mexican women; but finding them determined, Seguin at length assented to these terms, provided they would allow us the privilege of choosing the twelve to be exchanged. To our surprise and indignation this was refused! We no longer doubted what was to be the winding up of the negotiation. The air was filled with the electricity of anger. Hate kindled hate, and vengeance was burning in every eye. The Indians scowled on us, glancing malignantly out of their oblique eyes. There was triumph, too, in their looks, for, they believed themselves far stronger than we. On the other side sat the hunters quivering under a double indignation. I say double. I can hardly explain what I mean. They had never before been so braved by Indians. They had, all their lives, been accustomed, partly out of bravado and partly from actual experience, to consider the red men their inferiors in subtilty and courage; and to be thus bearded by them, filled the hunters, as I have said, with a double indignation. It was like the bitter anger which the superior feels towards his resisting inferior, the lord to his rebellious serf, the master to his lashed slave who has turned and struck him. It was thus the hunters felt. I glanced along their line. I never saw faces with such expressions as I saw there and then. Their lips were white, and drawn tightly over their teeth; their cheeks were set and colourless; and their eyes, protruding forward, seemed glued in their sockets. There was no motion to be detected in the features of any, save the twitching of angry muscles. Their right hands were buried in the bosoms of their half-open shirts, each, I knew, grasping a weapon; and they appeared not to sit, but to crouch forward, like panthers quivering upon the spring. There was a long interval of silence on both sides. It was broken by a cry from without--the scream of the war-eagle! We should not have noticed this, knowing that these birds were common in the Mimbres, and one might have flown over the ravine; but we thought, or fancied, that it had made an impression upon our adversaries. They were men not apt to show any sudden emotion; but it appeared to us that, all at once, their glances grew bolder, and more triumphant. Could it have been a signal? We listened for a minute. The scream was repeated; and although it was exactly after the manner of a bird well known to us--the white-headed eagle--we sat with unsatisfied and tearful apprehensions. The young chief, he in the hussar dress, was upon his feet. He had been the most turbulent and exacting of our opponents. He was a man of most villainous and licentious character, so Rube had told us, but nevertheless holding great power among the braves. It was he who had spoken in refusal of Seguin's offer, and he was now about to assign his reasons. We knew them without that. "Why," said he, looking at Seguin as he spoke, "why is it that the white chief is so desirous of choosing among our captives? Is it that he wishes to get back the yellow-haired maiden?" He paused a moment, as if for a reply; but Seguin made none. "If the white chief believes our queen to be his daughter, would not he wish that her sister should be her companion, and return with her to our land?" Again he paused; but, as before, Seguin remained silent. The speaker proceeded. "Why not let the yellow-haired maiden return with us, and become my wife? Who am I that ask this? A chief of the Navajoes, the descendants of the great Montezuma; the son of their king!" The savage looked around him with a vaunting air as he uttered these words. "Who is she," he continued, "that I am thus begging for a bride? The daughter of one who is not even respected among his own people: the daughter of a culatta!" I looked at Seguin. I saw his form dilating. I saw the big veins swelling along his throat. I saw gathering in his eyes that wild expression I had once before noticed. I knew that the crisis was near. Again the eagle screamed! "But," proceeded the savage, seeming to draw new boldness from the signal, "I shall beg no more. I love the white maiden. She must be mine; and this very night shall she sleep--" He never finished the sentence. Seguin's bullet had sped, piercing the centre of his forehead. I caught a glimpse of the red round hole, with its circle of blue powder, as the victim tell forward on his face! All together we sprang to our feet. As one man rose hunters and Indians. As if from one throat, pealed the double shout of defiance; and, as if by one hand, knives, pistols, and tomahawks were drawn together. The next moment we closed and battled! Oh! it was a fearful strife, as the pistols cracked, the long knives glittered, and the tomahawks swept the air; a fearful, fearful strife! You would suppose that the first shock would have prostrated both ranks. It was not so. The early blows of a struggle like this are wild, and well parried, and human life is hard to take. What were the lives of men like these? A few fell. Some recoiled from the collision, wounded and bleeding, but still to battle again. Some fought hand to hand; while several pairs had clutched, and were striving to fling each other in the desperate wrestle of death! Some rushed for the door, intending to fight outside. A few got out; but the crowd pressed against it, the door closed, dead bodies fell behind it; we fought in darkness. We had light enough for our purpose. The pistols flashed at quick intervals, displaying the horrid picture. The light gleamed upon fiend-like faces, upon red and waving weapons, upon prostrate forms of men, upon others struggling in every attitude of deadly conflict! The yells of the Indians, and the not less savage shouts of their white foemen, had continued from the first; but the voices grew hoarser, and the shouts were changed to groans, and oaths, and short, earnest exclamations. At intervals were heard the quick percussions of blows, and the dull, sodden sound of falling bodies. The room became filled with smoke and dust, and choking sulphur; and the combatants were half-stifled as they fought. At the first break of the battle I had drawn my revolver, and fired it in the face of the closing foemen. I had fired shot after shot, some at random, others directed upon a victim. I had not counted the reports, until the cock "checking" on the steel nipple told me I had gone the round of the six chambers. This had occupied but as many seconds of time. Mechanically I stuck the empty weapon behind my belt, and, guided by an impulse, made for the door. Before I could reach it, it was closed, and I saw that to get out was impossible. I turned to search for an antagonist; I was not long in finding one. By the flash of a pistol I saw one of the Indians rushing upon me with upraised hatchet. Up to this time something had hindered me from drawing my knife. I was now too late; and, holding out my arms to catch the blow, I ducked my head towards the savage. I felt the keen blade cutting the flesh as it glanced along my shoulder. I was but slightly wounded. He had missed his aim from my stooping so suddenly; but the impetus brought our bodies together, and the next moment we grappled. We stumbled over a heap of rock, and for some moments struggled together upon the ground, neither able to use his weapon. Again we rose, still locked in the angry embrace; again we were falling with terrible force. Something caught us in our descent. It shook; it gave way with a crashing sound, and we fell headlong into the broad and brilliant light! I was dazzled and blinded. I heard behind me a strange rumbling like the noise made by falling timbers; but I heeded not that: I was too busy to speculate upon causes. The sudden shock had separated us, and both rose at the same instant, again to grapple, and again to come together to the earth. We twisted and wriggled over the ground, among weeds and thorny cacti. I was every moment growing weaker, while the sinewy savage, used to such combats, seemed to be gaining fresh nerve and breath. Thrice he had thrown me under; but each time I had clutched his right arm, and prevented the descending blow. I had succeeded in drawing my knife as we fell through the wall; but my arm was also held fast, and I was unable to use it. As we came to the ground for the fourth time, my antagonist fell under me. A cry of agony passed from his lips; his head "coggled" over among the weeds; and he lay in my arms without struggling. I felt his grasp gradually relaxing. I looked in his face. His eyes were glassy and upturned. Blood was gurgling through his teeth. I saw that he was dead. To my astonishment I saw this, for I knew I had not struck him as yet. I was drawing my arm from under him to do so, when I noticed that he ceased to resist. But the knife now caught my eye. It was red, blade and haft, and so was the hand that clasped it. As we fell I had accidentally held it point upward. My antagonist had fallen upon the blade! I now thought of my betrothed, and, untwining myself from the lithe and nerveless limbs of the savage, I rose to my feet. The ranche was in flames! The roof had fallen in upon the brazero, and the dry shingles had caught the blaze. Men were crawling out from the burning ruin, but not to run away. No! Under its lurking flames, amidst the hot smoke, they still battled fierce, and foaming, and frenzied. I did not stay to recognise whom they were, these tireless combatants. I ran forward, looking on all sides for the objects of my solicitude. The wave of female dresses caught my eye, far up the cliff, on the road leading to the Navajo captives. It was they! The three were climbing the steep path, each urged onward by a savage. My first impulse was to rush after; but at that moment fifty horsemen made their appearance upon the hill, and came galloping downward. I saw the madness of attempting to follow them, and turned to retreat towards the other side, where we had left our captives and horses. As I ran across the bottom, shots rang in my ear, proceeding from our side of the barranca. Looking up, I descried the mounted hunters coming down at a gallop, pursued by a cloud of savage horsemen. It was the band of Dacoma! Uncertain what to do, I stood for a moment where I was, and watched the pursuit. The hunters, on reaching the ranches, did not halt, but galloped on down the valley, firing as they went. A body of Indians swept on after them, while another body pulled up, clustered around the blazing ruin, and commenced searching among the walls. I was yet screened in the thicket of cacti; but I saw that my hiding-place would soon be pierced by the eyes of the subtle savages; and dropping upon my hands and knees, I crept into the cliff. On reaching it, I found myself close to the mouth of a cave, a small shaft of the mine, and into this I at once betook myself. CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN. A QUEER ENCOUNTER IN A CAVE. The place into which I had crawled was of irregular outlines. Rocks jutted along the sides, and between these, small lateral shafts had been dug, where the miners had followed the ramifications of the "quixa." The cave was not a deep one; the vein had not proved profitable, and had been abandoned for some other. I kept up it till I was fairly "in the dark"; and then groping against one side, I found a recess, in which I ensconced myself. By peeping round the rock, I could see out of the cave and some distance over the bottom of the barranca, where the bushes grew thin and straggling. I had hardly seated myself when my attention was called to a scene that was passing outside. Two men on their hands and knees were crawling through the cactus plants in front of the cave. Beyond them half a dozen savages on horseback were beating the thicket, but had not yet seen the men. These I recognised easily. They were Gode and the doctor. The latter was nearer me; and as he scrambled on over the shingle something started out of the rocks within reach of his hand. I noticed that it was a small animal of the armadillo kind. I saw him stretch forward, clutch it, and with a pleased look deposit it in a bag that was by his side. All this time the Indians were whooping and yelling behind him, and not fifty yards distant. Doubtless the animal was of some new species, but the zealous naturalist never gave it to the world. He had scarcely drawn forth his hand again when a cry from the savages announced that he and Gode were discovered, and the next moment both lay upon the ground pierced with lances, and to all appearance dead! Their pursuers now dismounted with the intention of scalping them. Poor Reichter! his cap was pulled off; the bleeding trophy followed, and he lay with the red skull towards the cave--a hideous spectacle! Another Indian had alighted, and stood over the Canadian with his long knife in his hand. Although pitying my poor follower, and altogether in no humour for mirth, knowing what I did, I could not help watching the proceedings with some curiosity. The savage stood for a moment, admiring the beautiful curls that embellished the head of his victim. He was no doubt thinking what handsome fringes they would make for his leggings. He appeared to be in ecstasies of delight; and from the flourishes which he made with his knife, I could see that it was his intention to skin the whole head! After cutting several capers around it, he stooped and grasped a fistful of curls; but, before he had touched the scalp with his blade, the hair lifted off, displaying the white and marble-like skull! With a cry of terror, the savage dropped the wig, and, running backward, fell over the body of the doctor. The cry attracted his, comrades; and several of them, dismounting, approached the strange object with looks of astonishment. One, more courageous than the rest, picked up the wig, which they all proceeded to examine with curious minuteness. Then, one after another went up to the shining skull and passed his fingers over its smooth surface, all the while uttering exclamations of surprise. They tried on the wig, took it off, and put it on again, turning it in various ways. At length, he who claimed it as his property pulled off his plumed head-dress and, adjusting the wig upon his own head, front backward, stalked proudly around, with the long curls dangling over his face. It was altogether a curious scene, and, under other circumstances, might have amused me. There was something irresistibly comic in the puzzled looks of the actors; but I had been too deeply affected by the tragedy to laugh at the farce. There was too much of horror around me. Seguin perhaps dead; she gone for ever, the slave of the brutal savage. My own peril, too, at the moment; for I knew not how soon I might be discovered and dragged forth. This affected me least of all. My life was now of little value to me, and so I regarded it. But there is an instinct, so-called, of self-preservation, even when the will ceases to act. Hopes soon began to shape themselves in my mind, and along with these the wish to live. Thoughts came. I might organise a powerful band; I might yet rescue her. Yes! even though years might intervene, I would accomplish this. She would still be true! She would never forget! Poor Seguin! what a life of hope withered in an hour! he himself sealing the sacrifice with his blood! But I would not despair, even with his fate for a warning. I would take up the drama where he had ended. The curtain should rise upon new scenes, and I would not abandon the stage until I had accomplished a more joyous finale; or, failing this, had reached the denouement of death or vengeance. Poor Seguin! No wonder he had been a scalp-hunter. I could now understand how holy was his hate for the ruthless red man. I, too, had imbibed the passion. With such reflections passing hastily--for the scene I have described, and the sequent thoughts, did not occupy much time--I turned my eyes inwards to examine whether I was sufficiently concealed in my niche. They might take it into their heads to search the shaft. As I endeavoured to penetrate the gloom that extended inwards, my gaze became riveted on an object that caused me to shrink back with a cold shudder. Notwithstanding the scenes I had just passed through, this was the cause of still another agony. In the thick of the darkness I could distinguish two small spots, round and shining. They did not scintillate, but rather glistened with a steady greenish lustre. I knew that they were eyes! I was in the cave with a panther, or with a still more terrible companion, the grizzly bear! My first impulse was to press back into the recess where I had hidden myself. This I did, until my back leaned against the rocks. I had no thoughts of attempting to escape out. That would have been from the frying-pan into the fire, for the Indians were still in front of the cave. Moreover, any attempt to retreat would only draw on the animal, perhaps at that moment straining to spring. I cowered closely, groping along my belt for the handle of my knife. I clasped this at length, and drawing it forth, waited in a crouching attitude. During all this time my eyes had remained fixed on the lustrous orbs before me. I saw that they were fixed upon mine, and watched me without as much as winking. Mine seemed to be possessed of abstract volition. I could not take them off. They were held by some terrible fascination; and I felt, or fancied, that the moment this should be broken, the animal would spring upon me. I had heard of fierce brutes being conquered by the glance of the human eye, and I endeavoured to look back my _vis-a-vis_ with interest. We sat for some time, neither of us moving an inch. I could see nothing of the animal's body; nothing but the green gleaming circles that seemed set in a ground of ebony. As they had remained motionless so long, I conjectured that the owner of them was still lying in his lair, and would not make his attack until something disturbed him; perhaps until the Indians had gone away. The thought now occurred to me that I might better arm myself. I knew that a knife would be of little avail against a grizzly bear. My pistol was still in my belt, but it was empty. Would the animal permit me to load it? I resolved to make the attempt. Still leaving my eyes to fulfil their office, I felt for my flask and pistol, and finding both ready, I commenced loading. I proceeded with silence and caution, for I knew that these animals could see in the dark, and that in this respect my _vis-a-vis_ had the advantage of me. I felt the powder in with my finger, and pushing the ball on top of it, rolled the cylinder to the right notch, and cocked. As the spring "clicked," I saw the eyes start. "It will be on me now!" Quick as the thought, I placed my finger to the trigger but before I could level, a voice, with a well-known accent, restrained me. "Hold on thur!" cried the voice. "Why didn't 'ee say yur hide wur white? I thought 'twur some sneaking Injun. Who are 'ee, anyhow? 'Tain't Bill Garey? No, Billee, 'tain't you, ole fellur." "No," said I, recovering from my surprise; "it's not Bill." "I mout 'a guessed that. Bill wud 'a know'd me sooner. He wud 'a know'd the glint o' this niggur's eyes as I wud his'n. Ah! poor Billee! I's afeerd that trapper's rubbed out; an' thur ain't many more o' his sort in the mountains. No, that thur ain't. "Rot it!" continued the voice, with a fierce emphasis; "this comes o' layin' one's rifle ahint them. Ef I'd 'a had Tar-guts wi' me, I wudn't 'a been hidin' hyur like a scared 'possum. But she are gone; that leetle gun are gone; an' the mar too; an' hyur I am 'ithout eyther beast or weepun; cuss the luck!" And the last words were uttered with an angry hiss, that echoed through every part of the cave. "Yur the young fellur, the capt'n's friend, ain't 'ee?" inquired the speaker, with a sudden change of tone. "Yes," I replied. "I didn't see yur a-comin' in, or I mout 'a spoke sooner. I've got a smart lick across the arm, an' I wur just a-tyin' it up as ye tumbled in thur. Who did 'ee think this child wur?" "I did not think you were anyone. I took you for a grizzly bear." "Ha! ha! ha! He! he! he! I thort so, when I heard the click o' your pistol. He! he! he! If ever I sets my peepers on Bill Garey agin, I'll make that niggur larf till his guts ache. Ole Rube tuk for a grizzly! If that ain't--Ha! ha! ha! ha! He! he! he! Ho! ho! hoo!" And the old trapper chuckled at the conceit, as if he had just been witnessing some scene of amusement, and there was not an enemy within a hundred miles of him. "Did you see anything of Seguin?" I asked, wishing to learn whether there was any probability that my friend still lived. "Did I? I did; an' a sight that wur. Did 'ee iver see a catamount riz?" "I believe I have," said I. "Wal, that wur him. He wur in the shanty when it felled. So were I m'self; but I wa'n't there long arter. I creeped out some'rs about the door; an' jest then I seed the cap, hand to hand wi' an Injun in a stan'-up tussle: but it didn't last long. The cap gi'n him a sockdolloger some'rs about the ribs, an' the niggur went under; he did." "But what of Seguin? Did you see him afterwards?" "Did I see him arterwards? No; I didn't." "I fear he is killed." "That ain't likely, young fellur. He knows these diggin's better'n any o' us; an' he oughter know whur to cacher, I reckin. He's did that, I'll be boun'." "Ay, if he would," said I, thinking that Seguin might have followed the captives, and thrown away his life recklessly. "Don't be skeert about him, young fellur. The cap ain't a-gwine to put his fingers into a bee's nest whur thur's no honey; he ain't." "But where could he have gone, when you did not see him afterwards?" "Whur could he 'a gone? Fifty ways he kud 'a gone through the brush. I didn't think o' lookin' arter him. He left the Injun whur he had throw'd him, 'ithout raisin' the har; so I stooped down to git it; an' when I riz agin, he wa'n't thur no how. But that Injun wur. Lor'! that Injun are some punkins; he are." "What Indian do you mean?" "Him as jined us on the Del Norte--the Coco." "El Sol! What of him? is he killed?" "Wal, he ain't, I reckin; nor can't a-be: that's this child's opeenyun o' it. He kim from under the ranche, arter it tumbled; an' his fine dress looked as spick as ef it had been jest tuk out o' a bandy-box. Thur wur two at him, an', Lor'! how he fit them! I tackled on to one o' them ahint, an' gin him a settler in the hump ribs; but the way he finished the other wur a caution to Crockett. 'Twur the puttiest lick I ever seed in these hyur mountains, an' I've seed a good few, I reckin." "How was it?" "'Ee know, the Injun--that are, the Coco--fit wi' a hatchet?" "Yes." "Wal, then; that ur's a desprit weepun, for them as knows how to use it; an' he diz; that Injun diz. T'other had a hatchet, too, but he didn't keep it long. 'Twur clinked out o' his hands in a minnit, an' then the Coco got a down blow at him. Wagh! it wur a down blow, an' it wa'n't nuthin' else. It split the niggur's head clur down to the thrapple. 'Twus sep'rated into two halves as ef 't had been clove wi' a broad-axe! Ef 'ee had 'a seed the varmint when he kim to the ground, 'ee'd 'a thort he wur double-headed. Jest then I spied the Injuns a-comin' down both sides o' the bluff; an' havin' neyther beast nor weepun, exceptin' a knife, this child tuk a notion 'twa'n't safe to be thur any longer, an' cached; he did." CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT. SMOKED OUT. Our conversation had been carried on in a low tone, for the Indians still remained in front of the cave. Many others had arrived, and were examining the skull of the Canadian with the same looks of curiosity and wonderment that had been exhibited by their comrades. Rube and I sat for some time in silence, watching them. The trapper had flitted near me, so that he could see out and talk in whispers. I was still apprehensive that the savages might search the cave. "'Tain't likely," said my companion. "They mout ef thur hadn't 'a been so many o' these diggins, do 'ee see? Thur's a grist o' 'em--more'n a hundred--on t'other side; an' most o' the men who got clur tuk furrer down. It's my notion the Injuns seed that, an' won't disturb--Ef thur ain't that dog!" I well understood the meaning of the emphasis with which these last words were repeated. My eyes, simultaneously with those of the speaker, had fallen upon the dog Alp. He was running about in front of the cave. I saw at a glance he was searching for me. The next moment he had struck the trail where I had crawled through the cacti, and came running down in the direction of the cave. On reaching the body of the Canadian, which lay directly in his track, he stopped for a moment and appeared to examine it. Then, uttering a short yelp, he passed on to that of the doctor, where he made a similar demonstration. He ran several times from one to the other, but at length left them; and, with his nose once more to the ground, disappeared out of our view. His strange actions had attracted the attention of the savages, who, one and all, stood watching him. My companion and I were beginning to hope that he had lost me, when, to our dismay, he appeared a second time, coming down the trail as before. This time he leaped over the bodies, and the next moment sprang into the mouth of the cave. A yell from without told us that we were lost. We endeavoured to drive the dog out again, and succeeded, Rube having wounded him with his knife; but the wound itself, and the behaviour of the animal outside, convinced our enemies that someone was within the shaft. In a few seconds the entrance was darkened by a crowd of savages, shouting and yelling. "Now show yur shootin', young fellur!" said my companion. "It's the new kind o' pistol 'ee hev got. Load every ber'l o' it." "Shall I have time to load them?" "Plenty o' time. They ain't a-gwine to come in 'ithout a light. Thur gone for a torch to the shanty. Quick wi' yur! Slap in the fodder!" Without waiting to reply, I caught hold of my flask, and loaded the remaining five chambers of the revolver. I had scarcely finished when one of the Indians appeared in front with a flaming brand, and was about stooping into the mouth of the cavern. "Now's yur time," cried Rube. "Fetch the niggur out o' his boots! Fetch him!" I fired, and the savage, dropping the torch, fell dead upon the top of it! An angry yell from without followed the report, and the Indians disappeared from the front. Shortly after, an arm was seen reaching in, and the dead body was drawn back out of the entrance. "What will they do next, think you?" I inquired of my companion. "I can't tell adzactly yit; but thur sick o' that game, I reckin. Load that ber'l agin. I guess we'll git a lot o' 'm afore we gins in. Cuss the luck! that gun, Tar-guts! Ef I only had that leetle piece hyur! 'Ee've got six shots, have 'ee? Good! 'Ee mout chock up the cave wi' their karkidges afore they kin reach us. It ur a great weepun, an' no mistakes. I seed the cap use it. Lor'! how he made it tell on them niggers i' the shanty! Thur ain't many o' them about, I reckin. Load sure, young fellur! Thur's plenty o' time. They knows what you've got thur." During all this dialogue none of the Indians made their appearance, but we could hear them on both sides of the shaft without. We knew they were deliberating on what plan they would take to get at us. As Rube suggested, they seemed to be aware that the shot had come from a revolver. Doubtless some of the survivors of the late fight had informed them of the fearful havoc that had been made among them with our pistols, and they dreaded to face them. What other plan would they adopt? Starve us out? "They mout," said Rube, in answer to my question, "an' kin if they try. Thur ain't a big show o' vittlin' hyur, 'ceptin' we chaw donnicks. But thur's another way, ef they only hev the gumshin to go about it, that'll git us sooner than starvin'. Ha!" ejaculated the speaker, with emphasis. "I thort so. Thur a-gwine to smoke us. Look 'ee yander!" I looked forth. At a distance I saw several Indians coming in the direction of the cave, carrying large bundles of brushwood. Their intention was evident. "But can they do this?" I inquired, doubting the possibility of our enemies being able to effect their purpose in that way; "can we not bear the smoke?" "Bar it! Yur green, young fellur. Do 'ee know what sort o' brush thur a-toatin' yander?" "No," said I; "what is it?" "It ur the stink-plant, then; an' the stinkinest plant 'ee ever smelt, I reckin. The smoke o' it ud choke a skunk out o' a persimmon log. I tell 'ee, young 'un, we'll eyther be smoked out or smothered whur we are; an' this child hain't fit Injun for thirty yeern or better, to go under that a way. When it gets to its wurst I'm a-gwine to make a rush. That's what I'm a-gwine ter do, young fellur." "But how?" I asked, hurriedly; "how shall we act then?" "How? Yur game to the toes, ain't 'ee?" "I am willing to fight to the last." "Wal, than, hyur's how, an' the only how: when they've raised the smoke so that they can't see us a-comin', we'll streak it out among 'em. You hev the pistol, an' kin go fo'most. Shoot every niggur that clutches at ye, an' run like blazes! I'll foller clost on yur heels. If we kin oncest git through the thick o' 'em, we mout make the brush, an' creep under it to the big caves on t'other side. Them caves jines one another, an' we mout dodge them thur. I seed the time this 'coon kud 'a run a bit, but these hyur jeints ain't as soople as they wur oncest. We kin try neverthemless; an' mind, young fellur, it's our only chance: do 'ee hear?" I promised to follow the directions that my never-despairing companion had given me. "They won't get old Rube's scalp yit, they won't. He! he! he!" I turned towards him. The man was actually laughing at this wild and strangely-timed jest. It was awful to hear him. Several armfuls of brush were now thrown into the mouth of the cave. I saw that it was the creosote plant, the ideodondo. It was thrown upon the still blazing torch, and soon caught, sending up a thick, black smoke. More was piled on; and the fetid vapour, impelled by some influence from without, began to reach our nostrils and lungs, causing an almost instantaneous feeling of sickness and suffocation. I could not have borne it long. I did not stay to try how long, for at that moment I heard Rube crying out-- "Now's your time, young fellur! Out, and gi' them fits!" With a feeling of desperate resolve, I clutched my pistol and dashed through the smoking brushwood. I heard a wild and deafening shout. I saw a crowd of men--of fiends. I saw spears, and tomahawks, and red knives raised, and-- CHAPTER FORTY NINE. A NOVEL MODE OF EQUITATION. When consciousness returned, I found that I was lying on the ground, and my dog, the innocent cause of my captivity, was licking my face. I could not have been long senseless, for the savages were still gesticulating violently around me. One was waving them back. I recognised him. It was Dacoma! The chief uttered a short harangue that seemed to quiet the warriors. I could not tell what he said, but I heard him use frequently the word Quetzalcoatl. I knew that this was the name of their god, but I did not understand, at the time, what the saving of my life could have to do with him. I thought that Dacoma was protecting me from some feeling of pity or gratitude, and I endeavoured to recollect whether I had shown him any special act of kindness during his captivity. I had sadly mistaken the motives of that splendid savage. My head felt sore. Had they scalped me? With the thought I raised my hand, passing it over my crown. No. My favourite brown curls were still there; but there was a deep cut along the back of my head--the dent of a tomahawk. I had been struck from behind as I came out, and before I could fire a single bullet. Where was Rube? I raised myself a little and looked around. He was not to be seen anywhere. Had he escaped, as he intended? No; it would have been impossible for any man, with only a knife, to have fought his way through so many. Moreover, I did not observe any commotion among the savages, as if an enemy had escaped them. None seemed to have gone off from the spot. What then had--? Ha! I now understood, in its proper sense, Rube's jest about his scalp. It was not a _double-entendre_, but a _mot_ of triple ambiguity. The trapper, instead of following me, had remained quietly in his den, where, no doubt, he was at that moment watching me, his scapegoat, and chuckling at his own escape. The Indians, never dreaming that there were two of us in the cave, and satisfied that it was now empty, made no further attempts to smoke it. I was not likely to undeceive them. I knew that Rube's death or capture could not have benefited me; but I could not help reflecting on the strange stratagem by which the old fox had saved himself. I was not allowed much time for reflection. Two of the savages, seizing me by the arms, dragged me up to the still blazing ruin. On, heavens! was it for this Dacoma had saved me from their tomahawks? for this, the most cruel of deaths! They proceeded to tie me hand and foot. Several others were around, submitting to the same treatment. I recognised Sanchez the bull-fighter, and the red-haired Irishman. There were three others of the band, whose names I had never learnt. We were in an open space in front of the burning ranche. We could see all that was going on. The Indians were clearing it of the fallen and charred timbers to get at the bodies of their friends. I watched their proceeding's with less interest, as I now knew that Seguin was not there. It was a horrid spectacle when the rubbish was cleared away, laying bare the floor of the ruin. More than a dozen bodies lay upon it, half-baked, half-roasted! Their dresses were burned off; but by the parts that remained still intact from the fire, we could easily recognise to what party each had belonged. The greater number of them were Navajoes. There were also the bodies of hunters smoking inside their cindery shirts. I thought of Garey; but, as far as I could judge, he was not among them. There were no scalps for the Indians to take. The fire had been before them, and had not left a hair upon the heads of their dead foemen. Seemingly mortified at this, they lifted the bodies of the hunters, and tossed them once more into the flames that were still blazing up from the piled rafters. They gathered the knives, pistols, and tomahawks that lay among the ashes; and carrying what remained of their own people out of the ruin, placed them in front. They then stood around them in a circle, and with loud voices chanted a chorus of vengeance. During all this proceeding we lay where we had been thrown, guarded by a dozen savages. We were filled with fearful apprehensions. We saw the fire still blazing, and we saw that the bodies of our late comrades had been thrown upon it. We dreaded a similar fate for our own. But we soon found that we were reserved for some other purpose. Six mules were brought up, and upon these we were mounted in a novel fashion. We were first set astride on the bare backs, with our faces turned tailwards. Our feet were then drawn under the necks of the animals, where our ankles were closely corded together. We were next compelled to bend down our bodies until we lay along the backs of the mules, our chins resting on their rumps. In this position our arms were drawn down until our hands met underneath, where they were tied tightly by the wrists. The attitude was painful; and to add to this, our mules, not used to be thus packed, kicked and plunged over the ground, to the great mirth of our captors. This cruel sport was kept up even after the mules themselves had got tired of it, by the savages pricking the animals with their spears, and placing branches of the cactus under their tails. We were fainting when it ended. Our captors now divided themselves into two parties, and started up the barranca, taking opposite sides. One went with the Mexican captives and the girls and children of the tribe. The larger party, under Dacoma-- now head chief, for the other had been killed in the conflict--guarded us. We were carried up that side on which was the spring, and, arriving at the water, were halted for the night. We were taken off the mules and securely tied to one another, our guard watching us without intermission till morning. We were then packed as before and carried westward across the desert. CHAPTER FIFTY. A FAST DYE. After a four days' journey, painful even to be remembered, we re-entered the valley of Navajoa. The other captives, along with the great caballada, had arrived before us; and we saw the plundered cattle scattered over the plain. As we approached the town, we were met by crowds of women and children, far more than we had seen on our former visit. These were guests, who had come in from other villages of the Navajoes that lay farther to the north. They were there to witness the triumphant return of the warriors, and partake of the great feast that always follows a successful foray. I noticed many white faces among them, with features of the Iberian race. They had been captives; they were now the wives of warriors. They were dressed like the others, and seemed to participate in the general joy. They, like Seguin's daughter, had been Indianised. There were many Mestizoes, half-bloods, the descendants of Indians and their Mexican captives, the offspring of many a Sabine wedding. We were carried through the streets, and out to the western side of the village. The crowd followed us with mingled exclamations of triumph, hatred, and curiosity. At the distance of a hundred yards or so from the houses, and close to the river bank, our guards drew up. I had turned my eyes on all sides as we passed through, as well as my awkward position would permit I could see nothing of her, or any of the female captives. Where could they be? Perhaps in the temple. This building stood on the opposite side of the town, and the houses prevented me from seeing it. Its top only was visible from the spot where we had been halted. We were untied and taken down. We were happy at being relieved from the painful attitude in which we had ridden all the way. We congratulated ourselves that we should now be allowed to sit upright. Our self-congratulation was brief. We soon found that the change was "from the frying-pan into the fire." We were only to be "turned." We had hitherto lain upon our bellies; we were now to be laid upon our backs. In a few moments the change was accomplished, our captors handling us as unceremoniously as though we had been inanimate things. Indeed we were nearly so. We were spread upon the green turf on our backs. Around each man four long pins were driven into the ground, in the form of a parallelogram. Our arms and legs were stretched out to their widest, and raw-hide thongs were looped about our wrists and ankles. These were passed over the pins, and drawn so tightly that our joints cracked with the cruel tension. Thus we lay, faces upturned, like so many hides spread out to be sun-dried. We were placed in two ranks, "endways," in such a manner that the heads of the front-rank men rested between the feet of their respective "rears." As there were six of us in all, we formed three files, with short intervals between. Our attitudes and fastenings left us without the power of moving a limb. The only member over which we had any control was the head; and this, thanks to the flexibility of our necks, we could turn about, so as to see what was going on in front or on either side of us. As soon as we were fairly staked down, I had the curiosity to raise my head and look around me. I found that I was "rear rank, right file," and that my file leader was the _ci-devant_ soldier O'Cork. The Indian guards, after having stripped us of most of our clothing, left us; and the girls and squaws now began to crowd around. I noticed that they were gathering in front of my position, and forming a dense circle around the Irishman. I was struck with their ludicrous gestures, their strange exclamations, and the puzzled expression of their countenances. "Ta--yah! Ta--yah!" cried they, and the whole crowd burst into shrill screams of laughter. What could it mean? Barney was evidently the subject of their mirth; but what was there about him to cause it, more than about any of the rest of us? I raised my head to ascertain: the riddle was solved at once. One of the Indians, in going off, had taken the Irishman's cap with him, and the little, round, red head was exposed to view. It lay midway between my feet, like a luminous ball, and I saw that it was the object of diversion. By degrees, the squaws drew nearer, until they were huddled up in a thick crowd around the body of our comrade. At length one of them stooped and touched the head, drawing back her fingers with a start and a gesture, as though she had burned them. This elicited fresh peals of laughter, and very soon all the women of the village were around the Irishman, "scroodging" one another to get a closer view. None of the rest of us were heeded, except to be liberally trampled upon; and half a dozen big, heavy squaws were standing upon my limbs, the better to see over one another's shoulders. As there was no great stock of clothing to curtain the view, I could see the Irishman's head gleaming like a meteor through the forest of ankles. After a while the squaws grew less delicate in their touch; and catching hold of the short, stiff bristles, endeavoured to pluck them out, all the while screaming with laughter. I was neither in the state of mind nor the attitude to enjoy a joke; but there was a language in the back of Barney's head, an expression of patient endurance, that would have drawn smiles from a gravedigger; and Sanchez and the others were laughing aloud. For a long time our comrade endured the infliction, and remained silent; but at length it became too painful for his patience, and he began to speak out. "Arrah, now, girls," said he, in a tone of good-humoured intreaty, "will yez be aizy? Did yez niver see rid hair afore?" The squaws, on hearing the appeal, which of course they understood not, only showed their white teeth in loud laughter. "In trath, an' iv I had yez on the sod, at the owld Cove o' Cark beyant, I cud show yez as much av it as 'ud contint ye for yer lives. Arrah, now, keep aff me! Be the powers, ye're trampin' the toes aff me feet! Ach! don't rug me! Holy Mother! will yez let me alone? Divil resave ye for a set of--" The tone in which the last words were uttered showed that O'Cork had at length lost his temper; but this only increased the assiduity of his tormentors, whose mirth now broke beyond bounds. They plucked him harder than ever, yelling all the while; so that, although he continued to scold, I could only hear him at intervals ejaculating: "Mother av Moses!" "Tare-an-ages!" "Holy vistment!" and a variety of similar exclamations. This scene continued for several minutes; and then, all at once, there was a lull, and a consultation among the women, that told us they were devising some scheme. Several girls were sent off to the houses. These presently returned, bringing a large olla, and another vessel of smaller dimensions. What did they intend to do with these? We soon learned. The olla was filled with water from the adjacent stream, and carried up, and the smaller vessel was set down beside Barney's head. We saw that it contained the yucca soap of the Northern Mexicans. They were going to wash out the red! The Irishman's hand-stays were now loosened, so that he could sit upright; and a copious coat of the "soft-soap" was laid on his head, completely covering his hair. A couple of sinewy squaws then took hold of him by the shoulders, and with bunches of bark fibres applied the water, and scrubbed it in lustily. The application seemed to be anything but pleasant to Barney, who roared out, ducking his head on all sides to avoid it. But this did not serve him. One of the squaws seized the head between her hands, and held it steady, while the other set to it afresh and rubbed harder than ever. The Indians yelled and danced around; but in the midst of all I could hear Barney sneezing, and shouting in a smothered voice-- "Holy Mother!--htch-tch! Yez may rub--tch-itch!--till yez fetch-tch the skin aff--atch-ich-ich! an' it won't--tscztsh!--come out. I tell yez-- itch-ch! it's in the grain--itch-itch! It won't come out--itch-itch!-- be me sowl it won't--atch-itch-hitch!" But the poor fellow's expostulations were in vain. The scrubbing continued, with fresh applications of the yucca, for ten minutes or more; and then the great olla was lifted, and its contents dashed upon his head and shoulders. What was the astonishment of the women to find that instead of modifying the red colour, it only showed forth, if possible, more vivid than ever! Another olla of water was lifted, and soused about the Irishman's ears, but with no better effect. Barney had not had such a washing for many a day; at least, not since he had been under the hands of the regimental barber. When the squaws saw that, in spite of all their efforts, the dye still stuck fast, they desisted, and our comrade was again staked down. His bed was not so dry as before; neither was mine, for the water had saturated the ground about us, and we lay in mud. But this was a small vexation, compared with many others we were forced to put up with. For a long time the Indian women and children clustered around us, each in turn minutely examining the head of our comrade. We, too, came in for a share of their curiosity; but O'Cork was "the elephant." They had seen hair like ours oftentimes upon their Mexican captives; but, beyond a doubt, Barney's was the first red poll that had ever been scratched in the valley of Navajoa. Darkness came on at length, and the squaws returned to the village, leaving us in charge of the guards, who all the night sat watchfully beside. CHAPTER FIFTY ONE. ASTONISHING THE NATIVES. Up to this time we had no knowledge of the fate that was designed for us; but, from all that we had ever heard of these savages, as well as from our own experience of them, we anticipated that it would be a cruel one. Sanchez, however, who knew something of their language, left us no room to doubt such a result. He had gathered from the conversation of the women what was before us. After these had gone away, he unfolded the programme as he had heard it. "To-morrow," said he, "they will dance the mamanchic--the great dance of Montezuma. That is a fete among the girls and women. Next day will be a grand tournament, in which the warriors will exhibit their skill in shooting with the bow, in wrestling, and feats of horsemanship. If they would let me join them, I could show them how." Sancho, besides being an accomplished torero, had spent his earlier years in the circus, and was, as we all knew, a most splendid horseman. "On the third day," continued he, "we are to `run amuck,' if you know what that is." We had all heard of it. "And on the fourth--" "Well? upon the fourth?" "They will roast us!" We might have been more startled at this abrupt declaration had the idea been new to us, but it was not. The probability of such an end had been in our thoughts ever since our capture. We knew that they did not save us at the mine for the purpose of giving us an easier death; and we knew, too, that these savages never made men prisoners to keep them alive. Rube was an exception; but his story was a peculiar one, and he escaped only by his extreme cunning. "Their god," continued Sanchez, "is the same as that of the Mexican Aztecs; for these people are of that race, it is believed. I don't know much about that, though I've heard men talk of it. He is called by a queer, hard name. Carrai! I don't remember it." "Quetzalcoatl?" "Caval! that's the word. Pues, senores; he is a fire-god, and fond of human flesh; prefers it roasted, so they say. That's the use we'll be put to. They'll roast us to please him, and at the same time to satisfy themselves. Dos pajaros al un golpe!" (Two birds with one stone.) That this was to be our fate was no longer probable, but certain; and we slept upon the knowledge of it the best way we could. In the morning we observed dressing and painting among the Indians. After that began dancing, the dance of the mamanchic. This ceremony took place upon the prairie, at some distance out in front of the temple. As it was about commencing, we were taken from our spread positions and dragged up near it, in order that we might witness the "glory of the nation." We were still tied, however, but allowed to sit upright. This was some relief, and we enjoyed the change of posture much more than the spectacle. I could not describe the dance even if I had watched it, which I did not. As Sanchez had said, it was carried on only by the women of the tribe. Processions of young girls, gaily and fantastically attired, and carrying garlands of flowers, circled and leaped through a variety of figures. There was a raised platform, upon which a warrior and maiden represented Montezuma and his queen, and around these the girls danced and chanted. The ceremony ended by the dancers kneeling in front, in a grand semicircle. I saw that the occupants of the throne were Dacoma and Adele. I fancied that the girl looked sad. "Poor Seguin!" thought I: "there is none to protect her now. Even the false father, the medicine chief, might have been her friend. He, too, is out of the way, and--" But I did not occupy much time with thoughts of her; there was a far more painful apprehension than that. My mind, as well as my eyes, had dwelt upon the temple during the ceremony. We could see it from the spot where we had been thrown down; but it was too distant for me to distinguish the faces of the white females that were clustered along its terraces. She no doubt was among them, but I was unable to make her out. Perhaps it was better I was not near enough. I thought so at the time. I saw Indian men among the captives; and I had observed Dacoma, previous to the commencement of the dance, proudly standing before them in all the paraphernalia of his regal robes. Rube had given me the character of this chief: brave, but brutal. My heart was oppressed with a painful heaviness as we were hurried back to our former places. Most of the next night was spent by the Indians in feasting. Not so with us. We were rarely and scantily fed; and we suffered, too, from thirst, our savage guards scarcely deigning to supply us with water, though a river Was running at our feet. Another morning, and the feasting recommenced. More sheep and cattle were slaughtered, and the fires steamed anew with the red joints that were suspended over them. At an early hour the warriors arrayed themselves, though not in war attire, and the tournament commenced. We were again dragged forward to witness their savage sports, but placed still farther out on the prairie. I could distinguish, upon the terrace of the temple, the whitish dresses of the captives. The temple was their place of abode. Sanchez had told me this. He had heard it from the Indians as they conversed one with another. The girls were to remain there until the fifth day, that after our sacrifice. Then the chief would choose one of the number for his own household, and the warriors would "gamble" for the rest! Oh, these were fearful hours! Sometimes I wished that I could see her again once before I died. And then reflection whispered me, it was better not. The knowledge of my fate would only add fresh bitterness to hers. Oh, these were fearful hours! I looked at the savage tournament. There were feats of arms and feats of equitation. Men rode at a gallop, with one foot only to be seen over the horse, and in this attitude threw the javelin or shot the unerring shaft. Others vaulted from horse to horse, as they swept over the prairie at racing speed. Some leaped to their saddles, while their horses were running at a gallop, and some exhibited feats with the lasso. Then there was a mock encounter, in which the warriors unhorsed each other, as knights of the olden time. It was, in fact, a magnificent spectacle--a grand hippodrome of the desert; but I had no eyes for it. It had more attraction for Sanchez. I saw that he was observing every new feat with interested attention. All at once he became restless. There was a strange expression on his face; some thought, some sudden resolve, had taken possession of him. "Say to your braves," said he, speaking to one of our guards in the Navajo tongue; "say that I can beat the best of them at that. I could teach them to ride a horse." The savage reported what his prisoner had said, and shortly after several mounted warriors rode up, and replied to the taunt. "You! a poor white slave, ride with the warriors of Navajo! Ha! ha! ha!" "Can you ride upon your head?" inquired the torero. "On our heads? How?" "Standing upon your head while your horse is in a gallop." "No; nor you, nor anyone. We are the best riders on the plains; we cannot do that." "I can," affirmed the bull-fighter, with emphasis. "He is boasting! he is a fool," shouted several. "Let us see!" cried one. "Give him a horse; there is no danger." "Give me my own horse, and I will show you." "Which is your horse?" "None of them now, I suppose; but bring me that spotted mustang, and clear me a hundred lengths of him on the prairie, and I shall teach you a trick." As I looked to ascertain what horse Sanchez meant, I saw the mustang which he had ridden from the Del Norte. I noticed my own favourite, too, browsing with the rest. After a short consultation among themselves, the torero's request was acceded to. The horse he had pointed out was lassoed out of the caballada and brought up, and our comrade's thongs were taken off. The Indians had no fear of his escaping. They knew that they could soon overtake such a steed as the spotted mustang; moreover, there was a picket constantly kept at each entrance of the valley. Even could he beat them across the plains, it would be impossible for him to get out to the open country. The valley itself was a prison. Sanchez was not long in making his preparations. He strapped a buffalo-skin tightly on the back of his horse, and then led him round for some time in a circle, keeping him in the same track. After practising thus for a while, he dropped the bridle and uttered a peculiar cry, on hearing which the animal fell into a slow gallop around the circle. When the horse had accomplished two or three rounds, the torero leaped upon his back, and performed the well-known feat of riding on his head. Although a common one among professional equestrians, it was new to the Navajoes, who looked on with shouts of wonder and admiration. They caused the torero to repeat it again and again, until the spotted mustang had become all of one colour. Sanchez, however, did not leave off until he had given his spectators the full programme of the "ring," and had fairly "astonished the natives." When the tournament was ended, and we were hauled back to the river-side, the torero was not with us. Fortunate Sanchez! He had won his life! Henceforth he was to be riding-master to the Navajo nation! CHAPTER FIFTY TWO. RUNNING AMUCK. Another day came: our day for action. We saw our enemies making their preparations; we saw them go off to the woods, and return bringing clubs freshly cut from the trees; we saw them dress as for ball-play or running. At an early hour we were taken forward to the front of the temple. On arriving there, I cast my eyes upward to the terrace. My betrothed was above me; I was recognised. There was mud upon my scanty garments, and spots of blood; there was dust on my hair; there were scars upon my arms; my face and throat were stained with powder, blotches of black, burnt powder: in spite of all, I was recognised. The eyes of love saw through all! I find no scene in all my experience so difficult to describe as this. Why? There was none so terrible; none in which so many wild emotions were crowded into a moment. A love like ours, tantalised by proximity, almost within reach of each other's embrace, yet separated by relentless fate, and that for ever; the knowledge of each other's situation; the certainty of my death: these and a hundred kindred thoughts rushed into our hearts together. They could not be detailed; they cannot be described; words will not express them. You may summon fancy to your aid. I heard her screams, her wild words and wilder weeping. I saw her snowy cheek and streaming hair, as, frantic, she rushed forward on the parapet as if to spring out. I witnessed her struggles as she was drawn back by her fellow-captives, and then, all at once, she was quiet in their arms. She had fainted, and was borne out of my sight. I was tied by the wrists and ankles. During the scene I had twice risen to my feet, forced up by my emotions, but only to fall down again. I made no further effort, but lay upon the ground in the agony of impotence. It was but a short moment; but, oh! the feelings that passed over my soul in that moment! It was the compressed misery of a life-time. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ For a period of perhaps half an hour I regarded not what was going on around me. My mind was not abstracted, but paralysed: absolutely dead. I had no thoughts about anything. I awoke at length from this stupor. I saw that the savages had completed their preparations for the cruel sport. Two rows of men extended across the plain to a distance of several hundred yards. They were armed with clubs, and stood facing each other with an interval of three or four paces between their ranks. Down the interval we were to run, receiving blows from everyone who could give them as we passed. Should any of us succeed in running through the whole line, and reach the mountain foot before we could be overtaken, the promise was that our lives should be spared! "Is this true, Sanchez?" I whispered to the torero, who was standing near me. "No," was the reply, given also in a whisper. "It is only a trick to make you run the better and show them the more sport. You are to die all the same. I heard them say so." Indeed, it would have been slight grace had they given us our lives on such conditions; for it would have been impossible for the strongest and swiftest man to have passed through between their lines. "Sanchez!" I said again, addressing the torero, "Seguin was your friend. You will do all you can for her?" Sanchez well knew whom I meant. "I will! I will!" he replied, seeming deeply affected. "Brave Sanchez! tell her how I felt for her. No, no, you need not tell her that." I scarce knew what I was saying. "Sanchez!" I again whispered--a thought that had been in my mind now returning--"could you not--a knife, a weapon--anything--could you not drop one when I am set loose?" "It would be of no use. You could not escape if you had fifty." "It may be that I could not. I would try. At the worst, I can but die; and better die with a weapon in my hands!" "It would be better," muttered the torero in reply. "I will try to help you to a weapon, but my life may be--" He paused. "If you look behind you," he continued, in a significant manner, while he appeared to examine the tops of the distant mountains, "you may see a tomahawk. I think it is held carelessly. It might be snatched." I understood his meaning, and stole a glance around. Dacoma was at a few paces' distance, superintending the start. I saw the weapon in his belt. It was loosely stuck. It might be snatched! I possess extreme tenacity of life, with energy to preserve it. I have not illustrated this energy in the adventures through which we have passed; for, up to a late period, I was merely a passive spectator of the scenes enacted, and in general disgusted with their enactment. But at other times I have proved the existence of those traits in my character. In the field of battle, to my knowledge, I have saved my life three times by the quick perception of danger and the promptness to ward it off. Either less or more brave, I should have lost it. This may seem an enigma; it appears a puzzle; it is an experience. In my earlier life I was addicted to what are termed "manly sports." In running and leaping I never met my superior; and my feats in such exercises are still recorded in the memories of my college companions. Do not wrong me, and think that I am boasting of these peculiarities. The first is but an accident in my mental character; and others are only rude accomplishments, which now, in my more matured life, I see but little reason to be proud of. I mention them only to illustrate what follows. Ever since the hour of my capture I had busied my mind with plans of escape. Not the slightest opportunity had as yet offered. All along the journey we had been guarded with the most zealous vigilance. During this last night a new plan had occupied me. It had been suggested by seeing Sanchez upon his horse. I had matured it all, except getting possession of a weapon; and I had hopes of escape, although I had neither time nor opportunity to detail them to the torero. It would have served no purpose to have told him them. I knew that I might escape, even without the weapon; but I needed it, in case there might be in the tribe a faster runner than myself. I might be killed in the attempt; that was likely enough; but I knew that death could not come in a worse shape than that in which I was to meet it on the morrow. Weapon or no weapon, I was resolved to escape, or die in attempting it. I saw them untying O'Cork. He was to run first. There was a circle of savages around the starting-point; old men and idlers of the village, who stood there only to witness the sport. There was no apprehension of our escaping; that was never thought of: an inclosed valley, with guards at each entrance; plenty of horses standing close by, that could be mounted in a few minutes. It would be impossible for any of us to get away from the ground. At least, so thought they. O'Cork started. Poor Barney! His race was not a long one. He had not run ten paces down the living avenue when he was knocked over, and carried back, bleeding and senseless, amidst the yells of the delighted crowd. Another of the men shared a similar fate, and another; and then they unbound me. I rose to my feet, and, during the short interval allowed me, stretched my limbs, imbuing my soul and body with all the energy that my desperate circumstances enabled me to concentrate within them. The signal was again given for the Indians to be ready, and they were soon in their places, brandishing their long clubs, and impatiently waiting for me to make the start. Dacoma was behind me. With a side glance I had marked well where he stood; and backing towards him, under pretence of getting a fairer "break," I came close up to the savage. Then suddenly wheeling, with the spring of a cat and the dexterity of a thief, I caught the tomahawk and jerked it from his belt. I aimed a blow, but in my hurry missed him. I had no time for another. I turned and ran. He was so taken by surprise that I was out of his reach before he could make a motion to follow me. I ran, not for the open avenue, but to one side of the circle of spectators, where were the old men and idlers. These had drawn their hand weapons, and were closing towards me in a thick rank. Instead of endeavouring to break through them, which I doubted my ability to accomplish, I threw all my energy into the spring, and leaped clear over their shoulders. Two or three stragglers struck at me as I passed them, but missed their aim; and the next moment I was out upon the open plain, with the whole village yelling at my heels. I well knew for what I was running. Had it not been for that, I should never have made the start. I was running for the caballada. I was running, too, for my life, and I required no encouragement to induce me to make the best of it. I soon distanced those who had been nearest me at starting; but the swiftest of the Indians were the young men who had formed the lines, and I saw that these were now forging ahead of the others. Still they were not gaining upon me. My school training stood me in service now. After a mile's chase, I saw that I was within less than half that distance of the caballada, and at least three hundred yards ahead of my pursuers; but to my horror, as I glanced back, I saw mounted men! They were still far behind, but I knew they would soon come up. Was it possible he could hear me? I knew that in these elevated regions sounds are heard twice the ordinary distance; and I shouted, at the top of my voice, "Moro! Moro!" I did not halt, but ran on, calling as I went. I saw a sudden commotion among the horses. Their heads were tossed up, and then one dashed out from the drove and came galloping towards me. I knew the broad black chest and red muzzle. I knew them at a glance. It was my brave steed, my Moro! The rest followed, trooping after; but before they were up to trample me, I had met my horse, and flung myself, panting, upon his back! I had no rein; but my favourite was used to the guidance of my voice, hands, and knees; and directing him through the herd, I headed for the western end of the valley. I heard the yells of the mounted savages as I cleared the caballada; and looking back, I saw a string of twenty or more coming after me as fast as their horses could gallop. But I had no fear of them now. I knew my Moro too well; and after I had cleared the ten miles of valley, and was springing up the steep front of the sierra, I saw my pursuers still back upon the plain. CHAPTER FIFTY THREE. A CONFLICT UPON A CLIFF. My horse, idle for days, had recovered his full action, and bore me up the rocky path with proud, springy step. My nerves drew vigour from his, and the strength of my body was fast returning. It was well. I would soon be called upon to use it. The picket was still to be passed. While escaping from the town, in the excitement of the more proximate peril I had not thought of this ulterior one. I now remembered it. It flashed upon me of a sudden, and I commenced gathering my resolution to meet it. I knew there was a picket upon the mountain! Sanchez had said so; he had heard them say so. What number of men composed it? Sanchez had said two, but he was not certain of this. Two would be enough, more than enough for me, still weak, and armed as I was with a weapon in the use of which I had little skill. How would they be armed? Doubtless with bows, lances, tomahawks, and knives. The odds were all against me. At what point should I find them? They were videttes. Their chief duty was to watch the plains without. They would be at some station, then, commanding a view of these. I remembered the road well--the same by which we had first entered the valley. There was a platform near the western brow of the sierra. I recollected it, for we had halted upon it while our guide went forward to reconnoitre. A cliff overhung this platform. I remembered that too; for during the absence of the guide, Seguin and I had dismounted and climbed it. It commanded a view of the whole outside country to the south and west. No doubt, then, on that very cliff would the videttes be stationed. Would they be on its top? If so, it might be best to make a dash, and pass them before they could descend to the road, running the risk of their missiles, their arrows and lances. Make a dash! No; that would be impossible. I remembered that the path at both ends of the platform narrowed to a width of only a few feet, with the cliff rising above it and the canon yawning below. It was, in fact, only a ledge of the precipice, along which it was dangerous to pass even at a walk. Moreover, I had re-shod my horse at the mission. The iron was worn smooth; and I knew that the rock was as slippery as glass. All these thoughts passed through my mind as I neared the summit of the sierra. The prospect was appalling. The peril before me was extreme, and under other circumstances I would have hesitated to encounter it. But I knew that that which threatened from behind was not less desperate. There was no alternative; and with only half-formed resolutions as to how I should act, I pushed forward. I rode with caution, directing my horse as well as I could upon the softer parts of the trail, so that his hoof-strokes might not be heard. At every turn I halted, and scanned the profile of each new prospect; but I did not halt longer than I could help. I knew that I had no time to waste. The road ascended through a thin wood of cedars and dwarf pinons. It would zigzag up the face of the mountain. Near the crest of the sierra it turned sharply to the right, and trended in to the brow of the canon. There the ledge already mentioned became the path, and the road followed its narrow terrace along the very face of the precipice. On reaching this point I caught view of the cliff where I expected to see the vidette. I had guessed correctly--he was there, and, to my agreeable surprise, there was only one: a single savage. He was seated upon the very topmost rock of the sierra, and his large brown body was distinctly visible, outlined against the pale blue sky. He was not more than three hundred yards from me, and about a third of that distance above the level of the ledge along which I had to pass. I halted the moment I caught sight of him, and sat making a hurried reconnaissance. As yet he had neither seen nor heard me. His back was to me, and he appeared to be gazing intently towards the west. Beside the rock on which he was, his spear was sticking in the ground, and his shield, bow, and quiver were leaning against it. I could see upon his person the sparkle of a knife and tomahawk. I have said my reconnaissance was a hurried one. I was conscious of the value of every moment, and almost at a glance I formed my resolution. That was, to "run the gauntlet," and attempt passing before the Indian could descend to intercept me. Obedient to this impulse, I gave my animal the signal to move forward. I rode slowly and cautiously, for two reasons: because my horse dared not go otherwise; and I thought that, by riding quietly, I might get beyond the vidette without attracting his notice. The torrent was hissing below. Its roar ascended to the cliff; it might drown the sound of the hoof-strokes. With this hope I stole onward. My eye passed rapidly from one to the other; from the savage on the cliff to the perilous path along which my horse crawled, shivering with affright. When I had advanced about six lengths upon the ledge, the platform came in view, and with it a group of objects that caused me to reach suddenly forward and grasp the forelock of my Moro--a sign by which, in the absence of a bit, I could always halt him. He came at once to a stand, and I surveyed the objects before me with a feeling of despair. They were two horses, mustangs; and a man, an Indian. The mustangs, bridled and saddled, were standing quietly out upon the platform; and a lasso, tied to the bit-ring of one of them, was coiled around the wrist of the Indian. The latter was sitting upon his hams, close up to the cliff, so that his back touched the rock. His arms lay horizontally across his knees, and upon these his head rested. I saw that he was asleep. Beside him were his bow and quiver, his lance and shield, all leaning against the cliff. My situation was a terrible one. I knew that I could not pass him without being heard, and I knew that pass him I must. In fact, I could not have gone back had I wished it; for I had already entered upon the ledge, and was riding along a narrow shelf where my horse could not possibly have turned himself. All at once, the idea entered my mind that I might slip to the ground, steal forward, and with my tomahawk-- It was a cruel thought, but it was the impulse of instinct, the instinct of self-preservation. It was not decreed that I should adopt so fearful an alternative. Moro, impatient at being delayed in the perilous position, snorted and struck the rock with his hoof. The clink of the iron was enough for the sharp ears of the Spanish horses. They neighed on the instant. The savages sprang to their feet, and their simultaneous yell told me that both had discovered me. I saw the vidette upon the cliff pluck up his spear, and commence hurrying downward; but my attention was soon exclusively occupied with his comrade. The latter, on seeing me, had leaped to his feet, seized his bow, and vaulted, as if mechanically, upon the back of his mustang. Then, uttering a wild shout, he trotted over the platform, and advanced along the ledge to meet me. An arrow whizzed past my head as he came up; but in his hurry he had aimed badly. Our horses' heads met. They stood muzzle to muzzle with eyes dilated, their red nostrils steaming into each other. Both snorted fiercely, as if each was imbued with the wrath of his rider. They seemed to know that a death-strife was between us. They seemed conscious, too, of their own danger. They had met at the very narrowest part of the ledge. Neither could have turned or backed off again. One or other must go over the cliff--must fall through a depth of a thousand feet into the stony channel of the torrent! I sat with a feeling of utter helplessness. I had no weapon with which I could reach my antagonist; no missile. He had his bow, and I saw him adjusting a second arrow to the string. At this crisis three thoughts passed through my mind; not as I detail them here, but following each other like quick flashes of lightning. My first impulse was to urge my horse forward, trusting to his superior weight to precipitate the lighter animal from the ledge. Had I been worth a bridle and spurs, I should have adopted this plan; but I had neither, and the chances were too desperate without them. I abandoned it for another. I would hurl my tomahawk at the head of my antagonist. No! The third thought! I will dismount, and use my weapon upon the mustang. This last was clearly the best; and, obedient to its impulse, I slipped down between Moro and the cliff. As I did so, I heard the "hist" of another arrow passing my cheek. It had missed me from the suddenness of my movements. In an instant I squeezed past the flanks of my horse, and glided forward upon the ledge, directly in front of my adversary. The animal, seeming to guess my intentions, snorted with affright and reared up, but was compelled to drop again into the same tracks. The Indian was fixing another shaft. Its notch never reached the string. As the hoofs of the mustang came down upon the rock, I aimed my blow. I struck the animal over the eye. I felt the skull yielding before my hatchet, and the next moment horse and rider, the latter screaming and struggling to clear himself of the saddle, disappeared over the cliff. There was a moment's silence, a long moment, in which I knew they were falling--falling--down that fearful depth. Then came a loud splash, the concussion of their united bodies on the water below! I had no curiosity to look over, and as little time. When I regained my upright attitude (for I had come to my knees in giving the blow), I saw the vidette just leaping upon the platform. He did not halt a moment, but advanced at a run, holding his spear at the charge. I saw that I should be impaled unless I could parry the thrust. I struck wildly, but with success. The lance-blade glinted from the head of my weapon. Its shaft passed me; and our bodies met with a shock that caused us both to reel upon the very edge of the cliff. As soon as I had recovered my balance, I followed up my blows, keeping close to my antagonist, so that he could not again use his lance. Seeing this, he dropped the weapon and drew his tomahawk. We now fought hand to hand, hatchet to hatchet! Backward and forward along the ledge we drove each other, as the advantage of the blows told in favour of either, or against him. Several times we grappled, and would have pushed each other over; but the fear that each felt of being dragged after mutually restrained us, and we let go, and trusted again to our tomahawks. Not a word passed between us. We had nothing to say, even could we have understood each other. But we had no boast to make, no taunt to urge, nothing before our minds but the fixed dark purpose of murdering one another! After the first onset the Indian had ceased yelling, and we both fought in the intense earnestness of silence. There were sounds, though: an occasional sharp exclamation, our quick, high breathing, the clinking of our tomahawks, the neighing of our horses, and the continuous roar of the torrent. These were the symphonies of our conflict. For some minutes we battled upon the ledge. We were both cut and bruised in several places, but neither of us had as yet received or inflicted a mortal wound. At length, after a continuous shower of blows, I succeeded in beating my adversary back, until we found ourselves out upon the platform. There we had ample room to wind our weapons, and we struck with more energy than ever. After a few strokes, our tomahawks met, with a violent concussion, that sent them flying from our hands. Neither dared stoop to regain his weapon; and we rushed upon each other with naked arms, clutched, wrestled a moment, and then fell together to the earth. I thought my antagonist had a knife. I must have been mistaken, otherwise he would have used it; but without it, I soon found that in this species of encounter he was my master. His muscular arms encircled me until my ribs cracked under the embrace. We rolled along the ground, over and over each other. Oh, God! we were nearing the edge of the precipice. I could not free myself from his grasp. His sinewy fingers were across my throat. They clasped me tightly around the trachea, stopping my breath. He was strangling me. I grew weak and nerveless. I could resist no longer. I felt my hold relax. I grew weaker and weaker. I was dying. I was--I--Oh, Heaven! pard--on. Oh--! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I could not have been long insensible; for when consciousness returned I was still warm, sweating from the effects of the struggle, and my wounds were bleeding freshly and freely. I felt that I yet lived. I saw that I was still upon the platform; but where was my antagonist? Why had not he finished me? Why had not he flung me over the cliff? I rose upon my elbow and looked around. I could see no living things but my own horse and that of the Indian galloping over the platform, kicking and plunging at each other. But I heard sounds, sounds of fearful import, like the hoarse, angry worrying of dogs, mingling with the cries of a human voice--a voice uttered in agony! What could it mean? I saw that there was a break in the platform, a deep cut in the rock; and out of this the sounds appeared to issue. I rose to my feet, and, tottering towards the spot, looked in. It was an awful sight to look upon. The gully was some ten feet in depth; and at its bottom, among the weeds and cacti, a huge dog was engaged in tearing something that screamed and struggled. It was a man, an Indian. All was explained at a glance. The dog was Alp; the man was my late antagonist! As I came upon the edge, the dog was on the top of his adversary, and kept himself uppermost by desperate bounds from side to side, still dashing the other back as he attempted to rise to his feet. The savage was crying in despair. I thought I saw the teeth of the animal fast in his throat, but I watched the struggle no longer. Voices from behind caused me to turn round. My pursuers had reached the canon, and were urging their animals along the ledge. I staggered to my horse, and, springing upon his back, once more directed him to the terrace--that part which led outward. In a few minutes I had cleared the cliff and was hurrying down the mountain. As I approached its foot I heard a rustling in the bushes that on both sides lined the path. Then an object sprang out a short distance behind me. It was the Saint Bernard. As he came alongside he uttered a low whimper and once or twice wagged his tail. I knew not how he could have escaped, for he must have waited until the Indians reached the platform; but the fresh blood that stained his jaws, and clotted the shaggy hair upon his breast, showed that he had left one with but little power to detain him. On reaching the plain I looked back. I saw my pursuers coming down the face of the sierra; but I had still nearly half a mile of start, and, taking the snowy mountain for my guide, I struck out into the open prairie. CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR. AN UNEXPECTED RENCONTRE. As I rode off from the mountain foot, the white peak glistened at a distance of thirty miles. There was not a hillock between: not a brake or bush, excepting the low shrubs of the artemisia. It was not yet noon. Could I reach the snowy mountain before sunset? If so, I trusted in being able to follow our old trail to the mine. Thence, I might keep on to the Del Norte, by striking a branch of the Paloma or some other lateral stream. Such were my plans, undefined as I rode forth. I knew that I should be pursued almost to the gates of El Paso; and, when I had ridden forward about a mile, a glance to the rear showed me that the Indians had just reached the plain, and were striking out after me. It was no longer a question of speed. I knew that I had the heels of their whole cavalcade. Did my horse possess the "bottom"? I knew the tireless, wiry nature of the Spanish mustang; and their animals were of that race. I knew they could gallop for a long day without breaking down, and this led me to fear for the result. Speed was nothing now, and I made no attempt to keep it up. I was determined to economise the strength of my steed. I could not be overtaken so long as he lasted; and I galloped slowly forward, watching the movements of my pursuers, and keeping a regular distance ahead of them. At times I dismounted to relieve my horse, and ran alongside of him. My dog followed, occasionally looking up in my face, and seemingly conscious why I was making such a hurried journey. During all the day I was never out of sight of the Indians; in fact, I could have distinguished their arms and counted their numbers at any time. There were in all about a score of horsemen. The stragglers had gone back, and only the well-mounted men now continued the pursuit. As I neared the foot of the snowy peak, I remembered there was water at our old camping-ground in the pass; and I pushed my horse faster, in order to gain time to refresh both him and myself. I intended to make a short halt, and allow the noble brute to breathe himself and snatch a bite of the bunch-grass that grew around the spring. There was nothing to fear so long as his strength held out, and I knew that this was the plan to sustain it. It was near sundown as I entered the defile. Before riding in among the rocks I looked back. During the last hour I had gained upon my pursuers. They were still at least three miles out upon the plain, and I saw that they were toiling on wearily. I fell into a train of reflection as I rode down the ravine. I was now upon a known trail. My spirits rose; my hopes, so long clouded over, began to assume a brightness and buoyancy, greater from the very influence of reaction. I should still be able to rescue my betrothed. My whole energies, my fortune, my life, would be devoted to this one object. I would raise a band stronger than ever Seguin had commanded. I should get followers among the returning employes of the caravan; teamsters whose term of service had expired. I would search the posts and mountain rendezvous for trappers and hunters. I would apply to the Mexican Government for aid, in money--in troops. I would appeal to the citizens of El Paso, of Chihuahua, of Durango. "Ge-hosaphat! Hyur's a fellur ridin' 'ithout eyther saddle or bridle!" Five or six men with rifles sprang out from the rocks, surrounding me. "May an Injun eat me ef 'tain't the young fellur as tuk me for a grizzly! Billee! look hyur! hyur he is! the very fellur! He! he! he! He! he! he!" "Rube! Garey!" "What! By Jove, it's my friend Haller! Hurrah! Old fellow, don't you know me?" "Saint Vrain!" "That it is. Don't I look like him? It would have been a harder task to identify you but for what the old trapper has been telling us about you. But come! how have you got out of the hands of the Philistines?" "First tell me who you all are. What are you doing here?" "Oh, we're a picket! The army is below." "The army?" "Why, we call it so. There's six hundred of us; and that's about as big an army as usually travels in these parts." "But who? What are they?" "They are of all sorts and colours. There's the Chihuahuanos and Passenos, and niggurs, and hunters, and trappers, and teamsters. Your humble servant commands these last-named gentry. And then there's the band of your friend Seguin--" "Seguin! Is he--" "What? He's at the head of all. But come! they're camped down by the spring. Let us go down. You don't look overfed; and, old fellow, there's a drop of the best Paso in my saddle-bags. Come!" "Stop a moment! I am pursued." "Pursued!" echoed the hunters, simultaneously raising their rifles, and looking up the ravine. "How many?" "About twenty." "Are they close upon you?" "No." "How long before we may expect them?" "They are three miles back, with tired horses, as you may suppose." "Three-quarters--halt an hour at any rate. Come! we'll have time to go down and make arrangements for their reception. Rube! you with the rest can remain here. We shall join you before they get forward. Come, Haller!--come!" Following my faithful and warm-hearted friend, I rode on to the spring. Around it I found "the army"; and it had somewhat of that appearance, for two or three hundred of the men were in uniform. These were the volunteer guards of Chihuahua and El Paso. The late raid of the Indians had exasperated the inhabitants, and this unusually strong muster was the consequence. Seguin, with the remnant of his band, had met them at El Paso, and hurried them forward on the Navajo trail. It was from him Saint Vrain had heard of my capture; and in hopes of rescuing me had joined the expedition with about forty or fifty employes of the caravan. Most of Seguin's band had escaped after the fight in the barranca, and among the rest, I was rejoiced to hear, El Sol and La Luna. They were now on their return with Seguin, and I found them at his tent. Seguin welcomed me as the bearer of joyful news. They were still safe. That was all I could tell him, and all he asked for during our hurried congratulation. We had no time for idle talk. A hundred men immediately mounted and rode up the ravine. On reaching the ground occupied by the picket, they led their horses behind the rocks, and formed an ambuscade. The order was, that all the Indians must be killed or taken. The plan hastily agreed upon was, to let them pass the ambushed men, and ride on until they had got in sight of the main body; then both divisions were to close upon them. It was a dry ravine above the spring, and the horses had made no tracks upon its rocky bed. Moreover, the Indians, ardent in their pursuit of me, would not be on the outlook for any sign before reaching the water. Should they pass the ambuscade, then not a man of them would escape, as the defile on both sides was walled in by a precipice. After the others had gone, about a hundred men at the spring leaped into their saddles, and sat with their eyes bent up the pass. They were not long kept waiting. A few minutes after the ambuscade had been placed, an Indian showed himself round an angle of the rock, about two hundred yards above the spring. He was the foremost of the warriors, and must have passed the ambushed horsemen; but as yet the latter lay still. Seeing a body of men, the savage halted with a quick jerk; and then, uttering a cry, wheeled and rode back upon his comrades. These, imitating his example, wheeled also; but before they had fairly turned themselves in the ravine, the "cached" horsemen sprang out in a body from the rocks and came galloping down. The Indians, now seeing that they were completely in the trap, with overpowering numbers on both sides of them, threw down their spears and begged for mercy. In a few minutes they were all captured. The whole affair did not occupy half an hour; and, with our prisoners securely tied, we returned to the spring. The leading men now gathered around Seguin to settle on some plan for attacking the town. Should we move on to it that night? I was asked for my advice, and of course answered, "Yes! the sooner the better, for the safety of the captives." My feelings, as well as those of Seguin, could not brook delay. Besides, several of our late comrades were to die on the morrow. We might still be in time to save them. How were we to approach the valley? This was the next point to be discussed. The enemy would now be certain to have their videttes at both ends, and it promised to be clear moonlight until morning. They could easily see such a large body approaching from the open plain. Here then was a difficulty. "Let us divide," said one of Seguin's old band; "let a party go in at each end. That'll git 'em in the trap." "Wagh!" replied another, "that would never do. Thar's ten miles o' rough wood thar. If we raised the niggurs by such a show as this, they'd take to them, gals and all, an' that's the last we'd see o' them." This speaker was clearly in the right. It would never do to make our attack openly. Stratagem must again be used. A head was now called into the council that soon mastered the difficulty, as it had many another. That was the skinless, earless head of the trapper Rube. "Cap," said he, after a short delay, "'ee needn't show yur crowd till we've first took the luk-outs by the eend o' the kenyun." "How can we take them?" inquired Seguin. "Strip them twenty niggurs," replied Rube, pointing to our captives, "an' let twenty o' us put on their duds. Then we kin take the young fellur--him hyur as tuk me for the grizzly! He! he! he! Ole Rube tuk for a grizzly! We kin take him back a pris'ner. Now, cap, do 'ee see how?" "You would have these twenty to keep far in the advance then, capture the videttes, and wait till the main body comes up?" "Sartinly; thet's my idee adzactly." "It is the best, the only one. We shall follow it." And Seguin immediately ordered the Indians to be stripped of their dresses. These consisted mostly of garments that had been plundered from the people of the Mexican towns, and were of all cuts and colours. "I'd recommend 'ee, cap," suggested Rube, seeing that Seguin was looking out to choose the men for his advance party, "I'd recommend 'ee to take a smart sprinklin' of the Delawars. Them Navaghs is mighty 'cute and not easily bamfoozled. They mout sight white skin by moonlight. Them o' us that must go along 'll have to paint Injun, or we'll be fooled arter all; we will." Seguin, taking this hint, selected for the advance most of the Delaware and Shawano Indians; and these were now dressed in the clothes of the Navajoes. He himself, with Rube, Garey, and a few other whites, made up the required number. I, of course, was to go along and play the role of a prisoner. The whites of the party soon accomplished their change of dress, and "painted Injun," a trick of the prairie toilet well known to all of them. Rube had but little change to make. His hue was already of sufficient deepness for the disguise, and he was not going to trouble himself by throwing off the old shirt or leggings. That could hardly have been done without cutting both open, and Rube was not likely to make such a sacrifice of his favourite buckskins. He proceeded to draw the other garments over them, and in a short time was habited in a pair of slashing calzoneros, with bright buttons from the hip to the ankle. These, with a smart, tight-fitting jacket that had fallen to his share, and a jaunty sombrero cocked upon his head, gave him the air of a most comical dandy. The men fairly yelled at seeing him thus metamorphosed, and old Rube himself grinned heartily at the odd feelings which the dress occasioned him. Before the sun had set, everything was in readiness, and the advance started off. The main body, under Saint Vrain, was to follow an hour after. A few men, Mexicans, remained by the spring, in charge of the Navajo prisoners. CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE. THE RESCUE. We struck directly across the plain for the eastern entrance of the valley. We reached the canon about two hours before day. Everything turned out as we had anticipated. There was an outpost of five Indians at the end of the pass, but we had stolen upon them unawares, and they were captured without the necessity of our firing a shot. The main body came up soon after, and preceded by our party as before, passed through the canon. Arriving at the border of the woods nearest the town, we halted, and concealed ourselves among the trees. The town was glistening in the clear moonlight, and deep silence was over the valley. There were none stirring at so early an hour, but we could descry two or three dark objects down by the river. We knew them to be the sentinels that stood over our captive comrades. The sight was gratifying, for it told us they still lived. They little dreamed, poor fellows! how near was the hour of their deliverance. For the same reasons that had influenced us on a former occasion, the attack was not to be made until daybreak; and we waited as before, but with a very different prospect. There were now six hundred warriors in the town-- about our own number; and we knew that a desperate engagement was before us. We had no fear as to the result; but we feared that the vengeful savages might take it into their heads to despatch their captives while we fought. They knew that to recover these was our main object, and, if themselves defeated, that would give them the satisfaction of a terrible vengeance. All this we knew was far from improbable; but to guard against the possibility of such an event, every precaution was to be taken. We were satisfied that the captive women were still in the temple. Rube assured us that it was their universal custom to keep new prisoners there for several days after their arrival, until they were finally distributed among the warriors. The queen, too, dwelt in this building. It was resolved, then, that the disguised party should ride forward, conducting me, as their prisoner, by the first light; and that they should surround the temple, and by a clever _coup_ secure the white captives. A signal then given on the bugle, or the first shot fired, was to bring the main body forward at a gallop. This was plainly the best plan, and having fully arranged its details, we waited the approach of the dawn. It was not long in coming. The moonlight became mixed with the faint rays of the aurora, and objects were seen more distinctly. As the milky quartz caught the hues of morning, we rode out of our cover, and forward over the plain. I was apparently tied upon my horse, and guarded between two of the Delawares. On approaching the town we saw several men upon the roofs. They ran to and fro, summoning others out, and large groups began to appear along the terraces. As we came nearer we were greeted with shouts of congratulation. Avoiding the streets, we pushed directly for the temple at a brisk trot. On arriving at its base we suddenly halted, flung ourselves from our horses, and climbed the ladders. There were many women upon the parapets of the building. Among these Seguin recognised his daughter, the queen. She was at once secured and forced into the inside. The next moment I held my betrothed in my arms, while her mother was by our side. The other captives were there; and, without waiting to offer any explanation, we hurried them all within the rooms, and guarded the doors with our pistols. The whole manoeuvre had not occupied two minutes but before its completion a wild cry announced that the ruse was detected. Vengeful yells rang over the town; and the warriors, leaping down from their houses, ran towards the temple. Arrows began to hurtle around us; but above all other sounds pealed the notes of the bugle, summoning our comrades to the attack. Quick upon the signal they were seen debouching from the woods and coming down at a gallop. When within two hundred yards of the houses, the charging horsemen divided into two columns, and wheeled round the town, with the intention of attacking it on both sides. The Indians hastened to defend the skirts of the village; but in spite of their arrow-flights, which dismounted several, the horsemen closed in, and, flinging themselves from their horses, fought hand to hand among the walls. The shouts of defiance, the sharp ringing of rifles, and the louder reports of the escopettes, soon announced that the battle had fairly begun. A large party, headed by El Sol and Saint Vrain, had ridden up to the temple. Seeing that we had secured the captives, these too dismounted, and commenced an attack upon that part of the town; clambering up to the houses, and driving out the braves who defended them. The fight now became general. Shouts and sounds of shots rent the air. Men were seen upon high roofs, face to face in deadly and desperate conflict. Crowds of women, screaming and terrified, rushed along the terraces, or ran out upon the plain, making for the woods. Frightened horses, snorting and neighing, galloped through the streets, and off over the open prairie, with trailing bridles; while others, inclosed in corrals, plunged and broke over the walls. It was a wild scene--a terrific picture! Through all, I was only a spectator. I was guarding a door of the temple in which were our own friends. My elevated position gave me a view of the whole village, and I could trace the progress of the battle from house to house. I saw that many were falling on both sides, for the savages fought with the courage of despair. I had no fears for the result. The whites, too, had wrongs to redress, and by the remembrance of these were equally nerved for the struggle. In this kind of encounter they had the advantage in arms. It was only on the plains that their savage foes were feared, when charging with their long and death-dealing lances. As I continued to gaze over the azoteas a terrific scene riveted my attention, and I forgot all others. Upon a high roof two men were engaged in combat fierce and deadly. Their brilliant dresses had attracted me, and I soon recognised the combatants. They were Dacoma and the Maricopa! The Navajo fought with a spear, and I saw that the other held his rifle clubbed and empty. When my eye first rested upon them, the latter had just parried a thrust, and was aiming a blow at his antagonist. It fell without effect; and Dacoma, turning quickly, brought his lance again to the charge. Before El Sol could ward it off, the thrust was given, and the weapon appeared to pass through his body! I involuntarily uttered a cry, as I expected to see the noble Indian fall. What was my astonishment at seeing him brandish his tomahawk over his head, and with a crashing blow stretch the Navajo at his feet! Drawn down by the impaling shaft, he fell over the body, but in a moment struggled up again, drew the long lance from his flesh, and tottering forward to the parapet, shouted out-- "Here, Luna! Our mother is avenged!" I saw the girl spring upon the roof, followed by Garey; and the next moment the wounded man sank fainting in the arms of the trapper. Rube, Saint Vrain, and several others now climbed to the roof, and commenced examining the wound. I watched them with feelings of painful suspense, for the character of this most singular man had inspired me with friendship. Presently Saint Vrain joined me, and I was assured that the wound was not mortal. The Maricopa would live. The battle was now ended. The warriors who survived had fled to the forest. Shots were heard only at intervals; an occasional shout, the shriek of some savage discovered lurking among the walls. Many white captives had been found in the town, and were brought in front of the temple, guarded by the Mexicans. The Indian women had escaped to the woods during the engagement. It was well; for the hunters and volunteer soldiery, exasperated by wounds and heated by the conflict, now raged around like furies. Smoke ascended from many of the houses; flames followed; and the greater part of the town was soon reduced to a smouldering ruin. We stayed all that day by the Navajo village, to recruit our animals and prepare for our homeward journey across the desert. The plundered cattle were collected. Some were slaughtered for immediate use, and the rest placed in charge of vaqueros, to be driven on the hoof. Most of the Indian horses were lassoed and brought in, some to be ridden by the rescued captives, others as the booty of the conquerors. But it was not safe to remain long in the valley. There were other tribes of the Navajoes to the north, who would soon be down upon us. There were their allies, the great nations of the Apaches to the south, and the Nijoras to the west; and we knew that all these would unite and follow on our trail. The object of the expedition was attained, at least as far as its leader had designed it. A great number of captives were recovered, whose friends had long since mourned them as lost for ever. It would be some time before they would renew those savage forays in which they had annually desolated the pueblos of the frontier. By sunrise of the next day we had repassed the canon, and were riding towards the snowy mountain. CHAPTER FIFTY SIX. EL PASO DEL NORTE. I will not describe the recrossing of the desert plains, nor will I detail the incidents of our homeward journey. With all its hardships and weariness, to me it was a pleasant one. It is a pleasure to attend upon her we love, and that along the route was my chief duty. The smiles I received far more than repaid me for the labour I underwent in its discharge. But it was not labour. It was no labour to fill her xuages with fresh water at every spring or runlet, to spread the blanket softly over her saddle, to weave her a _quitasol_ out of the broad leaves of the palmilla, to assist her in mounting and dismounting. No; that was not labour to me. We were happy as we journeyed. I was happy, for I knew that I had fulfilled my contract and won my bride; and the very remembrance of the perils through which we had so lately passed heightened the happiness of both. But one thing cast an occasional gloom over our thoughts--the queen, Adele. She was returning to the home of her childhood, not voluntarily, but as a captive--captive to her own kindred, her father and mother! Throughout the journey both these waited upon her with tender assiduity, almost constantly gazing at her with sad and silent looks. There was woe in their hearts. We were not pursued; or, if so, our pursuers never came up. Perhaps we were not followed at all. The foe had been crippled and cowed by the terrible chastisement, and we knew it would be some time before they could muster force enough to take our trail. Still we lost not a moment, but travelled as fast as the ganados could be pushed forward. In five days we reached the Barranca del Oro, and passed the old mine, the scene of our bloody conflict. During our halt among the ruined ranches, I strayed away from the rest, impelled by a painful curiosity to see if aught remained of my late follower or his fellow-victim. I went to the spot where I had last seen their bodies. Yes; two skeletons lay in front of the shaft, as cleanly picked by the wolves as if they had been dressed for the studio of an anatomist. It was all that remained of the unfortunate men. After leaving the Barranca del Oro, we struck the head waters of the Rio Mimbres; and, keeping on the banks of that stream, followed it down to the Del Norte. Next day we entered the pueblo of El Paso. A scene of singular interest greeted us on our arrival. As we neared the town, the whole population flocked out to meet us. Some had come forth from curiosity, some to welcome us and take part in the ceremony that hailed our triumphant return, but not a few impelled by far different motives. We had brought with us a large number of rescued captives--nearly fifty in all--and these were soon surrounded by a crowd of citizens. In that crowd were yearning mothers and fond sisters, lovers newly awakened from despair, and husbands who had not yet ceased to mourn. There were hurried inquiries, and quick glances, that betokened keen anxiety. There were "scenes" and shouts of joy, as each one recognised some long-lost object of a dear affection. But there were other scenes of a diverse character, scenes of woe and wailing; for of many of those who had gone forth, but a few days before, in the pride of health and the panoply of war, many came not back. I was particularly struck with one episode--a painful one to witness. Two women of the poblana class had laid hold upon one of the captives, a girl of, I should think, about ten years of age. Each claimed the girl for her daughter, and each of them held one of her arms, not rudely, but to hinder the other from carrying her off. A crowd had encircled them, and both the women were urging their claims in loud and plaintive voice. One stated the age of the girl, hastily narrated the history of her capture by the savages, and pointed to certain marks upon her person, to which she declared she was ready at any moment to make _juramento_. The other appealed to the spectators to look at the colour of the child's hair and eyes, which slightly differed from that of the other claimant, and called upon them to note the resemblance she bore to another, who stood by, and who, she alleged, was the child's eldest sister. Both talked at the same time, and kissed the girl repeatedly as they talked. The little wild captive stood between the two, receiving their alternate embraces with a wondering and puzzled expression. She was, in truth, a most interesting child, habited in the Indian costume, and browned by the sun of the desert. Whichever might have been the mother, it was evident she had no remembrance of either of them; for here there was no mother! In her infancy she had been carried off to the desert, and, like the daughter of Seguin, had forgotten the scenes of her childhood. She had forgotten father--mother--all! It was, as I have said, a scene painful to witness; the women's looks of anguish, their passionate appeals, their wild but affectionate embraces lavished upon the girl, their plaintive cries mingled with sobs and weeping. It was indeed a painful scene. It was soon brought to a close, at least as far as I witnessed it. The alcalde came upon the ground; and the girl was given in charge to the policia, until the true mother should bring forward more definite proofs of maternity. I never heard the finale of this little romance. The return of the expedition to El Paso was celebrated by a triumphant ovation. Cannon boomed, bells rang, fireworks hissed and sputtered, masses were sung, and music filled the streets. Feasting and merriment followed, and the night was turned into a blazing illumination of wax candles, and _un gran funcion de balle_--a fandango. Next morning, Seguin, with his wife and daughters, made preparations to journey on to the old hacienda on the Del Norte. The house was still standing; so we had heard. It had not been plundered. The savages, on taking possession of it, had been closely pressed by a body of Pasenos, and had hurried off with their captives, leaving everything else as they had found it. Saint Vrain and I were to accompany the party to their home. The chief had plans for the future, in which both I and my friend were interested. There we were to mature them. I found the returns of my trading speculation even greater than Saint Vrain had promised. My ten thousand dollars had been trebled. Saint Vrain, too, was master of a large amount; and we were enabled to bestow our bounty on those of our late comrades who had proved themselves worthy. But most of them had received "bounty" from another source. As we rode out from El Paso, I chanced to look back. There was a long string of dark objects waving over the gates. There was no mistaking what they were, for they were unlike anything else. They were scalps! CHAPTER FIFTY SEVEN. TOUCHING THE CHORDS OF MEMORY. It is the second evening after our arrival at the old house on the Del Norte. We have gone up to the azotea--Seguin, Saint Vrain, and myself; I know not why, but guided thither by our host. Perhaps he wishes to look once more over that wild land, the theatre of so many scenes in his eventful life; once more, for upon the morrow he leaves it for ever. Our plans have been formed; we journey upon the morrow; we are going over the broad plains to the waters of the Mississippi. They go with us. It is a lovely evening, and warm. The atmosphere is elastic; such an atmosphere as you can find only on the high tables of the western world. It seems to act upon all animated nature, judging from its voices. There is joy in the songs of the birds, in the humming of the homeward bees. There is a softness, too, in those sounds that reach us from the farther forest; those sounds usually harsh; the voices of the wilder and fiercer creatures of the wilderness. All seem attuned to peace and love. The song of the arriero is joyous; for many of these are below, packing for our departure. I, too, am joyous. I have been so for days; but the light atmosphere around, and the bright prospect before me, have heightened the pulsations of my happiness. Not so my companions on the azotea. Both seem sad. Seguin is silent. I thought he had climbed up here to take a last look of the fair valley. Not so. He paces backward and forward with folded arms, his eyes fixed upon the cemented roof. They see no farther; they see not at all. The eye of his mind only is active, and that is looking inward. His air is abstracted; his brow is clouded; his thoughts are gloomy and painful. I know the cause of all this. She is still a stranger! But Saint Vrain--the witty, the buoyant, the sparkling Saint Vrain--what misfortune has befallen him? What cloud is crossing the rose-coloured field of his horoscope? What reptile is gnawing at his heart, that not even the sparkling wine of El Paso can drown? Saint Vrain is speechless; Saint Vrain is sighing; Saint Vrain is sad! I half divine the cause. Saint Vrain is-- The tread of light feet upon the stone stairway--the rustling of female dresses! They are ascending. They are Madame Seguin, Adele, Zoe. I look at the mother--at her features. They, too, are shaded by a melancholy expression. Why is not she happy? Why not joyous, having recovered her long-lost, much-loved child? Ah! she has not yet recovered her! I turn my eyes on the daughter--the elder one--the queen. That is the strangest expression of all. Have you seen the captive ocelot? Have you seen the wild bird that refuses to be tamed, but against the bars of its cage-prison still beats its bleeding wings? If so, it may help you to fancy that expression. I cannot depict it. She is no longer in the Indian costume. That has been put aside. She wears the dress of civilised life, but she wears it reluctantly. She has shown this, for the skirt is torn in several places, and the bodice, plucked open, displays her bosom, half-nude, heaving under the wild thoughts which agitate it. She accompanies them, but not us a companion. She has the air of a prisoner, the air of the eagle whose wings have been clipped. She regards neither mother nor sister. Their constant kindness has failed to impress her. The mother has led her to the azotea, and let go her hand. She walks no longer with them, but crouching, and in starts, from place to place, obedient to the impulse of strong emotions. She has reached the western wing of the azotea, and stands close up against the parapet, gazing over--gazing upon the Mimbres. She knows them well, those peaks of sparkling selenite, those watch-towers of the desert land: she knows them well. Her heart is with her eyes. We stand watching her, all of us. She is the object of common solicitude. She it is who keeps between all hearts and the light. The father looks sadly on; the mother looks sadly on; Zoe looks sadly on; Saint Vrain, too. No! that is a different expression. His gaze is the gaze of-- She has turned suddenly. She perceives that we are all regarding her with attention. Her eyes wander from one to the other. They are fixed upon the glance of Saint Vrain! A change comes over her countenance--a sudden change, from dark to bright, like the cloud passing from the sun. Her eye is fired by a new expression. I know it well. I have seen it before; not in her eyes, but in those that resemble them: the eyes of her sister. I know it well. It is the light of love! Saint Vrain! His, too, are lit by a similar emotion! Happy Saint Vrain! Happy that it is mutual. As yet he knows not that, but I do. I could bless him with a single word. Moments pass. Their eyes mingle in fiery communion. They gaze into each other. Neither can avert their glance. A god rules them: the god of love! The proud and energetic attitude of the girl gradually forsakes her; her features relax; her eye swims with a softer expression; and her whole bearing seems to have undergone a change. She sinks down upon a bench. She leans against the parapet. She no longer turns to the west. She no longer gazes upon the Mimbres. Her heart is no longer in the desert land! No; it is with her eyes, and these rest almost continuously on Saint Vrain. They wander at intervals over the stones of the azotea; then her thoughts do not go with them; but they ever return to the same object, to gaze upon it tenderly, more tenderly at each new glance. The anguish of captivity is over. She no longer desires to escape. There is no prison where he dwells. It is now a paradise. Henceforth the doors may be thrown freely open. That little bird will make no further effort to fly from its cage. It is tamed. What memory, friendship, entreaties, had tailed to effect, love had accomplished in a single instant. Love, mysterious power, in one pulsation had transformed that wild heart; had drawn it from the desert. I fancied that Seguin had noticed all this, for he was observing her movements with attention. I fancied that such thoughts were passing in his mind, and that they were not unpleasing to him, for he looked less afflicted than before. But I did not continue to watch the scene. A deeper interest summoned me aside; and, obedient to the sweet impulse, I strayed towards the southern angle of the azotea. I was not alone. My betrothed was by my side; and our hands, like our hearts, were locked in each other. There was no secrecy about our love; with Zoe there never had been. Nature had prompted the passion. She knew not the conventionalities of the world, of society, of circles refined, soi-disant. She knew not that love was a passion for one to be ashamed of. Hitherto no presence had restrained her in its expression--not even that, to lovers of less pure design, awe-inspiring above all others--the presence of the parents. Alone or in their company, there was no difference in her conduct. She knew not the hypocrisies of artificial natures; the restraints, the intrigues, the agonies of atoms that act. She knew not the terror of guilty minds. She obeyed only the impulse her Creator had kindled within her. With me it was otherwise. I had shouldered society; though not much then, enough to make me less proud of love's purity--enough to render me slightly sceptical of its sincerity. But through her I had now escaped from that scepticism. I had become a faithful believer in the nobility of the passion. Our love was sanctioned by those who alone possessed the right to sanction it. It was sanctified by its own purity. We are gazing upon a fair scene: fairer now, at the sunset hour. The sun is no longer upon the stream, but his rays slant through the foliage of the cotton-wood trees that fringe it, and here and there a yellow beam is flung transversely on the water. The forest is dappled by the high tints of autumn. There are green leaves and red ones; some of a golden colour and others of dark maroon. Under this bright mosaic the river winds away like a giant serpent, hiding its head in the darker woods around El Paso. We command a view of all this, for we are above the landscape. We see the brown houses of the village, with the shining vane of its church. Our eyes have often rested upon that vane in happy hours, but none happier than now, for our hearts are full of happiness. We talk of the past as well as the present; for Zoe has now seen something of life, its darker pictures it is true; but these are often the most pleasant to be remembered; and her desert experience has furnished her with many a new thought--the cue to many an inquiry. The future becomes the subject of our converse. It is all bright, though a long and even perilous journey is before us. We think not of that. We look beyond it to that promised hour when I am to teach, and she is to learn, what is "to marry." Someone is touching the strings of a bandolin. We look around. Madame Seguin is seated upon a bench, holding the instrument in her hands. She is tuning it. As yet she has not played. There has been no music since our return. It is by Seguin's request that the instrument has been brought up, with the music, to chase away heavy memories; or, perhaps, from a hope that it may soothe those savage ones still dwelling in the bosom of his child. Madame Seguin is about to play, and my companion and I go nearer to listen. Seguin and Saint Vrain are conversing apart. Adele is still seated where we left her, silent and abstracted. The music commences. It is a merry air--a fandango: one of those to which the Andalusian foot delights to keep time. Seguin and Saint Vrain have turned. We all stand looking in the face of Adele. We endeavour to read its expression. The first notes have startled her from her attitude of abstraction. Her eyes wander from one to the other, from the instrument to the player, with looks of wonder--of inquiry. The music continues. The girl has risen, and, as it mechanically, approaches the bench where her mother is seated. She crouches down by the feet of the latter, places her ear close up to the instrument, and listens attentively. There is a singular expression upon her face. I look at Seguin. That upon his is not less singular. His eye is fixed upon the girl's, gazing with intensity. His lips are apart, yet he seems not to breathe. His arms hang neglected, and he is leaning forward as if to read the thoughts that are passing within her. He starts erect again, as though under the impulse of some sudden resolution. "Oh, Adele! Adele!" he cries, hurriedly addressing his wife; "oh, sing that song; that sweet hymn, you remember; you used to sing it to her-- often, often. You remember it, Adele! Look at her. Quick! quick! O God! Perhaps she may--" He is interrupted by the music. The mother has caught his meaning, and with the adroitness of a practised player, suddenly changes the tune to one of a far different character. I recognise the beautiful Spanish hymn, "La madre a su hija" (The mother to her child). She sings it, accompanying her voice with the bandolin. She throws all her energy into the song until the strain seems inspired. She gives the words with full and passionate effect-- "Tu duermes, cara nina! Tu duertnes en la paz. Los angeles del cielo-- Los angeles guardan, guardan, Nina mia!--Ca--ra--mi--" The song was interrupted by a cry--a cry of singular import--uttered by the girl. The first words of the hymn had caused her to start, and then to listen, if possible, more attentively than ever. As the song proceeded, the singular expression we had noted seemed to become every moment more marked and intense. When the voice had reached the burden of the melody, a strange exclamation escaped her lips; and, springing to her feet, she stood gazing wildly in the face of the singer. Only for a moment. The next moment she cried in loud, passionate accents, "Mamma! mamma!" and fell forward upon the bosom of her mother! Seguin spoke truly when he said, "Perhaps in God's mercy she may yet remember." She had remembered--not only her mother, but in a short time she remembered him. The chords of memory had been touched, its gates thrown open. She remembered the history of her childhood. She remembered all! I will not essay to describe the scene that followed. I will not attempt to picture the expression of the actors; to speak of their joyous exclamations, mingled with sobs and tears; but they were tears of joy. All of us were happy--happy to exultation; but for Seguin himself, I knew it was the hour of his life. C THE END. 
46110	----	TRANSCRIBER NOTES The text includes Original Edition page numbers in { }. Footnotes in the text are in [ ]. Italic text is denoted by _underscores_. Obvious typographical and punctuation errors have been corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within the text and consultation of external sources. More detail can be found at the end of the book. Early Western Travels 1748-1846 Volume XVIII Early Western Travels 1748-1846 A Series of Annotated Reprints of some of the best and rarest contemporary volumes of travel, descriptive of the Aborigines and Social and Economic Conditions in the Middle and Far West, during the Period of Early American Settlement Edited with Notes, Introductions, Index, etc., by Reuben Gold Thwaites, LL.D. Editor of "The Jesuit Relations and Allied Documents," "Original Journals of the Lewis and Clark Expedition," "Hennepin's New Discovery," etc. Volume XVIII Pattie's Personal Narrative, 1824-1830; Willard's Inland Trade with New Mexico, 1825, and Downfall of the Fredonian Republic; and Malte-Brun's Account of Mexico. [Illustration: (Publisher's logo)] Cleveland, Ohio The Arthur H. Clark Company 1905 COPYRIGHT 1905, BY THE ARTHUR H. CLARK COMPANY ALL RIGHTS RESERVED The Lakeside Press R. R. DONNELLEY & SONS COMPANY CHICAGO CONTENTS OF VOLUME XVIII PREFACE. _The Editor_ 9 PERSONAL NARRATIVE during an Expedition from St. Louis, through The Vast Regions between that place and the Pacific Ocean, and thence back through the City of Mexico to Vera Cruz, during journeyings of six years; in which he and his Father, who accompanied him, suffered unheard of Hardships and Dangers, had Various Conflicts with the Indians, and were made Captives, in which Captivity his Father died; together with a Description of the Country, and the Various Nations through which they passed. _James O. Pattie_, of Kentucky, edited by _Timothy Flint_. Copyright notice 24 The first Editor's Preface. _Timothy Flint_ 25 Author's Introduction 29 Text 37 The first Editor's Note. _Timothy Flint_ 325 Inland Trade with New Mexico. _Doctor Willard_, edited by _Timothy Flint_ 327 Downfall of the Fredonian Republic. _Doctor Willard_, edited by _Timothy Flint_ 365 Mexico. Some Account of its Inhabitants, Towns, Productions, and Natural Curiosities. _Conrad Malte-Brun_ 370 ILLUSTRATIONS TO VOLUME XVIII Facsimile of title-page, Pattie's Narrative 23 "Rescue of an Indian Child" 57 "Mr. Pattie wounded by an Indian Arrow" 161 "Shooting Mr. Pattie's Horse" 185 "Messrs. Pattie and Slover rescued from Famish" 217 "Burial of Mr. Pattie" 243 PREFACE TO VOLUME XVIII Upon the return, in 1806, of the Lewis and Clark exploring expedition, the first successfully to penetrate from the Mississippi River to the Pacific Ocean, the Western imagination was aroused by visions of wealth to be acquired from commercial relations with the Indians of the far Northwest. Fur-trading expeditions were accordingly soon dispatched up the Missouri and its tributaries; and, throughout several years, the equally rich opportunities for Southwestern Indian commerce and exploration were neglected. Far to the Southwest lay the Spanish settlements of New Mexico, isolated islands of a sluggish civilization. Practically all of their imports were brought in by way of the Gulf of Mexico and Vera Cruz, thence travelling a difficult road of over fifteen hundred miles from the coast, making their cost almost prohibitive to the mixed race of Spaniards and Mexicans who dwelt in the valleys of the upper Rio Grande. Yet within easy reach of their frontier lay one of the chief commercial peoples of the age, to be reached over a wilderness road passing for the most part across level plains, watered by numerous streams--the upper tributaries of the great western affluents of the Mississippi. The common interests of these people and of the Americans lay in an interchange of commodities; but the government of New Spain looked with hostile suspicion upon the aggressive, vigorous race that was even then forcing its borders. Behind the prospect of profit for the overland Southwest trader, loomed the possibility of a gruesome Spanish prison, and confiscation of the adventured goods. After Zebulon M. Pike returned (1807) with his account of arrest and detention in Santa Fé and Chihuahua, no American trader appears to have sought this region for five years. A party then outfitting from St. Louis was seized at the New Mexican frontier, hurried to an inland dungeon, and kept in durance nine miserable years. News of this harsh treatment, and of the revolutionary movement which was upheaving the social structure of all New Spain, proved sufficiently deterrent to keep any organized expeditions from risking the hazard of the Southwest trade, until the third decade of the nineteenth century. More favorable reports being then received, several caravans were fitted out, and the real history of the Santa Fé trail began. Among the early merchants of St. Louis, the name of Bernard Pratte, near relative of the Chouteaus and Labbadies, was connected with important fur-trading enterprises. In the summer of 1824 Pratte's eldest son headed a caravan destined for the Santa Fé, his party being rendezvoused at the company's post upon the Missouri, not far from the present site of Omaha. There, while waiting for its final equipment, the expedition was reinforced by four free-traders who had left their home upon the Gasconade River, the frontier of Missouri settlement, and with a small outfit had ascended the river to this point, bent on trading and hunting upon its upper waters. Barred from their enterprise by the lack of an authoritative license for dealing with the Indians, the little band were easily persuaded to join Pratte's party. Two of these recruits were the heroes of our tale--Sylvester Pattie and his son James Ohio. For three generations the Patties had been frontiersmen. Restlessly they moved onward as the border advanced, always hovering upon the outskirts of civilization, seeking to better their condition by taking up fresh lands in untilled places, and remorselessly fighting the aborigines who disputed their invasion. They longed unceasingly for new adventures in the mysterious West, that allured them with its strange fascination. Brave, honest, God-fearing, vigorous in mind and body, dependent on their own resources, for food and for defense chiefly dependent on the familiar rifle, the Patties belonged to that class of Americans who conquered the wilderness, and yearly pushed the frontier westward. The career of the grandfather and father of our author, as in simple phrase he relates it in his Introduction, is typical of those of the founders of Kentucky, and the early settlers of the rich valley of the Missouri. To have early emigrated from Virginia to Kentucky, to have aided in the defense of Bryant's Station, and to have served under Colonel Benjamin Logan, and the still more renowned Kentuckian, George Rogers Clark, was unquestionable guaranty to the proud title of pioneer. It was typical, also, that the grandfather, having acquired some local fame and position, and attained the rank of magistrate, the father, tiring of Kentucky, should, like the Boones, join the stream of emigration to Missouri. There, history repeated itself. The War of 1812-15 breaking out, the frontier blockhouses must again withstand the assaults of savages. Lieutenant Pattie's relief of Cap-au-Gris, upon the Missouri, takes rank with Logan's Revolutionary exploits at St. Asaph's. The war ended, and the country filling up, "Mr. Pattie, possessing a wandering and adventurous spirit," once more removed to the utmost borders of civilization, and built a mill upon the rapid Gasconade. Here he was in a fair way to prosperity, when domestic affliction sent him forth into the wilderness, taking with him his eldest son, who "inheriting the love of a rifle through so many generations, and nursed amid such scenes, he begged so earnestly of his father that he might be allowed to accompany the expedition, that he prevailed." Thus began that long series of adventures, so full of hazard and suffering that their unvarnished narration would seem the invention of romance, did not one often find counterparts in the experiences of other Western wanderers. Recruited to the number of a hundred and sixteen, Pratte's caravan advanced first toward the Pawnee villages of the Platte. Because of his long experience in border warfare, Sylvester Pattie was now chosen commander, and thereafter arranged the details of march and guard. The Pawnee were inclined to be friendly, their chiefs having recently visited the Great Father at Washington; but in rescuing an ill-treated native child, captured by them on a recent raid against a hostile tribe, the whites were nearly embroiled with these pirates of the plains. Securing the little waif, also some Indian guides, the Pawnee were left behind August 11, 1824, and the advance to the Southwest begun. Day after day the party toiled across the plains, their journey filled with stirring incident. Once, prepared to fight a band of from six to eight hundred well-mounted Comanche, the whites were rescued by a rival tribe of horsemen, who, "with a noise like distant thunder," swept in between the hostile lines, and won the battle for them. Again, amid a vagrant party of Indians, the father of the little captive suddenly appeared, and presented the captain of the expedition with tokens of his gratitude for the rescue. Upon the twentieth of August, buffalo were first encountered; and twenty days later, on the ridge between the waters of the Kansas and the Arkansas, young Pattie was introduced to that then formidable enemy, the grizzly bear. From that time forward, these fierce creatures attacked the camp almost nightly; on one occasion, a member of the party was caught and so maimed by a grizzly that he shortly after died of his wounds. On the twentieth of October the caravan reached the mountains, and after a difficult crossing descended into the attractive valley of Taos, the New Mexican frontier. Pattie was surprised at the primitive life and customs of the inhabitants of New Mexico, of which in a few unadorned sentences he gives us a vivid picture. Passing on to Santa Fé, the ancient capital, our adventurers were just in time to join a punitive expedition against a hostile band of Indians, wherein the junior Pattie had the good fortune to rescue from the hands of the savages a charming young Spanish maiden, daughter of a former governor of the province. The gratitude of the fair captive and of her father was profusely expressed, and their friendship proved of lasting value to the gallant narrator. Obtaining permission from the New Mexican government to trap upon the Gila River, the Patties organized a small party for that purpose. Leaving Santa Fé on November 22, they passed down the Rio del Norte to Socorro, and then struck across country to the Gila, visiting en route the famous copper mines of Santa Rita. The trip extended through nearly five months, and the hunters were probably the first Americans to visit the upper valley of the Gila. Many of the natives having never seen a white man, fled at their approach; but others were more bold, and viciously attacked them with their arrows. James's appearance upon his return to the New Mexican settlements was so haggard that the rescued Spanish girl shed tears upon observing his plight. Securing fresh supplies, the party set out to bring in their buried furs from the Gila, only to find that the Indians had discovered and rifled their cache; thus had their hardships and sufferings gone for naught. Returning to the mines, they succeeded in repelling an attack thereon by hostile Apache, and in wringing from them a treaty which ensured the peaceful working of the deposits; whereupon the Spaniards rented these works to Sylvester Pattie, whose American methods enabled him to derive from them a profit unknown to their former operators. But the tranquil life at Santa Rita proved too monotonous for the younger Pattie. He was seized with "an irresistible desire to resume the employment of trapping," and despite paternal remonstrances set out January 26, 1826, with a few companions, for the Gila valley, where he had already suffered and lost so much. During the following eight months, the range of the trappers' journey was wide. Passing down the Gila to its junction with the Colorado, they ascended the banks of the latter stream, seeing in its now world-famous cañons only walls of highly-colored rock that debarred them from the water's edge. Crossing the continental divide, probably at the South Pass, they emerged upon the plains, and once more hunted buffalo in their native habitat. Turning north to the Big Horn and Yellowstone, the adventurers pursued a somewhat ill-defined course, coming back upon the upper Arkansas, and crossing to Santa Fé, where Pattie was again deprived of the harvest of furs gathered with such wearisome labor--this time by the duplicity of the Spanish governor, who claimed that the young man's former license did not extend to this expedition. After once more visiting the gentle Jacova, his young Spanish friend, Pattie sought his father at Santa Rita. Delaying there but three days for rest, he set forth upon another excursion afield--this time to Sonora, Chihuahua, and other provinces of northern Mexico, returning by way of El Paso, and reaching the mines by the middle of November. The winter and spring were spent in occasional hunting excursions, and in visits to the Spanish haciendas. In the spring, a new turn was given to the fortunes of the Patties, by the embezzlement and flight of a trusted Spanish subordinate, through whom were lost the savings of several years. Forced to abandon their mining operations, father and son sought to rehabilitate themselves by another extended trapping expedition, and set forth with a company of thirty, again in the direction of the Gila. Engagements with hostile Indians were of frequent occurrence. Early in November, many of their party having deserted and all of their horses being stolen, the remainder built themselves canoes, and embarked upon the river. Communication with the natives being only possible through the sign language, our adventurers misunderstood their informants to declare that a Spanish settlement existed at the mouth of the Colorado; and in expectation of here finding succor, they continued down that great waterway to its mouth. There they met with nothing but deserted shores, and tidal waves which seriously alarmed and disturbed these fresh-water voyagers. Finding the ascent of the swift current beyond their powers, they had now no recourse but to bury their store of furs, and strike across the rugged peninsula of Lower California toward the Spanish settlements on the Pacific coast. The story of their sufferings in the salt lakes and deserts of this barren land is told with more vigor than delicacy. Arrived at a Dominican mission on the western slope of the mountains, the weary travellers were received with suspicion rather than hospitality. Being placed under surveillance, they were forwarded to San Diego, then the residence of the governor of the Spanish settlements of California. We now come to a most interesting portion of Pattie's book--his residence in California, in the time of the Mexican régime, and his report of conditions and events in the "land of the golden fleece." According to his account, he and his companions were at first treated with severity, being imprisoned at San Diego for lack of passports, and there detained for many months. The elder Pattie died in his cell, without being permitted to see the son for whose presence he had piteously pleaded in his latest hours. Young Pattie's hatred for the Mexican governor was not unnatural; but the consequent bitterness of expression quite distorts his narrative. A Mexican tradition reports that the Patties were received by the inhabitants with wonder, and treated kindly; also that the elder Pattie embraced the Catholic faith before his death, and expressed his appreciation of the hospitality shown them. We may infer even from the son's statements, since his chief anathemas are reserved for the officers and the priests, that the unofficial population disapproved of the governor's measures. Pattie was at last released, in recognition of his services as an interpreter, and in order that he might vaccinate the natives of the missions, among whom a smallpox epidemic had broken out. The adventurer now set forth up the coast, stopping in turn at each mission and presidio, and presenting us with a graphic picture of the pastoral life of the neophytes and rancheros. Arrived at San Francisco, he pushed on to the Russian fort on Bodega Bay, returning to Monterey in time to describe and participate in the Solis revolt of 1829. Here he consorted with the small American colony, and in his narrative probably magnifies his own part in this affair, which, seen through the mists of memory, bulked larger than the facts would warrant. At Monterey he encountered his old enemy, Governor Echeandia, who with apparent surprise found his former captive among those who had aided in suppressing the revolt. Proffered Mexican citizenship, Pattie represents himself as showering reproaches on the governor for the indignities he had suffered. Advised by his new friends to make a formal statement of his injuries, and the losses suffered by refusal to permit the securing of his furs, Pattie embarked for Mexico in May, 1830, together with the revolutionists who were being sent to the capital for trial. Upon his departure he conveys his impressions of Alta California in a few striking sentences: "Those who traverse it [the California coast] ... must be constantly excited to wonder and praise. It is no less remarkable for uniting the advantages of healthfulness, a good soil, a temperate climate, and yet one of exceeding mildness, a happy mixture of level and elevated ground, and vicinity to the sea." He then proceeds to animadvert upon the inhabitants and the conduct of the mission padres in their treatment of the natives. The companions of his long and adventurous journey he left settled among the Mexicans; most of them made California their permanent home. At the City of Mexico, Pattie visited the American diplomatic representative, also the president of the republic, but failed to obtain satisfaction for his losses or injuries. On the way to Vera Cruz, Pattie's travelling party met with an incident then common to travel in Mexico--being halted by the outlawed followers of the recently-deposed president, their arms seized, one of their number hanged, and the remainder relieved of their valuables. From Vera Cruz our adventurer found passage to New Orleans; thence, through the kindly help of compatriots, who loaned him money for the steamboat passage, he ascended the Mississippi to Cincinnati and his early Kentucky home. Here the narrative closes. The only clue we have in reference to his after life, is the one given by H. H. Bancroft, the historian, who thinks he was again in San Diego, California, after the American advent.[1] When poor Pattie arrived in Cincinnati, August 30, 1830, he not only was penniless, but long incarceration in Mexican prisons had broken his health and spirits. The tale of his adventures was doubtless received with slight credence by his simple relatives. But the Reverend Timothy Flint, the young editor of the _Western Monthly Review_ of Cincinnati, who was already enamored of stories of Western pioneering, prevailed upon Pattie to write an account of his curious experiences. Thus originated the _Personal Narrative_, which we now republish in full for the first time.[2] Pattie appears to have written from memory, without the aid of notes taken on the journey--a fact which accounts for the occasional discrepancies in dates, and the obvious confusion of events. Upon the whole, however, the narrative impresses the reader with a sense of its verity, and has the charm of simplicity and vigor. The emendations of the editor, we are assured, were chiefly in the matters of orthography and punctuation, "with the occasional interposition of a topographical illustration, which my acquaintance with the accounts of travellers in New Mexico, and published views have enabled me to make." It is probable that we thus owe to Flint most of the descriptions of scenery, for there is abundant textual evidence that Pattie was not possessed of a poetic fancy. To expand the dimensions of the book, Flint added an article on "Inland Trade with New Mexico," composed chiefly of extracts from the journal of a Doctor Willard, who in May, 1825, set out from St. Charles, Missouri, with an overland party bound for Santa Fé. Thence, practicing medicine on the way, he visited Chihuahua and the northeastern provinces of Mexico, ending his journey at Matamoras. This article, together with another by the same author, on the "Downfall of the Fredonian Republic," also included in the volume, had appeared three years before in Flint's magazine. The volume closes with an extract on Mexican manners and customs, from Malte-Brun's _Géographie universelle_. A thrilling tale of pure adventure, ranging all the way from encounters with grizzly bears, and savages who had never before seen a white man, to a revolution in a Latin-American state, Pattie's narrative has long been a classic. Its chief value to the student of Western history depends upon the vast extent of country over which the author passed, the ethnological data which he presents, especially in relation to the Southwestern tribes, and his graphic picture of the contact between two civilizations in the Southwest, with the inevitable encroachments of the more progressive race. One sees in his pages the beginnings of the drama to be fought out in the Mexican War--the rich and beautiful country, which excited the cupidity of the American pioneer; the indolence and effeminacy of the inhabitants, which inspired the virile backwoodsmen's contempt; and the vanguard of the American advance, already touching the Rockies, and ready to push on to the Pacific. The Spanish-American official, displaying his little brief authority, but irritated the restless borderer, whose advent he dreaded, and whose pressure finally proved irresistible. As a part of the vanguard of the American host that was to crowd the Mexican from the fair northern provinces of his domain, Pattie's wanderings are typical, and suggestive of more than mere adventure. His book is well worthy of reproduction in our series. The present Editor is under obligations to Louise Phelps Kellogg, Ph.D., and Edith Kathryn Lyle, Ph.D., for assistance in preparing this volume for the press. R. G. T. MADISON, WIS., July, 1905. FOOTNOTES to Preface: [1] Bancroft, _History of California_, iii, p. 171, note 44. [2] The first edition was published at Cincinnati in 1831; this is, however, less commonly seen than one dated 1833. Both are, however, from the same plates, and differ only in date and style of title-page and form of copyright clause. We follow the earlier edition, in these respects. In 1847, one Bilson published a book in New York under the title, _The Hunters of Kentucky; or, the trials and toils of traders and trappers during an expedition to the Rocky Mountains, New Mexico and California_, in which much of Pattie's narrative was incorporated verbatim. _Harper's Magazine_, xxi, pp. 80-94, also gives a résumé of Pattie's adventures, with slight embellishments. PATTIE'S PERSONAL NARRATIVE OF A VOYAGE TO THE PACIFIC AND IN MEXICO JUNE 20, 1824--AUGUST 30, 1830 Reprint of the original edition: Cincinnati, 1831 [Illustration: (Facsimile of Title-page, Pattie's Narrative )] THE PERSONAL NARRATIVE OF JAMES O. PATTIE, OF KENTUCKY, DURING AN EXPEDITION FROM ST. LOUIS, THROUGH THE VAST REGIONS BETWEEN THAT PLACE AND THE PACIFIC OCEAN, AND THENCE BACK THROUGH THE CITY OF MEXICO TO VERA CRUZ, DURING JOURNEYINGS OF SIX YEARS; IN WHICH HE AND HIS FATHER, WHO ACCOMPANIED HIM, SUFFERED UNHEARD OF HARDSHIPS AND DANGERS, HAD VARIOUS CONFLICTS WITH THE INDIANS, AND WERE MADE CAPTIVES, IN WHICH CAPTIVITY HIS FATHER DIED; TOGETHER WITH A DESCRIPTION OF THE COUNTRY, AND THE VARIOUS NATIONS THROUGH WHICH THEY PASSED. EDITED BY TIMOTHY FLINT. CINCINNATI: PRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY JOHN H. WOOD. 1831. DISTRICT OF OHIO, TO WIT: [Illustration: (small logo with L. S. in the center)] Be it Remembered, that on the 18th day of Oct., Anno Domini 1831; John H. Wood, of the said District, hath deposited in this office, the title of a Book, the title of which is in the words following, to wit: "The Personal Narrative of James O. Pattie, of Kentucky, during an expedition from St. Louis, through the vast regions between that place and the Pacific ocean, and thence back through the city of Mexico to Vera Cruz, during journeyings of six years; in which he and his father who accompanied him, suffered unheard of hardships and dangers; had various conflicts with the Indians, and were made captives, in which captivity his father died, together with a description of the country, and the various nations through which they passed." The right whereof he claims as proprietor, in conformity with an act of Congress, entitled "An act to amend the several acts respecting copyrights." _Attest_, WILLIAM MINER, _Clerk of the District_. EDITOR'S PREFACE[1] It has been my fortune to be known as a writer of works of the imagination. I am solicitous that this Journal should lose none of its intrinsic interest, from its being supposed that in preparing it for the press, I have drawn from the imagination, either in regard to the incidents or their coloring. For, in the literal truth of the facts, incredible as some of them may appear, my grounds of conviction are my acquaintance with the Author, the impossibility of inventing a narrative like the following, the respectability of his relations, the standing which his father sustained, the confidence reposed in him by the Hon. J. S. Johnston,[2] the very respectable senator in congress from Louisiana, who introduced him to me, the concurrent testimony of persons now in this city, who saw him at different points in New Mexico, and the reports, which reached the United States, during the expedition of many of the incidents here recorded. When my family first arrived at St. Charles' in 1816, the fame of the exploits of his father, as an officer of the rangers, was fresh in the narratives of his associates and fellow soldiers. I have been on the ground, at Cap au Gris, where he was besieged by the Indians. I am not unacquainted with the scenery through which he passed on the Missouri, and I, too, for many years was a sojourner in the prairies. These circumstances, along with a conviction of the truth of the narrative, tended to give me an interest in it, and to qualify me in some degree to judge of the internal evidences contained in the journal itself, of its entire authenticity. It will be perceived at once, that Mr. Pattie, with Mr. McDuffie, thinks more of action than literature, and is more competent to perform exploits, than blazon them in eloquent periods. My influence upon the narrative regards orthography, and punctuation {iv} and the occasional interposition of a topographical illustration, which my acquaintance with the accounts of travellers in New Mexico, and published views of the country have enabled me to furnish. The reader will award me the confidence of acting in good faith, in regard to drawing nothing from my own thoughts. I have found more call to suppress, than to add, to soften, than to show in stronger relief many of the incidents. Circumstances of suffering, which in many similar narratives have been given in downright plainness of detail, I have been impelled to leave to the reader's imagination, as too revolting to be recorded. The very texture of the narrative precludes ornament and amplification. The simple record of events as they transpired, painted by the hungry, toil-worn hunter, in the midst of the desert, surrounded by sterility, espying the foot print of the savage, or discerning him couched behind the tree or hillock, or hearing the distant howl of wild beasts, will naturally bear characteristics of stern disregard of embellishment. To alter it, to attempt to embellish it, to divest it of the peculiar impress of the narrator and his circumstances, would be to take from it its keeping, the charm of its simplicity, and its internal marks of truth. In these respects I have been anxious to leave the narrative as I found it. The journalist seems in these pages a legitimate descendant of those western pioneers, the hunters of Kentucky, a race passing unrecorded from history. The pencil of biography could seize upon no subjects of higher interest. With hearts keenly alive to the impulses of honor and patriotism, and the charities of kindred and friends; they possessed spirits impassible to fear, that no form of suffering or death could daunt; and frames for strength and endurance, as if ribbed with brass and sinewed with steel. For them to traverse wide deserts, climb mountains, swim rivers, grapple with the grizzly bear, and encounter the savage, in a sojourn in the wilderness of years, far from the abodes of civilized men, was but a spirit-stirring and holiday mode of life. {v} To me, there is a kind of moral sublimity in the contemplation of the adventures and daring of such men. They read a lesson to shrinking and effeminate spirits, the men of soft hands and fashionable life, whose frames the winds of heaven are not allowed to visit too roughly. They tend to re-inspire something of that simplicity of manners, manly hardihood, and Spartan energy and force of character, which formed so conspicuous a part of the nature of the settlers of the western wilderness. Every one knows with what intense interest the community perused the adventures of Captain Riley,[3] and other intrepid mariners shipwrecked and enslaved upon distant and barbarous shores. It is far from my thoughts to detract from the intrepidity of American mariners, which is known, wherever the winds blow, or the waves roll; or to depreciate the interest of the recorded narratives of their sufferings. A picture more calculated to arouse American sympathies cannot be presented, than that of a ship's crew, driven by the fierce winds and the mountain waves upon a rock bound shore, and escaping death in the sea, only to encounter captivity from the barbarians on the land. Yet much of the courage, required to encounter these emergencies is passive, counselling only the necessity of submission to events, from which there is no escape, and to which all resistance would be unavailing. The courage requisite to be put forth in an expedition such as that in which Mr. Pattie and his associates were cast, must be both active and passive, energetic and ever vigilant, and never permitted to shrink, or intermit a moment for years. At one time it is assailed by hordes of yelling savages, and at another, menaced with the horrible death of hunger and thirst in interminable forests, or arid sands. Either position offers perils and sufferings sufficiently appalling. But fewer spirits, I apprehend, are formed to brave those of the field, 'Where wilds immeasurably spread, Seem lengthening as they go.' than of the ocean, where the mariner either soon finds rest beneath its tumultuous bosom, or joyfully spreads his sails again to the breeze. INTRODUCTION The grandfather of the author of this Journal, was born in Caroline county, Virginia, in 1750. Soon after he was turned of twenty-one, he moved to Kentucky, and became an associate with those fearless spirits who first settled in the western forests. To qualify him to meet the dangers and encounter the toils of his new position, he had served in the revolutionary war, and had been brought in hostile contact with the British in their attempt to ascend the river Potomac. He arrived in Kentucky, in company with twenty emigrant families, in 1781, and settled on the south side of the Kentucky river. The new settlers were beginning to build houses with internal finishing. His pursuit, which was that of a house carpenter, procured him constant employment, but he sometimes diversified it by teaching school. Soon after his arrival, the commencing settlement experienced the severest and most destructive assaults from the Indians. In August, 1782, he was one of the party who marched to the assistance of Bryant's station,[4] and shared in the glory of relieving that place by the memorable defeat of the savages. Not long afterwards he was called upon by Col. Logan[5] to join a party led by him against the Indians, who had gained a bloody victory over the Kentuckians at the Blue Licks.[6] He was present on the spot, where the bodies of the slain lay unburied, and assisted in their interment. During his absence on this expedition, Sylvester Pattie, father of the author, was born, August 25, 1782. In November of the same year, his grand-father was summoned to join a party commanded by Col. Logan, in an expedition against the Indians at the Shawnee towns, in the limits of the present state of Ohio.[7] They crossed the Ohio just below {viii} the mouth of the Licking, opposite the site of what is now Cincinnati, which was at that time an unbroken forest, without the appearance of a human habitation. They were here joined by Gen. Clark[8] with his troops from the falls of the Ohio, or what is now Louisville. The united force marched to the Indian towns, which they burnt and destroyed. Returning from this expedition, he resumed his former occupations, witnessing the rapid advance of the country from immigration. When the district, in which he resided, was constituted Bracken county, he was appointed one of the judges of the court of quarter sessions, which office he filled sixteen years, until his place was vacated by an act of the legislature reducing the court to a single judge. Sylvester Pattie, the father of the author, as was common at that period in Kentucky, married early, having only reached nineteen. He settled near his father's house, and there remained until there began to be a prevalent disposition among the people to move to Missouri. March 14, 1812, he removed to that country, the author being then eight years old. Born and reared amidst the horrors of Indian assaults and incursions, and having lived to see Kentucky entirely free from these dangers, it may seem strange, that he should have chosen to remove a young family to that remote country, then enduring the same horrors of Indian warfare, as Kentucky had experienced twenty-five years before. It was in the midst of the late war with England, which, it is well known, operated to bring the fiercest assaults of savage incursion upon the remote frontiers of Illinois and Missouri. To repel these incursions, these then territories, called out some companies of rangers, who marched against the Sac and Fox Indians, between the Mississippi and the lakes, who were at that time active in murdering women and children, and burning their habitations during the absence of the male heads of families.[9] When Pattie was appointed lieutenant in one of these companies, he left his family at St. Charles' where he was then residing.[10] It may be imagined, that the condition of his wife was sufficiently lonely, as this village contained but one American {ix} family besides her own, and she was unable to converse with its French inhabitants. His company had several skirmishes with the Indians, in each of which it came off successful. The rangers left him in command of a detachment, in possession of the fort at Cap au Gris.[11] Soon after the main body of the rangers had marched away, the fort was besieged by a body of English and Indians. The besiegers made several attempts to storm the fort, but were repelled by the garrison.--The foe continued the siege for a week, continually firing upon the garrison, who sometimes, though not often, for want of ammunition, returned the fire. Lieutenant Pattie, perceiving no disposition in the enemy to withdraw, and discovering that his ammunition was almost entirely exhausted, deemed it necessary to send a despatch to Bellefontaine,[12] near the point of the junction of the Missouri and Mississippi, where was stationed a considerable American force. He proposed to his command, that a couple of men should make their way through the enemy, cross the Mississippi, and apprize the commander of Bellefontaine of their condition. No one was found willing to risk the attempt, as the besiegers were encamped entirely around them. Leaving Thomas McNair[13] in command in his place, and putting on the uniform of one of the English soldiers, whom they had killed during one of the attempts to storm the fort, he passed by night safely through the camp of the enemy, and arrived at the point of his destination, a distance of over forty miles: 500 soldiers were immediately dispatched from Bellefontaine to the relief of the besieged at Cap au Gris. As soon as this force reached the fort, the British and Indians decamped, not, however, without leaving many of their lifeless companions behind them. Lieutenant Pattie remained in command of Cap au Gris, being essentially instrumental in repressing the incursions of the Sacs and Foxes, and disposing them to a treaty of peace, until the close of the war.[14] In 1813 he received his discharge, and returned to his family, with whom he enjoyed domestic happiness in privacy and repose for some years. St. Louis and St. Charles {x} were beginning rapidly to improve; American families were constantly immigrating to these towns. The timber in their vicinity is not of the best kind for building. Pine could no where be obtained in abundance, nearer than on the Gasconade, a stream that enters on the south side of the Missouri, about one hundred and fifty miles up that river. Mr. Pattie, possessing a wandering and adventurous spirit, meditated the idea of removing to this frontier and unpeopled river, to erect Mills upon it, and send down pine lumber in rafts to St. Louis, and the adjoining country. He carried his plan into operation, and erected a Saw and Grist Mill upon the Gasconade.[15] It proved a very fortunate speculation, as there was an immediate demand at St. Louis and St. Charles for all the plank the mill could supply. In this remote wilderness, Mr. Pattie lived in happiness and prosperity, until the mother of the author was attacked by consumption. Although her husband was, as has been said, strongly endowed with the wandering propensity, he was no less profoundly attached to his family; and in this wild region, the loss of a beloved wife was irreparable. She soon sunk under the disorder, leaving nine young children. Not long after, the youngest died, and was deposited by her side in this far land. The house, which had been the scene of domestic quiet, cheerfulness and joy, and the hospitable home of the stranger, sojourning in these forests, became dreary and desolate. Mr. Pattie, who had been noted for the buoyancy of his gay spirit, was now silent, dejected, and even inattentive to his business; which, requiring great activity and constant attention, soon ran into disorder. About this time, remote trapping and trading expeditions up the Missouri, and in the interior of New Mexico began to be much talked of. Mr. Pattie seemed to be interested in these expeditions, which offered much to stir the spirit and excite enterprize. To arouse him from his indolent melancholy, his friends advised him to sell his property, convert it into merchandize and equipments for trapping and hunting, and to join in such an undertaking. To a man born and reared under the circumstances {xi} of his early life--one to whom forests, and long rivers, adventures, and distant mountains, presented pictures of familiar and birth day scenes--one, who confided in his rifle, as a sure friend, and who withal, connected dejection and bereavement with his present desolate residence; little was necessary to tempt him to such an enterprise. In a word, he adopted the project with that undoubting and unshrinking purpose, with which to will is to accomplish. Arrangements were soon made. The Children were provided for among his relations. The Author was at school; but inheriting the love of a rifle through so many generations, and nursed amid such scenes, he begged so earnestly of his father that he might be allowed to accompany the expedition, that he prevailed. The sad task remained for him to record the incidents of the expedition, and the sufferings and death of his father. COMMENCEMENT OF THE EXPEDITION I pass by, as unimportant in this Journal, all the circumstances of our arrangements for setting out on our expedition; together with my father's sorrow and mine, at leaving the spot where his wife and my mother was buried, the place, which had once been so cheerful, and was now so gloomy to us. We made our purchases at St. Louis. Our company consisted of five persons. We had ten horses packed with traps, trapping utensils, guns, ammunition, knives, tomahawks, provisions, blankets, and some surplus arms, as we anticipated that we should be able to gain some additions to our number by way of recruits, as we proceeded onward. But when the trial came, so formidable seemed the danger, fatigue, distance, and uncertainty of the expedition, that not an individual could be persuaded to share our enterprize. June 20, 1824, we crossed the Missouri at a small town called Newport,[16] and meandered the river as far as Pilcher's fort,[17] without any incident worthy of record, except that one of our associates, who had become too unwell to travel, was left at Charaton, the remotest village on this frontier of any size.[18] We arrived at Pilcher's fort, on the 13th day of July. There we remained, until the 28th, waiting the arrival of a keel boat from below, that was partly freighted with merchandize for us, with which we intended to trade with the Indians. On the 28th, our number diminished to four, we set off for a trading establishment eight miles above us on the Missouri, belonging to Pratte, Choteau and Company.[19] In this place centres most of the trade with the Indians on the upper Missouri. Here we met with Sylvester, son of Gen. Pratte,[20] who was on his way {14} to New Mexico, with purposes similar to ours. His company had preceded him, and was on the river Platte waiting for him. We left this trading establishment for the Council Bluffs, six miles above.[21] When we arrived there, the commanding officer demanded to see our license for trading with the Indians. We informed him, that we neither had any, nor were aware that any was necessary. We were informed, that we could be allowed to ascend the river no higher without one. This dilemma brought our onward progress to a dead stand. We were prompt, however, in making new arrangements. We concluded to sell our surplus arms in exchange for merchandize, and change our direction from the upper Missouri, to New Mexico. One of our number was so much discouraged with our apparent ill success, and so little satisfied with this new project, that he came to the determination to leave our ranks. The remainder, though dispirited by the reduction of our number, determined not to abandon the undertaking. Our invalid having rejoined us, we still numbered four. We remained some time at this beautiful position, the Council Bluffs. I have seen much that is beautiful, interesting and commanding in the wild scenery of nature, but no prospect above, around, and below more so than from this spot. Our object and destination being the same as Mr. Pratte's, we concluded to join his company on the Platte. We left the Bluffs, July 30th, and encamped the night after our departure on a small stream, called the Elkhorn.[22] We reached it at a point thirty miles S. W. from the Bluffs. The Pawnee Indians sometimes resort upon the banks of this stream. The country is so open and bare of timber, that it was with difficulty we could find sufficient wood to cook with, even on the banks of the river, where wood is found, if at all, in the prairie country. Early the next morning we commenced our march up the bottoms of the stream, which we continued to ascend, until almost night fall, when we concluded to cross it to a small grove of timber that we descried on the opposite shore, where we encamped {15} for the night, securing our horses with great care, through fear that they would be stolen by the Indians. In the morning, as we were making arrangements to commence our march, we discovered a large body of Indians, running full speed towards us. When they had arrived within a hundred yards of us, we made signs, that they must halt, or that we should fire upon them. They halted, and we inquired of them, as one of our number spoke their language, to what nation they belonged? They answered the Pawnee.[23] Considering them friendly, we permitted them to approach us. It was on our way, to pass through their town, and we followed them thither. As soon as we arrived at their town, they conducted us to the lodge of their chief, who posted a number of his warriors at the door, and called the rest of his chiefs, accompanied by an interpreter. They formed a circle in the centre of the lodge. The elder chief then lighting a pipe, commenced smoking; the next chief holding the bowl of his pipe. This mode of smoking differed from that of any Indians we had yet seen. He filled his mouth with the smoke, then puffed it in our bosoms, then on his own, and then upward, as he said, toward the Great Spirit, that he would bestow upon us plenty of fat buffaloes, and all necessary aid on our way. He informed us, that he had two war parties abroad. He gave us a stick curiously painted with characters, I suppose something like hieroglyphics, bidding us, should we see any of his warriors, to give them that stick; in which case they would treat us kindly. The pipe was then passed round, and we each of us gave it two or three light whiffs. We were then treated with fat buffaloe meat, and after we had eaten, he gave us counsel in regard to our future course, particularly not to let our horses loose at night. His treatment was altogether paternal. Next morning we left the village of this hospitable old chief, accompanied by a pilot, dispatched to conduct us to Mr. Pratte's company on the Platte. This is one of the three villages of the Republican Pawnees. It is situated on the little Platte River,[24] in the centre of an extensive prairie plain; having near{16} it a small strip of wood extending from the village to the river. The houses are cone-shaped, like a sugar loaf. The number of lodges may amount to six hundred. The night after we left this village, we encamped on the banks of a small creek called the Mad Buffaloe. Here we could find no wood for cooking, and made our first experiment of the common resort in these wide prairies; that is, we were obliged to collect the dung of the buffaloe for that purpose. Having taken our supper, some of us stood guard through the night, while the others slept, according to the advice of the friendly chief. Next morning we commenced our march at early dawn, and by dint of hard travelling through the prairies, we arrived about sunset, on the main Platte, where we joined Mr. Pratte and his company. We felt, and expressed gratitude to the pilot, who, by his knowledge of the country, had conducted us by the shortest and easiest route. We did not forget the substantial expression of our good will, in paying him. He started for his own village the same evening, accompanying us here, and returning, on foot, although he could have had a horse for the journey. At this encampment, on the banks of the Platte, we remained four days, during which time we killed some antelopes and deer, and dressed their skins to make us moccasins. Among our arrangements with Mr. Pratte, one was, that my father should take the command of this company, to which proposition my father and our associates consented. The honor of this confidence was probably bestowed upon him, in consequence of most of the company having served under him, as rangers, during the late war. Those who had not, had been acquainted with his services by general report. In conformity with the general wish, my father immediately entered upon his command, by making out a list of the names of the whole company, and dividing it into four messes; each mess having to furnish two men, to stand guard by reliefs, during the night. The roll was called, and the company was found to be a hundred and sixteen. We had three hundred mules, and some {17} horses. A hundred of them were packed with goods and baggage. The guard was posted as spies, and all the rest were ordered to commence the arrangements of packing for departure. The guard was detached, to keep at some distance from the camp, reconnoitre, and discover if any Indians were lurking in the vicinity. When on the march, the guards were ordered to move on within sight of our flank, and parallel to our line of march. If any Indians were descried, they were to make a signal by raising their hats; or if not in sight of us, to alarm us by a pistol shot. These arrangements gave us a chance always to have some little time to make ready for action. It may be imagined, that such a caravan made no mean figure, or inconsiderable dust, in moving along the prairies. We started on the morning of the 6th of August,[25] travelling up the main Platte, which at this point is more than a hundred yards wide, very shallow, with a clean sand bottom, and very high banks. It is skirted with a thin belt of cotton-wood and willow trees, from which beautiful prairie plains stretch out indefinitely on either side. We arrived in the evening at a village of the Pawnee Loups.[26] It is larger than the village of the Republican Pawnees, which we had left behind us. The head chief of this village received us in the most affectionate and hospitable manner, supplying us with such provisions as we wanted. He had been all the way from these remote prairies, on a visit to the city of Washington. He informed us, that before he had taken the journey, he had supposed that the white people were a small tribe, like his own, and that he had found them as numberless as the spires of grass on his prairies. The spectacle, however, that had struck him with most astonishment, was bullets as large as his head, and guns of the size of a log of wood. His people cultivate corn, beans, pumpkins and watermelons. Here we remained five days, during which time Mr. Pratte purchased six hundred Buffalo skins, and some horses. A Pawnee war party came in from an expedition against a hostile tribe of whom they had killed and scalped four, and taken twenty horses. We were affected at the sight of a little child, taken {18} captive, whose mother they had killed and scalped. They could not account for bringing in this child, as their warfare is an indiscriminate slaughter, of men, women and children. A day or two after their arrival, they painted themselves for a celebration of their victory, with great labor and care. The chiefs were dressed in skins of wild animals, with the hair on.--These skins were principally those of the bear, wolf, panther and spotted or ring tailed panther. They wore necklaces of bear's and panther's claws. The braves, as a certain class of the warriors are called, in addition to the dress of the other chiefs, surmounted their heads with a particular feather from a species of eagle, that they call the war eagle.[27] This feather is considered worth the price of ten ordinary horses. None but a brave is permitted to wear it as a badge. A brave, gains his name and reputation as much by cunning and dexterity in stealing and robbing, as by courage and success in murdering. When by long labor of the toilette, they had painted and dressed themselves to their liking, they marched forth in the array of their guns, bows, arrows and war clubs, with all the other appendages of their warfare. They then raised a tall pole, on the top of which were attached the scalps of the foes they had killed. It must be admitted, that they manifested no small degree of genius and inventiveness, in making themselves frightful and horrible. When they began their triumphal yelling, shouting, singing and cutting antic capers, it seemed to us, that a recruit of fiends from the infernal regions could hardly have transcended them in genuine diabolical display. They kept up this infernal din three days. During all this time, the poor little captive child, barely fed to sustain life, lay in sight, bound hand and foot. When their rage at length seemed sated, and exhausted, they took down the pole, and gave the scalps to the women. We now witnessed a new scene of yells and screams, and infuriated gestures; the actors kicking the scalps about, and throwing them from one to the other with strong expressions of rage and contempt. When they also ceased, in the apparent satisfaction of gratified revenge, the men directed their attention {19} to the little captive. It was removed to the medicine lodge, where the medicine men perform their incantations, and make their offerings to the Great Spirit. We perceived that they were making preparations to burn the child. Alike affected with pity and horror, our party appealed, as one man, to the presiding chief, to spare the child. Our first proposition was to purchase it. It was received by the chief with manifest displeasure. In reply to our strong remonstrances, he gravely asked us, if we, seeing a young rattlesnake in our path, would allow it to move off uninjured, merely because it was too small and feeble to bite? We undertook to point out the want of resemblance in the circumstances of the comparison, observing that the child, reared among them, would know no other people, and would imbibe their habits and enmities, and become as one of them. The chief replied, that he had made the experiment, and that the captive children, thus spared and raised, had only been instrumental, as soon as they were grown, of bringing them into difficulties. 'It is' said he, 'like taking the eggs of partridges and hatching them; you may raise them ever so carefully in a cage; but once turn them loose, and they show their nature, not only by flying away, but by bringing the wild partridges into your corn fields: eat the eggs, and you have not only the food, but save yourself future trouble.' We again urged that the child was too small to injure them, and of too little consequence to give them the pleasure of revenge in its destruction. To enforce our arguments, we showed him a roll of red broad cloth, the favorite color with the Indians. This dazzled and delighted him, and he eagerly asked us, how much we would give him. We insisted upon seeing the child, before we made him an offer. He led us to the lodge, where lay the poor little captive, bound so tight with thongs of raw hide, that the flesh had so swelled over the hard and dried leather, that the strings could no longer be perceived. It was almost famished, having scarcely tasted food for four days, and seemed rather dead than alive. With much difficulty we disengaged its limbs from the thongs, and perceiving that it seemed to revive, we offered him {20} ten yards, of the red cloth. Expatiating upon the trouble and danger of his warriors in the late expedition, he insisted, that the price was too little. Having the child in our possession, and beginning to be indignant at this union of avarice and cruelty, our company exchanged glances of intelligence. A deep flush suffused the countenance of my father. 'My boys,' said he, 'will you allow these unnatural devils to burn this poor child, or practice extortion upon us, as the price of its ransom?' The vehemence and energy, with which these questions were proposed, had an effect, that may be easily imagined, in kindling the spirits of the rest of us. We carried it by acclamation, to take the child, and let them seek their own redress. My father again offered the chief ten yards of cloth, which was refused as before. Our remark then was, that we would carry off the child, with, or without ransom, at his choice.--Meanwhile the child was sent to our encampment, and our men ordered to have their arms in readiness, as we had reason to fear that the chief would let loose his warriors upon us, and take the child by force. The old chief looked my father full in the face, with an expression of apparent astonishment. 'Do you think' said he, 'you are strong enough to keep the child by force?' 'We will do it,' answered my father, 'or every man of us die in the attempt, in which case our countrymen will come, and gather up our bones, and avenge our death, by destroying your nation.' The chief replied with well dissembled calmness, that he did not wish to incur the enmity of our people, as he well knew that we were more powerful than they; alledging, beside, that he had made a vow never to kill any more white men; and he added, that if we would give the cloth, and add to it a paper of vermillion, the child should be ours. To this we consented, and the contract was settled. We immediately started for our encampment, where we were aware our men had been making arrangements for a battle. We had hardly expected, under these circumstances, that the chief would have followed us alone into a camp, where every thing appeared hostile. But he went on with us unhesitatingly, {21} until he came to the very edge of it. Observing that our men had made a breast work of the baggage, and stood with their arms leaning against it ready for action, he paused a moment, as if faltering in his purpose to advance. With the peculiar Indian exclamation, he eagerly asked my father, if he had thought that he would fight his friends, the white people, for that little child? The reply was, that we only meant to be ready for them, if they had thought to do so. With a smiling countenance the chief advanced, and took my father's hand exclaiming, that they were good friends. 'Save your powder and lead,' he added, 'to kill buffaloes and your enemies.' So saying he left us for his own lodge. This tribe is on terms of hostility with two or three of the tribes nearest their hunting grounds. They make their incursions on horseback, and often extend them to the distance of six or seven hundred miles. They chiefly engage on horseback, and their weapons, for the most part, consist of a bow and arrows, a lance and shield, though many of them at present have fire arms. Their commander stations himself in the rear of his warriors, seldom taking a part in the battle, unless he should be himself attacked, which is not often the case. They show no inconsiderable military stratagem in their marches, keeping spies before and behind, and on each flank, at the distance of a few days travel; so that in their open country, it is almost impossible to come upon them by surprise. The object of their expeditions is quite as often to plunder and steal horses, as to destroy their enemies. Each one is provided with the Spanish noose, to catch horses. They often extend these plundering expeditions as far as the interior of New Mexico. When they have reached the settled country, they lurk about in covert places, until an opportunity presents to seize on their prey. They fall upon the owner of a large establishment of cattle and horses, kill him during the night, or so alarm him as to cause him to fly, and leave his herds and family unprotected; in which case they drive off his horses, and secrete them in the mountains. In these fastnesses of nature they consider them safe; {22} aware that the Mexicans, partly through timidity, and partly through indolence, will not pursue them to any great distance. We left this village on the 11th of August, taking with us two of its inhabitants, each having a trap to catch, and a hoe to dig the beavers from their burrows. During this day's march we traversed a wide plain, on which we saw no game but antelopes[28] and white wolves. At five in the evening, our front guard gave the preconcerted alarm by firing their pistols, and falling back a few moments afterwards, upon the main body.--We shortly afterwards discovered a large body of Indians on horseback, approaching us at full speed. When they were within hailing distance, we made them a signal to halt: they immediately halted. Surveying us a moment, and discovering us to be whites, one of them came towards us. We showed him the painted stick given us by the Pawnee Republican chief. He seemed at once to comprehend all that it conveyed, and we were informed, that this was a band of the Republican Pawnee warriors. He carried the stick among them. It passed from hand to hand, and appeared at once to satisfy them in regard to our peaceable intentions, for they continued their march without disturbing us. But our two associate Indians, hearing their yells, as they rode off, took them to be their enemies, from whom they had taken the child. They immediately disappeared, and rejoined us no more. We travelled a few miles further, and encamped for the night on a small stream, called Smoking river. It is a tributary stream of the main Platte. On this stream a famous treaty had been made between the Pawnees and Shienne;[29] and from the friendly smoking of the calumet on this occasion it received its name. Next morning we made an early start, and marched rapidly all day, in order to reach water at night. We halted at sunset to repose ourselves, and found water for our own drinking, but none for our mules and horses. As soon as the moon arose, we started again, travelling hard all night, and until ten the next morning. At this time we reached a most singular spring fountain, forming a basin four hundred yards in diameter, in the centre {23} of which the water boiled up five or six feet higher, than it was near the circumference. We encamped here, to rest, and feed our mules and horses, the remainder of the day, during which we killed some antelopes, that came here to drink. Near this place was a high mound, from which the eye swept the whole horizon, as far as it could reach, and on this mound we stationed our guard. Next morning we commenced the toil of our daily march, pursuing a S. W. course, over the naked plains, reaching a small and, as far as I know, a nameless stream at night, on the borders of which were a few sparse trees, and high grass. Here we encamped for the night. At twelve next day we halted in consequence of a pouring rain, and encamped for the remainder of the day. This was the first point, where we had the long and anxiously expected pleasure of seeing buffaloes. We killed one, after a most animating sport in shooting at it. Next day we made an early start, as usual, and travelled hard all day over a wide plain, meeting with no other incidents, than the sight of buffaloes, which we did not molest. We saw, in this day's march, neither tree nor rising ground. The plains are covered with a short, fine grass, about four inches high, of such a kind, as to be very injurious to the hoofs of animals, that travel over it. It seems to me, that ours would not have received more injury from travelling over a naked surface of rock. In the evening we reached a small collection of water, beside which we encamped. We had to collect our customary inconvenient substitute for fuel, not only this evening, but the whole distance hence to the mountains. On the morning of the 17th, we commenced, as usual, our early march, giving orders to our advance guard to kill a buffaloe bull, and make moccasins for some of our horses, from the skin, their feet having become so tender from the irritation of the sharp grass, as to make them travel with difficulty. This was soon accomplished, furnishing the only incident of this day's travel. We continued the next day to make our way over the same wearying plain, without water or timber, having been obliged {24} to provide more of our horses with buffaloe skin moccasins. This day we saw numerous herds of buffaloe bulls. It is a singular fact, in the habits of these animals, that during one part of the year, the bulls all range in immense flocks without a cow among them, and all the cows equally without the bulls. The herd, which we now saw, showed an evident disposition to break into our caravan. They seemed to consider our horses and mules, as a herd of their cows. We prevented their doing it, by firing on them, and killing several. This evening we arrived on one of the forks of the Osage,[30] and encamped. Here we caught a beaver, the first I had ever seen. On the 20th, we started late, and made a short day's travel, encamping by water. Next morning we discovered vast numbers of buffaloes, all running in one direction, as though they were flying from some sort of pursuit. We immediately detached men to reconnoitre and ascertain, whether they were not flying from the Indians. They soon discovered a large body of them in full chase of these animals, and shooting at them with arrows. As their course was directly towards our camp, they were soon distinctly in sight. At this moment one of our men rode towards them, and discharged his gun. This immediately turned their attention from the pursuit of the game, to us. The Indians halted a moment, as if in deliberation, and rode off in another direction with great speed. We regretted that we had taken no measures to ascertain, whether they were friendly or not. In the latter case we had sufficient ground to apprehend, that they would pursue us at a distance, and attack us in the night. We made our arrangements, and resumed our march in haste, travelling with great caution, and posting a strong guard at night. The next day, in company with another, I kept guard on the right flank. We were both strictly enjoined not to fire on the buffaloes, while discharging this duty. Just before we encamped, which was at four in the afternoon, we discovered a herd of buffaloe cows, the first we had seen, and gave notice on our arrival at the camp. Mr. Pratte insisted, that we had mistaken, and said, that we were not yet far enough advanced into the country, {25} to see cows, they generally herding in the most retired depths of the prairies. We were not disposed to contest the point with him, but proposed a bet of a suit of the finest cloth, and to settle the point by killing one of the herd, if the commander would permit us to fire upon it. The bet was accepted, and the permission given. My companion was armed with a musket, and I with a rifle. When we came in sight of the herd, it was approaching a little pond to drink. We concealed ourselves, as they approached, and my companion requested me to take the first fire, as the rifle was surer and closer than the musket. When they were within shooting distance, I levelled one; as soon as it fell, the herd, which consisted of a thousand or more, gathered in crowds around the fallen one. Between us we killed eleven, all proving, according to our word, to be cows. We put our mules in requisition to bring in our ample supply of meat. Mr. Pratte admitted, that the bet was lost, though we declined accepting it. About ten at night it commenced raining; the rain probably caused us to intermit our caution; for shortly after it began, the Indians attacked our encampment, firing a shower of arrows upon us. We returned their fire at random, as they retreated: they killed two of our horses, and slightly wounded one of our men; we found four Indians killed by our fire, and one wounded. The wounded Indian informed our interpreter, that the Indians, who attacked us, were Arrickarees.[31] We remained encamped here four days, attending our wounded man, and the wounded Indian, who died, however, the second day, and here we buried him. We left this encampment on the 26th, and through the day met with continued herds of buffaloes and wild horses, which, however, we did not disturb. In the evening we reached a fork of the Platte, called Hyde Park.[32] This stream, formerly noted for beavers, still sustains a few. Here we encamped, set our traps, and caught four beavers. In the morning we began to ascend this stream, and during our progress, we were obliged to keep men in advance, to affrighten the buffaloes and wild horses {26} from our path. They are here in such prodigious numbers, as literally to have eaten down the grass of the prairies. Here we saw multitudes of prairie dogs.[33] They have large village establishments of burrows, where they live in society. They are sprightly, bold and self important animals, of the size of a Norwegian rat. On the morning of the 28th, our wounded companion was again unable to travel, in consequence of which we were detained at our encampment three days. Not wholly to lose the time, we killed during these three days no buffaloes, of which we saved only the tongues and hump ribs. On the morning of the 31st, our wounded associate being somewhat recovered, we resumed our march. Ascending the stream, in the course of the day we came upon the dead bodies of two men, so much mangled, and disfigured by the wild beasts, that we could only discover that they were white men. They had been shot by the Indians with arrows, the ground near them being stuck full of arrows. They had been scalped. Our feelings may be imagined, at seeing the mangled bodies of people of our own race in these remote and unpeopled prairies. We consoled ourselves with believing that they died like brave men. We had soon afterwards clear evidence of this fact, for, on surveying the vicinity at the distance of a few hundred yards, we found the bodies of five dead Indians. The ground all around was torn and trampled by horse and footmen. We collected the remains of the two white men, and buried them. We then ascended the stream a few miles, and encamped. Finding signs of Indians, who could have left the spot but a few hours before, we made no fire for fear of being discovered, and attacked in the night. Sometime after dark, ten of us started up the creek in search of their fires. About four miles from our encampment, we saw them a few hundred yards in advance. Twenty fires were distinctly visible. We counselled with each other, whether to fire on them or not. Our conclusion was, that the most prudent plan was to return, and apprize our companions of what we had seen. In consequence of our information, on our return, sixty men were chosen, headed by my father, who set off in order {27} to surround their camp before daylight. I was one of the number, as I should have little liked to have my father go into battle without me, when it was in my power to accompany him. The remainder were left in charge of our camp, horses, and mules. We had examined our arms and found them in good order. About midnight we came in sight of their fires, and before three o'clock were posted all around them, without having betrayed ourselves. We were commanded not to fire a gun, until the word was given. As it was still sometime before daylight, we became almost impatient for the command. As an Indian occasionally arose and stood for a moment before the fire, I involuntarily took aim at him with the thought, how easily I could destroy him, but my orders withheld me. Twilight at length came, and the Indians began to arise. They soon discovered two of our men, and instantly raising the war shout, came upon us with great fury. Our men stood firm, until they received the order which was soon given. A well directed and destructive fire now opened on them, which they received, and returned with some firmness. But when we closed in upon them they fled in confusion and dismay. The action lasted fifteen minutes. Thirty of their dead were left on the field, and we took ten prisoners, whom we compelled to bury the dead. One of our men was wounded, and died the next day. We took our prisoners to our encampment, where we questioned them with regard to the two white men, we had found, and buried the preceding day. They acknowledged, that their party killed them, and assigned as a reason for so doing, that when the white men were asked by the chief to divide their powder and balls with him, they refused. It was then determined by the chief, that they should be killed, and the whole taken. In carrying this purpose into effect, the Indians lost four of their best young men, and obtained but little powder and lead, as a compensation. We then asked them to what nation they belonged? They answered the Crow.[34] This nation is distinguished for bravery and skill in war. Their bows and arrows were then given them, and they were told, that we never killed defenceless prisoners, but {28} that they must tell their brothers of us, and that we should not have killed any of their nation, had not they killed our white brothers; and if they did so in future, we should kill all we found of them, as we did not fear any number, they could bring against us. They were then allowed to go free, which delighted them, as they probably expected that we should kill them, it being their custom to put all their prisoners to death by the most shocking and cruel tortures. That they may not lose this diabolical pleasure by the escape of their prisoners, they guard them closely day and night. One of them, upon being released, gave my father an eagle's feather, saying, you are a good and brave man, I will never kill another white man. We pursued our journey on the 1st of September. Our advance was made with great caution, as buffaloes were now seen in immense herds, and the danger from Indians was constant. Wandering tribes of these people subsist on the buffaloes, which traverse the interior of these plains, keeping them constantly in sight. On the morning of the 2d, we started early. About ten o'clock we saw a large herd of buffaloes approaching us with great speed. We endeavored to prevent their running among our pack mules, but it was in vain. They scattered them in every direction over the plain; and although we rode in among the herd, firing on them, we were obliged to follow them an hour, before we could separate them sufficiently to regain our mules. After much labor we collected all, with the exception of one packed with dry goods, which the crowd drove before them. The remainder of the day, half our company were employed as a guard, to prevent a similar occurrence. When we encamped for the night, some time was spent in driving the buffaloes a considerable distance from our camp. But for this precaution, we should have been in danger of losing our horses and mules entirely. The following morning, we took a S. S. W. course, which led us from the stream, during this day's journey. Nothing occurred worthy of mention, except that we saw a great number of {29} wolves, which had surrounded a small herd of buffaloe cows and calves, and killed and eaten several. We dispersed them by firing on them. We judged, that there were at least a thousand. They were large and as white as sheep. Near this point we found water, and encamped for the night. On the morning of the 4th, a party was sent out to kill some buffaloe bulls, and get their skins to make moccasins for our horses, which detained us until ten o'clock. We then packed up and travelled six miles. Finding a lake, we encamped for the night. From this spot, we saw one of the most beautiful landscapes, that ever spread out to the eye. As far as the plain was visible in all directions, innumerable herds of wild horses, buffaloes, antelopes, deer, elk, and wolves, fed in their wild and fierce freedom. Here the sun rose, and set, as unobscured from the sight, as on the wastes of ocean. Here we used the last of our salt, and as for bread, we had seen none, since we had left the Pawnee village. I hardly need observe, that these are no small deprivations. [Illustration: Rescue of an Indian Child] The next day we travelled until evening, nothing occurring, that deserves record. Our encampment was near a beautiful spring, called Bellefontaine, which is visited by the Indians, at some seasons of the year. Near it were some pumpkins, planted by the Indians. I cooked one, but did not find it very palateable: The next day we encamped without water. Late in the evening of the following day we reached a stream, and encamped. As we made our arrangements for the night, we came upon a small party of Indians. They ran off immediately, but we pursued them, caught four, and took them to the camp they had left, a little distant from ours. It contained between twenty and thirty women and children, beside three men. The women were frightened at our approach, and attempted to run. The Indians in our possession said something to them in their own language, that induced them to stop; but it was some time, before they were satisfied, that we intended them no harm. We returned to our camp, and were attending to our mules and horses. Our little Indian boy was playing about the camp, as usual. {30} Suddenly our attention was arrested by loud screams or cries; and looking up, we saw our little boy in the arms of an Indian, whose neck he was closely clasping, as the Indian pressed him to his bosom, kissing him, and crying at the same time. As we moved towards the spot, the Indian approached us, still holding the child in his arms; and falling on his knees, made us a long speech, which we understood only through his signs. During his speech, he would push the child from him, and then draw it back to him, and point to us. He was the father of this boy, whom we saved from being burnt by the Pawnees. He gave us to understand by his signs, that his child was carried off by his enemies. When the paroxysm of his joy was past, we explained, as well as we could, how we obtained the child. Upon hearing the name Pawnee, he sprang upon his feet, and rushed into his tent. He soon came out, bringing with him two Indian scalps, and his bow and arrows, and insisted, that we should look at the scalps, making signs to tell us, that they were Pawnee scalps, which he took at the time he lost his child. After he finished this explanation, he would lay the scalps a short distance from him, and shoot his arrows through them, to prove his great enmity to this nation. He then presented my father a pair of leggins and a pipe, both neatly decorated with porcupine quills; and accompanied by his child, withdrew to his tent, for the night. Just as the morning star became visible, we were aroused from our slumbers, by the crying and shouting of the Indians in their tent. We arose, and approached it, to ascertain the cause of the noise. Looking in, we saw the Indians all laying prostrate with their faces to the ground. We remained observing them, until the full light of day came upon them.--They then arose, and placed themselves around the fire. The next movement was to light a pipe, and begin to smoke. Seeing them blow the smoke first towards the point where the sun arose, and then towards heaven, our curiosity was aroused, to know the meaning of what we had seen. The old chief told us by signs, that they had been thanking the Great Spirit for allowing them to see another day. We then purchased a few beaver {31} skins of them, and left them. Our encampment for the evening of this day, was near a small spring, at the head of which we found a great natural curiosity. A rock sixteen yards in circumference, rises from eighty to ninety feet in height, according to our best judgment, from a surface upon which, in all directions, not the smallest particle of rock, not even a pebble can be found. We were unable to reach the top of it, although it was full of holes, in which the hawks and ravens built their nests. We gave the spring the name of Rock Castle spring. On the morning of the 9th, we left this spot, and at night reached the foot of a large dividing ridge, which separates the waters of the Platte from those of the Arkansas.[35] After completing our arrangements for the night, some of us ascended to the top of the ridge, to look out for Indians; but we saw none. The succeeding morning we crossed the ridge, and came to water in the evening, where we encamped. Here we killed a white bear,[36] which occupied several of us at least an hour. It was constantly in chase of one or another of us, thus withholding us from shooting at it, through fear of wounding each other. This was the first, I had ever seen. His claws were four inches long, and very sharp. He had killed a buffaloe bull, eaten a part of it, and buried the remainder. When we came upon him, he was watching the spot, where he had buried it, to keep off the wolves, which literally surrounded him. On the 11th, we travelled over some hilly ground. In the course of the day, we killed three white bears, the claws of which I saved, they being of considerable value among the Indians, who wear them around the neck, as the distinguishing mark of a brave. Those Indians, who wear this ornament, view those, who do not, as their inferiors. We came to water, and encamped early. I was one of the guard for the night, which was rather cloudy. About the middle of my guard, our horses became uneasy, and in a few moments more, a bear had gotten in among them, and sprung upon one of them. The others were so much alarmed, that they burst their fastenings, and darted off at full speed. Our camp was soon aroused, and {32} in arms, for defence, although much confused, from not knowing what the enemy was, nor from what direction to expect the attack. Some, however, immediately set off in pursuit of our horses. I still stood at my post, in no little alarm, as I did not know with the rest, if the Indians were around us or not. All around was again stillness, the noise of those in pursuit of the horses being lost in the distance. Suddenly my attention was arrested, as I gazed in the direction, from which the alarm came, by a noise like that of a struggle at no great distance from me. I espied a hulk, at which I immediately fired. It was the bear devouring a horse, still alive. My shot wounded him. The report of my gun, together with the noise made by the enraged bear, brought our men from the camp, where they awaited a second attack from the unknown enemy in perfect stillness.--Determined to avenge themselves, they now sallied forth, although it was so dark, that an object ten steps in advance could not be seen. The growls of the bear, as he tore up the ground around him with his claws, attracted all in his direction. Some of the men came so near, that the animal saw them, and made towards them. They all fired at him, but did not touch him. All now fled from the furious animal, as he seemed intent on destroying them. In this general flight one of the men was caught. As he screamed out in his agony, I, happening to have reloaded my gun, ran up to relieve him. Reaching the spot in an instant, I placed the muzzle of my gun against the bear, and discharging it, killed him. Our companion was literally torn in pieces. The flesh on his hip was torn off, leaving the sinews bare, by the teeth of the bear. His side was so wounded in three places, that his breath came through the openings; his head was dreadfully bruised, and his jaw broken. His breath came out from both sides of his windpipe, the animal in his fury having placed his teeth and claws in every part of his body. No one could have supposed, that there was the slightest possibility of his recovery, through any human means. We remained in our encampment three days, attending upon him, without seeing any change for the worse or better in his situation. {33} He had desired us from the first to leave him, as he considered his case as hopeless as ourselves did. We then concluded to move from our encampment, leaving two men with him, to each of whom we gave one dollar a day, for remaining to take care of him, until he should die, and to bury him decently. On the 14th we set off, taking, as we believed, a final leave of our poor companion. Our feelings may be imagined, as we left this suffering man to die in this savage region, unfriended and unpitied. We travelled but a few miles before we came to a fine stream and some timber. Concluding that this would be a better place for our unfortunate companion, than the one where he was, we encamped with the intention of sending back for him. We despatched men for him, and began to prepare a shelter for him, should he arrive. This is a fork of Smoke Hill river, which empties into the Platte.[37] We set traps, and caught eight beavers, during the night. Our companions with the wounded man on a litter, reached us about eight o'clock at night. In the morning we had our painful task of leave taking to go through again. We promised to wait for the two we left behind at the Arkansas river. We travelled all day up this stream.--I counted, in the course of the day, two hundred and twenty white bears. We killed eight, that made an attack upon us; the claws of which I saved. Leaving the stream in the evening we encamped on the plain. A guard of twenty was relieved through the night, to prevent the bears from coming in upon us. Two tried to do it and were killed. In the morning we began our march as usual: returning to the stream, we travelled until we came to its head.[38] The fountain, which is its source, boils up from the plain, forming a basin two hundred yards in circumference, as clear as crystal, about five feet in depth. Here we killed some wild geese and ducks. After advancing some distance farther we encamped for the night. Buffaloes were not so numerous, during this day's journey, as they had been some time previous, owing, we judged, to the great numbers of white bears. {34} On the 17th we travelled until sunset, and encamped near water. On the 18th we found no water, but saw great numbers of wild horses and elk. The succeeding morning we set off before light, and encamped at 4 o'clock in the afternoon by a pond, the water of which was too brackish to drink. On the 20th we found water to encamp by. In the course of the day I killed two fat buffaloe cows. One of them had a calf, which I thought I would try to catch alive. In order to do so, I concluded it would be well to be free from any unnecessary incumbrances, and accordingly laid aside my shot-pouch, gun and pistols. I expected it would run, but instead of that, when I came within six or eight feet of it, it turned around, and ran upon me, butting me like a ram, until I was knocked flat upon my back. Every time I attempted to rise, it laid me down again. At last I caught by one of its legs, and stabbed it with my butcher knife, or I believe it would have butted me to death. I made up my mind, that I would never attempt to catch another buffaloe calf alive, and also, that I would not tell my companions what a capsizing I had had, although my side did not feel any better for the butting it had received. I packed on my horse as much meat as he could carry, and set out for the camp, which I reached a little after dark. My father was going in search of me, believing me either lost, or killed. He had fired several guns, to let me know the direction of the camp. We travelled steadily on the 21st, and encamped at night on a small branch of the Arkansas. During the day, we had seen large droves of buffaloes running in the same direction, in which we travelled, as though they were pursued. We could, however, see nothing in pursuit. They appeared in the same confusion all night. On the 22d, we marched fast all day, the buffaloes still running before us. In the evening we reached the main Arkansas, and encamped. The sky indicating rain, we exerted ourselves, and succeeded in pitching our tents and kindling fires, before the rain began to fall. Our meat was beginning to roast, when we saw some Indians about half a mile distant, looking at us from a hill. We immediately tied our {35} mules and horses. A few minutes after, ten Indians approached us with their guns on their shoulders. This open, undisguised approach made us less suspicious of them, than we should otherwise have been. When they were within a proper distance, they stopped, and called out _Amigo_, _Amigo_. One of our number understood them, and answered _Amigo_, which is friend, when they came up to us. They were Commanches,[39] and one of them was a chief. Our interpreter understood and spoke their language quite well. The chief seemed bold, and asked who was our captain? My father was pointed out to him. He then asked us to go and encamp with him, saying that his people and the whites were good friends. My father answered, that we had encamped before we knew where they were, and that if we moved now, we feared that the goods would be wet. The chief said, this was very good; but that, as we now knew where his camp was, we must move to it. To this my father returned, that if it did not rain next morning, we would; but as before, that we did not wish to get the goods wet to night. The chief then said, in a surly manner, 'you don't intend then to move to my camp to night?' My father answered, 'No!' The chief said he should, or he would come upon us with his men, kill us, and take every thing we had. Upon this my father pushed the chief out of the tent, telling him to send his men as soon as he pleased; that we would kill them, as fast as they came. In reply the chief pointed his finger to the spot, where the sun would be at eight o'clock the next morning, and said, 'If you do not come to my camp, when the sun is there, I will set all my warriors upon you.' He then ran off through the rain to his own camp. We began, immediately, a kind of breastwork, made by chopping off logs, and putting them together. Confidently expecting an attack in the night, we tied our horses and mules in a sink hole between us and the river. It was now dark. I do not think an eye was closed in our camp that night; but the morning found us unmolested; nor did we see any Indians, before the sun was at the point spoken of. When it had reached it, an army of between six and eight hundred mounted {36} Indians, with their faces painted as black as though they had come from the infernal regions, armed with fuzees and spears and shields appeared before us. Every thing had been done by the Indians to render this show as intimidating as possible. We discharged a couple of guns at them to show that we were not afraid, and were ready to receive them. A part advanced towards us; but one alone, approaching at full speed, threw down his bow and arrows, and sprang in among us, saying in broken English 'Commanches no good, me Iotan, good man.' He gave us to understand, that the Iotan nation was close at hand, and would not let the Commanches hurt us, and then started back. The Commanches fired some shots at us, but from such a distance, that we did not return them. In less than half an hour, we heard a noise like distant thunder. It became more and more distinct, until a band of armed Indians, whom we conjectured to be Iotans,[40] became visible in the distance. When they had drawn near, they reined up their horses for a moment, and then rushed in between us and Commanches, who charged upon the Iotans. The latter sustained the charge with firmness. The discharge of their fire arms and the clashing of their different weapons, together with their war-yell, and the shrieks of the wounded and dying were fit accompaniments to the savage actors and scene. I do not pretend to describe this deadly combat between two Indian nations; but, as far as I could judge, the contest lasted fifteen minutes. I was too deeply interested in watching the event, to note it particularly. We wished to assist the Iotans, but could not distinguish them from the mass, so closely were the parties engaged. We withheld our fire through fear of injuring the Iotans, whom we considered our friends. It was not long before we saw, to our great satisfaction, the Commanches dismounted, which was the signal of their entire defeat. The Iotans then left the Commanches, and returned to their women and children, whom they had left some distance behind. They brought them to our camp, and pitched their own tents all around us, except that of the chief, which was placed in the centre with ours. A guard of warriors was then posted around {37} the encampment, and an order given for the wounded Iotans to be brought into the tent of the chief. There were ten, two of whom died before night. A message was now sent to the chief of the Commanches, in obedience to which he came to the Iotan chief. A council then seemed to be held, and a peace was made, the terms of which were, that the Iotan chief should pay the Commanche chief two horses for every warrior, he had lost in the battle, over the number of Iotans killed. We gave the Iotan chief goods to the amount of one hundred dollars, which pleased him exceedingly. He expressed himself perfectly satisfied with this recompense for the warriors he had lost in our defence. The knowledge, that a party as large as ours was traversing the country, had soon spread in all directions from the reports of Indians, who had met with us, and we became to these savage tribes a matter of interest, as a source of gain to be drawn from us by robbing, kindness or trade.--Our movements were observed. The Commanches determined to possess themselves of their object by force; and the Iotans interfered in our defence, that they might thus gain their point by extortion from friends. Not a single Commanche was allowed to enter our camp, as arrangements were making for the Iotans to trade with us. All, who had any beaver skins, or dressed deer skins, were sent for. A guard was placed around in a circle, inside of which the skins were thrown down. Each Indian then inquired for the article he wanted. In this way we exchanged with them butcher knives, paint, and powder and ball, for beaver and deer skins, to the amount of fifteen hundred dollars, allowing them what we considered the value of the skins. The old Commanche chief came to the Iotan chief to ask permission to talk with us, but was forbidden; and we were told not to have any dealings with him. We did not. The Iotan chief then gave us the character of the Commanche chief. He seemed to be thinking some time before he began. 'I know,' said he, 'you must think it strange that I should fight with the Commanches, and then pay them for their warriors killed, over {38} our own number lost, and make peace with them. I will give you my reasons for doing so. Four years ago, this Commanche chief with his followers, went in company with my father, who was a chief, and a few of his followers, in search of buffaloes. After they had killed what they wanted, they divided the meat. The Commanche took all the best of it, leaving the remains for my father. The old man put up with it, and said nothing. On their return, close to this place they met a band of Nabahoes,[41] a nation that had long been at war with ours, and killed a great number of our people. My father wanted to kill them, and began to fire upon them. The Commanches joined the Nabahoes, and together they killed my father and most of his men. He then paid for the lives he had taken, in horses, giving twenty for my father, and four for each warrior. I only give two horses for a warrior. I am now happy. I have killed three times as many of them, as they did of us, and paid less for it. I know they can never get the upper hand of me again. This Commanche chief is a mean man, for whenever he has power, he makes others do as he pleases, or he kills them, and takes all they have. He wanted to act in this way with you; but I do not think he could, for you know how to shoot better than he does; and you would not give up, as long as you had powder and ball and one man alive.' My father as commander, said, 'his men were all good soldiers, and knew how to get the advantage in fighting; and that we had plenty of ammunition and good guns, and were not in the least afraid of being beaten by them.' 'I think so,' replied the chief; 'But I thank the Great Spirit, that it happened as it did. I have taken revenge for the death of my father, and his people, and gained, I hope, at the same time the love of a good and brave people by defending them.' We assured him that he had, expressing our thanks for his aid, and regret for those who had been killed in our defence. 'Yes,' said the chief, 'they were brave men; but they loved my father, whom they have now gone to see, where they will have plenty to eat, and drink, without having to fight for it.' These were his thoughts, as near as I can express them. The Commanche chief made a second application for permission to talk with us, which was now granted. His object in conversing {39} with us, was, as he said, to make friends with us, and induce us to give him some powder and ball. We told him that we would willingly make peace with him; but not give him any thing, as we did not break the peace. He had threatened to kill us, and take our property without any provocation from us, and certainly, if any present was necessary, it must come from him. We did not, however, wish any present from him, and would make peace with him, provided he promised never to kill, or try to kill a white man. He answered, that he had neither done it, or intended to do it; that with regard to us, he only sought to frighten us, so that we should come to his camp, before the Iotans came up, whom he knew to be not far distant, in order that he might precede them in trading with us, adding that as he had been so disappointed, he thought we ought to give him a little powder and ball. Our answer was, that we had no more ammunition to spare; and that we could not depart from our resolution of not purchasing a treaty from him; but we would give him a letter of recommendation to the next company that came in this direction, by means of which he might trade with them, and obtain what he wanted of these articles. He consented to a treaty on these conditions, and lighting his pipes we smoked friends. He then asked us if we came through the Pawnee village? We answered in the affirmative. His next question was, had they plenty of ammunition? Our reply was again, yes. We were then given to understand, that he was then at war with them, and had been for a number of years, and that he should soon either make peace with them, or have a general engagement. He would prefer peace, as they were at war with the Spaniards, as well as himself. By uniting forces, they could beat the Spaniards, though in case of a treaty or not, he intended to go against the Spaniards, as soon as he should return from the country of the Pawnees. He added, 'I suppose you are friends with the Spaniards, and are now going to trade with them.' Our commander replied, that we were going to trade with them, but not to fight for them. That, said the chief, is {40} what I wanted to know. I do not want war with your people, and should we accidentally kill any of them, you must not declare war against us, as we will pay you for them in horses or beaver skins. We did not express our natural feeling, that the life of one man was worth more than all the horses or beaver skins, his nation could bring forth; but told him, that we would not injure his people, unless they did ours, on purpose. He returned, apparently satisfied, to his camp. We were detained here until the fourth of November by our promise of awaiting the arrival of the two men, we had left with our wounded companion. They came, and brought with them his gun and ammunition. He died the fifth day, after we had left him, and was buried as decently, as the circumstances would allow. On the 5th of November[42] we again set off in company with a party of Iotans. The Arkansas is here wide and shallow, like the Platte; and has wide but thinly timbered bottoms on both sides. Extending from the bottom ten or twelve miles on the south side, are low hills composed principally of sand. We found travelling upon them very fatiguing, particularly as we met with no water. Late in the evening we reached water, and encamped. The next morning we resumed our journey. We were exceedingly diverted, during the day, to see the Iotan Indians in company with us, chase the buffaloes on horseback. They killed them with their arrows. The force, with which they shoot these arrows, is astonishing. I saw one of them shoot an arrow through a buffaloe bull, that had been driven close to our camp. We were again upon level plains, stretching off in all directions beyond the reach of the eye. The few high mounds scattered over them could not but powerfully arrest the curiosity. From the summit of one I again looked down upon innumerable droves of wild animals, dotting the surface, as they seemed to forget their savage natures, and fed, or reposed in peace. I indulged the thoughts natural to such a position and scene. The remembrance of home, with its duties and pleasures, came upon my mind in strong contrast with my actual circumstances. {41} I was interrupted by the discharge of guns, and the screams and yells of Indians. The Iotans had found six Nabahoes a half a mile from us, and were killing them. Three were killed. The others, being well mounted, made their escape. The Iotans came to our camp with their scalps, leaving their bodies to be eaten by wild animals. My father sent men to bury them. The Iotans danced around these scalps all night, and in the morning took up the bodies, we had buried, and cut them in pieces. They then covered themselves with the skins of bears and panthers, and, taking the hearts of the dead men, cut them into pieces of the size of a mouthful, and laid them upon the ground, and kneeling put their hands on the ground, and crawled around the pieces of hearts, growling as though they were enraged bears, or panthers, ready to spring upon them, and eat them. This is their mode of showing hatred to their enemies. Not relishing such detestable conduct, we so manifested our feelings, that these Indians went to their own camps. We encamped the evening of the next day near water. Nothing worthy of record occurred during the journey of the four succeeding days, except that we came to a small creek called Simaronee.[43] Here we encamped, and killed some buffaloes, and shod our horses. We travelled up this stream some distance, and left it on the 15th. On the 16th we encamped on a creek, where we found four gentle mules, which we caught. I could not account for their being there. Nothing of importance occurred in the two last days. From the 17th to the 20th, we journied without interruption. The latter day we came in view of a mountain covered with snow, called Taos mountain. This object awakened in our minds singular but pleasant feelings. On the 23d we reached its foot. Here Mr. Pratte concealed a part of his goods by burying them in the ground. We were three days crossing this mountain. On the evening of the 26th, we arrived at a small town in Taos, called St. Ferdinando,[44] situated just at the foot of the mountain on the west side. The alcalde asked us for the invoice {42} of our goods, which we showed him, and paid the customary duties on them. This was a man of a swarthy complexion having the appearance of pride and haughtiness. The door-way of the room, we were in, was crowded with men, women and children, who stared at us, as though they had never seen white men before, there being in fact, much to my surprize and disappointment, not one white person among them. I had expected to find no difference between these people and our own, but their language. I was never so mistaken. The men and women were not clothed in our fashion, the former having short pantaloons fastened below the waist with a red belt and buck skin leggins put on three or four times double. A Spanish knife is stuck in by the side of the leg, and a small sword worn by the side. A long jacket or blanket is thrown over, and worn upon the shoulders. They have few fire arms, generally using upon occasions which require them, a bow and spear, and never wear a hat, except when they ride. When on horse back, they face towards the right side of the animal. The saddle, which they use, looks as ours would, with something like an arm chair fastened upon it. The women wear upon the upper part of the person a garment resembling a shirt, and a short petticoat fastened around the waist with a red or blue belt, and something of the scarf kind wound around their shoulders. Although appearing as poorly, as I have described, they are not destitute of hospitality; for they brought us food, and invited us into their houses to eat, as we walked through the streets. The first time my father and myself walked through the town together, we were accosted by a woman standing in her own door-way. She made signs for us to come in. When we had entered, she conducted us up a flight of steps into a room neatly whitewashed, and adorned with images of saints, and a crucifix of brass nailed to a wooden cross. She gave us wine, and set before us a dish composed of red pepper, ground and mixed with corn meal, stewed in fat and water. We could not eat it. She then brought forward some tortillas and milk. Tortillas {43} are a thin cake made of corn and wheat ground between two flat stones by the women. This cake is called in Spanish, _metate_. We remained with her until late in the evening, when the bells began to ring. She and her children knelt down to pray. We left her, and returned. On our way we met a bier with a man upon it, who had been stabbed to death, as he was drinking whiskey. This town stands on a beautiful plain, surrounded on one side by the Rio del Norte,[45] and on the other by the mountain, of which I have spoken, the summit being covered with perpetual snow. We set off for Santa Fe on the 1st of November. Our course for the first day led us over broken ground. We passed the night in a small town, called Callacia, built on a small stream, that empties into the del Norte. The country around this place presents but a small portion of level surface. The next day our path lay over a point of the mountain. We were the whole day crossing. We killed a grey bear, that was exceedingly fat. It had fattened on a nut of the shape and size of a bean, which grows on a tree resembling the pine, called by the Spanish, pinion. We took a great part of the meat with us. We passed the night again in a town called Albukerque.[46] The following day we passed St. Thomas,[47] a town situated on the bank of the del Norte, which is here a deep and muddy stream, with bottoms from five to six miles wide on both sides. These bottoms sustain numerous herds of cattle. The small huts of the shepherds, who attend to them, were visible here and there. We reached another town called Elgidonis, and stopped for the night. We kept guard around our horses all night, but in the morning four of our mules were gone. We hunted for them until ten o'clock, when two Spaniards came, and asked us, what we would give them, if they would find our mules? We told them to bring the mules, and we would pay them a dollar. They set off, two of our men following them without their knowledge and went into a thicket, where they had tied the mules, and returned with them to us. As may be supposed, we gave them both a good whipping. It seemed at first, that the whole {44} town would rise against us in consequence. But when we related the circumstances fairly to the people, the officer corresponding to our justice of the peace, said, we had done perfectly right, and had the men put in the stocks. We recommenced our journey, and passed a mission of Indians under the control of an old priest. After crossing a point of the mountain, we reached Santa Fe,[48] on the 5th. This town contains between four and five thousand inhabitants. It is situated on a large plain. A handsome stream runs through it, adding life and beauty to a scene striking and agreeable from the union of amenity and cultivation around, with the distant view of the snow clad mountains. It is pleasant to walk on the flat roofs of the houses in the evening, and look on the town and plain spread below. The houses are low, with flat roofs as I have mentioned. The churches are differently constructed from the other buildings and make a beautiful show. They have a great number of large bells, which, when disturbed, make a noise, that would almost seem sufficient to awaken the dead. We asked the governor for permission to trap beaver in the river Helay. His reply was that, he did not know if he was allowed by the law to do so; but if upon examination it lay in his power, he would inform us on the morrow, if we would come to his office at 9 o'clock in the morning. According to this request, we went to the place appointed, the succeeding day, which was the 9th of November. We were told by the governor, that he had found nothing, that would justify him, in giving us the legal permission, we desired. We then proposed to him to give us liberty to trap, upon the condition, that we paid him five per cent on the beaver we might catch. He said, he would consider this proposition, and give us an answer the next day at the same hour. The thoughts of our hearts were not at all favorable to this person, as we left him. About ten o'clock at night an express came from the river Pacus,[49] on which the nobles have their country seats and large farming establishments, stating, that a large body of Indians had come upon several families, whom they had either robbed, or {45} murdered. Among the number two Americans had been killed, and the wife of one taken prisoner, in company with four Spanish women, one of whom was daughter of the former governor, displaced because he was an European. The drum and fife and French horn began to sound in a manner, that soon awakened, and alarmed the whole town. The frightened women, and the still more fear-stricken men, joining in a full chorus of screams and cries, ran some to where the drum was beating in the public square, and others to our quarters. Upon the first sound of alarm we had prepared to repel the enemy, whatever it might be, provided it troubled us. When this group came rushing towards us, the light of the moon enabled us to discern them with sufficient clearness to prevent our doing them any injury. We did not sleep any more that night, for the women, having got the wrong story, as most women do in a case of the kind, told us that the Commanches were in town, killing the people. We awaited an attack, without, however, hearing any sound of fire arms. Our conclusion was, that they were skulking around, dealing out death in darkness and silence with their arrows; and in the feelings, which were its natural result, the remainder of the night passed. The first light of morning showed us a body of four hundred men ready to mount their horses. At sunrise the governor came to us to ask, if we would aid in the attempt to recapture the prisoners taken by the Commanches, relating to us the real cause of the alarm of the preceding night. We complied readily with his request, as we were desirous of gaining the good will of the people. Our arrangements were soon made, and we set off in company with the troops I have mentioned. The 12th was spent in travelling. We stopped for the night at St. John's, a small town.[50] On the 13th we reached the spot, where the murders and robbery were committed. Here we took the course the Indians had marked in their retreat, stopping only for refreshments. We pressed on all night, as we found their fires still smoking. At eight on the morning of the 15th, the trail being fresh, we increased our speed, and at twelve came in sight of them, as they advanced toward a low gap in {46} the mountains. We now halted, and counselled together with regard to the next movements. The commander of the Spaniards proposed, that my father should direct the whole proceedings, promising obedience on his own part and that of his troops. The gap in the mountains, of which I spoke, was made by a stream. The Indians were now entering it. My father formed a plan immediately, and submitted it to the Spanish commander, who promised to aid in carrying it into effect. In conformity to it, the Spaniards were directed to keep in rear of the Indians, without being seen by them. We took a circuitous route, screened from sight by the highland, that lay between us and the Indians, in order to gain unobserved a hollow in advance of them, in which we might remain concealed, until they approached within gunshot of us. Our main object was to surprize them, and not allow them time to kill their captives, should they be still alive. The party in the rear were to close in, upon hearing the report of our guns, and not allow them to return to the plain. Our plan seemed to assure us success. We succeeded in reaching the hollow, in which we placed ourselves in the form of a half circle, extending from one side of it to the other, our horses being tied behind us. Every man was then ordered to prime, and pick his gun afresh. The right flank was to fire first, the left reserving theirs to give a running fire, that should enable the right to re-load. The Indians, surrounding the prisoners, were to be taken as the first aim, to prevent the immediate murder of them by their captors. My post was in the centre of the line. We waited an hour and a half behind our screens of rocks and trees, before our enemies made their appearance. The first object, that came in sight, were women without any clothing, driving a large drove of sheep and horses. These were immediately followed by Indians. When the latter were within thirty or forty yards of us, the order to fire was given. The women ran towards us the moment they heard the report of our guns. In doing this they encountered the Indians behind them, and three fell pierced by the spears of these savages. The cry among us now was, 'save the women!' Another young man and {47} myself sprang forward, to rescue the remaining two. My companion fell in the attempt. An Indian had raised his spear, to inflict death upon another of these unfortunate captives, when he received a shot from one of our men, that rendered him incapable of another act of cruelty. The captives, one of whom was a beautiful young lady, the daughter of the governor before spoken of, both reached me. The gratitude of such captives, so delivered, may be imagined. Fears, thanks and exclamations in Spanish were the natural expression of feeling in such a position. My companions aided me in wrapping blankets around them, for it was quite cold; and making the best arrangements in our power for their comfort and safety. This was all done in less time, than is required to relate it, and we returned to our post. The Indians stood the second fire, and then retreated. We pursued keeping up a quick fire, expecting every moment to hear the Spaniards in the rear following our example to check them in their retreat; but we could discover the entrance upon the plain, before we heard any thing from our Spanish muskets. The Indians then began to yell; but the Spaniards, after one discharge from their fire arms, fled. Being mounted on good horses the Indians did not pursue them, but satisfied as to our numbers, now that we were upon the plain, they rallied, and rushed upon us. Our commander now ordered us to retreat into the woods, and to find shelter behind trees, and take aim that every shot might tell, as it was of the utmost importance, not to waste ammunition, saying, 'stand resolute, my boys, and we make them repent, if they follow us, although those ---- Spaniards have deserted us, when we came to fight for them. We are enough for these ---- devils alone.' As they came near us, we gave them a scattering though destructive fire, which they returned bravely, still pressing towards us. It was a serious contest for about ten minutes, after they approached within pistol shot of us. From their yells, one would have thought that the infernal regions were open before them, and that they were about to be plunged in headlong. They finally began to retreat again, and we soon {48} put them completely to flight. The Spaniards, though keeping a safe distance, while this was going forward, saw the state of affairs, and joined us in the pursuit, still taking especial care not to come near enough to the Indians, to hurt them, or receive any injury themselves. After the Indians rallied, we lost ten men, and my father received a slight wound in the shoulder. We removed our horses and the rescued captives into the plain, and encamped. The Spaniards had killed an Indian already wounded, and were riding over the dead bodies of those on the ground, spearing them and killing any, who still breathed. My father commanded them to desist, or he would fire upon them, and the Spanish officer added his order to the same effect. The latter then demanded of us, the two women, whom we had rescued, with as much assurance, as though himself had been the cause of their deliverance. My father replied, by asking what authority or right he had, to make such a request, when his cowardice withheld him from aiding in their release? The officer became enraged, and said, that he was unable to rally his men, and that he did not consider the captives any safer in our hands than in those of the Indians, as we were not christians. This insult, coupled with such a lame apology, only made my father laugh, and reply, that if cowardice constituted a claim to christianity, himself and his men were prime and undoubted christians. He added further, that if the rescued women preferred to accompany him, rather than remain, until he should have buried his brave comrades, who fell in their defence, and accept his protection, he had nothing to say. The subjects of our discussion, being present while it took place, decided the point before they were appealed to. The youngest said, that nothing would induce her to leave her deliverers, and that when they were ready to go, she would accompany them, adding, that she should pray hourly for the salvation of those, who had resigned their lives in the preservation of hers. The other expressed herself willing to remain with her, and manifested the same confidence and gratitude. The enraged officer and his men set off on their return to Santa Fe. {49} The sun was yet an hour from its setting. We availed ourselves of the remaining light to make a breastwork with the timber, that had drifted down the stream, that we might be prepared for the Indians, in case they should return. We finished it, and posted our sentinels by sunset. The governor's daughter now inquired for the individual, who first met her in her flight from the Indians, and so humanely and bravely conducted her out of danger, and provided for her comfort. I cannot describe the gratitude and loveliness, that appeared in her countenance, as she looked on me, when I was pointed out to her. Not attaching any merit to the act, I had performed, and considering it merely as a duty, I did not know how to meet her acknowledgments, and was embarrassed. On the morning of the 16th we buried our dead. My father's shoulder was a little stiff, and somewhat swollen. We saddled our horses, and began our return journey. I gave up my horse to one of the ladies, and made my way on foot. We drove the sheep, which escaped the balls, before us. Our last look at the ground of our late contest gave a view sufficiently painful to any one, who had a heart; horses and their riders lay side by side. The bodies of robbers surrounded by the objects of their plunder would probably remain, scattered as they were, unburied and exposed to the wild beasts. We halted in the evening for the refreshment of ourselves and horses. This done, we again set off travelling all night. The sheep giving out, we were obliged to leave them. At twelve next day we reached Pacus. Here we met the father of the youngest of the two ladies accompanied by a great number of Spaniards. The old man was transported almost to frenzy, when he saw his daughter. We remained here for the day. On the morning of the 18th we all set off together, the old governor insisting, that my father and myself must ride in the carriage with him; but we excused ourselves, and rode by the side of it with the interpreter. The father caressed us exceedingly, and said a great many things about me in particular, which I did not think, I deserved. {50} The next day at two in the afternoon, we arrived at Santa Fe. We were received with a salute, which we returned with our small arms. The governor came in the evening, and invited my father and the interpreter to sup with him. He ordered some fat beeves to be killed for the rest of us. The father of Jacova, for that was the name of the young lady, I had rescued, came, and invited us all to go, and drink coffee at his son-in-law's, who kept a coffee-house. We went, and when we had finished our coffee, the father came, and took me by the hand, and led me up a flight of steps, and into a room, where were his two daughters. As soon as I entered the room, Jacova and her sister both came, and embraced me, this being the universal fashion of interchanging salutations between men and women among these people, even when there is nothing more, than a simple introduction between strangers. After I had been seated an hour, looking at them, as they made signs, and listening to their conversation, of which I did not understand a syllable, I arose with the intention of returning to my companions for the night. But Jacova, showing me a bed, prepared for me, placed herself between me and the door. I showed her that my clothes were not clean. She immediately brought me others belonging to her brother-in-law. I wished to be excused from making use of them, but she seemed so much hurt, that I finally took them, and reseated myself. She then brought me my leather hunting shirt, which I had taken off to aid in protecting her from the cold, and begged the interpreter who was now present, to tell me, that she intended to keep it, as long as she lived. She then put it on, to prove to me that she was not ashamed of it. I went to bed early, and arose, and returned to my companions, before any of the family were visible. At eight the governor and my father came to our quarters, and invited us all to dine with him at two in the afternoon. Accordingly we all dressed in our best, and went at the appointed time. A band of musicians played during dinner. After it was finished, and the table removed, a fandango was begun. The ladies flocked in, in great numbers. The instruments, to which the dancers moved, were {51} a guitar and violin. Six men and six women also added their voices. Their mode of dancing was a curiosity to me. The women stood erect, moving their feet slowly, without any spring or motion of the body, and the men half bent, moved their feet like drum sticks. This dance is called _ahavave_. I admired another so much, that I attempted to go through it. It was a waltz, danced to a slow and charming air. It produces a fine effect, when twenty or thirty perform it together. The dancing continued, until near morning, when we retired to rest. At eight the following morning we received a license, allowing us to trap in different parts of the country. We were now divided into small parties. Mr. Pratte added three to our original number, they making the company, to which my father and myself belonged, seven. On the 22d, we set off. Our course lay down the del Norte to the Helay, a river never before explored by white people.[51] We left our goods with a merchant, until we should return in the spring. Our whole day's journey lay over a handsome plain covered with herds of the different domestic animals. We reached Picacheh a small town in the evening. Jacova and her father overtook us here, on their way home, which was eighty miles distant from Santa Fe. In the morning we began our journey, together. During the day we passed several small villages and stopped for the night in one called St. Philip, situated on the banks of the del Norte, surrounded by large vineyards. Jacova's father insisted upon our drinking plentifully of the wine made at this place. The morning of the 24th saw us again on our journey. Our companion, the old governor, was much amused at seeing us kill wild geese and prairie wolves with our rifles, the latter being abundant in this country. In the evening we reached another small town, called St. Louis. All these inconsiderable villages contain a church. The succeeding day we traversed the same beautiful plain country, which had made our journey so far, delightful. The same multitude of domestic animals still grazed around our path. {52} On the 27th, we arrived at the residence of Jacova and her father. It was a large and even magnificent building. We remained here until the 30th, receiving the utmost attention and kindness. At our departure, the kind old governor pressed a great many presents upon us; but we refused all, except a horse for each one of us, some flour and dried meat. Seven hunters coming up with us, who were going in our direction, we concluded to travel with them, as our united strength would better enable us to contend with the hostile Indians, through whose country our course lay. We made our way slowly, descending the river bank, until we reached the last town or settlement in this part of the province, called Socoro.[52] The population of the part of the country, through which we travelled was entirely confined to a chain of settlements along the bottoms of the del Norte, and those of some of the rivers, which empty into it. I did not see, during the whole of this journey, an enclosed field, and not even a garden. After remaining one day here, in order to recruit our horses, we resumed our course down the river, Dec. 3d. The bottoms, through which we now passed, were thinly timbered, and the only growth was cotton-wood and willow. We saw great numbers of bears, deer and turkeys. A bear having chased one of our men into the camp, we killed it. On the 7th we left the del Norte, and took a direct course for the Copper mines.[53] We next travelled from the river over a very mountainous country four days, at the expiration of which time we reached this point of our destination. We were here but one night, and I had not leisure to examine the mode, in which the copper was manufactured. In the morning we hired two Spanish servants to accompany us; and taking a north-west course pursued our journey, until we reached the Helay on the 14th. We found the country the greater part of the two last days hilly and somewhat barren with a growth of pine, live oak, _pinion_, cedar and some small trees, of which I did not know the name. We caught thirty beavers, the first night we encamped on this river. The next morning, accompanied by another man, {53} I began to ascend the bank of the stream to explore, and ascertain if beaver were to be found still higher, leaving the remainder of the party to trap slowly up, until they should meet us on our return. We threw a pack over our shoulders, containing a part of the beavers, we had killed, as we made our way on foot. The first day we were fatigued by the difficulty of getting through the high grass, which covered the heavily timbered bottom. In the evening we arrived at the foot of mountains, that shut in the river on both sides, and encamped. We saw during the day several bears, but did not disturb them, as they showed no ill feeling towards us. On the morning of the 13th we started early, and crossed the river, here a beautiful clear stream about thirty yards in width, running over a rocky bottom, and filled with fish. We made but little advance this day, as bluffs came in so close to the river, as to compel us to cross it thirty-six times. We were obliged to scramble along under the cliffs, sometimes upon our hands and knees, through a thick tangle of grape-vines and under-brush. Added to the unpleasantness of this mode of getting along in itself, we did not know, but the next moment would bring us face to face with a bear, which might accost us suddenly. We were rejoiced, when this rough ground gave place again to the level bottom. At night we reached a point, where the river forked, and encamped on the point between the forks. We found here a boiling spring so near the main stream, that the fish caught in the one might be thrown into the other without leaving the spot, where it was taken. In six minutes it would be thoroughly cooked. The following morning my companion and myself separated, agreeing to meet after four days at this spring. We were each to ascend a fork of the river. The banks of that which fell to my lot, were very brushy, and frequented by numbers of bears, of whom I felt fearful, as I had never before travelled alone in the woods. I walked on with caution until night, and encamped near a pile of drift wood, which I set on fire, thinking thus to frighten any animals that might approach during the night. {54} I placed a spit, with a turkey I had killed upon it, before the fire to roast. After I had eaten my supper I laid down by the side of a log with my gun by my side. I did not fall asleep for some time. I was aroused from slumber by a noise in the leaves, and raising my head saw a panther stretched on the log by which I was lying, within six feet of me. I raised my gun gently to my face, and shot it in the head. Then springing to my feet, I ran about ten steps, and stopped to reload my gun, not knowing if I had killed the panther or not. Before I had finished loading my gun, I heard the discharge of one on the other fork, as I concluded, the two running parallel with each other, separated only by a narrow ridge. A second discharge quickly followed the first, which led me to suppose, that my comrade was attacked by Indians. I immediately set out and reached the hot spring by day break, where I found my associate also. The report of my gun had awakened him, when he saw a bear standing upon its hind feet within a few yards of him growling. He fired his gun, then his pistol, and retreated, thinking, with regard to me, as I had with regard to him, that I was attacked by Indians. Our conclusion now was, to ascend one of the forks in company, and then cross over, and descend the other. In consequence we resumed the course, I had taken the preceding day. We made two day's journey, without beaver enough to recompense us for our trouble, and then crossed to the east fork, trapping as we went, until we again reached the main stream. Some distance below this, we met those of our party we had left behind, with the exception of the seven, who joined us on the del Norte. They had deserted the expedition, and set off upon their return down the river. We now all hastened on to overtake them, but it was to no purpose. They still kept in advance, trapping clean as they went, so that we even found it difficult to catch enough to eat. Finding it impossible to come up with them, we ceased to urge our poor horses, as they were much jaded, and tender footed beside, and travelled slowly, catching what beaver we {55} could, and killing some deer, although the latter were scarce, owing, probably to the season of the year. The river here was beautiful, running between banks covered with tall cotton-woods and willows. This bottom extended back a mile on each side. Beyond rose high and rather barren hills. On the 20th we came to a point, where the river entered a cavern between two mountains. We were compelled to return upon our steps, until we found a low gap in the mountains. We were three day's crossing, and the travelling was both fatiguing and difficult. We found nothing to kill. On the 23d we came upon the river, where it emptied into a beautiful plain. We set our traps, but to no purpose, for the beavers were all caught, or alarmed. The river here pursues a west course. We travelled slowly, using every effort to kill something to eat, but without success. On the morning of the 26th we concluded, that we must kill a horse, as we had eaten nothing for four day's and a half, except the small portion of a hare caught by my dogs, which fell to the lot of each of a party of seven. Before we obtained this, we had become weak in body and mind, complaining, and desponding of our success in search of beaver. Desirous of returning to some settlement, my father encouraged our party to eat some of the horses, and pursue our journey. We were all reluctant to begin to partake of the horse-flesh; and the actual thing without bread or salt was as bad as the anticipation of it. We were somewhat strengthened, however, and hastened on, while our supply lasted, in the hope of either overtaking those in advance of us, or finding another stream yet undiscovered by trappers. The latter desire was gratified the first of January, 1825. The stream, we discovered, carried as much water as the Helay, heading north. We called it the river St. Francisco.[54] After travelling up its banks about four miles, we encamped, and set all our traps, and killed a couple of fat turkies. In the morning we examined our traps, and found in them 37 beavers! This success restored our spirits instantaneously. Exhilarating {56} prospects now opened before us, and we pushed on with animation. The banks of this river are for the most part incapable of cultivation being in many places formed of high and rugged mountains. Upon these we saw multitudes of mountain sheep.[55] These animals are not found on level ground, being there slow of foot, but on these cliffs and rocks they are so nimble and expert in jumping from point to point, that no dog or wolf can overtake them. One of them that we killed had the largest horns, that I ever saw on animals of any description. One of them would hold a gallon of water. Their meat tastes like our mutton. Their hair is short like a deer's, though fine. The French call them the _gros cornes_, from the size of their horns which curl around their ears, like our domestic sheep. These animals are about the size of a large deer. We traced this river to its head, but not without great difficulty, as the cliffs in many places came so near the water's edge, that we were compelled to cross points of the mountain, which fatigued both ourselves and our horses exceedingly. The right hand fork of this river, and the left of the Helay head in the same mountain, which is covered with snow, and divides its waters from those of Red river. We finished our trapping on this river, on the 14th. We had caught the very considerable number of 250 beavers, and had used and preserved most of the meat, we had killed. On the 19th we arrived on the river Helay, encamped, and buried our furs in a secure position, as we intended to return home by this route. On the 20th we began to descend the Helay, hoping to find in our descent another beaver stream emptying into it. We had abandoned the hope of rejoining the hunters, that had left us, and been the occasion of our being compelled to feed upon horse flesh. No better was to be expected of us, than that we should take leave to imprecate many a curse upon their heads; and that they might experience no better fate, than to fall into the hands of the savages, or be torn in pieces by the white bears. At the same time, so ready are the hearts of mountain hunters to relent, that I have not a doubt that each man of us would {57} have risqued his life to save any one of them from the very fate, we imprecated upon them. In fact, on the night of the 22d, four of them, actually half starved, arrived at our camp, declaring, that they had eaten nothing for five days. Notwithstanding our recent curses bestowed upon them, we received them as brothers. They related that the Indians had assaulted and defeated them, robbing them of all their horses, and killing one of their number. Next day the remaining two came in, one of them severely wounded in the head by an Indian arrow. They remained with us two days, during which we attempted to induce them to lead us against the Indians, who had robbed them, that we might assist them to recover what had been robbed from them. No persuasion would induce them to this course. They insisted at the same time, that if we attempted to go on by ourselves, we should share the same fate, which had befallen them. On the morning of the 25th, we gave them three horses, and as much dried meat as would last them to the mines, distant about 150 miles. Fully impressed, that the Indians would massacre us, they took such a farewell of us, as if never expecting to see us again. In the evening of the same day, although the weather threatened a storm, we packed up, and began to descend the river. We encamped this night in a huge cavern in the midst of the rocks. About night it began to blow a tempest, and to snow fast. Our horses became impatient under the pelting of the storm, broke their ropes, and disappeared. In the morning, the earth was covered with snow, four or five inches deep. One of our companions accompanied me to search for our horses. We soon came upon their trail, and followed it, until it crossed the river. We found it on the opposite side, and pursued it up a creek, that empties into the Helay on the north shore. We passed a cave at the foot of the cliffs. At its mouth I remarked, that the bushes were beaten down, as though some animal had been browsing upon them. I was aware, that a bear had entered the cave. We collected some pine knots, split them with our tomahawks, and kindled torches, with which I proposed to {58} my companion, that we should enter the cave together, and shoot the bear. He gave me a decided refusal, notwithstanding I reminded him, that I had, more than once, stood by him in a similar adventure; and notwithstanding I made him sensible, that a bear in a den is by no means so formidable, as when ranging freely in the woods. Finding it impossible to prevail on him to accompany me, I lashed my torch to a stick, and placed it parallel with the gun barrel, so as that I could see the sights on it, and entered the cave. I advanced cautiously onward about twenty yards, seeing nothing. On a sudden the bear reared himself erect within seven feet of me, and began to growl, and gnash his teeth. I levelled my gun and shot him between the eyes, and began to retreat. Whatever light it may throw upon my courage, I admit, that I was in such a hurry, as to stumble, and extinguish my light. The growling and struggling of the bear did not at all contribute to allay my apprehensions. On the contrary, I was in such haste to get out of the dark place, thinking the bear just at my heels, that I fell several times on the rocks, by which I cut my limbs, and lost my gun. When I reached the light, my companion declared, and I can believe it, that I was as pale as a corpse. It was some time, before I could summon sufficient courage to re-enter the cavern for my gun. But having re-kindled my light, and borrowed my companion's gun, I entered the cavern again, advanced and listened. All was silent, and I advanced still further, and found my gun, near where I had shot the bear. Here again I paused and listened. I then advanced onward a few strides, where to my great joy I found the animal dead. I returned, and brought my companion in with me. We attempted to drag the carcass from the den, but so great was the size, that we found ourselves wholly unable. We went out, found our horses, and returned to camp for assistance. My father severely reprimanded me for venturing to attack such a dangerous animal in its den, when the failure to kill it outright by the first shot, would have been sure to be followed by my death. Four of us were detached to the den. We were soon enabled {59} to drag the bear to the light, and by the aid of our beast to take it to camp. It was both the largest and whitest bear I ever saw. The best proof, I can give, of the size and fatness is, that we extracted ten gallons of oil from it. The meat we dried, and put the oil in a trough, which we secured in a deep crevice of a cliff, beyond the reach of animals of prey. We were sensible that it would prove a treasure to us on our return. On the 28th we resumed our journey, and pushed down the stream to reach a point on the river, where trapping had not been practised. On the 30th, we reached this point, and found the man, that the Indians had killed. They had cut him in quarters, after the fashion of butchers. His head, with the hat on, was stuck on a stake. It was full of the arrows, which they had probably discharged into it, as they had danced around it. We gathered up the parts of the body, and buried them. At this point we commenced setting our traps. We found the river skirted with very wide bottoms, thick-set with the musquito trees,[56] which bear a pod in the shape of a bean, which is exceedingly sweet. It constitutes one of the chief articles of Indian subsistence; and they contrive to prepare from it a very palatable kind of bread, of which we all became very fond. The wild animals also feed upon this pod. On the 31st we moved our camp ten miles. On the way we noted many fresh traces of Indians, and killed a bear, that attacked us. The river pursues a west course amidst high mountains on each side. We trapped slowly onward, still descending the river, and unmolested by the Indians. On the 8th of February, we reached the mouth of a small river entering the Helay on the north shore. Here we unexpectedly came upon a small party of Indians, that fled at the sight of us, in such consternation and hurry, as to leave all their effects, which consisted of a quantity of the bread mentioned above, and some robes made of rabbit skins. Still more; they left a small child. The child was old enough to distinguish us from its own people, for it opened its little throat, and screamed so lustily, that we feared it would have fits. The poor thing meanwhile made its {60} best efforts to fly from us. We neither plundered nor molested their little store. We bound the child in such a manner, that it could not stray away, and get lost, aware, that after they deemed us sufficiently far off, the parents would return, and take the child away. We thence ascended the small river about four miles, and encamped. For fear of surprize, and apprehending the return of the savages, that had fled from us, and perhaps in greater force, we secured our camp with a small breast-work. We discovered very little encouragement in regard to our trapping pursuit, for we noted few signs of beavers on this stream. The night passed without bringing us any disturbance. In the morning two of us returned to the Indian camp. The Indians had re-visited it, and removed every thing of value, and what gave us great satisfaction, their child. In proof, that the feelings of human nature are the same every where, and that the language of kindness is a universal one; in token of their gratitude, as we understood it, they had suspended a package on a kind of stick, which they had stuck erect. Availing ourselves of their offer, we examined the present, and found it to contain a large dressed buck skin, an article, which we greatly needed for moccasins, of which some of us were in pressing want. On the same stick we tied a red handkerchief by way of some return. We thence continued to travel up this stream four days in succession, with very little incident to diversify our march. We found the banks of this river plentifully timbered with trees of various species, and the land fine for cultivation. On the morning of the 13th, we returned to the Helay, and found on our way, that the Indians had taken the handkerchief, we had left, though none of them had shown any disposition, as we had hoped, to visit us. We named the stream we had left, the deserted fork, on account of having found it destitute of beavers. We thence resumed our course down the Helay, which continues to flow through a most beautiful country. Warned by the frequent traces of fresh Indian foot-prints, we every night adopted {61} the expedient of enclosing our horses in a pen, feeding them with cotton-wood bark, which we found much better for them than grass. On the 16th, we advanced to a point, where the river runs between high mountains, in a ravine so narrow, as barely to afford it space to pass. We commenced exploring them to search for a gap, through which we might be able to pass. We continued our expedition, travelling north, until we discovered a branch, that made its way out of the mountains. Up its ravine we ascended to the head of the branch. Its fountains were supplied by an immense snow bank, on the summit of the mountain. With great labor and fatigue we reached this summit, but could descry no plains within the limits of vision. On every side the peaks of ragged and frowning mountains rose above the clouds, affording a prospect of dreariness and desolation, to chill the heart. While we could hear the thunder burst, and see the lightning glare before us, we found an atmosphere so cold, that we were obliged to keep up severe and unremitting exercise, to escape freezing. We commenced descending the western declivity of the mountains, amidst thick mists and dark clouds, with which they were enveloped. We pitied our horses and mules, that were continually sliding and falling, by which their limbs were strained, and their bodies bruised. To our great joy, we were not long, before we came upon the ravine of a branch, that wound its way through the vast masses of crags and mountains. We were disappointed, however, in our purpose to follow it to the Helay. Before it mingled with that stream, it ingulfed itself so deep between the cliffs, that though we heard the dash of the waters in their narrow bed, we could hardly see them. We were obliged to thread our way, as we might, along the precipice, that constituted the banks of the creek. We were often obliged to unpack our mules and horses, and transport their loads by hand from one precipice to another. We continued wandering among the mountains in this way, until the 23d. Our provisions were at this time exhausted, and our horses and {62} mules so worn out, that they were utterly unable to proceed further. Thus we were absolutely obliged to lie by two days. During this time, Allen and myself commenced climbing towards the highest peak of the mountains in our vicinity. It was night-fall, before we gained it. But from it we could distinctly trace the winding path of the river in several places; and what was still more cheering, could see smokes arising from several Indian camps. To meet even enemies, was more tolerable, than thus miserably to perish with hunger and cold in the mountains. Our report on our return animated the despair of our companions. On the morning of the 25th we resumed our painful efforts to reach the river. On the 28th, to our great joy, we once more found ourselves on its banks. A party of Indians, encamped there, fled at our approach. But fortunately they left a little mush prepared from the seeds of grass. Without scruple we devoured it with appetites truly ravenous. In the morning we took ten beavers in our traps, and Allen was detached with me to clear away a path, through which the pack horses might pass. We were obliged to cross the river twelve times in the course of a single day. We still discovered the fresh footprints of Indians, who had deserted their camps, and fled before us. We were continually apprehensive, that they would fire their arrows upon us, or overwhelm us with rocks, let loose upon us from the summits of the high cliffs, directly under which we were obliged to pass. The third day, after we had left our company, I shot a wild goose in the river. The report of my gun raised the screams of women and children. Too much alarmed to stop for my game, I mounted my horse, and rode toward them, with a view to convince them, or in some way, to show them, that we intended them no harm. We discovered them ahead of us, climbing the mountains, the men in advance of the women, and all fleeing at the top of their speed. As soon as they saw us, they turned, and let fly a few arrows at us, one of which would have despatched my companion, had he not been infinitely dextrous in dodging. Hungry and fatigued and by no means in the best humor, my companion returned {63} them abundance of curses for their arrows. From words he was proceeding to deeds, and would undoubtedly have shot one of them, had I not caught his gun, and made him sensible of the madness of such a deed. It was clearly our wisdom to convince them, that we had no inclination to injure them. Some of them were clad in robes of rabbit skins, part of which they shed, in their hurry to clamber over the rocks. Finding ourselves unable to overtake them, we returned to their camp, to discover if they had left any thing that we could eat. At no great distance from their camp, we observed a mound of fresh earth, in appearance like one of our coal kilns. Considering it improbable, that the Indians would be engaged in burning coal, we opened the mound, and found it to contain a sort of vegetable that had the appearance of herbage, which seemed to be baking in the ground, to prepare it for eating. I afterwards ascertained, that it was a vegetable, called by the Spanish, mascal, (probably maguey.)[57] The Indians prepare it in this way, so as to make a kind of whiskey of it, tasting like crab-apple cider. The vegetable grows in great abundance on these mountains. Next day we came to the point, where the river discharges its waters from the mountains on to the plains. We thence returned, and rejoined our company, that had been making their way onward behind us. March 3d, we trapped along down a small stream, that empties into the Helay on the south side, having its head in a south west direction. It being very remarkable for the number of its beavers, we gave it the name of Beaver river. At this place we collected 200 skins; and on the 10th continued to descend the Helay, until the 20th, when we turned back with as much fur, as our beasts could pack. As yet we had experienced no molestation from the Indians, although they were frequently descried skulking after us, and gathering up the pieces of meat, we had thrown away. On the morning of the 20th we were all prepared for an early start, and my father, by way of precaution, bade us all discharge our guns at the word of command, and then re-load them afresh, {64} that we might, in case of emergency, be sure of our fire. We were directed to form in a line, take aim, and at the word, fire at a tree. We gave sufficient proofs, that we were no strangers to the rifle, for every ball had lodged close to the centre of our mark. But the report of our guns was answered by the yell of more than an hundred savages, above us on the mountains. We immediately marched out from under the mountains on to the plains, and beckoned them to come down, by every demonstration of friendship in our power. Nothing seemed to offer stronger enticement, than to hold out to them our red cloth. This we did, but without effect, for they either understood us not, or were reluctant to try our friendship. Leaving one of our number to watch their deportment, and to note if they followed us, we resumed our march. It would have been a great object to us to have been able to banish their suspicions, and make a treaty with them. But we could draw from them no demonstrations, but those of fear and surprize. On the 25th we returned to Beaver river, and dug up the furs that we had buried, or cashed,[58] as the phrase is, and concluded to ascend it, trapping towards its head, whence we purposed to cross over to the Helay above the mountains, where we had suffered so much in crossing. About six miles up the stream, we stopped to set our traps, three being selected to remain behind in the camp to dry the skins, my father to make a pen for the horses, and I to guard them, while they were turned loose to feed in the grass. We had pitched our camp near the bank of the river, in a thick grove of timber, extending about a hundred yards in width. Behind the timber was a narrow plain of about the same width, and still further on was a high hill, to which I repaired, to watch my horses, and descry whatever might pass in the distance. Immediately back of the hill I discovered a small lake, by the noise made by the ducks and geese in it. Looking more attentively, I remarked what gave me much more satisfaction, that is to say, three beaver lodges. I returned, and made my father acquainted with my discovery. The party despatched to set traps had returned. My father informed {65} them of my discovery, and told them to set traps in the little lake. As we passed towards the lake, we observed the horses and mules all crowded together. At first we concluded that they collected together in this way, because they had fed enough. We soon discovered, that it was owing to another cause. I had put down my gun, and stepped into the water, to prepare a bed for my trap, while the others were busy in preparing theirs. Instantly the Indians raised a yell, and the quick report of guns ensued. This noise was almost drowned in the fierce shouts that followed, succeeded by a shower of arrows falling among us like hail. As we ran for the camp leaving all the horses in their power, we saw six Indians stealthily following our trail, as though they were tracking a deer. They occasionally stopped, raised themselves, and surveyed every thing around them. We concealed ourselves behind a large cotton-wood tree, and waited until they came within a hundred yards of us. Each of us selected a separate Indian for a mark, and our signal to fire together was to be a whistle. The sign was given, and we fired together. My mark fell dead, and my companions' severely wounded. The other Indians seized their dead and wounded companions, and fled. We now rejoined our company, who were busily occupied in dodging the arrows, that came in a shower from the summit of the hill, where I had stationed myself to watch our horses. Discovering that they were too far from us, to be reached by our bullets, we retreated to the timber, in hopes to draw them down to the plain. But they had had too ample proofs of our being marksmen, to think of returning down to our level, and were satisfied to remain yelling, and letting fly their arrows at random. We found cause both for regret and joy; regret, that our horses were in their power, and joy, that their unprovoked attack had been defeated with loss to themselves, and none to us. At length they ceased yelling, and disappeared. We, on our part, set ourselves busily to work to fortify our camp for the night. Meanwhile our savage enemy devised a plan, which, but for the circumspection of my father, would have enabled {66} them to destroy us. They divided themselves into two parties, the one party mounted on horses, stolen from us, and so arranged as to induce the belief, that they constituted the whole party. They expected that we would pursue them, to recover our horses. As soon as we should be drawn out from behind our fortification, they had a reserve party, on foot, who were to rush in, between us and our camp, and thus, between two fires, cut us all off together. It so happened, that I had retired a little distance from the camp, in the direction of the ambush party on foot. I met them, and they raised a general yell. My father, supposing me surrounded, ran in the direction of the yell, to aid me. He, too, came in direct contact with the foot party, who let fly a shower of arrows at him, from which nothing but good providence preserved him. He returned the fire with his gun and pistols, by which he killed two of them, and the report of which immediately brought his companions to his side. The contest was a warm one for a few minutes, when the Indians fled. This affair commenced about three in the afternoon; and the Indians made their final retreat at five; and the succeeding night passed without further molestation from them. In the morning of the 26th, we despatched two of our men to bring our traps and furs. We had no longer any way of conveying them with us, for the Indians had taken all our horses. We, however, in the late contest, had taken four of theirs, left behind in the haste of their retreat. As our companions were returning to camp with the traps, which they had taken up to bury, they discovered the Indians, sliding along insidiously towards our camp. We were all engaged in eating our breakfast in entire confidence. Our men cried out to us, that the enemy was close upon us. We sprang to our arms. The Indians instantly fled to the top of the hill, which we had named Battle-hill. In a few minutes they were all paraded on the horses and mules stolen from us. They instantly began to banter us in Spanish to come up to them. One of our number who could speak Spanish, asked them to what nation they belonged? They answered, _Eiotaro_. In return, they asked us, who we were? We answered _Americans_. Hearing this, they stood in apparent {67} surprise and astonishment for some moments. They then replied, that they had thought us too brave and too good marksmen, to be Spaniards; that they were sorry for what they had done, under the mistake of supposing us Spaniards. They declared themselves ready to make a treaty with us, provided that we would return the four horses, we had taken from them, and bring them up the hill, where they promised us they would restore us our own horses in exchange. We were at once impressed, that the proposal was a mere trick, to induce us to place ourselves in their power. We therefore answered their proposal by another, which was, that they should bring down our horses, and leave them by the pen, where they had taken them, and we in return would let their horses loose, and make friendship with them. They treated our proposal with laughter, which would have convinced us, had we doubted it before, that their only purpose had been to ensnare us. We accordingly faced them, and fired upon them, which induced them to clear themselves most expeditiously. We proceeded to bury our furs; and having packed our four horses with provisions and two traps, we commenced our march. Having travelled about ten miles, we encamped in a thicket without kindling a fire, and kept a strict guard all night. Next morning we made an early march, still along the banks of the river. Its banks are still plentifully timbered with cotton-wood and willow. The bottoms on each side afford a fine soil for cultivation. From these bottoms the hills rise to an enormous height, and their summits are covered with perpetual snow. In these bottoms are great numbers of wild hogs, of a species entirely different from our domestic swine. They are fox-colored, with their navel on their back, towards the back part of their bodies. The hoof of their hind feet has but one dew-claw, and they yield an odor not less offensive than our polecat. Their figure and head are not unlike our swine, except that their tail resembles that of a bear. We measured one of their tusks, of a size so enormous, that I am afraid to commit my credibility, by giving the dimensions. They remain undisturbed {68} by man and other animals, whether through fear or on account of their offensive odor, I am unable to say. That they have no fear of man, and that they are exceedingly ferocious, I can bear testimony myself. I have many times been obliged to climb trees to escape their tusks. We killed a great many, but could never bring ourselves to eat them. The country presents the aspect of having been once settled at some remote period of the past. Great quantities of broken pottery are scattered over the ground, and there are distinct traces of ditches and stone walls, some of them as high as a man's breast, with very broad foundations. A species of tree, which I had never seen before, here arrested my attention.[59] It grows to the height of forty or fifty feet. The top is cone shaped, and almost without foliage. The bark resembles that of the prickly pear; and the body is covered with thorns. I have seen some three feet in diameter at the root, and throwing up twelve distinct shafts. On the 29th, we made our last encampment on this river, intending to return to it no more, except for our furs. We set our two traps for the last time, and caught a beaver in each.--We skinned the animals, and prepared the skins to hold water, through fear, that we might find none on our unknown route through the mountains to the Helay, from which we judged ourselves distant two hundred miles. Our provisions were all spoiled. We had nothing to carry with us to satisfy hunger, but the bodies of the two beavers which we had caught, the night before. We had nothing to sustain us in this disconsolate march, but our trust in providence; for we could not but foresee hunger, fatigue and pain, as the inevitable attendants upon our journey. To increase the depression of our spirits, our moccasins were worn out, our feet sore and tender, and the route full of sharp rocks. On the 31st, we reached the top of the mountain, and fed upon the last meat of our beavers. We met with no traces of game. What distressed me most of all was, to perceive my father, who had already passed the meridian of his days, sinking with fatigue and weakness. On the morning of the first of April, {69} we commenced descending the mountain, from the side of which we could discern a plain before us, which, however, it required two severe days travel to reach. During these two days we had nothing either to eat or drink. In descending from these icy mountains, we were surprised to find how warm it was on the plains. On reaching them I killed an antelope, of which we drank the warm blood; and however revolting the recital may be, to us it was refreshing, tasting like fresh milk. The meat we put upon our horses, and travelled on until twelve o'clock, before we found water. Here we encamped the remainder of the day, to rest, and refresh ourselves. The signs of antelopes were abundant, and the appearances were, that they came to the water to drink; from which we inferred, that there was no other drinking place in the vicinity. Some of our hunters went out in pursuit of the antelopes. From the numbers of these animals, we called the place _Antelope Plain_. The land lies very handsomely, and is a rich, black soil, with heavily timbered groves in the vicinity. On the morning of the 3d, though exceedingly stiff and sore, we resumed our march, and reaching the opposite side of the plain, encamped at a spring, that ran from the mountain. Next day we ascended this mountain to its summit, which we found covered with iron ore. At a distance we saw a smoke on our course. We were aware that it was the smoke of an Indian camp, and we pushed on towards it. In the evening we reached the smoke, but found it deserted of Indians. All this day's march was along a country abundant in minerals. In several places we saw lead and copper ore. I picked up a small parcel of ore, which I put in my shot-pouch, which was proved afterward to be an ore of silver. The misfortune of this region is, that there is no water near these mineral hills. We commenced our morning march half dead with thirst, and pushed on with the eagerness inspired by that tormenting appetite. Late in the evening we found a little water, for our own drinking, in the bottom of a rock. Not a drop remained for our four horses, that evidently showed a thirst no less devouring than ours. {70} Their feet were all bleeding, and the moment we paused to rest ourselves, the weary companions of our journey instantly laid down. It went still more to my heart, to see my two faithful dogs, which had followed me all the way from my father's house, where there was always _bread enough and to spare_, looking to me with an expression, which a hunter in the desert only can understand, as though begging food and water. Full gladly would I have explained to them, that the sterile wilderness gave me no means of supplying their wants. We had scarcely commenced the next morning's march, when, at a little distance from our course, we saw a smoke. Supposing it an Indian camp, we immediately concluded to attack it. Adopting their own policy, we slipped onward in silence and concealment, until we were close by it. We found the persons women and children. Having no disposition to harm them, we fired a gun over their heads, which caused them instantly to fly at the extent of their speed. Hunger knows no laws; and we availed ourselves of their provision, which proved to be mascal, and grass seed, of which we made mush. Scanty as this nutriment was, it was sufficient to sustain life. We commenced an early march on the 6th, and were obliged to move slowly, as we were bare-footed, and the mountains rough and steep. We found them either wholly barren, or only covered with a stinted growth of pine and cedar, live oak and barbary bushes. On the 8th, our provisions were entirely exhausted, and so having nothing to eat, we felt the less need of water. Our destitute and forlorn condition goaded us on, so that we reached the Helay on the 12th. We immediately began to search for traces of beavers, where to set our traps, but found none. On the morning of the 13th, we killed a raven, which we cooked for seven men. It was unsavory flesh in itself, and would hardly have afforded a meal for one hungry man. The miserable condition of our company may be imagined, when seven hungry men, who had not eaten a full meal for ten days, were all obliged to breakfast on this nauseous bird. We were all weak and emaciated. But I was young {71} and able to bear hardships. My heart only ached for my poor father who was reduced to a mere skeleton. We moved on slowly and painfully, until evening, when we encamped. On my return from setting our two traps, I killed a buzzard, which, disagreeable as it was, we cooked for supper. In the morning of the 18th, I found one of the traps had caught an otter. This served for breakfast and supper. It seemed the means of our present salvation, for my father had become so weak, that he could no longer travel. We therefore encamped early, and three of us went out to hunt deer among the hills. But in this sad emergency we could find none. When we returned, my father had prepared lots, that we should draw, to determine who of us should kill one of the dogs. I refused through fear that the lot would fall to me. These faithful companions of our sufferings were so dear to me, that I felt as though I could not allow them to be killed to save my own life; though to save my father, I was aware that it was a duty to allow it to be done. We lay here until the 18th, my father finding the flesh of the dog both sweet, nutritive and strengthening. On the 18th, he was again able to travel; and on the 20th, we arrived at Bear creek, where we hid the bears oil, which we found unmolested. We lay here two days, during which time we killed four deer and some turkies. The venison we dried, and cased the skin of one of the deer, in which to carry our oil. We commenced an early march on the 23d, and on the 25th reached the river San Francisco, where we found our buried furs all safe. I suffered exceedingly from the soreness of my feet, giving me great pain and fever at night. We made from our raw deer skins a very tolerable substitute for shoes. The adoption of this important expedient enabled us to push on, so that we reached the Copper mines on the 29th. The Spaniards seemed exceedingly rejoiced, and welcomed us home, as though we were of their own nation, religion and kindred. They assured us, that they had no expectation ever to see us again. The superintendent of the mines, especially, who appeared to me a gentleman of the highest order, received {72} us with particular kindness, and supplied all our pressing wants. Here we remained, to rest and recruit ourselves, until the 2d of May. My father then advised me to travel to Santa Fe, to get some of our goods, and purchase a new supply of horses, with which to return, and bring in our furs. I had a horse, which we had taken from the Indians, shod with copper shoes, and in company with four of my companions, and the superintendent of the mines, I started for Santa Fe. The superintendent assured us, that he would gladly have furnished us horses; but the Appache Indians[60] had recently made an incursion upon his establishment, stealing all his horses, and killing three men, that were herding them. This circumstance had suspended the working of the mines. Besides he was unable to procure the necessary coal, with which to work them, because the Appaches way-laid the colliers, and killed them, as often as they attempted to make coal. We arrived at the house of the governor on the 12th. Jacova, his daughter, received us with the utmost affection; and shed tears on observing me so ill; as I was in fact reduced by starvation and fatigue, to skin and bone. Beings in a more wretched plight she could not often have an opportunity to see. My hair hung matted and uncombed. My head was surmounted with an old straw hat. My legs were fitted with leather leggins, and my body arrayed in a leather hunting shirt, and no want of dirt about any part of the whole. My companions did not shame me, in comparison, by being better clad. But all these repulsive circumstances notwithstanding, we were welcomed by the governor and Jacova, as kindly, as if we had been clad in a manner worthy of their establishment. We rested ourselves here three days. I had left my more decent apparel in the care of Jacova, when we started from the house into the wilderness on our trapping expedition. She had had my clothes prepared in perfect order. I once more dressed myself decently, and spared to my companions all my clothes that fitted them. We all had our hair trimmed. All this had much improved our appearance. When we started {73} on the 15th, the old gentleman gave each of us a good horse, enabling us to travel at our ease. On the 18th we arrived at Santa Fe, where we immediately met some of our former companions. It hardly need be added, that the joy of this recognition was great and mutual. We found Mr. Pratte ill in bed. He expressed himself delighted to see me, and was still more desirous to see my father. He informed me, that four of the company that he had detached to trap, had been defeated by the Indians, and the majority of them killed. He had, also, despaired of ever seeing us again. I took a part of my goods, and started back to the mines on the 21st. None of my companions were willing to accompany me on account of the great apprehended danger from the Indians between this place and the mines. In consequence, I hired a man to go with me, and having purchased what horses I wanted, we two travelled on in company. I would have preferred to have purchased my horses of the old governor. But I knew that his noble nature would impel him to give them to me, and felt reluctant to incur such an obligation. When I left his house, he insisted on my receiving a gold chain, in token of the perpetual remembrance of his daughter. I saw no pretext for refusing it, and as I received it, she assured me that she should always make mention of my father and me in her prayers. I left this hospitable place on the 24th, taking all my clothes with me, except the hunting shirt, which I had worn in the battle with the Commanches. This she desired to retain, insisting, that she wished to preserve this memorial to the day of her death. We arrived at the mines the first day of June, having experienced no molestation from the Indians. We continued here, making arrangements for our expedition to bring in the furs, until the 6th. The good natured commander gave us provisions to last us to the point where our furs were buried, and back again. Still more, he armed ten of his laborers, and detached them to accompany us. The company consisted of four Americans, the man hired at Santa Fe, and the commander's ten men, fifteen in all. {74} We left the mines on the 7th, and reached Battle-hill on Beaver river on the 22d. I need not attempt to describe my feelings, for no description could paint them, when I found the furs all gone, and perceived that the Indians had discovered them and taken them away. All that, for which we had hazarded ourselves, and suffered every thing but death, was gone. The whole fruit of our long, toilsome and dangerous expedition was lost, and all my golden hopes of prosperity and comfort vanished like a dream. I tried to convince myself, that repining was of no use, and we started for the river San Francisco on the 29th. Here we found the small quantity buried there, our whole compensation for a year's toil, misery and danger. We met no Indians either going or returning. We arrived at the mines the 8th of July, and after having rested two days proposed to start for Santa Fe. The commander, don Juan Unis, requested us to remain with him two or three months, to guard his workmen from the Indians, while pursuing their employment in the woods. He offered, as a compensation, a dollar a day. We consented to stay, though without accepting the wages. We should have considered ourselves ungrateful, after all the kindness, he had rendered us at the hour of our greatest need, either to have refused the request, or to have accepted a compensation. Consequently we made our arrangements to stay. We passed our time most pleasantly in hunting deer and bears, of which there were great numbers in the vicinity. We had no other duties to perform, than to walk round in the vicinity of the workmen, or sit by and see them work. Most of my time was spent with don Juan, who kindly undertook to teach me to speak Spanish. Of him, having no other person with whom to converse, I learned the language easily, and rapidly. One month of our engagement passed off without any molestation from the Indians. But on the first day of August, while three of us were hunting deer, we discovered the trail of six Indians approaching the mines. We followed the trail, and within about a mile from the mines, we came up with them. {75} They fled, and we pursued close at their heels. Gaining upon them, one of them dodged us, into the head of a hollow. We surrounded him. As soon as he saw that we had discovered him, and that escape was impossible, he sprung on his feet, threw away his bow and arrows, and begged us most submissively not to shoot him. One of our men made up to him, while the other man and myself stood with our guns cocked, and raised to our faces, ready to shoot him, if he made the least motion towards his bow. But he remained perfectly still, crossing his hands, that we might tie them. Having done it, we drove him on before us. We had advanced about a hundred yards from the point where we took him, when he pointed out to us a hollow tree, intimating that there was another Indian concealed there. We bade him instruct his companion to make no resistance, and to surrender himself, or we would kill him. He explained our words to his companion in the tree. He immediately came forth from his concealment with his bow, and we tied his hands in the same way as the other's. We marched them before us to the mines, where we put them in prison. The Spaniards, exasperated with their recent cruelties and murders, would have killed them. We insisted that they should be spared, and they remained in prison until the next morning. We then brought them out of prison, conversed with them, and showed them how closely we could fire. We instructed one of them to tell his chief to come in, accompanied by all his warriors, to make peace. We retained one of the prisoners as a hostage, assuring the other, that if his chief did not come in to make peace, we would put the hostage to death. In regard to the mode of making it, we engaged, that only four of our men should meet them at a hollow, half a mile from the mine. We enjoined it on him to bring them there within the term of four days. We readily discovered by the tranquil countenance of our hostage, that he had no apprehensions that they would not come in. Afterwards, by way of precaution, my father put in requisition all the arms he could find in the vicinity of the mines, with {76} which he armed thirty Spaniards. He then ordered a trench dug, at a hundred yard's distance from the point designated for the Indians to occupy. This trench was to be occupied by our armed men, during the time of the treaty, in case, that if the Indians should be insolent or menacing, these men might be at hand to overawe them, or aid us, according to circumstances. On the 5th, we repaired to the place designated, and in a short time, the Indians to the number of 80, came in sight. We had prepared a pipe, tobacco, and a council fire, and had spread a blanket, on which the chief might sit down. As soon as they came near us, they threw down their arms. The four chiefs came up to us, and we all sat down on the blanket. We commenced discussing the subject, for which they were convened. We asked them, if they were ready to make a peace with us; and if not what were the objections? They replied, that they had no objections to a peace with the Americans, but would never make one with the Spaniards. When we asked their reasons, they answered that they had been long at war with the Spaniards, and that a great many murders had been mutually inflicted on either side. They admitted, that they had taken a great many horses from the Spaniards, but indignantly alleged, that a large party of their people had come in to make peace with the Spaniards, of which they pretended to be very desirous; that with such pretexts, they had decoyed the party within their walls, and then commenced butchering them like a flock of sheep. The very few who had escaped, had taken an unalterable resolution never to make peace with them. 'In pursuance,' they continued, 'of our purposes of revenge, great numbers of our nation went in among the Spaniards, and were baptized. There they remain faithful spies for us, informing us when and where there were favorable opportunities to kill, and plunder our enemies.' We told them in reply, that if they really felt disposed to be at peace with the Americans, these mines were now working jointly by us and the Spaniards; that it was wrong in them to revenge the crimes of the guilty upon the innocent, and that {77} these Spaniards had taken no part in the cowardly and cruel butchery, of which they had spoken; and that if they would not be peaceable, and allow us to work the mines unmolested, the Americans would consider them at war, and would raise a sufficient body of men to pursue them to their lurking places in the mountains; that they had good evidence that our people could travel in the woods and among the mountains, as well as themselves; and that we could shoot a great deal better than either they or the Spaniards, and that we had no cowards among us, but true men, who had no fear and would keep their word. The chiefs answered, that if the mines belonged to the Americans, they would promise never to disturb the people that worked them. We left them, therefore, to infer that the mines belonged to us, and took them at their word. We then lit the pipe, and all the Indians gathered in a circle round the fire. The four chiefs, each in succession made a long speech, in which we could often distinguish the terms Americans, and Espanola. The men listened with profound attention, occasionally sanctioning what was said by a nod of the head. We then commenced smoking, and the pipe passed twice round the circle. They then dug a hole in the ground in the centre of the circle, and each one spat in it. They then filled it up with earth, danced round it, and stuck their arrows in the little mound. They then gathered a large pile of stones over it, and painted themselves red. Such are their ceremonies of making peace. All the forms of the ceremony were familiar to us, except the pile of stones, and spitting in the hole they had dug, which are not practised by the Indians on the American frontiers. We asked them the meaning of the spitting. They said, that they did it in token of spitting out all their spite and revenge, and burying their anger under the ground. It was two o'clock before all these ceremonies were finished. We then showed them our reserve force in the trench. They evinced great alarm to see their enemies the Spaniards so close to them, and all ready for action. We explained to them, that we intended to be in good faith, if they were; and that these {78} men were posted there, only in case they showed a disposition to violence. Their fears vanished and tranquility returned to their countenances. The chiefs laughed, and said to each other, these Americans know how to fight, and make peace too. But were they to fight us, they would have to get a company entirely of their own people; for that if they took any Spaniards into their company, they would be sure to desert them in the time of action. We thence all marched to the mines, where we killed three beeves to feed the Indians. After they had eaten, and were in excellent humor, the head chief made a present to my father, of ten miles square of a tract of land lying on a river about three miles from the mines. It was very favorable for cultivation, and the Spaniards had several times attempted to make a crop of grain upon it; but the Indians had as often either killed the cultivators, or destroyed the grain. My father informed them, that though the land might be his, he should be obliged to employ Spaniards to cultivate it for him; and that, having made the land his, they must consider these cultivators his people, and not molest them. With a look of great firmness, the chief said 'that he was a man of truth, and had given his word, and that we should find that nothing belonging to the mines would be disturbed, for that he never would allow the treaty to be violated.' He went on to add, 'that he wanted to be at peace with us, because he had discovered, that the Americans never showed any disposition to kill, except in battle; that they had had a proof of this in our not killing the two prisoners we had taken; but had sent one of them to invite his people to come in, and make peace with us, and that he took pleasure in making known to us, that they were good people too, and had no wish to injure men that did not disturb or injure them.' All this farce of bringing the Indians to terms of peace with this establishment was of infinite service to the Spaniards, though of none to us; for we neither had any interest in the mines, nor intended to stay there much longer. But we were glad to oblige don Juan who had been so great a benefactor {79} to us. He, on his part, was most thankful to us; for he could now work the mines without any risk of losing men or cattle. He could now raise his own grain, which he had hitherto been obliged to pack 200 miles, not without having many of those engaged in bringing it, either killed or robbed. The Indians now had so much changed their deportment as to bring in horses or cows, that they found astray from the mines. They regularly brought in deer and turkies to sell, which don Juan, to keep alive their friendship, purchased, whether he needed the articles or not. Every day more or less Indians came into the settlement to go and hunt deer and bears with us. They were astonished at the closeness of our shooting; and nothing seemed to delight them so much, as our telling them, we would learn them to shoot our guns. My father had the honor to be denominated in their language, _the big Captain_. Don Juan, apprehending that the truce with the Indians would last no longer than while we staid, and that after our departure, the Indians would resume their former habits of robbery and murder, was desirous to retain us as long as possible. We agreed to stay until December, when our plan was to commence another trapping expedition on the Helay, following it down to its mouth. With every disposition on the part of don Juan to render our stay agreeable, the time passed away pleasantly. On the 16th of September, the priest, to whose diocese the mines belonged, made a visit to the mines, to release the spirits of those who had died since his last visit, from purgatory, and to make Christians by baptising the little persons who had been born in the same time. This old priest, out of a reverend regard to his own person, had fled from this settlement at the commencement of the Indian disturbances; and had not returned until now, when the Indians had made peace. A body of Indians happened to be in, when the priest came. We were exceedingly amused with the interview between the priest and an Indian chief, who, from having had one of his hands bitten off by a bear, was called _Mocho Mano_. The priest asked the one handed chief, why {80} he did not offer himself for baptism? Mocho remained silent for some time, as if ruminating an answer. He then said, 'the Appache chief is a very big rogue now. Should he get his crown sprinkled with holy water, it would either do him no good at all, or if it had any effect, would make him a greater rogue; for that the priests, who made the water holy, and then went sprinkling it about among the people for money, were the biggest rogues of all.' This made the priest as angry as it made us merry. When we had done laughing, Mocho asked us, how we baptised among our people? I answered that we had two ways of performing it; but that one way was, to plunge the baptised person under water. He replied promptly, 'now there is some sense in that;' adding that when a great quantity of rain fell from the clouds, it made the grass grow; but that it seemed to him that sprinkling a few drops of water amounted to nothing. The priest, meanwhile, prophesied, that the peace between the Spaniards and Indians would be of very short duration. On the 18th, he left the mines, and returned to the place whence he had come. On the 20th, we started with some Indian guides to see a mountain of salt, that they assured us existed in their country. We travelled a northerly course through a heavily timbered country, the trees chiefly of pine and live oak. We killed a great number of bears and deer on the first day; and on account of their reverence for my father, they treated me as if I had been a prince. On the second we arrived at the salt hill, which is about one hundred miles north of the mines. The hill is about a quarter of a mile in length, and on the front side of it is the salt bluff, eight or ten feet in thickness. It has the appearance of a black rock, divided from the earthy matters, with which the salt is mixed. What was to me the most curious circumstance of the whole, was to see a fresh water spring boiling up within twenty feet from the salt bluff, which is a detached and solitary hill, rising out of a valley, which is of the richest and blackest soil, and heavily timbered {81} with oak, ash and black walnut. I remained here two days, during which I killed fifteen deer, that came to lick salt. An Indian woman of our company dressed all my deer skins, and we loaded two mules with the salt, and started back to the mines, where we arrived the first of October. Nothing could have been more seasonable or acceptable to don Juan, than the salt we brought with us. Having mentioned these mines so often, perhaps it may not be amiss, to give a few details respecting them. Within the circumference of three miles, there is a mine of copper, gold and silver, and beside, a cliff of load stone. The silver mine is not worked, as not being so profitable, as either the copper or gold mines. We remained here to the last of December, when the settlement was visited by a company of French trappers, who were bound for Red river.[61] We immediately made preparations to return with them, which again revived the apprehensions of don Juan, that the Indians would break in upon the settlement as soon as we were gone, and again put an end to the working of the mines. To detain us effectually, he proposed to rent the mines to us for five years, at a thousand dollars a year. He was willing to furnish provisions for the first year gratis, and pay us for all the improvements we should make on the establishment. We could not but be aware, that this was an excellent offer. My father accepted it. The writings were drawn, and my father rented the establishment on his own account, selecting such partners as he chose. I, meanwhile, felt within me an irresistible propensity to resume the employment of trapping. I had a desire, which I can hardly describe, to see more of this strange and new country. My father suffered greatly in the view of my parting with him, and attempted to dissuade me from it. He strongly painted the dangers of the route, and represented to me, that I should not find these Frenchmen like my own country people, for companions. All was unavailing to change my fixed purpose, and we left the mines, January 2d, 1826. We travelled down the river Helay, of which I have formerly {82} given a description, as far as the point where we had left it for Battle-hill. Here, although we saw fresh Indian signs, we met with no Indians. Where we encamped for the night, there were arrows sticking in the ground. We made an early start on the 16th, and at evening came upon the self same party of Indians, that had robbed us of our horses, the year past. Some of them had on articles of my father's clothes, that he had left where we buried our furs. They had made our beaver skins into robes, which we now purchased of them. While this bargain was transacting, I observed one of the Indians mounted on the self same horse, on which my father had travelled from the States. My blood instantly boiled within me, and, presenting my gun at him, I ordered him instantly to dismount. He immediately did as I bade him, and at once a trepidation and alarm ran through the whole party. They were but twenty men, and they were encumbered with women and children. We were thirteen, well mounted and armed. The chief of the party came to me, and asked me, 'if I knew this horse?' I answered, that 'I did, and that it was mine.' He asked me again, 'if we were the party, whose horses and furs they had taken the year before?' I answered, that I was one of them, and that if he did not cause my furs and horses to be delivered up to me, we would kill them all on the spot. He immediately brought me 150 skins and three horses, observing, that they had been famished, and had eaten the rest, and that he hoped this would satisfy me, for that in the battle they had suffered more than we, he having lost ten men, and we having taken from them four horses with their saddles and bridles. I observed to him in reply, that he must remember that they were the aggressors, and had provoked the quarrel, in having robbed us of our horses, and attempting to kill us. He admitted that they were the aggressors, in beginning the quarrel, but added, by way of apology, that they had thought us Spaniards, not knowing that we were Americans; but that now, when he knew us, he was willing to make peace, and be in perpetual friendship. On this we lit the pipe of peace, and smoked friends. I gave him some red {83} cloth, with which he was delighted. I then asked him about the different nations, through which our route would lead us? He named four nations, with names, as he pronounced them, sufficiently barbarous. All these nations he described as bad, treacherous and quarrelsome. Though it was late in the evening, we resumed our march, until we had reached the point where the river runs between mountains, and where I had turned back the year before. There is here little timber, beside musqueto-wood, which stands thick. We passed through the country of the first two tribes, which the Indian chief had described to us, without meeting an individual of them. On the 25th, we arrived at an Indian village situated on the south bank of the river. Almost all the inhabitants of this village speak Spanish, for it is situated only three days journey from a Spanish fort in the province of Sonora,[62] through which province this river runs. The Indians seemed disposed to be friendly to us. They are to a considerable degree cultivators, raising wheat, corn and cotton, which they manufacture into cloths. We left this village on the 25th, and on the 28th in the evening arrived at the Papawar village, the inhabitants of which came running to meet us, with their faces painted, and their bows and arrows in their hands. We were alarmed at these hostile appearances, and halted. We told them that we were friends, at which they threw down their arms, laughing the while, and showing by their countenances that they were aware that we were frightened. We entered the village, and the French began to manifest their uncontrollable curiosity, by strolling about in every direction. I noted several crowds of Indians, collected in gangs, and talking earnestly. I called the leader of my French companions, and informed him that I did not like these movements of the Indians, and was fearful that they were laying a plan to cut us all up. He laughed at my fears, telling me I was a coward. I replied, that I did not think that to be cautious, and on our guard, was to show cowardice, and that I still thought it best for us to start {84} off. At this he became angry, and told me that I might go when I pleased, and that he would go when he was ready. I then spoke to a Frenchman of our number, that I had known for a long time in Missouri; I proposed to him to join me, and we would leave the village and encamp by ourselves. He consented, and we went out of the village to the distance of about 400 yards, under the pretext of going there to feed our horses. When the sun was about half an hour high, I observed the French captain coming out towards us, accompanied by a great number of Indians, all armed with bows and arrows. This confirmed me in my conviction that they intended us no good. Expressing my apprehensions to my French companion, he observed in his peculiar style of English, that the captain was too proud and headstrong, to allow him to receive instruction from any one, for that he thought nobody knew any thing but himself. Agreeing that we had best take care of ourselves, we made us a fire, and commenced our arrangements for spending the night. We took care not to unsaddle our horses, but to be in readiness to be off at a moment's warning. Our French captain came and encamped within a hundred yards of us, accompanied by not less than a hundred Indians. They were all exceedingly officious in helping the party unpack their mules; and in persuading the captain, that there was no danger in turning them all loose, they promised that they would guard them with their own horses. This proposal delighted the lazy Frenchmen, who hated to go through the details of preparing for encampment, and had a particular dislike to standing guard in the night. The Indian chief then proposed to the captain to stack their arms against a tree, that stood close by. To this also, under a kind of spell of infatuation he consented. The Indian chief took a rope, and tied the arms fast to a tree. As I saw this, I told the captain that it seemed to me no mark of their being friendly, for them to retain their own arms, and persuade us to putting ours out of our power, and that one, who had known Indians, ought to be better acquainted with their character, than to encamp with them, without his men having {85} their own arms in their hand. On this he flew into a most violent passion, calling me, with a curse added to the epithet, a coward, wishing to God that he had never taken me with him, to dishearten his men, and render them insubordinate. Being remarkable neither for forbearance, or failing to pay a debt of hard words, I gave him as good as he sent, telling him, among other things no ways flattering, that he was a liar and a fool, for that none other than a fool would disarm his men, and go to sleep in the midst of armed savages in the woods. To this he replied, that he would not allow me to travel any longer in his company. I answered that I was not only willing, but desirous to leave him, for that I considered myself safer in my own single keeping, than under the escort of such a captain, and that I estimated him only to have sense enough to lead people to destruction. He still continued to mutter harsh language in reply, as I returned to my own camp. It being now dusk, we prepared, and ate our supper. We had just finished it, when the head chief of the village came to invite us to take our supper with them, adding, by way of inducement, that they had brought some fine pumpkins to camp, and had cooked them for the white people. We told him, we had taken supper; and the more he insisted, the more resolutely we refused. Like the French captain, he began to abuse us, telling us we had bad hearts. We told him, that when with such people, we chose rather to trust to our heads than our hearts. He then asked us to let some of his warriors come and sleep with us, and share our blankets, alleging, as a reason for the request, that the nights were cold, and his warriors too poor to buy blankets. We told him, that he could easily see that we were poor also, and were no ways abundantly supplied with blankets, and that we should not allow them to sleep with us. He then marched off to the French camp, evidently sulky and in bad temper. While roundly rating us to the French captain, he gave as a reason why we ought not to sleep by ourselves, that we were in danger of being killed in the night by another tribe of Indians, with whom he was at war. {86} The captain, apparently more calm, came to us, and told us, that our conduct was both imprudent and improper, in not conciliating the Indians by consenting to eat with them, or allowing them to sleep with us. My temper not having been at all sweetened by any thing that had occurred since we fell out, I told him, that if he had a fancy to eat, or sleep with these Indians, I had neither power nor the will to control him; but that, being determined, that neither he nor they should sleep with me, he had better go about his business, and not disturb me with useless importunity. At this he began again to abuse and revile me, to which I made no return. At length, having exhausted his stock of epithets, he returned to his camp. As soon as we were by ourselves, we began to cut grass for our horses, not intending either to unsaddle, or let them loose for the night. My companion and myself were alike convinced, that some catastrophe was in reserve from the Indians, and seeing no chance of defending ourselves against an odds of more than twenty to one, we concluded, as soon as all should be silent in the camp, to fly. We packed our mules so as to leave none of our effects behind, and kept awake. We remained thus, until near midnight, when we heard a fierce whistle, which we instantly understood to be the signal for an attack on the French camp. But a moment ensued, before we heard the clashing of war clubs, followed by the shrieks and heavy groans of the dying French, mingled with the louder and more horrible yells of these treacherous and blood thirsty savages. A moment afterwards, we heard a party of them making towards us. To convince them that they could not butcher us in our defenceless sleep, we fired upon them. This caused them to retreat. Convinced that we had no time to lose, we mounted our horses, and fled at the extent of our speed. We heard a single gun discharged in the Indian camp, which we supposed the act of an Indian, who had killed the owner. We took our direction towards a high mountain on the south side of the river, and pushed for it as fast as we thought our horses could endure to be driven. We reached the mountain at day break, {87} and made our way about three miles up a creek, that issued from the mountain. Here we stopped to refresh our horses, and let them feed, and take food ourselves. The passage of the creek was along a kind of crevice of the mountain, and we were strongly convinced that the Indians would not follow upon our trail further than the entrance to the mountain. One of us ascended a high ridge, to survey whatever might be within view. My companion, having passed nearly an hour in the survey, returned to me, and said he saw something on the plain approaching us. I ascended with him to the same place, and plainly perceived something black approaching us. Having watched it for some time, I thought it a bear. At length it reached a tree on the plain, and ascended it. We were then convinced, that it was no Indian, but a bear searching food. We could see the smokes arising from the Indian town, and had no doubt, that the savages were dancing at the moment around the scalps of the unfortunate Frenchmen, who had fallen the victims of their indolence and rash confidence in these faithless people. All anger for their abuse of me for my timely advice was swallowed up in pity for their fate. But yesterday these people were the merriest of the merry. What were they now? Waiting a few moments, we saw the supposed bear descend the tree, and advance directly to the branch on which we were encamped. We had observed that the water of this branch, almost immediately upon touching the plain, was lost in the arid sand, and gave no other evidence of its existence, than a few green trees. In a moment we saw buttons glitter on this object from the reflected glare of the sun's rays. We were undeceived in regard to our bear, and now supposed it an Indian, decorated with a coat of the unfortunate Frenchmen. We concluded to allow him to approach close enough to satisfy our doubts, before we fired upon him. We lay still, until he came within fair rifle distance, when to our astonishment, we discovered it to be the French captain! We instantly made ourselves known from our perch. He uttered an exclamation of joy, and fell prostrate on the earth. Fatigue and {88} thirst had brought him to death's door. We raised him, and carried him to our camp. He was wounded in the head and face with many and deep wounds, the swelling of which had given him fever. I happened to have with me some salve, which my father gave me when I left the mines. I dressed his wounds. Having taken food, and sated his thirst, hope returned to him. So great was his change in a few hours, that he was able to move off with us that evening. In his present miserable and forlorn condition, I exercised too much humanity and forbearance to think of adverting to our quarrel of the preceding evening. Probably estimating my forbearance aright, he himself led to the subject. He observed in a tone apparently of deep compunction, that if he had had the good sense and good temper to have listened to my apprehensions and cautions, both he and his people might have been now gaily riding over the prairies. Oppressed with mixed feelings, I hardly knew what reply to make, and only remarked, that it was too late now to lament over what was unchangeable, and that the will of God had been done. After a silence of some time, he resumed the conversation, and related all the particulars of the terrible disaster, that had come to his knowledge. His own escape he owed to retaining a pocket pistol, when the rest of their arms were stacked. This he fired at an Indian approaching him, who fell, and thus enabled him to fly; not, however, until he had received a number of severe wounds from their clubs. I had not the heart to hear him relate what became of the rest of his comrades. I could easily divine that the treacherous savages had murdered every one. Feelings of deep and burning revenge arose in my bosom, and I longed for nothing so much as to meet with these monsters on any thing like terms of equality. About sunset we could distinctly discern the river bottom about five miles distant from us. When it became dark, we descried three fires close together, which we judged to be those of savages in pursuit of us. Like some white people, the Indians never forgive any persons that they have outraged and injured. We halted, and took counsel, what {89} was to be done. We concluded that my companion and myself should leave our wounded companion to take care of the horses, and go and reconnoitre the camp, in which were these fires, and discover the number of the Indians, and if it was great, to see how we could be most likely to pass them unobserved. When we had arrived close to the fires, we discovered a considerable number of horses tied, and only two men guarding them. We crawled still closer, to be able to discern their exact number and situation. In this way we arrived within fifty yards of their camp, and could see no one, but the two, any where in the distance. We concluded, that all the rest of the company were asleep in some place out of our view. We presumed it would not be long before some of them would awake, it being now ten at night. Our intention was to take aim at them, as they should pass between us and their fire, and drop them both together. We could distinctly hear them speaking about their horses. At length one of them called to the other, in English, to go and wake their relief guards. Words would poorly express my feelings, at hearing these beloved sounds. I sprang from my crouching posture, and ran towards them. They were just ready to shoot me, when I cried _a friend_, _a friend_! One of them exclaimed, 'where in God's name did you spring from.' 'You seem to have come out of the earth.' The surprise and joy upon mutual recognition was great on both sides. I gave him a brief sketch of the recent catastrophe of our company, as we followed them to camp. The company was all roused and gathered round us, eagerly listening to the recital of our recent disaster. At hearing my sad story, they expressed the hearty sorrow of good and true men, and joined us in purposes of vengeance against the Indians. We were now thirty-two in all. We fired twelve guns, a signal which the wounded captain heard and understood, for he immediately joined us. We waited impatiently for the morning. As soon as it was bright dawn, we all formed under a genuine American leader, who could be entirely relied upon. {90} His orders were, that twenty should march in front of the pack horses, and twelve behind. In the evening we encamped within five miles of the Indian village, and made no fires. In the morning of the 31st, we examined all our arms, and twenty-six of us started to attack the village. When we had arrived close to it, we discovered most fortunately, what we considered the dry bed of a creek, though we afterwards discovered it to be the old bed of the river, that had very high banks, and ran within a hundred yards of the village. In this bed we all formed ourselves securely and at our leisure, and marched quite near to the verge of the village without being discovered. Every man posted himself in readiness to fire. Two of our men were then ordered to show themselves on the top of the bank. They were immediately discovered by the Indians, who considered them, I imagine, a couple of the Frenchmen that they had failed to kill. They raised the yell, and ran towards the two persons, who instantly dropped down under the bank. There must have been at least 200 in pursuit. They were in a moment close on the bank. In order to prevent the escape of the two men, they spread into a kind of circle to surround them. This brought the whole body abreast of us. We allowed them to approach within twenty yards, when we gave them our fire. They commenced a precipitate retreat, we loading and firing as fast as was in our power. They made no pause in their village, but ran off, men, women and children, towards a mountain distant 700 yards from their village. In less than ten minutes, the village was so completely evacuated, that not a human being was to be found, save one poor old blind and deaf Indian, who sat eating his mush as unconcernedly as if all had been tranquil in the village. We did not molest him. We appropriated to our own use whatever we found in the village that we judged would be of any service to us. We then set fire to their wigwams, and returned to our camp. They were paid a bloody price for their treachery, for 110 of them were slain. At twelve we returned to the village in a body, and retook all the horses of the Frenchmen, that they had killed. {91} We then undertook the sad duty of burying the remains of the unfortunate Frenchmen. A sight more horrible to behold, I have never seen. They were literally cut in pieces, and fragments of their bodies scattered in every direction, round which the monsters had danced, and yelled. We then descended the river about a mile below the village, to the point where it enters the Helay from the north. It affords as much water at this point as the Helay. In the morning of the 1st of February, we began to ascend Black river.[63] We found it to abound with beavers. It is a most beautiful stream, bounded on each side with high and rich bottoms. We travelled up this stream to the point where it forks in the mountains; that is to say, about 80 miles from its mouth. Here our company divided, a part ascending one fork, and a part the other. The left fork heads due north, and the right fork north east. It was my lot to ascend the latter. It heads in mountains covered with snow, near the head of the left hand fork of the San Francisco. On the 16th, we all met again at the junction of the forks. The other division found that their fork headed in snow covered mountains, as they supposed near the waters of Red river. They had also met a tribe of Indians, who called themselves _Mokee_.[64] They found them no ways disposed to hostility. From their deportment it would seem as if they had never seen white people before. At the report of a gun they fell prostrate on the ground. They knew no other weapon of war than a sling, and with this they had so much dexterity and power, that they were able to bring down a deer at the distance of 100 yards. We thence returned down the Helay, which is here about 200 yards wide, with heavily timbered bottoms. We trapped its whole course, from where we met it, to its junction with Red river. The point of junction is inhabited by a tribe of Indians called Umene.[65] Here we encamped for the night. On the morning of the 26th, a great many of these Indians crossed the river to our camp, and brought us dried beans, for which we paid them with red cloth, with which they were delighted beyond {92} measure, tearing it into ribbands, and tieing it round their arms and legs; for if the truth must be told, they were as naked as Adam and Eve in their birth day suit. They were the stoutest men, with the finest forms I ever saw, well proportioned, and as straight as an arrow. They contrive, however, to inflict upon their children an artificial deformity. They flatten their heads, by pressing a board upon their tender scalps, which they bind fast by a ligature. This board is so large and light, that I have seen women, when swimming the river with their children, towing them after them by a string, which they held in their mouth. The little things neither suffered nor complained, but floated behind their mothers like ducks. At twelve we started up Red river, which is between two and three hundred yards wide, a deep, bold stream, and the water at this point entirely clear. The bottoms are a mile in general width, with exceedingly high, barren cliffs. The timber of the bottoms is very heavy, and the grass rank and high. Near the river are many small lakes, which abound in beavers. March 1st we came among a tribe of Indians, called Cocomarecopper. At sight of us they deserted their wigwams, one and all, and fled to the mountains, leaving all their effects at our discretion. Of course we did not meddle with any thing. Their corn was knee high. We took care not to let our horses injure it, but marched as fast as we could from their village, to deprive them of their homes [in] as little time as possible. About four miles above the town we encamped, and set our traps. About twelve next day it began to rain, and we pitched our tents. We had scarce kindled our fires, when 100 Indians came to our camp, all painted red in token of amity. They asked fire, and when we had given it, they went about 20 yards from us, and as the rain had been heavy and the air cool, they made a great fire, round which they all huddled. We gave them the bodies of six large fat beavers, which they cooked by digging holes in the ground, at the bottom of which they kindled fires, and on the fires threw the beavers which they covered with dirt. This dainty, thus prepared they greedily devoured, entrails {93} and all. Next morning, fearful that our guns might have experienced inconvenience from the rain, we fired them off to load them afresh. They were amazed and alarmed, to see us make, what they called thunder and lightning. They were still more startled, to see the bullet holes in the tree, at which we had aimed. We made signs to them, that one ball would pass through the body of two men. Some of our men had brought with them some scalps of the Papawars, the name of the tribe where our French captain lost his company. They informed us that they were at war with that tribe, and begged some of the scalps to dance round. They were given them, and they began to cut their horrid anticks about it. Our traps had taken thirty beavers the last night. We gave them the meat of twenty, with which present they were delighted, their gratitude inducing them to manifest affection to us. They ate and danced all day and most of the night. On the morning of the 3d, they left us, returning to their camps. We resumed our march, and on the 6th arrived at another village of Indians called Mohawa. When we approached their village, they were exceedingly alarmed. We marched directly through their village, the women and children screaming, and hiding themselves in their huts. We encamped about three miles above the village. We had scarcely made our arrangements for the night, when 100 of these Indians followed us. The chief was a dark and sulky looking savage, and he made signs that he wanted us to give him a horse. We made as prompt signs of refusal. He replied to this, by pointing first to the river, and then at the furs we had taken, intimating, that the river, with all it contained, belonged to him; and that we ought to pay him for what we had taken, by giving him a horse. When he was again refused, he raised himself erect, with a stern and fierce air, and discharged his arrow into the tree, at the same time raising his hand to his mouth, and making their peculiar yell. Our captain made no other reply, than by raising his gun and shooting the arrow, as it still stuck in the tree, in two. The chief seemed bewildered with this mark of close {94} markmanship, and started off with his men. We had no small apprehensions of a night attack from these Indians. We erected a hasty fortification with logs and skins, but sufficiently high and thick, to arrest their arrows in case of attack. The night, contrary to our fears, passed without interruption from them. On the morning of the 7th, the chief returned on horse back, and in the same sulky tone again demanded a horse. The captain bade him be off, in a language and with a tone alike understood by all people. He started off on full gallop, and as he passed one of our horses, that was tied a few yards from the camp, he fired a spear through the animal. He had not the pleasure to exult in his revenge for more than fifty yards, before he fell pierced by four bullets. We could not doubt, that the Indians would attempt to revenge the death of their chief. After due consideration, we saw no better place in which to await their attack, than the one we now occupied. On the rear we were defended by the river, and in front by an open prairie. We made a complete breastwork, and posted spies in the limbs of the tall trees, to descry the Indians, if any approached us, while still at a distance. No Indians approached us through the day, and at night a heavy rain commenced falling. We posted sentinels, and secured our horses under the river bank. We kindled no fires, and we passed the night without annoyance. But at day break, they let fly at us a shower of arrows. Of these we took no notice. Perhaps, thinking us intimidated, they then raised the war whoop, and made a charge upon us. At the distance of 150 yards we gave them a volley of rifle balls. This brought them to a halt, and a moment after to a retreat, more rapid than their advance had been. We sallied out after them, and gave them the second round, which induced all, that were not forever stopped, to fly at the top of their speed. We had killed sixteen of their number. We returned to our camp, packed, and started, having made a determination not to allow any more Indians to enter our camp. This affair happened on the 9th. We pushed on as rapidly as possible, fearful that these red {95} children of the desert, who appear to inherit an equal hatred of all whites, would follow us, and attack us in the night. With timely warning we had no fear of them by day, but the affair of the destruction of the French company, proved that they might become formidable foes by night. To prevent, as far as might be, such accidents, we raised a fortification round our camp every night, until we considered ourselves out of their reach, which was on the evening of the 12th. This evening we erected no breast-work, placed no other guard than one person to watch our horses, and threw ourselves in careless security round our fires. We had taken very little rest for four nights, and being exceedingly drowsy, we had scarcely laid ourselves down, before we were sound asleep. The Indians had still followed us, too far off to be seen by day, but had probably surveyed our camp each night. At about 11 o'clock this night, they poured upon us a shower of arrows, by which they killed two men, and wounded two more; and what was most provoking, fled so rapidly that we could not even give them a round. One of the slain was in bed with me. My own hunting shirt had two arrows in it, and my blanket was pinned fast to the ground by arrows. There were sixteen arrows discharged into my bed. We extinguished our fires, and it may easily be imagined, slept no more that night. In the morning, eighteen of us started in pursuit of them, leaving the rest of the company to keep camp and bury our dead. We soon came upon their trail, and reached them late in the evening. They were encamped, and making their supper from the body of a horse. They got sight of us before we were within shooting distance, and fled. We put spurs to our horses, and overtook them just as they were entering a thicket. Having every advantage, we killed a greater part of them, it being a division of the band that had attacked us. We suspended those that we had killed upon the trees, and left their bodies to dangle in terror to the rest, and as a proof, how we retaliated aggression. We then returned to our company, who had each received sufficient warning not to encamp in the territories {96} of hostile Indians without raising a breast-work round the camp. Red river at this point bears a north course, and affords an abundance of the finest lands. We killed plenty of mountain sheep and deer, though no bears. We continued our march until the 16th, without seeing any Indians. On that day we came upon a small party, of whom the men fled, leaving a single woman. Seeing herself in our power, she began to beat her breast, and cry _Cowera_, _Cowera_; from which we gathered, that she belonged to that tribe. We treated her kindly, and travelled on. On the 23d, we came to a village of the Shuena Indians. As we approached it, they came out and began to fire arrows upon us. We gave them in return a round of rifle balls. In the excitement of an attack, we laughed heartily to see these sons of the desert dodge, and skulk away half bent, as though the heavens were falling upon them. From their manner we inferred, that they were in fact wholly unacquainted with white people, or at least they never before heard the report of a gun. The whole establishment dispersed to the mountains, and we marched through the village without seeing any inhabitants, except the bodies of those we had killed. We had received more than one lesson of caution, and we moved on with great circumspection. But so much of our time was taken up in defence and attacks, and fortifying our camps, that we had little leisure to trap. In order that our grand object should not be wholly defeated, we divided our men into two companies, the one to trap and the other to keep guard. This expedient at once rendered our trapping very productive. We discovered little change in the face of the country. The course of the river still north, flowing through a rich valley, skirted with high mountains, the summits of which were white with snow. On the 25th we reached a small stream,[66] emptying into Red river through the east bank, up which we detached three men, each carrying a trap, to discover if beavers abounded in that stream. They were to return the next day, while we were engaged in shoeing our horses. The next day elapsed, but none returned. We became anxious about their fate; and on the {97} 27th, started to see what had become of them. At mid-day we found their bodies cut in pieces, and spitted before a great fire, after the same fashion which is used in roasting beaver. The Indians who had murdered them, saw us as we came on, and fled to the mountains, so that we had no chance of avenging the death of our unfortunate companions. We gathered the fragments of their bodies together and buried them. With sadness in our hearts, and dejection on our countenances, we returned to our camp, struck our tents, and marched on. The temperature in this region is rather severe, and we were wretchedly clad to encounter the cold. On the 28th, we reached a point of the river where the mountains shut in so close upon its shores, that we were compelled to climb a mountain, and travel along the acclivity, the river still in sight, and at an immense depth beneath us.[67]--Through this whole distance, which we judged to be, as the river meanders, 100 leagues, we had snow from a foot to eighteen inches deep. The river bluffs on the opposite shore, were never more than a mile from us. It is perhaps, this very long and formidable range of mountains, which has caused, that this country of Red river, has not been more explored, at least by the American people. A march more gloomy and heart-wearing, to people hungry, poorly clad, and mourning the loss of their companions, cannot be imagined. Our horses had picked a little herbage, and had subsisted on the bark of shrubs. Our provisions were running low, and we expected every hour to see our horses entirely give out. April 10th, we arrived where the river emerges from these horrid mountains, which so cage it up, as to deprive all human beings of the ability to descend to its banks, and make use of its waters. No mortal has the power of describing the pleasure I felt, when I could once more reach the banks of the river.--Our traps, by furnishing us beavers, soon enabled us to renew our stock of provisions. We likewise killed plenty of elk, and dressed their skins for clothing. On the 13th we reached another part of the river, emptying into the main river from the {98} north. Up this we all trapped two days. During this excursion we met a band of hostile Indians, who attacked us with an unavailing discharge of arrows, of whom we killed four. On the 15th, we returned to the banks of Red river, which is here a clear beautiful stream. We moved very slowly, for our beasts were too lean and worn down, to allow us to do otherwise. On the 16th we met with a large party of the Shoshonees,[68] a tribe of Indians famous for the extent of their wanderings, and for the number of white people they had killed, by pretending friendship to them, until they found them disarmed, or asleep. One of our company could speak their language, from having been a prisoner among them for a year. They were warmly clad with buffaloe robes, and they had muskets, which we knew they must have taken from the white people. We demanded of them to give up the fire arms, which they refused. On this we gave them our fire, and they fled to the mountains, leaving their women and children in our power.--We had no disposition to molest them. We learned from these women, that they had recently destroyed a company of French hunters on the head waters of the Platte. We found six of their yet fresh scalps, which so exasperated us, that we hardly refrained from killing the women. We took from them all the beaver skins which they had taken from the slain French, and five of their mules, and added to our provisions their stock of dried buffaloe meat. We had killed eight of their men, and we mortified the women excessively, by compelling them to exchange the scalps of the unfortunate Frenchmen for those of their own people. We resumed our march, and ascended the river to the point where it forked again, neither fork being more than from twenty-five to thirty yards wide. On the 19th, we began to ascend the right hand fork, which pursues a N. E. course.[69] On the 23d, we arrived at the chief village of the Nabahoes, a tribe that we knew to be friendly to the whites. We enquired of them, if we could cross the Rocky Mountains best at the head of this fork or the other; and they informed us, that the mountains {99} were impassable, except by following the left hand fork. Knowing that they were at war with the Shoshonee, we let them know how many of them we had killed. With this they were delighted, and gave us eight horses, one for each man we had slain. They sent with us, moreover, ten Indians to point out to us the route, in which to cross the mountains. On the 25th, we started up the left hand fork, and arrived on the 30th, in the country of the Pewee tribe,[70] who are friendly to the Nabahoes. Their chief village is situated within two days' travel of the low gap, at which we were to cross the mountains, at which gap we arrived on the first of May.[71] The crossing was a work, the difficulty of which may be imagined from the nature of the case and the character of the mountains.--The passage occupied six days, during which we had to pass along compact drifts of snow, higher than a man on horseback. The narrow path through these drifts is made by the frequent passing of buffaloes, of which we found many dead bodies in the way. We had to pack cotton-wood bark on the horses for their own eating, and the wood necessary to make fires for our cooking. Nothing is to be seen among these mountains, but bare peaks and perpetual snow. Every one knows, that these mountains divide between the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. At the point where we crossed them, they run in a direction a little north of west, and south of east, further than the eye can reach. On the 7th, we struck the south fork of the Platte, near Long's Peak,[72] and descended it five days. We then struck across the plain to the main Platte, on which we arrived on the 16th. In descending it we found the beavers scarce, for all these rivers had been thoroughly trapped. The river is skirted with only a few small willows, and the country is open prairie, entirely destitute of trees. We saw immense droves of elk, buffaloes, and white bears, which haunt the buffaloe range to prey upon those noble animals. We had the merriest sport imaginable, in chasing the buffaloes over these perfectly level plains, and shooting them with the arrows we had taken from the Indians {100} we had killed. I have killed myself, and seen others kill a buffaloe, with a single shot of an arrow. The bows are made with ribs of buffaloes, and drive the arrows with prodigious force. On the 20th, we left this river and started for the Big Horn,[73] a fork of the Yellow Stone, itself a considerable river of the Missouri. We reached the Big Horn on the 31st, and found but few beavers. June 2d, we struck over towards the main Yellow Stone,[74] and on the 3d entered the country of the Flat Heads, who were entirely friendly.[75] We purchased some furs of them. They are Indians of exceedingly handsome forms, were it not for the horrid deformity of their heads, which are transversely from ear to ear but a few inches in diameter, and in the other direction monstrous, giving them the appearance of wearing a military cap with all its plumage. This plumage is furnished by their matted tresses of hair, painted and skewered up to a high point. This monstrosity is occasioned by binding two pieces of board on each side of the head of the new-born infant, which is kept secure with bandages, until the child is three years old, at which time the head bones have acquired a firmness to retain their then shape during life. On the 11th, we reached the Yellow Stone, and ascended it to its head; and thence crossed the ridges of the Rocky Mountains to Clarke's fork of the Columbia.[76] But all these streams had been so much trapped, as to yield but few beavers. Clarke's fork is a hundred yards wide, a bold, clear, pleasant stream, remarkable for the number and excellence of its fish, and most beautiful country of fertile land on its shores. We ascended this river to its head, which is in Long's Peak, near the head waters of the Platte. We thence struck our course for the head waters of the Arkansas, on which we arrived July 1st. Here we met a band of the Grasshopper Indians, who derive their name from gathering grasshoppers, drying them, and pulverizing them, with the meal of which they make mush and bread; and this is their chief article of food. They are so little improved, as not even to have furnished themselves with {101} the means of killing buffaloes. At sight of us, these poor two-legged animals, dodged into the high grass like so many partridges. We marched up this stream, trapping for the few beavers which it afforded. Its banks are scantily timbered, being only skirted with a few willows. On the 5th, we met a war party of the Black Foot Indians,[77] all well mounted. As soon as they saw us, they came fiercely upon us, yelling as though the spirit of darkness had loaned them the voices of all his tenants. We dismounted, and as soon as they were within shooting distance, we gave them our fire, which they promptly returned. The contest was fierce for something more than 20 minutes, a part of the time not more than 50 yards apart. They then retreated, and we mounted our horses, and gave them chase, though unavailingly, for their horses were as fleet as the wind, compared with ours. We soon desisted from so useless a pursuit, and returned to the battle ground. We found sixteen Blackfeet dead, and with infinite anguish, counted four of our own companions weltering in their blood. We buried them with sorrowful hearts, and eyes full of tears. Ah! Among those who live at home, surrounded by numerous relations and friends, in the midst of repose, plenty and security, when one of the number droops, and dies with sickness or age, his removal leaves a chasm that is not filled for years. Think how we must have mourned these brave men, who had shared so many dangers, and on whose courage and aid we had every day relied for protection. Here on these remote plains, far from their friends, they had fallen by the bloody arrow or spear of these red, barbarous Ishmaelites of the desert, but neither unwept nor unrevenged. Having performed the sad task of depositing the bodies of these once warm hearted friends in the clay, we ascended to the head of this river, and crossed the mountain that separates its waters from those of the Rio del Norte, which river we struck on the 20th. We began to descend it, and on the 23d met a band of the Nabahoes, who accompanied us {102} quite to their chief village. It will be seen, that all these streams upon which we have been trapping, rise from sources which interlock with each other, and the same range of peaks at very short distances from each other. These form the heads of Red river of the east, and the Colorado of the west, Rio del Norte, Arkansas, Platte, Yellow Stone, Missouri and Columbia. The village of these Indians is distant 50 miles from the Rio del Norte. We remained at it two days, and rested our horses, and refreshed ourselves. This tribe some years since had been at war with the Spanish, during which they plundered them of great numbers of horses, mules and cattle, which caused that they had now large stocks of these animals, together with flocks of sheep. They raise a great abundance of grain, and manufacture their wool much better than the Spanish. On the first of August we arrived at Santa Fe, with a fine amount of furs. Here disaster awaited us. The Governor, on the pretext that we had trapped without a license from him, robbed us of all our furs. We were excessively provoked, and had it not been from a sense of duty to our own beloved country, we would have redressed our wrongs, and retaken our furs with our own arms. Here I remained until the 18th, disposing of a part of my goods, and reserving the remainder for a trip which I contemplated to the province of Sonora. I had the pleasure once more of receiving the affectionate greeting of Jacova, who gave me the most earnest counsels to quit this dangerous and rambling way of life, and settle myself down in a house of my own. I thanked her for her kindness and good counsel, and promised to follow it, after rambling another year in the wilderness.--Thence I went to the mines, where I had the inexpressible satisfaction again to embrace my dear father, whom I found in perfect health, and making money rapidly. I remained there three days, and, accompanied with one servant, arrived in Hanas on the first of September. This is a small town situated in the province of Biscay, between the province of Sonora and New Mexico, in a direction S. W. from the copper mines.[78] {103} The country is generally of that character, denominated in Kentucky, barren. The soil is level and black. These people raise a great quantity of stock, such as horses, cows, sheep and goats. Their farming implements are clumsy and indifferent. They use oxen entirely in their agriculture. Their ploughs are a straight piece of timber, five feet long and eight inches thick, mortised for two other pieces of timber, one to be fitted to the beam, by which the oxen draw, and another to the handle, by which the man holds the plough. The point that divides the soil, is of wood, and hewed sloping to such a point, that a hollow piece of iron is fastened on it at the end. This is one inch thick, and three inches broad at top, and slopes also to a point. Their hoes, axes and other tools are equally indifferent; and they are precisely in such a predicament, as might be expected of a people who have no saw mills, no labor saving machinery, and do every thing by dint of hard labor, and are withal very indolent and unenterprising. I amused myself at times with an old man, who daily fell in my way, who was at once rich and to the last degree a miser; and yet devotedly attached to the priests, who were alone able to get a little money out of him. He often spoke to me about the unsafeness of my religion. Instead of meeting his remarks with an argument, I generally affronted him at once, and then diverted myself with his ways of showing his anger. I told him that his priest treated him as the Spanish hostlers do their horses. He asked me to explain the comparison. I observed, 'you know how the hostler in the first place throws his lasso over the mule's neck. That secures the body of the beast. Next the animal is blindfolded. That hinders his seeing where he is led. Next step he binds the saddle safe and fast. Then the holy father rigs his heels with spurs. Next come spur and lash, and the animal is now restive to no purpose. There is no shaking off the rider. On he goes, till the animal under him dies, and both go to hell together!' At this he flew into such a violent rage, as to run at me with his knife. I dodged out of his {104} way, and appeased him by convincing him that I was in jest. The rich, in their way of living, unite singular contrasts of magnificence and meanness. For instance, they have few of the useful articles of our dining and tea sets, but a great deal of massive silver plate, and each guest a silver fork and spoon. The dining room is contiguous to the kitchen. A window is thrown open, and the cook hands a large dish through the window to a servant, who bears it to the table. The entertainer helps himself first, and passes the dish round to all the guests. Then another and another is brought on, often to the number of sixteen. All are savored so strong with garlic and red pepper, that an American at first cannot eat them. The meat is boiled to such a consistency that a spoon manages it better than a knife. At the close of the dinner they bring in wine and cigars, and they sit and smoke and drink wine until drowsiness steals upon them, and they go to bed for their siesta. They sleep until three in the afternoon, at which time the church bell tolls. They rise, take a cup of chocolate, and handle the wine freely. This short affair over, they return and sit down on the shaded side of the house, and chatter like so many geese till night, when they divide, a part to mass, and a part to the card table, where I have seen the poor, betting their shirts, hats and shoes. The village contains 700 souls. On the 6th, I departed from this town, travelling a west course through a most beautiful country, the plains of which were covered with domestic animals running wild. On the 8th I arrived at the foot of the mountain, that divides the province of Sonora from Biscay. I slept at a country seat, where they were making whiskey of a kind of plantain, of which I have spoken before, which they called Mascal (Maguey). Here were assembled great numbers of Spaniards and Indians. They were soon drunk, and as a matter of course, fighting with knives and clubs. In the morning, two Spaniards and one Indian were found dead. Late in the morning, a file of soldiers arrived, and took the suspected murderers to prison. In the morning I commenced climbing the mountain before {105} me, and in the evening arrived at a small town in Sonoro, called Barbisca;[79] situated on the bank of a most beautiful little stream, called Iago, which discharges itself into the Pacific ocean, near the harbor of Ymus. Its banks are not much timbered, nor is the soil uncommonly good. The morning of the 9th was a great religious festival, or famous Saint's day, which collected a vast crowd of people. After breakfast and mass, the image of the virgin Mary was paraded round the public square in solemn procession, during which there was a constant crash of cannon and small arms. Then an old priest headed a procession, bearing the image of Christ, nailed to a cross. After these images were returned to their church, they brought into a square enclosure, strongly fenced for that purpose, a wild bull, which they threw down, tied and sharpened its horns. The tops of the houses were all covered with people to see the spectacle that was performing. The bull was covered with red cloth, and two men entered the enclosure, each holding in the right hand a bundle of sky rockets, and in the left a red handkerchief. The rockets were lashed to a stick a foot long, in the end of which was a small nail, a half an inch long, with a beard at the end, like that of a fish hook. They then untied the fierce animal. No sooner was he on his feet, than he sprang at one of his assailants, who avoided his attack, by dextrously slipping aside, and as the animal darted by him, stuck in his neck two small rockets, one on each side. The other assailant then gave a sharp whistle to draw the infuriated animal upon him. The bull snorted and dashed at him. He dodged the animal in the same manner, as the other had done, and left sticking in his forehead, as he passed, a garland of artificial flowers, made of paper, beautifully cut and painted, and large enough to cover his whole forehead. In this way they kept alternately driving him this way and that, sticking rockets in him as he dashed by them, until he was covered with eight or ten, clinging to his neck and shoulders. They then touched the crackers with a lighted match. Words would not paint the bull's expressions of rage and terror, as he bounded round the enclosure, covered with fire, {106} and the rockets every moment discharging like fire arms. After this, a man entered with a small sword. The bull bellowed and darted at him. As the bull dropped his head to toss him, he set his feet upon the horns, and in a twinkling, thrust his sword between the shoulder blades, so as to touch the spinal marrow. The animal dropped as dead as a stone. The drum and fife then struck up, as a signal for the horsemen to come and carry off the dead animal, and bring in a fresh one. All this was conducted with incredible dispatch. In this way seven bulls were successively tortured to death, by footmen. After this, four men entered on horseback, equipped with spears in the shape of a trowel, and a handle four feet long. With this spear in the one hand, and a noose in the other, they gallopped round the bull. The bull immediately made at the horsemen passing him, who moved just at such a pace, as not to allow the bull to toss the horse. The horseman then couched his spear backwards, so as to lay it on the bull's neck. The bull instantly reared and tossed, and in the act forced the spear between his fore shoulders, so as to hit the spinal marrow. If the spear is laid rightly, and the animal makes his accustomed motions, he drops instantly dead. But to do this requires infinite dexterity and fearlessness. If the man be clumsy, or of weak-nerves, he is apt to fail in couching the spear right, in which case, as a matter of course, the horse is gored, and it is ten to one that the man is slain. In this way fourteen bulls were killed, and with them, five horses and one man, during this festival. At night commenced gambling and card playing, and both as fiercely pursued as the bull fighting. This great feast lasted three days, during which, as the people were in a very purchasable humor, I sold a number of hundred dollar's worth of my goods. On the morning of the 12th, I left this place, and in the evening arrived at a small town called Vassarac, and remained there one day. The country in the vicinity is well timbered and very hilly. The woods are full of wild cattle and horses. On the 13th, I travelled through a fine rich country, abounding with cattle, and arrived in the evening at a town called Tepac, {107} situated on a small creek, near a mountain, in which there is a gold mine worked by the Iago Indians,[80] a nation formerly under the protection of an old priest. He attempted to practice some new imposition upon them, and they killed him some years ago. On this the Spaniards made war upon them, and the conflict was continued some years. They lost the best and bravest of their men, and the remnant were obliged to submit to such terms as the Spaniards saw fit to impose. They were either condemned to the mines, or to raise food for those who wrought them. I remained in this town three days, and purchased gold in bars and lumps of the Indians, at the rate of ten dollars per ounce. The diggings seldom exceed twenty feet in depth. Most of the gold is found on the surface after hard rains. Their mode of extracting the gold from the earth with which it is mixed, or the stone in which it is imbedded, is this. The stone is pulverised or ground, still keeping the matter wet. It is carefully mixed with mercury, and kneaded with the hands, until the water is separated from the mass, and the mercury is perfectly incorporated with it. This process is repeated, until the water runs off perfectly clear. They then grind or triturate the mass anew until all the particles of earthy matter are washed away. The remaining matter is amalgam, of the color of silver, and the consistency of mush. They then put it into a wet deer skin, and strain the mercury by pressure through the pores of the skin. The gold is left, still retaining enough mercury to give it the color of silver. The coarse way of managing it afterwards, is to put it in the fire, and evaporate all the mercury from it, and it is then pure virgin gold. There is a more artificial way of managing it, by which the mercury is saved. This province would be among the richest of the Mexican country, if it were inhabited by an enlightened, enterprising and industrious people. Nothing can exceed the indolence of the actual inhabitants. The only point, in which I ever saw them display any activity, is in throwing the lasso, and in horsemanship. In this I judge, they surpass all other people. Their great {108} business and common pursuit, is in noosing and taming wild horses and cattle. On the 15th, I left this place and travelled through a country well timbered and watered, though the land is too broken to be cultivated, and in the evening arrived in a town called Varguacha. This is a place miserably poor, the people being both badly fed and clothed. But their indolence alone is in fault. The land in the immediate vicinity of the town is good, and the woods teem with wild cattle. But they are too lazy to provide more meat than will serve them from day to day. On the 17th I continued my course through a beautiful country, thinly settled by civilized Indians, who raise sugar cane and abundance of stock. They are obviously more enterprising and industrious than the Spaniards. Approaching the shore of the great Pacific, I found the country more level and better settled. Some rich and noble sugar farms lay in my view. On the 22d I arrived in Patoka, which is a considerable town, and the capital of this province.[81] It is two day's travel hence to Ymus. The people here seemed to me more enlightened, and to have a higher air of civilization than any I had seen in the whole country. It probably results from the intercourse they have with foreigners, from their vicinity to the Pacific. Most of them are dressed in the stile of the American people. Their houses are much better furnished, and the farmers are supplied with superior farming utensils, compared with any thing I saw in the interior. The chief manufactures are soap and sugar, the latter of an inferior quality, I imagine, in consequence of the clumsy mode of manufacturing it. From the port of Ymus they also export considerable quantities of tallow and hides, for which the farmers are repaid in merchandize at an enormous advance. A great many horses and mules are driven from the interior to this port. Many also are taken to the American states. The price of mules in this province is from three to four dollars a head. I remained here until I had disposed of all my goods. On the 26th, I left this town, and travelled on to port Ymus, at which {109} I arrived on the 28th, and first saw the waters of the vast Pacific.[82] I spent a day here on board an American ship, the master of which was surprised at the account I gave of myself, and would hardly believe that I had travelled to this place from the United States. I was equally amazed at hearing him relate the disasters which had befallen him at sea. On the 29th, I left this port, and travelled a N. W. course, through a country full of inhabitants, and abounding in every species of fruit. Snow never falls, although the general temperature is not so warm but that woollen garments may be worn. To add to its advantages, it is very healthy. On the 7th of October, I arrived at a town called Oposard. The population amounts to about 8000 souls. I here became acquainted with one of my own countrymen, married to a Spanish woman. He informed me, that he had been in this country thirty years, eight of which he had spent in prison. The sufferings he endured from the Spaniards were incredible; and I internally shuddered, as he related, lest I, in travelling through the country might fall into similar misfortunes. As some palliation of their cruelty, he observed, that he was made prisoner at the period when the revolution was just commencing in that country.[83] At that time the Inquisition was still in force, and committed many a poor mortal to the flames, for his alleged heresy. He assured me, that he should have met the same fate, had he not become a member of their church. He afterwards married a lady, who had gained his affections by being kind to him in prison. I remained with this man two days, and on the third resumed my journey, travelling an easterly course, and part of the time over a very rough country. I met no inhabitants, but Indians, who were uniformly friendly. On the 10th, I arrived at the mines of Carrocha,[84] which were in the province of Chihuahua, situated between two mountains, and considered the richest silver mines in New Mexico. There are about 800 miners working this mine, and they have advanced under ground at least half a mile. On the 12th, I started for the capital, and reached it on the 16th, passing over great tracts of good and bad land, all {110} untilled, and most of it an uninhabited wilderness. This city is the next largest in New Mexico.[85] It is the largest and handsomest town I had ever seen, though the buildings are not so neat and well arranged as in our country. The roofs are flat, the walls well painted, and the streets kept very clean. Here they smelt and manufacture copper and silver, and several other metals. They have also a mint. The terms of their currency are very different from ours. They count eight rials, or sixteen four pence half pennies, to the dollar. Their merchandize is packed from Ymus, or Mexico. I have heard much talk about the Splendid churches in this city. It is for others, who think much of such immense buildings, wrung from the labors of the poor, to describe them. For my part, having said it is a large and clean town, I present a result of their institutions and manners, which I considered the more important sort of information. During a stay of only three days here, ten dead bodies were brought into town, of persons who had been murdered in the night. Part of the number were supposed to have been killed on account of having been known to carry a great deal of money with them, and part to have had a quarrel about some abandoned women. This last is a most common occasion of night murders, the people being still more addicted to jealousy, and under still less restraints of law, than in old Spain, in the cities of which, assassinations from this cause are notoriously frequent. I asked my informant touching these matters, if there was no police in the city? He answered, that the forms of the law were complete, and that they had a numerous guard, and that it was quite as likely they committed the murders themselves, as not. I came to the same conclusion, for in a small and regular city like this, it was impossible that so many guards, parading the streets by night, should not be aware of the commission of such deeds, and acquainted with the perpetrators. No inquest of any sort was held over the bodies. They were, however, paraded through the streets to beg money to pay the priests for performing funeral rites at their burial. This excited in me {111} still more disgust, than the murders. I expressed myself in consequence, with so much freedom, in regard to this sort of miserable imposition, as to give great offence to my host, who, like most of the people, was rigidly devoted to the religion of the church. On the evening of 16th, I left this city, and travelled through a fine country, thickly inhabited by shepherds, who live in small towns, and possess a vast abundance of stock. It is well watered, but thinly timbered. The most magnificent part of the spectacle is presented in the lofty snow covered mountains, that rise far in the distance, and have their summits lost in the clouds, glistening in indescribable brilliance in the rays of the rising and setting sun. The road at this time was deemed to be full of robbers, and very dangerous. I was so fortunate as to meet with none. On the 18th, I arrived at a small town, called San Bueneventura,[86] which is surrounded with a wall. In fact, most of the considerable villages are walled. They are called in Spanish, Presidio, the English of which is, a garrison. In the forenoon, I crossed a small river called Rio Grande,[87] and travelled down this stream all day, the banks of which were thickly settled, and in high cultivation, with wheat, corn and barley. On the 22d, I arrived at a village called Casas Grandes, or the Great Houses.[88] On the 23d, I pursued an east course towards Passo del Norte, situated on the banks of the Rio del Norte. I travelled over a very rough country with some high mountains, inhabited by a wandering tribe of the Appache Indians, that live by seizing their opportunities for robbery and murder among the Spaniards, riding off upon the stolen horses, to the obscure and almost inaccessible fastnesses of their mountains, where they subsist upon the stolen horseflesh. I know not, whether to call the Passo del Norte, a settlement or a town.[89] It is in fact a kind of continued village, extending eight miles on the river. Fronting this large group of houses, is a nursery of the fruit trees, of almost all countries and climes. It has a length of eight miles and a breadth of nearly three. I was struck with the magnificent vineyards of this place, from {112} which are made great quantities of delicious wine. The wheat fields were equally beautiful, and the wheat of a kind I never saw before, the stalks generally yielding two heads each. The land is exceedingly rich, and its fertility increased by irrigation. On the 28th, I started for the Copper mines, wrought by my father. This day my course led me up the del Norte, the bottoms of which are exceedingly rich. At a very short distance from the Passo, I began to come in contact with grey bears, and other wild animals. At a very little distance on either side are high and ragged mountains, entirely sterile of all vegetation. I had no encounter with the bears, save in one instance. A bear exceedingly hungry, as I suppose, came upon my horses as I was resting them at mid-day, and made at one of them. I repaid him for his impudence by shooting him through the brain. I made a most delicious dinner of the choice parts of his flesh. My servant would not touch it, his repugnance being shared by great numbers in his condition. It is founded on the notion, that the bear is a sort of degenerated man, and especially, that the entrails are exactly like those of human beings. On the 30th, I struck off from the del Norte, and took my course for the Copper mines directly over the mountains, among which we toiled onward, subsisting by what we packed with us, or the product of the rifle, until the 11th of November, when I had once more the satisfaction of embracing my father at the Copper mines. He was in perfect health, and delighted to see me again. He urged me so earnestly to remain with him, though a stationary life was not exactly to my taste, that I consented from a sense of filial duty, and to avoid importunity. I remained here until the first of December, amusing myself sometimes by hunting, and sometimes by working in the gold mine, an employment in which I took much pleasure. In a hunting excursion with a companion who was an American, he one morning saw fit to start out of bed, and commence his hunt while I was yet asleep in bed. He had scarcely advanced a league, before he killed a deer on the top of a high ridge. He was so inadvertent, as to commence skinning the animal, before {113} he had re-loaded his rifle. Thus engaged, he did not perceive a bear with her cubs, which had advanced within a few feet of him. As soon as he saw his approaching companion, without coveting any farther acquaintance, he left deer and rifle, and ran for his life. He stopped not, until he arrived at the mines. The bear fell to work for a meal upon the deer, and did not pursue him. We immediately started back to have the sport of hunting this animal. As we approached the ridge, where he had killed the deer, we discovered the bear descending the ridge towards us. We each of us chose a position, and his was behind a tree, which he could mount, in case he wounded, without killing her. This most ferocious and terrible animal, the grizzly or grey bear, does not climb at all. I chose my place opposite him, behind a large rock, which happened to be near a precipice, that I had not observed. Our agreement was to wait until she came within 30 yards, and then he was to give her the first fire. He fired, but the powder being damp, his gun made long fire, whence it happened that he shot her too low, the ball passing through the belly, and not a mortal part. She made at him in terrible rage. He sprang up his tree, the bear close at his heels. She commenced biting and scratching the tree, making, as a Kentuckian would phrase it, _the lint fly_. But finding that she could not bite the tree down, and being in an agony of pain, she turned the course of her attack, and came growling and tearing up the bushes before her, towards me. My companion bade me lie still, and my own purpose was to wait until I could get a close fire. So I waited until the horrible animal was within six feet of me. I took true aim at her head. My gun flashed in the pan. She gave one growl and sprang at me with her mouth open. At two strides I leapt down the unperceived precipice. My jaw bone was split on a sharp rock, on which my chin struck at the bottom. Here I lay senseless. When I regained recollection, I found my companion had bled me with the point of his butcher knife, and was sitting beside me with his hat full of water, bathing my head and face. It was perhaps an hour, before I gained full recollection, {114} so as to be able to walk. My companion had cut a considerable orifice in my arm with his knife, which I deemed rather supererogation; for I judged, that I had bled sufficiently at the chin. When I had come entirely to myself, my companion proposed that we should finish the campaign with the bear. I, for my part, was satisfied with what had already been done, and proposed to retreat. He was importunate, however, and I consented. We ascended the ridge to where he had seen the bear lie down in the bushes. We fixed our guns so that we thought ourselves sure of their fire. We then climbed two trees, near where the bear was, and made a noise, that brought her out of her lair, and caused her to spring fiercely towards our trees. We fired together, and killed her dead. We then took after the cubs. They were three in number. My companion soon overtook them. They were of the size of the largest rackoons. These imps of the devil turned upon him and made fight. I was in too much pain and weakness to assist him. They put him to all he could do to clear himself of them. He at length got away from them, leaving them masters of the field, and having acquired no more laurels than I, from my combat with my buffaloe calf. His legs were deeply bit and scratched, and what was worse, such was the character of the affair, he only got ridicule for his assault of the cubs. I was several weeks in recovering, during which time, I ate neither meat nor bread, being able to swallow nothing but liquids. The country abounds with these fierce and terrible animals, to a degree, that in some districts they are truly formidable. They get into the corn fields. The owners hear the noise, which they make among the corn, and supposing it occasioned by cows and horses that have broken into the fields, they rise from their beds, and go to drive them out, when instead of finding retreating domestic animals, they are assailed by the grizzly bear. I have been acquainted with several fatal cases of that sort. One of them was a case, that intimately concerned me. Iago, my servant, went out with a man to get a load of {115} wood. A bear came upon this man and killed him and his ass in the team. A slight flight of snow had fallen. Some Spaniards, who had witnessed the miserable fate of their companion, begged some of us to go and aid them in killing the bear. Four of us joined them. We trailed the bear to its den, which was a crevice in the bluff. We came to the mouth and fired a gun. The animal, confident in his fierceness, came out, and we instantly killed it. This occurred in New Mexico. This stationary and unruffled sort of life had become unendurable, and with fifteen Americans, we arranged a trapping expedition on the Pacos.[90] My father viewed my rambling propensities with stern displeasure. He had taken in a Spanish superintendent, who acted as clerk. This person had lived in the United States from the age of 18 to 30, and spoke English, French and Spanish. This man arranged the calculations, and kept the accounts of my father's concerns, and had always acted with intelligence and fidelity. The concern was on the whole prosperous; and although I felt deep sorrow to leave my father against his wishes, I had at least the satisfaction to know, that I was of no other use to him, than giving him the pleasure of my society. On the 7th, our company arrived on the del Norte, and crossed it in the evening to the eastern shore. On the evening of the 8th, we struck the Pacos about twenty miles above its junction with the del Norte. This day's travel was through a wild and precipitous country, inhabited by no human being. We killed plenty of bears and deer, and caught some beavers. On the 9th, we began to ascend the river through a rich and delightful plain, on which are to be seen abundance of deserted sheep folds, and horse pens, where the Spanish vachers once kept their stock. The constant incursions of the Indians compelled this peaceful people to desert these fair plains. Their deserted cottages inspired a melancholy feeling. This river runs from N. E. to S. W. and is a clear, beautiful stream, 20 yards wide, with high and dry bottoms of a black and rich soil. The mountains run almost parallel to the river, and at the distance of {116} eight or ten miles. They are thickly covered with noble pine forests, in which aspen trees are intermixed. From their foot gush out many beautiful clear springs. On the whole, this is one of the loveliest regions for farmers that I have ever seen, though no permanent settlements could be made there, until the murderous Indians, who live in the mountains, should be subdued. [Illustration: Mr. Pattie wounded by an Indian Arrow] We advanced slowly onward, until the 15th, without meeting any Indians. At day break of this day, our sentinels apprized us, that savages were at hand. We had just time to take shelter behind the trees, when they began to let their arrows fly at us. We returned them the compliment with balls, and at the first shot a number of them fell. They remained firm and continued to pour in their arrows from every side. We began to find it exceedingly difficult to dodge them, though we gave them some rounds before any one of our men was struck. At length one man was pierced, and they rushed forward to scalp him. I darted from behind my tree to prevent them. I was assailed by a perfect shower of arrows, which I dodged for a moment, and was then struck down by an arrow in the hip. Here I should have been instantly killed, had not my companions made a joint fire at the Indians, who were rushing upon me, by which a number of them were laid dead. But the agony of my pain was insupportable, for the arrow was still fast in my hip. A momentary cessation of their arrows enabled me to draw out the arrow from my hip, and to commence re-loading my gun. I had partly accomplished this, when I received another arrow under my right breast, between the bone and the flesh. This gave me less pain than the other shot, and finding I could not by any effort extract the arrow, I snapped it off, and finished loading my gun. The Indian nearest me fell dead, and I hobbled off, glad to be once more sheltered by a tree. My companions were not slow in making their rifles crack, and in raising mutual cheers of encouragement. The Indians were vastly our superiors in numbers, and we found it convenient to slip under the river bank. We were now completely sheltered {117} from their arrows. After we had gained this security, they stood but a few shots more, before they fled, leaving their dead and wounded at our mercy. Truth is, we were too much exasperated to show mercy, and we cut off the heads of all, indiscriminately. Our loss was one killed, and two wounded, another beside myself though neither of us dangerously. The Indians had 28 killed. Luckily our horses were on an island in the river, or we should have lost every one of them. Our only loss of property was a few blankets, which they took, as they fled by our camp. During the 20 minutes that the contest lasted, I had a fragment of an arrow fast in my breast, and the spike of the other in my hip. I suffered, it may be imagined, excruciating pain, and still severer pain during the operation of extraction. This operation, one of my companions undertook. He was some minutes in effecting it. The spike could not be entirely extracted from my hip, for being of flint, it had shivered against the bone. The Indians that attacked us, were a tribe of the Muscallaros,[91] a very warlike people, although they have no other arms except bows and arrows, which are, however, the most powerful weapons of the kind. They are made of an elastic and flexible wood, backed with the sinews of a buffaloe or elk. Their arrows are made of a species of reed grass, and are very light, though easily broken. In the end is stuck a hard piece of wood, which is pointed by a spike of flint an inch in length, and a quarter of an inch in width, and ground to the sharpest point. The men, though not tall, are admirably formed, with fine features and a bright complexion inclining to yellow. Their dress is a buckskin belt about the loins, with a shirt and moccasins to match. Their long black hair hangs in imbraided masses over their shoulders, in some cases almost extending to the heels. They make a most formidable appearance, when completely painted, and prepared for battle. On the 16th, having made our arrangements for departure, I applied my father's admirable salve to my two severe wounds, {118} and to my companion's slight wound in the arm, and we both felt able to join our companions in their march. We travelled all this day and the following night a west course, and the following day, without stopping longer than was necessary to take a little food. After this we stopped and rested ourselves and horses all night. I need not attempt to describe the bitter anguish I endured, during this long and uninterrupted ride. It will be only necessary to conceive my situation to form a right conception of it. Our grand object had been to avoid another contest with the Muscallaros. In the evening we fell in with a party of the Nabahoes, who were now out on an expedition against the Muscallaros, who had recently killed one of their people, and against whom they had sworn immediate revenge. We showed the manifest proof of the chastisement they had received from us. Never had I seen such frantic leaps and gestures of joy. The screams and yells of exultation were such as cannot be imagined. It seemed as though a whole bedlam had broke loose. When we told them that we had lost but one man, their screams became more frantic still. Their medicine man was then called, and he produced an emollient poultice, the materials of which I did not know but the effect was that the anguish of our wounds was at once assuaged. By the application of this same remedy, my wounds were quite healed in a fortnight. The scalps, which some of our number had taken from the Muscallaros, were soon erected on a pole by the Nabahoes. They immediately commenced the fiercest dancing and singing I had yet seen, which continued without interruption three days and nights. During all this time, we endured a sort of worship from them, particularly the women. They were constantly presenting us with their favorite dishes, served in different ways, with dried berries and sweet vegetables, some of which, to people in our condition, were really agreeable. In size and complexion these people resemble the Muscallaros, and their bows and arrows are similar; though some of the latter have fire arms, and their dress is much superior.--{119} Part of their dress is of the same kind with that of the former, though the skins are dressed in a more workmanlike manner, and they have plenty of blankets of their own manufacturing, and constituting a much better article than that produced by the Spaniards. They dye the wool of different and bright colors, and stripe them with very neat figures. The women are much handsomer, and have lighter complexions than the men. They are rather small in stature, and modest and reserved in their behaviour. Their dress is chiefly composed of skins made up with no small share of taste; and showily corded at the bottom, forming a kind of belt of beads and porcupine quills.--They are altogether the handsomest women I have seen among the red people, and not inferior in appearance to many Spanish women. Their deportment to our people, was a mixture of kindness and respect. On the 21st, we started back to the river, accompanied by the whole party of Nabahoes, who assured us that they would guard us during the remainder of our hunt. We returned to the river through a beautiful and level country, most of it well timbered and watered. On our return we killed several bears, the talons of which the Indians took for necklaces. On the 26th, we arrived at our battle ground. The view of the bodies of the slain, all torn in pieces by wild beasts, inexpressibly disgusting to us, was equally a spectacle of pleasure to our red friends. We pointed out the grave of our companion. They all walked in solemn procession round it, singing their funeral songs. As they left it, every one left a present on the grave; some an arrow, others meat, moccasins, tobacco, war-feathers, and the like, all articles of value to them. These simple people believe that the spirit of the deceased will have immediate use for them in the life to come. Viewing their offerings in this light, we could not but be affected with these testimonies of kind feeling to a dead stranger. They then gathered up the remains of their slaughtered enemies, threw them in a heap, and cut a great quantity of wood, which they piled over the remains. They then set fire to the wood. We struck our tents, {120} marched about five miles up the river, set our traps, and encamped for the night. But the Nabahoes danced and yelled through the night to so much effect, as to keep all the beavers shut up in their houses, for, having been recently trapped, they were exceedingly cautious. On the morning of the 27th, we informed them why we had taken no beavers, and during the following night they were perfectly quiet. We marched onward slowly, trapping as we went, until we reached the Spanish settlements on this river. On New Year's eve, January 1st, 1827, the Spaniards of the place gave a fandango, or Spanish ball. All our company were invited to it, and went. We appeared before the Alcalde, clad not unlike our Indian friends; that is to say, we were dressed in deer skin, with leggins, moccasins and hunting shirts, all of this article, with the addition of the customary Indian article of dress around the loins, and this was of red cloth, not an article of which had been washed since we left the Copper Mines. It may be imagined that we did not cut a particular dandy-like figure, among people, many of whom were rich, and would be considered well dressed any where. Notwithstanding this, it is a strong proof of their politeness, that we were civilly treated by the ladies, and had the pleasure of dancing with the handsomest and richest of them. When the ball broke up, it seemed to be expected of us, that we should each escort a lady home, in whose company we passed the night, and we none of us brought charges of severity against our fair companions. The fandango room was about forty by eighteen or twenty feet, with a brick floor raised four or five feet above the earth. That part of the room in which the ladies sat, was carpetted with carpetting on the benches, for them to sit on. Simple benches were provided for the accommodation of the gentlemen. Four men sang to the music of a violin and guitar. All that chose to dance stood up on the floor, and at the striking up of a certain note of the music, they all commenced clapping their hands. The ladies then advanced, one by one, and stood facing their partners. The dance then changed to a waltz, each {121} man taking his lady rather unceremoniously, and they began to whirl round, keeping true, however, to the music, and increasing the swiftness of their whirling. Many of the movements and figures seemed very easy, though we found they required practise, for we must certainly have made a most laughable appearance in their eyes, in attempting to practise them. Be that as it may, we cut capers with the nimblest, and what we could not say, we managed by squeezes of the hand, and little signs of that sort, and passed the time to a charm. The village, in which was this ball, is called Perdido, or the lost town, probably from some circumstances in its history. It contains about 500 souls and one church. The bishop was present at this ball, and not only bestowed his worshipful countenance, but _danced before the Lord, like David, with all his might_. The more general custom of the ladies, as far as I observed, is to sit cross legged on the floor like a tailor. They are considerably addicted to the industry of spinning, but the mode has no resemblance to the spinning of our country. For a wheel, they have a straight stick about a foot long, rounded like the head of a spool. In the middle of the stick is a hole, through which the stick is fastened. Their mode of spinning with this very simple instrument reminded me strongly of the sport of my young days, spinning a top, for they give this spinning affair a twirl, and let it run on until it has lost its communicated motion to impart it anew. This shift for a spinning wheel they call necataro. They manufacture neither cotton nor wool into cloth, and depend altogether on foreign trade for their clothing. The greatest part of this supply comes over land from the United States. On the 2d, we started for San Tepec, through a country generally barren, though abounding in water. We saw plenty of bears, deer and antelope. Some of the first we killed, because we needed their flesh, and others we killed for the same reason that we were often obliged to kill Indians, that is, to mend their rude manners, in fiercely making at us, and to show them that we were not Spaniards, to give them the high sport of seeing us run. We arrived in the above named town {122} on the 5th, and sold our furs. Here I met again some of the companions who came with me in the first instance from the United States. I enquired about others, whom I held in kind remembrance. Some had died by lingering diseases, and others by the fatal ball or arrow, so that out of 116 men, who came from the United States in 1824, there were not more than sixteen alive. Most of the fallen were as true men, and as brave as ever poised a rifle, and yet in these remote and foreign deserts found not even the benefit of a grave, but left their bodies to be torn by the wild beasts, or mangled by the Indians. When I heard the sad roll of the dead called over, and thought how often I had been in equal danger, I felt grateful to my Almighty Benefactor, that I was alive and in health. A strong perception of the danger of such courses as mine, as shown by the death of these men, came over my mind, and I made a kind of resolution, that I would return to my home, and never venture into the woods again. Among the number of my fallen companions, I ought not to forget the original leader of our company, Mr. Pratte, who died in his prime, of a lingering disease, in this place. On the 10th, I commenced descending the Del Norte for the Copper Mines, in hopes once more to have the pleasure of embracing my father, and relate to him what I had suffered in body and mind, for neglecting to follow his wise and fatherly counsel. I now travelled slowly and by myself, and on the 12th, arrived at the house of my old friend the governor, who met me at his door, and gave me such an embrace, as to start the blood from my scarcely healed wound. I did not perceive at the moment, that his embrace had produced this effect, and entered the house, where I met Jacova, who received me with a partial embrace, and a manner of constrained politeness. She then sat down by me on the sopha, and began asking me many questions about my adventure since we had parted, often observing that I looked indisposed. At length she discovered the blood oozing through my waistcoat. She exclaimed, putting her hand on the wound, 'and good reason you have to look {123} so, for you are wounded to death.' The look that accompanied this remark, I may not describe, for I would not be thought vain, and the stern character of my adventures forbids the intermixture of any thing of an entirely different aspect. I was not long, however, in convincing her that my wound was not really dangerous, and that I owed its present bleeding to the friendship of her father, a cause too flattering to be matter of regret. This drew from me a narrative of the occasion of my wound, which I related in the same simple terms and brief manner in which it is recorded in my journal. A long conversation of questions and replies ensued, of a nature and on subjects not necessary to relate. On the 20th, imploring God that we might meet again, we parted, and I resumed my journey, travelling slowly for my father's residence at the Copper Mines. I paused to rest and amuse myself in several of the small towns on my way. On the 26th, I had the high satisfaction once more to hold the hand of my father, and to find him in health and prosperity, and apparently with nowise abated affection for me, though I had rejected his counsels. This affection seemed to receive a warmer glow, when he heard my determination not to take to the woods again. I then in return wished to make myself acquainted with the true state of his affairs. He had established a vacherie on the river Membry[92] where he kept stock. He had also opened a farm on the land which the old Appache chief had given him, which enabled him to raise grain for the use of his own establishment at the mines. He had actually a supply of grain in advance for the next year. He had made similar improvements upon every thing appertaining to the mines. The result of the whole seemed to be, that he was making money rapidly. He still retained the Spaniard, of whom I have spoken before, as clerk and superintendent, believing him to be a man of real stability and weight of character, and placing the most entire reliance both upon his capacity and integrity. I was less sanguine, and had my doubts, though having seen no decided facts, {124} upon which to ground them, I did not deem myself justified in honor to impart my doubts to my father. On the 10th of February, my father requested me, on his account, to take a trip to Alopaz, to purchase for his establishment some wine and whiskey, which articles sell at the mines at a dollar and a half a pint. I started with one servant and six pack mules, each having a couple of small barrels fastened over their saddles, after the manner of our panniers. On the 16th, I reached the place, and purchased my cargo, but the weather was so inclement, that I thought it best not to return until it softened. I became acquainted with an American, married in this place. He was by pursuit a gunsmith, and had been up the upper Missouri with Col. Henry,[93] and an old and noted trader on that river. The mutual story of what we two had seen and suffered, would probably appear incredible, and beyond the common order of things, to most people, except those who have hunted and trapped in the western parts of this continent, among the mountains and savages, and has nothing upon which to depend, but his own firmness of heart, the defence of his rifle, and the protection of the all present God. To such persons, the incidents which we mutually related, would all seem natural. I remained here until the 1st of April. Spring in its peculiar splendor and glory in this country, had now wakened the fields and forests into life, and was extending its empire of verdure and flowers higher and higher up the mountains towards their snowy peaks. On this day I commenced my journey of return to the mines, with my servant and my cargo bestowed on my mules. Though the face of the country was all life and beauty, the roads so recently thawed, were exceedingly muddy and heavy. One of my mules in consequence gave out the second day. My servant packed the load of the tired mule upon his riding one, and walked on foot the remainder of the day. During the day we discovered fresh bear tracks in the wood, and my servant advised me to have my gun loaded. At this remark I put my hand in my shot pouch, and found but a single ball, and {125} no lead with which to make more. At this discovery I saw at once the uselessness of self reproach of my own carelessness and neglect, though it will be easily imagined, what anxiety it created, aware that I had to travel through a long and dreary wilderness, replenished with grizzly bears and hostile Indians. Neither did I dare disclose a particle of what was passing in my mind to my servant, through fear that he would be discouraged, in which case, I knew his first step would be to turn back, and leave me to make the journey alone. It would have been impossible for me to do this, as we were both scarcely able to arrange the affairs of the journey. We advanced cautiously and were unmolested through the day. But I passed a most uncomfortable night through fear of the bears, which, thawed out, were emerging from their winter dens with appetites rendered ravenous by their long winter fast. We and our mules would have furnished them a delicious feast, after the hunger of months. No sleep visited my eyes that night. At ten o'clock of the 3d, we met a Spaniard on horse back. I accosted him in the usual terms, and asked if he had met any Indians on his way? He answered that he had, and that there was a body of friendly Appaches encamped near the road, at a distance of a little more than a league. I was delighted with this information, for I supposed I should be able to purchase a horse of them, on which I might mount my servant. While I was reflecting on this thought, my servant proposed to purchase his horse, and offered him a blanket in exchange. He instantly dismounted, took the blanket, and handed over the horse. Happy to see the poor fellow once more comfortably mounted, we bade the easy Spaniard adieu, and gaily resumed our journey. In a short time, according to his information, we saw the Indian camp near the road, from which their smokes were visible. We were solicitous to pass them unobserved and pushed on towards a stopping place, which we might reach at twelve o'clock. Here we stopped to enable our horses to rest, and eat, for the grass was fine. I ordered my servant to spancel the mules, and tether the horse to a shrub by a long rope. {126} My gun reclined upon the packs. We ate a little ourselves, and afterwards I spread my blanket on the grass, close by the horses, and lay down to repose myself, though not intending to go to sleep. But the bright beams of the sun fell upon me in the midst of the green solitude, and I was soon in a profound sleep. A large straw hat on the side of my face shaded my head from the sun. While enjoying this profound sleep, four of the Appaches came in pursuit of us. It seems our Spaniard had stolen his horse from them, a few hours before. They came upon us in possession of the horse, and supposed me the thief. One of them rode close to me, and made a dart at me with his spear. The stroke was aimed at my neck, and passed through my hat, nailing it to the ground just back of my neck, which the cold steel barely touched. It awakened me, and I sprang to my feet. Four Indians on horse back were around me, and the spear, which had been darted at me, still nailed my hat to the ground. I immediately seized the spear and elevated it towards the Indian, who in turn made his horse spring out of my reach. I called my servant, who had seen the Indians approaching me, and had hidden himself in the bushes. I then sprang to my gun, at the distance of ten or fifteen paces. When I had reached and cocked it, I presented it at an Indian who was unsheathing his fusil. As soon as he discovered my piece elevated, he threw himself from his horse, fell on his knees, and called for mercy. What surprized me, and arrested my fire, was to hear him call me by my Christian name. I returned my rifle to my shoulder and asked him who he was? He asked me, if I did not know Targuarcha? He smote his breast as he asked the question. The name was familiar. The others dismounted, and gathered round. An understanding ensued. When they learned the manner in which we came by the horse, their countenances were expressive of real sorrow. They had supposed me a Spaniard, as they said, and the thief of their horse. They begged me not to be angry, with a laughable solicitude, offering me the horse as the price of friendship. Above all, they were {127} anxious that I should not relate the affair to my father. They seemed to have an awe of him, resembling that due to the Supreme Being. This awe he had maintained by his steady deportment, and keeping up in their minds the impression, that he always had a large army at command, and was able, and disposed at the first insult, or breach of the treaty on their part, to bring it upon them to their utter destruction. To all their apologies and kind words and excuses, I answered that I knew them as well as any other man, and that they were not to expect to atone for a dastardly attempt to take my life, and coming within a hair's breadth of taking it, by offering me a present, that I believed that they knew who I was, and only wanted an opportunity, when they could steal upon me unarmed, and kill me, as they had probably committed many other similar murders; that they were ready enough to cry pardon, as soon as they saw me handling my rifle, hoping to catch me asleep again, but that they would henceforward be sure to find me on my guard. At this the Indian who had darted the spear at me, exclaimed that he loved me as a brother, and would at any occasion risk his life in my defence. I then distinctly recollected him, and that I had been two months with the band, to which he belonged, roving in the woods about the mines. Targuarcha had shown a singular kind of attachment to me, waiting upon me as if I had been his master. I was perfectly convinced that he had thrust his spear at me in absolute ignorance, that it was me. Still I thought it necessary to instil a lesson of caution into them, not to kill any one for an imagined enemy, until they were sure that he was guilty of the supposed wrong. Consequently I dissembled distrust, and told him, that it looked very little like friendship, to dart a spear at the neck of a sleeping man, and that to tell the plain truth, I had as little confidence in him, as a white bear. At this charge of treachery, he came close to me, and looking affectionately in my face, exclaimed in Spanish, 'if you think me such a traitor, kill me. Here is my breast. Shoot.' At the same time he bared his breast with his hand, with such a {128} profound expression of sorrow in his countenance, as no one was ever yet able to dissemble. I was softened to pity, and told him that I sincerely forgave him, and that I would henceforward consider him my friend, and not inform my father what he had done. They all promised that they would never attempt to kill any one again, until they knew who it was, and were certain that he was guilty of the crime charged upon him. Here we all shook hands, and perfect confidence was restored. I now called again for my servant, and after calling till I was hoarse, he at length crawled from behind the bushes, like a frightened turkey or deer, and looking wild with terror. He had the satisfaction of being heartily laughed at, as a person who had deserted his master in the moment of peril. They are not a people to spare the feelings of any one who proves himself a coward by deserting his place. They bestowed that term upon him without mercy. All his reply was, sullenly to set himself to packing his mules. Now arose a friendly controversy about the horse, they insisting that I should take it, as the price of our renewed friendship, and I, that I would not take it, except on hire or purchase. They were obstinate in persisting that I should take the horse along with me, and finally promised if I would consent, that they would return to camp and bring their families, and escort me to the mines. To this I consented, though I had first taken the precaution to procure some rifle balls of them. We then resumed our journey, and travelled on without incident till the 5th, when they overtook us, and we travelled on very amicably together, until we reached the Membry, which runs a south course, and is lost in a wide arid plain, after winding its way through prodigious high, craggy mountains. It affords neither fish nor beavers, but has wide and rich bottoms, of which as I have mentioned, they gave my father as much as he chose to cultivate. From the point where the road crosses this river to the mines, is reckoned 15 miles. Here we met the chief of this band of the Appaches, with a great number of his people. They were {129} all delighted to see us, and not the less so, when they discovered that we had spirituous liquors, of which they are fond to distraction. There was no evading the importunities of the chief to stay all night with him, he promising, if I would that he would go in next day with me to my father. I had scarcely arrived an hour, when I saw the Indian, that had darted his spear at me, come to the chief with shirt laid aside, and his back bare. He handed the chief a stout switch, asking him to whip him. The chief immediately flayed away about 50 lashes, the blood showing at every stroke. He then asked me, if the thing had been done to my satisfaction? I told him that I had no satisfaction to demand. The chief who had whipped him, was positively ignorant of the crime, for which he had suffered this infliction. But he said, when one of his men begged a flogging, he took it for granted, that it was not for the good deeds of the sufferer, and that he deserved it. When I learned that it was a voluntary penance for his offence to me on the road, I felt really sorry, and made him a present of a quart of whiskey, as an internal unction for the smart of his stripes, a medicine in high esteem among the Indians in such cases. When we arrived at the mines, the old chief enquired what had been done to me on the road? As soon as he was informed, he sprang up, tore his hair, and seized a gun to shoot the poor culprit. I interposed between them, and convinced him, that Targuarcha had not been really to blame in any thing but his haste, and that if I had really been the thief, he would have done right to kill me, and get back his horse, and that not even my father would have thought the worse of him, but that we should both now like him better, as well as his people, for what had happened. On the 15th, my father proposed to give me a sum of money, with which to go into the United States to purchase goods for the mines. The laborers much preferred goods, at the customary rate, to money, and the profit at that rate was at least 200 per cent on the cost. I was reluctant to do this, for my thoughts still detained me in that country. It was then concluded to {130} send the before mentioned Spanish clerk on the commission, with sufficient money to pay for the goods, consigned to merchants in Santa Fe, to be purchased there, provided a sufficient quantity had recently arrived from the United States to furnish an assortment, and if not, he was recommended to merchants in St. Louis, to make the purchases there. On the 18th, he started under these orders, under the additional one, that on his arriving at Santa Fe, and learning the state of things there, he should immediately write to the mines to that effect. In the customary order of things, this letter was to be expected in one month from the day he left the mines. After he was departed, he left none behind to doubt his truth and honor, nor was there the least suspicion of him, until the time had elapsed without a letter. A dim surmise began then to grow up, that he had run off with the money. We were still anxiously waiting for intelligence. During this interval I had occupied the place of clerk in his stead. It was now insisted that I should go in search of the villain, who had obtained a good start of a month ahead of us, and 30,000 dollars value in gold bullion to expedite his journey. On the 20th, I started in the search, which I confess seemed hopeless, for he was a man of infinite ingenuity, who could enact Spaniard, which he really was, or Russian, Frenchman or Englishman, as he spoke the languages of these people with fluency. Still I pushed on with full purpose to make diligent and unsparing search. On the 30th, I arrived at Santa Fe. I made the most anxious and careful enquiry for him, and gave the most accurate descriptions of him there. But no one had seen or heard of such a person. I sorrowfully retraced my steps down the Rio del Norte, now without a doubt of his treachery, and bitterly reflecting on myself for my heedless regard of my father's request. Had I done it, we had both secured an affluence. Now I clearly foresaw poverty and misfortune opening before us in the future. For myself I felt little, as I was young and the world before me; and I felt secure about taking care of myself. {131} My grief was for my father and his companions, who had toiled night and day with unwearied assiduity, to accumulate something for their dear and helpless families, whom they had left in Missouri; and for the love of whom they had ventured into this rough and unsettled country, full of thieves and murderers. My father in particular, had left a large and motherless family, at a time of life to be wholly unable to take care of themselves, and altogether dependent on him for subsistence. There is no misery like self condemnation; and I suffered it in all its bitterness. The reflections that followed upon learning the full extent of the disaster, which I could but charge in some sense upon myself, came, as such reflections generally come, too late. I arrived at the Passo del Norte on the 10th of May, and repeated the same descriptions and enquiries to no purpose.--Not a trace remained of him here; and I almost concluded to abandon the search in despair. I could imagine but one more chance. The owner of the mines lived at Chihuahua. As a forlorn hope I concluded to proceed to that city, and inform the governor of our misfortune. So I pushed to Chihuahua, where I arrived on the 23d. I found the owner of the mines in too much anxiety and grief of mind on his own account, to be cool enough to listen [to] the concerns of others. The President of the Mexican republic had issued orders, that all Spaniards born in old Spain, should be expelled from the Mexican country, giving them but a month's notice, in which to settle their affairs and dispose of their property. He being one of that class, had enough to think of on his own account. However, when he heard of our misfortune, he appeared to be concerned. He then touched upon the critical state of his own affairs. Among other things, he said he had all along hoped that my father was able and disposed to purchase those mines. He had, therefore, a motive personal to himself, to make him regret my father's loss and inability to make the purchase. He was now obliged to sell them at any sacrifice, and had but a very short time in which to settle his {132} affairs, and leave the country. He requested me to be ready to start the next day in company with him to the mines. Early on the 24th, we started with relays of horses and mules. As we travelled very rapidly we arrived at the mines on the 30th, where I found my father and his companions in the utmost anxiety to learn something what had happened to me. When they discovered the owner of the mines, whose name was Don Francisco Pablo de Lagera, they came forth in a body with countenances full of joy. That joy was changed to sadness, as soon as Don Pablo informed them the object of his visit. They perceived in a moment, that nothing now remained for them but to settle their affairs, and search for other situations in the country, or return to the United States in a worse condition than when they left it. My father determined at once not to think of this. Nothing seemed so feasible, and conformable to his pursuits, as a trapping expedition. With the pittance that remained to him, after all demands against the firm were discharged, and the residue according to the articles of agreement divided, he purchased trapping equipments for four persons, himself included. The other three he intended to hire to trap for him. On the 1st of July, all these matters had been arranged, and my father and myself started for Santa Fe, with a view to join the first company that should start on a trapping expedition from that place. On the 10th, we arrived at Santa Fe, where we remained until the 22d, when a company of thirty men were about to commence an expedition of that sort down Red river. My father joined this company, and in the name of the companions made application for license of safe transit through the province of Chihuahua, and Sonora, through which runs the Red river, on which we meant to trap. The governor gave us a passport in the following terms: {133} Custom House of the frontier town of Santa Fe, in the territory of New Mexico. _Custom House Certificate._ Allow Sylvester Pattie, to pursue his journey with certain beasts, merchandize and money, in the direction of Chihuahua and Sonora; to enter in beasts and money an amount equal to this invoice, in whatsoever place he shall appear, according to the rules of the Custom House, on his passage; and finally let him return this permit to the government of this city in days. Do this under the established penalties. Given at Santa Fe, in New Mexico. RAMON ATTREN _September 22d_, 1827. On the 23d, my father was chosen captain or commander of the company, and we started on our expedition. We retraced our steps down the del Norte, and by the mines to the river Helay, on which we arrived on the 6th of October, and began to descend it, setting our traps as we went, near our camp, whenever we saw signs of beavers. But our stay on this stream was short, for it had been trapped so often, that there were but few beavers remaining, and those few were exceedingly shy. We therefore pushed on to some place where they might be more abundant, and less shy. We left this river on the 12th, and on the 15th reached Beaver river. Here we found them in considerable numbers, and we concluded to proceed in a south course, and trap the river in its downward course. But to prevent the disagreement and insubordination which are apt to spring up in these associations, my father drew articles of agreement, purporting that we should trap in partnership, and that the first one who should show an open purpose to separate from the company, or desert it, should be shot dead; and that if any one should disobey orders, he should be tried by a jury of our number, and if found guilty should be fined fifty dollars, to be paid in fur. To this instrument we all agreed, and signed our names. {134} The necessity of some such compact had been abundantly discovered in the course of our experience. Men bound only by their own will and sense of right, to the duties of such a sort of partnership are certain to grow restless, and to form smaller clans, disposed to dislike and separate from each other, in parties of one by one to three by three. They thus expose themselves to be cut up in detail by the savages, who comprehend all their movements, and are ever watchful for an opportunity to show their hatred of the whites to be fixed and inextinguishable. The following are some of the more common causes of separation: Men of incompatible tempers and habits are brought together; and such expeditions call out innumerable occasions to try this disagreement of character. Men, hungry, naked, fatigued, and in constant jeopardy, are apt to be ill-tempered, especially when they arrive at camp, and instead of being allowed to throw themselves on the ground, and sleep, have hard duties of cooking, and keeping guard, and making breast-works assigned them. But the grand difficulty is the following. In a considerable company, half its numbers can catch as many beavers as all. But the half that keep guard, and cook, perform duties as necessary and important to the whole concern, as the others. It always happens too, in these expeditions, that there are some infinitely more dextrous and skilful in trapping and hunting than others. These capabilities are soon brought to light. The expert know each other, and feel a certain superiority over the inexpert. They know that three or four such, by themselves, will take as many beavers as a promiscuous company of thirty, and in fact, all that a stream affords. A perception of their own comparative importance, a keen sense of self interest, which sharpens in the desert, the mere love of roving in the wild license of the forest, and a capacity to become hardened by these scenes to a perfect callousness to all fear and sense of danger, until it actually comes; such passions are sufficient to thicken causes of separation among such companions in the events of every day. Sad experience has made me acquainted with all these causes {135} of disunion and dissolution of such companies. I have learned them by wounds and sufferings, by toil and danger of every sort, by wandering about in the wild and desolate mountains, alone and half starved, merely because two or three bad men had divided our company, strong and sufficient to themselves in union, but miserable, and exposed to almost certain ruin in separation. Made painfully acquainted with all these facts by experience, my father adopted this expedient in the hope that it would be something like a remedy for them. But notwithstanding this, and the prudence and energy of my father's character, disunion soon began to spring up in our small party. Almost on the outset of our expedition, we began to suffer greatly for want of provisions. We were first compelled to kill and eat our dogs, and then six of our horses. This to me was the most cruel task of all. To think of waiting for the night to kill and eat the poor horse that had borne us over deserts and mountains, as hungry as ourselves, and strongly and faithfully attached to us, was no easy task to the heart of a Kentucky hunter. One evening, after a hard day's travel, my saddle horse was selected by lot to be killed. The poor animal stood saddled and bridled before us, and it fell to my lot to kill it. I loved this horse, and he seemed to have an equal attachment for me. He was remarkably kind to travel, and easy to ride, and spirited too. When he stood tied in camp among the rest, if I came any where near him, he would fall neighing for me. When I held up the bridle towards him, I could see consent and good will in his eye. As I raised my gun to my face, all these recollections rushed to my thoughts. My pulses throbbed, and my eyes grew dim. The animal was gazing at me, with a look of steady kindness, in the face. My head whirled, and was dizzy, and my gun fell. After a moment for recovery, I offered a beaver skin to any one who would shoot him down. One was soon found at this price, and my horse fell! It so happened that this was the last horse we killed. Well was it for us that we had these surplus horses. Had it been otherwise, we should all have perished with hunger. [Illustration: Shooting Mr. Pattie's Horse] {136} It was now the 15th of November, and while the horse flesh lasted, we built a canoe, so that we could trap on both sides of the river; for it is here too broad and deep to be fordable on horseback. One of our number had already been drowned, man and horse, in attempting to swim the river. A canoe is a great advantage, where the beavers are wild; as the trapper can thus set his traps along the shore without leaving his scent upon the ground about it. On the 17th, our canoe was finished, and another person and myself took some traps in it, and floated down the river by water, while the rest of the company followed along the banks by land. In this way, what with the additional supply which the canoe enabled our traps to furnish, and a chance deer or wolf that Providence sometimes threw in our way, with caution and economy we were tolerably supplied with provisions; and the company travelled on with a good degree of union and prosperity, until the 26th. Here the greater part of the company expressed disinclination to following our contemplated route any longer. That is, they conceived the route to the mouth of the Helay, and up Red river of California too long and tedious, and too much exposed to numerous and hostile Indians. They, therefore, determined to quit the Helay, and strike over to Red river by a direct route across the country. My father reminded them of their article. They assured him they did not consider themselves bound by it, and that they were a majority, against which nothing could be said. My father and myself still persevered in following the original plan. Two of the men had been hired on my father's account. He told them he was ready to pay them up to that time, and dismiss them, to go where they chose. They observed, that now that the company had commenced separating, they believed that in a short time, there would be no stronger party together than ours; that they had as good a disposition to risk their lives with us, as with any division of our number, and that they would stay by us to the {137} death. After this speech four others of the company volunteered to remain with us, and we took them in as partners. On the 27th, we divided the hunt, and all expressing the same regret at the separation, and heartily wishing each other all manner of prosperity, we shook hands and parted! We were now reduced to eight in number. We made the most solemn pledges to stand by each other unto death, and adopted the severest caution, of which we had been too faithfully taught the necessity. We tied our horses every night, and encamped close by them, to prevent their being stolen by the Indians. Their foot-prints were thick and fresh in our course, and we could see their smokes at no great distance north of us. We were well aware that they were hostile, and watching their opportunity to pounce upon us, and we kept ourselves ready for action, equally day and night. We now took an ample abundance of beavers to supply us with meat, in consequence of our reduced numbers. Our horses also fared well, for we cut plenty of cotton-wood trees, the bark of which serves them for food nearly as well as corn. We thus travelled on prosperously, until we reached the junction of the Helay with Red river.--Here we found the tribe of Umeas,[94] who had shown themselves very friendly to the company in which I had formerly passed them, which strongly inspired confidence in them at present. Some of them could speak the Spanish language. We made many inquiries of them, our object being to gain information of the distance of the Spanish settlements. We asked them where they obtained the cloth they wore around their loins? They answered, from the Christians on the coast of the California. We asked if there were any Christians living on Red river? They promptly answered, yes. This information afterwards proved a source of error and misfortune to us, though our motive for inquiry at this time was mere curiosity. It was now the 1st of December; and at mid-day we began to see the imprudence of spending the remainder of the day and the ensuing night with such numbers of Indians, however friendly in appearance. We had a tolerable fund of experience, in {138} regard to the trust we might safely repose in the red skins; and knew that caution is the parent of security. So we packed up, and separated from them. Their town was on the opposite shore of Red river. At our encampment upwards of two hundred of them swam over the river and visited us, all apparently friendly. We allowed but a few of them to approach our camp at a time, and they were obliged to lay aside their arms. In the midst of these multitudes of fierce, naked, swarthy savages, eight of us seemed no more than a little patch of snow on the side of one of the black mountains. We were perfectly aware how critical was our position, and determined to intermit no prudence or caution. To interpose as great a distance as possible between them and us, we marched that evening sixteen miles, and encamped on the banks of the river. The place of encampment was a prairie, and we drove stakes fast in the earth, to which we tied our horses in the midst of green grass, as high as a man's head, and within ten feet of our own fire. Unhappily we had arrived too late to make a pen for our horses, or a breast work for ourselves. The sky was gloomy. Night and storm were settling upon us, and it was too late to complete these important arrangements. In a short time the storm poured upon us, and the night became so dark that we could not see our hand before us. Apprehensive of an attempt to steal our horses, we posted two sentinels, and the remaining six lay down under our wet blankets, and the pelting of the sky, to such sleep as we might get, still preserving a little fire. We were scarcely asleep before we were aroused by the snorting of our horses and mules. We all sprang to our arms, and extinguished our little fire. We could not see a foot before us, and we groped about our camp feeling our way among the horses and mules. We could discover nothing; so concluding they might have been frightened by the approach of a bear or some other wild animal, some of us commenced rekindling our fires, and the rest went to sleep. But the Indians had crawled among our horses, and had cut or untied the rope by which each one was {139} bound. The horses were then all loose. They then instantly raised in concert, their fiendish yell. As though heaven and earth were in concert against us, the rain began to pour again, accompanied with howling gusts of wind, and the fiercest gleams of lightning, and crashes of thunder. Terrified alike by the thunder and the Indians, our horses all took to flight, and the Indians repeating yell upon yell, were close at their heels. We sallied out after them, and fired at the noises, though we could see nothing. We pursued with the utmost of our speed to no purpose, for they soon reached the open prairie, where we concluded they were joined by other Indians on horseback, who pushed our horses still faster; and soon the clattering of their heels and the yells of their accursed pursuers began to fade, and become indistinct in our ears. Our feelings and reflections as we returned to camp were of the gloomiest kind. We were one thousand miles from the point whence we started, and without a single beast to bear either our property or ourselves. The rain had passed. We built us a large fire. As we stood round it we discussed our deplorable condition, and our future alternatives. Something was to be done. We all agreed to the proposition of my father, which was, early in the morning to pursue the trails of our beasts, and if we should overtake the thieves, to retake the horses, or die in the attempt; and that, failing in that, we should return, swim the river, attack their town, and kill as many of the inhabitants as we could; for that it was better to die by these Indians, after we had killed a good number of them, than to starve, or be killed by Indians who had not injured us, and when we could not defend ourselves. Accordingly, early in the morning of the 2d, we started on the trail in pursuit of the thieves. We soon arrived at a point where the Indians, departing from the plain, had driven them up a chasm of the mountains. Here they had stopped, and caught them, divided them, and each taken a different route with his plundered horses. We saw in a moment that it was impossible to follow them farther to any purpose. We abandoned {140} the chase, and returned to our camp to execute the second part of our plan. When we arrived there, we stopped for a leisure meal of beaver meat. When we had bestowed ourselves to this dainty resort, a Dutchman with us broke the gloomy silence of our eating, by observing that we had better stuff ourselves to the utmost; for that it would probably, be the last chance we should have at beaver meat. We all acquiesced in this observation, which though made in jest, promised to be a sober truth, by eating as heartily as possible. When we had finished our meal, which looked so likely to be the last we should enjoy together, we made rafts to which we tied our guns, and pushing them onward before us, we thus swam the river. Having reached the opposite shore, we shouldered our rifles, and steered for the town, at which we arrived about two in the afternoon. We marched up to the numerous assemblage of huts in a manner as reckless and undaunted as though we had nothing to apprehend. In fact, when we arrived at it, we found it to contain not a single living being, except one miserable, blind, deaf, and decrepid old man, not unlike one that I described in a hostile former visit to an Indian village. Our exasperation of despair inclined us to kill even him. My father forbade. He apparently heard nothing and cared for nothing, as he saw nothing. His head was white with age, and his eyes appeared to have been gouged out. He may have thought himself all the while in the midst of his own people. We discovered a plenty of their kind of food, which consisted chiefly of acorn mush. We then set fire to the village, burning every hut but that which contained the old man. Being built of flags and grass, they were not long in reducing to ashes. We then returned to our camp, re-swimming the river, and reaching the camp before dark. We could with no certainty divine the cause of their having evacuated their town, though we attributed it to fear of us. The occurrences of the preceding day strengthened us in this impression. While they remained with us, one of our men happened to fire off his gun. As though they never had heard {141} such a noise before, they all fell prostrate on the earth, as though they had all been shot. When they arose, they would all have taken to flight, had we not detained them and quieted their fears. Our conversation with these Indians of the day before, now recurred to our recollections, and we congratulated ourselves on having been so inquisitive as to obtain the now important information, that there were Spanish settlements on the river below us. Driven from the resource of our horses, we happily turned our thoughts to another. We had all the requisite tools to build canoes, and directly around us was suitable timber of which to make them. It was a pleasant scheme to soothe our dejection, and prevent our lying down to the sleep of despair. But this alternative determined upon, there remained another apprehension sufficient to prevent our enjoying quiet repose. Our fears were, that the unsheltered Indians, horse-stealers and all, would creep upon us in the night, and massacre us all. But the night passed without any disturbance from them. On the morning of the 3d, the first business in which we engaged, was to build ourselves a little fort, sufficient for defence against the Indians. This finished, we cut down two trees suitable for canoes, and accomplished these important objects in one day. During this day we kept one man posted in the top of a tall tree, to descry if any Indians were approaching us in the distance. On the morning of the fourth we commenced digging out our canoes, and finished and launched two. These were found insufficient to carry our furs. We continued to prepare, and launch them, until we had eight in the water. By uniting them in pairs by a platform, we were able to embark with all our furs and traps, without any extra burden, except a man and the necessary traps for each canoe. We hid our saddles, hoping to purchase horses at the settlements, and return this way. We started on the 9th, floating with the current, which bore us downward at the rate of four miles an hour. In the evening we passed the burnt town, the ruins of which still threw up {142} smouldering smoke. We floated about 30 miles, and in the evening encamped in the midst of signs of beavers. We set 40 traps, and in the morning of the 10th caught 36 beavers, an excellent night's hunt. We concluded from this encouraging commencement, to travel slowly, and in hunters' phrase, trap the river clear; that is, take all that could be allured to come to the bait. The river, below its junction with the Helay, is from 2 to 300 yards wide, with high banks, that have dilapidated by falling in. Its course is west, and its timber chiefly cotton-wood, which in the bottoms is lofty and thick set. The bottoms are from six to ten miles wide. The soil is black, and mixed with sand, though the bottoms are subject to inundation in the flush waters of June. This inundation is occasioned by the melting of the snow on the mountains about its head waters. We now floated pleasantly downward at our leisure, having abundance of the meat of fat beavers. We began in this short prosperity, to forget the loss of our horses, and to consider ourselves quite secure from the Indians. But on the 12th, at mid-day, by mere accident, we happened, some way below us, to discover two Indians perched in a tree near the river bank, with their bows and arrows in readiness, waiting evidently until we should float close by them, to take off some of us with their arrows. We betrayed no signs of having seen them, but sat with our guns ready for a fair shot. When we had floated within a little short of a hundred yards, my father and another of the company gave them a salute, and brought them both tumbling down the branches, reminding us exactly of the fall of a bear or a turkey. They made the earth sound when they struck it. Fearful that they might be part of an ambush, we pulled our canoes to the opposite shore, and some of us climbed trees, from which we could command a view of both shores. We became satisfied that these two were alone, and we crossed over to their bodies. We discovered that they were of the number that had stolen our horses, by the fact, that they were bound round the waist with some of the hemp ropes with which our horses had been tied. We hung the bodies of the thieves {143} from a tree, with the product of their own thefts. Our thoughts were much relieved by the discovery of this fact, for though none of us felt any particular forbearance towards Indians under any circumstances, it certainly would have pained us to have killed Indians that had never disturbed us. But there could be no compunction for having slain these two thieves, precisely at the moment that they were exulting in the hope of getting a good shot at us. Beside they alarmed our false security, and learned us a lesson to keep nearer the middle of the river. We continued to float slowly downwards, trapping beavers on our way almost as fast as we could wish. We sometimes brought in 60 in a morning. The river at this point is remarkably circuitous, and has a great number of islands, on which we took beavers. Such was the rapid increase of our furs, that our present crafts in a few days were insufficient to carry them, and we were compelled to stop and make another canoe. We have advanced between 60 and 70 miles from the point where we built the other canoes. We find the timber larger, and not so thick. There are but few wild animals that belong to the country farther up, but some deer, panthers, foxes and wild-cats. Of birds there are great numbers, and many varieties, most of which I have never before seen. We killed some wild geese and pelicans, and likewise an animal not unlike the African leopard,[95] which came into our camp, while we were at work upon the canoe. It was the first we had ever seen. We finished our canoe on the 17th, and started on the 20th. This day we saw ten Indians on a sand bar, who fled into the woods at the sight of us. We knew them to be different people from those who had stolen our horses, both by their size and their different manner of wearing their hair. The heads of these were shaved close, except a tuft, which they wore on the top of their head, and which they raised erect, as straight as an arrow. The Umeas are of gigantic stature from six to seven feet high. These only average five feet and a half. They go perfectly naked, and have dark complexions, which I imagine {144} is caused by the burning heat of the sun. The weather is as hot here at this time, as I ever experienced. We were all very desirous to have a talk with these Indians, and enquire of them, how near we were to the Spanish settlements; and whether they were immediately on the bank, for we began to be fearful that we had passed them. Three days passed without our having any opportunity of conversation with them. But early on the morning of the 24th, we found some families yet asleep in their wigwams, near the water's edge. Our approach to them was so imperceptible and sudden, that they had no chance to flee. They were apparently frightened to insanity. They surrendered without making any further effort to escape. While they stared at us in terrified astonishment; we made them comprehend that we had no design to kill, or injure them. We offered them meat, and made signs that we wished to smoke with them. They readily comprehended us, and the ghastliness of terror began to pass from their countenances. The women and children were yet screaming as if going into convulsions. We made signs to the men to have them stop this annoying noise. This we did by putting our hands to our mouths. They immediately uttered something to the women and children which made them still. The pipe was then lit, and smoking commenced. They puffed the smoke towards the sky, pointed thither, and uttered some words, of course unintelligible to us. They then struck themselves on the breast, and afterwards on the forehead. We understood this to be a sort of religious appeal to the Supreme Being, and it showed more like reverence to him, than any thing we had yet seen among the Indians; though I have seen none but what admit that there is a master of life, whom they call by a name to that import, or that of Great Spirit. When the smoking was finished, we began to enquire of them by signs, how far we were from the Spanish settlement? This we effected by drawing an image of a cow and sheep in the sand and then imitating the noise of each kind of domestic animals, that we supposed the Spaniards would have. They appeared {145} to understand us, for they pointed west, and then at our clothes, and then at our naked skin. From this we inferred that they wished to say that farther to the west lived white people, as we were. And this was all we could draw from them on that subject. We then asked them, if they had ever seen white people before? This we effected by stretching open our eyes with our fingers, and pointing to them, and then looking vehemently in that direction, while we pointed west with our fingers. They shook their heads in the negative. Then stretching their own ears, as we had our eyes, striking themselves on the breast, and pointing down the river, they pronounced the word _wechapa_. This we afterwards understood implied, that their chief lived lower down the river, and that they had heard from him, that he had seen these people. We gave the women some old shirts, and intimated to them as well as we could, that it was the fashion of the women to cover themselves in our country, for these were in a state of the most entire nudity. But they did not seem rightly to comprehend our wish. Many of the women were not over sixteen, and the most perfect figures I have ever seen, perfectly straight and symmetrical, and the hair of some hanging nearly to their heels. The men are exceedingly active, and have bright countenances, and quick apprehension. We gave them more meat, and then started. They followed our course along the bank, until night. As soon as we landed, they were very officious in gathering wood, and performing other offices for us. They showed eager curiosity in examining our arms, and appeared to understand their use. When my father struck fire with his pistol, they gave a start, evidencing a mixture of astonishment and terror, and then re-examined the pistol, apparently solicitous to discover how the fire was made. My father bade me take my rifle, and shoot a wild goose, that was sitting about in the middle of the river. He then showed them the goose, and pointed at me, as I was creeping to a point where I might take a fair shot. They all gazed with intense curiosity, first at me, and then at the goose, until I fired. At the moment of the report, {146} some fell flat on the ground, and the rest ran for the bushes, as though Satan was behind them. As soon as the fallen had recovered from their amazement, they also fled. Some of our company stopped them, by seizing some, and holding them, and showing them that the goose was dead, and the manner in which it had been killed. They gradually regained confidence and composure, and called to their companions in the bushes. They also came forth, one by one, and when the nature of the report of the gun had been explained to them, they immediately swam into the river and brought out the goose. When they carried it round and showed it to their companions, carefully pointing out the ball hole in the goose, it is impossible to show more expressive gestures, cries and movements of countenances indicative of wonder and astonishment, than they exhibited. The night which we passed with them, passed away pleasantly, and to the satisfaction of all parties. In the morning their attention and curiosity were again highly excited, when we brought in our beavers, which amounted in number to thirty-six. After we had finished skinning them, we left the ample supply of food furnished by the bodies of the beavers, in token of our friendship, to these Indians, and floated on. On the 27th, we arrived at the residence of the chief. We perceived that they had made ready for our reception. They had prepared a feast for us by killing a number of fatted dogs. As soon as we landed, the chief came to us, accompanied by two subordinate chiefs. When arrived close to us, he exclaimed, _wechapa_, striking himself on the breast, pointing to our company, and repeating the same phrase. We understood from this, that he wished to know who was our captain? We all pointed to my father, to whom the chief immediately advanced, and affectionately embracing him, invited us to enter his wigwam. We shouldered our rifles, and all followed this venerable looking man to his abode. There he had prepared several earthen dishes, in which the flesh of young and fat dogs was served up, but without salt or bread. We all sat down. The pipe was lit, and we, and the thirty Indians present began to smoke. While we were smoking, they used many gesticulations and signs, the {147} purport of which we could not make out, though, as they pointed often at us, we supposed we were the subjects of their gestures. The pipe was then taken away, and the chief arose, and stood in the centre of the circle which we formed by the manner in which we all sat around the fire. He then made a long harangue, and as we understood not a word, to us rather a tedious one. We took care to make as many gestures indicative of understanding it, as though we had comprehended every word. The oration finished, a large dish of the choice dog's flesh was set before us, and signs were made to us to eat. Having learned not to be delicate or disobliging to our savage host, we fell to work upon the ribs of the domestic barkers. When we had eaten to satisfaction, the chief arose, and puffing out his naked belly, and striking it with his hand, very significantly inquired by this sign, if we had eaten enough? When we had answered in the affirmative, by our mode of making signs, he then began to enquire of us, as we understood it, who we were, and from whence we came, and what was our business in that country? All this we interpreted, and replied to by signs as significant as we could imagine. He continued to enquire of us by signs, if we had met with no misfortunes on our journey, calling over the names of several Indian tribes in that part of the country, among which we distinctly recognized the name of the Umeas? When he mentioned this name, it was with such a lowering brow and fierce countenance as indicated clearly that he was at war with them. We responded to these marks of dislike by an equal show of detestation by making the gesture of seeming desirous to shoot at them, and with the bitterest look of anger that we could assume; making him understand that they had stolen our horses. He made signs of intelligence that he comprehended us, and made us sensible of his deep hatred, by giving us to understand that they had killed many of his people, and taken many more prisoners; and that he had retaliated by killing and taking as many Umeas. He pointed at the same time to two small children, and exclaimed Umea! We {148} pointed at them with our guns, and gave him to understand, that we had killed two of them. Some of our people had brought their scalps along. We gave them to him, and he, looking first towards us, and then fiercely at them, seemed to ask if these were the scalps of his enemies? To which we replied, yes.--He then seized the hair of the scalps with his teeth, and shook them, precisely as I have seen a dog any small game that it had killed. He then gave such a yell of delight, as collected all his people round him in a moment, and such rejoicing, yelling, and dancing ensued from both men and women, as I shall forbear to attempt to describe. Their deportment on this occasion was in fact much nearer bestial than human. They would leave the dance round the scalps in turn, to come and caress us, and then return and resume their dance. The remainder of this day and the ensuing night passed in being in some sense compelled to witness this spectacle. In the morning of the 28th, when we brought in the contents of our traps, we found we had taken twenty-eight beavers. When my father enquired this morning anew for the direction of the Spanish settlements, and how far they were distant, we could make out from the signs of the chief no information more exact than this. He still pointed to the west, and then back at us.--He then made a very tolerable imitation of the rolling and breaking of the surf on the sea shore. Below he drew a cow and a sheep. From this we were satisfied that there were Spanish settlements west of us; and our conclusion was, that they could not be very distant. At mid-day we bade these friendly Indians farewell, and resumed our slow progress of floating slowly down the stream, still setting our traps, whenever we found any indications of beavers. We met with no striking incident, and experienced no molestation until January 1st, 1828. On this day we once more received a shower of arrows from about fifty Indians of a tribe called Pipi, of whom we were cautioned to beware by the friendly Indians we had last left. I forgot at the time to mention the name of that people, when speaking of them, and {149} repeat it now. It is Cocopa.[96] When the Pipi fired upon us, we were floating near the middle of the river. We immediately commenced pulling for the opposite shore, and were soon out of the reach of their arrows, without any individual having been wounded. As soon as our crafts touched the shore, we sprang upon the bank, took fair aim, and showed them the difference between their weapons and ours, by levelling six of them. The remainder fell flat, and began to dodge and skulk on all fours, as though the heavens had been loaded with thunder and mill stones, which were about to rain on them from the clouds. We re-loaded our guns, and rowed over to the opposite, and now deserted shore. The fallen lay on the sand beach, some of them not yet dead. We found twenty three bows and the complement of arrows, most of them belonging to the fugitives. The bows are six feet in length, and made of a very tough and elastic kind of wood, which the Spaniards call _Tarnio_. They polish them down by rubbing them on a rough rock. The arrows are formed of a reed grass, and of the same length with their bows, with a foot of hard wood stuck in the end of the cavity of the reed, and a flint spike fitted on the end of it.--They have very large and erect forms, and black skins. Their long black hair floats in tresses down their backs, and to the termination of each tress is fastened a snail shell. In other respects their dress consists of their birth-day suit; in other words, they are perfectly naked. The river seems here to run upon a high ridge; for we can see from our crafts a great distance back into the country, which is thickly covered with musquito and other low and scrubby trees. The land is exceedingly marshy, and is the resort of numerous flocks of swans, and blue cranes. The rackoons are in such numbers, that they cause us to lose a great many beavers, by getting into our traps and being taken instead of the true game. They annoy us too by their squalling when they are taken. From the junction of the two rivers to this place, I judge to be about a hundred miles. We find the climate exceedingly warm, {150} and the beaver fur, in accommodation to the climate, is becoming short. We conclude, in consequence, that our trapping is becoming of less importance, and that it is our interest to push on faster to reach the settlements. A great many times every day we bring our crafts to shore, and go out to see if we cannot discover the tracks of horses and cattle. On the 18th, we first perceived that we had arrived on the back water of the tide; or rather we first attributed the deadness of the current to the entrance of some inundated river, swollen by the melting of the snow on the mountains. We puzzled our brains with some other theories, to account for the deadness of the current. This became so entirely still, that we began to rig our oars, concluding that instead of our hitherto easy progress of floating gently onward, we had henceforward to make our head-way down stream by dint of the machinery of our arms. We soon were thoroughly enlightened in regard to the slackness of the water. It began to run down again, and with the rapidity of six miles an hour; that is, double the ordinary current of the stream. We were all much surprised, for though I had seen the water of the Pacific at Ymus, none of us had ever felt the influence of the tides, or been in a craft on the ocean waters before. People of the same tribe, upon which we had recently fired, stood upon the shore, and called loudly to us as we passed, to come to land, making signs to us, that the motion of the water would capsize our crafts. They showed a great desire that we might come to shore, we had no doubt, that they might rob and murder us. We preserved such a distance from them, as to be out of the reach of their arrows, and had no intention to fire upon them. Had we wished for a shot, they were quite within rifle distance. We floated on, having had a beautiful evening's run, and did not come to land, until late; we then pitched our camp on a low point of land, unconscious, from our inexperience of the fact, that the water would return, and run up stream again. We made our canoes fast to some small trees, and all lay down to sleep, except my father, who took the first watch. He soon aroused us, and called on us all {151} to prepare for a gust of wind, and a heavy rain, which he thought betokened by a rushing noise he heard. We realized in a few moments, that it was the returning tide. Still, so strongly impressed were we, that a shower was approaching, that we made all the customary arrangements of preparation, by stretching our blankets to keep out the water from above. But our enemy assailed us from another quarter. Our camp was inundated from the river. We landsmen from the interior, and unaccustomed to such movements of the water, stood contemplating with astonishment the rush of the tide coming in from the sea, in conflict with the current of the river. At the point of conflict rose a high ridge of water, over which came the sea current, combing down like water over a mildam. We all sprang to our canoes, which the rush of the water had almost capsized, though we held the fasts with our hands. In twenty minutes the place where we lay asleep, and even our fire place was three feet under water, and our blankets were all afloat. We had some vague and general ideas of the nature of the tide, but its particular operations were as much unknown to us, as though we never had heard of it at all. In the consternation of our ignorance, we paddled our crafts, as well as we could, among the timber, not dreaming that in the course of a few hours, the water would fall again. As it was, we gathered up our floating blankets, got into our canoes, and held fast to the brushes, until the water fell again, leaving us and our canoes high and dry. We were now assailed by a new alarm, lest the Indians, taking advantage of this new position in which we were placed, would attack and murder us. In such apprehensions we passed the night, until the morning shone upon us with a bright and beautiful sun, which enabled us to dry all our wet things, and re-animated us with the confidence which springs from the view of a bright firmament and a free and full survey of our case. When the tide returned we got into our crafts, and descended with it, still expecting to find Spanish settlements. We continued in this way to descend, when the tide ran out, until the 28th, when the surf came up the {152} river so strong that we saw in a moment, that our crafts could not live, if we floated them into this tumultuous commotion of the water. Here we were placed in a new position, not the least disheartening or trying, among the painful predicaments, in which fortune had placed us. The fierce billows shut us in from below, the river current from above, and murderous savages upon either hand on the shore. We had a rich cargo of furs, a little independence for each one of us, could we have disposed of them, as we had hoped, among the Spanish people, whom we expected to have found here. There were no such settlements.--Every side on which we looked offered an array of danger, famine and death. In this predicament, what were furs to us? Our first thought was to commit our furs to the waters, and attempt to escape with our lives. Our second resolve was to ascend the river as far as we could, bury our furs, and start on foot for some settlement. We saw that the chances were greatly against us, that we should perish in the attempt; for the country yielded little to subsist on, and was full of Indians who are to the last degree savage and murderous, and whom nothing can subdue to kindness and friendship. We had no idea of ever putting ourselves in their power, as long as one of us could fire a pistol, or draw a knife. We now began to ascend with the tide, when it served us, and lay by when it ran down, until we arrived at the point where it ceased to flow. We then applied our oars, and with the help of setting-poles, and at times the aid of a cordelle, we stemmed the current at the rate of one, and sometimes two miles an hour, until the tenth of February, when we met a great rise of the river, and found the current so strong, that we had no power to stem it in any way. So we concluded to abandon our canoes, come to shore, bury our furs, and make our way across the peninsula to the coast of California, which we thought from the information of the Indians, could not be very distant. On the 16th, we completed the burying of our furs, and started on foot with our packs on our backs. The contents of these {153} packs were two blankets for each man, a considerable quantity of dried beaver meat, and a rifle with the ammunition. Our first day's journey was through a country to the last degree trying to our strength and patience. It was through the river bottom, which was thick set with low, scrubby brush, interwoven with tall grass, vines and creepers. The making our way through these was excessively slavish and fatiguing. We had a single alleviation. There was plenty of fresh water to drink. We were so fatigued at night, that sleep was irresistible. The weather was warm, and we kindled no fire, through fear of the savages. We started on the morning of the 18th, all complaining much of stiffness and soreness of our limbs. We had been unused to walking for a great length of time; and this commencement was a rude experiment of resuming the habit. At two in the afternoon, we reached the edge of a large salt plain, which runs parallel with the river. Here we struck a north west course, and travelled the remainder of this hot and fatiguing day without finding any water. We began to suffer severely from thirst. The earth, also, was so loose and sandy, that at every step we sank up to our ankles, the sun beaming down a fierce radiance the while; which made it seem as if the heavens and the earth were on fire. Our tongues became so parched, that not a particle of moisture flowed into our mouths. In this miserable and forlorn condition, abandoned by strength, courage and hope, we found some little alleviation of our misery, when the blaze of the sun was gone, and the cool night enabled us to throw down our weary and exhausted bodies under its dewy shade. We made an early start in the morning, and pushed on as men, as thirsty as we were, naturally would, in the hope of finding water, until two in the afternoon. What a sight of joy! I have no words to express our delight at the sight of a little lake before us. We sprang greedily to it. The water was salt, too salt to be drank! Not the slightest indication of any other water course, or any omen of fresh water was any where in view. Far in the distance a snow-covered mountain glittered in the {154} sun, and on the opposite shore of this salt lake, and at a distance of three or four miles from it, rose some hills of considerable height. We thought that from the summit of these hills we might possibly discover some water. We gathered dry flags, of which there was a great abundance about us, and made a kind of raft, on which each one of us put his pack, and swam the lake, pushing the little rafts that carried our packs, before us. The lake is about two hundred yards wide, and contains a great variety of fish. In length the lake stretches north and south, bounded on each shore with high, level and well timbered land, though apparently affording no fresh water. When we reached the west shore of the lake, we saw fresh Indian foot-prints in the sand. This assured us, that there was water at no great distance. One of our company and myself started and ascended the highest peak of the hills in our view. We were not long in descrying a smoke in the south, at the distance of about ten miles. This sight gave us great courage and hope; for we felt assured that there must be water between us and the Indian camp. In a moment we started back with a vigorous step, to inform our companions, who were resting themselves under the shade of a tree. The information re-animated them, as it had us. We all shouldered our packs with a degree of alacrity, and pushed on toward the smoke.--We arrived about three in the afternoon on a small mound, within a quarter of a mile of the Indians. We could distinctly number them, and found them between forty and fifty in number, and their women and children were with them. Here again was anxious ground of debate, what course we should pursue? should we attempt the long and uncertain course of conciliation, before the accomplishment of which we might perish with thirst? or should we rush among them, and buy the delicious element which we had full in view, at the hazard of our lives? Men as thirsty as we were, would be likely to fix upon the latter alternative, and we did so. We examined our arms to see that we were prepared to attack, or repel, according to circumstances, determined to fire upon them, if they {155} showed either a disposition for fight, or to keep us from the water. We were within a hundred and fifty yards of them before they perceived us. As soon as they saw us they all fled to the bushes, men, women and children, as though satan was behind them. We had no disposition to arrest them, but rushed forward to the water, and began to slake our burning thirst. My father immediately cautioned us against drinking too much, pointing out at the same time the hurtful consequences. But men have always proved themselves slow to resist their appetites at the command of their reason. Most of us overloaded our empty stomachs with water, and soon became as sick as death. After vomiting, however, we were relieved. My father told us that we had better stand to our arms; for that the Indians had probably only fled to hide their women and children, and prepare themselves to return and fight us. Scarcely had he finished these remarks, when we discovered them bearing down upon us, painted as black as a thunder cloud, and yelling like so many fiends. Some of them were armed with clubs, some with bows and arrows. We all arranged ourselves to receive them, behind the top of a large fallen tree. When they were within rifle shot, we made signs to them to halt, or that otherwise we should fire upon them. They comprehended us, halted and ceased yelling, as though they wished to hear what we had to say. We made signs that we were friendly. At this they gazed in apparent confusion of thought, and seemed to be questioning each other, touching the meaning of our signs. These signs we continued to repeat. At length one of them called aloud in Spanish, and asked us who we were? How delightful were these sounds! We answered _Americans_. They repeated the name, asking us if we were friendly and Christians? To these questions we made a ready affirmative. They then proposed a treaty with us. Nothing could be more agreeable to us. At the same time we perceived that only eight of their people came to us, and the remainder of their company kept back. These eight that seemed to be their chief {156} men, advanced to us, while the rest, with extreme anxiety painted upon their countenances, stood ready for action. We all sat down on the ground, and commenced talking. They enquired with great precision, who we were, whence we came, how we arrived here, what was our object, and whether we had met with any misfortunes? We answered these questions to their satisfaction; and soon the pipe was lit, and we commenced smoking. They then dug a hole in the ground, in which they buried their war axe, and professed to deposite all ill feelings with it. The Indian of their number, who spoke the Spanish language, was a fugitive from the Mission of St. Catherine.--Threatened with the punishment of some misdemeanor, he had fled from the establishment. After we had finished smoking, they asked us if the remainder of their number might not come and converse with us. This we objected to, unless they would bring their women and children with them. To this order they expressed great reluctance. This reluctance by no means tended to allay our previous jealousy of their pretended friendship. We asked them their reasons for being unwilling to bring their women and children? They answered promptly that they did not feel it safe to put their women and children in our power, until they were more acquainted with us. There seemed reason in this. We observed, that their men might come, provided they would leave their arms behind. To this they readily assented, and called out to their men to come on, leaving their arms behind. A part of them seemingly much delighted, threw down their arms and came on. The remainder equally dissatisfied, wheeled about, and walked moodily away. The new comers sat down in a circle round us. The pipe was again lit and circled round. Again the terms of the treaty were repeated, and they all expressed their satisfaction with them. They observed, that their head chief was absent, at the distance of two day's journey to the south, that in three or four days he would come and see us, desiring us to remain with them until he should come. Nothing could be more opportune for {157} us, for we were all excessively fatigued, and needed a few days rest. After this they went and brought their women and children, who, like the other Indians we had seen, were all stark naked. At first they were excessively shy of us. This shyness wore off, and in the course of the day changed to an eager curiosity to examine us, and an admiration of our red flannel shirts, and the white skin _under them_; for little show of whiteness was to be seen in our faces. They soon ventured close to us, and with their own hands opened our bosoms, uttering exclamations of curiosity and admiration, especially on feeling the softness of our skins, in comparison of theirs. They certainly seemed to prefer our complexion to theirs, notwithstanding it had not the stamp of their fashion. At length they made up to one of our companions, who was of a singularly light complexion, fair soft skin, and blue eyes. They wanted him to strip himself naked that they might explore him thoroughly, for they seemed to be doubtful of his being alike white in every part of his body. This, but as mildly as possible, he refused to do. They went off and brought a quantity of dried fish of excellent quality, and presented him. We persuaded him to oblige these curious and good natured women, by giving them a full view of his body. He was persuaded to strip to his skin. This delighted them, and they conversed and laughed among themselves, and they came one by one and stood beside him; so as to compare their bodies with his. After this, as long as we staid, they were constantly occupied in bringing us cooked fish and the vegetables and roots on which they are accustomed to feed. On the 25th, the head chief came. He was a venerable looking man, whom I judged to be about fifty years old. His countenance was thoughtful and serious, and his hair a little gray. At his return his people greeted him with an acclamation of yells, that made the wild desert echo. The pipe was lit, and we all sat down by him and smoked again. He was a man of but few words, but of sound judgment. After the smoking was finished, he asked us the same questions which had been asked us before. We {158} made him similar answers, adding, that we wanted to travel to the Spanish settlements and purchase horses, upon which we might ride home to our own country, and that we would pay him well if he would send some of his men to guide us to those settlements. He asked us in reply, what we had to give him? We showed him our blankets, and he expressed himself delighted with them, observing at the same time, that he would have preferred to have had red cloth. On this we pulled off our red shirts and stripped them into small pieces like ribbons, and distributed them among the people. They tied the strips round their legs, arms and heads, and seemed as much overjoyed with these small tatters of worn red flannel, as we should have been, to have brought our furs to a good market among our own people. In giving away our red shirts, we gave away, what in this warm climate was to us wholly unnecessary. To carry our blankets on our backs was a useless burden. We gave two of them to the chief. The two guides that he was to send with us we were to pay after our arrival at the Spanish settlements. These points of contract between us were settled to the mutual satisfaction of all. We started on the 26th, with our two guides, neither of whom could speak Spanish, and of course we had nothing to do but follow them in silence. We struck off a south west course, which led in the direction of the snow covered mountain, which still loomed up in its brightness before us. Our guides made signs that we should arrive at the foot about midnight, though the distance appeared to us to be too great to be travelled over in so short a time. We were yet to learn, that we should find no water, until we drank that of the melted snow. We perceived, however, that their travelling gait, worn as we were, was more rapid than ours. We pushed on as fast as we could a league further, when we were impeded by a high hill in our way, which was about another league to the summit, and very precipitous and steep. When we reached the top of it we were much exhausted, and began to be thirsty. We could then see the arid salt plain stretching all the way from the foot of this hill to the snow covered mountains. {159} We thought it inexpedient to enquire of our guides, if there was no water to be found between us and the mountain. It appeared but too probable, that such was the fact. To know it to a certainty, would only tend to unnerve and dishearten us. If there was any, we were aware that we should reach it by travelling no more distance than as if we knew the fact. We found it best to encourage the little hope that remained, and hurried on through the drifted sand, in which we sank up to our ankles at every step. The cloudless sun poured such a blaze upon it, that by the scorching of our feet, it might have seemed almost hot enough to roast eggs in. What with the fierce sun and the scorching sand, and our extreme fatigue, the air seemed soon to have extracted every particle of moisture from our bodies. In this condition we marched on until nearly the middle of the day, without descrying any indication of water in any quarter. A small shrubby tree stood in our way, affording a tolerable shade. We laid ourselves down to get a few minutes rest. The Indians sternly beckoned us to be up and onward, now for the first time clearly explaining to us, that there was no water until we reached the mountains in view. This unseasonable and yet necessary information, extinguished the last remainder of our hope, and we openly expressed our fears that we should none of us ever reach it. We attempted to chew tobacco. It would raise no moisture. We took our bullets in our mouths, and moved them round to create a moisture, to relieve our parched throats. We had travelled but a little farther before our tongues had became so dry and swollen, that we could scarcely speak so as to be understood. In this extremity of nature, we should, perhaps, have sunk voluntarily, had not the relief been still in view on the sides of the snow covered mountains. We resorted to one expedient to moisten our lips, tongue and throat, disgusting to relate, and still more disgusting to adopt. In such predicaments it has been found, that nature disburdens people of all conditions of ceremony and disgust. Every thing bends to the devouring thirst, and the love of life. The application of this {160} hot and salt liquid seemed rather to enrage than appease the torturing appetite. Though it offered such a semblance of what would satisfy thirst, that we economized every particle. Our amiable Dutchman was of a sweetness of temper, that was never ruffled, and a calmness and patience that appeared proof against all events. At another time, what laughter would have circulated through our camp, to hear him make merry of this expedient! As it was, even in this horrible condition, a faint smile circulated through our company, as he discussed his substitute for drink. 'Vell, mine poys, dis vater of mein ish more hotter as hell, und as dick as boudden, und more zalter as de zeas. I can't drink him. For Cod's sake, gif me some of yours, dat is more tinner.' Having availed ourselves to the utmost of this terrible expedient, we marched on in company a few miles further. Two of our companions here gave out, and lay down under the shade of a bush. Their tongues were so swollen, and their eyes so sunk in their heads, that they were a spectacle to behold. We were scarcely able, from the condition of our own mouths, to bid them an articulate farewell. We never expected to see them again, and none of us had much hope of ever reaching the mountain, which still raised its white summit at a great distance from us. It was with difficulty that we were enabled to advance one foot before the other. Our limbs, our powers, even our very resolutions seemed palsied. A circumstance that added to our distress, was the excessive and dazzling brightness of the sun's rays, so reflected in our eyes from the white sand that we were scarcely able to see our way before us, or in what direction to follow our guides. They, accustomed to go naked, and to traverse these burning deserts, and be unaffected by such trials, appeared to stand the heat and drought, like camels on the Arabian sands. They, however, tried by their looks and gestures to encourage us, and induce us to quicken our pace. But it was to no purpose. However, we still kept moving onward, and had gained a few miles more, when night brought us shelter at least from the insupportable radiance of the sun, and something of coolness and moisture. {161} But it was so dark, that neither we or our guides could discover the course. We stopped, and made a large fire, that our companions, if yet living, and able to move, might see where we were, and how to direct their own course to reach us. We also fired some guns, which, to our great relief and pleasure, they answered by firing off theirs. We still repeated firing guns at intervals, until they came up with us. They supposed that we had found water, which invigorated their spirits to such a degree, that it aroused them to the effort they had made. When they had arrived, and found that we had reached no water, they appeared to be angry, and to complain that we had disturbed their repose with false hopes, and had hindered their dying in peace. One of them in the recklessness of despair, drew from his package a small phial, half full of laudanum, and drank it off, I suppose in the hope of sleeping himself quietly to death. We all expected it would have that effect. On the contrary, in a few moments he was exhilarated, like a man in a state of intoxication. He was full of talk, and laughter, and gaiety of heart. He observed, that he had taken it in hopes that it would put him to sleep, never to wake again, but that in fact, it had made him as well, and as fresh, as in the morning when he started; but that if he had imagined that it would prove such a sovereign remedy for thirst, he would cheerfully have shared it with us. We scraped down beneath the burning surface of the sand, until we reached the earth that was a little cool. We then stripped off all our clothing and lay down. Our two Indians, also lay down beside us, covering themselves with their blankets. My father bade me lay on the edge of one of their blankets, so that they could not get up without awakening me. He was fearful that they would arise, and fly from us in the night. I implicitly conformed to my father's wish, for had this event happened, we should all undoubtedly have perished. But the Indians appear to have meditated no such expedient, at any rate, they lay quiet until morning. As soon as there was light enough to enable us to travel we started, much refreshed by the coolness of the night, and the {162} sleep we had taken. We began our morning march with renewed alacrity. At about ten in the forenoon we arrived at the foot of a sand hill about a half a mile in height, and very steep. The side was composed of loose sand, which gave way under our feet, so that our advancing foot steps would slide back to their former places. This soon exhausted our little remaining strength; though we still made many an unavailing effort to ascend. The sun was now so high, as to beam upon us with the same insufferable radiance of yesterday. The air which we inhaled, seemed to scald our lungs. We at length concluded to travel towards the north, to reach, if we might, some point where the hill was not so steep to ascend. At two in the afternoon we found a place that was neither so steep nor so high, and we determined here to attempt to cross the hill. With great exertions and infinite difficulty, a part of us gained the summit of the hill; but my father and another of our company, somewhat advanced in years, gave out below, though they made the most persevering efforts to reach the summit of the hill with the rest. Age had stiffened their joints, and laid his palsying hand upon their once active limbs, and vigorous frames. They could endure this dreadful journey no longer. They had become so exhausted by fruitless efforts to climb the hill, that they could no longer drag one foot after the other. They had each so completely abandoned the hope of ever reaching the water, or even gaining the summit of the hill, that they threw themselves on the ground, apparently convinced of their fate, and resigned to die. I instantly determined to remain with my father, be it for life or death. To this determination he would by no means consent, as he remarked it would bring my destruction, without its availing him. On the contrary, he insisted, that I should go on with the rest, and if I found any water near at hand, that I should return with my powder horn full. In this way he assured me, I might be instrumental in saving my own life, and saving him at the same time. To this I consented, and with much fatigue gained the summit of the hill, where my companions were seated waiting for us. They seemed undetermined, {163} whether to advance onward, or wait for my father, until I related his determination. My purpose was to proceed onward only so far, as that, if the Almighty should enable us to reach water, I might be able to return with a powder horn full to him and Mr. Slover, (for that was the name of the elderly companion that remained with him.) This resolution was agreed to by all, as a proper one. Being satisfied by our consciences as well as by the reasoning of my father and his companion, that we could render them no service by remaining with them, except to increase their sufferings by a view of ours; and aware, that every moment was precious, we pushed on once more for the mountain. Having descended this hill, we ascended another of the same wearying ascent, and sandy character with the former. We toiled on to the top of it. The Eternal Power, who hears the ravens when they cry, and provideth springs in the wilderness, had had mercy upon us! Imagine my joy at seeing a clear, beautiful running stream of water, just below us at the foot of the hill! Such a blissful sight I had never seen before, and never expect to see again. We all ran down to it, and fell to drinking. In a few moments nothing was to be heard among us, but vomiting and groaning. Notwithstanding our mutual charges to be cautious, we had overcharged our parched stomachs with this cold snow water. [Illustration: Messrs. Pattie and Slover rescued from Famish] Notwithstanding I was sick myself, I emptied my powder horn of its contents, filled it with water, and accompanied by one companion, who had also filled his powder horn, I returned towards my father and Mr. Slover, his exhausted companion, with a quick step. We found them in the same position in which we had left them, that is, stretched on the sand at full length, under the unclouded blaze of the sun, and both fast asleep; a sleep from which, but for our relief, I believe they would neither of them ever have awakened. Their lips were black, and their parched mouths wide open. Their unmoving posture and their sunken eyes so resembled death, that I ran in a fright to my father, thinking him, for a moment, really dead. But he easily awakened, and drank the refreshing water. My companion {164} at the same time bestowed his horn of water upon Mr. Slover. In the course of an hour they were both able to climb the hill, and some time before dark we rejoined the remainder of our company. They had kindled a large fire, and all seemed in high spirits. As for our two Indians, they were singing, and dancing, as it seemed to us, in a sort of worship of thankfulness to the Great Spirit, who had led them through so much peril and toil to these refreshing waters. We roasted some of our beaver meat, and took food for the first time in forty-eight hours, that is to say, from the time we left our Indian friends, until we reached this water. Our Dutchman insisted that the plain over which we passed, should be named the devil's plain, for he insisted, that it was more hotter as hell, and that none but teyvils could live upon it. In fact, it seemed a more fitting abode for fiends, than any living thing that belongs to our world. During our passage across it, we saw not a single bird, nor the track of any quadruped, or in fact any thing that had life, not even a sprig, weed or grass blade, except a single shrubby tree, under which we found a little shade. This shrub, though of some height, resembled a prickly pear, and was covered thick with thorns. The prickly pears were in such abundance, that we were often, dazzled as our eyes were with the sun's brightness, puzzled to find a path so as neither to torment our feet or our bodies with the thorns of these hated natives of the burning sands. This very extensive plain, the Sahara of California, runs north and south, and is bounded on each side by high barren mountains, some of which are covered with perpetual snow. On the 28th, we travelled up this creek about three miles, and killed a deer, which much delighted our two Indian guides. At this point we encamped for the night. Here are abundance of palm trees and live oaks, and considerable of mascal. We remained until the 3d of March, when we marched up this creek, which heads to the south, forming a low gap in the mountain. On the 7th, we arrived at the point, and found some of the Christian Indians from the Mission of St. Catharine. They were roasting mascal and the tender inside heads of the {165} palm trees for food, which, when prepared and cooked after their fashion, becomes a very agreeable food. From these Indians we learned that we were within four days' travel of the mission mentioned above. Here we concluded to discharge our guides, and travel into the settlement with the Christian Indians. We gave them each a blanket, and they started back to their own people on the morning of the 8th. At the same time we commenced our journey with our new guides, and began to climb the mountain. This is so exceedingly lofty, as to require two days' travel and a half to gain its summit. During this ascent, I severely bruised my heel. We none of us wore any thing to shield our feet from the bare and sharp rocks, which composed almost the whole surface of this ascent, but thin deer skin moccasins. Obliged to walk on tip toe, and in extreme anguish, the severe fatigue of scrambling up sharp stones was any thing, rather than agreeable. But I summoned patience and courage to push on until the 12th. My leg then became so swollen and inflamed that it was out of my power to travel farther. The pain was so severe as to create fever. I lay myself down on the side of a sharp rock, resigning myself to my fate, and determined to make no effort to travel further, until I felt relieved. My companions all joined with my father, in encouraging me to rise, and make an effort to reach the mission, which they represented to be but three miles distant. It was out of the question for me to think of it, and they concluded to go to the settlement, and obtain a horse, and send out for me. I kindled me a fire, for I suffered severe chills. The Indians gave me the strictest caution against allowing myself to go to sleep in their absence. The reason they assigned for their caution was a substantial one. The grizzly bear, they said, was common on these mountains, and would attack and devour me, unless I kept on my guard. I paid little attention to their remarks at the time. But when they were gone, and I was left alone, I examined the priming, and picked the flints of my gun and pistol. I then lay down and slept, until sometime in the early part of the night, when {166} two Indians came out from the settlement, and informed me that the corporal of the guards at St. Catharines[97] wished me to come in. Being feverish, stiff, sore and withal testy, I gave them and their corporal no very civil words. They said that the corporal only wanted me to come in, because he was afraid the grizzly bears would kill me. I asked them why they did not bring a horse for me? They informed me, that the Mission had none at disposal at that time, but that they would carry me on their backs. So I was obliged to avail myself of this strange conveyance, and mounted the back of one of them while the other carried my arms. In this way they carried me in, where I found my companions in a guard house. I was ordered to enter with them by a swarthy looking fellow, who resembled a negro, rather than a white. I cannot describe the indignation I felt at this revolting breach of humanity to people in suffering, who had thrown themselves on the kindness and protection of these Spaniards. We related the reasons why we had come in after this manner. We showed them our passport, which certified to them, that we were neither robbers, murderers, nor spies. To all this their only reply was, how should they know whether we had come clandestinely, and with improper views, or not? Against this question, proposed by such people, all reasonings were thrown away.--The cowardly and worthless are naturally cruel. We were thrown completely in their power; and instead of that circumstance exciting any generous desires to console and relieve us, their only study seemed to be to vex, degrade, and torment us. Here we remained a week, living on corn mush, which we received once a day; when a guard of soldiers came to conduct us from this place. This mission is situated in a valley, surrounded by high mountains, with beautiful streams of water flowing from them. The natives raise sufficient corn and wheat to serve for the subsistence of the mission. The mission establishment is built in a quadrangular form; all the houses forming the quadrangle contiguous to each other; and one of the angles is a large church, adjoining which are the habitations of {167} the priests; though at this time there happened to be none belonging to this at home. The number of Indians belonging to the mission at this time, was about five hundred. They were destitute of stock, on account of its having been plundered from them by the free, wild Indians of the desert. The air is very cool and temperate, and hard frosts are not uncommon. This cool temperature of the atmosphere I suppose to be owing to the immediate proximity of the snowy mountains. On the 18th, we started under the conduct of a file of soldiers, who led us two days' travel, over very high mountains, a south west course, to another mission, called St. Sebastian, situated near the sea coast, in a delightful valley, surrounded, like the other, by lofty mountains, the sides of which present magnificent views of the ocean. This mission contains six hundred souls. This mission establishment, though much richer and neater than the other, is, however, built on a precisely similar plan. Here they have rich vineyards, and raise a great variety of the fruits of almost all climates. They also raise their own supplies of grain, and have a tolerable abundance of stock, both of the larger and smaller kinds. A serjeant has the whole military command. We found him of a dark and swarthy complexion, though a man of tolerable information. He seemed disposed to conduct towards us with some courtesy and kindness. He saluted us with politeness, conducted us to the guard house, and begged us to content ourselves, as well as we could, until he could make some more satisfactory arrangements for our comfort and convenience. To put him to the proof of his professed kindness, we told him that we were very hungry. They soon had a poor steer killed, that reeled as it walked, and seemed sinking by natural decay. A part of the blue flesh was put boiling in one pot, and a parcel of corn in the other. The whole process reminded me strongly of the arrangements which we make in Kentucky, to prepare a mess for a diseased cow. When this famous feast was cooked, we were marched forth into the yard, in great ceremony, to eat it. All the men, women and children clustered round us, and {168} stood staring at us while we were eating, as though they had been at a menagerie to see some wild and unknown animals.--When we were fairly seated to our pots, and began to discuss the contents, disgusted alike with the food, with them, and their behaviour, we could not forbear asking them whether they really took us to be human beings, or considered us as brutes? They looked at each other a moment, as if to reflect and frame an answer, and then replied coolly enough, that not being Christians, they considered us little superior to brutes. To this we replied, with a suitable mixture of indignation and scorn, that we considered ourselves better Christians than they were, and that if they did not give us something to eat more befitting men, we would take our guns, live where we pleased, and eat venison and other good things, where we chose. This was not mere bravado, for, to our astonishment, we were still in possession of our arms. We had made no resistance to their treating us as prisoners, as we considered them nothing more than petty and ignorant officers, whom we supposed to have conducted improperly, from being unacquainted with their duty. We were all confident, that as soon as intelligence of our arrival should reach the commanding officer of this station, and how we had been detained, and treated as prisoners, we should not only be released from prison, but recompensed for our detention. This determination of ours appeared to alarm them. The information of our menaces, no doubt with their own comments, soon reached the serjeant. He immediately came to see us, while we were yet at our pots, and enquired of us, what was our ground of complaint and dissatisfaction? We pointed to the pots, and asked him if he thought such food becoming the laws of hospitality to such people? He stepped up to the pots, and turning over the contents, and examining them with his fingers, enquired in an angry tone, who had served up such food to us? He added, that it was not fit to give a dog, and that he would punish those who had procured it. He comforted us, by assuring us that we should have something fit to eat cooked for us. We immediately returned quietly to the guard house. But a {169} short time ensued before he sent us a good dish of fat mutton, and some tortillas. This was precisely the thing our appetites craved, and we were not long in making a hearty meal. After we had fed to our satisfaction, he came to visit us, and interrogated us in what manner, and with what views we had visited the country? We went into clear, full and satisfactory details of information in regard to every thing that could have any interest to him, as an officer; and told him that our object was to purchase horses, on which we might return to our own country; and that we wished him to intercede in our behalf with the commander in chief, that we might have permission to purchase horses and mules among them, for this purpose. He promised to do this, and returned to his apartment. The amount of his promise was, that he would reflect upon the subject, and in the course of four days write to his commander, from whom he might expect an answer in a fortnight.--When we sounded him as to the probability of such a request being granted, he answered with apparent conviction, that he had no doubt that it would be in our favor. As our hopes were intensely fixed upon this issue, we awaited this answer with great anxiety. The commander at this time was at the port of San Diego. During this period of our suspense, we had full liberty to hunt deer in the woods, and gather honey from the blossoms of the Mascal, which grows plentifully on the sea shore. Every thing in this strange and charming country being new, we were continually contemplating curiosities of every sort, which quieted our solicitude, and kept alive the interest of our attention. We used to station ourselves on the high pinnacles of the cliffs, on which this vast sea pours its tides, and the retreating or advancing tide showed us the strange sea monsters of that ocean, such as seals, sea otters, sea elephants, whales, sharks, sword fish, and various other unshapely sea dwellers. Then we walked on the beach, and examined the infinite variety of sea shells, all new and strange to us. Thus we amused ourselves, and strove to kill the time until the 20th, when the answer of the commander arrived, which {170} explained itself at once, by a guard of soldiers, with orders to conduct us to the port of San Diego, where he then resided. We were ordered to be in immediate readiness to start for that port. This gave us unmingled satisfaction, for we had an undoubting confidence, that when we should really have attained the presence of an officer whom we supposed a gentleman, and acting independently of the authority of others, he would make no difficulty in granting a request so reasonable as ours. We started on the 2d, guarded by sixteen soldiers and a corporal. They were all on horseback, and allowed us occasionally to ride, when they saw us much fatigued. Our first day's journey was a north course, over very rough mountains, and yet, notwithstanding this, we made twenty-five miles distance on our way. At night we arrived at another mission, situated like the former, on a charming plain. The mission is called St. Thomas.[98] These wise and holy men mean to make sure of the rich and pleasant things of the earth, as well as the kingdom of heaven. They have large plantations, with splendid orchards and vineyards. The priest who presides over this establishment, told me that he had a thousand Indians under his care. During every week in the year, they kill thirty beeves for the subsistence of the mission. The hides and tallow they sell to vessels that visit their coast, in exchange for such goods as they need. On the following morning, we started early down this valley, which led us to the sea shore, along which we travelled the remainder of the day. This beautiful plain skirts the sea shore, and extends back from it about four miles. This was literally covered with horses and cattle belonging to the mission. The eye was lost beyond this handsome plain in contemplating an immeasurable range of mountains, which we were told thronged with wild horses and cattle, which often descend from their mountains to the plains, and entice away the domesticated cattle with them. The wild oats and clover grow spontaneously, and in great luxuriance, and were now knee high. In the evening we arrived at the port of Todos Santos, and there passed the night. Early on the 23d, we marched on. This day we {171} travelled over some tracts that were very rough, and arrived at a mission situated immediately on the sea board, called St. Michael.[99] Like the rest, it was surrounded with splendid orchards, vineyards and fields; and was, for soil, climate and position, all that could be wished. The old superintending priest of the establishment showed himself very friendly, and equally inquisitive. He invited us to sup with him, an invitation we should not be very likely to refuse. We sat down to a large table, elegantly furnished with various dishes of the country, all as usual highly seasoned. Above all, the supply of wines was various and abundant. The priest said grace at the close, when fire and cigars were brought in by the attendants, and we began to smoke. We sat and smoked, and drank wine, until 12 o'clock. The priest informed us that the population of his mission was twelve hundred souls, and the weekly consumption, fifty beeves, and a corresponding amount of grain. The mission possessed three thousand head of domesticated and tamed horses and mules. From the droves which I saw in the plains, I should not think this an extravagant estimation. In the morning he presented my father a saddle mule, which he accepted, and we started. This day's travel still carried us directly along the verge of the sea shore, and over a plain equally rich and beautiful with that of the preceding day. We amused ourselves with noting the spouting of the huge whales, which seemed playing near the strand for our especial amusement. We saw other marine animals and curiosities to keep our interest in the journey alive. In the evening we arrived at a Ranch, called Buenos Aguos, or Good Water, where we encamped for the night. We started early on the 25th, purchasing a sheep of a shepherd, for which we paid him a knife. At this Ranch they kept thirty thousand head of sheep, belonging to the mission which we had left. We crossed a point of the mountain that made into the water's edge. On the opposite side of this mountain was another Ranch, where we staid the night. This Ranch is for the purposes of herding horses and cattle, of which {172} they have vast numbers. On the 26th, our plain lay outstretched before us as beautiful as ever. In the evening we came in sight of San Diego, the place where we were bound.[100] In this port was one merchant vessel, which we were told was from the United States, the ship Franklin, of Boston. We had then arrived within about a league of the port. The corporal who had charge of us here, came and requested us to give up our arms, informing us, it was the customary request to all strangers; and that it was expected that our arms would be deposited in the guard house before we could speak with the commander, or general. We replied, that we were both able and disposed to carry our arms to the guard house ourselves, and deposite them there if such was our pleasure, at our own choice. He replied that we could not be allowed to do this, for that we were considered as prisoners, and under his charge; and that he should become responsible in his own person, if he should allow us to appear before the general, bearing our own arms. This he spoke with a countenance of seriousness, which induced us to think that he desired no more in this request than the performance of his duty. We therefore gave him up our rifles, not thinking that this was the last time we should have the pleasure of shouldering these trusty friends. Having unburdened ourselves of our defence, we marched on again, and arrived, much fatigued, at the town at 3 o'clock in the evening. Our arms were stacked on the side of the guard house, and we threw our fatigued bodies as near them as we could, on the ground. An officer was dispatched to the general to inform him of our arrival, and to know whether we could have an immediate audience or not? In a short time the officer returned with an answer for us, that we must remain where we were until morning, when the general would give us a hearing. We were still sanguine in seeing only omens of good. We forgot our past troubles, opened our bosom to hope, and resigned ourselves to profound sleep. It is true, innumerable droves of fleas performed their evolutions, and bit all their pleasure upon our bodies.--{173} But so entire was our repose, that we scarcely turned for the night. No dreams of what was in reserve for us the following day floated across our minds; though in the morning my body was as spotted as though I had the measles, and my shirt specked with innumerable stains of blood, let by the ingenious lancets of these same Spanish fleas. On the 27th, at eight A.M., we were ushered into the general's office, with our hats in our hands, and he began his string of interrogations. The first question was, who we were? We answered, Americans. He proceeded to ask us, how we came on the coast, what was our object, and had we a passport? In answer to these questions we again went over the story of our misfortunes. We then gave him the passport which we had received from the governor of Santa Fe. He examined this instrument, and with a sinister and malicious smile, observed, that he believed nothing of all this, but considered us worse than thieves and murderers; in fact, that he held us to be spies for the old Spaniards, and that our business was to lurk about the country, that we might inspect the weak and defenceless points of the frontiers, and point them out to the Spaniards, in order that they might introduce their troops into the country; but that he would utterly detect us, and prevent our designs.--This last remark he uttered with a look of vengeance; and then reperused the passport, which he tore in pieces, saying, it was no passport, but a vile forgery of our own contrivance. Though amazed and confounded at such an unexpected charge, we firmly asserted our innocence in regard to any of the charges brought against us. We informed him that we were born and bred thorough and full blooded republicans; and that there was not a man of us who would not prefer to die, rather than to be the spies and instruments of the Spanish king, or any other king; and that but a few years since, we had all been engaged in fighting the forces of a king, allied with savages, and sent against the country of our home; and that on this very expedition we had been engaged in a great many battles with the Indians, hostile to his people, redeeming their captives, {174} and punishing their robberies and murders. In distress, and in want of every thing from the robbery of these hostile Indians, we had taken refuge in his country, and claimed its protection. We told him we considered it an unworthy return for such general deportment, and such particular services to their country, that we should be viewed as spies, and treated as prisoners. He stopped us in the midst of our plea, apparently through fear that representations, which must have carried conviction to his prejudiced mind, might tend to soften his obdurate heart, and unnerve his purpose towards us. He told us he did not wish to hear any more of our long speeches, which he considered no better than lies; for that if we had been true and bona fide citizens of the United States, we should not have left our country without a passport, and the certificate of our chief magistrate. We replied that the laws of our country did not require that honest, common citizens, should carry passports; that it did not interfere with the individual business and pursuits of private individuals; that such persons went abroad and returned unnoted by the government; and in all well regulated states, sufficiently protected by the proof that they were citizens of the United States; but that there were in our country two classes of people, for whom passports were necessary, slaves and soldiers; that for the slave it was necessary to have one, to certify that he was travelling with the knowledge and permission of his master; and for the soldier, to show that he was on furlough, or otherwise abroad with the permission of his officer. As we spoke this with emphasis, and firmness, he told us that he had had enough of our falsehoods, and begged us to be quiet. He ordered us to be remanded to our prison, and was immediately obeyed. As we were driven out of his office, my father, who was exceedingly exasperated, observed, 'my boys, as soon as we arrive in the guard house, let us seize our arms and redress ourselves, or die in the attempt; for it seems to me that these scoundrels mean to murder us.' We all unanimously agreed to this advice, and walked back with a willing mind, and an alert step. {175} But our last hope of redressing ourselves, and obtaining our liberty was soon extinguished. On entering the guard house, our arms had been removed we knew not where. They had even the impudence to search our persons and to take from us even our pocket knives. The orderly sergeant then told us, that he was under the necessity of placing us in separate apartments. This last declaration seemed the death stroke to us all. Affliction and mutual suffering and danger had endeared us to each other, and this separation seemed like rending our hearts. Overcome by the suddenness of the blow, I threw my arms round the neck of my father, burst into tears, and exclaimed, 'that I foresaw, that the parting would be forever.' Though my father seemed subdued, and absorbed in meditation, he reproved this expression of my feelings, as weak and unmanly. The sergeant having observed my grief, asked me, pointing to him, if that was my father? When he learned that it was, he showed himself in some degree affected, and remarked, that it seemed cruel to separate father and child, and that he would go and explain the relationship to the general, and see if he could not obtain permission for us to remain together. On this he set off for the general's office, leaving me in the agony of suspense, and the rest gazing at each other in mute consternation and astonishment. The sergeant returned, informing me, that instead of being softened, the general had only been exasperated, and had in nothing relaxed his orders, which were, that we must immediately be put in separate confinement. He accordingly ordered some soldiers to assist in locking us up. We embraced each other, and followed our conductors to our separate prisons. I can affirm, that I had only wished to live, to sustain the increasing age and infirmities of my father. When I shook hands with him, and we were torn in sunder, I will say nothing of my feelings, for words would have no power to describe them. As I entered my desolate apartment, the sergeant seemed really affected, and assured me, that neither my companions nor myself should suffer any want of food or drink, as far as he could prevent it, for that he did not consider us guilty, nor worthy of such treatment. {176} My prison was a cell eight or ten feet square, with walls and floor of stone. A door with iron bars an inch square crossed over each other, like the bars of window sashes, and it grated on its iron hinges, as it opened to receive me. Over the external front of this prison was inscribed in capital letters _Destinacion de la Cattivo_. Our blankets were given us to lie upon. My father had a small package of medicines which he gave in charge to the sergeant, binding him on his word of honor not to part with it to any one. My door was locked, and I was left to reflect upon our position and my past misfortunes; and to survey the dreary walls of my prison. Here, I thought, was my everlasting abode. Liberty is dear to every one, but doubly dear to one, who had been from infancy accustomed to free range, and to be guided by his own will. Put a man, who has ranged the prairies, and exulted in the wilderness, as I have for years, in a prison, to let him have a full taste of the blessings of freedom, and the horror of shackles and confinement! I passed the remainder of the day in fierce walking backwards and forwards over my stone floor, with no object to contemplate, but my swarthy sentinel, through the grate. He seemed to be true to his office, and fitly selected for his business, for I thought I saw him look at me through the grate with the natural exultation and joy of a bad and malicious heart in the view of misery. When the darkness of night came to this dreary place, it was the darkness of the grave. Every ray of light was extinct. I spread my blankets on the stone floor, in hopes at least to find, for a few hours, in the oblivion of sleep, some repose from the agitation of my thoughts. But in this hope I was disappointed. With every other friend and solace, sleep too, fled from me. My active mind ranged every where, and returned only to unavailing efforts to imagine the condition and feelings of my father and what would be our ultimate fate. I shut my eyes by an effort, but nature would have her way, and the eyelids would not close. At length a glimmer of daylight, through my grate, relieved this long and painful effort to sleep. I arose, went to my grate, {177} and took all possible survey of what I could see. Directly in front of it was the door of the general's office, and he was standing in it. I gazed on him awhile. Ah! that I had had but my trusty rifle well charged to my face! Could I but have had the pleasure of that single shot, I think I would have been willing to have purchased it by my life. But wishes are not rifle balls, and will not kill. The church bell told eight in the morning. The drum rolled. A soldier came, and handed me in something to eat. It proved to be dried beans and corn cooked with rancid tallow! The contents were about a pint. I took it up, and brought it within the reach of my nostrils, and sat it down in unconquerable loathing. When the soldier returned in the evening to bring me more, I handed him my morning ration untasted and just as it was. He asked me in a gruff tone why I had not eaten it? I told him the smell of it was enough, and that I could not eat it. He threw the contents of the dish in my face, muttering something which amounted to saying, that it was good enough for such a brute as I was. To this I answered, that if being a brute gave claims upon that dish, I thought he had best eat it himself. On this he flung away in a passion, and returned no more that night, for which I was not sorry. Had the food even been fit to eat, my thoughts were too dark and my mind too much agitated to allow me appetite. In fact, I felt myself becoming sick. At night I was visited by the serjeant, who asked me about my health and spirits in a tone and manner, that indicated real kindness of feeling. I trusted in the reality of his sympathy, and told him, I was not well. He then questioned me, if I had eaten any thing? I told him no, and explained to him the double reason, why I had eaten nothing. He answered that he would remove one of the causes, by sending me something good. I then asked him if he had seen my father? He said he had, though he had been unable to hold any conversation with him, for want of his understanding Spanish. I thanked him for this manifestation of friendship, and he left me. In a {178} short time he returned with two well cooked and seasoned dishes. I begged him to take it first to my father, and when he had eaten what he wished, he might bring the remainder to me, and I would share it among my companions. He assured me that my father was served with the same kind of food, and that my companions should not be forgotten in the distribution. While I was eating, he remained with me, and asked me, if I had a mother, and brothers, and sisters in my own country? My heart was full, as I answered him. He proceeded to question me, how long it had been since I had seen them or heard from them, and in what I had been occupied, during my long absence from my country? My misfortunes appeared to affect him. When I had finished eating, he enquired how I had passed the preceding night? In all his questions, he displayed true humanity and tenderness of heart. When he left me, he affectionately wished me good night. This night passed as sleepless and uncomfortable as the preceding one. Next day the kind serjeant brought my dinner again, though from anxiety and growing indisposition I was unable to eat. At night he came again with my supper, and to my surprise accompanied by his sister, a young lady of great personal beauty. Her first enquiry was that of a kind and affectionate nature, and concerned my father. She enquired about my age, and all the circumstances that induced me to leave my country? I took leave to intimate in my answer, my extreme anxiety to see my relatives, and return to my country, and in particular, that it was like depriving me of life, in this strange land, and in prison, to separate me from my old and infirm father. She assured me that she would pray for our salvation, and attempt to intercede with the general in our behalf, and that while we remained in prison, she would allow us to suffer nothing, which her power, means or influence could supply. She then wished me a good night, and departed. I know not what is the influence of the ministration of a kind spirit, like hers, but this night my sleep was sound and dreamless. She frequently repeated these kind visits, and redeemed to the letter all her pledges of kindness. For I suffered for nothing {179} in regard to food or drink. A bed was provided for me, and even a change of clothing. This undeviating kindness greatly endeared her to me. About this time, Captain John Bradshaw, of the ship Franklin, and Rufus Perkins, his supercargo, asked leave of the general, to come and visit us. The general denied them. But Captain Bradshaw, like a true hearted American, disregarded the little brief authority of this miserable republican despot, and fearless of danger and the consequences, came to see me without leave. When I spoke to him about our buried furs, he asked me about the chances and the means we had to bring them in? And whether we were disposed to make the effort, and if we succeeded, to sell them to him? The prisoners, as he separately applied to them, one and all assured him, that nothing would give them more pleasure. He assured us, that he would leave nothing in his power undone, in making efforts to deliver us from our confinement. We thanked him for this proffered friendship, and he departed. His first efforts in our favor were directed to gaining the friendship of the general, in order to soften his feelings in regard to us. But in this he entirely failed. He then adopted an innocent stratagem, which was more successful. He informed the general that he had business with a Spanish merchant in port, which he could not transact for want of some one who could speak the language fluently, who would interpret for him, that he understood that one of the American prisoners could speak the language perfectly well, and that if he would allow that prisoner to come and interpret for him a few hours, he would bind himself in a bond to any amount, that the prisoner at the expiration of his services, would return voluntarily to his prison. To this the general gave his consent. Captain Bradshaw came to my prison, and I was permitted by the general's order to leave my prison. When I went abroad, Captain Bradshaw conducted me to the office of an old captain, who had charge of the arms. We begged him to intercede with the general to obtain his permission, that we might go out and bring in our furs. We informed {180} him, that Captain Bradshaw and the supercargo, Rufus Perkins, would be our security in any amount, that the general was disposed to name, that we would return, and surrender ourselves to him, at the close of the expedition. He was at once satisfied of our honor and integrity, and that we were by no means those spies, whom the general took us for, and he promised to use all his influence with the general, to persuade him to dispatch us for our furs. We assured him, that in addition to our other proofs, that we were bonafide Americans, and true republicans, we had documents under the proper signature of the President of the United States, which we hoped, would be sufficient to satisfy him, and every one, who we were. He asked to see those papers, of which I spoke. I told him they were my father's commission of first lieutenant in the ranging service, during the late war with England, and an honorable discharge at the close of the war. He promised to communicate this information to the general, and departed, proposing to return in half an hour. During this interval, we walked to my father's cell, and I had the satisfaction of speaking with him through the grates. He asked me if I had been visited by a beautiful young lady? When I assented, he replied, that this charming young woman, as a ministering angel, had also visited his cell with every sort of kindness and relief, which she had extended to each one of our companions. I had the satisfaction afterwards, of speaking with each one of our companions. I need not add, how much delighted we were to speak with one another once more. From these visits I returned to the office of the captain of arms. We found him waiting with the most painful intelligence. Nothing could move the general, to allow us to go out and bring in our furs. He expressed a wish, notwithstanding, to see the commission of which I had spoken, and that I should return to my cell. I gave the papers to Captain Bradshaw, requesting him to return them to my father, after the general should have examined them. This he promised, and I took my leave of him, returning to my dreary prison, less buoyant and more completely desponding of my liberty than ever. {181} In a few moments Captain Bradshaw and Perkins came again to my cell, and said that the general had no faith in our papers, and could not be softened by any entreaty, to give us our liberty. As he said this, the sentinel came up, and stopped him short in his conversation, and ordered them off affirming, that it was the general's express command, that he should not be allowed to see or speak with me again. They however pledged their honor as they left me, that whenever an occasion offered, they would yield us all the assistance in their power, and wishing me better fortune, they departed. A fortnight elapsed in this miserable prison, during which I had no other consolation, than the visits of the young lady, and even these, such was the strictness of the general's orders, were like all angel visits, _few and far between_. At length a note was presented me by the serjeant, from my father. What a note! I appeal to the heart of every good son to understand what passed within me. This note was written on a piece of paste board torn from his hat. The characters were almost illegible, for they were written with a stick, and the ink was blood, drawn from his aged veins! He informed me that he was very ill, and without any hope of recovery, that he had but one wish on this side the grave, and that was, to see me once more before he died. He begged me to spare no entreaties, that the general would grant me permission to come and see him a last time; but, that if this permission could not be obtained, to be assured, that he loved me, and remembered me affectionately, in death. This letter pierced me to the heart. O, could I have flown through my prison walls! Had I possessed the strength of the giants, how soon would I have levelled them, even had I drawn down destruction on my own head in doing it. But I could own nothing in my favour, but a fierce and self devouring will. In hopes that the heart of the general was not all adamant, I entreated the serjeant to go and inform him of my father's illness, and his desire to see me once more, and to try to gain permission that I might have leave to attend upon him, or if that might not be, to visit him once more, according to his wish. He went {182} in compliance with my entreaties, and in a few minutes returned with a dejected countenance, from which I at once inferred what was the fate of my application. His voice faltered as he related that the general absolutely refused this request. Oh God! of what stuff are some hearts made! and this was a republican officer! What nameless tortures and miseries do not Americans suffer in foreign climes from those miserable despots who first injure and oppress, and then hate the victims of their oppression, as judging their hearts by their own, and thinking that their victims must be full of purposes of revenge. The honest and kind hearted serjeant hesitated not to express manly and natural indignation, in view of this inhuman brutality of the general, in refusing a favor, called for by the simplest dictates of humanity, a favor too, in the granting which there could be neither difficulty nor danger. All he could do in the case he promised to do, which was to see that my father should want no sort of nourishment, or aid which he could render him. I tried to thank him, but my case was not of a kind to be alleviated by this sort of consolation. When I thought of our expectations of relief, when we threw ourselves in the power of these vile people, when I took into view our innocence of even the suspicion of a charge that could be brought against us, when I thought of their duplicity of disarming us, and their infamous oppression as soon as we were in their power, and more than all, when I thought of this last brutal cruelty and insult, my whole heart and nature rose in one mingled feeling of rage, wounded affection, and the indignation of despair. The image of my venerable father, suffering and dying unsolaced and unrelieved, and with not a person, who spoke his language, to close his eyes, and I so near him, was before me wherever I turned my eyes. What a horrible night ensued at the close of this day! As the light was fading, the excellent young lady presented herself at my grate. She repeated all that her brother had related to me, in regard to the cruel refusal of the general. While she discussed this subject, the tears fell from her eyes, and I had the consolation to know, that one person at least felt real sympathy {183} for my distress. She added, in faltering tones, that she was well aware that in a case like this words were of but little avail, but that I might be assured of the kindest attention to all the wants of my father, that she could relieve; and that if it was the will of God, to take him out of this world of sorrow and change, that he should be buried decently and as if he were her own father. Judge what I must have felt towards this noble minded and kind hearted young lady! As she withdrew, my prayers at this time were hearty, if never before, that God would reward her a thousand fold in all good things, for her sympathy with our sufferings. Thus passed away these days of agony and suspense. The young lady visited me as often as it was understood the general's orders would permit, that is, once in two or three days, bringing me food and drink, of which in the present state of my thoughts, I had little need. In fact, I had become so emaciated and feeble that I could hardly travel across my prison floor. But no grief arrests the flight of time, and the twenty-fourth of April came, in which the serjeant visited me and in a manner of mingled kindness and firmness told me that my father was no more. At these tidings, simple truth calls on me to declare, my heart felt relieved. I am a hunter, and not a person to analyze the feelings of poor human nature. My father now was gone, gone where the voice of the oppressor is no more heard. Since the death of my mother, I have reason to think, that life had been to him one long burden. He had been set free from it all, and set free too, from the cruelty of this vile people, and the still viler general. I felt weak, and exhausted myself, and I expected to rejoin him in a few days, never to be separated from him. Life was a burden of which I longed to be relieved. After I had given vent to natural feelings on this occasion, the serjeant asked me touching the manner in which we bury our dead in our country? I informed him. He then observed that the reason why he asked that question was, that his sister wished, that my father's body might be interred in a manner conformable to my wishes. I could only thank him for all this {184} kindness and humanity to me, as he left me. I passed the remainder of this day in the indulgence of such reflections as I have no wish to describe, even had I the power. At night the serjeant's sister again visited my prison. She seemed neither able nor disposed to enter upon the subject before us, and reluctant to call up the circumstance of my father's death to my thoughts. At length she presented me with a complete suit of black, and begged that I would wear it on the following day at my father's funeral. I observed, in astonishment, that she could not doubt what a melancholy satisfaction it would be to me to follow the remains of my father to the grave, but that between me and that satisfaction were the walls of my prison, through which I could not break. She remarked, that by dint of importunity, she had prevailed on the general to allow me to attend the funeral. The fair young lady then undertook the duties of minister and philosopher, counselling me not to grieve for that, for which there is no remedy, proving to me that it was the will of God, that he should thus obtain deliverance from prison, and all the evils of this transitory life, and abundance of common place language of this sort, very similar to what is held in my own country on like occasions. Having finished her kindly intended chapter of consolations, she wished me a good night and left me to my own thoughts. The night I spent in walking the floor of my prison. At eight in the morning, a file of six soldiers appeared at the door of my prison. It was opened, and I once more breathed the fresh air! The earth and the sky seemed a new region.--The glare of light dazzled my eyes, and dizzied my head. I reeled as I walked. A lieutenant conducted the ceremonies: and when I arrived at the grave he ordered the crowd to give way, that I might see the coffin let down, and the grave filled. I advanced to the edge of the grave, and caught a glimpse of the coffin that contained the remains of the brave hunter and ranger. The coffin was covered with black. No prayers were said. I had scarce time to draw a second breath, before the grave was half filled with earth. I was led back to my prison, {185} the young lady walking by my side in tears. I would gladly have found relief for my own oppressed heart in tears, if they would have flowed. But the sources were dried, and tears would not come to my relief. When I arrived at the prison, such a horrid revulsion came over me at the thoughts of entering that dreary place again, that I am sure I should have preferred to have been shot, rather than enter it again. But I recovered myself by reflecting that my health was rapidly declining, and that I should be able in a short time to escape from the oppressor and the prison walls, and rejoin my father, and be at rest. [Illustration: Burial of Mr. Pattie] This thought composed me, and I heard the key turn upon me with a calm and tranquilized mind. I lay down upon my bed, and passed many hours in the oblivion of sleep. The customary habit of sleep during the night returned to me; and my strength and appetite began to return with it. I felt an irresistible propensity to resume my former habit of smoking. I named my inclination to my friend the serjeant. He was kind enough to furnish me cigars. This was a new resource to aid me in killing the time. Apart from the soothing sensation of smoking, I amused myself for hours in watching the curling of my smoke from the cigar. Those who have always been free, cannot imagine the corroding torments of thoughts preying upon the bosom of the prisoner, who has neither friend to converse with, books to read, or occupation to fill his hours. On the 27th of June, Captain Bradshaw's vessel was seized, on the charge of smuggling. There were other American vessels in this port at the same time, the names of the captains of which, as far as I can recollect, were Seth Rogers, Aaron W. Williams, and H. Cunningham. These gentlemen, jointly with their supercargoes, sent me five ounces of gold, advising me to keep this money secret from the knowledge of the Spaniards, and preserve it as a resource for my companions and myself, in case of emergencies. About this time the general received several packages of letters in English, the contents of which, not understanding the {186} language, he could not make out. There was no regular translator at hand; and he sent orders to the serjeant to have me conducted to the office for that purpose. When I entered the office he asked me if I could read writing? When I told him yes, he procured a seat, and bade me sit down. He then presented me a letter in English, requesting me to translate it into Spanish. Though I put forth no claims on the score of scholarship, I perfectly comprehended the meaning of the words in both languages. I accomplished the translation in the best manner in my power; and he was pleased entirely to approve it. He proceeded to ask me a great many questions relative to my travels through the Mexican country; how long I had been absent from my own country, and what had been my occupation, during that absence? To all which questions I returned satisfactory answers. When he bade the guard return me to prison, he informed me that he should probably call for me again. I returned to my prison somewhat cheered in spirits. I foresaw that he would often have occasion for my services as a translator, and if I showed an obliging disposition, and rendered myself useful, I hoped to obtain enlargement for myself and my companions. As I expected, I was summoned to his office for several days in succession. On my entering the office he began to assume the habit of saluting me kindly, giving me a seat, enquiring after my health, and showing me the other customary civilities. When I found him in his best humor, I generally took occasion remotely to hint at the case of our being detained as prisoners. I tried, gently and soothingly, to convince him of the oppression and injustice of treating the innocent citizens of a sister republic, as if they were spies. He generally showed a disposition to evade the subject; or alleged as a reason for what he had done, that he regretted exceedingly that circumstances on our part seemed so suspicious, that, obliged as he was, to execute the laws of his country, he felt himself compelled to act as he had done; that it was far from his disposition to desire to punish any one unjustly, and without cause; and that he would be glad if we could produce any substantial {187} evidence to acquit us from the suspicion of being spies. Though, as a true and honest man, I knew that every word he pronounced was a vile and deceitful lie, yet such is the power of the oppressor, I swallowed my rising words, and dissembled a sort of satisfaction. Waiving the further discussion of our imprisonment, I again recurred to the subject of permission to bring in our furs, persuading him, if he had any doubts about our good faith in returning to this place, to send soldiers to guard us; assuring him, that on obtaining our furs we would pay the soldiers, and indemnify him for any other expense he might incur on the occasion; and that, moreover, we would feel ourselves as grateful to him as if he had bestowed upon us the value of the furs in money. He heard me to the close, and listened with attention; and though he said he could not at present give his consent, he promised that he would deliberate upon the subject, and in the course of a week, let me know the result of his resolution. He then bade his soldiers remand me to prison. I begged him to allow me to communicate this conversation to my companions. This he refused, and I re-entered my prison. From these repeated interviews, I began to acquaint myself with his interior character. I perceived, that, like most arbitrary and cruel men, he was fickle and infirm of purpose. I determined to take advantage of that weakness in his character by seeming submissive to his wishes, and striving to conform as far as I could to his capricious wishes; and more than all, to seize the right occasions to tease him with importunities for our liberty, and permission to bring in our furs. Four days elapsed before I had another opportunity of seeing him. During this time I had finished the translation of a number of letters, some of which were from Capt. Bradshaw, and related to the detention of his ship and cargo, and himself. When I had finished these translations, and was re-admitted to his presence, I asked him if he had come to any determination in regard to letting us go to bring in our furs? He answered in his surliest tone, no! How different were my reflections on returning to my prison from those with which I had left it! How earnestly I wished that {188} he and I had been together in the wild woods, and I armed with my rifle! I formed a firm purpose to translate no more letters for him. I found that I had gained nothing by this sort of service; nor even by dissembling a general disposition to serve him. I was anxious for another request to translate, that I might have the pleasure of refusing him, and of telling him to his face that though I was his prisoner, I was not his slave. But it was three days before he sent for me again. At their expiration I was summoned to his office, and he offered me a seat, according to former custom. When I was seated, with a smiling countenance he handed me a packet of letters, and bade me translate them. I took one, opened it, and carelessly perused a few lines, and returning the packet back, rose from my seat, and told him I wished to return to my prison; and bowing, I moved towards the door. He darted a glance at me resembling that of an enraged wild beast; and in a voice, not unlike the growl of a wounded, grizzly bear, asked me why I did not put myself to the translation of the letters? Assuming a manner and tone as surly as his own, I told him my reasons were, that I did not choose to labor voluntarily for an oppressor and enemy; and that I had come to the determination to do it no longer. At this he struck me over the head such a blow with the flat of his sword, as well nigh dropped me on the floor; and ordered the soldiers to return me to prison, where he said I should lay and rot. The moment I recovered from the stunning effect of the blow I sprang toward him; but was immediately seized by the guards, and dragged to the door; he, the while, muttered abundance of the curses which his language supplies. In return, I begged him to consider how much it was like an officer and gentleman to beat an unarmed prisoner in his power, but that if I only had a sword to meet him upon equal terms, I could easily kill as many such dastards as he was, as could come at me. He bade me be silent, and the soldiers to take me off. They shoved me violently on before them to prison. When it closed upon me I never expected to see the sun rise and set again. {189} Here I remained a week without seeing even the young lady, who was justly so dear to my heart. She was debarred by the general's orders not only from visiting me, but even sending me provisions! I was again reduced to the fare of corn boiled in spoiled tallow, which was brought me twice a day. At this juncture came on Capt. Bradshaw's trial. The declaration of the Captain, supercargo and crew was to be taken, and all the parties separately interrogated by a Spaniard. Not an individual of them could speak a word of Spanish, except the Captain, and he was not allowed to translate in his own case. The general supposed that by interrogating the parties separately, he should be able to gain some advantage from the contradictions of the testimony, and some positive proof of smuggling. Capt. Bradshaw being denied the privilege of interpreting for his crew, requested the general to procure some one who might be allowed to perform that office for him. The general told him that I was capable of the office, if I could be gained to the humor; but that he would as willingly deal with a devil, as with me, when out of humor. Capt. Bradshaw asked him if he might be allowed to converse with me on the subject? He consented, and Capt. B. came to my prison. In reference to the above information, he asked me what had taken place between me and the general which had so exasperated him against me? I related all the circumstances of our last interview. He laughed heartily at my defiance of the general. I was ready, of course, to render any service by which I could oblige Capt. B. He returned to the general, and informed him that I was ready to undertake to translate or interpret in his case. In a short time my door was opened, and I was once more conducted to the office of the general. Capt. B. was sitting there in waiting. The general asked me if I had so far changed my mind, as to be willing to translate and interpret again? I told him I was always ready to perform that office for a _gentleman_. I placed such an emphasis on the word gentleman, as I purposed, should inform him, that I intended that appellation for the {190} Captain, and not for him. Whether he really misunderstood me, or dissembled the appearance of misunderstanding me, I know not. He only named an hour, in which he should call on me for that service, cautioning me to act in the business with truth and good faith. I told him that my countrymen in that respect, had greatly the disadvantage of his people; for that it was our weakness, not to know how to say any thing but the truth. At this he smiled, ordering me back to prison, until I should be called for next day. At eight the next morning, I was again summoned to his office, where he proceeded, through me, to question Captain B. touching the different ports at which he had traded, and what was his cargo, when he left the U.S.? He added a great many other questions in relation to the voyage, irrelevant to the purposes of this journal. The clerk on this occasion was an Indian, and a quick and elegant writer. Capt. B. produced his bill of lading, and the other usual documents of clearing out a ship; all which I was obliged to translate. They being matters out of the line of my pursuits, and I making no pretensions to accurate acquaintance with either language, the translation, of course, occupied no inconsiderable time. It was nearly twelve, when he bade us withdraw, with orders to meet him again at his office at two in the afternoon. Capt. B. accompanied me to prison, and as we went on, requested me to make the testimonies of his crew as nearly correspond, and substantiate each other, as possible; for that some of them were angry with him, and would strive to give testimony calculated to condemn him. I assured him that I would do any thing to serve him, that I could in honor. I entered my prison, and slept soundly, until the bells struck two. I was then reconducted to the general's office; where he continued to interrogate Capt. B., until three. The Supercargo, Mr. R. Perkins, was then called upon to produce his manifesto, and cautioned to declare the truth, in relation to the subject in question. This manifesto differed in no essential respect from the account of the Captain. At sunset they were {191} dismissed, and I remanded to my prison. Day after day the same task was imposed, and the same labors devolved upon me. I at length summoned courage to resume the old question of permission to go out and bring in our furs. To my surprise he remarked, that as soon as he had finished taking all the evidence in relation to Capt. Bradshaw's ship and cargo, he would not only allow us to go, but would send soldiers to prevent the Indians from molesting us. I informed him, that his intended kindness would be unavailing to us, if he did not allow us to depart before the month of August; for that in that month the melting of the snow on the mountains at the sources of Red river caused it to overflow, and that our furs were buried in the bottom, so that the river, in overflowing, would spoil them. He replied, that it was out of his power to grant the consent at this time, which was the 19th of July. On the 28th he had finished taking all the depositions, and I again asked him for permission to go and bring in our furs. He still started delays, alleging that he had made no arrangements for that purpose yet. Capt. B. was present, and asked him to allow me to stay with him on board his vessel, promising that he would be accountable for me. To my astonishment the general consented. I repaired to the house of the young lady, who had been so kind to me. She received me with open arms, and manifested the most unequivocal delight. She congratulated me on being once more free from my dismal prison, and asked me a thousand questions. The Captain and myself spent the evening with her; and at its close, I repaired with him on board his beautiful ship, the first sea vessel I had ever been on board. It may be imagined what a spectacle of interest and eager curiosity the interior of this ship, the rigging, masts, awning, in short, every thing appertaining to it, would be to a person raised as I had been, and of a mind naturally inquisitive. What a new set of people were the sailors! How amusing and strange their dialect! They heartily shook me by the hand, and commenced describing the several punishments they would inflict upon the general, if they had him in their {192} power. Among the different inflictions purposed, none seemed to please them better, than the idea of tarring and feathering him, all which I would gladly have seen him endure, but the worst of it was, after all, the general was not in their power. I spent the greater part of the night with the captain and supercargo, conversing about the oppressions and cruelties of the general, and the death of my father, for, during the time of his sickness, Captain Bradshaw had sailed to Monte el Rey, and had not returned, until after his death. He intended, he said, if his vessel was condemned, to slip his anchors, and run out of the harbor, at the risk of being sunk, as he passed the fort. He promised me, if I would take passage with him, that I should fare as he did, and that, when we should arrive at Boston, he would obtain me some situation, in which I could procure a subsistence. I thanked him for his very kind offer, but remarked, that my companions had suffered a great deal with me, that we had had many trials together, and had hazarded our lives for each other, and that now I would suffer any thing rather than desert them, and leave them in prison, probably, to have their sufferings enhanced, in consequence of my desertion. In the morning we all three went on shore together, and took breakfast at the house of my friend, the brother of the young lady. We passed from breakfast, to the office of the general. I asked leave of him to visit my companions in prison. His countenance became red with anger, and he ordered the guard to search me, and take me to prison. I perceived that he thought I had arms concealed about me, and assured him I had none. This did not hinder the guard from searching me, before they put me in prison. I heard no more from him, and remained shut up in prison until the 28th of August. On that day the general ordered me again to be conducted to his office, where, according to his request, I translated some letters for him. When I had finished, he asked me if I still had an inclination to go for my furs? I replied, that I had reason to suppose that they had been covered {193} before this time, with the waters of Red river, and were all spoiled; but that nevertheless, I should be glad to be certain about it, and at least we should be able to bring in our traps. He asked me what adequate security I could give for our good behavior, and the certainty of our return, provided he should allow us the use of our arms for self defence? I replied, that I knew no one, who could give the security required, but that the soldiers he would send with us, would be his security for our return; but that it was out of the question to think of sending us on a trip, so dangerous under any circumstances, without allowing us to go armed. He remanded me to prison, saying, that he would reflect upon it, and let me know the result of his reflections in the morning. I reflected as I walked to prison, that I could have procured the security of Captain Bradshaw, merely for the asking. But I knew the character of my companions, and was so well aware, how they would feel when all should be once free again, and well armed, that I dared not bind any one in security for us. Such had been the extent of the injuries we had suffered, and so sweet is revenge, and so delightful liberty, when estimated by the bondage we had endured, that I was convinced that Mexico could not array force enough to bring us back alive. I foresaw that the general would send no more than ten or twelve soldiers with us. I knew that it would be no more than an amusement to rise upon them, take their horses for our own riding, flea some of them of their skins, to show them that we knew how to inflict torture, and send the rest back to the general on foot. Knowing that the temptation to some retaliation of this sort would be irresistible, I was determined that no one of my countrymen should be left amenable to the laws on our account. Such thoughts passed through my mind as I told the general, I could offer him no security. Next morning, immediately after eight, I was allowed to walk to the general's office without being guarded. What a fond feeling came back to my heart with this small boon of liberty! How much I was exalted in my own thoughts, that I {194} could walk fifty yards entrusted with my own safe keeping! When I entered the general's office, he saluted me with ceremonious politeness. 'Buenas dias, don Santiago,' said he, and showed me to a seat. He proceeded to make known his pleasure, in respect to me and my companions. In the first place he told us, we were all to be allowed the use of our arms, in the next place, that he would send fifteen of his soldiers with us; and in the third place, that we should all be allowed a week, in which to exercise ourselves, before we set out on our expedition. All this good fortune delighted us, and was more almost, than we would have dared to wish. My companions, in an ecstacy of satisfaction, soon joined us from their prisons. We met with as much affection and gladness of heart, as if we had been brothers. They looked more like persons emancipated from the prison of the grave, than human beings; and I am perfectly aware, that my spectre like visage must have been equally a spectacle to them. We had the privilege of walking in the vicinity of the port, accompanied by a guard of soldiers. Our only immediate restriction was the necessity of returning to our guard house to sleep at night. In this way our time passed pleasantly. On the 3d of September, the general sent for me to his office. When I entered, he presented me a note, and bade me accompany a soldier to a mission at the distance of thirty miles, where he stated I was to deliver this note to a priest, and that he perhaps would be able to furnish us with horses and mules for our expedition to bring in our furs. I started with the soldier, each of us well mounted. The note was unsealed, and I read it of course. The contents were any thing, rather than encouraging. It contained no demand for the horses, as I had hoped. It simply stated to the priest, what sort of person the general supposed me to be, that we had furs buried on Red river, and wished horses on which to ride out and bring them in, and that if the priest felt disposed to hire his horses to us, he would send soldiers with us to bring us back. {195} Discouraging as the note was, we pushed ahead with it, and arrived at the priest's mission some time before night. I handed the note to the old priest, who was a very grave looking personage. He read the note, and then asked me to come in and take some wine with him, of which they have great plenty. I followed him into a large parlor, richly adorned with paintings of saints, and several side boards, abundantly stored with wines, which I took it for granted, were not unacceptable to the holy man. The glass ware, the decorations of the parlor, and the arrangement of every thing showed me at a glance, that this priest was a man of taste and fashion. So I was on my guard not to let any of my hunting phrases and back-wood's dialect escape me. He asked me a great many questions about the circumstances of my passage across the continent, to all which I responded in as choice and studied words as I could command. He then asked me how many beasts we should want? I replied that there were seven of us, and that we should each need a pack mule, and a horse to ride upon, which would be fourteen in all. He then asked how many days it would require to go, and return? I answered, that this was a point upon which I could not pronounce with certainty, since I was unacquainted with the road, and accidents might change the issue. He then proposed to charge what was tantamount to 25 cents of our money a day for each mule, that carried a saddle, during the expedition, longer or shorter. To this I consented, and he drew an article of agreement to that effect. He then wrote a note to send by me to the general, in reply to his. By this time the sun was setting, and the church bells began to strike. On this he knelt, and commenced his prayers. He was repeating the Lord's prayer. According to the customs of his church, when he had commenced a member of a sentence, I finished it, by way of response. Such are their modes of repeating their prayers, when there are two or more in company. When we had finished, he turned to me, and asked me why I had prayed? I answered for the salvation of my soul. He said, that it had a Christian appearance, but that he had been {196} informed, that the people of our country did not believe that man had a soul, or that there is a Saviour. I assured him, that he had been entirely misinformed, for that we had churches on every side through all the land, and that the people read the Scriptures, and believed all that was taught in the Gospel, according to their understanding of it. But he continued, 'your people do not believe in the immaculate conception of the Virgin Mary.' I replied, that what the general faith of the people upon this point was, I could not say, and that for myself, I did not pretend to have sufficiently studied the Scriptures, to decide upon such points. My assumed modesty soothed him, and he told me, that it was evident, I had not studied the Scriptures, for that if I had, I could not be in doubt about such obvious articles of faith. I acquiesced in his supposition, that I had not studied the Scriptures, remarking, that I was aware that they contained many mysteries, about which the people in my country entertained various opinions. He said that he was truly sorry, that I was not more conversant with the Scriptures, for that if I had been, I could not have been led astray by the Protestants. His time, however, he added was now too limited to enlighten me, but he laughed, as he said he hoped to have the pleasure of baptising me on my return. To this I replied with a smile, for the truth was, I was fearful of disgusting him, and breaking off the bargain. Glad was I, when he dismissed this subject, and began to chat about other matters. We had an excellent supper, and I was shown to my bed. In the morning I took leave of the old father, and arrived on the following evening at San Diego. My companions were delighted with the apparent complete success of my mission. The general informed us, that we should have permission to start on the 6th, and that our beasts would be ready for an early start on that day. On the evening of the 5th, he called us to his office, and asked us, how many days we thought the expedition would require? We informed him, as near as we could conjecture. He then said, that he could not spare any soldiers to accompany us. We answered, that it was a point of {197} indifference to us, whether he did or not. 'To insure your return however,' he rejoined, 'I shall retain one of you as a hostage for the return of the rest,' and pointing to me, he informed me, 'that I was the selected hostage,' and that I must remain in prison, during their absence, and that if they did not return, it would convince him, that we were spies, and that in consequence he would cause me to be executed. At this horrible sentence, breaking upon us in the sanguine rapture of confidence, we all gazed at each other in the consternation of despair. Some of our company remarked, that they had better abandon the expedition altogether, than leave me behind. Others stood in mute indecision. We had all in truth confidently anticipated never to return to this place again. My indignation, meanwhile, had mounted to such a pitch, as wholly to absorb all sense of personal danger, or care about myself. It seemed as if Providence had put the unrelenting seal of disappointmont to every plan I attempted to devise. I told them to go, and not allow my detention to dishearten, or detain them, for that I had no fear of any thing, the general could inflict, that I had little left, but life to relinquish, and that their refusal to go, as things now were, would be taken for ample proofs, that we were spies, and would ensure our condemnation and the conviction, that we never had intended to return. On this they all agreed to go, and began to pledge their honor and every thing sacred, that they would return, if life was spared them. I told them to follow their own inclinations, as to returning, for that I would as willingly be buried by the side of my father, as any one else; that, however, I did not believe the laws of the country would bear the general out, in putting me to death. The general now bade us arrange every thing to start early in the morning. I was again locked up in my prison, though my companions spent the greater part of the night in conversing with me. In the morning, when they were ready to start, they came and shook hands with me. When the Dutchman, as good hearted a fellow as ever lived, took my hand he burst into tears, and said, 'goot py Jim, if I ever does come {198} back, I will bring an army mit me, and take yours and your daddy's bones from dis tammed country, for it is worse as hell.' I should have laughed heartily at him, had not his tears prevented me, for I knew, that they came from his heart. Mounting their mules they now set off. Their only arms were old Spanish muskets, which, when fired, I would almost as soon have stood before as behind. Under such circumstances, knowing, that they would be obliged to pass through numbers of hostile tribes of Indians, I was very doubtful of their return. On the 8th, Captain Bradshaw came to my prison, and asked me, why I was in prison, and my companions at liberty? I told him the whole story. When he had heard it, he expressed doubts in regard to their returning. I replied to him, that I was not at all in doubt of their return, if they lived. He then told me, that he intended to go to the general, and demand his papers on the 11th, and if they were not given up to him, he would cut cable, and run out in spite of any one, adding his advice to me, which was, that I should write to the consul at Wahu and inform him of my imprisonment. He seemed to think, I might thus obtain my release. Mr. R. Perkins would undertake, he said, to place it in the hands of the consul, as he was acquainted with him. I answered, that I had neither ink nor paper. He said I should have some in a few minutes, and took leave of me. A soldier soon entered with writing materials, and I wrote my letter to Mr. Jones, for that was the name of the consul, stating every circumstance relative to our imprisonment, and the death of my father, giving the names of all our party, and begging him, if it was not in his power to obtain our freedom, that he would inform our government of our situation. I supposed it was in his power to grant my first request, placed as he was, in the midst of a foreign nation. On the 11th, at the request of the general, I was conducted to his office, to serve as interpreter for the captain and Mr. P. The papers were now demanded by them. The general refused to comply with the demand, and told them, that both the vessel and cargo were condemned, but that if they would discharge {199} the cargo, and deliver it to him, he would allow them to clear the vessel, to go and seek redress, wherever they pleased. The captain's answer to this was, that it was not in his power to do so, and that the laws of his country would hang him, if he thus gave up his ship and cargo at the request of an individual. The general now became enraged, and repeating the words, at the request of an individual, added, the ship and cargo have both been lawfully condemned, and if they are not given up peaceably, I have soldiers enough to take the ship, and every thing belonging to it. In reply the captain remarked, that he came to trade on the coast, and not to fight, that if he was disposed to seize the vessel or cargo, he had nothing to say farther, than that he should not aid, or advance in any shape the unlading of the vessel himself, and taking up his hat walked away. I asked permission of the general to go to Miss. Peaks, to get a change of clothing, which was granted. He, however, told me to be in haste. My principal business there was to give my letter to Mr. P., for I knew that captain B., would set sail with the first breeze, of which he could avail himself. I found both the gentlemen in the house, when I entered. I was assured by M. P., that he would give the letter to the consul, and endeavor to interest him in my behalf. I thanked him, and was upon the point of taking leave, when captain B. asked me to take a note from him to the general, and to tell him that he would like to have an answer, and would wait an hour for it. I took the note and went to the general's office, gave him the note and told him what the captain had said. He bade me sit down, after he had read the note, for a few minutes. I obeyed, and he passed into the adjoining room, and ordered his porter to call the ensign Ramirez. The porter hastened to execute his commission, and in a few minutes the ensign entered. The general and ensign then began to converse, drawing near the door, behind which I was seated. I heard distinctly the former tell the latter, that captain B., and Mr. P., were both at Peak's awaiting an answer from him, and that he would send me to tell them that he was engaged at {200} present, but at the expiration of an hour and a half they should have their answer through me. Meantime he, the ensign, was to provide a guard of soldiers, with which to take them prisoners, and then the vessel and cargo would be sure. All this, as I have said, I heard distinctly. He then came in, and told me to go and inform them, as he told the ensign, he should direct me. I hastened to captain B., and told him what I had heard from the general concerning him. I advised him to go to the vessel immediately, for that the ensign and guard would soon be upon the spot. Both he and Mr. P. went directly to the vessel, and I returned to the general, to inform him that I had delivered his message. He then ordered me to return to prison. It was now three o'clock. In a few hours the ensign returned from the pursuit of captain B., and as he passed the prison on his way to the general's office he shook his sword at me with vengeance in his face, saying, 'Oh! you traitor!' I inferred from this, that he supposed I had informed the captain of the projected attempt to take him prisoner. My situation now seemed to me desperate. I thought more of my comrades than myself, for I could not expect to live. Concluding that I should soon be executed, I feared, that when they returned, they would be put to death also. In a few minutes I was summoned to the general's office. I expected to hear my sentence. When I entered the general bade me stand by the door, near a large table, at which several of his clerks were seated writing, and he then gravely asked me if I had overheard the conversation which took place between himself and the ensign, after he had read the note brought by me to him from captain B? I replied that I did not see the ensign at that time, and furthermore could not say positively, whether he had held any conversation with the ensign, since my arrival on the coast or not. The general proceeded to question me, as to the fact of my having advised the captain to go on board his ship, and if I knew the motives, which induced him to do so, after saying that he would wait for an answer to his note. {201} He tried to extort an answer from me such as he wished, threatening me with death if I did not relate the truth. I regarded all this as no more than the threats of an old woman, and went on to state what was most likely to be favorable to my cause. I was now remanded to prison with the assurance, that if found guilty, death would be my doom. A few days only elapsed before, the breeze serving, the Captain slipped anchor, and ran out of the port.[101] He was compelled to perform this under a heavy shower of cannon balls poured forth from the fort, within two hundred yards of which he was obliged to pass. When he came opposite it, he hove to, and gave them a broadside in return, which frightened the poor engineers from their guns. His escape from the port was made without suffering any serious injury on his part. Their shots entered the hull of the vessel, and the sails were considerably cut by the grape. I was greatly rejoiced when I heard of their escape from these thieves. The General pretended great disgust at the cowardly conduct of the engineers, but, I believe, had he been there, he would have run too. I have no faith in the courage of these people, except where they have greatly the advantage, or can kill in the dark, without danger to themselves. This in my view is the amount of a Spaniard's bravery. But to return to myself, I remained in prison, until a sufficient time had elapsed, as I thought, for the return of my companions. I still did not entirely despair of seeing them; but the Spaniards came daily and hourly to my prison with delighted countenances to tell me that my companions had deserted me, and that the General would soon have me executed. Some consoled me with the information, that at such an hour or day, I was to be taken out, and burnt alive; and others, that I was to be stationed at a certain distance, and shot at, like a target, or hung. These unfeeling wretches thus harrassed and tormented me, until the arrival of my companions on the 30th Sept. put an end to their taunts, with regard to their desertion of me. They brought no fur however, it having been all spoiled {202} as I had expected, by an overflow of the river. Our traps which they did bring, were sold, and a part of the proceeds paid to the old priest for the hire of the mules. I have failed to remark, that my comrades had returned with the loss of two of their number, one of whom we learned, had married in New Mexico.[102] When the party reached the river, these two concluded that rather than return to prison, they would run the risk of being killed by the Indians, or of being starved to death; and set forth on their perilous journey through the wilderness to New Mexico on foot. The probability of their reaching the point of their destination was very slight, it being a great distance and through great dangers. Happily for us, their not returning, did not appear to strengthen the General, in his opinion of our being spies. I had the pleasure of conversing with my companions an hour, or more, after which they were again disarmed, and all of us returned to our separate places of confinement. I had now no prospect before me, but that of lingering out a miserable and useless life in my present situation; as I was convinced, that the only inducement, which operated in the General's mind, to allow a part of us to go in search of our property was the hope of taking a quantity of furs and other valuables from us. I was thankful that he obtained nothing but the traps, which, as he knew no more how to use, than a blind horse, could be of no utility to him. This feeling may seem a poor gratification, but it was certainly a natural one. In this condition we remained for months, never seeing the outside of our prison, deprived of the pleasure we had received from the visits of the charitable young lady, formerly allowed entrance to us, and the advantage we had derived from the generous nourishment she so kindly furnished us, and compelled by hunger to eat the food set before us by our jailors; and confined principally to dried beans, or corn boiled in water, and then fried in spoiled tallow. At length the small pox began to rage on the upper part of the coast, carrying off the inhabitants by hundreds. Letters {203} from the distressed people were continually arriving, praying the general to devise some means to put a stop to the disease, which seemed to threaten the country with destruction. The general was thus beset by petitions for several weeks, before he could offer a shadow of relief for them. He was much alarmed, fearing that the disorder might extend its ravages to that part of the coast where he resided. One day the soldiers, through mere inquisitiveness, asked the Dutchman if he knew any remedy for the complaint? He answered that he did; but that he had none of the article that constituted the remedy. He added, however, that he thought that my father had brought some of it with him, as he recollected his having vaccinated the people at the copper mines. This conversation was communicated to the general immediately, who sent a sergeant to me to inquire if I had any of the remedy spoken of by the Dutchman, as brought by my father? I answered in the affirmative; I then showed him where I had been vaccinated on the right arm, and assured him that it had effectually protected me from the small pox. Upon his demand whether I knew the method of applying it, I again answered in the affirmative; but when he asked me to show him the remedy, and let him have it to apply to his own arm, as he was fearful of losing his life from the spread of this dreadful disease, I told him I would not. This sergeant, who wished the matter, was my friend, and brother of the charitable young lady who had procured my father's burial, and for whom I would have sacrificed my life.[103] But thinking this my only chance for regaining liberty, I refused it to him, saying, that I would neither show it to any one, nor apply it, unless my liberty and that of my companions was rendered secure; and that in sustaining this resolution I would sacrifice my life. I also mentioned that I must be paid, over and above my liberty. My object in this, was to influence the fears of the general. If he acceded to my proposition, my friend and his sister would share the benefit in common with others. If I granted the request of the sergeant to inoculate him, I might lose my advantage; but my gratitude decided me {204} against allowing himself and his sister to be exposed to an imminent danger, which I could avert. I told him that if he would pledge himself, solemnly, for his own part, and that of his sister, that he would not communicate the matter to another individual, I would secretly vaccinate them. He replied that I need not fear his betraying me, as he would much rather aid me in my design, which he thought excellent, and likely to accomplish my wishes. He then left me to communicate the result of our conversation to the general. This incident, so important in its influence upon my fortunes, occurred December 20th. The sergeant had not been absent more than a half hour, when he returned and told me that the general said he would give me a passport for a year, if I would vaccinate all the people on the coast; and furthermore, if I conducted properly during that period, that he would at the expiration of it, pay me for my services, and give me my liberty. His countenance was bright with delight, as he related this to me, not dreaming that I could refuse what seemed to him so good an offer. When I repeated, in reply, my resolution not to vaccinate any one, except on the conditions I had stated, and added that I would not agree to any terms without an audience from the general, his pleasure vanished, giving place to gloom as he told me he did not think the general would accede to the proposal to set my companions and myself at liberty upon parole for one year, for any consideration; but that, if I persisted in my refusal, he feared I should incur some violent punishment, and perhaps death. My answer was, that in my present situation I did not dread death. I then requested him to tell the general I wished to talk with him personally upon the subject. He went, and in a few minutes returned with orders to conduct me to the General's office. Upon my arrival there, the General questioned me with regard to the efficacy of the remedy of which he had been much informed in the same manner as I have related in the conversation between the sergeant and myself; and he then repeated the same terms for the matter {205} and the application of it, that he had transmitted me through my friend, to which I replied as before. When I had finished, he asked me in a surly manner, what my own terms were? I told him, as I had done the sergeant, that I would vaccinate all the inhabitants on the coast, provided he would allow myself and companions to leave our prison on parole for one year, with liberty to travel up or down the coast, in order to find some occupation, by which we could obtain food and clothing. Upon hearing this his rage burst forth. He told me I was a devil; and that if I did not choose to take the offer he had made, he would compel me to perform its conditions, or put me to death. I replied, that he could take my life; but that it was beyond his power to compel me to execute his commands, adding, that life or liberty would be no object to me, if my companions were denied the enjoyment of them with me. They had had the alternative in their power of leaving me in prison to suffer alone, or returning to share my captivity, and had chosen the latter; I concluded by saying, that rather than accept of liberty while they remained in prison, I would undergo all the torments his _excellency_ could devise. He said he might as well let loose so many wolves to ravage his country, as give myself and companions the liberty I required; adding, that he gave me twenty-four hours to reflect on the alternative of his wrath, or my liberty upon the conditions he had proposed. I was now remanded to prison. As I walked out, I remarked to the General, that my resolution was fixed beyond the possibility of change. He made no reply, and I proceeded to prison. The soldiers who accompanied me, tried to induce me to conform to the General's wishes, saying, that he was a terrible man when enraged. I made them no answer, and entered my prison, where I remained until 8 o'clock the next day; when I was again escorted to the office, and asked by the General, what security I would give for the good behaviour of myself and companions, if he let us out on parole for one year? I told him I would give none, for no one here knew me. He then ordered me back to prison, where he said I should lay and rot, calling me a _carracho_ {206} _picaro_, and similar names, which I did not regard. I walked to my prison as undauntedly as I could. I now felt somewhat encouraged; for I perceived he was not inflexible in his resolutions, and by adhering firmly to mine, I hoped finally to conquer him. In the course of the night he received a letter containing information of the death of one of his priests, and that great numbers were ill of the small pox. Early in the morning of the 23d I received a summons to attend him at the usual place. When I arrived, he said he wanted to see my papers, that is, those I had mentioned as being my father's commission, and his discharge from the service of a ranger. I told him they were at Miss Peak's, which was the name of the young lady who had been so kind to me. He sent a soldier for them, who soon returned with them. I translated them to him. He said that was a sufficient proof of my being an American; and asked if my companions could produce proofs of their belonging to the same country? I replied that I did not know. He sent orders for them to come to the office; and before their arrival, told me that all he now wanted, was proof that they were Americans, to let us go on a parole, as all Americans were tolerated in his country. My opinion with regard to his motive in the case was, that he was less unwilling to grant our liberty, as the payment for my services in spreading the vaccine disease, now that he knew we had no property for him to extort from us. He talked, too, about rendering himself liable to suffer the rigor of the laws of his country, should he set us free, without our establishing the fact of our being Americans. My companions entered: I was glad to see them. Their beards were long, and they were haggard and much reduced in flesh. I gave them to understand what was wanting, and they readily produced some old black papers, furnishing in themselves proof of any thing else, as much as of their owners being American citizens. I, however, so interpreted them, that they established the point with the General. I believe he {207} had as firmly credited this fact from the first hour he saw us, as now. He concluded to let us out a week upon trial, before he gave us freedom on parole, although he compelled me to engage to vaccinate all the people in the fort. He then directed us to endeavor to find some employment around the fort, which would procure us food, and to return every night to the guard house to sleep. The guard bell now tolled eight o'clock, and according to the permission given, we walked in the direction of our inclinations. I went directly to Miss Peak's, who was much astonished, and apparently delighted to see me at liberty. She had expected, she said, every day to see me on my way to be shot, or hung. The manifestation of kindness and benevolence to us having been forbidden by our jailors, she now indemnified her humanity and good feeling by telling me how much she had regretted not being allowed to send me proper food, asking me if I was not hungry? and proceeding, before I could answer, to spread a table with every thing good, of which I partook plentifully; after which we had a pleasant conversation together. My enjoyment of my fortunate change of situation was, however, mingled with uncertainty, as to the length of its duration. I felt that I was still in the lion's jaws, which might close upon me from the first impulse of petulance or anger. I therefore, endeavoured to devise some way of availing myself of my momentary freedom, to place myself beyond the possibility of losing it again. That one which suggested itself to me, was to prevail upon the officer, who had our rifles in charge to allow us possession of them for a short time, to clean them. When we should once more have them in our hands, I hoped we would have resolution to retain them, until death rendered them useless to us. I went to my companions, and imparted my plan to them. They agreed with me upon all points. The only difficulty now was, to lay our hands upon our arms. I went directly to the apartment of the officer, in whose care they were, one of the best hearted Spaniards I have ever seen. I appealed to his goodness of heart in order to obtain my purpose, telling {208} him, that we only wanted the rifles a few minutes, in order to rub off the rust, and dirt, which must have accumulated upon them. I told him after this was done, they should be returned to him. He did not answer for some minutes; and then said, that if he complied with my request, and was discovered by the General to have done so, he should be punished. I replied that there was no danger of an act of this kind, a mere kindness of this sort being known by any, but those immediately concerned; concluding by slipping ten dollars in silver, which had been given me by Capt. B., into his hand. He then handed me the rifles, and all belonging to them, through a back door, cautioning me not to let my having them in possession be known. I answered, that I would be upon my guard. I was now joined by my companions. We found an old and unoccupied house, into which we entered, and soon put our guns in order, and charged them well, resolving never to give them into the hands of a Spaniard again. We had been so treacherously dealt with by these people, that we did not consider it any great breach of honour to fail in our promise of returning our arms, particularly as the officer had taken my money. We then concluded to conceal our rifles in a thicket near at hand, and to keep our pistols, which the officer had also given us as a part of our arms, concealed around our persons. At night we went to the guard house to sleep, as we had been commanded to do. The officer who gave me the rifles, came to me, and asked why I had not returned the arms according to promise? I told him that I had not finished cleaning them, and repeated, that the General should not know I had them. He charged me to fulfil my former promise of returning the arms on the succeeding morning. I satisfied him, thinking as before, that it made no great difference what is said to such persons, in a position like ours. Early the next morning we met a countryman by the name of James Lang, who had come upon the coast to smuggle, and to kill sea otters for their skins, which are very valuable.[104] He was now here secretly, to enquire if sea otters were to be found in {209} abundance higher up the coast; and to obtain information on some other points connected with his pursuits. He told us he had a boat distant eighty miles down the coast, with men in search of otters, and proposed that we should accompany him to it, offering to furnish every thing required for this species of hunting, and give us half of whatever we caught, adding, that when his brig returned from the Gallipagos islands, where it had gone in search of tortoise shell, he would give us a free passage to our own country. We all considered this an offer advantageous to us, as it held out the prospect of our being enabled to obtain something in the way of gain, after which a way would be open for our return to our homes, and we agreed to meet him on a certain day at _Todos Santos_, in English All Saints. This took place on the 24th. Our new friend set off to rejoin his companions, and we fell to consultation upon the best method of conducting in our present circumstances. We did not wish to do any thing, that would render us amenable to the laws of the country, should we be detected in our attempt to escape. We were consequently precluded from relying on horses to aid us in hastening beyond the reach of pursuers. The night was chosen, as the time for our experiment; but in the course of an hour after this determination was made, all my companions excepting one, receded from it, pronouncing the plan of running off without any cover for our intentions, not a good one. They proposed instead of it, that we should ask permission of the General to go a hunting, assigning as our reason for this request, that we were barefoot, and wanted to kill some deer in order to obtain their skins to dress, to make us moccasins. I consented to this plan, and to try its efficacy immediately, I went to the General's office. It was late, but I related my errand. He asked me, where I could get arms, to kill deer with? I replied, that if he would not allow us to use our own arms, we could borrow some. He refused the permission, I had asked of him. On Christmas night, the one among my companions, whom I {210} have mentioned, as agreeing with me, in regard to the original plan for our escape, set off with me at 12 o'clock, while the people, who were all Catholics, were engaged in their devotions at church. We were obliged to leave our comrades, as they would not accompany us in our enterprise. We travelled entirely by night, and reached the before mentioned place of rendezvous on the 28th. We found Mr. Lang and his men in confinement, and his boat taken by the Spaniards. We gained this information in the night, without committing ourselves. We retreated to the woods, in which we remained concealed through the day. At night our necessities compelled us to enter a house, in order to obtain some food. It was occupied by a widow and her two daughters. They gave us bread, milk and cheese, treating us with great kindness. We spent a week passing the day in the woods, and going to this friendly house to get food in the night; in the hope of hearing of some vessel, by means of which we might escape from this hated coast. But no such good fortune awaited us. We then concluded to return, and see our comrades, whom we supposed to be again in prison; although we were determined never again to be confined there ourselves alive, with our own consent. So we walked back to San Diego, killing some deer by the way, the skins of which we carried to the fort. To our great admiration and surprize, we found our companions at liberty. They informed us, that the General was exceedingly anxious for my return, and that our arms had not been demanded, although the officer, through whose means we obtained them, had been placed under guard. I felt grieved by the latter part of this information, as I had deceived the unfortunate man, when he intended to do me a kindness, of the utmost importance to my interests, as I viewed it. He would probably, be severely punished. But I nevertheless was firm in my purpose to retain my arms. It was late in the day; but the companion of my flight and myself proceeded to present ourselves before the General, leaving our rifles concealed in a safe place. Our pistols we carried in our {211} bosoms, determined not to be taken to prison without offering resistance. The General appeared much surprised to see us, and asked where we had been? I told him, that we had been out upon a hunting expedition; upon which he wished to know if we had killed any thing? We answered in the affirmative. He then looked serious, and demanded of me, if I was not aware that it was wrong to go off, without taking leave of him? My reply was, that I did; and that he refused it to me; and that then I concluded to go without permission, knowing it could not be a crime. His next question was, how I obtained my arms? I told him the truth with regard to this point. The succeeding demand was, why I did not return them, according to my promise? To which I replied, that I did not intend to return them from the first; and I now declared that they should never be taken from me for the time to come, while I drew my breath. He smiled, and said he did not want them; but that I must begin to vaccinate the people of the garrison; for that he wished me to go up the coast soon to practice vaccination there. On the 18th of January, 1829, I began to vaccinate; and by the 16th of February had vaccinated all the people belonging to the fort, and the Indian inhabitants of the mission of San Diego, three miles north of the former place.[105] It is situated in a valley between two mountains. A stream runs through the valley, from which ships obtain fresh water. An abundance of grain is raised at this mission. Fruit of all kinds, growing in a temperate climate, is also plentiful. The climate is delightfully equal. The husbandman here does not think of his fields being moistened by the falling rain. He digs ditches around them, in which water is conveyed from a stream, sufficient to cover the ground, whenever the moisture is required. Rains seldom fall in the summer or autumn. The rainy season commences in October; and continues until the last of December, and sometimes even through January; by which time the grass, clover and wild oats are knee high. When the rain does come, it falls in torrents. The gullies made in the sides of the mountains by the rains are of an enormous size. {212} But to return to my own affairs. Having completed my vaccinations in this quarter, and procured a sufficient quantity of the vaccine matter to answer my purpose, I declared myself in readiness to proceed further. I communicated the matter to one thousand Spaniards and Indians in San Diego. February 28th, the General gave us each a legal form, granting us liberty on parole for one year, at the expiration of which period it was in his power to remand us to prison, if he did not incline to grant us our freedom. He likewise gave me a letter to the priests along the coast, containing the information that I was to vaccinate all the inhabitants upon the coast, and an order providing for me all necessary supplies of food and horses for my journey. These were to be furnished me by the people, among whom I found myself cast. They were, also, directed to treat me with respect, and indemnify me for my services, as far as they thought proper. The latter charge did not strike me agreeably; for I foresaw, that upon such conditions my services would not be worth one cent to me. However, the prospect of one whole year's liberty was so delightful, that I concluded to trust in Providence, and the generosity of the stranger, and think no more of the matter. With these feelings I set forth to the next mission, at which I had already been. It was called San Luis.[106] I reached it in the evening. I found an old priest, who seemed glad to see me. I gave him the General's letter. After he had read it, he said, with regard to that part of it which spoke of payment, that I had better take certificates from the priests of each mission, as I advanced up the coast, stating that I had vaccinated their inhabitants; and that when I arrived at the upper mission, where one of the high dignitaries of the church resided, I should receive my recompense for the whole. Seeing nothing at all singular in this advice, I concluded to adopt it. In the morning I entered on the performance of my duty. My subjects were Indians, the missions being entirely composed of them, with the exception of the priests, who are the rulers. {213} The number of natives in this mission was three thousand, nine hundred and four. I took the old priest's certificate, as had been recommended by him, when I had completed my task. This is said to be the largest, most flourishing, and every way the most important mission on the coast. For its consumption fifty beeves are killed weekly. The hides and tallow are sold to ships for goods, and other articles for the use of the Indians, who are better dressed in general, than the Spaniards. All the income of the mission is placed in the hands of the priests, who give out clothing and food, according as it is required. They are also self constituted guardians of the female part of the mission, shutting up under lock and key, one hour after supper, all those, whose husbands are absent, and all young women and girls above nine years of age. During the day, they are entrusted to the care of the matrons. Notwithstanding this, all the precautions taken by the vigilant fathers of the church are found insufficient. I saw women in irons for misconduct, and men in the stocks. The former are expected to remain a widow six months after the death of a husband, after which period they may marry again. The priests appoint officers to superintend the natives, while they are at work, from among themselves. They are called _alcaides_, and are very rigid in exacting the performance of the allotted tasks, applying the rod to those who fall short of the portion of labor assigned them. They are taught in the different trades; some of them being blacksmiths, others carpenters and shoe-makers. Those, trained to the knowledge of music, both vocal and instrumental, are intended for the service of the church. The women and girls sew, knit, and spin wool upon a large wheel, which is woven into blankets by the men. The alcaides, after finishing the business of the day, give an account of it to the priest, and then kiss his hand, before they withdraw to their wigwams, to pass the night. This mission is composed of parts of five different tribes, who speak different languages. The greater part of these Indians were brought from their native mountains against their own inclinations, and by compulsion; {214} and then baptised; which act was as little voluntary on their part, as the former had been. After these preliminaries, they had been put to work, as converted Indians. The next mission on my way was that, called St. John the Baptist.[107] The mountains here approach so near the ocean, as to leave only room enough for the location of the mission. The waves dash upon the shore immediately in front of it. The priest, who presides over this mission, was in the habit of indulging his love of wine and stronger liquors to such a degree, as to be often intoxicated. The church had been shattered by an earthquake. Between twenty and thirty of the Indians, men, women and children, had been suddenly destroyed by the falling of the church bells upon them. After communicating the vaccine matter to 600 natives, I left this place, where mountains rose behind to shelter it; and the sea stretched out its boundless expanse before it. Continuing my route I reached my next point of destination. This establishment was called the mission of St. Gabriel. Here I vaccinated 960 individuals. The course from the mission of St. John the Baptist to this place led me from the sea-shore, a distance of from eighteen to twenty miles. Those, who selected the position of this mission, followed the receding mountains. It extends from their foot, having in front a large tract of country showing small barren hills, and yet affording pasturage for herds of cattle so numerous, that their number is unknown even to the all surveying and systematic priests. In this species of riches St. Gabriel exceeds all the other establishments on the coast. The sides of the mountains here are covered with a growth of live oak and pine. The chain to which these mountains belong, extends along the whole length of the coast. The fort St. Peter stands on the sea coast, parallel to this mission. My next advance was to a small town, inhabited by Spaniards, called the town of The Angels.[108] The houses have flat roofs, covered with bituminous pitch, brought from a place within four miles of the town, where this article boils up from the earth. As the liquid rises, hollow bubbles like a shell of a {215} large size, are formed. When they burst, the noise is heard distinctly in the town. The material is obtained by breaking off portions, that have become hard, with an axe, or something of the kind. The large pieces thus separated, are laid on the roof, previously covered with earth, through which the pitch cannot penetrate, when it is rendered liquid again by the heat of the sun. In this place I vaccinated 2,500 persons. From this place I went to the mission of St. Ferdinand, where I communicated the matter to 967 subjects. St. Ferdinand is thirty miles east of the coast, and a fine place in point of position.[109] The mission of St. Buenaventura succeeded.[110] Not long previous to my arrival here, two priests had eloped from the establishment, taking with them what gold and silver they could lay their hands upon. They chose an American vessel, in which to make their escape. I practised my new calling upon 1000 persons in this mission. The next point I reached was the fort of St. Barbara.[111] I found several vessels lying here. I went on board of them, and spent some pleasant evenings in company with the commanders. I enjoyed the contrast of such society with that of the priests and Indians, among whom I had lately been. This place has a garrison of fifty or sixty soldiers. The mission lies a half a mile N. W. of the fort. It is situated on the summit of a hill, and affords a fine view of the great deep. Many are the hours I passed during this long and lonely journey, through a country every way strange and foreign to me, in looking on the ceaseless motion of its waves. The great Leviathan too played therein. I have often watched him, as he threw spouts of water into the air, and moved his huge body through the liquid surface. My subjects here amounted to 2600. They were principally Indians. The next mission on my route was that called St. Enos.[112] I vaccinated 900 of its inhabitants, and proceeded to St. Cruz,[113] where I operated upon 650. My next advance was to St. Luis Obispes.[114] Here I found 800 subjects. The mission of St. Michael followed in order. In it I vaccinated 1850 persons.[115] {216} My next theatre of operations was at St. John Bapistrano.[116] 900 was the number that received vaccination here. Thence I went to La Solada, and vaccinated 1685, and then proceeded to St. Carlos, and communicated the matter to 800.[117] From the latter mission I passed on to the fort of Monte El Rey, where is a garrison of a hundred soldiers.[118] I found here 500 persons to vaccinate. The name of this place in English signifies the King's mount or hill. Forests spread around Monte El Rey for miles in all directions, composed of thick clusters of pines and live oaks. Numberless grey bears find their home, and range in these deep woods. They are frequently known to attack men. The Spaniards take great numbers of them by stratagem, killing an old horse in the neighborhood of their places of resort. They erect a scaffold near the dead animal, upon which they place themselves during the night, armed with a gun or lance. When the bear approaches to eat, they either shoot it, or pierce it with the lance from their elevated position. Notwithstanding all their precautions, however, they are sometimes caught by the wounded animal; and after a man has once wrestled with a bear, he will not be likely to desire to make a second trial of the same gymnastic exercise. Such, at any rate, is the opinion I have heard those express, who have had the good fortune to come off alive from a contest of this kind. I do not speak for myself in this matter, as I never came so near as to take the _close hug_ with one in my life; though to escape it, I once came near breaking my neck down a precipice. From Monte El Rey I advanced to the mission of St. Anthony, which lies thirty miles E. from the coast.[119] In it I found one thousand persons to inoculate. I had now reached the region of small pox, several cases of it having occurred in this mission. The ruling priest of this establishment informed me, that he did not consider it either necessary or advisable for me to proceed farther for the purpose of inoculating the inhabitants of the country, as the small pox had prevailed universally through its whole remaining extent. As I had heard, while in {217} San Diego, great numbers had been carried off by it. I then told him that I wished to see the church officer who had been described to me by the first priest whom I had seen on my way up the coast. He furnished me a horse, and I set off for the port of San Francisco, vaccinating those whom I found on the way who had not had the small pox. I reached the above mentioned place,[120] on the twentieth of June, 1829. Finding the person of whom I was in search, I presented him all the certificates of the priests of the missions in which I had vaccinated, and the letter of the General. I had inoculated in all twenty-two thousand persons. After he had finished the perusal of these papers, he asked me, what I thought my services were worth? I replied, that I should leave that point entirely in his judgment and decision. He then remarked, that he must have some time to reflect upon the subject, and that I must spend a week or two with him. I consented willingly to this proposal, as I was desirous of crossing the bay of San Francisco to the Russian settlement, called the Bodego.[121] I proceeded to carry my wish into execution on the 23rd, accompanied by two Coriac Indians, whose occupation was the killing of sea otters for the Russians, who hire them into their service. Those who pursue this employment, have water crafts made of the sea lions' skins, in the shape of a canoe. Over this spreads a top, completely covered in such a manner as to preclude the possibility of the entrance of any water. An opening is left at the bow and stern, over which the person who has entered draws a covering of the same material with that of the boat, which fastens firmly over the aperture in such a manner, as to make this part entirely water proof, as any other portion of the boat. Two persons generally occupy it. No position can be more secure than theirs, from all the dangers of the sea. The waves dash over them harmless. The occupants are stationed, one at the bow, and the other at the stern; the latter guides the boat, while the other is provided with a {218} spear, which he darts into the otter whenever he comes within its reach. Great numbers are thus taken. But to return to myself: We crossed the bay, which is about three miles in width. It is made by the entrance of a considerable river, called by the Spaniards Rio de San Francisco. After we reached the north shore, we travelled through a beautiful country, with a rich soil, well watered and timbered, and reached the Russian settlement in the night, having come a distance of thirty miles. As our journey had been made on foot, and we had eaten nothing, I was exceedingly fatigued and hungry. I accompanied my fellow travellers, who belonged here, to their wigwams, where I obtained some food, and a seal skin to sleep upon. Early in the morning I arose, and learning from one of my late companions where was the dwelling of the commander of the place, I proceeded towards it. I had become acquainted with this person while I was vaccinating the inhabitants of San Diego. He came there in a brig, and insisted upon my promising him that I would come and communicate the remedy to the people of his establishments, offering to recompense me for my services. I agreed to do what he wished, should it be in my power. Accordingly, finding that the Spaniard did not intend to keep a strict guard over my movements, I availed myself of this opportunity of fulfilling the expressed wish of Don Seraldo, for so was he called. I reached the place pointed out to me by the friendly Indian, and was received by the above mentioned gentleman with the warmest expressions of kindness and friendship. He said that so long a time had elapsed since he saw me, he was afraid I had forgotten our conversation together, and that circumstances had rendered my coming to him impossible. He had suffered greatly from the fear that the small pox would spread among his people, before he should be enabled to prevent danger from it, through the means of the kine pox. After breakfast, he circulated an order among the people, for all who wished to be provided with a safe guard against the terrible malady that had approached them so near, to come to {219} his door. In a few hours I began my operations; and continued to be constantly occupied for three days, vaccinating during this period fifteen hundred individuals. I reminded them all that they must return on the fourth day, provided no signs of the complaint appeared; and that they were not to rub, or roughly touch the spot, should the vaccine matter have proper effect. This done, Don Seraldo offered to accompany me through the fort and around the settlement, in order to show me the position, and every thing which might be new and interesting to me. Its situation is one of the most beautiful that I ever beheld, or that the imagination can conceive. The fort stands on the brow of a handsome hill, about two hundred feet above the level of the sea. This hill is surrounded on all sides for two miles with a charming plain. A lofty mountain whose sides present the noblest depth of forest, raises a summit, glittering with perpetual ice and snow on one hand, and on the other the level surface is lost in the waves of the sea. Clear cold streams pour down the mountain, unceasingly from different points, and glide through the plain, imparting moisture and verdure. The same multitudes of domestic animals, that are every where seen in this country, graze around in the pastures. They find abundant pasturage in the wild oats, which grow spontaneously upon this coast. Very little attention is paid to cultivation, where so many advantages are united to favor it. The amount of produce of any kind raised is small, and the inhabitants depend for bread entirely upon the Spaniards. I remained in this delightful place one week. At the expiration of this time Don Seraldo gave me one hundred dollars, as payment for my services, and then mounted me upon a horse and conducted me back to the bay himself, and remained on the shore, until he saw me safe upon the other side. I soon saw myself again in the presence of the Spanish priest, from whom I was to receive my recompense for the services performed on my long tour. He was not aware where I had been, until I informed him. When I had told him, he asked {220} me what Don Seraldo had paid me? I stated this matter as it was. He then demanded of me, how I liked the coast of California? I answered, that I very much admired the appearance of the country. His next question was, how I would like the idea of living in it? It would be agreeable to me, I returned, were it subject to any other form of government. He proceeded to question me upon the ground of my objections to the present form of government? I was careful not to satisfy him on this point. He then handed me a written piece of paper, the translation of which is as follows: I certify, that James O. Pattie has vaccinated all the Indians and whites on this coast, and to recompense him for the same, I give the said James O. Pattie my obligation for one thousand head of cattle, and land to pasture them; that is, 500 cows and 500 mules. This he is to receive after he becomes a Catholic, and a subject of this government. Given in the mission of St. Francisco on the 8th of July, in the year 1829. JOHN CABORTES When I had read this, without making use of any figure of speech, I was struck dumb. My anger choked me. As I was well aware of the fact, that this man had it in his power to hang me if I insulted him, and that here there was no law to give me redress, and compel him to pay me justly for my services, I said nothing for some time, but stood looking him full in the face. I cannot judge whether he read my displeasure, and burning feelings in my countenance, as I thus eyed him, and would have sought to pacify me, or not; but before I made a movement of any kind, he spoke, saying, 'you look displeased, sir.' Prudential considerations were sufficient to withhold me no longer, and I answered in a short manner, that I felt at that moment as though I should rejoice to find myself once more in a country where I should be justly dealt by. He asked me, what I meant when I spoke of being justly dealt by? I told him {221} what my meaning was, and wished to be in my own country, where there are laws to compel a man to pay another what he justly owes him, without his having the power to attach to the debt, as a condition upon which the payment is to depend, the submission to, and gratification of, any of his whimsical desires. Upon this the priest's tone became loud and angry as he said, 'then you regard my proposing that you should become a Catholic, as the expression of an unjust and whimsical desire!' I told him 'yes, that I did; and that I would not change my present opinions for all the money his mission was worth; and moreover, that before I would consent to be adopted into the society and companionship of such a band of murderers and robbers, as I deemed were to be found along this coast, for the pitiful amount of one thousand head of cattle, I would suffer death.' When I had thus given honest and plain utterance to the feelings, which swelled within me, the priest ordered me to leave his house. I walked out quickly, and possessed myself of my rifle, as I did not know, but some of his attendants at hand might be set upon me; for if the comparison be allowable the priests of this country have the people as much and entirely under their control and command, as the people of our own country have a good bidable dog. For fear they should come barking at me, I hastened away, and proceeded to a _ranch_, where I procured a horse for three dollars, which I mounted, and took the route for Monte El Rey. I did not stop, nor stay on my journey to this place. I found upon my arrival there, an American vessel in port, just ready to sail, and on the point of departure. Meeting the Captain on shore, I made the necessary arrangements with him for accompanying him, and we went on board together. The anchor was now weighed, and we set sail. In the course of an hour, I was thoroughly sick, and so continued for one week. I do not know any word, that explains my feelings in this case so well as that of heart sickness. I ate nothing, or little all this time; but after I recovered, my appetite {222} returned in tenfold strength, and I never enjoyed better health in my life. We continued at sea for several months, sailing from one port to another, and finally returned to that of Monte El Rey, from which we had set sail. It was now the 6th of January, 1830, and I felt anxious to hear something in relation to my companions, from whom I had so long been separated. I accordingly went on shore, where I met with a great number of acquaintances, both Americans and English. The latter informed me, that there was a revolution in the country, a part of the inhabitants having revolted against the constituted authorities. The revolted party seemed at present likely to gain the ascendency. They had promised the English and Americans the same privileges, and liberty in regard to the trade on the coast, that belonged to the native citizens, upon the condition, that these people aided them in their attempt to gain their freedom, by imparting advice and funds. This information gladdened my very heart. I do not know, if the feeling be not wrong; but I instantly thought of the unspeakable pleasure I should enjoy at seeing the general, who had imprisoned me, and treated me so little like a man and a Christian, in fetters himself. Under the influence of these feelings, I readily and cheerfully appropriated a part of my little store to their use, I would fain have accompanied them in hopes to have one shot at the general with my rifle. But the persuasions of my countrymen to the contrary prevailed with me. They assigned, as reasons for their advice, that it was enough to give counsel and funds at first, and that the better plan would be, to see how they managed their own affairs, before we committed ourselves, by taking an active part in them, as they had been found to be a treacherous people to deal with. On the 8th of the month, Gen. Joachim Solis placed himself at the head of one hundred and fifty soldiers well armed, and began his march from Monte El Rey to the fort of St. Francisco.[122] He was accompanied by two cannon, which, he said, he should make thunder, if the fort was not quietly given up to him. Gen. Solis had been transferred from a command in the city of Mexico {223} to take command of the insurgents, as soon as they should have formed themselves into something like an organized party, and have come to a head. He had left Monte El Rey with such a force as circumstances enabled him to collect, recruiting upon his route, and inducing all to join him, whom he could influence by fair words and promises. As has been said, he threatened the fort of St. Francisco with a bloody contest, in case they resisted his wishes. He carried with him written addresses to the inhabitants, in which those, who would range themselves under his standard, were offered every thing that renders life desirable. They all flocked round him, giving in their adhesion. When he reached the fort, he sent in his propositions, which were acceded to, as soon as read by the majority. The minority were principally officers. They were all imprisoned by General Solis, as soon as he obtained possession of the place. He then proceeded to make laws, by which the inhabitants were to be governed, and placed the fort in the hands of those, upon whom, he thought he could depend.--These arrangements being all made, he began his return to Monte El Rey, highly delighted with his success. There now seemed little doubt of his obtaining possession of the whole coast in the course of a few months. He remained at Monte El Rey increasing his force, and drilling the new recruits, until the 28th of March, when he again marched at the head of two hundred soldiers. The present object of attack was Santa Barbara, where the commander under the old regime was stationed. The latter was Gen. Echedio, my old acquaintance of San Diego, for whom I bore such good will.[123] He was not in the least aware of the visit intended him by Gen. Solis; the latter having prevented any tidings upon the subject reaching him, by posting sentinels thickly for some distance upon the road, that lay between them, to intercept and stop any one passing up or down. The insurgent General had as yet succeeded in his plans; and was so elated with the prospect of surprising Gen. Echedio, and completely dispossessing him of his power, and consequently having all in his own hands, that he {224} did not consider it necessary any longer to conceal his real character. The professions of the kind purposes of the insurgent towards the English and Americans will be recollected; and also, that it was at a time when application was made by these Spaniards to them for aid. The tone was now changed. Threats were now made, with regard to the future treatment, which we, unfortunate foreigners, might expect, as soon as Gen. Solis became master of the coast. We learned this through a Mexican Spaniard, whose daughter Captain Cooper had married.[124] This old gentleman was told by the General, that he intended either to compel every American and Englishman to swear allegiance to the government, which should be established, or drive them from the country. This information was, however, not communicated to us, until the General had departed. We held a consultation upon the subject, to devise some means, which should render him incapable of carrying his good intentions towards us into effect. No other expedient suggested itself to us, but that of sending General Echedio information of the proposed attack, in time to enable him to be prepared for it. We agreed upon this, and a letter was written, stating what we deemed the points most necessary for him to know. The signatures of some of the principal men of the place were affixed to it; for those who think alike upon important points soon understand one another; and the character of Solis had not been unveiled to us alone. It was important, that General Echedio should attach consequence to our letter, and the information, it contained, would come upon him so entirely by surprize, that he might very naturally entertain doubts of its correctness. I added my name to those of the party to which I belonged. The object now was to have our document conveyed safely into the hands of Gen. Echedio. We sent a runner with two good horses and instructions, how to pass the army of Solis in the night undiscovered. All proceedings had been conducted with so much secrecy and caution, that the matter so far rested entirely with ourselves. We occasionally heard the citizens around {225} us express dislike towards the insurgent General; but as they did not seem inclined to carry their opinions into action, we concluded these were only remarks made to draw out our thoughts, and took no notice of them. From after circumstances I believe, that the number of his enemies exceeded that of his friends; and that the remarks, of which I have spoken, were made in truth and sincerity. Mean while we impatiently awaited some opportunity of operating to the disadvantage of the General, and to hear what had taken place between him and Gen. Echedio. A messenger arrived on the 12th of April with the information, that the commander of the insurgents had ranged his men for three days in succession before the fort upon the plain. A continual firing had been kept up on both sides, during the three days, at the expiration of which Gen. Solis, having expended his ammunition, and consumed his provisions, was compelled to withdraw, having sustained no loss, except that of one horse from a sustained action of three days! The spirit with which the contest was conducted may be inferred from a fact, related to me. The cannon balls discharged from the fort upon the enemy were discharged with so little force, that persons arrested them in their course, without sustaining any injury by so doing, at the point, where in the common order of things, they must have inflicted death. Upon the reception of this news, we joined in the prevalent expression of opinion around us. The name and fame of Gen. Solis was exalted to the skies. All the florid comparisons, usual upon such occasions, were put in requisition, and all the changes were sung upon his various characteristics wit, honor and courage. The point was carried so far as to bring him within some degrees of relationship to a supernatural being. Then the unbounded skill he displayed in marshalling his force, and his extreme care to prevent the useless waste of his men's lives were expatiated upon, and placed in the strongest light. The climax of his excellence was his having retreated without the loss of a man. This was the burden of our theme to his friends, that is, the fifty soldiers, in whose charge he had left the command of the {226} fort. The Captain Cooper, of whom I have spoken, looked rather deeper into things, than those around him; and consequently knew the most effectual means of operating upon the inefficient machines, in the form of men, which it was necessary for our present purpose, to remove out of the way for a time. Accordingly he rolled out a barrel of good old rum, inviting all the friends of the good and great Gen. Solis to come, and drink his health. The summons was readily obeyed by them. Being somewhat elevated in spirit by the proceedings of their noble general, previous to swallowing the genuine inspiration of joy, the feeling afterwards swelled to an extent, that burst all bounds, and finally left them prostrate and powerless. We, like good Christians, with the help of some of the inhabitants, conveyed them into some strong houses, which stood near, while they remained in their helpless condition, locking the doors safely, that no harm might come to them. In our pity and care for them, we proposed, that they should remain, until they felt that violent excitements are injurious, from the natural re-action of things. We now proceeded to circulate another set of views, and opinions among the inhabitants in the vicinity of the fort; and such was our success in the business of indoctrination, that we soon counted all their votes on our side. General Solis was now pitched down the depths, as heartily as he had before been exalted to the heights. Huzza for Gen. Echedio and the Americans! was the prevailing cry. The next movement was to make out a list of our names, and appoint officers. Our number including Scotch, Irish, English, Dutch and Americans, amounted to thirty-nine. The number of Americans, however, being the greatest, our party received the designation of American. Captain Cooper was our commanding officer. We now marched up to the castle, which is situated on the brink of a precipice, overlooking the sea, and found four brass field pieces, mounted on carriages. These we concluded to carry with us to the fort. The remainder placed so as to command a sweep of the surface of water below, and the surrounding ground, we spiked fearing, if they fell into the {227} hands of Solis, that he might break down our walls with them. This done, we went to the magazine, and broke it open, taking what powder and ball we wanted. We then posted sentinels for miles along the road, to which we knew Solis was hastening in order to prevent news of our proceedings from reaching him, before it was convenient for us, that he should know them. We were aware of his intention to return here to recruit again, and it was our wish to surprize him by an unexpected reception, and thus obtain an advantage, which should counterbalance his superiority of numbers. In so doing, we only availed ourselves of the precedent, he had given us, in his management with regard to Gen. Echedio. He had not derived benefit from his plan, in consequence of his too great confidence of success, which led him to discover his real feelings towards our people. We hoped to avail ourselves of what was wise in his plan, and profit by his mistakes. We shut up all the people, both men and women, in the fort at night, that it might be out of their power to attempt to make their way, under the cover of darkness, through our line of sentinels, to give information, should the inclination be felt. Our precautions were not taken through fear of him, should he even come upon us, prepared to encounter us as enemies: but from the wish to take both himself and army prisoners. Should they learn what we had done, we feared, they would pass on to St. Francisco, to recruit, and thus escape us. Our designs were successful; for in a few days General Solis and his men appeared in sight of the first of our sentinels, who quickly transmitted this information to us. Our preparations for receiving him were soon made, with a proper regard to politeness. A regale of music from air instruments, called cannons, was in readiness to incline him to the right view of the scene before him, should he seem not likely to conform to our wish, which was, simply, that he should surrender to us without making any difficulty. Our fortification was in the form of a square, with only one entrance. From each side of this entrance a wall projected at {228} right angles from it fifty yards. The Spaniards call them wings; and it seems to me a significant and fitting name for them. We intended to allow the approaching party to advance between these walls, before we began our part. Our cannons were charged with grape and balls, and placed in a position to produce an effect between the walls. Every man was now at his post, and General Solis approaching within sight of the fort, a small cannon which accompanied him was discharged by way of salute. No answer was returned to him. The piece was reloaded, and his fife and drum began a lively air, and the whole body moved in a quick step towards the fort, entering the space between the wings, of which I have spoken. This was no sooner done than our matches were in readiness for instant operation. Captain Cooper commanded them to surrender. He was immediately obeyed by the soldiers, who threw down their arms, aware that death would be the penalty of their refusal. The General and six of his mounted officers fled, directing their course to St. Francisco. Six of our party were soon on horseback with our rifles, and in pursuit of them. I had been appointed orderly sergeant, and was one of the six. We carried orders from the principal Spanish civil officer, who was in the fort, and had taken an active part in all our proceedings, to bring the General back with us, either dead or alive. The commands of our military commander, Captain Cooper, spoke the same language. I confess that I wanted to have a shot at the fugitive, and took pleasure in the pursuit. We went at full speed, for our horses were good and fresh. Those belonging to the party we were so desirous to overtake, would of course be somewhat weary, and jaded by their long journey. We had not galloped many miles, before we perceived them in advance of us. As soon as we were within hearing distance of each other, I called upon them to surrender. They replied by wheeling their horses and firing at us, and then striking their spurs into their horses' sides, to urge them onward. We followed, producing more effect with our spurs than they had done, and calling upon {229} them again to surrender, or we should fire, and give no quarter. They at length reined up, and six dismounted and laid down their arms. The seventh remained on horse back, and as we came up, fired, wounding one of our number slightly in the right arm. He then turned to resume his flight; but his horse had not made the second spring, before our guns brought the hero from his saddle. Four of our balls had passed through his body. The whole number being now assembled together, victors and vanquished, General Solis offered me his sword. I refused it, but told him, that himself and his officers must accompany me in my return to the fort. He consented to this with a countenance so expressive of dejection, that I pitied him, notwithstanding I knew him to be a bad man, and destitute of all principle. The man who had lost his life through his obstinacy, was bound upon his horse, and the others having remounted theirs, we set out upon our return. Our captives were all disarmed except General Solis, who was allowed to retain his sword. We reached the fort three hours before sunset. The General and his men were dismounted, and irons put upon their legs, after which they were locked up with those who had forgotten themselves in their joy at the good fortune of their poor general. These events occurred on the 18th of March. On the 20th the civil officer of whom I have before spoken, together with Captain Cooper, despatched a messenger to General Echedio, who was still in Santa Barbara with written intelligence of what we had accomplished. It was stated that the Americans were the originators of the whole matter, and that their flag was waving in the breeze over Monte El Rey, where it would remain, until his excellency came himself to take charge of the place; and he was requested to hasten his departure, as they who had obtained possession were anxious to be relieved from the care and responsibility they found imposed upon them. We were very well aware that he would receive our information with unmingled pleasure, as he expected Solis would return in a short time to Santa Barbara, to give him another battle. {230} It was said, that upon the reception of the letter he was as much rejoiced as though he had been requested to come and take charge of a kingdom. As soon as he could make the necessary arrangements he came to Monte El Rey, where he arrived on the 29th. We gave the command of the place up to him; but before he would suffer our flag to be taken down, he had thirty guns discharged in honor of it. He then requested a list of our names, saying, that if we would accept it, he would give each one of us the right of citizenship in his country.[125] A splendid dinner was made by him for our party. On the night of the 29th a vessel arrived in the port. In the morning it was found to be a brig belonging to the American consul at Macho, John W. Jones, esq., who was on board of it. This was the same person to whom I wrote when in prison at San Diego by Mr. Perkins. I met with him, and had the melancholy pleasure of relating to him in person my sufferings and imprisonment, and every thing, in short, that had happened to me during my stay in this country. This took place in my first interview with him. He advised me to make out a correct statement of the value of the furs I had lost by the General's detention of me, and also of the length of time I had been imprisoned, and to take it with me to the city of Mexico, where the American minister resided, and place it in his hands. It was probable, the consul continued, that he would be able to compel the Mexican government to indemnify me for the loss of property I had sustained, and for the injustice of my imprisonment. The probability of my success was not slight, provided I could establish the truth of my statement, by obtaining the testimony of those who were eye witnesses of the facts. I informed the consul that I had not means to enable me to reach the city of Mexico. A gentleman who was present during this conversation, after hearing my last remark, mentioned that he was then on his way to that place, and that if I would accompany him he would pay my expenses; and if circumstances should happen to induce me to think of returning thence to the United States, I should do so free of expense. I expressed my thanks {231} for this offer, and said that if I succeeded in recovering only a portion of what I had lost I would repay the money thus kindly expended in my behalf; but the obligation of gratitude imposed by such an act, it would be impossible for me to repay. In conformity to Mr. Jones' advice and instruction, I sat myself down to make out an account for the inspection of the American minister. When I had completed it, I obtained the signatures, of some of the first among the inhabitants of Monte El Rey, and that of the civil officer before mentioned, testifying as to the truth of what I said, so far as the circumstances narrated had come under their observation. The General having received the list of our names, which he had requested, he now desired, that we might all come to his office, and receive the right of citizenship from his hand, as a reward for what we had done. I put my paper in my pocket, and proceeded with my companions and Mr. Jones to the indicated place. The General had been much surprized to find my name in the list furnished him; but as I entered the room, he arose hastily from his seat and shook my hand in a friendly manner, after which I introduced him to the consul. He seemed surprised as he heard the name of this gentleman, but said nothing. After pointing us to seats, he walked out of the room, saying he should return in a few moments. I concluded, that he thought, I had brought the consul, or that he had accompanied me for the purpose of questioning him on the subject of my imprisonment and that of my companions. He returned, as soon as he had promised, having some papers in his hand. After he had seated himself, he began to interrogate me with regard to what had happened to me, during the long time that had elapsed since he had last seen me, adding, that he did not expect ever to have met me again; but was happy to see me a citizen of his country. My answer in reply to the last part of his remarks was short. I told him, he had not yet enjoyed any thing from that source, and with my consent never should. He looked very serious upon this manifestation of firmness, or {232} whatever it may be called on my part, and requested to know my objections to being a citizen of the country? I replied that it was simply having been reared in a country where I could pass from one town to another, without the protection of a passport, which instead of affording real protection, subjected me to the examination of every petty officer, near whom I passed, and that I should not willingly remain, where such was the order of things. Besides, I added, I was liable to be thrown into prison like a criminal, at the caprice of one clothed with a little authority, if I failed to show a passport, which I might either lose accidentally, or in some way, for which I might not have been in the least in fault. The General, in reply, asked me if in my country a foreigner was permitted to travel to and fro, without first presenting to the properly constituted authorities of our government, proof from those among the officers of his own government appointed for that purpose, of his being a person of good character, who might safely be allowed to traverse the country? I told him I had once attempted to satisfy him on that head, and he very abruptly and decidedly contradicted my account; and that now I did not feel in the least compelled, or inclined to enter upon the matter a second time. All which I desired of him, and that I did not earnestly desire, was, that he would give me a passport to travel into my own country by the way of the city of Mexico. If I could once more place my foot upon its free soil, and enjoy the priceless blessings of its liberty, which my unfortunate father, of whom I could never cease to think, and who had died in his prison, assisted in maintaining, I should be satisfied. While I thus spoke, he gazed steadily in my face. His swarthy complexion grew pale. He read in my countenance a strong expression of deep feeling, awakened by the nature of the remembrances associated with him. He felt that there was something fearful in the harvest of bitterness which the oppressor reaps in return for his injuries and cruelties. I thought, he {233} feared, if he did not grant my request for a pass, that I might carry into execution the purposes of vengeance; to which I used to give utterance in my burning indignation at his conduct at the time of my father's death. Whenever I saw him pass my prison I seized the opportunity to tell him, that if my time for redress ever came, he would find me as unflinching in my vengeance as he had been in his injuries. I only expressed the truth with regard to my feelings at the time, and even now I owe it to candor and honesty to acknowledge, that I could have seen him at the moment of this conversation suffer any infliction without pity. He did not hesitate to give the pass I desired; but asked me what business led me out of my way to the United States around by the city of Mexico? My direct course, he remarked, lay in a straight direction through New Mexico. For reply, I drew out of my pocket the paper I had written before coming to his office, and read it to him, telling him that was the business which led me to the city of Mexico. I then asked him if all the facts there stated were not true? His answer was in the affirmative; 'but,' added he, 'you will not be able to recover any thing, as I acted in conformity to the laws of my country. If you will remain in this country I will give you something handsome to begin with.' I assured him that I would not stay, but I wished him to show me the laws which allowed, or justified him in imprisoning myself and my companions for entering a country as we did, compelled by misfortunes such as ours. In return, he said he had no laws to show, but those which recommended him to take up and imprison those whom he deemed conspirators against his country. 'What marks of our being conspirators did you discover in us,' rejoined I, 'which warranted your imprisoning us? I am aware of none, unless it be the evidence furnished by our countenances and apparel, that we had undergone the extreme of misfortune and distress, which had come upon us without any agency on our part, and as inevitable evils to which every human being is liable. We were led by the hope of obtaining relief, to seek refuge in your protection. {234} In confirmation of our own relation, did not our papers prove that we were Americans, and that we had received legal permission from the very government under which we then were, to trade in the country? The printed declaration to this effect, given us by the governor of Santa Fe, which we showed you, you tore in pieces before us, declaring it was neither a license nor a passport.' The General replied, that he did tear up a paper given him by us, but that in fact it was neither a passport nor a license. "Now sir," said I, "I am happy that it is in my power to prove, in the presence of the American consul, the truth of what I have said with regard to the license." I then produced another copy of the paper torn up by him, which had been given my father by the governor of Santa Fe, at the same time with the former. He looked at it, and said nothing more, except that I might go on, and try what I could do in the way of recovering what I had lost. The consul and myself now left him, and returned to Capt. Cooper's. The consul laughed at me about my quarrel with the General. In a few moments the latter appeared among us, and the remainder of the day passed away cheerfully in drinking toasts. When the General rose to take leave of us, he requested the consul to call upon him at his office; as he wanted to converse with him upon business. The consul went, according to request, and the General contracted with him for the transportation of Gen. Solis, and sixteen other prisoners to San Blas, on board his vessel, whence they were to be carried to the city of Mexico. The 7th of May was fixed for the departure of the brig, as the General required some time for making necessary arrangements, and preparing documents to accompany the transmission of the prisoners. When I heard that this delay was unavoidable, I went to the General and returned my passport, telling him I should want another, when the vessel was ready to sail, as I intended to proceed in it as far as San Blas. He consented to give me one, and then joked with me about the {235} honor, I should enjoy, of accompanying Gen. Solis. I replied in the same strain, and left him. Captain William H. Hinkley and myself went to the mission of San Carlos, where we spent three days.[126] During the whole time, we did little beside express our astonishment at what we saw. We had fallen upon the festival days of some saint, and the services performed in his honor all passed under our eyes. They were not a few, nor wanting in variety, as this was a noted festival. Our admiration, however, was principally excited by the contest between grizzly bears and bulls, which constitutes one of the exhibitions of these people. Five large grey bears had been caught, and fastened in a pen built for the purpose of confining the bulls, during a bullbaiting. One of the latter animals, held by ropes, was brought to the spot by men on horseback, and thrown down. A bear was then drawn up to him, and they were fastened together by a rope about fifteen feet in length, in such a manner, that they could not separate from each other. One end of it is tied around one of the forefeet of the bull, and the other around one of the hind feet of the bear. The two were then left to spring upon their feet. As soon as this movement is made, the bull makes at the bear, very often deciding the fate of the ferocious animal in this first act. If the bull fails in goring the bear, the fierce animal seizes him and tears him to death. Fourteen of the latter lost their lives, before the five bears were destroyed. To Captain Hinkley this was a sight of novel and absorbing interest. It had less of novelty for me, as since I had been on the coast, I had often seen similar combats, and in fact worse, having been present when men entered the enclosure to encounter the powerful bull in his wild and untamed fierceness. These unfortunate persons are armed with a small sword, with which they sometimes succeed in saving their own lives at the expense of that of the animal. I once saw the man fall in one of these horrible shows; they are conducted in the following manner: the man enters to the bull with the weapon, of which he avails himself, in the right {236} hand, and in the left a small red flag, fastened to a staff about three feet in length. He whistles, or makes some other noise, to attract the attention of the animal, upon hearing which the bull comes towards him with the speed of fury. The man stands firm, with the flag dangling before him, to receive this terrible onset. When the bull makes the last spring towards him, he dexterously evades it, by throwing his body from behind the flag to one side, at the same time thrusting his sword into the animal's side. If this blow is properly directed, blood gushes from the mouth and nostrils of the bull, and he falls dead. A second blow in this case is seldom required. Another mode of killing these animals is by men on horseback, with a spear, which they dart into his neck, immediately behind the horns. The horse is often killed by the bull. When the animal chances to prefer running from the fight to engaging in it, he is killed by the horseman, by being thrown heels over head. This is accomplished by catching hold of the tail of the bull in the full speed of pursuit, and giving a turn around the head of the saddle, in such a manner, that they are enabled to throw the animal into any posture they choose.[127] After we returned to the fort, it took us some time to relate what we had seen, to the consul. Feeling it necessary to do something towards supporting myself, during the remaining time of my stay in this part of the country, I took my rifle, and joined a Portuguese in the attempt to kill otters along the coast. We hunted up and down the coast, a distance of forty miles, killing sixteen otters in ten days. We sold their skins, some as high as seventy-five dollars, and none under twenty-five. Three hundred dollars fell to my share from the avails of our trip. Captain Cooper was exceedingly desirous to purchase my rifle, now that I should not be likely to make use of it, as I was soon to proceed on my journey to the city of Mexico. I presented it to him, for I could not think of bartering for money, what I regarded, as a tried friend, that had afforded me the means of subsistence and protection for so long a time. My {237} conscience would have reproached me, as though I had been guilty of an act of ingratitude. The period of my departure from this coast was now close at hand, and my thoughts naturally took a retrospect of the whole time, I had spent upon it. The misery and suffering of various kinds, that I had endured in some portions of it, had not been able to prevent me from feeling, and acknowledging, that this country is more calculated to charm the eye, than any one I have ever seen. Those, who traverse it, if they have any capability whatever of perceiving, and admiring the beautiful and sublime in scenery, must be constantly excited to wonder and praise. It is no less remarkable for uniting the advantages of healthfulness, a good soil, a temperate climate, and yet one of exceeding mildness, a happy mixture of level and elevated ground, and vicinity to the sea. Its inhabitants are equally calculated to excite dislike, and even the stronger feelings of disgust and hatred. The priests are omnipotent, and all things are subject to their power. Two thirds of the population are native Indians under the immediate charge of these spiritual rulers in the numerous missions. It is a well known fact, that nothing is more entirely opposite to the nature of a savage, than labor. In order to keep them at their daily tasks, the most rigid and unremitting supervision is exercised. No bondage can be more complete, than that under which they live. The compulsion laid upon them has, however, led them at times to rebel, and endeavor to escape from their yoke. They have seized upon arms, murdered the priests, and destroyed the buildings of the missions, by preconcerted stratagem, in several instances. When their work of destruction and retribution was accomplished, they fled to the mountains, and subsisted on the flesh of wild horses which are there found in innumerable droves. To prevent the recurrence of similar events, the priests have passed laws, prohibiting an Indian the use or possession of any weapon whatever, under the penalty of a severe punishment. On the 25th I addressed the companions of my former journeyings and imprisonment in San Diego by letter. They had {238} remained in the town of Angels, during the months which had elapsed since my separation from them, after our receiving liberty upon parole. I had kept up a constant correspondence with them in this interval. My objects at present were to inform them of my proposed departure for my native country, and request them, if they should be called upon so to do, to state every thing relative to our imprisonment and loss of property, exactly as it took place. I closed, by telling them, they might expect a letter from me upon my arrival in the city of Mexico.[128] On the 8th of May I applied for my passport, which was readily given me, and taking leave of the General and my friends, I entered the vessel, in which I was to proceed to San Blas, at 8 o'clock in the morning. The sails of the brig, which was called the Volunteer, were soon set, and speeding us upon our way. The green water turned white, as it met the advance of our prow, and behind us we left a smooth belt of water, affording a singular contrast to the waves around. I watched the disappearance of this single smooth spot, as it was lost in the surrounding billows, when the influence of the movement of our vessel ceased, as a spectacle to be contemplated by a land's man with interest. But no feeling of gratification operated in the minds of the poor prisoners in the hold. They were ironed separately, and then all fastened to a long bar of iron. They were soon heard mingling prayers and groans, interrupted only by the violent vomiting produced by sea sickness. In addition to this misery, when fear found entrance into their thoughts during the intervals of the cessation of extreme sickness, it seemed to them, as if every surge the vessel made must be its last. In this miserable condition they remained, until the 19th, when we arrived at San Blas. The prisoners here were delivered into the charge of the commanding officer of the place. Captain Hinkley, his mate, Henry Vinal, and myself disembarked at this place, in order to commence our journey over land to Mexico. The necessary arrangements for our undertaking occupied us three days. We found the season warm on our arrival here. Watermelons were abundant, and also green {239} corn, and a great variety of ripe fruit. Two crops of corn and wheat are raised in the year. A precipice was shown me, over which, I was told, the Mexicans threw three old priests at the commencement of the revolt against the king of Spain.--This port is the centre of considerable business in the seasons of spring and fall. During the summer, the inhabitants are compelled to leave it, as the air becomes infected by the exhalations, arising from the surrounding swamps. Myriads of musquitos and other small insects fill the air at the same time, uniting with the former cause to render the place uninhabitable. Great quantities of salt are made upon the flats in the vicinity of San Blas. I did not inform myself accurately, with regard to the manner, in which it is made; but as I was passing by one day, where the preparation of it was carried on, I observed what struck me as being both curious and novel. The earth was laid off in square beds. Around their edges dirt was heaped up, as though the bed, which I have mentioned, was intended to be covered with water. We began our journey well armed, as we had been informed that we should, in all probability, find abundant occasion to use our arms, as we advanced. Our progress was slow, as we conformed to the directions given us, and kept a constant look out for robbers, of whom there are said to be thousands upon this route. On the 25th we reached a small town called Tipi, where we remained one day to rest from our fatigue, and then set off again for Guadalaxara, distant eight days' journey. Our path led us through a beautiful country, a great portion of which was under cultivation. Occasionally we passed through small villages. Beggars were to be seen standing at the corners of all the streets, and along the highways. They take a station by the road side, having a dog or child by them, to lead them into the road when they see a traveller approaching. They stand until the person reaches the spot upon which they are, when they ask alms for the sake of a saint, whose image is worn suspended around their neck, or tied around the wrist. {240} This circumstance of begging for the saint, and not for themselves, struck me as a new expedient in the art of begging. At first we gave a trifle to the poor saint. As we went on we found them so numerous that it became necessary for us to husband our alms, and we finally came to the conclusion that the large brotherhood of beggars could occasionally diversify their mode of life by a dexterous management of their fingers, and shut our purses to the demands of the saints. The country for some time before we drew near Guadalaxara, was rather barren, although its immediate vicinity is delightful. We reached that city on the 2d of June, and spent three days in it. It is situated upon a fine plain, which is overspread by the same numbers of domestic animals that I had seen in New Mexico and California. The city is walled in, with gates at the different entrances. These gates are strongly guarded, and no one is allowed to enter them until they have been searched, in order to ascertain if they carry any smuggled goods about them. The same precaution is used when any one passes out of the city. A passport must be shown for the person, his horse, and arms, and a statement from the principal peace officer, of the number of trunks with which he set out upon his journey, and their contents. This caution is to prevent smuggling; but it does not effect the purpose, as there is more contraband trade here, than in any place I was ever in before. I was not able to ascertain the number of inhabitants of this city. The silver mines of Guanaxuato are near Guadalaxara. They are carried on at present by an English company. The evening before our departure we went to the theatre. The actresses appeared young and beautiful, and danced and sung charmingly. The 5th day of June we resumed our journey to the city of Mexico. Again we travelled through a charming country, tolerably thickly settled. On our way we fell in company with an officer belonging to the service of the country. He had ten soldiers with him. Upon his demanding to see our passports we showed them to him, though he had no authority to make {241} such a demand. After he had finished their perusal he returned them with such an indifferent air, that I could not resist an inclination to ask him some questions that might perhaps have seemed rude. I first asked him what post he filled in the army? He answered, with great civility, he was first lieutenant. I then requested to know, to what part of the country he was travelling? He said, still in a very civil manner, that he had had the command of some troops in Guanaxuato, but was now on his way to the city of Mexico, to take charge of the 6th regiment, which was ordered to the province of Texas, to find out among the Americans there, those who had refused obedience to the Mexican laws. He added, that when he succeeded in finding them, he would soon learn them to behave well. The last remark was made in rather a contemptuous tone of voice, and with something like an implied insult to me. This warmed my blood, and I replied in a tone not so gentle as prudence might have counselled a stranger in a foreign land to have adopted, that if himself and his men did not conduct themselves properly when they were among the Americans, the latter would soon despatch them to another country, which they had not yet seen; as the Americans were not Mexicans, to stand at the corner of a house, and hide their guns behind the side of it, while they looked another way, and pulled the trigger. At this he flew into a passion. I did not try to irritate him any further, and he rode on and left us. We pursued our way slowly, and stopped for the night at Aguabuena, a small town on the way. We put up at a house, a sort of posada, built for lodging travellers.--Twenty-five cents is the price for the use of a room for one night. It is seldom that any person is found about such an establishment to take charge of it but an old key bearer. Provisions must be sought elsewhere. It is not often necessary to go further than the street, where, at any hour in the day until ten o'clock at night, men and women are engaged in crying different kinds of eatables. We generally purchased our food of them. After we had finished our supper two English gentlemen entered, who were on their way to the city of Mexico. {242} We concluded to travel together, as our point of destination was the same, and we should be more able to resist any adversaries we might encounter; this country being, as I have before mentioned, infested with robbers and thieves, although we had not yet fallen in with any. These gentlemen informed us that the greatest catholic festival of the whole year was close at hand. If we could reach the city of Mexico before its celebration, we should see something that would repay us for hastening our journey. As we were desirous to lose the sight of nothing curious, we proceeded as fast as circumstances would permit, and reached the city on the 10th, late in the evening, and put up at an inn kept by an Englishman, although, as in the other towns in which we had been, we were obliged to seek food elsewhere, the only accommodation at the inn being beds to sleep in, and liquors to drink. We found supper in a coffee house. We were awakened early in the morning by the ringing of bells. As we stepped into the street we met three biers carried by some men guarded by soldiers. Blood was dropping from each bier. The bearers begged money to pay the expenses of burying the bodies. I afterwards learned that these persons were murdered on the night of our arrival, upon the Alameda, a promenade north of the city, in one of the suburbs. We visited this place, and found it covered with thousands of people, some walking, and others sitting on the seats placed around this public pleasure ground. Small parties are sheltered from view by thickets of a growth, like that in our country, used for hedges. The open surface is surrounded by a hedge of the same shrub. These partially concealed parties are usually composed of men and women of the lowest orders, engaged in card playing. Such are to be seen at any hour of the day, occupied in a way which is most likely to terminate the meeting in an affray, and perhaps murder. Blood is frequently shed, and I judged from what I saw of the order of things, that the accounts of the numerous assassinations committed among this populace, were not exaggerated. One of the characteristics of this people {243} is jealousy. Notwithstanding the danger really to be apprehended from visiting this place after certain hours, my two companions and myself spent several evenings in it without being molested in the slightest degree. But one evening as we were returning to our lodgings, we were compelled to kneel with our white pantaloons upon the dirty street, while the host was passing. We took care afterwards to step into a house in time to avoid the troublesome necessity. We attended a bull baiting, and some other exhibitions for the amusement of the people. Being one evening at the theatre, I had the misfortune to lose my watch from my pocket, without being aware when it was taken. It would have been useless for me to have thought of looking around for it, as I stood in the midst of such a crowd that it was almost an impossibility to move. The accounts of this city which I had met with in books led me to expect to find it placed in the midst of a lake, or surrounded by a sheet of water. To satisfy myself with regard to the truth of this representation, I mounted a horse, and made the circuit of the city, visiting some villages that lay within a league of it. I found no lake; but the land is low and flat. A canal is cut through it, for the purpose of carrying off the water that descends from the mountains upon the level surface, which has the appearance of having been formerly covered with water. A mountain which is visible from the city, presents a circular summit, one part of which is covered with snow throughout the year: upon the other is the crater of a volcano, which is continually sending up proof of the existence of an unceasing fire within. Early upon the first day of my arrival in this city, I waited upon Mr. Butler, the American charge d'affairs.[129] After I had made myself known to him he showed me a communication from President Jackson to the President of this country, the purport of which was, to request the latter to set at liberty some Americans, imprisoned upon the coast of California. I then handed him the statement I had made according to the advice {244} of Mr. Jones. He asked me many questions relative to the losses I had sustained, which I answered, and then took my leave. A number of coaches were to leave the city for Vera Cruz on the 18th of June. My companions and myself took places in one of them. On the 15th I again called upon Mr. Butler to obtain a passport to Vera Cruz, where I intended to embark for America. He took me to the palace of the President, in order that I might get my passport. This circumstance was agreeable to me, as I was desirous to see this person, of whom I had heard so much. Upon arriving at the palace I found it a splendid building, although much shattered by the balls discharged at it by the former President Guerero, who is now flying from one place to another with a few followers, spreading destruction to the extent of his power. A soldier led me into the presence of the President.[130] He was walking to and fro when I entered the room, apparently in deep meditation. Several clerks were present, engaged in writing. He received me politely, bowing as I advanced, and bade me sit down. In answer to his inquiry what I wished of him? I told my errand. He then asked me from what direction I came? I replied, from California. California! said he, repeating the word with an air of interest. I answered again, that I left that part of the country when I began my present journey. You must have been there then, rejoined he, when the late revolution took place, of which I have but a short time since received information. I remarked, that I was upon the spot where it occurred, and that I took my departure from the coast in the same vessel that brought sixteen of the captives taken in the course of its progress, and that I disembarked at St. Blas at the same time that they were taken from the vessel. He resumed the conversation by saying, you were probably one of the Americans who, I am told, assisted in subduing the revolted party. I told him, he was correct in his opinion; and by so doing I had had the good fortune to gain my liberty. His countenance expressed surprise at the conclusion of my remark; and he proceeded {245} to ask me, what meaning I had, in saying that I had thus regained my own liberty? I then related my story; upon which he said he had understood that General Echedio had acted contrary to the laws, in several instances, and that, in consequence, he had ordered him to Mexico to answer for his conduct.[131] I was surprised at the condescension of the President in thus expressing to me any part of his intentions with regard to such a person. I accounted for it by supposing that he wished to have it generally understood, that he did not approve of the unjust and cruel treatment which the Americans had received. The president appeared to me to be a man of plain and gentlemanly manners, possessing great talent. In this I express no more than my individual opinion; to which I must add that I do not consider myself competent to judge of such points, only for myself. He gave me a passport, and I returned to Mr. Butler's office, who informed me that he wished me to take a very fine horse to Vera Cruz, for the American consul at that place. He said that I would find it pleasant to vary my mode of travelling, by occasionally riding the horse. I readily consented to his wish, requesting him to have the horse taken to the place from which the coach would set off, early in the morning, when I would take charge of it. I now took leave of Mr. Butler and proceeded to my lodgings. I found both my companions busily engaged in packing, and arranging for departure. I immediately entered upon the same employment. I had two trunks; one I filled with such articles as I should require upon my journey; and in another I placed such as I should not be likely to use, and a great many curiosities which I had collected during my long wanderings. The latter trunk I did not calculate to open until I reached my native land. At 8 o'clock on the morning of the 16th our coach left the city, in company with two others. We were eight in number, including the coachman. Three of the party were ladies. One was a Frenchwoman, a married lady travelling without her husband. Another was a Spanishwoman, who had married {246} a wealthy Irishman, and was accompanied by her husband. The third was the wife of a Mexican officer, also one of the eight. This gentleman was an inveterate enemy of the displaced President General Guerero. We journeyed on very amicably together, without meeting with the slightest disturbance, until the second day, when, about three o'clock in the afternoon, we were met by a company of fifty men, all well mounted and armed. At first sight of them we had supposed them to be a party which had been sent from the city in search of some highwaymen who had committed murder and robbery upon the road on which we were travelling, a few days previous to our departure. A few minutes served to show us our mistake.--They surrounded the coaches, commanding the drivers to halt, and announcing themselves as followers of General Guerero. They demanded money, of which they stated that they were in great need. The tone of this demand was, however, humble, such as beggars would use. While they addressed us in this manner, they contrived to place themselves among and around the persons of our party in such a way as to obtain entire command of us. The instant they had completed this purpose, they presented their spears and muskets, and demanded our arms. We resigned them without offering an objection, as we saw clearly, that opposition would be unavailing. They now proceeded to take from us what they thought proper. I was allowed to retain my trunk of clothing for my journey. The Mexican officer was sitting by his wife in the coach. Some of the soldiers seized him, and dragged him from his almost distracted wife out of the carriage. His fate was summarily decided, and he was hung upon a tree. When this dreadful business was terminated, we were ordered to drive on. We gladly hastened from such a scene of horror. But the agony of the unfortunate wife was an impressive memorial to remind us of the nature of the late occurrence, had we needed any other than our own remembrances. We left this afflicted lady at Xalapa, in the care of her relations. A great quantity of jalap, which is so much used in medicine, is obtained from this place. {247} After leaving Xalapa, we advanced through a beautiful country. We passed many small towns on this part of our route. Our course had been a continued descent, after crossing the mountain sixteen miles from the city of Mexico. The road is excellent, being paved for the most part. It is cut through points of mountains in several places. This work must have been attended with immense labor and expense. We reached Vera Cruz on the 24th. On the 27th Captain Hinkley and his mate embarked for New York. I remained with the consul Mr. Stone, until the 18th of July. A vessel being in readiness to sail for New Orleans at this time, I was desirous to avail myself of the opportunity to return to the United States. Mr. Stone and some others presented me money sufficient to pay my passage to the point to which the vessel was bound. It was very painful to me to incur this debt of gratitude, as I could not even venture to hope that it would be in my power to repay it, either in money or benefits of any kind. The prospect, which the future offered me, was dark. It seemed as if misfortune had set her seal upon all that concerned my destiny. I accepted this offering of kindness and benevolence with thanks direct from my heart, and went on board the vessel. It would be idle for me to attempt to describe the feelings that swelled my heart, as the sails filled to bear me from the shores of a country, where I had seen and suffered so much. My dreams of success in those points considered most important by my fellow men, were vanished forever. After all my endurance of toil, hunger, thirst and imprisonment, after encountering the fiercest wild beasts in their deserts, and fiercer men, after tracing streams before unmeasured and unvisited by any of my own race to their source, over rugged and pathless mountains, subject to every species of danger, want and misery for seven years, it seemed hard to be indebted to charity, however kind and considerate it might be, for the means of returning to my native land. {248} As we sped on our way, I turned to look at the land I was leaving, and endeavored to withdraw my thoughts from the painful train into which they had fallen. Vera Cruz is the best fortified port I have ever seen. The town is walled in, and well guarded on every side with heavy cannon. The part of the wall extending along the water's edge, is surmounted by guns pointing so as completely to command the shipping in the harbour. A reef of rocks arises at the distance of half a mile from the shore opposite the city, and continues visible for several miles in a south direction, joining the main land seven or eight miles southwest of Vera Cruz. A fort stands upon that part of the reef which fronts the town. Ships in leaving or entering the harbour are obliged to pass between the fort and the town. We reached New Orleans on the first of August, although the wind had not been entirely favorable. It blew a stiff breeze from a direction which compelled us to run within five points and a half of the wind. As I approached the spot where my foot would again press its native soil, my imagination transported me over the long course of river which yet lay between me, and all I had left in the world to love. I cannot express the delight which thrilled and softened my heart, as I fancied myself entering my home; for it was the home I had known and loved when my mother lived, and we were happy that rose to my view. Fancy could not present another to me. There were my brothers and sisters, as I had been used to see them. The pleasant shade of the trees lay upon the turf before the door of our dwelling. The paths around were the same, over which I had so often bounded with the elastic step of childhood, enjoying a happy existence. Years and change have no place in such meditations. We landed, and I stood upon the shore. I was aroused by the approach of an Englishman, one of my fellow passengers, to a sense of my real position. He asked me if I had taken a passage in a steamboat for Louisville? I immediately answered in the negative. He then said he had bespoken one in the Cora; and as I had {249} not chosen any other, he would be glad if I would go on in the same one with him, and thus continue our companionship as long as possible. So saying he took me by the arm to lead me in the direction of the boat of which he spoke, that we might choose our births. As we advanced together, it occurred to me to ask the price of a passage to Louisville? I was answered, forty dollars. Upon hearing this I stopped, and told my companion I could not take a birth just then, at the same time putting my hand in my pocket to ascertain if the state of my funds would permit me to do so at all. The Englishman seeing my embarrassment, and conjecturing rightly its origin, instantly remarked, that the passage money was not to be paid until the boat arrived at Louisville. I was ashamed to own my poverty, and invented an excuse to hide it, telling him, that I had an engagement at that time, but would walk with him in the evening to see about the passage. He left me in consequence. I then discovered, that so far from being able to take a cabin passage I had not money enough to pay for one on the deck. I re-entered the vessel in which I had arrived. As I approached the captain I saw him point me out to a person conversing with him, and heard him say, 'there is the young man I have been mentioning to you. He speaks Spanish, and will probably engage with you.' When I was near enough he introduced me to the stranger, whom he called Captain Vion. The latter addressed a few remarks to me, and then requested me to accompany him into his vessel. I consented and followed him on board. He then told me, that he wished to engage a person to accompany him to Vera Cruz, and aid in disposing of his vessel and cargo; and asked if I was inclined to go with him for such a purpose? I said, in reply, that it would depend entirely upon the recompense he offered for the services to be performed. He remarked, that he would give a certain per cent upon the brig and cargo, in case it was sold. I partly agreed to his proposal, but told him that I could not decide finally upon it until I had considered the matter. He then requested {250} me to come to him the next day at 12 o'clock, when I would find him at dinner. I left him, after promising to do so, and wandered about looking at the city until evening, when I met the Englishman from whom I had parted in the morning. He said he would now accompany me to the steam boat, that we might choose our births according to our engagement. I had no longer any excuse to offer, and was compelled to acknowledge that the contents of my purse were not sufficient to justify me in contracting a debt of forty dollars. I added, that I had an idea of returning to Vera Cruz. He replied, that in regard to the passage money I need have no uneasiness, nor hesitate to go on board, as he would defray my expenses as far as I chose to go. In respect to my plan of returning to Vera Cruz, he said that it would be exceedingly unwise for me to carry it into execution; as the yellow fever would be raging by the time I reached the city, and that it was most likely I should fall a victim to it. I had, however, determined in my own mind that I would run the risk, rather than ask or receive aid from a person to whom I was comparatively unknown, and accordingly I refused his kindly proffered assistance, telling him at the same time, that I felt as grateful to him as though I had accepted his offered kindness, and that I would have availed myself of his benevolent intentions towards me, had he been a resident of my country; but as I knew him to be a traveller in a foreign land, who might need all his funds, he must excuse me. He then asked me if I had no acquaintance in New Orleans, of whom I could obtain the money as a loan? I replied, that I did not know an individual in the city; but if I carried my plan of returning to Vera Cruz into execution, I should probably be enabled to proceed to my friends without depending on any one. Upon this we separated, and each went to his lodging. At ten the succeeding morning my English friend came to my boarding house, accompanied by Judge Johnston, who accosted me with a manner of paternal kindness, enquiring of me how long I had been absent from my country and relations? {251} I naturally enquired in turn, if he was in any way acquainted with them? He replied, that he was; and advised me to ascend the river, and visit them. I expressed to him how pleasant it would be to me to visit them, but assured him that it was out of my power to enjoy that pleasure at present. He enquired why? I avoided a direct answer, and remarked, that I proposed returning to Vera Cruz. He not only urged strong objections to this, but offered to pay my passage up the river. It may be easily imagined how I felt in view of such an offer from this generous and respectable stranger. I thankfully accepted it, only assuring him that I should repay him as soon as it was in my power. He replied that it was a matter of no consequence. He advised me to go on board the steam boat and choose my birth, alleging, that he had business in the city which would not allow him to accompany me on board. My English friend seemed highly gratified by this good fortune of mine, and went with me on board the steam boat, where I chose a birth. The name of this gentleman was Perry, and he was one of the two whom I have already mentioned, who had travelled in company with me from the city of Guadalaxara to Mexico. On the fourth, at nine in the morning, the starting bell rung on the steam boat, and Judge Johnston, Mr. Perry and myself went on board. This was the first steam boat on which I had ever been. Scarcely was the interior of the first ship I was ever on board at San Diego, a spectacle of more exciting interest. How much more delighted was I to see her stem the mighty current of the Mississippi. As I remarked the plantations, bends and forests sinking in the distance behind me, I felt that I was rapidly nearing home; and at every advance my anxiety to see my relations once more, increased. To the many enquiries, made by Judge Johnston, touching the interior of the continent where I had been wandering, I am sure I must have given very unsatisfactory answers, much as I wished to oblige him. My thoughts dwelt with such constant and intense solicitude upon home, that I felt myself unable to frame answers to questions upon any other subjects. {252} Home did I say? I have none. My father and mother sleep--widely separated from each other. They left nine orphans without resources to breast this stormy and mutable world. I, who ought to supply the place of a parent to them, shall carry to them nothing but poverty, and the withering remembrances of an unhappy wanderer, upon whom misfortune seems to have stamped her inexorable seal. I parted with Judge Johnston at Cincinnati, who gave me a line of introduction to Mr. Flint, for which I felt under renewed obligations to him, hoping it would be of service to me. I left Cincinnati; and on the 30th of August arrived at the end of my journey. I have had too much of real incident and affliction to be a dealer in romance; and yet I should do injustice to my feelings, if I closed this journal without a record of my sensations on reaching home. I have still before me, unchanged by all, that I have seen, and suffered, the picture of the abode of my infant days and juvenile remembrances. But the present reality is all as much changed, as my heart. I meet my neighbors, and school fellows, as I approach the home of my grandfather.--They neither recognize me, nor I them. I look for the deep grove, so faithfully remaining in my memory, and the stream that murmured through it. The woods are levelled by the axe. The stream, no longer protected by the deep shade, has almost run dry. A storm has swept away the noble trees, that had been spared for shade. The fruit trees are decayed. I was first met by my grandmother. She is tottering under the burden and decline of old age, and the sight of me only recalls the painful remembrance of my father, worn out by the torture of his oppressors, and buried in the distant land of strangers and enemies. I could hardly have remembered my grandfather, the once vigorous and undaunted hunter. With a feeble and tremulous voice, he repeats enquiry upon enquiry, touching the fate of my father? I look round for the dear band of brothers and sisters. But one of the numerous group remains, and he too young to know me; though I see enough to remind me, how much he has stood in need of an efficient protector.--I hastily enquire for the rest. One is here, and another is there, and my head is confused, in listening to the names of the places of their residence. I left one sister, a child. She is married to a person I never knew; one, who, from the laws of our nature, can only regard me with the eye of a stranger. We call each other brother, but the affectionate word will not act as a key, to unlock the fountains of fraternal feeling. They, however, kindly invite me to their home. I am impelled alike by poverty and affection, to remain with them for a time, till I can forget what has been, and weave a new web of hopes, and form a new series of plans for some pursuit in life. Alas! disappointments, such as I have encountered, are not the motives to impart vigor and firmness for new projects. The freshness, the visions, the hopes of my youthful days are all vanished, and can never return. If any one of my years has felt, that the _fashion of this world passeth away_, and that all below the sun is vanity, it is I. If there is a lesson from my wanderings, it is one, that inculcates upon children, remaining at the paternal home in peace and privacy; one that counsels the young against wandering far away, to see the habitations, and endure the inhospitality of strangers. END OF THE NARRATIVE NOTE The following articles are given, as containing fresh and important information with regard to the countries, through which the Author passed. Dr. Willard's 'Tour' was extensively quoted, by the periodicals of the day, at the time of its publication.[132] Views taken, upon the spot, by an impartial observer, of this comparatively unknown country, so interesting in itself, and from its vicinity to our own country, and the increasing relations, which connect us with it cannot fail to interest the reader. By comparing the statements of individuals differing entirely in training, position, and circumstances, and the purpose for which a country is observed, such statements, in short as are comprised in this volume, the real advantages and disadvantages of a country, its healthfulness, fertility, climate, beauty and the character of its inhabitants, and institutions may be known. These travellers note down what passed under their eyes, "nothing extenuating, nor setting down aught in malice." It probably did not occur to them, that the imagination might almost work at will, without fear of being caught in the fact, in the desert and unvisited regions of which they speak. INLAND TRADE WITH NEW MEXICO Into what nook of our globe can we penetrate, and not find our citizens with their 'trade and traffic?' We not long since read in a paper, that a Yankee captain was running a steam boat in the Yellow sea. In farthest India--in the islands of the gentiles--along the new countries recently discovered in the Antarctic sea, the undisputed throne of winter, and the habitation of sea monsters--wherever winds can waft, human foot-step be imprinted, or the Argus ken of industry and enterprise discover the most distant prospect of a harvest, there we shall find Americans. We delight to consort, as a listener, among the crowds of American tars. Their peculiar dress and step, walking the firm earth as if 'she' reeled; their frank, reckless and manly port; their voice, formed to its tones and expression amidst the roar of the winds and the dash of the waves; their dialect, their outlandish phrase, all furnish food for imagination. We hear them speak of China, of Japan, of Borneo, the Cape of Good Hope, and Cape Horn, as familiarly as the transit from New York to Greenwich. Their language seems to imply that distance and space are ideas unknown to them. Imagination follows them in their long and dangerous course {256} through the trackless brine, and realizes how many storms they have encountered, how many hardships endured, and deaths dared, during these passages; of which they speak as familiarly as of their diurnal visits on shore. Though the adventures and voyages of the mariner furnish most food for the imagination; though the immense distances and the mysterious depths, that he traverses, and the indifferent hardihood, with which he encounters his perils and toils, naturally inspire an undefined admiration; yet the real exposure, toils and dangers of the interior journeys of our adventurous landsmen are, probably, quite as numerous, though they elicit much less of that feeling of romance and homage to daring, which is so readily called forth in the case of the other. The sailor carries his home with him. The fathomless and swelling cerulean is to him as the scenery of his birth place. No verdure, no enclosures of his paternal home are more pleasant, desired or natural, than good sea room. The winds and waves are chartered alike to convey him from danger, and to furnish him with the spectacles, varieties and pleasures of new ports. Not so with the landsman, far from home in the land of the stranger. Every new object, every variety of soil, climate, vegetation, strange plants and trees, strange men, dresses, religions, modes of building, strange customs, and, more than all, strange speech, awaken every moment those feelings, which made the Romans denominate the strange host by a word, that implies an enemy. At every step nature puts on new forms of hostility, and warns him against uncalled espionage of her privacy, and familiarity with her secrets. His weary steps, his worn down horse or mule, furnish no facilities of escape from those combinations of danger that imagination so readily creates, where they do not really exist. A whole community, with all their innate and national likes and dislikes, are always ready to yield to the natural human repugnance to whatever is a departure from its own ways, and to make a war of extermination upon the defenceless and desolate strangers. The ancient bard admired the temerity of {257} those, who first dared, with only a thin plank to interpose, between them and death, to commit themselves to the winds and waves. If we viewed the daring in all its aspects and bearings it would furnish equal ground for admiration, to contemplate one or a few solitary travellers setting forth on a journey of a thousand leagues, through strange countries, among people at war with each other, and in language, manners and religion furnished with a radical and unchangeable ground of jealousy, dislike and hostility. How happens it, under such circumstances, that men ever break the tender ties, the natural and strong charities of home, and go far away, to enter askance, embarrassed and afraid, the habitation of the stranger, knowing nothing of his language and character, and only knowing that the stranger has a religion and customs, not only different, but hostile? The love of gain, curiosity, the disposition to meet adventures, and the wandering protuberance can only furnish adequate motives.--We believe, that Americans, and particularly the New Englanders have more ample endowments of these combinations, than any other people. If we have ever for a moment given place to the traveller's vanity, in thinking, that in visiting some new and distant region, we had achieved an exploit,--on reaching the desired point, that vanity has been instantly corrected by finding compatriots there before us, who seemed quite at home, and wholly unconscious, that the attainment of their new domicil had given them any claims to celebrity. We were recently indulged with the reading of a manuscript journal of an overland tour from Jackson, in Tennessee, by way of Memphis, the Arkansas, and one of its long and undescribed branches, over the wide prairies to the mountains that separate between our territory and that of New Mexico; to Santa Fe and the towns in that vicinity; and thence back, over the arid plains between Santa Fe and the Council Bluffs, on the Missouri. The caravan noted in their journal, as a common matter, that their trip had extended between five and six thousand miles. It was not a little amusing, or furnishing moderate excitement of interest and play of the imagination, to become {258} acquainted with the thoughts of these hardy denizens of the forests of Tennessee, as they first emerged from the dark woods upon the ocean prairies of the Arkansas. Their reasonings upon the strange country over which they past, in one place covered with countless buffaloes, in another with moving sands, and still in another offering the temperature of winter in summer, in parallels south of their nativity; upon the different soils, temperatures and configurations of the country, have an intrinsic interest. They are not the reasonings of cosmogonists, or geologists, or chemists, or botanists, or philosophers; but of men, who reason from first impressions,--who make short work of knotty and debateable points, and where they cannot untie the Gordian knot, make no ceremony in cutting it with the hunter's knife. Nothing could be more interesting, than to witness this little caravan surrounded by hordes of the ruthless red Tartars of the desert, brandishing their lances on horseback, and scenting the plunder with panther keenness of instinct. Forewarned by the fate of caravans that had preceded them, how little they had to hope, except from the fears of these Ishmaelites, they poise themselves on their native intrepidity, arrange their little phalanx, and remind the classical reader of the deportment of the ten thousand amidst the strange and innumerable hordes of barbarians, through which, partly by battle, and partly by policy, they made their way. The interest does not diminish, when we see them intermix with the Spanish strangers, equally ignorant and bigoted; the one calling in act cupidity and cunning, to countervail the cupidity and cunning of the other. What a spectacle must be furnished by the encounter of such a band with countless thousands of buffaloes! What scenes are witnessed in their encampments for a month, with no other itinerary, than the windings of an unknown river, the course of the planets, or the distant blue mountains, whose peaks yet want a name! How different their incidents, thoughts, views, food and rest--their nightly encamping and morning departure along the grass plains, that vision cannot measure, from the pursuits and themes of us, who dwell in towns! Yet painful {259} and laborious and hazardous as are these distant excursions, those who engage in them, soon acquire an invincible attachment to them, that renders all other pursuits in comparison stale and tedious! After wandering six or eight weeks over these prairies, living on buffalo meat without bread or salt, and begrimmed with grease, smoke and the fine dust of the prairies to a brotherly resemblance with the red men, and not at all particular about making their toilet of a dress, which in the first instance smacked nothing of dandyism, nothing can be more amusing, than their ablutions, and beautifyings, and conversations, as, in a mountain-bounded vale, with a rivulet for mirror, they talk of the Spanish beauties, and lustrate and prepare for entering upon the scene of their profits and conquests. In an article before us, we propose to take a brief survey of the journal of Dr. Willard, an amiable and very correct young man, now residing in our city, and calculating to become a permanent inhabitant, of a journey to the interior of New Mexico, and a residence for some years in the interior, and, more than all, a descent of the Rio del Norte from its head springs to Matamoras, at its mouth,--an immense extent of interesting country, as far as our reading extends, wholly unexplored. Our regret is equal to his own, that while passing down this long, interesting and undescribed river, he had not been more particular in noting the physical aspect of the country, the character of the soil and productions, animal and vegetable, on his route. But, not contemplating any thing beyond refreshing his own recollections, by noting down obvious and diurnal facts and incidents, the journal wants that fulness and variety, which he would probably give to it, were he privileged to travel over the same ground again. How much it is to be desired, that travellers should remember, while traversing new and unexplored regions, that what may seem trivial and common, while under the eye, will assume a different interest and importance, when surveyed anew by memory. No journal of travels in a new country can be uninteresting, so that the traveller is full and faithful in noting {260} down, in the freshness of vision and actual occurrence, what is passing and spread under his eye. Dr. Willard was a citizen of St. Charles, on the Missouri; and joined a Missouri caravan to New Mexico, as it appears, with mixed inducements. He had something of the common American propensity to seek his fortune; and seems to have been disposed to make his _debut_ and perform his first quarantine among the Spaniards, choosing to make his first experiment in spoiling the tents of the Philistine, rather than the children of his own people. Dr. Willard left St. Charles, May 6, 1825. The caravan consisted of thirty-three persons. He had not journeyed beyond the settlements of the Missouri until the 16th, when he records in his tablets, that he slept under a tent for the first time in his life. The greater part of the long distance between St. Charles and the mountains at the sources of the Arkansas, is a country of rolling prairies, until we reach the great plains of the Arkansas, generally covered with grass, and of but moderate fertility. A narrow belt of the last portion of the distance is not unlike the deserts of Arabia,--a sterile plain of sand heaps, with but here and there a few of the hardier weeds and plants, which seem to have settled here, as outcasts from more fertile and genial regions. The route, laying across the head sources of the larger rivers of the Missouri and Arkansas, traverses but few rivers or creeks, that are not fordable.[133] Although it has the reputation of being an exceedingly arid region, one of the most frequent occurrences noted in his journal, is being drenched with rains. On the 22d, he remarks, that the earth, over which they travelled, was completely saturated with rain; it having rained every day, save two, since their departure. Another occurrence, which we have noted in all similar journals, and one of the most unpleasant character, is the escape, or what is called the breaking away of the horses. One mode of securing them on these boundless grass plains is technically called 'hoppling'--we imagine a corruption of the word 'hobbling.' The fore and hind legs of the horse are fastened by a kind of fetter, generally {261} of leather. Horses accustomed to this kind of impediment can travel with ease far enough to feed; but with not sufficient facility to evade the owner. But the more general security is the feeling of companionship with each other, and with their owners, which these generous animals soon acquire; and which has so much influence, that affright, or the calls of wild horses, or some extraneous circumstance, is necessary to overcome it. But these circumstances frequently occur; and though the caravans have, or should have a guard of one eighth of the company, of sleepless vigilance, to guard against such disasters, it often happens, that the horses break away; and we can imagine few employments, except dunning and borrowing, more irksome and hopeless, than that of turning out upon the great buffalo pasture a thousand leagues by five hundred in extent, in pursuit of horses, which after all make it a matter of choice, even if discovered, whether they will be taken or not. But it so happens, that these animals, with the municipal habits of settled life, and certain remembrances of country and home, start back on the track of their outward march, and with their heads towards the natal spot; and from this circumstance it seldom happens, that, when overtaken by their owners, they are not persuaded to be retaken. On the 22d they see droves of elk, antelopes and deer; and of the latter kill two. Here is the view of prairies boundless to vision, of only moderate fertility, but covered with grass, and adorned with a great variety of flowering plants. A number of ravines, filled with water, are crossed with difficulty. It is mentioned as a difficulty of frequent occurrence, that they could not find sufficient wood for cooking. 24th, see two droves of elk--20 in each. Some deer among them; of which one is killed. At night they encamp on the banks of a creek, supposed to be a branch of the Verdigris of the Arkansas. Friday, 27th, depending on their guns, and game having failed, they start without breakfast. Between 10 and 11, a fine buck is killed; and they feast high again. This night encamped on the waters of the main Verdigris.[134] Here they find a skirt {262} of timber. Among the plants are noted wild onion, hog potatoe, wild tansy, prickly pears, and a great variety of flowering plants and shrubs. It is recorded on the 28th, that they went three miles out of their way, to arrive at wood and water. On the 29th they encamped by a little cotton wood tree, the only one in sight on the plain. They cut it down for fuel. Every one knows the difficulty of burning green cottonwood. The rains are still frequent. On the 30th they see the first signs of buffaloes. Delighted with the fragrance of the flowering prairies over which they pass. On the 31st they passed mounds, composed of rocks resembling lumps of iron ore. They encamped on a small creek, skirted with a few lonely trees. June 1st, they discover buffaloes. He thinks that they could not have been less than 100,000 before noon. Killed eight or ten. Dine upon buffalo soup and steaks; which, although eaten without bread or salt, he considers delicious. Continual exercise on horseback, and associations with the sterility and desolation of the desert, would probably render any food such. This day they passed a very large town, or community of the animals called prairie dogs (_arctomys ludoviciana_.) Dr. Willard describes them, as larger than they have been commonly represented, and of the size of a domestic cat. They considerably resemble a dog in appearance, except about the head, which bears a close analogy to that of the squirrel. Their community contains some hundred burrows; the surface of their town being kept perfectly clean and smooth. On the eminences made by the dirt carried out of their burrows, they sit, and fiercely bark defiance at the approaching traveller. Their form seems rather clumsy; and their hair is short, and of a light red color. In crossing the creek before them they found two buffaloes mired in the mud. They humanely endeavored to assist one of the unfortunate animals out, and restore him to his free plains; but he was spent; and drowned notwithstanding their efforts to disengage him. On the opposite shore of the creek, the buffaloes covered the plains, as far as their eyes could reach. Wolves and antelopes were bounding among them in all directions. {263} In the distance were red sand hills, which reflected the sun's rays, and seemed like a burning wall, bounding this magnificent park of nature. On the 7th they passed several dog towns; fed upon buffaloe flesh; and found no other material for fuel, but the dried manure of the animal. On the 8th they reached the main Arkansas; which they found nearly half a mile wide, although it must have been, by its meanders, 1,200 miles from its mouth. The velocity of the river at this point was from three to three and a half miles an hour. The western reader will not need to be informed, that this is the full width, and more than the velocity of the river at its mouth. He found the waters potable; which it is well known, they are not in its lower courses. An unpleasant accident occurred here. In firing upon droves of buffaloes, they turned them out of their direction upon the course of the caravan. Six pack horses broke from their ranks, probably in affright. After pursuing them ten miles, three were recovered. The other three, loaded with goods to the amount of three hundred dollars, and with clothing and provisions, were never recovered. A Mr. Andrews, of their company, who had gone out to hunt, was captured by the Indians; and after being detained unharmed eight days, escaped from them, and overtook his company. On the 15th they crossed the Arkansas, to hunt, and lay in a stock of provisions, on the opposite shore. On the 18th they left the Arkansas; having thus far accomplished something more than twenty miles a day, on an average. Hence they travelled, part of the way over sand hills, forty-five miles; in which distance they found some water, though it is commonly destitute. This brought them to the small river called the Semirone.[135] The 23d brought them to a fine spring, surrounded with huge rocky knobs, on which were interesting, ancient, Indian fortifications. Small timber, wild plumbs, grapes and currants skirt the borders; affording a charming variety to the eye, after the long and dreary expanse of prairie, which they had traversed. They inhaled the fragrance of various aromatic flowers, and {264} listened to the singing of birds. They here left the small creek, called the Semirone, upon which they had been travelling since they left the Arkansas, and took their direction for the mountains. On the 24th the summits of the Rocky mountains visible in the distance. On the 29th, mountains in view, white with snow, and supposed to be distant 100 miles. Passed a creek, which they judged to be a water of Red river. The last day of June, they began to ascend the mountains. The latitude of their point of ascent is not laid down. But we should suppose their general course to have been west from the point, whence they started. This was an interesting point of their journey. From a vast expanse of naked plains they now began to ascend high mountains. Alpine scenery surrounds them. They inhale a highly oxygenated atmosphere. The sighing of the wind in mountain pines and evergreens is heard, and they rapidly pass from the dominions of scorching summer to the cool and brisk spring breeze. The atmosphere is that of March, and the strawberries, and vegetation of a similar character, are in blossom. They here perform a lustration, preparatory to entering into the Spanish settlements. They wash away the dirt and grease coated on them, during their long march over the hot and dusty plains, and put themselves in trim to show themselves in presence of people of a certain degree of civilization. Here they met a party of ten or twelve Spaniards, who had come out from Taos to prevent them from smuggling their goods. Their reception by the people would not furnish much interest in the description. We presume the chief effort between the parties was, to determine which should be most dextrous in circumventing the other. Dr. Willard boarded with a Spaniard of the name of Pablo Sucero, at twelve dollars a month. The country hilly, mainly destitute of timber, and by no means fertile. The church is a large mud building; and the people do not seem to him to be very attentive to the ceremonial and duties of their religion. We think, the article would not be destitute of interest, if we {265} were able to enter into ample details of Dr. Willard's residence among this people, where he remained two months, in the practice of physic. On the fourth of July, the American traders in that region, who then made a considerable of a showy concourse, turned out to celebrate the great festival of the natal day of their liberties. Dr. Willard prepared a flag with the American eagle. They went through their evolutions and firings much to the credit of their own patriotism; and no doubt, to the edification and delight of the good people, men, women and children, of Taos. The people received them in the different quarters of the town with shouts of '_Viva la Republica!_' Much of the journal is occupied with accounts of difficulties with the officers of the customs, in relation to the duties demanded by the Spaniards upon their goods. Dr. Willard manifested a prudent regard to the observances of the Catholic ceremonial; and was soon in full practice of physic among the people. Among some hundreds of cases, which he records, there were all sorts of complaints, that flesh is heir to; and not a few bore evidence, that depravity had found its way, with its attendant penalties, to these remote recesses of the interior mountains, and among this simple and pastoral people, where such results ought not to have been expected. Among other patients, he prescribes for the acknowledged concubine of a priest; and in another case, a reverend personage, sworn of course to celibacy, hesitated not to admit the claims of his offspring. Some of his patients, as would be the case among us, disputed his charges. Others in gratitude repaid him far beyond his claims. He seems to us to have been a very discreet and sober faced young gentleman, prudently disposed to consult _Our Lady of good counsel_; in other words, to keep professional secrets; for the ladies trusted him. The old ladies, in particular, gave him the masonic and confidential grip, advised him to shrive and take a conversion, marry a young lady of the country and become one of them. These amiable _old Christians_ thought, no doubt, that a man can take a conversion when he chooses; and that nothing more is necessary, as many {266} of our enlightened friends here believe, than to feel, that it was a point of interest to become a good Catholic, really to become so. He very frequently attends _fandangoes_, which appear to be of a character similar to our country balls. His practice seems to have been constant and extensive. Among his patients, he numbers priests, the governor, the military; young and old, male and female; and not a few Indians, and among them some chiefs. He notes in his tablets very frequent attendance upon religious festivals; and they seemed to him poor and cheap shows, only capable of furnishing interest and curiosity for a people a little above the Indians in point of refinement. Though decent and respectful in his deportment, while among the people, and in view of the solemnities, he speaks of them with sufficient indifference, when away, and in communion with his own thoughts. He probably was not sufficiently aware of the influence of such a religion of forms and observances, in keeping in order a rude and ignorant people, who were incapable of a more spiritual service. However immoral they may have been with this superstition and these observances, we have no doubt, they would have been still more so without them. While Dr. Willard shows an evident disposition to think kindly and respectfully of the people, among whom he sojourned, it is obvious from various incidental circumstances, noted in the journal, that the fandangoes and evening amusements were conducted in a style of the coarsest simplicity,--removed, it is true far above the intercourse of their red neighbors, but probably quite as far from that of our people in the same condition. Very few of the ladies were even tolerably pretty; and most of them were coarse, sufficiently forward, and not at all remarkable for attractions either of persons or manners. Some few were delicate, and some even beautiful. From his recorded intercourse with the priests, it would seem, that he was almost uniformly treated with kindness and liberality. In fact, they evinced, so far as can be inferred from their deportment, a good degree of liberality. There can be little doubt, that the superstition of the people reacts upon them, {267} and compels them to a seeming devotion to the formal and ceremonial part of their worship, from which they would gladly escape. With the progress of free inquiry, we confidently anticipate a consequent gradual triumph over the influence of bigotry. One trait among them is worthy of all praise--a simple, unostentatious and noble hospitality. It is recorded in Dr. Willard's tablets, that one day he dined with the governor; and on another was invited to spend the evening with some _donna_, or family of respectability; that his patients and friends often called upon him, to invite him to ride with them to this point and to that; and that a horse or carriage was always provided on such occasions. Such hospitalities, it is true, are unexpensive in a country, where farmers have six or eight thousand horses or mules, forty thousand cattle, and twice as many sheep. But churlish and boorish people will always be inhospitable, cost the efforts to be otherwise little or much. This single trait in their character went far with us to conciliate kind feeling and good will towards them. Writers on this country have generally represented its climate as variable and unequal. Dr. Willard found Taos, Sante Fe and Chihuahua to possess a very agreeable climate. It was never so warm there, as in some days of our summer. The temperature seemed to him equable, and seldom falling much below, or rising far above our temperate summer heat. The country suffers much from aridity, and the want of the shelter of our trees and noble forests. A few miserable, stinted shrubberies of a diminutive growth, like that which covers our shrub-oak plains, called musqueto wood, is only found at intervals. These countries are so elevated, that beyond 28° north latitude, the ground is sometimes whitened with snow and frost. Muriates of soda and lime, and nitrate of potash, and other saline substances, abound on the surface, and often so encrust the soil, as to bid defiance to cultivation. The mountains at the sources of the Arkansas are sublime elevations. There are sometimes cultivable table summits on their peaks. That the soil is underlaid with strata of calcareous rock, is manifest from a very astonishing {268} recorded phenomenon. In 1752 the Rio del Norte became dry for an extent of 150 leagues. The water had sunk, and passed through subterranean channels, and so continued to flow for some weeks; when, no doubt, the chasm became choked, and the river resumed its former bed. Among the most important Indian tribes are the Commanche, Appache and Navijo. They live on horseback, and keep the inhabitants constantly on the alert and alarm. They are the Ishmaelites and Tartars of these deserts. It seldom rains; and when rains happen, the spring of that country may be said to have commenced. The naked, red and rolling surface of the wide prairies, only limited by rude and rugged mountains, become at once covered with a tender and deep verdure. This spring happens in September. The whole country becomes as an ocean of verdure. Few frosts occur. When the dry season returns, this grass may be said to be cured standing. The cattle feed and fatten upon it, when in its state of verdant tenderness. It afterwards sustains them as substantial hay. Hence, and from the mildness and salubrity of the climate, and its destitution of storms, its advantages for a grazing and a shepherd's country. Hence its infinite numbers of fine mules, horses, cattle and sheep; and hence, also, its innumerable droves of antelopes, deer and buffaloes. All cultivation is carried on only by artificial irrigation; and it seems wonderful, how providence has adapted a country, which could produce but few of the edible cerealia without it, for irrigation. Abundant rains fall on the mountains; and the flush waters are collected in the Rio del Norte, which rolls down these arid plains in such a channel, and by such a gentle slope, that each of the inhabitants along this water course can command just as much water as his necessities of cultivation require. Where the soil is fertile, it will naturally be imagined, how delightful and luxuriant those fields and gardens will be, when the owners can command just as frequent waterings as they choose. Art works a miniature sample; but it has a neatness and finish, which we look for in vain in the great scale of nature's rough operations. In Chihuahua, their trees, planted for ornament and shade, require to be irrigated; and a person {269} is appointed by a municipality, whose business it is to take care of the trees, and see that they want not for water. Of course, native trees can only be expected on the misty and cool tops of the hills, and near the constant moisture of streams and ponds. It will not be difficult to imagine, that in a very windy climate--and this is such,--where, too, it rains moderately only a few days in the year, they will have ample opportunities to know what dust means. But it so happens, that there is little travel,--little cause to break the sward, or disturb the tranquil monotony of nature; and the people have become accustomed to look on the brown-yellow and sear surface, during a great portion of the year, with the same patient composure of endurance, with which we regard the mud, desolation and frost of winter. These people live, as the honest Irishman said of his farm on Lake Erie, "a thousand miles from home, and five hundred from any place!" They are nearly a thousand miles from Matamoras, still farther from Mexico; and as far from the settled parts of our country. The mail goes and returns, so as that an answer can be had from Mexico in about two months. Our municipal arts are almost unknown to them. They make whiskey it is true; but all the saw they know, and all the water or steam power, for making building plank, is the human steam power of a broadaxe, or an awkward hatchet, applied to the cloven sections of a log. It seems incredible, that such can be the state of the mechanic arts among a policed people, living under a government; but such is the fact. Not a word need be said about the external improvement, the buildings, and finishings of dwellings, exterior and interior, when the plank are made with a broadaxe. Yet Dr. Willard mentions a splendid stone church at Chihuahua, which cost 300,000 dollars, was supported by Corinthian pillars, and glittered with gilding. The houses in the towns are generally built of unburnt bricks; in many instances in the form of a parallelogram, or hollow square, making the fronts at once mural defences, and the fronts of dwellings. The floors are, for the most part, brick or composition,--that is {270} to say, clay, lime, &c. pulverized, and cemented with blood, or other glutinous and sizy liquids. Dr. Willard's narrative incidentally brings to light, with a great degree of _naivete_, many of the interior lights and shades of their social intercourse and manners. Nothing can well be imagined, more unlike ours; and yet there are many points of resemblance, in which all civilized people must possess a similarity of manners. It is wonderful, how, with their extreme bigotry, they could so readily have admitted an unknown stranger to their intimacy and confidence. They evidently are a dancing generation; for fandangoes are matters of very frequent occurrence. Our young physician generally noted the presence of the minister at these places, which a reverend gentleman here has denominated 'squeezes,'--a word which, however, seems more vulgar and less respectable than fandango. Upon surveying the state of society, and the progress of improvement, cultivation and refinement in these countries, we can hardly forbear something like a feeling of exultation, on comparing our condition with theirs. What an immense distance between the state of society in this place and Chihuahua, a place of nearly half the size, and thrice the age, and the same distance from the sea! What would a Cincinnatian think of building a house, if the planks were to be hewed from our oaks by a broadaxe? What a spectacle would be the state of things here to a citizen of that place! What surprise and astonishment would the _don creole_ of that country experience, if transported to Lowell in Massachusetts, with its million wheels flying in dizzying, and at first view, inexplicable confusion! Yet they have mines innumerable, and ingots of silver; and one farmer owns ten thousand horses and mules,--and still sleeps under the puncture of fleas, on a wretched bed, supported upon an earth floor--without chairs, without hearths, and chimneys and fire places; in short, the lower classes dwell in habitations like the comfortless dens of Indians. They want freedom. They want the collision of rival minds. They want liberty, that cannot be supplied either by constitutions, {271} or laws, or enactments. So long as bigotry reigns, so long as the terrors of perdition are held up as determents from all freedom of thinking, and all mental elasticity, their condition cannot ameliorate. Let a miserable, ignorant priest lay down the law, and prescribe just how men may think and act--when they shall go to church, and when stay at home--when they must stand, kneel, or sit, and we should soon be here the same mischievous grown up infants, that they seem to be, with all the appetites and passions and stubbornness of men, and all the mental laziness and imbecility of children. Our free institutions are, no doubt, attended with their disadvantages; and there may be some peculiar pleasures belonging to such a state of society as exists at Chihuahua. But with all the licentiousness of our press, with all the bitterness of the hundred tongues of calumny, with all our rivalry and competition, and disposition to pull each other down, that we may fill the vacancy, give us our free institutions, with all their scourges and all their curses; where men may be truly men; where the mind need not feel itself shut up between two adamantine walls; where no one need fear to think because a stupid doctor in divinity assures him he will be damned, if he dares to think. Give us freedom, with all its appendant drawbacks. Deliver us from the abominations of a dominant church establishment. Deliver us from a submission, and a cringing conformity, which is not enjoined by the voluntary movement of a free mind, but which is extorted by a creed maker, armed with a little brief and bad authority. It seems to us, as if even the sincere prayers of the people, who are compelled by law to pray, could not ascend acceptably to Him, whose only temple is the free heart. It is evident, that the hierarchy of New Spain has received an incurable shock from the revolution there. But it has been grafted on the ignorance and bigotry of centuries. It operates as cause and effect, acting and reacting for its own benefit; and it will be ages to come, before its bad predominance will pass away. We would not be understood to object to the Catholic church, as such. We believe it at present {272} among the most tolerant and liberal churches; and they are wretchedly mistaken, who think, that bigotry belongs exclusively to that profession. It is a cheering consideration in our country, that the bigotry of one denomination neutralizes that of another; so that "all nature's discord makes all nature's peace." Heaven defend us from a dominant religion, or a worship enforced by law! Various Spanish writers, Malte-Brun, Humboldt, Gen. Pike, and others, have described this country superficially; Gen. Pike, perhaps, more satisfactorily, and more to the common apprehension, than any who preceded him. Baron Humboldt, only travelled it, and rapidly, in one direction.[136] Pike was a kind of a state prisoner, while in it, and was necessarily, much restricted in his means for making observations. Perhaps no person has had more ample chances of this kind, than Dr. Willard. Unfortunately, he was there with the feeling and temperament, which are usually appended to the people from his section of the country, and whose principle object is to secure, what the New Englander calls the main chance. He now bitterly regrets, that he did not more highly appreciate, while he was in that interesting, and in a great measure undescribed and unexplored country, his opportunities to have made a book of travels of very high interest. As it was, he remained in the country nearly three years, made his first essays at operating on the living fibre among the New-Mexicans, traversed the whole extent of country from Taos to Matamoras, a distance by the travelled line, of more than 2000 miles. He travelled leisurely, and at intervals, through the country, practising physic at the more important towns, making some stay at Santa Fe, Chihuahua, Monterey, Saltilleo, Maspimi, Matamoras, &c. We note in his journal, which details the events and journeyings of each day, proofs of the hospitality of the higher classes of the citizens, and of the readiness of the people to trust themselves to an American stranger, who appears among them in the character of a physician, {273} although they consider him a heretic. This is evidence conclusive of their deep respect for the supposed learning, acuteness and talents of the people from our division of the continent. He made money rapidly, as a physician among them. But it seems, he looked from the 'leeks and fleshpots' of this distant and strange country, with a filial remembrance, towards the common mother of us all, the land of his birth; and preferred to return, and encounter the scramble and competition of an over crowded profession, certainly with inferior prospects of present pecuniary advantage. We admire that feeling, in our countrymen, which prompts them, in remote and foreign lands, still to turn their thoughts towards home, as the place of the charities, views and motives, that render life desirable. A true hearted American, living or dying, as long as pulsation lasts, _dulces reminiscitur Argos_. It will gratify the reader to learn, that our enterprising, modest and amiable traveller spoiled the Philistines, in an honorable and honest way, of a sum of dollars, which to a young, sober and calculating New-Englander, may be considered the embryo germ of a future fortune. We left him last at Chihuahua. He left this place, August 5, 1827. Unfrequent as rains are, he records being wet with a shower on the way to San Pablo. On the 11th, another shower is recorded. From these casual records, we should infer, that the aridity of the country has been overstated, as the records of rains occur in this journal almost as frequently, as they would in our country at the same period. The loss of four mules is mentioned on the night of the 12th. The loss of horses stolen is also mentioned, as a frequent occurrence. Once or twice all his clothes, save those he wore, were taken off, during his sleep, at his place of encampment. It is noted often, as a circumstance of hardship, that he encamps at night without water; and, once or twice, that the beasts travel all day, without finding either grass, or other feed. Frequent mention is made of _haciendas_, _ranchos_, and small villages. Among them are noted Vera Cruz, San Blas and San Bernardo. He arrives at Mapimi, September 7th. The night before his arrival his {274} best horse was stolen. He stays on the 14th at San Lorenzo, where the grape is cultivated to a considerable extent; wine, brandy, and dried fruit being important articles of their commerce. The large establishment here occupies from 150 to 200 hands. The whole of this magnificent and expensive establishment is owned by a young widow. He thinks the wine rich, and of a fine flavor, describing it, as having the sweetness of a Greek wine. On the 19th he arrives at Saltillio.[137] This town he supposes to contain 10,000 souls; a great proportion of them Indians. The valley, in which it is situated, he describes, as one great beauty; deeply verdant, and productive of rich fruits. It is surrounded by rugged and lofty mountains. Great part of Baring's famous purchase lies between Paras and this place, a distance of 88 miles. He considers the intermediate country by no means a fertile one. In all these places he meets Americans, whom he names; and notes the places of their birth. On the 21st he records passing many fine farms, and in one instance a line of stone wall, laid perfectly regular and straight three miles in length, and enclosing a rich wheat field. There is little in the subsequent notes of the journal, which would so much interest the general reader, as the mass of information, thrown together in the notes upon the country, which follow. We recommend them to the attentive perusal of the reader, as we give them substantially in the author's own words. The reader will not find in them the manner of Baron Humboldt, or Malte Brun. They have no resemblance, either, to the remarks of Gen. Pike. But they have the piquancy and freshness of being the views of a shrewd, and intelligent young man, who had his eyes open, and was accustomed to make observations, although to make money was his first vocation. It is, perhaps, from views like the following, that we form more definite and adequate conceptions of a country, than from the scientific and ambitious writings of practised scholars, and travellers, who commence their career with the professed purpose to make a book. {275} General aspect of the country embraced in a tour from Council Bluffs, Mo. to Santa Fe, New-Mexico, thence down the general course of the Rio del Norte to its mouth, comprising a distance of 2000 miles. The physical appearance of that part of the country, lying between the limits of Missouri and the Rocky mountains, is generally well known to be, comparatively speaking, an illimitable expanse of prairie. That portion of country, situated between the Missouri and the head waters of the Osage rivers, is considerably undulating; the lower situations of which abound, more or less, with timber, grass and small streams; the higher portions are usually covered with grass only. When arriving at the termination of this immense valley, we meet abruptly the Rocky mountains, or the southern extremity of that chain so celebrated for eternal snows and rocks. These mountains are mostly covered with pines, some spruce, hemlock and white birch. On the top of the mountain we found several vallies abounding with natural meadow, and having the appearance of receiving daily showers and heavy dews. Here the atmosphere was delightfully cool, while the plains on each side were so destitute of rain, as to render the air sultry, and to require irrigation for all the common products of agriculture. The province of New Mexico is rather more mountainous, than that part formerly called New Biscay, now state of Chihuahua; but is interspersed with some rich vallies, particularly those bordering on the Rio del Norte. The city of Santa Fe is situated 25 miles from the river, at the barren foot of a mountain. It was established about the beginning of the 17th century, and seems to have been formerly a place of considerable importance, as a rendezvous for troops. It now contains perhaps not far from two thousand souls, the most of whom have the appearance of penury. The mines in the neighborhood of Santa Fe were formerly worked, but are now abandoned. The principal articles of commerce are sheep, blankets, buffalo hides, and sometimes their meat and tallow, peltry, salt, and {276} the common production of agriculture, as corn, wheat, beans, onions, &c. At the Passo del Norte, an important village, the grape is cultivated to a very considerable extent, of which they prepare excellent wine and brandy, making use of hides for mashing vats. For these articles they find market at Santa Fe and Chihuahua. Dried grapes, apples, onions, &c. are taken down in great abundance. Chihuahua and its vicinity, with all the territory north of it, is supplied with salt from a lake in the neighborhood of the Passo. There is, also, about two day's ride west of this place, an exceedingly rich copper mine, which was worked for many years by Pablo Guerra, an European Spaniard, who realized some hundred _talegas_ [a bag of 1000 dollars] from its proceeds. In consequence of the late law of expulsion, he was obliged to relinquish it.[138] It is now worked by two Americans, Mr. Andrew Curcier, a merchant in Chihuahua, from Philadelphia, and Robt. McKnight, from St. Louis, Mo. A considerable amount of gold is found in this same mine; but, I believe, not incorporated with the copper. That part of the republic called Sonora, bounded by the gulf of California, is celebrated for its rich mines of silver and gold. These metals, together with mules, horses, beeves, hides, and peltry, are exchanged for articles of merchandize, which are mostly supplied by the Americans from Missouri. They, however, procure some part by arrivals by sea in the port of Guimus, situated on the Gulf. It was in this part of the country that the Indians were most troublesome, during my residence there. The tribe then hostile belonged to the _Yacqui_ nation, united, I believe, to some of the Navajo tribe; both of which are exceedingly numerous and rapacious. Pitica, Arrispe, and Guimus are the principal towns or villages within that state. Upper California apparently has but little correspondence with that, or any other country; as brave Indian tribes inhabit the head of the Gulf, the Rio Colorado and adjacent country, so {277} that the inhabitants are in a measure cut off from correspondence with the rest of the world. Chihuahua is an incorporated city of about nine thousand souls, and the largest north of Durango. It is regularly laid out, but indifferently built; containing five or six churches, of which the Paroque is splendid, it being constructed of hewn stone, from base to spire. The temple of Guadaloupe, is also elegant but smaller. The numerous paintings, of course religious, which are suspended within, do honor to the nation in the art of painting; they being according to my taste, better executed, than the celebrated painting of Mr. West at Philadelphia. This town seems to have been established by the Jesuits, at an early day; and located to suit the convenience of the mining country. There is yet remaining abundant evidence of their superior skill and perseverance, in the arts of building, mining, &c. The place now contains about thirty smelting furnaces, the most of which are generally in blast, and which, in the course of the year separate a great quantity of the precious metals. The most part of the ore smelted at this place is brought from La Roche, some 150 miles, over an exceedingly mountainous country. Their only mode of transportation is on the back of mules, which are made to carry 300 lbs. each. These loads produce from 25 to 50 and $100 each, according to their quality. Price of smelting per load is $14; freight from 6 to $7. This mineral is bought and sold at the mines, as an article of merchandise, according to its purity. In regard to manufactures, there are few in Chihuahua; and, I believe, not many north of the city of Mexico; though in this place there is no lack of carpenters, shoemakers, hatters, tailors, blacksmiths, jewellers and painters. But they are of the most ordinary kind. The city is under municipal regulation. A board of twelve Alcaldes, constituting a junta, execute justice, according to common sense, and their notion of right and wrong, provided interest or partiality do not happen to preside.--Law, I believe, is seldom consulted in matters of common place litigation. They, however, have higher tribunals to which appeals {278} can be taken, and by which criminal causes are tried; but an appeal is almost an unheard of issue. The _carcel_ or jail, abounds with old and young, male and female, mostly committed under charges of theft, assassination and murder. The court recently ventured to pass sentence of death on a man between 25 and 30 years of age, after having acknowledged that he had committed ten murders; yet a great deal of commiseration was excited for his case by the priests and lower orders of society. They have now a workhouse, where all the lower classes of criminals are made to labor. The lawyers are few, as likewise the physicians; the former are commissioned by the general government, and allowed a salary of $2000. Their province seems to be to expound the law, or rather decide, as judges of it. All bonds, notes, agreements, &c. have to be passed under the official seal; and cost, according to the value, from 6 1/4 cents to eleven dollars, and the proceeds go to support the revenue. Every village or settlement has its priest and alcalde. The former presides over their morals, and arrogates to himself the dictatorship of their consciences, while the latter wields the sceptre of civil justice, and decrees, and executes with all the dignity of a governor. If parties aggrieved enter a complaint, he dispatches a foot page with his official cane, which is a process of compulsion, or _forthwith_; and in case of non-compliance the party is made liable to a discretionary fine. Although these modes of judicature may seem to us despotic yet they constitute, no doubt, the most salutary system for that people. In regard to their national constitution, they have copied it from ours, or nearly so, excepting religious intolerance. This they are aware, is anti-republican; and yet their universal and bigoted attachment to this faith, and their peculiar situation in a civil, religious, and military point of view, at the close of the revolution, seem to have demanded it. The constitution may be altered in the year 1830, by the concurrence of two thirds of the members of congress; and at which time, it was expected by many, with whom I conversed, an attempt {279} will be made to tolerate all religious denominations.[139] Their sources of revenue are the following; on all merchandize they impose an enormous duty. I think according to their last assessment, this duty is from 15 to 50 per cent. according to the species of goods. Another very considerable revenue accrues from the culture and manufacture of cigars. This business is monopolized by the government, who furnish all parts of the republic with this the greatest of their luxuries. To give an idea of the quantity consumed in Chihuahua, and the adjacent villages, I publish a note made at the time of my residence there, which states, that on the 16th October, 1826, one caravan of mules brought to the custom house, cigars valued at $95,000; and that a few days after, another arrived and brought $25,000 more; and at the same time it was remarked by good judges, that it was but about half the quantity consumed in the year. This may be well imagined, when we consider, that all smoke, both old and young, male and female. The duties arising from the precious metals smelted, which are 2 per cent., amount to something very considerable. All monies removed from one state to another are liable to 2 per cent; and if taken out of the government, another 3 1/2 per cent. Formerly each state claimed 2 or 3 per cent. on all merchandize, sold within its limits; but this tax was repealed more than a year ago; and was merged in the international duties. All produce of the farm, as beef, pork, grain, fruit, vegetables, &c. is subject to duty. And then comes the 'severest cut of all,' the _tithes_. Thus the poor farmer may at once make up his mind to devote himself a willing slave to the minions of superstition and credulity. But oppression does not stop here. It may be traced through the minute ramnifications of all social and religious intercourse. To explain these bearings, it would be necessary to pause in these remarks, and notice such characteristics, as compose, or help to compose, a body politic; and which comprise a variety of materials, which directly or indirectly influence the happiness or prove the bane of society. In illustrating this hint, it will be necessary to pass in review a subject, which, though variously {280} understood, is nevertheless sacred to every Christian believer. I shall, therefore, aim at _due deference_ for _every_ religious sect; and particularly that one, of which I am about to speak. Its claim I am assuredly not disposed to deny. But when I reflect on the situation of a people by nature free, and as a body, endowed with all the moral and physical advantages to make them great, wise, and happy, I can but enquire into the causes of the great and obvious distress, which pervades this fair portion of our continent. During my residence with that people, no situation could be better calculated than mine, to facilitate the objects of this enquiry. My profession naturally led me into the sphere of intimacy and confidence, which brought into view, the most generous and noble traits of the human mind; while, at the same time, I was obliged to witness with disgust, the thousand meannesses incident to human nature, which found their way through all the avenues of avarice, prejudice, interest and power. In the first place, we find them bound to observe all the enjoined feast days, amounting to more than one hundred, during which, they are not permitted to labor. Among these, Sundays are included. About fifty days in the year are devoted nominally to their patron saints. We will now suppose, that out of seven millions (the supposed amount of the population in Mexico,) three sevenths are laborers, at the moderate price of twenty-five cents per day, the loss would amount to seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars; and in the course of a year, to thirty-seven million five hundred thousand dollars! Added to this prodigality of time, no doubt some 12-1/2 cents at least would be spent by each, by way of drinking, recreation, or otherwise, which would amount to thirty thousand dollars per day, and for the year, one million five hundred thousand dollars; making an aggregate of thirty-nine millions of dollars of lost time in this way to the community. Added to this sum, would be the expense of rockets, illuminations, artificial bowers, church expenditures, civil and military uniforms, and a thousand other collateral expenses, that grow out of this established usage. {281} This of itself would seem to be sufficient to impoverish a nation. But we have yet to consider a few other items; such as pertain to births, deaths, marriages, &c. &c. In regard to baptisms, I have often witnessed them, but am unacquainted with the expense. The ceremonies of a common marriage are not considered decent, unless they cost one hundred dollars; burials about the same price, though regulated by the style, number of priests, musicians, part of the _campo sato_, in which the interment is made, and the number of masses subsequently said, &c. The funeral rites of infants usually cost from 20 dollars upwards. The high or low cross makes a great difference in the expense. All children who die before the age of accountability, are considered (and, I think, very properly) to have taken their departure for a better world. Hence the supposed propriety of festivity and rejoicing at such obsequies, and a grave solemnity at those of adults. The most exhilarating music is played at the house of the little innocent sojourner, and also on the way to the potter's field, together with discharge of rockets, accompanied by a rabble of boys, paupers, mendicants and priests. It may not be uninteresting to notice some few of these civil and religious customs, inasmuch as they differ from our own; and border on what our people are apt to consider a puerile superstition. The greatest personage of their adoration, is called _Nuestra Senora de Guadaloupe_, whom they esteem their patroness saint. She is said to have appeared near the city of Mexico, soon after the conquest of Cortez; calling herself by this name, and at the same time averring herself to be the true Mary, mother of Jesus. Her appearance was made to a poor Indian, who was civilized, and had some office in the church ceremonies. He was by her ordered to go to the bishop of Mexico, and make known to him the wonderful apparition, and deliver him the following verbal message: 'That she had descended to the earth, the guardian protectress of that happy nation. That a temple must be built to her name in the vicinity of Mexico, where her {282} benign influence would be shed to the healing of the nation.' This command seems to have much surprised the poor native, who declined being the messenger of this heavenly mission, alleging his lowness of birth, and the probability of his being considered an impostor by the bishop, when stating a circumstance so contrary to the common order of things. Whereupon she bade him not fear, but do as she should command him; and that she would suitably reward him. She then told him, that in order to convince the bishop, that the message was from heaven, he must go on to a neighboring mountain, where he should find in great abundance, a variety of blossoms, which at that time of the year, it being winter, could not naturally exist, and hence the evidence of a miracle. Many more mysterious circumstances are related in the history of this renowned personage, comprising a very considerable volume. But it is sufficient to say, that the message was received, the temple erected on the spot by her pointed out; and that she is now the object of devotion, and made the principal object of their mediatorial rites. The anniversary of her appearance is the 12th of December, when a painting of her is taken from the temple, and carried to the _paroguia_, followed by a promiscuous procession. The next day she is returned to her temple; though there is always a duplicate representative kept at the church, which is carried out to visit the sick, and ward off disease. When any one falls sick, a greater or lesser catalogue of painted and wax images surround the patient's bed, which they almost incessantly implore. Being naturally a credulous people, they place the most implicit confidence in all superiors; but more particularly in the priests and physicians. All such as are visited with sickness, usually meet with ample hospitality and commiseration. As it is a generally received opinion that the Spanish character is fraught with stealth, jealousy, perfidy, rapine and murder, I feel it an incumbent duty to contradict, or rather palliate it in a great measure. I grant, we find this a predominant feature in the lower ranks of society, and too much countenanced by the {283} higher order. But where is the country that is not more or less afflicted in the same way? Even our own country is not without crimes from these sources. Though they are not perpetrated with impunity, they are suffered to rankle in the bosom of society. So, while we there find the suspicious rabble of the community addicted to these vices, we oftener find them here confined to those who assume the importance of gentlemen, who openly or covertly practice their crimes under the protection of the public countenance. The Spanish Don is generally a high minded, honorable and dignified character, who would not descend to meanness. Like all other nations, the people here watch their interest with tenacity. But so far as my experience goes, a respectable stranger meets with a hospitable reception, and is often loaded with favour. Among the wealthy we not unfrequently find the liberal heart and hand, to as great an extent as any other part of America can boast. Another beautiful trait in their character is a universal respect for seniority. Thus you find the elder brother respected and obeyed; while the parents command the most profound reverence to the end of their life. Common salutations are exceedingly cordial and polite. An embrace with the head uncovered, is the usual ceremony. If a servant is spoken to, he uncovers, before he makes his reply. Thus you find the most illiterate heathen looking characters among them, well versed in etiquette. The stranger is struck with the great discrepancy of dress between the high and low classes; as the former abounds more or less, with gold lace or rich embroidery, and the latter, polished with smoke and grease, is little more than a blanket. As a people they seem to me to possess less versatility of genius, than perhaps, any other people. Such traditions as their forefathers sanctioned, are in no case questioned; but remain incorporated with their religion. All their manual labor appears to be conducted in the ancient routine of almost savage simplicity; even their women, to this day, are made the efficient instruments in reducing all their maize to meal, of which their {284} bread is mostly constituted. Every other process of labour is conducted with equal embarrassment and disadvantage. Having thus far hinted at their customs, I shall have to consider the country lying between Chihuahua and the mouth of the Rio del Norte, both in a geographical and agricultural point of view. The reader will understand, that there is a great sameness in most of the Mexican Republic; as the general aspect is that of alternate low plains, high mountains of barren heaths, interspersed with arid plains, that would be productive, but for the want of seasonable rains, so necessary to fertility.--Those mountains lying S. W. between Chihuahua and the Pacific, are said to be much higher and more productive of timber, having great supplies of rain. But in travelling from Chihuahua to the Atlantic coast, we seldom meet with water, more than once a day; and that furnished by trifling streams, or springs; and frequently from deep wells, where live a few shepherds, to water the flocks and sell water to passengers. On almost all the streams, we find more or less inhabitants, according to the advantages of water and soil. On the rivers St. Pedro, Conchez, Guajaquilla, Parral, Napas, Parras, Pattas, Santa Catarina, &c. which are very small streams, we find more or less agriculture, conducted by irrigation, and for the most part, sufficient for the consumption of the inhabitants of the immediate vicinity. But the mining towns are mostly dependent on their supplies from abroad. Santa Cruz and St. Pablo, sixty miles from Chihuahua, on the river St. Pedro, afford many good farms. Parral, containing perhaps eight thousand, is altogether a mining town. St. Bartolomeo and Guajaquilla, 180 miles south of Chihuahua, containing two thousand souls, are mining villages, having some wealthy European Spaniards, who were the proprietors of the mines, but who were about to leave the country under the late law of expulsion. In going from Mapimi to Parras, distance 120 miles, we cross Nassas, a small river which soon loses itself in a little lake. After crossing this river we enter extensive plains, as barren as {285} the deserts of Arabia. It was in these I travelled three successive days, without being able to procure my horses and mules a single feed, as the country was literally dried up. At Parras I was delighted with the sudden change of scene. I should suppose this place and St. Lorenzo, which are contiguous, might contain six or eight thousand inhabitants, who cultivate the grape in great abundance, supplying all the adjacent country as far as Chihuahua and Durango with the articles of wine, brandy, and all kinds of dried fruit. I here noticed one vineyard, of, I should judge, 250 acres, owned by a young widow, which, together with the other farming departments, occupied 200 laborers the year round. From this place to Saltillio, distance 140 miles, we passed over a broken and mostly sterile country. This is the tract purchased by the house of Baring, London; said to contain 140, by not far from 200 miles square, for which, I was informed by his principal overseer, living at Pattas, he was to pay a little short of one million dollars, but had paid 100,000, and refused further payment from some dispute about the title. The haciendas are all worked under his direction. Saltillio is situated at the head of a large valley, affording a beautiful landscape, it being surrounded by a chain of picturesque mountains, which enclose the city, and an expanded series of cultivated farms. This place, I think something larger than Chihuahua, and better built, constitutes the Parogue, which is supposed to be the best of its size within the republic. A great portion of the population of Saltillio, are civilized Indians. They occupy a large suburb of the city, and merit no small applause for their industry and ingenuity. I was delighted while passing their neat and even elegant cottages. Their little enclosures appeared teeming with verdure and fruit trees, which bespoke the frugal husbandman. I was pleased to observe the remarkable difference between the dress of these natives, and those of Chihuahua. Here were similar fashions, but under an entirely different aspect; the Indian women were all clad in blue petticoats, {286} a cotton _camisas_, with bosom and sleeves ruffled; then thrown gracefully over a blue and white striped _revoza_ or scarf, all of their own manufacture. These revozas they likewise manufacture of the common sewing silk, which they so variegate, as to throw their work, when finished, into beautiful uniform, fancy figures. These are worth from thirty to fifty dollars each.--Blankets are also made in a similar manner and with equal elegance. Their apparatus for each consists of a little more than a few rods and strings, with one end of their piece fastened to a permanent stake, set in the ground; while the other is fastened by a strap, that goes round their waist, that they constitute at least half of the loom. Their position is that of a tailor, in which they sit, and fill in the various and beautiful colors, according to the sample before them. I here met with several French and American merchants, though none permanently settled. They were about leaving for Durango and Chihuahua. I was also visited by an Italian, by the name of Don Jose Rose, who had resided here for many years. It being Friday, the market was destitute of meat, but said he, if there is any fish to be had, I shall expect you to dine with me; and I will let you know accordingly. It was not long before word came, that I should be expected precisely at 12 o'clock, and to bring my comrade with me. Accordingly, I waited on him at the time appointed, and sat down to a dinner served up in excellent style; and it concluded with a desert and wines of excellent quality. This gentleman (some forty-five years of age) had never seen proper to change a state of celibacy for that of a matrimonial life; but chose to govern alone his peaceful domicil in single blessedness. From Saltillio to Montelrey, 60 or 70 miles distance, we pass Rinconada and Santa Catarina, which are small villages. The country is quite broken, rocky and sterile. At Montelrey, I remained eight or ten days. This place is about the same importance as Saltillio; but not quite so populous.[140] They are both mostly built of stone; at this place the mountains diminish; and extensive valleys commence, here was a great abundance of {287} oranges and lemons in their prime. In its vicinity the cane is cultivated largely, which supplies all the country to Santa Fe with the article of sugar. It was worth at this place from five to six cents per lb. according to quality. I also found several French and American merchants residing here, who spoke of it as only a tolerable place for business. I also became acquainted with Col. Guttierez, former governor of Tamulipas, who now resides here in command over the troops. He spoke of himself, as having been the principal agent in the proscription of the Emperor Iturbide,[141] which proceedings he gave me in detail; his appearance and manner clearly indicate military enthusiasm and promptitude of decision. His volatile and unsophisticated look and manner, reminded me of the celebrated _Ringtail Panther of Missouri_. He certainly managed with great energy at that eventful crisis, when the fate of the nation depended on the decision of a moment. From Montelrey to the coast the country lies exceedingly level, abounding more or less with musquito bushes, black ebony, and many other shrubs. In most part of the route the palm tree abounds, but they are much larger from Saltillio east.--This tree seems to be of a character, partaking of the shrub and plant in point of consistence, and general appearance, growing from six to thirty feet high. The Maguey, is a plant, that grows in many parts spontaneously, and from which they derive a liquor, called _pulk_, which is much used in large cities. They obtain this juice, by cutting off the plant, which is from six inches to eighteen in diameter; and at the same time they so excavate the stump, as that it will retain the juice, as it exudes upwards. This is afterwards laded out, and suffered to ferment for use. It is of this juice they make a kind of whiskey, called _vino meschal_. Between Montelrey and the Rio del Norte, we passed a few small villages, of which Cadarota was the most considerable, it being a great sugar region. At Quemargo, we struck the del Norte, which I last saw at El Passo, more than a thousand miles above. A great part of the river between these two points traverses {288} a savage country. Quemargo is something more than one hundred miles from the sea, and from which place to Matamoras it is thinly settled. The village of Matamoras, formerly called Refugio, is forty miles from the harbour of Brassos Santiago;[142] and stands immediately on the bank of the river, and is said to contain ten thousand inhabitants; but, I should think, not more than eight thousand. There are some two hundred Americans and French in this place, most of whom are merchants and mechanics. They have erected several very good brick buildings, and the place begins to wear the aspect of enterprise. There is a company or two of Mexican troops stationed here, which make great ado about nothing. A portion of them are kept at the Brassos, to protect the Custom-House, and prevent smuggling. But Americans have seen too much territory, to be deterred from saving 3 1/2 per cent. either by stratagem or by bribery; both of which are easily practised with the unconscionable Spaniard. In fact the American party is so strong in that place, that they do as they please. The consul (Daniel W. Smith) has great influence among them; as, whatever he says is law and gospel. In regard to the harbour, it is both ample and safe, when once entered; but of dangerous entrance, owing to the channel being shallow, say six or eight feet water. It nevertheless commands considerable commerce during the year. There has been little exported from this port, except during the last two or three years. Since that, it has consisted mostly of passengers and their money: many of the European Spaniards embarked from this port, carrying with them large fortunes of silver and gold, on which the ship masters impose a tax of one per cent. They likewise export some hides, horns, mules, ebony, and some colouring woods. But these exports bear but a small proportion to the amount of specie taken out. DOWNFALL OF THE FREDONIAN REPUBLIC[143] We were removed scarcely a hundred miles from the scene, where was witnessed, during the past winter, the downfall of the Fredonian republic. The crash, however appalling in our ears, at that distance, was hardly heard at Washington, and if some better historian than ourselves, do not take the matter in hand, we fear that this catastrophe will perish from history. Although we do not expect the fame, and do not gird ourselves for the task of the historian of '_the decline and fall of the Roman Empire_,' yet it was no unimportant business of the _original fifteen_, who upreared the pillars of this short lived empire. The fine country of Texas beyond our western frontier, from its peculiar configuration, its vast prairies, its long range of sea coast, and its numerous rivers on the south, and its range of unexplored mountains on the north, and from its peculiar position between the settled countries of the United States on the one hand, and those of the Mexican Republic, beyond the Rio del Norte, on the other, will always be a resort for outlaws, and desperate speculators from our country. Those who wish to get away from their conscience, and those who have visions of a _paradise in the wild_, in short, the 'moving generation' of the country will press to that region to find range. Until the Rio del Norte be our boundary, or a Chinese wall rise between the two states, or a continued line of military posts, interdicting transit, be kept up, it will be the refuge of negro-stealers, and the Elysium of rogues. During the past winter, it witnessed the rise and fall of a republic, which numbered fifteen citizens, and endured fifty days. They must allow us in this country, to have a wonderful faculty to over-stocking all kinds {290} of markets, with the articles which we furnish. Every profession has three aspirants for one that is needed. We furnish more orations, than all the other people on the globe, and we overdo, and parody every thing, that is great and noble. We acknowledge, that the materials for this, our history, were no more than the common parlance of the people, the passing conversations of village news-mongers. We give as we have received. As we have understood it, a Mr. Edwards was the Romulus of this new republic.[144] He had somehow obtained, or imagined that he had obtained at Mexico the conditional grant of some millions of acres, between the Sabine, and the grant of Col. Austin.[145] We saw multitudes of emigrants repairing to this land of promise. Among others, there was a Mr. Chaplin, who, we believe, was a respectable man. He married a sister of Edwards, a beautiful woman, over the events of whose life is spread no small coloring of romance. Mr. Chaplin was appointed by Mr. Edwards, the proprietor, and was elected by the people, chiefly Americans, _Alcaide_, and commandant of Nacogdoches, the only place, that had any resemblance to a town in the country.[146] It seems that the Mexicans wanted to have a hand in the management of this business, and they appointed another _Alcaide_, and commandant. Hence arose a feud, and a collision of authorities between the old and the new '_residenters_.' The warm blood of the emigrants was roused. Fifteen men, among them Col. Ligon, a man whom we had known elsewhere, in a respectable office and standing, took counsel from their free born minds, their stout hearts, and probably from the added influence of the cheering essence of the '_native_.' They repaired, on a set time, not without due pomp, and as they say, under desperate apprehensions of enormous bodily harm, to a stone house, the only one, we believe, of any consequence in the village. Here they promulgated a declaration of independence, adopted national banners and insignia, swore the customary oaths, pledged their 'lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor,' earnestly invoked the aid of their fellow citizens in the {291} United States, formed their constitution, and appointed their officers; and the offices were so numerous, that, we believe, every citizen of the republic held at least one. The aid of another republic, a band of renegade Cherokees, was invoked with as much form, as Æneas used in soliciting the alliance of Evander. The chief of these Indians was introduced under the most imposing formalities. Among the names of the Cherokee plenipotentiaries we observe the name of the thrice-famous _John Dunn Hunter_.[147] The Fredonians had expected aid from Col. Austin's settlement, about two hundred miles south west of them, on the Brassos and Colorado. Not a few of the people of this colony were disposed to give in their adhesion to the new republic. But the shrewd Col. Austin was aware, on which side of the bread the butter lay, and he remained staunch in his loyalty to his adopted country. He issued a thundering proclamation, not unlike Gen. Hull's on the invasion of Canada, inviting his people to range themselves under the standard of the Mexican government. The Cherokee chain parted its links, like _a rope of sand_. The '_fifteen_' had inadvertently caused the death of one man, and otherwise shed some blood by dint of fist. Some of their more provident men said with the famous Dutch refugee, 'Timens lædi, His posteriora dedi.' In other words, made the best of their way east of the Sabine. The Mexicans embodied a small creole force, regained the '_stone house_,' and over-took some of the Fredonians, wisely treating them with a lenity, which rather savoured of contempt. Some of the first magistrates of the fallen republic, on regaining the eastern shore of the Sabine, betook themselves to school-keeping, like Dyonisius, exchanging the sceptre for a rod. The Spanish vacher cracks his thong, as sonorously, and as carelessly, as before, and the surface of the vast prairies is at rest, like that of a lake, a few minutes after a projected stone has ruffled its sleeping waters. '_Sic transit gloria mundi_.' {292} MEXICO SOME ACCOUNT OF ITS INHABITANTS, TOWNS, PRODUCTIONS, AND NATURAL CURIOSITIES [Extracted from the Universal Geography.][148] _Moral qualities of the_ INDIANS.--In his present condition, the Mexican Indian is grave, melancholy, and taciturn, as long as he is not under the influence of intoxicating liquors. This gravity is particularly remarkable in the children of Indians, who, at the early age of four or five years, display infinitely greater intelligence and development of mind than the children of whites. They delight in throwing an air of mystery over their most trifling remarks. Not a passion manifests itself in their features. At all times sombre, there is something terrific in the change, when he passes all at once from a state of absolute repose to violent and ungovernable agitation. The energy of his character, to which every shade of softness is unknown, habitually degenerates into ferocity. This is especially the case with the inhabitants of Tlascala. In the midst of their degradation, the descendants of these republicans are still distinguished by a certain haughtiness with which they are inspired by the remembrance of their former greatness. The indigenous natives of Mexico, like all other nations who have long groaned under civil and religious despotism, are attached, with an extreme degree of obstinacy, to their habits, their manners, and their opinions. _Assimilation of their Religious Belief._--The introduction of Christianity among them has scarcely produced any other effect than merely substituting new ceremonies, the symbols of a mild and humane religion,--for the ceremonies of a sanguinary worship. From the earliest periods, semibarbarous {293} nations have received new laws, and new divinities from the hands of their conquerors. The indigenous and vanquished gods give place to foreign deities. Indeed, in a mythology so complicated as that of the Mexicans, it was easy to discover an affinity between the divinities of Atzlan and those of the east. The Holy Spirit, for instance, was identified with the sacred eagle of the Aztecs. The missionaries not only tolerated, they even favored this mixture of ideas, by which the Christian worship became more speedily established. The English collector, Mr. Bullock, readily obtained leave from the clergy and authorities, in 1823, to disinter and take casts from the image of the sanguinary goddess _Teoyamiqui_.[149] During the time it was exposed, he adds, "the court of the University was crowded with people, most of whom expressed the most decided anger and contempt. Not so, however, all the Indians. I attentively marked their countenances; not a smile escaped them, or even a word--all was silence and attention. In reply to a joke of one of the students, an old Indian remarked, 'It is true we have three very good Spanish gods, but we might still have been allowed to keep a few of those of our ancestors.' I was informed that chaplets of flowers had been placed on the figure by natives, who had stolen thither unseen, in the evening, for that purpose; a proof that notwithstanding the extreme diligence of the Spanish clergy for 300 years, there still remains some taint of heathen superstition among the descendants of the original inhabitants." Yet it was, probably, a nobler impulse than superstition that wove the chaplet for the statue of Teoyamiqui; rather that mystery of nature, by which she links the present to the past with veneration, and to the future with anxiety,--that awful reverence with which the rudest nations look back to their origin and ancestors, and which even now, among the most enlightened, still consecrates the relics of Montmorillon and Stonehenge. _Their talent for Painting and Sculpture._--The Mexicans have preserved a particular taste for painting and for the art of carving on stone and wood. It is truly astonishing to see what {294} they are capable of executing with a bad knife, upon the hardest wood and stone. They exercise themselves in painting the images, and carving the statues of saints; but from a religious principle, they have continued too servilely intimate for 300 years, the models which the Europeans brought with them at the period of the original conquest. In Mexico as well as in Hindoostan, the faithful are not allowed to make the smallest change in their idols; every thing connected with the rites of the Aztecs was subjugated to immutable laws. It is on this very account that the Christian images have preserved in some degree, that stiffness and hardness of feature which characterised the hieroglyphical pictures of the age of Montezuma. They display a great deal of aptitude for the exercise of the arts of imitation, and still greater for those of a purely mechanical nature. _Want of Imagination._--When an Indian has attained a certain degree of cultivation, he shows great facility of acquiring information, a spirit of accuracy and precision, and a particular tendency to subtilize, or to seize on the minutest differences in objects that are to be compared with each other. He reasons coldly and with method; but he does not evince that activity of imagination, that lively freshness of sentiment, that art of creating and of producing, which characterises the people of Europe, and many tribes of African negroes. The music and dancing of the indigenous natives partake of that want of cheerfulness which is so peculiar to them. Their singing is of a melancholy description. More vivacity, however, is observed in their women than in their men; but they share the evils of that state of subjection to which the sex is condemned among most of those nations where civilization is still imperfect. In the dance women take no part; they are merely present for the sake of offering to the dancers the fermented drinks which they themselves had prepared. _Their taste for Flowers._--The Mexican Indians have likewise preserved the same taste for flowers that Cortez noticed in his time. We are astonished to discover this taste, which, doubtless, {295} indicates a taste for the beautiful, among a people in whom a sanguinary worship, and the frequency of human sacrifices, appear to have extinguished every feeling connected with sensibility of mind and the softer affections. In the great market of Mexico, the native does not even sell fish, or ananas, or vegetables, or fermented liquor, without his shop being decked out with flowers, which are renewed every succeeding day. The Indian shopkeeper appears seated behind a perfect entrenchment of verdure, and every thing around him wears an air of the most refined elegance. _Wild Indians._--The Indian hunters, such as the _Mecos_, the _Apaches_, and the _Lipans_, whom the Spaniards comprehend under the denomination of _Indios bravos_, and whose hordes, in their incursions, which are often made during night, infest the frontiers of New Biscay, Sonora, and New Mexico, evince more activity of mind, and more strength of character, than the agricultural Indians. Some tribes have even language, the mechanism of which appears to prove the existence of ancient civilization. They have great difficulty in learning our European idioms, while, at the same time, they express themselves in their own with an extreme degree of facility. These same Indian chiefs, whose gloomy taciturnity astonishes the observer, will hold a discourse of several hours, whenever any strong interest rouses them to break their habitual silence. _Prerogatives of the_ WHITES.--The greater or less quantity of European blood, and the skin being more or less clear, are at once decisive of the consideration which a man enjoys in society and of the opinion which he entertains of himself. A white who rides barefooted, fancies that he belongs to the nobility of the country. Colour even establishes a certain equality between those who, as every where happens where civilization is either a little advanced, or in a state of retrograde movement, take pleasure in refining on the prerogatives of race and origin.--When an individual of the lower orders enters into a dispute with one of the titled lords of the country, it is no unusual thing {296} to hear him exclaim to the nobleman, "It is possible that you really thought yourself whiter than I am?" Among the Metis and Mulattoes, there are many individuals who, by their colour, their physiognomy, and their intelligence, might be confounded with the Spaniards; but the law keeps them down in a state of degradation and contempt. Possessing an energetic and ardent character, these men of colour live in a state of constant irritation against the whites; and resentment too often hurries them into vengeance. It frequently occurs, too, that families who are suspected of being of mixed blood, claim, at the high court of justice, a declaration that they appertain to the whites. In this way, very dark colored Mulattoes have had the address to get themselves _whitened_, according to the popular expression. When the judgment of the senses is too palpably in opposition to the solicitations of the applicant, he is forced to content himself with somewhat problematical terms; for, in that case, the sentence simply states, that "such and such individuals may _consider themselves as white_." NEW-MEXICO.--Many French writers, and, among others, the Abbe Raynal, have spoken in pompous terms of what they term the _Empire of New-Mexico_;[150] and they boast of its extent and riches. Under this denomination they appear to comprehend all the countries between California and Louisiana. But the true signification of this term is confined to a narrow province which, it is true, is 175 leagues in length, but not more than thirty or forty in breadth. _Towns._--This stripe of country, which borders the Rio del Norte, is thinly peopled; the town of _Santa Fe_ containing 4000 inhabitants; _Albuquerque_, 6000; and _Taos_, 9000, comprise almost one-half of the population. The other half consists of poor colonists, whose scattered hamlets are frequently ravaged by the powerful tribes of Indians who surround them, and overrun the province. It is true that the soil is amongst the finest and most fertile of Spanish America. _Productions._--Wheat, maize, and delicious fruits, especially {297} grapes, grow most abundantly. The environs of _Passo-del-Norte_, produce the most generous wines. The mountains are covered with pine trees, maples, and oaks. Beasts of prey are met with in great numbers. There are also wild sheep, and particularly elks, or at least large deer, fully the size of a mule, with extremely long horns. According to the Dictionary of _Alcedo_,[151] mines of tin have been discovered. There are several hot springs. Rivers with a saline taste, indicate the existence of rich beds of rock-salt. _Mountains._--The chain of mountains that border the eastern parts of New Mexico, seem to be of a moderate degree of elevation. There is a pass through them, called the _Puerto de don Fernando_, by which the Paducas have penetrated into New Mexico.[152] Beyond this chain extend immense natural meadows, on which buffaloes and wild horses pasture in innumerable herds. The Americans of the United States hunt these animals, and sometimes pursue them to the very gates of Santa Fe. The principal mountains coast Rio del Norte, following its western banks. Some peaks, or _cerros_, are to be distinguished. Further to the north, in the country of _Nabaho_, the map of Don Alzate has traced mountains with flat summits, denominated in Spanish _mesas_, that is, _tables_. _The Apache Indians._--The _Apache_ Indians originally inhabited the greater part of New Mexico, and are still a warlike and industrious nation. These implacable enemies of the Spaniards infest the whole eastern boundary of this country, from the black mountains to the confines of Cohahuila, keeping the inhabitants of several provinces in an incessant state of alarm.--There has never been any thing but short skirmishes with them, and although their number has been considerably diminished by wars and frequent famine, the Spaniards are obliged constantly to keep up an establishment of 2000 dragoons, for the purpose of escorting their caravans, protecting their villages, and repelling these attacks, which are perpetually renewed. At first the {298} Spaniards endeavoured to reduce to slavery those who, by the fate of war, fell into their hands; but seeing them indefatigably surmount every obstacle that opposed their return to their dear native mountains, their conquerors adopted the expedient of sending their prisoners to the island of Cuba, where, from the change of climate, they speedily perished. No sooner were the Apaches informed of this circumstance than they refused any longer either to give or receive quarter. From that moment none have ever been taken prisoners, except those who are surprised asleep, or disabled during the combat. _Manner of making war._--The arrows of the Apaches are three feet long, and are made of reed or cane, into which they sink a piece of hard-wood, with a point made of iron, bone, or stone. They shoot this weapon with such force, that at the distance of 300 paces they can pierce a man. When the arrow is attempted to be drawn out of the wound, the wood detaches itself, and the point remains in the body. Their second offensive weapon is a lance, fifteen feet long. When they charge the enemy they hold this lance with both hands above their head, and, at the same time, guide their horse by pressing him with their knees. Many of them are armed with firelocks, which, as well as the ammunition, have been taken in battle from the Spaniards, who never sell them any. The archers and fusileers combat on foot but the lancers are always on horseback. They make use of a buckler for defence. Nothing can equal the impetuosity and address of their horsemen. They are thunderbolts, whose stroke it is impossible to parry or escape. We must cease to feel astonished at the invincible resistance which the Apaches oppose to the Spaniards, when we reflect on the fate to which they have subjected those other Indians who have allowed themselves to be converted. _The Intendency of Mexico._--The intendency of _Mexico_, the principal province of the Empire of Montezuma, formerly extended from one sea to the other; but the district of _Panuco_, {299} having been separated from it, it no longer reaches the gulf of Mexico. The eastern part, situated on the plateau, contains several valleys of a round figure; in the centre of which there are lakes at present dried up, but waters appear formerly to have filled these basins. Dry and deprived of its wood, this plateau is at once subject to an habitual aridity, and to sudden inundations, occasioned by heavy rains and the melting of the snow. Generally speaking, the temperature is not so hot as it is in Spain; in fact, it enjoys a perpetual spring. The mountains with which it is surrounded still abound in cedars and other lofty trees, in gums, drugs, salts, metallic productions, marble and precious stones. The flat country is covered the whole year through with delicate and exquisite fruits, lint, hemp, cotton, tobacco, aniseed, sugar, and cochineal, with which they support an extensive commerce. _Natural Curiosities._--Besides the numerous volcanoes of which we have already spoken, some natural curiosities are met with. One of the most remarkable is the _Ponte-Dios_, or the bridge of God, a rock, under which the water has hollowed itself a canal, situated about one hundred miles to the southeast of Mexico, near the village of Molcaxac, on the deep river Aquetoyac. Along this natural bridge, the traveller may continue his journey as if he were on a high road. Several cataracts present a romantic appearance. The great cavern of Dante, traversed by a river; the porphyritic organ-pipes of Actopan; and many other singular objects excite the astonishment of the traveller in this mountainous region, where he is obliged to cross foaming rivers upon bridges formed of the fruit of the _Crescentia pinnata_, tied together with ropes of Agava. _City of Mexico._--On the very ridge of the great Mexican plateau, a chain of porphyritic mountains encloses an oval valley, the general level of which is elevated 6700 feet above the surface of the ocean. Five lakes fill the middle of this valley. To the north of the united lakes of Xochimilco, and Chalco, on the eastern side of the lake Tezcuco, once stood the ancient {300} city of _Mexico_, to which the traveller arrived by causeways constructed on the shallow bottom of the lake. The new city, although placed on the same spot, is situated on firm ground, and at a considerable distance from the lakes, the waters of which have retired, and the town is still intersected by numerous canals, and the public edifices are erected on piles. The draining of the lakes is further continued, by means of a canal which has been opened for that purpose, through the mountains of Sincoq, in order to protect the town from inundations. In many places however, the ground is still soft, and some buildings, amongst others the cathedral, have sunk six feet. The streets are wide and straight, but badly paved. The houses present a magnificent appearance, being built of porphyry and amygdaloid. Several palaces and private mansions have a majestic effect, and its churches glitter with metallic riches. The cathedral surpasses, in this respect, all the churches in the world; the ballustrade which surrounds the great altar being composed of massive silver. A lamp of the same metal, is of so vast a size that three men go into it when it has to be cleaned; and it is enriched with lions' heads, and other ornaments, of pure gold. The statues of the Virgin and the saints are either made of solid silver, or richly gilded, and ornamented with precious stones. Palaces, mansions of great families, beautiful fountains, and extensive squares, adorn the interior of this city. To the north, near the suburbs, is the principal public promenade, or _Alameda_. Round this walk flows a rivulet, forming a fine square, in the middle of which there is a basin with a fountain. Eight alleys of trees terminate here, in the figure of a star. But in consequence of an unfortunate proximity, immediately in front of alameda, the eye discovers the _Quemadero_, a place where Jews and other victims of the terrible Inquisition, were burned alive. FINIS FOOTNOTES: [1] Timothy Flint (1780-1840) was a native of Reading, Massachusetts. Graduated from Harvard College (1800), he became a Congregational minister, and in 1815 went as a missionary to the Far West. Until 1822 his headquarters were at St. Charles, Missouri; in that year he descended the Mississippi in a flatboat and settled in Louisiana, conducting a seminary on Lake Pontchartrain. Ill health compelled him to return to the North (1825), and thereafter he gave his attention to literature. For three years he edited the _Western Review_ at Cincinnati; but later, removing to New York (1833), conducted the _Knickerbocker Magazine_. In addition to publishing a number of romances and biographies of Western life, he was the author of two well-known books on the West: _Recollections of the Last Ten Years Passed in the Valley of the Mississippi_ (1826), and _Condensed History and Geography of the Western States_ (1828).--ED. [2] Josiah Stoddard Johnston was born in Salisbury, Connecticut (1784), but when a small boy removed with his parents to Washington, Kentucky. He was graduated from Transylvania University (1805), and soon after began the practice of law in Alexandria, a frontier village of Louisiana. Gaining reputation as a lawyer, he served as district judge from 1812-21, was elected to the 17th congress, and in 1823 became a member of the federal senate, where he supported a protective tariff and the other measures advocated by Henry Clay. In 1833, Johnston was killed in the explosion of the steamboat "Lyon," on Red River.--ED. [3] James Riley (born in Connecticut, 1777, died at sea, 1840) was a sea captain, who experienced some romantic adventures. In 1815 he sailed from Hartford on the brig "Commerce," was shipwrecked on the coast of Africa, and for eighteen months held as a slave by the Arabs until ransomed by the British consul at Mogadove. In 1817, Anthony Bleecker published from Riley's journals _An Authentic Narrative of the Loss of the American Brig Commerce, on the Western Coast of Africa, in the Month of August, 1815 ... with a Description of Tombuctoo_. The book had a wide circulation both in England and America, but until other survivors of the vessel returned and confirmed the account, was popularly supposed to be fictitious. In 1821 Riley settled in Van Wert County, Ohio, founding the town of Willshire, and in 1823 was elected to the legislature. He resumed a seafaring life (1831), and an account of his later voyages and adventures was published by his son (Columbus, 1851).--ED. [4] This station, five miles northeast of Lexington, had been established in 1779 by four Bryan (later, Bryant) brothers from North Carolina, one of whom married a sister of Daniel Boone. It contained about forty cabins in 1782 when, August 16, it was attacked by a force of Canadians and Indians under the leadership of Simon Girty. Failing to draw the men out of the stockade, as had been planned, the Indians besieged the station until the following day, when they withdrew. For a full account, see Ranck, "Story of Bryant's Station," Filson Club _Publications_, xii.--ED. [5] For a brief sketch of Colonel Benjamin Logan, see A. Michaux's _Travels_, volume iii of our series, p. 40, note 34.--ED. [6] An account of the battle of the Blue Licks may be found in Cuming's _Tour_, in our volume iv, pp. 176, 177.--ED. [7] This expedition, to avenge the battle of the Blue Licks and the attack on Bryant's Station, rendezvoused at the mouth of the Licking. A force of a thousand mounted riflemen under George Rogers Clark marched thence against the Shawnee towns in the neighborhood of the present Chillicothe. These were completely destroyed, the expedition meeting with no resistance.--ED. [8] A footnote cannot do justice to the services of General George Rogers Clark in Western history. Born in Albemarle County, Virginia (1752), he became a surveyor on the upper Ohio. Serving in Dunmore's campaign in 1774, the following year he settled in Kentucky. Returning to Virginia to urge upon the legislature the conquest of the Illinois territory, he was made a lieutenant-colonel and authorized to raise troops for the undertaking. June 24, 1778, he set out from the Falls of the Ohio, upon his memorable campaign, capturing Kaskaskia July 4, and Vincennes the following February. See Thwaites, _How George Rogers Clark won the Northwest, etc._ (Chicago, 1903). The attack upon the Shawnee towns in 1782 was his last important work; an expedition up the Wabash against Detroit, was undertaken in 1786; but part of the troops mutinied, and Clark was forced to turn back before reaching his destination. He died at his sister's home, "Locust Grove," near Louisville, in February, 1818.--ED. [9] The war with the Sauk and Foxes was part of the general War of 1812-15. These Indians had in 1804 signed a treaty at St. Louis, by which they surrendered all their lands in Illinois and Wisconsin. But the cession was repudiated by the Rock River band of the united tribes, who eagerly joined with the British in the hope of saving their hunting grounds. The noted warrior Black Hawk accepted a commission in the British army.--ED. [10] For the early history of St. Charles, see Bradbury's _Travels_, volume v of our series, p. 39, note 9.--ED. [11] Cap-au-Gris is situated on the Mississippi a few miles above the mouth of Cuivre River. In 1812 Fort Howard was erected near that point, for the protection of the Missouri frontier; its name was in honor of the governor, Benjamin Howard. Fort Howard was a shipping port of some importance until the advent of the railroads into that region, but it now exists only in name. The event here related was an attack upon Fort Howard by Black Hawk and his band, immediately after the siege of Fort Meigs (July, 1813).--ED. [12] Fort Bellefontaine was established (1805) by General James Wilkinson, governor of Louisiana, on the site of an old Spanish fort named Charles the Prince. It was on the Missouri River, four miles above its junction with the Mississippi, and was occupied by United States troops until the construction of Jefferson Barracks in 1827. For further details, see Thwaites, _Original Journals of the Lewis and Clark Expedition_, v, p. 392, note 2.--ED. [13] Thomas McNair was a son of Robert, a blacksmith living at Troy, about eighteen miles west of Cap-au-Gris; and a nephew of Alexander McNair, governor of Missouri (1820-24). The family had emigrated to St. Louis from Dauphin County, Pennsylvania, about 1800.--ED. [14] As Pattie obtained his discharge in 1813, he must have yielded his command to Lieutenant John McNair, brother of Thomas, who was stationed at Cap-au-Gris during the latter part of the war. See Goodspeed, _History of Lincoln County, Missouri_ (Chicago, 1888), p. 224. The Sauk and Foxes signed a treaty of peace in May, 1816, wherein they acknowledged the cession of 1804; but the consequent removal across the Mississippi was one of the causes of the Black Hawk War (1832).--ED. [15] Gasconade River rises in southern Missouri, and flowing northeast empties into the Missouri about a hundred miles above the latter's junction with the Mississippi.--ED. [16] Newport, now Dundee, is a small town on the Missouri, at the mouth of Buffalo Creek, some sixty miles above St. Louis.--ED. [17] This was an important place during the fur-trading era. It was more commonly known as Bellevue, and was situated about nine miles above the mouth of the Platte. The first post was established about 1810, and soon passed into the control of the Missouri Fur Company, under Joshua Pilcher--hence the name of Pilcher's Post. For a sketch of Pilcher, see James's _Long's Expedition_, in our volume xiv, p. 269, note 193.--ED. [18] Chariton was about two hundred and twenty miles up the Missouri, at the mouth of Chariton River. In 1818 the sale of government land began in that region, and the town sprang up with extraordinary rapidity. Many lots in St. Louis were exchanged for lots in Chariton, but the site of the latter is now a farm.--ED. [19] This was Cabanne's Post, nine or ten miles (by land) above Omaha. It was established about 1822 for the American Fur Company, by J. P. Cabanne. He remained in charge until 1833, and soon thereafter the company moved its trading station to Bellevue.--ED. [20] Silvester Pratte was born in St. Louis (1799), the son of Bernard Pratte, a partner in the American Fur Company. He did not return from this expedition, but died in New Mexico; see _post_.--ED. [21] For the early history of Council Bluffs, see Brackenridge's _Journal_, volume vi of our series, p. 78, note 28.--ED. [22] For Elkhorn River, see James's _Long's Expedition_, in our volume xiv, p. 240, note 182.--ED. [23] For the Pawnee Indians, consult Brackenridge's _Journal_, in our volume vi, p. 61, note 17.--ED. [24] This is not the stream now known as the Little Platte, for which see James's _Long's Expedition_, in our volume xiv, p. 174, note 141. Possibly it was Maple Creek, a stream which rises in the southern part of Stanton County, Nebraska, and flowing westward through Dodge County joins the Elkhorn nearly opposite the town of Fontenelle. At the time of Major Long's expedition (1820), all the Pawnee villages were situated within a few miles of each other, on the Loup fork of the Platte (see volume xv of our series, pp. 144-149), while Pattie finds a Republican Pawnee village within a day's march of the Elkhorn. Probably this was but a temporary village, as Colonel Henry Dodge (1835) and later travellers describe the location on the main Platte (see _Senate Doc._, 24 Cong., 1 sess., 209). Pattie is also the only person who mentions more than one Republican Pawnee village. It seems likely that he erroneously classed as Republican the other Pawnee villages, excepting that of the Loups (which he mentions separately)--namely, the Grand and the Tapage villages.--ED. [25] The definiteness with which Pattie gives his dates, lends to his account an appearance of accuracy, which an examination of the narrative does not sustain. By his own enumeration of days after leaving Council Bluffs, this should be August 8. There is no indication that Pattie kept a journal, or that he wrote any account of his travels before reaching California.--ED. [26] For the Pawnee Loups see Bradbury's _Travels_, volume v of our series, p. 78, note 44. An account of the visit of the Pawnee chiefs to Washington may be found in Faux's _Journal_, volume xii of our series, pp. 48-52.--ED. [27] This is the golden eagle (_Aquila chrysaëtos_). The tail-feathers are about a foot long, and were especially prized by the Indians for decorative purposes.--ED. [28] This animal is not, correctly speaking, an antelope, but constitutes a separate family. The scientific name, _Antilocapra americana_, was assigned to it (1818) by the naturalist Ord, upon data furnished by Lewis and Clark.--ED. [29] For the Cheyenne Indians, see Bradbury's _Travels_, volume v of our series, p. 140, note 88.--ED. [30] Pattie is altogether too far north and west to meet the Osage River. The distance from the Platte makes it fairly certain that he was on the Republican fork of the Kansas. This stream rises in Colorado, and flows eastward across the arid plains of southern Nebraska as far as longitude 98°; it there enters the state of Kansas, and following a southeasterly course unites with the Smoky Hill River at Junction City, to form the Kansas. Its name arose from the fact that the village of the Republican Pawnee was located upon it until about 1815, when these tribesmen joined the Pawnee upon the Platte.--ED. [31] For a brief description of the Arikara Indians, see Bradbury's _Travels_, volume v of our series, p. 127, note 83.--ED. [32] Pattie's geography is confused by his apparent ignorance of the Kansas and its branches. Hyde Park is probably a tributary of the Republican--possibly Beaver Creek, which rises in western Kansas and flowing northeasterly discharges into the Republican in Harlan County, Nebraska.--ED. [33] The journals of Lewis and Clark contain a good description of the prairie dog (_Cynomys_ or _arctomys ludovicianus_). See Thwaites, _Original Journals of the Lewis and Clark Expedition_, index.--ED. [34] A short account of the Crow Indians may be found in Bradbury's _Travels_, in our volume v, p. 226, note 121.--ED. [35] Pattie is still among the tributaries of the Kansas. This must be the dividing ridge between the sources of the Republican and Smoky Hill rivers.--ED. [36] This is the grizzly bear (_Ursus horribilis_), described satisfactorily for the first time by Lewis and Clark, who also called it the white bear.--ED. [37] Smoky Hill River, the main southern fork of the Kansas, takes its rise in Colorado, and receiving numerous tributaries in its eastward course of nearly four hundred miles, unites with the Republican, to form the Kansas, about one hundred and twenty miles from the mouth of the latter.--ED. [38] In Cheyenne County, Colorado.--ED. [39] For the Comanche Indians, see James's _Long's Expedition_, in our volume xvi, p. 233, note 109.--ED. [40] Ietans (Iotans) is another name for the Comanche, the latter being originally the Spanish appellation. See James's _Long's Expedition_, in our volume xiv, p. 223, note 179.--ED. [41] The Navaho Indians are closely related to the Apache, both belonging to the Athabascan family. At this time they numbered nearly ten thousand people, their territory being west of the Rio del Norte, between the San Juan River and latitude 35°. Their manner of life was more settled than that of the Comanche and Apache; and the blankets they manufacture have gained a wide notoriety. They are now located, to the number of about one thousand five hundred, on the Navaho reservation in northwest New Mexico.--ED. [42] Manifestly a slip, since the subsequent dates show that it was the fifth of October.--ED. [43] For the Cimarron River, see Nuttall's _Journal_, volume xiii of our series, p. 263, note 203.--ED. [44] San Fernandez de Taos was one of two small Spanish towns in the fertile valley of Taos, about seventy-five miles northeast of Santa Fé. This valley formed the Mexican boundary for those who came up Arkansas River, and crossed to New Mexico from the north. The first Spaniard to settle in Taos valley, so far as records show, came about the middle of the eighteenth century; for his story, see Gregg's _Commerce of the Prairies_, in our volume xx. Fernandez de Taos is at present the seat for Taos County, with a population of fifteen hundred. See _Report of the Governor of New Mexico to the Secretary of the Interior_ (Washington, 1903), p. 287. The Indian pueblo of Taos, discovered in 1541 by Barrionuevo, one of Coronado's lieutenants, lies about three miles northwest of San Fernandez, and has had a varied history. A Franciscan mission was established here before 1617, when was built the church which suffered bombardment from the American army in 1847. The great Pueblo revolt of 1680 was largely fomented at Taos; and again, in 1837, a half-breed from Taos, José Gonzales, was the leader of a revolt against the Mexican government. There is still a community of Indians at this pueblo, where in 1847 the final stand was made against Price's army.--ED. [45] The Rio del Norte rises in the San Juan mountains, in southwestern Colorado. Closely hemmed in by mountains, it flows almost directly south as far as El Paso, where it reaches the plains and thence forms the western boundary of Texas. From El Paso it is called the Rio Grande, or Rio Bravo.--ED. [46] Pattie could not have passed the town of Albuquerque, as that is seventy-five miles south of Santa Fé. He probably means Abiquiu, a town on the Chama, a western affluent of the Rio del Norte, and on the well-known trail leading from Santa Fé to Los Angeles, California. Pike passed down the valley of the Rio del Norte (1807), and his descriptions of places and of Mexico are as a whole valuable. See Coues, _Expeditions of Zebulon M. Pike_ (New York, 1895), ii.--ED. [47] This was the mission of St. Thomas de Abiquiu.--ED. [48] Santa Fé is one of the oldest towns within the present limits of the United States. The site was first visited by Coronado in 1541; but the founding of the town was the work of Oñate, who established the colony of New Mexico in 1598. The date of the founding of Santa Fé is uncertain, owing to the destruction of the records by the revolt of 1680; but it was sometime between 1605 and 1609. By 1630, Santa Fé had one thousand inhabitants; its first church was built on the site of the present cathedral, in 1622-27; the ancient governmental palace, still existing, dates from the seventeenth century. In 1680 the Spaniards were expelled, but twelve years later returned under Diego de Vargas. From that time to the present, Santa Fé has been continuously inhabited. In the eighteenth century, French traders found their way thither, and by the early nineteenth the American trade began. In 1822, the Mexican standard was raised over the town, and in 1846 General Stephen W. Kearny secured its surrender to the United States. Santa Fé has always been the capital of the territory. It has now (1905) a population of about eight thousand. At the time of Pattie's visit the governor of New Mexico, the first under republican rule, was Bartolome Baca.--ED. [49] The Rio Pecus is the largest branch of the Rio Grande. Rising in the Santa Fé mountains immediately east of Santa Fé, and following a south-southeast course for about eight hundred miles, it enters the Rio Grande in latitude 29° 41'. The name is derived from an old pueblo, situated on one of the mountain tributaries about twenty-five miles southeast of Santa Fé. In 1540 this was the largest Indian village in New Mexico, containing a population of about two thousand souls; but the United States troops in 1846 found it desolate and in ruins. A small modern village has grown up near the ancient site.--ED. [50] This small town, presumably to the east of Santa Fé, cannot be the well-known San Juan, on the Rio del Norte opposite the mouth of the Chama River and about thirty miles north of Santa Fé. This latter San Juan was made the capital of New Mexico by Oñate in 1598-99, and so remained until the founding of Santa Fé.--ED. [51] "The Gila was known to the whites before the Mississippi was discovered; it was long better known than the Rio Grande and down to the present century was far better known than the Rio Colorado."--(Coues, _Expeditions of Zebulon M. Pike_, ii, p. 374.) The first name, Rio del Nombre de Jesus, was given to it by Oñate in 1604; the present name dates from 1697. The stream heads in the mountains of western New Mexico, and traversing Arizona empties into the Colorado at Fort Yuma (32° 43' north latitude). See _post_, notes 54, 63.--ED. [52] This name, meaning succor, was given by Oñate to the Indian pueblo of Teipana, about eighty miles south of Albuquerque, because of the supplies of maize furnished by the inhabitants on his expedition up the Rio del Norte (1598-99). The old pueblo was destroyed in 1681, and the modern town founded in 1817. It is now the seat of Socorro County, and contains over 1,500 inhabitants. The home of the Spanish ex-governor and his daughter must have been in the neighborhood of the present city of Albuquerque, the largest town in New Mexico. Pattie's course quite closely followed the line of the Santa Fé railroad.--ED. [53] The mines were the well-known "Santa Rita de Cobre," in the western angle of the Sierra de Mogoyon, near the headwaters of the Gila and about one hundred miles west of the Rio del Norte. Mexicans began to work them in 1804. They proved very profitable (see _post_, p. 350), although the difficulty of obtaining supplies was great, owing to the plundering Apache. In 1838 these Indians entirely cut off the supply trains, and the mines were abandoned. They were for a time (1851) the headquarters of the boundary commission for the United States and Mexico. See Bartlett, _Personal Narrative of Explorations_ (New York, 1854), i, pp. 226-239. Mining was resumed in 1873; the property is now operated by the Santa Rita Company, and is among the best equipped mines in the territory.--ED. [54] The present name of this stream, one of the initial forks of the Gila. The confluence is in Arizona, a few miles over the New Mexican border.--ED. [55] The Rocky Mountain sheep (_Ovis montana_) was well described by Lewis and Clark.--ED. [56] There are at least three varieties of mesquit-tree (_prosopis_) in New Mexico and Arizona. It is related to the acacia and locust; and the fruit, consisting of ten or twelve beans in a sweet, pulpy pod, is gathered by the Indians, pounded in a mortar, and made into bread. A prolific tree will yield ten bushels of beans in the hull. The Comanche also concoct an intoxicating drink from this bean.--ED. [57] The maguey is the American aloe (_Agave americana_). The Mexicans and Indians cut off the leaves near the root, leaving a head the size of a large cabbage. The heads are placed in the ground, overlaid with earth, and for a day a fire is kept burning on top of them; they are then eaten, tasting something like a beet. The roasted heads are also placed in a bag made of hides, and allowed to ferment, producing the liquor known as "mescal."--ED. [58] For the method of making a "cache," see Thwaites, _Original Journals of the Lewis and Clark Expedition_, index.--ED. [59] This is apparently the giant cactus (_Cereus giganteus_). The height to which it grows varies with the nature of the soil, the average being from twenty to thirty feet.--ED. [60] The Apache were long the scourge of New Mexico, Arizona, and northern Mexico. Living by plunder alone, they systematically robbed and killed Spaniards, Mexicans, and Americans. They belong to the Athabascan family, and comprise many tribes and sub-tribes. At present they number about six thousand souls, and are located on five different reservations.--ED. [61] The Red is here used as one of the rather infrequent names for the Colorado.--ED. [62] The Mexican province of Sonora had then nearly the same boundaries as now, save for a northern strip--the Gadsden Purchase--which was transferred to Arizona in 1803. Along its northern frontier stretched a line of five forts, to protect the ranches and villages from Apache raids. The tribe of Indians which behaved so treacherously towards the French companions of Pattie were the Papago (Papawar), who still inhabit this region, being herdsmen in southern Arizona and northern Sonora. See Bandelier, "Final Report of Investigations among the Indians of the Southwestern United States," American Archæological Institute Papers, American Series, iii, pp. 250-252.--ED. [63] This river is still called the Black, but more frequently the Salt. It is a considerable fork of the Gila, uniting with it a short distance below Phoenix, Arizona. The left branch of the Salt is the Verde, the principal river of central Arizona. Pattie's geography is correct in describing the source of these two great streams.--ED. [64] The habitat of the Hopi Indians (the more commonly-used Moki is an opprobrious nickname), has been the same for two hundred years--a plateau in northeastern Arizona, about fifty miles from the Little Colorado River. They are of Shoshonean stock, but became separated from their kindred and established themselves in six pueblos, forming the Tusayan confederacy. A seventh village was later added, composed of Tañoan Indians from the Rio Grande. These pueblos were visited by Don Pedro de Tobar, a lieutenant of Coronado, in 1540. In 1599 they gave their formal allegiance to Juan de Oñate, who six years later again visited their country. They appear to have taken part in the rebellion of 1680, being reconquered in 1692-94. A delegation visited Santa Fé in 1700, and Garces is known to have travelled to their villages in 1776. With the rise of the Apache the Hopi were necessarily cut off from contact with the New Mexicans, which accounts for their surprise at the appearance of Pattie's comrades. For their present habits and customs, consult Bandelier, "Final Report," _op. cit._, iii, iv; also Bourke, _Snake Dance of the Moquis of Arizona_ (New York, 1884).--ED. [65] The Indians whom Pattie meets in this region--the Mohave, on the Colorado, at the mouth of the Mohave River; the Yuma, or Cuchans, at the mouth of the Gila; the Cocopa near the mouth of the Colorado; and the Coco-Maricopa, or Maricopa, along the southern bank of the Gila--are the principal members of the Yuman family, the three latter being originally united in a confederacy. They were generally hostile to Americans, and Forts Yuma and Mohave were erected to keep them in subjection. Early travellers frequently commented upon their physical beauty, but contact with the whites rapidly pauperized and debauched them. At present some fifteen hundred Mohave are located at the Colorado River and San Carlos reservations, in Arizona; the Yuma, to the number of about a thousand, are at the Mission Agency of California, and at San Carlos; and about three hundred Maricopa are living on the Pima reservation, in Arizona.--ED. [66] This is now known as Bill Williams's Fork. It is composed of two main branches, the Santa Maria and the Big Sandy, and drains west-central Arizona, uniting with the Colorado at the present Aubrey City. The villages just passed were probably those of the Coconino (properly Havasupai), a distinct Indian family, although speaking a Yuman dialect. See Bandelier, _op. cit._, iv, pp. 381-833.--ED. [67] Pattie reaches at this point the fort of Black Cañon, and traverses the southern bank of the cañons of the Colorado for their entire length, a distance which he accurately estimates at three hundred miles. Apparently the beauty and wonder of the great chasm did not appeal to the weary traveller. The cañons of the Colorado were first visited by Garcia Lopez de Cardenas, of Coronado's party, in 1540. Again, in 1583, Antonio de Espejo reports his visit thither. It was two centuries before another white traveller is recorded as seeing the Grand Cañon of the Colorado; and Pattie is apparently the first known American to traverse its banks. In 1857 Lieutenant Ives ascended in a steamer as far as Black Cañon, and then proceeded overland to Grand Cañon; twelve years later Major J. W. Powell descended the entire gorge in boats; see Dellenbaugh, _Romance of the Colorado River_ (New York, 1902). The cañons are now much frequented by tourists. See for example, Monroe, "Grand Cañon of the Colorado," in _Atlantic Monthly_, 1900.--ED. [68] For the Shoshoni Indians, see Bradbury's _Travels_, our volume v, p. 227, note 123. The river up which they trapped for two days was probably the Little Colorado, which comes in from the southeast. Pattie's "north" is a misprint for "south."--ED. [69] This was San Juan River, which heads in northwest New Mexico; entering southeastern Utah, it passes around the base of Mount Navaho, and unites with the Colorado in Kane County. It formed the northern boundary of the Navaho territory; see _ante_, note 41.--ED. [70] As they held possession of the mountains of Colorado, these were probably Paiutes. The numerous tribes of Ute are of Shoshonean stock; they extended along the Colorado River from California to its sources, and occupied nearly all of the present states of Utah and Nevada.--ED. [71] Pattie is not sufficiently definite for us to determine whether or not he crossed the divide by the now famous South Pass, which was already known to Rocky Mountain trappers. According to Coues (_Henry-Thompson Journals_, ii, p. 884), Stuart, Crooks, and four other Astorians discovered it on an overland journey from Astoria in 1812. The fur-trader Andrew Henry passed through it in 1823, but it was first made known to the world at large by John C. Frémont (1842), and is in consequence most often associated with his name.--ED. [72] For further information concerning Long's Peak, see James's _Long's Expedition_, volume xv of our series, p. 271, note 126.--ED. [73] The Bighorn is one of the three largest tributaries of the Yellowstone. It rises in the Shoshone and Wind River Mountains, in Wyoming, and following a northerly course enters the Yellowstone at about 46° 15' north latitude. At its mouth, Manuel Lisa established the first trading post on the Yellowstone (1807). One of its branches has become famous as the scene of the Custer massacre.--ED. [74] For the Yellowstone River, see Bradbury's _Travels_, volume v of our series, p. 100, note 68.--ED. [75] A brief account of the Flathead Indians may be found in Franchère's _Narrative_, in our volume vi, p. 340, note 145. For the method of compressing the children's heads, consult illustration in Thwaites,_ Original Journals of the Lewis and Clark Expedition_, iv.--ED. [76] On the return journey of the Lewis and Clark expedition, Clark passed from the Bitterroot fork of Clark's branch of the Columbia, across the continental divide, through Gibbon's Pass, thence by way of Bozeman Pass and Jefferson and Gallatin rivers to the Yellowstone, reaching the latter near the present site of Livingston, Montana, about forty-five miles north of Yellowstone Park. See Thwaites, _Original Journals of the Lewis and Clark Expedition_, v, p. 262. There is at this point some strange mistake or hiatus in Pattie's journal. Clark's Fork of the Columbia takes its rise in the Bitterroot Mountains, and does not flow within a thousand miles of Long's Peak; nor would the time allowed--less than three weeks--have admitted of so extensive a journey. The trappers must have become confused among the northern rivers, and returned on their steps up the North Fork of the Platte.--ED. [77] For the Blackfeet Indians, see Bradbury's _Travels_, volume v of our series, p. 225, note 120.--ED. [78] The province of Biscay was, properly speaking, Nueva Vizcaya. Originally extensive, and including Sonora, it by this time comprised only the present states of Chihuahua and Durango. Hanas is doubtless Janos (named for an Indian tribe), one of the fortified towns of Chihuahua, situated on the Casas Grandes River.--ED. [79] The mountains crossed were the Sierra Madre. Bavispe (Barbisca) was a presidio in the northeastern part of Sonora; it is situated on the river of the same name, one of the main forks of the Yaqui, the largest Sonoran river, which follows a southwest course and falls into the Gulf of California below Port-Guaymas. The village was destroyed by an earthquake in May, 1887.--ED. [80] The Yaquis Indians, living along the Yaqui River, have been difficult to keep in subjection; they revolted in 1740, and again in 1825. At present constituting the laboring class of Sonora, although living apart from whites, in their own villages, they are much employed in the gold mines, in which Sonora abounds, being one of the richest mining districts in the world. The mine described by Pattie was evidently near the present village of Tepache, northeast of the centre of the state, which is still strewn with abandoned shafts.--ED. [81] Sonora has had several capitals, and it is uncertain to which Pattie here refers. The present executive town is Hermosillo, on the Sonora River. Its earlier rival was Ures, some miles up the same river.--ED. [82] Pattie sees here the Gulf of California, whose principal port is still Guaymas, with a population of about five thousand five hundred.--ED. [83] The Mexican revolt against Spain began with the rising of Hidalgo in 1810, and was carried on with varying success until apparently quelled in 1817. But the Spanish revolution of 1820 was the signal for a new and successful outbreak, and Mexico became independent the following year.--ED. [84] These were probably the mines of Cosihuiriachi, located in the Sierra de Metates, about ninety miles west of the capital of Chihuahua. Accidentally discovered at the end of the eighteenth century, they became highly profitable, the number of persons living there in Spanish times being estimated at ten thousand. As in the case of the copper mines, the plundering of the Apache caused a decline, and by 1850 most of them had been abandoned. For further details, see Wislizenus, "A Tour to Northern Mexico" (_Senate Misc._, 30 Cong., 1 sess., 26, pp. 51-53).--ED. [85] Chihuahua, the capital of the state of that name, is attractively situated in a valley of the Sierra Madre Mountains, about a hundred miles west of the Rio Grande River. It was settled about 1691, the population being considerably greater in Spanish than in Mexican times. The most noteworthy building is the cathedral, perhaps the richest and most beautiful in Mexico. A second large church was begun by the Jesuits, but never completed; it served as a prison for the patriot Hidalgo before his execution. See Wislizenus, _op. cit._, pp. 60-63.--ED. [86] San Buenaventura was originally a Franciscan mission about a hundred and eighty miles northeast of Chihuahua. It was frequently disturbed by Apache attacks, and about 1775 was moved a short distance and made one of the frontier presidios.--ED. [87] From its location this river would seem to be the Santa Maria, a small stream which rises in the mountains south of San Buenaventura, and flowing northward loses itself in a lake not far from El Paso.--ED. [88] Casas Grandes is a short distance south of Janos (see _ante_, note 78). Near the Mexican village are the famous ruins of large, several-storied dwellings built by an Indian tribe that has passed away. Evidence of a canal which conveyed the water supply is also to be seen, and at some distance from the cluster of buildings is a kind of watch-tower. Similar ruins have been discovered in Arizona, all the work of Pueblo Indians, although of a tribe having attained a somewhat higher culture than those of to-day. See Bandelier, "Final Report," iv, pp. 544-575.--ED. [89] The town of El Paso dates from about 1680, when the Spanish were driven out of Santa Fé by the great Pueblo revolt. For Indian, trapper, trader, and miner it has been a gateway between the Atlantic and Pacific river systems. Its name arose from the fact that there the Rio del Norte emerges from the mountains to the plains. The modern El Paso, Texas, is across the river from the old town.--ED. [90] This is not the Pacos (Pecos), previously mentioned by Pattie (see _ante_, note 49), but the Puerco, a western tributary of the Rio del Norte. Puerco was also a common, though mistaken name, for the Pecos, hence the confusion. The Puerco is a narrow, shallow stream, about seventy-five miles in length, which, rising in the mountains west of Santa Fé and flowing southward, unites with the Rio del Norte a few miles above Socorro.--ED. [91] The Mescalero were among the most treacherous and murderous tribes of the Apache. Their favorite haunts were the mountains bordering the Rio del Norte on the east. Some five hundred of them are now on the Mescalero reservation in New Mexico.--ED. [92] The Mimbres River flows between Mimbres Mountain and the copper mines, being but a short distance from the latter.--ED. [93] This is probably Andrew Henry, a pioneer trader on the Missouri, for whom see our volume xv, p. 246, note 107.--ED. [94] See _ante_, note 65.--ED. [95] The jaguar (_Felis onca_) most resembles the leopard of the old world. It inhabits the wooded parts of America, from Texas to Paraguay.--ED. [96] For the Cocopa Indians, see _ante_, note 65. The Pipi were probably Pimi, a distinct linguistic family, occupying southern Arizona and northern Mexico. They lived a settled life in villages, and were generally well-disposed toward the whites.--ED. [97] Santa Catalina was the last mission founded in Lower California. It was established by the Dominicans (1797) in the mountains, back from the coast, about latitude 31° 20', on the headwaters of River St. Quentin.--ED. [98] The mission of Santo Tomás de Aquino was founded by the Dominicans in 1790. It is situated about fifty miles northwest of Santa Catalina, on a river to which it gives a name, Rio Santo Tomas.--ED. [99] San Miguel, established in 1782, is about thirty miles south of San Diego.--ED. [100] A presidio was established at San Diego in 1769, and troops stationed there. Although not the capital at the time of Pattie's imprisonment, Governor Echeandia preferred its climate to that of Monterey, and made it his permanent residence. The present city of San Diego dates only from 1867, and is five or six miles distant from the old site.--ED. [101] This account of Captain Bradshaw and the "Franklin" does not agree in chronology with the evidence presented by Bancroft from official sources (_History of California_, iii, pp. 133, 134). The "Franklin" escaped on July 16, Bradshaw having been warned by a French captain that the governor intended to place a guard on board the vessel. Pattie wrote from memory, some time after the occurrences, but except in the matter of time his evidence tallies with that of the Mexican manuscripts, wherein his name is mentioned as interpreter.--ED. [102] The names of Pattie's companions appear in the archives, and are given by Bancroft, _California_, iii, p. 163, as Nathaniel Pryor, Richard Laughlin, William Pope, Isaac Slover, Jesse Ferguson, James Puter. Of these, the first is the name of one of the sergeants in the Lewis and Clark expedition, for whose earlier career see Wheeler, _On the Trail of Lewis and Clark_ (New York, 1904), i, pp. 92-95. See also Bancroft, iv, p. 785; and Vallejo, "Ranch and Mission Days in Alta California," in _Century Magazine_, xix, p. 190. Most of them became residents of California; William Pope gave his name to Pope Valley, Napa County, where he lived and died.--ED. [103] Pattie elsewhere gives the name of this young woman who befriended him, as Miss Peaks. Bancroft conjectures (_California_, ii, p. 165) that she was Señorita Pico, sister of a sergeant by that name, figuring in the records of the time.--ED. [104] For the career of Charles (not James) Lang, see Bancroft, _op. cit._, iii, pp. 139, 140.--ED. [105] The mission of San Diego de Alcala was the first of the Franciscan establishments begun by Father Junipero Serra in 1769. In 1774 it was removed inland three miles from the presidio of the same name; and at the time of Pattie's visit, it had attained the height of its prosperity. Six years after it was founded (1775), an Indian revolt occurred, in which there was bloodshed on both sides, and the church was burned and pillaged. It was re-established in 1777, and six years later was built the church, of which little yet remains but the façade. Remains of an aqueduct may also be traced, to whose use in irrigating Pattie refers. On the entire subject of mission history, consult in addition to Bancroft, and the standard histories, Victor, "Studies of the California Missions" in _The Californian_, v, vi; Helen Hunt Jackson, "Father Junipero and his Work," in _Century_, iv, pp. 3-18, 199-215; Doyle, "Missions of Alta California," _ibid._, xix, pp. 389-402; Jackson, _Glimpses of California and the Missions_ (Boston, 1902); Carter, _Missions of Nueva California_ (San Francisco, 1900), and Clinch, _California and its Missions_, (San Francisco, 1904).--ED. [106] The mission of San Luis Rey de Francia, situated on the coast, about eighty-five miles southeast from Los Angeles, was founded in 1798, and named in honor of Louis IX of France. The church, the largest among the missions, was completed in 1802. At the time of Pattie's visit, it was the most prosperous mission in California, possessing twenty-five thousand sheep and over two hundred thousand acres of land, on which were annually raised twelve thousand bushels of grain. The founder, Padre Antonio Peyri, was still in charge, and to his fine character and administrative ability was due the success of the enterprise. The old church, the finest among the missions, was recently repaired and occupied by the Franciscans, the dedication (1893) of the re-established mission taking place with much ceremony.--ED. [107] This should be San Juan Capistrano; San Juan Bautista was further north, see note 119, below. This mission was founded with much difficulty, the Indians being hostile, and upon the news of the revolt at San Diego (1775) the first attempt was abandoned. The second (1776) was more successful, but the mission made but slow progress. Its beautiful stone church was begun in 1797, and dedicated in 1806, only to be partially destroyed by the earthquake, to which Pattie refers, in 1812. The ruins of San Juan Capistrano are among the most beautiful of all the California missions; they are situated near a small town of that name, on the Southern California Railroad, fifty-eight miles southeast of Los Angeles. San Gabriel was the fourth mission founded on the southern coast by the Franciscans. It was established in 1771, near San Pedro Bay, where had been recorded a miracle upon the unfurling of a banner bearing a painting of the Virgin. Somewhat later the mission was removed to the foothills, and being on the road from Monterey to San Diego, attained considerable wealth and importance. In 1832 the Spanish government secured from this mission a forced loan of $120,000 in gold. The existing church of the mission is much visited, being but nine miles east of Los Angeles. San Pedro was the port both of Los Angeles and the San Gabriel mission. The bay was named by Viscaino (1602), and next to the four presidial ports it was the most important on the coast, and the spot where much smuggling took place. In 1846, during the American conquest of the province, a battle was fought not far from San Pedro, between Californians and Americans; the latter under Captain William Mervine, were defeated.--ED. [108] Los Angeles was the second pueblo (municipality) founded by the Spaniards in Upper California. A colony of forty-six persons came overland from Mexico in 1781, and established itself at this point (September 4). By Pattie's time the town had about eighty houses and seven hundred inhabitants. The ancient Spanish church, facing the plaza in this city, dates from 1822, eleven years being occupied in its building.--ED. [109] The Franciscans proposed to establish a chain of missions some distance inland from the coast. As part of this plan, was founded (1797) the mission of San Fernando, twenty miles north of Los Angeles, named in honor of King Ferdinand III of Spain (1217-1251). During the years 1820-30, it was in a flourishing condition, the warehouse containing merchandise to the value of $50,000. The mission was sold (1846) to Eulogio Celis to help defray the expenses of the war with the United States, but the title was not sustained by the American courts. San Fernando has suffered little from the hands of the restorer, the buildings belonging still to a ranch, and affording a good picture of the general aspect of a Franciscan mission.--ED. [110] Soon after the founding of San Diego, Serra had wished to erect a mission in honor of San Buenaventura. But various reasons hindered his purpose, which was not accomplished until 1782; it was the last mission erected during his lifetime. The church, the only building now standing, was begun in 1797; it was much damaged by the earthquake of 1812, but later being repaired, now stands in the midst of the busy American city of Ventura. The two friars who fled from this mission in January, 1828, were Ripoll and Altmira, who went on board the "Harbinger" at Santa Barbara, and never returned. It is believed they ultimately reached Spain.--ED. [111] The presidio of Santa Barbara, one of the four forts by which the Spaniards held California, was founded in 1782. The mission itself was not begun until four years later. It became one of the most important of all the missions, and by 1800 was wealthy. The church was so much damaged by the earthquake of 1812 that a new structure was erected, which to-day is in a perfect state of preservation, and one thoroughly typical of mission architecture. After secularization (1834), the mission was neglected for twenty years; but the Franciscans again took possession of the property, and established a religious community therein, which is still maintained for the education of novitiates.--ED. [112] By "St. Enos," Pattie refers to the mission of Santa Inez, the nineteenth to be established (1804), it being at first an offshoot of Santa Barbara. Its first church was destroyed in the earthquake of 1812; the present building is plain and uninteresting. At Santa Inez was started the great Indian revolt of 1824. At the time of secularization it was one of the smaller missions, valued at only $56,000. Because of its inaccessibility within the Santa Inez mountains, forty miles from Santa Barbara, it is now little visited.--ED. [113] Pattie here makes a mistake in his itinerary. Either he is referring to La Purissima mission, established in 1787 (re-established 1812), on Santa Inez River, eighteen miles from the mission of that name, or he has misplaced his visit to Santa Cruz mission (founded 1791), north of Monterey.--ED. [114] San Luis Obispo was one of the early missions, being founded by Serra in 1772, about midway between Monterey and Santa Barbara. Its buildings were several times destroyed by fire, and its prosperity was of slower growth than that of the more southern missions. The present buildings, in the flourishing modern town of its name, retain but little of the early mission architecture, having been completely changed by frequent restorations.--ED. [115] San Miguel mission (in honor of Michael the archangel) was founded in 1797, in the valley of Salinas River. The present church was begun in 1800, and is chiefly interesting for its interior decoration, designed and executed by Indians. Pattie has here exaggerated the number of neophytes (or else this is a misprint), the largest enrollment in 1814 being 1,076.--ED. [116] It is evident, from the context, that Pattie has transposed the names of the two missions, San Juan Bautista (see note 119) and San Antonio. It was the latter which he visited on the way to Monterey. Situated in the beautiful valley of the San Antonio River, it was the third of all the missions founded by Serra (1771). One of the most flourishing of the early missions, at the time of secularization it was valued at $90,000. The present church dates from about 1809. It is fast falling into ruin, owing to isolation and neglect.--ED. [117] La Soledad (Our Lady of Solitude), founded in 1791, was one of the smaller missions, thus Pattie's numbers are incorrect. Its buildings are now almost in ruins. The mission of San Carlos was founded at the same time as the presidio of Monterey; but the following year (1771) was removed several miles into the country, upon the Carmelo River (named for the Carmelite friar who visited this place in 1602); from its location, the mission was usually spoken of as Carmel. It was the central mission, the home of the president, and was important rather from this fact and its neighborhood to Monterey than from the number of its neophytes. In 1784 Father Junipero Serra, founder of the missions, died, and was buried at this place. Nearly a hundred years later his tomb was re-opened, and found intact. The present church, easily visited from Monterey, was dedicated in 1797; restored in 1882, it is still in good condition, and service is held there monthly.--ED. [118] The harbor of Monterey was discovered by the Spanish expedition under Cabrillo, in 1542; but rediscovered and named by Viscaino, in 1602. The first land expedition sent out from San Diego (1770) failed to recognize the bay. The presidio was built in June of that year, and made the capital of the new province. It consisted of a stockaded enclosure, with cannon at the corners. By 1778 a stone wall had been built, and the safety of the place ensured. Thenceforward, the history of Monterey was the history of Alta California. After the American conquest, it remained for many years a Mexican town. See Stevenson, "Old Pacific Capital," in _Across the Plains_ (New York, 1895), pp. 77-107. More recently, Monterey has become a seaside resort.--ED. [119] This was San Juan Bautista (see note 116), whose site, thirty miles northeast of Monterey, was chosen in 1786. A mission was not founded there until 1797, when was begun the chapel which was dedicated in 1812; it still stands, although much altered from its first appearance. Music was a feature of San Juan Bautista; there is still to be seen within the building an old barrel organ which was made in England in 1735. As this was a prosperous mission at the date of Pattie's visit, no doubt his figures are correct. He omitted from his tour the northern missions of Santa Cruz, Santa Clara, San José, San Rafael Archangel, and Solano de Sonoma.--ED. [120] It is usually conceded that none of the early explorers--Cabrillo, Sir Francis Drake, or Viscaino--sighted the present San Francisco Bay, although that name had been applied to the harborage under Point Reyes, now known as Drake's Bay. Therefore it was the land expedition under Portata (1769-70), who first saw the southern shore of the great bay, and attempted to pass around it to old Port San Francisco. Failing in this, the party turned back to Monterey and were succeeded by two more exploring parties in 1773 and 1774. The following year (1775) Ayala first entered the bay from the ocean. Serra had long wished to found a mission in honor of Saint Francis; he therefore besought a colony from Mexico, to establish a presidio which should guard such an outlying mission. This being arranged, an expedition under the lead of Moraga set forth in 1776, and in September of that year formally installed the presidio, the mission being dedicated in October. The mission lay south of the fort, and is now included in the limits of the city, where the church (dedicated in 1795) still stands. It was never a prosperous mission, owing partly to the climate, and partly to the character of the Indians. Moraga continued as commandant of the presidio until his death in 1785. Fort San Joaquin was finished in 1794, when there was a total population of about one thousand. The United States flag was raised on the plaza in 1846. Under the Spaniards, San Francisco was always an outpost maintained for defense; its importance began with the discovery of gold in 1848.--ED. [121] The Russian Fur Company, having under Rezanof explored the coast in 1806, desired to erect thereon a trading post, and in 1812 Baranof dispatched an expedition to Bodega Bay. A site for the settlement was selected about eighteen miles above the bay, and a fort with ten cannons was erected, named Ross. Although the Spanish officials protested against this occupation of their territory there was never an open collision, and the trade was profitable to the Californians. The Russian settlement was therefore maintained until 1841, being then voluntarily abandoned.--ED. [122] Joaquin Solis was a convict ranchero, living near Monterey. He had served in the war of independence from Spain, and had been sentenced to California for brutal crimes which were thus lightly punished because of his military services to the republic. For an account of this revolt, from manuscript sources, see Bancroft, _California_, iii, pp. 67-86. Pattie's dates are erroneous, Solis having left Monterey for San Francisco in November, 1829.--ED. [123] José Maria de Echeandia was the first governor of California after it passed under the Mexican government. A lieutenant-colonel in the army, he had been director of the college of engineers at the City of Mexico, and arrived at San Diego in October, 1825, to assume his new official duties. By establishing his official residence at San Diego, he gave offense to the Montereyans, and thus promoted the Solis revolt. His successor was appointed in 1830, but did not assume office until January, 1831. The same year, Echeandia himself became concerned in a revolt which placed him practically at the head of the government in California until January 14, 1833, when a new appointee arrived from Mexico, bearing orders to Echeandia to proceed thither. The latter thereupon sailed from San Diego, May 14, 1833, never again to visit California. He thereafter devoted his time to engineering duties, and is known to have been so occupied in 1856, and to have died before 1871. A somewhat indolent man, of infirm temper, he was nevertheless popular with the Mexican party in California.--ED. [124] Captain John Roger Cooper was an American who in 1823 arrived in California from Boston, master of the ship "Rover." Selling his vessel to the governor, he continued his trading voyages until 1826, when he settled at Monterey and turned merchant. Being naturalized in 1830, he became one of the well-known characters of the Mexican capital. In 1839, he returned to sea-faring, and continued therein for ten or eleven years more, returning to Monterey as harbor-master in 1851. He died at San Francisco in 1872. Cooper's father-in-law was Ignacio Vallejo, one of the earliest and best known of the Mexican residents. Vallejo was born in Guadalaxara (1748), of pure Spanish descent, and went to California with the first expedition (1769); he died at Monterey in 1831. Being the only civil engineer of the province, he devoted much time to irrigating works. See Shinn, "Pioneer Spanish Families in California," in _Century Magazine_, xix, pp. 377-389.--ED. [125] Pattie's account of this interesting historical event seems in the main to be accurate, except in the matter of dates, in which his own narrative is inconsistent. Bancroft appears to think that he deliberately falsified the account of the capture of Solis, in order to exalt his own part therein.--ED. [126] Captain William S. Hinckley was well known to the California coast, appearing there as master of a trading vessel in 1830. He visited the same ports in 1833-34, and aided Alvarado in his revolution of 1836. For several years thereafter he was in trouble with the revenue agents at San Francisco, charged with smuggling. Becoming a permanent resident of that place in 1840, he was naturalized, married, and made an alcalde, as well as captain of the port. He died just previous to the advent of the Americans in 1846.--ED. [127] For another description of these fights, consult Bidwell, "Life in California before the Gold Discovery," in _Century Magazine_, xix, pp. 163-182.--ED. [128] For the later history of Pattie's companions, see Vallejo, "Ranch and Mission Days in Alta California," _ibid._, pp. 183-192. Bancroft possessed his letter written from Mexico, June 14, 1830; see his _California_, iii, p. 170.--ED. [129] Anthony Butler was a native of South Carolina, who early in the nineteenth century removed to Logan County, Kentucky. In the War of 1812-15, he served first as lieutenant-colonel of the 28th infantry, then as colonel of the 2nd rifle corps, and was at New Orleans with Jackson, a warm personal friend. In 1818-19 he served in his state legislature. Upon Jackson's accession to power, Butler was appointed (1829) chargé d'affaires at Mexico, where, already deeply involved in speculation in Texan land-scrip, he attempted to secure annexation by various means not wholly reputable. Having deceived Jackson, and attempted to outwit the Mexican ministers, his recall was demanded by Santa Anna (1836), but Jackson had already dismissed him. See _Memoirs of John Quincy Adams_, xi, pp. 359, 360.--ED. [130] Vicente Guerrero was installed president of the Mexican Republic in 1829. In the summer of that year the Spanish sent an expedition to retake Mexico, and he, espousing their cause, was granted dictatorial powers. The vice-president, Anastasio Bustamante, thereupon styled himself preserver of the constitution, and in December organized a revolt. Guerrero fled from the capital, and in 1831 was captured and shot. Bustamante remained president until 1832, when a counter revolution, led by Santa Anna, drove him from power.--ED. [131] Although Governor Echeandia's successor was appointed in 1830, he did not return to Mexico until three years later. See note 123, _ante_.--ED. [132] Flint, the first editor of this volume, here refers to the previous publication of the succeeding article, entitled "Inland Trade with New Mexico," in the periodical of which he was editor, _Western Monthly Review_, ii, pp. 597, 649 (April and May, 1829). This journal enjoyed but three years of life, the first number appearing in May, 1827, the last in June, 1830.--ED. [133] For an account of the Santa Fé trail, along which this caravan passed, see Gregg, _Commerce of the Prairies_, in our volumes xix and xx.--ED. [134] For the Verdigris River, see Nuttall's _Journal_, in our volume xiii, p. 234, note 193.--ED. [135] This is the Cimarron River, see note 43, _ante_.--ED. [136] Flint here refers to the most available authorities on Mexico. Conrad Malte-Brun was a Danish geographer (1775-1826), banished from his native country because of zeal for French revolutionary ideas. Settling in Paris, he devoted himself to geographical sciences, and issued _Précis de la géographie universelle_ (Paris, 1810-29), which went through many editions and was long accepted as a standard authority. Alexander, Baron von Humboldt (1769-1859), was the most distinguished geographer of his time. His famous journey to South America and Mexico (1799-1804) first made Spanish America known to the world. Armed with official permission from Madrid his Mexican journey lasted about a year, in which he made a large collection of historical and scientific facts. The journals of his travels were published as part of his thirty-volume work on New Spain. He also published _Essai Politique sur le Royaume du Nouveau Espagne_ (Paris, 1811). For Pike's work, see Brackenridge's _Journal_, in our volume vi, p. 155, note 56; also note 46, _ante_.--ED. [137] Saltillo was founded in 1586. During the war for independence this place suffered considerably, a battle being fought here in 1811; later, the town served as headquarters for the insurgents under Jiminez. In 1846 General Zachary Taylor occupied the place without opposition.--ED. [138] After the Spanish attempt to recover Mexico in 1829, a law was passed by the republic, according to which all persons resident in the country, but born in Spain, were expelled from Mexican dominions. The mines were those of Santa Rita; see pp. 86, 110-119, 178-180, _ante_. The Spanish owner there referred to as Don Francisco Pablo de Lagera, is the same person here mentioned.--ED. [139] Religious toleration was finally secured in Mexico by the decree of 1873 pronouncing separation between church and state.--ED. [140] Monterey, the capital of the province of Nuevo Leon, was founded in 1596, and named in honor of the fifth Spanish viceroy of Mexico. The town changed hands several times during the revolutionary struggle; but the important event of its history was the siege by the American army in September, 1846. The place made a gallant defense, but finally capitulated upon honorable terms.--ED. [141] Agustin Iturbide was a native of Valladolid province, who entered the militia and rose to a colonelcy. In 1820, as military chief, he succeeded in combining the various Mexican parties, and drove the Spanish viceroy and army from the country. He was hailed as "Liberator," and shortly (May, 1822) had himself proclaimed emperor. But his arbitrary rule and the general desire for a republic, united his late allies against him, and in less than a year he was compelled to abdicate and submit to banishment. In 1824 he imprudently returned unheralded, being thereupon arrested and executed by the republican authorities.--ED. [142] Matamoras, the chief town on the lower Rio Grande, has been the theatre of many important historical events. Upon the revolt of Texas (1835) it was the base of supplies for the Mexican army. Taylor entered Matamoras with the American army in June, 1846. Much of the contest over the Franco-Mexican invasion under Maximilian, centred in this city, which was finally evacuated by the imperial army in June, 1866. The revolution which placed President Diaz in power, took its rise at Matamoras (1876). Brasos de Santiago is on one of the coast islands at the mouth of the Rio Grande.--ED. [143] The following article appeared in _Western Monthly Review_, i, pp. 69-71. Modern historians do not discuss this movement with the persiflage and flippancy with which Flint regards it. Consult on this subject, Garrison, _Texas_ (Boston, 1903); Bancroft, _Northern Mexican States and Texas_; Foote, _Texas and Texans_ (Phila., 1841); and Winkler, "The Cherokee Indians in Texas," in Texas State Historical Association _Quarterly_, vii, pp. 120-151.--ED. [144] Hayden Edwards was a Kentuckian who had formerly lived near Frankfort, in that state. Removing with his family to Louisiana, he was impressed by the colonizing opportunities offered in Texas, and sought a grant of land. His first application at the capital of Mexico was unsuccessful; later, he obtained a grant from the state government of Coahuila and Texas (1825). Edwards was an honorable man, of strict moral character, and had embarked a considerable fortune in this enterprise. But he became involved in disputes with former Mexican settlers and some American outlaws, who united in such representations to their government that the grant was arbitrarily revoked. Edwards thereupon (1826) raised the standard of independence, expecting to be seconded by all the American colonists of Texas, and by recruits from Louisiana. Flint was at this time a resident of Louisiana, where he probably heard of the enterprise.--ED. [145] For the originator of Austin's colony in Texas, see Bradbury's _Travels_, in our volume v, p. 255, note 141. His son, Colonel Stephen F. Austin, had in large measure the qualities needed for successful colonization. Obtaining a grant of land on the Colorado and Brazos rivers (1821) from the authorities of Mexico, together with extended powers of government, Austin laid the foundation for American expansion in Texas. He died at his Texan home in 1836.--ED. [146] Chaplin was a son-in-law of Edwards, not his brother-in-law. Nacogdoches was one of the earliest Spanish settlements of this region. In 1715 a mission was established in the near neighborhood, and by 1765 a few permanent inhabitants had collected in the locality. With the Spanish acquisition of Louisiana (1762), the place took on new consequence, emigrants from the former province were invited to remove thither under the official tenure of the commandant, Gil y Barbo, a man of energy and enterprise. Under his rule was built (1778) the "stone house" which played a rôle in the history of Fredonia, but has recently been razed. In 1805, Nacogdoches was fortified against American advance, and the following year is reported with five hundred inhabitants. During the Mexican revolution, however, Nacogdoches suffered severely, and after 1819 was wholly abandoned for several years. Included in Edwards's grant, the town became the rallying point both for the adherents and opponents of the Fredonian republic. In 1832 Nacogdoches was once more a battle-ground between the republican and monarchical forces of Mexico. After Texan independence (1836), its importance rapidly declined. It is now (1905) the seat of a county of that name, and has a population of about 1,800.--ED. [147] The career of John Dunn Hunter was a remarkable one, even if he be considered an impostor. According to his own statements, he was of white parentage, but captured when a child by Indians, among whom he grew to manhood. Abandoning his tribe in 1816, he went to New Orleans, placed himself in school, and acquired sufficient command of English to edit a book concerning his adventures. This was published under the title, _Manners and Customs of Several Indian Tribes located West of the Mississippi_ (Philadelphia, 1823). The same year it was issued in London as _Memoirs of a Captivity among the Indians of North America from Childhood to the age of nineteen_. It was also translated into German and Swedish. About this time Hunter went to Europe, and was lionized and praised in both London and Paris. He gave it to be understood that his life work was to ameliorate the condition of the North American Indians, and about 1824 went to Texas and joined the band of Cherokee located near Nacogdoches. He remained true to his engagements with the Fredonians, even after their cause began to decline, and was therefore shot by a renegade Indian, under circumstances of considerable barbarity. American pioneers pronounced Hunter an impostor, and his book a forgery. The evidence to that effect by Lewis Cass, William Clark, and Auguste Chouteau seems conclusive. See _North American Review_, xxii, p. 94.--ED. [148] The following extract is from an English translation (1828) of Malte-Brun, _Précis de la géographie universelle_; see note 140, _ante_.--ED. [149] William Bullock was an English traveller, naturalist, and antiquary who visited Mexico in 1822-23, and returned with a collection of antiquities and curiosities which were exhibited in London. The following year (1824) he published _Six Months' Residence and Travels in Mexico_. See our volume xix, preface.--ED. [150] Guillaume Thomas François Raynal (1713-96). The work here cited is _Histoire philosophique et politique des établissements et du commerce des Européens dans les deux Indes_ (Paris, 1770).--ED. [151] Antonio de Alcedo y Bexarano, a Peruvian historian and soldier, published _Diccionario geográfico-histórico de las Indias Occidentales_ (Madrid, 1786-89).--ED. [152] For the Paduca Indians, see James's _Long's Expedition_, in our volume xiv, note 179. Evidently the Comanche are the tribe referred to in this passage.--ED. TRANSCRIBER NOTES The text includes Original Edition page numbers in { }. The following Original Edition page numbers are not present in the text: {i}-{iii}, {vi}, {vii}, {1}-{13}, {253}-{255}, {289}. Footnotes in the text are in [ ]. Italic text is denoted by _underscores_. Obvious typographical and punctuation errors have been corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within the text and consultation of external sources. Inconsistent spelling of a word or word-pair within the text has been retained. For example, northwest north-west; gray grey; headwaters head waters. Spelling has been left as found in the text, except for those changes noted below. Pg 23 'THRUOGH' changed to 'THROUGH'. Pg 50 'Theherd' changed to 'The herd'. Pg 59 'sometime' changed to 'some time'. Pg 67 'Jotans' changed to 'Iotans'. Pg 84 apostrophe removed from 'dancers''. Pg 102 apostrophe removed from 'their's'. Pg 103 'battlehill' changed to 'Battle-hill'. Pg 128 'couching' changed to 'crouching'. Pg 160 'vachers' retained; probably vaqueros. Pg 177 'Taguarcha' changed to 'Targuarcha'. Pg 184 'at' inserted into 'gazing at me'. Pg 190 'past' changed to 'passed'. Pg 196 'ther' changed to 'their'. Pg 213 'ther' changed to 'their'. Pg 257 bad end quote removed from 'executed.''. Pg 302 'eply' changed to 'reply'; also 'beforet' changed to 'before'; also 'tha' changed to 'that'. Pg 321 {151} changed to correct number {251}. Pg 340 'curlish' changed to 'churlish'. Pg 345 'Malte Brun' changed to 'Malte-Brun'. Pg 365 redundant 'the' removed from 'of the _the decline ..._'. Pg 369 'vacher' retained; probably vaquero. 
7984	----	THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL THE STORY OF A GREAT HIGHWAY By Colonel Henry Inman Late Assistant Quartermaster, United States Army With a Preface by W. F. "BUFFALO BILL" CODY PREFACE. As we look into the open fire for our fancies, so we are apt to study the dim past for the wonderful and sublime, forgetful of the fact that the present is a constant romance, and that the happenings of to-day which we count of little importance are sure to startle somebody in the future, and engage the pen of the historian, philosopher, and poet. Accustomed as we are to think of the vast steppes of Russia and Siberia as alike strange and boundless, and to deal with the unknown interior of Africa as an impenetrable mystery, we lose sight of a locality in our own country that once surpassed all these in virgin grandeur, in majestic solitude, and in all the attributes of a tremendous wilderness. The story of the Old Santa Fe Trail, so truthfully recalled by Colonel Henry Inman, ex-officer of the old Regular Army, in these pages, is a most thrilling one. The vast area through which the famous highway ran is still imperfectly known to most people as "The West"; a designation once appropriate, but hardly applicable now; for in these days of easy communication the real trail region is not so far removed from New York as Buffalo was seventy years ago. At the commencement of the "commerce of the prairies," in the early portion of the century, the Old Trail was the arena of almost constant sanguinary struggles between the wily nomads of the desert and the hardy white pioneers, whose eventful lives made the civilization of the vast interior region of our continent possible. Their daring compelled its development, which has resulted in the genesis of great states and large cities. Their hardships gave birth to the American homestead; their determined will was the factor of possible achievements, the most remarkable and important of modern times. When the famous highway was established across the great plains as a line of communication to the shores of the blue Pacific, the only method of travel was by the slow freight caravan drawn by patient oxen, or the lumbering stage coach with its complement of four or six mules. There was ever to be feared an attack by those devils of the desert, the Cheyennes, Comanches, and Kiowas. Along its whole route the remains of men, animals, and the wrecks of camps and wagons, told a story of suffering, robbery, and outrage more impressive than any language. Now the tourist or business man makes the journey in palace cars, and there is nothing to remind him of the danger or desolation of Border days; on every hand are the evidences of a powerful and advanced civilization. It is fortunate that one is left to tell some of its story who was a living actor and had personal knowledge of many of the thrilling scenes that were enacted along the line of the great route. He was familiar with all the famous men, both white and savage, whose lives have made the story of the Trail, his own sojourn on the plains and in the Rocky Mountains extending over a period of nearly forty years. The Old Trail has more than common interest for me, and I gladly record here my indorsement of the faithful record, compiled by a brave soldier, old comrade, and friend. W. F. Cody, "Buffalo Bill." CONTENTS. INTRODUCTION. The First Europeans who traversed the Great Highway--Alvar Nunez Cabeca de Vaca--Hernando de Soto, and Francisco Vasquez de Coronado-- Spanish Expedition from Santa Fe eastwardly--Escape of the Sole Survivors. CHAPTER I. UNDER THE SPANIARDS. Quaint Descriptions of Old Santa Fe--The Famous Adobe Palace-- Santa Fe the Oldest Town in the United States--First Settlement-- Onate's Conquest--Revolt of the Pueblo Indians--Under Pueblo Rule --Cruelties of the Victors--The Santa Fe of To-day--Arrival of a Caravan--The Railroad reaches the Town--Amusements--A Fandango. CHAPTER II. LA LANDE AND PURSLEY. The Beginning of the Santa Fe Trade--La Lande and Pursley, the First Americans to cross the Plains--Pursley's Patriotism-- Captain Ezekiel Williams--A Hungry Bear--A Midnight Alarm. CHAPTER III. EARLY TRADERS. Captain Becknell's Expedition--Sufferings from Thirst--Auguste Chouteau--Imprisonment of McKnight and Chambers--The Caches-- Stampeding Mules--First Military Escort across the Plains-- Captain Zebulon Pike--Sublette and Smith--Murder of McNess-- Indians not the Aggressors. CHAPTER IV. TRAINS AND PACKERS. The Atajo or Pack-train of Mules--Mexican Nomenclature of Paraphernalia--Manner of Packing--The "Bell-mare"--Toughness of Mules among Precipices--The Caravan of Wagons--Largest Wagon-train ever on the Plains--Stampedes--Duties of Packers en route--Order of Travelling with Pack-train--Chris. Gilson, the Famous Packer. CHAPTER V. FIGHT WITH COMANCHES. Narrative of Bryant's Party of Santa Fe Traders--The First Wagon Expedition across the Plains--A Thrilling Story of Hardship and Physical Suffering--Terrible Fight with the Comanches--Abandonment of the Wagons--On Foot over the Trail--Burial of their Specie on an Island in the Arkansas--Narrative of William Y. Hitt, one of the Party--His Encounter with a Comanche--The First Escort of United States Troops to the Annual Caravan of Santa Fe Traders, in 1829--Major Bennett Riley's Official Report to the War Department --Journal of Captain Cooke. CHAPTER VI. A ROMANTIC TRAGEDY. The Expedition of Texans to the Old Santa Fe Trail for the Purpose of robbing Mexican Traders--Innocent Citizens of the United States suspected, arrested, and carried to the Capital of New Mexico-- Colonel Snively's Force--Warfield's Sacking of the Village of Mora --Attack upon a Mexican Caravan--Kit Carson in the Fight-- A Crime of over Sixty Years Ago--A Romance of the Tragedy. CHAPTER VII. MEXICO DECLARES WAR. Mexico declares War against the United States--Congress authorizes the President to call for Fifty Thousand Volunteers--Organization of the Army of the West--Phenomenon seen by Santa Fe Traders in the Sky --First Death on the March of the Army across the Plains--Men in a Starving Condition--Another Death--Burial near Pawnee Rock-- Trouble at Pawnee Fork--Major Howard's Report. CHAPTER VIII. THE VALLEY OF TAOS. The Valley of Taos--First White Settler--Rebellion of the Mexicans --A Woman discovers and informs Colonel Price of the Conspiracy-- Assassination of Governor Bent--Horrible Butcheries by the Pueblos and Mexicans--Turley's Ranch--Murder of Harwood and Markhead-- Anecdote of Sir William Drummond Stewart--Fight at the Mills-- Battle of the Pueblo of Taos--Trial of the Insurrectionists-- Baptiste, the Juror--Execution of the Rebels. CHAPTER IX. FIRST OVERLAND MAIL. Independence--Opening of Navigation on the Mississippi--Effect of Water Transportation upon the Trade--Establishment of Trading-forts-- Market for Cattle and Mules--Wages paid Teamsters on the Trail-- An Enterprising Coloured Man--Increase of the Trade at the Close of the Mexican War--Heavy Emigration to California--First Overland Mail --How the Guards were armed--Passenger Coaches to Santa Fe-- Stage-coaching Days. CHAPTER X. CHARLES BENT. The Tragedy in the Canyon of the Canadian--Dragoons follow the Trail of the Savages--Kit Carson, Dick Wooton, and Tom Tobin the Scouts of the Expedition--More than a Hundred of the Savages killed-- Murder of Mrs. White--White Wolf--Lieutenant Bell's Singular Duel with the Noted Savage--Old Wolf--Satank--Murder of Peacock-- Satanta made Chief--Kicking Bird--His Tragic Death--Charles Bent, the Half-breed Renegade--His Terrible Acts--His Death. CHAPTER XI. LA GLORIETA. Neglect of New Mexico by the United States Government--Intended Conquest of the Province--Conspiracy of Southern Leaders-- Surrender by General Twiggs to the Confederate Government of the Military Posts and Munitions of War under his Command--Only One Soldier out of Two Thousand deserts to the Enemy--Organization of Volunteers for the Defence of Colorado and New Mexico-- Battle of La Glorieta--Rout of the Rebels. CHAPTER XII. THE BUFFALO. The Ancient Range of the Buffalo--Number slaughtered in Thirteen Years for their Robes alone--Buffalo Bones--Trains stopped by Vast Herds-- Custom of Old Hunters when caught in a Blizzard--Anecdotes of Buffalo Hunting--Kit Carson's Dilemma--Experience of Two of Fremont's Hunters--Wounded Buffalo Bull--O'Neil's Laughable Experience-- Organization of a Herd of Buffalo--Stampedes--Thrilling Escapes. CHAPTER XIII. INDIAN CUSTOMS AND LEGENDS. Big Timbers--Winter Camp of the Cheyennes, Kiowas, and Arapahoes-- Savage Amusements--A Cheyenne Lodge--Indian Etiquette--Treatment of Children--The Pipe of the North American Savage--Dog Feast-- Marriage Ceremony. CHAPTER XIV. TRAPPERS. The Old Pueblo Fort--A Celebrated Rendezvous--Its Inhabitants-- "Fontaine qui Bouille"--The Legend of its Origin--The Trappers of the Old Santa Fe Trail and the Rocky Mountains--Beaver Trapping-- Habits of the Beaver--Improvidence of the Old Trappers--Trading with "Poor Lo"--The Strange Experience of a Veteran Trapper on the Santa Fe Trail--Romantic Marriage of Baptiste Brown. CHAPTER XV. UNCLE JOHN SMITH. Uncle John Smith--A Famous Trapper, Guide, and Interpreter-- His Marriage with a Cheyenne Squaw--An Autocrat among the People of the Plains and Mountains--The Mexicans held him in Great Dread-- His Wonderful Resemblance to President Andrew Johnson--Interpreter and Guide on General Sheridan's Winter Expedition against the Allied Plains Tribes--His Stories around the Camp-fire. CHAPTER XVI. KIT CARSON. Famous Men of the Old Santa Fe Trail--Kit Carson--Jim Bridger-- James P. Beckwourth--Uncle Dick Wooton--Jim Baker--Lucien B. Maxwell--Old Bill Williams--Tom Tobin--James Hobbs. CHAPTER XVII. UNCLE DICK WOOTON. Uncle Dick Wooton--Lucien B. Maxwell--Old Bill Williams--Tom Tobin-- James Hobbs--William F. Cody (Buffalo Bill). CHAPTER XVIII. MAXWELL'S RANCH. Maxwell's Ranch on the Old Santa Fe Trail--A Picturesque Region-- Maxwell a Trapper and Hunter with the American Fur Company-- Lifelong Comrade of Kit Carson--Sources of Maxwell's Wealth-- Fond of Horse-racing--A Disastrous Fourth-of-July Celebration --Anecdote of Kit Carson--Discovery of Gold on the Ranch-- The Big Ditch--Issuing Beef to the Ute Indians--Camping out with Maxwell and Carson--A Story of the Old Santa Fe Trail. CHAPTER XIX. BENT'S FORTS. The Bents' Several Forts--Famous Trading-posts--Rendezvous of the Rocky Mountain Trappers--Castle William and Incidents connected with the Noted Place--Bartering with the Indians--Annual Feast of Arapahoes and Cheyennes--Old Wolf's First Visit to Bent's Fort-- The Surprise of the Savages--Stories told by Celebrated Frontiersmen around the Camp-fire. CHAPTER XX. PAWNEE ROCK. Pawnee Rock--A Debatable Region of the Indian Tribes--The most Dangerous Point on the Central Plains in the Days of the Early Santa Fe Trade--Received its Name in a Baptism of Blood-- Battle-ground of the Pawnees and Cheyennes--Old Graves on the Summit of the Rock--Kit Carson's First Fight at the Rock with the Pawnees--Kills his Mule by Mistake--Colonel St. Vrain's Brilliant Charge--Defeat of the Savages--The Trappers' Terrible Battle with the Pawnees--The Massacre at Cow Creek. CHAPTER XXI. FOOLING STAGE ROBBERS. Wagon Mound--John L. Hatcher's Thrilling Adventure with Old Wolf, the War-chief of the Comanches--Incidents on the Trail--A Boy Bugler's Happy Escape from the Savages at Fort Union--A Drunken Stage-driver--How an Officer of the Quartermaster's Department at Washington succeeded in starting the Military Freight Caravans a Month Earlier than the Usual Time--How John Chisholm fooled the Stage-robbers--The Story of Half a Plug of Tobacco. CHAPTER XXII. A DESPERATE RIDE. Solitary Graves along the Line of the Old Santa Fe Trail--The Walnut Crossing--Fort Zarah--The Graves on Hon. D. Heizer's Ranch on the Walnut--Troops stationed at the Crossing of the Walnut-- A Terrible Five Miles--The Cavalry Recruit's Last Ride. CHAPTER XXIII. HANCOCK'S EXPEDITION. General Hancock's Expedition against the Plains Indians--Terrible Snow-storm at Fort Larned--Meeting with the Chiefs of the Dog-Soldiers--Bull Bear's Diplomacy--Meeting of the United States Troops and the Savages in Line of Battle--Custer's Night Experience-- The Surgeon and Dog Stew--Destruction of the Village by Fire-- General Sully's Fight with the Kiowas, Comanches, and Arapahoes-- Finding the Skeletons of the Unfortunate Men--The Savages' Report of the Affair. CHAPTER XXIV. INVASION OF THE RAILROAD. Scenery on the Line of the Old Santa Fe Trail--The Great Plains-- The Arkansas Valley--Over the Rocky Mountains into New Mexico-- The Raton Range--The Spanish Peaks--Simpson's Rest--Fisher's Peak --Raton Peak--Snowy Range--Pike's Peak--Raton Creek--The Invasion of the Railroad--The Old Santa Fe Trail a Thing of the Past. FOOTNOTES. PUBLICATION INFORMATION. INTRODUCTION. For more than three centuries, a period extending from 1541 to 1851, historians believed, and so announced to the literary world, that Francisco Vasquez de Coronado, the celebrated Spanish explorer, in his search for the Seven Cities of Cibola and the Kingdom of Quivira, was the first European to travel over the intra-continent region of North America. In the last year above referred to, however, Buckingham Smith, of Florida, an eminent Spanish scholar, and secretary of the American Legation at Madrid, discovered among the archives of State the _Narrative of Alvar Nunez Cabeca de Vaca_, where for nearly three hundred years it had lain, musty and begrimed with the dust of ages, an unread and forgotten story of suffering that has no parallel in fiction. The distinguished antiquarian unearthed the valuable manuscript from its grave of oblivion, translated it into English, and gave it to the world of letters; conferring honour upon whom honour was due, and tearing the laurels from such grand voyageurs and discoverers as De Soto, La Salle, and Coronado, upon whose heads history had erroneously placed them, through no fault, or arrogance, however, of their own. Cabeca, beyond any question, travelled the Old Santa Fe Trail for many miles, crossed it where it intersects the Arkansas River, a little east of Fort William or Bent's Fort, and went thence on into New Mexico, following the famous highway as far, at least, as Las Vegas. Cabeca's march antedated that of Coronado by five years. To this intrepid Spanish voyageur we are indebted for the first description of the American bison, or buffalo as the animal is erroneously called. While not so quaint in its language as that of Coronado's historian, a lustrum later, the statement cannot be perverted into any other reference than to the great shaggy monsters of the plains:-- Cattle come as far as this. I have seen them three times and eaten of their meat. I think they are about the size of those of Spain. They have small horns like the cows of Morocco, and the hair very long and flocky, like that of the merino; some are light brown, others black. To my judgment the flesh is finer and fatter than that of this country. The Indians make blankets of the hides of those not full grown. They range over a district of more than four hundred leagues, and in the whole extent of plain over which they run the people that inhabit near there descend and live on them and scatter a vast many skins throughout the country. It will be remembered by the student of the early history of our country, that when Alvar Nunez Cabeca de Vaca, a follower of the unfortunate Panphilo de Narvaez, and who had been long thought dead, landed in Spain, he gave such glowing accounts of Florida[1] and the neighbouring regions that the whole kingdom was in a ferment, and many a heart panted to emigrate to a land where the fruits were perennial, and where it was thought flowed the fabled fountain of youth. Three expeditions to that country had already been tried: one undertaken in 1512, by Juan Ponce de Leon, formerly a companion of Columbus; another in 1520, by Vasquez de Allyon; and another by Panphilo de Narvaez. All of these had signally failed, the bones of most of the leaders and their followers having been left to bleach upon the soil they had come to conquer. The unfortunate issue of the former expeditions did not operate as a check upon the aspiring mind of De Soto, but made him the more anxious to spring as an actor into the arena which had been the scene of the discomfiture and death of the hardy chivalry of the kingdom. He sought an audience of the emperor, and the latter, after hearing De Soto's proposition that, "he could conquer the country known as Florida at his own expense," conferred upon him the title of "Governor of Cuba and Florida." On the 6th of April, 1538, De Soto sailed from Spain with an armament of ten vessels and a splendidly equipped army of nine hundred chosen men, amidst the roar of cannons and the inspiring strains of martial music. It is not within the province of this work to follow De Soto through all his terrible trials on the North American continent; the wonderful story may be found in every well-organized library. It is recorded, however, that some time during the year 1542, his decimated army, then under the command of Luis de Moscoso, De Soto having died the previous May, was camped on the Arkansas River, far upward towards what is now Kansas. It was this command, too, of the unfortunate but cruel De Soto, that saw the Rocky Mountains from the east. The chronicler of the disastrous journey towards the mountains says: "The entire route became a trail of fire and blood," as they had many a desperate struggle with the savages of the plains, who "were of gigantic structure, and fought with heavy strong clubs, with the desperation of demons. Such was their tremendous strength, that one of these warriors was a match for a Spanish soldier, though mounted on a horse, armed with a sword and cased in armour!" Moscoso was searching for Coronado, and he was one of the most humane of all the officers of De Soto's command, for he evidently bent every energy to extricate his men from the dreadful environments of their situation; despairing of reaching the Gulf by the Mississippi, he struck westward, hoping, as Cabeca de Vaca had done, to arrive in Mexico overland. A period of six months was consumed in Moscoso's march towards the Rocky Mountains, but he failed to find Coronado, who at that time was camped near where Wichita, Kansas, is located; according to his historian, "at the junction of the St. Peter and St. Paul" (the Big and Little Arkansas?). That point was the place of separation between Coronado and a number of his followers; many returning to Mexico, while the undaunted commander, with as many as he could induce to accompany him, continued easterly, still in search of the mythical Quivira. How far westward Moscoso travelled cannot be determined accurately, but that his route extended up the valley of the Arkansas for more than three hundred miles, into what is now Kansas, is proved by the statement of his historian, who says: "They saw great chains of mountains and forests to the west, which they understood were uninhabited." Another strong confirmatory fact is, that, in 1884, a group of mounds was discovered in McPherson County, Kansas, which were thoroughly explored by the professors of Bethany College, Lindsborg, who found, among other interesting relics, a piece of chain-mail armour, of hard steel; undoubtedly part of the equipment of a Spanish soldier either of the command of Cabeca de Vaca, De Soto, or of Coronado. The probability is, that it was worn by one of De Soto's unfortunate men, as neither Panphilo de Narvaez, De Vaca, or Coronado experienced any difficulty with the savages of the great plains, because those leaders were humane and treated the Indians kindly, in contradistinction to De Soto, who was the most inhuman of all the early Spanish explorers. He was of the same school as Pizarro and Cortez; possessing their daring valour, their contempt of danger, and their tenacity of purpose, as well as their cruelty and avarice. De Soto made treaties with the Indians which he constantly violated, and murdered the misguided creatures without mercy. During the retreat of Moscoso's weakened command down the Arkansas River, the Hot Springs of Arkansas were discovered. His historian writes: And when they saw the foaming fountain, they thought it was the long-searched-for "Fountain of Youth," reported by fame to exist somewhere in the country, but ten of the soldiers dying from excessive drinking, they were soon convinced of their error. After these intrepid explorers the restless Coronado appears on the Old Trail. In the third volume of Hakluyt's _Voyages_, published in London, 1600, Coronado's historian thus describes the great plains of Kansas and Colorado, the bison, and a tornado:-- From Cicuye they went to Quivira, which after their account is almost three hundred leagues distant, through mighty plains, and sandy heaths so smooth and wearisome, and bare of wood that they made heaps of ox-dung, for want of stones and trees, that they might not lose themselves at their return: for three horses were lost on that plain, and one Spaniard which went from his company on hunting.... All that way of plains are as full of crooked-back oxen as the mountain Serrena in Spain is of sheep, but there is no such people as keep those cattle.... They were a great succour for the hunger and the want of bread, which our party stood in need of.... One day it rained in that plain a great shower of hail, as big as oranges, which caused many tears, weakness and bowes. These oxen are of the bigness and colour of our bulls, but their bones are not so great. They have a great bunch upon their fore-shoulder, and more hair on their fore part than on their hinder part, and it is like wool. They have as it were an horse-mane upon their backbone, and much hair and very long from their knees downward. They have great tufts of hair hanging down on their foreheads, and it seemeth they have beards because of the great store of hair hanging down at their chins and throats. The males have very long tails, and a great knob or flock at the end, so that in some respects they resemble the lion, and in some other the camel. They push with their horns, they run, they overtake and kill an horse when they are in their rage and anger. Finally it is a foul and fierce beast of countenance and form of body. The horses fled from them, either because of their deformed shape, or else because they had never before seen them. "The number," continues the historian, "was incredible." When the soldiers, in their excitement for the chase, began to kill them, they rushed together in such masses that hundreds were literally crushed to death. At one place there was a great ravine; they jumped into it in their efforts to escape from the hunters, and so terrible was the slaughter as they tumbled over the precipice that the depression was completely filled up, their carcasses forming a bridge, over which the remainder passed with ease. The next recorded expedition across the plains via the Old Trail was also by the Spaniards from Santa Fe, eastwardly, in the year 1716, "for the purpose of establishing a Military Post in the Upper Mississippi Valley as a barrier to the further encroachments of the French in that direction." An account of this expedition is found in _Memoires Historiques sur La Louisiane_, published in Paris in 1858, but never translated in its entirety. The author, Lieutenant Dumont of the French army, was one of a party ascending the Arkansas River in search of a supposed mass of emeralds. The narrative relates: There was more than half a league to traverse to gain the other bank of the river, and our people were no sooner arrived than they found there a party of Missouris, sent to M. de la Harpe by M. de Bienville, then commandant general at Louisiana, to deliver orders to the former. Consequently they gave the signal order, and our other two canoes having crossed the river, the savages gave to our commandant the letters of M. de Bienville, in which he informed him that the Spaniards had sent out a detachment from New Mexico to go to the Missouris and to establish a post in that country.... The success of this expedition was very calamitous to the Spaniards. Their caravan was composed of fifteen hundred people, men, women and soldiers, having with them a Jacobin for a chaplain, and bringing also a great number of horses and cattle, according to the custom of that nation to forget nothing that might be necessary for a settlement. Their design was to destroy the Missouris, and to seize upon their country, and with this intention they had resolved to go first to the Osages, a neighbouring nation, enemies of the Missouris, to form an alliance with them, and to engage them in their behalf for the execution of their plan. Perhaps the map which guided them was not correct, or they had not exactly followed it, for it chanced that instead of going to the Osages whom they sought, they fell, without knowing it, into a village of the Missouris, where the Spanish commander, presenting himself to the great chief and offering him the calumet, made him understand through an interpreter, believing himself to be speaking to the Osage chief, that they were enemies of the Missouris, that they had come to destroy them, to make their women and children slaves and to take possession of their country. He begged the chief to be willing to form an alliance with them, against a nation whom the Osages regarded as their enemy, and to second them in this enterprise, promising to recompense them liberally for the service rendered, and always to be their friend in the future. Upon this discourse the Missouri chief understood perfectly well the mistake. He dissimulated and thanked the Spaniard for the confidence he had in his nation; he consented to form an alliance with them against the Missouris, and to join them with all his forces to destroy them; but he represented that his people were not armed, and that they dared not expose themselves without arms in such an enterprise. Deceived by so favourable a reception, the Spaniards fell into the trap laid for them. They received with due ceremony, in the little camp they had formed on their arrival, the calumet which the great chief of the Missouris presented to the Spanish commander. The alliance for war was sworn to by both parties; they agreed upon a day for the execution of the plan which they meditated, and the Spaniards furnished the savages with all the munitions which they thought were needed. After the ceremony both parties gave themselves up equally to joy and good cheer. At the end of three days two thousand savages were armed and in the midst of dances and amusements; each party thought nothing but the execution of its design. It was the evening before their departure upon their concerted expedition, and the Spaniards had retired to their camps as usual, when the great chief of the Missouris, having assembled his warriors, declared to them his intentions and exhorted them to deal treacherously with these strangers who were come to their home only with the design of destroying them. At daybreak the savages divided into several bands, fell on the Spaniards, who expected nothing of the kind, and in less than a quarter of an hour all the caravan were murdered. No one escaped from the massacre except the chaplain, whom the barbarians saved because of his dress; at the same time they took possession of all the merchandise and other effects which they found in their camp. The Spaniards had brought with them, as I have said, a certain number of horses, and as the savages were ignorant of the use of these animals, they took pleasure in making the Jacobin whom they had saved, and who had become their slave, mount them. The priest gave them this amusement almost every day for the five or six months that he remained with them in their village, without any of them daring to imitate him. Tired at last of his slavery, and regarding the lack of daring in these barbarians as a means of Providence to regain his liberty, he made secretly all the provisions possible for him to make, and which he believed necessary to his plan. At last, having chosen the best horse and having mounted him, after performing several of his exploits before the savages, and while they were all occupied with his manoeuvres, he spurred up and disappeared from their sight, taking the road to Mexico, where doubtless he arrived. Charlevoix,[2] who travelled from Quebec to New Orleans in the year 1721, says in one of his letters to the Duchess of Lesdiguieres, dated at Kaskaskia, July 21, 1721: About two years ago some Spaniards, coming, as they say, from New Mexico, and intending to get into the country of the Illinois and drive the French from thence, whom they saw with extreme jealousy approach so near the Missouri, came down the river and attacked two villages of the Octoyas,[3] who are the allies of the Ayouez,[4] and from whom it is said also that they are derived. As the savages had no firearms and were surprised, the Spaniards made an easy conquest and killed a great many of them. A third village, which was not far off from the other two, being informed of what had passed, and not doubting but these conquerors would attack them, laid an ambush into which the Spaniards heedlessly fell. Others say that the savages, having heard that the enemy were almost all drunk and fast asleep, fell upon them in the night. However it was, it is certain the greater part of them were killed. There were in the party two almoners; one of them was killed directly and the other got away to the Missouris, who took him prisoner, but he escaped them very dexterously. He had a very fine horse and the Missouris took pleasure in seeing him ride it, which he did very skilfully. He took advantage of their curiosity to get out of their hands. One day as he was prancing and exercising his horse before them, he got a little distance from them insensibly; then suddenly clapping spurs to his horse he was soon out of sight. The Missouri Indians once occupied all the territory near the junction of the Kaw and Missouri rivers, but they were constantly decimated by the continual depredations of their warlike and feudal enemies, the Pawnees and Sioux, and at last fell a prey to that dreadful scourge, the small-pox, which swept them off by thousands. The remnant of the once powerful tribe then found shelter and a home with the Otoes, finally becoming merged in that tribe. CHAPTER I. UNDER THE SPANIARDS. The Santa Fe of the purely Mexican occupation, long before the days of New Mexico's acquisition by the United States, and the Santa Fe of to-day are so widely in contrast that it is difficult to find language in which to convey to the reader the story of the phenomenal change. To those who are acquainted with the charming place as it is now, with its refined and cultured society, I cannot do better, perhaps, in attempting to show what it was under the old regime, than to quote what some traveller in the early 30's wrote for a New York leading newspaper, in regard to it. As far as my own observation of the place is concerned, when I first visited it a great many years ago, the writer of the communication whose views I now present was not incorrect in his judgment. He said:-- To dignify such a collection of mud hovels with the name of "City," would be a keen irony; not greater, however, than is the name with which its Padres have baptized it. To call a place with its moral character, a very Sodom in iniquity, "Holy Faith," is scarcely a venial sin; it deserves Purgatory at least. Its health is the best in the country, which is the first, second and third recommendation of New Mexico by its greatest admirers. It is a small town of about two thousand inhabitants, crowded up against the mountains, at the end of a little valley through which runs a mountain stream of the same name tributary to the Rio Grande. It has a public square in the centre, a Palace and an Alameda; as all Spanish Roman Catholic towns have. It is true its Plaza, or Public Square, is unfenced and uncared for, without trees or grass. The Palace is nothing more than the biggest mud-house in the town, and the churches, too, are unsightly piles of the same material, and the Alameda[5] is on top of a sand hill. Yet they have in Santa Fe all the parts and parcels of a regal city and a Bishopric. The Bishop has a palace also; the only two-storied shingle-roofed house in the place. There is one public house set apart for eating, drinking and gambling; for be it known that gambling is here authorized by law. Hence it is as respectable to keep a gambling house, as it is to sell rum in New Jersey; it is a lawful business, and being lawful, and consequently respectable and a man's right, why should not men gamble? And gamble they do. The Generals and the Colonels and the Majors and the Captains gamble. The judges and the lawyers and the doctors and the priests gamble; and there are gentlemen gamblers by profession! You will see squads of poor peons daily, men, women and boys, sitting on the ground around a deck of cards in the Public Square, gambling for the smallest stakes. The stores of the town generally front on the Public Square. Of these there are a dozen, more or less, of respectable size, and most of them are kept by others than Mexicans. The business of the place is considerable, many of the merchants here being wholesale dealers for the vast territory tributary. It is supposed that about $750,000 worth of goods will be brought to this place this year, and there may be $250,000 worth imported directly from the United States. In the money market there is nothing less than a five-cent piece. You cannot purchase anything for less than five cents. In trade they reckon ten cents the eighth of a dollar. If you purchase nominally a dollar's worth of an article, you can pay for it in eight ten-cent pieces; and if you give a dollar, you receive no change. In changing a dollar for you, you would get but eight ten-cent pieces for it. Yet, although dirty and unkempt, and swarming with hungry dogs, it has the charm of foreign flavour, and like San Antonio retains some portion of the grace which long lingered about it, if indeed it ever forsakes the spot where Spain held rule for centuries, and the soft syllables of the Spanish language are yet heard. Such was a description of the "drowsy old town" of Santa Fe, sixty-five years ago. Fifteen years later Major W. H. Emory, of the United States army, writes of it as follows:[6] The population of Santa Fe is from two to four thousand, and the inhabitants are, it is said, the poorest people of any town in the Province. The houses are mud bricks, in the Spanish style, generally of one story, and built on a square. The interior of the square is an open court, and the principal rooms open into it. They are forbidding in appearance from the outside, but nothing can exceed the comfort and convenience of the interior. The thick walls make them cool in summer and warm in winter. The better class of people are provided with excellent beds, but the poorer class sleep on untanned skins. The women here, as in many other parts of the world, appear to be much before the men in refinements, intelligence, and knowledge of the useful arts. The higher class dress like the American women, except, instead of a bonnet, they wear a scarf over their head, called a reboso. This they wear asleep or awake, in the house or abroad. The dress of the lower classes of women is a simple petticoat, with arms and shoulders bare, except what may chance to be covered by the reboso. The men who have means to do so dress after our fashion; but by far the greater number, when they dress at all, wear leather breeches, tight around the hips and open from the knee down; shirt and blanket take the place of our coat and vest. The city is dependent on the distant hills for wood, and at all hours of the day may be seen jackasses passing laden with wood, which is sold at two bits, twenty-five cents, the load. These are the most diminutive animals, and usually mounted from behind, after the fashion of leap-frog. The jackass is the only animal that can be subsisted in this barren neighbourhood without great expense; our horses are all sent to a distance of twelve, fifteen, and thirty miles for grass. I have interpolated these two somewhat similar descriptions of Santa Fe written in that long ago when New Mexico was almost as little known as the topography of the planet Mars, so that the intelligent visitor of to-day may appreciate the wonderful changes which American thrift, and that powerful civilizer, the locomotive, have wrought in a very few years, yet it still, as one of the foregoing writers has well said, "has the charm of foreign flavour, and the soft syllables of the Spanish language are still heard." The most positive exception must be taken to the statement of the first-quoted writer in relation to the Palace, of which he says "It is nothing more than the biggest mud-house in the town." Now this "Palacio del Gobernador," as the old building was called by the Spanish, was erected at a very early day. It was the long-established seat of power when Penalosa confined the chief inquisitor within its walls in 1663, and when the Pueblo authorities took possession of it as the citadel of their central authority, in 1681. The old building cannot well be overlooked by the most careless visitor to the quaint town; it is a long, low structure, taking up the greater part of one side of the Plaza, round which runs a colonnade supported by pillars of rough pine. In this once leaky old Palace were kept, or rather neglected, the archives of the Territory until the American residents, appreciating the importance of preserving precious documents containing so much of interest to the student of history and the antiquarian, enlisted themselves enthusiastically in the good cause, and have rescued from oblivion the annals of a relatively remote civilization, which, but for their forethought, would have perished from the face of the earth as completely as have the written records of that wonderful region in Central America, whose gigantic ruins alone remain to tell us of what was a highly cultured order of architecture in past ages, and of a people whose intelligence was comparable to the style of the dwellings in which they lived. The old adobe Palace is in itself a volume whose pages are filled with pathos and stirring events. It has been the scene and witness of incidents the recital of which would to us to-day seem incredible. An old friend, once governor of New Mexico and now dead, thus graphically spoke of the venerable building:[7] In it lived and ruled the Spanish captain general, so remote and inaccessible from the viceroyalty at Mexico that he was in effect a king, nominally accountable to the viceroy, but practically beyond his reach and control and wholly irresponsible to the people. Equally independent for the same reason were the Mexican governors. Here met all the provincial, territorial, departmental, and other legislative bodies that have ever assembled at the capital of New Mexico. Here have been planned all the Indian wars and measures for defence against foreign invasion, including, as the most noteworthy, the Navajo war of 1823, the Texan invasion of 1842, the American of 1846, and the Confederate of 1862. Within its walls was imprisoned, in 1809, the American explorer Zebulon M. Pike, and innumerable state prisoners before and since; and many a sentence of death has been pronounced therein and the accused forthwith led away and shot at the dictum of the man at the Palace. It has been from time immemorial the government house with all its branches annexed. It was such on the Fourth of July, 1776, when the American Congress at Independence Hall in Philadelphia proclaimed liberty throughout all the land, not then, but now embracing it. Indeed, this old edifice has a history. And as the history of Santa Fe is the history of New Mexico, so is the history of the Palace the history of Santa Fe. The Palace was the only building having glazed windows. At one end was the government printing office, and at the other, the guard-house and prison. Fearful stories were connected with the prison. Edwards[8] says that he found, on examining the walls of the small rooms, locks of human hair stuffed into holes, with rude crosses drawn over them. Fronting the Palace, on the south side of the Plaza, stood the remains of the Capilla de los Soldados, or Military Chapel. The real name of the church was "Our Lady of Light." It was said to be the richest church in the Province, but had not been in use for a number of years, and the roof had fallen in, allowing the elements to complete the work of destruction. On each side of the altar was the remains of fine carving, and a weather-beaten picture above gave evidence of having been a beautiful painting. Over the door was a large oblong slab of freestone, elaborately carved, representing "Our Lady of Light" rescuing a human being from the jaws of Satan. A large tablet, beautifully executed in relief, stood behind the altar, representing various saints, with an inscription stating that it was erected by Governor Francisco Antonio del Valle and his wife in 1761. Church services were held in the Parroquia, or Parish church, now the Cathedral, which had two towers or steeples, in which hung four bells. The music was furnished by a violin and a triangle. The wall back of the altar was covered with innumerable mirrors, paintings, and bright-coloured tapestry. The exact date of the first settlement of Santa Fe is uncertain. One authority says: It was a primeval stronghold before the Spanish Conquest, and a town of some importance to the white race when Pennsylvania was a wilderness and the first Dutch governor of New York was slowly drilling the Knickerbocker ancestry in their difficult evolutions around the town-pump. It is claimed, on what is deemed very authentic data by some, that Santa Fe is really the oldest settled town in the United States. St. Augustine, Florida, was established in 1565 and was unquestionably conceded the honour of antiquity until the acquisition of New Mexico by the Guadalupe-Hidalgo treaty. Then, of course, Santa Fe steps into the arena and carries off the laurels. This claim of precedence for Santa Fe is based upon the statement (whether historically correct or not is a question) that when the Spaniards first entered the region from the southern portion of Mexico, about 1542, they found a very large Pueblo town on the present site of Santa Fe, and that its prior existence extended far back into the vanished centuries. This is contradicted by other historians, who contend that the claim of Santa Fe to be the oldest town in the United States rests entirely on imaginary annals of an Indian Pueblo before the Spanish Conquest, and that there are but slight indications that the town was built on the site of one.[9] The reader may further satisfy himself on these mooted points by consulting the mass of historical literature on New Mexico, and the records of its primitive times are not surpassed in interest by those of any other part of the continent. It was there the Europeans first made great conquests, and some years prior to the landing of the Pilgrims, a history of New Mexico, being the journal of Geronimo de Zarate Salmaron, was published by the Church in the City of Mexico, early in 1600. Salmaron was a Franciscan monk; a most zealous and indefatigable worker. During his eight years' residence at Jemez, near Santa Fe, he claims to have baptized over eight thousand Indians, converts to the Catholic faith. His journal gives a description of the country, its mines, etc., and was made public in order that other monks reading it might emulate his pious example. Between 1605 and 1616 was founded the Villa of Santa Fe, or San Francisco de la Santa Fe. "Villa," or village, was an honorary title, always authorized and proclaimed by the king. Bancroft says that it was first officially mentioned on the 3d of January, 1617. The first immigration to New Mexico was under Don Juan de Onate about 1597, and in a year afterward, according to some authorities, Santa Fe was settled. The place, as claimed by some historians, was then named El Teguayo, a Spanish adaptation of the word "Tegua," the name of the Pueblo nation, which was quite numerous, and occupied Santa Fe and the contiguous country. It very soon, from its central position and charming climate, became the leading Spanish town, and the capital of the Province. The Spaniards, who came at first into the country as friends, and were apparently eager to obtain the good-will of the intelligent natives, shortly began to claim superiority, and to insist on the performance of services which were originally mere evidences of hospitality and kindness. Little by little they assumed greater power and control over the Indians, until in the course of years they had subjected a large portion of them to servitude little differing from actual slavery. The impolitic zeal of the monks gradually invoked the spirit of hatred and resulted in a rebellion that drove the Spaniards, in 1680, from the country. The large number of priests who were left in the midst of the natives met with horrible fates: Not one escaped martyrdom. At Zuni, three Franciscans had been stationed, and when the news of the Spanish retreat reached the town, the people dragged them from their cells, stripped and stoned them, and afterwards compelled the servant of one to finish the work by shooting them. Having thus whetted their appetite for cruelty and vengeance, the Indians started to carry the news of their independence to Moqui, and signalized their arrival by the barbarous murder of the two missionaries who were living there. Their bodies were left unburied, as a prey for the wild beasts. At Jemez they indulged in every refinement of cruelty. The old priest, Jesus Morador, was seized in his bed at night, stripped naked and mounted on a hog, and thus paraded through the streets, while the crowd shouted and yelled around. Not satisfied with this, they then forced him to carry them as a beast would, crawling on his hands and feet, until, from repeated beating and the cruel tortures of sharp spurs, he fell dead in their midst. A similar chapter of horrors was enacted at Acoma, where three priests were stripped, tied together with hair rope, and so driven through the streets, and finally stoned to death. Not a Christian remained free within the limits of New Mexico, and those who had been dominant a few months before were now wretched and half-starved fugitives, huddled together in the rude huts of San Lorenzo. As soon as the Spaniards had retreated from the country, the Pueblo Indians gave themselves up for a time to rejoicing, and to the destruction of everything which could remind them of the Europeans, their religion, and their domination. The army which had besieged Santa Fe quickly entered that city, took possession of the Palace as the seat of government, and commenced the work of demolition. The churches and the monastery of the Franciscans were burned with all their contents, amid the almost frantic acclamations of the natives. The gorgeous vestments of the priests had been dragged out before the conflagration, and now were worn in derision by Indians, who rode through the streets at full speed, shouting for joy. The official documents and books in the Palace were brought forth, and made fuel for a bonfire in the centre of the Plaza; and here also they danced the cachina, with all the accompanying religious ceremonies of the olden time. Everything imaginable was done to show their detestation of the Christian faith and their determination to utterly eradicate even its memory. Those who had been baptized were washed with amole in the Rio Chiquito, in order to be cleansed from the infection of Christianity. All baptismal names were discarded, marriages celebrated by Christian priests were annulled, the very mention of the names Jesus and Mary was made an offence, and estuffas were constructed to take the place of ruined churches.[10] For twelve years, although many abortive attempts were made to recapture the country, the Pueblos were left in possession. On the 16th of October, 1693, the victorious Spaniards at last entered Santa Fe, bearing the same banner which had been carried by Onate when he entered the city just a century before. The conqueror this time was Don Diego de Vargas Zapata Lujan, whom the viceroy of New Spain had appointed governor in the spring of 1692, with the avowed purpose of having New Mexico reconquered as speedily as possible. Thus it will be seen that the quaint old city has been the scene of many important historical events, the mere outline of which I have recorded here, as this book is not devoted to the historical view of the subject. In contradistinction to the quiet, sleepy old Santa Fe of half a century ago, it now presents all the vigour, intelligence, and bustling progressiveness of the average American city of to-day, yet still smacks of that ancient Spanish regime, which gives it a charm that only its blended European and Indian civilization could make possible after its amalgamation with the United States. The tourist will no longer find a drowsy old town, and the Plaza is no longer unfenced and uncared for. A beautiful park of trees is surrounded by low palings, and inside the shady enclosure, under a group of large cottonwoods, is a cenotaph erected to the memory of the Territory's gallant soldiers who fell in the shock of battle to save New Mexico to the Union in 1862, and conspicuous among the names carved on the enduring native rock is that of Kit Carson--prince of frontiersmen, and one of Nature's noblemen. Around the Plaza one sees the American style of architecture and hears the hum of American civilization; but beyond, and outside this pretty park, the streets are narrow, crooked, and have an ancient appearance. There the old Santa Fe confronts the stranger; odd, foreign-looking, and flavoured with all the peculiarities which marked the era of Mexican rule. And now, where once was heard the excited shouts of the idle crowd, of "Los Americanos!" "Los Carros!" "La entrada de la Caravana!" as the great freight wagons rolled into the streets of the old town from the Missouri, over the Santa Fe Trail, the shrill whistle of the locomotive from its trail of steel awakens the echoes of the mighty hills. As may be imagined, great excitement always prevailed whenever a caravan of goods arrived in Santa Fe. Particularly was this the case among the feminine portion of the community. The quaint old town turned out its mixed population en masse the moment the shouts went up that the train was in sight. There is nothing there to-day comparable to the anxious looks of the masses as they watched the heavily freighted wagons rolling into the town, the teamsters dust-begrimed, and the mules making the place hideous with their discordant braying as they knew that their long journey was ended and rest awaited them. The importing merchants were obliged to turn over to the custom house officials five hundred dollars for every wagon-load, great or small; and no matter what the intrinsic value of the goods might be, salt or silk, velvets or sugar, it was all the same. The nefarious duty had to be paid before a penny's worth could be transferred to their counters. Of course, with the end of Mexican rule and the acquisition of the Province by the United States, all opposition to the traffic of the Old Santa Fe Trail ended, traders were assured a profitable market and the people purchased at relatively low prices. What a wonderful change has taken place in the traffic with New Mexico in less than three-quarters of a century! In 1825 it was all carried on with one single annual caravan of prairie-schooners, and now there are four railroads running through the Rio Grande Valley, and one daily freight train of the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe into the town unloads more freight than was taken there in a whole year when the "commerce of the prairies" was at its height! Upon the arrival of a caravan in the days of the sleepy regime under Mexican control, the people did everything in their power to make the time pass pleasantly for every one connected with it during their sojourn. Bailes, or fandangoes, as the dancing parties were called by the natives, were given nightly, and many amusing anecdotes in regard to them are related by the old-timers. The New Mexicans, both men and women, had a great fondness for jewelry, dress, and amusements; of the latter, the fandango was the principal, which was held in the most fashionable place of resort, where every belle and beauty in the town presented herself, attired in the most costly manner, and displaying her jewelled ornaments to the best advantage. To this place of recreation and pleasure, generally a large, capacious saloon or interior court, all classes of persons were allowed to come, without charge and without invitation. The festivities usually commenced about nine o'clock in the evening, and the tolling of the church bells was the signal for the ladies to make their entrance, which they did almost simultaneously. New Mexican ladies were famous for their gaudy dresses, but it must be confessed they did not exercise good taste. Their robes were made without bodies; a skirt only, and a long, loose, flowing scarf or reboso dexterously thrown about the head and shoulders, so as to supersede both the use of dress-bodies and bonnets. There was very little order maintained at these fandangoes, and still less attention paid to the rules of etiquette. A kind of swinging, gallopade waltz was the favourite dance, the cotillion not being much in vogue. Read Byron's graphic description of the waltz, and then stretch your imagination to its utmost tension, and you will perhaps have some faint conception of the Mexican fandango. Such familiarity of position as was indulged in would be repugnant to the refined rules of polite society in the eastern cities; but with the New Mexicans, in those early times, nothing was considered to be a greater accomplishment than that of being able to go handsomely through all the mazes of their peculiar dance. There was one republican feature about the New Mexican fandango; it was that all classes, rich and poor alike, met and intermingled, as did the Romans at their Saturnalia, upon terms of equality. Sumptuous repasts or collations were rarely ever prepared for those frolicsome gatherings, but there was always an abundance of confectionery, sweetmeats, and native wine. It cost very little for a man to attend one of the fandangoes in Santa Fe, but not to get away decently and sober. In that it resembled the descent of Aeneas to Pluto's realms; it was easy enough to get there, but when it came to return, "revocare gradum, superasque evadere ad auras, hic labor, hoc opus est." CHAPTER II. LA LANDE AND PURSLEY. In the beginning of the trade with New Mexico, the route across the great plains was directly west from the Missouri River to the mountains, thence south to Santa Fe by the circuitous trail from Taos. When the traffic assumed an importance demanding a more easy line of way, the road was changed, running along the left bank of the Arkansas until that stream turned northwest, at which point it crossed the river, and continued southwest to the Raton Pass. The Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad track substantially follows the Trail through the mountains, which here afford the wildest and most picturesquely beautiful scenery on the continent. The Arkansas River at the fording of the Old Trail is not more than knee-deep at an ordinary stage of water, and its bottom is well paved with rounded pebbles of the primitive rock. The overland trade between the United States and the northern provinces of Mexico seems to have had no very definite origin; having been rather the result of an accident than of any organized plan of commercial establishment. According to the best authorities, a French creole, named La Lande, an agent of a merchant of Kaskaskia, Illinois, was the first American adventurer to enter into the uncertain channels of trade with the people of the ultramontane region of the centre of the continent. He began his adventurous journey across the vast wilderness, with no companions but the savages of the debatable land, in 1804; and following him the next year, James Pursley undertook the same pilgrimage. Neither of these pioneers in the "commerce of the prairies" returned to relate what incidents marked the passage of their marvellous expeditions. Pursley was so infatuated with the strange country he had travelled so far to reach, that he took up his abode in the quaint old town of Santa Fe where his subsequent life is lost sight of. La Lande, of a different mould, forgot to render an account of his mission to the merchant who had sent him there, and became a prosperous and wealthy man by means of money to which he had no right. To Captain Zebulon Pike, who afterwards was made a general, is due the impetus which the trade with Santa Fe received shortly after his return to the United States. The student of American history will remember that the expedition commanded by this soldier was inaugurated in 1806; his report of the route he had taken was the incentive for commercial speculation in the direction of trade with New Mexico, but it was so handicapped by restrictions imposed by the Mexican government, that the adventurers into the precarious traffic were not only subject to a complete confiscation of their wares, but frequently imprisoned for months as spies. Under such a condition of affairs, many of the earlier expeditions, prior to 1822, resulted in disaster, and only a limited number met with an indifferent success. It will not be inconsistent with my text if I herewith interpolate an incident connected with Pursley, the second American to cross the desert, for the purpose of trade with New Mexico, which I find in the _Magazine of American History_: When Zebulon M. Pike was in Mexico, in 1807, he met, at Santa Fe, a carpenter, Pursley by name, from Bardstown, Kentucky, who was working at his trade. He had in a previous year, while out hunting on the Plains, met with a series of misfortunes, and found himself near the mountains. The hostile Sioux drove the party into the high ground in the rear of Pike's Peak. Near the headwaters of the Platte River, Pursley found some gold, which he carried in his shot-pouch for months. He was finally sent by his companions to Santa Fe, to see if they could trade with the Mexicans, but he chose to remain in Santa Fe in preference to returning to his comrades. He told the Mexicans about the gold he had found, and they tried hard to persuade him to show them the place. They even offered to take along a strong force of cavalry. But Pursley refused, and his patriotic reason was that he thought the land belonged to the United States. He told Captain Pike that he feared they would not allow him to leave Santa Fe, as they still hoped to learn from him where the gold was to be found. These facts were published by Captain Pike soon after his return east; but no one took the hint, or the risk was too great, and thus more than a half a century passed before those same rich fields of gold were found and opened to the world. If Pursley had been somewhat less patriotic, and had guided the Mexicans to the treasures, the whole history and condition of the western part of our continent might have been entirely different from what it now is. That region would still have been a part of Mexico, or Spain might have been in possession of it, owning California; and, with the gold that would have been poured into her coffers, would have been the leading nation of European affairs to-day. We can easily see how American and European history in the nineteenth century might have been changed, if that adventurer from Kentucky had not been a true lover of his native country. The adventures of Captain Ezekiel Williams along the Old Trail, in the early days of the century, tell a story of wonderful courage, endurance, and persistency. Williams was a man of great perseverance, patience, and determination of character. He set out from St. Louis in the late spring of 1807, to trap on the Upper Missouri and the waters of the Yellowstone, with a party of twenty men who had chosen him as their leader. After various exciting incidents and thrilling adventures, all of the original party, except Williams and two others, were killed by the Indians somewhere in the vicinity of the Upper Arkansas. The three survivors, not knowing where they were, separated, and Captain Williams determined to take to the stream by canoe, and trap on his way toward the settlements, while his last two companions started for the Spanish country--that is, for the region of Santa Fe. The journal of Williams, from which I shall quote freely, is to be found in _The Lost Trappers_, a work long out of print.[11] As the country was an unexplored region, he might be on a river that flowed into the Pacific, or he might be drifting down a stream that was an affluent to the Gulf of Mexico. He was inclined to believe that he was on the sources of the Red River. He therefore resolved to launch his canoe, and go wherever the stream might convey him, trapping on his descent, when beaver might be plenty. The first canoe he used he made of buffalo-skins. As this kind of water conveyance soon begins to leak and rot, he made another of cottonwood, as soon as he came to timber sufficiently large, in which he embarked for a port, he knew not where. Most of his journeyings Captain Williams performed during the hours of night, excepting when he felt it perfectly safe to travel in daylight. His usual plan was to glide along down the stream, until he came to a place where beaver signs were abundant. There he would push his little bark among the willows, where he remained concealed, excepting when he was setting his traps or visiting them in the morning. When he had taken all the beaver in one neighbourhood, he would untie his little conveyance, and glide onward and downward to try his luck in another place. Thus for hundreds of miles did this solitary trapper float down this unknown river, through an unknown country, here and there lashing his canoe to the willows and planting his traps in the little tributaries around. The upper part of the Arkansas, for this proved to be the river he was on,[12] is very destitute of timber, and the prairie frequently begins at the bank of the river and expands on either side as far as the eye can reach. He saw vast herds of buffalo, and as it was the rutting season, the bulls were making a wonderful ado; the prairie resounded with their low, deep grunting or bellowing, as they tore up the earth with their feet and horns, whisking their tails, and defying their rivals to battle. Large gangs of wild horses could be seen grazing on the plains and hillsides, and the neighing and squealing of stallions might be heard at all times of the night. Captain Williams never used his rifle to procure meat, except when it was absolutely necessary, or could be done with perfect safety. On occasions when he had no beaver, upon which he generally subsisted, he ventured to kill a deer, and after refreshing his empty stomach with a portion of the flesh, he placed the carcass in one end of the canoe. It was his invariable custom to sleep in his canoe at night, moored to the shore, and once when he had laid in a supply of venison he was startled in his sleep by the tramping of something in the bushes on the bank. Tramp! tramp! tramp! went the footsteps, as they approached the canoe. He thought at first it might be an Indian that had found out his locality, but he knew that it could not be; a savage would not approach him in that careless manner. Although there was beautiful starlight, yet the trees and the dense undergrowth made it very dark on the bank of the river, close to which he lay. He always adopted the precaution of tying his canoe with a piece of rawhide about twenty feet long, which allowed it to swing from the bank at that distance; he did this so that in case of an emergency he might cut the string, and glide off without making any noise. As the sound of the footsteps grew more distinct, he presently observed a huge grizzly bear coming down to the water and swimming for the canoe. The great animal held his head up as if scenting the venison. The captain snatched his axe as the most available means to defend himself in such a scrape, and stood with it uplifted, ready to drive it into the brains of the monster. The bear reached the canoe, and immediately put his fore paws upon the hind end of it, nearly turning it over. The captain struck one of the brute's feet with the edge of the axe, which made him let go with that foot, but he held on with the other, and he received this time a terrific blow on the head, that caused him to drop away from the canoe entirely. Nothing more was seen of the bear, and the captain thought he must have sunk in the stream and drowned. He was evidently after the fresh meat, which he scented from a great distance. In the canoe the next morning there were two of the bear's claws, which had been cut off by the well-directed blow of the axe. These were carefully preserved by Williams for many years as a trophy which he was fond of exhibiting, and the history of which he always delighted to tell. As he was descending the river with his peltries, which consisted of one hundred and twenty-five beaver-skins, besides some of the otter and other smaller animals, he overtook three Kansas Indians, who were also in a canoe going down the river, as he learned from them, to some post to trade with the whites. They manifested a very friendly disposition towards the old trapper, and expressed a wish to accompany him. He also learned from them, to his great delight, that he was on the Big Arkansas, and not more than five hundred miles from the white settlements. He was well enough versed in the treachery of the Indian character to know just how much he could repose in their confidence. He was aware that they would not allow a solitary trapper to pass through their country with a valuable collection of furs, without, at least, making an effort to rob him. He knew that their plan would be to get him into a friendly intercourse, and then, at the first opportunity, strip him of everything he possessed; consequently he was determined to get rid of them as soon as possible, and to effect this, he plied his oars with all diligence. The Indians, like most North American savages, were lazy, and had no disposition to labour in that way, but took it quite leisurely, satisfied with being carried down by the current. Williams soon left them in the rear, and, as he supposed, far behind him. When night came on, however, as he had worked all day, and slept none the night before, he resolved to turn aside into a bunch of willows to take a few hours' rest. But he had not stopped more than forty minutes when he heard some Indians pull to the shore just above him on the same side of the river. He immediately loosened his canoe from its moorings, and glided silently away. He rowed hard for two or three hours, when he again pulled to the bank and tied up. Only a short time after he had landed, he heard Indians again going on shore on the same side of the stream as himself. A second time he repeated his tactics, slipped out of his place of concealment, and stole softly away. He pulled on vigorously until some time after midnight, when he supposed he could with safety stop and snatch a little sleep. He felt apprehensive that he was in a dangerous region, and his anxiety kept him wide awake. It was very lucky that he did not close his eyes; for as he was lying in the bottom of his canoe he heard for the third time a canoe land as before. He was now perfectly satisfied that he was dogged by the Kansans whom he had passed the preceding day, and in no very good humour, therefore, he picked up his rifle, and walked up to the bank where he had heard the Indians land. As he suspected, there were the three savages. When they saw the captain, they immediately renewed their expressions of friendship, and invited him to partake of their hospitality. He stood aloof from them, and shook his head in a rage, charging them with their villanous purposes. In the short, sententious manner of the Indians, he said to them: "You now follow me three times; if you follow me again, I kill you!" and wheeling around abruptly, returned to his canoe. A third time the solitary trapper pushed his little craft from the shore and set off down stream, to get away from a region where to sleep would be hazardous. He plied his oars the remainder of the night, and solaced himself with the thought that no evil had befallen him, except the loss of a few hours' sleep. While he was escaping from his villanous pursuers, he was running into new dangers and difficulties. The following day he overtook a large band of the same tribe, under the leadership of a chief, who were also descending the river. Into the hands of these savages he fell a prisoner, and was conducted to one of their villages. The principal chief there took all of his furs, traps, and other belongings. A very short time after his capture, the Kansans went to war with the Pawnees, and carried Captain Williams with them. In a terrible battle in which the Kansans gained a most decided victory, the old trapper bore a conspicuous part, killing a great number of the enemy, and by his excellent strategy brought about the success of his captors. When they returned to the village, Williams, who had ever been treated with kindness by the inhabitants, was now thought to be a wonderful warrior, and could have been advanced to all the savage honours; he might even have been made one of their principal chiefs. The tribe gave him his liberty for the great service he had rendered it in its difficulty with an inveterate foe, but declining all proffered promotions, he decided to return to the white settlements on the Missouri, at the mouth of the Kaw, the covetous old chief retaining all his furs, and indeed everything he possessed excepting his rifle, with as many rounds of ammunition as would be necessary to secure him provisions in the shape of game on his route. The veteran trapper had learned from the Indians while with them that they expected to go to Fort Osage on the Missouri River to receive some annuities from the government, and he felt certain that his furs would be there at the same time. After leaving the Kansans he travelled on toward the Missouri, and soon struck the beginning of the sparse settlements. Just as evening was coming on, he arrived at a cluster of three little log-cabins, and was received with genuine backwoods hospitality by the proprietor, who had married an Osage squaw. Williams was not only very hungry, but very tired; and, after enjoying an abundant supper, he became stupid and sleepy, and expressed a wish to lie down. The generous trapper accordingly conducted him to one of the cabins, in which there were two beds, standing in opposite corners of the room. He immediately threw himself upon one, and was soon in a very deep sleep. About midnight his slumbers were disturbed by a singular and very frightful kind of noise, accompanied by struggling on the other bed. What it was, Williams was entirely at a loss to understand. There were no windows in the cabin, the door was shut, and it was as dark as Egypt. A fierce contest seemed to be going on. There were deep groanings and hard breathings; and the snapping of teeth appeared almost constant. For a moment the noise would subside, then again the struggles would be renewed accompanied as before with groaning, deep sighing, and grinding of teeth. The captain's bed-clothes consisted of a couple of blankets and a buffalo-robe, and as the terrible struggles continued he raised himself up in the bed, and threw the robe around him for protection, his rifle having been left in the cabin where his host slept, while his knife was attached to his coat, which he had hung on the corner post of the other bedstead from which the horrid struggles emanated. In an instant the robe was pulled off, and he was left uncovered and unprotected; in another moment a violent snatch carried away the blanket upon which he was sitting, and he was nearly tumbled off the bed with it. As the next thing might be a blow in the dark, he felt that it was high time to shift his quarters; so he made a desperate leap from the bed, and alighted on the opposite side of the room, calling for his host, who immediately came to his relief by opening the door. Williams then told him that the devil--or something as bad, he believed--was in the room, and he wanted a light. The accommodating trapper hurried away, and in a moment was back with a candle, the light of which soon revealed the awful mystery. It was an Indian, who at the time was struggling in convulsions, which he was subject to. He was a superannuated chief, a relative of the wife of the hospitable trapper, and generally made his home there. Absent when Captain Williams arrived, he came into the room at a very late hour, and went to the bed he usually occupied. No one on the claim knew of his being there until he was discovered, in a dreadfully mangled condition. He was removed to other quarters, and Williams, who was not to be frightened out of a night's rest, soon sunk into sound repose. Williams reached the agency by the time the Kansas Indians arrived there, and, as he suspected, found that the wily old chief had brought all his belongings, which he claimed, and the agent made the savages give up the stolen property before he would pay them a cent of their annuities. He took his furs down to St. Louis, sold them there at a good price, and then started back to the Rocky Mountains on another trapping tour. CHAPTER III. EARLY TRADERS. In 1812 a Captain Becknell, who had been on a trading expedition to the country of the Comanches in the summer of 1811, and had done remarkably well, determined the next season to change his objective point to Santa Fe, and instead of the tedious process of bartering with the Indians, to sell out his stock to the New Mexicans. Successful in this, his first venture, he returned to the Missouri River with a well-filled purse, and intensely enthusiastic over the result of his excursion to the newly found market. Excited listeners to his tales of enormous profits were not lacking, who, inspired by the inducement he held out to them, cheerfully invested five thousand dollars in merchandise suited to the demands of the trade, and were eager to attempt with him the passage of the great plains. In this expedition there were thirty men, and the amount of money in the undertaking was the largest that had yet been ventured. The progress of the little caravan was without extraordinary incident, until it arrived at "The Caches" on the Upper Arkansas. There Becknell, who was in reality a man of the then "Frontier," bold, plucky, and endowed with excellent sense, conceived the ridiculous idea of striking directly across the country for Santa Fe through a region absolutely unexplored; his excuse for this rash movement being that he desired to avoid the rough and circuitous mountain route he had travelled on his first trip to Taos. His temerity in abandoning the known for the unknown was severely punished, and his brave men suffered untold misery, barely escaping with their lives from the terrible straits to which they were reduced. Not having the remotest conception of the region through which their new trail was to lead them, and naturally supposing that water would be found in streams or springs, when they left the Arkansas they neglected to supply themselves with more than enough of the precious fluid to last a couple of days. At the end of that time they learned, too late, that they were in the midst of a desert, with all the tortures of thirst threatening them. Without a tree or a path to guide them, they took an irregular course by observations of the North Star, and the unreliable needle of an azimuth pocket-compass. There was a total absence of water, and when what they had brought with them in their canteens from the river was exhausted, thirst began its horrible office. In a short time both men and animals were in a mental condition bordering on distraction. To alleviate their acute torment, the dogs of the train were killed, and their blood, hot and sickening, eagerly swallowed; then the ears of the mules were cut off for the same purpose, but such a substitute for water only added to their sufferings. They would have perished had not a superannuated buffalo bull that had just come from the Cimarron River, where he had gone to quench his thirst, suddenly appeared, to be immediately killed and the contents of his stomach swallowed with avidity. It is recorded that one of those who partook of the nauseous liquid said afterward, "nothing had ever passed his lips which gave him such exquisite delight as his first draught of that filthy beverage." Although they were near the Cimarron, where there was plenty of water, which but for the affair of the buffalo they never would have suspected, they decided to retrace their steps to the Arkansas. Before they started on their retreat, however, some of the strongest of the party followed the trail of the animal that had saved their lives to the river, where, filling all the canteens with pure water, they returned to their comrades, who were, after drinking, able to march slowly toward the Arkansas. Following that stream, they at last arrived at Taos, having experienced no further trouble, but missed the trail to Santa Fe, and had their journey greatly prolonged by the foolish endeavour of the leader to make a short cut thither. As early as 1815, Auguste P. Chouteau and his partner, with a large number of trappers and hunters, went out to the valley of the Upper Arkansas for the purpose of trading with Indians, and trapping on the numerous streams of the contiguous region. The island on which Chouteau established his trading-post, and which bears his name even to this day, is in the Arkansas River on the boundary line of the United States and Mexico. It was a beautiful spot, with a rich carpet of grass and delightful groves, and on the American side was a heavily timbered bottom. While occupying the island, Chouteau and his old hunters and trappers were attacked by about three hundred Pawnees, whom they repulsed with the loss of thirty killed and wounded. These Indians afterward declared that it was the most fatal affair in which they were ever engaged. It was their first acquaintance with American guns. The general character of the early trade with New Mexico was founded on the system of the caravan. She depended upon the remote ports of old Mexico, whence was transported, on the backs of the patient burro and mule, all that was required by the primitive tastes of the primitive people; a very tedious and slow process, as may be inferred, and the limited traffic westwardly across the great plains was confined to this fashion. At the date of the legitimate and substantial commerce with New Mexico, in 1824, wheeled vehicles were introduced, and traffic assumed an importance it could never have otherwise attained, and which now, under the vast system of railroads, has increased to dimensions little dreamed of by its originators nearly three-quarters of a century ago. It was eight years after Pursley's pilgrimage before the trade with New Mexico attracted the attention of speculators and adventurers. Messrs. McKnight,[13] Beard, and Chambers, with about a dozen comrades, started with a supply of goods across the unknown plains, and by good luck arrived safely at Santa Fe. Once under the jurisdiction of the Mexicans, however, their trouble began. All the party were arrested as spies, their wares confiscated, and themselves incarcerated at Chihuahua, where the majority of them were kept for almost a decade. Beard and Chambers, having by some means escaped, returned to St. Louis in 1822, and, notwithstanding their dreadful experience, told of the prospects of the trade with the Mexicans in such glowing colours that they induced some individuals of small capital to fit out another expedition, with which they again set out for Santa Fe. It was really too late in the season; they succeeded, however, in reaching the crossing of the Arkansas without any difficulty, but there a violent snowstorm overtook them and they were compelled to halt, as it was impossible to proceed in the face of the blinding blizzard. On an island[14] not far from where the town of Cimarron, on the Santa Fe Railroad, is now situated, they were obliged to remain for more than three months, during which time most of their animals died for want of food and from the severe cold. When the weather had moderated sufficiently to allow them to proceed on their journey, they had no transportation for their goods and were compelled to hide them in pits dug in the earth, after the manner of the old French voyageurs in the early settlement of the continent. This method of secreting furs and valuables of every character is called caching, from the French word "to hide." Gregg thus describes it: The cache is made by digging a hole in the ground, somewhat in the shape of a jug, which is lined with dry sticks, grass, or anything else that will protect its contents from the dampness of the earth. In this place the goods to be concealed are carefully stowed away; and the aperture is then so effectually closed as to protect them from the rains. In caching, a great deal of skill is often required to leave no sign whereby the cunning savage may discover the place of deposit. To this end, the excavated earth is carried some distance and carefully concealed, or thrown into a stream, if one be at hand. The place selected for a cache is usually some rolling point, sufficiently elevated to be secure from inundations. If it be well set with grass, a solid piece of turf is cut out large enough for the entrance. The turf is afterward laid back, and, taking root, in a short time no signs remain of its ever having been molested. However, as every locality does not afford a turfy site, the camp-fire is sometimes built upon the place, or the animals are penned over it, which effectually destroys all traces. Father Hennepin[15] thus describes, in his quaint style, how he built a cache on the bank of the Mississippi, in 1680: We took up the green sodd, and laid it by, and digg'd a hole in the Earth where we put our Goods, and cover'd them with pieces of Timber and Earth, and then put in again the green Turf; so that 'twas impossible to suspect that any Hole had been digg'd under it, for we flung the Earth into the River. After caching their goods, Beard and the party went on to Taos, where they bought mules, and returning to their caches transported their contents to their market. The word "cache" still lingers among the "old-timers" of the mountains and plains, and has become a provincialism with their descendants; one of these will tell you that he cached his vegetables in the side of the hill; or if he is out hunting and desires to secrete himself from approaching game, he will say, "I am going to cache behind that rock," etc. The place where Beard's little expedition wintered was called "The Caches" for years, and the name has only fallen into disuse within the last two decades. I remember the great holes in the ground when I first crossed the plains, a third of a century ago. The immense profit upon merchandise transported across the dangerous Trail of the mid-continent to the capital of New Mexico soon excited the cupidity of other merchants east of the Missouri. When the commonest domestic cloth, manufactured wholly from cotton, brought from two to three dollars a yard at Santa Fe, and other articles at the same ratio to cost, no wonder the commerce with the far-off market appeared to those who desired to send goods there a veritable Golconda. The importance of internal trade with New Mexico, and the possibilities of its growth, were first recognized by the United States in 1824, the originator of the movement being Mr. Thomas Hart Benton of Missouri, who frequently, from his place in the Senate, prophesied the coming greatness of the West. He introduced a bill which authorized the President to appoint a commission to survey a road from the Missouri River to the boundary line of New Mexico, and from thence on Mexican territory with the consent of the Mexican government. The signing of this bill was one of the last acts of Mr. Monroe's official life, and it was carried into effect by his successor, Mr. John Quincy Adams, but unfortunately a mistake was made in supposing that the Osage Indians alone controlled the course of the proposed route. It was partially marked out as far as the Arkansas, by raised mounds; but travellers continued to use the old wagon trail, and as no negotiations had been entered into with the Comanches, Cheyennes, Pawnees, or Kiowas, these warlike tribes continued to harass the caravans when these arrived in the broad valley of the Arkansas. The American fur trade was at its height at the time when the Santa Fe trade was just beginning to assume proportions worthy of notice; the difference between the two enterprises being very marked. The fur trade was in the hands of immensely wealthy companies, while that to Santa Fe was carried on by individuals with limited capital, who, purchasing goods in the Eastern markets, had them transported to the Missouri River, where, until the trade to New Mexico became a fixed business, everything was packed on mules. As soon, however, as leading merchants invested their capital, about 1824, the trade grew into vast proportions, and wagons took the place of the patient mule. Later, oxen were substituted for mules, it having been discovered that they possessed many advantages over the former, particularly in being able to draw heavier loads than an equal number of mules, especially through sandy or muddy places. For a long time, the traders were in the habit of purchasing their mules in Santa Fe and driving them to the Missouri; but as soon as that useful animal was raised in sufficient numbers in the Southern States to supply the demand, the importation from New Mexico ceased, for the reason that the American mule was in all respects an immensely superior animal. Once mules were an important object of the trade, and those who dealt in them and drove them across to the river on the Trail met with many mishaps; frequently whole droves, containing from three to five hundred, were stolen by the savages en route. The latter soon learned that it was a very easy thing to stampede a caravan of mules, for, once panic-stricken, it is impossible to restrain them, and the Indians having started them kept them in a state of rampant excitement by their blood-curdling yells, until they had driven them miles beyond the Trail. A story is told of a small band of twelve men, who, while encamped on the Cimarron River, in 1826, with but four serviceable guns among them, were visited by a party of Indians, believed to be Arapahoes, who made at first strong demonstrations of friendship and good-will. Observing the defenceless condition of the traders, they went away, but soon returned about thirty strong, each provided with a lasso, and all on foot. The chief then began by informing the Americans that his men were tired of walking, and must have horses. Thinking it folly to offer any resistance, the terrified traders told them if one animal apiece would satisfy them, to go and catch them. This they soon did; but finding their request so easily complied with, the Indians held a little parley together, which resulted in a new demand for more--they must have two apiece! "Well, catch them!" was the acquiescent reply of the unfortunate band; upon which the savages mounted those they had already secured, and, swinging their lassos over their heads, plunged among the stock with a furious yell, and drove off the entire caballada of nearly five hundred head of horses, mules, and asses. In 1829 the Indians of the plains became such a terror to the caravans crossing to Santa Fe, that the United States government, upon petition of the traders, ordered three companies of infantry and one of riflemen, under command of Major Bennet Riley, to escort the annual caravan, which that year started from the town of Franklin, Missouri, then the eastern terminus of the Santa Fe trade, as far as Chouteau's Island, on the Arkansas, which marked the boundary between the United States and Mexico.[16] The caravan started from the island across the dreary route unaccompanied by any troops, but had progressed only a few miles when it was attacked by a band of Kiowas, then one of the most cruel and bloodthirsty tribes on the plains.[17] This escort, commanded by Major Riley, and another under Captain Wharton, composed of only sixty dragoons, five years later, were the sole protection ever given by the government until 1843, when Captain Philip St. George Cooke again accompanied two large caravans to the same point on the Arkansas as did Major Riley fourteen years before. As the trade increased, the Comanches, Pawnees, and Arapahoes continued to commit their depredations, and it was firmly believed by many of the freighters that these Indians were incited to their devilish acts by the Mexicans, who were always jealous of "Los Americanos." It was very rarely that a caravan, great or small, or even a detachment of troops, no matter how large, escaped the raids of these bandits of the Trail. If the list of those who were killed outright and scalped, and those more unfortunate who were taken captive only to be tortured and their bodies horribly mutilated, could be collected from the opening of the traffic with New Mexico until the years 1868-69, when General Sheridan inaugurated his memorable "winter campaign" against the allied plains tribes, and completely demoralized, cowed, and forced them on their reservations, about the time of the advent of the railroad, it would present an appalling picture; and the number of horses, mules, and oxen stampeded and stolen during the same period would amount to thousands. As the excellent narrative of Captain Pike is not read as it should be by the average American, a brief reference to it may not be considered supererogatory. The celebrated officer, who was afterward promoted to the rank of major-general, and died in the achievement of the victory of York, Upper Canada, in 1813, was sent in 1806 on an exploring expedition up the Arkansas River, with instructions to pass the sources of Red River, for which those of the Canadian were then mistaken; he, however, even went around the head of the latter, and crossing the mountains with an almost incredible degree of peril and suffering, descended upon the Rio del Norte with his little party, then but fifteen in number. Believing himself now on Red River, within the then assumed limits of the United States, he built a small fortification for his company, until the opening of the spring of 1807 should enable him to continue his descent to Natchitoches. As he was really within Mexican territory, and only about eighty miles from the northern settlements, his position was soon discovered, and a force sent to take him to Santa Fe, which by treachery was effected without opposition. The Spanish officer assured him that the governor, learning that he had mistaken his way, had sent animals and an escort to convey his men and baggage to a navigable point on Red River (Rio Colorado), and that His Excellency desired very much to see him at Santa Fe, which might be taken on their way. As soon, however, as the governor had the too confiding captain in his power, he sent him with his men to the commandant general at Chihuahua, where most of his papers were seized, and he and his party were sent under an escort, via San Antonio de Bexar, to the United States. Many citizens of the remote Eastern States, who were contemporary with Pike, declared that his expedition was in some way connected with the treasonable attempt of Aaron Burr. The idea is simply preposterous; Pike's whole line of conduct shows him to have been of the most patriotic character; never would he for a moment have countenanced a proposition from Aaron Burr! After Captain Pike's report had been published to the world, the adventurers who were inspired by its glowing description of the country he had been so far to explore were destined to experience trials and disappointments of which they had formed no conception. Among them was a certain Captain Sublette, a famous old trapper in the era of the great fur companies, and with him a Captain Smith, who, although veteran pioneers of the Rocky Mountains, were mere novices in the many complications of the Trail; but having been in the fastnesses of the great divide of the continent, they thought that when they got down on the plains they could go anywhere. They started with twenty wagons, and left the Missouri without a single one of the party being competent to guide the little caravan on the dangerous route. From the Missouri the Trail was broad and plain enough for a child to follow, but when they arrived at the Cimarron crossing of the Arkansas, not a trace of former caravans was visible; nothing but the innumerable buffalo-trails leading from everywhere to the river. When the party entered the desert, or Dry Route, as it was years afterward always, and very properly, called in certain seasons of drought, the brave but too confident men discovered that the whole region was burnt up. They wandered on for several days, the horrors of death by thirst constantly confronting them. Water must be had or they would all perish! At last Smith, in his desperation, determined to follow one of the numerous buffalo-trails, believing that it would conduct him to water of some character--a lake or pool or even wallow. He left the train alone; asked for no one to accompany him; for he was the very impersonation of courage, one of the most fearless men that ever trapped in the mountains. He walked on and on for miles, when, on ascending a little divide, he saw a stream in the valley beneath him. It was the Cimarron, and he hurried toward it to quench his intolerable thirst. When he arrived at its bank, to his disappointment it was nothing but a bed of sand; the sometime clear running river was perfectly dry. Only for a moment was he staggered; he knew the character of many streams in the West; that often their waters run under the ground at a short distance from the surface, and in a moment he was on his knees digging vigorously in the soft sand. Soon the coveted fluid began to filter upwards into the little excavation he had made. He stooped to drink, and in the next second a dozen arrows from an ambushed band of Comanches entered his body. He did not die at once, however; it is related by the Indians themselves that he killed two of their number before death laid him low. Captain Sublette and Smith's other comrades did not know what had become of him until some Mexican traders told them, having got the report from the very savages who committed the cold-blooded murder. Gregg, in his report of this little expedition, says: Every kind of fatality seems to have attended this small caravan. Among other casualties, a clerk in their company, named Minter, was killed by a band of Pawnees, before they crossed the Arkansas. This, I believe, is the only instance of loss of life among the traders while engaged in hunting, although the scarcity of accidents can hardly be said to be the result of prudence. There is not a day that hunters do not commit some indescretion; such as straying at a distance of five and even ten miles from the caravan, frequently alone, and seldom in bands of more than two or three together. In this state, they must frequently be spied by prowling savages; so that frequency of escape, under such circumstances, must be partly attributed to the cowardice of the Indians; indeed, generally speaking, the latter are very loth to charge upon even a single armed man, unless they can take him at a decided advantage. Not long after, this band of Captain Sublette's very narrowly escaped total destruction. They had fallen in with an immense horde of Blackfeet and Gros Ventres, and, as the traders were literally but a handful among thousands of savages, they fancied themselves for a while in imminent peril of being virtually "eated up." But as Captain Sublette possessed considerable experience, he was at no loss how to deal with these treacherous savages; so that although the latter assumed a threatening attitude, he passed them without any serious molestation, and finally arrived at Santa Fe in safety. The virtual commencement of the Santa Fe trade dates from 1822, and one of the most remarkable events in its history was the first attempt to introduce wagons in the expeditions. This was made in 1824 by a company of traders, about eighty in number, among whom were several gentlemen of intelligence from Missouri, who contributed by their superior skill and undaunted energy to render the enterprise completely successful. A portion of this company employed pack-mules; among the rest were owned twenty-five wheeled vehicles, of which one or two were stout road-wagons, two were carts, and the rest Dearborn carriages, the whole conveying some twenty-five or thirty thousand dollars' worth of merchandise. Colonel Marmaduke, of Missouri, was one of the party. This caravan arrived at Santa Fe safely, experiencing much less difficulty than they anticipated from a first attempt with wheeled vehicles. Gregg continues: The early voyageurs, having but seldom experienced any molestation from the Indians, generally crossed the plains in detached bands, each individual rarely carrying more than two or three hundred dollars' worth of stock. This peaceful season, however, did not last very long; and it is greatly to be feared that the traders were not always innocent of having instigated the savage hostilities that ensued in after years. Many seemed to forget the wholesome precept, that they should not be savages themselves because they dealt with savages. Instead of cultivating friendly feelings with those few who remained peaceful and honest, there was an occasional one always disposed to kill, even in cold blood, every Indian that fell into their power, merely because some of the tribe had committed an outrage either against themselves or friends. As an instance of this, he relates the following: In 1826 two young men named McNess and Monroe, having carelessly lain down to sleep on the bank of a certain stream, since known as McNess Creek,[18] were barbarously shot, with their own guns, as it was supposed, in the very sight of the caravan. When their comrades came up, they found McNess lifeless, and the other almost expiring. In this state the latter was carried nearly forty miles to the Cimarron River, where he died, and was buried according to the custom of the prairies, a very summary proceeding, necessarily. The corpse, wrapped in a blanket, its shroud the clothes it wore, is interred in a hole varying in depth according to the nature of the soil, and upon the grave is piled stones, if any are convenient, to prevent the wolves from digging it up. Just as McNess's funeral ceremonies were about to be concluded, six or seven Indians appeared on the opposite side of the Cimarron. Some of the party proposed inviting them to a parley, while the rest, burning for revenge, evinced a desire to fire upon them at once. It is more than probable, however, that the Indians were not only innocent but ignorant of the outrage that had been committed, or they would hardly have ventured to approach the caravan. Being quick of perception, they very soon saw the belligerent attitude assumed by the company, and therefore wheeled round and attempted to escape. One shot was fired, which brought an Indian to the ground, when he was instantly riddled with balls. Almost simultaneously another discharge of several guns followed, by which all the rest were either killed or mortally wounded, except one, who escaped to bear the news to his tribe. These wanton cruelties had a most disastrous effect upon the prospects of the trade; for the exasperated children of the desert became more and more hostile to the "pale-faces," against whom they continued to wage a cruel war for many successive years. In fact this party suffered very severely a few days afterward. They were pursued by the enraged comrades of the slain savages to the Arkansas River, where they were robbed of nearly a thousand horses and mules. The author of this book, although having but little compassion for the Indians, must admit that, during more than a third of a century passed on the plains and in the mountains, he has never known of a war with the hostile tribes that was not caused by broken faith on the part of the United States or its agents. I will refer to two prominent instances: that of the outbreak of the Nez Perces, and that of the allied plains tribes. With the former a solemn treaty was made in 1856, guaranteeing to them occupancy of the Wallola valley forever. I. I. Stevens, who was governor of Washington Territory at the time, and ex-officio superintendent of Indian affairs in the region, met the Nez Perces, whose chief, "Wish-la-no-she," an octogenarian, when grasping the hand of the governor at the council said: "I put out my hand to the white man when Lewis and Clark crossed the continent, in 1805, and have never taken it back since." The tribe kept its word until the white men took forcible possession of the valley promised to the Indians, when the latter broke out, and a prolonged war was the consequence. In 1867 Congress appointed a commission to treat with the Cheyennes, Kiowas, and Arapahoes, appropriating four hundred thousand dollars for the expenses of the commission. It met at Medicine Lodge in August of the year mentioned, and made a solemn treaty, which the members of the commission, on the part of the United States, and the principal chiefs of the three tribes signed. Congress failed to make any appropriation to carry out the provisions of the treaty, and the Indians, after waiting a reasonable time, broke out, devastated the settlements from the Platte to the Rio Grande, destroying millions of dollars' worth of property, and sacrificing hundreds of men, women, and children. Another war was the result, which cost more millions, and under General Sheridan the hostile savages were whipped into a peace, which they have been compelled to keep. CHAPTER IV. TRAINS AND PACKERS. As has been stated, until the year 1824 transportation across the plains was done by means of pack-mules, the art of properly loading which seems to be an intuitive attribute of the native Mexican. The American, of course, soon became as expert, for nothing that the genus homo is capable of doing is impossible to him; but his teacher was the dark-visaged, superstitious, and profanity-expending Mexican arriero. A description of the equipment of a mule-train and the method of packing, together with some of the curious facts connected with its movements, may not be uninteresting, particularly as the whole thing, with rare exceptions in the regular army at remote frontier posts, has been relegated to the past, along with the caravan of the prairie and the overland coach. To this generation, barring a few officers who have served against the Indians on the plains and in the mountains, a pack-mule train would be as great a curiosity as the hairy mammoth. In the following particulars I have taken as a model the genuine Mexican pack-train or atajo, as it was called in their Spanish dialect, always used in the early days of the Santa Fe trade. The Americans made many modifications, but the basis was purely Mexican in its origin. A pack-mule was termed a mula de carga, and his equipment consisted of several parts; first, the saddle, or aparejo, a nearly square pad of leather stuffed with hay, which covered the animal's back on both sides equally. The best idea of its shape will be formed by opening a book in the middle and placing it saddle-fashion on the back of a chair. Each half then forms a flap of the contrivance. Before the aparejo was adjusted to the mule, a salea, or raw sheep-skin, made soft by rubbing, was put on the animal's back, to prevent chafing, and over it the saddle-cloth, or xerga. On top of both was placed the aparejo, which was cinched by a wide grass-bandage. This band was drawn as tightly as possible, to such an extent that the poor brute grunted and groaned under the apparently painful operation, and when fastened he seemed to be cut in two. This always appeared to be the very acme of cruelty to the uninitiated, but it is the secret of successful packing; the firmer the saddle, the more comfortably the mule can travel, with less risk of being chafed and bruised. The aparejo is furnished with a huge crupper, and this appendage is really the most cruel of all, for it is almost sure to lacerate the tail. Hardly a Mexican mule in the old days of the trade could be found which did not bear the scar of this rude supplement to the immense saddle. The load, which is termed a carga, was generally three hundred pounds. Two arrieros, or packers, place the goods on the mule's back, one, the cargador, standing on the near side, his assistant on the other. The carga is then hoisted on top of the saddle if it is a single package; or if there are two of equal size and weight, one on each side, coupled by a rope, which balances them on the animal. Another stout rope is then thrown over all, drawn as tightly as possible under the belly, and laced round the packs, securing them firmly in their place. Over the load, to protect it from rain, is thrown a square piece of matting called a petate. Sometimes, when a mule is a little refractory, he is blindfolded by a thin piece of leather, generally embroidered, termed the tapojos, and he remains perfectly quiet while the process of packing is going on. When the load is securely fastened in its place, the blinder is removed. The man on the near side, with his knee against the mule for a purchase, as soon as the rope is hauled taut, cries out "Adios," and his assistant answers "Vaya!" Then the first says again, "Anda!" upon which the mule trots off to its companions, all of which feed around until the animals of the whole train are packed. It seldom requires more than five minutes for the two men to complete the packing of the animal, and in that time is included the fastening of the aperejo. It is surprising to note the degree of skill exercised by an experienced packer, and his apparently abnormal strength in handling the immense bundles that are sometimes transported. By the aid of his knees used as a fulcrum, he lifts a package and tosses it on the mule's back without any apparent effort, the dead weight of which he could not move from the ground. An old-time atajo or caravan of pack-mules generally numbered from fifty to two hundred, and it travelled a jornado, or day's march of about twelve or fifteen miles. This day's journey was made without any stopping at noon, because if a pack-mule is allowed to rest, he generally tries to lie down, and with his heavy load it is difficult for him to get on his feet again. Sometimes he is badly strained in so doing, perhaps ruined forever. When the train starts out on the trail, the mules are so tightly bound with the ropes which confine the load that they move with great difficulty; but the saddle soon settles itself and the ropes become loosened so that they have frequently to be tightened. On the march the arriero is kept busy nearly all the time; the packs are constantly changing their position, frequently losing their balance and falling off; sometimes saddle, pack, and all swing under the animal's belly, and he must be unloaded and repacked again. On arriving at the camping-ground the pack-saddles with their loads are ranged in regular order, their freight being between the saddles, covered with the petates to protect it from the rain, and generally a ditch is dug around to carry off the water, if the weather is stormy. After two or three days' travel each mule knows its own pack and saddle, and comes up to it at the proper moment with an intelligence that is astonishing. If an animal should come whose pack is somewhere else, he is soundly kicked in the ribs by the rightful mule, and sent bruised and battered to his place. He rarely makes a mistake in relation to the position of his own pack the second time. This method of transportation was so cheap, because of the low rate of wages, that wagon-freighting, even in the most level region, could not compete with it. Five dollars a month was the amount paid to the muleteers, but it was oftener five with rations, costing almost nothing, of corn and beans. Meat, if used at all, was found by the arrieros themselves. On the trail the mule-train is under a system of discipline almost as severe as that on board of a man-of-war. Every individual employed is assigned to his place and has certain duties to perform. There is a night-herder, called the savanero, whose duty it is to keep the animals from straying too far away, as they are all turned loose to shift for themselves, depending upon the grass alone for their subsistence. Each herd has a mulera, or bell-mare, which wears a bell hanging to a strap around her neck, and is kept in view of the other animals, who will never leave her. If the mare is taken away from the herd, every mule becomes really melancholy and is at a loss what to do or where to go. The cook of the party, or madre (mother) as he is called, besides his duty in preparing the food, must lead the bell-mule ahead of the train while travelling, the pack-animals following her with a devotion that is remarkable. Sometimes in traversing the narrow ledges cut around the sides of a precipitous trail, or crossing a narrow natural bridge spanning the frightful gorges found everywhere in the mountains, a mule will be incontinently thrown off the slippery path, and fall hundreds of feet into the yawning canyon below. Generally instant death is their portion, though I recall an instance, while on an expedition against the hostile Indians thirty years ago, where a number of mules of our pack-train, loaded with ammunition, tumbled nearly five hundred feet down an almost perpendicular chasm, and yet some of them got on their feet again, and soon rejoined their companions, without having suffered any serious injury. The wagons so long employed in this trade, after their first introduction in 1824, were manufactured in Pittsburgh, their capacity being about a ton and a half, and they were drawn by eight mules or the same number of oxen. Later much larger wagons were employed with nearly double the capacity of the first, hauled by ten and twelve mules or oxen. These latter were soon called prairie-schooners, which name continued to linger until transportation across the plains by wagons was completely extinguished by the railroads. Under Mexican rule excessive tariff imposts were instituted, amounting to about a hundred per cent upon goods brought from the United States, and for some years, during the administration of Governor Manuel Armijo, a purely arbitrary duty was demanded of five hundred dollars for every wagon-load of merchandise brought into the Province, whether great or small, and regardless of its intrinsic value. As gold and silver were paid for the articles brought by the traders, they were also required to pay a heavy duty on the precious metals they took out of the country. Yankee ingenuity, however, evaded much of these unjust taxes. When the caravan approached Santa Fe, the freight of three wagons was transferred to one, and the empty vehicles destroyed by fire; while to avoid paying the export duty on gold and silver, they had large false axletrees to some of the wagons, in which the money was concealed, and the examining officer of the customs, perfectly unconscious of the artifice, passed them. The army, in its expeditions against the hostile Indian tribes, always employed wagons in transporting its provisions and munitions of war, except in the mountains, where the faithful pack-mule was substituted. The American freighters, since the occupation of New Mexico by the United States, until the transcontinental railroad usurped their vocation, used wagons only; the Mexican nomenclature was soon dropped and simple English terms adopted: caravan became train, and majordomo, the person in charge, wagon-master. The latter was supreme. Upon him rested all the responsibility, and to him the teamsters rendered absolute obedience. He was necessarily a man of quick perception, always fertile in expedients in times of emergency, and something of an engineer; for to know how properly to cross a raging stream or a marshy slough with an outfit of fifty or sixty wagons required more than ordinary intelligence. Then in the case of a stampede, great clear-headedness and coolness were needed to prevent loss of life. Stampedes were frequently very serious affairs, particularly with a large mule-train. Notwithstanding the willingness and patient qualities of that animal, he can act as absurdly as a Texas steer, and is as easily frightened at nothing. Sometimes as insignificant a circumstance as a prairie-dog barking at the entrance to his burrow, a figure in the distance, or even the shadow of a passing cloud will start every animal in the train, and away they go, rushing into each other, and becoming entangled in such a manner that both drivers and mules have often been crushed to death. It not infrequently happened that five or six of the teams would dash off and never could be found. I remember one instance that occurred on the trail between Fort Hays and Fort Dodge, during General Sheridan's winter campaign against the allied plains tribes in 1868. Three of the wagons were dragged away by the mules, in a few moments were out of sight, and were never recovered, although diligent search was made for them for some days. Ten years afterward a farmer, who had taken up a claim in what is now Rush County, Kansas, discovered in a ravine on his place the bones of some animals, decayed parts of harness, and the remains of three army-wagons, which with other evidence proved them to be the identical ones lost from the train so many years before. The largest six-mule wagon-train that was ever strung out on the plains transported the supplies for General Custer's command during the winter above referred to. It comprised over eight hundred army-wagons, and was four miles in length in one column, or one mile when in four lines--the usual formation when in the field. The animals of the train were either hobbled or herded at night, according to the locality; if in an Indian country, always hobbled or, preferably, tied up to the tongue of the wagon to which they belonged. The hobble is simply a strip of rawhide, with two slides of the same material. Placed on the front legs of the mule just at the fetlock, the slides pushed close to the limb, the animal could move around freely enough to graze, but was not able to travel very fast in the event of a stampede. In the Indian country, it was usual at night, or in the daytime when halting to feed, to form a corral of the wagons, by placing them in a circle, the wheels interlocked and the tongues run under the axles, into which circle the mules, on the appearance of the savages, were driven, and which also made a sort of fortress behind which the teamsters could more effectually repel an attack. In the earlier trading expeditions to Santa Fe, the formation and march of the caravan differed materially from that of the army-train in later years. I here quote Gregg, whose authority on the subject has never been questioned. When all was ready to move out on the broad sea of prairie, he said: We held a council, at which the respective claims of the different aspirants for office were considered, leaders selected, and a system of government agreed upon--as is the standing custom of these promiscuous caravans. A captain was proclaimed elected, but his powers were not defined by any constitutional provision; consequently, they were very vague and uncertain. Orders being only viewed as mere requests, they are often obeyed or neglected at the caprice of the subordinates. It is necessary to observe, however, that the captain is expected to direct the order of travel during the day and to designate the camping-ground at night, with many other functions of general character, in the exercise of which the company find it convenient to acquiesce. After this comes the task of organizing. The proprietors are first notified by proclamation to furnish a list of their men and wagons. The latter are generally apportioned into four divisions, particularly when the company is large. To each of these divisions, a lieutenant is appointed, whose duty it is to inspect every ravine and creek on the route, select the best crossings, and superintend what is called in prairie parlance the forming of each encampment. There is nothing so much dreaded by inexperienced travellers as the ordeal of guard duty. But no matter what the condition or employment of the individual may be, no one has the slightest chance of evading the common law of the prairies. The amateur tourist and the listless loafer are precisely in the same wholesome predicament--they must all take their regular turn at the watch. There is usually a set of genteel idlers attached to every caravan, whose wits are forever at work in devising schemes for whiling away their irksome hours at the expense of others. By embarking in these trips of pleasure, they are enabled to live without expense; for the hospitable traders seldom refuse to accommodate even a loafing companion with a berth at their mess without charge. But these lounging attaches are expected at least to do good service by way of guard duty. None are ever permitted to furnish a substitute, as is frequently done in military expeditions; for he that would undertake to stand the tour of another besides his own would scarcely be watchful enough for dangers of the prairies. Even the invalid must be able to produce unequivocal proofs of his inability, or it is a chance if the plea is admitted. The usual number of watchers is eight, each standing a fourth of every alternate night. When the party is small, the number is generally reduced, while in the case of very small bands, they are sometimes compelled for safety's sake to keep watch on duty half the night. With large caravans the captain usually appoints eight sergeants of the guard, each of whom takes an equal portion of men under his command. The wild and motley aspect of the caravan can be but imperfectly conceived without an idea of the costumes of its various members. The most fashionable prairie dress is the fustian frock of the city-bred merchant, furnished with a multitude of pockets capable of accommodating a variety of extra tackling. Then there is the backwoodsman with his linsey or leather hunting-shirt--the farmer with his blue jean coat--the wagoner with his flannel sleeve vest--besides an assortment of other costumes which go to fill up the picture. In the article of firearms there is also an equally interesting medley. The frontier hunter sticks to his rifle, as nothing could induce him to carry what he terms in derision "the scatter-gun." The sportsman from the interior flourishes his double-barrelled fowling-piece with equal confidence in its superiority. A great many were furnished beside with a bountiful supply of pistols and knives of every description, so that the party made altogether a very brigand-like appearance. "Catch up! Catch up!" is now sounded from the captain's camp and echoed from every division and scattered group along the valley. The woods and dales resound with the gleeful yells of the light-hearted wagoners who, weary of inaction and filled with joy at the prospect of getting under way, become clamorous in the extreme. Each teamster vies with his fellow who shall be soonest ready; and it is a matter of boastful pride to be the first to cry out, "All's set." The uproarious bustle which follows, the hallooing of those in pursuit of animals, the exclamations which the unruly brutes call forth from their wrathful drivers, together with the clatter of bells, the rattle of yokes and harness, the jingle of chains, all conspire to produce an uproarious confusion. It is sometimes amusing to observe the athletic wagoner hurrying an animal to its post--to see him heave upon the halter of a stubborn mule, while the brute as obstinately sets back, determined not to move a peg till his own good pleasure thinks it proper to do so--his whole manner seeming to say, "Wait till your hurry's over." I have more than once seen a driver hitch a harnessed animal to the halter, and by that process haul his mulishness forward, while each of his four projected feet would leave a furrow behind. "All's set!" is finally heard from some teamster-- "All's set," is directly responded from every quarter. "Stretch out!" immediately vociferates the captain. Then the "heps!" to the drivers, the cracking of whips, the trampling of feet, the occasional creak of wheels, the rumbling of the wagons, while "Fall in" is heard from head-quarters, and the train is strung out and in a few moments has started on its long journey. With an army-train the discipline was as perfect as that of a garrison. The wagon-master was under the orders of the commander of the troops which escorted the caravan, the camps were formed with regard to strategic principles, sentries walked their beats and were visited by an officer of the day, as if stationed at a military post. Unquestionably the most expert packer I have known is Chris. Gilson, of Kansas. In nearly all the expeditions on the great plains and in the mountains he has been the master-spirit of the pack-trains. General Sheridan, who knew Gilson long before the war, in Oregon and Washington, regarded the celebrated packer with more than ordinary friendship. For many years he was employed by the government at the suggestion of General Sheridan, to teach the art of packing to the officers and enlisted men at several military posts in the West. He received a large salary, and for a long period was stationed at the immense cavalry depot of Fort Riley, in Kansas. Gilson was also employed by the British army during the Zulu war in Africa, as chief packer, at a salary of twenty dollars a day. Now, however, since the railroads have penetrated the once considered impenetrable fastnesses of the mountains, packing will be relegated to the lost arts. CHAPTER V. FIGHT WITH COMANCHES. Early in the spring of 1828, a company of young men residing in the vicinity of Franklin, Missouri, having heard related by a neighbour who had recently returned the wonderful story of a passage across the great plains, and the strange things to be seen in the land of the Greasers, determined to explore the region for themselves; making the trip in wagons, an innovation of a startling character, as heretofore only pack-animals had been employed in the limited trade with far-off Santa Fe. The story of their journey can best be told in the words of one of the party:[19]-- We had about one thousand miles to travel, and as there was no wagon-road in those early days across the plains to the mountains, we were compelled to take our chances through the vast wilderness, seeking the best route we could. No signs of life were visible except the innumerable buffalo and antelope that were constantly crossing our trail. We moved on slowly from day to day without any incident worth recording and arrived at the Arkansas; made the passage and entered the Great American Desert lying beyond, as listless, lonesome, and noiseless as a sleeping sea. Having neglected to carry any water with us, we were obliged to go withot a drop for two days and nights after leaving the river. At last we reached the Cimarron, a cool, sparkling stream, ourselves and our animals on the point of perishing. Our joy at discovering it, however, was short-lived. We had scarcely quenched our thirst when we saw, to our dismay, a large band of Indians camped on its banks. Their furtive glances at us, and significant looks at each other, aroused our worst suspicions, and we instinctively felt we were not to get away without serious trouble. Contrary to our expectations, however, they did not offer to molest us, and we at once made up our minds they preferred to wait for our return, as we believed they had somehow learned of our intention to bring back from New Mexico a large herd of mules and ponies. We arrived in Santa Fe on the 20th of July, without further adventure, and after having our stock of goods passed through the custom house, were granted the privilege of selling them. The majority of the party sold out in a very short time and started on their road to the States, leaving twenty-one of us behind to return later. On the first day of September, those of us who had remained in Santa Fe commenced our homeward journey. We started with one hundred and fifty mules and horses, four wagons, and a large amount of silver coin. Nothing of an eventful character occurred until we arrived at the Upper Cimarron Springs, where we intended to encamp for the night. But our anticipations of peaceable repose were rudely dispelled; for when we rode up on the summit of the hill, the sight that met our eyes was appalling enough to excite the gravest apprehensions. It was a large camp of Comanches, evidently there for the purpose of robbery and murder. We could neither turn back nor go on either side of them on account of the mountainous character of the country, and we realized, when too late, that we were in a trap. There was only one road open to us; that right through the camp. Assuming the bravest look possible, and keeping our rifles in position for immediate action, we started on the perilous venture. The chief met us with a smile of welcome, and said, in Spanish: "You must stay with us to-night. Our young men will guard your stock, and we have plenty of buffalo meat." Realizing the danger of our situation, we took advantage of every moment of time to hurry through their camp. Captain Means, Ellison, and myself were a little distance behind the wagons, on horseback; observing that the balance of our men were evading them, the blood-thirsty savages at once threw off their masks of dissimulation and in an instant we knew the time for a struggle had arrived. The Indians, as we rode on, seized our bridle-reins and began to fire upon us. Ellison and I put spurs to our horses and got away, but Captain Means, a brave man, was ruthlessly shot and cruelly scalped while the life-blood was pouring from his ghastly wounds. We succeeded in fighting them off until we had left their camp half a mile behind, and as darkness had settled down on us, we decided to go into camp ourselves. We tied our gray bell-mare to a stake, and went out and jingled the bell, whenever any of us could do so, thus keeping the animals from stampeding. We corralled our wagons for better protection, and the Indians kept us busy all night resisting their furious charges. We all knew that death at our posts would be infinitely preferable to falling into their hands; so we resolved to sell our lives as dearly as possible. The next day we made but five miles; it was a continuous fight, and a very difficult matter to prevent their capturing us. This annoyance was kept up for four days; they would surround us, then let up as if taking time to renew their strength, to suddenly charge upon us again, and they continued thus to harass us until we were almost exhausted from loss of sleep. After leaving the Cimarron, we once more emerged on the open plains and flattered ourselves we were well rid of the savages; but about twelve o'clock they came down on us again, uttering their demoniacal yells, which frightened our horses and mules so terribly, that we lost every hoof. A member of our party, named Hitt, in endeavouring to recapture some of the stolen stock, was taken by the savages, but luckily escaped from their clutches, after having been wounded in sixteen parts of his body; he was shot, tomahawked, and speared. When the painted demons saw that one of their number had been killed by us, they left the field for a time, while we, taking advantage of the temporary lull, went back to our wagons and built breastworks of them, the harness, and saddles. From noon until two hours in the night, when the moon went down, the savages were apparently confident we would soon fall a prey to them, and they made charge after charge upon our rude fortifications. Darkness was now upon us. There were two alternatives before us: should we resolve to die where we were, or attempt to escape in the black hours of the night? It was a desperate situation. Our little band looked the matter squarely in the face, and, after a council of war had been held, we determined to escape, if possible. In order to carry out our resolve, it was necessary to abandon the wagons, together with a large amount of silver coin, as it would be impossible to take all of the precious stuff with us in our flight; so we packed up as much of it as we could carry, and, bidding our hard-earned wealth a reluctant farewell, stepped out in the darkness like spectres and hurried away from the scene of death. Our proper course was easterly, but we went in a northerly direction in order to avoid the Indians. We travelled all that night, the next day, and a portion of its night until we reached the Arkansas River, and, having eaten nothing during that whole time excepting a few prickly-pears, were beginning to feel weak from the weight of our burdens and exhaustion. At this point we decided to lighten our loads by burying all of the money we had carried thus far, keeping only a small sum for each man. Proceeding to a small island in the river, our treasure, amounting to over ten thousand silver dollars, was cached in the ground between two cottonwood trees. Believing now that we were out of the usual range of the predatory Indians, we shot a buffalo and an antelope which we cooked and ate without salt or bread; but no meal has ever tasted better to me than that one. We continued our journey northward for three or four days more, when, reaching Pawnee Fork, we travelled down it for more than a week, arriving again on the Old Santa Fe Trail. Following the Trail three days, we arrived at Walnut Creek, then left the river again and went eastwardly to Cow Creek. When we reached that point, we had become so completely exhausted and worn out from subsisting on buffalo meat alone, that it seemed as if there was nothing left for us to do but lie down and die. Finally it was determined to send five of the best-preserved men on ahead to Independence, two hundred miles, for the purpose of procuring assistance; the other fifteen to get along as well as they could until succour reached them. I was one of the five selected to go on in advance, and I shall never forget the terrible suffering we endured. We had no blankets, and it was getting late in the fall. Some of us were entirely barefooted, and our feet so sore that we left stains of blood at every step. Deafness, too, seized upon us so intensely, occasioned by our weak condition, that we coud not hear the report of a gun fired at a distance of only a few feet. At one place two of our men laid down their arms, declaring they could carry them no farther, and would die if they did not get water. We left them and went in search of some. After following a dry branch several miles, we found a muddy puddle from which we succeeded in getting half a bucket full, and, although black and thick, it was life for us and we guarded it with jealous eyes. We returned to our comrades about daylight, and the water so refreshed them they were able to resume the weary march. We travelled on until we arrived at the Big Blue River, in Missouri, on the bank of which we discovered a cabin about fifteen miles from Independence. The occupants of the rude shanty were women, seemingly very poor, but they freely offered us a pot of pumpkin they were stewing. When they first saw us, they were terribly frightened, because we looked more like skeletons than living beings. They jumped on the bed while we were greedily devouring the pumpkin, but we had to refuse some salt meat which they had also proffered, as our teeth were too sore to eat it. In a short time two men came to the cabin and took three of our men home with them. We had subsisted for eleven days on one turkey, a coon, a crow, and some elm bark, with an occasional bunch of wild grapes, and the pictures we presented to these good people they will never, probably, forget; we had not tasted bread or salt for thirty-two days. The next day our newly found friends secured horses and guided us to Independence, all riding without saddles. One of the party had gone on to notify the citizens of our safety, and when we arrived general muster was going on, the town was crowded, and when the people looked upon us the most intense excitement prevailed. All business was suspended; the entire population flocked around us to hear the remarkable story of our adventures, and to render us the assistance we so much needed. We were half-naked, foot-sore, and haggard, presenting such a pitiable picture that the greatest sympathy was immediately aroused in our behalf. We then said that behind us on the Trail somewhere, fifteen comrades were struggling toward Independence, or were already dead from their sufferings. In a very few minutes seven men with fifteen horses started out to rescue them. They were gone from Independence several days, but had the good fortune to find all the men just in time to save them from starvation and exhaustion. Two were discovered a hundred miles from Independence, and the remainder scattered along the Trail fifty miles further in their rear. Not more than two of the unfortunate party were together. The humane rescuers seemingly brought back nothing but living skeletons wrapped in rags; but the good people of the place vied with each other in their attentions, and under their watchful care the sufferers rapidly recuperated. One would suppose that we had had enough of the great plains after our first trip; not so, however, for in the spring we started again on the same journey. Major Riley, with four companies of regular soldiers, was detailed to escort the Santa Fe traders' caravans to the boundary line between the United States and Mexico, and we went along to recover the money we had buried, the command having been ordered to remain in camp to await our return until the 20th of October. We left Fort Leavenworth about the 10th of May, and were soon again on the plains. Many of the troops had never seen any buffalo before, and found great sport in wantonly slaughtering them. At Walnut Creek we halted to secure a cannon which had been thrown into that stream two seasons previously, and succeeded in dragging it out. With a seine made of brush and grape vine, we caught more fine fish than we could possibly dispose of. One morning the camp was thrown into the greatest state of excitement by a band of Indians running an enormous herd of buffalo right into us. The troops fired at them by platoons, killing hundreds of them. We marched in two columns, and formed a hollow square at night when we camped, in which all slept excepting those on guard duty. Frequently some one would discover a rattlesnake or a horned toad in bed with him, and it did not take him a very long time to crawl out of his blankets! On the 10th of July, we arrived at the dividing line separating the two countries, and went into camp. The next day Major Riley sent a squad of soldiers to escort myself and another of our old party, who had helped bury the ten thousand dollars, to find it. It was a few miles further up the Arkansas than our camp, in the Mexican limits, and when we reached the memorable spot on the island,[20] we found the coin safe, but the water had washed the earth away, and the silver was exposed to view to excite the cupidity of any one passing that way; there were not many travellers on that lonely route in those days, however, and it would have been just as secure, probably, had we simply poured it on the ground. We put the money in sacks and deposited it with Major Riley, and, leaving the camp, started for Santa Fe with Captain Bent as leader of the traders. We had not proceeded far when our advanced guard met Indians. They turned, and when within two hundred yards of us, one man named Samuel Lamme was killed, his body being completely riddled with arrows. His head was cut off, and all his clothes stripped from his body. We had a cannon, but the Mexicans who hauled it had tied it up in such a way that it could not be utilized in time to effect anything in the first assault; but when at last it was turned loose upon the Indians, they fled in dismay at the terrible noise. The troops at the crossing of the Arkansas, hearing the firing, came to our assistance. The next morning the hills were covered by fully two thousand Indians, who had evidently congregated there for the purpose of annihilating us, and the coming of the soldiers was indeed fortunate; for as soon as the cowardly savages discovered them they fled. Major Riley accompanied us on our march for a few days, and, seeing no more Indians, he returned to his camp. We travelled on for a week, then met a hundred Mexicans who were out on the plains hunting buffalo. They had killed a great many and were drying the meat. We waited until they were ready to return and then all started for Santa Fe together. At Rabbit-Ear Mountain the Indians had constructed breastworks in the brush, intending to fight it out there. The Mexicans were in the advance and had one of their number killed before discovering the enemy. We passed Point of Rocks and camped on the river. One of the Mexicans went out hunting and shot a huge panther; next morning he asked a companion to go with him and help skin the animal. They saw the Indians in the brush, and the one who had killed the panther said to the other, "Now for the mountains"; but his comrade retreated, and was despatched by the savages almost within reach of the column. We now decided to change our destination, intending to go to Taos instead of Santa Fe, but the governor of the Province sent out troops to stop us, as Taos was not a place of entry. The soldiers remained with us a whole week, until we arrived at Santa Fe, where we disposed of our goods and soon began to make preparations for our return trip. When we were ready to start back, seven priests and a number of wealthy families, comfortably fixed in carriages, accompanied us. The Mexican government ordered Colonel Viscarra of the army, with five troops of cavalry, to guard us to the camp of Major Riley. We experienced no trouble until we arrived at the Cimarron River. About sunset, just as we were preparing to camp for the night, the sentinels saw a body of a hundred Indians approaching; they fired at them and ran to camp. Knowing they had been discovered, the Indians came on and made friendly overtures; but the Pueblos who who were with the command of Colonel Viscarra wanted to fight them at once, saying the fellows meant mischief. We declined to camp with them unless they would agree to give up their arms; they pretended they were willing to do so, when one of them put his gun at the breast of our interpreter and pulled the trigger. In an instant a bloody scene ensued; several of Viscarra's men were killed, together with a number of mules. Finally the Indians were whipped and tried to get away, but we chased them some distance and killed thirty-five. Our friendly Pueblos were delighted, and proceeded to scalp the savages, hanging the bloody trophies on the points of their spears. That night they indulged in a war-dance which lasted until nearly morning. We were delighted to see a beautiful sunshiny day after the horrors of the preceding night, and continued our march without farther interruption, safely arriving at the camp on the boundary line, where Major Riley was waiting for us, as we supposed; but his time having expired the day before, he had left for Fort Leavenworth. A courier was despatched to him, however, as Colonel Viscarra desired to meet the American commander and see his troops. The courier overtook Major Riley a short distance away, and he halted for us to come up. Both commands then went into camp, and spent several days comparing the discipline of the armies of the two nations, and having a general good time. Colonel Viscarra greatly admired our small arms, and took his leave in a very courteous manner. We arrived at Fort Leavenworth late in the season, and from there we all scattered. I received my share of the money we had cached on the island, and bade my comrades farewell, only a few of whom I have ever seen since. Mr. Hitt in his notes of this same perilous trip says: When the grass had sufficiently started to insure the subsistence of our teams, our wagons were loaded with a miscellaneous assortment of merchandise and the first trader's caravan of wagons that ever crossed the plains left Independence. Before we had travelled three weeks on our journey, we were one evening confronted with the novel fact of camping in a country where not a stick of wood could be found. The grass was too green to burn, and we were wondering how our fire could be started with which to boil our coffee, or cook our bread. One of our number, however, while diligently searching for something to utilize, suddenly discovered scattered all around him a large quantity of buffalo-chips, and he soon had an excellent fire under way, his coffee boiling and his bacon sizzling over the glowing coals. We arrived in Santa Fe without incident, and as ours was the first train of wagons that ever traversed the narrow streets of the quaint old town, it was, of course, a great curiosity to the natives. After a few days' rest, sight-seeing, and purchasing stock to replace our own jaded animals, preparations were made for the return trip. All the money we had received for our goods was in gold and silver, principally the latter, in consequence of which, each member of the company had about as much as he could conveniently manage, and, as events turned out, much more than he could take care of. On the morning of the third day out, when we were not looking for the least trouble, our entire herd was stampeded, and we were left upon the prairie without as much as a single mule to pursue the fast-fleeing thieves. The Mexicans and Indians had come so suddenly upon us, and had made such an effective dash, that we stood like children who had broken their toys on a stone at their feet. We were so unprepared for such a stampede that the thieves did not approach within rifle-shot range of the camp to accomplish their object; few of them coming within sight, even. After the excitement had somewhat subsided and we began to realize what had been done, it was decided that while some should remain to guard the camp, others must go to Santa Fe to see if they could not recover the stock. The party that went to Santa Fe had no difficulty in recognizing the stolen animals; but when they claimed them, they were laughed at by the officials of the place. They experienced no difficulty, however, in purchasing the same stock for a small sum, which they at once did, and hurried back to camp. By this unpleasant episode we learned of the stealth and treachery of the miserable people in whose country we were. We, therefore, took every precaution to prevent a repetition of the affair, and kept up a vigilant guard night and day. Matters progressed very well, and when we had travelled some three hundred miles eastwardly, thinking we were out of range of any predatory bands, as we had seen no sign of any living thing, we relaxed our vigilance somewhat. One morning, just before dawn, the whole earth seemed to resound with the most horrible noises that ever greeted human ears; every blade of grass appeared to re-echo the horrid din. In a few moments every man was at his post, rifle in hand, ready for any emergency, and almost immediately a large band of Indians made their appearance, riding within rifle-shot of the wagons. A continuous battle raged for several hours, the savages discharging a shot, then scampering off out of range as fast as their ponies could carry them. Some, more brave than others would venture closer to the corral, and one of these got the contents of an old-fashioned flint-lock musket in his bowels. We were careful not all to fire at the same time, and several of our party, who were watching the effects of our shots declared they could see the dust fly out of the robes of the Indians as the bullets struck them. It was learned afterward that a number of the savages were wounded, and that several had died. Many were armed with bows and arrows only, and in order to do any execution were obliged to come near the corral. The Indians soon discovered they were getting the worst of the fight, and, having run off all the stock, abandoned the conflict, leaving us in possession of the camp, but it can hardly be said masters of the situation. There we were; thirty-five pioneers upon the wild prairie, surrounded by a wily and terribly cruel foe, without transportation of any character but our own legs, and with five hundred miles of dangerous, trackless waste between us and the settlements. We had an abundance of money, but the stuff was absolutely worthless for the present, as there was nothing we could buy with it. After the last savage had ridden away into the sand hills on the opposite side of the river, each one of us had a thrilling story to relate of his individual narrow escapes. Though none was killed, many received wounds, the scars of which they carried through life. I was wounded six times. Once was in the thigh by an arrow, and once while loading my rifle I had my ramrod shot off close to the muzzle of my piece, the ball just grazing my shoulder, tearing away a small portion of the skin. Others had equally curious experiences, but none were seriously injured. After the excitement incident to the battle had subsided, the realization of our condition fully dawned upon us. When we were first robbed, we were only a short distance from Santa Fe, where our money easily procured other stock; now there were three hundred miles behind us to that place, and the picture was anything but pleasant to contemplate. To transport supplies for thirty-five men seemed impossible. Our money was now a burden greater than we could bear; what was to be done with it? We would have no use for it on our way to the settlements, yet the idea of abandoning it seemed hard to accept. A vigilant guard was kept up that day and night, during which time we all remained in camp, fearing a renewal of the attack. The next morning, as there were no apparent signs of the Indians, it was decided to reconnoitre the surrounding country in the hope of recovering a portion, at least, of our lost stock, which we thought might have become separated from the main herd. Three men were detailed to stay in the old camp to guard it while the remainder, in squads, scoured the hills and ravines. Not a horse or mule was visible anywhere; the stampede had been complete--not even the direction the animals had taken could be discovered. It was late in the afternoon when I, having left my companions to continue the search and returning to camp alone, had gotten within a mile of it, that I thought I saw a horse feeding upon an adjoining hill. I at once turned my steps in that direction, and had proceeded but a short distance when three Indians jumped from their ambush in the grass between me and the wagons and ran after me. The men in camp had been watching my every movement, and as soon as they saw the savages were chasing me, they started in pursuit, running at their greatest speed to my rescue. The savages soon overtook me, and the first one that came up tackled me, but in an instant found himself flat on the ground. Before he could get up, the second one shared the same fate. By this time the third one arrived, and the two I had thrown grabbed me by the legs so that I could no longer handle myself, while the third one had a comparatively easy task in pushing me over. Fortunately, my head fell toward the camp and my fast-approaching comrades. The two Indians held my legs to prevent my rising, while the third one, who was standing over me, drew from his belt a tomahawk, and shrugging his head in his blanket, at the same time looking over his shoulder at my friends, with a tremendous effort and that peculiar grunt of all savages, plunged his hatchet, as he supposed, into my head, but instead of scuffling to free myself and rise to my feet, I merely turned my head to one side and the wicked weapon was buried in the ground, just grazing my ear. The Indian, seeing that he had missed, raised his hatchet and once more shrugging his head in his blanket, and turning to look over his other shoulder, attempted to strike again, but the blow was evaded by a sudden toss of his intended victim's head. Not satisfied with two abortive trials, the third attempt must be made to brain me, and repeating the same motions, with a great "Ugh!" he seemed to put all his strength into the blow, which, like the others, missed, and spent its force in the earth. By this time the rescuing party had come near enough to prevent the savage from risking another effort, and he then addressed the other Indians in Spanish, which I understood, saying, "We must run or the Americans will kill us!" and loosening his grasp, he scampered off with his companions as fast as his legs could take him, hurried on by several pieces of lead fired from the old flintlocks of the traders. By sundown every man had returned to the forlorn camp, but not an animal had been recovered. Then, with tired limbs and weary hearts, we took turns at guarding the wagons through the long night. The next morning each man shouldered his rifle, and having had his proportion of the provisions and cooking utensils assigned him, we broke camp, and again turned to take a last look at the country behind us, in which we had experienced so much misfortune, and started on foot for our long march through the dangerous region ahead of us. Scarcely had we gotten out of sight of our abandoned camp, when one of the party, happening to turn his eyes in that direction, saw a large volume of smoke rising in the vicinity; then we knew that all of our wagons, and everything we had been forced to leave, were burning up. This proved that, although we had been unable to discover any signs of Indians, they had been lurking around us all the time, and this fact warned us to exercise the utmost vigilance in guarding our persons. Though our burdens were very heavy, the first few days were passed without anything to relieve the dreadful monotony of our wearisome march; but each succeeding twenty-four hours our loads became visibly lighter, as our supplies were rapidly diminishing. It had already become apparent that even in the exercise of the greatest frugality, our stock of provisions would not last until we could reach the settlements, so some of the most expert shots were selected to hunt for game; but even in this they were not successful, the very birds seeming to have abandoned the country in its extreme desolation. After eight days' travel, despite our most rigid economy, an inventory showed that there was less than one hundred pounds of flour left. Day after day the hunters repeated the same old story: "No game!" For two weeks the allowance of flour to each individual was but a spoonful, stirred in water and taken three times a day. One afternoon, however, fortune smiled upon the weary party; one of the hunters returned to camp with a turkey he had killed. It was soon broiling over a fire which willing hands had kindled, and our drooping spirits were revived for a while. While the turkey was cooking, a crow flew over the camp, and one of the company, seizing a gun, despatched it, and in a few moments it, too, was sizzling along with the other bird. Now, in addition to the pangs of hunger, a scarcity of water confronted us, and one day we were compelled to resort to a buffalo-wallow and suck the moist clay where the huge animals had been stamping in the mud. We were much reduced in strength, yet each day added new difficulties to our forlorn situation. Some became so weak and exhausted that it was with the greatest effort they could travel at all. To divide the company and leave the more feeble behind to starve, or to be murdered by the merciless savages, was not considered for a moment; but one alternative remained, and that was speedily accepted. As soon as a convenient camping-ground could be found, a halt was made, shelter established, and things made as comfortable as possible. Here the weakest remained to rest, while some of the strongest scoured the surrounding country in search of game. During this temporary halt the hunters were more successful than before, having killed two buffaloes, besides some smaller animals, in one morning. Again the natural dry fuel of the prairies was called into requisition, and juicy steak was once more broiling over the fire. With an abundance to eat and a few days' rest, the whole company revived and were enabled to renew their march homeward. We were now in the buffalo range, and every day the hunters were fortunate enough to kill one or more of the immense animals, thus keeping our larder in excellent condition, and starvation averted. Doubting whether our good fortune in relation to food would continue for the remainder of our march, and our money becoming very cumbersome, it was decided by a majority that at the first good place we came to we would bury it and risk its being stolen by our enemies. When not more than half of our journey had been accomplished, we came to an island in the river to which we waded, and there, between two large trees, dug a hole and deposited our treasure. We replaced the sod over the spot, taking the utmost precaution to conceal every sign of having disturbed the ground. Though no Indians had been seen for several days, a sharp lookout was kept in all directions for fear that some lurking savage might have been watching our movements. This task finished, with much lighter burdens, but more anxious than ever, we again took up our march eastwardly, and, thus relieved, were able to carry a greater quantity of provisions. Having journeyed until we supposed we were within a few miles of the settlements, some of our number, scarcely able to travel, thought the best course to pursue would be to divide the company; one portion to press on, the weaker ones to proceed by easier stages, and when the advance arrived at the settlements, they were to send back a relief for those plodding on wearily behind them. Soon a few who were stronger than the others reached Independence, Missouri, and immediately sent a party with horses to bring in their comrades; so, at last, all got safely to their homes. In the spring of 1829, Major Bennett Riley of the United States army was ordered with four companies of the Sixth Regular Infantry to march out on the Trail as the first military escort ever sent for the protection of the caravans of traders going and returning between Western Missouri and Santa Fe. Captain Philip St. George Cooke, of the Dragoons, accompanied the command, and kept a faithful journal of the trip, from which, and the official report of Major Riley to the Secretary of War, I have interpolated here copious extracts. The journal of Captain Cooke states that the battalion marched from Fort Leavenworth, which was then called a cantonment, and, strange to say, had been abandoned by the Third Infantry on account of its unhealthiness. It was the 5th of June that Riley crossed the Missouri at the cantonment, and recrossed the river again at a point a little above Independence, in order to avoid the Kaw, or Kansas, which had no ferry. After five days' marching, the command arrived at Round Grove, where the caravan had been ordered to rendezvous and wait for the escort. The number of traders aggregated about seventy-nine men, and their train consisted of thirty-eight wagons drawn by mules and horses, the former preponderating. Five days' marching, at an average of fifteen miles a day, brought them to Council Grove. Leaving the Grove, in a short time Cow Creek was reached, which at that date abounded in fish; many of which, says the journal, "weighed several pounds, and were caught as fast as the line could be handled." The captain does not describe the variety to which he refers; probably they were the buffalo--a species of sucker, to be found to-day in every considerable stream in Kansas. Having reached the Upper Valley,[21] bordered by high sand hills, the journal continues: From the tops of the hills, we saw far away, in almost every direction, mile after mile of prairie, blackened with buffalo. One morning, when our march was along the natural meadows by the river, we passed through them for miles; they opened in front and closed continually in the rear, preserving a distance scarcely over three hundred paces. On one occasion, a bull had approached within two hundred yards without seeing us, until he ascended the river bank; he stood a moment shaking his head, and then made a charge at the column. Several officers stepped out and fired at him, two or three dogs also rushed to meet him; but right onward he came, snorting blood from mouth and nostril at every leap, and, with the speed of a horse and the momentum of a locomotive, dashed between two wagons, which the frightened oxen nearly upset; the dogs were at his heels and soon he came to bay, and, with tail erect, kicked violently for a moment, and then sank in death--the muscles retaining the dying rigidity of tension. About the middle of July, the command arrived at its destination--Chouteau's Island, then on the boundary line between the United States and New Mexico. Our orders were to march no further; and, as a protection to the trade, it was like the establishment of a ferry to the mid-channel of a river. Up to this time, traders had always used mules or horses. Our oxen were an experiment, and it succeeded admirably; they even did better when water was very scarce, which is an important consideration. A few hours after the departure of the trading company, as we enjoyed a quiet rest on a hot afternoon, we saw beyond the river a number of horsemen riding furiously toward our camp. We all flocked out of the tents to hear the news, for they were soon recognized as traders. They stated that the caravan had been attacked, about six miles off in the sand hills, by an innumerable host of Indians; that some of their companions had been killed; and they had run, of course, for help. There was not a moment's hesitation; the word was given, and the tents vanished as if by magic. The oxen which were grazing near by were speedily yoked to the wagons, and into the river we marched. Then I deemed myself the most unlucky of men; a day or two before, while eating my breakfast, with my coffee in a tin cup--notorious among chemists and campaigners for keeping it hot--it was upset into my shoe, and on pulling off the stocking, it so happened that the skin came with it. Being thus hors de combat, I sought to enter the combat on a horse, which was allowed; but I was put in command of the rear guard to bring up the baggage train. It grew late, and the wagons crossed slowly; for the river unluckily took that particular time to rise fast, and, before all were over, we had to swim it, and by moonlight. We reached the encampment at one o'clock at night. All was quiet, and remained so until dawn, when, at the sound of our bugles, the pickets reported they saw a number of Indians moving off. On looking around us, we perceived ourselves and the caravan in the most unfavorable defenceless situation possible--in the area of a natural amphitheatre of sand hills, about fifty feet high, and within gun-shot all around. There was the narrowest practicable entrance and outlet. We ascertained that some mounted traders, in spite of all remonstrance and command, had ridden on in advance, and when in the narrow pass beyond this spot, had been suddenly beset by about fifty Indians; all fled and escaped save one, who, mounted on a mule, was abandoned by his companions, overtaken, and slain. The Indians, perhaps, equalled the traders in number, but notwithstanding their extraordinary advantage of ground, dared not attack them when they made a stand among their wagons; and the latter, all well armed, were afraid to make a single charge, which would have scattered their enemies like sheep. Having buried the poor fellow's body, and killed an ox for breakfast, we left this sand hollow, which would soon have been roasting hot, and advancing through the defile--of which we took care to occupy the commanding ground-- proceeded to escort the traders at least one day's march further. When the next morning broke clear and cloudless, the command was confronted by one of those terrible hot winds, still frequent on the plains. The oxen with lolling tongues were incapable of going on; the train was halted, and the suffering animals unyoked, but they stood motionless, making no attempt to graze. Late that afternoon, the caravan pushed on for about ten miles, where was the sandy bed of a dry creek, and fortunately, not far from the Trail, up the stream, a pool of water and an acre or two of grass was discovered. On the surface of the water floated thick the dead bodies of small fish, which the intense heat of the sun that day had killed. Arriving at this point, it was determined to march no further into the Mexican territory. At the first light next day we were in motion to return to the river and the American line, and no further adventure befell us. While permanently encamped at Chouteau's Island, which is situated in the Arkansas River, the term of enlistment of four of the soldiers of Captain Cooke's command expired, and they were discharged. In his journal he says: Contrary to all advice they determined to return to Missouri. After having marched several hundred miles over a prairie country, being often on high hills commanding a vast prospect, without seeing a human being or a sign of one, and, save the trail we followed, not the slightest indication that the country had ever been visited by man, it was exceedingly difficult to credit that lurking foes were around us, and spying our motions. It was so with these men; and being armed, they set out on the first of August on foot for the settlements. That same night three of the four returned. They reported that, after walking about fifteen miles, they were surrounded by thirty mounted Indians. A wary old soldier of their number succeeded in extricating them before any hostile act had been committed; but one of them, highly elated and pleased at their forbearance, insisted on returning among them to give them tobacco and shake hands. In this friendly act he was shot down. The Indians stripped him in an incredibly short time, and as quickly dispersed to avoid a shot; and the old soldier, after cautioning the others to reserve their fire, fired among them, and probably with some effect. Had the others done the same, the Indians would have rushed upon them before they could have reloaded. They managed to make good their retreat in safety to our camp. We were instructed to wait here for the return of the caravan, which was expected early in October. Our provisions consisted of salt and half rations of flour, besides a reserve of fifteen days' full rations--as to the rest, we were dependent upon hunting. When the buffalo became scarce, or the grass bad, we marched to other ground, thus roving up and down the river for eighty miles. The first thing we did after camping was to dig and construct, with flour barrels, a well in front of each company; water was always found at the depth of from two to four feet varying with the corresponding height of the river, but clear and cool. Next we would build sod fire-places; these, with network platforms of buffalo hide, used for smoking and drying meat, formed a tolerable additional defence, at least against mounted men. Hunting was a military duty, done by detail, parties of fifteen or twenty going out with a wagon. Completely isolated, and beyond support or even communication, in the midst of many thousands of Indians, the utmost vigilance was maintained. Officer of the guard every fourth night; I was always awake and generally in motion the whole time of duty. Night alarms were frequent; when, as we all slept in our clothes, we were accustomed to assemble instantly, and with scarcely a word spoken, take our places in the grass in front of each face of the camp, where, however wet, we sometimes lay for hours. While encamped a few miles below Chouteau's Island, on the eleventh of August, an alarm was given, and we were under arms for an hour until daylight. During the morning, Indians were seen a mile or two off, leading their horses through the ravines. A captain, however, with eighteen men was sent across the river after buffalo, which we saw half a mile distant. In his absence, a large body of Indians came galloping down the river, as if to charge the camp, but the cattle were secured in good time. A company, of which I was lieutenant, was ordered to cross the river and support the first. We waded in some disorder through the quicksands and current, and just as we neared a dry sandbar in the middle, a volley was fired at us by a band of Indians, who that moment rode to the water's edge. The balls whistled very near, but without damage; I felt an involuntary twitch of the neck, and wishing to return the compliment instantly, I stooped down, and the company fired over my head, with what execution was not perceived, as the Indians immediately retired out of our view. This had passed in half a minute, and we were astonished to see, a little above, among some bushes on the same bar, the party we had been sent to support, and we heard that they had abandoned one of the hunters, who had been killed. We then saw, on the bank we had just left, a formidable body of the enemy in close order, and hoping to surprise them, we ascended the bed of the river. In crossing the channel we were up to the arm-pits, but when we emerged on the bank, we found that the Indians had detected the movement, and retreated. Casting eyes beyond the river, I saw a number of the Indians riding on both sides of a wagon and team which had been deserted, urging the animals rapidly toward the hills. At this juncture the adjutant sent an order to cross and recover the body of the slain hunter, who was an old soldier and a favourite. He was brought in with an arrow still transfixing his breast, but his scalp was gone. On the fourteenth of October, we again marched on our return. Soon after, we saw smokes arise over the distant hills; evidently signals, indicating to different parties of Indians our separation and march, but whether preparatory to an attack upon the Mexicans or ourselves, or rather our immense drove of animals, we could only guess. Our march was constantly attended by great collections of buffalo, which seemed to have a general muster, perhaps for migration. Sometimes a hundred or two--a fragment from the multitude--would approach within two or three hundred yards of the column, and threaten a charge which would have proved disastrous to the mules and their drivers. Under the friendly cover of the shades of evening, on the eighth of November, our tatterdemalion veterans marched into Fort Leavenworth, and took quiet possession of the miserable huts and sheds left by the Third Infantry in the preceding May. CHAPTER VI. A ROMANTIC TRAGEDY. As early as November, 1842, a rumour was current in Santa Fe, and along the line of the Trail, that parties of Texans had left the Republic for the purpose of attacking and robbing the caravans to the United States which were owned wholly by Mexicans. In consequence of this, several Americans were accused of being spies and acting in collusion with the Texans; many were arrested and carried to Santa Fe, but nothing could be proved against them, and the rumours of the intended purposes of the Texans died out. Very early in May, however, of the following year, 1843, a certain Colonel Snively did organize a small force, comprising about two hundred men, which he led from Northern Texas, his home, to the line of the Trail, with the intention of attacking and robbing the Mexican caravans which were expected to cross the plains that month and in June. When he arrived at the Arkansas River, he was there reinforced by another Texan colonel, named Warfield with another small command. Gregg says: This officer, with about twenty men, had some time previously attacked the village of Mora, on the Mexican frontier, killing five men, and driving off a number of horses. They were afterward followed by a party of Mexicans, however, who stampeded and carried away, not only their own horses, but those of the Texans. Being left afoot, the latter burned their saddles, and walked to Bent's Fort, where they were disbanded; whence Warfield passed to Snively's camp, as before mentioned. The Texans now advanced along the Santa Fe Trail, beyond the sand hills south of the Arkansas, when they discovered that a party of Mexicans had passed toward the river. They soon came upon them, and a skirmish ensuing, eighteen Mexicans were killed, and as many wounded, five of whom afterward died. The Texans suffered no injury, though the Mexicans were a hundred in number. The rest were all taken prisoners except two, who escaped and bore the news to General Armijo, who was encamped with a large force at Cold Spring, one hundred and forty miles beyond. Kit Carson figured conspicuously in this fight, or, rather, immediately afterward. His recital differs somewhat from Gregg's account, but the stories substantially agree. Kit said that in April, previously to the assault upon Armijo's caravan, he had hired out as hunter to Bent's and Colonel St. Vrain's train caravan, which was then making its annual tour eastwardly. When he arrived at the crossing of Walnut Creek,[22] he found the encampment of Captain Philip St. George Cooke, of the United States army, who had been detailed with his command to escort the caravans to the New Mexican boundary. His force consisted of four troops of dragoons. The captain informed Carson that coming on behind him from the States was a caravan belonging to a very wealthy Mexican. It was a richly loaded train, and in order to insure its better protection while passing through that portion of the country infested by the blood-thirsty Comanches and Apaches, the majordomo in charge had hired one hundred Mexicans as a guard. The teamsters and others belonging to the caravan had heard that a large body of Texans were lying in wait for them, and intended to murder and plunder them in retaliation for the way Armijo had treated some Texan prisoners he had got in his power at Santa Fe some time before. Of course, it was the duty of the United States troops to escort this caravan to the New Mexico line, but there their duty would end, as they had no authority to cross the border. The Mexicans belonging to the caravan were afraid they would be at the mercy of the Texans after they had parted company with the soldiers, and when Kit Carson met them, they, knowing the famous trapper and mountaineer well, asked him to take a letter to Armijo, who was then governor of New Mexico, and resided in Santa Fe, for which service they would give him three hundred dollars in advance. The letter contained a statement of the fears they entertained, and requested the general to send Mexican troops at once to meet them. Carson, who was then not blessed with much money, eagerly accepted the task, and immediately started on the trail for Bent's Fort, in company with another old mountaineer and bosom friend named Owens. In a short time they arrived at the Fort, where Owens decided not to go any further, because they were informed by the men at Bent's that the Utes had broken out, and were scattered along the Trail at the most dangerous points, and he was fearful that his life would be endangered if he attempted to make Santa Fe. Kit, however, nothing daunted, and determined to do the duty for which he had been rewarded so munificently, started out alone on his perilous trip. Mr. Bent kindly furnished him with the best and fastest horse he had in his stables, but Kit, realizing the dangers to which he would be exposed, walked, leading his animal, ready to mount him at a moment's notice; thus keeping him in a condition that would enable Carson to fly and make his escape if the savages tried to capture him. His knowledge of the Indian character, and wonderful alertness in moments of peril, served him well; for he reached the village of the hostile Indians without their discovering his proximity. Hiding himself in a rocky, bush-covered canyon, he stayed there until night came on, when he continued his journey in the darkness. He took the trail to Taos, where he arrived in two or three days, and presented his letter to the alcalde, to be sent on to Santa Fe by special messenger. He was to remain at Taos until an answer from the governor arrived, and then return with it as rapidly as possible to the train. While at Taos, he was informed that Armijo had already sent out a company of one hundred soldiers to meet the caravan, and was to follow in person, with a thousand more. This first hundred were those attacked by Colonel Snively, as related by Gregg, who says that two survived, who carried the news of the disaster to Armijo at Cold Spring; but Carson told me that only one got away, by successfully catching, during the heat of the fight, a Texan pony already saddled, that was grazing around loose. With him he made Armijo's camp and related to the Mexican general the details of the terribly unequal battle. Armijo, upon receipt of the news, "turned tail," and retreated to Santa Fe. Before Armijo left Santa Fe with his command, he had received the letter which Carson had brought from the caravan, and immediately sent one in reply for Carson to carry back, thinking that the old mountaineer might reach the wagons before he did. Carson, with his usual promptness, started on the Trail for the caravan, and came up with it while it was escorted by the dragoons, thus saving it from the fate that the Texans intended for it, as they dared not attempt any interference in the presence of the United States troops. The rumour current in Santa Fe in relation to a probable raid of parties of Texans along the line of the Trail, for the purpose of attacking and robbing the caravans of the wealthy Mexican traders, was received with so little credence by the prominent citizens of the country, that several native trains left for the Missouri River without their proprietors having the slightest apprehension that they would not reach their destination, and make the return trip in safety. Among those who had no fear of marauders was Don Antonio Jose Chavez, who, in February, 1843, left Santa Fe for Independence with an outfit consisting of a number of wagons, his private coach, several servants and other retainers. Don Antonio was a very wealthy Mexican engaged in a general mercantile business on a large scale in Albuquerque, who made all his purchases of goods in St. Louis, which was then the depot of supplies for the whole mountain region. He necessarily carried with him on these journeys a large amount of money, in silver, which was the legal currency of the country, and made but one trip yearly to replenish the stock of goods required in his extensive trade in all parts of Mexico. Upon his arrival at Westport Landing, as Kansas City was then called, he would take the steamboat for St. Louis, leaving his coach, wagons, servants, and other appointments of his caravan behind him in the village of Westport, a few miles from the Landing. Westport was at that time, like all steamboat towns in the era of water navigation, the harbor of as great a lot of ruffians as ever escaped the gallows. There was especially a noted gang of land pirates, the members of which had long indulged in speculations regarding the probable wealth of the Mexican Don, and how much coin he generally carried with him. They knew that it must be considerable from the quantity of goods that always came by boat with him from St. Louis. At last a devilish plot was arranged to get hold of the rich trader's money. Nine men were concerned in the robbery, nearly all of whom were residents of the vicinity of Westport; their leader was one John McDaniel, recently from Texas, from which government he claimed to hold a captain's commission, and one of their number was a doctor. It was evidently the intention of this band to join Warfield's party on the Arkansas, and engage in a general robbery of the freight caravans of the Santa Fe Trail belonging to the Mexicans; but they had determined that Chavez should be their first victim, and in order to learn when he intended to leave Santa Fe on his next trip east, they sent their spies out on the great highway. They did not dare attempt their contemplated robbery, and murder if necessary, in the State of Missouri, for there were too many citizens of the border who would never have permitted such a thing to go unpunished; so they knew that their only chance was to effect it in the Indian country of Kansas, where there was little or no law. Cow Creek, which debouches into the Arkansas at Hutchinson, where the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railroad crosses the historic little stream,[23] was, like Big and Little Coon creeks, a most dangerous point in the transcontinental passage of freight caravans and overland coaches, in the days of the commerce of the prairies. It was on this purling little prairie brook that McDaniel's band lay in wait for the arrival of the ill-fated Don Antonio, whose imposing equipage came along, intending to encamp on the bank, one of the usual stopping-places on the route. The Don was taken a few miles south of the Trail, and his baggage rifled. All of his party were immediately murdered, but the wealthy owner of the caravan was spared for a few moments in order to make a confession of where his money was concealed, after which he was shot down in cold blood, and his body thrown into a ravine. It appears, however, that the ruffians had not completed their bloody work so effectually as they thought; for one of the Mexican's teamsters escaped, and, making his way to Leavenworth, reported the crime, and was soon on his way back to the Trail, guiding a detachment of United States troops in pursuit of the murderers. John Hobbs, scout, trapper, and veteran plainsman, happened to be hunting buffalo on Pawnee Fork, on the ground where Larned is now situated, with a party from Bent's Fort. They were just on the point of crossing the Trail at the mouth of the Pawnee when the soldiers from Fort Leavenworth came along, and from them Hobbs and his companions first learned of the murder of Chavez on Cow Creek. As the men who were out hunting were all familiar with every foot of the region they were then in, the commanding officer of the troops induced them to accompany him in his search for the murderers. Hobbs and his men cheerfully accepted the invitation, and in about four days met the band of cut-throats on the broad Trail, they little dreaming that the government had taken a hand in the matter. The band tried to escape by flight, but Hobbs shot the doctor's horse from under him, and a soldier killed another member of the band, when the remainder surrendered. The money, about twelve or fifteen thousand dollars,[24] was all recovered, and the murderers taken to St. Louis, where some were hung and some imprisoned, the doctor escaping the death penalty by turning state's evidence. His sentence was incarceration in the penitentiary, from which he was pardoned after remaining there two years. Hobbs met the doctor some years after in San Francisco. He was then leading an honest life, publishing a newspaper, and begged his captor not to expose him. The money taken from the robbers was placed in charge of Colonel Owens, a friend of the Chavez family and a leading Santa Fe trader. He continued on to the river, purchased a stock of goods, and sent back the caravan to Santa Fe in charge of Doctor Conley of Boonville, Missouri. Arriving at his destination, the widow of the deceased Chavez employed the good doctor to sell the goods and take the sole supervision of her immense business interests, and there is a touch of romance attached to the terrible Kansas tragedy, which lies in the fact that the doctor in about two years married the rich widow, and lived very happily for about a decade, dying then on one of the large estates in New Mexico, which he had acquired by his fortunate union with the amiable Mexican lady. CHAPTER VII. MEXICO DECLARES WAR. Mexico declared war against the United States in April, 1846. In the following May, Congress passed an act authorizing the President to call into the field fifty thousand volunteers, designed to operate against Mexico at three distinct points, and consisting of the Southern Wing, or the Army of Occupation, the Army of the Centre, and the Army of the West, the latter to direct its march upon the city of Santa Fe. The original plan was, however, somewhat changed, and General Kearney, who commanded the Army of the West, divided his forces into three separate commands. The first he led in person to the Pacific coast. One thousand volunteers, under command of Colonel A. W. Doniphan, were to make a descent upon the State of Chihuahua, while the remainder and greater part of the forces, under Colonel Sterling Price, were to garrison Santa Fe after its capture. There is a pretty fiction told of the breaking out of the war between Mexico and the United States. Early in the spring of 1846, before it was known or even conjectured that a state of war would be declared to exist between this government and Mexico, a caravan of twenty-nine traders, on their way from Independence to Santa Fe, beheld, just after a storm and a little before sunset, a perfectly distinct image of the Bird of Liberty, the American eagle, on the disc of the sun. When they saw it they simultaneously and almost involuntarily exclaimed that in less than twelve months the Eagle of Liberty would spread his broad plumes over the plains of the West, and that the flag of our country would wave over the cities of New Mexico and Chihuahua. The student of the classics will remember that just before the assassination of Julius Caesar, both Brutus and Cassius, while in their places in the Roman Senate, saw chariots of fire in the sky. One story is as true, probably, as the other, though separated by centuries of time. The Army of the West, under General Stephen W. Kearney, consisted of two batteries of artillery, commanded by Major Clark; three squadrons of the First United States Dragoons, commanded by Major Sumner; the First Regiment of Missouri Cavalry, commanded by Colonel Doniphan, and two companies of infantry, commanded by Captain Aubrey. This force marched in detached columns from Fort Leavenworth, and on the 1st of August, 1846, concentrated in camp on the Santa Fe Trail, nine miles below Bent's Fort. Accompanying the expedition was a party of the United States topographical engineers, under command of Lieutenant W. H. Emory.[25] In writing of this expedition, so far as its march relates to the Old Santa Fe Trail, I shall quote freely from Emory's report and Doniphan's historian.[26] The practicability of marching a large army over the waste, uncultivated, uninhabited prairie regions of the West was universally regarded as problematical, but the expedition proved completely successful. Provisions were conveyed in wagons, and beef-cattle driven along for the use of the men. These animals subsisted entirely by grazing. To secure them from straying off at night, they were driven into corrals formed of the wagons, or tethered to an iron picket-pin driven into the ground about fifteen inches. At the outset of the expedition many laughable scenes took place. Our horses were generally wild, fiery, and unused to military trappings and equipments. Amidst the fluttering of banners, the sounding of bugles, the rattling of artillery, the clattering of sabres and also of cooking utensils, some of them took fright and scampered pell-mell over the wide prairie. Rider, arms and accoutrements, saddles, saddle-bags, tin cups, and coffee-pots, were frequently left far behind in the chase. No very serious or fatal accident, however, occurred from this cause, and all was right as soon as the affrighted animals were recovered. The Army of the West was, perhaps, composed of as fine material as any other body of troops then in the field. The volunteer corps consisted almost entirely of young men of the country. On the 9th of July, a separate detachment of the troops arrived at the Little Arkansas, where the Santa Fe Trail crosses that stream--now in McPherson County, Kansas. The mosquitoes, gnats, and black flies swarmed in that locality and nearly drove the men and animals frantic. While resting there, a courier came from the commands of General Kearney and Colonel Doniphan, stating that their men were in a starving condition, and asking for such provisions as could be spared. Lieutenant-Colonel Ruff of Doniphan's regiment, in command of the troops now camped on the Little Arkansas, was almost destitute himself. He had sent couriers forward to Pawnee Fork to stop a train of provisions at that point and have it wait there until he came up with his force, and he now directed the courier from Kearney to proceed to the same place and halt as many wagons loaded with supplies, as would suffice to furnish the three detachments with rations. One of the couriers, in attempting to ford the fork of the Pawnee, which was bank-full, was drowned. His body was found and given a military funeral; he was the first man lost on the expedition after it had reached the great plains, one having been drowned in the Missouri, at Fort Leavenworth, before the troops left. The author of _Doniphan's Expedition_ says: In approaching the Arkansas, a landscape of the most imposing and picturesque nature makes its appearance. While the green, glossy undulations of the prairie to the right seem to spread out in infinite succession, like waves subsiding after a storm, and covered with herds of gambolling buffalo, on the left, towering to the height of seventy-five to a hundred feet, rise the sun-gilt summits of the sand hills, along the base of which winds the broad, majestic river, bespeckled with verdant islets, thickly beset with cottonwood timber, the sand hills resembling heaps of driven snow. I refer to this statement to show how wonderfully the settlement of the region has changed the physical aspect of that portion bordering the Arkansas River. Now those sand hills are covered with verdure, and this metamorphosis has taken place within the last thirty years; for the author of this work well remembers how the great sand dunes used to shine in the sunlight, when he first saw them a third of a century ago. In coming from Fort Leavenworth up the Smoky Hill route to the Santa Fe Trail, where the former joined the latter at Pawnee Rock, the contour of the Arkansas could be easily traced by the white sand hills referred to, long before it was reached. On the 15th of July the combined forces formed a junction at Pawnee Fork, now within the city limits of Larned, Kansas. The river was impassable, but General Kearney, with the characteristic energy of his family, determined not to be delayed, and to that end caused great trees to be cut down and their trunks thrown across the stream, over which the army passed, carrying in their arms the sick, the baggage, tents, and other paraphernalia; the animals being forced to swim. The empty bodies of the wagons, fastened to their running gear, were floated across by means of ropes, and hauled up the slippery bank by the troops. This required two whole days; and on the morning of the 17th, not an accident having occurred, the entire column was en route again, the infantry, as is declared in the official reports, keeping pace with the cavalry right along. Their feet, however, became terribly blistered, and, like the Continentals at Valley Forge, their tracks were marked with blood. In a day or two after the command had left Pawnee Fork, while camping in a beautiful spot on the bank of the Arkansas, an officer, Major Howard, who had been sent forward to Santa Fe some time previously by the general to learn something of the feeling of the people in relation to submitting to the government of the United States, returned and reported that the common people, or plebeians, were inclined to favour the conditions of peace proposed by General Kearney; viz. that if they would lay down their arms and take the oath of allegiance to the government of the United States, they should, to all intents and purposes, become citizens of the same republic, receiving the protection and enjoying the liberties guaranteed to other American citizens; but that the patricians who held the offices and ruled the country were hostile, and were making warlike preparations. He added, further, that two thousand three hundred men were already armed for the defence of the capital, and that others were assembling at Taos. This intelligence created quite a sensation in camp, and it was believed, and earnestly hoped, that the entrance of the troops into Santa Fe would be desperately opposed; such is the pugnacious character of the average American the moment he dons the uniform of a soldier. The army arrived at the Cimarron crossing of the Arkansas on the 20th, and during the march of nearly thirty miles from their last camp, a herd of about four hundred buffalo suddenly emerged from the Arkansas, and broke through the long column. In an instant the troops charged upon the surprised animals with guns, pistols, and even drawn sabres, and many of the huge beasts were slaughtered as they went dashing and thundering among the excited troopers and infantrymen. On the 29th an express from Bent's Fort brought news to General Kearney from Santa Fe that Governor Armijo had called the chief men together to deliberate on the best means of defending the city; that hostile preparations were rapidly going on in all parts of New Mexico; and that the American advance would be vigorously opposed. Some Mexican prisoners were taken near Bent's Fort, with blank letters on their persons addressed to the general; it was supposed this piece of ingenuity was resorted to to deceive the American residents at the fort. These men were thought to be spies sent out from Santa Fe to get an idea of the strength of the army; so they were shown everything in and around camp, and then allowed to depart in peace for Santa Fe, to report what they had seen. On the same date, the Army of the West crossed the Arkansas and camped on Mexican soil about eight miles below Bent's Fort, and now the utmost vigilance was exercised; for the troops had not only to keep a sharp lookout for the Mexicans, but for the wily Comanches, in whose country their camp was located. Strong picket and camp guards were posted, and the animals turned loose to graze, guarded by a large force. Notwithstanding the care taken to confine them within certain limits, a pack of wolves rushed through the herd, and in an instant it was stampeded, and there ensued a scene of the wildest confusion. More than a thousand horses were dashing madly over the prairie, their rage and fright increased at every jump by the lariats and picket-pins which they had pulled up, and which lashed them like so many whips. After desperate exertions by the troops, the majority were recovered from thirty to fifty miles distant; nearly a hundred, however, were absolutely lost and never seen again. At this camp the troops were visited by the war chief of the Arapahoes, who manifested great surprise at the big guns, and declared that the Mexicans would not stand a moment before such terrible instruments of death, but would escape to the mountains with the utmost despatch. On the 1st of August a new camp near Bent's Fort was established, from whence twenty men under Lieutenant de Courcy, with orders to proceed through the mountains to the valley of Taos, to learn something of the disposition and intentions of the people, and to rejoin General Kearney on the road to Santa Fe. Lieutenant de Courcy, in his official itinerary, relates the following anecdote: We took three pack-mules laden with provisions, and as we did not expect to be long absent, the men took no extra clothing. Three days after we left the column our mules fell down, and neither gentle means nor the points of our sabres had the least effect in inducing them to rise. Their term of service with Uncle Sam was out. "What's to be done?" said the sergeant. "Dismount!" said I. "Off with your shirts and drawers, men! tie up the sleeves and legs, and each man bag one-twentieth part of the flour!" Having done this, the bacon was distributed to the men also, and tied to the cruppers of their saddles. Thus loaded, we pushed on, without the slightest fear of our provision train being cut off. The march upon Santa Fe was resumed on the 2d of August. As we passed Bent's Fort the American flag was raised, in compliment to our troops, and, like our own, streamed most animatingly in the gale that swept from the desert, while the tops of the houses were crowded with Mexican girls and Indian squaws, intently beholding the American army. On the 15th of the month, the army neared Las Vegas; when two spies who had been sent on in advance to see how matters stood returned and reported that two thousand Mexicans were camped at the pass a few miles beyond the village, where they intended to offer battle. Upon receipt of this news, the general immediately formed a line of battle. The United States dragoons with the St. Louis mounted volunteers were stationed in front, Major Clark with the battalion of volunteer light artillery in the centre, and Colonel Doniphan's regiment in the rear. The companies of volunteer infantry were deployed on each side of the line of march as flankers. The supply trains were next in order, with Captain Walton's mounted company as rear guard. There was also a strong advance guard. The cartridges were hastily distributed; the cannon swabbed and rigged; the port-fires burning, and every rifle loaded. In passing through the streets of the curious-looking village of Las Vegas, the army was halted, and from the roof of a large house General Kearney administered to the chief officers of the place the oath of allegiance to the United States, using the sacred cross instead of the Bible. This act completed, on marched the exultant troops toward the canyon where it had been promised them that they should meet the enemy. On the night of the 16th, while encamped on the Pecos River, near the village of San Jose, the pickets captured a son of the Mexican General Salezar, who was acting the rôle of a spy, and two other soldiers of the Mexican army. Salezar was kept a close prisoner; but the two privates were by order of General Kearney escorted through the camp and shown the cannon, after which they were allowed to depart, so that they might tell what they had seen. It was learned afterward that they represented the American army as composed of five thousand troops, and possessing so many cannons that they were not able to count them. When Armijo was certain that the Army of the West was really approaching Santa Fe, he assembled seven thousand troops, part of them well armed, and the remainder indifferently so. The Mexican general had written a note to General Kearney the day before the capture of the spies, saying that he would meet him on the following day. General Kearney, at this, hastened on, arriving at the mouth of the Apache canyon at noon, with his whole force ready and anxious to try the mettle of the Mexicans in battle. Emory in his _Reconnoissance_ says: The sun shone with dazzling brightness; the guidons and colours of each squadron, regiment, and battalion were for the first time unfurled. The drooping horses seemed to take courage from the gay array. The trumpeters sounded "to horse" with spirit, and the hills multiplied and re-echoed the call. All wore the aspect of a gala day. About the middle of the day's march the two Pueblo Indians, previously sent to sound the chief men of that formidable tribe, were seen in the distance, at full speed, with arms and legs both thumping the sides of their mules at every stride. Something was now surely in the wind. The smaller and foremost of the two dashed up to the general, his face radiant with joy, and exclaimed: "They are in the canyon, my brave; pluck up your courage and push them out." As soon as his extravagant delight at the prospect of a fight, and the pleasure of communicating the news, had subsided, he gave a pretty accurate idea of Armijo's force and position. Shortly afterwards a rumour reached the camp that the two thousand Mexicans assembled in the canyon to oppose us, have quarrelled among themselves; and that Armijo, taking advantage of the dissensions, has fled with his dragoons and artillery to the south. It is well known that he has been averse to a battle, but some of his people threatened his life if he refused to fight. He had been, for some days, more in fear of his own people than of the American army, having seen what they are blind to--the hopelessness of resistance. As we approached the ancient town of Pecos, a large fat fellow, mounted on a mule, came toward us at full speed, and, extending his hand to the general, congratulated him on the arrival of himself and army. He said with a roar of laughter, "Armijo and his troops have gone to h---ll, and the canyon is all clear." On reaching the canyon, it was found to be true that the Mexican troops had dispersed and fled to the mountains, just as the old Arapahoe chief had said they would. There, however, they commenced to fortify, by chopping away the timber so that their artillery could play to better advantage upon the American lines, and by throwing up temporary breastworks. It was ascertained afterward, on undoubted authority, that Armijo had an army of nearly seven thousand Mexicans, with six pieces of artillery, and the advantage of ground, yet he allowed General Kearney, with a force of less than two thousand, to march through the almost impregnable gorge, and on to the capital of the Province, without any attempt to oppose him. Thus was New Mexico conquered with but little loss relatively. For the further details of the movements of the Army of the West, the reader is referred to general history, as this book, necessarily, treats only of that portion of its march and the incidents connected with it while travelling the Santa Fe Trail. CHAPTER VIII. THE VALLEY OF TAOS. The principal settlement in New Mexico, immediately after it was reconquered from the Indians by the Spaniards, was, of course, Santa Fe, and ranking second to it, that of the beautiful Valle de Taos, which derived its name from the Taosa Indians, a few of whose direct descendants are still occupying a portion of the region. As the pioneers in the trade with Santa Fe made their first journeys to the capital of the Province by the circuitous route of the Taos valley, and the initial consignments of goods from the Missouri were disposed of in the little villages scattered along the road, the story of the Trail would be deficient in its integrity were the thrilling historical facts connected with the romantic region omitted. The reader will find on all maps, from the earliest published to the latest issued by the local railroads, a town with the name of Taos, which never had an existence. Fernandez de Taos is the chief city, which has been known so long by the title of the valley that perhaps the misnomer is excusable after many years' use. Fernandez, or Taos as it is called, was once famous for its distilleries of whiskey, made out of the native wheat, a raw, fiery spirit, always known in the days of the Santa Fe trade as "Taos lightning," which was the most profitable article of barter with the Indians, who exchanged their buffalo robes and other valuable furs for a supply of it, at a tremendous sacrifice. According to the statement of Gregg, the first white settler of the fertile and picturesque valley was a Spaniard named Pando, who established himself there about 1745. This primitive pioneer of the northern part of the Province was constantly exposed to the raids of the powerful Comanches, but succeeded in creating a temporary friendship with the tribe by promising his daughter, then a young and beautiful infant, to the chief in marriage when she arrived at a suitable age. At the time for the ratification of her father's covenant with the Indians, however, the maiden stubbornly refused to fulfil her part. The savages, enraged at the broken faith of the Spaniard, immediately swept down upon the little settlement and murdered everybody there except the betrothed girl, whom they carried off into captivity. She was forced to live with the chief as his wife, but he soon became tired of her and traded her for another woman with the Pawnees, who, in turn, sold her to a Frenchman, a resident of St. Louis. It is said that some of the most respectable families of that city are descended from her, and fifty years ago there were many people living who remembered the old lady, and her pathetic story of trials and sufferings when with the Indians. The most tragic event in the history of the valley was the massacre of the provisional governor of the Territory of New Mexico, with a number of other Americans, shortly after its occupation by the United States. Upon General Kearney's taking possession of Santa Fe, acting under the authority of the President, he established a civil government and put it into operation. Charles Bent was appointed governor, and the other offices filled by Americans and Mexicans who were rigidly loyal to the political change. At this time the command of the troops devolved upon Colonel Sterling Price, Colonel Doniphan, who ranked him, having departed from Santa Fe on an expedition against the Navajoes. Notwithstanding the apparent submission of the natives of New Mexico, there were many malcontents among them and the Pueblo Indians, and early in December, some of the leaders, dissatisfied with the change in the order of things, held secret meetings and formulated plots to overthrow the existing government. Midnight of the 24th of December was the time appointed for the commencement of their revolutionary work, which was to be simultaneous all over the country. The profoundest secrecy was to be preserved, and the most influential men, whose ambition induced them to seek preferment, were alone to be made acquainted with the plot. No woman was to be privy to it, lest it should be divulged. The sound of the church bell was to be the signal, and at midnight all were to enter the Plaza at the same moment, seize the pieces of artillery, and point them into the streets. The time chosen for the assault was Christmas-eve, when the soldiers and garrison would be indulging in wine and feasting, and scattered about through the city at the fandangoes, not having their arms in their hands. All the Americans, without distinction, throughout the State, and such New Mexicans as had favoured the American government and accepted office by appointment of General Kearney, were to be massacred or driven from the country, and the conspirators were to seize upon and occupy the government. The conspiracy was detected in the following manner: a mulatto girl, residing in Santa Fe, had married one of the conspirators, and had by degrees obtained a knowledge of their movements and secret meetings. To prevent the effusion of blood, which would inevitably be the result of a revolution, she communicated to Colonel Price all the facts of which she was in possession, and warned him to use the utmost vigilance. The rebellion was immediately suppressed, but the restless and unsatisfied ambition of the leaders of the conspiracy did not long permit them to remain inactive. A second and still more dangerous conspiracy was formed. The most powerful and influential men in the State favoured the design, and even the officers of State and the priests gave their aid and counsel. The people everywhere, in the towns, villages, and settlements, were exhorted to arm and equip themselves; to strike for their faith, their religion, and their altars; and drive the "heretics," the "unjust invaders of the country," from their soil, and with fire and sword pursue them to annihilation. On the 18th of January this rebellion broke out in every part of the State simultaneously. On the 14th of January, Governor Bent, believing the conspiracy completely crushed, with an escort of five persons--among whom were the sheriff and circuit attorney--had left Santa Fe to visit his family, who resided at Fernandez. On the 19th, he was early roused from sleep by the populace, who, with the aid of the Pueblos of Taos, were collected in front of his dwelling striving to gain admittance. While they were effecting an entrance, he, with an axe, cut through an adobe wall into another house; and the Mexican wife of the occupant, a clever though shiftless Canadian, hearing him, with all her strength rendered him assistance. He retreated to a room, but, seeing no way of escaping from the infuriated assailants, who fired upon him from a window, he spoke to his weeping wife and trembling children, and, taking paper from his pocket, endeavoured to write; but fast losing strength, he commended them to God and his brothers and fell, pierced by a ball from a Pueblo. Then rushing in and tearing off his gray-haired scalp, the Indians bore it away in triumph. The circuit attorney, T. W. Leal, was scalped alive and dragged through the streets, his relentless persecutors pricking him with lances. After hours of suffering, they threw him aside in the inclement weather, he imploring them earnestly to kill him to end his misery. A compassionate Mexican at last closed the tragic scene by shooting him. Stephen Lee, brother to the general, was killed on his own housetop. Narcisse Beaubien, son of the presiding judge of the district, hid in an outhouse with his Indian slave, at the commencement of the massacre, under a straw-covered trough. The insurgents on the search, thinking that they had escaped, were leaving, but a woman servant of the family, going to the housetop, called to them, "Kill the young ones, and they will never be men to trouble us." They swarmed back and, by cruelly putting to death and scalping him and his slave, added two more to the list of unfortunate victims. The Pueblos and Mexicans, after their cruelties at Fernandez de Taos, attacked and destroyed Turley's Ranch on the Arroyo Hondo[27] twelve miles from Fernandez, or Taos. Arroyo Hondo runs along the base of a ridge of a mountain of moderate elevation, which divides the valley of Taos from that of the Rio Colorado, or Red River, both flowing into the Del Norte. The trail from one place to the other passes over the mountain, which is covered with pine, cedar, and a species of dwarf oak; and numerous little streams run through the many canyons. On the bank of one of the creeks was a mill and distillery belonging to an American named Turley, who did a thriving business. He possessed herds of goats, and hogs innumerable; his barns were filled with grain, his mill with flour, and his cellars with whiskey. He had a Mexican wife and several children, and he bore the reputation of being one of the most generous and kind-hearted of men. In times of scarcity, no one ever sought his aid to be turned away empty-handed; his granaries were always open to the hungry, and his purse to the poor. When on their road to Turley's, the Pueblos murdered two men, named Harwood and Markhead. Markhead was one of the most successful trappers and daring men among the old mountaineers. They were on their way to Taos with their pack-animals laden with furs, when the savages, meeting them, after stripping them of their goods, and securing their arms by treachery, made them mount their mules under pretence of conducting them to Taos, where they were to be given up to the leaders of the insurrection. They had hardly proceeded a mile when a Mexican rode up behind Harwood and discharged his gun into his back; he called out to Markhead that he was murdered, and fell to the ground dead. Markhead, seeing that his own fate was sealed, made no struggle, and was likewise shot in the back with several bullets. Both men were then stripped naked, scalped, and horribly mutilated; their bodies thrown into the brush to be devoured by the wolves. These trappers were remarkable men; Markhead, particularly, was celebrated in the mountains for his courage, reckless daring, and many almost miraculous escapes when in the very hands of the Indians. When some years previously he had accompanied Sir William Drummond Stewart on one of his expeditions across the Rockies, it happened that a half-breed Indian employed by Sir William absconded one night with some animals, which circumstance annoyed the nobleman so much, as it disturbed all his plans, that he hastily offered, never dreaming that he would be taken up, to give five hundred dollars for the scalp of the thief. The very next evening Markhead rode into camp with the hair of the luckless horse-thief dangling at the muzzle of his rifle. The wild crowd of rebels rode on to Turley's mill. Turley had been warned of the impending uprising, but had treated the report with indifference, until one morning a man in his employ, who had been despatched to Santa Fe with several mule-loads of whiskey a few days before, made his appearance at the gate on horseback, and hastily informing the inmates of the mill that the New Mexicans had risen and massacred Governor Bent and other Americans, galloped off. Even then Turley felt assured that he would not be molested; but at the solicitation of his men, he agreed to close the gate of the yard around which were the buildings of the mill and distillery, and make preparations for defence. A few hours afterward a large crowd of Mexicans and Pueblo Indians made their appearance, all armed with guns and bows and arrows, and, advancing with a white flag, summoned Turley to surrender his house and the Americans in it, guaranteeing that his own life should be saved, but that every other American in the valley must be destroyed; that the governor and all the Americans at Fernandez had been killed, and that not one was to be left alive in all New Mexico. To this summons Turley answered that he would never surrender his house nor his men, and that if they wanted it or them, they must take them. The enemy then drew off, and, after a short consultation, commenced the attack. The first day they numbered about five hundred, but were hourly reinforced by the arrival of parties of Indians from the more distant Pueblos, and New Mexicans from Fernandez, La Canada, and other places. The building lay at the foot of a gradual slope in the sierra, which was covered with cedar bushes. In front ran the stream of the Arroyo Hondo, about twenty yards from one side of the square, and the other side was broken ground which rose abruptly and formed the bank of the ravine. In the rear and behind the still-house was some garden ground enclosed by a small fence, into which a small wicket-gate opened from the corral. As soon as the attack was determined upon, the assailants scattered and concealed themselves under cover of the rocks and bushes which surrounded the house. From these they kept up an incessant fire upon every exposed portion of the building where they saw preparations for defence. The Americans, on their part, were not idle; not a man but was an old mountaineer, and each had his trusty rifle, with a good store of ammunition. Whenever one of the besiegers exposed a hand's-breadth of his person, a ball from an unerring barrel whistled. The windows had been blockaded, loopholes having been left, and through these a lively fire was maintained. Already several of the enemy had bitten the dust, and parties were seen bearing off the wounded up the banks of the Canada. Darkness came on, and during the night a continual fire was kept up on the mill, whilst its defenders, reserving their ammunition, kept their posts with stern and silent determination. The night was spent in casting balls, cutting patches, and completing the defences of the building. In the morning the fight was renewed, and it was found that the Mexicans had effected a lodgment in a part of the stables, which were separated from the other portions of the building by an open space of a few feet. The assailants, during the night, had sought to break down the wall, and thus enter the main building, but the strength of the adobe and logs of which it was composed resisted effectually all their attempts. Those in the stable seemed anxious to regain the outside, for their position was unavailable as a means of annoyance to the besieged, and several had darted across the narrow space which divided it from the other part of the building, which slightly projected, and behind which they were out of the line of fire. As soon, however, as the attention of the defenders was called to this point, the first man who attempted to cross, who happened to be a Pueblo chief, was dropped on the instant, and fell dead in the centre of the intervening space. It appeared to be an object to recover the body, for an Indian immediately dashed out to the fallen chief, and attempted to drag him within the shelter of the wall. The rifle which covered the spot again poured forth its deadly contents, and the Indian, springing into the air, fell over the body of his chief. Another and another met with a similar fate, and at last three rushed to the spot, and, seizing the body by the legs and head, had already lifted it from the ground, when three puffs of smoke blew from the barricaded windows, followed by the sharp cracks of as many rifles, and the three daring Indians were added to the pile of corpses which now covered the body of the dead chief. As yet the besieged had met with no casualties; but after the fall of the seven Indians, the whole body of the assailants, with a shout of rage, poured in a rattling volley, and two of the defenders fell mortally wounded. One, shot through the loins, suffered great agony, and was removed to the still-house, where he was laid on a large pile of grain, as being the softest bed that could be found. In the middle of the day the attack was renewed more fiercely than before. The little garrison bravely stood to the defence of the mill, never throwing away a shot, but firing coolly, and only when a fair mark was presented to their unerring aim. Their ammunition, however, was fast failing, and to add to the danger of their situation, the enemy set fire to the mill, which blazed fiercely, and threatened destruction to the whole building. Twice they succeeded in overcoming the flames, and, while they were thus occupied, the Mexicans and Indians charged into the corral, which was full of hogs and sheep, and vented their cowardly rage upon the animals, spearing and shooting all that came in their way. No sooner were the flames extinguished in one place than they broke out more fiercely in another; and as a successful defence was perfectly hopeless, and the numbers of the assailants increased every moment, a council of war was held by the survivors of the little garrison, when it was determined, as soon as night approached, that every one should attempt to escape as best he could. Just at dusk a man named John Albert and another ran to the wicket-gate which opened into a kind of enclosed space, in which were a number of armed Mexicans. They both rushed out at the same moment, discharging their rifles full in the face of the crowd. Albert, in the confusion, threw himself under the fence, whence he saw his companion shot down immediately, and heard his cries for mercy as the cowards pierced him with knives and lances. He lay without motion under the fence, and as soon as it was quite dark he crept over the logs and ran up the mountain, travelled by day and night, and, scarcely stopping or resting, reached the Greenhorn, almost dead with hunger and fatigue. Turley himself succeeded in escaping from the mill and in reaching the mountain unseen. Here he met a Mexican mounted on a horse, who had been a most intimate friend of his for many years. To this man Turley offered his watch for the use of the horse, which was ten times more than it was worth, but was refused. The inhuman wretch, however, affected pity and consideration for the fugitive, and advised him to go to a certain place, where he would bring or send him assistance; but on reaching the mill, which was a mass of fire, he immediately informed the Mexicans of Turley's place of concealment, whither a large party instantly proceeded and shot him to death. Two others escaped and reached Santa Fe in safety. The mill and Turley's house were sacked and gutted, and all his hard-earned savings, which were concealed in gold about the house, were discovered, and, of course, seized upon by the victorious Mexicans. The following account is taken from Governor Prince's chapter on the fight at Taos, in his excellent and authentic _History of New Mexico_:-- The startling news of the assassination of the governor was swiftly carried to Santa Fe, and reached Colonel Price the next day. Simultaneously, letters were discovered calling on the people of the Rio Abajo to secure Albuquerque and march northward to aid the other insurgents; and news speedily followed that a united Mexican and Pueblo force of large magnitude was marching down the Rio Grande valley toward the capital, flushed with the success of the revolt at Taos. Very few troops were in Santa Fe; in fact, the number remaining in the whole territory was very small, and these were scattered at Albuquerque, Las Vegas, and other distant points. At the first-named town were Major Edmonson and Captain Burgwin; the former in command of the town, and the latter with a company of the First Dragoons. Colonel Price lost no time in taking such measures as his limited resources permitted. Edmonson was directed to come immediately to Santa Fe to take command of the capital; and Burgwin to follow Price as fast as possible to the scene of hostilities. The colonel himself collected the few troops at Santa Fe, which were all on foot, but fortunately included the little battalion which under Captain Aubrey had made such extraordinary marches on the journey across the plains as to almost outwalk the cavalry. With these was a volunteer company formed of nearly all of the American inhabitants of the city, under the command of Colonel Ceran St. Vrain, who happened to be in Santa Fe, together with Judge Beaubien, at the time of the rising at Taos. With this little force, amounting in all to three hundred and ten men, Colonel Price started to march to Taos, or at all events to meet the army which was coming toward the capital from the north and which grew as it marched by constant accessions from the surrounding country. The city of Santa Fe was left in charge of a garrison under Lieutenant-Colonel Willock. While the force was small and the volunteers without experience in regular warfare, yet all were nerved to desperation by the belief, since the Taos murders, that the only alternative was victory or annihilation. The expedition set out on January 23d, and the next day the Mexican army, under command of General Montoya as commander-in-chief, aided by Generals Tafoya and Chavez, was found occupying the heights commanding the road near La Canada (Santa Cruz), with detachments in some strong adobe houses near the river banks. The advance had been seen shortly before at the rocky pass, on the road from Pojuaque; and near there and before reaching the river, the San Juan Pueblo Indians, who had joined the revolutionists reluctantly and under a kind of compulsion, surrendered and were disarmed by removing the locks from their guns. On arriving at the Canada, Price ordered his howitzers to the front and opened fire; and after a sharp cannonade, directed an assault on the nearest houses by Aubrey's battalion. Meanwhile an attempt by a Mexican detachment to cut off the American baggage-wagons, which had not yet come up, was frustrated by the activity of St. Vrain's volunteers. A charge all along the line was then ordered and handsomely executed; the houses, which, being of adobe, had been practically so many ready-made forts, were successively carried, and St. Vrain started in advance to gain the Mexican rear. Seeing this manoeuvre, and fearing its effects, the Mexicans retreated, leaving thirty-six dead on the field. Among those killed was General Tafoya, who bravely remained on the field after the remainder had abandoned it, and was shot. Colonel Price pressed on up the river as fast as possible, passing San Juan, and at Los Luceros, on the 28th, his little army was rejoiced at the arrival of reinforcements, consisting of a mounted company of cavalry, Captain Burgwin's company, which had been pushed up by forced marches on foot from Albuquerque, and a six-pounder brought by Lieutenant Wilson. Thus enlarged, the American force consisted of four hundred and eighty men, and continued its advance up the valley to La Joya, which was as far as the river road at that time extended. Meanwhile the Mexicans had established themselves in a narrow pass near Embudo, where the forest was dense, and the road impracticable for wagons or cannon, the troops occupying the sides of the mountains on both sides of the canyon. Burgwin was sent with three companies to dislodge them and open a passage--no easy task. But St. Vrain's company took the west slope, and another the right, while Burgwin himself marched through the gorge between. The sharp-shooting of these troops did such terrible execution that the pass was soon cleared, though not without the display of great heroism, and some loss; and the Americans entered Embudo without further opposition. The difficulties of this campaign were greatly increased by the severity of the weather, the mountains being thickly covered with snow, and the cold so intense that a number of men were frost-bitten and disabled. The next day Burgwin reached Las Trampas, where Price arrived with the remainder of the American army on the last day of January, and all together they marched into Chamisal. Notwithstanding the cold and snow they pressed on over the mountain, and on the 3d of February reached the town of Fernandez de Taos, only to find that the Mexican and Pueblo force had fortified itself in the celebrated Pueblo of Taos, about three miles distant. That force had diminished considerably during the retreat from La Canada, many of the Mexicans returning to their homes, and its greater part now consisting of Pueblo Indians. The American troops were worn out with fatigue and exposure, and in most urgent need of rest; but their intrepid commander, desiring to give his opponents no more time to strengthen their works, and full of zeal and energy, if not of prudence, determined to commence an immediate attack. The two great buildings at this Pueblo, certainly the most interesting and extraordinary inhabited structures in America, are well known from descriptions and engravings. They are five stories high and irregularly pyramidal in shape, each story being smaller than the one below, in order to allow ingress to the outer rooms of each tier from the roofs. Before the advent of artillery these buildings were practically impregnable, as, when the exterior ladders were drawn up, there were no means of ingress, the side walls being solid without openings, and of immense thickness. Between these great buildings, each of which can accommodate a multitude of men, runs the clear water of the Taos Creek; and to the west of the northerly building stood the old church, with walls of adobe from three to seven and a half feet in thickness. Outside of all, and having its northwest corner just beyond the church, ran an adobe wall, built for protection against hostile Indians and which now answered for an outer earthwork. The church was turned into a fortification, and was the point where the insurgents concentrated their strength; and against this Colonel Price directed his principal attack. The six-pounder and the howitzer were brought into position without delay, under the command of Lieutenant Dyer, then a young graduate of West Point, and since then chief of ordnance of the United States army, and opened a fire on the thick adobe walls. But cannon-balls made little impression on the massive banks of earth, in which they embedded themselves without doing damage; and after a fire of two hours, the battery was withdrawn, and the troops allowed to return to the town of Taos for their much-needed rest. Early the next morning, the troops, now refreshed and ready for the combat, advanced again to the Pueblo, but found those within equally prepared. The story of the attack and capture of this place is so interesting, both on account of the meeting here of old and new systems of warfare--of modern artillery with an aboriginal stronghold--and because the precise localities can be distinguished by the modern tourist from the description, that it seems best to insert the official report as presented by Colonel Price. Nothing could show more plainly how superior strong earthworks are to many more ambitious structures of defence, or more forcibly display the courage and heroism of those who took part in the battle, or the signal bravery of the accomplished Captain Burgwin which led to his untimely death. Colonel Price writes: "Posting the dragoons under Captain Burgwin about two hundred and sixty yards from the western flank of the church, I ordered the mounted men under Captains St. Vrain and Slack to a position on the opposite side of the town, whence they could discover and intercept any fugitives who might attempt to escape toward the mountains, or in the direction of San Fernando. The residue of the troops took ground about three hundred yards from the north wall. Here, too, Lieutenant Dyer established himself with the six-pounder and two howitzers, while Lieutenant Hassendaubel, of Major Clark's battalion, light artillery, remained with Captain Burgwin, in command of two howitzers. By this arrangement a cross-fire was obtained, sweeping the front and eastern flank of the church. All these arrangements being made, the batteries opened upon the town at nine o'clock A.M. At eleven o'clock, finding it impossible to breach the walls of the church with the six-pounder and howitzers, I determined to storm the building. At a signal, Captain Burgwin, at the head of his own company and that of Captain McMillin, charged the western flank of the church, while Captain Aubrey, infantry battalion, and Captain Barber and Lieutenant Boon, Second Missouri Mounted Volunteers, charged the northern wall. As soon as the troops above mentioned had established themselves under the western wall of the church, axes were used in the attempt to breach it, and a temporary ladder having been made, the roof was fired. About this time, Captain Burgwin, at the head of a small party, left the cover afforded by the flank of the church, and penetrating into the corral in front of that building, endeavoured to force the door. In this exposed situation, Captain Burgwin received a severe wound, which deprived me of his valuable services, and of which he died on the 7th instant. Lieutenants McIlvaine, First United States Dragoons, and Royall and Lackland, Second Regiment Volunteers, accompanied Captain Burgwin into the corral, but the attempt on the church door proved fruitless, and they were compelled to retire behind the wall. In the meantime, small holes had been cut in the western wall, and shells were thrown in by hand, doing good execution. The six-pounder was now brought around by Lieutenant Wilson, who, at the distance of two hundred yards, poured a heavy fire of grape into the town. The enemy, during all of this time, kept up a destructive fire upon our troops. About half-past three o'clock, the six-pounder was run up within sixty yards of the church, and after ten rounds, one of the holes which had been cut with the axes was widened into a practicable breach. The storming party, among whom were Lieutenant Dyer, of the ordnance, and Lieutenant Wilson and Taylor, First Dragoons, entered and took possession of the church without opposition. The interior was filled with dense smoke, but for which circumstance our storming party would have suffered great loss. A few of the enemy were seen in the gallery, where an open door admitted the air, but they retired without firing a gun. The troops left to support the battery on the north side were now ordered to charge on that side. "The enemy then abandoned the western part of the town. Many took refuge in the large houses on the east, while others endeavoured to escape toward the mountains. These latter were pursued by the mounted men under Captains Slack and St. Vrain, who killed fifty-one of them, only two or three men escaping. It was now night, and our troops were quietly quartered in the house which the enemy had abandoned. On the next morning the enemy sued for peace, and thinking the severe loss they had sustained would prove a salutary lesson, I granted their supplication, on the condition that they should deliver up to me Tomas, one of their principal men, who had instigated and been actively engaged in the murder of Governor Bent and others. The number of the enemy at the battle of Pueblo de Taos was between six and seven hundred, and of these one hundred and fifty were killed, wounded not known. Our own loss was seven killed and forty-five wounded; many of the wounded have since died." The capture of the Taos Pueblo practically ended the main attempt to expel the Americans from the Territory. Governor Montoya, who was a very influential man in the conspiracy and styled himself the "Santa Ana of the North," was tried by court-martial, convicted, and executed on February 7th, in the presence of the army. Fourteen others were tried for participating in the murder of Governor Bent and the others who were killed on the 19th of January, and were convicted and executed. Thus, fifteen in all were hung, being an equal number to those murdered at Taos, the Arroyo Hondo, and Rio Colorado. Of these, eight were Mexicans and seven were Pueblo Indians. Several more were sentenced to be hung for treason, but the President very properly pardoned them, on the ground that treason against the United States was not a crime of which a Mexican citizen could be found guilty, while his country was actually at war with the United States. There are several thrilling, as well as laughable, incidents connected with the Taos massacre, and the succeeding trial of the insurrectionists; in regard to which I shall quote freely from _Wah-to-yah_, whose author, Mr. Lewis H. Garrard, accompanied Colonel St. Vrain across the plains in 1846, and was present at the trial and execution of the convicted participants. One Fitzgerald, who was a private in Captain Burgwin's company of Dragoons, in the fight at the Pueblo de Taos, killed three Mexicans with his own hand, and performed heroic work with the bombs that were thrown into that strong Indian fortress. He was a man of good feeling, but his brother having been killed, or rather murdered by Salazar, while a prisoner in the Texan expedition against Santa Fe, he swore vengeance, and entered the service with the hope of accomplishing it. The day following the fight at the Pueblo, he walked up to the alcalde, and deliberately shot him down. For this act he was confined to await a trial for murder. One raw night, complaining of cold to his guard, wood was brought, which he piled up in the middle of the room. Then mounting that, and succeeding in breaking through the roof, he noiselessly crept to the eaves, below which a sentinel, wrapped in a heavy cloak, paced to and fro, to prevent his escape. He watched until the guard's back was turned, then swung himself from the wall, and with as much ease as possible, walked to a mess-fire, where his friends in waiting supplied him with a pistol and clothing. When day broke, the town of Fernandez lay far beneath him in the valley, and two days after he was safe in our camp. Many a hand-to-hand encounter ensued during the fight at Taos, one of which was by Colonel Ceran St. Vrain, whom I knew intimately; a grand old gentleman, now sleeping peacefully in the quaint little graveyard at Mora, New Mexico, where he resided for many years. The gallant colonel, while riding along, noticed an Indian with whom he was well acquainted lying stretched out on the ground as if dead. Confident that this particular red devil had been especially prominent in the hellish acts of the massacre, the colonel dismounted from his pony to satisfy himself whether the savage was really dead or only shamming. He was far from being a corpse, for the colonel had scarcely reached the spot, when the Indian jumped to his feet and attempted to run a long, steel-pointed lance through the officer's shoulder. Colonel St. Vrain was a large, powerfully built man; so was the Indian, I have been told. As each of the struggling combatants endeavoured to get the better of the other, with the savage having a little the advantage, perhaps, it appears that "Uncle Dick" Wooton, who was in the chase after the rebels, happened to arrive on the scene, and hitting the Indian a terrific blow on the head with his axe, settled the question as to his being a corpse. Court for the trial of the insurrectionists assembled at nine o'clock. On entering the room, Judges Beaubien and Houghton were occupying their official positions. After many dry preliminaries, six prisoners were brought in--ill-favoured, half-scared, sullen fellows; and the jury of Mexicans and Americans having been empanelled, the trial commenced. It certainly did appear to be a great assumption on the part of the Americans to conquer a country, and then arraign the revolting inhabitants for treason. American judges sat on the bench. New Mexicans and Americans filled the jury-box, and American soldiery guarded the halls. It was a strange mixture of violence and justice--a middle ground between the martial and common law. After an absence of a few minutes, the jury returned with a verdict of "guilty in the first degree"--five for murder, one for treason. Treason, indeed! What did the poor devil know about his new allegiance? But so it was; and as the jail was overstocked with others awaiting trial, it was deemed expedient to hasten the execution, and the culprits were sentenced to be hung on the following Friday--hangman's day. Court was daily in session; five more Indians and four Mexicans were sentenced to be hung on the 30th of April. In the court room, on the occasion of the trial of these nine prisoners, were Senora Bent the late governor's wife, and Senora Boggs, giving their evidence in regard to the massacre, of which they were eye-witnesses. Mrs. Bent was quite handsome; a few years previously she must have been a beautiful woman. The wife of the renowned Kit Carson also was in attendance. Her style of beauty was of the haughty, heart-breaking kind--such as would lead a man, with a glance of the eye, to risk his life for one smile. The court room was a small, oblong apartment, dimly lighted by two narrow windows; a thin railing keeping the bystanders from contact with the functionaries. The prisoners faced the judges, and the three witnesses--Senoras Bent, Boggs, and Carson--were close to them on a bench by the wall. When Mrs. Bent gave her testimony, the eyes of the culprits were fixed sternly upon her; when she pointed out the Indian who had killed the governor, not a muscle of the chief's face twitched or betrayed agitation, though he was aware her evidence settled his death warrant; he sat with lips gently closed, eyes earnestly fixed on her, without a show of malice or hatred--a spectacle of Indian fortitude, and of the severe mastery to which the emotions can be subjected. Among the jurors was a trapper named Baptiste Brown, a Frenchman, as were the majority of the trappers in the early days of the border. He was an exceptionally kind-hearted man when he first came to the mountains, and seriously inclined to regard the Indians with that mistaken sentimentality characterizing the average New England philanthropist, who has never seen the untutored savage on his native heath. His ideas, however, underwent a marked change as the years rolled on and he became more familiar with the attributes of the noble red man. He was with Kit Carson in the Blackfeet country many years before the Taos massacre, when his convictions were thus modified, and it was from the famous frontiersman himself I learned the story of Baptiste's conversion. It was late one night in their camp on one of the many creeks in the Blackfoot region, where they had been established for several weeks, and Baptiste was on duty, guarding their meat and furs from the incursions of a too inquisitive grizzly that had been prowling around, and the impertinent investigations of the wolves. His attention was attracted to something high up in a neighbouring tree, that seemed restless, changing its position constantly like an animal of prey. The Frenchman drew a bead upon it, and there came tumbling down at his feet a dead savage, with his war-paint and other Indian paraphernalia adorning his body. Baptiste was terribly hurt over the circumstance of having killed an Indian, and it grieved him for a long time. One day, a month after the incident, he was riding alone far away from our party, and out of sound of their rifles as well, when a band of Blackfeet discovered him and started for his scalp. He had no possible chance for escape except by the endurance of his horse; so a race for life began. He experienced no trouble in keeping out of the way of their arrows--the Indians had no guns then--and hoped to make camp before they could possibly wear out his horse. Just as he was congratulating himself on his luck, right in front of him there suddenly appeared a great gorge, and not daring to stop or to turn to the right or left, the only thing to do was to make his animal jump it. It was his only chance; it was death if he missed it, and death by the most horrible torture if the Indians captured him. So he drove his heels into his horse's sides, and essayed the awful leap. His willing animal made a desperate effort to carry out the desire of his daring rider, but the dizzy chasm was too wide, and the pursuing savages saw both horse and the coveted white man dash to the bottom of the frightful canyon together. Believing that their hated enemy had eluded them forever, they rode back on their trail, disgusted and chagrined, without even taking the trouble of looking over the precipice to learn the fate of Baptiste. The horse was instantly killed, and the Frenchman had both of his legs badly broken. Far from camp, with the Indians in close proximity, he did not dare discharge his rifle--the usual signal when a trapper is lost or in danger--or to make any demonstration, so he was compelled to lie there and suffer, hoping that his comrades, missing him, would start out to search for him. They did so, but more than twenty-four hours had elapsed before they found him, as the bottom of the canyon was the last place they thought of. Doctors, in the wild region where their camp was located, were as impossible as angels; so his companions set his broken bones as well as they could, while Baptiste suffered excruciating torture. When they had completed their crude surgery, they improvised a litter of poles, and rigged it on a couple of pack-mules, and thus carried him around with them from camp to camp until he recovered--a period extending over three months. This affair completely cured Baptiste of his original sentimentality in relation to the Indian, and he became one of their worst haters. When acting as a juror in the trials of rebel Mexicans and Indians, he was asleep half the time, and never heard much of the evidence, and that portion which he did was so much Greek to him. In the last nine cases, in which the Indian who had murdered Governor Bent was tried, Baptiste, as soon as the jury room was closed, sang out: "Hang 'em, hang 'em, sacre enfans des garces, dey dam gran rascale!" "But wait," suggested one of the cooler members; "let's look at the evidence and find out whether they are really guilty." Upon this wise caution, Baptiste got greatly excited, paced the floor, and cried out: "Hang de Indian anyhow; he may not be guilty now--mais he vare soon will be. Hang 'em all, parceque dey kill Monsieur Charles; dey take son topknot, vot you call im--scalp. Hang 'em, hang 'em--sa-a-cre-e!" On Friday the 9th, the day for the execution, the sky was unspotted, save by hastily fleeting clouds; and as the rising sun loomed over the Taos Mountain, the bright rays, shining on the yellow and white mud-houses, reflected cheerful hues, while the shades of the toppling peaks, receding from the plain beneath, drew within themselves. The humble valley wore an air of calm repose. The Plaza was deserted; woe-begone burros drawled forth sacrilegious brays, as the warm sunbeams roused them from hard, grassless ground, to scent their breakfast among straw and bones. Poor Mexicans hurried to and fro, casting suspicious glances around; los Yankees at El casa Americano drank their juleps, and puffed their cigarettes in silence. The sheriff, Metcalf, formerly a mountaineer, was in want of the wherewithal to hang the condemned criminals, so he borrowed some rawhide lariats and picket-ropes of a teamster. "Hello, Met," said one of the party present, "these reatas are mighty stiff--won't fit; eh, old feller?" "I've got something to make 'em fit--good 'intment--don't emit very sweet perfume; but good enough for Greasers," said the sheriff, producing a dollar's worth of Mexican soft soap. "This'll make 'em slip easy--a long ways too easy for them, I 'spect." The prison apartment was a long chilly room, badly ventilated by one small window and the open door, through which the sun lit up the earth floor, and through which the poor prisoners wistfully gazed. Two muscular Mexicans basked in its genial warmth, a tattered serape interposing between them and the ground. The ends, once fringed but now clear of pristine ornament, were partly drawn over their breasts, disclosing in the openings of their fancifully colored shirts--now glazed with filth and faded with perspiration--the bare skin, covered with straight black hair. With hands under their heads, in the mass of stringy locks rusty-brown from neglect, they returned the looks of their executioners with an unmeaning stare, and unheedingly received the salutation of--"Como le va!" Along the sides of the room, leaning against the walls, were crowded the poor wretches, miserable in dress, miserable in features, miserable in feelings--a more disgusting collection of ragged, greasy, unwashed prisoners were, probably, never before congregated within so small a space as the jail of Taos. About nine o'clock, active preparations were made for the execution, and the soldiery mustered. Reverend padres in long black gowns, with meek countenances, passed the sentinels, intent on spiritual consolation, or the administration of the Blessed Sacrament. Lieutenant-Colonel Willock, commanding the military, ordered every American under arms. The prison was at the edge of the town; no houses intervened between it and the fields to the north. One hundred and fifty yards distant, a gallows was erected. The word was passed, at last, that the criminals were coming. Eighteen soldiers received them at the gate, with their muskets at "port arms"; the six abreast, with the sheriff on the right--nine soldiers on each side. The poor prisoners marched slowly, with downcast eyes, arms tied behind, and bare heads, with the exception of white cotton caps stuck on the back, to be pulled over the face as the last ceremony. The roofs of the houses in the vicinity were covered with women and children, to witness the first execution by hanging in the valley of Taos, save that of Montojo, the insurgent leader. No men were near; a few stood afar off, moodily looking on. On the flat jail roof was placed a mountain howitzer, loaded and ranging the gallows. Near was the complement of men to serve it, one holding in his hand a lighted match. The two hundred and thirty soldiers, less the eighteen forming the guard, were paraded in front of the jail, and in sight of the gibbet, so as to secure the prisoners awaiting trial. Lieutenant-Colonel Willock, on a handsome charger, commanded a view of the whole. When within fifteen paces of the gallows, the side-guard, filing off to the right, formed, at regular distances from each other, three sides of a hollow square; the mountaineers composed the fourth and front side, in full view of the trembling prisoners, who marched up to the tree under which was a government wagon, with two mules attached. The driver and sheriff assisted them in, ranging them on a board, placed across the hinder end, which maintained its balance, as they were six--an even number--two on each extremity, and two in the middle. The gallows was so narrow that they touched. The ropes, by reason of their size and stiffness, despite the soaping given them, were adjusted with difficulty; but through the indefatigable efforts of the sheriff and a lieutenant who had accompanied him, all preliminaries were arranged, although the blue uniform looked sadly out of place on a hangman. With rifles at a "shoulder," the military awaited the consummation of the tragedy. There was no crowd around to disturb; a death-like stillness prevailed. The spectators on the roofs seemed scarcely to move--their eyes were directed to the doomed wretches, with harsh halters now encircling their necks. The sheriff and his assistant sat down; after a few moments of intense expectation, the heart-wrung victims said a few words to their people. Only one of them admitted he had committed murder and deserved death. In their brief but earnest appeals, the words "mi padre, mi madre"--"my father, my mother"--were prominent. The one sentenced for treason showed a spirit of patriotism worthy of the cause for which he died--the liberty of his country; and instead of the cringing recantation of the others, his speech was a firm asseveration of his own innocence, the unjustness of his trial, and the arbitrary conduct of his murderers. As the cap was pulled over his face, the last words he uttered between his teeth with a scowl were "Carajo, los Americanos!" At a word from the sheriff, the mules were started, and the wagon drawn from under the tree. No fall was given, and their feet remained on the board till the ropes drew tight. The bodies swayed back and forth, and while thus swinging, the hands of two came together with a firm grasp till the muscles loosened in death. After forty minutes' suspension, Colonel Willock ordered his command to quarters, and the howitzer to be taken from its place on the roof of the jail. The soldiers were called away; the women and population in general collecting around the rear guard which the sheriff had retained for protection while delivering the dead to their weeping relatives. While cutting a rope from one man's neck--for it was in a hard knot--the owner, a government teamster standing by waiting, shouted angrily, at the same time stepping forward: "Hello there! don't cut that rope; I won't have anything to tie my mules with." "Oh! you darned fool," interposed a mountaineer, "the dead men's ghosts will be after you if you use them lariats--wagh! They'll make meat of you sartain." "Well, I don't care if they do. I'm in government service; and if them picket-halters was gone, slap down goes a dollar apiece. Money's scarce in these diggin's, and I'm going to save all I kin to take home to the old woman and boys." CHAPTER IX. FIRST OVERLAND MAIL. On the summit of one of the highest plateaus bordering the Missouri River, surrounded by a rich expanse of foliage, lies Independence, the beautiful residence suburb of Kansas City, only ten miles distant. Tradition tells that early in this century there were a few pioneers camping at long distances from each other in the seemingly interminable woods; in summer engaged in hunting the deer, elk, and bear, and in winter in trapping. It is a well-known fact that the Big Blue was once a favourite resort of the beaver, and that even later their presence in great numbers attracted many a veteran trapper to its waters. Before that period the quaint old cities of far-off Mexico were forbidden to foreign traders, excepting to the favoured few who were successful in obtaining permits from the Spanish government. In 1821, however, the rebellion of Iturbide crushed the power of the mother country, and established the freedom of Mexico. The embargo upon foreign trade was at once removed, and the Santa Fe Trail, for untold ages only a simple trace across the continent, became the busy highway of a relatively great commerce. In 1817 the navigation of the Mississippi River was begun. On the 2d of August of that year the steamer _General Pike_ arrived at St. Louis. The first boat to ascend the Missouri River was the _Independence_; she passed Franklin on the 28th of May, 1819, where a dinner was given to her officers. In the same and the following month of that year, the steamers _Western Engineer Expedition_ and _R. M. Johnson_ came along, carrying Major Long's scientific exploring party, bound for the Yellowstone. The Santa Fe trade having been inaugurated shortly after these important events, those engaged in it soon realized the benefits of river navigation--for it enabled them to shorten the distance which their wagons had to travel in going across the plains--and they began to look out for a suitable place as a shipping and outfitting point higher up the river than Franklin, which had been the initial starting town. By 1827 trading-posts had been established at Blue Mills, Fort Osage, and Independence. The first-mentioned place, which is situated about six miles below Independence, soon became the favourite landing, and the exchange from wagons to boats settled and defied all efforts to remove the headquarters of the trade from there for several years. Independence, however, being the county seat and the larger place, succeeded in its claims to be the more suitable locality, and as early as 1832 it was recognized as the American headquarters and the great outfitting point for the Santa Fe commerce, which it continued to be until 1846, when the traffic was temporarily suspended by the breaking out of the Mexican War. Independence was not only the principal outfitting point for the Santa Fe traders, but also that of the great fur companies. That powerful association used to send out larger pack-trains than any other parties engaged in the traffic to the Rocky Mountains; they also employed wagons drawn by mules, and loaded with goods for the Indians with whom their agents bartered, which also on their return trip transported the skins and pelts of animals procured from the savages. The articles intended for the Indian trade were always purchased in St. Louis, and usually shipped to Independence, consigned to the firm of Aull and Company, who outfitted the traders with mules and provisions, and in fact anything else required by them. Several individual traders would frequently form joint caravans, and travel in company for mutual protection from the Indians. After having reached a fifty-mile limit from the State line, each trader had control of his own men; each took care of a certain number of the pack-animals, loaded and unloaded them in camp, and had general supervision of them. Frequently there would be three hundred mules in a single caravan, carrying three hundred pounds apiece, and very large animals more. Thousands of wagons were also sent out from Independence annually, each drawn by twelve mules or six yoke of oxen, and loaded with general merchandise. There were no packing houses in those days nearer than St. Louis, and the bacon and beef used in the Santa Fe trade were furnished by the farmers of the surrounding country, who killed their meat, cured it, and transported it to the town where they sold it. Their wheat was also ground at the local mills, and they brought the flour to market, together with corn, dried fruit, beans, peas, and kindred provisions used on the long route across the plains. Independence very soon became the best market west of St. Louis for cattle, mules, and wagons; the trade of which the place was the acknowledged headquarters furnishing employment to several thousand men, including the teamsters and packers on the Trail. The wages paid varied from twenty-five to fifty dollars a month and rations. The price charged for hauling freight to Santa Fe was ten dollars a hundred pounds, each wagon earning from five to six hundred dollars every trip, which was made in eighty or ninety days; some fast caravans making quicker time. The merchants and general traders of Independence in those days reaped a grand harvest. Everything to eat was in constant demand; mules and oxen were sold in great numbers every month at excellent prices and always for cash; while any good stockman could readily make from ten to fifty dollars a day. One of the largest manufacturers and most enterprising young men in Independence at that time was Hiram Young, a coloured man. Besides making hundreds of wagons, he made all the ox-yokes used in the entire traffic; fifty thousand annually during the '50's and until the breaking out of the war. The forward yokes were sold at an average of one dollar and a quarter, the wheel yokes a dollar higher. The freight transported by the wagons was always very securely loaded; each package had its contents plainly marked on the outside. The wagons were heavily covered and tightly closed. Every man belonging to the caravan was thoroughly armed, and ever on the alert to repulse an attack by the Indians. Sometimes at the crossing of the Arkansas the quicksands were so bad that it was necessary to get the caravan over in a hurry; then forty or fifty yoke of oxen were hitched to one wagon and it was quickly yanked through the treacherous ford. This was not always the case, however; it depended upon the stage of water and recent floods. After the close of the war with Mexico, the freight business across the plains increased to a wonderful degree. The possession of the country by the United States gave a fresh impetus to the New Mexico trade, and the traffic then began to be divided between Westport and Kansas City. Independence lost control of the overland commerce and Kansas City commenced its rapid growth. Then came the discovery of gold in California, and this gave an increased business westward; for thousands of men and their families crossed the plains and the Rocky Mountains, seeking their fortunes in the new El Dorado. The Old Trail was the highway of an enormous pilgrimage, and both Independence and Kansas City became the initial point of a wonderful emigration. In Independence may still be seen a few of the old landmarks when it was the headquarters of the Santa Fe trade. An overland mail was started from the busy town as early as 1849. In an old copy of the Missouri _Commonwealth_, published there under the date of July, 1850, which I found on file in the Kansas State Historical Society, there is the following account of the first mail stage westward:-- We briefly alluded, some days since, to the Santa Fe line of mail stages, which left this city on its first monthly journey on the 1st instant. The stages are got up in elegant style, and are each arranged to convey eight passengers. The bodies are beautifully painted, and made water-tight, with a view of using them as boats in ferrying streams. The team consists of six mules to each coach. The mail is guarded by eight men, armed as follows: Each man has at his side, fastened in the stage, one of Colt's revolving rifles; in a holster below, one of Colt's long revolvers, and in his belt a small Colt's revolver, besides a hunting-knife; so that these eight men are ready, in case of attack, to discharge one hundred and thirty-six shots without having to reload. This is equal to a small army, armed as in the ancient times, and from the looks of this escort, ready as they are, either for offensive or defensive warfare with the savages, we have no fears for the safety of the mails. The accommodating contractors have established a sort of base of refitting at Council Grove, a distance of one hundred and fifty miles from this city, and have sent out a blacksmith, and a number of men to cut and cure hay, with a quantity of animals, grain, and provisions; and we understand they intend to make a sort of traveling station there, and to commence a farm. They also, we believe, intend to make a similar settlement at Walnut Creek next season. Two of their stages will start from here the first of every month. The old stage-coach days were times of Western romance and adventure, and the stories told of that era of the border have a singular fascination in this age of annihilation of distance. Very few, if any, of the famous men who handled the "ribbons" in those dangerous days of the slow journey across the great plains are among the living; like the clumsy and forgotten coaches they drove, they have themselves been mouldering into dust these many years. In many places on the line of the Trail, where the hard hills have not been subjected to the plough, the deep ruts cut by the lumbering Concord coaches may yet be distinctly traced. Particularly are they visible from the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe track, as the cars thunder rapidly toward the city of Great Bend, in Kansas, three miles east of that town. Let the tourist as he crosses Walnut Creek look out of his window toward the east at an angle of about thirty-five degrees, and on the flint hills which slope gradually toward the railroad, he will observe, very distinctly, the Old Trail, where it once drew down from the divide to make the ford at the little stream. The monthly stages started from each end of the route at the same time; later the service was increased to once a week; after a while to three times, until in the early '60's daily stages were run from both ends of the route, and this was continued until the advent of the railroad. Each coach carried eleven passengers, nine closely stowed inside--three on a seat--and two on the outside on the boot with the driver. The fare to Santa Fe was two hundred and fifty dollars, the allowance of baggage being limited to forty pounds; all in excess of that cost half a dollar a pound. In this now seemingly large sum was included the board of the travellers, but they were not catered to in any extravagant manner; hardtack, bacon, and coffee usually exhausted the menu, save that at times there was an abundance of antelope and buffalo. There was always something exciting in those journeys from the Missouri to the mountains in the lumbering Concord coach. There was the constant fear of meeting the wily red man, who persistently hankered after the white man's hair. Then there was the playfulness of the sometimes drunken driver, who loved to upset his tenderfoot travellers in some arroya, long after the moon had sunk below the horizon. It required about two weeks to make the trip from the Missouri River to Santa Fe, unless high water or a fight with the Indians made it several days longer. The animals were changed every twenty miles at first, but later, every ten, when faster time was made. What sleep was taken could only be had while sitting bolt upright, because there was no laying over; the stage continued on night and day until Santa Fe was reached. After a few years, the company built stations at intervals varying from ten miles to fifty or more; and there the animals and drivers were changed, and meals furnished to travellers, which were always substantial, but never elegant in variety or cleanliness. Who can ever forget those meals at the "stations," of which you were obliged to partake or go hungry: biscuit hard enough to serve as "round-shot," and a vile decoction called, through courtesy, coffee--but God help the man who disputed it! Some stations, however, were notable exceptions, particularly in the mountains of New Mexico, where, aside from the bread--usually only tortillas, made of the blue-flint corn of the country--and coffee composed of the saints may know what, the meals were excellent. The most delicious brook trout, alternating with venison of the black-tailed deer, elk, bear, and all the other varieties of game abounding in the region cost you one dollar, but the station-keeper a mere trifle; no wonder the old residents and ranchmen on the line of the Old Trail lament the good times of the overland stage! Thirteen years ago I revisited the once well-known Kosloskie's Ranch, a picturesque cabin at the foot of the Glorieta Mountains, about half a mile from the ruins on the Rio Pecos. The old Pole was absent, but his wife was there; and, although I had not seen her for fifteen years, she remembered me well, and at once began to deplore the changed condition of the country since the advent of the railroad, declaring it had ruined their family with many others. I could not disagree with her view of the matter, as I looked on the debris of a former relative greatness all around me. I recalled the fact that once Kosloskie's Ranch was the favourite eating station on the Trail; where you were ever sure of a substantial meal--the main feature of which was the delicious brook trout, which were caught out of the stream which ran near the door while you were washing the dust out of your eyes and ears. The trout have vacated the Pecos; the ranch is a ruin, and stands in grim contrast with the old temple and church on the hill; and both are monuments of civilizations that will never come again. Weeds and sunflowers mark the once broad trail to the quaint Aztec city, and silence reigns in the beautiful valley, save when broken by the passage of "The Flyer" of the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe railway, as it struggles up the heavy grade of the Glorieta Mountains a mile or more distant. Besides the driver, there was another employee--the conductor or messenger, as he was called. He had charge of the mail and express matter, collected the fares, and attended generally to the requirements of those committed to his care during the tedious journey; for he was not changed like the driver, but stayed with the coach from its starting to its destination. Sometimes fourteen individuals were accommodated in case of emergency; but it was terribly crowded and uncomfortable riding, with no chance to stretch your limbs, save for a few moments at stations where you ate and changed animals. In starting from Independence, powerful horses were attached to the coach--generally four in number; but at the first station they were exchanged for mules, and these animals hauled it the remainder of the way. Drivers were changed about eight times in making the trip to Santa Fe; and some of them were comical fellows, but full of nerve and endurance, for it required a man of nerve to handle eight frisky mules through the rugged passes of the mountains, when the snow was drifted in immense masses, or when descending the curved, icy declivities to the base of the range. A cool head was highly necessary; but frequently accidents occurred and sometimes were serious in their results. A snowstorm in the mountains was a terrible thing to encounter by the coach; all that could be done was to wait until it had abated, as there was no going on in the face of the blinding sheets of intensely cold vapour which the wind hurled against the sides of the mountains. All inside of the coach had to sit still and shake with the freezing branches of the tall trees around them. A summer hailstorm was much more to be dreaded, however; for nowhere else on the earth do the hailstones shoot from the clouds of greater size or with greater velocity than in the Rocky Mountains. Such an event invariably frightened the mules and caused them to stampede; and, to escape death from the coach rolling down some frightful abyss, one had to jump out, only to be beaten to a jelly by the masses of ice unless shelter could be found under some friendly ledge of rock or the thick limbs of a tree. Nothing is more fatiguing than travelling for the first day and night in a stage-coach; after that, however, one gets used to it and the remainder of the journey is relatively comfortable. The only way to alleviate the monotony of riding hour after hour was to walk; occasionally this was rendered absolutely necessary by some accident, such as breaking a wheel or axle, or when an animal gave out before a station was reached. In such cases, however, no deduction was made from the fare, that having been collected in advance, so it cost you just as much whether you rode or walked. You could exercise your will in the matter, but you must not lag behind the coach; the savages were always watching for such derelicts, and your hair was the forfeit! In the worst years, when the Indians were most decidedly on the war-trail, the government furnished an escort of soldiers from the military posts; they generally rode in a six-mule army-wagon, and were commanded by a sergeant or corporal; but in the early days, before the army had concentrated at the various forts on the great plains, the stage had to rely on the courage and fighting qualities of its occupants, and the nerve and the good judgment of the driver. If the latter understood his duty thoroughly and was familiar with the methods of the savages, he always chose the cover of darkness in which to travel in localities where the danger from Indians was greater than elsewhere; for it is a rare thing in savage warfare to attack at night. The early morning seemed to be their favourite hour, when sleep oppresses most heavily; and then it was that the utmost vigilance was demanded. One of the most confusing things to the novice riding over the great plains is the idea of distance; mile after mile is travelled on the monotonous trail, with a range of hills or a low divide in full sight, yet hours roll by and the objects seem no nearer than when they were first observed. The reason for this seems to be that every atom of vapour is eliminated from the air, leaving such an absolute clearness of atmosphere, such an indescribable transparency of space through which distant objects are seen, that they are magnified and look nearer than they really are. Consequently, the usual method of calculating distance and areas by the eye is ever at fault until custom and familiarity force a new standard of measure. Mirages, too, were of frequent occurrence on the great plains; some of them wonderful examples of the refracting properties of light. They assumed all manner of fantastic, curious shapes, sometimes ludicrously distorting the landscape; objects, like a herd of buffalo for instance, though forty miles away, would seem to be high in air, often reversed, and immensely magnified in their proportions. Violent storms were also frequent incidents of the long ride. I well remember one night, about thirty years ago, when the coach in which I and one of my clerks were riding to Fort Dodge was suddenly brought to a standstill by a terrible gale of wind and hail. The mules refused to face it, and quickly turning around nearly overturned the stage, while we, with the driver and conductor, were obliged to hold on to the wheels with all our combined strength to prevent it from blowing down into a stony ravine, on the brink of which we were brought to a halt. Fortunately, these fearful blizzards did not last very long; the wind ceased blowing so violently in a few moments, but the rain usually continued until morning. It usually happened that you either at once took a great liking for your driver and conductor, or the reverse. Once, on a trip from Kansas City, nearly a third of a century ago, when I and another man were the only occupants of the coach, we entertained quite a friendly feeling for our driver; he was a good-natured, jolly fellow, full of anecdote and stories of the Trail, over which he had made more than a hundred sometimes adventurous journeys. When we arrived at the station at Plum Creek, the coach was a little ahead of time, and the driver who was there to relieve ours commenced to grumble at the idea of having to start out before the regular hour. He found fault because we had come into the station so soon, and swore he could drive where our man could not "drag a halter-chain," as he claimed in his boasting. We at once took a dislike to him, and secretly wished that he would come to grief, in order to cure him of his boasting. Sure enough, before we had gone half a mile from the station he incontinently tumbled the coach over into a sandy arroya, and we were delighted at the accident. Finding ourselves free from any injury, we went to work and assisted him to right the coach--no small task; but we took great delight in reminding him several times of his ability to drive where our old friend could not "drag a halter-chain." It was very dark; neither moon or star visible, the whole heavens covered with an inky blackness of ominous clouds; so he was not so much to be blamed after all. The very next coach was attacked at the crossing of Cow Creek by a band of Kiowas. The savages had followed the stage all that afternoon, but remained out of sight until just at dark, when they rushed over the low divide, and mounted on their ponies commenced to circle around the coach, making the sand dunes resound with echoes of their infernal yelling, and shaking their buffalo-robes to stampede the mules, at the same time firing their guns at the men who were in the coach, all of whom made a bold stand, but were rapidly getting the worst of it, when fortunately a company of United States cavalry came over the Trail from the west, and drove the savages off. Two of the men in the coach were seriously wounded, and one of the soldiers killed; but the Indian loss was never determined, as they succeeded in carrying off both their dead and wounded. Mr. W. H. Ryus, a friend of mine now residing in Kansas City, who was a driver and messenger thirty-five years, and had many adventures, told me the following incidents: I have crossed the plains sixty-five times by wagon and coach. In July, 1861, I was employed by Barnum, Vickery, and Neal to drive over what was known as the Long Route, that is, from Fort Larned to Fort Lyon, two hundred and forty miles, with no station between. We drove one set of mules the whole distance, camped out, and made the journey, in good weather, in four or five days. In winter we generally encountered a great deal of snow, and very cold air on the bleak and wind-swept desert of the Upper Arkansas, but we employees got used to that; only the passengers did any kicking. We had a way of managing them, however, when they got very obstreperous; all we had to do was to yell Indians! and that quieted them quicker than forty-rod whiskey does a man. We gathered buffalo-chips, to boil our coffee and cook our buffalo and antelope steak, smoked for a while around the smouldering fire until the animals were through grazing, and then started on our lonely way again. Sometimes the coach would travel for a hundred miles through the buffalo herds, never for a moment getting out of sight of them; often we saw fifty thousand to a hundred thousand on a single journey out or in. The Indians used to call them their cattle, and claimed to own them. They did not, like the white man, take out only the tongue, or hump, and leave all the rest to dry upon the prairie, but ate every last morsel, even to the intestines. They said the whites were welcome to all they could eat or haul away, but they did not like to see so much meat wasted as was our custom. The Indians on the plains were not at all hostile in 1861-62; we could drive into their villages, where there were tens of thousands of them, and they would always treat us to music or a war-dance, and set before us the choicest of their venison and buffalo. In July of the last-mentioned year, Colonel Leavenworth, Jr., was crossing the Trail in my coach. He desired to see Satanta, the great Kiowa chief. The colonel's father[28] was among the Indians a great deal while on duty as an army officer, while the young colonel was a small boy. The colonel said he didn't believe that old Satanta would know him. Just before the arrival of the coach in the region of the Indian village, the Comanches and the Pawnees had been having a battle. The Comanches had taken some scalps, and they were camping on the bank of the Arkansas River, where Dodge City is now located. The Pawnees had killed five of their warriors, and the Comanches were engaged in an exciting war-dance; I think there were from twenty to thirty thousand Indians gathered there, men, women, and children of the several tribes--Comanches, Kiowas, Cheyennes, Arapahoes, and others. When we came in sight of their camp, the colonel knew, by the terrible noise they were making, that a war-dance was going on; but we did not know then whether it was on account of troubles among themselves, or because of a fight with the whites, but we were determined to find out. If he could get to the old chief, all would be right. So he and I started for the place whence the noise came. We met a savage and the colonel asked him whether Satanta was there, and what was going on. When he told us that they had had a fight and it was a scalp-dance, our hair lowered; for we knew that if it was in consequence of trouble with the whites, we stood in some danger of losing our own scalps. The Indian took us in, and the situation, too; and conducted us into the presence of Satanta, who stood in the middle of the great circle, facing the dancers. It was out on an island in the stream; the chief stood very erect, and eyed us closely for a few seconds, then the colonel told his own name that the Indians had known him by when he was a boy. Satanta gave one bound--he was at least ten feet from where we were waiting--grasped the colonel's hand and excitedly kissed him, then stood back for another instant, gave him a second squeeze, offered his hand to me, which I, of course, shook heartily, then he gazed at the man he had known as a boy so many years ago, with a countenance beaming with delight. I never saw any one, even among the white race, manifest so much joy as the old chief did over the visit of the colonel to his camp. He immediately ordered some of his young men to go out and herd our mules through the night, which they brought back to us at daylight. He then had the coach hauled to the front of his lodge, where we could see all that was going on to the best advantage. We had six travellers with us on this journey, and it was a great sight for the tenderfeet. It was about ten o'clock at night when we arrived at Satanta's lodge, and we saw thousands of squaws and bucks dancing and mourning for their dead warriors. At midnight the old chief said we must eat something at once. So he ordered a fire built, cooked buffalo and venison, setting before us the very best that he had, we furnishing canned fruit, coffee, and sugar from our coach mess. There we sat, and talked and ate until morning; then when we were ready to start off, Satanta and the other chiefs of the various tribes escorted us about eight miles on the Trail, where we halted for breakfast, they remaining and eating with us. Colonel Leavenworth was on his way to assume command of one of the military posts in New Mexico; the Indians begged him to come back and take his quarters at either Fort Larned or Fort Dodge. They told him they were afraid their agent was stealing their goods and selling them back to them; while if the Indians took anything from the whites, a war was started. Colonel A. G. Boone had made a treaty with these same Indians in 1860, and it was agreed that he should be their agent. It was done, and the entire savage nations were restful and kindly disposed toward the whites during his administration; any one could then cross the plains without fear of molestation. In 1861, however, Judge Wright, of Indiana, who was a member of Congress at the time, charged Colonel Boone with disloyalty.[29] He succeeded in having him removed. Majors Russel and Waddell, the great government freight contractors across the plains, gave Colonel Boone fourteen hundred acres of land, well improved, with some fine buildings on it, about fifteen miles east of Pueblo, Colorado. It was christened Booneville, and the colonel moved there. In the fall of 1862, fifty influential Indians of the various tribes visited Colonel Boone at his new home, and begged that he would come back to them and be their agent. He told the chiefs that the President of the United States would not let him. Then they offered to sell their horses to raise money for him to go to Washington to tell the Great Father what their agent was doing; and to have him removed, or there was going to be trouble. The Indians told Colonel Boone that many of their warriors would be on the plains that fall, and they were declaring they had as much right to take something to eat from the trains as their agent had to steal goods from them. Early in the winter of the next year, a small caravan of eight or ten wagons travelling to the Missouri River was overhauled at Nine Mile Ridge, about fifty miles west of Fort Dodge, by a band of Indians, who asked for something to eat. The teamsters, thinking them to be hostile, believed it would be a good thing to kill one of them anyhow; so they shot an inoffensive warrior, after which the train moved on to its camp and the trouble began. Every man in the whole outfit, with the exception of one teamster, who luckily got to the Arkansas River and hid, was murdered, the animals all carried away, and the wagons and contents destroyed by fire. This foolish act by the master of the caravan was the cause of a long war, causing hundreds of atrocious murders and the destruction of a great deal of property along the whole Western frontier. That fall, 1863, Mr. Ryus was the messenger or conductor in charge of the coach running from Kansas City to Santa Fe. He said: It then required a month to make the round trip, about eighteen hundred miles. On account of the Indian war we had to have an escort of soldiers to go through the most dangerous portions of the Trail; and the caravans all joined forces for mutual safety, besides having an escort. My coach was attacked several times during that season, and we had many close calls for our scalps. Sometimes the Indians would follow us for miles, and we had to halt and fight them; but as for myself, I had no desire to kill one of the miserable, outraged creatures, who had been swindled out of their just rights. I know of but one occasion when we were engaged in a fight with them when our escort killed any of the attacking savages; it was about two miles from Little Coon Creek Station, where they surrounded the coach and commenced hostilities. In the fight one officer and one enlisted man were wounded. The escort chased the band for several miles, killed nine of them, and got their horses. CHAPTER X. CHARLES BENT. Almost immediately after the ratification of the purchase of New Mexico by the United States under the stipulations of the "Guadalupe-Hidalgo Treaty," the Utes, one of the most powerful tribes of mountain Indians, inaugurated a bloody and relentless war against the civilized inhabitants of the Territory. It was accompanied by all the horrible atrocities which mark the tactics of savage hatred toward the white race. It continued for several years with more or less severity; its record a chapter of history whose pages are deluged with blood, until finally the Indians were subdued by the power of the military. Along the line of the Santa Fe Trail, they were frequently in conjunction with the Apaches, and their depredations and atrocities were very numerous; they attacked fearlessly freight caravans, private expeditions, and overland stage-coaches, robbing and murdering indiscriminately. In January, 1847, the mail and passenger stage left Independence, Missouri, for Santa Fe on one of its regular trips across the plains. It had its full complement of passengers, among whom were a Mr. White and family, consisting of his wife, one child, and a coloured nurse. Day after day the lumbering Concord coach rolled on, with nothing to disturb the monotony of the vast prairies, until it had left them far behind and crossed the Range into New Mexico. Just about dawn, as the unsuspecting travellers were entering the "canyon of the Canadian,"[30] and probably waking up from their long night's sleep, a band of Indians, with blood-curdling yells and their terrific war-whoop, rode down upon them. In that lonely and rock-sheltered gorge a party of the hostile savages, led by "White Wolf," a chief of the Apaches, had been awaiting the arrival of the coach from the East; the very hour it was due was well known to them, and they had secreted themselves there the night before so as to be on hand should it reach their chosen ambush a little before the schedule time. Out dashed the savages, gorgeous in their feathered war-bonnets, but looking like fiends with their paint-bedaubed faces. Stopping the frightened mules, they pulled open the doors of the coach and, mercilessly dragging its helpless and surprised inmates to the ground, immediately began their butchery. They scalped and mutilated the dead bodies of their victims in their usual sickening manner, not a single individual escaping, apparently, to tell of their fiendish acts. If the Indians had been possessed of sufficient cunning to cover up the tracks of their horrible atrocities, as probably white robbers would have done, by dragging the coach from the road and destroying it by fire or other means, the story of the murders committed in the deep canyon might never have been known; but they left the tell-tale remains of the dismantled vehicle just where they had attacked it, and the naked corpses of its passengers where they had been ruthlessly killed. At the next stage station the employees were anxiously waiting for the arrival of the coach, and wondering what could have caused the delay; for it was due there at noon on the day of the massacre. Hour after hour passed, and at last they began to suspect that something serious had occurred; they sat up all through the night listening for the familiar rumbling of wheels, but still no stage. At daylight next morning, determined to wait no longer, as they felt satisfied that something out of the usual course had happened, a party hurriedly mounted their horses and rode down the broad trail leading to the canyon. Upon entering its gloomy mouth after a quick lope of an hour, they discovered the ghastly remains of twelve mutilated bodies. These were gathered up and buried in one grave, on the top of the bluff overlooking the narrow gorge. They could not be sure of the number of passengers the coach had brought until the arrival of the next, as it would have a list of those carried by its predecessor; but it would not be due for several days. They naturally supposed, however, that the twelve dead lying on the ground were its full complement. Not waiting for the arrival of the next stage, they despatched a messenger to the last station east that the one whose occupants had been murdered had passed, and there learned the exact number of passengers it had contained. Now they knew that Mrs. White, her child, and the coloured nurse had been carried off into a captivity worse than death; for no remains of a woman were found with the others lying in the canyon. The terrible news of the massacre was conveyed to Taos, where were stationed several companies of the Second United States Dragoons, commanded by Major William Greer; but as the weather had grown intensely cold and stormy since the date of the massacre, it took nearly a fortnight for the terrible story to reach there. The Major acted promptly when appealed to to go after and punish the savages concerned in the outrage, but several days more were lost in getting an expedition ready for the field. It was still stormy while the command was preparing for its work; but at last, one bright morning, in a piercing cold wind, five troops of the dragoons, commanded by Major Greer in person, left their comfortable quarters to attempt the rescue of Mrs. White, her child, and nurse. Kit Carson, "Uncle Dick" Wooten, Joaquin Leroux, and Tom Tobin were the principal scouts and guides accompanying the expedition, having volunteered their services to Major Greer, which he had gladly accepted. The massacre having occurred three weeks before the command had arrived at the canyon of the Canadian, and snow having fallen almost continuously ever since, the ground was deeply covered, making it almost impossible to find the trail of the savages leading out of the gorge. No one knew where they had established their winter camp--probably hundreds of miles distant on some tributary of the Canadian far to the south. Carson, Wooton, and Leroux, after scanning the ground carefully at every point, though the snow was ten inches deep, in a way of which only men versed in savage lore are capable, were rewarded by discovering certain signs, unintelligible to the ordinary individual[31]--that the murderers had gone south out of the canyon immediately after completing their bloody work, and that their camp was somewhere on the river, but how far off none could tell. The command followed up the trail discovered by the scouts for nearly four hundred miles. Early one morning when that distance had been rounded, and just as the men were about to break camp preparatory to the day's march, Carson went out on a little reconnoissance on his own account, as he had noticed a flock of ravens hovering in the air when he first got out of his blankets at dawn, which was sufficient indication to him that an Indian camp was located somewhere in the vicinity; for that ominous bird is always to be found in the region where the savages take up an abode, feeding upon the carcasses of the many varieties of game killed for food. He had not proceeded more than half a mile from the camp when he discovered two Indians slowly riding over a low "divide," driving a herd of ponies before them. The famous scout was then certain their village could not be very far away. The savages did not observe him, as he took good care they should not; so he returned quickly to where Major Greer was standing by his camp-fire and reported the presence of a village very close at hand. The Major having sent for Tom Tobin and Uncle Dick Wooton, requested them to go and find the exact location of the savages. These scouts came back in less than half an hour, and reported a large number of teepees in a thick grove of timber a mile away. It was at once determined to surprise the savages in their winter quarters by charging right among their lodges without allowing them time to mount their ponies, as the gallant Custer rode, at the head of his famous troopers of the Seventh Cavalry, into the camp of the celebrated chief "Black Kettle" on the Washita, in the dawn of a cold November morning twenty years afterward. The command succeeded in getting within good charging distance of the village without its occupants having any knowledge of its proximity; but at this moment Major Greer was seized with an idea that he ought to have a parley with the Indians before he commenced to fight them, and for that purpose he ordered a halt, just as the soldiers were eager for the sound of the "Charge!" Never were a body of men more enraged. Carson gave vent to his wrath in a series of elaborately carved English oaths, for which he was noted when young; Leroux, whose naturally hot blood was roused, swore at the Major in a curious mixture of bad French and worse mountain dialect, and it appeared as if the battle would begin in the ranks of the troops instead of those of the savages; for never was a body of soldiers so disgusted at the act of any commanding officer. This delay gave the Indians, who could be seen dodging about among their lodges and preparing for a fight that was no longer a surprise, time to hide their women and children, mount their ponies, and get down into deep ravines, where the soldiers could not follow them. While the Major was trying to convince his subordinates that his course was the proper one, the Indians opened fire without any parley, and it happened that at the first volley a bullet struck him in the breast, but a suspender buckle deflected its course and he was not seriously wounded. The change in the countenance of their commanding officer caused by the momentary pain was just the incentive the troopers wanted, and without waiting for the sound of the trumpet, they spurred their horses, dashed in, and charged the thunderstruck savages with the shock of a tornado. In two successful charges of the gallant and impatient troopers more than a hundred of the Indians were killed and wounded, but the time lost had permitted many to escape, and the pursuit of the stragglers would have been unavailing under the circumstances; so the command turned back and returned to Taos. In the village was found the body of Mrs. White still warm, with three arrows in her breast. Had the charge been made as originally expected by the troopers, her life would have been saved. No trace of the child or of the coloured nurse was ever discovered, and it is probable that they were both killed while en route from the canyon to the village, as being valueless to keep either as slaves or for other purposes. The fate of the Apache chief, "White Wolf," who was the leader in the outrages in the canyon of the Canadian, was fitting for his devilish deeds. It was Lieutenant David Bell's fortune to avenge the murder of Mrs. White and her family, and in an extraordinary manner.[32] The action was really dramatic, or romantic; he was on a scout with his company, which was stationed at Fort Union, New Mexico, having about thirty men with him, and when near the canyon of the Canadian they met about the same number of Indians. A parley was in order at once, probably desired by the savages, who were confronted with an equal number of troopers. Bell had assigned the baggage-mules to the care of five or six of his command, and held a mounted interview with the chief, who was no other than the infamous White Wolf of the Jicarilla Apaches. As Bell approached, White Wolf was standing in front of his Indians, who were on foot, all well armed and in perfect line. Bell was in advance of his troopers, who were about twenty paces from the Indians, exactly equal in number and extent of line; both parties were prepared to use firearms. The parley was almost tediously long and the impending duel was arranged, White Wolf being very bold and defiant. At last the leaders exchanged shots, the chief sinking on one knee and aiming his gun, Bell throwing his body forward and making his horse rear. Both lines, by command, fired, following the example of their superiors, the troopers, however, spurring forward over their enemies. The warriors, or nearly all of them, threw themselves on the ground, and several vertical wounds were received by horse and rider. The dragoons turned short about, and again charged through and over their enemies, the fire being continuous. As they turned for a third charge, the surviving Indians were seen escaping to a deep ravine, which, although only one or two hundred paces off, had not previously been noticed. A number of the savages thus escaped, the troopers having to pull up at the brink, but sending a volley after the descending fugitives. In less than fifteen minutes twenty-one of the forty-six actors in this strange combat were slain or disabled. Bell was not hit, but four or five of his men were killed or wounded. He had shot White Wolf several times, and so did others after him; but so tenacious of life was the Apache that, to finish him, a trooper got a great stone and mashed his head. This was undoubtedly the greatest duel of modern times; certainly nothing like it ever occurred on the Santa Fe Trail before or since. The war chief of the Kiowa nation in the early '50's was Satank, a most unmitigated villain; cruel and heartless as any savage that ever robbed a stage-coach or wrenched off the hair of a helpless woman. After serving a dozen or more years with a record for hellish atrocities equalled by few of his compeers, he was deposed for alleged cowardice, as his warriors claimed, under the following circumstances:-- The village of his tribe was established in the large bottoms, eight miles from the Great Bend of the Arkansas, and about the same distance from Fort Zarah.[33] All the bucks were absent on a hunting expedition, excepting Satank and a few superannuated warriors. The troops were out from Fort Larned on a grand scout after marauding savages, when they suddenly came across the village and completely took the Kiowas by surprise. Seeing the soldiers almost upon them, Satank and other warriors jumped on their ponies and made good their escape. Had they remained, all of them would have been killed or at least captured; consequently Satank, thinking discretion better than valour at that particular juncture, incontinently fled. His warriors in council, however, did not agree with him; they thought that it was his duty to have remained at the village in defence of the women and children, as he had been urged to refrain from going on the hunt for that very purpose. Some time before Satank lost his office of chief, there was living on Cow Creek, in a rude adobe building, a man who was ostensibly an Indian trader, but whose traffic, in reality, consisted in selling whiskey to the Indians, and consequently the United States troops were always after him. He was obliged to cache his liquor in every conceivable manner so that the soldiers should not discover it, and, of course, he dreaded the incursions of the troops much more than he did raids of the Indian marauders that were constantly on the Trail. Satank and this illicit trader, whose name was Peacock, were great chums. One day while they were indulging in a general good time over sundry drinks of most villanous liquor, Satank said to Peacock: "Peacock, I want you to write me a letter; a real nice one, that I can show to the wagon-bosses on the Trail, and get all the 'chuck' I want. Tell them I am Satank, the great chief of the Kiowas, and for them to treat me the best they know how." "All right, Satank," said Peacock; "I'll do so." Peacock then sat down and wrote the following epistle:-- "The bearer of this is Satank. He is the biggest liar, beggar, and thief on the plains. What he can't beg of you, he'll steal. Kick him out of camp, for he is a lazy, good-for-nothing Indian." Satank began at once to make use of the supposed precious document, which he really believed would assure him the dignified treatment and courtesy due to his exalted rank. He presented it to several caravans during the ensuing week, and, of course, received a very cool reception in every instance, or rather a very warm one. One wagon-master, in fact, black-snaked him out of his camp. After these repeated insults he sought another white friend, and told of his grievances. "Look here," said Satank, "I asked Peacock to write me a good letter, and he gave me this; but I don't understand it! Every time I hand it to a wagon-boss, he gives me the devil! Read it to me and tell me just what it does say." His friend read it over, and then translated it literally to Satank. The savage assumed a countenance of extreme disgust, and after musing for a few moments, said: "Well, I understand it all now. All right!" The next morning at daylight, Satank called for some of his braves and with them rode out to Peacock's ranch. Arriving there, he called out to Peacock, who had not yet risen: "Peacock, get up, the soldiers are coming!" It was a warning which the illicit trader quickly obeyed, and running out of the building with his field-glass in his hand, he started for his lookout, but while he was ascending the ladder with his back to Satank the latter shot him full of holes, saying, as he did so: "There, Peacock, I guess you won't write any more letters." His warriors then entered the building and killed every man in it, save one who had been gored by a buffalo bull the day before, and who was lying in a room all by himself. He was saved by the fact that the Indian has a holy dread of small-pox, and will never enter an apartment where sick men lie, fearing they may have the awful disease. Satanta (White Bear) was the most efficient and dreaded chief of all who have ever been at the head of the Kiowa nation. Ever restlessly active in ordering or conducting merciless forays against an exposed frontier, he was the very incarnation of deviltry in his determined hatred of the whites, and his constant warfare against civilization. He also possessed wonderful oratorical powers; he could hurl the most violent invectives at those whom he argued with, or he could be equally pathetic when necessary. He was justly called "The Orator of the Plains," rivalling the historical renown of Tecumseh or Pontiac. He was a short, bullet-headed Indian, full of courage and well versed in strategy. Ordinarily, when on his visits to the various military posts he wore a major-general's full uniform, a suit of that rank having been given to him in the summer of 1866 by General Hancock. He also owned an ambulance, a team of mules, and a set of harness, the last stolen, maybe, from some caravan he had raided on the Trail. In that ambulance, with a trained Indian driver, the wily chief travelled, wrapped in a savage dignity that was truly laughable. In his village, too, he assumed a great deal of style. He was very courteous to his white guests, if at the time his tribe were at all friendly with the government; nothing was too good for them. He always laid down a carpet on the floor of his lodge in the post of honour, on which they were to sit. He had large boards, twenty inches wide and three feet long, ornamented with brass tacks driven all around the edges, which he used for tables. He also had a French horn, which he blew vigorously when meals were ready. His friendship was only dissembling. During all the time that General Sheridan was making his preparations for his intended winter campaign against the allied plains tribes, Satanta made frequent visits to the military posts, ostensibly to show the officers that he was heartily for peace, but really to inform himself of what was going on. At that time I was stationed at Fort Harker, on the Smoky Hill. One evening, General Sheridan, who was my guest, was sitting on the verandah of my quarters, smoking and chatting with me and some other officers who had come to pay him their respects, when one of my men rode up and quietly informed me that Satanta had just driven his ambulance into the fort, and was getting ready to camp near the mule corral. On receiving this information, I turned to the general and suggested the propriety of either killing or capturing the inveterate demon. Personally I believed it would be right to get rid of such a character, and I had men under my command who would have been delighted to execute an order to that effect. Sheridan smiled when I told him of Satanta's presence and the excellent chance to get rid of him. But he said: "That would never do; the sentimentalists in the Eastern States would raise such a howl that the whole country would be horrified!" Of course, in these "piping times of peace" the reader, in the quiet of his own room, will think that my suggestion was brutal, and without any palliation; my excuse, however, may be found in General Washington's own motto: Exitus acta probat. If the suggestion had been acted upon, many an innocent man and woman would have escaped torture, and many a maiden a captivity worse than death. As a specimen of Satanta's oratory, I offer the following, to show the hypocrisy of the subtle old villain, and his power over the minds of too sensitive auditors. Once Congress sent out to the central plains a commission from Washington to inquire into the causes of the continual warfare raging with the savages on the Kansas border; to learn what the grievances of the Indians were; and to find some remedy for the wholesale slaughter of men, women, and children along the line of the Old Trail. Satanta was sent for by the commission as the leading spirit of the formidable Kiowa nation. When he entered the building at Fort Dodge in which daily sessions were held, he was told by the president to speak his mind without any reservation; to withhold nothing, but to truthfully relate what his tribe had to complain of on the part of the whites. The old rascal grew very pathetic as he warmed up to his subject. He declared that he had no desire to kill the white settlers or emigrants crossing the plains, but that those who came and lived on the land of his tribe ruthlessly slaughtered the buffalo, allowing their carcasses to rot on the prairie; killing them merely for the amusement it afforded them, while the Indian only killed when necessity demanded. He also stated that the white hunters set out fires, destroying the grass, and causing the tribe's horses to starve to death as well as the buffalo; that they cut down and otherwise destroyed the timber on the margins of the streams, making large fires of it, while the Indian was satisfied to cook his food with a few dry and dead limbs. "Only the other day," said he, "I picked up a little switch on the Trail, and it made my heart bleed to think that so small a green branch, ruthlessly torn out of the ground and thoughtlessly destroyed by some white man, would in time have grown into a stately tree for the use and benefit of my children and grandchildren." After the pow-wow had ended, and Satanta had got a few drinks of red liquor into him, his real, savage nature asserted itself, and he said to the interpreter at the settler's store: "Now didn't I give it to those white men who came from the Great Father? Didn't I do it in fine style? Why, I drew tears from their eyes! The switch I saw on the Trail made my heart glad instead of sad; for I new there was a tenderfoot ahead of me, because an old plainsman or hunter would never have carried anything but a good quirt or a pair of spurs. So I said to my warriors, 'Come on, boys; we've got him!' and when we came in sight, after we had followed him closely on the dead run, he threw away his rifle and held tightly on to his hat for fear he should lose it!" Another time when Satanta had remained at Fort Dodge for a very long period and had worn out his welcome, so that no one would give him anything to drink, he went to the quarters of his old friend, Bill Bennett, the overland stage agent, and begged him to give him some liquor. Bill was mixing a bottle of medicine to drench a sick mule. The moment he set the bottle down to do something else, Satanta seized it off the ground and drank most of the liquid before quitting. Of course, it made the old savage dreadfully sick as well as angry. He then started for a certain officer's quarters and again begged for something to cure him of the effects of the former dose; the officer refused, but Satanta persisted in his importunities; he would not leave without it. After a while, the officer went to a closet and took a swallow of the most nauseating medicine, placing the bottle back on its shelf. Satanta watched his chance, and, as soon as the officer left the room, he snatched the bottle out of the closet and drank its contents without stopping to breathe. It was, of course, a worse dose than the horse-medicine. The next day, very early in the morning, he assembled a number of his warriors, crossed the Arkansas, and went south to his village. Before leaving, however, he burnt all of the government contractor's hay on the bank of the river opposite the post. He then continued on to Crooked Creek, where he murdered three wood-choppers, all of which, he said afterward, he did in revenge for the attempt to poison him at Fort Dodge. At the Comanche agency, where several of the government agents were assembled to have a talk with chiefs of the various plains tribes, Satanta said in his address: "I would willingly take hold of that part of the white man's road which is represented by the breech-loading rifles; but I don't like the corn rations--they make my teeth hurt!" Big Tree was another Kiowa chief. He was the ally and close friend of Satanta, and one of the most daring and active of his warriors. The sagacity and bravery of these two savages would have been a credit to that of the most famous warriors of the old French and Indian Wars. Both were at last taken, tried, and sent to the Texas penitentiary for life. Satanta was eventually pardoned; but before he was made aware of the efforts that were being taken for his release, he attempted to escape, and, in jumping from a window, fell and broke his neck. His pardon arrived the next morning. Big Tree, through the work of the sentimentalists of Washington, was set free and sent to the Kiowa Reservation--near Fort Sill in the Indian Territory. The next most audacious and terrible scourge of the plains was "Ta-ne-on-koe" (Kicking Bird). He was a great warrior of the Kiowas, and was the chief actor in some of the bloodiest raids on the Kansas frontier in the history of its troublous times. One of his captures was that of a Miss Morgan and Mrs. White. They were finally rescued from the savages by General Custer, under the following circumstances: Custer, who was advancing with his column of invincible cavalrymen--the famous Seventh United States--in search of the two unfortunate women, had arrived near the head waters of one of the tributaries of the Washita, and, with only his guide and interpreter, was far in advance of the column, when, on reaching the summit of an isolated bluff, they suddenly saw a village of the Kiowas, which turned out to be that of Kicking Bird, whose handsome lodge was easily distinguishable from the rest. Without waiting for his command, the general and his guide rode boldly to the lodge of the great chief, and both dismounted, holding cocked revolvers in their hands; Custer presented his at Kicking Bird's head. In the meantime, Custer's column of troopers, whom the Kiowas had good reason to remember for their bravery in many a hard-fought battle, came in full view of the astonished village. This threw the startled savages into the utmost consternation, but the warriors were held in check by signs from Kicking Bird. As the cavalry drew nearer, General Custer demanded the immediate release of the white women. Their presence in the village was at first denied by the lying chief, and not until he had been led to the limb of a huge cottonwood tree near the lodge, with a rope around his neck, did he acknowledge that he held the women and consent to give them up. This well-known warrior, with a foreknowledge not usually found in the savage mind, seeing the beginning of the end of Indian sovereignty on the plains, voluntarily came in and surrendered himself to the authorities, and stayed on the reservation near Fort Sill. In June, 1867, a year before the breaking out of the great Indian war on the central plains, the whole tribe of Kiowas, led by him, assembled at Fort Larned. He was the cynosure of all eyes, as he was without question one of the noblest-looking savages ever seen on the plains. On that occasion he wore the full uniform of a major-general of the United States army. He was as correctly moulded as a statue when on horseback, and when mounted on his magnificent charger the morning he rode out with General Hancock to visit the immense Indian camp a few miles above the fort on Pawnee Fork, it would have been a difficult task to have determined which was the finer-looking man. After Kicking Bird had abandoned his wicked career, he was regarded by every army officer with whom he had a personal acquaintance as a remarkably good Indian; for he really made the most strenuous efforts to initiate his tribe into the idea that it was best for it to follow the white man's road. He argued with them that the time was very near when there would no longer be any region where the Indians could live as they had been doing, depending on the buffalo and other game for the sustenance of their families; they must adapt themselves to the methods of their conquerors. In July, 1869, he became greatly offended with the government for its enforced removal of his tribe from its natural and hereditary hunting-grounds into the reservation allotted to it. At that time many of his warriors, together with the Comanches, made a raid on the defenceless settlements of the northern border of Texas, in which the savages were disastrously defeated, losing a large number of their most beloved warriors. On the return of the unsuccessful expedition, a great council was held, consisting of all the chiefs and head men of the two tribes which had suffered so terribly in the awful fight, to consider the best means of avenging the loss of so many braves and friends. Kicking Bird was summoned before that council and condemned as a coward; they called him a squaw, because he had refused to go with the warriors of the combined tribes on the raid into Texas. He told a friend of mine some time afterward that he had intended never again to go against the whites; but the emergency of the case, and his severe condemnation by the council, demanded that he should do something to re-establish himself in the good graces of his tribe. He then made one of the most destructive raids into Texas that ever occurred in the history of its border warfare, which successfully restored him to the respect of his warriors. In that raid Kicking Bird carried off vast herds of horses and a large number of scalps. Although his tribe fairly worshipped him, he was not at all satisfied with himself. He could look into the future as well as any one, and from that time on to his tragic death he laboured most zealously and earnestly in connection with the Indian agents to bring his people to live on the reservation which the government had established for them in the Territory. At the inauguration of the so-called "Quaker Policy" by President Grant, that sect was largely intrusted with the management of Indian affairs, particularly in the selection of agents for the various tribes. A Mr. Tatham was appointed agent for the Kiowas in 1869. He at once gained the confidence of Kicking Bird, who became very valuable to him as an assistant in controlling the savages. It was through that chief's influence that Thomas Batty, another Quaker, was allowed to take up his residence with the tribe, the first white man ever accorded that privilege. Batty was permitted to erect three tents, which were staked together, converting them into an ample schoolhouse. In that crude, temporary structure he taught the Kiowa youth the rudiments of an education. This very successful innovation shows how earnest the former dreaded savage was in his efforts to promote the welfare of his people, by trying to induce them to "take the white man's road." Batty succeeded admirably for a year in his office of teacher, the chief all the time nobly withstanding the taunts and jeers of his warriors and their threats of taking his life, for daring to allow a white man within the sacred precincts of their village--a thing unparalleled in the annals of the tribe. At last trouble came; the dissatisfied members of the tribe, the ambitious and restless young men, eager for renown, made another unsuccessful raid into Texas. The result was that they lost nearly the whole of the band, among which was the favourite son of Lone Wolf, a noted chief.[34] After the death of his son, he declared that he must and would have the scalp of a white man in revenge for the untimely taking off of the young warrior. Of course, the most available white man at this juncture was Batty, the Quaker teacher, and he was chosen by Lone Wolf as the victim of savage revenge. Here the noble instincts of Kicking Bird developed themselves. He very plainly told Lone Wolf, who was constantly threatening and thirsting for blood, that he could not kill Batty until he first killed him and all his band. But Lone Wolf had fully determined to have the hair of the innocent Quaker; so Kicking Bird, to avert any collision between the two bands of Indians, kidnapped Batty and ran him off to the agency, arriving at Fort Sill about an hour before Lone Wolf's band of avengers overtook them, and thus the Quaker teacher was saved. One day, long after these occurrences, a friend of mine was in the sutler's store at Fort Sill. In there was a stranger talking to Mr. Fox, the agent of the Indians. Soon Kicking Bird entered the establishment, and the stranger asked Mr. Fox who that fine-looking Indian was. He was told, and then he begged the agent to say to him that he would like to have a talk with him; for he it was who led that famous raid into Texas. "I never saw better generalship in the field in all my experience. He had three horses killed under him. I was the surgeon of the rangers and was, of course, in the fight."[35] When Kicking Bird was told that the Texas doctor desired to talk with him, he replied with great dignity that he did not want to revive those troublous times. "Tell him, though," said Kicking Bird, "that was my last raid against the whites; that I am a changed man." The President of the United States sent for Kicking Bird to come to Washington, and to bring with him such other influential Indians as he thought might aid in inducing the Kiowas to cease their continual raiding on the border of Texas. In due time Kicking Bird left for the capital, taking with him Lone Wolf, Big Bow, and Sun Boy of the Kiowas, together with several of the head men of the Comanches. When the deputation of savages arrived in Washington, it was received at the presidential mansion by the chief magistrate himself. So much more attention was given to Kicking Bird than to the others, that they became very jealous, particularly when the President announced to them the appointment of Kicking Bird as the head chief of the tribe.[36] But Lone Wolf would never recognize his authority, constantly urging the young men to raid the settlements. Lone Wolf was a genuine savage, without one redeeming trait, and his hatred of the white race was unparalleled in its intensity. He was never known to smile. No other Indian can show such a record of horrible massacres as he is responsible for. His orders were rigidly obeyed, for he brooked no disobedience on the part of his warriors. In the summer of 1876, a party of English gentlemen left Fort Harker for a buffalo hunt. They soon exhausted all their rations and started a four-mule team back to the post for more. Some of Lone Wolf's band of cut-throats came across the unfortunate teamster, killed him, and ran off the team. After the occurrence, Kicking Bird came into the agency at Fort Sill and told Mr. Haworth, the agent, that he had given his word to the Great Father at Washington he would do all he could to bring in those Indians who had been raiding by order of Lone Wolf, particularly the two who had killed the Englishmen's driver. He succeeded in bringing in twelve Indians in all, among them the murderers of the driver. They, with Lone Wolf and Satank, were sent to the Dry Tortugas for life. The morning they started on their journey Satank talked very feelingly to Kicking Bird, with tears in his eyes. He said that they might look for his bones along the road, for he would never go to Florida. The savages were loaded into government wagons. Satank was inside of one with a soldier on each side of him, their legs hanging outside. Somehow the crafty villain managed to slip the handcuffs off his wrists, at the same instant seizing the rifle of one of his guards, and then shoved the two men out with his feet. He tried to work the lever of the rifle, but could not move it, and one of the soldiers, coming around the wagon to where he was still trying to get the gun so as he could use it, shot him down, and then threw his body on the Trail. Thus Satank made good his vow that he would never be taken to Florida. He met his death only a mile from the post. After the departure of the condemned savages, the feeling in the tribe against Kicking Bird increased to an alarming extent. Several times the most incensed warriors tried to kill him by shooting at him from an ambush. After he became fully aware that his life was in danger, he never left his lodge without his carbine. He was as brave as a lion, fearing none of the members of Lone Wolf's band; but he often said it was only a question of a short time when he would be gotten rid of; he did not allow the matter, however, to worry him in the least, saying that he was conscious he had done his duty by his tribe and the Great Father. In a bend of Cash Creek, about half a mile below the mill, about half a dozen of the Kiowas had their lodges, that of their chief being among them. At ten o'clock one Monday in June, 1876, Mr. Haworth, the agent, came in haste to the shops, called the master mechanic, Mr. Wykes, out, told him to jump into the carriage quickly; that Kicking Bird was dead. When they arrived at the home of the great chief, sure enough he was dead, and some of the women were engaged in folding his body in robes. Other squaws were cutting themselves in a terrible manner, as is their custom when a relative dies, and were also breaking everything breakable about the lodge. Kicking Bird had always been scrupulously clean and neat in the care of his home; it was adorned with the most beautifully dressed buffalo robes and the finest furs, while the floor was covered with matting. It seems that Kicking Bird, after visiting Mr. Wykes that morning, went immediately to his lodge, and sat down to eat something, but just as he had finished a cup of coffee, he fell over, dead. He had in his service a Mexican woman, and she had been bribed to poison him. An expensive coffin was made at the agency for his remains, fashioned out of the finest black walnut to be found in the country where that timber grows to such a luxuriant extent. It was eight feet long and four feet deep, but even then it did not hold one-half of his effects, which were, according to the savage custom, interred with his body. The cries and lamentations of the warriors and women of his band were heartrending; such a manifestation of grief was never before witnessed at the agency. A handsome fence was erected around his grave, in the cemetery at Fort Sill, and the government ordered a beautiful marble monument to be raised over it; but I do not know whether it was ever done. Kicking Bird was only forty years old at the time of his sudden taking off, and was very wealthy for an Indian. He knew the uses of money and was a careful saver of it. A great roll of greenbacks was placed in his coffin, and that fact having leaked out, it was rumoured that his grave was robbed; but the story may not have been true. One of the greatest terrors of the Old Santa Fe Trail was the half-breed Indian desperado Charles Bent. His mother was a Cheyenne squaw, and his father the famous trader, Colonel Bent. He was born at the base of the Rocky Mountains, and at a very early age placed in one of the best schools that St. Louis afforded. His venerable sire, with only a limited education himself, was determined that his boy should profit by the culture and refinement of civilization, so he was not allowed to return to his mountain home at Bent's Fort, and the savage conditions under which he was born, until he had attained his majority. He then spoke no language but English. His mother died while he was absent at school, and his father continued to live at the old fort, where Charles, after he had reached the age of twenty-one, joined him. Some Washington sentimentalist, philosophizing on the Indian character, his knowledge being based on Cooper's novels probably, has said: "Civilization has very marked effects upon an Indian. If he once learns to speak English, he will soon forget all his native cunning and pride of race." Let us see how this theory worked with Charley Bent. As soon as the educated half-breed set his foot on his native heath he readily found enough ambitious young bucks of his own age who were willing to look on him as their leader. They loved him, too, if such a thing were possible, as Fra Diavolo was loved by his wild followers. His band was known as the "Dog-Soldiers"; a sort of a semi-military organization, consisting of the most daring, blood-thirsty young men of the tribe; and sometimes "squaw-men," that is, renegade white men married to squaws, attached themselves to his command of cut-throats. At the head of this collection of the worst savages, hardly ever numbering over a hundred, Charles Bent robbed ranches, attacked wagon-trains, overland coaches, and army caravans. He stole and murdered indiscriminately. The history of his bloody work will never be wholly revealed, for dead men have no tongues. He would visit all alone, in the guise of plainsman, hunter, or cattleman, the emigrant trains crossing the continent, always, however, those which had only small escorts or none at all. Feigning hunger, while his needs were being kindly furnished, he would glance around him to learn what kind of an outfit it was; its value, its destination, and how well guarded. Then he would take his leave with many thanks, rejoin his band, and with it dash down on the train and kill every human being unfortunate enough not to have escaped before he arrived. He was indefatigable in his efforts to kill off the whole corps of army scouts. He would pass himself off as a fellow-scout, as a deserter from some military post, or as an Indian trader, for he was a wonderful actor, and would have achieved histrionic honours had he chosen the stage as a profession. He would always time his actions so as to be found apparently asleep by a little camp-fire on the bank of Pawnee Fork, Crooked, Mulberry, or Walnut creeks, all of which streams intercepted the trails running north and south between the several military posts during the Indian war, when he would seem delighted and astonished, or else simulate suspicion. Then he would either murder the unsuspecting scout with his own hands, or deliver him to the red fiends of his band to be tormented. The government offered a reward of five thousand dollars for Bent's capture, dead or alive. It was reported currently that he was at last killed in a battle with some deputy United States marshals, and that they received the reward; but the whole thing was manufactured out of whole cloth, and if the marshals received the money, Uncle Sam was most outrageously swindled. The facts are that he died of malarial fever superinduced by a wound received in a fight with the Kaws, near the mouth of the Walnut and not far from Fort Zarah. His "Dog-Soldiers" were whipped by the Kaws, and his band driven off. Bent lingered for some time and died. CHAPTER XI. LA GLORIETA. New Mexico, at the breaking out of the Civil War, was abandoned by the government at Washington, or at least so overlooked that the charge of neglect was merited. In the report of the committee on the Conduct of the War, under date of July 15, 1862, Brevet Lieutenant-Colonel B. S. Roberts of the regular army, major of the Third Cavalry, who was stationed in the Territory in 1861, says: It appears to me to be the determination of General Thomas[37] not to acknowledge the service of the officers who saved the Territory of New Mexico; and the utter neglect of the adjutant-general's department for the last year to communicate in any way with the commanding officer of the department of New Mexico, or to answer his urgent appeals for reinforcements, for money and other supplies, in connection with his repudiation of the services of all the army there, convinces me that he is not gratified at their loyalty and their success in saving that Territory to the Union. If space could be given to the story of the carefully prepared plans of the leaders of secession for the conquest of all the territory south of a line drawn from Maryland directly west to the Pacific coast, in which were California, Arizona, and New Mexico, it would reveal some startling facts, and prove beyond question that it was the intention of Jefferson Davis to precipitate the rebellion a decade before it actually occurred. The basis of the scheme was to inaugurate a war between Texas--which, when admitted into the Union, claimed all that part of New Mexico east of the Rio Grande--and the United States, in which conflict Mississippi and some of the other Southern States were to become participants. The plan fell flat, because, in 1851, Mr. Davis failed of a re-election to the governorship of Mississippi. So confident were many of Mr. Davis' allies in regard to the contemplated rebellion, that they boasted to their friends of the North, upon leaving Washington, that when they met again, it would be upon a Southern battle-field. I have alluded incidentally to what is known as the Texas Santa Fe Expedition, inaugurated by the President of what was then the republic of Texas, Mirabeau B. Lamar. It was given out to the world that it was merely one of commercial interest--to increase the trade between the two countries; but that it was intended for the conquest of New Mexico, no one now, in the light of history, doubts. It resulted in disaster, and is a story well worthy the examination of the student of American politics.[38] In 1861 General Twiggs commanded the military department of which Texas was an important part. It will be remembered that he surrendered to the Confederate government the troops, the munitions of war, the forts, or posts as they were properly termed, and everything pertaining to the United States army under his control. It was the intention of the Confederacy to use this region as a military base from which to continue its conquests westward, and capture the various forts in New Mexico. Particularly they had their eyes upon Fort Union, where there was an arsenal, which John B. Floyd, Secretary of War, had taken especial care to have well stocked previously to the act of secession. But the conspirators had reckoned without their host; they imagined the native Mexicans would eagerly accept their overtures, and readily support the Southern Confederacy. Mr. Davis and his coadjutors had evidently forgotten the effect of the Texas Santa Fe Expedition, in 1841, upon the people of the Province of New Mexico; but the natives themselves had not. Besides the loyalty of the Mexicans, there was a factor which the Confederate leaders had failed to consider, which was that the majority of the American pioneers had come from loyal States. Of course, there were many secessionists both in Colorado and New Mexico who were watching the progress of rebellion in eager anticipation; and it is claimed that in Denver a rebel flag was raised--but how true that is I do not know. John B. Floyd, Secretary of War, was one of the leading spirits of the Confederacy. A year before the Civil War he placed in command of the department of New Mexico a North Carolinian, Colonel Loring, who was in perfect sympathy with his superior, and willing to carry out his well-defined plans. In 1861 he ordered Colonel G. B. Crittenden on an expedition against the Apaches. This officer at once tried to induce his troops to attach themselves to the rebel army in Texas, but he was met with an indignant refusal by Colonel Roberts and the regular soldiers under him. The loyal colonel told Crittenden, in the most forcible language, that he would resist any such attempt on his part, and reported the action of Colonel Crittenden to the commander of the department at Santa Fe. Of course, Colonel Loring paid no attention to the complaint of disloyalty, and then Colonel Roberts conveyed the tidings to the commanding officers of several military posts in the Territory, whom he knew were true to the Union, and only one man out of nearly two thousand regular soldiers renounced his flag. Some of the officers stationed at New Mexico were of a different mind, and one of them, Major Lynde, commanding Fort Filmore, surrendered to a detachment of Texans, who paroled the enlisted men, as they firmly refused to join the rebel forces. Upon the desertion of Colonel Loring to the Southern Confederacy, General Edward R. S. Canby was assigned to the command of the department; next in rank was the loyal Roberts. At this perilous juncture in New Mexico, there were but a thousand regulars all told, but the Territory furnished two regiments of volunteers, commanded by officers whose names had been famous on the border for years. Among these was Colonel Ceran St. Vrain, who had been conspicuous in the suppression of the Mexican insurrection of 1847, fifteen years before. Kit Carson was lieutenant-colonel; J. F. Chaves, major; and the most prominent of the line officers Captain Albert H. Pfeiffer, with a record as an Indian fighter equal to that of Carson. At the same time Colorado was girding on her armour for the impending conflict. The governor of the prosperous Territory was William Gilpin, an old army officer, who had spent a large part of his life on the frontier, and had accompanied Colonel Doniphan, as major of his regiment, across the plains, on the expedition to New Mexico in 1846. Colonel Gilpin at once responded to the pleadings of New Mexico for help, by organizing two companies at first, quickly following with a full regiment. This Colorado regiment was composed of as fine material as any portion of the United States could furnish. John P. Slough, a war Democrat and a lawyer, was its colonel. He afterwards became chief justice of New Mexico, and was brutally murdered in that Territory. John M. Chivington, a strict Methodist and a presiding elder of that church, was offered the chaplaincy, but firmly declined, and, like many others who wore the clerical garb, he quickly doffed it and put on the attire of a soldier; so he was made major, and his record as a fighter was equal to the best. The commanding general knew well the plans of the rebels as to their intended occupation of New Mexico, and, notwithstanding the weakness of his force, determined to frustrate them if within the limits of possibility. To that end he concentrated his little army, comprising a thousand regular soldiers, the two regiments of New Mexico volunteers, two companies of Colorado troops, and a portion of the territorial militia, at Fort Craig, on the Rio Grande, to await the approach of the Confederate troops, under the command of General H. H. Sibley, an old regular army officer, a native of Louisiana, and the inventor of the comfortable tent named after him. Sibley's brigade comprised some three thousand men, the majority of them Texans, and he expected that many more would flock to his standard as he moved northward. On the 19th of February, 1862, he crossed the Rio Grande below Fort Craig, not daring to attack Canby in his intrenched position. The Union commander, in order to keep the Texas troops from gaining the high points overlooking the fort, placed portions of the Fifth, Seventh, and Tenth Regulars, together with Carson's and Pino's volunteers, on the other side of the river. No collision occurred that day, but the next afternoon Major Duncan, with his cavalry and Captain M'Rae's light battery, having been sent across to reinforce the infantry, a heavy artillery fire was immediately opened upon them by the Texans. The men under Carson behaved splendidly, but the other volunteer regiments became a little demoralized, and the general was compelled to call back the force into the fort. Sibley's force, both men and animals, suffered much from thirst, the latter stampeding, and many, wandering into our lines, were caught by the scouts of the Union forces. The next morning early Colonel Roberts was ordered to proceed about seven miles up the river to keep the Texans away from the water at a point where it was alone accessible, on account of the steepness of the banks everywhere else. The gallant Roberts, on arriving at the ford, planted a battery there, and at once opened fire. This was the battle of Valverde, the details of which, however, do not belong to this book, having been only incidentally referred to in order to lead the reader intelligently up to that of La Glorieta, Apache Canyon, or Pigeon's Ranch, as it is indifferently called. Valverde was lost to the Union troops, but never did men fight more valiantly, with the exception of a few who did not act the part of the true soldier. The brave M'Rae mounted one of the guns of his battery, choosing to die rather than surrender. General Sibley, after his doubtful victory at Valverde, continued on to Albuquerque and Santa Fe. The old city offered no resistance to his occupation; in fact, some of the most influential Mexicans were pleased, their leaning being strongly toward the Southern Confederacy; but the common people were as loyal to the Union as those of any of the Northern States, a feeling intensified by their hatred for the Texans on account of the expedition of conquest in 1841, twenty-one years before. They contributed of their means to aid the United States troops, but have never received proper credit for their action in those days of trouble in the neglected Territory. The Confederate general was disappointed at the way in which affairs were going, for he had based great hopes upon the defection of the native residents; but he determined to march forward to Fort Union, where his friend Floyd had placed such stores as were likely to be needed in the campaign which he had designed. From Santa Fe to Fort Union, where the arsenal was located, the road runs through the deep, rocky gorge known as Apache Canyon. It is one of the wildest spots in the mountains, the walls on each side rising from one to two thousand feet above the Trail, which is within the range of ordinary cannon from every point, and in many places of point-blank rifle-shot. Granite rocks and sands abound, and the hills are covered with long-leafed pine. It is a gateway which, in the hands of a skilful engineer and one hundred resolute men, can be made perfectly impregnable. The Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railway passes directly through this picturesque chasm, every foot of which is classic ground, and in the season of the mountain freshets constant care is needed to keep its bridges in place. At its eastern entrance is a large residence, known as Pigeon's Ranch, from which the battle to be described derives its name, though, as stated, it is also known as that of Apache Canyon, and La Glorieta,[39] the latter, perhaps, the most classical, from the range of mountains enclosing the rent in the mighty hills. The following detailed account of this battle I have taken from the _History of Colorado_,[40] an admirable work: The sympathizers with and abettors of the Southern Confederacy inaugurated their plans by posting handbills in all conspicuous places between Denver and the mining-camps, designating certain localities where the highest prices would be paid for arms of every description, and for powder, lead, shot, and percussion caps. Simultaneously, a small force was collected and put under discipline to co-operate with parties expected from Arkansas and Texas who were to take possession, first of Colorado, and subsequently of New Mexico, anticipating the easy capture of the Federal troops and stores located there. Being apprised of the movement, the governor immediately decided to enlist a full regiment of volunteers. John P. Slough was appointed colonel, Samuel F. Tappan lieutenant-colonel, and John J. M. Chivington major. Without railroads or telegraphs nearer than the Missouri River, and wholly dependent upon the overland mail coach for communication with the States and the authorities at Washington, news was at least a week old when received. Thus the troops passed the time in a condition of doubt and extreme anxiety, until the 6th of January, 1862, when information arrived that an invading force under General H. H. Sibley, from San Antonio, Texas, was approaching the southern border of New Mexico, and had already captured Forts Fillmore and Bliss, making prisoners of their garrisons without firing a gun, and securing all their stock and supplies. Immediately upon receipt of this intelligence, efforts were made to obtain the consent of, or orders from, General Hunter, commanding the department at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, for the regiment to go to the relief of General Canby, then in command of the department of New Mexico. On the 20th of February, orders came from General Hunter, directing Colonel Slough and the First Regiment of Colorado Volunteers to proceed with all possible despatch to Fort Union, or Santa Fe, New Mexico, and report to General Canby for service. Two days thereafter, the command marched out of Camp Weld two miles up the Platte River, and in due time encamped at Pueblo, on the Arkansas River. At this point further advices were received from Canby, stating that he had encountered the enemy at Valverde, ten miles north of Fort Craig, but, owing to the inefficiency of the newly raised New Mexican volunteers, was compelled to retire. The Texans under Sibley marched on up the Rio Grande, levying tribute upon the inhabitants for their support. The Colorado troops were urged to the greatest possible haste in reaching Fort Union, where they were to unite with such regular troops as could be concentrated at that post, and thus aid in saving the fort and its supplies from falling into Confederate hands. Early on the following morning the order was given to proceed to Union by forced marches, and it is doubtful if the same number of men ever marched a like distance in the same length of time. When the summit of Raton Pass was reached, another courier from Canby met the command, who informed Colonel Slough that the Texans had already captured Albuquerque and Santa Fe with all the troops stationed at those places, together with the supplies stored there, and that they were then marching on Fort Union. Arriving at Red River about sundown, the regiment was drawn up in line and this information imparted to the men. The request was then made for all who were willing to undertake a forced march at night to step two paces to the front, when every man advanced to the new alignment. After a hasty supper the march was resumed, and at sunrise the next morning they reached Maxwell's Ranch on the Cimarron, having made sixty-four miles in less than twenty-four hours. At ten o'clock on the second night thereafter, the command entered Fort Union. It was there discovered that Colonel Paul, in charge of the post, had mined the fort, giving orders for the removal of the women and children, and was preparing to blow up all the supplies and march to Fort Garland or some other post to the northward, on the first approach of the Confederates. The troops remained at Union from the 13th to the 22d of March, when by order of Colonel Slough they proceeded in the direction of Santa Fe. The command consisted of the First Colorado Volunteers; two Light Batteries, one commanded by Captain Ritter and the other by Captain Claflin; Ford's Company of Colorado Volunteers unattached; two companies of the Fifth Regular Infantry; and two companies of the Seventh United States Cavalry. The force encamped at Bernal Springs, where Colonel Slough determined to organize a detachment to enter Santa Fe by night with the view of surprising the enemy, spiking his guns, and after doing what other damage could be accomplished without bringing on a general action, falling back on the main body. The detachment chosen comprised sixty men each from Companies A, D, and E of the Colorado regiment, with Company F of the same mounted, and thirty-seven men each from the companies of Captains Ford and Howland, and of the Seventh Cavalry, the whole commanded by Major Chivington. At sundown on the 25th of March it reached Kosloskie's Ranch, where Major Chivington was informed that the enemy's pickets were in the vicinity. He went into camp at once, and about nine o'clock of the same evening sent out Lieutenant Nelson of the First Colorado with thirty men of Company F, who captured the Texan pickets while they were engaged in a game of cards at Pigeon's Ranch, and before daylight on the morning of the 26th, reported at camp with his prisoners. After breakfast, the major, being apprised of the enemy's whereabouts, proceeded cautiously, keeping his advance guard well to the front. While passing near the summit of the hill, the officer in command of the advance met the Confederate advance, consisting of a first lieutenant and thirty men, captured them without firing a gun, and returning met the main body and turned them over to the commanding officer. The Confederate lieutenant declared that they had received no intimation of the advance from Fort Union, but themselves expected to be there four days later. Descending Apache Canyon for the distance of half a mile, Chivington's force observed the approaching Texans, about six hundred strong, with three pieces of artillery, who, on discovering the Federals, halted, formed line and battery, and opened fire. Chivington drew up his cavalry as a reserve under cover, deployed Company D under Captain Downing to the right, and Companies A and E under Captains Wynkoop and Anthony to the left, directing them to ascend the mountain-side until they were above the elevation of the enemy's artillery and thus flank him, at the same time directing Captain Howland, he being the ranking cavalry officer, to closely observe the enemy, and when he retreated, without further orders to charge with the cavalry. This disposition of the troops proved wise and successful. The Texans soon broke battery and retreated down the canyon a mile or more, but from some cause Captain Howland failed to charge as ordered, which enabled the Confederates to take up a new and strong position, where they formed battery, threw their supports well up the sides of the mountain, and again opened fire. Chivington dismounted Captains Howland and Lord with their regulars, leaving their horses in charge of every fourth man, and ordered them to join Captain Downing on the left, taking orders from him. Our skirmishers advanced, and, flanking the enemy's supports, drove them pell-mell down the mountain-side, when Captain Samuel Cook, with Company F, First Colorado, having been signalled by the major, made as gallant and successful a charge through the canyon, through the ranks of the Confederates and back, as was ever performed. Meanwhile, our infantry advanced rapidly; when the enemy commenced his retreat a second time, they were well ahead of him on the mountain-sides and poured a galling fire into him, which thoroughly demoralized and broke him up, compelling the entire body to seek shelter among the rocks down the canyon and in some cabins that stood by the wayside. After an hour spent in collecting the prisoners, and caring for the wounded, both Federal and Confederate, the latter having left in killed, wounded, and prisoners a number equal to our whole force in the field, the first baptism by fire of our volunteers terminated. The victory was decided and complete. Night intervening, and there being no water in the canyon, the little command fell back to Pigeon's Ranch, whence a courier was despatched to Colonel Slough, advising him of the engagement and its result, and requesting him to bring forward the main command as rapidly as possible, as the enemy with all his forces had moved from Santa Fe toward Fort Union. After interring the dead and making a comfortable hospital for the wounded, on the afternoon of the 27th Chivington fell back to the Pecos River at Kosloskie's Ranch and encamped. On receiving the news from Apache Canyon, Colonel Slough put his forces in motion, and at eleven o'clock at night of the 27th joined Chivington at Kosloskie's. At daybreak on the 28th, the assembly was sounded, and the entire command resumed its march. Five miles out from their encampment Major Chivington, in command of a detachment composed of Companies A, B, H, and E of the First Colorado, and Captain Ford's Company unattached, with Captain Lewis' Company of the Fifth Regular Infantry, was ordered to take the Galisteo road, and by a detour through the mountains to gain the enemy's rear, if possible, at the west end of Apache Canyon, while Slough advanced slowly with the main body to gain his front about the same time; thus devising an attack in front and rear. About ten o'clock, while making his way through the scrub pine and cedar brush in the mountains, Major Chivington and his command heard cannonading to their right, and were thereby apprised that Colonel Slough and his men had met the enemy. About twelve o'clock he arrived with his men on the summit of the mountain which overlooked the enemy's supply wagons, which had been left in the charge of a strong guard with one piece of artillery mounted on an elevation commanding the camp and mouth of the canyon. With great difficulty Chivington descended the precipitous mountain, charged, took, and spiked the gun, ran together the enemy's supply wagons of commissary, quartermaster, and ordnance stores, set them on fire, blew and burnt them up, bayoneted his mules in corral, took the guard prisoners and reascended the mountain, where about dark he was met by Lieutenant Cobb, aide-de-camp on Colonel Slough's staff, with the information that Slough and his men had been defeated and had fallen back to Kosloskie's. Upon the supposition that this information was correct, Chivington, under the guidance of a French Catholic priest, in the intensest darkness, with great difficulty made his way with his command through the mountains without a road or trail, and joined Colonel Slough about midnight. Meanwhile, after Chivington and his detachment had left in the morning, Colonel Slough with the main body proceeded up the canyon, and arriving at Pigeon's Ranch, gave orders for the troops to stack arms in the road and supply their canteens with water, as that would be the last opportunity before reaching the further end of Apache Canyon. While thus supplying themselves with water and visiting the wounded in the hospital at Pigeon's Ranch, being entirely off their guard, they were suddenly startled by a courier from the advance column dashing down the road at full speed and informing them that the enemy was close at hand. Orders were immediately given to fall in and take arms, but before the order could be obeyed the enemy had formed battery and commenced shelling them. They formed as quickly as possible, the colonel ordering Captain Downing with Company D, First Colorado Volunteers, to advance on the left, and Captain Kerber with Company I First Colorado, to advance on the right. In the meantime Ritter and Claflin opened a return fire on the enemy with their batteries. Captain Downing advanced and fought desperately, meeting a largely superior force in point of numbers, until he was almost overpowered and surrounded; when, happily, Captain Wilder of Company G of the First Colorado, with a detachment of his command, came to his relief, and extricated him and that portion of his Company not already slaughtered. While on the opposite side, the right, Company I had advanced into an open space, feeling the enemy, and ambitious of capturing his battery, when they were surprised by a detachment which was concealed in an arroya, and which, when Kerber and his men were within forty feet of it, opened a galling fire upon them. Kerber lost heavily; Lieutenant Baker, being wounded, fell back. In the meantime the enemy masked, and made five successive charges on our batteries, determined to capture them as they had captured Canby's at Valverde. At one time they were within forty yards of Slough's batteries, their slouch hats drawn down over their faces, and rushing on with deafening yells. It seemed inevitable that they would make the capture, when Captain Claflin gave the order to cease firing, and Captain Samuel Robbins with his company, K of the First Colorado, arose from the ground like ghosts, delivering a galling fire, charged bayonets, and on the double-quick put the rebels to flight. During the whole of this time the cavalry, under Captain Howland, were held in reserve, never moving except to fall back and keep out of danger, with the exception of Captain Cook's men, who dismounted and fought as infantry. From the opening of the battle to its close the odds were against Colonel Slough and his forces; the enemy being greatly superior in numbers, with a better armament of artillery and equally well armed otherwise. But every inch of ground was stubbornly contested. In no instance did Slough's forces fall back until they were in danger of being flanked and surrounded, and for nine hours, without rest or refreshment, the battle raged incessantly. At one time Claflin gave orders to double-shot his guns, they being nothing but little brass howitzers, and he counted, "One, two, three, four," until one of his own carriages capsized and fell down into the gulch; from which place Captain Samuel Robbins and his company, K, extricated it and saved it from falling into the enemy's hands. Having been compelled to give ground all day, Colonel Slough, between five and six o'clock in the afternoon, issued orders to retreat. About the same time General Sibley received information from the rear of the destruction of his supply trains, and ordered a flag of truce to be sent to Colonel Slough, which did not reach him, however, until he arrived at Kosloskie's. A truce was entered into until nine o'clock the next morning, which was afterward extended to twenty-four hours, and under which Sibley with his demoralized forces fell back to Santa Fe, laying that town under tribute to supply his forces. The 29th was spent in burying the dead, as well as those of the Confederates which they left on the field, and caring for the wounded. Orders were received from General Canby directing Colonel Slough to fall back to Fort Union, which so incensed him that while obeying the order he forwarded his resignation, and soon after left the command. Thus ended the battle of La Glorieta. CHAPTER XII.[41] THE BUFFALO. The ancient range of the buffalo, according to history and tradition, once extended from the Alleghanies to the Rocky Mountains, embracing all that magnificent portion of North America known as the Mississippi valley; from the frozen lakes above to the "Tierras Calientes" of Mexico, far to the south. It seems impossible, especially to those who have seen them, as numerous, apparently, as the sands of the seashore, feeding on the illimitable natural pastures of the great plains, that the buffalo should have become almost extinct. When I look back only twenty-five years, and recall the fact that they roamed in immense numbers even then, as far east as Fort Harker, in Central Kansas, a little more than two hundred miles from the Missouri River, I ask myself, "Have they all disappeared?" An idea may be formed of how many buffalo were killed from 1868 to 1881, a period of only thirteen years, during which time they were indiscriminately slaughtered for their hides. In Kansas alone there was paid out, between the dates specified, two million five hundred thousand dollars for their bones gathered on the prairies, to be utilized by the various carbon works of the country, principally in St. Louis. It required about one hundred carcasses to make one ton of bones, the price paid averaging eight dollars a ton; so the above-quoted enormous sum represented the skeletons of over thirty-one millions of buffalo.[42] These figures may appear preposterous to readers not familiar with the great plains a third of a century ago; but to those who have seen the prairie black from horizon to horizon with the shaggy monsters, they are not so. In the autumn of 1868 I rode with Generals Sheridan, Custer, Sully, and others, for three consecutive days, through one continuous herd, which must have contained millions. In the spring of 1869 the train on the Kansas Pacific Railroad was delayed at a point between Forts Harker and Hays, from nine o'clock in the morning until five in the afternoon, in consequence of the passage of an immense herd of buffalo across the track. On each side of us, and to the west as far as we could see, our vision was only limited by the extended horizon of the flat prairie, and the whole vast area was black with the surging mass of affrighted buffaloes as they rushed onward to the south. In 1868 the Union Pacific Railroad and its branch in Kansas was nearly completed across the plains to the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, the western limit of the buffalo range, and that year witnessed the beginning of the wholesale and wanton slaughter of the great ruminants, which ended only with their practical extinction seventeen years afterward. The causes of this hecatomb of animals on the great plains were the incursion of regular hunters into the region, for the hides of the buffalo, and the crowds of tourists who crossed the continent for the mere pleasure and novelty of the trip. The latter class heartlessly killed for the excitement of the new experience as they rode along in the cars at a low rate of speed, often never touching a particle of the flesh of their victims, or possessing themselves of a single robe. The former, numbering hundreds of old frontiersmen, all expert shots, with thousands of novices, the pioneer settlers on the public domain, just opened under the various land laws, from beyond the Platte to far south of the Arkansas, within transporting distance of two railroads, day after day for years made it a lucrative business to kill for the robes alone, a market for which had suddenly sprung up all over the country. On either side of the track of the two lines of railroads running through Kansas and Nebraska, within a relatively short distance and for nearly their whole length, the most conspicuous objects in those days were the desiccated carcasses of the noble beasts that had been ruthlessly slaughtered by the thoughtless and excited passengers on their way across the continent. On the open prairie, too, miles away from the course of legitimate travel, in some places one could walk all day on the dead bodies of the buffaloes killed by the hide-hunters, without stepping off them to the ground. The best robes, in their relation to thickness of fur and lustre, were those taken during the winter months, particularly February, at which period the maximum of density and beauty had been reached. Then, notwithstanding the sudden and fitful variations of temperature incident to our mid-continent climate, the old hunters were especially active, and accepted unusual risks to procure as many of the coveted skins as possible. A temporary camp would be established under the friendly shelter of some timbered stream, from which the hunters would radiate every morning, and return at night after an arduous day's work, to smoke their pipes and relate their varied adventures around the fire of blazing logs. Sometimes when far away from camp a blizzard would come down from the north in all its fury without ten minutes' warning, and in a few seconds the air, full of blinding snow, precluded the possibility of finding their shelter, an attempt at which would only result in an aimless circular march on the prairie. On such occasions, to keep from perishing by the intense cold, they would kill a buffalo, and, taking out its viscera, creep inside the huge cavity, enough animal heat being retained until the storm had sufficiently abated for them to proceed with safety to their camp. Early in March, 1867, a party of my friends, all old buffalo hunters, were camped in Paradise valley, then a famous rendezvous of the animals they were after. One day when out on the range stalking, and widely separated from each other, a terrible blizzard came up. Three of the hunters reached their camp without much difficulty, but he who was farthest away was fairly caught in it, and night overtaking him, he was compelled to resort to the method described in the preceding paragraph. Luckily, he soon came up with a superannuated bull that had been abandoned by the herd; so he killed him, took out his viscera and crawled inside the empty carcass, where he lay comparatively comfortable until morning broke, when the storm had passed over and the sun shone brightly. But when he attempted to get out, he found himself a prisoner, the immense ribs of the creature having frozen together, and locked him up as tightly as if he were in a cell. Fortunately, his companions, who were searching for him, and firing their rifles from time to time, heard him yell in response to the discharge of their pieces, and thus discovered and released him from the peculiar predicament into which he had fallen. At another time, several years before the acquisition of New Mexico by the United States, two old trappers were far up on the Arkansas near the Trail, in the foot-hills hunting buffalo, and they, as is generally the case, became separated. In an hour or two one of them killed a fat young cow, and, leaving his rifle on the ground, went up and commenced to skin her. While busily engaged in his work, he suddenly heard right behind him a suppressed snort, and looking around he saw to his dismay a monstrous grizzly ambling along in that animal's characteristic gait, within a few feet of him. In front, only a few rods away, there happened to be a clump of scrubby pines, and he incontinently made a break for them, climbing into the tallest in less time than it takes to tell of it. The bear deliberately ate a hearty meal off the juicy hams of the cow, so providentially fallen in his way, and when he had satiated himself, instead of going away, he quietly stretched himself alongside of the half-devoured carcass, and went to sleep, keeping one eye open, however, on the movements of the unlucky hunter whom he had corralled in the tree. In the early evening his partner came to the spot, and killed the impudent bear, that, being full of tender buffalo meat, was sluggish and unwary, and thus became an easy victim to the unerring rifle; when the unwilling prisoner came down from his perch in the pine, feeling sheepish enough. The last time I saw him he told me he still had the bear's hide, which he religiously preserved as a memento of his foolishness in separating himself from his rifle, a thing he has never been guilty of before or since. Kit Carson, when with Fremont on his first exploring expedition, while hunting for the command, at some point on the Arkansas, left a buffalo which he had just killed and partly cut up, to pursue a large bull that came rushing by him alone. He chased his game for nearly a quarter of a mile, not being able, however, to gain on it rapidly, owing to the blown condition of his horse. Coming up at length to the side of the fleeing beast, Carson fired, but at the same instant his horse stepped into a prairie-dog hole, fell down and threw Kit fully fifteen feet over his head. The bullet struck the buffalo low under the shoulder, which only served to enrage him so that the next moment the infuriated animal was pursuing Kit, who, fortunately not much hurt, was able to run toward the river. It was a race for life now, Carson using his nimble legs to the utmost of their capacity, accelerated very much by the thundering, bellowing bull bringing up the rear. For several minutes it was nip and tuck which should reach the stream first, but Kit got there by a scratch a little ahead. It was a big bend of the river, and the water was deep under the bank, but it was paradise compared with the hades plunging at his back; so Kit leaped into the water, trusting to Providence that the bull would not follow. The trust was well placed, for the bull did not continue the pursuit, but stood on the bank and shook his head vehemently at the struggling hunter who had preferred deep waves to the horns of a dilemma on shore. Kit swam around for some time, carefully guarded by the bull, until his position was observed by one of his companions, who attacked the belligerent animal successfully with a forty-four slug, and then Kit crawled out and--skinned the enemy! He once killed five buffaloes during a single race, and used but four balls, having dismounted and cut the bullet from the wound of the fourth, and thus continued the chase. He it was, too, who established his reputation as a famous hunter by shooting a buffalo cow during an impetuous race down a steep hill, discharging his rifle just as the animal was leaping on one of the low cedars peculiar to the region. The ball struck a vital spot, and the dead cow remained in the jagged branches. The Indians who were with him on that hunt looked upon the circumstance as something beyond their comprehension, and insisted that Kit should leave the carcass in the tree as "Big Medicine." Katzatoa (Smoked Shield), a celebrated chief of the Kiowas many years ago, who was over seven feet tall, never mounted a horse when hunting the buffalo; he always ran after them on foot and killed them with his lance. Two Lance, another famous chief, could shoot an arrow entirely through a buffalo while hunting on horseback. He accomplished this remarkable feat in the presence of the Grand Duke Alexis of Russia, who was under the care of Buffalo Bill, near Fort Hays, Kansas. During one of Fremont's expeditions, two of his chasseurs, named Archambeaux and La Jeunesse,[43] had a curious adventure on a buffalo-hunt. One of them was mounted on a mule, the other on a horse; they came in sight of a large band of buffalo feeding upon the open prairie about a mile distant. The mule was not fleet enough, and the horse was too much fatigued with the day's journey, to justify a race, and they concluded to approach the herd on foot. Dismounting and securing the ends of their lariats in the ground, they made a slight detour, to take advantage of the wind, and crept stealthily in the direction of the game, approaching unperceived until within a few hundred yards. Some old bulls forming the outer picket guard slowly raised their heads and gazed long and dubiously at the strange objects, when, discovering that the intruders were not wolves, but two hunters, they gave a significant grunt, turned about as though on pivots, and in less than no time the whole herd--bulls, cows, and calves--were making the gravel fly over the prairie in fine style, leaving the hunters to their discomfiture. They had scarcely recovered from their surprise, when, to their great consternation, they beheld the whole company of the monsters, numbering several thousand, suddenly shape their course to where the riding animals were picketed. The charge of the stampeded buffalo was a magnificent one; for the buffalo, mistaking the horse and the mule for two of their own species, came down upon them like a tornado. A small cloud of dust arose for a moment over the spot where the hunter's animals had been left; the black mass moved on with accelerated speed, and in a few seconds the horizon shut them all from view. The horse and mule, with all their trappings, saddles, bridles, and holsters, were never seen or heard of afterward. Buffalo Bill, in less than eighteen months, while employed as hunter of the construction company of the Kansas Pacific Railroad, in 1867-68, killed nearly five thousand buffalo, which were consumed by the twelve hundred men employed in track-laying. He tells in his autobiography of the following remarkable experience he had at one time with his favourite horse Brigham, on an impromptu buffalo hunt:-- One day we were pushed for horses to work on our scrapers, so I hitched up Brigham, to see how he would work. He was not much used to that kind of labour, and I was about giving up the idea of making a work horse of him, when one of the men called to me that there were some buffaloes coming over the hill. As there had been no buffaloes seen anywhere in the vicinity of the camp for several days, we had become rather short of meat. I immediately told one of our men to hitch his horses to a wagon and follow me, as I was going out after the herd, and we would bring back some fresh meat for supper. I had no saddle, as mine had been left at camp a mile distant, so taking the harness from Brigham I mounted him bareback, and started out after the game, being armed with my celebrated buffalo killer Lucretia Borgia--a newly improved breech-loading needle-gun, which I had obtained from the government. While I was riding toward the buffaloes, I observed five horsemen coming out from the fort, who had evidently seen the buffaloes from the post, and were going out for a chase. They proved to be some newly arrived officers in that part of the country, and when they came up closer I could see by the shoulder-straps that the senior was a captain, while the others were lieutenants. "Hello! my friend," sang out the captain; "I see you are after the same game we are." "Yes, sir; I saw those buffaloes coming over the hill, and as we were about out of fresh meat I thought I would go and get some," said I. They scanned my cheap-looking outfit pretty closely, and as my horse was not very prepossessing in appearance, having on only a blind bridle, and otherwise looking like a work horse, they evidently considered me a green hand at hunting. "Do you expect to catch those buffaloes on that Gothic steed?" laughingly asked the captain. "I hope so, by pushing on the reins hard enough," was my reply. "You'll never catch them in the world, my fine fellow," said the captain. "It requires a fast horse to overtake the animals on the prairie." "Does it?" asked I, as if I didn't know it. "Yes; but come along with us, as we are going to kill them more for pleasure than anything else. All we want are the tongues and a piece of tenderloin, and you may have all that is left," said the generous man. "I am much obliged to you, captain, and will follow you," I replied. There were eleven buffaloes in the herd, and they were not more than a mile ahead of us. The officers dashed on as if they had a sure thing on killing them all before I could come up with them; but I had noticed that the herd was making toward the creek for water, and as I knew buffalo nature, I was perfectly aware that it would be difficult to turn them from their direct course. Thereupon, I started toward the creek to head them off, while the officers came up in the rear and gave chase. The buffaloes came rushing past me not a hundred yards distant, with the officers about three hundred yards in the rear. Now, thought I, is the time to "get my work in," as they say; and I pulled off the blind bridle from my horse, who knew as well as I did that we were out after buffaloes, as he was a trained hunter. The moment the bridle was off he started at the top of his speed, running in ahead of the officers, and with a few jumps he brought me alongside the rear buffalo. Raising old Lucretia Borgia to my shoulder, I fired, and killed the animal at the first shot. My horse then carried me alongside the next one, not ten feet away, and I dropped him at the next fire. As soon as one of the buffalo would fall, Brigham would take me so close to the next that I could almost touch it with my gun. In this manner I killed the eleven buffaloes with twelve shots; and as the last animal dropped, my horse stopped. I jumped off to the ground, knowing that he would not leave me--it must be remembered that I had been riding him without bridle, reins, or saddle--and, turning around as the party of astonished officers rode up, I said to them:-- "Now, gentlemen, allow me to present to you all the tongues and tenderloins you wish from these buffaloes." Captain Graham, for such I soon learned was his name, replied: "Well, I never saw the like before. Who under the sun are you, anyhow?" "My name is Cody," said I. Captain Graham, who was considerable of a horseman, greatly admired Brigham, and said: "That horse of yours has running points." "Yes, sir; he has not only got the points, he is a runner and knows how to use the points," said I. "So I noticed," said the captain. They all finally dismounted, and we continued chatting for some little time upon the different subjects of horses, buffaloes, hunting, and Indians. They felt a little sore at not getting a single shot at the buffaloes; but the way I had killed them, they said, amply repaid them for their disappointment. They had read of such feats in books, but this was the first time they had ever seen anything of the kind with their own eyes. It was the first time, also, that they had ever witnessed or heard of a white man running buffaloes on horseback without a saddle or bridle. I told them that Brigham knew nearly as much about the business as I did, and if I had twenty bridles they would have been of no use to me, as he understood everything, and all that he expected of me was to do the shooting. It is a fact that Brigham would stop if a buffalo did not fall at the first fire, so as to give me a second chance; but if I did not kill the animal then, he would go on, as if to say, "You are no good, and I will not fool away my time by giving you more than two shots." Brigham was the best horse I ever saw or owned for buffalo chasing. At one time an old, experienced buffalo hunter was following at the heels of a small herd with that reckless rush to which in the excitement of the chase men abandon themselves, when a great bull just in front of him tumbled into a ravine. The rider's horse fell also, throwing the old hunter over his head sprawling, but with strange accuracy right between the bull's horns! The first to recover from the terrible shock and to regain his legs was the horse, which ran off with wonderful alacrity several miles before he stopped. Next the bull rose, and shook himself with an astonished air, as if he would like to know "how that was done?" The hunter was on the great brute's back, who, perhaps, took the affair as a good practical joke; but he was soon pitched to the ground, as the buffalo commenced to jump "stiff-legged," and the latter, giving the hunter one lingering look, which he long remembered, with remarkable good nature ran off to join his companions. Had the bull been wounded, the rider would have been killed, as the then enraged animal would have gored and trampled him to death. An officer of the old regular army told me many years ago that in crossing the plains a herd of buffalo were fired at by a twelve-pound howitzer, the ball of which wounded and stunned an immense bull. Nevertheless, heedless of a hundred shots that had been fired at him, and of a bulldog belonging to one of the officers, which had fastened himself to his lips, the enraged beast charged upon the whole troop of dragoons, and tossed one of the horses like a feather. Bull, horse, and rider all fell in a heap. Before the dust cleared away, the trooper, who had hung for a moment to one of the bull's horns by his waistband, crawled out safe, while the horse got a ball from a rifle through his neck while in the air and two great rips in his flank from the bull. In 1839 Kit Carson and Hobbs were trapping with a party on the Arkansas River, not far from Bent's Fort. Among the trappers was a green Irishman, named O'Neil, who was quite anxious to become proficient in hunting, and it was not long before he received his first lesson. Every man who went out of camp after game was expected to bring in "meat" of some kind. O'Neil said that he would agree to the terms, and was ready one evening to start out on his first hunt alone. He picked up his rifle and stalked after a small herd of buffalo in plain sight on the prairie not more than five or six hundred yards from camp. All the trappers who were not engaged in setting their traps or cooking supper were watching O'Neil. Presently they heard the report of his rifle, and shortly after he came running into camp, bareheaded, without his gun, and with a buffalo bull close upon his heels; both going at full speed, and the Irishman shouting like a madman,-- "Here we come, by jabers. Stop us! For the love of God, stop us!" Just as they came in among the tents, with the bull not more than six feet in the rear of O'Neil, who was frightened out of his wits and puffing like a locomotive, his foot caught in a tent-rope, and over he went into a puddle of water head foremost, and in his fall capsized several camp-kettles, some of which contained the trappers' supper. But the buffalo did not escape so easily; for Hobbs and Kit Carson jumped for their rifles, and dropped the animal before he had done any further damage. The whole outfit laughed heartily at O'Neil when he got up out of the water, for a party of old trappers would show no mercy to any of their companions who met with a mishap of that character; but as he stood there with dripping clothes and face covered with mud, his mother-wit came to his relief and he declared he had accomplished the hunter's task: "For sure," said he, "haven't I fetched the mate into camp? and there was no bargain whether it should be dead or alive!" Upon Kit's asking O'Neil where his gun was,-- "Sure," said he, "that's more than I can tell you." Next morning Carson and Hobbs took up O'Neil's tracks and the buffalo's, and after hunting an hour or so found the Irishman's rifle, though he had little use for it afterward, as he preferred to cook and help around camp rather than expose his precious life fighting buffaloes. A great herd of buffaloes on the plains in the early days, when one could approach near enough without disturbing it to quietly watch its organization and the apparent discipline which its leaders seemed to exact, was a very curious sight. Among the striking features of the spectacle was the apparently uniform manner in which the immense mass of shaggy animals moved; there was constancy of action indicating a degree of intelligence to be found only in the most intelligent of the brute creation. Frequently the single herd was broken up into many smaller ones, that travelled relatively close together, each led by an independent master. Perhaps a few rods only marked the dividing-line between them, but it was always unmistakably plain, and each moved synchronously in the direction in which all were going. The leadership of a herd was attained only by hard struggles for the place; once reached, however, the victor was immediately recognized, and kept his authority until some new aspirant overcame him, or he became superannuated and was driven out of the herd to meet his inevitable fate, a prey to those ghouls of the desert, the gray wolves. In the event of a stampede, every animal of the separate, yet consolidated, herds rushed off together, as if they had all gone mad at once; for the buffalo, like the Texas steer, mule, or domestic horse, stampedes on the slightest provocation; frequently without any assignable cause. The simplest affair, sometimes, will start the whole herd; a prairie-dog barking at the entrance to his burrow, a shadow of one of themselves or that of a passing cloud, is sufficient to make them run for miles as if a real and dangerous enemy were at their heels. Like an army, a herd of buffaloes put out vedettes to give the alarm in case anything beyond the ordinary occurred. These sentinels were always to be seen in groups of four, five, or even six, at some distance from the main body. When they perceived something approaching that the herd should beware of or get away from, they started on a run directly for the centre of the great mass of their peacefully grazing congeners. Meanwhile, the young bulls were on duty as sentinels on the edge of the main herd watching the vedettes; the moment the latter made for the centre, the former raised their heads, and in the peculiar manner of their species gazed all around and sniffed the air as if they could smell both the direction and source of the impending danger. Should there be something which their instinct told them to guard against, the leader took his position in front, the cows and calves crowded in the centre, while the rest of the males gathered on the flanks and in the rear, indicating a gallantry that might be emulated at times by the genus homo. Generally buffalo went to their drinking-places but once a day, and that late in the afternoon. Then they ambled along, following each other in single file, which accounts for the many trails on the plains, always ending at some stream or lake. They frequently travelled twenty or thirty miles for water, so the trails leading to it were often worn to the depth of a foot or more. That curious depression so frequently seen on the great plains, called a buffalo-wallow, is caused in this wise: The huge animals paw and lick the salty, alkaline earth, and when once the sod is broken the loose dirt drifts away under the constant action of the wind. Then, year after year, through more pawing, licking, rolling, and wallowing by the animals, the wind wafts more of the soil away, and soon there is a considerable hole in the prairie. Many an old trapper and hunter's life has been saved by following a buffalo-trail when he was suffering from thirst. The buffalo-wallows retain usually a great quantity of water, and they have often saved the lives of whole companies of cavalry, both men and horses. There was, however, a stranger and more wonderful spectacle to be seen every recurring spring during the reign of the buffalo, soon after the grass had started. There were circles trodden bare on the plains, thousands, yes, millions of them, which the early travellers, who did not divine their cause, called fairy-rings. From the first of April until the middle of May was the wet season; you could depend upon its recurrence almost as certainly as on the sun and moon rising at their proper time. This was also the calving period of the buffalo, as they, unlike our domestic cattle, only rutted during a single month; consequently, the cows all calved during a certain time; this was the wet month, and as there were a great many gray wolves that roamed singly and in immense packs over the whole prairie region, the bulls, in their regular beats, kept guard over the cows while in the act of parturition, and drove the wolves away, walking in a ring around the females at a short distance, and thus forming the curious circles. In every herd at each recurring season there were always ambitious young bulls that came to their majority, so to speak, and these were ever ready to test their claims for the leadership, so that it may be safely stated that a month rarely passed without a bloody battle between them for the supremacy; though, strangely enough, the struggle scarcely ever resulted in the death of either combatant. Perhaps there is no animal in which maternal love is so wonderfully developed as the buffalo cow; she is as dangerous with a calf by her side as a she-grizzly with cubs, as all old mountaineers know. The buffalo bull that has outlived his usefulness is one of the most pitiable objects in the whole range of natural history. Old age has probably been decided in the economy of buffalo life as the unpardonable sin. Abandoned to his fate, he may be discovered, in his dreary isolation, near some stream or lake, where it does not tax him too severely to find good grass; for he is now feeble, and exertion an impossibility. In this new stage of his existence he seems to have completely lost his courage. Frightened at his own shadow, or the rustling of a leaf, he is the very incarnation of nervousness and suspicion. Gregarious in his habits from birth, solitude, foreign to his whole nature, has changed him into a new creature; and his inherent terror of the most trivial things is intensified to such a degree that if a man were compelled to undergo such constant alarm, it would probably drive him insane in less than a week. Nobody ever saw one of these miserable and helplessly forlorn creatures dying a natural death, or ever heard of such an occurrence. The cowardly coyote and the gray wolf had already marked him for their own; and they rarely missed their calculations. Riding suddenly to the top of a divide once with a party of friends in 1866, we saw standing below us in the valley an old buffalo bull, the very picture of despair. Surrounding him were seven gray wolves in the act of challenging him to mortal combat. The poor beast, undoubtedly realizing the utter hopelessness of his situation, had determined to die game. His great shaggy head, filled with burrs, was lowered to the ground as he confronted his would-be executioners; his tongue, black and parched, lolled out of his mouth, and he gave utterance at intervals to a suppressed roar. The wolves were sitting on their haunches in a semi-circle immediately in front of the tortured beast, and every time that the fear-stricken buffalo would give vent to his hoarsely modulated groan, the wolves howled in concert in most mournful cadence. After contemplating his antagonists for a few moments, the bull made a dash at the nearest wolf, tumbling him howling over the silent prairie; but while this diversion was going on in front, the remainder of the pack started for his hind legs, to hamstring him. Upon this the poor brute turned to the point of attack only to receive a repetition of it in the same vulnerable place by the wolves, who had as quickly turned also and fastened themselves on his heels again. His hind quarters now streamed with blood and he began to show signs of great physical weakness. He did not dare to lie down; that would have been instantly fatal. By this time he had killed three of the wolves or so maimed them that they were entirely out of the fight. At this juncture the suffering animal was mercifully shot, and the wolves allowed to batten on his thin and tough carcass. Often there are serious results growing out of a stampede, either by mules or a herd of buffalo. A portion of the Fifth United States Infantry had a narrow escape from a buffalo stampede on the Old Trail, in the early summer of 1866. General George A. Sykes, who commanded the Division of Regulars in the Army of the Potomac during the Civil War, was ordered to join his regiment, stationed in New Mexico, and was conducting a body of recruits, with their complement of officers, to fill up the decimated ranks of the army stationed at the various military posts, in far-off Greaser Land. The command numbered nearly eight hundred, including the subaltern officers. These recruits, or the majority of them at least, were recruits in name only; they had seen service in many a hard campaign of the Rebellion. Some, of course, were beardless youths just out of their teens, full of that martial ardour which induced so many young men of the nation to follow the drum on the remote plains and in the fastnesses of the Rocky Mountains, where the wily savages still held almost undisputed sway, and were a constant menace to the pioneer settlers. One morning, when the command had just settled itself in careless repose on the short grass of the apparently interminable prairie at the first halt of the day's march, a short distance beyond Fort Larned, a strange noise, like the low muttering of thunder below the horizon, greeted the ears of the little army. All were startled by the ominous sound, unlike anything they had heard before on their dreary tour. The general ordered his scouts out to learn the cause; could it be Indians? Every eye was strained for something out of the ordinary. Even the horses of the officers and the mules of the supply-train were infected by something that seemed impending; they grew restless, stamped the earth, and vainly essayed to stampede, but were prevented by their hobbles and picket-pins. Presently one of the scouts returned from over the divide, and reported to the general that an immense herd of buffalo was tearing down toward the Trail, and from the great clouds of dust they raised, which obscured the horizon, there must have been ten thousand of them. The roar wafted to the command, and which seemed so mysterious, was made by their hoofs as they rattled over the dry prairie. The sound increased in volume rapidly, and soon a black, surging mass was discovered bearing right down on the Trail. Behind it could be seen a cavalcade of about five hundred Cheyennes, Comanches, and Kiowas, who had maddened the shaggy brutes, hoping to capture the train without an attack by forcing the frightened animals to overrun the command. Luckily, something caused the herd to open before it reached the foot of the divide, and it passed in two masses, leaving the command between, not two hundred feet from either division of the infuriated beasts. The rage of the savages was evident when they saw that their attempt to annihilate the troops had failed, and they rode off sullenly into the sand hills, as the number of soldiers was too great for them to think of charging. Cody tells of a buffalo stampede which he witnessed in his youth on the plains, when he was a wagon-master. The caravan was on its way with government stores for the military posts in the mountains, and the wagons were hauled by oxen. He says: The country was alive with buffalo, and besides killing quite a number we had a rare day for sport. One morning we pulled out of camp, and the train was strung out to a considerable length along the Trail, which ran near the foot of the sand hills, two miles from the river. Between the road and the river we saw a large herd of buffalo grazing quietly, they having been down to the stream to drink. Just at this time we observed a party of returning Californians coming from the west. They, too, noticed the buffalo herd, and in another moment they were dashing down upon them, urging their horses to their greatest speed. The buffalo herd stampeded at once, and broke down the sides of the hills; so hotly were they pursued by the hunters that about five hundred of them rushed pell-mell through our caravan, frightening both men and oxen. Some of the wagons were turned clear around and many of the terrified oxen attempted to run to the hills with the heavy wagons attached to them. Others were turned around so short that they broke the tongues off. Nearly all the teams got entangled in their gearing and became wild and unruly, so that the perplexed drivers were unable to manage them. The buffalo, the cattle, and the men were soon running in every direction, and the excitement upset everybody and everything. Many of the oxen broke their yokes and stampeded. One big buffalo bull became entangled in one of the heavy wagon-chains, and it is a fact that in his desperate efforts to free himself, he not only snapped the strong chain in two, but broke the ox-yoke to which it was attached, and the last seen of him he was running toward the hills with it hanging from his horns. Stampedes were a great source of profit to the Indians of the plains. The Comanches were particularly expert and daring in this kind of robbery. They even trained their horses to run from one point to another in expectation of the coming of the trains. When a camp was made that was nearly in range, they turned their trained animals loose, which at once flew across the prairie, passing through the herd and penetrating the very corrals of their victims. All of the picketed horses and mules would endeavour to follow these decoys, and were invariably led right into the haunts of the Indians, who easily secured them. Young horses and mules were easily frightened; and, in the confusion which generally ensued, great injury was frequently done to the runaways themselves. At times when the herd was very large, the horses scattered over the prairie and were irrevocably lost; and such as did not become wild fell a prey to the wolves. That fate was very frequently the lot of stampeded horses bred in the States, they not having been trained by a prairie life to take care of themselves. Instead of stopping and bravely fighting off the blood-thirsty beasts, they would run. Then the whole pack were sure to leave the bolder animals and make for the runaways, which they seldom failed to overtake and despatch. On the Old Trail some years ago one of these stampedes occurred of a band of government horses, in which were several valuable animals. It was attended, however, with very little loss, through the courage and great exertion of the men who had them in charge; many were recovered, but none without having sustained injuries. Hon. R. M. Wright, of Dodge City, Kansas, one of the pioneers in the days of the Santa Fe trade, and in the settlement of the State, has had many exciting experiences both with the savages of the great plains, and the buffalo. In relation to the habits of the latter, no man is better qualified to speak. He was once owner of Fort Aubrey, a celebrated point on the Trail, but was compelled to abandon it on account of constant persecution by the Indians, or rather he was ordered to do so by the military authorities. While occupying the once famous landmark, in connection with others, had a contract to furnish hay to the government at Fort Lyon, seventy-five miles further west. His journal, which he kindly placed at my disposal, says: While we were preparing to commence the work, a vast herd of buffalo stampeded through our range one night, and took off with them about half of our work cattle. The next day a stage-driver and conductor on the Overland Route told us they had seen a number of our oxen twenty-five miles east of Aubrey, and this information gave me an idea in which direction to hunt for the missing beasts. I immediately started after them, while my partner took those that remained and a few wagons and left with them for Fort Lyon. Let me explain here that while the Indians were supposed to be peaceable, small war-parties of young men, who could not be controlled by their chiefs, were continually committing depredations, and the main body of savages themselves were very uneasy, and might be expected to break out any day. In consequence of this unsettled state of affairs, there had been a brisk movement among the United States troops stationed at the various military posts, a large number of whom were believed to be on the road from Denver to Fort Lyon. I filled my saddle-bags with jerked buffalo, hardtack and ground coffee, and took with me a belt of cartridges, my rifle and six-shooter, a field-glass and my blankets, prepared for any emergency. The first day out, I found a few of the lost cattle, and placed them on the river-bottom, which I continued to do as fast as I recovered them, for a distance of about eighty-five miles down the Arkansas. There I met a wagon-train, the drivers of which told me that I would find several more of my oxen with a train that had arrived at the Cimarron crossing the day before. I came up with this train in eight or ten hours' travel south of the river, got my cattle, and started next morning for home. I picked up those I had left on the Arkansas as I went along, and after having made a very hard day's travel, about sundown I concluded I would go into camp. I had only fairly halted when the oxen began to drop down, so completely tired out were they, as I believed. Just as it was growing dark, I happened to look toward the west, and I saw several fires on a big island, near what was called "The Lone Tree," about a mile from where I had determined to remain for the night. Thinking the fires were those of the soldiers that I had heard were on the road from Denver, and anticipating and longing for a cup of good coffee, as I had had none for five days, knowing, too, that the troops would be full of news, I felt good and determined to go over to their camp. The Arkansas was low, but the banks steep, with high, rank grass growing to the very water's edge. I found a buffalo-trail cut through the deep bank, narrow and precipitous, and down this I went, arriving in a short time within a little distance of my supposed soldiers' camp. When I had reached the middle of another deep cut in the bank, I looked across to the island, and, great Caesar! saw a hundred little fires, around which an aggregation of a thousand Indians were huddled! I slid backwards off my horse, and by dint of great exertion, worked him up the river-bank as quietly and quickly as possible, then led him gently away out on the prairie. My first impulse was not to go back to the cattle; but as we needed them very badly, I concluded to return, put them all on their feet, and light out mighty lively, without making any noise. I started them, and, oh dear! I was afraid to tread upon a weed, lest it would snap and bring the Indians down on my trail. Until I had put several miles between them and me, I could not rest easy for a moment. Tired as I was, tired as were both my horse and the cattle, I drove them twenty-five miles before I halted. Then daylight was upon me. I was at what is known as Chouteau's Island, a once famous place in the days of the Old Santa Fe Trail. Of course, I had to let the oxen and my horse rest and fill themselves until the afternoon, and I lay down, and fell asleep, but did not sleep long, as I thought it dangerous to remain too near the cattle. I rose and walked up a big, dry sand creek that opened into the river, and after I had ascended it for a couple of miles, found the banks very steep; in fact, they rose to a height of eighteen or twenty feet, and were sharply cut up by narrow trails made by the buffalo. The whole face of the earth was covered by buffalo, and they were slowly grazing toward the Arkansas. All at once they became frightened at something, and stampeded pell-mell toward the very spot on which I stood. I quickly ran into one of the precipitous little paths and up on the prairie, to see what had scared them. They were making the ground fairly tremble as their mighty multitude came rushing on at full speed, the sound of their hoofs resembling thunder, but in a continuous peal. It appeared to me that they must sweep everything in their path, and for my own preservation I rushed under the creek-bank, but on they came like a tornado, with one old bull in the lead. He held up a second to descend the narrow trail, and when he had got about halfway down I let him have it; I was only a few steps from him and over he tumbled. I don't know why I killed him; out of pure wantonness, I expect, or perhaps I thought it would frighten the others back. Not so, however; they only quickened their pace, and came dashing down in great numbers. Dozens of them stumbled and fell over the dead bull; others fell over them. The top of the bank was fairly swarming with them; they leaped, pitched, and rolled down. I crouched as close to the bank as possible, but many of them just grazed my head, knocking the sand and gravel in great streams down my neck; indeed I was half buried before the herd had passed over. That old bull was the last buffalo I ever shot wantonly, excepting once, from an ambulance while riding on the Old Trail, to please a distinguished Englishman, who had never seen one shot; then I did it only after his most earnest persuasion. One day a stage-driver named Frank Harris and myself started out after buffalo; they were scarce, for a wonder, and we were very hungry for fresh meat. The day was fine and we rode a long way, expecting sooner or later a bunch would jump up, but in the afternoon, having seen none, we gave it up and started for the ranch. Of course, we didn't care to save our ammunition, so shot it away at everything in sight, skunks, rattlesnakes, prairie-dogs, and gophers, until we had only a few loads left. Suddenly an old bull jumped up that had been lying down in one of those sugar-loaf-shaped sand hills, whose tops are hollowed out by the action of the wind. Harris emptied his revolver into him, and so did I; but the old fellow sullenly stood still there on top of the sand hill, bleeding profusely at the nose, and yet absolutely refusing to die, although he would repeatedly stagger and nearly tumble over. It was getting late and we couldn't wait on him, so Harris said: "I will dismount, creep up behind him, and cut his hamstrings with my butcher-knife." The bull having now lain down, Harris commenced operations, but his movement seemed to infuse new life into the old fellow; he jumped to his feet, his head lowered in the attitude of fight, and away he went around the outside of the top of the sand hill! It was a perfect circus with one ring; Harris, who was a tall, lanky fellow, took hold of the enraged animal's tail as he rose to his feet, and in a moment his legs were flying higher than his head, but he did not dare let go of his hold on the bull's tail, and around and around they went; it was his only show for life. I could not assist him a particle, but had to sit and hold his horse, and be judge of the fight. I really thought that old bull would never weaken. Finally, however, the "ring" performance began to show symptoms of fatigue; slower and slower the actions of the bull grew, and at last Harris succeeded in cutting his hamstrings and the poor beast went down. Harris said afterward, when the danger was all over, that the only thing he feared was that perhaps the bull's tail would pull out, and if it did, he was well aware that he was a goner. We brought his tongue, hump, and a hindquarter to the ranch with us, and had a glorious feast and a big laugh that night with the boys over the ridiculous adventure. General Richard Irving Dodge, United States army, in his work on the big game of America, says: It is almost impossible for a civilized being to realize the value to the plains Indian of the buffalo. It furnished him with home, food, clothing, bedding, horse equipment-- almost everything. From 1869 to 1873 I was stationed at various posts along the Arkansas River. Early in spring, as soon as the dry and apparently desert prairie had begun to change its coat of dingy brown to one of palest green, the horizon would begin to be dotted with buffalo, single or in groups of two or three, forerunners of the coming herd. Thick and thicker, and in large groups they come, until by the time the grass is well up, the whole vast landscape appears a mass of buffalo, some individuals feeding, others lying down, but the herd slowly moving to the northward; of their number, it was impossible to form a conjecture. Determined as they are to pursue their journey northward, yet they are exceedingly cautious and timid about it, and on any alarm rush to the southward with all speed, until that alarm is dissipated. Especially is this the case when any unusual object appears in their rear, and so utterly regardless of consequences are they, that an old plainsman will not risk a wagon-train in such a herd, where rising ground will permit those in front to get a good view of their rear. In May, 1871, I drove in a buggy from old Fort Zarah to Fort Larned, on the Arkansas River. The distance is thirty-four miles. At least twenty-five miles of that distance was through an immense herd. The whole country was one mass of buffalo, apparently, and it was only when actually among them, that the seemingly solid body was seen to be an agglomeration of countless herds of from fifty to two hundred animals, separated from the surrounding herds by a greater or less space, but still separated. The road ran along the broad valley of the Arkansas. Some miles from Zarah a low line of hills rises from the plain on the right, gradually increasing in height and approaching road and river, until they culminate in Pawnee Rock. So long as I was in the broad, level valley, the herds sullenly got out of my way, and, turning, stared stupidly at me, some within thirty or forty yards. When, however, I had reached a point where the hills were no more than a mile from the road, the buffalo on the crests, seeing an unusual object in their rear, turned, stared an instant, then started at full speed toward me, stampeding and bringing with them the numberless herds through which they passed, and pouring down on me, no longer separated but compacted into one immense mass of plunging animals, mad with fright, irresistible as an avalanche. The situation was by no means pleasant. There was but one hope of escape. My horse was, fortunately, a quiet old beast, that had rushed with me into many a herd, and been in at the death of many a buffalo. Reining him up, I waited until the front of the mass was within fifty yards, then, with a few well-directed shots, dropped some of the leaders, split the herd and sent it off in two streams to my right and left. When all had passed me, they stopped, apparently satisfied, though thousands were yet within reach of my rifle. After my servant had cut out the tongues of the fallen, I proceeded on my journey, only to have a similar experience within a mile or two, and this occurred so often that I reached Fort Larned with twenty-six tongues, representing the greatest number of buffalo that I can blame myself with having murdered in one day. Some years, as in 1871, the buffalo appeared to move northward in one immense column, oftentimes from twenty to fifty miles in width, and of unknown depth from front to rear. Other years the northward journey was made in several parallel columns moving at the same rate and with their numerous flankers covering a width of a hundred or more miles. When the food in one locality fails, they go to another, and toward fall, when the grass of the high prairies becomes parched by the heat and drought, they gradually work their way back to the south, concentrating on the rich pastures of Texas and the Indian Territory, whence, the same instinct acting on all, they are ready to start together again on their northward march as soon as spring starts the grass. Old plainsmen and the Indians aver that the buffalo never return south; that each year's herd was composed of animals which had never made the journey before, and would never make it again. All admit the northern migration, that being too pronounced for any one to dispute, but refuse to admit the southern migration. Thousands of young calves were caught and killed every spring that were produced during this migration, and accompanied the herd northward; but because the buffalo did not return south in one vast body as they went north, it was stoutly maintained that they did not go south at all. The plainsman could give no reasonable hypothesis of his "No-return theory" on which to base the origin of the vast herds which yearly made their march northward. The Indian was, however, equal to the occasion. Every plains Indian firmly believed that the buffalo were produced in countless numbers in a country under ground; that every spring the surplus swarmed, like bees from a hive, out of the immense cave-like opening in the region of the great Llano Estacado, or Staked Plain of Texas. In 1879 Stone Calf, a celebrated chief, assured me that he knew exactly where the caves were, though he had never seen them; that the good God had provided this means for the constant supply of food for the Indian, and however recklessly the white men might slaughter, they could never exterminate them. When last I saw him, the old man was beginning to waver in this belief, and feared that the "Bad God" had shut the entrances, and that his tribe must starve. The old trappers and plainsmen themselves, even as early as the beginning of the Santa Fe trade, noticed the gradual disappearance of the buffalo, while they still existed in countless numbers. One veteran French Canadian, an employee of the American Fur Company, way back in the early '30's, used to mourn thus: "Mais, sacre! les Amarican, dey go to de Missouri frontier, de buffalo he ron to de montaigne; de trappaire wid his fusil, he follow to de Bayou Salade, he ron again. Dans les Montaignes Espagnol, bang! bang! toute la journee, toute la journee, go de sacre voleurs. De bison he leave, parceque les fusils scare im vara moche, ici là de sem-sacré!" CHAPTER XIII. INDIAN CUSTOMS AND LEGENDS. Thirty-five miles before arriving at Bent's Fort, at which point the Old Trail crossed the Arkansas, the valley widens and the prairie falls toward the river in gentle undulations. There for many years the three friendly tribes of plains Indians--Cheyennes, Arapahoes, and Kiowas--established their winter villages, in order to avail themselves of the supply of wood, to trade with the whites, and to feed their herds of ponies on the small limbs and bark of the cottonwood trees growing along the margin of the stream for four or five miles. It was called Big Timbers, and was one of the most eligible places to camp on the whole route after leaving Council Grove. The grass, particularly on the south side of the river, was excellent; there was an endless supply of fuel, and cool water without stint. In the severe winters that sometimes were fruitful of blinding blizzards, sweeping from the north in an intensity of fury that was almost inconceivable, the buffalo too congregated there for shelter, and to browse on the twigs of the great trees. The once famous grove, though denuded of much of its timber, may still be seen from the car windows as the trains hurry mountainward. Garrard, in his _Taos Trail_, presents an interesting and amusing account of a visit to the Cheyenne village with old John Smith, in 1847, when the Santa Fe trade was at its height, and that with the various tribes of savages in its golden days. Toward the middle of the day, the village was in a great bustle. Every squaw, child, and man had their faces blackened--a manifestation of joy.[44] Pell-mell they went--men, squaws, and dogs--into the icy river. Some hastily jerked off their leggings, and held moccasins and dresses high out of the water. Others, too impatient, dashed the stream from beneath their impetuous feet, scarce taking time to draw more closely the always worn robe. Wondering what caused all this commotion, and looking over the river, whither the yelling, half-frantic savages were so speedily hurrying, we saw a band of Indians advancing toward us. As the foremost braves reined their champing barbs on the river-bank, mingled whoops of triumph and delight and the repeated discharge of guns filled the air. In the hands of three were slender willow wands, from the smaller points of which dangled as many scalps-- the single tuft of hair on each pronouncing them Pawnees.[45] These were raised aloft, amid unrestrained bursts of joy from the thrice-happy, blood-thirsty throng. Children ran to meet their fathers, sisters their brothers, girls their lovers, returning from the scene of victorious strife; decrepit matrons welcomed manly sons; and aged chiefs their boys and braves. It was a scene of affection, and a proud day in the Cheyenne annals of prowess. That small but gallant band were relieved of their shields and lances by tender-hearted squaws, and accompanied to their respective homes, to repose by the lodge-fire, consume choice meat, and to be the heroes of the family circle. The drum at night sent forth its monotony of hollow sound, and my Mexican Pedro and I, directed by the booming, entered a lodge, vacated for the purpose, full of young men and squaws, following one another in a continuous circle, keeping the left knee stiff and bending the right with a half-forward, half-backward step, as if they wanted to go on and could not, accompanying it, every time the right foot was raised, with an energetic, broken song, which, dying away, was again and again sounded--"hay-a, hay-a, hay-a," they went, laying the emphasis on the first syllable. A drum, similar to, though larger than a tambourine, covered with parflêche,[46] was beaten upon with a stick, producing with the voices a sound not altogether disagreeable. Throughout the entire night and succeeding day the voices of the singers and heavy notes of the drum reached us, and at night again the same dull sound lulled me to sleep. Before daylight our lodge was filled with careless dancers, and the drum and voices, so unpleasing to our wearied ears, were giving us the full benefit of their compass. Smith, whose policy it was not to be offended, bore the infliction as best he could, and I looked on much amused. The lodge was so full that they stood without dancing, in a circle round the fire, and with a swaying motion of the body kept time to their music. During the day the young men, except the dancers, piled up dry logs in a level open space near, for a grand demonstration. At night, when it was fired, I folded my blanket over my shoulders, comme les sauvages, and went out. The faces of many girls were brilliant with vermilion; others were blacked, their robes, leggings, and skin dresses glittering with beads and quill-work. Rings and bracelets of shining brass encircled their taper arms and fingers, and shells dangled from their ears. Indeed, all the finery collectable was piled on in barbarous profusion, though a few, in good taste through poverty, wore a single band and but few rings, with jetty hair parted in the middle, from the forehead to the neck, terminating in two handsome braids. The young men who can afford the expense trade for dollars and silver coin of less denomination--coin as a currency is not known among them--which they flatten thin, and fasten to a braid of buffalo hair, attached to the crown lock, which hangs behind, outside of the robe, and adds much to the handsome appearance of the wearer. The girls, numbering two hundred, fell into line together, and the men, of whom there were two hundred and fifty, joining, a circle was formed, which travelled around with the same shuffling step already described. The drummers and other musicians--twenty or twenty-five of them--marched in a contrary direction to and from and around the fire, inside the large ring; for at the distance kept by the outsiders the area was one hundred and fifty feet in diameter. The Apollonian emulators chanted the great deeds performed by the Cheyenne warriors. As they ended, the dying strain was caught up by the hundreds of the outside circle, who, in fast-swelling, loud tones, poured out the burden of their song. At this juncture the march was quickened, the scalps of the slain were borne aloft and shaken with wild delight, and shrill war-notes, rising above the furious din, accelerated the pulsation and strung high the nerves. Time-worn shields, careering in mad holders' hands, clashed; and keen lances, once reeking in Pawnee blood, clanged. Braves seized one another with an iron grip, in the heat of excitement, or chimed more tenderly in the chant, enveloped in the same robe with some maiden as they approvingly stepped through one of their own original polkas. Thirty of the chiefs and principal men were ranged by the pile of blazing logs. By their invitation, I sat down with them and smoked death and its concomitant train of evils to those audacious tribes who doubt the courage or supremacy of the brave, the great and powerful, Cheyenne nation. It is Indian etiquette that the first lodge a stranger enters on visiting a village is his home as long as he remains the guest of the tribe. It is all the same whether he be invited or not. Upon going in, it is customary to place all your traps in the back part, which is the most honoured spot. The proprietor always occupies that part of his home, but invariably gives it up to a guest. With the Cheyennes, the white man, when the tribe was at peace with him, was ever welcome, as in the early days of the border he generally had a supply of coffee, of which the savage is particularly fond--Mok-ta-bo-mah-pe, as they call it. Their salutation to the stranger coming into the presence of the owner of a lodge is "Hook-ah-hay! Num-whit,"--"How do you do? Stay with us." Water is then handed by a squaw, as it is supposed a traveller is thirsty after riding; then meat, for he must be hungry, too. A pipe is offered, and conversation follows. The lodge of the Cheyennes is formed of seventeen poles, about three inches thick at the end which rests on the ground, slender in shape, tapering symmetrically, and eighteen feet or more in length. They are tied together at the small ends with buffalo-hide, then raised until the frame resembles a cone, over which buffalo-skins are placed, very skilfully fitted and made soft by having been dubbed by the women--that is, scraped to the requisite thinness, and made supple by rubbing with the brains of the animal that wore it. They are sewed together with sinews of the buffalo, generally of the long and powerful muscle that holds up the ponderous head of the shaggy beast, a narrow strip running towards the bump. In summer the lower edges of the skin are rolled up, and the wind blowing through, it is a cool, shady retreat. In winter everything is closed, and I know of no more comfortable place than a well-made Indian lodge. The army tent known as the Sibley is modelled after it, and is the best winter shelter for troops in the field that can be made. Many times while the military post where I had been ordered was in process of building, I have chosen the Sibley tent in preference to any other domicile. When a village is to be moved, it is an interesting sight. The young and unfledged boys drive up the herd of ponies, and then the squaws catch them. The women, too, take down the lodges, and, tying the poles in two bundles, fasten them on each side of an animal, the long ends dragging on the ground. Just behind the pony or mule, as the case may be, a basket is placed and held there by buffalo-hide thongs, and into these novel carriages the little children are put, besides such traps as are not easily packed on the animal's back. The women do all the work both in camp and when moving. They are doomed to a hopeless bondage of slavery, the fate of their sex in every savage race; but they accept their condition stoically, and there is as much affection among them for their husbands and children as I have ever witnessed among the white race. Here are two instances of their devotion, both of which came under my personal observation, and I could give hundreds of others. Late in the fall of 1858, I was one of a party on the trail of a band of Indians who had been committing some horrible murders in a mining-camp in the northern portion of Washington Territory. On the fourth day out, just about dusk, we struck their moccasin tracks, which we followed all night, and surprised their camp in the gray light of the early morning. In less than ten minutes the fight was over, and besides the killed we captured six prisoners. Then as the rising sun commenced to gild the peaks of the lofty range on the west, having granted our captives half an hour to take leave of their families, the ankles of each were bound; they were made to kneel on the prairie, a squad of soldiers, with loaded rifles, were drawn up eight paces in front of them, and at the instant the signal--a white handkerchief--was dropped the savages tumbled over on the sod a heap of corpses. The parting between the condemned men and their young wives and children, I shall never forget. It was the most perfect exhibition of marital and filial love that I have ever witnessed. Such harsh measures may seem cruel and heartless in the light of to-day, but there was none other than martial law then in the wilderness of the Northern Pacific coast, and the execution was a stern necessity. The other instance was ten years later. During the Indian campaign in the winter of 1868-69 I was riding with a party of officers and enlisted men, south of the Arkansas, about fourty miles from Fort Dodge. We were watching some cavalrymen unearth three or four dead warriors who had been killed by two scouts in a fierce unequal fight a few weeks before, and as we rode into a small ravine among the sand hills, we suddenly came upon a rudely constructed Cheyenne lodge. Entering, we discovered on a rough platform, fashioned of green poles, a dead warrior in full war-dress; his shield of buffalo-hide, pipe ornamented with eagles' feathers, and medicine bag, were lying on the ground beside him. At his head, on her knees, with hands clasped in the attitude of prayer, was a squaw frozen to death. Which had first succumbed, the wounded chief, or the devoted wife in the awful cold of that winter prairie, will never be known, but it proved her love for the man who had perhaps beaten her a hundred times. Such tender and sympathetic affection is characteristic of the sex everywhere, no less with the poor savage than in the dominant white race. To return to our description of the average Indian village: Each lodge at the grand encampment of Big Timbers in the era of traffic with the nomads of the great plains, owned its separate herd of ponies and mules. In the exodus to some other favoured spot, two dozen or more of these individual herds travelled close to each other but never mixed, each drove devotedly following its bell-mare, as in a pack-train. This useful animal is generally the most worthless and wicked beast in the entire outfit. The animals with the lodge-pole carriages go as they please, no special care being taken to guide them, but they too instinctively keep within sound of the leader. I will again quote Garrard for an accurate description of the moving camp when he was with the Cheyennes in 1847:-- The young squaws take much care of their dress and horse equipments; they dash furiously past on wild steeds, astride of the high-pommelled saddles. A fancifully coloured cover, worked with beads or porcupine quills, making a flashy, striking appearance, extended from withers to rump of the horse, while the riders evinced an admirable daring, worthy of Amazons. Their dresses were made of buckskin, high at the neck, with short sleeves, or rather none at all, fitting loosely, and reaching obliquely to the knee, giving a Diana look to the costume; the edges scalloped, worked with beads, and fringed. From the knee downward the limb was encased in a tightly fitting legging, terminating in a neat moccasin--both handsomely wrought with beads. On the arms were bracelets of brass, which glittered and reflected in the radiant morning sun, adding much to their attractions. In their pierced ears, shells from the Pacific shore were pendent; and to complete the picture of savage taste and profusion, their fine complexions were eclipsed by a coat of flaming vermilion. Many of the largest dogs were packed with a small quantity of meat, or something not easily injured. They looked queerly, trotting industriously under their burdens; and, judging from a small stock of canine physiological information, not a little of the wolf was in their composition. We crossed the river on our way to the new camp. The alarm manifested by the children in the lodge-pole drays, as they dipped in the water, was amusing. The little fellows, holding their breath, not daring to cry, looked imploringly at their inexorable mothers, and were encouraged by words of approbation from their stern fathers. After a ride of two hours we stopped, and the chiefs, fastening their horses, collected in circles to smoke their pipe and talk, letting their squaws unpack the animals, pitch the lodges, build the fires, and arrange the robes. When all was ready, these lords of creation dispersed to their several homes, to wait until their patient and enduring spouses prepared some food. I was provoked, nay, angry, to see the lazy, overgrown men do nothing to help their wives; and when the young women pulled off their bracelets and finery to chop wood, the cup of my wrath was full to overflowing, and, in a fit of honest indignation, I pronounced them ungallant and savage in the true sense of the word. The treatment of Indian children, particularly boys, is something startling to the gentle sentiments of refined white mothers. The girls receive hardly any attention from their fathers. Implicit obedience is the watchword of the lodge with them, and they are constantly taught to appreciate their inferiority of sex. The daughter is a mere slave; unnoticed and neglected--a mere hewer of wood and drawer of water. With a son, it is entirely different; the father from his birth dotes on him and manifests his affection in the most demonstrative manner. Garrard tells of two instances that came under his observation while staying at the chief's lodge, and at John Smith's, in the Cheyenne village, of the discipline to which the boys are subjected. In Vi-po-nah's lodge was his grandson, a boy six or seven months old. Every morning his mother washed him in cold water, and set him out in the air to make him hardy; he would come in, perfectly nude, from his airing, about half-frozen. How he would laugh and brighten up, as he felt the warmth of the fire! Smith's son Jack took a crying fit one cold night, much to the annoyance of four or five chiefs, who had come to our lodge to talk and smoke. In vain did the mother shake and scold him with the severest Cheyenne words, until Smith, provoked beyond endurance, took the squalling youngster in his hands; he shu-ed and shouted and swore, but Jack had gone too far to be easily pacified. He then sent for a bucket of water from the river and poured cupful after cupful on Jack, who stamped and screamed and bit in his tiny rage. Notwithstanding, the icy stream slowly descended until the bucket was emptied, another was sent for, and again and again the cup was replenished and emptied on the blubbering youth. At last, exhausted with exertion and completely cooled down, he received the remaining water in silence, and, with a few words of admonition, was delivered over to his mother, in whose arms he stifled his sobs, until his heartbreaking grief and cares were drowned in sleep. What a devilish mixture Indian and American blood is! The Indians never chastise a boy, as they think his spirit would be broken and cowed down; instead of a warrior he would be a squaw--a harsh epithet indicative of cowardice--and they resort to any method but infliction of blows to subdue a refractory scion. Before most of the lodges is a tripod of three sticks, about seven feet in length and an inch in diameter, fastened at the top, and the lower ends brought out, so that it stands alone. On this is hung the shield and a small square bag of parflêche, containing pipes, with an accompanying pendent roll of stems, carefully wrapped in blue or red cloth, and decorated with beads and porcupine quills. This collection is held in great veneration, for the pipe is their only religion. Through its agency they invoke the Great Spirit; through it they render homage to the winds, to the earth, and to the sky. Every one has his peculiar notion on this subject; and, in passing the pipe, one must have it presented stem downward, another the reverse; some with the bowl resting on the ground; and as this is a matter of great solemnity, their several fancies are respected. Sometimes I required them to hand it to me, when smoking, in imitation of their custom; on this, a faint smile, half mingled with respect and pity for my folly in tampering with their sacred ceremony, would appear on their faces, and with a slow negative shake of the head, they would ejaculate, "I-sto-met-mah-son-ne-wah-hein"--"Pshaw! that's foolish; don't do so." Religion the Cheyennes have none, if, indeed, we except the respect paid to the pipe; nor do we see any sign or vestige of spiritual worship; except one remarkable thing--in offering the pipe, before every fresh filling, to the sky, the earth, and the winds, the motion made in so doing describes the form of a cross; and, in blowing the first four whiffs, the smoke is invariably sent in the same four directions. It is undoubtedly void of meaning in reference to Christian worship, yet it is a superstition, founded on ancient tradition. This tribe once lived near the head waters of the Mississippi; and, as the early Jesuit missionaries were energetic zealots, in the diffusion of their religious sentiments, probably to make their faith more acceptable to the Indians, the Roman Catholic rites were blended with the homage shown to the pipe, which custom of offering, in the form of a cross, is still retained by them; but as every custom is handed down by tradition merely, the true source has been forgotten. In every tribe in whose country I have been stationed, which comprises nearly all the continent excepting the extreme southwestern portion, his pipe is the Indian's constant companion through life. It is his messenger of peace; he pledges his friends through its stem and its bowl, and when he is dead, it has a place in his solitary grave, with his war-club and arrows--companions on his journey to his long-fancied beautiful hunting-grounds. The pipe of peace is a sacred thing; so held by all Indian nations, and kept in possession of chiefs, to be smoked only at times of peacemaking. When the terms of treaty have been agreed upon, this sacred emblem, the stem of which is ornamented with eagle's quills, is brought forward, and the solemn pledge to keep the peace is passed through the sacred stem by each chief and warrior drawing the smoke once through it. After the ceremony is over, the warriors of the two tribes unite in the dance, with the pipe of peace held in the left hand of the chief and in his other a rattle. Thousands of years ago, the primitive savage of the American continent carried masses of pipe-stone from the sacred quarry in Minnesota across the vast wilderness of plains, to trade with the people of the far Southwest, over the same route that long afterward became the Santa Fe Trail; therefore, it will be consistent with the character of this work to relate the history of the quarry from which all the tribes procured their material for fashioning their pipes, and the curious legends connected with it. I have met with the red sandstone pipes on the remotest portions of the Pacific coast, and east, west, north and south, in every tribe that it has been my fortune to know. The word "Dakotah" means allied or confederated, and is the family name now comprising some thirty bands, numbering about thirty thousand Indians. They are generally designated Sioux, but that title is seldom willingly acknowledged by them. It was first given to them by the French, though its original interpretation is by no means clear. The accepted theory, because it is the most plausible, is that it is a corruption or rather an abbreviation of "Nadouessioux," a Chippewa word for enemies. Many of the Sioux are semi-civilized; some are "blanket-Indians," so called, but there are no longer any murderous or predatory bands, and all save a few stragglers are on the reservations. From 1812 to 1876, more than half a century, they were the scourge of the West and the Northwest, but another outbreak is highly improbable. They once occupied the vast region included between the Mississippi and the Rocky Mountains, and were always migratory in their methods of living. Over fifty years ago, when the whites first became acquainted with them, they were divided into nearly fifty bands of families, each with its separate chief, but all acknowledging a superior chief to whom they were subordinate. They were at that time the happiest and most wealthy tribe on the continent, regarded from an Indian standpoint; but then the great plains were stocked with buffalo and wild horses, and that fact alone warrants the assertion of contentment and riches. No finer-looking tribe existed; they could then muster more than ten thousand warriors, every one of whom would measure six feet, and all their movements were graceful and elastic. According to their legends, they came from the Pacific and encountered the Algonquins about the head waters of the Mississippi, where they were held in check, a portion of them, however, pushing on through their enemies and securing a foothold on the shores of Lake Michigan. This bold band was called by the Chippewas Winnebagook (men-from-the-salt-water). In their original habitat on the great northern plains was located the celebrated "red pipe-stone quarry," a relatively limited area, owned by all tribes, but occupied permanently by none; a purely neutral ground--so designated by the Great Spirit--where no war could possibly occur, and where mortal enemies might meet to procure the material for their pipes, but the hatchet was invariably buried during that time on the consecrated spot. The quarry has long since passed out of the control and jurisdiction of the Indians and is not included in any of their reservations, though near the Sisseton agency. It is located on the summit of the high divide between the Missouri and St. Peter's rivers in Minnesota, at a point not far from where the ninety-seventh meridian of longitude (from Greenwich) intersects the forty-fifth parallel of latitude. The divide was named by the French Coteau des Prairies, and the quarry is near its southern extremity. Not a tree or bush could be seen from the majestic mound when I last was there, some twenty years ago--nothing but the apparently interminable plains, until they were lost in the deep blue of the horizon. The luxury of smoking appears to have been known to all the tribes on the continent in their primitive state, and they indulge in the habit to excess; any one familiar with their life can assert that the American savage smokes half of his time. Where so much attention is given to a mere pleasure, it naturally follows that he would devote his leisure and ingenuity to the construction of his pipe. The bowls of these were, from time immemorial, made of the peculiar red stone from the famous quarry referred to, which, until only a little over fifty years ago, was never visited by a white man, its sanctity forbidding any such sacrilege. That the spot should have been visited for untold centuries by all the Indian nations, who hid their weapons as they approached it, under fear of the vengeance of the Great Spirit, will not seem strange when the religion of the race is understood. One of the principal features of the quarry is a perpendicular wall of granite about thirty feet high, facing the west, and nearly two miles long. At the base of the wall there is a level prairie, running parallel to it, half a mile wide. Under this strip of land, after digging through several slaty layers of rock, the red sandstone is found. Old graves, fortifications, and excavations abound, all confirmatory of the traditions clustering around the weird place. Within a few rods of the base of the wall is a group of immense gneiss boulders, five in number, weighing probably many hundred tons each, and under these are two holes in which two imaginary old women reside--the guardian spirits of the quarry--who were always consulted before any pipe-stone could be dug up. The veneration for this group of boulders was something wonderful; not a spear of grass was broken or bent by his feet within sixty or seventy paces from them, where the trembling Indian halted, and throwing gifts to them in humble supplication, solicited permission to dig and take away the red stone for his pipes. Near this spot, too, on a high mound, was the "Thunder's nest," where a very small bird sat upon her eggs during fair weather. When the skies were rent with thunder at the approach of a storm, she was hatching her brood, which caused the terrible commotion in the heavens. The bird was eternal. The "medicine men" claimed that they had often seen her, and she was about as large as a little finger. Her mate was a serpent whose fiery tongue destroyed the young ones as soon as they were born, and the awful noise accompanying the act darted through the clouds. On the wall of rocks at the quarry are thousands of inscriptions and paintings, the totems and arms of various tribes who have visited there; but no idea can be formed of their antiquity. Of the various traditions of the many tribes, I here present a few. The Great Spirit at a remote period called all the Indian nations together at this place, and, standing on the brink of the precipice of red-stone rock, broke from its walls a piece and fashioned a pipe by simply turning it in his hands. He then smoked over them to the north, the south, the east, and the west, and told them the stone was red, that it was their flesh, that they must use it for their pipes of peace, that it belonged to all alike, and that the war-club and scalping-knife must never be raised on its ground. At the last whiff of his pipe his head went into a great cloud, and the whole surface of the ledge for miles was melted and glazed; two great ovens were opened beneath, and two women--the guardian spirits of the place--entered them in a blaze of fire, and they are heard there yet answering to the conjurations of the medicine men, who consult them when they visit the sacred place. The legend of the Knis-te-neu's tribe (Crees), a very small band in the British possessions, in relation to the quarry is this: In the time of a great freshet that occurred years ago and destroyed all the nations of the earth, every tribe of Indians assembled on the top of the Coteau des Prairies to get out of the way of the rushing and seething waters. When they had arrived there from all parts of the world, the water continued to rise until it covered them completely, forming one solid mass of drowned Indians, and their flesh was converted by the Great Spirit into red pipe-stone; therefore, it was always considered neutral ground, belonging to all tribes alike, and all were to make their pipes out of it and smoke together. While they were drowning together, a young woman, Kwaptan, a virgin, caught hold of the foot of a very large bird that was flying over at the time, and was carried to the top of a hill that was not far away and above the water. There she had twins, their father being the war-eagle that had carried her off, and her children have since peopled the earth. The pipe-stone, which is the flesh of their ancestors, is smoked by them as the symbol of peace, and the eagle quills decorate the heads of their warriors. Severed about seven or eight feet from the main wall of the quarry by some convulsion of nature ages ago, there is an immense column just equal in height to the wall, seven feet in diameter and beautifully polished on its top and sides. It is called The Medicine, or Leaping Rock, and considerable nerve is required to jump on it from the main ledge and back again. Many an Indian's heart, in the past, has sighed for the honour of the feat without daring to attempt it. A few, according to the records of the tribes, have tried it with success, and left their arrows standing up in its crevice; others have made the leap and reached its slippery surface only to slide off, and suffer instant death on the craggy rocks in the awful chasm below. Every young man of the many tribes was ambitious to perform the feat, and those who had successfully accomplished it were permitted to boast of it all their lives. CHAPTER XIV. TRAPPERS. The initial opening of the trade with New Mexico from the Missouri River, as has been related, was not direct to Santa Fe. The limited number of pack-trains at first passed to the north of the Raton Range, and travelled to the Spanish settlements in the valley of Taos. On this original Trail, where now is situated the beautiful city of Pueblo, the second place of importance in Colorado, there was a little Indian trading-post called "the Pueblo," from which the present thriving place derives its name. The Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad practically follows the same route that the traders did to reach Pueblo, as it also does that which the freight caravans later followed from the Missouri River direct to Santa Fe. The old Pueblo fort, as nearly as can be determined now, was built as early as 1840, or not later than 1842, and, as one authority asserts, by George Simpson and his associates, Barclay and Doyle. Beckwourth claims to have been the original projector of the fort, and to have given the general plan and its name, in which I am inclined to believe that he is correct; perhaps Barclay, Doyle, and Simpson were connected with him, as he states that there were other trappers, though he mentions no names. It was a square fort of adobe, with circular bastions at the corners, no part of the walls being more than eight feet high. Around the inside of the plaza, or corral, were half a dozen small rooms inhabited by as many Indian traders and mountain-men. One of the earlier Indian agents, Mr. Fitzpatrick, in writing from Bent's Fort in 1847, thus describes the old Pueblo:-- About seventy-five miles above this place, and immediately on the Arkansas River, there is a small settlement, chiefly composed of old trappers and hunters; the male part of it are mostly Americans (Missourians), French Canadians, and Mexicans. It numbers about one hundred and fifty, and of this number about sixty men have wives, and some have two. These wives are of various Indian tribes, as follows; viz. Blackfeet, Assiniboines, Sioux, Arapahoes, Cheyennes, Snakes, and Comanches. The American women are Mormons, a party of Mormons having wintered there, and then departed for California. The old trappers and hunters of the Pueblo fort lived entirely upon game, and a greater part of the year without bread. As soon as their supply of meat was exhausted, they started to the mountains with two or three pack-animals, and brought back in two or three days loads of venison and buffalo. The Arkansas at the Pueblo is a clear, rapid river about a hundred yards wide. The bottom, which is enclosed on each side by high bluffs, is about a quarter of a mile across. In the early days of which I write, the margin of the stream was heavily timbered with cottonwood, and the tourist to-day may see the remnant of the primitive great woods, in the huge isolated trees scattered around the bottom in the vicinity of the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad station of the charming mountain city. On each side vast rolling prairies stretch away for hundreds of miles, gradually ascending on the side towards the mountains, where the highlands are sparsely covered with pinyon and cedar. The lofty banks through which the Arkansas occasionally passes are of shale and sandstone, rising precipitously from the water. Ascending the river the country is wild and broken, until it enters the mountain region, where the scenery is incomparably grand and imposing. The surrounding prairies are naturally arid and sterile, producing but little vegetation, and the primitive grass, though of good quality, is thin and scarce. Now, however, under a competent system of irrigation, the whole aspect of the landscape is changed from what it was thirty years ago, and it has all the luxuriance of a garden. The whole country, it is claimed, was once possessed by the Shos-shones, or Snake Indians, of whom the Comanches of the Southern plains are a branch; and, although many hundred miles divide their hunting-grounds, they were once, if not the same people, tribes or bands of that great and powerful nation. They retain a language in common, and there is also a striking analogy in many of their religious rites and ceremonies, in their folk-lore, and in some of their everyday customs. These facts prove, at least, that there was at one time a very close alliance which bound the two tribes together. Half a century ago they were, in point of numbers, the two most powerful nations in all the numerous aggregations of Indians in the West; the Comanches ruling almost supreme on the Eastern plains, while the Shos-shones were the dominant tribe in the country beyond the Rocky Mountains, and in the mountains themselves. Once, many years ago, before the problem of the relative strength of the various tribes was as well solved as now, the Shos-shones were supposed to be the most powerful, and numerically the most populous, tribe of Indians on the North American continent. In the immediate vicinity of the old Pueblo fort at the time of its greatest business prosperity, game was scarce; the buffalo had for some years deserted the neighbouring prairies, but they were always to be found in the mountain-valleys, particularly in one known as "Bayou Salado," which forty-five years ago abounded in elk, bear, deer, and antelope. The fort was situated a few hundred yards above the mouth of the "Fontaine qui Bouille" River,[47] so called from two springs of mineral water near its head, under Pike's Peak, about sixty miles above its mouth. As is the case with all the savage races of the world, the American Indians possess hereditary legends, accounting for all the phenomena of nature, or any occurrence which is beyond their comprehension. The Shos-shones had the following story to account for the presence of these wonderful springs in the midst of their favourite hunting-ground. The two fountains, one pouring forth the sweetest water imaginable, the other a stream as bitter as gall, are intimately connected with the cause of the separation of the two tribes. Their legend thus runs: Many hundreds of winters ago, when the cottonwoods on the big river were no higher than arrows, and the prairies were crowded with game, the red men who hunted the deer in the forests and the buffalo on the plains all spoke the same language, and the pipe of peace breathed its soothing cloud whenever two parties of hunters met on the boundless prairie. It happened one day that two hunters of different nations met on the bank of a small rivulet, to which both had resorted to quench their thirst. A small stream of water, rising from a spring on a rock within a few feet of the bank, trickled over it and fell splashing into the river. One hunter sought the spring itself; the other, tired by his exertions in the chase, threw himself at once to the ground, and plunged his face into the running stream. The latter had been unsuccessful in the hunt, and perhaps his bad fortune, and the sight of the fat deer which the other threw from his back before he drank at the crystal spring, caused a feeling of jealousy and ill-humour to take possession of his mind. The other, on the contrary, before he satisfied his thirst, raised in the hollow of his hand a portion of the water, and, lifting it toward the sun, reversed his hand, and allowed it to fall upon the ground, as a libation to the Great Spirit, who had vouch-safed him a successful hunt and the blessing of the refreshing water with which he was about to quench his thirst. This reminder that he had neglected the usual offering only increased the feeling of envy and annoyance which filled the unsuccessful hunter's heart. The Evil Spirit at that moment entering his body, his temper fairly flew away, and he sought some pretence to provoke a quarrel with the other Indian. "Why does a stranger," he asked, rising from the stream, "drink at the spring-head, when one to whom the fountain belongs contents himself with the water that runs from it?" "The Great Spirit places the cool water at the spring," answered the other hunter, "that his children may drink it pure and undefiled. The running water is for the beasts which scour the plains. Ausaqua is a chief of the Shos-shones; he drinks at the head water." "The Shos-shones is but a tribe of the Comanches," returned the other: "Wacomish leads the whole nation. Why does a Shos-shone dare to drink above him?" "When the Manitou made his children, whether Shos-shone or Comanche, Arapaho, Cheyenne, or Pawnee, he gave them buffalo to eat, and the pure water of the fountain to quench their thirst. He said not to one, 'Drink here,' and to another, 'Drink there'; but gave the crystal spring to all, that all might drink." Wacomish almost burst with rage as the other spoke; but his coward heart prevented him from provoking an encounter with the calm Shos-shone. The latter, made thirsty by the words he had spoken--for the Indian is ever sparing of his tongue--again stooped down to the spring to drink, when the subtle warrior of the Comanches suddenly threw himself upon the kneeling hunter and, forcing his head into the bubbling water, held him down with all his strength until his victim no longer struggled; his stiffened limbs relaxed, and he fell forward over the spring, drowned. Mechanically the Comanche dragged the body a few paces from the water, and, as soon as the head of the dead Indian was withdrawn, the spring was suddenly and strangely disturbed. Bubbles sprang up from the bottom, and, rising to the surface, escaped in hissing gas. A thin vapour arose, and, gradually dissolving, displayed to the eyes of the trembling murderer the figure of an aged Indian, whose long, snowy hair and venerable beard, blown aside from his breast, discovered the well-known totem of the great Wankanaga, the father of the Comanche and Shos-shone nation. Stretching out a war-club toward the Comanche, the figure thus addressed him:-- "Accursed murderer! While the blood of the brave Shos-shone cries to the Great Spirit for vengeance, may the water of thy tribe be rank and bitter in their throats!" Thus saying, and swinging his ponderous war-club round his head, he dashed out the brains of the Comanche, who fell headlong into the spring, which from that day to this remains rank and nauseous, so that not even when half dead with thirst, can one drink from it. The good Wankanaga, however, to perpetuate the memory of the Shos-shone warrior, who was renowned in his tribe for valour and nobleness of heart, struck with the same avenging club a hard, flat rock which overhung the rivulet, and forthwith a round clear basin opened, which instantly filled with bubbling, sparkling water, sweet and cool. From that day the two mighty tribes of the Shos-shones and Comanches have remained severed and apart, although a long and bloody war followed the treacherous murder. The Indians regarded these wonderful springs with awe. The Arapahoes, especially, attributed to the Spirit of the springs the power of ordaining the success or failure of their war expeditions. As their warriors passed by the mysterious pools when hunting their hereditary enemies, the Utes, they never failed to bestow their votive offerings upon the spring, in order to propitiate the Manitou of the strange fountain, and insure a fortunate issue to their path of war. As late as twenty-five years ago, the visitor to the place could always find the basin of the spring filled with beads and wampum, pieces of red cloth and knives, while the surrounding trees were hung with strips of deerskin, cloth, and moccasins. Signs were frequently observed in the vicinity of the waters unmistakably indicating that a war-dance had been executed there by the Arapahoes on their way to the Valley of Salt, occupied by the powerful Utes. Never was there such a paradise for hunters as this lone and solitary spot in the days when the region was known only to them and the trappers of the great fur companies. The shelving prairie, at the bottom of which the springs are situated, is entirely surrounded by rugged mountains and contained two or three acres of excellent grass, affording a safe pasture for their animals, which hardly cared to wander from such feeding and the salt they loved to lick. The trappers of the Rocky Mountains belonged to a genus that has disappeared. Forty years ago there was not a hole or corner in the vast wilderness of the far West that had not been explored by these hardy men. From the Mississippi to the mouth of the Colorado of the West, from the frozen regions of the north to the Gila in Mexico, the beaver hunter has set his traps in every creek and stream. The mountains and waters, in many instances, still retain the names assigned them by those rude hunters, who were veritable pioneers paving the way for the settlement of the stern country. A trapper's camp in the old days was quite a picture, as were all its surroundings. He did not always take the trouble to build a shelter, unless in the winter. A couple of deerskins stretched over a willow frame was considered sufficient to protect him from the storm. Sometimes he contented himself with a mere "breakwind," the rocky wall of a canyon, or large ravine. Near at hand he set up two poles, in the crotch of which another was laid, where he kept, out of reach of the hungry wolf and coyote, his meat, consisting of every variety afforded by the region in which he had pitched his camp. Under cover of the skins of the animals he had killed hung his old-fashioned powder-horn and bullet-pouch, while his trusty rifle, carefully defended from the damp, was always within reach of his hand. Round his blazing fire at night his companions, if he had any, were other trappers on the same stream; and, while engaged in cleaning their arms, making and mending moccasins, or running bullets, they told long yarns, until the lateness of the hour warned them to crawl under their blankets. Not far from the camp, his animals, well hobbled, fed in sight; for nothing did a hunter dread more than a visit from horse-stealing Indians, and to be afoot was the acme of misery. Some hunters who had married squaws carried about with them regular buffalo-skin lodges, which their wives took care of, according to Indian etiquette. The old-time trappers more nearly approximated the primitive savage, perhaps, than any other class of civilized men. Their lives being spent in the remote wilderness of the mountains, frequently with no other companion than Nature herself, their habits and character often assumed a most singular cast of simplicity, mingled with ferocity, that appeared to take its colouring from the scenes and objects which surrounded them. Having no wants save those of nature, their sole concern was to provide sufficient food to support life, and the necessary clothing to protect them from the sometimes rigorous climate. The costume of the average trapper was a hunting-shirt of dressed buckskin, with long, fringed trousers of the same material, decorated with porcupine quills. A flexible hat and moccasins covered his extremities, and over his left shoulder and under his right arm hung his powder-horn and bullet-pouch, in which he also carried flint, steel, and other odds and ends. Round his waist he wore a belt, in which was stuck a large knife in a sheath of buffalo-hide, made fast to the belt by a chain or guard of steel. It also supported a little buckskin case, which contained a whetstone, a very necessary article; for in taking off the hides of the beaver a sharp knife was required. His pipe-holder hung around his neck, and was generally a gage d'amour, a triumph of squaw workmanship, wrought with beads and porcupine quills, often made in the shape of a heart. Necessarily keen observers of nature, they rivalled the beasts of prey in discovering the haunts and habits of game, and in their skill and cunning in capturing it outwitted the Indian himself. Constantly exposed to perils of all kinds, they became callous to any feeling of danger, and were firm friends or bitter enemies. It was a "word and a blow," the blow often coming first. Strong, active, hardy as bears, expert in the use of their weapons, they were just what an uncivilized white man might be supposed to be under conditions where he must depend upon his instincts for the support of life. Having determined upon the locality of his trapping-ground, the hunter started off, sometimes alone, sometimes three or four of them in company, as soon as the breaking of the ice in the streams would permit, if he was to go very far north. Arriving on the spot he has selected for his permanent camp, the first thing to be done, after he had settled himself, was to follow the windings of the creeks and rivers, keeping a sharp lookout for "signs." If he saw a prostrate cottonwood tree, he carefully examined it to learn whether it was the work of beaver, and if so whether thrown for the purpose of food, or to dam the stream. The track of the animal on the mud or sand under the banks was also examined; if the sign was fresh, he set his trap in the run of the animal, hiding it under water, and attaching it by a stout chain to a picket driven in the bank, or to a bush or tree. A float-stick was made fast to the trap by a cord a few feet long, which, if the animal carried away the trap, would float on the water and point out its position. The trap was baited with "medicine," an oily substance obtained from the beaver. A stick was dipped in this and planted over the trap, and the beaver, attracted by the smell, put his leg into the trap and was caught. When a beaver lodge was discovered, the trap was set at the edge of the dam, at a point where the animal passed from deep to shoal water, and always under the surface. Early in the morning, the hunter mounted his mule and examined all his traps. The beaver is exceedingly wily, and if by scent or sound or sight he had any intimation of the presence of a trapper, he put at defiance all efforts to capture him, consequently it was necessary to practise great caution when in the neighbourhood of one of their lodges. The trapper then avoided riding for fear the sound of his horse's feet might strike dismay among the furry inhabitants under the water, and, instead of walking on the ground, he waded in the stream, lest he should leave a scent behind by which he might be discovered. In the days of the great fur companies, trappers were of two kinds--the hired hand and the free trapper. The former was hired by the company, which supplied him with everything necessary, and paid him a certain price for his furs and peltries. The other hunted on his own hook, owned his animals and traps, went where he pleased, and sold to whom he chose. During the hunting season, regardless of the Indians, the fearless trapper wandered far and near in search of signs. His nerves were in a state of tension, his mind always clear, and his head cool. His trained eye scrutinized every part of the country, and in an instant he could detect anything that was strange. A turned leaf, a blade of grass pressed down, the uneasiness of wild animals, the actions of the birds, were all to him paragraphs written in Nature's legible hand. All the wits of the wily savage were called into play to gain an advantage over the plucky white man; but with the resources natural to a civilized mind, the hunter seldom failed, under equal chance, to circumvent the cunning of the red man. Sometimes, following his trail for weeks, the Indian watched him set his traps on some timbered stream, and crawling up the bed of it, so that he left no tracks, he lay in the bushes until his victim came to examine his traps. Then, when he approached within a few feet of the ambush, whiz! flew the home-drawn arrow, which never failed at such close quarters to bring the unsuspecting hunter to the ground. But for one white scalp that dangled in the smoke of an Indian's lodge, a dozen black ones, at the end of the season, ornamented the camp-fires of the rendezvous where the furs were sold. In the camp, if he was a very successful hunter, all the appliances for preparing the skins for market were at hand; if he had a squaw for a wife, she did all the hard work, as usual. Close to the entrance of their skin lodge was the "graining-block," a log of wood with the bark stripped off and perfectly smooth, set obliquely in the ground, on which the hair was removed from the deerskins which furnished moccasins and dresses for both herself and her husband. Then there were stretching frames on which the skins were placed to undergo the process of "dubbing"; that is, the removal of all flesh and fatty particles adhering to the skin. The "dubber" was made of the stock of an elk's horn, with a piece of iron or steel inserted in the end, forming a sharp knife. The last process the deerskin underwent before it was soft and pliable enough for making into garments, was the "smoking." This was effected by digging a round hole in the ground, and lighting in it an armful of rotten wood or punk; then sticks were planted around the hole, and their tops brought together and tied. The skins were placed on this frame, and all openings by which the smoke might escape being carefully stopped, in ten or twelve hours they were thoroughly cured and ready for immediate use. The beaver was the main object of the hunter's quest; its skins were once worth from six to eight dollars a pound; then they fell to only one dollar, which hardly paid the expenses of traps, animals, and equipment for the hunt, and was certainly no adequate remuneration for the hardships, toil, and danger undergone by the trappers. The beaver was once found in every part of North America, from Canada to the Gulf of Mexico, but has so retired from the encroachments of civilized man, that it is only to be met with occasionally on some tributary to the remote mountain streams. The old trappers always aimed to set their traps so that the beaver would drown when taken. This was accomplished by sinking the trap several inches under water, and driving a stake through a ring on the end of the chain into the bottom of the creek. When the beaver finds himself caught, he pitches and plunges about until his strength is exhausted, when he sinks down and is drowned, but if he succeeds in getting to the shore, he always extricates himself by gnawing off the leg that is in the jaws of the trap. The captured animals were skinned, and the tails, which are a great dainty, carefully packed into camp. The skin was then stretched over a hoop or framework of willow twigs and allowed to dry, the flesh and fatty substance adhering being first carefully scraped off. When dry, it was folded into a square sheet, the fur turned inwards, and the bundle, containing twenty skins, tightly pressed and tied, was ready for transportation. The beaver after the hide is taken off weighs about twelve pounds, and its flesh, although a little musky, is very fine. Its tail which is flat and oval in shape, is covered with scales about the size of those of a salmon. It was a great delicacy in the estimation of the old trapper; he separated it from the body, thrust a stick in one end of it, and held it before the fire with the scales on. In a few moments large blisters rose on the surface, which were very easily removed. The tail was then perfectly white, and delicious. Next to the tail the liver was another favourite of the trapper, and when properly cooked it constituted a delightful repast. After the season was over, or the hunter had loaded all his pack-animals, he proceeded to the "rendezvous," where the buyers were to congregate for the purchase of the fur, the locality of which had been agreed upon when the hunters started out on their expedition. One of these was at Bent's old fort and one at Pueblo; another at "Brown's Hole" on Green River, and there were many more on the great streams and in the mountains. There the agents of the fur companies and traders waited for the arrival of the trappers, with such an assortment of goods as the hardy men required, including, of course, an immense supply of whiskey. The trappers dropped in day after day, in small bands, packing their loads of beaver-skins, not infrequently to the value of a thousand dollars each, the result of one hunt. The rendezvous was frequently a continuous scene of gambling, brawling, and fighting, so long as the improvident trapper's money lasted. Seated around the large camp-fires, cross-legged in Indian fashion, with a blanket or buffalo-robe spread before them, groups were playing cards--euchre, seven-up, and poker, the regular mountain games. The usual stakes were beaver-skins, which were current as coin. When their fur was all gone, their horses, mules, rifles, shirts, hunting packs, and trousers were staked. Daring professional gamblers made the rounds of the camps, challenging each other to play for the trapper's highest stakes--his horse, or his squaw, if he had one--and it is told of one great time that two old trappers played for one another's scalps! "There goes hoss and beaver," was a common mountain expression when any severe loss was sustained, and shortly "hoss and beaver" found their way into the pockets of the unconscionable gamblers. Frequently a trapper would squander the entire product of his hunt, amounting to hundreds of dollars, in a couple of hours. Then, supplied with another outfit, he left the rendezvous for another expedition, which had the same result time after time, although one good hunt would have enabled him to return to the settlements and live a life of comparative ease. It is told of one old Canadian trapper, who had received as much as fifteen thousand dollars for beaver during his life in the mountains, extending over twenty years, that each season he had resolved in his mind to go back to Canada, and with this object in view always converted his furs into cash; but a fortnight at the rendezvous always "cleaned him out," and at the end of the twenty years he had not even enough credit to get a plug of tobacco. Trading with the Indians in the primitive days of the border was just what the word signifies in its radical interpretation--a system of barter exclusively. No money was used in the transaction, as it was long afterward before the savages began to learn something of the value of currency from their connection with the sutler's and agency stores established on reservations and at military posts on the plains and in the mountains. In the early days, if an Indian by any chance happened to get possession of a piece of money (only gold or silver was recognized as a medium of exchange in the remote West), he would immediately fashion it into some kind of an ornament with which to adorn his person. Some tribes, however, did indulge in a sort of currency, worthless except among themselves. This consisted of rare shells, such as the Oligachuck, so called, of the Pacific coast nations, used by them within my own recollection, as late as 1858. The poor Indian, as might have been expected, was generally outrageously swindled; in fact, I am inclined to believe, always. I never was present on an occasion when he was not. The savage's idea of values was very crude until the government, in attempting to civilize and make a gentleman of him, has transformed him into a bewildered child. Very soon after his connection with the white trader, he learned that a gun was more valuable than a knife; but of their relative cost to manufacture he had no idea. For these reasons, obviously, he was always at the mercy of the unscrupulous trader who came to his village, or met him at the rendezvous to barter for his furs. I know that the price of every article he desired was fixed by the trader, and never by the Indian, consequently he rarely got the best of the bargain. Uncle John Smith, Kit Carson, L. B. Maxwell, Uncle Dick Wooton, and a host of other well-known Indian traders, long since dead, have often told me that the first thing they did on entering a village with a pack-load of trinkets to barter, in the earlier days before the whites had encroached to any great extent, was to arrange a schedule of prices. They would gather a large number of sticks, each one representing an article they had brought. With these crude symbols the Indian made himself familiar in a little while, and when this preliminary arrangement had been completed, the trading began. The Indian, for instance, would place a buffalo-robe on the ground; then the trader commenced to lay down a number of the sticks, representing what he was willing to give for the robe. The Indian revolved the transaction in his mind until he thought he was getting a fair equivalent according to his ideas, then the bargain was made. It was claimed by these old traders, when they related this to me, that the savage generally was not satisfied, always insisting upon having more sticks placed on the pile. I suspect, however, that the trader was ever prepared for this, and never gave more than he originally intended. The price of that initial robe having been determined on, it governed the price of all the rest for the whole trade, regardless of size or fineness, for that day. What was traded for was then placed by the Indian on one side of the lodge, and the trader put what he was to give on the other. After prices had been agreed upon, business went on very rapidly, and many thousand dollars' worth of valuable furs were soon collected by the successful trader, which he shipped to St. Louis and converted into gold. In a few years, relatively, the Indian began to appreciate the value of our medium of exchange and the power it gave him to secure at the stores in the widely scattered hamlets and at the military posts on the plains, those things he coveted, at a fairer equivalent than in the uncertain and complicated method of direct barter. It was not very long after the advent of the overland coaches on the Santa Fe Trail, that our currency, even the greenbacks, had assumed a value to the savage, which he at least partially understood. Whenever the Indians successfully raided the stages the mail sacks were no longer torn to pieces or thrown aside as worthless, but every letter was carefully scrutinized for possible bills. I well remember, when the small copper cent, with its spread eagle upon it, was first issued, about the year 1857, how the soldiers of a frontier garrison where I was stationed at the time palmed them off upon the simple savages as two dollar and a half gold pieces, which they resembled as long as they retained their brightness, and with which the Indians were familiar, as many were received by the troops from the paymaster every two months, the savages receiving them in turn for horses and other things purchased of them by the soldiers. I have known of Indians who gave nuggets of gold for common calico shirts costing two dollars in that region and seventy-five cents in the States, while the lump of precious metal was worth, perhaps, five or seven dollars. As late as twenty-eight years ago, I have traded for beautifully smoke-tanned and porcupine-embroidered buffalo-robes for my own use, giving in exchange a mere loaf of bread or a cupful of brown sugar. Very early in the history of the United States, in 1786, the government, under the authority of Congress, established a plan of trade with the Indians. It comprised supplying all their physical wants without profit; factories, or stations as they were called, were erected at points that were then on the remote frontier; where factors, clerks, and interpreters were stationed. The factors furnished goods of all kinds to the Indians, and received from them in exchange furs and peltries. There was an officer in charge of all these stations called the superintendent of Indian trade, appointed by the President. As far back as 1821, there were stations at Prairie du Chien, Fort Edward, Fort Osage, with branches at Chicago, Green Bay in Arkansas, on the Red River, and other places in the then far West. These stations were movable, and changed from time to time to suit the convenience of the Indians. In 1822 the whole system was abolished by act of Congress, and its affairs wound up, the American Fur Company, the Missouri Fur Company, and a host of others having by that time become powerful. Like the great corporations of to-day, they succeeded in supplanting the government establishments. Of course, the Indians of the remote plains, which included all the vast region west of the Missouri River, never had the benefits of the government trading establishments, but were left to the tender mercies of the old plainsmen and trappers. Until the railroad reached the mountains, when the march of a wonderful immigration closely followed, usurping the lands claimed by the savages, and the latter were driven, perforce, upon reservations, the winter camps of the Kiowas, Arapahoes, and Cheyennes were strung along the Old Trail for miles, wherever a belt of timber on the margin of the Arkansas, or its tributaries, could be found large enough to furnish fuel for domestic purposes and cottonwood bark for the vast herds of ponies in the severe snow-storms. At these various points the Indians congregated to trade with the whites. As stated, Bent's Fort, the Pueblo Fort, and Big Timbers were favourite resorts, and the trappers and old hunters passed a lively three or four months every year, indulging in the amusements I have referred to. They were also wonderful story-tellers, and around their camp-fires many a tale of terrible adventure with Indians and vicious animals was nightly related. Baptiste Brown was one of the most famous trappers. Few men had seen more of wild life in the great prairie wilderness. He had hunted with nearly every tribe of Indians on the plains and in the mountains, was often at Bent's Fort, and his soul-stirring narratives made him a most welcome guest at the camp-fire. He lived most of his time in the Wind River Mountains, in a beautiful little valley named after him "Brown's Hole." It has a place on the maps to-day, and is on what was then called Prairie River, or Sheetskadee, by the Indians; it is now known as Green River, and is the source of the great Colorado. The valley, which is several thousand feet above the sea-level, is about fifteen miles in circumference, surrounded by lofty hills, and is aptly, though not elegantly, characterized as a "hole." The mountain-grass is of the most nutritious quality; groves of cottonwood trees and willows are scattered through the sequestered spot, and the river, which enters it from the north, is a magnificent stream; in fact, it is the very ideal of a hunter's headquarters. The temperature is very equable, and at one time, years ago, hundreds of trappers made it their winter quarters. Indians, too, of all the northern tribes, but more especially the Arapahoes, frequented it to trade with the white men. Baptiste Brown was a Canadian who spoke villanous French and worse English; his vocabulary being largely interspersed with "enfant de garce," "sacre," "sacre enfant," and "damn" until it was a difficult matter to tell what he was talking about. He was married to an Arapahoe squaw, and his strange wooing and winning of the dusky maiden is a thrilling love-story. Among the maidens who came with the Arapahoes, when that tribe made a visit to "Brown's Hole" one winter for the purpose of trading with the whites, was a young, merry, and very handsome girl, named "Unami," who after a few interviews completely captured Baptiste's heart. Nothing was more common, as I have stated, than marriages between the trappers and a beautiful redskin. Isolated absolutely from women of his own colour, the poor mountaineer forgets he is white, which, considering the embrowning influence of constant exposure and sunlight, is not so marvellous after all. For a portion of the year there is no hunting, and then idleness is the order of the day. At such times the mountaineer visits the lodges of his dark neighbours for amusement, and in the spirited dance many a heart is lost to the squaws. The young trapper, like other enamoured ones of his sex in civilization, lingers around the house of his fair sweetheart while she transforms the soft skin of the doe into moccasins, ornamenting them richly with glittering beads or the coloured quills of the porcupine, all the time lightening the long hours with the plain-songs of their tribe. It was upon an occasion of this character that Baptiste, then in the prime of his youthful manhood, first loved the dark-eyed Arapahoe. The course open to him was to woo and win her; but alas! savage papas are just like fathers in the best civilization--the only difference between them is that the former are more open and matter-of-fact, since in savage etiquette a consideration is required in exchange for the daughter, which belongs exclusively to the parent, and must be of equal marketable value to the girl. The usual method is to select your best horse, take him to the lodge of your inamorata's parents, tie him to a tree, and walk away. If the animal is considered a fair exchange, matters are soon settled satisfactorily; if not, other gifts must be added. At this juncture poor Baptiste was in a bad fix; he had disposed of all his season's earnings for his winter's subsistence, much of which consisted of an ample supply of whiskey and tobacco; so he had nothing left wherewith to purchase the indispensable horse. Without the animal no wife was to be had, and he was in a terrible predicament; for the hunting season was long since over, and it wanted a whole month of the time for a new starting out. Baptiste was a very determined man, however, and he shouldered his rifle, intent on accomplishing by a laborious prosecution of the chase the means of winning his loved one from her parents, notwithstanding that the elements and the times were against him. He worked industriously, and after many days was rewarded by a goodly supply of beavers, otters, and mink which he had trapped, besides many a deerskin whose wearer he had shot. Returning to his lodge, where he cached his peltry, he again started out for the forest with hope filling his heart. Three weeks passed in indifferent success, when one morning, having entered a deep canyon, which evidently led out to an open prairie where he thought game might be found, while busy cutting his way through a thicket of briers with his knife, he suddenly came upon a little valley, where he saw what caused him to retrace his footsteps into the thicket. And here it is necessary to relate a custom peculiar to all Indian tribes. No young man, though his father were the greatest chief in the nation, can range himself among the warriors, be entitled to enter the marriage state, or enjoy any other rights of savage citizenship until he shall have performed some act of personal bravery and daring, or be sprinkled with the blood of his enemies. In the early springtime, therefore, all the young men who are of the proper age band themselves together and take to the forest in search--like the knight-errant of old--of adventure and danger. Having decided upon a secluded and secret spot, they collect a number of poles from twenty to thirty feet in length, and, lashing them together at the small ends, form a huge conical lodge, which they cover with grass and boughs. Inside they deposit various articles, with which to "make medicine," or as a propitiatory offering to the Great Spirit; generally a green buffalo head, kettles, scalps, blankets, and other things of value, of which the most prominent and revered is the sacred pipe. The party then enters the lodge and the first ceremony is smoking this pipe. One of the young men fills it with tobacco and herbs, places a coal on it from the fire that has been already kindled in the lodge, and, taking the stem in his mouth, inhales the smoke and expels it through his nostrils. The ground is touched with the bowl, the four points of the compass are in turn saluted, and with various ceremonies it makes the round of the lodge. After many days of feasting and dancing the party is ready for a campaign, when they abandon the lodge, and it is death for any one else to enter, or by any means to desecrate it while its projectors are absent. It was upon one of these mystic lodges that Baptiste had accidentally stumbled, and strange thoughts flashed through his mind; for within the sacred place were articles, doubtless, of value more than sufficient to purchase the necessary horse with which he could win the fair Unami. Baptiste was sorely tempted, but there was an instinctive respect for religion in the minds of the old trappers, and Brown had too much honour to think of robbing the Indian temple, although he distinctly remembered a time when a poor white trapper, having been robbed of his poncho at the beginning of winter, made free with a blanket he had found in one of these Arapahoe sacred lodges. When he was brought before the medicine men of the tribe, charged with the sacrilege, his defence, that, having been robbed, the Great Spirit took pity on him and pointed out the blanket and ordered him to clothe himself, was considered good, on the theory that the Great Spirit had an undoubted right to give away his own property; consequently the trapper was set free. Brown, after considering the case, was about to move away, when a hand was laid on his shoulder, and turning round there stood before him an Indian in full war-paint. The greeting was friendly, for the young savage was the brother of Baptiste's love, to whom he had given many valuable presents during the past season. "My white brother is very wakeful; he rises early." Baptiste laughed, and replied: "Yes, because my lodge is empty. If I had Unami for a wife, I would not have to get out before the sun; and I would always have a soft seat for her brother; he will be a great warrior." The young brave shook his head gravely, as he pointed to his belt, where not a scalp was to be seen, and said: "Five moons have gone to sleep and the Arapahoe hatchet has not been raised. The Blackfeet are dogs, and hide in their holes." Without adding anything to this hint that none of the young men had been able to fulfil their vows, the disconsolate savage led the way to the camp of the other Arapahoes, his companions in the quest for scalps. Baptiste was very glad to see the face of a fellow-creature once more, and he cheerfully followed the footsteps of the young brave, which were directed away from the medicine lodge toward the rocky canyon which he had already travelled that morning, where in the very centre of the dark defile, and within twenty feet of where he had recently passed, was the camp of the disappointed band. Baptiste was cordially received, and invited to share the meal of which the party were about to partake, after which the pipe was passed around. In a little while the Indians began to talk among themselves by signs, which made Baptiste feel somewhat uncomfortable, for it was apparent that he was the object of their interest. They had argued that Brown's skin indicated that he belonged to the great tribe of their natural enemies, and with the blood of a white on their garments, they would have fulfilled the terms of their vow to their friends and the Great Spirit. Noticing the trend of the debate, which would lead his friend into trouble, the brother of Unami arose, and waving his hand said:-- "The Arapahoe is a warrior; his feet outstrip the fleetest horse; his arrow is as the lightning of the Great Spirit; he is very brave. But a cloud is between him and the sun; he cannot see his enemy; there is yet no scalp in his lodge. The Great Spirit is good; he sends a victim, a man whose skin is white, but his heart is very red; the pale-face is a brother, and his long knife is turned from his friends, the Arapahoes; but the Great Spirit is all-powerful. My brother"--pointing to Baptiste--"is very full of blood; he can spare a little to stain the blankets of the young men, and his heart shall still be warm; I have spoken." As Baptiste expressed it: "Sacre enfant de garce; damn, de ting vas agin my grain, but de young Arapahoe he have saved my life." Loud acclamation followed the speech of Unami's brother, and many of those most clamorous against the white trapper, being actuated by the earnest desire of returning home with their vow accomplished, when they would be received into the list of warriors, and have wives and other honours, were unanimous in agreeing to the proposed plan. A flint lancet was produced, Baptiste's arm was bared, and the blood which flowed from the slight wound was carefully distributed, and scattered over the robes of the delighted Arapahoes. The scene which followed was quite unexpected to Baptiste, who was only glad to escape the death to which the majority had doomed him. The Indians, perfectly satisfied that their vow of shedding an enemy's blood had been fulfilled, were all gratitude; and to testify that gratitude in a substantial manner each man sought his pack, and laid at the feet of the surprised Baptiste a rich present. One gave an otter skin, another that of a buffalo, and so on until his wealth in furs outstripped his most sanguine expectations from his hunt. The brother of Unami stood passively looking on until all the others had successively honoured his guest, when he advanced toward Baptiste, leading by its bridle a magnificent horse, fully caparisoned, and a large pack-mule. To refuse would have been the most flagrant breach of Indian etiquette, and beside, Brown was too alive to the advantage that would accrue to him to be other than very thankful. The camp was then broken up, and the kind savages were soon lost to Baptiste's sight as they passed down the canyon; and he, as soon as he had gained a little strength, for he was weak from the blood he had shed in the good cause, mounted his horse, after loading the mule with his gifts, and made the best of his way to his lonely lodge, where he remained several days. He then sold his furs at a good price, as it was so early in the season, bartered for a large quantity of knives, beads, powder, and balls, and returned to the Arapahoe village, where the horse was considered a fair exchange for the pretty Unami; and from that day, for over thirty years, they lived as happy as any couple in the highest civilization. The fate of the Pueblo, where the trappers and hunters had such good times in the halcyon days of the border, like that which befell nearly all the trading-posts and ranches on the Old Santa Fe Trail, was to be partially destroyed by the savages. During the early months of the winter of 1854, the Utes swept down through the Arkansas valley, leaving a track of blood behind them, and frightening the settlers so thoroughly that many left the country never to return. The outbreak was as sudden as it was devastating. The Pueblo was captured by the savages, and every man, woman, and child in it murdered, with the exception of one aged Mexican, and he was so badly wounded that he died in a few days. His story was that the Utes came to the gates of the fort on Christmas morning, professing the greatest friendship, and asking permission to be allowed to come inside and hold a peace conference. All who were in the fort at the time were Mexicans, and as their cupidity led them to believe that they could do some advantageous trading with the Indians, they foolishly permitted the whole band to enter. The result was that a wholesale massacre followed. There were seventeen persons in all quartered there, only one of whom escaped death--the old man referred to--and a woman and her two children, who were carried off as captives; but even she was killed before the savages had gone a mile from the place. What became of the children was never known; they probably met the same fate. CHAPTER XV. UNCLE JOHN SMITH. Many of the men of the border were blunt in manners, rude in speech, driven to the absolute liberty of the far West with better natures shattered and hopes blasted, to seek in the exciting life of the plainsman and mountaineer oblivion of some incidents of their youthful days, which were better forgotten. Yet these aliens from society, these strangers to the refinements of civilization, who would tear off a bloody scalp even with grim smiles of satisfaction, were fine fellows, full of the milk of human kindness, and would share their last slapjack with a hungry stranger. Uncle John Smith, as he was known to every trapper, trader, and hunter from the Yellowstone to the Gila, was one of the most famous and eccentric men of the early days. In 1826, as a boy, he ran away from St. Louis with a party of Santa Fe traders, and so fascinated was he with the desultory and exciting life, that he chose to sit cross-legged, smoking the long Indian pipe, in the comfortable buffalo-skin teepee, rather than cross legs on the broad table of his master, a tailor to whom he had been apprenticed when he took French leave from St. Louis. He spent his first winter with the Blackfeet Indians, but came very near losing his scalp in their continual quarrels, and therefore allied himself with the more peaceable Sioux. Once while on the trail of a horse-stealing band of Arapahoes near the head waters of the Arkansas, the susceptible young hunter fell in love with a very pretty Cheyenne squaw, married her, and remained true to the object of his early affection during all his long and eventful life, extending over a period of forty years. For many decades he lived with his dusky wife as the Indians did, having been adopted by the tribe. He owned a large number of horses, which constituted the wealth of the plains Indians, upon the sale of which he depended almost entirely for his subsistence. He became very powerful in the Cheyenne nation; was regarded as a chief, taking an active part in the councils, and exercising much authority. His excellent judgment as a trader with the various bands of Indians while he was employed by the great fur companies made his services invaluable in the strange business complications of the remote border. Besides understanding the Cheyenne language as well as his native tongue, he also spoke three other Indian dialects, French, and Spanish, but with many Western expressions that sometimes grated harshly upon the grammatical ear. He became a sort of autocrat on the plains and in the mountains; and for an Indian or Mexican to attempt to effect a trade without Uncle John Smith having something to say about it, and its conditions, was hardly possible. The New Mexicans often came in small parties to his Indian village, their burros packed with dry pumpkin, corn, etc., to trade for buffalo-robes, bearskins, meat, and ponies; and Smith, who knew his power, exacted tribute, which was always paid. At one time, however, when for some reason a party of strange Mexicans refused, Uncle John harangued the people of the village, and called the young warriors together, who emptied every sack of goods belonging to the cowering Mexicans on the ground, Smith ordering the women and children to help themselves, an order which was obeyed with alacrity. The frightened Mexicans left hurriedly for El Valle de Taos, whence they had come, crossing themselves and uttering thanks to Heaven for having retained their scalps. This and other similar cases so intimidated the poor Greasers, and impressed them so deeply with a sense of Smith's power, that, ever after, his permission to trade was craved by a special deputation of the parties, accompanied by peace-offerings of corn, pumpkin, and pinole. At one time, when Smith was journeying by himself a day's ride from the Cheyenne village, he was met by a party of forty or more corn traders, who, instead of putting such a bane to their prospects speedily out of the way, gravely asked him if they could proceed, and offered him every third robe they had to accompany them, which he did. Indeed, he became so regardless of justice, in his condescension to the natives of New Mexico, that the governor of that province offered a reward of five hundred dollars for him alive or dead, but fear of the Cheyennes was so prevalent that his capture was never even attempted. During Sheridan's memorable winter campaign against the allied tribes in 1868-69, the old man, for he was then about sixty, was my guide and interpreter. He shared my tent and mess, a most welcome addition to the few who sat at my table, and beguiled many a weary hour at night, after our tedious marches through the apparently interminable sand dunes and barren stretches of our monotonous route, with his tales of that period, more than half a century ago, when our mid-continent region was as little known as the topography of the planet Mars. At the close of December, 1868, a few weeks after the battle of the Washita, I was camping with my command on the bank of that historic stream in the Indian Territory, waiting with an immense wagon-train of supplies for the arrival of General Custer's command, the famous Seventh Cavalry, and also the Nineteenth Kansas, which were supposed to be lost, or wandering aimlessly somewhere in the region south of us. I had been ordered to that point by General Sheridan, with instructions to keep fires constantly burning on three or four of the highest peaks in the vicinity of our camp, until the lost troops should be guided to the spot by our signals. These signals were veritable pillars of fire by night and pillars of cloud by day; for there was an abundance of wood and hundreds of men ready to feed the hungry flames. It was more than two weeks before General Custer and his famished troopers began to straggle in. During that period of anxious waiting we lived almost exclusively on wild turkey, and longed for nature's meat--the buffalo; but there were none of the shaggy beasts at that time in the vicinity, so we had to content ourselves with the birds, of which we became heartily tired. For several days after our arrival on the creek, the men had been urging Uncle John to tell them another story of his early adventures; but the old trapper was in one of his silent moods--he frequently had them--and could not be persuaded to emerge from his shell of reticence despite their most earnest entreaties. I knew it would be of no use for me to press him. I could, of course, order him to any duty, and he would promptly obey; but his tongue, like the hand of Douglas, was his own. I knew, also, that when he got ready, which would be when some incident of camp-life inspired him, he would be as garrulous as ever. One evening just before supper, a party of enlisted men who had been up the creek to catch fish, but had failed to take anything owing to the frozen condition of the stream, returned with the skeleton of a Cheyenne Indian which they had picked up on the battle-ground of a month previously--one of Custer's victims in his engagement with Black Kettle. This was the incentive Uncle John required. As he gazed on the bleached bones of the warrior, he said: "Boys, I'm going to tell you a good long story to-night. Them Ingin's bones has put me in mind of it. After we've eat, if you fellows wants to hear it, come down to headquarters tent, and I'll give it to you." Of course word was rapidly passed from one to another, as the whole camp was eager to hear the old trapper again. In a short time, every man not on guard or detailed to keep up the signals on the hills gathered around the dying embers of the cook's fire in front of my tent; the enlisted men and teamsters in groups by themselves, the officers a little closer in a circle, in the centre of which Uncle John sat. The night was cold, the sky covered with great fleecy patches, through which the full moon, just fairly risen, appeared to be racing, under the effect of that optical illusion caused by the rapidly moving clouds. The coyotes had commenced their nocturnal concert in the timbered recesses of the creek not far away, and on the battle-field a short distance beyond, as they battened and fought over the dead warriors and the carcasses of twelve hundred ponies killed in that terrible slaughter by the intrepid Custer and his troopers. The signals on the hills leaped into the crisp air like the tongues of dragons in the myths of the ancients; in fact, the whole aspect of the place, as we sat around the blazing logs of our camp-fire, was weird and uncanny. Every one was eager for the veteran guide to begin his tale; but as I knew he could not proceed without smoking, I passed him my pouch of Lone Jack--the brand par excellence in the army at that time. Uncle John loaded his corn-cob, picked up a live coal, and, pressing it down on the tobacco with his thumb, commenced to puff vigorously. As soon as his withered old face was half hidden in a cloud of smoke, he opened his story in his stereotyped way. I relate it just as he told it, but divested of much of its dialect, so difficult to write:-- "Well, boys, it's a good many years ago, in June, 1845, if I don't disremember. I was about forty-three, and had been in the mountains and on the plains more than nineteen seasons. You see, I went out there in 1826. There warn't no roads, nuthin' but the Santa Fe Trail, in them days, and Ingins and varmints. "There was four of us. Me, Bill Comstock, Dick Curtis, and Al Thorpe. Dick was took in by the Utes two years afterwards at the foot of the Spanish Peaks, and Al was killed by the Apaches at Pawnee Rock, in 1847. "We'd been trapping up on Medicine Bow for more than three years together, and had a pile of beaver, otter, mink, and other varmint's skins cached in the hills, which we know'd was worth a heap of money; so we concluded to take them to the river that summer. We started from our trapping camp in April, and 'long 'bout the middle of June reached the Arkansas, near what is know'd as Point o' Rocks. You all know where them is on the Trail west of Fort Dodge, and how them rocks rises up out of the prairie sudden-like. We was a travelling 'long mighty easy, for we was all afoot, and had hoofed it the whole distance, more than six hundred miles, driving five good mules ahead of us. Our furs was packed on four of them, and the other carried our blankets, extry ammunition, frying-pan, coffee-pot, and what little grub we had, for we was obliged to depend upon buffalo, antelope, and jack-rabbits; but, boys, I tell you there was millions of 'em in them days. "We had just got into camp at Point o' Rocks. It was 'bout four o'clock in the afternoon; none of us carried watches, we always reckoned time by the sun, and could generally guess mighty close, too. It was powerful hot, I remember. We'd hobbled our mules close to the ledge, where the grass was good, so they couldn't be stampeded, as we know'd we was in the Pawnee country, and they was the most ornery Ingins on the plains. We know'd nothing that was white ever came by that part of the Trail without having a scrimmage with the red devils. "Well, we hadn't more than took our dinner, when them mules give a terrible snort, and tried to break and run, getting awful oneasy all to once. Them critters can tell when Ingins is around. They's better than a dozen dogs. I don't know how they can tell, but they just naturally do. "In less than five minutes after them mules began to worry, stopped eating, and had their ears pricked up a trying to look over the ledge towards the river, we heard a sharp firing down on the Trail, which didn't appear to be more than a hundred yards off. You ought to seen us grab our rifles sudden, and run out from behind them rocks, where we was a camping, so comfortable-like, and just going to light our pipes for a good smoke. It didn't take us no time to get down on to the Trail, where we seen a Mexican bull train, that we know'd must have come from Santa Fe, and which had stopped and was trying to corral. More than sixty painted Pawnees was a circling around the outfit, howling as only them can howl, and pouring a shower of arrows into the oxen. Some was shaking their buffalo-robes, trying to stampede the critters, so they could kill the men easier. "We lit out mighty lively, soon as we seen what was going on, and reached the head of the train just as the last wagon, that was furtherest down the Trail, nigh a quarter of a mile off, was cut out by part of the band. Then we seen a man, a woman, and a little boy jump out, and run to get shet of the Ingins what had cut out the wagon from the rest of the train. One of the red devils killed the man and scalped him, while the other pulled the woman up in front of him, and rid off into the sand hills, and out of sight in a minute. Then the one what had killed her husband started for the boy, who was a running for the train as fast as his little legs could go. But we was nigh enough then; and just as the Ingin was reaching down from his pony for the kid, Al Thorpe--he was a powerful fine shot--draw'd up his gun and took the red cuss off his critter without the paint-bedaubed devil know'n' what struck him. "The boy, seeing us, broke and run for where we was, and I reckon the rest of the Ingins seen us then for the first time, too. We was up with the train now, which was kind o' halfway corralled, and Dick Curtis picked up the child--he warn't more than seven years old--and throw'd him gently into one of the wagons, where he'd be out of the way; for we know'd there was going to be considerable more fighting before night. We know'd, too, we Americans would have to do the heft of it, as them Mexican bull-whackers warn't much account, nohow, except to cavort around and swear in Spanish, which they hadn't done nothing else since we'd come up to the train; besides, their miserable guns warn't much better than so many bows and arrows. "We Americans talked together for a few moments as to what was best to be did, while the Ingins all this time was keeping up a lively fire for them. We made as strong a corral of the wagons as we could, driving out what oxen the Mexicans had put in the one they had made, but you can't do much with only nine wagons, nohow. Fortunately, while we was fixing things, the red cusses suddenly retreated out of the range of our rifles, and we first thought they had cleared out for good. We soon discovered, however, they were only holding a pow-wow; for in a few minutes back they come, mounted on their ponies, with all their fixin's and fresh war-paint on. "Then they commenced to circle around us again, coming a little nearer--Ingin fashion--every time they rid off and back. It wasn't long before they got in easy range, when they slung themselves on the off-side of their ponies and let fly their arrows and balls from under their critters' necks. Their guns warn't much 'count, being only old English muskets what had come from the Hudson Bay Fur Company, so they didn't do no harm that round, except to scare the Mexicans, which commenced to cross themselves and pray and swear. "We four Americans warn't idle when them Ingins come a charging up; we kept our eye skinned, and whenever we could draw a bead, one of them tumbled off his pony, you bet! When they'd come back for their dead--we'd already killed three of them--we had a big advantage, wasted no shots, and dropped four of them; one apiece, and you never heard Ingins howl so. It was getting kind o' dark by this time, and the varmints didn't seem anxious to fight any more, but went down to the river and scooted off into the sand hills on the other side. We waited more than half an hour for them, but as they didn't come back, concluded we'd better light out too. We told the Mexicans to yoke up, and as good luck would have it they found all the cattle close by, excepting them what pulled the wagon what the Ingins had cut out, and as it was way down the Trail, we had to abandon it; for it was too dark to hunt it up, as we had no time to fool away. "We put all our outfit into the train; it wasn't loaded, but going empty to the Missouri, to fetch back a sawmill for New Mexico. Then we made a soft bed in the middle wagon out of blankets for the kid, and rolled out 'bout ten o'clock, meaning to put as many miles between us and them Ingins as the oxen could stand. We four hoofed it along for a while, then rid a piece, catching a nap now and then as best we could, for we was monstrous tired. By daylight we'd made fourteen miles, and was obliged to stop to let the cattle graze. We boiled our coffee, fried some meat, and by that time the little boy waked. He'd slept like a top all night and hadn't no supper either; so when I went to the wagon where he was to fetch him out, he just put them baby arms of his'n around my neck, and says, 'Where's mamma?' "I tell you, boys, that nigh played me out. He had no idee, 'cause he was too young to realize what had happened; we know'd his pa was killed, but where his ma was, God only know'd!" Here the old man stopped short in his narrative, made two or three efforts as if to swallow something that would not go down, while his eyes had a far-away look. Presently he picked up a fresh coal from the fire, placed it on his pipe, which had gone out, then puffing vigorously for a few seconds, until his head was again enveloped in smoke, he continued:-- "After I'd washed the little fellow's face and hands, I gave him a tin cup of coffee and some meat. You'd ought to seen him eat; he was hungrier than a coyote. Then while the others was a watering and picketing the mules, I sot down on the grass and took the kid into my lap to have a good look at him; for until now none of us had had a chance. "He was the purtiest child I'd ever seen; great black eyes, and eyelashes that laid right on to his cheeks; his hair, too, was black, and as curly as a young big-horn. I asked him what his name was, and he says, 'Paul.' 'Hain't you got no other name?' says I to him again, and he answered, 'Yes, sir,' for he was awful polite; I noticed that. 'Paul Dale,' says he prompt-like, and them big eyes of his'n looked up into mine, as he says 'What be yourn?' I told him he must call me 'Uncle John,' and then he says again, as he put his arms around my neck, his little lips all a quivering, and looking so sorrowful, 'Uncle John, where's mamma; why don't she come?' "Boys, I don't really know what I did say. A kind o' mist came before my eyes, and for a minute or two I didn't know nothing. I come to in a little while, and seeing Thorpe bringing up the mules from the river, where he'd been watering them, I says to Paul, to get his mind on to something else besides his mother, 'Don't you want to ride one of them mules when we pull out again?' The little fellow jumped off my lap, clapped his hands, forgetting his trouble all at once, child-like, and replied, 'I do, Uncle John, can I?' "After we'd camped there 'bout three hours, the cattle full of grass and all laying down chewing their cud, we concluded to move on and make a few miles before it grow'd too hot, and to get further from the Ingins, which we expected would tackle us again, as soon as they could get back from their camp, where we felt sure they had gone for reinforcements. "While the Mexicans was yoking up, me and Thorpe rigged an easy saddle on one of the mules, out of blankets, for the kid to ride on, and when we was all ready to pull out, I histed him on, and you never see a youngster so tickled. "We had to travel mighty slow; couldn't make more than eighteen miles a day with oxen, and that was in two drives, one early in the morning, and one in the evening when it was cool, a laying by and grazing when it was hot. We Americans walked along the Trail, and mighty slow walking it was; 'bout two and a half miles an hour. I kept close to Paul, for I began to set a good deal of store by him; he seemed to cotton to me more than he did to the rest, wanting to stick near me most of the time as he rid on the mule. I wanted to find out something 'bout his folks, where they'd come from; so that when we got to Independence, perhaps I could turn him over to them as ought to have him; though in my own mind I was ornery enough to wish I might never find them, and he'd be obliged to stay with me. The boy was too young to tell what I wanted to find out; all I could get out of him was they'd been living in Santa Fe since he was a baby, and that his papa was a preacher. I 'spect one of them missionaries 'mong the heathenish Greasers. He said they was going back to his grandma's in the States, but he could not tell where. I couldn't get nothing out of them Mexican bull-whackers neither--what they know'd wasn't half as much as the kid--and I had to give it up. "Well, we kept moving along without having any more trouble for a week; them Ingins never following us as we 'lowed they would. I really enjoyed the trip such as I never had before. Paul he was so 'fectionate and smart, that he 'peared to fill a spot in my heart what had always been hollow until then. When he'd got tired of riding the mule or in one of the wagons, he'd come and walk along the Trail with me, a picking flowers, chasing the prairie-owls and such, until his little legs 'bout played out, when I'd hist him on his mule again. When we'd go into camp, Paul, he'd run and pick up buffalo-chips for the fire, and wanted to help all he could. Then when it came time to go to sleep, the boy would always get under my blankets and cuddle up close to me. He'd be sure to say his prayers first, though; but it seemed so strange to me who hadn't heard a prayer for thirty years. I never tried to stop him, you may be certain of that. He'd ask God to bless his pa and ma, and wind up with 'Bless Uncle John too.' Then I couldn't help hugging him right up tighter; for it carried me back to Old Missouri, to the log-cabin in the woods where I was born, and used to say 'Now I lay me,' and 'Our Father' at my ma's knee, when I was a kid like him. I tell you, boys, there ain't nothing that will take the conceit out of a man here on the plains, like the company of a kid what has been brought up right. "I reckon we'd been travelling about ten days since we left Point o' Rocks, and was on the other side of the Big Bend of the Arkansas, near the mouth of the Walnut, where Fort Zarah is now. We had went into camp at sundown, close to a big spring that's there yet. We drawed up the wagons into a corral on the edge of the river where there wasn't no grass for quite a long stretch; we done this to kind o' fortify ourselves, for we expected to have trouble with the Ingins there, if anywhere, as we warn't but seventeen miles from Pawnee Rock, the worst place on the whole Trail for them; so we picked out that bare spot where they couldn't set fire to the prairie. It was long after dark when we eat our supper; then we smoked our pipes, waiting for the oxen to fill themselves, which had been driven about a mile off where there was good grass. The Mexicans was herding them, and when they'd eat all they could hold, and was commencing to lay down, they was driven into the corral. Then all of us, except Comstock and Curtis, turned in; they was to stand guard until 'bout one o'clock, when me and Thorpe was to change places with them and stay up until morning; for, you see, we was afraid to trust them Mexicans. "It seemed like we hadn't been asleep more than an hour when me and Thorpe was called to take our turn on guard. We got out of our blankets, I putting Paul into one of the wagons, then me and Thorpe lighted our pipes and walked around, keeping our eyes and ears open, watching the heavy fringe of timber on the creek mighty close, I tell you. Just as daylight was coming, we noticed that our mules, what was tied to a wagon in the corral, was getting uneasy, a pawing and snorting, with their long ears cocked up and looking toward the Walnut. Before I could finish saying to Thorpe, 'Them mules smells Ingins,' half a dozen or more of the darned cusses dashed out of the timber, yelling and shaking their robes, which, of course, waked up the whole camp. Me and Thorpe sent a couple of shots after them, that scattered the devils for a minute; but we hadn't hit nary one, because it was too dark yet to draw a bead on them. We was certain there was a good many more of them behind the first that had charged us; so we got all the men on the side of the corral next to the Trail. The Ingins we know'd couldn't get behind us, on account of the river, and we was bound to make them fight where we wanted them to, if they meant to fight at all. "In less than a minute, quicker than I can tell you, sure enough, out they came again, only there was 'bout eighty of them this time. They made a dash at once, and their arrows fell like a shower of hail on the ground and against the wagon-sheets as the cusses swept by on their ponies. There wasn't anybody hurt, and our turn soon came. Just as they circled back, we poured it into them, killing six and wounding two. You see them Mexican guns had did some work that we didn't expect, and then we Americans felt better. Well, boys, them varmints made four charges like that on to us before we could get shet of them; but we killed as many as sixteen or eighteen, and they got mighty sick of it and quit; they had only knocked over one Mexican, and put an arrow into Thorpe's arm. "I was amused at little Paul all the time the scrimmage was going on. He stood up in the wagon where I'd put him, a looking out of the hole behind where the sheet was drawed together, and every time an Ingin was tumbled off his pony, he would clap his hands and yell, 'There goes another one, Uncle John!' "After their last charge, they rode off out of range, where they stood in little bunches talking to each other, holding some sort of a pow-wow. It riled us to see the darned cusses keep so far away from our rifles, because we wanted to lay a few more of them out, but was obliged to keep still and watch out for some new deviltry. We waited there until it was plumb night, not daring to move out yet; but we managed to boil our coffee and fry slap-jacks and meat. "The oxen kept up a bellowing and pawing around the corral, for they was desperate hungry and thirsty, hadn't had nothing since the night before; yet we couldn't help them any, as we didn't know whether we was shet of the Ingins or not. We staid, patient-like, for two or three hours more after dark to see what the Ingins was going to do, as while we sot round our little fire of buffalo-chips, smoking our pipes, we could still hear the red devils a howling and chanting, while they picked up their dead laying along the river-bottom. "As soon as morning broke--we'd ketched a nap now and then during the night--we got ready for another charge of the Ingins, their favourite time being just 'bout daylight; but there warn't hide or hair of an Ingin in sight. They'd sneaked off in the darkness long before the first streak of dawn; had enough of fighting, I expect. As soon as we discovered they'd all cleared out, we told the drivers to hitch up, and while they was yoking and watering, me 'n' Curtis and Comstock buried the dead Mexican on the bank of the river, as we didn't want to leave his bones to be picked by the coyotes, which was already setting on the sand hills watching and waiting for us to break camp. By the time we'd finished our job, and piled some rocks on his grave, so as the varmints couldn't dig him up, the train was strung out on the Trail, and then we rolled out mighty lively for oxen; for the critters was hungry, and we had to travel three or four miles the other side of the Walnut, where the grass was green, before they could feed. The oxen seen it on the hills and they lit out almost at a trot. It was 'bout sun-up when we got there, when we turned the animals loose, corralled, and had breakfast. "After we'd had our smoke, all we had to do was to put in the time until five o'clock; for we couldn't move before then, as it would be too hot by the time the oxen got filled. Paul and me went down to the creek fishing; there was tremendous cat in the Walnut them days, and by noon we'd ketched five big beauties, which we took to camp and cooked for dinner. After I'd had my smoke, Paul and me went back to the creek, where we stretched ourselves under a good-sized box-elder tree--there wasn't no shade nowhere else--and took a sleep, while Comstock and Curtis went jack-rabbit hunting across the river, as we was getting scarce of meat. "Thorpe, who was hit in the arm with an arrow, couldn't do much but nuss his wound; so him and the Mexicans stood guard, a looking out for Ingins, as we didn't know but what the cusses might come back and make another raid on us, though we really didn't expect they would have the gall to bother us any more--least not the same outfit what had fought us the day before. That evening, 'bout six o'clock, we rolled out again and went into camp late, having made twelve miles, and didn't see a sign of Ingins. "In ten days more we got to Independence without having no more trouble of no kind, and was surprised at our luck. At Independence we Americans left the train, sold our furs, got a big price, too--each of us had a shot-bag full of gold and silver, more money than we know'd what to do with. Me, Curtis, and Thorpe concluded we'd buy a new outfit, consisting of another six-mule wagon, and harness, so we'd have a full team, meaning to go back to the mountains with the first big caravan what left. "All the folks in the settlement what seen Paul took a great fancy to him. Some wanted to adopt him, and some said I'd ought to take him to St. Louis and place him in an orphan asylum; but I 'lowed if there was going to be any adopting done, I'd do it myself, 'cause the kid seemed now just as if he was my own; besides the little fellow I know'd loved me and didn't want me to leave him. I had kin-folks in Independence, an old aunt, and me and Paul staid there. She had a young gal with her, and she learned Paul out of books; so he picked up considerable, as we had to wait more than two months before Colonel St. Vrain's caravan was ready to start for New Mexico. "I bought Paul a coal-black pony, and had a suit of fine buckskin made for him out of the pelt of a black-tail deer I'd shot the winter before on Powder River. The seams of his trousers was heavily fringed, and with his white sombrero, a riding around town on his pony, he looked like one of them Spanish Dons what the papers nowadays has pictures of; only he was smarter-looking than any Don I ever see in my life. "It was 'bout the last of August when we pulled out from Independence. Comstock staid with us until we got ready to go, and then lit out for St. Louis, and I hain't never seen him since. The caravan had seventy-five six-mule teams in it, without counting ours, loaded with dry-goods and groceries for Mora, New Mexico, where Colonel St. Vrain, the owner, lived and had a big store. We had no trouble with the Ingins going back across the plains; we seen lots, to be sure, hanging on our trail, but they never attacked us; we was too strong for them. "'Bout the last of September we reached Bent's Old Fort, on the Arkansas, where the Santa Fe Trail crosses the river into New Mexico, and we camped there the night we got to it. "I know'd they had cows up to the fort; so just before we was ready for supper, I took Paul and started to see if we couldn't get some milk for our coffee. It wasn't far, and we was camped a few hundred yards from the gate, just outside the wall. Well, we went into the kitchen, Paul right alongside of me, and there I seen a white woman leaning over the adobe hearth a cooking--they had always only been squaws before. She naturally looked up to find out who was coming in, and when she seen the kid, all at once she give a scream, dropped the dish-cloth she had in her hand, made a break for Paul, throw'd her arms around him, nigh upsetting me, and says, while she was a sobbing and taking on dreadful,-- "'My boy! My boy! Then I hain't prayed and begged the good Lord all these days and nights for nothing!' Then she kind o' choked again, while Paul, he says, as he hung on to her,-- "'O mamma! O mamma! I know'd you'd come back! I know'd you'd come back!' "Well, there, boys, I just walked out of that kitchen a heap faster than I'd come into it, and shut the door. When I got outside, for a few minutes I couldn't see nothing, I was worked up so. As soon as I come to, I went through the gate down to camp as quick as my legs would carry me, to tell Thorpe and Curtis that Paul had found his ma. They wanted to know all about it, but I couldn't tell them nothing, I was so dumfounded at the way things had turned out. We talked among ourselves a moment, then reckoned it was the best to go up to the fort together, and ask the woman how on earth she'd got shet of the Ingins what had took her off, and how it come she was cooking there. We started out and when we got into the kitchen, there was Paul and Mrs. Dale, and you never see no people so happy. They was just as wild as a stampeded steer; she seemed to have growed ten years younger than when I first went up there, and as for Paul, he was in heaven for certain. "First we had to tell her how we'd got the kid, and how we'd learned to love him. All the time we was telling of it, and our scrimmages with the Ingins, she was a crying and hugging Paul as if her heart was broke. After we'd told all we know'd, we asked her to tell us her story, which she did, and it showed she was a woman of grit and education. "She said the Ingins what had captured her took her up to their camp on the Saw Log, a little creek north of Fort Dodge--you all know where it is--and there she staid that night. Early in the morning they all started for the north. She watched their ponies mighty close as they rid along that day, so as to find out which was the fastest; for she had made up her mind to make her escape the first chance she got. She looked at the sun once in a while, to learn what course they was taking; so that she could go back when she got ready, strike the Sante Fe Trail, and get to some ranch, as she had seen several while passing through the foot-hills of the Raton Range when she was with the Mexican train. "It was on the night of the fourth day after they had left Saw Log, and had rid a long distance--was more than a hundred miles on their journey--when she determined to try and light out. The whole camp was fast asleep, for the Ingins was monstrous tired. She crawled out of the lodge where she'd been put with some old squaws, and going to where the ponies had been picketed, she took a little iron-gray she'd had her eye on, jumped on his back, with only the lariat for a bridle and without any saddle, not even a blanket, took her bearings from the north star, and cautiously moved out. She started on a walk, until she'd got 'bout four miles from camp, and then struck a lope, keeping it up all night. By next morning she'd made some forty miles, and then for the first time since she'd left her lodge, pulled up and looked back, to see if any of the Ingins was following her. When she seen there wasn't a living thing in sight, she got off her pony, watered him out of a small branch, took a drink herself, but not daring to rest yet, mounted her animal again and rid on as fast as she could without wearing him out too quickly. "Hour after hour she rid on, the pony appearing to have miraculous endurance, until sundown. By that time she'd crossed the Saline, the Smoky Hill, and got to the top of the divide between that river and the Arkansas, or not more than forty miles from the Santa Fe Trail. Then her wonderful animal seemed to weaken; she couldn't even make him trot, and she was so nearly played out herself, she could hardly set steady. What to do, she didn't know. The pony was barely able to move at a slow walk. She was afraid he would drop dead under her, and she was compelled to dismount, and in almost a minute, as soon as she laid down on the prairie, was fast asleep. "She had no idee how long she had slept when she woke up. The sun was only 'bout two hours high. Then she know'd she had been unconscious since sundown of the day before, or nigh twenty-four hours. Rubbing her eyes, for she was kind o' bewildered, and looking around, there she saw her pony as fresh, seemingly, as when she'd started. He'd had plenty to eat, for the grass was good, but she'd had nothing. She pulled a little piece of dried buffalo-meat out of her bosom, which she'd brought along, all she could find at the lodge, and now nibbled at that, for she was mighty hungry. She was terribly sore and stiff too, but she mounted at once and pushed on, loping and walking him by spells. Just at daylight she could make out the Arkansas right in front of her in the dim gray of the early morning, not very far off. On the west, the Raton Mountains loomed up like a great pile of blue clouds, the sight of which cheered her; for she know'd she would soon reach the Trail. "It wasn't quite noon when she struck the Santa Fe Trail. When she got there, looking to the east, she saw in the distance, not more than three miles away, a large caravan coming, and then, almost wild with delight, she dismounted, sot down on the grass, and waited for it to arrive. In less than an hour, the train come up to where she was, and as good luck would have it, it happened to be an American outfit, going to Taos with merchandise. As soon as the master of the caravan seen her setting on the prairie, he rid up ahead of the wagons, and she told him her story. He was a kind-hearted man; had the train stop right there on the bank of the river, though he wasn't half through his day's drive, so as to make her comfortable as possible, and give her something to eat; for she was 'bout played out. He bought the Ingin pony, giving her thirty dollars for it, and after she had rested for some time, the caravan moved out. She rid in one of the wagons, on a bed of blankets, and the next evening arrived at Bent's Old Fort. There she found women-folks, who cared for her and nussed her; for she was dreadfully sore and tired after her long ride. Then she was hired to cook, meaning to work until she'd earned enough to take her back to Pennsylvany, to her mother's, where she had started for when the Ingins attackted the train. "That night, after listening to her mirac'lous escape, we made up a 'pot' for her, collecting 'bout eight hundred dollars. The master of Colonel St. Vrain's caravan, what had come out with us, told her he was going back again to the river in a couple of weeks, and he'd take her and Paul in without costing her a cent; besides, she'd be safer than with any other outfit, as his train was a big one, and he had all American teamsters. "Next morning the caravan went on to Mora, and after we'd bid good-by to Mrs. Dale and Paul, before which I give the boy two hundred dollars for himself, me, Thorpe, and Curtis pulled out with our team north for Frenchman's Creek, and I never felt so miserable before nor since as I did parting with the kid that morning. I hain't never seen him since; but he must be nigh forty now. Mebby he went into the war and was killed; mebby he got to be a general, but I hain't forgot him." Uncle John knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and without saying another word went into the tent. In a few moments the camp was as quiet as a country village on Sunday, excepting the occasional howling of a hungry wolf down in the timbered recesses of the Washita, or the crackling and sputtering of the signal fires on the hilltops. In a few days afterward, we were camping on Hackberry Creek, in the Indian Territory. We had been living on wild turkey, as before for some time, and still longed for a change. At last one of my hunters succeeded in bagging a dozen or more quails. Late that evening, when my cook brought the delicious little birds, beautifully spitted and broiled on peeled willow twigs, into my tent, I passed one to Uncle John. Much to the surprise of every one, he refused. He said, "Boys, I don't eat no quail!" We looked at him in astonishment; for he was somewhat of a gourmand, and prided himself upon the "faculty," as he termed it, of being able to eat anything, from a piece of jerked buffalo-hide to the juiciest young antelope steak. I remonstrated with the venerable guide; said to him, "You are making a terrible mistake, Uncle John. Tomorrow I expect to leave here, and as we are going directly away from the buffalo country, we don't know when we shall strike fresh meat again. You'd better try one," and I again proffered one of the birds. "Boys," said he again, "I don't tech quail; I hain't eat one for more than twenty years. One of the little cusses saved my life once, and I swore right thar and then that I would starve first; and I have kept my oath, though I've seen the time mighty often sence I could a killed 'em with my quirt, when all I had to chaw on for four days was the soles of a greasy pair of old moccasins. "Well, boys, it's a good many years ago--in June, if I don't disremember, 1847. We was a coming in from way up in Cache le Poudre and from Yellowstone Lake, whar we'd been a trapping for two seasons. We was a working our way slowly back to Independence, Missouri, where we was a going to get a new outfit. Let's see, there was me, and a man by the name of Boyd, and Lew Thorp--Lew was a working for Colonel Boone at the time--and two more men, whose names I disremember now, and a nigger wench we had for a cook. We had mighty good luck, and had a big pile of skins; and the Indians never troubled us till we got down on Pawnee Bottom, this side of Pawnee Rock. We all of us had mighty good ponies, but Thorp had a team and wagon, which he was driving for Colonel Boone. "We had went into camp on Pawnee Bottom airly in the afternoon, and I told the boys to look out for Ingins--for I knowed ef we was to have any trouble with them it would be somewhere in that vicinity. But we didn't see a darned redskin that night, nor the sign of one. "The wolves howled considerable, and come pretty close to the fire for the bacon rinds we'd throwed away after supper. "You see the buffalo was scurse right thar then--it was the wrong time o' year. They generally don't get down on to the Arkansas till about September, and when they're scurse the wolves and coyotes are mighty sassy, and will steal a piece of bacon rind right out of the pan, if you don't watch 'em. So we picketed our ponies a little closer before we turned in, and we all went to sleep except one, who sort o' kept watch on the stock. "I was out o' my blankets mighty airly next morning, for I was kind o' suspicious. I could always tell when Ingins was prowling around, and I had a sort of present'ment something was going to happen--I didn't like the way the coyotes kept yelling--so I rested kind o' oneasy like, and was out among the ponies by the first streak o' daylight. "About the time I could see things, I discovered three or four buffalo grazing off on the creek bottom, about a half-mile away, and I started for my rifle, thinking I would examine her. "Pretty soon I seed Thorp and Boyd crawl out o' their blankets, too, and I called their attention to the buffalo, which was still feeding undisturbed. "We'd been kind o' scurse of fresh meat for a couple of weeks--ever since we left the Platte--except a jack-rabbit or cottontail, and I knowed the boys would be wanting to get a quarter or two of a good fat cow, if we could find one in the herd, so that was the reason I pointed 'em out to 'em. "The dew, you see, was mighty heavy, and the grass in the bottom was as wet as if it had been raining for a month, and I didn't care to go down whar the buffalo was just then--I knowed we had plenty of time, and as soon as the sun was up it would dry right off. So I got on to one of the ponies and led the others down to the spring near camp to water them while the wench was a getting breakfast, and some o' the rest o' the outfit was a fixing the saddles and greasing the wagon. "Just as I was coming back--it had growed quite light then--I seed Boyd and Thorp start out from camp with their rifles and make for the buffalo; so I picketed the ponies, gets my rifle, and starts off too. "By the time I'd reached the edge of the bottom, Thorp and Boyd was a crawling up on to a young bull way off to the right, and I lit out for a fat cow I seen bunched up with the rest of the herd on the left. "The grass was mighty tall on some parts of the Arkansas bottom in them days, and I got within easy shooting range without the herd seeing me. "The buffalo was now between me and Thorp and Boyd, and they was furtherest from camp. I could see them over the top of the grass kind o' edging up to the bull, and I kept a crawling on my hands and knees toward the cow, and when I got about a hundred and fifty yards of her, I pulled up my rifle and drawed a bead. "Just as I was running my eyes along the bar'l, a darned little quail flew right out from under my feet and lit exactly on my front sight and of course cut off my aim--we didn't shoot reckless in those days; every shot had to tell, or a man was the laughing-stock for a month if he missed his game. "I shook the little critter off and brought up my rifle again when, durn my skin, if the bird didn't light right on to the same place; at the same time my eyes grow'd kind o' hazy-like and in a minute I didn't know nothing. "When I come to, the quail was gone, I heerd a couple of rifle shots, and right in front of where the bull had stood and close to Thorp and Boyd, half a dozen Ingins jumped up out o' the tall grass and, firing into the two men, killed Thorp instantly and wounded Boyd. "He and me got to camp--keeping off the Ingins, who knowed I was loaded--when we, with the rest of the outfit, drove the red devils away. "They was Apaches, and the fellow that shot Thorp was a half-breed nigger and Apache. He scalped Thorp and carred off the whole upper part of his skull with it. He got Thorp's rifle and bullet-pouch too, and his knife. "We buried Thorp in the bottom there, and some of the party cut their names on the stones that they covered his body up with, to keep the coyotes from eating up his bones. "Boyd got on to the river with us all right, and I never heerd of him after we separated at Booneville. We pulled out soon after the Indians left, but we didn't get no buffalo-meat. "You see, boys, if I'd a fired into that cow, the devils would a had me before I could a got a patch on my ball--didn't have no breech-loaders in them days, and it took as much judgment to know how to load a rifle properly as it did to shoot it. "Them Ingins knowed all that--they knowed I hadn't fired, so they kept a respectable distance. I would a fired, but the quail saved my life by interfering with my sight--and that's the reason I don't eat no quail. I hain't superstitious, but I don't believe they was meant to be eat." Uncle John stuck to his text, I believe, until he died, and you could never disabuse his mind of the idea that the quail lighting on his rifle was not a special interposition of Providence. Only four years after he told his story, in 1872, one of the newly established settlers, living a few miles west of Larned on Pawnee Bottom, having observed in one of his fields a singular depression, resembling an old grave, determined to dig down and see if there was any special cause for the strange indentation on his land. A couple of feet below the surface he discovered several flat pieces of stone, on one of which the words "Washington" and "J. Hildreth" were rudely cut, also a line separating them, and underneath: "December tenth" and "J. M., 1850." On another was carved the name "J. H. Shell," with other characters that could not be deciphered. On a third stone were the initials "H. R., 1847"; underneath which was plainly cut "J. R. Boyd," and still beneath "J. R. Pring." At the very bottom of the excavation were found the lower portion of the skull, one or two ribs, and one of the bones of the leg of a human being. The piece of skull was found near the centre of the grave, for such it certainly was. At the time of the discovery I was in Larned, and I immediately consulted my book of notes and memoranda taken hurriedly at intervals on the plains and in the mountains, during more than half my lifetime, to see if I could find anything that would solve the mystery attached to the quiet prairie-grave and its contents, and I then recalled Uncle John Smith's story of the quail as related to me at my camp. I also met Colonel A. G. Boone that winter in Washington; he remembered the circumstances well. Thorp was working for him, as Smith had said, and was killed by an Apache, who, in scalping him, tore the half of his head away, and it was thus found mutilated, so many years afterward. Uncle John was in one of his garrulous moods that night, and as we were not by any means tired of hearing the veteran trapper talk, without much urging he told us the following tale:-- "Well, boys, thirty years ago, beaver, mink, and otter was found in abundacious quantities on all the streams in the Rocky Mountains. The trade in them furs was a paying business, for the little army of us fellows called trappers. They ain't any of 'em left now, no mor'n the animals we used to hunt. We had to move about from place to place, just as if we was so many Ingins. Sometimes we'd construct little cabins in the timber, or a dugout where the game was plenty, where we'd stay maybe for a month or two, and once in a while--though not often--a whole year. "The Ingins was our mortal enemies; they'd get a scalp from our fellows occasionally, but for every one they had of ours we had a dozen of theirs. "In the summer of 1846, there was a little half dugout, half cabin, opposite the mouth of Frenchman's Creek, put up by Bill Thorpe, Al Boyd, and Rube Stevens. Bill and Al was men grown, and know'd more 'bout the prairies and timber than the Ingins themselves. They'd hired out to the Northwest Fur Company when they was mere kids, and kept on trapping ever since. Rube--'Little Rube' as all the old men called him--was 'bout nineteen, and plumb dumb; he could hear well enough though, for he wasn't born that way. When he was seventeen his father moved from his farm in Pennsylvany, to take up a claim in Oregon, and the whole family was compelled to cross the plains to get there; for there wasn't no other way. While they was camped in the Bitter-Root valley one evening, just 'bout sundown, a party of Blackfeet surprised the outfit, and massacred all of them but Rube. They carried him off, kept him as a slave, and, to make sure of him, cut out his tongue at the roots. But some of the women who wasn't quite so devilish as their husbands, and who took pity on him, went to work and cured him of his awful wound. He was used mighty mean by the bucks of the tribe, and made up his mind to get away from them or kill himself; for he could not live under their harsh treatment. After he'd been with them for mor'n a year, the tribe had a terrible battle with the Sioux, and in the scrimmage Rube stole a pony and lit out. He rode on night and day until he came across the cabin of the two trappers I have told you 'bout, and they, of course, took the poor boy in and cared for him. "Rube was a splendid shot with the rifle, and he swore to himself that he would never leave the prairies and do nothing for the rest of his life but kill Ingins, who had made him a homeless orphan, and so mutilated him. "After Rube had been with Boyd and Thorpe a year, they was all one day in the winter examining their traps which was scattered 'long the stream for miles. After re-baiting them, they concluded to hunt for meat, which was getting scarce at the cabin; they let Rube go down to the creek where it widened out lake-like, to fish through a hole in the ice, and Al and Bill took their rifles and hunted in the timber for deer. They all got separated of course, Rube being furtherest away, while Al and Bill did not wander so far from each other that they could not be heard if one wanted his companion. "Al shot a fat black-tail deer, and just as he was going to stoop down to cut its throat, Bill yelled out to him:-- "'Drop everything Al, for God's sake, and let's make for the dugout; they're coming, a whole band of Sioux!' "'If we can get to the cabin,' replied Al, 'we can keep off the whole nation. I wonder where Rube is? I hope he'll get here and save his scalp.' "At this instant, poor Rube dashed up to them, an Ingin close upon his tracks; he had unfortunately forgotten to take his rifle with him when he went to the creek, and now he was at the mercy of the savage; at least both he and his pursuer so thought. But before the Ingin had fairly uttered his yell of exultation, Al who with Bill had held his rifle in readiness for an emergency, lifted the red devil off his feet, and he fell dead without ever knowing what had struck him. "Rube, thus delivered from a sudden death, ran at the top of his speed with his two friends for the cabin, for, if they could reach it, they did not fear a hundred paint-bedaubed savages. "Luckily they arrived in time. Where they lived was part dugout and part cabin. It was about ten feet high, and right back of it was a big ledge of rock, which made it impossible for any one to get into it from that side. The place had no door; they did not dare to put one there when it was built, for they were likely to be surprised at any moment by a prowling band, so the only entrance was a square hole in the roof, through which one at a time had to crawl to enter. "The boys got inside all right just as the Ingins came a yelling up. Bill looked out of a hole in the wall and counted thirty of the devils, and said at once: 'Off with your coats; don't let them have anything to catch hold of but our naked bodies if they get in, and we can handle ourselves better.' "'Thirty to three,' said Al. 'Whew! this ain't going to be any boy's play; we've got to fight for all there is in it, and the chances are mightily agin us.' "Rube he took an axe, and stood right under the hole in the roof, so that if any of the devils got in he could brain them. In a minute five rifles cracked; for the Ingins was pretty well armed for them times, and their bullets rattled agin the logs like hail agin a tent. Some of 'em was on top the roof by this time, and soon the leader of the party, a big painted devil, thrust his ugly face into the hole; but he had hardly got a good look before Bill dropped him by a well-directed shot and he tumbled in on the floor. "'You darned fool,' said Bill, as he saw the effect of his shot; 'did you think we was asleep?' "There was one opening that served for air, and a savage, seeing the boys had forgotten to barricade it, tried to push himself through, an' not succeeding, tried to back out, but at that instant Bill caught him by the wrist--Bill was a powerful man--and picking up a beaver-trap that laid on the floor, actually beat his brains out with it. "While this circus was going on inside, three more of the Ingins got on the roof and wrenched off a couple of the logs that covered it; but in a minute they came tumbling down and lay dead on the floor. "'That leaves only twenty-five, don't it?' inquired Al, as he mopped his face with his shirt-sleeve. "'Howl, you red devils,' said Bill, as the Ingins commenced their awful yelling when they saw their comrades fall into the room. 'Don't you know, you blame fools, you've fell in with experienced hands at the shooting business?' "Spat! Something hit Al, and he was the first wounded, but it was only a scratch, and he kept right on attending to business. "'By gosh! look at Rube, will you?' said Al. The dumb boy had in his grasp the very chief of the band, who had just then discovered the hole in the roof made by the three Ingins who had passed in their checks for their impudence, and was trying his best to push himself down. Rube had made a strike at him with an axe, but the edge was turned aside, and the savage was getting the better of the boy; he had grappled Rube by the hair and one arm, and they was flying 'round like a wild cat and a hound. Bill tried three times to sink his knife into the old chief, but there was such a cavortin' in the wrastle between him and the boy, he was afraid to try any more, for fear it might hit Rube instead. Suddenly the Ingin fell to the floor as dead as a trapped beaver what's been drowned; Rube had struck his buckhorn-handled hunting-knife right into the heart of the brute. "'Set him agin the hole in the side of the building,' said Bill; 'he ain't fit for nothing else than to stop a gap'; so Rube set him agin the hole, and pinned him there with half a dozen knives what was lying round loose. "Just as they had fastened the dead body of the old chief to the side of the cabin, a perfect shower of bullets came rattling round like a hailstorm. 'All right, let's have your waste lead,' said Bill. "'A few more of these dead Ingins and we can make a regular fort of this old cabin; we want two for that chunk,' said Al, as he pointed with his rifle to a large gap on the west side of the wall; but before he had fairly got the words out of his mouth, two of the attacking party jumped down into the room. Al, being a regular giant, as soon as they landed, surprised them by seizing one with each hand by the throat, and he actually held them at arm's-length till he had squeezed the very life out of them, and they both fell corpses. "While Al was performing his two-Ingin act, a great light burst into the cabin, and by the time he had choked his enemies to death, he saw, while the Ingins outside gave a terrible yell of exultation, that they had fired the place. "'Damn 'em,' shouted Bill, as he pitched the corpse of the chief from the gap where Rube had set him. 'Fellows, we've got to get out of here right quick; follow me, boys!' "Holding their rifles in hand, and clutching a hunting-knife also, they stepped out into the brush surrounding the place, and started on a run for the heavy timber on the bank of the creek. "They had reckoned onluckily; a wild war-whoop greeted the flying men as they reached the edge of the forest, and without being able to use their arms, they were taken prisoners. Bill and Al, fastened with their backs against each other, and Little Rube by himself, were bound to separate trees, but not so far apart that they could not speak to each other, and some of the Ingins began to gather sticks and pile them around the trees. "'What are they going to do with us?' anxiously inquired Bill of Al. "'Roast us, you bet,' replied the other. 'They'll find me tough enough, anyhow.' "'It must be a painful death,' soliloquized Bill. "'Well, it isn't the most pleasant one, you can gamble on that,' said Al, turning his looks toward Bill; 'but see what the devils are doing to poor Rube.' "Bill cast his eyes in the direction of the dumb boy, who was fastened to a small pine, about a hundred feet distant. Standing directly in front of it was a gigantic Ingin, flourishing his scalping-knife within an inch of Rube's head, trying to make the boy flinch. But the young fellow merely scowled at him in a rage, his muscles never quivering for an instant. "While the men were trying to console each other, two of the savages, who had gone away for a short time, returned, bearing the carcass of the deer that Al had killed in the morning, and commenced to cut it up. They had made several small fires, and roasting the meat before them, began to gorge themselves, Indian fashion, with the savoury morsels. The men were awfully hungry, too, but not a mouthful did they get of their own game. "The Ingins were more'n an hour feasting, while their prisoners kept a looking for some help to get 'em out of the scrape they was in. "'Bout a mile down the creek, me and six other trappers had a camp, and that morning, being scarce of meat, we all went a hunting. We had killed two or three elk and was 'bout going back to camp with our game, when we heard firing, and supposed it was a party of hunters, like ourselves, so we did not pay any attention to it at first; but when it kept up so long, and there was such a constant volley, I told our boys it might be a scrimmage with a party of red devils, and we concluded to go and see. "We left our elk where they were, and started in the direction of the shooting, taking mighty good care not to be surprised ourselves. We crept carefully on, and a little before sundown seen a camp-fire burning in the timber quite a smart piece ahead of us. We stopped then, and Ike Pettet and myself crept on cautiously on our hands and knees through the brush to learn what the fire meant. In a little while we seen it was an Ingin camp, and we counted twenty-two warriors seated 'round their fires a eating as unconcernedly as if we warn't nowhere near 'em. We didn't feel like tackling so many, so just as we was 'bout to crawl away and leave 'em in ondisturbed possession of their camp, we heard some parties talking in English. Then we pricked up our ears and listened mighty interested I tell you. Looking 'round, we seen the men tied to the trees and the wood piled against 'em, and then we knowed what was up. We had to be mighty wary, for if we snapped a twig even, it was all day with us and the prisoners too; so we dragged ourselves back, and after getting out of sound of the Ingins, we just got up and lit out mighty lively for the place we'd left our companions. We met them coming slowly on 'bout two miles from the Ingin camp, and telling 'em what was up we started to help the trappers what the devils was agoing to burn. We wasn't half so long in getting at the camp as Ike and me was in going, and we soon come within good range for our rifles. "The Ingins was still unsuspicious, and we spread ourselves in a sort of half circle so as to kind o' surround them, and at a signal I give, seven rifles cracked at once, and as many of the Injins was dropped right in their tracks; a second volley, for the red devils had not got their senses yet, tumbled seven more corpses upon the pile, and then we white men jumped in with our knives and clubbed rifles, and there was a lively scrimmage for a few minutes. The few Ingins what wasn't killed fought like devils, but as we was getting the best of 'em every second they turned tail and ran. "We'd heard the firing of the fight at the cabin just in time; and as we cut the rawhide strings that bound the fellows to the trees, Ike, who was a right fine shot and had killed three at one time, said: 'I always like to get two or three of the red devils in a line before I pull the trigger; it saves lead.' "Then we all went back to our camp and made a night of it, feasting on the elk we had killed, and talking over the wonderful escape of the boys and Little Rube." CHAPTER XVI. KIT CARSON. Of the famous men whose lives are so interwoven with the history of the Old Santa Fe Trail that the story of the great highway is largely made up of their individual exploits and acts of bravery, it has been my fortune to have known nearly all intimately, during more than a third of a century passed on the great plains and in the Rocky Mountains. First of all, Christopher, or Kit, Carson, as he is familiarly known to the world, stands at the head and front of celebrated frontiersmen, trappers, scouts, guides, and Indian fighters. I knew him well through a series of years, to the date of his death in 1868, but I shall confine myself to the events of his remarkable career along the line of the Trail and its immediate environs. In 1826 a party of Santa Fe traders passing near his father's home in Howard County, Missouri, young Kit, who was then but seventeen years old, joined the caravan as hunter. He was already an expert with the rifle, and thus commenced his life of adventure on the great plains and in the Rocky Mountains. His first exhibition of that nerve and coolness in the presence of danger which marked his whole life was in this initial trip across the plains. When the caravan had arrived at the Arkansas River, somewhere in the vicinity of the great bend of that stream, one of the teamsters, while carelessly pulling his rifle toward him by the barrel, discharged the weapon and received the ball in his arm, completely crushing the bones. The blood from the wound flowed so copiously that he nearly lost his life before it could be arrested. He was fixed up, however, and the caravan proceeded on its journey, the man thinking no more seriously of his injured arm. In a few days, however, the wound began to indicate that gangrene had set in, and it was determined that only by an amputation was it possible for him to live beyond a few days. Every one of the older men of the caravan positively declined to attempt the operation, as there were no instruments of any kind. At this juncture Kit, realizing the extreme necessity of prompt action, stepped forward and offered to do the job. He told the unfortunate sufferer that he had had no experience in such matters, but that as no one else would do it, he would take the chances. All the tools that Kit could find were a razor, a saw, and the king-bolt of a wagon. He cut the flesh with the razor, sawed through the bone as if it had been a piece of joist, and seared the horrible wound with the king-bolt, which he had heated to a white glow, for the purpose of stopping the flow of blood that naturally followed such rude surgery. The operation was a complete success; the man lived many years afterward, and was with his surgeon in many an expedition. In the early days of the commerce of the prairies, Carson was the hunter at Bent's Fort for a period of eight years. There were about forty men employed at the place; and when the game was found in abundance in the mountains, it was a relatively easy task and just suited to his love of sport, but when it grew scarce, as it often did, his prowess was tasked to its utmost to keep the forty mouths from crying for food. He became such an unerring shot with the rifle during that time that he was called the "Nestor of the Rocky Mountains." His favourite game was the buffalo, although he killed countless numbers of other animals. All of the plains tribes of Indians, as did the powerful Utes of the mountains, knew him well; for he had often visited in their camps, sat in their lodges, smoked the pipe, and played with their little boys. The latter fact may not appear of much consequence, but there are no people on earth who have a greater love for their boy children than the savages of America. The Indians all feared him, too, at the same time that they respected his excellent judgment, and frequently were governed by his wise counsel. The following story will show his power in this direction. The Sioux, one of the most numerous and warlike tribes at that time, had encroached upon the hunting-grounds of the southern Indians, and the latter had many a skirmish with them on the banks of the Arkansas along the line of the Trail. Carson, who was in the upper valley of the river, was sent for to come down and help them drive the obnoxious Sioux back to their own stamping-ground. He left Fort Bent, and went with the party of Comanche messengers to the main camp of that tribe and the Arapahoes, with whom they had united. Upon his arrival, he was told that the Sioux had a thousand warriors and many rifles, and the Comanches and Arapahoes were afraid of them on account of the great disparity of numbers, but that if he would go with them on the war-path, they felt assured they could overcome their enemies. Carson, however, instead of encouraging the Comanches and Arapahoes to fight, induced them to negotiate with the Sioux. He was sent as mediator, and so successfully accomplished his mission that the intruding tribe consented to leave the hunting-grounds of the Comanches as soon as the buffalo season was over; which they did, and there was no more trouble. After many adventures in California with Fremont, Carson, with his inseparable friend, L. B. Maxwell, embarked in the wool-raising industry. Shortly after they had established themselves on their ranch, the Apaches made one of their frequent murdering and plundering raids through Northern New Mexico, killing defenceless women and children, running off stock of all kinds, and laying waste every little ranch they came across in their wild foray. Not very far from the city of Santa Fe, they ruthlessly butchered a Mr. White and his son, though three of their number were slain by the brave gentlemen before they were overpowered. Other of the blood-thirsty savages carried away the women and children of the desolated home and took them to their mountain retreat in the vicinity of Las Vegas. Mr. White was a highly respected merchant, and news of this outrage spreading rapidly through the settlements, it was determined that the savages should not go without punishment this time, at least. Carson's reputation as an Indian fighter was at its height, so the natives of the country sent for him, and declined to move until he came. For some unexplained reason, after he arrived at Las Vegas, he was not placed in charge of the posse, that position having already been given to a Frenchman. Carson, as was usual with him, never murmured because he was assigned to a subordinate position, but took his place, ready to do his part in whatever capacity. The party set out for the stronghold of the savages, and rode night and day on the trail of the murderers, hoping to surprise them and recapture the women and children; but so much time had been wasted in delays, that Carson feared they would only find the mutilated bodies of the poor captives. In a few days after leaving Las Vegas, the retreat of the savages was discovered in the fastness of the mountains, where they had fortified themselves in such a manner that they could resist ten times the number of their pursuers. Carson, as soon as he saw them, without a second's hesitation, and giving a characteristic yell, dashed in, expecting, of course, that the men would follow him; but they only stood in gaping wonderment at his bravery, not daring to venture after him. He did not discover his dilemma until he had advanced so far alone that escape seemed impossible. But here his coolness, which always served him in the moment of supreme danger, saved his scalp. As the savages turned on him, he threw himself on the off side of his horse, Indian fashion, for he was as expert in a trick of that kind as the savages themselves, and rode back to the little command. He had six arrows in his horse and a bullet through his coat! The Indians in those days were poorly armed, and did not long follow up the pursuit after Carson; for, observing the squad of mounted Mexicans, they retreated to the top of a rocky prominence, from which point they could watch every movement of the whites. Carson was raging at the apathy, not to say cowardice, of the men who had sent for him to join them, but he kept his counsel to himself; for he was anxious to save the captured women and children. He talked to the men very earnestly, however, exhorting them not to flinch in the duty they had come so far to perform, and for which he had come at their call. This had the desired effect; for he induced them to make a charge, which was gallantly performed, and in such a brave manner that the Indians fled, scarcely making an effort to defend themselves. Five of their number were killed at the furious onset of the Mexicans, but unfortunately, as he anticipated, only the murdered corpses of the women and children were the result of the victory. President Polk appointed Carson to a second lieutenancy,[48] and his first official duty was conducting fifty soldiers under his command through the country of the Comanches, who were then at war with the whites. A fight occurred at a place known as Point of Rocks,[49] where on arriving, Carson found a company of volunteers for the Mexican War, and camped near them. About dawn the next morning, all the animals of the volunteers were captured by a band of Indians, while the herders were conducting them to the river-bottom to graze. The herders had no weapons, and luckily, in the confusion attending the bold theft, ran into Carson's camp; and as he, with his men, were ready with their rifles, they recaptured the oxen, but the horses were successfully driven off by their captors. Several of the savages were mortally wounded by Carson's prompt charge, as signs after they had cleared out proved; but the Indian custom of tying the wounded on their ponies precluded the chance of taking any scalps. The wily Comanche, like the Arab of the desert, is generally successful in his sudden assaults, but Carson, who was never surprised, was always equal to his tactics. One of the two soldiers whose turn it had been to stand guard that morning was discovered to have been asleep when the alarm of Indians was given, and Carson at once administered the Indian method of punishment, making the man wear the dress of a squaw for that day. Then going on, he arrived at Santa Fe, where he turned over his little command. While there, he heard that a gang of those desperadoes so frequently the nuisance of a new country had formed a conspiracy to murder and rob two wealthy citizens whom they had volunteered to accompany over the Trail to the States. The caravan was already many miles on its way when Carson was informed of the plot. In less than an hour he had hired sixteen picked men and was on his march to intercept them. He took a short cut across the mountains, taking especial care to keep out of the way of the Indians, who were on the war-path, but as to whose movements he was always posted. In two days he came upon a camp of United States recruits, en route to the military posts in New Mexico, whose commander offered to accompany him with twenty men. Carson accepted the generous proposal, by forced marches soon overtook the caravan of traders, and at once placed one Fox, the leader of the gang, in irons, after which he informed the owners of the caravan of the escape they had made from the wretches whom they were treating so kindly. At first the gentlemen were astounded at the disclosures made to them, but soon admitted that they had noticed many things which convinced them that the plot really existed, and but for the opportune arrival of the brave frontiersman it would shortly have been carried out. The members of the caravan who were perfectly trustworthy were then ordered to corral the rest of the conspirators, thirty-five in number, and they were driven out of camp, with the exception of Fox, the leader, whom Carson conveyed to Taos. He was imprisoned for several months, but as a crime in intent only could be proved against him, and as the adobe walls of the house where he was confined were not secure enough to retain a man who desired to release himself, he was finally liberated, and cleared out. The traders were profuse in their thanks to Carson for his timely interference, but he refused every offer of remuneration. On their return to Santa Fe from St. Louis, however, they presented him with a magnificent pair of pistols, upon whose silver mounting was an inscription commemorating his brave deed and the gratitude of the donors. The following summer was spent in a visit to St. Louis, and early in the fall he returned over the Trail, arriving at the Cheyenne village on the Upper Arkansas without meeting with any incident worthy of note. On reaching that point, he learned that the Indians had received a terrible affront from an officer commanding a detachment of United States troops, who had whipped one of their chiefs; and that consequently the whole tribe was enraged, and burning for revenge upon the whites. Carson was the first white man to approach the place since the insult, and so many years had elapsed since he was the hunter at Bent's Fort, and so grievously had the Indians been offended, that his name no longer guaranteed safety to the party with whom he was travelling, nor even insured respect to himself, in the state of excitement existing in the village. Carson, however, deliberately pushed himself into the presence of a war council which was just then in session to consider the question of attacking the caravan, giving orders to his men to keep close together, and guard against a surprise. The savages, supposing that he could not understand their language, talked without restraint, and unfolded their plans to capture his party and kill them all, particularly the leader. After they had reached this decision, Carson coolly rose and addressed the council in the Cheyenne language, informing the Indians who he was, of his former associations with and kindness to their tribe, and that now he was ready to render them any assistance they might require; but as to their taking his scalp, he claimed the right to say a word. The Indians departed, and Carson went on his way; but there were hundreds of savages in sight on the sand hills, and, though they made no attack, he was well aware that he was in their power, nor had they abandoned the idea of capturing his train. His coolness and deliberation kept his men in spirit, and yet out of the whole fifteen, which was the total number of his force, there were only two or three on whom he could place any reliance in case of an emergency. When the train camped for the night, the wagons were corralled, and the men and mules all brought inside the circle. Grass was cut with sheath-knives and fed to the animals, instead of their being picketed out as usual, and as large a guard as possible detailed. When the camp had settled down to perfect quiet, Carson crawled outside it, taking with him a Mexican boy, and after explaining to him the danger which threatened them all, told him that it was in his power to save the lives of the company. Then he sent him on alone to Rayedo, a journey of nearly three hundred miles, to ask for an escort of United States troops to be sent out to meet the train, impressing upon the brave little Mexican the importance of putting a good many miles between himself and the camp before morning. And so he started him, with a few rations of food, without letting the rest of his party know that such measures were necessary. The boy had been in Carson's service for some time, and was known to him as a faithful and active messenger, and in a wild country like New Mexico, with the outdoor life and habits of its people, such a journey was not an unusual occurrence. Carson now returned to the camp, to watch all night himself, and at daybreak all were on the Trail again. No Indians made their appearance until nearly noon, when five warriors came galloping up toward the train. As soon as they came close enough to hear his voice, Carson ordered them to halt, and going up to them, told how he had sent a messenger to Rayedo the night before to inform the troops that their tribe were annoying him, and that if he or his men were molested, terrible punishment would be inflicted by those who would surely come to his relief. The savages replied that they would look for the moccasin tracks, which they undoubtedly found, and the whole village passed away toward the hills after a little while, evidently seeking a place of safety from an expected attack by the troops. The young Mexican overtook the detachment of soldiers whose officer had caused all the trouble with the Indians, to whom he told his story; but failing to secure any sympathy, he continued his journey to Rayedo, and procured from the garrison of that place immediate assistance. Major Grier, commanding the post, at once despatched a troop of his regiment, which, by forced marches, met Carson twenty-five miles below Bent's Fort, and though it encountered no Indians, the rapid movement had a good effect upon the savages, impressing them with the power and promptness of the government. Early in the spring of 1865, Carson was ordered, with three companies, to put a stop to the depredations of marauding bands of Cheyennes, Kiowas, and Comanches upon the caravans and emigrant outfits travelling the Santa Fe Trail. He left Fort Union with his command and marched over the Dry or Cimarron route to the Arkansas River, for the purpose of establishing a fortified camp at Cedar Bluffs, or Cold Spring, to afford a refuge for the freight trains on that dangerous part of the Trail. The Indians had for some time been harassing not only the caravans of the citizen traders, but also those of the government, which carried supplies to the several military posts in the Territory of New Mexico. An expedition was therefore planned by Carson to punish them, and he soon found an opportunity to strike a blow near the adobe fort on the Canadian River. His force consisted of the First Regiment of New Mexican Volunteer Cavalry and seventy-five friendly Indians, his entire command numbering fourteen commissioned officers and three hundred and ninety-six enlisted men. With these he attacked the Kiowa village, consisting of about one hundred and fifty lodges. The fight was a very severe one, and lasted from half-past eight in the morning until after sundown. The savages, with more than ordinary intrepidity and boldness, made repeated stands against the fierce onslaughts of Carson's cavalrymen, but were at last forced to give way, and were cut down as they stubbornly retreated, suffering a loss of sixty killed and wounded. In this battle only two privates and one noncommissioned officer were killed, and one non-commissioned officer and thirteen privates, four of whom were friendly Indians, wounded. The command destroyed one hundred and fifty lodges, a large amount of dried meats, berries, buffalo-robes, cooking utensils, and also a buggy and spring-wagon, the property of Sierrito,[50] the Kiowa chief. In his official account of the fight, Carson states that he found ammunition in the village, which had been furnished, no doubt, by unscrupulous Mexican traders. He told me that he never was deceived by Indian tactics but once in his life. He said that he was hunting with six others after buffalo, in the summer of 1835; that they had been successful, and came into their little bivouac one night very tired, intending to start for the rendezvous at Bent's Fort the next morning. They had a number of dogs, among them some excellent animals. These barked a good deal, and seemed restless, and the men heard wolves. "I saw," said Kit, "two big wolves sneaking about, one of them quite close to us. Gordon, one of my men, wanted to fire his rifle at it, but I did not let him, for fear he would hit a dog. I admit that I had a sort of an idea that those wolves might be Indians; but when I noticed one of them turn short around, and heard the clashing of his teeth as he rushed at one of the dogs, I felt easy then, and was certain that they were wolves sure enough. But the red devil fooled me, after all, for he had two dried buffalo bones in his hands under the wolfskin, and he rattled them together every time he turned to make a dash at the dogs! Well, by and by we all dozed off, and it wasn't long before I was suddenly aroused by a noise and a big blaze. I rushed out the first thing for our mules, and held them. If the savages had been at all smart, they could have killed us in a trice, but they ran as soon as they fired at us. They killed one of my men, putting five bullets in his body and eight in his buffalo-robe. The Indians were a band of Sioux on the war-trail after a band of Snakes, and found us by sheer accident. They endeavoured to ambush us the next morning, but we got wind of their little game and killed three of them, including the chief." Carson's nature was made up of some very noble attributes. He was brave, but not reckless like Custer; a veritable exponent of Christian altruism, and as true to his friends as the needle to the pole. Under the average stature, and rather delicate-looking in his physical proportions, he was nevertheless a quick, wiry man, with nerves of steel, and possessing an indomitable will. He was full of caution, but showed a coolness in the moment of supreme danger that was good to witness. During a short visit at Fort Lyon, Colorado, where a favourite son of his was living, early in the morning of May 23, 1868, while mounting his horse in front of his quarters (he was still fond of riding), an artery in his neck was suddenly ruptured, from the effects of which, notwithstanding the medical assistance rendered by the fort surgeons, he died in a few moments. His remains, after reposing for some time at Fort Lyon, were taken to Taos, so long his home in New Mexico, where an appropriate monument was erected over them. In the Plaza at Santa Fe, his name also appears cut on a cenotaph raised to commemorate the services of the soldiers of the Territory. As an Indian fighter he was matchless. The identical rifle used by him for more than thirty-five years, and which never failed him, he bequeathed, just before his death, to Montezuma Lodge, A. F. & A. M., Santa Fe, of which he was a member. James Bridger, "Major Bridger," or "Old Jim Bridger," as we was called, another of the famous coterie of pioneer frontiersmen, was born in Washington, District of Columbia, in 1807. When very young, a mere boy in fact, he joined the great trapping expedition under the leadership of James Ashley, and with it travelled to the far West, remote from the extreme limit of border civilization, where he became the compeer and comrade of Carson, and certainly the foremost mountaineer, strictly speaking, the United States has produced. Having left behind him all possibilities of education at such an early age, he was illiterate in his speech and as ignorant of the conventionalities of polite society as an Indian; but he possessed a heart overflowing with the milk of human kindness, was generous in the extreme, and honest and true as daylight. He was especially distinguished for the discovery of a defile through the intricate mazes of the Rocky Mountains, which bears his name, Bridger's Pass. He rendered important services as guide and scout during the early preliminary surveys for a transcontinental railroad, and for a series of years was in the employ of the government, in the old regular army on the great plains and in the mountains, long before the breaking out of the Civil War. To Bridger also belongs the honour of having seen, first of all white men, the Great Salt Lake of Utah, in the winter of 1824-25. After a series of adventures, hairbreadth escapes, and terrible encounters with the Indians, in 1856 he purchased a farm near Westport, Missouri; but soon left it in his hunger for the mountains, to return to it only when worn-out and blind, to be buried there without even the rudest tablet to mark the spot. "I would rather sleep in the southern corner of a little country churchyard, than in the tomb of the Capulets." This quotation came to my mind one Sunday morning two or three years ago, as I mused over Bridger's neglected grave among the low hills beyond the quaint old town of Westport. I thought I knew, as I stood there, that he whose bones were mouldering beneath the blossoming clover at my feet, would have wished for his last couch a more perfect solitude and isolation from the wearisome world's busy sound than even the immortal Burke. The grassy mound, over which there was no stone to record the name of its occupant, covered the remains of the last of his class, a type vanished forever, for the border is a thing of the past; and upon the gentle breeze of that delightful morning, like the droning of bees in a full flowered orchard, was wafted to my ears the hum of Kansas City's civilization, only three or four miles distant, in all of which I was sure there was nothing that would have been congenial to the old frontiersman. At one time early in the '60's, while the engineers of the proposed Union Pacific Railway were temporarily in Denver, then an insignificant mushroom-hamlet, they became somewhat confused as to the most practicable point in the range over which to run their line. After debating the question, they determined, upon a suggestion from some of the old settlers, to send for Jim Bridger, who was then visiting in St. Louis. A pass, via the overland stage, was enclosed in a letter to him, and he was urged to start for Denver at once, though nothing of the business for which his presence was required was told him in the text. In about two weeks the old man arrived, and the next morning, after he had rested, asked why he had been sent for from such a distance. The engineers then began to explain their dilemma. The old mountaineer waited patiently until they had finished, when, with a look of disgust on his withered countenance, he demanded a large piece of paper, remarking at the same time,-- "I could a told you fellers all that in St. Louis, and saved you the expense of bringing me out here." He was handed a sheet of manilla paper, used for drawing the details of bridge plans. The veteran pathfinder spread it on the ground before him, took a dead coal from the ashes of the fire, drew a rough outline map, and pointing to a certain peak just visible on the serrated horizon, said,-- "There's where you fellers can cross with your road, and nowhere else, without more diggin' an' cuttin' than you think of." That crude map is preserved, I have been told, in the archives of the great corporation, and its line crosses the main spurs of the Rocky Mountains, just where Bridger said it could with the least work. The resemblance of old John Smith, another of the coterie, to President Andrew Johnson was absolutely astonishing. When that chief magistrate, in his "swinging around the circle," had arrived at St. Louis, and was riding through the streets of that city in an open barouche, he was pointed out to Bridger, who happened to be there. But the venerable guide and scout, with supreme disgust depicted on his countenance at the idea of any one attempting to deceive him, said to his informant,-- "H---l! Bill, you can't fool me! That's old John Smith." At one time many years ago, during Bridger's first visit to St. Louis, then a relatively small place, a friend accidentally came across him sitting on a dry-goods box in one of the narrow streets, evidently disgusted with his situation. To the inquiry as to what he was doing there all alone, the old man replied,-- "I've been settin' in this infernal canyon ever sence mornin', waitin' for some one to come along an' invite me to take a drink. Hundreds of fellers has passed both ways, but none of 'em has opened his head. I never seen sich a onsociable crowd!" Bridger had a fund of most remarkable stories, which he had drawn upon so often that he really believed them to be true. General Gatlin,[51] who was graduated from West Point in the early '30's, and commanded Fort Gibson in the Cherokee Nation over sixty years ago, told me that he remembered Bridger very well; and had once asked the old guide whether he had ever been in the great canyon of the Colorado River. "Yes, sir," replied the mountaineer, "I have, many a time. There's where the oranges and lemons bear all the time, and the only place I was ever at where the moon's always full!" He told me and also many others, at various times, that in the winter of 1830 it began to snow in the valley of the Great Salt Lake, and continued for seventy days without cessation. The whole country was covered to a depth of seventy feet, and all the vast herds of buffalo were caught in the storm and died, but their carcasses were perfectly preserved. "When spring came, all I had to do," declared he, "was to tumble 'em into Salt Lake, an' I had pickled buffalo enough for myself and the whole Ute Nation for years!" He said that on account of that terrible storm, which annihilated them, there have been no buffalo in that region since. Bridger had been the guide, interpreter, and companion of that distinguished Irish sportsman, Sir George Gore, whose strange tastes led him in 1855 to abandon life in Europe and bury himself for over two years among the savages in the wildest and most unfrequented glens of the Rocky Mountains. The outfit and adventures of this titled Nimrod, conducted as they were on the largest scale, exceeded anything of the kind ever before seen on this continent, and the results of his wanderings will compare favourably with those of Gordon Cumming in Africa. Some idea may be formed of the magnitude of his outfit when it is stated that his retinue consisted of about fifty individuals, including secretaries, steward, cooks, fly-makers, dog-tenders, servants, etc. He was borne over the country with a train of thirty wagons, besides numerous saddle-horses and dogs. During his lengthened hunt he killed the enormous aggregate of forty grizzly bears and twenty-five hundred buffalo, besides numerous antelope and other small game. Bridger said of Sir George that he was a bold, dashing, and successful hunter, and an agreeable gentleman. His habit was to lie in bed until about ten or eleven o'clock in the morning, then he took a bath, ate his breakfast, and set out, generally alone, for the day's hunt, and it was not unusual for him to remain out until ten at night, seldom returning to the tents without augmenting the catalogue of his beasts. His dinner was then served, to which he generally extended an invitation to Bridger, and after the meal was over, and a few glasses of wine had been drunk, he was in the habit of reading from some book, and eliciting from Bridger his comments thereon. His favourite author was Shakespeare, which Bridger "reckin'd was too highfalutin" for him; moreover he remarked, "thet he rather calcerlated that thar big Dutchman, Mr. Full-stuff, was a leetle too fond of lager beer," and thought it would have been better for the old man if he had "stuck to Bourbon whiskey straight." Bridger seemed very much interested in the adventures of Baron Munchausen, but admitted after Sir George had finished reading them, that "he be dog'oned ef he swallered everything that thar Baron Munchausen said," and thought he was "a darned liar," yet he acknowledged that some of his own adventures among the Blackfeet woul be equally marvellous "if writ down in a book." A man whose one act had made him awe-inspiring was Belzy Dodd. Uncle Dick Wooton, in relating the story, says: "I don't know what his first name was, but Belzy was what we called him. His head was as bald as a billiard ball, and he wore a wig. One day while we were all at Bent's Fort, while there were a great number of Indians about, Belzy concluded to have a bit of fun. He walked around, eying the Indians fiercely for some time, and finally, dashing in among them, he gave a series of war-whoops which discounted a Comanche yell, and pulling off his wig, threw it down at the feet of the astonished and terror-stricken red men. "The savages thought the fellow had jerked off his own scalp, and not one of them wanted to stay and see what would happen next. They left the fort, running like so many scared jack-rabbits, and after that none of them could be induced to approach anywhere near Dodd." They called him "The-white-man-who-scalps-himself," and Uncle Dick said that he believed he could have travelled across the plains alone with perfect safety. Jim Baker was another noted mountaineer and hunter of the same era as Carson, Bridger, Wooton, Hobbs, and many others. Next to Kit Carson, Baker was General Fremont's most valued scout. He was born in Illinois, and lived at home until he was eighteen years of age, when he enlisted in the service of the American Fur Company, went immediately to the Rocky Mountains, and remained there until his death. He married a wife according to the Indian custom, from the Snake tribe, living with her relatives many years and cultivating many of their habits, ideas, and superstitions. He firmly believed in the efficacy of the charms and incantations of the medicine men in curing diseases, divining where their enemy was to be found, forecasting the result of war expeditions, and other such ridiculous matters. Unfortunately, too, Baker would sometimes take a little more whiskey than he could conveniently carry, and often made a fool of himself, but he was a generous, noble-hearted fellow, who would risk his life for a friend at any time, or divide his last morsel of food. Like mountaineers generally, Baker was liberal to a fault, and eminently improvident. He made a fortune by his work, but at the annual rendezvous of the traders, at Bent's Fort or the old Pueblo, would throw away the earnings of months in a few days' jollification. He told General Marcy, who was a warm friend of his, that after one season in which he had been unusually successful in accumulating a large amount of valuable furs, from the sale of which he had realized the handsome sum of nine thousand dollars, he resolved to abandon his mountain life, return to the settlements, buy a farm, and live comfortably during the remainder of his days. He accordingly made ready to leave, and was on the eve of starting when a friend invited him to visit a monte-bank which had been organized at the rendezvous. He was easily led away, determined to take a little social amusement with his old comrade, whom he might never see again, and followed him; the result of which was that the whiskey circulated freely, and the next morning found Baker without a cent of money; he had lost everything. His entire plans were thus frustrated, and he returned to the mountains, hunting with the Indians until he died. Jim Baker's opinions of the wild Indians of the great plains and the mountains were very decided: "That they are the most onsartinist varmints in all creation, an' I reckon thar not more'n half human; for you never seed a human, arter you'd fed an' treated him to the best fixin's in your lodge, jis turn round and steal all your horses, or ary other thing he could lay his hands on. No, not adzactly. He would feel kind o' grateful, and ask you to spread a blanket in his lodge ef you ever came his way. But the Injin don't care shucks for you, and is ready to do you a lot of mischief as soon as he quits your feed. No, Cap.," he said to Marcy when relating this, "it's not the right way to make 'em gifts to buy a peace; but ef I war gov'nor of these United States, I'll tell what I'd do. I'd invite 'em all to a big feast, and make 'em think I wanted to have a talk; and as soon as I got 'em together, I'd light in and raise the har of half of 'em, and then t'other half would be mighty glad to make terms that would stick. That's the way I'd make a treaty with the dog'oned red-bellied varmints; and as sure as you're born, Cap., that's the only way." The general, when he first met Baker, inquired of him if he had travelled much over the settlements of the United States before he came to the mountains; to which he said: "Right smart, right smart, Cap." He then asked whether he had visited New York or New Orleans. "No, I hasn't, Cap., but I'll tell you whar I have been. I've been mighty nigh all over four counties in the State of Illinois!" He was very fond of his squaw and children, and usually treated them kindly; only when he was in liquor did he at all maltreat them. Once he came over into New Mexico, where General Marcy was stationed at the time, and determined that for the time being he would cast aside his leggings, moccasins, and other mountain dress, and wear a civilized wardrobe. Accordingly, he fitted himself out with one. When Marcy met him shortly after he had donned the strange clothes, he had undergone such an entire change that the general remarked he should hardly have known him. He did not take kindly to this, and said: "Consarn these store butes, Cap.; they choke my feet like h---l." It was the first time in twenty years that he had worn anything on his feet but moccasins, and they were not ready for the torture inflicted by breaking in a new pair of absurdly fitting boots. He soon threw them away, and resumed the softer foot-gear of the mountains. Baker was a famous bear hunter, and had been at the death of many a grizzly. On one occasion he was setting his traps with a comrade on the head waters of the Arkansas, when they suddenly met two young grizzly bears about the size of full-grown dogs. Baker remarked to his friend that if they could "light in and kill the varmints" with their knives, it would be a big thing to boast of. They both accordingly laid aside their rifles and "lit in," Baker attacking one and his comrade the other. The bears immediately raised themselves on their haunches, and were ready for the encounter. Baker ran around, endeavouring to get in a blow from behind with his long knife; but the young brute he had tackled was too quick for him, and turned as he went around so as always to confront him face to face. He knew if he came within reach of his claws, that although young, he could inflict a formidable wound; moreover, he was in fear that the howls of the cubs would bring the infuriated mother to their rescue, when the hunters' chances of getting away would be slim. These thoughts floated hurriedly through his mind, and made him desirous to end the fight as soon as he could. He made many vicious lunges at the bear, but the animal invariably warded them off with his strong fore legs like a boxer. This kind of tactics, however, cost the lively beast several severe cuts on his shoulders, which made him the more furious. At length he took the offensive, and with his month frothing with rage, bounded toward Baker, who caught and wrestled with him, succeeding in giving him a death-wound under the ribs. While all this was going on, his comrade had been furiously engaged with the other bear, and by this time had become greatly exhausted, with the odds decidedly against him. He entreated Baker to come to his assistance at once, which he did; but much to his astonishment, as soon as he entered the second contest his comrade ran off, leaving him to fight the battle alone. He was, however, again victorious, and soon had the satisfaction of seeing his two antagonists stretched out in front of him, but as he expressed it, "I made my mind up I'd never fight nary nother grizzly without a good shootin'-iron in my paws." He established a little store at the crossing of Green River, and had for some time been doing a fair business in trafficking with the emigrants and trading with the Indians; but shortly a Frenchman came to the same locality and set up a rival establishment, which, of course, divided the limited trade, and naturally reduced the income of Baker's business. This engendered a bitter feeling of hostility, which soon culminated in a cessation of all social intercourse between the two men. About this time General Marcy arrived there on his way to California, and he describes the situation of affairs thus:-- "I found Baker standing in his door, with a revolver loaded and cocked in each hand, very drunk and immensely excited. I dismounted and asked him the cause of all this disturbance. He answered: 'That thar yaller-bellied, toad-eatin' Parly Voo, over thar, an' me, we've been havin' a small chance of a scrimmage to-day. The sneakin' pole-cat, I'll raise his har yet, ef he don't quit these diggins'!' "It seems that they had an altercation in the morning, which ended in a challenge, when they ran to their cabins, seized their revolvers, and from the doors, which were only about a hundred yards from each other, fired. Then they retired to their cabins, took a drink of whiskey, reloaded their revolvers, and again renewed the combat. This strange duel had been going on for several hours when I arrived, but, fortunately for them, the whiskey had such an effect on their nerves that their aim was very unsteady, and none of the shots had as yet taken effect. "I took away Baker's revolvers, telling him how ashamed I was to find a man of his usually good sense making such a fool of himself. He gave in quietly, saying that he knew I was his friend, but did not think I would wish to have him take insults from a cowardly Frenchman. "The following morning at daylight Jim called at my tent to bid me good-by, and seemed very sorry for what had occurred the day before. He stated that this was the first time since his return from New Mexico that he had allowed himself to drink whiskey, and when the whiskey was in him he had 'nary sense.'" Among the many men who have distinguished themselves as mountaineers, traders, and Indian fighters along the line of the Old Trail, was one who eventually became the head chief of one of the most numerous and valorous tribes of North American savages--James P. Beckwourth. Estimates of him vary considerably. Francis Parkman, the historian, who I think never saw him and writes merely from hearsay, says: "He is a ruffian of the worst class; bloody and treacherous, without honor or honesty; such, at least, is the character he bears on the great plains. Yet in his case the standard rules of character fail; for though he will stab a man in his slumber, he will also do the most desperate and daring acts." I never saw Beckwourth, but I have heard of him from those of my mountaineer friends who knew him intimately; I think that he died long before Parkman made his tour to the Rocky Mountains. Colonel Boone, the Bents, Carson, Maxwell, and others ascribed to him no such traits as those given by Parkman, and as to his honesty, it is an unquestioned fact that Beckwourth was the most honest trader among the Indians of all who were then engaged in the business. As Kit Carson and Colonel Boone were the only Indian agents whom I ever knew or heard of that dealt honestly with the various tribes, as they were always ready to acknowledge, and the withdrawal of the former by the government was the cause of a great war, so also Beckwourth was an honest Indian trader. He was a born leader of men, and was known from the Yellowstone to the Rio Grande, from Santa Fe to Independence, and in St. Louis. From the latter town he ran away when a boy with a party of trappers, and himself became one of the most successful of that hardy class. The woman who bore him had played in her childhood beneath the palm trees of Africa; his father was a native of France, and went to the banks of the wild Mississippi of his own free will, but probably also from reasons of political interest to his government. In person Beckwourth was of medium height and great muscular power, quick of apprehension, and with courage of the highest order. Probably no man ever met with more personal adventures involving danger to life, even among the mountaineers and trappers who early in the century faced the perils of the remote frontier. From his neck he always wore suspended a perforated bullet, with a large oblong bead on each side of it, tied in place by a single thread of sinew. This amulet he obtained while chief of the Crows,[52] and it was his "medicine," with which he excited the superstition of his warriors. His success as a trader among the various tribes of Indians has never been surpassed; for his close intimacy with them made him know what would best please their taste, and they bought of him when other traders stood idly at their stockades, waiting almost hopelessly for customers. But Beckwourth himself said: "The traffic in whiskey for Indian property was one of the most infernal practices ever entered into by man. Let the most casual thinker sit down and figure up the profits on a forty-gallon cask of alcohol, and he will be thunderstruck, or rather whiskey-struck. When it was to be disposed of, four gallons of water were added to each gallon of alcohol. In two hundred gallons there are sixteen hundred pints, for each one of which the trader got a buffalo-robe worth five dollars. The Indian women toiled many long weeks to dress those sixteen hundred robes. The white traders got them for worse than nothing; for the poor Indian mother hid herself and her children until the effect of the poison passed away from the husband and father, who loved them when he had no whiskey, and abused and killed them when he had. Six thousand dollars for sixty gallons of alcohol! Is it a wonder with such profits that men got rich who were engaged in the fur trade? Or was it a miracle that the buffalo were gradually exterminated?--killed with so little remorse that the hides, among the Indians themselves, were known by the appellation of 'A pint of whiskey.'" Beckwourth claims to have established the Pueblo where the beautiful city of Pueblo, Colorado, is now situated. He says: "On the 1st of October, 1842, on the Upper Arkansas, I erected a trading-post and opened a successful business. In a very short time I was joined by from fifteen to twenty free trappers, with their families. We all united our labour and constructed an adobe fort sixty yards square. By the following spring it had grown into quite a little settlement, and we gave it the name of Pueblo." CHAPTER XVII. UNCLE DICK WOOTON. Immediately after Kit Carson, the second wreath of pioneer laurels, for bravery and prowess as an Indian fighter, and trapper, must be conceded to Richens Lacy Wooton, known first as "Dick," in his younger days on the plains, then, when age had overtaken him, as "Uncle Dick." Born in Virginia, his father, when he was but seven years of age, removed with his family to Kentucky, where he cultivated a tobacco plantation. Like his predecessor and lifelong friend Carson, young Wooton tired of the monotony of farming, and in the summer of 1836 made a trip to the busy frontier town of Independence, Missouri, where he found a caravan belonging to Colonel St. Vrain and the Bents, already loaded, and ready to pull out for the fort built by the latter, and named for them. Wooton had a fair business education, and was superior in this respect to his companions in the caravan to which he had attached himself. It was by those rough, but kind-hearted, men that he was called "Dick," as they could not readily master the more complicated name of "Richens." When he started from Independence on his initial trip across the plains, he was only nineteen, but, like all Kentuckians, perfectly familiar with a rifle, and could shoot out a squirrel's eye with the certainty which long practice and hardened nerves assures. The caravan, in which he was employed as a teamster, was composed of only seven wagons; but a larger one, in which were more than fifty, had preceded it, and as that was heavily laden, and the smaller one only lightly, it was intended to overtake the former before the dangerous portions of the Trail were reached, which it did in a few days and was assigned a place in the long line. Every man had to take his turn in standing guard, and the first night that it fell to young Wooton was at Little Cow Creek, in the Upper Arkansas valley. Nothing had occurred thus far during the trip to imperil the safety of the caravan, nor was any attack by the savages looked for. Wooton's post comprehended the whole length of one side of the corral, and his instructions were to shoot anything he saw moving outside of the line of mules farthest from the wagons. The young sentry was very vigilant. He did not feel at all sleepy, but eagerly watched for something that might possibly come within the prescribed distance, though not really expecting such a contingency. About two o'clock he heard a slight noise, and saw something moving about, sixty or seventy yards from where he was lying on the ground, to which he had dropped the moment the strange sound reached his ears. Of course, his first thoughts were of Indians, and the more he peered through the darkness at the slowly moving object, the more convinced he was that it must be a blood-thirsty savage. He rose to his feet and blazed away, the shot rousing everbody, and all came rushing with their guns to learn what the matter was. Wooton told the wagon-master that he had seen what he supposed was an Indian trying to slip up to the mules, and that he had killed him. Some of the men crept very circumspectly to the spot where the supposed dead savage was lying, while young Wooton remained at his post eagerly waiting for their report. Presently he heard a voice cry out: "I'll be d---d ef he hain't killed 'Old Jack!'" "Old Jack" was one of the lead mules of one of the wagons. He had torn up his picket-pin and strayed outside of the lines, with the result that the faithful brute met his death at the hands of the sentry. Wooton declared that he was not to be blamed; for the animal had disobeyed orders, while he had strictly observed them![53] At Pawnee Fork, a few days later, the caravan had a genuine tussle with the Comanches. It was a bright moonlight night, and about two hundred of the mounted savages attacked them. It was a rare thing for Indians to begin a raid after dark, but they swept down on the unsuspecting teamsters, yelling like a host of demons. They were armed with bows and arrows generally, though a few of them had fusees.[54] They received a warm greeting, although they were not expected, the guard noticing the savages in time to prevent a stampede of the animals, which evidently was the sole purpose for which they came, as they did not attempt to break through the corral to get at the wagons. It was the mules they were after. They charged among the men, vainly endeavouring to frighten the animals and make them break loose, discharging showers of arrows as they rode by. The camp was too hot for them, however, defended as it was by old teamsters who had made the dangerous passage of the plains many times before, and were up to all the Indian tactics. They failed to get a single mule, but paid for their temerity by leaving three of their party dead, just where they had been tumbled off their horses, not even having time to carry the bodies off, as they usually do. Wooton passed some time during the early days of his career at Bent's Fort, in 1836-37. He was a great favourite with both of the proprietors, and with them went to the several Indian villages, where he learned the art of trading with the savages. The winters of the years mentioned were noted for the incursions of the Pawnees into the region of the fort. They always pretended friendship for the whites, when any of them were inside of its sacred precincts, but their whole manner changed when they by some stroke of fortune caught a trapper or hunter alone on the prairie or in the foot-hills; he was a dead man sure, and his scalp was soon dangling at the belt of his cowardly assassins. Hardly a day passed without witnessing some poor fellow running for the fort with a band of the red devils after him; frequently he escaped the keen edge of their scalping-knife, but every once in a while a man was killed. At one time, two herders who were with their animals within fifty yards of the fort, going out to the grazing ground, were killed and every hoof of stock run off. A party from the fort, comprising only eight men, among whom was young Wooton, made up for lost time with the Indians, at the crossing of Pawnee Fork, the same place where he had had his first fight. The men had set out from the fort for the purpose of meeting a small caravan of wagons from the East, loaded with supplies for the Bents' trading post. It happened that a band of sixteen Pawnees were watching for the arrival of the train, too.[55] Wooton's party were well mounted, while the Pawnees were on foot, and although the savages were two to one, the advantage was decidedly in favour of the whites. The Indians were armed with bows and arrows only, and while it was an easy matter for the whites to keep out of the way of the shower of missiles which the Indians commenced to hurl at them, the latter became an easy prey to the unerring rifles of their assailants, who killed thirteen out of the sixteen in a very short time. The remaining three took French leave of their comrades at the beginning of the conflict, and abandoning their arms rushed up to the caravan, which was just appearing over a small divide, and gave themselves up. The Indian custom was observed in their case,[56] although it was rarely that any prisoners were taken in these conflicts on the Trail. Another curious custom was also followed.[57] When the party encamped they were well fed, and the next morning supplied with rations enough to last them until they could reach one of their villages, and sent off to tell their head chief what had become of the rest of his warriors. Wooton had an adventure once while he was stationed at Bent's Fort during a trading expedition with the Utes, on the Purgatoire, or Purgatory River,[58] about ten or twelve miles from Trinidad. He had taken with him, with others, a Shawnee Indian. Only a short time before their departure from the fort, an Indian of that tribe had been murdered by a Ute, and one day this Shawnee who was with Wooton spied a Ute, when revenge inspired him, and he forthwith killed his enemy. Knowing that as soon as the news of the shooting reached the Ute village, which was not a great distance off, the whole tribe would be down upon him, Wooton abandoned any attempt to trade with them and tried to get out of their country as quickly as he could. As he expected, the Utes followed on his trail, and came up with his little party on a prairie where there was not the slightest chance to ambush or hide. They had to fight, because they could not help it, but resolved to sell their lives as dearly as possible, as the Utes outnumbered them twenty to one; Wooton having only eight men with him, including the Shawnee. The pack-animals, of which they had a great many, loaded with the goods intended for the savages, were corralled in a circle, inside of which the men hurried themselves and awaited the first assault of the foe. In a few moments the Utes began to circle around the trappers and open fire. The trappers promptly responded, and they made every shot count; for all of the men, not even excepting the Shawnee, were experts with the rifle. They did not mind the arrows which the Utes showered upon them, as few, if any, reached to where they stood. The savages had a few guns, but they were of the poorest quality; besides, they did not know how to handle them then as they learned to do later, so their bullets were almost as harmless as their arrows. The trappers made terrible havoc among the Utes' horses, killing so many of them that the savages in despair abandoned the fight and gave Wooton and his men an opportunity to get away, which they did as rapidly as possible. The Raton Pass, through which the Old Trail ran, was a relatively fair mountain road, but originally it was almost impossible for anything in the shape of a wheeled vehicle to get over the narrow rock-ribbed barrier; saddle horses and pack-mules could, however, make the trip without much difficulty. It was the natural highway to southeastern Colorado and northeastern New Mexico, but the overland coaches could not get to Trinidad by the shortest route, and as the caravans also desired to make the same line, it occurred to Uncle Dick that he would undertake to hew out a road through the pass, which, barring grades, should be as good as the average turnpike. He could see money in it for him, as he expected to charge toll, keeping the road in repair at his own expense, and he succeeded in procuring from the legislatures of Colorado and New Mexico charters covering the rights and privileges which he demanded for his project. In the spring of 1866, Uncle Dick took up his abode on the top of the mountains, built his home, and lived there until two years ago, when he died at a very ripe old age. The old trapper had imposed on himself anything but an easy task in constructing his toll-road. There were great hillsides to cut out, immense ledges of rocks to blast, bridges to build by the dozen, and huge trees to fell, besides long lines of difficult grading to engineer. Eventually Uncle Dick's road was a fact, but when it was completed, how to make it pay was a question that seriously disturbed his mind. The method he employed to solve the problem I will quote in his own words: "Such a thing as a toll-road was unknown in the country at that time. People who had come from the States understood, of course, that the object of building a turnpike was to enable the owner to collect toll from those who travelled over it, but I had to deal with a great many people who seemed to think that they should be as free to travel over my well-graded and bridged roadway as they were to follow an ordinary cow path. "I may say that I had five classes of patrons to do business with. There was the stage company and its employees, the freighters, the military authorities, who marched troops and transported supplies over the road, the Mexicans, and the Indians. "With the stage company, the military authorities, and the American freighters I had no trouble. With the Indians, when a band came through now and then, I didn't care to have any controversy about so small a matter as a few dollars toll! Whenever they came along, the toll-gate went up, and any other little thing I could do to hurry them on was done promptly and cheerfully. While the Indians didn't understand anything about the system of collecting tolls, they seemed to recognize the fact that I had a right to control the road, and they would generally ride up to the gate and ask permission to go through. Once in a while the chief of a band would think compensation for the privilege of going through in order, and would make me a present of a buckskin or something of that sort. "My Mexican patrons were the hardest to get along with. Paying for the privilege of travelling over any road was something they were totally unused to, and they did not take to it kindly. They were pleased with my road and liked to travel over it, until they came to the toll-gate. This they seemed to look upon as an obstruction that no man had a right to place in the way of a free-born native of the mountain region. They appeared to regard the toll-gate as a new scheme for holding up travellers for the purpose of robbery, and many of them evidently thought me a kind of freebooter, who ought to be suppressed by law. "Holding these views, when I asked them for a certain amount of money, before raising the toll-gate, they naturally differed with me very frequently about the propriety of complying with the request. "In other words, there would be at such times probably an honest difference of opinion between the man who kept the toll-gate and the man who wanted to get through it. Anyhow, there was a difference, and such differences had to be adjusted. Sometimes I did it through diplomacy, and sometimes I did it with a club. It was always settled one way, however, and that was in accordance with the toll schedule, so that I could never have been charged with unjust discrimination of rates." Soon after the road was opened a company composed of Californians and Mexicans, commanded by a Captain Haley, passed Uncle Dick's toll-gate and house, escorting a large caravan of about a hundred and fifty wagons. While they stopped there, a non-commissioned officer of the party was brutally murdered by three soldiers, and Uncle Dick came very near being a witness to the atrocious deed. The murdered man was a Mexican, and his slayers were Mexicans too. The trouble originated at Las Vegas, where the privates had been bound and gagged, by order of the corporal, for creating a disturbance at a fandango the evening before. The name of the corporal was Juan Torres, and he came down to Uncle Dick's one evening while the command was encamped on the top of the mountain, accompanied by the three privates, who had already plotted to kill him, though he had not the slightest suspicion of it. Uncle Dick, in telling the story, said: "They left at an early hour, going in an opposite direction from their camp, and I closed my doors soon after, for the night. They had not been gone more than half an hour, when I heard them talking not far from my house, and a few seconds later I heard the half-suppressed cry of a man who has received his death-blow. "I had gone to bed, and lay for a minute or two thinking whether I should get up and go to the rescue or insure my own safety by remaining where I was. "A little reflection convinced me that the murderers were undoubtedly watching my house, to prevent any interference with the carrying out of their plot, and that if I ventured out I should only endanger my own life, while there was scarcely a possibility of my being able to save the life of the man who had been assailed. "In the morning, when I got up, I found the dead body of the corporal stretched across Raton Creek, not more than a hundred yards from my house. "As I surmised, he had been struck with a heavy club or stone, and it was at that time that I heard his cry. After that his brains had been beaten out, and the body left where I had found it. "I at once notified Captain Haley of the occurrence, and identified the men who had been in company with the corporal, and who were undoubtedly his murderers. "They were taken into custody, and made a confession, in which they stated that one of their number had stood at my door on the night of the murder to shoot me if I had ventured out to assist the corporal. Two of the scoundrels were hung afterward at Las Vegas, and the third sent to prison for life." The corporal was buried near where the soldiers were encamped at the time of the tragedy, and it is his lonely grave which frequently attracts the attention of the passengers on the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe trains, just before the Raton tunnel is reached, as they travel southward. In 1866-67 the Indians broke out, infesting all the most prominent points of the Old Santa Fe Trail, and watching an opportunity to rob and murder, so that the government freight caravans and the stages had to be escorted by detachments of troops. Fort Larned was the western limit where these escorts joined the outfits going over into New Mexico. There were other dangers attending the passage of the Trail to travellers by the stage besides the attacks of the savages. These were the so-called road agents--masked robbers who regarded life as of little worth in the accomplishment of their nefarious purposes. Particularly were they common after the mines of New Mexico began to be operated by Americans. The object of the bandits was generally the strong box of the express company, which contained money and other valuables. They did not, of course, hesitate to take what ready cash and jewelry the passengers might happen to have upon their persons, and frequently their hauls amounted to large sums. When the coaches began to travel over Uncle Dick's toll-road, his house was made a station, and he had many stage stories. He said:-- "Tavern-keepers in those days couldn't choose their guests, and we entertained them just as they came along. The knights of the road would come by now and then, order a meal, eat it hurriedly, pay for it, and move on to where they had arranged to hold up a stage that night. Sometimes they did not wait for it to get dark, but halted the stage, went through the treasure box in broad daylight, and then ordered the driver to move on in one direction, while they went off in another. "One of the most daring and successful stage robberies that I remember was perpetrated by two men, when the east-bound coach was coming up on the south side of the Raton Mountains, one day about ten o'clock in the forenoon. "On the morning of the same day, a little after sunrise, two rather genteel-looking fellows, mounted on fine horses, rode up to my house and ordered breakfast. Being informed that breakfast would be ready in a few minutes, they dismounted, hitched their horses near the door, and came into the house. "I knew then, just as well as I do now, they were robbers, but I had no warrant for their arrest, and I should have hesitated about serving it if I had, because they looked like very unpleasant men to transact that kind of business with. "Each of them had four pistols sticking in his belt and a repeating rifle strapped on to his saddle. When they dismounted, they left their rifles with the horses, but walked into the house and sat down at the table, without laying aside the arsenal which they carried in their belts. "They had little to say while eating, but were courteous in their behaviour, and very polite to the waiters. When they had finished breakfast, they paid their bills, and rode leisurely up the mountain. "It did not occur to me that they would take chances on stopping the stage in daylight, or I should have sent some one to meet the incoming coach, which I knew would be along shortly, to warn the driver and passengers to be on the lookout for robbers. "It turned out, however, that a daylight robbery was just what they had in mind, and they made a success of it. "About halfway down the New Mexico side of the mountain, where the canyon is very narrow, and was then heavily wooded on either side, the robbers stopped and waited for the coach. It came lumbering along by and by, neither the driver nor the passengers dreaming of a hold-up. "The first intimation they had of such a thing was when they saw two men step into the road, one on each side of the stage, each of them holding two cocked revolvers, one of which was brought to bear on the passengers and the other on the driver, who were politely but very positively told that they must throw up their hands without any unnecessary delay, and the stage came to a standstill. "There were four passengers in the coach, all men, but their hands went up at the same instant that the driver dropped his reins and struck an attitude that suited the robbers. "Then, while one of the men stood guard, the other stepped up to the stage and ordered the treasure box thrown off. This demand was complied with, and the box was broken and rifled of its contents, which fortunately were not of very great value. "The passengers were compelled to hand out their watches and other jewelry, as well as what money they had in their pockets, and then the driver was directed to move up the road. In a minute after this the robbers had disappeared with their booty, and that was the last seen of them by that particular coach-load of passengers. "The men who planned and executed that robbery were two cool, level-headed, and daring scoundrels, known as 'Chuckle-luck' and 'Magpie.' They were killed soon after this occurrence, by a member of their own band, whose name was Seward. A reward of a thousand dollars had been offered for their capture, an this tempted Seward to kill them, one night when they were asleep in camp. "He then secured a wagon, into which he loaded the dead robbers, and hauled them to Cimarron City, where he turned them over to the authorities and received his reward." Among the Arapahoes Wooton was called "Cut Hand," from the fact that he had lost two fingers on his left hand by an accident in his childhood. The tribe had the utmost veneration for the old trapper, and he was perfectly safe at any time in their villages or camps; it had been the request of a dying chief, who was once greatly favoured by Wooton, that his warriors should never injure him although the nation might be at war with all the rest of the whites in the world. Uncle Dick died a few seasons ago, at the age of nearly ninety. He was blind for some time, but a surgical operation partly restored his sight, which made the old man happy, because he could look again upon the beautiful scenery surrounding his mountain home, really the grandest in the entire Raton Range. The Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad had one of its freight locomotives named "Uncle Dick," in honour of the veteran mountaineer, past whose house it hauled the heavy-laden trains up the steep grade crossing into the valley beyond. At the time of its baptism, now fifteen or sixteen years ago, it was the largest freight engine in the world. Old Bill Williams was another character of the early days of the Trail, and was called so when Carson, Uncle Dick Wooton, and Maxwell were comparatively young in the mountains. He was, at the time of their advent in the remote West, one of the best known men there, and had been famous for years as a hunter and trapper. Williams was better acquainted with every pass in the Rockies than any other man of his time, and only surpassed by Jim Bridger later. He was with General Fremont on his exploring expedition across the continent; but the statement of the old trappers, and that of General Fremont, in relation to his services then, differ widely. Fremont admits Williams' knowledge of the country over which he had wandered to have been very extensive, but when put to the test on the expedition, he came very near sacrificing the lives of all. This was probably owing to Williams' failing intellect, for when he joined the great explorer he was past the meridian of life. Now the old mountaineers contend that if Fremont had profited by the old man's advice, he would never have run into the deathtrap which cost him three men, and in which he lost all his valuable papers, his instruments, and the animals which he and his party were riding. The expedition had followed the Arkansas River to its source, and the general had selected a route which he desired to pursue in crossing the mountains. It was winter, and Williams explained to him that it was perfectly impracticable to get over at that season. The general, however, ignoring the statement, listened to another of his party, a man who had no such experience but said that he could pilot the expedition. Before they had fairly started, they were caught in one of the most terrible snowstorms the region had ever witnessed, in which all their horses and mules were literally frozen to death. Then, when it was too late, they turned back, abandoning their instruments, and able only to carry along a very limited stock of food. The storm continued to rage, so that even Williams failed to prevent them from getting lost, and they wandered about aimlessly for many days before they luckily arrived at Taos, suffering seriously from exhaustion and hunger. Three of the men were frozen to death on the return trip, and the remaining fifteen were little better than dead when Uncle Dick Wooton happened to run across them and piloted them into the village. It was immediately after this disaster that the three most noted men in the mountains--Carson, Maxwell, and Dick Owens--became the guides of the pathfinder, with whom he had no trouble, and to whom he owed more of his success than history has given them credit for. At one period of his eventful career, while he lived in Missouri, before he wandered to the mountains, Old Bill Williams was a Methodist preacher; of which fact he boasted frequently while he trapped and hunted with other pioneers. Whenever he related that portion of his early life, he declared that he "was so well known in his circuit, that the chickens recognized him as he came riding by the scattered farmhouses, and the old roosters would crow 'Here comes Parson Williams! One of us must be made ready for dinner.'" Upon leaving the States, he travelled very extensively among the various tribes of Indians who roamed over the great plains and in the mountains. When sojourning with a certain band, he would invariably adopt their manners and customs. Whenever he grew tired of that nation, he would seek another and live as they lived. He had been so long among the savages that he looked and talked like one, and had imbibed many of their strange notions and curious superstitions. To the missionaries he was very useful. He possessed the faculty of easily acquiring languages that other white men failed to learn, and could readily translate the Bible into several Indian dialects. His own conduct, however, was in strange contrast with the precepts of the Holy Book with which he was so familiar. To the native Mexicans he was a holy terror and an unsolvable riddle. They thought him possessed of an evil spirit. He at one time took up his residence among them and commenced to trade. Shortly after he had established himself and gathered in a stock of goods, he became involved in a dispute with some of his customers in relation to his prices. Upon this he apparently took an intense dislike to the people whom he had begun to traffic with, and in his disgust tossed his whole mass of goods into the street, and, taking up his rifle, left at once for the mountains. Among the many wild ideas he had imbibed from his long association with the Indians, was faith in their belief in the transmigration of souls. He used so to worry his brain for hours cogitating upon this intricate problem concerning a future state, that he actually pretended to know exactly the animal whose place he was destined to fill in the world after he had shaken off this mortal human coil. Uncle Dick Wooton told how once, when he, Old Bill Williams, and many other trappers, were lying around the camp-fire one night, the strange fellow, in a preaching style of delivery, related to them all how he was to be changed into a buck elk and intended to make his pasture in the very region where they then were. He described certain peculiarities which would distinguish him from the common run of elk, and was very careful to caution all those present never to shoot such an animal, should they ever run across him. Williams was regarded as a warm-hearted, brave, and generous man. He was at last killed by the Indians, while trading with them, but has left his name to many mountain peaks, rivers, and passes discovered by him. Tom Tobin, one of the last of the famous trappers, hunters, and Indian fighters to cross the dark river, flourished in the early days, when the Rocky Mountains were a veritable terra incognita to nearly all excepting the hardy employees of the several fur companies and the limited number of United States troops stationed in their remote wilds. Tom was an Irishman, quick-tempered, and a dead shot with either rifle, revolver, or the formidable bowie-knife. He would fight at the drop of the hat, but no man ever went away from his cabin hungry, if he had a crust to divide; or penniless, if there was anything remaining in his purse. He, like Carson, was rather under the average stature, red-faced, and lacking much of being an Adonis, but whole-souled, and as quick in his movements as an antelope. Tobin played an important rôle in avenging the death of the Americans killed in the Taos massacre, at the storming of the Indian pueblo, but his greatest achievement was the ending of the noted bandit Espinosa's life, who, at the height of his career of blood, was the terror of the whole mountain region. At the time of the acquisition of New Mexico by the United States, Espinosa, who was a Mexican, owning vast herds of cattle and sheep, resided upon his ancestral hacienda in a sort of barbaric luxury, with a host of semi-serfs, known as Peons, to do his bidding, as did the other "Muy Ricos," the "Dons," so called, of his class of natives. These self-styled aristocrats of the wild country all boasted of their Castilian blue blood, claiming descent from the nobles of Cortez' army, but the fact is, however, with rare exceptions, that their male ancestors, the rank and file of that army, intermarried with the Aztec women, and they were really only a mixture of Indian and Spanish. It so happened that Espinosa met an adventurous American, who, with hundreds of others, had been attached to the "Army of Occupation" in the Mexican War, or had emigrated from the States to seek their fortunes in the newly acquired and much over-rated territory. The Mexican Don and the American became fast friends, the latter making his home with his newly found acquaintance at the beautiful ranch in the mountains, where they played the rôle of a modern Damon and Pythias. Now with Don Espinosa lived his sister, a dark-eyed, bewitchingly beautiful girl about seventeen years old, with whom the susceptible American fell deeply in love, and his affection was reciprocated by the maiden, with a fervour of which only the women of the race from which she sprang are capable. The fascinating American had brought with him from his home in one of the New England States a large amount of money, for his parents were rich, and spared no indulgence to their only son. He very soon unwisely made Espinosa his confidant, and told him of the wealth he possessed. One night after the American had retired to his chamber, adjoining that of his host, he was surprised, shortly after he had gone to bed, by discovering a man standing over him, whose hand had already grasped the buckskin bag under his pillow which contained a considerable portion of his gold and silver. He sprang from his couch and fired his pistol at random in the darkness at the would-be robber. Espinosa, for it was he, was wounded slightly, and, being either enraged or frightened, he stabbed with his keen-pointed stiletto, which all Mexicans then carried, the young man whom he had invited to become his guest, and the blade entered the American's heart, killing him instantly. The report of the pistol-shot awakened the other members of the household, who came rushing into the room just as the victim was breathing his last. Among them was the sister of the murderer, who, throwing herself on the body of her dead lover, poured forth the most bitter curses upon her brother. Espinosa, realizing the terrible position in which he had placed himself, then and there determined to become an outlaw, as he could frame no excuse for his wicked deed. He therefore hid himself at once in the mountains, carrying with him, of course, the sack containing the murdered American's money. Some time necessarily passed before he could get together a sufficient number of cut-throats and renegades from justice to enable him wholly to defy the authorities; but at last he succeeded in rallying a strong force to his standard of blood, and became the terror of the whole region, equalling in boldness and audacity the terrible Joaquin, of California notoriety in after years. His headquarters were in the almost impregnable fastnesses of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, from which he made his invariably successful raids into the rich valleys below. There was nothing too bloody for him to shrink from; he robbed indiscriminately the overland coaches to Santa Fe, the freight caravans of the traders and government, the ranches of the Mexicans, or stole from the poorer classes, without any compunction. He ran off horses, cattle, sheep--in fact, anything that he could utilize. If murder was necessary to the completion of his work, he never for a moment hesitated. Kidnapping, too, was a favourite pastime; but he rarely carried away to his rendezvous any other than the most beautiful of the New Mexican young girls, whom he held in his mountain den until they were ransomed, or subjected to a fate more terrible. In 1864 the bandit, after nearly ten years of unparalleled outlawry, was killed by Tobin. Tom had been on his trail for some time, and at last tracked him to a temporary camp in the foot-hills, which he accidentally discovered in a grove of cottonwoods, by the smoke of the little camp-fire as it curled in light wreaths above the trees. Tobin knew that at the time there was but one of Espinosa's followers with him, as he had watched them both for some days, waiting for an opportunity to get the drop on them. To capture the pair of outlaws alive never entered his thoughts; he was as cautious as brave, and to get them dead was much safer and easier; so he crept up to the grove on his belly, Indian fashion, and lying behind the cover of a friendly log, waited until the noted desperado stood up, when he pulled the trigger of his never-erring rifle, and Espinosa fell dead. A second shot quickly disposed of his companion, and the old trapper's mission was accomplished. To be able to claim the reward offered by the authorities, Tom had to prove, beyond the possibility of doubt, that those whom he had killed were the dreaded bandit and one of his gang. He thought it best to cut off their heads, which he deliberately did, and packing them on his mule in a gunny-sack, he brought them into old Fort Massachusetts, afterward Fort Garland, where they were speedily recognized; but whether Tom ever received the reward, I have my doubts, as he never claimed that he did. Tobin died only a short time ago, gray, grizzled, and venerable, his memory respected by all who had ever met him. James Hobbs, among all the men of whom I have presented a hurried sketch, had perhaps a more varied experience than any of his colleagues. During his long life on the frontier, he was in turn a prisoner among the savages, and held for years by them; an excellent soldier in the war with Mexico; an efficient officer in the revolt against Maximilian, when the attempt of Napoleon to establish an empire on this continent, with that unfortunate prince at its head, was defeated; an Indian fighter; a miner; a trapper; a trader, and a hunter. Hobbs was born in the Shawnee nation, on the Big Blue, about twenty-three miles from Independence, Missouri. His early childhood was entrusted to one of his father's slaves. Reared on the eastern limit of the border, he very soon became familiar with the use of the rifle and shot-gun; in fact, he was the principal provider of all the meat which the family consumed. In 1835, when only sixteen, he joined a fur-trading expedition under Charles Bent, destined for the fort on the Arkansas River built by him and his brothers. They arrived at the crossing of the Santa Fe Trail over Pawnee Fork without special adventure, but there they had the usual tussle with the savages, and Hobbs killed his first Indian. Two of the traders were pierced with arrows, but not seriously hurt, and the Pawnees--the tribe which had attacked the outfit--were driven away discomfited, not having been successful in stampeding a single animal. When the party reached the Caches, on the Upper Arkansas, a smoke rising on the distant horizon, beyond the sand hills south of the river, made them proceed cautiously; for to the old plainsmen, that far-off wreath indicated either the presence of the savages, or a signal to others at a greater distance of the approach of the trappers. The next morning, nothing having occurred to delay the march, buffalo began to appear, and Hobbs killed three of them. A cow, which he had wounded, ran across the Trail in front of the train, and Hobbs dashed after her, wounding her with his pistol, and then she started to swim the river. Hobbs, mad at the jeers which greeted him from the men at his missing the animal, started for the last wagon, in which was his rifle, determined to kill the brute that had enraged him. As he was riding along rapidly, Bent cried out to him,-- "Don't try to follow that cow; she is going straight for that smoke, and it means Injuns, and no good in 'em either." "But I'll get her," answered Hobbs, and he called to his closest comrade, John Baptiste, a boy of about his own age, to go and get his pack-mule and come along. "All right," responded John; and together the two inexperienced youngsters crossed the river against the protests of the veteran leader of the party. After a chase of about three miles, the boys came up with the cow, but she turned and showed fight. Finally Hobbs, by riding around her, got in a good shot, which killed her. Jumping off their animals, both boys busied themselves in cutting out the choice pieces for their supper, packed them on the mule, and started back for the train. But it had suddenly become very dark, and they were in doubt as to the direction of the Trail. Soon night came on so rapidly that neither could they see their own tracks by which they had come, nor the thin fringe of cottonwoods that lined the bank of the stream. Then they disagreed as to which was the right way. John succeeded in persuading Hobbs that he was correct, and the latter gave in, very much against his own belief on the subject. They travelled all night, and when morning came, were bewilderingly lost. Then Hobbs resolved to retrace the tracks by which, now that the sun was up, he saw that they had been going south, right away from the Arkansas. Suddenly an immense herd of buffalo, containing at least two thousand, dashed by the boys, filling the air with the dust raised by their clattering hoofs, and right behind them rode a hundred Indians, shooting at the stampeded animals with their arrows. "Get into that ravine!" shouted Hobbs to his companion. "Throw away that meat, and run for your life!" It was too late; just as they arrived at the brink of the hollow, they looked back, and close behind them were a dozen Comanches. The savages rode up, and one of the party said in very good English, "How d' do?" "How d' do?" Hobbs replied, thinking it would be better to be as polite as the Indian, though the state of the latter's health just then was a matter of small concern. "Texas?" inquired the Indian. The Comanches had good reasons to hate the citizens of that country, and it was a lucky thing for Hobbs that he had heard of their prejudice from the trappers, and possessed presence of mind to remember it. He replied promptly: "No, friendly; going to establish a trading-post for the Comanches." "Friendly? Better go with us, though. Got any tobacco?" Hobbs had some of the desired article, and he was not long in handing it over to his newly found friend. Both of the boys were escorted to the temporary camp of the savages, but the original number of their captors was increased to over a thousand before they arrived there. They were supplied with some dried buffalo-meat, and then taken to the lodge of Old Wolf, the head chief of the tribe. A council was called immediately to consider what disposition should be made of them, but nothing was decided upon, and the assembly of warriors adjourned until morning. Hobbs told me that it was because Old Wolf had imbibed too much brandy, a bottle of which Baptiste had brought with him from the train, and which the thirsty warrior saw suspended from his saddle-bow as they rode up to the chief's lodge; the aged rascal got beastly drunk. About noon of the next day, after the dispersion of the council, the boys were informed that if they were not Texans, would behave themselves, and not attempt to run away, they might stay with the Indians, who would not kill them; but a string of dried scalps was pointed out, hanging on a lodge pole, of some Mexicans whom they had captured and put to herding their ponies, and who had tried to get away. They succeeded in making a few miles; the Indians chased them, after deciding in council, that, if caught, only their scalps were to be brought back. The moral of this was that the same fate awaited the boys if they followed the example of the foolish Mexicans. Hobbs had excellent sense and judgment, and he knew that it would be the height of folly for him and Baptiste, mere boys, to try and reach either Bent's Fort or the Missouri River, not having the slightest knowledge of where they were situated. Hobbs grew to be a great favourite with the Comanches; was given the daughter of Old Wolf in marriage, became a great chief, fought many hard battles with his savage companions, and at last, four years after, was redeemed by Colonel Bent, who paid Old Wolf a small ransom for him at the Fort, where the Indians had come to trade. Baptiste, whom the Indians never took a great fancy to, because he did not develop into a great warrior, was also ransomed by Bent, his price being only an antiquated mule. At Bent's Fort Hobbs went out trapping under the leadership of Kit Carson, and they became lifelong friends. In a short time Hobbs earned the reputation of being an excellent mountaineer, trapper, and as an Indian fighter he was second to none, his education among the Comanches having trained him in all the strategy of the savages. After going through the Mexican War with an excellent record, Hobbs wandered about the country, now engaged in mining in old Mexico, then fighting the Apaches under the orders of the governor of Chihuahua, and at the end of the campaign going back to the Pacific coast, where he entered into new pursuits. Sometimes he was rich, then as poor as one can imagine. He returned to old Mexico in time to become an active partisan in the revolt which overthrew the short-lived dynasty of Maximilian, and was present at the execution of that unfortunate prince. Finally he retired to the home of his childhood in the States, where he died a few months ago, full of years and honours. William F. Cody, "Buffalo Bill," is one of the famous plainsmen, of later days, however, than Carson, Bridger, John Smith, Maxwell, and others whom I have mentioned. The mantle of Kit Carson, perhaps, fits more perfectly the shoulders of Cody than those of any other of the great frontiersman's successors, and he has had some experiences that surpassed anything which fell to their lot. He was born in Iowa, in 1845, and when barely seven years old his father emigrated to Kansas, then far remote from civilization. Thirty-six years ago, he was employed as guide and scout in an expedition against the Kiowas and Comanches, and his line of duty took him along the Santa Fe Trail all one summer when not out as a scout, carrying despatches between Fort Lyon and Fort Larned, the most important military posts on the great highway as well as to far-off Fort Leavenworth on the Missouri River, the headquarters of the department. Fort Larned was the general rendezvous of all the scouts on the Kansas and Colorado plains, the chief of whom was a veteran interpreter and guide, named Dick Curtis. When Cody first reported there for his responsible duty, a large camp of the Kiowas and Comanches was established within sight of the fort, whose warriors had not as yet put on their war-paint, but were evidently restless and discontented under the restraint of their chiefs. Soon those leading men, Satanta, Lone Wolf, Satank, and others of lesser note, grew rather impudent and haughty in their deportment, and they were watched with much concern. The post was garrisoned by only two companies of infantry and one of cavalry. General Hazen, afterward chief of the signal service in Washington, was at Fort Larned at the time, endeavouring to patch up a peace with the savages, who seemed determined to break out. Cody was special scout to the general, and one morning he was ordered to accompany him as far as Fort Zarah, on the Arkansas, near the mouth of Walnut Creek, in what is now Barton County, Kansas, the general intending to go on to Fort Harker, on the Smoky Hill. In making these trips of inspection, with incidental collateral duties, the general usually travelled in an ambulance, but on this journey he rode in a six-mule army-wagon, escorted by a detachment of a score of infantry. It was a warm August day, and an early start was made, which enabled them to reach Fort Zarah, over thirty miles distant, by noon. After dinner, the general proposed to go on to Fort Harker, forty-one miles away, without any escort, leaving orders for Cody to return to Fort Larned the next day, with the soldiers. But Cody, ever impatient of delay when there was work to do, notified the sergeant in charge of the men that he was going back that very afternoon. I tell the story of his trip as he has often told it to me, and as he has written it in his autobiography. "I accordingly saddled up my mule and set out for Fort Larned. I proceeded on uninterruptedly until I got about halfway between the two posts, when, at Pawnee Rock, I was suddenly jumped by about forty Indians, who came dashing up to me, extending their hands and saying, 'How! How!' They were some of the Indians who had been hanging around Fort Larned in the morning. I saw they had on their war-paint, and were evidently now out on the war-path. "My first impulse was to shake hands with them, as they seemed so desirous of it. I accordingly reached out my hand to one of them, who grasped it with a tight grip, and jerked me violently forward; then pulled my mule by the bridle, and in a moment I was completely surrounded. Before I could do anything at all, they had seized my revolvers from the holsters, and I received a blow on the head from a tomahawk which nearly rendered me senseless. My gun, which was lying across the saddle, was snatched from its place, and finally the Indian who had hold of the bridle started off toward the Arkansas River, leading the mule, which was being lashed by the other Indians, who were following. The savages were all singing, yelling, and whooping, as only Indians can do, when they are having their little game all their own way. While looking toward the river, I saw on the opposite side an immense village moving along the bank, and then I became convinced that the Indians had left the post and were now starting out on the war-path. My captors crossed the stream with me, and as we waded through the shallow water they continued to lash the mule and myself. Finally they brought me before an important-looking body of Indians, who proved to be the chiefs and principal warriors. I soon recognized old Satanta among them, as well as others whom I knew, and supposed it was all over with me. "The Indians were jabbering away so rapidly among themselves that I could not understand what they were saying. Satanta at last asked me where I had been. As good luck would have it, a happy thought struck me. I told him I had been after a herd of cattle, or 'whoa-haws,' as they called them. It so happened that the Indians had been out of meat for several weeks, as the large herd of cattle which had been promised them had not yet arrived, although they expected them. "The moment I mentioned that I had been searching for 'whoa-haws,' old Satanta began questioning me in a very eager manner. He asked me where the cattle were, and I replied that they were back a few miles, and that I had been sent by General Hazen to inform him that the cattle were coming, and that they were intended for his people. This seemed to please the old rascal, who also wanted to know if there were any soldiers with the herd, and my reply was that there were. Thereupon the chiefs held a consultation, and presently Satanta asked me if General Hazen had really said that they should have the cattle. I replied in the affirmative, and added that I had been directed to bring the cattle to them. I followed this up with a very dignified inquiry, asking why his young men had treated me so. The old wretch intimated that it was only a 'freak of the boys'; that the young men wanted to see if I was brave; in fact, they had only meant to test me, and the whole thing was a joke. "The veteran liar was now beating me at my own game of lying, but I was very glad, as it was in my favour. I did not let him suspect that I doubted his veracity, but I remarked that it was a rough way to treat friends. He immediately ordered his young men to give back my arms, and scolded them for what they had done. Of course, the sly old dog was now playing it very fine, as he was anxious to get possession of the cattle, with which he believed there was a 'heap' of soldiers coming. He had concluded it was not best to fight the soldiers if he could get the cattle peaceably. "Another council was held by the chiefs, and in a few minutes old Satanta came and asked me if I would go to the river and bring the cattle down to the opposite side, so that they could get them. I replied, 'Of course; that's my instruction from General Hazen.' "Satanta said I must not feel angry at his young men, for they had only been acting in fun. He then inquired if I wished any of his men to accompany me to the cattle herd. I replied that it would be better for me to go alone, and then the soldiers could keep right on to Fort Larned, while I could drive the herd down on the bottom. Then wheeling my mule around, I was soon recrossing the river, leaving old Satanta in the firm belief that I had told him a straight story, and that I was going for the cattle which existed only in my imagination. "I hardly knew what to do, but thought that if I could get the river between the Indians and myself, I would have a good three-quarters of a mile the start of them, and could then make a run for Fort Larned, as my mule was a good one. "Thus far my cattle story had panned out all right; but just as I reached the opposite bank of the river, I looked behind me and saw that ten or fifteen Indians, who had begun to suspect something crooked, were following me. The moment that my mule secured a good foothold on the bank, I urged him into a gentle lope toward the place where, according to my statement, the cattle were to be brought. Upon reaching a little ridge and riding down the other side out of view, I turned my mule and headed him westward for Fort Larned. I let him out for all that he was worth, and when I came out on a little rise of ground, I looked back and saw the Indian village in plain sight. My pursuers were now on the ridge which I had passed over, and were looking for me in every direction. "Presently they spied me, and seeing that I was running away, they struck out in swift pursuit, and in a few minutes it became painfully evident they were gaining on me. They kept up the chase as far as Ash Creek, six miles from Fort Larned. I still led them half a mile, as their horses had not gained much during the last half of the race. My mule seemed to have gotten his second wind, and as I was on the old road, I played the spurs and whip on him without much cessation; the Indians likewise urged their steeds to the utmost. "Finally, upon reaching the dividing ridge between Ash Creek and Pawnee Fork, I saw Fort Larned only four miles away. It was now sundown, and I heard the evening gun. The troops of the small garrison little dreamed there was a man flying for his life and trying to reach the post. The Indians were once more gaining on me, and when I crossed the Pawnee Fork two miles from the post, two or three of them were only a quarter of a mile behind me. Just as I gained the opposite bank of the stream, I was overjoyed to see some soldiers in a government wagon only a short distance off. I yelled at the top of my voice, and riding up to them, told them that the Indians were after me. "'Denver Jim,' a well-known scout, asked me how many there were, and upon my informing him that there were about a dozen, he said: 'Let's drive the wagon into the trees, and we'll lay for 'em.' The team was hurriedly driven among the trees and low box-elder bushes, and there secreted. "We did not have to wait long for the Indians, who came dashing up, lashing their ponies, which were panting and blowing. We let two of them pass by, but we opened a lively fire on the next three or four, killing two of them at the first crack. The others following discovered that they had run into an ambush, and whirling off into the brush, they turned and ran back in the direction whence they had come. The two who had passed by heard the firing and made their escape. We scalped the two that we had killed, and appropriated their arms and equipments; then, catching their ponies, we made our way into the Post." CHAPTER XVIII. MAXWELL'S RANCH. One of the most interesting and picturesque regions of all New Mexico is the immense tract of nearly two million acres known as Maxwell's Ranch, through which the Old Trail ran, and the title to which was some years since determined by the Supreme Court of the United States in favour of an alien company.[59] Dead long ago, Maxwell belonged to a generation and a class almost completely extinct, and the like of which will, in all probability, never be seen again; for there is no more frontier to develop them. Several years prior to the acquisition of the territory by the United States, the immense tract comprised in the geographical limits of the ranch was granted to Carlos Beaubien and Guadalupe Miranda, both citizens of the province of New Mexico, and agents of the American Fur Company. Attached to the company as an employer, a trapper, and hunter, was Lucien B. Maxwell, an Illinoisan by birth, who married a daughter of Beaubien. After the death of the latter Maxwell purchased all the interest of the joint proprietor, Miranda, and that of the heirs of Beaubien, thus at once becoming the largest landowner in the United States. At the zenith of his influence and wealth, during the War of the Rebellion, when New Mexico was isolated and almost independent of care or thought by the government at Washington, he lived in a sort of barbaric splendour, akin to that of the nobles of England at the time of the Norman conquest. The thousands of arable acres comprised in the many fertile valleys of his immense estate were farmed in a primitive, feudal sort of way, by native Mexicans principally, under the system of peonage then existing in the Territory. He employed about five hundred men, and they were as much his thralls as were Gurth and Wamba of Cedric of Rotherwood, only they wore no engraved collars around their necks bearing their names and that of their master. Maxwell was not a hard governor, and his people really loved him, as he was ever their friend and adviser. His house was a palace when compared with the prevailing style of architecture in that country, and cost an immense sum of money. It was large and roomy, purely American in its construction, but the manner of conducting it was strictly Mexican, varying between the customs of the higher and lower classes of that curious people. Some of its apartments were elaborately furnished, others devoid of everything except a table for card-playing and a game's complement of chairs. The principal room, an extended rectangular affair, which might properly have been termed the Baronial Hall, was almost bare except for a few chairs, a couple of tables, and an antiquated bureau. There Maxwell received his friends, transacted business with his vassals, and held high carnival at times. I have slept on its hardwood floor, rolled up in my blanket, with the mighty men of the Ute nation lying heads and points all around me, as close as they could possibly crowd, after a day's fatiguing hunt in the mountains. I have sat there in the long winter evenings, when the great room was lighted only by the cheerful blaze of the crackling logs roaring up the huge throats of its two fireplaces built diagonally across opposite corners, watching Maxwell, Kit Carson, and half a dozen chiefs silently interchange ideas in the wonderful sign language, until the glimmer of Aurora announced the advent of another day. But not a sound had been uttered during the protracted hours, save an occasional grunt of satisfaction on the part of the Indians, or when we white men exchanged a sentence. Frequently Maxwell and Carson would play the game of seven-up for hours at a time, seated at one of the tables. Kit was usually the victor, for he was the greatest expert in that old and popular pastime I have ever met. Maxwell was an inveterate gambler, but not by any means in a professional sense; he indulged in the hazard of the cards simply for the amusement it afforded him in his rough life of ease, and he could very well afford the losses which the pleasure sometimes entailed. His special penchant, however, was betting on a horse race, and his own stud comprised some of the fleetest animals in the Territory. Had he lived in England he might have ruled the turf, but many jobs were put up on him by unscrupulous jockeys, by which he was outrageously defrauded of immense sums. He was fond of cards, as I have said, both of the purely American game of poker, and also of old sledge, but rarely played except with personal friends, and never without stakes. He always exacted the last cent he had won, though the next morning, perhaps, he would present or loan his unsuccessful opponent of the night before five hundred or a thousand dollars, if he needed it; an immensely greater sum, in all probability, than had been gained in the game. The kitchen and dining-rooms of his princely establishment were detached from the main residence. There was one of the latter for the male portion of his retinue and guests of that sex, and another for the female, as, in accordance with the severe, and to us strange, Mexican etiquette, men rarely saw a woman about the premises, though there were many. Only the quick rustle of a skirt, or a hurried view of a reboso, as its wearer flashed for an instant before some window or half-open door, told of their presence. The greater portion of his table-service was solid silver, and at his hospitable board there were rarely any vacant chairs. Covers were laid daily for about thirty persons; for he had always many guests, invited or forced upon him in consequence of his proverbial munificence, or by the peculiar location of his manor-house which stood upon a magnificently shaded plateau at the foot of mighty mountains, a short distance from a ford on the Old Trail. As there were no bridges over the uncertain streams of the great overland route in those days, the ponderous Concord coaches, with their ever-full burden of passengers, were frequently water-bound, and Maxwell's the only asylum from the storm and flood; consequently he entertained many. At all times, and in all seasons, the group of buildings, houses, stables, mill, store, and their surrounding grounds, were a constant resort and loafing-place of Indians. From the superannuated chiefs, who revelled lazily during the sunny hours in the shady peacefulness of the broad porches; the young men of the tribe, who gazed with covetous eyes upon the sleek-skinned, blooded colts sporting in the spacious corrals; the squaws, fascinated by the gaudy calicoes, bright ribbons, and glittering strings of beads on the counters or shelves of the large store, to the half-naked, chubby little pappooses around the kitchen doors, waiting with expectant mouths for some delicious morsel of refuse to be thrown to them--all assumed, in bearing and manner, a vested right of proprietorship in their agreeable environment. To this motley group, always under his feet, as it were, Maxwell was ever passively gracious, although they were battening in idleness on his prodigal bounty from year to year. His retinue of servants, necessarily large, was made up of a heterogeneous mixture of Indians, Mexicans, and half-breeds. The kitchens were presided over by dusky maidens under the tutelage of experienced old crones, and its precincts were sacred to them; but the dining-rooms were forbidden to women during the hours of meals, which were served by boys. Maxwell was rarely, as far as my observation extended, without a large amount of money in his possession. He had no safe, however, his only place of temporary deposit for the accumulated cash being the bottom drawer of the old bureau in the large room to which I have referred, which was the most antiquated concern of common pine imaginable. There were only two other drawers in this old-fashioned piece of furniture, and neither of them possessed a lock. The third, or lower, the one that contained the money, did, but it was absolutely worthless, being one of the cheapest pattern and affording not the slightest security; besides, the drawers above it could be pulled out, exposing the treasure immediately beneath to the cupidity of any one. I have frequently seen as much as thirty thousand dollars--gold, silver, greenbacks, and government checks--at one time in that novel depository. Occasionally these large sums remained there for several days, yet there was never any extra precaution taken to prevent its abstraction; doors were always open and the room free of access to every one, as usual. I once suggested to Maxwell the propriety of purchasing a safe for the better security of his money, but he only smiled, while a strange, resolute look flashed from his dark eyes, as he said: "God help the man who attempted to rob me and I knew him!" The sources of his wealth were his cattle, sheep, and the products of his area of cultivated acres--barley, oats, and corn principally--which he disposed of to the quartermaster and commissary departments of the army, in the large military district of New Mexico. His wool-clip must have been enormous, too; but I doubt whether he could have told the number of animals that furnished it or the aggregate of his vast herds. He had a thousand horses, ten thousand cattle, and forty thousand sheep at the time I knew him well, according to the best estimates of his Mexican relatives. He also possessed a large and perfectly appointed gristmill, which was a great source of revenue, for wheat was one of the staple crops of his many farms. Maxwell was fond of travelling all over the Territory, his equipages comprising everything in the shape of a vehicle, through all their varieties, from the most plainly constructed buckboard to the lumbering, but comfortable and expensive, Concord coach, mounted on thorough braces instead of springs, and drawn by four or six horses. He was perfectly reckless in his driving, dashing through streams, over irrigating ditches, stones, and stumps like a veritable Jehu, regardless of consequences, but, as is usually the fortune of such precipitate horsemen, rarely coming to grief. The headquarters of the Ute agency were established at Maxwell's Ranch in early days, and the government detailed a company of cavalry to camp there, more, however, to impress the plains tribes who roamed along the Old Trail east of the Raton Range, than for any effect on the Utes, whom Maxwell could always control, and who regarded him as a father. On the 4th of July, 1867, Maxwell, who owned an antiquated and rusty six-pound field howitzer, suggested to the captain of the troop stationed there the propriety of celebrating the day. So the old piece was dragged from its place under a clump of elms, where it had been hidden in the grass and weeds ever since the Mexican War probably, and brought near the house. The captain and Maxwell acted the rôle of gunners, the former at the muzzle, the latter at the breech; the discharge was premature, blowing out the captain's eye and taking off his arm, while Maxwell escaped with a shattered thumb. As soon as the accident occurred, a sergeant was despatched to Fort Union on one of the fastest horses on the ranch, the faithful animal falling dead the moment he stopped in front of the surgeon's quarters, having made the journey of fifty-five miles in little more than four hours. The surgeon left the post immediately, arriving at Maxwell's late that night, but in time to save the officer's life, after which he dressed Maxwell's apparently inconsiderable wound. In a few days, however, the thumb grew angry-looking; it would not yield to the doctor's careful treatment, so he reluctantly decided that amputation was necessary. After an operation was determined upon, I prevailed upon Maxwell to come to the fort and remain with me, inviting Kit Carson at the same time, that he might assist in catering to the amusement of my suffering guest. Maxwell and Carson arrived at my quarters late in the day, after a tedious ride in the big coach, and the surgeon, in order to allow a prolonged rest on account of Maxwell's feverish condition, postponed the operation until the following evening. The next night, as soon as it grew dark--we waited for coolness, as the days were excessively hot--the necessary preliminaries were arranged, and when everything was ready the surgeon commenced. Maxwell declined the anaesthetic prepared for him, and sitting in a common office chair put out his hand, while Carson and myself stood on opposite sides, each holding an ordinary kerosene lamp. In a few seconds the operation was concluded, and after the silver-wire ligatures were twisted in their places, I offered Maxwell, who had not as yet permitted a single sigh to escape his lips, half a tumblerful of whiskey; but before I had fairly put it to his mouth, he fell over, having fainted dead away, while great beads of perspiration stood on his forehead, indicative of the pain he had suffered, as the amputation of the thumb, the surgeon told us then, was as bad as that of a leg. He returned to his ranch as soon as the surgeon pronounced him well, and Carson to his home in Taos. I saw the latter but once more at Maxwell's; but he was en route to visit me at Fort Harker, in Kansas, when he was taken ill at Fort Lyon, where he died. A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts. How true it now seems to me, as the recollections of my boyish days, when I read of the exploits of Kit Carson, crowd upon my memory! I firmly believed him to be at least ten feet tall, carrying a rifle so heavy that, like Bruce's sword, it required two men to lift it. I imagined he drank out of nothing smaller than a river, and picked the carcass of a whole buffalo as easily as a lady does the wing of a quail. Ten years later I made the acquaintance of the foremost frontiersman, and found him a delicate, reticent, under-sized, wiry man, as perfectly the opposite of the type my childish brain had created as it is possible to conceive. At Fort Union our mail arrived every morning by coach over the Trail, generally pulling up at the sutler's store, whose proprietor was postmaster, about daylight. While Maxwell and Kit were my guests, I sauntered down after breakfast one morning to get my mail, and while waiting for the letters to be distributed, happened to glance at some papers lying on the counter, among which I saw a new periodical--the _Day's Doings_, I think it was--that had a full-page illustration of a scene in a forest. In the foreground stood a gigantic figure dressed in the traditional buckskin; on one arm rested an immense rifle; his other arm was around the waist of the conventional female of such sensational journals, while in front, lying prone upon the ground, were half a dozen Indians, evidently slain by the singular hero in defending the impossibly attired female. The legend related how all this had been effected by the famous Kit Carson. I purchased the paper, returned with it to my room, and after showing it to several officers who had called upon Maxwell, I handed it to Kit. He wiped his spectacles, studied the picture intently for a few seconds, turned round, and said: "Gentlemen, that thar may be true, but I hain't got no recollection of it." I passed a delightful two weeks with Maxwell, late in the summer of 1867, at the time that the excitement over the discovery of gold on his ranch had just commenced, and adventurers were beginning to congregate in the hills and gulches from everywhere. The discovery of the precious metal on his estate was the first cause of his financial embarrassment. It was the ruin also of many other prominent men in New Mexico, who expended their entire fortune in the construction of an immense ditch, forty miles in length--from the Little Canadian or Red River--to supply the placer diggings in the Moreno valley with water, when the melted snow of Old Baldy range had exhausted itself in the late summer. The scheme was a stupendous failure; its ruins may be seen to-day in the deserted valleys, a monument to man's engineering skill, but the wreck of his hopes. For some years previous to the discovery of gold in the mountains and gulches of Maxwell's Ranch, it was known that copper existed in the region; several shafts had been sunk and tunnels driven in various places, and gold had been found from time to time, but was kept a secret for many months. Its presence was at last revealed to Maxwell by a party of his own miners, who were boring into the heart of Old Baldy for a copper lead that had cropped out and was then lost. Of course, to keep the knowledge of the discovery of gold from the world is an impossibility; such was the case in this instance, and soon commenced that squatter immigration out of which, after the ranch was sold and Maxwell died, grew that litigation which has resulted in favour of the company who purchased from or through the first owners after Maxwell's death. He was a representative man of the border of the same class as his compeers--"wild-civilized men," to borrow an expressive term from John Burroughs--of strong local attachments, and overflowing with the milk of human kindness. To such as he there was an unconquerable infatuation in life on the remote plains and in the solitude of the mountains. There was never anything of the desperado in their character, while the adventurers who at times have made the far West infamous, since the advent of the railroad, were bad men originally. Occasionally such men turn up everywhere, and become a terror to the community, but they are always wound up sooner or later; they die with their boots on; Western graveyards are full of them. Maxwell, under contract with the Interior Department, furnished live beeves to the Ute nation, the issue of which was made weekly from his own vast herds. The cattle, as wild as those from the Texas prairies, were driven by his herders into an immense enclosed field, and there turned loose to be slaughtered by the savages. Once when at the ranch I told Maxwell I should like to have a horse to witness the novel sight. He immediately ordered a Mexican groom to procure one; but I did not see the peculiar smile that lighted up his face, as he whispered something to the man which I did not catch. Presently the groom returned leading a magnificent gray, which I mounted, Maxwell suggesting that I should ride down to the large field and wait there until the herd arrived. I entered the great corral, patting my horse on the neck now and then, to make him familiar with my touch, and attempted to converse with some of the chiefs, who were dressed in their best, painted as if for the war-path, gaily bedecked with feathers and armed with rifles and gaudily appointed bows and arrows; but I did not succeed very well in drawing them from their normal reticence. The squaws, a hundred of them, were sitting on the ground, their knives in hand ready for the labour which is the fate of their sex in all savage tribes, while their lords' portion of the impending business was to end with the more manly efforts of the chase. Suddenly a great cloud of dust rose on the trail from the mountains, and on came the maddened animals, fairly shaking the earth with their mighty tread. As soon as the gate was closed behind them, and uttering a characteristic yell that was blood-curdling in its ferocity, the Indians charged upon the now doubly frightened herd, and commenced to discharge their rifles, regardless of the presence of any one but themselves. My horse became paralyzed for an instant and stood poised on his hind legs, like the steed represented in that old lithographic print of Napoleon crossing the Alps; then taking the bit in his teeth, he rushed aimlessly into the midst of the flying herd, while the bullets from the guns of the excited savages rained around my head. I had always boasted of my equestrian accomplishments--I was never thrown but once in my life, and that was years afterward--but in this instance it taxed all my powers to keep my seat. In less than twenty minutes the last beef had fallen; and the warriors, inflated with the pride of their achievement, rode silently out of the field, leaving the squaws to cut up and carry away the meat to their lodges, more than three miles distant, which they soon accomplished, to the last quivering morsel. As I rode leisurely back to the house, I saw Maxwell and Kit standing on the broad porch, their sides actually shaking with laughter at my discomfiture, they having been watching me from the very moment the herd entered the corral. It appeared that the horse Maxwell ordered the groom to bring me was a recent importation from St. Louis, had never before seen an Indian, and was as unused to the prairies and mountains as a street-car mule. Kit said that my mount reminded him of one that his antagonist in a duel rode a great many years ago when he was young. If the animal had not been such "a fourth-of-July" brute, his opponent would in all probability have finished him, as he was a splendid shot; but Kit fortunately escaped, the bullet merely grazing him under the ear, leaving a scar which he then showed me. One night Kit Carson, Maxwell, and I were up in the Raton Mountains above the Old Trail, and having lingered too long, were caught above the clouds against our will, darkness having overtaken us before we were ready to descend into the valley. It was dangerous to undertake the trip over such a precipitous and rocky trail, so we were compelled to make the best of our situation. It was awfully cold, and as we had brought no blankets, we dared not go to sleep for fear our fire might go out, and we should freeze. We therefore determined to make a night of it by telling yarns, smoking our pipes, and walking around at times. After sitting awhile, Maxwell pointed toward the Spanish Peaks, whose snow-white tops cast a diffused light in the heavens above them, and remarked that in the deep canyon which separates them, he had had one of the "closest calls" of his life, willingly complying when I asked him to tell us the story. "It was in 1847. I came down from Taos with a party to go to the Cimarron crossing of the Santa Fe Trail to pick up a large herd of horses for the United States Quartermaster's Department. We succeeded in gathering about a hundred and started back with them, letting them graze slowly along, as we were in no hurry. When we arrived at the foot-hills north of Bent's Fort, we came suddenly upon the trail of a large war-band of Utes, none of whom we saw, but from subsequent developments the savages must have discovered us days before we reached the mountains. I knew we were not strong enough to cope with the whole Ute nation, and concluded the best thing for us to do under the ticklish circumstances was to make a detour, and put them off our trail. So we turned abruptly down the Arkansas, intending to try and get to Taos in that direction, more than one hundred and fifty miles around. It appeared afterward that the Indians had been following us all the way. When we found this out, some of the men believed they were another party, and not the same whose trail we came upon when we turned down the river, but I always insisted they were. When we arrived within a few days' drive of Taos, we were ambushed in one of the narrow passes of the range, and had the bloodiest fight with the Utes on record. There were thirteen of us, all told, and two little children whom we were escorting to their friends at Taos, having received them at the Cimarron crossing. "While we were quietly taking our breakfast one morning, and getting ready to pull out for the day's march, perfectly unsuspicious of the proximity of any Indians, they dashed in upon us, and in less than a minute stampeded all our stock--loose animals as well as those we were riding. While part of the savages were employed in running off the animals, fifty of their most noted warriors, splendidly mounted and horribly painted, rushed into the camp, around the fire of which the men and the little children were peacefully sitting, and, discharging their guns as they rode up, killed one man and wounded another. "Terribly surprised as we were, it did not turn the heads of the old mountaineers, and I immediately told them to make a break for a clump of timber near by, and that we would fight them as long as one of us could stand up. There we fought and fought against fearful odds, until all were wounded except two. The little children were captured at the beginning of the trouble and carried off at once. After a while the savages got tired of the hard work, and, as is frequently the case, went away of their own free will; but they left us in a terrible plight. All were sore, stiff, and weak from their many wounds; on foot, and without any food or ammunition to procure game with, having exhausted our supply in the awfully unequal battle; besides, we were miles from home, with every prospect of starving to death. "We could not remain where we were, so as soon as darkness came on, we started out to walk to some settlement. We dared not show ourselves by daylight, and all through the long hours when the sun was up, we were obliged to hide in the brush and ravines until night overtook us again, and we could start on our painful march. "We had absolutely nothing to eat, and our wounds began to fester, so that we could hardly move at all. We should undoubtedly have perished, if, on the third day, a band of friendly Indians of another tribe had not gone to Taos and reported the fight to the commanding officer of the troops there. These Indians had heard of our trouble with the Utes, and knowing how strong they were, and our weakness, surmised our condition, and so hastened to convey the bad news. "A company of dragoons was immediately sent to our rescue, under the guidance of Dick Wooton, who was and has ever been a warm personal friend of mine. They came upon us about forty miles from Taos, and never were we more surprised; we had become so starved and emaciated that we had abandoned all hope of escaping what seemed to be our inevitable fate. "When the troops found us, we had only a few rags, our clothes having been completely stripped from our bodies while struggling through the heavy underbrush on our trail, and we were so far exhausted that we could not stand on our feet. One more day, and we would have been laid out. "The little children were, fortunately, saved from the horror of that terrible march after the fight, as the Indians carried them to their winter camp, where, if not absolutely happy, they were under shelter and fed; escaping the starvation which would certainly have been their fate if they had remained with us. They were eventually ransomed for a cash payment by the government, and altogether had not been very harshly treated." CHAPTER XIX. BENT'S FORTS. The famous Bent brothers, William, George, Robert, and Charles, were French-Canadian hunters and trappers, and had been employed almost from boyhood, in the early days of the border, by the American Fur Company in the mountains of the Northwest. In 1826, almost immediately after the transference of the fur trade to the valley of the Arkansas, when the commerce of the prairies was fairly initiated, the three Bents and Ceran St. Vrain, also a French-Canadian and trapper, settled on the Upper Arkansas, where they erected a stockade. It was, of course, a rude affair, formed of long stakes or pickets driven into the ground, after the Mexican style known as jacal. The sides were then ceiled and roofed, and it served its purpose of a trading-post. This primitive fort was situated on the left or north bank of the river, about halfway between Pueblo and Canyon City, those beautiful mountain towns of to-day. Two years afterward, in 1828, the proprietors of the primitive stockade in the remote wilderness found it necessary to move closer to the great hunting-grounds lower down the valley. There, about twelve miles northeast of the now thriving town of Las Animas, the Bents commenced the construction of a relatively large and more imposing-looking structure than the first. The principal material used in the new building, or rather in its walls, was adobe, or sun-dried brick, so common even to-day in New Mexican architecture. Four years elapsed before the new fort was completed, during which period its owners, like other trappers, lived in tents or teepees fashioned of buffalo-skins, after the manner of the Indians. When at last the new station was completed, it was named Fort William, in honour of Colonel William Bent, who was the leader of the family and the most active trader among the four partners in the concern. The colonel frequently made long trips to the remote villages of the Arapahoes, Cheyennes, Kiowas, and Comanches, which were situated far to the south and east, on the Canadian River and its large tributaries. His miscellaneous assortment of merchandise he transported upon pack-mules to the Indian rendezvous, bringing back to the fort the valuable furs he had exchanged for the goods so eagerly coveted by the savages. It was while on one of his trading expeditions to the Cheyenne nation that the colonel married a young squaw of that tribe, the daughter of the principal chief. William Bent for his day and time was an exceptionally good man. His integrity, his truthfulness on all occasions, and his remarkable courage endeared him to the red and white man alike, and Fort William prospered wonderfully under his careful and just management. Both his brothers and St. Vrain had taken up their residence in Taos, and upon the colonel devolved the entire charge of the busy establishment. It soon became the most popular rendezvous of the mountaineers and trappers, and in its immediate vicinity several tribes of Indians took up their temporary encampment. In 1852 Fort William was destroyed under the following strange circumstances: It appears that the United States desired to purchase it. Colonel Bent had decided upon a price--sixteen thousand dollars--but the representatives of the War Department offered only twelve thousand, which, of course, Bent refused. Negotiations were still pending, when the colonel, growing tired of the red-tape and circumlocution of the authorities, and while in a mad mood, removed all his valuables from the structure, excepting some barrels of gunpowder, and then deliberately set fire to the old landmark. When the flames reached the powder, there was an explosion which threw down portions of the walls, but did not wholly destroy them. The remains of the once noted buildings stand to-day, melancholy relics of a past epoch. In the same year the indefatigable and indomitable colonel determined upon erecting a much more important structure. He selected a site on the same side of the Arkansas, in the locality known as Big Timbers. Regarding this new venture, Colonel or Judge Moore of Las Animas, a son-in-law of William Bent, tells in a letter to the author of the history of Colorado the following facts:-- Leaving ten men in camp to get out stone for the new post, Colonel Bent took a part of his outfit and went to a Kiowa village, about two hundred miles southwest, and remained there all winter, trading with the Kiowas and Comanches. In the spring of 1853 he returned to Big Timbers, when the construction of the new post was begun, and the work continued until completed in the summer of 1854; and it was used as a trading-post until the owner leased it to the government in the autumn of 1859. Colonel Sedgwick had been sent out to fight the Kiowas that year, and in the fall a large quantity of commissary stores had been sent him. Colonel Bent then moved up the river to a point just above the mouth of the Purgatoire, and built several rooms of cottonwood pickets, and there spent the winter. In the spring of 1860, Colonel Sedgwick began the construction of officers' buildings, company quarters, corrals, and stables, all of stone, and named the place Fort Wise, in honour of Governor Wise of Virginia. In 1861 the name was changed to Fort Lyon, in honour of General Lyon, who was killed at the battle of Wilson Creek, Missouri. In the spring of 1866, the Arkansas River overflowed its banks, swept up into the fort, and, undermining the walls, rendered it untenable for military purposes. The camp was moved to a point twenty miles below, and the new Fort Lyon established. The old post was repaired, and used as a stage station by Barlow, Sanderson, and Company, who ran a mail, express, and passenger line between Kansas City and Santa Fe. The contiguous region to Fort William was in the early days a famous hunting-ground. It abounded in nearly every variety of animal indigenous to the mountains and plains, among which were the panther--the so-called California lion of to-day--the lynx, erroneously termed wild cat, white wolf, prairie wolf, silver-gray fox, prairie fox, antelope, buffalo, gray, grizzly and cinnamon bears, together with the common brown and black species, the red deer and the black-tail, the latter the finest venison in the world. Of birds there were wild turkeys, quail, and grouse, besides an endless variety of the smaller-sized families, not regarded as belonging to the domain of game in a hunter's sense. It was a veritable paradise, too, for the trappers. Its numerous streams and creeks were famous for beaver, otter, and mink. Scarcely an acre of the surrounding area within the radius of hundreds of miles but has been the scene of many deadly encounters with the wily red man, stories of which are still current among the few old mountaineers yet living. The fort was six hundred and fifty miles west of Fort Leavenworth, in latitude thirty-eight degrees and two minutes north, and longitude one hundred and three degrees and three minutes west, from Greenwich. The exterior walls of the fort, whose figure was that of a parallelogram, were fifteen feet high and four feet thick. It was a hundred and thirty-five feet wide and divided into various compartments. On the northwest and southeast corners were hexagonal bastions, in which were mounted a number of cannon. The walls of the building served as the walls of the rooms, all of which faced inwards on a plaza, after the general style of Mexican architecture. The roofs of the rooms were made of poles, on which was a heavy layer of dirt, as in the houses of native Mexicans to-day. The fort possessed a billiard table, that visitors might amuse themselves, and in the office was a small telescope with a fair range of seven miles. The occupants of the far-away establishment, in its palmy days (for years it was the only building between Council Grove and the mountains), were traders, Indians, hunters, and French trappers, who were the employees of the great fur companies. Many of the latter had Indian wives. Later, after a stage line had been put in operation across the plains to Santa Fe, the fort was relegated to a mere station for the overland route, and with the march of civilization in its course westward, the trappers, hunters, and traders vanished from the once famous rendezvous. The walls were loopholed for musketry, and the entrance to the plaza, or corral, was guarded by large wooden gates. During the war with Mexico, the fort was headquarters for the commissary department, and many supplies were stored there, though the troops camped below on the beautiful river-bottom. In the centre of the corral, in the early days when the place was a rendezvous of the trappers, a large buffalo-robe press was erected. When the writer first saw the famous fort, now over a third of a century ago, one of the cannon, that burst in firing a salute to General Kearney, could be seen half buried in the dirt of the plaza. By barometrical measurements taken by the engineer officers of the army at different times, the height of Bent's Fort above the ocean level is approximately eight thousand nine hundred and fifty-eight feet, and the fall of the Arkansas River from the fort to the great bend of that stream, about three hundred and eleven miles east, is seven feet and four-tenths per mile. It was in a relatively fair state of preservation thirty-three years ago, but now not a vestige of it remains, excepting perhaps a mound of dirt, the disintegration of the mud bricks of which the historical structure was built. The Indians whose villages were located a few miles below the fort, or at least the chief men of the various tribes, passed much of their time within the shelter of the famous structure. They were bountifully fed, and everything they needed furnished them. This was purely from policy, however; for if their wishes were not gratified, their hunters would not bring in their furs to trade. The principal chiefs never failed to be present when a meal was announced as ready, and however scarce provisions might be, the Indians must be fed. The first farm in the fertile and now valuable lands of the valley of the Rio de las Animas[60] was opened by the Bents. The area selected for cultivation was in the beautiful bottom between the fort and the ford, a strip about a mile in length, and from one hundred and fifty to six hundred feet in width. Nothing could be grown without irrigation, and to that end an acequia, as the Mexicans call the ditch through which the water flows, was constructed, and a crop put in. Before the enterprising projectors of the scheme could reap a harvest, the hostile savages dashed in and destroyed everything. Uncle John Smith was one of the principal traders back in the '30's, and he was very successful, perhaps because he was undoubtedly the most perfect master of the Cheyenne language at that time in the whole mountain region. Among those who frequently came to the fort were Kit Carson, L. B. Maxwell, Uncle Dick Wooton, Baptiste Brown, Jim Bridger, Old Bill Williams, James Beckwourth, Shawnee Spiebuck, Shawnee Jake--the latter two, noted Indian trappers--besides a host of others. The majority of the old trappers, to a stranger, until he knew their peculiar characteristics, were seemingly of an unsociable disposition. It was an erroneous idea, however; for they were the most genial companions imaginable, generous to a fault, and to fall into one of their camps was indeed a lucky thing for the lost traveller. Everything the host had was at his guest's disposal, and though coffee and sugar were the dearest of his luxuries, often purchased with a whole season's trapping, the black fluid was offered with genuine free-heartedness, and the last plug of tobacco placed at the disposition of his chance visitor, as though it could be picked up on the ground anywhere. Goods brought by the traders to the rendezvous for sale to the trappers and hunters, although of the most inferior quality, were sold at enormously high prices. Coffee, by the pint-cup, which was the usual measure for everything, cost from a dollar and twenty cents to three dollars; tobacco a dollar and a half a plug; alcohol from two dollars to five dollars a pint; gunpowder one dollar and sixty cents a pint-cup, and all other articles at proportionably exorbitant rates. The annual gatherings of the trappers at the rendezvous were often the scene of bloody duels; for over their cups and cards no men were more quarrelsome than the old-time mountaineers. Rifles at twenty paces settled all difficulties, and, as may be imagined, the fall of one or the other of the combatants was certain, or, as sometimes happened, both fell at the word "Fire!" The trapper's visits to the Mexican settlements, or to the lodges of a tribe of Indians, for the purpose of trading, often resulted in his returning to his quiet camp with a woman to grace his solitary home, the loving and lonely couple as devoted to each other in the midst of blood-thirsty enemies, howling wolves, and panthers, as if they were in some quiet country village. The easy manners of the harum-scarum, reckless trappers at the rendezvous, and the simple, unsuspecting hearts of those nymphs of the mountains, the squaws, caused their husbands to be very jealous of the attentions bestowed upon them by strangers. Often serious difficulties arose, in the course of which the poor wife received a severe whipping with the knot of a lariat, or no very light lodge-poling at the hands of her imperious sovereign. Sometimes the affair ended in a more tragical way than a mere beating, not infrequently the gallant paying the penalty of his interference with his life. Garrard, a traveller on the great plains and in the Rocky Mountains half a century ago, from whose excellent diary I have frequently quoted, passed many days and nights at Bent's Fort fifty years ago, and his quaint description of life there in that remote period of the extreme frontier is very amusing. Its truth has often been confirmed by Uncle John Smith, who was my guide and interpreter in the Indian expedition of 1868-69, only two decades after Garrard's experience. Rosalie, a half-breed French and Indian squaw, wife of the carpenter, and Charlotte, the culinary divinity, were, as a Missouri teamster remarked, "the only female women here." They were nightly led to the floor to trip the light fantastic toe, and swung rudely or gently in the mazes of the contra-dance, but such a medley of steps is seldom seen out of the mountains--the halting, irregular march of the war-dance, the slipping gallopade, the boisterous pitching of the Missouri backwoodsman, and the more nice gyrations of the Frenchman; for all, irrespective of rank, age, or colour, went pell-mell into the excitement, in a manner that would have rendered a leveller of aristocracies and select companies frantic with delight. And the airs assumed by the fair ones, more particularly Charlotte, who took pattern from life in the States, were amusing. She acted her part to perfection; she was the centre of attraction, the belle of the evening. She treated the suitors for the pleasure of the next set with becoming ease and suavity of manner; she knew her worth, and managed accordingly. When the favoured gallant stood by her side waiting for the rudely scraped tune from a screeching fiddle, satisfaction, joy, and triumph over his rivals were pictured on his radiant face. James Hobbs, of whom I have already spoken, once gave me a graphic description of the annual feast of the Comanches, Cheyennes, and Arapahoes, which always took place at Big Timbers, near Fort William. Hobbs was married to the daughter of Old Wolf, the chief of the Comanches, a really beautiful Indian girl, with whom he lived faithfully many years. In the early summer of 1835, he went with his father-in-law and the rest of the tribe to the great feast of that season. He stated that on that occasion there were forty thousand Indians assembled, and consequently large hunting parties were sent out daily to procure food for such a vast host. The entertainment was kept up for fifteen days, enlivened by horse races, foot races, and playing ball. In these races the tribes would bet their horses on the result, the Comanches generally winning, for they are the best riders in the world. By the time the feast was ended, the Arapahoes and Cheyennes usually found themselves afoot, but Old Wolf, who was a generous fellow, always gave them back enough animals to get home with. The game of ball was played with crooked sticks, and is very much like the American boys' "shinny." The participants are dressed in a simple breech-cloth and moccasins. It is played with great enthusiasm and affords much amusement. At these annual feasts a council of the great chiefs of the three tribes is always held, and at the one during the season referred to, Hobbs said the Cheyenne chiefs wanted Old Wolf to visit Bent's Fort, where he had never been. Upon the arrival of the delegation there, it was heartily welcomed by all the famous men who happened to be at the place, among whom were Kit Carson, Old John Smith, and several noted trappers. Whiskey occupied a prominent place in the rejoicing, and "I found it hard work," said Hobbs, "to stand the many toasts drank to my good health." The whole party, including Old Wolf and his companion the Cheyenne chief, got very much elated, and every person in the fort smelt whiskey, if they did not get their feet tangled with it. About midnight a messenger came inside, reporting that a thousand Comanche warriors were gathering around the fort. They demanded their leaders, fearing treachery, and desired to know why their chief had not returned. Hobbs went out and explained that he was safe; but they insisted on seeing him, so he and Hobbs showed themselves to the assembled Indians, and Old Wolf made a speech, telling them that he and the Cheyenne chief were among good friends to the Indians, and presents would be given to them the next morning. The warriors were pacified with these assurances, though they did not leave the vicinity of the fort. It was at this time that Hobbs was ransomed by Colonel Bent, who gave Old Wolf, for him, six yards of red flannel, a pound of tobacco, and an ounce of beads. The chief was taken in charge by a lieutenant, who showed him all over the fort, letting him see the rifle port-holes, and explaining how the place could stand a siege against a thousand Indians. Finally, he was taken out on the parapet, where there was a six-pounder at each angle. The old savage inquired how they could shoot such a thing, and at Hobbs' request, a blank cartridge was put in the piece and fired. Old Wolf sprang back in amazement, and the Indians on the outside, under the walls, knowing nothing of what was going on, ran away as fast as their legs could carry them, convinced that their chief must be dead now and their own safety dependent upon flight. Old Wolf and Hobbs sprang upon the wall and signalled and shouted to them, and they returned, asking in great astonishment what kind of a monstrous gun it was. About noon trading commenced. The Indians wished to come into the fort, but Bent would not let any enter but the chiefs. At the back door the colonel displayed his goods, and the Indians brought forward their ponies, buffalo-robes, deer and other skins, which they traded for tobacco, beads, calico, flannel, knives, spoons, whistles, jews'-harps, etc. Whiskey was sold to them the first day, but as it caused several fights among them before night, Bent stopped its sale, at Hobbs' suggestion and with Old Wolf's consent. Indians, when they get drunk, do not waste time by fighting with fists, like white men, but use knives and tomahawks; so that a general scrimmage is a serious affair. Two or three deaths resulted the first day, and there would have been many more if the sale of whiskey had not been stopped. The trading continued for eight days, and Colonel Bent reaped a rich harvest of what he could turn into gold at St. Louis. Old Wolf slept in the fort each night except one during that time, and every time his warriors aroused him about twelve o'clock and compelled him to show himself on the walls to satisfy them of his safety. About a hundred trappers were in the employ of Bent and his partners. Sometimes one-half of the company were off on a hunt, leaving but a small force at the fort for its protection, but with the small battery there its defence was considered sufficient. One day a trapping party, consisting of Kit Carson, "Peg-leg" Smith, and James Hobbs, together with some Shawnee Indians, all under the lead of Carson, started out from Bent's Fort for the Picketwire to trap beaver. Grizzlies were very abundant in that region then, and one of the party, named McIntire, having killed an elk the evening before, said to Hobbs that they might stand a good chance to find a grizzly by the elk he had shot but had not brought in. Hobbs said that he was willing to go with him, but as McIntire was a very green man in the mountains, Hobbs had some doubts of depending on him in case of an attack by a grizzly bear. The two men left for the ravine in which McIntire had killed the elk very early in the morning, taking with them tomahawks, hunting-knives, rifles, and a good dog. On arriving at the ravine, Hobbs told McIntire to cross over to the other side and climb the hill, but on no account to go down into the ravine, as a grizzly is more dangerous when he has a man on the downhill side. Hobbs then went to where he thought the elk might be if he had died by the bank of the stream; but as soon as he came near the water, he saw that a large grizzly had got there before him, having scented the animal, and was already making his breakfast. The bear was in thick, scrubby oak brush, and Hobbs, making his dog lie down, crawled behind a rock to get a favourable shot at the beast. He drew a bead on him and fired, but the bear only snarled at the wound made by the ball and started tearing through the brush, biting furiously at it as he went. Hobbs reloaded his rifle carefully, and as quickly as he could, in order to get a second shot; but, to his amazement, he saw the bear rushing down the ravine chasing McIntire, who was only about ten feet in advance of the enraged beast, running for his life, and making as much noise as a mad bull. He was terribly scared, and Hobbs hastened to his rescue, first sending his dog ahead. Just as the dog reached the bear, McIntire darted behind a tree and flung his hat in the bear's face, at the same time sticking his rifle toward him. The old grizzly seized the muzzle of the gun in his teeth, and, as it was loaded and cocked, it either went off accidentally or otherwise and blew the bear's head open, just as the dog had fastened on his hindquarters. Hobbs ran to the assistance of his comrade with all haste, but he was out of danger and had sat down a few rods away, with his face as white as a sheet, a badly frightened man. After that fearful scare, McIntire would cook or do anything, but said he never intended to make a business of bear-hunting; he had only wished for one adventure, and this one had satisfied him. CHAPTER XX. PAWNEE ROCK. That portion of the great central plains which radiates from Pawnee Rock, including the Big Bend of the Arkansas, thirteen miles distant, where that river makes a sudden sweep to the southeast, and the beautiful valley of the Walnut, in all its vast area of more than a million square acres, was from time immemorial a sort of debatable land, occupied by none of the Indian tribes, but claimed by all to hunt in; for it was a famous pasturage of the buffalo. None of the various bands had the temerity to attempt its permanent occupancy; for whenever hostile tribes met there, which was of frequent occurrence, in their annual hunt for their winter's supply of meat, a bloody battle was certain to ensue. The region referred to has been the scene of more sanguinary conflicts between the different Indians of the plains, perhaps, than any other portion of the continent. Particularly was it the arena of war to the death, when the Pawnees met their hereditary enemies, the Cheyennes. Pawnee Rock was a spot well calculated by nature to form, as it has done, an important rendezvous and ambuscade for the prowling savages of the prairies, and often afforded them, especially the once powerful and murderous Pawnees whose name it perpetuates, a pleasant little retreat or eyrie from which to watch the passing Santa Fe traders, and dash down upon them like hawks, to carry off their plunder and their scalps. Through this once dangerous region, close to the silent Arkansas, and running under the very shadow of the rock, the Old Trail wound its course. Now, at this point, it is the actual road-bed of the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad, so strangely are the past and present transcontinental highways connected here. Who, among bearded and grizzled old fellows like myself, has forgotten that most sensational of all the miserably executed illustrations in the geographies of fifty years ago, "The Santa Fe Traders attacked by Indians"? The picture located the scene of the fight at Pawnee Rock, which formed a sort of nondescript shadow in the background of a crudely drawn representation of the dangers of the Trail. If this once giant sentinel[61] of the plains might speak, what a story it could tell of the events that have happened on the beautiful prairie stretching out for miles at its feet! In the early fall, when the rock was wrapped in the soft amber haze which is a distinguishing characteristic of the incomparable Indian summer on the plains; or in the spring, when the mirage weaves its mysterious shapes, it loomed up in the landscape as if it were a huge mountain, and to the inexperienced eye appeared as if it were the abrupt ending of a well-defined range. But when the frost came, and the mists were dispelled; when the thin fringe of timber on the Walnut, a few miles distant, had doffed its emerald mantle, and the grass had grown yellow and rusty, then in the golden sunlight of winter, the rock sank down to its normal proportions, and cut the clear blue of the sky with sharply marked lines. In the days when the Santa Fe trade was at its height, the Pawnees were the most formidable tribe on the eastern central plains, and the freighters and trappers rarely escaped a skirmish with them either at the crossing of the Walnut, Pawnee Rock, the Fork of the Pawnee, or at Little and Big Coon creeks. To-day what is left of the historic hill looks down only upon peaceful homes and fruitful fields, whereas for hundreds of years it witnessed nothing but battle and death, and almost every yard of brown sod at its base covered a skeleton. In place of the horrid yell of the infuriated savage, as he wrenched off the reeking scalp of his victim, the whistle of the locomotive and the pleasant whirr of the reaping-machine is heard; where the death-cry of the painted warrior rang mournfully over the silent prairie, the waving grain is singing in beautiful rhythm as it bows to the summer breeze. Pawnee Rock received its name in a baptism of blood, but there are many versions as to the time and sponsors. It was there that Kit Carson killed his first Indian, and from that fight, as he told me himself, the broken mass of red sandstone was given its distinctive title. It was late in the spring of 1826; Kit was then a mere boy, only seventeen years old, and as green as any boy of his age who had never been forty miles from the place where he was born. Colonel Ceran St. Vrain, then a prominent agent of one of the great fur companies, was fitting out an expedition destined for the far-off Rocky Mountains, the members of which, all trappers, were to obtain the skins of the buffalo, beaver, otter, mink, and other valuable fur-bearing animals that then roamed in immense numbers on the vast plains or in the hills, and were also to trade with the various tribes of Indians on the borders of Mexico. Carson joined this expedition, which was composed of twenty-six mule wagons, some loose stock, and forty-two men. The boy was hired to help drive the extra animals, hunt game, stand guard, and to make himself generally useful, which, of course, included fighting Indians if any were met with on the long route. The expedition left Fort Osage one bright morning in May in excellent spirits, and in a few hours turned abruptly to the west on the broad Trail to the mountains. The great plains in those early days were solitary and desolate beyond the power of description; the Arkansas River sluggishly followed the tortuous windings of its treeless banks with a placidness that was awful in its very silence; and whoso traced the wanderings of that stream with no companion but his own thoughts, realized in all its intensity the depth of solitude from which Robinson Crusoe suffered on his lonely island. Illimitable as the ocean, the weary waste stretched away until lost in the purple of the horizon, and the mirage created weird pictures in the landscape, distorted distances and objects which continually annoyed and deceived. Despite its loneliness, however, there was then, and ever has been for many men, an infatuation for those majestic prairies that once experienced is never lost, and it came to the boyish heart of Kit, who left them but with life, and full of years. There was not much variation in the eternal sameness of things during the first two weeks, as the little train moved day after day through the wilderness of grass, its ever-rattling wheels only intensifying the surrounding monotony. Occasionally, however, a herd of buffalo was discovered in the distance, their brown, shaggy sides contrasting with the never-ending sea of verdure around them. Then young Kit, and two or three others of the party who were detailed to supply the teamsters and trappers with meat, would ride out after them on the best of the extra horses which were always kept saddled and tied together behind the last wagon for services of this kind. Kit, who was already an excellent horseman and a splendid shot with the rifle, would soon overtake them, and topple one after another of their huge fat carcasses over on the prairie until half a dozen or more were lying dead. The tender humps, tongues, and other choice portions were then cut out and put in a wagon which had by that time reached them from the train, and the expedition rolled on. So they marched for about three weeks, when they arrived at the crossing of the Walnut, where they saw the first signs of Indians. They had halted for that day; the mules were unharnessed, the camp-fires lighted, and the men just about to indulge in their refreshing coffee, when suddenly half a dozen Pawnees, mounted on their ponies, hideously painted and uttering the most demoniacal yells, rushed out of the tall grass on the river-bottom, where they had been ambushed, and swinging their buffalo-robes, attempted to stampede the herd picketed near the camp. The whole party were on their feet in an instant with rifles in hand, and all the savages got for their trouble were a few well-deserved shots as they hurriedly scampered back to the river and over into the sand hills on the other side, soon to be out of sight. The expedition travelled sixteen miles next day, and camped at Pawnee Rock, where, after the experience of the evening before, every precaution was taken to prevent a surprise by the savages. The wagons were formed into a corral, so that the animals could be secured in the event of a prolonged fight; the guards were drilled by the colonel, and every man slept with his rifle for a bed-fellow, for the old trappers knew that the Indians would never remain satisfied with their defeat on the Walnut, but would seize the first favourable opportunity to renew their attack. At dark the sentinels were placed in position, and to young Kit fell the important post immediately in front of the south face of the Rock, nearly two hundred yards from the corral; the others being at prominent points on top, and on the open prairie on either side. All who were not on duty had long since been snoring heavily, rolled up in their blankets and buffalo-robes, when at about half-past eleven, one of the guard gave the alarm, "Indians!" and ran the mules that were nearest him into the corral. In a moment the whole company turned out at the report of a rifle ringing on the clear night air, coming from the direction of the rock. The men had gathered at the opening to the corral, waiting for developments, when Kit came running in, and as soon as he was near enough, the colonel asked him whether he had seen any Indians. "Yes," Kit replied, "I killed one of the red devils; I saw him fall!" The alarm proved to be false; there was no further disturbance that night, so the party returned to their beds, and the sentinels to their several posts, Kit of course to his place in front of the Rock. Early the next morning, before breakfast even, all were so anxious to see Kit's dead Indian, that they went out en masse to where he was still stationed, and instead of finding a painted Pawnee, as was expected, they found the boy's riding mule dead, shot right through the head. Kit felt terribly mortified over his ridiculous blunder, and it was a long time before he heard the last of his midnight adventure and his raid on his own mule. But he always liked to tell the "balance of the story," as he termed it, and this is his version: "I had not slept any the night before, for I stayed awake watching to get a shot at the Pawnees that tried to stampede our animals, expecting they would return; and I hadn't caught a wink all day, as I was out buffalo hunting, so I was awfully tired and sleepy when we arrived at Pawnee Rock that evening, and when I was posted at my place at night, I must have gone to sleep leaning against the rocks; at any rate, I was wide enough awake when the cry of Indians was given by one of the guard. I had picketed my mule about twenty steps from where I stood, and I presume he had been lying down; all I remember is that the first thing I saw after the alarm was something rising up out of the grass, which I thought was an Indian. I pulled the trigger; it was a centre shot, and I don't believe the mule ever kicked after he was hit!" The next morning about daylight, a band of Pawnees attacked the train in earnest, and kept the little command busy all that day, the next night, and until the following midnight, nearly three whole days, the mules all the time being shut in the corral without food or water. At midnight of the second day the colonel ordered the men to hitch up and attempt to drive on to the crossing of Pawnee Fork, thirteen miles distant.[62] They succeeded in getting there, fighting their way without the loss of any of their men or animals. The Trail crossed the creek in the shape of a horseshoe, or rather, in consequence of the double bend of the stream as it empties into the Arkansas, the road crossed it twice. In making this passage, dangerous on account of its crookedness, Kit said many of the wagons were badly mashed up; for the mules were so thirsty that their drivers could not control them. The train was hardly strung out on the opposite bank when the Indians poured in a volley of bullets and a shower of arrows from both sides of the Trail; but before they could load and fire again, a terrific charge was on them, led by Colonel St. Vrain and Carson. It required only a few moments more to clean out the persistent savages, and the train went on. During the whole fight the little party lost four men killed and seven wounded, and eleven mules killed (not counting Kit's), and twenty badly wounded. A great many years ago, very early in the days of the trade with New Mexico, seven Americans were surprised by a large band of Pawnees in the vicinity of the Rock and were compelled to retreat to it for safety. There, without water, and with but a small quantity of provisions, they were besieged by their blood-thirsty foes for two days, when a party of traders coming on the Trail relieved them from their perilous situation and the presence of their enemy. There were several graves on its summit when I first saw Pawnee Rock; but whether they contained the bones of savages or those of white men, I do not know. Carson related to me another terrible fight that took place at the rock, when he first became a trapper. He was not a participant, but knew the parties well. About twenty-nine years ago, Kit, Jack Henderson, who was agent for the Ute Indians, Lucien B. Maxwell, General Carleton and myself were camped halfway up the rugged sides of Old Baldy, in the Raton Range. The night was intensely cold, although in midsummer, and we were huddled around a little fire of pine knots, more than seven thousand feet above the level of the sea, close to the snow limit. Kit, or "the General," as every one called him, was in a good humour for talking, and we naturally took advantage of this to draw him out; for usually he was the most reticent of men in relating his own exploits. A casual remark made by Maxwell opened Carson's mouth, and he said he remembered one of the "worst difficults" a man ever got into.[63] So he made a fresh corn-shuck cigarette, and related the following; but the names of the old trappers who were the principals in the fight I have unfortunately forgotten. Two men had been trapping in the Powder River country during one winter with unusually good luck, and they got an early start with their furs, which they were going to take to Weston, on the Missouri, one of the principal trading points in those days. They walked the whole distance, driving their pack-mules before them, and experienced no trouble until they struck the Arkansas valley at Pawnee Rock. There they were intercepted by a war-party of about sixty Pawnees. Both of the trappers were notoriously brave and both dead shots. Before they arrived at the rock, to which they were finally driven, they killed two of the Indians, and had not themselves received a scratch. They had plenty of powder, a pouch full of balls each, and two good rifles. They also had a couple of jack-rabbits for food in case of a siege, and the perpendicular walls of the front of the rock made them a natural fortification, an almost impregnable one against Indians. They succeeded in securely picketing their animals at the side of the rock, where they could protect them by their unerring rifles from being stampeded. After the Pawnees had "treed" the two trappers on the rock, they picked up their dead, and packed them off to their camp at the mouth of a little ravine a short distance away. In a few moments back they all came, mounted on fast ponies, with their war-paint and other fixings on, ready to renew the fight. They commenced to circle around the place, coming closer, Indian fashion, every time, until they got within easy rifle-range, when they slung themselves on the opposite sides of their horses, and in that position opened fire. Their arrows fell like a hailstorm, but as good luck would have it, none of them struck, and the balls from their rifles were wild, as the Indians in those days were not very good shots; the rifle was a new weapon to them. The trappers at first were afraid the savages would surely try to kill the mules, but soon reflected that the Indians believed they had the "dead-wood" on them, and the mules would come handy after they had been scalped; so they felt satisfied their animals were safe for a while anyhow. The men were taking in all the chances, however; both kept their eyes skinned, and whenever one of them saw a stray leg or head, he drew a bead on it and when he pulled the trigger, its owner tumbled over with a yell of rage from his companions. Whenever the savages attempted to carry off their dead,[64] the two trappers took advantage of the opportunity, and poured in their shots every time with telling effect. By this time night had fallen, and the Indians did not seem anxious to renew the fight after dark; but they kept their mounted patrols on every side of the rock, at a respectable distance from such dead shots, watching to prevent the escape of the besieged. As they were hungry, one of the men went down under cover of the darkness to get a few buffalo-chips with which to cook their rabbit, and to change the animals to where they could get fresh grass. He returned safely to the summit of the rock, where a little fire was made and their supper prepared. They had to go without water all the time, and so did the mules; the men did not mind the want of it themselves, but they could not help pitying their poor animals that had had none since they left camp early that morning. It was no use to worry, though; the nearest water was at the river, and it would have been certain death to have attempted to go there unless the savages cleared out, and from all appearances they had no idea of doing that. What gave the trappers more cause for alarm than anything else, was the fear that the Indians would fire the prairie in the morning, and endeavour to smoke them out or burn them up. The grass was in just the condition to make a lively blaze, and they might escape the flames, and then they might not. It can well be imagined how eagerly they watched for the dawn of another day, perhaps the last for them. The first gray streaks of light had hardly peeped above the horizon, when, with an infernal yell, the Indians broke for the rock, and the trappers were certain that some new project had entered their heads. The wind was springing up pretty freshly, and nature seemed to conspire with the red devils, if they really meant to burn the trappers out; and from the movements of the savages, that was what they expected. The Indians kept at a respectful distance from the range of the trappers' rifles, who chafed because they could not stop some of the infernal yelling with a few well-directed bullets, but they had to choke their rage, and watch events closely. During a temporary lull in hostilities, one of the trappers took occasion to crawl down to where the mules were, and shift them to the west side of the rock, where the wall was the highest; so that the flame and smoke might possibly pass by them without so much danger as where they were picketed before. He had just succeeded in doing this, and, tearing up the long grass for several yards around the animals, was in the act of going back, when his partner yelled out to him: "Look out! D---n 'em, they've fired the prairie!" He was back on the top of the rock in another moment, and took in at a glance what was coming. The spectacle for a short interval was indescribably grand; the sun was shining with all the power of its rays on the huge clouds of smoke as they rolled down from the north, tinting them a glorious crimson. The two trappers had barely time to get under the shelter of a large projecting point of the rocky wall, when the wind and smoke swept down to the ground, and instantly they were enveloped in the darkness of midnight. They could not discern a single object; neither Indians, horses, the prairie, nor the sun; and what a terrible wind! The trappers stood breathless, clinging to the projections of rock, and did not realize the fire was so near them until they were struck in the face by pieces of burning buffalo-chips that were carried toward them with the rapidity of the awful wind. They were now badly scared, for it seemed as if they were to be suffocated. They were saved, however, almost miraculously; the sheet of flame passed them twenty yards away, as the wind fortunately shifted at the moment the fire reached the foot of the rock. The darkness was so intense that they did not discover the flame; they only knew that they were saved as the clear sky greeted them from behind the dense smoke-cloud. Two of the Indians and their horses were caught in their own trap, and perished miserably. They had attempted to reach the east side of the rock, so as to steal around to the other side where the mules were, and either cut them loose or crawl up on the trappers while bewildered in the smoke and kill them, if they were not already dead. But they had proceeded only a few rods on their little expedition, when the terrible darkness of the smoke-cloud overtook them and soon the flames, from which there was no possible escape. All the game on the prairie which the fire swept over was killed too. Only a few buffalo were visible in that region before the fire, but even they were killed. The path of the flames, as was discovered by the caravans that passed over the Trail a few days afterward, was marked with the crisp and blackened carcasses of wolves, coyotes, turkeys, grouse, and every variety of small birds indigenous to the region. Indeed, it seemed as if no living thing it had met escaped its fury. The fire assumed such gigantic proportions, and moved with such rapidity before the wind, that even the Arkansas River did not check its path for a moment; it was carried as readily across as if the stream had not been in its way. The first thought of the trappers on the rock was for their poor mules. One crawled to where they were, and found them badly singed, but not seriously injured. The men began to brighten up again when they knew that their means of transportation were relatively all right, and themselves also, and they took fresh courage, beginning to believe they should get out of their bad scrape after all. In the meantime the Indians, with the exception of three or four left to guard the rock, so as to prevent the trappers from getting away, had gone back to their camp in the ravine, and were evidently concocting some new scheme for the discomfort of the besieged trappers. The latter waited patiently two or three hours for the development of events, snatching a little sleep by turns, which they needed much; for both were worn out by their constant watching. At last when the sun was about three hours high, the Indians commenced their infernal howling again, and then the trappers knew they had decided upon something; so they were on the alert in a moment to discover what it was, and euchre them if possible. The devils this time had tied all their ponies together, covered them with branches of trees that they had gone up on the Walnut for, packed some lodge-skins on these, and then, driving the living breastworks before them, moved toward the rock. They proceeded cautiously but surely, and matters began to look very serious for the trappers. As the strange cavalcade approached, a trapper raised his rifle, and a masked pony tumbled over on the scorched sod dead. As one of the Indians ran to cut him loose, the other trapper took him off his feet by a well-directed shot; he never uttered a groan. The besieged now saw their only salvation was to kill the ponies and so demoralize the Indians that they would have to abandon such tactics, and quicker than I can tell it, they had stretched four more out on the prairie, and made it so hot for the savages that they ran out of range and began to hold a council of war. Finding that their plan would not work--for as the last pony was shot, the rest stampeded and were running wild over the prairie--the Indians soon went back to their camp again, and the trappers now had a few spare moments in which to take an account of stock. They discovered, much to their chagrin, that they had used up all their ammunition except three or four loads, and despair hovered over them once more. The Indians did not reappear that evening, and the cause was apparent; for in the distance could be seen a long line of wagons, one of the large American caravans en route to Santa Fe. The savages had seen it before the trappers, and had cleared out. When the train arrived opposite the rock, the relieved men came down from their little fortress, joined the caravan, and camped with the Americans that night on the Walnut. While they were resting around their camp-fire, smoking and telling of their terrible experience on the top of the rock, the Indians could be heard chanting the death-song while they were burying their warriors under the blackened sod of the prairie. I witnessed a spirited encounter between a small band of Cheyennes and Pawnees in the fall of 1867. It occurred on the open prairie north of the mouth of the Walnut, and not a great distance from Pawnee Rock. Both tribes were hunting buffalo, and when they, by accident, discovered the presence of each other, with a yell that fairly shook the sand dunes on the Arkansas, they rushed at once into the shock of battle. That night, in a timbered bend of the Walnut, the victors had a grand dance, in which scalps, ears, and fingers of their enemies, suspended by strings to long poles, were important accessories to their weird orgies around their huge camp-fires.[65] One of the most horrible massacres in the history of the Trail occurred at Little Cow Creek in the summer of 1864. In July of that year a government caravan, loaded with military stores for Fort Union in New Mexico, left Fort Leavenworth for the long and dangerous journey of more than seven hundred miles over the great plains, which that season were infested by Indians to a degree almost without precedent in the annals of freight traffic. The train was owned by a Mr. H. C. Barret, a contractor with the quartermaster's department; but he declined to take the chances of the trip unless the government would lease the outfit in its entirety, or give him an indemnifying bond as assurance against any loss. The chief quartermaster executed the bond as demanded, and Barret hired his teamsters for the hazardous journey; but he found it a difficult matter to induce men to go out that season. Among those whom he persuaded to enter his employ was a mere boy, named McGee, who came wandering into Leavenworth a few weeks before the train was ready to leave, seeking work of any description. His parents had died on their way to Kansas, and on his arrival at Westport Landing, the emigrant outfit that had extended to him shelter and protection in his utter loneliness was disbanded; so the youthful orphan was thrown on his own resources. At that time the Indians of the great plains, especially along the line of the Santa Fe Trail, were very hostile, and continually harassing the freight caravans and stage-coaches of the overland route. Companies of men were enlisting and being mustered into the United States service to go out after the savages, and young Robert McGee volunteered with hundreds of others for the dangerous duty. The government needed men badly, but McGee's youth militated against him, and he was below the required stature; so he was rejected by the mustering officer. Mr. Barret, in hunting for teamsters to drive his caravan, came across McGee, who, supposing that he was hiring as a government employee, accepted Mr. Barret's offer. By the last day of June the caravan was all ready, and on the morning of the next day, July 1, the wagons rolled out of the fort, escorted by a company of United States troops, from the volunteers referred to. The caravan wound its weary way over the lonesome Trail with nothing to relieve the monotony save a few skirmishes with the Indians; but no casualties occurred in these insignificant battles, the savages being afraid to venture too near on account of the presence of the military escort. On the 18th of July, the caravan arrived in the vicinity of Fort Larned. There it was supposed that the proximity of that military post would be a sufficient guarantee from any attack of the savages; so the men of the train became careless, and as the day was excessively hot, they went into camp early in the afternoon, the escort remaining in bivouac about a mile in the rear of the train. About five o'clock, a hundred and fifty painted savages, under the command of Little Turtle of the Brule Sioux, swooped down on the unsuspecting caravan while the men were enjoying their evening meal. Not a moment was given them to rally to the defence of their lives, and of all belonging to the outfit, with the exception of one boy, not a soul came out alive. The teamsters were every one of them shot dead and their bodies horribly mutilated. After their successful raid, the savages destroyed everything they found in the wagons, tearing the covers into shreds, throwing the flour on the trail, and winding up by burning everything that was combustible. On the same day the commanding officer of Fort Larned had learned from some of his scouts that the Brule Sioux were on the war-path, and the chief of the scouts with a handful of soldiers was sent out to reconnoitre. They soon struck the trail of Little Turtle and followed it to the scene of the massacre on Cow Creek, arriving there only two hours after the savages had finished their devilish work. Dead men were lying about in the short buffalo-grass which had been stained and matted by their flowing blood, and the agonized posture of their bodies told far more forcibly than any language the tortures which had come before a welcome death. All had been scalped; all had been mutilated in that nameless manner which seems to delight the brutal instincts of the North American savage. Moving slowly from one to the other of the lifeless forms which still showed the agony of their death-throes, the chief of the scouts came across the bodies of two boys, both of whom had been scalped and shockingly wounded, besides being mutilated, yet, strange to say, both of them were alive. As tenderly as the men could lift them, they were conveyed at once back to Fort Larned and given in charge of the post surgeon. One of the boys died in a few hours after his arrival in the hospital, but the other, Robert McGee, slowly regained his strength, and came out of the ordeal in fairly good health. The story of the massacre was related by young McGee, after he was able to talk, while in the hospital at the fort; for he had not lost consciousness during the suffering to which he was subjected by the savages. He was compelled to witness the tortures inflicted on his wounded and captive companions, after which he was dragged into the presence of the chief, Little Turtle, who determined that he would kill the boy with his own hands. He shot him in the back with his own revolver, having first knocked him down with a lance handle. He then drove two arrows through the unfortunate boy's body, fastening him to the ground, and stooping over his prostrate form ran his knife around his head, lifting sixty-four square inches of his scalp, trimming it off just behind his ears. Believing him dead by that time, Little Turtle abandoned his victim; but the other savages, as they went by his supposed corpse, could not resist their infernal delight in blood, so they thrust their knives into him, and bored great holes in his body with their lances. After the savages had done all that their devilish ingenuity could contrive, they exultingly rode away, yelling as they bore off the reeking scalps of their victims, and drove away the hundreds of mules they had captured. When the tragedy was ended, the soldiers, who had from their vantage-ground witnessed the whole diabolical transaction, came up to the bloody camp by order of their commander, to learn whether the teamsters had driven away their assailants, and saw too late what their cowardice had allowed to take place. The officer in command of the escort was dismissed the service, as he could not give any satisfactory reason for not going to the rescue of the caravan he had been ordered to guard. CHAPTER XXI. FOOLING STAGE ROBBERS. The Wagon Mound, so called from its resemblance to a covered army-wagon, is a rocky mesa forty miles from Point of Rocks, westwardly. The stretch of the Trail from the latter to the mound has been the scene of some desperate encounters, only exceeded in number and sanguinary results by those which have occurred in the region of Pawnee Rock, the crossing of the Walnut, Pawnee Fork, and Cow Creek. One of the most remarkable stories of this Wagon Mound country dealt with the nerve and bravery exhibited by John L. Hatcher in defence of his life, and those of the men in his caravan, about 1858. Hatcher was a noted trader and merchant of New Mexico. He was also celebrated as an Indian fighter, and his name was a terror to the savages who infested the settlements of New Mexico and raided the Trail. He left Taos, where he then resided, in the summer, with his caravan loaded with furs and pelts destined for Westport Landing; to be forwarded from there to St. Louis, the only market for furs in the far West. His train was a small one, comprising about fifteen wagons and handled by about as many men, including himself. At the date of his adventure the Indians were believed to be at peace with everybody; a false idea, as Hatcher well knew, for there never was such a condition of affairs as absolute immunity from their attacks. While it might be true that the old men refrained for a time from starting out on the war-path, there were ever the vastly greater number of restless young warriors who had not yet earned their eagle feathers, who could not be controlled by their chiefs, and who were always engaged in marauding, either among the border settlements or along the line of the Trail. When Hatcher was approaching the immediate vicinity of Wagon Mound,[66] with his train strung out in single column, to his great astonishment there suddenly charged on him from over the hill about three hundred savages, all feather-bedecked and painted in the highest style of Indian art. As they rode toward the caravan, they gave the sign of peace, which Hatcher accepted for the time as true, although he knew them well. However, he invited the head men to some refreshment, as was usual on such occasions in those days, throwing a blanket on the ground, on which sugar in abundance was served out. The sweet-toothed warriors helped themselves liberally, and affected much delight at the way they were being treated; but Hatcher, with his knowledge of the savage character, was firm in the belief that they came for no other purpose than to rob the caravan and kill him and his men. They were Comanches, and one of the most noted chiefs of the tribe was in command of the band, with some inferior chiefs under him. I think it was Old Wolf, a very old man then, whose raids into Texas had made his name a terror to the Mexicans living on the border. While the chiefs were eating their saccharine lunch, Hatcher was losing no time in forming his wagons into a corral, but he told his friends afterward that he had no idea that either he or any of his men would escape; only fifteen or sixteen men against over three hundred merciless savages, and those the worst on the continent, and a small corral--the chances were totally hopeless! Nothing but a desperate action could avail, and maybe not even that.[67] Hatcher, after the other head men had finished eating, asked the old chief to send his young warriors away over the hill. They were all sitting close to one of the wagons, Old Wolf, in fact, leaning against the wheel resting on his blanket, with Hatcher next him on his right. Hatcher was so earnest in his appeal to have the young men sent away, that both the venerable villain and his other chiefs rose and were standing. Without a moment's notice or the slightest warning, Hatcher reached with his left hand and grabbed Old Wolf by his scalp-lock, and with his right drew his butcher-knife from its scabbard and thrust it at the throat of the chief. All this was done in an instant, as quick as lightning; no one had time to move. The situation was remarkable. The little, wiry man, surrounded by eight or nine of the most renowned warriors of the dreaded Comanches, stood firm; everybody was breathless; not a word did the savages say. Hatcher then said again to Old Wolf, in the most determined manner: "Send your young men over the hill at once, or I'll kill you right where you are!" holding on to the hair of the savage with his left hand and keeping the knife at his throat. The other Indians did not dare to make a move; they knew what kind of a man Hatcher was; they knew he would do as he had said, and that if they attempted a rescue he would kill their favourite chief in a second. Old Wolf shook his head defiantly in the negative. Hatcher repeated his order, getting madder all the time: "Send your young men over the hill; I tell you!" Old Wolf was still stubborn; he shook his head again. Hatcher gave him another chance: "Send your young men over the hill, I tell you, or I'll scalp you alive as you are!" Again the chief shook his head. Then Hatcher, still holding on the hair of his stubborn victim, commenced to make an incision in the head of Old Wolf, for the determined man was bound to carry out his threat; but he began very slowly. As the chief felt the blood trickle down his forehead, he weakened. He ordered his next in command to send the young men over the hill and out of sight. The order was repeated immediately to the warriors, who were astonished spectators of the strange scene, and they quickly mounted their horses and rode away over the hill as fast as they could thump their animals' sides with their legs, leaving only five or six chiefs with Old Wolf and Hatcher. Hatcher held on like grim death to the old chief's head, and immediately ordered his men to throw the robes out of the wagons as quickly as they could, and get inside themselves. This was promptly obeyed, and when they were all under the cover of the wagon sheets, Hatcher let go of his victim's hair, and, with a last kick, told him and his friends that they could leave. They went off, and did not return. Some laughable incidents have enlivened the generally sanguinary history of the Old Santa Fe Trail, but they were very serious at the time to those who were the actors, and their ludicrousness came after all was over. In the late summer of 1866, a thieving band of Apaches came into the vicinity of Fort Union, New Mexico, and after carefully reconnoitring the whole region and getting at the manner in which the stock belonging to the fort was herded, they secreted themselves in the Turkey Mountains overlooking the entire reservation, and lay in wait for several days, watching for a favourable moment to make a raid into the valley and drive off the herd. Selecting an occasion when the guard was weak and not very alert, they in broad daylight crawled under the cover of a hill, and, mounting their horses, dashed out with the most unearthly yells and down among the animals that were quietly grazing close to the fort, which terrified these so greatly that they broke away from the herders, and started at their best gait toward the mountains, closely followed by the savages. The astonished soldiers used every effort to avert the evident loss of their charge, and many shots were exchanged in the running fight that ensued; but the Indians were too strong for them, and they were forced to abandon the chase. Among the herders was a bugler boy, who was remarkable for his bravery in the skirmish and for his untiring endeavours to turn the animals back toward the fort, but all without avail; on they went, with the savages, close to their heels, giving vent to the most vociferous shouts of exultation, and directing the most obscene and insulting gesticulations to the soldiers that were after them. While this exciting contest for the mastery was going on, an old Apache chief dashed in the rear of the bold bugler boy, and could, without doubt, easily have killed the little fellow; but instead of doing this, from some idea of a good joke, or for some other incomprehensible reason, his natural blood-thirsty instinct was changed, and he merely knocked the bugler's hat from his head with the flat of his hand, and at the same time encouragingly stroked his hair, as much as to say: "You are a brave boy," and then rode off without doing him any harm. Thirty years ago last August, I was riding from Fort Larned to Fort Union, New Mexico, in the overland coach. I had one of my clerks with me; we were the only passengers, and arrived at Fort Dodge, which was the commencement of the "long route," at midnight. There we changed drivers, and at the break of day were some twenty-four miles on our lonely journey. The coach was rattling along at a breakneck gait, and I saw that something was evidently wrong. Looking out of one of the doors, I noticed that our Jehu was in a beastly state of intoxication. It was a most dangerous portion of the Trail; the Indians were not in the best of humours, and an attack was not at all improbable before we arrived at the next station, Fort Lyon. I said to my clerk that something must be done; so I ordered the driver to halt, which he did willingly, got out, and found that, notwithstanding his drunken mood, he was very affable and disposed to be full of fun. I suggested that he get inside the coach and lie down to sleep off his potations, to which he readily assented, while I and my clerk, after snugly fixing him on the cushions, got on the boot, I taking the lines, he seizing an old trace-chain, with which he pounded the mules along; for we felt ourselves in a ticklish predicament should we come across any of the brigands of the plains, on that lonely route, with the animals to look out for, and only two of us to do the fighting. Suddenly we saw sitting on the bank of the Arkansas River, about a dozen rods from the Trail, an antiquated-looking savage with his war-bonnet on, and armed with a long lance and his bow and arrows. We did not care a cent for him, but I thought he might be one of the tribe's runners, lying in wait to discover the condition of the coach--whether it had an escort, and how many were riding in it, and that then he would go and tell how ridiculously small the outfit was, and swoop down on us with a band of his colleagues, that were hidden somewhere in the sand hills south of the river. He rose as we came near, and made the sign, after he had given vent to a series of "How's!" that he wanted to talk; but we were not anxious for any general conversation with his savage majesty just then, so my clerk applied the trace-chain more vigorously to the tired mules, in order to get as many miles between him and the coach as we could before he could get over into the sand hills and back. It was, fortunately, a false alarm; the old warrior perhaps had no intentions of disturbing us. We arrived at Fort Lyon in good season, with our valorous driver absolutely sobered, requesting me to say nothing about his accident, which, of course, I did not. As has been stated, the caravans bound for Santa Fe and the various forts along the line of the Old Trail did not leave the eastern end of the route until the grass on the plains, on which the animals depended solely for subsistence the whole way, grew sufficiently to sustain them, which was usually about the middle of May. But a great many years ago, one of the high officials of the quartermaster's department at Washington, who had never been for a moment on duty on the frontier in his life, found a good deal of fault with what he thought the dilatoriness of the officer in charge at Fort Leavenworth, who controlled the question of transportation for the several forts scattered all over the West, for not getting the freight caravans started earlier, which the functionary at the capital said must and should be done. He insisted that they must leave the Missouri River by the middle of April, a month earlier than usual, and came out himself to superintend the matter. He made the contracts accordingly, easily finding contractors that suited him. He then wrote to headquarters in a triumphant manner that he had revolutionized the whole system of army transportation of supplies to the military posts. Delighted with his success, he rode out about the second week of May to Salt Creek, only three miles from the fort, and, very much to his astonishment, found his teams, which he had believed to be on the way to Santa Fe a month ago, snugly encamped. They had "started," just as was agreed. There are, or rather were, hundreds of stories current thirty-five years ago of stage-coach adventures on the Trail; a volume could be filled with them, but I must confine myself to a few. John Chisholm was a famous ranchman a long while ago, who had so many cattle that it was said he did not know their number himself. At one time he had a large contract to furnish beef to an Indian agency in Arizona; he had just delivered an immense herd there, and very wisely, after receiving his cash for them, sent most of it on to Santa Fe in advance of his own journey. When he arrived there, he started for the Missouri River with a thousand dollars and sufficient small change to meet his current expenses on the road. The very first night out from Santa Fe, the coach was halted by a band of men who had been watching Chisholm's movements from the time he left the agency in Arizona. The instant the stage came to a standstill, Chisholm divined what it meant, and had time to thrust a roll of money down one of the legs of his trousers before the door was thrown back and he was ordered to fork over what he had. He invited the robbers to search him, and to take what they might find, but said he was not in a financial condition at that juncture to turn over much. The thieves found his watch, took that, and then began to search him. As luck would have it, they entirely missed the roll that was down his leg, and discovered but a two-dollar bill in his vest. When he told them it was all he had to buy grub on the road, one of the robbers handed him a silver dollar, remarking as he did so: "That a man who was mean enough to travel with only two dollars ought to starve, but he would give him the dollar just to let him know that he was dealing with gentlemen!" One of the essentials to the comfort of the average soldier is tobacco. He must have it; he would sooner forego any component part of his ration than give it up. In November, 1865, a detachment of Company L, of the Eleventh Kansas Volunteers, and of the Second Colorado were ordered from Fort Larned to Fort Lyon on a scouting expedition along the line of the Trail, the savages having been very active in their raids on the freight caravans. In a short time their tobacco began to run low, and as there was no settlement of any kind between the two military posts, there was no chance to replenish their stock. One night, while encamped on the Arkansas, the only piece that was left in the whole command, about half a plug, was unfortunately lost, and there was dismay in the camp when the fact was announced. Hours were spent in searching for the missing treasure. The next morning the march was delayed for some time, while further diligent search was instituted by all hands, but without result, and the command set out on its weary tramp, as disconsolate as may well be imagined by those who are victims to the habit of chewing the weed. Arriving at Fort Lyon, to their greater discomfort it was learned that the sutler at that post was entirely out of the coveted article, and the troops began their return journey more disconsolate than ever. Dry leaves, grass, and even small bits of twigs, were chewed as a substitute, until, reaching the spot where they had lost the part of a plug, they determined to remain there that night and begin a more vigorous hunt for the missing piece. Just before dark their efforts were rewarded; one of the men found it, and such a scramble occurred for even the smallest nibble at it! Enormous prices were given for a single chew. It opened at one dollar for a mere sliver, rose to five, and closed at ten dollars when the last morsel was left. CHAPTER XXII. A DESPERATE RIDE. In the Rocky Mountains and on the great plains along the line of the Old Trail are many rude and widely separated graves. The sequestered little valleys, the lonely gulches, and the broad prairies through which the highway to New Mexico wound its course, hide the bones of hundreds of whom the world will never have any more knowledge. The number of these solitary, and almost obliterated mounds is small when compared with the vast multitude in the cemeteries of our towns, though if the host of those whose bones are mouldering under the short buffalo-grass and tall blue-stem of the prairies between the Missouri and the mountains were tabulated, the list would be appalling. Their aggregate will never be known; for the once remote region of the mid-continent, like the ocean, rarely gave up its victims. Lives went out there as goes an expiring candle, suddenly, swiftly, and silently; no record was kept of time or place. All those who thus died are graveless and monumentless, the great circle of the heavens is the dome of their sepulchre, and the recurring blossoms of springtime their only epitaph. Sometimes the traveller over the Old Trail will suddenly, in the most unexpected places, come across a little mound, perhaps covered with stones, under which lie the mouldering bones of some unfortunate adventurer. Above, now on a rude board, then on a detached rock, or maybe on the wall of a beetling canyon, he may frequently read, in crude pencilling or rougher carving, the legend of the dead man's ending. The line of the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad, which practically runs over the Old Trail for nearly its whole length to the mountains, is a fertile field of isolated graves. The savage and soldier, the teamster and scout, the solitary trapper or hunter, and many others who have gone down to their death fighting with the relentless nomad of the plains, or have been otherwise ruthlessly cut off, mark with their last resting-places that well-worn pathway across the continent. The tourist, looking from his car-window as he is whirled with the speed of a tornado toward the snow-capped peaks of the "Great Divide," may see as he approaches Walnut Creek, three miles east of the town of Great Bend in Kansas, on the beautiful ranch of Hon. D. Heizer, not far from the stream, and close to the house, a series of graves, numbering, perhaps, a score. These have been most religiously cared for by the patriotic proprietor of the place during all the long years since 1864, as he believes them to be the last resting-place of soldiers who were once a portion of the garrison of Fort Zarah, the ruins of which (now a mere hole in the earth) are but a few hundred yards away, on the opposite side of the railroad track, plainly visible from the train. The Walnut debouches into the Arkansas a short distance from where the railroad crosses the creek, and at this point, too, the trail from Fort Leavenworth merges into the Old Santa Fe. The broad pathway is very easily recognized here; for it runs over a hard, flinty, low divide, that has never been disturbed by the plough, and the traveller has only to cast his eyes in a northeasterly direction in order to see it plainly. The creek is fairly well timbered to-day, as it has been ever since the first caravan crossed the clear water of the little stream. It was always a favourite place of ambush by the Indians, and many a conflict has occurred in the beautiful bottom bounded by a margin of trees on two sides, between the traders, trappers, troops, and the Indians, and also between the several tribes that were hereditary enemies, particularly the Pawnees and the Cheyennes. It is only about sixteen miles east of Pawnee Rock, and included in that region of debatable ground where no band of Indians dared establish a permanent village; for it was claimed by all the tribes, but really owned by none. In 1864 the commerce of the great plains had reached enormous proportions, and immense caravans rolled day after day toward the blue hills which guard the portals of New Mexico, and the precious freight constantly tempted the wily savages to plunder. To protect the caravans on their monotonous route through the "Desert," as this portion of the plains was then termed, troops were stationed, a mere handful relatively, at intervals on the Trail, to escort the freighters and mail coaches over the most exposed and dangerous portions of the way. On the bank of the Walnut, at this time, were stationed three hundred unassigned recruits of the Third Wisconsin Cavalry, under the command of Captain Conkey. This point was rightly regarded as one of the most important on the whole overland route; for near it passed the favourite highway of the Indians on their yearly migrations north and south, in the wake of the strange elliptical march of the buffalo far beyond the Platte, and back to the sunny knolls of the Canadian. This primitive cantonment which grew rapidly in strategical importance, was two years later made quite formidable defensively, and named Fort Zarah, in memory of the youngest son of Major General Curtis, who was killed by guerillas somewhere south of Fort Scott, Kansas, while escorting General James G. Blunt, of frontier fame during the Civil War. Captain Henry Booth, during the year above mentioned, was chief of cavalry and inspecting officer of the military district of the Upper Arkansas, the western geographical limits of which extended to the foot-hills of the mountains. One day he received an order from the head-quarters of the department to make a special inspection of all the outposts on the Santa Fe Trail. He was stationed at Fort Riley at the time, and the evening the order arrived, active preparations were immediately commenced for his extended and hazardous trip across the plains. Lieutenant Hallowell, of the Ninth Wisconsin Battery, was to accompany him, and both officers went at once to their quarters, took down from the walls, where they had been hanging idly for weeks, their rifles and pistols, and carefully examined and brushed them up for possible service in the dreary Arkansas bottom. Camp-kettles, until late in the night, sizzled and sputtered over crackling log-fires; for their proposed ride beyond the settlements demanded cooked rations for many a weary day. All the preliminaries arranged, the question of the means of transportation was determined, and, curiously enough, it saved the lives of the two officers in the terrible gauntlet they were destined to run. Hallowell was a famous whip, and prided himself upon the exceptionally fine turnout which he daily drove among the picturesque hills around the fort. "Booth," said he in the evening, "let's not take a great lumbering ambulance on this trip; if you will get a good way-up team of mules from the quartermaster, we'll use my light rig, and we'll do our own driving." To this proposition Booth readily assented, procured the mules, and, as it turned out, they were a "good way-up team." Hallowell had a set of bows fitted to his light wagon, over which was thrown an army-wagon-sheet, drawn up behind with a cord, similar to those of the ordinary emigrant outfit to be seen daily on the roads of the Western prairies. A round hole was necessarily left in the rear end, serving the purpose of a lookout. Two grip-sacks, containing their dress uniforms, a box of crackers and cheese, meat and sardines, together with a bottle of anti-snake bite, made up the principal freight for the long journey, and in the clear cold of the early morning they rolled out of the gates of the fort, escorted by Company L, of the Eleventh Kansas, commanded by Lieutenant Van Antwerp. The company of one hundred mounted men acting as escort was too formidable a number for the Indians, and not a sign of one was seen as the dangerous flats of Plum Creek and the rolling country beyond were successively passed, and early in the afternoon the cantonment on Walnut Creek was reached. At this important outpost Captain Conkey's command was living in a rude but comfortable sort of a way, in the simplest of dugouts, constructed along the right bank of the stream; the officers, a little more in accordance with military dignity, in tents a few rods in rear of the line of huts. A stockade stable had been built, with a capacity for two hundred and fifty horses, and sufficient hay had been put up by the men in the fall to carry the animals through the winter. Captain Conkey was a brusque but kind-hearted man, and with him were stationed other officers, one of whom was a son of Admiral Goldsborough. The morning after the arrival of the inspecting officers a rigid examination of all the appointments and belongings of the place was made, and, as an immense amount of property had accumulated for condemnation, when evening came the books and papers were still untouched; so that branch of the inspection had to be postponed until the next morning. After dark, while sitting around the camp-fire, discussing the war, telling stories, etc., Captain Conkey said to Booth: "Captain, it won't require more than half an hour in the morning to inspect the papers and finish up what you have to do; why don't you start your escort out very early, so it won't be obliged to trot after the ambulance, or you to poke along with it? You can then move out briskly and make time." Booth, acting upon what he thought at the time an excellent suggestion, in a few moments went over the creek to Lieutenant Van Antwerp's camp, to tell him that he need not wait for the wagon in the morning, but to start out early, at half-past six, in advance. According to instructions, the escort marched out of camp at daylight next morning, while Booth and Hallowell remained to finish their inspection. It was soon discovered, however, that either Captain Conkey had underrated the amount of work to be done, or misjudged the inspecting officers' ability to complete it in a certain time; so almost three hours elapsed after the cavalry had departed before the task ended. At last everything was closed up, much to Hallowell's satisfaction, who had been chafing under the vexatious delay ever since the escort left. When all was in readiness, the little wagon drawn up in front of the commanding officer's quarters, and farewells said, Hallowell suggested to Booth the propriety of taking a few of the troops stationed there to go with them until they overtook their own escort, which must now be several miles on the Trail to Fort Larned. Booth asked Captain Conkey what he thought of Hallowell's suggestion. Captain Conkey replied: "Oh! there's not the slightest danger; there hasn't been an Indian seen around here for over ten days." If either Booth or Hallowell had been as well acquainted with the methods and character of the plains Indians then as they afterward became, they would have insisted upon an escort; but both were satisfied that Captain Conkey knew what he was talking about, so they concluded to push on. Jumping into their wagon, Lieutenant Hallowell took the reins and away they went rattling over the old log bridge that used to span the Walnut at the crossing of the Old Santa Fe Trail, as light of heart as if riding to a dance. The morning was bright and clear with a stiff breeze blowing from the northwest, and the Trail was frozen hard in places, which made it very rough, as it had been cut up by the travel of the heavily laden caravans when it was wet. Booth sat on the left side of Hallowell with the whip in his hand, now and then striking the mules, to keep up their speed. Hallowell started up a tune--he was a good singer--and Booth joined in as they rolled along, as oblivious of any danger as though they were in their quarters at Fort Riley. After they had proceeded some distance, Hallowell remarked to Booth: "The buffalo are grazing a long way from the road to-day; a circumstance that I think bodes no good." He had been on the plains the summer before, and was better acquainted with the Indians and their peculiarities than Captain Booth; but the latter replied that he thought it was because their escort had gone on ahead, and had probably frightened them off. The next mile or two was passed, and still they saw no buffalo between the Trail and the Arkansas, though nothing more was said by either regarding the suspicious circumstance, and they rode rapidly on. When they had gone about five or six miles from the Walnut, Booth, happening to glance toward the river, saw something that looked strangely like a flock of turkeys. He watched them intently for a moment, when the objects rose up and he discovered they were horsemen. He grasped Hallowell by the arm, directing his attention to them, and said, "What are they?" Hallowell gave a hasty look toward the point indicated, and replied, "Indians! by George!" and immediately turning the mules around on the Trail, started them back toward the cantonment on the Walnut at a full gallop.[68] "Hold on!" said Booth to Hallowell when he understood the latter's movement; "maybe it's part of our escort." "No! no!" replied Hallowell. "I know they are Indians; I've seen too many of them to be mistaken." "Well," rejoined Booth, "I'm going to know for certain"; so, stepping out on the foot-board, and with one hand holding on to the front bow, he looked back over the top of the wagon-sheet. They were Indians, sure enough; they had fully emerged from the ravine in which they had hidden, and while he was looking at them they were slipping off their buffalo robes from their shoulders, taking arrows out of their quivers, drawing up their spears, and making ready generally for a red-hot time. While Booth was intently regarding the movements of the savages, Hallowell inquired of him: "They're Indians, aren't they, Booth?" "Yes," was Booth's answer, "and they're coming down on us like a whirlwind." "Then I shall never see poor Lizzie again!" said Hallowell. He had been married only a few weeks before starting out on this trip, and his young wife's name came to his lips. "Never mind Lizzie," responded Booth; "let's get out of here!" He was as badly frightened as Hallowell, but had no bride at Riley, and, as he tells it, "was selfishly thinking of himself only, and escape." In answer to Booth's remark, Hallowell, in a firm, clear voice, said: "All right! You do the shooting, and I'll do the driving," and suiting the action to the words, he snatched the whip out of Booth's hand, slipped from the seat to the front of the wagon, and commenced lashing the mules furiously. Booth then crawled back, pulled out one of his revolvers, crept, or rather fell, over the "lazy-back" of the seat, and reaching the hole made by puckering the wagon-sheet, looked out of it, and counted the Indians; thirty-four feather-bedecked, paint-bedaubed savages, as vicious a set as ever scalped a white man, swooping down on them like a hawk upon a chicken. Hallowell, between his yells at the mules, cried out, "How far are they off now, Booth?" for of course he could see nothing of what was going on in his rear. Booth replied as well as he could judge of the distance, while Hallowell renewed his yelling at the animals and redoubled his efforts with the lash. Noiselessly the Indians gained on the little wagon, for they had not as yet uttered a whoop, and the determined driver, anxious to know how far the red devils were from him, again asked Booth. The latter told him how near they were, guessing at the distance, from which Hallowell gathered inspiration for fresh cries and still more vigorous blows with his whip. Booth, all this time, was sitting on the box containing the crackers and sardines, watching the rapid approach of the cut-throats, and seeing with fear and trembling the ease with which they gained upon the little mules. Once more Hallowell made his stereotyped inquiry of Booth; but before the latter could reply, two shots were fired from the rifles of the Indians, accompanied by a yell that was demoniacal enough to cause the blood to curdle in one's veins. Hallowell yelled at the mules, and Booth yelled too; for what reason he could not tell, unless to keep company with his comrade, who plied the whip more mercilessly than ever upon the poor animals' backs, and the wagon flew over the rough road, nearly upsetting at every jump. In another moment the bullets from two of the Indians' rifles passed between Booth and Hallowell, doing no damage, and almost instantly the savages charged upon them, at the same time dividing into two parties, one going on one side and one on the other, both delivering a volley of arrows into the wagon as they rode by. Just as the savages rushed past the wagon, Hallowell cried out to Booth, "Cap, I'm hit!" and turning around to look, Booth saw an arrow sticking in Hallowell's head above his right ear. His arm was still plying the whip, which was going on unceasingly as the sails of a windmill, and his howling at the mules only stopped long enough to answer, "Not much!" in response to Booth's inquiry of "Does it hurt?" as he grabbed the arrow and pulled it out of his head. The Indians had by this time passed on, and then, circling back, prepared for another charge. Down they came, again dividing as before into two bands, and delivering another shower of arrows. Hallowell ceased his yelling long enough to cry out, "I'm hit once more, Cap!" Looking at the plucky driver, Booth saw this time an arrow sticking over his left ear, and hanging down his back. He snatched it out, inquiring if it hurt, but received the same answer: "No, not much." Both men were now yelling at the top of their voices; and the mules were jerking the wagon along the rough trail at a fearful rate, frightened nearly out of their wits at the sight of the Indians and the terrible shouting and whipping of the driver. Booth crawled to the back end of the wagon again, looked out of the hole in the cover, and saw the Indians moving across the Trail, preparing for another charge. One old fellow, mounted on a black pony, was jogging along in the centre of the road behind them, but near enough and evidently determined to send an arrow through the puckered hole of the sheet. In a moment the savage stopped his pony and let fly. Booth dodged sideways--the arrow sped on its course, and whizzing through the opening, struck the black-walnut "lazy-back" of the seat, the head sticking out on the other side, and the sudden check causing the feathered end to vibrate rapidly with a vro-o-o-ing sound. With a quick blow Booth struck it, and broke the shaft from the head, leaving the latter embedded in the wood. As quickly as possible, Booth rushed to the hole and fired his revolver at the old devil, but failed to hit him. While he was trying to get in another shot, an arrow came flying through from the left side of the Trail, and striking him on the inside of the elbow, or "crazy-bone," so completely benumbed his hand that he could not hold on to the pistol, and it dropped into the road with one load still in its chamber. Just then the mules gave an extraordinary jump to one side, which jerked the wagon nearly from under him, and he fell sprawling on the end-gate, evenly balanced, with his hands on the outside, attempting to clutch at something to save himself! Seeing his predicament, the Indians thought they had him sure, so they gave a yell of exultation, supposing he must tumble out, but he didn't; he fortunately succeeded in grabbing one of the wagon-bows with his right hand and pulled himself in; but it was a close call. While all this was going on, Hallowell had not been neglected by the Indians; about a dozen of them had devoted their time to him, but he never flinched. Just as Booth had regained his equilibrium and drawn his second revolver from its holster, Hallowell yelled to him: "Right off to your right, Cap, quick!" Booth tumbled over the back of the seat, and, clutching at a wagon-bow to steady himself, he saw, "off to the right," an Indian who was in the act of letting an arrow drive at Hallowell; it struck the side of the box, and at the same instant Booth fired, scaring the red devil badly. Back over the seat again he rushed to guard the rear, only to find a young buck riding close to the side of the wagon, his pony running in the deep path made by the ox-drivers in walking alongside of their teams. Putting his left arm around one of the wagon-bows to prevent his being jerked out, Booth quietly stuck his revolver through the hole in the sheet; but before he could pull the trigger, the Indian flopped over on the off side of his pony, and nothing could be seen of him excepting one arm around his animal's neck and from the knee to the toes of one leg. Booth did not wait for him to ride up; he could almost hit the pony's head with his hand, so close was he to the wagon. Booth struck at the beast several times, but the Indian kept him right up in his place by whipping him on the opposite of his neck. Presently the plucky savage's arm began to move. Booth watched him intently, and saw that he had fixed an arrow in his bow under the pony's shoulder; just as he was on the point of letting go the bowstring, with the head of the arrow not three feet from Booth's breast as he leaned out of the hole, the latter struck frantically at the weapon, dodged back into the wagon, and up came the Indian. Whenever Booth looked out, down went the Indian on the other side of his pony, to rise again in a moment, and Booth, afraid to risk himself with his head and breast exposed at this game of hide and seek, drew suddenly back as the Indian went down the third time, and in a second came up; but this was once too often. Booth had not dodged completely into the wagon, nor dropped his revolver, and as the Indian rose he fired. The savage was naked to the waist; the ball struck him in the left nipple, the blood spirted out of the wound, his bow and arrows and lariat, with himself, rolled off the pony, falling heavily on the ground, and with one convulsive contraction of his legs and an "Ugh!" he was as dead as a stone. "I've killed one of 'em!" called out Booth to Hallowell, as he saw his victim tumble from his pony. "Bully for you, Cap!" came Hallowell's response as he continued his shouting, and the blows of that tireless whip fell incessantly on the backs of the poor mules. After he had killed the warrior, Booth kept his seat on the cracker box, watching to see what the Indians were going to do next, when he was suddenly interrupted by Hallowell's crying out to him: "Off to the right again, Cap, quick!" and, whirling around instantly, he saw an Indian within three feet of the wagon, with his bow and arrow almost ready to shoot; there was no time to get over the seat, and as he could not fire so close to Hallowell, he cried to the latter: "Hit him with the whip! Hit him with the whip!" The lieutenant diverted one of the blows intended for the mules, and struck the savage fairly across the face. The whip had a knot in the end of it to prevent its unravelling, and this knot must have hit the Indian squarely in the eye; for he dropped his bow, put both hands up to his face, rubbed his eyes, and digging his heels into his pony's sides was soon out of range of a revolver; but, nevertheless, he was given a parting shot as a sort of salute. A terrific yell from the rear at this moment caused both Booth and Hallowell to look around, and the latter to inquire: "What's the matter now, Booth?" "They are coming down on us like lightning," said he; and, sure enough, those who had been prancing around their dead comrade were tearing along the Trail toward the wagon with a more hideous noise than when they began. Hallowell yelled louder than ever and lashed the mules more furiously still, but the Indians gained upon them as easily as a blooded racer on a common farm plug. Separating as before, and passing on each side of the wagon, they delivered another volley of bullets and arrows as they rushed on. When this charge was made, Booth drew away from the hole in the rear and turned toward the Indians, but forgot that as he was sitting, with his back pressed against the sheet, his body was plainly outlined on the canvas. When the Indians dashed by Hallowell cried out, "I'm hit again, Cap!" and Booth, in turning around to go to his relief, felt something pulling at him; and glancing over his left shoulder he discovered an arrow sticking into him and out through the wagon-sheet. With a jerk of his body, he tore himself loose, and going to Hallowell, asked him where he was hit. "In the back," was the reply; where Booth saw an arrow extending under the "lazy-back" of the seat. Taking hold of it, Booth gave a pull, but Hallowell squirmed so that he desisted. "Pull it out!" cried the plucky driver. Booth thereupon took hold of it again, and giving a jerk or two, out it came. He was thoroughly frightened as he saw it leave the lieutenant's body; it seemed to have entered at least six inches, and the wound appeared to be a dangerous one. Hallowell, however, did not cease for a moment belabouring the mules, and his yells rang out as clear and defiant as before. After extracting the arrow from Hallowell's back, Booth turned again to the opening in the rear of the wagon to see what new tricks the devils were up to, when Hallowell again called out, "Off to the left, Cap, quick!" Rushing to the front as soon as possible, Booth saw one of the savages in the very act of shooting at Hallowell from the left side of the wagon, not ten feet away. The last revolver was empty, but something had to be done at once; so, levelling the weapon at him, Booth shouted "Bang! you son-of-a-gun!" Down the Indian ducked his head; rap, rap, went his knees against his pony's sides, and away he flew over the prairie! Back to his old place in the rear tumbled Booth, to load his revolver. The cartridges they used in the army in those days were the old-fashioned kind made of paper. Biting off one end, he endeavoured to pour the powder into the chamber of the pistol; but as the wagon was tumbling from side to side, and jumping up and down, as it fairly flew over the rough Trail, more fell into the bottom of the wagon than into the revolver. Just as he was inserting a ball, Hallowell yelled, "To the left, Cap, quick!" Over the seat Booth piled once more, and there was another Indian with his bow and arrow all ready to pinion the brave lieutenant. Pointing his revolver at him, Booth yelled as he had at the other, but this savage had evidently noticed the first failure, and concluded there were no more loads left; so, instead of taking a hasty departure, he grinned demoniacally and endeavoured to fix the arrow in his bow. Booth rose up in the wagon, and grasping hold of one of its bows with his left hand, seized the revolver by the muzzle, and with all the force he could muster hurled it at the impudent brute. It was a Remington, its barrel octagon-shaped, with sharp corners, and when it was thrown, it turned in the air, and striking the Indian muzzle-first on the ribs, cut a long gash. "Ugh!" he grunted, as, dropping his bow and spear, he flung himself over the side of his pony, and away he went across the prairie. Only one revolver remaining now, and that empty, with the savages still howling around the apparently doomed men like so many demons! Booth fell over the seat, as was his usual fate whenever he attempted to get to the back of the wagon, picked up the empty revolver, and tried to load it; but before he could bite the end of a cartridge, Hallowell yelled, "Cap, I'm hit again!" "Where this time?" inquired Booth, anxiously. "In the hand," replied Hallowell; and, looking around, Booth noticed that although his right arm was still thrashing at the now lagging mules with as much energy as ever, through the fleshy part of the thumb was an arrow, which was flopping up and down as he raised and lowered his hand in ceaseless efforts to keep up the speed of the almost exhausted animals. "Let me pull it out," said Booth, as he came forward to do so. "No, never mind," replied Hallowell; "can't stop! can't stop!" and up and down went the arm, and flip, flap, went the arrow with it, until finally it tore through the flesh and fell to the ground. Along they bowled, the Indians yelling, and the occupants of the little wagon defiantly answering them, while Booth continued to struggle desperately with that empty pistol, in his vain efforts to load it. In another moment Hallowell shouted, "Booth, they are trying to crowd the mules into the sunflowers!" Alongside of the Trail huge sunflowers had grown the previous summer, and now their dry stalks stood as thick as a cane-brake; if the wagon once got among them, it would be impossible for the mules to keep up their gallop. The savages seemed to realize this; for one huge old fellow kept riding alongside the off mule, throwing his spear at him and then jerking it back with the thong, one end of which was fastened to his wrist. The near mule was constantly pushed further and further from the Trail by his mate, which was jumping frantically, scared out of his senses by the Indian. At this perilous juncture, Booth stepped out on the foot-board of the wagon, and, holding on by a bow, commenced to kick the frightened mule vigorously, while Hallowell pulled on one line, whipping and yelling at the same time; so together they succeeded in forcing the animals back into the Trail. The Indians kept close to the mules in their efforts to force them into the sunflowers, and Booth made several attempts to scare the old fellow that was nearest by pointing his empty revolver at him, but he would not scare; so in his desperation Booth threw it at him. He missed the old brute, but hit his pony just behind its rider's leg, which started the animal into a sort of a stampede; his ugly master could not control him, and thus the immediate peril from the persistent cuss was delayed. Now the pair were absolutely without firearms of any kind, with nothing left except their sabres and valises, and the savages came closer and closer. In turn the two swords were thrown at them as they came almost within striking distance; then followed the scabbards, as the howling fiends surrounded the wagon and attempted to spear the mules. Fortunately their arrows were exhausted. The cantonment on the Walnut was still a mile and a half away, and there was nothing for our luckless travellers to do but whip and kick, both of which they did most vigorously. Hallowell sat as immovable as the Sphinx, excepting his right arm, which from the moment they had started on the back trail had not once ceased its incessant motion. Happening to cast his eyes back on the Trail, Booth saw to his dismay twelve or fifteen of the savages coming up on the run with fresh energy, their spears poised ready for action, and he felt that something must be done very speedily to divert them; for if these added their number to those already surrounding the wagon, the chances were they would succeed in forcing the mules into the sunflowers, and his scalp and Hallowell's would dangle at the belt of the leader. Glancing around in the bottom of the wagon for some kind of weapon, his eye fell on the two valises containing the dress-suits. He snatched up his own, and threw it out while the pursuers were yet five or six rods in the rear. The Indians noticed this new trick with a great yell of satisfaction, and the moment they arrived at the spot where the valise lay, all dismounted; one of them, seizing it by the two handles, pulled with all his strength to open it, and when he failed, another drew a long knife from under his blanket and ripped it apart. He then put his hand in, pulling out a sash, which he began to wind around his head, like a negress with a bandanna, letting the tassels hang down his back. While he was thus amusing himself, one of the others had taken out a dress-coat, a third a pair of drawers, and still another a shirt, which they proceeded to put on, meanwhile dancing around and howling. Booth told Hallowell of the sacrifice of the valise, and said, "I'm going to throw out yours." "All right," replied Hallowell; "all we want is time." So out it went on the Trail, and shared the same fate as the other. The lull in hostilities caused by their outstripping their pursuers gave the almost despairing men time to talk over their situation. Hallowell said he did not propose to be captured and then butchered or burned at the pleasure of the Indians. He said to Booth: "If they kill one of the mules, and so stop us, let's kick, strike, throw dirt or anything, and compel them to kill us on the spot." So it was agreed, if the worst came to the worst, to stand back to back and fight. During this discussion the arm of Hallowell still plied the effective lash, and they drew perceptibly nearer the camp, and as they caught the first glimpse of its tents and dugouts, hope sprang up within them. The mules were panting like a hound after a deer; wherever the harness touched them, it was white with lather, and it was evident they could keep on their feet but a short time longer. Would they hold out until the bridge was reached? The whipping and the kicking had but little effect on them now. They still continued their gallop, but it was slower and more laboured than before. The Indians who had torn open the valises had not returned to the chase, and although there were still a sufficient number of the fiends pursuing to make it interesting, they did not succeed in spearing the mules, as at every attempt the plucky animals would jump sideways or forward and evade the impending blow. The little log bridge was reached; the savages had all retreated, but the valorous Hallowell kept the mules at their fastest pace. The bridge was constructed of half-round logs, and of course was extremely rough; the wagon bounded up and down enough to shake the teeth out of one's head as the little animals went flying over it. Booth called out to Hallowell, "No need to drive so fast now, the Indians have all left us"; but he replied, "I ain't going to stop until I get across"; and down came the whip, on sped the mules, not breaking their short gallop until they were pulled up in front of Captain Conkey's quarters. The rattling of the wagon on the bridge was the first intimation the garrison had of its return. The officers came running out of their tents, the enlisted men poured out of their dugouts like a lot of ants, and Booth and Hallowell were surrounded by their friends in a moment. Captain Conkey ordered his bugler to sound "Boots and Saddles," and in less than ten minutes ninety troopers were mounted, and with the captain at their head started after the Indians. When Hallowell tried to rise from his seat so as to get out every effort only resulted in his falling back. Some one stepped around to the other side to assist him, when it was discovered that the skirt of his overcoat had worked outside of the wagon-sheet and hung over the edge, and that three or four of the arrows fired at him by the savages had struck the side of the wagon, and, passing through the flap of his coat, had pinned him down. Booth pulled the arrows out and helped him up; he was pretty stiff from sitting in his cramped position so long, and his right arm dropped by his side as if paralysed. Booth stood looking on while his comrade's wounds were being dressed, when the adjutant asked him: "What makes you shrug your shoulder so?" He answered, "I don't know; something makes it smart." The officer looked at him and said, "Well, I don't wonder; I should think it would smart; here's an arrow-head sticking into you," and he tried to pull it out, but it would not come. Captain Goldsborough then attempted it, but was not any more successful. The doctor then told them to let it alone, and he would attend to Booth after he had done with Hallowell. When he examined Booth's shoulder, he found that the arrow-head had struck the thick portion of the shoulder-blade, and had made two complete turns, wrapping itself around the muscles, which had to be cut apart before the sharp point could be withdrawn. Booth was not seriously hurt. Hallowell, however, had received two severe wounds; the arrow that had lodged in his back had penetrated almost to his kidneys, and the wound in his thumb was very painful, not so much from the simple impact of the arrow as from the tearing away of the muscle by the shaft while he was whipping his mules; his right arm, too, was swollen terribly, and so stiff from the incessant use of it during the drive that for more than a month he required assistance in dressing and undressing. The mules who had saved their lives were of small account after their memorable trip; they remained stiff and sore from the rough road and their continued forced speed. Booth and Hallowell went out to look at them the next morning, as they hobbled around the corral, and from the bottom of their hearts wished them well. Captain Conkey's command returned to the cantonment about midnight. But one Indian had been seen, and he was south of the Arkansas in the sand hills. The next morning a scouting-party of forty men, under command of a sergeant, started out to scour the country toward Cow Creek, northeast from the Walnut. As I have stated, the troopers stationed at the cantonment on the Walnut were mostly recruits. Now the cavalry recruit of the old regular army on the frontier, thirty or forty years ago, mounted on a great big American horse and sent out with well-trained comrades on a scout after the hostile savages of the plains, was the most helpless individual imaginable. Coming fresh from some large city probably, as soon as he arrived at his station he was placed on the back of an animal of whose habits he knew as little as he did of the differential calculus; loaded down with a carbine, the muzzle of which he could hardly distinguish from the breech; a sabre buckled around his waist; a couple of enormous pistols stuck in his holsters; his blankets strapped to the cantle of his saddle, and, to complete the hopelessness of his condition in a possible encounter with a savage enemy who was ever on the alert, he was often handicapped by a camp-kettle or two, a frying-pan, and ten days' rations. No wonder this doughty representative of Uncle Sam's power was an easy prey for "Poor Lo," who, when he caught the unfortunate soldier away from his command and started after him, must have laughed at the ridiculous appearance of his enemy, with both hands glued to the pommel of his saddle, his hair on end, his sabre flying and striking his horse at every jump as the animal tore down the trail toward camp, while the Indian, rapidly gaining, in a few minutes had the scalp of the hapless rider dangling at his belt, and another of the "boys in blue" had joined the majority. The scouting-party had proceeded about four or five miles, when one of the corporals asked permission for himself and a recruit to go over to the Upper Walnut to find out whether they could discover any signs of Indians. While they were carelessly riding along the big curve which the northern branch of the Walnut makes at that point, there suddenly sprang from their ambush in the timber on the margin of the stream about three hundred Indians, whooping and yelling. The two troopers of course, immediately whirled their horses and started down the creek toward the camp, hotly pursued by the howling savages. The corporal was an excellent rider; a well-trained and disciplined soldier, having seen much service on the plains. He led in the flight, closely followed by the unfortunate recruit, who had been enlisted but a short time. Not more than an eighth of a mile had been covered, when the corporal heard his companion exclaim,-- "Don't leave me! Don't leave me!" Looking back, the corporal saw that the poor recruit was losing ground rapidly; his horse was rearing and plunging, making very little headway, while his rider was jerking and pulling on the bit, a curb of the severest kind. Perceiving the strait his comrade was in, the corporal reined up for a moment and called out,-- "Let him go! Let him go! Don't jerk on the bit so!" The Indians were gaining ground rapidly, and in another moment the corporal heard the recruit again cry out,-- "Oh! Don't--" Realizing that it would be fatal to delay, and that he could be of no assistance to his companion, already killed and scalped, he leaned forward on his horse, and sinking his spurs deep in the animal's flanks fairly flew down the valley, with the three hundred savages close in his wake. The officers at the camp were sitting in their tents when the sentinel on post No. 1 fired his piece, upon which all rushed out to learn the cause of the alarm; for there was no random shooting in those days allowed around camp or in garrison. Looking up the valley of the Walnut, they could see the lucky corporal, with his long hair streaming in the wind, and his heels rapping his horse's sides, as he dashed over the brown sod of the winter prairie. The corporal now slackened his pace, rode up to the commanding officer's tent, reported the affair, and then was allowed to go to his own quarters for the rest he so much needed. Captain Conkey immediately ordered a mounted squad, accompanied by an ambulance, to go up the creek to recover the body of the unfortunate recruit. The party were absent a little over an hour, and brought back with them the remains of the dead soldier. He had been shot with an arrow, the point of which was still sticking out through his breast-bone. His scalp had been torn completely off, and the lapels of his coat and the legs of his trousers carried away by the savages. He was buried the next morning with military honours, in the little graveyard on the bank of the Walnut, where his body still rests in the dooryard of the ranch. CHAPTER XXIII. HANCOCK'S EXPEDITION. In the spring of 1867, General Hancock, who then commanded the military division of the Missouri, with headquarters at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, organized an expedition against the Indians of the great plains, which he led in person. With him was General Custer, second ranking officer, from whom I quote the story of the march and some of the incidents of the raid. General Hancock, with the artillery and six companies of infantry, arrived at Fort Riley, Kansas, the last week in March, where he was joined by four companies of the Seventh Cavalry, commanded by the intrepid Custer. From Fort Riley the expedition marched to Fort Harker, seventy-two miles farther west, on the Smoky Hill, where the force was increased by the addition of two more troops of cavalry. Remaining there only long enough to replenish their commissary supplies, the march was directed to Fort Larned on the Old Santa Fe Trail. On the 7th of April the command reached the latter post, accompanied by the agent of the Comanches and Kiowas; at the fort the agent of the Cheyennes, Arapahoes, and Apaches was waiting for the arrival of the general. The agent of the three last-mentioned tribes had already sent runners to the head chiefs, inviting them to a grand council which was to assemble near the fort on the 10th of the month, and he requested General Hancock to remain at the fort with his command until that date. On the 9th of April a terrible snow-storm came on while the troops were encamped waiting for the head men of the various tribes to arrive. Custer says: It was our good fortune to be in camp rather than on the march; had it been otherwise, we could not well have escaped without loss of life. The cavalry horses suffered severely, and were only preserved by doubling their rations of oats, while to prevent their being frozen during the intensely cold night which followed, the guards were instructed to pass along the picket lines with a whip, and keep the horses moving constantly. The snow was eight inches deep. The council, which was to take place the next day, had to be postponed until the return of good weather. Now began the display of a kind of diplomacy for which the Indian is peculiar. The Cheyennes and a band of Sioux were encamped on Pawnee Fork, about thirty miles above Fort Larned. They neither desired to move nearer to us or have us approach nearer to them. On the morning of the 11th, they sent us word that they had started to visit us, but, discovering a large herd of buffalo near their camp, they had stopped to procure a supply of meat. This message was not received with much confidence, nor was a buffalo hunt deemed of sufficient importance to justify the Indians in breaking their engagement. General Hancock decided, however, to delay another day, when, if the Indians still failed to come in, he would move his command to the vicinity of their village and hold the conference there. Orders were issued on the evening of the 12th for the march to be resumed on the following day. Late in the evening two chiefs of the "Dog-Soldiers," a band composed of the most warlike and troublesome Indians on the plains, chiefly made up of Cheyennes, visited our camp. They were accompanied by a dozen warriors, and expressed a desire to hold a conference with General Hancock, to which he assented. A large council-fire was built in front of the general's tent, and all the officers of his command assembled there. A tent had been erected for the accommodation of the chiefs a short distance from the general's. Before they could feel equal to the occasion, and in order to obtain time to collect their thoughts, they desired that supper might be prepared for them, which was done. When finally ready, they advanced from their tent to the council-fire in single file, accompanied by their agent and an interpreter. Arrived at the fire, another brief delay ensued. No matter how pressing or momentous the occasion, an Indian invariably declines to engage in a council until he has filled his pipe and gone through with the important ceremony of a smoke. This attended to, the chiefs announced that they were ready "to talk." They were then introduced to the principal officers of the group, and seemed much struck with the flashy uniforms of the few artillery officers, who were present in all the glory of red horsehair plumes, aiguillettes, etc. The chiefs seemed puzzled to determine whether these insignia designated chieftains or medicine men. General Hancock began the conference by a speech, in which he explained to the Indians his purpose in coming to see them, and what he expected of them in the future. He particularly informed them that he was not there to make war, but to promote peace. Then, expressing his regrets that more of the chiefs had not visited him, he announced his intention of proceeding on the morrow with his command to the vicinity of their village, and there holding a council with all the chiefs. Tall Bull, a fine, warlike-looking chieftain, replied to General Hancock, but his speech contained nothing important, being made up of allusions to the growing scarcity of the buffalo, his love for the white man, and the usual hint that a donation in the way of refreshments would be highly acceptable; he added that he would have nothing new to say at the village. Rightly concluding that the Indians did not intend to come to our camp, as they had at first agreed to, it was decided to move nearer their village. On the morning following the conference our entire force, therefore, marched from Fort Larned up Pawnee Fork in the direction of the main village, encamping the first night about twenty-one miles from Larned. Several parties of Indians were seen in our advance during the day, evidently watching our movements, while a heavy smoke, seen to rise in the direction of the Indian village, indicated that something more than usual was going on. The smoke, we afterward learned, arose from burning grass. The Indians, thinking to prevent us from encamping in their vicinity, had set fire to and burned all the grass for miles in the direction from which they expected us. Before we arrived at our camping-ground, we were met by several chiefs and warriors belonging to the Cheyennes and Sioux. Among the chiefs were Pawnee Killer, of the Sioux, and White Horse, of the Cheyennes. It was arranged that these chiefs should accept our hospitality and remain with us during the night, and in the morning all the chiefs of the two tribes then in the village were to come to General Hancock's head-quarters and hold a council. On the morning of the 14th, Pawnee Killer left our camp at an early hour, as he said for the purpose of going to the village to bring in the other chiefs to the council. Nine o'clock had been agreed upon as the time at which the council should assemble. The hour came, but the chiefs did not. Now an Indian council is not only often an important, but always an interesting, occasion. At this juncture, Bull Bear, an influential chief among the Cheyennes, came in and reported that the chiefs were on their way to our camp, but would not be able to reach it for some time. This was a mere artifice to secure delay. General Hancock informed Bull Bear that, as the chiefs could not arrive for some time, he would move his forces up the stream nearer the village, and the council could be held at our camp that night. To this proposition Bull Bear gave his consent. At 11 A.M. we resumed the march, and had proceeded but a few miles when we witnessed one of the finest and most imposing military displays, according to the Indian art of war, which it has been my lot to behold. It was nothing more nor less than an Indian line of battle drawn directly across our line of march, as if to say, "Thus far and no further." Most of the Indians were mounted; all were bedecked in their brightest colours, their heads crowned with the brilliant war-bonnet, their lances bearing the crimson pennant, bows strung, and quivers full of barbed arrows. In addition to these weapons, which, with the hunting-knife and tomahawk, are considered as forming the armament of the warrior, each one was supplied with either a breech-loading rifle or revolver, sometimes with both- the latter obtained through the wise forethought and strong love of fair play which prevails in the Indian department, which, seeing that its wards are determined to fight, is equally determined that there shall be no advantage taken, but that the two sides shall be armed alike; proving, too, in this manner, the wonderful liberality of our government, which is not only able to furnish its soldiers with the latest style of breech-loaders to defend it and themselves, but is equally able and willing to give the same pattern of arms to the common foe. The only difference is, that if the soldier loses his weapon, he is charged double price for it, while to avoid making any such charge against the Indian, his weapons are given him without conditions attached. In the line of battle before us there were several hundred Indians, while further to the rear and at different distances were other organized bodies, acting apparently as reserves. Still further behind were small detachments who seemed to perform the duty of couriers, and were held in readiness to convey messages to the village. The ground beyond was favourable for an extended view, and as far as the eye could reach, small groups of individuals could be seen in the direction of the village; these were evidently parties of observation, whose sole object was to learn the result of our meeting with the main body and hasten with the news to the village. For a few moments appearances seemed to foreshadow anything but a peaceable issue. The infantry was in the advance, followed closely by the artillery, while my command, the cavalry, was marching on the flank. General Hancock, who was riding with his staff at the head of the column, coming suddenly in view of the wild, fantastic battle array, which extended far to our right and left, and was not more than half a mile in our front, hastily sent orders to the infantry, artillery, and cavalry to form in line of battle, evidently determined that, if war was intended, we should be prepared. The cavalry being the last to form on the right, came into line on a gallop, and without waiting to align the ranks carefully, the command was given to "Draw sabre." As the bright blades flashed from their scabbards into the morning sunlight, and the infantry brought their muskets to a carry, a contrast was presented which, to a military eye, could but be striking. Here in battle array, facing each other, were the representatives of civilized and barbarous warfare. The one, with few modifications, stood clothed in the same rude style of dress, bearing the same patterned shield and weapon that his ancestors had borne centuries before; the other confronted him in the dress and supplied with the implements of war which an advanced stage of civilization had pronounced the most perfect. Was the comparative superiority of these two classes to be subjected to the mere test of war here? All was eager anxiety and expectation. Neither side seemed to comprehend the object or intentions of the other; each was waiting for the other to deliver the first blow. A more beautiful battle-ground could not have been chosen. Not a bush or even the slightest irregularity of ground intervened between the two lines, which now stood frowning and facing each other. Chiefs could be seen riding along the line, as if directing and exhorting their braves to deeds of heroism. After a few moments of painful suspense, General Hancock, accompanied by General A. J. Smith and other officers, rode forward, and through an interpreter invited the chiefs to meet us midway for the purpose of an interview. In response to this invitation, Roman Nose, bearing a white flag, accompanied by Bull Bear, White Horse, Gray Beard, and Medicine Wolf, on the part of the Cheyennes, and Pawnee Killer, Bad Wound, Tall-Bear-That-Walks-under-the-Ground, Left Hand, Little Bear, and Little Bull, on the part of the Sioux, rode forward to the middle of the open space between the two lines. Here we shook hands with all the chiefs, most of them exhibiting unmistakable signs of gratification at this apparently peaceful termination of our rencounter. General Hancock very naturally inquired the object of the hostile attitude displayed before us, saying to the chiefs that if war was their object, we were ready then and there to participate. Their immediate answer was that they did not desire war, but were peacefully disposed. They were then told that we would continue our march toward the village, and encamp near it, but would establish such regulations that none of the soldiers would be permitted to approach or disturb them. An arrangement was then effected by which the chiefs were to assemble at General Hancock's headquarters as soon as our camp was pitched. The interview then terminated, and the Indians moved off in the direction of their village, we following leisurely in the rear. A march of a few miles brought us in sight of the village, which was situated in a beautiful grove on the bank of the stream up which we had been marching. It consisted of upwards of three hundred lodges, a small fraction over half belonging to the Cheyennes, the remainder to the Sioux. Like all Indian encampments, the ground chosen was a most romantic spot, and at the same time fulfilled in every respect the requirements of a good camping-ground; wood, water, and grass were abundant. The village was placed on a wide, level plateau, while on the north and west, at a short distance off, rose high bluffs, which admirably served as a shelter against the cold winds which at that season of the year prevail from those directions. Our tents were pitched within a mile of the village. Guards were placed between to prevent intrusion upon our part. We had scarcely pitched our tents when Roman Nose, Bull Bear, Gray Beard, and Medicine Wolf, all prominent chiefs of the Cheyenne nation, came into camp with the information that upon our approach their women and children had all fled from the village, alarmed by the presence of so many soldiers, and imagining a second Chivington massacre to be intended. General Hancock insisted that they should all return, promising protection and good treatment to all; that if the camp was abandoned, he would hold it responsible. The chiefs then stated their belief in their ability to recall the fugitives, could they be furnished with horses to overtake them. This was accordingly done, and two of them set out mounted on two of our horses. An agreement was also entered into at the same time, that one of our interpreters, Ed Gurrier, a half-breed Cheyenne, who was in the employ of the government, should remain in the village and report every two hours as to whether any Indians were leaving there. This was about seven o'clock in the evening. At half-past nine the half-breed returned to head-quarters with the intelligence that all the chiefs and warriors were saddling up to leave, under circumstances showing that they had no intention of returning, such as packing up every article that could be carried with them, and cutting and destroying their lodges--this last being done to obtain small pieces for temporary shelter. I had retired to my tent, which was some few hundred yards from that of General Hancock, when a messenger from the latter awakened me with the information that the general desired my presence in his tent. He briefly stated the situation of affairs, and directed me to mount my command as quickly and as silently as possible, surround the Indian village, and prevent the departure of its inhabitants. Easily said, but not so easily done. Under ordinary circumstances, silence not being necessary, I could have returned to my camp, and by a few blasts from the trumpet, placed every soldier on his saddle almost as quickly as it has taken time to write this short sentence. No bugle calls must be sounded; we were to adopt some of the stealth of the Indians--how successfully remained to be seen. By this time every soldier and officer was in his tent sound asleep. First going to the tent of the adjutant and arousing him, I procured an experienced assistant in my labours. Next the captains of companies were awakened and orders imparted to them. They in turn transmitted the order to the first sergeant, who similarly aroused the men. It has often surprised me to observe the alacrity with which disciplined soldiers, experienced in campaigning, will hasten to prepare themselves for the march in an emergency like this. No questions are asked, no time is wasted. A soldier's toilet, on an Indian campaign, is a simple affair, and requires little time for arranging. His clothes are gathered up hurriedly, no matter how, so long as he retains possession of them. The first object is to get his horse saddled and bridled, and until this is done his own dress is a matter of secondary importance, and one button or hook must do the duty of half a dozen. When his horse is ready for the mount, the rider will be seen completing his own equipment; stray buttons will receive attention, arms will be overhauled, spurs restrapped; then, if there still remain a few spare moments, the homely black pipe is filled and lighted, and the soldier's preparation is complete. The night was all that could be desired for the success of our enterprise. The air was mild and pleasant; the moon, although nearly full, kept almost constantly behind the clouds, as if to screen us in our hazardous undertaking. I say hazardous, because none of us imagined for one moment that if the Indians discovered us in our attempt to surround them and their village, we should escape without a fight-- a fight, too, in which the Indians, sheltered behind the trunks of the stately forest trees under which their lodges were pitched, would possess all the advantage. General Hancock, anticipating that the Indians would discover our approach, and that a fight would ensue, ordered the artillery and infantry under arms, to await the result of our moonlight adventure. My command was soon in the saddle, and silently making its way toward the village. Instructions had been given forbidding all conversation except in a whisper. Sabres were disposed of to prevent clanging. Taking a camp-fire which we could see in the village as our guiding point, we made a detour so as to place the village between ourselves and the infantry. Occasionally the moon would peep out from the clouds and enable us to catch a hasty glance at the village. Here and there under the thick foliage we could see the white, conical-shaped lodges. Were the inmates slumbering, unaware of our close proximity, or were their dusky defenders concealed, as well they might have been, along the banks of the Pawnee, quietly awaiting our approach, and prepared to greet us with their well-known war-whoop? These were questions that were probably suggested to the mind of each individual of my command. If we were discovered approaching in the stealthy, suspicious manner which characterized our movements, the hour being midnight, it would require a more confiding nature than that of the Indian to assign a friendly or peaceful motive to our conduct. The same flashes of moonlight which gave us hurried glimpses of the village enabled us to see our own column of horsemen stretching its silent length far into the dim darkness, and winding its course, like some huge anaconda about to envelop its victim. The method by which it was determined to establish a cordon of armed troopers about the fated village, was to direct the march in a circle, with the village in the centre, the commanding officer of each rear troop halting his command at the proper point, and deploying his men similarly to a line of skirmishers--the entire circle, when thus formed, facing toward the village, and, distant from it perhaps a few hundred yards. No sooner was our line completely formed than the moon, as if deeming darkness no longer essential to our success, appeared from behind her screen and lighted up the entire scene. And beautiful it was! The great circle of troops, each individual of which sat on his steed silent as a statue, the dense foliage of the cotton trees sheltering the bleached, skin-clad lodges of the red men, the little stream in the midst murmuring undisturbedly in its channel, all combined to produce an artistic effect, as striking as it was interesting. But we were not there to study artistic effects. The next step was to determine whether we had captured an inhabited village, involving almost necessarily a severe conflict with its savage occupants, or whether the red man had again proven too wily and crafty for his more civilized brothers. Directing the entire line of troopers to remain mounted with carbines held at the "Advance," I dismounted, and taking with me Gurrier, the half-breed, Dr. Coates, one of our medical staff, and Lieutenant Moylan, the adjutant, we proceeded on our hands and knees toward the village. The prevailing opinion was that the Indians were still asleep. I desired to approach near enough to the lodges to enable the half-breed to hail the village in the Indian tongue, and if possible establish friendly relations at once. It became a question of prudence with us, which we discussed in whispers as we proceeded on our "Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are creeping," how far from our horses and how near to the village we dared to go. If so few of us were discovered entering the village in this questionable manner, it was more than probable that, like the returners of stolen property, we should be suitably rewarded and no questions asked. The opinion of Gurrier, the half-breed, was eagerly sought for and generally deferred to. His wife, a full-blooded Cheyenne, was a resident of the village. This with him was an additional reason for wishing a peaceful termination to our efforts. When we had passed over two-thirds of the distance between our horses and the village, it was thought best to make our presence known. Thus far not a sound had been heard to disturb the stillness of the night. Gurrier called out at the top of his voice in the Cheyenne tongue. The only response came from the throats of a score or more of Indian dogs which set up a fierce barking. At the same time one or two of our party asserted that they saw figure moving beneath the trees. Gurrier repeated his summons, but with no better results than before. A hurried consultation ensued. The presence of so many dogs in the village was regarded by the half-breed as almost positive assurance that the Indians were still there. Yet it was difficult to account for their silence. Gurrier in a loud tone repeated who he was, and that our mission was friendly. Still no answer. He then gave it as his opinion that the Indians were on the alert, and were probably waiting in the shadow of the trees for us to approach nearer, when they would pounce upon us. This comforting opinion induced another conference. We must ascertain the truth of the matter; our party could do this as well as a larger number, and to go back and send another party in our stead could not be thought of. Forward! was the verdict. Each one grasped his revolver, resolved to do his best, whether it was in running or fighting. I think most of us would have preferred to take our own chances at running. We had approached near enough to see that some of the lodges were detached some distance from the main encampment. Selecting the nearest of these, we directed our advance on it. While all of us were full of the spirit of adventure, and were further encouraged with the idea that we were in the discharge of our duty, there was scarcely one of us who would not have felt more comfortable if we could have got back to our horses without loss of pride. Yet nothing, under the circumstances, but a positive order would have induced any one to withdraw. Cautiously approaching, on all fours, to within a few yards of the nearest lodge, occasionally halting and listening to discover whether the village was deserted or not, we finally decided that the Indians had fled before the arrival of the cavalry, and that none but empty lodges were before us. This conclusion somewhat emboldened as well as accelerated our progress. Arriving at the first lodge, one of our party raised the curtain or mat which served as a door, and the doctor and myself entered. The interior of the lodge was dimly lighted by the dying embers of a small fire built in the centre. All around us were to be seen the usual adornments and articles which constitute the household effects of an Indian family. Buffalo-robes were spread like carpets over the floor; head-mats, used to recline on, were arranged as if for the comfort of their owners; parflêches, a sort of Indian band-box, with their contents apparently undisturbed, were carefully stowed away under the edges or borders of the lodge. These, with the door-mats, paint-bags, rawhide ropes, and other articles of Indian equipment, were left as if the owners had only absented themselves for a brief period. To complete the picture of an Indian lodge, over the fire hung a camp-kettle, in which, by means of the dim light of the fire, we could see what had been intended for the supper of the late occupants of the lodge. The doctor, ever on the alert to discover additional items of knowledge, whether pertaining to history or science, snuffed the savoury odours which arose from the dark recesses of the mysterious kettle. Casting about the lodge for some instrument to aid him in his pursuit of knowledge, he found a horn spoon, with which he began his investigation of the contents, finally succeeding in getting possession of a fragment which might have been the half of a duck or rabbit, judging from its size merely. "Ah!" said the doctor, in his most complacent manner, "here is the opportunity I have long been waiting for. I have often desired to test the Indian mode of cooking. What do you suppose this is?" holding up the dripping morsel. Unable to obtain the desired information, the doctor, whose naturally good appetite had been sensibly sharpened by his recent exercise, set to with a will and ate heartily of the mysterious contents of the kettle. He was only satisfied on one point, that it was delicious--a dish fit for a king. Just then Gurrier, the half-breed, entered the lodge. He could solve the mystery, having spent years among the Indians. To him the doctor appealed for information. Fishing out a huge piece, and attacking it with the voracity of a hungry wolf, he was not long in determining what the doctor had supped heartily upon. His first words settled the mystery: "Why, this is dog." I will not attempt to repeat the few but emphatic words uttered by the heartily disgusted member of the medical fraternity as he rushed from the lodge. Other members of our small party had entered other lodges, only to find them, like the first, deserted. But little of the furniture belonging to the lodges had been taken, showing how urgent and hasty had been the flight of the owners. To aid in the examination of the village, reinforcements were added to our party, and an exploration of each lodge was determined upon. At the same time a messenger was despatched to General Hancock, informing him of the flight of the Indians. Some of the lodges were closed by having brush or timber piled up against the entrance, as if to preserve the contents. Others had huge pieces cut from their sides, these pieces evidently being carried away to furnish temporary shelter for the fugitives. In most of the lodges the fires were still burning. I had entered several without discovering anything important. Finally, in company with the doctor, I arrived at one the interior of which was quite dark, the fire having almost died out. Procuring a lighted fagot, I prepared to explore it, as I had done the others; but no sooner had I entered the lodge than my fagot failed me, leaving me in total darkness. Handing it to the doctor to be relighted, I began to feel my way about the interior of the lodge. I had almost made the circuit when my hand came in contact with a human foot; at the same time a voice unmistakably Indian, and which evidently came from the owner of the foot, convinced me that I was not alone. My first impressions were that in their hasty flight the Indians had gone off, leaving this one asleep. My next, very naturally, related to myself. I would gladly have placed myself on the outside of the lodge, and there matured plans for interviewing its occupant; but unfortunately to reach the entrance of the lodge, I must either pass over or around the owner of the before-mentioned foot and voice. Could I have been convinced that among its other possessions there was neither tomahawk nor scalping-knife, pistol nor war-club, or any similar article of the noble red-man's toilet, I would have risked an attempt to escape through the low narrow opening of the lodge; but who ever saw an Indian without one or all of these interesting trinkets? Had I made the attempt, I should have expected to encounter either the keen edge of the scalping-knife or the blow of the tomahawk, and to have engaged in a questionable struggle for life. This would not do. I crouched in silence for a few moments, hoping the doctor would return with the lighted fagot. I need not say that each succeeding moment spent in the darkness of that lodge seemed an age. I could hear a slight movement on the part of my unknown neighbour, which did not add to my comfort. Why does not the doctor return? At last I discovered the approach of a light on the outside. When it neared the entrance, I called the doctor and informed him that an Indian was in the lodge, and that he had better have his weapons ready for a conflict. I had, upon discovering the foot, drawn my hunting-knife from its scabbard, and now stood waiting the denouement. With his lighted fagot in one hand and cocked revolver in the other, the doctor cautiously entered the lodge. And there directly between us, wrapped in a buffalo-robe, lay the cause of my anxiety--a little Indian girl, probably ten years old; not a full-blood, but a half-breed. She was terribly frightened at finding herself in our hands, with none of her people near. Other parties in exploring the deserted village found an old, decrepit Indian of the Sioux tribe, who had also been deserted, owing to his infirmities and inability to travel with the tribe. Nothing was gleaned from our search of the village which might indicate the direction of the flight. General Hancock, on learning the situation of affairs, despatched some companies of infantry with orders to replace the cavalry and protect the village and its contents from disturbance until its final disposition could be determined upon, and it was decided that with eight troops of cavalry I should start in pursuit of the Indians at early dawn on the following morning. The Indians, after leaving their village, went up on the Smoky Hill, and committed the most horrible depredations upon the scattered settlers in that region. Upon this news, General Hancock issued the following order:-- "As a punishment of the bad faith practised by the Cheyennes and Sioux who occupied the Indian village at this place, and as a chastisement for murders and depredations committed since the arrival of the command at this point, by the people of these tribes, the village recently occupied by them, which is now in our hands, will be utterly destroyed." The Cheyennes, Arapahoes, and Apaches had been united under one agency; the Kiowas and Comanches under another. As General Hancock's expedition had reference to all these tribes, he had invited both the agents to accompany him into the Indian country and be present at all interviews with the representatives of these tribes, for the purpose, as the invitation stated, of showing the Indians "that the officers of the government are acting in harmony." In conversation with the general the agents admitted that Indians had been guilty of all the outrages charged against them, but each asserted the innocence of the particular tribes under his charge, and endeavoured to lay their crimes at the door of their neighbours. Here was positive evidence from the agents themselves that the Indians against whom we were operating were deserving of severe punishment. The only conflicting portion of the testimony was as to which tribe was most guilty. Subsequent events proved, however, that all of the five tribes named, as well as the Sioux, had combined for a general war throughout the plains and along our frontier. Such a war had been threatened to our post commanders along the Arkansas on many occasions during the winter. The movement of the Sioux and Cheyennes toward the north indicated that the principal theatre of military operations during the summer would be between the Smoky Hill and Platte rivers. General Hancock accordingly assembled the principal chiefs of the Kiowas and Arapahoes in council at Fort Dodge, hoping to induce them to remain at peace and observe their treaty obligations. The most prominent chiefs in council were Satanta, Lone Wolf, and Kicking Bird of the Kiowas, and Little Raven and Yellow Bear of the Arapahoes. During the council extravagant promises of future good behaviour were made by these chiefs. So effective and convincing was the oratorical effort of Satanta, that at the termination of his address, the department commander and his staff presented him with the uniform coat, sash, and hat of a major-general. In return for this compliment, Satanta, within a few weeks, attacked the post at which the council was held, arrayed in his new uniform. In the spring of 1878, the Indians commenced a series of depredations along the Santa Fe Trail and against the scattered settlers of the frontier, that were unparalleled in their barbarity. General Alfred Sully, a noted Indian fighter, who commanded the district of the Upper Arkansas, early concentrated a portion of the Seventh and Tenth Cavalry and Third Infantry along the line of the Old Santa Fe Trail, and kept out small expeditions of scouting parties to protect the overland coaches and freight caravans; but the troops effected very little in stopping the devilish acts of the Indians, who were now fully determined to carry out their threats of a general war, which culminated in the winter expedition of General Sheridan, who completely subdued them, and forced all the tribes on reservations; since which time there has never been any trouble with the plains Indians worthy of mention.[69] General Sully, about the 1st of September, with eight companies of the Seventh Cavalry and five companies of infantry, left Fort Dodge, on the Arkansas, on a hurried expedition against the Kiowas, Arapahoes, and Cheyennes. The command marched in a general southeasterly direction, and reached the sand hills of the Beaver and Wolf rivers, by a circuitous route, on the fifth day. When nearly through that barren region, they were attacked by a force of eight hundred of the allied tribes under the leadership of the famous Kiowa chief, Satanta. A running fight was kept up with the savages on the first day, in which two of the cavalry were killed and one wounded. That night the savages came close enough to camp to fire into it (an unusual proceeding in Indian warfare, as they rarely molest troops during the night), I now quote from Custer again: The next day General Sully directed his march down the valley of the Beaver; but just as his troops were breaking camp, the long wagon-train having already "pulled out," and the rear guard of the command having barely got into their saddles, a party of between two and three hundred warriors, who had evidently in some inexplicable manner contrived to conceal themselves until the proper moment, dashed into the deserted camp within a few yards of the rear of the troops, and succeeded in cutting off a few led horses and two of the cavalrymen who, as is often the case, had lingered a moment behind the column. Fortunately, the acting adjutant of the cavalry, Brevet Captain A. E. Smith, was riding at the rear of the column and witnessed the attack of the Indians. Captain Hamilton,[70] of the Seventh Cavalry, was also present in command of the rear guard. Wheeling to the rightabout, he at once prepared to charge the Indians and attempt the rescue of the two troopers who were being carried off before his very eyes. At the same time, Captain Smith, as representative of the commanding officer of the cavalry, promptly took the responsibility of directing a squadron of the cavalry to wheel out of column and advance in support of Captain Hamilton's guard. With this hastily formed detachment, the Indians, still within pistol-range, but moving off with their prisoners, were gallantly charged and so closely pressed that they were forced to relinquish one of their prisoners, but not before shooting him through the body and leaving him on the ground, as they supposed, mortally wounded. The troops continued to charge the retreating Indians, upon whom they were gaining, determined, if possible, to effect the rescue of their remaining comrade. They were advancing down one slope while the Indians, just across a ravine, were endeavouring to escape with their prisoner up the opposite ascent, when a peremptory order reached the officers commanding the pursuing force to withdraw their men and reform the column at once. The terrible fate awaiting the unfortunate trooper carried off by the Indians spread a deep gloom throughout the command. All were too familiar with the horrid customs of the savages to hope for a moment that the captive would be reserved for aught but a slow, lingering death, from tortures the most horrible and painful which blood-thirsty minds could suggest. Such was the truth in his case, as we learned afterwards when peace (?) was established with the tribes then engaged in war. The expedition proceeded down the valley of the Beaver, the Indians contesting every step of the way. In the afternoon, about three o'clock, the troops arrived at a ridge of sand hills a few miles southeast of the presentsite of Camp Supply, where quite a determined engagement took place between the command and the three tribes, Cheyennes, Arapahoes, and Kiowas, the Indians being the assailants. The Indians seemed to have reserved their strongest efforts until the troops and train had advanced well into the sand hills, when a most obstinate resistance--and well conducted, too--was offered the farther advance of the troops. It was evident that the troops were probably nearing the Indian villages, and that this opposition to further advance was to save them. The character of the country immediately about the troops was not favourable to the operations of cavalry; the surface of the rolling plain was cut up by irregular and closely located sand hills, too steep and sandy to allow cavalry to move with freedom, yet capable of being easily cleared of savages by troops fighting on foot. The Indians took post on the hilltops and began a harassing fire on the troops and train. Captain Yates, with a single troop of cavalry, was ordered forward to drive them away. This was a proceeding which did not seem to meet with favour from the savages. Captain Yates could drive them wherever he encountered them, but they appeared in increased numbers at some other threatened point. After contending in this non-effective manner for a couple of hours, the impression arose in the minds of some that the train could not be conducted through the sand hills in the face of the strong opposition offered by the Indians. The order was issued to turn about and withdraw. The order was executed, and the troop and train, followed by the exultant Indians, retired a few miles to the Beaver, and encamped for the night on the ground afterward known as Camp Supply. Captain Yates had caused to be brought off the field, when his troop was ordered to retire, the body of one of his men, who had been slain in the fight. As the troops were to continue their backward march next day, and it was impossible to transport the dead body further, Captain Yates ordered preparations made for interring it in camp that night. Knowing that the Indians would thoroughly search the deserted camp-ground almost before the troops should get out of sight, and would be quick, with their watchful eyes, to detect a grave, and, if successful in discovering it, would unearth the body in order to get the scalp, directions were given to prepare the grave after nightfall; and the spot selected would have baffled any one but an Indian. The grave was dug under the picket line to which the seventy or eighty horses of the troop would be tethered during the night, so that their constant tramping and pawing should completely cover up and obliterate all traces. The following morning, even those who had performed the sad rites of burial to their fallen comrade could scarcely have indicated the exact location of the grave. Yet when we returned to that point a few weeks later, it was discovered that the wily savages had found the place, unearthed the body, and removed the scalp of their victim on the day following the interment.[71] After leaving the camp at Supply, the Indians gradually increased their force, until they mustered about two thousand warriors. For four days and nights they hovered around the command, and by the time it reached Mulberry Creek there were not one thousand rounds of ammunition left in the whole force of troopers and infantrymen. At the creek, the incessant charges of the now infuriated savages compelled the troops to use this small amount held in reserve, and they found themselves almost at the mercy of the Indians. But before they were absolutely defenceless, Colonel Keogh had sent a trusty messenger in the night to Fort Dodge for a supply of cartridges to meet the command at the creek, which fortunately arrived there in time to save that spot from being a veritable "last ditch." The savages, in the little but exciting encounter at the creek before the ammunition arrived, would ride up boldly toward the squadrons of cavalry, discharge the shots from their revolvers, and then, in their rage, throw them at the skirmishers on the flanks of the supply-train, while the latter, nearly out of ammunition, were compelled to sit quietly in their saddles, idle spectators of the extraordinary scene.[72] Many of the Indians were killed on their ponies, however, by those who were fortunate enough to have a few cartridges left; but none were captured, as the savages had taken their usual precaution to tie themselves to their animals, and as soon as dead were dragged away by them. CHAPTER XXIV. INVASION OF THE RAILROAD. The tourist who to-day, in a palace car, surrounded by all the conveniences of our American railway service, commences his tour of the prairies at the Missouri River, enters classic ground the moment the train leaves the muddy flood of that stream on its swift flight toward the golden shores of the Pacific. He finds a large city at the very portals of the once far West, with all the bustle and energy which is so characteristic of American enterprise. Gradually, as he is whirled along the iron trail, the woods lessen; he catches views of beautiful intervales; a bright little stream flashes and foams in the sunlight as the trees grow fewer, and soon he emerges on the broad sea of prairie, shut in only by the great circle of the heavens. Dotting this motionless ocean everywhere, like whitened sails, are quiet homes, real argosies ventured by the sturdy and industrious people who have fought their way through almost insurmountable difficulties to the tranquillity which now surrounds them. A few miles west of Topeka, the capital of Kansas, when the train reaches the little hamlet of Wakarusa, the track of the railroad commences to follow the route of the Old Santa Fe Trail. At that point, too, the Oregon Trail branches off for the heavily timbered regions of the Columbia. Now begins the classic ground of the once famous highway to New Mexico; nearly every stream, hill, and wooded dell has its story of adventure in those days when the railroad was regarded as an impossibility, and the region beyond the Missouri as a veritable desert. After some hours' rapid travelling, if our tourist happens to be a passenger on the "California Limited," the swift train that annihilates distance, he will pass by towns, hamlets, and immense cattle ranches, stopping only at county-seats, and enter the justly famous Arkansas valley at the city of Hutchinson. The Old Trail now passes a few miles north of this busy place, which is noted for its extensive salt works, nor does the railroad again meet with it until the site of old Fort Zarah is reached, forty-seven miles west of Hutchinson, though it runs nearly parallel to the once great highway at varying distances for the whole detour. The ruins of the once important military post may be seen from the car-windows on the right, as the train crosses the iron bridge spanning the Walnut, and here the Old Trail exactly coincides with the railroad, the track of the latter running immediately on the old highway. Three miles westward from the classic little Walnut the Old Trail ran through what is now the Court House Square of the town of Great Bend; it may be seen from the station, and on that very spot occurred the terrible fight of Captains Booth and Hallowell in 1864. Thirteen miles further mountainward, on the right of the railroad, not far from the track, stands all that remains of the once dreaded Pawnee Rock. It lies just beyond the limits of the little hamlet bearing its name. It would not be recognized by any of the old plainsmen were they to come out of their isolated graves; for it is only a disintegrated, low mass of sandstone now, utilized for the base purposes of a corral, in which the village herd of milch cows lie down at night and chew their cuds, such peaceful transformation has that great civilizer, the locomotive, wrought in less than two decades. Another five or six miles, and the train crosses Ash Creek, which, too, was once one of the favourite haunts of the Pawnee and Comanche on their predatory excursions, in the days when the mules and horses of passing freight caravans excited their cupidity. A short whirl again, and the town of Larned, lying peacefully on the Arkansas and Pawnee Fork, is reached. Immediately opposite the centre of the street through which the railroad runs, and which was also the course of the Old Trail, lying in the Arkansas River, close to its northern bank, is a small thickly-wooded island, now reached by a bridge, that is famous as the battle-ground of a terrible conflict thirty years ago, between the Pawnees and Cheyennes, hereditary enemies, in which the latter tribe was cruelly defeated. The railroad bridge crosses Pawnee Fork at the precise spot where the Old Trail did. This locality has been the scene of some of the bloodiest encounters between the various tribes of savages themselves, and between them and the freight caravans, the overland coaches, and every other kind of outfit that formerly attempted the passage of the now peaceful stream. In fact, the whole region from Walnut Creek to the mouth of the Pawnee, which includes in its area Ash Creek and Pawnee Rock, seemed to be the greatest resort for the Indians, who hovered about the Santa Fe Trail for the sole purpose of robbery and murder; it was a very lucky caravan or coach, indeed, that passed through that portion of the route without being attacked. All the once dangerous points of the Old Trail having been successively passed--Cow Creek, Big and Little Coon, and Ash Creek, Fort Dodge, Fort Aubrey,[73] and Point of Rocks--the tourist arrives at last at the foot-hills. At La Junta the railroad separates into two branches; one going to Denver, the other on to New Mexico. Here, a relatively short distance to the northwest, on the right of the train, may be seen the ruins of Bent's Fort, the tourist having already passed the site of the once famous Big Timbers, a favourite winter camping-ground of the Cheyennes and Arapahoes; but everywhere around him there reigns such perfect quiet and pastoral beauty, he might imagine that the peaceful landscape upon which he looks had never been a bloody arena. I suggest to the lover of nature that he should cross the Raton Range in the early morning, or late in the afternoon; for then the magnificent scenery of the Trail over the high divide into New Mexico assumes its most beautiful aspect. In approaching the range from the Old Trail, or now from the railroad, their snow-clad peaks may be seen at a distance of sixty miles. In the era of caravans and pack-trains, for hour after hour, as they moved slowly toward the goal of their ambition, the summit of the fearful pathway on the divide, the huge forms of the mountains seemed to recede, and yet ascend higher. On the next day's journey their outlines appeared more irregular and ragged. Drawing still nearer, their base presented a long, dark strip stretching throughout their whole course, ever widening until it seemed like a fathomless gulf, separating the world of reality from the realms of imagination beyond. Another weary twenty miles of dusty travel, and the black void slowly dissolved, and out of the shadows lines of broken, sterile, ferruginous buttes and detached masses of rocks, whose soilless surface refuses sustenance, save to a few scattered, stunted pines and lifeless mosses, emerged to view. The progress of the weary-footed mules or oxen was now through ravines and around rocks; up narrow paths which the melting snows have washed out; sometimes between beetling cliffs, often to their very edge, where hundreds of feet below the Trail the tall trees seemed diminished into shrubs. Then again the road led over an immense broad terrace, for thousands of yards around, with a bright lake gleaming in the refracted light, and brilliant Alpine plants waving their beautiful flowers on its margin. Still the coveted summit appeared so far off as to be beyond the range of vision, and it seemed as if, instead of ascending, the entire mass underneath had been receding, like the mountains of ice over which Arctic explorers attempt to reach the pole. Now the tortuous Trail passed through snow-wreaths which the winds had eddied into indentations; then over bright, glassy surfaces of ice and fragments of rocks, until the pinnacle was reached. Nearer, along the broad successive terraces of the opposite mountains, the evergreen pine, the cedar, with its stiff, angular branches, and the cottonwood, with its varied curves and bright colours, were crowded into bunches or strung into zigzag lines, interspersed with shrubs and mountain plants, among which the flaming cactus was conspicuous. To the right and left, the bare cones of the barren peaks rose in multitude, with their calm, awful forms shrouded in snow, and their dark shadows reflected far into the valleys, like spectres from a chaotic world. In going through the Raton Pass, the Old Santa Fe Trail meandered up a steep valley, enclosed on either side by abrupt hills covered with pine and masses of gray rock. The road ran along the points of varying elevations, now in the stony bed of Raton Creek, which it crossed fifty-three times, the sparkling, flitting waters of the bubbling stream leaping and foaming against the animals' feet as they hauled the great wagons of the freight caravans over the tortuous passage. The creek often rushed rapidly under large flat stones, lost to sight for a moment, then reappearing with a fresh impetus and dashing over its flinty, uneven bed until it mingled with the pure waters of Le Purgatoire. Still ascending, the scenery assumed a bolder, rougher cast; then sudden turns gave you hurried glimpses of the great valley below. A gentle dell sloped to the summit of the pass on the west, then, rising on the east by a succession of terraces, the bald, bare cliff was reached, overlooking the whole region for many miles, and this is Raton Peak.[74] The extreme top of this famous peak was only reached after more than an hour's arduous struggle. On the lofty plateau the caravans and pack-trains rested their tired animals. Here, too, the lonely trapper, when crossing the range in quest of beaver, often chose this lofty spot on which to kindle his little fire and broil juicy steaks of the black-tail deer, the finest venison in the world; but before he indulged in the savoury morsels, if he was in the least superstitious or devout, or inspired by the sublime scene around him, he lighted his pipe, and after saluting the elevated ridge on which he sat by the first whiff of the fragrant kinnikinick, Indian-fashion, he in turn offered homage in the same manner to the sky above him, the earth beneath, and to the cardinal points of the compass, and was then prepared to eat his solitary meal in a spirit of thankfulness. Far below this magnificent vantage-ground lies the valley of the Rio Las Animas Perdidas. On the other verge of the great depression rise the peerless, everlastingly snow-wreathed Spanish Peaks,[75] whose giant summits are grim sentinels that for untold ages have witnessed hundreds of sanguinary conflicts between the wily nomads of the vast plains watered by the silent Arkansas. All around you snow-clad mountains lift their serrated crowns above the horizon, dim, white, and indistinct, like icebergs seen at sea by moonlight; others, nearer, more rugged, naked of verdure, and irregular in contour, seem to lose their lofty summits in the intense blue of the sky. Fisher's Peak, which is in full view from the train, was named from the following circumstance: Captain Fisher was a German artillery officer commanding a battery in General Kearney's Army of the West in the conquest of New Mexico and was encamped at the base of the peak to which he involuntarily gave his name. He was intently gazing at the lofty summit wrapped in the early mist, and not being familiar with the illusory atmospheric effects of the region, he thought that to go there would be merely a pleasant promenade. So, leaving word that he would return to breakfast, he struck out at a brisk walk for the crest. That whole day, the following night, and the succeeding day, dragged their weary hours on, but no tidings of the commanding officer were received at the battery, and ill rumours were current of his death by Indians or bears, when, just as his mess were about to take their seats at the table for the evening meal, their captain put in an appearance, a very tired but a wiser man. He started to go to the peak, and he went there! On the summit of another rock-ribbed elevation close by, the tourist will notice the shaft of an obelisk. It is over the grave of George Simpson, once a noted mountaineer in the days of the great fur companies. For a long time he made his home there, and it was his dying request that the lofty peak he loved so well while living should be his last resting-place. The peak is known as "Simpson's Rest," and is one of the notable features of the rugged landscape. Pike's Peak, far away to the north, intensely white and silvery in the clear sky, hangs like a great dome high in the region of the clouds, a marked object, worthy to commemorate the indefatigable efforts of the early voyageur whose name it bears. In this wonderful locality, both Pike's Peak and the snowy range over two hundred miles from our point of observation really seem to the uninitiated as if a brisk walk of an hour or two would enable one to reach them, so deceptive is the atmosphere of these elevated regions. About two miles from the crest of the range, yet over seven thousand feet above the sea-level, in a pretty little depression about as large as a medium-sized corn-field in the Eastern States, Uncle Dick Wooton lived, and here, too, was his toll-gate. The veteran mountaineer erected a substantial house of adobe, after the style of one of the old-time Southern plantation residences, a memory, perhaps, of his youth, when he raised tobacco in his father's fields in Kentucky.[76] The most charming hour in which to be on the crest of Raton Range is in the afternoon, when the weather is clear and calm. As the night comes on apace in the distant valley beneath, the evening shadows drop down, pencilled with broad bands of rosy light as they creep slowly across the beautiful landscape, while the rugged vista below is enveloped in a diffused haze like that which marks the season of the Indian summer in the lower great plains. Above, the sky curves toward the relatively restricted horizon, with not a cloud to dim its intense blue, nowhere so beautiful as in these lofty altitudes. The sun, however, does not always shine resplendently; there are times when the most terrific storms of wind, hail, and rain change the entire aspect of the scene. Fortunately, these violent bursts never last long; they vanish as rapidly as they come, leaving in their wake the most phenomenally beautiful rainbows, whose trailing splendours which they owe to the dry and rare air of the region, and its high refractory power, are gorgeous in the extreme. In 1872 the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad entered the valley of the Upper Arkansas. Twenty-four years ago, on a delicious October afternoon, I stood on the absolutely level plateau at the mouth of Pawnee Fork where that historic creek debouches into the great river. The remembrance of that view will never pass from my memory, for it showed a curious temporary blending of two distinct civilizations. One, the new, marking the course of empire in its restless march westward; the other, that of the aboriginal, which, like a dissolving view, was soon to fade away and be forgotten. The box-elders and cottonwoods thinly covering the creek-bottom were gradually donning their autumn dress of russet, and the mirage had already commenced its fantastic play with the landscape. On the sides and crests of the sparsely grassed sand hills south of the Arkansas a few buffaloes were grazing in company with hundreds of Texas cattle, while in the broad valley beneath, small flocks of graceful antelope were lying down, quietly ruminating their midday meal. In the distance, far eastwardly, a train of cars could be seen approaching; as far as the eye could reach, on either side of the track, the virgin sod had been turned to the sun; the "empire of the plough" was established, and the march of immigration in its hunger for the horizon had begun. Half a mile away from the bridge spanning the Fork, under the grateful shade of the largest trees, about twenty skin lodges were irregularly grouped; on the brown sod of the sun-cured grass a herd of a hundred ponies were lazily feeding, while a troop of dusky little children were chasing the yellow butterflies from the dried and withered sunflower stalks which once so conspicuously marked the well-worn highway to the mountains. These Indians, the remnant of a tribe powerful in the years of savage sovereignty, were on their way, in charge of their agent, to their new homes, on the reservation just allotted to them by the government, a hundred miles south of the Arkansas. Their primitive lodges contrasted strangely with the peaceful little sod-houses, dugouts, and white cottages of the incoming settlers on the public lands, with the villages struggling into existence, and above all with the rapidly moving cars; unmistakable evidences that the new civilization was soon to sweep the red men before it like chaff before the wind. Farther to the west, a caravan of white-covered wagons loaded with supplies for some remote military post, the last that would ever travel the Old Trail, was slowly crawling toward the setting sun. I watched it until only a cloud of dust marked its place low down on the horizon, and it was soon lost sight of in the purple mist that was rapidly overspreading the far-reaching prairie. It was the beginning of the end; on the 9th of February, 1880, the first train over the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad arrived at Santa Fe and the Old Trail as a route of commerce was closed forever. The once great highway is now only a picture in the memory of the few who have travelled its weary course, following the windings of the silent Arkansas, on to the portals that guard the rugged pathway leading to the shores of the blue Pacific. FOOTNOTES. [Footnote 1: The whole country watered by the Mississippi and Missouri was called Florida at that time.] [Footnote 2: The celebrated Jesuit, author of _The History of New France_, _Journals of a Voyage to North America_, _Letters to the Duchess_, etc.] [Footnote 3: Otoes.] [Footnote 4: Iowas.] [Footnote 5: Boulevard, Promenade.] [Footnote 6: Notes of a Military Reconnoissance from Fort Leavenworth, in Missouri, to San Diego, in California, including parts of the Arkansas, Del Norte, and Gila Rivers. Brevet Major W. H. Emory, Corps of Topographical Engineers, United States Army, 1846.] [Footnote 7: Hon. W. F. Arny, in his Centennial Celebration Address at Santa Fe, July 4, 1876.] [Footnote 8: Edwards, _Conquest of New Mexico_.] [Footnote 9: I think this is Bancroft's idea.] [Footnote 10: _Historical Sketches of New Mexico_, L. Bradford Prince, late Chief Justice of New Mexico, 1883.] [Footnote 11: D. H. Coyner, 1847.] [Footnote 12: He was travelling parallel to the Old Santa Fe Trail all the time, but did not know it until he was overtaken by a band of Kaw Indians.] [Footnote 13: McKnight was murdered south of the Arkansas by the Comanches in the winter of 1822.] [Footnote 14: Chouteau's Island.] [Footnote 15: _Hennepin's Journal_.] [Footnote 16: The line between the United States and Mexico (or New Spain, as it was called) was defined by a treaty negotiated in 1819, between the Chevalier de Onis, then Spanish minister at Washington, and John Quincy Adams, Secretary of State. According to its provisions, the boundary between Mexico and Louisiana, which had been added to the Union, commenced with the river Sabine at its entrance into the Gulf of Mexico, at about the twenty-ninth degree of north latitude and the ninety-fourth degree of longitude, west from Greenwich, and followed it as far as its junction with the Red River of Natchitoches, which then served to mark the frontier up to the one hundredth degree of west longitude, where the line ran directly north to the Arkansas, which it followed to its source at the forty-second degree of north latitude, whence another straight line was drawn up the same parallel to the Pacific coast.] [Footnote 17: This tribe kept up its reputation under the dreaded Satanta, until 1868--a period of forty years--when it was whipped into submission by the gallant Custer. Satanta was its war chief, one of the most cruel savages the great plains ever produced. He died a few years ago in the state prison of Texas.] [Footnote 18: McNess Creek is on the old Cimarron Trail to Santa Fe, a little east of a line drawn south from Bent's Fort.] [Footnote 19: Mr. Bryant, of Kansas, who died a few years ago, was one of the pioneers in the trade with Santa Fe. Previous to his decease he wrote for a Kansas newspaper a narrative of his first trip across the great plains; an interesting monograph of hardship and suffering. For the use of this document I am indebted to Hon. Sol. Miller, the editor of the journal in which it originally appeared. I have also used very extensively the notes of Mr. William Y. Hitt, one of the Bryant party, whose son kindly placed them at my disposal, and copied liberally from the official report of Major Bennett Riley--afterward the celebrated general of Mexican War fame, and for whom the Cavalry Depot in Kansas is named; as also from the journal of Captain Philip St. George Cooke, who accompanied Major Riley on his expedition.] [Footnote 20: Chouteau's Island, at the mouth of Sand Creek.] [Footnote 21: Valley of the Upper Arkansas.] [Footnote 22: About three miles east of the town of Great Bend, Barton County, Kansas.] [Footnote 23: The Old Santa Fe Trail crosses the creek some miles north of Hutchinson, and coincides with the track again at the mouth of Walnut Creek, three miles east of Great Bend.] [Footnote 24: There are many conflicting accounts in regard to the sum Don Antonio carried with him on that unfortunate trip. Some authorities put it as high as sixty thousand; I have taken a mean of the various sums, and as this method will suffice in mathematics, perhaps we can approximate the truth in this instance.] [Footnote 25: General Emory of the Union army during the Civil War. He made an official report of the country through which the Army of the West passed, accompanied by maps, and his _Reconnoissance in New Mexico and California_, published by the government in 1848, is the first authentic record of the region, considered topographically and geologically.] [Footnote 26: _Doniphan's Expedition, containing an account of the Conquest of New Mexico_, etc. John T. Hughes, A.B., of the First Regiment of Missouri Cavalry. 1850.] [Footnote 27: Deep Gorge.] [Footnote 28: Colonel Leavenworth, for whom Fort Leavenworth is named, and who built several army posts in the far West.] [Footnote 29: Colonel A. G. Boone, a grandson of the immortal Daniel, was one of the grandest old mountaineers I ever knew. He was as loyal as anybody, but honest in his dealings with the Indians, and that was often a fault in the eyes of those at Washington who controlled these agents. Kit Carson was of the same honest class as Boone, and he, too, was removed for the same cause.] [Footnote 30: A narrow defile on the Trail, about ninety miles east of Fort Union. It is called the "canyon of the Canadian, or Red, River," and is situated between high walls of earth and rock. It was once a very dangerous spot on account of the ease and rapidity with which the savages could ambush themselves.] [Footnote 31: Carson, Wooton, and all other expert mountaineers, when following a trail, could always tell just what time had elapsed since it was made. This may seem strange to the uninitiated, but it was part of their necessary education. They could tell what kind of a track it was, which way the person or animal had walked, and even the tribe to which the savage belonged, either by the shape of the moccasin or the arrows which were occasionally dropped.] [Footnote 32: Lieutenant Bell belonged to the Second Dragoons. He was conspicuous in extraordinary marches and in action, and also an accomplished horseman and shot, once running and killing five buffalo in a quarter of a mile. He died early in 1861, and his death was a great loss to the service.] [Footnote 33: Known to this day as "The Cheyenne Bottoms."] [Footnote 34: Lone Wolf was really the head chief of the Kiowas.] [Footnote 35: The battle lasted three days.] [Footnote 36: Kicking Bird was ever afterward so regarded by the authorities of the Indian department.] [Footnote 37: Lorenzo Thomas, adjutant-general of the United States army.] [Footnote 38: Kendall's _Santa Fe Expedition_ may be found in all the large libraries.] [Footnote 39: A summer-house, bower, or arbour.] [Footnote 40: Frank Hall, Chicago, 1885.] [Footnote 41: The greater portion of this chapter I originally wrote for _Harper's Weekly_. By the kind permission of the publishers, I am permitted to use it here.] [Footnote 42: These statistics I have carefully gathered from the freight departments of the railroads, which kept a record of all the bones that were shipped, and from the purchasers of the carbon works, who paid out the money at various points. Some of the bones, however, may have been on the ground for a longer time, as decay is very slow in the dry air of the plains.] [Footnote 43: La Jeunesse was one of the bravest of the old French Canadian trappers. He was a warm friend of Kit Carson and was killed by the Indians in the following manner. They were camping one night in the mountains; Kit, La Jeunesse, and others had wrapped themselves up in their blankets near the fire, and were sleeping soundly; Fremont sat up until after midnight reading letters he had received from the United States, after finishing which, he, too, turned in and fell asleep. Everything was quiet for a while, when Kit was awakened by a noise that sounded like the stroke of an axe. Rising cautiously, he discovered Indians in the camp; he gave the alarm at once, but two of his companions were dead. One of them was La Jeunesse, and the noise he had heard was the tomahawk as it buried itself in the brave fellow's head.] [Footnote 44: This black is made from a species of plumbago found on the hills of the region.] [Footnote 45: The Pawnees and Cheyennes were hereditary enemies, and they frequently met in sanguinary conflict.] [Footnote 46: A French term Anglicised, as were many other foreign words by the trappers in the mountains. Its literal meaning is, arrow fender, for from it the plains Indians construct their shields; it is buffalo-hide prepared in a certain manner.] [Footnote 47: Boiling Spring River.] [Footnote 48: For some reason the Senate refused to confirm the appointment, and he had consequently no connection with the regular army.] [Footnote 49: Point of Rocks is six hundred and forty seven miles from Independence, and was always a favourite place of resort for the Indians of the great plains; consequently it was one of the most dangerous camping-spots for the freight caravans on the Trail. It comprises a series of continuous hills, which project far out on the prairie in bold relief. They end abruptly in a mass of rocks, out of which gushes a cold, refreshing spring, which is, of course, the main attraction of the place. The Trail winds about near this point, and many encounters with the various tribes have occurred there.] [Footnote 50: "Little Mountain."] [Footnote 51: General Gatlin was a North Carolinian, and seceded with his State at the breaking out of the Rebellion, but refused to leave his native heath to fight, so indelibly was he impressed with the theory of State rights. He was willing to defend the soil of North Carolina, but declined to step across its boundary to repel invasion in other States.] [Footnote 52: The name of "Crow," as applied to the once powerful nation of mountain Indians, is a misnomer, the fault of some early interpreter. The proper appellation is "Sparrowhawks," but they are officially recognized as "Crows."] [Footnote 53: Kit Carson, ten years before, when on his first journey, met with the same adventure while on post at Pawnee Rock.] [Footnote 54: The fusee was a fire-lock musket with an immense bore, from which either slugs or balls could be shot, although not with any great degree of accuracy.] [Footnote 55: The Indians always knew when the caravans were to pass certain points on the Trail, by their runners or spies probably.] [Footnote 56: It was one of the rigid laws of Indian hospitality always to respect the person of any one who voluntarily entered their camps or temporary halting-places. As long as the stranger, red or white, remained with them, he enjoyed perfect immunity from harm; but after he had left, although he had progressed but half a mile, it was just as honourable to follow and kill him.] [Footnote 57: In their own fights with their enemies one or two of the defeated party are always spared, and sent back to their tribe to carry the news of the slaughter.] [Footnote 58: The story of the way in which this name became corrupted into "Picketwire," by which it is generally known in New Mexico, is this: When Spain owned all Mexico and Florida, as the vast region of the Mississippi valley was called, long before the United States had an existence as a separate government, the commanding officer at Santa Fe received an order to open communication with the country of Florida. For this purpose an infantry regiment was selected. It left Santa Fe rather late in the season, and wintered at a point on the Old Trail now known as Trinidad. In the spring, the colonel, leaving all camp-followers behind him, both men and women, marched down the stream, which flows for many miles through a magnificent canyon. Not one of the regiment returned or was ever heard of. When all hope had departed from the wives, children, and friends left behind at Trinidad, information was sent to Santa Fe, and a wail went up through the land. The priests and people then called this stream "El Rio de las Animas Perditas" ("The river of lost souls"). Years after, when the Spanish power was weakened, and French trappers came into the country under the auspices of the great fur companies, they adopted a more concise name; they called the river "Le Purgatoire." Then came the Great American Bull-Whacker. Utterly unable to twist his tongue into any such Frenchified expression, he called the stream with its sad story "Picketwire," and by that name it is known to all frontiersmen, trappers, and the settlers along its banks.] [Footnote 59: The ranch is now in charge of Mr. Harry Whigham, an English gentleman, who keeps up the old hospitality of the famous place.] [Footnote 60: "River of Souls." The stream is also called Le Purgatoire, corrupted by the Americans into Picketwire.] [Footnote 61: Pawnee Rock is no longer conspicuous. Its material has been torn away by both the railroad and the settlers in the vicinity, to build foundations for water-tanks, in the one instance, and for the construction of their houses, barns, and sheds, in the other. Nothing remains of the once famous landmark; its site is occupied as a cattle corral by the owner of the claim in which it is included.] [Footnote 62: The crossing of the Old Santa Fe Trail at Pawnee Fork is now within the corporate limits of the pretty little town of Larned, the county-seat of Pawnee County. The tourist from his car-window may look right down upon one of the worst places for Indians that there was in those days of the commerce of the prairies, as the road crosses the stream at the exact spot where the Trail crossed it.] [Footnote 63: This was a favourite expression of his whenever he referred to any trouble with the Indians.] [Footnote 64: Indians will risk the lives of a dozen of their best warriors to prevent the body of any one of their number from falling into the white man's possession. The reason for this is the belief, which prevails among all tribes, that if a warrior loses his scalp he forfeits his hope of ever reaching the happy hunting-ground.] [Footnote 65: It was in this fight that the infamous Charles Bent received his death-wound.] [Footnote 66: The Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railroad track runs very close to the mound, and there is a station named for the great mesa.] [Footnote 67: The venerable Colonel A. S. Johnson, of Topeka, Kansas, the first white child born on the great State's soil, who related to me this adventure of Hatcher's, knew him well. He says that he was a small man, full of muscle, and as fearless as can be conceived.] [Footnote 68: The place where they turned is about a hundred yards east of the Court House Square, in the present town of Great Bend; it may be seen from the cars.] [Footnote 69: See Sheridan's _Memoirs_, Custer's _Life on the Plains_, and Buffalo Bill's book, in which all the stirring events of that campaign--nearly every fight of which was north or far south of the Santa Fe Trail--are graphically told.] [Footnote 70: A grandson of Alexander Hamilton; killed at the battle of the Washita, in the charge on Black Kettle's camp under Custer.] [Footnote 71: This ends Custer's narrative. The following fight, which occurred a few days afterward, at the mouth of Mulberry Creek, twelve miles below Fort Dodge, and within a stone's throw of the Old Trail, was related to me personally by Colonel Keogh, who was killed at the Rosebud, in Custer's disastrous battle with Sitting Bull. We were both attached to General Sully's staff.] [Footnote 72: It was in this fight that Colonel Keogh's celebrated horse Comanche received his first wound. It will be remembered that Comanche and a Crow Indian were the only survivors of that unequal contest in the valley of the Big Horn, commonly called the battle of the Rosebud, where Custer and his command was massacred.] [Footnote 73: Now Kendall, a little village in Hamilton County, Kansas.] [Footnote 74: Raton is the name given by the early Spaniards to this range, meaning both mouse and squirrel. It had its origin either in the fact that one of its several peaks bore a fanciful resemblance to a squirrel, or because of the immense numbers of that little rodent always to be found in its pine forests.] [Footnote 75: In the beautiful language of the country's early conquerors, "Las Cumbres Espanolas," or "Las dos Hermanas" (The Two Sisters), and in the Ute tongue, "Wahtoya" (The Twins).] [Footnote 76: The house was destroyed by fire two or three years ago.]